Corse de Leon Part 18

Bernard de Rohan found that it was impossible to move him; the son did not come home till the evening was beginning to grow gray, and the young cavalier was obliged, unwillingly, to resign all hopes of rejoining his bride before the next day.

With the shepherd and his son, the use of any other light but that of the broad sun was unknown except in the depth of the winter; and, though Bernard de Rohan could have sat up for many an hour questioning the younger man upon all he had seen and heard at the inn, but a short period was allowed him for so doing ere they retired to repose.

The information that he obtained was but little, for neither the elder nor the younger mountaineer was very intelligent or very communicative.

The latter, indeed, seemed to divine at once, what had never struck the old man, that the young cavalier who had become their accidental guest was no other than the person by whose supposed death the lady whom he had seen at the inn had been plunged into such deep grief.

"She will be mighty glad to see you," he said, taking the matter for granted; "and, if we set off by daylight to-morrow, you will just catch her as she wakes, for you n.o.bles are sad lie-abeds."

"Pray tell me, however, before we sleep," said Bernard de Rohan, "how the lady obtained information of the danger I have so fortunately escaped. Was it from Corse de Leon?"

The young man started, and gazed earnestly in his face by the dim light which still found its way into the cottage. "Corse de Leon!" he said, "Corse de Leon! that is a name we never mention in these parts of the country. No! no! I know nothing about Corse de Leon, though they do say that he has as many poor men's prayers as rich men's curses."

Bernard de Rohan found that that name had effectually closed the young shepherd's mouth, and not a word more upon the subject could be obtained from him.

He interrupted their habits of early sleep no longer, but made the best of such means of repose as they could give him, and, wearied out with long exertion, soon fell asleep, with the happy certainty that she whom he loved was free, and corporeally well, while the mental anguish which he knew she must be suffering he had the means of joyfully removing on the succeeding day.

The pain of the bruises which he had received woke the young cavalier as soon as excessive fatigue had been in some degree relieved. But the nights were at that season short; daylight soon appeared; the shepherds rose with the first ray of the sun; and, without other breakfast than a draught of warm milk, Bernard and his guide set off across the mountains. The time occupied by their journey was fully as much as the old man had said; for mountain leagues are generally long ones, and the road was rough and difficult to tread.

At length the view of a plainer country broke upon the eye; and as they descended a steep hill by a footway upon the open mountain side, Bernard de Rohan saw before him the rich lands towards Chambery, and, at the distance of about half a mile, the little inn of Gandelot, seated quietly at the foot of the pa.s.ses. It looked tranquil and happy in the morning light; but why or wherefore the young gentleman could not tell, a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him at the very quietness which the whole scene displayed. There were none of his people hanging about the door, pa.s.sing a morning half hour in listless idleness. There were none at the gates of the stables rubbing down horses or cleaning trappings and arms. There was no busy bustling about of attendants and stable-boys. There was nothing, in short, to be seen, but one or two domestic animals at the entrance of the farmyard, and the servant of the auberge, in a bright-coloured petticoat, cleaning some culinary utensils at the door of the inn.

The young cavalier hurried his pace, and, getting before the guide, advanced close to the girl before she saw him. She looked up at the approaching step, and then uttered a loud scream, which Bernard de Rohan easily understood to be her comment upon seeing the dead alive again. He pa.s.sed on at once, however, through the half-opened door into the kitchen, but, to his dismay, it presented the complete picture of an inn after guests have departed. Everything had been put in order, and looked cold and vacant. The neatly-swept hearth possessed not more fire than might have lain in the hollow of one's hand, and over it the hostess was cooking a mess for the breakfast of herself and her husband; while the aubergiste stood at a well-washed table, counting some money, which he covered over with his hand at the girl's scream, and looked anxiously towards the door.

The surprise of good Gandelot seemed scarcely less than that of the servant, although it only took the outward form and expression of a deadly paleness. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and then, with a look of honest joy and satisfaction, in spite of all difference of rank and habitual restraint, he seized Bernard de Rohan by the hand, exclaiming, "Jesu Maria! Well, there have been many tears shed to no purpose. Why, bless my soul, how happy the poor lady's heart will be!"

"Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, eagerly. "Where is she? It seems as though there were n.o.body here."

"No, indeed," replied Gandelot. "What you say is very true. There is n.o.body here but your lords.h.i.+p's humble servant and his good wife. Why, what a pity that you came not yesterday at this hour! You would have saved the poor lady many a weary minute."

"Where is she, then! Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, more eagerly than ever. "When did she go? Where is she gone to? Where are my servants, too, and my men-at-arms?"

"Alack, and a well-a-day, sir!" replied the host, "they have all taken wing, and are scattered away like a flock of plovers. Here the lady arrived at the inn, with good Father Willand and some ten or twelve of your men, on the day before yesterday, late in the evening; and then there were consultations after consultations as to what was to be done, for every one knew and had heard by that time that you were a prisoner in the castle of Ma.s.seran; and the gentleman who came at the head of your men--not the servants, but the men-at-arms that came after you--vowed that he would attack the castle, and blow open the gates with a petard, and set you free. But when he had talked very high in this way for some time, Father Willand told him to hold his tongue; for, in the first place, the walls of the castle of Ma.s.seran were made of stones hard enough to break his teeth, and, in the next, as he had got no petard to blow the gates open with but the one in his mouth, it would be of very little service. With that there came not long afterward a messenger from one whom I must not name, telling the lady and the priest and all to keep as quiet as might be, for that you would be liberated before daylight on the next morning; and, as his word never fails, they all did keep quiet, but we sat up and watched to see what would come of it. A terrible night you know it was; but we were to have a more terrible morning, for by daylight news came up the valley--"

"That I was killed in the land-slip," said Bernard de Rohan, interrupting him.

"No, no," replied the aubergiste, "not that at all; but that the tower which was called the prison-tower of the castle of Ma.s.seran had taken fire and fallen, crus.h.i.+ng the dungeon in which you had been placed, and you along with it, in the ruins. The lady went half-distracted, though she would not believe that it was true till Father Willand himself went up near the castle, with a body of your men to prevent any of the Ma.s.seran people from taking him, and then came back and told her it was all too sure. He told her, besides, that the people of the castle vowed it was some one on her part seeking to deliver you who had set fire to the tower, and the good priest advised her to get across the frontier with all speed. But she was so cast down with grief that she seemed to care little more about herself in this world, and lay, my wife said, partly kneeling by her bedside, partly lying upon it, with her face buried in the clothes, and the sobs coming so thick and hard that it was painful to hear. She could not be got to speak or answer a word to any one; and in the midst of all this came in some one whom you know."

"Who? who?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

The aubergiste whispered, in a scarcely audible voice, the name of Corse de Leon; and the young cavalier exclaimed, with feelings of as much joy as he could feel at that moment, "Then he is safe, at least; that is some satisfaction."

"Ay, so far safe," replied the man, "that he is not killed as he might have been. But when he came here his left shoulder was out, and would have been useless for ever if he had not made four of us pull it in by main force, and never winked his eyes or uttered a word till it went in with a great start, and then only shut his teeth close."

"But he could have told them," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "he could have told that I had escaped before the tower took fire."

"I don't know how it is," replied the landlord; "but, sure enough, he thinks you dead as well as they do. He had a long conversation apart with Father Willand in that little room, out of the corner there, which you have never seen, and, mayhap, did not know of, for the door is in the dark, behind the closet and the chimney. What they talked about I don't know, but in the end I heard him say, 'Tell her nothing about it till she can bear to hear more. As he is dead, it matters not much how it happened.' Then the priest went to the lady, and, with great persuasion, got her down from her chamber, and made her take some wine, and, in the end, got her to set off, with some eight or ten of your people accompanying them. That was about twelve o'clock yesterday morning; and, in an hour or two after, the rest of your people went away over the mountains to join the good Marechal de Brissac, by the directions of the person you know."

"This is unfortunate," said Bernard de Rohan, musing, "this is most unfortunate. Do you know which way the lady has taken?"

"She went first to Bonvoisin," replied the host; "but whither she was to turn her steps after that, I know not."

"And I am left here alone," continued the young gentleman, "without horse or arms, at the moment I need them most. Can you furnish me with a horse, good Gandelot?"

"Faith, I have none to give, sir," answered the man, "or I would willingly trust you, if you did not pay me till this time twelvemonth."

"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I wanted not to be your debtor, Gandelot. Money, thank G.o.d, I have with me, but my resource must be Corse de Leon. Where can he be found?"

"Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+" exclaimed the aubergiste, terrified at the loud tone in which his companion p.r.o.nounced the name of the brigand. "Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+ for Heaven's sake. There is somebody talking all this time to the girl outside the door."

"It is but the shepherd who guided me hither," replied the young cavalier. "But answer my question, good Gandelot: where is he to be found?"

"If you will sit here for an hour or two," replied the other, "my wife shall get you something ready to break your fast, and I will go up the side of the hill to see after the person you mention."

"But I wish to proceed immediately," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan. "If I could but get a horse, I would set out at once."

"There is no one who can get you either horse or arms within five leagues," replied the aubergiste, "except the man we were talking of. He can do both, and more too, for he can tell you where the lady is to be found, which I can't. So you have nothing for it but to confer with him.

However, it will be better to send this shepherd back at once to his own place, and for you either to go into that little room there to the left, or up the stairs into your room above, for it would be a sad thing to be stopped again; and, although we stand on free land here, yet this Lord of Ma.s.seran's people are no ways scrupulous into whose face they poke their fist, or into whose soup they dip their spoon."

Though feeling sick at heart with impatience, the young cavalier saw that the plan suggested was the only one he could follow. Having rewarded the shepherd for his trouble in guiding him thither, he allowed the good aubergiste to lead him to his place of concealment; and, urging him in the strongest terms to lose no time, he sat himself down to while away the hours as best he might, with all the checkered thoughts of the past and the future.

CHAPTER XIX.

Bernard de Rohan waited long; and, though his imagination was not an active one in regard to difficulties or dangers in his own case, yet, when he thought of Isabel de Brienne, nurtured with care, and tenderness, and softness, never having known during life the want of protection, or the necessity of acting for herself, never having been an hour without protection--when he thought that she must now go forward to Paris alone, without any one loved or known to sooth and guide her; without any other protection but that of a few menials; with the bitter thought of having lost him she loved for ever, as the chief recollection of the past, and with the expectation of meeting her mother, who had been always harsh, and her stepfather, who had treated her with treachery and baseness, as the chief antic.i.p.ation of the future--his heart burned to speed on, without the loss of a single moment, to protect, to console, and to relieve her from the deep sorrow which he knew too well must overshadow her.

Still one hour pa.s.sed after another, the sun began to decline from the meridian, and the good hostess only visited him on two occasions. In the first place, to tell him that a party of travellers who stopped for half an hour at the inn were only peasants from a neighbouring village; and, in the next place, to beseech him not to go near the windows, or to show himself in any way, as a party of the Lord of Ma.s.seran's men had just pa.s.sed, and another was speedily to follow.

At length the aubergiste himself appeared, heated and dusty, and, closing the door carefully, told him that he had found the man he went to seek, and had brought back with him a few words written on a strip of leather. They were deciphered with difficulty, but were to the following effect: "I thought you gone for ever. But, as you are still destined to remain with the rest of us, so let it be. I will visit you to-night, and you shall soon find the lady; but on no account go on till you have seen me! By so doing you will endanger her, endanger yourself, and delay your meeting."

Bernard de Rohan gazed upon the writing, and then turned a dissatisfied look towards the sky. "This is trifling," he thought: "I must be across the frontier as speedily as possible. Well might Isabel think me cruel if I remained here an hour longer, knowing that she is in danger, sorrow, and anxiety."

"Have you heard aught of a horse, my good Gandelot?" he said: "I cannot wait as he requires me. How far is it to the frontier?"

"Two hours' journey on horseback," replied the host, "and four or five afoot. But there is no horse to be found, and you must not think of trying it on foot, my n.o.ble lord. You do not know that the people from the castle are scouring the whole road between this and Bonvoisin."

"But they do not know me," answered Bernard de Rohan. "There is scarce one among them that has ever seen me. Five hours? that is long, indeed!

But I could buy a horse at Chambery."

"Not before nightfall," replied the host; "and you had a great deal better wait here to see one who can help you more speedily than anybody else."

"Why cannot I go to him?" demanded Bernard de Rohan. "If you can find him, so can I."

"Oh, surely," replied Gandelot, "but you run a great risk of being taken."

"If that be all," answered the young cavalier, "I should think that there was less chance of being taken on the hillside than here.

Something must be risked, at all events, Gandelot. Get me a peasant's frock, good friend, and a large hat: my own I lost in the fall, you see.