Lord Montagu's Page Part 11

Edward explained that he had sent for a coach, which could not arrive till the following morning, and, sitting down beside Lucette, began to converse with her in English, while the landlady continued at the table listening to the strange language, and apparently trying if she could make any thing of it. In that tongue Lucette, whose sweet lips had regained their color and her beautiful eyes their sparkle, told him all that had happened to her since he had left her,--how, with anxiety and fear, she had remained in her place of concealment hour after hour till near the dawn of day,--how good Jacques Beaupre had tried to console and comfort her in vain, till at length suspense became unendurable, and she had determined to go forth and try to pa.s.s the royalist lines herself,--how Jacques had remonstrated,--how she had persisted, and how she had not gone three hundred yards before she was challenged, stopped, and taken to the little house occupied by Monsieur de Lude, who commanded in that quarter. Her companion, she said, had disappeared at the very moment of her own arrest, and she did not know what had become of him. Monsieur de Lude, however, was an elderly man and very courteous, who asked her a number of questions.

"And what, in Heaven's name, did you tell him, dear Lucette?" asked Edward.

"Not much," replied the sweet girl. "I determined at once that I would speak no French; and, as he could speak no English, he gained nothing from me. At length he put pen and paper before me, and made signs to me to write down who and what I was. I then wrote that I was your page, who had remained behind you, being frightened, but who, repenting of my cowardice, had come on, thinking to overtake you. The old gentleman sent for some of his officers who knew a little English; and between them they made out what I had written."

"Did you write my own name, dear girl?" asked Edward, with some anxiety.

"Nay," replied Lucette, "I wrote the name you told us was in your pa.s.s,--Sir Peter Apsley,--and I described you as well as I could. Then, to my great joy, I heard Monsieur de Lude say to the officers, 'I am afraid we have made a mistake in stopping him. That was clearly the cardinal's safe-conduct; and we must send the page after him. Richelieu dislikes too much as well as too little zeal; and, on my life, it is likely we shall be scolded for not having properly reverenced his signature.' I do think, dear Edward, I could have persuaded him to let us all go on our way, if I had dared to speak French to him; but, after having pretended not to understand a word, I was afraid."

Now, good casuists have clearly shown two things,--that it is perfectly justifiable to deceive on some occasions, and that we had better not do it on any. The present is a good elucidation. If ever a girl was justified in feigning, Lucette was so; but still she got nothing by it, except a long ride in the way she did not want to go, and she lost all the advantages of her little innocent trick by the very trick itself. So it seems to me, at least,--although there may be people who differ with me on the subject, and, if so, I beg to state that I will not enter with them into a further discussion of the subject, at least on paper.

One advantage, however, which neither Edward nor Lucette then knew, but which had accrued from her interview with Monsieur de Lude, was this: the officers had let the men understand that they were all very doubtful as to whether they had done right or wrong in ignoring the name of Richelieu--then becoming very terrible--written at the bottom of the safe-conduct, and that therefore the young gentleman and his suite were to be treated with the utmost respect and consideration. The soldiers who had escorted Lucette had communicated this to those who had guarded Edward Langdale, and the intelligence was not without a great effect upon men who knew that those who present themselves with agreeable intelligence find a good reception and often a reward, whereas those who come upon a blundering errand get kicks for their only recompense.

To return to my story, however. I will not dwell upon the pa.s.sing of that night. As far as Edward and Lucette were concerned, it pa.s.sed as properly and as decently as possible; and, if any one suspects the contrary, it is the fault of his own imagination. The next morning, though not exactly at daybreak, the coach--or carrosse, as the people called it--arrived from Marans, and all was soon ready for departure.

Edward and his pretty page took their seats within. Pierrot, mounted, led one horse beside the carriage; one of the guards led another, and the whole cortege set out for Nantes at a brisk pace of three miles an hour, or thereabouts. There are other countries in the world where one can still go at the same pace; but, as Nantes was about ninety miles distant, it was very evident three days must be consumed in the journey.

Now, it was very pleasant to Edward Langdale to sit side by side with Lucette, especially when, by way of emphasis to any thing of particular importance he was saying, he took her soft little hand in his; indeed, it often rested there quite tranquilly for full ten minutes; and, as he had no inclination to arrive at Nantes at all, he certainly did not hurry the horses. Youth has the power of removing evil days,--of multiplying the intervening hours; and the first part of the journey was very sweet to both, although the gloomy-looking Nemesis of Nantes was still before them. But, after Sevigne was pa.s.sed, and Marans, where they only stopped to water the horses, the two young people began to think seriously--somewhat sadly--of the future, and to consider whether it would not be both prudent and possible to escape. Now, this change of thoughts and purposes probably took place from the simple fact of both being refreshed and reinvigorated by repose; but, certainly, things began to seem quite practicable to Edward, and even very feasible, which had before seemed impossible, or highly perilous. The country now became fertile in windmills, country-houses, and ca.n.a.ls, and Edward proposed to get out and ride a little. Lucette gazed at him timidly with a "do-not-leave-me" look; but he explained to her that he was going to sound the leader of their escort, and she made no opposition. He was soon mounted, and rode forward with the good Bertinois, saying, in a gay tone, "I am not going to run away."

The man made no reply till they were out of ear-shot of the rest; but then he answered, "If you did, monsieur, I should not try to stop you; but others might."

There was so much gained. "Perhaps the others may be out of the way at some place upon the road," said Edward, "and I dare say we might slip away easily without being noticed."

He looked keenly in the man's face as he spoke; but the soldier did not move a muscle.

"Perhaps such a thing might be done," said the man, after pausing for a moment or two. "We were not told to watch you very closely; and during one of the nights it would not be very difficult; but of course you do not intend to try."

"I am not very fond of going to Nantes," said Master Ned.

"Why?" asked the soldier, with an air of great simplicity.

"First, because it is out of my way," answered Edward; "secondly, because I have no clothes with me, and I should have to appear at the court; and thirdly, because probably before I get to Nantes my purse, which is not now very full, will probably be emptier by a thousand livres."

The reason last a.s.signed seemed to have some weight with the man: "It is bad to have an empty purse," he said. "But come, sir, these cannot be your only reasons. I wish you would give one which might touch an honest man and a loyal servant of the king."

A bright thought struck Edward at that moment. He knew not whether the man was trying to entrap him into a confession of some sinister design, or whether in good faith he sought--as many a man will do--an excuse to himself for acting as he wished. Now, it was evident that Lucette's disguise was of no avail,--that the soldier himself knew that she was no page, and that the truth would be made manifest at Nantes. Riding closer to him, therefore, he said, in a low and confidential voice, "It is not for myself I so much care; but cannot you comprehend that I have got one with me whom I would not have discovered for the world?"

"Whew!" cried the soldier, with a long whistle: "I see! I see!" and then, holding out his hand to Edward, he added, "Count upon me, monsieur; count upon me. I can manage the other men. But how happens it that neither of you have any baggage? Sapristi! you must have come away in a great hurry; and you are both very young."

"The baggage was left with my other servant, who stayed behind but was to follow soon. I trust it is at Niort by this time."

A conversation of an hour's length ensued; in the course of which Edward Langdale convinced himself that his companion was sincere in his professions; and at the end of that time he returned to the carriage, carrying with him hope nearly touching joy.

The party were now entering, or had entered, upon a tract of country singular in its nature, its aspect, and its habits. It is called _Les marais_, (the marshes,) and, as it may perhaps have something to do with our story, it must have a very brief description. This might be difficult to give, as I have never seen more than the extreme verge of the district; but, luckily, at my hand lies the account of one who knew it well, had pa.s.sed long months there, and who lived much nearer the times of which I write. Thus he speaks:--"The inhabitant of the marshes is taller than the inhabitant of the plain: he is stouter; his limbs are more ma.s.sive; but he wants both health and agility. He is coa.r.s.e, apathetic, and narrow in his views. A cabin of reeds, a little meadow, some cows, a boat,--which serves him for fishing, and often for stealing forage along the river-banks,--a gun to shoot wild fowl, are all his fortune, and his only means of subsistence. Exposed continually at his own fireside to all sorts of maladies, his const.i.tution must be very strong not to give way entirely. His food is barley-bread mixed with rye, abundance of vegetables, salt meat, and curds. His habitual drink is the water of the ca.n.a.ls and ditches,--a source of innumerable maladies. The agricultural proprietors, or great farmers, known by the name of Cabiners, (_cabaniers,_) lead a very different life, and do not deny themselves any of the comforts they can procure.

"The inhabitants of this picturesque abode appear, at first sight, the most wretched of mankind. Their cottages of brush and mud are covered with reeds. Unknown to the rest of the world, upon a tongue of land of from twenty-five to thirty paces wide, they live in the depths of inaccessible labyrinths, with their wives, their children, and their cattle. The silence of these swampy deserts, which is only broken by the cry of the water-fowl, the mysterious shadow spread over the ca.n.a.ls by the intertwined boughs above them, the paleness and miserable air of the people, that narrow border which seems to place an immense interval between them and all mankind, the sombre hue of the landscape,--all inspire at the first glance a painful and melancholy feeling, which it is difficult to get rid of. But, on penetrating into the interior, the freshness of these cradles, the meanderings of these water paths, the innumerable varieties of birds one meets at every step and which one meets nowhere but there, cause the first sensations to be followed by a feeling of peaceful retirement, which is not without its charm."

Such was the scene, or rather the country, upon which Edward and Lucette entered just as the sun was within half an hour of setting, when every little ridge or hillock cast a long blue shadow upon the brown moor, and the many intricate ca.n.a.ls and little rivers acted as mirrors to the glories of the western sky, flashing back the last red rays, as if rubies were dissolved in the calm waters. It was a fine country to escape in.

CHAPTER XII.

As much consideration and caution were necessary in proceeding after the sun was set, as a young man requires on his first outset in a court. The darkness was as profound, there were as many unseen dangers, pitfalls, ponds, and swamps around; and, though the stars were all out and shining, no queenly moon was in the sky to light one on the long way.

Night after night she was now rising at a later hour; and the beams which had cheered the course of the two young travellers on their sail from Roch.e.l.le would not be renewed ere their resting-place for the night was reached. At length, about eight o'clock, on looking from the portiere of the coach, Edward thought he saw either a little mound or a heavy pile of building before him, and in about ten minutes the horses'

feet clattered over the stone pavement of a court. The leader of the escort had gone on before; and now, as Master Ned and his fair companion alighted, they found the good soldier standing under a heavy stone portal, conversing with a man in a monk's gown.

"It looks like a prison," said Lucette, as she gazed up by the light of a lantern.

She spoke in a low voice; but her words caught the ear of the monk, who replied, "This is the Abbey of Moreilles, young gentleman. I will take you first to the strangers' parlor, and then will show you round the building, if you like; for your escort tells me you propose to go on by daybreak, and you should not miss the opportunity of seeing so famous an edifice."

Lucette replied that she was very tired, and should prefer to lie down to rest; but Edward caught eagerly at the proposal, from several motives. First, he was anxious to keep Lucette as far as possible from the monk's eye, and was even afraid that her sweet voice might betray her; and then he had his reasons for observing accurately every part of the building.

"Well, well, I will take you round in a minute or two," replied the monk; "but I must first see that some of the cells are ready, for this good gentleman tells me that you two young people are very devout, and would like best to sleep in cells where saints have lived and died in the odor of sanct.i.ty. Here, here is the parlor. Let me light a lamp.

Most of the brethren have retired, for it has been very hot this evening. What changes of weather, good lack! Yesterday was as cold as Noel, and to-night it is as warm as St. John's."

While he spoke, he lighted a small lamp, with shaking hands, and then left the three in the parlor together, going himself to prepare the cells.

"Now listen, young people," said the soldier, as soon as the monk was gone, speaking quick, but low: "keep ready and wakeful, and at three o'clock it shall go hard but you shall find a boat, with a man in it, upon the ca.n.a.l at the back of the abbey. Go with that man wherever he rows you."

"But how shall I find the boat, or the ca.n.a.l either?" asked Edward.

"Remember, I have never been here before."

"As we go round the building," replied the other, "I will show you the door which is always left open for the drones who sleep in this wing of the abbey to find their way to the church at matins. I will pinch your arm as we pa.s.s it. G.o.d wot! if they did not leave it open, their winking eyes would lead them into the ca.n.a.l. That old fellow must make haste, or we shall have my comrades with us; and it were better not till Master Page has gone to his cell. You had better give them plenty of drink, young gentleman, that they may stupefy themselves to-night and sleep heavily to-morrow morning. I have got two miles on foot to go to see a friend, but will be back in an hour or two. Ply them well while I am gone; but, mind you, keep your own head clear."

"But shall I find any liquor here?" asked Edward, in some surprise.

The soldier nodded his head, and pointed to a number of stains upon the table, saying, "I have had more than one roaring bout in this very room.

Those stains were not made with water. Every thing can be had for money in a _mouster_."

"But I had better give you what I promised before the monk comes back,"

said Edward,--the word _money_ awakening many other ideas.

"Let me see how much you have got," said the man: "you will need some for your two selves; and, besides, there is that long thin fellow with a red face,--that servant of yours. Do not let him drink. Let us see."

Edward took out his purse of doeskin, which now contained about seventeen hundred livres in gold. What between the purchase of the horses, and various expenses at the inns, the rest was all spent, though it was better furnished when he left Roch.e.l.le; and there was more in his bags, probably lost forever.

"That is not enough to give me a thousand livres," said the man; "but the three horses are worth something. That one you ride is a good one, and so is the young lady's,--the page's, I mean. Give me five hundred, and write me a promise of the horses in payment of the rest of the sums I have advanced,--the horses to be given up to me when you get to the end of your journey, which will be here, I suppose, but which they will understand as Nantes. That will give me a right to claim them."

Now, it is quite possible that one, if not more, of my sagacious readers will be inclined to think that I have been drawing an inconsistent character. It is very true the soldier was a right generous and a kind-hearted fellow. He liked to do a good turn. He liked especially to help two young lovers,--by-the-way, he had been crossed in love himself, though his history would be too long to tell here,--and yet he was not unwilling to take money out of their pockets when they had little enough, and to secure their horses for his own advantage. It was very inconsistent,--very inconsistent indeed. But I have now lived a tolerable number of years in the world, and all my life I have been looking for consistent men, and have not found more than six at the utmost. The fact is, man is a bundle,--a bundle of very contrary qualities,--to say nothing of the mere absolute opposition of body and soul in the ma.s.s. There are packages of good feelings and packages of bad feelings; rolls of wit and rolls of dullness; papers full of sense and papers full of nonsense; a lump of generosity here and a lump of selfishness there; and all tied up so tightly together that in a damp and foggy world they sooner or later mould and mildew each other. Thus, if I hear of a great man doing a little action, or a wise man committing a foolish one, instead of crying out, "How inconsistent!" I say, "It is very natural." Now, if it be very natural everywhere, it is still more natural in France; for, having inhabited that beautiful country and lived amongst her gallant and intellectual people a great part of my life, I have come to the conclusion that the most varied creature upon the face of the earth _per se_--in himself, in his own nature and composition--is a Frenchman.

While the soldier has been making all his arrangements with Master Ned, and while we have been discussing the knotty point of his inconsistency, &c., the old monk, with the lantern in his hand, has been getting ready two cells at the farther end of the long corridor, and the troopers and Pierrot, together with the driver of the coach, have been taking care of the horses. But the monk, having the least to do,--for the furniture of a cell is not usually superabundant, nor its bed difficult to make,--returns first, and conducts Lucette to her sleeping-place, without the slightest idea that she is any thing but a very pretty boy; for his eyes are not very clear, and the lantern dimmer than his eyes, and the lamp upon the table duller than the lantern. Edward Langdale accompanied them to see her cell. It was next to his own,--a pleasant proximity; and, telling her he would presently bring her some refreshment, he left her. As he walked slowly back with the monk, he came upon the subject of some stronger liquor than water,--at which the old man looked shocked; but, upon Edward alluding to the stains upon the table, and bestowing a donation,--entirely for the abbey,--the ferocity of his temperance abated, and he ran to the refectory-man, or some other competent officer, with whom he shared his gains, and informed him what a generous young gentleman they had got under their roof. The supper did not suffer in consequence; but, while it was preparing, Edward and the soldier accompanied the old man through church and cloisters, pa.s.sages and corridors. Neither gained much knowledge of architecture, or of the particular Abbey of Moreilles. I would advise no one who wishes to criticize that of Westminster to go there at night with nothing but a bad tallow candle in a dirty lantern; and, though I have it upon good authority that before the conflagration Moreilles was decorated with the most beautiful flamboyant arches, mouldings hardly surpa.s.sed in richness, and, moreover, twenty-six cl.u.s.ter-columns of prodigious height, each with an exquisite capital totally different from all the others, Edward saw nothing but dark vaults, ma.s.ses of stone, and a door.

But that door was all he wanted to see; and as he pa.s.sed it the soldier gave him a good hard pressure on the arm. It was, luckily, within about ten paces of Lucette's cell.

However, on reaching the strangers' parlor, the little party found the troopers and Pierrot and the driver, and three more monks, and, what was more to the purpose, a table laid with several large pies and a quant.i.ty of barley-bread. The means of potation had not yet appeared, but tarried not long; and a meal ensued which I need not further describe than by saying that the pies comprised rabbits and wild ducks; and none of the unlearned can imagine what an excellent thing a wild-duck pie can be made by the mere process of skinning the ducks.

After a few mouthfuls, the leader of the guard rose and left the room, saying he must go and see his cousin, who, "as they all knew, lived hard by;" and the rest of the troopers set to serious work first upon some sour wine, and then upon some of that good or bad spirit which has crowned the name of Nantes with a certain sort of immortality. Poor Pierrot! it was a sore temptation for him, especially when his young master was gone to carry some refreshment to _the page_; but he resisted during the very short period of Edward's absence, and Master Ned's eye was a strong corroborative of resolution after his return. The monks tasted, at first shyly, and then more boldly; and Edward drew from them the important fact that there were very few brethren in the convent, some of them being absent on _quete_, some on leave. Moreover the abbey, he said, had never been very full, since the abbacy--as was so common in France--had been bestowed upon a well-known painter of Paris, a layman.