Volume 2 — CHAP. VIII.

CHAP. VIII.

By the time that the first grey streak chequered the dark expanse of the eastern sky, the horses of Charles of Montsoreau, with three others, were standing on the terrace at the foot of the marble steps. The page and Gondrin were there, and also the old groom, a white-headed man of some sixty years of age, who had booted and spurred himself, and buckled on a sword, declaring that he would accompany his young mistress, if it were but to lead the sumpter horse which carried her baggage. A moment after, Marie herself appeared, and Charles of Montsoreau placed her on the beast that had been prepared for her, while the old groom kissed her hand, saying, "I am glad to see you well, dear lady. But fear not; none of your race and none of mine ever died of the plague either, though I have seen it pass by this place twice before now, and I remember eleven corpses lying on those steps at once."

"There are six within those chambers now," replied Marie, shaking her head mournfully. "But I fear not, good Robin,--for myself at least. But you had better lead the way towards Chalet, for the Count tells me that Morvillette is deserted."

"Oh, I will lead you safely, Lady," replied the old man; "and though very likely they may keep us out of many a house on account of where we come from, there is my daughter's cottage where they will take us in, for they do not fear the plague there."

Thus saying, he mounted his horse, and rode on before, through the forest roads, while the lady and her lover followed side by side. As they went on circling round the highest parts of the hills, the grey streaks gradually turned into crimson; the dim objects became more defined in the twilight of morning; a few far distant clouds at the edge of the sky, tossed into fantastic shapes, began to glow like the burning masses of a furnace; the crimson floated like the waves of a sea up towards the zenith; the fiery red next became mingled with bright streaks of gold; the forest world, just budding into light green, was seen below with its multitude of hills and dales, and rocks and streams; the air blew warm and sweet, and full of all the balm of spring; and a thousand birds burst forth on every tree, and carolled joyous hymns to the dawning day.

Never broke there a brighter morning upon earth; never rose the sun in greater splendour; never was the air more balmy, or the voices of the birds more sweet. It seemed as if all were destined to afford to those two lovers the strongest, the strangest, the brightest contrast to the dark dull night of anxiety and emotion which they had passed within the palace they had just left behind them. It seemed to both as an image of the dawn of immortality after the tomb--anxiety, sorrow, danger, death, left behind, and brightness and splendour spread out before.

Each instinctively drew in the rein as the sun's golden edge was raised above the horizon; each gazed in the countenance of the other, as if to see that no trace of the pestilence was there; and each held out the hand to grasp that of the being most loved on earth, and then they raised their eyes to Heaven in thankfulness and joy.

The old man led them on with scarcely a pause towards Chalet; but about a mile from that place he turned to a little hamlet near, where, in a good farm-house inhabited by his daughter and her husband, they found their first resting-place. They were gladly received and heartily welcomed, without the slightest appearance of fear, though the circumstances of their flight were known. The farmer and the farmer's wife set before them the best of all they had, the children served them at the table, and the good woman of the house brought forth a large flask of plague water, and made them drink abundantly, assuring them that it was a sovereign antidote that was never known to fail. They then assigned a room to each, and though it was still daylight they gladly retired to rest. Charles of Montsoreau, though much fatigued, slept not for near an hour, but the house was all kept quiet and still, and, with his thoughts full of her he loved, he fancied and trusted that she was sleeping calmly near him, and in an earnest prayer to Heaven he called down blessings on her slumber. At length sleep visited his own eyes, and he rose refreshed and well. Some fears, some anxieties still remained in his bosom till he again saw the countenance of Marie de Clairvaut. When he did see it, however, fears on her account vanished altogether, for the paleness which had overspread her face the night before had been banished by repose, and the soft warm glow of health was once more upon her cheek. He saw the same anxious look of inquiry upon her countenance; and oh! surely there is something not only sweet and endearing, but elevating also, in the knowledge of such mutual thoughts and cares for each other; something that draws forth even from scenes of pain and peril a joy tender and pure and high for those who love well and truly!

"Fear not, dear Marie," he said; "fear not; for I feel well, and you too look well, so that I trust the danger is over."

"Pray God it be!" said Marie de Clairvaut. "But now, when you will, Charles, I am ready to go on; we may soon reach Maintenon."

"We must avoid the road by Maintenon," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "for that would bring us on the lands of the grasping Duke of Epernon, and we could not run a greater risk. Chartres itself is doubtful; but we must take our way thither, and act according to circumstances. However, dear Marie, our next journey must be long and fatiguing: would it not be better for you to stay here to-night, and take as much repose as you can obtain before you go on?"

"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut; "I am well and strong now, and eager to get forward out of all danger. The bright moon will soon be rising, the sun has not yet set, and we may have five or six hours of calm light to pursue our way."

Her wishes were followed; and they were soon once more upon their way towards the fair old town of Chartres. Their former journey had passed greatly in thought, for deep emotions lay fresh upon their hearts, and burthened them: but now they spoke long and frequently upon every part of their mutual situation. The history of every event that had happened to either, since they had parted at Montsoreau, was told and dwelt upon with all its details: and while the love of Charles of Montsoreau for his fair companion certainly did not diminish, every word that fell from his lips, every act that she heard him relate, and the manner of relating it also, increased in her bosom that love which she had at first perceived with shame, but in which she now began to take a pride as well as a joy.

Nor, indeed, did his conduct and demeanour to herself in the circumstances which surrounded them--circumstances of some difficulty and delicacy--change one bright feeling of her heart towards him. There was very much of that tenderness in his nature, that soft, that gentle kindness, which, when joined with courage and strength, is more powerful on the affections of woman than, perhaps, any other quality; and her feelings were changed and rendered more devoted by being dependent upon him for every thing--protection, and consolation, and support, and affection, and all those little cares and kindnesses which their mutual situation enabled him to show.

Thus they journeyed on for several hours, and at length reached the town of Chartres, having agreed to pass for brother and sister, as the safest means of escaping observation. It was about eleven o'clock at night when they reached the inn, but they were received with all kindness and hospitality, such as innkeepers ever show to those who seem capable of paying for good treatment. No questions were asked, supper was set before them, and the night passed over again in ease and comfort. Every hour, indeed, that went by without displaying any sign of illness was in itself a joy; and there was a stillness and a quietness about the old town of Chartres which seemed to quiet all fears of annoyance or interruption.

Charles of Montsoreau was early up, and was waiting for the appearance of Marie de Clairvaut, when the landlord of the inn appeared to inform him that a horse-litter, which he had ordered to be ready for his inspection, had been brought into the court-yard, and was waiting for him to see. At that moment, however, there was a flourish of trumpets in the street; and, looking forth from the window, the young Count saw a considerable band of mounted soldiers, drawn up, as if about to proceed on their march.

"My sister," he said, turning to the host, "has not yet risen, and she must see the litter, too, as it is for her convenience. But who are these gallant gentlemen before the house, and whither are they going?"

"Why, you might know them, sir, by their plumes and their scarfs," replied the host. "They are a body of the light horse of the guard of the Queen-mother. They are easily distinguished, I ween."

"Ay, but I am a rustic from the provinces," replied the young nobleman: "but they seem gallant-looking soldiers."

"The Captain was making manifold inquiries about you and the young lady who arrived last night," replied the landlord, "for he has come with orders to seek and bring back to Paris some young lady and gentleman that have made their escape lately with eight or nine attendants. But when I told him that you were going to Paris, not coming from it, and that you had only three servants with you, and the young lady was your sister, he said it was not the same, and is now going on. But I must go, lest he should ask for me."

"Well, well," answered the young Count with an air of indifference. "I will be down presently to see the litter; let it wait."

He watched, however, with some anxiety the departure of the body of light horse, for though he did not feel by any means sure that it was himself whom they sought, he did not feel at all secure till the last faint note of their trumpets was heard, as they issued forth from one of the further gates of Chartres. As soon as Marie de Clairvaut appeared, he purchased the litter without much hesitation, and determined to proceed with all speed towards Dourdan and Corbeil.

The host of the inn would have fain had them stay some time longer, for the young Count had paid so readily for the litter, that he judged some gold might be further extracted from his purse. He asked him, therefore, whether there was nothing in the good town of Chartres to excite his curiosity, and was beginning a long list of marvels; but Charles of Montsoreau cut him short, saying, as he looked up at the sign covered with fleurs-de-lis, "No, no, my good host. I have much business on my hands in which his Majesty is not a little concerned, and therefore I must lose no time."

The host nodded his head, looked wise, and suffered the Count and his party to depart without further opposition.

As it was not a part of their plan to follow the high road more than they were actually obliged to do, soon after leaving Chartres they took a path to the left, which they were informed would lead them by Gellardon to Bonnelle, through the fields and woods. Before they had gone a league, however, the noise of dogs and horses, and the shouts, as it seemed, of huntsmen, were heard at no great distance; and turning towards Gondrin the young Count asked, "What can they be hunting at this time of year?"

"The wolf, my Lord, the wolf," replied the man. "They hunt wolves at all times."

Scarcely had he spoken, when a loud yell of the dogs was heard; and nodding his head sagaciously, as if he had seen the whole proceeding with his mind's eye, Gondrin added, "They have killed him;" which was confirmed by a number of joyous morts on the horns of the huntsmen.

"Let us proceed as fast as possible," said Charles of Montsoreau; "we know not who those huntsmen may be:" and he was urging the driver of the litter to hurry on his horses rapidly, when the whole road before them was suddenly filled with a gay party of cavaliers, splendidly dressed and accoutred, and coming direct towards them. There was nothing now to be done but to pass on quietly if possible; and, taking no apparent notice, but bending his head and speaking into the litter, without even seeing of whom the other party was composed, Charles of Montsoreau was riding on, when a loud voice was heard exclaiming "Halt there! halt! A word with you if you please, young sir;" and, looking up, he saw the Duke of Epernon.

Without suffering the slightest surprise to appear upon his countenance, or the slightest apprehension, Charles of Montsoreau turned his head, demanding calmly, "Well, my Lord, what is your pleasure with me?"

"My pleasure is," replied the Duke, "that you instantly turn your horse's head and go back to Epernon with me."

"I am extremely sorry, my Lord," replied the Count, "that it is quite impossible for me to do what you propose, as I am upon urgent business for the Duke of Guise, and bear the King's passport and safe-conduct, which I presume your Lordship will not despise."

"You may bear the King's passport, sir," said the Duke, "but you certainly do not bear his authorisation to carry away from his power the young lady who I suppose is in that litter. As to the Duke of Guise, your authority from him is very much doubted also."

"That doubt is easily removed, my Lord," replied the Count, seeing clearly that he would be forced to yield, but fully resolved not to do so till he had tried every means to avoid it. "That doubt is easily removed, my Lord. Allow me to show you the authority given me by the Duke under his own hand, which I think even the Duke of Epernon must respect."

The Duke took the paper which he tendered him, and then saying, "I will show you how I respect it," he tore it into a thousand pieces, and cast it beneath his horse's feet, while a laugh ran through the men that attended him. "Turn your horse's head," he continued, "without more ado, or I will have your arms tied behind your back, and the horse led."

"My Lord," replied the young Count, "I must obey, for I have no means of resisting; but let me remind you, that the Duke of Epernon was always considered, even before what he is now, a gallant gentleman and a man of good feeling, who would not insult those who were too weak to oppose him, and who did their duty honourably as far as it was possible for them to do it."

"Your civility now, sir," replied the Duke, "like your rash folly a week or two ago, is too contemptible to make any change in the Duke of Epernon. That foolish party of light horse," he continued, speaking to one of his attendants, "must have suffered this malapert youth and his fair charge to have passed it. Turn the litter round there; take care that none of them escape."

"The boy has made off already," replied one of the men. "Shall I gallop after him, my Lord? He may tell the Duke of Guise."

"Let him!" answered Epernon. "Go not one of you; but bring the rest of them along hither."

Without giving any intimation of his intent, Charles of Montsoreau turned his horse suddenly back to the side of the litter, and drew the curtain back, saying to Marie de Clairvaut, who sat pale and anxious within it, "You hear what has happened; there is no power of resistance, for they are ten to one: but the boy has escaped, and will give the Duke notice of where you are. In the mean time it is one comfort, that now you are in the hands of one who is, at all events, a man of honour and a gentleman in feeling."

What he said was intended to give comfort and consolation to Marie de Clairvaut; but it reached the ear of the Duke of Epernon likewise. "I must suffer no farther conversation," he said in a gentler tone than he had before used. "You will understand, Monsieur de Logères, that I have authority for what I do; and that I arrest you out of no personal vengeance, but because the order has been already given to that effect."

"My Lord," replied the young Count, "I care very little for my own arrest, as I know that I can but be detained a short time: but I confess I am most anxious for the young lady placed under my especial charge by the Duke of Guise, as I have shown your Lordship by the paper you have torn. If she is to remain in your Lordship's charge, I shall be more satisfied; but if she is to be given up to Monsieur de Villequier, the consequences will indeed be painful to all. You are perhaps not aware, my Lord, that he sent her to a place where the plague was raging at the time, where six persons of her household died of it, and the rest fled, leaving her utterly alone."

The Duke seemed moved, and after remaining silent for a minute, he replied, "I did not know it; the man who would murder his wife, would make no great scruple of killing his cousin, I suppose. However, sir, set your mind at ease: though I cannot promise that she shall remain with the Duchess of Epernon, she shall not be given up to Villequier either by myself or by any body in whose hands I may place her. Is that assurance sufficient for you?"

"Perfectly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "The Duke of Epernon's promise is as good as the bond of other men."

"Well, follow me, then," replied the Duke, and, riding on alone, he left the young Count in the hands of his attendants.