Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER X.

Those who have visited France in the present day, who have travelled over that rich and fertile land from end to end, who have journeyed through its least frequented districts, and examined into the nooks and corners which are but little exposed to the eye of the ordinary traveller, have yet, in general, but a very faint idea of the scene it presented at the period of which we write. Yet were they to bring history to aid their researches, from time to time, they would discover such fragments of a former day as might enable them to call up before their eyes a true picture of France during the wars of the League, as a Buckland or a Sedgwick, from the teeth and bones of long extinct animals, and from the leaves of trees that have decayed for thousands of years, are enabled to raise up from the waves of time an image of a by-gone world, and people it with monstrous things, such as the eye of man probably never beheld in actual existence.

The whole country towards the end of the sixteenth century, torn with factions, desolated by rapine, stained with bloodshed, knew nought of commerce, manufactures, or arts, and even agriculture itself, on which the daily support of the people depended, was accompanied with terror and danger. Thus hamlets and villages, through wide districts of the most fertile parts of France, were swept away or left vacant; the houses of the farmer and the labourer had grown few, and were sometimes defended with trenches and palisades against any of the smaller bands that roved the country; the greater part of the population was gathered into fortified cities; and the rest of the kingdom was dotted with châteaux and maisons fortes, generally at a considerable distance from each other, often in the hands of opposite factions, and always prepared for stern resistance against the attack of an enemy.

In the part of the country of which we have been writing, these castles of the old feudal nobility were somewhat numerous; and we must now beg leave to remove the reader for a time from the Château de Marzay to that of Chazeul, which lay, as he has been already informed, at no great distance. We must also go back to an early hour in the morning of that day of which we have just been speaking, in order that those who peruse these pages may be made acquainted with some events which weave themselves into the web of the history as we proceed with our task.

It was at an early hour then--perhaps a little before six o'clock; and, though there was a certain degree of grey mingling with the blackness over head, yet the light of a wintry morning had not sufficiently dawned to enable any one to see within the various rooms of the château. It was at this period that, in a small chamber, plainly furnished, and somewhat high up in one of the many towers of which the building consisted, there sat a very lovely girl, reading by the light of a small lamp a number of old letters which seemed to cause deep and painful emotions in her heart; for the tears streamed rapidly down her cheeks, and almost drowned her sight, as she continued that which seemed a sad and sorrowful task.

The eyes from which those drops poured so rapidly, were large and black as jet, but soft and yet lustrous, even when swimming in the dew of grief. Her hair too, and her fine eyebrows, were of the same inky hue, but her skin was beautifully fair and clear, with a faint tinge of the rose in the soft cheek. In years she might be somewhere between eighteen and twenty, delicate in form, yet with limbs so well proportioned and lines so exquisitely drawn by the pencil of the Great Artist, that every movement displayed some new grace, whether when leaning her head on her hand, she bent down over the page, or raised her look suddenly to heaven, as if appealing on high for comfort or for justice.

Her back as she sat was turned towards the door; and her whole soul was evidently busy with the task before her--too busy as it proved; for she heard no step upon the stairs; she heard no hand upon the lock; she heard no movement in the room. She fancied that all in the house, but her own sad self, were sleeping quietly till the break of day. But it was not so; for as she bent over the pages, the door behind her opened quietly and an elderly woman, dressed in the extreme fashion of the day, though in a travelling costume, looked in, and then paused suddenly on seeing the light and the figure I have described. Her features were aquiline and strongly marked, her eyes keen and sunk, her figure tall and upright, but upon the faded cheek, even at that early hour, might be seen aglow of red, which, it needed no very practised eye to discover, was laid on by another hand than that of nature; and her eyebrows also betrayed a debt to art.

She paused as I have said for a moment at the door, then advanced with noiseless step, the perfect silence of which was produced by the slippers of fur which she wore to defend her feet in travelling from the cold; and approaching the fair reader from behind, she stretched forth her long, and somewhat meagre neck, and peered over her shoulder at the papers on the table.

The next instant, she laid her large thin hand upon them with a firm and heavy pressure; and the poor girl, starting up with a short scream, stood before her, with face and lips as white as those of death, eyes gazing with astonishment and fear, and limbs as motionless as if she had been turned into stone.

"What is this, Helen de la Tremblade?" said the Marchioness de Chazeul, in a sharp and ringing tone; "What is this, girl? Answer me this moment."

"Oh, Madam, pardon me! pardon me!" cried the poor girl, falling at her feet.

"Pardon you?" said the lady, with a bitter look; "I will first see what I have to pardon;" and she began to gather up the letters.

"Oh no! no! no!" exclaimed the other, starting on her feet again, and endeavouring to snatch them away. "You must not--no you must not! Do with me what you will; but do not read those. They are mine, Madam,--they are mine alone!"

But the Marchioness thrust her rudely back, till she reeled to the other side of the room, at the same time crying, "How now, jade! Yours? I will read every word. Sit down upon that stool, and move a step if you dare.--But I will secure you!" and, first gathering up the letters, she turned to the door, locked it, and walking back to the table laid the key upon it, while she drew a seat facing the poor culprit, and repeated, "Sit down, this instant!"

The unhappy girl obeyed, and covered her face, now crimson, with her trembling hands; and Madame de Chazeul drawing the lamp nearer to her, began to read the letter which lay at the top, commenting, as she proceeded, in a low hoarse voice, like the croak of a raven towards the approach of day. "Ha!" she said, as she went on, "Chazeul's hand! Good! I might have divined this. 'Eternal love and passion!'--Fool! There's nothing eternal but folly."

Farther on, however, she seemed to find matter which occupied her more deeply; for her muttered words ceased, her brow put on a still heavier frown, and her small black eyes flashed with double fierceness. "How? how?" she cried, after nearly finishing the letter; "and is it so? What need I more? This is enough in conscience--Oh, base girl! But I will see more--I will see more!" and she turned to another page.

When she had read some way farther, she laid the letter down again upon the table, and gazed at it sternly for several moments, with thoughts evidently busy afar; and then turning to the poor girl, who sat with her face still covered with her hands, she said, "Come hither!"

The girl obeyed with slow, trembling, and uncertain steps, not daring to raise her eyes. When she was near, however, she once more sank upon her knees before the harsh and heartless woman in whose power she was, and lifted her hands as if in the act of supplication; but for several moments her lips refused their office, and no sound of voice was heard. At length when she did speak it was only to say, "Forgive me, oh forgive me!"

"Perhaps I will," replied the Marchioness, in a somewhat softer tone, though at the same time there was a lurking sneer at the corner of her mouth that showed no very merciful sensations, "perhaps I will, if you instantly make a full confession. Tell me how all this happened, without disguise; and perhaps your shame may be yet concealed. Speak, girl, speak."

"Oh, what can I say?" cried the unhappy girl, "you know all now; you see the words he used, the promises he made; you know that I was left entirely to his guidance. Often when you were away, he has been here for weeks together; when you were here, he was always suffered to be with me. Long I resisted--for two years; ever since my uncle placed me with you, has he tempted, and urged, and vowed, and I refused. But I was like a besieged city without assistance or support, and was driven to yield at length, when perhaps deliverance was at hand."

"Without assistance and support, base girl!" cried Madame de Chazeul, "why did you not tell me? and you should have soon had aid."

"Oh, lady!" replied Helen de la Tremblade, "I did tell you at first, when his words were not so clear; and you scoffed and jeered at me till I dared not say more; and, after that, I learned to love him. Then, for his sake, I dared not speak."

"So it was my fault, was it?" said the Marchioness with a look of haughty contempt. "Thus is it ever; when a fool commits a folly, it is ever because somebody else did not counsel or help him. Was I the guardian of your virtue, girl?"

"You should have been," replied Helen de la Tremblade, a momentary spark of indignation rising in her breast as the worm was trampled on, "you should have been, against your own son."

"Ha!" cried the Marchioness with a flashing eye; but then, restraining herself, she demanded, "Who brought these letters? Who was the pander to your guilt?"

"Nay, do not ask me that," said her unhappy companion; "be angry with me, if you will; ask what you please about myself; but do not, do not vent your wrath on others."

"Will you say?" cried the Marchioness, in a furious tone. "This moment, will you say?"

"No, no!" answered Helen in a deprecatory tone, "I cannot, I will not. He knew not what he brought."

"You will not!" repeated the Marchioness sternly, "you will not! Girl, you shall! Are you not in my power?"

"You have no power to make me injure another," replied Helen mournfully; "I have injured myself enough; your son has corrupted, destroyed, betrayed me. With all these vows and promises written with his own hand, he is now about to wed another, whom he has no right to wed. Surely this is enough of misery; and I will not make my heart so sad as it would be, were I to add the ruin of another to my own."

"Vows! promises! no right to wed her, base girl! I will soon show you what are such promises!" and, snatching up the whole packet of letters, she held them open to the flame of the lamp.

Contrary, perhaps, to the expectation of Madame de Chazeul, Helen de la Tremblade made not the slightest effort to stop her in the act. Whether it was that she felt her strength was not equal to contend with the tall and masculine woman, who was thus taking from her the only proof of those promises by which she had been betrayed, or whether it was the apathy of utter despair that restrained her, I cannot tell; but there she stood, motionless though not unmoved, with her eyes now tearless though full of sorrow, with her lip quivering but without a sound. Oh, who can tell the dark and terrible feelings of the poor girl's heart at that moment when, to all the bitterness of sin, and shame, and sorrow, and betrayed love, and disappointed hope and blighted affection, she saw destroyed before her face every evidence of the arts that had been used to deceive her, all that could palliate, if not justify, her conduct?

The flame caught the letters in an instant; and with a resolute hand the Marchioness held the papers till the fire nearly scorched her, then cast the fragments on the tiled floor, and, as they were consumed, turned with a bitter and a mocking laugh to the poor culprit, exclaiming, "Now talk of vows and promises!"

"They are written in heaven, if not on earth," replied Helen de la Tremblade, gazing at her with a degree of firmness that but enraged her the more.

"Heaven!" she exclaimed in a contemptuous tone, "heaven! do you dare to talk of heaven? Fool, if that is your resource, I will make you rue your conduct, at least on earth!" Then advancing to the door, she unlocked it, returned, and, grasping the poor girl by the arm, dragged her after her, down the stairs and through the long corridors of the château, to the outer hall.

Now came the bitterest moment of the whole for the unhappy victim. The hall was filled with attendants prepared for a journey. There were servants and armed men, the two maids of Madame de Chazeul, and a gay page jesting with one of them. All eyes were fixed upon her as, dragged on by the Marchioness, she was brought into the midst of them; and oh, how thankful she would have been if the earth would but have opened and swallowed her alive!

"Undo the door!" cried Madame de Chazeul. "There, throw it wide! Now, strumpet, get thee forth, and carry your shame to any place where it may be marketable!"

"Oh God!" cried Helen de la Tremblade, clasping her hands in agony, "can it be possible? Have you--have you no pity?--At least let me take that which belongs to me."

"Forth, wretch, forth!" cried the Marchioness, stamping her foot. "Drive her out, drive her out, I say!"

No one stirred to obey the cruel order; but Helen turned and waved her hand, roused into some firmness by the cruel treatment she met with. "That shall not be needed, Madam," she said. "I go; and when you stand at the awful judgment-seat of God, with all your sins upon your head; when all that you have done through life comes up before you as a picture, may you find a more merciful judge than you have proved to me."

"Away with you, away with you!" cried the Marchioness, adding the coarsest term of reprobation that in the French language can be applied to woman. "It is ever thus with such wretches as you: when detected in sin, they begin to cant. Away with you, I say; let us hear no more of it!"

Helen turned, and walked slowly towards the door; but the page ran after her, exclaiming, "Here is your veil, Mademoiselle; you left it below last night."

Helen took it; but before she could thank him, the Marchioness strode forward, and dealt him a box on the ear that cast him upon the ground, exclaiming "who taught thee to meddle malapert?"

"Ah, poor boy!" cried Helen; and with the tears in her eyes, she quitted the inhospitable doors, within which virtue and happiness had been sacrificed for ever.

For some way, she walked along utterly unconscious where she went. We must not say, she thought either of her situation at the time, of the past, or of the future; for there was nothing like thought in her mind. It was all despair; she asked not herself where she should go, what should be her conduct, what place of refuge she should find, how she should obtain even necessary food. The predominant sensation, if any were predominant, was a wish to die; and any road which led her from that hateful mansion was to her the same.

This troubled state continued for some minutes, till a small wood concealed her from the castle; but still she walked on, or rather ran; for her steps, under the impetuous course of her own feelings, grew quicker each moment as she went. At length she heard the sound of horses' feet and the grating roll of carriage wheels, and a vague remembrance of having seen the heavy coach of Madame de Chazeul standing prepared before the gates, made her believe that she was pursued by that terrible woman, and, a sudden feeling of terror taking possession of her, she darted in amongst the trees, and crouched behind some brushwood.

There she could hear the whole train pass by; and as they wound on down the hill, she saw the well-known colours and figures sweep slowly on till, as they were beginning to rise on the opposite slope, they came to a sudden halt, and a consultation seemed to take place. In a few minutes two horsemen detached themselves from the rest, and passed the wood in a gallop towards the château; but poor Helen remained in her place of concealment; and, as she did so, the tumultuous agitation of her heart and brain grew somewhat calmer, and a long and bitter flood of tears brought thought along with it. But, oh how terrible was reflection! how did she bemoan her own fatal folly! how desolate seemed her heart! how hopeless--how utterly hopeless--seemed her situation!

Where could she hide her head? she asked herself--where cover her shame?--where conceal herself from the eyes of all men?--who would help?--who would assist her?--who would speak one word of comfort, of consolation, of sympathy? None, none. From the sympathy of the virtuous and the good she had cut herself off for ever! Was she to associate with the abandoned and profligate?--was evil to become her good?--was moral death to bring her mere mortal life? Ah, no! she would sooner die, she thought, a thousand-fold sooner die; and she abhorred herself for her weakness past, more than many who think themselves virtuous, would abhor themselves for actual crime.

"Why should I stay here?" she asked herself at length. "I am an outcast--a beggar; my father and mother in the grave; my uncle's face I dare not see; I have no one to seek--I have no road to choose; the wide world is before me; I must trust myself to fate;" and rising up, with the feeling of desolate despair taking possession of her once more, she followed the path before her, then turned into another, then wandered along a third, and thus went on for nearly an hour-and-a-half, with several of the country people who passed her, turning round to gaze in surprise at so fair and delicate a creature straying abroad, with a vacant air and tear-stained countenance, at so early an hour of the morning.

At length she felt weary; and with listless indifference to all that might befal her, she seated herself on a stone, at the foot of a wooden cross, which had been erected by some pious hand beneath a high tree-covered bank, down which the snow, now melting under the first warmth of spring, was slipping from time to time in large masses, or sending forth a thousand small streams, which rendered the road almost like the bed of a river.

Poor Helen heeded it not, however; she took no notice of the cold and the wet. The bodily discomforts that she suffered had but little effect upon her; and, if she perceived them at all, they came but as things which recalled to her mind more forcibly the hopeless desolation of her situation. Thus, after a few minutes' rest and thought, she once more bent down her beautiful head upon her two fair hands, and wept long and bitterly.

While she was thus sadly occupied, the sound of a horse's feet striking the plashy ground at a quick pace came down the lane. She gave it no attention, and the horseman dashed passed her, apparently without noticing her. It was not so, however; and about a hundred yards farther on he pulled in his rein, and turned back again. In another minute he was by her side; and she heard a kind and good-humoured voice exclaim, "What is the matter, young lady, has any one injured you?"

Helen de la Tremblade looked up, and beheld in the person who addressed her a man of a frank and open countenance. He was dressed in a brown suit of a plain rough cloth, and seemed to be a substantial countryman of about forty years of age, though his beard and moustache was somewhat grey. There was a look of pleasant and intelligent interest on his face, which might have brought back some hope to her cold heart, for it spoke of sympathy; but she replied in a sad and bitter tone, "Alas, I have injured myself," bursting into a fresh gush of tears as the words of self-reproach passed her lips.

The man gazed at her for a moment in silence, seemingly puzzled by the contrast between her dress and her apparent situation. At length he exclaimed, "Parbleu! you cannot stay here, my poor girl. You seem a young thing, and well nurtured; what can have brought you into this state?"

"My own fault, as well as the cruelty of others," answered Helen de la Tremblade.

"Well, we all have faults," replied the man, "God forgive us for them! and as for the cruelty of others, we are none of us good enough to afford to be severe, especially when errors are freely acknowledged. But tell me, can I do anything to help you? I have little time; but I cannot find in my heart to see a fair young thing like you left to perish by the road-side."

"Oh!" cried Helen starting up; "if you would but give me shelter for a single night, till I can think, till I can give my mind some order, you might save me from destruction. Doubtless," she added, seeing him pause as if in hesitation, "doubtless you have a home not far off; doubtless you have wife and children,---daughters perhaps; and should you hear my prayer, be sure God will bless and protect them, if ever they fall into misery like me. I am not intentionally wicked, indeed; weak I may be: nay, weak I am, but not vicious; no, not vicious, whatever you may think."

"Pardie few of the fine dames of France can say that!" exclaimed the horseman. "But the truth is, my poor young lady, my home is not very near. But I would fain help you if I could. Where are your father and mother? Better go home to them, and if you have offended them, try to soften them with tears. They must have hard hearts if they resist."

"They are in the grave," answered the unhappy girl.

"And what is your name, poor thing?" inquired her companion.

She paused and hesitated; but the next moment she said, "Why should I conceal the truth? my name is Helen de la Tremblade."

"What!" exclaimed the farmer, "the niece of the good priest at the Château de Marzay?"

"The same," answered Helen with a mournful shake of the head.

"Then you have been residing with the old Marchioness de Chazeul," rejoined the other, adding, "at least the servants told me so."

"Till this morning," replied Helen with a sigh; "but I am now a houseless outcast."

The horseman dismounted from his beast, and took her kindly by the hand; "Alas, poor child," he said, "you have been, I fear, under a hard ruler. I know something of this woman; if not personally, at least by hearsay; and I can easily believe that she has been harsh and unkind."

"But I was first in fault," answered Helen, interrupting him frankly, "I deserved reproach, perhaps punishment, but oh, not so terrible as this."

"Why, what was the cause?" asked the farmer. "Nay, then," he proceeded, "as your cheek glows, I will ask no further questions. I seek not to distress you, young lady, but to serve you; and if I can, I will place you in security. You cannot--you must not remain here. Heaven only knows what might happen to you. But how I am to get you hence I cannot tell. I have not time to go back with you to Marzay, and--"

"Not for existence," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "no, not, for all that earth can give, would I set my foot within those walls."

"Ay, I forgot," rejoined the farmer, "she must be there by this time."

"Oh not for that--not for that alone," exclaimed the poor girl with a shudder, "you do not know--you cannot tell all."

"Well," replied her companion, "perhaps you may think differently by and by. But in the mean time, how am I to get you hence? I am going to the village of St. André, some eight leagues distance, and have no conveyance but the horse I ride. Stay," he continued, "I will go on a short way, and see if I can find a cottage or farm-house where we can hire horse or cart."

"Oh do not leave me," cried Helen, "you are the first who has spoken kindly to me; and perhaps--perhaps if you go you may not return."

"I will, upon my honour," replied the farmer; and setting spurs to his horse, he was away over the opposite hill in a few moments.

The time went heavily by with Helen de la Tremblade. She asked herself, "Will not he too deceive me?" and when nearly twenty minutes passed without her companion's return, her heart sank, and her eyes once more filled with tears. It had seemed, while he was near her, that she was not totally abandoned, that she had still some human being to hold communion with, that she was not, as she had at first believed, shut out from all sympathies. She knew not who he was, it is true; she had no information of his name, his station, or his character; but he had spoken kindly to her, he had shown feeling, humanity, compassion; and perhaps it was that which had made her fancy she had seen in his countenance all the higher and nobler qualities of the mind and the heart. She longed for his return then; and in counting the weary minutes and listening for every sound, she in some degree forgot the oppressive weight of the past and future. At length, tired with expectation, she rose and walked along the road to see if he were coming; and, as so often happens, no sooner had she given way to her impatience, than she saw his figure rising over the hill.

"I have got a man and horse with a pillion," he said, riding up to her, "I cannot promise you, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, any long or sure protection, but I will engage to put you in a place of safety for a night or two. During that time you will have the opportunity of thinking over your future conduct. I am not a rich man, but, on the contrary, a very poor one; yet you shall share what little I have in my purse, as I must leave you to your own guidance towards nightfall; and if you like to confide in me fully, when we stop three hours hence, you will find that you have not misplaced your trust. Think of it as we go; for I cannot speak with you of such things, while your good squire is with you. Mayhap you might find worse people in whom to place your confidence than Michael Chasseron."

Helen did not reply; for while he was yet speaking, an old peasant with the horse which had been promised came in sight; but she mounted gladly, and rode on beside the companion, whom she had known barely an hour, with a heart relieved, though not at rest. As they went, too, he spoke to her of many things, in plain and homely terms, but with wide and various information, and with a winning kindness and consideration for her sorrows, which made her feel, that all the world were not harsh and bitter as those she had just left. She herself said little, but she found herself constrained in gratitude to answer such questions as he thought fit to ask; and, although he inquired nothing directly regarding her situation, and she believed she told him nothing, yet in fact, long before they reached their halting place he had learned nearly all that he desired to know, not by her words, but by his own conclusions.