CHAPTER XXI.

A long summer's day was over, and nothing remained of its splendour but a fading tint of purple in the deep blue sky; while Venus and the moon came hand in hand together above the trees, as if to divide between their bright but gentle rule the tranquil kingdom of the night. The royal camp no longer sounded with the clang of arms or the tramp of marching men; the man[oe]uvres for the day were over; and the soldiery, quartered in the village of St. Cloud itself, had left the streets vacant, while they sought consolation after all the labours and exertions of the morning, in the gay evening meal and often replenished flask. The body of the dead king lay--almost forgotten, by those who had fed upon his bounty and encouraged his vices,--in the house where the hand of the assassin had struck him; and lights were just beginning to twinkle in the windows of the old chateau where the new monarch had fixed his abode the night after his accession to the tottering throne of France.

Such was the state of St. Cloud, when, on the third evening after the death of Henry III. a party of horsemen paused at the gates of this park, and, dismounting there, advanced towards the old palace on foot. The guards at the gates saluted as the cavaliers passed; and Henry IV. who walked a step before the rest, mused as he proceeded, leading the way with a slow step, and sometimes gazing up thoughtfully at the blue twilight sky, sometimes fixing his eyes upon the gravel of the path, absorbed in deep and silent reverie. At length, turning to those who accompanied him, he said, "Our arrangements, I think, are all now complete, and we may begin our march to-morrow. I have to thank you, Rosny, for Meulan; and you, St. Real, for as fine a body of men as ever a loyal heart brought to the aid of a poor king. D'Aumont has, I suppose, already marched to see what friends he can raise for us in the east; but I much fear that our messenger has never reached our worthy cousin, the Count de Soissons! However, it matters not, as, by the reports from Normandy, we shall most likely change our plans. Still I could wish, De Rosny, that you would write a few lines to the Count, bidding him advance as fast as possible upon Mans, and then regulate his movements by what he hears of ours; remembering, however, that the great object is to bring me men and money as speedily as possible. Let the letter be copied six times, and I will come and sign each ere half-an-hour be over. Sent by six separate messengers, one of these letters can scarcely fail to reach him. You, St. Real, look well to your quarters; for these Leaguers must know by this time how much our forces are diminished, and may strive for some advantage. Fare you well! Good night! Quick! up to the chateau, Rosny, and take all these others with you. I would fain have half-an-hour's quiet thought, amidst these moonlight walks, where so many of my ancestors have wandered, ere I quit them, perhaps for ever, after having been their sovereign but for a day!"

"Were it not better, your Majesty," replied De Rosny, in a low voice, "to keep a few of your attendants around you? Remember that the dagger of the assassin found your predecessor in the midst of his army and his court, and that treason has been so evident amongst those by whom we are surrounded, that we cannot tell whose hand may next be armed against his monarch's life."

"I fear not, De Rosny," replied Henry, "I fear not! If it be the will of God that I fall, the weapon will find me in the midst of guards and precautions, as easily as alone in the open field. Nor do fear the treason you seem to apprehend. Our camp has lately been like a butt of new made wine, in one general ferment, where all was troubled and unpalatable; but that very ferment, I trust, has worked it clear, and I would not be the man to fancy myself continually surrounded by secret enemies--no, not if I could thereby spin out this mortal thread for centuries beyond the length of ordinary lives! No, no! De Rosny, I fear not, and I would be alone."

The last words were spoken in a tone that left no reply; and De Rosny, beckoning to those who followed, walked on directly towards the chateau, while Henry turned into one of the lateral alleys, down which the moonlight was streaming in full effulgence. One or two of the attendants lingered for a moment, as if still unwilling to leave the king; but Henry waved his hand for them to depart, and then walked on.

There are periods in the life of every man, when so many events are crowding into the short space of a few days, when such manifold calls upon attention, and such deep and important interests for consideration load the wings of every minute as it flies, that time is wanting for the recollection, for the thought, for even the feeling, of how the mighty changes which are going on around us affect our own individual nature, and work upon our being and our fate. At those periods, to every thinking and intellectual mind, comes a thirst and a longing for even a brief space of calm reflection; and we gladly seize the very first opportunity of withdrawing our thoughts from the wearying necessity of directing our actions on the instant, and give them up for a time to that consideration of remote prospects and general feelings, which, after the energetic activity lately required of us, is comparatively a state of tranquillity and repose.

Such had been, and such was the situation of Henry IV. Since the assassination of the late king, scarcely an instant had passed without some imperious demand for immediate exertion. Mighty and deep were the interests involved; imminent and terrible were the perils that surrounded him; and the consequences of every step that his foot trod, in the rough and precipitous path before him, were not only destined to affect himself as an individual, but to carry weal or woe to thousands and tens of thousands; to change the fate of states and kingdoms, and decide the destiny of generations yet unborn. His crown and station for life, the security and fortune of his friends, the power of recompensing those who served him, the right of chastising the rebel, and of punishing the traitor; the means of restoring peace to his rent and devastated country, the weal and welfare of his whole people, hung trembling in the balance of every instant, and required the exertion of all the energies with which God had blessed his great and powerful mind for the direction of his feeling and generous heart. The exertions of those energies had not been spared by Henry IV. He had lost not a moment; he had neglected not an opportunity; he had done more than mortal frame could well endure; and had taken from the cares of empire not even the time for necessary refreshment and repose. But now that the hurricane had in some measure passed by, that the evil of the hour was accomplished, and that every means which human sagacity could devise had been taken to remedy past misfortunes, and to guard against future perils, he gave way to that longing thirst for communion with his own heart, which the heat of the great storm of difficulties and dangers he had undergone, and the fatigue of mighty exertions, had left behind. Well, well might he think of that vast, dim, misty prospect, the future! Well, well might he look around to see, if beyond the rocks, and shoals, and tempests, which surrounded him, he could perceive no calmer scene, no haven of repose, no gleam of sunshine to light him on over the dark and troubled waters around him! Well, well might he ask his own heart, if he could have courage, and energy, and perseverance sufficient, to dare all the dangers, to bear all the reverses, and again and again breast the waves which had so often dashed him back against the rocks.

Such were his thoughts, such the matter of his contemplation, as, with his eyes now bent on the ground, now raised towards the sky, he walked slowly along one of the alleys of the old park of St. Cloud. But his mind wandered far, and paused for a moment upon many of those collateral associations to which his circumstances and situation gave rise. He thought of the sorrows and cares of kingly lot, of the ingratitude and baseness of mankind, of the hollowness and heartlessness of courts, and of the selfishness and insincerity of many of those who dwelt in them. He remembered the fate of his immediate predecessor; betrayed by those whom he had favoured, driven from his capital, and almost hurled from his throne by the friend and companion of his youth,[3] opposed in arms by those whom his bounty had fed and pampered, and murdered by the representative of an order which he had loaded with benefits and degraded himself to serve. He thought of what might be his own fate; and, judging from all the signs that he saw around him, he argued, that the well of bitterness was but freshly opened for him, and that his hand held a cup of sorrow whereof he was destined to drink to the very last drop.

Then again, as he raised his eyes towards the beautiful planet which was diffusing the flood of her tranquil light over field, and plain, and wood, over armed camp and beleaguered city, as calmly and tranquilly as if nothing but peace, and virtue, and happiness dwelt beneath her beams, his mind reverted to his early days, when he had seen the same effulgent rays pour through the mighty masses of his native mountains, and stream down the lovely valleys in which he had first learned to shoot his boyish arrows at the mark, to cast the light line for the silver trout, or to pursue the swift-footed izzard over the beetling crags: and as he thought of those sweet times and happy hours, how he did long, with the deep yearnings of the disappointed heart, to be able to cast away crown and sceptre, sword and shield, the miseries of high station, the bitter wisdom of manhood, and to sport again, a boy, with the happy carelessness of other years, by the bright waters of the Gave, and amidst the lustrous valleys of Ossau, Argelez, and Pau!

By this time he had nearly reached the end of the alley, where it opened out upon a small lawn, over which, in the neglect of all things that existed during the civil wars, the grass had grown up long and rank; and he was preparing to return and bend his steps towards the chateau, when a light rustling sound amongst the trees caught his ear, and made him draw round his sword belt, till the hilt of his well-tried weapon was within easy reach of his hand.

The next moment the cause of that sound stood before him, at the distance of about ten paces; and the moon afforded quite sufficient light to show the monarch that no fresh peril was near. The form was that of a page, and the next moment Leonard de Monte advanced, and cast himself upon his knee at Henry's feet. "Ha! my friend the page!" cried the king; "I saw you yesterday, as I passed through the village, and recognised you instantly; but had no time to speak. What would you now, good youth?" and as he spoke he extended his hand towards him.

Leonard de Monte raised it to his lips, but still continued kneeling, while he replied, "I crave a boon, sire. You may remember that I once, not many moons since, led you in safety through more than one path of danger; and you promised me then, that if ever I asked you a boon consistent with your honour, you would grant it."

"And so I will, if it be possible," answered Henry; "though I have granted you one boon already without your asking it; I mean that I have kept your secret!" Leonard de Monte started up and drew a step back; but the king continued, "Did you fancy I did not recollect you? Ay! within five minutes after our first meeting: but never mind, and do not fear; speak your boon boldly, and, if it be in my power, I will not say nay; though, to tell the truth, within these three days I have granted so much that I doubt if there be anything left in all France to grant!"

"Mine will not be difficult, sire," replied the page; "it is but this, that you will give me, under your royal hand, an order addressed to all your lieutenants, officers, and seneschals, and to all persons, in short, who hold you dear, to aid and help me with the whole of their power whenever I shall call upon them; to protect me and all who are with me in case of danger, and to give me every kind of information and assistance which I may require for my personal safety."

"You ask a very high and unlimited power of command for a boy of your age!" said the king, laughing; "but I think I may trust you; and yet," he added, in a graver tone, "such authority might be abused."

The boy again advanced and once more bent his knee, "Never by me, sire!" he said; "and to think so for one moment, would be to do me foul injustice. Born in a foreign land, and my own sovereign at least, I cannot offer you allegiance; but I swear with truer intentions than many of those who have vowed faith and service to you within these three days, that I will never use the power I ask from you but for the purposes of safety. I promise it upon my word--a word that was broken; upon my honour--an honour that has never known a stain."

"You are an extraordinary being," said the king, "and I will do what you ask without a doubt; but tell me," he added with a smile, "what name shall I put in this general order? Shall it be Leonard de Monte, or a nobler name?"

"Show me that you do really know me," answered the other, in a gayer tone than he had hitherto used, "by writing the name you would fix upon me in the letter."

"Do you think I have forgotten the conferences of Niort?" demanded Henry; "no, no! I remember them well; and I recollect, too, that when I pressed Madame de Saulnes somewhat hard to tell me what I was really to expect from the court of that day, she told me to ask you, not her; for that your habits were different; you never told a falsehood, and she never told the truth!"

"But I told you nothing!" exclaimed the boy, eagerly.

"No, but you said plainly you would not!" answered the king, "and therefore I trusted you with my life when last I met you; and will trust you to the very utmost now. Come, let us go back to the castle."

As he spoke, he took the hand of the youth, who had again risen; but Leonard de Monte instantly withdrew it, saying, "Perhaps I had better send for the paper when your Majesty has had leisure to finish it."

"Good faith, you must take it now or never!" answered Henry: "but who have we here?"

"'Tis but a page I sent to seek you at the chateau, sire," replied his companion, "while I waited amongst the alleys for his return. I heard your voice, however, as you dismissed your attendants, and followed you hither."

"Ha, St. Real's dwarf, who met us in the wood!" cried the monarch, as the page Bartholo approached, "Pardie! your schemes seem to have been well and deeply laid; and yet there is a mystery which I cannot altogether fathom; though I have been accustomed to deal with those whose trade is deceit, till my eyes, I believe could well nigh penetrate the nether millstone. You must some day let me into the secret of all this."

"Perhaps I may, your Majesty," replied the youth; "that is, I may some time give you the secret of my own conduct. The secret of my present request, sire, is very soon told. I seek but to aid the oppressed, and if your Majesty will listen to the tale, it shall be told as we go along."

"Speak, speak!" replied the king; "we treat as crown to crown, you know; and I must e'en take as much or as little of your confidence as your diplomacy is pleased to offer. Speak! and if I can aid you, count upon my help."

Leonard de Monte made a sign to Bartholo to draw back; and then walking by the side of the king, with the ease of one accustomed to courts and the society of princes, proceeded to tell the tale he had mentioned, in a low voice, the tones of which scarcely reached the dwarf's ear. It was evident, however, that the king soon became interested; sometimes suddenly interrupting the soft melodious tones in which the voice spoke, to ask some rapid question, sometimes abruptly pausing to listen with greater attention, and then resuming his walk towards the chateau. When they had nearly reached the gates, the monarch again turned, exclaiming, "Marry her to St. Real!--Pardie! that was not the consummation I expected."

"And why not, sire?" demanded the boy. "Wherefore should she not be married to St. Real?"

"Why, certainly, I did not suppose you wished to marry her yourself!" replied Henry, laughing. "You are very generous, however."

"Sire, your majesty mistakes me," replied Leonard de Monte in a grave tone,--"mistakes me, my views, wishes, and purposes entirely."

"I perceive I do," replied the king, "and acknowledge you are more a mystery to me than ever. However, this is all irrelevant to the matter of deep interest which you have just told me, and to the shrewd but daring plans which you have formed. On my honour," he added, "you have a bold and generous heart, and, could we but get you to grow a little taller, would make as good a knight as ever couched a lance. But let us speak to the point. You must have my counsel and advice, for I have been somewhat famous for _coups de main_ in my day;--be so good, Sir Dwarf, as to put at least a hundred times your own length between your steps and ours; we shall give you notice when we want your presence at our conference." Thus saying, the king again entered the lateral alley, in which he had first met Leonard de Monte, and dropping his voice so as to confine the sense of his words to the ears for which they were intended, he continued the conversation with rapid and eager interest. Leonard de Monte frequently joined in; and, by the time they reached the end of the walk, it seemed that their plans were fully arranged; for, wheeling suddenly round, they returned with much quicker steps towards the chateau, keeping silence also as they went, till at length, when within a hundred yards of the terrace, Henry burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming--"Ventre Saint Gris, 'twill be worth half a province so to circumvent his slow Highness of Mayenne!"

He then led the way into the palace; and, bidding the dwarf wait in the vestibule, proceeded to a small cabinet in which De Rosny, together with a secretary, was busily engaged in writing the letters before mentioned to the Count de Soissons. The grave and somewhat formal Huguenot raised his eyes with some surprise to the handsome and glittering youth who entered with the king, and to whose face and person he was totally a stranger. Henry, however, without noticing his astonishment, and seemingly entirely occupied by the thoughts to which his late conversation had given rise, led the way on into a chamber beyond, bidding the secretary bring him instantly materials for writing. Then casting himself into a chair, he wrote with a rapid hand, in the first place, the general letter, which the youth had originally demanded, and then another longer epistle, which he folded and sealed with his private signet.

"This," he said, handing the letter to Leonard de Monte, "this is to be your last resource if other means fail; and I do not think, however he may deny our authority, that our worthy cousin will neglect the warning there given him. Nevertheless, try all other means first, and forget not to give me instant information of the result; for even should the beginning be successful, it may require some pains and some power to render the end equally fortunate."

The boy, who had remained standing, took the papers; and kissing the king's hand, with many thanks, retired from his presence. Passing through the vestibule, he beckoned to the page to follow him, and, with a rapid step, proceeded to the outward gates. Then taking his way to the _auberge_, in which St. Real lodged, he entered the room in which the young marquis was seated.

St. Real beckoned him to approach, saying, "I have sent for you twice, Leonard."

"No one told me of it, sir," replied the boy, "and in fact no one could, for I was absent till within this moment. But what are your commands?"

"Come hither," said St. Real, with a smile, "and I will tell you." The page approached; and the young lord marking some sort of impatience in his countenance, for a few minutes played with his expectation as one might do with the eagerness of a child.

At length, however, he asked more gravely----

"Do you remember, on the night of the king's death, you sang me a song, and repeated me a proverb, which, together with your own words, too well applied to myself to have been spoken accidentally? You escaped me at the time; and since, I have not had an opportunity of speaking with you on the subject. But now I must not only demand to know how you have fathomed secrets which I thought confined to my own bosom; but I must also require of you to tell me who and what you are, for your language and your station are at variance, and I must have my doubts satisfied."

"Sir," replied the boy, while first a playful smile, and then a look almost approaching to sorrow, passed over his countenance, "with regard to what I know of yourself, some day I may tell you how I know it, but I cannot tell you now. In regard to what you ask concerning myself, I can give you but one answer. Did you ever hear of beings called fairies, who, for some particular motive of friendship or regard, sometimes come down to do better than mortal service to a chosen race, or a particular individual? If you have heard of such beings--and who has not?--you must know, that the very first question concerning their nature, or their fate, dissolves the spell that binds them to the person they serve, and ends their term of service. Such, sir, is the case with me. So long as you asked me no questions, I was your willing page and humble attendant. Your curiosity has dissolved the spell, and all I can do is, to bid you farewell, and to tell you, that you will never see Leonard de Monte more."

Thus saying, he again darted out of the room, leaving St. Real uncertain whether he spoke in jest or earnest. Determined, however, to know more, the young nobleman started up, and opened the door, in order to call the gay youth back, and question him farther. Bartholo the dwarf was seated in the ante-room, together with another attendant; and St. Real bade him instantly follow the page, and bring him back. The dwarf stared for a moment, as if in astonishment at the command; and then replied, that he knew not where to find Leonard, for that he had seen him enter the room from which the young lord had just come, but had not seen him return. The other attendant was in the same story, and St. Real caused the boy to be sought for in vain.

The next morning, however, a greater defection was found amongst his followers, which satisfactorily accounted to St. Real for the magical disappearance of his page on the preceding night. The dwarf Bartholo, and three of his ordinary attendants, were nowhere to be heard of; but, by this time, the tampering of the Leaguers with every class of persons in the royal camp was so great and notorious, that St. Real was not at all surprised to find that five of his followers had been induced to quit his service. The loss of Leonard de Monte, however, he felt more than he could have anticipated from the short time the youth had been in his service, and from the slightness of the duties required at his hands; but, from the first moment he had seen him, the young lord of St. Real had conceived an interest in his page which every hour had increased. During his first deep sorrow for the loss of his father, he had found the boy's attentions so soothing and well judged, his sympathy apparently so deep and true, his few words of consolation so mingling together sense and feeling, that he felt gratitude towards him as well as regard; but there was something more than all this. With all the boy's occasional boldness and daring, there was blended a softness and a gentleness, which, together with the apparent weakness of his slight frame, and a few traits of timidity, approaching to cowardice, rendered him an object of that tender care which always endears those in whose behalf it is exercised. Thus, when St. Real found that the youth had really left him, though he felt some slight degree of anger at a desertion which he was conscious he had not deserved, he experienced no small desire to know the former, and guide the future fate of Leonard de Monte.

Events, however, calling for frequent and vigorous exertion, were multiplying so rapidly round his path, that he had but little time to give to matters of more remote interest. He occasionally thought of the youth, it is true, but more often grieved over the conduct of his cousin, and never ceased to ponder, with bitterness of heart, on the fate of Eugenie de Menancourt, and on his own feelings towards her. But still every hour brought some claim upon his attention of a different kind; and in the retreat of the royal army, which began two days after his page had left him, he had scarcely time for any other sensations than the anxiety and foresight attendant upon withdrawing a small and ill-supplied body of men from the presence of a powerful adversary.

It was in the midst of the arrangements incident to such a retreat, that, at the first halting place on the march, Monsieur de Sancy came into the small room in which St. Real was seated at Mantes, exclaiming--"I have news for you, Monsieur de St. Real! Your cousin has already secured the recompense at which he aimed in quitting us. He was married last night to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, the rich heiress of Maine. I have it from one who was in Paris at the time."

St. Real made no reply; but he turned so deadly pale, that De Sancy could not but observe that something had gone amiss, and instantly strove to turn the conversation into another channel.