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(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
2. Table of Contents added by transcriber.

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

VOL. II.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square

HENRY OF GUISE

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF
"THE ROBBER," "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL,"
ETC. ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1839.

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

All was bustle round the door of the little inn of Montigny; twenty or thirty horses employed the hands and attention of as many grooms and stable-boys; and while they put their heads together, and talked over the perfections or imperfections of the beasts they held, sixty or seventy respectable citizens, the great cloth merchant, and the wholesale dealer in millstones, the curé of the little town, the bailiff of the high-justiciary, the ironmonger, the grocer, and the butcher, stood in knots on the outside, discussing more important particulars than the appearance of the horses. The sign of the inn was the Croix de Lorraine, and the name of the Duke of Guise was frequently heard mingling in the conversation of the people round the door.

"A great pity," cries one, "that his Highness does not stay here the night."

"Some say that the King's troops are pursuing him," replied another.

"Sure enough he came at full speed," said a third; "but I heard his people talk about the reiters."

"Oh, we would protect him against the reiters," cried one of the bold citizens of Montigny.

"Well," said another, "if he be likely to bring the reiters upon us, I think his Highness very wise to go. How could we defend an open town? and he has not twenty men behind him."

"I will tell you something, my masters," said another, with an air of importance, and a low bow:--"When my boy was over towards Montreuil to-night, he heard a report of the reiters having been defeated near Gandelu."

"Oh, nonsense!" replied the courageous burgher; "who should defeat them if the Duke was not there?"

"But hark!" cried another, "I hear trumpets, as I live. Now, if these should be the King's troops we will defend the Duke at the peril of our lives. But let us look out and see."

"Come up to my windows," cried one.

"Go up the tower of the church," said the curé.

But another remarked that the sounds did not come from the side of Paris; and, in a minute or two after, a well-dressed citizen like themselves rode gaily in amongst them, jumped from his horse, threw up his cap in the air, and exclaimed, "Long life to the Duke of Guise! The reiters have been cut to pieces!"

"What is that you say, young man?" exclaimed a voice from one of the windows of the inn above; and looking up, the citizen saw a young and gay-looking man sitting in the open casement, and leaning out with his arm round the iron bar that ran up the centre.

"I said, my Lord," replied the man, "that the reiters have been cut to pieces, and I saw the troops that defeated them bring in the wounded and prisoners last night into La Ferté."

"Ventre bleu! This is news indeed," cried the other; and instantly turning, he quitted the window and advanced into the room.

While this conversation had been going on without, a quick conference had been going on between the personages whose horses were held without. The chamber in which they were assembled was an upstairs' room, with two beds in two several corners, and a table in the midst covered with a clean white table-cloth, and ornamented in the centre with a mustard-pot, a salt-seller, and a small bottle of vinegar, while four or five spoons were ranged around.

At the side of the table appeared the Duke of Guise, dining with as good an appetite off a large piece of unsalted boiled beef, as off any of the fine stews and salmis of his cook Maître Lanecque. Five or six other gentlemen were around, diligently employed in the same occupation; and one who had finished two bowls of soup at a place where they had previously stopped, now declaring that he had no appetite, had taken his seat in the window. The servants of the Duke and of his companions were at dinner below, and the landlord himself was excluded from the room, that dining and consultation might go on at the same time.

"It is most unfortunate," said the Duke of Guise, as soon as he had seated himself at the table, "it is most unfortunate that this youth has not kept his word with me. Our horses and men are both fatigued to death; and yet, after what happened the other day at Mareuil, it would be madness to remain here all night with only twenty horsemen."

"You have got timid, fair cousin," replied one of the gentlemen present. "We shall have you wrapping yourself up in a velvet gown, and setting up a conférrie, in imitation of our excellent, noble, and manly king."

The Duke w as habitually rash enough to be justified in laughing at the charge, and he replied, "It is on your account, my pretty cousin, that I fear the most. You know what the reiters have sworn to do with you, if they catch you."

"It is most unfortunate indeed," said an older and a graver man; "most unfortunate, that this Count de Logères should have deceived you. It might have been better, perhaps, to trust to some more tried and experienced friend."

"Oh, you do him wrong, Laval; you do him wrong," replied the Duke. "It is neither want of faith or good will, I can be sworn. Some accident, such as may happen to any of us, has detained him. I am very anxious about him, and somewhat reproach myself for having made him march with only half his numbers. Had his whole band been with him, he might have made head against the reiters, if he met with them. But now he has less than half their reputed number. Nevertheless," he continued, "his absence is, as you say, most unfortunate; for--with these Germans on our left, and the movements of Henry's Swiss upon our right--they might catch us as the Gascons do wild ducks, in the net, through the meshes of which we have been foolish enough to thrust our own heads. I pray thee, Brissac, go down to mine host of the house, and gather together some of the notable men of the place, to see if we cannot by any means purchase horses to carry us on. Who are you speaking to, Aumale?" he continued, raising his voice, and addressing the youth who sat in the window.

"Good news, good news!" cried the young man springing down, and coming forward into the room. "The reiters have been cut to pieces near Gandelu. There is a fellow below who has seen the victorious troops, and the wounded and the prisoners."

"My young falcon for a thousand crowns!" cried the Duke of Guise. "If that be the case, we shall soon hear more of him. Hark! are not those trumpets? Yet go out, Brissac; go out. We must not suffer ourselves to be surprised whatever we do. Aumale, have the horses ready. If they should prove the Swiss, we must march out at the one gate while they march in at the other."

But at that moment Brissac, who had run down at a word, and was by this time in the street, held up his hand to one of the others who was looking out of the window, exclaiming, "Crosses of Lorraine, crosses of Lorraine! A gallant body of some fifty spears; but all crosses of Lorraine.--Ay, and I can see the arms of Montsoreau and Logères! All is right, tell the Duke; all is right!" And thus saying he advanced along the street to meet the troops that were approaching.

The Duke of Guise, who had risen from the table, seated himself again quietly, drew a deep breath as a man relieved from some embarrassment, and filling the glass that stood beside him, half full of the good small wine of Beaugency, rested his head upon his hand, and remained in thought for several minutes.

While he remained in this meditative mood the sounds of the trumpets became louder and louder; the trampling of horses' feet were heard before the inn, and then was given, in a loud tone, the order to halt. Several of the companions of the Duke had gone down stairs to witness the arrival of the troops, and in a minute or two after, feet were heard coming up, and the Duke turned his head to welcome the young Count on his arrival. He was somewhat surprised, however, to see an old white-headed man, who had doffed his steel cap to enter the Duke's presence, come in between Brissac and Laval, and make him a low inclination of the head.

"Who are you, my good friend?" demanded the Duke. "And where is the young Count of Logères?"

"I know not, your Highness," replied the other. "I am the Count's seneschal, and expected to find him here. He set off four days ago with one half of his men, commanding me to join him at Montigny with the rest, as soon as their arms arrived from Rhetel. They came sooner than we expected, so I followed him the day after."

"Then is it to you, my worthy old friend," said the Duke, "that the country is obliged for the defeat of this band of marauders?"

"No, your Highness," replied the old man bluntly. "I have not had the good fortune to meet with any thing to defeat, though, indeed, we heard of something of the kind this morning as we passed by Grisolles."

"I hope the news is true," said the Duke; "I have heard of many a victory in my day, where it turned out that the victors were vanquished; and I hear that these reiters numbered from a hundred to a hundred and fifty men. How many had your Lord with him, good seneschal?"

"He had fifty-one men at arms," replied the old soldier, "besides some lackeys and a page; and some men leading horses with the baggage he could not do without."

"I shall not be easy till I hear more of him," said the Duke, walking up and down the room. "However, your coming, good seneschal, will enable us to make good this place against any force that may be brought against it. Quick, send me up the aubergiste. We must despatch some one to bring us in intelligence: and now, good seneschal, rest and refresh your horses, get your men some food, and have every thing ready to put foot in stirrup again at a moment's notice; for if we find that your Lord has fallen into the hands of these reiters, we must mount to deliver him. Let their numbers be what they may, Henry of Guise cannot make up his mind to leave a noble friend in the hands of the foemen."

"We are all ready this minute, my Lord," replied the old seneschal. "There is not a man of Logères who is not ready to ride forty miles, and fight two reiters this very night in defence of his Lord."

"The old cock's not behind the young one," said the Chevalier d'Aumale to Brissac. But the Duke of Guise overruled the zealous eagerness of the old soldier; and as soon as the aubergiste appeared, directed him to send off a boy in the direction of Montreuil and La Ferté, in order to gain intelligence of the movements of the Count de Logères, and to ascertain whether the report of the defeat of the reiters was correct or not. His own horses he ordered now to be unsaddled, and casting off his corselet, gave himself up to repose for the evening.

During the next hour, or hour and a half, manifold were the reports which reached the town concerning the conflict which had taken place between the Count of Logères and the reiters on the preceding evening. All sorts of stories were told: every peasant that brought in a basket of apples had his own version of the affair; and the accounts were the most opposite, as well as the most various. The Duke of Guise, however, was too much accustomed to sifting the various rumours of the day, not to be able to glean some true information from the midst of these conflicting statements. It seemed clear to him that the reiters had been defeated, and without having any very certain cause for his belief, he felt convinced that Charles of Montsoreau was already upon his way towards Montigny.

"Come," he added, after expressing these opinions to the Chevalier d'Aumale, "we must at least give our young champion a good meal on his arrival. See to it, Brissac; see to it. You, who are a connoisseur in such things, deal with our worthy landlord of the Cross, and see if he cannot procure something for supper more dainty than he gave us for dinner."

"The poor man was taken by surprise," replied Brissac; "but since he heard that you were to remain here, there has been such a cackling and screaming in the court-yard, and such a riot in the dovecote, that I doubt not all the luxuries of Montigny will be poured forth this night upon the table."

In less than an hour after this order was given, the arrival of fresh horses was heard; and Laval, who went to the window, announced, that as well as he could see through the increasing darkness, for it was now night, this new party consisted only of five or six persons. In a few minutes, however, the door was thrown open by the aubergiste, and Charles of Montsoreau himself appeared, dusty with the march, and with but few traces of triumph or satisfaction on his countenance.

"What, my young hero!" cried the Duke, rising and taking him by the hand; "you look as gloomy as if you had suffered a defeat, rather than gained a victory. Are the tidings which we have heard not true then, or are they exaggerated? If you have even brought off your forces safe from the reiters, that is a great thing, so overmatched as you were."

"It is not that, your Highness," replied Charles of Montsoreau: "the numbers were not very disproportionate, but the reiters have certainly suffered a complete rout, and I do not think that they will ever meet in a body again. They lost a good many men on the field, and I fear the peasantry have murdered all the wounded."

"So much the better," cried the Chevalier d'Aumale; "so much the better. One could have done nothing with them but hang them."

"I fear then," said the Duke of Guise, addressing the Count, "I fear then that your own loss has been severe by the gloominess of your countenance, Logères."

"There are a good many severely wounded, sir," replied the Count; "but very few killed. This, however, is not the cause of my vexation, which I must explain to your Highness alone. I have, however, to apologise to you for not being here last night, as I fully intended. I did not go to seek the reiters, but fell in with them accidentally, and after the skirmish I was forced to turn towards La Ferté instead of coming here, in order to get surgeons to my wounded men. I find, however, sir," he continued, "that my good old seneschal has made more speed than his master, and has arrived here with his band before me. I must go and take order for the comfort of my people, and prepare lodging for the rest who are coming up, for I rode on at all speed as soon as I met with the messenger whom you had sent out to seek me. After that I will return and crave a few minutes' audience of your Grace alone."

"Come back to supper, dear friend," replied the Duke; "we must let our gay friends now sup with us; but then we will drive them to their beds, and hold solitary council together, and be not long Logères, for you need both refreshment and repose."

When the young Count returned to the apartments of the Duke, after he had seen the rest of his troop arrive, and had taken every measure to secure the comfort of the men under his command, he found that Prince standing in one of the deep windows speaking in a low tone with the page Ignati, while his own officers were gathered together in the window on the other side.

The Duke instantly took him by the hand as he approached, and said in a low but kindly tone, "You see I have been questioning the spy I set upon you, Logères, and he has let me into a number of your secrets; but you must not be angry with him on that account, for Henry of Guise will not abuse the trust. Come, let us sit down to table, and we will afterwards find an opportunity of talking over all these affairs. You have acted nobly and gallantly, my young friend, and have served your country while you benefited me. For your brother's conduct you are not responsible: but I think this morning's events, if the boy speaks correctly, must bar your tongue from speaking his praises for the future."

"Indeed, my Lord," exclaimed the young Count, "my brother may----"

"Hush! hush!" cried the Duke. "There is nothing sits so ill upon the lips of a noble-hearted man as an excuse for bad actions, either in himself or others. It is false generosity, Charles of Montsoreau, to say the least of it. But let us to table. Come, Aumale. See! our good Aubergiste looks reproachfully at you for letting his fragrant ragouts grow cold. Come, we will to meat, gentlemen. Sit down, sit down, We will have no ceremony here at the Cross of Lorraine."

Thus saying, the Duke seated himself at table, and the rest took their places around. The supper proved better than had been expected, and wine and good appetites supplied the place of all deficiencies. The Chevalier d'Aumale indeed had every now and then a light jest at some of the various dishes: he declared that a certain capon had blunted his dagger, and asked Charles of Montsoreau whether it was not tougher than a veteran reiter. He declared that a matelote d'anguille which was placed before him, had a strong flavour of a hedge; but added, that as his own appetite was viperous, he must get through it as best he might. He was not without a profane jest either, upon a dish of pigeons; but though he addressed the greater part of these gaily to the young Count de Logères, he could hardly wring a smile from one who in former days would have laughed with the best, but whose heart was now anxiously occupied with many a bitter feeling.

Charles of Montsoreau was eager, too, that the meal should be over, for he longed for that private communication with the Duke which weighed upon his mind in anticipation. He felt that it would be difficult to exculpate his brother; and yet, in pursuance of his own high resolutions, he longed to do so: and then again he eagerly hoped that the powerful prince beside whom he sat would find some means of delivering Marie de Clairvaut from the hands into which she had fallen; and yet he feared, from all he heard and saw, that that deliverance might be difficult and remote.

Thus the banquet passed somewhat cheerlessly to him; and it was not very much enlivened by a little incident which happened towards the close of supper, when the landlord, who had come into the room followed by a man dressed in the garb of a surgeon, whispered something in the Duke's ear which called his attention immediately.

"How many did you say?" demanded the Duke.

"Only two at present, your Highness," replied the surgeon; "but three more sinking, I think."

"All in the same house?" said the Duke.

"No, my Lord, in different houses," replied the man; "but near the same spot."

"The only thing to be done," replied the Duke, "is to draw a barrier across the end of that street, and mark the houses with a white cross."

"What is the matter, your Highness?" said Laval, from the other end of the table.

"Oh, nothing," replied the Duke of Guise, "only a few cases of the plague; and because it was very bad last autumn at Morfontaine, the people here have got into a fright."

The Duke of Guise concluded his supper as lightly and gaily as if nothing had happened, for his mind had become so accustomed to deal with and to contemplate things of great moment, that they made not that impression upon him which they do upon those whose course is laid in a smoother and evener path.

Charles of Montsoreau, however, could not feel in the same way. "War and pestilence!" he thought, "bloodshed and death! These are the common every-day ideas of men in this unhappy country, now. Perhaps famine may be added some day soon, and yet there will be light laughter, and merriment, and jest. Well, let it be so. Why should we cast away enjoyment because it can but be small? Life is at best but made up of chequered visions: let us enjoy the bright ones while we may, and make the dark ones short if we can."

While he thus thought, the Duke of Guise whispered a word or two to the Count of Brissac, and that gentleman nodded to Laval. Shortly after, both rose; and, with an air of affected unwillingness, the Chevalier d'Aumale followed their example. The two or three other gentlemen who had partaken of the meal, but who either from inferior situation or natural taciturnity had mingled but little in the conversation, left the table at the same time, and accompanied the others out of the room, so that the Duke of Guise and the young Count were left alone.

[CHAP. II.]

The weak-minded and the vulgar are cowed by the aspect of high station; the humble in mind, and the moderate in talent, are subdued by high genius, and bend lowly to the majesty of mind; the powerful, the firm, and the elevated spring up to meet their like, and with them there is nothing earthly that can overawe but a consciousness of evil in themselves, or a sensation of abasement for those they love.

Such was the case with Charles of Montsoreau, who undoubtedly was a man of high and powerful mind. He was in his first youth, it is true; he had no great or intimate knowledge of the world, except that knowledge of the world which, in a few rare instances, comes as it were by intuition. He had been bred up from his youth in love and admiration for the princes of the House of Lorraine, and especially of Henry, Duke of Guise; and yet, when he had met him for the first time, and recognised him at once in the inn at Mareuil, he felt no diffidence--no alarm. Nor had this confidence in himself any thing whatsoever to do with conceit: he thought not of himself for a moment; he thought only of the Duke of Guise and his situation, and impulse guided by habit did the rest. Seeing that the Duke had assumed an inferior character, he treated him accordingly; and acting as nature dictated to him, he acted right.

Neither, at Rheims, when the Duke appeared surrounded by pomp and splendour, did the young nobleman feel differently. He paid every tribute of external reverence to the Prince's station and high renown; but he conferred with him upon equal terms, feeling that if in mind he was not absolutely equal to that great leader, he was competent to appreciate his character, and was not inferior to him in elevation of thought and purpose.

But now, how changed were all his feelings, when, sitting by one whom he venerated and respected--more than perhaps was deserved--he had to discuss with him the painful subject of a brother's errors, and torture imagination to find excuses which judgment would not ratify! He sat humiliated, and pained, and hesitating: he knew not what to say, and he felt that any thing he could say was vain.

For a few minutes after the rest of the party quitted the room, the Duke of Guise remained silent, sometimes gazing down, as was his habit, upon his clasped hands, sometimes raising his eyes for a single moment to the countenance of his young companion. He seemed to feel for him, indeed; and when he did speak, led the conversation to the subject gradually and delicately.

"Well, my dear Count," he said, "let us speak of this affair of the reiters. You made me as many excuses but now, for defeating our enemies, as if you had let them defeat you. Such gallant actions are easily pardoned, Logères; and if you but proceed to commit many such faults, Henry of Navarre and Henry of Guise had both need look to their renown. There was a third Henry once," he continued, half closing his eyes, and speaking with a sigh, as he thought of Henry III. and fair promises of his youth; "there was a third Henry once, who might perhaps have borne the meed of fame away from us both: but that light has gone out in the socket, and left nothing but an unsavory smell behind. However, there was no excuse needed, good friend, for cutting to pieces double your own number of German marauders."

"My excuse was not for that," replied the Count, calmly, "but your Highness directed me to go no farther than Montigny, and I went to La Ferté, on account of the wounded men."

"That is easily excused too," said the Duke. "But now give me your own account of the affair. The boy told me the story but imperfectly. How fell you in with the reiters at first?"

Charles of Montsoreau did as the Prince required, giving a full and minute, but modest, account of all that had taken place. But when he spoke of retreating up the river to the spot where the banks were deeper, and the stream more profound, Guise caught him by the hand, exclaiming eagerly, "Did you know that the banks were steeper? Did you see that they would guard your flank?"

"That was my object, my Lord," replied the young Count, somewhat surprised. "I noticed the nature of the ground as we charged them at first."

"Kneel down!" cried the Duke; "kneel down! Would to God that I were a Bayard for thy sake!--In the name of God, St. Michael and St. George, I dub thee knight;" and drawing his sword he struck him on the collar with the blade, adding with a smile, in which melancholy was blended with gaiety, "Perchance this may be the last chivalrous knighthood conferred in France. Indeed, as matters go, I think it will be: but if it should, I can but say that it never was won more nobly."

The young Count rose with sparkling eyes. The memory of the chivalrous ages was not yet obliterated by dust and lichens; the fire of a more enthusiastic epoch was not yet quite extinct; and he felt as if what had passed gave him greater strength to go through what was to come.

The Duke, however, relaxing soon into his former manner, made him a sign to proceed; and Charles of Montsoreau went on to detail the complete defeat and dispersion of the different bodies of reiters. He then began to hesitate again: but Guise was determined to hear all, and said, "But your brother; where did you find your brother? Be frank with me, Logères."

Thus pressed, the young Count went on to say, that he did not again meet with his brother till he found him in the market-place at La Ferté. "My brother," he continued, "having been driven by the party that pursued him beyond the carriage, and judging that I was coming up with a superior force, imagined that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and her attendants had fallen under my protection: but finding that such was not the case, he mounted his horse again, and proceeded to seek for her during the greater part of the night, while I did the same in another direction."

He was then hurrying on as fast as possible to speak of the following morning, but the Duke interrupted him, demanding, "There was a sharp dispute in the market-place, I think; was there not, Monsieur de Logères? Pray let me hear the particulars."

But Charles of Montsoreau, driven to the point, answered boldly and at once, "It was a dispute between two brothers, my Lord; in regard to which none but God and their own consciences can judge. You will therefore pardon me if I keep that which is private to my private bosom."

Guise gazed at him for a long--a very long time, with eyes full of deep feeling, and then replied, "By Heaven! you are one of the most extraordinary young men I ever met with. I know the whole, Monsieur de Logères; and the words there spoken let me into the secrets of your bosom which I wished to know. I now understand how to deal with you; and while I do my best to secure your happiness, trust to the Duke of Guise to avoid, as far as possible, any thing that is painful to you in the course. But go on; let me hear the rest."

"If you know all, my Lord," said Charles of Montsoreau, a good deal affected by the Duke's kindness, "will you not spare me the telling of that which must be painful to me?"

"I fear I must ask you to go on," replied the Duke. "What you have now to tell me is the most important part of all to me at the present moment, for by it must my conduct be regulated, in regard to the measures for rescuing our poor Marie from the hands of that----." He checked himself suddenly, and then added, "the King, in short. A single word may cause a difference in our view of the matter; and therefore I would fain hear you tell it, if you will do me that favour."

"All that I know, my Lord, I will tell," replied the Count; "but of my own knowledge I have little to tell, for the principal part of my information was derived from the boy with whom you have already spoken. All then that I personally know is, that, having slept long from great fatigue, I was roused by the boy in the morning; that he told me my brother was about to depart; and that, on descending, I found his report true. My brother was already on horseback, and his troop in the act of setting out; but he was accompanied by a gentleman whom I had never seen before, whose name is Colombel, and who, I found afterwards, is an officer in the service of the King."

"Oh yes," said the Duke of Guise; "I have heard him named; a person of no great repute, but some cunning."

"My conversation with my brother," continued the Count, "was not the most agreeable. On his side it was all taunts; but the only part of which it is needful to inform your Highness, was, that when I asked tidings of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, he would afford me no information, except that she was in safe hands. I am grieved, also, to be compelled to say that he told me, if I did not join you before he did, I should be long parted from you."

"We have lost an ally," replied the Duke; "but one which, to say sooth, I do not covet. If he be not treacherous, he is at best unsteady; but I cannot help fearing, Charles of Montsoreau, that your brother himself, apprehending that my regard for you might not suit his purposes, has had some share in suffering Marie to fall into the hands of Henry."

"Oh no, my Lord, oh no!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you do him wrong, believe me. My Lord, a few words will explain to you the cause of his conduct. He is possessed with a passion for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, so strong, so vehement, so intense, as to have a portion of madness in it,--a sufficient portion to make him cast away his former nature altogether, to hate his brother, to abandon his friends, to abjure all the thoughts and feelings of his youth, and to follow her still where-ever she goes, seeking to obtain her by means which the very blindness of his passion prevents him from seeing are those which must insure his losing her."

"This is the passion of a weak and unstable mind," said the Duke. "Love, my young friend, is in itself a grand and ennobling thing, leading us to do great actions for the esteem and approbation of her we love. The love of a bright woman," he added, "the love of a bright woman--I speak it with all due reverence," and he put his hand to his hat, "is the next finest sensation, the next grand mover in human actions, to the love of God. The object is undoubtedly inferior, but the course is the same, namely, the striving to do high and excellent things for the approbation of a being that we love and venerate. Alas that it should be so! but in this world I fear the love of woman is amongst us the strongest mover of the two: the other is so remote, so high, so pure, that our dull senses strain their wings in reaching it. The love of woman appeals to the earthly as well as to the heavenly part of man's nature, and consequently is heard more easily. Perhaps--and Heaven grant it!--that, as some of our fathers held, the one love may lead us on to the other, and the perishable be but a step to the immortal. However," he added, "such love as that which you say possesses your brother, will certainly never lead him on to any thing that is great, or high, or noble. Most certainly it will not lead him to the hand of Marie de Clairvaut as long as Henry of Guise can draw a sword. If he have not betrayed me, he has abandoned me; if he have not shown himself a coward, he has shown himself a weak defender of those intrusted to his charge; and under such circumstances, had he the wealth of either India and the power of Cæsar, he should never wed Marie de Clairvaut." He laid his hand upon the shoulder of Charles of Montsoreau, and he said, "You have heard my words, good friend; those words are irrevocable: and now knowing that your brother can never be really your rival, act as you will. I would fain have your confidence, Charles, but I will not wring it from you. This girl is beautiful and sweet and fascinating; and if I judge right, you love her not less but more nobly than your brother. Tell me, or tell me not as you will, but we all feel pleased with confidence."

"Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "how can I deny you my confidence when you load me with such proofs of your goodness? I do love Mademoiselle de Clairvaut as deeply, as intensely, as passionately, as my brother,--more, more a thousand fold than he or any body else, I believe, is capable of loving. I had some opportunities of rendering her services, and on one of those occasions I was betrayed into words and actions which I fancied must have made her acquainted with all my feelings. It was after that I discovered, my Lord, how madly my brother loved her: it was after that I discovered that the pursuit of my love must bring contention and destruction on my father's house. Had I believed that she loved me, nothing should have made me yield her to any one; for I had the prior claim, I had the prior right: but when I had reason to believe that she had not marked, and did not comprehend all the signs of my affection; when I felt that I could quit her without the appearance of trifling with her regard, though not without the continued misery of my own life, my determination was taken in a moment, and I determined to make the sacrifice, be the consequences what they might. Such, my Lord, is the simple truth; such is the only secret of all my actions."

The Duke of Guise bent down his eyes upon the ground with a smile, in the expression of which there was a degree of cynical bitterness. It was somewhat like one of the smiles of the Abbé de Boisguerin; but the Duke's words explained it at once, which the Abbé's never did.

"I fear, my young friend," he said, "that the science of women's hearts is a more difficult one than the science of war. You have learnt the one, it would seem, by intuition; in the other you are yet a novice. However, you shall pursue your own course, bearing with you the remembrance that I swear by my own honour--"

"Oh swear not, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "circumstances may change; she may love him; her love may alter him, and lead him back to noble things."

The Duke smiled again. "What I have said," he answered, "is as good as sworn. But have it your own way; I thank you for the confidence you have reposed in me. And now, to show you how I can return it, I have a task to put upon you, an adventure on which to send forth my new made knight. I do not think that Henry either will or dare refuse to give up to me my own relation and ward. The king and I are great friends, God wot! But still I must demand her, and somebody must take a journey to Paris for that purpose. To the capital, doubtless, they have conveyed her; and I trust, my good Logères, that you will not think it below your dignity and merit to seek and bring back a daughter of the House of Guise."

Charles of Montsoreau paused thoughtfully for a moment, ere he replied. All the difficulties and dangers to which he might be exposed, in acting against the views of the King of France, were to him as nothing; but the difficulties and dangers which might arise from his opposition to his own brother, were painful and fearful to him to contemplate. He saw not, however, how he could refuse the task; and it cannot be denied that love for Marie de Clairvaut had its share also in making him accept it. He doubted not for a moment, that if she were in the hands of the King, she was there against her own will; and could he, he asked himself, could he even hesitate to aid in delivering her from a situation of difficulty, danger, and distress? The thought of aiding her, the thought of seeing her again, the thought of hearing the sweet tones of that beloved voice, the thought of once more soothing and supporting her, all had their share; the very contemplation made his heart beat; and lifting his eyes, he found those of the Duke of Guise fixed upon his countenance, reading all the passing emotions, the shadows of which were brought across him by those thoughts. The colour mounted slightly into his cheek as he replied, "My Lord, I will do your bidding to the best of my ability. When shall I march?"

"Oh, you mistake," said the Duke, laughing; "you are not to go at the head of your men, armed cap-à-pie, to deliver the damsel from the giant's castle; but in the quality of my envoy to Henry; first of all demanding, quietly and gently, where the Lady is, and then requiring him to deliver her into your hands, for the purpose of escorting her to me, where-ever I may be. You shall have full powers for the latter purpose; but you must keep them concealed till such time as you have discovered, either from the King's own lips--though no sincerity dwells upon them--or by your own private inquiries and investigations, where this poor girl is. Then you may produce to the King your powers from me, and to herself I will give you a letter, requesting her to follow your directions in all things. Now, you must show yourself as great a diplomatist as a soldier, for I can assure you that you will have to deal with as artful and as wily a man as any now living in Europe."

"I will do my best, my Lord; and to enable me to deal with them before all their plans are prepared, I had better set out at break of day to-morrow, with as many men as your Highness thinks fit should accompany me."

The Duke mused for a moment or two; "No," he said, "no; I must not let you go, Logères, without providing for your safety. You have risked your life sufficiently for me and mine already. You go into new scenes, with which you are unacquainted; into dangers, with which you may find it more difficult to cope than any that you have hitherto met with. I cannot then suffer you to depart without such passports and safeguards as may diminish those dangers as far as possible."

"Oh, I fear not, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "the King and your Highness are not at war. I have done nothing to offend, and--"

"It cannot be, it cannot be," replied the Duke. "You must go back with me to Soissons. I will send a messenger from this place to demand the necessary passports for you. No great time will be lost, for a common courier can pass where you or I would be stopped. Then," he continued, "as to the men that you should take with you, I should say, the fewer the better. Mark me," he continued, with a smile, "there are secret springs in all things; and I will give you letters to people in Paris, which will put at your disposal five hundred men on the notice of half an hour. Ay, more, should you require them. But use not these letters except in the last necessity, for they might hurry on events which I would rather see advance slowly till they were forced upon me, than do aught to bring them forward myself. No; you shall go back with me to Soissons, guarding me with your band; and I doubt not, our messenger from Paris will not be many hours after us. Now leave me, and to rest, good Logères, and send in the servant, whom you will find half way down the stairs."

The young Count withdrew without another word, and he found that while the conversation between himself and the Duke had been going on, a man had been stationed, both above and below the door of the apartment, as if to insure that nobody approached to listen. Such were the sad precautions necessary in those days.

Early on the following morning the whole party mounted their horses, the wounded men of Logères were left under the care and attendance of the good townsmen of Montigny, and the young Count riding with the party of the Duke of Guise, proceeded on the road to Soissons. No adventure occurred to disturb their progress; and, as so constantly happens in the midst of scenes of danger, pain, and difficulty, almost every one of the whole party endeavoured to compensate for the frequent endurance of peril and pain by filling up the intervals with light laughter and unthinking gaiety. The Duke of Guise himself was not the least cheerful of the party, though occasionally the cloud of thought would settle again upon his brow, and a pause of deep meditation would interrupt the jest or the sally. It was late at night when they arrived at Soissons, and the Duke, after supping with the Cardinal de Bourbon, retired to rest, without conversing with any of his party. It was about eight o'clock on the following morning, and while, by the dull grey light of a cloudy spring day, Charles of Montsoreau was dressing himself, with the aid of one of his servants, that the door opened without any previous announcement, and the Duke of Guise, clad in a dressing-gown of crimson velvet trimmed with miniver, entered the room, bearing in his hand a packet of sealed letters, and one open one. A page followed him with something wrapped up in a skin of leather, which he placed upon one of the stools, and instantly retired.

"Send away your man, Count," said the Duke, seating himself; "resume your dressing-gown, and kindly give me your full attention for half an hour. You will be so good," he continued, turning to the man who was quitting the chamber, "as to take your stand on the first landing-place below this door. You will tell any body whom you see coming up to pass by the other staircase; any one you may see coming down, you will direct to pass by this door quickly."

There was a stern command in the eye of the Duke of Guise which had a strong effect upon those it rested on; and the man to whom he now spoke made his exit from the room, stumbling over twenty things in his haste to obey. As soon as he was gone, the Duke turned to his young friend, and continued, "Here is the King's safeguard under his own hand, and the necessary passports for yourself and two attendants. Here is your letter of credit to him in my name, requiring him to give you every sort of information which he may be possessed of regarding the subjects which you will mention to him; and here is a third letter giving you full power to demand at his hands the person of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, for the purpose of escorting her and placing her under my protection. This, again, is to Mary herself, bidding her follow your counsels and direction in every thing; and these others are to certain citizens of Paris, whose names you will find written thereon. If you will take my advice, you will again take with you the boy Ignati, and one stout man-at-arms, unarmed, however, except in such a manner as the dangers of the road require. You understand, I think, clearly, all that I wish."

"I believe, my Lord, I do," replied the Count. "But how am I to insure safety for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut on the road, without an adequate force?"

"Write to me but one word," replied the Duke of Guise, "as soon as she is delivered into your hands, and I will send you with all speed whatever forces I can spare. But I have one or two things to communicate to you, which it is necessary for you to know, both for your own security and the success of your mission. The principal part of my niece's lands lie in the neighbourhood of Chateauneuf, between Dreux and Mortagne in Normandy. It is not at all unlikely, that, if driven to remove her from your sight, Henry may be tempted to send her thither, well knowing that it is what I have always opposed, and that I preferred rather that she should dwell even in Languedoc than be in that neighbourhood. For this I had a reason; and that reason is the near relationship in which her father stood to the most daring and the most dangerous man in France. One of the first of those whom you will see near the person of the King, the man who governs and rules him to his own infamy and destruction, in whose hands the minions are but tools and Henry an instrument, who, more than any one else, has tended to change a gracious prince, a skilful general, and a brave man, into an effeminate and vicious king, is René de Villequier, Baron of Clairvaut. He was first cousin to Marie de Clairvaut's father, and he is consequently her nearest male relation out of the family of Guise. He has, indeed, sometimes hinted at a right to share in the guardianship of his cousin's daughter. But such things a Guise permits not. However, with this claim upon the disposal of her hand, Henry may, perhaps, hesitate to yield her, unless with the consent of Villequier. With him, then, you may be called upon to deal; but Villequier, I think, knows the hand of a Guise too well to call down a blow from it unnecessarily. However, he is as daring as he is artful, and impunity in crime has rendered him perfectly careless of committing it. He is Governor of Paris, one of the King's ministers, a Knight of the Holy Ghost. Now hear what he has done to merit all this. More than one assassin broken on the wheel has avowed himself the instrument of Villequier, sent to administer poison to those he did not love. Complaisant in every thing to his King, he sought to sacrifice to him the honour of his wife: but she differed from him in her tastes; and, on the eighteenth of last September, in broad daylight, in the midst of an effeminate court, he murdered her with his own hand at her dressing-table. Nor was this all: there was a girl--a young sweet girl--the natural daughter of a noble house, who was holding before the unhappy lady a mirror to arrange her dress when the fatal blow was struck. The fiend's taste for blood was roused. One victim was not enough, and he murdered the wretched girl by the side of her dead mistress. This was done in open day, was never disowned, was known to every one, and was rewarded by the order of the Holy Ghost--an insult to God, to France, and to humanity.[^[1]]
However, as with this man you may have to deal, I have to give you two cautions. Never drink wine with him, or eat food at his table; never go into his presence without wearing under your other dress the bosom friend which I have brought you there;" and he took from the leathern skin in which it was wrapped, a shirt of mail, made of rings linked together, so fine that it seemed the lightest stroke would have broken it, and yet so strong, that the best tempered poinard, driven by the most powerful hand, could not have pierced it. "Have also in your bosom," continued the Duke of Guise, "a small pistol; and if the villain attempts to lay his hand upon you, kill him like a dog. This is the only way to deal with René de Villequier."

The young Count smiled: "And is it needful my Lord Duke," he asked, "to take all these precautions in the courtly world of Paris?--Do you yourself take them, my Lord?--I fear not sufficiently."

"Oh! with regard to myself," replied the Duke, it is different. "I am so marked out and noted, they dare not do any thing against me. They would raise up a thousand vengeful hands against them in a moment, and they know that, too well to run such a risk. Neither Henry nor Villequier would hold their lives by an hour's tenure after Guise was dead. But you must take these precautions, my young friend. And now I have nothing more to say, except that, whatever you do to withdraw Marie de Clairvaut from the hands into which she has fallen, I will justify. If any ill befall you, I will avenge you as my brother; and if you deliver her from those whom she hates and abhors, she shall, give you any testimony of her gratitude that she pleases, without a man in France saying you nay."

"Oh, my Lord, it is not for that I go!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, with the blood rushing up again into his cheek. "It is not; surely you believe--"

"Hush! hush!" replied the Duke. "I have fallen into the foolish error of saying too much, my good young friend. But now, fare you well. Make your arrangements as speedily as you can; mount your horse, and onward to Paris, while I apply myself to matters which may well occupy every minute and every thought."

[CHAP. III.]

It was about nine o'clock at night, in the spring of the year 1588, that Charles of Montsoreau, with two companions, his faithful Gondrin and the little page, presented himself at the gate of Paris which opened upon the Soissons road. A surly arquebusier with a steel cap on his head, his gun upon his shoulder, and the rest thereof in his hand, was the first person that he encountered at the bridge over the fosse. Some other soldiers were sitting before the guardhouse; and the wicket-gate of the city itself was open, with an armed head protruded through, talking to a country girl with a basket on her arm, who had just passed out of the gate, none the better probably for her visit to the city.

The arquebusier planted himself immediately in the way of the young cavalier and his followers, and seemed prepared to stop them, though on the young Count applying to him for admission, he replied in a surly tone, "I have nothing to do with it. Ask the lieutenant at the gate."

To him, in the next place, then, Charles of Montsoreau applied; but though his tone was somewhat more civil than that of the soldier, he made a great many difficulties, examining the young nobleman all over, and looking as if he thought him a very suspicious personage. The Count after a certain time grew impatient, and asked, "You do not mean, I suppose, to refuse the passport of the King?"

"No," replied the other grinning. "We won't refuse the passport of the King, or the King's passport; but in order that the passport may be verified, it were as well, young gentleman, that you come to the gates by day. You can sleep in the faubourg for one night I take it."

"Certainly not without great inconvenience to myself," replied the Count, "and more inconvenience to the affairs of the Duke of Guise."

"The Duke of Guise!" said the man starting. "Your tongue has not the twang of Lorraine."

"But nevertheless," replied the Count, "the business I come upon is that of the Duke of Guise, which you would have seen if you had read the passport and safe-conduct. Does it not direct therein, to give room and free passage, safeguard, and protection to one gentleman of noble birth and two attendants, coming and going hither and thither in all parts of the realm of France, on the especial business of our true and well-beloved cousin, Henry, Duke of Guise? and is there not written in the Duke's own hand underneath, 'Given to our faithful friend and counsellor, Charles of Montsoreau, Count of Logères, for the purposes above written, by me, Henry of Guise?'"

The man held the paper for a moment to a lantern that hung up against the heavy stonework of the arch, and then exclaimed in a loud voice, "Throw open the gates there, bring the keys. Monseigneur, I beg you a thousand pardons for detaining you a minute. If I had but seen the writing of the Duke of Guise the doors would have been opened instantly."

As rapidly as possible the heavy gates, which had remained immoveable at the order of the King, swang back at the name of the Guise, and one of the attendants and the captain of the night running by the side of the Count's horse to prevent all obstruction, caused the second gate to be opened as rapidly, and the Count entered the capital city of his native country for the first time in his life.

The streets were dark and gloomy, narrow and high; and as one rode along them looking up from time to time towards the sky, the small golden stars were seen twinkling above the deep walls of the houses, as if beheld from the bottom of a well. Charles of Montsoreau had not chosen to ask his way at the gate, and though utterly unacquainted with the great city in which he now plunged, he rode on, trusting to find some shop still open where he might inquire his way without the chance of being deceived. Every booth and shop was then shut, however; and for a very long way up the street which he had first entered, he met with not a single living creature to whom he could apply for direction. At length, however, that street ended abruptly in another turning to the left, and a sudden glare of light burst upon his eyes, proceeding from a building about a hundred yards farther on, which seemed to be on fire.

There was no bustle, however, or indication of any thing unusual in the street; and Charles of Montsoreau riding on, found that the blaze proceeded from a dozen or more of flambeaus planted in a sort of wooden barricade[^[2]] before a large mansion, which fell back some yards from the general façade of the street, while a fat porter clothed in manifold colours, with a broad shoulder-belt and a sword by his side, walked to and fro in the light, trimming the torches with stately dignity. The young Count then remembered having heard of the custom of thus illuminating the barriers, which were before all the principal mansions in Paris during the first part of every night; and riding up towards the porter, he demanded whose hotel it was, and begged to be directed to one of the best inns in the neighbourhood.

The man gazed at him for a moment with the evident purpose of looking upon him as a bumpkin; but the porters of that day were required to be extremely discriminating, and the air and appearance of the young Count were not to be mistaken, and bowing low he replied, "I see you are a stranger, sir. This is the house of Monsieur d'Aumont. As to the best inn, inns are always but poor places; but I have heard a good account of the White House in the next street, at the sign of the Crown of France. If you go on quite to the end of this street and then turn to your right, you will come into another street as large and longer, at the very end of which, just looking down to the Pont Neuf, you will see a large white house with a gateway and the crown hanging over it. I have heard that every thing is good there, and the host civil; but he will make you pay for what you have."

"That is but just," replied the young Count; and giving the porter thanks for his information, he rode on and took up his abode at the sign of the Crown of France.

The aspect of the inn was very different from that of an auberge in the country; for, though the court-yard into which Charles of Montsoreau rode was littered with straw, and a large and splendid stable appeared behind, it was not now grooms and stable-boys that appeared on the first notice of a traveller's approach, but cooks and scullions and turnspits; while the master himself with a snow-white cap upon his head, a jacket of white cloth, and a white apron turned up sufficiently to show his black breeches and stockings with red clocks, appeared more like what he really was, the head of the kitchen, than the master of the house.

He looked a little suspiciously, at first, at the young stranger arriving with only two attendants, and with no other baggage than a small valise upon each horse, and an additional upon that of Ignati, to render the boy's weight equal to that of his fellow travellers. But the host was accustomed to deal with many kinds of men; and like the porter, after examining the Count for a moment, seeing some gold embroidery, but not much, upon his riding-dress, gilded spurs over his large boots of untanned leather, and a sword, the hilt and sheath of which were of no slight value, he also made a lowly reverence, and conducted him to one of the best apartments in his house. It consisted of three rooms, each entering into the other with a small cabinet beyond the chief bed-room; and the arrangements which the Count made at once--placing Gondrin's bed in the antechamber, and having the page's truckle-bed removed from his own bed-side to occupy the cabinet beyond--gave the host of the Crown of France a still greater idea of his importance.

Charles of Montsoreau did not fail to examine the face of the aubergiste, and to remark his proceedings with as much accuracy. The man's countenance was intelligent, his eyes quick and piercing, but withal there was an air of straightforward frankness, tempered by civility and habitual politeness, which was prepossessing; and as the young Count knew that he might have occasion to make use of him in various ways during his stay in Paris, he resolved to try him with those things which were the most immediately necessary, and which at the same time were of the least importance.

"Stop a minute, my good host," he said, as the man was about to withdraw to order fires to be lighted and suppers to be cooked. "There are some things which press for attention, and in which I must have your assistance."

"This youngster speaks with a tone of authority," thought the aubergiste; but he bowed low and said nothing, whilst the young Count went on, "What is your name, my good friend?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau.

"I am called Gamin la Chaise," replied the aubergiste with a smile.

"Well then, Master la Chaise, as you see," he continued, "I have come hither to Paris on some business which required a certain degree of despatch, and have ventured with few attendants and little baggage. As however the business on which I did come will call me into scenes where some greater degree of splendour is necessary than perhaps either suits my taste or my general convenience, I must before I go forth to-morrow morning, have my train increased by at least six attendants, who are always to be found in Paris ready fashioned I know; and therefore I must beseech you to find them for me in proper time, having them equipped in my proper colours and livery, according as the same shall be described to you by my good friend Gondrin here. This is the first service you must do me, my good host."

"Sir," replied the landlord, "the six lackeys shall be found and equipped in less time than would roast a woodcock. They are as plenty as sparrows or house-rats, and are caught in a moment."

"Yes, but my good host," answered the Count, "there is one great difficulty which you will understand in a moment. Amongst the six, I want you to find me one honest man if it be possible."

The landlord raised his shoulders above his ears, stuck out his two hands horizontally from his sides, and assumed an appearance of despair at the unheard of proposition of the Count, which had nearly brought a smile into the young nobleman's countenance. "That indeed, sir," he said, "is another affair; and I believe you might just as well ask me to catch you a wild roe in the garden of the Louvre, as to find you the thing that you demand. Nevertheless, labour and perseverance conquer all difficulties: and now I think of it, there is a youth who may answer your purpose; he knows Paris well too; but, strange to say, by some unaccountable fit of obstinacy, he would not tell a lie the other day to the Duke of Epernon in order to pass an item of the intendant's accounts, which would have come in for a good round sum every month if he would but have sworn that he used five quarts of milk every week to whiten the leather of his master's boots. He would not swear to this, and therefore the intendant discharged him, as he was a hired servant."

"Let me have him; let me have him," cried the Count. "I will only ask him to tell the truth, and hope he may not find that so difficult."

The Count then proceeded to speak about horses, and the host readily undertook, finding that money was abundant, to procure all the horse-dealers in Paris with their best steeds, before nine o'clock on the following day. The demeanour of the young nobleman, it must be confessed, puzzled the good aubergiste a good deal; and on going down to his own abode, he acknowledged to his wife, what he seldom acknowledged to any one, that he could not make his guest out at all.

"I should think," he said, "from the plenty of money, and the expensive way in which he seems inclined to deal, that he was some wild stripling from the provinces, the son of a rich president or advocate lately dead, who came hither to call himself Count, and spend his patrimony in haste. But then, again, in some things he is as shrewd as an old hawk, and can jest withal about rogues and honest men, while he keeps his own secrets close, and lets no one ask him a question."

On the following morning, at an early hour, the six attendants whom he had required were brought before him in array, exhibiting, with one exception, as sweet a congregation of roguish faces as the great capital of roguery ever yet produced. The countenance of the lad who had been discharged from the service of the Duke of Epernon pleased the young Count much, and without waiting till he was farther equipped, he put Gondrin under his charge for the purpose of notifying at the palace of the Louvre that he had arrived in the capital, bearing a letter from the Duke of Guise to the King, and of begging to have an hour named for its delivery. He found, however, with some mortification--for his eager spirit and his anxiety brooked no delay--that the King was at Vincennes; and his only consolation was that the communication which he had sent to the palace, bearing the fearful name of the Duke of Guise, was certain to be communicated to the monarch as soon as possible. Some short time was expended in the purchase of horses, and in making various additions to his own apparel, well knowing the ostentatious splendour of the court he was about to visit.

We have indeed remarked that there was perhaps a touch of foppery in his own nature, though it was but slight. Nevertheless, splendour of appearance certainly pleased him, even while a natural good taste led him to admire, and to seek in his own dress, all that was graceful and harmonising, rather than that which was rich or brilliant.

He was thus engaged, with several tradesmen around him, ordering the materials for various suits of apparel, which a tailor standing by engaged to produce in a miraculously short time, when the door of his apartment was opened, and a somewhat fat pursy man in black was admitted, entering with an air of importance, and receiving the lowly salutations of the good citizens who were present. Charles of Montsoreau gazed at him as a stranger; but the good man, with an air of importance, and an affectation of courtly breeding, besought him to finish what he was about, adding, that he had a word for his private ear which he would communicate afterwards. The young Count, without further ceremony, continued to give his orders, examining his new visiter from time to time, and with no very great feelings of satisfaction.

The countenance was fat, reddish, and, upon the whole, stupid, with an air of indecision about it which was very strongly marked, though there was every now and then a certain drawing in of the fringeless eyelids round the small black eyes, which gave the expression of intense cunning to features otherwise dull and flat.

When he had completely done with his mercers, and tailors, and cloth-makers--who had occupied him some time, for he did not hurry himself--Charles of Montsoreau dismissed them; and turning to his visiter said, "Now, sir, may I have the happiness of knowing your business with me?"

"Sir," replied the other, rising and speaking in a low and confidential tone, "my name is Nicolas Poulain. I am Lieutenant of the Prévôt de l'Isle."

He stopped short at this announcement; and the Count, after waiting a moment for something more, replied somewhat angrily, "Well, sir, I am very happy to hear it. I hope the office suits Nicolas Poulain, and Nicolas Poulain suits the office."

A slight redness came into the man's face, rendering it a shade deeper than it ordinarily was; but finding it necessary to reply, as the Count, without sitting down, remained looking him stedfastly in the face, he answered, "I thought, sir,--indeed I took it for granted, sir, that you might have some communication for me from the Duke of Guise."

"None whatever, sir," replied the young Count drily. "Have you any thing to tell me, Monsieur Nicolas Poulain, on the part of his Highness?"

"No, sir, no," replied the other, attempting to assume an air of spirit which did not become him. "If you have not seen him more lately than I have, I am misinformed."

"And pray, my good sir," demanded the Count, "who was it that took the trouble of informing you of any thing regarding me?"

"That question is soon answered, sir," replied Nicolas Poulain, "though you seem to make so much difficulty in regard to answering mine. The person who informed me of your arrival was good Master Chapelle Marteau, who saw you last night at the gates when you entered."

The name immediately struck the young Count as the same with one of those written on the letters which the Duke of Guise had given him to be used in case of need; but feeling how necessary it was to deal carefully with any of the faction of the Sixteen, to which both Chapelle Marteau and Nicolas Poulain belonged, he determined to say not one word upon the subject of his mission to any one. Much less, indeed, was he inclined to do so in the case of Nicolas Poulain, in whose face nature had stamped deceit and roguery in such legible characters, that the young Count, had he been forced to trust him with any secret, would have felt sure that the whole would be betrayed within an hour. All, then, that he replied to Master Nicolas Poulain was, that though he knew well the personage he mentioned by name, he had not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance.

The answers were so short, the tone and manner so dry, that the worthy citizen found it expedient to make his retreat; and taking a short and unceremonious leave of one who had given him so cool a reception, he left the Count's apartments, and descended the stairs. The moment he was gone, some suspicion, which crossed the young cavalier's mind suddenly, made him call the page, and bid him follow his late visiter till he marked the house which Master Nicolas entered, taking care to remember the way back.

The boy set off without a word, and returned in less than half an hour, informing the young Count that he had tracked Master Nicolas Poulain into a large house, which, on inquiry, he found to be the private dwelling of the Lord of Villequier.

"The Duke is betrayed by some of these leaguers,--that is clear enough!" thought the young Count. "I have heard that many of his best enterprises have been frustrated by some unknown means. Who is there on earth that one can trust?" And leaning his head upon his hand he fell into deep thought, for to him the question of whom he could trust was at that moment one, not only entirely new, but one of deep and vital importance also. In his journey to Paris he had two great and all-important objects before him. To find out his brother, and, if possible, to persuade him to change a course of conduct which he felt to be dishonourable to himself and to his house, was one of these objects; and he doubted not that--if he could fully explain, and make the Marquis comprehend, his own conduct and his purposes--if he could show him that his only chance of obtaining the hand of Marie de Clairvaut was by attaching himself to the House of Guise, and that he had not a brother's rivalry to fear--Gaspar de Montsoreau might be induced to return to the party he had quitted, and not finally to commit himself to conduct so little to his own interest as that which he was pursuing.

The other object, however, was much more important even than that, to the heart of Charles of Montsoreau; and the feelings which were connected with it--as so often happens with the feelings which affect every one in human life--were sadly at variance with other purposes. That object was to discover and guide to the court of the Duke of Guise, her whom he himself loved best on all the earth; to free her from the hands of the base and dangerous people into whose power she had fallen, and to leave her in security, if not in happiness.

When he thought of seeing her again,--when he thought of passing days with her on the journey, of being her guide, her protector, her companion, the overpowering longing and thirst for such a joyful time shook and agitated him, made his heart thrill and his brain reel; and, bending down his face upon his hands, he gave himself up for a long time to whirling dreams of happiness. But then again he asked himself if, after such hours, he could ever quit her; if--following the firm purpose with which he had left Montsoreau--he could resist all temptation to seek her love further, and after plunging into the contentions of the day could dedicate his sword and his life, as he had intended, to warfare against the infidels in the order of St. John? There was a great struggle in his mind when he asked himself the question--a great and terrible struggle; but at length he answered it in the affirmative. "Yes," he said; "yes, I can do so!" But there was a condition attached to that decision. "I can do so," he said, "if I find that there is a chance of her wedding him; if I find that, in reality and truth, the first bright hopes I entertained were indeed fallacious."

To say the truth, doubts had come over his mind as to whether he had construed Marie de Clairvaut's conduct rightly. Those doubts had been instilled into his imagination by the words of the Duke of Guise. Fancy lingered round them: shall we say that Hope, too, played with them? If she did so, it was against his will; for he was in that sad and painful situation where hope, reproved by the highest feelings of the heart, dare scarcely point to the objects of desire. Terrible--terrible is that situation where Virtue, or Honour, or Generosity bind down imagination, silence even hope, and shut against us the gates of that paradise we see, but must not enter. These, indeed, are the angels with the flaming swords.

Charles of Montsoreau would not suffer himself to hope any thing that might make his brother's misery; but yet fancy would conjure up bright dreams; and knowing and feeling that if those dreams were realised, a complete change must come over his actions and his conduct, he saw that it would be needful to use guarded language to his brother,--or rather to use only the guard of perfect frankness. He resolved, then, to tell him fully his purposes, but to tell him at the same time the conditions under which those circumstances were to be executed.

As he pondered, however, and thought over the changed demeanour of his brother, over the fiery impetuosity and impatience of his whole temper and conduct, he remembered that it might be with difficulty that he could obtain a hearing for a sufficient length of time to explain himself fully, and he consequently determined to write clearly and explicitly, so that there might be no error or mistake whatever, and that his conduct might remain clear and undoubted; and sitting down at once, he did as he proposed, that he might have the letter ready to send or to deliver as soon as he discovered where his brother was.

The epistle was short, but it was distinct. He referred boldly and directly to his conversation with the Abbé de Boisguerin; he explained his conduct since; and he told his decided and unchangeable purpose of seeking in no way the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, unless he had reason to believe that the deep attachment which he felt and acknowledged towards her were already returned. He ended by exhorting his brother to do that which his pledges and professions to the Duke of Guise had bound him to do, to guide back Mademoiselle de Clairvaut himself to the protection of her uncle, and to avert the necessity of his seeking her and conducting her to Soissons.

In thus letting his thoughts flow on in collateral channels from subject to subject, he had deviated from the original object of his contemplations, which was, the method to be pursued for instituting private inquiries throughout the city, in regard to the arrival, both of his brother and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. Unacquainted with any persons in Paris, he knew not how to set on foot the inquiry; and his mind had just reverted to the subject, which appeared more and more embarrassing each time he thought of it, when he was informed, with an air of great importance, by the host, that Monsieur Chapelle Marteau demanded humbly to have the honour of paying him his respects.

The Count ordered him instantly to be ushered in; and, during the brief moment that intervened before he appeared, considered hastily, whether he should employ this personage in any way in making the inquiries that were necessary. He knew that he was highly esteemed by the Duke of Guise; but yet it was evident that, by some of the members of, or the followers of, the League in Paris, the Duke was himself entirely deceived; and yet Charles of Montsoreau was more inclined to trust this man's sincerity than that of the person who had left him some short time before, inasmuch as the Duke had addressed one of the private letters we have before mentioned to him, while he had never named the other. The countenance and appearance of Chapelle Marteau confirmed any prepossession in his favour. It was quick, and intelligent, and frank, though somewhat stern; and he had moreover the air and bearing of a man in the higher ranks of life, although he held but an office which was then considered inferior, that of one of the Masters in the Chamber of Accounts.

"I come, sir," he said, as soon as the first civilities were over, "to ask your pardon for some quickness on my part in refusing you admittance at the gates last night. The fact is, that bad-intentioned people have been endeavouring to introduce into the city of Paris, under the King's name, a multitude of soldiery, in twos and threes, for the purpose of overawing us in the pursuit of our rights and liberties."

"Say no more, say no more, Monsieur Chapelle," said the Count; "I doubt not you had very good reasons for what you did."

He then paused, leaving his companion to pursue the subject as he might think fit; and the leaguer seemed somewhat embarrassed as to how he should proceed, though his embarrassment showed itself in a different manner from that of Master Nicolas Poulain. At length he said, "I entertained some hope, sir, that you might bring me a communication from the Duke of Guise, as, when I had the honour of seeing him at Gonesse three days ago, he gave me the hope that he would write to me ere long."

"No, Monsieur Chapelle," replied the Count deliberately; "I have no message for you. His Highness directed me indeed to apply to you in case of need; and I know that he has the highest esteem for you, believing you to be a zealous defender of our holy faith, and a man well worthy of every consideration;--but I have no present message to you from the Duke; and the case in which it may be necessary to apply to you for assistance, according to his Highness's direction, has not yet arrived."

"Most delighted shall I be, my Lord[^[3]] Count," replied the leaguer, "to afford you any aid or assistance or council in my power, both on account of his Highness the Duke of Guise and on your own. Might I ask what is the case foreseen, in which you are to apply to me?"

The Count smiled. "In case, Monsieur Chapelle," he said, "that I do not succeed in objects which the Duke has entrusted to me by other means, you shall know. At present, however, I have had no opportunity of ascertaining what may be necessary to be done, finding that the King is at Vincennes. In the mean time I am employing myself about some personal business of my own, which I am afraid is likely to give me trouble."

He spoke quite calmly; but a look of intelligence came immediately over the countenance of Chapelle Marteau, and he said, "Perhaps I might be enabled to assist your Lordship. My knowledge of Paris, and all that is transacted therein, is very extensive."

"You are very kind," replied the Count, "and I take advantage of your offer with the greatest pleasure. The matter is a very simple one. My elder brother, the Marquis de Montsoreau, set out some time ago to join the Duke of Guise, having under his charge and escort a young lady, named Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."

"Daughter of the Duke of Guise's niece," said Chapelle Marteau with some emphasis.

"I believe that is the relationship," answered the young nobleman. "But, however, the facts are these: I have reason to believe that my brother was interrupted in his journey by the attack of a party of reiters, and was obliged in consequence to put himself and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut under the protection of a body of the King's troops coming to Paris. Now, my wish is, to ascertain whether he or any of his party, either separately or together, are now in Paris, and where they are to be found."

The leaguer gazed in his face for a minute or two with an inquiring look, and then replied, "I can tell you at once, my Lord, that no considerable party whatever has entered the gates of Paris under the protection of the King's troops for the last ten days, no party of even ten in number having the ensigns of Valois having appeared during that time. But the party you mention may have come in by themselves without the King's troops; and I rather suspect that they have so done. However, I will let you know the exact particulars within four and twenty hours from this moment, and every other information that I can by any means glean regarding the persons you speak of; for I very well understand, my Lord, that there may be more intelligence required about them than you choose to ask for at once."

The young Count smiled again, but merely replied, "Any information that you can obtain for me, Monsieur Chapelle, will be received by me most gratefully; and in the mean time will you do me the honour of partaking my poor dinner which is about to be served?"

The leaguer, however, declined the high honour, alleging important business as his excuse; and, after having dined, the young Count rode out through the streets of Paris, endeavouring to make himself somewhat familiar with them, and feeling all those sensations which the sight of that great capital might well produce on one who had never beheld it before. On those sensations, however, we must not pause, as matters of more importance are before us. A couple of hours after nightfall he received a note to the following effect:--

"The Marquis de Montsoreau, with a body of horsemen, bearing no badge or ensign, entered Paris yesterday at about four o'clock, and lodged at the Fleur-de-lis. He is not there now, however, and is supposed to have quitted Paris. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is not known to have entered the capital; but a carriage, containing ladies and waiting-women, was escorted to Vincennes this morning by a body of troops of Valois. The name of one of the ladies was ascertained to be the Marquise de Saulny."

Charles of Montsoreau received these tidings with a beating heart, and sleep did not visit his eyelids till the clock of a neighbouring church had struck five in the morning.

[CHAP. IV.]

Dark heavy clouds hung over the world, and totally obscured the face of the sky; the morning was chill, the air keen, and the eye of the peasant was often turned up towards the leaden-looking masses of vapour above his head, as if to inquire whether their stores would be poured forth in lightning or in snow; and as Charles of Montsoreau rode on through the park to the Donjon of Vincennes, he felt the gloomy aspect of the whole scene more than he might have done at any other time.

There, before his eyes, with the whole face of nature harmonising well with its dark and frowning aspect, rose the grey gigantic keep, which the vanquished opponent of Edward III., the rash and half-insane founder of the race of Valois, erected at an early period of his melancholy reign. Story above story, the large quadrangular mass, with its flanking towers, rose up till it seemed to touch the gloomy sky above; but in those days it had at least the beauty of harmony, for no one had added to the harsh and solemn features of the feudal architecture the gewgaw ornaments of a later age. The gallery of Marie de Medici was not built, and nothing was seen but the antique form of the Donjon itself, with the mass of walls surrounding its base with their flanking turrets, a pinnacle or two rising above--as if from some low Gothic building within the walls--and the still dark fosse surrounding the whole.

We form but a faint idea to ourselves--a very very faint idea of the manners and customs of feudal times; but still less, perhaps, can we form any just idea of the every-day enormities, crimes, and vices, that were committed at the period we now speak of, and of what it was to live familiarly in the midst of such scenes, and to hear daily of such occurrences. The mind of most men got hardened, callous, or indifferent to acts of darkness and of shame, even if they did not commit them themselves; and the world of Paris heard with scarcely an emotion that this nobleman had been poisoned by another--that the hand of the assassin had delivered one high lord of this troublesome friend or that pertinacious enemy--that the husband had "drugged the posset" for the wife, or the wife for the husband--or that persons obnoxiously wise or virtuous disappeared within the walls of such places as Vincennes, and passed suddenly with their good acts into that oblivion which is the general recompense of all that is excellent upon earth. No one noted such deeds; the sword of justice started from the scabbard once or twice in a century, but that was all; and the world laughed as merrily--the jest and the repartee went on--sport, love, and folly revelled as gaily through the streets of Paris, as if it had been a world of gentleness, and security, and peace.

Though of course Charles of Montsoreau felt in some degree the spirit of the day--though he thought it nothing at all extraordinary to be attacked by reiters in his own château, or stopped by fifty or sixty plunderers on the broad highway--though it seemed perfectly natural to him that man should live as in a state of continual warfare, always on his defence, yet the whole of his previous life having passed far from the daily occurrence of still more revolting scenes, in spots where calm nature and God's handiwork were still at hand to purify and heal men's thoughts, he had very different feelings in regard to the events and customs of the day from those which were generally entertained by the people of the metropolis. Thus, when he gazed up at the gloomy tower of Vincennes, and thought of the deeds which had been committed within its walls, together with the crimes and follies that were daily there enacted, a feeling of mingled horror and disgust took possession of his bosom; and had he not been impelled by a sense of duty, he would not have set his foot upon the threshold of those polluted gates.

The order to appear before the King at Vincennes had been communicated to him early in the morning, and notice of his coming had been given to the officers at the gates of the castle. He was punctual to a moment at the appointed time, and was instantly led into the château, and conducted up a long, darksome, winding stone staircase in one of the towers. Everything took place almost in silence; few persons were to be seen moving about in the building; and, while winding up those stairs, nothing was heard but the footfalls of himself and the attendant who conducted him.

Charles of Montsoreau certainly felt neither awe nor fear as he thus advanced, though some of the warnings of the Duke of Guise might cross his mind at the moment; but at the end of what seemed to be the first story, the attendant said, "Wait a moment;" and, pushing open a door, entered a room to the right. There was another door beyond, but both were left partly unclosed, and the previous silence was certainly no longer to be complained of, for such a jabbering, and screaming, and yelling, and howling, as was now heard, was probably never known in the palace of a king, before or since.

Human sounds they seemed certainly not to be, and yet words in various languages were to be distinguished, so that conjecture was quite put at fault, till after an absence of several minutes the attendant returned, and, bidding the young nobleman follow him, led the way once more into this den of noise and confusion.

The scene that then burst upon the eyes of Charles of Montsoreau was as curious as can well be conceived. Innumerable parrots, macaws, and cockatoos were ranged on perches and in cages along the sides of a large apartment, with intervals of monkeys and apes rattling their chains, springing forward at every object near them, mouthing, chattering, and writhing themselves into fantastic forms; six or seven small beautiful dogs of a peculiar breed were running about on the floor, snarling at one another, barking at the stranger, or teazing the other animals in the same room with themselves; baskets filled with litters of puppies were in every corner of the room; and several men and women were engaged in tending the winged and quadruped favourites of the King. Not only, however, were the regular attendants present, but, as one of the known ways to Henry's regard, a great number of other persons were always to be found busily engaged in tending the monkeys, parrots, and dogs. Amongst the rest here present, were no less than five dwarfs, four others being in actual attendance upon the King. None were above three feet and a half in height, and some were deformed and distorted in the most fearful manner, while one was perfectly and beautifully formed, and seemed to hold the others in great contempt. The voices of almost all of them, however, were cracked and screaming; and it was the sounds of their tongues, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, the chattering of the monkeys, and the various words repeated in different languages by the loquacious birds along the wall, which had made the Babel of sounds that reached the ears of Charles of Montsoreau while he stood without.

Passing through this room, with the envious eyes of the dwarfs staring upon his fine figure, the young Count entered the chamber of the pages--where, as if for the sake of contrast, a number of beautiful youths were seen--and was thence led on into the royal apartments, in which every thing was calm splendour and magnificence. Here and there various officers of the royal household were found lounging away the idle hours as they waited for the King's commands; and at length, in an ante-room, the young Count was bade to wait again, while the attendant once more notified his coming to the King. He was scarcely detained a moment now, however; but, the door being opened, he was ushered into the monarch's presence.

Henry on the present occasion presented an aspect different from that which the young Count had expected to behold. The Monarch had recalled, for a moment or two, the princely and commanding air of his youth, and received the young Count with dignity and grace. His person was handsome, his figure fine, and his dress in the most exquisite taste that it was possible to conceive. It was neither so effeminate nor so overcharged with ornament as it sometimes was; and the black velvet slashed and laced with gold, the toque with a single large diamond on his head, the long snowy-white ostrich feather, and the collar of one or two high orders round his neck, became him well, and harmonised with the air of dignity he assumed.

There were two or three gentlemen who stood around him more gaudily dressed than himself, and amongst them was the Duke of Epernon, whom Charles of Montsoreau remembered to have seen at his father's château some years before. All, however, held back so as to allow the monarch a full view of the young cavalier, as he advanced.

"You are welcome to Vincennes, Monsieur de Logères," said the King. "Our noble and princely cousin of Guise has notified to us that he has sent you to Paris on business of importance; and, having given you that praise which we are sure you must merit, has besought us to put every sort of trust and confidence in you, and to listen to you as to himself, while you speak with us upon the affairs which have brought you hither. We beseech you, therefore, to inform us of that which he has left dark, and tell us how we may pleasure our fair cousin, which is always our first inclination to do--the good of our state and the welfare of our subjects considered."

"His Highness the Duke of Guise, Sire," replied Charles of Montsoreau, not in the slightest degree abashed by the many eyes that were fixed upon him, scrutinising his person and his dress in the most unceremonious manner, "his Highness the Duke of Guise, Sire, has sent me to your Majesty, to ask information regarding a young lady, his near relation, who, he has reason to believe, was protected by a body of your Majesty's troops in a situation of some difficulty, for which protection the Duke is most grateful. She was then, he understood, conducted to this your Majesty's castle of Vincennes, doubtless for the purpose of affording her a safe asylum till you could restore her to his Highness, who is her guardian."

Henry turned with a sneering smile towards a dark but handsome man, with a somewhat sinister expression of countenance, on his left hand, saying, in an under tone, "Quick travelling, Villequier! to Soissons and back to Paris in four and twenty hours, ha! Had the swallow ever wings like rumour?"

This was said affectedly aside, but quite loud enough for the young nobleman to hear the whole. He, of course, made no reply, as the words were not addressed to him; but waited, with his eyes bent down, apparently in thoughtful meditation, till the King should give him his answer.

"You have given us, Monsieur le Comte de Logères," said the King, "but a faint idea of this business; and, as unhappily the commanders of our troops are but too little accustomed to afford us any very full account of their proceedings, we are ignorant of the occasion on which any one of them rendered this service to the young lady you mention."

This affected unconsciousness, displayed absolutely in conjunction with a scarcely concealed knowledge of the whole affair, Charles of Montsoreau felt to be trifling and insulting: but he lost not his reverence for the kingly authority; and he replied, with every appearance of deference, "I had imagined, Sire, that the quick wings of rumour must have carried the whole particulars to your Majesty, otherwise I should have been more particular in my account. The service was rendered to the young lady very lately, between Jouarre and Gandelu. I am not absolutely aware of the name of the officer in command of the troops at the time, but one gentleman present bore the name of Colombel."

"And pray what was the name of the young lady herself?" demanded the King, with a sneer. "The Duke of Guise has many she relations, as we sometimes find to our cost. It could not be our pretty, mild, and virtuous friend, the Duchess of Montpensier, nor the delicate and fair-favoured Mademoiselle de St. Beuve; for the one is staying in Paris in disobedience to the orders of the King, and the other is remaining there, waiting for the tender consolations of the Chevalier d'Aumale."

The young Count turned somewhat red, both at the coarseness and the scornfulness of the King's reply. "The young lady," he answered, however, still keeping the same tone, "is named Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, daughter of the late Count de Clairvaut."

"Your first cousin, Villequier," said the King, turning to his minister. "You should know something of this affair?"

"Not more than your Majesty," replied Villequier, bowing low, and perceiving very clearly that Henry had maliciously wished to embarrass him.

The King smiled at the double-meaning answer, and then, turning to the young Count, replied, "Well, sir, you have fulfilled your mission, and may tell the Duke of Guise, our true and well-beloved cousin, that we will cause immediate inquiry and investigation to be made into the whole affair; and let him know the particulars as soon as we are sufficiently well-informed to speak upon it with that accuracy which becomes our character. You may retire."

This was of course not the conclusion of the affair to which Charles of Montsoreau was inclined to submit; and it was evident to him that the King and his minions presumed upon his apparent youth and inexperience. But there was a firm decision in his character which they were not prepared for; and after pausing for a moment in thought, during which time the King's brows began to bend angrily upon him, he raised his eyes, looking Henry calmly and stedfastly in the face, and replying, "Your Majesty must pardon me if I do not take instant advantage of your permission to retire, as you have conceived a false impression when you imagine that my mission is fulfilled."

The King looked with an air of astonishment, first to Epernon and then to Villequier: but the former turned away his head with a look of dissatisfaction; while the latter bit his lip, let his hand fall upon a jewelled dagger in his belt, and said nothing.

Charles of Montsoreau, however, went on in the same calm but determined tone. "His Highness the Duke of Guise," he said, "directed me to inform your Majesty of the facts I have mentioned, and to beg in general terms information regarding them; but in case the general information that I obtained was not sufficiently accurate to enable me to write to him distinctly that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is in this place, or in that place, he further directed me humbly to request that your Majesty would answer in plain terms the following plain questions:--Is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut in the château of Vincennes? Is she under the charge and protection of your Majesty? Does your Majesty know where she is?"

"By the Lord that lives," exclaimed Henry, "this Duke of Guise chooses himself bold ambassadors to his King!"

"Do you dare, malapert boy," exclaimed Villequier, "with that bold brow, to cross-question your sovereign?"

"I do dare, sir," answered Charles of Montsoreau, "to ask my sovereign, in the name of the Duke of Guise, these plain questions, which, as he is a just and noble monarch, he can neither find any difficulty in answering, nor feel any anger in hearing."

"And what if I refuse to answer, sir?" demanded the King. "What is to be the consequence then? Is the doughty messenger charged to make a declaration of war on the part of our obedient subject, the Duke of Guise?"

The young Count was not prepared for this question, and hesitated how to answer it, though a full knowledge of how terrible the Duke of Guise was to the weak and effeminate monarch he addressed, brought a smile over his countenance, which had in reality more effect than any words he could have spoken. After a pause, however, he replied,--"Oh no, Sire. The Duke of Guise is, as you say, your Majesty's most devoted and obedient subject; and never conceiving it possible that you would refuse to answer his humble questions, he gave me no instructions what to say in a case that he did not foresee. I can only suppose," he added, with a low and reverent bow to the King, "that the Duke will be obliged to come to Paris himself to make those inquiries and investigations, concerning his young relation, in which I have not been successful."

Charles of Montsoreau could see, notwithstanding the paint, which delicately furnished the King with a more stable complexion than his own, that at the very thought of the Duke of Guise coming to Paris the weak monarch turned deadly pale. The same signs also were visible to Villequier, who whispered, "No fear, Sire; no fear; he will not come!"

The King answered sharply, however, and sufficiently loud for the young nobleman to hear, "We must give him no excuse, René! we must give him no excuse! Monsieur de Logères," he continued, putting on a more placable air than before, "we are glad to find that neither the Duke of Guise nor his envoy presumes to threaten us; and in consideration of the questions being put in a proper manner, we are willing to answer them to the best of our abilities."

Villequier, at these words, laid his hand gently upon the King's cloak; but Henry twitched it away from his grasp with an air of impatience, and continued, "I shall therefore answer you frankly and freely, young gentleman; telling you that the Lady whom you are sent to seek is in fact not at Vincennes; nor, to the best of our knowledge and belief, in our good city of Paris; neither do we know or have any correct information of where she may be found, though it is not by any means to be denied that she has visited this our castle of Vincennes."

The first part of the King's speech had considerably relieved the mind of Villequier; but when he proceeded to make the somewhat unnecessary admission, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut had visited Vincennes, the minister again attempted to interrupt the King, saying, "You know, Sire, her pause at Vincennes was merely momentary, and absolutely necessary for those passports and safeguards without which it might be dangerous to travel, in the distracted state of the country."

"Perfectly true," replied Henry: but the King's apprehension of the Duke of Guise appearing in Paris was much stronger than his respect for his minister's opinion; and he proceeded with what he had to say, in spite of every sign or hint that could be given him.

"You must know, Monsieur de Logères," he said, "that, as I before observed, she did visit Vincennes for a brief space; but, there being something embarrassing in the whole business, we were, to say the truth--albeit not insensible to beauty--we were not at all sorry to see her depart."

Although Charles of Montsoreau judged rightly that the abode of Vincennes, to the high and pure-minded girl whom he sought, could only have been one of horror, he could not conceive any thing in her situation which should have proved embarrassing to the King, and he answered bluntly, "Then your Majesty of course has caused her to be escorted in safety to the Duke of Guise, as the means of relieving yourself from all embarrassment concerning her."

"Not so, not so, Monsieur de Logères," replied the King. "Young diplomatists and young greyhounds run fast and overleap the game. It so happens that there are various claims regarding the wardship of this young Lady. She has many relations, as near or nearer than the Duke of Guise. The care and guidance of her, too, under the authorisation of the Duke himself, has been claimed by a young nobleman whom you may have heard of, called the Marquis of Montsoreau;" and he fixed his eyes meaningly upon the young Count's face. "All these circumstances rendered the matter embarrassing; and as I was not called upon to decide the matter judicially; and the Lady, if not quite of an age by law to judge for herself, being very nearly so, I thought it far better to leave the whole business to her own discretion, and let her take what course she thought fit, offering her every assistance and protection in my power, which, however, she declined. You may therefore assure the Duke of Guise, on my part, that she is not at Vincennes, and that I am unacquainted with where she is at this moment. I now think, therefore, that all your questions are answered, and the business is at an end."

"I fear I must intrude upon your Majesty still farther," replied the young Count; "for besides the letter from the Duke of Guise, which I have had the honour of delivering to your Majesty, he has also furnished me with this document, giving me full power and authority to inquire, seek for, and require, at the hands of any person in whose power she may be, the young Lady whom he claims as his ward. He has directed me to request your Majesty's approbation of the same, expressed by your signature to that effect, giving me authority to search for her in your name also, and to require the aid and assistance of all your officers, civil and military, in executing the said task."

Henry looked both agitated and angry; and Villequier spoke for a moment to Epernon behind the King's back.

"Monsieur de Logères," exclaimed the latter, taking a step forward, "this is too much. I can hardly suppose that his Highness the Duke of Guise has authorised you to make such a demand."

"My Lord Duke of Epernon," replied the Count, "were it not that I hold in my hand the Duke's authority for that which I state, I would call upon you to put your insinuation in plainer terms, that I might give it the lie as plainly as I would do any other unjust accusation."

The Duke turned very red; but he replied, "And you would be treated, sir Count, as a petty boy of the low nobility of this realm deserves, for using such language to one so much above yourself."

"There is no one in France so much above myself, sir," replied the Count, gazing on him sternly, and with a look of some contempt, "as to dare to insult me with impunity; and though you be now High-admiral of France, Colonel-general of Infantry, Governor of half the provinces of this country, Duke, Peer, and hold many another rich and honourable office besides, I tell you, John of Nogaret, that when the Baron de Caumont dined at my father's table, he sat nearer the salt than perhaps now may suit the proud Duke of Epernon to remember."

"Silence!" exclaimed the King, rousing himself for a moment from his effeminate apathy, while, for a brief space, an expression of power and dignity came over his countenance, such as that which had distinguished him while Duke of Anjou. "Silence, insolent boy! Silence, Epernon! I forbid you, on pain of my utmost displeasure, to take notice, even by a word, of what this young man has said. You were yourself wrong to answer for the King in the King's presence. The Duke of Guise shall have no just occasion to complain of us," he added, the brightness which had come upon him gradually dying away like the false promising gleam of sunshine which sometimes breaks for a moment through a rainy autumnal day, and fades away again as soon, amidst the dull grey clouds; "the Duke of Guise shall have no occasion to complain of us. We will give this young man the authority which he has so insolently demanded, to seek for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and having found her--if she have not joined the Duke of Guise long before--to escort her in safety to our cousin's care. But, Monsieur de Logères, you show your ignorance of every custom of the court and state, by supposing that the King of France can write down at the bottom of the powers given you by the Duke of Guise his name in confirmation of the same, like a steward at the bottom of a butcher's bill. The authority which we give you must pass through the office of our secretary of state, and it shall be drawn out and sent to you as speedily as possible. I think that Monsieur de Villequier already knows where to send this authority. You may now retire; and rest assured that it shall reach you as soon as possible. At the same time we pardon you for your conduct in this presence, which much needs pardon, though it does not merit it."

Charles of Montsoreau bowed low, and retired from the King's presence, fully convinced that Henry was deceiving him; that he knew, or, at all events, had every means of judging, where Marie de Clairvaut was; and that he had not the slightest intention of sending him the authorisation he had promised, unless absolutely driven to do so.

The moment that the young Count had quitted the presence, the King turned angrily to Villequier, exclaiming, "Are you mad, Villequier, to risk bringing that fiery and ambitious pest upon us? 'Tis but four days ago he was within ten miles of Paris!"

"Pshaw, Sire!" replied Villequier; "there is not the slightest chance of his coming. Did I not tell you when he was at Gonesse that I would find means to make him run like a frightened hare back again to Soissons? I fear your Majesty has ruined all our plans by promising this authority to that malapert youth, who doubtless already knows, or easily divines, that he is deceived."

"I have not deceived him," said the King: "I told him the girl was not at Vincennes; nor is she. I told him that I did not know where she is at this moment; nor do I; for she may be three miles on this side of Meulan, or three miles on that, for aught I know. It depends upon the quickness of the horses, and the state of the roads. I promised him the authority to seek her; and he shall have it in good due form, if he live long enough, and wait in Paris a sufficient time."

"If he have it not within three days," replied Villequier, "be you sure, Sire, that he will write to the Duke of Guise."

"But, Villequier," said the King in a soft tone, "could you not find means to prevent his making use of pen and ink to such bad purposes? In short, friend René, it is altogether your affair. You seem to think that the fact of this girl falling into our hands is quite the discovery of a treasure which may fix on our side this young Marquis of Montsoreau and the crafty Abbé that you talk of, and I don't know how many more people besides. Now I told you from the beginning that you should manage it all yourself: so look to it, good Villequier; look to it."

"He has let me manage it all myself, truly!" said Villequier, in a low tone, "But I wish to know more precisely, your Majesty," he added aloud, "what am I to do with this youth and the girl? Is he to have the authorisation, or not? Am I, or am I not, to give her up when he demands her?"

"Now, good faith," replied the King, "would not one think, Epernon, that our well-beloved friend and minister here was a mere novice out of a convent of young girls, a tender and scrupulous little thing, thinking evil, in every stray look or soft word addressed to her. He who has dealt with so many in his day, diplomatists and warriors and statesmen, has not wit enough to deal with a raw boy, whom, doubtless, our fair and crafty cousin of Guise has sent upon a fool's errand to get him out of the way."

"Certainly," replied the Duke of Epernon, "our wise friend Villequier seems to be somewhat prudent and cautious this morning. The young lady is in your hands, I think, Villequier; is she not? and you have sent her off into Normandy, I think you told me, with an escort of fifty of your archers. She goes there, doubtless, as his Majesty has said, with her own will and consent, and by her own choice, for there is a soft persuasiveness in fifty archers which it is very difficult for a woman's heart to resist; and, doubtless, by the same cogent arguments, you will induce her to marry whom you please. Come, tell us who it is to be; the hand of a rich heiress to dispose of, may be made a profitable thing, under such management as yours, Villequier."

"I have not discovered the philosopher's stone, like you, Monsieur d'Epernon," replied the other.

The King laughed gaily, for Epernon's extraordinary cupidity was no secret even to the monarch that fed it. But the Duke was proof to all jest upon that score; and looking at Villequier with the same sort of musing expression which he had before borne, he repeated his question, saying, "Come, come, disinterested chevalier, tell us to whom do you intend to give her?"

"Perhaps to my own nephew," replied the other. "What think you of that, Monsieur le Duc?"

The brow of Epernon grew clouded in a moment. "I think," he said, "that you will not do it, for two reasons: in the first place, you destine your nephew for your daughter Charlotte."

"Not I," replied the Marquis; "I never dreamt of such a thing. She shall wed higher than that, or not at all. But what is your second reason, Monsieur d'Epernon?"

"Because you dare not," replied the Duc d'Epernon: and he added, speaking in a low tone, "You dare not, Villequier, mingle your race with that of Guise. The moment you do, your object will be clear, and your ruin certain."

"It is a curious thing, Sire," said Villequier, turning to the King with a smile, "it is a curious thing to see how my good Lord of Epernon grudges any little advantage to us mean men. However, to set his Grace's mind at ease, I neither destine Mademoiselle de Clairvaut for one nor for the other; but I think she may prove a wonderful good bait for the wild young Marquis of Montsoreau. By the promise of her hand, as far as my interest and influence is concerned, he will not only be bound to your Majesty's cause on every occasion, but will exert himself more zealously and potently for that, than any other inducement could lead him to do. Even if he should fail in the trial--for we must acknowledge that he shows himself somewhat unstable in his purposes--he will, at all events, have so far committed himself as to give your Majesty good cause for confiscating all his land, cutting down all his timber, and seizing upon all his wealth. However, I must think, in the first place, of how to deal with this brother of his."

"No very difficult task, I should judge," said the Duke of Epernon, "for one so practised in the art of catching gudgeons as you, Villequier."

"I don't know that," answered Villequier; "I would fain detach that youth, also, from the Guises. You see, most noble Duke, I am thinking of the King's interest all the time, while you are thinking of your own. However, I must find a way to manage him, for, as their wonderful friend and tutor, this wise Abbé de Boisguerin, admitted to me last night, there are three means all powerful in dealing with our neighbours--love, interest, and ambition; and we might thus exemplify it,--the King would do any thing for the first, the Duke of Epernon any thing for the second, and his Highness of Guise any thing for the third."

"There are two other implements frequently used, which I wonder Monsieur de Villequier did not add," said the Duke, "as I rather expect he may have to use one or other of them on the present occasion; and men say he is fully as skilful in using them as in employing love, interest, or ambition, for his ends."

"Pray what are those?" demanded Villequier, somewhat sharply.

"Vicenza daggers," replied the Duke of Epernon, "and wine that splits a Venice glass!"

"Come, come, Epernon," cried the King, "you and Villequier shall not quarrel. Come away from him, come away from him, or you will be using your daggers on each other presently:" and, throwing his arm familiarly round his neck, he drew the Duke away.

[CHAP. V.]

Charles of Montsoreau rode homeward in painful and anxious thought: he had flattered himself vainly, before he had proceeded to Vincennes, that the redoubted name of Henry of Guise would be found fully sufficient immediately to cause the restoration of Marie de Clairvaut to him, who had naturally a right to protect her. It less frequently happens that youth fails to reckon upon the fiery contention it is destined to meet with from adversaries, than that it miscalculates the force of the dull and inert opposition which circumstances continually offer to its eager course, throwing upon it a heavy, slow, continual weight, which, like a clog upon a powerful horse, seems but a nothing for the moment, but in the end checks its speed entirely. None knew better than Henry III. that it is by casting small obstacles in the way of impetuous youth, that we conquer and tame it sooner than by opposing it; and such had been his purpose with Charles of Montsoreau.

In his idle carelessness he cared but little what became of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, or into whose hands she fell. He was willing to countenance and assist the politic schemes of his favourite Villequier; and cared not, even in the slightest degree, whether that personage employed poison or the knife to rid himself of the young Count of Logères, provided always that he himself had nothing to do with it. The only part that he was inclined to act was to thwart the Duke's young envoy by obstacles and long delays; and this he had suffered to become so far evident to Charles of Montsoreau, that he became angry and impatient at the very prospect before him. He doubted, however, whether it would be right to send off a courier with this intelligence immediately to the Duke of Guise, or to wait for two or three days, in order to see whether the powers promised him were effectually granted; and he was still pondering the matter, while riding through the streets of Paris, when, in passing by a large and splendid mansion in one of the principal streets, he caught a glimpse of two figures disappearing through the arched portal of the building. The faces of neither were visible to him; their figures only for a moment, and that at a distance. But he felt that he could not be mistaken--that all the thoughts and feelings and memories of youth could not so suddenly, so magically, be called up by the sight of any one but his brother,--and if so, that the other was the Abbé de Boisguerin.

"Whose is that house?" he exclaimed aloud, turning to his attendants.

"That of Monsieur René de Villequier," replied the page instantly; and, springing from his horse at the gate, the young Count knocked eagerly for admission. The portals were instantly thrown open, and a porter in crimson, with a broad belt fringed with gold, appeared in answer to the summons.

"I think," said the young Count, "that I saw this moment the Marquis de Montsoreau and the Abbé de Boisguerin pass into this house."

The porter looked dull, and shook his head, replying, "No, sir; nobody has passed in here but two of my noble Lord's attendants--the old Abbé Scargilas, and Master Nicolas Prevôt, who used formerly to keep the Salle d'Armes, opposite the kennel at St. Germain."

Although Charles of Montsoreau knew the existence and possibility of such a thing as the lie circumstantial, yet the coolness and readiness of the porter surprised him. "Pray," he said, after a moment's pause, "is there any such person as either Monsieur de Montsoreau or the Abbé de Boisguerin dwelling here at present?"

"None, sir," replied the man. "There is no one here but the attendants of my Lord, who is at present absent with the King."

Charles of Montsoreau would have given a good deal to have searched the house from top to bottom; but as it would not exactly do to storm the dwelling of René de Villequier, he rode on, no less convinced than ever that his brother was at that moment in the dwelling of the minister.

This conviction determined his conduct at once. That his brother was in Paris, and in the hands of the most dangerous and intriguing man of that day, he had no doubt; and it seemed to him also clear, that schemes were going on and contriving, of which the obstacles and delays thrown in his way might be, perhaps, a part. To what they tended he could not, of course, tell directly; but he saw that the only hope of frustrating them lay in exertion without the loss of a moment, and he accordingly dispatched his faithful attendant Gondrin to Soissons as soon as he reached the inn.

We must follow, however, for a moment, the two persons whom the young Count had seen enter the hotel of Villequier, and accompany them at once into the chamber to which they proceeded after passing the portal. It was a splendid cabinet, filled with every sort of rare and costly furniture, which was displayed to the greater perfection by the dark but rich tapestry that covered the walls. Another larger room opened beyond, and through the door of that again, which was partly open, a long suite of bed-rooms and other apartments were seen, with different rich and glittering objects placed here and there along the perspective, as if for the express purpose of catching the eye.

Into one of the large arm-chairs which the cabinet contained, the Marquis of Montsoreau threw himself as if familiar with the scene. "Villequier is long," he said, speaking to the Abbé. "He promised to have returned before this hour."

"Impatience, Gaspar, impatience," replied the Abbé, "is the vice of your disposition. How much have you lost already by impatience? Was it not your impatience which hurried me forward to represent his own situation and that of yourself, to your brother Charles, which drove him directly to the Duke of Guise? Was it not your impatience which made you speak words of love to Marie de Clairvaut before she was prepared to hear them, drawing from her a cold and icy reply? Was it not your impatience that made us leave behind at Provins all the tired horses and one half of the men, rather than wait a single day to enable them to come on with us; and did not that very fact put us almost at the mercy of the reiters, and give your brother an opportunity of showing his gallantry and skill at our expense?"

"It is all true, my friend; it is all true," replied the Marquis. "But in regard to my speaking those fiery words to Marie de Clairvaut, how could I help that? Is it possible so to keep down the overflowing thoughts of our bosom as to prevent their bursting forth when the stone is taken off from the fountain, and when the feelings of the heart gush out, not as from the spring of some ordinary river, but, like the waters of Vaucluse, full, powerful, and abundant even at their source."

"It was that I wished you to guard against," replied the Abbé. "Had you appeared less to seek, you would have been sought rather than avoided. It may be true, Gaspar, what authors have said, that a woman, like some animals of the chase, takes a pleasure in being pursued; but depend upon it, if she do so, she puts forth all her speed to insure herself against being caught. Unless you are very sure of your own speed and strength, you had better steal quietly onward, lest you frighten the deer. Had she heard much from my lips, and from those of her good but weak friend Madame de Saulny, of your high qualities, and of all those traits in your nature calculated to captivate and attract such a being as herself, while you seemed indifferent and somewhat cool withal, every thing--good that is in her nature would have joined with every thing that is less good--the love of high qualities and of manly daring would have combined with vanity and caprice to make her seek you, excite your attention, and court your love."

"I have never yet seen in her," said the young Marquis, "either vanity or caprice; and besides, good friend, such things to me at least are not matters of mere calculation. I act upon impulses that I cannot resist. Mine are feelings, not reasonings: I follow where they lead me, and even in the pursuit acquire intense pleasure that no reasoning could give."

"True," replied the Abbé, bending down his head and answering thoughtfully. "There is a great difference between your age and mine, Gaspar. You are at the age of passions, and at that period of their sway when they defeat themselves by their own intensity. I had thought, however, that my lessons might have taught you, my counsel might have shown you, that with any great object in view it is necessary to moderate even passion in the course, in order to succeed in the end."

"But there is joy in the course also," exclaimed Gaspar de Montsoreau. "Think you, Abbé, that even if it were possible to win the woman we love by another's voice, we could lose the joy of winning her for ourselves--the great, the transcendant joy of struggling for her affection, even though it were against her coldness, her indifference, or her anger?"

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

VOL. II.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square

HENRY OF GUISE

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF
"THE ROBBER," "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL,"
ETC. ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1839.

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

[CHAPTER V.]

[CHAPTER VI.]

[CHAPTER VII.]

[CHAPTER VIII.]

[CHAPTER IX.]

[CHAPTER X.]

[CHAPTER XI.]

[CHAPTER XII.]

[CHAPTER XIII.]

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAP. II.]

[CHAP. III.]

[CHAP. IV.]

[CHAP. V.]

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

VOL. II.

London:Printed by A. Spottiswoode,New-Street-Square

HENRY OF GUISE

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF"THE ROBBER," "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL,"ETC. ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1839.

CONTENTS

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square

AUTHOR OF
"THE ROBBER," "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL,"
ETC. ETC. ETC.