The Huguenot Part 43

Again he paced the room for several minutes, and then turning suddenly to Riquet, he said--"Riquet, you have shown yourself at once devoted, courageous, and resolute in the highest degree."

"Oh, Sir," interrupted the man, "you mistake: I am the most desperate coward that ever breathed."

"No jesting now, Riquet," said the Count, in a sorrowful tone; "no jesting now. My spirits are too much crushed, my heart too much torn to suffer me to hear one light word. After all that you have done for me, will you do one act more? Have you the courage to return to Paris this night, and carry a letter for me to Mademoiselle de Marly, and to bring me back her reply?"

"Well, Sir, well," said Riquet, rubbing his hands, and then putting his fore-finger under his collar, and running it round his neck with a significant gesture, "a man can be hanged but once in his life, at least as far as I know of; and, as Caesar said, 'A brave man is but hanged once, a coward is hanged every day;' therefore, as I see no other object that my father and mother could have in bringing me into the world, but that I should be hanged in your service, I will go to Paris, at the risk of accomplishing my destiny, with all my heart."

"Hark you, Riquet," replied the Count, "I will give you a means of security. If by any means you should be taken, and likely to be put to death for what you have done, tell those who take you, that, upon a distinct promise of pardon to you under the King's own hand, the Count of Morseiul will surrender himself in your place. I will give you that promise under my hand, if you like."

"That is not necessary, Sir," replied Riquet. "Every body in all France knows that you keep your word. But pray write the letter quickly; for, ride as hard as I will, I shall have scarce time to reach Paris before bed-time; and I suppose you would not have the young lady wakened."

There was a degree of cold bitterness in Riquet's manner when he spoke thus of Clemence, which made the Count of Morseiul feel that the man thought he was deceived. But still, after what had pa.s.sed before, he felt that he was bound to be more upon his guard against himself than against others; and he resolved that he would not be suspicious, that he would drive from his bosom every such feeling, that he would remember the indubitable proofs of affection that she had given him, and that he would act toward her as if her whole conduct had been under his eye, and had been such as he could most approve. The materials for writing were instantly procured, and while Riquet caused a fresh horse to be saddled, and prepared for his journey, the Count sat down and wrote as follows:--

"My Beloved Clemence,

"Thank G.o.d, I am once more at liberty; but the brightness of that blessing, great as it is under any circ.u.mstances, would be nearly all tarnished and lost if I had not the hope that you would share it with me. I am now some way on the road to Poitou, where I hear that the most horrible and aggravated barbarities are daily being committed upon my fellow Protestants. My conduct there must be determined by circ.u.mstances; but I will own that my blood boils at the butchery and persecution I hear of. I remember the dear and cheering promises you have made--I remember the willingness and the joyfulness with which those promises were made, and that recollection renders it not madness,--renders it not selfishness to say to you, Come to me, my Clemence, come to me as speedily as possible; come and decide for me, when perhaps I may not have calmness to decide for myself! Come, and let us unite our fate for ever, and so far acquire the power of setting the will of the world at defiance. Were it possible, I would trust entirely to your love and your promises, in the hope that you would suffer the bearer of this, most faithful and devoted as he has shown himself to be, to guide you to me; but I fear that the little time he dare stay in Paris would render it impossible for you to make your escape with him. Should this, as I fear, be the case, write to me, if it be but a few lines, to tell me how I can a.s.sist or aid you in your escape, and when it can be made. Adieu! Heaven bless and guard you."

Before he had concluded Riquet had again appeared, telling him that he was ready to set out, and taking the somewhat useless precaution to seal his letter, the Count gave it into his hands, and saw him depart.

It was now about five o'clock in the evening; and as he knew that many a weary and expectant hour must pa.s.s before the man could return, the Count conferred with all the various attendants who had been collected at Angerville, and found that the account which Riquet had given him of the state of Poitou was confirmed in every respect. Each had some tale of horror or of cruelty. Paul Virlay, however, whom he had asked for more than once, did not appear; and it was discovered on inquiry that he had not even remained at Angerville, but with the cold and sullen sort of despair that had fallen upon him had ridden on, now that he judged the Count was in safety.

After a time the young n.o.bleman, anxious for some repose both of mind and of body, cast himself upon a bed, in the hope of obtaining sleep; but it visited not his eyelids; dark and horrible and agitating visions peopled the hours of darkness, though slumber had no share in calling them up. At length, full two hours before he had expected that Riquet could return, the sound of a horse's feet, coming at a rapid pace, struck the Count's ear, as he lay and listened to the howling of the November wind; and, starting up, he went to the window of the room and gazed out. It was a clear night, with the moon up, though there were some occasional clouds floating quickly over the sky, and he clearly saw that the horseman was Riquet, and alone. Proceeding into the other room where he had left a light, he hastened down to meet him, asking whether he had obtained an answer.

"I have, Sir," replied the man; "though I saw not the fair lady herself: yet Maria, the waiting woman, brought it in no long time.

There it is;" and drawing it from his pocket, he gave it into the Count's hand. Albert of Morseiul hastened back with the letter, and tore it eagerly open; but what were the words that his eyes saw?

"Cruel and unkind," it began, "and must I not add--alas, must I not add even to the man that I love--ungenerous and ungrateful? What would I not have sacrificed, what would I not have done, rather than that this should have occurred, and that the first use you make of your liberty should be to fly to wage actual war against the crown! How shall I dare look up? I, who for weeks have been pleading that no such thought would ever enter into your n.o.ble and loyal nature. No, Albert, I cannot follow the messenger you send; or, to use the more true and straight-forward word, I _will_ not; and never by my presence with you, however much I may still love you, will I countenance the acts to which you are now hurrying."

It was signed "Clemence;" but it fell from the Count's hand ere his eye had reached that word, and he gazed at it fixedly as it lay upon the ground for several moments, without attempting to raise it; then, turning with a sudden start to Riquet and another servant who stood by, as if for orders, he exclaimed--"To horse!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE PASTOR'S PRISON.

The pillow of Clemence de Marly was wet with her tears, and sleep had not visited her eyes, when a quick knocking was heard at her door, and she demanded timidly who was there.

"It is I, Madam," replied the voice of the d.u.c.h.ess de Rouvre's maid.

"Then wait a moment, Mariette," replied Clemence, "and I will open the door. She rose, put on a dressing gown, and by the light of the lamp which still stood unextinguished on the table, she raised and concealed, in a small casket, two letters which she had left open, and which bore evident signs of having been wept over before she retired to rest. The one was in the clear free handwriting of youth and strength; the other was in characters, every line of which spoke the feeble hand of age, infirmity, or sickness. When that was done, she opened the door which was locked, and admitted the d.u.c.h.ess's maid, who was followed into the room by her own attendant Maria, who usually slept in a little chamber hard by.

"What is the matter, Mariette?" demanded the young lady. "I can scarcely say that I have closed my eyes ere I am again disturbed."

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle, to alarm you," replied the woman; "but Maria would positively not wake you, so I was obliged to do it, for the Duke was sent for just as he was going to bed, and after remaining for two hours with the King has returned, and given immediate orders to prepare for a long journey. The d.u.c.h.ess sent me to let you know that such was the case, and that the carriages would be at the door in less than two hours."

"Do you know whither they are going," demanded Clemence, "and if I am to accompany them?"

"I know nothing from the Duke or the d.u.c.h.ess, Mademoiselle," replied the woman, "but the Duke's valet said that we were going either to Brittany or Poitou, for my lord had brought away a packet from the King addressed to somebody in those quarters; and you are going certainly, Mademoiselle, for the d.u.c.h.ess told me to tell you so, and the valet says that it is on account of you we are going; for that the Chevalier came back with my lord the Duke, and when he parted with him, said, 'Tell Clemence, she shall hear from me soon.'"

Clemence mused, but made no answer; and when in about an hour after, she descended to the saloon of the hotel, she found every thing in the confusion of departure, and the Duc de Rouvre standing by the table, at which his wife was seated, waiting for the moment of setting out, with a face wan, indeed, and somewhat anxious, but not so sorrowful or dejected as perhaps Clemence expected to see.

"I fear, my dear Duke," she said, approaching him and leaning her two hands affectionately upon his arm, "I fear that you, who have been to your poor Clemence a father indeed, are destined to have even more than a father's share of pains and anxieties with her. I am sure that all this to-night is owing to me, or to those that are dear to me, and that you have fallen under the King's displeasure on account of the rash steps of him whom I cannot yet cease to love."

"Not at all, my sweet Clemence; not at all, my sweet child," said the old n.o.bleman, kissing her hand with that mingled air of gallant respect and affection which he always showed towards her. "I do not mean to say, that your fair self has nothing to do with this business in any way, but certainly not in that way. It is about another business altogether, Clemence, that we are ordered to retire from the court; but not in disgrace, my dear young friend, we are by no means in disgrace. The King is perfectly satisfied that you have had no share in all the business of poor Albert of Morseiul; and when I told him how bitterly and deeply grieved you were, and how struck to the heart you seemed to have been, when you heard that the Count had fled to join the rebels in Poitou, he told me to bid you console yourself, saying, that he would find you another and a better husband soon."

Clemence's eyes were bent down upon the ground with an expression of grief and pain; but she looked up in a moment, and said, "Is it permitted me to ask you, my lord, how I am connected with this sudden removal?"

"Nay," he said, "nay, sweet Clemence, that I must not tell you. I scruple not to say, that I think his Majesty is acting without due consideration; but, of course, my first duty, like that of all his other subjects, is to obey; and he particularly wishes that nothing should be said to you on the subject, as it might render one duty difficult by opposing to it another. At present the whole matter is quite simple; we have nothing to do but to set out as soon as these villanous lackeys have got the carriages ready."

Thus saying, the Duke turned away, evidently wishing to avoid further inquiries, and in about half an hour after Clemence was rolling away from Versailles with the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess de Rouvre, followed by a long train of carriages and attendants.

It is needless to trace a melancholy journey in the darkest and gloomiest weather of the month of November; but it was evident that the Duc de Rouvre was in haste, travelling early and late, and it also appeared, from his conversation as they went, that, though he was charged with no special mission from the King, he proposed only pausing for a short time in Poitou, and then bending his steps to some of his other estates. Indeed, he suffered it to be understood that, in all probability, for many months he should take but little repose, frequently changing his place of abode, and travelling from one city to another. Although the health of Madame de Rouvre was by no means vigorous, and though far and rapid travelling never, at any time, had agreed with her, she made no objection, but seemed contented and happy with the arrangement, and even suggested that a journey to Italy might be beneficial to them all.

Clemence wondered but was silent; and at length, late on the afternoon of the sixth day after their departure, they arrived at the small town of Thouars, over which was brooding the dark grey fogs of a November evening. Not many miles remained to travel from Thouars to Ruffigny; and the Duke, who was of course well known in that part of the country, received visits of congratulation on his arrival from the princ.i.p.al officers and inhabitants of the town. At these visits, however, Clemence was not present. She sent down an excuse for not appearing during the evening; and when the Duke sent up to say he wished to see her for a moment, she was not to be found, nor had she, indeed, returned at the end of an hour.

Where was Clemence de Marly? it may be asked. She was in the dark and gloomy abode, often of crime and often of innocence, but ever of anguish and of sorrow. She was in the prison of the old chateau of Thouars. Not, indeed, as one of those unfortunate beings, the involuntary inmates of the place, but as one coming upon the sad and solemn errand of visiting a dear and well-beloved friend for the last time. The office of governor of the prison, as it was seldom if ever used for the confinement of state offenders, had been suffered to fall into the hands of the mayor of the place, who delegated his charge to an old lieutenant, who again entrusted it to two subordinate gaolers, antique and rusty in their office as the keys they carried. It was with one of these that Clemence was speaking eagerly in the small dark pa.s.sage that led into the interior of the building. She was habited in the ordinary grey cloak in which we have seen her twice before, and had with her still, on this occasion also, the faithful servant who had then attended her.

"Come, come, pretty mistress," said the man, thrusting himself steadfastly in the way, "I tell you it is as much as my head is worth.

He is condemned to be broken on the wheel to-morrow, and I dare admit n.o.body to him."

"Look at these," said Clemence, pouring some gold pieces from her purse into her open hand. "I offer you these if you will allow me to speak with him for an hour, and if you refuse I shall certainly insist upon seeing the lieutenant of the governor himself. You know what manner of man he is, and whether he will reject what I shall offer him; so he will get the money, and you will not, and I shall see the prisoner notwithstanding."

The man's resolution was evidently shaken to the foundation. He was an old man and fond of gold. The sight was pleasant to him, and, putting forth his hand, he lifted one piece between his finger and thumb, turned it over, and dropped it back again upon the others. The sound completed what the touch had begun.

"Well," he said at length, "I do not see why he should get it and I not. He is asleep, too, now in the arm-chair; so it were a pity to wake him. You want to be with the old man an hour, do you, young woman? Well, you must both go in then; and I must go away and be absent with the keys, for fear the lieutenant should wake and go to see the prisoner."

"Do you mean to lock us in with him, then?" exclaimed the maid, in some terror.

"Fear not, Maria!" said her mistress. "You, who have ever given me encouragement and support, must not fear now. There is G.o.d even here."

"Be quick, then, and come along," said the gaoler, "but first give me the money." Clemence poured it into his hand; and when he had got it, he paused, hesitating as if he were tempted by the spirit of evil to keep the gold and refuse her admission. But if such were the case, a moment's reflection showed him that to attempt it would be ruinous; and he, therefore, led the way along the pa.s.sage in which they were, putting his finger upon his lips to enjoin silence, as they pa.s.sed by a part of the prison which seemed to be inhabited by those who had some means of obtaining luxuries. At length, however, he lowered a lantern which he carried, and pointed to two or three steps which led into another pa.s.sage, narrower, damper, and colder than the former. At the distance of about fifty feet from the steps this corridor was crossed by another; and turning to the right over a rough uneven flooring of earth, with the faint light of the lantern gleaming here and there on the damp green glistening mould of the walls, he walked on till he reached the end, and then opened a low heavy door.

All within was dark, and, as the man drew back to let his female companions pa.s.s, the attendant, Maria, laid her hand upon the lantern, saying, "Give us a light, at least!"

"Ah! well, you may have it," grumbled forth the gaoler; and Clemence, who though resolute to her purpose, still felt the natural fears of her s.e.x and her situation, turned to him, saying, "I give you three more of those pieces when you open the door again for me."

"Oh, I'll do that--I'll do that!" replied the man, quickened by the gold; and while Maria took the lantern and pa.s.sed the door, Clemence gazed down the step or two that led into the dungeon, and then with a pale cheek and wrung heart followed. The door closed behind them; the harsh bolt of the lock grated as the man turned the key; and, the power of retreat being at an end, the beautiful girl threw back the hood of the cloak, and gazed on before her into the obscure vault, which the feeble light of the lantern had scarcely deprived of any part of its darkness. The only thing that she could perceive, at first, was a large heavy pillar in the midst, supporting the pointed vault of the dungeon, with the faint outline of a low wooden bed, with the head thereof resting against the column.

No one spoke; and nothing but a faint moan broke the awful silence. It required the pause of a moment or two ere Clemence could overcome the feelings of her own heart sufficiently to take the lantern and advance; opening a part of the dim horn as she did so, in order to give greater light. A step or two farther forward brought her to the side of the bed; and the light of the lantern now showed her distinctly the venerable form of Claude de l'Estang stretched out upon the straw with which the pallet was filled. A heavy chain was round his middle, and the farther end thereof was fastened to a stanchion in the column.

The minister was dressed in a loose grey prison gown, and, although he saw the approach of some one in the abode of misery in which he was placed, he moved not at all, but remained with his arm bent under his head, his eyes turned slightly towards the door, his lower lip dropping as if with debility or pain, and his whole att.i.tude displaying the utter la.s.situde and apathy of exhaustion and despair.

When Clemence was within a foot or two of his side, however, he slowly raised his eyes towards her; and in a moment, when he beheld her face, a bright gleam came over his faded countenance, awakening in it all those peculiar signs and marks of strong intellect and intense feeling which the moment before had seemed extinct and gone. It was like the lightning flashing over some n.o.ble ruin in the midst of the deep darkness of the night.

"Is it you, my sweet child?" he cried, in a faint voice that was scarcely audible even in the midst of the still silence. "Is it you that have come to visit me in this abode of wretchedness and agony?