The Huguenot Part 30

That gay world, with its continual motion, was as animated then as now. Though the abode of the court was at Versailles, yet the distance was too small to make the portion of the population absolutely withdrawn from the metropolis at all important while all the other great bodies of the kingdom a.s.sembled, or were represented there.

Thousands on thousands were hurrying through the streets; the same trades and occupations were going on then as now, with only this difference, that, at that period, luxury, and industry, and every productive art had reached, if not its highest, at least its most flourishing point; and all things presented, even down to the aspect of the city itself, that hollow splendour, that tinselled magnificence, that artificial excitement, that insecure prosperity, the falseness of all and each of which had afterwards to be proved, and which entailed a long period of fresh errors, bitter repentance, and terrible atonement.

But through the gay crowd the Count de Morseiul pa.s.sed on, noticing it little, if at all. He was urged on his way by the strongest of all human impulses, by love--first, ardent, pure, sincere, love--all the more deep, all the more intense, all the more over-powering, because he had not felt it at that earlier period, while the animal triumphs over the mental in almost all the affections of man. His heart and his spirit had lost nothing of their freshness to counterbalance the vigour and the power they had obtained, and at the age of seven or eight and twenty he loved with all the vehemence and ardour of a boy, while he felt with all the permanence and energy of manhood.

Though contrary, perhaps, to the rules and etiquettes of French life at that period, he took advantage both of the message with which he was charged from the King, and the sort of independence which Clemence de Marly had established for herself, to ask for her instead of either the Duke or the d.u.c.h.ess. He was not, indeed, without a hope that he should find her alone, and that hope was realised. She had expected him, and expected him early; and, perhaps, the good d.u.c.h.ess de Rouvre herself had fancied that such might be the case, and, remembering the warm affections of her own days, had abstained from presenting herself in the little saloon where Clemence de Marly had usually established her abode during their residence in Paris.

Had Albert of Morseiul entertained one doubt of the affection of Clemence de Marly, that doubt must have vanished in a moment--must have vanished at the look with which she rose to meet him. It was all brightness--it was all happiness. The blood mounted, it is true, into her cheeks, and into her temples; her beautiful lips trembled slightly, and her breath came fast; but the bright and radiant smile was not to be mistaken. The sparkling of the eyes spoke what words could not speak; and, though her tongue for a moment refused its office, the smile that played around the lips was eloquent of all that the heart felt.

Not contented with the hand she gave, Albert of Morseiul took the other also; and not contented with the thrilling touch of those small hands, he threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his heart; and not contented--for love is the greatest of encroachers--with that dear embrace, he made his lips tell the tale of their own joy to hers, and once and again he tasted the happiness that none had ever tasted before: and then, as if asking pardon for the rashness of his love, he pressed another kiss upon her fair hand, and leading her back to her seat, took his place beside her.

Fearful that he should forget, he almost immediately gave her the jewels that the King had sent. But what were jewels to Clemence de Marly at that moment? He told her, also, the message the King had given, especially that part which noted her absence from the room where the lottery had been drawn.

"I would not have given those ten minutes," she replied eagerly, "for all the jewels in his crown."

They then forgot the King, the court, and every thing but each other, and spent the moments of the next half hour in the joy, in the surpa.s.sing joy, of telling and feeling the happiness that each conferred upon the other.

Oh! those bright sunny hours of early love, of love in its purity and its truth, and its sincerity--of love, stripped of all that is evil, or low, or corrupt, and retaining but of earth sufficient to make it harmonise with earthly creatures like ourselves--full of affection--full of eager fire, but affection as unselfish as human nature will admit, and fire derived from heaven itself! How shall ye ever be replaced in after life? What tone shall ever supply the sound of that master chord after its vibrations have once ceased?

As the time wore on, however, and Albert of Morseiul remembered that there were many things on which it was necessary to speak at once to Clemence de Marly, the slight cloud of care came back upon his brow, and reading the sign of thought in a moment, she herself led the way, by saying,--

"But we must not forget, dear Albert, there is much to be thought of.

We are spending our time in dreaming over our love, when we have to think of many more painful points in our situation. We have spoken of all that concerns our intercourse with each other; but of your situation at the court I am ignorant; and am not only ignorant of the cause, but astonished to find, that when I expected the most disastrous results, you are in high favour with the King, and apparently have all at your command."

"Not so, dear Clemence--alas! it is not so," replied the Count; "the prosperity of my situation is as hollow as a courtier's heart--as fickle as any of the other smiles of fortune."

Before he could go on, however, to explain to her the real position in which he stood, Madame de Rouvre entered the room, and was delighted at seeing one whom she had always esteemed and loved. She might have remained long, but Clemence, with the manner which she was so much accustomed to a.s.sume, half playful, half peremptory, took up the little case of ear-rings from the table, saying, "See what the King has sent me! and now, dear d.u.c.h.ess, you shall go away, and leave me to talk with my lover. It is so new a thing for me to have an acknowledged lover, and one, too, that I don't despise, that I have not half tired myself with my new plaything. Am not I a very saucy demoiselle?" she added, kissing the d.u.c.h.ess, who was retiring with laughing obedience. "But take the diamonds, and examine them at your leisure. They will serve to amuse you in the absence of your Clemence."

"If I were a lover now," said the d.u.c.h.ess smiling, "I should say something about their not being half as bright as your eyes, Clemence.

But words vary in their value so much, that what would be very smart and pleasant from a young man, is altogether worthless on the lips of an old woman. Let me see you before you go, Count. It is not fair that saucy girl should carry you off altogether."

"Now, now, Albert," said Clemence, as soon as the d.u.c.h.ess was gone, "tell me before we are interrupted again."

The Count took up the tale then with his last day's sojourn in Brittany, and went on to detail minutely every thing that had occurred since his arrival in the capital; and, as he told her, her cheek grew somewhat paler till, in the end, she exclaimed, "It is all as bad as it can be. You will never change your faith, Albert."

"Could you love me, Clemence," he asked, "if I did?"

She put her hand before her eyes for a moment, then placed one of them in his, and replied, "I should love you ever, Albert, with a woman's love, unchangeable and fixed. But I could not esteem you, as I would fain esteem him that I must love."

"So thought I," replied the Count, "so judged I of my Clemence; and all that now remains to be thought of is, how is this to end, and what is to be our conduct to make the end as happy to ourselves as may be?"

"Alas!" replied Clemence, "I can answer neither question. The probability is that all must end badly, that your determination not to yield your religion to any inducements must soon be known; for depend upon it, Albert, they will press you on the subject more closely every day; and you are not made to conceal what you feel. The greater the expectations of your conversion have been, the more terrible will be the anger that your adherence to your own faith will produce; and depend upon it, the Prince de Marsillac takes a wrong view of the question; for it matters not whether this affair have pa.s.sed away, or be revived against you,--power never yet wanted a pretext to draw the sword of persecution. Neither, Albert, can my change of faith be long concealed. I cannot insult G.o.d by the mockery of faith in things, regarding which my mind was long doubtful, but which I am now well a.s.sured, and thoroughly convinced, are false. In this you are in a better situation than myself, for you can but be accused of holding fast to the faith that you have ever professed: me they will accuse of falling into heresy with my eyes open. Perhaps they will add that I have done so for your love."

"Then, dear Clemence," he replied, "the only path for us is the path of flight, speedy and rapid flight. I have already secured for us competence in another land; wealth I cannot secure, but competence is surely all that either you or I require."

"All, all," replied Clemence; "poverty with you, Albert, would be enough. But the time, and the manner of our flight, must be left to you. The distance between Paris and the frontier is so small, that we bad better effect it now, and not wait for any contingency. If you can find means to withdraw yourself from the court, I will find means to join you any where within two or three miles' journey of the capital.

But write to me the place, the hour, and the time; and, as we love each other, Albert, and by the faith that we both hold, and for which we are both prepared to sacrifice so much, I will not fail you."

"What if it should be to-morrow?" demanded the Count.

Clemence gazed at him for a moment with some agitation. "Even if it should be tomorrow," she said at length, "even if it should be to-morrow, I will come. But oh, Albert," she added, leaning her head upon his shoulder, "I am weaker, more cowardly, more womanly than I thought. I would fain have it a day later: I would fain procrastinate even by a day. But never mind, never mind, Albert; should it be necessary, should you judge it right, should you think it requisite for your safety, let it be to-morrow."

"I cannot yet judge," replied the Count; "I think, I trust that it will not be so soon. I only put the question to make you aware that such a thing is possible, barely possible. In all probability the King will give me longer time. He cannot suppose that the work of conversion will take place by a miracle. I do not wish to play a double game with them, even in the least, Clemence, nor suffer them to believe that there is a chance even of my changing, when there is none; but still I would fain, for your sake as well as mine, delay a day or two."

"Delays are dangerous, even to an old proverb," said Clemence; but ere she could conclude her sentence the Duc de Rouvre entered the room; and not choosing, or perhaps not having spirits at the moment to act towards him as she had done towards the d.u.c.h.ess, Clemence suffered the conversation to drop, and proceeded with him and her lover to the saloon of Madame.

In that saloon there appeared a number of persons, amongst whom were several that the Count de Morseiul knew slightly; but the beams of royal favour having fallen upon him with their full light during the night before, all those who had any knowledge of him were of course eager to improve such an acquaintance, and vied with each other in smiles and looks of pleasure on his appearance. Amongst others was the Chevalier de Rohan, whom we have noticed as forming one of the train of suitors who had followed Clemence de Marly to Poitiers; but he was now satisfied, apparently, that not even any fortunate accident could give the bright prize to him, and he merely bowed to her on her entrance, with the air of a worshipper at the shrine of an idol, while he grasped the hand of his successful rival, and declared himself delighted to see him.

After remaining there for some time longer lingering in the sunshine of the looks of her he loved, the Count prepared to take his departure, especially as several other persons had been added to the circle, and their society fell as a weight and an inc.u.mbrance upon him when his whole thoughts were of Clemence de Marly. He had taken his leave and reached the door of the apartment, when, starting up with the ear-rings in her hand, she exclaimed--

"Stay, stay, Monsieur de Morseiul, I forgot to send my thanks to the King. Pray tell him," she added, advancing across the room to speak with the Count in a lower tone, "Pray tell him how grateful I am to his Majesty for his kind remembrance; and remember," she said, in a voice that could be heard by no one but himself, "to-morrow, should it be needful:--I am firmer now."

Albert of Morseiul dared not speak all that he felt, with the language of the lips; but the eyes of her lover thanked Clemence de Marly sufficiently: and he, on his part, left her with feelings which the bustle and the crowd of the thronged capital struggled with and oppressed.

He rode quick, then, in order to make his way out of the city as fast as possible; but ere he had pa.s.sed the gate, he was overtaken by the Chevalier de Rohan, who came up to his side, saying, "I am delighted to have overtaken you, my dear Count. Such a companion on this long dry tiresome journey to Versailles is, indeed, a delight; and I wished also particularly to speak to you regarding a scheme of mine, which, I trust, may bring me better days."

Now, the society of the Chevalier de Rohan, though his family was one of the highest in France, and though he held an important place at the court, was neither very agreeable nor very reputable; and the Count, therefore, replied briefly, "I fear that, as I shall stop at several places, it will not be in my power to accompany you, Monsieur le Chevalier; but any thing I can do to serve you will give me pleasure."

"Why, the fact is," replied the Chevalier, "that I was very unfortunate last night at play, and wished to ask if you would lend me a small sum till I receive my appointments from the King. If you are kind enough to do so, I doubt not before two days are over to recover all that I have lost, and ten times more, for I discovered the fortunate number last night when it was too late."

A faint and melancholy smile came over the Count's face, at the picture of human weakness that his companion's words displayed; and as the Chevalier was somewhat celebrated for borrowing without repaying, he asked what was the sum he required.

"Oh, a hundred Louis will be quite enough," replied the Chevalier, not encouraged to ask more by his companion's tone.

"Well, Monsieur de Rohan," said the Count, "I have not the sum with me, but I will send it to you on my arrival at Versailles, if that will be time enough."

"Quite! quite!" replied de Rohan; "any time before the tables are open."

"Indeed, indeed! my good friend," said the Count, "I wish you would abandon such fatal habits; and, satisfied with having lost so much, live upon the income you have, without ruining yourself by trying to make it greater. However, I will send the money, and do with it what you will."

"You are a prude! you are a prude!" cried De Rohan, putting spurs to his horse; "but I will tell you something more in your own way when we meet again."

CHAPTER IX.

THE UNKNOWN PERIL.

Dark and ominous as was the prospect of every thing around the Count de Morseuil, when the blessings of his bright days were pa.s.sing away, one by one, and his best hope was exile, yet the interview which had just taken place between him and Clemence de Marly was like a bright summer hour in the midst of storms, and even when it was over, like the June sun, it left a long twilight of remembered joy behind it. But there are times in human life when dangers are manifold, when we are pressed upon by a thousand difficulties, and when, nevertheless, though the course we have determined on is full of risks and perils, sorrows and sufferings, we eagerly, perhaps even imprudently, hurry forward upon it, to avoid those very doubts and uncertainties, which are worse than actual pains.

Such was the case with the Count de Morseuil, and he felt within him so strong an inclination to take the irrevocable step of quitting France for ever, and seeking peace and toleration in another land, that, much accustomed to examine and govern his own feelings, he paused, and pondered over the line of conduct he was about to pursue, during his visit to the Bishop of Meaux, perceiving in himself a half concealed purpose of forcing on the conversation to the subject of religion, and of showing Bossuet clearly, that there was no chance whatever of inducing him to abandon the religion of his fathers.

Against this inclination, on reflection, he determined to be upon his guard, although he adhered rigidly to his resolution of countenancing, in no degree, a hope of his becoming a convert to the Roman Catholic faith; and his only doubt now was whether his pa.s.sing two evenings so close together with the Bishop of Meaux, with whom he had so slight an acquaintance, might not afford some encouragement to expectations which he felt himself bound to check.

Having promised, however, he went, but at the same time made up his mind not to return to the prelate's abode speedily. On the present occasion, he not only found Bossuet alone, but was left with him for more than an hour, without any other visiter appearing. The good Bishop himself was well aware of the danger of scaring away those whom he sought to win; and, sincerely desirous, for the Count's own sake, of bringing him into that which he believed to be the only path to salvation, he was inclined to proceed calmly and gently in the work of his conversion.

There were others, however, more eager than himself; the King was as impetuous in the apostolic zeal which he believed himself to feel, as he had formerly been in pursuits which though, certainly more gross and sensual, would perhaps, if accurately weighed, have been found to be as little selfish, vain, and personal, as the efforts that he made to convert his Protestant subjects. The hesitation even in regard to embracing the _King's creed_ was an offence, and he urged on Bossuet eagerly to press the young Count, so far, at least, as to ascertain if there were or were not a prospect of his speedily following the example of Turenne, and so many others. The Bishop was thus driven to the subject, though against his will; and shortly after the young Count's appearance, he took him kindly and mildly by the hand, and led him into a small cabinet, where were ranged, in goodly order, a considerable number of works on the controversial divinity of the time. Amongst others, appeared some of the good prelate's own productions, such as "L'Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique," the "Traite de la Communion sous les deux Especes," and the "Histoire des Variations." Bossuet ran his finger over the t.i.tles as he pointed them out to the young Count.