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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. III.

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. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1839.

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

The convent of the Black Penitents was a very different building indeed, and a very different establishment altogether from that which the imagination of the reader may have raised up from the images furnished by dark and mysterious tales of Italian superstition. It was certainly intended to be, and was, in some degree, a place of voluntary penitence for women who conceived that they had led a peculiarly sinful life: but there were two classes of nuns confined there by their own good will,--one of which consisted of persons who had mingled long with the world, and really led an irregular life therein; while the other comprised a number of young women of high rank, who had never known any thing, either of the pleasures or the vices which the others now fled from, but who, either by a natural feeling of devotion, or the urgency of relations, had devoted themselves at an early period to the cloister.

In point of diet, fasts, prayers, and penances the order was certainly very strict; but the building in itself was any thing but a gloomy one, and a considerable portion of it, attached to the dwelling of the superior, was set apart for the occasional boarders, who took up their abode there, or for such ladies of high rank and station as might wish to absent themselves for a time from the cares and vanities of the world, and retire to a more intimate communion with God and their own heart, than they could enjoy in such a capital as that of France.

Such was the original intention of these apartments, and the destination of the institution altogether; but we well know how every thing entrusted to human management here is corrupted in process of time. The rooms which at first had been furnished simply, were soon decked with every sort of ornament; the visiter's table, as it was called, was separated from the ordinary board of the refectory; cooks and wine-growers did their best to gratify the palate; and, with the exception of the vowed nuns, those who sought shelter in the convent of the Black Penitents were condemned to but little abstinence, and knew only this difference from the world in general, that they had an opportunity of escaping obtrusive society when they thought fit.

It was in one then of the handsomest apartments of the building--to speak truth, one far handsomer than that occupied by the Queen-mother herself--that Marie de Clairvaut made her abode during the time she was confined in that building. No great restraint, indeed, was put upon her; but the word confinement was justified by the measures taken to prevent her quitting the convent, or holding communication with any one but the nuns themselves.

To this apartment the Prioress led her back again, after putting an end to her interview with Charles of Montsoreau, and though the good lady herself was by no means entirely weaned from the affections of this world, she thought it but befitting to read Mademoiselle de Clairvaut a brief lecture on the necessity of attaching herself to higher objects, and an exhortation to abandon earthly attachments, and dedicate herself to the service of Heaven. She hinted, indeed, that there could not be an order more worthy of entering into than the one of which she was an unworthy member; nor, indeed, one in which so many of the little pleasures of life could be combined with deep devotion.

Marie de Clairvaut was, at that moment, far more inclined to weep than smile; but it was scarcely possible not to feel amused at the exhortation of the Prioress; and certainly the greater degree of knowledge which the young lady had lately acquired of conventual life would have banished from her mind all desire to take those irrevocable vows which she had once looked forward to with pleasure, even if love had not long before driven all such purposes from her mind.

Glad to be freed from importunity, and left to her own thoughts, she replied nothing to the good mother's words; and, as soon as she was gone, gave up her whole mind to the recollection of the interview which she had just had with him she loved. To her, too, that interview was a source of deep gratification; every memory of it was dear to her; every word that Charles of Montsoreau had spoken came back to her heart like the voice of hope, and giving way to the suggestions of that bright enchantress, she flattered herself with the expectation of seeing him again and again, even if the presence of the Duke of Guise in Paris failed to restore them both to liberty.

Previously to that period, she had been accustomed to see the Queen almost every day, and indeed more than once during the day; but, during the whole of that evening she saw her not again, and though she eagerly asked the next morning to be admitted to the presence of Catherine de Medici, the only answer that she obtained was, that though the Princess was expected again in the evening, she had not yet returned from the palace.

The second day passed as the first had done, but during the morning of the third the excitement of the city had communicated itself even to the inmates of the convent. The portress, the lay sisters, the visiters, obtained the news of the hour from those without, and communicated it to the nuns within. Nor did two of those nuns, who had entered into some degree of intimacy with the fair prisoner, fail to bring her, every half-hour, intelligence of what was passing without.

The first news brought was that the guards in the streets of Paris had been all changed and doubled during the preceding night, and that the Holy League and the Court were in continual agitation, watching each other's movements. One of the nuns whispered that people said, it had been proposed by the Duke of Epernon, to murder the Duke of Guise at the very door of that convent, as he came to visit the Queen-mother; and others declared, she added, that the Duke had vowed he would not rest till he had taken the crown off Henry's head, and put it on that of the Cardinal de Bourbon.

Then came intelligence that a large body of the Swiss guards had just entered Paris, and were seen marching rapidly down the Rue St. Honoré, with their fifes silent, and their drums still. Hourly after that came the news of fresh troops entering the city, and fresh rumours of manifold designs and purposes against the life of the Duke of Guise. His house was to be attacked by the French and Swiss guards, and his head to be struck off in the Place de Grève: he was to be shot by an assassin, placed at one of the windows of an opposite house, the first time he came out; and some said that Villequier had found means to bribe Lanecque, his cook, to poison him that night at supper, as well as all who were with him.

The various scenes, and the dangers and difficulties which she had lately encountered, had given Marie de Clairvaut a far greater knowledge of the world, and of how the important events of the world take place, than was possessed by any of her companions; and she assuredly did not believe a thousandth part of all the different rumours that reached her. The reiteration of those rumours, however, gave her some apprehensions for her great relation; and when towards the evening she was visited by the Prioress, and found that, beyond all doubt, every gate of the city, except the porte St. Honoré, was closed, her fears became much greater, seeing plainly that it was the design of the Court to hem the Duke in, within the walls of Paris, deprived, as they believed him to be, of all assistance from his friends without.

The night passed over, however, in tranquillity; and when, at an early hour, the young lady rose, she was informed, as she had expected, that a great part of the rumours of the preceding day were false or exaggerated. No Swiss, it was now said, had arrived, except a very small body; the Duke of Guise had been seen on horseback with the King; and the mind of Marie de Clairvaut became reassured in regard to her uncle. The Prioress herself--though somewhat given to fear, and like many other persons, absolutely enjoying a little apprehension in default of other excitement--acknowledged that all seemed likely to go well.

But this state of security was soon changed. The report regarding the arrival of the Swiss had only forerun the event by a few hours, for the sound of drums and trumpets heard from the side of the Cemetery of the Innocents towards seven o'clock in the morning, announced to the Parisians that a large body of troops had been introduced in the night, without the city in general knowing it; and in a few minutes after the movements of these forces evidently showed that some grand stroke was to be struck by the Court against its enemies. The Place de Grève was next occupied by a considerable force of mixed Swiss and French guards, favoured in their entrance by the Prevôt des Marchands, and led by the notorious Marquis d'O. Various other points, such as bridges and market-places, were seized upon by the troops; and the greatest activity seemed to reign in the royal party, while that of the Duke of Guise and the League, remained perfectly still and inactive, as if thunderstruck at this sudden display of energy.

News of all these proceedings reached Marie de Clairvaut in the convent, accompanied with such circumstances of confirmation, that she could not doubt that the intelligence was partly true. But for a short time after the troops were posted, every thing seemed to relapse into tranquillity, except that from time to time reports were brought to the convent parlour, of citizens, and especially women, being treated with great insolence and grossness by the soldiery. Crillon himself was heard to swear that any citizen who came abroad with a sword should be hung to his door-post, while worse was threatened to the wives and daughters of the burghers, if the slightest resistance was made to the troops. The portress brought news that all the houses and shops in the Rue St. Denis and the Rue St. Honoré were closed; and the Prioress herself thought it was high time to cause the convent gates to be shut and barred, and even that door which led into what was called the rector's court, and which usually stood open, to be closed and fastened with large chains.

At length tidings were brought that the first open resistance of the people had commenced; that blood had been shed; and it was rumoured that Crillon himself, attempting to take possession of the Place Maubert with two companies of Swiss and one of French guards, had been opposed by the scholars of the University and the citizen guard, and forced to retreat without effecting his object.

The terror of the Prioress was now extreme; the sound of horses galloping here and there with the most vehement speed, could be heard even in the parlour of the convent, and towards nine o'clock the roll of distant musketry borne by the wind completed the terror of the poor nuns.

It was evident now to Marie de Clairvaut that a struggle had commenced between the Monarch and the people of the capital, on which depended the safety, perhaps the life, of the Duke of Guise, and, in a great degree, her own fate and happiness. In that struggle she could take no part; and, situated as she was, she could gain no relief even from hearing any exact account of how it proceeded from time to time.

The fears of the good superior of the convent had driven her by this time to the resource of prayer. All the nuns were ordered to assemble in the chapel; and Marie de Clairvaut, feeling that none at that moment had greater need of heavenly protection than herself, prepared to follow, after listening for a few minutes, alone in her chamber, to the distant roll of musketry which still went on; when suddenly the Prioress returned in great haste with a paper in her hand, and apparently in much agitation and alarm.

"There, there," she said, thrusting the paper into Marie de Clairvaut's hands, "that is from the Queen! Do what you like! Act as you like! I would not go out for the whole world, for just through the grating I have seen a Swiss officer carried by, all dropping with blood as they bore him along the streets. I will go to prayers; I will go to prayers!"

The note from the Queen-mother was very brief.

"You know, mademoiselle," it said, "that you have not been kept where you are by my orders. I would fain have set you free two nights ago by any means in my power, if meddling fools on the one side, and cowardly fools on the other, had not frustrated my plan. I have now taken the responsibility upon myself of ordering the gates to be opened to you. The man who brings you this is brave and to be trusted; and what I have to entreat of you is, if I have shown you any kindness, to go with all speed to the hotel of my good cousin of Guise, and beseech him to do his best to allay the tumult, so far, at least, that I myself may come to him with safety. The scenes that you will meet with may be terrible, but you have that blood in your veins which does not easily shrink from the aspect of danger."

Marie de Clairvaut might be more timid than Catherine de Medici believed; but, when she thought of freedom, and of being delivered from the power of those whom she detested, to dwell once more with those she loved, she felt that scarcely any scene would be so terrible as to deter her from seeking such a result. She remarked, however, that the Queen did not once mention the name of Charles of Montsoreau, or allude to his fate. "What," she asked herself, "is he still to be kept a prisoner, while I am set at liberty? If so, liberty is scarcely worth having."

She paused, and thought for a moment, and then the hope crossed her mind of setting him at liberty herself.

"Surely," she said, "I could trace my way back to his apartments. I remember every turning well; and then, by bringing him through here, in the confusion and terror that now reign in the convent, I could easily give him his liberty too."

The more she thought of it, the more feasible the scheme seemed to be; and catching up an ordinary veil to throw over her head, she ran down into the apartments of the Queen, which she found, as she expected, quite vacant. She had no difficulty in discovering the corridor that led towards the rector's court. At the end there was a door which was locked, but the key was in it, and she passed through. Another short passage led her to the room where she had waited for the Queen, and where she had listened to Charles of Montsoreau singing; and then with a beating and an anxious heart she hurried on rapidly to the chamber where she had seen him last.

All the bolts were shot, showing her that he was still there; but exactly opposite was an open door at the top of a small staircase, which seemed to lead to a waiting-room below, for she could distinctly hear the tones and words of two men of the lower class talking over the events that were taking place without.

Gently closing the door at the top of the stairs, Marie de Clairvaut locked and bolted it as quietly and noiselessly as possible. Her heart beat so violently, however, with agitation, that she could scarcely hear any thing but its pulsation, though she listened breathlessly to ascertain if the slight noise of the lock had not attracted attention. All was still, however, and she gently undid the fastenings of the opposite door.

Charles of Montsoreau was seated at the table, and lifted his eyes as she entered with a sad and despairing look, expecting to see no one but the attendant. Marie was in his arms in a moment, however, and holding up her finger to enjoin silence, she whispered, "Not a word, Charles; but come with me, and we shall be safe! Every one is in the chapel at prayers; orders are given for my liberation; and in five minutes we may be at the Hôtel de Guise."

"What are all those sounds," demanded her lover in the same tone, "those sounds which I have heard in the streets? I thought I heard the discharge of firearms."

"I fear," she answered, "that it is my uncle's party at blows with that of the King. I know but little myself, however; only that we may make our escape if we will. I will lead you, Charles; I will lead you this time."

"Alas!" said Charles of Montsoreau as he followed her rapidly, "they have taken my sword from me;" but Marie ran on with a step of light, taking care however to lock the doors behind them as she passed to prevent pursuit.

As she had never been in the courtyard since the day of her first arrival, she met with some difficulty in finding her way thither from the Queen's apartments: haste and agitation indeed impeding her more than any real difficulty in the way. At length, however, it was reached, and was found vacant of every one but the old portress, who stood gazing through a small iron grating at what was passing without.

"Open the door, my good sister," said Marie de Clairvaut touching her arm. "Of course the Prioress has given orders for you to let me pass."

"Yes, to let you pass, my sister," replied the portress, "for I suppose you are the young lady she meant; but not to let any body else pass." And she ran her eye over the figure of Charles of Montsoreau.

"Why, surely," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "you would not stop the gentleman who is going to protect me through the streets."

"Why, I do not know," replied the portress, still sturdily setting her face against their passage; "there was another person waiting on the outside to show you the way, till just a minute ago. Where he's gone, I don't know, but he seemed the fitter person of the two, for he was an ecclesiastic. I have heard, too, of some one being confined up above, by Monsieur Villequier's orders, and as the rector's court belongs to him, they say I must take care what I am about; so I'll just ring the bell and inquire."

"I will save you the trouble of doing that, my good lady," replied Charles of Montsoreau; and stepping quietly forward, he put her gently but powerfully back with his left hand, while with his right he turned the key in the great lock of the wicket, and threw it open. The portress made a movement of her hand to the bell; but then thinking better of it, did not ring; and Marie and her lover, without further opposition, passed at once into the streets of Paris.

There were very few people in the Rue St. Denis, but on looking up and down on either side, there were seen a party of horsemen, apparently halted, at the farther end of the street, on the side nearest to the country, and a number of persons farther down, passing and repassing along one of the cross streets. Some way farther up, between the fugitives and the party of horsemen we have mentioned, were two figures, one of which was evidently dressed in the robes of an ecclesiastic, and both gazing down towards the convent, as if watching for the appearance of some one.

The moment the young Count and Marie de Clairvaut appeared, the two figures walked on rapidly in a different direction, and were lost immediately to their sight by turning down another street. There was nothing apparent that could alarm the fugitives in any degree, and though distant shouts and cries were borne upon the air, yet the sound of musketry had ceased, which gave greater courage to Marie de Clairvaut. She needed indeed some mitigation of her apprehensions, for the success which she met with in rescuing her lover had been far from increasing her courage in the same proportion that it had been diminished by the very agitation she had gone through. Drawing the thick veil over her face, and as far as possible over her person, she clung to Charles's arm, and hurried on with him, directing him as far as her recollection of the city of Paris would serve. It was long, however, since she had seen it; and although the general direction which she took was certainly right, yet many a turning did she unnecessarily take by the way.

Still, however, they hurried on, till turning suddenly into one of the small streets which led round into the Rue St. Honoré itself, the scene of fierce contention which was going on in the capital was displayed to their eyes in a moment.

Across the street, within fifty yards of the turning, was drawn an immense chain from post to post, and behind it was rolled an immense number of barrels filled with sand and stones, and rendered fixed and immovable, against the efforts of any party in front at least, by carts taken off the wheels, barrows, and paving-stones. Behind this barrier again appeared an immense multitude of men armed with various sorts of weapons snatched up in haste. The front row, indeed, was well furnished with arquebuses, while pistols, swords, daggers, and pikes gleamed in abundance behind. Several of the persons in front were completely armed in the defensive armour of the time; and in a small aperture which had been left at the corner between the barricade and the houses, sufficient only for two people to pass abreast when the chain was lowered, an officer was seen in command, with a page behind carrying his plumed casque.

The lower windows of all the houses throughout Paris were closed, and the manifold signs, awnings, and spouts, as well as the penthouses which were sometimes placed to keep off the rain and wind from some of the principal mansions, had all been suddenly removed, in order that any bodies of soldiery moving through the streets might be exposed, without a place of shelter, to the aim of the persons above, who might be seen at every window glaring down at the scene below. There too were beheld musketoons, arquebuses, and every other sort of implement of destruction; and where these had not been found, immense piles of paving-stones had been carried up to cast down upon the objects of popular enmity.

Between the two fugitives and the barricade were drawn up two companies of Swiss and one of French infantry; and though standing in orderly array, and displaying strongly the effects of good military discipline, yet there was a certain degree of paleness over the countenances of the men, and a look of hesitation and uncertainty about their officers, which showed that they felt not a little the dangerous position in which they were placed. No shots were fired on either side however, and the only movement was amongst the people, who were seen talking together, with their leaders stirring amongst them, while from time to time those who were below shouted up to those in the windows above.

Without the slightest apparent fear of the soldiers, who were thus held at bay, two or three people from time to time separated themselves from the populace, and coming out under or over the chain, passed completely round the guards to the opposite corner of the street, and appeared to be laying a plan for forming another barricade in that quarter, so as completely to inclose the soldiery.

At the sight of all these objects Marie de Clairvaut naturally clung closer to the arm of her lover, and both paused for a moment in order to judge what was best to do. An instant's consideration however sufficed, and Charles of Montsoreau led her on to that part of the barricade where the chain was the only obstacle to their further progress, passing as he did so along the whole face of the French and Swiss soldiers, not one of whom moved or uttered a word to stop them as they proceeded. At the chain, however, they met with a more serious obstacle. The officer whom they had seen in command at that point had now turned away, and was speaking to some people behind, and a rough-looking citizen, armed with a steel cap and breastplate, dropped the point of his spear to the young Count's breast saying, "Give the word, or you do not pass!"

"I do not know the word," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "But I pray you let me pass, for I am one of the friends and officers of the Duke of Guise."

"If you were you would know the word," replied the man. "Keep back, or I will run the pike into you."

"I could not know the word," answered the young Count, "if I had been long absent from the Duke, as I have been, and were hastening to join him, as I now am."

"Keep back, I say," cried the man who was no way fond of argument. "You will repent if you do not keep back."

Charles of Montsoreau was about to call to the officer he saw before him, but at that moment the other walked on amidst the people, and was seen no more.

"Let us try another street," cried Marie de Clairvaut; "let us try another street, Charles." And following this suggestion they hurried back, and took another street farther to the left.

They now found themselves in a new scene; no soldiers were there, but dense masses of people were beheld in every direction, and barricades formed or forming at every quarter. Where they were not complete the lady and her lover passed without difficulty, and almost without notice. One of the young citizens, indeed, as he helped her over a large pile of stones, remarked that her small feet ran no risk of knocking down the barricade; and an old man who was rolling up a tun to fill a vacant space, paused to let her pass, and gazing with a sort of fatherly look upon her and her lover, exclaimed, "Get ye gone home, pretty one; get ye gone home. Take her home quick, young gentleman; this is no place for such as she is."

These were all the words that were addressed to them till they again reached another barrier; but there again the word was demanded with as much dogged sullenness as ever, and the young Count, now resolved to force his way by some means, determined rather to be taken prisoner by the people and to demand to be carried to the Hôtel de Guise, than be driven from barrier to barrier any longer. He remembered, however, the degree of civility which had been shown to him by Chapelle Marteau some time before, and he demanded of the man who opposed him at the chain if either that personage or Bussi le Clerc were there. The man replied in the negative, but seemed somewhat shaken in his purpose of excluding him, by his demand for persons so well known and so popular.

At that moment, however, Charles of Montsoreau caught the sight of a high plume passing amongst the people at some distance, and the momentary glance of a face that he recollected.

"There is Monsieur de Bois-dauphin," he cried; "in the name of Heaven call him up here, that he may put an end to all this tedious opposition." The man did not seem to know of whom it was he spoke, but pointing forward with his hand, the young Count exclaimed, "That gentleman with the plume! that gentleman with the tall red plume!"

The word was passed on in a moment, and the officer approached the barrier, when Charles of Montsoreau instantly addressed him by the name of Bois-dauphin, begging him to give them admittance within the barricade, and then adding in a low voice, that he had with him the Duke's ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, who had just made her escape from the enemies of the House of Guise, and was so terrified that she could scarcely support herself any longer.

"You mistake, sir," replied the officer; "I am not Bois-dauphin, but Chamois: but I remember your face well at Soissons; the Count of Logères, if I am right."

The Count gave a sign of affirmation, while Marie de Clairvaut looked up in his face with an expression of joy and relief, and the officer immediately added, "Down with the chain directly, my good friends. You are keeping out the Duke's best friends and relations."

The men round the chain hastened eagerly to obey, but some difficulty was experienced in removing the chain, as the barrels--or barriques, as they are called in France, and from which the barriers called barricades took their name--pressed heavily upon it, and prevented it from being unhooked.

Charles of Montsoreau was just about to pass under with his fair charge as the most expeditious way, when there came a loud cry from the end of the same street by which they had themselves come thither, of "The Queen! the Queen! Long live the good Queen Catherine!" And rolling forward with a number of unarmed attendants came one of the huge gilded coaches of the time, passing at great risk to itself and all that it contained, through or over the yet incomplete barriers farther up in the street.

At the barricade where Charles of Montsoreau now was, however, the six horses by which the vehicle was drawn were brought to a sudden stop, and notwithstanding her popularity, which, at this time, was not small, the citizens positively refused to remove the barricade, although the Queen entreated them in the tone of a suppliant, and assured them that she was going direct to the Hôtel de Guise. Some returned nothing but a sullen answer, some assured her it was impossible, and would take hours to accomplish; and Monsieur de Chamois, who apparently did not choose to be seen actually aiding or directing the people in the formation of the barricades, retreated amongst the multitude, and left them to act for themselves.

At that moment the eye of Catherine de Medici fell upon Charles of Montsoreau, and she beckoned him eagerly towards her.

"You are here, of course," she said, "upon the part of the Duke."

"Not so indeed, madam," he replied; "I have but this moment made my escape from that place where I have been so long and so unjustly detained."

"Your escape!" she exclaimed in a tone that could not be affected. "Villequier has betrayed me. He promised you should be set at liberty yesterday morning. And you too, Marie," she said looking at the young Count's fair companion. "You surely received the order for your liberation that I sent."

"Safely, madam," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "and thank your Majesty deeply. But they have refused to let us pass at several barriers, otherwise I should certainly have executed your Majesty's commands."

"This is most unfortunate," said the Queen. But pray. Monsieur de Logères, exert your influence with these people as far as possible. The welfare, perhaps the very salvation of the state, depends upon my speaking with the Duke of Guise directly."

"I will do my best, madam," replied the young Count; "but I fear I shall not be able to do much. I will leave her under your protection, madam, and see."

The Queen made him place Marie de Clairvaut in the carriage beside her: and having done this, he turned to the barrier and spoke to those who surrounded that point where the chain had been lowered to let him pass, with far more effect than he had anticipated. To remove the barricade, the people said, was utterly impossible; but if her Majesty would descend and betake herself to her chair which was seen carried by her domestics behind her, they would do what they could to make the aperture large enough for her to pass.

With this suggestion Catherine de Medici, who had no personal fears, complied at once, and seated herself in the rich gilt-covered chair which followed her. She was about to draw the curtains round her and bid the bearers proceed, but her eye fell upon Marie de Clairvaut; and after a moment's hesitation between compassion and queenly state, she said, "Poor child, thou art evidently like to drop: come in here with me; there is room enough for thee also, and the Queen is old enough not to mind her garments being ruffled. Quick, quick," she added, seeing Marie hesitate; and without further words the fair girl took her place by the Queen.

Although the chairs of those times were very different in point of size from those which we see (and now alas! rarely see) in our own, yet Mademoiselle de Clairvaut felt that she pressed somewhat unceremoniously on her royal companion; but Catherine de Medici, now that the act was done, smiled kindly upon her, and told her not to mind; and the bearers taking up the chair carried it on, while the populace rolled away one of the tuns to permit its passing through the barricade. The Queen's train of attendants pressed closely round the chair, and Charles of Montsoreau followed amongst them as near as he could to the vehicle, the people shouting as they went, "Long live the Queen! Long live the good Queen Catherine!"

At all the barriers a way was made for her to pass, but still the multitudes in the streets were so thick, and the obstacles so many, that nearly three quarters of an hour passed, and the Hôtel de Guise was still at some distance.

At length Catherine de Medici drew back the curtains of gilt leather, and beckoned the young Count to approach, saying, as soon as he was near, "Pray, Monsieur de Logères, go on as fast as possible, and let the Duke know that I am coming. I fear that with all these delays he may have gone forth ere I reach his hotel. And hark. Monsieur de Logères," she continued, "if out of pure good will I once afforded you one hour of happiness that you did not expect, remember it now; and should chance serve, speak a word to the Duke in favour of my purposes. You understand? Quick--go on!"

Charles of Montsoreau hastened on at the Queen's bidding, and having now heard the pass-word often repeated amongst the citizens, met with no opposition in making his way to the Hôtel de Guise. The only difficulty that he encountered was in the neighbourhood of the mansion itself, for the street was so thickly crowded with people and with horses, that it was scarcely possible to approach the gates. Every thing was hurry and confusion too, and the dense mass of people collected in that spot was not like an ordinary crowd, either fixed to one place around the object of their attention, or moving in one direction in pursuit of a general object; but, on the contrary, it was struggling and agitated, by numbers of persons forcing their way through in every different direction, so that it was with the greatest possible labour and loss of time that any one advanced at all. The great bulk of those present were armed, and amidst corslets, and swords, and brassards, heavy boots and long spurs, Charles of Montsoreau, totally unarmed as he was, found the greatest possible difficulty in forcing his way, although, probably, in point of mere personal strength he was more than equal to any one there present.

Long ere he could reach the gate of the hotel, there was a loud cry of, "The Queen! the Queen! long live Queen Catherine!" And the crowd rolling back, as if by common consent, swept him away far from the spot which he had gained, and nearly crushed him by the pressure. At some distance he caught a sight of the Queen's chair, but it stopped at the edge of the crowd, and the movements that he saw in that part of the mass made him believe that Catherine was descending from the vehicle, intending to proceed on foot.

He doubted not that the Queen's attendants, who were very numerous, would keep off the multitude; and even the rolling back of the people upon himself evinced that they were inclined to show her every respect. But still feeling that all he loved on earth was there, he naturally strove to see over the heads of the people. It was in vain that he did so, however, for between him and the line along which the Queen was passing was a sea of waving plumes of every height and colour, and all that he could discover was, how far she had proceeded on her way to the gates, by the rush of the people closing up behind her as soon as she had passed.

Just as she was entering the mansion a considerable degree of confusion was created in the crowd by one of the horses, held not far from the place where Charles of Montsoreau stood, either frightened by the noise, or pressed upon by the people, beginning to kick violently. The man whom he first struck was luckily well covered with defensive armour; but he was knocked down notwithstanding, and all the rest rushed back, pressing upon the others behind them in confusion and dismay.

Charles of Montsoreau, however, took advantage of the opportunity to make his way forward; but just as he was so doing he was encountered by the Marquis de Brissac hurrying eagerly forward through the crowd. He was dressed in his ordinary clothes, and armed with nothing but his sword; but there was fire and eagerness in his eyes, and he seized the young Count by the hand, exclaiming, "I am delighted to have found you, Logères. I wanted a man of action and of a good head. Come with me! come with me quick! or we shall have more mischief done than is at all needful. They have begun firing again! There!--Don't you hear?"

"I hear now," replied the Count, "but I did not pay attention to it before. I would come with you willingly. Monsieur de Brissac, but I wish to see the Duke. He does not know yet that I am at liberty: neither have I a sword."

"The Duke cannot see you now," cried Brissac, still holding the Count by the arm. "The Queen and her people are with him. I will get you a sword. Come with me, come with me. Here, fellow, give the Count your sword." And taking hold of the baldric of one of the men near, he made him unbuckle it, and threw it over the Count's shoulders.

For Brissac, who was well known to almost every body there, the people now made way at least in some degree; and followed by the young Count he hurried on, till they both could breathe somewhat more at liberty.

In the mean time the sound of the musketry was heard increasing every moment, and Brissac after listening for a moment exclaimed, "It comes from the Marché Neuf. By Heavens! Logères, we must put a stop to this, or they will take up the same music all over the town, and we shall have those poor devils of Swiss slaughtered to a man. Who is that firing at the Marché Neuf?" he demanded at the first barrier they reached.

"Our people," replied the captain of the quarter, "are firing upon the soldiers in the market-place I hear."

"Quick, Arnault; quick!" cried Brissac. "Get the keys of the slaughter-house and bring them after me with all speed! Come on, Logères, come on!" he continued, unable to refrain from a joke even in the exciting and terrible scene that was going on. "The King will find, I am afraid, that he has brought these pigs to a bad market, as the good ladies of the halle say. We must save as many of them from being butchered as we can, however." And running on, followed by two or three persons from the different barriers that they passed, they soon reached the corner of the Marché Neuf, where an extraordinary and terrible scene was exposed to their eyes.

The market, which was somewhat raised above a low street that passed by its side, was a large open space, having at that time neither booths nor penthouses to cover the viands, usually there exposed, from the sun: each vendor that thought fit spreading out his own little canvass tent over his goods when he brought them. On the side by which Brissac and Charles of Montsoreau approached, there was a low wall, not a yard high, separating the market from the street which passed by the side, with some steps up to the former, as well as two or three open spaces to give ingress; and on the other side was a long low range of covered slaughter-houses, with tall buildings overtopping them beyond.

In the midst of this open space, cooped in by barricades on every side, and surrounded by tall houses with innumerable windows, was a body of about eight hundred Swiss. They were standing firm in the midst of the place, forming a three-sided front, with their right and left resting on the slaughter-houses; and while their front rank poured a strong and well-directed but ineffectual fire upon the two barricades opposite, the second rank endeavoured to pick off their assailants at the different windows.

In the meanwhile, however, from those windows and barricades was poured in upon the unhappy Swiss a tremendous fire, almost every shot of which told. The people at the barriers rose, fired, and then bent down again behind their defences, while the men at the windows kept up a still more formidable, but more irregular discharge, sometimes firing almost altogether, as if by common consent, sometimes picking off, here and there, any of their enemies they might fix upon; so that at one moment, the whole sweeping lines of the tall houses were in one blaze of fire and cloud of smoke; and the next, the flashes would drop from window to window, over each face of the square, like some artificial firework.

Such was the scene of confusion and destruction which burst upon the eyes of Brissac and Charles of Montsoreau when they entered the square of the Marché Neuf. The fire of the barrier which they passed was instantly stopped, but in other places it was still going on and Brissac, without the slightest hesitation, jumped at once upon the low wall we have mentioned, and waved his hat in the air, shouting loudly to cease firing. Some cessation instantly took place, but still not altogether; and Charles of Montsoreau, rapidly crossing the marketplace to command the men at the opposite barricade to stop, was slightly wounded in the arm by a ball from one of the windows.

It luckily happened that the baldric which had been procured for him by Brissac bore the colours of the League and the cross of Lorraine embroidered on the front; and the defenders of the barrier stopped instantly at his command. When that was accomplished, he turned to rejoin Brissac, and as he went, called to the people at the lower windows of the houses to stop firing in the name of the Duke of Guise, and to pass the same order up to those above them. The Swiss had ceased immediately, very glad of any truce to an encounter in which fifty or sixty of their number had already fallen, while many more were seriously wounded.

The keys which Brissac had sent for had by this time arrived; and, accompanied by the young Count, he advanced, hat in hand, to the officer in command of the Swiss, who met him half way with a sad but calm and determined countenance.

"You see, sir," said Brissac, "that it is perfectly impossible for you to contend against the force opposed to you."

"Perfectly," replied the officer; "every street is a fortress, every house a redoubt. But we never intended to contend, and indeed had received orders to retire, but could not do so on account of the barricades, when suddenly some shot was fired from behind those buildings; and whether it was a signal to commence the massacre, or whether the people thought that we had fired, I know not, but they instantly began to attack us; and here are more than sixty of my poor fellows butchered without cause."

"There is only one plan to be pursued, sir," replied Brissac, "in order to save you. You must instantly lay down your arms."

"Were the people opposed to me soldiers, sir," replied the officer, "I would do so at a word; but the people seem in a state of madness, and the moment we are disarmed they might fall upon us all, and butcher us in cold blood--yourself and all, for aught I know."

"I have provided against that, sir," replied Brissac. "Here are the keys of those buildings, which will shelter you from all attack, I must not put in your hands a fortress against the citizens of Paris; so that while you retain your weapons you cannot enter; but the moment you lay down your arms, I will give you that shelter, and pledge my word for your protection."

The joy which spread over the officer's countenance at this offer plainly showed, what neither word nor look had done before, how deeply he had felt the terrible situation in which he was placed.

"It shall be done this instant," he said; and returning to his men, while Brissac unlocked the gates, he made them pile their arms in the market-place, amidst a deafening shout from the people on all sides. The Swiss then marched, rank by rank, into the place of shelter thus afforded them; and Brissac, bowing low to the commander, who entered the last, said with a smile, which the other returned but faintly, "In name, my dear sir, the exchange you are just making is not an agreeable one; but I am sure you will find that this slaughterhouse is rather a more comfortable position than the one from which I have just delivered you."

The Marquis then caused a guard of the citizens to be placed over the arms of the Swiss; and turning to Charles of Montsoreau, he said, "Come, let us quick to the new bridge. The King used to say of me, Monsieur de Logères, that I was good for nothing, either on the sea or on the land. I think he will find to-day that I am good for something on the pavement."

Thus saying he led the way back through the barrier; and Charles of Montsoreau, having more leisure now than before to observe the countenances and demeanour of the different people around, could not help thinking that older and more skilful soldiers than the citizens of Paris could boast were busy in directing the operations of the populace in different parts of the city. The scene was a strange and extraordinary one altogether; the streets were absolutely swarming with people, and crowds were hurrying hither and thither through every open space, but were still kept in dense masses by the constant obstruction of the barricades.

Hastening on through the midst of these masses with Brissac, the young nobleman's eye ran hastily over all the crowds that he passed, when suddenly, at the end of one of the largest streets, which rose between the dark gigantic houses on either side, with a gentle acclivity from the spot where he then stood, he saw amongst the various groups which were moving rapidly along or across it, one which attracted his attention more particularly than the rest. It was at that moment coming down the street, but proceeding in a somewhat slanting direction towards the corner of another small street, not fifty yards from the spot where he then was. There were two figures in it, in regard to which he could not be deceived: the one nearest him was the Abbé de Boisguerin, the second was his own brother, Gaspar de Montsoreau; and he could not help imagining that another whom he saw leading the way was that personage who had first called upon him on his arrival in Paris, named Nicolas Poulain.

Before he could recollect himself, an exclamation of surprise had called the attention of Brissac; but remembering how much his brother had excited the indignation of the Duke of Guise, and that his very life might be in danger if taken in the streets of Paris at that time, Charles of Montsoreau only answered in reply to Brissac's questions, that he had fancied he saw somebody whom he knew.

"There goes worthy Master Nicolas Poulain," said Brissac, "and the good Curé of St. Genevieve, as zealous in our cause as any one; but we can't stop to speak with them just now." And he was hurrying on, but Charles of Montsoreau stopped him, saying,

"For my part, Monsieur de Brissac, I shall return to the Hôtel de Guise. The Duke, I dare say, has concluded his interview with the Queen by this time, and I much wish to speak with him."

"Well, you cannot miss your way," cried Brissac. "Take that first turning to the left, and then the third to the right, and it will lead you straight to the Porte Cochére."

Charles of Montsoreau nodded his head, and hurried on, with manifold anxieties and apprehensions in his bosom, which twenty times he pronounced to be absurd, but which, nevertheless, he could not banish by any effort of reason.

[CHAP. II.]

We must now return to mark what was passing at another point in the capital, an hour or two earlier than the events narrated in the end of the last chapter. The Duke of Guise sat in a cabinet in his hotel, with his sword laid upon the table before him, which also bore a pen, and ink, and paper, and some open letters. His foot was resting on a footstool, his dress plain but costly, and not one sign of any thing like preparation for the stirring events, which were to take place that day, apparent in either his looks, his apparel, or his demeanour.

Beside him booted, and in some degree armed, stood the Count of St. Paul; while Bois-dauphin, who had just had his audience, was leaving the cabinet by a low door, and the Duke, bending his head, appeared listening with the utmost tranquillity to what his friend was telling him.

"Then the matter is done," he said, as soon as St. Paul had concluded. "The Place Manbert is in the hands of the people, and may be made a Place d'Armes. Bois-dauphin tells me that the soldiers under Tinteville, at the Petit Pont, are barricaded on all sides and cannot move. You give me the same account of the Marché Neuf, the same is the case with the Grève, the French guard under the Chatelet are hemmed in all round, the Cemetery of the Innocents is invested on all sides, and Malivaut, I understand, has been driven from his post in great disorder. This being done, St. Paul, you see these troops of the King's are not exactly in fortresses, but in prisons; and how Biron, or Crillon, or the King himself, could have committed the extraordinary error--all of them being men of experience--how they could have committed the extraordinary error, I say, of dividing their soldiery in the narrow streets and squares of such a city as Paris, sending them far from the palace, and leaving them without communication with each other, I cannot conceive. However, they are all in our hands, and what we must think of is, to make a moderate use of our success. Try to keep the people from any active aggression, St. Paul; let them stand upon the defensive only, spread amongst them different parties of those whom we have collected, who may give them direction and assistance if needful. But keep the principal part of our own people in this neighbourhood, that we may direct them on any point where their presence may be necessary."

"Might it not be as well, your Highness," said the Count, "to take one measure more? We have far more people than enough to guard all the barricades. I can undertake to draw ten or even twelve thousand from different spots, and march them out of the Porte Neuve."

"To lead them where?" demanded the Duke of Guise, lifting his eyes to the countenance of St. Paul with a meaning expression.

"To the Tuilleries and to the Louvre," replied the Count. "Every point of importance," he added in a low and meaning voice, "will then be invested."

The Duke of Guise waved his hand. "No, St. Paul, no!" he said, "that step would instantly require another. No; if the enemy misjudge our forbearance, and attempt aught towards shedding the blood of the citizens of Paris, we must then act as God shall direct us. In the mean time I say not, that the barricades may not be carried up to the very gates of the Louvre, for that is for our own defence; but at present, St. Paul, at present, it must be on the defensive that we stand. I beseech you, however, to see that no ground is lost in any part of the city, for you know how soon an advantage is gained. Should it be needful send for me, but not till the last extremity."

The Count of St. Paul turned to obey, but paused for a moment before he had reached the door. The Duke of Guise by this time was gazing fixedly upon the hilt of his sword, as it lay on the table before him, and seemed perfectly unconscious that the Count had not quitted the room. A slight smile curled that gentleman's lip, as he saw the direction that the Duke's eyes had taken, and he opened the door and passed out.

For several minutes the Duke of Guise continued to gaze in deep thought; and his bosom at that moment was certainly full of those sensations which never, perhaps, occur to any man but once in his lifetime--even if Fate have cast him one of those rare and memorable lots, which bear down the winner thereof, upon the stream of fame and memory, through a thousand ages after his own day is done. The fate of his country was in his hands; he had but to stretch out his arm and grasp the crown of France: and what temptations were there to do so to a mind like his!

It must not be forgotten that the Duke of Guise, by every hereditary feeling, by every prejudice of education, as well as by many strong and peculiar points in his own character, was in truth and reality a strenuous and zealous supporter of the Roman Catholic Church. His veneration for that great and extraordinary institution had descended to him from his father, and had formed the great principle of action in his own life. Even had he merely assumed that devotion for the church during so many years, the very habit must have moulded his feelings into the same form; and he must have been by this time, more or less a zealous advocate of the Catholic cause, even if he had set out with caring nothing in reality about it. But such was not the case: his father had educated him in principles of strict and stern devotion to the faith in which they were born; and though in the gaieties and the frivolities of youth, or the eager struggles of manhood, he might have appeared in the ordinary affairs of life any thing on earth but the zealot, yet still his zeal would have been far more than a pretence, had it only been the effect of early education and constant habit.

There was something still more, however, to be said. The spirit of the Catholic Church was consonant to, and harmonious with, the whole tone of his own feelings, at once deep, powerful, imaginative, enthusiastic, politic, and commanding. Chivalry, feudalism, and the Church of Rome, went hand in hand: all three were, indeed, in their decay; but if ever man belonged to the epoch of chivalry, it was Henry Duke of Guise; and he clung to all the other institutions that were attached to that past epoch, of which he in spirit was a part.

Attached therefore sincerely, deeply, and zealously to the Catholic Church--far, far more than his brother the Duke of Mayenne ever was or ever could be--Guise beheld a weak monarch, whom he despised and hated from the very bottom of his heart, wasting the whole energies of the Catholic party in France in a mere pretence of opposing the Huguenots, and, in fact, caring for nothing but so to balance the two religious factions as to be permitted to remain in luxurious indolence, swallowed up with the most foul, degrading, and abhorrent vices; setting an example of low and filthy effeminacy to his whole court; and only chequering a life of soft and unmanly voluptuousness by bursts of frantic debauchery, or moments of apparent penitence and devotion, so wild and extravagant as to betray their own affectation, by the absurdities which they displayed.

The church to which Guise was attached was thus betrayed; his own especial friends and relations were neglected, insulted, or maltreated; all that were great or good in the nobility of France were shut out from the high offices of state, trampled upon by the minions of the King, and plundered by insolent and fraudulent financiers; the course of public justice was totally perverted; every thing in the government was venal and corrupt; the exertions of commerce and industry totally put to a stop; assassination, poison, and the knife, of daily occurrence; and bands of audacious plunderers tearing the unhappy land from north to south.

The Duke of Guise might well think, as he sat there gazing upon the hilt of that renowned sword which had never been drawn in vain, that, were he to say the few short words which were all that was necessary to bring the crown to his head and the sceptre to his hand--he might well think that he could obtain for France thereby those great objects which he conceived were, beyond all others, necessary to her well-being. He might well conceive too that the cost of so doing would but be little: civil war already raged in the land; the whole south of France was one scene of contention; it already existed in the capital; and would, in all probability, be shortened rather than prolonged by his striking the one great and decisive blow.

The King, who was absolutely at his mercy, and whom he could cast down from his throne at a single word, was no obstacle in his way; the Epernons, the d'Aumonts, the Villequiers, he looked upon, notwithstanding all their favour, and the semblance of power which had been cast into their hands, as a mere herd of deer, to be driven backwards and forwards, like beasts of the chase, between himself and Henry of Navarre. And then again, when he looked to the great and chivalrous Huguenot monarch, what were the feelings with which he regarded the struggle that might take place between them? His breast heaved, his chest expanded, his head was raised, his eye flashed with the thought of encountering an adversary worthy of the strife, a rival of powers equal or nearly equal to his own. When he thought of army to army, and lance to lance, against Henry of Navarre, with the crown of France between them as the golden prize of their mighty strife, his spirit seemed on fire within him, and he had well nigh forgotten all his resolutions, in order to do the daring act which might bring about that glorious result; and then, when fancy pictured him returning triumphant over his rival, with peace restored, and civil war put down, and commerce flourishing, and the rights of France maintained on every frontier, an uniform religion, a happy people, and the strong truncheon of command in a hand that could wield it lightly, the prospect was too bright, too beautiful, too tempting; and he pressed his hand tight upon his eyes, as if he could so shut it out from his mental vision.

What was it that deterred him? There was much reason on his side; there was little if any risk; there was the object of the church's safety; there was the gratification of vengeance upon those who had insulted and injured him; there were the exhortations of the King of Spain; there was almost the universal voice of the people in the north of France; there was his own ambition; there was the certainty that all he did would be absolved, sanctioned, confirmed by the head of the Catholic Church; there was already in his favour the solemn and decided declaration of the highest theological authority in France; and there was many a specious argument, which no one could expect that he should sift and refute against himself.

What was it deterred him? Was it that there is a majesty which hedges in a King, sufficiently strong to overawe even the Duke of Guise himself? Was it that the habitual reverence, which he had been accustomed to show towards the kingly office, veiled or shielded from his eyes the real weakness of him who exercised it? Was it that he feared himself?--Or was it that he felt the act of usurpation must be confirmed by murder?

It cannot be told! Certain it is that he dreamt grand visions; that he saw mighty prospects of fair paths leading to honour, and glory, and high renown, and his country's good, and his church's safety; and that he banished the visions and would not take the only step which would have over-passed every barrier to his forward way.

The words of Catherine de Medici rung in his ears--the words which had warned him against the growth of ambition in his own heart; he heard the shouts of the people without, and her warning voice again came back in tones that seemed well nigh prophetic. Almost, it would appear, without a cause, the vanity of all things seemed to press upon his mind at that moment with stronger effect than he had ever experienced before. There was a leaden weight upon his spirits he knew not why. He seemed to feel the hand of Fate, the tangible pressure of a directing arm, selecting for him the path he was to pursue, and forcing him thereon at the very moment when supreme command appeared given to him without a check.

The sun seemed to dazzle his eyes as he gazed from the window, vague figures passed before him, and crossed the dancing motes, picturing, like shadows, the persons of whom he had been thinking. He saw Henry the Third distinctly before him, and fierce faces and bloody knives, and figures weltering in their blood upon the ground. He felt that he had indulged fancy too far, that he had given way to thought at the moment of action, that his course must be shaped as he had predetermined it in calmer hours; and waving his hand, as if to dispel the visions that still haunted his sight, he rose from his chair, leaning heavily on the table, pushed the sword away from him, and murmured to himself, "No, no! I will never be an usurper! Ho, without there!" he continued. "Who waits? What is that sound of musketry?"

"Erlan has just arrived, my Lord," replied the attendant, "to bear your Highness word, that the citizens have driven Malivaut down into the market, and that is the firing we hear."

"Tell Erlan to speed back as fast as possible," replied the Duke, "and bid them cease directly. Let them content themselves with hemming in the enemy without attacking them. But I hear more firing still; I shall be obliged to go forth myself."

"Monsieur de Brissac has just gone out on one side, your Highness," replied the attendant, "and Monsieur de St. Paul on the other; both with the purpose of stopping the bloodshed. But they have not had time to get to the spot yet."

"It has ceased now," said the Duke listening. "It has ceased now towards the Chatelet: but on the other side it is fierce. Go down and see what are those shouts, and let me know! Surely Henry," he added, "would not venture into such a scene as this. Alas, no! He would venture nothing--dare nothing, either for his own sake or his country's."

A moment after the attendant returned saying, "It is the Queen, my Lord; her Majesty Queen Catherine. The crowd of people prevents the chair from coming up to the gates; but she has descended and is coming on foot."

The Duke instantly started up and approached the head of the staircase for the purpose of hurrying down to receive his royal visitor; but Catherine was by this time upon the stairs, with Madame de Montpensier and a number of other ladies, who had passed the morning at the Hôtel de Guise, surrounding her on all sides. The Duke advanced and gave her his hand to aid her in ascending the stairs; and perhaps the aspect of Catherine at that moment taught him more fully than any thing else, how tremendous was the scene without, and how completely the capital of France was at his disposal.

Habituated for more than twenty years to control all her feelings, and to repress every appearance of fear or agitation, Catherine de Medici was nevertheless on the present occasion completely overcome. Her lip quivered, her head shook, and there was a degree of wild apprehension in her eyes, which it was some moments ere her strongest efforts could conquer.

"Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as she had drawn her breath, "I must speak with you for a few moments alone; I must beseech you to give me audience, even if it be but for half an hour."

"Your Majesty has nothing to do but command," replied the Duke. "My time is at your disposal."

The Queen smiled slightly at feeling how easily the empty words of courts may be retorted upon those that use them. It has been said that it costs nothing to use civil language and say courtly things, even when insincere: but it costs much; for, sooner or later, we are sure to be paid in the same coin to which we have given currency, perhaps even more depreciating than when we sent it forth. She answered only by that smile however; and the Duke led her forward to his cabinet, all the rest of those who crowded the staircase remaining behind.

With every sign of ceremonious reverence the Duke of Guise led his royal guest to a seat, and stood before her; but she paused for a moment, and hesitated ere she spoke. "My Lord," she said at length, "this is a terrible state of things."

"Your Majesty knows more of it than I do," replied the Duke calmly, "for I have not gone forth from the house to-day; but I hear there is some tumult in Paris."

"Henry of Guise!" replied the Queen, fixing her eyes upon him. "Henry of Guise, be sincere!"

"Madam," replied the Duke, "one must adapt one's tone to circumstances. With those who are sincere with us we may be as candid as the day; but when we are sadly taught the fallacy of words, and the fragility of promises, we must, of course, shelter ourselves under some reserve."

"Your Highness's words imply an accusation," said Catherine somewhat sharply. "In what have I dealt insincerely with you?"

"Your Majesty promised me," replied the Duke of Guise, "that my noble friend, the young Count of Logères, should be set at liberty not later than yesterday morning; and that my ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, should be immediately replaced under my protection."

"You have done me wrong, your Highness," replied the Queen; "and attributed to want of will what only arose from want of power. Villequier has formally claimed the guardianship of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; his application is before the parliament at this hour; and orders have been given on all hands for the young Lady to remain under the protection of the King till the question is decided."

"I will cut his cause very short," replied the Duke of Guise frowning, "if she be not within my gates ere six hours be over."

"She is within your gates even now, my Lord," replied the Queen. "Your Highness is too quick. I sent an order myself for the liberation of the Count de Logères, for that only depended upon the King my son. Some one, however, diverted it from its right course, and he was only set free this morning. He ought to have been here before me, for I sent him on; but I suppose he has not been able to pass the mass of people round your doors. As to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I have risked every thing to restore her to you; and notifying to Villequier and Epernon that I would no longer countenance her being detained, I liberated her on my own authority and brought her here in my own chair. She would have been freed two nights ago, for I wished to effect the matter by a little stratagem, and have her carried from the convent and brought hither without any one knowing how or by whom it was done; but the meddling burgher guard came up and drove the people that I sent away. But let us, oh let us, my Lord, discuss more serious things. Have I now been sincere with you?"

"You have, madam," replied the Duke, "and I thank your Majesty even for doing an act of justice, so rare are they in these days. But may I know what are now your Majesty's commands?"

"You cannot affect to doubt, cousin," replied the Queen, "that Paris, the capital of my son's kingdom, is in revolt from end to end. Can you deny that you are the cause of it?"

"Though no man is bound to accuse himself, madam," replied the Duke, returning the Queen's searching glance with a calm, steady gaze, "yet I will answer your question, and sincerely. I have in no degree instigated this rising. His Majesty is the cause and not I. We see, without any reason or motion whatsoever, or any expression of the King's displeasure, large bodies of troops introduced into the city, during the night, without drums beating or colours flying, and altogether in a clandestine manner. We see them take possession of various strong points, and we hear them using menacing language--Monsieur de Crillon himself passing through the streets, breathing nothing but menaces and violence; and if your Majesty can wonder that in these circumstances the citizens of Paris fly to arms for the defence of their property, of their lives, and of the honour of their women, it is more than I can do. In truth, I know not what the King expected to produce, but the very result which is before us. I assure your Majesty, however, that it is not at my instigation that this was done; though, even if I had done this, and far more, I should have held myself completely justified."

"Justified," said the Queen, shaking her head mournfully. "What then becomes of all your Highness said upon ambition but three days ago?"

"Ambition, madam, would have nothing to do with it," replied the Duke. "It would have been merely self-defence. Who had so much cause to fear that the rash and despotic proceedings which have taken place were aimed at him as I have had? Who had so much cause to know that the object of all this military parade, was not the hanging of some half dozen miserable burghers in the Place de Grève, but the arrest, and perhaps massacre, of Henry of Guise and all his kind and zealous friends? Can you deny, madam, that such was the cause for which these soldiers were brought hither? Can you deny, madam, that only yesterday, when the King assuming friendship towards me, invited me to ride forth with him--can you deny that it was debated in his council, whether he should or should not order his guards to murder me as we went? Confident in my own conscience, madam, and believing that the King, though misinformed, entertained no personal ill-will against one who had served him well, I came to Paris, walked through the royal guards, and presented myself at Court, in the midst of my enemies, with only eight attendants; and ever since that day, there has not been an hour in which my life and liberty have not been in danger, in which schemes for my destruction have not been agitated in the Cabinet of the King; and I say that, under these circumstances, I should have been perfectly justified in raising the people for my own defence. But, madam, I did not do so; and I am not the cause of this rising.--What is it, Monsieur de Bois-dauphin?" he added, turning to a gentleman who had just entered, and who now answered a few words in a low tone. The Duke retired with him into the window, and after speaking for a moment or two in whispers, Guise dismissed him and returned, making apologies to the Queen for the interruption.

It may be said, without noticing it again, that the same sort of occurrence took place more than once--different officers and attendants coming in, from time to time, speaking for a moment with the Duke in private, and hurrying out again. Though Catherine de Medici felt this to be somewhat unceremonious treatment, and though it evidently showed her, that whatever share the Duke had had in raising the tumult at first, he assuredly now guided all its proceedings, and ruled the excited multitudes from his own cabinet; yet, in other respects, she was not sorry for time to pause and think ere she replied, knowing that she had to deal with one whose mind was far too acute to be satisfied with vague or unsatisfactory answers.

"My Lord," she said, as soon as the conversation was resumed, "I did not mean exactly to say that you are the active cause of these proceedings, or that you have excited the people. What I meant was, that your presence in Paris is the occasion of this emotion. You cannot doubt that it is so; and therefore, being in this respect the cause, it is only yourself who can provide the remedy."

"Pardon me, madam," replied the Duke of Guise; "I do not see how that can be. In the first place, I have all along denied that I am the cause, either inert or active. The people have risen for their own defence, though, certainly, my defence and my welfare is wrapped up in that of the people. In the next place, I know not what remedy can be provided in the present state of affairs. What have you to propose, madam?"

"What I came to propose, my fair cousin," replied the Queen, "and what, I am sure, is the only way of quieting the tumult that now exists, is, that you should quit Paris immediately.--Nay! nay! hear me out. If I propose this thing to you, it is not without being prepared and ready to offer you such inducements and recompences, both for yourself and all your friends, as may show you how highly the King, my son, esteems you, and at what a price he regards the service you will render him. Look at this paper, good cousin of Guise, signed with his own name, and see what perfect security and contentment it ought to give you."

The Duke of Guise, however, put the paper gently and respectfully from him, replying, "Madam, what you propose is impossible. Either the people of Paris have risen in their own defence, in which case my leaving the city would have no effect upon the tumult, or else they have risen in mine, when it would be base to abandon them. I believe the first of these cases is the true one, and that, therefore, by staying in Paris, I may serve the King far more effectually than I could by quitting the city."

Catherine de Medici had nothing directly to reply to the reasoning of the Duke; but she answered somewhat warmly, "By my faith, your Highness, I think some day you will logically prove that the best way to serve the King is to take the crown off his head."

"Madam," replied the Duke drily, "Messieurs d'Epernon, Villequier, Joyeuse, D'O., and others, have long been trying to prove the proposition which your Majesty puts forth; but they have not yet convinced me of the fact,--nor ever will. They, madam, are or have been those who have put the King's crown in danger; and, as far as regards myself, I have but to remind you that if I had any designs upon the King's person, five hundred men sent out this morning by the Porte de Nesle, and five hundred more by the Porte Neuve, would be quite sufficient for all the purposes your Majesty attributes to me."

Catherine de Medici turned deadly pale, seeing how easily the palace itself might be invested. At that instant one of the Duke's officers again entered, and spoke to him for a moment or two apart. The Queen quietly took up a pen from the table, wrote a few words on a slip of paper, and opening the door of the cabinet demanded in a low voice, "Is Pinart there?"

A gentleman instantly started forward, and putting the paper in his hands, she spoke to him for a moment in a whisper, ending with the words, "Use all speed!" Then re-entering the cabinet, she took her seat while the Duke was yet speaking with his friend.

"Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as he had done, and the stranger had departed, "you have certainly given me strong proof that you have no evil intentions; but such power is, alas! very dangerous to trust one's self with. Read that paper, I beseech you, and tell me if there be any other thing you can demand--any other condition which will induce you to quit Paris even for a few days?"

"It were useless for me to read it, madam," replied the Duke. "Nothing on earth that could be offered me would induce me to quit Paris at this moment. But believe me, madam, my being here has nothing to do with the continuance of the tumult. I have sent out all my friends and officers and relations already to calm the disturbance. But it is the King who is the cause of it, or, rather, the King's evil advisers. As he has occasioned it, he must put a stop to it."

"What would you have him do?" demanded Catherine de Medici quickly. "How would you have him act?"

"In the first place," replied the Duke, "let him recall his troops; let them be withdrawn from every post they occupy! Their presence was the cause of the people's rising, and as soon as they are gone, the emotion will gradually subside."

"He has sent the order of recall already," replied Catherine; "but it is impossible to execute it. Hemmed in by barricades on every side, how can they retire, or take one step without danger?"

"That I trust," replied the Duke, "can soon----"

But he was interrupted in the midst of what he was saying by the sudden entrance of Charles of Montsoreau.

"I beg your Highness to pardon me," he said. "Your Majesty will, I am sure, forgive me, when I ask if you know what has become of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut?"

There was anxiety and apprehension in every line of Charles of Montsoreau's countenance, and the Queen's brow instantly gathered together with a look of mingled surprise and apprehension.

"She followed me into the hotel; did she not?" exclaimed the Queen. "I got out of the chair first, and she came immediately after. Surely I saw her upon the stairs!"

"The porter, madam, declares, that there was no lady entered with your Majesty; that two or three gentlemen came in; and that it was some time before your chair, and the rest of your male attendants could come up, on account of the crowd. I have ventured to ask Madame de Montpensier and the rest of the ladies in the house, before I intruded here: but no one has seen Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and she is certainly not in the house."

"Is this the way I am treated?" exclaimed the Duke of Guise, his brow gathering into a tremendous frown. "Is this the way that I am sported with at the very moment----"

"Nay! nay! nay! Cousin of Guise," exclaimed Catherine de Medici, rising from her seat and clasping her hands. "So help me, Heaven, as I have had no share in this! I descended from my chair in the midst of the crowd--knowing terror and agitation, such as, indeed, I never knew before--and I thought that this poor girl had followed. I was too much engrossed with the thought of my son's throne tottering to its foundation to pay much attention to any thing else; but Monsieur de Logères himself can tell you, that I treated her with all kindness, and that mine was the order for her liberation."

"Indeed it was, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "Her Majesty displayed every sort of kindness, and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was in the same chair with her when I left her, scarce a hundred yards from these gates. I fear, my Lord, however, that there are machinations taking place, which I must explain to you. And in a low voice he told the Duke what he had seen while returning from the Marché Neuf.

"This Nicolas Poulain is a villain," exclaimed the Duke after he had listened. "I have received the proofs thereof this very morning. Ho! without there!--Madam, by your leave," he continued, turning to the Queen, "I would fain speak with these attendants of yours, but dare not presume to command them hither in your presence."

The Queen immediately directed all those who had followed her chair, or had borne it, to be called in, and the Duke questioned them sharply, in a stern and lofty tone, regarding what they had seen of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut after the Queen had passed on.

The answer of each was the same however, namely, that none of them had seen any thing of her. Some had accompanied the Queen and kept the way clear, and two others who, had remained with the chair, as well as the bearers themselves, declared that the young Lady, after having descended from the Queen's chair had gone on; that there was an immediate rush of the people, which separated them from the rest of the royal train; and that what between the pressure and confusion that immediately took place, and the kicking of one of the chargers, which made the people run back with cries and affright, they had seen nothing more of the party to which they had belonged, till they had made their way up to the Hôtel de Guise and obtained admission.

The Duke paused with a gloomy and anxious brow. "Go, some one," he said at length, "go up to Philibert of Nancy, who was placed above, to watch what was taking place from the top of the house. Ask him what he saw after the Queen's arrival, and bring me down word."

"May I go, my Lord?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau.

The Duke nodded his head, and the young nobleman sprang up the stairs, and guided by one of the servants found the watchman, who had been placed at the top of the house to report from time to time whatever occurrences of importance he might perceive in the neighbouring streets. All the information the man could give, however, was, that he had seen a party separate from the rest of the people, almost immediately after the Queen's entrance; that they seemed to be taking great care of some person in the midst of them, who, he fancied, had been hurt by the kicking and plunging of a horse which he had remarked hard by. The party had turned the corner of the street without attracting his attention farther; but, he added, that a moment or two afterwards he thought he had heard a shrill cry coming from the direction which they had taken.

With such tidings only, and with his heart more agonised than ever, Charles of Montsoreau returned to the Duke, who was still standing gloomily by the Queen, who, on her part looked up at his dark and frowning countenance with a degree of calmness which did not seem quite so natural as she could have wished.

"Whatever has happened, my Lord Duke," she said, after listening to the young nobleman's report, "whatever has happened, on my honour, on my salvation, I have had no share in it; and I promise you most solemnly, not to rest a moment till I have discovered what has become of your ward, and have made you acquainted therewith. If she be in the Court of my son, I make bold to say, that she shall be instantly restored to you: but I cannot believe that it is so, as it is impossible for Villequier to have passed those barriers without being torn to pieces by the people."

Still the Duke remained thinking gloomily without making any answer. "Logères," he said at length, "I must trust you with this business, for I have more matters to deal with than I can well compass. From what you said just now, and from what the boy Ignati told me, I know how you stand with our poor Marie. You know what I said, and what I promised long ago. Seek her, find her, and wed her! Monsieur de St. Paul will tell you where your own men are; take her, wherever you find her: by force, if it be necessary; and if any man, calling himself a gentleman, oppose you, cleave him to the jaws. I will bear you out in whatever you do: there is my signet: but stay; you had better see Marteau Chapelle and Bussi about it. They know every house in Paris, and I can spare them now from other affairs: bid them go with you and aid you; and tell Chapelle---- What is it now, Brissac? You look confounded and alarmed."

"The news I have will confound your Highness also, I am sure," replied Brissac; "to alarm you is not possible, I fancy. I have just received intelligence from the Porte de Nesle, my Lord, that the King has quitted Paris, and taken the road to Chartres!"

The Duke of Guise turned towards Catherine de Medici, and gazed upon her sternly, saying, "You have done this, madam! You amuse me, while you destroy me!"[^[1]]

"I have done this, cousin of Guise," replied the Queen, "and I have done wisely for all parties. I have removed from you a great temptation to do an evil action--a temptation which I saw that you yourself feared; and while I have removed that danger from you, my advice has put my son in safety."

"Madam," replied the Duke, "I felt no temptation: my resolution was firm, positive, and unshaken; and had I chosen to compromise the King's safety, or do wrong to his legitimate authority, the Louvre would have been invested six hours ago, for the people were already on their march, if I had not stopped them. I wonder that he escaped in safety, however, for they are very much infuriated at the sight of these soldiers."

"He walked from the Louvre," replied Brissac, "on foot to the Tuilleries, I hear, followed by some half dozen gentlemen; he then mounted his horses in the stables, and rode out suddenly; but it is said that they fired at him from the Porte de Nesle. The people, however, as they hear it, are becoming quite furious, and I fear that we shall not be able to keep them from massacring the soldiery."

"You see, madam," replied the Duke of Guise, still thinking alone of the King's escape, "you see, madam, to what danger the King has exposed himself. Had he remained in Paris no evil could have befallen him. He was safe, on my life, and on my honour.

"I believe you, cousin of Guise; I believe you;" replied the Queen, who thought she saw that the tone of the Duke of Guise was not quite so peremptory as it had been, while the King had seemed entirely in his power. "But now, in order to prove your good will entirely, let me beseech you to exert yourself to save the unhappy men who have been placed in such a situation of danger."

"That shall soon be done, madam," replied the Duke; "and as soon as this is done, I too must take means for finding my ward. In the meantime, madam, I will beseech you to use such measures at the Court, as may insure that the people of Paris, and of the realm in general, shall not be driven again to such acts as these, remembering, that as you warned me not long ago, popularity is the most transient of all things, and that mine may not last long enough to save the state a second time from the dangers that menace it."

"I understand you, cousin of Guise; I understand you;" replied the Queen. "It may not last long enough, or it may not be willingly exerted: but I give you my promise, that every thing shall be done to content you; and with that view I have already demanded that the insolent, greedy, and ambitious Epernon shall be banished from the Court, and stripped of his plundered authority.--But hark!" she continued, "I hear the firing recommence. Wait not for further words, or for any ceremonies; I will find my way back to the Louvre without difficulty. Go, my Lord, go at once, and save the poor Swiss from the fury of the people!"

The Duke bowed low, took up his hat and sword, and without other arms walked out into the streets.

[CHAP. III.]

Passing out by the rooms belonging to the porter, instead of by the Porte Cochère, the Duke of Guise, followed by a number of his officers, presented himself to the people on the steps which we have already noticed. The moment he appeared, the whole street rang with acclamations, a path was instantly opened for him through the midst of the people, and mounting his horse he rode on, the barricades opening before him, as if by magic, wherever he came, and the people rending the air with acclamations of his name.

From time to time he stopped as he went, either bending down his proud head to speak to some of those whom he knew, or addressing the general populace in the neighbourhood of the different barriers, exhorting them to tranquillity, and beseeching, commanding, and entreating them to desist from all attacks upon the soldiery. His words spread like lightning from mouth to mouth; and though he went in person to several of the different points where the unequal contest was actively going on, the assault upon the troops was stopped in other quarters also, by the mere report of his wishes.

Thus, as it were in triumph, totally unarmed amidst the armed multitude, he went ruling their furious passions, as if by some all-powerful charm. The most violent, the most exasperated, the most sullen, uttered not one word in opposition to his will, and showed nothing but promptness and zeal in executing his commands. Before he reached the Place de Grève even, towards which his course was directed, the screams, the cries, the shouts, the firing, had ceased in every part of Paris, and nothing was heard throughout that wide capital but the rending shouts of joy, with which the multitude accompanied him on his way.

On entering the Place de Grève the Duke looked sternly up at the windows of the Hôtel de Ville, but did not enter the building. He said, however, speaking to those immediately surrounding him, "A week shall not have elapsed before we have cleared that house of the vermin that infest it; and the people shall be freed from those who have betrayed them."

Then dismounting from his horse, and ascending the steps leading to the elevated space, called the Perron of the Hôtel de Ville, he lifted his hat from his head for a moment, as a sign that he wished to address the people. All was silent in an instant; and then were heard the full rich deep tones of that eloquent voice, pouring over the heads of the multitude, and reaching the very farthest parts of the square.

"My friends and fellow-citizens," he said. "You have this day acquired a great and glorious victory. You have triumphed over the efforts of despotic power, exerted, I am sure, not by the King's own will and consent, but by the evil counsels, and altogether by the evil efforts, of minions, peculators, and traitors. The real merit of those who win great victories and achieve great deeds, is ascertained more by the way in which they use their advantages, than by the way in which those advantages have been gained. Were you a mean, degraded, unthinking race of men, who had been stirred up by oppression into objectless revolt, you would now content yourselves with wreaking your vengeance on a few pitiable and unhappy soldiers, who in obedience to the commands which they have received, have been cast into the midst of you, like criminals of old, given up naked to a hungry lion. But you are not such people; you have great objects before you; you know and appreciate the mighty purposes for which you have fought and conquered; and though driven by self-defence to resist the will of the King, you are still men to venerate and respect the royal authority; and even while you determine, for his sake as well as for your own, never to rest satisfied till the Catholic Church is established beyond the power of heretics to shake; till the Court is freed from the minions and evil counsellors that infect it; till the finances of the state are collected, and administered by a just and a frugal hand; and till the whole honours, rewards, and emoluments of the country are no longer piled upon one man--though you are determined to seek for and obtain all this, nevertheless, I know, you are not men to trench in the least upon the royal authority, farther than your own security requires, or to injure the royal troops whom you have conquered, when they are no longer in a situation to do you wrong. You will remember, I am sure, that they are our fellow-christians and our fellow-men, and you will treat them accordingly. I have therefore," he said, "requested my friends and fellow-labourers in your cause, Monsieur de Brissac and Monsieur de St. Paul, to conduct hither in safety the French and Swiss troops from the different quarters in which they have been dispersed. Their arms will be brought hither by our own friends, and in the manner which we shall deal with these two bodies of soldiery, I trust that we shall meet still with the approbation of our brethren."

While thus speaking, the Duke of Guise had been interrupted more than once by the applauses of the people, and in the end loud and reiterated acclamations left no doubt that all he chose to do would receive full support from those who heard him.

While he was yet speaking--according to the orders which he had given as he came along--the arms of the Swiss and French guards were brought in large quantities, by different bodies of the citizens: some carrying them in hand-barrows, some bearing them upon their shoulders; and it was a curious sight to see men and boys, and even women, loaded with morions, and pikes, and swords, and arquebuses, bringing them forward through the crowd, and piling them up before the princely man who stood at the top of the steps, surrounded by many of the noblest and most distinguished gentlemen in France.

This sight occupied the people for some minutes, and then a cry ran through the square of "The Swiss! the Swiss!" The announcement caused some agitation amongst the populace, and some forgetting that the soldiery were disarmed, unslung their carbines, or half drew their swords, as if to resist a new attack. The discomfited soldiers, however, came on in a long line, two abreast, now totally disarmed, and seeming by their countenances yet uncertain of the fate that awaited them. With some difficulty a space was made for them in the Place de Grève, and being drawn up in two lines, the Duke commanded them to take their arms, but not their ammunition. Two by two they advanced to the pile; and each man, as far as possible, selected his own, when it appeared, to use the words of the Duke of Guise himself, when recounting the events of that day to Bassompiere, that there never had been such complete obedience amongst so agitated a multitude; for not one sword, morion, pike, or arquebuse, of all the Swiss and French there present, was found to be wanting.[^[2]]

When all was complete, the Duke of Guise turned to the soldiery, saying in a loud and somewhat stern tone, "The people of Paris considering that you have acted under the commands of those you have sworn to obey, permit you for this once to retire in safety from the perilous situation in which you have been placed; but as there are points which make a considerable difference between the Swiss troops in the pay of France and the French troops themselves, there must be a difference also in their treatment. The Swiss, as foreigners, could have no motive or excuse for refusing to obey the commands imposed upon them; the French had to remember their duty to their country and to their religion. The Swiss, therefore, we permit to march out with colours flying and arms raised; the French will follow them, with their arms reversed and their colours furled."

A loud shout from the people answered this announcement; for throughout the course of that eventful day, the Swiss had acted with moderation and discipline, whereas the licentious French soldiery had during the early morning, while they thought themselves in possession of the capital, displayed all the brutal insolence of triumphant soldiery.

The Duke of Guise spoke a few words to Brissac and to St. Paul, and those two officers put themselves at the head, Brissac of the Swiss, and St. Paul of the French guards. Each held a small cane in his hand, and with no other arms they led the two bands from barrier to barrier through the city, till they were safe within the precincts of the Louvre.

Scarcely had these two parties quitted the Place de Grève, however, drawing a number of people from that spot, when information was brought to the Duke, that there were still two bands of soldiers in the city, one in the Cemetery of the Innocents, and one under the Chatelet, but both threatened by the people with instant destruction.

"We must make our way thither quickly," said the Duke; "for, if I remember right, it is the band of Du Gas which is at the Chatelet, and the people are furious against him."

He accordingly lost not a moment on the way; but turning to Bois-dauphin, who accompanied him, he said in a low tone, as they went, "I would have given my left hand to stay and examine the interior of the Hôtel de Ville, in order to punish some of the traitors who, I know, are lurking there. Perhaps it is better, however, to let them escape than that any mischief should be done; and in these popular movements, if we once begin to shed blood, there is no knowing where it will end."

"I fear there is bloodshed going on at present," said Bois-dauphin, hearing a shot or two fired at no great distance. "They are at it under the Chatelet now."

"Hurry on! hurry on!" said the Duke, speaking to some of those behind. "Run on fast before, and announce that I am coming. Command them, in my name, to stop."

Two or three of his followers ran forward, and no more shots were heard; but scarcely two minutes after, just as the Duke had passed one of the barricades, he saw two or three men hurrying up to him, led by Chapelle Marteau, who approached him with no slight expression of grief and apprehension in his countenance.

"I fear I have bad news for you, my Lord," he said.

"What is it?" demanded the Duke calmly. "Such a day as this could hardly pass over without some alloy."

"I fear," replied the Leaguer, "that your Highness' friend. Monsieur de Logères, is mortally wounded. He brought me your signet and orders, which I immediately obeyed. We gained information which led us to suppose that the persons we sought for, were concealed in a house in the Rue de la Ferronière here hard by. We proceeded thither instantly and demanded admission; but they, affecting to take us for a party of soldiery, fired upon us from the window, when two shots struck the Count, one lodging in his shoulder, and the other passing through his body. He is yet living, and I have ordered him to be conveyed to the Hôtel de Guise at once, where a surgeon can attend upon him. Our people were breaking into the house to take the murderers prisoners, when, hearing of your approach, I came away to tell you the facts."

The Duke of Guise paused, and gazed sadly down upon the ground, repeating the words, "Poor youth! poor youth! so are his bright hopes cut short! He shall be avenged at least! Show me the house, Chapelle."

And he followed rapidly upon the steps of the Leaguer, who led him to a small house, with the entrance, which was through a Gothic arch, sunk somewhat back from the other houses. There were two windows above the arch, and a window which flanked it on either side; but the followers of the young Count of Logères and of Chapelle Marteau had by this time broken open the doors, and rushed into the building.

"This is part of the old priory of the Augustins," said the Duke of Guise as they came up. "They exchanged it some fifty years ago for their house further down. But there are two or three back ways out, I know; and if you have not put a guard there, they have escaped you."

It proved as the Duke anticipated. The house was found completely vacant, and though strict orders were sent to all the different gates to suffer no one to pass out without close examination, either the order came too late, or those against whom it was levelled proved too politic for the guards; for none of those whom the Duke of Guise wished to secure, except Pereuse, the Prevôt des Marchands, were taken in the attempt to escape.

The shots, the sound of which, Guise had heard, proved to be those which had struck the unfortunate Count de Logères, and no difficulty was found in inducing the people who surrounded the soldiery near the Chatelet, to suffer them to depart, as their companions had done.

On entering the Cemetery of the Innocents, however, the Duke instantly saw that the danger of the troops was greater; for, shut up within, those walls, together with the Swiss, he found the famous Baron de Biron and Pomponne de Bellievre, while the people without were loudly clamouring for their blood. They both advanced towards him as soon as he appeared; and the Duke, gazing around him, said with a sigh, "Alas, Monsieur de Biron! those who stirred up this fire should have been able to extinguish it."

"I say so, too, my Lord," replied Biron sadly. "Evil be to those who gave the counsel that has been followed. God knows I opposed it to the utmost of my power, and only obeyed the King's absolute commands in bringing these poor fellows hither, who, I fear, will never be suffered to pass out as they came."

"For the soldiery I have no fear," replied the Duke, "and as for you, gentlemen, I must do the best that I can. But the people look upon you as partially authors of the evil, and they will not be easily satisfied."

The Duke of Guise, however, succeeded, though not without difficulty, in his purpose of saving all. The people yielded to him, but for the first time showed some degree of resistance; and he returned to the Hôtel de Guise feeling more sensibly, from that little incident, the truth of the warning which Catherine de Medici had given him, regarding the instability of popularity, than from all the arguments or examples that reason or history could produce.

We may easily imagine the reception of the Duke in his own dwelling: the joy, the congratulations, the inquiries; and we may imagine, also, the passing of that busy night, while messengers were coming to and fro at every instant, and couriers were dispatched from the Hôtel de Guise to almost every part of France.

Henry of Guise was well aware, that whatever deference and humility he might assume in his words towards the King, or whatever testimonies of forgiveness and affection Henry might offer to him, his own safety now, for the rest of his life, depended on his power, and that his armour must be the apprehensions of the King, rather than his regard.

Up to a very late hour, notwithstanding all the fatigues and agitations of the day, he sat with his secretary Pericard, writing letters to all his different friends in various parts of the country, demanding their immediate assistance and support, even while he expressed the most devoted attachment to the King; and thus, in the letter we have already cited to Bassompiere, he makes use of such expressions as the following:--

"Thus it is necessary that you should make a journey here to see your friends, whom you will not find, thank God! either wanting in means or resolution. We must have good intelligence from Germany, however, that we be not taken by surprise. We are not without forces, courage, friends, nor means; but still less without honour, or respect and fidelity to the King, which we will preserve inviolably, doing our duty, as people of worth, of honour, and as good Catholics."

It was about twelve o'clock at night, when Reignaut, the surgeon, entered the cabinet of the Duke, and bowing low said, "I come, according to your Highness's order, to tell you the state of the young Count of Logères. Soon after I saw you about six to-day, we extracted both balls. He bore the operation well, and has slept since for several hours."

"Is he sleeping still?" demanded the Duke.

"No," replied the surgeon. "He awoke about a quarter of an hour ago, and seems anxious to see your Highness. He questioned me closely as to his state, when I told him the truth."

"You did right, you did right," replied the Duke. "He is one that can bear it. What is your real opinion, Reignaut, in regard to the result?"

"I can hardly tell your Highness," replied the surgeon. "Two or three days more are necessary, before we can judge. The wound in the shoulder is not dangerous, though the most painful. The shot which passed through his body, and lodged in the back, is one which we generally consider mortal; but then, in ordinary cases, death either takes place almost immediately, or indications of such a result are seen in an hour or two, as to leave no further doubt on the subject. No such indications have appeared here, and it may have happened that the ball has passed through without touching any vital part. We must remember, also," he continued, "that the wound was received when the moon was in her first quarter, which is, of course, very favourable; and we shall also, if there be any chance of life being saved, have made some progress towards recovery before any crisis is brought on by the moon reaching the full."

The Duke listened attentively, for though such things may appear to us, in the present day, mere foolishness, that was not the case two centuries and a half ago, and the power of the moon, in affecting the wounded or sick, was never questioned. "Stay, Reignaut," said the Duke, "I will go with you, and see this good youth. I love him much; there is a frankness in his nature that wins upon the heart. Besides, he has saved my life, and has come to my aid on all occasions, as if there were a fate in it; and I believe, moreover, that he loves me personally as much--nay, perhaps more, than any of my own family and relations."

Thus saying the Duke rose, and, followed by Reignaut, passed through the door of his cabinet into the anteroom. His pages instantly presented themselves to light him on his way, and traversing some of the long corridors of the vast building be inhabited, he reached the chamber where his unhappy friend lay stretched upon the bed of pain and sickness. The boy Ignati sat beside him, tending him with care and affection; and at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed upon his chest, stood his faithful servant Gondrin, with tears in his eyes.

The Duke seated himself by the young Count, and remained with him for nearly an hour; and knowing well what effect the mind has upon the body, spoke to him cheerfully and hopefully of the time to come, talked of his recovered health as a thing certain, and mentioned his union with Marie de Clairvaut as beyond all doubt.

"It is upon that subject, my Lord," said the young gentleman, "that I wished particularly to speak with your Highness. I have not had either time or opportunity of telling you all that has occurred since I left you at Soissons. But from all I have heard, I now judge better in regard to the situation of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut than even you can. Nay, Monsieur Reignaut, I must speak a few words, but I will be as brief and as prudent as possible. In this business, my Lord, suspect not the Queen. It is not in her hands that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut will be found. Neither is she with Villequier, depend upon it; nor in the power of the King. I grieve to say it, but I feel sure my own brother has something to do with the events of this day as far as they affect her so dear to me."

"But you surely do not think," exclaimed the Duke, "that it is your brother's hand which inflicted these wounds upon you!"

"The ball would be poisoned, indeed, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "if I did believe such to be the case. But I trust it is not so; most sincerely do I trust--ay, and believe--it is not so. There is another hand, my Lord Duke; and not long ago I could as well have believed that my own father's would have been raised against me as the one of which I speak. But still there is another hand, my Lord, which--actuated by motives dark and evil--I believe to have been raised against my life. That hand is in general unerring in its aim; and the moment before the shot was fired, I saw the calm cold features which I know so well, at the window just above me."

"But whose is the hand?" exclaimed the Duke. "Whose are the features that you mean?"

"I mean those of the Abbé de Boisguerin, my Lord," replied the Count; "and to him, to him, I think, your Highness must look even rather than to my brother. I believe Gaspar but to be a tool in his hands, and that he uses him for his own dark and criminal designs."

"Have I not heard you say he was your tutor?" demanded the Duke. "What then are his motives? what can be his inducements?"

"Love, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I have the word of that sweet girl for his having dared to use words towards her, for which he deserves and must meet with punishment. Him I would point out to your Highness as the person to be watched, and sought for, and made to account for all his actions; for, depend upon it, his are the machinations which are ruling these events."

"He shall not be forgotten!" replied the Duke. "He shall not be forgotten! But now, Logères, speak no more, except indeed only to answer me one question. I have heard that the county of Morly has lately fallen to you by the death of the old Count. These, with the estates of Logères, if properly conducted, may afford me great assistance. You are incapable for the time of directing them at all. Do you authorise me to fill your post, and give orders in your name till you are better?"

"Most willingly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I had already thought of it. But your Highness talks of my becoming better: I have thought of that matter too, but in a different light; and considering what may take place in case of my own death, I have requested Monsieur Reignaut here to cause a will to be drawn up, leaving the whole that I possess to the person whom I love best on earth, with your Highness for her guardian. There are a few gifts bestowed on those that love me, and a provision for all old servants: but----"

"But it will not be wanted, Logères," said the Duke, pressing his hand. "I see it in your eye; I hear it in the tone of your voice. You will recover and strike by my side yet--perhaps, in many a well-fought field. Silence and perfect quiet, I know, are Monsieur Reignaut's best medicines; but I shall come to you, from time to time, when I have got any pleasant tidings to bear."

[CHAP. IV.]

We must now pass over a considerable lapse of time without taking any note of the political intrigues with which it was occupied, and lead the reader at once from the month of May to the end of summer, and from the city of Paris to the distant town of Augoulême.

Under the high hill on which that city stands, at the distance of about a league from the base, was in those days a beautiful park with a pavilion of four towers; and in one of these towers, on a fine summer day towards the end of July, sat the young Marquis of Montsoreau together with the Abbé de Boisguerin: not exactly in conversation, for the Marquis had not spoken a word for nearly an hour; but in dull companionship.

The young nobleman's back was turned towards the light, his eyes were bent down upon the ground, his head drooped forward in a desponding attitude, the nostril was painfully expanded, as if he drew his breath with difficulty, and the teeth were tight shut, as it were to keep down some struggling emotions that swelled for utterance. An open letter lay upon the table, and another much more closely written, and written in cypher, was in the hand of the Abbé de Boisguerin. The Abbé's brow too was a good deal contracted, and his lip was somewhat pale, though it quivered not; but from time to time he addressed the young nobleman with words of consolation, regarding some afflicting tidings just received.

Those words, however, though well chosen, appropriate and elegant, were not of the words that console, for they were not of the heart. He reasoned logically on the inutility of human grief, and still more on the vanity of regretting that which could not be recalled. He spoke lightly of all deep feelings for any earthly thing, and he talked of every deed upon the face of the earth being justified by the importance of the objects to be obtained.

When he had talked thus for some time without obtaining any answer, he was going on to justify the past; but Gaspar de Montsoreau suddenly started up, and interrupted him with a vehemence which he had never displayed before.

"Abbé de Boisguerin," he said, "talk not to me of consolation and of comfort. Is not my brother dead? Is not my brother dead, killed by my own hand? Can you tear that from the book of fate? Can you blot it out from memory? Can you rase it for ever from the records of crimes done? Can you find me a pillow on all the earth, where I can lay my head in peace?"

"Your brother, indeed, is dead," said the Abbé de Boisguerin, without in the least degree trying to relieve the mind of his young companion from the crime with which conscience charged him. "Your brother, indeed, is dead; and it is not to be denied that your hand, my dear Gaspar, took his life; but yet you were in a city where war was actually going on between two parties, one of which you served, and the other your brother. These things have happened every day in civil wars, and always will happen. They are to be grieved at, but who can help them?"

"But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young Marquis. "My men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on the part of the King: I was not engaged in trampling down the people. But what was I busied with, Abbé de Boisguerin? I was engaged in a scheme for carrying off--from him she loved, and from those who had a right to protect her--one whom I had no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to guard and to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure her. If I had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived and lied to; and all that I had previously done made the act itself which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not to me of consolation, Abbé; speak not to me of hope or comfort. You of all men, do not venture to mention to me a word like happiness or confidence."

"And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbé somewhat sternly. "What have I done to merit reproach in the matter?"

"Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout?" demanded the Marquis. "Was it not you who devised the scheme, prepared the means, got possession of the Queen's letter by corrupting her servants. Was it not your tool, that, upon pretence of assisting her to the other gates of the hotel, got her into our power; and was it not you, when her prayers and entreaties and agitation would have made me yield--was it not you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on? Did you not yourself stand by me when the shot was fired; and was it not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow hesitation, which winged the ball that took my brother's life?"

"It is all true, Gaspar," replied the Abbé de Boisguerin in a sad but no longer a harsh tone. "It is all true; and from you I meet the reward, which all men will meet and well deserve who love others better than themselves, and who do for them things that they would not do for themselves. Nevertheless, I still think that there was not that evil on our side with which you seem to reproach yourself. Shocked and mourning for your brother's death, you see all things in dark and gloomy colours. Those things which you regarded before as light, have now become to you heavy and sombre as night. But all this is but mood, and let me call to your remembrance what sense and reason say. You and your brother loved the same person,--you vehemently, warmly, devotedly; he coldly, and by halves. You, as the elder brother and as lord of the dwelling in which she was received, had, if any thing, the first claim upon her; and he himself rendered that claim still greater by leaving her entirely to you, and absenting himself from her. You had every right, therefore, to seek her hand by all means; and when you found that, though he affected generous forbearance, he had gone covertly to forestall your demand, and gain the promise of her hand from her guardian, surely you were bound to keep no measures with him. All I did subsequently was to serve you in a cause that I thought was right, and it is but a few days ago that you were grateful to me for so doing. I said at the time, and I say again, that if at the moment when your brother commenced his attack upon the house in the Rue de la Ferronière, either you or I had been taken, death and eternal disgrace would have been the consequence. We acted but in our own defence, and those who assailed us cannot accuse us for so acting."

Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him in sullen silence, his dark eyes rolling from side to side beneath his heavy eyebrows. In his dealings with the Abbé de Boisguerin he had by this time learned fully how artful and politic was the man who led him. He saw it, and he could not doubt it, even while he shared in the things at which his better spirit revolted. But that very knowledge taught him to doubt, whether the art and the policy were used for his service, and out of affection to him, or whether they were all directed in some secret way to the benefit of him who wielded them so dexterously. The suspicions which Villequier had instilled rose fresh in his mind at this very time; and as his only answer to the Abbé's reasonings, he demanded with a keen glance and a sharp tone, "Tell me. Abbé, was it, or was it not, you who brought the reiters upon us, and who gave the King's forces notice of our passage?"

"I did the one, but not the other," replied the Abbé calmly. "I dealt not with the reiters, Gaspar de Montsoreau, for that would have been dangerous to me, to her, and to you. But I did inform the troops of the King, because I already had learned how deeply the Duke of Guise was pledged to your brother; because I knew that no reasoning would prevent either you or this fair girl from going on to Soissons; and because I saw that there was no earthly chance of your obtaining her hand, but by placing her under the charge of her father's nearest male relation, from whom the Duke of Guise unjustly withholds the guardianship. I own it, I acknowledge it, I am proud of it."

The way in which the Abbé replied was not such as Gaspar de Montsoreau had expected; but dissatisfied with himself, and of course with every thing else, Gaspar de Montsoreau still gazed sullenly on the floor, and then raised his eyes to the open window of the pavilion, where the warm sun was seen streaming through the green vines, with the birds still singing sweetly in the woods without. But it was all to him as the face of Eden to our first parents after the fall; a shade seemed to come over his eyes when he looked upon the loveliness of nature; the very sunshine seemed to him darkness; and the fair world a desert.

"Can you give me back my delight in that sunshine?" he said, after a pause. "Can you make the notes of those birds again sound sweet to my ear? Can you remove the heavy, heavy burden of remorse from this heart? Can you ever, ever prove to me, that for this unrequited love I have not made myself a guilty wretch, bearing the sign of Cain upon his brow, the curse of Cain within his bosom?"

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

VOL. III.

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. III.

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.]

[CHAPTER XIV.]

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAP. II.]

[CHAP. III.]

[CHAP. IV.]

HENRY OF GUISE;

OR,

THE STATES OF BLOIS.

VOL. III.

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. III.

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.