Part 5

"We must make our way thither quickly," said the Duke; "for, if I remember right, it is the band of Du Gas which is at the Chatelet, and the people are furious against him."

He accordingly lost not a moment on the way; but turning to Bois-dauphin, who accompanied him, he said in a low tone, as they went, "I would have given my left hand to stay and examine the interior of the Hôtel de Ville, in order to punish some of the traitors who, I know, are lurking there. Perhaps it is better, however, to let them escape than that any mischief should be done; and in these popular movements, if we once begin to shed blood, there is no knowing where it will end."

"I fear there is bloodshed going on at present," said Bois-dauphin, hearing a shot or two fired at no great distance. "They are at it under the Chatelet now."

"Hurry on! hurry on!" said the Duke, speaking to some of those behind. "Run on fast before, and announce that I am coming. Command them, in my name, to stop."

Two or three of his followers ran forward, and no more shots were heard; but scarcely two minutes after, just as the Duke had passed one of the barricades, he saw two or three men hurrying up to him, led by Chapelle Marteau, who approached him with no slight expression of grief and apprehension in his countenance.

"I fear I have bad news for you, my Lord," he said.

"What is it?" demanded the Duke calmly. "Such a day as this could hardly pass over without some alloy."

"I fear," replied the Leaguer, "that your Highness' friend. Monsieur de Logères, is mortally wounded. He brought me your signet and orders, which I immediately obeyed. We gained information which led us to suppose that the persons we sought for, were concealed in a house in the Rue de la Ferronière here hard by. We proceeded thither instantly and demanded admission; but they, affecting to take us for a party of soldiery, fired upon us from the window, when two shots struck the Count, one lodging in his shoulder, and the other passing through his body. He is yet living, and I have ordered him to be conveyed to the Hôtel de Guise at once, where a surgeon can attend upon him. Our people were breaking into the house to take the murderers prisoners, when, hearing of your approach, I came away to tell you the facts."

The Duke of Guise paused, and gazed sadly down upon the ground, repeating the words, "Poor youth! poor youth! so are his bright hopes cut short! He shall be avenged at least! Show me the house, Chapelle."

And he followed rapidly upon the steps of the Leaguer, who led him to a small house, with the entrance, which was through a Gothic arch, sunk somewhat back from the other houses. There were two windows above the arch, and a window which flanked it on either side; but the followers of the young Count of Logères and of Chapelle Marteau had by this time broken open the doors, and rushed into the building.

"This is part of the old priory of the Augustins," said the Duke of Guise as they came up. "They exchanged it some fifty years ago for their house further down. But there are two or three back ways out, I know; and if you have not put a guard there, they have escaped you."

It proved as the Duke anticipated. The house was found completely vacant, and though strict orders were sent to all the different gates to suffer no one to pass out without close examination, either the order came too late, or those against whom it was levelled proved too politic for the guards; for none of those whom the Duke of Guise wished to secure, except Pereuse, the Prevôt des Marchands, were taken in the attempt to escape.

The shots, the sound of which, Guise had heard, proved to be those which had struck the unfortunate Count de Logères, and no difficulty was found in inducing the people who surrounded the soldiery near the Chatelet, to suffer them to depart, as their companions had done.

On entering the Cemetery of the Innocents, however, the Duke instantly saw that the danger of the troops was greater; for, shut up within, those walls, together with the Swiss, he found the famous Baron de Biron and Pomponne de Bellievre, while the people without were loudly clamouring for their blood. They both advanced towards him as soon as he appeared; and the Duke, gazing around him, said with a sigh, "Alas, Monsieur de Biron! those who stirred up this fire should have been able to extinguish it."

"I say so, too, my Lord," replied Biron sadly. "Evil be to those who gave the counsel that has been followed. God knows I opposed it to the utmost of my power, and only obeyed the King's absolute commands in bringing these poor fellows hither, who, I fear, will never be suffered to pass out as they came."

"For the soldiery I have no fear," replied the Duke, "and as for you, gentlemen, I must do the best that I can. But the people look upon you as partially authors of the evil, and they will not be easily satisfied."

The Duke of Guise, however, succeeded, though not without difficulty, in his purpose of saving all. The people yielded to him, but for the first time showed some degree of resistance; and he returned to the Hôtel de Guise feeling more sensibly, from that little incident, the truth of the warning which Catherine de Medici had given him, regarding the instability of popularity, than from all the arguments or examples that reason or history could produce.

We may easily imagine the reception of the Duke in his own dwelling: the joy, the congratulations, the inquiries; and we may imagine, also, the passing of that busy night, while messengers were coming to and fro at every instant, and couriers were dispatched from the Hôtel de Guise to almost every part of France.

Henry of Guise was well aware, that whatever deference and humility he might assume in his words towards the King, or whatever testimonies of forgiveness and affection Henry might offer to him, his own safety now, for the rest of his life, depended on his power, and that his armour must be the apprehensions of the King, rather than his regard.

Up to a very late hour, notwithstanding all the fatigues and agitations of the day, he sat with his secretary Pericard, writing letters to all his different friends in various parts of the country, demanding their immediate assistance and support, even while he expressed the most devoted attachment to the King; and thus, in the letter we have already cited to Bassompiere, he makes use of such expressions as the following:--

"Thus it is necessary that you should make a journey here to see your friends, whom you will not find, thank God! either wanting in means or resolution. We must have good intelligence from Germany, however, that we be not taken by surprise. We are not without forces, courage, friends, nor means; but still less without honour, or respect and fidelity to the King, which we will preserve inviolably, doing our duty, as people of worth, of honour, and as good Catholics."

It was about twelve o'clock at night, when Reignaut, the surgeon, entered the cabinet of the Duke, and bowing low said, "I come, according to your Highness's order, to tell you the state of the young Count of Logères. Soon after I saw you about six to-day, we extracted both balls. He bore the operation well, and has slept since for several hours."

"Is he sleeping still?" demanded the Duke.

"No," replied the surgeon. "He awoke about a quarter of an hour ago, and seems anxious to see your Highness. He questioned me closely as to his state, when I told him the truth."

"You did right, you did right," replied the Duke. "He is one that can bear it. What is your real opinion, Reignaut, in regard to the result?"

"I can hardly tell your Highness," replied the surgeon. "Two or three days more are necessary, before we can judge. The wound in the shoulder is not dangerous, though the most painful. The shot which passed through his body, and lodged in the back, is one which we generally consider mortal; but then, in ordinary cases, death either takes place almost immediately, or indications of such a result are seen in an hour or two, as to leave no further doubt on the subject. No such indications have appeared here, and it may have happened that the ball has passed through without touching any vital part. We must remember, also," he continued, "that the wound was received when the moon was in her first quarter, which is, of course, very favourable; and we shall also, if there be any chance of life being saved, have made some progress towards recovery before any crisis is brought on by the moon reaching the full."

The Duke listened attentively, for though such things may appear to us, in the present day, mere foolishness, that was not the case two centuries and a half ago, and the power of the moon, in affecting the wounded or sick, was never questioned. "Stay, Reignaut," said the Duke, "I will go with you, and see this good youth. I love him much; there is a frankness in his nature that wins upon the heart. Besides, he has saved my life, and has come to my aid on all occasions, as if there were a fate in it; and I believe, moreover, that he loves me personally as much--nay, perhaps more, than any of my own family and relations."

Thus saying the Duke rose, and, followed by Reignaut, passed through the door of his cabinet into the anteroom. His pages instantly presented themselves to light him on his way, and traversing some of the long corridors of the vast building be inhabited, he reached the chamber where his unhappy friend lay stretched upon the bed of pain and sickness. The boy Ignati sat beside him, tending him with care and affection; and at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed upon his chest, stood his faithful servant Gondrin, with tears in his eyes.

The Duke seated himself by the young Count, and remained with him for nearly an hour; and knowing well what effect the mind has upon the body, spoke to him cheerfully and hopefully of the time to come, talked of his recovered health as a thing certain, and mentioned his union with Marie de Clairvaut as beyond all doubt.

"It is upon that subject, my Lord," said the young gentleman, "that I wished particularly to speak with your Highness. I have not had either time or opportunity of telling you all that has occurred since I left you at Soissons. But from all I have heard, I now judge better in regard to the situation of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut than even you can. Nay, Monsieur Reignaut, I must speak a few words, but I will be as brief and as prudent as possible. In this business, my Lord, suspect not the Queen. It is not in her hands that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut will be found. Neither is she with Villequier, depend upon it; nor in the power of the King. I grieve to say it, but I feel sure my own brother has something to do with the events of this day as far as they affect her so dear to me."

"But you surely do not think," exclaimed the Duke, "that it is your brother's hand which inflicted these wounds upon you!"

"The ball would be poisoned, indeed, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "if I did believe such to be the case. But I trust it is not so; most sincerely do I trust--ay, and believe--it is not so. There is another hand, my Lord Duke; and not long ago I could as well have believed that my own father's would have been raised against me as the one of which I speak. But still there is another hand, my Lord, which--actuated by motives dark and evil--I believe to have been raised against my life. That hand is in general unerring in its aim; and the moment before the shot was fired, I saw the calm cold features which I know so well, at the window just above me."

"But whose is the hand?" exclaimed the Duke. "Whose are the features that you mean?"

"I mean those of the Abbé de Boisguerin, my Lord," replied the Count; "and to him, to him, I think, your Highness must look even rather than to my brother. I believe Gaspar but to be a tool in his hands, and that he uses him for his own dark and criminal designs."

"Have I not heard you say he was your tutor?" demanded the Duke. "What then are his motives? what can be his inducements?"

"Love, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I have the word of that sweet girl for his having dared to use words towards her, for which he deserves and must meet with punishment. Him I would point out to your Highness as the person to be watched, and sought for, and made to account for all his actions; for, depend upon it, his are the machinations which are ruling these events."

"He shall not be forgotten!" replied the Duke. "He shall not be forgotten! But now, Logères, speak no more, except indeed only to answer me one question. I have heard that the county of Morly has lately fallen to you by the death of the old Count. These, with the estates of Logères, if properly conducted, may afford me great assistance. You are incapable for the time of directing them at all. Do you authorise me to fill your post, and give orders in your name till you are better?"

"Most willingly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I had already thought of it. But your Highness talks of my becoming better: I have thought of that matter too, but in a different light; and considering what may take place in case of my own death, I have requested Monsieur Reignaut here to cause a will to be drawn up, leaving the whole that I possess to the person whom I love best on earth, with your Highness for her guardian. There are a few gifts bestowed on those that love me, and a provision for all old servants: but----"

"But it will not be wanted, Logères," said the Duke, pressing his hand. "I see it in your eye; I hear it in the tone of your voice. You will recover and strike by my side yet--perhaps, in many a well-fought field. Silence and perfect quiet, I know, are Monsieur Reignaut's best medicines; but I shall come to you, from time to time, when I have got any pleasant tidings to bear."

CHAP. IV.

We must now pass over a considerable lapse of time without taking any note of the political intrigues with which it was occupied, and lead the reader at once from the month of May to the end of summer, and from the city of Paris to the distant town of Augoulême.

Under the high hill on which that city stands, at the distance of about a league from the base, was in those days a beautiful park with a pavilion of four towers; and in one of these towers, on a fine summer day towards the end of July, sat the young Marquis of Montsoreau together with the Abbé de Boisguerin: not exactly in conversation, for the Marquis had not spoken a word for nearly an hour; but in dull companionship.

The young nobleman's back was turned towards the light, his eyes were bent down upon the ground, his head drooped forward in a desponding attitude, the nostril was painfully expanded, as if he drew his breath with difficulty, and the teeth were tight shut, as it were to keep down some struggling emotions that swelled for utterance. An open letter lay upon the table, and another much more closely written, and written in cypher, was in the hand of the Abbé de Boisguerin. The Abbé's brow too was a good deal contracted, and his lip was somewhat pale, though it quivered not; but from time to time he addressed the young nobleman with words of consolation, regarding some afflicting tidings just received.

Those words, however, though well chosen, appropriate and elegant, were not of the words that console, for they were not of the heart. He reasoned logically on the inutility of human grief, and still more on the vanity of regretting that which could not be recalled. He spoke lightly of all deep feelings for any earthly thing, and he talked of every deed upon the face of the earth being justified by the importance of the objects to be obtained.

When he had talked thus for some time without obtaining any answer, he was going on to justify the past; but Gaspar de Montsoreau suddenly started up, and interrupted him with a vehemence which he had never displayed before.

"Abbé de Boisguerin," he said, "talk not to me of consolation and of comfort. Is not my brother dead? Is not my brother dead, killed by my own hand? Can you tear that from the book of fate? Can you blot it out from memory? Can you rase it for ever from the records of crimes done? Can you find me a pillow on all the earth, where I can lay my head in peace?"

"Your brother, indeed, is dead," said the Abbé de Boisguerin, without in the least degree trying to relieve the mind of his young companion from the crime with which conscience charged him. "Your brother, indeed, is dead; and it is not to be denied that your hand, my dear Gaspar, took his life; but yet you were in a city where war was actually going on between two parties, one of which you served, and the other your brother. These things have happened every day in civil wars, and always will happen. They are to be grieved at, but who can help them?"

"But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young Marquis. "My men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on the part of the King: I was not engaged in trampling down the people. But what was I busied with, Abbé de Boisguerin? I was engaged in a scheme for carrying off--from him she loved, and from those who had a right to protect her--one whom I had no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to guard and to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure her. If I had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived and lied to; and all that I had previously done made the act itself which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not to me of consolation, Abbé; speak not to me of hope or comfort. You of all men, do not venture to mention to me a word like happiness or confidence."

"And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbé somewhat sternly. "What have I done to merit reproach in the matter?"

"Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout?" demanded the Marquis. "Was it not you who devised the scheme, prepared the means, got possession of the Queen's letter by corrupting her servants. Was it not your tool, that, upon pretence of assisting her to the other gates of the hotel, got her into our power; and was it not you, when her prayers and entreaties and agitation would have made me yield--was it not you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on? Did you not yourself stand by me when the shot was fired; and was it not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow hesitation, which winged the ball that took my brother's life?"

"It is all true, Gaspar," replied the Abbé de Boisguerin in a sad but no longer a harsh tone. "It is all true; and from you I meet the reward, which all men will meet and well deserve who love others better than themselves, and who do for them things that they would not do for themselves. Nevertheless, I still think that there was not that evil on our side with which you seem to reproach yourself. Shocked and mourning for your brother's death, you see all things in dark and gloomy colours. Those things which you regarded before as light, have now become to you heavy and sombre as night. But all this is but mood, and let me call to your remembrance what sense and reason say. You and your brother loved the same person,--you vehemently, warmly, devotedly; he coldly, and by halves. You, as the elder brother and as lord of the dwelling in which she was received, had, if any thing, the first claim upon her; and he himself rendered that claim still greater by leaving her entirely to you, and absenting himself from her. You had every right, therefore, to seek her hand by all means; and when you found that, though he affected generous forbearance, he had gone covertly to forestall your demand, and gain the promise of her hand from her guardian, surely you were bound to keep no measures with him. All I did subsequently was to serve you in a cause that I thought was right, and it is but a few days ago that you were grateful to me for so doing. I said at the time, and I say again, that if at the moment when your brother commenced his attack upon the house in the Rue de la Ferronière, either you or I had been taken, death and eternal disgrace would have been the consequence. We acted but in our own defence, and those who assailed us cannot accuse us for so acting."

Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him in sullen silence, his dark eyes rolling from side to side beneath his heavy eyebrows. In his dealings with the Abbé de Boisguerin he had by this time learned fully how artful and politic was the man who led him. He saw it, and he could not doubt it, even while he shared in the things at which his better spirit revolted. But that very knowledge taught him to doubt, whether the art and the policy were used for his service, and out of affection to him, or whether they were all directed in some secret way to the benefit of him who wielded them so dexterously. The suspicions which Villequier had instilled rose fresh in his mind at this very time; and as his only answer to the Abbé's reasonings, he demanded with a keen glance and a sharp tone, "Tell me. Abbé, was it, or was it not, you who brought the reiters upon us, and who gave the King's forces notice of our passage?"

"I did the one, but not the other," replied the Abbé calmly. "I dealt not with the reiters, Gaspar de Montsoreau, for that would have been dangerous to me, to her, and to you. But I did inform the troops of the King, because I already had learned how deeply the Duke of Guise was pledged to your brother; because I knew that no reasoning would prevent either you or this fair girl from going on to Soissons; and because I saw that there was no earthly chance of your obtaining her hand, but by placing her under the charge of her father's nearest male relation, from whom the Duke of Guise unjustly withholds the guardianship. I own it, I acknowledge it, I am proud of it."

The way in which the Abbé replied was not such as Gaspar de Montsoreau had expected; but dissatisfied with himself, and of course with every thing else, Gaspar de Montsoreau still gazed sullenly on the floor, and then raised his eyes to the open window of the pavilion, where the warm sun was seen streaming through the green vines, with the birds still singing sweetly in the woods without. But it was all to him as the face of Eden to our first parents after the fall; a shade seemed to come over his eyes when he looked upon the loveliness of nature; the very sunshine seemed to him darkness; and the fair world a desert.

"Can you give me back my delight in that sunshine?" he said, after a pause. "Can you make the notes of those birds again sound sweet to my ear? Can you remove the heavy, heavy burden of remorse from this heart? Can you ever, ever prove to me, that for this unrequited love I have not made myself a guilty wretch, bearing the sign of Cain upon his brow, the curse of Cain within his bosom?"

"If such be your feelings," replied the Abbé, "if such--contrary to all justice and reason--is the state in which your mind is to remain, there is one way that will alleviate and soothe you, that may seem in your eyes some atonement, and put your conscience more at rest. Cast off this love which you believe has led you into evil, yield the pursuit of this fair girl, renounce the object for which you did that whereof your heart reproaches you, and by that voluntary punishment and self-command, do penance for aught in which you may have failed. Doubtless, that penance will be severe and terrible to endure; but the more it is so, the greater is the atonement."