Mary of Burgundy; or, The Revolt of Ghent

by G. P. R. James

"Heaven forbid, dear Alice!" replied the princess. "However, I am sorry that you have told me;" and she fell into a deep and somewhat painful reverie, from which she only roused herself, to propose that they should go to the apartments of the Dowager Duchess, Margaret, who inhabited the other wing of the building.

Alice willingly followed; and Margaret--though, in her grief and widowhood, she had taken no part in the ceremonies of the day--received her fair visitors with gladness, and inquired with some anxiety how the morning and its events had passed away. Her mind was of that firm and equable, though gentle tone, which feels every misfortune intensely, but bears it with unshaken resolution; and it is a quality of such minds to communicate a part of their own tranquil and enduring power to others with whom they are brought in contact. Thus Mary of Burgundy always felt more calm and more resigned after conversing long with Margaret of York than before; and if, in the present instance, her design in visiting her stepmother was to obtain some such support, she was not disappointed. Both herself and Alice of Imbercourt returned from the apartments of the Duchess less gloomy than when they went; and the vague omens which had given rise to their melancholy were dropped and forgotten, especially as nothing occurred during the rest of the morning to recall them to the mind of either the princess or her fair attendant. The day went by in peace and tranquillity. The multitudes dispersed and retired to their own homes. The brief sunshine of a winter's day soon lapsed into the dark, cold night; and a thick white fog, rolling densely up from the many rivers and canals that intersect the town of Ghent, rendered all the streets doubly obscure. Several of the hours of darkness also went by in tranquillity: though the glare of many torches, lighting various groups of persons, through the dim and vapoury atmosphere, and casting round them a red and misty halo of circumscribed light, together with the shouting voices of people who had lost their way, and the equally loud replies of those who strove to set them right, broke occasionally upon the still quiet of the streets of Ghent, during the course of the evening. All this, too, passed away, and the hour approached for resigning the body and the mind to that mysterious state of unconscious apathy, which seems given to show that we can die, as far as sentient being goes, and yet live again, after a brief pause of mental extinction. Mary of Burgundy, whose days--if ever the days of mortal being did so--should have passed in peace, was about to retire to rest, thanking Heaven that one more scene in life's long tragedy was over. Her fair hair was cast over her shoulders, in soft and silky waves, and she was thinking--with the natural comment of sorrow upon human life--"how sweet a thing is repose!" Although she had assumed in public the state of a sovereign princess, in private she had hitherto dispensed with that burdensome etiquette, which renders the domestic hours of princes little less tedious than their public ceremonies. Her ladies were all dismissed to rest before she herself retired to her own apartment, and two tiring women of inferior rank were all that remained to aid her in the toilet of the night. Those women, whose whole intellects were limited in their range to the thoughts of dress and ornament, contented themselves with performing their several offices about the person of the princess, and leaving her mind to reflection. Thus, perhaps, the hour which she spent each night in her own chamber, ere she lay down to rest, was one of the sweetest portions of time to Mary of Burgundy. It was the hour in which her heart, relieved from all the pressure of the day, could commune with itself at ease; and, could one have looked into her bosom on that at any other night, the whole course of her life gives reason to believe, that it would have displayed as fine and pure a tissue of sweet and noble ideas, as ever the thoughts of woman wove. Her toilet for the night, however, had proceeded but a short way, on the present occasion, when the door of the chamber was thrown open with unceremonious haste, and Alice of Imbercourt, pale, agitated, trembling, with her own brown hair streaming over her shoulders like that of the princess, showing how sudden had been the news that so affected her, rushed into the apartment, and, casting herself upon her knees before Mary, hid her eyes upon the lap of the princess, and wept so bitterly as to deprive herself of utterance.

"What is the matter, my dear Alice? What is the matter, my sweet girl?" demanded Mary, anxiously. "Speak, speak, dear Alice! what has happened so to affect you?"

"Oh, madam, madam!" sobbed Alice; "my father--my dear father!"

"What of him?" exclaimed Mary, turning deadly pale. "What has happened to him, Alice? tell me, I beseech you!"

"Oh, madam, they have arrested him and the Lord of Hugonet!" replied Alice, "and have dragged them from their beds, loaded with chains, to the town-prison!"

"Good God!" cried Mary, clasping her hands; "will they deprive me of all my friends? Has not the gold of Louis tempted all feeble hearts from my service, and will my own subjects take from me the only ones who have been found firm?"

"They will kill them: be sure they will kill them!" exclaimed Alice. "There is only one person on the earth can save them; and, alas! I fear these butchers of Ghent will be too quick in their murder for him to come."

"Who do you mean, dear girl?" asked Mary. "Who is there you think can aid them? What do you propose? Let us lose no time; but take any way to save their lives. Some one," she added, turning to her tiring women, "go to my mother, the Duchess; tell her I would fain speak with her. Now, Alice, what way do you propose?"

"Oh, let me go!" cried Alice, wildly, "let me go! Let me lose not a moment of time! I will easily find him out, or send on messengers--or bring him by some way! Let me go, I beg--I entreat!"