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

by G. P. R. James

D'Aubin slept little during the night, and he was up betimes on the following morning; for a heart full of bitterness and anger chased slumber away. One of the first in the field, after sending a defiance to his cousin by a trumpet, he rode over the ground and narrowly observed the position of the king, as the small army of Royalists advanced from Fourcainville and the other villages where they had passed the night; but as he rode along, he perceived that four or five strange horsemen followed him about, as if watching his movements; and, on inquiry, found that they had joined his troop as volunteers since his arrival in the camp of the League. He took no farther notice of them at the time, and full of other thoughts, fierce, bitter, and engrossing, forgot what he had observed, till in the midst of the battle he was abandoned by the troops of Menancourt; and doubting not that they had been seduced by the pretended volunteers, he turned a vengeful and searching glance towards the rear, where they had been stationed; but to his surprise, the strangers closed up in line as soon as the others had gone over to the Royalists, without showing the slightest disposition to join them. D'Aubin then, as we have previously related, retreated, intending to unite his diminished force to some of the larger squadrons; when, perceiving that the reitters under Albert of Wolfstrom had followed Mayenne in his charge against the division of the king, and that the gallant chivalry of Henry Quatre were still maintaining an equal field against the more numerous forces of the League, he also poured his troops into the mêlée, in the hope of deciding the contest. Scarcely had he done so, however, when he heard the war-cry of the St. Reals, and caught a momentary glance of his cousin's person, as the dark and rolling cloud of battle broke away for a moment from before his eyes.

Maddened by fancied injuries, but still more by a feeling of inferiority and a consciousness of wrong, he strove to cleave his way through the press, in order to try, against one whose powers his pride undervalued, that skill and courage which had been so often successful against others. He succeeded, as we have seen, in at length meeting St. Real; but not till he had received several slight wounds--without which, indeed, he would have been no match for his more powerful and equally skilful cousin, but which tended to render him still more unequal to the encounter that he sought. Baffled in the combat by St. Real's skill, that vanity, which through life had led him forward from evil to evil, urged him on with redoubled force; and when he saw, without the power of parrying it, the descending blow which struck him from his horse, he groaned, in bitterness of spirit, not from the fear of death, but from disappointed hate. That blow, though light when compared with what St. Real's arm might have dealt, drove down his casque upon his head, split the rivets of the gorget, and laid him without sense or feeling upon the plain.

Scarcely had he fallen, when one of those fell monsters who frequent fields of battle to plunder the dying and the dead, attracted by his splendid surcoat, stooped over him, and, unbuckling the plastron, felt his heart beat. To make sure of no interruption from a reviving man, the human vulture struck him a stroke with his dagger. The wound he inflicted was but slight, and his arm was raised for a more effectual blow, when the sweep of a long sword, taking him in the back of the neck, severed his head from his body, and stretched him across the prostrate form he had been intent to plunder. The person who thus interposed to save D'Aubin was no other than one of the five volunteers who had joined his corps, and who, keeping close together through the mêlée, without striking a stroke except in self-defence, had followed, as fast as circumstances permitted, wherever the count had turned his steps. The press round the spot where St. Real and his cousin had encountered, had delayed them for some moments; but still they came up in time to rescue D'Aubin from the dagger of the assassin. The tide of battle had now somewhat rolled on; the ground around was clear; and springing from their horses, the strangers raised the senseless body of the wounded man in their arms, lifted him on a horse, and taking every precaution in order to bear him safely and easily, turned their steps with all speed from the field. Although confused bodies of the Leaguers and the Royalists were by this time mixed all over the plain, the men who bore D'Aubin wound their way amongst the contending squadrons with skill and presence of mind, and soon were behind the woods which skirted the plain to the right. The musketry was no longer heard, the sound of the cannon was faint; and pausing for a moment, they undid and cast away the Count's armour, and bound up his still bleeding wounds. Then, once more bearing him amidst them, they hurried from the field, taking the road towards Chartres.

When Philip d'Aubin, after a long period of sickness, during which insensibility and delirium had filled up the place of thought and understanding, at length recovered a clear perception of his own condition and of external things, he found himself lying, reduced to a state of infant weakness, on a soft and easy bed, in a chamber which was strange to his eye. Rich arras covered the walls; the hangings of the couch were of velvet and gold; and through the open casement at the end of the room breathed in the air of spring, sweet with the perfume of jasmine and of violets. Mingled with that scent, however, was a faint odour of incense; and on the left of the bed stood a priest in his robes, with two or three of the inferior clergy; at the foot were men in the dress then reserved for the followers of the healing art; while on the right stood two or three women, and a page.

For a moment these things swam indistinctly before the eye of the sick man; but the next instant, one particular object attracted all his attention. It was as lovely a form as ever man beheld, advanced before the rest, and kneeling by his bedside, with her face hidden in the rich coverings of the bed, and her dark black hair broken from the large gold pin that ought to have confined it, and falling in masses of bright dishevelled curls over her neck. The convulsive grasp with which she held the bedclothes, the deep sobs that shook her frame, the scared and anxious glances of the attendants, the solemn aspect of the priests, the sacred vessels for the communion and extreme unction, the extended cross held up before his eyes--all showed Philip d'Aubin that those who surrounded him supposed him to be dying; and that what he beheld was the last solemn ceremonies, and the last bitter tears, which attend the passing of the living to the dead. All eyes, but those which were hidden to conceal the burning drops that filled them, were fixed upon his countenance; and as his eyelids were raised, the priest, believing it the last effort of life, lifted his hands, saying in a solemn tone, "Accipe, Domine"--but as the eye wandered round the group, and the light of life and meaning beamed faintly up in the lamp that had seemed extinguished, the old man paused and stooped eagerly forward.

D'Aubin would have given a world to speak, but his tongue refused its office; and all that he could do was to turn a feeble glance of inquiry to the countenance that gazed upon him. The priest, without speaking, beckoned forward the physician, who laid his hand upon the patient's pulse, and then whispered eagerly a word in the ear of an attendant. A cup was instantly brought forward and held to the sick man's lips; a few drops of wine moistened his tongue. With difficulty and pain he swallowed the draught, and the unwonted effort made his heart flutter like that of a dying bird; but soon the beating became more regular; thick drops of perspiration stood upon his brow; he tried again to speak; his lips moved for a moment without a sound; but the next instant he succeeded better, and the name of "Beatrice!" murmured on his lips.

Hitherto there had not been a sound in the chamber, but the struggling sobs of the beautiful girl who knelt by the bedside, and the stealthy step of the attendant who brought the cup; but that one word, "Beatrice," spoken by a voice that had been so long unheard, struck the ear for which it was intended. Loosing her hold of the bedclothes, she lifted her streaming eyes, saw the change that had taken place, gazed for an instant with all the lingering incredulity of apprehension, and then, seeing that it was true--quite true--Beatrice of Ferrara started on her feet, and ere any one could save her, fell back senseless on the floor. With as little noise and confusion as possible, she was carried from the chamber; and every means that the science of the day suggested, were employed to complete the recovery of the Count d'Aubin. The physician, however, who attended him, was a disciple of the great Esculapius, Nature; and therefore, slowly but progressively, the patient regained a degree of strength. All conversation was forbidden, and everything that might agitate him was carefully removed from his sight. No one visited his chamber for several days but the attendants necessary to watch over him, and the physician who directed their movements; and when, at the end of three days, the first returning struggles of D'Aubin's impatient spirit would not be controlled, and he would speak in spite of all injunctions to the contrary, the physician continued to sit beside him all day, in order to ensure that the subjects permitted contained nothing which would retard his recovery by agitating his mind. Beatrice of Ferrara had never entered his chamber since the day when, believing him to be in the agonies of death, she had cast off all reserve, and given way to that passionate burst of grief, which revealed to all around the secret of her heart's inmost shrine. Feeble as he had been at that moment, D'Aubin had not failed to mark and understand the whole; but in sickness, and with death at our right hand, we feel such things in a manner different from that in which they affect us in the high glow of insolent health, and all the vanity of life and expectation. D'Aubin felt touched and grateful for the love he saw; and when he asked for "The lady!" it was in a tone of reverence and softness, unmingled with a touch of the vain lightness which characterised the society in which they lived.

"If he meant the Princess," the physician said, "she was well--quite well."

D'Aubin replied, that he meant Mademoiselle de Ferrara whom he had seen in the room when he first recovered from the long stupor in which he had lain.

"Not many months ago," replied the physician, "Mademoiselle de Ferrara, as you call her, became, by her uncle's and her brother's death, Princess of Legnagno; but, as I said, she is well--quite well."