 | CHAPTER XXII. The brothers : |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
To your severity, and commend the justice
That will not, for the many services
That any man hath done the commonwealth,
Wink at his least of ills.”
The Fatal Dowry.
Although we spent many days on the road to
Paris, nothing beyond the wonted changes of the
vernal weather, from rain to sunshine, or from calm
to storm, befell our party. We plodded onward
in dull and monotonous silence. Night after night
we halted at some petty town, or solitary hamlet,
where guards were set and countersigns exchanged
with as much regularity as would have become the
purlieus of a beleaguered camp; and, morning
after morning, we resumed our wearisome march.
Through storm or shine, through the chill dews of
the evening and the already oppressive heats of
noon—on! on! still onward! No martial music,
cheering the hearts of man and beast alike—no
fluttering of banners—no song or shout rising from
merriment round the nightly fire!
For a stern disciplinarian, a martinet in camp
and on parade, though perhaps no first-rate leader
in a stricken field, was the old German who commanded
the detachment. To me, indeed, he acted
with all the courtesy that could be looked for in my
doubtful situation; towards Isabel—whom, but for
a moment, as she mounted or dismounted from the
Spanish jennet, which she preferred to the confinement
of a litter, I never saw, or spoke with, from
the time of our departure till we reached the gates
of Paris—he bore himself with the deferential yet
distant politeness that was perhaps the most proper
line of conduct he could have then adopted;—but
to De Chateaufort—or De Penthiêvre, as he should
now be called—he was, as I have subsequently
learned, short and abrupt in his demeanour, to the
very verge of insult; keeping him constantly beneath
his own eye, causing two files of troopers to
ride with ready arquebuse and lighted match beside
his bridle-rein, and constantly reminding him that
the slightest attempt at evasion or escape would be
followed by a close and certain volley. Me, on the
contrary, he permitted, having at the first accepted
my parole of honour, to ride in whatever part of
the column it listed me, with the sole restriction
who, attended by Lydford, and by a peasant
maiden lately pressed into her service, rode somewhat
apart from our line of march, escorted by De
Charmi and the troop of my own cavalry, for which
I had stipulated with the maréchal on the night of
my arrest. So painful, however, was the restraint,
so torturing the suspense, and, above all, so exquisitely
miserable the sensation of constant vicinity to
the idol of my heart, accompanied by total exclusion
from her sweet society, that no shipwrecked
mariner, upon his lonely isle of ocean, ever looked
forth more anxiously to spy some gliding sail upon
the far horizon, than did I to see the gate even
of my dungeon—for such, I was too well assured,
would be my next abode.
While we were yet distant many leagues from the
metropolis, we learned that the court and the Frondeurs
were engaged in constant and friendly negotiation;
and that there was scarcely a doubt to be
entertained but that we should find Mazarin reinstated
in the Palais Royal, on our return, in all the
plenitude of his power and greatness. And so indeed
we did. It was on a calm and lovely evening
in the earlier part of May that we arrived at
St. Denys: the sun was fast sinking below the horizon;
and, as we entered the suburbs of the little
that the watch was set, and the gates of Paris closed
till the morning's light. Here then were we compelled
to wait another weary night; and that, too,
under more of restraint than I had heretofore experienced.
A sentinel was actually posted within
the chamber in which I slept, and all communication,
even with Lydford or De Charmi, thus effectually
prevented. For this, however, I cared the
less, that I had already furnished both of these
trusty friends with full instructions as to their proceedings
in my behalf on reaching the metropolis;
and had even provided the former with letters to
the Prince of Condé, possessing him of the features
of my arrest and accusation, and eagerly claiming
his unforgotten promise of friendship and protection.
At a very early hour of the ensuing morning I
learned that a courier had been despatched to Mazarin
on the previous night, notwithstanding the lateness
of the hour; and that he had returned with
despatches to the colonel of the regiment to whose
custody I had been delivered; and with directions,
the purport of which was explained to me ere long,
in a way far more summary at least, if less intelligible,
than words. My sword was taken from me;
I was even ironed, heavily and disgracefully ironed—
only by a desire to conciliate—and seated in a carriage
between two tall and gloomy-looking Germans
armed to the teeth. It was in vain that I inquired
what would be my destination; that I passionately
entreated that I might be permitted to
have an interview with my wife, if but for a moment,
and in the presence of twenty witnesses: it
was in vain! the door of the carriage was secured,
the blinds drawn closely, and we were whirled
along at the utmost speed of six strong Flanders
mares; while the clang of hoofs and the jingling
of spurs and scabbards announced that we were accompanied
by a powerful escort. After driving at
a rapid pace for the better part of an hour, we
stopped suddenly; and I could hear, although indistinctly,
that some military formalities were
taking place between the leader of our escort and
an officer on duty. In a few moments we were
again in motion; and I could readily perceive, by
the hollow sound of the horses' feet and the deep
rumbling of the wheels, that we were in the act of
crossing a drawbridge—probably one of the barriers
of the city; another moment passed, and the
rattle of the wheels over the rough pavement announced
the truth of my conjecture. For half an
hour more we proceeded at a slower and more
drawbridge, passed beneath an archway so
deep and gloomy that I was sensible of an increase
of darkness even in the dim twilight of the closed
carriage! the door was opened! the truth—the
fearful truth flashed on my mind—I was a prisoner
in the horrible Bastile. Around me were the truculent
officials of that dark prison-house; above me
its gigantic towers, bristling with culverin and cannon;
and beneath my feet, beneath the massive
pavements of the court in which I stood, were the
dark subterraneous vaults, to which perhaps, even
now, letters de cachet had consigned me, never
again to look upon the light of day. I gazed around
me anxiously, but my eye fell not upon a single
face of sympathy or friendship. There was no
insult, no rudeness, but no commiseration! There
was a business-like air in the proceedings of the
military jailers, a calm, every-day insensibility in
their demeanour, which was perhaps more fearful,
because less exciting, than would have been the
most violent outrage, the most vile indignity.
There was, however, no room for appeal or for
resistance: to have complained or reasoned would
have been undignified; to have contended with
such things as those about me, alike unsoldierlike,
unmanly, and degrading.
“Lead on!” I said, folding my arms upon my
breast; “lead on! to the scaffold, if you will—I
am prepared!”
“Not yet, sir—not that yet!” was the ruffian-like
reply; “though, for aught I see, 'tis like enough to
follow! But come, sir, we will show you your
abiding-place; 'tis stronger, I assure you, if less
lightsome, than the Palais Royal!” and he would
have laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Back, dog!” I cried, my fierce passion mastering
my better judgment; “the like of you I touch
not, save with the riding-rod or with the sword!”
“Somewhat too ready with the latter, methinks,”—the
warder sneered again—“for the safety
of your neighbours, or, for that matter, of yourself!
and, after all, there is not so much difference
between a murderer and him who turns the key
on him—Sacristie!”
“Beware!” I cried, now moved beyond all
bounds of temper; “beware, low fellow!—my imprisonment
can be but of short duration, and you
shall answer to the Prince de Condé right shrewdly
for this outrage on his officer.”
“To the prince?—outrage?” The man absolutely
laughed aloud. “Ventre St. Gris! 'tis at
the prince's order you stand thus committed; and,
for the shortness of your durance, methinks your
short of all! Here,” he continued, “Bernhard
and Jeanneton, here, lead this gallant to the cell of
old Balue! I had designed him for a turret lodging,
but he waxes malapert, and by my faith shall pay
it with his person! Away with him!”
Perceiving at once the folly of suffering myself
to be annoyed by the insolence of a fellow like this,
and the impolicy of irritating one who had evidently
the power of rendering my condition even
more insupportable than it was at present, I
bridled my indignant passion, and, without another
word, quietly followed the steps of the chief warder.
Through many a winding passage—so dank and
low-browed in their squat and shapeless arches that
they resembled excavations from the rock, rather
than vaults of masonry—down many a flight of
steps—faintly and fearfully lighted by here and
there a lurid lantern—far from the blessed light of
day, we dived into the haunts of misery and guilt.
At length we reached, as it would seem, the lowest
pit. The floor was, indeed, a living rock, as were a
portion of the walls; while from them hung many a
long stalactite, formed by the incessant moisture,
that fell with a dull plashing sound—the only one
which broke these fearful solitudes—upon the natural
pavement. A low door of iron was before
revolved, and I was thrust into my cheerless habitation.
It was a long, low hall—as I viewed it dimly
by the light of the jailer's torch—supported by a
dozen massy pillars, bearing rings of iron riveted
or morticed firmly into their sides. But the object
on which my eye fell most suddenly was the horrible
invention from which the cell had derived its
name—the horrible invention of him who, like the
framer of the classic bull, was doomed to be the
first victim of his own ingenious cruelty—the iron
cage of Balue! There it stood—dark and rusty,
but still perfect, although centuries had passed over
it—a fearful monument of human misery and superhuman
malice.
“St. George!” I cried, involuntarily recoiling,
bold and young as I then was, at the idea of confinement
in such a spot—“St. George! but ye will
not leave me here!”
“Ay, will we, by St. Denys!” he replied.
“The durance of monsieur will be so brief that it
will scarce be tedious. Good repose to you, sir;
and next time, an you will take my advice, you
will have learned that civil words cost nothing.
Good repose!”
With a hoarse laugh he left me. And lucky
was it for him, and I doubt not for myself, that he
although unarmed, such was my power and activity
at the period of which I write, that the
struggle would have been severe between us, although
it must in the end have terminated in
favour of the odds. As it was, the key was turned
upon me, and I knew myself a prisoner, at the very
point of time in which I hurled myself against the
door. With another sneering laugh the ruffians
withdrew. I listened to the sound of their retiring
footsteps till they were lost in distance, with no
certainty that I should ever hear again the step of
living man. Hundreds had vanished from the face
of earth during the sovereignty of Richelieu, never
to be heard of more—the secret dagger—the cord
—the bowl—or, surer and more terrible than all, the
wasting agonizing famine had consumed them!
Why should it not me likewise? For a while
these fantasies crowded thick and incessant on my
brain; but by a mighty effort I repulsed them. I had
heard of men who had been driven frantic by their
own imaginings, who had even lost the knowledge
of their own immortal essence, who had grown
enamoured of their prison-houses, careless of themselves,
debased, and brutified; and I resolved at
once that so should it never be with me! I arranged
my thoughts, I called up all my constitutional
and decision; nor did they desert me at my need.
After a few hours I felt satisfied—satisfied even
in the cheerless gloom of that miserable dungeon—that,
whatever might be the hatred of my
enemies, there could exist no sufficient causes for
my destruction. Mazarin, with all his deception,
all his craft, and all his grasping ambition, was
never wantonly or unnecessarily cruel; neither
could there exist any reasons to render my death
or removal desirable to the court. Offence I might
have given—suspicion might be aroused against
me; yet I had done too much to benefit, while
I possessed too little power to injure. I was at
once an object of too great importance to be cast
aside or annihilated for any interest of trivial moment;
and of too little public weight to make the
danger and trouble of my destruction inferior in
consideration to its necessity. Condé, I was assured,
would not forsake me in my need. Anne of
Austria, too, as far as men may judge of princes,
was well inclined towards me; and Mazarin himself
had stronger motives for assisting than for attacking
me. Thus mused I amid the thick and, as
it were, palpable darkness of my living tomb; and
ere six hours had passed away, the correctness of
my opinions was proved. A footstep was heard
entry of my cell. A turning-box in the door revolved;
it contained a lighted lamp, food, water,
and a change of raiment. And I, anxious and
broken-spirited as I had cause to be, ate, drank,
composed my spirits, and arranged my dress. I
wandered to and fro the sounding vault; I read
the scrawled legends of human misery that were
graven—a dark registry—upon the walls. I took
no note of hours, but in the wasting of my lamp;
it waned, expired, and I was once again in utter
darkness. Coolly and fearlessly I rolled myself in
the voluminous cloak which I had fortunately retained
upon my person; and, extending my body on
the rugged pavement, slept no less soundly than I
had often done on the fragrant turf and beneath
the pure canopy of heaven. If the fetters were
about my limbs, my soul was chainless; and there
was a buoyant confidence in my spirit that rendered
me, not merely equal, but superior to this last
affliction! I know not how long I had lain thus,
buried in slumber and insensible to all my hardships,
when I was aroused suddenly by a light
glaring into my eyes. I sprang to my feet, prepared
on the instant to do battle for my life; but
the man who stood over me had none of the murderous
intentions which I had been prompt to suspect.
but, by his dress alike and his demeanour, of higher
rank than those who had treated me with such
indignity on the preceding day.
“This must be amended,” he muttered to himself,
before he addressed me—“this must be
amended, sir. Will it please you rise and follow
me to a more beseeming chamber—prison though
it be?”
“As you will,” I replied; “but to the prisoner
it matters little whether his state be one degree
more tolerable or no. Nevertheless, I thank you
for your courtesy.” But, although I carried it off
thus lightly, my heart did indeed leap cheerily, as
I left those damp and desolate apartments, and
climbed the long, long staircases that led to the
genial realms of that day which never might penetrate
those subterranean caverns. The blessed
sunlight streamed upon my soul with a consolation,
a happiness, and a power; the very courtyard,
which had yesterday appeared so dark and dungeon-like—such
is the force of contrast—looked
blithe and beautiful! The air, which I had fancied,
even then, to partake of the gloom and chillness of
a jail, murmured freshly, and with a voice of music
about my temples. The sunshine, the air, and
of Hope!
In a few moments I was again immured
in a small chamber, in an upper turret, light
in itself and neatly furnished, though the casements,
in addition to their being some two hundred
feet above the level of the yard they overlooked,
were crossed and recrossed by heavy bars
of iron. Here, too, was I furnished with plain
but wholesome food, and with a cup of wine, not
perhaps of the first growth, but passable enough.
Linen and all the necessaries or luxuries of the
toilet were provided, nor were books denied to
me. But still, although I compelled myself to
use them—although I divided my prison-day into
allotted portions of time wherein to trim my beard
and hair; to take such exercise as the limits of my
cell afforded; to read; to eat my solitary meals—
although I tasked my spirit to all this, with a view
to banishing the tedium and monotony, and to
defeating that careless and despairing languor
which has eaten into many a noble spirit when
pining in hopeless solitude—still, as sun after sun
rose and set, and I received no tidings, underwent
no change of condition, my heart did in truth
begin to sink—despondency was fast creeping
hollow—the cankering iron was making inroads
into my soul. On the tenth day of my captivity,
for the first time I omitted the wonted distribution
of my time—my hair remained untrimmed, my
garb unchanged, my food untasted. I was sitting
by the narrow window, watching till the great sun
should sink beneath the wilderness of walls that
bounded my horizon, and drawing half-credited
omens from the flood of lurid and bloodlike light
which he poured through the smoke and haze of
the metropolis upon the gray towers of the prisonfortress.
“I bring you tidings, sir,” cried a voice from behind,
of one who had entered my cell unobserved—
“good tidings, an you be innocent. The Parliament
is even now in session, and to-morrow you
shall be judged!”
“Ha! this is, indeed, in all events good tidings;
for, trust me, I would sooner fall by axe and block
in the free sunshine, than die thus, like a murrained
sheep, in the closed atmosphere of earth's
most brilliant palace!”
My informant was the warder, who had alone
demeaned himself towards me courteously; but,
beyond this, he was unable or unwilling, perhaps
both, to give me any information; but even this
hope and to anticipated joy. The moments flew
briefly, though morning found me not, as heretofore,
a sleeper.
With the dawn I arose, arranged my long hair
with more than my accustomed care, curled my
mustache, and dressed myself with as much of
splendour as my scanty wardrobe would permit;
nor did I hesitate to fling the rich scarf of white
and gold, which marked the royal party, with
the swordless scabbard attached to it, across my
shoulders. I felt that to be innocent was not
enough, if I should seem despondent; and desperately
I assumed an air of confidence and joy which
in good truth I felt not. Nay, more than this,
when my morning meal was set before me, although
I loathed the very sight of food, I did violence to
my feelings—I broke bread and ate, I quaffed a
goblet of the thin wine of Gascoigny which had
been set before me, and I arose strengthened, if not
refreshed.
Another hour passed, and I was summoned!
“I go,” I cried exultingly—“I go as to my bridal-feast,
rejoicing!” and I learned afterward that this
brief sentence was not without its influence. I
reached the courtyard, and there was drawn out
a guard, an escort of the royal Switzers, in their
and halbered, plume and scarf, glancing and fluttering
in the cloudless morning. The governor of
the Bastile himself stepped forward, and offering
me his ceremonious greeting, delivered me to
the custody of the fiscal, who stood ready to receive
me with the captain of the guard. The
soldiers formed around us in serried files; the
word was given to march, and in silence I was
conducted from those sad precincts.
At the outer gate stood a carriage, into which,
with the civil officers, I was at once desired to
enter. We drove slowly forward, and in half an
hour reached the gateway of the Hotel de Ville.
The ponderous vehicle stopped short; the guard
closed up, forming a lane from the carriage to the
doors of the building—a lane of serried steel; and
still at every step the Switzers fell in behind me,
offering no chance or possibility of escape, had I
been so mad as to attempt it.
Thus was I conducted into the great hall of justice:
the presidents were already in session, with
their chief, the upright and noble-minded Molè, at
their head. From such men as these I had but little
cause for apprehension, even though I perceived
that the celebrated Talon, as advocate-general, was
about to exert his unrivalled powers in favour of
—the space below the bar with advocates and
counsellors; and the long galleries, extending from
the ceiling to the floor, with anxious and wondering
spectators: on either hand the bar, at which
were placed two scribes, or secretaries, with their
writing materials, to enter the proceedings, hung
a huge crimson curtain, behind whose folds I could
readily judge, by their sudden and unnatural waving,
that some persons, most probably the witnesses,
were concealed, until the time should arrive
when they were destined to appear. Slowly I cast
my eyes around the gathered concourse, but I
found not one familiar face; hundreds were there
whom I had seen in casual encounters, whose
names I could have remembered, without perhaps
much effort, but not a single one of those whom I
had called my friends. My heart for a moment
sunk within me; but I manned it—I manned it
with the reflection, that on my own bearing, on my
own calmness, on my own wielding of the intellectual
sword, the victory of that day would probably
depend.
The huzzars—so are the inferior officers of justice
denominated in France—the huzzars led me
to a seat immediately below the bar; and, after a
few moments' consultation, Talon arose, and whispered
of the court; and the immediate result was a
proclamation, in loud and sonorous tones—
“Hear, all men, hear!—and first, hear, Harry
Mornington—styled major-general, in the service
of the most Christian king—hear thou!—Thou
standest here charged with these heinous misdemeanours,
crimes, and felonies:—Neglect of duty
towards your king—Murder done and completed
on the persons of François de Chateaufort and
Charles de Chateaufort the younger, of Jacques
Menard their body servant, Jean Dumas their
ecuyer, and Amelie Menard, fille—The forcible
bearing off and subsequent seduction of Isabel
de Chateaufort, commonly known as Isabel de
Coucy, and wrongfully styled Isabel de Mornington,—by
which thou hast persuaded or compelled
the said Isabel to live with thee, as a wife
with her husband, no legal marriage existing, to the
great injury of her family and the deep dishonour
of her name—And lastly, with having, by the aid of
some priest unknown, unlawfully and feloniously
wedded the same Isabel de Chateaufort, the permission
of her next of kin, or the signature of his
gracious majesty, not having been appended to
such contract, which is therefore void, invalid, and
illegal!
“How sayest thou, Harry Mornington—standest
thou here prepared to submit thee to the mercy of
the court, or dost thou rather claim thy trial?”
“The charges,” I replied, “which I have this
day heard advanced against me, are foul, malignant,
and false-hearted lies! and so—by the blessing
and the aid of the Eternal—so shall I prove
them! Of your laws, your customs, or your
justice, I know nothing; but, well aware that it
is not for the prisoner to impugn the will of his
judges, I do claim full inquiry and free justice—
pleading, in the first instance, that I am, in this
matter, guiltless, upon my honour!”
Again there was a pause—again a whispered
consultation—and again the herald's voice broke
the silence which brooded so deeply over that concourse.
“Prisoner, wilt thou be tried according to the
laws of this most great and ancient realm; swearing
upon the blessed crucifix, and by thy hopes of
the salvation that cometh thence—swearing to
speak the truth before this court, and in the presence
of your God?”
“I swear!” was my brief and almost stern
reply.
After another pause, in which a third discussion
seemed to be agitating the court, I was asked
for breach of duty!
“It recks me little how I be tried, or when, so
it be shortly. But if it be deemed justice to bring
a prisoner from his dungeon to the judgment-hall
ignorant of the matter charged against him, ignorant
of his accusers, without the opportunity of
summoning a single witness, and there to pit the
keenest wits of your best lawyers against a single
soldier—may the court pardon my abruptness—I
term such justice mere judicial murder!”
Without seeming even to have heard the words
of my bold appeal, the court again signified their intentions
to the crier, and again I was questioned:—
“Harry de Mornington, standest thou before the
court innocent or guilty of the alleged breach of
duty towards your king?”
“Before God, not guilty! And may one plea
suffice, to all the charges I have but one—before
my God, not guilty!”
“The court gives license to the advocate-general
to proceed!”
Talon then stepped forward, and, in a few
words, declared, that the breach of duty having
been investigated by military judges already, and
their decision having proved favourable to the
prisoner, he was directed to withdraw the charge!
and proclamation was made, that
“The court are of opinion, and therefore solemnly
pronounce that the prisoner is NOT GUILTY
of the alleged breach of military duty!”
“Gentlemen of the court,” continued Talon,
“and you, monsieur the president, to you shall
I right shortly prove the murder of the noble
youths named at length in the proclamation of
the court, no less than of their body-servants;
the former of whom fell by the shot of a concealed
assassin—the latter in gallantly attempting
to arrest the prisoner after the commission of
the deed! Painful as it may be to my own feelings
thus to be called on to accuse a gentleman
whose gallantry in the field, and whose devotion to
his king, are heretofore undoubted, I must remind
you, gentlemen of the court, that guilt comes not
at once, or suddenly; it may lie dormant in the
breast of men of virtuous seeming—dormant for
years—but when it doth break forth, openly,
boldly, manifestly, as it hath done in this instance,
which we shall prove hereafter, no character, however
high, no virtue, however evident and noble,
may avail to set aside the proof! Gentlemen, I
shall delay the court no further; the prisoner hath
confessed that he is unprovided with a single witness
although one of our most important was cut off—
as it is well supposed, by the hand of him who
stands before you—on the fatal field of Charenton.
Enough, however, we do still possess to establish,
beyond a doubt, the guilt of this brave, but,
I regret to use the words, most guilty gentleman!
Will the court cause the following papers to be
read—duly recorded and attested, as it will not fail
to notice, by the president of the courts judicial at
Bar le Duc?”
The assent of the court was instantly granted;
and the crier recited, or read aloud, a long and
sufficiently well-connected string of evidence, professing
to be the affidavit of Eugene Lacretelle,
body-servant to the Duke de Penthiêvre, since
slain at the battle of Charenton! The purport was
this—that on the morning of the twelfth of January,
he, the witness, was engaged in escorting—together
with Jacques Menard, mentioned in the indictment,
as also with Charles de Chateaufort the
younger—a carriage, occupied by François de
Chateaufort, Isabel de Chateaufort, and Amelie
Menard, the attendant of the lady. That he was
so engaged by order of monsieur, the then Duke
de Penthiêvre; and that he had been accompanied,
until just before the catastrophe, by Achille
of their mission was to conduct Isabel de
Chateaufort, suspected of indiscretion, to a nunnery
near St. Mihiel. That they had reached
the high-road from Vitry to Bar le Duc about
a quarter of an hour; had taken a relay of
horses, and left their escort in the rear. That
he himself, with Jacques Menard, who drove as
postillion, and Charles de Chateaufort the younger,
were now the only persons left in attendance on
the carriage, but that, being on a public and frequented
road, they still apprehended nothing of
peril. That upon entering a dense tract of woodlands—the
witness being then some twenty paces
in the rear—a shot was fired from the covert, which
took deadly effect on the postillion, Jacques Menard;
a second, which brought down the horse
of Charles de Chateaufort; and then a third,
which, as subsequently ascertained, slew Amelie
Menard; that the witness immediately drew rein,
and galloped back, with a view to bringing up
the relay to the rescue; but not before he saw
a person, whom he has since ascertained to be
one Harry Mornington, major-general and chef
d'escadron in the royal service, rush out and
strike down the aforesaid Charles de Chateaufort
by a thrust of his rapier; that, before the witness
had leaped out of the carriage, and was fighting
hand to hand with the murderer; that, having succeeded
in overtaking the escort, the witness brought
them up by the forest-roads, and nearly intercepted
the prisoner; who got off, however, after a desperate
resistance, in which he slew Jean Dumas
by a pistol-shot, bearing with him the said Isabel
de Chateaufort; and making good his retreat,
by swimming the Marne, then in wintry flood.
Thus closed this precious document; which, regularly
signed in the presence of witnesses, and with
the attested autograph of the deceased, was brought
forward as the strongest evidence against me. It
will be readily believed, that I exerted my whole
intellect to discover the slightest defect or discrepancy
in its details; that I weighed every syllable,
as though my life depended on the construction of
each word. It was not long ere I was satisfied!
Suddenly, as I raised my eyes, I caught the glance
of Talon fixed on me as though he would have
read my soul—but, as our looks encountered, the
phrase which had arrested my attention seemed to
flash upon him likewise—for an instant's space he
clearly was embarrassed; though, when he perceived
that I had discovered his confusion, he
turned aside, as if to examine some other documents
relating to the cause. When the written affidavits
Achille de Chateaufort, Duke de Penthiêvre;
and, with a front of unabashed audacity, my old
antagonist stepped forward. He delivered his
evidence firmly, and in a well-set speech; answering
all questions readily; and bearing the
cross-examination—by which some of the younger
advocates attempted, from pure love, as it seemed,
of mischief and chicanery, to disconcert him—
with an air of lofty and unmoved integrity! The
sum of that which he stated was in all respects
corroborative of the testimony that had been previously
introduced, with the additional sanction
derived from the oath of an eye-witness.
He swore that he entertained no malice against
me, the prisoner, further than the natural desire of
bringing the murderer of his brother, and the seducer
of his cousin, to the sword of justice; and that
he had no views in this proceeding, save the public
good. Observing, further, that had not his feelings
on the latter point been peculiarly strong and vivid,
he should hardly have been willing, even to avenge
the slaughter of his beloved kinsmen, to render the
misfortunes of his house a subject of common parlance,
and of ribald calumny.
His statement went to prove that Isabel de Chateaufort,
his cousin, and the natural daughter of his
maternal aunt—being a girl of light character, it
guardian—that she should be consigned to a nunnery,
wherein her name and her dishonour might
be alike forgotten. That, on the morning alluded
to before, he had, as stated in the affidavit of Eugene
Lacretelle, escorted his elder brothers through
the forest to the causeway of Bar le Duc; the two
latter, with the servants above specified, continuing
to accompany their frail kinswoman after he had
left them, as had been before resolved. That
barely a quarter of an hour had elapsed from the
time of his leaving them, ere Eugene Lacretelle
returned at a hard gallop, with the intelligence that
the carriage had been waylaid, and his younger
brother murdered by an unknown assassin. That
immediately he rushed to the rescue with all his
followers, and arrived in time to witness the death
of François by the hands of the prisoner, and nearly
captured him on the spot; although, by the goodness
of his horse, and by his desperate fighting, he had
finally succeeded in bearing off the guilty girl,
whose indiscretion had been the cause of so much
misery. That he had himself subsequently rescued
his cousin from her foul seducer, and had been prevented
only by the civil conflicts from bringing on
this prosecution at an earlier date—and that he
had now only been enabled to do so by the courtesy
had moreover saved his life from the same weapon
which had drunk the life-blood of his brethren.
“And wherefore,” I asked him, the moment he
had concluded his statement—“and wherefore was
it deemed necessary to procure the written evidence
of an eye-witness, who, though subsequently
slain, was then in good health, and easy to be produced
in court at any moment?”
“Men's lives, as the prisoner well knows,” De
Chateaufort sneeringly replied, “are easily cut
short; and it was deemed advisable to have some
legal documents, whereby to establish the guilt of
Monsieur Mornington, should he succeed—as he
has too surely done—in removing the obnoxious
witness!”
“Ha, sir,” I replied; “and in addition to his
other merits, this most egregious witness was a
prophet?—is it not so?”
A bright smile shot across the countenance of
Molè; and he addressed me cheeringly in the
spirit of his speech, though the tone was severe,
and the words harsh.
“How mean you, prisoner—a prophet?—dare
you to make sport of this matter—or to contemn
the court?”
“With all humility, monsieur the president, and
I would advance in my defence—and pray
the noble court now sitting to observe that this
Eugene Lacretelle must indeed have been a very
prophet! Here, in this paper,—dated and regularly
signed on the twenty-ninth day of January
past—the very gallant and most upright gentleman
who, for the public good, has sworn to some score
or two of gross and slavish lies against the life of
a man who never injured him or his—against the
honour of his own persecuted cousin—this very
gallant gentleman, this honest, patriotic prosecutor,
is styled the present Duke of Penthiêvre, and his
yet baser sire the then duke! Now—may it please
the president to look somewhat the more closely
into this matter—he will find that the said worthy
sire of this worthy son was in full life some three
weeks later than the date of this same document,
and some two weeks later than the death of the
pretended signer. So much for the statement of
Eugene Lacretelle! Ha! sir, doth not this pinch
you the more closely?”
A low hum of approbation ran through the court,
and, though it was checked on the instant from the
judgment-seat, a corresponding movement took
place—a shuddering movement, as of intense excitement—among
the assembled lawyers.
“The prisoner is correct, monsieur the advocate,”
uttered the deep voice of the stately president;
“there hath been foul play, and most foul perjury
in this! Hast thou, sir, aught to advance, why we
dismiss not this complaint?”
Talon arose, but slowly, and evidently disconcerted;
still, however, he endeavoured to maintain
his ground—the document he allowed to be a
forgery, though it had escaped his own notice, and
he smiled strangely as he spoke—but yet the evidence
of Penthiêvre himself—whose character
alone would vouch for his having been deceived,
not a deceiver in this matter—was unimpeached,
and must be disproved.
“And it shall be so!” I cried; “an the court will
grant me a delay, to summon witnesses.”
“There may be no delay,” was the president's
reply; “but call your witnesses—it may be they
are even now in court.”
“Isabel de Mornington!”
“Isabel de Mornington!” repeated the clear
voice of the crier—“Isabel de Mornington, witness
in the prisoner's behalf, stand forth!”
Slowly the crimson curtain was drawn aside,
and there—supported on the right and the left by
the great Condé, and, stranger yet, by the Benedictine
prior who had united us in that tie which
laboured to dissever—there stood my lost, my virgin
bride!—Pale she was—pale as the snow-drift
of December. Agitation was in her manner, at
times almost overpowering—shame and sorrow
seemed to sweep across her mind, in one wild
deluge, obliterating every sense beside—yet was
there no doubt, no terror, no dismay in her calm
blue eye. That eye was turned towards me with
an expression of the most unutterable tenderness;
a crimson flash passed like a meteor across her
speaking features, and was again swallowed up in
that fixed paleness. I almost feared that her presence
of mind was leaving her; but I should have
better known the strength of that heroic spirit.
“Here!” she replied, to the summons of the
crier, in those soft low tones which speak so keenly
to the heart—“here stand I—Isabel de Mornington,
born Isabel de Coucy—to witness in behalf of
my most noble and most slandered lord, to hurl
back upon the head of yon base calumniator the
shame and the imputed guilt which he has striven
to heap upon one whose whole life has been,
through him and his, a long, long series of suffering
and sorrow. Hear me, oh hear me, if you be men,
and let my words prevail—they are the words of
truth.”
I looked to Penthiêvre: he had turned away his
head—he could not brook the calm intelligence, the
mute upbraiding of that most eloquent eye! As
she ceased from speaking, a thrill ran through the
breast of every man in that wide concourse—a deep
breath was drawn by all, so simultaneously as to
seem almost a sigh—and, with a smile of benevolent
approbation flashing across his noble features,
the president encouraged her to proceed.
“Doubt nothing, lady,” he said—“doubt nothing
of the calm dispassionate attendance of the court;
and, above all, fear nothing. Say on, boldly and
thoroughly, whatever you may know of this dark-seeming
business; we are prepared to hear you,
not indeed with favour, but with impartial judgment.”
“The president will do well to remember,” exclaimed
Talon, “that the witness claims to be wife
of the prisoner, and may not, therefore, testify!”
“Not upon oath!” returned Molè—“not upon
oath! The court cannot forget—but pour renseignement![1]
Madame de Mornington will now
proceed.”
“I have been,” she said, “for years an orphan,
under the hard and cruel ward of the late duke,
and her lip writhed with indignation—“that the
wretch before you has dared to blacken my good
name, I marvel not—nor is it in aught marvellous.
When for the space of years—long wasting years
—they have succeeded, sire and son, in blasting
the good name of my mother, in proclaiming me
the child of infamy!—when a brother has murdered
his own sister, by the weapon of her outraged
feelings!—when, for the gain of a few sordid acres,
he hath registered an oath—a perjured oath—
against his own immortal soul—what marvel if the
son of that same brother should seek to blight name,
fame, and honour in that sister's child? But now
the time hath come—the purposes of the Eternal
have been fulfilled—and He hath put forth, in this
matter, his terrible right hand—his workings are as
evident in the witness I shall lay before you, as is
the sun in heaven at noonday. That wretch, who
even now is cowering and cringing beneath my
words—that wretch hath sworn that, on the morning
of the guilty deed which he hath charged
upon the head of one whom he knows innocent, I
was committed to the care of those most wretched
brethren. It is false! false—as the great and holy
One can witness—false as the imputation he hath
dared to cast upon my woman-fame! In the dead
chamber forced by the elder brother, François de
Chateaufort, and by the wretched victim of his
villanies, Amelie de Menard. 'Twas to no nunnery
they would have borne me in that carriage,
but to eternal infamy and sin. Married already to
another, François de Chateaufort would have compelled
me to his wedding-couch—me, the daughter
of his father's sister—me, whom they have dared to
stigmatize as frail and indiscreet—me, who would
sooner have wedded the abhorred death! It was
night, as I have said before—black night—when I
was hurried into that carriage, bound and speechless!
Till the dawn of day we journeyed, and, by
the sounds about us, I do well believe we were
escorted—as for once he hath said truly—by
Achille de Chateaufort. Day broke, and we were
in the forest. A shot was fired from the covert—but
not, as he well knows, by this true gentleman—a
shot was fired, and it did slay Jacques Menard;
another, and, missing narrowly the head of François
de Chateaufort, it did cut off the miserable Amelie
in the very flush and rankness of her crimes!—I
saw it, by the truth of Him who cannot lie—I saw
the brother, Charles de Chateaufort the younger,
rush from the coppice, with the weapons in his
hand, and aiming desperately at the life of his own
and I saw François de Chateaufort leap forth,
rapier in hand, to meet him! More I saw not;
for the wounded girl, who had fallen upon me
when she received the bullet, entwined me in her
arms, dragged me into the bottom of the vehicle,
and held me there until the overpowering strength
of agony was conquered by the hand of death.
But, even thus, I heard the shivering clash of weapons,
wielded by kindred hands, for not another
human being stood beside them. Anon I caught
the tramp of a horse; nearer it came, and nearer.
I heard a voice beseeching them `to hold their
hands, if it were but for a moment!' but still the
clash of steel came fast and frequent—an instant,
and I heard a grapple, a fierce death-struggle, and
a voice—a yelling voice—cry, `Brother, we shall
meet in HELL!' My terrible companion was, at the
last, stone dead. I broke from her embrace, I staggered
from the carriage, and I saw that miserable
guilty pair, lifeless, and cold as the frosty soil on
which they lay, pierced and gored by the bloody
blades that still were clutched in those fratricidal
hands! Beside them stood a stranger, sorrowfully
gazing at the kindred dead; he leaned upon
his naked sword—but it was bloodless—bright and
untarnished as his honour and my truth—that
not, for, with horror and disgust, I swooned.
More I know not, till we were weltering in the
icy waters of the Marne—my only refuge from
the unrelenting hate of that all-perjured enemy,
who has this day added wilful and deliberate perjury
to his long list of crimes!”
“It is enough,” cried Molè, starting from his
seat; and with one voice the court, the advocates,
ay, and the anxious and excited spectators, with
one voice cried, “It is enough!”
“But were it not enough,” said Condé, stepping
forth, “I too can testify that, some six weeks now
past, the prisoner at the bar related to me, word
for word, and syllable for syllable, the evidence of
that wronged lady; and, further yet, this Benedictine
friar holds the confession on his death-bed—
the confession prompted by late penitence—of the
last Duke de Penthiêvre; for he who hath this
day insulted your ears with his atrocious lies is no
duke, but an attained traitor!”
“Stand forth, the Benedictine!”
And, throwing off his cowl, the noble priest stood
forward. As De Chateaufort's eye fell on him, distracted
as he was before, and guilt-stricken, he
shrunk back trembling, as though in a palsy fit—
“It is a spirit,” he cried, “an avenging spirit!”
“No spirit,” answered the monk, in his deep
voice of music—“no spirit, but most surely an
avenger. I am the father Gualtier, superior of
the convent of St. Benedict aux Layes; and I, as
such, and knowing of her origin—knowing her to
be the persecuted daughter of a murdered mother
—I, in the chapel of my convent, and in the presence
of two, the eldest of our brotherhood, united
her to this true gentleman.”
“Dared you,” cried Talon—“dared you so to
unite an heiress, and a minor, without the written
warrant of her next of kin?”
“I did not,” to my ungovernable astonishment,
was the reply; “for I held, as so in duty bound,
the warrant of her next of kin.”
“Display it to the court.”
And, by my honour, he drew forth a strip of
parchment, with a seal and signatures attached,
and tendered it to the advocate without delay or
hesitation.
“I, Gualtier de Coucy,”—it was published by the
crier—“I, Gualtier de Coucy, in the presence of
two witnesses, do grant my full and free permission
to my own and only daughter, Isabel de
Coucy, by my true wife, born Isabel de Chateaufort,
deceased, to wed with Harry Mornington, a
most Christian king.
“Given on this twelfth day of January, 1649, in
this convent of St. Benedict aux Layes.
Signed, “Gualtier de Coucy.
“Witnessed by brothers Jerome le Noir and Ignatius
Fayolle, of the same Benedictine convent.”
“He hath been dead for years! Where got you
this false signature?” cried Talon.
“He is alive to-day,” sternly replied the monk;
“and at his own hands I received it.”
“Produce the man!”
“He stands before you. I—I am Gualtier de
Coucy! I, when the wrongful decree was issued
by this very court that severed me from my truly
wedded wife—I, when that injured angel was
slaughtered—as her daughter hath well worded it
—slaughtered by the sword of her own outraged
affections—I buried my devouring anguish within
the peaceful walls of St. Benedict aux Layes; and,
all praise be to the One Eternal, I have so saved
my child!”
“My father, merciful God—my father!” with
a piercing cry, that penetrated the soul of every
hearer with a cold and steel-like keenness, she
flung herself upon the breast of the noble Benedictine,
down in fond paternal love upon his beautiful and
innocent child.
There was a tumult in the court, a rush of many
feet, a clamour of many tongues. Men, stern iron
warriors, melted into tears, ay, and the grande
barbe himself, the President Molè, was seen to pass
his hand across his eyes, and his voice came thick
and husky, as he ordered the crier to make silence,
and the huzzars in attendance to remove the lady,
and to attend her in all honour—“for it is fitting
that the court look further into this matter.”
After a time order was restored, but it was evident
already that the cause was lost and won.
“You have called the decree of this high court,”
the president continued, “wrongful. I myself,
though at the time among the youngest advocates,
do well remember the passing of the decree
which set aside that marriage as incestuous,
as between parties of forbidden consanguinity.
That decree hath to this day been unimpeached.
Wherefore call you it wrongful? and
wherefore, well knowing that your consent was
null and void—for that a natural child hath in the
law no father—wherefore did you proceed without
permission of the next of kin, the girl's maternal
uncle?”
“Will it please you cause these papers to be
read?”
“I, Guillaume de Penthiêvre, feeling my life's
end approaching, grievously repenting of my
former sins, and of the persecution of my most
guiltless niece and her wronged mother, for which
I well believe I have been bitterly rewarded in
the dark crimes and darker punishments of my
first-born sons, whom I now see before me,
slaughtered by their kindred hands!—I, unsolicited
of any, and being in full sense and soundness
both of mind and body, do hereby confess
and swear that my own evidence, as offered
against Gualtier de Coucy and Isabel de Chateaufort,
was false and perjured! The witnesses produced—suborned!
and the documents forged—
one and all!—a tissue of deceit and treachery.
May the great God who hath indeed punished the
sins of the father upon the children pity, and oh,
may he pardon
“Guillaume de Penthievre.”
“In addition to this confession of that wretched
guilty one, I hold, an it so please the court, the
true and the forged papers!” continued the monk;
“when they shall be compared, I doubt not the
decree will be rescinded.”
The papers were handed to the members of the
court. A deep investigation followed; but ere an
hour had elapsed, Talon rose to withdraw all
charges.
“Not so,” interrupted Molè—“not so. The
court hath heard the evidence. The court must
now decide. How say ye, gentlemen, is the prisoner,
Major-general Mornington, guilty or innocent
of the things alleged against him?”
“Innocent, innocent, upon our honours!”
A burst of approbation rang through the vast
hall; again and again it pealed—three rounds of
full-mouthed cheering! I was surrounded by a
crowd of smiling faces, grasped by a hundred
friendly hands; but again the court spoke in the
person of its president.
“It is the full opinion of this court, and their
deliberate sentence, that the decree bearing date
from May the tenth, 1632, shall be rescinded—evidence
being fully adduced to prove that such decree
was then obtained by perjury and falsehood;
that Isabel de Chateaufort, deceased, be styled, in
title of her husband, Isabel de Coucy; and that
the daughter of her body, Isabel de Mornington,
be in all respects deemed her rightful heiress, and
her child legitimate!”
At this instant Condé grasped me by the arm,
vain about me for Isabel, or for the Benedictine.
“To court, to court,” whispered the prince;
“our horses wait!”
“But Isabel?” I cried.
“Is there already—cared for by Anne of Austria.
Away, we are awaited!”
At the foot of the steps we found the prince's
horses, with a group of gentlemen and pages, and
among them—the best horse and the most faithful
servant—stood Bayard and old Martin Lydford.
“Bless you,” he whispered, as he held my stirrup—“bless
you, my glorious master!”
Merrily clattered the pavements, as we dashed
along; but my brain whirled round and round,
and my intellect, which had never been confused
or shaken by the pressure of calamity, reeled in
the fulness of my joy. We reached the gates of
the Palais Royal, threw our reins to the royal
pages, and, leaning on the arm of the best and
bravest noble of the age, I—a mere adventurer of
fortune—entered the presence-chamber of him
who was to be thereafter the mightiest king in
Christendom.
| CHAPTER XXII. The brothers : | |