 | The knights of England, France, and Scotland |  |
THE FALSE LADYE.
1. CHAPTER I.
There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles
— at that time the abode of France's royalty! — music
and merriment, even from the break of day! That was a singular
age, an age of great transitions. The splendid spirit-stirring
soul of chivalry was alive yet among the nations —
yet! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its
death-blow in the spear-thrust that hurled the noble Henry,
last victim of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and
from throne! In every art, in every usage, new science had
effected even then mighty changes; yet it was the OLD WORLD
STILL! Gunpowder, and the use of musketry and ordnance,
had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their
barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel
— and tilts and tournaments still mustered all the knightly
and the noble; and banquets at high noon, and balls in the
broad daylight, assembled to the board or to the dance, the
young, the beautiful, and happy.
There were merriment and music in the court, the hall, the
staircase, the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful,
and bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered
well-known and honored in those olden days; well-known and
honored ever after. The first, in person as in place, was the
great king! the proud, and chivalrous, and princely! becoming
his high station at all times and in every place; wearing his
state right gracefully and freely — the second Henry! — and at
his side young Francis, the king-dauphin; with her, the cynosure
of every heart, the star of that fair company — Scotland's
unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up
with those soft, dovelike eyes, fraught with unutterable soul,
into her husband's face — into her husband's spirit. Brissac
was there, and Joyeuse, and Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned
for skill in fence, and Vielleville; and the cardinal Lorraine,
and all the glorious Guises and Montmorenci, soon to be famous
as the slayer of his king, and every peer of France, and every
peerless lady.
Loud peeled the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen
minstrelsey — and as the gorgeous sunbeams rushed in a flood
of tinted lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall
windows, glancing on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that
might outdazzle their own radiance, arrayed in all the pomp
and pride of that magnificent and stately period — a more resplendent
scene could scarcely be imagined. That was a day
of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors thought
it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of
goldsmith's work about their necks, and jewels in their ears,
and on their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and swordhilts;
and if such were the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more
solid sex, what must have been the ornature of the court ladies,
under the gentle sway of such a being as Diane de Poictiers,
the lovely mistress of the monarch, and arbitress of the soft
follies of the court?
The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety,
from the cornices above the jocund dancers, some filled with
fresh green branches, wrought into silver arbors, sweet garlands
perfuming the air, and the light half excluded or tempered
into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense foliage of the
rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro, clad in
the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry,
the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest
cates, in every interval of the surrounding dance. It would be
tedious to dwell longer on the scene; to multiply more instances
of the strange mixture, which might be witnessed everywhere,
of artificial luxury with semibarbarous rudeness — to
specify the graces of the company, the beauty of the demoiselles
and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles, as
they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated
measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some
old chronicler, with style as curious and as quaint as the manners
he portrays in living colors. Enough for us to catch a
fleeting glimpse of the grand pageantry! to sketch with a
dashy pencil the groups which he would designate with absolute
and accurate minuteness!
But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must
not be passed over with so slight a regard, since she attracted
on that festive day, as much of wondering admiration for her
unequalled beauties as she excited sympathy, and fear, in after-days,
for her sad fortunes — but there was now no cloud upon
her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of approaching tears
in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy thought
upon one glorious feature — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress
of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that
rank and fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure,
high brow, her dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect
symmetry of her whole shape and person! Her hair, of
out like threads of virgin gold when a stray sunbeam touched
them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely shoulders
and so much of a soft, heaving bosom — veined by unnumbered
azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously —
as was displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet
boddice. Her eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light,
almost defied description, possessing at one time the depth and
brilliance of the black, melting into the softer languor of the
blue — yet they were of the latter hue, and suited truly to the
whole style and character of her voluptuous beauty. Her form,
as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every movement,
every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied
grace. In sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere
mortality — and so thought many a one who gazed upon her,
half drunk with that divine delirium which steeps the souls of
men who dwell too steadfastly upon such wondrous charms,
as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance, lighter and
springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the exciting
toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle!
and many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an
exterior so divine should be the tenement of a harsh, worldly
spirit — that a demeanor and an air so frank, so cordial, and
so warm, should be but the deceptive veil that hid a selfish,
cold, bad heart. Ay, many asked themselves that question on
that day, but not one answered his own question candidly or
truly — no! not one man! — for in her presence he had been
more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence
unmoved by the attractions of her outward seeming.
For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months
before affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè
— the bravest and best of Henry's youthful nobles. It had
been a love-treaty — no matter of shrewd bartering of hearts —
seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of the
other! — and men had envied him, and ladies had held her
more fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her
riches, or her beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate,
or to sneer, in admiration of the young glorious pair, that
seemed so fitly mated. Three little months had passed — three
more, and they had been made one! — but in the interval
Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his king's behest, had buckled
on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian
wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought,
yet handsomer than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand
de Laguy, his own orphaned cousin, bred like a brother
on his father's hearth; and, as Charles well believed, a brother
in affection. Three little months had passed, and, in a temporary
truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone, leading the
relics of his cousin's force, and laden with the doleful tidings
of that cousin's fall upon the field of honor. None else had
seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile
ranks; but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble
kinsman, and failing in the desperate attempt, had borne off his
reward in many a perilous wound. Another month, and it was
whispered far and near, that Marguerite had dried her tears
already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his cousin's death,
succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to the winning
of that dead cousin's bride. It had been whispered far
and near, and now the whisper was proved true. For on this
festive day young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting
wounds, and languid from loss of blood, appeared
in public for the first time, not in the sable weeds of decent and
accustomed wo, but in the gayest garb of a successful bridegroom
— his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet strewn thickly
with seed-pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of rich white
suspended in a rare scarf of the lady's colors, and, above all,
the air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and
that lovely girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that
for once, at least, the tongue of rumor had told truth.
Therefore men gazed in wonder — and marvelled as they
gazed, and half condemned! — yet they who had been loudest
in their censure when the first whisper reached their ears of
so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted an inconstancy, now found
themselves devising many an excuse within their secret hearts
for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry himself
had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed,
radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles
— but the stern brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself
into a softer aspect, and the rebuff which he had determined —
but a second's space before — to give to the untimely lovers,
was frittered down into a jest before it left the lips of the repentant
speaker.
The day was well-nigh spent — the evening banquet had
been spread, and had been honored duly — and now the lamps
were lit in hall, and corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed
the mirth, and faster wheeled the dance. The company were
scattered to and fro, some wandering in the royal gardens,
which overspread at that day most of the Isle de Paris; some
played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the
halls; some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some
whispered love in ladies' ears in dark sequestered bowers —
and of these last were Marguerite and Armand — a long alcove
of thick green boughs, with orange-trees between, flowering in
marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand odorous trees, mingling
their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely bower, and there
alone, in the dim starlight — alone indeed! for they might now
be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the
arm, unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender
waist; her head reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich
redundancy of ringlets floating about his neck and bosom, and
her eyes, languid and suffused, fondly turned up to meet his
passionate glances. “And can it be,” he said, in the thick
broken tones that tell of vehement passion, “and can it be that
you indeed love Armand? I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that I,
like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed;
for him thou didst love dearly, while on me never didst
thou waste thought or word.”
“Him — never, Armand, never! — by the bright stars above
us — by the great gods that hear us — I never — never did love
Charles de La-Hirè — never did love man, save thee, my noble
Armand. False girlish vanity and pique led me to toy with
him at first; now to my sorrow I confess it — and when thou
didst look coldly upon me, and seemedst to woo dark Adeline de
Courcy, a woman's vengeance stirred up my very soul, and
therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh
yielded up myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed
indeed and honored, but never thought of for one moment with
affection; wilt thou believe me, Armand?”
“Sweet angel, Marguerite!”' and he clasped her to his hot,
heaving breast, and her white arms were flung about his neck,
and their lips met in a long fiery kiss.
Just in that point of time — in that soft melting moment — a
heavy hand was laid quietly on Armand's shoulder — he started,
as the fiend sprang up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel's
angel weapon — he started like a guilty thing from that forbidden
kiss.
A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in
a dark riding-cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat
on the stately head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive
marble, with the dark chestnut curls falling off parted evenly
upon the crown — the full, fixed, steady eye, which he could
no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the meridian
sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and
wo — were all! all those of his good cousin.
For a moment's space the three stood there in silence —
Charles de La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable
consternation of the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent
almost to the earth with shame and conscious terror! and Marguerite
half dead with fear, and scarcely certain if indeed he
who stood before her were the man in his living presence,
whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the
visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark
grave to thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest.
“I am in time” — he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering
as his whole air was cold and tranquil — in time to
break off this monstrous union! — Thy perjuries have been in
vain, weak man; thy lies are open to the day. He whom thou
didst betray to the Italian's dungeon — to the Italian's dagger
— as thou didst then believe and hope — stands bodily before
thee.”
A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite,
as the dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened
fears — the man whom she had loved — first loved! — for all
her previous words were false and fickle — stood at her side in
all his power and glory — and she affianced to a liar, a base
traitor — a foul murderer in his heart! — a scorn and byword
to her own sex — an object of contempt and hatred to every
noble spirit!
But at that instant Armand de Laguy's pride awoke — for he
was proud, and brave, and daring! — and he gave back the lie,
and hurled defiance in his accuser's teeth.
“Death to thy soul!” he cried; “'tis thou that liest, Charles!
Did I not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not
sink beside thee, hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving
to preserve thee? And when my vassals found me, wert
thou not beside me — with thy face scarred, indeed, and mangled
beyond recognition — but with the surcoat and the arms
upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold hand? 'T is
thou that liest, man! — 't is thou that, for some base end, didst
conceal thy life, and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me;
but 't will not do, fair cousin! The king shall judge between
us! Come, lady” — and he would have taken her by the
hand, but she sprang back as though a viper would have stung
her.
“Back, traitor!” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing;
“I hate thee — spit on thee — defy thee! Base have I
been myself, and frail, and fickle; but, as I live, Charles de
La-Hirè — but as I live now, and will die right shortly — I
knew not of this villany! I did believe thee dead, as that false
murtherer swore — and — God be good to me! — I did betray
thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand
de Laguy — dog! traitor! villain! knave! — dare not to
look upon me any more; dare not address me with one accent
of thy serpent-tongue! for Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although
she be, and lost for ever, is not so all abandoned as,
knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with thee one second
longer — no! not though that second could redeem all the past,
and wipe out all the sin —”
“Fine words, fine words, fair mistress! but on with me thou
shalt!” — and he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with
a perfect majesty, Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped
him by the wrist, and held him for a moment there, gazing into
his eye as though he would have read his soul; then threw
him off with a force that made him stagger back ten paces before
of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed
his rapier and made a full longe, bounding forward as
he did so, right at his cousin's heart; but he was foiled again
— for with a single, and, as it seemed, slight motion of the
sheathed broadsword which he held under his cloak, Charles
de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling through
the air to twenty paces' distance.
Just then there came a shout, “The king! the king!” — and,
with the words, a glare of many torches, and with his courtiers
and his guard about him, the monarch stood forth in offended
majesty.
“Ha! what means this insolent broil? What men be these
who dare draw swords within the palace precincts?”
“My sword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling
before the king, and laying the good weapon at his feet —
“nor has been ever drawn, save at your highness' bidding,
against your highness' foes. But I beseech you, sire, as you
love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and treason, grant me
your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy recreant, base,
traitorous, a liar, and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand, in
the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law
of arms and honor!”
“Something of this we have heard already,” replied the king,
“Baron de La-Hirè. But say out, now: of what accuse you
Armand de Laguy? Show but good cause, and thy request is
granted; for I have not forgot your good deeds in my cause
against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen. Of what
accuse you Armand de Laguy?”
“That he betrayed me, wounded, into the hands of the duke
of Parma; that he dealt with Italian bravos to compass my
assassination; that by foul lies and treacherous devices he has
trained from me my affianced bride; and last, not least, deprived
so help me God and my good sword!”
“Stand forth and answer to his charge, De Laguy — speak
out! what sayest thou?”
“I say,” answered Armand, boldly — “I say that he lies!
that he did feign his own death, for some evil ends, and did deceive
me, who would have died to succor him; that I, believing
him dead, have won from him the love of this fair lady, I admit
— but I assert that I did win it fairly, and of good right; and,
for the rest, I say he lies doubly when he asserts that she has
lost fair name or honor! This is my answer, sire; and I beseech
you grant his prayer, and let us prove our words, as gentlemen
of France, and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!”
“Amen!” replied the king. “The third day hence, at noon,
in the tiltyard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat —
and this fair lady be the prize of the victor! —”
“No, sire!” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling;
but before he had the time to add a second word, Marguerite
de Vaudreuil, who had stood all the while with her hands
clasped, and her eyes riveted upon the ground, sprang forth
with a great cry.
“No! no! for God's sake! no! no! sire — great king —
good gentleman — brave knight! doom me not to a fate so
dreadful. Charles de La-Hirè is all that man can be of good,
or great, or noble; but I betrayed him, whom I deemed dead,
and he can never trust me living! Moreover, if he would take
me to his arms, base as I am and most false-hearted, he should
not; for God forbid that my dishonor should blight his noble
fame. As for the slave De Laguy — the traitor and low liar —
doom me, great monarch, to the convent or the block, but curse
me not with such contamination! for, by the heavens I swear,
and by the God that rules them, that I will die by my own
hand before I wed that serpent!”
“Be it so, fair one,” answered the king, very coldly, “be it
so; we permit thy choice — a convent or the victor's bridal bed
shall be thy doom, at thine own option! Meanwhile, your
swords, sirs: until the hour of battle ye are both under our arrest.
Jarnac, be thou godfather to Charles de La-Hirè; Nevers,
do thou like office for De Laguy.”
“By God, not I, sire!” answered the proud duke. “I hold
this man's offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my
conscience, I think your royal hangman were his best god-father!”
“Nevertheless, De Nevers, it shall be as I say! This bold
protest of thine is all-sufficient for thine honor; and it is but a
form! No words, duke! it must be as I have said! Joyeuse,
escort this lady to thy duchess; pray her accept of her as the
king's guest, until this matter be decided. The third day hence
at noon, on foot, with sword and dagger, with no arms of defence
or vantage; the principals to fight alone, until one die or
yield — and so God shield the right!”
2. CHAPTER II.
It was a clear, bright day in the early autumn, when the
royal tiltyard, on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly
conflict. The tilt-yard was a regular, oblong space, enclosed
with stout, squared palisades, and galleries for the accommodation
of spectators, immediately in the vicinity of the royal residence
of the Tournelles, a splendid Gothic structure, adorned
with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich style of architecture.
At a short distance thence rose the tall, gray towers
of Nôtre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the
dirge for a passing soul.
From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had been
range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded
by a strong party of gentlemen in the royal livery, with partisans
in their hands, and sword and dagger at the belt. At
either end of the list was a tent pitched: that at the right of
the royal gallery a plain marquee of canvass, of small size,
which had apparently seen much service, and been used in
real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was
lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from without;
but a parti-colored pennon was pitched into the ground
beside it, and a shield suspended from the palisades, emblazoned
with bearings, which all men knew to be those of Charles
Baron de La-Hirè, a renowned soldier in the late Italian wars,
and the challenger in the present conflict. The pavilion at the
left, or lower end, was of a widely-different kind — of the very
largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth,
lined with white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all
the curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables, covered
with snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred
covers of pure silver! Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal
were intermixed upon the board with tankards, flagons, and
cups and urns of gold, embossed and jewelled; and behind every
seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of the counts de
Laguy. A silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner
tent, wherein the count awaited the signal that should call him
to the lists.
Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be
deemed now-a-days to a solemn, mortal conflict, it was then
deemed neither singular nor monstrous; and in this gay pavilion
Armand de Laguy, the challenged in the coming duel, had
summoned all the nobles of the court to feast with him, after he
should have slain — so confident was he of victory — his cousin
and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hirè.
The entrances of the tiltyard were guarded by a detachment
of the king's sergeants, sheathed cap-à-pie in steel, with shouldered
arquebuses and matches ready lighted. The lists were
strewn with sawdust, and hung completely with black serge,
save where the royal gallery afforded a strange contrast by its
rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the battle-ground.
One other object only remains to be noticed: it was a huge
block of black oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of
a sharp weapon, and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside
this frightful emblem stood a tall, muscular, gray-headed man,
dressed in a leathern frock and apron, stained like the block
with many a gout of blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, leaning
upon a huge two-handed axe, with a blade of three feet in
breadth. A little way aloof from these was placed a chair,
wherein a monk was seated — a very aged man, with a bald
head and beard as white as snow — telling his beads in silence
until his ministry should be required.
The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded
well-nigh to suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive
spectators; and many an eye was turned to watch the royal
seats, which were yet vacant, but which it was well known
would be occupied before the trumpet should sound for the onset.
The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the expectation
of the crowd was at its height, when the passing-bell
ceased ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accustomed
peal, announcing the hour of high noon. Within a moment
or two, a bustle was observed among the gentlemen-pensioners;
then a page or two entered the royal seats, and, after
looking about them for a moment, again retired. Another pause
of profound expectation, and then a long, loud blast of trumpets
followed from the interior of the royal residence; nearer it rang
and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled
to the core of every heart: and then the king — the dignified
and dukes, and peers, and ladies of high birth and matchless
beauty, and took their seats amid the thundering acclamations
of the people, to witness the dread scene that was about to
follow, of wounds, and blood, and butchery!
All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor — all except
one, a girl of charms unrivalled (although she seemed plunged
in the deepest agony of grief) by the seductive beauties of the
gayest. Her bright, redundant auburn hair was all dishevelled;
her long, dark eyelashes were pencilled in distinct relief against
the marble pallor of her colorless cheeks; her rich and rounded
form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the coarsest
serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting more
the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eyes
were fixed — some with disgust, some with contempt, others
with pity, sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Marguerite
de Vaudreuil — betrothed to either combatant; the betrayed
herself, and the betrayer; rejected by the man whose
memory, when she believed him dead, she had herself deserted;
rejecting, in her turn, and absolutely loathing him whose
falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper
treason — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all
beholders, now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without
an option save that between the bed of a man she hated and
the lifelong seclusion of the convent.
The king was seated; the trumpets flourished once again,
and at the signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent-door
of the challenger, and Charles de La-Hirè stepped calmly out
on the arena, followed by his god-father, De Jarnac, bearing
two double-edged swords of great length and weight, and two
broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hirè was very pale
and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but
his step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved
greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the people, to whom his
fame in the wars of Italy had much endeared him; but the
flush was transient, and in a moment he was as pale and cold
as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad
very plainly in a dark, morone-colored pourpoint, with vest,
trunk-hose, and nether socks of black-silk netting, displaying to
admiration the outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jarnac,
his godfather, on the contrary, was very foppishly attired
with an abundance of fluttering tags, and ruffles of rich lace,
and feathers in his velvet cap.
These two had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before,
from the opposite pavilion, De Laguy and the duke de Nevers
issued, the latter bearing, like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and
daggers. It was observed, however, that the weapons of De
Laguy were narrow, three-cornered rapier-blades and Italian
stilettoes; and it was well understood that on the choice of the
weapons depended much the result of the encounter — De Laguy
being renowned above any gentleman in the French court
for his skill in the science of defence, as practised by the Italian
masters; while his antagonist was known to excel in
strength and skill in the management of all downright soldierly
weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of mind, and calm,
self-sustained valor, rather than in sleight and dexterity. Armand
de Laguy was dressed sumptuously — in the same garb,
indeed, which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife
arose which now was on the point of being terminated, and for
ever!
A few moments were spent in deliberation between the god-fathers
of the combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De
Jarnac that “the wind and sun having been equally divided
between the two swordsmen, their places were assigned, and
that it remained only to decide upon the choice of the weapons:
that with the weapons so chosen they should fight until one or
other should be hors de combat; but that in case that either
weapon should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry,
`Hold!' and recourse be had to the other swords; the use of
the poniard to be optional, as it was to be used only for parrying,
and not for striking; that either combatant striking a blow
or thrusting after the utterance of the word `hold,' or using the
dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the block and
die the death of a felon!”
This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers
winning the throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which
he had selected were produced, examined carefully, and measured,
and delivered to the kindred foemen.
It was a stern and fearful sight; for there was no bravery
nor show in their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of
battle. They had thrown off their coats and hats, and remained
in their shirt-sleeves and under-garments only, with napkins
bound about their brows, and their eyes fixed each on the other's
with intense and terrible malignity.
The signal was now given, and the blades were crossed,
and on the instant it was seen how fearful was the advantage
which De Laguy had gained by the choice of weapons; for it
was with the utmost difficulty that Charles de La-Hirè avoided
the incessant longes of his enemy, who, springing to and fro,
stamping, and writhing his body in every direction, never ceased
for a moment with every trick of feint, and pass, and flourish,
to thrust at limb, face, and body, easily parrying himself with
the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful
assaults of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been
drawn in as many different places, though the wounds were
but superficial, from the sword-arm, the face, and thigh of De
La-Hirè, while he had not as yet pricked ever so lightly his
hand, stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to
turn the thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render
them innocuous to life. As his blood, however, ebbed away,
and as he knew that he must soon become weak from the loss
of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy, and many bets were
offered that Armand would kill him without receiving so much
as a scratch himself.
And now Charles saw his peril, and determined on a fresh
line of action. Flinging away his dagger, he altered his position
rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De Laguy, and
made a motion with it as if to grasp his sword-hilt. He was
immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through
his left arm close to the elbow-joint, but just above it. De Jarnac
turned on the instant deadly pale, for he thought all was
over; but he erred widely, for De La-Hirè had calculated well
his action and his time, and that which threatened to destroy
him proved, as he meant it, his salvation: for as quick as light,
when he felt the wound, he dropped his own rapier, and grasping
Armand's guard with his right hand, he snapped the blade
short off in his own mangled flesh, and bounded five feet backward,
with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm.
“Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant; and at the
same time De La-Hirè exclaimed, “Give us the other swords,
give us the other swords, De Jarnac!”
The exchange was made in a moment: the stilettoes and the
broken weapons were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords
given to the combatants, who again faced each other with equal
resolution, though now with altered fortunes. “Now, De La-Hirè,”
exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the well-poised blade
into his friend's hand, “you managed that right gallantly and
well: now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from pain
and bleeding!”
And it was instantly apparent that such was indeed his intention.
His eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about
to pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost
height, and whirled the long new blade about his head as
though it had been but a feather. Far less sublime and striking
was the attitude and swordmanship of De Laguy, though
he too fought gallantly and well. But at the fifth pass, feinting
at his head, Charles fetched a long and sweeping blow at his
right leg, and, striking him below the ham, divided all the tendons
with the back of the double-edged blade; then, springing
in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt
knocked heavily at his breast-bone, and the point came out
glittering between his shoulders! The blood flashed out from
the deep wound, from nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell
prostrate; and Charles stood over him, leaning on his avenging
weapon, and gazing sadly into his stiffening features. “Fetch
him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers, “for by my halydom he
will not live ten minutes!”
“If he live five,” cried the king, rising from his seat, “if he
live five, he will live long enough to die upon the block; for
he lies there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he
shall die a felon's doom! But bring him a priest quickly.”
The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the
dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes,
and called upon him to repent and to confess, as he would have
salvation.
Faint and half-choked with blood, he faltered forth the words
— “I do — I do confess guilty — oh! doubly guilty! — Pardon,
O God! — Charles! Marguerite!” — and as the words died
on his quivering lips, he sank down, fainting with the excess
of agony.
“Ho, there! — guards, headsman!” shouted Henry; “off
with him — off with the villain to the block, before he die an
for glory!”
“Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and
took his hand in his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint
gleam of consciousness kindled the pallid features — “May God
as freely pardon thee as I do, O my cousin!” Then turning to
the king —
“You have admitted, sire, that I have served you faithfully
and well. Never yet have I sought reward at your
hand: let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered:
even thus let me not feel that my king has increased my sufferings
by consigning one of my blood to the headsman's blow.
Pardon him, sire, as I do, who have the most cause of offence;
pardon him, gracious king, as we will hope that a King higher
yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners in the sight of
his all-seeing eye!”
“Be it so,” answered Henry; “it never shall be said of me
that a French king refused his bravest soldier's first claim upon
his justice! Bear him to his pavilion.”
And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for
revelry and feasting; and they laid him there, ghastly, and
gashed, and gory, upon the festive board, and his blood streamed
among the choice wines, and the scent of death chilled the rich
fragrance of the flowers! An hour, and he was dead who had
invited others to triumph over his cousin's slaughter; an hour,
and the court-lackeys shamefully spoiled and plundered the
repast which had been spread for nobles!
“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite,
“here is the victor's prize! Wilt have him, Marguerite? —
'fore Heaven, but he has won thee nobly! Wilt have her, De
La-Hirè? — methinks her tears and beauty may yet atone for
fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now shall
never more betray, nor lie, nor sin, for ever! —”
“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè, very firmly, “I pardon her; I
love her yet! — but I wed not dishonor!”
“He is right,” said the pale girl, “he is right, ever right and
noble; for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee
well, Charles — dear, honored Charles! The mists of this
world are clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I
loved thee best — thee only! Fare thee well, noble one! forget
the wretch who has so deeply wronged thee — forget me,
and be happy. For me, I shall right soon be free!”
“Not so, not so,” replied King Henry, misunderstanding her
meaning; “not so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity
thee, I may not be forsworn. To-morrow thou must to a convent,
there to abide for ever!”
“And that will not be long,” answered the girl, a gleam of
her old pride and impetuosity lighting up her fair features.
“By Heaven, I say for ever!” cried Henry, stamping his
foot on the ground angrily.
“And I reply, not long!”
3. CHAPTER III.
A cold and dark northeaster, had swept together a host of
straggling vapors and thin lowering clouds over the French
metropolis — the course of the Seine might be traced easily
among the grotesque roofs and Gothic towers which at that day
adorned its banks, by the gray ghostly mist which seethed up
from its sluggish waters — a small fine rain was falling noiselessly,
and almost imperceptibly, by its own weight as it were,
from the surcharged and watery atmosphere — the air was
keenly cold and piercing, although the seasons had not crept
far as yet beyond the confines of the summer. The trees, for
fauxbourgs and gardens of the haute noblesse, were thickly
covered with white rime, as were the manes and frontlets of
the horses, the clothes, and hair, and eyebrows of the human
beings who ventured forth in spite of the inclement weather.
A sadder and more gloomy scene can scarcely be conceived
than is presented by the streets of a large city in such a time
as that I have attempted to describe. But this peculier sadness
was, on the day of which I write, augmented and exaggerated
by the continual tolling of the great bell of St. Germains Auxerrois,
replying to the iron din which arose from the gray towers
of Nôtre Dame. From an early hour of the day the people
had been congregating in the streets and about the bridges leading
to the precincts of the royal palace, the Chateau des Tournelles,
which then stood — long since obliterated almost from
the memory of men — upon the Isle de Paris, the greater part
of which was covered then with the courts, and terraces, and
gardens of that princely pile.
Strong bodies of the household troops were posted here and
there about the avenues and gates of the royal demesne, and
several large detachments of the archers of the prevôt's guard
— still called so from the arms which they had long since
ceased to carry — might be seen everywhere on duty. Yet
there were no symptoms of an émeute among the populace, nor
any signs of angry feeling or excitement in the features of the
loitering crowd, which was increasing every moment as the
day waxed toward noon. Some feeling certainly there was —
some dark and earnest interest, as might be judged from the
knit brows, clinched hands, and anxious whispers which everywhere
attended the exchange of thought throughout the concourse
— but it was by no means of an alarming or an angry
character. Grief, wonder, expectation, and a sort of half-doubtful
pity, as far as might be gathered from the words of the
common feeling, which had called out so large a portion of the
city's population on a day so unsuited to any spectacle of interest.
For several hours this mob, increasing as it has been
described from hour to hour, varied but little in its character,
save that as the day wore it became more and more respectable
in the appearance of its members. At first it had been
composed almost without exception of artisans and shop-boys,
and mechanics of the lowest order, with not a few of the cheats,
bravoes, pickpockets, and similar ruffians, who then as now
formed a fraternity of no mean size in the Parisian world. As
the morning advanced, however, many of the burghers of the
city, and respectable craftsmen, might be seen among the
crowd; and a little later many of the secondary gentry and
petite noblesse, with well-dressed women and even children,
all showing the same symptoms of sad yet eager expectation.
Now, when it lacked but a few minutes of noon, long trains of
courtiers with their retinues and armed attendants, many a head
of a renowned and ancient house, many a warrior famous for
valor and for conduct might be seen threading the mazes of the
crowded thoroughfares toward the royal palace.
A double ceremony of singular and solemn nature was soon
to be enacted there — the interment of a noble soldier, slain
lately in an unjust quarrel, and the investiture of an unwilling
woman with the robes of a holy sisterhood preparatory to her
lifelong interment in that sepulchre of the living body — sepulchre
of the pining soul — the convent cloisters. Armand de
Laguy! — Marguerite de Vaudreuil!
Many circumstances had united in this matter to call forth
much excitement, much grave interest in the minds of all who
had heard tell of it! — the singular and wild romance of the
story, the furious and cruel combat which had resulted from it
— and last not least, the violent, and, as it was generally considered,
who survived the ruin she had wrought.
The story was, in truth, then, but little understood. A thousand
rumors were abroad, and of course no one accurately true;
yet in each there was a share of truth, and the amount of the
whole was perhaps less wide of the mark than is usual in matters
of the kind. And thus they ran: Marguerite de Vaudreuil
had been betrothed to the youngest of France's famous warriors,
Charles de La-Hirè, who after a time fell — as it was related
by his young friend and kinsman Armand de Laguy — covered
with wounds and honor. The body had been found outstretched
beneath the survivor, who, himself desperately hurt, had alone
witnessed and in vain endeavored to prevent his cousin's slaughter.
The face of Charles de La-Hirè, as all men deemed the
corpse to be, was mangled and defaced so frightfully as to render
recognition by the features utterly hopeless; yet, from the
emblazoned surcoat which it bore, the well-known armor on
the limbs, the signet-ring upon the finger, and the accustomed
sword clinched in the dead right hand, none doubted the identity
of the body, or questioned the truth of Armand's story.
Armand de Laguy, succeeding by his cousin's death to all
his lands and lordships, returned to the metropolis, and mixed
in the gayeties of that gay period, when all the court of France
was revelling in the celebration of the union of the dauphin
with the lovely Mary Stuart, in after-days the hapless queen
of Scotland.
He wore no decent and accustomed garb of mourning. He
suffered no interval, however brief — due to decorum at least,
if not to kindly feeling — to elapse, before it was announced
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the dead man's late betrothed,
was instantly to wed his living cousin! Her wondrous beauty,
her all-seductive manners, her extreme youth, had in vain pleaded
against the general censure of the court — the world. Men
but after a little while, as the novelty of the story wore
away, the indignation against her inconstancy ceased, and she
was once again installed the leader of the court's unwedded
beauties.
Suddenly, on the very eve of her intended nuptials, Charles
de La-Hirè returned! — ransomed, as it turned out, by Brissac,
from the Italian dungeons of the prince of Parma, and making
fearful charges of treason and intended murder against Armand
de Laguy. The king had commanded that the truth should be
proved by a solemn combat; had sworn to execute upon the
felon's block whichever of the two should yield or confess
falsehood; had sworn that the inconstant Marguerite — who,
on the return of De La-Hirè, had returned instantly to her former
feelings, asserting her perfect confidence in the truth of
Charles, the treachery of Armand — should either wed the victor,
or live and die the inmate of the most rigorous convent in
his realm.
The battle had been fought yesterday! Armand de Laguy
fell, mortally wounded by his wronged cousin's hand, and with
his latest breath declared his treasons, and implored pardon
from his king, his kinsman, and his God — happy to perish by
a brave man's sword, not by a headman's axe. And Marguerite,
the victor's prize — rejected by the man she had betrayed
— herself refusing, even if he were willing, to wed with him
whom she could but dishonor — had now no option save death
or the detested cloister.
And now men pitied — women wept — all frowned, and wondered,
and kept silence. That a young, vain, capricious beauty
— the pet and spoiled child from her very cradle of a gay and
luxurious court, worshipped for her charms like a second Aphrodite,
intoxicated with the love of admiration — that such a
to the dead — a questionable fealty always — and be won to a
rash second love by the falsehood and treasons of a man young,
and brave, and handsome — falsehood which had deceived wise
men — that such should be the course of events, men said, was
neither strange nor monstrous! It was a fault, a lapse, of
which she had been guilty — which might indeed make her
future faith suspected, which would surely justify Charles de
La-Hirè in casting back her proffered hand — but which at the
worst was venial, and deserving no such doom as the soul-chilling
cloister.
She had, they said, in no respect participated in the guilt or
shared the treacheries of Armand. On the contrary, she, the
victim of his fraud, had been the first to denounce, to spit at, to
defy him.
Moreover, it was understood that, although De La-Hirè had
refused her hand, several of equal and even higher birth than
he had offered to redeem her from the cloister by taking her to
wife of their free choice. Jarnac had claimed the beauty, and
it was whispered that the duke de Nevers had sued to Henry
vainly for the fair hand of the unwilling novice.
But the king was relentless. “Either the wife of De La-Hirè,
or the bride of God in the cloister!” was his unvarying
reply. No further answer would he give — no disclosure of
his motives would he make, even to his wisest councillors.
Some, indeed, augured that the good monarch's anger was but
feigned, and that, deeming her sufficiently punished already,
he was desirous still of forcing her to be the bride of him to
whom she had been destined, and whom she still, despite her
brief inconstancy, unquestionably worshipped in her heart; for
all men still supposed that at the last Charles would forgive
the hapless girl, and so relieve her from the living tomb that
even now seemed yawning to enclose her. But others — and
second Henry — vowed that the wrath was real; and felt that,
though no man could fathom the cause of his stern ire, he never
would forgive the guilty girl, whose frailty, as he swore, had
caused such strife and bloodshed.
But now it was high noon; and forth filed from the palace-gates
a long and glittering train — Henry and all his court, with
all the rank and beauty of the realm, knights, nobles, peers and
princes, damsels and dames — the pride of France and Europe.
But at the monarch's right walked one, clad in no gay attire —
pale, languid, wounded, and warworn — Charles de La-Hirè,
the victor. A sad, deep gloom o'ercast his large dark eye, and
threw a shadow over his massy forehead. His lip had forgot
to smile, his glance to lighten; yet was there no remorse, no
doubt, no wavering in his calm, noble features — only fixed, settled
sorrow. His long and waving hair of the darkest chestnut,
evenly parted on his crown, fell down on either cheek, and
flowed over the broad, plain collar of his shirt, which, decked
with no embroidery-lace, was folded back over the cape of a
plain black pourpoint, made of fine cloth indeed, but neither
laced nor passemented, nor even slashed with velvet; a broad
scarf of black taffeta supported his weapon — a heavy, double-edged,
straight broadsword — and served at the same time to
support his left arm, the sleeve of which hung open, tied in
with points of riband; his trunk-hose and nether stocks of plain
black silk, black velvet shoes, and a slouched hat, with neither
feather nor cockade, completed the suit of melancholy mourning
which he wore.
In the midst of the train was a yet sadder sight — Marguerite
de Vaudreuil, robed in the snow-white vestments of a novice,
with all her glorious ringlets flowing in loose redundance
over her shoulders and her bosom, soon to be cut close by the
fatal scissors — pale as the monumental stone, and only not as
either hand; and a long train of priests swept after, with crucifix,
and rosary, and censer.
Scarcely had this strange procession issued from the great
gates of Les Tournelles — the death-bells tolling still from every
tower and steeple — before another train, gloomier yet and
sadder, filed out from the gate of the royal tiltyard, at the farther
end of which stood a superb pavilion. Sixteen black
Benedictine monks led the array, chanting the mournful Miserere.
Next behind these (strange contrast!) strode on the
grim, gaunt form, clad in his blood-stained tabard, and bearing
full displayed his broad, two-handed axe — fell emblem of his
odious calling — the public executioner of Paris. Immediately
in the rear of this dark functionary, not borne by his bold captains,
nor followed by his gallant vassals with arms reversed
and signs of martial sorrow, but ignominiously supported by
the grim-visaged ministers of the law, came on the bier of
Armand, the last count de Laguy.
Stretched in a coffin of the rudest material and construction,
with his pale visage bare, displaying still in its distorted lines
and sharpened features the agonies of mind and body which
had preceded his untimely dissolution, the bad but haughty
noble was borne to his long home in the graveyard of Nôtre
Dame. His sword, broken in twain, was laid across his breast,
his spurs had been hacked from his heels by the base cleaver
of the scullion, and his reversed escutcheon was hung above
his head.
Narrowly saved by his wronged kinsman's intercession from
dying by the headman's weapon ere yet his mortal wounds
should have let out his spirit, he was yet destined to the shame
of a dishonored sepulchre. Such was the king's decree —
alas! inexorable.
The funeral-train proceeded; the king and his court followed.
superb gray towers! — they reached the grave, in a remote and
gloomy corner, where, in unconsecrated earth, reposed the executed
felon. The priests attended not the corpse beyond the
precincts of that unholy spot; their solemn chant died mournfully
away; no rites were done, no prayers were said above
the senseless clay, but in silence was it lowered into the ready
pit — silence disturbed only by the deep, hollow sound of the
clods that fell fast and heavy on the breast of the guilty noble!
For many a day a headstone might be seen — not raised by the
kind hands of sorrowing friends, nor watered by the tears of
kinsmen, but planted there to tell of his disgraceful doom —
amid the nameless graves of the self-slain, and the recorded
resting-places of well-known thieves and felons. It was of
dark-gray freestone, and it bore these brief words — brief words,
but in that situation speaking the voice of volumes:—
Le dernier Comte de Laguy.”
Three forms stood by the grave — stood till the last clod had
been heaped upon its kindred clay, and the dark headstone
planted: Henry the king; and Charles the baron de La-Hirè;
and Marguerite de Vaudreuil.
And as the last clod was flattened down upon the dead —
after the stone was fixed — De La-Hirè crossed the grave to
the despairing girl, where she had stood gazing with a fixed,
rayless eye on the sad ceremony, and took her by the hand,
and spoke so loud that all might hear his words, while Henry
looked on calmly, but not without an air of wondering excitement:—
“Not that I did not love thee,” he said, “Marguerite! Not
that I did not pardon thee thy brief inconstancy, caused as it
was by evil arts of which we will say nothing now — since he
we trust, now pardoned! Not for these causes, nor for any of
them, have I declined thine hand thus far; but that the king
commanded, judging it in his wisdom best for both of us. Now
Armand is gone hence; and let all doubt and sorrow go hence
with him! Let all your tears, all my suspicions, be buried in
his grave for ever! I take your hand, dear Marguerite — I
take you as mine honored and loved bride — I claim you mine
for ever!”
Thus far the girl had listened to him, not blushingly, nor
with a melting eye, nor with any sign of renewed hope or rekindled
happiness in her pale features — but with cold, resolute
attention. But now she put away his hand very steadily, and
spoke with a firm, unfaltering voice.
“Be not so weak!” she said; “be not so weak, Charles de
La-Hirè — nor fancy me so vain! The weight and wisdom of
years have passed above my head since yester morning: then
was I a vain, thoughtless girl; now am I a stern, wise woman!
That I have sinned, is very true — that I have betrayed thee,
wronged thee! It may be, had you spoke pardon yesterday —
it might have been all well! It may be it had been dishonor
in you to take me to your arms; but if to do so had been dishonor
yesterday, by what is it made honor now? No! no!
Charles de La-Hirè — no! no! I had refused thee yesterday,
hadst thou been willing to redeem me, by self-sacrifice, then,
from the convent-walls; I had refused thee then, with love
warming my heart toward thee — in all honor! Force me not
to reject thee now with scorn and hatred. Nor dare to think
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil will owe to man's compassion
what she owes not to love! Peace, Charles de La-Hirè! — I
say, peace! my last words to thee have been spoken, and never
will I hear more from thee! And now, Sir King, hear thou —
may God judge between thee and me, as thou hast judged!
and credulous — but made man not wise, to deceive and ruin
her. If I sinned deeply against this baron de La-Hirè, I sinned
not knowingly, nor of premeditation! If I sinned deeply, more
deeply was I sinned against — more deeply was I left to suffer
— even hadst thou heaped no more brands upon the burning!
If to bear hopeless love — to pine with unavailing sorrow — to
repent with continual remorse — to writhe with trampled pride!
— if these things be to suffer, then, Sir King, had I enough suffered
without thy just interposition!” As she spoke, a bitter
sneer curled her lip for a moment; but as she saw Henry
again about to speak, a wilder and higher expression flashed
over all her features: her form appeared to distend, her bosom
heaved, her eye glared, her ringlets seemed to stiffen, as if instinct
with life.
“Nay!” she cried, in a voice clear as the strain of a
silver trumpet — “nay, thou shalt hear me out! And thou
didst swear yesterday I should live in a cloister-cell for ever!
and I replied to thy words then, `Not long!' I have thought
better now; and now I answer, `Never!' Lo here! lo here!
ye who have marked the doom of Armand — mark now the
doom of Marguerite! Ye who have judged the treason, mark
the doom of the traitress!”
And with the words, before any one could interfere, even
had they suspected her intentions, she raised her right hand
on high — and all then saw the quick twinkle of a weapon —
and struck herself, as it seemed, a quick, slight blow immediately
under the left bosom! It seemed a quick, slight blow!
but it had been so accurately studied — so steadily aimed and
fatally — that the keen blade, scarcely three inches long and
very slender, of the best of Milan steel, with nearly a third of
the hilt, was driven home into her very heart. She spoke no
syllable again, nor uttered any cry! — nor did a single spasm
shapely limbs; but she leaped forward, and fell upon her face,
quite dead, at the king's feet!”
Henry smiled not again for many a day thereafter. Charles
de La-Hirè died very old, a Carthusian monk of the strictest
order, having mourned sixty years and prayed in silence for
the sorrows and the sins of that most hapless being.
| The knights of England, France, and Scotland | |