Henry of Guise Volume Ii Part 9

With a sorrowful heart, Charles of Montsoreau turned back into the inn, but he found no sleep, and the image of the woman clasping her dead son still haunted him in waking visions.

CHAP. VII.

It was about nine o'clock at night, and the moon, rising later than the night before, had not yet gone down, as Charles of Montsoreau pa.s.sed through the wide forest that then surrounded Chateauneuf en Thimerais. It was a beautiful moonlight scene, affording to the eye many various and pleasant objects. The greater part of the forest, indeed, consisted of old trees far apart from each other, and only surrounded by brushwood in patches here and there. Occasionally, indeed, deeper and thicker parts of the forest presented themselves, where the axe had not been plied so unsparingly; but the ground was hilly and broken, and the road ascended and descended continually, showing every change of the forest ground. There were manifold streams too in that part of the country, and small gushing fountains, while a chapel or two, here and there raised by the pious inhabitants of the neighbourhood, broke the desolate appearance of the wood by showing sweet traces of human hope or grat.i.tude. The heart, however, of Charles of Montsoreau enjoyed not that scene as it might at any other time, for many dark and painful reports had reached him of the state of the country in that district, and he looked anxiously forward to his arrival at the little village of Morvillette seated in the midst of the forest, to hear further tidings of Chateauneuf and its neighbourhood. A party of soldiers he had already heard had pa.s.sed along some days before, escorting a carriage, and it was understood their destination was Chateauneuf; but the people of Tremblay, where he received this intelligence, shook the head doubtingly, and added, that the traveller would hear more at Morvillette, and could there get a guide to the chateau, which was two miles from the town.

At length, lying in a hollow of the woodland, the moonlight showed him a group of dark cottages; but no friendly light appeared in the windows; and as he rode on amongst the houses, there was a sort of awful stillness about the place, which seemed to indicate that it was not slumber that kept the tongues of the peasantry silent. There were no dogs in the streets; there was no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys; all was still, and many of the doors stood wide open in the night air, exhibiting nothing but solitude within.

"There must be somebody in the place," cried Gondrin, springing from his horse and approaching one of the cottages, the door of which was shut.

Without knocking, the man threw open the door at once, and went in as far as the bridle of his horse would let him; but he came out again immediately, and his master could see that his face was pale and its expression horrified.

"A man and a woman," he said in a low voice, "both dead! the one in the bed and the other on the floor, and both of them looking as blue as a cloud."

The boy Ignati pressed up his horse to hear; and the Count said, "In all probability there may be things still more horrible before us. I shall go on, Gondrin; I must go on: but there is no need for either yourself or the page to do so. You had better both go back. Make the best of your way to Soissons, there tell the Duke what you have seen, and a.s.sure him that I will do my best to fulfil his wishes if I live."

"My Lord," said the boy, "I might quit you for a kind and n.o.ble master when danger was not about you, but I will only quit you now with life."

"And so say I," replied Gondrin in a somewhat rea.s.sured but still anxious tone. "But let us ride on, my Lord, and get out of this horrible place. We shall find no one here to show us the way."

"I believe I can find it myself," replied the Count. "We turn to the left as soon as we have pa.s.sed the village. Come on!"

Thus saying, he somewhat quickened his pace and rode away, the moon now declining towards her setting, throwing longer shadows, and giving more uncertain light. Anxiously did the young Count gaze from the brow of every rise, hoping to see the form of the chateau rising upon the eminence before him. Several times he disappointed himself by fancying that he saw it when it was not there, so that, when at length he beheld a single faint point of light, like the spark of a firefly amongst the distant branches, he could scarcely believe that it afforded any true indication of that which he sought.

Riding on, however, he again and again caught sight of it, till at length the forms of the building grew more clear and defined, and after about half a mile more he rode up the gentle slope that conducted towards the chateau.

It was situated in the midst of a wild game park, not unlike that of Vincennes, only that the ground was more irregular. The building, however, was very different: it had been erected by that Count de Clairvaut who had been sent amba.s.sador in the reign of Henry II. to the Republic of Venice. He had formed his ideas of beauty in architecture under another sky, and, but that it was somewhat larger and heavier, it might have been supposed that the building had been transported by some Geni from the banks of the Brenta. There was a strong old castellated gate, however, in the walls of the park, which had belonged to some former building. But the heavy iron gates were wide open, and the voice of no porter responded to the call of the young Count and his companions.

Still, however, he saw a light in the windows of the chateau, and he eagerly rode on along the path which conducted to the princ.i.p.al gates of the building. Here there was a wide flight of marble stairs, which had been brought ready polished at an immense expense from Italy, yellow and green with the damp, but still altogether of a different hue and consistence from the ordinary stone of the place. From those steps the wide forest scene beyond was fully displayed to the eye, the chateau being built very near the highest point of the acclivity, and the whole ground towards Dreux, Maintenon, and Chartres lying below, with the forest itself sweeping down the edge of that chain of high hills which separates the southern parts of Normandy from the northern parts and Maine.

The moon at that moment was just sinking beyond the trees on the left, and poured over the woods and plains below a flood of silver light, caught and reflected here and there by some open stream or wide piece of water, and, shining full upon the front of the marble building, which, with its pillars, its capitals, and its cornices, its wide doors and spreading porticoes, looked like the spectre of some bright enchanted palace from another land.

The large doors that opened upon the terrace were ajar; and Charles of Montsoreau, leaving his horse with the page, mounted the steps and knocked hard with the haft of his dagger. A long melancholy echo was all the sound that was returned. He knocked again, there was no answer; and then pushing open the door, he entered the wide marble hall. The moonlight was pouring through the tall windows, but all was solitary; and putting his foot upon the first step of the staircase, he was beginning to ascend. At that moment, he thought he heard a distant sound as of an opening door; and a ray of light, streaming down some long corridor at the top of the broad staircase, crossed the bal.u.s.trade and chequered the iron work with a different hue from the moonlight. He now called loudly, asking if there was any one in the building.

In a moment after, there were steps heard coming along towards the staircase, and a voice replied, "There is death and pestilence in the house. If you come for plunder, take it quickly; if you come by accident, fly as fast as you may, for every breath is tainted."

The tones of that voice were not to be mistaken, even before Charles of Montsoreau beheld the speaker; but, ere the last words were spoken, Marie de Clairvaut herself was at the top of the staircase, bearing a small lamp in her hand, and Charles of Montsoreau eagerly sprang up the steps.

The lamp flashed upon the form and features which she had not at first seen, and with a loud cry she darted forward to meet him.

The next moment, however, nearly dropping the lamp, she rushed back, exclaiming, "Come not near, Charles! Dear, dear Charles, come not near! These hands, not twelve hours ago, have closed the eyes of the dead. The plague most likely is upon me now!"

But before she could add more, the arms of Charles of Montsoreau were round her.

"You have called me dear," he said, "and what privilege can be dearer than sharing your fate, whatever it may be? Dear, dear, dear Marie!

oh, say those words again, and make me happy!"

"But I fear for you, Charles," she said; "I fear for you. All are either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die too,--you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of one to whom you have restored life."

"I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not; and that is the safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and leave you; and I fear not, either, that you will see death overtake me. But oh, if even it did, how sweet would death itself be, watched by that dear face, wept by those beloved eyes!"

Marie bent down her head, and said nothing; but she strove no more against the arm that was cast round her; her hand remained in his, and the colour rose warmly into her cheek, which had before been deadly pale.

"If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he had continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her,--"If it were not that I feared for you, your presence would indeed be a comfort and a consolation to me: not that I fear for myself," she added; "I know not why, but I have never feared. It has seemed to me as if there were no danger to myself--as if I should certainly escape. But oh, how terrible it would be to see you struck by the pestilence also!"

"Say no more, dear Marie; say no more," replied Charles of Montsoreau, feeling and knowing by every word that she was his own. "I fear not; I have no fear; and even if I had, love would trample it under foot in a moment. I would not leave you in such an hour, not if by descending that short flight of steps I could save myself from death: unless indeed you told me to go, and that you loved me not."

The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. "I must not tell such a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, "in an hour like this. I never told you so; indeed I never did, though Madame de Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with her dying lips a.s.sured me that you thought so."

"There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "which have pained both your heart and mine, I fear. But now, my beloved, I must call in those that are with me, for we have travelled far and ridden hard."

"Oh, call them not in!" said Marie de Clairvaut, "for they will be frightened when they see the state of the house, and catch the pestilence and die! Bid them lead their horses to the stables, and sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one still living there, for this evening at sunset I saw my father's old groom still wandering about as usual; but you must go yourself to tell them, Charles, for I do not believe that there is any one in the house but you and I. The stables lie away to the left. I will wait here for you till you come back. Go through the great doors," she said, as he descended, "and go not into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death in all of them."

Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and in a few words gave his directions to the servants. He then returned, and taking Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he pressed his lips warmly upon it, and gazed tenderly upon her as she led him along through a wide corridor to the room in which she had been sitting.

It formed a strange contrast,--the aspect of that room, with the desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through the rest of the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, fine tapestry, gave it an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed strange to the feelings of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illuminated book of prayer that lay upon the table told how Marie de Clairvaut's thoughts had been employed; and Charles of Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts to Heaven, prayed earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful and beloved being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her.

She sat down on the chair in which she had been reading with a look of melancholy thoughtfulness, and Charles of Montsoreau sat down beside her, and there was a long silent pause, for the hearts of both were too full of agitating feelings for words to be plentiful at first. The moment and the circ.u.mstances, indeed, took from love all shame and hesitation. Death and deprivation and desolation gave affection a brighter, a holier light,--it was like some eternal flame burning upon the altar of a ruined temple.

Marie de Clairvaut felt that at that moment she could speak things that at any other time she would have sunk into the earth to say; she felt that--with the exception of their trust in G.o.d--his love for her and hers for him formed the grand consolation of the moment, the healing balm, the great support of that hour of peril and of terror.

She looked at him and he at her, and they mutually thought that a few hours perhaps might see them there, dying or dead by each other's side, with love for the only comfort of their pa.s.sing hour--with the voice of death p.r.o.nouncing their eternal union, and the grave their bridal bed.

They thus thought, and it may seem strange to say, but--prepared as their minds were for leaving the life of this earth behind them--such a death to them appeared sweet; and neither feared it, but looked forward upon the grim enemy of human life, not with the stern defying frown of the martyr, not with the fierce and angry daring of the warrior, but with the calm sweet smile of resignation to the will of Heaven, and hopes beyond the tomb.

Thus they remained silent, or with but few words, for some time; and Charles of Montsoreau felt that he was beloved. Indeed, there was not a word, there was not a look, that did not tell him so: and yet he longed to hear more; he longed that those words should be spoken which would confirm, by the living voice of her he loved, the a.s.surance of his happiness. Gradually he won her from conversing of the present to speak of the past; and she gently reproached him for leaving her at Montsoreau so suddenly as he had done.

"Marie," he said, with that frankness which had always characterised him, "let me tell you all; and then see if I did right or wrong. If I did wrong, you shall blame me still, and I will grieve and make any atonement in my power; but if I only mistook, and did not act wrong intentionally, you shall forgive me, and tell me that you love me."

Marie de Clairvaut gazed in his face, and asked, "And do you doubt it now, Charles?"

"Oh, no!" he cried, "oh, no! I ought not to doubt it, for Marie de Clairvaut could not speak such words as she has spoken without loving." And gently bending down his head over her, he pressed a kiss upon that dear fair brow. "Marie," he said, "it is our fate to meet in strange scenes. The last time that I kissed that brow, the last time that I held you to my heart, was when I thought you dead, and lost to me for ever."

"And when I woke up," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "and was not only grateful to G.o.d and to you for having saved me, but happy in its being you that did save me, and happy," she added, slightly dropping her eyes, "in the signs of deep affection which I saw."

"And yet," he exclaimed, "and yet, when my stay or my departure hung upon a single word from your lips, you gave me to understand that you had not received those signs of affection as signs of affection; that you looked upon them but as the natural effect of my witnessing your restoration to life, when I thought you dead."

"Oh, Charles!" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut, with a slight smile, "could you not pardon and understand such small hypocrisy as that? Did you not know that woman's heart is shy, and seeks many a hiding-place, even from the pursuit of one it loves?"

"I never loved but you, Marie," replied the Count, "and I am sadly ignorant, I fear, of woman's heart. Nevertheless, upon those few words and that moment depended my fate."

"I knew not that," cried Marie de Clairvaut, eagerly; "I knew not that, or, upon my honour, I would have been more sincere: but what was it, Charles, made you take so sudden a resolution? what was it made you leave me, without a reply, in the hands of those who have striven constantly ever since to make me believe that you cared not for me?"

"I will tell you all," replied her lover; and, pouring forth in eloquent words all the pa.s.sion of his heart towards her, he told her how his love had grown upon him, how it had increased each hour; and making that the main subject of his tale, he told but as adjuncts to it the pain which his brother's conduct had inflicted upon him, and all the signs of rivalry which he had remarked. He then spoke of his conversation with the Abbe de Boisguerin on their way to visit the Count de Morly; and he told how agonised were all his feelings--how terrible was the struggle in his heart,--and what was the resolution that he took, to ascertain whether her affections were really gained, and by the result to shape his conduct. He next spoke of his conversation with her immediately preceding his departure, and of the words which had led him to believe that she was unconscious of his love, and did not return it.

As she listened, the tears rose in her eyes, and, laying her soft fair hand on his, she said, "Forgive me, Charles! oh, forgive me! but do believe that there is not another woman on all the earth who would not have done the same."