CHAPTER XXXV.
What was once a poor farm-house, in a woody and remote part of thehills in which the Eure and Loire take their rise, had, under thetouch of taste and affluence, been transformed into a beautiful littlehabitation, half rustic cottage, half Italian villa; and all this hadbeen done as easily as the genii built the palace of Aladdin. Thewood-work had been painted green, so that the heavy planks which, whenshut, closed the windows, looked light; the thatch had been nicelyclipped and trimmed; the inside had been hung with arras, anddecorated with paintings in the fashion of the day; and along thefront had been carried a portico, consisting of unpolished trunks oftrees for columns, and a light trellis-work of boughs to soften thestrong sunshine. The face of the house was turned towards the south;and it might have commanded, from its elevated situation, a beautifulview over the greater part of Maine, had the tall old trees whichscreened it in front been partially cut away: but those in whosepossession it now was had carefully abstained from the axe; not alonefrom reverence for the ancient trees, but because quiet concealmentwas with them a great object of desire. No place, in truth, could havebeen better chosen for that purpose. There was, indeed, one horseroad, which came within a few hundred yards of the house, but it wentno farther than to a small isolated village not more than a leaguedistant, and there ended. Another, passing a little farther off, ledaway to the chateau of Guery, at the distance of three leagues on oneside, and to the small town of ---- on the other; but even this wasmerely a bridle path, upon which there was scarcely any traffic in thebest of times, and much less now that civil war had stilled allcommercial spirit in the land.
It was in the little portico, then, which we have noticed, that on theevening of a warm clear day in June, occasionally shaded by the massesof a broken thunder-cloud, which, during the night, had poured forth atempest on the earth, sat the fair Eugenie de Menancourt, into whosecheek the warm glow of health and youth had returned, during a longinterval of peace and tranquillity. Hither, after many wanderings, hadshe been brought by Beatrice of Ferrara, as soon as it was known thatthe Count d'Aubin was no longer in the neighbourhood; and in order tobe sufficiently near her, to give her every sort of aid andprotection, without calling further attention upon her retreat byliving with her, the fair Italian had retired to the chateau of Guerywhich she possessed in the neighbourhood. The time had, as we haveseen, passed without bringing molestation to Eugenie; and she now satwith an open letter in her hand, gazing out upon the woodland scenebefore her eyes, and seeing those mixed visions of romance, andtenderness, and melancholy which are so often present to a woman'seyes, and are the more dear, because she is taught to hide that shebeholds them. Before her were those dark old trees; on her right athicket of shrubs of many a varied kind; behind her the room in whichshe was wont to sit--then called her bower, and on the left, somefields screened again from the road by other trees. It was a calmsweet scene; and Eugenie felt not unhappy, though there might be otherthings she would have fain brought in, to form her picture of perfectfelicity, and although the letter which she held in her hand fromBeatrice of Ferrara, by telling her not to be alarmed at anything thatmight happen, for that friends were near, had, in some degree, createdthe apprehension is was intended to relieve.
As she sat thus and gazed, she thought she heard the tramp of horse;but the sound, if sound there were, ceased, and she believed that herears had deceived her. A moment or two after, a long ray of sunshinethat found its way between the bolls of the trees, and spread a pencilof light upon the green turf at her feet, was for an instant obscured,as if either a cloud had come over the sun, or some dark object hadpassed among the trees. Eugenie's heart began to beat quick, and thenext minute a rustling sound in the thicket to her right made herstart up; but ere she could retreat into her own chamber, the boughswere pushed back, and Philip d'Aubin was at her feet. With a face aspale as death, Eugenie sank into the seat that she had beforeoccupied, and gazed with eyes expressive certainly of anything butlove, upon the Count as he knelt before her, and pressed her hand tohis lips.
"Eugenie!" said D'Aubin, "Eugenie! I have at length found you, then.My Eugenie! my wife!"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Eugenie, struggling to overcome her terror: "oh,no! not your wife! No, sir, I am not; I never have been; I never willbe your wife! Death were preferable--ay, the most terrible death werepreferable to that!"
"Hear me, Eugenie!" said D'Aubin. "Eugenie, you must hear me! for thishouse is surrounded by my soldiers; you are utterly and perfectly inmy power; and if I have recourse to reason and persuasion with you, itis alone from tenderness and affection towards you, and because Iwould rather induce my bride to accompany me willingly and tranquilly,than use towards her those means of compulsion which I have a right toexercise in regard to a disobedient wife. Eugenie, will you hear me?"
"I have no resource, Sir," replied the unhappy girl; "but still Irepeat that I am not your wife. In the first place, I have at thealtar refused to pledge a vow towards you; and by this time you mustwell know that the man who read the vain and empty ceremony which youare pleased to call a marriage was not one invested with that sacredfunction which is requisite to render a marriage legal, even with thewilling consent of both parties."
"All I know is, that the marriage ceremony was performed between us,"replied D'Aubin, "and that it is registered in the archives of Paris.That you are my wife, therefore, there is no doubt; and that I havethe right, as well as the power and the will, to take you home andregard you as my wife, is equally indubitable. Still if you requireit, the ceremony shall be performed again; but hope not any longer toavoid taking upon you the duties of the position you hold in regard tome, for, as I told you, I have a hundred men within call ready to obeymy lightest word! Shall I make them appear?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed Eugenie, wringing her hands. "What, whatshall I do?"
"Merely listen to me, Eugenie, my beloved!" cried D'Aubin. "With thepower to compel, a thousand times rather would I succeed by entreaty;and instead of seeking to command you, let me at your feet seek topersuade you. Hear me plead my cause, Eugenie, in language that youhave never heard me use before, because I was ignorant of the motiveswhich actuated you, and attributed your conduct towards me to merecaprice, whereas I now know it to have been just, excellent, and wise,and like yourself. The same ignorance has made me harsh to you, andunjust towards my cousin St. Real; and I will not rise from my kneetill you have heard my exculpation, and fully know how much we haveall been deceived."
"Indeed!" said Eugenie, "indeed! yet I am at a loss to guess what youcan mean."
"Well may you be so, Eugenie!" replied D'Aubin; "well may you be so!For it was only yesterday that I learned the elucidation of themystery myself. You have been cheated, Eugenie; you have beendeceived; you have been taught to believe a man who loved you, and youalone, a heartless profligate. But first hear me, Eugenie, when Ideclare that I have never loved any one but you; that from the firstmoment your hand was promised me by your father, the idea of youryoung charms has ever been present to my mind, and the hope of soonpossessing them been the consolation of my whole existence."
Eugenie coloured deeply: "I am grieved, sir," she replied; but D'Aubininterrupted, saying,--
"Hear me, Eugenie, to the end: I have but given you a picture of myown feelings towards you. Now let me display all the base and crookedmeans that have been taken to alienate your affection from me, andthen tell me if it be right and just to let those means still haveeffect, when you are convinced of their falsehood and iniquity. Onlyyesterday did I discover that at Paris you had become acquainted withone of the late Queen Catherine's train of ladies--a train which, Ineed not tell you, was and will remain marked with infamy to the eyesof all posterity!"
"Perhaps so!" cried Eugenie eagerly; "but the name of Beatrice ofFerrara will always be excepted. The daughter of a sovereign prince,she was always as distinguished by her virtues as by her rank; and myfather on his death-bed told me that I might always confide in her,for that, in the midst of th
e terrible trial of universal bad example,no one had ever been able to cast a reproach upon her fame."
"It may be so!" replied D'Aubin; "it may be so! but doubt not,Eugenie, that she has passions and weaknesses too; and the confidenceyou gave her was misplaced. All has been revealed to me. I knoweverything that has passed, and therefore I am justified in sayingthat she has made us both her tools. Did she not tell you that I lovedher--that I had vowed vows and made protestations at her feet? I knowshe did. I know that both by open words, and slight insinuations, shepoisoned your mind against me; that she taught you to believe meprofligate and base--"
"Never! never!" cried Eugenie, "never, upon my word."
"No matter," cried D'Aubin, "she made you credit that I loved her, notyou; that by vows and promises I was bound to her. She it was thatalways crossed me in your esteem; she frustrated the arrangements forour marriage; she laid the scheme, and executed the whole of yourflight from Paris. Is not this true? and do you think she had not amotive? Eugenie, I tell you she had. It may make me appear vain inyour eyes; but, to exculpate myself, I must reveal that motive.Eugenie, she has loved me from our first meeting; she has loved mewith all the ardour and all the fire of which an Italian is capable;but so to love unsought, is never to win love. She has teased me; shehas persecuted me with her affection. But do not mistake me, Eugenie;I have never loved but you--you alone have I sought, you alone have Isighed for. To her I have turned a deaf ear and a cold heart. I carenot for her, I love her not, I have never loved--ay! and though Iscruple not to say that, no later than yesterday, I might have madeher mine on any terms I chose--"
There was a slight rustle in the room behind--a quick step; andBeatrice of Ferrara stood by the side of Eugenie de Menancourt.D'Aubin started up from his knee. "Liar! traitor! villain!" cried thebeautiful girl, with eyes from which mighty indignation lightenedforth like fire bursting from a volcano;--"Liar! traitor! villain!"and as he rose, she struck him what seemed but a slight stroke uponthe bosom with the quickness of light. D'Aubin grasped his sword, thenlet it go, and raised his hand to his eyes; a stream of dark gorespouted out from his breast; he reeled, and murmuring "Jesu, Jesu!"fell at the feet of her he had so basely injured.
Still holding the dagger tight in her grasp, Beatrice stood and gazedupon him; and Eugenie too, with her hands clasped, and turned as itwere into stone by fear and horror, remained straining her eyes uponthe fearful sight before her.
At that moment, the furious galloping of horse was heard along thenearest road, then came the clashing of steel and pistol shots; andJoachim, the servant of Beatrice, glided from the room whence hismistress had issued, and drawing her by the sleeve, exclaimed--"Thereseems a large force coming up, madam! save yourself, ere this beinquired into. The horses are still where we left them, at the end ofthe lane."
But Beatrice, without reply, continued to gaze upon the corpse of himshe once so passionately loved, apparently unconscious of aught elsebut the terrible act she had performed. The next moment, the voices ofseveral persons approaching were heard; and through the trees appearedtwo gentlemen on foot, followed by half a dozen soldiers draggingalong Albert of Wolfstrom, with his hands tied.
"We are in time, fair lady, to do your behest," cried Henry IV. whowas at the head of the party, speaking in a joyous tone, as, as thedistance of the trees he caught a sight of Beatrice without seeing theobject at which she gazed. "Your letter reached me, as I marchedalong, and though addressed to my _locum tenens_ at La Loupe, I madebold to break the seal. But where is this perverse and rebelliousCount d'Aubin?"
"There!" cried Beatrice, in a voice which had lost all its music."There he lies! never to be perverse or rebellious again! Oh, Philip,Philip! thou hast trod upon a heart that loved thee--cast happinessfrom thee--sought destruction--and found it from a woman's hand!"
"Indeed!" cried the king, hastening forward with St. Real, who was hiscompanion. "In God's name, what is all this? Pardie, 'tis too true!There he lies, indeed!" The king's eye then glanced to Beatrice, whileSt. Real gently led Eugenie away from the scene of blood and horror inwhich she had been made an unwilling sharer. The dagger was still inthe hand of the fair Italian, though that hand now hung by her side asif it had never possessed power to strike the blow which had laid suchstrength and courage low; but her sleeve was dyed with blood; and aslow red drop trickled down the shining blade of the poniard, and fellfrom the point to the ground.
"From your own speech, lady!" said the king, after a momentary pause,"I learn that you have just committed an awful act, especially for awoman's hand. Nevertheless, I cannot but believe, from all that I haveheard, that this was an act of justice! He was a rebel, too, at themoment of his death, in arms against his king; and, therefore, thisdeed is not to be too strictly investigated; otherwise--although asthe head of a sovereign house you are armoured with immunities--itwould become me to refer the inquiry to my council. As it is, PhilipCount d'Aubin having been slain in arms against his monarch, in thecommission of an illegal act, and by your hand, of course justicewithholds her sword from avenging his death, yet I think that it isexpedient for you, lady, to quit this realm with all convenient speed;and to insure your safety, a party of my own guard shall accompany youto the frontier. My words seem to fall upon an inattentive ear! May Iask if you have heard me?"
"Yes, yes," replied Beatrice; "I have heard, my lord--your majesty islenient! My crime is great; but be it as you will, I am ready to go!My thoughts, to speak the truth, are not so clear as they might havebeen some half hour since--I thank your majesty! All I ask is aprisoner's diet, bread and a glass of water,--for I am thirsty,exceeding thirsty! Then I am ready to set out.--Philip, farewell!" sheadded, gazing upon the corpse: "we shall meet again! Our deeds uniteus for ever! Alas! alas! where shall I go, my lord?"
"Her brain is troubled," said the king, in a low tone, turning to oneof the officers who followed; "go in with her, call her own peopleabout her; but treat her with all reverence. She must be sent forthfrom the kingdom as speedily as possible. Madam, this officer willconduct you. Set a sentinel at the door," he added, in a low tone, "asif for honour; but let her people be with her, and lay no restraintupon her, except in watching whither she goes."
"Will no one give me a glass of water?" said Beatrice, moving towardsthe house.
"It shall be brought in a moment, lady," replied the officer,following. "Where are this lady's attendants?"
"Well, St. Real," said the king, turning to the young cavalier as heissued forth again from the house just as Beatrice entered. "Pardie,we are too late in one sense, after all, though not too late toprevent the mischief these fellows meditated. Ventre Saint Gris! butthis cousin of yours was an ungenerous villain; and I am sorry forthat poor girl, who, to my thinking, has driven the dagger deeper intoher own heart than into his. Well, there he lies, and one of theconspirators against our fair heiress of Menancourt is disposed of;now to despatch the other. Martin, bring forward the prisoner."
"Sir Albert of Wolfstrom," continued the king, "it seems to me thatyour name was once enrolled amongst the troops of my late cousin,Henry III. and that you chose the chance of a halter and better pay onthe part of the League. Traitors against myself, God help me, I amfain to forgive, leaving them to God and their consciences forpunishment; but traitors to the late king I forgive not, and,therefore, I shall turn over your case to my good friend De Biron, whois not merciful, but just. Your own heart, therefore, will tell yourfate: if it condemn you, be sure that ere to-morrow's noon you will belying like him you stare at with such open eyes."
"Cannot I take service with my troop?" demanded Wolfstrom, withundaunted effrontery. "Your majesty suffered the Swiss at Ivry to comeover to you."
"They were only enemies, not traitors," replied the king; "I can havetraitors enow without paying them, sirrah!--What is that outcrywithin, St. Real? No more tragedies, I trust!--What I have said, Sir,is decided," continued Henry, again turning to Wolfstrom, while St.Real entered the house to ascertain the cause of the sounds oflament
ation that they heard. "If your conscience tell you that youdeserted the late king, bid good-by to the world! By my faith theremust be something the matter there!" he added, as the tones of griefcame again from within; and turning hastily, he himself entered thehouse, and advanced to a room from the open door of which the soundproceeded. The sight that presented itself needed little explanation.In a large chair, near the centre of the room, sat Beatrice ofFerrara, with her head supported upon the breast of her faithful oldservant Joachim, while kneeling at her feet, and weeping bitterly asshe clasped her friend's knees, was the beautiful form of Eugenie deMenancourt. Around were a number of female attendants, filling the airwith lamentations; and on one side stood St. Real, gazing eagerly inthe face of the fair Italian. But that lovely face had now lost theloveliness of life, the bright dark eyes were closed, the colour ofthe warm rose no longer blushed through the clear white skin, the lipsthemselves were pale, and the dazzling teeth showed like a row ofpearls, as the mouth hung partly open. Her right hand was stillclasped upon a glass from which she had been drinking; and rolled awayupon the floor was a rich carved _bon-bonni?re_, from which a smallquantity of white powder had been spilt as it fell. Throughout thewhole room there was a faint odour, as if of bitter almonds; andHenry, who well remembered that same perfume, when some of the noblestin France had died somewhat suddenly, exclaimed at once as he entered,"She has poisoned herself!"
"Too true, I fear, my lord!" replied St. Real; "but a leech has beensent for."
"In vain! in vain!" said the king. "She is dead already, St. Real!That is no fainting fit; and even were she not dead already, no skillon earth could save her from the tomb. I know that hateful drug toowell. Come away, St. Real! Mademoiselle de Menancourt, come away! Nay,I command! You do no good here!"
Thus saying, Henry took the fair girl's hand and led her to anotherroom, where, after speaking a few words of comfort, he added, "But Imust to horse again and forward towards Le Mans. You, St. Real, Ishall leave behind with your regiment, for the protection of this onefair lady, though those that persecuted her are no more. His bodyshall be carried to his own dwelling, and lie beside his father's.That I will see to. And now, though this is a solemn moment, and thescene a sad one, yet Mademoiselle de Menancourt, I must put it out offortune's power to persecute you farther, for the treasure of thisfair hand. Nay, nay, I must have my will!--Take it, St. Real," headded, placing it in his. "If I judge right, you value it highly; and,as you well deserve it, I give it to you now, lest any of my manyfriends should crave me for the gift hereafter. I would rather say tothose who ask it that it is given, than that I will not give it. Toyour love and sorrow, lady, I leave the last rites of yon beautifuland hapless girl. Hers was a hard fate, and a noble mind; for, cast byfortune into the midst of corruption, with a heart all warmth and afancy all brightness, she came out still, pure as gold refined in thefire, which, Heaven forgive us, is what few of us can say for himself.Amidst all the falsehoods and follies of the late court, never did Iknow the breath of scandal sully her fair name! She was, indeed, _onein a thousand!_ Conceal the manner of her death, if possible; and letsuch honours as the church permits convey her to her last long home!Now, farewell!"