Eloise remained, however, not doing much good, it is true, but at least showing sympathy; and at length Lorenzo was raised, and with difficulty brought up to the road again. A deep groan as they carried him told that life was not yet extinct, and the rain falling in his face revived him as three of the servants carried him in their arms towards the chateau. When he opened his eyes Eloise de Chaumont was walking by his side, weeping, and, as soon as memory of all that had occurred came back, he said, with a great effort, "I am not much hurt, I believe. Do not grieve, dear lady."
"O you are--you are, Lorenzo," she cried, "and I did it, foolish, wicked girl that I am. But do not speak. We shall soon be at the chateau. Ride, Guillaume, ride to the priest of St. Servan--he knows all about chirurgy--bid him come up at all speed. Give the jennet to Jean Graille. Ride on, I say, and be quick. Oh, Seigneur Visconti, I am so sorry for my folly."
In a few minutes Lorenzo was borne into the chateau, and carried to a chamber, where, stretched upon a bed, he waited the arrival of the priest. But Eloise de Chaumont would not leave him, notwithstanding several messages from her mother. With her own hands she wiped the earth from his brow; with her own hands she gave him water to drink, and more than ever she called him Lorenzo, bringing back to the young lord's mind a suspicion which he had once entertained, but speedily dismissed as a vain fancy, that Eloise de Chaumont viewed him with more favour than most others at a court where she was universally sought and admired.
It skills not to dwell upon the tedious process of a long sickness and a slow recovery. Madame de Chaumont, a lady of a light and selfish character, though not fond of witnessing suffering, visited Lorenzo religiously once every day. Eloise de Chaumont, never accustomed to restraint in anything, was in his chamber morning, noon, and night. In his sickness she regarded him as a pet bird, or a favourite horse; and, to say sooth, it would seem there were other feelings too, for one time when he was sleeping he was wakened by the touch of her lips upon his brow. Guests came and went at the chateau, but their presence made no change in her conduct. When Mademoiselle de Chaumont was asked for, the reply was, usually, "She is in the Seigneur de Visconti's chamber;" and people began to wonder and to talk.
The circles made on the clear bosom of the waters by a pebble cast into them differ in this from those produced by the spread of rumour; in the one case they become more and more faint in proportion to their distance from the centre; in the other, they are not only extended, but deepened. The gossip of the neighbouring chateaux spread to the neighbouring towns, thence to wider circles still. They reached the chateau of De Vitry, and they reached the court, and many a circumstance was added which had never existed. Blanche Marie and De Vitry rejoiced, for they hoped that the tendance of Eloise de Chaumont might not only aid to cure Lorenzo from mere physical evils, but to apply still more efficacious remedies to his mind. She was young, she was beautiful, she was wealthy, the only child left by one of the first nobles in the land; and there seemed all the frankness and freedom of innocence about her, with a kindly heart, and a mind which was brilliant, if not strong. They rode over together to see their young cousin, and Blanche Marie was charmed with all she saw. She knew not how dangerous it is to give way to impulses where feelings are not backed by principles. She thought Eloise one provided by Heaven to wean Lorenzo from the memory of another more dear, whom she believed to be unworthy of him.
At the court of the King of France--the lawful guardian of the young heiress--the rumours of what was taking place at Chaumont produced some agitation. Eloise was a special favourite of sweet Anne of Brittany, and the queen was vexed and alarmed. Men are not so easily affected by scandal as women, and the king laughed at what had grieved his wife. "My life for it," he said, "this matter will be easily explained. My young cousin Lorenzo is not one to peril a lady's reputation, and if he has done so he must make reparation. We will send for him, however, my dear lady."
When the king's letter arrived, requiring in kindly terms Lorenzo's presence at Amboise, that young nobleman, though able to rise from his bed, was by no means sufficiently recovered to take a long journey, or even to mount his horse. He assured the king in his reply, however, that the moment he could ride he would get out on the journey; and, to tell the truth, he longed not a little to leave the castle at Chaumont. He himself felt that his residence there was becoming somewhat dangerous to him. The memory of Leonora could not be banished from his mind. Disappointment, indignation, and even a certain feeling of contempt, which the indifference he believed her to have shown had generated, could not extinguish entirely that first-born, fairy love, which, once it has possession of the heart, rarely goes out entirely. But yet Eloise de Chaumont was, as the poet says, "beautiful exceedingly"--of a very different character from Leonora, more fair, more laughing, with less soul in the look, less depth and intensity of mind in the eyes, but still very beautiful. A sort of intimacy too, of a nature difficult to describe, had sprung up during her long attendance upon him; they called each other by their Christian names, and, although no word of love had ever passed between them, it was evident to everyone around that Eloise, knowing that her loveliness and wealth gave her the choice of almost any man in France, looked upon Lorenzo as her own, and would have been as much surprised as grieved to think there was a doubt of her becoming his wife.
Lorenzo, for his part, could not but be grateful, could not but admire. One thing, however, proved that he did not love--he saw in her many faults. He wished she was not so light, so frivolous. He wished he could see some indications of firm character and steadfast principles. "And yet," he thought, "Where I believed they most existed they were the most wanting. What matters it to me whom I wed now? If Eloise can love me, that amounts to the utmost sum of happiness I can now hope for."
Nevertheless, when, at the end of another fortnight, he mounted his horse to proceed to Amboise, not a word had passed to bind him to her who had nursed him so kindly.
"When will you be back, Lorenzo?" asked Eloise, as she gave him her cheek to kiss at parting.