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

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Willingly we turn once more from the dull, dry page of history--that uninteresting record which no one reads in these days, and probably never will again, unless by some unforeseen accident the world should grow wiser and better--to the more entertaining and instructive accidents and adventures of the individual characters, which, with somewhat less skill than that of a Philidore, we have been moving about upon the little chess-board before us. It is always the most skilful game, we are told, to begin with the pawns, of which we are well aware, though we somewhat deviated from that rule in the commencement; but now that we have got our pieces scattered about in different directions, and have just been obliged to make the king abandon his attack upon the castle, we must even have recourse to pieces which we have found very useful in many a previous game, and play this chapter out with the knights.

The evening was cold and still; for the ordinary winds of March had not yet begun to blow, although that month was well advanced; and the dull heavy clouds that hung over the world might descend in rain, or might still assert the rule of winter, and come down in a fall of snow. The sky, therefore, looked chill and comfortless to the eyes of a considerable body of the army of the League, as it moved along the heavy and channelled roads in the neighbourhood of Evreux; and to say sooth, the aspect of the earth itself was but little more cheering than that of the heaven which canopied it. Days of trouble had impoverished the land, and the cold season which had just passed had left the earth brown and rugged; while the woods, that swept over every favourable slope, presented nothing but a tangled mass of dull grey branches, diversified alone by a few patches of crisp yellow leaves, that adhered, with all the tenacity of old attachment, to the stems which were soon to cast them off for the greener and gayer children of the spring. Thinly peopled, too, was then the land; and though here and there a village church raised its tower against the evening sky, or a cottage appeared upon the upland, in many instances the bell had long ceased to sound from amidst the scenes that war had visited; very often the light of the cottage was found extinguished, and the fire of the once warm hearth gone out for ever. The hamlets were few, and generally gathered round some castle, which afforded the inhabitants refuge or protection in time of need; and solitary but inhabited cottages, if met with at all, were but mere huts, in which dwelt the lowest and most miserable of the population, upon whom war itself could inflict nothing worse than existence.

In short, the whole scene was cold and desolate; and its effect upon the mind of one of the leaders, who conducted the detachment we have mentioned, was such as it was naturally calculated to produce. He had ridden on, at about the distance of half a mile from the head of the mingled masses of cavalry and infantry which were under his command; and, accompanied by one companion, and several attendants, advanced silently upon the rude road, which, winding along the side of an easy hill, displayed a wide extent of dull grey slopes, slightly tinted here and there with a faint and melancholy hue of green, till a dark and gloomy wood, at several leagues' distance, cut sharp upon the leaden sky, and closed the cheerless prospect. Although the eye of Philip d'Aubin, for such was the horseman we have spoken of, roved far and wide over the uninviting face of the country, it was clear that he looked not upon it as a general reconnoitring the land through which he passed, with the keen glance of strategic inquiry; but rather that he seemed to regard it with the look of one whose heart--not wholly dead to nobler feelings than those which armed him in civil strife upon a bad and unjustifiable cause--grieved for the state of ruin in which his native land was plunged, although his own evil passions aided to produce the desolation that he lamented.

The other who rode beside him, Albert of Wolfstrom, drew his cloak round him, and, as he gazed upon the bleak and desolate landscape, thought of nothing but himself. Mercenary by nature and by habit, he scarcely knew what it is to have a country; and--like many others who believe themselves to be citizens of the world--in truth and in reality, his own individual selfishness was his world, his country, and his home. D'Aubin knew the nature of the man too well to suffer the slightest hint of what was passing in his own bosom to escape his lips; well aware that his companion could not understand his feelings, and that, setting aside even the mercenary leader's own particular philosophy, there was cant of many kinds to be brought forward against the sensations which forced themselves upon him; for where was yet the unholy cause which did not inscribe upon its banners the names of virtue, religion, patriotism, and honour?

"It is a chilly night," he said, as he remarked the action of his companion; "it is a chilly night, Wolfstrom!"

"Ay, and a dreary prospect," answered his companion. "Which, think you, my noble Count, shall we have to warm our blood tonight with; raising the wine cup, shaking the dice, or hard blows upon bright steel?"

"With wine, if anything," replied D'Aubin; "Mayenne is not one fond of night encounters and sudden surprises; and if he have not fought the king's force to-day, which is not likely, he will let another sun rise ere he strike a blow. As for dice, you know, I have abjured them."

"Ay do I, to my sorrow," answered Wolfstrom; "for we have not had one merry night since we began our march; but, by my life, it is a dreary prospect. I trust that all the centre of this good land is not so bare and wasted. I have been so long in Picardy, where things wear a better aspect, that I expected not this sad scene in Normandy."

D'Aubin turned upon him an inquiring eye, not understanding, for a moment, what curious combination could have excited in the bosom of the adventurer anything like feelings of regret for the devastation of any land on earth. "You are compassionate, Wolfstrom!" he said: "France indeed has suffered terrible evils; and Normandy, lately, more than all; for here has been the hottest fire of war during the last four months."