The Huguenot Part 17

VOL. II.

London: Printed by A. Spottiswoode, New-Street-Square.

THE

HUGUENOT

A TALE

OF

THE FRENCH PROTESTANTS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE GIPSY," "THE ROBBER,"

&c. &c.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1839.

THE HUGUENOT.

CHAPTER I.

THE EXPLANATIONS.

Silent and lonely thought is a sad dispeller of enchantments. Under its power, the visions, and hopes, and indistinct dreams, which had fluttered before the eyes of the Count de Morseiul during the magic moments he had pa.s.sed with Clemence de Marly, fled like fairies at the approach of the sun, within a very short period after he had retired to his chamber; and all that remained was a sort of reproachful mournful ness, when he thought over his own conduct and the indulgence of those feelings which he feared he had displayed but too plainly.

With such thoughts he lay down to rest; but they were not soothing companions of the pillow, and it was long ere he slept. From time to time he heard the sound of music from the halls below; and in the intervals, when some open door gave a freer pa.s.sage to the sound, gay laughing voices came merry on the ear, speaking cheerfulness, and happiness, and contentment, and ignorance, of the cares and sorrows and anxieties of life.

"Alas!" thought the Count, as he lay and listened, "alas! that such bright illusions should ever pa.s.s away, and that those should ever learn the touch of grief and anguish and despair, who are now laughing in the heedless merriment of youth, unconscious of danger or of sorrow. And yet, perhaps," he continued, "could we lay bare the hearts of those now seemingly so gay--could we examine what is their ordinary state, and what their feelings were, even a few short moments before they entered those saloons--we might find there also as much care and pain as in any other scene of life, and bless the glad merriment that lulls human pangs and anxieties for a time, though it cannot quench them altogether."

Though he went to sleep late, he rose early on the following morning, not forgetful of his appointment with Clemence de Marly. Fearful, however, that she might be in the gardens before him, he dressed himself and hastened out without the loss of a single minute, not a little anxious to know what was the nature of the communication which she had to make to him, and with which the Duc de Rouvre was evidently acquainted. He was in truth, anxious in regard to every part of their conversation, he was anxious in regard to its result; but still he did not lay out at all the conduct he was to pursue towards her, feeling that he had wakened from the dream of the evening before, and was not likely to indulge in such visions again. There was n.o.body in the part of the garden near the house; and he walked on in the direction which she had pointed out to him, till he had nearly reached the rampart, and thus satisfied himself that she had not yet arrived. He then turned back by the same path, and before he had gone half way down, he beheld Clemence coming towards him, but at some distance.

She was certainly looking more lovely than ever; and he could not but feel that, even in her very gayest and most sparkling moods, there was a charm wanting in comparison with her more serious and thoughtful aspect. Clemence was now evidently a good deal agitated. It often happens, when we have an act of importance to perform, especially when that act is unusual to us, that even in revolving it in our own minds, and preparing for the moment, we overpower ourselves, as it were, by the force of our own thoughts, and, by guarding against agitation, give agitation the better opportunity to a.s.sail us.

Albert of Morseiul saw that Clemence was much moved, and he prepared to soothe her by every means in his power. The only efficacious means being to draw her attention to ordinary things. "Let me offer you my arm," he said in a kindly tone; and leading her on, he spoke of the beauty of the morning, and then of Anette de Marville, and then of other indifferent things. Clemence seemed to understand his object; and though she at first smiled, as if to intimate that she did so, she gave her mind up to his guidance, and for five or ten minutes touched upon no subject but the most ordinary topics of conversation. As they approached the rampart, however, and she had an opportunity of looking along it, and ascertaining that there was no one there, she said,--

"Now I am better, now I can speak of other things.--Monsieur de Morseiul," she continued, "although I am accustomed to do extraordinary things, and to behave, in many respects, unlike other people, I dare say you do not suppose that I would have taken the very bold step of asking any gentleman to meet me here, as I have done you this day, without a motive sufficient to justify me, even in your sight."

"I am quite sure of it," replied the Count; "and though you may think me, perhaps, a harsh censor, I am not at all inclined to be so in your case."

"Indeed?" she said, with a somewhat mournful shake of the head; "Indeed?--But, however, Monsieur de Morseiul, what I have to tell you is substantial, real, and more important than any feelings or inclinations. I shall have to pain you--to grieve you--to call up apprehensions--to prepare you, perhaps, for suffering! Oh G.o.d!" she cried, bursting suddenly into tears, "that I should have to do this!"

The Count took her hand and pressed it to his lips, and besought her to be calm and soothed. "Do not be apprehensive, do not be grieved,"

he said: "calm yourself, dear lady, calm yourself, Clemence! I am prepared for much sorrow; I am prepared for danger and anxiety. I have for some time seen nothing but clouds and storms in the future!"

"But not such as these," replied Clemence, "not such as these. But I will not keep you in suspense, for that is worse than all now. The task, though a painful one, has been of my own seeking. First, Monsieur de Morseiul, to speak of that which I know is dearest to your heart--your religious liberty is in danger--it is more than in danger--it is at an end. The whole resolutions of the court are now made known--at least, amongst the princ.i.p.al Catholics of France. The reformed church is to be swept away--there is no longer to be any but one religion tolerated throughout the kingdom--your temples are to be overthrown--your ministers to be forbidden, on pain of death, to worship G.o.d as their forefathers have done--the edict of Nantes is to be revoked entirely;" and, clasping her hands together, she gazed in his face, while she added, in a low, tremulous, but distinct, voice, "you are to be driven to the ma.s.s at the point of the pike--your children are to be taken from you to be educated in another faith!"

Till she uttered the last words Albert de Morseiul had remained with his eyes bent upon the ground, though deep feelings of agitation were evident in every line of his fine countenance. But when she spoke of the Protestants being driven to ma.s.s at the point of the pike, and their children being taken from them to be educated in the Catholic religion, he threw back his head, gazing up to heaven with a look of firm determination, while his left hand, by a natural movement, fell upon the hilt of his sword.

Clemence de Marly, as he did so, gazed upon him earnestly through the tears that were still in her eyes, and then exclaimed, as she saw how terribly moved he was, "These are dreadful tidings for me to tell Monsieur de Morseiul; you must hate me, I am sure you must hate me!"

"Hate you?" exclaimed the Count, clasping both her hands in his, while in that agitating moment--carried away by the strength of his own feelings, and by the tokens she displayed of deep interest in him and his--every barrier gave way before the pa.s.sion of his heart. "Hate you? oh G.o.d! I love you but too well, too deeply--better, more deeply, than you can ever know, or divine, or dream of!"