CHAPTER XI.

We must now turn once more to the young Marquis of St. Real; and, although the events which had befallen him since the death of his father may have been gathered by the reader from what has passed in the chapters immediately preceding, it may not be unnecessary to recapitulate here, as briefly as possible, the occurrences which had placed him a prisoner in the midst of Paris.

According to the promise which Henry of Navarre had obtained from the old Marquis of St. Real on his death-bed, that nobleman's son, as soon as possible after the last rites had been paid to his father's memory, had prepared to take the field in behalf of one of the great contending parties which then struggled for mastery in France. He had applied for and obtained, both from King Henry III. on the one part, and from the Duke of Mayenne on behalf of the League, a safe-conduct to visit the camp and the capital, accompanied by twenty retainers. The rest of his forces, it was expressly stipulated, were to remain at the distance of fifteen leagues from the royalist army; and the position of the two kings, as they advanced to lay siege to Paris, had compelled him, in compliance with this stipulation, to deviate from his direct road to Paris, and accompany, for a short way, his cousin, who was advancing to reinforce the troops of Longueville and La Noue. Although strongly pressed by messengers from those two generals to decide at once in favour of the royal cause, and join the partisan force which they commanded, St. Real steadily refused to do so, till, according to the determination he had expressed, and in consideration of which he had obtained a safe-conduct from Mayenne, he should have visited the head-quarters of the king and of the League.

As soon as he had obtained such a position for his forces as enabled him to leave them in perfect security, he set out with his small train, purposing to proceed first to the camp of the two Henrys, as the nearest at the moment, and then to visit Paris. He had scarcely advanced, however, half a day's march on his way, when he was suddenly surrounded by an immensely superior body of reitters and lansquenets, who had been sent forth from Paris for the express purpose of obtaining possession of his person. How Madame do Montpensier had gained such accurate intelligence of all his movements, was a matter of surprise even to her own immediate confidants; but it was very well understood that the orders, in consequence of which this bold stroke was executed, emanated from her; and the leaders of the mercenaries, who captured St. Real, were not only furnished with the exact details of his line of march, but also with a ready answer to the indignant appeal which he instantly made, on his arrest, to the safe-conduct he possessed under the Duke of Mayenne's own hand. That safe-conduct, they replied, had been given him in order to facilitate a peaceful visit to Paris; while he, on the contrary, had not only led his troops into such a position as to enable him to give strong support to the Duke of Longueville, but had even detached a body to aid that nobleman in the battle of Senlis.

It was in vain St. Real explained to his captors, that the troops which had left him were the immediate retainers of his cousin, the Count d'Aubin, over whom he had no authority, and that he himself had positively refused to take part with the Duke of Longueville. His remonstrance was without effect; and, although he well knew his own innocence, he could not but admit that the reasoning against him was specious. In reply to all his explanations, the captain of the lansquenets simply urged that he had no power to release him, and that his justification must be made to the Duke of Mayenne himself. To submit, therefore, was a matter of necessity; and, as he was in every respect well treated, the young Marquis did submit without any very angry feelings, concluding that he might as well reverse the order of his proceedings, and first visit Paris instead of the royal camp.

On his arrival in the capital, he demanded to be carried instantly to the presence of the Duke of Mayenne; but this application was evaded, it being boldly asserted by those who held him in their hands that the Duke was absent from the city. Hitherto his attendants had been permitted to bear him company; and as he had ridden through the crowded streets of the city, he had felt less as a prisoner than as a voluntary visiter of the great metropolis; but when, after having been detained for some time at the house of Albert of Wolfstrom, he was told that he must accompany his captor to the convent of the Dominicans, whither only one servant could be permitted to attend him, he began to suspect that the bonds of his imprisonment were being straitened; and he remonstrated with calm but firm language, reiterating his demand to be brought before the Duke of Mayenne, and expressing his determination to hold the name of that nobleman up to the reprobation of all honourable men, if he suffered any of his adherents to violate the safe-conduct from his hand with impunity.

Wolfstrom, however, who on more than one occasion had shown himself but little tender of his own fair fame, could not be expected to feel much solicitude for that of another; and, although he held the potent Duke in some degree of awe, he had become hardened by the impunity which every sort of falsehood enjoyed in the good easy times of civil war, and doubted not that, in the end, he should find means of extricating himself from the consequences of the present intrigue, as he had done in regard to many which had preceded, namely, by the unlimited command of impudence, shrewdness, and three thousand mercenaries.

He turned a deaf ear, therefore, to the complaints of St Real; and the young Marquis was conducted to the convent of the Jacobins, in the midst of precautions which he did not fail to mark, and from which he augured little good in regard to the intentions of his gaolers.

The distance from the dwelling of the mercenary leader to the convent was but short; and the people of Paris were well accustomed to see parties of soldiers pass through their streets: but the indescribable pleasure of staring, in this instance, as in all others, collected a little crowd round the centre of bustle; and the gates of the Jacobins, as they opened to receive St. Real, were surrounded by between twenty and thirty persons of different conditions. To those who have eaten sufficiently of the tree of good and evil in a great capital to know _that they are naked_, the presence of a gaping mob to witness the fact of their being dragged along like culprits by a party of rude soldiers, would be a subject of annoyance. St. Real felt injured, but not ashamed or afraid; and fixing his eye upon the most respectable personage of the crowd, he suddenly stopped where he stood, and, ere any one could prevent him, exclaimed, in a loud and distinct voice, "My friend, if the Duke of Mayenne be in Paris, you will serve both him and me by telling him that the Marquis of St. Real is here detained, contrary to the Duke's safe-conduct and his honour."

"You will tell him no such thing, as you value your ears!" shouted Albert of Wolfstrom, fixing his eyes upon the Parisian with a marking glance, which seemed to intimate that he would not be easily forgotten by the wrath of the German leader in case of disobedience. The Parisian drew back, determined from the very first to practise that sort of wisdom which those long resident in great cities, and much habituated to scenes of contention and intrigue, do not fail to acquire; namely, to meddle with nothing that does not personally concern them. There was another person present, however, whose diminutive stature, and the simplicity of garb which he had assumed, combined to conceal him from the notice of either St. Real or the mercenary leader; no other, indeed, than the young Marquis's dwarf page, Bartholo; who, peeping through the open spaces between the other personages that formed the little crowd, saw and heard all that passed without attracting notice himself. Slipping out at once from amongst the rest, he made his way down the street, holding one of his usual muttered consultations with himself.

"Now, shall I tell Mayenne," he said, "that the great baby is caught, and shut up here in the Jacobins, like a young imprudent rat, in a politic rat-trap; or shall I let him lie there for his pains, till that spoilt boy, D'Aubin, has married the other fair-haired baby, and that matter is irrevocable?"

He paused for a moment at the end of the street, revolving the question he had put to himself in silence. "No, no," he added, at length; "no, no, there I might outwit myself; these Leaguers are too cunning for that. If they can't get St. Real on any other terms, they may marry him to this Eugenie de Menancourt, and spoil all my schemes at once. If Mayenne hears publicly where he is, he must set him free, for his honour's sake. Then will he go off, in the heat of his anger, to the people at St. Cloud; D'Aubin will come over to the League, marry the girl, and all will be safe. Yes, yes, to Mayenne! I will to Mayenne!"

In consequence of this determination, he proceeded as quickly, but as quietly as possible, to the Hotel de Guise, and demanded to speak with the Duke of Mayenne,--a privilege which every one in Paris claimed in regard to that leader, whose power was principally based upon his popularity. The Duke, however, had by this time set out to watch the progress of the skirmishes which were taking place almost hourly in the Pré aux Clercs, and the dwarf, not choosing that the tidings he had to communicate should be given in any other than a public manner, refused to intrust them to Mayenne's retainers, and retired, resolving to repeat his visit early the next morning.

In the mean time St. Real was hurried into the convent, the gates were shut, and, preceded by two or three of the Dominicans, he was led along the dark and gloomy passages of the building, towards the apartment in which the Prior and Madame de Montpensier were still in conference. Here, however, he was stopped at the door; and Albert of Wolfstrom, entering alone, held a brief but rapid conversation with the Prior. It ended in St. Real being led back again across the great court to a distant part of the monastery, where, after climbing two flights of steps, he was ushered into a corridor extremely narrow, but of considerable length. In the whole extent of wall, however, which this corridor presented, there only appeared three doors, besides the low arch by which he entered. Two of these opened on the left, and were close together; the other was at the further end of the passage.

Albert of Wolfstrom and his soldiers paused at the entrance; but the monks led St. Real on, and, in a moment after, the Prior himself followed. He seemed to regard the young stranger with some degree of interest, and addressed him with mildness and urbanity. "I am told, my son," he said, "that it is necessary, for reasons into which I have no authority to inquire, to hold you as a prisoner till the decision of the lieutenant-general of the kingdom is known in regard to your destination; but at the same time the members of the holy Catholic Union, whose object is solely to maintain the faith and liberties of the people, and to oppose the progress of tyranny and heresy, desire that you should not be treated as a common prisoner of war, but rather should have every comfort and convenience till your fate is otherwise decided. For this purpose, they have consigned you to our care rather than to the rude durance of the Bastille; and, instead of assigning you one of the common cells of the brotherhood, I have directed that you should be placed here, where you can have more space and convenience. Yonder door, at the farther end of the corridor, belongs to a cell fitted for your attendant; this first door on the left leads to an apartment which we shall assign to one of our brethren of St. Dominick, through whom you can communicate with the convent and the world without. This is your own apartment--"

As he spoke, he opened the second of the two doors, which stood close together on the left, and led St. Real into a spacious and well-furnished chamber. It was airy, but somewhat dim, as it derived its only light from a window, which appeared, by its great height and Gothic shape, to have once formed part of some church or chapel. At the present moment, such arrangements had been made--amongst the various alterations which the old building must have undergone--that this single window, which reached from the ceiling to the floor, served to give light both to the room in which St. Real stood, and to the other immediately by its side, which together must have once formed but one large chamber. The thin partition of woodwork which separated the one room from the other, was supported, from the floor to the roof, by the strong stone pillar that divided the Gothic window into two parts; and thus, though the two chambers were completely distinct, they both had an equal share of light.

"This chamber is somewhat obscure," continued the Prior; "but in the alterations which were made in this building, some twenty years ago, we could not arrange things better. What are now sleeping rooms were then part of the old chapel, and this high window looked out to the Prior's dwelling." So saying, he advanced and opened the casement, a great part of which, swinging back on its creaking and clattering hinges, gave admittance to the free air of summer from without, and showed to St. Real the heavy walls of another body of the building rising up before the window, at the distance of scarcely five feet. Running along upon the same level as the chamber in which he stood, might be seen one of those Gothic passages of fretted stone-work, which, in churches, are called monks' galleries; while, at the distance of about twenty feet below, appeared between the two buildings the narrow paved alley which united the inner to the outer court of the Dominican convent.

The Prior proceeded with some more excuses for the dimness of the chamber; but as soon as he had concluded, St. Real, who had listened calmly, replied, "I complain not of the apartment, father, I have slept in worse; but I complain of imprisonment, when my safety and freedom were guaranteed to me by the Duke of Mayenne himself. However, let me warn you, that I am aware, from some circumstances which occurred at the gate of the convent, that his Highness of Mayenne is purposely held in ignorance of my imprisonment. I acquit him therefore of all dishonourable conduct: but how you, and others, will answer to him for bringing his honour and good faith in question, you must yourself consider."

"For my actions," replied the Prior, somewhat sternly, "I am prepared, my son, not only to answer to him, but to God. Those of others I have nought to do with. It suffices for me, that I have authority from those who have a right to give it, to detain you here till I am assured that the lieutenant-general thinks it fit that you should be set at liberty. You are ungrateful, my son, for kindness felt and shown: you might have undergone harsher treatment, had you been consigned to the Bastille."

"Father, I am not ungrateful," replied St. Real, whose simple good sense was no unequal match for even monkish shrewdness; "but when an act of injustice is committed, it is somewhat hard to require that the sufferer should be well pleased that that act of injustice is not greater than it is. To confine me here is wrong--to confine me in the Bastille were worse; but, surely, I cannot be expected to feel grateful to the thief who cuts my purse, simply because he does not cut my throat also!"

"Your language is hard," replied the Prior, "and your similes are indecent towards a minister of the religion you profess to hold; I shall, therefore, waste no more words upon you, young sir. Your conduct, however, makes no change in my purposes. The treatment you receive shall be as gentle and as good as if you were grateful for kindness, and courteous towards those whom you should respect. You will one time know me better; and you may be sure, even now, that I have no purposes to serve by your detention; as you will find by our intercourse, be it long, be it short, that I shall strive for nothing but, if possible, to lead you in that course in which your honour, your happiness, and your best interests, here and hereafter, are alone to be found."

St. Real made no reply; and the Dominican, bowing his head with an air of conscious dignity, withdrew from the apartment, and, proceeding through the doorway by which he had entered, left the young Marquis and his attendant alone. The sound of turning keys and drawing bolts succeeded, and St. Real for the first time found himself a prisoner indeed. Now "The soul, secure in its existence, may smile at the drawn dagger, and defy its point;" yet there are many things which may happen to the body, that defy the soul to preserve her equanimity, although they be much less evils, in comparison, than that irretrievable separation of matter and spirit, which we are accustomed to look upon with more indifference. For a moment or two, St. Real lost his calmness, and, striding up and down the room with his arms folded on his breast, gave way to that bitterness of spirit, which every noble heart must feel on the loss of the great, the incomparable, the inestimable blessing of liberty. His more philosophical attendant, who had been selected in haste from among the rest of his followers, without any great attention to his mental qualities, consoled himself, under the privation which so painfully affected his master, by examining every hole and corner in the apartments to which they were consigned; and comforted himself not a little, under all their woes and disasters, by the sight of soft and downy beds, rich arras, and velvet hangings. Before his perquisitions were well complete, however, and just as his master was reasoning himself into calmer endurance of an event he could not avoid, the door once more opened, and admitted a brother of the order, on whose appearance and demeanour we must pause for a moment.

He was younger than any of the friars that St. Real had yet seen,--pale in countenance, heavy in expression, with a certain degree of sadness, if not wildness, in his eye, and that close shutting of the teeth and compression of the lips, which, in general, argues a determined disposition. A little above the middle height, he was powerful in limb and muscle; but the appearance of strength and activity, which his form would otherwise have displayed, was contradicted by a certain slouching stoop, which deprived his demeanour of all grace; while the habit of gazing, as it were, furtively from under the bent brows which almost concealed his eyes, gave his dull countenance a sinister expression, not at all prepossessing.

"Benedicite!" said the friar, as he advanced towards St. Real; "benedicite!"

St. Real made some ordinary answer in Latin; but the dull unreplying countenance of the monk showed that his stock of Latinity did not extend even to the common phrases in use amongst persons of his profession; and the young Marquis proceeded in French: "You are, I presume, the brother appointed to keep watch over us in our confinement?"

"The Prior has given me, for a penance," replied the monk, "the task of lying in a down bed, and waiting your will in communicating with the parlour and the refectory, till to-morrow morning. I am commanded to ask you if you will have supper: it grows late."

"I am here, father," replied St. Real, with a smile, "as a bird in a cage, and you must feed me at what hours you please: it matters but little to me."

The monk gazed on him, for a moment, in sullen silence, as if he hardly attended to his reply, or hardly understood its meaning; and then, as his slow comprehension did its work, he turned away with a few muttered, half-intelligible words, and left the apartment, going apparently to command the meal of which he had spoken. It was soon after brought in; and, during its course, the Dominican sat by, turning over the leaves of his breviary in silence, from time to time reading a few sentences, and filling up the intervals in gazing vacantly upon the pages, seemingly occupied in dull and gloomy dreams.

The meal did not occupy much time; and after it was concluded, St. Real, anxious to hear something more precise concerning the state of the capital, and to obtain some information in regard to his own situation, endeavoured to enter into conversation with the monk; but the course of all their thoughts lay in such different lines, that he soon perceived the attempt would be in vain. The Dominican sat and listened, and replied either by monosyllables, or by long fanatical tirades, in general totally irrelevant to the topic which called them forth; and, as twilight began to grow upon the world, the young Marquis abandoned the endeavour, and intimated, by his silence, a desire to be left alone. It was long before the other gratified his inclination in this respect, however, but sat mute and absent, still turning over the leaves of his breviary, and gazing, from time to time, upon the face of his companion. Nor was it till St. Real expressed his desire to have a lamp, and to be left to his own thoughts, that the monk deemed it advisable to retire.

Fatigued in body and mind by the events of the day, St. Real soon cast himself down to rest; and sleep was not long in visiting his eyelids. His slumber was profound also; and he awoke not till various sounds in the immediate vicinity of his chamber disturbed his repose somewhat rudely.

The nature of the first noises that roused him he could not very well distinguish, for slumber, though in flight, still held, in some degree, possession of his senses. They seemed, however, as far as he could remember afterwards, to have proceeded from some smart blows of a hammer upon a wooden scaffolding; but, before he was well awake, those sounds had ceased, and a buzzing hum, like that of a turner's wheel, or a quickly moved saw, had succeeded. St. Real listened attentively; and, having convinced himself that the noises, by whatever they were occasioned, were not produced by anything in his own chamber, but rather seemed to proceed from some part of the building opposite his window, he addressed himself to sleep again, and not without success.

But his repose was not so full and tranquil as before. His former slumbers had been profound, forming one of those dreamless, feelingless, lapses of existence, which seem given us to show how the soul, even while dwelling in the body, can pause with all her powers suspended, unconscious of her own being, till called again into activity by some extraneous cause. The sleep which succeeded, however, was very different: dreams came thick and fast; some of them were confused and wild, and indistinct, but some were of that class of visions in which all the objects are as clear and definite as during our waking moments,--in which our thoughts are as active, our mind is as much at work, our passions are as vehemently excited, as in the strife and turmoil of living aspiration and endeavour--dreams which seem given to show us how intensely the soul can act, and feel, and live, while the corporeal faculties, which are her earthly servants, are as dead and useless as if the grave's corruption had resolved them into nothing.

At one moment it seemed that he was in the battle-field, amidst the shout and the cry, and the clang of arms, and the rush of charging squadrons; and then he was in the flight of the defeated army, and he knew all the bitter indignation of reverse, and all the burning thirst to retrieve the day, and he felt all the vain effort to rally the flying, and the hopeless and daring effort to repel the victor; and then again, when all was lost, and not the faint shadow of a despairing hope remained, he was hurrying his rapid course across some dark and midnight moor; and, while he spurred on his own weary horse, he held in his hand the bridle rein of another, who bore one for whom he felt a thousand fears which he knew not for himself; and ever and anon, as he turned to look, the soft sweet eyes of Eugenie de Menancourt would gaze upon him with imploring earnestness. Then, suddenly, the figure changed, the rein dropped from his hand, and, armed all in steel, with lance couched and visor up, as if galloping to attack him, appeared his cousin, Philip d'Aubin; and, with a feeling of horror and a sudden start, St. Real woke.

The sounds that he now heard--for as yet the night had by no means assumed her attribute of quietness--were certainly not calculated to produce the painful sensations that he had just undergone. There was music on the air--soft and delicate music,--not gay, and yet not sad, but with a certain wild solemnity of tone, that well accorded with the hour, and seemed calculated to raise the thoughts to high and unearthly aspirations. At first, the music was solely instrumental; but, in a moment or two afterwards, two sweet voices were heard, singing, with a peculiarly thrilling softness of tone, that seemed to have something supernatural in its clear melody. St. Real listened; and, though the sounds must have proceeded from some distance, yet the words were pronounced so distinctly, that he lost not a syllable of the song they poured upon the night.

SONG.

_First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! art thou, Amongst the sons of men! For angels are wreathing for thy brow Flowers that fade not again!

_Second Voice_. A crown, a crown of glory for the brave!

_First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! are those That sleep the sleep of the good! Blessed is he whose bosom glows To shed the tyrant's blood!

_Second Voice_. Glory to him whom the Church shall save!

_First Voice_. Amongst the saints in Paradise, In glory he shall dwell! And angels shall greet him to the skies, When to earth he bids farewell!

_Second Voice_. Joy, joy, joy to the champion of the Lord!

_First Voice_. His arm is now endued with might, The foes of the Faith to destroy! To sweep the tyrant from God's sight, To crush the worm in his joy!

_Second Voice_. Death, death, death to the tyrant abhorred!

_Both Voices_. Blessed! blessed! blessed art thou Amongst the sons of men! For angels are wreathing for thy brow Flowers that fade not again!

It was no longer doubtful whence these sounds proceeded; for, in consequence of the closeness of a hot August night, St. Real had left his window open; and he now distinctly perceived that the music issued from a spot in the monks' gallery, very nearly opposite. Springing out of bed as soon as the sounds had ceased, he advanced to the window, and looked out; but he could perceive nothing. The night was somewhat obscure, the moon by this time was down, and it was with difficulty that he distinguished the fretted stonework of the gallery from the rest of the dark mass that rose before him. He paused for a moment, to consider what all this could mean. Though a sincere Catholic, and habituated to make a marked distinction between the doctrines of the religion he professed and the absurdities, superstitions, and corruptions with which knaves and fools had endeavoured to disguise it, still the Reformation had disclosed too much, and the young noble was of too inquiring a disposition for him to be unaware of the multitude of tricks, intrigues, and deceptions, which some of the more bigoted members of the Roman church thought themselves justified in practising for the attainment of an end desired. The sounds he had just heard, therefore, he attributed at once to their right cause, looking upon them as part of some piece of monkish jugglery. Almost as rapidly joining this conclusion in his mind to his own arrest without the knowledge of Mayenne, to his detention in the Dominican convent, to his separation from the rest of the community, and to the peculiar position of the apartments assigned to him, he was led to believe--though wrongly--that he himself was the object of the somewhat absurd stratagem which he had just witnessed.

"These monks must surely deem me a very great fool indeed!" he thought, as he stood and gazed out upon the building opposite, longing to give the persons who had been singing an intimation of his consciousness of their arts, and of the contempt in which he held them. But, while considering whether it would not be more dignified to let the matter pass over in silence, a new trick was played off. A sudden light burst through the apertures of the stone-work, and was poured, as it were, in a full stream upon the window at which he stood, but not on the part contained in his own chamber, being directed entirely upon that portion of the casement which was beyond the partition, and which gave light to the chamber assigned to the young monk who had been given him as an attendant. The first ray of light that St. Real perceived was of the ordinary hue, though of a dazzling brightness; but the next moment it assumed a bright rose-colour, and proceeded to pour on, changing to a thousand varied and beautiful tints, which the young noble thought certainly very admirable, but not at all supernatural. The next moment, however, he heard through the partition the murmuring of voices in the neighbouring chamber; and, thinking that the jugglery had been carried quite far enough, he determined, if possible, to put an end to it. Throwing his cloak round him, therefore, he approached the door, intending to enter the chamber of the young Dominican, and tell him in plain language, that he was not to be deceived; but, when he attempted to draw the lock, he found that the key had been turned upon him from without; and, with a curling lip, he cast himself again upon his bed, and soon forgot, in tranquil slumber, events which had excited in his mind no other feeling than contempt.