Part 3

"For my part, Monsieur de Brissac, I shall return to the Hôtel de Guise. The Duke, I dare say, has concluded his interview with the Queen by this time, and I much wish to speak with him."

"Well, you cannot miss your way," cried Brissac. "Take that first turning to the left, and then the third to the right, and it will lead you straight to the Porte Cochére."

Charles of Montsoreau nodded his head, and hurried on, with manifold anxieties and apprehensions in his bosom, which twenty times he pronounced to be absurd, but which, nevertheless, he could not banish by any effort of reason.

CHAP. II.

We must now return to mark what was passing at another point in the capital, an hour or two earlier than the events narrated in the end of the last chapter. The Duke of Guise sat in a cabinet in his hotel, with his sword laid upon the table before him, which also bore a pen, and ink, and paper, and some open letters. His foot was resting on a footstool, his dress plain but costly, and not one sign of any thing like preparation for the stirring events, which were to take place that day, apparent in either his looks, his apparel, or his demeanour.

Beside him booted, and in some degree armed, stood the Count of St. Paul; while Bois-dauphin, who had just had his audience, was leaving the cabinet by a low door, and the Duke, bending his head, appeared listening with the utmost tranquillity to what his friend was telling him.

"Then the matter is done," he said, as soon as St. Paul had concluded. "The Place Manbert is in the hands of the people, and may be made a Place d'Armes. Bois-dauphin tells me that the soldiers under Tinteville, at the Petit Pont, are barricaded on all sides and cannot move. You give me the same account of the Marché Neuf, the same is the case with the Grève, the French guard under the Chatelet are hemmed in all round, the Cemetery of the Innocents is invested on all sides, and Malivaut, I understand, has been driven from his post in great disorder. This being done, St. Paul, you see these troops of the King's are not exactly in fortresses, but in prisons; and how Biron, or Crillon, or the King himself, could have committed the extraordinary error--all of them being men of experience--how they could have committed the extraordinary error, I say, of dividing their soldiery in the narrow streets and squares of such a city as Paris, sending them far from the palace, and leaving them without communication with each other, I cannot conceive. However, they are all in our hands, and what we must think of is, to make a moderate use of our success. Try to keep the people from any active aggression, St. Paul; let them stand upon the defensive only, spread amongst them different parties of those whom we have collected, who may give them direction and assistance if needful. But keep the principal part of our own people in this neighbourhood, that we may direct them on any point where their presence may be necessary."

"Might it not be as well, your Highness," said the Count, "to take one measure more? We have far more people than enough to guard all the barricades. I can undertake to draw ten or even twelve thousand from different spots, and march them out of the Porte Neuve."

"To lead them where?" demanded the Duke of Guise, lifting his eyes to the countenance of St. Paul with a meaning expression.

"To the Tuilleries and to the Louvre," replied the Count. "Every point of importance," he added in a low and meaning voice, "will then be invested."

The Duke of Guise waved his hand. "No, St. Paul, no!" he said, "that step would instantly require another. No; if the enemy misjudge our forbearance, and attempt aught towards shedding the blood of the citizens of Paris, we must then act as God shall direct us. In the mean time I say not, that the barricades may not be carried up to the very gates of the Louvre, for that is for our own defence; but at present, St. Paul, at present, it must be on the defensive that we stand. I beseech you, however, to see that no ground is lost in any part of the city, for you know how soon an advantage is gained. Should it be needful send for me, but not till the last extremity."

The Count of St. Paul turned to obey, but paused for a moment before he had reached the door. The Duke of Guise by this time was gazing fixedly upon the hilt of his sword, as it lay on the table before him, and seemed perfectly unconscious that the Count had not quitted the room. A slight smile curled that gentleman's lip, as he saw the direction that the Duke's eyes had taken, and he opened the door and passed out.

For several minutes the Duke of Guise continued to gaze in deep thought; and his bosom at that moment was certainly full of those sensations which never, perhaps, occur to any man but once in his lifetime--even if Fate have cast him one of those rare and memorable lots, which bear down the winner thereof, upon the stream of fame and memory, through a thousand ages after his own day is done. The fate of his country was in his hands; he had but to stretch out his arm and grasp the crown of France: and what temptations were there to do so to a mind like his!

It must not be forgotten that the Duke of Guise, by every hereditary feeling, by every prejudice of education, as well as by many strong and peculiar points in his own character, was in truth and reality a strenuous and zealous supporter of the Roman Catholic Church. His veneration for that great and extraordinary institution had descended to him from his father, and had formed the great principle of action in his own life. Even had he merely assumed that devotion for the church during so many years, the very habit must have moulded his feelings into the same form; and he must have been by this time, more or less a zealous advocate of the Catholic cause, even if he had set out with caring nothing in reality about it. But such was not the case: his father had educated him in principles of strict and stern devotion to the faith in which they were born; and though in the gaieties and the frivolities of youth, or the eager struggles of manhood, he might have appeared in the ordinary affairs of life any thing on earth but the zealot, yet still his zeal would have been far more than a pretence, had it only been the effect of early education and constant habit.

There was something still more, however, to be said. The spirit of the Catholic Church was consonant to, and harmonious with, the whole tone of his own feelings, at once deep, powerful, imaginative, enthusiastic, politic, and commanding. Chivalry, feudalism, and the Church of Rome, went hand in hand: all three were, indeed, in their decay; but if ever man belonged to the epoch of chivalry, it was Henry Duke of Guise; and he clung to all the other institutions that were attached to that past epoch, of which he in spirit was a part.

Attached therefore sincerely, deeply, and zealously to the Catholic Church--far, far more than his brother the Duke of Mayenne ever was or ever could be--Guise beheld a weak monarch, whom he despised and hated from the very bottom of his heart, wasting the whole energies of the Catholic party in France in a mere pretence of opposing the Huguenots, and, in fact, caring for nothing but so to balance the two religious factions as to be permitted to remain in luxurious indolence, swallowed up with the most foul, degrading, and abhorrent vices; setting an example of low and filthy effeminacy to his whole court; and only chequering a life of soft and unmanly voluptuousness by bursts of frantic debauchery, or moments of apparent penitence and devotion, so wild and extravagant as to betray their own affectation, by the absurdities which they displayed.

The church to which Guise was attached was thus betrayed; his own especial friends and relations were neglected, insulted, or maltreated; all that were great or good in the nobility of France were shut out from the high offices of state, trampled upon by the minions of the King, and plundered by insolent and fraudulent financiers; the course of public justice was totally perverted; every thing in the government was venal and corrupt; the exertions of commerce and industry totally put to a stop; assassination, poison, and the knife, of daily occurrence; and bands of audacious plunderers tearing the unhappy land from north to south.

The Duke of Guise might well think, as he sat there gazing upon the hilt of that renowned sword which had never been drawn in vain, that, were he to say the few short words which were all that was necessary to bring the crown to his head and the sceptre to his hand--he might well think that he could obtain for France thereby those great objects which he conceived were, beyond all others, necessary to her well-being. He might well conceive too that the cost of so doing would but be little: civil war already raged in the land; the whole south of France was one scene of contention; it already existed in the capital; and would, in all probability, be shortened rather than prolonged by his striking the one great and decisive blow.

The King, who was absolutely at his mercy, and whom he could cast down from his throne at a single word, was no obstacle in his way; the Epernons, the d'Aumonts, the Villequiers, he looked upon, notwithstanding all their favour, and the semblance of power which had been cast into their hands, as a mere herd of deer, to be driven backwards and forwards, like beasts of the chase, between himself and Henry of Navarre. And then again, when he looked to the great and chivalrous Huguenot monarch, what were the feelings with which he regarded the struggle that might take place between them? His breast heaved, his chest expanded, his head was raised, his eye flashed with the thought of encountering an adversary worthy of the strife, a rival of powers equal or nearly equal to his own. When he thought of army to army, and lance to lance, against Henry of Navarre, with the crown of France between them as the golden prize of their mighty strife, his spirit seemed on fire within him, and he had well nigh forgotten all his resolutions, in order to do the daring act which might bring about that glorious result; and then, when fancy pictured him returning triumphant over his rival, with peace restored, and civil war put down, and commerce flourishing, and the rights of France maintained on every frontier, an uniform religion, a happy people, and the strong truncheon of command in a hand that could wield it lightly, the prospect was too bright, too beautiful, too tempting; and he pressed his hand tight upon his eyes, as if he could so shut it out from his mental vision.

What was it that deterred him? There was much reason on his side; there was little if any risk; there was the object of the church's safety; there was the gratification of vengeance upon those who had insulted and injured him; there were the exhortations of the King of Spain; there was almost the universal voice of the people in the north of France; there was his own ambition; there was the certainty that all he did would be absolved, sanctioned, confirmed by the head of the Catholic Church; there was already in his favour the solemn and decided declaration of the highest theological authority in France; and there was many a specious argument, which no one could expect that he should sift and refute against himself.

What was it deterred him? Was it that there is a majesty which hedges in a King, sufficiently strong to overawe even the Duke of Guise himself? Was it that the habitual reverence, which he had been accustomed to show towards the kingly office, veiled or shielded from his eyes the real weakness of him who exercised it? Was it that he feared himself?--Or was it that he felt the act of usurpation must be confirmed by murder?

It cannot be told! Certain it is that he dreamt grand visions; that he saw mighty prospects of fair paths leading to honour, and glory, and high renown, and his country's good, and his church's safety; and that he banished the visions and would not take the only step which would have over-passed every barrier to his forward way.

The words of Catherine de Medici rung in his ears--the words which had warned him against the growth of ambition in his own heart; he heard the shouts of the people without, and her warning voice again came back in tones that seemed well nigh prophetic. Almost, it would appear, without a cause, the vanity of all things seemed to press upon his mind at that moment with stronger effect than he had ever experienced before. There was a leaden weight upon his spirits he knew not why. He seemed to feel the hand of Fate, the tangible pressure of a directing arm, selecting for him the path he was to pursue, and forcing him thereon at the very moment when supreme command appeared given to him without a check.

The sun seemed to dazzle his eyes as he gazed from the window, vague figures passed before him, and crossed the dancing motes, picturing, like shadows, the persons of whom he had been thinking. He saw Henry the Third distinctly before him, and fierce faces and bloody knives, and figures weltering in their blood upon the ground. He felt that he had indulged fancy too far, that he had given way to thought at the moment of action, that his course must be shaped as he had predetermined it in calmer hours; and waving his hand, as if to dispel the visions that still haunted his sight, he rose from his chair, leaning heavily on the table, pushed the sword away from him, and murmured to himself, "No, no! I will never be an usurper! Ho, without there!" he continued. "Who waits? What is that sound of musketry?"

"Erlan has just arrived, my Lord," replied the attendant, "to bear your Highness word, that the citizens have driven Malivaut down into the market, and that is the firing we hear."

"Tell Erlan to speed back as fast as possible," replied the Duke, "and bid them cease directly. Let them content themselves with hemming in the enemy without attacking them. But I hear more firing still; I shall be obliged to go forth myself."

"Monsieur de Brissac has just gone out on one side, your Highness," replied the attendant, "and Monsieur de St. Paul on the other; both with the purpose of stopping the bloodshed. But they have not had time to get to the spot yet."

"It has ceased now," said the Duke listening. "It has ceased now towards the Chatelet: but on the other side it is fierce. Go down and see what are those shouts, and let me know! Surely Henry," he added, "would not venture into such a scene as this. Alas, no! He would venture nothing--dare nothing, either for his own sake or his country's."

A moment after the attendant returned saying, "It is the Queen, my Lord; her Majesty Queen Catherine. The crowd of people prevents the chair from coming up to the gates; but she has descended and is coming on foot."

The Duke instantly started up and approached the head of the staircase for the purpose of hurrying down to receive his royal visitor; but Catherine was by this time upon the stairs, with Madame de Montpensier and a number of other ladies, who had passed the morning at the Hôtel de Guise, surrounding her on all sides. The Duke advanced and gave her his hand to aid her in ascending the stairs; and perhaps the aspect of Catherine at that moment taught him more fully than any thing else, how tremendous was the scene without, and how completely the capital of France was at his disposal.

Habituated for more than twenty years to control all her feelings, and to repress every appearance of fear or agitation, Catherine de Medici was nevertheless on the present occasion completely overcome. Her lip quivered, her head shook, and there was a degree of wild apprehension in her eyes, which it was some moments ere her strongest efforts could conquer.

"Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as she had drawn her breath, "I must speak with you for a few moments alone; I must beseech you to give me audience, even if it be but for half an hour."

"Your Majesty has nothing to do but command," replied the Duke. "My time is at your disposal."

The Queen smiled slightly at feeling how easily the empty words of courts may be retorted upon those that use them. It has been said that it costs nothing to use civil language and say courtly things, even when insincere: but it costs much; for, sooner or later, we are sure to be paid in the same coin to which we have given currency, perhaps even more depreciating than when we sent it forth. She answered only by that smile however; and the Duke led her forward to his cabinet, all the rest of those who crowded the staircase remaining behind.

With every sign of ceremonious reverence the Duke of Guise led his royal guest to a seat, and stood before her; but she paused for a moment, and hesitated ere she spoke. "My Lord," she said at length, "this is a terrible state of things."

"Your Majesty knows more of it than I do," replied the Duke calmly, "for I have not gone forth from the house to-day; but I hear there is some tumult in Paris."

"Henry of Guise!" replied the Queen, fixing her eyes upon him. "Henry of Guise, be sincere!"

"Madam," replied the Duke, "one must adapt one's tone to circumstances. With those who are sincere with us we may be as candid as the day; but when we are sadly taught the fallacy of words, and the fragility of promises, we must, of course, shelter ourselves under some reserve."

"Your Highness's words imply an accusation," said Catherine somewhat sharply. "In what have I dealt insincerely with you?"

"Your Majesty promised me," replied the Duke of Guise, "that my noble friend, the young Count of Logères, should be set at liberty not later than yesterday morning; and that my ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, should be immediately replaced under my protection."

"You have done me wrong, your Highness," replied the Queen; "and attributed to want of will what only arose from want of power. Villequier has formally claimed the guardianship of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; his application is before the parliament at this hour; and orders have been given on all hands for the young Lady to remain under the protection of the King till the question is decided."

"I will cut his cause very short," replied the Duke of Guise frowning, "if she be not within my gates ere six hours be over."

"She is within your gates even now, my Lord," replied the Queen. "Your Highness is too quick. I sent an order myself for the liberation of the Count de Logères, for that only depended upon the King my son. Some one, however, diverted it from its right course, and he was only set free this morning. He ought to have been here before me, for I sent him on; but I suppose he has not been able to pass the mass of people round your doors. As to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I have risked every thing to restore her to you; and notifying to Villequier and Epernon that I would no longer countenance her being detained, I liberated her on my own authority and brought her here in my own chair. She would have been freed two nights ago, for I wished to effect the matter by a little stratagem, and have her carried from the convent and brought hither without any one knowing how or by whom it was done; but the meddling burgher guard came up and drove the people that I sent away. But let us, oh let us, my Lord, discuss more serious things. Have I now been sincere with you?"

"You have, madam," replied the Duke, "and I thank your Majesty even for doing an act of justice, so rare are they in these days. But may I know what are now your Majesty's commands?"

"You cannot affect to doubt, cousin," replied the Queen, "that Paris, the capital of my son's kingdom, is in revolt from end to end. Can you deny that you are the cause of it?"

"Though no man is bound to accuse himself, madam," replied the Duke, returning the Queen's searching glance with a calm, steady gaze, "yet I will answer your question, and sincerely. I have in no degree instigated this rising. His Majesty is the cause and not I. We see, without any reason or motion whatsoever, or any expression of the King's displeasure, large bodies of troops introduced into the city, during the night, without drums beating or colours flying, and altogether in a clandestine manner. We see them take possession of various strong points, and we hear them using menacing language--Monsieur de Crillon himself passing through the streets, breathing nothing but menaces and violence; and if your Majesty can wonder that in these circumstances the citizens of Paris fly to arms for the defence of their property, of their lives, and of the honour of their women, it is more than I can do. In truth, I know not what the King expected to produce, but the very result which is before us. I assure your Majesty, however, that it is not at my instigation that this was done; though, even if I had done this, and far more, I should have held myself completely justified."

"Justified," said the Queen, shaking her head mournfully. "What then becomes of all your Highness said upon ambition but three days ago?"

"Ambition, madam, would have nothing to do with it," replied the Duke. "It would have been merely self-defence. Who had so much cause to fear that the rash and despotic proceedings which have taken place were aimed at him as I have had? Who had so much cause to know that the object of all this military parade, was not the hanging of some half dozen miserable burghers in the Place de Grève, but the arrest, and perhaps massacre, of Henry of Guise and all his kind and zealous friends? Can you deny, madam, that such was the cause for which these soldiers were brought hither? Can you deny, madam, that only yesterday, when the King assuming friendship towards me, invited me to ride forth with him--can you deny that it was debated in his council, whether he should or should not order his guards to murder me as we went? Confident in my own conscience, madam, and believing that the King, though misinformed, entertained no personal ill-will against one who had served him well, I came to Paris, walked through the royal guards, and presented myself at Court, in the midst of my enemies, with only eight attendants; and ever since that day, there has not been an hour in which my life and liberty have not been in danger, in which schemes for my destruction have not been agitated in the Cabinet of the King; and I say that, under these circumstances, I should have been perfectly justified in raising the people for my own defence. But, madam, I did not do so; and I am not the cause of this rising.--What is it, Monsieur de Bois-dauphin?" he added, turning to a gentleman who had just entered, and who now answered a few words in a low tone. The Duke retired with him into the window, and after speaking for a moment or two in whispers, Guise dismissed him and returned, making apologies to the Queen for the interruption.

It may be said, without noticing it again, that the same sort of occurrence took place more than once--different officers and attendants coming in, from time to time, speaking for a moment with the Duke in private, and hurrying out again. Though Catherine de Medici felt this to be somewhat unceremonious treatment, and though it evidently showed her, that whatever share the Duke had had in raising the tumult at first, he assuredly now guided all its proceedings, and ruled the excited multitudes from his own cabinet; yet, in other respects, she was not sorry for time to pause and think ere she replied, knowing that she had to deal with one whose mind was far too acute to be satisfied with vague or unsatisfactory answers.