CHAPTER VIII.
The carriage which contained Beatrice of Ferrara rolled on with slowand measured pace through the narrow and tortuous streets of oldParis, till at length, as it was performing the difficult man[oe]uvreof turning a sharp angle, it was encountered by a small party ofhorsemen, in the simple garments of peace, which, at that warlikeperiod, was a less common occurrence than to see every one who couldbear them clad in grim arms. The right of staring into carriages, whenthe velvet curtains were withdrawn, was already established in Paris;and it needed but a brief glance to make the principal cavalier of thegroup draw in his bridle rein, beckon the coachman to stop, and,springing to the ground, approach the _portiere_ of the vehiclewherein Beatrice was placed. As usual in those days, she was notalone; but, while a number of lackeys graced the outside of hercarriage, two or three female attendants were seated in the interiorof the machine, leaving still a space within its ample bulk for manyanother, had it been necessary. More than one pair of eyes were thusupon her; and yet Beatrice, though brought up in a court--wherefeelings themselves were nearly reckoned contraband, and allexpression of them prohibited altogether--could not repress the veryevident signs of agitation which the approach of that cavalieroccasioned. Her cheek reddened, her breathing became short, and shesank back upon the embroidered cushions of the carriage, as if shewould fain have avoided the meeting. The agitation lasted but amoment, however; and as soon as he spoke, she was herself again:perhaps gaining courage from seeing that his own cheek was flushed,and that his own voice trembled as he addressed her.
"A thousand, thousand pardons, lady!" he said, standing bareheaded bythe door, "for stopping your carriage in the streets; but theseunfortunate wars have rendered it so long since we have met, that mostanxious am I----!"
"My lord Count d'Aubin," replied Beatrice, raising her head proudly,"the time of your absence from Paris has not seemed to me so long asto make me rejoice that it is at an end!"
"I have no right to expect another answer," replied D'Aubin, in a lowvoice; "and yet, Beatrice, perhaps I could say something in my owndefence."
"Which I should be most unwilling to hear," replied the lady, coldly."I doubt not, sir Count, that you can say much in your own defence: Inever yet knew man that could not, but a plain idiot, or one borndumb. But what is your defence to me? I am neither your judge nor youraccuser. If your own heart charges you with ambition, or avarice, orfalsehood, plead your cause with it, and, doubtless, you will meetwith a most lenient judge. Will you bid the coachman drive on, sir?this is a foolish interruption, and a narrow street."
"Oh, Beatrice!" exclaimed the Count d'Aubin, piqued by her coldness,"at least delay one moment, till you tell me you are well and happy: Ihave just heard that you have been ill--very ill."
"I have, sir," she replied; "I caught the fever that was prevalenthere; but I am well again, as you see, and should be perfectly happy,if I did not hear King Henry's artillery above once a week, and ifpeople would not stop my carriage in the streets."
"And is that all you will say to me, Beatrice?" asked the Count, inthe same low tone which he had hitherto used--"is that all you willsay, after all that has passed?"
"I know nothing, sir, that has passed between us," replied Beatricealoud, "except that once or twice, in a fit of wine or folly, youvowed that you loved Beatrice of Ferrara better than life, or wealth,or rank, or station; and that she received those vows as she has donea thousand others, from a thousand brighter persons than Philip Countd'Aubin, namely, as idle words, which foolish men will speak tofoolish women, for want of better wit and more pleasant conversation;as words which you had probably spoken to a hundred others, before youspoke them to me, and which you will yet, in all probability, speak toa hundred more, who will believe them just as much as I did, andforget them quite as soon. Once more, sir, then, will you order thecoachman to drive on, or let me do so, and retire from the wheel, lestit strike you, and the Catholic League lose a valiant convert by anignoble death?"
"Nay, there at least you do me wrong!" replied the Count d'Aubin: "theCatholic League has no convert in me; I am here, under a safe conduct,on matters of no slight importance to my good cousin St. Real: but tohis Majesty will I adhere, so long as he and I both live!"
"Indeed!" cried Beatrice, with a light laugh. "Is there anything inwhich the fickle Count d'Aubin will not be fickle? Nay, nay, make norash vows; remember, you have not yet heard all the golden argumentswhich his Highness, the lieutenant-general of the kingdom and theLeague can hold out. Suppose he offer you the hand of some richheiress; could you resist, sir Count? could you resist?"
D'Aubin coloured, perhaps because Beatrice had gone deeper into thesecrets of his inmost thoughts than he felt agreeable. He answered,however, boldly, "I could resist anything against my honour."
"Honour!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a scoff: "honour! Marguerite, tellthe coachman to drive on. Honour!"
D'Aubin drew back, with an air at once of pain and anger, made asilent sign to the coachman to proceed, and, springing on his horse,galloped down the street, followed by his attendants, at a pace whichrisked their own necks upon the unequal causeway of the town, andwhich certainly showed but little consideration for the safety of thepassengers. The emotions of Philip d'Aubin, however, were such as didnot permit of consideration for himself or others. He felt himselfcondemned, and he believed himself despised, by the only woman that,perhaps, he had ever truly loved. The better feelings of his heart,too, rose against him: he knew that his conduct was ungenerous; and hefelt that, had the time been one when faith and honour towards womanwere aught but mere names, his behaviour would have been dishonourablein the eyes of mankind, as well as in the stern code of abstract rightand wrong: and unhappy is the man who has no other means of justifyinghimself to his own heart but by pleading the follies and vices of hisage. D'Aubin did plead those follies and vices, however, and hepleaded them successfully, so far as in soon banishing reflectionwent; but there was a sting left behind, which was the more bitter,perhaps, as mortified vanity had no small share in the pain that hesuffered. He had believed that he could not so soon be treated withscorn and indifference; he had fancied that his hold on the heart ofBeatrice of Ferrara was too strong to be shaken off so easily; andthough he had no definite object in retaining that hold, though otherpassions had for the time triumphed over affection, and placed abarrier between himself and her which he was not willing to overleap,yet still the lingering love that would not be banished was wounded byher bitter tone; and, joined to humbled pride and offended vanity,made his feelings aught but pleasing.
In the meantime, the carriage of Beatrice of Ferrara bore her on witha heart in which sensations as bitter were thronging; though, as wehave seen in her conversation with Eugenie de Menancourt, her feelingstowards her lover were less keen and scornful than her words mightlead him to believe. On the state of her bosom, however, there is nonecessity to dwell here, as many an occasion will present itself forexplaining it in her own words; and it may be better, also, to let herthus speak for herself, because in endeavouring to depictabstractedly, by means of cold descriptions, that varying andchameleon-like thing, the human heart, one is often led into seemingcontradictions, from the infinite variety of hues which it takes,according to the things which surround it.
The carriage rolled on and entered the court-yard of the splendidmansion in which she dwelt. Here Beatrice alighted; but she did not gointo the house, for a hand-litter or chair,--one of the most ancientof French conveyances,--waited under the archway, as if prepared byher previous order, with its two bearers, and a single armedattendant; and this new conveyance received her as soon as she setfoot out of the other. The door was immediately closed, and theblinds, filled with their small squares of painted glass, were drawnup, Beatrice merely saying to the attendant who stood beside her asshe shut out the gaze of the passers-by, "To Armandi's!"
The bearers instantly lifted their burden, and began their course atthe same peculiar trot which has probably been the pace of cha
ir-menin all ages; nor from this did they cease or pause till they reachedone of the most showy, if not one of the richest, shops in the city.Standing forth from the building, under a little projecting penthouse,to secure the wares against both sun and rain, was along range ofglass cases, containing every sort of cosmetic then in vogue, from theplain essence of violets, wherewith the simple burgher's wife perfumedher robe of ceremony, to the rich ointment compounded from a thousandrare ingredients, wherewith the King himself masked his own effeminatecountenance against the night air whilst he slept. Behind these caseswas the shop itself, hanging in which might be seen a crowd of variousobjects for the gratification of vanity and luxury,--the black velvetmask, or loupe, the embroidered and many-coloured gloves, the splendidhair-pins and enamelled clasps, the girdles of gold and silverfiligree and precious stones, together with many another part of dressor ornament, some full of grace and taste, some fantastic and absurd,and some scarcely within the bounds of common decency. Beyond theshop, again, but separated from it by a partition of glass, covered inthe inside with curtains of crimson silk, was the inner shop, or mostprivate receptacle for all those peculiarly rich or fragile wareswhich Armandi, the famous perfumer of that day, did not choose toexpose, to tempt cupidity, or lose their freshness, in the moreexposed parts of his dwelling. Here, too, report whispered, wereconcealed those drugs and secret preparations, his skill incompounding which, it was said, had been much more the cause of hisgreat favour with Catherine de Medicis than his art as a perfumer,which was the ostensible motive of her calling him from Italy to takeup his abode in her husband's capital. However this might be, certainit is that, after the sudden death of the Queen of Navarre, thesuspicions of the Huguenots turned strangely against Armandi, to whosediabolical skill they very generally attributed the loss of theirbeloved princess: and it is more than probable that he would havefallen a victim to their indignation, whether just or unjust, had notthe horrors of St. Bartholomew shortly after delivered him from thepresence of his adversaries in Paris.
Nevertheless, although suspicion might be strong, and the man'scharacter as infamous as such suspicions could render it, yet the shopof Armandi was not less the resort of the beautiful and the fair, andeven of the gentle and good: for it is most extraordinary how farfemale charity will extend towards those who contribute to thegratification of vanity and satisfy the thirst for novelty. The newestfashions, the most beautiful objects of art and luxury, the freshestand most costly rarities were nowhere to be found but at his shop; andno one chose to believe that Armandi dealt in poisons--but those whowanted them.
Thither, then, the chair, or _litiere encaissee_, as it was called, ofBeatrice of Ferrara, was borne at an hour when the greater part of thegay Parisians were busy with that employment which few people lovebetter, namely, that of eating the good things which their owngastronomic art produces. The bearers halted not at the steps whichled into the shop, but proceeded till the chair was brought parallelto a door in the partition, between the outer and the inner chamber,so that she could pass at once from the one into the other. Hercountenance, however, bore but little the expression of one going tobuy trinkets, or to amuse oneself by turning over the lightfrivolities of such a place as that in which she stood. The usual fireof her eye was somewhat quelled, and a degree of melancholy, perhapsof anxiety, unusual with her at any time, had, since her meeting withthe Count d'Aubin, pervaded her whole countenance. The doors of thepartition and that of the chair had been both thrown open as soon asthe gilded lions' feet of the latter touched the floor, and therestood the Signor Armandi, dressed in silks and velvets of rose colourand sky blue, with his mustachio turning up almost to his eyes, and asmall jewelled dagger occupying the place of the sword, which hiscalling did not permit him to wear in Paris. His face was dressed insweet complacent smiles; and, as he bowed three times to the veryground before his lovely visiter, his head was certainly "droppingodours;" for no one held his own perfumes in higher veneration than hedid himself.
"Enchanted and honoured are my eyes to see you once again, lady mostfair and chaste!" said he, in high-flown Italian. "I heard that youhad been upon that sad couch, where the head is propped by the thornsof sickness, rather than by the roses of love."
"Hush, hush, Armandi!" cried Beatrice, with an impatient wave of thehand; "you should know me better than to speak such trash to me. Ineither use your cosmetics, nor will hear your nonsense. I have comeupon more weighty matters."
"For whatever you have come, most beautiful of the beautiful," repliedthe other, affecting to subdue his exalted tone; "you have come tocommand, and I am here to obey. Speak! your words are law to Armandi."
"When followed by the necessary seal of gold, I know they are,"answered Beatrice, gravely. "Now hear me, then. I wish--I wish--" shepaused and hesitated, and the perfumer, accustomed to receivecommunications of too delicate a nature to bear the coarse vehicle oflanguage, hastened to aid her.
"You wish, perhaps," he said, in a soft voice, "to see some friend,and require the magical influence of Armandi to bring him to yourpresence----"
"Out, villain!" cried Beatrice, her eyes flashing fire. "For whom doyou take me, pitiful slave? Do you fancy yourself speaking to Clara deVillefranche, or Marguerite de Tours en Brie, or, higher still in rankand infamy, Marguerite de Valois? Out, I say! Talk not to me of suchthings;--I wish--I wish--"
"Perhaps you wish to see some friend no more," said the soft voice ofthe perfumer, apparently not in the least offended by the hard termsshe had given him, and equally disposed to do her good anduncompromising service of any kind. "Perhaps you wish the magicalinfluence of Armandi to remove from your sight some one who has beenin it too long, and troubles you?"
A bitter and painful smile played round the beautiful lips of Beatriceof Ferrara, while, bowing her head slowly, she replied, after amoment's thought, "Perhaps I do."
"Then I am right at last," said Armandi, softly, rubbing his handstogether. "I am right at last; and you have nothing to do, fair lady,but to name the person, and the time, and the manner, and it shall bedone to your full satisfaction; though I must hint that all thepreparations for rendering disagreeable people invisible are somewhatexpensive; and the amount depends greatly upon the mode. Would youhave it slow and quietly, that he or she should disappear? That is thebest and easiest plan, and also the least expensive--for there is theless risk."
"No!" replied Beatrice, firmly, "I would have it act at once--in amoment, and so potently, that no physician on the earth can find skillsufficient to undo that which has been done."
"Of the latter be quite sure," replied the perfumer. "But with regardto the former, it is much more dangerous, as a sudden catastropheleads instantly to examination. Now, a few drops of sweet _aquatophana_ has its calm and tranquillizing effects so gradually, that nodoubt or suspicion is awakened; and you can surely wait patiently fora month, or a fortnight, to give it time to act?"
"You mistake," replied Beatrice, thoughtfully; "you mistake: yet say,how are such things managed? Let me hear, that I may judge."
"Why, lady," replied Armandi, with a mysterious smile, "there aresecrets in all things on this earth, from the fine composition of alady's heart, to the simples of poor Armandi. Nevertheless, althoughthe mysteries of the art must remain hidden in my own bosom, as Ienjoy the blessing of having been born in the same land with one sobeautiful, and as I know that you were deeply beloved by my late royaland honoured mistress, though somewhat frowning on the soft pleasuresof her court, I will, without reserve, reveal to you how your purposemay be best effected."
Thus saying, he took a small silver key from his pocket, and opened aVenetian cabinet, that stood near. "See here!" he said, producing asmall gilded phial, containing, apparently, a quantity of a perfectlylimpid fluid; "see here! the water that Adam found in the firstfountain he met in Eden was not more clear than this; and yet thefruit of the tree that stood near it was not more certain death. Noodour is to be discerned therein: to the eye it has no colour; to thelip no taste; and
yet, like many another thing, with all this seemingsimplicity, it is the most potent of all things, having powerunlimited over life and death. Three drops of this, in the simplestbeverage, will ensure that slow and gradual decay, which, at the endof a year, shall leave him who drinks it a clod in his mother earth. Alarger dose will shorten the time by one half; and a larger still willreduce the time to a few weeks or days. The only difficulty is how togive it: but that I will find means for when I know the person."
"It will not do!" replied Beatrice; "it will not do! it is not quickenough. Have you no other means?"
"Many, lady! many!" replied the perfumer, smiling; "but, in goodsooth, you are as impatient as a young lover. All our art has beentasked to render the means at once slow and secure, so as, in cases ofnecessity, to effect our deliverance from enemies without callingsuspicion on ourselves. See here! this artificial rose, so like thenatural flower, that the eye must be keen, indeed, which, at thedistance of half a yard, could detect the difference. The scent, too,is the same----"
"But why do you keep it under that glass ball?" demanded Beatrice,interrupting the long description with which he was proceeding.
"Because, lady," replied the Italian, "that rose, placed in as fair abosom as your own, and worn there for one half-hour, would lose itsscent, and the wearer health and life within a week. Its odour,therefore, is too valuable to trust to the common air."
"And those gloves?" asked Beatrice; "those gloves, so beautifullyembroidered, for what purpose are they designed?"
"Heaven forbid that I should see them on your hands!" replied Armandi;"though I have heard that they were once worn by a queen--who is sincedead. But you spoke of quicker means. Here is this small box ofpowder, containing a certain salt that, in the twinkling of an eye,extinguishes the fire of the heart, and the light of the mind, andleaves nothing but the ashes behind. We often use it, diluted withother things, for other purposes; but I would not administer one doseof that, to any one of note, for a less sum than ten thousand goldenHenrys, though the whole box is scarcely worth a hundred crowns. Butso quick is its effect, and so marked the traces that it leavesbehind, that the chirurgeon were a fool who did not at once pronouncethe cause of death in him who took it."
"Give me yon _bonbonni?re_," said Beatrice, pointing to a paintedtrifle on one of the tables. "And now," she continued, as the man gaveit her, "is that enough for one dose?" and as she spoke, she emptiedpart of the powder from the box which contained it into the_bonbonni?re_--"Is that enough for one dose?"
"It is enough to kill the King's army!" replied the man. "But whatmean you, lady? What do you intend to do?"
"The person for whom I mean this drug," replied Beatrice, "shallreceive it from no hands but my own. You shall risk nothing. There isa jewel, worth one half your shop," she added, drawing a ring from herfinger, and casting it upon the table; "and the powder is mine."
"But, lady! lady!" cried the perfumer, regarding the diamond witheager and experienced eyes, and yet trembling for the consequenceswhich his fair visitor's strong passions might bring upon himself;"but, lady, if you should be discovered! You are young andinexperienced in such matters. They must be performed with a calmhand, and a steady eye, and an unquivering lip: and if you should bediscovered, and put to the torture, you would betray me."
"However I may contemn thee, man," answered Beatrice, "there is nopower on earth that could make me betray thee. But rest satisfied; Itake the powder from thee, whether thou wilt or not;--but I will makethee easy, and tell thee, that if one grain thereof ever passes anyhuman lip, that lip will be my own. It is well to be prepared for allthings--to have ever at hand a ready remedy for all the ills oflife--to possess the means of snatching ourselves from the grasp ofcircumstance: and, in the path which I may be called to tread, thetime may well come when I shall wish to change this world for another.I leave to better moralists to decide whether it be right or not,courageous or cowardly, to shake off a life that we are tired of. Formy part, I will bear it to the utmost; and, when I can endure it nolonger, then will I try another path."
"If such be your purpose, lady," answered the perfumer, with a sweetsmile, and a low inclination, "far be it from me to oppose you. Everyone, as you say, should be prepared for all things; and I hold thatman not half prepared who does not possess the means of limiting thepower his enemies have over him to simple death, a fate that all mustundergo. Men think far too much of death: it is but cutting off a fewshort hours from a long race of pain and anxiety: far oftener is it amercy than a wrong. Men think too much of death!"
"You think little enough of it in others, at least," answeredBeatrice, looking upon him with curiosity and hate, not unmingled withthat peculiar kind and degree of admiration, which wonder always moreor less produces. "Have I not heard that you were busy amongst thebusiest on the night of St. Bartholomew?"
"Not I, lady! not I!" exclaimed the perfumer, with a look of disgustand horror at the very name of that fearful massacre. "Not I, indeed!not for the world would I have borne a part, either in that shamefulaffair, or in the late brutal murder of the great Duke and theCardinal de Guise."
"Why, how now!" cried Beatrice. "Would you, who hold life so lightly,and take it so carelessly from others; would you affect scruples atslaying those you consider heretics, or at putting away ambitioustyrants?"
"Lady, you mistake it altogether," answered the dealer in poisons,with a grim smile. "The Huguenots are heretics, and damnable heretics,since such is your good pleasure and the Pope's: but in that capacityI have nought to do with them. The Guises were tyrants if you will;though Heaven forbid that any ears but yours should hear me say so!But they tyrannised not over me. What I objected to, was the manner ofthe thing; and it is the manner that, in this world, makes the onlydifference between crime and virtue. What is murder in one manner, iswar and glory in another; what is fraud in a merchant, is skill in aminister; what is base when done in a burgher's coat and with asimpering smile, is noble when done in royal robes and with a kinglyfrown. Now, what could be more beastly, or brutal, or indecent, thanto cut the throats of some hundreds of men in their beds, stain alltheir pillows with blood, and throw the old admiral himself,half-naked, out of a window? What could be more cruel than to put themfor hours in mortal terror; inflict upon them excruciating wounds,and, in some instances, leave them half dead, half-living, when thewhole might have been effected without pain, without fear, withoutbloodshed, in the midst of some gay banquet, or some pleasant carouse:where they would all have died as if they were going to sleep! Nay,nay, lady! our late royal mistress made there a great and a cruelmistake; and as for the Guises--Pho! was ever anything so stupid andso filthy as to swim the King's own closet with gore, and have a manreeling and tumbling about in the midst, under the strokes ofhalf-a-dozen daggers! I cannot conceive how the King, who is asdelicate a gentleman as any in all France, could consent to such anindecency."
Beatrice of Ferrara listened, but she thought deeply too; for therewas something in the character of the man who spoke--such a blendingof frivolity and foppery with cold-blooded villany, that it led herthoughts far on into the wilds of speculation; and was not without itsmoral for herself. She saw, from his example, how easy it is for anyone to persuade oneself of anything on earth, however much opposed toreason, or to virtue. She saw that there are no bounds to self-deceit,that it is illimitable, and that there was never yet a crime so base,so horrible, so revolting, for which it will not find a pleasant maskand a gay robe;--she saw it, and she began to doubt whether all herown reasonings in regard to self-destruction had not derived theirstrength from the same source. She resolved that, ere she ever thoughtagain of attempting such an act, she would consider well, andscrutinise her own feelings minutely; but still, with the usualweakness of human nature, she would not lose her hold upon the meansof doing that which she more than half believed to be wrong. Withoutreplying to the perfumer's dissertation, she turned thoughtfullytowards the door; but, as she did so, she took the poison which shehad purchased from the
table, and concealed it in her bosom.
Armandi hastened to open the door between the inner and the outershop, and, with low reverence, presented the tips of his delicatefingers to lead the lady to her chair; but at that very moment theclatter of many horses' feet, and the rush and murmur of a passingcrowd, made them both pause, and turn their eyes towards the street.The matter did not remain long unexplained. A considerable body ofthose mercenary soldiers, who, from their blackened arms, were calledthe black reitters, were passing along before the house: but theirmarch through the streets of Paris was so common an occurrence, thatit would have attracted no crowd to gaze, in the present instance, hadnot some additional circumstance given another kind of interest totheir appearance on this occasion. In the midst of them, however, wellmounted, but disarmed, appeared a handsome and noble-looking youngman--no other than the Marquis of St. Real--followed by about twentyretainers, also disarmed, and bearing those black scarfs which were,at that time, symbols of military mourning. There was nothing eitherdepressed or anxious in the countenance of St. Real; and he gazedabout at the many interesting objects which the streets of the capitalpresented, with the calm and inquiring glance of a person mentally atease: but, at the same time, on either side of the file in which heand his followers rode, appeared a body of the reitters, with theirshort matchlocks rested on their knees, their hands upon the triggers,and their matches lighted; evidently showing, that those they guardedwere brought into Paris in the condition of prisoners.
The moment this spectacle met her eyes, Beatrice of Ferrara called tothe armed attendant who had accompanied her chair, and who, like hismistress, had now turned to gaze upon the cavalcade as it passed by."Quick!" she cried, "follow them quick, Bertrand! follow them quick,and leave them not till you see their prisoner safely lodged. Makesure of the place, and then bring all the tidings you can gather tome."
The servant, accustomed to comprehend and to obey at once the ordersof a mistress whose mind was itself as rapid as the lightning, sprangfrom the door, without a word, and, mingling in the crowd, followedthe reitters on their way. Beatrice remained in silence till the lasthad passed, and then, entering her chair, was borne back to her owndwelling.