"Thank God, I am once more at liberty; but the brightness of that blessing, great as it is under any circumstances, would be nearly all tarnished and lost if I had not the hope that you would share it with me. I am now some way on the road to Poitou, where I hear that the most horrible and aggravated barbarities are daily being committed upon my fellow Protestants. My conduct there must be determined by circumstances; but I will own that my blood boils at the butchery and persecution I hear of. I remember the dear and cheering promises you have made--I remember the willingness and the joyfulness with which those promises were made, and that recollection renders it not madness,--renders it not selfishness to say to you, Come to me, my Clémence, come to me as speedily as possible; come and decide for me, when perhaps I may not have calmness to decide for myself! Come, and let us unite our fate for ever, and so far acquire the power of setting the will of the world at defiance. Were it possible, I would trust entirely to your love and your promises, in the hope that you would suffer the bearer of this, most faithful and devoted as he has shown himself to be, to guide you to me; but I fear that the little time he dare stay in Paris would render it impossible for you to make your escape with him. Should this, as I fear, be the case, write to me, if it be but a few lines, to tell me how I can assist or aid you in your escape, and when it can be made. Adieu! Heaven bless and guard you."
Before he had concluded Riquet had again appeared, telling him that he was ready to set out, and taking the somewhat useless precaution to seal his letter, the Count gave it into his hands, and saw him depart.
It was now about five o'clock in the evening; and as he knew that many a weary and expectant hour must pass before the man could return, the Count conferred with all the various attendants who had been collected at Angerville, and found that the account which Riquet had given him of the state of Poitou was confirmed in every respect. Each had some tale of horror or of cruelty. Paul Virlay, however, whom he had asked for more than once, did not appear; and it was discovered on inquiry that he had not even remained at Angerville, but with the cold and sullen sort of despair that had fallen upon him had ridden on, now that he judged the Count was in safety.
After a time the young nobleman, anxious for some repose both of mind and of body, cast himself upon a bed, in the hope of obtaining sleep; but it visited not his eyelids; dark and horrible and agitating visions peopled the hours of darkness, though slumber had no share in calling them up. At length, full two hours before he had expected that Riquet could return, the sound of a horse's feet, coming at a rapid pace, struck the Count's ear, as he lay and listened to the howling of the November wind; and, starting up, he went to the window of the room and gazed out. It was a clear night, with the moon up, though there were some occasional clouds floating quickly over the sky, and he clearly saw that the horseman was Riquet, and alone. Proceeding into the other room where he had left a light, he hastened down to meet him, asking whether he had obtained an answer.
"I have, Sir," replied the man; "though I saw not the fair lady herself: yet Maria, the waiting woman, brought it in no long time. There it is;" and drawing it from his pocket, he gave it into the Count's hand. Albert of Morseiul hastened back with the letter, and tore it eagerly open; but what were the words that his eyes saw?
"Cruel and unkind," it began, "and must I not add--alas, must I not add even to the man that I love--ungenerous and ungrateful? What would I not have sacrificed, what would I not have done, rather than that this should have occurred, and that the first use you make of your liberty should be to fly to wage actual war against the crown! How shall I dare look up? I, who for weeks have been pleading that no such thought would ever enter into your noble and loyal nature. No, Albert, I cannot follow the messenger you send; or, to use the more true and straight-forward word, I will not; and never by my presence with you, however much I may still love you, will I countenance the acts to which you are now hurrying."
It was signed "Clémence;" but it fell from the Count's hand ere his eye had reached that word, and he gazed at it fixedly as it lay upon the ground for several moments, without attempting to raise it; then, turning with a sudden start to Riquet and another servant who stood by, as if for orders, he exclaimed--"To horse!"
CHAPTER VI.
[THE PASTOR'S PRISON.]
The pillow of Clémence de Marly was wet with her tears, and sleep had not visited her eyes, when a quick knocking was heard at her door, and she demanded timidly who was there.