 | The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
1. PART I.
There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris's
streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had
taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs
of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place
de Grève in solid and almost impenetrable masses.
People of all conditions were there, except the very highest;
but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the
low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of
women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam
of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants
in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage.
Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless
they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and
solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let
rulers beware, for peril is at hand — perhaps the beginning of
the end.
But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it
had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and
sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience,
was anything but angry or excited.
On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable
expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions
to notre bon roi, which circulated among the better order of
spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth
Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the
good folks of the metropolis.
What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward
with so much glee — which had brought forth young delicate
girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour —
which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning,
was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats,
and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the
proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis?
One glance toward the centre of the Place de Grève was
sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly,
horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a
huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit.
Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaffold
hung with black cloth, and strewd with saw-dust, for the
convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than
the wheel which surmounted it.
Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two companies
of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing
outward, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they
apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor
of the people, nothing appeared at that time to be further from
their thoughts than anything of the kind.
Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-looking
assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation
they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments
of slaughter.
By and by, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept
still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of
itself, mingled with the eagerness and expectation of the populace,
and from some murmurs, which ran from time to time
through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the
escape of their victim.
By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked
the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble
blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by
persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the
upper classes, as eager to behold the frightful and disgusting
scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere rabble in the
open streets below.
The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the
thoroughfare by which the fatal procession would advance, with
this difference alone, that many of the houses in that quarter
belonging to the high nobility, and all with few exceptions
being the dwellings of opulent persons, the windows, instead
of being let like seats at the opera, to any who would pay the
price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming and going
from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisy throng,
when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to the
busy scene.
Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far
from the Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of
the Place de la Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and
principal entrance, a group was collected at one of the windows,
nearly overlooking the gate itself, which seemed to take
the liveliest interest in the proceedings of the day, although
that interest was entirely unmixed with anything like the brutal
expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitement which
characterized the temper of the multitude.
The most prominent persons of this group was a singularly
noble-looking man, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had
with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment,
by a quick, fiery flash, was calm, benevolent, and pensive in
its ordinary mood, rather than energetical or active. Yet it
was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed it, was of
the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination.
The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have sufficiently
indicated that, at some period of his life he had borne
arms and led the life of a camp — which, indeed, at that day
was only to say that he was a nobleman of France — but a long
scar on his right brow, a little way above the eye, losing itself
among the thick locks of his fine waving hair, and a small
round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a
pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had been where
blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his own
person in the melée.
His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day,
though perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it
partook somewhat of the past mode of the regency, which had
just been brought to a conclusion as my tale commences, by the
resignation of the witty and licentious Philip of Orleans.
If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prominent,
he certainly was not the most interesting person of the
company, which consisted, besides himself, of an ecclesiastic
of high rank in the French church, a lady, now somewhat advanced
in years, but showing the remains of beauty which, in
its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his
fifteenth or sixteenth year.
For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intellect
of the elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbé, not unsupported
by all which men look for as the outward and visible
signs of that dignity, and the grace and beauty of the lady, it
have dwelt, from the instant of its first discovering him.
He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions
which gave promise of exceeding strength when he should arrive
at maturity, but strength uncoupled to anything of weight
or clumsiness. He was unusually free, even at this early
period, from that heavy and ungraceful redundance of flesh
which not unfrequently is the forerunner of athletic power in
boys just bursting into manhood; for he was already as conspicuous
for the thinness of his flanks, and the shapely hollow
of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his chest, the
breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs.
His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that
of one who had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined
with dignity of carriage, in no school of practice and mannerism,
but from the example of those with whom he had been
brought up, and by familiar intercourse from his cradle upward
with the high-born and gently nurtured of the land.
His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses undisfigured
as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser,
on either side his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured
by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His
eyes were large and very clear, of the deepest shade of blue,
with dark lashes, yet full of strong, tranquil light. All his features
were regular and shapely, but it was not so much in the
beauty of their form, or in the harmony of their coloring, that
the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in the peculiarity
and power of his expression.
For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that
expression were indeed almost unnatural, and they combined
with a calm firmness and immobility of feature, which promised,
I know not what of resolution and tenacity of purpose.
It was not gravity, much less sternness, or sadness, that lent
single line which indicated coldness or hardness of heart, or
which would have led to a suspicion that he had been schooled
by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was pure
thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual
order, which characterized the boy's expression.
Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the
aspect whence to forebode a want of the more masculine qualifications.
It was the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a
dreamer — the thoughtfulness which prepares, not unfits a man
for action. If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance
were not deceptive to the last degree, high qualities were within
and a high destiny before him.
But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen
years, may augur of the finish and the fruit of the threescore-and-ten,
which are the sum of human toil and sorrow?
It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the
Bastile was lowered, and its gate opened; and forth rode, two
abreast, a troop of the musquetaires or lifeguard, in the bright
steel casques and cuirases, with the musquetoons, from which
they derived their name, unslung and ready for action. As
they issued into the wider space beyond the bridge, the troopers
formed themselves rapidly into a sort of hollow column, the
front of which, some eight file deep, occupied the whole width
of the street, two files in close order composing each flank, and
leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded by
the horsemen.
Into this space, without a moment's delay, there was driven
a low, black cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the
rudest construction, drawn by four powerful black horses — a
savage-faced official guiding them by the ropes which supplied
the place of reins. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood
three persons — the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens of
bristling with offensive weapons.
Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of
the lifeguard, which closed up in the densest and most serried
order around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render
any attempt at rescue useless.
The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military
force had been produced, and to witness whose execution so
vast a multitude was collected, was a tall, noble-looking man
of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit
of the day, but wearing neither hat nor mantle. His dark hair,
mixed at intervals with thin lines of silver, was cut short behind,
contrary to the usage of the times, and his neck was bare, the
collar of his superbly-laced shirt being folded broadly back over
the cape of his pourpoint.
His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally
of the darkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful
blood had receded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its appearance.
Still it did not seem that it was fear which had
blanched his cheeks, and stolen all the color from his compressed
lip, for his eye was full of a fierce, scornful light, and
all his features were set and steady with an expression of the
calmest and most iron resolution.
As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on
the esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of
satisfaction ran through the assembled concourse, rising and
deepening gradually into a savage howl like that of a hungry
tiger.
Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable
pride of the French noble! Then shame, and fear, and death
itself, which he was looking even now full in the face, were
all forgotten, all absorbed, in his overwhelming scorn of the
people!
The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed
to lighten forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft —
loaded although it was with such a mass of iron as a Greek
athlete might have shunned to lift — and shook it at the clamorous
mob, with a glare of scorn and fury that showed how, had
he been at liberty, he would have dealt with the revilers of his
fallen state.
“Sacré canaille!” he hissed through his hard-set teeth —
“back to your gutters and your garbage; or follow, if you can,
in silence, and learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a
man should die!”
The reproof told: for, though at the contemptuous tone and
fell insult of the first words, the clamor of the rabble-rout waxed
wilder, there was so much true dignity in the last sentiment
he uttered, and the fate to which he was going was so hideous,
that a key was struck in the popular heart, and thenceforth the
tone of the spectators was changed altogether.
It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and disgrace
of a noble, that had found tongue in that savage conclamation;
it was the apprehension that his dignity, and the interest
of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial
justice of the king, that had rendered them pitiless and savage:
and now that their own cruel will was about to be gratified, as
they beheld how dauntlessly the proud lord went to a death of
torture, they were stricken with a sort of secret shame, and
followed the dread train in sullen silence.
As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned
his eyes upward — perchance from a sentiment of pride, which
rendered it painful to him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or
triumphant, of the Parisian populace; and as he did so, it
chanced that his glance fell on the group which I have described
as assembled at the windows of a mansion which he
knew well, and in which, in happier days, he had passed gay
exception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the instant;
the lady alone having turned her head away, as unable
to look upon one in such a strait, whom she had known under
circumstances so widely different. There was nothing, however,
in the gaze of all these earnest eyes that seemed to embarrass,
much less to offend, the prisoner. Deep interest, earnestness,
perhaps horror, was expressed by one and all; but
that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, the abhorrence
which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populace below.
As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself
up to his full height, and, laying his right hand upon his heart,
bowed low and gracefully to the windows at which his friends
of past days were assembled.
The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father, as if to
note what return he should make to that strange salutation. If
it were so, he did not remain in doubt a moment, for that nobleman
bowed low and solemnly to his brother-peer with a very
grave and sad aspect; and even the ecclesiastic inclined his
head courteously to the condemned criminal.
The boy perhaps marvelled, for a look of bewilderment
crossed his ingenuous features; but it passed away in an instant,
and, following the example of his seniors, he bent his
ingenuous brow and sunny locks before the unhappy man, who
never was again to interchange a salute with living mortal.
It would seem that the recipient of that last act of courtesy
was gratified beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for
a faint flush stole over his livid features, from which the momentary
glow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a
slight smile played upon his pallid lip, while a tear — the last
he should ever shed — twinkled for an instant on his dark
lashes. “True,” he muttered to himself approvingly; “the
nobles are true ever to their order!”
The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group
above, by what had passed, and at first it appeared as if they
had taken umbrage at the sympathy showed to the criminal by
his equals in rank; for there was manifested a little inclination
to break out again into a murmured shout, and some angry words
were bandied about, reflecting on the pride and party spirit of
the proud lords.
But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time
to render itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no
one knew whence or by whom, through the crowded ranks —
“Hush! hush! it is the good lord of St. Renan!” And therewith
every voice was hushed — so fickle is the fancy of a crowd
— although it is very certain that four fifths of those present
knew not nor had ever heard the name of St. Renan, nor had
the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it had on either
their respect or forbearance.
The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by
any further show of temper on the part of the crowd; and the
crowd itself, following the progress of the hurdle to the place
of execution, was soon out of sight of the windows occupied by
the family of the count de St. Renan.
“Alas! unhappy Kerguelen!” exclaimed the count, with a
deep and painful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight
in the distance. “He knows not yet half the bitterness of that
which he has to undergo.”
The boy looked up into his father's face with an inquiring
glance, which he answered at once, still in the same subdued
and solemn voice which he had used from the first.
“By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that
he imagines he is to die as a nobleman, by the axe. May
Heaven support him when he sees the disgraceful wheel.”
“You seem to pity the wretch, Louis,” cried the lady, who
had not hitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal
a most atrocious criminal. A cool, deliberate, cold-blooded
poisoner! Out upon it! out upon it! The wheel is fifty times
too good for him!”
“He was all that you say, Marie,” replied her husband
gravely; “and yet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve
for him. I knew him well, though we have not met for many
years, when we were both young, and there was no braver, nobler,
better man within the limits of fair France. I know, too,
how he loved that woman, how he trusted that man — and then
to be so betrayed! It seems to me but yesterday that he led
her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden blushes.
Poor Kerguelon! he was sorely tried.”
“But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he submitted
him as a Christian to the punishment the good God laid
upon him —”
“The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dishonored
slave, father,” said the count, answering the ecclesiastic's
speech before it was yet finished, “and gentlemen would
have refused him the hand of fellowship.”
“Was he justified then, my father?” asked the boy eagerly,
who had been listening with eager attention to every word that
had yet been spoken. “Do you think, then, that he was in
the right; that he could not do otherwise than to slay her? I
can understand that he was bound to kill the man who had
basely wronged his honor — but a woman! — a woman whom
he had once loved too! — that seems to me most horrible; and
the mode, by a slow poison! living with her while it took
effect! eating at the same board with her! sleeping by her
side! that seems even more than horrible, it was cowardly!”
“God forbid, my son,” replied the elder nobleman, “that I
should say any man was justified who had murdered another
in cold blood; especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a
said, that he was tried very fearfully, and that under such trial
the best and wisest of us here below can not say how he would
act himself. Moreover, it would seem, that mistaken as he
was perhaps in the course which he seems to have imagined
that honor demanded at his hands, he was more mistaken in
the mode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of vengeance.
It was made very evident upon his trial that he did
nothing, even to that wretched traitress, in rage or revenge,
but all as he thought in honor. He chose a drug which consumed
her by a mild and gradual decay, without suffering or
spasm; he gave her time for repentance, nay, it is clearly
proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her to the
part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with
her before she passed away. I do not think myself that to
commit a crime himself can clear one from dishonor cast upon
him by another's act, but at the same time I can not look upon
Kerguelen's guilt as of that brutal and felonious nature which
calls for such a punishment as this — to be broken alive on the
wheel, like a hired stabber — much less can I assent to the
stigma which is attached to him on all sides, while that base,
low-lived, treacherous, cogging miscreant, who fell too honorably
by his honorable sword, meets pity — God defend us from
such justice and sympathy! — and is entombed with tears and
honors, while the avenger is crushed, living, out of the very
shape of humanity by the hands of the common hangman.”
The churchman's lips moved for a moment, as if he were
about to speak in reply to the false doctrines which he heard
enunciated by that upright and honorable man, and good father,
but, ere he spoke, he reflected that those doctrines were held
at that time, throughout Christian Europe, unquestioned, and
confirmed by prejudice and pride beyond all the power of argument
or of religion to set them aside, or invalidate them.
code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,
which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash
word, for every wrongful action, was the law paramount of
every civilized land in that day, and in France perhaps most
of all lands, as standing foremost in what was then deemed
civilization. And the abbé well knew that discussion of this
point would only tend to bring out the opinions of the count
de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code of honor, more
decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of the young
man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatal
error.
The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested
in the matter of the conversation, had devoured every word of
his father, as if he had been listening to the oracles of a God;
and, when he ceased, after a pause of some seconds, during
which he was pondering very deeply on that which he had
heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in an earnest
voice —
“I see, my father, all that you have alleged in palliation of
the count's crime, and I fully understand you — though I still
think it the most terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But
I do not perfectly comprehend wherefore you ransack our language
of all the deepest terms of contempt which to heap upon
the head of the chevalier de la Rochederrien? He was the
count's sworn friend, she was the count's wedded wife; they
both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him. But in
what was the chevalier's fault the greater or the viler?”
Those were strange days, in which such a subject could
have been discussed between two wise and virtuous parents
and a son, whom it was their chiefest aim in life to bring up to
be a good and honorable man — that son, too, barely more than
a boy in years and understanding. But the morality of those
vice, there was far less superficial delicacy in the manners of
society, and the relations between men and women, than there
is now-a-days.
Perhaps the course lies midway; for certainly if there was
much coarseness then, there is much cant and much squeamishness
now, which could be excellently well dispensed with.
Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much
earlier at that period, and were made men of at an age when
they would have been learning Greek and Latin, had their
birth been postponed by a single century.
Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors
in the battle's front, and were initiated into all the license of
the court, the camp, and the forum.
So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that
which I have described, was very naturally introduced even
between parents and a beloved and only son by the circumstances
of the day. Morals, as regards the matrimonial contract,
and the intercourse between the sexes, have at all times been
lower and far less rigid among the French, than in nations of
northern origin; and never at any period of the world was the
morality of any country, in this respect, at so low an ebb as
was France under the reign of the Fifteenth Louis.
The count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with
as little restraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally
acquainted with the customs and vices of the world, although
intrigue and crime were the topics of which he had to treat.
“It is quite true, Raoul,” replied the count, “that so far as
the unhappy lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the
chevalier de la Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, perhaps
less deep than that of the miserable lady. He was, indeed,
bound to Kerguelen by every tie of friendship and honor;
he had been aided by his purse, backed by his sword, nay, I
all that he seduced his wife; and to make it worse, if worse it
could be, Kerguelen had married her from the strongest affection,
and till the chevalier brought misery, and dishonor, and
death upon them, there was no wedded couple in all France so
virtuous or so happy.”
“Indeed, sir!” replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion,
staring with his large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had
presented itself to him on a sudden.
“I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you
will soon do so, when you begin to mingle with men, that there
are those in society, those whom the world regards, moreover,
as honorable men, who affect to say that he who loves a woman,
whether lawfully or sinfully, is at once absolved from all
considerations except how he most easily may win — or in other
words — ruin her; and consequently such men would speak
slightly of the chevalier's conduct toward his friend, Kerguelen,
and affect to regard it as a matter of course, and a mere
affair of gallantry! But I trust you will remember this, my
son, that there is nothing gallant, nor can be, in lying, or deceit,
or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes
of passion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and
an act of deliberate dishonor.”
“I should not have supposed, sir,” replied the boy, blushing
very deeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject
under discussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions,
“that any cavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems
to me that to betray a friend's honor is a far blacker thing than
to betray his life — and surely no man with one pretension to
honor would attempt to justify that.”
“I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on
this point. Hold to your creed, my dear boy, for there are
who shall try ere long to shake it. But be sure that it is the
himself even in this, it was not for this only that I
termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest and most infamous
of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin;
when she had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor;
when she had placed the greatest trust — although a guilty
trust, I admit — in his faith and integrity that one human being
can place in another, the base dog betrayed her. He boasted
of her weakness, of Kerguelen's dishonor, of his own infamy.”
“And did not they to whom he boasted of it,” exclaimed the
noble boy, his face flushing fiery red with excitement and indignation,
“spurn him at once from their presence, as a thing
unworthy and beyond the pale of law.”
“No, Raoul, they laughed at him, applauded his gallant success,
and jeered at the lord of Kerguelen.”
“Great heaven! and these were gentlemen!”
“They were called such, at least; gentlemen by name and
descent they were assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen
at heart. Many of them, however, in cooler moments, spoke
of the traitor and the braggart with the contempt and disgust
he merited. Some friend of Kerguelen's heard what had
passed, and deemed it his duty to inform him. The most unhappy
husband called the seducer to the field, wounded him
mortally, and — to increase yet more his infamy — even in the
agony of death the slave confessed the whole, and craved forgiveness
like a dog. Confessed the woman's crime — you mark
me, Raoul! — had he died mute, or died even with a falsehood
in his mouth, as I think he was bound to do in such extremity,
affirming her innocence with his last breath, he had saved her,
and perhaps spared her wretched lord the misery of knowing
certainly the depth of his dishonor.”
The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any
answer; and although he was evidently not altogether satisfied,
read what was passing in his mind, asked him what it was that
he desired to know further.
Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father understood
him, and then said at once, without pause or hesitation:—
“I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched
man of whom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in
which he stood, to die with a falsehood in his mouth. Can a
gentleman ever be justified in saying the thing that is not?
Much more, can it be his bounden duty to do so?”
“Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he can not.
Truth is the soul of honor; and without truth, honor can not
exist. But this is a most intricate and tangled question. It
never can arise without presupposing the commission of one
guilty act — one act which no good or truly moral man would
commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcely worth our while to
examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate and grave opinion,
that if a woman, previously innocent and pure, have sacrificed
her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice everything —
his life without a question, and I think his truth also — in order
to preserve her character, so far as he can, unscathed. But
we will speak no more of this; it is an odious subject, and one
of which I trust you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion
to consider.”
“Oh, never, father, never I!” cried the ingenuous boy; “I
must first lose my senses, and become a madman.”
“All men are madmen, Raoul,” said the churchman — who
stood in the relation of maternal uncle to the youth — “who
suffer their passions to have the mastery of them. You must
learn, therefore, to be their tyrant; for if you be not, be well
assured that that they will be yours — and merciless tyrants
they are to the wretches who become their subjects.”
“I will remember what you say, sir,” answered the boy,
the saddest day I ever have passed; and this is the most horrible
and appalling story that I have ever heard told. It was
but just that the lord of Kerguelen should die, for he did a murder;
and since the law punishes that in a peasant, it must do
so likewise with a noble. But to break him upon the wheel!
— it is atrocious! I should have thought all the nobles of the
land would have applied to the king to spare him that horror.”
“Many of them did apply, Raoul; but the king, or his ministers
in his name, made answer that during the regency the
count Horn was broken on the wheel for murder, and therefore
that to behead the lord of Kerguelen for the same offence, would
be to admit that the count was wrongfully condemned.”
“Out on it! out on it! what sophistry! Count Horn murdered
a banker, like a common thief, for his gold; and this unhappy
lord hath done the deed for which he must suffer in a
mistaken sense of honor, and with all tenderness compatible
with such a deed. There is nothing similar or parallel in the
two cases; and if there were, what signifies it now to Count
Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or not? Are these
men heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended
manes of the dead? But is there no hope, my father, that his
sentence may be commuted?”
“None whatever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died
penitent, and that his sufferings are already over; and let us
pray, ere we lay us down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven
to him, and that his soul may have rest.”
“Amen!” replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment
that the ecclesiastic repeated the same word — though he did
so, as it would seem, less from the heart, and more as a matter
of course.
Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth the
conversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the
which were in progress at that very moment, and by the recollection
of the preceding enormities of which this was but the
consummation; but the young viscount Raoul was so completely
engrossed by the deep thoughts which that conversation had
awakened in his mind, that his father, who was a very close
observer, and correct judge of human nature, almost regretted
that he had spoken, and determined, if possible, to divert him
from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen.
“Viscount,” said he, after a silence which had endured now
for many minutes, “when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle
Melanie d' Argenson?”
Raoul's eyes brightened at the name, and again the bright
blush, which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features;
but this time it was pleasure, not embarrassment, which colored
his young face so vividly.
“I called yesterday, sir,” he answered, “but she was abroad
with the countess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her
since Friday last.”
“Why, that is an age, Raoul! Are you not dying to see her
again by this time? At your age, I was far more gallant.”
“With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my
compliments to her.”
“Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make
your best haste thither. If you go straightways, you will be
sure to find her at home, for the ladies are sure not to have
ventured abroad with all this uproar in the streets. Take Martin
the equerry with you, and three of the grooms. What will
you ride — the new Barb I bought for you last week! Yes!
as well him as any; and, hark you, boy, tell them to send
Martin to me first: I will speak to him while you are beautifying
yourself to please the beaux yeux of Mademoiselle Melanie.”
“I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis,” said the
— “in bringing Raoul up as you are doing.”
“Nor I, Marie,” replied her husband, gravely; “we poor,
blind mortals can not be sure of anything, least of all of anything
the ends of which are incalculably distant. But in what
particular do you doubt the wisdom of my method?”
“In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man already;
in opening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of
the world; in discussing questions with him such as those you
spoke of with him but now. He is a mere boy, you will remember,
to hear tell of such things!”
“Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you — far
earlier than you ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he
must hear of them one day; and I think it quite as well that
he should hear of them, since hear he must, with the comments
of an old man, and that old man his best friend, than find them
out by the teachings and judge of them according to the light
views of his young and excitable associates. He who is forewarned
is fore-weaponed. I was kept pure, as it is termed —
or, in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world I
was destined to live in — until one fine day I was cut loose
from the apron-strings of my lady-mother, and the tether of my
abbé-tutor, and launched head-foremost into that vortex of temptation
and iniquity, the world of Paris, like a ship without a
chart or a compass. A precious race I ran in consequence, for
a time; and if I had not been so fortunate as to meet you, Marie
— whose bright eyes brought me out, like a blessed beacon,
safe from that perilous ocean — I know not but I should have
suffered shipwreck, both in fortune, which is a trifle, and in
character, which is everything. No, no; if that is all in which
you doubt, your fears are causeless.”
“But that is not all. In this you may be right — I know
not; at all events, you are a fitter judge than I! But are you
d' Argenson?”
“I' faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think: the boy
loves her!”
“I see that, Louis, clearly; and you encourage it.”
“And wherefore should I not? She is a good girl — as good
as she is beautiful!”
“She is an angel!”
“And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom
friend.”
“And now a saint in heaven!”
“Well, what more? She is as noble as a De Rohan or a
Montmorency; she is an heiress with superb estates adjoining
our own lands of St. Renan; she is, like our Raoul, an only
child; and what is the most of all, I think, although it is not
the mode in this dear France of ours to attach much weight to
that, it is no made-up match, no cradle-plighting between babes
— to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of hearts — but a
genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young, sincere,
innocent, artless persons; and a splendid couple they will make.
What can you see to alarm you in that prospect?”
“Her father.”
“The sieur d' Argenson! Well, I confess, he is not a very
charming person; but we all have our own faults or weaknesses:
and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to
marry.”
“I doubt his good faith, very sorely.”
“I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which
should lead him to break it. But the match is in all respects
more desirable for him than it is for us; for, though Mademoiselle
d' Argenson is noble, rich, and handsome, the viscount de
Douarnenez might be well justified in looking for a wife far
higher than the daughter of a simple sieur of Bretagne. Be
before any one saw it, indeed, save I — it was D' Argenson himself
who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to
play false?”
“I do not know; yet I doubt — I fear him.”
“But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character — of your
mind.”
“Louis, she is too beautiful!”
“I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score.”
“Nor would one greater than Raoul.”
“Whom do you mean?” cried the count, now for the first
time startled.
“I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration,
which never admire but they pollute the object of their admiration.”
“The king's, Marie?”
“The king's!”
“And then —?”
“And then I have heard it whispered that the baron de Beaulieu
has asked her hand of the sieur d' Argenson.”
“The baron de Beaulieu! and who the devil is the baron de
Beaulieu, that the sieur d' Argenson should doubt for the nine
hundredth part of a minute between him and the viscount de
Douarnenez for the husband of his daughter?”
“The baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend,
the right-hand man, and most private minister, of his most Christian
majesty King Louis XV.”
“Ha! is it possible? Do you mean that —”
“I mean even that — if, by that, you mean all that is most
infamous and loathsome on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most
licentious on the part of the king. I believe — nay, I am well-nigh
sure — that there is such a scheme of villany on foot
against that sweet, unhappy child; and therefore would I pause
most unhappy and disastrous.”
“And do you think D'Argenson capable —” exclaimed her
husband —
“Of anything,” she answered, interrupting him, “of anything
that may serve his avarice or his ambition.”
“Ah! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie; I will look to
it narrowly. But I fear that, if it be as you fancy, it is too late
already; that our boy's heart is devoted to her entirely; that
any break now, in one word, would be a heart-break!”
“He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt,” replied the lady;
“and she deserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him likewise.”
“And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend herself
to such a scheme of infamy?”
“Never! She would die sooner.”
“I do not apprehend, then, that there will be so much difficulty
as you seem to fear. This business which brought all
of us Bretons up to Paris, as claimants of justice for our province,
or courters of the king's grace, as they phrase it, is finished
happily; and there is nothing to detain any of us in this
great wilderness of stone and mortar any longer. D'Argenson
told me yesterday that he should set out homeward on Wednesday
next; and it is but hurrying our own preparations a little
to travel with them in one party. I will see him this evening,
and arrange it.”
“Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract,
Louis?”
“Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But
we have spoken oftentimes of the evident attachment of the
children, and he has ever expressed himself gratified, and
seemed to regard it as a matter of course. But hush! here
comes the boy: leave us a while, and I will speak with him.”
Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown
open, and young Raoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his
rapier at his side, and his plumed hat in his hand — as likely a
youth to win a fair maid's heart as ever wore the weapon of a
gentleman.
“Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast,
they tell me, to look after a pair of fine English carriage-horses
for the countess my mother, and has not yet returned. I ordered
old Jean François to attend me, with the four other
grooms.”
“Very well, Raoul. But look you — your head is young,
and your blood hot. You will meet, it is very like, all this
canaille returning from the slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now
mark me, boy, there must be no vaporing on your part, or interfering
with the populace; and even if they should, as very
probably they may, be insolent, and utter outcries and abuse
against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account
strike any person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach
upon their order; unless, indeed, they should so far forget themselves
as to throw stones, or to strike the first blow.”
“And then, my father?”
“Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword
feel the fresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine
spurs you wear. But even in that case, I should advise you to
use your edge rather than your point. There is not much harm
done in wiping a saucy burgher across the face to mend his
manners, but to pink him through the body makes it an awkward
matter. And I need not tell you by no means to fire, unless
you should be so beset and maltreated that you can not
otherwise extricate yourself; yet you must have your pistols
loaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provided
against all things. I do not, however, tell you these things
now because you are likely to be attacked; but such events
early.”
“I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your permission
now to depart?”
“Not yet, Raoul; I would speak with you first a few words.
This Mademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?”
“She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen,” replied
the youth, not without some embarrassment.
“And as amiable and gentle as she is beautiful?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness,
yet is full of mirth, too, and graceful merriment.”
“In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and
lovely creature.”
“Doubtless she does, my father.”
“And I beseech you tell me, viscount, in what light do you
appear in the eyes of this very admirable young lady?”
“Oh, sir!” replied the youth, now very much embarrassed,
and blushing actually from shame.
“Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you,
or in the least degree as a jest. It becomes very important
that I should know on what terms you and this fair lady stand
together. You have been visiting her now almost daily, I think,
during these three months last past. Do you conceive that you
are very disagreeable to her?”
“Oh! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought
so!”
“Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not
blind to your merits, sir?”
“I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits
which she should be called to observe.”
“Oh, yes, viscount! That is an excess of modesty which
touches a little, I am afraid, on hypocrisy. You are not altogether
without merits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly
well, and dance gracefully, and are not generally ill-educated
or unpolished. It is quite as necessary, my dear son, that a
young man should not undervalue himself, as that he should
not think of his deserts too highly. Now, that you have some
merits, is certain — for the rest, I desire frankness of you just
now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think you love
this young girl: is it not so, Raoul?”
“I do love her sir, very dearly — with my whole heart and
spirit!”
“And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking
— that it will last, Raoul?”
“So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for
her last, my father!”
“And you would wish to marry her?”
“Beyond all things in this world, my dear father.”
“And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the
subject consulted, she would say likewise?”
“I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her.”
“And her father — is he gracious when you meet him?”
“Most gracious, sir, and most kind; indeed, he distinguishes
me above all the other young gentlemen who visit there.”
“You would not, then, despair of obtaining his consent.”
“By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to
ask it.”
“And you desire that I should do so?”
“You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you
will!”
“Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it
with the young lady. I will speak myself with the sieur d'Argenson
to-night; and I do not despair any more than you do,
Raoul. But look you, boy, you do not fancy, I hope, that you
are going to church with your lady-love to-morrow or the next
very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first, in
order to show that you know how to use your sword.”
“In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfil your
wishes, knowing them to be as kindly as they are wise and
prudent. I owe you gratitude for every hour since I was born,
but for none so much as for this, for indeed you are going to
make me the happiest of men.”
“Away with you then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on
the wings of love to your bright lady; and mind the advice of
your favorite, Horace, to pluck the pleasures of the passing
hour, mindful how short is the sum of mortal life!”
The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room
with a quick step and a joyous heart; and the jingling of his
spurs, and the quick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble
staircase, told how joyously he descended its steps.
A moment afterward his father heard the clear, sonorous
tones of his fine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few
seconds later the lively clatter of his horse's hoofs on the resounding
pavement.
“Alas for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly
flown!” exclaimed the father, as he participated in the hopeful
and exulting mood of his noble boy; “and alas for the promise
of mortal happiness, which is so oft deceitful and a traitress!”
He paused for a few moments, and seemed to ponder, and then
added, with a confident and proud expression: “But I see not
why one should forebode aught but success and happiness to
this noble boy of mine. Thus far, everything has worked toward
the end as I would wish it. They have fallen in love naturally
and of their own accord, and D'Argenson, whether he
like it or not, can not help himself. He must needs accedet
proudly and joyfully, to my proposal; he knows his estates to
be in my power far too deeply to resist. Nay, more — though
nothing of him that should justify me in believing that he would
sell his daughter's honor, even to a king, for wealth or title!
My good wife is all too doubtful and suspicious. — But, hark!
here comes the mob, returning from that unfortunate man's execution!
I wonder how he bore it?”
And with the words he moved toward the window, and,
throwing it open, stepped out upon the spacious balcony. Here
he learned speedily, from the conversation of the passing crowd,
that, although dreadfully shocked and startled by the first intimation
of the death he was to undergo, which he received from
the sight of the fatal wheel, the lord of Kerguelen had died as
becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to the church, forgiving
his enemies, without a groan or a murmur, under the protracted
agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking on
the wheel!
Meanwhile the day passed onward; and when evening came,
and the last and most social meal of the day was laid on the
domestic board, young Raoul had returned from his visit to the
lady of his love, full of high hopes and happy anticipations.
Afterward, according to his promise, the count de St. Renan
went forth and held debate until a late hour of the night with
the sieur d'Argenson. Raoul had not retired when he came
home, too restless in his youthful ardor even to think of sleep.
His father brought good tidings: the father of the lady had
consented, and on their arrival in Bretagne the marriage-contract
was to be signed in form.
That was to Raoul an eventful day; and never did he forget
it, or the teachings he drew from it. That day was his fate.
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