 | The chevaliers of France |  |
3. PART III.
I would not be the villain that thou thinkest,
For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp,
And the rich east to boot.
—Macheth, Act IV., Seene 3.
The sun was setting after a lovely day in August, and his
rays still gilded the broad mirror of the Seine, and the rich
scenery of Paris — palaces, towers, and domes, with crowded
streets, and shadowy groves between — reposing in the mellow
light, while the heat, which had been so oppressive in the
earlier hours, was now tempered by a soft breeze from the
west. Tranquil, however, as that picture showed when viewed
from a distance, there was little of tranquillity in aught beyond
the view; the bells from a hundred steeples were ringing out
their liveliest tones of joy, banners and pennons of many colors
flaunted from every pinnacle, while ever and anon the
heavy roar of cannon was mingled with the acclamations of
the countless multitude. Every window was thronged with
joyous faces, every place and thoroughfare swarmed with the
collected population of that mighty city, all, as it seemed, partaking
of one common happiness, and glowing with mutual benevolence.
Here swept along a procession of capuchins in
their snowy robes, with pix and chalice, banner and crucifix,
censers steaming with perfumes, and manly voices swelling in
religious symphony; here some proud count of Romish faith,
descended from his warhorse, and bent his lofty crest to the
very dust in adoration of the elevated host; and here some no
exciting either wonder, as it would appear, or anger by his inattention
to the holiest ceremonial of the church. Ministrels
and jongleurs with rote and viol, professors of the gai science in
every different tongue, and with almost every instrument, were
mingled with peasant-maidens in their variegated garbs and
wooden shoes, and condottieri sheathed in steel. Fair dames
and gallant knights of high descent jostled, forgetful of their
proud distinctions, with the despised plebeians whose hearts
yet beat as lightly beneath their humble garments, as if they
throbbed under robes of ermine, and embroideries of gold. At
this delicious hour, and contemplating this moving picture, two
persons stood, shrouded from public view by the rich draperies
of the window, in a projecting oriel of the royal residence — a
youth, whose unmuscular limbs and beardless cheek proclaimed
his tender years, although the deep lines graven on
his brow by intense thought, or trenched by the fiery ploughshare
of unmastered passions, belonged to a maturer age. His
cloak and jerkin of Genoa velvet slashed and faced with satin,
and fringed with the most costly lace of Flanders, were of
the deepest sable, from which flashed forth in strong relief
his knightly belt and collar of invaluable diamonds. In person,
air, and garb, he was one, from whom the stranger's eye would
turn in aversion, and return again to gaze, as if by some wild
fascination, upon that sallow countenance and hollow eye,
marked as they were by feelings most high and most unholy.
Beside him stood a female of superb stature, and a form still
as symmetrical as though her eighteenth summer had not yet
passed away. There was a fierce and lionlike beauty in her
masculine features, but that beauty was defaced and rendered
horrible by the dreadful expression, which glared from her
eyes, as though some demon were looking forth from the abode
he had usurped within a mortal frame, of more than mortal
whom she leaned, of the deepest mourning, but gathered round
her waist by a broad cincture of brilliants, from which a massive
rosary of gold and gems hung nearly to the knee; her
long tresses, which, though sprinkled now with many a silvery
hair, might once have shamed the raven, were braided closely
round her forehead and partially confined beneath a circlet of
the same precious jewels. They were, in truth, a pair preeminently
stamped by Nature's hand, and marked out, as it
were, from the remainder of their species, for the performance
of some strange destiny, or good or evil. Had Catharine de
Medicis and her royal son been enveloped in the meanest
weeds, stripped of all ensigns of their dignity, and encountered
in regions most distant from their empire, they must have instantly
been recognised as persons born to exalted eminence
above their fellow-mortals, and singularly qualified by talents,
no less powerful than perverted, for the art of government. A
single gentleman, in royal liveries, attended in an antechamber
on his sovereign's call, while in a gallery beyond the nodding
plumes and gorgeous armor of the Italian mercenaries, who at
that period were in truth the flower of all continental armies,
showed that the privacy of monarchs, if splendid, was but insecure,
inasmuch as their power was enthroned upon the fears
rather than upon the affections of their subjects. For many
moments they gazed in silence on the passing throng, but it
was evident from the working of both their countenances, that
their survey had for its object anything, rather than the mere
gratification of curiosity. At length — as a noble-looking warrior,
his venerable locks already blanched to snowy whiteness,
before his nervous limbs had given a solitary token of decay,
rode slowly past, attended by a brilliant train, in confident security
— a scornful smile curled the dark features of the boy
with even more than wonted malignity. “The simple fool!”
through the courts of our palace, as though he marshalled his
accursed heretics within his guarded leaguer!”
“Patience! my son,” returned that fiendlike parent — “patience,
yet for a while. A few days more and the admiral
shall cumber the earth no longer. The sword is already
whetted for his carcase, and would to Heaven that all our foes
were tottering on the edge of the same gulf, which is prepared
for thee, Gaspar de Coligni.”
“I would it were over,” answered Charles; “there is more
of subtlety and warlike skill in that gray head, than in a
hundred Condes. The day approaches — the day that must
dawn upon the brightest triumph of the church; and yet so
long as that man lives, nothing is certain. One doubt in that
shrewd mind, and all is lost. He must be dealt upon right
shortly — I would it might be done to-morrow!”
He raised his eyes half-doubtingly to the countenance of his
mother, and almost started at the illumination of triumphant vengeance,
which kindled in her withering smile — “To-morrow
he shall perish!” she hissed, in the suppressed tones of deadly
hatred and unalterable resolution — “What, ho! who waits
there?” she continued, as her quick eye caught a glimpse of a
passing figure in the crowd — To-morrow he shall perish, and
there stands the man who must perform the deed! God's
head! must I call twice! without there!” and in the furious
anxiety of the moment, she stamped her heel upon the tesselated
floor till the very casements shook. Startled by her vehemence,
the page drew near on bended knee, and was faltering
forth apologies, when with a voice of thunder she cut him
short — “Nearer! thou dolt — nearer I say — wilt pause till
'tis too late! Look forth here! seest thou yon tall swordsman!
— him with the velvet bonnet and St. Andrew's cross?
— Thou dost? — After him with the speed of light! — say to
him to his majesty's apartment, so soon as night shall have
well fallen! — Hence, begone! — Cover thy liveries with a
simple riding-cloak, and away! — Why dost thou pause? Begone
— nay, hold! if he should doubt, or fear, say to him as a
token, `The sword is the most certain spur!' ”
The man, whose form had thus attracted the notice of Catharine,
might well have drawn attention by his magnificent proportions
alone, even had his habit been less at variance, than
it was, with the established fashion of the country. A plain
bonnet of dark velvet, with the silver cross of Scotland, and a
single eagle's feather, drawn forward almost to his eyebrows,
a corslet of steel, burnished till it shone as brightly as silver,
worn above a dress of chamois-leather exquisitely dressed,
and fitting with unusual closeness to his limbs, offered a singular
contrast, from its plainness and total want of ornament,
to the gorgeous garments of the French cavaliers fluttering
with fringes, and slashed with a dozen different colors, besides
the laces and embroidery of gold or silver, which were, at
that period, the prevailing order of the day. Still more widely
did the old-fashioned broadsword of the stranger, with its
blade four feet in length, and its two-handed gripe, differ from
the diamond-hilted rapiers of the Parisian gallants; — and most
of all did the stern and melancholy air of the noble Scot — for
such did his bearing and his dress proclaim him — distinguish
him from the joyous, and, at times, frivolous mirth of the gay
youths, who crossed his path at every step. Nor did his appearance
fail to attract comments, not of the most flattering description,
from the French chivalry, who, renowned as they most
justly were, for skill in the tilt-yard, and valor in the field, had,
even at distant era, acquired the character of coxcombry and
over-attention to externals, which is by some supposed to have
descended to the present generation. It is probable that it was
port of the soldier, that these comments did not assume a more
offensive shape; yet, even thus, they had nearly kindled the
ire of the formidable individual to whom they bore reference.
— “Heavens! what a wild barbarian!” lisped a fair girl to
the splendidly-dressed cavalier on whom she leaned. “A
Scottish highlander, I fancy,” returned the gallant, after a contemptuous
glance, “with his broadsword of the twelfth century,
and his foreign gait and swagger.” The blood rushed furiously
into the weather-beaten cheeks of the proud foreigner, and for a
second he doubted whether he should not hurl defiance into
the teeth of the audacious jester, but, with the reflection of a
moment, his better sense prevailed. Twirling his mustache
with a grim and scornful smile, he passed upon his way,
shouldering the press before him, as he muttered, “The painted
popinjays, they neither know the weapons of men, nor the
courtesy of cavaliers!” It was at this moment that the emissary
of the queen, who had easily tracked a figure so remarkable
as his of whom he was in quest, overtook and brushed
him somewhat roughly on the elbow as he passed. “Follow,”
he said; “follow me, if you have the heart of a man.” When
first he had felt the touch, yet boiling with indignation at the
treatment he had experienced, he had half unsheathed his
poniard; but having received, as he imagined in the words
which followed, an invitation to a proper spot for appealing to
the sword, he strode onward in the wake of his challenger,
silent and determined. A few steps brought them to a narrow
alley, into which his guide plunged, turning his head to mark
whether he was followed as he wished; and, after threading one
or two intricate and unfrequented streets, they turned into the
royal gardens, which, now so famous, even then were decorated
with no common skill. “This spot, at length, will suit us,” said
the Frenchman. “Monsieur is, undoubtedly, a man of honor?”
Scot, “before you dared to offer me an insult. Draw, sir, we
are here to fight, and not to parley!”
“Not so, beau sire,” returned the other, not a little annoyed
as it would seem, at the unexpected turn which the affair had
taken; “I am the bearer of a message to you — a message from
a lady, not a cartel!”
“Now out upon thee for a pitiful pandar,” said the Scot,
with increased ire; “dost thou take me for a boy to be
cheated with such toys as these? Out with your weapon, before
I compel you to it by the hard word, and the harder
blow!”
“May all the saints forefend!” replied the frightened courtier;
“your valor, my fair sir, has flown away with your discretion.
I come to you a peaceful bearer of a friendly invitation,
and you will speak of naught but words. A lady of the
high nobility would speak with you on matters of high import,
would charge you with the execution of a perilous and honorable
trust; if you will undertake it, meet me here at ten
o'clock to night, and I will lead you to the rendezvous; if not,
I will return to those who sent me, and report the Scottish
cavalier as wanting in that high valor of which men speak,
when they repeat his name!”
“It is a wild request,” answered the other, after a short
pause. “How know I but that you train me to some decoy?
I have foes enough to make it like, I trow. What if I bring a
partner?”
“It is impossible; alone you must undertake the feat, or
undertake it not at all. But hold, I had a token for your
ear — `The sword is the most certain spur' — know you the
phrase?”
“As arguing myself, known; but whether by a friend, or by
a foe, your phrase says nothing. Nay, be it as it may, I have
At ten o'clock, I will be at the tryst. Till then —”
“Adieu,” returned the other, and vanished among the shrubbery
before the Scot could have prevented him, if he had been
so minded. But such was not his intention; his mind had
been gratified by the singularity, no less than surprised by the
boldness of the request. Naturally brave almost to rashness,
banished from his native land for political causes, and without
the means of providing for his wants, much less of supporting
the appearances demanded by his rank, he eagerly looked forward
to any opportunity of raising himself to distinction, perhaps,
even to affluence in his adopted country; and, with his
thoughts in such a channel as this, it was not probable that a
trivial or imaginary danger should deter him from an enterprise
in which much might be gained; while, on the contrary,
nothing could be lost, but that which he had long ceased to
value at an extravagant price, an unhappy life. The last stroke
of the appointed hour was still ringing in the air, when the
tall soldier stood alone at the trysting place; his dress was in
nowise altered, save by the addition of a large cloak of dark
materials, worn evidently for concealment, rather than for
warmth; but, fearless as he was, he yet had taken the precaution
of furnishing his belt with a pair of smaller pistols then recently
introduced. Not long did he remain alone, for scarcely
had he reached the spot where his mysterious guide had left
him, ere he again joined him from the self-same shrubbery
wherein he had then disappeared. Without a moment's delay,
the messenger led him forward, with a whispered caution to
say nothing, whosoever he might see; after a few minutes
walking, he reached a portal in a high and richly ornamented
wall, and knocked lightly on the door, which was instantly unlatched
by a sentinel whom, at first sight, the Scotsman knew
for one of the chosen guards who waited round the person of
harquebus, with its match kindled, on his arm, it would have
been impossible to pass the guard without a struggle, which
must have alarmed a body of his comrades who lay wrapped
in their long mantles on the pavement, or played at games of
chance by the pale glimmer of a single lamp; a ring, as it appeared
to the silent but watchful Scot, was exhibited, and the
mercenary threw his weapon forward in a low salute, and motioned
them in silence to proceed. In the deepest gloom they
passed through court and corridor; uninterrupted by the numerous
sentinels whom they encountered, ascended winding
staircases; and, without meeting a single usher or attendant
in apartments of almost oriental splendor, paused at a tapestried
door, which opened from the wall of a long gallery so secretly
that it must have escaped the eye of the most keen observer.
Here again the courtier touched, rather than struck, the panel
thrice at measured intervals, and a female voice of singular and
imperious depth, commanded them to enter. The brilliant
glare of light which filled the small apartment had well-nigh
dazzled the bewildered stranger; yet there was enough in the
commanding mien of Catharine, and the youthful king who
sat beside her, although no royal pomp was there, to tell him
that he was in the presence of the mightiest, the most dreaded
sovereigns of Europe; dropping his mantle and his bonnet to
the floor, he bent his knee, and, instantly recovering his erect
carriage, stood reverent but unabashed. Tempering her stern
features with a smile of wonderful sweetness, and assuming
an air of easy condescension, which not her niece — the lovely
Mary of Scotland — could have worn with more becoming
grace, the queen addressed him: —
“We have summoned to our presence, if we err not, one of
the truest and most faithful servants of our well-beloved niece
of Scotland. Although the queen of France has not yet recognised
unacquainted with the merits of the sieur Hamilton.”
Another inclination, and the color which mounted to his
very brow at this most flattering, though private testimony,
testified his respect and gratitude; yet as the speech of Catharine
needed no reply, though inwardly marvelling to what all
this might tend, the knight of Bothwelhaugh, for he it was who
stood in that high presence, saw no cause for breaking silence.
“Speak, sir,” pursued the queen; “have we been misinformed,
or do we see before us the most unswerving, and the
latest follower of the injured Mary?”
“So please your grace,” was Hamilton's reply; “so long as
sword was drawn, or charger spurred in my unhappy mistress'
cause, so long was I in the field! but how I can lay claim to
praise as being the last, or truest of her followers, I know not.
Hundreds fell at the red field of Langside, as brave and better
warriors than I; scores have since sealed their faith in blood
upon the scaffold, and thousands of true hearts yet beat in
Scotland; more faithful never thrilled to the trumpet's sound;
thousands that followed her, and fought for her, that watched,
and fasted, and bled for her.”
“But that failed to avenge her,” interrupted Catharine; and
for years afterward did those words ring in the soldier's ears
with unforgotten fearfulness; for never had he deemed such
fiendish sounds of exultation could proceed from human lips,
much less from woman's. “Art not thou the slayer of the
base-born slave, that was the master-spirit of her enemies?
Art not thou he whose name shall go down to posterity with
those of David, and of Jael, and of Judith, and of all those who
have smitten the persecutors of the church of God? Art thou
not he whom princes shall delight to honor, whom the Holy
Father of our faith himself hast pronounced blessed? Art not
thou the avenger of Mary, the killer of the heretic Murray?”
“Soh! sits the wind there,” thought the astonished Hamilton,
as he coolly replied: “He was the enemy of my royal,
my most unhappy mistress, and for that I warred with him a
l'outrance! — the persecutor of the faithful, and for that I
cursed him! — the murderer of my wife, and for that, and that
alone, I slew him.”
“Well didst thou do, and faithfully!” cried the queen;
“adherents such as thee it is the pleasure, no less than the
pride, of the house of Guise to honor and reward.”
“Sieur of Hamilton,” continued Charles, apt pupil of his
demonical guardian, “earthly honors are but vain rewards to
men like thee! Yet wear this sword as a token of gratitude
due from the king of France to the avenger of his cousin if
thou art inclined to wield it in the cause of him who offers it,
I hold a blank commission to a high office in our army — the
command of our guard! Shall I insert the name of Hamilton!”
“Honors like these, your majesty —” he was commencing,
when he was again cut short by the queen.
“Are insufficient, we are well aware, when weighed against
thy merits. Accept them, notwithstanding, as an earnest of
greater gifts to come. Serve but the heads of the house of
Guise, as thou hast served its scions, and the truncheon of the
marechal hereafter may be thine. No thanks, sir! actions are
the only thanks that we require! and now, farewell! we will
speak further with our officer to morrow!”
Accustomed, long before, to the etiquette of courts, Hamilton
received the gift upon his knee, kissed the bright blade,
and with a profound inclination retreated without turning to
the door, bowed a second time even lower than before, and
left the presence! Scarcely, however, had he made three
steps, ere he was recalled by the voice of Catharine herself.
“Ha! now shall I know the price which I must pay for this
rich gewgaw; methought such gilded baits must point to future
words died on his lips as the vivid thought flashed through his
brain, yet not a sound was heard; he stood in calm attention
listening to the words of the tempter.
“We have bethought us, sir,” said Catharine, in a low,
stern whisper, “we have bethought us of a service of most
high importance, wherewith it is our will that thou shouldst
commence thy duties, and that, too, with the dawn! It has
something of danger; but we know to whom we speak! much
of honor, and therefore we rejoice in offering it to thee!. If
successful, to-morrow's eve shall see our champion maréchal
of France. Dost thou accept the trust?”
“Danger, so please your highness,” replied the wary
soldier, “danger is the very soul of honor; and for honor alone
I live. What are the commands of your majesty?”
Confident that her offer was understood and accepted, the
same hateful gleam of triumph flashed across her withered
features as before, and the same note of exultation marked her
words. “Thou knowest, doubtless, Gaspar de Coligni — the
admiral — the heretic — the sword and buckler of the accursed
Huguenots!”
“As a brave soldier, and a consummate leader, I do know
the man. Pity but he were faithful, as he is trusty and experienced!
What is your grace's will concerning this De Coligni?”
“Qu'il meurt!”
“Give me the means to bring the matter to an issue, and I
will do my devoir. But how may I find cause of quarrel with
one so high as Coligni? Bring me to the admiral, and let
him take every advantage of place and arms, I pledge your
majesty my word, to-morrow night shall not find him among
the living.”
“And thinkst thou,” she replied with a bitter laugh, “thinkst
him to a desperate conflict with a warrior such as him concerning
whom we speak? As Murray fell, so fall De Coligni!”
“Not by the hand of Hamilton,” was the calm, but resolute
answer. “My life your majesty may command even as your
own; I reck not of it! but mine honor is in mine own keeping!
Mine own private quarrel have I avenged, as best I
might; but neither am I a mercenary stabber to slay men in
the dark, who have done me no wrong; nor is a Scottish gentleman
wont to take gold for blood-shedding. I fear me I have
misapprehended the terms on which I am to serve your grace;
most gladly, and most gratefully, did I receive these tokens of
your majesty's approbation, as honors conferred for honorable
service in the field. If, however, they were given either as a
price for the blood of Murray, or as wages to be redeemed by
future murder, humbly, but at the same time firmly, do I decline
your bounty!”
“Why, thou most scrupulous of cut-throats!” exclaimed
the youthful king, whose iron heart was utterly immovable by
any touch of merciful or honorable feeling. “Dost thou, thou
who didst mark thy man long months before the deed, didst
dog him to destruction as your own northern hound hangs on
the master-stag, didst butcher him at an unmanly vantage,
dost thou pretend to round high periods about honor? Honor
in a common stabber! — ha! ha! ha!” and he laughed derisively
at his own false and disgraceful speech.
“It is because I am no common stabber,” returned the noble
Scot, “that I refuse your wages, as I loath the office, and despise
the character which you would fix upon a gentleman of
ancient family, and unblemished reputation! My lord, I slew
yon base-born tyrant, even as I would slay your highness,
should you give me cause. Had he been mine inferior, a short
shrift, and a shorter cord, had paid the debt I owed him!
avenged her to whom alone that master's faith was plighted!
He was, so word it if you will, my superior! Superior not in
arms, or strength, or virtue; not in the greatness of nature's
giving, but in craft, and policy, and all the pompous baubles
that make fools tremble; one path was open to my vengeance,
and one only! I took it! I would have taken the arch-fiend
himself to be my counsellor, so he had promised vengeance!
Show me the man that dares to injure Hamilton, and Hamilton
will slay him: honorably, if it may be, and openly; but,
in all cases, slay him. For this matter, sire, I have no license
from my country to commit murders here in France; mine
own just quarrel I have avenged as best I might; but not for
price, or prayer, will I avenge the guard of another, be that
other prince or peasant! Farewell, your highness, and when
you next would buy men's blood, deal not with Scottish nobles!
your grace has Spaniards and Italians enough round your person
who will do your bidding, without imposing tasks on Scottish
men, which it befits not them to execute, nor you to order!
Has your grace any services to ask of Hamilton, which he
may perform with an unsullied hand, your word shall be his
law! Till then, farewell!”
He laid the jewelled sword and the broad parchment on the
board, and with another inclination of respect, slowly and
steadily retreated.
“Bethink thee, sir,” cried the fierce queen, goaded almost
to madness by the disappointment, and by the taunts of the indignant
warrior, not the less galling that they were veiled beneath
the thin garb of respect — “bethink thee! it is perilous,
even to a proverb, to be the repository of royal secrets! how
know we but thou mayest sell thine information to De Coligni?”
“In that I would not sell his blood to thee!” was the stern
peril and I have been acquainted — nor yet, I deem, the last.”
Without another syllable he strode from the presence-chamber,
with a louder step, and firmer port, than oft was heard or seen
in those accursed walls. The usher, who had introduced him,
deeming his sovereign's will completed, led him forth as he
had entered, in silence, and ere the guilty pair had roused
themselves from their astonishment, Hamilton was beyond the
precincts of the palace. An hour had scarcely passed before
the messenger was again summoned to wait the monarch's bidding.
“De Crespigny,” he said, “take three of the best
blades of our Italian guard, dog that audacious Scot, and, be
he at the board, or in the bed — at the hearth, or in the sanctuary,”
— he paused, tapped the hilt of his poniard with a smile
of gloomy meaning, and waved his hand toward the door —
“let his head be at my feet before to-morrow's dawn, or look
well to thine own! — Away!”
| The chevaliers of France | |