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

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXII.

It was toward that hour in the evening, at which the rays of twilight that linger behind the rest of the lustrous retinue of day are called away from the sky, and our hemisphere is given over to the absolute rule of night--it was at that hour, too, which is more important, when the joyous denizens of the gay capital of France, after having sunned themselves through the long afternoon of a summer's day in the gardens and highways, were in those times wont to retire each to his individual home, to enjoy such dainties as the bounty of nature and the skill of his cook had prepared for the last meal of the evening. It was about nine o'clock, then, on a night in August, when, the streets of Paris being nearly deserted by every one else, a strong troop of horsemen assembled in the little square, nearly opposite to the dwelling of Eugenie de Menancourt.

The gentleman who was at their head, springing to the ground, advanced to the door; and after asking a few questions of one of the servants, entered the court. Shortly afterwards the carriage of Madame de Montpensier rolled heavily up; and that fair dame herself, with one or two ladies in her train, descended therefrom and mounted the great staircase. Then, after a pause of five minutes, the Duke of Mayenne appeared on horseback, with his habiliments somewhat dusty, as if unchanged since his return from some long expedition, and accompanied by a numerous train of officers and attendants. Dismounting from his horse, the Duke dismissed at once the principal part of his suite; only retaining two or three of the inferior attendants who remained below at the gate, while he himself, with a slow and seemingly unwilling step, entered the house.

The servant who marshalled the Duke on his way to the saloon did not seem to look upon him with the best-satisfied countenance in the world; and the faces of the three or four attendants who had been permitted to remain with the young heiress of Menancourt after their old lord's death, and who now appeared in the lobbies and ante-chambers, seemed full not only of grief, but of a sort of sullen determination, which, had their numbers been greater, might have broken out at once in a more serious manner.

Mayenne, however, marked them not, but mounted the stairs and entered the saloon; and certainly, if his heart revolted at the part he was about to act, the scene which now presented itself to his eyes was not calculated to reconcile him to the proceeding.

Standing at one of the farther windows, and looking out into the dark street, where he certainly could see nothing to engage his attention, was the Count d'Aubin, while seated at a table, on which stood two or three lighted tapers, was the unhappy Eugenie de Menancourt. Her dress was still deep mourning; and her eyes gave evident tokens of having shed late and bitter tears: but she was now calm; and fixing her gaze upon vacancy, seemed totally inattentive to the words which Madame de Montpensier and her ladies, who stood round her, were pouring upon her dull unheeding ear.

"We cannot persuade her to change her dress, Charles," said the Duchess, pointing to the mourning in which Eugenie was clothed.

"Never mind, never mind!" replied the Prince, impatiently; "why tease her more than necessary? Let her wear what dress she will!"

"Nay, Charles, but it is ominous," cried the Duchess; "pray speak to her about it."

"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," said Mayenne, in a grave but not unkind tone, "let me persuade you to change this garb, if it be but for this night. It is unusual and ungracious to go to the marriage altar in the robe of mourning, as if you were following some friend to the grave."