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

by G. P. R. James

"We are safe, Eugenie!" she said, "we are safe! and now give me credit. Have I not played my part well? But it has almost been too much for me. When by myself I can go through anything, but I was alarmed and agitated for you; I feared not only lest you would be overtaken, but lest you should sink under the trial. But now I trust you are safe, dear Eugenie, for these horses go fast. We have nearly five hours before us ere Mayenne will be up; ere he will be well awake, and his eyes rubbed, and his boots pulled on, we shall have an hour more; then to discover the whole, to think which way we are gone, and to cross-examine your servants, will bring him to dinner time: the poor man must eat, you know; and what with other business, and the time required to give orders, and mount horsemen, and consult with his sister, the day will be done, so that we may well calculate upon its being to-morrow morning ere any one sets out to seek us. Therefore, my Eugenie, with God's help, you are safe!"

"Thanks! thanks, Beatrice! A thousand thanks, my sister, my more than sister!" cried Eugenie. "Well, indeed, as you say, and skillfully have you played your part. But you would say I have not played mine badly either, if you knew all that I have suffered, especially when we were stopped at the gate. If you had told me, however, that you had got such a comedy ready for our deliverance, I should have been better prepared."

"But I knew no more than yourself," replied Beatrice, "what was to come next; I had only time after your letter reached me to take general measures. Luckily I had a number of my own people around me without the walls of Paris. I bade Joachim have a carriage and horses prepared this morning, and to hang about as near as possible, telling whatever story he thought fit, if questioned. Thus, when the soldier spoke to me, I took great care not to say a word that could contradict my confederate's story, whatever it was; but kept to general nonsense, which could signify nothing under any circumstances. As to the comedy which you talk of, between Joachim and myself, it was like one of those mysteries which people play in the convents, where the names of the different characters, and some general idea of the story, is all that is given, and the actors fill up the speeches as they think best at the time. But my good major-domo played his part admirably too, and shall not have reason to repent of it when we come to speak of rewards."

"And, now, whither are we going?" demanded Eugenie; "for this does not seem to me to be the road towards Maine."

"The road towards Maine!" exclaimed Beatrice--"why, my dear, simple girl, that would be going into the lion's den, indeed. They will seek you there in the first instance, and we must give time to let their search be fully over ere we think of going near to Maine. At present we are following, as fast as ever we can, the march of the king's army, and I hope to pass the rear-guard to-night."

"But may not that be dangerous?" demanded Eugenie. "We have no pass from them; and if any of the parties of soldiers meet us, we may be taken and discovered, and perhaps maltreated."

"No fear of that," answered Beatrice; and then added, with a smile that called the warm blood up into Eugenie's cheek, "we can send for the Marquis of St. Real, you know, Eugenie. But, no, no! Do not be afraid of that, or anything else. I have orders and safe-conducts in the king's own hand. In short, Eugenie, I do not think that there is one thing, which can tend to your safety, that has been forgotten by Beatrice of Ferrara."

CHAPTER XXV.

The night was dull and rainy; a thick shroud of clouds was drawn over the sky, so that the summer moon could not look down with any of her sweet smiles upon her wandering companion through the blue fields of space; and the air was loaded with a foggy dampness, through which fell a few drops, increased every now and then to a momentary shower, heavy, but brief. The valley of the Seine was dark and gloomy, and the night was so obscure, that nothing met the eye of the coachman who drove the carriage containing Beatrice of Ferrara and her fair friend, except the glistening of the river as it wound along not far from the road, and the dull and somewhat indistinct line of the highway itself, which, bad and sandy at all times, was now, as we have already said, channelled and cut up by the passage of heavy carts and still heavier artillery.

The second day after their flight from Paris was now drawing to its close. Beatrice, from hearing that some of the troops of the League had been hovering about in the neighbourhood of the Pont de l'Arche, had kept quiet during the latter part of the day, in a farm-house, where they had sought refreshment at noon, for themselves and horses, and was now proceeding as rapidly as possible on the high road, believing that the parties of the Union would not expose themselves to the sudden and brilliant strokes of so active a commander as Henri Quatre, by following his march too closely during the night. Eugenie, on her part, though habit and distance from her immediate persecutors had removed part of the load from her mind, was still agitated by many a fear; and her terrors were not a little increased by proceeding in the darkness over a road, the roughness of which, and the jolts thereby occasioned, precluded all possibility of conversation. Beatrice could but speak a word of comfort every now and then, which Eugenie could scarcely hear, as the carriage ground its way through the sand, or rattled over the large uneven stones. Thus had the two fair girls proceeded for nearly two hours, in the darkness, when a cry of, "Who goes there? Stand! Give the word!" brought the carriage to a sudden stop, and roused all Eugenie's fears again to the highest pitch. The lackey, who sat beside the coachman, jumped down, and went on to speak with the soldier who had challenged him; and old Joachim, who sat in the leathern projection at the side not unaptly called the boot, got out, and went on also.