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

by G. P. R. James

"And do you tell me that you speak thus from mere guess?" demanded St. Real. "No, no, my boy! You have some other knowledge; and you must give me an answer how it was obtained."

"Indeed, my lord," answered the youth, starting up and laughing "I am tired, sleepy, and thirsty, with looking for you all the morning, and singing you two songs at night. So, by your leave, I will e'en go to bed and sleep; and I dare say before to-morrow morning I shall be able to make an answer, for I have not one ready made; and even if my wit should run low, I will away by cock-crow to the nearest fripier, and buy me an answer second-hand. One often finds one as good as new that has served twenty people before;" and seeing St. Real about to speak again with a serious brow, he ended with a gay laugh, and darted out of the room.

A momentary feeling of anger passed through St. Real's breast, and he half rose in his chair, determined to call the boy back and make him explain distinctly what was the meaning of the allusions he had made, how he had obtained his information, and to what length it extended. Brief reflection, however, caused him to pause and change his purpose; thinking that it would be better to take time to regulate his own thoughts, and command his own feelings, ere he questioned his page upon subjects so likely to awaken and expose deep emotions in himself. Casting himself back into his seat again, he revolved all that had just passed; and his mind, reverting to everything that was painful and distressing in his situation, fell into one of those sad and melancholy dreams which must have visited almost every one at some time of life, when the bright and brilliant prospects of youth are suddenly obscured by the dark and lowering clouds which precede the first storms of life.

However painful may be this mode of mind,--however desirous we may be of escaping from it,--however sensibly we may feel that the only relief we can hope is to be found in activity, occupation, and resistance; yet there is a benumbing influence in that peculiar state of grief and disappointment, which, like the fabled fascination of the serpent in regard to the birds it seeks to devour, prevents us from employing the only means of delivering ourselves. St. Real knew as well as any one, that the occupation of his thoughts upon other subjects was the only relief he could hope for; but still he lingered on from hour to hour, no sooner attempting to turn his mind to other things, than falling back again into the same desponding memories of all that he cast away when he resigned the hope of ever seeing Eugenie de Menancourt again. Ere he was aware of it--for deep grief, like intense happiness, "takes no note of time"--the grey daylight of the early summer dawn began to pour through the open window. All had been long quiet in the town, the inns and cabarets had long been closed, and not a sound had for some time stirred in the auberge where he had taken up his quarters. But at length his reverie was broken by the distant sound of horses' feet; and, rising from his seat, he almost mechanically proceeded to the window, and gazed out up and down the road. At first no one was visible, except a small group of guards at the gates of the Maison de Gondi, in which King Henry III. had fixed hie abode, and though they were apparently speaking together, the tones they used were so low that not even the murmur of their voices reached St. Real's ear through the still, calm silence of the early morning. The next moment, however, the sound of coming horse became suddenly more distinct, as, turning the corner of the road from Meudon, a party of five cavaliers galloped into the village. St. Real fixed his eyes upon them as they advanced, and instantly recognised in their leader Henry of Navarre.

The guards at the gate of the Maison de Gondi seemed, from the bustle created amongst them, not only to see the party, but to recognise the cousin of their monarch. The tidings of his arrival appeared to be passed on into the court; and the moment after, the soldiers and officers of the Scottish guard came pouring forth without any symptoms of their usual discipline and orderly demeanour. The King of Navarre perceived their approach; and nearly opposite to the window at which St. Real stood drew up his horse, which hitherto had proceeded at full gallop. Several of the officers of the guard instantly rushed forward, and cast themselves upon one knee at the stirrup of the monarch, exclaiming, "Oh, sire! you are our king and our master!" and, at the same moment, one or two voices from the crowd pronounced, for the first time, the often repeated words, "Vive Henry Quatre!"

The king sprang to the ground, affected even to tears, exclaiming in a tone of unfeigned regret, "Alas, alas! is he then really dead?" Walking rapidly forward, he proceeded towards the royal headquarters, and entered the Maison de Gondi; and the news of Henry III.'s death proceeded rapidly through the town. Every house began soon to pour forth its inhabitants; and ere the sun was well risen, all was bustle, and agitation, and confusion.

Although a feeling of reverence for that fearful thing, death, and the awe which an event of such magnitude might well inspire, repressed much of the noise which otherwise would have been heard: and though the eager consultations and busy rumours were carried on in no louder tone than a whisper, still it was evident, from every symptom displayed by the multitudes which now thronged the streets of St. Cloud, that the ties which linked society together were broken, that the foundations were shaken, and that not only the fabric of the royal army, but even of the French monarchy itself, was wavering as if to fall.

After gazing out for a few minutes upon the scene below, with the feelings of a mere spectator, St. Real remembered that he himself had a part to act; and as the auberge, in common with all the other houses of the town, was by this time roused, he called for his attendants, and despatched a messenger to his cousin, intimating his wish to speak with him immediately. Then casting on his cloak, he went forth into the street; and entering into conversation with some of the inferior officers of the troops, he tried to gain some insight into the various feelings and motives by which the lower ranks of the royal army were actuated; and, wherever he found it possible, endeavoured to give a bias to the wavering and undetermined in favour of that conduct which could alone save the monarchy and the country.

To every one whom he addressed St. Real was a stranger; and though his dress was such as became his station, yet his rank and character being unknown, it was not at all improbable that he would have met with insolence, if not violence, had there not been in his whole demeanour that mingling of frankness and dignity, of sincerity and of grace, which went far, not only to win and to persuade, but to command attention and respect. While he was thus engaged, the attendant whom he had despatched to his cousin returned, and informed him that the Count d'Aubin had gone up to the royal quarters; and, almost at the same moment, a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning round, he beheld Monsieur de Sancy.

"A moment's conversation with you, Monsieur de St. Real," he said, leading the way towards the auberge. St. Real instantly followed, and on entering, conducted the old officer to his own apartments.