University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Henriette de Gondi, who rose from the deeply-cushioned chair in which she was
reclining, with her hair fully dressed, and robed in a superb brocade, was a tall delicately-formed
fair-complexioned woman of something more than forty years, but showing few
marks either in face or form of the time that had passed over her. Her manner was
marked by much affectionate eagerness, as she embraced her youthful relative repeatedly
and very warmly; seeming to be, and in truth actually being delighted, at having
it in her power to receive her. Master Selby, whom she had seen many years ago, she
also greeted very kindly and set him at his ease in a moment; but with Alice, whose
extreme loveliness took her quite by surprise, she was evidently charmed, and felt that
she was one whose perfect manners and rare beauty would reflect honor on the person
who should introduce her to the court of that gay and voluptuous city.

“Now, my sweet friend,” she cried, “how happy we shall be all here together. Upon
my word, I think myself much obliged to this good Cromwell, whom all your English
folks are cursing so unsparingly; for I suppose if it had not been for him, we should
never have had any chance of seeing you here in France.”

“But you will be, I am sure, much more obliged to him, when you know that he has
promised, in the spring, to pardon both my father and myself, and to give us back our
estates; so that instead of looking upon this as a sad state of exile, it is indeed only a
pleasant visit to a dear cousin, and a pleasant land.”

“Of course, I am obliged to him for doing anything that is agreeable to you,” answered
Madame de Gondi; “but I assure you, I have no idea of parting with you in the spring.
Who knows but some of our gay gallants may persuade you, as they did my dear
mother, to stay here always and become a Frenchwoman? Nay! do not blush so deeply
Alice, for I was only jesting; but by my faith, I think that burning blush tells something
farther than it was intended to reveal—tells something of an island lover. Well, well;
if it must be so, I shall not repine, provided he be brave, and handsome, and well-born,

and very graceful and accomplished. But, on my word! I had forgotten what I had
intended to ask you the very moment you came in—what it was that you could possibly
have done to enrage Cromwell and the government so much against you?”

“Oh, that is a long talk, Madame la Marquise,” interrupted her father; who, deeming
it incumbent on him to be unusually civil during this first interview with their kind
hostess, had kept his faculties on the alert for a space that was quite wonderful to Alice;
“but, to be brief, Alice brought to the house a young cavalier, whom she met flying
from the battle ground of Worcester, with a troop of rebels at his heels; and we
sheltered him—though he was what they call a proclaimed rebel, whom all men were
forbid, on pain of death, to harbor or assist—until he made good his escape to France.
This was discovered by an accident, and we in consequence were forced to fly, and our
estates were sequestrated.”

“To France—to France did he fly? then you will meet him—you must meet him
here! Ah, now I understand that blush, ma belle cousine,” she added, looking at Alice
with an arch glance; “but I suppose he had a name, this cavalier?”

“He had indeed a name, madame,” said Alice, rallying from her short confusion, and
laughing gayly; “and it was one that you are well acquainted with already. It is lucky
too for me, that you are a little premature in your conclusions; for if I had lost my heart
to him, as you insinuate, it seems I should have had to dispute his with almost all your
beauties here in France—perhaps with yourself, cousin?”

“With me! fidore! with me, who am already an old woman! But I assure you
that I do not understand at all. Who is he—pray explain—who is he?”

“He is no other than the Captain Wyvil, of whom, for some time, your letters have
been so full!”

`The Captain Wyvil!” exclaimed Henriette de Gondi, and that, too, in no small
astonishment—“the Captain Wyvil! and you have never even once mentioned that
you knew him! nor has he said one word of your assisting him to fly!”

“In that, madame,” the old man again interrupted, for he was unwilling that Alice
should be too hardly pressed, “he did but act with common prudence. The slightest
mention of it here might have led to the worst consequences; and the same reason of
course justified Alice in keeping silent to you on the subject; since we know very well
how often couriers are intercepted on the road, and robbed of their dispatches.”

But, although she said nothing more upon the subject, and appeared to be completely
satisfied, Henriette de Gondi was neither deceived nor at ease. She had seen much
of the world, and that too in its most polished and artificial phases; she had lived for
years in the midst of that high and courtly society, wherein every man and woman
learned to conceal, with the impenetrable mask of smiles, or nonchalance, or smooth
tranquility, the deepest feelings of their own hearts, and at the same time to peruse the
thoughts and inmost sentiments of others, from the most trifling and superficial indications.
Thus, she was far from being misled, either by the unconcerned manner which
Alice had assumed, or by the explanation given by her father; but, on the contrary, was
confirmed in her first opinion, that her cousin did love the gay young officer whose life
she had preserved, although her mind was crossed by many a suspicion as to his worthiness
of her affection. She said nothing in reply, but sat for a few minutes quietly
musing on what course she ought to pursue; for rumors had been spread broadly enough
to reach her ears, concerning the attentions which were paid with so much assiduity by
Marmaduke to the fair Isabella Oswald, and received by her with so evident pleasure;
and she thought to herself, and thought rightly, “This beautiful English girl, brought up
from her childhood in the solitude of a country life, is just the being to conceive a romantic
passion, and, that disappointed, to be a blighted and heart-broken thing for ever;”
and doubting very much whether Wyvil cared anything for her, she began to think
whether it was not her duty to caution her against him. But, after a few moments of
consideration, she felt as yet that it was too delicate a step to take lightly, and that it
was not warranted by anything beyond a mere suspicion. She resolved, therefore, to
let matters take their own course, reserving to herself the power of watching closely,
and interfering the moment interference should seem necessary.

Meanwhile, for it was rapidly growing dark, candles were brought in, and the fine
suite of rooms brilliantly lighted up. Then coffee, at that time a rare and exceedingly
expensive luxury, was introduced; and Henriette de Gondi, telling her guests that she
expected a few visitors in the evening, and consigning Master Selby to the care of her
maitre d'hotel who, she said, would install him in a pleasant suite of chambers communicating
with the library, proceeded to introduce Alice to the mysteries of a Parisian
toilet; trifling and laughing merrily the while, and striving to entertain her fair cousin
with all the gay and lively gossip, which formed the conversation of the court circles.
Many things there were in those light anecdotes, that excited the unmitigated wonder,
many that called forth the deep loathing, not all unmixed with indignation, of the sweet
English girl; who, unsophisticated by the false sophistries of fashionable life, nurtured
in grave and pure seclusion, whither the very name of unblushing sin had scarcely
penetrated; brought up in perhaps the most moral age of the most moral country in the
world, could not hear crimes, such as her uncontaminated soul had scarcely conceived
possible, named as things of usual and every day-occurrence—chastity treated as a marvel,
and virtue as a fiction or a jest. It was not that Henriette de Gondi was herself
light, or frail, or vicious; nor yet that society had reached that abyss of infamy, into
which it sank headlong in the days of Louis Fifteenth, and still more during the frantic
horrors of the Revolution; but that already it had become no rare or extraordinary faet
for married women to have favored lovers, and for married men to court girls of rank,
and win them to become their mistresses, and that too without losing casto or station.
Now, it is very true, that something of all this had penetrated even to the pure ears of
Alice; for it had become some what common in puritanic England to rail loudly at the
vices and the crimes of the neighboring kingdom—vices and crimes which she was
about to imitate, even to exaggeration, under the third and basest of the unhappy and
doomed Stewarts. But though she knew that such things were, it had never so much
as entered her imagination that they could be matters of daily comment, laughed at,
and jested over, and, if unapproved, at least uncondemned, by the lips of virtuous and
noble ladies. It was not long, therefore, before Henriette perceived in the downcast eye
raised suddenly and opened wide with wonder, in the averted head and crimson blushes
of her innocent guest, how much she was dismayed, and it must be said, disgusted
likewise, by the freedom of her anecdotes, and the whole tone of her conversation.

“You must not imagine, now,” she said, as Alice turned away in irrepressible disapprobation
at some tale of guilt and infamy, “that I think lightly of these shocking
things, or speak of them because I find pleasure in the recital. Far from it, dearest
cousin; for in mere truth I hate and loathe them, even as I can see that you do. Praise
be to Heaven! the foulest and most ribald tongue in all France does not so much as
breathe a whisper adverse to the fair fair fame of Henriette de Gondi, as maid, or wife,
or widow. Oh no, dear girl, I only spoke to set you on your guard; for you will hear
these things talked over freely, not only by the frail and the licentious, but by the good
and virtuous and noble; by those who would die sooner than sink their souls to the
the degrading blight of sin; and spoken of by all in the same tone of gay and thoughtless
raillery. I judge it best to make you know all this at once, that you may see at
once how it behoves you to deal with it. Nay! do not interrupt me, do not interrupt
me, cousin; I do not for a moment mean that you should think or speak of these things
as we do here; but I would have you learn to repress that look of wonder mixed with
hatred, to check that unsophisticated start, to keep down those bright blushes; for this
is a wicked and ill-judging world in which we live, and by the people you will meet
here on all sides, such indications will be considered only as the result of consciousness
and prudery, or of a desire to attract notice and woo admiration for superior virtue.
You must just hear such things, and hear them as if they had not been spoken, calmly
and coldly, without smiling on the one side, or bridling or blushing on the other. I
shall of course take care to keep aloof from you, so much as I can do so, those whom
you would deem unfit associates, whether as gentlemen or ladies. None come to my
poor house but persons of repute; still, as I said just now, you will hear much that will
pain you, and that might cause you grave mortification, if you do not take my advice”

“Oh! dear Madame de Gondi,” Alice replied, half crying, “I had so much—much
rather live here with you in private, and in quiet while we remain in Paris. Consider,
I am nothing but a mere country girl, perfectly unfit to associate with these people; I
shall only commit some absurdity, and bring mortification upon you, and shame upon
myself. Oh! no, no; I can never mix with such people as you talk of—I should be
utterly, utterly wretched! in truth you must excuse me.”

“Impossible, my dear girl, impossible indeed!” replied Henriette; “in every way it
is quite impossible that I should excuse you. In the first place I do not, and I cannot
live in private or quiet—my birth, my station, and the state of the times forbid it. You
see, Alice, though I am, as was my most excellent late lord, a zealous loyalist, all the
rest of our house are more or less disaffected; and though the Cardinal de Retz has
just received the hat from the young king, and is for the present in high favor with the
court, there is no telling how long it may last; he is always plotting and conspiring for
one thing or other, and just as like as not before six weeks[1] he may find himself in the
Bastile. It will be known, moreover—nay, I might say, it is known even now, that I
have guests from England residing in my house. If, therefore, I should absent myself
from court at present, or going thither fail to have you presented likewise, it would
forthwith be suspected everywhere, and rumored that your father and yourself belonged
to the rebel English party; since all your royalist countrymen are at the present time in
high favor with the court; and affect to frequent it constantly, to show their gratitude
for our king's kindness to the exiled majesty of England. It is impossible, therefore, that
I can either shut my house up during your stay, or suffer you to remain in seclusion.
The consequences of such a step might be of serious evil to me, Alice; and I am sure
you would not subject me to that, and only to avoid a little temporary inconvenience!”

“That would I not, indeed,” exclaimed Alice, eagerly—“that would I not for the
whole world; but it seems to me, indeed, that there is a want of principle even in lending
countenance to such things—besides, I am certain that I never could act as you bid
me; it is so different from anything that I have ever been used to, so utterly abhorrent
to the usages of England—”

“Oh, yes; that is quite true,” answered Madame de Gondi; “but believe me, my
dear girl, it will not do for us to go about, like the knight-errantry of old, attempting to
bully the world into reform; if we do that which is right ourselves, and set a good
example, quietly, by our own conduct, we play the best, nay, the only part that is fit
for women. As for the rest, mere difference of custom between two countries, by no
means really implies that the usages of this are absolutely right, or of that absolutely
wrong. And in the present instance, Alice, much as I deprecate the over-lightness,
the real and still more the affected depravity of France; I am not quite sure that the
puritanical hypocricy, the fierce fanaticism, the stern untolerating hardness of religion,
which is at present worn in England—I fear me, as a cloak to much secret vice—is not the
worse and more dangerous evil. But we have not the time to discuss these grave and
serious matters, for I perceive by the sound of wheels and the glare of flambeaux in the
courtyard, that some of my guests have arrived—and your toilet is finished; really,
YOU are mise a ravir; I had no idea that the English had attained so much skill in the
science of dressing. Come, come now, I will take care that you shall meet no annoyance.”

With these words she took Alice Selby under her arm, and walking down the grand
staircase, now splendidly illuminated, entered through several ante-chambers—so filled
with liveried lacqueys, and magnificently-dressed upper-servants, that Alice fancied
herself in some royal palace—a brilliant drawing-room, all glittering with marquetry,
and buhl, and georgeous mirrors, wherein were reflected fifty-fold from sconce and
chandelier the gay and cheerful lights which made the great saloon almost as bright as
day. The several guests had already gathered; and, with the easy and unformal grace
which characterized then, as it does at the present day, the domestic reunions of French

society, had fallen into various groups, chatting, and laughing, and pleasing each one
the other, without effort or constraint or marked desire to please. The company assembled
were not many in number, not exceeding a dozen or fifteen persons, all splendidly
dressed, some in gay uniforms, others in gorgeous civil dresses, all fluttering with rich
lace and bright ribbons, and glitering with embroideries; and these were grouped in
different seats upon the numerous ottomans and couches, which filled, according to the
fashion of the day, the large saloon with their luxurious, though somewhat cumbersome
variety. Among these there were but three ladies; one—to whom Madame de
Gondi, sliding as it were inperceptibly into companionship with her visitors, made
Alice known, as Madame de Maignelai—a singularly venerable-looking person, advanced
considerably in years, but with a calm beneficent placidity of feature that made
her appear almost beautiful, was engaged in conversation with the good Bishop of
Lisieux; well suited to be, what indeed they were, intimate friends and associates, as
being at that time, perhaps, the two most virtuous and unpretending and truly pious persons
in the French king's dominions; and by her the young English girl was received with
a teuderness of manner, a motherly air of unforced protection, that, while it set her completely
at ease, went far to induce her to believe Madame de Gondi's late remarks upon
society exaggerated and undue. After a few words had been interchanged, relative to
the cause of her new friend's visit to the French metropolis, the length of time that had
elapsed since her arrival, and such inductive topics—“I suppose, then,” said the good
old lady, “that you have but a few acquaintance here among us?”

“Very few, very few indeed, madame,” Alice replied; “or I might almost say none
at all; for except my cousin Henriette, and yourself, and Monsieur de Lisieux, I do not
believe there is a person in all France whom I have ever seen, unless it be some of my
countrymen who have been forced to take refuge here from the persecution of all these
civil wars and conspiracies at home.”

“Yes, you will see many of these here; they are all in great favor at the court, since
your young Duke of York has so distinguished himself with our own good marechal.
But, to say truly, I know but few of them; and, in the mean time, I must point out to
you some of our great people, for we have here several celebrities. There, do you see
that gentleman in purple velvet with a brigh star, who wears a shade over both eyes?
that is Monsieur de la Rochefoucault, one of the kings best officers; a very strange misfortune
befell him in the terrible battle which was fought last July, under the very walls
of Paris, and in the fauxbourg St. Antonie; while he was in the very act of carrying a
barricade, a bullet entered at the corner of one eye and came out at the corner of the
other; and what is more extraordinary yet, is that you see him there alive, and that he
sees quite well, though for a time all the physicians declared that he would certainly
be blind. That lady to whom he is talking so merrily, she with her hair dressed high
—it is the new mode called le tour, but I must say I think vastly unbecoming—is the
celebrated Madame de Lesdignieres, a very great politician, and some people say as
great an intriguer, but people are ill-natured; she is rising now to go and meet the cardinal—that
is the Cardinal de Retz who is entering now, who has been at the bottom of
every plot and conspiracy since he was fifteen; the enemy of Richelieu and of Mazarin,
the wittiest if not the wisest, and the most gallant man and the greatest favorite of the
people in all Paris. He is the cousin, too, of your Madame de Gondi, so you will necessarily
be presented to him; and that—that who is following the cardinal, he with the
singularly intellectual face, not handsome, but instinct with soul; that is the Duke de
Bouillon, the brother of the Marechal Turenne. De Retz said of him, the other day,
`that he was sure, by what he had seen of his conduct, those people did wrong to his
reputation who decried it; but that he did not know if those did not do too much honor
to his abilities who thought him capable of all the great things which he did not do:'
so very shrewd and clever are his speeches always, pointed and terse, but cutting! But
see, here comes your cousin to make you know, I am sure, the cardinal. He will
answer you better far than I can; but believe me, dear young lady, should you ever
want a friend, which I hope you will not, you will find one in de Maignelai.”

As she spoke Henriette did indeed come up, and with the intent as the good dowager
foresaw, of bringing her young relative somewhat more prominently before her guests,
now that she judged her to be in some degree at least set at her ease, and superior to
that timidity, which in those circles would have appeared an absurd affectation, and
she was not disappointed; for so prepossessing was the peculiar style of Alice's young
English beauty, so graceful and so quiet were her manners, and above all so fluently
and well did she converse in the French tongue, that before long she found herself
listening, and laughing at the jests and repartees of those whose names were history,
and playing her part in the social circle, as if she had lived with them all her life.
Presently supper was announced, and in a few minutes all were seated at a round table,
then deemed the very mode, as bringing all the guests into one common circle, covered
with all the choicest dainties of the French cuisine already famous the world over;
Alice, supported on the one hand by the young comte de Bellefonds, celebrated as the
handsomest cavalier in France, and on the other hand, by the great cardinal himself.
He, ever and anon, in the intervals of the stream of intrigue and finesse which he was
pouring into the ears of Madame de Lesdignieres, found leisure to indulge in some of
his bright apothegms and quick-polished sarcasms, replete with knowledge of the human
race, and intuitive perception of character, to the delight of Alice, whose ready appreciation
had charmed in no less degree the politic and wily churchman. “Turenne?”
he said suddenly, in answer to some question of the young English girl—“Turenne?
what do you say about him? Great? yes, indeed—he has possessed from his youth
every good quality, and at an early age acquired every great one. He wants, now,
but those of which he is not aware. He has every virtue, but the glitter of none—
however, people believe him abler at the head of an army than of a faction, and I believe
so too, because he is not naturally enterprising—and yet,” he added, somewhat thoughtfully—“and
yet who knows?” and then after a little pause—“but enough of Turenne,”
he said, “maintenant vive la bagatelle—champagne, here give us champagne;” and
filling his own and his fair neighbor's glass, he bowed with the same gay, witty compliment,
and turned away again to talk with the intriguing Frenchwoman, by whose
means he was so soon afterwards consigned to the dungeons of Vincennes. Just at
this moment, while mirth was at the loudest, a noble-looking man dressed in the full
uniform of the French guard, carrying his hat and unbuckled sword in his left hand,
entered the saloon, and gliding up to the side of Madame de Gondi, began to apologize
for the lateness of his visit; and then took possession with easy grace of the first vacant
seat, and applied himself to entertain the blind lady, who was no other than the famous
Marchioness of Villeu.

“Hold! Villequier,” exclaimed the young Count of Bellefonds. “What has kept
you so late, you who are so great an adorer of bright eyes, and sparkling goblets?”

“Oh, we had a little fracas at the Louvre,” answered the captain of the queen's
guard, for such was the rank of the new comer; “and I, of course, was obliged to wait
till everything was settled.”

“A fracas!” exclaimed several voices, not without some astonishment, for in those
days conspiracy trod so close on the heels of conspiracy, that the appetites of men were
sharply set for novelties and horrors—“A fracas! what was it? tell us all—quick!
quick! good Villequier; was it the Duke of Orleans?” and loudest among the speakers
was heard the voice of de Retz.

“My good lord cardinal,” replied Villequier, laughing, “appears to be beside himself,
at learning that there has been a fracas and he not in it! No, no, my good lord,”
he continued, as the laugh, which his retort had created, again subsided; “it was not
his grace of Orleans, nor was there any treason in the matter; nor, what is more surprising,
even sedition. It was but a quarrel between two of these English bull. dogs,
whom our young king so much affects just now. I thought they would have cut each
other's throats in the palace yard!”

“Who were they? Villequier, what was it all about?”

“Oh! they are so ready with the sword that it is not easy to say even what it is
about; small cause suffices, but in this case it was a woman.”

“Of course—of course it was,” replied la Rochefoucault, with a loud laugh; “there
never was a quarrel yet but what there was a woman at the bottom of it; but come,
expound—who was the woman?”

“A wondrous fair one,” replied Villequier, “to my thinking; no other than the
beautiful Oswald.”

“Then I can name one of the combatants,” exclaimed Bellefonds.

“And I,” “and I,” “and I,” three other voices chorused him, the last adding, “one
was your new made captain of the guards. But who was the other?”

“Whom do you guess? No! you will never guess at all; so I may just as well tell
you—Sir Henry Oswald! what do you think of that now?”

A dozen of the fashionable oaths and exclamations of the day testified the surprise
of all who heard it; the ladies, who hitherto had taken but small share in the conversation,
becoming all alive with the excitement of curiosity and envy. But, while all else
were asking every kind of question, Madame de Gondi was employed in watching the
pale and varying features of her cousin; who, though it was evident that she had not
altogether understood what was passing, was not so dull but her suspicions were excited.

“I cannot tell you all, or, indeed, much about it. I was called in to take them both
in custody, after they had been parted by the men on duty on the grand stairease. Sir
Henry was, it seems, coming down from the saloon, where there was a small court party,
having heard something there which set his hasty temper in a blaze; and was, I fancy,
going in scarch of the very man, when he fell in with him ascending; and, without
waiting to get out of the palace, gave him hard words, called him a penniless adventurer,
a swaggering sworder, and a presumptuous fool, for looking up to the peerless
Isabella; and afterwards, when the other would have turned aside his anger by mild
words, he broke out into violence, and made as if he were about to strike him; but
before it had come to that the guards seized both of them, so that neither of them had
time to draw his sword. Then I was called in and took them both in charge; but, as no
blow had been stricken, upon their pledging their words of honor that the thing should
go no further, they were released, after they had been in the guard-house nearly
two hours!”

“But, after all you have not told us what it was all about, Villequier?” cried one.

“Because I do not know myself,” answered he, laughing; “but I heard afterwards,
that some of Isabella's other suitors told the old man, having found out that it would vex
him, that Major Wyvill had been sometime clandestinely accepted by the lady.”

At the word, Alice, who had been listening all the time, with all her soul suspended
on the tongue of the speaker, dreading to hear at every moment that the new-made
captain of the guards was indeed Wyvil, turned pale as death itself, drew a long painful
sigh, and would have fallen from her chair, had not Madame de Gondi, who had almost
foreseen what was about to happen, sprang forward and caught her in her arms; crying
out as she did so, “Oh! Alice, you are over-fatigued, and I was quite wrong to tease
you into coming down to supper. Run, Francois, run and call my woman—thank you,
thank you, lord cardinal, a little water if you please—oh! that is right, here comes Toinette
and Vuleric—make haste now but be careful—hold up her head—that's well—now
carry her up stairs to her room; she is reviving even now. Excuse me for a few moments,”
she added, returning toward her guests; “Mademoiselle only arrived to-day,
having came all the way from Boulogne without stopping—she wished to lie down at
once, but I was wrong and persuaded her to come down stairs. Amuse yourselves, I
pray you, I will return directly;” and with the easy grace of their nation they promised
that they would do so—and, until Madame de Gondi had retired, appeared to resume
their conversation. But scarcely was she well up stairs, before leaving their compliments
with the maître d' hôtel, they quietly and singly stole away, and long before their hostess
knew it, the house was vacant except of its customary dwellers.