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

by G. P. R. James

The man seemed doubtful if his ears heard true; but at length convinced, he took the gold, cap in hand, and rode slowly away. In the meantime, D'Aubin and Wolfstrom again put the troop in motion; and riding briskly on, calculated once more between them the distance from Guery to La Loupe, and from La Loupe to the spot whither their steps were now directed. D'Aubin was found not to have judged amiss; for even supposing the troops mounted and the captain willing, it appeared that the reitters must arrive at least four hours before them. "When we come up," said D'Aubin, as they concluded, "let your men surround the house, at such a distance as not to be seen; yourself and five or six others come nearer, so as to be within call; and, after ascertaining that there is no force actually present to oppose us, I will go on and plead my cause myself. It were better to persuade her gently, and without frightening her, if possible; but if I find her still obstinate, we must use a little gentle compulsion: for I am resolved," he added, with a smile of triumph, "that by the time the troops from La Loupe reach her late refuge, Eugenie de Menancourt shall be in the chateau of Aubin; ay, and irretrievably the wife of its lord!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

What was once a poor farm-house, in a woody and remote part of the hills in which the Eure and Loire take their rise, had, under the touch of taste and affluence, been transformed into a beautiful little habitation, half rustic cottage, half Italian villa; and all this had been done as easily as the genii built the palace of Aladdin. The wood-work had been painted green, so that the heavy planks which, when shut, closed the windows, looked light; the thatch had been nicely clipped and trimmed; the inside had been hung with arras, and decorated with paintings in the fashion of the day; and along the front had been carried a portico, consisting of unpolished trunks of trees for columns, and a light trellis-work of boughs to soften the strong sunshine. The face of the house was turned towards the south; and it might have commanded, from its elevated situation, a beautiful view over the greater part of Maine, had the tall old trees which screened it in front been partially cut away: but those in whose possession it now was had carefully abstained from the axe; not alone from reverence for the ancient trees, but because quiet concealment was with them a great object of desire. No place, in truth, could have been better chosen for that purpose. There was, indeed, one horse road, which came within a few hundred yards of the house, but it went no farther than to a small isolated village not more than a league distant, and there ended. Another, passing a little farther off, led away to the chateau of Guery, at the distance of three leagues on one side, and to the small town of ---- on the other; but even this was merely a bridle path, upon which there was scarcely any traffic in the best of times, and much less now that civil war had stilled all commercial spirit in the land.

It was in the little portico, then, which we have noticed, that on the evening of a warm clear day in June, occasionally shaded by the masses of a broken thunder-cloud, which, during the night, had poured forth a tempest on the earth, sat the fair Eugenie de Menancourt, into whose cheek the warm glow of health and youth had returned, during a long interval of peace and tranquillity. Hither, after many wanderings, had she been brought by Beatrice of Ferrara, as soon as it was known that the Count d'Aubin was no longer in the neighbourhood; and in order to be sufficiently near her, to give her every sort of aid and protection, without calling further attention upon her retreat by living with her, the fair Italian had retired to the chateau of Guery which she possessed in the neighbourhood. The time had, as we have seen, passed without bringing molestation to Eugenie; and she now sat with an open letter in her hand, gazing out upon the woodland scene before her eyes, and seeing those mixed visions of romance, and tenderness, and melancholy which are so often present to a woman's eyes, and are the more dear, because she is taught to hide that she beholds them. Before her were those dark old trees; on her right a thicket of shrubs of many a varied kind; behind her the room in which she was wont to sit--then called her bower, and on the left, some fields screened again from the road by other trees. It was a calm sweet scene; and Eugenie felt not unhappy, though there might be other things she would have fain brought in, to form her picture of perfect felicity, and although the letter which she held in her hand from Beatrice of Ferrara, by telling her not to be alarmed at anything that might happen, for that friends were near, had, in some degree, created the apprehension is was intended to relieve.

As she sat thus and gazed, she thought she heard the tramp of horse; but the sound, if sound there were, ceased, and she believed that her ears had deceived her. A moment or two after, a long ray of sunshine that found its way between the bolls of the trees, and spread a pencil of light upon the green turf at her feet, was for an instant obscured, as if either a cloud had come over the sun, or some dark object had passed among the trees. Eugenie's heart began to beat quick, and the next minute a rustling sound in the thicket to her right made her start up; but ere she could retreat into her own chamber, the boughs were pushed back, and Philip d'Aubin was at her feet. With a face as pale as death, Eugenie sank into the seat that she had before occupied, and gazed with eyes expressive certainly of anything but love, upon the Count as he knelt before her, and pressed her hand to his lips.

"Eugenie!" said D'Aubin, "Eugenie! I have at length found you, then. My Eugenie! my wife!"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Eugenie, struggling to overcome her terror: "oh, no! not your wife! No, sir, I am not; I never have been; I never will be your wife! Death were preferable--ay, the most terrible death were preferable to that!"

"Hear me, Eugenie!" said D'Aubin. "Eugenie, you must hear me! for this house is surrounded by my soldiers; you are utterly and perfectly in my power; and if I have recourse to reason and persuasion with you, it is alone from tenderness and affection towards you, and because I would rather induce my bride to accompany me willingly and tranquilly, than use towards her those means of compulsion which I have a right to exercise in regard to a disobedient wife. Eugenie, will you hear me?"

"I have no resource, Sir," replied the unhappy girl; "but still I repeat that I am not your wife. In the first place, I have at the altar refused to pledge a vow towards you; and by this time you must well know that the man who read the vain and empty ceremony which you are pleased to call a marriage was not one invested with that sacred function which is requisite to render a marriage legal, even with the willing consent of both parties."

"All I know is, that the marriage ceremony was performed between us," replied D'Aubin, "and that it is registered in the archives of Paris. That you are my wife, therefore, there is no doubt; and that I have the right, as well as the power and the will, to take you home and regard you as my wife, is equally indubitable. Still if you require it, the ceremony shall be performed again; but hope not any longer to avoid taking upon you the duties of the position you hold in regard to me, for, as I told you, I have a hundred men within call ready to obey my lightest word! Shall I make them appear?"