 | CHAPTER III. The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A cold and dark northeaster, had swept together a host of
straggling vapors and thin lowering clouds over the French
metropolis — the course of the Seine might be traced easily
among the grotesque roofs and Gothic towers which at that day
adorned its banks, by the gray ghostly mist which seethed up
from its sluggish waters — a small fine rain was falling noiselessly,
and almost imperceptibly, by its own weight as it were,
from the surcharged and watery atmosphere — the air was
keenly cold and piercing, although the seasons had not crept
far as yet beyond the confines of the summer. The trees, for
fauxbourgs and gardens of the haute noblesse, were thickly
covered with white rime, as were the manes and frontlets of
the horses, the clothes, and hair, and eyebrows of the human
beings who ventured forth in spite of the inclement weather.
A sadder and more gloomy scene can scarcely be conceived
than is presented by the streets of a large city in such a time
as that I have attempted to describe. But this peculier sadness
was, on the day of which I write, augmented and exaggerated
by the continual tolling of the great bell of St. Germains Auxerrois,
replying to the iron din which arose from the gray towers
of Nôtre Dame. From an early hour of the day the people
had been congregating in the streets and about the bridges leading
to the precincts of the royal palace, the Chateau des Tournelles,
which then stood — long since obliterated almost from
the memory of men — upon the Isle de Paris, the greater part
of which was covered then with the courts, and terraces, and
gardens of that princely pile.
Strong bodies of the household troops were posted here and
there about the avenues and gates of the royal demesne, and
several large detachments of the archers of the prevôt's guard
— still called so from the arms which they had long since
ceased to carry — might be seen everywhere on duty. Yet
there were no symptoms of an émeute among the populace, nor
any signs of angry feeling or excitement in the features of the
loitering crowd, which was increasing every moment as the
day waxed toward noon. Some feeling certainly there was —
some dark and earnest interest, as might be judged from the
knit brows, clinched hands, and anxious whispers which everywhere
attended the exchange of thought throughout the concourse
— but it was by no means of an alarming or an angry
character. Grief, wonder, expectation, and a sort of half-doubtful
pity, as far as might be gathered from the words of the
common feeling, which had called out so large a portion of the
city's population on a day so unsuited to any spectacle of interest.
For several hours this mob, increasing as it has been
described from hour to hour, varied but little in its character,
save that as the day wore it became more and more respectable
in the appearance of its members. At first it had been
composed almost without exception of artisans and shop-boys,
and mechanics of the lowest order, with not a few of the cheats,
bravoes, pickpockets, and similar ruffians, who then as now
formed a fraternity of no mean size in the Parisian world. As
the morning advanced, however, many of the burghers of the
city, and respectable craftsmen, might be seen among the
crowd; and a little later many of the secondary gentry and
petite noblesse, with well-dressed women and even children,
all showing the same symptoms of sad yet eager expectation.
Now, when it lacked but a few minutes of noon, long trains of
courtiers with their retinues and armed attendants, many a head
of a renowned and ancient house, many a warrior famous for
valor and for conduct might be seen threading the mazes of the
crowded thoroughfares toward the royal palace.
A double ceremony of singular and solemn nature was soon
to be enacted there — the interment of a noble soldier, slain
lately in an unjust quarrel, and the investiture of an unwilling
woman with the robes of a holy sisterhood preparatory to her
lifelong interment in that sepulchre of the living body — sepulchre
of the pining soul — the convent cloisters. Armand de
Laguy! — Marguerite de Vaudreuil!
Many circumstances had united in this matter to call forth
much excitement, much grave interest in the minds of all who
had heard tell of it! — the singular and wild romance of the
story, the furious and cruel combat which had resulted from it
— and last not least, the violent, and, as it was generally considered,
who survived the ruin she had wrought.
The story was, in truth, then, but little understood. A thousand
rumors were abroad, and of course no one accurately true;
yet in each there was a share of truth, and the amount of the
whole was perhaps less wide of the mark than is usual in matters
of the kind. And thus they ran: Marguerite de Vaudreuil
had been betrothed to the youngest of France's famous warriors,
Charles de La-Hirè, who after a time fell — as it was related
by his young friend and kinsman Armand de Laguy — covered
with wounds and honor. The body had been found outstretched
beneath the survivor, who, himself desperately hurt, had alone
witnessed and in vain endeavored to prevent his cousin's slaughter.
The face of Charles de La-Hirè, as all men deemed the
corpse to be, was mangled and defaced so frightfully as to render
recognition by the features utterly hopeless; yet, from the
emblazoned surcoat which it bore, the well-known armor on
the limbs, the signet-ring upon the finger, and the accustomed
sword clinched in the dead right hand, none doubted the identity
of the body, or questioned the truth of Armand's story.
Armand de Laguy, succeeding by his cousin's death to all
his lands and lordships, returned to the metropolis, and mixed
in the gayeties of that gay period, when all the court of France
was revelling in the celebration of the union of the dauphin
with the lovely Mary Stuart, in after-days the hapless queen
of Scotland.
He wore no decent and accustomed garb of mourning. He
suffered no interval, however brief — due to decorum at least,
if not to kindly feeling — to elapse, before it was announced
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the dead man's late betrothed,
was instantly to wed his living cousin! Her wondrous beauty,
her all-seductive manners, her extreme youth, had in vain pleaded
against the general censure of the court — the world. Men
but after a little while, as the novelty of the story wore
away, the indignation against her inconstancy ceased, and she
was once again installed the leader of the court's unwedded
beauties.
Suddenly, on the very eve of her intended nuptials, Charles
de La-Hirè returned! — ransomed, as it turned out, by Brissac,
from the Italian dungeons of the prince of Parma, and making
fearful charges of treason and intended murder against Armand
de Laguy. The king had commanded that the truth should be
proved by a solemn combat; had sworn to execute upon the
felon's block whichever of the two should yield or confess
falsehood; had sworn that the inconstant Marguerite — who,
on the return of De La-Hirè, had returned instantly to her former
feelings, asserting her perfect confidence in the truth of
Charles, the treachery of Armand — should either wed the victor,
or live and die the inmate of the most rigorous convent in
his realm.
The battle had been fought yesterday! Armand de Laguy
fell, mortally wounded by his wronged cousin's hand, and with
his latest breath declared his treasons, and implored pardon
from his king, his kinsman, and his God — happy to perish by
a brave man's sword, not by a headman's axe. And Marguerite,
the victor's prize — rejected by the man she had betrayed
— herself refusing, even if he were willing, to wed with him
whom she could but dishonor — had now no option save death
or the detested cloister.
And now men pitied — women wept — all frowned, and wondered,
and kept silence. That a young, vain, capricious beauty
— the pet and spoiled child from her very cradle of a gay and
luxurious court, worshipped for her charms like a second Aphrodite,
intoxicated with the love of admiration — that such a
to the dead — a questionable fealty always — and be won to a
rash second love by the falsehood and treasons of a man young,
and brave, and handsome — falsehood which had deceived wise
men — that such should be the course of events, men said, was
neither strange nor monstrous! It was a fault, a lapse, of
which she had been guilty — which might indeed make her
future faith suspected, which would surely justify Charles de
La-Hirè in casting back her proffered hand — but which at the
worst was venial, and deserving no such doom as the soul-chilling
cloister.
She had, they said, in no respect participated in the guilt or
shared the treacheries of Armand. On the contrary, she, the
victim of his fraud, had been the first to denounce, to spit at, to
defy him.
Moreover, it was understood that, although De La-Hirè had
refused her hand, several of equal and even higher birth than
he had offered to redeem her from the cloister by taking her to
wife of their free choice. Jarnac had claimed the beauty, and
it was whispered that the duke de Nevers had sued to Henry
vainly for the fair hand of the unwilling novice.
But the king was relentless. “Either the wife of De La-Hirè,
or the bride of God in the cloister!” was his unvarying
reply. No further answer would he give — no disclosure of
his motives would he make, even to his wisest councillors.
Some, indeed, augured that the good monarch's anger was but
feigned, and that, deeming her sufficiently punished already,
he was desirous still of forcing her to be the bride of him to
whom she had been destined, and whom she still, despite her
brief inconstancy, unquestionably worshipped in her heart; for
all men still supposed that at the last Charles would forgive
the hapless girl, and so relieve her from the living tomb that
even now seemed yawning to enclose her. But others — and
second Henry — vowed that the wrath was real; and felt that,
though no man could fathom the cause of his stern ire, he never
would forgive the guilty girl, whose frailty, as he swore, had
caused such strife and bloodshed.
But now it was high noon; and forth filed from the palace-gates
a long and glittering train — Henry and all his court, with
all the rank and beauty of the realm, knights, nobles, peers and
princes, damsels and dames — the pride of France and Europe.
But at the monarch's right walked one, clad in no gay attire —
pale, languid, wounded, and warworn — Charles de La-Hirè,
the victor. A sad, deep gloom o'ercast his large dark eye, and
threw a shadow over his massy forehead. His lip had forgot
to smile, his glance to lighten; yet was there no remorse, no
doubt, no wavering in his calm, noble features — only fixed, settled
sorrow. His long and waving hair of the darkest chestnut,
evenly parted on his crown, fell down on either cheek, and
flowed over the broad, plain collar of his shirt, which, decked
with no embroidery-lace, was folded back over the cape of a
plain black pourpoint, made of fine cloth indeed, but neither
laced nor passemented, nor even slashed with velvet; a broad
scarf of black taffeta supported his weapon — a heavy, double-edged,
straight broadsword — and served at the same time to
support his left arm, the sleeve of which hung open, tied in
with points of riband; his trunk-hose and nether stocks of plain
black silk, black velvet shoes, and a slouched hat, with neither
feather nor cockade, completed the suit of melancholy mourning
which he wore.
In the midst of the train was a yet sadder sight — Marguerite
de Vaudreuil, robed in the snow-white vestments of a novice,
with all her glorious ringlets flowing in loose redundance
over her shoulders and her bosom, soon to be cut close by the
fatal scissors — pale as the monumental stone, and only not as
either hand; and a long train of priests swept after, with crucifix,
and rosary, and censer.
Scarcely had this strange procession issued from the great
gates of Les Tournelles — the death-bells tolling still from every
tower and steeple — before another train, gloomier yet and
sadder, filed out from the gate of the royal tiltyard, at the farther
end of which stood a superb pavilion. Sixteen black
Benedictine monks led the array, chanting the mournful Miserere.
Next behind these (strange contrast!) strode on the
grim, gaunt form, clad in his blood-stained tabard, and bearing
full displayed his broad, two-handed axe — fell emblem of his
odious calling — the public executioner of Paris. Immediately
in the rear of this dark functionary, not borne by his bold captains,
nor followed by his gallant vassals with arms reversed
and signs of martial sorrow, but ignominiously supported by
the grim-visaged ministers of the law, came on the bier of
Armand, the last count de Laguy.
Stretched in a coffin of the rudest material and construction,
with his pale visage bare, displaying still in its distorted lines
and sharpened features the agonies of mind and body which
had preceded his untimely dissolution, the bad but haughty
noble was borne to his long home in the graveyard of Nôtre
Dame. His sword, broken in twain, was laid across his breast,
his spurs had been hacked from his heels by the base cleaver
of the scullion, and his reversed escutcheon was hung above
his head.
Narrowly saved by his wronged kinsman's intercession from
dying by the headman's weapon ere yet his mortal wounds
should have let out his spirit, he was yet destined to the shame
of a dishonored sepulchre. Such was the king's decree —
alas! inexorable.
The funeral-train proceeded; the king and his court followed.
superb gray towers! — they reached the grave, in a remote and
gloomy corner, where, in unconsecrated earth, reposed the executed
felon. The priests attended not the corpse beyond the
precincts of that unholy spot; their solemn chant died mournfully
away; no rites were done, no prayers were said above
the senseless clay, but in silence was it lowered into the ready
pit — silence disturbed only by the deep, hollow sound of the
clods that fell fast and heavy on the breast of the guilty noble!
For many a day a headstone might be seen — not raised by the
kind hands of sorrowing friends, nor watered by the tears of
kinsmen, but planted there to tell of his disgraceful doom —
amid the nameless graves of the self-slain, and the recorded
resting-places of well-known thieves and felons. It was of
dark-gray freestone, and it bore these brief words — brief words,
but in that situation speaking the voice of volumes:—
Le dernier Comte de Laguy.”
Three forms stood by the grave — stood till the last clod had
been heaped upon its kindred clay, and the dark headstone
planted: Henry the king; and Charles the baron de La-Hirè;
and Marguerite de Vaudreuil.
And as the last clod was flattened down upon the dead —
after the stone was fixed — De La-Hirè crossed the grave to
the despairing girl, where she had stood gazing with a fixed,
rayless eye on the sad ceremony, and took her by the hand,
and spoke so loud that all might hear his words, while Henry
looked on calmly, but not without an air of wondering excitement:—
“Not that I did not love thee,” he said, “Marguerite! Not
that I did not pardon thee thy brief inconstancy, caused as it
was by evil arts of which we will say nothing now — since he
we trust, now pardoned! Not for these causes, nor for any of
them, have I declined thine hand thus far; but that the king
commanded, judging it in his wisdom best for both of us. Now
Armand is gone hence; and let all doubt and sorrow go hence
with him! Let all your tears, all my suspicions, be buried in
his grave for ever! I take your hand, dear Marguerite — I
take you as mine honored and loved bride — I claim you mine
for ever!”
Thus far the girl had listened to him, not blushingly, nor
with a melting eye, nor with any sign of renewed hope or rekindled
happiness in her pale features — but with cold, resolute
attention. But now she put away his hand very steadily, and
spoke with a firm, unfaltering voice.
“Be not so weak!” she said; “be not so weak, Charles de
La-Hirè — nor fancy me so vain! The weight and wisdom of
years have passed above my head since yester morning: then
was I a vain, thoughtless girl; now am I a stern, wise woman!
That I have sinned, is very true — that I have betrayed thee,
wronged thee! It may be, had you spoke pardon yesterday —
it might have been all well! It may be it had been dishonor
in you to take me to your arms; but if to do so had been dishonor
yesterday, by what is it made honor now? No! no!
Charles de La-Hirè — no! no! I had refused thee yesterday,
hadst thou been willing to redeem me, by self-sacrifice, then,
from the convent-walls; I had refused thee then, with love
warming my heart toward thee — in all honor! Force me not
to reject thee now with scorn and hatred. Nor dare to think
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil will owe to man's compassion
what she owes not to love! Peace, Charles de La-Hirè! — I
say, peace! my last words to thee have been spoken, and never
will I hear more from thee! And now, Sir King, hear thou —
may God judge between thee and me, as thou hast judged!
and credulous — but made man not wise, to deceive and ruin
her. If I sinned deeply against this baron de La-Hirè, I sinned
not knowingly, nor of premeditation! If I sinned deeply, more
deeply was I sinned against — more deeply was I left to suffer
— even hadst thou heaped no more brands upon the burning!
If to bear hopeless love — to pine with unavailing sorrow — to
repent with continual remorse — to writhe with trampled pride!
— if these things be to suffer, then, Sir King, had I enough suffered
without thy just interposition!” As she spoke, a bitter
sneer curled her lip for a moment; but as she saw Henry
again about to speak, a wilder and higher expression flashed
over all her features: her form appeared to distend, her bosom
heaved, her eye glared, her ringlets seemed to stiffen, as if instinct
with life.
“Nay!” she cried, in a voice clear as the strain of a
silver trumpet — “nay, thou shalt hear me out! And thou
didst swear yesterday I should live in a cloister-cell for ever!
and I replied to thy words then, `Not long!' I have thought
better now; and now I answer, `Never!' Lo here! lo here!
ye who have marked the doom of Armand — mark now the
doom of Marguerite! Ye who have judged the treason, mark
the doom of the traitress!”
And with the words, before any one could interfere, even
had they suspected her intentions, she raised her right hand
on high — and all then saw the quick twinkle of a weapon —
and struck herself, as it seemed, a quick, slight blow immediately
under the left bosom! It seemed a quick, slight blow!
but it had been so accurately studied — so steadily aimed and
fatally — that the keen blade, scarcely three inches long and
very slender, of the best of Milan steel, with nearly a third of
the hilt, was driven home into her very heart. She spoke no
syllable again, nor uttered any cry! — nor did a single spasm
shapely limbs; but she leaped forward, and fell upon her face,
quite dead, at the king's feet!”
Henry smiled not again for many a day thereafter. Charles
de La-Hirè died very old, a Carthusian monk of the strictest
order, having mourned sixty years and prayed in silence for
the sorrows and the sins of that most hapless being.
| CHAPTER III. The knights of England, France, and Scotland | |