Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

"By various ways," replied Madame de Chazeul. "First and above all, you must remove from this busy scene the man whom she fancies that she loves."

"Remove him!" exclaimed Chazeul; "I know not how. He is surrounded by people devoted to him. I should find some difficulty.--He is now in the hands of Nemours too, who would not suffer it. The Duke is scrupulous in such matters."

Such were the words of Chazeul. He expressed no surprise; he displayed no horror at the proposal; but in those days such thoughts were familiar to the minds of most men. In the preceding reign, private assassination had been one of the means of war, so often really committed by persons high in station and education, that rumour as usual exceeded the truth, and no death took place with circumstances at all out of the common course, without being attributed to the agency of man. The revenge of individuals, the malignity of faction, the policy of states, all took the same direction; and kings and princes prompted and paid for dark deeds of blood, as well as the corrupt minions of the court, and the vicious women with whom it was thronged. Each day some murder had stained the records of the country, and men had more cause to guard themselves against the covert enmity of the rival in ambition or in love, than against the open wrath of the acknowledged foe. So common, indeed, had such crimes become, that circumstances were supposed to justify, and custom to palliate them; and when they were discovered, no wonder or disgust was excited, and multitudes who had taken no part in the deed itself, were found to conceal, protect, and plead for the assassin. It was an age of crime.

Chazeul, then, and his mother discussed the means of removing De Montigni from their path, as calmly as if they had been laying out some party of pleasure; there was no hesitation, no repugnance, no tragic movings of remorse. The difficulties were all that were considered and how to obviate them. It was of everyday deeds and events they spoke, and they conversed over them in an every-day tone.

"I do not see," replied the Marchioness, "why that should prevent the business. His being in the hands of Nemours, but fastens him to one spot, where he can always be reached."

"But there will be guards and people about him," said Chazeul, "who would give him help. To accomplish it, we should need too many men, to be able to introduce them quietly."

"Too many men!" cried his mother with a laugh; "why, you soldiers always are thinking of violence, and swords, and daggers. You do not fancy, do you, that I would have recourse to means so rough? Out upon such coarse handy-work! One little cup of drink--one savoury ragout--will do the deed better than bullet or steel, and put you in possession of Liancourt as well as Marennes. But leave that to me, for you seem unskilful in such matters. You must have both; and your task must be with the girl--leave me the man. We must have no more trifling, Chazeul, or secrets may come out which it were well to hide till you have obtained all that you can desire. The girl must be yours before two days have past--did you not mark her words?"

"I marked many of them," replied Chazeul; "they were well worthy of notice.--But which do you mean?"

"Are you so dull?" asked his mother. "Did you not hear her say, that you had deceived others as well as herself? and did not your own mind read the comment?--Hark ye, boy! Did you ever see or know a person--a sweet tender, delicate creature, called Helen de la Tremblade?"

Chazeul's cheek grew pale and then red; not from remorse; not from shame; but from dread. It was dread, however, of only one human being. All the world might have been made aware of his baseness, without causing him a care or anxiety, if he could have kept it from his mother. But he knew her well, the dark and fiendish nature of her character, her remorseless seeking for her own ends, her vindictive hatred of all those who offended her, and the little regard she had for any tie, in pursuit of her own objects. Vanity, vice, and intemperate passions, had not yet altogether quenched every natural feeling in his heart; and some lingering affection for the unhappy girl he had injured, made him apprehensive for her, more than for himself. His mother might use the knowledge she had obtained, to drive him in the course she thought fit, or to frustrate his purposes if he opposed her, but she would do no more as far as he was concerned. The result to Helen, however, might be death, or worse than death; and, for a moment or two, he remained silent, considering how he should act.