CHAPTER XLVII.
THE PALACE.
The Duke's garde du corps of horse, consisting of a hundred Lorraine troopers, who wore white hocquetons over their cuirasses, with a regiment of German imperial infantry, clad in buff coats, with black helmets of hammered iron, occupied the gates, approaches, and lower apartments of the palace in which they had been quartered, so that the people of Nanci might be as little as possible oppressed by their presence.
The princely residence of the Dukes of Lorraine stands in the oldest portion of the city. It has a magnificent entrance, within which was a vestibule, lined by lacqueys, guards, and pages. From thence, we passed into a noble quadrangle, encircled by a piazza, the columns and arches of which are covered by florid carving, and embellished by many statues and bassi-rilievi. It has also several towers, one of which served for an arsenal and magazine of arms; the others were staircases. It has gardens of great space and beauty, enclosed on one side by the ramparts of the city. Surrounded by my escort and a crowd of staring lacqueys and pages, I remained in the guard-chamber of the palace, oblivious and heedless alike of their impertinence, and the peculiarity of my position, occupied by one overwhelming thought, until I was roused by a sub-brigadier of the gendarmerie, who rode in, with an order from Monseigneur the Prince of Vaudemont, who had just been accidentally informed of my capture, to conduct me to a proper apartment, where every comfort and attention should be given me; that my escort were to retire, and that I should consider myself as a prisoner on parole of honour.
I thanked the sub-brigadier, and bade the sergeant, Alsfeldt, adieu, giving him a crown of the sun to drink my health with his comrades. I was then led by a valet-de-chambre up one of the staircases to a portion of the palace that overlooked the gardens, and there three apartments, each of which might have satisfied a marechal of France, were assigned to me. The valet gave me every means of repairing or improving my toilet, which a night spent in the custody of the musketeers, and especially some cuts and slashes received in my late encounter with Vaudemont, had somewhat deranged.
My sitting-room was lofty, and had three casemated windows filled with painted glass; its walls were hung with dark-green velvet, starred with gilded mullets. An oak cabinet, bearing a service of plate and shining crystal, stood at One end, and above it hung a Madonna of Raphael. On the white marble mantelpiece was carved the celebrated device of the Guises, an A within an O—chacun A son tour—meaning that every angle had its turning.
I seated myself by the table at an open window, with my head resting on my hand, seeking to arrange my thoughts, and to recover from the astonishment, the sorrow, and disappointment which oppressed me.
The soft breeze of noon fanned my brow and cheek, which were flushed and hot. It brought to me the perfume of flowers and the fragrance of the orangeries. The gardens were beautiful with a thousand varied flowers; the sunshine was bright and warm; the summer day in Lorraine was ambient and glorious; but my heart was full of bitterness and heavy grief—bitterness for my humiliating position, and grief for the loss of Nicola—for I justly deemed that I had lost her for ever.
The anguish of my disappointment was great; that this artful little beauty should have fooled me, and trifled with a love so honest and so true, so honourable and so pure as mine; for I loved, and in the rash blindness of my boyish love would have married her, when I believed her to be but a nameless and penniless soubrette, and thus, for her sake, would have trampled under foot all the inborn prejudice of race and name, all that family pride and tradition which were ever the second creed of a Scottish gentleman.
I could neither separate nor analyse all the fierce and bitter thoughts that grew up within me, but an overwhelming sense of deception and disappointment were uppermost; for in the brocaded lady, sparkling with jewels, with necklaces of diamonds and strings of pearls, mounted on a pawing steed of spotless white, surrounded by dukes and princes, guards, counts, and cavaliers—in Marie Louise of Lorraine, I could no longer realise Nicola, the gentle, timid, and loving Nicola, of my pleasant journey from Paris to the banks of the Meurthe—she with whom I had passed so strange a night among the rocks in the forest of Champagne.