Part 11

Next day the party embarked upon the Loire, but the first intoxication of joy was over. The equable motion of the boat, the gentle rippling of the waves, the heat of the day, the deep shades beneath which they occasionally passed, relaxed her frame. A band of music which the marquis had engaged at Lyons, aided, by its soft plaintive melodies, to give a melancholy character to her reflections. She thought of her indiscretion, of the toils from which she was not yet free, of the slanders and calumnies to which she might be exposed. The careless innocence of a young woman may lead her into conduct, to look upon which impresses her with a tormenting consciousness of sullied purity, although not one criminal thought has ruffled her white mind. It was thus with Marie. Lost in self-reproach, she bowed her head over the gunwale of the boat, and played in the water with her fingers, while a big tear gathered beneath each jetty eyelash. Her ugly companion sat beside her, gazing upon the fair mourner with a nauseous expression of affection and confidence. The change of her mood since yesterday, was too palpable to escape even his gross apprehension. But he attributed it with great complacency to the waywardness of love, believing himself to be the object. His attachment to Marie was a strange mixture of avarice, gratified vanity, and admiration of her beauty.

Let us hasten to the close of our story. It was mid-day, and the crowds which had thronged the market-place of Juvizy were dispersing, when a knight, armed at all points, his vizor up, rode into the great square, followed by eighty men-at-arms. He sat on his strong black horse like an upright pillar of iron. His look was sedate, but frank and careless, as of one whose blood flowed as calmly, and whose thoughts were as clear amid the thunder of the fight as in the retirement of his own chamber. There was a universal expression of love and reverence, for every peasant knew Vieilleville. His troop drew up in a wide street which abutted on the market-place, at one end of the town-house.

They had not waited many minutes when the sound of approaching horses was heard, and soon after, a large company, in which were a number of females, the men, though more numerous, neither so well equipped nor skilfully arranged as those of Vieilleville, entered the square. A knight and a lady rode foremost. The eye of the latter glanced bright as it fell upon Vieilleville and his attendants. They advanced towards the town-house, the greater proportion of their followers edging off towards a street at the other end of the building from that occupied by Vieilleville. The women, and a few soldiers, turned their horses towards the troop which had arrived before them. Saluzzo (for it was he), espying this, called after them that they had mistaken their way.

“With your pardon, fair Sir,” said Marie, checking her steed, “they are quite right. Your lodgings are at the hostelrie of the Bear; mine at that of St. Denis. My cousin Vieilleville is here to relieve you of the charge I have so unwillingly imposed upon you; and you know how indecorous it would be to prefer the protection of a stranger to so near a relation. My steward will reckon with yours at Paris for any expense you may have incurred on my account. The debt of gratitude I owe you I never can hope to pay.” And here the innate devil of coquetry resumed its sway as her spirits rose. “I leave my heart in your keeping, fair Sir. Take good care of it.” Saluzzo was too well aware of his own powers to dream of coping with Vieilleville. He saw his fairy visions melting away, and he wept for spite and sorrow. With a cowed look he took her proffered hand, and pressed it to his lips. In the very wantonness of malice, she gently pressed his paw, smiled, and cast one of her most winning glances at him; then, turning suddenly, as if to hide a blush, she cantered smiling towards her cousin. The crest-fallen marquis retired in a super-eminently savage mood to his den.

On reaching the hostelrie, Vieilleville presented to Marie a young knight, whom she recognised as the bearer of his letter. “The Prince of Roche-sur-Yonne, fair cousin--the playmate of your childhood, the admirer of your womanly beauties, and one who, as you well know, lately undertook a service of some danger and difficulty for your sake.” The prince was certainly an amiable and handsome young man, his late service gave him some claim to a kind reception, and in the course of a few hours’ conversation, so many childish hours of happiness had been re-awakened in Marie’s memory, that she felt as if her youthful playmate and she, although separated, had never been disjoined--she persuaded herself that some invisible bond had held them together, although herself had remained unaware of it until circumstances drew the noose tighter. The prince secured his footing by a thousand delicate and unpretending attentions. On the eve of the third day, just before they entered Paris, Vieilleville reminded his cousin of the danger she incurred from the king’s anxiety to see her married to Saluzzo, and urged a speedy private marriage to the prince. Marie saw the propriety of the advice; her own inclinations were not adverse; the good marshal dwelt in her memory rather as a revered parent than as a beloved husband--in short, she consented.

This arrangement was kept of course a profound secret from Saluzzo. On recovering from his dumps, the malicious pressure of his hand, and the rosy smile which accompanied it, broke like morning on his memory. It is strange what a power of self-deception the mind possesses. When a lover has long wished to gain his mistress’s affections, picturing to himself the possible awakening of love in her breast, and all the nes of his future happiness, the images of his fancy grow so vivid, that he cannot persuade himself they are unreal. The slightest indication is eagerly caught at as a proof of their reality. A thousand proofs of dislike are effaced from recollection by one kind look. This holds true even with such questionable passions as that of Saluzzo. He paid a daily visit to Marie Mont-Jean, still trusting that although one visit afforded no room for hope, the next might. In vain: the Prince of Roche-sur-Yonne was always there before him, managed to remain longer, and engrossed all the conversation and kind looks of the lady.

At last Saluzzo resolved to change his tactics. He summoned the lady before the parliament, to be adjudged to implement a promise of marriage, which he alleged she had made to him during their journey. Vieilleville, the prince, and Marie, held a council of war, and it was agreed that their measures should be directed by the first mentioned.

The president and counsellors were assembled in full chamber, after receiving a brief but pithy hint from the king, to take care how they crossed his wishes. The clerk of the court was mending his pen with the most assiduous gravity. Saluzzo approached the bar, attended by a lean, sallow notary, and some creatures of the court. At the same moment, Marie de Montespedon, relict of the late Marshal Mont-Jean, entered the hall, leaning on the arm of the redoubted Monsieur de Vieilleville, attended by a gallant train of ladies, lords, and gentlemen.

The preliminary forms having been observed the president directed the lady to take the oath of verity with bared and uplifted hands. The first interrogatory put to her was. “Did you ever promise marriage to the noble gentleman, the Marquis of Saluzzo, now in presence?” The blood rushed into the cheeks of the lady; she turned her eyes resolutely upon the marquis, who looked upon the ground, his colour growing blacker and yet more bloodless. She replied in a low whisper, which was heard through the whole hall, “No, by the virtue of mine oath.” The president opened his mouth as if to put another question, and the clerk sharpened his ears, and brought his pen in contact with the paper, but the lady interrupted them, her face glowing crimson, in hurried but distinct words: “Gentlemen! I am not accustomed to such exhibitions. I fear my woman’s wit may be entangled amid your forms and subtleties. I will cut this matter short. Before this noble company I declare as I shall answer to King Francis with my broad lands, and to God with my soul, as I live and regard my honour, I never gave troth, nor faith, nor promise of marriage, to that lying caitiff, nor ever dreamed of such a folly. And if any one call in question this my declaration, here”--she continued, taking Vieilleville by the hand--“here stands my champion, whom I present to maintain my words, which he knows to be true, and from the mouth of a lady of honour, if ever one existed. I place my trust, under God and my good cause, in his valour.”

“That alters the case,” said the president, smiling with secret satisfaction at being freed from the necessity of displeasing the king. “Clerk, you may remove your books--there is no more need of writing. The lady has preferred a form of process much more summary than ours. And you, Sir Marquis! What is your pleasure?” Saluzzo had too sincere a respect for his ungainly body to hazard it against Vieilleville. “I will marry no woman by constraint,” he muttered, “If she do not affect me, I can do without her.” As Vieilleville passed through the antechamber, one of the judges accosted him in a low voice. “You have saved yourself a six months’ work, worse than the _corvée_, by this wager of battle. The marquis had a list of forty interrogations for the lady, in which every word she ever spoke to himself or servants, every pressure of his hand, was enumerated.”

“Well,” said he “it is only a French woman who has outwitted a hundred Italians.”

“No,” pursued his informant, “it is your valour which has extricated her from an ugly scrape. Away, and celebrate the wedding; for I much misinterpret the looks of the prince and lady if that be not what you are driving at.”

[EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.]

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. FORTY YEARS AGO.

It was a lovely morning; a remittance had arrived in the very nick of time; my two horses were in excellent condition; and I resolved, with a college chum, to put in execution a long concerted scheme of driving to London, Tandem. We sent our horses forward, got others at Cambridge, and tossing Algebra and Anarcharsis “to the dogs” started in high spirits. We ran up to London in style--went ball-pitch to the play--and after a quiet breakfast at the St. James’s, set out with my own horses upon a dashing drive through the west end of the town. We were turning down the Haymarket, when whom, to my utter horror and consternation, should I see crossing to meet us, but my old warmhearted, but severe and peppery uncle, Sir Thomas.

To escape was impossible.--A cart before, and two carriages behind, made us stationary; and I mentally resigned all idea of ever succeeding to his five thousand per annum. Up he came. “What! can I believe my eyes? George? what the-do you here? Tandem too, by---- (I leave blanks for the significant accompaniments which dropped from his mouth like pearls, and rubies in the fairy tale, when he was in a passion.) I have it, thought I, as an idea crossed my mind which I resolved to follow. I looked right and left, as if it was not possible it could be me he was addressing.--“What! you don’t know me, you young dog? Don’t you know your uncle? Why, Sir, in the name of common sense--Pshaw! you’ve done with that. Why in ------ name a’nt you at Cambridge?”

“At Cambridge, Sir?” said I. “At Cambridge, Sir,” he repeated, mimicking my affected astonishment; “why I suppose you never were at Cambridge!--Oh! you young spendthrift; is this the manner you dispose of my allowance? Is this the way you read hard? you young profligate, you young ------ you ------.” Seeing he was getting energetic, I began to be apprehensive of a _scene_; and resolved to drop the curtain at once, “Really, Sir,” said I, with as brazen a look as I could summon upon emergency, “I have not the honour of your acquaintance.” His large eyes assumed a fixed stare of astonishment. “I must confess you have the advantage of me. Excuse me; but, to my knowledge, I never saw you before.”--A torrent, I perceived, was coming.--“Make no apologies, they are unnecessary. Your next _rencontre_ will, I hope, be more fortunate, though your finding your country cousin in London is like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay.--Bye, bye, old buck.” The cart was removed, and I drove off, yet not without seeing him, in a paroxysm of rage, half frightful, half ludicrous, toss his hat on the ground, and hearing him exclaim--“He disowns me! the jackanapes! disowns his own uncle by ------.”

Poor Philip Chichester’s look of amazement at this finished stroke of impudence is present, at this instant, to my memory. I think I see his face, which at no time had more expression than a turnip, assume that air of a pensive simpleton, _d’un mouton qui rêve_, which he so often and so successfully exhibited over an incomprehensible problem in “Principia.”

“Well! you’ve done it.--Dished completely. What could induce you to be such a blockhead?” said he. “The family of the blockheads, my dear Phil,” I replied, “is far too creditably established in society to render their alliance disgraceful. I’m proud to belong to so prevailing a party.”

“Pshaw! this is no time for joking. What’s to be done?”

“Why, when does a man want a joke, Phil, but when he is in trouble? However, adieu to _badinage_, and hey for Cambridge, instantly.”

“Cambridge?”

“In the twinkling of an eye--not a moment to be lost. My uncle will post there with four horses instantly; and my only chance of avoiding that romantic misfortune of being cut off with a shilling, is to be there before him.”

Without settling the bill at the inn, or making a single arrangement, we dashed back to Cambridge. Never shall I forget the mental anxiety I endured on my way there. Every thing was against us. A heavy rain had fallen in the night, and the roads were wretched, the traces broke--turnpike gates were shut--droves of sheep and carts impeded our progress; but in spite of all these obstacles, we reached the college in less than six hours. “Has Sir Thomas -------- been here?” said I to the porter, with an agitation I could not conceal. “No, Sir.” Phil “thanked God, and took courage.”

“If he does, tell him so and so,” said I, giving _veracious_ Thomas his instructions, and putting a guinea into his hand to sharpen his memory. “Phil, my dear fellow, don’t shew your face out of college for this fortnight. You twig! God bless you.”--I had barely time to get to my own room, to have my toga and trencher beside me, Newton and Aristotle before me--optics, mechanics, and hydrostatics, strewed around in learned confusion, when my uncle drove up to the gate.

“Porter, I wish to see Mr. ------,” said he; “is he in his rooms?”

“Yes, Sir; I saw him take a heap of books there ten minutes ago.” This was not the first bouncer the Essence of Truth, as Thomas was known through college, had told for me; nor the last he got well paid for. “Ay! Very likely; reads very hard, I dare say?”

“No doubt of that, I believe, Sir,” said Thomas, as bold as brass. “You audacious fellow! how dare you look in my face and tell me such a deliberate falsehood? You know he’s not in college!”

“Not in college! Sir; as I hope----”

“None of your hopes or fears to me. Shew me his rooms.--If two hours ago I did not see ------. See him,--yes, I’ve seen him, and he’s seen the last of me.”

He had now reached my rooms; and never shall I forget his look of astonishment, of amazement bordering on incredulity, when I calmly came forward, took his hand, and welcomed him to Cambridge. “My dear Sir, how are you? What lucky wind has blown you here?”--“What George! who--what--why--I can’t believe my eyes!”--“How happy I am to see you!” I continued; “How kind of you to come! How well you’re looking!”--“How people may be deceived! My dear George (speaking rapidly), I met a fellow, in a tandem, in the Haymarket, so like you in every particular, that I hailed him at once. The puppy disowned me--affected to cut a joke--and drove off. Never was I more taken off my stilts. I came down directly, with four post-horses, to tell your tutor; to tell the master; to tell all the college, that I would have nothing more to do with you; that I would be responsible for your debts no longer; to inclose you fifty pounds and disown you for ever”--My dear Sir, how singular!”--Singular! I wonder at perjury no longer, for my part. I would have gone into any court of justice, and would have taken my oath it was you. I never saw such a likeness. Your father and the fellow’s mother were acquainted, or I’m mistaken. The air, the height, the voice, all but the manner, and--that was _not_ yours. No, no, you never would have treated your uncle so.”--“How rejoiced I am, that--”

“Rejoiced; so am I. I would not but have been undeceived for a thousand guineas. Nothing but seeing you here so quiet, so studious, surrounded by problems, would have convinced me. Ecod! I can’t tell you how I was startled. I had been told some queer stories, to be sure, about your Cambridge etiquette. I heard that two Cambridge men, one of St. John’s, the other of Trinity, had met on the top of Vesuvius, and that though they knew each other by sight and reputation, yet, never having been formally introduced, like two simpletons, they looked at each other in silence, and left the mountain separately and without speaking: and that cracked fellow-commoner, Meadows, had shewn me a caricature, taken from the life, representing a Cambridge man drowning, and another gownsman standing on the brink, exclaiming, ‘Oh! that I had had the honour of being introduced to that man, that I might have taken the liberty of saving him!’ But,--it, thought I, he never would carry it so far with his own uncle!--I never heard your father was a gay man,” continued he, musing; “yet, as you sit in that light, the likeness is--” I moved instantly--“But it’s impossible, you know, it’s impossible. Come, my dear fellow, come; I must get some dinner. Who could he be? Never were two people so like!”

We dined at the inn, and spent the evening together; and instead of the fifty, the “_last fifty_,” he generously gave me a draft lor three times the amount. He left Cambridge the next morning and his last words were, as he entered his carriage, “My brother _was_ a handsome man; and there _was_ a Lady Somebody, who, the world said was partial to him. She _may_ have a son. Most surprising likeness. God bless you. Read hard, you young dog; remember. Like as two Brothers!”--I never saw him again.

His death, which happened a few months afterwards, in consequence ol his being _bit_ in a bet, contracted when he was a “little elevated,” left me the heir to his fine estate; I wish I could add, to his many and noble virtues. I do not attempt to palliate deception. It is always criminal. But, I am sure, no severity, no reprimand, no reproaches, would have had half the effect which his kindness, his confidence, and his generosity wrought on me. It reformed me thoroughly, and at once. I did not see London again till I had graduated: and if my degree was unaccompanied by brilliant honours, it did not disgrace my uncle’s liberality or his name. Many years have elapsed since our last interview; but I never reflect on it without pain and pleasure--pain, that our last intercourse on earth should have been marked by the grossest deception; and pleasure, that the serious reflections it awakened, cured me for ever of all wish to deceive, and made the open and straightforward path of life.

AN OLD STUDENT--[ANONYMOUS.]

NECK OR NOTHING.

The Art of Tying the Cravat is an art without the knowledge of which all others are useless.