CHAPTER XXII.

It was toward that hour in the evening, at which the rays of twilight that linger behind the rest of the lustrous retinue of day are called away from the sky, and our hemisphere is given over to the absolute rule of night--it was at that hour, too, which is more important, when the joyous denizens of the gay capital of France, after having sunned themselves through the long afternoon of a summer's day in the gardens and highways, were in those times wont to retire each to his individual home, to enjoy such dainties as the bounty of nature and the skill of his cook had prepared for the last meal of the evening. It was about nine o'clock, then, on a night in August, when, the streets of Paris being nearly deserted by every one else, a strong troop of horsemen assembled in the little square, nearly opposite to the dwelling of Eugenie de Menancourt.

The gentleman who was at their head, springing to the ground, advanced to the door; and after asking a few questions of one of the servants, entered the court. Shortly afterwards the carriage of Madame de Montpensier rolled heavily up; and that fair dame herself, with one or two ladies in her train, descended therefrom and mounted the great staircase. Then, after a pause of five minutes, the Duke of Mayenne appeared on horseback, with his habiliments somewhat dusty, as if unchanged since his return from some long expedition, and accompanied by a numerous train of officers and attendants. Dismounting from his horse, the Duke dismissed at once the principal part of his suite; only retaining two or three of the inferior attendants who remained below at the gate, while he himself, with a slow and seemingly unwilling step, entered the house.

The servant who marshalled the Duke on his way to the saloon did not seem to look upon him with the best-satisfied countenance in the world; and the faces of the three or four attendants who had been permitted to remain with the young heiress of Menancourt after their old lord's death, and who now appeared in the lobbies and ante-chambers, seemed full not only of grief, but of a sort of sullen determination, which, had their numbers been greater, might have broken out at once in a more serious manner.

Mayenne, however, marked them not, but mounted the stairs and entered the saloon; and certainly, if his heart revolted at the part he was about to act, the scene which now presented itself to his eyes was not calculated to reconcile him to the proceeding.

Standing at one of the farther windows, and looking out into the dark street, where he certainly could see nothing to engage his attention, was the Count d'Aubin, while seated at a table, on which stood two or three lighted tapers, was the unhappy Eugenie de Menancourt. Her dress was still deep mourning; and her eyes gave evident tokens of having shed late and bitter tears: but she was now calm; and fixing her gaze upon vacancy, seemed totally inattentive to the words which Madame de Montpensier and her ladies, who stood round her, were pouring upon her dull unheeding ear.

"We cannot persuade her to change her dress, Charles," said the Duchess, pointing to the mourning in which Eugenie was clothed.

"Never mind, never mind!" replied the Prince, impatiently; "why tease her more than necessary? Let her wear what dress she will!"

"Nay, Charles, but it is ominous," cried the Duchess; "pray speak to her about it."

"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," said Mayenne, in a grave but not unkind tone, "let me persuade you to change this garb, if it be but for this night. It is unusual and ungracious to go to the marriage altar in the robe of mourning, as if you were following some friend to the grave."

Eugenie had started at his voice, and now looking up she replied, "Were I going willingly to the marriage altar, my Lord Duke, I would change my garb; but what robe, but the robe of mourning, would you have me wear, when you are about to drag me to a fate, in comparison with which the grave itself were happiness. But, my Lord, you mistake me. If, as I am told, marriage must depend upon consent, and that none other is legal, my consent shall never be given to a union with the Count d'Aubin."

"I am sorry to say, Madame," replied Mayenne, "that imperative motives of state necessity compel me--"

Mayenne was suddenly interrupted; for, unperceived by himself, the few servants and retainers of the old Count de Menancourt, who had, as we have said, been suffered to remain with their young mistress, had glided into the room one after the other, and stood ranged across the door; and while the Duke was speaking, the principal officer of the unhappy girl's household, indignant at the oppression exercised towards the daughter of his beloved lord, strode forward and boldly confronted Mayenne, as if he had been his equal. "My Lord Duke," he said, "we will have none of this! Our young lady shall be free to give her hand to whom she likes; and if you drag her to the altar against her will, it shall be over our dead bodies! Nay, frown not on me, Count d'Aubin. I have seen more stricken fields than you are years of age; and a great man when he is doing a wicked thing is less than a little one. But all I have to say is, that though we be but few, we will die sooner than see our lady ill-used. Stop him in the way, Martin," he continued, speaking to his companions as he perceived the Count d'Aubin striding towards the door. "We have them here; but two against us seven; and though, doubtless, we shall be hanged for it after, we can, by one means, make sure that Mademoiselle shall never be forced to marry a Count d'Aubin!"

Rage and fury had evidently taken possession of D'Aubin; but Mayenne, on the contrary, listened calmly and tranquilly, with a slight smile curling his lip, till the man had done speaking; then, pointing to the window, he said, "Do me the favour, Monsieur d'Aubin, to call up the guard. By the window, by the window, D'Aubin!"

"Lock the door, Martin," exclaimed the old attendant, as a comment upon Mayenne's words; "we can settle the matter here before the guard comes. Out with your swords, my men, and upon them!"

But Eugenie interposed: "No, no! my friends," she cried, rising; "no, no! blood shall never be spilt on my account. Quit the room, I beseech, I command you, and let them have their will, however iniquitous that will may be. Only remember, that whatever may be said, or whatever may be done, I do to the last protest, that I do not, and that I will not, wed the Count d'Aubin; and though they may drag me to the altar, I am not, and never shall consider myself, his wife:--leave me, I beseech you," she added, seeing some hesitation on the part of her attendants; "leave me, if you would not increase my sorrow," and sinking down into her chair, she burst once more into a flood of tears; while the attendants, still muttering and eyeing Mayenne and his companion with somewhat doubtful glances, slowly and sullenly quitted the apartment.

"Really, Monsieur d'Aubin," said Mayenne, in a low voice, "this should not go forward!"

"Your promise, my Lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, drily.

"Well, well," said Mayenne, shrugging his shoulders; and then producing a roll of parchment, he laid it on the table before Eugenie de Menancourt, whose weeping eyes were still covered with her hands, and said, "Mademoiselle de Menancourt, I am compelled by circumstances, much against my inclination, to request your signature to this contract of marriage between yourself and the Count d'Aubin."

"Never!" answered Eugenie, distinctly; "never!"

Mayenne looked towards the Count d'Aubin, who said, in a low and hurried tone, "Never mind the contract, my Lord! let us get over the ceremony in the chapel. That will be sufficient. Marriage is a sacrament, you know, and that once past, it cannot be shaken off."

Mayenne paused for a moment, as if scarcely able to master the reluctance which struggled in his bosom against the fulfilment of his promise to the Count d'Aubin. "Where is Father Herbert?" he asked at last; "Catherine, did you not bring him with you?"

"He is waiting us in the chapel by this time," replied Madame de Montpensier: "some one gave him a note just as we were in the court, and he said he would follow instantly, and join us below."

"Send down and see, Monsieur le Comte," said Mayenne: "you had better call up some of the attendants, by means of that window," he added, "for we may be troubled by these pugnacious peasants again; and, indeed, I must take care that they be looked to till this business be blown over and forgotten. You are well aware," he continued, in a low tone, speaking to D'Aubin, "that what we are doing is contrary to the law."

"I will take my share of the responsibility," replied the Count, sharply; "and for your part, my Lord, if you cannot manage a parliament which is wholly devoted to you, I am afraid you will never be able to manage a kingdom, which is more than one half devoted to another." Thus speaking, he approached the open window, and, in a few words, directed some of the persons below to come up; but almost instantly turned to Mayenne, saying, "I suppose that is your confessor just arrived--at least I hear some one inquiring for you in great haste apparently."

Almost as he spoke, the door opened, and the Chevalier d'Aumale entered the saloon, followed by a person, who was evidently to be distinguished as a priest, both by his tonsure and robe, but upon whom Mayenne and his sister gazed as a stranger. "I beg your highness's pardon for intruding," said Aumale; "but two things have occurred which called upon me to wave ceremony. After leaving you, I rode on direct to your hotel, where I found the whole world in confusion in consequence of that insolent villain, Bussy le Clerc, having caused your own confessor to be arrested by a party of his people within a hundred yards of your dwelling, upon the pretence of his favouring the Huguenots--your own confessor favouring the Huguenots!"

"I will hang that pitiful demagogue to one of the spouts in the chatelet before many weeks are over!" said Mayenne, sternly; "but why did you not follow and release the good father. Monsieur d'Aumale?" he continued.

"Because, just at that moment," answered the Chevalier, "this reverend gentleman trotted up on his mule, begging instant audience of you on urgent business from his highness the Prince of Parma."

"Indeed! indeed!" exclaimed Mayenne; "what is your business with me, reverend sir? I can but ill attend to it at this moment, unless it be important indeed."

"My business is to deliver that despatch, my son," replied the priest, placing in the hands of the Duke a sealed paper, which he instantly tore open and read.

"Most warlike and joyful news, by a most peaceful messenger!" exclaimed Mayenne. "Spain sends us a thousand men, Aumale, within three days! Most joyful news, indeed! and not the less acceptable from being conveyed to us by a minister of our holy religion."

"Glad am I to hear you say so, my noble and princely son," answered the priest; "for his Highness of Parma, when he over persuaded me to quit my little flock at Houdaincourt, because he fancied a cassoc would pass more safely with the tidings than a buff belt, did mention something about a vacant stall in the cathedral church of Cambray, and the great love and reverence of our father, the Bishop, for your Highness, and all your illustrious family."

"Well, well, your good service, father, in the cause of the faith shall not go without reward," replied Mayenne; "but you are just come in time to do us another good service. Have you any objection to read the marriage service here, and win a rich benefice for your pains?"

Eugenie had heard everything that passed, as if in a troubled dream; and when the Chevalier d'Aumale had related the arrest of the confessor, a momentary hope of reprieve had crossed her mind. The last words of Mayenne, however, and the ready assent of the priest, instantly extinguished it. The next moment it revived again, as she heard the somewhat strangely chosen missive of the Prince of Parma observe, "But the lady seems to be weeping! what is the cause of that?" and a vague purpose of beseeching him not to join in the oppression which was exercised towards her entered her thoughts. Ere she could execute such a design, however, Mayenne, in a low voice, directed the Count d'Aubin to take the priest out of the room, and explain to him, as he thought best, the circumstances of the case, promising him what reward he judged right to stop all troublesome inquiries.

As the door opened and closed, Eugenie looked fearfully around; and feeling that the last hope of moving any one to pity lay in the temporary absence of him whom she regarded as her most determined persecutor, she rose, intending to cast herself at the knees of Mayenne, and to beseech him, by all that was noble and chivalrous in his nature, to become her protector against the violence of others, rather than to join in oppressing her himself. During the last two days, however, she had undergone more mental suffering than her corporeal frame could endure. The efforts of the last few minutes had poured the drops of overflowing into the cup; and though by great exertion she staggered to the spot, where Mayenne remained standing, after speaking to the Count d'Aubin, she could not utter a word, but fell fainting at his feet. At the same moment D'Aubin returned; and there was a slight interval of confusion and uncertainty, some calling for water and essences, some proposing to bear her to her own apartment. But D'Aubin interfered. "Let us seize the present moment," he said, "to carry her to the chapel, where we can find means of restoring animation. One great difficulty will then be got over, and we can proceed with the ceremony at once."

"I have often heard," said Madame de Montpensier, "that yours is a determined nature, Monsieur d'Aubin, but I did not know how determined till to-night."

Without noticing the sneer by any reply, D'Aubin raised the senseless form of Eugenie de Menancourt in his arms, and followed by the rest, bore her down one flight of stairs to the chapel, which, as usual in many of the principal hotels of Paris at that time, was attached to the dwelling, and independent of the parochial clergy. During his short absence, the Count had taken care that his own followers and those of Mayenne should clear that part of the house of the attendants of the unhappy object of his persecution, so that, by the way, he met with neither opposition nor inquiry. The chapel was reached, and all was found prepared, with the priest standing at the altar.

The situation of Eugenie instantly called his attention, however, and he exclaimed, "I cannot go on till the lady has recovered."

"Nobody wishes you, sir priest," exclaimed D'Aubin, sharply. "Some one bring water; quick!"

This command was rendered unnecessary, however; for by this time Eugenie was beginning to regain that miserable consciousness of the evils that surrounded her, from which even temporary insensibility had been a relief. Madame de Montpensier raised her head; Mayenne, in broken and scarcely intelligible terms, endeavoured to speak a few words of comfort; and, being lifted up before the altar, the vain ceremony of her marriage with the Count d'Aubin was begun by the priest, in hurried and not very distinct tones.

Rallying all her powers for one last effort, Eugenie freed herself from the hands of those who supported her, and once more distinctly and firmly protested her dissent from the idle rite which they were performing. Again overpowered, however, she sank upon her knees, the priest went on, and ere she well knew what past, the fatal ring was upon her finger.

Snatching it off instantly, however, she cast it down upon the floor of the chapel, and again fell back fainting into the arms of Madame de Montpensier.

"See her carried back to her own apartments, poor girl!" cried Mayenne; "and do you, Catherine, stay with her awhile, and comfort her."

"Let us leave her with her own people, Charles," answered Madame de Montpensier, comprehending better than her brother the nature of the only solace that one in the situation of Eugenie de Menancourt could receive. "We are all comparatively strangers to her; and the best comfort in time of sorrow, to a woman's heart at least, is some familiar and long-remembered face. Will you call some of her own people, Monsieur le Comte d'Aubin?"

It was not, perhaps, from any unnatural hardness of heart that D'Aubin was mortified by the tone of commiseration in which both Mayenne and his sister spoke of Eugenie de Menancourt; but he felt, and could not help feeling, that their pity for the object of his persecution was a direct condemnation of himself. He believed also, and perhaps not erroneously, that Madame de Montpensier, on various accounts, experienced a degree of pleasure in rendering every particular of the scene, in which he was so principal an actor, as painful to him as possible; but he was a great deal too deeply skilled in the world's ways not to struggle to prevent those feelings and suspicions from appearing, either in an angry word, or in any attempt to make light of the sorrows he had caused. Sending for some of Eugenie's attendants, therefore, he gave her over into their hands; directing them, in a grave and earnest tone, and with the air of one who now had a right to command, to bear her up to her usual apartments slowly and gently, and use instant means to recall her to consciousness. "Perhaps, madame," he added, turning to the Duchess, "you would at least watch the applications of remedies to promote her recovery, as these good people may be more affectionate than skilful."

"I will do so with pleasure, Monsieur le Comte," replied Madame de Montpensier; "but I will retire as soon as I perceive that animation is returning; for I am sure the sight of any one who has mingled in the horrible scenes through which the unhappy girl has just passed will, for a long fill her with terror and abhorrence."

D'Aubin bit his lip, but made no reply; and Madame de Montpensier in silence followed the attendants, who bore the insensible form of their young mistress out of the chapel.

"And now, Monsieur le Comte," said Mayenne, "it must be time, I think, for you to put your foot in the stirrup, and ride to make those preparations which we spoke of yesterday."

"A few moments more, my good lord," replied D'Aubin, with a cynical smile. "Your Highness has so scrupulously fulfilled your part of the engagement, that you need be under no fear lest I should fail in mine. But ere I go, I must ask this worthy priest to give me a regular certification of my marriage with Eugenie de Menancourt, otherwise the retainers of her house may refuse to acknowledge the authority which it is so necessary for the interests of your Highness that I should be fully enabled to exercise."

"You are right," replied Mayenne, calmly. "Be so good, reverend father, to draw up the document required. The names are, Philip Count d'Aubin, and Eugenie Lady of Menancourt and of Beaumont en Maine."

In the little room which answered the purpose of a sacristy, materials for writing were soon procured, and the priest sat down to prepare the certification which was to place D'Aubin in possession of the property he had so unjustly acquired.

"You are somewhat slow, sir priest," said the haughty noble, perceiving that every now and then he paused, and seemed to think of what he should say next; "you are somewhat slow, as if you had never drawn a certificate before."

"I generally do leave it to the sacristan," replied the priest, mildly: "but that was not what made me hesitate, my son. I pondered whether I should insert that the marriage was against the lady's will;" and a sly, though half-suppressed smile played about his lips, and put D'Aubin to silence.

Mayenne however replied: "No, no, good father," he said; "make it as brief and as simple as possible. We need no comments."

The priest accordingly concluded his task; and D'Aubin taking the certificate, glanced his eye hastily over its contents, and then turning to Mayenne, he said, "Now, my lord, I make all speed to Maine, leaving my bride in your hands, and trusting to find on my return, that during my absence, you have used more eloquence in my favour, than you have thought fit to do to-night in my presence."

"I will do all that I can, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied Mayenne, with calm dignity, "to efface from her mind the impression which this night must have left, to overcome objections founded on former conduct, of which I know nothing; and to reconcile her to her fate, which she does not at all appear to consider the less bitter because it is inevitable."

Both the Count d'Aubin and the Duke of Mayenne felt that, under existing circumstances, the fewer words that passed between them the less was likely to be the diminution of their friendship. Each had in a considerable degree a hold over the other; for D'Aubin, possessing an extended right of command over the lands of Eugenie de Menancourt, was too powerful to be alienated from the League; and yet, on the other hand, retaining possession of the person of Eugenie de Menancourt, Mayenne held D'Aubin to his faction, by a bond that it would have been dangerous for him to break. D'Aubin, therefore, curbed the anger which during the whole evening had been gathering in his bosom, and merely bowing in reply to the last words of the Duke, quitted the chapel, mounted his horse, and galloped off, followed by his attendants.

"And now, my good father," said Mayenne, "return with me to the Hotel de Guise, and we will speak over this letter from the Prince of Parma, and his promise regarding the stall in Cambray."

"May it please your Highness," replied the priest, "as you are on horseback and I am on foot--for I left my mule at the door of your hotel--I will follow you with all speed, if you will leave some one to show me the way, for I cannot boast much acquaintance with the topography of this vast and labyrinth-like city."

"Well, well, so be it," replied Mayenne. "But now, I think of it, my sister, the Duchess of Montpensier--that lady, who was here just now," he added, "will bring you with her in her coach. It will hold ten with ease, and she has but four ladies with her. Wait here, and I will tell some of the attendants to let you know when she comes down."

The priest bowed his head, and Mayenne departing, left a message for his sister, and rode back to the Hotel do Guise. Not long after the carriage of Madame de Montpensier rolled into the court, and the Duchess instantly sought her brother's cabinet.

"One of your grooms told me, Charles," she said, "that I was to bring the priest with me."

"Certainly," replied the Duke. "Have you not done so?"

"No," she answered, "I have not, because I could not find him. We sought everywhere, in the chapel and the sacristy, and over all the lower part of the house; but he had evidently gone away, and left the door of the chapel open behind him."

"The foolish man has mistaken me, then," said Mayenne; "but it matters not. He will not be long in finding me out, for he has not got his reward for either of the two services he has rendered to-night; and if I may judge by his face, he is not a man to perform either the one or the other for the love of God. So we shall hear of him ere half an hour be over, depend upon it." And he turned the conversation to the distressing scene in which he had so unwillingly played a part.

In regard to the priest, however, Mayenne was mistaken. The night passed over without his appearance; and the following morning, as the Duke was making inquiries concerning him, he was interrupted by news of a different nature, in regard to which we must give some previous explanation.