CHAPTER XXIII.
The moment the priest and the Marchioness de Chazeul were gone, Rose d'Albret cast herself down into her chair, and covered her eyes with her hands. She would fain have shut out every sight and sound, in order that she might bend the whole energies of her mind to contemplation of that one question--were the dreadful tidings she had heard, true or false? But the agitating beating of her heart, the whirling confusion of her brain, prevented her for a long time, from fixing her thoughts firmly upon all the different arguments for believing or disbelieving the tale that had been told her. All was wild, and vague, and indistinct. Apprehension at first was far more powerful than hope; and, though reason pointed out many improbabilities even in that part of the intelligence which, as the reader knows, was absolutely true, yet she still dreaded the worst, even while she resolved, if possible, to believe that all was false.
"Was it likely," she asked herself, "that so proud a prince as the Duke of Nemours, should risk his life in single combat against his own prisoner? Was it probable, that he, who had shown himself so haughty towards De Montigni as scarcely to return him an answer, should place himself in such a position as to be compelled to meet him in the field? Was it not likely, most likely, that such a tale should be invented by those who had already deceived her on other points, in order to lead her the more easily to the objects they desired? Was it not clear that it was so, from their refusal to produce the messenger? Was not, in short, anything asserted by Jacqueline de Chazeul, more likely to be false than true?"
Thus argued hope; but on the other side fear, though in fewer words, spoke with a more powerful voice. "The priest had asserted that the report had undoubtedly arrived. Would he venture to do so, after the solemn adjuration she addressed to him, if he were not himself convinced that what he said was true? Then, too, the pains he had taken to prepare her mind for the tidings, showed care and consideration for her; and, if the language he had used in so doing, were but the preface to a falsehood, it must be blasphemous trifling indeed. She suffered memory to run back over all the events lately passed; she considered his conduct, she asked herself if he had ever been guilty of deliberate falsehood? The answer was, no. He had suffered others to do so; but he had not done it himself. Without telling the exact truth, he had not uttered actual untruth. With that species of art, which has acquired the name of a body of men famous for employing it in all their dealings, he had made truth serve the purposes of falsehood; and, by a jesuitical juggle, had countenanced things that he knew to be untrue, without leaving those he deceived any means of convicting him of a lie. But now he had boldly and straightforwardly said, that the intelligence had certainly arrived. There was no evading that, she thought; it must either be true or false. She recollected, too, the fierce anger which De Montigni had displayed when first made prisoner by Nemours, and the words and glances which had passed between them in regard to herself. Might not such a scene, she inquired, have been renewed, when her lover found that she had been actually sent back without even being permitted another interview with him? Might he not have used such language as would compel a prince of fiery courage like Nemours to wave the privileges of his rank, and meet him as had been reported. Nemours was known to be daring, chivalrous, and of a character to carry the point of honour to excess; and if they met, was not the result reported to her, likely to take place."
Thus argued fear; and between his voice and that of hope, her mind was left in that painful uncertainty, which is more wearing and agitating to the human frame, than even grief itself. She was still busy with these thoughts, when the door opened and the maid looked in; but Rose waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming, "leave me, leave me, I do not want you. You can go to bed."
The very sight of Blanchette, however, brought back to her mind all the arts that had been practised upon her before, and made her once more hope that this sad intelligence might be part of a similar plan. "I will retire to bed;" she thought, "in the darkness and stillness of the night, I can think over these things more quietly than now. The sight of that girl is hateful to me. I will shut her out," but when she looked round, she found that the lock of the door between her room and the ante-chamber, had been removed.
"Ha!" she said, "am I to have no privacy? This is hard, indeed;" and, sitting down, she wept, feeling that she was left alone to struggle with all the arts and machinations of a number, amongst whom she had no friend. Rising again, after a moment, she wiped away the tears, murmuring to herself, "but they shall not conquer me. Even if he whom I love be gone, and have left me in this cold-hearted world alone, I can die and follow him; but I will never be the wife of that base and hateful man, let the result be whatever it may." Thus saying, she undressed without assistance, and retired to bed. But, for poor Rose d'Albret, it was no couch of repose. The thorns of the pillow--busy care, and sharp apprehension and bitter grief--banished all sleep from her eyes; and hour after hour she lay turning in her mind the same heavy thoughts which had burdened her since the visit of the priest and Madame de Chazeul.
Daylight returned, at length; and, raising herself upon her arm, she gazed round, as the faint grey stream of early morning poured through the window, and showed the various objects in the room. Then came a warmer tint, as the sun actually rose, and with it some of the thoughts which usually accompany the rising day. How beautiful is the revival of nature from her dark slumber in the arms of night! what an image of the dawning of eternal life to the emancipated spirit after the shadow of the grave! How good, how great, how wise, is the Almighty Author of all, who plants in the seasons, and in the elements, in the changes of the world, and in all the revolutions of nature, the signs and symbols of his beneficence and his power, with promises of love and blessing and protection! There was consolation even in the pale beams of morning; but then came back the sad thought, the bitter unanswerable question, to the mind of Rose d'Albret--"Do the eyes of Louis de Montigni see, like mine, the return of dawning day, or are they closed for ever in the tomb?" And rising from her bed she knelt, and prayed, and wept, till the increasing sounds in the house told her, that her oppressors were once more waking into active life, and that she must prepare her mind to suffer and resist.
Oh, how most painful of all the many grievous tasks of life, is that of resistance! and yet it is the unceasing lot of humanity; for this is all a battle field, and at every point--within and without, against ourselves and others, against circumstances, temptations, cares, griefs, fears, pleasures, successes, triumphs, vanity, hope, expectation, pride, disappointment, opposition, regret, and despair; against man and fiends--it is all resistance; and he who would ultimately win the garland of victory, must be armed and awake at every moment of existence. From the moment when the foot of Adam first trod the garden, until the now in which we stand against the foe, the conflict has gone on; and happy are they who do resist.
Yet 'tis a weary and a terrible task, especially for those who buckle on their armour for the first time; and poor Rose d'Albret felt her heart sink as she prepared herself for it. But still, the thought of him she loved, and her repugnance to the man who would have injured him, nerved her for the effort; and again and again, she repeated, "They shall never move me! My voice must speak the falsehood, my own hand must sign my folly, my own heart must prove the traitor, ere they can conquer."
Her knowledge, too, of those with whom she had to deal, was not a little serviceable in guarding her against all arts. That knowledge had come slowly, not by study or inquiry, but sinking in daily into her mind, as act after act, and word after word, developed the characters of the persons who now surrounded her.
"If they have doubts of De Montigni's fate," she argued, "they will urge me to this abhorred marriage with Chazeul at once and immediately; they will give me no time--they may even try threats, and violence, and force. If they have no doubt they will be less importunate; they will allow me to deliberate, to mourn. But, good heaven, if they try force, what shall I do?--It matters not, I will die first. But, by their course, I shall know whether the tale be true or false; and if from their urgency I judge that it is false, I shall gain strength from hope, and courage even from their cruelty. Poor Helen de la Tremblade! They cannot make me as thou art--they cannot add self-reproach to all I suffer, but by my own fault. Would that I had not promised, never to tell her tale, till she herself thought fit. I might perhaps find a friend, if I could do so, in the only one who could well befriend me. She knew not how much her story might serve me now; and I little thought that I should long to tell it for my own safety, rather than for her comfort. But hark, there are people speaking near! I will be dressed and prepared to meet them when they come hither. Blanchette," she continued aloud, "Blanchette!"
The girl made her call several times, and then appeared with a dull and sullen countenance; and Rose proceeding with her toilet, exchanged but few words with one whom she had never either loved or esteemed, and now despised.
When she was fully dressed she advanced towards the door, saying, "I will go out upon the ramparts. Put the room in order against my return."
But the girl planted herself in the way, and replied, "You cannot, Mademoiselle. There are strict orders that you remain here, till the Count or the Marchioness come for you."
There was a low suppressed laugh--a laugh of triumph in her power--mingled with the girl's words, which was hard to bear; and Rose felt at first inclined to resist, and then to weep; but she gave way to neither temptation; and, after gazing at her for a minute, merely replied, "What, I am a prisoner, then; and my own maid the gaoler? It is well; but it will prove fruitless. Give me a book, I will read."
The girl inquired what book, and gave her mistress the pain--and she well knew it was a pain,--to speak more than once before she chose to comprehend.
At length, however, a book was brought; and poor Rose d'Albret, placing herself near the window, strove to read with an unconcerned air. But it was in vain she did so; the letters swam before her eyes: her mind wandered to other things: her eye ran over the lines without gathering their sense; and, ere she had mastered more than two or three sentences, there was a step in the ante-room, a knock at the door, and before she could say "Come in," Madame de Chazeul entered, followed by Monsieur de Liancourt. The conflict, she saw, was about to begin, and with an anxious gasp for breath, and a haggard eye, she gazed upon them as they approached, unable to speak, though she strove to do so.
"Be calm, Rose, be calm," said Monsieur de Liancourt, placing a seat for his sister, and taking one himself. "I have come to you thus early in the morning, because Madame de Chazeul and father Walter informed me last night, that you entertained suspicions as to the reality of the sad intelligence which we received last night, and I wish to assure you with my own lips that there is no doubt--that I entertain no doubt of the fact."
Rose wept but could not reply; and after a brief pause, the Count proceeded: "Of course I feel deeply grieved that such a fate should have overtaken my nephew; but I cannot help at the same time remembering, that he has not lately acted as became him, nor shown towards me that respect and gratitude which I trust I deserved at his hands."
"Oh, Sir," cried Rose, waving her hand mournfully; "touch not the memory of the dead--of one who was willing to show you every reverence, although, perhaps, he might feel that he had been wronged and deceived. To you," she continued, seeing the Count's lip quiver, "to you he attributed it not, but to the counsels of others; and you would have found no one more affectionate no one more willing to testify, in every way, his regard and respect."
"Well, well," cried Madame de Chazeul, "there is no use of disputing about such things. That is all past. The question before us is of the present. You had something to say on that score, brother, I think?"
"Why, simply this," replied the Count, "that as my nephew Chazeul is now, without dispute, my heir, he is also, without dispute, the person indicated by the contract between myself and Monsieur de Marennes--as your husband, Rose!" he added, in a slow emphatic tone.
Rose gazed down and was silent, for her heart beat so violently that she had no power to reply. Had she calculated her whole conduct, however, to obtain an insight into the views of her two companions, nothing could have served her better than that silence, for Madame de Chazeul observed, after a momentary pause, "I am happy to see you make no objection, for no longer delay can be admitted,--indeed it is impossible--for the presence of Chazeul is instantly required by the Duke of Mayenne, and you must go with him as his wife."
"Make no objection!" said Rose.
But Madame de Chazeul cut her short, saying, "Ay, and it is well that you do not, for it could have no effect if you did. Everything is determined and prepared. The contract, as before drawn up, waits for your signature, and the marriage must take place at once."
"He is not dead," murmured Rose to herself, with a sudden look of joy passing over her countenance, which those who saw it could in no degree comprehend; and the next moment, turning to Monsieur de Liancourt, she said, "Sir, I will ask if this be decent and proper, in the very first day of mourning for your nephew, for him to whom my heart was given, and my hand promised, to propose that I should wed another?"
"Urgent circumstances, Rose," answered the Count, "must justify what would not otherwise be right. The necessity for Chazeul's immediate departure compels us to this course, and I must insist that you make no opposition."
"If Monsieur de Chazeul must depart," said Rose, "let him; he can return at some future period, when a widowed heart may have somewhat recovered from the wound it has received. But it shall not be said, that Rose d'Albret gave her hand to another, before her tears were dry for him to whom her faith was plighted."
"This is all vain folly," cried Madame de Chazeul; "my son will find means to dry your tears, if that be all."
"He can but make them flow more bitterly," replied Rose d'Albret; "was ever such a monstrous and cruel thing proposed! Oh, Sir," she continued, turning to the Count, "will you, a man of honour and a gentleman, a man of feeling, and of a kindly heart--will you countenance the attempt to force me, the very day after I have heard of poor Louis de Montigni's bloody death, to wed a man for whom I never entertained aught but indifference?"
"Well, Rose, well," said the Count, rising; "I will give you another day; that is all that I can allow; for my word is pledged that, before noon to-morrow, you shall be Chazeul's wife. Nay, say no more, for I will hear no more. Make up your mind to it in the meanwhile; for on this point I am firm, and your conduct in secretly quitting my roof for the purpose of thwarting all my designs and wishes for your benefit, well justifies me in compelling your immediate obedience."
Thus saying he turned and left the room; but Madame de Chazeul remained gazing upon her poor victim with a bitter, and almost contemptuous look, which might well teach Rose to apprehend no very happy life if wedded to her son.
"What is the meaning of all this, girl?" exclaimed the Marchioness, as soon as the door had closed upon Monsieur de Liancourt; "you are plotting some stratagem,--your delays have some end in view."
"None, Madam," answered Rose d'Albret. "The only object that I can have in life is, to avoid a union with a man I despise and abhor."
"Despise and abhor!" exclaimed Jacqueline de Chazeul, in a mocking tone; "pray may I ask how it happens that such passions have found their way into your gentle breast?"
"His own deeds, which have come to my ears in spite of your precautions, Madam," replied Rose, "have planted those feelings there, never to be rooted out."
"What deeds?" demanded the Marchioness, sternly.
"Unhappily I have promised never to name them," answered Rose; "but you know to what I allude right well; and you cannot doubt with what eyes I must look upon your son."
"You must be his wife, notwithstanding," said Madame de Chazeul.
But Rose could bear no more. "Never!" she exclaimed; "never! Come what may I will never be his wife. You may drag me to the altar, but not even by silence will I seem to give consent. I will refuse the vow, I will cast away the ring, I will call God to witness that I am not his wife. This hand shall never sign the contract till it moulders in the grave; and if death be the consequence, I will not do one act that can make me his;" and overpowered by her own vehemence, as well as by the many emotions in her bosom, she burst into a bitter flood of tears.
Madame de Chazeul gazed at her for a moment, while her whole face worked with passion, which she could not find words to express; and then shaking her hand at her, she exclaimed, in a low bitter tone, "You shall!" and quitted the room.