CHAPTER XXXIII.

There be many hearts that, in the full fruition and delight of what they have obtained by evil means, know not remorse, and taste such happiness as gratified passion can bestow. There be also those firm and constant hearts which in the midst of trouble and adversity shake off one half of calamity's heavy load by the strength of conscious virtue and integrity; and there be some so dull and so obtuse, as, under any circumstances, not to see and appreciate the worst portion of their fate. But the curse of curses, the deepest earthly retribution that can be poured upon the head of the wicked, is to find their schemes frustrated, and their desires disappointed, by the very evil means which they have taken to accomplish them. Such was the case of Philip d'Aubin at the moment he left Beatrice of Ferrara; but passion, and mortified vanity, and angry pride, combined to support him for the time, and to shut his eyes to the stinging certainty that his own vices had produced his own misfortune.

For an instant he gazed after the fair girl he had lost for ever, as she turned from him in beautiful disdain; and he felt tempted to follow her, and casting himself once more at her feet, to acknowledge his errors, and throw away his faults in repentance. But with her anger there had mingled a look of scorn, against which the worst weakness of his nature rose in arms. Her indignation, her reproaches, her wrath, he could have borne, but the contempt that curled her lip roused vanity against repentance; and setting his teeth firm, he muttered "Never! never!" and took another path to the chateau. Passing hastily to the apartments which he had occupied, he bade the servant that he found in waiting, summon the _maître d'hôtel_ to his presence, and questioned him on his arrival in regard to what part of the baggage with which he had joined the army of the League at Ivry had been brought thither from the field, and where were the soldiers and attendants who accompanied him.

"Neither baggage nor attendants of your own followed you here, sir," replied the man. "You were carried off from the field insensible by four or five of my lady's horsemen, and came hither still in your buff-coat and part of your broken armour. The purse which was on your person, sir, and its contents, are in that closet, if you have not taken it. Your horse is well, and in the stable; but your troops and your attendants were all dispersed; nor have we heard aught of any of them, except that some found their way to the Chateau d'Aubin; for which, and for your lands in Maine, we learn his majesty the king, at the request of Monsieur de St. Real, has granted an immunity, lest they should be plundered in the war."

There was a dryness in the man's tone that displeased the Count d'Aubin; and eyeing him with a somewhat frowning brow, he said, "Well, then, I will go forth from your lady's dwelling as I entered it, alone. Order my horse to be saddled: doubtless a countryman can easily be hired to guide me on my way to my own lands. How far is it hence to Vibraye or La Ferte?"

"Some thirty leagues, sir, by the road," replied the _maître d'hôtel_; "but if you cross through the woods and by the hills--where the way is not bad--the distance is hardly more than half as much."

"Well, then," said D'Aubin, "I will take the shortest; seek me a guide;" and while the man was gone upon that errand, he walked up and down the room with his hands clasped, and his eyes bent upon the floor. Even then his better spirit whispered that it was not yet too late; but the fiend rose against such counsel, and setting his teeth hard, he took his purse from the spot where it had been placed, and descended to the court-yard. His horse was already prepared; and one or two of the innumerable retainers that thronged a great mansion in those days were loitering about below. The _maître d'hôtel_ returned in a few moments with a guide, riding on one of the small horses of the country, and D'Aubin, putting his foot in the stirrup, slowly mounted his charger. As he did so, he ran his eye over the many small windows of the building; but nothing like a female face was to be seen at any of them; and, turning to the attendants who stood around, somewhat marvelling to see him thus depart alone and unnoticed, after all that had lately passed, he bestowed upon them half the contents of his purse, and then, with a slow pace and frowning brow, rode through the gates into the country beyond.

There was a well of bitterness in his heart, which kept him silent as he rode on; and more than half an hour passed ere he even asked a question of the guide. Nor was his a mind to be soothed or comforted, or rendered better or wiser, by thinking over events in which his own follies had acted so principal a share. Too much a spoilt child of vanity willingly to examine his own conduct with steady and impartial eyes, he felt himself injured, rather than reproved, and meditated chiefly how he might heal the wounds which had been inflicted on his pride. At length, however, the sight of a distant town recalled to his mind the state of the land through which he travelled; and he remembered that it might be absolutely necessary for his own security to ascertain the exact political situation of the different cities in the vicinity. The guide, to whom his questions were of course addressed, was shrewd and intelligent enough; and from his answers D'Aubin found that the track, through which his road lay, thinly peopled, and possessing few places of any importance, had known, as yet, but little of the evils of civil war. A body of troops had, indeed, occasionally crossed it. One or two of the defensible chateaux were held for the king or for the League; now and then, too, a troop of plunderers attached to one of the parties would appear, carry off what pillage they could collect, and then retire; but no regular force was known to be in the neighbourhood, except indeed a company of horse arquebusiers, stationed at the small town of La Loupe, on the part of the king, in order to keep open his communication with Maine and Touraine. The guide, himself, was a strong Royalist; and as the Count d'Aubin soon ascertained that fact, he neither gave him any information in regard to his own party and opinions, nor trusted too much the man's reports of great successes attending the king's arms, and of the return of peace and prosperity, wherever the country heartily resumed the virtues of obedience and submission.

Having now, by the questions necessary to ascertain the state of the country, broken the dull and sullen taciturnity which had bound him for some time, after quitting the chateau of Beatrice of Ferrara, D'Aubin continued the conversation, as a relief from thought; and many was the subject on which he needed information, as during the last few weeks he had given up all his thoughts to happier topics, and to brighter dreams, than either war or policy could supply. Curiosity of every kind had seemed dead within him; but now he learned much from the answers of his guide, and guessed more from many a vague distorted tale, which the man had heard, concerning the late movements of the armies;--tales which, indeed, contained in general less truth than falsehood, but which were easily rectified, by the previous knowledge and better judgment of the narrator's auditor. Much, too, did D'Aubin hear of Beatrice of Ferrara; of her habits of life since she had quitted Paris; of those kindlier virtues and gentler pursuits which a capital suffers not to show themselves; and of the ardent and enthusiastic love which the peasantry around had learned to bear towards her. He listened and mused, and good and evil purposes struggled hard together in his heart; but the evil was still predominant; and though a lingering inclination to cast himself at her feet, and sue for pardon, would make itself felt, more often still did he ponder upon the means of teaching her, who had so bitterly rebuked him, to repent in agony of spirit the resolution she had formed against him. Ever and anon, too, with a feeling of still unconquered triumph, he thought, "She loves me still! she loves me still! and the man who possesses a woman's love holds her in bonds that it is difficult to break."

Thus past the hours; and towards seven o'clock the guide stopped at the poor _auberge_ of a small open village, in order, as he said, to give the horses rest and provender. The scene was wild and hilly; and D'Aubin now began to recognise the country around, which was little more than twelve French leagues from his own paternal dwelling. His recollection was vague, however, and not sufficient to justify him in dismissing his guide; and, anxious to proceed, he took no refreshment himself, but urged the man to hasten on, hoping, ere night had completely fallen, to reach some spot, whence he could go forward alone on the following morning. But the people of the _auberge_ were slow, and the guide, who was their acquaintance, still slower; inasmuch as, finding himself in comfortable quarters, he had predetermined to take up his abode there for the night. He looked out towards the west, declared that the sun was lower than he had thought for; looked out towards the south, and predicted a sharp storm. But D'Aubin was neither of a disposition, nor in a mood, to be delayed at any man's will and pleasure; and, in consequence, he urged such cogent arguments in regard to the payment of his guide's services, that the man did at length bestir himself, and the horses were brought to the door.

"How far is it to the little village of Neuville?" demanded D'Aubin, after they had ridden on about a mile.

"Four good leagues, Monseigneur," replied the man; "but before we reach that, we come to the chateau of Armençon, which has ever held out stoutly for the king, and we are sure of a hearty welcome there, should need be;" and as he spoke he looked up to that part of the sky which rested, as it were, upon the edge of the high hilly bank forming the southern boundary of the steep, narrow valley, or rather dell, up which their road led on into the forest. D'Aubin turned his eyes in the same direction, and beheld, what is very common in the valleys of the Seine and the Eure during summer, large leaden masses of cloud, in the shapes of rolling columns and sharp cones, rising up from behind the hill, clear, defined, and harsh upon the sky, like the side-scenes of a theatre. These are the invariable precursors of a thunder-storm; but often they roll on for many hours, changing from one fantastic shape to another, ere the fire within them breaks forth, and the strife begins. The Count paid them no farther attention than was evinced by slightly hurrying his pace. The track upon which he was now entering was broken ground, forest, and hill; but still the road lay on through the same dell, skirting the banks of a small stream which fell at no great distance into the higher Eure. The uplands on either side hid the sun, and afforded a shade which would have been pleasant in that hot season, had not the closeness of the atmosphere, and the want of the slightest wind, rendered the whole air equally oppressive. The day rapidly declined as the travellers rode on, and the clouds stretched wider overhead, while every now and then a faint, shifting, electric light played between the detached masses, and showed that the warfare of the elements was about to commence. D'Aubin was not a little anxious now to hurry on; but ere he had accomplished more than two leagues of the appointed way, night had fallen, and the storm had begun. The lightning D'Aubin heeded but little, though his horse would every now and then start and rear, as the bright glare gleamed across the narrow road; but he knew the violent deluge of rain, in which those storms generally end, would not be long ere it followed; and feeling himself far more fatigued than he expected, he loved not the thought of prolonging his journey under the outpouring of the watery sky. They had now reached the summit of the hill: the trees afforded but little shelter; and a few large drops began to patter upon the leaves. "Ride on, my lord, ride on," cried the guide, who saw D'Aubin's lately acquired strength beginning to flag; "the chateau of Armençon is not above a league off."

"But I do not intend to stop till I reach Neuville," replied D'Aubin, "Think you if we pause here under the shelter of some of the thickest trees that the storm may not pass off?"

"Not to-night, sir, not to-night," replied the man; "but why not stop at Armençon?" he continued with more eagerness, as the rain rapidly increased: "they will show you all hospitality there; and if you be just recovered from a sickness, as the _maître d'hôtel_ told me, it will kill you to ride on for two or three hours more in a night like this."

"Two or three hours!" exclaimed D'Aubin. "What! to travel three leagues!"

"Ay, sir," answered the man, "even so. We are not here as if we were coursing a hare over the plains. We shall have to go up and down twenty steep hills ere we reach Neuville; but we shall be at Armençon in three quarters of an hour."

"But I do not choose to stop there," replied D'Aubin, hastily: and for a moment or two the man paused without reply. The next instant, however, he said in a respectful tone, "I guess how the matter is, sir: you are one of Mayenne's friends, and if so, good faith! you are right not to go near Armençon. They shot the captain's brother in cold blood, not long since, in Paris, and, by my soul, it would go hard with any of the Leaguers if they were found within the chateau walls."

"I had nothing to do with the death of his brother," said D'Aubin, "but still I will not trust to an angry man. Tell me, however, my friend, can I trust to _you?_"

"On my life you may, sir," replied the guide; "and I would not take you now into Armençon for my right hand. But it is coming on to pour: your cloak will soon be wet through; and hereabouts there should be a hut where the wood-cutters live in the spring and autumn. That will give better shelter than the trees; and most likely you may find a bed of rushes, and some pine-wood to dry your cloak withal."

"That were luck, indeed!" replied D'Aubin: "let us hasten on then, my friend; and if you can meet with this hut, I will pay you for its shelter better than ever _aubergiste_ was paid."

The memory of the guide was exact; and their search was not long. The hut was, indeed, but four walls, thatched with stubble and plastered with mud; and the door, which was made of straw, interwoven with boughs, was lying detached upon the ground: but it was soon replaced; and the frequent flashes of lightning enabled them to discover the bed of moss and rushes which the guide had expected, and a small store of dried fragments of the resinous pine, which, lighted by a flint and steel, soon shed some better light upon the interior than was afforded by the fitful glare without. The interior was too small to admit the horses also; but D'Aubin satisfied himself with placing his own beast under a tree, and mentally saying, "He will do well enough," returned to the shelter of the hut, cast off his dripping cloak, and seated himself upon the pile of dried herbs.

Still the storm continued, and still the incessant pattering of the heavy rain bade the travellers be contented with the refuge they had found. For awhile D'Aubin endeavoured to occupy his thoughts by asking a number of questions of his guide, and listening to the long-winded stories which the other, feeling the moments of inactivity as tedious to his own restless and wandering nature as they were to the Count, willingly poured forth for the sake of doing something. At length, however, his stock exhausted itself; and an hour more passed in silence and expectation; but the storm still went on.

The guide's patience now gave way. "My Lord," he said, "you will be starved here, if I can find you nothing to eat. You took neither bit nor sup at the _auberge_, though you had ridden many a league; but amongst the houses that lie under the chateau of Armençon, I have a cousin, and can, I doubt not, procure a piece of meat and a flask of wine. I will say that it is for an old lady, whom I am guiding through the wood, and who cannot come on for the storm."

D'Aubin did feel exhausted, and in need of food; but still he hesitated to let the man depart, for in those days acts of treachery were not uncommon; and his life might depend upon his passing the castle of Armençon unobserved. The guide, however, insisted; and as there was no means of staying him without showing suspicions, which often produce the very evils they point at, the Count at length suffered him to depart, and remained alone, determined to try whether he could not sleep away the time while the peasant was absent.

The attempt was vain; and, stretched upon the bed of moss where the hard limbs of honest industry had enjoyed many a night of comfortable repose, the gay and glittering Count d'Aubin strove in vain to banish from his bosom the torment of thought. Memory rested on the past, and conscience knew her hour, and seized it with relentless power. His gone existence was spread out before him like a map; and the upbraiding voice within proclaimed each stage of folly and of vice through which he had proceeded, and still read its sad comment upon every act, showing his gradual downfall from honour, wealth, splendour, reputation, happiness, and love, by his own errors and vanities. The long procrastinated examination was forced upon his heart at length; and oh! with what minute agony the moral torturer wracked forth the inmost secrets of his bosom, and then broke him upon the wheel of despair. His fortune irreparably injured; he himself bound by large debts to an unfeeling mercenary; the party which he had joined against his conscience ruined and falling; his baffled schemes holding him up to the laughter of his light companions; the woman whose wealth was to have repaired the consequences of his own extravagance flying him with horror, and avoiding him with success; and the only woman whom he had ever really loved now regarding him with what had once been affection, changed, by his own infamy, into hatred and contempt. Such were the terrible matters on which reason, and conscience, and remorse had to comment during his hours of solitude; and, from the first moment that those thoughts arose, he felt that it would be a madness to deem that he could sleep. The agony of his mind affected his body too much even to suffer him to lie still; and starting up, he sometimes paced the narrow limits of the hut like a tiger in its cage, sometimes cast himself down in his fury, and cursed the hour that he was born. He reproached, he reviled himself for everything; and, in the torture that he felt when alone, exclaimed, "Fool that I was to let the boor leave me! even he were better than no one, in this gloomy, accursed place, with the lightning flashing eternally in my eyes, and the melancholy rain pattering over head."

As he thus thought, the sound of horses' feet splashing through the wet ground made itself heard in the intervals of the thunder, and the moment after, D'Aubin could distinguish that there was more than one traveller upon the road. A suspicion of his guide instantly crossed his mind, and was immediately confirmed by hearing his voice exclaim, "There, in that hut! You will find him there!"

The Count loosened his dagger in the sheath; and partly drew his sword, while, stepping back to the farther side of the hut, he watched for the opening of the disjointed door. A moment or two elapsed, during which D'Aubin could hear the stranger on the outside speaking as if to his horse, while he tied him under a tree; and then the matted screen was pushed back, and the diminutive figure of Bartholo, the dwarf, stood before him. Without uttering a word, Bartholo advanced towards the Count, and cast himself at his feet with a look of imploring deprecation that D'Aubin did not understand. It was explained in a moment, however. "My Lord," said the dwarf, earnestly, "my Lord, I find that when last I saw you I deceived you; and, by the counsel that I gave you, I have brought insult and disappointment upon your head. My fault was involuntary; but I deserve to be punished; and I have sought you myself; that you may wreak what vengeance upon me you like."

D'Aubin too well knew that to the counsels of his own perverse and pampered heart he had listened more than to those of the dwarf; but he was glad, nevertheless, to find any one on whom he could heap a part of the blame; and while he snatched eagerly at the opportunity of accusing another, he felt a degree of gratitude for the relief which mitigated the bitterness of self-reproach.

"Alas! alas! my poor Bartholo!" he said, "you did deceive me, indeed! But I am willing to believe that you deceived me unwittingly; and I seek not to punish one who wished to serve me, though he failed."

"You are noble and generous ever, sir," replied the dwarf; "and though she does not know the value of the heart she tramples on, others do, and I will conceal it no longer. You little know, sir, how much art, intrigue, and exertion were made use of to estrange from you a heart that loved you, and rob you not only of your promised bride, but of her affection."

"How say you?" cried D'Aubin, eagerly. "Speak more clearly, good Bartholo; I do not understand."

"I know not whether I ought to speak more clearly or not," answered the dwarf; "for although it is her pleasure and her pride to sport with your love, and trample on you, yet it would wring her heart to hear that, notwithstanding all her wiles, you had been successful with her rival; and though to you she may appear but as a cold coquette, to me, who have known her from her childhood, she has ever been a good lady and a kind."

"Bartholo!" cried D'Aubin, sternly, "you have in one thing miscounselled me, and rendered me miserable. You but now professed a wish to atone for that error; and I call upon you at once, to clear away the obscurity which hangs over all these transactions in which I have been engaged, and to let me see how I really stand between Beatrice of Ferrara and Eugenie de Menancourt."

"I will, sir! I will!" cried the dwarf, "let it cost me what it may. But I must be quick, for the tale is intricate, and your guide, who directed me hither, as I was following you to Armençon, will soon be back. Listen, then," he continued, while his face resumed all its bitter cynicism. "Think you, my Lord, that a girl, all gentleness and sweetness, like Mademoiselle de Menancourt, could in a moment be converted into a being as stern and resolute as an old warrior, without some very potent magic? Think you that she who once loved you to all appearance as much as a young maiden ever ventures to show, would all at once affect hate and detestation towards you without some very mighty cause? Think you that a girl who knows nothing of the world, and is as timid as a young deer, could alone find means to cheat hard-judging Mayenne and keen Madame Montpensier, and pass a blaspheming Huguenot soldier off for a Catholic priest, frustrate you and all of them by a false marriage, and then effect her escape from a beleaguered city, where a thousand eyes were upon her; and all this by the simple exertion of her own courage, ingenuity, and daring? Pshaw! One would think to hear it, and to hear that you and Mayenne believed it, that the warriors and the politicians of this world were changed into old women. My Lord! my Lord! Eugenie de Menancourt loved you, loves you, will love you still; and only now weeps the perfidy which my noble lady--thinking, as all women do, that everything is fair in love--taught her to fancy that you had committed against her. Had not Mademoiselle de Menancourt learned to think, from the first moment she set her foot in Paris, that your whole heart and soul were given to the Lady Beatrice, and that you sought her hand only on account of her wealth, she would at once, on her father's death, have flown to your arms for protection. But, day by day, and hour by hour, that idea has been strengthened and confirmed in her mind by a voice whose eloquence no one knows better than you and I. Another time I will point out how; but at present you will trust me--for your wits are not darkened enough to doubt so apparent a fact--when I tell you, that the carrying off the priest, the false marriage, and the escape from Paris, are all owing to the fertile brain and daring courage of Beatrice of Ferrara. She it was who robbed you of your bride; and she it is who now conceals her within three leagues of this place, weeping that Philip d'Aubin is false, and resolving to enter a monastery as soon as she hears of his marriage to another."

"But St. Real!" exclaimed D'Aubin, "St. Real! I have more than suspicions there."

"Pshaw!" cried the dwarf; "she thinks not of him. He may love her, perhaps, but she thinks not of him, but as a brave good-humoured lad, with wit enough to lead a score or two of iron-pated soldiers. But, once convince her that you love her, and that those who have told her you loved another were interested deceivers, and you will soon find the ice will melt, and all the coldness pass away. And now, my Lord, I have told you all. I have given you the key to the mystery; and though, God knows, there are few men in this world that can comprehend clearly anything beyond a schoolboy's sum, done upon a broken slate, yet the matter here is so simple you cannot well mistake. Now I must leave you; for if I be not back ere morning dawn, and my lady discovers my errand, I may chance to die by an earlier death than I have calculated on."

"But stay, stay yet a moment, good Bartholo," cried the count; "you have not told me yet where I may find this fair lady. Think you my marriage with her will touch your mistress so deeply then?"

"That is what I fear, my Lord," replied the dwarf, assuming a look of sorrow, "that is what I fear. I owed you atonement, sir; and I have made it at the risk of mortifying all the proud feelings of a lady and mistress that I love; for I know that she calculates upon seeing you again at her feet, and pouring forth upon you more of her scorn and indignation, before she leaves you for ever, and returns to Italy. She was laughing over the scene with Annette just now."

"It is a scene she shall never see!" said D'Aubin, biting his lip. "But tell me where dwells this fair fugitive--this Mademoiselle de Menancourt? She is, indeed, as beautiful a creature as the eye of man ever yet beheld. One not difficult to love."

"Oh no!" cried the dwarf; "where is the heart that would not be envious of the man who wears a jewel such as that upon his hand. Her dwelling, I have said, is not far off. You know the little stream that separates the lands of Aubin from those of Menancourt. Trace it up to its source amongst these hills, and not half a league from the spot where it bubbles from its green fountain you will find two cottages, in one of which is the object of your search. It is not like the ordinary dwelling of a French peasant; for the Lady Beatrice has taken a pleasure in decking forth her friend's home after the fashion of our own land, where taste, and the love of all that is beautiful, descends even to the lowest tillers of the soil."

"I shall easily find it," replied the count; "and yon fair scornful dame shall find that D'Aubin can seek him a mate as beautiful as herself. Bartholo, I trust you--once more I trust you! but oh! if you deceive in this also, look to your heart's blood; for I will find means to punish you, should you hide in the farthest corner of the globe."

"My Lord, I deceive you not," replied the dwarf, "nor in this am I myself deceived. But, I entreat, undertake no enterprise upon my showing, without resolving to carry it through at all hazards. If you would have the love of that fair creature you seek, spare no vows and persuasions to efface from her mind the evil impression that others have given of your conduct. Nor trust to that alone. Forget that the marriage was null. Act upon it as if she were your wife, till you have her safe in your own chateau; and then let the ceremony be performed again. Neither must you seek her alone, and unattended by a sufficient force to assert your right, should it be opposed. I know that five or six of my lady's bravest followers are always watching near that spot; and there may be more. Stir not a step, without fifty horseman at your back. At all events, remember, my noble lord, that if you undertake this enterprise without sufficient strength and resolution, the failure must not be laid to me. As I hope for life and happiness, I believe that you may be fully successful."

"I am not apt to want in resolution, Bartholo," replied D'Aubin. "Hence I shall speed to my own dwelling without a moment's loss of time; but it may take long in the present state of affairs to collect such a troop as fifty men."

"Yet time is everything!" replied the dwarf. "'Tis more than likely that changes may take place, of which I cannot inform you; and if the lady be removed from her present refuge, our scheme is ruined. To be bold and rapid is the best road to success, after all. Who can tell what even to-morrow may bring forth?"

"True!" answered D'Aubin; "and, if possible to-morrow's sun shall not set ere Eugenie de Menancourt be mine. Then let your mistress and her maids laugh over the scene of my supplications if they will! But I must be guided by circumstances. At present my purse is but lean, my good friend. Nevertheless----"

"Speak not of it, sir! speak not of it!" replied the dwarf. "I came to do what I have done, in order to make atonement for an involuntary error towards one who was to me the most generous of masters; and who never could accuse me of giving him false information before. I sought not gold, and will not take it. But if you succeed, and if you be happy, sometimes remember the poor dwarf when he is far away."

Thus saying, he kissed the hand of his former lord, and departed, drawing the matted door after him. The next moment D'Aubin heard his horse's feet; and, again left alone, he once more cast himself upon the bed of moss, and gave himself up to thought. His feelings, however, were now very different from what they had been an hour before. Although, as we have before shown, the idea of wedding Eugenie de Menancourt, repairing his wasted fortune by her wealth, and triumphing proudly over her who had scorned and rejected him, and made him the common jest of Paris, had never quitted his mind, even while yielding willingly to his passionate love for Beatrice of Ferrara; yet the repulse he had met with, from a being on whose love and compliance he had counted with full confidence, the bitter scorn that she had displayed towards him, and the keen disappointment that her rejection inflicted, had, in spite of all the Titan-like struggles of pride, so abased and overwhelmed him, that he had lost courage, and looked with hopeless eyes upon all the daring schemes on which, at other times, he would have entered so boldly. The words of the dwarf, however, had revived him, not alone by showing him the easy means of accomplishing one part of his purpose, but by pointing out a new end to be obtained, a new object of desire, and that, too, of a nature to give the only alleviation which his heart was capable of receiving in the pain he suffered--the alleviation of revenge. He felt that Beatrice was already unhappy; that his conduct was--must be--a source of misery to her; but that feeling, far from making him pity her, roused up his suffering vanity to strive for means of avenging upon her the insult which her purity had offered to his baseness. The dwarf had pointed out the way; and to dream of wringing her heart by his marriage with Eugenie, while he silenced for ever the stinging laughter of his former companions, was a relief--perhaps a pleasure. At the same time, a thought crossed his mind that the tale of his having dwelt many weeks concealed in the dwelling of Beatrice of Ferrara, joined to his reputation for gallantry, might, perchance, leave her proud reputation for virtue somewhat sullied; and, as he thought thus, a smile, mingling vanity and pride and vengeance altogether, passed over his lip, and gave his fine features the expression of a demon; and yet this was the bright and fascinating Count d'Aubin: whom we have seen so full of light and harmless gaiety in the beginning of this volume, and such was the creature he had, step by step, become.

Before the visit of the dwarf he had tried to sleep in vain; but now he felt the gnawing pain at his heart relieved by a new purpose; and, after the return of his guide with wine and meat, he ate and drank, though sparingly, and then, casting himself down once more, slept undisturbed till morning dawned.