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

by G. P. R. James

"No one told me of it, sir," replied the boy, "and in fact no one could, for I was absent till within this moment. But what are your commands?"

"Come hither," said St. Real, with a smile, "and I will tell you." The page approached; and the young lord marking some sort of impatience in his countenance, for a few minutes played with his expectation as one might do with the eagerness of a child.

At length, however, he asked more gravely----

"Do you remember, on the night of the king's death, you sang me a song, and repeated me a proverb, which, together with your own words, too well applied to myself to have been spoken accidentally? You escaped me at the time; and since, I have not had an opportunity of speaking with you on the subject. But now I must not only demand to know how you have fathomed secrets which I thought confined to my own bosom; but I must also require of you to tell me who and what you are, for your language and your station are at variance, and I must have my doubts satisfied."

"Sir," replied the boy, while first a playful smile, and then a look almost approaching to sorrow, passed over his countenance, "with regard to what I know of yourself, some day I may tell you how I know it, but I cannot tell you now. In regard to what you ask concerning myself, I can give you but one answer. Did you ever hear of beings called fairies, who, for some particular motive of friendship or regard, sometimes come down to do better than mortal service to a chosen race, or a particular individual? If you have heard of such beings--and who has not?--you must know, that the very first question concerning their nature, or their fate, dissolves the spell that binds them to the person they serve, and ends their term of service. Such, sir, is the case with me. So long as you asked me no questions, I was your willing page and humble attendant. Your curiosity has dissolved the spell, and all I can do is, to bid you farewell, and to tell you, that you will never see Leonard de Monte more."

Thus saying, he again darted out of the room, leaving St. Real uncertain whether he spoke in jest or earnest. Determined, however, to know more, the young nobleman started up, and opened the door, in order to call the gay youth back, and question him farther. Bartholo the dwarf was seated in the ante-room, together with another attendant; and St. Real bade him instantly follow the page, and bring him back. The dwarf stared for a moment, as if in astonishment at the command; and then replied, that he knew not where to find Leonard, for that he had seen him enter the room from which the young lord had just come, but had not seen him return. The other attendant was in the same story, and St. Real caused the boy to be sought for in vain.

The next morning, however, a greater defection was found amongst his followers, which satisfactorily accounted to St. Real for the magical disappearance of his page on the preceding night. The dwarf Bartholo, and three of his ordinary attendants, were nowhere to be heard of; but, by this time, the tampering of the Leaguers with every class of persons in the royal camp was so great and notorious, that St. Real was not at all surprised to find that five of his followers had been induced to quit his service. The loss of Leonard de Monte, however, he felt more than he could have anticipated from the short time the youth had been in his service, and from the slightness of the duties required at his hands; but, from the first moment he had seen him, the young lord of St. Real had conceived an interest in his page which every hour had increased. During his first deep sorrow for the loss of his father, he had found the boy's attentions so soothing and well judged, his sympathy apparently so deep and true, his few words of consolation so mingling together sense and feeling, that he felt gratitude towards him as well as regard; but there was something more than all this. With all the boy's occasional boldness and daring, there was blended a softness and a gentleness, which, together with the apparent weakness of his slight frame, and a few traits of timidity, approaching to cowardice, rendered him an object of that tender care which always endears those in whose behalf it is exercised. Thus, when St. Real found that the youth had really left him, though he felt some slight degree of anger at a desertion which he was conscious he had not deserved, he experienced no small desire to know the former, and guide the future fate of Leonard de Monte.

Events, however, calling for frequent and vigorous exertion, were multiplying so rapidly round his path, that he had but little time to give to matters of more remote interest. He occasionally thought of the youth, it is true, but more often grieved over the conduct of his cousin, and never ceased to ponder, with bitterness of heart, on the fate of Eugenie de Menancourt, and on his own feelings towards her. But still every hour brought some claim upon his attention of a different kind; and in the retreat of the royal army, which began two days after his page had left him, he had scarcely time for any other sensations than the anxiety and foresight attendant upon withdrawing a small and ill-supplied body of men from the presence of a powerful adversary.

It was in the midst of the arrangements incident to such a retreat, that, at the first halting place on the march, Monsieur de Sancy came into the small room in which St. Real was seated at Mantes, exclaiming--"I have news for you, Monsieur de St. Real! Your cousin has already secured the recompense at which he aimed in quitting us. He was married last night to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, the rich heiress of Maine. I have it from one who was in Paris at the time."

St. Real made no reply; but he turned so deadly pale, that De Sancy could not but observe that something had gone amiss, and instantly strove to turn the conversation into another channel.