Henry of Guise Volume Iii Part 10

A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played immediately beneath the garden wall--a little sort of prelude, to see that the instrument was clear; and unable to endure it longer, Marie de Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison.

Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air was not one of the country; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite taste than France could produce woke the instrument into sounds most musical, and in a moment after, she recognised the sweet air which she had twice before heard, and both times from the lips of Charles of Montsoreau.

The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was sweet and delightful; but the memory of the second time was as the memory of hope; and, in despite of all, it woke again the feelings it had awakened before; and an indistinct feeling of glad expectation came across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, s.h.i.+ning through the mist of an autumnal morning. What was it she hoped? what was it she expected? She knew not herself; but still there was an indistinct brightening came over her heart, and feelings; and when the air was over, instead of flying from the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal.

The pipe, however, sounded not again; but in a moment after she heard some one say, "Hark!" and the sweetest possible voice began to sing:--

SONG.

Weep not, Lady, weep not, Grief shall pa.s.s away; Angels' eyes that sleep not Watch thee on thy way.

Heavenly hands are twining Garlands of glad flowers.

Joy and Hope combining Wreath thy future hours.

Diff'rent powers are near thee-- Bright Hope, dark Despair; Let the G.o.ddess cheer thee-- Fly the Fiend of Care.

Son of Sin and Sorrow Despair by earth was given; Child of the bright to-morrow, Hope was born of Heaven.

What could it mean? Marie de Clairvaut asked herself. The words seemed directly addressed to her, and applicable to her own situation: yet the voice, as far as she could judge, she had never heard before. But still every note, every word, appeared to counsel hope. "Can I have been deceived?" she thought. "Can the Abbe de Boisguerin and Gaspar de Montsoreau have combined for their own dark purposes to cheat me, to induce me to believe that the one I love so well is dead?"

But, alas no! The Abbe had left, inclosed in his own, the brief note which he had received from Paris, announcing the event, and that note bore every appearance of being an ordinary matter of business, pa.s.sing regularly through the post-office of the capital. Could the song that she had heard, she asked herself, again--could it have been accidental; could it have been sung at that moment through one of those strange combinations, which sometimes arise out of entirely indifferent circ.u.mstances, to give zest to our joy, or poignancy to our sorrow? She determined, if possible, to ascertain; and raising her voice a little above its ordinary tone, she said, "Who is there? To whom do you sing?"

She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for a moment after the same voice demanded, "Is there any one that listens?"

"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "I listen; speak on!"

"Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air and a new song began.

SONG.

He goes away to a far distant land, With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand; And news soon comes how his lightning brand Has scattered the hosts of paninrie.

His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone, And wishes she were where her Knight has gone; But she grieves not his absence with angry moan, For her spirit is full of his chivalry.

But what are the tidings come next to her ear?

Oh! tidings dark and heavy to hear; How her fearless warrior, her husband dear, Has fallen 'neath the lance of the Moslema.

How, gallantly staking his life, to save From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave, He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave, 'Neath the walls of Hierosolima!

'Tis true, oh, 'tis true!--yet she will not believe, "Ah, no! e'en in dying he would not deceive; And he promised, if spirit such power could receive, And he fell in his holy chivalry.

To visit my side in the watches of night, To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight, And call me to join him in countries of light, And dwell in his breast through eternity."

Years pa.s.s; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes!

'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves.

Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives, Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly, To ask him some tidings of Syria to say-- But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray?

She is clasped in his arms! she has fainted away!

And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly.

As the song had gone on, Marie de Clairvaut could no longer doubt that, though allegorical, those words were applicable to herself.

Joy--joy beyond all conception took the place of grief; all that she had suffered, all that she had endured in the past, she now felt, indeed, to be nothing to what she had lately undergone. But the extatic delight which the last words of that song gave, the sudden dissipation of grief was too much for her to endure. It was like the light that blinds us when we suddenly rush from the darkness into the suns.h.i.+ne; and she who had gone through dangers, and horrors, and perils of many a kind, firm and unshaken, fell fainting under the sudden effect of joy. How long she remained so she knew not; but at all events it was not long enough to attract the attention of the people of the house, from the windows, of which she was screened by a thick alley of trees. Some one, however, had been near her, for there were the prints of small feet in the gra.s.s, extending from the wall to the spot where she lay, and immediately under her hand was placed a small packet addressed to herself.

Fearful of discovery, she hid it instantly in her bosom, and, as soon as she could, rose, and with a step far slower than her wishes, sped back again to the house to read the paper she had received, in secret.

It was written in a bold, free hand; the date was that very morning; and the first words, "My beloved."

Marie de Clairvaut laid the letter down and gasped for breath. It was sufficient, it was altogether sufficient; every doubt, every fear that had remained was now at an end, and she once more burst into tears; but, oh, how sweet were those tears! how happy! how unlike the past!

Soon she took up the letter again, and through the dazzling drops that still hung in her eyes read the bright a.s.surance, that he lived for her who loved him.

"I have feared," the letter said, "I have feared, that a report of my death which has been current in this city of Paris should have reached my beloved Marie, and the more especially as, by the counsel and earnest entreaty of the Duke of Guise, I have myself contributed to the spread of the rumour, and have taken every means to suffer it to be confirmed. The object of this, however, was to deliver you alone by throwing those who so unjustly detain you off their guard; and some days ago I came on into this neighbourhood--where my brother, the Abbe de Boisguerin, and the Duke of Epernon, all are, and to which we have traced Villequier several times--in the confident belief that you were not far distant from Angouleme. It might have been some time ere I discovered your abode, but accident has befriended me, and my page, who bears you this, and undertakes positively to deliver it to you, saw you yesterday morning by a most extraordinary but fortunate chance. I dare not venture near you in the early part of the morning, but ere night has closed in, I will find some means to see and speak with you. As far as possible, dearest Marie, be prepared for any thing that it may be necessary to undertake. I fear that you have already suffered much; but I will not doubt that even the rash and violent men who have dared every crime to withdraw you from those that love you best, have treated you with tenderness and kindness. I too have suffered much, but far more from knowing that you were at the mercy of those who persecute you while I was lying stretched upon the bed of sickness, than from the very wounds that brought me there. I am now well: I am near you; and that is enough to enable me to say that I am happy, although there may be perils and dangers before us, as we are still in the midst of our adversaries, and must once more attempt to pa.s.s through a long track of country with obstacles at every step."

The letter ended with every expression of affection and of love; and again and again Marie de Clairvaut read it and wept, and fell into fits of deep thought, and could scarcely believe that the joyous tidings were true.

She next asked herself what she could do to favour her lover's efforts. The two or three women who had been appointed to wait upon her, as well as the male attendants by whom she was surrounded, were all strangers to her, and she felt that they were her gaolers. There was one of them, however, who had looked upon her during the preceding day with evident compa.s.sion, had watched her tears with sorrowful eyes, and had spoken a few words of consolation. At one time she thought of speaking to that woman, and trying to gain her to her interests for the purpose of facilitating any thing that Charles of Montsoreau might do to effect her liberation. She hesitated, however, and judging that if he succeeded in seeing her that evening it would be by pa.s.sing over the wall at the spot where she had heard the boy singing in the evening; she lingered about during the whole of the evening, listening for the least sound. None was heard, however, and at length the bell at the gates of the enclosure was heard to ring.

Agitated and anxious, fearing that every moment might bring Charles of Montsoreau to the spot, at the very time that other persons were near, she came out from behind the trees, and walked slowly on by the side of the river. Just at that moment a small boat pushed slowly up the current by a country boy, pa.s.sed by the spot where she stood; but the boy whistled lightly on his way, as he went, and took no notice of her; and in a minute after, she heard steps approaching from the other side, and turned with some anxiety to see who it was that approached.

It was the servant girl we have before mentioned, who came towards her quickly, saying, "You have been very sad these two days, lady, and I wish you would take comfort. Here is a good man, one of the preaching friars just called at the gate, and I'm sure, if you would but listen to him, he would give you consolation."

"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "he could give me no consolation, my good girl. My own thoughts just now are my best companions."

As she spoke, however, to her dismay, she saw the monk coming across the green from the side of the gates, and she determined at once to reject all his proffered advice and consolation, fearing that the precious minute for seeing him she loved might be lost by this unwonted intrusion.

"Do listen to him, dear lady," said the girl. "When I told him how sad you were, he said he was sure that he could give you comfort."

In the mean time the friar approached with a slow step, with his cowl drawn over his head, and his hand supported by his staff. Marie de Clairvaut trembled from anxiety and apprehension, and only returned the friar's benedicite by an inclination of the head and an a.s.surance that she did not stand in need of the consolation he offered.

"Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing the cowl from his head. But the first tones of that full rich voice proved sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom he spoke. "If you will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," he said, "I think and I believe, that I can suggest to you consolations that you may take to heart; and if not, the few words I have to speak can do you no harm at least."

Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two nearer to the water, while the woman withdrew for a short s.p.a.ce, so as to be out of ear shot. But still she remained watching the two, as if she were either afraid of having done wrong in admitting the friar at all, or had suddenly conceived some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut and of Charles of Montsoreau turned that way, and both saw that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each other's arms; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every look and every gesture, and a.s.suming the demeanour of strangers, even while the words of love and affection were bursting from their lips. The young n.o.bleman, however, gave but brief course to his feelings.

"This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of pa.s.sionate tenderness, "this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready for you underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to descend. It has already pa.s.sed up the river in order that we may descend swiftly with the stream, for the current is too rapid to permit of our pa.s.sing up without the risk of being stopped at every moment. At Jarnac, however, all is prepared for our escape, and though our journey thence may be longer, it will be more secure. Can you be here at that hour?"

"I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may G.o.d grant, Charles, that this time we may not only come within sight of the haven, as we have twice done before, but reach it altogether; and never, never again will I suffer them to separate me from you, as I did on that awful day in Paris."

"Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," said Charles of Montsoreau.

"As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, "some one pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who it was, the crowd closed in between me and Catherine. The person who had touched me was dressed in the colours of the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke expects you Mademoiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead you to the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly, and nothing doubting; and he led me round into one of the streets behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on either side, and hurried along without the power of resistance. I cried for help as loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me rapidly into the house opposite, where I saw the Abbe de Boisguerin, and could hear your brother's voice talking to Monsieur de Villequier. They then put me into a chair, the blinds of which I could not undraw, and carried me rapidly to another house, where I remained for some time, till Villequier and the rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do, Charles, to make them set me free; but what could I do? what means had I to use?--entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, at which they laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something that he intended for kindness, and the Abbe looked gloomy and sad. But Villequier only smiled for all answer; till at length tidings were brought them that they were discovered, and that people were coming rapidly in pursuit of them. I was then once more borne away by Villequier, after a few words between him and your brother; and I heard your brother say as they parted, 'I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took me I know not well, but I believe it was the Hotel de Villequier.--But see, the woman is coming near! We must part, dear Charles; I fear we must once more part."

Nothing more could be said, for the girl now approached; and Charles of Montsoreau, a.s.suming the tone of the friar, bade Marie remember his words, and take them to heart; and then, giving her his blessing, departed.

Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, in order, as far as possible, to pa.s.s un.o.bserved if any eye should be watching, Marie de Clairvaut pa.s.sed through one of the lower windows of the chateau, and with a light step, sprang into the little cloister that ran along one side of the building, at no great depth from the window.

The moon was s.h.i.+ning bright and full, and every object around, except where the shadow of the cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had been in the sky.

She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no sound but the murmur of the quick Charente; and then, putting her ear to the open window, she listened there to ascertain that all was quiet in the house. Nothing stirred; and, knowing how important it was to leave no trace of the manner in which her flight had been effected, she closed the cas.e.m.e.nt carefully, and prepared to go forth into the moonlight.

There was something, however, in the stillness, and the clearness, and the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful; and she hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, however, she ventured across the green and s.h.i.+ning turf, and with a quick step approached the edge of the water. Looking down upon it from above, she could see nothing in the deep shadow of the bank; but, suddenly, a bright ripple caught some stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the dark bosom of the water with quick lines of silver.