Henry of Guise Volume I Part 5

Madame de Saulny accompanied her to her apartments, leaving the young Marquis of Montsoreau standing in moody silence in the midst of the hall; and when, some hours afterwards, he sent up to inquire if Mademoiselle de Clairvaut would not go forth to see some game taken in the nets, the reply given by one of her maids in the anteroom was, that finding herself somewhat indisposed, she had lain down to rest, and was asleep. At this answer he broke away with an expression of bitter anger, and mounting his horse, rode out with a furious pace.

He had been gone about an hour and a half, when Marie came down into the room which we have described as the lady's bower, accompanied by Madame de Saulny, and employed herself in somewhat listless mood with the various occupations of a lady of that day. For a short s.p.a.ce she plied the busy needle at the embroidery frame, and then took up the lute and played and sang; but the music was broken, and came but by fits and starts; and it was evident that impatient expectation marred the power of present enjoyment or occupation. At length the clattering of horses' feet was heard below, and fain would she have looked forth from the window to ascertain which of the two brothers it was that had returned. At length, however, there was a step upon the stairs, and her beating heart decided the matter in a moment. It was Charles of Montsoreau that entered: but he was deadly pale, and that apparently from no temporary cause; for though he spoke calmly and tranquilly to Marie de Clairvaut and Madame de Saulny, the colour did not return into his cheek.

Marie, on her part, was anxious and agitated; she spoke low, for she feared that her voice might tremble if she used a louder tone. Her eye fell beneath that of her lover, and the colour came and went in her cheek like light quivering on the wings of a bird; and yet she was the first to propose that they should go forth together.

"Your brother is absent," she said, "and I understand sent up some time ago, while I was asleep, to ask if I would go out to see some game taken in the nets. Would it please you to go and join him?"

"Much," replied the young n.o.bleman. "He is not far; I know where the nets were to be laid."

"Then we will walk thither," she said: "I fear I shall be afraid of horses for many a long day. Madame de Saulny, you will come with us, will you not?"

But Madame de Saulny declined; and Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut went forth, followed by two of her maids, and some other attendants, at a respectful distance. The hearts of both beat even painfully; and for some steps from the castle gates they proceeded in silence, till at length she inquired how he had found the friend he went to visit. The young n.o.bleman replied that he feared he was dying; and, after a few words more on that subject, the conversation again dropped.

At length, as they descended the side of the hill, Charles of Montsoreau lifted his eyes to the face of his fair companion, saying in a low tone, "I told you this morning, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, that I should ask a few minutes' audience of you. Let me offer you my arm--nay, be not agitated, I have nothing to say which should move you. I have to apologise, as I told you, for some parts of my conduct yesterday, and to ask you to forgive me."

"Oh, I told you," she replied, "and I tell you again, that there is nothing to apologise for, nothing that I have to forgive; every thing that I have to be grateful for, every thing that will make me thankful to you through my whole life."

"Would that I could believe it were so!" replied Charles of Montsoreau. "But I remember that in the first agony of thinking you lost for ever, of thinking that bright spirit gone, that gentle heart cold, that beautiful form inanimate for ever, I gave way to transports of grief and sorrow, I spoke words, I used actions, that I neither would have dared to speak or use towards you, if I had known that you were then living and conscious. And yet I am sure, quite sure, that you knew, and saw, and heard those words and actions; and I fear that they may have offended you."

"Oh no, no, indeed!" replied Marie de Clairvaut, with her eyes bent down, her hand trembling upon his arm, and the colour glowing bright in her cheek--"Oh no, no, indeed! I did see, I did hear; but----"

In the course of that bright and beautiful thing called Love, very often between two beings in every respect worthy of each other there comes a moment when the very slightest touch of that pardonable hypocrisy in woman, which, from a combination of many bright and beautiful feelings, teaches her in some degree to veil or hide the pa.s.sion of her heart--when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy, I say, at a moment when it should be all cast away together, and the bosom of love laid bare to the eye of love--when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy seals the misery of both for ever.

It was such a moment then with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. She knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not know it; but she knew herself beloved, and might well have acknowledged her love in return. Had she done so, had she acknowledged that her own feelings towards him had rendered the caresses which he bestowed upon what he thought her dead form easily pardonable, the pa.s.sionate grief for her death deeply touching to her heart--had she done this, their course might have gone on in brightness. But she knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not know it; and the first impulse was to give way to woman's habitual hypocrisy, to cast a veil over the true feelings of her heart, and to hide the timid love of her bosom till it was drawn forth by him.

"Oh no, no, indeed!" she said; "I did see, I did hear; but--I thought it was but natural grief for one under your charge and protection that you thought lost in so terrible a manner----"

She hesitated to go on; she feared that she spoke coldly; and she thought of adding some word or two more which might take from the chilliness of such an answer, and let her real feelings more truly appear. Before she could collect herself to do so, however, Charles of Montsoreau answered, with a deep sigh, "You thought it was but natural, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; you thought it was but natural; and so, indeed----"

But as he spoke, his brother turned the angle of the little wood through which they were proceeding down the hill, and came towards them, followed by several of the huntsmen. There was a frown upon his brow, a fire in his dark eye, which Charles of Montsoreau saw and understood full well. But he met his brother calmly and steadfastly--with deep and bitter grief in his heart, it is true, but with grief which he had power over himself to conceal.

The angry feelings of the heart of Gaspar de Montsoreau were not so easily repressed, and he spoke in a tone and manner well calculated to produce angry words between himself and his brother.

"Why, how now, Charles!" he exclaimed; "are you back so soon? Where is the Abbe? Montsoreau seems to possess greater attractions for you than Morly."

"Of course," replied Charles of Montsoreau, calmly; "but even if it did not, I should have returned in haste. The Abbe I left behind at Morly, as he has no other occupation here."

"And you have pleasant occupation," rejoined his brother, with a tone in which a.s.sumed courtesy but covered ill the intended sneer--"and you have pleasant occupation as squire to this fairest of all fair ladies."

"It is, indeed, so sweet to attend upon her," replied Charles, "that I grieve I must lose the task so soon. In consideration of various circ.u.mstances, my dear Gaspar, I find that it will be absolutely necessary for me to proceed to Logeres immediately. I have lingered too long here already. My people will think that I neglect them; and I have determined to set off by dawn to-morrow morning."

The first expression that came upon the countenance of Gaspar de Montsoreau was undoubtedly that of satisfaction; but, with the pause of a single instant, better feelings sprang up, and he grasped his brother's hand with a look of real anxiety, exclaiming, "Good G.o.d, Charles, at this season of the year! In this disturbed state of the country! Remember, Logeres is more than a hundred and fifty leagues distant!"

"If this fair lady undertook as long a journey," replied Charles of Montsoreau with a melancholy smile, "in still severer weather, merely for the sake of doing what she thought was right, should I hesitate, Gaspar? Fie; she will think us all a household of priests and friars, who go not forth but when the sun shines, and think an easterly wind excuse sufficient for not visiting the neighbouring village. I will not diminish your garrison, either, very much, my dear brother. You must give me Gondrin with me, as he comes originally from Logeres; but, besides him, I shall only take my own ordinary attendants, and I will find means to fight my way through, depend upon it."

Gaspar de Montsoreau was easily reconciled to this arrangement. He still raised some objections, indeed; but, when he looked at Marie de Clairvaut, those objections became more and more faint in their tone, and he could scarcely refrain from a gaiety so different from the gloom of the morning, as to mark painfully how little he wished for his brother's stay. Marie de Clairvaut returned to the chateau in sadness and grief. She knew not, indeed, to the full extent, how much the departure of Charles of Montsoreau was attributable to her own words; but she felt that it was so, in some degree. She blamed herself more bitterly than she even deserved; and, hastening to her own room, she locked the door, and wept long and bitterly.

After some time, she was visited by Madame de Saulny, who pressed so eagerly for admittance, that she could not refuse her. Tears were still in her eyes, and traces of those she had shed fresh upon her cheeks; but Marie would give no explanation; and it was not till about an hour after, when the good marquise heard of Charles of Montsoreau's intended departure for Logeres, that she divined the cause of her young relation's grief.

When she did so, Madame de Saulny felt that, in some degree, she herself might have been instrumental in producing it. But it was one good trait in the character of that lady, that, if she committed an error, she was sorry for it with her whole heart, and sought to remedy it. She loved Marie de Clairvaut deeply and truly; she grieved much to see her grieve; but she hoped that there was no such great cause for grief, and that the matter might be easily remedied.

CHAP. VII.

The conduct which, as we have seen, was pursued by Charles of Montsoreau, had not been framed alone upon the supposition that his love for Marie de Clairvaut was without return. That belief, indeed, ultimately decided his determination; but a thousand other considerations had previously led him up to a point, where it wanted but one word to change the balance in either direction.

He had set out that morning for Morly full of hope and joy. He was not, indeed, confident that he was beloved; but he was confident that Marie de Clairvaut herself saw his affection, and had done nothing to check it. From all that he knew of her himself--from all that he had heard of her--from the casual conversation of Madame de Saulny, he was very, very sure, that the conduct of Marie de Clairvaut would have been quite different, if she had not felt a sufficient degree of regard for him, to know that love might follow if he sought it. This was quite enough to give him hope and happiness. He had, indeed, remarked his brother's ill humour upon many occasions, and he had attributed it justly to the disappointment of a desire to engross all their fair guest's conversation; but he had not the slightest idea of the eager and fiery pa.s.sions that were rising up in the breast of Gaspar of Montsoreau.

When he mounted his horse, then, to visit the old Count de Morly--one who, though only distantly related to his family, had been his father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor--Charles of Montsoreau looked forward to his return in the evening, and to the audience he had craved of Marie de Clairvaut, with a heart full of joyful emotions, and with fear bearing a very small proportion to hope. There was much happiness in his whole air; but it was thoughtful happiness, and for two or three miles he rode on in silence.

His companion, the Abbe de Boisguerin, was silent too, and thoughtful, and from time to time, as they rode along, he gazed upon his former pupil with a look of contemplative earnestness, a slight frown upon his calm, cold brow, and the thin nostril raised with something between triumph and scorn in the expression. He said not a single word till he saw that Charles of Montsoreau himself began to feel his own silence strange, and looked round as if about to commence some conversation. Then, however, the Abbe spoke.

"If you are awake, Charles," he said, "I should wish some conference with you; if you are dreaming, dream on: Heaven forbid that I should disturb you, for your visions seem pleasant ones."

"They were, dear friend," replied Charles, with a smile; "but I can give them up for a time, in the hopes of their being realised."

"Visions are often realised," replied the Abbe.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you surely are jesting, my sage friend. I thought to hear you reprove such idle fancies, and tell me that visions, however specious, were seldom, if ever, realised."

"No, far from it," replied the Abbe: "the visions of a strong, sensible, and reasoning mind like yours, Charles, are, on the contrary, very often realised; for they are seldom formed but upon some sufficient basis. But still I must have my lesson; and I will tell you, my dear Charles, that the visions which we have formed upon the best grounds, and which are consequently often realised in all their parts, are not unfrequently those productive of the utmost misery to ourselves, even when we thought them the most hopeful, the most happy. It is, Charles, that a thousand other things mingle with the realisation of our dreams, which in our dreams we dreamt not of, turning as with a fairy's wand the pure gold to dross, rendering the sweetness bitter, and changing wholesome food to poison. Look at that distant hill--the Peak of Geran--how soft, and blue, and smooth, and beautiful it looks, and yet you and I know that the small sharp stones with which it is covered will cut, till they bleed, the feet of the person who attempts to climb it. That soft blue mountain in the distance, Charles, is as the vision of an eager mind, and the rough impracticable stony side, as the realisation of the dream itself. I would always ask every one who indulges in a vision--Have you calculated beyond all question of doubt what may be the concomitant pangs, sorrows, and evils that even probably will accompany the realisation of that which you desire?--I would ask everyone this question, Charles; and I now ask you."

"I should think, my dear friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "that it would be utterly impossible for any one to answer such a question in the affirmative. The very fallibility of our human nature would prevent our doing so with truth. Good and evil must, of course, be always mingled in this world; and all that we can do is to think calmly, and endeavour to judge rationally, of that which is the best for our ultimate happiness. We must prepare ourselves to take the consequences, be they what they may. If you ask me the question you have mentioned, I should at once reply--No, I have not calculated all even of the probable evils which might attend the realisation of the visions with which I was occupied, because my mind is not capable of discovering one half of the chances attending any future event."

Charles spoke somewhat warmly; for there is always a degree of bitterness to the confident mind of youth in any words that tend to shadow the bright promises of hope, and to teach us by doctrine that which we can only learn by experience, the fallacy of expectations, the mingled nature of our best pleasures, the dust and ashes of human enjoyment. The Abbe gazed upon his face for a moment ere he replied; but then said, "I would put my question closer to you, Charles of Montsoreau, and I will put it seriously. Have you calculated all the self-evident evils that would attend the realisation of the visions which you were pondering?"

"Why, my dear Abbe," replied Charles with a smile, "it would seem by your serious aspect, that to-day you had turned prophet as well as preacher, could divine my thoughts, and see their results."

"I can divine your thoughts, Charles, and do," replied the Abbe; "and as it is a subject on which, however unwillingly, I must speak, I will tell you at once what these thoughts were. The results are in the hand of G.o.d, and in the hand of G.o.d alone. But I can and will show you some of the probable results."

"Nay, then," replied Charles, seeing that the Abbe spoke quite seriously, "such being the case, my dear Abbe, I need not tell you, that if you speak to me with warning, as your words imply, I will listen to you with every sort of deference. Speak, I beg you, and speak freely. Though no longer your pupil in name, I will gladly be so in reality. So now let me hear entirely what you have to say."

"Well, then, Charles," replied the Abbe, "what I have to say is this, and simply this. Your visions were of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You fancied that by the various services which you have rendered her you have obtained a strong hold upon her regard, a claim even upon her hand; that she showed a fondness for your society, a degree of affection for your person, which promised you fair in every respect; and, in fact, believing--and with some degree of justice--that you yourself love her deeply, you saw every prospect of that love being gratified by obtaining hers, and ultimately, perhaps, her hand. Now, Charles, was this, or was this not, the matter in your thoughts? was this the vision upon which your mind was bent? were not these the prospects which you contemplated just now?"

"They were," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I do not deny it."

"Well, then," replied the Abbe, "I will not now dwell for even a single moment upon difficulties, obstacles, obstructions, upon the pride of the race of Guise, upon the views of self-interest and ambition, upon the probability of their treating your love for their niece with contempt, and rejecting your proffered alliance with scorn.

I will not pause for a moment on such things; but I will speak of the matter with which we began; namely, of the probable, the self-evident evils which must attend the realisation of your hopes and wishes.

Charles of Montsoreau, have you thought of your brother?"

The blood came somewhat warmly up into Charles's countenance. "I have thought of him," he replied, "most a.s.suredly; but I have merely thought, my excellent friend, that though he might have some degree of admiration for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, yet he has neither had the opportunities, nor the occasion, if I may use the term, of feeling towards her as I do. Fate has willed it that I should be the person to aid her upon all occasions; fate has established between us links of connection which do not exist between her and Gaspar."

"But fate has not willed it," replied the Abbe sternly, "that you should love her a bit better than he does. On the contrary, Charles, fate has willed that he should love her deeply, pa.s.sionately, strongly, with the whole intensity of feeling of which he is capable.

This has been the will of fate, Charles of Montsoreau, and let not the selfishness of pa.s.sion blind you. In your pursuit of Marie de Clairvaut, you are the rival of your brother."