The Man-at-Arms; or, Henry De Cerons. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

"No," I replied, with a smile at the sort of horror that came over the man's countenance at the very idea of visiting a Huguenot in Paris. "No, Monsieur Arnon, he is a Catholic, and a great merchant who has money of mine in his hands."

"Oh, then the case is very different," replied Arnon. "We will inquire after him immediately." And, entering a large goldsmith's house by the door close to the shop, he asked for Martin Vern the merchant.

We had now no difficulty in finding the dwelling, which was up a flight of steps, and the goods were not exposed in the streets, as among the ordinary shopkeepers, but spread out in rooms within doors. Neither good Martin Vern, however, nor his son was to be found at home; and I left a message, under the name of Des Bois, asking to see one or both of them at the chateau at Champigny.

Although by this time the days had lengthened, and we were in the height of summer, it was now time that we should turn our steps homeward, as the distance we had to go was nearly four leagues; and during the whole of the following day I waited in anxious expectation for the appearance of one of the two merchants. No one came, however, and another and another day succeeded, during which I scarcely stirred out, and left directions for finding me whenever I did so. At the end of the third day my patience became quite exhausted, and on the following morning I begged Arnon to send off one of the prince's servants, who knew the capital well, to ask why Master Martin Vern had not been to Champigny. Arnon did as I directed immediately; and, on bearing me the answer, which was, that neither Martin Vern nor his nephew had yet returned from Blois, where they had gone to attend upon the king, added, in order to put my mind at rest upon the subject which he thought troubled me, that I might make myself quite easy about the money; for that, having made inquiries, he found that the house of Martin Vern was one of the most wealthy and respectable in Paris.

I could not help exclaiming, "Pshaw! it is not the money, my good friend." And it was evident, from that moment, that Arnon's curiosity was not a little excited to find out what it could be that I sought with the merchants, if it was not the money that they owed me. My determination, however, was now taken to seek the house of the Baron de Blancford myself; but not all my efforts could discover it, and it was equally in vain that I attempted to discover the abode of Solomon Ahar: that he was going to lodge at the house of his cousin Levi I knew; but his cousin Levi was not to be discovered; and, on making inquiries concerning him, I was always met by a demand of "Levi who?" there being a thousand in Paris of the name of Levi, but all with some surname attached.

In the mean time, the news that daily came in from the scene of the war was anything but such as to give me gratification. The feeble attack on Poitiers by the Protestants; the gallant defence of the young Duke of Guise; the siege of St. Jean d'Angely; the death of poor Martigue, whom I could not help regretting; the fatal battle of Moncontour, which, although the defeat of the Protestants was as complete, and the success of the Catholics as surprising as well need be, was magnified in Paris in a very great degree; all these things grieved and pained me, while week after week went by in fruitless inquiries; and at length, with that sort of scorn of one's self, which is a true part of misanthropy, for giving a moment's credit to the Jew's professions of gratitude, I sat me down in bitterness of spirit, and tried to fancy that I hated the whole human race.

The autumn of the year was now approaching; there could be little or no doubt that, during the ensuing winter, the young Lord of Blaye would be free to return to Paris, and pursue the project of marriage which was held out to him; and the thoughts of poor Louise, and the privations to which she would be subjected, tormented me like an army of fiends, and re-enforced themselves by every power of imagination.

The news that St. Jean d'Angely had been recaptured by the Protestants, and that the Prince d'Auvergne, who had held it out for some time against them, had been forced to capitulate for want of supplies, had reached us some days, when, as I was sitting one night in the cabinet at Champigny, I heard the clattering of horses' feet in the courtyard below; and in a moment after, to my great astonishment, the prince himself entered the room. He embraced me kindly; and, after a few minutes' conversation upon general things, remarked that I neither looked well nor happy.

"Come," he said, "De Cerons, tell me what is the cause of this. I think by this time you might fully confide in your friend."

Before I could answer, one of his officers had entered for some directions; and, while he gave them, I made up my mind to unbosom my whole thoughts to him. In the course of the evening I accordingly did so; and, as was much the character, both of his father and himself, he heard me fully out with scarcely any observation or reply.