The Man-at-Arms; or, Henry De Cerons. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER IV.

From the windows of the house where the Duke of Montpensier had taken up his quarters, I saw a large division of the army march out of Jarnac, and certainly a very different scene, indeed, was the gay and glittering procession of the royal host from the bands of the poor Huguenots even in their freshest guise. Of the young Prince D'Auvergne I saw nothing during that day till supper-time, when, surrounded by his officers, he had only an opportunity of speaking to me a few words to prepare me for taking my departure from Jarnac an hour after sunrise on the following day. Though there were one or two persons of higher rank sat nearer the prince at supper than I did, and many with whom he was in old habits of intimacy, yet the little incident which had occurred during the retreat from Loudun, my condition as a prisoner, and the anxiety he had felt at different times on my account when my life was in danger, seemed to have established a deeper kind of interest between me and him than there existed between himself and any of his own party; and he always spoke to me with that tone of kindness, attention, and feeling which made any strangers who might happen to be at the table turn their eyes to see who it was that the prince addressed in such a manner.

Somewhat before the time appointed on the following morning I descended from my chamber, prepared to set out. I found that the prince[^[4]] had gone to the quarters of the Duke of Anjou, and the attendants, who were about to be sent from the army to Champigny, were waiting round the door with their horses and mine, ready to take their places as the troops passed along. Determined to follow their example, I waited by the side of my horse, while the attendants of the Duke of Montpensier and my own kept respectfully at a little distance, when I felt some one suddenly pull my mantle, and, turning round, I saw one of the most beautiful girls I had ever beheld, whose features were not unfamiliar to me. The handwriting of the letter that she slipped into my hand, however, was far better known, for it was that of Louise de Blancford; and, with a hand all eagerness, I was tearing it open, when the girl again plucked me by the cloak, and, gazing up in my face with her large, dark eyes, cried, "Hist! seigneur, hist! Will you befriend us!"

She seemed about thirteen or fourteen years of age, not more; and, after gazing upon her for a moment, endeavouring to recollect where I had seen her, I said, "How can I befriend you, my good girl? What is your name?"

"You recollect me not," replied the girl; "but my name is Miriam Ahar."

"Oh, I recollect thee well," I replied, "now. Tell me what I can do for thee, pretty one, and I will do it with pleasure." And, as I spoke, there was a look of real pleasure, I believe, came over my countenance, which brought a smile upon the girl's beautiful lips.

"I was sure you would be kind," she said, "and you can help us thus. My father is here in yonder house with some rich merchandise. He is appointed to come after the army with the rear guard, which sets out at four this evening; but he has learned, from a good friend in this place, that six of the many men who do evil deeds in such armies as these have their eyes upon him. Now you know what often happens to a Jew when he travels with the rear guard of an army."

"No, I do not," I replied: "I never heard of any injury befalling them."

"Ay, who hears of such things befalling them but their own nation?" she replied, sadly. "Who hears that the dead body of a Jew, murdered and stripped, is found by the roadside? and all that are with him, what becomes of them? They fly if they are permitted, and some are killed to prevent them bearing witness, and the rest are silent through fear, and the murderers go away enriched."

There was reason to believe that the girl's tale was too true, but it was difficult to know how to serve her.

"My poor child," I said, "What can be done for you? I am a prisoner, and wounded myself; but if you would point out what could be done, I would gladly do it, for I remember you were kind to me long ago."

"You can do much for us," she said; "we knew you were a prisoner, for we have been in the Protestant camp, and inquired for you. But still you can do much for us; for they say you are loved by some of the great among these people, and we have only the protection of those who would devour us. Get us permission to go this very hour in the train of the main battle with which you go, and let one of your people accompany us; if so, we are safe; if not, we are altogether lost."

"I will do my best for you, Miriam," I replied; "here comes the Prince d'Auvergne; I will apply to him. Stand by me; do not go back. My lord," I said, "here is a petitioner to me. She and her father were kind to me long ago. They are Jews, but without their help I could never have appeared in the field at all. They are now appointed to go with the rear guard; but you know what is likely to happen to a Jew, in a march partly in the night, among the stragglers of the army."

"Let them follow us if they can get ready," replied the prince, in evident haste; "one of your people can go with them, De Cerons."

"But give them some sort of safeguard, my lord," I said; "one word under your hand."

"Here, a pen and ink, Arnon!" said the prince, in the same hasty tone; and, tearing a leaf out of his tablets, he wrote, "Suffer to pass--What is the name?"

"Solomon Ahar," I replied.

"Oh, Solomon Ahar, the usurious villain!" he said; "I have heard of him. Well, nevertheless--" and he went on writing--"Suffer to pass Solomon Ahar, his people and horses, with the baggage of Francis d'Auvergne." "There," he said, "these vermin will do no great credit to my baggage, De Cerons; but, if you wish it, so let it be;" and, as he spoke, he looked upon the exquisitely beautiful form and features of poor Miriam Ahar as if she had been a speckled toad. Such is prejudice!

"I will be back instantly, De Cerons," he continued, "and then we will join the regiment."

Thus saying, he turned into the court of the hotel, and I gave the paper to the girl, saying, "There, Miriam, that is all I can do for you. Andriot, you go with her, and take one of the grooms: I want only one with me. See them safe, and join me after the march." Miriam took the paper, and for her only reply kissed the hand that held it to her; and, running away so fast that Andriot, though very willing to accompany the pretty Jewess, it seemed, could scarcely mount his horse and follow her, she disappeared under the doorway of a house higher up the street.

In a moment or two after the Prince d'Auvergne made his appearance again, and, following him to the park of the chateau, where his regiment and several others were drawn up, I was soon plunged into all the bustle of a march with a large army. For some time orders and counter-orders, and arrangements of various kinds, came so thick, that he had no time for conversation with me; but, after the lapse of about an hour, everything fell into regular order again; and, as there was no chance of any attack, he left the conduct of his regiment to the inferior officers, and civilly getting rid of several noblemen and gentlemen who seemed inclined to attach themselves to his person, he rode on with me, at once opening the conversation with the subject on which his father had spoken to me on the preceding night.

"My father," he said, "was so hurried yesterday that I did not clearly understand whether he had told you, De Cerons, what he intended to do or not."

I replied that the duke had not done so, but referred me to him: and I went on to say, "You know well, Monsieur d'Auvergne, that protracted imprisonment must be very painful to me, and I trust it is your father's intention to admit me to ransom."

I was proceeding to repeat what I had said to his father the day before, when he interrupted me with a smile, saying, "You need not give me reasons why, De Cerons; though I look so young, I am old enough to have felt; and though I am older than you think me, I am not too old to have forgotten such feelings as I saw upon a certain parting between a lady and her lover. Your secret was well kept both by my father and myself, and your sour cousin of Blancford heard nothing of it from us. But with regard to setting you free I have nothing to do; and I feel very sure that one of my father's reasons for sending you to Champigny is that you may be near your fair lady, and not, by a lengthened imprisonment, lose the opportunity of advancing yourself in the favour either of herself or her father."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "I had not the slightest idea that the baron had gone to Saumur."

"Oh! you mistake, you mistake," said the prince. "My father did not speak of sending you to Champigné-le-sec, which, as its name implies, would be a dry residence for you enough, but to Champigny near Paris, where we have estates, and an old chateau of which we are all fond. But still I must say it is not in my power to affect at all my father's determination about your imprisonment. Indeed, I must confess, I think it best for you that it should be as it is; and, at all events, I have no authority in the matter. What I alluded to was something quite different. The day before yesterday, as we were riding down towards Cognac, my father and I were talking of you, and we determined, in memory of the day when you and I first met, to make you a present of a little farm that we lately bought, for the purpose of giving it to an old friend of ours, but who was unfortunately killed in the first skirmish of this campaign. It lies close to our own place at Champigny, and is called by his own name, which was the cause of our buying it for him. That name is Les Bois. It remains just as we had it all arranged to give him. The old chateau, though but small, is, I think you will admit, as sweet a spot as well could be chosen to repose in after the toils of war. We have had it tapestried and furnished afresh throughout in the very last mode; and the annual rent amounts to about five thousand livres per annum.

"Oh, my lord, my lord, mention not such a thing to me," I cried. "Although your rank and mine might well permit me to accept your bounty, yet such a gift as that I am utterly undeserving of."

"Not at all, De Cerons, not at all," replied the prince. "You must recollect the circumstances under which it is offered. If, on the occasion you speak of, you had chosen to have killed me, you might have done so; but you were too generous for that. You might equally have made me your prisoner; but the truth was, you thought me a mere boy, and let me escape. I have no objection, De Cerons, to remain under obligations to you; and, even in offering you this little gift, both my father and myself are still your debtors. You forget what would have been the ransom of the Prince d'Auvergne. I know well what it would be if Montluc had to fix it. Certainly not less than fifty thousand gold Henris, or a hundred thousand crowns of the sun. The estate we give, in all cost but a third of that sum; and therefore, my good friend, I still bear a great portion of my ransom to the credit of gratitude. The deeds of the estate my father has left with me to make over to you, and, if we can find a notary within ten miles of our halting-place, they shall be made your own this very night."

It may be easily conceived what were my feelings upon the present occasion. The tone in which he spoke, his whole manner and look, left no opportunity of refusing even with courtesy, had I been so inclined. But when I looked upon his offer, and thought that that which was given so generously might be but the foundation of my future fortunes, I felt no such inclination to refuse. I thought of Louise, too, my own bright Louise, and I felt the letter which she had sent me, and which I had placed in my bosom to read when alone, glow warm upon my heart when new hopes and expectations entered into it.

The eye of the prince was upon me as I thus thought, and he seemed to read all the feelings that were passing in my bosom, for a smile came up upon his countenance, and he said, "Come, De Cerons, you accept it. Prithee, not a word more. At Champigny you will have the opportunity of visiting your new estate, or even of dwelling there if you so will, for the limits of the two properties touch, and, of course, you may reside at which you will. It is better, perhaps, that you should go to Champigny at first, where everything is prepared and ready for you; and, in the mean time, as it is somewhat dangerous just now for a Protestant to appear in the neighbourhood of Paris, you may take with all safety the name of Des Bois, as you have made that of De Cerons somewhat too well known."

Thus conversing, we went on our way, and in the evening arrived at the camp under the walls of Angoulême. Persons were waiting for us at the quarters marked out for the Prince d'Auvergne, inviting us to sup with the Duke of Montpensier, and not a moment was allowed me to read the letter of Louise till I retired to rest for the night.

In the mean time, however, two circumstances happened which I must notice briefly. The first was the actual transfer of the chateau and property of Les Bois to myself, which was executed that night in the presence of a notary, both the Duke of Montpensier and the prince signing the act. The next occurred as we were pausing round the table for a moment after supper. There was no one in the chamber but the duke, his son, and myself, and we were about to separate, when an attendant announced that the Jew, Solomon Ahar, waited without. Probably each of the three thought that the business of the Jew was with himself; but the duke said, "It is only that usurious Jew, who comes to tell me, I suppose, that the Duke of Anjou cannot have the money that he wants. In fact, I saw it would be so last night; and I suppose that the man is afraid of telling the duke himself, lest he should lose his ears, so comes to put the unpleasant task on me. Send him in, however."

In a moment after poor Solomon Ahar entered, cringing and bending down to the ground.

"Well, Solomon," said the duke, "you have come sooner than I expected to see you; and I suppose this promptitude shows that you have no very good news to bring me."

"Not so, my most gracious lord," replied the Jew, bending again to the very ground. "On the contrary, I come to say I think it can be done. I trust it can be managed. I have good hope that we can accept the terms of the noble prince; for, as I came along but now, I have had much talk and conversation with some of the gentle leaders about arms, and spoils, and ransoms, and what not, and I have done a little commerce by the way, so that I think the matter can be done to the prince's contentment; and I came to tell you first, monseigneur, because I thought it would do you a pleasure to tell his highness yourself."

"On my life it does!" cried the duke; "for there is many a thing I want the prince to do, which I dare not even ask when he is in such a humour as at present."

"It is all owing, my very good and excellent lord," said the Jew, "it is all owing to these two noble gentlemen, my excellent good lord your son, and that very respectable knight who sits by him; for, had it not been for their protection, and my lord the prince's permission to come with the main battle, I should never have seen these worthy traders, and done the little commerce that enables me to pleasure the prince."

"It cannot be a little commerce, good Solomon," said the duke, "Which enables you to furnish a sum of two hundred thousand crowns, when you declared you could not find it in all Paris."

"On my life and soul!" cried the Israelite, "it will but pay the interest of the money in case I be a loser."

But both the duke and his son laughed, and Solomon himself grinned silently, as if he did not in the least degree expect to be believed. He produced from under his robe, however, two small packets, one containing the most exquisitely beautiful pair of gloves for a lady that I ever beheld, being formed of peach-coloured velvet, embroidered on the back with gold and pearls, which he laid before the Prince d'Auvergne, begging his acceptance of them as a present for any lady that he loved. The other was a small plain dagger, about two hands' breadths in length, the haft of which was as plain as it well could be, being distinguished by nothing but a few lines of gold inlaid in the steel. The blade, which he drew from the plain steel sheath, was thick and dull in colour, as if it had been rusty and ill cleaned. Nevertheless, this somewhat coarse-looking implement he laid upon the table before the duke with great reverence, saying, "Let me beg your noble acceptance of that which, though it looks but a poor gift, may be considered as invaluable. That dagger is made of one cake of pure Damascus steel. It will pass through the finest-tempered corslet that can be produced in the camp, even when struck by a weak arm; and with that dagger the Emperor Hassan, caliph of the Moors, killed no less than ten Spanish cavaliers at the great battle of the Salado."

The Duke of Montpensier seemed to value the gift highly, and the Jew then turned towards me, bowing lowly, and saying, "I have not forgotten to be grateful to Monsieur de Cerons."

"The only gratitude I wish, good Solomon," I replied, "is, that you would find for me a certain dagger that you know of, and which I fear may be lost to me for ever by the death of the person to whom you delivered it."

"I feared so, I feared so," said the Jew; "but it shall be found if it be on this side of Constantinople. I have heard, good sir, that you are going towards Paris; so Monsieur Arnon, the intendant of good Monsieur d'Auvergne, told me; and I would fain travel in such safe company, especially as I go on the business of his Highness of Anjou," he added, looking at the duke.

"Be it so, be it so," said the Duke of Montpensier; "and the sooner you arrive in the capital the better."

"On the twenty-fifth day of the present month," said the Jew, "his highness may draw on me bills of exchange through any of the merchants of Poitiers. They will not refuse him the money when they see the name of Solomon Ahar."

The duke seemed not a little pleased with this intelligence, and, a few words more having passed, Solomon retired from the room, and the duke hastened to communicate the news he had received as fast as possible to the Duke of Anjou.

In the mean time, the Prince d'Auvergne and I returned to our quarters, and bidding me kindly adieu, as I was to depart early on the following morning, he left me, as he thought, to repose. Sleep, however, was not destined to visit my eyes that night. It was with difficulty, my right hand and arm being still bound up in its wooden case, that I was able to open the letter of Louise; and oh! when I did open it, what pain did it inflict! The letter has been since destroyed, so that I cannot give it accurately; but it informed me that the baroness had notified to her that her father had concluded upon a marriage between her and the Lord of Blaye. Her consent, she said, had never been asked and the marchioness had immediately left her stupified and thunderstruck. The only consolations she had, the poor girl said, were, in the first place, that the man himself was absent with the army, and likely to be absent for long; and, in the second, that La Tour assured her that the baron himself had fixed that the marriage should not take place for some time. To give me some comfort under such circumstances, she said, "You know me, Henry, and know that I would rather die. But, oh! that I could see you, and speak with you now, if it were but for a few hours!"

It may well be conceived that the time now seemed to lag; and, when I at length set off upon my journey towards Champigny, every league seemed extended to two or three, every minute was protracted into days. I was the first in the saddle in the morning, the last to feel fatigue at night. But still, as all the various military movements had disturbed the posts, and we rode our own horses, our journey was in reality slow, and seemed to me still slower.

There were but few events in that journey which I need dwell upon. The party which went through it was divided by their particular circumstances, by their religion and habits, and each kept much apart from the other. I, belonging to the higher class of the land, was separated from the rest both by my rank and by my faith; and my servants, being Protestants, were, of course, not sought by the attendants of the Duke of Montpensier. The intendant, indeed, of the Prince d'Auvergne generally rode by my side, a step farther back, endeavouring to beguile the way with different stories of the scenes which he had seen in a long life, and the descriptions of objects which I had never beheld. He told a tale pleasantly enough, and his descriptions were vivid and accurate. I showed a sufficient degree of interest in what he said to flatter his vanity a little, and induce him to go on.

But he saw that I was deeply melancholy, and sometimes appeared to suppose that his conversation wearied me, and ceased it for an hour or two. Thus, however, some little conversation took place between the Catholics and Protestants; but it was very different with the Jews, who formed the third division of our party. They were spoken to, indeed, by both the Catholics and Protestants from time to time, and were treated with great kindness and with substantial courtesy, having every protection and assistance given to them whenever they needed it; but the servants, like their masters, looked upon them evidently as an inferior race, and kept up as little communication with them as possible. To ensure that they were well treated and had nothing to complain of--for the Prince d'Auvergne had given me authority to regulate such matters on the march--I generally made Solomon and Miriam come and sit with me for an hour after our day's journey was over, somewhat to the scandal, I believe, of good Master Arnon the intendant, who thought it strange that a French nobleman should permit a Jew to sit in his presence.

By this means an intimacy--if that can be so called which consisted almost altogether in tokens of respect and reverence on the one side, and protection on the other--took place between me and the Jew and his daughter; they clung to me as the only being that treated them with real kindness, and Miriam used to strive to amuse me with a thousand little engaging youthful ways: she would dance to me to the sound of her own singing, which was very sweet, though in a tongue that I did not understand; and she would play to me at other times, either upon a small instrument which she called a cithern, or upon a lute, with a skill and perfection that I had never heard before. She used to watch my looks, too, as if to see whether she amused me; but she was too young for idle thoughts to enter into the head of any one with regard to her; and I do not think I was of a character, even if she had been two or three years older, to fancy that she was in love with me, because she had a grateful regard for me.

The Jew himself, I believe, would have trusted her anywhere with me, as by this time he would have trusted me with any jewel of his store; and one evening, when he himself had arrived at the inn, weary and somewhat unwell, he sent his daughter to amuse me, and to tell me that he himself had retired to rest. Well might he do so; and yet the conversation that we had together was as tender and as full of thrilling interest as it is possible to conceive. I had been musing sadly over my fate and that of Louise, and my eyes were buried in my hands when her entrance roused me, so that it was evident enough to her that she had just recalled me from a painful dream.

"You are sad, seigneur," she said, drawing a seat close up beside me, and laying her small, clear, olive hand upon mine. "You are sad, and you do not tell Miriam what you are sad about."

"Oh, you would not care to hear, Miriam," I replied, "and could do me no good if you did hear."

"Oh, but I should care to hear," she said, "for I love you very much, seigneur. I loved you, from the first moment I saw you, almost as much--no, not so much as I love him."

"Were you going to say your father, Miriam?" I said.

"No," she said, "Not him. I was going to say as Martin Vern." And the girl coloured a little as she spoke, but added immediately, "But he loves you too, and told me how kind you had been to him when he was at the siege of Angoulême, and how you had given him your hand to help him up into the breach, and how you had carried him down in your arms when he was wounded, and saved his life, and been to him like a brother; which, for a lord and a soldier like you, he thought very kind indeed."

"You seem to have talked very much about me, Miriam," I said. "When was all this?"

"Oh, it was when we were last in Paris," replied the girl; "when we were staying at the house of Levi, my father's cousin, who has become a Christian, you know; and then I would go and see the lady that you had written to, which he told me about, and who had written to you again, and sent it to my fathers house at Bordeaux for the old merchant. And when the Baron de Blancford wanted the Persian silver brocade for his wife, I went with Martin Vern, that is, with the old merchant, and saw the young lady too, and spoke with her in the cabinet behind the great saloon. I told her then that if she would write you a letter, and send it to Levi's house, it should be conveyed to you; but I did not think then that I should carry it myself."

"And was it so the letter came to me?" I said. "I had fancied, Miriam, that your father had got it when he was in the Protestant camp."

"Oh, no," she replied; "I carried it all the way in my bosom. And now I wish you would tell me why you are so sad, and why she looked so sad too. Perhaps I could do more than you know."

"Oh, no, Miriam," I answered, "You could do no thing, my good girl. That which makes me sad would need a more skilful surgeon than you are to cure."

She looked in my face for a moment, as if to see whether I was speaking plainly or metaphorically, and she then cried, "Ay, now I understand you. You love her, and she loves you, and they will not give her to you in marriage."

"Ay, Miriam," I answered, with a sigh, as she came so near the truth; "and they talk of giving her to another."

"Who to? who to?" cried the girl, eagerly. "I heard something once which makes me suspect."

"Oh, no," I replied, "You know him not, Miriam. His name is the Seigneur de Blaye."

"I hate him!" cried the girl, bounding up from her seat as if I had pronounced some talismanic word; "I hate him! He dared to take hold of me when my father was gone to get him the money he wanted from the other room, and asked me if I would go and live with him; and when I told him no, I would rather be catching-wench to a butcher's wife, he struck me on the face with his fingers, and called me a name that I must not speak. I never told my father, or I believe he would have stabbed him; but I hate him, and I shall ever hate him. Oh, seigneur!" she continued, turning towards me and clasping her hands together, "You have been very good and kind indeed to me and mine, and to all that I ever heard mention your name. It is such people as you that make us know what good people there can be; and I will try to show you that there can be gratitude in a poor little Jewish girl. I told my father, when he knew the people intended to murder him on the march from Jarnac, that if he would let me go and speak to you, you would be kind to him. He would not believe me for a long while; but he said that, if you were, you would be the first Christian that ever looked upon a Jew as anything but a dog. My father, however, can be grateful too, seigneur; and, though you may think that poor little Miriam has no power, yet in this business she may have more power than you know of."

Our conversation went on for some time; and the girl, young as she was, spoke with a depth of feeling, a tenderness, an experience of the world and the world's ways, which was very extraordinary, mingled as it was with a sort of eager and imaginative wildness of manner and language, which probably she had acquired in the somewhat wandering and irregular life to which her father's pursuits subjected her. I looked upon the hopes and expectations that she tried to fill me with, of being able to do something in my behalf, as quite idle and vain; but still the gratitude that she showed was something pleasant to meet with, and I sent her away with thanks, and many a kindly speech in return.

At the village of Berny, a short distance from Paris, the Jew, his daughter, and the innumerable packhorses which followed him, were to part with their companions of the way, he proceeding to the capital, and we by a side road to Champigny. He now, however, considered himself quite safe; and, when I had mounted to depart, he came up to the side of my horse, followed by Miriam, and prayed a blessing from God upon my onward journey.

"I have heard from Monsieur Arnon," he said, in a low voice, "that the estate of Les Bois is yours, and that, for the time, I am only to call you Monsieur des Bois; but, whether you be at Champigny or at Les Bois, I hope you will not refuse to let me within your gates; for you have shown me kindness such as I have seldom found, and such as I shall never forget."

Thus saying, he kissed my hand after his fashion, and Miriam, coming up, did the same. There was something in the poor people's gratitude that made my eyes glisten though they were Jews, and, bidding them adieu, I rode on. As I turned my horse into the road at the right, I looked back, and saw that they were standing before the inn door, gazing after me still.