University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles
— at that time the abode of France's royalty! — music
and merriment, even from the break of day! That was a singular
age, an age of great transitions. The splendid spirit-stirring
soul of chivalry was alive yet among the nations —
yet! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its
death-blow in the spear-thrust that hurled the noble Henry,
last victim of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and
from throne! In every art, in every usage, new science had
effected even then mighty changes; yet it was the OLD WORLD
STILL! Gunpowder, and the use of musketry and ordnance,
had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their
barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel
— and tilts and tournaments still mustered all the knightly
and the noble; and banquets at high noon, and balls in the
broad daylight, assembled to the board or to the dance, the
young, the beautiful, and happy.

There were merriment and music in the court, the hall, the
staircase, the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful,
and bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered

to the presence of their king. And there were many there,
well-known and honored in those olden days; well-known and
honored ever after. The first, in person as in place, was the
great king! the proud, and chivalrous, and princely! becoming
his high station at all times and in every place; wearing his
state right gracefully and freely — the second Henry! — and at
his side young Francis, the king-dauphin; with her, the cynosure
of every heart, the star of that fair company — Scotland's
unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up
with those soft, dovelike eyes, fraught with unutterable soul,
into her husband's face — into her husband's spirit. Brissac
was there, and Joyeuse, and Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned
for skill in fence, and Vielleville; and the cardinal Lorraine,
and all the glorious Guises and Montmorenci, soon to be famous
as the slayer of his king, and every peer of France, and every
peerless lady.

Loud peeled the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen
minstrelsey — and as the gorgeous sunbeams rushed in a flood
of tinted lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall
windows, glancing on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that
might outdazzle their own radiance, arrayed in all the pomp
and pride of that magnificent and stately period — a more resplendent
scene could scarcely be imagined. That was a day
of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors thought
it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of
goldsmith's work about their necks, and jewels in their ears,
and on their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and swordhilts;
and if such were the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more
solid sex, what must have been the ornature of the court ladies,
under the gentle sway of such a being as Diane de Poictiers,
the lovely mistress of the monarch, and arbitress of the soft
follies of the court?

The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety,

some in the pomp of blazoned tapestries, with banners rustling
from the cornices above the jocund dancers, some filled with
fresh green branches, wrought into silver arbors, sweet garlands
perfuming the air, and the light half excluded or tempered
into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense foliage of the
rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro, clad in
the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry,
the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest
cates, in every interval of the surrounding dance. It would be
tedious to dwell longer on the scene; to multiply more instances
of the strange mixture, which might be witnessed everywhere,
of artificial luxury with semibarbarous rudeness — to
specify the graces of the company, the beauty of the demoiselles
and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles, as
they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated
measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some
old chronicler, with style as curious and as quaint as the manners
he portrays in living colors. Enough for us to catch a
fleeting glimpse of the grand pageantry! to sketch with a
dashy pencil the groups which he would designate with absolute
and accurate minuteness!

But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must
not be passed over with so slight a regard, since she attracted
on that festive day, as much of wondering admiration for her
unequalled beauties as she excited sympathy, and fear, in after-days,
for her sad fortunes — but there was now no cloud upon
her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of approaching tears
in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy thought
upon one glorious feature — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress
of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that
rank and fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure,
high brow, her dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect
symmetry of her whole shape and person! Her hair, of

the darkest auburn shade, fell in a thousand ringlets, glittering
out like threads of virgin gold when a stray sunbeam touched
them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely shoulders
and so much of a soft, heaving bosom — veined by unnumbered
azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously —
as was displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet
boddice. Her eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light,
almost defied description, possessing at one time the depth and
brilliance of the black, melting into the softer languor of the
blue — yet they were of the latter hue, and suited truly to the
whole style and character of her voluptuous beauty. Her form,
as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every movement,
every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied
grace. In sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere
mortality — and so thought many a one who gazed upon her,
half drunk with that divine delirium which steeps the souls of
men who dwell too steadfastly upon such wondrous charms,
as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance, lighter and
springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the exciting
toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle!
and many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an
exterior so divine should be the tenement of a harsh, worldly
spirit — that a demeanor and an air so frank, so cordial, and
so warm, should be but the deceptive veil that hid a selfish,
cold, bad heart. Ay, many asked themselves that question on
that day, but not one answered his own question candidly or
truly — no! not one man! — for in her presence he had been
more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence
unmoved by the attractions of her outward seeming.

For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months
before affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè
— the bravest and best of Henry's youthful nobles. It had
been a love-treaty — no matter of shrewd bartering of hearts —

no cold and worldly convenance — but the outpouring, as it
seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of the
other! — and men had envied him, and ladies had held her
more fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her
riches, or her beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate,
or to sneer, in admiration of the young glorious pair, that
seemed so fitly mated. Three little months had passed — three
more, and they had been made one! — but in the interval
Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his king's behest, had buckled
on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian
wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought,
yet handsomer than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand
de Laguy, his own orphaned cousin, bred like a brother
on his father's hearth; and, as Charles well believed, a brother
in affection. Three little months had passed, and, in a temporary
truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone, leading the
relics of his cousin's force, and laden with the doleful tidings
of that cousin's fall upon the field of honor. None else had
seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile
ranks; but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble
kinsman, and failing in the desperate attempt, had borne off his
reward in many a perilous wound. Another month, and it was
whispered far and near, that Marguerite had dried her tears
already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his cousin's death,
succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to the winning
of that dead cousin's bride. It had been whispered far
and near, and now the whisper was proved true. For on this
festive day young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting
wounds, and languid from loss of blood, appeared
in public for the first time, not in the sable weeds of decent and
accustomed wo, but in the gayest garb of a successful bridegroom
— his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet strewn thickly
with seed-pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of rich white
silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured arm
suspended in a rare scarf of the lady's colors, and, above all,
the air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and
that lovely girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that
for once, at least, the tongue of rumor had told truth.

Therefore men gazed in wonder — and marvelled as they
gazed, and half condemned! — yet they who had been loudest
in their censure when the first whisper reached their ears of
so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted an inconstancy, now found
themselves devising many an excuse within their secret hearts
for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry himself
had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed,
radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles
— but the stern brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself
into a softer aspect, and the rebuff which he had determined —
but a second's space before — to give to the untimely lovers,
was frittered down into a jest before it left the lips of the repentant
speaker.

The day was well-nigh spent — the evening banquet had
been spread, and had been honored duly — and now the lamps
were lit in hall, and corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed
the mirth, and faster wheeled the dance. The company were
scattered to and fro, some wandering in the royal gardens,
which overspread at that day most of the Isle de Paris; some
played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the
halls; some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some
whispered love in ladies' ears in dark sequestered bowers —
and of these last were Marguerite and Armand — a long alcove
of thick green boughs, with orange-trees between, flowering in
marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand odorous trees, mingling
their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely bower, and there
alone, in the dim starlight — alone indeed! for they might now
be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the

frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor's right, while his left
arm, unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender
waist; her head reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich
redundancy of ringlets floating about his neck and bosom, and
her eyes, languid and suffused, fondly turned up to meet his
passionate glances. “And can it be,” he said, in the thick
broken tones that tell of vehement passion, “and can it be that
you indeed love Armand? I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that I,
like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed;
for him thou didst love dearly, while on me never didst
thou waste thought or word.”

“Him — never, Armand, never! — by the bright stars above
us — by the great gods that hear us — I never — never did love
Charles de La-Hirè — never did love man, save thee, my noble
Armand. False girlish vanity and pique led me to toy with
him at first; now to my sorrow I confess it — and when thou
didst look coldly upon me, and seemedst to woo dark Adeline de
Courcy, a woman's vengeance stirred up my very soul, and
therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh
yielded up myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed
indeed and honored, but never thought of for one moment with
affection; wilt thou believe me, Armand?”

“Sweet angel, Marguerite!”' and he clasped her to his hot,
heaving breast, and her white arms were flung about his neck,
and their lips met in a long fiery kiss.

Just in that point of time — in that soft melting moment — a
heavy hand was laid quietly on Armand's shoulder — he started,
as the fiend sprang up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel's
angel weapon — he started like a guilty thing from that forbidden
kiss.

A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in
a dark riding-cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat
on the stately head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive

features. The high broad forehead as pale as sculptured
marble, with the dark chestnut curls falling off parted evenly
upon the crown — the full, fixed, steady eye, which he could
no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the meridian
sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and
wo — were all! all those of his good cousin.

For a moment's space the three stood there in silence —
Charles de La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable
consternation of the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent
almost to the earth with shame and conscious terror! and Marguerite
half dead with fear, and scarcely certain if indeed he
who stood before her were the man in his living presence,
whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the
visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark
grave to thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest.

“I am in time” — he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering
as his whole air was cold and tranquil — in time to
break off this monstrous union! — Thy perjuries have been in
vain, weak man; thy lies are open to the day. He whom thou
didst betray to the Italian's dungeon — to the Italian's dagger
— as thou didst then believe and hope — stands bodily before
thee.”

A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite,
as the dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened
fears — the man whom she had loved — first loved! — for all
her previous words were false and fickle — stood at her side in
all his power and glory — and she affianced to a liar, a base
traitor — a foul murderer in his heart! — a scorn and byword
to her own sex — an object of contempt and hatred to every
noble spirit!

But at that instant Armand de Laguy's pride awoke — for he
was proud, and brave, and daring! — and he gave back the lie,
and hurled defiance in his accuser's teeth.

“Death to thy soul!” he cried; “'tis thou that liest, Charles!
Did I not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not
sink beside thee, hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving
to preserve thee? And when my vassals found me, wert
thou not beside me — with thy face scarred, indeed, and mangled
beyond recognition — but with the surcoat and the arms
upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold hand? 'T is
thou that liest, man! — 't is thou that, for some base end, didst
conceal thy life, and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me;
but 't will not do, fair cousin! The king shall judge between
us! Come, lady” — and he would have taken her by the
hand, but she sprang back as though a viper would have stung
her.

“Back, traitor!” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing;
“I hate thee — spit on thee — defy thee! Base have I
been myself, and frail, and fickle; but, as I live, Charles de
La-Hirè — but as I live now, and will die right shortly — I
knew not of this villany! I did believe thee dead, as that false
murtherer swore — and — God be good to me! — I did betray
thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand
de Laguy — dog! traitor! villain! knave! — dare not to
look upon me any more; dare not address me with one accent
of thy serpent-tongue! for Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although
she be, and lost for ever, is not so all abandoned as,
knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with thee one second
longer — no! not though that second could redeem all the past,
and wipe out all the sin —”

“Fine words, fine words, fair mistress! but on with me thou
shalt!” — and he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with
a perfect majesty, Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped
him by the wrist, and held him for a moment there, gazing into
his eye as though he would have read his soul; then threw
him off with a force that made him stagger back ten paces before

he could regain his footing. Then, then, with all the fury
of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed
his rapier and made a full longe, bounding forward as
he did so, right at his cousin's heart; but he was foiled again
— for with a single, and, as it seemed, slight motion of the
sheathed broadsword which he held under his cloak, Charles
de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling through
the air to twenty paces' distance.

Just then there came a shout, “The king! the king!” — and,
with the words, a glare of many torches, and with his courtiers
and his guard about him, the monarch stood forth in offended
majesty.

“Ha! what means this insolent broil? What men be these
who dare draw swords within the palace precincts?”

“My sword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling
before the king, and laying the good weapon at his feet —
“nor has been ever drawn, save at your highness' bidding,
against your highness' foes. But I beseech you, sire, as you
love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and treason, grant me
your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy recreant, base,
traitorous, a liar, and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand, in
the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law
of arms and honor!”

“Something of this we have heard already,” replied the king,
“Baron de La-Hirè. But say out, now: of what accuse you
Armand de Laguy? Show but good cause, and thy request is
granted; for I have not forgot your good deeds in my cause
against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen. Of what
accuse you Armand de Laguy?”

“That he betrayed me, wounded, into the hands of the duke
of Parma; that he dealt with Italian bravos to compass my
assassination; that by foul lies and treacherous devices he has
trained from me my affianced bride; and last, not least, deprived

her of fair name and honor. This will I prove upon his body,
so help me God and my good sword!”

“Stand forth and answer to his charge, De Laguy — speak
out! what sayest thou?”

“I say,” answered Armand, boldly — “I say that he lies!
that he did feign his own death, for some evil ends, and did deceive
me, who would have died to succor him; that I, believing
him dead, have won from him the love of this fair lady, I admit
— but I assert that I did win it fairly, and of good right; and,
for the rest, I say he lies doubly when he asserts that she has
lost fair name or honor! This is my answer, sire; and I beseech
you grant his prayer, and let us prove our words, as gentlemen
of France, and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!”

“Amen!” replied the king. “The third day hence, at noon,
in the tiltyard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat —
and this fair lady be the prize of the victor! —”

“No, sire!” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling;
but before he had the time to add a second word, Marguerite
de Vaudreuil, who had stood all the while with her hands
clasped, and her eyes riveted upon the ground, sprang forth
with a great cry.

“No! no! for God's sake! no! no! sire — great king —
good gentleman — brave knight! doom me not to a fate so
dreadful. Charles de La-Hirè is all that man can be of good,
or great, or noble; but I betrayed him, whom I deemed dead,
and he can never trust me living! Moreover, if he would take
me to his arms, base as I am and most false-hearted, he should
not; for God forbid that my dishonor should blight his noble
fame. As for the slave De Laguy — the traitor and low liar —
doom me, great monarch, to the convent or the block, but curse
me not with such contamination! for, by the heavens I swear,
and by the God that rules them, that I will die by my own
hand before I wed that serpent!”

“Be it so, fair one,” answered the king, very coldly, “be it
so; we permit thy choice — a convent or the victor's bridal bed
shall be thy doom, at thine own option! Meanwhile, your
swords, sirs: until the hour of battle ye are both under our arrest.
Jarnac, be thou godfather to Charles de La-Hirè; Nevers,
do thou like office for De Laguy.”

“By God, not I, sire!” answered the proud duke. “I hold
this man's offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my
conscience, I think your royal hangman were his best god-father!”

“Nevertheless, De Nevers, it shall be as I say! This bold
protest of thine is all-sufficient for thine honor; and it is but a
form! No words, duke! it must be as I have said! Joyeuse,
escort this lady to thy duchess; pray her accept of her as the
king's guest, until this matter be decided. The third day hence
at noon, on foot, with sword and dagger, with no arms of defence
or vantage; the principals to fight alone, until one die or
yield — and so God shield the right!”