Henry of Guise Volume Iii Part 9

Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at that place--after having apparently said his prayers at the foot of the shrine--was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age; and as the Abbe came slowly near, the youth took a pipe out of his pocket and began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, full of rich melody and deep feeling. The music was not new to the Abbe; he had heard it before in other lands, when the few pure feelings of the heart which he had ever possessed had not been crushed, like accidental flowers blossoming on a footpath, by the pa.s.sing to and fro of other coa.r.s.er things.

He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at the boy, and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The eyes, the features, the expression of the countenance, seemed to be all connected with some old remembrances; and the air which he played too, brought his memory suddenly back to early scenes, and a land that he had loved. As he gazed at the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his person again connected itself with different events; and, though now he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in him the youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau when he attacked and defeated the small body of reiters near La Ferte, and whom he had also beheld more than once in Paris, when he was watching the proceedings of the young Count in the capital.

This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke to him, and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing with him for a few moments, he told him that if he would pursue that road for nearly a league, he would meet with some buildings belonging to a farm; and then, turning again down a road to the left, he would find him at a chateau upon the banks of the river. The boy promised to come, and the Abbe rode on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as possible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which he had been directed.

He was brought into the presence of the Abbe by an attendant wearing the colours of no n.o.ble house in France, and found him with some fruit and wine before him. But in regard to the subject on which the boy expected to be questioned most closely, namely, the death of Charles of Montsoreau, the Abbe spoke not one word. Notwithstanding all his firmness of purpose, notwithstanding the remorseless character of his mind and of his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the subject of his young cousin's death, unless forced on to do so by circ.u.mstances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise; and where he had first met with the young Count of Logeres, and of all the accidents that had befallen him while in company with Charles of Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in regard to the day of the barricades, or the young n.o.bleman's death.

From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw that the Abbe's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length he asked him, "You are an Italian by birth, are you not?"

"I am," replied the boy; "that is, I am a Roman." And he said it with that pride which every person born within the precincts of the ancient queen of empires feels, although glory has long departed from her walls, and the memory of past greatness is rather a reproach than an honour.

"And what is your name?" demanded the Abbe sharply.

"My name is Ignati," answered the youth.

"Ignati!" said the Abbe, "Ignati!" But you have some other name. What was your father's?"

"I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his brow glowing. "Why do you ask?"

"Your mother's then?" said the Abbe, without replying to his question.

"Your mother's? what was your mother's name?"

"Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing upon the Abbe with a degree of sternness in his look. "Did you know her?"

The face of the Abbe changed from deadly pale to glowing red in a moment; and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, "I know her?--I know her? I know a common strumpet?"

The boy's eyes flashed fire; and his hand was in his bosom in a moment seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the pipe in the breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a weapon, which, as we have seen, he was able to use with fatal effect, the form of a lady pa.s.sing across the two open doors on the other side of the room made him suddenly pause; and after a moment's thought, he drew back his hand and said, "What you say is false! She deserved not the name you have given her!"

He was turning towards the door, when the Abbe cried "Stay!"

and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It would be discovered!--Come hither, boy!" he added; and taking out his purse he counted out some pieces of gold, to no light amount; and giving them to the boy, he said, "There, you have lost your master and seem to be poorly off. Take those, and get thee into some reputable employment."

But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed down the gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, "I will have no liar's money!"

quitted the chamber and the house.

The Abbe gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep thought, and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and exclaiming, "I am a fool!"

After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, "Well, I must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with my new demeanour towards her. Of my past language which frightened her, it seems that very soon no other impression will remain but the memory of the deep and pa.s.sionate love I testified. That is never displeasing to any woman; and if I can lead her gently on, the matter will be soon accomplished, now that this her first fancy is at an end, and the grave has taken the great obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did not, with true, womanly, pa.s.sionate, love; but fond of him she was, with the sickly fancy of an idle girl; and her grief will be sufficient to soften her proud heart. It is a wonderful softener, grief; and she will cling to whosoever is near her, that has skill and power to soothe and support her. I will teach her to love better than she has loved!--But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell them to her with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she learn to hate me as the bearer of evil tidings."

And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few others but himself could have composed. It was tender, yet respectful,--not lover-like, yet through every word of it love's light was shining--sad, but not gloomy--melancholy, yet with words of hope. When he had done he folded and sealed it, and then listening to the distant village clock, he said--

"If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect; and I am rather inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions in his mind already. Well, we shall soon see; it is no very difficult task to rule a light-brained youth like that."

Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, the Abbe proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused it to be saddled and bridled, and rode back to the Chateau of Islay with all speed.

Before he proceeded to the saloon to join the young Marquis, he questioned his own servants as to all that had taken place during his absence; heard of the long visit of Villequier; and planned his own conduct accordingly.

Gaspar of Montsoreau, when he joined him, expressed some surprise that he had not returned before, and added, in as gentle a tone as he could a.s.sume, "I trust, nay good friend, that you have been pursuing the inquiries which have so long frustrated us in regard to the dwelling of that sweet girl, whom we were very wrong to place again in the hands of Villequier, even though it might have cost us our lives had we either remained in Paris, or attempted to take her with us."

Though the young Marquis spoke quickly, his companion, who knew his character to the very bottom and could instantly see the workings of his mind when he used any of the arts he himself had taught him, perceived at once that Villequier had betrayed the secret of Marie de Clairvaut's abode; and he replied deliberately, "Yes, Gaspar, I have been more successful; and I think now--tamed down as you have been by grief, and requiring some consolation--I think now, I say, that it is not only safe but right, to let you know both that this fair girl is in the neighbourhood of the spot where we now stand, and that she is under my care and guidance."

"In the neighbourhood?" exclaimed Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Under your care and guidance? How happened I not to hear this before, Abbe?"

"Simply," replied the Abbe, "because the state of violence and irritation in which you were when I last returned to you from Blois--the period when I first became possessed of any knowledge on the subject--would have led you into acts of impetuosity, which, in the first place, would have terribly injured your cause with her; and, in the next, would have discovered the place of her abode to every one from whom we seek to conceal it. Now, however, I think you can command yourself, and you will find the benefit of what has been done to serve you. All I require is, that you would let me know when you visit Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; that you would do so with prudence and caution and forbearance; and though it is not of course necessary that you should desist from pleading your own cause with her, yet let it be as gently as may be."

The Abbe de Boisguerin knew that Gaspar de Montsoreau could not do as he asked him; that it was not in his nature to plead his own cause gently. He felt perfectly confident that the rash impetuosity of the young Marquis would alienate more and more the regard of Marie de Clairvaut, and thus, perhaps, facilitate even his own views and purposes. Could he have prevented it, he would not willingly have let him visit her at all; but it was now impossible to exclude him; and he knew that the secret of Charles of Montsoreau's death gave him the power of destroying at once all his former pupil's hopes, if he saw that he even made one step in removing the bad impressions Marie previously had received.

On his part, though not quite satisfied with being deceived, Gaspar of Montsoreau believed that the Abbe had deceived him for his own good; and the selfish purposes which were most needful for him to discover, were still concealed in spite of the warnings of Villequier.

CHAP. VII.

In the gardens of the Chateau by the banks of the Charente; which the Abbe de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de Montsoreau, and in an arbour which had been constructed, as is still ordinary with the people of that country, by a number of vines entwined over a light trellis work; with a soft and beautiful scene before her eyes, and the autumn sunshine gilding the glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and wept, with the note from the Abbe which had conveyed to her the bitterest tidings she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A day had pa.s.sed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not in the least subsided; and to herself it even seemed greater than it had been at first. Her whole thoughts at first had been bent upon the one painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all the fervour, and the depth, and the devotion of a heart that had never loved before, was lost to her for ever; that she should never behold again that frank and candid countenance, beaming with looks of deep and indubitable affection; that she should never again see those eyes poring into hers with the intense gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive fresh light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical voice, which had so often a.s.sured her of protection and support; that she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought her rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she had felt only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness of his days, in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full blossom of his hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his lips the cup, which, offered to him by honour, virtue, and sincerity, ought to have been a sweet one indeed.

Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings indeed more selfish, but which were the natural consequences of her situation, and connected intimately with the loss of him she loved. A feeling of desolation had come over her--of utter loneliness in all the world. It seemed as if she had never loved or esteemed or clung to any but himself; as if there were no one to protect her, to guide, support, direct, or cheer her upon earth; as if life's youth were over, the fortune of existence spent like a prodigal, the heart's treasury empty, and nothing left for the immortal spirit on this side the grave but penury of every rich and n.o.ble feeling, lone solitude and petty cares, and all the dull anxieties of a being without an object.

Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel: and well too might she feel desolate! for though her grief did some wrong to many who loved her as friends and relations, and would have done much to aid and support her; yet, oh! what is such love and esteem? what is aid and support wrung from the midst of hours devoted to other things, and thoughts and feelings centered upon other objects, when compared with the entire devotion, the pure, single love of an upright, an honourable, and a feeling heart--where the being loved is the great end and object of every thought and every action--where all the feelings of the spirit are hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like angels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, she was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when she compared the present with the past! Well might she think so; well might she grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, when she wept for him and for his early end!

Some comfort, perhaps, had been indeed afforded her by the change which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbe de Boisguerin. She could never love him; she could never like him: his society could never even become tolerable to her: but yet it was no slight satisfaction to find that she was no more to hear words which she considered as little less than sacrilegious, or to endure the eager pa.s.sion in his eye, and hear him dare to talk to her of love. She looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, though he often denied that he had power to liberate her; but yet she felt that peace and comfort at least depended much upon that gaoler's will, and was not a little pleased to find that during the three or four last visits which he had paid, no word which could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even look that she could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain tenderness and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed.

During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he had come there again, and his conduct towards her had been all that she could have desired. He had not spoken directly of the cause of the deep grief which he saw his intelligence of the former day had brought upon her, but all his words were chosen so as to harmonise with that grief; and the object of his visit itself, as he expressed it, was only to see whether he could do any thing to console her, or to alleviate the sorrow under which she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy and kindness; but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what seemed real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be followed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, importune her.

"The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, "will be restrained no longer from seeing you; and you know, Madam, it is impossible for me to prevent him, which I would willingly have done, especially as the view he takes of the recent most lamentable event is not likely to do aught but give you pain."

"Oh, cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. "Cannot you stay him at this terrible moment, when the very sight of him will be horrible to me?"

"I fear not indeed. Lady," replied the Abbe. "I would have given my right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed perfectly determined.

However, when I return, I will do my best once more, in the hope that he may yet be moved." And after a visit very much shorter than usual, he had taken his leave and departed.

The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have seen, once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation in which she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss which she had sustained; but ere she had gone out, she had taken the only precaution in her power to insure that her solitude would remain inviolate, directing the servants--who acted indeed the part of turnkeys--if the Marquis of Montsoreau applied to see her, to state at once that she was not well enough to receive him, and wished to pa.s.s some days alone and in tranquillity.

She wept long and bitterly; but in about an hour after she had gone out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices speaking at the gateway made themselves heard. She could distinguish even the tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly the words of the servant in reply. But Gaspar of Montsoreau was hurt and offended by the message she had left, and a certain inclination to tyranny in his disposition broke forth with his usual impetuosity.

"Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, "who it is that desires to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I much wish for a few minutes' conversation with her. What, fellow! Would you shut the gates upon me like a horseboy? Get ye gone and return quickly. I will walk in the gardens till you come back." And striding in he threw the gate violently to, and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he could have divined that the object of his search was there.

Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a moment enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. Rising at once she came forth, and crossed the green slope towards the chateau, pa.s.sing directly by Gaspar of Montsoreau as she did so, and intending merely to bow her head by way of salutation. He placed himself in such a manner, however, that she could not pa.s.s on, although he must have seen the tears fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more roused than before.

"I directed the servant, sir," she said, when forced to pause, "to inform you, if you came, that I was not well enough to see you; and that I wished for solitude and tranquillity."

"Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, conquering the feelings of anger with which he had entered, and speaking with a calm and tender tone, "I thought, if you knew that I was here, pity, if nothing else, would induce you to see, but for a few moments, one who has languished for weeks and months for a single glance of your eyes--one who so deeply, so tenderly, so devotedly, loves you."

Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears of Marie de Clairvaut--words which, from the lips of him she loved, would have been all joy and sweetness, but were now abhorrent to her ear; and looking at him sternly, with her bright eye no longer dimmed, though her lip quivered, she said, "Never let me hear such words again, sir!--I beg that you would let me pa.s.s!--Marquis of Montsoreau, this is cruel and ungentlemanly! Learn that I look upon myself as your brother's widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying day." And thus saying she pa.s.sed him, and entered the house.

She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that the young Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was a.s.sured of this, she once more went out into the open grounds--for the load of grief ever makes the air of human dwellings feel oppressive; and again going down to the bank of the river, she gazed upon its tranquil current as she walked by the side; and though her sorrow certainly found no relief, yet the sight of the waters flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil, incessant, led, as it were, her thoughts along with them. They became less agitated, though still as deep and powerful; they seemed to imitate the course of the river, running on incessantly in the same dark stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no sob accompanied them; and though a sigh often broke from her lip, it was the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling pain.

It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary sounds and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious upon us.

Things that would pa.s.s by unheard at other times, as amongst the smaller tones in the great general concert of the day, then become painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the sky above her head, made no pleasant melody for her ear; a country boy crossing the opposite fields, and whistling as he went, pained her so much, and made her gentle heart feel so harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for such sensations, saying, "He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful! He cannot tell that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most distasteful to me."