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

by G. P. R. James

"You might!" replied St. Real; "but, in the present case, my purpose is fixed. With the private vices of Henry III. or the vices of his court either, I have nothing to do, at least, as far as regards my public actions; and, if I see no reason to believe that my joining the League is absolutely necessary for the salvation of my country, my allegiance to my King is my first public duty, after the service of my native land. Yet, hear me a word more, in regard to Eugenie----"

"Hark, what a noise!" exclaimed D'Aubin, turning towards a window that looked into the street. "Those dogs of Huguenots are always quarrelling with us cats of Catholics, and the distance between Meudon and St. Cloud cannot keep us asunder. Look, Huon, look! they will come to blows presently! See that fellow in the white scarf, how he is laying down the law and the Gospel with the bony finger of his right on the broad hard palm of his left. If he were the renegade, voluptuous, fiery Luther himself, or the keen, fierce, bloodthirsty Calvin, he could not argue the matter more eagerly. Now there, I warrant ye, goes the demonstration of the superiority of the prêche over the messe--the refutation of transubstantiation, and an utter condemnation of poor purgatory!"

St. Real had followed unwillingly to the window, wondering not a little--although his own ear had been caught by the turbulent sounds in the streets--at the light volatility of his cousin, who could so easily break off a conversation in which he had already shown such heat, and which St. Real himself felt but too deeply to be one of painful interest, in order to gaze upon a squabble between some rude soldiers. The scene which presented itself, however, soon obtained a stronger hold of his attention: it was evidently, as D'Aubin had divined, a quarrel between a small party of the Huguenot soldiers, who, serving under Henry of Navarre, had been quartered in the neighbouring town of Meudon, and a body of the Catholics, forming part of the army of Henry III. who seemed not at all disposed to show much hospitality in the streets of St. Cloud to their allies with the white scarfs. According to the usual course of such occurrences, two persons were more distinguished than the rest by vehemence of manner, loudness of tone, and fierceness of look; but behind the principal speaker on the part of the Protestants stood another of the same party, gifted with that dark and ominous look of silent determination which betokens, in general, a man more disposed to deeds than words. As the argument was evidently getting higher and higher, and the dispute was apparently reaching that point where strong blows are brought in corroboration of vigorous assertions, St. Real proposed to his cousin to interpose with that authority which their rank conferred, and which the number of their retainers, who were standing by enjoying the scene, enabled them to render effectual. D'Aubin agreed to the propriety of this proceeding; but he still continued to gaze out, more amused than affected by what he saw, till at length the more quiet personage, whom we have described as belonging to the Huguenot party, stretched forth a long arm from behind his more voluble comrade, and cut short a very vehement and vigorous tirade on the part of the Catholic soldier, by dealing him a blow on the side of the head that instantly stretched him on the bosom of his mother earth.

Swords and daggers were drawn on all sides in a moment; and St. Real, waiting for no further question, sprang down the stairs, followed by his cousin; and, calling upon the attendants to aid him, he interposed between the contending parties, thrusting his powerful form between the two principal combatants, and casting them asunder like two pugnacious curs unwilling to be separated. In the struggle, however, and ere D'Aubin and the attendants could come to his assistance and enforce order, St. Real had received a slight cut upon the face, which speedily stained his collar in blood; and his clothes suffered equally from dust and dirt, and the profaning fingers of more than one unclean hand. At length the tumult was appeased; and D'Aubin, after treating the contending parties to a witty harangue in praise of peace, turned away with St. Real, saying, "Well, well, Huon, now that you have had enough of fighting for your morning's meal, get you gone to the King, or he will be out for the day. He is not at the chateau, but in that house with the large garden--you can hardly see it as we stand; but, by the number of people I see gathering in that direction, I should suppose he was now about to set out. So hasten on, and you will find me here at your return."

"My visit to the King may well wait a few hours," replied St Real; "and I would fain, Philip, conclude with you a conversation which can never be renewed between us without pain. I have got much to tell you. But stay!" he exclaimed suddenly, as his eye fell upon the figure of a Dominican monk, who was slowly proceeding up the road, and had just passed the spot where he himself stood in conversation with his cousin; "but stay! I think I know that friar, and, if so, I must to the King with all speed!"

Thus speaking, and without waiting for any reply, he made a sign to his attendants to follow, and hurried on, after the Jacobin, on foot. The monk was proceeding at a calm quiet pace, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; and St. Real was by his side in a moment. One glance showed him the dull heavy features of Brother Clement, who had tenanted the chamber to his own in the convent of the Jacobins; and the voices and the jugglery he had seen played off upon the wretched fanatic, as well as the effect which the whole had produced upon the object of those artifices, instantly came up before St. Real's mind, and made him hesitate whether he should not question him in regard to his errand at St. Cloud. The next moment, however, a gentleman, in whom St. Real could easily recognise a high officer of the law--as, in those days, every class and profession had its appropriate garb--came up, followed by some other people carrying papers, and, stopping the friar, as a person whom he knew, held a brief conversation with him, and then walked slowly on by his side towards the dwelling of the King. St. Real, after a moment's consideration, paused, and beckoning to the dwarf Bartholo, from whose knowledge of Paris and its inhabitants he had already derived much information, inquired the name of the personage now walking forward with the monk.

"His name is La Guesle," replied the dwarf, drily: "he is the king's Procureur Général."

Such information was sufficient to remove from the mind of St. Real some part at least of the apprehensions which he had entertained; but, nevertheless, there was a lingering suspicion that the Jacobin's intentions were not all righteous, which made him resolve to inform the king at once of what he had seen in Paris, and put him upon his guard against the machinations of his most insidious enemies. With this view, as he saw that the Procureur Général and his companion were proceeding exactly in the same direction as himself, he hurried his pace, and passed them. Making his way onward through the various groups of soldiers, courtiers, and officers, that were scattered thickly through the streets of their temporary residence, enjoying the fine sunshine of the early summer morning, he hastened forward towards the spot to which his cousin had directed him as the abode of the king, inquiring as he went which was the exact house amongst the many splendid buildings that St. Cloud then contained.

At length the abode of one Hieronimo de Gondi was pointed out to him; and, entering the court, the walls of which had concealed from his sight a crowd of guards and attendants at that time constantly waiting upon the sovereign, he proceeded to the great entrance, and mounted the steps which led to the first hall. Here his name and business were instantly demanded, and his reply transmitted through various mouths to the chambers above. While detained below for the king's answer to his demand of an audience, he was ushered into a side room, where some of the superior officers of the court were whiling away their daily hours of attendance. Some were playing with dice, and some at chess; but in all there was a fearful effeminacy in dress and demeanour, which made St. Real shrink from the soft and womanly things with which he was for the moment brought in contact. He was not destined, however, to remain long amongst them; for the next moment a page--fair and soft, and smooth-spoken, with jewels in his ears, and as much satin and lace upon his slashed doublet of sky-blue silk as would furnish forth a lady on a court birthday--glided into the room, and besought the Marquis of St. Real to follow him to the presence of the king.

Ascending the broad flight of steps which led to the principal apartments above, St. Real first passed through the chamber of the Gascon guards, the same unscrupulous body which had served the monarch so remorselessly in the assassination of the ambitious but heroic Duke of Guise. Their harsh and war-worn features, shaggy beards, and affectedly rough demeanour, offered a strange contrast to the soft and silken aspect of the rest of the court: but St. Real was soon introduced to a new, but not less sickening scene of luxurious effeminacy. Passing through an ante-chamber, in which lounged a number of creatures such as he had seen below, he was led into the audience-room prepared for the king. Faint rose-coloured velvet formed the hangings of the walls, a number of green silk couches were placed round the room, and the whole air was so burdened with manifold perfumes, that St. Real, disgusted with all he beheld, felt actually sick at the compound odour that assailed him as soon as he entered. A number of personages stood round, dressed in all the gaudy colours of the rainbow, and each without the slightest spot or stain to be seen upon his glossy vestments. In the midst of them all sat a man habited, like themselves, with all the scrupulous care that folly can waste upon personal appearance. His hands and his face were as white and as delicate as the satin lining of his cloak, except where on his cheeks appeared a faint delicate colour, like the hectic blush of a consumptive girl, but which, in him, was probably rather the effect of paint than of disease. He was speaking when St. Real entered: but it was none of his lords, or minions, as they were then called, who was so honoured at that moment by the effeminate Henry III. On his lap he held a beautiful worked basket, lined with faint blue satin, and containing no less than four small dogs, neither of which exceeded in size a well-fed miller's rat; and to one of these--his favourite pets and constant companions--he was addressing some tender reproaches for the crime of having scrambled over the back of one of the others, in its unceremonious attempts to escape from the delicate dwelling, which it would willingly have exchanged for a wooden box, and some clean hay.