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

by G. P. R. James

Such had been, and such was the situation of Henry IV. Since the assassination of the late king, scarcely an instant had passed without some imperious demand for immediate exertion. Mighty and deep were the interests involved; imminent and terrible were the perils that surrounded him; and the consequences of every step that his foot trod, in the rough and precipitous path before him, were not only destined to affect himself as an individual, but to carry weal or woe to thousands and tens of thousands; to change the fate of states and kingdoms, and decide the destiny of generations yet unborn. His crown and station for life, the security and fortune of his friends, the power of recompensing those who served him, the right of chastising the rebel, and of punishing the traitor; the means of restoring peace to his rent and devastated country, the weal and welfare of his whole people, hung trembling in the balance of every instant, and required the exertion of all the energies with which God had blessed his great and powerful mind for the direction of his feeling and generous heart. The exertions of those energies had not been spared by Henry IV. He had lost not a moment; he had neglected not an opportunity; he had done more than mortal frame could well endure; and had taken from the cares of empire not even the time for necessary refreshment and repose. But now that the hurricane had in some measure passed by, that the evil of the hour was accomplished, and that every means which human sagacity could devise had been taken to remedy past misfortunes, and to guard against future perils, he gave way to that longing thirst for communion with his own heart, which the heat of the great storm of difficulties and dangers he had undergone, and the fatigue of mighty exertions, had left behind. Well, well might he think of that vast, dim, misty prospect, the future! Well, well might he look around to see, if beyond the rocks, and shoals, and tempests, which surrounded him, he could perceive no calmer scene, no haven of repose, no gleam of sunshine to light him on over the dark and troubled waters around him! Well, well might he ask his own heart, if he could have courage, and energy, and perseverance sufficient, to dare all the dangers, to bear all the reverses, and again and again breast the waves which had so often dashed him back against the rocks.

Such were his thoughts, such the matter of his contemplation, as, with his eyes now bent on the ground, now raised towards the sky, he walked slowly along one of the alleys of the old park of St. Cloud. But his mind wandered far, and paused for a moment upon many of those collateral associations to which his circumstances and situation gave rise. He thought of the sorrows and cares of kingly lot, of the ingratitude and baseness of mankind, of the hollowness and heartlessness of courts, and of the selfishness and insincerity of many of those who dwelt in them. He remembered the fate of his immediate predecessor; betrayed by those whom he had favoured, driven from his capital, and almost hurled from his throne by the friend and companion of his youth,[^[3]] opposed in arms by those whom his bounty had fed and pampered, and murdered by the representative of an order which he had loaded with benefits and degraded himself to serve. He thought of what might be his own fate; and, judging from all the signs that he saw around him, he argued, that the well of bitterness was but freshly opened for him, and that his hand held a cup of sorrow whereof he was destined to drink to the very last drop.

Then again, as he raised his eyes towards the beautiful planet which was diffusing the flood of her tranquil light over field, and plain, and wood, over armed camp and beleaguered city, as calmly and tranquilly as if nothing but peace, and virtue, and happiness dwelt beneath her beams, his mind reverted to his early days, when he had seen the same effulgent rays pour through the mighty masses of his native mountains, and stream down the lovely valleys in which he had first learned to shoot his boyish arrows at the mark, to cast the light line for the silver trout, or to pursue the swift-footed izzard over the beetling crags: and as he thought of those sweet times and happy hours, how he did long, with the deep yearnings of the disappointed heart, to be able to cast away crown and sceptre, sword and shield, the miseries of high station, the bitter wisdom of manhood, and to sport again, a boy, with the happy carelessness of other years, by the bright waters of the Gave, and amidst the lustrous valleys of Ossau, Argelez, and Pau!

By this time he had nearly reached the end of the alley, where it opened out upon a small lawn, over which, in the neglect of all things that existed during the civil wars, the grass had grown up long and rank; and he was preparing to return and bend his steps towards the chateau, when a light rustling sound amongst the trees caught his ear, and made him draw round his sword belt, till the hilt of his well-tried weapon was within easy reach of his hand.

The next moment the cause of that sound stood before him, at the distance of about ten paces; and the moon afforded quite sufficient light to show the monarch that no fresh peril was near. The form was that of a page, and the next moment Leonard de Monte advanced, and cast himself upon his knee at Henry's feet. "Ha! my friend the page!" cried the king; "I saw you yesterday, as I passed through the village, and recognised you instantly; but had no time to speak. What would you now, good youth?" and as he spoke he extended his hand towards him.

Leonard de Monte raised it to his lips, but still continued kneeling, while he replied, "I crave a boon, sire. You may remember that I once, not many moons since, led you in safety through more than one path of danger; and you promised me then, that if ever I asked you a boon consistent with your honour, you would grant it."

"And so I will, if it be possible," answered Henry; "though I have granted you one boon already without your asking it; I mean that I have kept your secret!" Leonard de Monte started up and drew a step back; but the king continued, "Did you fancy I did not recollect you? Ay! within five minutes after our first meeting: but never mind, and do not fear; speak your boon boldly, and, if it be in my power, I will not say nay; though, to tell the truth, within these three days I have granted so much that I doubt if there be anything left in all France to grant!"

"Mine will not be difficult, sire," replied the page; "it is but this, that you will give me, under your royal hand, an order addressed to all your lieutenants, officers, and seneschals, and to all persons, in short, who hold you dear, to aid and help me with the whole of their power whenever I shall call upon them; to protect me and all who are with me in case of danger, and to give me every kind of information and assistance which I may require for my personal safety."

"You ask a very high and unlimited power of command for a boy of your age!" said the king, laughing; "but I think I may trust you; and yet," he added, in a graver tone, "such authority might be abused."

The boy again advanced and once more bent his knee, "Never by me, sire!" he said; "and to think so for one moment, would be to do me foul injustice. Born in a foreign land, and my own sovereign at least, I cannot offer you allegiance; but I swear with truer intentions than many of those who have vowed faith and service to you within these three days, that I will never use the power I ask from you but for the purposes of safety. I promise it upon my word--a word that was broken; upon my honour--an honour that has never known a stain."