Thus argued hope; but on the other side fear, though in fewer words, spoke with a more powerful voice. "The priest had asserted that the report had undoubtedly arrived. Would he venture to do so, after the solemn adjuration she addressed to him, if he were not himself convinced that what he said was true? Then, too, the pains he had taken to prepare her mind for the tidings, showed care and consideration for her; and, if the language he had used in so doing, were but the preface to a falsehood, it must be blasphemous trifling indeed. She suffered memory to run back over all the events lately passed; she considered his conduct, she asked herself if he had ever been guilty of deliberate falsehood? The answer was, no. He had suffered others to do so; but he had not done it himself. Without telling the exact truth, he had not uttered actual untruth. With that species of art, which has acquired the name of a body of men famous for employing it in all their dealings, he had made truth serve the purposes of falsehood; and, by a jesuitical juggle, had countenanced things that he knew to be untrue, without leaving those he deceived any means of convicting him of a lie. But now he had boldly and straightforwardly said, that the intelligence had certainly arrived. There was no evading that, she thought; it must either be true or false. She recollected, too, the fierce anger which De Montigni had displayed when first made prisoner by Nemours, and the words and glances which had passed between them in regard to herself. Might not such a scene, she inquired, have been renewed, when her lover found that she had been actually sent back without even being permitted another interview with him? Might he not have used such language as would compel a prince of fiery courage like Nemours to wave the privileges of his rank, and meet him as had been reported. Nemours was known to be daring, chivalrous, and of a character to carry the point of honour to excess; and if they met, was not the result reported to her, likely to take place."
Thus argued fear; and between his voice and that of hope, her mind was left in that painful uncertainty, which is more wearing and agitating to the human frame, than even grief itself. She was still busy with these thoughts, when the door opened and the maid looked in; but Rose waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming, "leave me, leave me, I do not want you. You can go to bed."
The very sight of Blanchette, however, brought back to her mind all the arts that had been practised upon her before, and made her once more hope that this sad intelligence might be part of a similar plan. "I will retire to bed;" she thought, "in the darkness and stillness of the night, I can think over these things more quietly than now. The sight of that girl is hateful to me. I will shut her out," but when she looked round, she found that the lock of the door between her room and the ante-chamber, had been removed.
"Ha!" she said, "am I to have no privacy? This is hard, indeed;" and, sitting down, she wept, feeling that she was left alone to struggle with all the arts and machinations of a number, amongst whom she had no friend. Rising again, after a moment, she wiped away the tears, murmuring to herself, "but they shall not conquer me. Even if he whom I love be gone, and have left me in this cold-hearted world alone, I can die and follow him; but I will never be the wife of that base and hateful man, let the result be whatever it may." Thus saying, she undressed without assistance, and retired to bed. But, for poor Rose d'Albret, it was no couch of repose. The thorns of the pillow--busy care, and sharp apprehension and bitter grief--banished all sleep from her eyes; and hour after hour she lay turning in her mind the same heavy thoughts which had burdened her since the visit of the priest and Madame de Chazeul.
Daylight returned, at length; and, raising herself upon her arm, she gazed round, as the faint grey stream of early morning poured through the window, and showed the various objects in the room. Then came a warmer tint, as the sun actually rose, and with it some of the thoughts which usually accompany the rising day. How beautiful is the revival of nature from her dark slumber in the arms of night! what an image of the dawning of eternal life to the emancipated spirit after the shadow of the grave! How good, how great, how wise, is the Almighty Author of all, who plants in the seasons, and in the elements, in the changes of the world, and in all the revolutions of nature, the signs and symbols of his beneficence and his power, with promises of love and blessing and protection! There was consolation even in the pale beams of morning; but then came back the sad thought, the bitter unanswerable question, to the mind of Rose d'Albret--"Do the eyes of Louis de Montigni see, like mine, the return of dawning day, or are they closed for ever in the tomb?" And rising from her bed she knelt, and prayed, and wept, till the increasing sounds in the house told her, that her oppressors were once more waking into active life, and that she must prepare her mind to suffer and resist.
Oh, how most painful of all the many grievous tasks of life, is that of resistance! and yet it is the unceasing lot of humanity; for this is all a battle field, and at every point--within and without, against ourselves and others, against circumstances, temptations, cares, griefs, fears, pleasures, successes, triumphs, vanity, hope, expectation, pride, disappointment, opposition, regret, and despair; against man and fiends--it is all resistance; and he who would ultimately win the garland of victory, must be armed and awake at every moment of existence. From the moment when the foot of Adam first trod the garden, until the now in which we stand against the foe, the conflict has gone on; and happy are they who do resist.
Yet 'tis a weary and a terrible task, especially for those who buckle on their armour for the first time; and poor Rose d'Albret felt her heart sink as she prepared herself for it. But still, the thought of him she loved, and her repugnance to the man who would have injured him, nerved her for the effort; and again and again, she repeated, "They shall never move me! My voice must speak the falsehood, my own hand must sign my folly, my own heart must prove the traitor, ere they can conquer."
Her knowledge, too, of those with whom she had to deal, was not a little serviceable in guarding her against all arts. That knowledge had come slowly, not by study or inquiry, but sinking in daily into her mind, as act after act, and word after word, developed the characters of the persons who now surrounded her.
"If they have doubts of De Montigni's fate," she argued, "they will urge me to this abhorred marriage with Chazeul at once and immediately; they will give me no time--they may even try threats, and violence, and force. If they have no doubt they will be less importunate; they will allow me to deliberate, to mourn. But, good heaven, if they try force, what shall I do?--It matters not, I will die first. But, by their course, I shall know whether the tale be true or false; and if from their urgency I judge that it is false, I shall gain strength from hope, and courage even from their cruelty. Poor Helen de la Tremblade! They cannot make me as thou art--they cannot add self-reproach to all I suffer, but by my own fault. Would that I had not promised, never to tell her tale, till she herself thought fit. I might perhaps find a friend, if I could do so, in the only one who could well befriend me. She knew not how much her story might serve me now; and I little thought that I should long to tell it for my own safety, rather than for her comfort. But hark, there are people speaking near! I will be dressed and prepared to meet them when they come hither. Blanchette," she continued aloud, "Blanchette!"
The girl made her call several times, and then appeared with a dull and sullen countenance; and Rose proceeding with her toilet, exchanged but few words with one whom she had never either loved or esteemed, and now despised.