Volume 3 — CHAP. XI.

CHAP. XI.

Was the Duke of Guise unconscious of the dangers that surrounded him? Was he unaware that the power which he assumed, and the power which the States also put upon him, could not but render him obnoxious in the highest degree to the King, who, though weak and indolent, was jealous of that authority which he failed himself to exercise for the benefit of his people? Was the Duke ignorant that the Monarch was as treacherous as feeble, was as remorseless as vicious? Was it unknown to him, that to all the creatures who surrounded the King he was an object of hatred and jealousy; and that there were ready hands and base hearts enough to attempt any thing which the royal authority might warrant?

He was not so ignorant, or so unaware: he had been warned sufficiently, days and weeks before; but even had that not been the case, on that very night he received sufficient intimations of his danger to put him on his guard.

He had presided at the supper-table as Grand Master of the King's household, and he had received his guests with easy courtesy. The meal was over somewhat sooner than usual; and, the business of the State being considerably slackened, in consequence of the approaching festival of Christmas, he sat in his cabinet with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut only, enjoying an hour of refreshment in calm and tranquil conversation upon subjects, which, however agitating to them, was merely a matter of pleasant interest to him.

Charles of Montsoreau sat by his side making some notes of various little things that the Duke told him, and Marie de Clairvaut was seated on a stool at his feet, while he looked down upon her, from time to time, with the sort of parental tenderness which he had displayed towards her from her infancy.

A pleasing sort of melancholy had come over him,--a sadness without grief, and mingling even occasionally with gaiety. It was that sort of present consciousness of the emptiness of all worldly things, which every man at some moment feels, even the ambitious, the greedy, the zealous, the passionate. Perhaps that which had brought such a mood upon him, was the contrast of all the arrangements for his fair ward's marriage and the deep and intense feelings which that event excited in the bosom of herself and Charles of Montsoreau, with the eager and fiery struggles in which he had been lately taking part, while engaged in the dark fierce strife of ambition, or tossed in the turbid whirlpool of political intrigue. And thus he sat, and thus he talked with them of their future prospects and their coming happiness, sometimes speaking seriously, nay gravely--sometimes jesting lightly, and smiling when he had made Marie cast down her eyes.

As he thus sat there was a tap at the door of his cabinet, and the Duke knowing it to be the page, bade him enter; when the boy Ignati appearing, informed him that the Count de Schomberg was without.

"Bid him come in," replied the Duke, keeping his seat, and making a sign for his companions not to stir. "Welcome, Schomberg," he said; "you see that I am plotting no treason here. What do you think of my two children? Joinville will be jealous of my eldest son. But, jesting apart, I think you know the Count de Logères. My niece, Marie, I know you have had many a time upon your knee in her infancy."

Schomberg bowed to each, but gravely; and replied to the Duke, who held out his hand to him, "My dear Duke, I wish every body were as well persuaded that you are plotting no treason as I am. But I come to speak to your Highness upon a matter of business. I have a warning to give you," he added in a whisper.

"Oh! speak it aloud; speak it aloud," replied the Duke. "If it concerns myself, you may well speak it before these two."

"Indeed!" said Schomberg, apparently hesitating, and running his eyes over the tapestry, as if calculating how he had best proceed. "My good Lord Duke," he said, at length, "I believe you know that there are few who love you better than myself, though I neither am nor affect to be a zealot, but rather what your people call one of the Politics."

"I know Schomberg, what you mean," said the Duke; "you are my friend, but not my partisan. I can make the distinction, Schomberg, and love the friend no less. What have you to say?"

"Why this, my Lord," replied Schomberg. "Look up above the door there, just before your eyes. Do you see how beautifully they have carved in the black oak the figure of a porcupine, and how all the sharp and prickly quills stick out, ready to wound the hand that touches it?"

"Yes, I see," replied the Duke. "But do you know the history of that porcupine, Schomberg?"

"Yes," answered the Count, "I know it well, my Lord of Guise. Both in the stonework and the woodwork of this castle, there are many such. They were placed there, I think, my Lord--am I not right?--by an old monarch of France, as a sort of device, to signify that whoever grasps royalty too rudely, will suffer injury in consequence."

The Duke smiled in the same placid mood as before, but replied, "In the next chamber, Schomberg, which is my own bedchamber, you may see the device of Francis the First too,--a salamander unhurt in the midst of flames; which may be interpreted to mean, that strong courage is never more at ease than in the midst of perils."

A grave smile came over the face of Schomberg, to find the figures in which he involved his warning so easily retorted by the Duke of Guise. "I have heard of your Highness," he said, without noticing the Duke's reply, "that not very many years ago you were known to swim against the stream of the Loire armed at all points. You are a strong man, my Lord Duke; but there are other streams you cannot swim against, depend upon it."

"Then I will try to go with the current, Schomberg," replied the Duke. "As long as that is with me, it will bear me up."

"But it may dash you against a rock, Duke," replied Schomberg; "and I see one straight before you."

He spoke sternly and impressively, and Guise listened to him with more attention. "Speak, Schomberg, he said; speak; you may speak clearly before them. But sit, good friend; pray thee sit. Standing there before me, with your sad aspect and warning voice, you look like a spectre."

"Well, my Lord," said Schomberg, seating himself, "I have certain information that there are evil designs against you, ripe, or almost ripe, for execution. Your life is in danger. Guise; I tell you truly, I tell you sincerely, and I beseech you to hear me. Your life is in danger, and you have no time to lose if you would place it in safety."

"Why, what would you have me to do, Schomberg?" said the Duke in a tone not exactly indifferent, but still showing no great interest in the subject.

"I would have you mount your horse this night," replied Schomberg, "or at day-break tomorrow. I would have you gather your train together, take these two young people with you, and retiring to Paris, inform the King that you had proof your life was not safe at Blois."

The Duke of Guise meditated for a moment, and then replied, "Schomberg, I cannot grasp this fear. Brought up to arms from my youth, cradled in the tented field, with death surrounding me at every hour of life, I cannot feel as other men might feel in moments of peril to myself. Neither will I ever have it said of me, that I willingly fled from my post under the apprehension of any personal danger."

"By our old friendship. Guise," replied Schomberg, "by our companionship in the fields of other days, I beseech you to consider and to judge wisely. Remember, if the vengeance of a monarch, or the instigation of villanous courtiers, were to have success, and you were to fall beneath the blow of an assassin, what would become of your children, all yet in their youth? what would become of your relations and your friends, placed, as you have placed them, on a high pinnacle, to be aimed at by a crowd of idle minions with their bird-bolts? What would become of your son?"

"Joinville must make his own fame," replied the Duke, "and guard his own rights with his own sword. I was left earlier than he is without a parent's care; with a host of enemies around me; with my father's name, giving me a heritage of envy and hatred; and with no support but my own sword. With that sword I have bowed those enemies to the dust, and Joinville must show himself worthy to bear it too."

He paused, and meditated for a moment or two, and then added, "After all, Schomberg, I do not see that there can be much danger. Here, in the castle, I am as strong or stronger than the King. When I go forth, I am so well accompanied, that it would be difficult to surprise me, if they attacked me with numbers. A single assassin might dog my steps, it is true; but I do not know that man upon the face of the earth, who, hand to hand with me, would not have more than an equal share of fear and danger. However, I will think of what you have said, and will take good care to be more upon my guard than ever. At the same time, Schomberg, I thank you most sincerely, and look upon your regard as one of the best possessions that I have."

"Guise," said Schomberg, rising and approaching the door, "I have failed with you. But I yield not my point yet. I will send those to you who may have more influence."

"Stay, Schomberg, stay!" cried the Duke; but his friend passed through the door and would not return.

Charles of Montsoreau then raised his voice in the same cause as Schomberg, and Marie de Clairvaut entreated anxiously that he would yield to what had been proposed. But at them the Duke only laughed.

"Hush, hush!" he said. "Logères, you do not know what you say. There, kiss her and be gone. To-morrow she shall be yours, no more to part. Say no more, silly girl; say no more. You, a child of a Guise, talk to me of fear! Call thy maidens, get thee to thy bed, and rise to-morrow with bright eyes and blooming cheeks. Fare thee well, sweet one. I long to be quit of thy guardianship."

Remonstrance was useless, and they parted; and the Duke of Guise sitting down for a moment, gave himself up to thought. His eyes were fixed upon the dark tapestry opposite, where was depicted a woody scene, the particulars of which could not be well distinguished by the dim light of the lamp.

After he had gazed for a moment or two, however, his eyes assumed a peculiar expression, a fixed, intense, and somewhat bewildered stare. He passed his hand twice before them, as if he felt them dim or dazzled; then clasped his hands together and gazed, still muttering to himself, "Strange, very strange! It is there still!" And starting up from the table, he seized the lamp, and advanced directly towards the side of the room on which his eyes had been fixed, still gazing stedfastly on the same spot. At length, as he approached close to the wall, his features relaxed, and he said with a smile, "It is gone! These delusions of the sight are wonderful!"

He had not yet returned to his seat, when the door on his right hand opened gently, and the form of a woman glided in. It was that of the beautiful being with whom he had parted in some anger at the King's ball, and she gazed at him, evidently surprised to see him standing with the lamp in his hand close to the wall, on a side where there was no exit.

"In the name of Heaven, Guise! what is the matter?" she said. "I heard you speaking as I came in. You are pale; your lip quivers!"

"It is nothing; it is nothing," replied the Duke, putting down the lamp, and taking her hand. "This is, indeed, dear and kind of you, Charlotte. I trusted, I was sure, that your anger for a light offence would not last long."

"It would have lasted long, Guise," she said, "or at least its effects would not have passed away, had it not been for the warning that I have received concerning you. Guise, you would not have seen me now--you would never have seen me in these rooms again----"

"Nay, nay," interrupted the Duke, "traduce not so your own nature. Say not that a few unthinking words would render her so harsh, who is so gentle."

"They were not unthinking words, Henry of Guise," replied the Lady. "They were words of deep meaning, to be read and understood at once. Think you that I could misunderstand them? Think you that I could not read that Guise would not suffer the pure to dwell with the impure? However," she added quickly, seeing that the Duke was going to interrupt her, "let me speak of other things. I was about to say that you would not have seen me this night, you would never have seen me in these chambers again, had I not learned that your life was in danger; and then my fears for you showed me that my love was unchanged, and I came, at all risks, to warn you, and to beseech you to be gone."

"Nay, nay," replied the Duke. "How can I be gone when you are here, Charlotte? And, besides, there is no real danger. It is Schomberg has frightened you, I know. He came here with the same tale; but I showed him there was no danger."

"It was not from Schomberg!" said Madame de Noirmontier vehemently. "I have never seen Schomberg since I have been here. It was from the Queen; it was from Catherine herself that I heard it. She told me to tell you; she told me to warn you. Her son, she said, had not divulged to her his scheme; but from her knowledge of the man, and from the words he used, she was certain that he would attempt your life within three days."

"Then his attempt will fail, dear Charlotte," said the Duke, holding her hand tenderly in his. "Fear not for me; I am fully upon my guard; and in this château, and this town, am stronger than the King himself."

"Oh Guise, Guise, you are deceiving yourself," she said, bursting into tears. "Twice I have been at your door this night, but the page told me there was some one with you; and now I have come determined not to leave you, till I see you making preparations to depart. Let me entreat you, let me beseech you," she continued, as Guise wiped away her tears. "Nay, Guise, nay; in this I will take no refusal. If not for your own sake, for my love you shall fly. You shall treat me ill, as you did before, again and again. You shall make a servant of me--a slave. You will not surely refuse me, when you see me kneeling at your feet." And she sunk upon her knees before him, and clasped her fair hands in entreaty. The Duke was raising her tenderly, when the page's knock was heard at the door; and before he could well give the command to enter, the boy was in the room.

"My Lord," he said, "there is Monsieur Chapelle Marteau, and several other gentlemen, desiring earnestly to speak with you."

Madame de Noirmontier looked wildly round the room, and seemed about to pass through the door by which the page had entered. "Be not alarmed," said the Duke, "you cannot pass there, Charlotte. These men will not be with me above a few minutes. Pass into that room, and wait till they are gone. I have a thousand things to say to you, and will dismiss them soon."

After a moment's hesitation she did as he directed, and turning to the page, the Duke bade him admit the party who were waiting without. It consisted of Chapelle Marteau, the President de Neuilli, a gentleman of the name of Mandreville, the Duke's brother the Cardinal de Guise, and the Archbishop of Lyons.

The Duke received them with that winning grace for which he was famous, and soon learned from them that their visit was owing to the information received from the Count de Schomberg. Every one then present, but the Archbishop of Lyons, urged him strongly to quit Blois immediately. They had come in a body, they said, in hopes that their remonstrances might have the greater effect. Each had heard in the course of the evening those rumours which generally announce great events; some had been told that the Duke was arrested; some that he had been absolutely assassinated in the gardens of the château; and some that the act was to be performed that night by a number of soldiers, who had been privately introduced into the castle.

Guise listened silently and with great attention, displaying in demeanour every sort of deference and respect for the opinions of those who showed such an interest in his fate. He replied, however, that he trusted and hoped that both the rumours they had heard, and the intelligence given by Schomberg, originated in nothing but mistaken words, or in those idle and unfounded reports which always multiply themselves in moments of great political agitation and excitement. Besides this, he said, even if the King were disposed to attempt his life, the execution of such an act would be very difficult, if not impossible; and that, considering before all things his duty to his country, the very fact of the King seeking such a thing ought to be the strongest reason for his stay, inasmuch as the Monarch's animosity could only be excited towards him out of enmity to the Catholic Church, and a disposition to repress and tyrannise over the States.

"If such be his feelings," continued the Duke, "we must consider ourselves as two armies in presence of each other, and the one that retreats of course awards the victory to his adversary."

The Archbishop of Lyons, perhaps, was the person who decided the fate of the Duke of Guise; for had the party which came to him been unanimous and urgent in their remonstrance, there is a probability that he would have yielded; but the Archbishop seemed doubtful and undecided. He said that he thought, indeed, it might be well the Duke should go; at least for a time. But they had to consider, also, the probabilities of the King making any attempt upon the Duke. Though weak, timid, and indolent, Henry was shrewd and farseeing, he said. The only result that could follow an attempt upon a person so beloved by the whole nation, and especially by the States, as the Duke of Guise, would be to arm the people of France in an instant against the sovereign authority. This the King must well know, he continued; and that consideration made him less eager upon the subject, though he thought it might be as well that his Highness should retire for a time.

His speech more than counterbalanced the exhortations of all the rest; and from that moment the resolution of the Duke became immovable. His dauntless mind, which might have yielded had he stood absolutely alone in opinion, came instantly to the conclusion, that if there were a single individual who doubted whether he should fly or not, he himself ought to decide upon remaining. He made no answer to the Archbishop's speech, but suffered Mandreville to combat his arguments without interruption. That gentleman replied that Henry, far from being the person represented, though cunning, was any thing but prudent. Had they ever seen, he demanded, the cunning of the King, even in the least degree, restrain or control him? Had the self-evident risk of his throne, of his life, and of the welfare of his people, ever made him pause in the commission of one frantic, vicious, or criminal act? He was no better, the deputy said, than a cunning madman, such as was frequently seen, who, having determined upon any act, however absurd or evil might be the consequences, even to the destruction of his own self, would arrive at it by some means, and go directly to his purpose, in despite of all obstacles. He contended that they had good reason to know that the King devised evil against the Duke; and they might depend upon it that no consideration of policy, right, or religion, would prevent him from executing his purpose by some means.

He spoke truly, and with more thorough insight into the character of the King than any one previously had done; but the resolution of the Duke of Guise, as we have said before, was already taken.

"My good friends," he said in conclusion, "I thank you most sincerely, and I shall ever feel grateful for the interest that you have taken in me, and for your anxiety regarding me on the present occasion. But my resolution is taken, and must be unalterable. I cannot but acknowledge that the view of Monsieur de Mandreville may have much truth in it; but, nevertheless, matters are now at such a point, that if I were to see death coming in at that window, I would not seek the door."

Against a determination so forcibly expressed, there was, of course, no possibility of holding further argument; and after a word or two more on different subjects of less interest--the Duke of Guise replying as briefly as possible to every thing that was said--the party took their leave and retired.