CHAPTER XX.
If every minute event which took place in the beginning of August,1589, was matter of importance to the inhabitants of Paris, a thousandtimes more deep, intense, and thrilling than that experienced by anyother person, was the interest taken by Eugenie de Menancourt in allthat passed at that period. Her happiness, her misery for life, hungupon the die which other hands were destined to throw; and without thepossibility of aiding herself in the slightest degree of changing thefate that awaited her, or arresting its progress for a moment, she wasobliged to abide the unknown result in the power of people, whosepurposes she neither knew nor could control. Every rumour, everysound, created some new sensation in her bosom. Every change, wherechange was constant, either raised a momentary hope, or cast her backinto the depth of apprehension. The distant roar of the artillery, themarch of the troops through the streets, the galloping of messengersand couriers, the military parade, even the processions of the clergy,as they proceeded from shrine to shrine, petitioning for the aid ofGod to support them in rebellion, and encourage them in assassination,all agitated and alarmed her, till at length, her mind fell into thatstate in which terror has so much the predominance, that every freshtidings are anticipated as tidings of sorrow. The news of the death ofthe king, and the particulars of the manner in which that foul act wasperpetrated, struck her with horror and despair, as showing to whatlength the men in whose hands she was placed dared to go in pursuit ofthe objects of their party. Scarcely, however, had she time to thinkover this event, when another, more deeply and personally painful toherself, banished all other feelings but anxiety for her futuredestiny.
One morning suddenly, the Count d'Aubin was announced, and, hardlywaiting to see whether his visit were or were not acceptable, hefollowed the servant into her presence. The result of their meeting wehave already seen in his conference with Mayenne; but either vanity orpolicy had induced him to distort the truth, when he had asserted thatEugenie de Menancourt had shown the slightest symptom of vacillatingin her determination against him.
From his words and his manner, she had soon learned that he had joinedthe party of the League, and that he considered all the authority andinfluence of Mayenne at his command, in support of his suit towardsher; and perhaps the fear of irritating him, and driving him on to usethe power he possessed to the utmost, might make her more gentle inher language, and less disposed to express the reprobation and dislikeshe entertained towards him, than would have been the case had hepersisted in his pursuit under other circumstances. But Eugenie wastoo noble, too candid, too sincere, to suffer him to believe, for onemoment, that her feelings would ever change towards him. She wasgentle, but she was firm; and D'Aubin, when he left her, was, perhaps,the more mortified to find, from her calmness, as well asdetermination, that she was influenced against him by no temporarypique, by no fit of passion or indignation, as he had represented thematter to others, and tried to regard it himself; but that positivelyand certainly, he who had thought that her heart was at his commandwhenever he chose to demand it, had never caused it to beat one pulsemore rapidly; that he had never been loved, and was now contemned anddisliked.
Although during his stay he had employed persuasion and entreaty, andall the arts that none knew better how to use than himself, there hadstill been in his tone that consciousness of power and authority whichalarmed Eugenie for the result; and with a trembling hand she wrote afew words to the fair Beatrice of Ferrara, beseeching her to come toher aid, determined as she was to risk any thing in order to escapefrom her present situation. Fate, however, ever overrules our bestefforts; and, as if disdaining to cast away the greater exertions ofits almighty power to thwart our petty schemes, contents itself withthrowing some trifling stumbling-block in our way--some idle,insignificant trifle, over which our pigmy plans fall prostrate intheir course. The servant whom Eugenie had charged with the deliveryof her note returned, and brought her word that Beatrice had gone outon horseback to witness the movements of the Royalist army in theirretreat, an amusement worthy of her bold and fearless spirit. Thelady's attendants, however, had informed him, the servant said, thatshe would be back long before nightfall; and Eugenie waited andcounted the anxious moments till the daylight waned, and the shadowsof evening fell over the earth.
"Beatrice must soon be here now," she thought; but moment aftermoment, and hour after hour, went by, without the appearance of hershe waited for. At length, giving up hope for that night, and weariedwith wearing expectation, Eugenie retired to rest; but it was restbroken by fears and anxieties; and early on the succeeding morning shewas up, and watching eagerly for the coming of her friend, whose boldcounsels and skilful aid might, she trusted, give her courage toundertake, and power to execute, some plan for her own deliverance.
Watching from the large projecting window we have mentioned, she wasnot long before she beheld one of the carved and gilded equipages ofthe day turn into the court-yard of her own dwelling, and in a fewminutes after the door of the saloon was opened to give admission to avisitor. But the countenance that presented itself was that of Madamede Montpensier, not of Beatrice of Ferrara; and the heart of Eugeniede Menancourt sunk at an occurence, which though not unusual, she feltin the present instance could bode her no good.
The conversation which now took place may easily be divined, from theconference between Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin. We shall thereforenot repeat it here, it being sufficient to say, that when about anhour afterwards, D'Aubin himself entered the saloon, he found Madamede Montpensier rising to depart, and Eugenie de Menancourt, with herface buried in her hands, weeping in hopeless bitterness of heart.
Lifting her shoulders with an emphatic shrug, Madame de Montpensierquitted the room in silence, and D'Aubin stood for a moment gazingupon the fair unhappy girl whom his ungenerous pursuit had reduced tosuch a state, with a variety of passions warring in his breast, in amanner which it would be difficult to describe. After a brief pause,Eugenie withdrew her hands from her face and turned her tearful eyesupon him. As she looked, a sort of involuntary shudder passed over herframe, and she again pressed her hands upon her eyes for one moment;then, rising from her chair, she advanced direct to where he stood,and cast herself upon her knees at his feet.
"Philip d'Aubin," she said, "you were once generous and kind ofheart:--nay, nay, hear me!" she continued, as he endeavoured to raiseher. "Hear me, I beseech you; for my happiness or misery--perhaps mylife or death--depend upon this moment."
"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "I can hear nothing, Ican attend to nothing, while you there remain in a posture unbecomingto us both--for you to assume and for me to suffer. Rise, I entreatyou!"
"No, no!" she replied, clasping her hands earnestly. "I will not, Icannot rise till you have heard me. Have I not used every other means?have I not employed every other form of entreaty without avail? and Inow kneel at your feet to beseech you to spare yourself and me miseryinterminable. I have told you, and with bitter regret have I beenobliged to tell you, that I cannot love you as woman should love herhusband; and I did not resolve to tell you so till I had struggledwith my own heart,--till I had combated all my own feelings,--inorder, if possible, to fulfil what had been a wish of my father. Istruggled, I combated in vain, Monsieur d'Aubin; for the more I didso, the more I found that my peace of mind required me to take adecided part,--that honour and justice towards you required me to tellyou that I could not, that I would not, be your wife. Why, whypersecute me thus, Monsieur d'Aubin?" she continued; "you do not loveme--you have never loved me; and, under such circumstances, how canyou expect me to love you? Why not turn to any of those who will notonly consider themselves as honoured by your suit, but who, muchbetter suited than I am to your views, your habits, and your feelings,have it in their power to return your affection, and to meet you, as Idoubt not you deserve to be met, with love for love?"
"You mistake me altogether, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, raising her almostforcibly, and leading her back to her seat; "I do love you; and Itrust that,
though you doubt your own feelings at present, you willfind it not so difficult, when you are my wife, to feel towards me insuch a manner as to be happy yourself and to render me so."
"Do not deceive yourself, Monsieur d'Aubin!" exclaimed Eugenie. "I donot doubt my own feelings! I am but too sure of them! I do not loveyou, I cannot love you, any more than you love me; and if you persistin your pursuit, you do it warned of what are my sentiments towardsyou, and assured that those sentiments will but become more repugnant,in proportion to the degree of constraint used towards me."
"Nay, nay," replied D'Aubin, willing as far as possible to use gentlemeans, and try those powers of persuasion which he believed himself,not unjustly, to possess; "nay, nay, dear Eugenie, you do me wrongaltogether; believe me, I do love you sincerely. I know that I haveacted foolishly, wrongly towards you; I know that, prompted by vanity,and the gay and roving disposition of youth, flattered and courted,idle, perhaps, conceited, I appeared to neglect and undervalue thejewel that was offered to me in the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt.But, believe me, dear Eugenie, that it was not that I failed to esteemthat jewel at its full and highest price; it was but that foolishly Ithought it my own beyond all risk. Consider in what school I had beenbrought up,--consider the lightness and fickleness of all by whom Iwas surrounded; forgive me the errors and the follies that are pastaway for ever, and give me an opportunity of proving to you that theyare deeply regretted, and will never be renewed. My whole life, mywhole thoughts, my whole endeavours, shall be devoted to wipe out theevil impression which a few acts of folly have left upon your mind;and surely the unceasing devotion and tenderness of one who will neverforget that he wronged you, and that you forgave him, will besufficient to atone for errors which proceeded more from idle levitythan from evil purpose."
"Monsieur d'Aubin," said Eugenie, sadly, "I accuse you of nothing, Iblame you for nothing. What might have been my feelings towards you,had your conduct been different towards me, I cannot tell--I cannoteven guess: but you greatly deceive yourself if you think that mysentiments towards you originate in anger, or mortified vanity, orwounded pride. I must be candid with you to the very utmost, and tellyou that I never felt towards you anything which could enable yourconduct to others to inflict one pang upon me. I have never loved you,Monsieur d'Aubin, and the only effect of your behaviour has been toteach me that I never can love you."
"You have inflicted upon me that mortifying reiteration, somewhatoften," replied D'Aubin; "and perhaps I am not wrong when I ask,whether the want of love towards your promised husband in the past andthe present, has not originated in love for another?"
Eugenie's cheek crimsoned to a hue deeper than the rose; and somethingbetween confusion and indignation kept her silent. D'Aubin drew hisown conclusions; but, strange to say, though those conclusions were asbitter as well might be, they only added fire to the fierceness of hispursuit. His cheek, however, reddened also; but it was with thestruggle of anger, and interest, pride and vanity; and he went on: "Isee I am right, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, and am sorry to see it.Nevertheless, my confidence in you is such, that I entertain not theslightest doubt, that however unwisely you may have entertained suchfeelings hitherto, you will crush them with wise precaution, and burythem in speedy oblivion, when you become my wife. Nor am I inclined toresign my hopes of teaching you to change all such opinions by my ownconduct, and of bringing you to love me, when your duty shall beengaged to second all my efforts."
Eugenie saw that her fate was determined, as far as the Count d'Aubinhad power to govern it. She saw that with him entreaties would beineffectual, and tears of no avail. Nothing then remained butresolution; and although she knew not what protection the law of hernative land held out to one under her circumstances, and was too wellaware that in the city where she was detained, popular violence hadbroken through all the restraints of society; yet she determined thatno weakness or want of energy on her own part should favour theoppression to which she was subjected. As soon as she perceived thatthe humble supplications to which she had descended fell as vainlyupon the ear of the Count d'Aubin as the song of the charmer upon thedeaf adder, her whole manner changed; and, assuming the same look ofunconquerable determination which he had put on towards her, shereplied, "My duty, Sir Count d'Aubin, will never either second orprompt any efforts on my part to feel differently towards you than Ido now; for I never will be, and never can be, your wife. The arm ofpower may drag me to the altar, and a mockery of religious service maybe read between us; but there, as here, my voice shall steadfastlypronounce the same refusal; the ring, with which you think to wed me,shall be trampled under my feet; no contract shall ever be signed byme; and as long as I have strength to lift my voice, I will appealagainst the tyranny which oppresses me. Moreover, let me warn you,that every step that you take forward in this brutal and ungentlemanlycourse will but increase those feelings which you have this daystriven in vain to remove, till indifference becomes dislike, anddislike grows into detestation."
"You will think better of this, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, surprised andstruck by energy and vehemence, such as he had never witnessed in herbefore. "We are destined to be united, and be assured that nothing canmake a change in this arrangement. Let us not meet, then, at enmity.You will think better of this."
"Never," replied Eugenie, "never! You have roused a spirit in mybosom, Count d'Aubin, that you knew not existed there--that I knew notmyself till this hour. But I feel that it will bear me througheverything; and I tell you boldly, and at once, that I wouldinfinitely rather die, were death within my choice, this moment, thanbe the wife of Philip d'Aubin."
D'Aubin bit his lip, and casting his eyes upon the ground, paused fora moment in deep thought, his resolutions and purposes shaken by whathe had heard, and his mind once more undecided. "Tell me," he said atlength, "tell me, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, if by my application tothe Duke of Mayenne the ceremony of our marriage this night, which Isee has been announced to you by the Duchess de Montpensier, can beput off to some later period, will you give me the hope, that after acertain time, during which my conduct towards yourself, and towardsthe world, shall be in every respect irreproachable, I may obtain yourhand, without doing that violence to your feelings, which it seemswould be the consequence of our present union?"
Eugenie turned deadly pale, under the emotion that she felt. Thewords of the Count d'Aubin offered her the prospect of a temporaryrelief--offered the means of obtaining invaluable time, during which athousand changes of circumstances might take place to free her fromthe difficulties and dangers that surrounded her; but she askedherself, how was this to be bought? By deceit, by the first deceit shehad ever been guilty of in life; and though many a casuist mightargue, and argue perhaps justly, that she had a right to oppose theunjustifiable means employed against her, by any method in her powerto use, the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt was not one that couldadmit such reasoning in regard to honesty and truth. She would nothave bought her life by deceit; and though perhaps in the presentinstance she might feel that more than life itself was at stake, shewould not sacrifice her own good opinion even for that.
"No, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, after a long and agitatedpause--"No!--I will not deceive you. No time can change my opinion ordetermination. I never can be your wife. If you will desist from yourpresent pursuit--if you will recollect the former generosity of yoursentiments--if you will consider your own honour, and my peace ofmind, and set me free from this persecution, you will merit and obtainmy deepest gratitude, my thanks, and my admiration; but, Philipd'Aubin, you never can have more."
"Then you seal your own fate, Eugenie de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin,"and things must take their course, as already arranged. Yet think notthat this arrangement has been planned solely to gratify me. Other andmore important interests are involved therein, and you will see bythis note from the Duke of Mayenne, that motives of state necessitycompel both him and me to abridge that ceremonious delicacy whichotherwise would have been extended towards you."
Eugenie took the paper, and tried to read it over; but agitation andapprehension caused the letters to dance before her eyes, and she onlygathered the general import, and saw that as far as Mayenne and theCount d'Aubin had power, her fate was sealed indeed. Although herresolution remained in full force, and her mind was as unconquered asever, she felt that her bodily powers were failing her; and fearfulthat Aubin should see how much she was overcome, as well as anxiousfor a few hours of uninterrupted thought, she waved her hand for himto leave her.
"Not one word more?" he said, advancing as if to take her hand. "Notone word more?"
"No," replied Eugenie, shrinking back from him with involuntaryhorror. "No, I have nothing more to say."
D'Aubin turned on his heel, mortified to the very heart by thepersonal dislike which he marked with the keen eyes of wounded vanity:and without another word, left Eugenie to solitude, and to feelingsvery nearly akin to despair.