“It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “to poison thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remember, thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light—out of a very chaos the most unwavering order; and does He not do so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge thee to quit France till order is restored, and our gracious sovereign’s last words remembered and acted upon. Italian blood is hot and eager to avenge; but fear not, we shall meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the few moments still left my poor child!”
Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Montgomeri folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and promised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed him.
“And wilt thou indeed do this?” she rejoined, imploringly. “Oh, bless thee for such promise! Yet I fear thee, Montgomeri. And when apart from me, and these troubled thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not your own life alone which you risk; that one is bound up in it which cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile when the oak has fallen? And as the oak is to the lowly yet clinging ivy, so art thou to me.”
Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which had increased with each day that brought the hour of parting nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been, still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length caused her head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with such a burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, and tenderly he conjured her to reveal its cause.
“I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of the woman whom thou lovest; but scorn it not, upbraid it not, bid it go from me! Is there not woe enough in parting, that before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shapeless darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling, save that we shall not meet as we have parted?”
“Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it not; ’tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the frame is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me—”
He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading by a private passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were suddenly drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted on her features.
“This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would apologize for our intrusion,” she said, turning towards the Count de Montemar; “our business is too weighty for an indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges,” she added, addressing him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s courtly words, “tarry not another night in Paris; you have been unwise to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, no marvel. Fly at once; put the broad seas between you and France, and there may be happiness in store for you yet. Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for Montgomeri’s, I am here: do not look upon me thus.”
“Now must we part—now? Your highness means not now!” exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed round the count’s arm. “What has he done that he should fly?”
“Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may be but wrung from woman’s agony, for the grief of Catherine de Medicis is of no softening nature; yet ought Montgomeri to leave Paris without delay, for there may be some to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate. Detain him not, Idalie; we shall visit Scotland perchance ere long, and there no grief shall damp a bridal.”