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

by G. P. R. James

"Yes, yes; speak boldly," replied D'Aubin; "I am as hungry for good advice as a famished wolf, and I am inclined to believe thee, just now, seeing that the hint you gave me not long since concerning my simple-seeming cousin has proved but too true. He would act in all honour as yet, it seems; but we all know with what tiny footsteps love begins the course, that he determines, ere the end, to stride over like a giant. Not that I think," he added, giving a glance to the mirror, and marking there as handsome features as ever that crowning invention of personal vanity reflected to the self-satisfied eyes of man--though the countenance he beheld might be somewhat worn with the strife of passions, it is true--"not that I think that, were it come to rivalry, I should have to fear the result. But I would fain put it beyond all chances; so speak your advice, good Bartholo. If it suit me, I will take it; and if not--why it is but empty air."

"Ay, ay," replied the dwarf, "empty air, and dust and ashes! Those few words are the history of the whole world--man's fame, and wisdom, and wit, and eloquence, and power, and strength, and beauty--empty air, and dust and ashes, are the whole!--so that brings me to my tidings, and to my advice;" he continued, resuming his ordinary tone. "You have heard of the king's wound, my lord. Now, do not you be one of the fools who deceive themselves, and think he will recover! Take my word for it, he will die!"

"Nay; but the surgeons say," replied D'Aubin, "that he is already far better, and give many shrewd reasons to show that he is nearly well."

"Let them give what reasons they will," answered the dwarf, "do not you believe them. Why, my good lord, do you think that your fair friend, the Duchess of Montpensier, or any of the holy and devout men of the Catholic union, are such fools in grain as to trust to a simple bit of smooth innocent iron to do the work of their hatred, while they have our dearly beloved Rene Armandi at hand, to smear the edge and the point with some of his blessed contrivances for shortening pain and making the work sure? No, no! my lord. Not more than two days ago, I was hanging about the gate of that very Jacobin convent from which this foul monk came forth, and I saw three people arrive to lay their heads together with the very reverend and respectable Father Prior, whose meeting told its own tale, whereof this morning's butchery is but the comment. First came Armandi the poisoner, next came the Duchess of Montpensier, and then came Wolfstrom the rogue; so be you sure, my lord, that the king will die; and this very night make your bargain so firm that no one will dare to break it. To-night," he added, his lips curling with more cynical bitterness than ever, "to-night you may dispose of your assistance and co-operation at what rate you like; but if you wait till tomorrow, your merchandise will fall a hundred per cent., for the market will be overstocked."

The manner in which the dwarf put his counsels was certainly not the most agreeable; but D'Aubin was accustomed to his bitterness, and was willing enough to cull wholesome advice for the direction of his own plans and purposes from amongst the gall and wormwood wherewith good Bartholo seldom failed to savour his discourse. "I believe thou art right, Bartholo," he replied; "and as I am determined sooner to lose life itself than to be foiled, and made a laughing-stock and held up to the scorn of all my companions by this fair-faced country-girl, I must even make the most of my time, and bind Mayenne to his promises by ties that he cannot shake off. Thanks, then, good Bartholo, for your advice; I will be back before dawn to-morrow, and will reward you better than by thanks. In the meantime, keep a wary eye on all that is going forward here; and, both for ancient love, and for future advancement, bring me, as often as may be, a hint of other men's doings. And now, fare thee well--away to thy lord, lest he miss thee. But hark I there are the horses, and I go."

Thus saying, he threw on his hat and plume, cast a wrapping cloak round his shoulders to keep his apparel as much as possible from the dust; and, springing down the stairs, mounted his horse, which stood saddled at the door. Bartholo watched him, as making a sign for his usual train of attendants to follow, he struck his spurs into his charger's flank, and galloped away at full speed towards Paris. A grim smile hung upon the dwarf's lips as he saw him depart, and muttering--"Ay, there he goes! to seek an unwilling bride, and for pure vanity to marry, neither loving nor beloved: but it matters not--my end is gained!"--he turned back towards the abode of St. Real.

In the mean time, D'Aubin galloped on hastily, giving the word as he passed any of the posts of the royal army, till at length, having got beyond the precincts of his own camp, he was challenged by the outmost sentinel of the League. Occupied with other thoughts, and giving way to the vehement impatience of his nature, the Count spurred on without reply; and the man, presenting his matchlock, fired without further ceremony. The ball whistled past D'Aubin's head; but, merely shaking his clenched hand at the sentinel, he pursued his rapid way, till at length he was encountered by a body of Mayenne's horse, who again challenged him, and obliged him to display his pass. More than once, ere he was permitted to enter the town, the same ceremony was observed; and, what between one delay and another, the evening sky grew deep purple, and then faded into grey, as he rode along, at a more cautious pace, through the streets of the capital.

Directing his course by the shortest way, he passed through many of the narrow gloomy lanes of the Faubourg, and, crossing one of the bridges which joined the island in the middle of the Seine to the shore, he plunged in amongst that dingy accumulation of tall, dark, small-windowed houses, which lie behind the great cathedral of Notre Dame. In these streets, at the hour of which we speak, the twilight, which would have still been seen in the open country, existed not; and all was darkness, except where, here and there, citizens returning from their shops to their dwelling-houses, or persons of a higher class going on some expedition of pleasure or business, were seen finding their way along, preceded by a lantern or a torch; and also where, before the hotel of some of the old nobles of the court, who still lingered in that quarter, were to be seen a few torches fixed in sockets at the door. It was to none of these more lordly dwellings, however, that D'Aubin took his way; but, at a door which stood open in a tall, unlighted, gloomy-looking house; he sprang to the ground, and after giving his servants directions to take up their temporary abode in an inn, where he should find them in case of necessity, and some money wherewithal to provide themselves their evening meal, he entered the house, followed by his page and one armed attendant, and began mounting, in utter darkness, the long, steep, narrow stair.

At the second story D'Aubin stopped, and by the little light that found its way from a lamp through a small lattice upon the staircase, he struck several hard blows with the hilt of his dagger against a massive unshapely oaken door, which stood on one side of the landing-place. Immediately after, a sound was heard within, and, the door opening, the Count was admitted, shading his eyes from the sudden glare of light, into a small ante-room or vestibule, where, stretched on benches or settles, were ten or eleven stout attendants, together with one of those large sort of vehicles which we are accustomed to call sedan-chairs, wherein the ladies of Paris were very much accustomed, at that time, to go from house to house, and one of which we have already described.

The person who opened the door was a trim-looking serving-man, dressed somewhat in the garb of an inferior burgher of the town; and, conducted by this personage, D'Aubin was led on, leaving his groom behind him, but followed by the page. The next chamber into which he was led presented a different aspect, being a small octagon room, with the ceiling of black oak exquisitely carved, the walls beautifully painted and gilt, and the furniture as rich and elegant as the art and taste of that day could produce.