CHAPTER XXI.
The journey was long and tedious, the road heavy and bad, the coach which had been procured at Chartres ponderous and cumbersome, and the horses which had been placed in it unequal to drag its weight except at a slow and lingering pace. Poor Rose d'Albret sat far back in the vehicle, with her hands over her eyes, and the tears streaming fast down her cheek as they passed through the gates of Chartres, and as the last faint traces of the dream of happiness in which she had been indulging, faded away, and left her a reality of misery, anxiety, and care.
Tardy as was their progress, the feet of the horses seemed all too quick in drawing her towards a scene in which she anticipated nothing but distress of many kinds; reproach from those who themselves deserved the bitterest censure, threats, importunity, persecution, and that constant effort to deceive, which she knew would require on her part continual watchfulness and a guard upon every word, and look, and action. She could no longer hope to give way to one feeling of the heart; the free spirit was to be chained down and bound; the candid and the frank, was to put on reserve and policy; the trustful and the confiding, was to assume doubt and suspicion: every bright quality of her own mind was to be cast away for the time, as useless in the warfare in which she was about to engage; and she was to be called upon to take up the weapons of her adversaries, in order to meet them upon equal terms. It was all bitters, in short; and Rose shrank from the contemplation, and felt a sickening hopelessness of heart, to which she had never given way before.
Then her thoughts turned to De Montigni; and for the first time she felt to the full how much she loved him. Short as had been the time that they had passed together since his return to France, those few hours had been as much as years in binding heart to heart, so full had they been of events, thoughts, and feelings; and now that she was separated from him, she asked herself, what would be his fate; meditated over all that he would suffer on her account, as well as the weary weight of imprisonment; and, judging rightly of his sensations, knew that his grief and anguish for her, would be the most painful part of all he had to endure. She felt as if she were bound in gratitude to repay his anxiety, by equal grief for him; and, instead of endeavouring to console herself by listening to the voice of hope, she added, I may say voluntarily, to her own sorrow, by dwelling upon his.
Thus passed hour after hour, as they rolled slowly on, while the party of horsemen who guarded her, urged the coachman to greater speed, though, if her voice could have obtained a hearing, she would have besought him to delay at every step, rather than hurry on to a place, the very thought of which was horrible to her. The driver, however, was not one to be moved in any degree by the exhortations of his companions; and neither slower nor faster did he go, for all that could be said to him. At the same dilatory pace he proceeded, paused twice to water and to feed his horses, and seemed as deaf to the apprehensions of the guard, lest they should be overtaken by any party of the enemy, as to the threats which they held out of the anger of the governor and the Duke of Nemours. Thus night fell just before they reached a little town, not much more than half way to Marzay; and the coachman, declaring that his horses could proceed no further that day, pulled up at the door of what was then called a Gîte or sleeping place, and proceeded unceremoniously to detach the cattle from the vehicle, giving no heed whatsoever, either to the questions or remonstrance of an old man who was in command of the troop.
As nothing could be done but to remain where they were, Rose was led to her bed-chamber, and told, in civil terms enough, that, by her leave, they would proceed at daybreak on the following morning. The old man paid every attention to her comfort, according to the orders he had received; and even listened, while, encouraged by his courteous manner, she ventured to remonstrate upon the conduct pursued towards her, in carrying her against her will to a place so hateful to her. He replied coldly, that the affair was none of his; he did but obey his orders; and Rose soon found, by the strictness with which she was watched, and by the placing of a guard at her chamber door, that the hope of escaping, and flying on foot at any risk, was altogether vain.
The journey of the next day went on as that of the day just gone; and it was evening when the sight of many well known objects, the wood through which she had often ridden, the little chapel where she had frequently stopped to pray, the hamlet, the church, the fountain, the stream, all of which she recollected, showed her that they were within a few miles of the place in which her youth had been spent. How changed were now all her feelings, from those with which she had wandered through the same scenes in girlhood! Where was now the sunshine of the heart, which at once lighted up every object around? Where was the interest with which imagination had invested all that now seemed so dead and cold? Some light had gone out in life since she was last there; and the visionary splendour had departed.
In about half an hour more, they came to the side of a hill, from which the Château of Marzay was visible, at the distance of about a mile. The evening sun was just setting, and casting long streams of light and shadow over the undulating country below. The snow had disappeared; the green herbage of the fields was seen; the brown branches of the wood grew warm and glowing in the evening rays; the river swollen with rain rushed on like a torrent of blood, reflecting the glowing crimson of the west, and every window of the château flashed back the bright beams of light, in lines almost too dazzling for the eye. Round the summits of the towers, however, as they rose above the eminence on which the castle was built, rolled a thin dull cloud of leaden vapour, faintly tinged with red, on the side next to the sun; and as the carriage moved slowly on, it descended lower and lower over the building, rendering the lines and angles indistinct to the eye, like the fate which awaited the poor girl who was journeying thither. She gazed out eagerly towards it with a heavy sigh, and a heart weighed down with the certainty of coming sorrow; and then turning her eyes over the open ground below, she traced the road which she had followed in her flight with De Montigni, and could have wept to think how vain had proved all the hopes that bore her up through the fatigues and discomforts of that journey.
Suddenly from behind a clump of trees, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, emerged slowly a figure on horse-back, bearing in his hand what Rose at first imagined to be a lance. The next moment, however, she perceived that it was a cross; and, at the same solemn pace, following the first on foot, came six other men carrying something like a litter on their shoulders. The light caught upon it, however, as they began to ascend the slope towards the château, and Rose saw the fluttering of a pall; several other persons followed, likewise, on foot, and then a party of some fifteen or sixteen horsemen, with lances lowered, and a pennon flickering in the wind.
"They are bearing back a dead body to the château, Mademoiselle," said the old man, who was riding by the side of the carriage at the moment; "likely some one who has fallen at Ivry. Perhaps we had better stop and let them get before us. It is unlucky to go in with a corpse."
"Unlucky to go in at all," said Rose, sadly; "do as you will. Sir, I am a captive, and have no authority in such matters."
The old man gave orders to halt; and the funeral procession of the good old Commander de Liancourt, which was following a road that formed an acute angle with the one they were themselves pursuing, moved slowly on towards the château. When it had come within three or four hundred yards of the gates, the Count de Liancourt, with his nephew Chazeul, and a number of the soldiers and attendants, came forth to meet it, preceded by father Walter, and two boys, belonging to the chapel, dressed in their robes. The procession immediately halted; and Estoc dismounting from his horse, advanced a few steps in front to confer with the Count and his companions.
The loss of a brother, to a man in the decline of life, can never be a matter of indifference, and Monsieur de Liancourt was evidently much agitated; but there were other feelings in his bosom, besides those of mere grief, and his manner was hesitating and embarrassed, as he returned Estoc's grave salutation, and listened to the solemn words,
"I have brought back to you, Sir, the corpse of your brother, Michael de Liancourt, Commander of the Order of St. John, who fell, gallantly fighting for his King, on the glorious field between St. André and Ivry; and I claim your permission to carry it into the chapel of the château, according to his own request."
"I receive my poor brother's body at your hands, Monsieur Estoc," replied the Count, "and thank you for your letter of this morning; but as you know we have few people in the castle, and many of us not altogether holding the same opinions as yourself; you cannot, expect us to suffer you to enter with such a body of armed men."
"We are armed, Sir Count," answered Estoc, "as soldiers carrying the body of a soldier; but you know right well, we come in peace upon so sad an errand. As soon as we have performed our duty, we will depart in peace, if we are suffered to do so; but what we have undertaken we will perform, and trust to meet with no opposition."
"This is foolishness, Sir," cried Chazeul, sharply; "you cannot expect such permission, after all that has taken place; and, in one word, you may enter yourself with any two or three, but no more shall have admission."
Estoc's cheek grew red. "To you, young man," he replied, "I do not speak, for you are not the lord of that château, and never will be; but to you, Monsieur de Liancourt, I answer, we have all of us sworn to lay the body of our old leader before the altar of the chapel of Marzay, and we will do it. If you will give us admission, well; if not, I will bear it back to the church in the village, there set it down till we are joined by the men of Montigni, and then forcing my way in at the point of the sword, will keep my oath, whoever tries to stay me. You know old Estoc too well to believe that he will break his word; so choose, and that quickly, for it is growing late."
But at this moment father Walter interposed, advancing with an air of grave authority, and saying, "Cease, cease! in the name of decency and Christian charity, cease! and in the presence of the dead, let us have peace. My son," he continued, turning to the Count, "you will never, I am sure, oppose Monsieur Estoc in carrying in the body of our poor friend into the chapel according to his vow, if he pledge his word to retire immediately after it be accomplished. You, Monsieur Estoc, will never refuse to plight your word as a French gentleman, to re-tread your steps as soon as you have laid the corpse before the altar, without doing injury to any one, or interfering in any way with the affairs of the castle."
"Most willingly, good father," replied Estoc; "I come but for one purpose; and as soon as that is accomplished, I am more anxious than any one to leave this place at once, for I have promised to lead these good fellows back to join the King, and reap our share in the fruits of this great victory."
"Then it is true that Henry won the battle?" asked Monsieur de Liancourt.
"Ay, Sir!" answered Estoc, "most true--and a decisive battle it was. The League is now, nothing but a name."
Chazeul smiled contemptuously; but the priest brought back the discussion to the point, saying, "Monsieur de Liancourt, you have not answered. I trust you will be satisfied with this promise."
The Count hesitated; but Estoc, turning towards him with a reproachful look, demanded, "Have you known me so long, Monsieur de Liancourt, and yet doubt my word? I promise you, Sir, to quit the castle with these good men, as soon as I have laid that bier before the altar, and given father Walter here the message which I have to deliver to him, regarding the watching of the body and the masses for the soul."
"Well," said the Count, whose eyes had been turned for a moment to the hill behind Estoc, "well, I consent on condition, Sir, that you immediately retire to the village without meddling in any way with what you may see within the castle. Do you promise as a man of honour?"
"I do!" replied Estoc; "though I know not what you are afraid I should interfere with. But as I come here for a fixed purpose, when that is accomplished, I will go."
"Well, then, march on!" said the Count; "and we, as mourners for my brother, will bring up the rear."
The order was accordingly given, and the funeral train was once more put in motion. The party of the Count, with the exception of father Walter, who remained in front, paused till the rest had passed, and then fell in behind; but, on a word from Monsieur de Liancourt, one of his attendants quitted the line, and at a quick pace sped up the hill to the spot where the coach, containing poor Rose d'Albret, was still standing. Had Estoc been aware of whom that vehicle contained, it might have changed the fate of many an after day; but as yet he had not perceived it at all; and following the corpse of his old leader with a slow and heavy step, while a thousand memories of other days, associated with the very building he was now entering, pressed sadly on his mind, he ascended the slope with his eyes bent down upon the ground, till the body passed the low arch of the gate, and he found himself in the outer court, so long familiar to his footsteps.
The priest, in the meantime, sped on into the chapel, in order to receive the body with the usual ceremonies; and, dismounting from their horses, the soldiers who had followed the old commander to the field of Ivry, soon thronged the space before the altar, with their armed forms falling into fine but sombre groups, as the last faint rays of the setting sun streamed through the stained glass window on the western side, and cast their long shadows across the floor, covered with many a monumental stone and inscription. The Count de Liancourt and Chazeul stood behind, with their followers and attendants; and even when the ceremony was over, they lingered still, as if to see the old soldier and his comrades quit the chapel.
Estoc looked round more than once in the hope that they were gone. Perhaps he wished to give way to the feelings of sorrow and regret that were strong in his heart, without the presence of colder witnesses. Perhaps he wished to have some private conversation with the priest before he departed. But the Count and his companions remained where they were; and finding that they had no intention of retiring, he at length turned to the priest, saying, "Monsieur de la Tremblade, I have now to ask you, on behalf of him who is gone, first, to say one hundred masses for the repose of his soul."
The priest bowed his head, replying, "It shall be done right willingly, my son."
And Estoc proceeded, "Secondly, to keep vigil this night and to-morrow by the body, till the hour of matins."
"It is unusual, my son," answered the priest, "except in the case of very high personages; but still, as you require it, it shall be done."
"I beseech you in charity to do so, father," replied Estoc: "and I know that which you promise you will accomplish."
"Without fail," answered father Walter, and Estoc, turning from the chapel led his men back into the court. The first object his eyes fell upon was a carriage, apparently just arrived and surrounded by several armed men, bearing the green scarfs of the League. The door of the coach was open, and a lady in the act of alighting; and the next moment Rose d'Albret held out her hands to the old soldier, exclaiming, "Ah! good Estoc!"
Yielding to the first impulse, Estoc sprang forward towards her, exclaiming, "Have they brought you here already, dear lady?"
"Much against my will," replied Mademoiselle d'Albret; but Chazeul and the Count de Liancourt instantly interposed.
"You promised, Sir," exclaimed the latter, "to retire from the château without interfering with anything that you might see or hear. Is this the way you keep your word?"
"I will keep my word with you, Sir," answered Estoc, "better than you have kept yours with this lady's father.--Alas! Mademoiselle d'Albret," he continued, "I am bound to quit this place at once; and all I can say is, that steadfast truth and firmness will prevail at last, and so I must bid you farewell."
As he spoke, he kissed her hand and turned away; and Rose, yielding to a violent burst of tears, suffered herself to be led into the building by the Count de Liancourt, who remained silent till they reached the hall, where the first object that presented itself to her eyes, in the dim twilight that now reigned through the wide chamber, was the tall harsh form of the Marchioness de Chazeul, advancing as if to meet her. For a moment, Rose's heart sunk at the sight; but, the next instant, she murmured to herself, "I must not give way. My task is one of firmness, and I must not yield to any weakness like this."
"So, girl, so," cried Jacqueline de Chazeul, "all your fine plots have proved of no avail! Was it not decent, delicate, and feminine, to fly from your guardian's protection and cast yourself, unmarried, into the arms of a man you scarcely know?"
"Scarcely know!" exclaimed Rose d'Albret; "whom do I know so well? But, Madam, to fly with him was my only choice, in order to escape the arts and persecutions which I was sure to encounter here. I believe that I was justified by the contract of my father, which had been so long concealed from me. I could trust to the honour of the man to whom my father had engaged my hand; and I went to seek from the King that protection and justice which I was not likely to meet with where I was best entitled to except it."
"You have learned boldness enough, it seems, minion," replied Madame de Chazeul, in a sharp tone, "and, if you think to justify yourself here, by saying that it was to a heretic usurper you fled, to one condemned and degraded by God and the apostolic church, from your lawful guardian and the husband whom he has selected for you, you are very much mistaken."
"To you, Madam, I seek not to justify myself at all," replied Rose; "I have nought to do with you, nor you with me. To Monsieur de Liancourt, when he thinks fit, I am ready, in private, to assign the motives of my conduct, and to none else am I responsible."
"I will teach you that I have to do with you, pretty lady," replied Madame de Chazeul. "Have you not deceived and ill-treated my son? and you shall make him full atonement, before I quit this château."
"I have not ill-treated nor deceived him, Madam," replied Rose. "'Tis he that has ill-treated and deceived me, and many others, too. He cannot say that I ever affected to love him, that I ever did more than yield a cold and unwilling acquiescence to that which he made me believe, by a shameless falsehood, was my poor father's will. I learned, at length, what that father's intentions really were; and then, contempt and abhorrence of the deceiver took place of the indifference I before felt towards him. He knows it well," she continued, "that I am bound to him by no tie, no promise, no engagement whatsoever. I was told that I must marry him--"
"And so you must, fair lady," exclaimed Madame de Chazeul, in a mocking tone, "and so you must, and so you shall! Assure as my name is Jacqueline de Chazeul, you shall be his wife before two suns set."
"Nay, nay, my dear mother," said Chazeul, who had been speaking to the Count de Liancourt at a little distance, "you are too harsh, and too unkind to Mademoiselle d'Albret. She will yield when she finds that it must be so. She will also yield, when she finds she is mistaken about this contract, and that, in reality, her father left it open for Monsieur de Liancourt to bestow her hand on which of his nephews he thought fit. I can assure you, Rose," he continued, in a soft, but emphatic tone, "Monsieur de Marennes believed that my uncle, here, could bequeath his estates to myself, if he chose it; and, therefore, I might as well be meant by the contract as my cousin."
"Cease, Sir, cease," answered Rose; "it is vain to stain yourselves with any more deceits. I now know the whole truth, that the good Commander resigned his claims in favour of Madame de Montigni; that to her son those claims appertained when my father signed the contract, and, therefore, it was to him he pledged me. But I have something more to say, and I beg you will mark it. Had you been even meant by the contract, which you know right well you were not, nothing on earth should ever make me give you my hand, now that I know some other of your doings. I would rather, a thousand-fold, vow myself to the seclusion of a convent, than pass my life with a man whom I can neither respect, esteem, nor love."
"We will not give you the choice, minion," cried Madame de Chazeul; "your fate is sealed and determined; you are to be his wife, if not by fair means, then by force. This will bear no farther trifling, Liancourt; you must exert your power over her, and compel her to do what is right."
"I hope he will exert it," exclaimed Rose, "to protect me from those who would do me wrong. Monsieur de Liancourt," she continued, "I have always loved you well. You have ever been kind to me, till this last sad occasion, when, persuaded by others, I am sure, rather than by your own inclination, you have well nigh sacrificed my happiness and peace. For my part, I have tried, from my young days, to show you the affection of a daughter, and I would willingly show you the obedience of one, were it possible; but in this instance, it is not so. My father's contract I will fulfil, happy that my own inclinations and the earliest affections of my heart go with it, but still more happy that it saves me from wedding one with whom I could expect nothing but misery. I beseech you, then, give me that protection which you promised my father you would afford me; suffer me not to be injured and insulted in your own house, even by your sister; and do not allow me to be persecuted to break the engagement made between you and your wife's brother. Rather, aid to maintain it to the utmost of your power; and be my support and stay in this hour of difficulty and distress."
"You ask much at my hands, Mademoiselle d'Albret," replied the Count, coldly, "and yet do not offer much in return. You cannot suppose that I approve of your quitting my house with Monsieur de Montigni; and your claim to protection on my part, must be founded on your obedience to my commands, which I trust you will now honour somewhat more than you have lately done."
Rose turned away, with a sad look, and sickening sinking at her heart. Every one was against her; and, though it was what she had expected, yet it made her feel more deeply desolate and hopeless. To reply, she saw was vain; and she felt that she could not much longer keep up the firm and determined tone in which she had forced herself to speak; for tears, at every other moment, were ready to betray the feelings that she laboured to conceal. "I am weary," she said, abruptly, "and I would fain retire to rest. By your leave, Monsieur de Liancourt, I will seek my chamber."
"I will show you which is your chamber," said Madame de Chazeul, "for you must not fancy that you are to tenant a room so easy of access. Who can tell," she continued, in a jesting tone, "what gay gallants we may have in the castle, who may be pleased to scale a lady's window, when they know she is so ready to receive them?"
Rose could bear no more, and burst into a flood of tears.
"Hush, Jacqueline, hush!" said Monsieur de Liancourt; "I will show her the room myself;" and, taking her hand, he led her away from the hall.