Volume 2 — CHAP. X.

CHAP. X.

In a small, dark, oaken cabinet with one window high up and barred, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, a table with books and a musical instrument, several chairs, and a silver bell, Charles of Montsoreau was seated several days after the period at which we last left him. A bedroom well furnished in every respect was beyond; the least sound of the silver bell produced immediate attendance; nothing was refused him that he demanded; nothing was wanting to his comfort except liberty and the sound of some other human being's voice. Yet, strange to say, although he knew that he was in the city of Paris, he knew nothing more of the position of the building in which he was placed. He had been brought into the capital at night, had been conducted through a number of narrow and tortuous streets, and had at length been led through a deep archway and several large courts, to the place in which he was now confined.

It may seem perhaps that such a state of imprisonment did not offer much to complain of; and yet it had bent his spirit and bowed down his heart. The want of all knowledge of what was passing around him, the absence of every one that he loved, the loss of liberty, the perfect silence, joined with anxiety for one who was dearer to him than himself, wore him day by day, and took from him the power of enjoying any of those things which were provided for his convenience or amusement.

The servant who attended upon him never opened his lips, he obeyed any orders that were given to him, he brought any thing that was demanded; but he replied to no questions, he made no observations, he afforded no information even by a look. Every bolt and bar that was on the outside of the door was invariably drawn behind him, and the high window in either room could only be so far reached even by standing on the table or one of the chairs, as to enable the young nobleman to open or shut it at pleasure, so to admit the free air from without.

Such had been the condition of Charles of Montsoreau, as we have said, for many days; but he had not yet become reconciled in any degree to his fate, though he strove, as far as possible, to while away the moments in any way that was permitted, either by books or music. But it was with impatience and disgust that he did so, and the lute was taken up and laid down, the book read and cast away, without remaining in his hands for the space of five minutes.

The sun shone bright through the high window, and traced a moving spot of golden light upon the dark oak of the opposite wainscot; the air of spring came sweet and pleasantly through, and gave him back the thoughts and dreams of liberty; a wild plant rooted in the stonework of the building without, cast its light feathery shadow on the wall where the sun shone, and the hum and roar of distant multitudes, pursuing their busy course in the thronged thoroughfares of the city, brought him his only tidings from the hurried and struggling scene of human life.

He took a pleasure in watching the leaves of the little plant as, waved about by the wind, they played against the bars of the window, and he was thus occupied on the day we have mentioned, when suddenly something crossed the light for a moment, as if some small bird had flown by; but at the same instant a roll of paper fell at his feet, and taking it up, he recognised the well-known writing of the Duke of Guise.

"You have suffered for my sake," the paper said, "and I hastened to deliver you. The day of the Epernons is over; your place of imprisonment is known. Be not dispirited, therefore, for relief is at hand."

It cannot be told how great was the relief which this note itself brought to the mind of the young Count, not alone by the promise that it held out, but by the very feeling that it gave him of not being utterly forgotten, of being not entirely alone and desolate. He read it over two or three times, and then hearing one of the bolts of the door undrawn, he concealed it hastily lest the attendant should see it.

Another bolt was immediately afterwards pulled back, and then the door was unlocked, though far more slowly than usual. It seemed to the young Count that an unaccustomed hand was busy with the fastenings, and a faint hope of speedy deliverance shot across his mind.

The next instant, however, the door was opened, and though it certainly was not the usual attendant who appeared, no face presented itself that was known to Charles of Montsoreau. The figure was that of a woman, tall, stately, and dressed in garments of deep black, fitting tightly round the shoulders and the waist, and flowing away in ample folds below. Her hair was entirely covered by black silk and lace, but her face was seen, and that face was one which instantly drew all attention to itself.

It was not indeed the beauty which attracted, though there were great remains of beauty too, but it was the face not only of an old woman, but of one who had been somewhat a spendthrift of youth's charms. There was, however, a keen fire in the eyes, a strong determination on the brow, an expansion of the nostril, which gave the idea of quick and eager feelings, and a degree of sternness about the whole line of the features, which would have made the whole countenance commanding, but harsh and severe, had it not been for a light and playful smile that gleamed across the whole, like some of the bright and sudden rays of light that from to time we see run across the bosom of deep still shady waters.

There was a degree of mockery in that smile, too; and yet it spoke affections and feelings which as strangely blended with the general character of that woman's life, as the smile itself did with the general expression of her countenance. The hands were beautiful and delicately small, and the figure good, with but few signs of age about it.

The young Count gazed upon her with some surprise as she entered, but instantly rose from the seat in which he had been sitting while reading the Duke of Guise's note; and the lady, with a graceful inclination of the head, closed the door, advanced and seated herself, examining the young Count from head to foot with a look of calm consideration, which he very well understood implied the habitual exercise of authority and power.

After thus gazing at him for a moment or two, she said, "Monsieur le Comte de Logères, do you know me?"

"If you mean, madam," he replied, "to ask me if I recognise your person, I believe I do; but if you would ask absolutely whether I know you, I must say, no."

One of those light smiles passed quick across her countenance, and she said in a low voice, as if speaking to herself, "Who ever did know me?" She then added, "Who then do you suppose I am?"

"I conclude, madam," replied the young Count, "that I stand in the presence of her Majesty the Queen-mother."

"Such is the case," replied the Queen, "and I have come to visit you, Monsieur de Logères, with views and purposes which, were I to tell them to any person at my son's court, would hardly be believed."

The Queen paused, as if waiting for an answer; and the young Count replied, "I trust, madam, that if I am detained here by the directions, and in the power of your Majesty, that you have come to give me liberty, which would, I suppose," he added with somewhat of a smile, "be rather marvellous to the courtiers of the King."

Catharine de Medici smiled also, but at the same time shook her head. "I fear I must not give you liberty," she said, "for I have promised not: but I have come with no bad intent towards you. I knew your mother, Monsieur de Logères, and a virtuous and beautiful woman she was. God help us! it shows that I am growing old, my praising any woman for her virtue. However, she was what I have said, and as unlike myself as possible. Perhaps that was the reason that I liked her, for we like not things that are too near ourselves. However, I have come hither to see her son, and to do him a pleasure. You play upon the lute?" she continued. "Come, 'tis a long time since I have heard the lute well played. Take up the instrument, and add your voice to it."

"Alas, madam," replied the young Count, "I am but in an ill mood for music. If I sang you a melancholy lay it would find such stirring harmonies in my own heart, that I fear I should drown the song in tears; and if I sang you a gay one, it would be all discord. I would much rather open that door which you have left unlocked behind you, and go out."

The Queen did not stir in the slightest degree, but gazed upon him attentively with a look of compassion, answering, "Alas! poor bird, you would find that your cage has a double door. But come, do as I bid you; sit down there, take up the lute and sing. Let your song be neither gay nor sad! Let it be a song of love. I doubt not that such a youth as you are, will easily find a love ditty in your heart, though the present inspiration be no better than an old woman. Come, Monsieur de Logères, come: sit down and sing. I am a judge of music, I can tell you."

With a faint smile the Count did as she bade him; and taking up the lute, he ran his fingers over the chords, thought for a moment or two, and recollecting nothing better suited to the moment, he sang an Italian song of love, in which sometime before he had ventured to shadow forth to Marie de Clairvaut, when she was at Montsoreau, the first feelings of affection that were growing up in his heart. The Queen sat by in the mean time, listening attentively, with her head a little bent forward, and her hand marking the cadences on her knee.

"Beautifully sung, Monsieur de Logères," she said at length when he ended. "Beautifully sung, and as well accompanied. You do not know how much pleasure you have given.--Now, let us talk of other things. Are you sincere, man?"

"I trust so, madam," replied the Count. "I believe I have never borne any other character."

"Who taught you to play so well on the lute?" demanded the Queen abruptly.

"I have had no great instruction, madam," answered the Count somewhat surprised. "I taught myself a little in my boyhood. But afterwards my preceptor, the Abbé de Boisguerin, was my chief instructor. He had learned well in Italy."

"Did he teach you sincerity too?" demanded the Queen with a keen look; "and did he learn that in Italy?"

The Count was not a little surprised to find Catherine's questions touch so immediately upon the late discoveries he had made of the character of the Abbé de Boisguerin, and he replied with some bitterness, "He could but teach me, madam, that which he possessed himself. I trust that to my nature and my blood I owe whatever sincerity may be in me. I learned it from none but from God and my own heart."

"Then you know him," said the Queen, reaching the point at once; "that is sufficient at present on that subject. I know him too. He came to the court of France several years ago, with letters from my fair cousin the Cardinal; but he brought with him nothing that I wanted at that time. He had a wily head, a handsome person, manifold accomplishments, great learning, and services for the highest bidder. We had too many such things at the court already, so I thought that the sooner he was out of it the better, and looked cold upon him till he went. He understood the matter well, and did not return till he brought something in his hand to barter for favour. However, Monsieur de Logères, to turn to other matters; I do believe you may be sincere after all. I shall discover in a minute, however. Will you answer me a question or two concerning the Duke of Guise?"

"It depends entirely upon what they are, madam," replied the Count at once.

"Then you will not answer me every question, even if it were to gain your liberty."

"Certainly not, madam," replied the Count.

"Then the Duke has been speaking ill of me," said Catherine at once, "otherwise you would not be so fearful."

"Not so, indeed," replied the Count, eagerly. "The Duke never, in my presence, uttered a word against your Majesty."

"Then will you tell me, as a man of honour," demanded the Queen, "exactly, word for word what you have ever heard the Duke say of me?"

Charles of Montsoreau paused and thought for a moment, and then answered, "I may promise you to do so in safety, madam, for I never heard the Duke speak of you but twice, and then it was in high praise."

"Indeed!" she replied. "But still I believe you, for Villequier has been assuring me of the contrary, and, of course, what he says must be false. He cannot help himself, poor man. Now, tell me what the Duke said, Monsieur de Logères. Perhaps I may be able to repay you some time."

"I seek for no bribe, your Majesty," replied the Count smiling; "and, indeed, the honour and the pleasure of this visit----"

"Nay, nay! You a courtier, young gentleman!" exclaimed the Queen, shaking her finger at him. "Another such word as that, and you will make me doubt the whole tale."

"The speech would not have been so courtier-like, madam, if it had been ended," replied the Count. "I was going to have said, that the honour and pleasure of this visit, after not having heard for many days, many weeks I believe, the sound of a human voice, or seen any other face but that of one attendant, is full repayment for the little that I have to tell. However, madam, to gratify you with regard to the Duke, the first time that I ever heard him mention you was in the city of Rheims, where a number of persons were collected together, and many violent opinions were expressed, with which I will not offend your ears; your past life was spoken of by some of the gentlemen present----"

"Pass over that, pass over that! I understand!" replied the Queen with a sarcastic smile; "I understand. But those things are not worth speaking of. What of the present, Monsieur de Logères? What of the present?"

"Why, some one expressed an opinion, madam," the Count continued, "that in order to retain a great share of power, you did every thing you could to keep his Majesty in the lethargic and indolent state in which I grieve to say he appears to the great mass of his subjects."

"What said the Duke?" demanded the Queen. "What said the Duke? surely he knows me better."

"Why, madam," replied the Count, "his eye brightened and his colour rose, and he replied indignantly that it could not be so. 'Oh no,' he said, 'happy had it been for France if, instead of divided power, the Queen-mother had possessed the whole power. It is by petty minds mingling their leven with their great designs that ruin has come upon the land. She has had to deal with great men, great events, and great difficulties, and she was equal to deal with, if not to bow them all down before her, had she but been permitted to deal with them unshackled.'"^[4]

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Queen; "did he say so?"

"He did, madam, upon my honour," replied the Count.

"I know not whether he was right or wrong," rejoined the Queen thoughtfully; "for though perhaps, Monsieur de Logères, I possessed in some things the powers of a man--say, if you will, greater powers than most men--yet, alas! in others, I had all the weaknesses of a woman--perhaps I should say, to balance other qualities, more weaknesses than most women. But he must have said more. The answer was not pertinent to the remark, and Henry of Guise is not a man either in speech or action ever to forget his object."

"Nor did he in this instance," replied the Count; "but he said that, wearied out with seeing your best and greatest schemes frustrated by the weakness of others, you now contented yourself with warding off evils as far as possible from your son and from the state; that it was evident that such was your policy; and that, like Miron, the King's physician, unable from external circumstances to effect a cure, you treated the diseases of the times with a course of palliatives; that, as the greatest of all evils, you knew and saw the apathy of his Majesty, and did all that you could to rouse him, but that the poisonous counsels of Villequier, the soft indolence of his own nature, and the enfeebling society of Epernon and others, resisted all that you could do, and thwarted you here likewise."

"He spoke wisely, and he spoke truly," replied the Queen; "and I will tell you, Monsieur de Logères, though Henry of Guise and I can never love each other much, yet I felt sure that he knew me too well to say all those things of me that have been reported by his enemies. I am satisfied with what I have heard, Count, and shall ask no further questions. But you have given me pleasure, and I will do my best to serve you. Once more, let us speak of other things. Have you all that you desire and want here?"

"No, madam," replied the young Count. "I want many things--liberty, the familiar voices of my friends, the sight of those I love. Every thing that the body wants I have; and you or some of your attendants have supplied me with books and music; but it is in such a situation as this, your Majesty, that one learns that the heart requires food as well as the body or the mind."

"The heart!" replied Catharine de Medici thoughtfully. "I once knew what the heart was, and I have not quite forgotten it yet. Did you mark my words after you had sung, Monsieur de Logères?"

"You were pleased to praise my poor singing much more than it deserved, madam," replied the young Count.

"Something more than that, my good youth," replied the Queen. "I told you that it had given more pleasure than you knew of. I might have added, that it gave pleasure to more than you knew of, for there was another ear could hear it besides mine."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Count gazing eagerly in the Queen's face; "and pray who might that be?"

"One that loves you," replied Catharine de Medici. "One that loves you very well, Monsieur de Logères." And rising from her chair she put her hand to her brow, as if in deep thought. "Well," she said at length; "something must be risked, and I will risk something for that purpose. The time is not far distant, Monsieur de Logères--I see it clearly--when by some means you will be set at liberty; but, notwithstanding that, it may be long before you find such a thing even as an hour's happiness. You are a frank and generous man, I believe; you will not take advantage of an act of kindness to behave ungenerously. I go away from you for a moment or two, and leave that door open behind me, trusting to your honour."

She waited for no reply, but quitted the room; and Charles of Montsoreau stood gazing upon the door, doubtful of what was her meaning, and how he was to act. Some of her words might be interpreted as a hint to escape; but others had directly a contrary tendency, and a moment after he heard her unlock and pass another door, and close but not lock it behind her.