CHAPTER VII.
In one of the old houses between the Louvre and the Place Royals, isstill preserved in its original state a fine antique saloon of thetimes of Henry II. No gorgeous hall, no spacious vestibule,impresses you at once with the grandeur of the mansion; but, windingup a narrow and incommodious stair, you find yourself upon a smalllanding-place, whence two steps--each the segment of a circle, andboth turning considerably, as if they had once formed part of a spiralstaircase--conduct you, through a deep but narrow passage in the wall,to a door of black oak. On opening this, you find yourself at thethreshold of a room some two-and-thirty feet square, panelled withdark and richly carved wood, and possessing a ceiling of the same. Atthe farther end of the saloon, opposite to the door, is a deep recess,or, rather, a sort of bay, at the entrance of which the floor riseswith a high step, forming a sort of little platform capable ofreceiving a table and two or three chairs. From the distance of aboutthree feet and a half above the ground up to the ceiling, the greaterpart of this recess or bay is of glass, with only just so much Gothicstone and wood work as serves to support the large casements, whichafford the sole light of the room. The form which this projectiontakes on the outside of the house presents three sides of a regularoctagon, and, in ornament and lightness, is not unlike one of thewindows of the new part of St. John's, Cambridge, though certainly notnear so beautiful as any part of that exquisite specimen of Gothicarchitecture.
Though, as I have said, from this window is derived the sole lightwhich the room possesses; nevertheless, that light is enough,especially as the sunshine seems to regard that casement withparticular favour, and never fails to linger about it when the brightbeams visit earth.
At the time to which we must now go back, the floors were not sodingy, the oak was not so black, as they are at present; but the fullsummer sunshine was pouring through the large oriel, chequering thewood work of the raised flooring with the golden light of the rays andthe dark shadows of the leaden frames in which the glass was set. Astand for embroidery appeared on the little platform; and before itsat a lady plying the busy needle and the shining silks; while a maid,seated near, read to her from a book--the Gothic characters of whichwere fast merging into the round letters of the present day--andanother female attendant, a little farther off, followed theindustrious example of her mistress, and busied herself at her frame.The principal person of the group was habited in deep mourning, which,in the fashion of that day, was, perhaps, the most unbecoming dressthat the vanity of man ever permitted. The sombre hue of the garmentwas relieved by nothing that could give lightness or grace; and theheavy black veil, hanging from the head, seemed designed purposely tocast a gloomy, unsoftened shadow over the face. But that lady was oneof those whom we see sometimes, and dream of often, so lovely by thegift of nature, that art can do nothing either to add to the beauty ordiminish it; and she looked as transcendently lovely in the darkwimple and the sable stole, as if she had been clad in jewels and inlace. She was as fair as the morning star, with eyes of the deep, deepblue of the evening sky, full and soft, and overhung with a longfringe of jetty eyelashes, which sometimes made the eyes themselvesseem black. Her cheek bore the rosy hue of health, though the colourwas by no means deep, and was so softly diffused over her face, thatit was scarce possible to say where the warm tint of the cheek ended,and the brilliant fairness of the forehead and temples began. Thefeatures, too, were as lovely as if the brightest fancy and the mostskilful hand had combined to personify beauty; but they had nothing ofthe cold, still harshness of the statue, and one looked long inadmiration ere one could pause to trace the graceful lines that wentto form so fair a whole. The form was in no way unworthy of the face;and even the stiff, heavy folds of the mourning robe were forced intograceful falls by the symmetry of the limbs they covered. All,however, was calm and easy, and every part of the figure wasconcealed, as far as possible, except the tip of one small foot, andthe soft rounded delicate hands, which, with a thousand gracefulmovements, urged the needle through the embroidery.
Such was Eugenie de Menancourt, whom her father's death in Paris hadleft one of the richest heiresses of France, and had cast into thehands of the faction called the League, which then ruled in thecapital, while the King waged war against it in the field. Thepossession of Eugenie de Menancourt, indeed, was no slight advantageto that party, for those who have much to bestow will always befollowed; and the reward of her hand, and all the wealth thataccompanied it, was one well calculated to lure many an aspiring nobleto the faction who had the power of awarding it. This the Duke ofMayenne felt fully, and made, indeed, no slight use of his advantage:not that he held out the hope of obtaining her to any one directly,except to the Count d'Aubin, to whom she had been promised by herfather, and whom Mayenne was most anxious to gain over from the royalcause; but, nevertheless, he took good care that, when any of hisagents busied themselves to bring over an opposite, or confirm awavering, partisan, the list of the good things which the League couldbestow should not be left unmentioned, and amongst the first was thehand of Eugenie de Menancourt, the heiress of near one half of Maine.There was many another poor girl in the same condition; but as, inthose days, inclination was the last thing consulted by parents in themarriage of their daughters, there was but little difference betweentheir fate in the hands of the League, and in the hands of their morelegitimate guardians. Nevertheless, the circumstances by which she wassurrounded, her isolated situation in the house wherein her father haddied, and which had been assigned to her by the League as her abodeduring the time of her honourable captivity in Paris, and the prospectof being forced to wed a man she did not love, all contributed toheighten the gloom which her parent's recent death had cast over her,and to make melancholy the temporary expression of a countenance whichseemed by nature born for smiles.
One only consideration tended to make her situation feel more light:the Count d'Aubin was deeply engaged on the side of the King; and onhis late journey to Maine, had even been entrusted with the high taskof keeping in check that province, and some of the neighbouringdistricts. So long as he adhered to the King, Eugenie well knew thatMayenne would never consent to his marriage with herself; and thoughshe sometimes doubted the steadiness of D'Aubin's loyalty, she trustedthe artful game which she knew that the Duke was playing, in order todetach him from the royal cause, would insure her not being pressed togive her hand to any one else. She hoped, therefore, for a degree ofpeace till such time, at least, as some change in the politicalaffairs of France delivered her from the chance of force beingemployed to compel her obedience to a choice made by others.
On such facts and such speculations her mind was often forced todwell; but Eugenie de Menancourt was too wise to yield full way topainful remembrances or anticipations that could produce no change;and she studiously strove to occupy her thoughts with other things:either reading herself during all the many hours she spent alone, ormaking one of her maids read to her, when she was employed with any ofthose occupations which engage the hand without absorbing theattention.
Thus, then, was she employed plying her needle in the sunshine, andlistening to some of the poetry of Du Bartas, while, though sheattended, and she heard, some melancholy feeling or some gloomythought, springing from the depths of her own heart, would mingleinsensibly with the other matter which engaged her mind, and make allshe heard associate itself with the painful circumstances of hersituation. In the midst of the reading, however, the door of thesaloon opened, and a person entered, of whom we must pause to givealmost as full a description as we have been beguiled into writing inregard to Eugenie de Menancourt herself.
The figure that appeared was that of a lady as beautiful as it ispossible to conceive, but in a style of loveliness as different fromthat of her she came to visit as the ruby is different from thesapphire. She might be three or four and twenty years of age, butcertainly was not more; and the full rounded contour of womanhood wasexquisitely united in her figure to the light and easy graces ofyouth. Her hair was as jetty as a raven's
wing, and her full brighteyes also were as dark. Her skin was fair, however, and her teeth, ofdazzling whiteness, were just seen through the half-open lips of hersmall beautiful mouth. The soft arched eyebrow, the chiselled nose,the rounded chin, the gentle oval of the face, the small white ear,and the broad clear forehead, made up a countenance such as is seldomseen and never forgotten; and to that face and form she might wellhave trusted to command admiration, had such been her object, withoutcalling in "the foreign aid of ornament." Dress, however, andsplendour had not been neglected, though her rich garments sat soeasily upon her, that they seemed but the natural accompaniment of somuch beauty, worn rather to harmonise with than to heighten thesplendid loveliness of her face and person. Her whole apparel, exceptthe mantle and the sleeves, was of the lightest kind of gold tissue,consisting of a small stripe of pink, and a still smaller one of gold.The bodice, or stays, was laced with gold; and the body, or _corps derobe_, shaped not at all unlike those in use at present, came muchhigher over the bosom than was customary at a libertine court, and ina libertine age. The sleeves, which were large on the shoulders, andsuddenly contracted till they fitted close to the round and beautifularms, were of white satin, as was also the mantle, which round theedge was richly embroidered with pink and gold. Her girdle was of goldfiligree worked upon white velvet; and through it was passed a chapletof large pearls, with every now and then a sapphire or an emerald, tomark some particular prayer. Jewels were in her ears too, and on thebosom of her dress, though it was but mid-day; and in her hand sheheld one of the small black velvet masks, which the fair dames ofthose days very generally wore when in the streets, even in theircarriages, under the pretence of guarding their complexions from thesun and wind, but, in fact, more for the sake of fashion than fromover-tenderness, and often with views and purposes which might wellshun the day.
The lady, however, who now entered, bore no appearance of one likelyto yield to the luxurious softness, or the weak vices of the day.There was a light and a soul in her dark eyes, a play and a spiritabout her ever-varying lip, a firmness and determination on her fineclear brow, that might, perhaps, speak of passion intense and strong,but could hardly admit the idea of weakness. As soon as Eugenie deMenancourt beheld her, she started up with a look of joy; and,advancing to meet her, pressed her kindly in her arms, exclaiming,"Dear, dear Beatrice! are you better at length? Why would you not letme see you?"
"Well! quite well now, Eugenie," replied the other, returning herembrace as warmly as it was given "but my illness, they said, wascontagious; and why should I have suffered you to risk your valued andmost precious life for such a one as I am?"
"Oh! and your life is precious too, Beatrice," replied her friend;"most precious to those who know you as well as I do."
"But how few do that, dearest friend!" replied Beatrice of Ferrara;for, strange as it may seem, it was she whose name has once beforebeen mentioned in this work, who now stood beside Eugenie deMenancourt, on terms of the dearest intimacy and affection. "How fewdo that! Do you know, Eugenie, that I regard as one of the greatestand sweetest triumphs of my life, the having conquered all yourprejudices against me; having won your love and your esteem, andtaught you to know me as I am."
"But indeed, indeed, as I have often told you," replied Eugenie, "Ihad no prejudices against you."
"Nay, nay," replied the other, with a smile; "you beheld me surroundedby the profligate and the base; you beheld me mingling with the idleand the vain: you beheld the seducers and the seduced of a corruptcourt worshipping this pretty painted idol that you see before you;and, doubtless, thought in your own secret heart that it was withpleasure that I bore it all."
"No, no, indeed," replied Eugenie; "quite the reverse! Wherever I wentI heard you mentioned as the exception. The malicious and thescandalous were silent at your name; and not even the braggart idlers,whose vanity is fed by their own lies against our sex, ventured to sayyou smiled upon them."
"They dared not, Eugenie!" said Beatrice, her dark eye flashing as shespoke; "they dared not! There is not a minion in all France who woulddare to cast a spot upon my name! Not because they fear to speakfalsehood, be it as gross and glaring as the sun; but because theyknow I hold, that where the honour of Beatrice of Ferrara is assailed,she has as much right as any punctilious man in all the land to avengeherself as best she may. Nay, start not, dear friend! but send awayyour women, and let us have a few calm moments together, if the idleworld will let us."
The women, who had been in attendance upon Eugenie de Menancourt,required no farther commands; but, the one laying down her book, andthe other covering up her embroidery-frame, left the room.
"You started but now, Eugenie," continued Beatrice, advancing towardsthe little platform in the bay window, and seating herself beside herfriend; "you started but now, when I said that women have as muchright to avenge themselves, when their honour is assailed, as men; butI say so still--ay, and even more right. I have long thought so, andshall ever think so, Eugenie; though Heaven only knows how I shouldact, were such a case to happen. I might be as weak as women generallyare, and let the traitor escape out of pure fear: but I think not,Eugenie--I think not. I believe that I would rather die the nextminute after having avenged myself, than live on in the same worldwith one who had slandered that fair fame which, in spite ofcircumstances, and my own wild thoughtlessness, I have maintainedunstained in the midst of this foul court."
"Nay, but consider, Beatrice," cried Eugenie, earnestly, "this worldis not all."
"I know it well, sweet friend," replied Beatrice; "but I think, ifthere be pardon in heaven for any offence, it would be for that Menclaim the right, and die without a fear; and why should not we havethe same privilege? They, when their honour is assailed, could clearthemselves without revenge; they could call their comrades to judge oftheir conduct; but, with us, the very whisper is destruction; and noproof of innocence ever gives us back that pure, untarnished namewhich is our only honour; we can have no exculpation, we can have noredress, and vengeance is all that is left us."
Eugenie was silent, and Beatrice gazed upon her, for a moment or two,with a smile, adding, at last, "But no--no, Eugenie, such thoughts andsuch feelings are not for you. Your nation, your education, yourcountry, will not let you feel as I feel, or think as I think; andyet, Eugenie, we love each other," she added, twining her graceful armthrough that of her fair friend, "and yet we love each other--is itnot so?"
"Indeed, it is!" replied Eugenie de Menancourt, turning towards herwith a warm smile. "Your company, your affection, your sympathy, dearBeatrice, have been my only consolations since I came within the wallsof this hateful city; and all I wish is that I could on some pointsmake you think as I do. I wish it selfishly, and yet for your sake,Beatrice; for, if I could succeed, I should not tremble every momentfor your happiness and for your peace, as I do now."
"Thank you, thank you for the wish, dear friend!" replied Beatrice,with more melancholy than mirth in her smile; "thank you, mostsincerely, for the wish! but still it is in vain. You can never, withall your kind eloquence, make a wild, ardent, passionate Italian girl,a calm, gentle, yielding being like yourself, all charity and halfHuguenot. It is in vain, it is in vain. But you speak of happiness,Eugenie, as if I knew what happiness is. Now listen to me, and youshall hear more of Beatrice of Ferrara than ever you have yet done.There is a subject, I know, on which we have both thought often, andon which we have wished often to speak--I know it, Eugenie! I know it!I have heard it in half-spoken words; I have read it in your manner,and in your tone; I have seen it in your eyes--that, often, often,when we have talked of other scenes and other days, you have longed toask what is Beatrice of Ferrara to Philip d'Aubin, and what is he toher? Nay, I dream not that you love him, Eugenie; I know better--Iknow that you love him not; and I feel that Philip d'Aubin, with allhis splendid qualities, with all his energies of mind, and graces ofperson, is the last man on earth that Eugenie de Menancourt couldlove."
She paused a moment, gazed thoughtfully in her frie
nd's face, andthen, leaning her head upon Eugenie's shoulder, while she took herhand in hers, she added, in a low tone and with a deep sigh--"But itis not so with Beatrice of Ferrara!"
A bright blush rushed over her cheek, as she spoke the words whichgave to her friend the full assurance of a fact that she had longsuspected, perhaps we might say had long known; and she closed herdark bright eyes, as if to avoid seeing whatever expression thatconfession might call into the countenance of Eugenie. The momentafter, however, she started up, exclaiming eagerly, "But mistake menot! mistake me not! I have not loved unsought; I have not called uponmy head the well-deserved shame of being despised for courting himwho loved me not. No, Eugenie, no! although the blood that flows inthese veins may be all fire, yet in my heart there is a well of icypride--at least, so he has often called it--which would cool the warmcurrent of my love--ay, till it froze in death!--ere the name I bearshould be stained even by such a pitiful weakness as that. No! hesought me, he courted me, he lived at my feet, till the proud heartwas won. Yes, Eugenie, he lived at my feet, he seemed to feed upon mysmiles, till, at length, ambition and interest opened wider views, andvanity was piqued to think that Eugenie de Menancourt could be dull tosuch high merits as his own----"
"If ambition and interest swayed him," said Eugenie;--but her friendinterrupted her ere she could finish. "Hear me out!" she cried, "hearme out, Eugenie! Ambition and interest had much to do therewith. WhenI and my young brother first sought this court to find protectionagainst the injustice of my father's brother, I possessed little but asmall inheritance in France, the dowry of my mother. This he wellknew; and though, if there be any truth on earth, he loved me,yet, with men, Eugenie, there are passions that make even lovesubservient--ambition, interest, vanity, Eugenie, are men's gods!"
"But is it possible, Beatrice," cried Mademoiselle de Menancourt,"that, thinking thus of all men, and of him in particular, you caneither esteem or love him, or any of his race?"
"Oh, yes, Eugenie! oh, yes!" she replied. "Love is a tyrant--not aslave: we cannot bind him to the chariot wheels of reason; we cannotmake him bow his neck beneath the yoke of judgment. On the contrary,we can but yield and obey. There is but one power on earth that canrestrain him, Eugenie--Virtue! but everything else is vain. And, oh!how many ways have we of deceiving ourselves! The sun will cease torise, Eugenie--summer and winter, night and day, forget their course,ere love, in the heart of woman, wants a wile to cheat her belief towhat she wishes. Even now, Eugenie, even now, I believe and hope; andI fancy often that, though misled by things whose emptiness he willsoon discover, the time will come when Love will re-assert his empirein a heart that is naturally noble. It may be all in vain!" she added,with a deep sigh; "it may be all in vain! yet, who would willingly putout the last faint, lingering flame that flickers on Hope's altar?"
"Not I!" said Eugenie, echoing her friend's sigh; "not I,indeed!--Would that he were worthy of you, Beatrice! Would that hewere worthy of you!" she added, after a momentary pause; during which,perhaps, her mind was struggling back to the real subject of theirconversation from some path of association, into which it had been ledby her companion's last words. "Would that he were worthy of you! butif his fickle and wayward nature could never be endured by me, who canbear much, how much less would it suit you, Beatrice, who, I amafraid, are calculated to bear but little!"
"You know not how much I have already borne, Eugenie," repliedBeatrice; "you know not how much love can bear: though, yes, perhapsyou do," she added, in a lighter tone; "at least, there are those whoknow well how much--how very much--they could bear for love of Eugeniede Menancourt."
The warm blood spread red and glowing over Eugenie's fair face. "Iknow not whom you mean, Beatrice," she said, gravely: "I know nonethat love me; and few that are capable of loving at all--if you speakof men."
"Nay, ask me not his name!" said Beatrice, the gaiety of her toneincreasing, as she marked, or thought she marked, a greater degree ofconfusion in her friend's countenance than the subject would haveproduced in other persons brought up regularly in the sweet andpleasant pastime of deceit. "Nay, ask me not his name! I am no makerof fair matches, nor half so politic, as this world goes, to endeavourto marry my friend to the first person that presents himself, solelyto rid myself of the presence of her beauty."
"Nay, but dear Beatrice," replied Mademoiselle de Menancourt, "I knowno one who has even seen that beauty, if so it must be called, formany a month: so indeed you are mistaken."
"Nay, nay, not so," answered Beatrice, smiling; "a few hours, a fewminutes, a single instant, are enough, you know, Eugenie: and for therest, indeed I am not mistaken. I would stake my life, from what Ihave seen--from signs infallible--that you are loved deeply, truly,with all the ardour of a first passion in a young--a very youngheart."
"Pray God, it be not so!" cried Eugenie; "for it were but unhappinessto himself and to me."
"Are you so cold, then, Eugenie, that you cannot love?" askedBeatrice, with a smile; "or is that sweet heart occupied already bysome one who fills it all?"
Eugenie smiled too, and shook her head; but there was once more a deepblush spread over her face; and though it might be but the generousflush of native modesty, Beatrice read in it a contradiction of herwords, as she replied, "No, no, not so, indeed! Perhaps I may be cold;as yet I cannot tell, for no one has ever yet spoken to me of lovewhose love I could return. But, even could I do so, Beatrice, would itnot be grief to both, as here I remain in the hands of others, unableto dispose of myself but as they please?"
"Out upon it, Eugenie!" cried Beatrice; "'tis your own fault if youare not your own mistress in an hour. Never was there a time in Francewhen woman--the universal slave--was half so free."
"But what would you have me do?" demanded Eugenie. "With a thousandeyes constantly upon me, I see not how I could obtain more freedom, ordispose of myself, were I so inclined."
"As easy as sit here and sew," cried Beatrice. "Here is the Kingclaims the disposal of your hand, and the League claims it too; and,between them both, you can give it to whom you will. Fly from Paris!Betake yourself where you will, but not to the court of Henry; for histyranny might be greater than even that of the League. Then, make yourchoice. Give your hand to him you love; and be quite sure, that theparty that your good lord shall join will sanction your marriage withall accustomed forms."
"But if I love no one?" said Eugenie, with a smile.
"Why then, live in single simplicity till you do," replied Beatrice,with an incredulous shake of the head. "But, at all events, fly fromthe yoke they now put upon you."
"Fly, Beatrice?" answered Eugenie; "fly, and how? How am I to fly,with a city beleaguered on all sides; a watchful Argus in the League,with its thousand eyes all round me: having none to guide me, and notknowing where to go;--how am I to fly?"
"By a thousand ways," answered her friend, laughing at herembarrassment. "Change your dress, in the first place: put on apetticoat of crimson satin embroidered with green, together with ablack velvet body and sleeves, cut in the fashion of the Duchess ofValentinois, of blessed memory!--a cloak of straw-coloured silk, a_capuche_ of light blue cloth broidered with gold, a mass of grey hairunder a black cap, and a _vertugadin_ of four feet square. Dressyourself thus, and call yourself Madame la Presidente de Noailles;and, by my word, the guards will let you pass all the gates, and thankGod to get rid of you! Or, if that does not suit you, take the gownand bonnet of a young advocate," she continued in the same gay tone;"hide those pretty lips and that rounded chin under a false beard fromArmandi's; and be very sure the guards would as soon think of stoppingyou as they would of stopping the prince of darkness, who, after all,is the real governor of this great city. Nothing keeps you here butfear, my Eugenie! Why, I will undertake to go in and out twenty timesa day, if I please."
"Ay, but you have a bolder heart than I have," answered Eugenie deMenancourt; "and I know full well, Beatrice, that a thing which,executed with a good courage, is done with ease, miscarries at thefirst step when it is at
tempted by timidity and fear. The very thoughtof wandering through the gates of Paris alone makes me shrink."
"But I will go with you, Eugenie," replied Beatrice, "and will answerfor success whenever you like to make the attempt."
Eugenie paused, and thought for several moments, fixing her fine eyesupon vacancy with a faint smile and a longing look, as if she wouldfain have taken advantage of her friend's proposal, yet dared not makethe attempt. "Not yet, dear Beatrice--not yet!" she answered: "I darenot, indeed, unless some sharp necessity happens to give me temporarycourage. As long as they refrain from urging me to wed one I can neverlove, and from pressing on me any other in his room, so long will Istay where I am."
"But see that your decision come not too late, Eugenie," answered herfriend. "They may soon begin to press you on the subject; and, whenonce they find you reluctant, they may take measures to prevent yourflight."
"I do not think they will press me," answered Eugenie. "First, inregard to Philip d'Aubin, they will never favour him, as he is of theparty of the King; and, in regard to any other, they know full wellthat I could, if I would, urge my father's promise to him."
"But you would not do it!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"No, Beatrice, no!" answered Eugenie, laying her hand kindly uponhers; "no, I would rather die!"
"But hear me," said Beatrice, somewhat eagerly; "think of all that mayhappen. A thousand things may tempt D'Aubin to quit the royal party.He may come over to the League--he may urge your father's promise--hemay obtain the sanction of Mayenne:--what will you do then?"
"Fly to the farthest corner of the earth," replied Eugenie, "soonerthan fulfil a promise that was none of mine, and against which mywhole heart revolts on every account. Listen, Beatrice; I do believethat, in the moment of need, I shall not want courage, and certainlyshall not want resolution. Should I have any reason to fearcompulsion, but too often used of late, I will take counsel with nonebut you; you shall guide me as you think fit, and I will fly anywhere,rather than give my hand to one I cannot love."
"Write me but five words," replied Beatrice, "write me 'Come to mewith speed,' and send it by a page when you want assistance, and doubtnot but I will find means to deliver you, were you at the very altar.But, hark! I hear steps upon the staircase, and horses before thehouse; and I must resume all my bold and haughty bearing, and put onthe mask, which I have laid aside to Eugenie de Menancourt alone."
As she spoke, she drew her chair a little further from that of herfriend; and, placing it in the exact position which the ceremoniousintercourse of that day pointed out, she remained with the glove drawnoff from one fair hand, which, dropping gracefully over the arm of the_fauteuil_, continued to hold her small black mask, twirling it aslistlessly round and round as ever the fair hand of fashionable damein our own days played with a glove, to show her skin's whiteness orher brilliant rings. Eugenie de Menancourt's eyes sought the door withan expression of anxiety; but Beatrice, on the contrary, gazedvacantly through the window towards the buildings on the opposite sideof the river; and the visitors had entered the room, and were alreadyspeaking to her friend, before she appeared to be conscious of theirpresence, or condescended to notice them. Turning her head at length,she fixed her eyes upon a square-built, powerful man, with a somewhatheavy, but not unpleasing, countenance; who, richly dressed, andfollowed by two or three gentlemen, in a more gay and smart, but notmore magnificent, costume, was speaking to Mademoiselle de Menancourt,with all that courteous respect which chivalrous times, then justpassing away, had left behind them.
"Good morrow, my lord Duke!" said Beatrice, as the visitor turnedtowards her: "I anticipated not the pleasure of seeing your Highnesshere to day. Good faith! have you so much ease in a beleaguered city,as to exercise your horses in visiting ladies before noon? On myhonour, I will be a soldier, for 'tis the idlest life I know, and onlyfit for a woman."
"I came but to ask briefly after your fair friend's health," repliedthe Duke; "and knew not that I should have to risk with you, gay lady,one of our old encounters of sharp words. I trust, however, yourhealth is better."
"Did you ever see me look more beautiful, Duke of Mayenne?" askedBeatrice, with a gay toss of her head; "and can you ask if I am ill?But as to my _friend's_ health, if you would that she should be well,and keep well, let her go out of Paris, home to her own dwelling; andkeep her not here, where one is surrounded, night and day, with thesound of cannon and arquebuses. Do you intend that it should be said,in future, that carrying on the war against women and children wasfirst introduced into modern Europe by the Duke of Mayenne and theCatholic League, that you keep a lady here a close prisoner in yourbeleaguered capital?"
"Not as a prisoner, fair lady," answered the Duke of Mayenne; "Godforbid that either I or she should look upon her situation as one ofimprisonment; but, being lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and,consequently, her lawful guardian and protector, till marriage givesher a better, I should be wanting both in duty and in courtesy, were Ito leave her in a distant and distracted province, in a time ofunfortunate civil war."
"Well explained and justified, my good lord Duke," cried Beatrice,who, both in right of rank and beauty, treated the ambitious leader ofthe League as equal to equal. "And yet, after all, my lord, has notthat same marriage that you mention some small share in your tenaciouskindness? Did you ever hear, my lord, of a rat-catcher giving the ratsthe bait out of his trap, from pure affection for the heretic vermin?"
The Duke of Mayenne first reddened, and then smiled; either moreamused than angry at the gay flippancy of his fair opponent, orjudging it best, at least, to appear so. "Your similes savour of aprofession that I know not, fair lady," he replied; "but if you mean,Lady Beatrice, that hereafter I may dispose of your fair friend'shand in such a manner as seems to me most conducive towards herhappiness--if you mean that," he repeated, in a marked tone, "I denynot that you are right. Yet I would fain know who has a better rightto do so than the lieutenant-general of the kingdom?"
"Oh! no one, surely!" answered Beatrice, in the same tone of mingledpride and gaiety--"no one, surely, my lord, except the King of thatkingdom, or the poor frightened girl herself."
"Come, come, fair lady," cried Mayenne, laughing; "you carry your jestso far, that I will bid you take care what you say farther, lest Ishould dispose of your hand for you, too, for the purpose of showingyou--to use your own figure--that I have more baits than one to myrat-trap."
"Indeed, lord Duke, you count wrongly, if you reckon that I am one,"replied Beatrice. "You know too well that the task would neither be avery safe nor very easy one, to try to wed me to any one against mywill. You may be lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and I, forone--being not of this kingdom, and thinking much better of you thanof the crowned Vice at St. Cloud--will not deny your right; but youare not lieutenant-general of Beatrice of Ferrara; and you might findit more difficult to govern her than half the realm of France; and so,good morrow! Love me, Eugenie; and do not let these men persuade youthat they are half such powerful and terrible things as they wouldmake themselves appear. Fare you well!"
Each of the gentlemen in the prince's suite stepped forward to offerhis hand to the gay, proud beauty, whose tone of light defiance hadsomething in it more attractive to the general youth of those excitedtimes, than all the retiring graces and gentle modesty of Eugenie deMenancourt. Beatrice scarcely noticed them while her friend took leaveof her, but as soon as the embrace was over, she ran her eye over thethree or four cavaliers who stood round, and, singling out one, gavehim her hand, saying, "My lord of Aumale, I believe you are the onlyone here present, except my lord Duke, who never whispered that youloved me; and therefore I doubt not that you _do_ love me enoughto--hand me to my carriage."
The young noble, to whom she addressed herself, answered with allthose professions which the formal gallantry of the day not onlypermitted, but required, and led her down to the rudely formed, butrichly decorated, vehicle, which was the carriage of those days.
In the meanwhile, Eugenie d
e Menancourt remained waiting in somesuspense, to hear the real object of the visit paid her by the Duke ofMayenne, the purport of which she could not conceive was merely toinquire after her health. Whether, however, the great leader of theLeague judged that his conversation with Beatrice of Ferrara was notthe most favourable prelude to anything he had to say to the youngheiress, or whether he really came but to trifle away a few minutes ina visit of ceremony, it is certain that he said nothing which couldinduce Eugenie to imagine that he had any immediate view of pressingher to a marriage with any one. After spending about ten minutes inordinary conversation, upon general and uninteresting subjects, andexpressing many a wish for the comfort and welfare of his fair ward,as he did not fail to style Mademoiselle de Menancourt, Mayenne rose,and left her to the enjoyment of solitude and her own reflections,which, for the time, were sweetened by the hope, that the evils towhich her situation might ultimately give rise were yet remote.