[CHAP. II.]
The weak-minded and the vulgar are cowed by the aspect of high station; the humble in mind, and the moderate in talent, are subdued by high genius, and bend lowly to the majesty of mind; the powerful, the firm, and the elevated spring up to meet their like, and with them there is nothing earthly that can overawe but a consciousness of evil in themselves, or a sensation of abasement for those they love.
Such was the case with Charles of Montsoreau, who undoubtedly was a man of high and powerful mind. He was in his first youth, it is true; he had no great or intimate knowledge of the world, except that knowledge of the world which, in a few rare instances, comes as it were by intuition. He had been bred up from his youth in love and admiration for the princes of the House of Lorraine, and especially of Henry, Duke of Guise; and yet, when he had met him for the first time, and recognised him at once in the inn at Mareuil, he felt no diffidence--no alarm. Nor had this confidence in himself any thing whatsoever to do with conceit: he thought not of himself for a moment; he thought only of the Duke of Guise and his situation, and impulse guided by habit did the rest. Seeing that the Duke had assumed an inferior character, he treated him accordingly; and acting as nature dictated to him, he acted right.
Neither, at Rheims, when the Duke appeared surrounded by pomp and splendour, did the young nobleman feel differently. He paid every tribute of external reverence to the Prince's station and high renown; but he conferred with him upon equal terms, feeling that if in mind he was not absolutely equal to that great leader, he was competent to appreciate his character, and was not inferior to him in elevation of thought and purpose.
But now, how changed were all his feelings, when, sitting by one whom he venerated and respected--more than perhaps was deserved--he had to discuss with him the painful subject of a brother's errors, and torture imagination to find excuses which judgment would not ratify! He sat humiliated, and pained, and hesitating: he knew not what to say, and he felt that any thing he could say was vain.
For a few minutes after the rest of the party quitted the room, the Duke of Guise remained silent, sometimes gazing down, as was his habit, upon his clasped hands, sometimes raising his eyes for a single moment to the countenance of his young companion. He seemed to feel for him, indeed; and when he did speak, led the conversation to the subject gradually and delicately.
"Well, my dear Count," he said, "let us speak of this affair of the reiters. You made me as many excuses but now, for defeating our enemies, as if you had let them defeat you. Such gallant actions are easily pardoned, Logères; and if you but proceed to commit many such faults, Henry of Navarre and Henry of Guise had both need look to their renown. There was a third Henry once," he continued, half closing his eyes, and speaking with a sigh, as he thought of Henry III. and fair promises of his youth; "there was a third Henry once, who might perhaps have borne the meed of fame away from us both: but that light has gone out in the socket, and left nothing but an unsavory smell behind. However, there was no excuse needed, good friend, for cutting to pieces double your own number of German marauders."
"My excuse was not for that," replied the Count, calmly, "but your Highness directed me to go no farther than Montigny, and I went to La Ferté, on account of the wounded men."
"That is easily excused too," said the Duke. "But now give me your own account of the affair. The boy told me the story but imperfectly. How fell you in with the reiters at first?"
Charles of Montsoreau did as the Prince required, giving a full and minute, but modest, account of all that had taken place. But when he spoke of retreating up the river to the spot where the banks were deeper, and the stream more profound, Guise caught him by the hand, exclaiming eagerly, "Did you know that the banks were steeper? Did you see that they would guard your flank?"