CHAPTER XIV.

St. Real, whose toilet at the convent of the Jacobins had been, from the circumstances in which he was placed, both hasty and unceremonious, now proceeded to change a dress suited alone to a journey, and both deranged and soiled by all that he had lately passed through. While thus occupied, a loud but well-known voice made itself heard in the ante-room, exclaiming, "Make way, make way! Paul Thiebaut and Pierre Langlois, if you do not get out of my way, I will break your pates with the hilt of my dagger! I will break your pates, though they may be as thick, and as hard, and as heavy as the leaden pummel of my old lord's double-handed sword! Out of the way, I say: do you think one can walk through your great hulking bodies?"

"No," replied one of the attendants, in a gruff voice, "no! but you could walk between our legs, I suppose, little Master Bartholo."

What was the dwarf's reply did not appear; but it would seem that it was somewhat of a manual nature, for a loud oath and stamp of the foot followed; and the door of the chamber opened so unceremoniously as to evince that Bartholo was in some haste to escape from the vengeance that his replication, whatever it had been, was likely to call down upon his head. Banging the door in the face of those behind, he instantly recovered his tranquillity when he found himself in the presence of his master; and advancing towards St. Real with graceful ease, bent his little knee to the ground, kissed his lord's hand, and gave him joy on his arrival in the great capital.

St. Real replied something kind to his first salutation, and then added, "But how now, Bartholo! you claim no merit for the service you have rendered me this morning?"

"I never like to claim merit," replied the dwarf, in his usual cynical tone: "I never like to claim merit, especially with people who think themselves generous; because, if they have forgot my merit, and do not intend to reward me, my claim is a reproach which they never forgive; and if they remember my merit, and design to thank me, my claim is a disappointment."

"It would be well, my good Bartholo," replied St. Real, "if every one else acted upon the same principle--not alone to those who think themselves generous, as you say, but to all men. It would, I believe, save many a disappointment, and many a bitter aggravation of ingratitude; for I have remarked that, as you say, those who are simply forgetful of services hate those who serve them when they are called on to be grateful. But where is Leonard de Monte? Could not he find out his master's abode as well as you, Bartholo? or is he one of those whose memory of kindness does not outlive the act?"

"Good truth, I do not know, my lord!" replied the dwarf. "I never judge of folks on brief acquaintance. His memory of kindness may be as short-lived as a jest at the gallows, or a widow's mourning, or a court lady's constancy--the sincerity of Madame de Montpensier, or the smiles of Monsieur de Mayenne, or any other short thing in this short life, for aught I know; but, in regard to the reason why Leonard's black eyes did not find you out here, it is that they are even now looking for you at St. Cloud. As you were two or three days later than your appointed time, the silly boy took fright, and set out late last night to seek for you. He would fain have persuaded me to go too; but I was not to be wheedled into such an errand. I know well that every fool finds his way to Paris, and that you, therefore, could not well miss it. So I remained quiet, watching every corner till you appeared; and then, as I found you guarded more strongly than necessary, and lodged more holily than I judged you would like, I made bold to bear the tidings to the Duke of Mayenne, begging him to deliver you forthwith from the preaching friars, for fear you should be tired of the friars' preaching."

"You did well and wisely, Bartholo," replied St. Real; "and, as this is the first piece of real good-will that I have ever seen you display to any one, it shall not go without reward. There is my purse, good Bartholo; and now, while I dress, give me the news of Paris; for you are sharp enough and shrewd enough, I take it, to discover and to mark all that is passing in this great city."

According to his master's desire, Bartholo proceeded to detail all the gossips, the scandal, and the real news of the capital, commenting, as he went on, on every anecdote that he related with the keen shrewdness and sagacity which peculiarly distinguished him. His observations, indeed, might derive a peculiar turn from his own particular views and purposes; but, in this curious and complicated world in which we live, every part fits into the other with such exact nicety, that the great depend upon the little nearly as much as the little depend upon the great: the intrigues of the mighty and the powerful, the schemes of the noble and the high, are almost always to be affected in their course--to derive their success or receive their overthrow--from the most mean and despised things that crawl almost unseen around their presence. Thus, in the present instance, all the art, the tortuous policy, the consummate acting of Madame de Montpensier was rendered nearly unavailing by the keen and sarcastic observations, the knowledge of parties, and the insight into real motives and actions, of even so insignificant a person as the dwarf. In the course of the half hour that succeeded, he gave to St. Real a completely new view of the state of the League, and the motives and characters of its supporters; and, without one direct assertion, without one attempt to controvert his opinions, or one apparent effort to obtain a particular object, he showed his master, that frank simplicity might be assumed as the best cloak for art, just as much as religion and patriotism might be affected for the purpose of concealing selfishness and ambition.

As soon as he was dressed, St. Real went forth on foot, followed, as was customary in those days, by two or three armed attendants, and guided by the dwarf, who took care that he should see everything which the capital contained that could disgust him with the proceedings of the League: though why he wished to drive his master into the royal party was somewhat difficult to discover. He first led the young Marquis into the large open space in the neighbourhood of the University, upon the pretence of showing him that building from which the light of knowledge had been so frequently poured forth upon France; but it would seem that he had calculated upon another and more important object presenting itself by the way: nor was he disappointed: for, immediately on entering the great square, St. Real's eyes encountered a considerable crowd; and, making his way forward through the press to a spot where he could see what was proceeding, he immediately beheld one of the many curious scenes which were then taking place in the French capital--such as no city in the world, at any period of its history, has presented, except Paris in the days of the League. Covered with steel corslets, armed with sword, and pike, and musketoon, and with their shaven heads covered with that species of iron caps called a _salade_, appeared a dense body of about 1500 men, man[oe]uvring with that close and serried discipline which was peculiarly attributed to the Spanish infantry. They seemed, indeed, at first, a very strong body of regular troops, though somewhat singularly clothed; but nearer inspection showed the large hanging sleeves and long flowing gowns of various communities of monks and friars protruding from under the iron panoply of war.

As soon as St. Real had satisfied himself that his eyes had not deceived him, he turned away disgusted, and, led by the dwarf, proceeded onward to the Bastille, where, entrance being refused to all but those who came against their own will, or those who had something to do with the act of bringing them thither, St. Real and his attendants stood without, while the dwarf commented in a low voice, but in bitter terms, upon the uses to which that prison was for the time applied. While thus engaged, a party of horsemen, followed by a small guard of cavalry, came up at full speed; and their leader, as he sprang to the ground at the gate of the fortress, turned to give a hasty glance at St. Real, exposing as he did so, the features of the Duke of Mayenne.

As soon as the Duke perceived who it was that was gazing up to the building, he beckoned to him to approach, saying, in the same bold and candid tone which he usually employed, "If you will come in with me, Monsieur de St. Real, you shall see the inside as well as the outside of this famous prison; and may also see--" he added, knitting his brows, "and may also see to what evil purposes power may sometimes be applied in troublous times, and how difficult it is for one who endeavours to guide aright the outburst of popular indignation to insure that his name and authority shall not be abused by others, even while he is labouring night and day himself to re-establish order and justice, and promote the public weal."

St. Real readily agreed to his proposal, as his desire was to see all that he could during his short stay in the capital. Every gate opened at the appearance of the Duke; but, as if by previous orders, he was not alone accompanied by his own immediate suite, but was also followed by at least one-half of the cavalry forming his escort: who, dismounting from their horses, gave their bridles to their companions, and kept close to the heels of Mayenne as he advanced. The guards and warders at the second and third gates looked suspiciously upon the number of soldiers thus introduced into the fortress, and seemed to hesitate in regard to giving them admission. Mayenne walked on; and, before his bold and determined aspect, all opposition at once gave way. A man at the second gate, indeed, made a sudden movement, as if to communicate the fact of the Duke's arrival to others in the interior of the building; but in a stern though low tone, Mayenne commanded him to stay where he was, and advanced rapidly unannounced. It would seem, indeed, that his coming took the demagogues then in possession of the Bastile by surprise. In the inner court a knot of several persons might be observed standing under a beam, which was thrust out of one of the loophole windows of an angular tower, and from which beam dangled a strong cord, formed into that ominous ellipsis, the sight of which has made many a stout heart turn cold. One of the group assembled below was in the very act of demonstrating to his fellows that it would be necessary to fetch a bench or table in order to bring their pastime to a crisis, inasmuch as the rope was too short, and the noose fully eight feet from the ground, when the appearance of Mayenne stopped his oration in the midst.

The speaker raised his hat at the approach of the Duke; but the glance that he gave was certainly not one of welcome or of love. "What are you doing, Monsieur le Clerc?" demanded Mayenne, sternly eyeing the fatal preparations before him. "All this seems very like an intention of again overstepping your authority."

The person he addressed was a shrewd bold-looking man, with an expression of quick eager cunning, not unlike that of a monkey. "We were going, my lord Duke, to do what, I trust, you will be well pleased to witness," replied Bussy le Clerc: "we were going to execute a traitor, a rebel to lawful authority, and an enemy to the apostolic League and to the Catholic faith--him who was formerly called the President Blancmesnil."

"And how did you dare, sir," exclaimed Mayenne, in a tone that cowed even the bold plotter before him, "how did you dare to stir in such a matter without my authority? I ask you not where you got the impudence, for that you lack not for any feat; but where did you get the courage for such a deed? Am I, or am I not, lieutenant-general of the kingdom? and am I man to pass by such an act without punishment?"

"You are, my lord--you are lieutenant-general of the kingdom," replied Bussy le Clerc, in a humble tone; but the next moment he muttered between his teeth, "You are lieutenant-general of the kingdom; but those who made can unmake."

Notwithstanding the low tone in which he spoke, Mayenne seemed to catch his words; for, grasping him suddenly and firmly by the arm with his left hand, he pointed to the instrument of death, which Le Clerc had prepared for others, and, shaking the forefinger of his right in the pale countenance of the bloody man before him, he fixed his eyes upon him with a look of dark and stern significance, the meaning of which was not to be mistaken. He said not a word, but the glance was sufficient; and there was no one present who did not read therein a threat to make the demagogue taste of the portion he assigned to others, if he pursued his bloody course any further--a threat which did not fail to receive its accomplishment at an after period.

Mayenne held him in his powerful grasp for nearly a minute; then, letting his arm drop, he turned, and, while Le Clerc slunk away amongst his creatures, exclaimed aloud, "Bring forth the President de Blancmesnil!"

Several of the officers hastened to obey; and an old man, whose noble countenance and silver hairs might well win respect and pity, was brought out into the court, while two or three of the governor's satellites hurriedly untied the cords which had pinioned his hands behind.

"Ah! my good lord of Mayenne!" he exclaimed, as he approached, "I am happy to see your face."

"I had nearly come too late, Monsieur de Blancmesnil," replied Mayenne; "but still I am in time to tell you, that by the authority in me reposed, you are set free from this moment; and that whatever proceedings have been taken against you, in whatever court, whether legal or illegal, are null and void, so far as I can render them so."

The old man cast himself at Mayenne's feet and embraced his knees. "Thank you, my lord!" he said: "I thank you, and God will reward you for saving a guiltless man, on whose life some hopes and some affections are still fixed by those he loves; but yet, my lord, one boon--grant me one boon more, and let the cup of your generosity overflow! You have given me life--give me also liberty, and suffer me to retire from a city where each day shows me something either to condemn or to regret, and retire to the court of my lawful sovereign, where alone I can serve my country as I ought."

Mayenne paused for a moment, and his countenance, though not of the most expressive character, gave evident marks of a strong internal struggle; the quick glance of displeasure, and the open expansion of more generous feelings, succeeding each other rapidly, like the quick light and shade flying across a landscape in an autumn day, as the clouds are borne over the bright sky by the hasty wind. The sunshine, however, at length predominated. "Be it so; Blancmesnil, be it so," he replied, "be it so. I had hoped that your wisdom, your attachment to the faith, and your love of virtue would have kept you from a court of fools, of heretics, and of villains; but I will not stay you, if you love such men."

"My lord," said Blancmesnil in a tone almost of sorrow, "it would be ungrateful in me to answer you. Suffer me alone to say, that the most imperative and absolute sense of duty alone would induce me to repeat the request which I have made. None would more willingly spend his last few hours of this brief life in the service of one so noble and so generous as yourself than old Blancmesnil; but it cannot be, my lord, without the sacrifice of all those principles which have won me the esteem of your Highness."

"Well, well!" replied Mayenne, conscious that the impression produced by any further discussion of this kind in the hearing of St. Real would be very opposite to that which he could desire; "well, well! far be it from me to withhold any man from the path on which he thinks that duty prompts him. A bold enemy I love next to a faithful friend: it is only traitors to either cause that deserve punishment. Go! Blancmesnil, go! and do not forget that as much as we hate the vices which we are armed to crush, so much do we love virtue, even in an enemy!"

Mayenne felt that he had regained his advantage; and, turning to St. Real, he said, "Well, Monsieur de St. Real, you will return with me, for it grows late, and my sister will soon expect us. I will bear you company on foot. Sometimes I love to ramble amongst the people for a while, and hear the unvarnished opinions of the streets. Greatness, caged in gilded saloons, knows too little of the world around it, and needs now and then to take a flight amongst the wide universe of other beings, to learn how many varied and different aspects the state of all things can assume to the myriads of eyes that are looking on each passing event. You, Longjumeau," he continued, "take the horsemen, and guard Monsieur de Blancmesnil safely to his house. Wait there with him till all his preparations are made; and then, with a white flag, pass him safely to the outposts of the Huguenots at Meudon. Fare you well, Blancmesnil!" he added, turning to the old man; "I must embrace you once more, though you will be my enemy."

"Perhaps more your friend, my lord, in quitting you, than I should have been in staying with you," replied the President. Mayenne answered nothing, but, turning away, led St. Real from the Bastile, and took his way back to the Hotel de Guise, followed on foot by the principal part of the gentlemen of his household who had attended him to the state prison. No matter of any importance occurred during their walk; and St. Real was pleased to find, that far from attempting in any degree to influence him against his better judgment, the Duke confined his conversation solely to indifferent topics, commenting upon all the many objects of attention which all great cities present with as much liveliness as his nature permitted. More than one interruption occurred as they passed on, springing from the various duties and functions with which the Duke had charged himself, or with which the people chose to burden him. It was now an officer from the outposts, who stopped them on the way to demand orders and directions for the night; then a bare-footed friar, of not the most prepossessing appearance, approached the princely Mayenne, and held with him a whispering conversation of several minutes in the open street; then again a high officer, belonging to one of the courts of law, with his bonnet in his hand, presented some papers relative to the proceedings against the President de Blancmesnil; and then an old woman, thinking that she had as good a right as any other citizen of Paris to her share of the great Duke, hobbled across his path, and presented her dirty _placet_ regarding a stall in the Fauxbourg de l'Université, and reinforced her petition by a torrent of that peculiar eloquence possessed by old apple-women in all civilised countries.

Mayenne gave her some mild but evasive reply; and turning with a smile towards St. Real, as they walked on, he said, "You see the post I occupy is not without its cares, and those cares so nicely balanced as to be all equally weighty; for you may judge, by that old woman, that, if the greater cares are more oppressive, the lighter are the more importunate."

All these interruptions of their onward progress had occupied no small time; so that the western sky began to look rosy with the summer sunset ere they reached the Hotel de Guise. "Quick! Monsieur de St. Real," said Mayenne, as they entered the vestibule; "quick! for in less than half an hour my sister will expect us at her supper-table."

St. Real accordingly retired to his apartments, and changing his dress with all speed, sent down one of his followers to seek out some of the attendants of the Duchess de Montpensier, and discover to what chamber, of all the many in that wide and rambling mansion, he was to bend his steps. Almost immediately after a servant of the Duchess appeared to conduct him; and he was led down the stairs, and through the manifold passages and turnings of the Hotel de Guise, at that particular moment of the day ere factitious light has supplied the place of the blessed sunshine, and when such rays of the set orb as still linger in the sky and find their way through the windows--though as rosy as those of the morning--are melancholy rather than gay. At length the servant opened the door of a small cabinet, and passing through, led St. Real into a larger room beyond, where he left him.

Standing near one of the windows at the farther end, and apparently gazing forth with some attention, appeared the figure of a lady in deep mourning. The light was not sufficient for St. Real to distinguish who she was; but her garb showed that it was not Madame de Montpensier, and St. Real was sure that it was not the Duchess de Guise. His heart beat quick, far quicker than he liked--for the heart is sometimes a prophet--and, for a moment, he paused in the midst of the room. The next instant, however, he again advanced: the lady turned as he approached, roused from her reverie by the sound of his footsteps, and St. Real suddenly found himself alone in the chamber with Eugenie de Menancourt. He was not surprised--at least he had no right to be so--for he was prepared to meet Mademoiselle de Menancourt at the Hotel de Guise that night; but it were vain to say that he was not agitated. He knew not why, and he was angry with himself for feelings which he could not, which he would not, perhaps, account for to his own understanding.

With Eugenie it was different. She was both surprised and agitated; for the last person she had expected, yet the person she had most wished to see, was the Marquis of St. Real. It was natural enough, too, that she should desire to see him: she had known him from her infancy; she had learned, in the early habits of unrestrained intercourse, to look upon him as a brother; she had found him always kind and gentle in his affections, clear and just in his opinions, and firm and noble in his principles; and, in the friendless and orphan state in which she was now left, there was no one to whom she so longed to apply for advice, assistance, and protection as to Huon of St. Real. At one time, indeed, in her utter ignorance of the selfishness of faction, she had contemplated applying to the Duke of Mayenne for permission to retire to the castle of the old Marquis of St. Real, whose neutrality between the contending parties of the day, she had fondly fancied, might obviate the objections which the leader of the League would entertain to any other asylum not within the immediate grasp of his own power. There was, however, in her bosom a vague unacknowledged consciousness of feelings, which she wished not to render more distinct--a sort of apprehension lest the world should attribute to her motives that she would have shrunk from entertaining --which made her hesitate so long in regard to giving voice to her request, that ere she decided the tidings reached her that the old lord was dead, and that the refuge which she might otherwise have hoped to find in his dwelling was consequently shut against her forever. Her thoughts, then, had often been busy with St. Real; she had often longed to see him, to speak with him, to confide her situation, her fears, her anxieties, her danger, to one in whom she was sure to find a kind and feeling auditor. With these wishes, however, no hopes had been combined. She knew, or believed she knew, that St. Real's principles would lead him to join the royal party; and that, therefore, unless he entered Paris as a victor or a prisoner, there was little chance of his visiting the capital. Madame de Montpensier, in summoning her to the Hotel de Guise, had given her no information of the object for which she was called thither; and she had obeyed with some degree of alarm, which had not been decreased by an apparent inattention and want of courtesy on the part of the Duchess, evinced by leaving her for nearly half an hour unnoticed in the wide and solitary chamber to which she had been ushered on her first arrival. Her sensations, therefore, on beholding St. Real, were purely those of surprise and pleasure; but they reached the height of agitation.

She spoke not; but, as the last light that lingered in the sky shone upon her beautiful countenance through the open window, St. Real beheld the warm blood rush up into her cheek and forehead, a beaming lustre dance in her eyes, and a bright irrepressible smile play about her lips, that plainly told he was no unwelcome visiter. The hand that was instantly extended to him he took in his; and he thought it no treason to his cousin to press his lips upon it. All that Eugenie and St. Real first said was too hurried and confused, too shapeless and unconnected, to bear much meaning if written down in mere cold words, without the looks, and the gestures, and the feelings, that at the time gave life and soul to those words themselves. They had a thousand things to speak of. Since their last meeting each had lost a father, each had lost a friend; and the affection that either had borne to the dead parent of the other was matter of deep sympathy and feeling between them. All their thoughts, their sorrows, their regrets, were in common, and their conversation, for some time, was one of those deep, touching, artless, unrestrained communications of mutual ideas, which--full of the reciprocation of bright sentiments--more than aught else on earth knit heart and heart together.

At length St. Real remembered that he was losing moments which he had destined for another purpose; and some of the servants entering to light the lamps and sconces in the apartment, at once showed him that he had no time to lose, and gave him an opportunity of changing the topic. As soon as they were left once more alone, he spoke of his cousin, the Count d'Aubin, and approached, without directly speaking of the subject of his pretensions, to Mademoiselle de Menancourt.

Eugenie turned as pale as death, and then again the red blood mounted to her cheek with a quick vehement blush: she too felt that there was an infinity to be said, and feared that there might be little time to say it. There was much--she felt there was much--to be staked upon the conversation of the next few instants; and she determined that, whatever report of her sentiments St. Real might bear his cousin, it should be such as to put an end for ever to his hopes of her affection.

"And would you, St. Real," she said, "would you, who know both him and me, would you press me to fulfil an engagement, in making which I myself bore no part, and which, even on the side of my father, was, as far as I can learn, but conditional? No, St. Real, no! sooner than disobey my father's commands, I would have sacrificed happiness, perhaps life itself: but he left me free, and pointedly, with his last breath, bade me, in the difficult circumstances in which I should be placed, use my own judgment. That judgment will never lead me to become the wife of one who can act as you and I have seen Philip d'Aubin act."

"But, believe me, Eugenie," replied St. Real, "Philip has changed. He loves you deeply, sincerely; and that love will teach him to seek your happiness by gaining your esteem."

"No, no! St. Real," replied Eugenie with a sigh, "no, no! he loves nothing but himself. I know him better than you do. While I thought that, at some time, I was to become his wife, I strove to love him as great an effort as woman can strive to direct the feelings of her own heart. In striving to love him, I strove to know him; and thus I learned all the baseness, all the selfishness, of his character. Forgive me, St. Real, for using such harsh language: you know it is not in my nature to speak or to feel thus, except in a case where all my happiness is concerned: but I wish you to understand at once, and for ever, that I will not marry Philip d'Aubin--because I do not love him."

"But might not time, and assiduity, and nobler deeds, teach you to love him?" demanded St. Real: "for, believe me, Eugenie, better qualities lie slumbering in his heart, which a great object might awake and strengthen. Might he not teach you to love him?"

"I would not love him for a universe," replied Eugenie; "for the woman who loves him is sure to be miserable. But press me no more, St. Real, press me no more: my resolution is taken--my mind and my heart are fixed. I do not love Philip d'Aubin--I never have loved him--I never can love him; and, sooner than become his wife, I would resign all that I have on earth but the dowry of a nun; quit the world, and seek peace in the cloister."

St. Real replied but by a sigh; and although that sigh might be one of sorrow for the disappointment of his cousin, yet it called up in the bosom of Eugenie de Menancourt varied emotions, that, for a moment, sent another bright flush across her cheek, which, fading away again, left her as pale as death. Ere the soft natural hue had returned, and ere St. Real had time to separate his mingled feelings from each other, and give to those he thought it right to express, the door opened, and Madame de Montpensier appeared alone.

Strange is it to say, but no less true, that though Eugenie de Menancourt and Huon de St. Real had both longed for such a moment of calm and unobserved communion, the approach of a third person was, at that moment, a relief to both. Nor was the manner of Madame de Montpensier at all calculated to lessen that sensation: it was the same which she had assumed in the morning towards St. Real, and which she had found succeed so well, that she determined not to abandon it till he had quitted Paris. She was, perhaps, even calmer and more tranquil in her demeanour now than she had appeared before: for reading, with deep knowledge, the secrets of the human heart, she knew that such a demeanour was best in harmony with the feelings which she wished St. Real and Eugenie to experience towards each other. Approaching, then, slowly and tranquilly, she welcomed Mademoiselle de Menancourt cordially, and then proceeded to speak of various indifferent subjects with wit and grace, but with very tempered gaiety, until the appearance of the Duchess of Guise, and then of the Duke of Mayenne, gave a different turn to the conversation. Supper was almost immediately announced; and, during the meal, all passed in the same calm tone. Eugenie, for the first time in her life, thought Madame de Montpensier as fascinating in manners as she was generally reported to be; and although she could not help feeling, with a degree of discomfort, that the eyes of the princess were frequently upon her with an inquiring, or rather, investigating, glance, yet the minutes went by more pleasantly than any she had known for many months. St. Real, too, felt the time brief and sweet; but, arguing from the costly apparel of the Duchess and her sister, that they were either going forth to figure on some more splendid scene, or were about to receive other guests at home, he judged that the moments allowed to such conversation as he then enjoyed would be but few; and he tormented himself by remembering a thousand things he wished to say to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, which he had forgotten at the only time when they could have been said.

At length the party rose; and, if the sound of rolling wheels, and shouting attendants, and trampling horses, augured true, the members of the house of Guise were even somewhat late in preparing to receive the noble guests who were invited that night to meet together in gaiety and splendour, though the morning had passed with many in strife and bloodshed, and though iron war was thundering with his cannon at the gates.

On the first signal of their design to quit the supper table, the attendants, who stood round, threw open the doors of the hall, and Madame de Montpensier, taking Eugenie by the hand, led the way into another chamber, which was already brilliantly lighted, and evidently prepared for some occasion of splendour, but into which, as yet, no one had been admitted. Passing through that and several rooms beyond, they at length approached a saloon, the door of which was open, and from which proceeded the busy hum of many voices; while various figures were seen passing to and fro across the aperture of the doorway, like the painted shadows cast by a phantasmagoria. Some of those guests, however, who watch for great men's steps, and observe their looks, soon perceived the approach of the family of Guise; and the words, "The Duke, the Duke! His Highness the lieutenant-general!" pronounced by several voices within, created, for the moment a brief bustle among the guests, and then the silence of expectation, till the party entered the room.

The number already assembled might amount to nearly fifty, of whom the greater proportion were officers and soldiers, either personally attendant upon the Duke of Mayenne, or eager to pay court to him whose fortunes were for the time in the ascendant. For them, governments, commands, and the many military employments which gave profuse opportunity of squeezing a divided people, formed the attractions towards one at whose disposal were placed all the good things of at least one half the empire. The rest of the party who occupied the saloon were made up of the lower classes of the French nobility, male and female, principally the _noblesse de la robe_, who, with the same views as the others, though directed in a different line, sought to be amongst the first at the Hotel de Guise.

Not long after, however, another class began to arrive, who, willing to associate with Mayenne, to partake of the influence of his good fortune, to share what he chose to delegate of his power, and to obtain for their younger children the various benefices in his gift, were yet desirous of distinguishing themselves from even the democracy of their own order, by making the hour of their visit somewhat later, that they might not be confounded in the first rush of the subservient crowd. Last of all, as if in mockery of the pride of their immediate predecessors, came the fops, the coxcombs, the witlings, the debauchees of Paris, heedless of all interests but the dear first all-absorbing interests of their own vanity, and ready to laugh or sneer at everything and everybody, from the great Duke himself, down to the last new-made _procureur_, who claimed a right to bear arms and call himself _gentilhomme_.

On his arrival in the hall, the Duke advanced and bowed round him with the dignity, and perhaps with a little more than the pride, of a legitimate monarch. Though his eye had not much of the fire and energy which characterized that of his father and his brother, it was sufficiently quick and marking to observe in the room all those who are likely to be serviceable, either individually to himself, or more generally, to the state; and to each of these he took care to address some word of more particular favour and encouragement. Some he passed with a mere inclination of the head; some he noticed not at all. Madame de Montpensier, however, though in her heart prouder than her brother, was one of those--of those few persons--capable of feeling the master passions of human nature in all the terrible energy in which they can display themselves. Hatred, revenge, and ambition, were for the time, predominant in her heart: and these are idols to which, as to the Moloch of the Ammonites, pride will even sacrifice its children. Knowing and feeling that the meanest man present might accelerate or retard the objects of her desire, casting aside all her natural vanity, and all the haughtiness of her race, Madame de Montpensier mingled with the crowd, and--while her languishing sister, the Duchess of Guise, sat coquetting with her own particular admirers--she spoke with every one, smiled upon every one, and left each with increased prepossession in her favour, and renewed attachment to her cause.

As the crowd increased, and the rooms became full, the party separated into groups, classing themselves by the various standards of rank, opinions, wit, or tastes. For all, amusement was provided in case conversation should not be sufficient to fill up the time; and many took advantage of such arrangements to favour or to conceal the purposes and the views with which each came thither more or less preoccupied. In one chamber the dice rolled upon the board, while one of the most vehement players was every now and then seen to hold a brief conversation with various persons who came and went in the room. At other tables again, those flat, dull pieces of mischievous pasteboard called cards were dealt and played in solemn silence, except when some biting jest, or well-directed and premeditated sneer, found a hook to hang itself upon, even in so insignificant a thing as the foolish names assigned to different cards. Then, again, in a vast and brilliant hall beyond, music of the sweetest kind hung upon the air; while the dance offered its protection to every sort of scheming, from the soft business of innocent love, to foul intrigue and tortuous policy.

In the midst of all this, St. Real, in the simplicity of his heart, saw nothing but very innocent amusement. Eugenie refused to take a part in the dance; and how or why he knew not, St. Real found himself generally by her side. Such a scene, of all others on the earth, affords the greatest opportunity of private communication; but, if the thoughts, the wishes, and the purposes of the speakers be not intimately known to each other, it may become the most dangerous place for such communion also. The half-spoken sentence is so often interrupted at the very point where it is the most interesting, and where it most needs explanation--so much must be said in haste, or not said at all--so much must be left to fancy--so great is the treasure turned over to imagination--that he who plays with hearts should be very sure of his game before he ventures boldly in such a scene as that. St. Real and Eugenie de Menancourt conversed, at first, upon subjects of every-day import and of general reference; but there were between them so many stores of private feeling and thought, that, upon whatever topic they began, the conversation soon flowed back to matters in regard to which their own hearts were in unison respecting either the past or the present. They found it vain to struggle against the stream of sympathies that either sooner or later drew their communion apart from the things that surrounded them; and as the evening went on, they more and more gave way to what they felt; endeavouring, indeed, to avoid speaking of their own sentiments in an individual manner, but still only covering their personal feelings under a thin veil of general observations. This veil, too, was so often rent by accidental interruptions--the termination of a phrase which was intended to give it its general character so often remained unspoken, that every minute, as it flew, left the hearts of Eugenie de Menancourt and Huon of St. Real with deeper and more agitating feelings than either of them had ever felt before: and yet, like all other people who have loved where it would have been wiser not, they were unconscious of what they were encouraging in their own hearts. Eugenie was agitated, but was not alarmed. St. Real was delighted, but only fearful, when he saw the eye of any one marking the close position that he occupied by Eugenie's side, lest it should be supposed that he was making love to her who had been promised to his cousin; but he never believed--he never dreamed--that he was making love--that he was winning her heart, and yielding his own. The very efforts he had made that very night in favour of his cousin were sufficient to blind him entirely, and to lead him, like a general deceived by his guides, into the cunning ambush which the keen archer Cupid so skilfully lays for the advanced parties of the human heart.

At length, towards midnight--that enchanted hour, when all the powers of the imagination, the fairies of the microcosm within us, are up and revelling in the greenest spots of the human heart--at length, towards midnight, when music, and conversation, and gay sights, and happy faces all around, and pleasant words, and the bright eyes of the sweet and beautiful, had left St. Real's fancy as excited as ever was Bacchus' self by the juice of the Achaian vine, Madame de Montpensier stood by his side; and, laying the jewelled forefinger of her right hand upon his arm, called his attention while she said, "I have a message to give Monsieur de St. Real from my brother, who cannot detach himself from that group to speak with you in person, and who fears that you may be absent to-morrow, ere he can see you. I will not detain you one instant."

St. Real obeyed the summons at once, giving but one look, as he turned to follow Madame de Montpensier, towards Eugenie de Menancourt, and another towards a young cavalier, who hastened to fill up the place he abandoned at her side. The Duchess also gave a glance to each, and a third to St. Real; and then, with a smile, led the way across the ball-room, and through two or three chambers beyond, to the utmost verge of the long suite of apartments, which was that night thrown open to the public.

There, looking round her to see that she was unobserved, she paused, and turned towards the young cavalier. "Monsieur de St. Real," she said, in a calm, sweet, but impressive tone, "when you came to Paris, you came undecided whether to join the friends and supporters of the Catholic faith, or its enemies. I think that you have seen enough of us now to judge and to decide; and I have not the slightest doubt of what your decision will be; nay, what it is! But, setting all that apart, I have an offer to make you, which the noblest amongst all yon glittering throng would give his right hand to hear addressed to himself. Mark me, Monsieur de St. Real! A woman's eyes are keen: you love Mademoiselle de Menancourt! Nay, stop me not; but hear! Eugenie de Menancourt loves you! I, in the name of the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, offer you her hand. Take it, and be happy! Spare my brother a world of anxiety and difficulty on her account; spare her the pain of importunity; relieve her from the helpless exposure of her present situation; and make the loveliest creature of all France happy, in the protection of him she loves!"

Pausing for a moment, she gave one glance at the countenance of her auditor, and then added, "Say not a word to-night! but breakfast with me _tête-à-tête_ to-morrow, when all difficulties and obstacles shall be removed for ever!"

She turned away, and left St. Real standing alone in the room, feeling that the casket of his heart was opened to his own sight, and its deepest secrets displayed, never to be concealed again by any of the thin and glistening veils with which human weakness cloaks itself so effectually against the purblind eyes of self-examination. He cast himself into a seat, and for some minutes remained in bitter commune with his own heart, while the music and the dancing, and the gay society of the capital, were as unmarked as if they had not existed. Then remembering, painfully, that his demeanour had been already but too accurately watched, he rose, and, with a flushed cheek and contracted brow, returned to the chief saloon. As he approached Eugenie de Menancourt, however, he perceived that she was preparing to depart with a lady of high rank and advanced years, under whose especial care Madame de Montpensier had placed her. Eugenie paused as he came near. The crowd of gay gallants, who were pressing forward with the formal courtesy of the day to offer their services in conducting her to the carriage, drew back as he approached, as if already warned of the purposes of Mayenne in regard to the rich heiress. St. Real felt what was expected of him, and at once offered his hand; but it was with an air of restraint and absence that instantly caught the eye of her to whom he spoke. She suffered him to lead her through the rooms in silence; but, as a turn on the staircase left them for a moment alone, her anxiety prevailed, and, with an unsteady voice, she said, "You seem suddenly unhappy, Monsieur de St. Real. Has anything occurred to pain you?"

St. Real was not a good dissembler; and Eugenie had not dissembled. He heard in the soft, scarce audible tone--he felt in the trembling of the hand that lay in his--he saw in the soft and swimming eyes that looked on him--the truth of one part of what the Princess had said; and in his own heart he felt but too strongly the truth of all the rest. St. Real was not a good dissembler; and all he could reply was, "Oh, Eugenie!" but it was enough.