Corse de Leon Part 1

Corse de Leon.

by G. P. R.James.

Volume I.

CHAPTER I.

There are a thousand small and apparently accidental circ.u.mstances, which, in our course through life, bring a temporary gloom upon us, render our expectations from the future fearful and cheerless, and diminish our confidence in all those things whereon man either rashly relies or builds his reasonable trusts. Strength, youth, wealth, power, the consciousness of rect.i.tude, the providence of G.o.d: all these will occasionally lose their sustaining influence, even upon the most hopeful mind, from causes too slight to justify such an effect.

These accidental circ.u.mstances, these mental clouds, resemble much those other clouds which sometimes, at the close of a bright day, come over a landscape previously warm and shining, cast a gray shade over its rich hues, shut out the redoubled glory of the setting sun, and make gloom and shadow spread over the summer scene. Though nothing is changed but the light in which things dwell, though the colour of the tree and the form of the rock are the same, yet the brightness of the whole is departed, and the l.u.s.tre gone out as if for ever.

There are times, however, when a gloom, which seems to have no counterpart in the physical world, comes over the mind; when all has gone fairly with us; when every object around is full of brightness and hope; when the horses of Fortune's car have never once even stumbled on the way; and not a sorrow rough enough to rub the down from the wing of a b.u.t.terfly has fallen upon our hearts for years; and yet a deep and shadowy despondence steals over our spirits, as if the immortal within us were telling the mortal of anxieties, and griefs, and dangers approaching--discovered by the fine sympathies of the higher part of our being with things undiscovered by the mere material creature.

Cares, sorrows, and perils, corporeal agony, and anguish of the heart, are often but as the fire which tempers the pure iron into the fine steel, at once proving and strengthening the spirit. The last grand lesson which leads generous youth to vigorous manhood, which confirms our powers, and gives the great man's mastery over Fate, is to endure; and I am inclined to believe that such sudden and unaccountable feelings of despondency--I do not mean the ordinary fits of gloom that haunt a moody and a wayward spirit, but, on the contrary, the dark impression, the heavy shadow that once or twice, in the midst of a bright lifetime, comes irresistibly upon a gay or placid mind--I am inclined to think, I say, that such despondence is only given to the highminded and the great: a prophetic voice, announcing, not to the ear, but to the heart, that the day of trial comes: the trumpet of Fate, calling on a champion, dauntless and strong, to rouse him to the battle, and arm his spirit for some awful strife.

The day had been as bright and beautiful as a summer day in the south of Europe can be, and yet it had spared the traveller and the labourer many of the inconveniences and discomforts which those beautiful days of the south sometimes bring along with them: for the year was yet young, and with all the brightness of youth it had all the tenderness too. There had been a fresh breeze in the sky during the hotter part of the day; and one would have felt that it blew from the cool tops of snowy mountains, even had one not seen, from time to time, some of the distant peaks of the high Alps towering white over the greener hills below.

There was also a world of streams, and rivulets, and cascades about, which gave additional freshness and life to the air that blew heavy with the perfume of the flowers upon the banks; and the high swelling of the mountains round still gave a pleasant shade to one side of the valley.

Each sense had something to delight it; and there was over every object which nature presented that aspect of peaceful enjoyment which is the greatest soother of man's heart.

The spot was in the extreme verge of Savoy, bordering upon France. It would little benefit the reader to say exactly where, for the aspect of the land has changed: the towns of that age and their laborious denizens would not be recognised by their successors of the present day; the castle, the fortress, and the palace are ruined and swept away, and even the roads themselves now wind through other valleys or climb over other hills. It was somewhere between Nice and St. Jean de Maurienne: that s.p.a.ce is surely limited enough to afford the reader a definite idea of the scene. Let him take a map and a pair of compa.s.ses, he will find it but a span; and in reality it is less--with a universe around it.

Nevertheless, it was a very lovely scene, as I have said, with the hills tall and blue, and the snowy mountains looking down upon one through the long defiles; with the valleys green and fresh, and the streams bright and sparkling. Here and there, too, upon some rocky height which commanded the entrance of the gorges of the mountain, a feudal castle would raise its battlements, gray, and stern, and warlike; and either in the open plain--where such a thing was found--or in the warm valleys in the hills, were seen the villages and small towns of Savoy, with their grayish white walls and their graceful church towers crowning the loveliness of the whole with the aspect of human life. The period of the world's history whereof I speak was one of gorgeous pageantry, and gay wit and deeds of arms: a period when chivalry and the feudal system, just about to be extinguished for ever, blazed with a dying flame.

Montmorency still lived, though Bayard and Francis had left the busy scene but a few years before, and Henry the Second had not yet closed his career in the last tournament which Europe was destined to witness.

The songs of Marot and the wit of Rabelais still rang in the ear, and Ronsard, Dorat, and Montaigne were entering gayly upon the path of letters.

It was in the year 1558, then, and towards the close of the day, that a small party of hors.e.m.e.n wound along through the bright scenery of which we have spoken. It consisted only of four persons, two of whom were merely armed servants, such as usually attended upon a cavalier of those times, not exactly acting the part of soldier on ordinary occasions, but very well fitted so to do when any particular exigency required the exertion of the strong hand. The third was a youth of no very remarkable appearance, in the garb of a page; but the fourth was evidently the leader of the whole, and, as such, the person who merits the most accurate description. I will attempt to paint him to the eye of the reader, as I have myself seen him represented by the hand of an unknown artist in one of the palaces on the banks of the Brenta.

He was in person about the middle height, rather above it than below, and at this period was not more than twenty-three years of age. His forehead was broad and fine, with short dark hair curling round it: his features were small, except the eye and brow, the former of which was large and full, and the latter strongly marked. The mouth was very handsome, showing, when half open in speaking, the brilliant white teeth, and giving to the whole countenance a look of playful gayety; but, when shut, there was an expression of much thoughtfulness, approaching perhaps to sternness, about it, which the rounded and somewhat prominent chin confirmed. The upper lip was very short; but on either side, divided in the middle, was a short black mustache, not overhanging the mouth, but raised above it; and the beard, which was short and black like the hair, was only suffered to grow in such a manner as to ornament, but not to enc.u.mber, the chin.

In form the cavalier was muscular, and powerfully made, his breadth of chest and shoulders giving the appearance of a more advanced period of life than that at which he had yet arrived. He was evidently a soldier, for he was fully armed, as if having lately been or being still in scenes of strife and danger; and, to say the truth, a man fully armed in those days was certainly more loaded with weapons, offensive and defensive, than was probably ever the case before or since.

The picture I have spoken of represents him with not only the complete armour which was then still used to encase the person, with the long, heavy sword, the dagger, and the large pistols, but also with four short carbines--at least such they appear to be--one at each corner of the saddle. His head, indeed, is seen unenc.u.mbered by the steel cap, which usually completed the armour, but which is borne by the page at his saddlebow, while the cavalier himself appears wearing upon his head the somewhat cooler covering of a black velvet cap, without feather or any other ornament.

The horse that carried him, which was a tall, powerful charger, fared better in some respects than his master; for before this epoch, the heavy armour with which steed as well as man used at one time to be enc.u.mbered was lightened in favour of the quadruped, and the horse which bore the young gentleman of whom we speak was only covered with such pieces as might protect his head and chest in the shock of the charge.

The day, I have said, had been bright and sweet, and all nature had been as fresh and happy as a young heart upon a holyday. Similar, too, had been the mood of Bernard de Rohan as he rode along; not so much that the scene and its charms created, as that they found, sympathetic feelings in his bosom; for his disposition was naturally cheerful and bright, full of gay thoughts and happy enthusiasms. He was returning, too, from another country--from the midst of strangers, and perils, and fatigues--to enjoy an interval of tranquillity in his own bright land, and the society of those he loved.

France was within his sight; the tongues that he heard around him spoke nearly the same language as that which he had used from infancy; and, though the nominal frontier of Savoy lay some fifteen miles before him, yet, in all but the name, he was in his own country. There was little of that cold restraint about him which is either acquired by harsh dealings with evil men, or is natural from some inward pravity of the heart, and the cheerful mood of his mind found its way forth in many an outward sign. From time to time he had turned round to speak to the page or to one of the servants with some light jest or gay inquiry. Now he would point out a distant spot in the landscape as they stood upon some beetling point half way up the mountain, and ask if they recognised this or that town in Dauphine; now he would pat the proud crest of his stout horse, and talk to the n.o.ble animal as if he expected an answer; and now would even break forth into a s.n.a.t.c.h of song. His heart, in short, was as a fountain, so filled with happiness that it welled over, and the waters sparkled as they overflowed the brim.

The servants smiled to see their lord so gay, especially an elder one, who, commenting with the other, remarked that he might well look happy, bearing back home such glory as he had won.

Thus pa.s.sed the earlier part of the day's journey; but towards the evening the mood of Bernard de Rohan changed. His open brow did not grow cloudy, it is true, but there came a look of gloom upon it: the lips no longer opened with a bland smile, and the teeth were shut together with that stern expression we have already noticed. His eyes gazed on upon the scene, but with somewhat of a vacant aspect, and everything told that the spirit was busy in its tabernacle dealing with high thoughts.

Nor could any one who looked upon him suppose those thoughts were other than sad ones. Intense they certainly were, and certainly they were not gay.

Yet Bernard de Rohan had no remembered grief. Fate had indeed once struck him severely, but ever after had spared him altogether; had plucked not a flower from his bosom, nor cast a shadow on his path.

In early years he had lost both his parents, but that was the only misfortune which had befallen him, and it was long ago. He scarcely remembered them; and all that remained was a soft memory, affectionate but not painful. Since then his course had been from one bright thing to another. Wise and tender friends, the amus.e.m.e.nts, the sports, the studies of youth, virtue and honour, wealth and station, praise, success, and glory had been his. He had no thirst for power: so what could he want more? Had any one asked him that question, he would have replied, Nothing: nothing but what he might well hope to attain; and yet, about an hour before the sun reached the edge of the sky, a fit of gloom fell upon him, dark, vague, unaccountable, like one of those mists that in mountain lands suddenly surround the wayfarer, shutting out the beauty and the brightness, and leaving all around dull, chilly, vague, uncertain, and confused.

For nearly half an hour he gave way to the sensations that oppressed him. They seemed at first too mighty to be struggled with. It was what, in the language of Northern poetry, is called "having the cloud upon him," and he could not cast it off; till at length it seemed to rise gradually, and the power returned, first, of arguing with himself upon the unreasonableness of such feelings, and then of smiling--though with a mingled smile--at his own weakness in giving way to them.

The effect wore off; but he was still communing with himself on the sensations he had just experienced, when the page called his attention to the clouds that were gathering round the mountains. With that quick transition so common to hill countries, especially in the south, the sky was becoming rapidly obscured. The lurid ma.s.ses of stormy vapour writhed themselves round the peaks; and, although beneath their dark canopy a gleam of intense red light was seen marking the far western sky on the side of France, the whole heaven above was soon covered with a thick expanse of deep gray cloud. At a considerable distance, in the more open part of the country, which lay beyond the mouth of the defile, stretching in long lines of dark purple towards the sunset, appeared a large square tower, with some other neighbouring buildings, cutting with their straight lines the rounded forms of the trees.

"That must be Voiron," said the cavalier, as if in answer to his page's observation regarding the coming storm. "We must quicken our pace and reach shelter, or we shall have to pa.s.s half the night in cleaning our arms, if yonder frowning cloud fulfil one half its menaces."

"Voiron must be ten leagues off, sir," replied one of the attendants; "we shall not reach it this night."

"Then we must find some other covering," replied the master, gayly; "but, at all events, put to your spurs, for the battle has already begun."

Even as he spoke the large drops fell slowly and heavily, denting the dusty covering of the road. Bernard de Rohan and his followers rode on at full speed, though the descent was steep, the way bad, and the gray twilight creeping over the scene. Five minutes more brought them to a turn where they could obtain a wider view; but, alas! no place of refuge was to be seen, except where the same tall dark tower rose heavily across the streaks of red light in the west, marking the place of some distant town or village. The attendants, who had pictured to themselves during the morning's ride all the comforts of the cheerful inn, the good rich wine of Dauphine, the stretching forth at ease of the strong, laborious limb, the easy gossip with the village girls, the light-hearted song in the porch, and all the relaxing joys of an hour's idleness, now begun to think of the long and tedious task of cleaning arms and clothing, and spending many an hour in rubbing the cold steel; and, to say sooth, their lord also would have been better pleased with fairer weather.

The road, as such roads ever must do, wound its way round many a turn and angle of the rock, so that it was very possible for several persons to be within a short distance of each other, without the one who followed ever seeing him who was but a few hundred yards before him. At the spot which we have mentioned, Bernard de Rohan paused for a moment to look round for some place of shelter, and the road before him seemed perfectly clear and free. He could see completely into the valley on his right, and across the plains beyond, while the path which he was following could be traced along the side of the hill, round two or three sharp angles of the rock, about two hundred yards apart from each other.

All at first was clear, as I have said, when suddenly there emerged, at the salient point which cut that part of the sky where the light still lingered, the figure of a human being, which was lost again round the turn almost as soon as it was seen.

"There is a peasant on a mule," exclaimed the cavalier, gladly. "We cannot be far from some village."

"It looks more like a priest on an a.s.s, my lord," replied the attendant who had spoken before.

"Well, well," said his master, "we shall find the better lodgings."

"And the better wine," rejoined his follower; "but, perhaps, not the better welcome."

"Oh, they are good men, these priests of Savoy," replied Bernard de Rohan, spurring on; "but we must not lose him again."

In a few minutes they again caught sight of the object of their pursuit.

He was now much nearer, but still it was somewhat difficult to distinguish whether he were priest or peasant, till, coming up with him by dint of hard riding--for his long-eared charger was bearing him on at a rapid pace--they found that he was, as the attendant had supposed, a jovial priest; not, indeed, extravagantly fat, as but too many were in that day, but in good case of body, and bearing a countenance rosy with health, and apparently sparkling with a cheerful disposition. He seemed, indeed, to be of a character somewhat eccentric; for, contrary to all clerical rule, he had covered his head with one of the large straw hats of the peasantry, which accorded but ill with the rest of his habiliments. His features, which the young cavalier thought he had seen somewhere before, were good, with an expression of much sharpness; and, though undoubtedly he heard the tramp of horses' feet behind him, in a land and in times not famous for safe travelling, either his conscience or his courage were so good, that he turned not his head to see who followed him thus closely, but kept his a.s.s at the same brisk canter, while the young cavalier rode up to his side, and gave him the ordinary salutation of the day.

"A good-evening to you, father!" said Bernard de Rohan, riding between him and the edge of the precipice.

"Pray let us have it quickly, my son," replied the priest; "for the one we have got seems likely to be as bad a one as ever I saw, at present."

"Indeed it is," answered the young gentleman, smiling at his somewhat cynical reply; "I am heartily glad to have met with you, my good father, for I trust you can show us some place of shelter."

"Good faith," replied the priest, turning for a moment to look at the cavalier's followers, "I cannot say I am so glad of the encounter; for where I am going we cannot be sure of finding too many of the good things of this life, and the lion's portion is always sure to go to the fighting men."

"Nay, nay! we will share alike!" rejoined Bernard.

"Ay! but I am a king in those matters," answered the priest; "I do not like to share at all. But come on, come on; I am only jesting. We shall find plenty, I doubt not; for, when last I pa.s.sed that little inn, there was good meat and wine enough to have fed a refectory for a week, or an army for a year. Come on quick, I say, for yon foul-mouthed railer at the top of the hill is beginning to roar at us as well as spit at us. We have still far to go, and a storm in these mountains is like a dull jest, I can tell you, young gentleman; for one never knows what may come next."

"Why, what can come next," demanded the cavalier, "but fine weather after the storm?"

"A rock upon your head," replied the priest, "or an avalanche at your heels, which would smother you in your steel case like a lobster in his sh.e.l.l. Come on! come on! Sancta Maria! why, my small a.s.s will out-run your tall charger now!" and, bestowing a buffet with his straw hat upon the flank of his bearer, the beast quickened his pace still more, and, with a malicious whisk of the tail and fling with his hind feet, set off into a gallop. But we must pause to change the scene, and precede the travellers on their way.