CHAPTER XX.

If every minute event which took place in the beginning of August, 1589, was matter of importance to the inhabitants of Paris, a thousand times more deep, intense, and thrilling than that experienced by any other person, was the interest taken by Eugenie de Menancourt in all that passed at that period. Her happiness, her misery for life, hung upon the die which other hands were destined to throw; and without the possibility of aiding herself in the slightest degree of changing the fate that awaited her, or arresting its progress for a moment, she was obliged to abide the unknown result in the power of people, whose purposes she neither knew nor could control. Every rumour, every sound, created some new sensation in her bosom. Every change, where change was constant, either raised a momentary hope, or cast her back into the depth of apprehension. The distant roar of the artillery, the march of the troops through the streets, the galloping of messengers and couriers, the military parade, even the processions of the clergy, as they proceeded from shrine to shrine, petitioning for the aid of God to support them in rebellion, and encourage them in assassination, all agitated and alarmed her, till at length, her mind fell into that state in which terror has so much the predominance, that every fresh tidings are anticipated as tidings of sorrow. The news of the death of the king, and the particulars of the manner in which that foul act was perpetrated, struck her with horror and despair, as showing to what length the men in whose hands she was placed dared to go in pursuit of the objects of their party. Scarcely, however, had she time to think over this event, when another, more deeply and personally painful to herself, banished all other feelings but anxiety for her future destiny.

One morning suddenly, the Count d'Aubin was announced, and, hardly waiting to see whether his visit were or were not acceptable, he followed the servant into her presence. The result of their meeting we have already seen in his conference with Mayenne; but either vanity or policy had induced him to distort the truth, when he had asserted that Eugenie de Menancourt had shown the slightest symptom of vacillating in her determination against him.

From his words and his manner, she had soon learned that he had joined the party of the League, and that he considered all the authority and influence of Mayenne at his command, in support of his suit towards her; and perhaps the fear of irritating him, and driving him on to use the power he possessed to the utmost, might make her more gentle in her language, and less disposed to express the reprobation and dislike she entertained towards him, than would have been the case had he persisted in his pursuit under other circumstances. But Eugenie was too noble, too candid, too sincere, to suffer him to believe, for one moment, that her feelings would ever change towards him. She was gentle, but she was firm; and D'Aubin, when he left her, was, perhaps, the more mortified to find, from her calmness, as well as determination, that she was influenced against him by no temporary pique, by no fit of passion or indignation, as he had represented the matter to others, and tried to regard it himself; but that positively and certainly, he who had thought that her heart was at his command whenever he chose to demand it, had never caused it to beat one pulse more rapidly; that he had never been loved, and was now contemned and disliked.

Although during his stay he had employed persuasion and entreaty, and all the arts that none knew better how to use than himself, there had still been in his tone that consciousness of power and authority which alarmed Eugenie for the result; and with a trembling hand she wrote a few words to the fair Beatrice of Ferrara, beseeching her to come to her aid, determined as she was to risk any thing in order to escape from her present situation. Fate, however, ever overrules our best efforts; and, as if disdaining to cast away the greater exertions of its almighty power to thwart our petty schemes, contents itself with throwing some trifling stumbling-block in our way--some idle, insignificant trifle, over which our pigmy plans fall prostrate in their course. The servant whom Eugenie had charged with the delivery of her note returned, and brought her word that Beatrice had gone out on horseback to witness the movements of the Royalist army in their retreat, an amusement worthy of her bold and fearless spirit. The lady's attendants, however, had informed him, the servant said, that she would be back long before nightfall; and Eugenie waited and counted the anxious moments till the daylight waned, and the shadows of evening fell over the earth.

"Beatrice must soon be here now," she thought; but moment after moment, and hour after hour, went by, without the appearance of her she waited for. At length, giving up hope for that night, and wearied with wearing expectation, Eugenie retired to rest; but it was rest broken by fears and anxieties; and early on the succeeding morning she was up, and watching eagerly for the coming of her friend, whose bold counsels and skilful aid might, she trusted, give her courage to undertake, and power to execute, some plan for her own deliverance.

Watching from the large projecting window we have mentioned, she was not long before she beheld one of the carved and gilded equipages of the day turn into the court-yard of her own dwelling, and in a few minutes after the door of the saloon was opened to give admission to a visitor. But the countenance that presented itself was that of Madame de Montpensier, not of Beatrice of Ferrara; and the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt sunk at an occurence, which though not unusual, she felt in the present instance could bode her no good.

The conversation which now took place may easily be divined, from the conference between Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin. We shall therefore not repeat it here, it being sufficient to say, that when about an hour afterwards, D'Aubin himself entered the saloon, he found Madame de Montpensier rising to depart, and Eugenie de Menancourt, with her face buried in her hands, weeping in hopeless bitterness of heart.

Lifting her shoulders with an emphatic shrug, Madame de Montpensier quitted the room in silence, and D'Aubin stood for a moment gazing upon the fair unhappy girl whom his ungenerous pursuit had reduced to such a state, with a variety of passions warring in his breast, in a manner which it would be difficult to describe. After a brief pause, Eugenie withdrew her hands from her face and turned her tearful eyes upon him. As she looked, a sort of involuntary shudder passed over her frame, and she again pressed her hands upon her eyes for one moment; then, rising from her chair, she advanced direct to where he stood, and cast herself upon her knees at his feet.

"Philip d'Aubin," she said, "you were once generous and kind of heart:--nay, nay, hear me!" she continued, as he endeavoured to raise her. "Hear me, I beseech you; for my happiness or misery--perhaps my life or death--depend upon this moment."

"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "I can hear nothing, I can attend to nothing, while you there remain in a posture unbecoming to us both--for you to assume and for me to suffer. Rise, I entreat you!"

"No, no!" she replied, clasping her hands earnestly. "I will not, I cannot rise till you have heard me. Have I not used every other means? have I not employed every other form of entreaty without avail? and I now kneel at your feet to beseech you to spare yourself and me misery interminable. I have told you, and with bitter regret have I been obliged to tell you, that I cannot love you as woman should love her husband; and I did not resolve to tell you so till I had struggled with my own heart,--till I had combated all my own feelings,--in order, if possible, to fulfil what had been a wish of my father. I struggled, I combated in vain, Monsieur d'Aubin; for the more I did so, the more I found that my peace of mind required me to take a decided part,--that honour and justice towards you required me to tell you that I could not, that I would not, be your wife. Why, why persecute me thus, Monsieur d'Aubin?" she continued; "you do not love me--you have never loved me; and, under such circumstances, how can you expect me to love you? Why not turn to any of those who will not only consider themselves as honoured by your suit, but who, much better suited than I am to your views, your habits, and your feelings, have it in their power to return your affection, and to meet you, as I doubt not you deserve to be met, with love for love?"

"You mistake me altogether, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, raising her almost forcibly, and leading her back to her seat; "I do love you; and I trust that, though you doubt your own feelings at present, you will find it not so difficult, when you are my wife, to feel towards me in such a manner as to be happy yourself and to render me so."

"Do not deceive yourself, Monsieur d'Aubin!" exclaimed Eugenie. "I do not doubt my own feelings! I am but too sure of them! I do not love you, I cannot love you, any more than you love me; and if you persist in your pursuit, you do it warned of what are my sentiments towards you, and assured that those sentiments will but become more repugnant, in proportion to the degree of constraint used towards me."

"Nay, nay," replied D'Aubin, willing as far as possible to use gentle means, and try those powers of persuasion which he believed himself, not unjustly, to possess; "nay, nay, dear Eugenie, you do me wrong altogether; believe me, I do love you sincerely. I know that I have acted foolishly, wrongly towards you; I know that, prompted by vanity, and the gay and roving disposition of youth, flattered and courted, idle, perhaps, conceited, I appeared to neglect and undervalue the jewel that was offered to me in the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt. But, believe me, dear Eugenie, that it was not that I failed to esteem that jewel at its full and highest price; it was but that foolishly I thought it my own beyond all risk. Consider in what school I had been brought up,--consider the lightness and fickleness of all by whom I was surrounded; forgive me the errors and the follies that are past away for ever, and give me an opportunity of proving to you that they are deeply regretted, and will never be renewed. My whole life, my whole thoughts, my whole endeavours, shall be devoted to wipe out the evil impression which a few acts of folly have left upon your mind; and surely the unceasing devotion and tenderness of one who will never forget that he wronged you, and that you forgave him, will be sufficient to atone for errors which proceeded more from idle levity than from evil purpose."

"Monsieur d'Aubin," said Eugenie, sadly, "I accuse you of nothing, I blame you for nothing. What might have been my feelings towards you, had your conduct been different towards me, I cannot tell--I cannot even guess: but you greatly deceive yourself if you think that my sentiments towards you originate in anger, or mortified vanity, or wounded pride. I must be candid with you to the very utmost, and tell you that I never felt towards you anything which could enable your conduct to others to inflict one pang upon me. I have never loved you, Monsieur d'Aubin, and the only effect of your behaviour has been to teach me that I never can love you."

"You have inflicted upon me that mortifying reiteration, somewhat often," replied D'Aubin; "and perhaps I am not wrong when I ask, whether the want of love towards your promised husband in the past and the present, has not originated in love for another?"

Eugenie's cheek crimsoned to a hue deeper than the rose; and something between confusion and indignation kept her silent. D'Aubin drew his own conclusions; but, strange to say, though those conclusions were as bitter as well might be, they only added fire to the fierceness of his pursuit. His cheek, however, reddened also; but it was with the struggle of anger, and interest, pride and vanity; and he went on: "I see I am right, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, and am sorry to see it. Nevertheless, my confidence in you is such, that I entertain not the slightest doubt, that however unwisely you may have entertained such feelings hitherto, you will crush them with wise precaution, and bury them in speedy oblivion, when you become my wife. Nor am I inclined to resign my hopes of teaching you to change all such opinions by my own conduct, and of bringing you to love me, when your duty shall be engaged to second all my efforts."

Eugenie saw that her fate was determined, as far as the Count d'Aubin had power to govern it. She saw that with him entreaties would be ineffectual, and tears of no avail. Nothing then remained but resolution; and although she knew not what protection the law of her native land held out to one under her circumstances, and was too well aware that in the city where she was detained, popular violence had broken through all the restraints of society; yet she determined that no weakness or want of energy on her own part should favour the oppression to which she was subjected. As soon as she perceived that the humble supplications to which she had descended fell as vainly upon the ear of the Count d'Aubin as the song of the charmer upon the deaf adder, her whole manner changed; and, assuming the same look of unconquerable determination which he had put on towards her, she replied, "My duty, Sir Count d'Aubin, will never either second or prompt any efforts on my part to feel differently towards you than I do now; for I never will be, and never can be, your wife. The arm of power may drag me to the altar, and a mockery of religious service may be read between us; but there, as here, my voice shall steadfastly pronounce the same refusal; the ring, with which you think to wed me, shall be trampled under my feet; no contract shall ever be signed by me; and as long as I have strength to lift my voice, I will appeal against the tyranny which oppresses me. Moreover, let me warn you, that every step that you take forward in this brutal and ungentlemanly course will but increase those feelings which you have this day striven in vain to remove, till indifference becomes dislike, and dislike grows into detestation."

"You will think better of this, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, surprised and struck by energy and vehemence, such as he had never witnessed in her before. "We are destined to be united, and be assured that nothing can make a change in this arrangement. Let us not meet, then, at enmity. You will think better of this."

"Never," replied Eugenie, "never! You have roused a spirit in my bosom, Count d'Aubin, that you knew not existed there--that I knew not myself till this hour. But I feel that it will bear me through everything; and I tell you boldly, and at once, that I would infinitely rather die, were death within my choice, this moment, than be the wife of Philip d'Aubin."

D'Aubin bit his lip, and casting his eyes upon the ground, paused for a moment in deep thought, his resolutions and purposes shaken by what he had heard, and his mind once more undecided. "Tell me," he said at length, "tell me, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, if by my application to the Duke of Mayenne the ceremony of our marriage this night, which I see has been announced to you by the Duchess de Montpensier, can be put off to some later period, will you give me the hope, that after a certain time, during which my conduct towards yourself, and towards the world, shall be in every respect irreproachable, I may obtain your hand, without doing that violence to your feelings, which it seems would be the consequence of our present union?"

Eugenie turned deadly pale, under the emotion that she felt. The words of the Count d'Aubin offered her the prospect of a temporary relief--offered the means of obtaining invaluable time, during which a thousand changes of circumstances might take place to free her from the difficulties and dangers that surrounded her; but she asked herself, how was this to be bought? By deceit, by the first deceit she had ever been guilty of in life; and though many a casuist might argue, and argue perhaps justly, that she had a right to oppose the unjustifiable means employed against her, by any method in her power to use, the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt was not one that could admit such reasoning in regard to honesty and truth. She would not have bought her life by deceit; and though perhaps in the present instance she might feel that more than life itself was at stake, she would not sacrifice her own good opinion even for that.

"No, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, after a long and agitated pause--"No!--I will not deceive you. No time can change my opinion or determination. I never can be your wife. If you will desist from your present pursuit--if you will recollect the former generosity of your sentiments--if you will consider your own honour, and my peace of mind, and set me free from this persecution, you will merit and obtain my deepest gratitude, my thanks, and my admiration; but, Philip d'Aubin, you never can have more."

"Then you seal your own fate, Eugenie de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "and things must take their course, as already arranged. Yet think not that this arrangement has been planned solely to gratify me. Other and more important interests are involved therein, and you will see by this note from the Duke of Mayenne, that motives of state necessity compel both him and me to abridge that ceremonious delicacy which otherwise would have been extended towards you."

Eugenie took the paper, and tried to read it over; but agitation and apprehension caused the letters to dance before her eyes, and she only gathered the general import, and saw that as far as Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin had power, her fate was sealed indeed. Although her resolution remained in full force, and her mind was as unconquered as ever, she felt that her bodily powers were failing her; and fearful that Aubin should see how much she was overcome, as well as anxious for a few hours of uninterrupted thought, she waved her hand for him to leave her.

"Not one word more?" he said, advancing as if to take her hand. "Not one word more?"

"No," replied Eugenie, shrinking back from him with involuntary horror. "No, I have nothing more to say."

D'Aubin turned on his heel, mortified to the very heart by the personal dislike which he marked with the keen eyes of wounded vanity: and without another word, left Eugenie to solitude, and to feelings very nearly akin to despair.