Part 8

With thoughts like those which we have just detailed, the Abbé spurred on towards Angoulême; but as he began to climb the steep ascent, he saw several indications of popular emotion, which made him hesitate for a moment, as to whether he should proceed or not. There were two or three groups of citizens all speaking eagerly together, and in low tones; and at the gates of the city he remarked a man whom he had seen before, and knew to be the mayor of the place, conversing in a low tone, but in what seemed an anxious manner, with the soldiers of the Corps de Garde. The Abbé contrived to make his horse pass as near them as possible, but at the same time affected to be deeply busied with his own thoughts while really listening attentively to their conversation. He could only catch, however, the end of one sentence and the beginning of a reply:--

"This Duke--a proud insufferable tyrant," said the voice of the mayor.

"Get along; if you were not what you are, I would put my pike into you," replied the soldier; and went on with some observations upon his companion's conduct, not very complimentary, the whole of which the Abbé de Boisguerin did not hear.

As he advanced into the town, however, his keen eye remarked many more signs and symptoms of the same kind, from all of which he drew his own deductions; and on entering the castle, which was then inhabited by the Duke of Epernon, he dismounted in the court of the guardhouse, as it was called, where there were a considerable number of the Duke's soldiery loitering about. Though it was not the usual place for visitors to dismount, they suffered him to attach his horse to one of the large iron hooks in the wall, and in a few minutes after he was in the presence of the Duke of Epernon. Not a trace of humiliation or abasement was to be seen in the Duke's countenance or demeanour. He was as proud, as fierce, as fiery as ever; and although he received the Abbé, having seen him more than once in Paris during the late events, and entertaining that degree of consideration for him which a keen and powerful mind almost always commands, he nevertheless seemed to doubt whether he should ask him even to sit down, and did it at length with an air of condescension.

"Well, Monsieur de Boisguerin," he said at length, "to what do I owe this visit?"

"I come, my Lord," replied the Abbé without a moment's hesitation, "to offer your Lordship my poor services."

The Duke smiled. "They are of course," he said, "welcome. Monsieur de Boisguerin. But the time of offering them is somewhat singular, when all men think my fortunes on the decline, or, perhaps, I should say, utterly down."

"Such it may seem to them, my Lord," replied the Abbé; "but such it seems not to me. There are sciences, my Lord, which teach us what the future is destined to produce; and I own that I am quite selfish in my present act, seeking to attach myself to one who is yet destined to uphold the throne of France, to affect the fortunes of the times, to triumph over all his enemies, and to outlive most of them now living."

"Indeed!" said the Duke thoughtfully; "and am I to believe this prophecy seriously?"

"Most seriously, my Lord," replied the Abbé. "I myself believe it and know it, as I believe and know the great fortunes that are likely to attend myself--otherwise, perhaps, you might not have seen me here to-day."

"That is candid, at all events," said the Duke; "and to say truth, I think that your prophecy, in some things, may be right; for I feel within my breast that undiminished power, that sense of my own strength, that confidence in my own destiny, which surely never can be given to a falling man. But you spoke of your own future high fortunes, sir. What may they be?"

The Abbé paused and looked down for a moment, but then replied, "I tell not the prophecy to every one, my Lord; but to you, to whose services I hope to dedicate those high fortunes, I fear not to relate it. It was pronounced long ago, in the city of Rome, when I was there studying, and as a rash young man had entangled myself in an affair with a fair girl of the city, who suffered our intercourse to be discovered, and consequently well nigh ruined all my prospects. I thought indeed it was so, and was turning my back upon Rome for ever, when I met with an old monk, who from certain facts I told him drew my horoscope, and assured me that I should find my fate in France; that my fortune would be brought about by the death of two relations far younger than myself; and that I should suddenly take a share in great events, and rule the destiny of others when I least expected it. Such was the old man's prophecy now many years ago; and I have seen no sign of its accomplishment till the present time."

"And what signs have you seen now?" demanded Epernon.

"That I have been suddenly led, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "from the calm and tranquil quiet of a provincial life, without my own will or agency, into scenes of activity and strife; and that one, out of the two lives which lay between me and the great possessions of Montsoreau, Logères, and Morly--lives, which in their youth and healthfulness seemed to cut me off from all hope--has already lapsed, and left but one."

"How is that?" exclaimed the Duke. "What life has lapsed?"

"That of the young Count of Logères," replied the Abbé.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon in a tone somewhat sorrowful. "I had not heard that. He was a bold, rash youth; but yet there was in him the seeds of great things. He was fearless, and proud, and firm: virtues, the parents of all dignity and greatness.--You say then that there is but one life between you and all these lordships."

"But one," replied the Abbé; "that of Gaspar of Montsoreau, in regard to whom you took some slight interest, at the time his marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was talked of."

"Was talked of?" said the Duke. "Is it not talked of still?"

"Why, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "the Lady's evident detestation of the young Marquis has rendered the matter hopeless. You yourself remarked it, when you spoke with her at Vincennes; and he is now convinced of it himself. The grief and depression thus produced have impaired his health; and, indeed, it would seem as if ten years had gone over him, instead of a few months, since all this affair began."

"I hope, Monsieur de Boisguerin," said the Duke of Epernon with a bitter smile, "I hope that you have not been taking too deep lessons of our friend Villequier. I would rather be a prisoner on a charge of high treason, and with Guise for my enemy, than I would be next akin to Villequier, and between him and lands and lordships."

The Abbé's brow grew as dark as night. "My Lord," he said, "I will not affect to misunderstand you; but I am sure that fate will work out its own will without any aid of mine; and had I been disposed to clear the way for myself, who should have stopped me, or who could have discovered any thing I did, when these two youths have been under my care and guardianship ever since their father's death?"

"I did but jest, Abbé," replied the Duke. "But supposing that the events which you anticipate were really to occur, what would be your conduct then?"

"So sure am I, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "that they will occur, that my conduct has been put beyond doubt. I have already demanded of the Court of Rome to be freed from this black dress; and my last letters from the eternal city announce to me, that the dispensation is already granted, and, drawn up in full form, is now upon the road."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon. "Is it so, indeed? You must have powerful protectors in the conclave."

"I have," replied the Abbé; "and though his Holiness is not fond of relaxing the vows of any one without some puissant motive; yet, when there is a strong one, he does not let the opportunity of unbinding slip, lest his key should grow rusty. But however, my Lord, supposing these things done away, and I Marquis of Montsoreau and Lord of Logères, my first aim and object would be to raise what power and forces I could, and with my sword, my wealth, and my life, were it necessary, serve his Majesty the King, under him whom I hope soon to see directing the state, namely, the Duke of Epernon, if----"

"Ay, there is still an _if_," replied the Duke. "Well, sir, what is the condition?"

"It is, my Lord," said the Abbé after a pause, in which it was evident that he considered the way he was to put his demand, "It is, that the Duke of Epernon will pledge me his princely word, that as far as his power and influence go, he will support my claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."

The Duke actually started back with surprise; and, forgetting altogether the splendid future with which the Abbé had been endeavouring to invest his pretensions, he exclaimed, in a tone of anger and contempt that chafed and galled the spirit of the ambitious man with whom he spoke, "Yours,--yours? Abbé de Boisguerin? you, a poor preceptor in your cousin's house, an insignificant churchman, unbeneficed and unknown--you, to lay claim to the heiress of Clairvaut, a niece of the Guise, a lady nor far removed from a sovereign house? On my soul and honour, I mind me to write to Villequier at once, and bid him marry his cousin to this young Marquis out of hand, in order to save your brains from being cracked altogether!"

"Villequier can marry his cousin to no one," answered the Abbé, "without my full consent. No, nor can the King either!"

"Mort-bleu!" exclaimed Epernon with a scornful laugh. "Vanity and ambition have driven the poor man mad. Get you gone, Monsieur de Boisguerin; get you gone! I shall not trust with any mighty faith to your fine prophecies."

Though the Abbé de Boisguerin felt no slight inclination to put his hand into his bosom, and taking forth the dagger that lay calmly there, to plunge it up to the hilt in the heart of Epernon, he showed not in the slightest degree the wrath which internally moved him. Nay, the great object that he had in view made him in some degree conquer that wrath, and he replied, "Well, my good Lord, I _will_ get me gone. But, before I go, you shall hear another warning, which may enable you to judge whether my divinations are false or not. It is destined that, in the course of today or to-morrow, you should encounter a great peril. Remember my words! be upon your guard! and take measures to ensure yourself against danger! Go not out into the streets scantily attended----"

"Oh no!" replied the Duke with a sneer. "I do not trust myself alone in the streets and high roads without a footboy to hold my horse, like the noble aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. I am not so bold a man, nor so loved of the people; and as to chance perils, I fear them not."

"Your acts on your own head, my Lord Duke!" replied his companion. "I give you good day." And turning away abruptly, he passed out of the room through the long corridor, and part of the way down the stairs which led to the court of the guard.

He was scarcely half way down, however, when some sounds which he heard coming from the other side of the building made him suddenly stop, listen, and then turn round; and, with a step of light, he retrod his way to the chamber where he had left the Duke.

Epernon was busy writing, and looking up fiercely, demanded "What now?"

"Fly, my Lord, fly quick!" exclaimed the Abbé. "I come to give you time to save yourself, for the mayor and his faction are upon you. They have come in by the great court, and I think have killed the Swiss at your gate. Believe me, my Lord, for what I say is true! Fly quickly, while I run down to send the guard to your assistance."

His words received instant confirmation, even as the Duke gazed doubtfully in his face; for a door on the opposite side of the room burst open, and a terrified attendant rushed in, while eight or nine fierce faces were seen pursuing him quickly.

The Duke darted to a staircase, which led to a little turret, and the first steps of which entered the room, without any door, just behind his chair. He sprang up eagerly towards the small dressing-room above, and the mayor and his armed companions pursued as fiercely, leaving the Abbé to make his escape towards the court of the guard, without giving any heed to his proceedings. Before the Abbé had passed the door, however, he heard a loud crash, and turned his head to see by what it was occasioned, when, at a single glance he perceived that the very eagerness of his pursuers had saved the Duke of Epernon. Ten or twelve heavily armed men had all rushed at once upon the old and crazy staircase which led to the Duke's dressing-room. The wood work had given way beneath them, precipitating one or two into the story below, and the greater part back into the room itself, but leaving a chasm between them and the Duke, which it was impossible for them to pass.[5]

[Footnote 5: Such is the account given by the most credible historians. The author of the life of the Duke, M. Girard, who was nearly contemporary, gives a different version: acknowledges that the Duke fled into his cabinet, but adds that he there defended himself like a lion.]

Without pausing to make any farther remark, the Abbé ran down hastily and alarmed the guard; and while the soldiers rushed tumultuously up to defend a commander whom they all enthusiastically loved, the Abbé de Boisguerin mounted his horse and rode quietly out of the town. He doubted not, as indeed it happened, that the soldiery would arrive in time to save their Lord, and to compel the mayor and his comrades to make a hasty retreat.

It was not, however, towards the Château of Islay, where he had left Gaspar de Montsoreau, that the solitary horseman took his way; but, on the contrary, crossing the Charente, he rode rapidly onward by the banks of the river, in the direction of that field of Jarnac, where, in his early days, Henry III. had given such striking promises of heroism and conduct which his after life so signally failed to fulfil.

As he rode along, he thought with somewhat of a smile upon his countenance, that his last prophecy to the Duke of Epernon had met with a speedy fulfilment; and he pondered with some bitterness over the parting words which that nobleman had spoken to him.

"The aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said to himself, "without a single footboy to hold his horse! That may be in the present instance policy rather than any thing else, my good Lord Duke. But still we may learn wisdom, even, from such bitter words as those. I had forgotten how much all men value the gilded exterior. But it shall be so no longer. This that I aim at must be soon lost or won. I have staked life upon the pursuit, and all that makes life valuable. And why should I not stake fortune also? 'Fortune buys fortune,' says the old adage; and as the stake is great, so shall my game be bold."

His resolution was instantly taken. He possessed, as we have said before, sufficient wealth to give him competence, and to enable him to mingle with decent splendour in the society in which he was born. But he calculated that the same fortune which put him at ease for life, might afford him the means of magnificence and display, if he resolved to expend the whole within a few years. He did so resolve, saying to himself, "I shall either be at the height of fortune and enjoyment ere two years be over, or I shall be no more. It suits me not to go on playing stake after stake, as many men do, beaten, like a tennis-ball, from prosperity to ruin, and from ruin to prosperity. I have bent myself to one great purpose, and I will attain it or die. That is always within one's power, to shake off life when it is no longer a source of happiness."

As he thus thought, his horse slowly descended a gentle hill by the side of the river, with a meadow down to the Charente on the one side, and a bank crowned with the wall of a vineyard on the other. Built up against the wall was a little shrine, with a virgin and child behind a net-work of iron, and the votive offering of a silver lamp burning below.

Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at that place--after having apparently said his prayers at the foot of the shrine--was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age; and as the Abbé came slowly near, the youth took a pipe out of his pocket and began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, full of rich melody and deep feeling. The music was not new to the Abbé; he had heard it before in other lands, when the few pure feelings of the heart which he had ever possessed had not been crushed, like accidental flowers blossoming on a footpath, by the passing to and fro of other coarser things.

He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at the boy, and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The eyes, the features, the expression of the countenance, seemed to be all connected with some old remembrances; and the air which he played too, brought his memory suddenly back to early scenes, and a land that he had loved. As he gazed at the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his person again connected itself with different events; and, though now he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in him the youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau when he attacked and defeated the small body of reiters near La Ferté, and whom he had also beheld more than once in Paris, when he was watching the proceedings of the young Count in the capital.

This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke to him, and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing with him for a few moments, he told him that if he would pursue that road for nearly a league, he would meet with some buildings belonging to a farm; and then, turning again down a road to the left, he would find him at a château upon the banks of the river. The boy promised to come, and the Abbé rode on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as possible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which he had been directed.

He was brought into the presence of the Abbé by an attendant wearing the colours of no noble house in France, and found him with some fruit and wine before him. But in regard to the subject on which the boy expected to be questioned most closely, namely, the death of Charles of Montsoreau, the Abbé spoke not one word. Notwithstanding all his firmness of purpose, notwithstanding the remorseless character of his mind and of his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the subject of his young cousin's death, unless forced on to do so by circumstances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise; and where he had first met with the young Count of Logères, and of all the accidents that had befallen him while in company with Charles of Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in regard to the day of the barricades, or the young nobleman's death.

From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw that the Abbé's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length he asked him, "You are an Italian by birth, are you not?"

"I am," replied the boy; "that is, I am a Roman." And he said it with that pride which every person born within the precincts of the ancient queen of empires feels, although glory has long departed from her walls, and the memory of past greatness is rather a reproach than an honour.

"And what is your name?" demanded the Abbé sharply.

"My name is Ignati," answered the youth.

"Ignati!" said the Abbé, "Ignati!" But you have some other name. What was your father's?"

"I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his brow glowing. "Why do you ask?"

"Your mother's then?" said the Abbé, without replying to his question. "Your mother's? what was your mother's name?"

"Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing upon the Abbé with a degree of sternness in his look. "Did you know her?"

The face of the Abbé changed from deadly pale to glowing red in a moment; and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, "I know her?--I know her? I know a common strumpet?"

The boy's eyes flashed fire; and his hand was in his bosom in a moment seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the pipe in the breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a weapon, which, as we have seen, he was able to use with fatal effect, the form of a lady passing across the two open doors on the other side of the room made him suddenly pause; and after a moment's thought, he drew back his hand and said, "What you say is false! She deserved not the name you have given her!"

He was turning towards the door, when the Abbé cried "Stay!" and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It would be discovered!--Come hither, boy!" he added; and taking out his purse he counted out some pieces of gold, to no light amount; and giving them to the boy, he said, "There, you have lost your master and seem to be poorly off. Take those, and get thee into some reputable employment."

But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed down the gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, "I will have no liar's money!" quitted the chamber and the house.

The Abbé gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep thought, and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and exclaiming, "I am a fool!"

After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, "Well, I must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with my new demeanour towards her. Of my past language which frightened her, it seems that very soon no other impression will remain but the memory of the deep and passionate love I testified. That is never displeasing to any woman; and if I can lead her gently on, the matter will be soon accomplished, now that this her first fancy is at an end, and the grave has taken the great obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did not, with true, womanly, passionate, love; but fond of him she was, with the sickly fancy of an idle girl; and her grief will be sufficient to soften her proud heart. It is a wonderful softener, grief; and she will cling to whosoever is near her, that has skill and power to soothe and support her. I will teach her to love better than she has loved!--But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell them to her with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she learn to hate me as the bearer of evil tidings."

And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few others but himself could have composed. It was tender, yet respectful,--not lover-like, yet through every word of it love's light was shining--sad, but not gloomy--melancholy, yet with words of hope. When he had done he folded and sealed it, and then listening to the distant village clock, he said--

"If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect; and I am rather inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions in his mind already. Well, we shall soon see; it is no very difficult task to rule a light-brained youth like that."

Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, the Abbé proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused it to be saddled and bridled, and rode back to the Château of Islay with all speed. Before he proceeded to the saloon to join the young Marquis, he questioned his own servants as to all that had taken place during his absence; heard of the long visit of Villequier; and planned his own conduct accordingly.