Read Ebook: One in a Thousand; or The Days of Henri Quatre by James G P R George Payne Rainsford Magnus Laurie Author Of Introduction Etc

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chess, evinced by leaving her for nearly half an hour unnoticed in the wide and solitary chamber to which she had been ushered on her first arrival. Her sensations, therefore, on beholding St. Real, were purely those of surprise and pleasure; but they reached the height of agitation.

She spoke not; but, as the last light that lingered in the sky shone upon her beautiful countenance through the open window, St. Real beheld the warm blood rush up into her cheek and forehead, a beaming lustre dance in her eyes, and a bright irrepressible smile play about her lips, that plainly told he was no unwelcome visiter. The hand that was instantly extended to him he took in his; and he thought it no treason to his cousin to press his lips upon it. All that Eugenie and St. Real first said was too hurried and confused, too shapeless and unconnected, to bear much meaning if written down in mere cold words, without the looks, and the gestures, and the feelings, that at the time gave life and soul to those words themselves. They had a thousand things to speak of. Since their last meeting each had lost a father, each had lost a friend; and the affection that either had borne to the dead parent of the other was matter of deep sympathy and feeling between them. All their thoughts, their sorrows, their regrets, were in common, and their conversation, for some time, was one of those deep, touching, artless, unrestrained communications of mutual ideas, which--full of the reciprocation of bright sentiments--more than aught else on earth knit heart and heart together.

At length St. Real remembered that he was losing moments which he had destined for another purpose; and some of the servants entering to light the lamps and sconces in the apartment, at once showed him that he had no time to lose, and gave him an opportunity of changing the topic. As soon as they were left once more alone, he spoke of his cousin, the Count d'Aubin, and approached, without directly speaking of the subject of his pretensions, to Mademoiselle de Menancourt.

Eugenie turned as pale as death, and then again the red blood mounted to her cheek with a quick vehement blush: she too felt that there was an infinity to be said, and feared that there might be little time to say it. There was much--she felt there was much--to be staked upon the conversation of the next few instants; and she determined that, whatever report of her sentiments St. Real might bear his cousin, it should be such as to put an end for ever to his hopes of her affection.

"And would you, St. Real," she said, "would you, who know both him and me, would you press me to fulfil an engagement, in making which I myself bore no part, and which, even on the side of my father, was, as far as I can learn, but conditional? No, St. Real, no! sooner than disobey my father's commands, I would have sacrificed happiness, perhaps life itself: but he left me free, and pointedly, with his last breath, bade me, in the difficult circumstances in which I should be placed, use my own judgment. That judgment will never lead me to become the wife of one who can act as you and I have seen Philip d'Aubin act."

"But, believe me, Eugenie," replied St. Real, "Philip has changed. He loves you deeply, sincerely; and that love will teach him to seek your happiness by gaining your esteem."

"No, no! St. Real," replied Eugenie with a sigh, "no, no! he loves nothing but himself. I know him better than you do. While I thought that, at some time, I was to become his wife, I strove to love him as great an effort as woman can strive to direct the feelings of her own heart. In striving to love him, I strove to know him; and thus I learned all the baseness, all the selfishness, of his character. Forgive me, St. Real, for using such harsh language: you know it is not in my nature to speak or to feel thus, except in a case where all my happiness is concerned: but I wish you to understand at once, and for ever, that I will not marry Philip d'Aubin--because I do not love him."

"But might not time, and assiduity, and nobler deeds, teach you to love him?" demanded St. Real: "for, believe me, Eugenie, better qualities lie slumbering in his heart, which a great object might awake and strengthen. Might he not teach you to love him?"

"I would not love him for a universe," replied Eugenie; "for the woman who loves him is sure to be miserable. But press me no more, St. Real, press me no more: my resolution is taken--my mind and my heart are fixed. I do not love Philip d'Aubin--I never have loved him--I never can love him; and, sooner than become his wife, I would resign all that I have on earth but the dowry of a nun; quit the world, and seek peace in the cloister."

St. Real replied but by a sigh; and although that sigh might be one of sorrow for the disappointment of his cousin, yet it called up in the bosom of Eugenie de Menancourt varied emotions, that, for a moment, sent another bright flush across her cheek, which, fading away again, left her as pale as death. Ere the soft natural hue had returned, and ere St. Real had time to separate his mingled feelings from each other, and give to those he thought it right to express, the door opened, and Madame de Montpensier appeared alone.

Strange is it to say, but no less true, that though Eugenie de Menancourt and Huon de St. Real had both longed for such a moment of calm and unobserved communion, the approach of a third person was, at that moment, a relief to both. Nor was the manner of Madame de Montpensier at all calculated to lessen that sensation: it was the same which she had assumed in the morning towards St. Real, and which she had found succeed so well, that she determined not to abandon it till he had quitted Paris. She was, perhaps, even calmer and more tranquil in her demeanour now than she had appeared before: for reading, with deep knowledge, the secrets of the human heart, she knew that such a demeanour was best in harmony with the feelings which she wished St. Real and Eugenie to experience towards each other. Approaching, then, slowly and tranquilly, she welcomed Mademoiselle de Menancourt cordially, and then proceeded to speak of various indifferent subjects with wit and grace, but with very tempered gaiety, until the appearance of the Duchess of Guise, and then of the Duke of Mayenne, gave a different turn to the conversation. Supper was almost immediately announced; and, during the meal, all passed in the same calm tone. Eugenie, for the first time in her life, thought Madame de Montpensier as fascinating in manners as she was generally reported to be; and although she could not help feeling, with a degree of discomfort, that the eyes of the princess were frequently upon her with an inquiring, or rather, investigating, glance, yet the minutes went by more pleasantly than any she had known for many months. St. Real, too, felt the time brief and sweet; but, arguing from the costly apparel of the Duchess and her sister, that they were either going forth to figure on some more splendid scene, or were about to receive other guests at home, he judged that the moments allowed to such conversation as he then enjoyed would be but few; and he tormented himself by remembering a thousand things he wished to say to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, which he had forgotten at the only time when they could have been said.

At length the party rose; and, if the sound of rolling wheels, and shouting attendants, and trampling horses, augured true, the members of the house of Guise were even somewhat late in preparing to receive the noble guests who were invited that night to meet together in gaiety and splendour, though the morning had passed with many in strife and bloodshed, and though iron war was thundering with his cannon at the gates.

On the first signal of their design to quit the supper table, the attendants, who stood round, threw open the doors of the hall, and Madame de Montpensier, taking Eugenie by the hand, led the way into another chamber, which was already brilliantly lighted, and evidently prepared for some occasion of splendour, but into which, as yet, no one had been admitted. Passing through that and several rooms beyond, they at length approached a saloon, the door of which was open, and from which proceeded the busy hum of many voices; while various figures were seen passing to and fro across the aperture of the doorway, like the painted shadows cast by a phantasmagoria. Some of those guests, however, who watch for great men's steps, and observe their looks, soon perceived the approach of the family of Guise; and the words, "The Duke, the Duke! His Highness the lieutenant-general!" pronounced by several voices within, created, for the moment a brief bustle among the guests, and then the silence of expectation, till the party entered the room.

On his arrival in the hall, the Duke advanced and bowed round him with the dignity, and perhaps with a little more than the pride, of a legitimate monarch. Though his eye had not much of the fire and energy which characterized that of his father and his brother, it was sufficiently quick and marking to observe in the room all those who are likely to be serviceable, either individually to himself, or more generally, to the state; and to each of these he took care to address some word of more particular favour and encouragement. Some he passed with a mere inclination of the head; some he noticed not at all. Madame de Montpensier, however, though in her heart prouder than her brother, was one of those--of those few persons--capable of feeling the master passions of human nature in all the terrible energy in which they can display themselves. Hatred, revenge, and ambition, were for the time, predominant in her heart: and these are idols to which, as to the Moloch of the Ammonites, pride will even sacrifice its children. Knowing and feeling that the meanest man present might accelerate or retard the objects of her desire, casting aside all her natural vanity, and all the haughtiness of her race, Madame de Montpensier mingled with the crowd, and--while her languishing sister, the Duchess of Guise, sat coquetting with her own particular admirers--she spoke with every one, smiled upon every one, and left each with increased prepossession in her favour, and renewed attachment to her cause.

As the crowd increased, and the rooms became full, the party separated into groups, classing themselves by the various standards of rank, opinions, wit, or tastes. For all, amusement was provided in case conversation should not be sufficient to fill up the time; and many took advantage of such arrangements to favour or to conceal the purposes and the views with which each came thither more or less preoccupied. In one chamber the dice rolled upon the board, while one of the most vehement players was every now and then seen to hold a brief conversation with various persons who came and went in the room. At other tables again, those flat, dull pieces of mischievous pasteboard called cards were dealt and played in solemn silence, except when some biting jest, or well-directed and premeditated sneer, found a hook to hang itself upon, even in so insignificant a thing as the foolish names assigned to different cards. Then, again, in a vast and brilliant hall beyond, music of the sweetest kind hung upon the air; while the dance offered its protection to every sort of scheming, from the soft business of innocent love, to foul intrigue and tortuous policy.

In the midst of all this, St. Real, in the simplicity of his heart, saw nothing but very innocent amusement. Eugenie refused to take a part in the dance; and how or why he knew not, St. Real found himself generally by her side. Such a scene, of all others on the earth, affords the greatest opportunity of private communication; but, if the thoughts, the wishes, and the purposes of the speakers be not intimately known to each other, it may become the most dangerous place for such communion also. The half-spoken sentence is so often interrupted at the very point where it is the most interesting, and where it most needs explanation--so much must be said in haste, or not said at all--so much must be left to fancy--so great is the treasure turned over to imagination--that he who plays with hearts should be very sure of his game before he ventures boldly in such a scene as that. St. Real and Eugenie de Menancourt conversed, at first, upon subjects of every-day import and of general reference; but there were between them so many stores of private feeling and thought, that, upon whatever topic they began, the conversation soon flowed back to matters in regard to which their own hearts were in unison respecting either the past or the present. They found it vain to struggle against the stream of sympathies that either sooner or later drew their communion apart from the things that surrounded them; and as the evening went on, they more and more gave way to what they felt; endeavouring, indeed, to avoid speaking of their own sentiments in an individual manner, but still only covering their personal feelings under a thin veil of general observations. This veil, too, was so often rent by accidental interruptions--the termination of a phrase which was intended to give it its general character so often remained unspoken, that every minute, as it flew, left the hearts of Eugenie de Menancourt and Huon of St. Real with deeper and more agitating feelings than either of them had ever felt before: and yet, like all other people who have loved where it would have been wiser not, they were unconscious of what they were encouraging in their own hearts. Eugenie was agitated, but was not alarmed. St. Real was delighted, but only fearful, when he saw the eye of any one marking the close position that he occupied by Eugenie's side, lest it should be supposed that he was making love to her who had been promised to his cousin; but he never believed--he never dreamed--that he was making love--that he was winning her heart, and yielding his own. The very efforts he had made that very night in favour of his cousin were sufficient to blind him entirely, and to lead him, like a general deceived by his guides, into the cunning ambush which the keen archer Cupid so skilfully lays for the advanced parties of the human heart.

At length, towards midnight--that enchanted hour, when all the powers of the imagination, the fairies of the microcosm within us, are up and revelling in the greenest spots of the human heart--at length, towards midnight, when music, and conversation, and gay sights, and happy faces all around, and pleasant words, and the bright eyes of the sweet and beautiful, had left St. Real's fancy as excited as ever was Bacchus' self by the juice of the Achaian vine, Madame de Montpensier stood by his side; and, laying the jewelled forefinger of her right hand upon his arm, called his attention while she said, "I have a message to give Monsieur de St. Real from my brother, who cannot detach himself from that group to speak with you in person, and who fears that you may be absent to-morrow, ere he can see you. I will not detain you one instant."

St. Real obeyed the summons at once, giving but one look, as he turned to follow Madame de Montpensier, towards Eugenie de Menancourt, and another towards a young cavalier, who hastened to fill up the place he abandoned at her side. The Duchess also gave a glance to each, and a third to St. Real; and then, with a smile, led the way across the ball-room, and through two or three chambers beyond, to the utmost verge of the long suite of apartments, which was that night thrown open to the public.

There, looking round her to see that she was unobserved, she paused, and turned towards the young cavalier. "Monsieur de St. Real," she said, in a calm, sweet, but impressive tone, "when you came to Paris, you came undecided whether to join the friends and supporters of the Catholic faith, or its enemies. I think that you have seen enough of us now to judge and to decide; and I have not the slightest doubt of what your decision will be; nay, what it is! But, setting all that apart, I have an offer to make you, which the noblest amongst all yon glittering throng would give his right hand to hear addressed to himself. Mark me, Monsieur de St. Real! A woman's eyes are keen: you love Mademoiselle de Menancourt! Nay, stop me not; but hear! Eugenie de Menancourt loves you! I, in the name of the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, offer you her hand. Take it, and be happy! Spare my brother a world of anxiety and difficulty on her account; spare her the pain of importunity; relieve her from the helpless exposure of her present situation; and make the loveliest creature of all France happy, in the protection of him she loves!"

She turned away, and left St. Real standing alone in the room, feeling that the casket of his heart was opened to his own sight, and its deepest secrets displayed, never to be concealed again by any of the thin and glistening veils with which human weakness cloaks itself so effectually against the purblind eyes of self-examination. He cast himself into a seat, and for some minutes remained in bitter commune with his own heart, while the music and the dancing, and the gay society of the capital, were as unmarked as if they had not existed. Then remembering, painfully, that his demeanour had been already but too accurately watched, he rose, and, with a flushed cheek and contracted brow, returned to the chief saloon. As he approached Eugenie de Menancourt, however, he perceived that she was preparing to depart with a lady of high rank and advanced years, under whose especial care Madame de Montpensier had placed her. Eugenie paused as he came near. The crowd of gay gallants, who were pressing forward with the formal courtesy of the day to offer their services in conducting her to the carriage, drew back as he approached, as if already warned of the purposes of Mayenne in regard to the rich heiress. St. Real felt what was expected of him, and at once offered his hand; but it was with an air of restraint and absence that instantly caught the eye of her to whom he spoke. She suffered him to lead her through the rooms in silence; but, as a turn on the staircase left them for a moment alone, her anxiety prevailed, and, with an unsteady voice, she said, "You seem suddenly unhappy, Monsieur de St. Real. Has anything occurred to pain you?"

St. Real was not a good dissembler; and Eugenie had not dissembled. He heard in the soft, scarce audible tone--he felt in the trembling of the hand that lay in his--he saw in the soft and swimming eyes that looked on him--the truth of one part of what the Princess had said; and in his own heart he felt but too strongly the truth of all the rest. St. Real was not a good dissembler; and all he could reply was, "Oh, Eugenie!" but it was enough.

St. Real was not a man, however, to waste upon fruitless regrets those powers of mind which should be employed in forming and executing noble resolutions. He grieved bitterly for what was past, but he grieved only with the purpose of shaping his conduct differently for the future; and, as he turned again to enter the Hotel de Guise, it was with the full determination of never seeing Eugenie de Menancourt again, till the fate of Philip d'Aubin, as far as it was connected with hers, was fixed beyond all recall.

This resolution was joined with another, which rendered the first not difficult to execute. With all her art, with all her skill, with all her knowledge of human character, and with all her insight into that of St. Real, Madame de Montpensier had overreached herself. She had been able to comprehend and appreciate the simplicity and purity with which he was attached to Eugenie de Menancourt, without perceiving the nature of his own feelings; but the quality of her own mind prevented her from comprehending the deep firmness of principle which existed in his heart, and from foreseeing the means that principle would take to combat love as soon as ever the progress of the insidious enemy was discovered. The proposal that she had made to him had produced upon the mind of St. Real an effect the most directly opposite to that which she had intended. The character of the Duke of Mayenne St. Real could not but esteem: there was a dignity, a generosity, a frankness about it, which, together with his splendid talents, commanded no small admiration; and had St. Real been convinced that his opposition to his king, that his bold rebellion, that even his connexion with a party, factious, turbulent, and depraved, originated in motives of patriotism and virtue, his views of the League might have been modified by his opinion of the leader, and his ultimate conduct determined by the judgment he might form in regard to whether that leader's efforts would, or would not, be ultimately beneficial to his country. In the course of that night, however, he had heard and seen enough to convince him that the passion of Mayenne was ambition, and that his object was his own aggrandizement; and the only hold, therefore, that the League could have had upon St. Real would have been virtue, honour, and patriotism, in the whole, considered as a party.

The question, therefore, with the young Marquis had now become, whether the League did, or did not, possess such qualities. At the Jacobins, on the preceding night, however, he had witnessed the means employed by those who were considered the holiest men amongst them to obtain ends which he could not doubt were treacherous and bloody: that very night it had been calmly proposed to him, as a bribe to attach him to the party of the League, to betray his cousin's confidence, and to gratify his own passions at the expense of his honour and integrity. In his examination of the city during the day, he had seen the high and the noble demeaning themselves to court popularity by fawning on persons they despised--an irrefragable proof that their own designs were base; he had seen the good and the just in the filthy and unsparing hands of villains and plunderers; and he had seen those who professed to be the ministers of a God of peace armed to promote a civil war and to shed the blood of their fellow-creatures!

What then could be the result, he asked himself, when a leader, whose principle was ambition, took upon him to guide a fierce and lawless multitude, composed of nobles whose motive was selfishness, of priests whose spirit was fanaticism, and of a rabble whose objects were licentiousness, bloodshed, and plunder? The answer was not difficult; and, as he turned and mounted the staircase, amidst the crowd of lacqueys and attendants who stared at his thoughtful and abstracted demeanour without his noticing their presence, he determined to proceed to the royal camp as early as might be on the following morning, doubting not that, whatever might be the vices and the follies it presented to his sight, he should there find the path which led to his country's welfare, and, he trusted, also to his own peace of mind.

Passing the doors of the saloons, he proceeded to that part of the house in which was situated the apartments that had been assigned to him; and, sending for his master of the horse--a common officer at that time, in the houses of the principal French nobility--he directed him to have everything prepared to quit Paris by daybreak on the following morning. The earliness of the hour which he thus appointed was not dictated by any apprehension that Mayenne would endeavour to impede his departure; but, his resolution being taken, and his opinion fixed by the most favourable view that could be afforded him of the party of the League itself, he wished to avoid, as far as possible, anything like solicitation; and he likewise desired neither to explain his feelings, nor reason upon his motives, in the conduct he was about to pursue regarding Eugenie de Menancourt.

His sensations, indeed, upon the subject were so painful in themselves, that St. Real did not wish either to speak of or to dwell upon them. Arguing, with the usual simplicity of his nature, that, where our wishes and our duties are at variance, it is better to employ our thoughts in performing the duties, than to give them up to the hard task of combating the wishes--in which combat they are but too often defeated--he prepared to occupy all the energies of his mind in the attempt to serve his country, and to benefit to the utmost of his power the party he had determined to espouse, leaving his cousin to pursue his suit towards Eugenie de Menancourt as best he might, but endeavouring to serve him therein by pointing his efforts to nobler objects than had hitherto employed them, and by taking care that all he did should be placed in a fairer light than that in which the levity and somewhat vain indifference of d'Aubin had hitherto permitted his own actions to appear.

Poor St. Real, however, did not know how hard is the task--how painful, how continual is the struggle, to turn the thoughts of a feeling and affectionate heart from the objects of its first attachment, and to occupy, even in the busiest scenes and most stirring actions wherein other men find employment for their whole soul, a mind to which love has given its direction elsewhere. His first experience of what he was but too long to undergo, was made when he lay down to rest, on the night of which we have just spoken. He thought to sleep, to taste the same refreshing, undisturbed slumbers which were so rarely absent from his pillow; but, alas! alas! how changed were all his sensations. The burning thirst for thoughts to which he would not give way--the consciousness that he was resigning for ever that which would have made his happiness through life--anxieties, which he dared not probe, regarding the happiness of her he loved--self-reproaches, slight, indeed, but bitter, because they were the first he had ever had occasion to address to his own heart--and doubts respecting the conduct and vows of his cousin, which he now saw with eyes sharpened by love--all planted his pillow thick with thorns; and he tossed in feverish restlessness upon his uneasy couch, while slumber and all its wholesome balms were far away.

The sounds of music and of laughing, which to his saddened heart rang like the revelry of fiends, came in bursts up to his windows; and the roll of carriages, the trampling of horses, the shouts of torch-bearers, and the murmuring hum of a thousand less vociferous tongues, poured irritatingly upon his ear, and set sleep at defiance. Gradually, however, those sounds died away, and that space of time which the citizens of the masterless metropolis called a day, and set apart for the transaction of a certain portion of intrigue and faction, levity, sensuality, and bloodshed, came to an end. The bell of the neighbouring church, unheard during many an hour of turbulence and noise, struck two, and the whole world around sank into silence, if not into repose. Still, however, sleep came not to the eyes of St. Real; and he lay and counted the moments till a new class of sounds were heard, announcing that the sons of toil were up and busy in the task of preparing luxuries for the sons of idleness and dissipation. At length, a faint rosy light was seen to glimmer through the open window, the indistinct forms of the massive furniture began to stand out from the gray darkness, and St. Real started up more weary and fatigued with that one night of restless anxiety than he would have felt after weeks of watching in the tented field.

The first task, after dressing himself, was to sit down, and, with the writing materials that stood at hand, to indite a brief note to the Duke of Mayenne, apologizing for not waiting to make a more formal leave-taking. He did not, it is true, announce in distinct terms his determination of joining his arms to the other supporters of the royal cause, because he felt it was within the bounds of possibility that circumstances might yet change his purpose; though, as he left the matter still open, he thought that bad must be the scene presented by the camp of the Henrys indeed, if it could make him prefer the craft, the treachery, and the baseness he had beheld in Paris. In this respect, while expressing his high opinion of the Duke himself, he did not scruple to use language and to display sentiments which had already brought many a venerable and respected head low, amongst the factions and anarchy of the day; and, having said enough to show which way his feelings at that moment led him, he descended to the court, and, mounting his horse, which, with his train, stood prepared for departure, he bade adieu to the Hotel de Guise.

The streets of Paris now presented a very different scene from that which they afforded in either the full life of the risen day, or in the dregs of the evening. Few were the persons to be seen walking slowly along in the fresh, clear, unpolluted light of the early morning; and the long irregular perspective of the antique streets might be seen unencumbered by the many gaudy vehicles which obstructed the sight at a later hour. As St. Real rode on towards the suburbs, one or two patrols of horse, returning from their night watch beyond the walls, passed him with tired faces and soiled arms; but, although the numbers that composed his train were sufficient to have justified some inquiry, yet such was the confused organization of the garrison of Paris, and of the army of the League in general, that no one asked his errand, and he passed on uninterrupted to the gates.

"No game for us, this!" exclaimed he who seemed to be their chief, as he read the authentic letters of safe-conduct placed before his eyes. "Good faith, Sir Marquis of St. Real, we thought that Monsieur de Mayenne had roused himself from his bed full four hours before his ordinary time, and was sending out parties to take us by surprise, thinking that we were as laggard and sleepy-headed as himself. However, we will, if you please, form your escort to the next post, and beyond that you will find your way easily to the king."

"The lost one found!" exclaimed D'Aubin, embracing his cousin as soon as they met; "the lost one found! Why, St. Real, I had even now my foot in the stirrup to set out once more for Paris, in search of your fair person. But how has all this happened? Let me hear all; for you have had to do with the shrewdest heads in France; and his Highness of Mayenne, with his fair sisters of Montpensier and Guise, are well worth studying, if it be but to lay out a map of human cunning, in order to find our way through its tortuous roads in future."

As St. Real returned the warm embrace of his cousin, there were sensations in his bosom that he had never felt before. It was not that any feeling of rivalry had diminished his affection for Philip d'Aubin, even by a feather's weight; but it was that, notwithstanding every wish to serve his cousin and promote his suit, he had unintentionally cast in his way a greater obstacle than ever; and, although conscious of his own virtue and integrity, he felt as if he had wronged him. With St. Real the predominant feelings were not, as with the rest of mankind, concealed or distorted with laborious care, but on the contrary were always the first to find utterance. "Oh! I will give you all that history hereafter; but I have something of more importance to communicate." Thus saying, he entered the house with his cousin, who led the way to some apartments apparently appropriated to himself, and demanded, laughing, "What now, Huon? what now? You rustic nobles see things in the capital with magnifying glasses, and think many matters of deep consequence, which to us, who see them every day, are, of course, every day affairs."

"I trust you may think as lightly of it as you seem to expect," replied St. Real: "but the matter is this--last night I saw Mademoiselle de Menancourt."

"Ha!" exclaimed D'Aubin, instantly roused to attention; "what of her--where did you see her?"

"I saw her at the Hotel de Guise," replied St. Real; "supped with her there, and was near her afterwards, at the great entertainment given, as I suppose, to the partisans of the League."

"Indeed!" exclaimed D'Aubin somewhat moodily; "and what saw you then? Who fluttered round her? Who was favoured in their suit of the great heiress? To which of his partisans does Mayenne propose to give her hand? Tell me all you saw!"

He paused; and St. Real was silent for a few moments, somewhat astonished at the accuracy with which his cousin--partly in the random venturing of passion and ill-humour, partly from a shrewd knowledge of the actors in the great drama going on at Paris--hit upon the facts as they had occurred. At length, the Marquis seeing impatience flashing up in his cousin's eye, replied, "You are right, Philip; such an offer was made me!"

"You are angry, Philip," replied St. Real, calmly, though somewhat sorrowfully; "you are angry, Philip, and without cause. Such is not the commencement that I intend to make, nor has it ever entered into my thoughts to do so."

"But what said Eugenie?" interrupted D'Aubin, fixing his keen eyes upon him; "what said Eugenie to all this fine arrangement? Doubtless it pleased her well!"

"She said nothing to it," replied St. Real, "because she never heard it; and, in regard to what you would insinuate of myself, my being here in order to serve the King in arms, is a sufficient reply, I should think."

"And are you here for that purpose?" demanded D'Aubin, softening his tone. "Have you positively decided on joining the royal forces?"

"Positively," replied St. Real, "if I find nothing here which would render the King's service perfectly insupportable."

"Then get ye gone to the court as fast as possible, Huon," exclaimed D'Aubin, relapsing into the usual levity of tone which was fashionable at that time, even in speaking of the most serious subjects; "get thee gone to the court, and see all the vices and horrors it contains; for, till you have done so, I shall not know what you consider supportable or not. Yet, stay, Huon," he added, more generous feelings for a moment resuming their sway, "I doubt you not, my cousin--I know your nature, St. Real, too well to doubt you; so let not your determination be influenced by me. I would trust you as fully with Eugenie in Paris, as if thousands of miles, or hostile armies, or wide-flowing seas, separated you from her."

Swords and daggers were drawn on all sides in a moment; and St. Real, waiting for no further question, sprang down the stairs, followed by his cousin; and, calling upon the attendants to aid him, he interposed between the contending parties, thrusting his powerful form between the two principal combatants, and casting them asunder like two pugnacious curs unwilling to be separated. In the struggle, however, and ere D'Aubin and the attendants could come to his assistance and enforce order, St. Real had received a slight cut upon the face, which speedily stained his collar in blood; and his clothes suffered equally from dust and dirt, and the profaning fingers of more than one unclean hand. At length the tumult was appeased; and D'Aubin, after treating the contending parties to a witty harangue in praise of peace, turned away with St. Real, saying, "Well, well, Huon, now that you have had enough of fighting for your morning's meal, get you gone to the King, or he will be out for the day. He is not at the chateau, but in that house with the large garden--you can hardly see it as we stand; but, by the number of people I see gathering in that direction, I should suppose he was now about to set out. So hasten on, and you will find me here at your return."

"My visit to the King may well wait a few hours," replied St Real; "and I would fain, Philip, conclude with you a conversation which can never be renewed between us without pain. I have got much to tell you. But stay!" he exclaimed suddenly, as his eye fell upon the figure of a Dominican monk, who was slowly proceeding up the road, and had just passed the spot where he himself stood in conversation with his cousin; "but stay! I think I know that friar, and, if so, I must to the King with all speed!"

Thus speaking, and without waiting for any reply, he made a sign to his attendants to follow, and hurried on, after the Jacobin, on foot. The monk was proceeding at a calm quiet pace, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; and St. Real was by his side in a moment. One glance showed him the dull heavy features of Brother Clement, who had tenanted the chamber to his own in the convent of the Jacobins; and the voices and the jugglery he had seen played off upon the wretched fanatic, as well as the effect which the whole had produced upon the object of those artifices, instantly came up before St. Real's mind, and made him hesitate whether he should not question him in regard to his errand at St. Cloud. The next moment, however, a gentleman, in whom St. Real could easily recognise a high officer of the law--as, in those days, every class and profession had its appropriate garb--came up, followed by some other people carrying papers, and, stopping the friar, as a person whom he knew, held a brief conversation with him, and then walked slowly on by his side towards the dwelling of the King. St. Real, after a moment's consideration, paused, and beckoning to the dwarf Bartholo, from whose knowledge of Paris and its inhabitants he had already derived much information, inquired the name of the personage now walking forward with the monk.

At length the abode of one Hieronimo de Gondi was pointed out to him; and, entering the court, the walls of which had concealed from his sight a crowd of guards and attendants at that time constantly waiting upon the sovereign, he proceeded to the great entrance, and mounted the steps which led to the first hall. Here his name and business were instantly demanded, and his reply transmitted through various mouths to the chambers above. While detained below for the king's answer to his demand of an audience, he was ushered into a side room, where some of the superior officers of the court were whiling away their daily hours of attendance. Some were playing with dice, and some at chess; but in all there was a fearful effeminacy in dress and demeanour, which made St. Real shrink from the soft and womanly things with which he was for the moment brought in contact. He was not destined, however, to remain long amongst them; for the next moment a page--fair and soft, and smooth-spoken, with jewels in his ears, and as much satin and lace upon his slashed doublet of sky-blue silk as would furnish forth a lady on a court birthday--glided into the room, and besought the Marquis of St. Real to follow him to the presence of the king.

St. Real's bold step in the room, the sound of his heavy boot and jingling spurs, instantly caught the king's attention; and, looking up from his basket of dogs, he gazed over the person of the young noble, with a glance first of surprise, and then, apparently, of horror and disgust. The silken watchers of the king's countenance instantly caught its expression, and divined the cause.

"Good God, sir!" exclaimed one, interposing between St. Real and the king, as if he feared that the young noble were about to assassinate the monarch; "good God, sir! is it possible that any one should present himself before his Majesty in such a plight? Retire, for Heaven's sake! you had better retire!"

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