UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN BOOKSTACKS RICHELIEU A TALE OF FRANCE T V I I /. BY G. P. R. JAMES WITH AN INTRODUCTION LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited New York: E. P. DUTTON AND CO. -fey- INTK0DUCTI0N. • PA w^r EAIN T^ 0ED JAMES ’ historiographer Eoyal to King William IV., was born in London in the • rS i t Q^o ar °£- the ninet «enth centurj, and died at Venice in i«60. His comparatively short life was exceptionally full and active. He was historian, politician and tra- veller, the reputed author of upwards of a hundred novels, the compiler and editor of nearly half as many volumes of letters memoirs, and biographies, a poet and a pamphleteer, and, during the last ten years of his life ^ltish Consul successively in Massachusetts, Norfolk (Virginia), and Venice. He was on terms of friendship with most of the eminent men of his dav. Scott . I is own mighty and unshrinking mind, and having thu moulded him to his wish, called him early to the counci (able, and intrusted him with a greater share of h a power and confidence than he would have yielded t any other man. Chavigni repaid the cardinal with heartfeit gratitude, with firm adherence, and uncompromising service, in private life, he was honourable, generous, and kind ; but it was his axiom, that all must yield to State necessity, or (as lie said) in other words, to the good of his country; and upon the strength of this maxim, which, in fact, was the cause of every stain that rests upon his memory, he fancied himself a patriot ! Between Chavigni and the Judge Lafemas, who was the Jeffreys of his country, and had received the name of' Lc Bourreaudu Cardinal , existed a sort of original antipathy ; so that the statesman, though often obliged to make use of the less scrupulous talents of the judge, and even occa- sionally to associate with him, could never refrain for any length of time from breaking forth into those bitter taunts which often irritated Lafemas almost to frenzy. The hatred of the judge, on his part, was not less strong, even at the times it did not show itself ; and he still brooded over the hope of exercising his ungentle functions upon him who was at present, in a degree, his master. But to return. Chavigni gazed intently on the spot to which Lafemas pointed. I believe it is blood, indeed,” said he, after a moment's hesitation, as if the uncertainty of the lfidit had made him doubt it at first : “ they shall rue the uay that they shed it contrary to my command. It is blood, surely, Lafemas : is it not V 9 “ Without a doubt,” said Lafemas; “ and it has been shed since mid-day.” c 18 RICH FLIEU, “ 'fuu are critical in these things, I know,” replied the other with a cool sneer ; “ but we must hear more of this, sir judge, and ascertain what news is stirring, before we go farther. Things might chance, which would render it necessary that one or both of us should return to the car- dinal. We will knock at this cottage and inquire. Our story must run, that we have lost our way in the wood, ^nd need both rest and direction.” So saying, he struck several sharp blows with the hilt of his sword against the door, whose rickety and unsonorcas nature returned a grumbling indistinct sound, as if it too had shared the sleep of the peaceable inhabitants of the cottage, and loved not to be disturbed by such nocturnal visitations. “So ho!” cried Chavigni ; “will no one hear us poor travellers, who have lost our way in tills forest ?” In a moment after, the head of Philip, the woodman appeared at the little casement by the side of the door, examining the strangers, on whose figures fell the full beams of the moon, with quite sufficient light to display the courtly form and garnishing of their apparel, and to show that they were no dangerous guests. “ What would ye, messieurs ?” demanded he, through the open window : “ it is late for travellers.” “We have lost our way in your wood,” replied Cha- vigni, “ and would fain have a little rest, and some direction for our farther progress. We will pay thee well, good man, for thy hospitality.” “There is no need of payment, sir,” said the woodman, opening the door. “Come in, 1 pray, messieurs. — Charles !” he added, calling to his son, “ get up and tend these gentlemen’s horses. Get up, I say, sir sluggard !” The boy crept sleepily out of the room beyond, and went to give some of the forest-hay to the beasts which had borne the strangers thither, and which gave but little signs of needing either rest or refreshment. In the mean while, his father drew two large yew-tree seats to the fire- sine, soon blew the white ashes on the hearth into a flame and having invited his guests to sit, and lighted the old brazen lamp that huno- above the chimney, he bowed low, RICHELIEU. 19 asking how he could serve them farther ; but as he did so, his eye ran over their persons with a half-satisfied and inquiring glance, w r hich made Lafemas turn away his head. But Chavigni answered promptly to his offer of service : " Why now, good friend, if thou couldst give us a jug of wine, ’twould be well and kindly done, for w r e have ridden far.” “ This is no inn, sir,” replied Philip, “ and you will find my wine but thin ; nevertheless, such as it is, most wel- comely shall you taste.” From whatever motive his coolness proceeded, Philip’s hospitality was but lukewarm towards the strangers ; and the manner in which he rinsed out the tankard, drew the wine from a barrique standing in one corner of the room, half-covered with a wolf-skin, and placed it on a table by the side of Chavigni, bespoke more churlish rudeness than good-will. But the statesman heeded little either the quality of his reception or of his wine, provided he could obtain the information he desired ; so, carrying the tank- ard to his lips, he drank, or seemed to drink, as deep a draught as if its contents had been the produce of the best vineyard in Medoc. “ It is excellent,” said he, handing it to Lafemas, “or my thirst does wonders. Now, good friend, if we had some venison-steaks to broil on yon clear ashes, our supper were complete.” “ Such I have not to offer, sir,” replied Philip, “ or to that you should be welcome too.” “ Why, I should have thought,” said Chavigni, “ the hunters who ran down a stag at your door to-day, would have left you a part, as the woodman’s fee.” “ Do you know those hunters, sir ?” demanded Philip, with some degree of emphasis. “ Not I in truth,” replied Chavigni ; though the colour rose in his cheek notwithstanding his long training to courtly wile and political intrigue, and he thanked his stars that the lamp gave but a faint and glimmering light • “ Not I, in truth ; but whoever ran him down got a £ood beast, for he bled like a stag of ten. I suppose they made the curee at your door ? ” ri Those hunters, sir,” replied Philip, “give no wood- 20 mCflTELlEU. man’s fees ; and as to the stag, he is as fine a one as ever brushed the forest dew, but he has escaped them this time.” “ How ! did he get off with his throat cut ?” demanded Chavigni, “ for there is blood enough at the foot of yon old tree, to have drained the stoutest stag that was ever brought to bay.” “Oh! but that is not stag’s blood!” interrupted Charles, the woodman’s son, who had by this time not only tended the strangers’ horses, but examined every point of the quaint furniture with which it was the fashion of the day to adorn them. “ That is not stag’s blood ; that is the blood of the young cavalier, who was hurt by the robbers, and taken away by—*” At this moment the boy’s eye caught the impatient ex- pression of his father’s countenance. “ The truth is, messieurs,” said Philip, taking up the discourse, “ there was a gentleman wounded in the forest this morning. I never saw him before, and he was taken away in a carriage by some ladies, whose faces were equally strange to me.” “ You have been somewhat mysterious upon this busi- ness, Sir Woodman,” said Chavigni, his brow darkening as he spoke ; “ why were you so tardy in giving us this forest news, which imports all strangers travelling through the wood to know ?” u I hold it as a rule,” replied Philip boldly, “ to mind my own business, and never to mention any thing I see ; which in this affair I shall do more especially, as one of the robbers had furniture of Isabel and silver;” and as he spoke he glanced his eye to the scarf of Chavigni, w T hich was of that peculiar mixture of colours then called Isabel, bordered by a rich silver fringe. “ Fool !” muttered Chavigni between his teeth ; “ Fool : what need had he to show himself?” Lafemas, who had hitherto been silent, now came to the relief of his companion : taking up the conversation in a mild and easy tone, “ Have you many of these robbing fraternity in your wood ?” said he ; “if so, I suppose we peril ourselves in crossing it alone.” And, without waiting RICHELIEU. 21 for any answer, he proceeded, 44 Pray, who was the cava- lier they attacked ? 7 44 He was a stranger of St Germain, 77 answered the woodman ; “ and as to the robbers, I doubt that they will show themselves again, for fear of being taken. 77 “ They did not rob him then V’ said the Judge. Now nothing that Philip had said bore out this inference ; but Lafemas possessed in a high degree the talent of cross-ex- amination, and was deeply versed in all the thousand arts of entangling a witness, or leading a prisoner to condemn himself. But there was a stern reserve about the woodman, which baffled the Judge's cunning : 44 1 only saw the last part of the fray, 77 replied Philip 44 and therefore know not what went before. 77 44 Where was he hurt ?” asked Lafemas ; 44 foi he lost much blood. 77 44 On the head and in the side, 77 answered the woodman. 44 Poor youth ?” cried the Judge in a pitiful tone. 44 And when you opened his coat, was the wound a deep one ?” 44 1 cannot judge, 77 replied Philip, 44 being no surgeon. 77 It was in vain that Lafemas tried all his wiles on the woodman, and that Chavigni, who soon joined in the con- versation, questioned him more boldly. Philip was in no communicative mood, and yielded them but little infor- mation respecting the events of the morning. At length, weary of this fruitless interrogation, Chavigni started up — 44 Well, friend! 77 said he, 44 had there been danger in crossing the forest, we might have stayed with thee till daybreak ; but, as thou sayest there is none, we will hence upon our way. 77 So saying be strode towards the door, the flame shaped mullets of his gilded spurs jingling over the brick-floor of Philip’s dwelling, and cal- ling the woodman's attention to the knightly rank of his departing guest. In a few minutes all was prepared, and when they had mounted their horses, the statesman drew forth a small silk purse tied with a loop of gold, and hold- ing it forth to Philip, bade him accept it for his services. The woodman bowed, repeating that he required no payment. I am not accustomed to have my bounty refused, 7 * RICH ELICIT n ? said Chivigni proudly ; and dropping the purse to the ground, he spurred forward his horse. “ Now Lafemas,” said he, when they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the reach of Philip’s ears, “ what think you of this V 9 “ Why, truly/’ replied the Judge, “ I deem that we are mighty near as wise as we were before.” “ Not so,” said Chavigni. “ It is clear enough these fellows have failed, and De Blenau has preserved the packet. I understand it all. His Eminence of Richelieu, against my advice, has permitted Madame de Beaumont and her daughter Pauline to return to the Queen, after an absence of ten years. The fact is, that when the Cardinal banished them the court, and ordered the Marchioness to retire to Languedoc, his views were not so extended as they are now, and he had laid out in his own mind a match be- tween one of his nieces and this rich young Count de Blenau ; which, out of the royal family, was one of the best alliances in France. The boy, however, had been promised, and even I believe, affianced by his father, to this Pauline de Beau- mont ; and accordingly his Eminence sent away the girl and her mother, with the same sang froid that a man dri- ves a strange dog out of his court-yard ; at the same time he kept the youth at court, forbidding all communication with Languedoc. But now that the Cardinal can match his niece to the Duke D’Enghien, De Blenau may look for a bride where he lists, and the Marquise and her daughter have been suffered to return. To my knowledge they passed through Chartres yesterday morning, on their way to St. Germain.” “ But what have these to do with the present affair?” demanded Lafemas. “ Why thus has it happened,” continued Chavigni. ‘‘The youth has been attacked. He has resisted, and been wounded. Just then, up come these women, tra- velling through the forest, with a troop of servants, who join with the count, and drive our poor friends to cover. This is what I have drawn from the discourse of yon surlv wood man,” &JTHELIJ5tT. 23 u Vou mean from your own knowledge of the business- replied Lafemas, “ for lie would confess nothing.” “ Confess, man !” exclaimed Chavigni. “ Why he did not know that he was before a confessor, and still less before a judge, though thou wouldest fain have put him v o the question. I saw your lip quivering with anxiety o order him the torture ; rack, and thumb-screw, and ubliette were in your eye, at every sullen answer he gave ’ “ Were it not as well to get him out of the way ?” de- manded Lafemas. “ He remarked your livery, Chavigni and may blab.”_ “ Short-sighted mole !” replied his companion. “ T1 very sulkiness of humour which has called down on him thy rage, will shield him from my fears — which might be quite as dangerous. He that is so close in one thing, depend upon it, will be close in another. Besides, unless he tells it to the trees, or the jays, or the wild boars, whom should he tell it to ? I would bet a thousand crowns against the Prince de Conti's brains, or the Archbishop Coadjutor's religion, or Madame de Chevreuse’s repu- tation, or against any thing else that is worth nothing, that this good woodman sees no human shape for the next ten years, and then all that passes between them will be, ‘ Good day, Woodman !’ — ‘ Good day, sir !”■ — and he mi- micked the deep voice of him of whom they spoke. “ But, notwithstanding this appearance of gaiety, Cha- vigni was not easy ; and even as he thus argued, he rode on with no small precipitation, till turning into a narrow forest path, the light of the moon, which had illumined the greater part of the high road, was cut off entirely by the trees, and the deep gloom obliged them to be mor6 cautious in proceeding. At length, however, they came to a little savanna, surrounded by high oaks, where Cha- vigni entirely reined in his horse, and blew a single note on his horn, which was soon answered by a similar sou; ] at some distance. 24 RICHELIEU* CHAPTER III. Those whom either the love of sylvan sports, or that calm meditative charm inherent to wood scenery, has tempted to explore the deep recesses of the forest, must be well aware that many particular glades and coverts will often lie secret and undiscovered, amidst the mazes of the leafy labyrinth, even to the eyes of those long accus- tomed to investigate its most intricate windings. In those countries where forest hunting is a frequent sport, I have more than once found myself led on into scenes com- pletely new, when I had fancied that long experience had made me fully acquainted with every rood of the wood- land round about, and have often met with no small trouble in retracing the spot, although I took all pains to observe the way thither, and fix its distinctive marks in my memory. In the heart of the forest of St. Germain, at a con- siderable distance from any of the roads, or even by-paths of the wood, lay a deep dingle or dell, which probably had been a gravel-pit many centuries before, and might have furnished forth sand to strew the halls of Charle- magne, for aught I know to the contrary. However, so many ages had elapsed since it had been employed for such purpose, that many a stout oak had sprung, and flourished, and faded, round about it, and had left the ruins of their once princely forms crumbling on its brink. At the time I speak of, a considerable part of the dell itself was filled up with tangled brushwood * which a long hot season had stripped and withered ; and upon the edge hung a quantity of dry shrubs and stunted trees, forming a thick screen over the wild recess below. One side, and one side only, was free of access, and this was by means of a small sandy path winding down to the bottom of the dell between two tall banks, which assumed almost the appearance of cliffs as the road des- cended. This little footway conducted, it is true, into the most profound part of the hollow, but then immediately, lost itself in the thick underwood, through which none RICHELIEU* 25 but a very practised eye would have discovered the means of entering a deep lair of ground, sheltered by the steep bank and its superincumbent trees on one side, and con- cealed by a screen of wood on every other. On the night I have mentioned, this well concealed retreat was tenanted by a group of men, whose wild attire harmonized perfectly w ? ith the rudeness of the scene around. The apparel of almost every class was dis- cernible among them, but each vesture plainly showed, that it had long passed that epoch generally termed “better days ;”*^and indeed, the more costly had been their original nature, the greater was their present state of degradation. So that what had once been the suit of some gay cavalier of the court, and w ? hich doubtless had shone as such in the circles of the bright and the fair, having since passed through the hands of the page, w r ho had perhaps used it to personate his m%ster, and the fripier , who had tried hard to restore it to a degree of lustre, and the poor petitioner who had bought it and borne it second-hand to court, and lost both his labour and his money — having passed through these, and per- haps a thousand other hands, it had gradually aco A uired that sort of undefinable tint, which ought properly to be called old-age colour , and at present served, and only served, to keep its owner from the winds of heaven. At the same time the buff jerkin which covered the broad shoulders of another hard by, though it had never boasted much finery, had escaped with only a few rusty stains from its former intimacy with a ^teel cui- rass, and a slight greasy gloss upon the left side, which indicated its owner's habit of laying his hand upon his sw T ord. Here, too, every sort of offensive weapon was to be met with. The long Toledo blade, with its basket-hilt and black scabbard tipped with steel ; the double-handed heavy sw r ord, which during the wars of the League had often steaded well the troops of Henry the Fourth, when attacked by the superior cavalry of the Dukes of Guise and Mayenne, and which had been but little used since ; the poniard, the stiletto, the heavy petronel, or horse pistol, 26 RICHELIEU. and the smaller girdie pistol, which had been but lately introduced, were all to be seen, either as accompaniments to the dress of some of the party, or scattered about on the ground, where they had been placed for greater convenience. The accoutrements of these denizens of the forest were kept in countenance by every other accessory circumsta co of appearance ; and a torch stuck in the sand in the midst, glared upon features which Salvator might have loved to trace. It was not alone the negligence of personal appear- ance, shown in their long dishevelled hair and untrimmed beards, which rendered them savagely picturesque, but many a furious passion had there written deep traces of its unbounded sway, and marked them with that wild undefi- nable expression, which habitual vice and lawless licence are sure to leave behind in their course. At the moment I speak of, wine had been circulating very freely amongst the robbers ; for such indeed thej were. Some were sleeping, either with their hands clasped over their knees and their heads drooping down to meet them, or stretched more at their ease under the trees ? snoring loud in answer to the wind, that whistled through the branches. Some sat gazing, with a wise sententious look, on the empty gourds, many of which, fashioned into bottles, lay scattered about upon the ground ; and two or three, who had either drunk less of the potent liquor, or whose heads were better calculated to resist its effects than ti p r p S t, sat clustered together, singing and chatting by urns, — arrived exactly at that point of ebnety, where e man's real character shows itself, notwithstanding all hi* efforts to conceal it. The buff jerkin we have spoken of, covered the shoulders of one among this little knot of choice spirits, who still woke to revel, after sleep had laid his leaden mace upon their companions ; and it may be remarked, that a pair of broader shoulders are rarely to be seen than those so covered. Wouvermans is said to have been very much puzzled by a figure in one of his pictures, which, notwithstanding all his efforts, he could never keep down (as painters express RICHELIEU 27 t.)* Whatever he did, that one figure was always salient., and more prominent than the artist intended ; nor was it till he had half blotted it out, that he discovered its origi- nal defect was being too large. Something like Wouver- mans’ figure, the freebooter I speak of stood conspicuous amongst the others, from the Herculean proportion of his limbs; but he had, in addition, other qualities to distin- guish him from the rest. His brow was broad, and of that peculiar form to which physiognomists have attached the idea of a strong determined spirit ; at the same time, the clear sparkle of his blue Norman eye bespoke an impetu- ous, but not a depraved mind. A deep scar was apparent on his left cheek ; and the wound which had been its progenitor, was most probably the cause of a sneering turn in the corner of his mouth, which, with a bold expression of daring confidence, com- pleted the mute history that his face afforded, of a life spent in arms — or well, or ill, as circumstances prompted, * — an unshrinking heart, which dared every personal evil, and a bright but unprincipled mind, which followed no dictates but the passions of the moment. He was now in his gayest mood, and holding a horn in his hand, trolled forth an old French ditty, seeming confident of pleasing, or perhaps careless whether he pleased or not. ROBBER’S SONG. “ Thou ’rt an ass, Robin, thou Tt an as3. To think that great men be More gay than I that lie on the grass Under the greenwood tree. I te 1 thee no, I tell thee no, The Great are slaves to their gilded show. Now tell me, Robin, tell me. Are the ceilings of gay saloons So richly wrought as yon sky we see, Or their glitter so bright as the moon’s \ I tell thee no, I tell thee no. The Great are slaves to their gilded show. Say not nay, Robin, say not nay ! There is never a heart so free. In the vest of gold, and the palace gay, As in buff ’neath the forest tree. I tell thee yea, I tell thee yea, The Great were made for the poor man’s prey.* 28 KICHELIEU. So sang tne owner of the buff jerkin, and his song met with more or less applause from his companions, accord- ing to the particular humour of each. One only amongst the freebooters seemed scarcely to participate in the merri- ment. He had drunk as deeply as the rest, but he ap- peared neither gay, nor stupid, nor sleepy ; and while the tall Norman sang, he cast, from time to time, a dark sneering glance upon the singer, which showed no espe- cial love either for the music, or musician. “ You sing about prey,” said he, as the other concluded the last stanza of his ditty — “ You sing about prey, and yet you are no great falcon, after all ; if we may judge from to-day.” “ And why not, Monsieur Pierrepont Le Blanc?” de- manded the Norman, without displaying aught of ill- humour in hk countenance ; “ though they ought to have called you Monsieur Le Noir — Mr. Black, not Mr. White. — Nay, do not frown, good comrade ; I speak but of your beard, not of your heart. What, art thou still grumbling because we did not cut the young count's throat out- right?” “ Nay, not for that,” answered the other, “ but because we have lost the best man amongst us, for want of his being well seconded.” “ You lie, Parbleu !” cried the Norman, drawing his sword, and fixing his thumb upon a stain, about three inches from the point. u Did not I lend the youth so much of my iron toothpick? and would have sent it through him, if his horse had not carried him away. But I know you, Master Buccaneer — you would have had me stab him behind, while Mortagne slashed his head before. That would have been a fit task for a Norman gentleman, and a soldier ! I whose life he saved too 1” ^ “ Did you not swear, when you joined our troop,” demanded the other, “ to forget every thing that went before ? ” The Norman hesitated ; he well remembered an oath, against which the better feelings of his heart were perhaps sometimes rebellious. He felt, too, confused at the direct appeal the other had made to it ; and to pass it by, he RICHELIEU. 29 caught at the word forget, answering with a stave of the song — “ Forget ! forget ! let slaves forget The pangs and chains they bear, The brave remember every debt To honour and the fair ; For these are bonds that bind us more, Yet leave us freer than before. “ Yes, let those that can do so, forget : but I very well remember, at the battle of Perpignan, I had charged with the advanced guard, when the fire of the enemy’s mus- keteers, and a masked battery which began to enfilade our line, soon threw our left flank into disorder, and a charge of cavalry drove back De Coucy’s troop. Mielleraye’s standard was in the hands of the enemy, when I and five others rallied to rescue it. A gloomy old Spaniard fired his petronel and disabled my left arm, but still I held the standard-pole with my right, keeping the standard before me ; but my Don drew his long Toledo, and had got the point to my breast, just going to run it through me and standard and all, as I’ve often spitted a duck’s liver and a jiece of bacon on a skewer ; when, turning round my head, to see if no help was near, I perceived this young Count de Blenau’s banderol coming like lightning over the field, and driving all before it ; and blue and gold were then the best colours that ever I saw, for they gave me new heart, and wrenching the standard-pole round — But hark, there is the horn !” As he spoke, the clear full note of a hunting-horn came swelling from the south-west ; and in a moment after, another, much nearer to them, seemed to answer the first. Each, after giving breath to one solitary note, re- lapsed into silence ; and such of the robbers as were awake, having listened till the signal met with a reply, be- stirred themselves to rouse their sleeping companions, and to put some face of order upon the disarray which their revels had left behind. “ Now, Sir Norman,” cried he that they distinguished by the name of Le Blanc ; “ we shall see how Mon- seigneur rates your slackness in his cause. Will you tell him your long story of the siege of Perpignan V 9 30 RICHELIEU. f ‘ Pardie !” cried the other, “ I care no more for him, than I do for you. Every man that stands before me on forest ground is but a man, and I will treat him as such.” “ Ha ! ha ! ha !” exclaimed his companion ; “it were good to see thee bully a privy counsellor ! why, thou darest as soon take a lion by the beard.” “ I dare pass my sword through his heart, were there need,” answered the Norman ; “ but here they come, — stand you aside, and let me deal with him.” Approaching steps, and a rustling sound in the thick screen of wood already mentioned, as the long boughs were forced back by the passage of some person along the narrow pathway, announced the arrival of those for whom the robbers had been waiting. “ Why, it is as dark as the pit of Acheron,” cried a deep voice amongst the trees. “ Are we never to reach the light I saw from above ? Oh, here it is. — Cha elin, hold back that bough it has caught my cloak/’ As the speaker uttered the last words, an armed servant, in Isabel and silver, appeared at the entrance of the path, holding back the stray branches, while Chavigni himself advanced into the circle of robbers, — who stood grouped around in strange picturesque attitudes; some standing forward boldly, as if to confront the daring stranger that thus intruded on their haunts; some gazing with a kind of curiosity upon the being so different to themselves, who had thus placed himself in sudden contact with them ; some lowering upon him with bended heads, like wolves when they encounter a nobler beast of prey. The statesman himself advanced in silence ; and, with something of a frown upon his brow, ran his glance firmly over every face around, nor was there an eye amongst them that did not sink before the stern commanding fire of his, as it rested for a moment upon the countenance of each, seeming calmly to construe the expression of the features, and read into the soul beneath, as we often see a student turn over the pages of some foreign book, and collect their meaning at a glance. “ Well, sirs,” said he at length, “ my knave tells me that you have failed in executing my commands.” The Norman we have somewhat miautely described RICHELIEU. *31 heretofore, now began to excuse himself and his fellows; and was proceeding to set forth that they had done ail which came within their power and province to do, and was also engaged in stating, that no man could do more,— when Chavigni interrupted him. “ Silence !” cried he, with but little apparent respect for these lords of the forest, “ 1 blame ye not for not doing more than ye could do ; bin how dare ye, mongrel bloodhounds 1 to disobey my strict commands? when I bade you abstain from injuring the, youth, how is it ye have mangled him like a stag torn bv the wolves?” The Norman turned with a look of subdued triumph towards him who had previously censured his forbearance. “ Speak, speak, Le Blanc!” cried he; “ answer Mon- seigneur.- — Well,” continued he, as the other drew back, “ the truth is this, Sir Count : we were divided in opinion with respect to the best method of fulfilling your com- mands, so we called a council of war — ” “ A council of war !” repeated Chavigni, his lip curling into an ineffable sneer. “ Well, proceed, proceed ! You are a Norman, I presume — and braggart, I perceive. — Proceed, sir, proceed ! Be it remarked, that by this time the influence of Chavigni’s first appearance had greatly worn away from the mind of the Norman. The commanding dignity of the statesman, thovigh it still, in a degree, overawed, had lost the effect of novelty ; and the bold heart of the free- booter began to reproach him for truckling to a being who was inferior to himself, according to his estimate of human dignities — an estimate formed not alone on per- sonal courage, but also on personal strength. However, as we have said, he was, in some measure, overawed ; and though he would have done much to prove his daring in the sight of his companions, his mind was not yet sufficiently wrought up to shake off all respect, and he answered boldly, but calmly, “ Well, Sir Count, give me your patience, and you shall hear. But my story must be told my own way, or not at all. We called a council of war, then, where every man gave his opinion and mv voice was for shooting Monsieur de Bi&nau’s RICHELIEU. S2 horse as he rode by, and then taking advantage of the confusion among his lackeys, to seize upon his person, and carrying him into St. Herman’s brake, which lies between Le Croix de bois and the river— -you know where I mean, Monseigneur V* “ No, truly,” answered the statesman ; “ but, as I guess, some deep part of the forest, where you could have searched him at your ease. — The plan was a good one. Why went it not forward ? ” “ You shall hear in good time,” answered the free- booter, growing somewhat more familiar in his ton?. “ As you say, St. Herman’s brake is deep enough in the forest — and if we had once housed him there, we might have searched him from top to toe for the packet — ay, and looked in his mouth, if we found it nowhere else. But the first objection was, that an arquebuse, though a very pretty weapon, and pleasant serviceable companion in broad brawl and battle, talks too loud for secret service, and the noise thereof might put the count’s people on their guard before we could secure his person. However, they say, 4 a Norman cow can always get over a stile ; ’ so I offered to do the business with yon arbalete ;” and he pointed to a steel crossbow lying near, of that peculiar shape which seems to unite the properties of the cross- bow and the gun, propelling the ball or bolt by means of the stiff arched spring and cord, by which little noise is made, while the aim is rendered more certain by a long tube, similar to the barrel of a musket, through »vhich the shot passes. “ When was I ever known to miss my aim?” continued the Norman. “ Why, I always shoot my stags in the eye, for fear of hurting the skin. However, Mortagne— your old friend, Monsieur de Chavigni — who was a sort of band captain among us, loved blood as you know, like an unreclaimed falcon ; besides, he had some old grudge against the count, w r ho turned him out of the queen’s anteroom, when he was ancient in the cardinal’s guard. He it was w ho over-ruled my proposal. He would have shot him willingly enough, but your gentleman would not hear of that ; so we attacked the count’s train RICHELIEU. 33 at the turn of the road — boldly, and in the face. Mor- tagne was lucky enough to get a fair cut at his head, which slashed through his beaver, and laid his skull bare, but went no farther, only serving to make the youth as savage as a hurt boar : for I had but time to see his hand laid upon his sword, when its cross was knocking against Montagne’s ribs before, and the point shining out between his blade-bones behind. It was done in the twinkling of an eye.” 4 ‘ He is a gallant youth,” said Chavigni ; 44 he always was from a boy. But where is your wounded com panion V* 44 Wounded !” cried the Norman. 44 Odds life ! he's dead. It was enough to have killed the devil. There he lies, poor fellow, wrapped in his cloak. Will you please to look upon him, sir counsellor?” and snatching up one of the torches, he approached the spot where the dead man lay, under a bank covered with withered brushwood and stunted trees. Chavigni followed with a slow step and gloomy brow, the robbers drawing back at his approach ; for though they held high birth in but little respect, the redoubted name and fearless bearing of the statesman had power over even their ungoverned spirits. He, however, who had been called Pierrepont Le Blanc by the tall Norman, twitched his companion by the sleeve as he lighted Cha- vigni on. 4{ A cowed hound, Norman !” whispered he — “ thou hast felt the lash — a cowed hound !” The Norman glanced on him a look of fire ; but pass- ing on in silence, he disengaged the mantle from the corpse, and displayed the face of his dead comrade*, whose calm closed eyes and unruffled features might have been supposed to picture quiet sleep, had not the ashy paleness of his cheek, and the drop of the under jaw, told that the soul no longer tenanted its earthly dwelling. The bosom of the unfortunate man remained open, in the state in which his companions had left it, after an in- effectual attempt to give him aid ; and in the left side appeared a small wound, where the weapon of his oppo nent had found entrance, so trifling in appearance, that it T) 34 RICHELIEU. seemed a marvel how so little a thing could overthrow the prodigious strength which those limbs announced, and rob them of that hardy spirit which animated them some few hours before. Chavigni gazed upon him, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and for a moment his mind wandered far into those paths, to which such a sight naturally directs the course of our ideas, till, his thoughts losing themselves in the uncertainty of the void before them, by a sudden effort he recalled them to the business in which he was immediately engaged. “ Well, he has bitterly expiated the disobedience of my commands. But tell me/’ he said, turning to the Norman, who still continued to hold the torch over the dead man, “ how is it ye have dared to force my servant to show himself, and my liveries, in this attack, contrary to my special order ?” “ That is easily told,” answered the Norman, assuming a tone equally bold and peremptory with that of the statesman. “ Thus it stands, sir count : you men of quality often employ us nobility of the forest to do what you either cannot, or dare not do for yourselves; then, if all goes well, you pay us scantily for our pains ; if it goes ill, you hang us for your own doings. But we will have none of that. If we are to be falcons for your game, we will risk the stroke of the heron’s bill, but we will not have our necks wrung after we have struck the prey. When your lackey was present, it was your deed. Mark ye that, sir counsellor ?” “ Villain, thou art insolent!” cried Chivigni, forget- ting, in the height of passion, the fearful odds against him, in case of quarrel at such a moment. “ How dare you, slave, to — ” “ Villain ! and slave !” cried the Norman, interrupting him, and laying his hand on his sword. “ Know, proud sir, that I dare any thing. You are now in the green forest, not at council-board, to prate of daring.” Chavigni’s dignity, like his prudence, became lost in his anger. “ Boasting Norman coward l” cried he, “ who had not even courage, when he saw his leader slain be- fore his face — ” RICHELIEU 35 The Norman threw the torch from his hand, and drew his weapon ; but Chavigni’s sword sprang in a moment from the scabbard. He was, perhaps, the best swords- man of his day ; and before his servant (who advanced, calling to Lafemas to come forth from the wood where he had remained from the first) could approach, or the rob- bers could show any signs of taking part in the fray, the blades of the statesman and the freebooter had crossed; and, maugre the Norman’s vast strength, his weapon was instantly wrenched from his hand, and, flying over the heads of his companions, struck against the bank above. Chavigni drew back, as if to pass his sword through the body of his opponent ; but the one moment he had thus been engaged, gave time for reflection on the impru- dence of his conduct, and calmly returning his blade to its sheath, “Thou art no coward, after all,” said he, ad- dressing the Norman in a softened tone of voice ; “ but trust me, friend, that boasting graces but little a brave man. As for the rest, it is no disgrace to have measured swords with Chavigni.” The Norman was one of those men so totally unaccus- tomed to command their passions, that, like slaves who have thrown off their chains, each struggles for the mastery, obtains it for a moment, and is again deprived of power by some one more violent still. The dignity of the statesman’s manner, the apparent generosity of his conduct, and the degree of gentleness with which he spoke, acted upon the feelings of the Nor- mau, like the waves of the sea when they meet the waters of the Dordogne, driving them back even to their very source, with irresistible violence. An unwonted tear trembled in his eye. “ Monseigneur, I have done foul wsong,” said he, u in thus urging you, when you trusted yourself among us. But you have punished me more by your forbearance, than if you had passed your sword through my body.” “ Ha! such thoughts in a freebooter!” crud Chavigni. 41 Friend, this is not thy right trade. But what means all this smoke that gathers round us ? — Surely those bushes are on fire see the sparks how they rise ’ 36 RTCHEL EU. Mis remark called the eyes of all upon that part of the dingle into which the Norman had incautiously thrown his torch, on drawing his sword upon the statesman. Con- tinued sparks, mingled with a thick cloud of smoke, were rising quickly from it, showing plainly that the fire had caught some of the dry bushes thereabout; and in a mo- ment after, a bright fitful flame burst forth, speedily com- municating itself to the old withered oaks round the spot, and threatening to spread destruction into the heart of the f brest. In an instant all the robbers were engaged in the most strenuous endeavours to extinguish the fire ; but the dis- tance, to which the vast strength of the Norman had hurled the torch among the bushes, rendered access ex- tremely difficult. No water was to be procured, and the means they employed, that of cutting down the smaller trees and bushes with their swords and axes, instead of opposing any obstacle to the flames, seemed rather to ac- celerate their progress. From bush to bush, from tree to tree, the impetuous element spread on, till, finding them- selves almost girt in by the fire, the heat and smoke of which were becoming too intense for endurance, the rob- bers abandoned their useless efforts to extinguish it, and hurried to gather up their scattered arms and garments, before the flames reached the spot of their late revels. The Norman, however, together with Chavigni and his servant, still continued their exertions ; and even Lafe- mas, who had come forth from his hiding-place, gave some awkward assistance ; when suddenly the Norman stopped, put his hand to his ear, to aid his hearing amidst the cracking of the wood and the roaring of the flames, and exclaimed, “ I hear horse upon the hill — follow me, Mon- seigneur. St. Patrice guide us ! this is a bad business : follow me 1” So saying, three steps brought him to the flat below, where his companions were still engaged in gathering together all they had left on the ground. “ Messieurs !” he cried to the robbers, “leave all use- less lumber. I bear horses coining down the hill. It must be a lieutenant of the forest, and the gardes eham- pltrss, alarmed by the fire. Seek your horses, quick!— RICHELIEU. 37 each his own way. We meet at St. Herman’s bra^e. — • You, Monseigneur, follow me ; I will be your guide ; bu- dally not, sir, if, as I guess, you would rather be deemed in the Rue St. Honore, than in the forest of St. Ger- main.” So saying, he drew aside the boughs, disclosing a path somewhat to the right of that by which Chavigni had entered their retreat, and which apparently led to the high sand- cl iff which flanked it on the north. The states- man, with his servant and Lafemas, followed quickly upon his steps, only lighted by the occasional gleam of the flames, as they flashed and flickered through the foliage of the trees. Having to struggle every moment with the low branches of the hazel, and the tangled briars that shot across the path, it was some time ere they reached the bank, and there the footway they had hitherto followed seemed to end. “ Here are steps,” said the Norman, in a low voice ; 14 hold by the boughs, Monseigneur, lest your footing fail. Here is the first step.” The ascent was not difficult, and in a few minutes they had lost sight of the dingle and the flames by which it was surrounded; only every now and then, where the branches opened, a broad red light fell upon their path, telling that the Are still raged with unabated fury. A moment or two after, they could perceive that the tract entered upon a small savanna, on which the moon was still shining, her beams showing with a strange sickly light, mingled as they were with the fitful gleams of the flames, and the red reflection of the sky. The whole of this small plain, however, was quite sufficiently illuminated to allow Chavigni and his companion to distinguish two horses, fastened by their bridles to a tree hard by ; and a momentary glance convinced the statesman, that the spot where he and Lafemas had left their beasts, was again before him, although he had arrived there by another and much shorter path than that by which he had been con- ducted to the rendezvous. “ We have left all danger behind us, monseigneur,* said the robber, after having carefully examined the 38 RICHELIEU. savanna, to ascertain that no spy lurked amongst the trees around. “ The flies are all swarming round the flames. There stand your horses — mount, and good speed attend you ! Your servant must go with me, for our beasts are not so nigh.” Chavigni whispered a word m the robber’s ear, who in return bowed low, with an air of profound respect. “ I will attend your lordship — ” replied he, “ — and withovit fear.” “ You may do so in safety,” said the statesman, and mounting his horse, after waiting a moment for the judge, be took his way once more towards the high road to St. Germain CHAPTER IV. We must now return to the principal personage of our history, and accompany him on his way towards St. Ger- main, whither he was wending when last we left him. There are some authors fond of holding their readers in suspense, of bringing them into unexpected situations, and surprising them into applause. All such things are extremely appropriate in a novel or romance ; but as this is a true and authentic history, and as eke I detest what theatrical folks call “ claptrap,” I shall proceed to record the facts in the order in which they took place, as nearly as it is possible to do so, and will, like our old friend Othello, “ a round unvarnished tale deliver.” The distance to St. Germain was considerable, and naturally appeared still longer than it really was, to per- sons unacquainted with one step of the road before them, and apprehensive of a thousand occi rrences, both likely and unlikely. Nothing, however, h appened to interrupt them on the way ; and their journey passed over, not only in peace, but very much in silence also. Both the ladies who occupied the inside of the carriage, seemed to be suf- ficiently taken up with their own thoughts, and no way disposed to loquacity ; so that the only break to the mdan- RICHELIEU. 39 choly stillness which hung over them, was now and then a half-formed sentence, proceeding from what was rapidly passing in the mind of each, or the complaining creak of the heavy wheels, as they ground their unwilling way through the less practicable parts of the forest road. At times, too, a groan from the lips of their wounded companion interrupted the silence, as the roughness of the way jolted the ponderous vehicle in which he was car ried, and reawakened him to a sense of pain. Long ere they had reached St. Germain, night had fallen over their journey, and nothing could be distin- guished by those within the carriage, but the figures of the two horsemen who kept close to the windows. The interior was still darker, and it was only a kind of inarti- culate sob from the other side, which made the marchioness inquire, “ Pauline! you are not weeping ?" The young lady did not positively say whether she was so or not, but replied in a voice which showed her mother's conjecture to be well founded. “ It was not thus, mamma," she said, u that I had hoped to arrive at St. Germain." “ Fie, fie ! Pauline," replied the old lady ; “ I have long tried to make you feel like a woman, and you are still a child, a weak child. These accidents, and worse than these, occur to every one in the course of life, and they must be met with fortitude. Have you flattered yourself that you would be exempt from the common sorrows of humanity V 9 “ But if he should die ?" said Pauline, with the tone of one who longs to be soothed out of their fears. The old lady, however, applied no such unction to the wound in her daughter's heart. Madame de Beaumont had her- self been reared in the school of adversity ; and while her mind and principles had been thus strengthened and con- firmed, her feelings had not been rendered more acute. In the present instance, whether she spoke it heedlessly, or whether she intended to destroy one passion by exciting another — to cure Pauline's grief by rousing her anger — her answer afforded but little xmsolation. “ If he dies," said 40 RICH1LI1U. she dryly, “ why I suppose the fair lady whose picture he has in his bosom would weep, and you-- — ” A deep groan from their wounded companion broke in upon her speed), and suggested to the marchioness that he might not be quite so insensible as he seemed. Such an answer, too, was not so palatable to Pauline as to in- duce her to urge the conversation any farther; so that Silence again resumed her empire over the party, remain ing undisturbed till the old lady, drawing back the cur tain, announced that they were entering St. Germain. A few minutes more brought them to the lodging of the Count de Blenau ; and here the marchioness descending, 'ave all the necessary directions, in order that the young gentleman might be carried to his sleeping-chamber, in the easiest and most convenient method ; white Pauline, without proffering any aid, sat back in a dark corner of the carriage ; — nor did any thing show that she was in- terested in what passed around her, but when the light of a torch, glaring into the vehicle, discovered a handkerchief pressed over her eves, to hide the tears she could not re- strain. As soon as the count was safely lodged in his own dwelling, the carriage proceeded towards the palace, — which evinced but little appearance of regal state. However the mind of Pauline might have been accustomed to picture a court, in all the gay and splendid colouring which youth- ful imagination lends to anticipated pleasure, her thoughts were now far too fully occupied to admit of her noticing ne lonely and deserted appearance of the scene. But to Madame de Beaumont it was different. She, who remem- bered St. Germain in other days, looked in vain for the lights flashing from every window of the palace ; for the servants hurrying along the different avenues, the sentine s parading before every entrance, and the gay groups of courtiers and ladies, in all the brilliant costume of the time, which used to crowd the terrace and gardens to enjoy the cool of the evening after the sun had gone down. All that she remembered had had its day ; and nothing RTCIIELIEU 41 remained but silence and solitude. A single sentry, a the principal gate, alone indicated the dwelling of a king and it was not till the carriage had passed under the archway, that even an attendant presented himself, to in- quire who were the comers at that late hour. The principal domestic of Madame de Beaumont, who had already descended from his horse, gave the name of his lady with all ceremony, and also tendered a card (as he had been instructed by the marchioness), on which her style and title were fully displayed. The royal servant bowed low, saying that the queen, his mistress, had ex- pected the marchioness before ; and seizing the rope of a great bell, which hung above the staircase, he rang such a peal, that the empty galleries of the palace returned a kind of groaning echo to the rude clang which seemed t^ mock their loneliness. Two or three more servants appeared, in answer to the bell’s noisy summons ; yet such was still the paucity of attendants, that Madame de Beaumont, even while she descended from her carriage, and began to ascend the “ grand escalier,” had need to look, from time to time, at the splendid fresco paintings which decorated the walls, and the crowns and fleurs-de-lis with which all the cor- nices were ornamented, before she could satisfy herself that she really was in the royal chateau of St. Germain. Pauline’s eyes, fixed on the floor, wandered little to any of the objects round; yet, perhaps, the vast spacious- ness of the palace, contrasted with the scarcity of its in- habitants, might cast even an additional degree of gloom ver her mind, saddened, as it already was, by the occur- 1 ences of the day. Doubtless, in the remote parts or ! Languedoc, where Pauline de Beaumont had hitheric dwelt, gay visions of a court had come floating upon imagination, like the lamps which the Hindoos commit to the waters of the Ganges, casting a wild and uncertain Jght upon the distant prospect;* and it is probable, that * I do not feel sure that I have not borrowed this comparison from iome other writer; but if I have, I did so unintentionally. 42 RICHELIEU. even if St. Germain had possessed all its former aplem dour, Pauline would still have been disappointed ; for youthful imagination always outrivals plain reality ; and besides, there is an unpleasing feeling of solitude commu- nicated by the aspect of a strange place, which detracts greatly from the first pleasure of novelty. Thus there were a thousand reasons why Mademoiselle de Beaumont, as she followed the attendant through the long empty galleries and vacant chambers of the palace, towards the apartments prepared for her mother and herself, felt none of those happy sensations which she had anticipated from her arrival at court ; nor was it till, on entering the ante- chamber of their suite of rooms, she beheld the gay smiling face of her Lyonaise waiting-maid, that she felt there was any thing akin to old recollections within those cold and pompous walls, which seemed to look upon her as a stranger. The soubrette had been sent forward the day before, with a part of the Marchioness de Beaumont's equipage ; and now, having endured a whole day's comparative silence with the patience and fortitude of a martyr, she advanced to the two ladies, with a loquacity in her countenance, as if resolved to make up, as speedily as possible, for the restraint under which her tongue had laboured during her short sojourn in the palace. But the deep gravity of Madame de Beaumont, and the melancholy air of her daughter, checked Louise in full career ; so that, having kissed her mistress on both cheeks, she paused, while her lip, like an overflowed reservoir whose waters are trem- bling on the very brink, seemed ready to pour forth the torrent of words which she had so long suppressed. Pauline, as she passed through the ante-room, wiped the last tears from her eyes, and on entering the saloon, approached a mirror which hung between the windows, as „f to ascertain what traces they had left behind. The soubrette did not fail to advance, in order to adjust her young lady's dress, and findng herself once more in the exercise of her functions, the right of chattering seemed equally restored ; for she commenced immediately, be- RICHELIEU. 43 ginning in a low and respectful voice, but gradually in- creasing as she thought of her mistress was swallowed up in the more comprehensive idea of herself. “ Oh, dear mademoiselle,” said she, “ I am so glad you are come at last. This place is so sad and so dull ! Who would think it was a court? Wfcy, 1 expected to see it filled with lords and ladies, and instead of that, I have seen nothing but dismal-looking men, who go gliding about in silence, seeming afraid to open their lips* as if that cruel old cardinal, whom they all tremble at, could hear every word they say.\ I did see one line-looking gentleman this morning, to be sure, with his servants all in beautiful liveries of blue and gold, and horses that seemed as if there were fire coming out of their very eyes ; but he rode away to hunt, after he had been half an hour with the queen and Mademoiselle de Hauteford,* as they call her.” “ Mademoiselle de what?” exclaimed Pauline, quickly, as if startled from her reverie by something curious in the name. “ Who did you say, Louise ?” “ Oh, such a pretty young lady l” replied the waiting- woman. “ Mademoiselle de Hauteford is her name. I saw her this morning as she went to the queen’s levee. She has eyes as blue as the sky, and teeth like pearls themselves ; but withal she looks as cold and as proud as if she were the queen’s own self.”f While the soubrette spoke, Pauline raised her large dark eyes to the tall Venetian mirror which stood before her, and which had never reflected any thing lovelier than herself, as hastily she passed her fair small hand across her brow, brushing back the glossy ringlets that hung * Maria de Hauteford, after a long and troublesome life, the course of which her firm but somewhat harsh integrity alienated from the favour of that very queen whom she served with such devotion, died in 1691, at the age of seventy-five. *h The portrait given of her by M. de Motteville, is as follows : — u Je m’arreterai seulement a Mademoiselle de Hauteford, qui fit, aussitot qu’elle fut a la cour, de plus grands effets que toutes les beautds dont je viens de parler. Ses yeux etoient bleus, grands et pleins de feu ; ses dents blanches et egales, et eon teint avoit le blanc et l’incarnat necessaire a une beaute blonde.*’ 44 RICHELIEU. clustering over her forehead. But she was tired and pale with fatigue and anxiety ; her eyes, too, bore the traces ot tears ; and with a sigh and look of dissatisfaction, she turned away from the mirror, which, like every other in- vention of human vanity, as often procures us disappoint- ment as gratification. Madame de Beaumont's eyes had been fixed upon Pauline ; and translating her daughter’s looks with the instinctive acuteness of a mother, she approached with more gentleness than was her wont. “ You are beautiful enough, my Pauline,” said she, pressing a kiss upon hci cheek ; “ you are beautiful enough. Do not fear.” “ Nay, mamma,” replied Pauline, “ I have nothing to fear, either from possessing or from wanting beauty.” “ Thou art a silly girl, Pauline,” continued her mother, “ and take these trifles far too much to heart. Perhaps I was wrong concerning this same picture. It was but a random guess. Besides, even were it true, where were the mighty harm? These men are all alike, Pauline. Like butterflies, they rest on a thousand flowers before they settle on any one. We all fancy that our own lover is different from his fellows; but, believe me, my child, the best happiness a woman can boast, is that of being most carefully deceived.” “Then no such butterfly love for me, mamma,” replied Pauline, her cheek slightly colouring as she spoke. “ I would rather not know this sweet poison — love. My heart is still free though my fancy may have — have — ” “May have what, Pauline?” demanded her mother, with a doubtful smile. “ My dear child, thy heart and thy fancy, I trow, have not been so separate as thou thinkest.” “ Nay, mamma,” answered Pauline, “my fancy, like an insect, may have been caught in the web of a spicier ; but the enemy has not yet seized me, and I will break through while I can.” “ But, first, let us be sure that we are right,” said Madame de Beaumont. “ For as every rule has its ex ception, there be some men whose hearts are even woithj the acceptance of a squeamish girl, who, knowing 3$ RtCHELIEC • 45 thing of the world, expects to meet with purity like her own. At all events, love, De Blenau is the soul of honour* and will not stoop to deceit. In justice, you must not »udge without hearing him.” “ But,” said Pauline, not at all displeased with the re- futation of her own ideas, and even wishing, perhaps, to afford her mother occasion to combat them anew, — “ but—” The sentence, however, was never destined to be con- cluded ; for, as she spoke, the door of the apartment opened, and a form glided in, the appearance of which instantly arrested the words on Pauline’s lips, and made her draw back with an instinctive feeling of respect. The lady who entered had passed that earlier period ot existence, when beauties and graces succeed each other without pause, like the flowers of spring, that go bloom- ing on from the violet to the rose. She was in the sum- mer of life, but it was the early summer, untouched by autumn ; and her form, though it possessed no longer the airy lightness of youth, had acquired in dignity a degree of beauty which compensated for the softer loveliness that years had stolen away. Her brown hair fell in a profusion of large curls round a face which, if not strictly hand- some, was highly pleasing: and even many sorrows and revet ses, by mingling an expression of patient melancholy with the gentle majesty of her countenance, produced a greater degree of interest than the features could have originally excited. Those e>en who sought for that mere stony beauty which exists independent of expression, would have per- ceived that her eyes were quick and fine; that her skin was of the most delicate whiteness, except where it was disfigured by the use of rouge; and that her small mouth might have served as a model to a statuary, especially while her lips arched with a warm smile of pleasure and affection, as advancing into the apartment, she pressed Madame de Beaumont to her bosom. On her part, the marchioness bending low, received the embrace of Ann* of Austria, with the humble deference of a respectful subject towards the condescension of their sovereign,. RICHEtlEU. 1$ “ Once more restored to me, my dear Madame de Beau- mont !” said the queen. “ His eminence of Richelieu does indeed give me back one of the best of my friends. And this is your Pauline?’' she added, turning to Made- moiselle de Beaumont. “ You were but young, my fair Demoiselle, when last I saw you. You have grown up a lovely flower from a noble root ; but truly you will never be spoiled by splendour at our court/* As she spoke, her mind seemed naturally to return to other days, and her eye fixed intently on the ground, as if engaged in tracing out the plan of her past existence; running over all the lines of sorrow, danger, and disap- pointed hope; till the task became too bitter, and she turned to the marchioness with one of those long deep sighs, that almost always follow a review of the days gone by, forming a sort of epitaph to the dreams, the wishes, and the joys, that once were dear and are now no more. When you met me, De Beaumont,” said the queen, “ with the proud Duke of Guise on the banks of the Bidassoa — quitting the kingdom of my father, and en- tering the kingdom of my husband — with an a r my for my escort, and princes kneeling at my feet — little, little did ever you or I think, that Anne of Austria, the wife of a great king, and daughter of a long line of monarchs, would, in after years, be forced to dwell at St. Germain, without guards, without court, without attend- ants, but such as the Cardinal de Richelieu chooses to allow her. /The Cardinal de Richelieu !” she proceeded thoughtfully-; “the servant of my husband! — but no less the master of his master, and the king of his king/' “ I can assure your majesty,” replied Madame de Beau mont, with a deep tone of feeling which had no hypocrisy iuit, for her whole heart was bound by habit, principle, and inclination, to her royal mistress. “ I can assure your majesty, that many a tear hare I shed over the sorrows of my queen ; and when his eminence drove me from the court, I regretted not the splendour of a r aiace, 1 regretted not the honour of serving my sovereign, regretted not the friends I left behind, or the hopes I lost ; all 1 regretted was that I could not be the sharer of my RICHELIEU. 47 mistress's misfortunes. But your majesty has now received a blessing from Heaven/* she continued, willing to turn the conversation from the troubled course of memory to the more agreeable channels of hope — “ a blessing which we scarcely dreamed of — a consolation under all present sor- rows, and a bright prospect for the years to come.” “ Oh, yes, my little Louis, you would say/* replied the Queen, her face lightening with all a mother’s joy as she spoke of her son. “ He is indeed a cherub ; and sura am I, that if God sends him years, he wall redress his mother’s wrongs, by proving the greatest of his race.” She spoke of the famous Louis the Fourteenth, and some might have thought she prophesied. But it was only the fervour of a mother’s hope — an ebullition of that pure feel- ing, which alone, of all the affections of the heart, the most sordid poverty cannot destroy, and the proudest rank can hardly check. “ He is indeed a cherub,” continued the Queen ; “ and such was your Pauline to you, De Beaumont, when the Cardinal drove you from my side : a consolation not only in your exile, but also in your mourning for your noble lord. Come near, young lady ; let me see if thou art like thy father/’ Pauline approached ; and the Queen laying her hand gently upon her arm, ran her eye rapidly over her face and figure, every now and then pausing for a moment, and seeming to call memory to her aid, in the comparison she was making between the dead and the living. But sud- denly she started back — U S ainte Viergel ” cried she, crossing herself, “ your dress is all dabbled with blood What bad omen is this?” “ May it please your majesty,” said the Marchioness, half smiling at the Queen’s superstition, for her own strong mind rejected many of the errors of the day, “ that blood is only an omen of Pauline’s charitable disposition ; for in trie forest hard by, we came up with a wounded cavalier, and like a true demoiselle errante , Pauline rendered him personal aid, even at the expense of her robe.” “ Nay, nay, De Beaumont,” said the Queen, “ it mat- ters not how it came ; it is a bad omen : some misfortune 48 RICHELIEU. is about to happen. I remember the day before my father 4ied, the Conde de Saldana came to court with a spot of biood upon the lace of his cardinal ; and on that fatal day which ” The door of the apartment at this moment opened, and Anne of Austria, filled with her own peculiar superstition, stopped in the midst of her speech, and turned her eye anxiously towards it, as if she expected the coming of some ghastly apparition. The figure that entered, how* ever, though it possessed a dignity scarcely earthly, and calm, still grace — an almost inanimate composure — rarely seen in beings agitated by human passions, was, neverthe- less, no form calculated to inspire alarm.