CHAPTER XXVIII.

Willingly we turn once more from the dull, dry page of history--that uninteresting record which no one reads in these days, and probably never will again, unless by some unforeseen accident the world should grow wiser and better--to the more entertaining and instructive accidents and adventures of the individual characters, which, with somewhat less skill than that of a Philidore, we have been moving about upon the little chess-board before us. It is always the most skilful game, we are told, to begin with the pawns, of which we are well aware, though we somewhat deviated from that rule in the commencement; but now that we have got our pieces scattered about in different directions, and have just been obliged to make the king abandon his attack upon the castle, we must even have recourse to pieces which we have found very useful in many a previous game, and play this chapter out with the knights.

The evening was cold and still; for the ordinary winds of March had not yet begun to blow, although that month was well advanced; and the dull heavy clouds that hung over the world might descend in rain, or might still assert the rule of winter, and come down in a fall of snow. The sky, therefore, looked chill and comfortless to the eyes of a considerable body of the army of the League, as it moved along the heavy and channelled roads in the neighbourhood of Evreux; and to say sooth, the aspect of the earth itself was but little more cheering than that of the heaven which canopied it. Days of trouble had impoverished the land, and the cold season which had just passed had left the earth brown and rugged; while the woods, that swept over every favourable slope, presented nothing but a tangled mass of dull grey branches, diversified alone by a few patches of crisp yellow leaves, that adhered, with all the tenacity of old attachment, to the stems which were soon to cast them off for the greener and gayer children of the spring. Thinly peopled, too, was then the land; and though here and there a village church raised its tower against the evening sky, or a cottage appeared upon the upland, in many instances the bell had long ceased to sound from amidst the scenes that war had visited; very often the light of the cottage was found extinguished, and the fire of the once warm hearth gone out for ever. The hamlets were few, and generally gathered round some castle, which afforded the inhabitants refuge or protection in time of need; and solitary but inhabited cottages, if met with at all, were but mere huts, in which dwelt the lowest and most miserable of the population, upon whom war itself could inflict nothing worse than existence.

In short, the whole scene was cold and desolate; and its effect upon the mind of one of the leaders, who conducted the detachment we have mentioned, was such as it was naturally calculated to produce. He had ridden on, at about the distance of half a mile from the head of the mingled masses of cavalry and infantry which were under his command; and, accompanied by one companion, and several attendants, advanced silently upon the rude road, which, winding along the side of an easy hill, displayed a wide extent of dull grey slopes, slightly tinted here and there with a faint and melancholy hue of green, till a dark and gloomy wood, at several leagues' distance, cut sharp upon the leaden sky, and closed the cheerless prospect. Although the eye of Philip d'Aubin, for such was the horseman we have spoken of, roved far and wide over the uninviting face of the country, it was clear that he looked not upon it as a general reconnoitring the land through which he passed, with the keen glance of strategic inquiry; but rather that he seemed to regard it with the look of one whose heart--not wholly dead to nobler feelings than those which armed him in civil strife upon a bad and unjustifiable cause--grieved for the state of ruin in which his native land was plunged, although his own evil passions aided to produce the desolation that he lamented.

The other who rode beside him, Albert of Wolfstrom, drew his cloak round him, and, as he gazed upon the bleak and desolate landscape, thought of nothing but himself. Mercenary by nature and by habit, he scarcely knew what it is to have a country; and--like many others who believe themselves to be citizens of the world--in truth and in reality, his own individual selfishness was his world, his country, and his home. D'Aubin knew the nature of the man too well to suffer the slightest hint of what was passing in his own bosom to escape his lips; well aware that his companion could not understand his feelings, and that, setting aside even the mercenary leader's own particular philosophy, there was cant of many kinds to be brought forward against the sensations which forced themselves upon him; for where was yet the unholy cause which did not inscribe upon its banners the names of virtue, religion, patriotism, and honour?

"It is a chilly night," he said, as he remarked the action of his companion; "it is a chilly night, Wolfstrom!"

"Ay, and a dreary prospect," answered his companion. "Which, think you, my noble Count, shall we have to warm our blood tonight with; raising the wine cup, shaking the dice, or hard blows upon bright steel?"

"With wine, if anything," replied D'Aubin; "Mayenne is not one fond of night encounters and sudden surprises; and if he have not fought the king's force to-day, which is not likely, he will let another sun rise ere he strike a blow. As for dice, you know, I have abjured them."

"Ay do I, to my sorrow," answered Wolfstrom; "for we have not had one merry night since we began our march; but, by my life, it is a dreary prospect. I trust that all the centre of this good land is not so bare and wasted. I have been so long in Picardy, where things wear a better aspect, that I expected not this sad scene in Normandy."

D'Aubin turned upon him an inquiring eye, not understanding, for a moment, what curious combination could have excited in the bosom of the adventurer anything like feelings of regret for the devastation of any land on earth. "You are compassionate, Wolfstrom!" he said: "France indeed has suffered terrible evils; and Normandy, lately, more than all; for here has been the hottest fire of war during the last four months."

"And pray has not Maine suffered as much?" demanded Wolfstrom in a quiet tone.

D'Aubin laughed aloud: "By the Lord!" he exclaimed, "I thought thy heart had grown mighty tender over the woes of France, most worthy and considerate Wolfstrom; forgetting, that in the _hypothèque_[4] which I gave thee over my lands in Maine, on account of that accursed throw of the dice, thou hast acquired a certain tender and generous interest in my unhappy country, through the only channel by which thy heart can be reached,--but rest satisfied! The war would be sweeping and desolating indeed, which would leave the lands of Aubin unable to pay the pitiful interest of thy pitiful debt; and besides, I shall soon be able to discharge the whole, and load thee with that sort of moveable ore, which is better suited to thy purposes and thy nature than any claim upon the soil."

"You mean when your marriage can be completed with Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied Wolfstrom, not unwilling to retort some of the bitterness of Aubin's speech upon himself. "By my faith, Sir Count, if it wait till then, it will wait long enough apparently; for your fond and affectionate bride seems to conceal herself from your longing arms with wonderful skill and perseverance."

D'Aubin bit his lip, and paused for several minutes ere he replied; but wrath he felt was vain in regard to circumstances far too well known to admit the possibility of concealment, however much it might sting him to find them a subject of common conversation to every mercenary follower of the camp. It cost him an effort, indeed, to smother all the angry feelings at his heart; but that effort over, he replied in a tone of calmness that disappointed Wolfstrom's malice: "She does, indeed, conceal herself skilfully," he said; "and in truth, I little thought that so slight an offence as I gave her would so deeply wound woman's jealous love, or I should have taken greater care to please; but as soon as this battle is over, and these provinces cleared, I will bend my whole thoughts and efforts to the search; and when once I have found her, a few words of apology, and a few vows of eternal love and fidelity, will set the whole to rights again."

"I heard that you tried all that before," replied Wolfstrom, dryly; "and the good, free-spoken Parisians seems to think, that it was love for one cousin made her run away from the other so eagerly; at least, so Madame de Montpensier, and the Duchess of Guise, and young La Tremblaye, and several others, fancied."

"It is false as hell!" cried D'Aubin; "and those who say it, and those who repeat it, lie."

"I trust it is false," answered Wolfstrom, calmly; "and will not take up the hard word you have used just now, Monsieur d'Aubin, till the battle is over, and our personal affairs are in a little better order. After that, however, I shall have to inquire how far the word lie was applied to my share in the story. At present, let me say, that my repeating unpalatable rumours to you was but an act of kindness, intended to direct your mind towards a particular point. Even supposing that nothing like love exists between your cousin and this fair fugitive, every one knows that he used to regard her as a brother might a sister; and it is a common supposition that she has fled to his protection, and is concealed by his assistance."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Wolfstrom!" replied D'Aubin, musing a little while he spoke. "It is all nonsense, depend upon it; and as to the word lie, I applied it alone, of course, to those who spread such reports maliciously--not to you. Eugenie, wherever she has fled, has too deep a sense of female modesty to put herself under the protection of any idle boy, like my cousin of St. Real."

"Pardie! call him not an idle boy!" cried Wolfstrom. "Call him rather a stout soldier, and skilful commander; for such has he proved himself in all these last affairs; and the very best in either camp may now and then take a lesson from him."

"Pshaw!" said D'Aubin. "You are credulous, Wolfstrom! The followers of the Bearnois take care to vaunt their great officers and skilful soldiers, in order to make up, by the fears of their adversaries, for their own want of strength. Do not let us be such gulls as to believe them; and only let us so far reckon on their power, as to take every means of employing our own to the best advantage. Do not you spare your men, Wolfstrom; for one of these great battles lost might place the whole of France in the power of the Bearnois."

"I shall neither spare my men nor my person, as I am bound in honour," answered Wolfstrom; "but it matters little to me whether France falls under the power of the Bearnois or not. The term for which I took arms will soon be expired; and I can always find employment for my sword, thanks to the Protestants and Catholics here and in other lands."

"True," replied D'Aubin; "but you may find my lands confiscated to the crown for treason and rebellion some fine day, if the Bearnois wins the day of us ultimately; and then what becomes of your _hypothèque?_"

"That consideration shall make me give a good stroke or two more, my dear friend," replied the German coolly; "but I seldom find means wanting to repay myself; and, methinks, if the Bearnois does beat us completely, and declares himself your heir, I shall still contrive to skin his inheritance before I go."

D'Aubin made no reply, and for some time the two commanders rode on in silence; the German leader probably calculating upon the best means of skinning, as he termed it, other men's inheritance, and the Count d'Aubin, on his part, revolving bitterly all that had just passed in a conversation which presented so very few agreeable points for the mind to rest on. What his companion had said in regard to Eugenie and St. Real, he had repelled only the more angrily because it was confirmed by suspicions existing previously in his own mind; for such is the nature of the human heart, to combat on the lips of others the self-same feelings that we experience with terror within us. To that point of their conversation, therefore, did he most earnestly turn his thoughts; and bitter and angry were the sensations which he now felt towards a being whom he had once loved, but who had since committed the unforgiveable offence of holding firm to virtue and to honour where D'Aubin's own grasp had given way. Gradually as he nourished and pampered the doubts and suspicions within him, the emotions of his mind communicated themselves to his features and to his frame; and suddenly remembering himself, as he was spurring on his horse under the impulse of his irritated feelings, he affected to see some object in the distant plain, and asked his companion whether he did not perceive a light in the eastern part of the landscape.

Wolfstrom answered in the negative; and the conversation between them was renewed, but took a different turn, touching chiefly upon the chances of a battle on the following day, the respective forces of the Royalists and Leaguers, and the probability of success on either part.

"We should soon know how the strife will end, if we were in my country," said Wolfstrom; "at least, we might easily find persons to tell us."

"How so?" demanded D'Aubin. "I hear that our holy Father the Pope, although friendly to our cause, predicts that the day will go against us."

"Ay, but in Germany," replied Wolfstrom, "we should find those who pretend to know as much as his holiness, and do know a great deal more. Have you never heard, that in the Odenwald, when a war is about to begin, the Wild Huntsman goes out with all his dogs, and that, on the tops of our mountains, on many a stormy night, the spirits of the rivers and the floods hold their meetings, and reveal dark secrets of coming events to those who have the courage to go and consult them?"

"No, indeed, Wolfstrom," answered D'Aubin, "I never did hear all that; and I can but say, that I think those spirits must be very foolish spirits to haunt Germany at all, when there is many a warmer and a fairer land would be very willing to receive them; and still more foolish to go up to the tops of mountains on a stormy night! No, no, Wolfstrom; I am no believer in spirits, or ghosts, or phantasms, or necromancers, or any sort of portents, except the wonders to be effected by strong wits and strong arms."

"Say many a warmer land, if you will," replied Wolfstrom, angry at D'Aubin's sneer at his native country. "Say many a warmer land, if you will, but not many a fairer; for the whole earth does not contain a fairer than Germany. Why, everything that stream, and mountain, and forest, rich plain, and sweeping upland, can do to make a land lovely is to be found in Germany: but as you have not seen it, you cannot judge; and as to your disbelief in portents, you, as every other incredulous doubter, will some day be convinced."

"Never!" answered D'Aubin, with a laugh: "but now, good Sir Albert, as night is falling, and we shall not reach St. Andre before midnight, I think we had better fall back to our men, and throw out some scouts. Not that I fear surprise; for as Mayenne is between us and the enemy, it would be strange to meet with a foe before we rejoin our friends. 'Tis as well, however, always to hold one's self prepared."

The views of the leader of the reitters perfectly coincided in this cautious doctrine; and D'Aubin and his companion, slackening their pace, suffered the head of their corps to come up with them. Arrangements were then made for a night march; and the sun went down ere they had proceeded far, bursting forth for a moment as he touched the edge of the horizon, and dyeing the heavy clouds that rolled around him with a dull and misty red. The clock struck nine as the Count and his forces entered the little village of Gross[oe]uvre; and the leaders, riding forward to the old chateau, were welcomed with kindness and hospitality by the ancestors of my poor friend, the gallant and chivalrous De Vitermont, one of the noble and generous hearts of France, who, after having shed his blood, and lost health and comfort in defence of his country, could still hold out the hand of friendship and affection to those who had smitten him so severely, but who were enemies no more.

So good was the wine, so hospitable the hearth at which he sat, that Albert of Wolfstrom, with the true love of a soldier of fortune for comfortable quarters, would fain have delayed the farther march till morning, alleging that the horses and men were both fatigued, and could just as well proceed an hour or two before daylight as at that late hour of the night. D'Aubin, however, would not hear of delay; well knowing of how much importance it is to bring troops fresh into the field, rather than wearied with a long march. Determined, therefore, that whatever rest the soldiers obtained should be as near the expected field of battle as possible, at eleven o'clock he caused the trumpets to sound; and shortly after the troops were once more on their march towards the small town of Ivry, at which place the Duke of Mayenne was now ascertained to be. A circuitous route, however, was necessarily followed through the great plain which lies between Pacy and St. Andre, as the latter place was understood to be occupied by the forces of the king. Sure guides had been obtained, indeed, at Gross[oe]uvre, and much were they needed, for the night was as dark as the mouth of Acheron; and not a ray found its way through the black covering of clouds to mark the road from the fields amongst which it wound. The air was calm and still; and no sound was to be heard except the occasional howling of the wolves, which were then frequent, and are not now uncommon, in the many woods which diversify that part of the country. Instead of bringing additional chilliness to the atmosphere, however, the night had become warm, and was growing more and more sultry as it advanced; and every now and then the wind, as if struggling to rise against some oppressive burden in the sky, came with a momentary gust of hot breath, which instantly fell again, and all was still.

"It will turn to rain!" said D'Aubin, speaking to Wolfstrom, who rode beside him; "it has grown too hot for snow."

"No, no, noble Sir!" replied the old man who walked beside D'Aubin's bridle-rein, to show him the way; "that which you feel is the hot breath of the battle coming up! They will fight to-morrow, that is certain! When I served with the Great Duke, we never felt a night like this, without being sure that there would be bloody work the next morning, whether we expected it before or not."

"Indeed!" said D'Aubin; but as he spoke, a slight momentary flash played along the verge of the far sky, showing, for the brief instant that it lasted, the plain and the woods around, and then leaving all blank and dark once more.

"Ay, that's always the way," said the old man; "the spirits of the two armies are trying to-night which will have the victory to-morrow. We shall hear more of it soon."

Several minutes, however, elapsed without his prophecy being verified; and D'Aubin began to fancy, that what he had at first supposed to be a flash of lightning had proceeded from the discharge of some distant gun, the report of which had escaped his ear; when again a broad blaze illumined the sky, and a clap of thunder, resembling the discharge of a whole park of artillery, echoed and re-echoed through the air. Then came another pause; but the moment after appeared a spectacle which--if it had not been seen by the unimaginative Sully, and the keen and inquiring eyes of D'Avila the historian, as well as those of every other person then awake in either host,--might well have passed for a superstitious fable. The sky became suddenly in a blaze with flickering lightning, which scarcely left it for a moment in darkness; while in the midst appeared forms of fire, like those of mounted horsemen and charging squadrons. Shifting, advancing, wheeling, now meeting in impetuous shock, now mingled in the confusion of the _mêlée_, now broken and scattered, now fleeing, now rallied, the aerial combatants acted in the clouds the fierce drama of a hard-contested field of battle before the eyes of the astonished soldiers. For some minutes an uncommanded halt took place; the soldiers gazed upon the blazing sky with eyes of wonder and terror; several of the horses started from the ranks, and were only brought back by skill and strength; and then stood with foaming hides and distended nostrils, straining their eyes, with their riders, on the bright but fearful phenomenon above them. Still that strange warfare in the sky seemed to go on, while the thunder rolled around in one incessant peal; and gradually shaking off the first effects of terror, the soldiery began to take an interest in the scene, worked up their imaginations to the belief that the combat was real. So complete at length was the illusion, that when the phantom army appeared defeated by their adversaries, and the forms that composed it were driven over the sky in confusion, the trumpeter of the horsemen of Aubin instinctively put his clarion to his lips, and blew a rally. The Count took advantage of the incident to give the word to march; and turning to Albert of Wolfstrom, as he spurred on his horse, exclaimed, "In truth, in truth, this is very strange!"

The troops followed their commander in some disarray; but ere they reached the edge of the upland the pageant had passed away, and all was darkness, except when an occasional flash of lightning broke for an instant across the sky.[5]