CHAPTER XXXIII.
In change lies all our joy; in change lies all our pain. Change is thetrue Janus whose two faces are always looking different ways. I knownot whether it may please the reader, but I must change the place andthe time, and change it so suddenly and so far as to pass over for atime, events not only interesting in themselves, but affecting deeplythe fate of those who have formed the principal objects of my history.Yet it must be so, for there are inexorable laws established by judgesagainst whom is no appealing, which limit the teller of a tale to acertain space; and were I to relate in detail all the events whichoccupied the two years succeeding the events last mentioned in thisbook, I should far transgress the regulations of the craft, andperhaps exhaust the patience of my readers. Those events, therefore,must be gathered from others which followed, and, indeed, perhaps thisis the best, as it certainly is the shortest way of giving them to thepublic.
There is a fine old chateau in the south of France, two towers ofwhich are still standing, and hardly injured by the tooth of time. Ihave a picture of it before me by the hand of one who, born in loftystation and of surpassing excellence, was, as a beacon at a port ofrefuge, raised high to direct aright all who approached her, who livednot only honoured, but beloved, and has not left a nobler or a betterbehind. Her eye can never see these lines; her ear can never hearthese words; but I would that this work were worthy to be a monumentmore lasting than brass, to write on it an epitaph truer than any thatever consoled the living or eulogised the dead.
I have the picture before me, with two great towers standing on thewooded hill, with vineyards at the foot, and many a ruined fragmentscattered round, showing where the happy and the gay once trod, andcommenting silently upon the universal doom. Oh! a ruin is the best_memento mori_, for it tells not the fate of one, but of manygenerations, and gives to death that universality which most impressesthe mind and most prepares the heart.
Those buildings were all fresh, and many of them new at the time ofwhich I write. Not a century had passed since the first stone of thewhole edifice was laid; and sumptuously furnished, after the fashionof those times, was the great suite of rooms occupying one floor ofboth those great towers and of the connecting building, now fallen.
In one of these rooms was a fine hall, lighted by windows ofmany-coloured glass, with two oriels or bays penetrating the thickwalls and projecting into air, supported by light brackets and corbelsof stonework without. The floor of those bays was raised two or threesteps above the ordinary level of the hall, and each formed, as itwere, a separate room within the room.
In one of those bays, just two years after the event which closed thelast chapter, sat a tall, powerful man of perhaps thirty-six years ofage, dressed in those gorgeous garments of peace which were common tothe higher classes in that day. His face was somewhat weather-beaten;there was a scar upon his cheek and on his hand, and the short,curling hair over the forehead had been somewhat worn away by thepressure of the helmet. On the back of the head and on the temples itflowed in unrestrained luxuriance, somewhat grey, indeed, but with thedeep brown predominating.
At his knee, on a stool of Genoa velvet--it was her favouriteseat--was a beautiful girl, seemingly sixteen or seventeen years ofage, fair as a snow-drop, with light, flowing hair, and eyes ofviolet-blue, deep fringed and tender. Her head rested against hisside, her arm lay negligently upon his knee, and those blue eyes wereturned towards his face with a look of love--nay, almost of adoration.
They were De Vitry and Blanche Marie, some two months after theirmarriage. Her good old grandsire, on his bed of death, had committedher to the guardianship of the King of France, with the request thatin two years he would bestow her hand upon the gallant soldier, if sheloved him still. Nor had that love for a moment faltered, while, underthe care of fair Anne of Brittany, she had passed the allotted time atthe court of France; and now she was happy--oh! how supremely blessedwith him whose character, without shade or concealment, with all itsfaults and all its perfections, had stood plain and straightforwardfrom the first.
But why does De Vitry turn his eyes so often towards the window andgaze forth upon the road, which, winding down from the castle, ploughsits way through the thick vineyard, and, crossing the Isere by itsbridge of stone, ascends the opposite slopes?
"Is he coming, love?" said Blanche Marie. "Do you see him, De Vitry?yes, you do; there is the falcon look in your eyes. They are uponsomething now."
"How can I tell what it is at this distance, lady mine?" answered herhusband; "falcon, indeed, if I could see so far. There is a darksomething moving yonder on the far verge of the hills. It may be atrain of horsemen; it may be some country carts, for aught I know.But, Madame Blanche," he added, casting his right arm round her, "bymy fay, I shall be jealous of this Lorenzo, if you are so eager forhis coming."
"Out, false knight," she answered; "I defy you to be jealous of anyman on earth. To make you jealous, is alas! beyond my power, for likea foolish girl, I have let you know too well how much I love you."
She spoke gaily, but the moment after she said, in a saddened tone:
"But poor Lorenzo! he is so unfortunate--so unhappy, De Vitry. I maywell wish for my cousin's coming when I know that only with you and mehe finds any consolation. And yet every time I see him I feel almostself-reproach, as if I had a share in making him so miserable. I lovedher so; I believed her so good, so noble, so kind, that I foolishlyplanned their marriage long before they ever met, and did all I couldto promote their love when they did meet; and now to think that sheshould be so faithless, so cold, so cruel, when she knows he loves hermore than life."
"It is indeed strange," said De Vitry with a clouded brow; "she seemedto me as she seemed to you, one of the noblest girls I ever saw. Sheis not married yet, however. That story is false. I saw a messengerfrom Rome three days ago. He says she is living with her father, whois now one of the vicars in the Church in Romagna, and she iscertainly unmarried."
"That is but poor consolation for Lorenzo," replied Blanche Marie; "hehas too much pride, too much nobility of heart, to take her hand now,were it offered him after such conduct."
"I trust he has," said De Vitry; "and were I he, I would cast her frommy thoughts for ever. Beauty is something, my love, but there must begoodness, too; otherwise one might as well fall in love with apicture, my dear girl. But tell me, Blanche, when last she wrote toyou did she show any such signs of strange caprice?"
"It is near eighteen months since she wrote at all," replied the youngwife, "and then her billet, it is true, was somewhat strange andconstrained, but it gave no indication of such a change. Oh, how happyis it, De Vitry, to have a constant heart? How dreadful it must be tosee one we love change toward us without cause. It is that which makesme pity Lorenzo so much, for it is plain he loves her still.
"We must have that away," said her husband; "he must be reasoned with,amused, engaged in some new pursuit, my Blanche. I will do my best,and you must help me. Look there! upon my life 'tis he. Those aremounted men coming down the hill; but they are bringing thunder withthem, and if they do not ride faster the storm will catch them erethey reach us. Do you not see those clouds rising above the trees,looking as hard as iron and as grey as lead. By my faith! dear lass,you have never seen a storm in the valley of the Isere, and it issomething to see. I have been in many lands, my Blanche, but I neverbeheld any like it, when the clouds rolled down from the mountainslike black smoke, pouring forth a deluge such as no other part of theworld has ever been soaked with since the days of Noah. In less thanhalf an hour you will see the valley a lake, and the bridge quitecovered. Your little heart will rejoice to think that the castle isbuilt upon a hill, for I never saw the water come higher than the edgeof the vineyard there."
"Does it come as high as that?" exclaimed Blanche, with a look ofalarm; "why, how will Lorenzo cross!"
"He will not be able to cross at all unless he make more haste,"answered her husband. "Pardieu, I cannot guess what has come to him;he who, for the last eighte
en months, has never ridden up hill or downdale at less than a gallop, as if some devil were tempting him tobreak his own neck or his horse's, is now creeping down the hill as ifhe were at a funeral or a procession."
By this time De Vitry had risen and gone near the open window. The sunhad near an hour to run before its course for the day would be ended.The clouds, as he said, were rapidly and heavily descending themountains, and the rain could be seen at the distance of three or fourmiles sweeping the valley like a black pall. The sun was still shiningbright and clear upon the chateau, and the bridge, and the vineyard.But a moment after De Vitry had taken his place, a redder and afiercer light blazed fitfully across the scene, followed a few momentsafter by a peal of thunder which seemed to shake the castle to itsfoundations.
"Oh, come away, De Vitry, come away," cried Blanche Marie; "thelightning might strike you at that open window."
De Vitry turned round his head with a laugh, calling her a littlecoward, and then resumed his watch again upon the party of horsemencoming down the opposite hill.
"Ay, ride fast," cried the marquis, "or you will not be in time; butwhat are all the people thinking of? they have lost their way."
As he spoke the party on whom his eyes were fixed turned from thedirect road toward the chateau, and took a smaller path, which,slanting along the hill side, led down the stream.
"Lorenzo is not among them," said De Vitry, abruptly; "he knows theway here as well as I do, my love; but that party of fools will getinto a scrape if they do not mind; there is no shelter for ten milesdown the river, and the road on the bank will be under water in tenminutes. Ha! they have seen their mistake, and are turning back. Nowride hard, my gallants, and you may reach the bridge yet."
The lightning now flashed nearer, the thunder followed close upon itsflaming messenger, the heavy drops of rain began to fall, and poorBlanche Marie, who had much more taste for the beauties than thesublimities of nature, covered her face with her hands, while herheart beat quick. The next moment she felt a warm and kindly kiss uponher brow, and the voice of De Vitry said--
"Take courage, love, take courage; God is everywhere. In His hand westand, as much in that fierce blaze and amid that thunder roar, as inthe gay saloon with nothing but music near. Do not fear, my Blanche,but remember you will soon have guests to entertain. These gentlemenare coming hither. They have passed the bridge just in time, and fiveminutes will see them in this hall. I would not have them say that DeVitry's wife is afraid of a little thunder."
Blanche took her fingers from her eyes, and, looking up with a smile,put De Vitry's great strong hand on her beating heart, and pressed herown delicate hand upon it.
"See, De Vitry," she said, "just as your hand is stronger than myhand, so is your heart firmer than my heart. Mine is a very weak one,husband, but I will show no fear before your guests. I will be verybrave."
The words were hardly uttered when there came another flash, andBlanche's promised bravery did not prevent her from starting andcovering her eyes again; and De Vitry, with a laugh, turned to thewindow and gazed forth once more.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is his highness the Duke of Orleans. Iheard he was coming down to Valence, but never dreamed of his cominghere. It is lucky the castle lies so near the road. But I must downand meet him;" and he hastily quitted the room.
Blanche was left for some time alone to give way to all her terrors atthe storm, without any one to laugh at them, for De Vitry took everyhospitable care of his royal guest, and spared his young wife thetrouble of giving those orders for the entertainment of the duke andhis train which Blanche might have found it difficult to think of inthe perturbation of her mind at the time.
As every one knows, the storms on the Isere are frequently as brief asthey are fierce; and the one in question was passing away when DeVitry led into the hall the Duke of Orleans, now clothed in fresh anddry garments.
Always courteous and gentle in demeanour, the Duke of Orleans,afterwards Louis XII. of France, applied himself to put hisentertainers at their ease. He took Blanche's hand and kissed it,saying, "Your noble husband, dear lady, tells me you expect hereto-night your cousin and mine, Lorenzo Visconti. If he come, I shallcall it a lucky storm that drove me for shelter to your house, as Ihave much to say to him; but I fear he cannot reach Vitry to-day. Thesun is well-nigh down, and the waters of the river seem as high asever."
"The storm, too, seems going directly along his road," said De Vitry,"and if it reached him where I think he must have first felt it, hewill know that he cannot cross the bridge tonight, and find shelteramongst the peasants' cottages out beyond the hills there. But I trustyour highness will stay over to-morrow, as you wish to see him. He iscertain to be here, I think, early in the morning."
"I must be away before noon," said the duke, "and in case he shouldnot arrive before I go, you must tell him from me, De Vitry, that Ihave the king's permission to call any noble gentleman to my aid whois willing to draw the sword for the recovery of my heritage of Milan.Now I think a Visconti would rather see a child of a Visconti in theducal chair of Milan than any other. Thus I fully count upon his aidtoward the end of autumn, with all the men that we can raise. So tellhim from me, De Vitry."
"You may count surely, my lord the duke, upon Lorenzo's going to anyplace where there is a chance of his losing his life," said De Vitry."He is in a curious mood just now."
"I have remarked it," replied the duke. "He used to be gentle,courteous, gay, bright, and brave as his sword, but when last I sawhim he had grown stern and somewhat haughty, careless of courtesies,and curt and sharp of speech. They said that some disappointmentweighed upon his mind."
"The most bitter, your highness, that can press down the heart of manor woman," answered Blanche Marie; "no less than the faithlessness ofone he loved. She is my cousin, yet I cannot but blame her forbreaking so noble a heart. They parted with the fondest hopes. Shepromised to wait his coming in Florence, where they were to be unitedimmediately. When he arrived there she was gone, without leavingletter or message, or announcement of any kind. He could not followher to Rome, from the state of the country; and though he wrote, andtook every means to make her know where he was, his letters remainedunanswered, or were sent back. He might have doubted some foul play;but a few words in her own hand, written carelessly on a scrap ofpaper, in a packet returned to him, showed too well that she wascognizant of all that had been done; and the last news was that shewas married, or to be married to another."
"Then let him marry another too," said the Duke of Orleans; but theconversation was here cut short by the announcement that supper wasspread in the hall below, and the duke's noble followers assembledthere.