The Huguenot Part 40

"I think not," replied the Count; "and if they were, I certainly could make nothing of them. I looked out of my window to get a sight as far as possible of the speakers by the moonlight the other night, but I was not successful; for I can see, as I am placed, into the little Place St. Antoine, but no further. However, I tried to distinguish the voices, and certainly they were not those of any one I know."

"A speaking trumpet makes a great difference," replied his companion.

"I should have liked to have heard them more distinctly."

"Do you think they were intended for you?" said the Count.

"Oh dear no," replied the other; "n.o.body can have any thing to tell me. If ever my liberty comes, it will come at once; and as to either trying me or punishing me in any other way than by imprisonment, that they dare not do."

"That is in some degree a happy situation," said the Count. "But I scarcely know how that can be, for judging by my own case, and that of many others, I have no slight reason to believe that they dare try or punish any man in France, whether guilty or not."

"Any Frenchman you mean, Count," replied the stranger; "but that does not happen to be my case; and though my own King may be rascal and fool enough to let me stay here wearing out the last days of a life, the greater part of which has been devoted to the service of himself and his ungrateful ancestors, yet I do not believe that he dare for his life suffer me to be publicly injured. A trial would, as a matter of course, be known sooner or later. They may poison me, perhaps," he continued, "to keep me quiet, though I do not think it either. Your King is not so bad as that, though he is a great tyrant; but he is not b.l.o.o.d.y by his nature. However, Monsieur de Morseiul, as I am not in here for any crime, as I never had any thing to do with a conspiracy of any kind, as I am not a native of this country, or a subject of your King, as I have not a secret in the world, and little more money than will serve to feed and clothe me, I do not see that any one can have either object or interest in hallooing at me through a speaking trumpet."

"You have excited my curiosity," said the Count, "and a Frenchman's curiosity, you know, is always somewhat intrusive; but as you have just said that you have not a secret in the world, it will seem less impertinent than it otherwise would be if I ask what, in the name of fortune, you can be here for?"

"Not in the least impertinent," replied the other. "I am in here for something of the same kind that they tell me you are in here for: namely, for differing from the King of France in regard to transubstantiation; for thinking that he'll go to the devil at once when he dies, without stopping half-way at a posthouse, called Purgatory, which a set of scoundrels have established for their own particular convenience; and for judging it a great deal better that people should sing psalms, and say their prayers, in a language that they understand, than in a tongue they know not a word of. I mean, in short, for being a Protestant; for if it had not been for that, I should not have been in here. The fact was, I served long in this country in former times, and having taken it into my head to see it again, and to visit some old friends, I undertook a commission to bring back a couple of brats of a poor cousin of mine, who had been left here for their education. Louis found out what I was about, declared that I came to make Protestant converts, and shut me up in the Bastille, where I have been now nearly nine months. I sent a message over to the King of England by a fellow-prisoner who was set at liberty some time ago. But every one knows that Charles would have sold his own soul by the pound, and thrown his father and mother, and all his family, into the scale, for the sake of a few crowns, at any time. This Popish rascal, too, who is now on the throne, doubtless thinks that I am just as well where I am, so I calculate upon whistling away my days within the four walls of this court.--I don't care, it can't last very long. I was sixty-five on the third of last month, and though there feels some life in these old limbs, the days of Mathuselah, thank G.o.d, are gone by, and we've no more kicking about now for a thousand years. I shouldn't wonder," he continued, "if the people you heard were hallooing to that unfortunate Chevalier de Rohan, whom they dragged through this morning to be interrogated again. They say he'll have his head chopped off to a certainty. If we could have found out what the people said we might have told him, for prisoners will get at each other let them do what they like."

"I listened for one whole night," said the Count, "but found it quite in vain. The judges I suppose are satisfied that I had nothing to do with this business of the Chevalier de Rohan's, otherwise they would have had me up again for examination."

"G.o.d knows," replied his companion. "Tyranny is like an actor at a country fair, and one never knows which way he will kick next."

Thus pa.s.sed the conversation between the Count and the old English officer, whose name, somewhat disfigured indeed, may be found written in the registers of the Bastille as arrested on suspicion; for which crime he, like many others, was subjected to imprisonment for a lengthened period. He and the Count de Morseiul now usually took their walk together, and in his society the young n.o.bleman found no small delight, for there was a sort of quaint indifference which gave salt and flavour to considerable good sense and originality of thought. The old man himself seemed to take a pleasure in conversing with the young Count; which was evidently not the case with the generality of his fellow-prisoners. One morning, however, towards the end of the period we have mentioned, the sound of the falling drawbridge was heard, the soldiers drew up in double line, the order for all the other prisoners to fall back was given, and the Chevalier de Rohan, followed by two or three other prisoners, amongst whom were Vandenenden and a lady, were brought in as if from examination.

The countenances of almost all were very pale, with the exception of that of the Chevalier de Rohan, which was inflamed, with a fiery spot on either cheek, while his eyes flashed fire, and his lips were absolutely covered with foam. Four times between the great gate of the court and the tower in which he was confined, he halted abruptly, and turning round with furious gestures to the guards and gaolers who surrounded him, poured forth a torrent of fierce and angry words, exclaiming that he had been deceived, cheated, that the King's name had been used to a.s.sure him of safety, and that now the King had retracted the promises and was going to murder him.

It was in vain that the guards tried to stop him, and endeavoured to force him onward. Still he turned round as soon as ever he had an opportunity, and shouted forth the same accusation with horrible imprecations and even blasphemies. The second prisoner, who seemed to be a military man, paused and regarded the Chevalier with a stern and somewhat scornful air, but the lady and the old man, Vandenenden, were drowned in tears, and from all the Count saw he concluded that the trial of the Chevalier and his accomplices had either terminated in their condemnation, or else had taken such a turn as showed that result to be inevitable.

From that time none of the prisoners who had the liberties of the Bastille were allowed to remain in the court when the Chevalier and his accomplices pa.s.sed through it, an order being given before the gates were opened, for every one to retire to his own apartments.

Three days after this new regulation, such an order having been given, the Count obeyed it willingly, for the weather had become cold and damp, and the court of the Bastille felt like a well. He had obtained permission to take some books out of the library, in which there was no fire allowed, and sitting by the embers in his own apartment, he was endeavouring to amuse himself by reading, when the sounds of what seemed to him carts, in greater numbers than usual, mingled with the tongues of many persons speaking, called him to the little window of his chamber.

He saw that the small Place St. Antoine was filled with a crowd of people surrounding two or three large carts as they seemed, but he could not make out what the persons present were about, and, after looking on for a few minutes, he returned to his book.

Every thing within the walls of the Bastille seemed to be unusually still and quiet, and for rather more than an hour and a half he read on, till some sound of a peculiar character, or some sudden impression on his own mind which he could not account for, made him again rise and hasten to the window. When he did so, a sight was presented to his eyes which would have required long years to efface its recollection.

The carts which he had seen, and the materials they contained, had been by this time erected into a scaffold; and in the front thereof, turned towards the Rue St. Antoine, which, as well as the square itself, was filled with an immense mult.i.tude of people, was a block with the axe leaning against the side.

At one corner of the scaffold was erected a gibbet, and in the front, within a foot or two of the block, stood the unfortunate Chevalier de Rohan, with a priest, on one side of him, pouring consolation or instruction into his ear, while the executioner, on the other side, was busily cutting off his hair to prepare his neck for the stroke.

Two or three other prisoners were behind with several priests and the a.s.sistants of the executioner, and amongst them again was seen the form of the old man, Vandenenden, and of the lady whom the Count had beheld pa.s.s through the court of the castle.

The old man seemed scarcely able to support himself, and was upheld near the foot of the gallows by two of the guards; but the lady, with her head uncovered and her fine hair gathered together in a knot near the top of her head, stood alone, calm, and, to all appearance, perfectly self-possessed; and as she turned, for a moment, to look at the weak old man, whose writhing agitation at parting with a life that he could not expect to prolong for many years even if pardoned was truly lamentable, she showed the Count de Morseiul a fine though somewhat faded countenance, with every line expressive of perfect resolution and tranquillity.

The Count de Morseiul was a brave man, who had confronted death a thousand times, who had seen it in many an awful shape and accompanied by many a terrible accessory; but when he looked at the upturned faces of the mult.i.tude, the block, the axe, the gibbet, the executioners, the cold grey sky above that spoke of hopelessness, the thronged windows all around teeming with gaping faces, and all the horrible parade of public execution, he could not but wonder at the self-possession and the calmness of that lady's look and demeanour, as one about to suffer in that awful scene.

His, however, was no heart that could delight in such spectacles, and withdrawing almost immediately from the window, he waited in deep thought. In about a minute after there was a sort of low murmur, followed by a heavy stroke; and then the murmur sounded like the rushing of a distant wind. In a few moments after that, again came another blow, and the Count thought that there was a suppressed scream, mingled with the wave-like sound of the mult.i.tude. Again came that harsh blow, accompanied by a similar noise, and, lastly, a loud shout, in which there were mingled tones of ferocity and derision, very different from any which had been heard before. Not aware of what could have produced the change, the Count was once more irresistibly led to the window, where he beheld swinging and writhing on the gibbet, the form of the old man Vandenenden, whose pusillanimity seemed to have excited the contempt and indignation of the populace.

On the other parts of the scaffold the executioner and his a.s.sistants were seen gathering up the b.l.o.o.d.y ruins of the human temples they had overthrown. Sickened and pained, the Count turned away, and covered his eyes with his hands, asking himself in the low voice of thought, "When will this be my fate also?"

CHAPTER IV.

THE WOMAN'S JUDGMENT.

We must now, for a little, change the scene entirely; and, as we find often done most naturally, both in reality and poetry, bring the prison and the palace side by side. It was in one of the smaller chambers, then, of the palace at Versailles--exquisitely fitted up with furniture of the most costly, if not of the most splendid materials, with very great taste shown in every thing, grace in all the ornaments, harmony in all the colours, and a certain degree of justness and appropriateness in every object around--that there sat a lady, late on the evening of an autumnal day, busily reading from a book, ill.u.s.trated with some of the richest and most beautiful miniatures that the artists of the French capital could then produce.

She was, at the time we speak, of somewhat past the middle age,--that is to say, she was nearly approaching to the age of fifty, but she looked considerably younger than she really was, and forty was the very extreme at which any one by the mere look would have ventured to place the number of her years. The rich worked candelabra of gold under which she was reading cast its light upon not a single grey hair. The form was full and rounded; the arms white and delicate; the hand, which in general loses its symmetry sooner than aught else, except, perhaps, the lips, was as tapering, as soft, and as beautiful in contour as ever. The eyes were large and expressive, and there was a thoughtfulness about the whole countenance which had nothing of melancholy in its character, perhaps a little of worldliness, but more of mind and intellect than either.

After she had been reading for some time, the door was quietly opened, and the King himself entered with a soft and almost noiseless step.

The lady immediately laid down her book and rose, but the King took her by the hand, led her back to her chair, and seated himself beside her.

"Still busy, reading," he said.

"I am anxious to do so, your Majesty," she answered, "at every moment that I can possibly command. In the sort of life which I am destined to lead, and in your Majesty's splendid court, temptations to forget what is right, and to think of nothing but pleasures and enjoyments, are so manifold, that one has need to have recourse to such calmer counsellors as these," and she laid her hand upon the book, "counsellors who are not disturbed by such seductions, and whose words have with them a portion of the tranquillity of the dead."

The words were of a soberer character than Louis had been accustomed to hear from the lips of woman during the greater part of his life, but still they did not displease him, and he replied only by saying,--

"But we must have a few more living counsels at present, Madame, for the fate of Louis----"

"Which is the fate of France," she said in so low a voice that it could scarcely be termed an interruption.

"For the fate of Louis and of his domestic happiness--a word, alas, which is so little known to kings--is even now in the balance.

Madame," he continued, taking that fair hand in his, "Madame, it is scarcely necessary at this hour to tell you that I love you; it is scarcely necessary to speak what are the wishes and the hopes of the King; scarcely necessary to say what would be his conduct were not motives, strong and almost overpowering, opposed to all that he most desires."

Madame de Maintenon, for she it was, had risen from her seat; had withdrawn her hand from that of the King, and for a moment pressed both her hands tightly upon her heart, while her countenance, which had become as pale as death, spoke that the emotion which she felt was real.

"Cease, Sire; oh, cease," she exclaimed, "if you would not have me drop at your feet! Indeed," she continued more vehemently, "that is my proper place," and she cast herself at once upon her knees before the King, taking the hand from which she had just disengaged her own, to bend her lips over it with a look of reverence and affection.

"Hear me, Sire, hear me," she said, as the King endeavoured to raise her, "hear me even as I am; for notwithstanding the deep and sincere love and veneration which are in my heart, I must yet offend in one person the monarch whom every voice in Europe proclaims the greatest in the earth; the man whom my own heart tells me is the most worthy to be loved. There is one, however, Sire, who must be loved and venerated first, and beyond all--I mean the Almighty; and from his law, and from his commands, nothing on earth shall ever induce me to swerve. Now, for more than a year, such has been my constant reply to your Majesty on these occasions. I have besought you, I have entreated you never to speak on such subjects again, unless that were possible which I know to be impossible."

"Nay," replied the Monarch, interrupting her, and raising her with a little gentle force, "nay, nothing is impossible, but for me to see you kneeling there."

"Oh yes, indeed, indeed, it is, your Majesty!" she said; "I have long known it, I have long been sure of it. You once condescended to dream of it yourself; you mentioned it to me, and I for a single instant was deceived by hope; but as soon as I came to examine it, I became convinced, fully convinced, that such a thing was utterly and entirely impossible, that your Majesty should descend from your high station, and that you should oppose and over-rule the advice and opinion of courtiers and ministers, who, though perhaps a little touched with jealousy, can easily find sound and rational reasons enough to oppose your will in this instance. Oh, no, no, Sire, I know it is impossible; for Heaven's sake do not agitate me by a dream of happiness that can never be realised!"

"So little is it impossible, dear friend," replied the King, "that it is scarcely half an hour ago since I spoke with Louvois upon the subject."

"And what did he say?" exclaimed Madame de Maintenon, with an eagerness that she could not master. "He opposed it, of course--and doubtless wisely. But oh, Sire, you must grant me a favour: the last of many, but still a very great one. You must let me retire from your court, from this place of cruel and terrible temptation, where they look upon me, from the favour which your Majesty has been pleased to show me, in a light which I dare not name. No, Sire, no, I will never have it said, that I lived on at your court knowing that I bore the name of your concubine. However false, the imputation is too terrible to be undergone--I, who have ever raised my voice against such acts, I, who have risked offending your Majesty by remonstrances and exhortations. No, Sire, no! I cannot, indeed I cannot, undergo it any longer. It is terrible to me, it is injurious to your Majesty, who has so n.o.bly triumphed over yourself in another instance. It matters not what Monsieur de Louvois has said, though I trust he said nothing on earth to lead you to believe that I am capable of yielding to unlawful love."

"Oh no," replied the King, "his opposition was but to the marriage, and that as usual was rude, gross, and insulting to his King. I wonder that I have patience with him. But it will some day soon give way."

"I hope and trust, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, clasping her hands earnestly, "I hope and trust that your Majesty has not suffered insult on my account. Then, indeed, it were high time that I should go."

"No," replied Louis, "not absolute insult. Louvois means but to act well. He said every thing in opposition, I acknowledge, coa.r.s.ely and rudely, and in the end he cast himself upon his knees before me, unsheathed his sword, and, offering the hilt, besought me to take his life, rather than to do what I contemplated."

"He did!" cried Madame de Maintenon, with a bright red spot in either cheek. "He did! The famous minister of Louis XIV. has been studying at the theatre lately I know! But still, Sire, though doubtless he was right in some part of his view, Francoise d'Aubigne is not quite so lowly as to be an object of scorn to the son of Michael le Tellier, whose ancestors I believe sold drugs at Rheims, while my grandfather supported the throne of yours with his sword, his blood, and his wisdom. He might have spared his scorn, methinks, and saved his wit for argument. But I must not speak so freely in my own cause, for that it is my own, I acknowledge," and she wiped away some tears from her fine eyes. "It is my own, for when I beseech your Majesty to let me leave you, I tear my own heart, I trample upon all my own feelings.

But oh, believe me, Sire," she continued ardently, "believe me when I say, that I would rather that heart were broken, as it soon will be, than that your Majesty should do any thing derogatory to your crown and dignity, or I must add, than I would do myself any thing in violation of the precepts of virtue and religion."

She wept a good deal; but she wept gracefully, and hers was one of those faces which looked none the worse for tears. The King gently drew her to her seat, for she had still been standing; saying, "Nay, nay, be comforted. You have yet the King. You think not really then,"

he said, "really and sincerely you think not, that there is any true degradation in a monarch wedding a subject? I ask you yourself, I ask you to speak candidly!"

"Nay, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, "how can you ask me, deeply interested as I am--how can you ask any woman? For we all feel alike in such things, and differently from you men. There is not one woman, proud or humble in your Majesty's court, that would not give you the same answer, if she spoke sincerely."