"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go to Grenoble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. I only told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count of Meyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggs in a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamb lies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and he who would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark my words, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest even now, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free and active this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour, then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Grenoble. You will see in a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at once when you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your head upon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."
"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where—"
"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We must use bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, between Paris and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, than all the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into many a house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfy yourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow me at a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will, and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be as secret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. I have heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twenty hours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for we must talk together no more."
Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window, pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terrible question, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whom can we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had to ask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every one in advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated, and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, how few are there throughout all existence that we can trust—fully, entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another; the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, the energy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! in looking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be, that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wrongly withheld.
The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself was more limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of these two men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Those she had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she had already had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and she could not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the first evil impression of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which she could not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that little seemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved. Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender but imperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them, and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from the twilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an evening landscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long set to our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but those that bore an uninterested part therein—objects animate or inanimate alike—the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all still retain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when other things are forgotten.
The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne a willing, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For that reason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he had referred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of time between, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself and the objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasant recollections which attached themselves by the fine links of association to the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the rough and somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. She remembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; she remembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty of purpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness; and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse for anything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that her father had really pronounced such words, she thought that she remembered his having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had driven him into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not have recalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any other circumstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow more and more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let the result of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand be what it would.
CHAPTER XII.
In one of the sweetest situations that it is possible to conceive—with green sloping hills, covered with the richest vegetation, rising on the four sides thereof, and forming, as it were, a beautiful basin, with four long valleys, each of which bears onward its stream of clear and sparkling water—is the little town of Bourgoin, which was at that time, as now, neat, clean, and fresh-looking, with perhaps fewer inhabitants than it can at present boast, but without any of the manufactories which have since somewhat diminished its beauty, if they have increased its wealth.
It was the custom in those days for the signs to hang out far from the doors of the inn; and often at each side of the doorway was placed the name of the landlord, with a long recommendation of the fare and lodging to be found within, with the price of the various meals which were to be furnished to a visiter. A bench was there also, and a wide door, giving entrance to a courtyard.