CHAPTER XXX.
We must now turn to the Count d'Aubin; but ere we inquire what becameof him after he fell under his cousin's hand on the field of Ivry, itmay be as well to relate some of the events which intervened betweenhis night march from Gross[oe]uvres and his encounter with St. Real.On reaching the quarters of the Duke of Mayenne, he found that prince,whom he had not seen for some weeks, still up, notwithstanding thelateness of the hour; and he was immediately admitted to his presence.Mayenne was in high spirits, and full of confidence in regard to whatwould be the result of the approaching battle; and, after someconversation respecting the military arrangements about to be made,the Duke handed D'Aubin a small strip of parchment, asking him if heknew the hand-writing which it displayed.
"If the Duke of Mayenne," the writing went to express, "desires torecover a prize which not long ago escaped both his hands and those ofthe Count d'Aubin, he will detach a small force of cavalry to sweepthe valley of the higher Eure between Courville and La Coupe."
"Know it!" cried D'Aubin, "know that hand! I know it well! It is thatof my cousin St. Real's dwarf Bartholo. By the Lord! then Albert ofWolfstrom was not so wrong in his suspicions; and, with yourhighness's leave, after to-morrow's business be over, we will takecounsel how this fair fugitive may best be recovered. I know that partof the country well; the St. Reals have a chace in the valley, and itis wild, wooded, and difficult for the movements of troops. But afterthe battle we shall have the whole country clear before us; and, if Ibe not sadly disappointed, ere to-morrow is at an end, I will make myfair and simple-seeming cousin pay for his perfidy towards me."
"In that, act as you think best," replied Mayenne; "and after thebattle we will find means to recover the runaway, let the ground shehas taken for her refuge be as wild as it will: and now, D'Aubin,farewell for the present. I will not bid so good a knight as you dohis _devoir_ to-morrow."
D'Aubin slept little during the night, and he was up betimes on thefollowing morning; for a heart full of bitterness and anger chasedslumber away. One of the first in the field, after sending a defianceto his cousin by a trumpet, he rode over the ground and narrowlyobserved the position of the king, as the small army of Royalistsadvanced from Fourcainville and the other villages where they hadpassed the night; but as he rode along, he perceived that four or fivestrange horsemen followed him about, as if watching his movements;and, on inquiry, found that they had joined his troop as volunteerssince his arrival in the camp of the League. He took no farther noticeof them at the time, and full of other thoughts, fierce, bitter, andengrossing, forgot what he had observed, till in the midst of thebattle he was abandoned by the troops of Menancourt; and doubting notthat they had been seduced by the pretended volunteers, he turned avengeful and searching glance towards the rear, where they had beenstationed; but to his surprise, the strangers closed up in line assoon as the others had gone over to the Royalists, without showing theslightest disposition to join them. D'Aubin then, as we havepreviously related, retreated, intending to unite his diminished forceto some of the larger squadrons; when, perceiving that the reittersunder Albert of Wolfstrom had followed Mayenne in his charge againstthe division of the king, and that the gallant chivalry of HenryQuatre were still maintaining an equal field against the more numerousforces of the League, he also poured his troops into the _m?l?e_, inthe hope of deciding the contest. Scarcely had he done so, however,when he heard the war-cry of the St. Reals, and caught a momentaryglance of his cousin's person, as the dark and rolling cloud of battlebroke away for a moment from before his eyes.
Maddened by fancied injuries, but still more by a feeling ofinferiority and a consciousness of wrong, he strove to cleave his waythrough the press, in order to try, against one whose powers his prideundervalued, that skill and courage which had been so often successfulagainst others. He succeeded, as we have seen, in at length meetingSt. Real; but not till he had received several slight wounds--withoutwhich, indeed, he would have been no match for his more powerful andequally skilful cousin, but which tended to render him still moreunequal to the encounter that he sought. Baffled in the combat by St.Real's skill, that vanity, which through life had led him forward fromevil to evil, urged him on with redoubled force; and when he saw,without the power of parrying it, the descending blow which struck himfrom his horse, he groaned, in bitterness of spirit, not from the fearof death, but from disappointed hate. That blow, though light whencompared with what St. Real's arm might have dealt, drove down hiscasque upon his head, split the rivets of the gorget, and laid himwithout sense or feeling upon the plain.
Scarcely had he fallen, when one of those fell monsters who frequentfields of battle to plunder the dying and the dead, attracted by hissplendid surcoat, stooped over him, and, unbuckling the plastron, felthis heart beat. To make sure of no interruption from a reviving man,the human vulture struck him a stroke with his dagger. The wound heinflicted was but slight, and his arm was raised for a more effectualblow, when the sweep of a long sword, taking him in the back of theneck, severed his head from his body, and stretched him across theprostrate form he had been intent to plunder. The person who thusinterposed to save D'Aubin was no other than one of the fivevolunteers who had joined his corps, and who, keeping close togetherthrough the _m?l?e_, without striking a stroke except in self-defence,had followed, as fast as circumstances permitted, wherever the counthad turned his steps. The press round the spot where St. Real and hiscousin had encountered, had delayed them for some moments; but stillthey came up in time to rescue D'Aubin from the dagger of theassassin. The tide of battle had now somewhat rolled on; the groundaround was clear; and springing from their horses, the strangersraised the senseless body of the wounded man in their arms, lifted himon a horse, and taking every precaution in order to bear him safelyand easily, turned their steps with all speed from the field. Althoughconfused bodies of the Leaguers and the Royalists were by this timemixed all over the plain, the men who bore D'Aubin wound their wayamongst the contending squadrons with skill and presence of mind, andsoon were behind the woods which skirted the plain to the right. Themusketry was no longer heard, the sound of the cannon was faint; andpausing for a moment, they undid and cast away the Count's armour, andbound up his still bleeding wounds. Then, once more bearing him amidstthem, they hurried from the field, taking the road towards Chartres.
When Philip d'Aubin, after a long period of sickness, during whichinsensibility and delirium had filled up the place of thought andunderstanding, at length recovered a clear perception of his owncondition and of external things, he found himself lying, reduced to astate of infant weakness, on a soft and easy bed, in a chamber whichwas strange to his eye. Rich arras covered the walls; the hangings ofthe couch were of velvet and gold; and through the open casement atthe end of the room breathed in the air of spring, sweet with theperfume of jasmine and of violets. Mingled with that scent, however,was a faint odour of incense; and on the left of the bed stood apriest in his robes, with two or three of the inferior clergy; at thefoot were men in the dress then reserved for the followers of thehealing art; while on the right stood two or three women, and a page.
For a moment these things swam indistinctly before the eye of the sickman; but the next instant, one particular object attracted all hisattention. It was as lovely a form as ever man beheld, advanced beforethe rest, and kneeling by his bedside, with her face hidden in therich coverings of the bed, and her dark black hair broken from thelarge gold pin that ought to have confined it, and falling in massesof bright dishevelled curls over her neck. The convulsive grasp withwhich she held the bedclothes, the deep sobs that shook her frame, thescared and anxious glances of the attendants, the solemn aspect of thepriests, the sacred vessels for the communion and extreme unction, theextended cross held up before his eyes--all showed Philip d'Aubin thatthose who surrounded him supposed him to be dying; and that what hebeheld was the last solemn ceremonies, and the last bitter tears,which attend the passing of the living to the dead. All eyes, butthose which were hidden
to conceal the burning drops that filled them,were fixed upon his countenance; and as his eyelids were raised, thepriest, believing it the last effort of life, lifted his hands, sayingin a solemn tone, "_Accipe, Domine_"--but as the eye wandered roundthe group, and the light of life and meaning beamed faintly up in thelamp that had seemed extinguished, the old man paused and stoopedeagerly forward.
D'Aubin would have given a world to speak, but his tongue refused itsoffice; and all that he could do was to turn a feeble glance ofinquiry to the countenance that gazed upon him. The priest, withoutspeaking, beckoned forward the physician, who laid his hand upon thepatient's pulse, and then whispered eagerly a word in the ear of anattendant. A cup was instantly brought forward and held to the sickman's lips; a few drops of wine moistened his tongue. With difficultyand pain he swallowed the draught, and the unwonted effort made hisheart flutter like that of a dying bird; but soon the beating becamemore regular; thick drops of perspiration stood upon his brow; hetried again to speak; his lips moved for a moment without a sound; butthe next instant he succeeded better, and the name of "Beatrice!"murmured on his lips.
Hitherto there had not been a sound in the chamber, but the strugglingsobs of the beautiful girl who knelt by the bedside, and the stealthystep of the attendant who brought the cup; but that one word,"Beatrice," spoken by a voice that had been so long unheard, struckthe ear for which it was intended. Loosing her hold of the bedclothes,she lifted her streaming eyes, saw the change that had taken place,gazed for an instant with all the lingering incredulity ofapprehension, and then, seeing that it was true--quite true--Beatriceof Ferrara started on her feet, and ere any one could save her, fellback senseless on the floor. With as little noise and confusion aspossible, she was carried from the chamber; and every means that thescience of the day suggested, were employed to complete the recoveryof the Count d'Aubin. The physician, however, who attended him, was adisciple of the great Esculapius, Nature; and therefore, slowly butprogressively, the patient regained a degree of strength. Allconversation was forbidden, and everything that might agitate him wascarefully removed from his sight. No one visited his chamber forseveral days but the attendants necessary to watch over him, and thephysician who directed their movements; and when, at the end of threedays, the first returning struggles of D'Aubin's impatient spiritwould not be controlled, and he would speak in spite of allinjunctions to the contrary, the physician continued to sit beside himall day, in order to ensure that the subjects permitted containednothing which would retard his recovery by agitating his mind.Beatrice of Ferrara had never entered his chamber since the day when,believing him to be in the agonies of death, she had cast off allreserve, and given way to that passionate burst of grief, whichrevealed to all around the secret of her heart's inmost shrine. Feebleas he had been at that moment, D'Aubin had not failed to mark andunderstand the whole; but in sickness, and with death at our righthand, we feel such things in a manner different from that in whichthey affect us in the high glow of insolent health, and all the vanityof life and expectation. D'Aubin felt touched and grateful for thelove he saw; and when he asked for "The lady!" it was in a tone ofreverence and softness, unmingled with a touch of the vain lightnesswhich characterised the society in which they lived.
"If he meant the Princess," the physician said, "she was well--quitewell."
D'Aubin replied, that he meant Mademoiselle de Ferrara whom he hadseen in the room when he first recovered from the long stupor in whichhe had lain.
"Not many months ago," replied the physician, "Mademoiselle deFerrara, as you call her, became, by her uncle's and her brother'sdeath, Princess of Legnagno; but, as I said, she is well--quite well."
The Count mused for a moment; but after a while he besought thephysician, in earnest terms, to obtain for him once more an interview,however short, with the lady in whose dwelling he lay. The good man,however, who had marked all that passed before, would not hear of it;and it was only on the following day, when he found that Aubin'simpatience of contradiction was likely to injure him more than anyother agitation he could undergo--he consented to bear his request tothe ear of Beatrice. With her he found more difficulty than he hadexpected. She hesitated to bestow that care and attention upon thewounded man, now that he was recovering, which she had lavished on himwithout reserve when he had appeared dying. Her answer to his entreatywas cold and backward; and it was not till the physician brought herword that her reply had so much grieved the Count that his healthsuffered, that she consented once more to visit his chamber.
With a pale cheek, and with a timid step, Beatrice again approachedthe couch where D'Aubin, still as feeble as a child, anxiously awaitedher coming. Her dark bright eyes stole a momentary glance at his worncountenance, and then fell again to the ground: for the feelings thatwere within her bosom--the knowledge that her love could no more beconcealed, yet the wish to hide it--the compassion for D'Aubin'spresent state, which prevented her from covering her real sensationswith the garb of coldness and disdain--and the doubt and the fear thateven yet the chastening rod of suffering might not have had its dueeffect on him she loved,--all rendered it impossible for her to playthe bold and careless part she had hitherto acted, yet left itdifficult to choose another.
Seating herself by his bedside, while the physician stood gazing fromthe window, she strove to speak; but, for the first time in her life,her ready wit failed her; and ere she could call it back, D'Aubinhimself broke the silence, and relieved her. "Beatrice!" he said in alow tone, "how much have I to thank you for! how much deep gratitudedo I owe you!"
"Not so, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, without looking at him: "Ihave done but a common act of charity, in tending one so badly hurt asyou were."
"Beatrice, dear Beatrice!" he replied, "use not cold words towards me;for believe me, that of all the medicaments which the leeches haveapplied to bring me back to life and strength, the sight of Beatrice,when I woke from that cold and deathlike trance, was the best cordialto my heart."
She looked up, and there was something like tears in her bright eyes;but all she could answer was, "Indeed, D'Aubin? Indeed?"
"Indeed, Beatrice! and in truth!" replied D'Aubin; "and ever sincethat hour the sight has been present to my eyes. I have rememberedit--I have fed upon it; and believe me, that it has not only tended toheal the wounds of this weak frame, but has done much to cure thediseases of my still weaker heart and mind. Beatrice, my beloved, Ihave done you wrong. Wild, vain, and heedless, I have acted ill, andhave cast away my own happiness through idleness and folly. That timeis past: forgive me, Beatrice; and believe me, D'Aubin is changed."
"I hope it may be so, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied the fair Italian,more composedly--"I hope it maybe so; for though the past has givenpain to many of your noblest friends, still Beatrice of Ferrara neveryet gave up the hope that all might be amended. But now I leave youfor to-day, because such conversation is not fitted to your presentfeeble state."
"Nay, nay, stay yet awhile, Beatrice," he cried, holding her hand,which he had taken, and gazing on her lovely features as if he wouldhave impressed every line on his memory so deeply that remembrancemight become a picture rather than that vague shadowy phantasmagoriawhich at best it is. Beatrice, however, disengaged her hand, andsaying, "I will come again to-morrow; I must not be profuse of mypresence, D'Aubin, lest you cease to value it;" she glided away andleft him.
Eagerly did Philip d'Aubin watch for her coming; and day after day, solong as he continued unable to rise, did Beatrice accompany thephysician back to his chamber, after the man of healing had made hismorning's report touching his patient's health. Still fearful ofyielding to all she felt, and with an intuitive knowledge of thatsubtle thing--the heart of man--Beatrice would fain have put a strongrestraint upon her words and actions, and struggled against each ofthose little signs of deep and passionate love into which every day'sconversation was prone to betray her. But who is there with a heart soobedient, and with a demeanour so completely under the rule andgovernment of the mind, as to avo
id every tender word, or smile ofaffection, or look of love, under a daily intercourse with one so dearas he was unto her? Besides, too, he was recovering from wounds, andhad but by a miracle escaped death; and there is something sadlytraitorous to all strong resolutions in watching the coming back ofhealth--the reviving colour, the brightening eye, the expanding look;and in hearing the round tone of life's full breath take place of thelow trembling voice of sickness. At first, as Beatrice entered hischamber, she would smile with a look of arch gaiety, to see theanxiety with which he turned to ascertain if it were her step heheard; but as day passed by on day, that smile lost all but the signsof gladness, and Beatrice might be seen watching for the hour of thevisit, as well as her wounded lover. One day only was that visit notmade; and that was the first on which D'Aubin rose from a couchwhereon he had passed nearly six weeks in danger and anguish. It wasnot coquetry that made her refrain; it was not the least abatement ofher love; but a feeling which she strove not to explain, even toherself, and which it would be impossible to explain to others. Be itwhat it may that moved her, she passed that day in prayer.
D'Aubin had been warned of her purpose not to come, and importantbusiness was the cause that Beatrice assigned for her absence; but theday having lost its usual occupations, neither the anxiety for hercoming, nor the remembrance of her visit, affording matter forreflection, the thoughts of Philip d'Aubin turned to other things. Hadhe been one of those stern moralists who examine with microscopicexactness all their feelings, try every idea in the fine balance ofequity, and search out all the lurking motives of the heart, D'Aubinmight have started to discover how much he was recovered, by findingout how much his thoughts were flowing back into old channels. Therewere fancies crossed his mind, there were ideas presented themselvesto his imagination, at which he recoiled; and he was still so feeble,his convalescence was still so far unconfirmed, that he blamed himselffor the recurrence of thoughts that, still smarting as he was underthe lash of suffering and the correction of adversity, he looked uponas base and ungenerous. He hastened, then, to banish all such ideas,and tried to look with horror and disgust those past vices and follieswhich had been once his pride. But the surest sign that our faultsstill cling to us, is the necessity of an effort to banish them fromour thoughts. So long as he had been really ill, D'Aubin had hated hiserrors without an effort; but he was now convalescent, and they beganto play around his imagination as familiar things.
The next morning broke in floods of splendour, bearing in a golden dayof May; and as soon as his attendants would permit him, D'Aubin rose,and, supported by the physician, walked feebly forth into the gardenof the chateau, where many a flower was opening its young bosom to thesweet breath of the spring air, and the warm beams of the genial sun.Under the spreading branches of an old tree, which, standing by thecastle wall, cast its scarce unfolded leaves over the garden, someseats were placed; and there sat Beatrice with several of her women,busily employed at their everlasting embroidery: but ever and anon theeye of the lady turned to the low postern door; and when she at lengthbeheld the expected sight, a smile, bright and beautiful as themorning, beamed upon her lip, accompanied by as warm a blush as evertouched with crimson the timid cheek of love.
Hours went on, and days, working with their usual power to the changeof all things: but, oh! how differently does the mighty artist, Time,labour on the world of subjects ever beneath his hands. Who woulddream that the same handiwork gave expansion to the bursting bud, andshrivelled up the withering leaf of winter; or at the same moment castthe pale violet dying on the green lap of spring, and called forth therose to bind the temples of the lusty year? Yet as different, asstrangely different, were the changes which he worked in Beatrice ofFerrara and in Philip d'Aubin; and those changes must be told anddwelt on separately.
Beatrice gave herself up to hope, that bright deluder, whose skilful,unseen diplomacy outwits, with scarcely an effort, the whole cabinetof reason. Fondly, idly, she gave herself up to hope; and the triumphof the magician was the more powerful, inasmuch as she had noblerallies than the mere selfishness with which she usually works herends. Beatrice's hope was--not solely that the period of anxiety andpain for herself was past--that the long-sought, dear-bought,well-earned happiness was before her--that the intense and burninglove, which none but a nature passionate and ardent as her own couldfeel, was returned with full and answering passion; but she hoped,that he whom she loved, taught by severe affliction, had learned toknow and value virtue--had become nobler, wiser, better, under thechastisement of sickness. The biting disdain which she had assumedtowards him, when, in the insolence of unchecked prosperity andvigorous health, he had dared to speak the same language of love toher that he held towards others--the scorn, the defiance, with whichshe then treated him--had not survived the sight of a man, whose viceseven had not estranged her heart, lying wounded, senseless, andapparently dying, before her eyes: and now, as day after day went by,and she was permitted to trace the bright progress of returning healthon the face of him she loved; as a thousand new interests and tenderfeelings sprang up under the little cares and anxieties of hisconvalescence; as with the mild and gentle words of yet unconfirmedhealth, he spoke vaguely, but not the less ardently, of hopes andwishes, and feelings in common, the reserve which she afterwardsassumed, as a light armour against slight perils, was cast away pieceby piece; and she loved even to sit alone, and dream of him andhappiness.
Such was the work of Time with Beatrice of Ferrara; with Philipd'Aubin it was different. He saw Beatrice in all her beauty, and inall her excellence, it is true, and he loved her better than any otherupon earth; and yet, as health returned, came back the thoughts thathe had known in health--the vanity, the pride, the levity. The heartof man can love as deeply and as fondly as that of woman; and whodenies it such capability, libels it most foully; but the heart of manor woman either, worn by the touch of follies and of vices, soon losesits power to love: the temple is profaned, and the god will no longerdwell therein. Women, less called upon to pass amidst the foul andpolluting things of earth, keep the heart's bright garment longer inits lustre--that lustre which, like the bloom upon the unpluckedfruit, is lost at every touch; and this is why so few men are found tolove with woman's intensity; because they have staked the fortune ofthe heart upon petty throws, and lost it piece by piece. So was itwith Philip d'Aubin: he could not love as Beatrice of Ferrara loved;he could not feel as she could feel; and yet he loved her as much ashe loved anything, but other thoughts shared that love; and when heremembered Eugenie de Menancourt, his unstable mind wavered undercontending doubts and purposes. The tie between himself and her couldeasily be broken, he well knew, if both parties sought itsdissolution; but he knew too, that she would seek its dissolution withan eagerness that roused every evil spirit in his heart in the causeof mortified vanity. He fancied to himself her triumph; he fancied thescoffs, and the sneers, and the jests of all that knew him; hepictured the smiles that would hang upon the lip of many whom he hadscorned in his day of pride and success; and he crowned the whole byrepresenting to the eye of imagination, her who had disdained his vowsand rejected his hand, united to him who had supplanted him in love,and overthrown him in battle. And yet he loved Beatrice of Ferraradeeply, passionately; and while, at times, he revolved the means oftriumphing over Eugenie, and casting back the pre-imagined scoff inthe teeth of the world whose slave he had made himself, at others helonged to fly with the fair Italian girl, whose love and devotion wereof so firm a quality; and, dying to his follies, his vices, and hisnative land, to live in some far country in peace, and love, andforgetfulness.
Such were often his meditations as health and strength slowlyreturned; and the increasing success attending the arms of Henry IV.which reached his ear in vague rumours, rendered the better courseeven the more immediately politic. It was thus one evening he had satlistening to the lute and voice of Beatrice, and thinking that ever tohave that voice and lute to soothe the moments of gloom, and thatlovely being to be the star of a domestic home, wer
e, in truth, a lotthat princes might envy, when the careful physician warned him awayfrom the garden where they had been sitting, and through which theevening air was beginning to blow somewhat cool and sharp. D'Aubinlingered a moment; but Beatrice, with gentle urgency, enforced the oldman's authority; and retiring to his chamber, the Count continued togaze out, in solitude, on the spot where his fair companion and herwomen still sat. He heard the door of his apartments open, but heheeded not; so fixed was his attention upon the beautiful line ofBeatrice's reclining figure, as--leaning back till the flowers of thejasmine behind her mingled with her jetty hair, and with her handresting still upon the lute--she gazed up at a bright passing cloud,that, tinted with the hope-like hues of the setting sun, was floatingfast overhead.
"My lord Count!" said a low voice near him, "I have risked all to cometo you for a moment, and to glad my eyes with the sight of yourrestored health."
D'Aubin turned in some surprise, and beheld the small form ofBartholo, his cousin's dwarf page. That form, indeed, seemed even moreshrunk and small than ever; and on the usually sallow cheek of thedwarf there was a red and fiery glow that was not that of health; butnevertheless his voice was calm and strong, and his bright large eyesfull of meaning and intelligence.
"Ha, Bartholo!" cried D'Aubin; "art thou here? Right glad am I to seethee: but how doest thou risk aught in thus coming to see me? Thou artsafe here!"
"You know not, sir, that I have left your cousin long," replied thedwarf, "and am now with my first mistress; the only one who has everhad a real right to call me servant. But she wills not that I shouldcome hither. It was only because the other page was sick that I wasbrought here to-day; and I tremble lest the time of departing comes,and she should miss me; for she has the eye of a lynx, and wouldinstantly divine that I was here, against her express command."
"Why, how now, man of mysteries?" cried D'Aubin. "The hour of herdeparture! Does she not sleep in the castle to-night?"
"Never, sir! never!" replied the page. "Since three days after youbegan to mend, she has never passed one night within these walls. ButI have not time to explain more mysteries, and only came to see youwell, and perhaps, if I had a moment, to give you some counsel thatwere not ungrateful to your ear."
"Oh, you have time, plenty of time!" cried D'Aubin. "Lo, there shesits, and she is running over the strings of her lute in another air,though we cannot hear it here; but we can see when she rises;beautiful creature! One could gaze on her for ever! What is it youwould say?"
"I would ask," replied the page, "if his Highness of Mayenne evershowed you some information he received concerning one whom youthought no less fair than the fair thing before you?"
"Yes, yes, he showed it to me!" answered D'Aubin. "But know you,Bartholo, that since we met, my mind has undergone a revolution. Likeyou, my little friend, I have changed my service also; and, as yousaid, am now with my first mistress, the only one who ever had a realright to call me servant."
The cheek of the dwarf turned pale; and he replied, "I thought,indeed, that you might be her servant, as we use that word in Italy:her servant _par amours_; and yet might like to wed the other too, ifit were but to set your foot for ever upon all the gay jests andribald laughter that are going on in the capital and the camp at yourexpense. But if you are set on marrying the fair Princess, Heavenforbid that I should stay you from such a righteous purpose!"
D'Aubin paused in thought for several moments, while the dwarfalternately glanced his eye to the changing countenance of the Count,and to the garden in which Beatrice still sat. "You speak strangewords, Bartholo!" said D'Aubin at length: "I, with all the world, havedeemed her as pure as the falling snow, ere it touches earth."
"And so she is," cried the dwarf, eagerly; "and so she is, I dobelieve. But yet, Monsieur d'Aubin, she loves--loves with that passionwhich makes such steps as we speak of easy. Besides, we in Italy areaccustomed to look upon the marriage tie as a form much less bindingthan that which love twines for itself--a mere form indeed; and she,who worships the spirit of constancy, abhors all idle forms. But Ispeak too boldly, noble sir; and yet I seek to serve you. I have heardthat Sir Albert of Wolfstrom, too, has betaken himself to your estatesof Aubin, and--but I must fly!--see, she is rising!"
"Stay, stay a moment!" cried the Count; "she is not yet prepared to goforth, and I have much to ask you. Tell me, where is the Lady ofMenancourt, and how may I best find her?"
"I dare not stay, sir!" replied the dwarf. "As soon as she enters, shewill ask for me; but I will find another opportunity soon, of tellingyou more. In the mean time, fear not, sir, to press your advantage;for you know not passion's force with those upon whose birth abrighter sun has shone. Remember, I never gave you false informationor wrong advice."
"Good faith, no!" said D'Aubin; "but she is coming in! Farewell, andreturn if you can to-morrow, my good Bartholo."
Without further reply, the page glided out of the room; and whileD'Aubin, gazing upon Beatrice as she advanced towards the house,pondered over all the poisonous words that had just been dropped intohis ear, Bartholo glided down the small and narrow staircases that ledto a far part of the building, laughing with a bitter laugh as hewent, and murmuring something of a goodly scheme well spoiled.