One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

Mayenne took up the pen, but mused for many minutes ere he put it to the paper, and even then wrote no less than three billets before he could satisfy himself in a species of composition to which he was not accustomed. At length, abandoning all formal excuses, he contented himself with simply announcing to the unhappy Eugenie de Menancourt, that motives of importance to the state compelled him to require her without farther hesitation to fulfil her father's engagement to the Count d'Aubin; and that he had appointed the hour of nine on the succeeding evening for the celebration of her marriage.

"There!" he said, as he handed the note to D'Aubin--"There, sir Count! Seldom has my hand so unwillingly traced a few lines as to-night. But I will send my sister Catherine early in the morning to soften the matter to the poor girl; and now, farewell! for I have matters of much import to attend to."

D'Aubin took the note, and before he noticed the hint to withdraw, read it over attentively, to satisfy himself that it was such as he could wish, and then folding it up again with a triumphant smile, he uttered a few words of thanks and took his leave. Ere long, however, those feelings of triumph died away; and other sensations took their place. His pride had been wounded, his vanity insulted, and many of his worldly prospects endangered by the steadfast rejection of Eugenie de Menancourt; but his heart was not so hardened as he himself believed it to be, nor as it appeared to others, in the fierce pursuit of his object; and when he turned away from the cabinet of Mayenne, and took his path homeward, he asked himself whether after all, he should make use of the cruel power he possessed; he asked himself whether, for the sake of humbling a fair and innocent girl, and of gratifying his vanity by triumphing over her opposition, he could resist the tears, and entreaties, and reproaches of a being whom he had been accustomed to regard with tenderness, if not with love; whether he should cause the unhappiness of her whole after days, and at the same time unite himself, against her will, to a woman whose dislike would only be increased by the force that was put upon her inclinations. Even while he revolved these ideas, the memory of one that he had long--ay, that he still loved, was wakened by the other thoughts which struggled in his bosom; and although he had contemplated the deed he was about to commit a thousand times before, and fully made up his mind to it, he now shrunk with cold and chilly repugnance at the idea of placing between himself and her who possessed the only stronghold of his affections, the impassable barrier of his union with another. All these feelings leagued together, and for a time made head against his less generous purposes; but there were difficulties in retreating, which could hardly be overcome; and as he reached the house in which he had fixed his dwelling at Paris, he thought, "I will sleep over these new doubts, and decide to-morrow."

When he entered, however, he found Albert of Wolfstrom and several gay companions, waiting to sup with him, and to bid him farewell, ere he set out upon the expedition against Meulan, for which they still thought he was destined on the morrow. D'Aubin despised them all, but nevertheless he sat down with them, and drank deep. Dice succeeded to wine; and when the Count rose from table, he had no resource, but to wed Eugenie de Menancourt, or to descend more than one step in the scale of society.

CHAPTER XX.

If every minute event which took place in the beginning of August, 1589, was matter of importance to the inhabitants of Paris, a thousand times more deep, intense, and thrilling than that experienced by any other person, was the interest taken by Eugenie de Menancourt in all that passed at that period. Her happiness, her misery for life, hung upon the die which other hands were destined to throw; and without the possibility of aiding herself in the slightest degree of changing the fate that awaited her, or arresting its progress for a moment, she was obliged to abide the unknown result in the power of people, whose purposes she neither knew nor could control. Every rumour, every sound, created some new sensation in her bosom. Every change, where change was constant, either raised a momentary hope, or cast her back into the depth of apprehension. The distant roar of the artillery, the march of the troops through the streets, the galloping of messengers and couriers, the military parade, even the processions of the clergy, as they proceeded from shrine to shrine, petitioning for the aid of God to support them in rebellion, and encourage them in assassination, all agitated and alarmed her, till at length, her mind fell into that state in which terror has so much the predominance, that every fresh tidings are anticipated as tidings of sorrow. The news of the death of the king, and the particulars of the manner in which that foul act was perpetrated, struck her with horror and despair, as showing to what length the men in whose hands she was placed dared to go in pursuit of the objects of their party. Scarcely, however, had she time to think over this event, when another, more deeply and personally painful to herself, banished all other feelings but anxiety for her future destiny.

One morning suddenly, the Count d'Aubin was announced, and, hardly waiting to see whether his visit were or were not acceptable, he followed the servant into her presence. The result of their meeting we have already seen in his conference with Mayenne; but either vanity or policy had induced him to distort the truth, when he had asserted that Eugenie de Menancourt had shown the slightest symptom of vacillating in her determination against him.

From his words and his manner, she had soon learned that he had joined the party of the League, and that he considered all the authority and influence of Mayenne at his command, in support of his suit towards her; and perhaps the fear of irritating him, and driving him on to use the power he possessed to the utmost, might make her more gentle in her language, and less disposed to express the reprobation and dislike she entertained towards him, than would have been the case had he persisted in his pursuit under other circumstances. But Eugenie was too noble, too candid, too sincere, to suffer him to believe, for one moment, that her feelings would ever change towards him. She was gentle, but she was firm; and D'Aubin, when he left her, was, perhaps, the more mortified to find, from her calmness, as well as determination, that she was influenced against him by no temporary pique, by no fit of passion or indignation, as he had represented the matter to others, and tried to regard it himself; but that positively and certainly, he who had thought that her heart was at his command whenever he chose to demand it, had never caused it to beat one pulse more rapidly; that he had never been loved, and was now contemned and disliked.

Although during his stay he had employed persuasion and entreaty, and all the arts that none knew better how to use than himself, there had still been in his tone that consciousness of power and authority which alarmed Eugenie for the result; and with a trembling hand she wrote a few words to the fair Beatrice of Ferrara, beseeching her to come to her aid, determined as she was to risk any thing in order to escape from her present situation. Fate, however, ever overrules our best efforts; and, as if disdaining to cast away the greater exertions of its almighty power to thwart our petty schemes, contents itself with throwing some trifling stumbling-block in our way--some idle, insignificant trifle, over which our pigmy plans fall prostrate in their course. The servant whom Eugenie had charged with the delivery of her note returned, and brought her word that Beatrice had gone out on horseback to witness the movements of the Royalist army in their retreat, an amusement worthy of her bold and fearless spirit. The lady's attendants, however, had informed him, the servant said, that she would be back long before nightfall; and Eugenie waited and counted the anxious moments till the daylight waned, and the shadows of evening fell over the earth.

"Beatrice must soon be here now," she thought; but moment after moment, and hour after hour, went by, without the appearance of her she waited for. At length, giving up hope for that night, and wearied with wearing expectation, Eugenie retired to rest; but it was rest broken by fears and anxieties; and early on the succeeding morning she was up, and watching eagerly for the coming of her friend, whose bold counsels and skilful aid might, she trusted, give her courage to undertake, and power to execute, some plan for her own deliverance.