CHAPTER II.
Memory is like moonlight, the reflection of brighter rays emanatingoriginally from an object no longer seen; and all our retrospectstowards the past times, as well as our individual remembrances,partake in some degree of the softening splendour which covers smallfaults and imperfections by grand masses of shade, and brings outpicturesque beauties and points of interest with apparently brightereffulgence than even when the full sunshine of the present beamingupon them, suffers at the same time the eye to be distracted, and themind otherwise engaged by a thousand minor particulars. Nothing gainsmore, perhaps, from the impossibility of close inspection than themanners, the customs, and the things of the past; and, in someinstances, even Nature herself, and Time, that enemy of man's works,in general so remorseless, seem to take a fanciful pleasure inassisting the illusion. That which was in itself harsh and rude inform, acquires as it decays, a picturesque beauty which it never knewin its prime; and the rough hold of the feudal robber, which affordedbut small pleasure to behold, and little convenience to its inmates,is now seen and painted with delight, fringed with wild flowersscattered from Nature's bountiful hand and softened with the greencovering of the ivy.
The old chateau of St. Real, to which the two travellers we have justleft were bending their steps, and to which, for a moment, we must nowshift the scene, was one of those antique buildings, few of which haveoutlasted the first French revolution--buildings which, however we maylove to look upon any that do remain, from the magical illusionregarding former days to which I have just alluded, were,nevertheless, much better suited to the times in which they werebuilt, than to the more luxurious present.
Tumults, feuds, insurrections, civil wars, rendered every man's househis castle in no metaphorical sense; and thus the old chateau of St.Real, which had been originally built more than 400 years before theopening of this history, and had been repaired and improved at least ahundred times during the intervening ages of strife and bloodshed, wasnaturally, in almost all respects, much better calculated for defenceagainst assault than for comfortable habitation. The woody chase,which swept for many a mile round the base of the little hill on whichit stood, was cleared and opened in the immediate vicinity of thechateau; and the various avenues were defended with all the accuracyto which the art of war had arrived in those times. The very gardenwas a regular fortification; the chateau itself a citadel. From thereign of Louis VI., in which its walls had first been raised from theground, to the reign of Henry III. with which this tale begins,although repairs and improvements had, as we have said, been oftenmade, they were solely military, and nothing had in the slightestdegree been permitted which could change the antique aspect of theplace. Indeed, its proprietors, the Marquises of St. Real, springingfrom the most ancient race of French nobility, clung to the antiquityof their dwelling as if it formed a part and parcel of the antiquityof their family. Their habits, their manners, their characters,smacked all of the ancient day; and it was ever with pain that theysuffered any of their old customs to be wrenched from them by theinnovating hand of improvement.
At their gate, even in the times I speak of, hung, for the purpose ofsummoning the warder to the wicket, the last horn which, perhaps, wasever used on such occasions in France; and, though the mouthpiece hadbeen renewed, and the chain frequently mended, the horn itself wasaverred to be the very same which had been hung there in the days ofPhilip Augustus. But if the lords of St. Real still maintained sometinge of the rudeness of their ancestors, it must by no means beforgotten that it was to the nobler and brighter qualities of formertimes that they adhered most strongly. They were a proud but achivalrous race, bold, hospitable, courteous, generous, unswerving infaith and in honour. Their talents, which were by no meansinconsiderable, had been principally displayed in the field; and someof the sneerers of the court had not scrupled to call them the _SimpleSt. Reals_: but, notwithstanding a degree of simplicity, whichcertainly did characterise them, they had ever been distinguished,from father to son, by that discriminating discernment of right andwrong which is worth all the wit in the world. Never had their wordbeen pledged without being redeemed; never had their voice sanctioneda bad action; never had their sword supported an evil cause.
The present Marquis of St. Real, who was an old man who had borne armsunder Francis I. had during the whole of the wars of the Leagueremained obstinately neuter. He had declared, at the commencement ofthese unhappy wars, that he would not unsheathe his sword against hislawful sovereign, though friendly to the King of Navarre, and alliedremotely to the house of Bourbon; but at the same time he added, thatnothing should ever induce him to join in an unjust and cruel waragainst a portion of his countrymen, who were but defending one of thedearest and most unalienable rights of mankind--their religiousliberty.
Too powerful for either party to entertain the hope of forcing himfrom his neutrality by any violent measures, both the League and theHuguenots spared no means of conciliation, which either wisdom orcunning could suggest, to win him to their side; for vast domains, inwhich the feudal customs of former times remained in full force,rendered his alliance a thing to be coveted even by the strongest. Heremained unmoved, however; and neither a strong personal friendshipwhich existed between himself and the Duke of Mayenne, nor theinstigations and artifices of his confessor, could induce him to jointhe League, any more than gratitude to the King of Navarre for severalpersonal favours, horror at the crimes of Saint Bartholomew, or even astrong belief that the Protestants were right in their warfare, if notin their religion, could bring him over to the party of the Huguenots.
To avoid wearisome solicitation, he had entirely abandoned thecapital, and remained in the solitude of his paternal estates, whollyoccupied in the education of his son, into whose mind, as principles,he endeavoured to instil, not knowledge of the world, or of courts,but all the firm and noble feelings of his own heart. He succeeded;the Chevalier de St. Real grew up to manhood everything that hisfather's fondest hopes could have anticipated: bold as a lion, skilledin all warlike exercises, and full of every sentiment that does honourto human nature. But yet, in many things, he was as simple as a child.Cut off from the general society of Paris, he wanted entirely thatknowledge of the world which was never more necessary than in the daysin which he lived.
On one occasion, indeed, when the infamous Catherine de Medicis, andher beautiful but licentious train, had visited the chateau of St.Real for the purpose of winning its lord to the party she espoused,more than one of her fair syrens had striven, by various arts, toinitiate the handsome Chevalier of St. Real into the libertinemysteries of that debauched court; but he met them uniformly with thatperfect simplicity which, though joined with much natural good sense,raised many a secret laugh at his expense, and yet guarded himeffectually from their worst artifices.
The general current of his time flowed on in the various amusements ofthe country, as they existed in that age. The chase of the boar, thestag, and the wolf afforded active exercise for the body, while thelarge and ancient library of the chateau--a rare treasure in thosedays--yielded occupation to a quick imagination and an energetic mind,in poring over many a printed tome and many an illuminated manuscript.Besides these employments, however, both the old lord of St. Real andhis son felt a keen interest in pursuits seldom much attended to bythe feudal nobility of France. They not only lived in the country, andamongst their peasantry, but they also loved the country and theirpeasantry, and delighted in watching and superintending all thoseagricultural operations which formed the daily relaxation of many ofthe noblest Romans, but which were, in general, looked upon withindifference, if not contempt, by the new class of chieftains whosprung from the _?lite_ of their barbarous conquerors. The lords ofSt. Real delighted in all: they held to the full the opinion of theold orator, when he exclaimed--"Nec vero segetibus solum et pratis, etvineis, et arbustis res rustic? l?t? sunt, sed etiam hortis etpomariis, tum pecudum pastu, apium examinibus, florum omniumvarietate;" and, though they followed not precisely all the directionsof Lieb
aut in his _Maison Rustique_, the garden that lay within theflanking walls of the castle, the orchard which extended from theouter balium to the barbacan, and the trellised avenue of vines whichran to what was called the lady's bower, showed taste as well as skillin those who had designed and executed them.
During several years previous to the precise epoch at which we havecommenced our tale, the old lord of St. Real had seldom, if ever,slept a night without the walls of his own dwelling. His son, however,when either business, or that innocent love of a temporary change,which every man may well feel without meriting the charge of beingversatile, afforded a motive for his absence from home, would oftenspend a day or two in the great city of Tours, or at the castles ofthe neighbouring nobility. Some communication with the external worldwas thus kept up; but the chief companionship of the Chevalier of St.Real was with his cousin-german the Count d'Aubin, who, thoughattached to the court, and very different in mind and character fromhis relations, often retired for a while from the gay and busy scenesin which he mingled, to enjoy the comparative solitude of his estatesin Maine, and the calm refreshing society of his more simple cousin.
The character of Philip Count d'Aubin was one that we meet with everyday. Endowed with passions and talents naturally strong, his passionshad been pampered, and his talents misdirected, by an over-indulgentparent. A doubt had been at one time entertained of the legitimacy ofhis birth, but no one had contested his title; and the earlypossession of wealth, power, and influence, with the unrestraineddisposal of himself and of the property which the death of his fatherleft in his hands, had certainly tended in no degree to curb hisdesires or extinguish his vanity. His heart had, perhaps, beenoriginally too feeling; but the constant indulgence of every wish andfancy had dulled the former brightness of its sensations; and it wasonly at times that the yet unextinguished fight shone clearly up toguide him through a maze of errors. His very talents and shrewdnessoften led him onwards in the wrong: for, possessing from education fewfixed principles of action, the energies of his mind were generallyturned to the gratification of his passions; and it was only whenoriginal rectitude of heart suggested what was good, that reason toojoined her voice to urge him on the road of virtue. He was, in fact,the creature of impulse; but, as he had unfailing gaiety, and wit atwill, and as a sudden turn of feeling would often lead him to somenoble or brilliant action, a sort of false, but dazzling, lustre hungabout his whole conduct in the eyes of the world: his powers wereoverrated, and his weaknesses forgotten. He was the idol andadmiration of the young and unthinking, and even the old and graveoften suffered the blaze of some few splendid traits to veil the manyspots and blemishes of his character.
On the night following that particular day at which it has appearednecessary to commence this history, the two cousins spent some timetogether pacing up and down the great hall of the chateau of St. Real.The Count d'Aubin had come hastily from Paris, on receiving tidings ofthe severe illness of his uncle; and their conversation was of awandering and discursive nature, originating in the increasingsickness of the old Marquis, who was then, for the first time duringmany days, enjoying a few hours' repose.
"Faith, Huon, thy father is ill," said D'Aubin, as they descended thestairs to the hall, "far worse than I deemed him till I saw him."
"He has, indeed, much fallen in strength during the day," replied theChevalier de St. Real; "yet I hope that this slumber which has comeupon him may bring a change for the better."
The Count shook his head. "I know not," said he; "but yet I doubt it.Your father, Huon, is an old man, and old men must die!" His cousinbent his eyes upon the ground, and slightly contracted his brow; buthe did not slacken his pace, and the Count d'Aubin went on: "Yes,Huon, however we may love them, however we may wish that they couldlive to govern their own vassals and enjoy their own wealth, tillpatriarchal longevity were no longer a wonder; and I know," he added,pausing, and laying his hand upon his cousin's arm--"and I know, thatif the best blood in your noble heart could add to your father's life,you would pour it forth like useless water;--still, whatever ties maybind them to us, still they are, as the old men amongst the ancientsdid not scruple to call themselves, _pabulum Acherontis_--but food forthe tomb: and none can tell when death may claim his own. I say thisbecause I would have you prepared in mind for an event which I seeapproaching; and I would also have you prepared to take some quick andimmediate part in the great struggle which every day is bringingtowards its climax in this land. Your father's neutrality haslasted long enough--nay, too long; for it is surely a shame thatyou, as brave a youth as ever drew a sword, should have lived tofive-and-twenty years without ever having led his followers to anynobler strife than the extermination of those miserable _Gaultiers_who came to ravage our fair plains. True, they were ten times yournumber--true that you defeated them like a very Orlando; but that isonly another reason why your valour and your skill should not lierusting in inactivity. Should your father die, give sorrow its due;then call your vassals to your standard, and boldly take one part oranother. Faith, I care not which it be--Harry of Navarre and hisHuguenots, Harry of France and his chevaliers, or Mayenne's brave Dukeand the factious League: but for Heaven's sake, Huon, should fate makeyou Marquis of St. Real, cast off this idle, sluggardly neutrality."
Huon de St. Real had listened attentively to his cousin, though everynow and then the flash of some painful emotion broke across hiscountenance, as if what he heard contained in each word somethingbitter and ungrateful to all his feelings. "Philip! Philip!" said he,pausing in his quick progress through the hall, as soon as the otherhad ceased speaking, "I know that you wish me well, and that all whichyou say proceeds from that wish; but let us drop this subjectentirely. My father is ill--I feel too bitterly that he is in danger;but the bare thought of what I would do with his vassals, in case ofhis death, has something in it revolting to every feeling of my heart.Let us change the topic. Whatever misfortune Heaven may send me, Iwill endeavour to bear like a man, and whenever I am called to act, Iwill endeavour to act rightly. When that time comes, I will mostwillingly seek your advice; but I trust it will be long, very, verylong, before I shall need the counsel of any other than of him who hasheretofore guided and directed me."
The lip of the Count d'Aubin slightly curled at this reply; and,glancing his eye over the tall, graceful form of his cousin, while hecompared the simple mind and habits of St. Real, with his own worldlywisdom, and wild erratic course, he mentally termed him an overgrownbaby. Nevertheless, although he was often thus tempted to a passingscoff or an ill-concealed sneer, yet there was a sort of innatedignity in the very simplicity of the Chevalier of St. Real, which hadits weight even with his world-read cousin; and, whenever temporarydisappointment, or disgust, or satiety weaned D'Aubin awhile from theloose society in which he mingled, gave time for quiet thought, andre-awakened better feelings, leading him to seek, in the advice of anyone, support against the treacherous warfare of his own passions, itwas to none of his gay companions of the capital, nor to monk, norpriest, nor confessor, that he would apply for counsel; but rather tohis simple, frank-hearted, unsophisticated cousin, St. Real.
"Well, well," said he, "let us change our theme;" and then, aftertaking two or three more turns in the hall, he went on; though therewas mingled in his manner a certain natural hesitation with anaffected frankness, which might have shown to any very close observerof human nature that the Count d'Aubin was touching upon matter inregard to which, desire was in opposition to some better principle,and that he feared to hear even the opinion which he courted. "I spokebut now," he continued, "of Mayenne and the League; and you will thinkit strange when I tell you, that I--I, who have ever been as staunch aroyalist as Epernon, or Longueville--would now give a chateau and apint of wine, as the vulgar have it, to change my party and go over tothe League, did not honour forbid it."
He spoke slowly and meditatively, fixing his eyes upon the ground,without once looking in his cousin's face; yet walking with a firm,strong step, and with somewhat of a sneer upon h
is lip, as if hescoffed at himself for the reprehension which--while he acknowledgedwishes that he felt to be wrong--his proud spirit suffered bycomparison with the calm, upright integrity of the Chevalier.
"I do not see that anything could justify such a step," replied St.Real, far more mildly than the other had expected. "However wronglythe King may have acted, however unwarrantable the manner in which hehas put to death the Duke of Guise, yet--"
"Pshaw!" interrupted his cousin: "Guise was a traitor--a great, brave,noble, ambitious, unscrupulous traitor! And though the mode of hisdeath was somewhat unceremonious, it little matters whether it was anaxe or a dagger which did the work of justice: he was born for such afate. I thought not of him; it was of Eugenie de Menancourt Ithought."
"Ha!" exclaimed St. Real, with a start; "no one has injured her?"
"Injured her! No, i'faith!" replied the Count. "Why, my good cousin,by your grim look, one would deem you her promised husband, and notme. No, no; had she been injured, her injury had been well avenged bythis time. However, she is in the hands of the League. Her father, asyou know, was wounded on the day of the barricades, and died soonafter the flight of the court. His daughter, of course, would notleave him while he lived, and, at his death, the Duchess ofMontpensier would fain have had her at the Hotel de Guise; and, thoughEugenie wisely stayed in her father's own house, they would not sufferher to quit Paris, where she still remains--treated with all honourand courtesy, mark you, but still a sort of honourable prisoner."
His cousin paused in thought for a moment, and then replied, "But,surely, if you were to demand her from the Duke of Mayenne, informinghim of the engagement between her father and yourself, she would begiven up to you at once."
"I have done more," replied the Count; "whenever I heard of hersituation, I required, of course, that she should be placed in thehands of the King, as her lawful guardian, till such time as hermarriage with myself could be celebrated. After many an evasion anddelay, the Duke replied to my application, that the throne of Francewas vacant, by a decree both of the Sorbonne and the Parliament ofParis; that, by the same authority, he himself was lieutenant-generalof the kingdom till such time as a meeting of the three estates shouldregulate the government; and that, therefore, none other was for thetime the lawful guardian of Eugenie de Menancourt. In the same letterhe informed me, that the recent death of the young lady's father wouldprevent her from thinking of marriage for some time."
D'Aubin paused, shutting his teeth and drawing in his lips, evidentlyunwilling to show the full mortification and anger which theseremembrances awoke; and, yet apparently leaving his tale unfinished.
"In regard to the latter part of the Duke of Mayenne's reply, it seemsto me reasonable enough," answered the Chevalier de St. Real; "theloss of such a father is not to be forgotten in a day."
"Tut, man!" exclaimed his cousin, impatiently. "Wilt thou neverunderstand a little of this world's ways? Huon, Huon! shut up in theseold walls, thou art as ignorant of the present day as if thou hadstbeen born in the times of the first crusade. Nothing modern dare blowthat rusty horn at thy gate--far less walk into the hall. Know, then,my most excellent, simple cousin, that since the ninth century a greatquarrel has taken place between words and realities, and that theyhave separated, never to meet again; that now-a-days promises are ofair, honour is a name, virtue a bubble, religion a mask; and whilefalsehood, hypocrisy, and folly walk about in comely dresses, and makebows to each other in every street, truth lies snug in the bottom ofher well, secure in the narrowness of her dwelling, and the depth thatcovers her. The first thing that every one thinks of now is his owninterest; and, sure that if he secures that, the world will give himcredit for all high qualities, he works straight for that one object.Interest, interest, interest, is his waking thought and his sleepingdream. Mark me, Huon! Mademoiselle de Menancourt is an heiress--one ofthe most wealthy in France; young, beautiful!--you know how beautiful,Huon; for, by my faith, I could once have been almost jealous of you."
"Of me!" exclaimed the other, stopping suddenly, and looking full inhis cousin's face, while a flush of surprise and indignation, allunmixed with shame, spread scarlet over his cheek and brow. "Of me!Philip, you do me great injustice! By my honour, if my hand or my wordcould advance your marriage by a single day, you would find both readyfor your service. Tell me, when did I ever give you a moment's causefor jealousy?"
"Nay, nay! you are too quick!" replied the Count; "I said not that Iwas jealous of you; I merely said I could have been so, had I notknown you better. I speak of the time when our late excellent andeasy-virtued queen was here with her ladies. Many a bright eye wasbent upon you, and many a sweet lip was ready to direct you throughthe tangled but flowery ways of love, without seeking to plunge youinto the mire of matrimony; yet, in all our rides, there were you,always at Eugenie's bridle rein."
"Because she was the only pure thing present," interrupted St. Real,quickly; "and because, Philip--if you will press me--I thought thatshe might feel hurt that her promised husband should make love beforeher face to one of an infamous queen's infamous followers. Ay, evenso, Philip! Frown not on me, good cousin; for such was the onlyinterpretation that even I, who am not apt to see actions in theirworst light, could place upon your conduct to Beatrice of Ferrara."
"Beatrice of Ferrara," replied the Count d'Aubin, with a degree ofvehemence which might have made some of his loose companions smile tohear him use it in the vindication of any woman's virtue under thesun--"Beatrice of Ferrara was no infamous follower of an infamousqueen; she was, I believe from my soul, as pure as snow,notwithstanding all the impurity that surrounded her. I knew not thatI had shown her any such marked attention as you tell me; but let allthat pass," he added, musing, "let all that pass: what were wespeaking of before? O! I remember. To return, then, to my tale:Eugenie de Menancourt is an heiress, with a dowry of beauty andsweetness far beyond even her wealth; and wily Mayenne well knows thather hand is a prize for the first man in France. Now, think you, mygood Huon," he continued, growing more and more eager, while thebright flashing of his eye told that he was moved by some strongerpassion than the mere scorn with which he attempted to clothe hislips--"now, think you, my good Huon, though he talks so loudly aboutreligion and zeal, and the state's welfare, that Mayenne has oneother wish, one other object, than to vault into an empty throne, orplay _maire du palais_ to the old idiotic Cardinal de Bourbon!Ambition--'tis all-snatching ambition, Huon! that is the idol heworships; and whoever serves him in his schemes shall have the hand ofEugenie de Menancourt, notwithstanding her father's plighted word tome."
"But Eugenie will never consent," replied St. Real, calmly."Doubt it not, Philip! I have known her from her childhood, aswell as you; and I have often remarked, that, notwithstanding hergaiety--notwithstanding her seeming lightness of feeling, there was,when she knew herself to be right, an unchangeable determination inall her resolves, even in her childhood, that nothing could shake."
"Fie! you know nothing of human nature," replied D'Aubin, with ascoff; "or rather, I should say, of woman's nature. They arelight--light, Huon, as a dry leaf borne about upon the breath of everywind that blows. The best of them, believe me, is firm in nothing buther caprices. Mark me, Huon!" he added, laying his hand upon hiscousin's arm, and speaking with bitter emphasis, "within these tendays I have seen Mademoiselle de Menancourt. I demanded a pass fromMayenne; he granted it without a scruple, and free speech also of hisfair ward, as he called her. He was sure of the impression he hadmade, and, therefore, kept up all fair seeming. I saw Eugenie; and shecalmly and coldly refused to ratify the promise that her father hadmade me. Do you hear? She refused me! She rejected me! She told me shedid not, she could not love me!" And, giving way to a violent burst ofpassion, totally opposed to the calm and contemptuous tone in which hehad before been speaking, he dashed his glove angrily down upon thefloor, as if it were the object that offended him.
His cousin looked down in silence. He imagined, and not withoutprobability, that Mademoiselle de M
enancourt must have seen thelicentious manner in which D'Aubin had trifled with the ladies ofCatherine's libertine court, and that she had resented it accordingly.But, however culpably he might deem that his cousin had acted, hewould not have pressed it on him then for the world; and, besides,there were sensations in his own bosom, at that moment, which forciblycalled upon his attention, and both surprised and alarmed him.
It is a strange thing the human heart; and, amidst the multitude ofits inconsistencies and its weaknesses, there is none stranger thanthat principle which, as a French wit has remarked, is always ready topoint out to us, in the sorrows and misfortunes of our friends, sometopic of consolation for ourselves. As a general rule the sneer isunjust, though with many it holds good always, and with most at times,even with the highest and the most conscientious. Good, noble,generous, with chivalrous ideas of honour and virtue, the Chevalier ofSt. Real would sooner have laid his head upon the block thanentertained a thought of doing anything to his cousin's detriment; andyet there was a degree of vague, undefined satisfaction in hisfeelings, when he heard the declaration made by Eugenie de Menancourt,that she did not and could not love the Count d'Aubin--satisfaction ofwhich he himself felt ashamed. "Good God! was it for him," he thought,"to rejoice in his cousin's mortification? What matter for pleasureought he to find in the pain of a person he loved? None, surely none.What is it, then, I feel?" he asked himself; "is it the triumph ofhaving foreseen that Eugenie de Menancourt would resent the slight putupon her? Oh, no! Such a vanity can surely afford no gratification toany reasonable being." Such was the interrogation which St. Realrapidly addressed to his heart; but an instinctive apprehension offinding unknown and dangerous matter at the bottom of his ownsensations prevented him from going deep enough.
Whatever it was that he felt, the blood rushed into his face as if hewere committing some evil action; and he remained silent. The keen,suspicious eyes of the Count d'Aubin fixed upon him, in surprise atemotions that he did not comprehend; but he said nothing; and just asSt. Real was struggling to speak, the whole place echoed with two suchblasts upon the old horn at the gate, as had not rung amongst thosehalls for many a year.
"By heavens! that must be some drunken huntsman, St. Real," exclaimedthe Count, "blowing the horn at the gate, as if he was sounding forhis dogs."
"No, no! it is the ill-favoured dwarf you gave me," replied hiscousin. "He heeds no decencies, and, I verily believe, would blow aflourish if we were all dying. Many a time have I thought to fell himwith my gauntlet for his insolence; but he is so small, that it wouldseem a cruelty to crush such an insect."
"Nay, nay; crush him not, I beseech thee," replied the Count d'Aubin."Remember, Huon, it was agreed between us, that when he seeks to quitthee, or thou growest tired of him, he comes to me again."
"I believe, in truth, the creature loves me," answered St. Real; "and,were it not for his stupid insolence, I might love him too; for thereare traits of good about him which would redeem many a dark spot."
The Count's lip curled; but he replied, "Call it not _stupid_insolence, good cousin--call it, rather, clever insolence, for, on mysoul, he was occasionally too clever for such a service as mine, andsuch a place as Paris. I know not well how it happened, but many adeep secret of my bosom seemed somewhat too familiar to his highugliness; and so I gave him to you, who had no secrets to trust or toconceal."
"Thank God for that, at least!" answered St. Real, "for they are evera heavy burden. But here comes the incubus:" and as he spoke, the lowdoor of the hall was opened by a personage of whom it may be necessaryto speak more fully.