He was in person about the middle height, rather above it than below, and at this period was not more than twenty-three years of age. His forehead was broad and fine, with short dark hair curling round it: his features were small, except the eye and brow, the former of which was large and full, and the latter strongly marked. The mouth was very handsome, showing, when half open in speaking, the brilliant white teeth, and giving to the whole countenance a look of playful gayety; but, when shut, there was an expression of much thoughtfulness, approaching perhaps to sternness, about it, which the rounded and somewhat prominent chin confirmed. The upper lip was very short; but on either side, divided in the middle, was a short black mustache, not overhanging the mouth, but raised above it; and the beard, which was short and black like the hair, was only suffered to grow in such a manner as to ornament, but not to encumber, the chin.
In form the cavalier was muscular, and powerfully made, his breadth of chest and shoulders giving the appearance of a more advanced period of life than that at which he had yet arrived. He was evidently a soldier, for he was fully armed, as if having lately been or being still in scenes of strife and danger; and, to say the truth, a man fully armed in those days was certainly more loaded with weapons, offensive and defensive, than was probably ever the case before or since.
The picture I have spoken of represents him with not only the complete armour which was then still used to encase the person, with the long, heavy sword, the dagger, and the large pistols, but also with four short carbines—at least such they appear to be—one at each corner of the saddle. His head, indeed, is seen unencumbered by the steel cap, which usually completed the armour, but which is borne by the page at his saddlebow, while the cavalier himself appears wearing upon his head the somewhat cooler covering of a black velvet cap, without feather or any other ornament.
The horse that carried him, which was a tall, powerful charger, fared better in some respects than his master; for before this epoch, the heavy armour with which steed as well as man used at one time to be encumbered was lightened in favour of the quadruped, and the horse which bore the young gentleman of whom we speak was only covered with such pieces as might protect his head and chest in the shock of the charge.
The day, I have said, had been bright and sweet, and all nature had been as fresh and happy as a young heart upon a holyday. Similar, too, had been the mood of Bernard de Rohan as he rode along; not so much that the scene and its charms created, as that they found, sympathetic feelings in his bosom; for his disposition was naturally cheerful and bright, full of gay thoughts and happy enthusiasms. He was returning, too, from another country—from the midst of strangers, and perils, and fatigues—to enjoy an interval of tranquillity in his own bright land, and the society of those he loved.
France was within his sight; the tongues that he heard around him spoke nearly the same language as that which he had used from infancy; and, though the nominal frontier of Savoy lay some fifteen miles before him, yet, in all but the name, he was in his own country. There was little of that cold restraint about him which is either acquired by harsh dealings with evil men, or is natural from some inward pravity of the heart, and the cheerful mood of his mind found its way forth in many an outward sign. From time to time he had turned round to speak to the page or to one of the servants with some light jest or gay inquiry. Now he would point out a distant spot in the landscape as they stood upon some beetling point half way up the mountain, and ask if they recognised this or that town in Dauphiné; now he would pat the proud crest of his stout horse, and talk to the noble animal as if he expected an answer; and now would even break forth into a snatch of song. His heart, in short, was as a fountain, so filled with happiness that it welled over, and the waters sparkled as they overflowed the brim.
The servants smiled to see their lord so gay, especially an elder one, who, commenting with the other, remarked that he might well look happy, bearing back home such glory as he had won.
Thus passed the earlier part of the day's journey; but towards the evening the mood of Bernard de Rohan changed. His open brow did not grow cloudy, it is true, but there came a look of gloom upon it: the lips no longer opened with a bland smile, and the teeth were shut together with that stern expression we have already noticed. His eyes gazed on upon the scene, but with somewhat of a vacant aspect, and everything told that the spirit was busy in its tabernacle dealing with high thoughts. Nor could any one who looked upon him suppose those thoughts were other than sad ones. Intense they certainly were, and certainly they were not gay.
Yet Bernard de Rohan had no remembered grief. Fate had indeed once struck him severely, but ever after had spared him altogether; had plucked not a flower from his bosom, nor cast a shadow on his path.
In early years he had lost both his parents, but that was the only misfortune which had befallen him, and it was long ago. He scarcely remembered them; and all that remained was a soft memory, affectionate but not painful. Since then his course had been from one bright thing to another. Wise and tender friends, the amusements, the sports, the studies of youth, virtue and honour, wealth and station, praise, success, and glory had been his. He had no thirst for power: so what could he want more? Had any one asked him that question, he would have replied, Nothing: nothing but what he might well hope to attain; and yet, about an hour before the sun reached the edge of the sky, a fit of gloom fell upon him, dark, vague, unaccountable, like one of those mists that in mountain lands suddenly surround the wayfarer, shutting out the beauty and the brightness, and leaving all around dull, chilly, vague, uncertain, and confused.