"Marry you, in short," replied the priest, "marry you to this fair Isabel of Brienne. Well, my son, I see no impediment—no harm therein. If you have well considered the matter," he added with a laugh, "and have determined to take upon yourself the holy estate of matrimony, far be it from me to prevent you, although I must say, that it was in gracious consideration and providence for our temporal as well as spiritual happiness that our holy church exacted from us an oath not to enter into the condition you so much covet; however, I will put the couples round your necks, and then you must run along the road together as you can; but where shall it be?" he continued. "Tell me the whens and the hows, for that is very needful."
Bernard de Rohan explained to him as much as he judged needful. Indeed, what he was obliged to explain put his plans completely in the power of the priest. Nevertheless, he did not anticipate any evil on that account. All of us, wise and simple alike, are more or less guided in our dealings with our fellow-creatures by various other principles than the dictates of mere reason. The most suspicious man, the most cautious man, will, from time to time, place confidence where it is least deserved, from some motives to which his judgment would refuse its assent. The calm and deliberate politician, who has frustrated many of the cabinet knaves of Europe, and concealed his thoughts from the penetrating eye of diplomacy, has often betrayed his secret to a pretty face, and sometimes let it fall into possession of a roguish valet.
But Bernard de Rohan was neither a very cautious nor a very suspicious man. His nature was frank and confiding; and, wherever he showed himself reserved, he was rendered so by the effect of reason and deliberate consideration. In the present instance he was forced to trust the priest, and he trusted him without regret or hesitation; for there was something in good Father Willand's face and demeanour which was frank and kindly, and, to say sooth, Bernard de Rohan had conceived a prepossession in his favour, which might or might not be justified. He thought, too, that, although his own memory of the good priest's features might have faded in the lapse of many years, and though those features themselves must have been much changed by time since he had seen them—he thought, too, that they were not wholly without some corresponding traces on the tablets of remembrance. Memory has her instincts, too; and often, though we cannot recollect the why or the wherefore, the time or the circumstances regarding an object suddenly presented to us, we feel that it is connected with pleasant or unpleasant things in the past; that there have been causes to love, or hate, or fear a person whose very name and being we have forgotten. Thus was it with Bernard de Rohan and Father Willand; for, though he knew not where they had met before, though he was not sure that they ever had met, he was sure that if they had, there had existed good cause to hold the priest in some esteem.
When all the arrangements for the succeeding night had been made between the priest and the young cavalier, the latter turned to a point connected with the same subject which pressed somewhat heavily upon his mind.
"And now, my good Father Willand," he said, "you must tell me, sincerely and candidly, whether you have reason to be perfectly certain that this Lord of Masseran has betaken himself to the court of France."
"My dear son," replied the priest, "there is nothing upon the earth or under the earth that we have any reason to be perfectly certain of. And, now that you put it in my head," he added, pausing thoughtfully for a moment or two, "now that you put it into my head, there are several reasons for believing that this Savoyard devil has not gone to Paris. In the first place, I advised him to go, which is a strong reason for supposing he would not; he being one of those who think that no man can be sincere in anything. I was so far sincere, however, that I told him what is really the only way of saving his neck from the gripe of the King of France; but I had another object, too, which was to clear the place of his uncomfortable presence. At the same time, there is a second reason for believing that he is not gone to the court of France—"
"There are a thousand," interrupted Bernard de Rohan.
"Ay, but there is one," rejoined the priest, "which, though not one out of your thousand, is stronger than all the rest, namely, that the worthy and truth-loving Lord of Masseran told some of his servants, and those not the most confidential ones, that he had gone to Paris. Now, as he was never known to tell truth in his life when a lie would do as well, this is a second strong reason for believing that he has not gone to Paris. But then, again, on the other hand, we have to recollect that it is very possible he might for once tell the truth, in the hope and expectation that, from his known character, it might be mistaken for a lie, and deceive his dear friends that way. In short, the matter is doubtful; for every saying of the Lord of Masseran is, like one of the learned propositions of the schools on which we dispute so learnedly, compounded of so much lie, that if there be a grain of truth therein, the finest head in France will not separate it in a year. But let me hear, my son, let me hear, what reasons have you to bring forward on the one side or the other?"
"None of very great weight, indeed," replied Bernard de Rohan, unable to divulge the orders, written or verbal, that he bore from the Maréchal de Brissac. "A report, indeed, has reached us in Italy," he continued, "that this man is playing a double part between the courts of France and Austria; and, when I did hear of his departure, I certainly suspected that the end of his journey might be Milan rather than Paris."
"I will soon learn that," cried the priest, "I will soon learn that. What you suspect is anything but improbable. And although—knowing well the object of your journey—he might give out that he went to Paris to clear himself before he saw you, yet the whole may be false together, and he himself be within ten miles of his castle at the present time. One thing, however, is clear, my son, no time is to be lost; and, in the mean time, I will ascertain beyond all doubt what road he took."