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

by G. P. R. James

D'Aubin too well knew that to the counsels of his own perverse and pampered heart he had listened more than to those of the dwarf; but he was glad, nevertheless, to find any one on whom he could heap a part of the blame; and while he snatched eagerly at the opportunity of accusing another, he felt a degree of gratitude for the relief which mitigated the bitterness of self-reproach.

"Alas! alas! my poor Bartholo!" he said, "you did deceive me, indeed! But I am willing to believe that you deceived me unwittingly; and I seek not to punish one who wished to serve me, though he failed."

"You are noble and generous ever, sir," replied the dwarf; "and though she does not know the value of the heart she tramples on, others do, and I will conceal it no longer. You little know, sir, how much art, intrigue, and exertion were made use of to estrange from you a heart that loved you, and rob you not only of your promised bride, but of her affection."

"How say you?" cried D'Aubin, eagerly. "Speak more clearly, good Bartholo; I do not understand."

"I know not whether I ought to speak more clearly or not," answered the dwarf; "for although it is her pleasure and her pride to sport with your love, and trample on you, yet it would wring her heart to hear that, notwithstanding all her wiles, you had been successful with her rival; and though to you she may appear but as a cold coquette, to me, who have known her from her childhood, she has ever been a good lady and a kind."

"Bartholo!" cried D'Aubin, sternly, "you have in one thing miscounselled me, and rendered me miserable. You but now professed a wish to atone for that error; and I call upon you at once, to clear away the obscurity which hangs over all these transactions in which I have been engaged, and to let me see how I really stand between Beatrice of Ferrara and Eugenie de Menancourt."

"I will, sir! I will!" cried the dwarf, "let it cost me what it may. But I must be quick, for the tale is intricate, and your guide, who directed me hither, as I was following you to Armençon, will soon be back. Listen, then," he continued, while his face resumed all its bitter cynicism. "Think you, my Lord, that a girl, all gentleness and sweetness, like Mademoiselle de Menancourt, could in a moment be converted into a being as stern and resolute as an old warrior, without some very potent magic? Think you that she who once loved you to all appearance as much as a young maiden ever ventures to show, would all at once affect hate and detestation towards you without some very mighty cause? Think you that a girl who knows nothing of the world, and is as timid as a young deer, could alone find means to cheat hard-judging Mayenne and keen Madame Montpensier, and pass a blaspheming Huguenot soldier off for a Catholic priest, frustrate you and all of them by a false marriage, and then effect her escape from a beleaguered city, where a thousand eyes were upon her; and all this by the simple exertion of her own courage, ingenuity, and daring? Pshaw! One would think to hear it, and to hear that you and Mayenne believed it, that the warriors and the politicians of this world were changed into old women. My Lord! my Lord! Eugenie de Menancourt loved you, loves you, will love you still; and only now weeps the perfidy which my noble lady--thinking, as all women do, that everything is fair in love--taught her to fancy that you had committed against her. Had not Mademoiselle de Menancourt learned to think, from the first moment she set her foot in Paris, that your whole heart and soul were given to the Lady Beatrice, and that you sought her hand only on account of her wealth, she would at once, on her father's death, have flown to your arms for protection. But, day by day, and hour by hour, that idea has been strengthened and confirmed in her mind by a voice whose eloquence no one knows better than you and I. Another time I will point out how; but at present you will trust me--for your wits are not darkened enough to doubt so apparent a fact--when I tell you, that the carrying off the priest, the false marriage, and the escape from Paris, are all owing to the fertile brain and daring courage of Beatrice of Ferrara. She it was who robbed you of your bride; and she it is who now conceals her within three leagues of this place, weeping that Philip d'Aubin is false, and resolving to enter a monastery as soon as she hears of his marriage to another."

"But St. Real!" exclaimed D'Aubin, "St. Real! I have more than suspicions there."

"Pshaw!" cried the dwarf; "she thinks not of him. He may love her, perhaps, but she thinks not of him, but as a brave good-humoured lad, with wit enough to lead a score or two of iron-pated soldiers. But, once convince her that you love her, and that those who have told her you loved another were interested deceivers, and you will soon find the ice will melt, and all the coldness pass away. And now, my Lord, I have told you all. I have given you the key to the mystery; and though, God knows, there are few men in this world that can comprehend clearly anything beyond a schoolboy's sum, done upon a broken slate, yet the matter here is so simple you cannot well mistake. Now I must leave you; for if I be not back ere morning dawn, and my lady discovers my errand, I may chance to die by an earlier death than I have calculated on."

"But stay, stay yet a moment, good Bartholo," cried the count; "you have not told me yet where I may find this fair lady. Think you my marriage with her will touch your mistress so deeply then?"