Henry of Guise Volume Iii Part 17

Guise listened silently and with great attention, displaying in demeanour every sort of deference and respect for the opinions of those who showed such an interest in his fate. He replied, however, that he trusted and hoped that both the rumours they had heard, and the intelligence given by Schomberg, originated in nothing but mistaken words, or in those idle and unfounded reports which always multiply themselves in moments of great political agitation and excitement. Besides this, he said, even if the King were disposed to attempt his life, the execution of such an act would be very difficult, if not impossible; and that, considering before all things his duty to his country, the very fact of the King seeking such a thing ought to be the strongest reason for his stay, inasmuch as the Monarch's animosity could only be excited towards him out of enmity to the Catholic Church, and a disposition to repress and tyrannise over the States.

"If such be his feelings," continued the Duke, "we must consider ourselves as two armies in presence of each other, and the one that retreats of course awards the victory to his adversary."

The Archbishop of Lyons, perhaps, was the person who decided the fate of the Duke of Guise; for had the party which came to him been unanimous and urgent in their remonstrance, there is a probability that he would have yielded; but the Archbishop seemed doubtful and undecided. He said that he thought, indeed, it might be well the Duke should go; at least for a time. But they had to consider, also, the probabilities of the King making any attempt upon the Duke. Though weak, timid, and indolent, Henry was shrewd and fa.r.s.eeing, he said.

The only result that could follow an attempt upon a person so beloved by the whole nation, and especially by the States, as the Duke of Guise, would be to arm the people of France in an instant against the sovereign authority. This the King must well know, he continued; and that consideration made him less eager upon the subject, though he thought it might be as well that his Highness should retire for a time.

His speech more than counterbalanced the exhortations of all the rest; and from that moment the resolution of the Duke became immovable. His dauntless mind, which might have yielded had he stood absolutely alone in opinion, came instantly to the conclusion, that if there were a single individual who doubted whether he should fly or not, he himself ought to decide upon remaining. He made no answer to the Archbishop's speech, but suffered Mandreville to combat his arguments without interruption. That gentleman replied that Henry, far from being the person represented, though cunning, was any thing but prudent. Had they ever seen, he demanded, the cunning of the King, even in the least degree, restrain or control him? Had the self-evident risk of his throne, of his life, and of the welfare of his people, ever made him pause in the commission of one frantic, vicious, or criminal act?

He was no better, the deputy said, than a cunning madman, such as was frequently seen, who, having determined upon any act, however absurd or evil might be the consequences, even to the destruction of his own self, would arrive at it by some means, and go directly to his purpose, in despite of all obstacles. He contended that they had good reason to know that the King devised evil against the Duke; and they might depend upon it that no consideration of policy, right, or religion, would prevent him from executing his purpose by some means.

He spoke truly, and with more thorough insight into the character of the King than any one previously had done; but the resolution of the Duke of Guise, as we have said before, was already taken.

"My good friends," he said in conclusion, "I thank you most sincerely, and I shall ever feel grateful for the interest that you have taken in me, and for your anxiety regarding me on the present occasion. But my resolution is taken, and must be unalterable. I cannot but acknowledge that the view of Monsieur de Mandreville may have much truth in it; but, nevertheless, matters are now at such a point, that if I were to see death coming in at that window, I would not seek the door."

Against a determination so forcibly expressed, there was, of course, no possibility of holding further argument; and after a word or two more on different subjects of less interest--the Duke of Guise replying as briefly as possible to every thing that was said--the party took their leave and retired.

CHAP. XII.

There was at that time a large open s.p.a.ce round the church of St.

Sauveur, in Blois, where the people from the country used occasionally to exhibit their fruits and flowers for sale; and exactly opposite the great door of the church stood a large and splendid mansion, with an internal court-yard, part of which had been let to some of the deputies for the States-General. The princ.i.p.al floor, however, consisting of sixteen rooms, and several large pa.s.sages and corridors, had been left untenanted, in consequence of the proprietor asking an exorbitant rent, till two or three days before the period of which we speak. Then, however, the apartment was taken suddenly, a number of attendants in new and splendid dresses appeared therein; and, as we have seen from the account of Villequier to the King, the Abbe de Boisguerin arrived in Blois, with a splendid train of attendants, and took up his abode as the master of that dwelling.

About the same time that the conversations which we have detailed in the last chapter were going on in the cabinet of the Duke of Guise, the Abbe was seated in one of the rooms, which he had fixed upon for his own peculiar saloon. It was very customary in those days, and in France, for every chamber, except a great hall of reception, to be used also as a bed-room. But that was not the case in this instance; for the chamber, which was small, though very lofty, had been used by the former occupants as a cabinet, and had been chosen by the Abbe probably on account of its being so completely detached from every other chamber, that no sound of what was done or said therein could be overheard by any one.

He sat in a large arm-chair, with his feet towards the fire, and with his right elbow resting on a table covered with various sorts of delicacies. Those delicacies, however, were not the productions of the land in which he then lived, but rather such as he had been accustomed to in other days, and which recalled former habits of life. There were fine dried fruits from the Levant, tunny and other fish from the Mediterranean; and the wines, though inferior to those of France, were from foreign vineyards.

Before him was standing a man whom we have had occasion to mention more than once--that Italian vagabond named Orbi, from whom, it may be remembered, Charles of Montsoreau delivered the boy Ignati. He was now dressed in a very different guise, however, from that which he had borne while wandering as a mere stroller from house to house. His s.h.a.ggy black hair was trimmed and smooth; his beard was partially shaved and reduced to fair proportions, with a sleek mustachio, well turned and oiled, gracing his upper lip; his face, too, was clean; and a suit somewhat sombre in colour, but of good materials, displaying in the ruff and at the sleeves a great quant.i.ty of fine white linen and rich lace, left scarcely a vestige of the fierce Italian vagabond, half bravo, half minstrel, which he had appeared not a year before.

The conversation which was going on between him and the master he now served, was evidently one of great interest. The Abbe's wine remained half finished in the gla.s.s; the preserved fruits upon his plate were scarcely tasted; and he exclaimed, "So, so! Villequier sends me no answer to my letter! A bare message, by word of mouth, that the Duke of Guise wills it to be so; and that the Duke's will is all powerful at the Court of France! The King sets at nought his own royal word, does he?"

"He said something, sir," said the Italian, "about his knowing, and the King also, that they must pay a penalty; but that no sum was to be grudged, rather than offend the Duke at this time."

"Sum!" cried the Abbe de Boisguerin, starting up and pushing the chair vehemently from him. "What is any sum to me?" And with flashing eyes, and a countenance all inflamed, he strode up and down the chamber for a moment or two, with his heart swelling with bitterness and disappointed pa.s.sion. "A curse upon this bungling hand," he cried, striking it upon the table, "that it should fail me at such a moment as that! I thought the young viper had been swept from my way for ever!--My aim was steady and true, too! His heart must be in some other place than other men's."

"Ha! my Lord," joined in the Italian in the tone of a connoisseur, "the arquebus is a pretty weapon, I dare say, in a general battle, but it is desperate uncertain in private affairs like that. You can never tell, to an inch or two, where the ball will hit. But, with a dagger, you can make sure to a b.u.t.ton-hole; and even if there should be a struggle, it is always quite easy so to salve the point of your blade, that you make sure of your friend, even if you give him but a scratch.

Now the attempt to poison a ball is all nonsense, for the fire destroys the venom."

"At what hour said you, Orbi?" demanded the Abbe, without attending to his dissertation.

"Half an hour before high ma.s.s," replied the man, "the marriage is to take place."

Again the Abbe de Boisguerin burst into a vehement fit of pa.s.sion, and strode up and down the room cursing and blaspheming, till accidentally his eyes fell upon a small Venetian mirror, and the aspect of his own countenance, ordinarily so calm and unmoved, now distorted by rage and disappointment, made him start. A smile of scorn, even at himself, curled his lip; and calming his countenance by a great effort, he again seated himself, and mused for a moment.

"This must not, and shall not be," he said at length. "Orbi, you are an experienced hand, and doubtless dexterous. Will you stop this going forward?"

The man smiled, stroked back his mustachios, and replied, "I thought you would be obliged to take my way at last. Well, Monseigneur, I have no objection; but the time is short. I told you what I expected for such an affair when I offered to do it in Paris."

"You shall have it! you shall have it!" replied the Abbe. "But if you do it, so that no suspicion ever falls on me, you shall have as much again this day two years; for nothing but the lives of these two young men stands between me and immense wealth."

"The worst of it all is," said the Italian, "that there is so short a time. It is to take place in the castle chapel; so there will be no going through the streets. To find him alone will be a matter of difficulty; and though I went over the pa.s.sages, thinking it might come to this, yet I saw no one place, but at the door of the room called the revestry, where one could strike easily."

"I have seen the place," said the Abbe, "long ago; but I do not remember it so perfectly as to give you any aid. I know that the window of the room you mention looks into the court and gardens, and under the garden wall shall be a swift horse to bear you away. That is all I can do for you."

"I must do the rest for myself," replied the man, "and will find some means, depend upon it. Perhaps he may not wait for the other if he be eager, but may come first by himself, and then it will be easily done.

However, I will now go and get the dagger ready, and I can undertake that the least scratch shall not leave an hour's life in him."

The Abbe de Boisguerin nodded his head and smiled as the other departed. "They know not," he said to himself, "they know not the man they have to deal with. These mighty men, these haughty Guises, may find that every man of strong determination and unflinching courage may thwart, if he cannot master, them; may destroy their plans, if he cannot accomplish his own. But there is another still to be dealt with. There is this proud, unfeeling, contemptuous girl; she who has been rejoicing in the reappearance of this crafty fair-faced boy.--There is now no going back; and why should I not risk life to win her too, and gratify both my love and my revenge?--Yet that seems scarcely possible," he continued. "Closely watched within the castle, never going out but strongly accompanied, she is put, it would seem, entirely out of my power, now that Villequier has fallen off from me.--And yet," he continued meditating, "and yet, there is nothing impossible to the dauntless and the daring.--Could I not bring her to the postern gate of the garden an hour before this marriage is to take place, and then, with swift horses and a carriage ready, convey her once more far away?--We have done as bold and difficult a feat before; and methinks, if I could tell her that I have news to give her concerning her uncle's safety--for rumours of his danger must have reached her ears--she will not fail to come, and come alone.--Oh! if I once more get her in my power, she shall find no means to fly again, till, on the contrary, she shall be more inclined to kneel at my feet, and beseech that I would wed her.--So it shall be! I will write to her that, if at ten o'clock she will be alone at the postern gate of the castle, she will hear news that may save her uncle's life. Then, with the swiftest horses we can find, a few hours will take us far from pursuit!--I will carry her into Spain! Epernon is with me and the way open!--It shall be done!" he said aloud; "it shall be done! But, then, this boy's death is scarcely needful! Why should I mind his living?--It will be but the greater torture to him to know that she is mine!--And yet, it were better he should die. All the tidings, and the rumours, and the bustle of his violent death in the castle will too much occupy the minds of men to let them notice our flight; so that we shall gain an hour or two. There is an eager and a daring spirit, also, within him--a keen and active mind--which might frustrate me once more in the very moment of hope. He must die! I have set my own life upon the chance; and what matters it whether one or two others are swept away before me? He must die! and then, without protection, she is mine. Once into Tourraine, and I am safe!--Ha! you are back again quickly, my good friend Orbi. Is all ready?"

"Everything, sir," replied the man; "and if I could but get into the chateau, and stumble upon the youth alone, I might be able to accomplish the matter to-night. Could you not furnish me with a billet to this Villequier, or some one? It matters not what; any empty words, just to make them admit me at the gates."

"Not to Villequier," said the Abbe; "not to Villequier. But I will write a few words to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut herself."

"That will do well! that will do well!" replied the man. "I am more likely to find him hanging about her apartments than any where else; and then one slight blow does the deed."

"Bring me paper and pens from the next room," cried the Abbe. "It shall be done this moment." And as soon as implements for writing were procured, he wrote a subtle epistle to Marie de Clairvaut, beseeching her to speak for a moment, at the postern gate of the chateau gardens early on the following day, to a person who would communicate something to her, which might save the life of her guardian the Duke of Guise. It was written in a feigned hand, and under the character of an utter stranger to her. Some mistakes too were made in the orthography of her name, and in regard to other circ.u.mstances, for the purpose of rendering the deception complete. When this was concluded and sealed, he placed it in the hands of Orbi, and after a few more words they parted.

While the Abbe busied himself in causing a carriage to be bought for the proposed enterprise of the following day, and in ordering the swiftest horses that could be found, to be obtained--not from the royal post, by which his course might have been tracked, but from one of the keepers of _relais_, as the irregular posting houses were called, which were then tolerated in France; the Italian proceeded on his task, with feelings in his heart which might well have been received as a reason for abating the price of the deed he was about to perform.

To tell the truth it might be considered fully as much his own act as that of the Abbe, for the same malevolent feelings were in the hearts of each; and he went not there merely as the common hired a.s.sa.s.sin, to do the work of his trade, as a matter of course; but he went also to avenge a long remembered blow, which still rankled in his heart, with the same bitterness that he had felt at the moment that it was received.

He met with some difficulty in obtaining entrance to the chateau at so late an hour of the night; but the letter addressed to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut enabled him to effect that object at length, and he was directed towards the suite of apartments a.s.signed to the Duke of Guise and his family. When he had once pa.s.sed the two first gates, he met with no obstruction, but wandered through the long dimly lighted corridors, scarcely encountering a waking being on his way, and certainly none who seemed inclined to speak to him.

When he had reached that part of the building to which he had been directed, he looked round for some one to give him farther information, not absolutely intending to seek the apartments of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and deliver the note, but merely to obtain a general knowledge of how the different chambers were allotted. After pa.s.sing on some way, without meeting any one or hearing a sound, he saw a door half open, with the light streaming out, and quietly approaching he looked in.

There was a boy in the dress of a page, sitting before a large Christmas fire reading a book; but though he walked stealthily, the first step which the Italian took in the room caught the youth's quick ear, and starting up he showed the Italian the face of his former bondman, Ignatius Marone. The man started when he saw him; but recovering himself instantly, he went up and endeavoured to soothe the boy with fair and flattering words.

"Ah, my little Ignati," he said, "here thou art then, and doubtless well off with this young Lord of thine."

"I _am_ well off, Signor Orbi," was the boy's brief reply; and seeing that the man paused and kept gazing round him, the boy added, "But what is your business here?"

"I am only looking about me," replied the man in somewhat of a contemptuous tone, which he could not smother, although it was his full intention to cajole the boy into giving him all the information he wanted, and perhaps even to induce him unconsciously to aid his purpose.

"Come, come, Signor Orbi," replied the boy, "I know you well, remember; and I know, that though you may have changed your doublet, you cannot have changed what is within it. If you do not say immediately what you want, I will call those who will make you." And he approached one of the other doors which the room displayed, and raised his hand towards the latch.

"Hist, hist, Ignati!" cried the Italian. "By Heavens! if you do, you shall never hear what I have got to tell you,--something that would make your heart beat with joy if you knew it."

"And what is that?" said the boy, still standing near the door, and looking at his fellow-countryman with a face of scorn and doubt.

"Come hither, and I will tell you," said the Italian; but the boy shook his head, and Orbi added in a low tone, "You know who your mother was, Ignati; but do you know your father?"

The boy gazed at him bitterly and in silence, without making any further answer; and the man added, "He is now in Blois."

Ignati instantly sprang forward towards him, exclaiming, "Where?

Where? Where can I find him? I have still the letter from my dead mother. I have still all the proofs given me by the Marone. Where is he? where is he?"

"Come, let us sit down by the fire," said the man, "and I will tell thee more;" and finding the boy now quite willing to do what he wished, the man sat down by the fire with him, calculating the various results of particular lines of conduct open before him, but without suffering any one good principle or feeling to mingle at all with his considerations.