CHAPTER XXIII.

When Eugenie de Menancourt, slowly and painfully, returned to consciousness of life and sorrow, she found herself in the saloon in which she usually sat, and in the arms of her own women. Gazing fearfully around, she sought to discover where the forms of those who so lately surrounded her were now concealed; and as she satisfied herself that there was no one present but her own attendants, her bewildered imagination almost led her to hope, that the terrible scenes she had gone through were nothing but the phantasms of some horrible dream. Gradually, however, memory recalled every circumstance with too painful a degree of accuracy to admit of her indulging any longer in such a happy delusion; and now, unrestrained by the presence of any but those whom she knew and loved, she gave way to all the bitter sorrow that swelled her heart, and burst into a long and silent flood of tears. The tears seemed to relieve her; but the words which one of her young attendants whispered in her ear tended more than all to afford consolation, and to revive almost extinguished hope.

"Do not weep so bitterly, lady, do not weep so bitterly," said the girl. "He is gone, and may not return for months!"

"Who is gone?" exclaimed Eugenie, starting up, and hurriedly wiping the tears from her eyes, that she might gaze the more intently upon the speaker. "Who is gone? Who may not return for months?"

"The Count d'Aubin, lady," replied the girl. "Madame de Montpensier bade me tell you so, and gave me this note to be delivered to you, when you were well enough to read it."

"Give it to me--give it to me now," cried Eugenie; and tearing it open, she held it to the light, gazing with eager eyes upon the contents. It was very brief, but almost every word spoke comfort, for they went to inform her that the Count d'Aubin, on business of importance, had been obliged to set off for Maine; that the period of his return was not decided, but that it certainly could not take place before the end of the month, while it might be delayed longer; and though the conclusion of the letter went to say, that both the Duke of Mayenne and Madame de Montpensier trusted that, ere the Count's return, Mademoiselle de Menancourt would have made up her mind to receive him as her husband, and to sign the formal contract of marriage, yet the intelligence of his absence was a reprieve; and imagination fondly clinging to the uncertainty of the future, at once renewed hope in her bosom.

With hope came back the spirit of exertion which had been crushed beneath despair. Dropping the note upon the table, as the lightning progress of thought ran on in an instant from one object to another, she clasped her hands, exclaiming, "Where, where! can Beatrice of Ferrara be? She must be ill, or she would have come to me, I am sure."

"Shall we send, and see, lady?" demanded one of the women.

"Yes, yes! do so," replied Eugenie, "and leave me alone for half an hour; I would fain think--I would fain consider what is best to be done! I am better, indeed I am better now," she added, seeing the women look at her with some hesitation. "Stay in the ante-room, and I will call, if I want you."

The women obeyed; and Eugenie, leaning on the table, covered her eyes with her hands, and remained endeavouring to reduce, to some definite and feasible plan, the vague hopes of relief which she had again conceived. But the effects of the agitation she had suffered still remained, and she found it impossible to fix her thoughts upon the future, so perseveringly did they wander back to the past.

In this state, she had continued about five or ten minutes, when the sound of creaking hinges made her raise her eyes. The door which led into the ante-room was shut, as well as that which gave egress, at once, upon the staircase; but on the other side of the room there was another door, which communicated with an unoccupied part of the house, looking into a back street which led away towards the Faubourg St. Antoine; and when Eugenie turned her eyes in that direction, she started up with surprise, and some degree of alarm, on perceiving it gently and slowly drawn back. Remembering, however, that her attendants were in the ante-room, she paused, to see what would be the result, suppressing the exclamation which had nearly burst from her lips.

The sight that the open door presented, when farther drawn back, was certainly one which in no degree diminished her surprise, but at the same time added nothing to her alarm; for the person who opened it was alone; nor was he one whose appearance was calculated to inspire terror. It was the figure of a youth, apparently not more than fifteen years of age, that now presented itself, carrying a lamp in one hand, and unclosing the door with the other. His dress was of the gay and splendid costume of the court of Henry III. and from under his high-crowned beaver, and its manifold ostrich feathers, the bright and glossy curls of his coal-black hair fell round as handsome a face as ever was beheld. A large cloak was wrapped about his arm, and riding-boots pushed down to the ankles, as was then customary, seemed to indicate that he either came from or was bound upon a journey; and as Eugenie gazed upon him, she concluded at once that he was some page attached to the Count d'Aubin, who, sent with some message or letter ere his lord's departure, had either by accident or design passed by that part of the dwelling which was for the time out of use. As soon as this conviction struck her, she rose to call in her women, but the youth held up his hand with a gesture which was easily interpreted into an entreaty to be silent; and Eugenie again paused, saying in a low tone, "What do you seek here, sir? Do not advance, or I must call my servants!"

The youth, however, did still advance, but with an air of deprecation and gentleness, that took away all fear; and when, within a step, he placed the lamp on the table, and bent one knee to the ground, Eugenie gazed upon him with doubt and astonishment; but a confused and uncertain hope began to take possession of her mind, as the boy raised her hand to his lips, and then, as he glided his arms round her waist, and, with the jetty curls of his hair mingling with her light-brown locks, kissed her tenderly on either cheek, the fair girl's face dropped upon her new companion's shoulder, and with a flood of tears she exclaimed, "Oh! Beatrice, Beatrice! why did you not come sooner?"

"I did come sooner," replied Beatrice of Ferrara--or Leonard de Monte, as the reader will,--"I did come sooner, my dear Eugenie. I did come sooner! and have been in these apartments all the evening, directing everything that has passed in all this sad scene, though those who were actors therein knew nothing of the prompter. I could not come to console you, my Eugenie, nor to give you one word of comfort and assurance, lest I should be discovered by all the spies and messengers who were going to and fro about this house during the whole of yesterday; but I arranged the only means of saving you, and, making my way into the house by the back street, watched till I saw my plan executed, and then came to bear you away to a place of greater security."

"But, alas, alas! your plan has failed," replied Eugenie. "The fatal ring has been upon my finger."

"Fear not! fear not!" replied Beatrice, with a smile. "That ring binds you to nothing, Eugenie. Such a marriage is lawful in no land under the sun; and I took care that there should be plenty of witnesses to prove, hereafter, that your consent was refused to the last."

"I know," replied Eugenie, "I know that such a marriage cannot be legal; and I would sooner die than ever render it so. But still, Beatrice, still a ceremony has taken place; and though I will not be his wife, yet I can never, never feel myself free again!"

"Yes, yes, you can," replied Beatrice, with one of her gay smiles; "yes, you can be free as ever to give this fair hand to any one in the wide world you choose."

Eugenie shook her head; but Beatrice drew her arms closer around her, saying, "Well, well, you little infidel, if you will not believe me without farther proof, hear the secret of it all--but I dare not speak it aloud, lest the very spirits of the air should catch it, ere the poor man get back to the Huguenot camp; for they would burn him alive in the Place de Greve, if they caught him; and the two thousand pistoles which bribed him to the adventure would be but cold comfort in the midst of the flames;" and putting her lips close to Eugenie's ear, she whispered one or two words in a tone so low, that Mademoiselle de Menancourt herself might rather be said to divine their meaning than to hear them distinctly. That she understood them fully, however, was evident; for the light of joy instantly broke over her countenance; and clasping her hands together, while she raised her eyes towards heaven, she exclaimed, "Then I am saved indeed!"

At that moment, the door from the ante-room suddenly opened, and Beatrice started up from the position in which she had remained ever since her first entrance into the room, while Eugenie turned a terrified glance towards the door. It was only one of her women, however, who entered; and, contrary to her mistress's expectations, she evinced no surprise at the sight of Beatrice of Ferrara, disguised in the manner we have described.

"She knows it all, Eugenie," said Beatrice, "for it was by her means I obtained admission."

"I suppose, madam," said the waiting-woman, with a smile, "that I need scarcely tell you that Jean Baptiste has returned, with the news that Mademoiselle de Ferrara is still absent from home, and is not expected for many days."

"But why did you not tell me, Caroline," demanded Eugenie, "that she was here? It would have saved me many a miserable moment. If I had known that she was in this house, I should never have lost hope that all would go right."

"But it was impossible to tell you, lady," replied the waiting-woman; "for the Duchess de Montpensier sent us all away; and after she was gone, I could not say what I knew, because your other women were with you."

"Well, well," said Beatrice, "we have matters of more importance to think of now, Eugenie: we will keep all explanations for an aftertime, when you and I, in some little cottage, far away from these scenes of strife, want conversation to pass away the hours till the storm has worked itself out, and the sky is once more clear. And now, sweet sister of my heart, call up all your courage, summon all your resolution, for we must lose no time, but make the best of our way out of this hateful city. Ere to-morrow morning be two hours' old, Mayenne will have discovered that he has been cheated; and though Philip d'Aubin be by that time beyond recall, his Highness the lieutenant-general, and the Holy League, even if they find not out all the windings of our plot, will take such measures for your security, that all after efforts will be vain."

"Oh! I will do anything! I will fly anywhere!" replied Eugenie. "I have courage, I have resolution for any effort. The worst that can befall me is death; and I would rather die a thousand times than be the bride of Philip d'Aubin."

Beatrice smiled, half sorrowfully, half playfully. "He is not reputed, my fair Eugenie," she said, "to be so very hateful, as you seem to think."

Eugenie blushed deeply, pained to believe that her undisguised abhorrence of the Count d'Aubin might have wounded the feelings of one whom she loved so much as Beatrice of Ferrara--one who, she well knew, was not indifferent to the man whom she herself so deeply detested. "I mean not to say that he is so hateful in himself, Beatrice," she replied; "but has not he given me good reason to hate him? Perhaps I might have loved him, too, if--"

"If you had not loved another," interrupted Beatrice, with a smile. "But we have not time for all that either," she added; "and will talk of it, too, another day. At this moment we have other things on hand. You, my good Caroline, bring your mistress some refreshments quickly; but take care that no one else enters while you are gone."

"Indeed, Beatrice, I need no refreshment," said Eugenie, rising. "Joy at my deliverance, and hope for the future, will give me strength and support to go any length of way; and I am ready, quite ready, to set out directly."

Beatrice smiled. "I will command to-day," she said; "Caroline, do as I bid you! Alas, my poor Eugenie, you have much to do, ere you can set out, for the danger lies at our threshold; and when once I have led you twenty yards in safety from the door of this house, I shall think the battle half won at least."

"What, then, is it that you fear?" demanded Eugenie, eagerly.

"Delay, above all things!" answered Beatrice; "for though, I trust, our plot has been too well laid to be discovered immediately, yet there is always danger where there is anything concealed. First, then, Eugenie, you must change your dress, and take such a one as will most completely disguise you, should you be sought for more speedily than we suppose."

"I know not where to find any dress but my own," replied Eugenie. "What dress would you have me to take, Beatrice?--Though, now I think of it," she added suddenly; "one of my maids has her own country costume with her,--a white petticoat, and a red open gown above it, with----"

"Impossible! impossible!" exclaimed Beatrice. "It would betray you at once. Remember, my dear Eugenie, that I go with you; and though in the streets of Paris they might but think that the gay page was deceiving the country girl with a tale of love, that would not do beyond the gates. I once thought of a nun's dress for you, which would do very well in the city also; but one must care for other things than those of the mere present; and recollect that if I, dressed as a bold youth, and you, dressed as a pretty nun, were seen getting into either coach or litter together, we should have the ecclesiastical officers at our heels. No, no, Eugenie! we must have some dress for you which will neither attract attention in the city, nor beyond the walls; which will tell its own tale, and, by sparing all inquiries, conceal our sex and character without an effort."

"Oh, not a man's dress!" exclaimed Eugenie, imploringly.

"None other, indeed!" answered Beatrice, smiling; "but knowing the timid shyness of that heart which pretends to be so bold, I have chosen one for you, Eugenie, which will hide your person as effectually as the fullest robe that ever woman wore, which will accord with a smooth cheek and a demure look, and which will yet admit of your travelling in company with a bold page. Come and see! for I have brought it here along with me."

Thus saying, Beatrice of Ferrara took her hand, and led her through the same passage by which she herself had entered, to a room wherein she had lain concealed during the time that the other apartments were occupied by the party assembled for that sad bridal. There, on one of the old oaken chairs, lay the robes of a young abbé in complete costume; not such as that costume appeared in after years, when the gradual blending of the dress of different orders permitted the aspirants to ecclesiastical stations to assume habiliments only distinguished from those of the laity by colour; but full, ample, and flowing, and offering to Eugenie that modest concealment for her fair form, to which even she, under existing circumstances, could not object. Deeply sensible of the kind and delicate appreciation of all her feelings, which Beatrice--whose wilder and more daring nature scoffed at such scruples in her own instance--had displayed in this choice of her disguise, Eugenie was eagerly thanking her for all her consideration; but her friend cut her short, to hasten her new and unusual toilet, taking care, however, as indeed she had hitherto done, to avoid, even by any eager hurry, alarming her more timid companion in the outset of their perilous undertaking.

The dress, chosen by an experienced eye, fitted admirably in every respect, with the exception of the shoes, which were far too large for Eugenie's small feet. The robe, however, was sufficiently long to conceal this defect, in a great degree; and, when all was complete, Beatrice gazed over the changed appearance of her fair friend with a smile of gay satisfaction.

"Well, Eugenie," she exclaimed, "certainly you are the prettiest little abbé that ever was seen; but, nevertheless, you will do admirably. Only remember not to uncover your head, for your ringlets will betray you. See how I manage mine! I can pull off my hat without fear; cannot you do the same? Only cut off those two lower curls at the side; they will grow again in a month."

"I will cut them off altogether, with all my heart," answered Eugenie. But her friend assured her that such a sacrifice of her bright locks was not necessary; and showing her how she herself contrived to conceal in one mass her own profusion of dark hair, she soon put that of Mademoiselle de Menancourt into the same form, but still bade her uncover her head as little as possible, lest the want of all tonsure should call attention, and betray her disguise.

"And now, Eugenie, take some refreshment," said Beatrice; "meat to give you strength,--for you may have far to walk ere morning--and wine to give you courage; for, after all, I doubt the resolution of that little heart; and depend upon it, that the only sure means of carrying through a great undertaking is to begin boldly, and go on without stopping. But I hear your girl, Caroline, in the other room; she had better bring the refreshments in here, lest we should be interrupted."

Beatrice, accordingly, called the maid in; and not small was the girl's astonishment to behold the transformation that had taken place in the person of her mistress during her short absence. Beatrice, however, suffered no exclamations; and while Eugenie, whose appetite had not been increased by all the events of the night, took what refreshment she could, her friend proceeded to give directions to the _suivante_ concerning the course that was to be pursued after her mistress's departure.

"In case any one returns to the house to-night," she said, "seeking the priest, all you have to reply is, that you know nothing about him, and that your mistress is in her own chamber in deep grief. I do not think, however, that any one will come; and, in that case, by eight o'clock to-morrow--for Mayenne does not rise before--go yourself to Madame de Montpensier, and with a grave and serious face ask to see your mistress, adding, before she can answer you that you have brought her such apparel as she may stand in need of for the morning. Mind, you must not move a muscle of your face! She will instantly be all astonishment, and ask if you are mad; then tell her that, about this hour to-night, a gay page and a young abbé came here saying, that they brought a letter from her Highness, and took your mistress away with them, as if to the Hotel de Guise, to which place you were directed to bring various things the next morning. Will not that do Eugenie?" she continued, turning to her friend, "and am I not fit to be a general of reitters?"

Eugenie smiled, but replied, "Suppose they do not believe her, Beatrice, and send to examine the other servants?"

"Oh! I am prepared for all that," replied Beatrice. "As soon as ever we are gone, send the women to bed, good Caroline, and dispatch the greater part of the men upon different errands: you can direct two of them to my house, bidding them wait till my return. One you can send to the Count d'Aubin's, to inquire whether he has really set out for Maine; and while these are gone, explain yourself to those whom you can best trust amongst the others, telling them simply, that if any inquiries are made, they have merely to keep to the same story about the abbé and the page which you are going to tell."

"But suppose we are asked to describe the abbé and the page, lady, what are we to do then?" demanded the woman.

"Why, describe them, to be sure," replied Beatrice. "Here we are, take an exact picture of us. You cannot do better; and if you say, that your mistress went away in our company, you will but say the truth. Now I bethink me, you may as well add, that you think you have seen the page somewhere before, and rather believe that he is in the service of the Count d'Aubin--which is true too, Eugenie, when all things are wisely considered, though we are serving him against his will. But now, my pretty abbé--I shall call you Eugene for the future--we must lose no more time. Run down, Caroline, and see that the door at the foot of the back stairs is open, and give a glance round the court-yard, to make sure that it is clear."

The girl, with a ready promptitude in man[oe]uvring, for which French _soubrettes_ are not unjustly famed, required no farther explanations, having that internal consciousness of great resources of intrigue, which rendered her quite confident of being able to make up a new story, or to mend the old one for the occasion, in case anything in Beatrice's plan went wrong. Tripping away then through the unused apartments, to the back staircase that led out into the court, she descended to the bottom, and gently unclosing the door, to the extent of about a hand's breadth, closed it again as quietly, and returned to the two ladies with the unpleasant tidings, that all the male attendants belonging to the house were standing under the arch of the _porte-cochère_, apparently talking over the events of the evening.

"Get ye down then, Caroline, to the _maître de hôtel_," cried Beatrice; "bid him express your mistress's thanks to the honest fellows for their attachment; and tell him, in her name, to call them into some room, where their voices will not be heard by the spies of the League, and to give them each a bottle of the best Burgundy, to drink to their lady's health and deliverance, and confusion to her enemies and persecutors."

With a smile at the lady's readiness and resources, the _soubrette_ ran off to obey; and in a few minutes returned with the better news, that all the men were safely housed, with bottles before them which would occupy them for some time. Beatrice then drew Eugenie's arm through her own, and led the way towards the staircase, followed by the _suivante_, for the purpose of closing the doors behind them.

Eugenie felt that her happiness for life was at stake; that she was taking the only means to save herself from oppression, persecution, and, in all probability, ultimate misery. She felt that the object was worth any exertion; that if ever she displayed energy, resolution, and courage, this was the moment in which they were all most needed: and yet it were vain to say, that her heart did not palpitate; that her knees did not shake; and that her trembling hand did not feel like a piece of ice, even in the midst of a hot and sultry night of August.

Beatrice perceived her agitation; and, though her own firm heart did not share in her friend's terrors, she felt for her deeply, and endeavoured to support her by every means in her power. "Fear not, dear Eugenie!" she said, "fear not! Be assured that ere I came hither, I took every means to ensure success; and that we shall not pass along two hundred yards of the way without finding some one stationed by me to aid and protect us in case of need. I have spared neither gold nor thought, Eugenie; and, in this world, gold, and thought, and courage, will do everything; so there wants nothing but the courage, my fair friend, and that you must try to have."

"I will! I will!" whispered Eugenie in return. "But, indeed, Beatrice, I cannot but find it terrible to go out thus alone into the streets of a strange, turbulent, vicious city, in the dress of a different sex, and with no one but another girl to guide and protect me!"

"Not terrible at all," replied Beatrice. "It is but what many a gay light heart would do for a jest, and many a base heart for a worse purpose. It is only on account of the great stake we are playing for, that you feel terrified, Eugenie; but that, on the contrary, should give you courage."

By this time they had reached the top of the back staircase, the narrowness of which obliged them to descend one by one. Beatrice, holding the lamp, led the way, and Eugenie followed. At the bottom of the stairs, the fair Italian, telling the maid who accompanied them that she must find her way back in the dark, blew out the light, and gently unclosed the door. The moment she did so, the summer air rushed in; and though it was as soft and warm as the breath of southern spring, it felt chill to Eugenie's cheek, while the rolling sound of carriage-wheels, in some distant street, made her shrink back upon the maid as if she were already detected. Beatrice glanced her eye quickly around the court, and seeing that it was vacant, took Eugenie's hand to lead her on. The maid, at the same time, feeling sure that her mistress would gain more courage as soon as all means of retreat were cut off, kissed her affectionately on either cheek, by way of leave-taking, and gently supported her forward till she was actually in the court, then suddenly closed the door; and Eugenie heard the lock turn within. For a moment her heart sunk; but making a great effort, and recalling the image of the Count d'Aubin, she hurried forward with Beatrice across the court to a small door which opened into the back street.

When one is in haste there is always some impediment. The door was locked, and though the key was in it, it fell out of Beatrice's hand as she attempted to turn it, and rattled on the pavement. Some moments passed ere it could be found again, during which time Eugenie's courage waned fast. At length, however, the key was recovered, and placed in the lock, but ere the door was opened, some one rang the bell at the front gate. Eugenie felt as if her fate was sealed, and clung to the doorway for support. Luckily, however, no servant loves to obey the summons of a bell; and Eugenie's attendants, happy in their Burgundy, resolved that the visitor should ring again. Ere that occurred, Beatrice, with a steady hand, had turned the lock, the door opened; and springing through after her friend, Eugenie de Menancourt stood in the streets of Paris.