 | The village inn, or, The adventure of Bellechassaigne |  |
THE VILLAGE INN.
On the western outskirts of a little hamlet, situated on the verge
of a great forest, not many miles from Vitry, on the high-road
leading from Bar le Due to Paris, there stood in the summer of
1653, a large old-fashioned inn, which has long since yielded,
like all things earthly, to the consuming hand of time, but which
in its day possessed no limited or narrow reputation. So excellent
indeed was its accommodations, so celebrated its cuisine, and
so remarkable the courtesy of the aubergist, that the cerf blanc
of Lagny la Forêt, was known so well to all who journeyed in
that district, that travellers would often turn aside from the direct
line of their route in order to enjoy its far-famed hospitality. It
was a solitary building of considerable size, situated in a spot of
singular and romantic loveliness at the foot of three soft green
hills, which sloped down easily on every side except the south,
with two small glens between them, each watered by a bright and
sparkling rivulet, which meeting at their base, swept off in easy
curves through a rich level meadow, and joined a more considerable
stream at the distance of a quarter of a mile, or perhaps less,
to the southward. The summits of two of these green knolls,
for they were indeed little more—those to the north and west, were
crowned by the tall trees of the neighboring forest which covered
the whole face of the country for miles in that direction, and many
scattered oaks and ashes grew straggling down their sides, the
outposts as it were and sentinels of the vast verdant host. The
third or eastern hill, unlike its neighbors, was cleared almost entirely
of wood and very richly cultivated in meadow-land and pastures,
divided from each other by lines of thriving fruit-trees,
among which wound a narrow sandy road toward the village,
lying just out of sight beyond the summit—its tall and lance-like
spire standing out clear and sharp against the sky, above the
their bright waters, stood the old inn, a large irregular rambling
edifice, with steep projecting gables and latticed windows, no two
of them alike; of every shape and size that can be fancied, and a
huge oaken porch all overrun with jessamine and woodbine,
facing the yellow road. Four or five weeping-willows of vast
size grew on the margin of the stream, quite overarching the stone
bridge, which spanned it close to the western gable, and bathed
the old moss-grown roof with cool and grateful umhrage; while
a small strip of garden on either side the door, fenced by a rustic
paling and thickly set with sweet-briars and many-colored rose-bushes,
completed the attractions of the spot. The stables and
out-buildings were all behind the house, concealed from view by
the nature of the ground, nor were there any indications that the
house itself was one for public entertainment, unless it were an
antiquated sign representing the White, Stag whence the inn's
name, which swung from a cross-piece morticed into the trunk of
one of the great willows, and a long horse-trough supplied with
living water by a little aqueduct from a spring in the hill-side,
with a stone horseblock by its end.
Such was the Village Inn, as it appeared on the evening of a
sweet summer's day in the year I have mentioned—and a more
beautiful or tranquil spot could scarcely be conceived by painter
or by poet. The rich green hills touched here by the calm yellow
sunshine, and chequered there by the long purple shadows projected
from the noble trees, which studded their smooth slopes;
the grand and solemn masses of the forest contrasted with the cultivated
fields and glowing gardens; the sparkling rivulet; the
wide deep stretch of meadow-land before the house with the
broad tranquil river flowing brimful with slow and noiseless current;
the shadowy woods beyond it robed in the mellow haze of
evening; and the bright yellow road winding along in the foreground,
combined to form a picture worthy the pencil of a Poussin.
Nor were there wanting, at the moment we have chosen,
figures to animate the scene, and those, too, striking and effective.
In the inn porch, having come forth to welcome the guests who
were arriving, there stood as beautiful a specimen of a young
peasant girl, with her fine black hair smoothly braided on her fair
forehead, and her dark eyes and sparkling features all kindled
into sudden animation, as could be found at that day in all France.
man might be seen slowly coming forward—but it was to the
space before the door, and to the road beyond, on the side farthest
from the village, that their attention was directed—for there had
just arrived two horsemen, splendidly mounted, though their horses
were much travel-soiled and jaded, dressed in rich liveries of
scarlet laid down with silver lace, with huge jackboots and feathered
hats, and long straight broadswords by their sides. One of
these men had already leaped to the ground, and was watering his
horse from the trough, while the other had pulled up before the
porch, and was in the act of speaking to the peasant maiden,
pointing as he did so with his right hand to a coach and six horses
driven by three postillions, and followed by four outriders, all
clad in the same sumptous livery which decked himself and his
companion. A few minutes only passed before the carriage, a huge
square-topped machine covered with gilded carvings, came lumbering
down the hill to the door as fast as the efforts of six huge
Flanders mares could drag its cumbrous bulk. As it stopped, half
a dozen servants of both sexes came rushing out from the inn,
while the two men who had arrived before, giving their horses to
the hostler, hurried up to let down the steps and open the door of
the carriage; and scarcely was this done before a tall old man of
an air singularly noble and distinguished, stepped nimbly out and
turned round, hat in hand, to help two ladies to descent from the
vehicle. And here it will be well to pause for a few moments, to
note the appearance of these personages, since it is probable that,
ere my story comes to a conclusion, we shall have much to do
with them, and feel some interest in their proceedings. The lady
who got out the first, was a young girl of some nineteen or twenty
years, tall, slender, finely formed, and exquisitely beautiful; it
was plain, however, to be seen, that she was or had been quite
recently in deep anxiety and sorrow; for she was very pale,
almost unnaturally so, and on her brow there sat a grave despondent
gloom, and her full dark blue eyes were downcast and
suffused, and her fair cheeks displayed the traces of the tears
which seemingly had hardly ceased to flow. Her hair, of a bright
lustrous browa, fell in profuse and silky masses, unstained by the
hideous hair-powder which was just coming into vogue, and all
untortured by the implements of the court coiffeur, on either side
her face, quite down upon her shoulders. She was superbly
satin, profusely trimmed with the point lace of Brussels, nearly a
foot in breadth, and bows of rich white ribbon; her feet too, delicately
small and shapely, were decked with satin slippers, and
she bore in her hand a fan nearly a yard in length, elaborately
painted with the story of some nymph or goddess, from the metamorphoses
of Ovid. The elder lady, who was indeed considerably
advanced in years, though she retained still many traces of
a beauty which must have been remarkable in her day, was still
a fine and stately looking woman, erect and perfectly unbending,
with large black eyes that had a piercing and pervading glance,
almost unpleasant to those who met its scrutiny. Her other features,
too, though they were all well shaped and not uncomely,
were striking rather than attractive; a thin Roman nose and a
mouth closely shut, and very strongly marked, seeming to indicate
a character at the same time determined and imperious; her
manners, notwithstanding this and all her air, were gentle, full of
easy grace, and showed that whatsoever was the natural bias of
her temper, she had lived long enough in the highest circles of
society to learn how to veil the truth, which might have been less
pleasing, under a mask of smiles and smooth politeness. She
was dressed magnificently in a rich robe of pompadour brocade,
all flowered with rosebuds finely embroidered in their natural hues,
looped up at both the sides with cords and tassels, so as to show
an under-dress of silver tissue; her own gray hair was braided
closely about the contour of a high but narrow forehead, and covered
partially by a head-dress of splendid lace; she had on high-heeled
shoes, and carried in her hands a fan even larger than that
of her young companion, and a slight cane with a crutch head of
gold. It would have been scarcely possible for any casual spectator
to look at these ladies without arriving at the opinion that
they must have started on their journey very suddenly—immediately
on quitting some ball-room, or high court-party; for, although
it was the fashion of those days for ladies and gentlemen, at all
times, to dress in a style suited to their rank, it was evident at a
glance from the bare necks and arms of the ladies, their long
fringed gloves, and the bright jewels on their hair and at their bosoms,
that they were in full evening costume. The gentleman
who helped them from the carriage was of an air, as I have said
already, of singular distinction; tall and extremely thin, and with
which in its time had been as stately and erect as the mountain
pine; there was something military, too, in the precision of his
every movement, and chiefly in his measured tread, which added
not a little to the effect produced by his appearance; it was, however,
to his head and the whole cast of his features that he owed
most of the respectful admiration which he was wont at all times
to encounter; for sure a fairer or more classic head had never been
set upon human shoulders—nor had lineaments more beautiful
bespoken the possession of a benevolent and noble character.
His snow white hair, which he wore very long, was parted evenly
on the crown, and fell down either cheek in heavy waving lines
over the collar of rich Heemskirke lace, which graced his velvet
pourpoint. His face was rather pale than florid, but not on that
account deficient in the hues of health, with a broad massive forehead,
large bright gray eyes, a small and well cut nose, and a
mouth singular for the combination it displayed of firm decision
with benevolence and even blandness. He was attired in a full
suit of lavender-colored velvet over a doublet of white satin which
was displayed at the bosom, in the openings of the wide falling
sleeves, and in the slashings of the dress, which was much laced
with cords and fine embroideries of silver. He wore long hose of
silk with silver clocks, shoes with immense rosettes of lavender
and silver, a diamond-hilted rapier at his side suspended from a
rich white scarf, an amber-headed cane in his right hand, and in
his left a hat trimmed with a band of feathers. He bowed to
each of the ladies as she left the carriage with that peculiar air
of proud humility and deference, which was characteristic of the
age in which he lived—and which, like many other of the best in
stitutions of our grandsires, is making way for that boorish and
abrupt insensibility too often looked upon as manly bluntness of
demeanor—giving his hand to the elder lady. Then he conducted
her, holding the tips of her fingers only, toward the hospitable entrance—the
fair girl following dejectedly behind her. In a minute
or something less after the ladies, a gay-looking soubrette, who
had remained to gather up a host of mantles, roquelaures and
hoods, tripped down the steps and followed after her superiors;
but not until a little incident had taken place, which had it been
observed by the elders of the party, would probably have called
forth some suspicion against the sweet young being to whom it
the proch of the inn, under the shadow of which her parents—
for such they seemed to be—had already disappeared, one of the
men in scarlet livery, who had arrived before the carriage, stooped
suddenly to the ground as if to pick up something which had fallen;
and when he rose again, although his comrad had not observed
anything before either lying in the road or in his hand, he
held a small embroidered kerchief with golden threads interwoven
in the tissue; and immediately running up to the young lady, he
gave it to her, exclaiming as he did so, “Your kerchief—you
have dropped your kerchief, Mademoiselle Louise!” She started
as he spoke, and turned round quickly, and her lips moved as if
she was about to answer him, and probably would have denied it,
had she not caught a quick glance of intelligence in the man's
face, which led her to extend her hand and receive the kerchief,
as if it had belonged to her. The instant, however, that her fingers
closed upon it she seemed to feel something within its folds,
and while her eyes sparkled and her whole face lighted up
with a joyous expression, she blushed—brow, cheeks, and neck,
and bosom, as far as could be seen above the corsage, one glow
of bright carnation. She tried at once to make some answer to
the servant; but instantly became embarrassed and stopped short,
while the elder lady, whose attention had been excited by the
slight bustle, asked in a shrill voice which had something very
imperious in its tones—“Louise! Louise! what is to do now,
that you loiter so behind? Come hither, come quick, Mademoiselle—what
were you doing there with Martin?”
“Nothing, Madame la Marquise,” answered Louise, blushing
even more deeply than before, and becoming even more embarrassed—“Martin
was only giving me this handkerchief, which
he had just found dropped beside the wheel.”
“Let me see, let me see,” returned the other; “how could you
be so careless as to let it fall? Give it to me, I say; I never saw
that handkerchief before.”
I know not how it was, that at this moment there was a strange
awkwardness in the manner of Louise, whose movements were
in general as easy and as springy as the wild doe's. She shifted
the handkerchief from her right hand to her left, and actually
tripped over a low step in the passage, and was almost upon the
effort, putting her right hand for a moment to her bosom.
“How very careless you do grow, Louise,” cried the old lady,
even more tartly than she had spoken previously. “I am sure it
is well for us all your father has resolved to visit his chateau this
autumn, for had we remained in Paris any longer, your gaucherie
would certainly have rendered us all perfectly ridiculous; but,
Mon Dieu,” she continued, “where could Martin have got this
handkerchief; it is not mine, I am sure, and I do not remember
that you have any of this pattern—have you, Mademoiselle?
The poor girl looked as if she would have fainted, and it was
several seconds before she contrived to make some indistinct and
dubious answer—suggesting that it might possibly be some perquisite
or present to Janette the maid; who, coming up opportunely
at the moment, and seeing the beauty of the unclaimed
article in question, answered, that certainly it was her handkerchief;
her cousin Henri, page to the Baron de Beaujeu, gave it her
yesterday before they left the city.
This for the time put an end to the contention; but not, as it
would seem, to the suspicious humor of the Marquise, who continued
to watch poor Louise with jealous scrutiny, until at length
the Marquise, calling off her attention by some occasional remark,
put an end to the persecution.
In the mean time they had been ushered in through the dark
passage, and up several road low steps into the best apartment
of the inn—a large, low-roofed, square room, with a huge open
fire-place at the end facing the door, completely filled by its summer
garniture, composed of a huge china jar filled almost to overflowing
with gaudy flowers and green foliage. Two large, wide,
latticed windows, each one divided by stone-mullions into some
three or four compartments, all of which were now thrown far open
to admit the mild and balmy breath of summer, looked out across
the road, and the deep level meadow, and the broad glistening
river, to the still woods and quiet hills beyond. The lattices were
all festooned with clear white curtains, and on their ample window-seats
were many pots of lavender, and thyme, and rosemary,
and other fragrant herbs diffusing a faint, spicy perfume through
the chamber. An antique beauffet in the corner of the room, was
garnished gayly with half a dozen cups and tankards of old-fashioned
silver plate, a posset cup and cover richly gilt, a flagon or
have mistaken the material for the purer metal, and a good store of
Venice glasses of all shapes and sizes. A large round table stood
in the centre of the room, covered with a piece of tapestry, elaborately
wrought in needlework; a heavy sideboard, covered with
knife-boxes, and pewter dishes burnished as brightly as the flagon,
graced the side opposite the windows; a huge eight-day clock in
a black case of old carved walnut, ticked in one corner of the
room, while sundry ponderous arm-chairs, with well-stuffed cushions
of white dimity, and an immense settee in the chimney-corner,
completed the furniture of the apartment, the floor of which
was neatly sanded, and all the details redolent of the most precise
and careful cleanliness. Such was the room into which our
travellers were shown by the “neat-handed Phillis” of the inn;
and certainly, to travellers wearied with journeying through the
heat and burthen of the day, there hardly could be a more grateful
contrast, than between the glare, and dust, and turmoil which
prevailed without, and the half-twilight shadows, the pleasant
odors, and the absolute tranquillity of that old-fashioned chamber.
The little maiden was still busily employed in whisking
away some grains of imagined dust which, to her sedulous eye,
appeared to have settled on the glass doors of the beauffet, when
the Marquis had handed his proud dame to a seat on the settee;
and poor Louise, having dropped quietly into a sort of cushioned
ottoman, which filled the embrasure of one of the old windows,
so soon as the stern eye of the Marchioness had ceased to scrutinize
her features, was gazing out upon the fair scenery beyond
the road, with a half-melancholy, half-unconscious air that bespoke,
certainly, how far her mind was absent from the place
which held her body. Yet her eye did dwell languidly upon
whatever came before it, and her mind partially took note of passing
objects, although, in truth, it was scarce conscious of its own
occupation; the swallows which skimmed to and fro above the
waving grass, that changed its hue with every changeful air that
swept its varying surface, were painted on her retina, as they rose
twittering to the eaves hailed by the greetings of their callow
young, or sallied forth on darting pinion, pursuing their small
insect prey. She saw them, she knew that they were there, and
yet she had no more thought of them than had her senses
given her no note of their existence. The swarm of bees were
and honeysuckle, and the harmonious buzz came soothingly
upon her ear, as did the whisper of the gentle breeze among
the pendulous leaves and weeping branches of the willow, and
the drowsy tinkle of the streamlets chafing against the pebbles on
their margin; yet, though she heard them and they soothed her,
had she been questioned suddenly as to the nature of the sounds
which she was drinking in so tranquilly, she might well have hesitated
for an answer.
Meantime she scarce would have been left so long to her own
reveries, had not her lady mother been employed in questioning
the maid of the inn on that most anxious and engrossing subject,
the approaching hour of supper.
“Oh, yes, Madame la Marquise,” answered the girl in reply to
some foregoing query. “Oh, yes, Madame, we can have it ready
in less time than that; but what would madame please to have
for supper?”
“Why, as to that, child,” answered the old lady scornfully
enough, “I suppose there is no choice about the matter: what
have you got to give us?”
“Whatever Madame pleases,” was the reply, as might have
been predicted; but when pressed somewhat more closely, she descended
to more minute particulars.
“Madame would choose, of course,” she said, “to have some
soup and bouilli—the pot was on the fire always! And there were
trout fresh from the stream, which were judged excellent when
roasted on the ashes; and then there were eels, too, from the
river, and they could be made ready instantly en matelot, or au
tartar, and then there were pullets young and tender, aux petits
points d'esperge, and a pata de perigord, and partridges aux truffes,
and pigeons a la crapaudine; and then there was pattisserie
and fruit, and cream and coffee, and as good Bordeaux and champagne
as any that was sold in Paris.”
The sternness of the Marchioness appeared to be soothed somewhat
by the recital of so many delicacies, and it might be readily
perceived from the unction with which she issued her directions,
accompanied by a few hints as to the proper mode of preparation
of this puree, or that consommee, that a taste for friandise was not
one of her least weaknesses.
Profuse of promises, the peasant girl departed, and then poor
shrill accents which she heard so seldom but to chide her.
“Who would have thought, Louise, that at a little country
place like this, they should keep such a menage; why, truly, I
don't see but what we shall sup quite as well as though we had
been in the Place de Louvre. I don't think altogether, though,
that the girl understood puree, when I explained it to her so carefully.”
The fair girl started at the words, or at the accents rather, and
answered evidently quite at random, not having heard or understood
a syllable of what was said to her.
“No! yes—I mean—madame—that is—I beg your pardon—”
“Why, how now; how now, minion? where are thy wits gone
wandering now, I wonder? and what art gazing after there out
of the casement? there be no gallants here, I warrant thee—”
Her harsh words were cut short by a violent flood of tears,
and a fit of convulsive sobbing, into which poor Louise fell
instantly at this sharp and unmerited rebuke, and by the quick interposition
of the Marquis.
“No! no!” he said. “Madame, my wife, pardon Louise this
time, she is fatigued and worn out with this hot and sudden journey;
and I am sure that this is not surprising, for I am tired out
myself completely. I will go call Janette, ma mignonne,” he
continued, patting her kindly on the shoulder as he spoke, “and
thou wert best retire to thy chamber, and take off all these inconvenient
ornaments, and lie thee down a little while to rest. I will
take care that thou art called to supper.”
His daughter's tears flowed, as he spoke, the faster; for his
kind tones and his fond soft manner contrasted so remarkably
with the keen, piercing accents of the lady, that she felt even
more acutely than before the harshness of the treatment which,
for the most part, she received at her hands; but the soubrette appearing
almost instantly at the summons of the Marquis, she made
a violent effort to restrain her tears, and recover at least the appearance
of serenity. Her father led her to the door, and kissed
her forehead tenderly, and bade her be a good child, so all would
yet go well; and as her light form crossed the threshold, he looked
after her with a saddened, and as it seemed, half-repentant expression
of countenance. But when she had gone, and the sound
of her steps had ceased to be heard in the echoing passage, he
resolutely, although with all the easy and elaborate politeness of
a Frenchman.
“Madame la Marquise de Saint Eloy,” he said, gravely, “I
pray you pardon me when I say that this must not be hereafter.
In all matters of importance, I consult implicitly your wishes, and
conform to your excellent judgment, concerning the future views
and the advancement of mademoiselle, your step-daughter. And
as you well know, I gave you a very strong proof of this, when,
though it is not at all convenient for me to quit Paris at this time,
I resolved at once to follow your advice, and set off directly for
my chateau, from Monsieur le Duc de Longueville's great ball,
without so much as changing my ball costume for a dress suited
to a journey; and all because you judged it wise to separate Louise
at once from young Bellechassaigne. I mention this, madame my
wife, to show you that I do not speak from any doubt of your
discretion; but, when I follow all your wishes and adopt your
views regarding her establishment in life, I must expect, at the
same time, that my opinions shall receive some respect so far as
regards the mode of treating her. Louise is as good a girl as ever
lived in all the world—tender, affectionate and dutiful—”
“Dutiful, too? oh, wondrous dutiful, indeed!” retorted the
sharp accents of the stepmother, “when she told me directly, in
so many words, that she did love that young adventurer, and
never, so long as she lived, should cease to do so; after I had so
clearly shown her that he was no parti!”
“Yes! wondrous dutiful, indeed, madame,” replied the Marquis,
repeating the very words of his wife, but without the bitter
emphasis of irony which had made her reply so cutting. “Yes,
wondrous dutiful, I think. When she promised that she would
never see him without permission from yourself, nor ever marry
him without our sanction, and that, too, without a murmur or
reproach. Yes, I do think it wonderful, madame, the patience
and affectionate tranquillity with which she has endured your
constant and—pardon me, I beseech you, for the word—somewhat
unnecessary taunts throughout this journey!”
“Oh, you are always so engoue with Louise! so taken in and
wheedled by that soft, sentimental, hypocritic air. You always
make her out a complete martyr and a perfect angel. Now, if
she was my daughter, I'd have a lettre de cachet in no time, and
selected for her.”
“But as she is not your daughter, madame my wife,” returned
the Marquis, rather more warmly than he had spoken before, for
he was getting heated by her pertinacious opposition, “but mine
only, you will do nothing of the kind! But so long as you wish
to remain in the country, so that this love, or liking, or fancy, as
you call it, may have time to pass over, you will oblige me very
much by treating her not only civilly, but kindly, and affectionately,
and fondly. You will oblige me—do you mark me,
madame?”
“I wonder, for my part,” replied the lady, “why you don't
alter your views altogether to suit this pretty puppet, and let her
marry, as she wishes, this beautiful Bellechassaigne.”
“I do not know,” answered the Marquis, with the most perfect
sang froid imaginable—“I do not know whether it would
not be the best way; for he is as fine a youth, most certainly, as
any in the country. There is not a braver or a better soldier in
all the king's army; and he is nobly born, moreover, and handsome,
and accomplished; has everything, in short, but wealth and
title to recommend him. I do not know at all whether it would
not be the better way. I never had so much objection to the
youth; it was to please you, madame, altogether, that I determined
to break off the matter; and I did not do so, even then,
without some compunction; since I had at the first in some degree
encouraged young Bellechassaigne. One thing I have to say,
however, that if Louise is made unhappy by any taunts or harshness,
I will return at once to Paris, and give her to the man whom
she has chosen. Besides, it is impolitic, madame, to say the least
of it; and tends directly to make her rebel against authority, and
either attempt to deceive us, or fly out into open disobedience.
Kindness and soft words have a vast effect ever on an affectionate
and kindly disposition, and I dare say she will forget him before
long.”
Just as he finished speaking, the door opened, and the servants
entered to make preparations for supper. The table was laid with
a snow-white cloth; bright pewter plates with clean napkins,
abundance of wineg-lasses, and several silver tankards, a large
gilt salt-cellar, and several long-necked flasks and bottles, were
laid in order; and it was evident that ere long the evening meal
continued coming in and out of the room for some moments, and
the Marquis, after continuing silent something longer than his
wont, looked up, and seeing an intelligent lad standing idly beside
the board with his napkin in hand, asked him two or three
unimportant questions about the state of the country, the roads,
the crops, &c.; and receiving clear and intelligible replies to every
one of these, “How are the out-psots of the armies situated
now?” he asked. “We are without the lines of Monsieur de
Turenne, are we not?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” the lad answered, “his head-quarters now
are at Arcis sur Aube, I fancy; but his horse are quartered in all
the villages between that place and this, but I think none of them
are nearer than Mailly or Somnesous.”
“And what do you hear tell in this quarter about the Prince of
Conde?”
“The last news that reached us, he lay between Commercy
and Voye; but four days since there was a rumor that he was
marching upon Voye, and yesterday again heard we that some of
his videttes had been seen foraging within four leagues of this,
and people fancied he might be advancing.”
“That might be troublesome—that might be very troublesome,”
exclaimed the Marquis, musingly, and not expecting a reply. “It
would not do at all to fall among his riotous troopers before my
passports had been sent to him. Better send Martin forward post
at break of day, or better still this evening, to go on till he find
the prince. But ha! what have we here?”
His exclamation was called forth by the thick clattering tramp
of many horses approaching rapidly, mixed with the clang of harness
and accoutrements, and all the jingling din of a squadron of
cavalry. In a moment more, four troopers trotted past the windows,
coming up from the bridge and the forest, in the direction of
Turenne's outposts. The men were covered with thick dust, and
the horses hot and foamy, though not jaded; and it was evident
that they were upon the alert, and in the expectation of meeting
with an enemy; for the videttes held their carbines unslung, with
their butts resting on their thighs, and their slow-matches lighted.
So rapidly, however, did they glance past the casements, that it
was impossible for the Marquis, though he looked out with all
his eyes, to detect the uniform or colors of the troopers. After a
bright steel, came clanging up the road, and then Saint Eloy
marked the white scarfs of the royal horse. Scarcely a moment
had elapsed, ere a young subaltern rode by, and close behind him,
trotting along as fast as they could urge their horses, in open
column, a troop of horse arquebusiers followed. Another interval,
and then an officer, wearing a velvet hat with a tall plume of
snowy feathers, and a clear burnished corslet, inlaid with arabesques
of silver, reined his proud charger through the dust
wreaths; a dozen subalterns, with several buglers and a standard,
riding close in his rear. After this gorgeous company, two more
troops followed, one of the lancers of the royal guard, and the
other, like the first, composed of horse arquebusiers: in all,
falling perhaps a little short of two hundred men, admirably
mounted and equipped, and fitted for immediate service. It did
not occupy so long a time for the little band to file past the windows,
so rapidly did they spur onward, as it has taken to describe
it; for not a man halted, or drew in his horse, or even cast a wistful
eye toward the hospitable building, but drove on steadily, each
trooper with his every sense directed forward; eye, ear and heart
on the alert, and seemingly expecting at each turn of the road to
fall upon an enemy.
“Heavens!” exclaimed the Marquis, not without some expression
of disturbance and dismay—“either this is the vanguard of
Turenne's advance and he is coming up in force; or—what I fear
is more likely—Condè is moving hitherward, and a light party has
been sent out to reconnoiter. They ride too rapidly for an advance
en masse. Pray God! they meet not hereabouts with
Condè's outposts, for it is clear they are not strong enough to do
more than fight a retreating skirmish.”
Even as he spoke, the keen notes of their bugles came floating
down the wind, to the old soldier's ear—he caught the import of
the call in a moment.
“Ha!” he exclaimed—“close up—close up! By heaven, they
suppose themselves even now almost in front of the foe! Martin,
Francois, Eugene—one of ye get a fleet horse on the instant,
and spur, as if it was for life, after you troop of horsemen—find
out what duty they are on, and whither they are marching.
Carry my greeting to the officer commanding—the Marquis de
Saint Eloy's greeting—and I beseech him let me know if there is
spare not for spoiling horse-flesh.”
The men, who had rushed hastily into the room at their master's
summons, obeyed his bidding instantly; and, in less than
five minutes from the time when he gave the order, he heard the
clatter of the messenger's gallop, as he hurried off to fulfill his
mandates. An hour elapsed, and no news came, nor did the messenger
return; nor did the supper—which had so long before
seemed all but actually ready—make its appearance on the board.
The last rays of the sun poured a broad stream of ruddy light
against the casements of the inn; then momentarily died away,
fainter and fainter, till the dim gray of twilight had usurped the
empire of the skies, and all was dull and gloomy except a few
small scattered clouds toward the zenith, which still smiled faintly
with an evanescent brightness.
In the mean time, Louise, who had retired to a large and comfortable
bedchamber, immediately above the parlor that her parents
occupied, well fitted with all appliances of the toilet, which had
become so universal in that land of luxury, had laid aside indeed
the stiff paraphernalia of her full ball costume; had braided her
hair simply round her beauteous head, and wrapt her glowing
person in a loose robe of rich white silk, made without any ornament
whatever, but drawn in closely round her slender waist,
whence it swept down in full and ample draperies even to the clasp
of her light slipper. Thus comfortably and unceremoniously
dressed, when she had bathed her face, discolored by the trace of
recent tears, and all her forehead in the pure cold water, she
quietly dismissed the soubrette, who seemed inclined to linger in
the room, on the pretext of laying by the dress which she had taken
off; and desiring not to be disturbed until the supper was
upon the table, composed herself apparently to sleep upon a large
soft couch or ottoman beside the window. It was but for a little
while, however, that she retained her recumbent attitude; for
scarcely had the footsteps of the maid died into silence, when she
jumped up lightly from the sofa, and treading softly as though
she stepped on rose leaves, crossed the room to the bed whereon
her ball dress had been negligently cast at the moment, when she
took it off; and after searching a few seconds in the folds of the
corsage drew out a small square note, written in a fine manly
hand, and fastened by a fold of white floss silk secured by a little
moment, and pressed it once and again to her lips, before she
broke the envelope, and read—for we must bid defiance to good
breeding and peep over her shoulder, as she peruses the few lines
it contained, with eyes that literally seemed to overflow with delight—as
follows:
“Soul of my soul—adorable Louise—and so the blow is stricken
—and so the prejudices and the malice of that step-mother are to
prevail against us. You are to be torn hence I learn, even before
you know it; even from this very ball room, lest I should by mischance
discover whither, and seeing you again discomfit these atrocious
schemes against our peace. I heard it from a sure hand just
as we finished our last dance, and hurrying straight to the Duke, my
uncle, obtained an order to mareschal—Turenne I mean, you know
—to give me the command of the videttes and guides, who will
be pushed out in advance, as far almost as to your father's chateau.
I have succeeded; and I write this, with one foot in the stirrup—we
shall meet, and that very soon, be sure of it, my angel—and oh!
Louise, if you would but adopt my counsel, if you would but go
frankly to your father, he who is everything of kind and generous
and noble, and tell him all your feelings, all your sad sufferings
under that tyrant beldame—all would go well with us. I know it,
and you, Louise! you know it too! yet weakly tremble at the thought,
and for one hour of doubt and of solicitude risk the endurance of long
years of agony. Or if you dread too much the influence brought to
bear upon that dear good father's mind, from that empoisoned source
—why not, Louise—why not?—you understand although I write it
not at length—why not take one bold honest step, and wronging no
one, make two hearts happy for all ages? Think of this—think of
this, my angel—and think of one, who, though his body be afar, is
near you ever in the spirit. I will be near thee on thy route—I will
be near thee in thy father's park—I will look on thee, it may well
be, often, when none shall dream that I am nigh! And thou, Louise,
wilt thou remember
“Never, oh, never!” she exclaimed—“never will I forget
thee, for a moment. Alas! alas! how can I? Yet better, oh!
far better were it for both, if we could both forget. Oh! why,
just Heaven, why did my own sweet mother die, and leave her
poor Louise to be a slave to her—ah, me! how far dissimilar
successor!” and, as she spoke, she wrung her hands in a strong
burst of passionate anguish, and, throwing herself at length on
the ottoman, buried her face in its downy cushions, and remained
there for a long time silent, and motionless, and, to all appearance,
lifeless. Not a limb quivered; not a muscle stirred in all
her shapely form; and so stagnantly and slowly did the blood,
now trickle, drop by drop, along her veins, paralyzed as they
were, and numbed by overpowering grief, that scarcely a pulsation
could be seen to tell that she was living. An hour, perhaps,
passed thus, and still Louise lay there, unchanged in her position,
although sleepless; and seemingly inanimate, although, in truth,
distracted by the wild conflict of contending passions—by that internal
war, far fiercer than the strife of the most furious elements
of nature—that dread internal war between the elements of man,
which rends and wears the body, even as the intestine fires cleave
and consume the crust of the volcano. A thousand balanced
feelings—balanced so equally, that, of a truth, the battle was obstinate,
and long, long doubtful—were raging for the mastery
within. On the one side, strong love—love, which she once had
fancied not to be all unsanctioned by her surviving parent—love
stronger than that of life—love, giving a mighty confidence, a
certain hope, by its intensity, that it and the soul it animates shall
last and live beyond the grave—young, holy, pure, unselfish love!
and to aid that eternal power, outraged affections, and warm feelings
slighted and repressed, and the keen sense of wrong—small,
petty, stinging, daily-recurring wrong—the bitterer that it was
small and petty! and the want irrepressible, and in the female
breast, quite uncontrollable—the want of something whereon to
lavish that deep flood of tenderness and passion, which wells up
hourly, nay, momently—as copious, but at the same time as pure,
and cold, and unsullied, as the spring that leaps exultingly from
the impassive granite—in the heart of every perfect woman. All
these—all these—and gratitude besides, and indignation to abet it,
and fast-rising pride, were mustering to arms—gathering a puissant
host, to hurry her into the arms of Bellechassaigne! And
what was there—what to withhold her? What? The affection for
the one living parent—the wild, half-superstitious veneration for
the dearer dead—the dread of the world's censure—the awe that
fortifies so strongly to a child the command of a father—the
spell of womanhood—the guardian genius of the sex, in trial,
trouble, or temptation—bashfulness—modesty—the whiteness of
the soul of a pure, innocent maiden; and these, though seemingly
the weaker—these, in the end, won the hard conflict. She rose
from off the ottoman, and cast herself upon her knees, and
prayed— long, fervently, and deeply, and sincerely. She prayed
those who ask it truly—succor against herself—against the wishes
of the flesh—the deceitful imaginations of her own heart. She
prayed, that, if indeed it were a sin to love so fervently that dear
Bellechassaigne, grace might be given her to see the sin, and
strength to conquer the temptation; but she prayed farther, “But,
if it be no sin, mighty Lord and Father, if it be no sin to love
him, after Thee, beyond all things that are or can be—to love him
not with wild and inordinate passion, but with calm moderation
and maidenly affection, then, then, oh Lord! look down with
favor on our love, and clear away the clouds that lower above us,
and soften, I beseech thee, the hearts of my parents, that they
may now relent toward us. Grant, oh, good Lord! if it may be
so, grant that I yet may be his wife, and live with him, in righteousness
and honor, to praise and glorify Thy name, which is, and
was, and shall be, from everlasting unto everlasting!”
She arose from her knees; and arose, as those who pray with
true piety and from the soul must arise ever, refreshed, and
soothed, and strengthened. A quiet hope, that better days were
coming, settled down on her spirit “like a gentle dew from
Heaven;” a confidence that seemed not to be of the earth, or
earthly, gained every moment on her mind; and, as she stretched
herself once more upon the sofa, she felt not only tranquil and
of good courage, but actually happy and at peace. Gradually her
eyelids closed above her deep blue eyes, and she sunk into a
sweet, healthful slumber; and ere long she smiled as she slept,
and whispered some low words in a well pleased and happy tone,
but there was no ear there to mark their import; nor, had there
been any listener nigh, would he have easily interpreted those accents,
so faint they were and indistinctly tuneful. This time,
however, she did not remain long in that position; for, within
about a quarter of an hour, the clattering tumult of the passing
horsemen, which had so much disturbed her father, startled her
likewise from her slumbers. The six first troopers had ridden by
with all their clanking din, before she was sufficiently awake to
understand what was the matter; the youthful subaltern who led
the first troop of the arquebusiers was the first object that met
her eye, and I know not how it was, nor wherefore, but, as she
saw the soldiers hurrying along in open files, all looking anxiously
ahead, it flashed upon her instantly that this quite unexpected
so recently received from her true lover; and she threw the lattice
of her window open, and gazed out eagerly upon the pageant
which swept by so rapidly. The first troop passed; and then—
joy! joy! he in the velvet hat and snowy plume—he with the
glittering breast-plate, and the white scarf all dusted over with
bright golden fleurs de lis—he whose tall, blood-bay charger
curved his fierce neck so proudly to the bit—joy! it was Bellechassaigne!
And their eyes met, with a deep, thrilling glance,
and a quick, flashing smile; and she waved her white hand to
the bold gallant of her choice; but he bowed not, nor moved his
high-plumed hat, nor waved a mute salute: nor gave he any
token, save in that glance that penetrated to her very heart, and in
that brilliant and exulting smile, that he had even marked the
lady who leaned out, with her whole soul in her eyes, from the
inn window.
It must be here remembered that the age of which I write was
one which, although it had looked upon the dawning of a purer
and more intellectual civilization than the benighted centuries
that had preceded it, was nevertheless addicted much to superstition;
portents and dreams still received faith almost implicit; and
although miracles were not, by the better and more cultivated
classes supposed to be of general or every-day occurrence, they
were not deemed by any means impossible, or their existence contrary
to the religious doctrines of the day. When, therefore, we
consider that Louise was a young, ardent, inexperienced girl, full
of romance and sentiment, and above all, but recently emancipated
from the convent; where she had been educated, it is true, in all
the graces and accomplishments of the period, but where she had
been no less carefully instructed in all the wild and fabulous
legends of the calendar, until her fancy had been seriously excited,
and her mind imbued deeply with a species of superstitious
piety, vague indeed, and indefinite, but powerful and capable of
effecting, if unchecked by reason, material injury to her fine, enthusiastic,
artless character—when we consider this, I say, we
shall find it in no wise extraordinary, that after the conclusion of
her fervid prayer and appeal to Him who governs all things, she
should have been more than half-inclined to believe that her petition
had found favor above, and that the appearance of her lover,
Bellechassaigne, in a manner so unaccountable and at a moment
to her from on High, betokening that her love for that dear object
was pure and pardonable in the eyes of Heaven, and such as she
might yield to without any impropriety or sin. She clasped her
hands, and turned her fine eyes upward, swimming in heartfelt
tears of tenderness and gratitude, and breathed a few brief words
of ardent and impassionate thanks to Him who, as her fancy and
mistaken zeal suggested, had given her so strange a token of his
protecting love and approbation. A sweet, calm hope possessed
her, and more than this, a confidence that by some means or other,
she knew not nor even cared to conjecture what, the consent of
her parents would be gained, and her union ere long brought about
with the object of her young affections. A minute or two only
had elapsed, however, before she heard the voice of her father
raised far above its wonted tones, and summoning vociferously
his attendants; much clattering to and fro of heavy boots over the
stone floors of the hall and passages ensued, and, by-and-by, the
clang of hoofs attracted her attention to the window, and she saw
one of the scarlet-liveried servants gallop away as hard as his
horse could carry him, as if with the intent of overtaking the
troopers, who had now been out of sight nearly ten minutes.
Here was fresh cause for wonder and excitement; and poor
Louise lay on her sofa trembling between hope and fear, and
breathlessly expecting the solution of her doubts, her wishes, or
her terrors. At one time she imagined, that by some sudden
and mysterious process, the heart of her father had been
changed; and that the messenger had been dispatched to recall
her exiled lover, and that perhaps, before an hour the sentence
of non-intercourse would be revoked, and she permitted to avow
her love, sanctioned by the consent of her parents, even before
the world. Anon more gloomy fancies supplanted those bright
visions; she now remembered that the voice of the Marquis had
not been merely loud and hasty, but angry and excited; and she
began to apprehend that in the appearance of Bellechassaigne,
whom she could not doubt that he had perceived, he had suspected
some clandestine understanding, and sent a hostile message,
perhaps a deadly cartel, to call him to account for some imaginary
wrong committed or intended. Thus she continued harassing
herself with quick succeeding fancies, each one as void of
any rational foundation as was its predecessor, until the sun had
gleams of twilight. Still nothing was heard by her of the messenger;
and so intensely had she watched, that she felt more than certain
that he could not have by any possibility returned without
her learning his arrival. While she was musing thus, a fresh
sound called her to the window; it was the distant jar of wheels
and horses' feet, coming up rapidly from the direction of Paris,
and, as she looked out, she could readily perceive the dark and
massive outlines of a huge square-topped carriage, like that in
which she had herself arrived some hours before, surrounded by
a large party of mounted serving-men, coming across the little
bridge, and lumbering into the inn-yard. Immediately a dozen or
more of the servants of the inn rushed out with links and flambeaux,
which, wavering to and fro with their broad crimson glare,
rendered the little esplanade before the door, and the road on both
sides for many yards' distance, as bright as at noonday, though
with a light by no means so pure or pervading. By this illumination,
Louise was readily enabled to distinguish the smallest
details of the carriage and its several appointments; and it was
one which she knew, alas! but too well already; and from whose
coming thither she augured nothing good, but much of suffering
and persecution. The vehicle itself was splendid, even for that
age of sumptuous and uncalculating luxury, all carved work,
and rich gilding, and plate glass, surmounted by a large ducal
coronet. Its horses, eight in number, were noble Norman grays,
and the attendant horsemen, who could not have been fewer
than ten or a dozen men, were mounted gallantly, and gorgeously
appareled in liveries of light blue cloth, profusely laced with
gold. Even before the carriage-door was opened, Louise foresaw
the face and figure which would meet her reluctant gaze;
her fears were even too prophetic. The steps were lowered,
and forth came a small slight person, with a countenance singularly
repulsive, and a form positively frightful. He was
young, it is true, yet his pale features were already marked with
many a deep-indented line and furrow, engraved there either
by cares, or sickness, or the fierce brand of fiery passions.
His brow was low and narrow, and somewhat receding, and
it alone, of his whole face, was altogether polished and unwrinkled.
He wore his own light hair, uncurled and undisguised
by powder, in lank and straggling masses, around a face
unchanging color. His eye—the one redeeming character of
that unpleasing countenance—was large and clear, and very
piercing, with something of an intellectual expression, which
was confirmed, however, by nothing in brow, lip or nostril; for
his nose was a thin sharp aquiline, and his mouth coarse,
thick-lipped, and indicative of sensuality alone unqualified by
anything of fire, or firmness, or decision. A sort of smile would,
indeed, at times play across the pale ill-favored lineaments, but
played across them only as it seemed to render them more unprepossessing,
if such a thing were possible, than when they were
at rest and motionless. For it had this peculiarity—that the mouth
only was distorted, as it were, by that ghastly sign of sneering
and ungenial mirth, the eyes remainining cold, and clear, and passionless,
and all the other features retaining their accustomed character
of selfish, soulless apathy. His person was, as I have said,
if possible, more hideous than his features; for he was very short,
and so thin as to convey the idea of emaciation; he stooped much,
with narrow shoulders, one of which was, moreover, oppressed by
a hump of considerable magnitude. He had, besides, a weak
contracted chest, arms singularly long, and garnished with huge
claw-like hands; thin shapeless legs, knock-kneed, and terminated
with splay feet, out of all proportion to his slight frame;
and small unmuscular limbs. Such was the face, and such the
form of the young man who stepped with an air of important
dignity out of his gorgeous carriage; nor—though a quick cold
shudder of inexpressible disgust and loathing ran through the
frame of the lovely girl, who, all unseen herself, was watching
his descent, undoubtedly called forth by his appearance—did he
seem to be at all aware that his exterior was disagreeable, much
less that it was hideous almost to a miracle; for he was arrayed
magnificently, even beyond the magnificence of the most gorgeous
court of earth—a distinction which could not fail to be accorded
to that of France, even in the earliest years of her fourteenth
Louis. He wore a closely-fitting just-au-corps of peach-colored
velvet, all covered with embroideries wrought in seed pearls and
silver; his loose slashed breeches were of the same material, with
fringes at the knees—as there were likewise at the sleeves of his
jerkin—above a foot in depth, of the finest Brussels point. A
dozen chains of jewelry and gold were twisted round his neck,
breast of his coat, which was of purple silk brocade, lined,
slashed and faced with genuine cloth of gold. A diamond,
worth the ransom of an earl, attached his snowy plume of ostich
feathers to the low-crowned flapped hat which he carried in his
left hand, and the hilt of his rapier and the buckles of his velvet
shoes gleamed in the torchlight—masses of glorious brilliants.
After this sumptuous personage, another individual made his exit
from the vehicle, and one of widely-different appearance and
demeanor. He was a larger and an older man, though not far
past the middle age of his sex, dressed in the plain dark habili
ments of an abbe of the French church. In person, this dignitary
was tall, above the ordinary height of men, not being less than
six feet two or three, and stout in proportion. In his younger
days he must have been evidently a person of uncommon symmetry,
and of strength proportionate to his stature, but as he had advanced
in years he had grown somewhat corpulent and bulky, although
not to a degree that could by any means have been termed
unwieldy. His hair originally had been as dark as the raven's
wing, but it was now so mixed with silvery tresses that it was
nearer the tint which is called iron-gray than to any other color,
although his eyebrows still retained their pristine hue unaltered.
His features, like his form, were large and massive, with a brow
singularly noble and expansive, which, indeed, formed by far
the chief attraction of his countenance. His eye, which was
of a deep and lustrous gray, was large, and open; but for
the most part, it had a heavy, almost dull, expression, that seemed
to indicate an indolent, and, perhaps, sleepy character; although
at times a wild and flashing gleam would break out through the
clouds that ordinarily hung about it, telling of fiercer passions and
a more keen temperament than could have been suspected beneath
that calm and somewhat somnolent exterior. The other features
of the churchman, although large and, as I have said, massive
in their outlines, were well-proportioned and attractive, and
might have been termed handsome, but for a certain coarseness
about the mouth and chin, which detracted not a little from the
contour of the whole. The coloring of his head was rich and
agreeable; his air and manners, exhibiting a graceful union of
dignity and ease, were evidently those of a man who had mingled
largely with his fellows, seen much of the great world, and
of others.
When Louise had perceived the young man, whom I have
essayed to describe above, she wrung her hands bitterly; and a
painful expression of distress and terror fell on her beautiful and
speaking lineaments, while that sharp shivering chill of horror,
which has been mentioned, shook every muscle of her frame;
but when she saw the finer form of his companion following him
from the carriage, the aspect of despair—for it was almost such
that blanched her face—passed away somewhat, and a milder
shade of sorrow took its place, and sat settled there, like a gray
cloud on a fair landscape. Much bustle and confusion followed
the arrival of the new comers; doors shut and opened, and loud
voices were heard everywhere, and servants hurried to and fro,
carrying trunks and baggage; but ere long this din passed away,
and then, by the sounds of conversation which came up from the
parlor underneath her chamber, Louise was made to understand
that the object of her unconcealed abhorrence, with his companion,
had been admitted to join the party of her parents. For some
time longer she lay pale and languid, buried in bitter sorrow on
her sofa; but after perhaps half an hour, the soubrette, who had
accompanied her from Paris, threw the door open, and bustled
into the apartment, followed by two damsels of the inn, one bearing
a pair of tall wax lights, which she deposited on an old fashioned
cabinet of ebony before a huge japan-framed mirror, the
other carrying a large ewer of hot water, and sundry other necessaries
of the toilet.
“Will it please you to rise now, mademoiselle,” cried the
girl, as she entered, in gay ringing tones, as if she had to announce
the most agreeable intelligence in the world; “will it please you
to rise now, and array yourself. Supper will be served in ten
minutes, and the young Duc of Noirmoutier and the Abbe Du
pont de Meillerie have arrived here just now, and will take supper
with Madame, and Monsieur le Marquis. Your lady mother
desires, Mademoiselle Louise, that you will let me dress your
hair, and array you to the best advantage.”
“Oh, no! no, no! Janette,” replied poor Louise “Oh, no!
my head aches now worse than it did when I came up hither to
lie down; I have not slept ten minutes. Go, tell Madame la
Marquise that I beseech she will excuse me; I am quite sick—
utterly impossible for me to travel any farther on our way to-morrow.”
“Oh, no! mademoiselle,” answered the girl, pertly; “Madame
says it will do you good; and she desires you will come at once.
So come! come, Mademoiselle Louise!”
“And I desire you, Janette,” replied Louise, “to go at once
and do my bidding—whatsoever Madame la Marquise wishes,
she can direct me to perform—but I receive no orders, and tolerate
no insolence from my own maid. Go and do as I tell you, without
answering; and then come back and make me ready for such
a night's rest, as I may obtain—for I will lay me down directly.”
The soubrette left the room without more words, although she
continued muttering in a low sullen key, as long as she was
within hearing; and slammed the door behind her with a degree
of violence, that made the windows shake and rattle in their
frames.
In a few minutes, however, before Louise had in the least
degree recovered from her embarrassment, her father entered the
chamber quietly. “What ails thee,” he said in a soft tone, that
at once melted the momentary obduracy which had grown up in
her bosom from the sense of undeserved persecution. “What
ails thee, my Louise? art indeed ill at ease? for, if so, we will
send back instantly to Vitry for a physician; or is it only that
thou art fatigued, and perhaps vexed, and a little pettish?”
“No! father—dear father,” she exclaimed, restraining her fast-falling
tears by a mighty effort; “it is not altogether that I am
sick, though my head does ache, and I am very tired; nor am I in
the least pettish. But oh! my father, you know not, nor can you
fancy, what your poor Louise daily suffers. Oh! I have held my
peace and curbed my tears, and seemed to smile when misery was
gnawing at my heart strings; and all, that I might not disturb thy
peace—but it must out! it must out now, or my reason will give
way, and I shall go mad; now God forgive me! but I sometimes
almost wish I were mad now! I have been foolish, perhaps—
very foolish in giving up my love to young Monsieur de Bellechassaigne;
but I perchance had never done so, but that you suffered
us to meet so often, and seemed to smile upon us, before your
marriage—and when I knew you and my mother disapproved, I
promised that without your consent I never would hold intercourse
for I must speak out—that you may know how sorely I am
tempted. For the past year or more, Madame la Marquise has
never ceased to urge me—to employ every means of hard and bitter
persecution—so to compel me to receive the loathsome and abhorred
addresses of this Due de Noirmoutier, who has but now arrived.
I know not if it be your will that I should wed him.
She tells me that it is so; but be it so, or not, I cannot—no! I cannot,
though death itself, or, what were yet more terrible than death,
your curse were the alternative. If it be so—pity, oh pity, father;
pity and pardon your poor child, whom you once loved so dearly;
pardon her for the sake of her who”—
“Cease! cease, my child!” cried the old man in a thick husky
voice, raising her from her knees, upon which she had fallen during
her vehement and eager pleading; “cease, dear Louise, to
plead against a phantom; I never heard of this; I never dreamed
of it, believe me! Even if you were willing, I should have been
averse to such a marriage; and now I pledge you, my dear girl,
my word of honor that you shall not be persecuted on this score
at all. I will take order with that straightway. Moreover, a
voice negative I think I have a right to exercise in such a matter;
but, though I differ from most parents herein, and from many far
wiser than myself, I do not judge it good to force a girl to wed
against her inclination; however, should you be persecuted any
more, I will put once for all a stop to it, and give you myself to
Bellechassaigne. But now you must allow Janette to alter your
dress somewhat, and then come down with me to supper. Nay,
make no answer now—for it is better that you should meet this
precious youth at once, and so set matters where they should be.
I will go now and say a few things to Madame, your mother!”
“Stay, father, stay one moment,” answered Louise, “for I cannot,
when you are so kind to me, in any wise deceive you; or
hide anything that you should know. I have received a note
from Monsieur de Bellechassaigne, since we have been here at this
inn—”
“Nay, my girl, that was wrong—I am displeased at that; such
compacts are unmaidenly, unfeminine; in all respects wrong, and
disgraceful!”
“But, father, my dear father,” interposed Louise, “there was
no compact in the case; nor did I know one word about it, until
it came, till I had opened it. I did not, I assure you, father,” she
added, speaking very eagerly and quickly, “or surely, after my
promise to you, I would not have received it. I have not answered
it, nor will I—although I could have done so when he
passed”—
“Passed! who passed?” asked her father, suddenly pausing
with the open note in his hand for her answer.
“Why, Monsieur de Bellechassaigne surely,” she replied—
“Did you not see him with the soldiers that rode by just as the
night was falling? I thought you sent a servant after him!”
“Ha! was that he? I marked him not,” he added, casting his
eyes rapidly over the young man's letter. “Well, well!” he
said, when he had finished reading the epistle—“we will think
more of this hereafter. He ought not—he ought not, however,
to have so much as hinted at a clandestine marriage; such unions,
my Louise, can be in no case honorable to the female; and what
is more, believe me, they are but very rarely happy. So, that
was he, who rode as the commander of those horsemen! I would
give no small sum to know the meaning of that movement. Francois,
too, whom I sent to bring me word, returns not! Well, I
suppose we shall soon learn the reason. Now, then, I will go
speak with the Marquise; and in the mean time, I will pray you
make yourself ready to come down, when I return to fetch you.”
“Oh, yes! dear father,” she exclaimed, “depend on it, I will
be ready. Janette, Janette—come hither girl—come hither girl,
and help me.”
And as the soubrette entered, she observed instantly that the
whole air and character of the fair girl's expression was completely
altered; and that a cheerful and gay smile had effaced the
blank aspect of despondency, nay almost of despair, which had
lowered so oppressively over her bright and glowing features.
Meantime the Marquis had descended to the little parlor, where
the newcomers with his lady-wife, were seated near the hearth,
engaged in lively conversation, while several servants were busily
engaged in setting the various dishes of the long-delayed supper
on the neatly furnished board. After a few words addressed
to the company in general, the noble old man bowing profoundly
to his guests, entreated their pardon for asking leave to lead Madame
la Marquise into the next apartment, having a few words to
arose upon the instant, and would have left the parlor, but the
Marquis objected with an air so determined, that without rudeness
they could not persevere; and then, assuring them that he would
not be absent many minutes, retired with his imperious lady, who
seemed to be in no small degree annoyed by the occurrence; leaving
the Duc de Noirmoutier not without something of an indistinct
and vague idea that he was in some sort connected with this
secret interview. What passed, however, between the Marquis
and his lady, was left for the moment altogether in the dark; for
though they were only in the next room, and though the partition
was so thin that they who remained in the parlor, could hear distinctly
the raised tones of the lady's voice, it still was too thick
to permit of their distinguishing words or phrases; and, to encrease
the difficulty, the abbe began to talk very rapidly, in a full
sonorous voice, the moment the first notes of the private conversation
reached his ears, as if it had been for the very purpose of
hindering his younger and far less scrupulous companion from
hearing what might chance to be in progress. This did not last,
however, very long, for in a few minutes the Marquis and the
lady returned to the room—the latter looking very much discomposed,
and even angry; and sailing straight across the little parlor
to the young duke, whom she drew aside into the deep embrasure
of one of the windows, holding him there in deep and earnest
conversation, while her husband again withdrew for a moment in
search of his daughter: and in a little while introduced her
blooming with all the loveliness of hope-renewed, and of a heart
far lighter than she had experienced for many a month before.
As Louise entered, the Duc de Noirmoutier advanced to meet
her with a singularly disagreeable smile playing upon his thick
lips and pallid features, and he extended his hand as if to take
hers; but she, not seeming to notice the movement, dropped him a
deep and very formal courtesy, without the slightest change of air
or expression, and leaning still upon her father's arm, moved
round the small apartment and received the greetings of the venerable
churchman, near whom she took her seat, with evident and
real pleasure. The young man followed close behind her, as if
he had not marked the very palpable rebuff with which she had
met his overtures; and continued to press upon her his attentions,
with something, it is true, of the air of one who has a right to
time, there was nothing positively objectionable in his manner,
nor anything that could be taken hold of as forward or presuming.
The tact, however, with which that beautiful young girl
met and frustrated his half-patronizing, half-pretending courtesy,
was perfect; and it indeed seemed almost wonderful, that one so
young, so innocent, and, as one would have thought, so inexperienced
should possess all the decided calmness and easy nonchalance
of manner, which were, perhaps, the only things in the
world that could have effectually put down the youthful Duke's
presumption. She answered, it is true, to all his light and flowing
compliments, but with an air so cool and unembarrassed, that
it was evident that she regarded them as matters of mere every
day civility; she never smiled at one of the gay and somewhat
flippant jests with which he seasoned his discourse; and though
she did him the civility of turning her head round when he addressed
her, as he sat on her left-hand side a little way behind
her, yet whenever he ceased speaking, she answered as briefly as
possible, often in monosyllables, and then turned back quite unconcerned
to resume her conversation with the abbe. Bold though
he was, and well schooled, hardened I might say in the world of
fashion, confident, proud and haughty, it could not yet fail to be
noticed that the Duke was considerably annoyed, if not positively
embarrassed by her indifference, and it was a relief to him, as
well as to Louise, when the last dish was set upon the table and
it was announced that the supper was all served. Then, as in
duty bound, Noirmoutier handed the Marchioness to her seat, and
placed himself beside her, while Louise taking the proffered hand
of the churchman, was seated on the opposite side of the table.
The meats were excellent, the cooking unexceptionable, the
wines such as could not have been excelled in the metropolis—
still there was little mirth and much constraint in the party which
was assembled to partake those dainties. The second course was,
however, scarcely set upon the table, before an interruption took
place which brought all the group, ladies and gentlemen alike, to
their feet in an instant. It was the distant sound—distant indeed,
but not so much so as to be mistaken for aught else—of a carbine
shot, followed immediately by the reports of another and another;
then a quick scattering discharge, and then a regular platoon.
Immediately upon this the loud and clanging gallop of a horse at
ceased as the animal was pulled up at the door of the inn; and
was succeeded instantly by the clatter of a horseman's heavy
boots approaching the door of the parlor. The hands of the gentlemen
fell, as it were, instinctively to the hilts of their rapiers, as
they threw themselves between the ladies and the entrance; but
their defensive attitude relaxed as the door opened, and the figure
of the servant whom St. Eloy had dispatched so long before to
seek for tidings of the troops, presented itself at the aperture.
“Well! Francois, well?” exclaimed the Marquis, “what now;
what is the matter—and why have you been so long?”
“Oh! my lord,” answered the man, “I have made all the haste
I could, but the soldiers had got so far the start of me, and rode
so hard, that I did not overtake them till they were near the crossroads
that lead to Bar le Due and Ligny; and just as I came up
with them, a body of the Prince's cravattes came pouring down
the former road, and charged the horse-harquebusiers, and they
were at it in a moment; and it was not till a long time had passed,
and the King's troops had driven back the Prince's men, that I
could get speech of the leader, Monsieur de Bellechassaigne.
And just then reinforcements came up, and a fresh skirmish took
place, and the royalists have had to retreat, fighting every half
mile, till they are now in the village just beyond the hill, which
they are hard set to defend, seeing that the prince is pushing on
his infantry, but Monsieur de Bellechassaigne bade me say that
you need not be frightened, for he could hold the village till daylight
to-morrow—and he said likewise, he hoped you would not
think of moving hence to-night, unless your horses were quite
fresh—for he had reason to believe some bodies of the enemy's
cavalry had moved on his left flank, and were even now between
us and the marechal's head-quarters, which were advanced as it
appears, to Somnesous last evening, and will be at Vitry by noon
to-morrow!”
“Peste!” said the Marquis, drawing a deep breath, as the man
finished speaking—“this is indeed bad news—we are it seems
in the very midst of it; and I suppose, to make things pleasanter
yet, we shall have a general action here to-morrow or the next
day, and no means have we, that I can see or think of, by which
to get to the rear. Hey, Duke? I do not see what we can do but
take the advice of the King's officer.”
“Nor I, pardieu,” replied the Duke, “though I, for one, would
not if I could help it—but not a horse of mine could have budged
a mile farther when I came here, and now that they have got stiff
and cold, it would be madness to attempt it.”
“Well, then we must make the best of it—if it come to the
worst, we have between us at least twenty men, well armed and
resolute, and we can surely make the house good until some officer
comes up from whom we may obtain protection. Now ladies
dear, will it so please you to withdraw to your chambers,” he
continued, “and leave the Duke and me to set about some preparations
for defence.”
As pale as death, but perfectly composed and quiet, Louise rose
from her chair, and courtesying deeply to the party, was led by
the abbe, uttering every word of consolation and encouragement
that he could think of, to the door of the apartment, where he was
joined by the Marquise, who was much more visibly alarmed
than her fair daughter-in-law, and who lacked the calm resolution
which enabled her to bridle or at the least conceal her feminine
apprehensions. The young Duke followed them into the
passage, quite up to the stair foot, while the Marquis was talking
eagerly to the landlord of the inn; and to her great surprise, just
as they parted, Louise beheld her mother-in law turn round and
grasp him by the arm, whispering as she did so, many words in
his ear, of which she only caught this sentence—
“Be sure that this is your time, and if you do not help yourself,
you have none but yourself to blame for it!”
The Duke raised her hand to his lips, and bowing over it with
an air of half derisive respect, made answer—
“I am sure of it—I am sure of it, dear lady—fear nothing,
then, but betake yourself to sleep as quietly as may be!” and
with the words he turned away, and joined the Marquis and the
abbe, who were taking all the steps necessary for barricading the
doors and windows of the inn, and maintaining a fit watch and
ward during the hours of darkness. A couple of sentinels had
been already posted at brief intervals toward the village, both
within hearing of the door, which was open, although guarded so
that it might be securely fastened at a moment's notice. Meantime
the firing which had been heard at intervals during the whole
time that had elapsed since the first shot, began to slacken—the
scattering discharges, which probably proceeded from the skirmishers
heavy platoon firing of the horse-harquebusiers, and the whole
uproar sinking at last into absolute silence.
By this time the broad summer moon had risen high above the
tree-tops, and was pouring down over all the face of the country
a mellow lustre, that, if it was not so bright as the garish beams
of day, rendered all objects perfectly distinct and clear for nearly
half a mile's distance.
It was now nearly midnight, and the Marquis was beginning
to talk of letting the men lie down to sleep upon their arms, and
retiring himself to get some rest, when the sounds of horses coming
down from the village reached his ears, and immediately afterward
the challenge of their sentinels. The answer seemed, however,
to be satisfactory; for the riders, five in number, came dashing
up to the door of the inn—a subaltern and four lancers of the
guard. The officer leaped to the ground as he saw the gentlemen
who stood in the door-way, and touching the peak of his casque,
“The Marquis de St. Eloy, I have the honor of addressing?”
he said in a voice of inquiry; and, as the old man bowed his affirmative—“Well!
sir,” he went on, “I am to say to you, from
Monsieur de Bellechassaigne, that he has beaten off the enemy
completely; and has no fear that he shall be attacked again to-night.
He has found, also, two old field pieces in the place, and
mounted them, so that if they should press on again, he is quite
sure of holding the hill till such time as I can bring up reinforcements
from head-quarters. Meantime he begs you not to move,
for all that you need apprehend is some attack of a small out-party,
which may get round and assault the house in the rear,
from the hope of plunder, such as you can yourself beat back.
Monsieur de Turenne will be here in force by noon to-morrow,
and then you can send on a trooper to the Prince and get your
passport to move through his army; and now, good-night, Monsieur
le Marquis;” and with these words he sprang to his saddle,
and rode off, followed by his orderlies, as hard as his horse could
carry him.
“So then, Duke,” said St. Eloy, as the officer left them, “we
may just as well betake ourselves to bed; leaving these good fellows
to bestow themselves on those couches and settees with their
arms about them; and let them set a sentry at the door in the
rear, and relieve him regularly.”
“So be it, Marquis,” answered the other, “go you to bed at
once, and I will see to the rest;” and as the abbe with St. Eloy
lighted their candles from the lamp in the hall and retired up the
staircase to their chambers, he remained for several minutes in
conversation with his principal attendant, and then he likewise
withdrew, and for several hours all was still in the house and
silent. For the first hour or two one of the Marquis's men held
the watch; but just as the distant clock of the village struck two,
he roused one of the Duke's servitors, who took his place at the
door with shouldered carbine, while the other wrapping himself
closely in his mantle, stretched himself out on the parlor floor
among his slumbering fellows, and was soon buried like the rest
in deep and dreamless sleep.
Half an hour passed quietly, and by this time the regular and
heavy breathing of the last sentinel announced to his successor
that he was for the moment fast asleep; and now, setting his carbine
quietly down in the corner by the door, the man who was
upon the watch left his post and stole silently on tip-toe to the
door of the parlor, in which all the serving men of the marquis
were asleep together—his own companions occupying the hall
in which he was posted. With stealthy caution he now
closed the heavy oaken door upon the sleepers, locked it, and
dropped two ponderous bars across it, succeeding thus in making
them all prisoners without the slightest sound or cause of suspicion.
This done, he quietly aroused the duke's head valet, who
stole immediately up stairs, and in a little while came back, accompanied
by his master fully dressed, and armed with pistols in his
belt, and wearing a dark riding cloak cast over his gay clothing.
“Do the men understand, Le Fort?” whispered the duke; “it
would be utter ruin to have a mistake now!”
“Our men do, monseigneur, and for the rest, they are all
well secured, and can do no harm any way; but night is wearing
on, we must be speedy.”
“Be it so, then,” answered the duke, and with the word he
passed out silently from the door, which the sentinel had unbarred,
and crossed the yard to the stables, accompanied by his
valet; who speedily brought out two horses ready saddled, on
which he and his master mounted, and rode cautiously away,
keeping them entirely upon the greensward, which sent forth little
or no sound beneath the hoofs, up the deep gorge by the side of
Le Fort—are you quite sure,” said the duke, just as they turned
the angle which concealed them from the buildings, “that you
understood perfectly the spot to which the peasant boy alluded?”
“Oh! perfectly, monseigneur, perfectly. I know every inch
of the country hereabout, too; I was born within a mile of the
church there. I will stake my life on it, that we find them
within half an hour—there are three hundred of them, with your
good friend Monsieur de Loris.”
“Put to your spurs, then,” said the duke, and in another
moment they were lost to sight among the scattered trees that
clothed the dell, sweeping down from the outskirts of the forest.
It wanted, perhaps, an hour of the earliest dawn, the moon
had set long since, and all the world was buried in the deepest
gloom, when a large body of armed men, not less than two hundred
in number, filed down the gorge by which Noirmoutier and his
servant had departed; and silently deploying into line, surrounded
the whole courtyard and rear of the village inn with a cordon of
musketeers; this had been scarcely done, when the leader of the
party, a tall, soldier-like man, wearing the red scarf of Burgundy,
rode down the valley, accompanied by two or three other officers,
and the French duke. These, when they reached the sentinels,
dismounted likewise; and, giving their horses to men, walked
straight up to the back door, accompanied by thirty or forty musketeers,
with their matches lighted, and their guns in readiness
for instant service. The door was opened for them instantly
by the sentinel on duty, and the whole party entered, the Burgundian
officer leading, with his sword drawn in his hand, and
calling aloud as he crossed the threshold, “Surrender, all of you,
surrender! Down with your arms! quarter to all who yield—
death to those who resist!”
The servants of the Duc de Noirmoutier, who had sprung to
their feet at the noisy summons with their weapons ready—for
none were in the secret of their master's treason except the sentinel
and his own valet—seeing their master, as they imagined, in
the hands of the enemy, and themselves quite outnumbered,
threw down their arms at once, and were led out as prisoners into
the court-yard.
The Marquis of St. Eloy's men, however, who had been locked
nto the parlor, made several desperate efforts to break out; and
pieces, and then finding that the door was barred from without,
wrenched it off the hinges, and pulled it down bodily into the middle
of the room. This done, in spite of the reiterated threats of
the enemy to pour in their fire, which, however, they in truth
dared not do, lest they should alarm the troops of Bellechassaigne,
these gallant fellows threw in a close volley from their
carbines, bringing down three or four of the assailants, and filling
the whole hall with smoke and gunpowder. Lucky it was
for them that, while the enemy were clearly designated for their
aim by the bright light of the lamps under which they stood, they
were themselves in utter darkness, so that the answering volley,
which the musketeers now poured in, despite their orders, had no
effect whatever, not even wounding one of their number.
By this time, the marquis, startled from his sleep by the loud
summons, had seized his arms, and hurried down the stairs, sword
in hand, after searching in vain for the duke in his chamber. His
quick and practised eye perceived at once the hopelessness of reance,
and discovered the means by which the surprise had been
effected; he walked, therefore, directly up to the Burgundian officer,
and tendered him his sword, saying, “I am your prisoner, sir,
if you make war on non-combatants and peaceful travellers. I
see that I have the honor of addressing myself to a gentleman, so
that I scarce need ask that the ladies may be courteously entreated!
For this low traitor,” he added, shaking his hand at the duke, “I
will know how to deal with him hereafter!”
“Nay, nay, my excellent friend,” replied Noirmoutier, “this
is a little hard, seeing that I too am a prisoner!”
“A prisoner! tush! sir, tush! do you think to fool a man who
had bled twenty times for his king, ere you were in your cradle?
Be silent, lest I pluck you by the beard, and shame my manhood
by laying hands at one time on a cripple and a coward! And
you, sirs, he continued, turning toward the parlor in which his
servants were ensconced, “lay down your arms; come out and
yield you prisoners.”
His orders were immediately obeyed; but he saw instantly that
two of his men were missing, and within a moment a loud shout
from the mnsketeers without announced that they had escaped by
the window, and two or three muskets shots were fired at them,
as they ran up the hill toward toward Bellechassaigne's quarters, until
his men to cease firing.
“And now, sir,” said the Burgundian officer, “my name is De
Loris, and I will promise you on the word of a gentleman and
soldier, good treatment and all honorable courtesy; but I regret to
add that I must hold you prisoners, and remove you from this
place straightway to head quarters. The duke's coach here shall
be made ready for the ladies, and this venerable churchman,” he
added as the abbe descended the stains “The gentlemen and servants
must ride, or go with us on foot, and we must he gone, too,
within half an hour at farthest.”
“I pray you, sir,” the marquis interposed, “suffer at least my
own carriage to be made ready; it is here close at hand; my men
will make it ready in five minutes.”
“It cannot be—it cannot be,” returned the officer, “we have not
time to attend to scrupulous whims like these. Monsier le Duc's
was made ready before we entered, and pardieu, we have not a
second to lose. Now, sir, will you bring down these ladies? or
shall I send an orderly to fetch them?”
“Be sure, Monsieur de Loris,” answered the old man as he
turned to go seek the ladies, “Be sure I will live to repay this
courtesy!”
“Cousin,” exclaimed the abbe, turning to the young duke,
“cousin of Noirmoutier, if you have done this thing, you are not
only a disgrace to our name and race, but to the very land you
live in. Out on it! out on it! a traitor and a liar!”
“Psha! cousin abbe,” answered the young man with his soft
sneering smile. “Psha! cousin, I doubt not in the least that you
will lend your aid to-morrow to tie the knot between me and this
coy young lady!”
“Never, sir, never—” he began to answer, when he was interrupted
by the clear calm voice of Louise, who was just beginning
to descend the stairs, leaning upon her father's arm, when
she caught the words “Never!” she cried, clear as a silver trumpet,
“Never—I will die sooner!”
“Come, come! no more of this,” continued De Loris, “bring
up the carriage there; fall in, fall in, front and rear! look to the
prisoners!” and already the heavy vehicle came lumbering up,
with many a creak and groan, when the sharp clatter of many
of spurs and harness.
A loud shout and a scattering volley followed, and then a clear
high voice, “Charge, gentlemen of France! Down with the
dogs!” the shrill notes of a bugle pealed close at hand, and then
the tramp of hoofs, the clash of blades, the war cry and the
death groan were tumultuously and awfully mingled. The mnsketeers
who were within the building rushed out at once with De
Loris at their head, but it was all too late, they were outnumbered,
and in an instant were driven back into the hall, before the
headlong rush of Bellechassaigne and his dismounted troopers.
“Down with your arms!” he cried, “it is no use to contend
longer! I have two hundred men at the door, and your command,
Monsieur de Loris, is cut to ribbons; thirty are prisoners, the rest
slain outright or wounded; besides which,” he continued, as a
loud flourish of cavalry trumpets came down the wind from the
direction of Vitry, “there comes De Flamarin with all the royal
horse. Are you my prisoner, sir?”
“I have no choice,” replied De Loris, “and it is no disgrace—”
he would have gone on, as he gave up his sword to the young
royalist, but as he spoke the word, Bellechassaigne interrupted,
“No, sir, as you say, it is no disgrace to fail in such attempts as
this—the dishonor is to have made them!”
“Do you dare, sir, insinuate—” exclaimed De Loris furiously,
when again Bellechassaigne cut him short.
“At present, sir, you will do well to remember that you are a
prisoner, and that as such my hands are tied toward you. When
you shall be at liberty, if you should be disposed to take exception
at my words, I will not balk you. Orderly officer, remove
your prisoners!”
“Am I one of the number, Monsieur de Bellechassaigne,” cried
the Duke of Noirmoutier.
“No, sir,” returned the other, shortly, “for I have no commission
to apprehend cheats or swindlers; it is his majesty's police
who deal with gentry of that order, not the life guards of France!”
“And do you mean, sir, to apply those terms to me?” asked
De Noirmoutier.
“Yes, duke,” returned the other, “and I shall add some other
terms that probably will please you little better if you remain here
troubling me much longer.”
“You shall hear from me farther, sir, to-morrow,” replied the
duke, moving with a very bad grace to his coach which was
still standing near the door, with his servants clustered round it.
“Come, abbe, this scene is growing tedious. Are you not
coming?”
“I doubt that very much,” answered Bellechassaigne to the
first part of his speech. “Men who will stoop to do such things
as you have done to-night, have very rarely spirit to resent the
calling of those deeds by their right names. I shall be glad, however,
to find myself mistaken, and to discover that you at least possess
courage!”
“No, sir,” the abbe answered, sternly, “no, sir, I am not coming,
and never dare you to address me any more. And you, Monsieur
de Bellechassaigne, will do extremely wrong if you give him
the meeting; but I talk foolishly, for he will never ask it. Psha!
he has no more courage than he has honesty or honor!”
But the subject of his indignation tarried not to hear his remarks,
for he had already entered his state coach, and, his men
springing to their saddles hastily, had driven off as fast as he
could go toward Bar le Due and the Prince of Conde's outposts.
“And now, Monsieur le Marquis,” said Bellechassaigne, “I
ought to crave your and your lady's pardon for thus intruding on
your presence all blood and gunpowder, with these wild troopers;
but I must trust my motives to defend me. I was aroused by
the shots I heard, and was getting under arms, when your men,
who escaped, came up and told me what was going on. Thank
God! I was in time to save you from these gentry of the prince's.
And now let me assure you, you are quite in security. Monsieur
de Flamarin is close at hand with a thousand horse or better; and
the marechal will be here before noon. I wish you, therefore,
good repose, which you must need, I am sure, after this night
of tumult and disturbance. I will leave one troop in the out-buildings
here, for your protection. In the mean time I must
send off the prisoners to my quarters, and—but upon my honor
here comes de Flamarin—I must begone, farewell—”
And he was hurrying already from the room, when the marquis
cried out, “Hold! hold for a moment, I beseech you;
there have been many mistakes, I perceive, between us, but I
have ever deemed you a gentleman and cavalier of honor. I owe
owe you now my life, or liberty at least; and what is more, my
any more misapprehension, and to express to you the greatness
of my gratitude, I can, I fancy, do nothing better for both parties
than to give you this—” and with the words he placed the slender
fingers of Louise in the hand of her bold lover “We will,” he
added, “send for a notary to Vitry, to draw the contract up to-morrow.
I doubt not the marechal himself will be one of the
witnesses, and our good abbe here will see to the solemnities.
And now, good night, and never, I hope, may we have reason to
regret our meeting here in this village inn.”
| The village inn, or, The adventure of Bellechassaigne | |