Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

"Oh! I will tell you by and by," replied the Marchioness, who was anxious to have a little time to arrange her plans, and to think over the turn that she should give to all that had just taken place. "The story is too good to be spoilt by relating bits of it; and the hour appointed for the funeral is already past--hark! there is the bell. All the people must be waiting in the hall; and we must go and put poor old Michael in the vault, before we can talk of other things."

The Count suffered her to lead the way to that large hall in the Château of Marzay, into which we first introduced the reader, when we brought him to the house. There several of the principal members of the household were assembled, under the guidance and direction of the Count's major domo; and they had already begun, with the assistance of the good priest of the village, to discuss some of the savoury pasties, and rich old wines, which were spread out upon a table in the midst of the room.

The worthy curé; looked somewhat mortified at the early arrival of the two mourners, if we may so term the Count and his sister, for he had got his plate loaded with a fresh supply of viands, and it was understood that their appearance was to be the signal for beginning the ceremony. Monsieur de Liancourt, however, courteously pressed him to go on, and having a capacious mouth, and ready hand, the priest brought his meal to a speedy conclusion. It may be a curious question, whether the situation of that country is most unfortunate, where the poverty of the clergy renders their appetites easy panders to corruption; or that where their wealth tends to make them the slaves of their own passions. To say the truth, it was a relief to the Count to see the curé eat, for Monsieur de Liancourt's mind, more impressible than that of his sister, shrunk from the solemn scene he was about to witness. He felt higher and less worldly thoughts, which he dreaded and disliked, crowding upon him against his will; and certainly the very mundane appetite of the Priest, though it formed a strange contrast with the functions he was about to exercise, was well calculated to deprive the ceremony of part of its gloomy solemnity, as, indeed, is the case with all eating and drinking on such sad occasions.

The moment he had done, the worthy man started up, wiped his knife, and put it in its case. Then turning to Monsieur de Liancourt, he said, "Give me three minutes, Sir, to get everything in order in the chapel, for as Monsieur de la Tremblade is ill, probably no preparations are made."

"How is he?" asked Monsieur de Liancourt; "have you seen him, father?"

Before the curé could answer, Madame de Chazeul's servant, Martin, who stood behind her, stepped forward, saying, "He is still asleep, Sir, and begged particularly not to be roused till he awoke himself."

"Ay, let him sleep," said Madame de Chazeul, in a low and gloomy tone. "He will have sorrow enough, poor man, when he awakes."

The Count looked at her in surprise; but she nodded her head significantly; and the priest quitting the hall, hurried on to the chapel.

The Count and his sister followed soon after, and the ceremonies of the interment began. Impressive and terrible as they always are, perhaps the peculiar forms and pomp of the Roman Church, add more to them than to any other of the rites of religion. The Count felt them much; the tears rose in his eyes, when he thought of his brother, the companion of his boyhood, scarcely more than a year younger than himself, who had passed through life in friendship and affection with him, but had gone down to the grave in indignation and just displeasure at his acts. He asked himself, too, how long it might be, ere that vault, which now yawned in the midst of the chapel--with the stone which marked its place, and bore the name and arms of De Liancourt lying by the side of the gaping chasm,--would open for him also; and he shrunk with dread from the sad answer. A few short hours--a few short days--it could not be longer than a few short years; and then, the dust to dust, and the spirit to God who gave it! Next came the--what then? The terrible, what then? The dread account--the secrets of the heart laid open--the judgment, the stern, the irreversible, the unalterable decree, the doom for all eternity!

He wished it was over; he loved not such thoughts: he felt his soul shaken within him. But the Roman Catholic Church affords so many passages for escape from all those dark but gloomy convictions, which the tomb and its awful lessons are calculated to produce upon the mind of him who looks alone to Scripture for his guide--purgatory, absolution by the lips of men as frail as ourselves, indulgences, the intercession of saints, the masses for the dead--that Monsieur de Liancourt soon found means of consolation. He looked to the confessional. He thought that there he would find relief from the burden. He vowed a hundred masses for his brother's soul; he determined that he would dedicate a lamp to the virgin; and give a candlestick to the altar of our Lady of Chartres; and half his sins and errors vanished from his sight, when he remembered how easily the past and the future might be atoned for.