University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

The Louvre, although it had not, at this time, been rebuilt and decorated by Claude
Perrault, de Vau, and Dorbay, as it was a few years later, was a magnificent and stately
pile, well worthy to be the residence of a line of great and powerful kings; it contained
many vast saloons and stately halls, splendidly furnished according to the taste of the
times. It must not, indeed, be imagined that now—when the revenues of the country

had been exhausted, the court impoverished, and the treasury emptied, by the long and
terrible civil wars which had been raging throughout France, and before the master
hand of Colbert had revived the credit and refilled the coffers of the state—its furniture,
and other appliances of luxury, were so extravagantly sumptuous and grand as they
became in after years, when France had learned to manufacture for herself the mirrors,
and the tapestries, the carpets, and the laces and velvet, which she was now content to
purchase, not far short of their weight in gold, from Venice, the Low Countries, Turkey,
and Italy, and Flanders: all was, however, rich and gorgeous and magnificent, and
certainly far more luxurious than had ever met the eyes of fair Alice Selby.

The court was filled by a detachment of the horse body-guard, and their fine band
was playing, at short intervals, to the great delight of an immense multitude of people
who were collected without the gates, the popular and stirring tunes peculiar to the
house of Bourbon; “Vive Henri Quatre,” “La belle Gabrielle,” “O Richard!” and
the like, which were received now with tumultuous applause by the same wild and
fickle multitude, that had but a few months before fired the cannon of the Bastile on
the troops of the very king whom they now affected to adore. In the hall, at the foot
of the great staircase, were stationed a small party of officers and gentlemen pensioners,
with burnished breastplates and broad-bladed partisans; and on every landing-place up
to the royal antechamber was stationed a subaltern of the guard in full uniform, with
casque and breastplate, sword and musketoon. Many of the old haute-noblesse had
arrived already, and all the officers, civil and military, of the royal household, had
come together. When Madame de Gondi entered the palace with her young guest, the
antechamber was filled with gayly-dressed flippant pages, whose long curled hair and
blooming cheeks, and dresses vivid with light brilliant colors, made them resemble
girls rather than effeminate youths of the ruder sex; one of whom started forward
instantly, to receive their names, and pass them onward to an usher who stood, leaning
on a long gold rod, at the door of the principal saloon. Another moment, and the
whole gorgeous scene burst, like a fairy-vision, on the dazzled senses of the young
English girl. The long suite of splendid halls, illuminated by vast pendant chandeliers
of gold and crystal, the hangings of brocade and velvet, the giant mirrors of Venetian
fabric, reflecting every object fifty fold, the very atmosphere rendered voluptuous
by the breath of the softest perfumes, and vocal with the dying fall of sweetest instruments.
Such was the first impression, a sort of vague bewilderment, that made the
head swim, and the heart flutter, and the breath come thick, unmingled with any very
clear consciousness or distinct perception of the things that met her eyes. The second
thing that struck her was the apparent fewness of the guests, the effect of numbers
being in a great measure lost, owing to the vastness of the apartments, and to the distribution
of the company throughout the whole length of the suite; so that, although
at the farther end of the long vista she could discover by the blazing lustres which rendered
all the rooms as light as day, a crowd of gay forms wheeling in the slow and
graceful dances of the time, she passed in the intermediate halls only a group or two
of gentlemen playing at games of hazard on tables laid out for the purpose; and a few
pairs, seemingly busied in matters of love or intrigue, seated apart in the luxurious
alcoves, or partaking of the delicate refreshments which were displayed in such profusion.
Madame de Gondi, therefore, hurried her somewhat quickly toward the ball-room,
making no pause at all, except to return the salutations of the gentlemen who
recognized her. Scarcely, however, had they reached the ball-room, where, as they
entered, the dance was gayly circling, when a gentleman in a rich court-dress stepped
forward from the crowd to meet them, exclaiming,

“At last, Madame de Gondi! at last you come to rejoice our eyes, which we have
been straining all the evening in the hope of discovering you. His majesty has inquired
thrice, if you had yet arrived; and has commanded Artagrac and myself to bring you
to him the moment you should make your entree!”

“I hope we have not been accused of treason, Monsieur de Broglie,” replied Henriette,
smiling, “that we should be thus made prisoners by two so preux chevaliers as
Monsieur D'Artagrac and the Count Charles de Broglie!”

“Oh, by no means—by no means, madame,” answered de Broglie, laughing, “unless
to pierce the hearts of kings with the shafts of Cupid may be deemed a species of
lese majesté. But, if we understand the matter rightly, his majesty has no thought of
making prisoners of you; but rather, I believe, of offering himself a willing captive to
the beaux yeaux of this fair lady, whom I have never,” he added, half hesitating as he
said it, “enjoyed the happiness of seeing here before.”

“I should think not,” said madame, “for she never was in Paris until yesterday
afternoon. Alice, my dear, let me make you know the Count Charles de Broglie; in
his own estimation, the wittiest and best dressed man in France, except the Grammont!
Monsieur le Count, Mademoiselle de Selby.” After bowing and murmuring his
compliments, the young lord led them again forward, saying as he did so, “Upon my
word! if we stay talking here, I shall get sent myself to the Bastile; for his majesty
was all impatience when he sent me.”

By this time, they had reached the upper end of the saloon, where, under a sort of a
canopy of cloth of gold and velvet, the king was standing with a number of his lords
about him, and the queen-mother, Anne of Austria, seated in a rich chair of state, with
a bevy of court beauties ranged behind her—and nothing can be imagined more flattering
or courteous than the reception of the two ladies, by the young monarch and his
stately mother; a favor, which was perhaps as much to be ascribed to a piece of policy
in honoring one branch of a family so powerful as the house of de Retz—when it had
been almost determined to put an end to the ambitious career of another, in the person
of the celebrated cardinal—as it was to the kings admiration of a fair face and handsome
figure. Be this, however, as it may, the king, after commending the young guest
of Madame de Gondi to the attention of his mother, and desiring his lord chamberlain
to place her on the list of those to be invited to all the court festivities, actually led her
out to dance as his own partner; rendering her thereby a mark for the envy of every
woman, and the admiration of every man in the room. There was, perhaps, never in
the world a woman less afilicted with the vice of vanity, than Alice Selby. Sprung
herself from a family of so ancient distinction as to consider herself naturally equal to
the highest of her own land, she was not one to be dazzled beyond the bounds of reason,
even by the condescension of a great king; and she was too intrinsically proud
and high-minded to fancy for a moment, that she could gain anything of real elevation
from a circumstance so purely adventitious. But, notwithstanding all this, there is, and
must be a gratification, and, even to the best balanced mind, a sort of pleasurable excitement,
in being selected for any honor by the high and noble; and although Alice
Selby was, as I have said, as little likely to imagine herself magnified by this contact
with a king, as to deem herself disgraced by collision with a beggar; although she was
unhappy, and so sick at heart that, but for a little touch of feminine pride, she would
assuredly have preferred the seclusion of her own chamber to the glare of a court ball;
she was yet, beyond doubt, both pleased and gratified at finding herself the partner of
the most distinguished and magnificent prince, the handsomest man, and most accomplished
cavalier of the day; and it was owing perhaps no less to this pleasure and excitement,
than to the natural self-reliance of a high and well-tutored mind, accustomed
from its childhood upward to no thoughts but what were noble and distinguished, that
she displayed neither bashfulness nor vanity, neither timidity nor exultation, in circumstances
which might well have turned the head of one so unused to society. Never,
perhaps in her life, had Alice looked more lovely. Gratification, and the slight excitement
of the dance, had called up to her cheeks a brighter tinge of the carnation than
was natural to her pale pure complexion—her eyes sparkled more brightly, and as her
long fair ringlets waved about in the breath created by her own motion, and her beautiful
rounded figure swayed gracefully in the varied attitudes of the slow and measured
dance, nothing could well be fancied more exquisitely beautiful than she, who, at that
very moment, was rejected and deserted for one as much inferior to herself in personal
charms, as in those higher attributes that constitute the beauties of the soul

It was not long before the royal dance was finished; and then, although the king,

when he had led her back to the court circle, where her cousin waited her return,
noticed her no more during that evening except by a passing bow and smile; the proudest
and the noblest lords of that proud court vied with each other for the hand of a girl
whom they would have scarcely deigned to see, had not the monarch's approbation
stamped her indellibly a reigning beauty. Ladies, although they envied her in secret,
sought the acquaintance of one who, they foresaw, must rank with them in all future
parties. Madame de Montbagou, known as the belle des belles, and the bright Duchess
of Longueville, for one glance from whose fair eyes courtiers foreswore their fealty to
kings; and Grammont, peerless in beauty as was her lord in wit, and Mademoiselle
d'Espinasse, and Madame de Chatelet, and twenty others, some famous for their present
loveliness, some for the reputation of their bygone charms, asked the familiarity and
friendship of one whose name they never knew, and of whose claims to their esteem
they were completely ignorant. Thus passed the night; and, to speak truly, if all the
cares of Alice Selby were not forgotten, they were at least lost, once and again, in the
whirl and tumult of the gay sights and merry sounds that were around her—for such is
human nature; and it is by no means incompatible with the pervading sense of a deep,
real, ever-present grief, to laugh, to enjoy wit, and to admire beauty—in short, to be
temporarily gay, if not, in truth, happy—and such was now the case with Alice. The
stunning blows of the morning had, as it were, passed away, leaving a dizzy and bewildered
sense of ill, which she had not as yet had time fully to comprehend, or to realize
to her own feelings; and now, plunged as if by magic, into the vortex of all that was
most gay and witty, most dazzling and seductive in the gayest city of the world, she
could not but yield to the contagion of example; and though at times the question would
rise to her mind “what have I now to do with happiness?” though the sense of betrayal
and desertion would intrude, like a ghastly phantom in the midst of revelry and mirth,
yet was the question speedily, if not satisfactorily answered—yet was the phantom
quickly banished by the first happy laugh or sparkling bon-mot. It is always the first
blow only, that pains or shocks the mind or body deeply; the after things are more
easily endured, and the pangs they create readily concealed, even although they may be
felt keenly. The first and stunning blow, had been dealt at the supper table on the
previous night—it had been heavily repeated in the gardens; yet although Alice felt it—
oh! how bitterly! she was nerved to bear, like the Spartan boy, in silence, the pangs
that might be gnawing at her vitals. Several times during that night of triumph—as it
would have been considered by every woman in the room, except her who had enjoyed
it—the thought had crossed her mind whether her faithless lover was a witness; and
what would be the effect upon his mind, which, she could no longer conceal from herself,
was worldly, frail, and fickle. An indistinct and floating hope did occur to her more than
once, that his allegiance might be reclaimed by the mere sight of the effect wrought by
her beauty upon others; and though, whenever such hope did arise, she asked herself
scornfully and half-indignantly—“and could I—ought I to pardon him such baseness, if
even he were to return?” she never fairly answered herself in the negative. The
evening was waxing late, however, and she had, as yet, seen nothing of either Wyvil
or of Isabella; although she fancied once, that she caught a glimpse of the tall form
and dignified movement of the lady amid a crowd of courtiers; but before she could
distinguish it, she was hurried onward and lost sight of her completely. The evening
was waxing late, and the hour of supper was approaching, when, just as she had promised
her hand for the following dance to the young Count of Bellefonds, she heard the sound
of a well-known footstep close behind her; and a voice, every note of which went
directly to her heart, exclaimed—

“And has not Mistress Selby one glance of recognition—one word of welcome for
an old friend?”

She turned her head round quickly—and not now pale and haggard from long and
close confinement, as when he plighted her his faith, but full of health and vigor and
high manly beauty, sumptuously attired, and seemingly in the highest spirits, Marma
duke stood before her. Her cheek, indeed, and brow—nay more! her neck and bosom

and all the smooth expanse of her fair shoulders were suffused for a moment with a deep
crimson blush; but her clear eye retained its natural calmness, and her melodious voice
did not falter, as she extended her hand to him frankly, and replied in French, to the
words which he had spoken in their own language, in order that de Bellefonds, who was
standing by her side, might not conceive himself excluded—“Indeed, I have,” she
said; “I am sincerely glad to see you; and Monsieur de Bellefonds here can tell you,
that I asked after you from him, and expressed my joy at your well-doing.”

“Well, you will dance with me,” he added, “will you not? for I have very much
to say to you, and more to ask—I cannot guess what brought you hither: come, they
are standing up even now.”

“I would with pleasure,” she replied, “and I will, if you wish it, by and by; but for
this time I am engaged to the count here.”

“He looked at her steadfastly for a moment, and then said in English, in a low voice,
“you are changed, Alice, you are changed—you have been fliring here with kings
and dukes and barons, until you think an English gentleman below your notice.” She
gave him one look—one! fraught with the whole of her deep mind—so mild, so tender,
yet at the same time so ineffably reproachful, that his eye sank beneath it.

“Those,” she said, “sir, who are the first to suspect change in others, are often wont
to change the first themselves.” This time she spoke in English; and then turning to
Bellefonds, “Allons!” she said—Monsieur le Comte, the dancers are arranged in their
places;” and with the words, she gave him her gloved hand, and passed onward.

“Beautiful creature!” muttered Wyvil to himself—“more beautiful, ten-fold!” and
then he followed quickly after them, and said in French, as he overtook them, “The
next dance then—the next dance, Mistress Alice, will be mine.”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” she replied; and then the instruments burst forth with a
loud symphony, and all the graceful forms started at once into quick motion; and all
the while, with his eyes following the figure of the sweet girl whom he had so treacherously
abandoned, thinking in his heart how far more lovely she was, whether in motion
or repose, than the gay artificial beauties of the court, and drawing comparisons not
very favorable to Isabella Oswald, stood Marmaduke, until the measure was concluded;
and, more than half-regretting his base fickleness, he received her from the hand of the
young French nobleman.

“Now, tell me,” he said—“tell me what can have possibly occurred, to bring you to
Paris? where are you staying? and is your father with you?”

“Your letters were intercepted by the government,” she answered, “and we are
banished England, and all our property sequestrated, for sheltering you after the Worcester
fight. We only came last night to Paris—my father is with me, and we are staying
with my cousin, Madame de Gondi, at her hotel in the faubourg St. Germain,
where we shall be all glad to see you. There now, do not look so tremendously alarmed
and wo-begone; for there is not much harm done after all—except that poor Bartram,
or Colonel Penruddock rather, is desperately hurt and taken prisoner, and, I fear, dead
ere this—for Cromwell has been very kind, and has made our cousin Chaloner a promise
that he will grant us all a full pardon in the spring, and restore all our property.
So, you perceive, that all we have lost is really a gain; for we have had a trip to Paris,
and I expect to pass a very pleasant winter. How very gay the court is—and how many
lovely women! By the way,” she continued, running on very rapidly, for she was, in
truth, afraid of his getting upon subjects too delicate for the time and place—subjects
on which, she knew she could not speak without betraying that agitation which she
was most anxious to conceal—“by the way, although this is the first time you have
seen me since I have been in France, I have been much more fortunate, for you were
the very first person I beheld as we were entering the barriers. You galloped past
the carriage without seeing us, at which I did not wonder very much, for you were in
pursuit of a very pretty lady—one of the very prettiest ladies I ever saw. I met her
again in the garden of the Tuileries this morning, magnificently dressed in green velvet—who
is she? I should like to know, she is so very handsome.”

Shrewd as he was, and deeply versed in all the wiles of the artificial world, Wyvil
was fairly foiled and puzzled. The perfect coolness of Alice Selby's manner, the lack
of any seeming consciousness, such as a girl must naturally feel and show in the presence
of her betrothed lover—the evident, yet quiet cordiality with which she met him
as an old friend, so perfectly unloverlike and free from agitation, were all beyond his
comprehension; while, at the same time, the very ease and freedom of her conversation,
forbade him to believe it possible that she could have discovered his disloyalty.
He paused a moment, therefore, ere he answered; and, when he did so, it was with an
air of confusion, that did not escape the observation of the interested questioner.

“Do you think her so very handsome? rather too dark, perhaps! Her name is
Isabella Oswald, the daughter of Sir Henry Oswald, a cavalier who left England many
years ago at the first outbreak of the troubles, and has risen to the rank of major-general
in the French army.”

“Ah! English, is she?” replied Alice; “she is certainly very dark to be English;
she looks more like a Spaniard or an Italian. Is she as agreeable as she is pretty? I
do not see her here to-night.”

How strangely you run on; you are most strangely altered since I last saw you,”
exclaimed Marmaduke, unable any longer to conceal his astonishment.

“Am I, indeed?” she said. “Well, if I am, it is the way of the world, you know,
to alter; but I hope it is not for the worse that I am altered. See, they are going to
dance again. Let us begin.”

There were, in those days, in the course of the dance, none of those opportunities
for conversation which are afforded now by the intervals of the waltz or quadrille; and,
therefore, Marmaduke could press no farther his examination into the meaning of Alice
Selby's changed and peculiar manner. Once, as they met and interchanged hands in
the mazes of the graceful measure, he pressed her fingers so closely that she could not
have failed to perceive it; yet, neither did she return the gentle pressure in the least
degree, nor did she seek to withdraw her hand from his grasp. A slight blush crossed
her pale cheek for a moment, but except that, she gave no sign that she understood
his meaning.

The music ceased—the pastime of the evening was at an end—all but the splendid
banquet, which closed the regal entertainment; and, as the guests filed off in order,
Alice presented Marmaduke to her cousin, so that, although he attended them during
the supper, and handed them to their carriage afterwards, he got no opportunity of again
speaking to her privately; although before they parted he asked permission, which was
granted readily, to visit her on the morrow.

“Well, Alice, well;” exclaimed Madame de Gondi, the moment they were left
alone, “what do you think about it now?”

“That he was false, and has half repented of his falsehood,” replied the fair girl.

“And what then?” asked her cousin eagerly. “Will you forgive the penitent?
Say you will, dearest, say you will, in pity to yourself; for I declare I never saw a girl
more desperately in love—every look, every movement shows it.”

“I must not promise,” answered Alice, with a faint smile; “I must not bind myself;
for I do not know—I must learn—I must learn how far this has gone. But I
fear—I can only say, I fear very greatly.”

“Oh, you should never fear. I always hope; always expect the best—”

“And are always disappointed—that follows as a thing of course;” said Alice.

“Not always; no, not always;” replied Henriette, “for I fully expected to find a
very sweet girl in my cousin Alice, and that she would win the heart of every one who
saw her; and there, you see, I was not at all disappointed, but was quite right. But,
here we are at home; and, I declare, it is already almost morning.