Quentin Durward
by Walter Scott
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I. THE
CONTRAST.
CHAPTER II. THE
WANDERER.
CHAPTER III. THE
CASTLE.
CHAPTER IV. THE
DEJEUNER.
CHAPTER V. THE
MAN-AT-ARMS.
CHAPTER VI. THE
BOHEMIANS.
CHAPTER VII. THE
ENROLMENT.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ENVOY.
CHAPTER IX. THE
BOAR-HUNT.
CHAPTER X. THE
SENTINEL.
CHAPTER XI. THE
HALL OF ROLAND.
CHAPTER XII. THE
POLITICIAN.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE
JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XV. THE
GUIDE.
CHAPTER XVI. THE
VAGRANT.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE ESPIED SPY.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
PALMISTRY.
CHAPTER II. THE
CITY.
CHAPTER III. THE
BILLET.
CHAPTER IV. THE
SACK.
CHAPTER V. THE
REVELLERS.
CHAPTER VI. THE
FLIGHT.
CHAPTER VII. THE
SURRENDER.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNBIDDEN
GUEST.
CHAPTER IX. THE
INTERVIEW.
CHAPTER X. THE
EXPLOSION.
CHAPTER XI.
UNCERTAINTY.
CHAPTER XII.
RECRIMINATION.
CHAPTER XIII.
UNCERTAINTY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE
INTERVIEW.
CHAPTER XV. THE
INVESTIGATION.
CHAPTER XVI. THE
HERALD.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE EXECUTION.
CHAPTER XVIII. A
PRIZE FOR
HONOUR.
CHAPTER XIX. THE
SALLY.
CHAPTER XX. THE
SALLY.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I. THE CONTRAST.
Look here upon this picture, and on this,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
Hamlet.
The latter part of the fifteenth century prepared a train of future
events, that ended by raising France to that state of formidable power,
which has ever since been, from time to time, the principal object of
jealousy to the other European nations. Before that period, she had to
struggle for her very existence with the English, already possessed of
her fairest provinces; while the utmost exertions of her King, and the
gallantry of her people, could scarcely protect the remainder from a
foreign yoke. Nor was this her sole danger. The princes who possessed
the grand fiefs of the crown, and, in particular, the Dukes of Burgundy
and Bretagne, had come to wear their feudal bonds so lightly, that they
had no scruple in lifting the standard against their liege and
sovereign lord, the King of France, on the slightest pretence. When at
peace, they reigned as absolute princes in their own provinces; and the
House of Burgundy, possessed of the district so called, together with
the fairest and richest part of Flanders, was itself so wealthy, and so
powerful, as to yield nothing to the crown, either in splendour or in
strength.
In imitation of the grand feudatories, each inferior vassal of the
crown assumed as much independence as his distance from the sovereign
power, the extent of his fief, or the strength of his chateau, enabled
him to maintain; and these petty tyrants, no longer amenable to the
exercise of the law, perpetrated with impunity the wildest excesses of
fantastic oppression and cruelty. In Auvergne alone, a report was made
of more than three hundred of these independent nobles, to whom incest,
murder, and rapine, were the most ordinary and familiar actions.
Besides these evils, another, springing out of the long-continued
wars betwixt the French and English, added no small misery to this
distracted kingdom. Numerous bodies of soldiers, collected into bands,
under officers chosen by themselves, from among the bravest and most
successful adventurers, had been formed in various parts of France out
of the refuse of all other countries. These hireling combatants sold
their swords for a time to the best bidder; and, when such service was
not to be had, they made war on their own account, seizing castles and
towers, which they used as the places of their retreat,—making
prisoners, and ransoming them, —exacting tribute from the open
villages, and the country around them,—and acquiring, by every
species of rapine, the appropriate epithets of Tondeurs and Ecorcheurs,
that is, Clippers and Flayers.
In the midst of the horrors and miseries arising from so distracted
a state of public affairs, reckless and profuse expense distinguished
the courts of the lesser nobles, as well as of the superior princes;
and their dependents, in imitation, expended in rude, but magnificent
display, the wealth which they extorted from the people. A tone of
romantic and chivalrous gallantry (which, however, was often disgraced
by unbounded license) characterised the intercourse between the sexes;
and the language of knight-errantry was yet used, and its observances
followed, though the pure spirit of honourable love, and benevolent
enterprise, which it inculcates, had ceased to qualify and atone for
its extravagances. The jousts and tournaments, the entertainments and
revels, which each petty court displayed, invited to France every
wandering adventurer; and it was seldom that, when arrived there, he
failed to employ his rash courage, and headlong spirit of enterprise,
in actions for which his happier native country afforded no free stage.
At this period, and as if to save this fair realm from the various
woes with which it was menaced, the tottering throne was ascended by
Louis XI., whose character, evil as it was in itself, met, combated,
and in a great degree neutralized, the mischiefs of the time—as
poisons of opposing qualities are said, in ancient books of medicine,
to have the power of counteracting each other.
Brave enough for every useful and political purpose, Louis had not
a spark of that romantic valour, or of the pride generally associated
with it, which fought on for the point of honour, when the point of
utility had been long gained. Calm, crafty, and profoundly attentive to
his own interest, he made every sacrifice, both of pride and passion,
which could interfere with it. He was careful in disguising his real
sentiments and purposes from all who approached him, and frequently
used the expressions, "that the king knew not how to reign, who knew
not how to dissemble; and that, for himself, if he thought his very cap
knew his secrets, he would throw it into the fire." No man of his own,
or of any other time, better understood how to avail himself of the
frailties of others, and when to avoid giving any advantage by the
untimely indulgence of his own.
He was by nature vindictive and cruel, even to the extent of
finding pleasure in the frequent executions which he commanded. But, as
no touch of mercy ever induced him to spare, when he could with safety
condemn, so no sentiment of vengeance ever stimulated him to a
premature violence. He seldom sprung on his prey till it was fairly
within his grasp, and till all hope of rescue was vain; and his
movements were so studiously disguised, that his success was generally
what first announced to the world the object he had been manoeuvring to
attain.
In like manner, the avarice of Louis gave way to apparent
profusion, when it was necessary to bribe the favourite or minister of
a rival prince for averting any impending attack, or to break up any
alliance confederated against him. He was fond of license and pleasure;
but neither beauty nor the chase, though both were ruling passions,
ever withdrew him from the most regular attendance to public business
and the affairs of his kingdom. His knowledge of mankind was profound,
and he had sought it in the private walks of life, in which he often
personally mingled; and, though naturally proud and haughty, he
hesitated not, with an inattention to the arbitrary divisions of
society which was then thought something portentously unnatural, to
raise from the lowest rank men whom he employed on the most important
duties, and knew so well how to choose them, that he was rarely
disappointed in their qualities.
Yet there were contradictions in the character of this artful and
able monarch; for human nature is rarely uniform. Himself the most
false and insincere of mankind, some of the greatest errors of his life
arose from too rash a confidence in the honour and integrity of others.
When these errors took place, they seem to have arisen from an
over-refined system of policy, which induced Louis to assume the
appearance of undoubting confidence in those whom it was his object to
overreach; for, in his general conduct, he was as jealous and
suspicious as any tyrant who ever breathed.
Two other points may be noticed to complete the sketch of this
formidable character, by which he rose among the rude chivalrous
sovereigns of the period to the rank of a keeper among wild beasts,
who, by superior wisdom and policy, by distribution of food, and some
discipline by blows, comes finally to predominate over those, who, if
unsubjected by his arts, would by main strength have torn him to
pieces.
The first of these attributes was Louis's excessive superstition, a
plague with which Heaven often afflicts those who refuse to listen to
the dictates of religion. The remorse arising from his evil actions,
Louis never endeavoured to appease by any relaxation in his
Machiavellian stratagems, but laboured, in vain, to soothe and silence
that painful feeling by superstitious observances, severe penance, and
profuse gifts to the ecclesiastics. The second property, with which the
first is sometimes found strangely united, was a disposition to low
pleasures and obscure debauchery. The wisest, or at least the most
crafty Sovereign of his time, he was fond of low life, and, being
himself a man of wit, enjoyed the jests and repartees of social
conversation more than could have been expected from other points of
his character. He even mingled in the comic adventures of obscure
intrigue, with a freedom little consistent with the habitual and
guarded jealousy of his character; and he was so fond of this species
of humble gallantry, that he caused a number of its gay and licentious
anecdotes to be enrolled in a collection well known to book-collectors,
in whose eyes (and the work is unfit for any other) the right edition
is very precious. [Note: This editio princeps which, when in good
preservation, is much sought after by connoisseurs, is entitled, Les
Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, contenant Cent Histoires Nouveaux, qui sont
moult plaisans à raconter en toutes bonnes compagnies par manière de
joyeuxeté. Paris, Antoine Verard. Sans date d'année d'impression;
in-folio gotique. See De Bure.]
By means of this monarch's powerful and prudent, though most
unamiable character, it pleased Heaven, who works by the tempest as
well as by the soft small rain, to restore to the great French nation
the benefits of civil government, which, at the time of his accession,
they had nearly lost.
Ere he succeeded to the crown, Louis had given evidence of his
vices rather than of his talents. His first wife, Margaret of Scotland,
was "done to death by slanderous tongues" in her husband's Court,
where, but for the encouragement of Louis himself, not a word would
have been breathed against that amiable and injured princess. He had
been an ungrateful and a rebellious son, at one time conspiring to
seize his father's person, and at another, levying open war against
him. For the first offence, he was banished to his appanage of
Dauphiné, which he governed with much sagacity—for the second, he was
driven into absolute exile, and forced to throw himself on the mercy,
and almost on the charity, of the Duke of Burgundy and his son, where
he enjoyed hospitality, afterwards indifferently requited, until the
death of his father in 1461.
In the very outset of his reign, Louis was almost overpowered by a
league formed against him by the great vassals of France, with the
Duke of Burgundy, or rather his son, the Count de Charalois, at its
head. They levied a powerful army, blockaded Paris, fought a battle of
doubtful issue under its very walls, and placed the French monarchy on
the brink of actual destruction. It usually happens in such cases, that
the more sagacious general of the two gains the real fruit, though
perhaps not the martial fame of the disputed field. Louis, who had
shown great personal bravery during the battle of Montl'hery, was able,
by his prudence, to avail himself of its undecided character, as if it
had been a victory on his side. He temporized until the enemy had
broken up their leaguer, and showed so much dexterity in sowing
jealousies among those great powers, that their alliance "for the
public weal," as they termed it, but, in reality, for the overthrow of
all but the external appearance of the French monarchy, dissolved
itself, and was never again renewed in a manner so formidable. From
this period, Louis, relieved of all danger from England, by the Civil
Wars of York and Lancaster, was engaged for several years, like an
unfeeling but able physician, in curring the wounds of the body
politic, or rather in stopping, now by gentle remedies, now by the use
of fire and steel, the progress of those mortal gangrenes with which it
was then infected. The brigandage of the Free Companies, and the
unpunished oppressions of the nobility, he laboured to lessen, since he
could not actually stop them; and, by dint of unrelaxed attention, he
gradually gained some addition to his own regal authority, or effected
some diminution of those by whom it was counterbalanced.
Still the King of France was surrounded by doubt and danger. The
members of the league "for the public weal," though not in unison, were
in existence, and, like a scotched snake, might re-unite and become
dangerous again. But a worse danger was the increasing power of the
Duke of Burgundy, then one of the greatest Princes of Europe, and
little diminished in rank by the very slight dependence of his duchy
upon the crown of France.
Charles, surnamed the Bold, or rather the Audacious, for his
courage was allied to rashness and frenzy, then wore the ducal coronet
of Burgundy, which he burned to convert into a royal and independent
regal crown. The character of this Duke was in every respect the direct
contrast to that of Louis XI.
The latter was calm, deliberate, and crafty, never prosecuting a
desperate enterprise, and never abandoning one likely to be successful,
however distant the prospect. The genius of the Duke was entirely
different. He rushed on danger because he loved it, and on difficulties
because he despised them. As Louis never sacrificed his interest to his
passion, so Charles, on the other hand, never sacrificed his passion,
or even his humour, to any other consideration. Notwithstanding the
near relationship that existed between them, and the support which the
Duke and his father had afforded to Louis in his exile when Dauphin,
there was mutual contempt and hatred betwixt them. The Duke of Burgundy
despised the cautious policy of the King, and imputed to the faintness
of his courage, that he sought by leagues, purchases, and other
indirect means, those advantages, which, in his place, the Duke would
have snatched with an armed hand. He likewise hated the King, not only
for the ingratitude he had manifested for former kindnesses, and for
personal injuries and imputations which the ambassadors of Louis had
cast upon him, when his father was yet alive, but also, and especially,
because of the support which he afforded in secret to the discontented
citizens of Ghent, Liege, and other great towns in Flanders. These
turbulent cities, jealous of their privileges, and proud of their
wealth, were frequently in a state of insurrection against their liege
lords the Dukes of Burgundy, and never failed to find underhand
countenance at the Court of Louis, who embraced every opportunity of
fomenting disturbance within the dominions of his overgrown vassal.
The contempt and hatred of the Duke were retaliated by Louis with
equal energy, though he used a thicker veil to conceal his sentiments.
It was impossible for a man of his profound sagacity not to despise the
stubborn obstinacy which never resigned its purpose, however fatal
perseverance might prove, and the headlong impetuosity, which commenced
its career without allowing a moment's consideration for the obstacles
to be encountered. Yet the King hated Charles even more than he
contemned him, and his scorn and hatred were the more intense, that
they were mingled with fear; for he knew that the onset of the mad
bull, to whom he likened the Duke of Burgundy, must ever be formidable
though the animal makes it with shut eyes. It was not alone the wealth
of the Burgundian provinces, the discipline of the warlike inhabitants,
and the mass of their crowded population, which the King dreaded, for
the personal qualities of their leader had also much in them that was
dangerous. The very soul of bravery, which he pushed to the verge of
rashness, and beyond it—profuse in expenditure —splendid in his
court, his person, and his retinue, in all which he displayed the
hereditary magnificence of the house of Burgundy, Charles the Bold drew
into his service almost all the fiery spirits of the age whose tempers
were congenial; and Louis saw too clearly what might be attempted and
executed by such a train of resolute adventurers, following a leader of
a character as ungovernable as their own.
There was yet another circumstance which increased the animosity of
Louis towards his overgrown vassal; he owed him favours which he never
meant to repay, and was under the frequent necessity of temporizing
with him, and even of enduring bursts of petulant insolence, injurious
to the regal dignity, without being able to treat him otherwise than as
his "fair cousin of Burgundy."
It was about the year 1468, when their feuds were at the highest,
though a dubious and hollow truce, as frequently happened, existed for
the time betwixt them, that the present narrative opens. The person
first introduced on the stage will be found indeed to be of a rank and
condition, the illustration of whose character scarcely called for a
dissertation on the relative position of two great princes; but the
passions of the great, their quarrels, and their reconciliations,
involve the fortunes of all who approach them; and it will be found, on
proceeding farther in our story, that this preliminary Chapter is
necessary for comprehending the history of the individual whose
adventures we are about to relate.
CHAPTER II. THE WANDERER.
Why then the world is my oyster, which I with sword will open.
Ancient Pistol.
It was upon a delicious summer morning, before the sun had assumed
its scorching power, and while the dews yet cooled and perfumed the
air, that a youth, coming from the north-eastward, approached the ford
of a small river, or rather a large brook, tributary to the Cher, near
to the royal Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, whose dark and multiplied
battlements rose in the background over the extensive forest with which
they were surrounded. These woodlands comprised a noble chase, or royal
park, fenced by an enclosure, termed, in the Latin of the middle ages,
Plexitium, which gives the name of Plessis to so many villages in
France. The castle and village of which we particularly speak, was
called Plessis-les-Tours, to distinguish it from others, and was built
about two miles to the southward of the fair town of that name, the
capital of ancient Touraine, whose rich plain has been termed the
Garden of France.
On the bank of the above-mentioned brook, opposite to that which
the traveller was approaching, two men, who appeared in deep
conversation, seemed, from time to time, to watch his motions; for, as
their station was much more elevated, they could remark him at
considerable distance.
The age of the young traveller might be about nineteen, or betwixt
that and twenty, and his face and person, which were very
prepossessing, did not, however, belong to the country in which he was
now a sojourner. His short grey cloak and hose were rather of Flemish
than of French fashion, while the smart blue bonnet, with a single
sprig of holly and an eagle's feather, was already recognised as the
Scottish head-gear. His dress was very neat, and arranged with the
precision of a youth conscious of possessing a fine person. He had at
his back a satchel, which seemed to contain a few necessaries, a
hawking gauntlet on his left hand, though he carried no bird, and in
his right a stout hunter's pole. Over his left shoulder hung an
embroidered scarf which sustained a small pouch of scarlet velvet, such
as was then used by fowlers of distinction to carry their hawks' food,
and other matters belonging to that much admired sport. This was
crossed by another shoulder-belt, to which was hung a hunting knife, or
couteau de chasse. Instead of the boots of the period, he wore buskins
of half-dressed deer's-skin.
Although his form had not yet attained its full strength, he was
tall and active, and the lightness of the step with which he advanced,
showed that his pedestrian mode of travelling was pleasure rather than
pain to him. His complexion was fair, in spite of a general shade of
darker hue, with which the foreign sun, or perhaps constant exposure to
the atmosphere in his own country, had, in some degree, embrowned it.
His features, without being quite regular, were frank, open, and
pleasing. A half smile, which seemed to arise from a happy exuberance
of animal spirits, showed, now and then, that his teeth were well set,
and as pure as ivory; whilst his bright blue eye, with a corresponding
gaiety, had an appropriate glance for every object which it
encountered, expressing good-humour, lightness of heart, and determined
resolution.
He received and returned the salutation of the few travellers who
frequented the road in those dangerous times, with the action which
suited each. The strolling spearman, half soldier, half brigand,
measured the youth with his eye, as if balancing the prospect of booty
with the chance of desperate resistance; and read such indications of
the latter in the fearless glance of the passenger, that he changed his
ruffian purpose for a surly "Good morrow, comrade," which the young
Scot answered with as martial, though a less sullen tone. The wandering
pilgrim, or the begging friar, answered his reverend greeting with a
paternal benedicite; and the dark-eyed peasant girl looked after him
for many a step after they had passed each other, and interchanged a
laughing good-morrow. In short, there was an attraction about his whole
appearance not easily escaping attention, and which was derived from
the combination of fearless frankness and good-humour, with sprightly
looks, and a handsome face and person. It seemed, too, as if his whole
demeanour bespoke one who was entering on life with no apprehension of
the evils with which it is beset, and small means for struggling with
its hardships, except a lively spirit and a courageous disposition; and
it is with such tempers that youth most readily sympathizes, and for
whom chiefly age and experience feel affectionate and pitying interest.
The youth whom we have described, had been long visible to the two
persons who loitered on the opposite side of the small river which
divided him from the park and the castle; but as he descended the
rugged bank to the water's edge, with the light step of a roe which
visits the fountain, the younger of the two said to the other, "It is
our man—it is the Bohemian! If he attempts to cross the ford, he is a
lost man—the water is up, and the ford impassable."
"Let him make that discovery himself, gossip," said the elder
personage; "it may, perchance, save a rope, and break a proverb."
"I judge him by the blue cap," said the other, "for I cannot see
his face.—Hark, sir—he hallooes to know whether the water be deep."
"Nothing like experience in this world," answered the other—"let
him try."
The young man, in the meanwhile, receiving no hint to the contrary,
and taking the silence of those to whom he applied as an encouragement
to proceed, entered the stream without farther hesitation than the
delay necessary to take off his buskins. The elder person, at the same
moment, hallooed to him to beware, adding, in a lower tone, to his
companion, "Mortdieu—gossip—you have made another mistake—this is
not the Bohemian chatterer."
But the intimation to the youth came too late. He either did not
hear or could not profit by it, being already in the deep stream. To
one less alert, and practised in the exercise of swimming, death had
been certain, for the brook was both deep and strong.
"By Saint Anne! but he is a proper youth," said the elder
man—"Run, gossip, and help your blunder, by giving him aid, if thou
canst. He belongs to thine own troop—if old saws speak truth, water
will not drown him."
Indeed, the young traveller swam so strongly, and buffeted the
waves so well, that, notwithstanding the strength of the current, he
was carried but a little way down from the ordinary landing-place.
By this time the younger of the two strangers was hurrying down to
the shore to render assistance, while the other followed him at a
graver pace, saying to himself as he approached, "I knew water would
never drown that young fellow.—By my halidome, he is ashore, and
grasps his pole!—If I make not the more haste, he will beat my gossip
for the only charitable action which I ever saw him perform, or attempt
to perform, in the whole course of his life."
There was some reason to augur such a conclusion of the adventure,
for the bonny Scot had already accosted the younger Samaritan, who was
hastening to his assistance, with these ireful words—"Discourteous
dog! why did you not answer when I called to know if the passage was
fit to be attempted? May the foul fiend catch me, but I will teach you
the respect due to strangers on the next occasion!"
This was accompanied with that significant flourish with his pole
which is called le moulinet, because the artist, holding it in the
middle, brandishes the two ends in every direction, like the sails of a
windmill in motion. His opponent, seeing himself thus menaced, laid
hand upon his sword, for he was one of those who on all occasions are
more ready for action than for speech; but his more considerate
comrade, who came up, commanded him to forbear, and, turning to the
young man, accused him in turn of precipitation in plunging into the
swollen ford, and of intemperate violence in quarrelling with a man who
was hastening to his assistance.
The young man, on hearing himself thus reproved by a man of
advanced age and respectable appearance, immediately lowered his
weapon, and said he would be sorry if he had done them injustice; but,
in reality, it appeared to him as if they had suffered him to put his
life in peril for want of a word of timely warning, which could be the
part neither of honest men nor of good Christians, far less of
respectable burgesses, such as they seemed to be.
"Fair son," said the elder person, "you seem, from your accent and
complexion, a stranger; and you should recollect your dialect is not so
easily comprehended by us, as perhaps it may be uttered by you."
"Well, father," answered the youth, "I do not care much about the
ducking I have had, and I will readily forgive your being partly the
cause, provided you will direct me to some place where I can have my
clothes dried; for it is my only suit, and I must keep it somewhat
decent."
"For whom do you take us, fair son?" said the elder stranger, in
answer to this question.
"For substantial burgesses, unquestionably," said the youth; "or,
hold—you, master, may be a money-broker, or a corn-merchant; and this
man a butcher, or grazier."
"You have hit our capacities rarely," said the elder, smiling. "My
business is indeed to trade in as much money as I can; and my gossip's
dealings are somewhat of kin to the butcher's. As to your
accommodation, we will try to serve you; but I must first know who you
are, and whither you are going; for, in these times, the roads are
filled with travellers on foot and horseback, who have anything in
their head but honesty and the fear of God."
The young man cast another keen and penetrating glance on him who
spoke, and on his silent companion, as if doubtful whether they, on
their part, merited the confidence they demanded; and the result of his
observation was as follows.
The eldest, and most remarkable of these men, in dress and
appearance resembled the merchant or shopkeeper of the period. His
jerkin, hose, and cloak, were of a dark uniform colour, but worn so
threadbare, that the acute young Scot conceived that the wearer must
be either very rich or very poor, probably the former. The fashion of
the dress was close and short—a kind of garments which were not then
held decorous among gentry, or even the superior class of citizens, who
generally wore loose gowns which descended below the middle of the leg.
The expression of this man's countenance was partly attractive, and
partly forbidding. His strong features, sunk cheeks, and hollow eyes,
had, nevertheless, an expression of shrewdness and humour congenial to
the character of the young adventurer. But then, those same sunken
eyes, from under the shroud of thick black eyebrows, had something in
them that was at once commanding and sinister. Perhaps this effect was
increased by the low fur cap, much depressed on the forehead, and
adding to the shade from under which those eyes peered out; but it is
certain that the young stranger had some difficulty to reconcile his
looks with the meanness of his appearance in other respects. His cap,
in particular, in which all men of any quality displayed either a
brooch of gold or of silver, was ornamented with a paltry image of the
Virgin, in lead, such as the poorer sort of pilgrims bring from
Loretto.
His comrade was a stout-formed, middle-sized man, more than ten
years younger than his companion, with a down-looking visage, and a
very ominous smile, when by chance he gave way to that impulse, which
was never, except in reply to certain secret signs that seemed to pass
between him and the elder stranger. This man was armed with a sword
and dagger; and, underneath his plain habit, the Scotsman observed that
he concealed a jazeran, or flexible shirt of linked mail, which, as
being often worn by those, even of peaceful professions, who were
called upon at that perilous period to be frequently abroad, confirmed
the young man in his conjecture, that the wearer was by profession a
butcher, grazier, or something of that description, called upon to be
much abroad.
The young stranger, comprehending in one glance the result of the
observation which has taken us some time to express, answered, after a
moment's pause, "I am ignorant whom I may have the honour to address,"
making a slight reverence at the same time, "but I am indifferent who
knows that I am a cadet of Scotland; and that I come to seek my fortune
in France, or elsewhere, after the custom of my countrymen."
"Pasques-dieu! and a gallant custom it is," said the elder
stranger. "You seem a fine young springald, and at the right age to
prosper, whether among men or women. What say you? I am a merchant, and
want a lad to assist in my traffic—I suppose you are too much a
gentleman to assist in such mechanical drudgery?"
"Fair sir," said the youth, "if your offer be seriously made—of
which I have my doubts—I am bound to thank you for it, and I thank
you accordingly; but I fear I should be altogether unfit for your
service."
"What!" said the senior, "I warrant thou knowest better how to
draw the bow, than how to draw a bill of charges,—canst handle a
broadsword better than a pen—ha!"
"I am, master," answered the young Scot, "a braeman, and therefore,
as we say, a bowman. But besides that, I have been in a convent, where
the good fathers taught me to read and write, and even to cipher."
"Pasques-dieu! that is too magnificent," said the merchant. "By our
Lady of Embrun, thou art a prodigy, man!"
"Rest you merry, fair master," said the youth, who was not much
pleased with his new acquaintance's jocularity, "I must go dry myself,
instead of standing dripping here, answering questions."
The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, and answered,
"Pasques-dieu! the proverb never fails—fier comme un Ecossois—but
come, youngster, you are of a country I have a regard for, having
traded in Sctoland in my time—an honest poor set of folks they are;
and, if you will come with us to the village, I will bestow on you a
cup of burnt sack and a warm breakfast, to atone for your drenching.
—But, tête-bleau! what do you with a hunting-glove on your hand? Know
you not there is no hawking permitted in a royal chase?"
"I was taught that lesson," answered the youth, "by a rascally
forester of the Duke of Burgundy. I did but fly the falcon I had
brought with me from Scotland, and that I reckoned on for bringing me
into some note, at a heron near Peronne, and the rascally schelm shot
my bird with an arrow."
"What did you do?" said the merchant.
"Beat him," said the youngster, brandishing his staff, "as near to
death as one Christian man should belabour another—I wanted not to
have his blood to answer for."
"Know you," said the burgess, "that had you fallen into the Duke of
Burgundy's hands, he would have hung you up like a chestnut?"
"Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of France for that sort
of work. But, as this happened near Peronne, I made a leap over the
frontiers, and laughed at him. If he had not been so hasty, I might
perhaps have taken service with him."
"He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin as you are, if the
truce should break off," said the merchant, and threw a look at his own
companion, who answered him with one of the downcast lowering smiles,
which gleamed along his countenance, enlivening it as a passing meteor
enlivens a winter sky.
The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his bonnet over his right
eyebrow, as one that would not be ridiculed, and said firmly, "My
masters, and especially you, sir, the elder, and who should be the
wiser, you will find, I presume, no sound or safe jesting at my
expense. I do not altogether like the tone of your conversation. I can
take a jest with any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder, and say
thank you, sir, if I know it to be deserved; but I do not like being
borne in hand as if I were a child, when, God wot, I find myself man
enough to belabour you both, if you provoke me too far."
The eldest man seemed like to choke with laughter at the lad's
demeanour—his companion's hand stole to his sword hilt, which the
youth observing, dealt him a blow across the wrist, which made him
incapable of grasping it; while his companion's mirth was only
increased by the incident. "Hold, hold," he cried, "most doughty Scot,
even for thine own dear country's sake; and you, gossip, forbear your
menacing look. Pasques-dieu! let us be just traders, and set off the
wetting against the knock on the wrist, which was given with so much
grace and alacrity.—And hark ye, my young friend," he said to the
young man with a grave sternness, which, in spite of all the youth
could do, damped and overawed him, "no more violence. I am no fit
object for it, and my gossip, as you may see, has had enough of it. Let
me know your name."
"I can answer a civil question civilly," said the youth; "and will
pay fitting respect to your age, if you do not urge my patience with
mockery. Since I have been here in France and Flanders, men have called
me, in their fantasy, the Varlet with the Velvet Pouch, because of this
hawk purse which I carry by my side; but my true name, when at home, is
Quentin Durward."
"Durward!" said the querist; "is it a gentleman's name?"
"By fifteen descents in our family," said the young man; "and that
makes me reluctant to follow any other trade than arms."
"A true Scot! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, and right great
scarcity of ducats, I warrant thee.— Well, gossip," he said to his
companion, "go before us, and tell them to have some breakfast ready
yonder at the Mulberry-grove; for this youth will do as much honour to
it as a starved mouse to a housewife's cheese. And for the
Bohemian—hark in thy ear"— His comrade answered by a gloomy, but
intelligent smile, and set forward at a round pace, while the elder man
continued, addressing young Durward, —"You and I will walk leisurely
forward together, and we may take a mass at Saint Hubert's Chapel in
our way through the forest; for it is not good to think of our fleshly
before our spiritual wants."
Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to object against this
proposal, although he might probably have been desirous, in the first
place, to have dried his clothes and refreshed himself. Meanwhile, they
soon lost sight of their downward-looking companion, but continued to
follow the same path which he had taken, until it led them into a wood
of tall trees, mixed with thickets and brushwood, traversed by long
avenues, through which were seen, as through a vista, the deer trotting
in little herds with a degree of security which argued their
consciousness of being completely protected.
"You asked me if I were a good bowman," said the young Scot—"Give
me a bow and a brace of shafts, and you shall have a piece of venison
in a moment."
"Pasques-dieu! my young friend," said his companion, "take care of
that; my gossip yonder hath a special eye to the deer; they are under
his charge, and he is a strict keeper."
"He hath more the air of a butcher, than of a gay forester,"
answered Durward. "I cannot think yon hang-dog look of his belongs to
any one who knows the gentle rules of woodcraft."
"Ah, my young friend," answered his companion, "my gossip hath
somewhat an ugly favour to look upon at the first; but those who become
acquainted with him, never are known to complain of him."
Quentin Durward found something singularly and disagreeably
significant in the tone with which this was spoken; and, looking
suddenly at the speaker, thought he saw in his countenance, in the
slight smile that curled his upper lip, and the accompanying twinkle of
his keen dark eye, something to justify his unpleasing surprise. "I
have heard of robbers," he thought to himself, "and of wily cheats and
cut-throats—what if yonder fellow be a murderer, and this old rascal
his decoy-duck? I will be on my guard—they will get little by me but
good Scottish knocks."
While he was thus reflecting they came to a glade, where the large
forest trees were more widely separated from each other, and where the
ground beneath, cleared of underwood and bushes, was clothed with a
carpet of the softest and most lovely verdure, which, screened from the
scorching heat of the sun, was here more beautifully tender than it is
usually to be seen in France. The trees in this secluded spot were
chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like great
hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the
earth, there peeped out, in the most open spot of the glade, a lowly
chapel, near which trickled a small rivulet. Its architecture was of
the rudest and most simple kind; and there was a very small lodge
beside it, for the accommodation of a hermit or solitary priest, who
remained there for regularly discharging the duty of the altar. In a
small niche, over the arched doorway, stood a stone image of Saint
Hubert, with the bugle-horn around his neck, and a leash of grey-hounds
at his feet. The situation of the chapel in the midst of a park or
chase, so richly stocked with game, made the dedication to the Sainted
Huntsman peculiarly appropriate. [Note: Every vocation had, in the
middle ages, its protecting saint. The chase, with its fortunes and its
hazards, the business of so many, and the amusement of all, was placed
under the direction of Saint Hubert.
This silvan saint was the son of Bertrand, Duke of Acquitaine, and,
while in the secular state, was a courtier of King Pepin. He was
passionately fond of the chase, and used to neglect attendance on
divine worship for this amusement. While he was once engaged in this
pastime, a stag appeared before him, having a crucifix bound betwixt
his horns, and he heard a voice which menaced him with eternal
punishment if he did not repent of his sins. He retired from the world
and took orders, his wife having also retreated into the cloister.
Hubert afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and Liege; and from his
zeal in destroying remnants of idolatry, is called the Apostle of
Ardennes and of Brabant. Those who were descended of his race were
supposed to possess the power of curing persons bitten by mad dogs.
]
Towards this little devotional structure the old man directed his
steps, followed by young Durward; and, as they approached, the priest,
dressed in his sacerdotal garments, made his appearance, in the act of
proceeding from his cell to the chapel, for the discharge, doubtless,
of his holy office. Durward bowed his body reverently to the priest, as
the respect due to his sacred office demanded; whilst his companion,
with an appearance of still more deep devotion, kneeled on one knee to
receive the holy man's blessing, and then followed him into church,
with a step and manner expressive of the most heartfelt contrition and
humility.
The inside of the chapel was adorned in a manner adapted to the
occupation of the patron-saint while on earth. The richest furs of such
animals as are made the objects of the chase in different countries,
supplied the place of tapestry and hangings around the altar and
elsewhere, and the characteristic emblazonments of bugles, bows,
quivers, and other emblems of hunting, surrounded the walls, and were
mingled with the heads of deer, wolves, and other animals considered
beasts of sport. The whole adornments took an appropriate and silvan
character; and the mass itself, being considerably shortened, proved to
be of that sort which is called a hunting-mass, because in use before
the noble and powerful, who, while assisting at the solemnity, are
usually impatient to commence their favourite sport.
Yet, during this brief ceremony, Durward's companion seemed to pay
the most rigid and scrupulous attention; while Durward, not quite so
much occupied with religious thoughts, could not forbear blaming
himself in his own mind, for having entertained suspicions derogatory
to the character of so good and so humble a man. Far from now holding
him as a companion and accomplice of robbers, he had much to do to
forbear regarding him as a saintlike personage.
When mass was ended, they retired together from the chapel, and the
elder said to his young comrade, "It is but a short walk from hence to
the village—you may now break your fast with an unprejudiced
conscience—follow me."
Turning to the right, and proceeding along a path which seemed
gradually to ascend, he recommended to his companion by no means to
quit the track, but, on the contrary, to keep the middle of it as
nearly as he could. Durward could not help asking the cause of this
precaution.
"You are now near the Court, young man," answered his guide; "and,
Pasques-dieu! there is some difference betwixt walking in this region
and on your own heathy hills. Every yard of this ground, excepting the
path which we now occupy, is rendered dangerous, and wellnigh
impracticable, by snares and traps, armed with scythe-blades, which
shred off the unwary passenger's limb as sheerly as a hedge-bill lops a
hawthorn-sprig—and calthrops that would pierce your foot through, and
pit-falls deep enough to bury you in them for ever; for you are now
within the precincts of the royal demesne, and we shall presently see
the front of the Chateau."
"Were I the King of France," said the young man, "I would not take
so much trouble with traps and gins, but would try instead to govern
so well, that no man should dare to come near my dwelling with a bad
intent; and for those who came there in peace and good-will, why, the
more of them the merrier we should be."
His companion looked round affecting an alarmed gaze, and said,
"Hush, hush, Sir Varlet with the Velvet Pouch! for I forgot to tell
you, that one great danger of these precincts is, that the very leaves
of the trees are like so many ears, which carry all which is spoken to
the King's own cabinet."
"I care little for that," answered Quentin Durward; "I bear a
Scottish tongue in my head, bold enough to speak my mind to King
Louis's face, God bless him—and, for the ears you talk of, if I could
see them growing on a human head, I would crop them out of it with my
wood-knife."
CHAPTER III. THE CASTLE.
Full in the midst a mighty pile arose,
Where iron-grated gates their strength oppose
To each invading step—and, strong and steep,
The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep.
Slow round the fortress roll'd the sluggish stream,
And high in middle air the warder's turrets gleam.
Anonymous.
While Durward and his new acquaintance thus spoke, they came in
sight of the whole front of the Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, which,
even in those dangerous times, when the great found themselves obliged
to reside within places of fortified strength, was distinguished for
the extreme and jealous care with which it was watched and defended.
From the verge of the wood where young Durward halted with his
companion, in order to take a view of this royal residence, extended,
or rather arose, though by a very gentle elevation, an open esplanade,
devoid of trees and bushes of every description, excepting one gigantic
and half-withered old oak. This space was left open, according to the
rules of fortification in all ages, in order that an enemy might not
approach the walls under cover, or unobserved from the battlements, and
beyond it arose the Castle itself.
There were three external walls, battlemented and turreted from
space to space, and at each angle, the second enclosure rising higher
than the first, and being built so as to command the exterior defence
in case it was won by the enemy; and being again, in the same manner,
itself commanded by the third and innermost barrier. Around the
external wall, as the Frenchman informed his young companion, (for, as
they stood lower than the foundation of the wall, he could not see it,)
was sunk a ditch of about twenty feet in depth, supplied with water by
a dam-head on the river Cher, or rather on one of its tributary
branches. In front of the second enclosure, he said, there ran another
fosse, and a third, both of the same unusual dimensions, was led
between the second and the innermost enclosure. The verge, both of the
outer and inner circuit of this triple moat, was strongly fenced with
palisades of iron, serving the purpose of what are called
chevaux-de-frise in modern fortification, the top of each pale being
divided into a cluster of sharp spikes, which seemed to render any
attempt to climb over an act of self-destruction.
From within the innermost enclosure arose the Castle itself,
containing buildings of different periods, crowded around, and united
with the ancient and grim-looking donjon-keep, which was older than any
of them, and which rose, like a black Ethiopian giant, high into the
air, while the absence of any windows larger than shot-holes,
irregularly disposed for defence, gave the spectator the same
unpleasant feeling which we experience on looking at a blind man. The
other buildings seemed scarcely better adapted for the purposes of
comfort, for the windows opened to an inner and enclosed courtyard; so
that the whole external front looked much more like that of a prison
than a palace. The reigning King had even increased this effect; for,
desirous that the additions which he himself had made to the
fortifications should be of a character not easily distinguished from
the original building, (for like many jealous persons, he loved not
that his suspicions should be observed,) the darkest-coloured brick and
freestone were employed, and soot mingled with the lime, so as to give
the whole Castle the same uniform tinge of extreme and rude antiquity.
This formidable place had but one entrance, at least Durward saw
none along the spacious front, except where, in the centre of the first
and outward boundary, arose two strong towers, the usual defences of a
gateway; and he could observe their ordinary accompaniments, portcullis
and drawbridge —of which the first was lowered, and the last raised.
Similar entrance-towers were visible on the second and third bounding
wall, but not in the same line with those on the outward circuit;
because the passage did not cut right through the whole three
enclosures at the same point, but, on the contrary, those who entered
had to proceed nearly thirty yards betwixt the first and second wall,
exposed, if their purpose were hostile, to missiles from both; and
again, when the second boundary was passed, they must make a similar
digression from the straight line, in order to attain the portal of
the third and innermost enclosure; so that before gaining the outer
court, which ran along the front of the building, two narrow and
dangerous defiles were to be traversed under a flanking discharge of
artillery, and three gates, defended in the strongest manner known to
the age, were to be successively forced.
Coming from a country alike desolated by foreign war and internal
feuds,—a country, too, whose unequal and mountainous surface,
abounding in precipices and torrents, affords so many situations of
strength,—young Durward was sufficiently acquainted with all the
various contrivances by which men, in that stern age, endeavoured to
secure their dwellings; but he frankly owned to his companion, that he
did not think it had been in the power of art to do so much for
defence, where nature had done so little; for the situation, as we have
hinted, was merely the summit of a gentle elevation ascending upwards
from the place where they were standing.
To enhance his surprise, his companion told him that the environs
of the Castle, except the single winding-path by which the portal might
be safely approached, were, like the thickets through which they had
passed, surrounded with every species of hidden pit-fall, snare, and
gin, to entrap the wretch who should venture thither without a guide;
that upon the walls were constructed certain cradles of iron, called
swallows' nests, from which the sentinels, who were regularly posted
there, could, without being exposed to any risk, take deliberate aim at
any who should attempt to enter without the proper signal or pass-word
of the day; and that the Archers of the Royal Guard performed that duty
day and night, for which they received high pay, rich clothing, and
much honour and profit at the hands of King Louis. "And now tell me,
young man," he continued, "did you ever see so strong a fortress, and
do you think there are men bold enough to storm it?"
The young man looked long and fixedly on the place, the sight of
which interested him so much, that he had forgotten, in the eagerness
of youthful curiosity, the wetness of his dress. His eye glanced, and
his colour mounted to his cheek like that of a daring man who meditates
an honourable action, as he replied, "It is a strong castle, and
strongly guarded; but there is no impossibility to brave men."
"Are there any in your country who could do such a feat?" said the
elder, rather scornfully.
"I will not affirm that," answered the youth; "but there are
thousands that, in a good cause, would attempt as bold a deed."
"Umph!"—said the senior, "perhaps you are yourself such a
gallant?"
"I should sin if I were to boast where there is no danger,"
answered young Durward; "but my father has done as bold an act, and I
trust I am no bastard."
"Well," said his companion, smiling, "you might meet your match,
and your kindred withal in the attempt; for the Scottish Archers of
King Louis's Life-guards stand sentinels on yonder walls —three
hundred gentlemen of the best blood in your country."
"And were I King Louis," said the youth, in reply, "I would trust
my safety to the faith of the three hundred Scottish gentlemen, throw
down my bounding walls to fill up the moat, call in my noble peers and
paladins, and live as became me, amid breaking of lances in gallant
tournaments, and feasting of days with nobles, and dancing of nights
with ladies, and have no more fear of a foe than I have of a fly."
His companion again smiled, and turning his back on the Castle,
which, he observed, they had approached a little too nearly, he led the
way again into the wood, by a more broad and beaten path than they had
yet trodden. "This," he said, "leads us to the village of Plessis, as
it is called, where you, as a stranger, will find reasonable and honest
accommodation. About two miles onward lies the fine city of Tours,
which gives name to this rich and beautiful earldom. But the village of
Plessis, or Plessis of the Park, as it is sometimes called, from its
vicinity to the royal residence, and the chase with which it is
encircled, will yield you nearer, and as convenient hospitality."
"I thank you, kind master, for your information," said the Scot;
"but my stay will be so short here, that if I fail not in a morsel of
meat, and a drink of something better than water, my necessities in
Plessis, be it of the park or the pool, will be amply satisfied."
"Nay," answered his companion, "I thought you had some friend to
see in this quarter."
"And so I have—my mother's own brother," answered Durward; "and
as pretty a man, before he left the braes of Angus, as ever planted
brogue on heather."
"What is his name?" said the senior; "we will enquire him out for
you; for it is not safe for you to go up to the Castle, where you might
be taken for a spy."
"Now, by my father's hand!" said the youth, "I taken for a
spy!—By Heaven, he shall brook cold iron that brands me with such a
charge!—But for my uncle's name, I care not who knows it—it is
Lesly. Lesly—an honest and noble name."
"And so it is, I doubt not," said the old man; "but there are three
of the name in the Scottish Guard."
"My uncle's name is Ludovic Lesly," said the young man.
"Of the three Leslies," answered the merchant, "two are called
Ludovic."
"They call my kinsman Ludovic with the Scar," said Quentin.—"Our
family names are so common in a Scottish house, that where there is no
land in the case, we always give a to-name."
"A nom de guerre, I suppose you to mean," answered his companion;
"and the man you speak of, we, I think, call Le Balafré, from that scar
on his face—a proper man and a good soldier. I wish I may be able to
help you to an interview with him, for he belongs to a set of gentlemen
whose duty is strict, and who do not often come out of garrison,
unless in the immediate attendance on the King's person.—And now,
young man, answer me one question. I will wager you are desirous to
take service with your uncle in the Scottish Guard. It is a great
thing, if you propose so; especially as you are very young, and some
years' experience is necessary for the high office which you aim at."
"Perhaps I may have thought on some such thing," said Durward,
carelessly; "but if I did, the fancy is off."
"How so, young man?" said the Frenchman, something sternly—"Do
you speak thus of a charge which the most noble of your countrymen feel
themselves emulous to be admitted to?"
"I wish them joy of it," said Quentin, composedly. —"To speak
plain, I should have liked the service of the French King full well;
only, dress me as fine, and feed me as high as you will, I love the
open air better than being shut up in a cage or a swallow's nest
yonder, as you call these same grated pepper-boxes. Besides," he added,
in a lower voice, "to speak truth, I love not the Castle when the
covin-tree [Note: The large tree in front of a Scottish castle, was
sometimes called so. It is difficult to trace the derivation; but at
that distance from the castle, the laird received guests òf rank, and
thither he convoyed them on their departure.] bears such acorns as I
see yonder."
"I guess what you mean," said the Frenchman; "but speak yet more
plainly."
"To speak more plainly, then," said the youth, "there grows a fair
oak some flight-shot or so from yonder Castle—and on that oak hangs
a man in a grey jerkin, such as this which I wear."
"Ay and indeed!" said the man of France— "Pasques-dieu! see what
it is to have youthful eyes! Why, I did see something, but only took it
for a raven among the branches. But the sight is no way strange, young
man; when the summer fades into autumn, and moonlight nights are long,
and roads become unsafe, you will see a cluster of ten, ay of twenty
such acorns, hanging on that old doddered oak.—But what then?—they
are so many banners displayed to scare knaves; and for each rogue that
hangs there, an honest man may reckon that there is a thief, a traitor,
a robber on the highway, a pilleur and oppressor of the people, the
fewer in France. These, young man, are signs of our Sovereign's
justice."
"I would have hung them farther from my palace, though, were I King
Louis," said the youth.—"In my country, we hang up dead corbies where
living corbies haunt, but not in our gardens or pigeon-houses. The very
scent of the carrion—faugh— reached my nostrils at the distance
where we stood."
"If you live to be an honest and loyal servant of your Prince, my
good youth," answered the Frenchman, "you will know there is no perfume
to match the scent of a dead traitor."
"I shall never wish to live till I lose the scent of my nostrils or
the sight of my eyes," said the Scot.—"Show me a living traitor, and
here are my hand and my weapon; but when life is out, hatred should not
live longer.—But here, I fancy, we come upon the village; where I
hope to show you that neither ducking nor disgust have spoiled mine
appetite for my breakfast. So, my good friend, to the hostelrie, with
all the speed you may.—Yet, ere I accept of your hospitality, let me
know by what name to call you."
"Men call me Maitre Pierre," answered his companion.—"I deal in
no titles. A plain man, that can live on mine own good—that is my
designation."
"So be it, Maitre Pierre," said Quentin, "and I am happy my good
chance has thrown us together; for I want a word of seasonable advice,
and can be thankful for it."
While they spoke thus, the tower of the church, and a tall wooden
crucifix, rising above the trees, showed that they were at the entrance
of the village.
But Maitre Pierre, deflecting a little from the road, which had now
joined an open and public causeway, said to his companion, that the inn
to which he intended to introduce him stood somewhat secluded, and
received only the better sort of travellers.
"If you mean those who travel with the better-filled purses,"
answered the Scot, "I am none of the number, and will rather stand my
chance of your flayers on the highway, than of your flayers in the
hostelrie!"
"Pasques-dieu!" said his guide, "how cautious your countrymen of
Scotland are! An Englishman, now, throws himself headlong into a
tavern, eats and drinks of the best, and never thinks of the reckoning
till his belly is full. But you forget, Master Quentin, since Quentin
is your name, you forget I owe you a breakfast for the wetting which my
mistake procured you—It is the penance of my offence towards you."
"In truth," said the light-hearted young man, "I had forgot
wetting, offence, and penance and all. I have walked my clothes dry, or
nearly so, but I will not refuse your offer in kindness; for my dinner
yesterday was a light one, and supper I had none. You seem an old and
respectable burgess, and I see no reason why I should not accept your
courtesy."
The Frenchman smiled aside, for he saw plainly that the youth,
while he was probably half famished, had yet some difficulty to
reconcile himself to the thoughts of feeding at a stranger's cost, and
was endeavouring to subdue his inward pride by the reflection, that, in
such slight obligations, the acceptor performed as complaisant a part
as he by whom the courtesy was offered.
In the meanwhile they descended a narrow lane, overshadowed by tall
elms, at the bottom of which a gateway admitted them into the
court-yard of an inn of unusual magnitude, calculated for the
accommodation of the nobles and suitors who had business at the
neighbouring Castle, where very seldom, and only when such hospitality
was altogether unavoidable, did Louis XI. permit any of his Court to
have apartments. A scutcheon, bearing the fleur-de-lys, hung over the
principal door of the large irregular building; but there was about the
yard and the offices little or none of the bustle which in those days,
when attendants were maintained both in public and in private houses,
marked that business was alive, and custom plenty. It seemed as if the
stern and unsocial character of the royal mansion in the neighbourhood
had communicated a portion of its solemn and terrific gloom even to a
place designed, according to universal custom elsewhere, for the temple
of social indulgence, merry society, and good cheer.
Maitre Pierre, without calling any one, and even without
approaching the principal entrance, lifted the latch of a side door,
and led the way into a large room, where a fagot was blazing on the
hearth, and arrangements made for a substantial breakfast.
"My gossip has been careful," said the Frenchman to the Scot—"You
must be cold, and I have commanded a fire; you must be hungry, and you
shall have breakfast presently."
He whistled, and the landlord entered,—answered Maitre Pierre's
bon jour with a reverence,—but in no respect showed any part of the
prating humour properly belonging to a French publican of all ages.
"I expected a gentleman," said Maitre Pierre, "to order
breakfast—Hath he done so?"
In answer, the landlord only bowed; and while he continued to
bring, and arrange upon the table, the various articles of a
comfortable meal, omitted to extol their merits by a single word. And
yet the breakfast merited such eulogiums as French hosts are wont to
confer upon their regales, as the reader will be informed in the next
Chapter.
CHAPTER IV. THE DEJEUNER.
Sacred heaven! what masticators! what bread!
Yorick's Travels.
We left our young stranger in France situated more comfortably than
he had found himself since entering the territories of the ancient
Gauls. The breakfast, as we hinted in the conclusion of the last
Chapter, was admirable. There was a Pâté de Perigord, over which a
gastronome would have wished to live and die, like Homer's
lotus-eaters, forgetful of kin, native country, and all social
obligations whatever. Its vast walls of magnificent crust seemed raised
like the bulwarks of some rich metropolitan city, an emblem of the
wealth which they are designed to protect. There was a delicate ragout,
with just that petit point de l'ail which Gascons love, and Scottishmen
do not hate. There was, besides, a delicate ham, which had once
supported a noble wild boar in the neighbouring wood of Mountrichart.
There was the most exquisite white bread, made into little round loaves
called boules, (whence the bakers took their French name of
boulangers,) of which the crust was so inviting, that, even with water
alone, it would have been a delicacy. But the water was not alone, for
there was a flask of leather called bottrine, which contained about a
quart of exquisite Vin de Beaulne. So many good things might have
created appetite under the ribs of death. What effect, then, must they
have produced upon a youngster of scarce twenty, who (for the truth
must be told) had eaten little for the two last days, save the scarcely
ripe fruit which chance afforded him an opportunity of plucking, and a
very moderate portion of barley-bread? He threw himself upon the
ragout, and the plate was presently vacant—he attacked the mighty
pasty, marched deep into the bowels of the land, and, seasoning his
enormous meal with an occasional cup of wine, returned to the charge
again and again, to the astonishment of mine host, and the amusement of
Maitre Pierre.
The latter, indeed, probably because he found himself the author of
a kinder action than he had thought of, seemed delighted with the
appetite of the young Scot; and when, at length, he observed that his
exertions began to languish, endeavoured to stimulate him to new
efforts, by ordering confections, darioles, and any other light
dainties he could think of, to entice the youth to continue his meal.
While thus engaged, Maitre Pierre's countenance expressed a kind of
good-humour almost amounting to benevolence, which appeared remote from
its ordinary sharp, caustic, and severe character. The aged almost
always sympathize with the enjoyments of youth, and with its exertions
of every kind, when the mind of the spectator rests on its natural
poise, and is not disturbed by inward envy or idle emulation.
Quentin Durward also, while thus agreeably employed, could do no
otherwise than discover that the countenance of his entertainer, which
he had at first found so unprepossessing, mended when it was seen under
the influence of the Vin de Beaulne, and there was kindness in the tone
with which he reproached Maitre Pierre, that he amused himself with
laughing at his appetite, without eating any thing himself.
"I am doing penance," said Maitre Pierre, "and may not eat any
thing before noon, save some comfiture and a cup of water.—Bid yonder
lady," he added, turning to the innkeeper, "bring them hither to me."
The innkeeper left the room, and Maitre Pierre proceeded,—"Well,
have I kept faith with you concerning the breakfast I promised you?"
"The best meal I have eaten," said the youth, "since I left
Glen-houlakin."
"Glen—what?" demanded Maitre Pierre; "are you going to raise the
devil, that you use such long-tailed words?"
"Glen-houlakin," answered Quentin, good-humouredly, "which is to
say the Glen of the Midges, is the name of our ancient patrimony, my
good sir. You have bought the right to laugh at the sound, if you
please."
"I have not the least intention to offend," said the old man; "but
I was about to say, since you like your present meal so well, that the
Scottish Archers of the guard eat as good a one, or a better, every
day."
"No wonder," said Durward, "for if they be shut up in the swallows'
nests all night, they must needs have a curious appetite in the
morning."
"And plenty to gratify it upon," said Maitre Pierre. "They need
not, like the Burgundians, chouse a bare back, that they may have a
full belly —they dress like counts, and feast like abbots."
"It is well for them," said Durward.
"And wherefore will you not take service here, young man? Your
uncle might, I dare say, have you placed on the file when there should
a vacancy occur. And, hark in your ear, I myself have some little
interest, and might be of some use to you. You can ride, I presume, as
well as draw the bow?"
"Our race are as good horsemen as ever put a plated shoe into a
steel stirrup; and I know not but I might accept of your kind offer.
Yet, look you, food and raiment are needful things, but, in my case,
men think of honour, and advancement, and brave deeds of arms. Your
King Louis—God bless him, for he is a friend and ally of
Scotland—but he lies here in this castle, or only rides about from
one fortified town to another; and gains cities and provinces by
politic embassies, and not in fair fighting. Now, for me, I am of the
Douglasses' mind, who always kept the fields, because they loved better
to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak."
"Young man," said Maitre Pierre, "do not judge too rashly of the
actions of sovereigns. Louis seeks to spare the blood of his subjects,
and cares not for his own. He showed himself a man of courage at
Montl'héry."
"Ay, but that was some dozen years ago or more," answered the
youth.—"I should like to follow a master that would keep his honour
as bright as his shield, and always venture foremost in the very throng
of the battle."
"Why did you not tarry at Brussels, then, with the Duke of
Burgundy? He would put you in the way to have your bones broken every
day; and, rather than fail, would do the job for you himself
—especially if he heard that you had beaten his forester."
"Very true," said Quentin; "my unhappy chance has shut that door
against me."
"Nay, there are plenty of dare-devils abroad, with whom mad
youngsters may find service," said his adviser. "What think you, for
example, of William de la Marck?"
"What!" exclaimed Durward, "serve Him with the Beard—serve the
wild Boar of Ardennes—a captain of pillagers and murderers, who would
take a man's life for the value of his gaberdine, and who slays priests
and pilgrims as if they were so many lance-knights and men-at-arms? It
would be a blot on my father's scutcheon for ever."
"Well, my young hot-blood," replied Maitre Pierre, "if you hold the
Sanglier too unscrupulous, wherefore not follow the young Duke of
Gueldres?" [Note: This was Adolphus, son of Arnold and of Catherine de
Bourbon. The present story has little to do with him, though one of the
most atrocious characters of his time. He made war against his father;
in which unnatural strife he made the old man prisoner, and used him
with the most brutal violence, proceeding, it is said, even to the
length of striking him with his hand. Arnold, in resentment of this
usage, disinherited the unprincipled wretch, and sold to Charles of
Burgundy whatever rights he had over the duchy of Gueldres and earldom
of Zutphen. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles, restored these
possessions to the unnatural Adolphus, who was slain in 1477.]
"Follow the foul fiend as soon," said Quentin. "Hark in your
ear—he is a burden too heavy for earth to carry—hell gapes for him!
Men say that he keeps his own father imprisoned, and that he has even
struck him—Can you believe it?"
Maitre Pierre seemed somewhat disconcerted with the naïve horror
with which the young Scotsman spoke of filial ingratitude, and he
answered, "You know not, young man, how short a while the relations of
blood subsist amongst those of elevated rank;" then changed the tone of
feeling in which he had begun to speak, and added, gaily, "besides, if
the Duke has beaten his father, I warrant you his father hath beaten
him of old, so it is but a clearing of scores."
"I marvel to hear you speak thus," said the Scot, colouring with
indignation; "grey hairs such as yours ought to have fitter subjects
for jesting. If the old Duke did beat his son in childhood, he beat him
not enough; for better he had died under the rod, than have lived to
make the Christian world ashamed that such a monster had ever been
baptized."
"At this rate," said Maitre Pierre, "as you weigh the characters
of each prince and leader, I think you had better become a captain
yourself; for where will one so wise find a chieftain fit to command
him?"
"You laugh at me, Maitre Pierre," said the youth, good-humouredly,
"and perhaps you are right; but you have not named a man who is a
gallant leader, and keeps a brave party up here, under whom a man might
seek service well enough."
"I cannot guess whom you mean."
"Why, he that hangs like Mahomet's coffin (a curse be upon
Mahomet!) between the two loadstones —he that no man can call either
French or Burgundian, but who knows to hold the balance between them
both, and makes both of them fear and serve him, for as great princes
as they be."
"I cannot guess whom you mean," said Maitre Pierre, thoughtfully.
"Why, whom should I mean but the noble Louis de Luxembourg, Count
of Saint Paul, the High Constable of France? Yonder he makes his place
good, with his gallant little army, holding his head as high as either
King Louis or Duke Charles, and balancing between them, like the boy
who stands on the midst of a plank, while two others are swinging on
the opposite ends." [Note: This part of Louis XIth's reign was much
embarrassed by the intrigues of the Constable Saint Paul, who affected
independence, and carried on intrigues with England, France, and
Burgundy, at the same time. According to the usual fate of such
variable politicians, the Constable ended by drawing upon himself the
animosity of all the powerful neighbours whom he had in their turn
amused and deceived. He was delivered up by the Duke of Burgundy to the
King of France, tried, and hastily executed for treason, A.D. 1475.]
"He is in danger of the worst fall of the three," said Maitre
Pierre. "And hark ye, my young friend, you who hold pillaging such a
crime, do you know that your politic Count of Saint Paul was the first
who set the example of burning the country during the time of war? and
that before the shameful devastation which he committed, open towns and
villages, which made no resistance, were spared on all sides?"
"Nay, faith," said Durward, "if that be the case, I shall begin to
think no one of these great men is much better than another, and that a
choice among them is but like choosing a tree to be hung upon. But this
Count de Saint Paul, this Constable, hath possessed himself by clean
conveyance of the town which takes its name from my honoured saint and
patron, Saint Quentin," [Note: It was by his possession of this town of
Saint Quentin that the Constable was able to carry on those poltical
intrigues, which finally cost him so dear.] (here he crossed himself,)
"and methinks, were I dwelling there, my holy patron would keep some
look-out for me—he has not so many named after him as your more
popular saints—and yet he must have forgotten me, poor Quentin
Durward, his spiritual god-son, since he lets me go one day without
food, and leaves me the next morning to the harbourage of Saint Julian,
and the chance courtesy of a stranger, purchased by a ducking in the
renowned river Cher, or one of its tributaries."
"Blaspheme not the saints, my young friend," said Maitre Pierre.
"Saint Julian is the faithful patron of travellers; and, peradventure,
the blessed Saint Quentin hath done more and better for thee than thou
art aware of."
As he spoke, the door opened, and a girl, rather above than under
fifteen years old, entered with a platter, covered with damask, on
which was placed a small saucer of the dried plums which have always
added to the reputation of Tours, and a cup of the curiously chased
plate which the goldsmiths of that city were anciently famous for
executing with a delicacy of workmanship that distinguished them from
the other cities of France, and even excelled the skill of the
metropolis. The form of the goblet was so elegant, that Durward
throught not of observing closely whether the material was of silver,
or, like what had been placed before himself, of a baser metal, but so
well burnished as to resemble the richer ore.
But the sight of the young person by whom this service was
executed, attracted Durward's attention far more than the petty minutiæ
of the duty which she performed.
He speedily made the discovery, that a quantity of long black
tresses, which, in the maiden fashion of his own country, were
unadorned by any ornament, except a single chaplet lightly woven out of
ivy leaves, formed a veil around a countenance, which, in its regular
features, dark eyes, and pensive expression, resembled that of
Melpomene, though there was a faint glow on the cheek, and an
intelligence on the lips and in the eye, which made it seem that gaiety
was not foreign to a countenance so expressive, although it might not
be its most habitual expression. Quentin even thought he could discern
that depressing circumstances were the cause why a countenance so young
and so lovely was graver than belongs to early beauty; and as the
romantic imagination of youth is rapid in drawing conclusions from
slight premises, he was pleased to infer, from what follows, that the
fate of this beautiful vision was wrapped in silence and mystery.
"How now, Jacqueline!" said Maitre Pierre, when she entered the
apartment—"Wherefore this? Did I not desire that Dame Perette should
bring what I wanted?—Pasques-dieu!—Is she, or does she think
herself, too good to serve me?"
"My kinswoman is ill at ease," answered Jacqueline, in a hurried
yet a humble tone; "ill at ease, and keeps her chamber."
"She keeps it alone, I hope?" replied Maitre Pierre, with some
emphasis; "I am vieux routier, and none of those upon whom feigned
disorders pass for apologies."
Jacqueline turned pale, and even tottered at the answer of Maitre
Pierre; for it must be owned, that his voice and looks, at all times
harsh, caustic, and unpleasing, had, when he expressed anger or
suspicion, an effect both sinister and alarming.
The mountain chivalry of Quentin Durward was instantly awakened,
and he hastened to approach Jacqueline, and relieve her of the burden
she bore, and which she passively resigned to him, while with a timid
and anxious look, she watched the countenance of the angry burgess. It
was not in nature to resist the piercing and pity-craving expression of
her looks, and Maitre Pierre proceeded, not merely with an air of
diminished displeasure, but with as much gentleness as he could assume
in countenance and manner, "I blame not thee, Jacqueline, and thou art
too young to be—what it is pity to think thou must be one day—a
false and treacherous thing, like the rest of thy giddy sex. No man
ever lived to man's estate, but he had the opportunity to know you all.
[Note: It was a part of Louis's very unamiable character, and not the
best part of it, that he entertained a great contempt for the
understanding, and not less for the character, of the fair sex.] Here
is a Scottish cavalier will tell you the same."
Jacqueline looked for an instant on the young stranger, as if to
obey Maitre Pierre, but the glance, momentary as it was, appeared to
Durward a pathetic appeal to him for support and sympathy; and with the
promptitude dictated by the feelings of youth, and the romantic
veneration for the female sex inspired by his education, he answered
hastily, "That he would throw down his gage to any antagonist, of equal
rank and equal age, who should presume to say such a countenance, as
that which he now looked upon, could be animated by other than the
purest and the truest mind."
The young woman grew deadly pale, and cast an apprehensive glance
upon Maitre Pierre, in whom the bravado of the young gallant seemed
only to excite laughter, more scornful than applausive. Quentin, whose
second thoughts generally corrected the first, though sometimes after
they had found utterance, blushed deeply at having uttered what might
be construed into an empty boast, in presence of an old man of a
peaceful profession; and, as a sort of just and appropriate penance,
resolved patiently to submit to the ridicule which he had incurred. He
offered the cup and trencher to Maitre Pierre with a blush in his
cheek, and a humiliation of countenance, which endeavoured to disguise
itself under an embarrassed smile.
"You are a foolish young man," said Maitre Pierre, "and know as
little of women as of princes, —whose hearts," he said, crossing
himself devoutly, "God keeps in his right hand."
"And who keeps those of the women, then?" said Quentin, resolved,
if he could help it, not to be borne down by the assumed superiority of
this extraordinary old man, whose lofty and careless manner possessed
an influence over him of which he felt ashamed.
"I am afraid you must ask of them in another quarter," said Maitre
Pierre, composedly.
Quentin was again rebuffed, but not utterly disconcerted. "Surely,"
he said to himself, "I do not pay this same burgess of Tours all the
deference which I yield him, on account of the miserable obligation of
a breakfast, though it was a right good and substantial meal. Dogs and
hawks are attached by feeding only—man must have kindness, if you
would bind him with the cords of affection and obligation. But he is an
extraordinary person; and that beautiful emanation that is even now
vanishing —surely a thing so fair belongs not to this mean place,
belongs not even to the money-gathering merchant himself, though he
seems to exert authority over her, as doubtless he does over all whom
chance brings within his little circle. It is wonderful what ideas of
consequence these Flemings and Frenchmen attach to wealth—so much
more than wealth deserves, that I suppose this old merchant thinks the
civility I pay to his age is given to his money—I, a Scottish
gentleman of blood and coat-armour, and he a mechanic of Tours!"
Such were the thoughts which hastily traversed the mind of young
Durward; while Maitre Pierre said, with a smile, and at the same time
patting Jacqueline's head, from which hung down her long tresses, "This
young man will serve me, Jacqueline —thou mayst withdraw. I will tell
thy negligent kinswoman she does ill to expose thee to be gazed on
unnecessarily."
"It was only to wait on you," said the maiden. "I trust you will
not be displeased with my kinswoman, since"—
"Pasques-dieu!" said the merchant, interrupting her, but not
harshly, "do you bandy words with me, you brat, or stay you to gaze
upon the youngster here?—Begone—he is noble, and his services will
suffice me."
Jacqueline vanished; and so much was Quentin Durward interested in
her sudden disappearance, that it broke his previous thread of
reflection, and he complied mechanically, when Maitre Pierre said, in
the tone of one accustomed to be obeyed, as he threw himself carelessly
upon a large easy-chair, "Place that tray beside me."
The merchant then let his dark eyebrows sink over his keen eyes, so
that the last became scarce visible, or but shot forth occasionally a
quick and vivid ray, like those of the sun setting behind a dark cloud,
through which its beams are occasionally darted, but singly, and for an
instant.
"That is a beautiful creature," said the old man at last, raising
his head, and looking steadily and firmly at Quentin, when he put the
question—"a lovely girl to be the servant of an auberge?—she might
grace the board of an honest burgess; but 'tis a vile education, a base
origin."
It sometimes happens that a chance shot will demolish a noble
castle in the air, and the architect on such occasions entertains
little good-will towards him who fires it, although the damage on the
offender's part may be wholly unintentional. Quentin was disconcerted,
and was disposed to be angry —he himself knew not why—with this old
man, for acquainting him that this beautiful creature was neither more
nor less than what her occupation announced—the servant of the
auberge—an upper servant, indeed, and probably a niece of the
landlord, or such like; but still a domestic, and obliged to comply
with the humour of the customers, and particularly of Maitre Pierre,
who probably had sufficiency of whims, and was rich enough to ensure
their being attended to.
The thought, the lingering thought, again returned on him, that he
ought to make the old gentleman understand the difference betwixt their
conditions, and call on him to mark, that, how rich soever he might be,
his wealth put him on no level with a Durward of Glen-houlakin. Yet,
whenever he looked on Maitre Pierre's countenance with such a purpose,
there was, notwithstanding the downcast look, pinched features, and
mean and miserly dress, something which prevented the young man from
asserting the superiority over the merchant which he conceived himself
to possess. On the contrary, the oftener and more fixedly Quentin
looked at him, the stronger became his curiosity to know who or what
this man actually was; and he set him down internally for at least a
Syndic or high magistrate of Tours, or one who was, in some way or
other, in the full habit of exacting and receiving deference.
Meantime, the merchant seemed again sunk into a reverie, from which
he raised himself only to make the sign of the cross devoutly, and to
eat some of the dried fruit, with a morsel of biscuit. He then signed
to Quentin to give him the cup, adding, however, by way of question, as
he presented it— "You are noble, you say?"
"I surely am," replied the Scot, "if fifteen descents can make me
so—So I told you before. But do not constrain yourself on that
account, Maitre Pierre—I have always been taught it is the duty of
the young to assist the more aged."
"An excellent maxim," said the merchant, availing himself of the
youth's assistance in handing the cup, and filling it from a ewer which
seemed of the same materials with the goblet, without any of those
scruples in point of propriety which, perhaps, Quentin had expected to
excite.
"The devil take the ease and familiarity of this old mechanical
burgher," said Durward once more to himself; "he uses the attendance of
a noble Scottish gentleman with as little ceremony as I would that of a
gillie from Glen-isla."
The merchant, in the meanwhile, having finished his cup of water,
said to his companion, "From the zeal with which you seemed to relish
the Vin de Beaulne, I fancy you would not care much to pledge me in
this elemental liquor. But I have an elixir about me which can convert
even the rock water into the richest wines of France."
As he spoke, he took a large purse from his bosom, made of the fur
of the sea-otter, and streamed a shower of small silver pieces into the
goblet, until the cup, which was but a small one, was more than half
full.
"You have reason to be more thankful, young man," said Maitre
Pierre, "both to your patron Saint Quentin, and to Saint Julian, than
you seemed to be but now. I would advise you to bestow alms in their
name. Remain in this hostelry until you see your kinsman, Le Balafré,
who will be relieved from guard in the afternoon. I will cause him to
be acquainted that he may find you here, for I have business in the
Castle."
Quentin Durward would have said something to have excused himself
from accepting the profuse liberality of his new friend; but Maitre
Pierre, bending his dark brows, and erecting his stooping figure into
an attitude of more dignity than he had yet seen him assume, said, in a
tone of authority, "No reply, young man, but do what you are
commanded."
With these words, he left the apartment, making a sign, as he
departed, that Quentin must not follow him.
The young Scotsman stood astounded, and knew not what to think of
the matter. His first most natural, though perhaps not most dignified
impulse, drove him to peep into the silver goblet, which assuredly was
more than half full of silver pieces, to the number of several scores,
of which perhaps Quentin had never called twenty his own at one time
during the course of his whole life. But could he reconcile it to his
dignity as a gentleman, to accept the money of this wealthy
plebeian?—This was a trying question; for though he had secured a
good breakfast, it was no great reserve upon which to travel either
back to Dijon, in case he chose to hazard the wrath, and enter the
service, of the Duke of Burgundy, or to Saint Quentin, if he fixed on
that of the Constable Saint Paul; for to one of those powers, if not to
the King of France, he was determined to offer his services. He perhaps
took the wisest resolution in the circumstances, in resolving to be
guided by the advice of his uncle; and, in the meantime, he put the
money into his velvet hawking-pouch, and called for the landlord of the
house, in order to restore the silver cup— resolving, at the same
time, to ask him some questions about this liberal and authoritative
merchant.
The man of the house appeared presently; and, if not more
communicative, was at least more loquacious, than he had been formerly.
He positively declined to take back the silver cup. It was none of his,
he said, but Maitre Pierre's, who had bestowed it on his guest. He had,
indeed, four silver hanaps of his own, which had been left him by his
grandmother, of happy memory, but no more like the beautiful carving of
that in his guest's hand, than a peach was like a turnip,—that was
one of the famous cups of Tours, wrought by Martin Dominique, an artist
who might brag all Paris.
"And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre," said Durward, interrupting
him, "who confers such valuable gifts on strangers?"
"Who is Maitre Pierre?" said the host, dropping the words as slowly
from his mouth as if he had been distilling them.
"Ay," said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, "who is this Maitre
Pierre, and why does he throw about his bounties in this fashion? And
who is the butcherly-looking fellow whom he sent forward to order
breakfast?"
"Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you should have asked
the question of himself; and for the gentleman who ordered breakfast to
be made ready, may God keep us from his closer acquaintance!"
"There is something mysterious in all this," said the young Scot.
"This Maitre Pierre tells me he is a merchant."
"And if he told you so," said the innkeeper, "surely he is a
merchant."
"What commodities does he deal in?"
"O, many a fair matter of traffic," said the host; "and especially
he has set up silk manufactories here, which match those rich bales
that the Venetians bring from India and Cathay. You might see the rows
of Mulberry trees as you came hither, all planted by Maitre Pierre's
commands, to feed the silk-worms."
"And that young person who brought in the confections, who is she,
my good friend?" said the guest.
"My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort of aunt or kinswoman,
as I think," replied the innkeeper.
"And do you usually employ your guests in waiting on each other?"
said Durward; "for I observed that Maitre Pierre would take nothing
from your hand, or that of your attendant."
"Rich men may have their fancies, for they can pay for them," said
the landlord; "this is not the first time that Maitre Pierre has found
the true way to make gentlefolks serve at his beck."
The young Scotsman felt somewhat offended at the insinuation; but,
disguising his resentment, he asked whether he could be accommodated
with an apartment at this place for a day, and perhaps longer.
"Certainly," the innkeeper replied; "for whatever time he was
pleased to command it."
"Could he be permitted," he asked, "to pay his respects to the
ladies, whose fellow-lodger he was about to become?"
The innkeeper was uncertain. "They went not abroad," he said, "and
received no one at home."
"With the exception, I presume, of Maitre Pierre?" said Durward.
"I am not at liberty to name any exceptions," answered the man,
firmly, but respectfully.
Quentin, who carried the notions of his own importance pretty high,
considering how destitute he was of means to support them, being
somewhat mortified by the innkeeper's reply, did not hesitate to avail
himself of a practice common enough in that age. "Carry to the ladies,"
he said, "a flask of vernât, with my humble duty; and say, that Quentin
Durward, of the house of Glen-houlakin, a Scottish cavalier of honour,
and now their fellow-lodger, desires the permission to dedicate his
homage to them in a personal interview."
The messenger departed, and returned, almost instantly, with the
thanks of the ladies, who declined the proffered refreshment, and with
their acknowledgments to the Scottish cavalier, regretted that,
residing there in privacy, they could not receive his visit.
Quentin bit his lip, took a cup of the rejected vernât, which the
host had placed on the table. "By the mass, but this is a strange
country," said he to himself, "where merchants and mechanics exercise
the manners and munificence of nobles, and little travelling damsels,
who hold their court in a cabaret, keep their state like disguised
princesses! I will see that black-browed maiden again, or it will go
hard, however;" and having formed this prudent resolution, he demanded
to be conducted to the apartment which he was to call his own.
The landlord presently ushered him up a turret staircase, and from
thence along a gallery, with many doors opening from it, like those of
cells in a convent; a resemblance which our young hero, who
recollected, with much ennui, an early specimen of a monastic life, was
far from admiring. The host paused at the very end of the gallery,
selected a key from the large bunch which he carried at his girdle,
opened the door, and showed his guest the interior of a turret-chamber,
small, indeed, but which, being clean and solitary, and having the
pallet bed, and the few articles of furniture, in unusually good order,
seemed, on the whole, a little palace.
"I hope you will find your dwelling agreeable here, fair sir," said
the landlord.—"I am bound to pleasure every friend of Maitre Pierre."
"O happy ducking!" exclaimed Quentin Durward, cutting a caper on
the floor, so soon as his host had retired: "Never came good luck in a
better or a wetter form. I have been fairly deluged by my good
fortune."
As he spoke thus, he stepped towards the little window, which, as
the turret projected considerably from the principal line of the
building, not only commanded a very pretty garden, of some extent,
belonging to the inn, but overlooked, beyond its boundary, a pleasant
grove of those very mulberry-trees, which Maitre Pierre was said to
have planted for the support of the silk-worm. Besides, turning the eye
from these more remote objects, and looking straight along the wall,
the turret of Quentin was opposite to another turret, and the little
window at which he stood commanded a similar little window, in a
corresponding projection of the building. Now, it would be difficult
for a man twenty years older than Quentin, to say why this locality
interested him more than either the pleasant garden or the grove of
mulberry-trees; for, alas! eyes which have been used for forty years
and upwards, look with indifference on little turret-windows, though
the lattice be half open to admit the air, while the shutter is half
closed to exclude the sun, or perhaps a too curious eye—nay, even
though there hang on the one side of the casement a lute, partly
mantled by a light veil of sea-green silk. But, at Durward's happy age,
such accidents, as a painter would call them, form sufficient
foundation for a hundred airy visions and mysterious conjectures, at
recollection of which the full-grown man smiles while he sighs, and
sighs while he smiles.
As it may be supposed that our friend Quentin wished to learn a
little more of his fair neighbour, the owner of the lute and veil,—as
it may be supposed he was at least interested to know whether she might
not prove the same whom he had seen in humble attendance on Maitre
Pierre, it must of course be understood, that he did not produce a
broad staring visage and person in full front of his own casement.
Durward knew better the art of bird-catching; and it was to his keeping
his person skilfully withdrawn on one side of his window, while he
peeped through the lattice, that he owed the pleasure of seeing a
white, round, beautiful arm, take down the instrument, and that his
ears had presently after their share in the reward of his dexterous
management.
The maid of the little turret, of the veil, and of the lute, sung
exactly such an air as we are accustomed to suppose flowed from the
lips of the highborn dames of chivalry, when knights and troubadours
listened and languished. The words had neither so much sense, wit, or
fancy, as to withdraw the attention from the music, nor the music so
much of art, as to drown all feeling of the words. The one seemed
fitted to the other; and if the song had been recited without the
notes, or the air played without the words, neither would have been
worth noting. It is, therefore, scarcely fair to put upon record lines
intended not to be said or read, but only to be sung. But such scraps
of old poetry have always had a sort of fascination for us; and as the
tune is lost for ever—unless Bishop happens to find the notes, or
some lark teaches Stephens to warble the air—we will risk our credit,
and the taste of the Lady of the Lute, by preserving the verses, simple
and even rude as they are.
"Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
"The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know—
But where is County Guy?"
Whatever the reader may think of this simple ditty, it had a powerful
effect on Quentin, when married to heavenly airs, and sung by a sweet
and melting voice, the notes mingling with the gentle breezes which
wafted perfumes from the garden, and the figure of the songstress being
so partially and obscurely visible, as threw a veil of mysterious
fascination over the whole.
At the close of the air, the listener could not help showing
himself more boldly than he had yet done, in a rash attempt to see more
than he had yet been able to discover. The music instantly ceased—the
casement was closed, and a dark curtain, dropped on the inside, put a
stop to all farther observation on the part of the neighbour in the
next turret.
Durward was mortified and surprised at the consequence of his
precipitance, but comforted himself with the hope, that the Lady of the
Lute could neither easily forego the practice of an instrument which
seemed so familiar to her, nor cruelly resolve to renounce the
pleasures of fresh air and an open window, for the churlish purpose of
preserving for her own exclusive ear the sweet sounds which she
created. There came, perhaps, a little feeling of personal vanity to
mingle with these consolatory reflections. If, as he shrewdly
suspected, there was a beautiful dark-tressed damsel inhabitant of the
one turret, he could not but be conscious that a handsome, young,
roving, bright-locked gallant, a cavalier of fortune, was the tenant of
the other; and romances, those prudent instructors, had taught his
youth, that if damsels were shy, they were yet neither void of interest
nor of curiosity in their neighbours' affairs.
Whilst Quentin was engaged in these sage reflections, a sort of
attendant or chamberlain of the inn informed him that a cavalier
desired to speak with him below.
CHAPTER V. THE MAN-AT-ARMS.
—Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth.
As You Like It.
The cavalier who awaited Quentin Durward's descent into the
apartment where he had breakfasted, was one of those of whom Louis XI.
had long since said, that they held in their hands the fortune of
France, as to them were intrusted the direct custody and protection of
the royal person.
Charles the Sixth had instituted this celebrated body, the Archers,
as they were called, of the Scottish Body-guard, with better reason
than can generally be alleged for establishing round the throne a guard
of foreign and mercenary troops. The divisions which tore from his side
more than half of France, together with the wavering and uncertain
faith of the nobility who yet acknowledged his cause, rendered it
impolitic and unsafe to commit his personal safety to their keeping.
The Scottish nation was the hereditary enemy of the English, and the
ancient, and, as it seemed, the natural allies of France. They were
poor, courageous, faithful—their ranks were sure to be supplied from
the superabundant population of their own country, than which none in
Europe sent forth more or bolder adventurers. Their high claims of
descent, too, gave them a good title to approach the person of a
monarch more closely than other troops, while the comparative smallness
of their numbers prevented the possibility of their mutinying, and
becoming masters where they ought to be servants.
On the other hand, the French monarchs made it their policy to
conciliate the affections of this select band of foreigners, by
allowing them honorary privileges and ample pay, which last most of
them disposed of with military profusion in supporting their supposed
rank. Each of them ranked as a gentleman in place and honour; and their
near approach to the King's person gave them dignity in their own eyes,
as well as importance in those of the nation of France. They were
sumptuously armed, equipped, and mounted; and each was entitled to
allowance for a squire, a valet, a page, and two yeomen, one of whom
was termed coutelier, from the large knife which he wore to dispatch
those whom in the mêlée his master had thrown to the ground. With these
followers, and a corresponding equipage, an Archer of the Scottish
Guard was a person of quality and importance; and vacancies being
generally filed up by those who had been trained in the service as
pages or valets, the cadets of the best Scottish families were often
sent to serve under some friend and relation in those capacities, until
a chance of preferment should occur.
The coutelier and his companion, not being noble or capable of this
promotion, were recruited from persons of inferior quality; but as
their pay and appointments were excellent, their masters were easily
able to select from among their wandering countrymen the strongest and
most courageous to wait upon them in these capacities.
Ludovic Lesly, or, as we shall more frequently call him, Le
Balafré, by which name he was generally known in France, was upwards of
six feet high, robust, strongly compacted in person, and hard-favoured
in countenance, which latter attribute was much increased by a large
and ghastly scar, which, beginning on his forehead, and narrowly
missing his right eye, had laid bare the cheek-bone, and descended from
thence almost to the tip of his ear, exhibiting a deep seam, which was
sometimes scarlet, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, and sometimes
approaching to black; but always hideous, because at variance with the
complexion of the face in whatever state it chanced to be, whether
agitated or still, flushed with unusual passion, or in its ordinary
state of weatherbeaten and sunburnt swarthiness.
His dress and arms were splendid. He wore his national bonnet,
crested with a tuft of feathers, and with a Virgin Mary of massive
silver for a brooch. These brooches had been presented to the Scottish
Guard, in consequence of the King, in one of his fits of superstitious
piety, having devoted the swords of his guard to the service of the
Holy Virgin, and, as some say, carried the matter so far as to draw
out a commission to Our Lady as their Captain General. The Archer's
gorget, arm-pieces, and gauntlets, were of the finest steel, curiously
inlaid with silver, and his hauberk, or shirt of mail, was as clear and
bright as the frostwork of a winter morning upon fern or brier. He wore
a loose surcoat, or cassock, of rich blue velvet, open at the sides
like that of a herald, with a large white St Andrew's cross of
embroidered silver bisecting it both before and behind—his knees and
legs were protected by hose of mail and shoes of steel—a broad strong
poniard (called the Mercy of God) hung by his right side—the baldric
for his two-handed sword, richly embroidered, hung upon his left
shoulder; but, for convenience, he at present carried in his hand that
unwieldy weapon, which the rules of his service forbade him to lay
aside.
Quentin Durward, though, like the Scottish youth of the period, he
had been early taught to look upon arms and war, thought he had never
seen a more martial-looking, or more completely equipped and
accomplished man-at-arms, than now saluted him in the person of his
mother's brother, called Ludovic with the Scar, or Le Balafré; yet he
could not but shrink a little from the grim expression of his
countenance, while, with its rough mustaches, he brushed first the one
and then the other cheek of his kinsman, welcomed his nephew to France,
and, in the same breath, asked what news from Scotland.
"Little good tidings, dear uncle," replied young Durward "but I am
glad that you know me so readily."
"I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of Bourdeaux, had I
met thee marching there like a crane on a pair of stilts. [Note: The
crutches or stilts, which in Scotland are used to pass rivers. They are
employed by the peasantry of the country near Bourdeaux, to traverse
those deserts of loose sand called Landes.] But sit thee down—sit
thee down—if there is sorrow to hear of, we will have wine to make us
bear it.—Ho! old Pinch-Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best,
and that in an instant."
The well-known sound of the Scottish-French was as familiar in the
taverns near Plessis, as that of the Swiss-French in the modern
gûinguettes of Paris; and promptly—ay, with the promptitude of fear
and precipitation, was it heard and obeyed. A flagon of champagne stood
before them, of which the elder took a draught, while the nephew helped
himself only to a moderate sip, to acknowledge his uncle's courtesy,
saying, in excuse, that he had already drunk wine that morning.
"That had been a rare good apology in the mouth of thy sister, fair
nephew," said Le Balafré; "you must fear the wine-pot less, if you
would wear beard on your face, and write yourself soldier. But
come—come—unbuckle your Scottish mail-bag— give us the news of
Glen-houlakin—How doth my sister?"
"Dead, fair uncle," answered Quentin, sorrowfully.
"Dead!" echoed his uncle with a tone rather marked by wonder than
sympathy—"why, she was five years younger than I, and I was never
better in my life. Dead! the thing is impossible. I have never had so
much as a headach, unless after revelling out my two or three days'
furlough with the brethren of the joyous science—and my poor sister
is dead!—And your father, fair nephew, hath he married again?"
And ere the youth could reply, he read the answer in his surprise
at the question, and said, "What! no?—I would have sworn that Allan
Durward was no man to live without a wife. He loved to have his house
in order—loved to look on a pretty woman too; and was somewhat strict
in life withal—matrimony did all this for him. Now, I care little
about these comforts; and I can look on a pretty woman without thinking
on the sacrament of wedlock—I am scarce holy enough for that."
"Alas! dear uncle, my mother was left a widow a year since, when
Glen-houlakin was harried by the Ogilvies. My father, and my two
uncles, and my two elder brothers, and seven of my kinsmen, and the
harper, and the tasker, and some six more of our people, were killed in
defending the castle; and there is not a burning hearth or a standing
stone in all Glen-houlakin."
"Cross of Saint Andrew!" said Le Balafré; "that is what I call an
onslaught! Ay, these Ogilvies were ever but sorry neighbours to
Glen-houlakin —an evil chance it was; but fate of war —fate of
war.—When did this mishap befall, fair nephew?" With that he took a
deep draught of wine, and shook his head with much solemnity, when his
kinsman replied, that his family had been destroyed upon the festival
of Saint Jude last bypast.
"Look ye there," said the soldier; "I said it was all chance—on
that very day I and twenty of my comrades carried the Castle of
Roche-noir by storm, from Amaury Bras-de-fer, a captain of free lances,
whom you must have heard of. I killed him on his own threshold, and
gained as much gold as made this fair chain, which was once twice as
long as it now is—and that minds me to send part of it on an holy
errand.—Here, Andrew—Andrew!"
Andrew, his yeoman, entered, dressed like the Archer himself in the
general equipment, but without the armour for the limbs,—that of the
body more coarsely manufactured—his cap without a plume, and his
cassock made of serge, or ordinary cloth, instead of rich velvet.
Untwining his gold chain from his neck, Balafré twisted off, with his
firm and strong-set teeth, about four inches from the one end of it,
and said to his attendant, "Here, Andrew, carry this to my gossip,
jolly Father Boniface, the monk of Saint Martin's—greet him well from
me, by the same token that he could not say God save ye when we last
parted at midnight— Tell my gossip that my brother and sister, and
some others of my house, are all dead and gone, and I pray him to say
masses for their souls as far as the value of these links will carry
him, and to do on trust what else may be necessary to free them from
Purgatory. And hark ye, as they were just-living people, and free from
all heresy, it may be that they are wellnigh out of limbo already, so
that a little matter may have them free of the fetlocks; and in that
case, look ye, ye will say I desire to take out the balance of the gold
in curses upon a generation called the Ogilvies of Angus-shire, in what
way soever the church may best come at them. You understand all this,
Andrew?"
The coutelier nodded.
"Then look that none of the links find their way to the wine-house
ere the Monk touches them; for if it so chance, thou shalt taste of
saddle-girth and stirrup-leather, till thou art as raw as Saint
Bartholomew. —Yet hold, I see thy eye has fixed on the wine measure,
and thou shalt not go without tasting."
So saying, he filled him a brimful cup, which the coutelier drank
off, and retired to do his patron's commission.
"And now, fair nephew, let us hear what was your own fortune in
this unhappy matter."
"I fought it out among those who were older and stouter than I was,
till we were all brought down," said Durward, "and I received a cruel
wound."
"Not a worse slash than I received ten years since myself," said Le
Balafré.—"Look at this now, my fair nephew," tracing the dark crimson
gash which was imprinted on his face—"An Ogilvie's sword never
ploughed so deep a furrow."
"They ploughed deep enough," answered Quentin, sadly; "but they
were tired at last, and my mother's entreaties procured mercy for me,
when I was found to retain some spark of life; but although a learned
monk of Aberbrothick, who chanced to be our guest at the fatal time,
and narrowly escaped being killed in the fray, was permitted to bind my
wounds, and finally to remove me to a place of safety, it was only on
promise, given both by my mother and him, that I should become a monk."
"A monk!" exclaimed the uncle—"Holy Saint Andrew! that is what
never befell me. No one, from my childhood upwards, ever so much as
dreamed of making me a monk—And yet I wonder when I think of it; for
you will allow that, bating the reading and writing, which I could
never learn, and the psalmody, which I could never endure, and the
dress, which is that of a mad beggar—Our Lady forgive me!—[here he
crossed himself—and] their fasts, which do not suit my appetite, I
would have made every whit as good a monk as my little gossip at Saint
Martin's yonder. But I know not why, none ever proposed the station to
me.—O so, fair nephew, you were to be a monk, then—and wherefore, I
pray you?"
"That my father's house might be ended, either in the cloister or
in the tomb," answered Quentin, with deep feeling.
"I see," answered his uncle—"I comprehend. Cunning rogues—very
cunning!—They might have been cheated, though; for, look ye, fair
nephew, I myself remember the canon Robersart who had taken the vows,
and afterwards broke out of cloister, and became a captain of Free
Companions. He had a mistress, the prettiest wench I ever saw, and
three as beautiful children—There is no trusting monks, fair
nephew,—no trusting them—they may become soldiers and fathers when
you least expect it—but on with your tale."
"I have little more to tell," said Durward, "except that,
considering my poor mother to be in some degree a pledge for me, I was
induced to take upon me the dress of a novice, and conformed to the
cloister rules, and even learned to read and write."
"To read and write!" exclaimed Le Balafré, who was one of that sort
of people who think all knowledge is miraculous which chances to exceed
their own—"To write, say'st thou, and to read! I cannot believe
it—never Durward could write his name that ever I heard of, nor Lesly
either. I can answer for one of them—I can no more write than I can
fly. Now, in Saint Louis's name, how did they teach it you?"
"It was troublesome at first," said Durward, "but became more easy
by use; and I was weak with my wounds and loss of blood, and desirous
to gratify my preserver, Father Peter, and so I was the more easily
kept to my task. But after several months' languishing, my good kind
mother died, and as my health was now fully restored, I communicated to
my benefactor, who was also Sub-Prior of the Convent, my reluctance to
take the vows; and it was agreed between us, since my vocation lay not
to the cloister, that I should be sent out into the world to seek my
fortune, and that, to save the Sub-Prior from the anger of the
Ogilvies, my departure should have the appearance of flight; and to
colour it, I brought off the Abbot's hawk with me. But I was regularly
dismissed, as will appear from the hand and seal of the Abbot himself."
"That is right—that is well," said his uncle. "Our King cares
little what other theft thou mayst have made, but hath a horror at any
thing like a breach of the cloister. And, I warrant thee, thou hadst no
great treasure to bear thy charges?"
"Only a few pieces of silver," said the youth; "for to you, fair
uncle, I must make a free confession."
"Alas!" replied Le Balafré, "that is hard. Now, though I am never a
hoarder of my pay, because it doth ill to bear a charge about one in
these perilous times, yet I always have (and I would advise you to
follow my example) some odd gold chain, or bracelet, or carcanet, that
serves for the ornament of my person, and can at need spare a
superfluous link or two, or it may be a superfluous stone for sale,
that can answer any immediate purpose.—But you may ask, fair kinsman,
how you are to come by such toys as this?"—(he shook his chain with
complacent triumph)—"They hang not on every bush—they grown not in
the fields like the daffodils, with whose stalks children make kinghts'
collars. What then?—you may get such where I got this, in the service
of the good King of France, where there is always wealth to be found,
if a man has but the heart to seek it, at the risk of a little life or
so."
"I understood," said Quentin, evading a decision to which he felt
himself as yet scarcely competent, "that the Duke of Burgundy keeps a
more noble state than the King of France, and that there is more honour
to be won under his banners—that good blows are struck there, and
deeds of arms done; while the Most Christian King, they say, gains his
victories by his ambassadors' tongues."
"You speak like a foolish boy, fair nephew," answered he with the
Scar; "and yet, I bethink me, when I came hither I was nearly as
simple: I could never think of a King but what I supposed him either
sitting under the high deas, and feasting amid his high vassals and
Paladins, eating blancmanger, with a great gold crown upon his head, or
else charging at the head of his troops like Charlemagne in the
romaunts, or like Robert Bruce or William Wallace in our own true
histories, such as Barbour and the Minstrel. Hark in thine ear,
man—it is all moonshine in the water. Policy— policy does it all.
But what is policy, you will say? It is an art this French King of ours
has found out, to fight with other men's swords, and to wage his
soldiers out of other men's purses. Ah! it is the wisest Prince that
ever put purple on his back—and yet he weareth not much of that
neither —I see him often go plainer than I would think befitted me to
do."
"But you meet not my exception, fair uncle," answered young
Durward; "I would serve, since serve I must in a foreign land,
somewhere where a brave deed, were it my hap to do one, might work me a
name."
"I understand you, my fair nephew," said the royal man-at-arms, "I
understand you passing well; but you are unripe in these matters. The
Duke of Burgundy is a hot-brained, impetuous, pudding-headed,
iron-ribbed dare-all. He charges at the head of his nobles and native
knights, his liegemen of Artois and Hainault; think you, if you were
there, or if I were there myself, that we could be much farther forward
than the Duke and all his brave nobles of his own land? If we were not
up with them, we had a chance to be turned on the Provost-Marshal's
hands, for being slow in making to; if we were abreast of them, all
would be called well, and we might be thought to have deserved our pay;
and grant that I was a spear's-length or so in the front, which is both
difficult and dangerous in such a mêlée where all do their best, why,
my lord duke says, in his Flemish tongue, when he sees a good blow
struck, 'Ha! gut getroffen! a good lance—a brave Scot—give him a
florin to drink our health;' but neither rank, nor lands, nor
treasures, come to the stranger in such a service—all goes to the
children of the soil."
"And where should it go, in Heaven's name, fair uncle?" demanded
young Durward.
"To him that protects the children of the soil," said Balafré,
drawing up his gigantic height. "Thus says King Louis:—'My good
French peasant— mine honest Jacques Bonhomme—get you to your tools,
your plough and your harrow, your pruning-knife and your hoe—here is
my gallant Scot that will fight for you, and you shall only have the
trouble to pay him—And you, my most serene duke, my illustrious
count, and my most mighty marquis, e'en rein up your fiery courage till
it is wanted, for it is apt to start out of the course, and to hurt its
master; here are my companies of ordonance—here are my French
Guards—here are, above all, my Scottish Archers, and mine honest
Ludovic with the Scar, who will fight, as well or better than you, with
all that undisciplined valour, which, in your father's time, lost
Cressy and Azincour.' Now, see you not in which of these states a
cavalier of fortune holds the highest rank, and must come to the
highest honour?"
"I think I understand you, fair uncle," answered the nephew; "but,
in my mind, honour cannot be won where there is no risk. Sure, this
is—I pray you pardon me—an easy and almost slothful life, to mount
guard round and elderly man whom no one thinks of harming, to spend
summer-day and winter-night up in yonder battlements, and shut up all
the while in iron cages, for fear you should desert your posts—uncle,
uncle, it is but the hawk upon his perch, who is never carried out to
the fields!"
"Now, by Saint Martin of Tours, the boy has some spirit! a right
touch of the Lesly in him; much like myself, though always with a
little more folly in it. Hark ye, youth—Long live the King of
France!—scarce a day but there is some commission in hand, by which
some of his followers may win both coin and credit. Think not that the
bravest and most dangerous deeds are done by daylight. I could tell you
of some, as scaling castles, making prisoners, and the like, where one
who shall be nameless hath run higher risk, and gained greater favour,
than any desperado in the train of desperate Charles of Burgundy. And
if it please his Majesty to remain behind, and in the background, while
such things are doing, he hath the more leisure of spirit to admire,
and the more liberality of hand to reward the adventurers, whose
dangers, perhaps, and whose feats of arms, he can better judge of than
if he had personally shared them. O, 'tis a sagacious and most politic
monarch!"
His nephew paused, and then said, in a low but impressive tone of
voice, "The good Father Peter used often to teach me there might be
much danger in deeds by which little glory was acquired. I need not say
to you, fair uncle, that I do in course suppose that these secret
commissions must needs be honourable."
"For whom or for what take you me, fair nephew?" said Balafré,
somewhat sternly; "I have not been trained, indeed, in the cloister,
neither can I write nor read. But I am your mother's brother; I am a
loyal Lesly. Think you that I am like to recommend to you any thing
unworthy? The best kinght in France, Du Guesclin himself, if he were
alive again, might be proud to number my deeds among his achievements."
"I cannot doubt your warranty, fair uncle," said the youth; "you
are the only adviser my mishap has left me. But is it true, as fame
says, that this King keeps a meagre Court here at his Castle of
Plessis? No repiar of nobles or courtiers, none of his grand
feudatories in attendance, none of the high officers of the crown; half
solitary sports, shared only with the menials of his household; secret
councils, to which only low and obscure men are invited; rank and
nobility depressed, and men raised from the lowest origin to the kingly
favour—all this seems unregulated, resembles not the manners of his
father, the noble Charles, who tore from the fangs of the English lion
this more than half conquered kingdom of France."
"You speak like a giddy child," said Le Balafré; "and even as a
child, you harp over the same notes on a new string. Look you: if the
King employs Oliver Dain, his barber, to do what Oliver can do better
than any peer of them all, is not the kingdom the gainer? If he bids
his stout Provost-Marshal, Tristan, arrest such or such a seditious
burgher, take off such or such a turbulent noble, the deed is done and
no more of it; when were the commission given to a duke or peer of
France, he might perchance send the King back a defiance in exchange.
If, again, the King pleases to give to plain Ludovic le Balafré a
commission which he will execute, instead of employing the High
Constable, who would perhaps betray it, doth it not show wisdom? Above
all, doth it not monarch of such conditions best suit cavaliers of
fortune, who must go where their services are most highly prized, and
most frequently in demand?—No, no, child, I tell thee Louis knows how
to choose his confidants, and what to charge them with; suiting, as
they say, the burden to each man's back. He is not like the King of
Castile, who choked of thirst, because the great butler was not beside
to hand his cup.—But hark to the bell of Saint Martin's! I must
hasten back to the Castle.—Farewell—make much of yourself, and at
eight to-morrow morning present yourself before the drawbridge, and ask
the sentinel for me. Take heed you step not off the straight and beaten
path in approaching the portal! There are such traps and snap-haunches
as may cost you a limb, which you will sorely miss. You shall see the
King, and learn to judge him for yourself— farewell."
So saying, Balafré hastily departed, forgetting, in his hurry, to
pay for the wine he had called for, a shortness of memory incidental to
persons of his description, and which his host, overawed, perhaps, by
the nodding bonnet and ponderous two-handed sword, did not presume to
use any efforts for correcting.
It might have been expected that, when left alone, Durward would
have again betaken himself to his turret, in order to watch for the
repetition of those delicious sounds which had soothed his morning
reverie. But that was a chapter of romance, and his uncle's coversation
had opened to him a page of the real history of life. It was no
pleasing one, and for the present the recollections and reflections
which it excited, were qualified to overpower other thoughts, and
especially all of a light and soothing nature.
Quentin resorted to a solitary walk along the banks of the rapid
Cher, having previously enquired of his landlord for one which he
might traverse without fear of disagreeable interruption from snares
and pitfalls, and there endeavoured to compose his turmoiled and
scattered thoughts, and consider his future motions, upon which his
meeting with his uncle had thrown some dubiety.
CHAPTER VI. THE BOHEMIANS.
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he,
He play'd a spring and danced a round
Beneath the gallows-tree!
Old Song.
The manner in which Quentin Durward had been educated, was not of a
kind to soften the heart, or perhaps to improve the moral feeling. He,
with the rest of his family, had been trained to the chase as an
amusement, and taught to consider war as their only serious occupation,
and that it was the great duty of their lives stubbornly to endure, and
fiercely to retaliate, the attacks of their feudal enemies, by whom
their race had been at last almost annihilated. And yet there mixed
with these feuds a spirit of rude chivalry, and even courtesy, which
softened their rigour; so that revenge, their only justice, was still
prosecuted with some regard to humanity and generosity. The lessons of
the worthy old monk, better attended to, perhaps, during a long illness
and adversity, than they might have been in health and success, had
given young Durward still farther insight into the duties of humanity
towards others; and, considering the ignorance of the period, the
general prejudices entertained in favour of a military life, and the
manner in which he himself had been bred, the youth was disposed to
feel more accurately the moral duties incumbent on his station than was
usual at the time.
He reflected on his interview with his uncle with a sense of
embarrassment and disappointment. His hopes had been high; for although
intercourse by letters was out of the question, yet a pilgrim, or an
adventurous trafficker, or a crippled soldier, sometimes brought
Lesly's name to Glen-houlakin, and all united in praising his undaunted
courage, and his success in many petty enterprises which his master had
intrusted to him. Quentin's imagination had filled up the sketch in his
own way, and assimilated his successful and adventurous uncle (whose
exploits probably lost nothing in the telling) to some of the champions
and knights-errant of whom minstrels sang, and who won crowns and
kings' daughters by dint of sword and lance. He was now compelled to
rank his kinsman greatly lower in the scale of chivalry; but blinded by
the high respect paid to parents, and those who approach that character
—moved by every early prejudice in his favour— inexperienced
besides, and passionately attached to his mother's memory, he saw not,
in the only brother of that dear relation, the character he truly held,
which was that of an ordinary mercenary soldier, neither much worse nor
greatly better than many of the same profession whose presence added to
the distracted state of France.
Without being wantonly cruel, Le Balafré was, from habit,
indifferent to human life and human suffering; he was profoundly
ignorant, greedy of booty, unscrupulous how he acquired it, and profuse
in expending it on the gratification of his passions. The habit of
attending exclusively to his own wants and interests, had converted him
into one of the most selfish animals in the world; so that he was
seldom able, as the reader may have remarked, to proceed far in any
subject without considering how it applied to himself, or, as it is
called, making the case his own, though not upon feelings connected
with the golden rule, but such as were very different. To this must be
added, that the narrow round of his duties and his pleasures had
gradually circumscribed his thoughts, hopes, and wishes, and quenched
in a great measure the wild spirit of honour, and desire of distinction
in arms, by which his youth had been once animated. Balafré was, in
short, a keen soldier, hardened, selfish, and narrow-minded; active and
bold in the discharge of his duty, but acknowledging few objects beyond
it, except the formal observance of a careless devotion, relieved by an
occasional debauch with brother Boniface, his comrade and confessor.
Had his genius been of a more extended character he would probably have
been promoted to some important command, for the King, who knew every
soldier of his body-guard personally, reposed much confidence in
Balafré's courage and fidelity; and, besides, the Scot had either
wisdom or cunning enough perfectly to understand, and ably to humour,
the peculiarities of that sovereign. Still, however, his capacity was
too much limited to admit of his rising to higher rank, and though
smiled on and favoured by Louis on many occasions, Balafré continued a
mere Life-guards-man, or Scottish Archer.
Without seeing the full scope of his uncle's character, Quentin
felt shocked at his indifference to the disastrous extirpation of his
brother-in-law's whole family, and could not help being surprised,
moreover, that so near a relative had not offered him the assistance of
his purse, which, but for the generosity of Maitre Pierre, he would
have been under the necessity of directly craving from him. He wronged
his uncle, however, in supposing that this want of attention to his
probable necessities was owing to avarice. Not precisely needing money
himself at that moment, it had not occurred to Balafré that his nephew
might be in exigencies; otherwise, he held a near kinsman so much a
part of himself, that he would have provided for the weal of the living
nephew, as he endeavoured to do for that of his deceased sister and her
husband. But whatever was the motive, the neglect was very
unsatisfactory to young Durward, and he wished more than once he had
taken service with the Duke of Burgundy before he quarrelled with his
forester. "Whatever had then become of me," he thought to himself, "I
should always have been able to keep up my spirits with the reflection,
that I had, in case of the worst, a stout back-friend in this uncle of
mine. But now I have seen him, and, woe worth him, there has been more
help in a mere mechanical stranger, than I have found in my own
mother's brother, my countryman and a cavalier! One would think the
slash, that has carved all comeliness out of his face, had let at the
same time every drop of gentle blood out of his body."
Durward now regretted he had not had an opportunity to mention
Maitre Pierre to Le Balafré, in the hope of obtaining some farther
account of that personage; but his uncle's questions had followed fast
on each other, and the summons of the great bell of Saint Martin of
Tours had broken off their conference rather suddenly. That old man, he
thought to himself, was crabbed and dogged in appearance, sharp and
scornful in language, but generous and liberal in his actions; and such
a stranger is worth a cold kinsman—"What says our old Scottish
proverb?—'Better kind fremit, than fremit kindred.' [Note: Better
kind strangers than estranged kindred. The motto is engraved on a dirk,
belonging to a person who had but too much reason to choose such a
device. It was left by him to my father, and is connected with a
strange course of adventures, which may one day be told. The weapon is
now in my possession.] I will find out that man, which, methinks,
should be no difficult task, since he is so wealthy as mine host
bespeaks him. He will give me good advice for my governance, at least;
and if he goes to strange countries, as many such do, I know not but
his may be as adventurous a service as that of those Guards of Louis."
As Quentin framed this thought, a whisper from those recesses of
the heart in which lies much that the owner does not know of, or will
not acknowledge willingly, suggested that, perchance, the lady of the
turret, she of the veil and lute, might share that adventurous journey.
As the Scottish youth made these reflections, he met two
grave-looking men, apparently citizens of Tours, whom, doffing his cap
with the reverence due from youth to age, he respectfully asked to
direct him to the house of Maitre Pierre.
"The house of whom, my fair son?" said one of the passengers.
"Of Maitre Pierre, the great silk merchant, who planted all the
mulberry trees in the park yonder," said Durward.
"Young man," said one of them who was nearest to him, "you have
taken up an idle trade a little too early."
"And have chosen wrong subjects to practise your fooleries upon,"
said the farther one, still more gruffly. "The Syndic of Tours is not
accustomed to be thus talked to by strolling jesters from foreign
parts."
Quentin was so much surprised at the causeless offence which these
two decent-looking persons had taken at a very simple and civil
question, that he forgot to be angry at the rudeness of their reply,
and stood staring after them as they walked on with amended pace, often
looking back at him, as if they were desirous to get as soon as
possible out of his reach.
He next met a party of vine-dressers, and addressed to them the
same question; and, in reply, they demanded to know whether he wanted
Maitre Pierre, the schoolmaster? or Maitre Pierre, the carpenter? or
Maitre Pierre, the beadle? or half-a-dozen of Maitre Pierres besides.
When none of these corresponded with the description of the person
after whom he enquired, the peasants accused him of jesting with them
impertinently, and threatened to fall upon him and beat him, in guerdon
of his raillery. The oldest amongst them, who had some influence over
the rest, prevailed on them to desist from violence.
"You see by his speech and his fool's cap," said he, "that he is
one of the foreign mountebanks who are come into the country, and whom
some call magicians and soothsayers, and some jugglers, and the like,
and there is no knowing what tricks they have amongst them. I have
heard of such a one paying a liard to eat his bellyful of grapes in a
poor man's vineyard; and he ate as many as would have loaded a wain,
and never undid a button of his jerkin —and so let him pass quietly,
and keep his way, as we will keep ours.—And you, friend, if you would
shun worse, walk quietly on, in the name of God, our Lady of
Marmoutier, and Saint Martin of Tours, and trouble us no more about
your Maitre Pierre, which may be another name for the devil, for aught
we know."
The Scot, finding himself much the weaker party, judged it his
wisest course to walk on without reply; but the peasants, who at first
shrunk from him in horror, at his supposed talents for sorcery and
grape-devouring, took heart of grace as he got to a distance, and
having uttered a few cries and curses, finally gave them emphasis with
a shower of stones, although at such a distance as to do little or no
harm to the object of their displeasure. Quentin, as he pursued his
walk, began to think, in his turn, either that he himself lay under a
spell, or that the people of Touraine were the most stupid, brutal, and
inhospitable of the French peasants. The next incident which came under
his observation did not tend to diminish this opinion.
On a slight eminence, rising above the rapid and beautiful Cher, in
the direct line of his path, two or three large chestnut trees were so
happily placed as to form a distinguished and remarkable group; and
beside them stood three or four peasants, motionless, with their eyes
turned upwards, and fixed, apparently, upon some object amongst the
branches of the tree next to them. The meditations of youth are seldom
so profound as not to yield to the slightest impulse of curiosity, as
easily as the lightest pebble, dropped casually from the hand, breaks
the surface of a limpid pool. Quentin hastened his pace, and ran
lightly up the rising ground, time enough to witness the ghastly
spectacle which attracted the notice of these gazers—which was
nothing less than the body of a man, convulsed by the last agony,
suspended on one of the branches.
"Why do you not cut him down?" said the young Scot, whose hand was
as ready to assist affliction, as to maintain his own honour when he
deemed it assailed.
One of the peasants, turning on him an eye from which fear had
banished all expression but its own, and a face as pale as clay,
pointed to a mark cut upon the bark of the tree, having the same rude
resemblance to a fleur-de-lys which certain talismanic scratches, well
known to our revenue officers, bear to a broad arrow. Neither
understanding nor heeding the import of this symbol, young Durward
sprung lightly as the ounce up into the tree, drew from his pouch that
most necessary implement of a Highlander or woodsman, the trusty skene
dhu, [Note: Black knife; a species of knife without clasp or hinge,
formerly much used by the Highlanders, who seldom travelled without
such an ugly weapon, though it is now rarely used.] and, calling to
those below to receive the body on their hands, cut the rope asunder in
less than a minute after he had perceived the exigency.
But his humanity was ill seconded by the bystanders. So far from
rendering Durward any assistance, they seemed terrified at the audacity
of his action, and took to flight with one consent, as if they feared
their merely looking on might have been construed into accession to his
daring deed. The body, unsupported from beneath, fell heavily to earth,
in such a manner, that Quentin, who presently afterwards jumped down,
had the mortification to see that the last sparks of life were
extinguished. He gave not up his charitable purpose, however, without
farther efforts. He freed the wretched man's neck from the fatal noose,
undid the doublet, threw water on the face, and practised the other
ordinary remedies resorted to for recalling suspended animation.
While he was thus humanely engaged, a wild clamour of tongues,
speaking a language which he knew not, arose around him; and he had
scarcely time to observe that he was surrounded by several men and
women of a singular and foreign appearance, when he found himself
roughly seized by both arms, while a naked knife, at the same moment,
was offered to his throat.
"Pale slave of Eblis!" said a man, in imperfect French, "are you
robbing him you have murdered? —But we have you—and you shall aby
it."
There were knives drawn on every side of him as these words were
spoken, and the grim and distorted countenances which glared on him,
were like those of wolves rushing on their prey.
Still the young Scot's courage and presence of mind bore him out.
"What mean ye, my masters?" he said; "if that be your friend's body, I
have just now cut him down, in pure charity, and you will do better to
try to recover his life, than to misuse an innocent stranger to whom he
owes his chance of escape."
The women had by this time taken possession of the dead body, and
continued the attempts to recover animation which Durward had been
making use of, though with the like bad success; so that, desisting
from their fruitless efforts, they seemed to abandon themselves to all
the Oriental expressions of grief; the women making a piteous wailing,
and tearing their long black hair, while the men seemed to rend their
garments, and to sprinkle dust upon their heads. They gradually became
so much engaged in their mourning rites, that they bestowed no longer
any attention on Durward, of whose innocence they were probably
satisfied from circumstances. It would certainly have been his wisest
plan to have left these wild people to their own courses, but he had
been bred in almost reckless contempt of danger, and felt all the
eagerness of youthful curiosity.
The singular assemblage, both male and female, wore turbans and
caps, more similar, in general appearance, to his own bonnet, than to
the hats commonly worn in France. Several of the men had curled black
beards, and the complexion of all was nearly as dark as that of
Africans. One or two, who seemed their chiefs, had some tawdry
ornaments of silver about their necks and in their ears, and wore showy
scarfs of yellow, or scarlet, or light green; but their legs and arms
were bare, and the whole troop seemed wretched and squalid in
appearance. There were no weapons among them that Durward saw, except
the long knives with which they had lately menaced him, and one short
crooked sabre, or Moorish sword, which was worn by an active-looking
young man, who often laid his hand upon the hilt, while he surpassed
the rest of the party in his extravagant expressions of grief, and
seemed to mingle with them threats of vengeance.
The disordered and yelling group were so different in appearance
from any beings whom Quentin had yet seen, that he was on the point of
concluding them to be a party of Saracens, of those "heathen hounds,"
who were the opponents of gentle knights and Christian monarchs, in all
the romances which he had heard or read, and was about to withdraw
himself from a neighbourhood so perilous, when a galloping of horse was
heard, and the supposed Saracens, who had raised by this time the body
of their comrade upon their shoulders, were at once charged by a party
of French soldiers.
This sudden apparition changed the measured wailing of the mourners
into irregular shrieks of terror. The body was thrown to the ground in
an instant, and those who were around it, showed the utmost and most
dexterous activity in escaping, under the bellies as it were of the
horses, from the point of the lances which were levelled at them, with
exclamations of "Down with the accursed heathen thieves—take and
kill—bind them like beasts—spear them like wolves!"
These cries were accompanied with corresponding acts of violence;
but such was the alertness of the fugitives, the ground being rendered
unfavourable to the horsemen by thickets and bushes, that only two were
struck down and made prisoners, one of whom was the young fellow with
the sword, who had previously offered some resistance. Quentin, whom
fortune seemed at this period to have chosen for the butt of her
shafts, was at the same time seized by the soldiers, and his arms, in
spite of his remonstrances, bound down with a cord; those who
apprehended him showing a readiness and dispatch in the operation,
which proved them to be no novices in matters of police.
Looking anxiously to the leader of the horsemen, from whom he
hoped to obtain liberty, Quentin knew not exactly whether to be pleased
or alarmed upon recognising in him the down-looking and silent
companion of Maitre Pierre. True, whatever crime these strangers might
be accused of, this officer might know, from the history of the
morning, that he, Durward, had no connexion with them whatever; but it
was a more difficult question, whether this sullen man would be either
a favourable judge or a willing witness in his behalf, and he felt
doubtful whether he would mend his condition by making any direct
application to him.
But there was little leisure for hesitation. "Trois-Eschelles and
Petit-André," said the downlooking officer to two of his band, "these
same trees stand here quite convenient. I will teach these
misbelieving, thieving sorcerers, to interfere with the King's justice,
when it has visited any of their accursed race. Dismount, my children,
and do your office briskly."
Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André were in an instant on foot, and
Quentin observed that they had each, at the crupper and pommel of his
saddle, a coil or two of ropes, which they hastily undid, and showed
that, in fact, each coil formed a halter, with the fatal noose
adjusted, ready for execution. The blood ran cold in Quentin's veins,
when he saw three cords selected, and perceived that it was proposed to
put one around his own neck. He called on the officer loudly, reminded
him of their meeting that morning, claimed the right of a free-born
Scotsman, in a friendly and allied country, and denied any knowledge
of the persons along with whom he was seized, or of their misdeeds.
The officer whom Durward thus addressed, scarce deigned to look at
him while he was speaking, and took no notice whatever of the claim he
preferred to prior acquaintance. He barely turned to one or two of the
peasants who were now come forward, either to volunteer their evidence
against the prisoners, or out of curiosity, and said gruffly, "Was
yonder young fellow with the vagabonds?"
"That he was, sir, and it please your noble Provostship," answered
one of the clowns; "he was the very first blasphemously to cut down the
rascal whom his Majesty's justice most deservedly hung up, as we told
your worship."
"I'll swear by God, and Saint Martin of Tours, to have seen him
with their gang," said another, "when they pillaged our métairie."
"Nay, but, father," said a boy, "yonder heathen was black, and this
youth is fair; yonder one had short curled hair, and this hath long
fair locks."
"Ay, child," said the peasant, "and perhaps you will say yonder one
had a green coat and this a grey jerkin. But his worship, the Provost,
knows that they can change their complexions as easily as their
jerkins, so that I am still minded he was the same."
"It is enough that you have seen him intermeddle with the course of
the King's justice, by attempting to recover an executed traitor," said
the officer.— "Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André, dispatch."
"Stay, signior officer!" exclaimed the youth, in mortal
agony—"hear me speak—let me not die guiltlessly—my blood will be
required of you by my countrymen in this world, and by Heaven's justice
in that which is to follow."
"I will answer for my actions in both," said the Provost, coldly;
and made a sign with his left hand to the executioners; then, with a
smile of triumphant malice, touched with his forefinger his right arm,
which hung suspended in a scarf, disabled probably by the blow which
Durward had dealt him that morning.
"Miserable, vindictive wretch!" answered Quentin, persuaded by that
action that private revenge was the sole motive of this man's rigour,
and that no mercy whatever was to be expected from him.
"The poor youth raves," said the functionary; "speak a word of
comfort to him ere he make his transit, Trois-Eschelles; thou art a
comfortable man in such cases, when a confessor is not to be had. Give
him one minute of ghostly advice, and dispatch matters in the next. I
must proceed on the rounds. —Soldiers, follow me!"
The Provost rode on, followed by his guard, excepting two or three
who were left to assist in the execution. The unhappy youth cast after
him an eye almost darkened by despair, and thought he heard, in every
tramp of his horse's retreating hoofs, the last slight chance of his
safety vanish. He looked around him in agony, and was surprised, even
in that moment, to see the stoical indifference of his
fellow-prisoners. They had previously testified every sign of fear, and
made every effort to escape; but now, when secured, and destined
apparently to inevitable death, they awaited its arrival with the
utmost composure. The scene of fate before them, gave, perhaps, a more
yellow tinge to their swarthy cheeks; but it neither agitated their
features, nor quenched the stubborn haughtiness of their eye. They
seemed like foxes, which, after all their wiles and artful attempts at
escape are exhausted, die with a silent and sullen fortitude, which
wolves and bears, the fiercer objects of the chase, do not exhibit.
They were undaunted by the conduct of the fatal executioners, who
went about their work with more deliberation than their master had
recommended, and which probably arose from their having acquired by
habit a kind of pleasure in the discharge of their horrid office. We
pause an instant to describe them, because, under a tyranny, whether
despotic or popular, the character of the hangman becomes a subject of
grave importance.
These functionaries were essentially different in their appearance
and manners. Louis used to call them Democritus and Heraclitus, and
their master, the Provost, termed them, Jean-qui-pleure, and
Jean-qui-rit.
Trois-Eschelles was a tall, thin, ghastly man, with a peculiar
gravity of visage, and a large rosary round his neck, the use of which
he was accustomed piously to offer to those sufferers on whom he did
his duty. He had one or two Latin texts continually in his mouth on the
nothingness and vanity of human life; and, had it been regular to have
enjoyed such a plurality, he might have held the office of confessor
to the jail in commendam with that of executioner. Petit-André, on the
contrary, was a joyous-looking, round, active, little fellow, who
rolled about in execution of his duty as if it were the most diverting
occupation in the world. He seemed to have a sort of fond affection for
his victims, and always spoke of them in kindly and affectionate terms.
They were his poor honest fellows, his pretty dears, his gossips, his
good old fathers, as their age or sex might be; and as Trois-Eschelles
endeavoured to inspire them with a philosophical or religious regard to
futurity, Petit-André seldom failed to refresh them with a jest or two,
as if to induce them to pass from life as something that was ludicrous,
contemptible, and not worthy of serious consideration.
I cannot tell why or wherefore it was, but these two excellent
persons, notwithstanding the variety of their talents, and the rare
occurrence of such among persons of their profession, were both more
utterly detested than, perhaps, any creatures of their kind, whether
before or since; and the only doubt of those who knew aught of them
was, whether the grave and pathetic Trois-Eschelles, or the frisky,
comic, alert Petit-André, was the object of the greatest fear or of the
deepest execration. It is certain they bore the palm in both
particulars over every hangman in France, unless it were perhaps their
master, Tristan l'Hermite, the renowned Provost-Marshal, or his master,
Louis XI. [Note: One of these two persons, I learned from the Chronique
de Jean de Troyes, but too late to avail myself of the information,
might with more accuracy have been called Petit-Jean, than Petit-André.
This was actually the name of the son of Henry de Cousin, master
executioner of the High Court of Justice. The Constable Saint Paul was
executed by him with such dexterity, that the head, when struck off,
struck the ground at the same time with the body. This was in 1475.]
It must not be supposed that these reflections were of Quentin
Durward's making. Life, death, time, and eternity, were swimming before
his eyes —a stunning and overwhelming prospect, from which human
nature recoiled in its weakness, though human pride would fain have
borne up. He addressed himself to the God of his fathers; and when he
did so, the little rude and unroofed chapel, which now held almost all
his race but himself, rushed on his recollection. "Our feudal enemies
gave my kindred graves in our own land," he thought, "but I must feed
the ravens and kites of a foreign land, like an excommunicated felon!"
The tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes. Trois-Eschelles, touching
one shoulder, gravely congratulated him on his heavenly disposition for
death, and pathetically exclaiming, Beati qui in Domino moriuntur,
remarked the soul was happy that left the body while the tear was in
the eye. Petit-André, slapping the other shoulder, called out,
"Courage, my fair son! since you must begin the dance, let the ball
open gaily, for all the rebecs are in tune," twitching the halter at
the same time, to give point to his joke. As the youth turned his
dismayed looks, first on one and then on the other, they made their
meaning plainer by gently urging him forward to the fatal tree, and
bidding him be of good courage, for it would be over in a moment.
In this fatal predicament, the youth cast a distracted look around
him. "Is there any good Christian who hears me," he said, "that will
tell Ludovic Lesly of the Scottish Guard, called in this country Le
Balafré, that his nephew is here basely murdered?"
The words were spoken in good time, for an Archer of the Scottish
Guard, attracted by the preparations for the execution, was standing
by, with one or two other chance-passengers, to witness what was
passing.
"Take heed what you do," he said to the executioners; "if this
young man be of Scottish birth, I will not permit him to have foul
play."
"Heaven forbid, Sir Cavalier," said Trois-Eschelles; "but we must
obey our orders," drawing Durward forward by one arm.
"The shortest play is ever the fairest," said Petit-André, pulling
him onward by the other.
But Quentin had heard words of comfort, and, exerting his strength,
he suddenly shook off both the finishers of the law, and, with his arms
still bound, ran to the Scottish Archer. "Stand by me, countryman," he
said in his own language, "for the love of Scotland and Saint Andrew! I
am innocent—I am your own native landsman. Stand by me, as you shall
answer at the last day!"
"By Saint Andrew! they shall make at you through me," said the
Archer, and unsheathed his sword.
"Cut my bonds, countryman," said Quentin, "and I will do something
for myself."
This was done with a touch of the Archer's weapon; and the
liberated captive, springing suddenly on one of the Provost's guard,
wrested from him a halberd with which he was armed; "And now," he said,
"come on, if you dare!"
The two officers whispered together.
"Ride thou after the Provost-Marshal," said Trois-Eschelles, "and I
will detain them here, if I can.—Soldiers of the Provost's guard,
stand to your arms."
Petit-André mounted his horse and left the field, and the other
Marshals-men in attendance drew together so hastily at the command of
Trois-Eschelles, that they suffered the other two prisoners to make
their escape during the confusion. Perhaps they were not very anxious
to detain them; for they had of late been sated with the blood of such
wretches, and, like other ferocious animals, were, through long
slaughter, become tired of carnage. But the pretext was, that they
thought themselves immediately called upon to attend to the safety of
Trois-Eschelles; for there was a jealousy, which occasionally led to
open quarrels betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Marshal-guards, who
executed the orders of their Provost.
"We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots twice over, if it be
your pleasure," said one of these soldiers to Trois-Eschelles.
But that cautious official made a sign to him to remain quiet, and
addressed the Scottish Archer with great civility. "Surely, sir, this
is a great insult to the Provost-Marshal, that you should presume to
interfere with the course of the King's justice, duly and lawfully
committed to his charge; and it is no act of justice to me, who am in
lawful possession of my criminal. Neither is it a well-meant kindness
to the youth himself, seeing that fifty opportunities of hanging him
may occur, without his being found in so happy a state of preparation
as he was before your ill-advised interference."
"If my young countryman," said the Scot, smiling, "be of opinion I
have done him an injury, I will return him to your charge without a
word more dispute."
"No, no!—for the love of Heaven, no!" exclaimed Quentin. "I would
rather you swept my head off with your long sword—it would better
become my birth, than to die by the hands of such a foul churl."
"Hear how he revileth!" said the finisher of the law. "Alas! how
soon our best resolutions pass away!—he was in a blessed frame for
departure but now, and in two minutes he has become a contemner of
authorities."
"Tell me at once," said the Archer, "what has this young man done?"
"Interfered," answered Trois-Eschelles, with some earnestness, "to
take down the dead body of a criminal, when the fleur-de-lys was marked
on the tree where he was hung with my own proper hand."
"How is this, young man?" said the Archer; "how came you to have
committed such an offence?"
"As I desire your protection," answered Durward, "I will tell you
the truth as if I were at confession. I saw a man struggling on the
tree, and I went to cut him down out of mere humanity. I thought
neither of fleur-de-lys nor of clove-gilliflower, and had no more idea
of offending the King of France than our Father the Pope."
"What a murrain had you to do with the dead body, then?" said the
Archer. "You'll see them hanging, in the rear of this gentleman, like
grapes on every tree, and you will have enough to do in this country if
you go a-gleaning after the hangman. However, I will not quit a
countryman's cause if I can help it.—Hark ye, Master Marshalsman, you
see this is entirely a mistake. You should have some compassion on so
young a traveller. In our country at home he has not been accustomed to
see such active proceedings as yours and your master's."
"Not for want of need of them, Signior Archer," said Petit-André,
who returned at this moment. "Stand fast, Trois-Eschelles, for here
comes the Provost-Marshal; we shall presently see how he will relish
having his work taken out of his hand before it is finished."
"And in good time," said the Archer, "here come some of my
comrades."
Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with his patrol on one
side of the little hill which was the scene of the altercation, four or
five Scottish Archers came as hastily up on the other, and at their
head the Balafré himself.
Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that indifference towards
his nephew of which Quentin had in his heart accused him; for he no
sooner saw his comrade and Durward standing upon their defence, than he
exclaimed, "Cunningham, I thank thee.—Gentlemen—comrades, lend me
your aid— It is a young Scottish gentleman—my nephew—
Lindesay—Guthrie—Tyrie, draw, and strike in!"
There was now every prospect of a desperate scuffle between the
parties, who were not so disproportioned in numbers, but that the
better arms of the Scottish cavaliers gave them an equal chance of
victory. But the Provost-Marshal, either doubting the issue of the
conflict, or aware that it would be disagreeable to the King, made a
sign to his followers to forbear from violence, while he demanded of
Balafré, who now put himself forward as the head of the other party,
"What he, a cavalier of the King's Body Guard, purposed by opposing the
execution of a criminal?"
"I deny that I do so," answered the Balafré. "Saint Martin! there
is, I think, some difference between the execution of a criminal, and
the slaughter of my own nephew?"
"Your nephew may be a criminal as well as another, Signor," said
the Provost-Marshal; "and every stranger in France is amenable to the
laws of France."
"Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish Archers," said Balafré;
"have we not, comrades?"
"Yes, yes" they all exclaimed together. "Privileges —privileges!
Long live King Louis—long live the bold Balafré—long live the
Scottish Guard —and death to all who would infringe our privileges!"
"Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers," said the
Provost-Marshal; "consider my commission."
"We will have no reason at your hand," said Cunningham; "our own
officers shall do us reason. We will be judged by the King's grace, or
by our own Captain, now that the Lord High Constable is not in
presence."
"And we will be hanged by none," said Lindesay, "but Sandie Wilson,
the auld Marshals-man of our ain body."
"It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who is as honest a man
as ever tied noose upon hemp, did we give way to any other proceeding,"
said the Balafré. "Were I to be hanged myself, no other should tie
tippet about my craig."
"But hear ye," said the Provost-Marshal, "this young fellow belongs
not to you, and cannot share what you call your privileges."
"What well call our privileges, all shall admit to be such," said
Cunningham.
"We will not hear them questioned!" was the universal cry of the
Archers.
"Ye are mad, my masters," said Tristan l'Hermite —"No one
disputes your privileges; but this youth is not one of you."
"He is my nephew," said the Balafré, with a triumphant air.
"But no Archer of the Guard, I think," retorted Tristan l'Hermite.
The Archers looked on each other in some uncertainty.
"Stand to it yet, comrade," whispered Cunningham to Balafré—"Say
he is engaged with us."
"Saint Martin! you say well, fair countryman," answered Lesly; and,
raising his voice, swore that he had that day enrolled his kinsman as
one of his own retinue.
This declaration was a decisive argument.
"It is well, gentlemen," said the Provost Tristan, who was aware of
the King's nervous apprehension of disaffection creeping in among his
Guards —"You know, as you say, your privileges, and it is not my duty
to have brawls with the King's Guards, if it is to be avoided. But I
will report this matter for the King's own decision; and I would have
you to be aware, that, in doing so, I act more mildly than perhaps my
duty warrants me."
So saying, he put his troop into motion, while the Archers,
remaining on the spot, held a hasty consultation what was next to be
done.
"We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our Captain, in the
first place, and have the young fellow's name put on the roll."
"But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers," said
Quentin, with some hesitation, "I have not yet determined whether to
take service with you or no."
"Then settle in your own mind," said his uncle, "whether you choose
to do so, or be hanged—for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as
you are, I see no other chance of your 'scaping the gallows."
This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quentin at once to
acquiesce in what he might have otherwise considered as no very
agreeable proposal; but the recent escape from the halter, which had
been actually around his neck, would probably have reconciled him to a
worse alternative than was proposed.
"He must go home with us to our caserne," said Cunningham; "there
is no safety for him out of our bounds, whilst these man-hunters are
prowling about."
"May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry where I
breakfasted, fair uncle?" said the youth—thinking, perhaps, like many
a new recruit, that even a single night of freedom was something
gained.
"Yes, fair nephew," answered his uncle, ironically, "that we may
have the pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or moat, or perhaps
out of a loop of the Loire, knit up in a sack, for the greater
convenience of swimming—for that is like to be the end on't.—The
Provost-Marshal smiled on us when we parted," continued he, addressing
Cunningham, "and that is a sign his thoughts were dangerous."
"I care not for his danger," said Cunningham; "such game as we are
beyond his bird-bolts. But I would have thee tell the whole to the
Devil's Oliver, who is always a good friend to the Scottish Guard, and
will see Father Louis before the Provost can, for he is to shave him
to-morrow."
"But hark you," said Balafré, "it is ill going to Oliver
empty-handed, and I am as bare as the birch in December."
"So are we all," said Cunningham—"Oliver must not scruple to take
our Scottish words for once. We will make up something handsome among
us against the next pay-day; and if he expects to share, let me tell
you, the pay-day will come about all the sooner."
"And now for the Chateau," said Balafré; "and my nephew shall tell
us by the way how he brought the Provost-Marshal on his shoulders, that
we may know how to frame our report both to Crawford and Oliver."
[Note:
Gipsies or Bohemians. In a former volume of this edition of the
Waverley Novels, (Guy Mannering,) the reader will find some remarks on
the gipsies as they are found in Scotland. But it is well known that
this extraordinary variety of the human race exists in nearly the same
primitive state, speaking the same languge, in almost all the kingdoms
of Europe, and conforming in certain respects to the manners of the
people around them, but yet remaining separated from them by certain
material distinctions, in which they correspond with each other, and
thus maintain their pretensions to be considered as a distinct race.
Their first appearance in Europe took place in the beginning of the
fifteenth century, when various bands of this singular people appeared
in the different countries of Europe. They claimed an Egyptian descent,
and their features attested that they were of Eastern origin. The
account given by these singular people was, that it was appointed to
them, as a penance, to travel for a certain number of years. This
apology was probably selected as being most congenial to the
superstitions of the countries which they visited. Their appearance,
however, and manners, strongly contradicted the allegation that they
travelled from any religious motive.
Their dress and accoutrements were at once showy and squalid; those
who acted as captains and leaders of any horde, and such always
appeared as their commanders, were arrayed in dresses of the most showy
colours, such as scarlet or light green; were well mounted; assumed the
title of dukes and counts, and affected considerable consequence. The
rest of the tribe were most miserable in their diet and apparel, fed
without hesitation on animals which had died of disease, and were clad
in filthy and scanty rags, which hardly sufficed for the ordinary
purposes of common decency. Their complexion was positively Eastern,
approaching to that of the Hindoos.
Their manners were as depraved as their appearance was poor and
beggarly. The men were in general thieves, and the women of the most
abandoned character. The few arts which they studied with success, were
of a slight and idle, though ingenious description. They practised
working in iron, but never upon any great scale. Many were good
sportsmen, good musicians, and masters, in a word, of all those trivial
arts, the practice of which is little better than mere idleness. But
their ingenuity never ascended into industry. Two or three other
peculiarties seem to have distinguished them in all countries. Their
pretensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and by astrology, acquired
them sometimes respect, but oftener drew them under suspicion as
sorcerers; and lastly, the universal accusation that they augmented
their horde by stealing children, subjected them to doubt and
exercration. From this it happened, that the pretension set up by these
wanderers, of being pilgrims in the act of penance, although it was at
first admitted, and in many instances obtained them protection from the
governments of the countries through which they travelled, was
afterwards totally disbelieved, and they were considered as
incorrigible rogues and vagrants; they incurred almost everywhere
sentence of banishment, and, where suffered to remain, were rather
objects of persecution than of protection from the law.
There is a curious and accurate account of their arrival in France
in the Journal of a Doctor of Theology, which is preserved and
published by the learned Pasquier. The following is an extract:—"On
August 27th, 1427, came to Paris twelve penitents, Penanciers, (penance
doers,) as they called themselves, viz. a duke, an earl, and ten men,
all on horseback, and calling themselves good Christians. They were of
Lower Egypt, and gave out that, not long before, the Christians had
subdued their country, and obliged them to embrace Christianity on pain
of being put to death. Those who were baptized were great lords in
their own country, and had a king and queen there. Soon after their
conversion, the Saracens overran the country, and obliged them to
renounce Christianity. When the Emperor of Germany, the King of Poland,
and other Christian princes, heard of this, they fell upon them, and
obliged the whole of them, both great and small, to quit the country,
and go to the Pope at Rome, who enjoined them seven years' penance to
wander over the world, without lying in a bed.
"They had been wandering five years when they came to Paris first;
the principal people, and soon after the commonalty, about 100 or 120,
reduced (according to their own account) from 1000 or 1200, when they
went from home, the rest being dead, with their king and queen. They
were lodged by the police at some distance from the city, at Chapel St.
Denis.
"Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore two silver rings
in each, which they said were esteemed ornaments in their country. The
men were black, their hair curled; the women remarkably black, their
only clothes a large old duffle garment, tied over the shoulders with a
cloth or cord, and under it a miserable rocket. In short, they were the
most poor miserable creatures that had ever been seen in France; and,
notwithstanding their poverty, there were among them women who, by
looking into people's hands, told their fortunes, and what was worse,
they picked people's pockets of their money, and got it into their own,
by telling these things through airy magic, et cætera."
Notwithstanding the ingenious account of themselves rendered by
these gipsies, the Bishop of Paris ordered a friar, called Le Petit
Jacobin, to preach a sermon, excommunicating all the men and women who
had had recourse to these Bohemians on the subject of the future, and
shown their hands for that purpose. They departed from Paris for
Pontoise in the month of September.
Pasquier remarks upon this singular journal, that however the story
of a penance savours of a trick, these people wandered up and down
France, under the eye, and with the knowledge, of the magistrates, for
more than a hundred years; and it was not till 1561, that a sentence of
banishment was passed against them in that kingdom.
The arrival of the Egyptians (as these singular people were called)
in various parts of Europe, corresponds with the period in which Timur
or Tamerlane invaded Hindostan, affording its natives the choice
between the Koran and death. There can be little doubt that these
wanderers consisted originally of the Hindostanee tribes, who,
displaced, and flying from the sabres of the Mahommedans, undertook
this species of wandering life, without well knowing whither they were
going. It is natural to suppose the band, as it now exists, is much
mingled with Europeans, but most of these have been brought up from
childhood among them, and learned all their practices.
It is strong evidence of this, that when they are in closest
contact with the ordinary peasants around them, they still keep their
language a mystery. There is little doubt, however, that it is a
dialect of the Hindostanee, from the specimens produced by Grellman,
Hoyland, and others, who have written on the subject. But the author
has, besides their authority, personal occasion to know that an
individual, out of mere curiosity, and availing himself with patience
and assiduity of such opportunities as offered, has made himself
capable of conversing with any gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the
royal Hal, drink with any tinker in his own language. The astonishment
excited among these vagrants on finding a stranger participant of their
mystery, occasions very ludicrous scenes. It is to be hoped this
gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses on so singular a
topic.
There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at
present; for although much more reconciled to society since they have
been less the objects of legal persecution, the gipsies are still a
ferocious and vindictive people.
But notwithstanding this is certainly the case, I cannot but add,
from my own observation of nearly fifty years, that the manners of
these vagrant tribes are much ameliorated;—that I have known
individuals amongst them who have united themselves to civilized
society, and maintain respectable characters, and that great alteration
has been wrought in their cleanliness and general mode of life.
]
CHAPTER VII. THE ENROLMENT.
Justice of Peace.
—Here, hand me down the Statute—read the articles—
Swear, kiss the book—subscribe, and be a hero;
Drawing a portion from the public stock
For deeds of valour to be done hereafter—
Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears.
The Recruiting Officer.
An attendant upon the Archers having been dismounted, Quentin
Durward was accommodated with his horse, and, in company of his martial
countrymen, rode at a round pace towards the Castle of Plessis, about
to become, although on his own part involuntarily, an inhabitant of
that gloomy fortress, the outside of which had, that morning, struck
him with so much surprise.
In the meanwhile, in answer to his uncle's repeated interrogations,
he gave him an exact account of the accident which had that morning
brought him into so much danger. Although he himself saw nothing in his
narrative save what was affecting, he found it was received with much
laughter by his escort.
"And yet it is no good jest either," said his uncle, "for what, in
the devil's name, could lead the senseless boy to meddle with the body
of a cursed misbelieving Jewish Moorish pagan?"
"Had he quarrelled with the Marshals-men about a pretty wench, as
Michael of Moffat did, there had been more sense in it," said
Cunningham.
"But I think it touches our honour, that Tristan and his people
pretend to confound our Scottish bonnets with these pilfering
vagabonds' tocques and turbands, as they call them," said
Lindesay—"If they have not eyes to see the difference, they must be
taught by rule of hand. But it's my belief, Tristan but pretends to
mistake, that he may snap up the kindly Scots that come over to see
their kinsfolks."
"May I ask, kinsman," said Quentin, "what sort of people these are
of whom you speak?"
"In troth you may ask," said his uncle, "but I know not, fair
nephew, who is able to answer you. Not I, I am sure, although I know,
it may be, as much as other people; but they have appeared in this land
within a year or two, just as a flight of locusts might do." [Note: See
Note on the Gipsies or Bohemians, end of preceding Chapter.]
"Ay," said Lindesay, "and Jacques Bonhomme, (that is our name for
the peasant, young man,— you will learn our way of talk in
time,)—honest Jacques, I say, cares little what wind either brings
them or the locusts, so he but knows any gale that would carry them
away again."
"Do they do so much evil?" asked the young man.
"Evil?—why, boy, they are heathens, or Jews, or Mahommedans at
the least, and neither worship Our Lady nor the Saints"—(crossing
himself)— "and steal what they can lay hands on, and sing, and tell
fortunes," added Cunningham.
"And they say there are some goodly wenches amongst these women,"
said Guthrie; "but Cunningham knows that best."
"How, brother!" said Cunningham; "I trust ye mean me no reproach?"
"I am sure I said ye none," answered Guthrie.
"I will be judged by the company," said Cunningham. —"Ye said as
much as that I, a Scottish gentleman, and living within pale of holy
church, had a fair friend among these off-scourings of Heathenesse."
"Nay, nay," said Balafré, "he did but jest— We will have no
quarrels among comrades."
"We must have no such jesting then," said Cunningham, murmuring as
if he had been speaking to his own beard.
"Be there such vagabonds in other lands than France?" said
Lindesay.
"Ay, in good sooth, are there—tribes of them have appeared in
Germany, and in Spain, and in England," answered Balafré. "By the
blessing of good Saint Andrew, Scotland is free of them yet."
"Scotland," said Cunningham, "is too cold a country for locusts,
and too poor a country for thieves."
"Or perhaps John Highlander will suffer no thieves to thrive there
but his own," said Guthrie.
"I let you all know," said Balafré, "that I come from the braes of
Angus, and have gentle Highland kin in Glen-isla, and I will not have
the Highlanders slandered."
"You will not deny that they are cattle-lifters?" said Guthrie.
"To drive a spreagh, or so, is no thievery," said Balafré, "and
that I will maintain when and how you dare."
"For shame, comrade," said Cunningham, "who quarrels now?—the
young man should not see such mad misconstruction.—Come, here we are
at the Chateau. I will bestow a runlet of wine to have a rouse in
friendship, and drink to Scotland, Highland and Lowland both, if you
will meet me at dinner at my quarters."
"Agreed—agreed," said Balafré; "and I will bestow another, to
wash away unkindness, and to drink a health to my nephew on his first
entrance to our corps."
At their approach, the wicket was opened, and the drawbridge fell.
One by one they entered; but when Quentin appeared, the sentinels
crossed their pikes, and commanded him to stand, while bows were bent,
and harquebusses aimed at him from the walls—a rigour of vigilance
used, notwithstanding that the young stranger came in company of a
party of the garrison, nay, of the very body which furnished the
sentinels who were then upon duty.
Le Balafré, who had remained by his nephew's side on purpose, gave
the necessary explanations, and, after some considerable hesitation and
delay, the youth was conveyed under a strong guard to the Lord
Crawford's apartment.
This Scottish nobleman was one of the last relics of the gallant
band of Scottish lords and knights who had so long and so truly served
Charles VI. in those bloody wars which decided the independence of the
French crown, and the expulsion of the English. He had fought, when a
boy, abreast with Douglas and with Buchan, had ridden beneath the
banner of the Maid of Arc, and was perhaps one of the last of those
associates of Scottish chivalry who had so willingly drawn their swords
for the fleur-de-lys, against their "auld enemies of England." Changes
which had taken place in the Scottish kingdom, and perhaps his having
become habituated to French climate and manners, had induced the old
Baron to resign all thoughts of returning to his native country, the
rather that the high office which he held in the household of Louis,
and his own frank and loyal character, had gained a considerable
ascendency over the King, who, though in general no ready believer in
human virtue or honour, trusted and confided in those of the Lord
Crawford, and allowed him the greater influence, because he was never
known to interfere excepting in matters which concerned his charge.
Balafré and Cunningham followed Durward and the guard to the
apartment of their officer, by whose dignified appearance, as well as
with the respect paid to him by these proud soldiers, who seemed to
respect no one else, the young man was much and strongly impressed.
Lord Crawford was tall, and through advanced age had become gaunt
and thin; yet retaining in his sinews the strength, at least, if not
the elasticity, of youth, he was able to endure the weight of his
armour during a march as well as the youngest man who rode in his band.
He was hard-favoured, with a scarred and weatherbeaten countenance, and
an eye that had looked upon death as his playfellow in thirty pitched
battles, but which nevertheless expressed a calm contempt of danger,
rather than the ferocious courage of a mercenary soldier. His tall
erect figure was at present wrapped in a loose chamber-gown, secured
around him by his buff belt, in which was suspended his richly-hilted
poniard. He had round his neck the collar and badge of the order of
Saint Michael. He sat upon a couch covered with deer's hide, and with
spectacles on his nose, (then a recent invention,) was labouring to
read a huge manuscript, called the Rosier de la Guerre, a code of
military and civil policy which Louis had compiled for the benefit of
his son the Dauphin, and upon which he was desirous to have the opinion
of the experienced Scottish warrior.
Lord Crawford laid his book somewhat peevishly aside upon the
entrance of these unexpected visitors, and demanded, in his broad
national dialect, "What, in the foul fiend's name, they lacked now?"
Le Balafré, with more respect than perhaps he would have shown to
Louis himself, stated at full length the circumstances in which his
nephew was placed, and humbly requested his Lordship's protection. Lord
Crawford listened very attentively. He could not but smile at the
simplicity with which the youth had interfered in behalf of the hanged
criminal, but he shook his head at the account which he received of the
ruffle betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Provost-Marshal's guard.
[Note: Such disputes between the Scots Guards, and the other
constituted authorities of the ordinary military corps, often occurred.
In 1474, two Scotsmen had been concerned in robbing John Pensart, a
fishmonger, of a large sum of money. They were accordingly apprehended
by Philip du Four, Provost, with some of his followers. But ere they
could lodge one of them, called Mortimer, in the prison of the
Chastellet, they were attacked by two Archers of the King's Scottish
Guard, who rescued the prisoner.—See Chronique de Jean de Troyes, at
the said year, 1474.]
"How often," he said, "will you bring me such ill-winded pirns to
ravel out? How often must I tell you, and especially both you, Ludovic
Lesly, and you, Archie Cunningham, that the foreign soldier should bear
himself modestly and decorously towards the people of the country, if
you would not have the whole dogs of the town at your heels? However,
if you must have a bargain, [Note: A quarrel, videlicet.] I would
rather it were with that loon of a Provost than any one else; and I
blame you less for this onslaught than for other frays that you have
made, Ludovic, for it was but natural and kindlike to help your young
kinsman. This simple bairn must come to no skaith neither; so give me
the roll of the company yonder down from the shelf, and we will even
add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the privileges."
"May it please your Lordship"—said Durward—
"Is the lad crazed!" exclaimed his uncle— "Would you speak to his
Lordship, without a question asked?"
"Patience, Ludovic," said Lord Crawford, "and let us hear what the
bairn has to say."
"Only this, if it may please your Lordship," replied Quentin, "that
I told my uncle formerly I had some doubts about entering this service.
I have now to say that they are entirely removed, since I have seen the
noble and experienced commander under whom I am to serve; for there is
authority in your look."
"Weel said, my bairn," said the old Lord, not insensible to the
compliment; "we have had some experience, had God sent us grace to
improve by it, both in service and in command. There you stand,
Quentin, in our honourable corps of Scottish Bodyguards, as esquire to
your uncle, and serving under his lance. I trust you will do well, for
you should be a right man-at-arms, if all be good that is upcome,
[Note: That is, if your courage corresponds with your personal
appearance.] and you are come of a gentle kindred.— Ludovic, you will
see that your kinsman follow his exercise diligently, for we will have
spears breaking one of these days."
"By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my Lord— this peace makes
cowards of us all. I myself feel a sort of decay of spirit, closed up
in this cursed dungeon of a Castle."
"Well, a bird whistled in my ear," continued Lord Crawford, "that
the old banner will be soon dancing in the field again."
"I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to that very tune,"
said Balafré.
"Thou wilt drink to any tune," said Lord Crawford; "and I fear me,
Ludovic, you will drink a bitter browst of your own brewing one day."
Lesly, a little abashed, replied, "that it had not been his wont
for many a day; but his Lordship knew the use of the company, to have a
carouse to the health of a new comrade."
"True," said the old leader, "I had forgot the occasion. I will
send a few stoups of wine to assist your carouse; but let it be over by
sunset. And, hark ye—let the soldiers for duty be carefully pricked
off; and see that none of them be more or less partakers of your
debauch."
"Your Lordship shall be lawfully obeyed," said Ludovic; "and your
health duly remembered."
"Perhaps," said Lord Crawford, "I may look in myself upon your
mirth—just to see that all is carried decently."
"Your Lordship shall be most dearly welcome," said Ludovic; and the
whole party retreated in high spirits to prepare for their military
banquet, to which Lesly invited about a score of his comrades, who were
pretty much in the habit of making their mess together.
A soldier's festival is generally a very extempore affair,
providing there is enough of meat and drink to be had; but on the
present occasion, Ludovic bustled about to procure some better wine
than ordinary; observing, that the "old Lord was the surest gear in
their aught, and that, while he preached sobriety to them, he himself,
after drinking at the royal table as much wine as he could honestly
come by, never omitted any creditable opportunity to fill up the
evening over the wine-pot; so you must prepare, comrades," he said, "to
hear the old histories of the battles of Vernoil and Beaugé." [Note: In
both these battles, the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under Stewart,
Earl of Buchan, were distinguished. At Beaugé they were victorious,
killing the Duke of Clarence, Henry Vth's brother, and cutting off his
army. At Vernoil they were defeated, and nearly extirpated.]
The Gothic apartment in which they generally met was, therefore,
hastily put into the best order; their grooms were dispatched to
collect green rushes to spread upon the floor; and banners, under which
the Scottish Guard had marched to battle, or which they had taken from
the enemies' ranks, were displayed, by way of tapestry, over the table,
and around the walls of the chamber.
The next point was, to invest the young recruit as hastily as
possible with the dress and appropriate arms of the Guard, that he
might appear in every respect the sharer of its important privileges,
in virtue of which, and by the support of his countrymen, he might
freely brave the power and the displeasure of the
Provost-Marshal—although the one was known to be as formidable, as
the other was unrelenting.
The banquet was joyous in the highest degree; and the guests gave
vent to the whole current of their national partiality on receiving
into their ranks a recruit from their beloved father-land. Old Scottish
songs were sung, old tales of Scottish heroes told—the achievements
of their fathers, and the scenes in which they were wrought, were
recalled to mind: and, for a time, the rich plains of Touraine seemed
converted into the mountainous and sterile regions of Caledonia.
When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and each was endeavouring
to say something to enhance the dear remembrance of Scotland, it
received a new impulse from the arrival of Lord Crawford, who, as Le
Balafré had well prophesied, sat as it were on thorns at the royal
board, until an opportunity occurred of making his escape to the
revelry of his own countrymen. A chair of state had been reserved for
him at the upper end of the table; for, according to the manners of the
age, and the constitution of that body, although their leader and
commander under the King and High Constable, the members of the corps
(as we should now say, the privates) being all ranked as noble by
birth, their Captain sat with them at the same table without
impropriety, and might mingle when he chose in their festivity, without
derogation from his dignity as commander.
At present, however, Lord Crawford declined occupying the seat
prepared for him, and bidding them "hold themselves merry," stood
looking on the revel with a countenance which seemed greatly to enjoy
it.
"Let him alone," whispered Cunningham to Lindesay, as the latter
offered the wine to their noble Captain, "let him alone—hurry no
man's cattle—let him take it of his own accord."
In fact, the old Lord, who at first smiled, shook his head, and
placed the untasted wine-cup before him, began presently, as if it were
in absence of mind, to sip a little of the contents, and in doing so,
fortunately recollected that it would be ill-luck did he not drink a
draught to the health of the gallant lad who had joined them this day.
The pledge was filled, and answered, as may be well supposed, with many
a joyous shout, when the old leader proceeded to acquaint them that he
had possessed Master Oliver with an account of what had passed that
day: "And as," he said, "the scraper of chins hath no great love for
the stretcher of throats, he has joined me in obtaining from the King
an order, commanding the Provost to suspend all proceedings, under
whatever pretence, against Quentin Durward; and to respect, on all
occasions, the privileges of the Scottish Guard."
Another shout broke forth, the cups were again filled till the wine
sparkled on the brim, and there was an acclaim to the health of the
noble Lord Crawford, the brave conservator of the privileges and rights
of his countrymen. The good old Lord could not but in courtesy do
reason to this pledge also, and gliding into the ready chair, as it
were without reflecting what he was doing, he caused Quentin to come
up beside him, and assailed him with many more questions concerning the
state of Scotland, and the great families there, than he was well able
to answer; while ever and anon, in the course of his queries, the good
Lord kissed the wine-cup by way of parenthesis, remarking, that
sociality became Scottish gentlemen, but that young men, like Quentin,
ought to practise it cautiously, lest it might degenerate into excess;
upon which occasion he uttered many excellent things, until his own
tongue, although employed in the praises of temperance, began to
articulate something thicker than usual. It was now that, while the
military ardour of the company augmented with each flagon which they
emptied, Cunningham called on them to drink the speedy hoisting of the
Oriflamme (the royal banner of France.)
"And a breeze of Burgundy to fan it!" echoed Lindesay.
"With all the soul that is left in this worn body do I accept the
pledge, bairns," echoed Lord Crawford; "and as old as I am, I trust I
may see it flutter yet. Hark ye, my mates," (for wine had made him
something communicative,) "ye are all true servants to the French
crown, and wherefore should ye not know there is an envoy come from
Duke Charles of Burgundy, with a message of an angry favour."
"I saw the Count of Crèvecoeur's equipage, horses and retinue,"
said another of the guests, "down at the inn yonder, at the Mulberry
Grove. They say the King will not admit him into the Castle."
"Now, Heaven send him an ungracious answer!" said Guthrie; "but
what is it he complains of?"
"A world of grievances upon the frontier," said Lord Crawford: "and
latterly, that the King hath received under his protection a lady of
his land, a young Countess, who hath fled from Dijon, because, being a
ward of the Duke, he would have her marry his favourite, Campo-basso."
"And hath she actually come hither alone, my Lord?" said Lindesay.
"Nay, not altogether alone, but with the old Countess, her
kinswoman, who hath yielded to her cousin's wishes in this matter."
"And will the King," said Cunningham, "he being the Duke's feudal
sovereign, interfere between the Duke and his ward, over whom Charles
hath the same right, which, were he himself dead, the King would have
over the heiress of Burgundy?"
"The King will be ruled, as he is wont, by rules of policy; and you
know," continued Crawford, "that he hath not publicly received these
ladies, nor placed them under the protection of his daughters, the Lady
of Beaujeau, or the Princess Joan, so, doubtless, he will be guided by
circumstances. He is our master—but it is no treason to say, he will
chase with the hounds, and run with the hare, with any Prince in
Christendom."
"But the Duke of Burgundy understands no such doubling," said
Cunningham.
"No," answered the old Lord; "and, therefore, it is likely to make
work between them."
"Well—Saint Andrew further the fray!" said Le Balafré. "I had it
foretold me ten, ay, twenty years since, that I was to make the fortune
of my house by marriage. Who knows what may happen, if once we come to
fight for honour and ladies' love, as they do in the old romaunts?"
"Thou name ladies' love, with such a trench in thy visage!" said
Guthrie.
"As well not love at all, as love a Bohemian woman of Heathenesse,"
retorted La Balafré.
"Hold there, comrades," said Lord Crawford; "no tilting with sharp
weapons, no jesting with keen scoffs—friends all. And for the lady,
she is too wealthy to fall to a poor Scottish lord, or I would put in
my own claim, fourscore years and all, or not very far from it. But
here is her health, nevertheless, for they say she is a lamp of
beauty."
"I think I saw her," said another soldier, "when I was upon guard
this morning at the inner barrier; but she was more like a dark lantern
than a lamp, for she and another were brought into the Chateau in close
litters."
"Shame! shame! Arnot!" said Lord Crawford; "a solider on duty
should say nought of what he sees. Besides," he added after a pause,
his own curiosity prevailing over the show of discipline which he had
thought it necessary to exert, "why should these litters contain this
very same Countess Isabelle de Croye?"
"Nay, my Lord," replied Arnot, "I know nothing of it save this,
that my coutelier was airing my horses in the road to the village, and
fell in with Doguin the muleteer, who brought back the litters to the
inn, for they belong to the fellow of the Mulberry Grove yonder—he of
the Fleur-de-Lys, I mean—and so Doguin asked Saunders Steed to take a
cup of wine, as they were acquainted, which he was no doubt willing
enough to do"—
"No doubt—no doubt," said the old Lord; "it is a thing I wish
were corrected among you, gentlemen; but all your grooms and
couteliers, and jackmen, as we should call them in Scotland, are but
too ready to take a cup of wine with any one—It is a thing perilous
in war, and must be amended. But, Andrew Arnot, this is a long tale of
yours, and we will cut it with a drink; as the Highlander says, Skeoch
doch nan skial; [Note: "Cut a tale with a drink;" an expression used
when a man preaches over his liquor, as bons vivants say in England.]
and that's good Gaelic. —Here is to the Countess Isabelle of Croye,
and a better husband to her than Campo-basso, who is a base Italian
cullion!—And now, Andrew Arnot, what said the muleteer to this yeoman
of thine?"
"Why he told him in secrecy, if it please your Lordship," continued
Arnot, "that these two ladies whom he had presently before convoyed up
to the Castle in the close litters, were great ladies, who had been
living in secret at his master's house for some days, and that the King
had visited them more than once very privately, and had done them great
honour; and that they had fled up to the Castle, as he believed, for
fear of the Count de Crèvecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy's ambassador,
whose approach was just announced by an advanced courier."
"Ay, Andrew, come you there to me?" said Guthrie; "then I will be
sworn it was the Countess whose voice I heard singing to the lute, as I
came even now through the inner court—the sound came from the
bay-windows of the Dauphin's Tower; and such melody was there as no one
ever heard before in the Castle of Plessis of the Park. By my faith, I
thought it was the music of the Fairy Melusina's making. There I
stood—though I knew your board was covered, and that you were all
impatient —there I stood, like"— "Like an ass, Johnny Guthrie,"
said his commander; "thy long nose smelling the dinner, thy long ears
hearing the music, and thy short discretion not enabling thee to decide
which of them thou didst prefer.—Hark! is not that the Cathedral bell
tolling to vespers?—Sure it cannot be that time yet?—The mad old
sexton has toll'd even-song an hour too soon."
"In faith, the bell rings but too justly the hour," said
Cunningham; "yonder the sun is sinking on the west side of the fair
plain."
"Ay," said the Lord Crawford, "is it even so? —Well, lads, we
must live within compass—Fair and soft goes far—slow fire makes
sweet malt—to be merry and wise is a sound proverb.—One other rouse
to the weal of old Scotland, and then each man to his duty."
The parting-cup was emptied, and the guests dismissed —the
stately old Baron taking the Balafré's arm, under pretence of giving
him some instructions concerning his nephew, but, perhaps, in reality,
lest his own lofty pace should seem in the public eye less steady than
became his rank and high command. A serious countenance did he bear as
he passed through the two courts which separated his lodging from the
festal chamber, and solemn as the gravity of a hogshead was the
farewell caution, with which he prayed Ludovic to attend his nephew's
motions, especially in the matters of wenches and wine-cups.
Meanwhile, not a word that was spoken concerning the beautiful
Countess Isabelle had escaped the young Durward, who, conducted into a
small cabin, which he was to share with his uncle's page, made his new
and lowly abode the scene of much high musing. The reader will easily
imagine that the young soldier should build a fine romance on such a
foundation as the supposed, or rather the assumed, identification of
the Maiden of the Turret, to whose lay he had listened with so much
interest, and the fair cup-bearer of Maitre Pierre, with a fugitive
Countess, of rank and wealth, flying from the pursuit of a hated lover,
the favourite of an oppressive guardian, who abused his feudal power.
There was an interlude in Quentin's vision concerning Maitre Pierre,
who seemed to exercise such authority even over the formidable officer
from whose hands he had that day, with much difficulty, made his
escape. At length the youth's reveries, which had been respected by
little Will Harper, the companion of his cell, were broken in upon by
the return of his uncle, who commanded Quentin to bed, that he might
arise betimes in the morning, and attend him to his Majesty's
antechamber, to which he was called by his hour of duty, along with
five of his comrades.
CHAPTER VIII. THE ENVOY.
Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;
For ere thou canst report I will be there,
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard—
So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath.
King John.
Had sloth been a temptation by which Durward was easily beset, the
noise with which the caserne of the guards resounded after the first
toll of primes, had certainly banished the siren from his couch; but
the discipline of his father's tower, and of the convent of
Aberbrothick, had taught him to start with the dawn; and he did on his
clothes gaily, amid the sounding of bugles and the clash of armour,
which announced the change of the vigilant guards—some of whom were
returning to barracks after their nightly duty, whilst some were
marching out to that of the morning—and others, again, amongst whom
was his uncle, were arming for immediate attendance upon the person of
Louis. Quentin Durward soon put on, with the feelings of so young a man
on such an occasion, the splendid dress and arms appertaining to his
new situation; and his uncle, who looked with great accuracy and
interest to see that he was completely fitted out in every respect,
did not conceal his satisfaction at the improvement which had been thus
made in his nephew's appearance. "If thou dost prove as faithful and
bold as thou art well-favoured, I shall have in thee one of the
handsomest and best esquires in the Guard, which cannot but be an
honour to thy mother's family. Follow me to the presence-chamber; and
see thou keep close at my shoulder."
So saying, he took up a partisan, large, weighty, and beautifully
inlaid and ornamented, and directing his nephew to assume a lighter
weapon of a similar description, they proceeded to the inner-court of
the palace, where their comrades, who were to form the guard of the
interior apartments, were already drawn up, and under arms—the
squires each standing behind their masters, to whom they thus formed a
second rank. Here were also in attendance many yeomen-prickers, with
gallant horses and noble dogs, on which Quentin looked with such
inquisitive delight, that his uncle was obliged more than once to
remind him that the animals were not there for his private amusement,
but for the King's, who had a strong passion for the chase, one of the
few inclinations which he indulged, even when coming in competition
with his course of policy; being so strict a protector of the game in
the royal forests, that it was currently said, you might kill a man
with greater impunity than a stag.
On a signal given, the Guards were put into motion by the command
of Le Balafré, who acted as officer upon the occasion; and, after some
minutiæ of word and signal, which all served to show the extreme and
punctilious jealousy with which their duty was performed, they marched
into the hall of audience, where the King was immediately expected.
New as Quentin was to scenes of splendour, the effect of that which
was now before him rather disappointed the expectations which he had
formed of the brilliancy of a Court. There were household officers,
indeed, richly attired; there were guards gallantly armed, and there
were domestics of various degrees: But he saw none of the ancient
counsellors of the kingdom, none of the high officers of the crown,
heard none of the names which in those days sounded an alarum to
chivalry; saw none either of those generals or leaders, who, possessed
of the full prime of manhood, were the strength of France, or of the
more youthful and fiery nobles, those early aspirants after honour, who
were her pride. The jealous habits—the reserved manners—the deep
and artful policy of the King, had estranged this splendid circle from
the throne, and they were only called around it upon certain stated and
formal occasions, when they went reluctantly, and returned joyfully, as
the animals in the fable are supposed to have approached and left the
den of the lion.
The very few persons who seemed to be there in the character of
counsellors, were mean-looking men, whose countenances sometimes
expressed sagacity, but whose manners showed they were called into a
sphere for which their previous education and habits had qualified them
but indifferently. One or two persons, however, did appear to Durward
to possess a more noble mien, and the strictness of the present duty
was not such as to prevent his uncle communicating the names of those
whom he thus distinguished.
With the Lord Crawford, who was in attendance, dressed in the rich
habit of his office, and holding a leading staff of silver in his hand,
Quentin, as well as the reader, was already acquainted. Among others
who seemed of quality, the most remarkable was the Count de Dunois, the
son of that celebrated Dunois, known by the name of the Bastard of
Orleans, who, fighting under the banner of Jeanne d'Arc, acted such a
distinguished part in liberating France from the English yoke. His son
well supported the high renown which had descended to him from such an
honoured source; and, notwithstanding his connexion with the royal
family, and his hereditary popularity both with the nobles and the
people, Dunois had, upon all occasions, manifested such an open, frank
loyalty of character, that he seemed to have escaped all suspicion,
even on the part of the jealous Louis, who loved to see him near his
person, and sometimes even called him to his councils. Although
accounted complete in all the exercises of chivalry, and possessed of
much of the character of what was then termed a perfect knight, the
person of the Count was far from being a model of romantic beauty. He
was under the common size, though very strongly built, and his legs
rather curved outwards, into that make which is more convenient for
horseback, than elegant in a pedestrian. His shoulders were broad, his
hair black, his complexion swarthy, his arms remarkably long and
nervous. The features of his countenance were irregular, even to
ugliness; yet, after all, there was an air of conscious worth and
nobility about the count de Dunois, which stamped, at the first glance,
the character of the high-born nobleman, and the undaunted solider. His
mien was bold and upright, his step free and manly, and the harshness
of his countenance was dignified by a glance like an eagle, and a frown
like a lion. His dress was a hunting suit, rather sumptuous than gay,
and he acted on most occasions as Grand Huntsman, though we are not
inclined to believe that he actually held the office.
Upon the arm of his relation Dunois, walking with a step so slow
and melancholy, that he seemed to rest on his kinsman and supporter,
came Louis Duke of Orleans, the first prince of the blood royal,
(afterwards King, by the name of Louis XII.,) and to whom the guards
and attendants rendered their homage as such. The jealously-watched
object of Louis's suspicions, this Prince, who, failing the King's
offspring, was heir to the kingdom, was not suffered to absent himself
from Court, and, while residing there, was alike denied employment and
countenance. The dejection which his degraded and almost captive state
naturally impressed on the deportment of this unfortunate Prince, was
at this moment greatly increased, by his consciousness that the King
meditated, with respect to him, one of the most cruel and unjust
actions which a tyrant could commit, by compelling him to give his hand
to the Princess Joan of France, the younger daughter of Louis, to whom
he had been contracted in infancy, but whose deformed person rendered
the insisting upon such an agreement an act of abominable rigour.
The exterior of this unhappy Prince was in no respect distinguished
by personal advantages; and in mind, he was of a gentle, mild, and
beneficent disposition, qualities which were visible even through the
veil of extreme dejection, with which his natural character was at
present obscured. Quentin observed that the Duke studiously avoided
even looking at the Royal Guards, and when he returned their salute,
that he kept his eyes bent on the ground, as if he feared the King's
jealousy might have construed that gesture of ordinary courtesy, as
arising from the purpose of establishing a separate and personal
interest among them.
Very different was the conduct of the proud Cardinal and Prelate,
John of Balue, the favourite minister of Louis for the time, whose rise
and character bore as close a resemblance to that of Wolsey, as the
difference betwixt the crafty and politic Louis, and the headlong and
rash Henry VIII. of England, would permit. The former had raised his
minister from the lowest rank, to the dignity, or at least to the
emoluments, of Grand Almoner of France, loaded him with benefices, and
obtained for him the hat of a Cardinal; and although he was too
cautious to repose in the ambitious Balue the unbounded power and trust
which Henry placed in Wolsey, yet he was more influenced by him than by
any other of his avowed counsellors. The Cardinal, accordingly, had
not escaped the error incidental to those who are suddenly raised to
power from an obscure situation, for he entertained a strong
persuasion, dazzled doubtless by the suddenness of his elevation, that
his capacity was equal to intermeddling with affairs of every kind,
even those most foreign to his profession and studies. Tall and
ungainly in his person, he affected gallantry and admiration of the
fair sex, although his manners rendered his pretensions absurd, and his
profession marked them as indecorous. Some male or female flatterer
had, in evil hour, possessed him with the idea that there was much
beauty of contour in a pair of huge substantial legs, which he had
derived from his father, a car-man of Limoges, or, according to other
authorities, a miller of Verdun; and with this idea he had become so
infatuated, that he always had his cardinal's robes a little looped up
on one side, that the sturdy proportion of his limbs might not escape
observation. As he swept through the stately apartment in his crimson
dress and rich cope, he stopped repeatedly to look at the arms and
appointments of the cavaliers on guard, asked them several questions in
an authoritative tone, and took upon him to censure some of them for
what he termed irregularities of discipline, in language to which these
experienced soldiers dared no reply, although it was plain they
listened to it with impatience and with contempt.
"Is the King aware," said Dunois to the Cardinal, "that the
Burgundian Envoy is peremptory in demanding an audience?"
"He is," answered the Cardinal; "and here, as I think, comes the
all-sufficient Oliver Dain, [Note: Oliver's name, or nickname, was Le
Diable, which was bestowed on him by public hatred, in exchange for Le
Daim, or Le Dain. He was originally the King's barber, but afterwards a
favourite counsellor.] to let us know the royal pleasure."
As he spoke, a remarkable person, who then divided the favour of
Louis with the proud Cardinal himself, entered from the inner
apartment, but without any of that important and consequential
demeanour which marked the full-blown dignity of the churchman. On the
contrary, this was a little, pale, meagre man, whose black silk jerkin
and hose, without either coat, cloak, or cassock, formed a dress ill
qualified to set off to advantage a very ordinary person. He carried a
silver basin in his hand, and a napkin flung over his arm indicated his
menial capacity. His visage was penetrating and quick, although he
endeavoured to banish such expression from his features, by keeping his
eyes fixed on the ground, while, with the stealthy and quiet pace of a
cat, he seemed modestly rather to glide than to walk through the
apartment. But though modesty may easily obscure worth, it cannot hide
court-favour; and all attempts to steal unperceived through the
presence-chamber were vain, on the part of one known to have such
possession of the King's ear, as had been attained by his celebrated
barber and groom of the chamber, Oliver le Dain, called sometimes
Oliver le Mauvais, and sometimes Oliver le Diable, epithets derived
from the unscrupulous cunning with which he assisted in
the execution of the schemes of his master's tortuous policy. At
present he spoke earnestly for a few moments with the Count de Dunois,
who instantly left the chamber, while the tonsor glided quietly back
towards the royal apartment whence he had issued, every one giving
place to him; which civility he only acknowledged by the most humble
inclination of the body, excepting in a very few instances, where he
made one or two persons the subject of envy to all the other courtiers
by whispering a single word in their ear; and at the same time
muttering something of the duties of his place, he escaped from their
replies, as well as from the eager solicitations of those who wished to
attract his notice. Ludovic Lesly had the good fortune to be one of the
individuals who, on the present occasion, was favoured by Oliver with a
single word, to assure him that his matter was fortunately terminated.
Presently afterwards, he had another proof of the same agreeable
tidings; for Quentin's old acquaintance, Tristan l'Hermite, the
Provost-Marshal of the Royal Household, entered the apartment, and came
straight to the place where Le Balafré was posted. This formidable
officer's uniform, which was very rich, had only the effect of making
his sinister countenance and bad mien more strikingly remarkable, and
the tone which he meant for conciliatory, was like nothing so much as
the growling of a bear. The import of his words, however, was more
amicable than the voice in which they were pronounced. He regretted the
mistake which had fallen between them on the preceding day, and
observed it was owing to the Sieur Le Balafré's nephew not wearing the
uniform of his corps, or announcing himself as belonging to it, which
had led him into the error for which he now asked forgiveness.
Ludovic Lesly made the necessary reply, and as soon as Tristan had
turned away, observed to his nephew, that they had now the distinction
of having a mortal enemy from henceforward in the person of this
dreaded officer. "But we are above his volée —a soldier," said he,
"who does his duty, may laugh at the Provost-Marshal."
Quentin could not help being of his uncle's opinion, for, as
Tristan parted from them, it was with the look of angry defiance which
the bear casts upon the hunter whose spear has wounded him. Indeed,
even when less strongly moved, the sullen eye of this official
expressed a malevolence of purpose which made men shudder to meet his
glance; and the thrill of the young Scot was the deeper and more
abhorrent, that he seemed to himself still to feel on his shoulders the
grasp of the two death-doing functionaries of this fatal officer.
Meanwhile, Oliver, after he had prowled around the room in the
stealthy manner which we have endeavoured to describe,—all, even the
highest officers, making way for him, and loading him with their
ceremonious attentions, which his modesty seemed desirous to
avoid,—again entered the inner apartment, the doors of which were
presently thrown open, and King Louis entered the presence-chamber.
Quentin, like all others, turned his eyes upon him; and started so
suddenly, that he almost dropt his weapon, when he recognised in the
King of France that silk-merchant, Maitre Pierre, who had been the
companion of his morning walk. Singular suspicions respecting the real
rank of this person had at different times crossed his thoughts; but
this, the proved reality, was wilder than his wildest conjecture.
The stern look of his uncle, offended at this breach of the decorum
of his office, recalled him to himself; but not a little was he
astonished when the King, whose quick eye had at once discovered him,
walked straight to the place where he was posted, without taking notice
of any one else.— "So," he said, "young man, I am told you have been
brawling on your first arrival in Touraine; but I pardon you, as it was
chiefly the fault of a foolish old merchant, who thought your
Caledonian blood required to be heated in the morning with Vin de
Beaulne. If I can find him, I will make him an example to those who
debauch my Guards.—Balafré," he added, speaking to Lesly, "your
kinsman is a fair youth, though a fiery. We love to cherish such
spirits, and mean to make more than ever we did of the brave men who
are around us. Let the year, day, hour, and minute of your nephew's
birth be written down, and given to Oliver Dain."
Le Balafré bowed to the ground, and re-assumed his erect military
position, as one who would show by his demeanour his promptitude to act
in the King's quarrel or defence. Quentin, in the meantime, recovered
from his first surprise, studied the King's appearance more
attentively, and was surprised to find how differently he now construed
his deportment and features than he had done at their first interview.
These were not much changed in exterior, for Louis, always a
scorner of outward show, wore, on the present occasion, an old
dark-blue hunting-dress, not much better than the plain burgher-suit of
the preceding day, and garnished with a huge rosary of ebony, which had
been sent to him by no less a personage than the Grand Seignior, with
an attestation that it had been used by a Coptic hermit on Mount
Lebanon, a personage of profound sanctity. And instead of his cap with
a single image, he now wore a hat, the band of which was garnished with
at least a dozen of little paltry figures of saints stamped in lead.
But those eyes, which, according to Quentin's former impression, only
twinkled with the love of gain, had, now that they were known to be the
property of an able and powerful monarch, a piercing and majestic
glance; and those wrinkles on the brow, which he had supposed were
formed during a long series of petty schemes of commerce, seemed now
the furrows which sagacity had worn while toiling in meditation upon
the fate of nations.
Presently after the King's appearance, the Princesses of France,
with the ladies of their suite, entered the apartment. With the
eldest, afterwards married to Peter of Bourbon, and known in French
history by the name of the Lady of Beaujeau, our story has but little
to do. She was tall, and rather handsome, possessed eloquence, talent,
and much of her father's sagacity, who reposed great confidence in her,
and loved her as well perhaps as he loved any one.
The younger sister, the unfortunate Joan, the destined bride of the
Duke of Orleans, advanced timidly by the side of her sister, conscious
of a total want of those external qualities which women are most
desirous of possessing, or being thought to possess. She was pale,
thin, and sickly in her complexion; her shape visibly bent to one side,
and her gait so unequal that she might be called lame. A fine set of
teeth, and eyes which were expressive of melancholy, softness, and
resignation, with a quantity of light brown locks, were the only
redeeming points which flattery itself could have dared to number, to
counteract the general homeliness of her face and figure. To complete
the picture, it was easy to remark, from the Princess's negligence in
dress, and the timidity of her manner, that she had an unusual and
distressing consciousness of her own plainness of appearance, and did
not dare to make any of those attempts to mend by manners or by art
what nature had left amiss, or in any other way to exert a power of
pleasing. The King (who loved her not) stepped hastily to her as she
entered. —"How now!" he said, "our world-contemning daughter—Are
you robed for a hunting-party, or for the convent, this morning?
Speak—answer."
"For which your highness pleases, sire," said the Princess, scarce
raising her voice above her breath.
"Ay, doubtless, you would persuade me it is your desire to quit the
Court, Joan, and renounce the world and its vanities.—Ha! maiden,
wouldst thou have it thought that we, the first-born of Holy Church,
would refuse our daughter to Heaven?— Our Lady and Saint Martin
forbid we should refuse the offering, were it worthy of the altar, or
were thy vocation in truth thitherward!"
So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, looking, in the
meantime, as appeared to Quentin, very like a cunning vassal, who was
depreciating the merit of something which he was desirous to keep to
himself, in order that he might stand excused for not offering it to
his chief or superior. "Dares he thus play the hypocrite with Heaven,"
thought Durward, "and sport with God and the Saints, as he may safely
do with men, who dare not search his nature too closely?"
Louis meantime resumed, after a moment's mental devotion—"No,
fair daughter, I and another know your real mind better—Ha! fair
cousin of Orleans, do we not? Approach, fair sir, and lead this devoted
vestal of ours to her horse."
Orleans started when the King spoke, and hastened to obey him; but
with such precipitation of step, and confusion, that Louis called out,
"Nay, cousin, rein your gallantry, and look before you.— Why, what a
headlong matter a gallant's haste is on some occasions!—You had
wellnigh taken Anne's hand instead of her sister's.—Sir, must I give
Joan's to you myself?"
The unhappy Prince looked up, and shuddered like a child, when
forced to touch something at which it has instinctive horror—then
making an effort, took the hand which the Princess neither gave nor yet
withheld. As they stood, her cold damp fingers enclosed in his
trembling hand, with their eyes looking on the ground, it would have
been difficult to say which of these two youthful beings was rendered
more utterly miserable—the Duke, who felt himself fettered to the
object of his aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, or the
unfortunate young woman, who too plainly saw that she was an object of
abhorrence to him, to gain whose kindness she would willingly have
died.
"And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies—We will ourselves lead
forth our daughter of Beaujeau," said the King; "and God's blessing and
Saint Hubert's be on our morning sport!"
"I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, sire," said the Compte de
Dunois—"the Burgundian Envoy is before the gates of the Castle, and
demands an audience."
"Demands an audience, Dunois?" replied the King—"Did you not
answer him, as we sent you word by Oliver, that we were not at leisure
to see him to-day,—and that to-morrow was the festival of Saint
Martin, which, please Heaven, we would disturb by no earthly
thoughts,—and that on the succeeding day we were designed for
Amboise— but that we would not fail to appoint him as early an
audience, when we returned, as our pressing affairs would permit?"
"All this I said," answered Dunois; "but yet, sire"—
"Pasques-dieu! man, what is it that thus sticks in thy throat?" said
the King. "This Burgundian's terms must have been hard of digestion."
"Had not my duty, your Grace's commands, and his character as an
Envoy, restrained me," said Dunois, "he should have tried to digest
them himself; for, by our Lady of Orleans, I had more mind to have made
him eat his own words, than to have brought them to your Majesty."
"Body of me, Dunois," said the King, "it is strange that thou, one
of the most impatient fellows alive, shouldst have so little sympathy
with the like infirmity in our blunt and fiery cousin, Charles of
Burgundy. Why, man, I mind his blustering messages no more than the
towers of this Castle regard the whistling of the north-east wind,
which comes from Flanders, as well as this brawling Envoy."
"Know then, sire," replied Dunois, "that the Count of Crèvecoeur
tarries below, with his retinue of pursuivants and trumpets, and says,
that, since your Majesty refuses him the audience which his master has
instructed him to demand, upon matters of most pressing concern, he
will remain there till midnight, and accost your Majesty at whatever
hour you are pleased to issue from your Castle, whether for business,
exercise, or devotion; and that no consideration, except the use of
absolute force, shall compel him to desist from this resolution."
"He is a fool," said the King, with much composure. "Does the
hot-headed Hainaulter think it any penance for a man of sense to remain
for twenty-four hours quiet within the walls of his Castle, when he
hath the affairs of a kingdom to occupy him? These impatient coxcombs
think that all men, like themselves, are miserable, save when in saddle
and stirrup. Let the dogs be put up, and well looked to, gentle
Dunois—We will hold council to-day, instead of hunting."
"My Liege," answered Dunois, "you will not thus rid yourself of
Crèvecoeur; for his master's instructions are, that if he hath not this
audience which he demands, he shall nail his gauntlet to the palisades
before the Castle, in token of mortal defiance on the part of his
master, shall renounce the Duke's fealty to France, and declare instant
war."
"Ay," said Louis, without any perceptible alteration of voice, but
frowning until his piercing dark eyes became almost invisible under his
shaggy eyebrows, "is it even so?—will our ancient vassal prove so
masterful—our dear cousin treat us thus unkindly? —Nay then,
Dunois, we must unfold the Oriflamme, and cry Dennis Montjoye!"
"Marry and amen, and in a most happy hour!" said the martial
Dunois; and the guards in the hall, unable to resist the same impulse,
stirred each upon his post, so as to produce a low but distinct sound
of clashing arms. The King cast his eye proudly round, and, for a
moment, thought and looked like his heroic father.
But the excitement of the moment presently gave way to the host of
political considerations, which, at that conjuncture, rendered an open
breach with Burgundy so peculiarly perilous. Edward IV., a brave and
victorious king, who had in his own person fought thirty battles, was
now established on the throne of England, was brother to the Duchess of
Burgundy, and it might well be supposed, waited but a rupture between
his near connexion and Louis, to carry into France, through the
ever-open gate of Calais, those arms which had been triumphant in the
English civil wars, and to obliterate the recollection of internal
dissensions by that most popular of all occupations amongst the
English, an invasion of France. To this consideration was added the
uncertain faith of the Duke of Bretagne, and other weighty subjects of
reflection. So that, after a deep pause, when Louis again spoke,
although in the same tone, it was with an altered spirit. "But God
forbid," he said, "that aught less than necessity should make us the
Most Christian King, give cause to the effusion of Christian blood, if
any thing short of dishonour may avert such a calamity. We tender our
subjects' safety dearer than the ruffle which our own dignity may
receive from the rude breath of a malapert ambassador, who hath perhaps
exceeded the errand with which he was charged.— Admit the Envoy of
Burgundy to our presence."
"Beati pacifici," said the Cardinal Balue.
"True; and your eminence knoweth that they who humble themselves
shall be exalted," added the King.
The Cardinal spoke an Amen, to which few assented; for even the
pale cheek of Orleans kindled with shame, and Balafré suppressed his
feelings so little, as to let the but-end of his partisan fall heavily
on the floor,—a movement of impatience for which he underwent a
bitter reproof from the Cardinal, with a lecture on the mode of
handling his arms when in presence of the Sovereign. The King himself
seemed unusually embarrassed at the silence around him. "You are
pensive, Dunois," he said —"You disapprove of our giving way to this
hot-headed Envoy."
"By no means," said Dunois; "I meddle not with matters beyond my
sphere. I was but thinking of asking a boon of your Majesty."
"A boon, Dunois—what is it?—You are an unfrequent suitor, and
may count on our favour."
"I would, then, your Majesty would send me to Evreux to regulate
the clergy," said Dunois, with military frankness.
"That were indeed beyond thy sphere," replied the King, smiling.
"I might order priests as well," replied the Count, "as my Lord
Bishop of Evreux, or my Lord Cardinal, if he likes the title better,
can exercise the soldiers of your Majesty's guard."
The King smiled again, and more mysteriously, while he whispered
Dunois, "The time may come when you and I will regulate the priests
together —But this is for the present a good conceited animal of a
Bishop. Ah, Dunois! Rome, Rome puts him and other burdens upon us—But
patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards, till our hand is a stronger
one." [Note: Dr Dryasdust here remarks, that cards, said to have been
invented in a preceding reign, for the amusement of Charles V. during
the intervals of his mental disorder, seem speedily to have become
common among the courtiers, since they already furnished Louis XI. with
a metaphor. The same proverb was quoted by Durandarte, in the enchanted
cave of Montesinos. The alleged origin of the invention of cards,
produced one of the shrewdest replies I have ever heard given in
evidence. It was made by the late Dr Gregory of Edinburgh to a counsel
of great eminence at the Scottish bar. The Doctor's testimony went to
prove the insanity of the party whose mental capacity was the point at
issue. On a cross-interrogation, he admitted that the person in
question played admirably at whist. "And do you seriously say, doctor,"
said the learned counsel, "that a person having a superior capacity for
a game so difficult, and which requires in a pre-eminent degree,
memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time deranged in
his understanding?"— "I am no card player," said the doctor, with
great address, "but I have read in history that cards were invented for
the amusement of an insane king." The consequences of this reply were
decisive.]
The flourish of trumpets in the court-yard now announced the
arrival of the Burgundian nobleman. All in the presence-chamber made
haste to arrange themselves according to their proper places of
precedence, the King and his daughters remaining in the centre of the
assembly.
The Count of Crèvecoeur, a renowned and undaunted warrior, entered
the apartment; and, contrary to the usage among the envoys of friendly
powers, he appeared all armed, excepting his head, in a gorgeous suit
of the most superb Milan armour, made of steel, inlaid and embossed
with gold, which was wrought into the fantastic taste called the
Arabesque. Around his neck, and over his polished cuirass, hung his
master's order of the Golden Fleece, one of the most honoured
associations of chivalry then known in Christendom. A handsome page
bore his helmet behind him, a herald preceded him, bearing his letters
of credence, which he offered on his knee to the King; while the
ambassador himself paused in the midst of the hall, as if to give all
present time to admire his lofty look, commanding stature, and
undaunted composure of countenance and manner. The rest of his
attendants waited in the antechamber, or court-yard.
"Approach, Seignior Count de Crèvecoeur," said Louis, after a
moment's glance at his commission; "we need not our Cousin's letters of
credence, either to introduce to us a warrior so well known, or to
assure us of your highly deserved credit with your master. We trust
that your fair partner, who shares some of our ancestral blood, is in
good health. Had you brought her in your hand, Seignior Count, we might
have thought you wore your armour, on this unwonted occasion, to
maintain the superiority of her charms against the amorous chivalry of
France. As it is, we cannot guess the reason of this complete panoply."
"Sire," replied the ambassador, "the Count of Crèvecoeur must
lament his misfortune, and entreat your forgiveness, that he cannot, on
this occasion, reply with such humble deference as is due to the royal
courtesy, with which your Majesty has honoured him. But, although it is
only the voice of Philip Crèvecoeur de Cordès which speaks, the words
which he utters must be those of his gracious Lord and Sovereign the
Duke of Burgundy."
"And what has Crèvecoeur to say in the words of Burgundy?" said
Louis, with an assumption of sufficient dignity. "Yet hold—remember,
that in this presence, Philip Crèvecoeur de Cordès speaks to him who is
his Sovereign's Sovereign."
Crèvecoeur bowed, and then spoke aloud:—"King of France, the
mighty Duke of Burgundy once more sends you a written schedule of the
wrongs and oppressions committed on his frontiers by your Majesty's
garrisons and officers; and the first point of enquiry is, whether it
is your Majesty's purpose to make him amends for these injuries?"
The King, looking slightly at the memorial which the herald
delivered to him upon his knee, said, "These matters have been already
long before our Council. Of the injuries complained of, some are in
requital of those sustained by my subjects, some are affirmed without
any proof, some have been retaliated by the Duke's garrisons and
soldiers; and if there remain any which fall under none of those
predicaments, we are not, as a Christian prince, averse to make
satisfaction for wrongs actually sustained by our neighbour, though
committed not only without our countenance, but against our express
order."
"I will convey your Majesty's answer," said the ambassador, "to my
most gracious master; yet, let me say, that, as it is in no degree
different from the evasive replies which have already been returned to
his just complaints, I cannot hope that it will afford the means of
re-establishing peace and friendship betwixt France and Burgundy."
"Be that at God's pleasure," said the King. "It is not for dread of
thy Master's arms, but for the sake of peace only, that I return so
temperate an answer to his injurious reproaches. Proceed with thine
errand."
"My Master's next demand," said the ambassador, "is, that your
Majesty will cease your secret and underhand dealings with his towns of
Ghent, Liege, and Malines. He requests that your Majesty will recall
the secret agents, by whose means the discontents of his good citizens
of Flanders are inflamed; and dismiss from your Majesty's dominions, or
rather deliver up to the condign punishment of their liege lord, those
traitorous fugitives, who, having fled from the scene of their
machinations, have found too ready a refuge in Paris, Orleans, Tours,
and other French cities."
"Say to the Duke of Burgundy," replied the King, "that I know of no
such indirect practices as those with which he injuriously charges me;
that my subjects of France have frequent intercourse with the good
cities of Flanders, for the purpose of mutual benefit by free traffic,
which it would be as much contrary to the Duke's interest as mine to
interrupt; and that many Flemings have residence in my kingdom, and
enjoy the protection of my laws, for the same purpose; but none, to our
knowledge, for those of treason or mutiny against the Duke. Proceed
with your message—you have heard my answer."
"As formerly, Sire, with pain," replied the Count of Crèvecoeur;
"it not being of that direct or explicit nature which the Duke, my
master, will accept, in atonement for a long train of secret
machinations, not the less certain, though now disavowed by your
Majesty. But I proceed with my message. The Duke of Burgundy further
requires the King of France to send back to his dominions without
delay, and under a secure safeguard, the persons of Isabelle Countess
of Croye, and of her relation and guardian the Countess Hameline, of
the same family, in respect the said Countess Isabelle, being, by the
law of the country, and the feudal tenure of her estates, the ward of
the said Duke of Burgundy, hath fled from his dominions, and from the
charge which he, as a careful guardian, was willing to extend over her,
and is here maintained in secret by the King of France, and by him
fortified in her contumacy to the Duke, her natural lord and guardian,
contrary to the laws of God and man, as they ever have been
acknowledged in civilized Europe.—Once more I pause for your
Majesty's reply."
"You did well, Count de Crèvecoeur," said Louis, scornfully, "to
begin your embassy at an early hour; for if it be your purpose to call
on me to account for the flight of every vassal whom your master's
heady passion may have driven from his dominions, the bead-roll may
last till sunset. Who can affirm that these ladies are in my dominions?
who can presume to say, if it be so, that I have either countenanced
their flight hither, or have received them with offers of protection?
Nay, who is it will assert, that, if they are in France, their place of
retirement is within my knowledge?"
"Sire," said Crèvecoeur, "may it please your Majesty, I was
provided with a witness on this subject—one who beheld these fugitive
ladies in the inn called the Fleur-de-Lys, not far from this
Castle—one who saw your Majesty in their company, though under the
unworthy disguise of a burgess of Tours—one who received from them,
in your royal presence, messages and letters to their friends in
Flanders—all which he conveyed to the hand and ear of the Duke of
Burgundy."
"Bring him forward," said the King; "place the man before my face
who dares maintain these palpable falsehoods."
"You speak in triumph, Sire; for you are well aware that this
witness no longer exists. When he lived, he was called Zamet Magraubin,
by birth one of those Bohemian wanderers. He was yesterday, as I have
learned, executed by a party of your Majesty's Provost-Marshal, to
prevent, doubtless, his standing here, to verify what he said of this
matter to the Duke of Burgundy, in presence of his Council, and of me,
Philip Crèvecoeur de Cordès."
"Now, by our Lady of Embrun!" said the King, "so gross are these
accusations, and so free of consciousness am I of aught that approaches
them, that, by the honour of a King, I laugh, rather than am worth at
them. My Provost-guard daily put to death, as is their duty, thieves
and vagabonds; and is my crown to be slandered with whatever these
thieves and vagabonds may have said to our hot cousin of Burgundy and
his wise counsellors? I pray you, tell my kind cousin, if he loves such
companions, he had best keep them in his own estates; for here they are
like to meet short shrift and a tight cord."
"My master needs no such subjects, Sir King," answered the Count,
in a tone more disrespectful than he had yet permitted himself to make
use of; "for the noble Duke uses not to enquire of witches, wandering
Egyptians, or others, upon the destiny and fate of his neighbours and
allies."
"We have had patience enough, and to spare," said the King,
interrupting him; "and since thy sole errand here seems to be for the
purpose of insult, we will send some one in our name to the Duke of
Burgundy—convinced, in thus demeaning thyself towards us, thou hast
exceeded thy commission, whatever that may have been."
"On the contrary," said Crèvecoeur, "I have not yet acquitted
myself of it.—Hearken, Louis of Valois, King of France—Hearken,
nobles and gentlemen, who may be present—Hearken, all good and true
men—And thou, Toison d'Or," addressing the herald, "make proclamation
after me.—I, Philip Crèvecoeur of Cordès, Count of the Empire, and
Knight of the honourable and princely Order of the Golden Fleece, in
the name of the most puissant Lord and Prince, Charles, by the grace of
God, Duke of Burgundy and Lotharingia, of Brabant and Limbourg, of
Luxembourg and of Gueldres; Earl of Flanders and of Artois; Count
Palatine of Hainault, of Holland, Zealand, Namur, and Zutphen; Marquis
of the Holy Empire; Lord of Friezeland, Salines, and Malines, do give
you, Louis, King of France, openly to know, that you having refused to
remedy the various griefs, wrongs, and offences, done and wrought by
you, or by and through your aid, suggestion, and instigation, against
the said Duke and his loving subjects, he, by my mouth, renounces all
allegiance and fealty towards your crown and dignity—pronounces you
false and faithless; and defies you as a Prince, and as a man. There
lies my gage, in evidence of what I have said."
So saying, he plucked the gauntlet off his right hand, and flung it
down on the floor of the hall.
Until this last climax of audacity, there had been a deep silence
in the royal apartment during the extraordinary scene; but no sooner
had the clash of the gauntlet, when cast down, been echoed by the deep
voice of Toison d'Or, the Burgundian herald, with the ejaculation,
"Vive Bourgogne!" than there was a general tumult. While Dunois,
Orleans, old Lord Crawford, and one or two others, whose rank
authorized their interference, contended which should lift up the
gauntlet, the others in the hall exclaimed, "Strike him down! Cut him
to pieces! Comes he here to insult the King of France in his own
palace!"
But the King appeased the tumult by exclaiming, in a voice like
thunder, which overawed and silenced every other sound, "Silence, my
lieges! lay not a hand on the man, not a finger on the gage! —And
you, Sir Count, of what is your life composed, or how is it warranted,
that you thus place it on the cast of a die so perilous? Or is your
Duke made of a different metal from other princes, since he thus
asserts his pretended quarrel in a manner so unusual?"
"He is indeed framed of a different and more noble metal than the
other princes of Europe," said the undaunted Count of Crèvecoeur; "for,
when not one of them dared to give shelter to you—to you, I say, King
Louis—when you were yet only Dauphin, an exile from France, and
pursued by the whole bitterness of your father's revenge, and all the
power of his kingdom, you were received and protected like a brother by
my noble master, whose generosity of disposition you have so grossly
misused. Farewell, Sire, my mission is discharged."
So saying, the Count de Crèvecoeur left the apartment abruptly, and
without farther leave-taking.
"After him—after him—take up the gauntlet and after him!" said
the King.—"I mean not you, Dunois, nor you, my Lord of Crawford, who,
methinks, may be too old for such hot frays; nor you, Cousin of
Orleans, who are too young for them.— My Lord Cardinal—my Lord
Bishop of Auxerre— it is your holy office to make peace among
princes; —do you lift the gauntlet, and remonstrate with Count
Crèvecoeur on the sin he has committed, in thus insulting a great
Monarch in his own Court, and forcing us to bring the miseries of war
upon his kingdom and that of his neighbour."
Upon this direct personal appeal, the Cardinal Balue proceeded to
lift the gauntlet, with such precaution as one would touch an
adder,—so great was apparently his aversion to this symbol of
war,—and presently left the royal apartment to hasten after the
challenger.
Louis paused and looked round the circle of his courtiers, most of
whom, except such as we have already distinguished, being men of low
birth, and raised to their rank in the King's household for other gifts
than courage or feats of arms, looked pale on each other, and had
obviously received an unpleasant impression from the scene which had
been just acted. Louis gazed on them with contempt, and then said
aloud, "Although the Count of Crèvecoeur be presumptuous and
overweening, it must be confessed that in him the Duke of Burgundy hath
as bold a servant as ever bore message for a prince. I would I knew
where to find as faithful an Envoy to carry back my answer."
"You do your French nobles injustice, Sire," said Dunois; "not one
of them but would carry a defiance to Burgundy on the point of his
sword."
"And, Sire," said old Crawford, "you wrong also the Scottish
gentlemen who serve you. I, or any of my followers, being of meet rank,
would not hesitate a moment to call yonder proud Count to a reckoning;
my own arm is yet strong enough for the purpose, if I have but your
Majesty's permission."
"But your Majesty," continued Dunois, "will employ us in no
service through which we may win honour to ourselves, to your Majesty,
or to France."
"Say, rather," said the King, "that I will not give way, Dunois, to
the headlong impetuosity, which, on some punctilio of chivalry, would
wreck yourselves, the throne, France, and all. There is not one of you
who knows not how precious every hour of peace is at this moment, when
so necessary to heal the wounds of a distracted country; yet there is
not one of you who would not rush into war on account of the tale of a
wandering gipsy, or of some errant demosel, whose reputation, perhaps,
is scarce higher.—Here comes the Cardinal, and we trust with more
pacific tidings.—How now, my Lord—have you brought the Count to
reason and to temper?"
"Sire," said Balue, "my task hath been difficult. I put it to
yonder proud Count, how he dared to use towards your Majesty, the
presumptuous reproach with which his audience had broken up, and which
must be understood as proceeding, not from his master, but from his own
isolence, and as placing him therefore in your Majesty's discretion,
for what penalty you might think proper."
"You said right," replied the King; "and what was his answer?"
"The Count," continued the Cardinal, "had at that moment his foot
in the stirrup, ready to mount; and, on hearing my expostulation, he
turned his head without altering his position. 'Had I,' said he, 'been
fifty leagues distant, and had heard by report that a question
vituperative of my Prince had been asked by the King of France, I had,
even at that distance, instantly mounted, and returned to disburden my
mind of the answer which I gave him but now.'"
"I said, sirs," said the King, turning around, without any show of
angry emotion, "that in the Count Philip of Crèvecoeur, our cousin the
Duke possesses as worthy a servant as ever rode at a prince's right
hand.—But you prevailed with him to stay?"
"To stay for twenty-four hours; and in the meanwhile to receive
again his gage of defiance," said the Cardinal: "he has dismounted at
the Fleur-de-Lys."
"See that he be nobly attended and cared for, at our charges," said
the King; "such a servant is a jewel in a prince's crown.—Twenty-four
hours?" he added, muttering to himself, and looking as if he were
stretching his eyes to see into futurity; "twenty-four hours?—'tis of
the shortest. Yet twenty-four hours, ably and skilfully employed, may
be worth a year in the hand of indolent or incapable
agents.—Well.—To the forest—to the forest, my gallant
lords!—Orleans, my fair kinsman, lay aside that modesty, though it
becomes you; mind not my Joan's coyness. The Loire may as soon avoid
mingling with the Cher, as she from favouring your suit, or you from
preferring it," he added, as the unhappy prince moved slowly on after
his betrothed bride. "And now for your boar-spears, gentlemen; for
Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured one that will try both dog and
man.—Dunois, lend me your spear,—take mine, it is too weighty for
me; but when did you complain of such a fault in your lance?—To
horse—to horse, gentlemen."
And all the chase rode on.
CHAPTER IX. THE BOAR-HUNT.
I will converse with unrespective boys
And iron-witted fools. None are for me
That look into me with suspicious eyes.
King Richard.
All the experience which the Cardinal had been able to collect of
his master's disposition, did not, upon the present occasion, prevent
his falling into a great error of policy. His vanity induced him to
think that he had been more successful in prevailing upon the Count of
Crèvecoeur to remain at Tours, than any other moderator whom the King
might have employed, would, in all probability, have been. And as he
was well aware of the importance which Louis attached to the
postponement of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could not help
showing that he conceived himself to have rendered the King great and
acceptable service. He pressed nearer to the King's person than he was
wont to do, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation on the events
of the morning.
This was injudicious in more respects than one; for princes love
not to see their subjects approach them with an air conscious of
deserving, and thereby seeming desirous to extort acknowledgment and
recompense for their services; and Louis, the most jealous monarch
that ever lived, was peculiarly averse and inaccessible to any one who
seemed either to presume upon service rendered, or to pry into his
secrets.
Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious sometimes are, by the
self-satisfied humour of the moment, the Cardinal continued to ride on
the King's right hand, turning the discourse, whenever it was possible,
upon Crèvecoeur and his embassy; which, although it might be the matter
at that moment most in the King's thoughts, was nevertheless precisely
that which he was least willing to converse on. At length Louis, who
had listened to him with attention, yet without having returned any
answer which could tend to prolong the conversation, signed to Dunois,
who rode at no great distance, to come up on the other side of his
horse.
"We came hither for sport and exercise," said he, "but the reverend
Father here would have us hold a council of state."
"I hope your Highness will excuse my assistance," said Dunois; "I
am born to fight the battles of France, and have heart and hand for
that, but I have no head for her councils."
"My Lord Cardinal hath a head turned for nothing else, Dunois,"
answered Louis; "he hath confessed Crèvecoeur at the Castle-gate, and
he hath communicated to us his whole shrift—Said you not the whole?"
he continued, with an emphasis on the word, and a glance at the
Cardinal, which shot from betwixt his long dark eyelashes, as a dagger
gleams when it leaves the scabbard.
The Cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to reply to the King's
jest, he said, "That though his order were obliged to conceal the
secrets of their penitents in general, there was no sigillum
confessionis, which could not be melted at his Majesty's breath."
"And as his Eminence," said the King, "is ready to communicate the
secrets of others to us, he naturally expects that we should be equally
communicative to him; and, in order to get upon this reciprocal
footing, he is very reasonably desirous to know if these two ladies of
Croye be actually in our territories. We are sorry we cannot indulge
his curiosity, not ourselves knowing in what precise place errant
damsels, disguised princesses, distressed countesses, may lie leaguer
within our dominions, which are, we thank God and our Lady of Embrun,
rather too extensive for us to answer easily his Eminence's most
reasonable enquiries. But supposing they were with us, what say you,
Dunois, to our cousin's peremptory demand?"
"I will answer you, my Liege, if you will tell me in sincerity,
whether you want war or peace," replied Dunois, with a frankness which,
while it arose out of his own native openness and intrepidity of
character, made him from time to time a considerable favourite with
Louis, who, like all astucious persons, was as desirous of looking into
the hearts of others, as of concealing his own.
"By my halidome," said he, "I should be as well contented as
thyself, Dunois, to tell thee my purpose, did I myself but know it
exactly. But say I declared for war, what should I do with this
beautiful and wealthy young heiress, supposing her to be in my
dominions?"
"Bestow her in marriage on one of your own gallant followers, who
has a heart to love and an arm to protect her," said Dunois.
"Upon thyself, ha!" said the King. "Pasquesdieu! thou art more
politic than I took thee for, with all thy bluntness."
"Nay, Sire," answered Dunois, "I am aught except politic. By our
Lady of Orleans, I come to the point at once, as I ride my horse at the
ring. Your Majesty owes the house of Orleans at least one happy
marriage."
"And I will pay it, Count. Pasques-dieu, I will pay it!—See you
not yonder fair couple?"
The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Orleans and the Princess,
who, neither daring to remain at a greater distance from the King, nor
in his sight appear separate from each other, were riding side by side,
yet with an interval of two or three yards betwixt them, a space which
timidity on the one side, and aversion on the other, prevented them
from diminishing, while neither dared to increase it.
Dunois looked in the direction of the King's signal, and as the
situation of his unfortunate relative and the destined bride reminded
him of nothing so much as of two dogs, which, forcibly linked together,
remain nevertheless as widely separated as the length of their collars
will permit, he could not help shaking his head, though he ventured not
on any other reply to the hypocritical tyrant. Louis seemed to guess
his thoughts.
"It will be a peaceful and quiet household they will keep—not
much disturbed with children, I should augur. [Note: Here the King
touches on the very purpose for which he pressed on the match with such
tyrannic severity, which was, that as the Princess's personal deformity
admitted little chance of its being fruitful, the branch of Orleans,
which was next in succession to the crown, might be, by the want of
heirs, weakened or extinguished. In a letter to the Compte de
Dammarten, Louis, speaking of his daughter's match, says, "Qu'ils
n'auroient pas beaucoup d'ambarras a nourrir les enfans que naitroient
de leur union; mais cependant elle aura lieu, quelque chose qu'on en
puisse dire."—Wraxall's History of France, vol. i. p. 143, note.] But
these are not always a blessing."
It was, perhaps, the recollection of his own filial ingratitude
that made the King pause as he uttered the last reflection, and which
converted the sneer that trembled on his lip into something resembling
an expression of contrition. But he instantly proceeded in another
tone.
"Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy sacrament of
matrimony," (here he crossed himself,) "I would rather the house of
Orleans raised for me such gallant soldiers as thy father and thyself,
who share the blood-royal of France without claiming its rights, than
that the country should be torn to pieces, like to England, by wars
arising from the rivalry of legitimate candidates for the crown. The
lion should never have more than one cub."
Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that contradicting his
arbitrary Sovereign might well hurt his kinsman's interests, but could
do him no service; yet he could not forbear adding, in the next moment,
"Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of my father, I must
needs own, that, setting the frailty of his parents on one side, he
might be termed happier, and more fortunate, as the son of lawless
love, than of conjugal hatred."
"Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak thus of holy
wedlock," answered Louis, jestingly. "But to the devil with the
discourse, for the boar is unharboured.—Lay on the dogs, in the name
of the holy Saint Hubert!—Ha! ha! tra-la-la-lira-la!"— And the
King's horn rung merrily through the woods as he pushed forward on the
chase, followed by two or three of his guards, amongst whom was our
friend Quentin Durward. And here it was remarkable, that, even in the
keen prosecution of his favourite sport, the King, in indulgence of his
caustic disposition, found leisure to amuse himself by tormenting
Cardinal Balue.
It was one of that able statesman's weaknesses, as we have
elsewhere hinted, to suppose himself, though of low rank and limited
education, qualified to play the courtier and the man of gallantry. He
did not, indeed, actually enter the lists of chivalrous combat, like
Becket, or levy soldiers like Wolsey. But gallantry, in which they also
were proficients, was his professed pursuit; and he likewise affected
great fondness for the martial amusement of the chase. Yet, however
well he might succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his
wealth, and his influence as a statesman, might atone for deficiencies
in appearance and manners, the gallant horses, which he purchased at
almost any price, were totally insensible to the dignity of carrying a
Cardinal, and paid no more respect to him than they would have done to
his father, the carter, miller, or tailor, whom he rivalled in
horsemanship. The King knew this, and, by alternately exciting and
checking his own horse, he brought that of the Cardinal, whom he kept
close by his side, into such a state of mutiny against his rider, that
it became apparent they must soon part company; and then, in the midst
of its starting, bolting, rearing, and lashing out, alternately, the
royal tormentor rendered the rider miserable, by questioning him upon
many affairs of importance, and hinting his purpose to take that
opportunity of communicating to him some of those secrets of state,
which the Cardinal had but a little while before seemed so anxious to
learn. [Note: A friendly, though unknown correspondent, has pointed out
to me that I have been mistaken in alleging that the Cardinal was a bad
rider. If so, I owe his memory an apology; for there are few men who,
until my latter days, have loved that exercise better than myself. But
the Cardinal may have been an indifferent horseman, though he wished to
be looked upon as equal to the dangers of the chase. He was a man of
assumption and ostentation, as he showed at the siege of Paris in 1465,
where, contrary to the custom and usage of war, he mounted guard during
the night with an unusual sound of clarions, trumpets, and other
instruments. In imputing to the Cardinal a want of skill in
horsemanship, I recollected his adventure in Paris when attacked by
assassins, on which occasion his mule, being scared by the crowd, ran
away with the rider, and taking its course to a monastery, to the abbot
of which he formerly belonged, was the means of saving his master's
life.—See Jean de Troyes' Chronicle.]
A more awkward situation could hardly be imagined, than that of a
privy-counsellor forced to listen to and reply to his sovereign, while
each fresh gambade of his unmanageable horse placed him in a new and
more precarious attitude—his violet robe flying loose in every
direction, and nothing securing him from an instant and perilous fall,
save the depth of the saddle, and its height before and behind. Dunois
laughed without restraint; while the King, who had a private mode of
enjoying his jest inwardly, without laughing aloud, mildly rebuked his
minister on his eager passion for the chase, which would not permit him
to dedicate a few moments to business. "I will no longer be your
hinderance to a course," continued he, addressing the terrified
Cardinal, and giving his own horse the rein at the same time.
Before Balue could utter a word by way of answer or apology, his
horse, seizing the bit with his teeth, went forth at an uncontrollable
gallop, soon leaving behind the King and Dunois, who followed at a more
regulated pace, enjoying the statesman's distressed predicament. If any
of our readers has chanced to be run away with in his time, (as we
ourselves have in ours,) he will have a full sense at once of the pain,
peril, and absurdity of the situation. Those four limbs of the
quadruped, which, noway under the rider's control, nor sometimes under
that of the creature they more properly belong to, fly at such a rate
as if the hindermost meant to overtake the foremost—those clinging
legs of the biped which we so often wish safely planted on the green
sward, but which now only augment our distress by pressing the animal's
sides—the hands which have forsaken the bridle for the mane—the
body which, instead of sitting upright on the centre of gravity, as old
Angelo used to recommend, or stooping forward like a jockey's at
Newmarket, lies, rather than hangs, crouched upon the back of the
animal, with no better chance of saving itself than a sack of
corn—combine to make a picture more than sufficiently ludicrous to
spectators, however uncomfortable to the exhibiter. But add to this
some singularity of dress or appearance on the part of the unhappy
cavalier—a robe of office, a splendid uniform, or any other
peculiarity of costume,—and let the scene of action be a race-course,
a review, a procession, or any other place of concourse and public
display, and if the poor wight would escape being the object of a shout
of inextinguishable laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or two,
or, which will be more effectual, to be killed on the spot; for on no
slighter condition will his fall excite any thing like serious
sympathy. On the present occasion, the short violet-coloured gown of
the Cardinal, which he used as a riding-dress, (having changed his long
robes before he left the Castle,) his scarlet stockings and scarlet
hat, with the long strings hanging down, together with his utter
helplessness, gave infinite zest to his exhibition of horsemanship.
The horse, having taken matters entirely into his own hand, flew
rather than galloped up a long green avenue, overtook the pack in hard
pursuit of the boar, and then, having overturned one or two yeomen
prickers, who little expected to be charged in the rear,—having
ridden down several dogs, and greatly confused the chase,—animated by
the clamorous expostulations and threats of the huntsman, carried the
terrified Cardinal past the formidable animal itself, which was rushing
on at a speedy trot, furious and embossed with the foam which he
churned around his tusks. Balue, on beholding himself so near the boar,
set up a dreadful cry for help, which, or perhaps the sight of the
boar, produced such an effect on his horse, that the animal interrupted
its headlong career by suddenly springing to one side; so that the
Cardinal, who had long kept his seat only because the motion was
straight forward, now fell heavily to the ground. The conclusion of
Balue's chase took place so near the boar, that, had not the animal
been at that moment too much engaged about his own affairs, the
vicinity might have proved as fatal to the Cardinal, as it is said to
have done to Favila, King of the Visigoths, of Spain. The powerful
churchman got off, however, for the fright, and, crawling as hastily as
he could out of the way of hounds and huntsmen, saw the whole chase
sweep by him without affording him assistance; for hunters in those
days were as little moved by sympathy for such misfortunes as they are
in our own.
The King, as he passed, said to Dunois, "Yonder lies his Eminence
low enough—he is no great huntsman, though for a fisher (when a
secret is to be caught) he may match Saint Peter himself. He has,
however, for once, I think, met with his match."
The Cardinal did not hear the words, but the scornful look with
which they were spoken led him to suspect their general import. The
devil is said to seize such opportunities of temptation as was now
afforded by the passions of Balue, bitterly moved as they had been by
the scorn of the King. The momentary fright was over so soon as he had
assured himself that his fall was harmless; but mortified vanity, and
resentment against his Sovereign, had a much longer influence on his
feelings.
After all the chase had passed him, a single cavalier, who seemed
rather to be a spectator than a partaker of the sport, rode up with one
or two attendants, and expressed no small surprise to find the Cardinal
upon the ground, without a horse or attendants, and in such a plight as
plainly showed the nature of the accident which had placed him there.
To dismount, and offer his assistance in this predicament,—to cause
one of his attendants resign a staid and quiet palfrey for the
Cardinal's use— to express his surprise at the customs of the French
Court, which thus permitted them to abandon to the dangers of the
chase, and forsake in his need, their wisest statesman, were the
natural modes of assistance and consolation which so strange a
rencontre supplied to Crèvecoeur; for it was the Burgundian ambassador
who came to the assistance of the fallen Cardinal.
He found the minister in a lucky time and humour for essaying some
of those practices on his fidelity, to which it is well known that
Balue had the criminal weakness to listen. Already in the morning, as
the jealous temper of Louis had suggested, more had passed betwixt them
than the Cardinal durst have reported to his master. But although he
had listened with gratified ears to the high value, which, he was
assured by Crèvecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy placed upon his person and
talents, and not without a feeling of temptation, when the Count hinted
at the munificence of his master's disposition, and the rich benefices
of Flanders, it was not until the accident, as we have related, had
highly irritated him, that, stung with wounded vanity, he resolved, in
a fatal hour, to show Louis XI., that no enemy can be so dangerous as
an offended friend and confidant.
On the present occasion, he hastily requested Crèvecoeur to
separate from him, lest they should be observed, but appointed him a
meeting for the evening in the Abbey of Saint Martin's at Tours, after
vesper service; and that in a tone which assured the Burgundian that
his master had obtained an advantage hardly to have been hoped for,
except in such a moment of exasperation.
In the meanwhile, Louis, who, though the most politic Prince of his
time, upon this, as on other occasions, had suffered his passions to
interfere with his prudence, followed contentedly the chase of the
wild boar which was now come to an interesting point. It had so
happened that a sounder (i.e. in the language of the period, a boar of
only two years old) had crossed the track of the proper object of the
chase, and withdrawn in pursuit of him all the dogs, (except two or
three couple of old stanch hounds,) and the greater part of the
huntsmen. The King saw, with internal glee, Dunois, as well as others,
follow upon this false scent, and enjoyed in secret the thought of
triumphing over that accomplished knight, in the art of venerie, which
was then thought almost as glorious as war. Louis was well mounted, and
followed close on the hounds; so that, when the original boar turned to
bay in a marshy piece of ground, there was no one near him but the King
himself.
Louis showed all the bravery and expertness of an experienced
huntsman; for, unheeding the danger, he rode up to the tremendous
animal, which was defending itself with fury against the dogs, and
struck him with his boar-spear; yet, as the horse shyed from the boar,
the blow was not so effectual as either to kill or disable him. No
effort could prevail on the horse to charge a second time; so that the
King, dismounting, advanced on foot against the furious animal, holding
naked in his hand one of those short, sharp, straight, and pointed
swords, which huntsmen used for such encounters. The boar instantly
quitted the dogs to rush on his human enemy, while the King, taking his
station, and posting himself firmly, presented the sword, with the
purpose of aiming it at the boar's throat, or rather chest, within the
collar-bone; in which case, the weight of the beast, and the
impetuosity of its career, would have served to accelerate its own
destruction. But, owing to the wetness of the ground, the King's foot
slipped, just as this delicate and perilous manoeuvre ought to have
been accomplished, so that the point of the sword encountering the
cuirass of bristles on the outside of the creature's shoulder, glanced
off without making any impression, and Louis fell flat on the ground.
This was so far fortunate for the Monarch, because the animal, owing to
the King's fall, missed his blow in his turn, and in passing only rent
with his tusk the King's short hunting-cloak, instead of ripping up his
thigh. But when, after running a little a-head in the fury of his
course, the boar turned to repeat his attack on the King at the moment
when he was rising, the life of Louis was in imminent danger. At this
critical moment, Quentin Durward, who had been thrown out in the chase
by the slowness of his horse, but who, nevertheless, had luckily
distinguished and followed the blast of the King's horn, rode up, and
transfixed the animal with his spear.
The King, who had by this time recovered his feet, came in turn to
Durward's assistance, and cut the animal's throat with his sword.
Before speaking a word to Quentin, he measured the huge creature not
only by paces, but even by feet—then wiped the sweat from his brow,
and the blood from his hands—then took off his hunting-cap, hung it
on a bush, and devoutly made his orisons to the little leaden images
which it contained—and at length, looking upon Durward, said to him,
"Is it thou, my young Scot?—thou has begun thy woodcraft well, and
Maitre Pierre owes thee as good entertainment as he gave thee at the
Fleurde -Lys yonder.—Why dost thou not speak? Thou hast lost thy
forwardness and fire, methinks, at the Court, where others find both."
Quentin, as shrewd a youth as ever Scottish breeze breathed caution
into, had imbibed more awe than confidence towards his dangerous
master, and was far too wise to embrace the perilous permission of
familiarity which he seemed thus invited to use. He answered in very
few and well-chosen words, that if he ventured to address his Majesty
at all, it could be but to crave pardon for the rustic boldness with
which he had conducted himself when ignorant of his high rank.
"Tush! man," said the King; "I forgive thy sauciness for thy spirit
and shrewdness. I admired how near thou didst hit upon my gossip
Tristan's occupation. You have nearly tasted of his handiwork since, as
I am given to understand. I bid thee beware of him; he is a merchant
who deals in rough bracelets and tight necklaces. Help me to my
horse—I like thee, and will do thee good. Build on no man's favour
but mine—not even on thine uncle's or Lord Crawford's—and say
nothing of thy timely aid in this matter of the boar; for if a man
makes boast that he has served a King in such a pinch, he must take the
braggart humour for its own recompense."
The King then winded his horn, which brought up Dunois and several
attendants, whose compliments he received on the slaughter of such a
noble animal, without scrupling to appropriate a much greater share of
merit than actually belonged to him; for he mentioned Durward's
assistance as slightly as a sportsman of rank, who, in boasting of the
number of birds which he has bagged, does not always dilate upon the
presence and assistance of the game-keeper. He then ordered Dunois to
see that the boar's carcass was sent to the brotherhood of Saint
Martin, at Tours, to mend their fare on holydays, and that they might
remember the King in their private devotions.
"And," said Louis, "who hath seen his Eminence my Lord Cardinal?
Methinks it were but poor courtesy, and cold regard to Holy Church, to
leave him afoot here in the forest."
"May it please you, Sire," said Quentin, when he saw that all were
silent, "I saw his Lordship the Cardinal accommodated with a horse, on
which he left the forest."
"Heaven cares for its own," replied the King. "Set forward to the
Castle, my lords; we'll hunt no more this morning.—You, Sir Squire,"
addressing Quentin, "reach me my wood-knife—it has dropped from the
sheath beside the quarry there. Ride on, Dunois—I follow instantly."
Louis, whose lightest motions were often conducted like stratagems,
thus gained an opportunity to ask Quentin privately, "My bonny Scot,
thou hast an eye, I see—Canst thou tell me who helped the Cardinal to
a palfrey?—Some stranger, I should suppose; for, as I passed without
stopping, the courtiers would likely be in no hurry to do him such a
timely good turn."
"I saw those who aided his Eminence but an instant, Sire," said
Quentin; "it was only a hasty glance, for I had been unluckily thrown
out, and was riding fast, to be in my place; but I think it was the
Ambassdor of Burgundy and his people."
"Ha!" said Louis.—"Well, be it so—France will match them yet."
There was nothing more remarkable happened, and the King, with his
retinue, returned to the Castle.
CHAPTER X. THE SENTINEL.
Where should this music be? i' the air, or the earth?
The Tempest.
—I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul
Under the ribs of death. Comus.
Quentin had hardly reached his little cabin, in order to make some
necessary changes in his dress, when his worthy relative required to
know the full particulars of all that had befallen him at the hunt.
The youth, who could not help thinking that his uncle's hand was
probably more powerful than his understanding, took care, in his reply,
to leave the King in full possession of the victory which he had seemed
desirous to appropriate. Le Balafré's reply was a boast of how much
better he himself would have behaved in the like circumstances, and it
was mixed with a gentle censure of his nephew's slackness, in not
making in to the King's assistance, when he might be in imminent peril.
The youth had prudence, in answer, to abstain from all farther
vindication of his own conduct, except that, according to the rules of
woodcraft, he held it ungentle to interfere with the game attacked by
another hunter, unless he was specially called upon for his assistance.
This discussion was scarcely ended, when occasion was afforded Quentin
to congratulate himself for observing some reserve towards his kinsman.
A low tap at the door announced a visitor—it was presently opened,
and Oliver Dain, or Mauvais, or Diable, for by all these names he was
known, entered the apartment.
This able but most unprincipled man has been already described, in
so far as his exterior is concerned. The aptest resemblance of his
motions and manners might perhaps be to those of the domestic cat,
which, while couching in seeming slumber, or gliding through the
apartment with slow, stealthy, and timid steps, is now engaged in
watching the hole of some unfortunate mouse, now in rubbing herself
with apparent confidence and fondness against those by whom she desires
to be caressed, and, presently after, is flying upon her prey, or
scratching, perhaps, the very object of her former cajolements.
He entered with stooping shoulders, a humble and modest look, and
threw such a degree of civility into his address to the Seignior
Balafré, that no one who saw the interview could have avoided
concluding that he came to ask a boon of the Scottish Archer. He
congratulated Lesly on the excellent conduct of his young kinsman in
the chase that day, which, he observed, had attracted the King's
particular attention. He here paused for a reply; and with his eyes
fixed on the ground, save just when once or twice they stole upwards
to take a side glance at Quentin, he heard Balafré observe, "That his
Majesty had been unlucky in not having himself by his side instead of
his nephew, as he would questionless have made in, and speared the
brute, a matter which he understood Quentin had left upon his Majesty's
royal hands, so far as he could learn the story. But it will be a
lesson to his Majesty," he said, "while he lives, to mount a man of my
inches on a better horse; for how could my great hill of a Flemish
dray-horse keep up with his Majesty's Norman runner? I am sure I
spurred till his sides were furrowed. It is ill considered, Master
Oliver, and you must represent it to his Majesty."
Master Oliver only replied to this observation by turning towards
the bold bluff speaker one of those slow, dubious glances, which,
accompanied by a slight motion of the hand, and a gentle depression of
the head to one side, may be either interpreted as a mute assent to
what is said, or as a cautious deprecation of farther prosecution of
the subject. It was a keener, more scrutinizing glance, which he bent
on the youth, as he said, with an ambiguous smile, "So, young man, is
it the wont of Scotland to suffer your Princes to be endangered for the
lack of aid, in such emergencies as this of to-day?"
"It is our custom," answered Quentin, determined to throw no
farther light on the subject, "not to encumber them with assistance in
honourable pastimes, when they can aid themselves without it. We hold
that a Prince in a hunting-field must take his chance with others, and
that he comes there for the very purpose. What were woodcraft without
fatigue and without danger?"
"You hear the silly boy," said his uncle; "that is always the way
with him; he hath an answer or a reason ready to be rendered to every
one. I wonder whence he hath caught the gift; I never could give a
reason for any thing I have ever done in my life, except for eating
when I was a-hungry, calling the muster-roll, and such points of duty
as the like."
"And pray, worthy Seignior," said the royal tonsor, looking at him
from under his eyelids, "what might your reason be for calling the
muster-roll on such occasions?"
"Because the Captain commanded me," said Le Balafré. "By Saint
Giles, I know no other reason! If he had commanded Tyrie or Cunningham,
they must have done the same."
"A most military final cause!" said Oliver.— "But, Seignior Le
Balafré, you will be glad, doubtless, to learn, that his Majesty is so
far from being displeased with your nephew's conduct, that he hath
selected him to execute a piece of duty this afternoon."
"Selected him?" said Balafré, in great surprise; —"Selected me, I
suppose you mean?"
"I mean precisely as I speak," replied the barber, in a mild but
decided tone; "the King hath a commission with which to intrust your
nephew."
"Why, wherefore, and for what reason?" said Balafré; "why doth he
choose the boy, and not me?"
"I can go no farther back than your own ultimate cause, Seignior
Le Balafré; such are his Majesty's commands. But," said he, "if I might
use the presumption to form a conjecture, it may be his Majesty hath
work to do, fitter for a youth like your nephew, than for an
experienced warrior like yourself, Seignior Balafré.—Wherefore, young
gentleman, get your weapons and follow me. Bring with you a harquebuss,
for you are to mount sentinel."
"Sentinel!" said the uncle—"are you sure you are right, Master
Oliver? The inner guards of the Castle have ever been mounted by those
only who have (like me) served twelve years in our honourable body."
"I am quite certain of his Majesty's pleasure," said Oliver, "and
must no longer delay executing it."
"But," said Le Balafré, "my nephew is not even a free Archer, being
only an Esquire, serving under my lance."
"Pardon me," answered Oliver, "the King sent for the register not
half an hour since, and enrolled him among the Guard.—Have the
goodness to assist to put your nephew in order for the service."
Balafré, who had no ill-nature, or even much jealousy, in his
disposition, hastily set about adjusting his nephew's dress, and giving
him directions for his conduct under arms, but was unable to refrain
from larding them with interjections of surprise at such luck chancing
to fall upon the young man so early.
"It had never taken place before in the Scottish Guard," he said,
"not even in his own instance. But doubtless his service must be to
mount guard over the popinjays and Indian peacocks, which the Venetian
ambassador had lately presented to the King—it could be nothing else;
and such duty being only fit for a beardless boy," (here he twirled his
own grim mustaches,) "he was glad the lot had fallen on his fair
nephew."
Quick, and sharp of wit, as well as ardent in fancy, Quentin saw
visions of higher importance in this early summons to the royal
presence, and his heart beat high at the anticipation of rising into
speedy distinction. He determined carefully to watch the manners and
language of his conductor, which he suspected must, in some cases at
least, be interpreted by contraries, as soothsayers are said to
discover the interpretation of dreams. He could not but hug himself on
having observed strict secrecy on the events of the chase, and then
formed a resolution, which, for so young a person, had much prudence in
it, that while he breathed the air of this secluded and mysterious
Court, he would keep his thoughts locked in his bosom, and his tongue
under the most careful regulation.
His equipment was soon complete, and, with his harquebuss on his
shoulder, (for though they retained the name of Archers, the Scottish
Guard very early substituted fire-arms for the long-bow, in the use of
which their nation never excelled,) he followed Master Oliver out of
the barrack.
His uncle looked long after him, with a countenance in which wonder
was blended with curiosity; and though neither envy nor the malignant
feelings which it engenders, entered into his honest meditation, there
was yet a sense of wounded or diminished self-importance, which mingled
with the pleasure excited by his nephew's favourable commencement of
service.
He shook his head gravely, opened a privy cupboard, took out a
large bottrine of stout old wine, shook it to examine how low the
contents had ebbed, filled and drank a hearty cup; then took his seat,
half reclining, on the great oaken settle, and having once again slowly
shaken his head, received so much apparent benefit from the
oscillation, that, like the toy called a mandarin, he continued the
motion until he dropped into a slumber, from which he was first roused
by the signal to dinner.
When Quentin Durward left his uncle to these sublime meditations,
he followed his conductor, Master Oliver, who, without crossing any of
the principal courts, led him partly through private passages exposed
to the open air, but chiefly through a maze of stairs, vaults, and
galleries, communicating with each other by secret doors, and at
unexpected points, into a large and spacious latticed gallery, which,
from its breadth, might have been almost termed a hall, hung with
tapestry more ancient than beautiful, and with a very few of the hard,
cold, ghastly-looking pictures, belonging to the first dawn of the
arts, which preceded their splendid sunrise. These were designed to
represent the Paladins of Charlemagne, who made such a distinguished
figure in the romantic history of France; and as the gigantic form of
the celebrated Orlando constituted the most prominent figure, the
apartment acquired from him the title of Roland's Hall, or Roland's
gallery. [Note: Charlemagne, I suppose on account of his unsparing
rigour to the Saxons and other heathens, was accounted a saint during
the dark ages; and Louis XI., as one of his successors, honoured his
shrine with peculiar observance.]
"You will keep watch here," said Oliver, in a low whisper, as if
the hard delineations of monarchs and warriors around could have been
offended at the elevation of his voice, or as if he had feared to
awaken the echoes that lurked among the groined- vaults and Gothic
drop-work on the ceiling of this huge and dreary apartment.
"What are the orders and signs of my watch?" answered Quentin, in
the same suppressed tone.
"Is your harquebuss loaded?" replied Oliver, without answering his
query.
"That," answered Quentin, "is soon done;" and proceeded to charge
his weapon, and to light the slow-match (by which when necessary it was
discharged) at the embers of a wood fire, which was expiring in the
huge hall chimney—a chimney itself so large, that it might have been
called a Gothic closet or chapel appertaining to the hall.
When this was performed, Oliver told him that he was ignorant of
one of the high privileges of his own corps, which only received orders
from the King in person, or the High Constable of France, in lieu of
their own officers. "You are placed here by his Majesty's command,
young man," added Oliver, "and you will not be long here without
knowing wherefore you are summoned. Meantime your walk extends along
this gallery. You are permitted to stand still while you list, but on
no account to sit down, or quit your weapon. You are not to sing aloud,
or whistle, upon any account; but you may, if you list, mutter some of
the church's prayers, or what else you list that has no offence in it,
in a low voice. Farewell, and keep good watch."
"Good watch!" thought the youthful soldier as his guide stole away
from him with that noiseless gliding step which was peculiar to him,
and vanished through a side door behind the arras—"Good watch! but
upon whom, and against whom?—for what, save bats or rats, are there
here to contend with, unless these grim old representatives of humanity
should start into life for the disturbance of my guard? Well, it is my
duty, I suppose, and I must perform it."
With the vigorous purpose of discharging his duty, even to the very
rigour, he tried to while away the time with some of the pious hymns
which he had learned in the convent in which he had found shelter after
the death of his father—allowing in his own mind, that but for the
change of a novice's frock for the rich military dress which he now
wore, his soldierly walk in the royal gallery of France resembled
greatly those of which he had tired excessively in the cloistered
seclusion of Aberbrothick.
Presently, as if to convince himself he now belonged not to the
cell but to the world, he chanted to himself, but in such tone as not
to exceed the license given to him, some of the ancient rude ballads
which the old family harper had taught him, of the defeat of the Danes
at Aberlemno and Forres, the murder of King Duffus at Forfar, and other
pithy sonnets and lays, which appertained to the history of his distant
native country, and particularly of the district to which he belonged.
This wore away a considerable space of time, and it was now more than
two hours past noon, when Quentin was reminded by his appetite that the
good fathers of Aberbrothick, however strict in demanding his
attendance upon the hours of devotion, were no less punctual in
summoning him to those of refection; whereas here, in the interior of a
royal palace, after a morning spent in exercise, and a noon exhausted
in duty, no man seemed to consider it as a natural consequence that he
must be impatient for his dinner.
There are, however, charms in sweet sounds which can lull to rest
even the natural feelings of impatience, by which Quentin was now
visited. At the opposite extremities of the long hall or gallery, were
two large doors, ornamented with heavy architraves, probably opening
into different suites of apartments, to which the gallery served as a
medium of mutual communication. As the sentinel directed his solitary
walk betwixt these two entrances, which formed the boundary of his
duty, he was startled by a strain of music, which was suddenly waked
near one of those doors, and which, at least in his imagination, was a
combination of the same lute and voice by which he had been enchanted
on the preceding day. All the dreams of yesterday morning, so much
weakened by the agitating circumstances which he had since undergone,
again rose more vivid from their slumber, and, planted on the spot
where his ear could most conveniently drink in the sounds, Quentin
remained, with his harquebuss shouldered, his mouth half open, ear,
eye, and soul directed to the spot, rather the picture of a sentinel
than a living form,—without any other idea than that of catching, if
possible, each passing sound of the dulcet melody.
These delightful sounds were but partially heard —they
languished, lingered, ceased entirely, and were from time to time
renewed after uncertain intervals. But, besides that music, like
beauty, is often most delightful, or at least most interesting to the
imagination, when its charms are but partially displayed, and the
imagination is left to fill up what is from distance but imperfectly
detailed, Quentin had matter enough to fill up his reverie during the
intervals of fascination. He could not doubt, from the report of his
uncle's comrades, and the scene which had passed in the
presence-chamber that morning, that the siren who thus delighted his
ears, was not, as he had profanely supposed, the daughter or kinswoman
of a base cabaretier, but the same disguised and distressed Countess,
for whose cause Kings and Princes were now about to buckle on armour,
and put lance in rest. A hundred, wild dreams, such as romantic and
adventurous youth readily nourished in a romantic and adventurous age,
chased from his eyes the bodily presentment of the actual scene, and
substituted their own bewildering delusions, when at once, and rudely,
they were banished by a rough grasp laid upon his weapon, and a harsh
voice which exclaimed, close to his ear, "Ha! Pasques-dieu, Sir Squire,
methinks you keep sleepy ward here!"
The voice was the tuneless, yet impressive and ironical tone of
Maitre Pierre, and Quentin, suddenly recalled to himself, saw, with
shame and fear, that he had, in his reverie, permitted Louis himself
—entering probably by some secret door, and gliding along by the
wall, or behind the tapestry —to approach him so nearly, as almost to
master his weapon.
The first impulse of his surprise was to free his harquebuss by a
violent exertion, which made the King stagger backward into the hall.
His next apprehension was, that in obeying the animal instinct, as it
may be termed, which prompts a brave man to resist an attempt to disarm
him, he had aggravated, by a personal struggle with the King, the
displeasure produced by the negligence with which he had performed his
duty upon guard; and, under this impression, he recovered his
harquebuss without almost knowing what he did, and, having again
shouldered it, stood motionless before the Monarch, whom he had reason
to conclude he had mortally offended.
Louis, whose tyrannical disposition was less founded on natural
ferocity or cruelty of temper, than on cold-blooded policy and jealous
suspicion, had, nevertheless, a share of that caustic severity which
would have made him a despot in private conversation, and always seemed
to enjoy the pain which he inflicted on occasions like the present. But
he did not push his triumph far, and contented himself with
saying,—"Thy service of the morning hath already overpaid some
negligence in so young a soldier—Hast thou dined?"
Quentin, who rather looked to be sent to the Provost-Marshal, than
greeted with such a compliment, answered humbly in the negative.
"Poor lad," said Louis, in a softer tone than he usually spoke in,
"hunger hath made him drowsy. —I know thine appetite is a wolf," he
continued; "and I will save thee from one wild beast as thou didst me
from another;—thou hast been prudent too in that matter, and I thank
thee for it.—Canst thou yet hold out an hour without food?"
"Four-and-twenty, Sire," replied Durward, "or I were no true Scot."
"I would not for another kingdom be the pasty which should
encounter thee after such a vigil," said the King; "but the question
now is, not of thy dinner, but of my own. I admit to my table this day,
and in strict privacy, the Cardinal Balue and this Burgundian—this
Count de Crèvecoeur, and something may chance—the devil is most busy
when foes meet on terms of truce."
He stopped, and remained silent, with a deep and gloomy look. As
the King was in no haste to proceed, Quentin at length ventured to ask
what his duty was to be in these circumstances.
"To keep watch at the beauffet, with thy loaded weapon," said
Louis; "and if there is treason, to shoot the traitor dead."
"Treason, Sire! and in this guarded Castle!" exclaimed Durward.
"You think it impossible," said the King, not offended, it would
seem, by his frankness; "but our history has shown that treason can
creep into an auger-hole.—Treason excluded by guards! O thou silly
boy!—quis custodiat ipsos custodes—who shall exclude the treason of
those very warders?"
"Their Scottish honour," answered Durward, boldly.
"True; most right—thou pleasest me," said the King, cheerfully;
"the Scottish honour was ever true, and I trust it accordingly. But
treason!"— Here he relapsed into his former gloomy mood, and
traversed the apartment with unequal steps— "She sits at our feasts,
she sparkles in our bowls, she wears the beard of our counsellors, the
smiles of our courtiers, the crazy laugh of our jesters— above all,
she lies hid under the friendly air of a reconciled enemy. Louis of
Orleans trusted John of Burgundy—he was murdered in the Rue Barbette.
John of Burgundy trusted the faction of Orleans—he was murdered on
the Bridge of Montereau. —I will trust no one—no one. Hark ye; I
will keep my eye on that insolent Count; ay, and on the Churchman too,
whom I hold not too faithful. When I say, Ecosse, en avant, [Note:
Forward, Scotland] shoot Crèvecoeur dead on the spot."
"It is my duty," said Quentin, "your Majesty's life being
endangered."
"Certainly—I mean it no otherwise," said the King.—"What should
I get by slaying this insolent soldier?—Were it the Constable Saint
Paul indeed"—Here he paused, as if he thought he had said a word too
much, but resumed, laughing, "There's our brother-in-law, James of
Scotland— your own James, Quentin—poniarded the Douglas when on a
hospitable visit, within his own royal castle of Skirling."
"Of Stirling," said Quentin, "and so please your highness.—It was
a deed of which came little good."
"Stirling call you the castle?" said the King, overlooking the
latter part of Quentin's speech— "Well, let it be Stirling—the name
is nothing to the purpose. But I meditate no injury to these
men—none—It would serve me nothing. They may not purpose equally
fair by me.—I rely on thy harquebuss."
"I shall be prompt at the signal," said Quentin; "but yet"—
"You hesitate," said the King. "Speak out— I give thee full
leave. From such as thou art, hints may be caught that are right
valuable."
"I would only presume to say," replied Quentin, "that your Majesty
having occasion to distrust this Burgundian, I marvel that you suffer
him to approach so near your person, and that in privacy."
"O content you, Sir Squire," said the King. "There are some
dangers, which, when they are braved, disappear, and which yet, when
there is an obvious and apparent dread of them displayed, become
certain and inevitable. When I walk boldly up to a surly mastiff, and
caress him, it is ten to one I soothe him to good temper; if I show
fear of him, he flies on me and rends me. I will be thus far frank with
thee—It concerns me nearly that this man returns not to his headlong
master in a resentful humour. I run my risk, therefore. I have never
shunned to expose my life for the weal of my kingdom.—Follow me."
Louis led his young Life-guards-man, for whom he seemed to have
taken a special favour, through the side-door by which he had himself
entered, saying, as he showed it him, "He who would thrive at Court
must know the private wickets and concealed staircases—ay, and the
traps and pitfalls of the palace, as well as the principal entrances,
folding-doors, and portals."
After several turns and passages, the King entered a small vaulted
room, where a table was prepared for dinner with three covers. The
whole furniture and arrangements of the room were plain almost to
meanness. A beauffet, or folding and movable cupboard, held a few
pieces of gold and silver plate, and was the only article in the
chamber which had, in the slightest degree, the appearance of royalty.
Behind this cupboard, and completely hidden by it, was the post which
Louis assigned to Quentin Durward; and after having ascertained, by
going to different parts of the room, that he was invisible from all
quarters, he gave him his last charge—"Remember the word, Ecosse, en
avant; and so soon as ever I utter these sounds, throw down the
screen—spare not for cup or goblet, and be sure thou take good aim at
Crèvecoeur—If thy piece fail, cling to him, and use thy
knife—Oliver and I can deal with the Cardinal."
Having thus spoken, he whistled aloud, and summoned into the
apartment Oliver, who was premier-valet of the chamber as well as
barber, and who, in fact, performed all offices immediately connected
with the King's person, and who now appeared, attended by two old men,
who were the only assistants or waiters at the royal table. So soon as
the King had taken his place, the visitors were admitted; and Quentin,
though himself unseen, was so situated as to remark all the particulars
of the interview.
The King welcomed his visitors with a degree of cordiality, which
Quentin had the utmost difficulty to reconcile with the directions
which he had previously received, and the purpose for which he stood
behind the beauffet with his deadly weapon in readiness. Not only did
Louis appear totally free from apprehension of any kind, but one would
have supposed that those visitors whom he had done the high honour to
admit to his table, were the very persons in whom he could most
unreservedly confide, and whom he was most willing to honour. Nothing
could be more dignified, and at the same time more courteous, than his
demeanour. While all around him, including even his own dress, was far
beneath the splendour which the petty princes of the kingdom displayed
in their festivities, his own language and manners were those of a
mighty Sovereign in his most condescending mood. Quentin was tempted to
suppose, either that the whole of his previous conversation with Louis
had been a dream, or that the dutiful demeanour of the Cardinal, and
the frank, open, and gallant bearing of the Burgundian noble, had
entirely erased the King's suspicion.
But whilst the guests, in obedience to the King, were in the act of
placing themselves at the table, his Majesty darted one keen glance on
them, and then instantly directed his look to Quentin's post. This was
done in an instant; but the glance conveyed so much doubt and hatred
towards his guests, such a peremptory injunction on Quentin to be
watchful in attendance, and prompt in execution, that no room was left
for doubting that the sentiments of Louis continued unaltered, and his
apprehensions unabated. He was, therefore, more than ever astonished at
the deep veil under which that Monarch was able to conceal the
movements of his jealous disposition.
Appearing to have entirely forgotten the language which Crèvecoeur
had held towards him in the face of his Court, the King conversed with
him of old times, of events which had occurred during his own exile in
the territories of Burgundy, and enquired respecting all the nobles
with whom he had been then familiar, as if that period had indeed been
the happiest of his life, and as if he retained towards all who had
contributed to soften the term of his exile, the kindest and most
grateful sentiments.
"To an ambassador of another nation," he said, "I would have thrown
something of state into our reception; but to an old friend, who often
shared my board at the Castle of Genappes, [Note: During his residence
in Burgundy, in his father's lifetime, Genappes was the usual abode of
Louis. This period of exile is often alluded to in the novel.] I wished
to show myself, as I love best to live, old Louis of Valois, as simple
and plain as any of his Parisian badauds. But I directed them to make
some better cheer than ordinary for you, Sir Count, for I know your
Burgundian proverb, 'Mieux vault bon repas que bel habit;' and
therefore I bid them have some care of our table. For our wine, you
know well it is the subject of an old emulation betwixt France and
Burgundy, which we will presently reconcile; for I will drink to you in
Burgundy, and you, Sir Count, shall pledge me in Champagne.—Here,
Oliver, let me have a cup of Vin d' Auxerre;" and he hummed gaily a
song then well known—
"Auxerre est le boisson des Rois."
"Here, Sir Count, I drink to the health of the noble Duke of
Burgundy, our kind and loving cousin.— Oliver, replenish you golden
cup with Vin de Rheims, and give it to the Count on your knee— he
represents our loving brother.—My Lord Cardinal, we will ourself fill
your cup."
"You have already, Sire, even to overflowing," said the Cardinal,
with the lowly mien of a favourite towards an indulgent master.
"Because we know that your Eminence can carry it with a steady
hand," said Louis. "But which side do you espouse in the great
controversy—Sillery or Auxerre—France or Burgundy?"
"I will stand neutral, Sire," said the Cardinal, "and replenish my
cup with Auvernat."
"A neutral has a perilous part to sustain," said the King; but as
he observed the Cardinal colour somewhat, he glided from the subject,
and added, "But you prefer the Auvernat, because it is so noble a wine
it endures not water.—You, Sir Count, hesitate to empty your cup. I
trust you have found no national bitterness at the bottom."
"I would, Sir," said the Count de Crèvecoeur, "that all national
quarrels could be as pleasantly ended as the rivalry betwixt our
vineyards."
"With time, Sir Count," answered the King, "with time—such time
as you have taken to your draught of Champagne.—And now that it is
finished, favour me by putting the goblet in your bosom, and keeping it
as a pledge of our regard. It is not to every one that we would part
with it. It belonged of yore to that terror of France, Henry V. of
England, and was taken when Rouen was reduced, and those islanders
expelled from Normandy by the joint arms of France and Burgundy. It
cannot be better bestowed than on a noble and valiant Burgundian, who
well knows that on the union of these two nations depends the
continuance of the freedom of the continent from the English yoke."
The Count made a suitable answer, and Louis gave unrestrained way
to the satirical gaiety of disposition which sometimes enlivened the
darker shades of his character. Leading, of course, the conversation,
his remarks, always shrewd and caustic, and often actually witty, were
seldom good-natured, and the anecdotes with which he illustrated them
were often more humorous than delicate; but in no one word, syllable,
or letter, did he betray the state of mind of one who, apprehensive of
assassination, hath in his apartment an armed soldier, with his piece
loaded, in order to prevent or anticipate an attack on his person.
The Count of Crèvecoeur gave frankly into the King's humour; while
the smooth churchman laughed at every jest, and enhanced every
ludicrous idea, without exhibiting any shame at expressions which made
the rustic young Scot blush even in his place of concealment. [Note:
The nature of Louis XIth's coarse humour may be guessed at by those who
have perused the "Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," which are grosser than
most similar collections of the age.] In about an hour and a half the
tables were drawn; and the King, taking courteous leave of his guests,
gave the signal that it was his desire to be alone.
So soon as all, even Oliver, had retired, he called Quentin from
his place of concealment; but with a voice so faint, that the youth
could scarce believe it to be the same which had so lately given
animation to the jest, and zest to the tale. As he approached, he saw
an equal change in his countenance. The light of assumed vivacity had
left the King's eyes, the smile had deserted his face, and he exhibited
all the fatigue of a celebrated actor, when he has finished the
exhausting representation of some favourite character, in which, while
upon the stage, he had displayed the utmost vivacity.
"Thy watch is not yet over," said he to Quentin —"refresh thyself
for an instant—yonder table affords the means—I will then instruct
thee in thy farther duty. Meanwhile, it is ill talking between a full
man and a fasting."
He threw himself back on his seat, covered his brow with his hand,
and was silent.
CHAPTER XI. THE HALL OF ROLAND.
Painters show Cupid blind—Hath Hymen eyes?
Or is his sight warp'd by those spectacles
Which parents, guardians, and advisers, lend him,
That he may look through them on lands and mansions,
On jewels, gold, and all such rich dotations,
And see their value ten times magnified?—
Methinks 'twill brook a question.
The Miseries of Enforced Marriage.
Louis the XIth of France, though the sovereign in Europe who was
fondest and most jealous of power, desired only its substantial
enjoyment; and though he knew well enough, and at times exacted
strictly, the observances due to his rank, was in general singularly
careless of show.
In a prince of sounder moral qualities, the familiarity with which
he invited subjects to his board —nay, occasionally sat at
theirs—must have been highly popular; and even such as he was, the
King's homeliness of manners atoned for many of his vices with that
class of his subjects who were not particularly exposed to the
consequences of his suspicion and jealousy. The tiers état, or commons
of France, who rose to more opulence and consequence under the reign of
this sagacious Prince, respected his person, though they loved him not;
and it was resting on their support that he was enabled to make his
party good against the hatred of the nobles, who conceived that he
diminished the honour of the French crown, and obscured their own
splendid privileges, by that very neglect of form which gratified the
citizens and commons.
With patience, which most other princes would have considered as
degrading, and not without a sense of amusement, the Monarch of France
waited till his Life-guards-man had satisfied the keenness of a
youthful appetite. It may be supposed, however, that Quentin had too
much sense and prudence to put the royal patience to a long or tedious
proof; and indeed he was repeatedly desirous to break off his repast
ere Louis would permit him. "I see it in thine eye," he said,
good-naturedly, "that thy courage is not half abated. Go on—God and
Saint Dennis!—charge again. I tell thee that meat and mass" (crossing
himself) "never hindered the work of a good Christian man. Take a cup
of wine; but mind thou be cautious of the wine-pot— it is the vice of
thy countrymen as well as of the English, who, lacking that folly, are
the choicest soldiers ever wore armour. And now wash speedily —forget
not thy bénédicité, and follow me."
Quentin obeyed, and, conducted by a different, but as mazelike an
approach as he had formerly passed, he followed Louis into the Hall of
Roland.
"Take notice," said the King, imperatively, "thou hast never left
this post—let that be thine answer to thy kinsman and comrades—and,
hark thee, to bind the recollection on thy memory, I give thee this
gold chain," (flinging on his arm one of considerable value.) "If I go
not brave myself, those whom I trust have ever the means to ruffle it
with the best. But, when such chains as these bind not the tongue from
wagging too freely, my gossip, L'Hermite, hath an amulet for the
throat, which never fails to work a certain cure. And now attend. —No
man, save Oliver or I myself, enters here this evening; but ladies will
come hither, perhaps from the one extremity of the hall, perhaps from
the other, perhaps one from each. You may answer if they address you,
but, being on duty, your answer must be brief; and you must neither
address them in your turn, nor engage in any prolonged discourse. But
hearken to what they say. Thine ears, as well as thy hands, are
mine—I have bought thee, body and soul. Therefore, if thou hearest
aught of their conversation, thou must retain it in memory until it is
communicated to me, and then forget it. And, now I think better on it,
it will be best that thou pass for a Scottish recruit, who hath come
straight down from his mountains, and hath not yet acquired our most
Christian language.—Right.— So, if they speak to thee, thou wilt
not answer— this will free you from embarrassment, and lead them to
converse without regard to your presence. You understand
me.—Farewell. Be wary, and thou hast a friend."
The King had scarce spoken these words ere he disappeared behind
the arras, leaving Quentin to meditate on what he had seen and heard.
The youth was in one of those situations from which it is pleasanter
to look forward than to look back; for the reflection that he had been
planted like a marks-man in a thicket who watches for a stag, to take
the life of the noble Count of Crèvecoeur, had in it nothing ennobling.
It was very true, that the King's measures seemed on this occasion
merely cautionary and defensive; but how did the youth know but he
might be soon commanded on some offensive operation of the same kind?
This would be an unpleasant crisis, since it was plain, from the
character of his master, that there would be destruction in refusing,
while his honour told him there would be disgrace in complying. He
turned his thoughts from this subject of reflection, with the sage
consolation so often adopted by youth when prospective dangers intrude
themselves on their mind, that it was time enough to think what was to
be done when the emergence actually arrived, and that sufficient for
the day was the evil thereof.
Quentin made use of this sedative reflection the more easily, that
the last commands of the King had given him something more agreeable to
think of than his own condition. The Lady of the Lute was certainly one
of those to whom his attention was to be dedicated; and well in his
mind did he promise to obey one part of the King's mandate, and listen
with diligence to every word that might drop from her lips, that he
might know if the magic of her conversation equalled that of her music.
But with as much sincerity did he swear to himself, that no part of her
discourse should be reported by him to the King, which might affect
the fair speaker otherwise than favourably.
Meantime, there was no fear of his again slumbering on his post.
Each passing breath of wind, which, finding its way through the open
lattice, waved the old arras, sounded like the approach of the fair
object of his expectation. He felt, in short, all that mysterious
anxiety, and eagerness of expectation, which is always the companion of
love, and sometimes hath a considerable share in creating it.
At length, a door actually creaked and jingled, (for the doors even
of palaces did not in the fifteenth century turn on their hinges so
noiseless as ours;) but, alas! it was not at that end of the hall from
which the lute had been heard. It opened, however, and a female figure
entered, followed by two others, whom she directed by a sign to remain
without, while she herself came forward into the hall. By her imperfect
and unequal gait, which showed to peculiar disadvantage as she
traversed this long gallery, Quentin at once recognised the Princess
Joan, and, with the respect which became his situation, drew himself up
in a fitting attitude of silent vigilance, and lowered his weapon to
her as she passed. She acknowledged the courtesy by a gracious
inclination of her head, and he had an opportunity of seeing her
countenance more distinctly than he had in the morning.
There was little in the features of this ill-fated Princess to
atone for the misfortune of her shape and gait. Her face was, indeed,
by no means disagreeable in itself, though destitute of beauty; and
there was a meek expression of suffering patience in her large blue
eyes, which were commonly fixed upon the ground. But besides that she
was extremely pallid in complexion, her skin had the yellowish
discoloured tinge which accompanies habitual bad health; and though her
teeth were white and regular, her lips were thin and pale. The Princess
had a profusion of flaxen hair, but it was so light-coloured, as to be
almost of a bluish tinge; and her tire-woman, who doubtless considered
the luxuriance of her mistress's tresses as a beauty, had not greatly
improved matters, by arranging them in curls around her pale
countenance, to which they added an expression almost corpse-like and
unearthly. To make matters still worse, she had chosen a vest or cymar
of a pale green silk, which gave her, on the whole, a ghastly and even
spectral appearance.
While Quentin followed this singular apparition with eyes in which
curiosity was blended with compassion, for every look and motion of the
Princess seemed to call for the latter feeling, two ladies entered from
the upper end of the apartment.
One of these was the young person, who, upon Louis's summons, had
served him with fruit, while Quentin made his memorable breakfast at
the Fleurde-Lys. Invested now with all the mysterious dignity belonging
to the nymph of the veil and lute, and proved, besides, (at least in
Quentin's estimation,) to be the high-born heiress of a rich earldom,
her beauty made ten times the impression upon him which it had done
when he beheld in her one whom he deemed the daughter of a paltry
innkeeper, in attendance upon a rich and humorous old burgher. He now
wondered what fascination could ever have concealed from him her real
character. Yet her dress was nearly as simple as before, being a suit
of deep mourning, without any ornaments. Her head-dress was but a veil
of crape, which was entirely thrown back, so as to leave her face
uncovered; and it was only Quentin's knowledge of her actual rank,
which gave in his estimation new elegance to her beautiful shape, a
dignity to her step which had before remained unnoticed, and to her
regular features, brilliant complexion, and dazzling eyes, an air of
conscious nobleness, that enhanced their beauty.
Had death been the penalty, Durward must needs have rendered to
this beauty and her companion the same homage which he had just paid to
the royalty of the Princess. They received it as those who were
accustomed to the deference of inferiors, and returned it with
courtesy; but he thought—perhaps it was but a youthful vision— that
the young lady coloured slightly, kept her eyes on the ground, and
seemed embarrassed, though in a trifling degree, as she returned his
military salutation. This must have been owing to her recollection of
the audacious stranger in the neighbouring turret at the Fleur-de-Lys;
but did that discomposure express displeasure? This question he had no
means to determine.
The companion of the youthful Countess, dressed like herself
simply, and in deep mourning, was at the age when women are apt to
cling most closely to that reputation for beauty which has for years
been diminishing. She had still remains enough to show what the power
of her charms must once have been, and, remembering past triumphs, it
was evident from her manner that she had not relinquished the
pretensions to future conquests. She was tall and graceful, though
somewhat haughty in her deportment, and returned the salute of Quentin
with a smile of gracious condescension, whispering, the next instant,
something into her companion's ear, who turned towards the soldier, as
if to comply with some hint from the elder lady, but answered,
nevertheless, without raising her eyes. Quentin could not help
suspecting that the observation called on the young lady to notice his
own good mien; and he was (I do not know why) pleased with the idea,
that the party referred to did not choose to look at him, in order to
verify with her own eyes the truth of the observation. Probably he
thought there was already a sort of mysterious connexion beginning to
exist between them, which gave importance to the slightest trifle.
This reflection was momentary, for he was instantly wrapped up in
attention to the meeting of the Princess Joan with these stranger
ladies. She had stood still upon their entrance, in order to receive
them, conscious, perhaps, that motion did not become her well; and as
she was somewhat embarrassed in receiving and repaying their
compliments, the elder stranger, ignorant of the rank of the party
whom she addressed, was led to pay her salutation in a manner, rather
as if she conferred than received an honour through the interview.
"I rejoice, madam," she said, with a smile, which was meant to
express condescension at once and encouragement, "that we are at length
permitted the society of such a respectable person of our own sex as
you appear to be. I must say, that my niece and I have had but little
for which to thank the hospitality of King Louis—Nay, niece, never
pluck my sleeve—I am sure I read in the looks of this young lady,
sympathy for our situation.—Since we came hither, fair madam, we have
been used little better than mere prisoners; and after a thousand
invitations to throw our cause and our persons under the protection of
France, the Most Christian King has afforded us at first but a base inn
for our residence, and now a corner of this moth-eaten palace, out of
which we are only permitted to creep towards sunset, as if we were bats
or owls, whose appearance in the sunshine is to be held matter of ill
omen."
"I am sorry," said the Princess, faltering with the awkward
embarrassment of the interview, "that we have been unable, hitherto, to
receive you according to your deserts. Your niece, I trust, is better
satisfied?"
"Much—much better than I can express," answered the youthful
Countess—"I sought but safety, and I have found solitude and secrecy
besides. The seclusion of our former residence, and the still greater
solitude of that now assigned to us, augment, in my eye, the favour
which the King vouchsafed to us unfortunate fugitives."
"Silence, my silly cousin," said the elder lady, "and let us speak
according to our conscience, since at last we are alone with one of our
own sex—I say alone, for that handsome young soldier is a mere
statue, since he seems not to have the use of his limbs, and I am given
to understand he wants that of his tongue, at least in civilized
language—I say, since no one but this lady can understand us, I must
own there is nothing I have regretted equal to taking this French
journey. I looked for a splendid reception, tournaments, carousals,
pageants, and festivals; and instead of which, all has been seclusion
and obscurity! and the best society whom the King introduced to us, was
a Bohemian vagabond, by whose agency he directed us to correspond with
our friends in Flanders.—Perhaps," said the lady, "it is his politic
intention to mew us up here until our lives' end, that he may seize on
our estates, after the extinction of the ancient house of Croye. The
Duke of Burgundy was not so cruel; he offered my niece a husband,
though he was a bad one."
"I should have thought the veil preferable to an evil husband,"
said the Princess, with difficulty finding opportunity to interpose a
word.
"One would at least wish to have the choice, madam," replied the
voluble dame. "It is, Heaven knows, on account of my niece that I
speak; for myself, I have long laid aside thoughts of changing my
condition. I see you smile, but, by my halidome it is true—yet that
is no excuse for the King, whose conduct, like his person, hath more
resemblance to that of old Michaud, the money-changer of Ghent, than to
the successor of Charlemagne."
"Hold!" said the Princess, with some asperity in her tone;
"remember you speak of my father."
"Of your father!" replied the Burgundian lady in surprise.
"Of my father," repeated the Princess, with dignity. "I am Joan of
France.—But fear not, madam," she continued, in the gentle accent
which was natural to her, "you designed no offence, and I have taken
none. Command my influence to render your exile, and that of this
interesting young person, more supportable. Alas! it is but little I
have in my power; but it is willingly offered."
Deep and submissive was the reverence with which the Countess
Hameline de Croye, so was the elder lady called, received the obliging
offer of the Princess's protection. She had been long the inhabitant of
Courts, was mistress of the manners which are there acquired, and held
firmly the established rule of courtiers of all ages, who, although
their usual private conversation turns upon the vices and follies of
their patrons, and on the injuries and neglect which they themselves
have sustained, never suffer such hints to drop from them in the
presence of the Sovereign or those of his family. The lady was,
therefore, scandalized to the last degree at the mistake which had
induced her to speak so indecorously in presence of the daughter of
Louis. She would have exhausted herself in expressing regret and making
apologies, had she not been put to silence and restored to equanimity
by the Princess, who requested, in the most gentle manner, yet which,
from a Daughter of France, had the weight of a command, that no more
might be said in the way either of excuse or of explanation.
The Princess Joan then took her own chair with a dignity which
became her, and compelled the two strangers to sit, one on either hand,
to which the younger consented with unfeigned and respectful
diffidence, and the elder with an affectation of deep humility and
deference, which was intended for such. They spoke together, but in
such a low tone, that the sentinel could not overhear their discourse,
and only remarked, that the Princess seemed to bestow much of her
regard on the younger and more interesting lady; and that the Countess
Hameline, though speaking a great deal more, attracted less of the
Princess's attention by her full flow of conversation and compliment,
than did her kinswoman by her brief and modest replies to what was
addressed to her.
The conversation of the ladies had not lasted a quarter of an hour,
when the door at the lower end of the hall opened, and a man entered
shrouded in a riding-cloak. Mindful of the King's injunction, and
determined not to be a second time caught slumbering, Quentin instantly
moved towards the intruder, and, interposing between him and the
ladies, requested him to retire instantly.
"By whose command?" said the stranger, in a tone of contemptuous
surprise.
"By that of the King," said Quentin, firmly, "which I am placed
here to enforce."
"Not against Louis of Orleans," said the Duke, dropping his cloak.
The young man hesitated a moment; but how enforce his orders
against the first Prince of the blood, about to be allied, as the
report now generally went, with the King's own family?
"Your Highness," he said, "is too great that your pleasure should
be withstood by me. I trust your Highness will bear me witness that I
have done the duty of my post, so far as your will permitted."
"Go to—you shall have no blame, young soldier," said Orleans; and
passing forward, paid his compliments to the Princess, with that air of
constraint which always marked his courtesy when addressing her.
"He had been dining," he said, "with Dunois, and understanding
there was society in Roland's Gallery, he had ventured on the freedom
of adding one to the number."
The colour which mounted into the pale cheek of the unfortunate
Joan, and which for the moment spread something of beauty over her
features, evinced that this addition to the company was any thing but
indifferent to her. She hastened to present the Prince to the two
ladies of Croye, who received him with the respect due to his eminent
rank; and the Princess, pointing to a chair, requested him to join
their conversation party.
The Duke declined the freedom of assuming a seat in such society;
but taking a cushion from one of the settles, he laid it at the feet of
the beautiful young Countess of Croye, and so seated himself, that,
without appearing to neglect the Princess, he was enabled to bestow the
greater share of his attention on her lovely neighbour.
At first, it seemed as if this arrangement rather pleased than
offended his destined bride. She encouraged the Duke in his gallantries
towards the fair stranger, and seemed to regard them as complimentary
to herself. But the Duke of Orleans, though accustomed to subject his
mind to the stern yoke of his uncle, when in the King's presence, had
enough of princely nature to induce him to follow his own inclinations
whenever that restraint was withdrawn; and his high rank giving him a
right to overstep the ordinary ceremonies, and advance at once to
familiarity, his praises of the Countess Isabelle's beauty became so
energetic, and flowed with such unrestrained freedom, owing perhaps to
his having drunk a little more wine than usual— for Dunois was no
enemy to the worship of Bacchus —that at length he seemed almost
impassioned, and the presence of the Princess appeared wellnigh
forgotten.
The tone of compliment which he indulged was grateful only to one
individual in the circle; for the Countess Hameline already anticipated
the dignity of an alliance with the first Prince of the blood, by means
of her whose birth, beauty, and large possessions, rendered such an
ambitious consummation by no means impossible, even in the eyes of a
less sanguine projector, could the views of Louis XI. have been left
out of the calculation of chances. The younger Countess listened to the
Duke's gallantries with anxiety and embarrassment, and ever and anon
turned an entreating look towards the Princess, as if requesting her to
come to her relief. But the wounded feelings, and the timidity of Joan
of France, rendered her incapable of an effort to make the conversation
more general; and at length, excepting a few interjectional civilities
of the Lady Hameline, it was maintained almost exclusively by the Duke
himself, though at the expense of the younger Countess of Croye, whose
beauty formed the theme of his high-flown eloquence.
Nor must I forget that there was a third person, the unregarded
sentinel, who saw his fair visions melt away like wax before the sun,
as the Duke persevered in the warm tenor of his passionate discourse.
At length the Countess Isabelle de Croye made a determined effort to
cut short what was becoming intolerably disagreeable to her, especially
from the pain to which the conduct of the Duke was apparently
subjecting the Princess.
Addressing the latter, she said, modestly, but with some firmness,
that the first boon she had to claim from her promised protection was,
"that her Highness would undertake to convince the Duke of Orleans,
that the ladies of Burgundy, though inferior in wit and manners to
those of France, were not such absolute fools, as to be pleased with no
other conversation than that of extravagant compliment."
"I grieve, lady," said the Duke, preventing the Princess's answer,
"that you will satirize, in the same sentence, the beauty of the dames
of Burgundy, and the sincerity of the knights of France. If we are
hasty and extravagant in the expression of our admiration, it is
because we love as we fight, without letting cold deliberation come
into our bosoms, and surrender to the fair with the same rapidity with
which we defeat the valiant."
"The beauty of our countrywomen," said the young Countess, with
more of reproof than she had yet ventured to use towards the high-born
suitor, "is as unfit to claim such triumphs, as the valour of the men
of Burgundy is incapable of yielding them."
"I respect your patriotism, Countess," said the Duke; "and the last
branch of your theme shall not be impugned by me, till a Burgundian
knight shall offer to sustain it with lance in rest. But for the
injustice which you have done to the charms which your land produces, I
appeal from yourself to yourself.—Look there," he said, pointing to a
large mirror, the gift of the Venetian republic, and then of the
highest rarity and value, "and tell me, as you look, what is the heart
that can resist the charms there represented?"
The Princess, unable to sustain any longer the neglect of her
lover, here sunk backwards on her chair, with a sigh, which at once
recalled the Duke from the land of romance, and induced the Lady
Hameline to ask whether her Highness found herself ill.
"A sudden pain shot through my forehead," said the Princess,
attempting to smile; "but I shall be presently better."
Her increasing paleness contradicted her words, and induced the
Lady Hameline to call for assistance, as the Princess was about to
faint.
The Duke, biting his lip, and cursing the folly which could not
keep guard over his tongue, ran to summon the Princess's attendants,
who were in the next chamber; and when they came hastily, with the
usual remedies, he could not but, as a cavalier and gentleman, give his
assistance to support and to recover her. His voice, rendered almost
tender by pity and self-reproach, was the most powerful means of
recalling her to herself, and just as the swoon was passing away, the
King himself entered the apartment.
CHAPTER XII. THE POLITICIAN.
This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy,
That (no disparagement to Satan's cunning)
He well might read a lesson to the devil,
And teach the old seducer new temptations.
Old Play.
As Louis entered the Gallery, he bent his brows in the manner we
have formerly described as peculiar to him, and sent, from under his
gathered and gloomy eyebrows, a keen look on all around; in darting
which, as Quentin afterwards declared, his eyes seemed to turn so
small, so fierce, and so piercing, as to resemble those of an aroused
adder looking through the bush of heath in which he lies coiled.
When, by this momentary and sharpened glance, the King had
reconnoitred the cause of the bustle which was in the apartment, his
first address was to the Duke of Orleans.
"You here, my fair cousin?" he said;—and turning to Quentin,
added sternly, "Had you not charge?"
"Forgive the young man, Sire," said the Duke; "he did not neglect
his duty; but I was informed that the Princess was in this gallery."
"And I warrant you would not be withstood when you came hither to
pay your court," said the King, whose detestable hypocrisy persisted in
representing the Duke as participating in a passion which was felt only
on the side of his unhappy daughter; "and it is thus you debauch the
sentinels of my guard, young man?—But what cannot be pardoned to a
gallant who only lives par amours!"
The Duke of Orleans raised his head, as if about to reply, in some
manner which might correct the opinion conveyed in the King's
observation; but the instinctive reverence, not to say fear, of Louis,
in which he had been bred from childhood, chained up his voice.
"And Joan hath been ill?" said the King; "but do not be grieved,
Louis; it will soon pass away; lend her your arm to her apartment,
while I will conduct these strange ladies to theirs."
The order was given in a tone which amounted to a command, and
Orleans accordingly made his exit with the Princess at one extremity of
the gallery, while the King, ungloving his right hand, courteously
handed the Countess Isabelle and her kinswoman to their apartment,
which opened from the other. He bowed profoundly as they entered, and
remained standing on the threshold for a minute after they had
disappeared; then, with great composure, shut the door by which they
had retired, and turning the huge key, took it from the lock and put it
into his girdle,—an appendage which gave him still more perfectly the
air of some old miser, who cannot journey in comfort unless he bear
with him the key of his treasure closet.
With slow and pensive step, and eyes fixed on the ground, Louis now
paced towards Quentin Durward, who, expecting his share of the royal
displeasure, viewed his approach with no little anxiety.
"Thou hast done wrong," said the King, raising his eyes, and fixing
them firmly on him when he had come within a yard of him,—"thou hast
done foul wrong, and deservest to die.—Speak not a word in
defence!—What hadst thou to do with Dukes or Princesses?—what with
any thing but my order?"
"So please your Majesty," said the young soldier, "what could I
do?"
"What couldst thou do when thy post was forcibly passed?" answered
the King, scornfully,— "What is the use of that weapon on thy
shoulder? Thou shouldst have levelled thy piece, and if the
presumptuous rebel did not retire on the instant, he should have died
within this very hall! Go—pass into these farther apartments. In the
first thou wilt find a large staircase, which leads to the inner
Bailley; there thou wilt find Oliver Dain. Send him to me—do thou
begone to thy quarters.—As thou dost value thy life, be not so loose
of thy tongue as thou hast been this day slack of thy hand."
Well pleased to escape so easily, yet with a soul which revolted at
the cold-blooded cruelty which the King seemed to require from him in
the execution of his duty, Durward took the road indicated, hastened
down stairs, and communicated the royal pleasure to Oliver, who was
waiting in the court beneath. The wily tonsor bowed, sighed, and
smiled, as, with a voice even softer than ordinary, he wished the youth
a good evening; and they parted, Quentin to his quarters, and Oliver to
attend the King.
In this place, the Memoirs which we have chiefly followed in
compiling this true history, were unhappily defective; for, founded
chiefly on information supplied by Quentin, they do not convey the
purport of the dialogue which, in his absence, took place between the
King and his secret counsellor. Fortunately, the Library of Hautlieu
contains a manuscript copy of the Chronique Scandaleuse of Jean de
Troyes, much more full than that which has been printed; to which are
added several curious memoranda, which we incline to think must have
been written down by Oliver himself after the death of his master, and
before he had the happiness to be rewarded with the halter which he had
so long merited. From this we have been able to extract a very full
account of the obscure favourite's conversation with Louis upon the
present occasion, which throws a light upon the policy of that Prince,
which we might otherwise have sought for in vain.
When the favourite attendant entered the Gallery of Roland, he
found the King pensively seated upon the chair which his daughter had
left some minutes before. Well acquainted with his temper, he glided on
with his noiseless step until he had just crossed the line of the
King's sight, so as to make him aware of his presence, then shrank
modestly backward and out of sight, until he should be summoned to
speak or to listen. The Monarch's first address was an unpleasant
one:—"So, Oliver, your fine schemes are melting like snow before the
south wind!—I pray to our Lady of Embrun that they resemble not the
ice-heaps of which the Switzer churls tell such stories, and come
rushing down upon our heads."
"I have heard with concern that all is not well, Sire," answered
Oliver.
"Not well!" exclaimed the King, rising and hastily marching up and
down the gallery,—"All is ill, man—and as ill nearly as
possible;—so much for thy fond romantic advice, that I, of all men,
should become a protector of distressed damsels! I tell thee Burgundy
is arming, and on the eve of closing an alliance with England. And
Edward, who hath his hands idle at home, will pour his thousands upon
us through that unhappy gate of Calais. Singly, I might cajole or defy
them; but united, united—and with the discontent and treachery of
that villain Saint Paul!—All thy fault, Oliver, who counselled me to
receive the women, and to use the services of that damned Bohemian to
carry messages to their vassals."
"My liege," said Oliver, "you know my reasons. The Countess's
domains lie between the frontiers of Burgundy and Flanders—her castle
is almost impregnable—her rights over neighbouring estates are such
as, if well supported, cannot but give much annoyance to Burgundy, were
the lady but wedded to one who should be friendly to France."
"It is, it is a tempting bait," said the King; "and could we have
concealed her being here, we might have arranged such a marriage for
this rich heiress, as would have highly profited France.— But that
cursed Bohemian, how couldst thou recommend such a heathen hound for a
commission which required trust?"
"Please you," said Oliver, "to remember, it was your Majesty's self
who trusted him too far—much farther than I recommended. He would
have borne a letter trustily enough to the Countess's kinsman, telling
him to hold out her castle, and promising speedy relief; but your
Highness must needs put his prophetic powers to the test; and thus he
became possessed of secrets which were worth betraying to Duke
Charles."
"I am ashamed, I am ashamed,"—said Louis. "And yet, Oliver, they
say that these heathen people are descended from the sage Chaldeans,
who did read the mysteries of the stars in the plains of Shinar."
Well aware that his master, with all his acuteness and sagacity,
was but the more prone to be deceived by soothsayers, astrologers,
diviners, and all that race of pretenders to occult science, and that
he even conceived himself to have some skill in these arts, Oliver
dared to press this point no farther; and only observed that the
Bohemian had been a bad prophet on his own account, else he would have
avoided returning to Tours, and saved himself from the gallows he had
merited.
"It often happens that those who are gifted with prophetic
knowledge," answered Louis, with much gravity, "have not the power of
foreseeing those events in which they themselves are personally
interested."
"Under your Majesty's favour," replied the confidant, "that seems
as if a man could not see his own hand by means of the candle which he
holds, and which shows him every other object in the apartment."
"He cannot see his own features by the light which shows the faces
of others," replied Louis; "and that is the more faithful illustration
of the case.—But this is foreign to my purpose at present. The
Bohemian hath had his reward, and peace be with him.—But these
ladies—Not only does Burgundy threaten us with war for harbouring
them, but their presence is like to interfere with my projects in my
own family. My simple cousin of Orleans hath barely seen this damsel,
and I venture to prophesy that the sight of her is like to make him
less pliable in the matter of his alliance with Joan."
"Your Majesty," answered the counsellor, "may send the ladies of
Croye back to Burgundy, and so make your peace with the Duke. Many
might murmur at this as dishonourable; but if necessity demands the
sacrifice"—
"If profit demanded the sacrifice, Oliver, the sacrifice should be
made without hesitation," answered the King. "I am an old experienced
salmon, and use not to gulp the angler's hook because it is busked up
with a feather called honour. But what is worse than a lack of honour,
there were, in returning those ladies to Burgundy, a forfeiture of
those views of advantage which moved us to give them an asylum. It were
heart-breaking to renounce the opportunity of planting a friend to
ourselves, and an enemy to Burgundy, in the very centre of his
dominions, and so near to the discontented cities of Flanders. Oliver,
I cannot relinquish the advantages which our scheme of marrying the
maiden to a friend of our own house seems to hold out to us."
"Your Majesty," said Oliver, after a moment's thought, "might
confer her hand on some right trusty friend, who would take all blame
on himself, and serve your Majesty secretly, while in public you might
disown him."
"And where am I to find such a friend?" said Louis. "Were I to
bestow her upon any one of our mutinous and ill-ruled nobles, would it
not be rendering him independent? and hath it not been my policy for
years to prevent them from becoming so?—Dunois indeed—him, and him
only, I might perchance trust.—He would fight for the crown of
France, whatever were his condition. But honours and wealth change
men's natures—Even Dunois I will not trust."
"Your Majesty may find others," said Oliver, in his smoothest
manner, and in a tone more insinuating than that which he usually
employed in conversing with the King, who permitted him considerable
freedom; "men dependent entirely on your own grace and favour, and who
could no more exist without your countenance than without sun or
air—men rather of head than of action—men who"—
"Men who resemble thyself, ha!" said King Louis.—"No, Oliver, by
my faith that arrow was too rashly shot!—What! because I indulge thee
with my confidence, and let thee, in reward, poll my lieges a little
now and then, dost thou think it makes thee fit to be the husband of
that beautiful vision, and a Count of the highest class to the
boot?—thee—thee, I say, low-born and lowerbred, whose wisdom is at
best a sort of cunning, and whose courage is more than doubtful?"
"Your Majesty imputes to me a presumption of which I am not guilty,
in supposing me to aspire so highly," said Oliver.
"I am glad to hear it, man," replied the King; "and truly, I hold
your judgment the healthier that you disown such a reverie. But
methinks thy speech sounded strangely in that key.—Well, to
return.—I dare not wed this beauty to one of my subjects—I dare not
return her to Burgundy—I dare not transmit her to England, or to
Germany, where she is likely to become the prize of some one more apt
to unite with Burgundy than with France, and who would be more ready to
discourage the honest malecontents in Ghent and Liege, than to yield
them that wholesome countenance which might always find Charles the
Hardy enough to exercise his valour on, without stirring from his own
domains—and they were in so ripe a humour for insurrection, the men
of Liege in especial, that they alone, well heated and supported, would
find my fair cousin work for more than a twelvemonth; —and backed by
a warlike Count of Croye,—O, Oliver! the plan is too hopeful to be
resigned without a struggle.—Cannot thy fertile brain devise some
scheme?"
Oliver paused for a long time—then at last replied, "What if a
bridal could be accomplished betwixt Isabelle of Croye, and young
Adolphus, the Duke of Gueldres?"
"What!" said the King, in astonishment; "sacrifice her, and she,
too, so lovely a creature, to the furious wretch who deposed,
imprisoned, and has often threatened to murder, his own father!—No,
Oliver, no—that were too unutterably cruel even for you and me, who
look so steadfastly to our excellent end, the peace and the welfare of
France, and respect so little the means by which it is attained.
Besides, he lies distant from us, and is detested by the people of
Ghent and Liege.—No, no—I will none of Adolphus of Gueldres—think
on some one else."
"My invention is exhausted, Sire," said the counsellor; "I can
remember no one who, as husband to the Countess of Croye, would be
likely to answer your Majesty's views. He must unite such various
qualities—a friend to your Majesty—an enemy to Burgundy—of policy
enough to conciliate the Gauntois and Liegeois, and of valour
sufficient to defend his little dominions against the power of Duke
Charles—Of noble birth besides—that your Highness insists upon; and
of excellent and most virtuous character, to the boot of all."
"Nay, Oliver," said the King, "I leaned not so much—that is, so
very much, on character; but methinks Isabelle's bridegroom should be
something less publicly and generally abhorred than Adolphus of
Gueldres.—For example, since I myself must suggest some one,—why
not William de la Marck?"
"On my halidome, Sire," said Oliver, "I cannot complain of your
demanding too high a standard of moral excellence in the happy man, if
the Wild Boar of Ardennes can serve your turn. De la Marck!—why, he
is the most notorious robber and murderer on all the
frontiers—excommunicated by the Pope for a thousand crimes."
"We will have him released from the sentence, friend Oliver—Holy
Church is merciful."
"Almost an outlaw," continued Oliver, "and under the ban of the
Empire, by an ordinance of the Chamber at Ratisbon."
"We will have the ban taken off, friend Oliver," continued the
King, in the same tone; "the Imperial Chamber will hear reason."
"And admitting him to be of noble birth," said Oliver, "he hath the
manners, the face, and the outward form, as well as the heart, of a
Flemish butcher—She will never accept of him."
"His mode of wooing, if I mistake him not," said Louis, "will
render it difficult for her to make a choice."
"I was far wrong indeed, when I taxed your Majesty with being over
scrupulous," said the counsellor. "On my life, the crimes of Adolphus
are but virtues to those of De la Marck!—And then how is he to meet
with his bride?—Your Majesty knows he dare not stir far from his own
Forest of Ardennes."
"That must be cared for," said the King; "and, in the first place,
the two ladies must be acquainted privately that they can be no longer
maintained at this Court, except at the expense of a war between France
and Burgundy, and that, unwilling to deliver them up to my fair cousin
of Burgundy, I am desirous they should secretly depart from my
dominions."
"They will demand to be conveyed to England," said Oliver; "and we
shall have her return to Flanders with an island lord, having a round
fair face, long brown hair, and three thousand archers at his back."
"No—no," replied the King; "we dare not (you understand me) so
far offend our fair cousin of Burgundy as to let her pass to
England—It would bring his displeasure as certainly as our
maintaining her here. No, no—to the safety of the Church alone we
will venture to commit her; and the utmost we can do is to connive at
the Ladies Hameline and Isabelle de Croye departing in disguise, and
with a small retinue, to take refuge with the Bishop of Liege, who will
place the fair Isabelle for the time, under the safeguard of a
convent."
"And if that convent protect her from William de la Marck, when he
knows of your Majesty's favourable intentions, I have mistaken the
man."
"Why, yes," answered the King, "thanks to our secret supplies of
money, De la Marck hath together a handsome handful of as unscrupulous
soldiery as ever were outlawed; with which he contrives to maintain
himself among the woods, in such a condition as makes him formidable
both to the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Liege. He lacks nothing
but some territory which he may call his own; and this being so fair an
opportunity to establish himself by marriage, I think that,
Pasquesdieu! he will find means to win and wed, without more than a
hint on our part. The Duke of Burgundy will then have such a thorn in
his side, as no lancet of our time will easily cut out from his flesh.
The Boar of Ardennes, whom he has already outlawed, strengthened by the
possession of that fair lady's lands, castles, and seigniory, with the
discontented Liegeois to boot, who, by my faith, will not be in that
case unwilling to choose him for their captain and leader—let Charles
then think of wars with France when he will, or rather let him bless
his stars if she war not with him.—How dost thou like the scheme,
Oliver, ha?"
"Rarely," said Oliver, "save and except the doom which confers that
lady on the Wild Boar of Ardennes.—By my halidome, saving in a little
outward show of gallantry, Tristan, the Provost-Marshal, were the more
proper bridegroom of the two."
"Anon thou didst propose Master Oliver the barber," said Louis;
"but friend Oliver and gossip Tristan, though excellent men in the way
of counsel and execution, are not the stuff that men make Counts of.
Know you not that the burghers of Flanders value birth in other men,
precisely because they have it not themselves?—A plebeian mob ever
desire an aristocratic leader. Yonder Ked, or Cade, or—how called
they him?—in England, was fain to lure his rascal rout after him, by
pretending to the blood of the Mortimers. William de la Marck comes of
the blood of the princes of Sedan, as noble as mine own.—And now to
business. I must determine the ladies of Croye to a speedy and secret
flight, under sure guidance. This will be easily done—we have but to
hint the alternative of surrendering them to Burgundy. Thou must find
means to let William de la Marck know of their motions, and let him
choose his own time and place to push his suit. I know a fit person to
travel with them."
"May I ask to whom your Majesty commits such an important charge?"
asked the tonsor.
"To a foreigner, be sure," replied the King; "one who has neither
kin nor interest in France, to interfere with the execution of my
pleasure; and who knows too little of the country, and its factions, to
suspect more of my purpose than I choose to tell him—in a word, I
design to employ the young Scot who sent you hither but now."
Oliver paused in a manner which seemed to imply a doubt of the
prudence of the choice, and then added, "Your Majesty has reposed
confidence in that stranger boy earlier than is your wont."
"I have my reasons," answered the King.— "Thou knowest" (and he
crossed himself) "my devotion for the blessed Saint Julian. I had been
saying my orisons to that holy Saint late in the night before last,
wherein (as he is known to be the guardian of travellers) I made it my
humble petition that he would augment my household with such wandering
foreigners, as might best establish throughout our kingdom unlimited
devotion to our will; and I vowed to the good Saint in guerdon, that I
would, in his name, receive, and relieve, and maintain them."
"And did Saint Julian," said Oliver, "send your Majesty this
long-legged importation from Scotland in answer to your prayers?"
Although the barber, who well knew that his master had superstition
in a large proportion to his want of religion, and that on such topics
nothing was more easy than to offend him—although, I say, he knew the
royal weakness, and therefore carefully put the preceding question in
the softest and most simple tone of voice, Louis felt the innuendo
which it contained, and regarded the speaker with high displeasure.
"Sirrah," he said, "thou art well called Oliver the Devil, who
darest thus to sport at once with thy master and with the blessed
Saints. I tell thee, wert thou one grain less necessary to me, I would
have thee hung up on yonder oak before the Castle, as an example to all
who scoff at things holy!—Know, thou infidel slave, that mine eyes
were no sooner closed, than the blessed Saint Julian was visible to me,
leading a young man, whom he presented to me, saying, that his fortune
should be to escape the sword, the cord, the river, and to bring good
fortune to the side which he should espouse, and to the adventures in
which he should be engaged. I walked out on the succeeding morning, and
I met with this youth, whose image I had seen in my dream. In his own
country he hath escaped the sword, amid the massacre of his whole
family, and here, within the brief compass of two days, he hath been
strangely rescued from drowning and from the gallows, and hath already,
on a particular occasion, as I but lately hinted to thee, been of the
most material service to me. I receive him as sent hither by Saint
Julian, to serve me in the most difficult, the most dangerous, and even
the most desperate services."
The King, as he thus expressed himself, doffed his hat, and
selecting from the numerous little leaden figures with which the
hat-band was garnished that which represented Saint Julian, he placed
it on the table, as was often his wont when some peculiar feeling of
hope, or perhaps of remorse, happened to thrill across his mind, and,
kneeling down before it, muttered, with an appearance of profound
devotion, "Sancte Juliane, adsis precibus nostris! Ora, ora, pro
nobis!"
This was one of those ague-fits of superstitious devotion which
often seized on Louis in such extraordinary times and places, that they
gave one of the most sagacious Monarchs who ever reigned, the
appearance of a madman, or at least of one whose mind was shaken by
some deep consciousness of guilt.
While he was thus employed, his favourite looked at him with an
expression of sarcastic contempt, which he scarce attempted to
disguise. Indeed it was one of this man's peculiarities, that, in his
whole intercourse with his master, he laid aside that fondling, purring
affectation of officiousness and humility, which distinguished his
conduct to others; and if he still bore some resemblance to a cat, it
was when the animal is on its guard,—watchful, animated, and alert
for sudden exertion. The cause of this change was probably Oliver's
consciousness, that his master was himself too profound a hypocrite not
to see through the hypocrisy of others.
"The features of this youth, then, if I may presume to speak," said
Oliver, "resemble those of him whom your dream exhibited?"
"Closely and intimately," said the King, whose imagination, like
that of superstitious people in general, readily imposed upon
itself—"I have had his horoscope cast, besides, by Galeotti
Martivalle, and I have plainly learned, through his art and mine own
observation, that, in many respects, this unfriended youth has his
destiny under the same constellation with mine."
Whatever Oliver might think of the causes thus boldly assigned for
the preference of an inexperienced stripling, he dared make no farther
objections, well knowing that Louis, who, while residing in exile, had
bestowed much of his attention on the supposed science of Judicial
astrology, would listen to no raillery of any kind which impeached his
skill. He therefore only replied, that he trusted the youth would
prove faithful in the discharge of a task so delicate.
"We will take care he hath no opportunity to be otherwise," said
Louis; "for he shall be privy to nothing, save that he is sent to
escort the Ladies of Croye to the residence of the Bishop of Liege. Of
the probable interference of William de la Marck, he shall know as
little as they themselves. None shall know that secret but the guide;
and Tristan or thou must find one fit for our purpose."
"But in that case," said Oliver, "judging of him from his country
and his appearance, the young man is like to stand to his arms so soon
as the Wild Boar comes on them, and may not come off so easily from the
tusks as he did this morning."
"If they rend his heart-strings," said Louis, composedly, "Saint
Julian, blessed be his name! can send me another in his stead. It
skills as little that the messenger is slain after his duty is
executed, as that the flask is broken when the wine is drunk
out.—Meanwhile, we must expedite the ladies' departure, and then
persuade the Count de Crèvecoeur that it has taken place without our
connivance; we having been desirous to restore them to the custody of
our fair cousin, which their sudden departure has unhappily prevented."
"The Count is perhaps too wise, and his master too prejudiced, to
believe it."
"Holy Mother!" said Louis, "what unbelief would that be in
Christian men! But, Oliver, they shall believe us. We will throw into
our whole conduct towards our fair cousin, Duke Charles, such thorough
and unlimited confidence, that, not to believe we have been sincere
with him in every respect, he must be worse than an infidel. I tell
thee, so convinced am I that I could make Charles of Burgundy think of
me in every respect as I would have him, that, were it necessary for
silencing his doubts, I would ride unarmed, and on a palfrey, to visit
him in his tent, with no better guard about me than thine own simple
person, friend Oliver."
"And I," said Oliver, "though I pique not myself upon managing
steel in any other shape than that of a razor, would rather charge a
Swiss battalion of pikes, than I would accompany your Highness upon
such a visit of friendship to Charles of Burgundy, when he hath so many
grounds to be well assured that there is enmity in your Majesty's bosom
against him."
"Thou art a fool, Oliver," said the King, "with all thy pretensions
to wisdom—and art not aware that deep policy must often assume the
appearance of the most extreme simplicity, as courage occasionally
shrouds itself under the show of modest timidity. Were it needful, full
surely would I do what I have said—the Saints always blessing our
purpose, and the heavenly constellations bringing round, in their
course, a proper conjuncture for such an exploit."
In these words did King Louis XI. give the first hint of the
extraordinary resolution which he afterwards adopted, in order to dupe
his great rival, the subsequent execution of which had very nearly
proved his own ruin.
He parted with his counsellor, and presently afterwards went to the
apartment of the Ladies of Croye. Few persuasions beyond his mere
license would have been necessary to determine their retreat from the
Court of France, upon the first hint that they might not be eventually
protected against the Duke of Burgundy; but it was not so easy to
induce them to choose Liege for the place of their retreat. They
entreated and requested to be transferred to Bretagne or Calais, where,
under protection of the Duke of Bretagne, or King of England, they
might remain in a state of safety, until the Sovereign of Burgundy
should relent in his rigorous purpose towards them. But neither of
these places of safety at all suited the plans of Louis, and he was at
last successful in inducing them to adopt that which did coincide with
them.
The power of the Bishop of Liege for their defence was not to be
questioned, since his ecclesiastical dignity gave him the means of
protecting the fugitives against all Christian princes; while, on the
other hand, his secular forces, if not numerous, seemed at least
sufficient to defend his person, and all under his protection, from any
sudden violence. The difficulty was to reach the little Court of the
Bishop in safety; but for this Louis promised to provide, by spreading
a report that the Ladies of Croye had escaped from Tours by night,
under fear of being delivered up to the Burgundian Envoy, and had taken
their flight towards Bretagne. He also promised them the attendance of
a small, but faithful retinue, and letters to the commanders of such
towns and fortresses as they might pass, with instructions to use every
means for protecting and assisting them in their journey.
The Ladies of Croye, although internally resenting the ungenerous
and discourteous manner in which Louis thus deprived them of the
promised asylum in his Court, were so far from objecting to the hasty
departure which he proposed, that they even anticipated his project, by
entreating to be permitted to set forward that same night. The Lady
Hameline was already tired of a place where there were neither admiring
courtiers, nor festivities to be witnessed; and the Lady Isabelle
thought she had seen enough to conclude, that were the temptation to
become a little stronger, Louis XI., not satisfied with expelling them
from his Court, would not hesitate to deliver her up to her irritated
Suzerain, the Duke of Burgundy. Lastly, Louis himself readily
acquiesced in their hasty departure, anxious to preserve peace with
Duke Charles, and alarmed lest the beauty of Isabelle should interfere
with and impede the favourite plan which he had formed, for bestowing
the hand of his daughter Joan upon his cousin of Orleans.
CHAPTER XIII. THE JOURNEY.
Talk not of Kings—I scorn the poor comparison;
I am a sage, and can command the elements—
At least men think I can; and on that thought
I found unbounded empire.
Albumazar.
Occupation and adventure might be said to crowd upon the young
Scottishman with the force of a spring-tide; for he was speedily
summoned to the apartment of his Captain, the Lord Crawford, where, to
his astonishment, he again beheld the King. After a few words
respecting the honour and trust which were about to be reposed in him,
which made Quentin internally afraid that they were again about to
propose to him such a watch as he had kept upon the Count of
Crèvecoeur, or perhaps some duty still more repugnant to his feelings,
he was not relieved merely, but delighted, with hearing that he was
selected, with the assistance of four others under his command, one of
whom was a guide, to escort the Ladies of Croye to the little Court of
their relative, the Bishop of Liege, in the safest and most commodious,
and, at the same time, in the most secret manner possible. A scroll was
given him, in which were set down directions for his guidance, for the
places of halt, (generally chosen in obscure villages, solitary
monasteries, and situations remote from towns,) and for the general
precautions which he was to attend to, especially on approaching the
frontier of Burgundy. He was sufficiently supplied with instructions
what he ought to say and do to sustain the personage of the Maitre
d'Hotel of two English ladies of rank, who had been on a pilgrimage to
Saint Martin of Tours, and were about to visit the holy city of
Cologne, and worship the relics of the sage Eastern Monarchs, who came
to adore the nativity of Bethlehem; for under that character the Ladies
of Croye were to journey.
Without having any defined notions of the cause of his delight,
Quentin Durward's heart leapt for joy at the idea of approaching thus
nearly to the person of the Beauty of the Turret, and in a situation
which entitled him to her confidence, since her protection was in so
great a degree intrusted to his conduct and courage. He felt no doubt
in his own mind, that he should be her successful guide through the
hazards of her pilgrimage. Youth seldom thinks of dangers, and bred up
free, and fearless, and self-confiding, Quentin, in particular, only
thought of them to defy them. He longed to be exempted from the
restraint of the Royal presence, that he might indulge the secret glee
with which such unexpected tidings filled him, and which prompted him
to bursts of delight which would have been totally unfitting for that
society.
But Louis had not yet done with him. That cautious Monarch had to
consult a counsellor of a different stamp from Oliver le Diable, and
who was supposed to derive his skill from the superior and astral
intelligences, as men, judging from their fruits, were apt to think the
counsels of Oliver sprung from the Devil himself.
Louis therefore led the way, followed by the impatient Quentin, to
a separate tower of the Castle of Plessis, in which was installed, in
no small ease and splendour, the celebrated astrologer, poet, and
philosopher, Galeotti Marti, or Martius, or Martivalle, a native of
Narni, in Italy, the author of the famous Treatise, De Vulgo
Incognitis, [Note: Concerning things unknown to the generality of
mankind.] and the subject of his age's admiration, and of the
panegyrics of Paulus Jovius. He had long flourished at the Court of the
celebrated Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, from whom he was in some
measure decoyed by Louis, who grudged the Hungarian Monarch the society
and the counsels of a sage, accounted so skilful in reading the decrees
of Heaven.
Martivalle was none of those ascetic, withered, pale professors of
mystic learning of those days, who bleared their eyes over the midnight
furnace, and macerated their bodies by outwatching the polar bear. He
indulged in all courtly pleasures, and, until he grew corpulent, had
excelled in all martial sports and gymnastic exercises, as well as in
the use of arms; insomuch, that Janus Pannonius has left a Latin
epigram, upon a wrestling match betwixt Galeotti and a renowned
champion of that art, in the presence of the Hungarian King and Court,
in which the Astrologer was completely victorious.
The apartments of this courtly and martial sage were far more
splendidly furnished than any which Quentin had yet seen in the royal
palace; and the carving and ornamented wood-work of his library, as
well as the magnificence displayed in the tapestries, showed the
elegant taste of the learned Italian. Out of his study one door opened
to his sleeping- apartment, another led to the turret which served as
his observatory. A large oaken table, in the midst of the chamber, was
covered with a rich Turkey carpet, the spoils of the tent of a Pacha
after the great battle of Jaiza, where the Astrologer had fought
abreast with the valiant champion of Christendom, Matthias Corvinus. On
the table lay a variety of mathematical and astrological instruments,
all of the most rich materials and curious workmanship. His astrolabe
of silver was the gift of the Emperor of Germany, and his Jacob's staff
of ebony, jointed with gold, and curiously inlaid, was a mark of esteem
from the reigning Pope.
There were various other miscellaneous articles disposed on the
table, or hanging around the walls; amongst others, two complete suits
of armour, one of mail, the other of plate, both of which from their
great size, seemed to call the gigantic Astrologer their owner; a
Spanish toledo, a Scottish broadsword, a Turkish scimitar, with bows,
quivers, and other warlike weapons; musical instruments of several
different kinds; a silver crucifix, a sepulchral antique vase, and
several of the little brazen Penates of the ancient heathens, with
other curious nondescript articles, some of which, in the superstitious
opinions of that period, seemed to be designed for magical purposes.
The library of this singular character was of the same miscellaneous
description with his other effects. Curious manuscripts of classical
antiquity lay mingled with the voluminous labours of Christian divines,
and of those painstaking sages who professed the chemical science, and
proffered to guide their students into the most secret recesses of
nature, by means of the Hermetical Philosophy. Some were written in the
Eastern character, and others concealed their sense or nonsense under
the veil of hieroglyphics and cabalistic characters. The whole
apartment, and its furniture of every kind, formed a scene very
impressive on the fancy, considering the general belief then
indisputably entertained concerning the truth of the occult sciences;
and that effect was increased by the manners and appearance of the
individual himself, who, seated in a huge chair, was employed in
curiously examining a specimen, just issued from the Frankfort press,
of the newly invented art of printing.
Galeotti Martivalle was a tall, bulky, yet stately man,
considerably past his prime, and whose youthful habits of exercise,
though still occasionally resumed, had not been able to contend with
his natural tendency to corpulence, increased by sedentary study, and
indulgence in the pleasures of the table. His features, though rather
overgrown, were dignified and noble, and a Santon might have envied
the dark and downward sweep of his long-descending beard. His dress was
a chamber-robe of the richest Genoa velvet, with ample sleeves, clasped
with frogs of gold, and lined with sables. It was fastened round his
middle by a broad belt of virgin parchment, round which were
represented in crimson characters, the signs of the zodiac. He rose and
bowed to the King, yet with the air of one to whom such exalted society
was familiar, and who was not at all likely, even in the royal
presence, to compromise the dignity then especially affected by the
pursuers of science.
"You are engaged, father," said the King, "and, as I think, with
this new-fashioned art of multiplying manuscripts, by the intervention
of machinery. Can things of such mechanical and terrestrial import
interest the thoughts of one, before whom Heaven has unrolled her own
celestial volumes?"
"My brother," replied Martivalle,—"for so the tenant of this cell
must term even the King of France, when he deigns to visit him as a
disciple,— believe me that, in considering the consequences of this
invention, I read with as certain augury, as by any combination of the
heavenly bodies, the most awful and portentous changes. When I reflect
with what slow and limited supplies the stream of science hath hitherto
descended to us; how difficult to be obtained by those most ardent in
its search; how certain to be neglected by all who regard their ease;
how liable to be diverted, or altogether dried up, by the invasions of
barbarism; can I look forward without wonder and astonishment, to the
lot of a succeeding generation, on whom knowledge will descend like the
first and second rain, uninterrupted, unabated, unbounded; fertilizing
some grounds, and overflowing others; changing the whole form of social
life; establishing and overthrowing religions; erecting and destroying
kingdoms"—
"Hold, Galeotti," said Louis,—"shall these changes come in our
time?"
"No, my royal brother," replied Martivalle; "this invention may be
likened to a young tree, which is now newly planted, but shall, in
succeeding generations, bear fruit as fatal, yet as precious, as that
of the Garden of Eden; the knowledge, namely, of good and evil."
Louis answered, after a moment's pause, "Let futurity look to what
concerns them—we are men of this age, and to this age we will confine
our care. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.—Tell me, hast
thou proceeded farther in the horoscope which I sent to thee, and of
which you made me some report? I have brought the party hither, that
you may use palmistry, or chiromancy, if such is your pleasure. The
matter is pressing."
The bulky Sage arose from his seat, and, approaching the young
soldier, fixed on him his keen large dark eyes, as if he were in the
act of internally spelling and dissecting every lineament and feature.
—Blushing and borne down by this close examination on the part of one
whose expression was so reverent at once and commanding, Quentin bent
his eyes on the ground, and did not again raise them, till in the act
of obeying the sonorous command of the Astrologer, "Look up and be not
afraid, but hold forth thy hand."
When Martivalle had inspected his palm, according to the form of
the mystic arts which he practised, he led the King some steps
aside.—"My royal brother," he said, "the physiognomy of this youth,
together with the lines impressed on his hand, confirm, in a wonderful
degree, the report which I founded on his horoscope, as well as that
judgment which your own proficiency in our sublime arts induced you at
once to form of him. All promises that this youth will be brave and
fortunate."
"And faithful?" said the King; "for valour and fortune square not
with fidelity."
"And faithful also," said the Astrologer; "for there is manly
firmness in look and eye, and his linea vitæ is deeply marked and
clear, which indicates a true and upright adherence to those who do
benefit or lodge trust in him. But yet"—
"But what?" said the King; "Father Galeotti, wherefore do you now
pause?"
"The ears of Kings," said the Sage, "are like the palates of those
dainty patients, which are unable to endure the bitterness of the drugs
necessary for their recovery."
"My ears and my palate have no such niceness," said Louis; "let me
hear what is useful counsel, and swallow what is wholesome medicine. I
quarrel not with the rudeness of the one, or the harsh taste of the
other. I have not been cockered in wantonness or indulgence; my youth
was one of exile and suffering. My ears are used to harsh counsel, and
take no offence at it."
"Then plainly, Sire," replied Galeotti, "if you have aught in your
purposed commission, which— which, in short, may startle a scrupulous
conscience —intrust it not to this youth—at least, not till a few
years' exercise in your service has made him as unscrupulous as
others."
"And is this what you hesitated to speak, my good Galeotti? and
didst thou think thy speaking it would offend me?" said the King.
"Alack, I know that thou art well sensible, that the path of royal
policy cannot be always squared (as that of private life ought
invariably to be) by the abstract maxims of religion and of morality.
Wherefore do we, the Princes of the earth, found churches and
monasteries, make pilgrimages, undergo penances, and perform devotions,
with which others may dispense, unless it be because the benefit of the
public, and the welfare of our kingdoms, force us upon measures which
grieve our consciences as Christians? But Heaven has mercy—the
Church, an unbounded stock of merits, and the intercession of Our Lady
of Embrun, and the blessed saints, is urgent, everlasting, and
omnipotent."—He laid his hat on the table, and devoutly kneeling
before the images stuck into the hat-band, repeated, in an earnest
tone, "Sancte Huberte, Sancte Juliane, Sancte Martine, Sancta Rosalia,
Sancti quotquot adestis, orate pro me peccatore!" He then smote his
breast, arose, re-assumed his hat, and continued;—"Be assured, good
father, that whatever there may be in our commission, of the nature at
which you have hinted, the execution shall not be intrusted to this
youth, nor shall he be privy to such part of our purpose."
"In this," said the Astrologer, "you, my royal brother, will walk
wisely.—Something may be apprehended likewise from the rashness of
this your young commissioner; a failing inherent in those of sanguine
complexion. But I hold that, by the rules of art, this chance is not to
be weighed against the other properties discovered from his horoscope
and otherwise."
"Will this next midnight be a propitious hour in which to commence
a perilous journey?" said the King.—"See, here is your
Ephemerides—you see the position of the moon in regard to Saturn, and
the ascendence of Jupiter—That should argue, methinks, in submission
to your better art, success to him who sends forth the expedition at
such an hour."
"To him who sends forth the expedition," said the Astrologer, after
a pause, "this conjunction doth indeed promise success; but, methinks,
that Saturn being combust, threatens danger and infortune to the party
sent; whence I infer that the errand may be perilous, or even fatal, to
those who are to journey. Violence and captivity, methinks, are
intimated in that adverse conjunction."
"Violence and captivity to those who are sent," answered the King,
"but success to the wishes of the sender—Runs it not thus, my learned
father?"
"Even so," replied the Astrologer.
The King paused, without giving any further indication how far this
presaging speech (probably hazarded by the Astrologer from his
conjecture that the commission related to some dangerous purpose)
squared with his real object, which, as the reader is aware, was to
betray the Countess Isabelle of Croye into the hands of William de la
Marck, a nobleman indeed of high birth, but degraded by his crimes into
a leader of banditti, distinguished for his turbulent disposition and
ferocious bravery.
The King then pulled forth a paper from his pocket, and, ere he
gave it to Martivalle, said, in a tone which resembled that of an
apology—"Learned Galeotti, be not surprised, that, possessing in you
an oracular treasure, superior to that lodged in the breast of any now
alive, not excepting the great Nostradamus himself, I am desirous
frequently to avail myself of your skill in those doubts and
difficulties which beset every Prince who hath to contend with
rebellion within his land, and with external enemies, both powerful and
inveterate."
"When I was honoured with your request, Sire," said the
philosopher, "and abandoned the Court of Buda for that of Plessis, it
was with the resolution to place at the command of my royal patron
whatever my art had, that might be of service to him."
"Enough, good Martivalle—I pray thee attend to the import of this
question."—He proceeded to read from the paper in his hand:—"A
person having on hand a weighty controversy, which is like to draw to
debate either by law or by force of arms, is desirous, for the present,
to seek accommodation by a personal interview with his antagonist. He
desires to know what day will be propitious for the execution of such
a purpose; also what is likely to be the success of such a negotiation,
and whether his adversary will be moved to answer the confidence thus
reposed in him, with gratitude and kindness, or may rather be likely to
abuse the opportunity and advantage which such meeting may afford him?"
"It is an important question," said Martivalle, when the King had
done reading, "and requires that I should set a planetary figure, and
give it instant and deep consideration."
"Let it be so, my good father in the sciences, and thou shalt know
what it is to oblige a King of France. We are determined, if the
constellations forbid not,—and our own humble art leads us to think
that they approve our purpose,—to hazard something, even in our own
person, to stop these anti-Christian wars."
"May the Saints forward your Majesty's pious intent," said the
Astrologer, "and guard your sacred person!"
"Thanks, learned father.—Here is something, the while, to enlarge
your curious library."
He placed under one of the volumes a small purse of gold; for,
economical even in his superstitions, Louis conceived the Astrologer
sufficiently bound to his service by the pensions he had assigned him,
and thought himself entitled to the use of his skill at a moderate
rate, even upon great exigencies.
Louis, having thus, in legal phrase, added a refreshing fee to his
general retainer, turned from him to address Durward.—"Follow me," he
said, "my bonny Scot, as one chosen by Destiny and a Monarch to
accomplish a bold adventure. All must be got ready, that thou mayst put
foot in stirrup the very instant the bell of Saint Martin's tolls
twelve. One minute sooner, one minute later, were to forfeit the
favourable aspect of the constellations which smile on your adventure."
Thus saying, the King left the apartment, followed by his young
guardsman: and no sooner were they gone, than the Astrologer gave way
to very different feelings from those which seemed to animate him
during the royal presence.
"The niggardly slave!" he said, weighing the purse in his
hand,—for, being a man of unbounded expense, he had almost constant
occasion for money, —"The base sordid scullion!—A coxswain's wife
would give more to know that her husband had crossed the narrow seas in
safety. He acquire any tincture of humane letters!—yes, when prowling
foxes and yelling wolves become musicians. He read the glorious
blazoning of the firmament!—ay, when sordid moles shall become
lynxes.—Post tot promissa—after so many promises made, to entice me
from the Court of the magnificent Matthias, where Hun and Turk,
Christian and Infidel, the Czar of Muscovia and the Cham of Tartary
themselves, contended to load me with gifts,—doth he think I am to
abide in this old Castle, like a bulfinch in a cage, fain to sing as
oft as he chooses to whistle, and all for seed and water?—Not
so—aut inveniam viam, aut faciam—I will discover or contrive a
remedy. The Cardinal Balue is politic and liberal—this query shall
to him, and it shall be his Eminence's own fault if the stars speak not
as he would have them."
He again took the despised guerdon, and weighed it in his hand. "It
may be," he said, "there is some jewel, or pearl of price, concealed in
this paltry case —I have heard he can be liberal even to lavishness,
when it suits his caprice or interest."
He emptied the purse, which contained neither more nor less than
ten gold pieces. The indignation of the Astrologer was
extreme.—"Thinks he that for such paltry rate of hire I will practise
that celestial science which I have studied with the Armenian Abbot of
Istrahoff, who had not seen the sun for forty years,—with the Greek
Dubravius, who is said to have raised the dead,—and have even visited
the Scheik Ebn Hali in his cave in the deserts of Thebais?—No, by
Heaven!—he that contemns art shall perish through his own ignorance.
Ten pieces!—a pittance which I am half ashamed to offer to Toinette,
to buy her new breast-laces."
So saying, the indignant Sage nevertheless plunged the contemned
pieces of gold into a large pouch which he wore at his girdle, which
Toinette, and other abettors of lavish expense, generally contrived to
empty fully faster than the philosopher, with all his art, could find
the means of filling. [Note:
Galeotti. Martius Galeotti was a native of Narni, in Umbria. He
was secretary to Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and tutor to his
son, John Corvinus. While at his court, he composed a work, De jocose
dictis et factis Regis Matthiæ Corvini. He left Hungary in 1477, and
was made prisoner at Venice on a charge of having propagated heterodox
opinions in a treatise entitled, De homine interiore et corpore ejus.
He was obliged to recant some of these doctrines, and might have
suffered seriously but for the protection of Sextus IV., then Pope, who
had been one of his scholars. He went to France, attached himself to
Louis XI., and died in his service.
]
CHAPTER XIV. THE JOURNEY.
I see thee yet, fair France—thou favour'd land
Of art and nature—thou art still before me;
Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport,
So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute;
Thy sun-burnt daughters, with their laughing eyes
And glossy raven-locks. But, favour'd France,
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell,
In ancient times as now.
Anonymous.
Avoiding all conversation with any one, (for such was his charge,)
Quentin Durward proceeded hastily to array himself in a strong but
plain cuirass, with thigh and arm-pieces, and placed on his head a good
steel cap without any visor. To these was added a handsome cassock of
shamois leather, finely dressed, and laced down the seams with some
embroidery, such as might become a superior officer in a noble
household.
These were brought to his apartment by Oliver, who, with his quiet,
insinuating smile and manner, acquainted him that his uncle had been
summoned to mount guard, purposely that he might make no enquiries
concerning these mysterious movements.
"Your excuse will be made to your kinsman," said Oliver, smiling
again; "and, my dearest son, when you return safe from the execution of
this pleasing trust, I doubt not you will be found worthy of such
promotion as will dispense with your accounting for your motions to any
one, while it will place you at the head of those who must render an
account of theirs to you."
So spoke Oliver le Diable, calculating, probably, in his own mind,
the great chance there was that the poor youth whose hand he squeezed
affectionately as he spoke, must necessarily encounter death or
captivity in the commission intrusted to his charge. He added to his
fair words a small purse of gold, to defray necessary expenses on the
road, as a gratuity on the King's part.
At a few minutes before twelve at midnight, Quentin, according to
his directions, proceeded to the second court-yard, and paused under
the Dauphin's Tower, which, as the reader knows, was assigned for the
temporary residence of the Countesses of Croye. He found, at this place
of rendezvous, the men and horses appointed to compose the retinue,
leading two sumpter mules already loaded with baggage, and holding
three palfreys for the two Countesses and a faithful waiting-woman,
with a stately war-horse for himself, whose steel-plated saddle glanced
in the pale moonlight. Not a word of recognition was spoken on either
side. The men sat still in their saddles, as if they were motionless;
and by the same imperfect light Quentin saw with pleasure that they
were all armed, and held long lances in their hands. They were only
three in number; but one of them whispered to Quentin, in a strong
Gascon accent, that their guide was to join them beyond Tours.
Meantime, lights glanced to and fro at the lattices of the tower,
as if there was bustle and preparation among its inhabitants. At
length, a small door, which led from the bottom of the tower to the
court, was unclosed, and three females came forth, attended by a man
wrapped in a cloak. They mounted in silence the palfreys which stood
prepared for them, while their attendant on foot led the way, and gave
the pass-words and signals to the watchful guards, whose posts they
passed in succession. Thus they at length reached the exterior of these
formidable barriers. Here the man on foot, who had hitherto acted as
their guide, paused, and spoke low and earnestly to the two foremost
females.
"May heaven bless you, Sire," said a voice which thrilled upon
Quentin Durward's ear, "and forgive you, even if your purposes be more
interested than your words express! To be placed in safety under the
protection of the good Bishop of Liege, is the utmost extent of my
desire."
The person whom she thus addressed, muttered an inaudible answer,
and retreated back through the barrier-gate, while Quentin thought,
that, by the moon-glimpse, he recognised in him the King himself, whose
anxiety for the departure of his guests had probably induced him to
give his presence, in case scruples should arise on their part, or
difficulties on that of the guards of the Castle.
When the riders were beyond the Castle, it was necessary for some
time to ride with great precaution, in order to avoid the pitfalls,
snares, and similar contrivances, which were placed for the annoyanace
of strangers. The Gascon was, however, completely possessed of the clew
to this labyrinth, and in a quarter of an hour's riding, they found
themselves beyond the limits of Plessis le Parc, and not far distant
from the city of Tours.
The moon, which had now extricated herself from the clouds through
which she was formerly wading, shed a full sea of glorious light upon a
landscape equally glorious. They saw the princely Loire rolling his
majestic tide through the richest plain in France, and sweeping along
between banks ornamented with towers and terraces, and with olives and
vineyards. They saw the walls of the city of Tours, the ancient capital
of Touraine, raising their portal towers and embattlements white in the
moonlight, while, from within their circle, rose the immense Gothic
mass which the devotion of the sainted Bishop Perpetuus erected as
early as the fifth century, and which the zeal of Charlemagne and his
successors had enlarged with such architectural splendour, as rendered
it the most magnificent church in France. The towers of the church of
Saint Gatien were also visible, and the gloomy strength of the Castle,
which was said to have been, in ancient times, the residence of the
Emperor Valentinian.
Even the circumstances in which he was placed, though of a nature
so engrossing, did not prevent the wonder and delight with which the
young Scottishman, accustomed to the waste though impressive landscape
of his own mountains, and the poverty even of his country's most
stately scenery, looked on a scene, which art and nature seemed to have
vied in adorning with their richest splendour. But he was recalled to
the business of the moment by the voice of the elder lady, (pitched at
least an octave higher than those soft tones which bid adieu to King
Louis,) demanding to speak with the leader of the band. Spurring his
horse forward, Quentin respectfully presented himself to the ladies in
that capacity, and thus underwent the interrogatories of the Lady
Hameline.
"What was his name, and what his degree?"
He told both.
"Was he perfectly acquainted with the road?"
"He could not," he replied, "pretend to much knowledge of the
route, but he was furnished with full instructions, and he was, at
their first resting-place, to be provided with a guide, in all respects
competent to the task of directing their farther journey: meanwhile, a
horseman who had just joined them, and made the number of their guard
four, was to be their guide for the first stage."
"And wherefore were you selected for such a duty, young gentleman?"
said the lady—"I am told you are the same youth who was lately upon
guard in the gallery in which we met the Princess of France. You seem
young and inexperienced for such a charge—a stranger, too, in France,
and speaking the language as a foreigner."
"I am bound to obey the commands of the King, madam, but am not
qualified to reason on them," answered the young soldier.
"Are you of noble birth?" demanded the same querist.
"I may safely affirm so, madam," replied Quentin.
"And are you not," said the younger lady, addressing him in her
turn, but with a timorous accent, "the same whom I saw when I was
called to wait upon the King at yonder inn?"
Lowering his voice, perhaps from similar feelings of timidity,
Quentin answered in the affirmative.
"Then, methinks, my cousin," said the Lady Isabelle, addressing the
Lady Hameline, "we must be safe under this young gentleman's safeguard;
he looks not, at least, like one to whom the execution of a plan of
treacherous cruelty upon two helpless women could be with safety
intrusted."
"On my honour, madam," said Durward, "by the fame of my House, by
the bones of my ancestry, I could not, for France and Scotland laid
into one, be guilty of treachery or cruelty towards you!"
"You speak well, young man," said the Lady Hameline; "but we are
accustomed to hear fair speeches from the King of France and his
agents. It was by these that we were induced, when the protection of
the Bishop of Liege might have been attained with less risk than now,
or when we might have thrown ourselves on that of Winceslaus of
Germany, or of Edward of England, to seek refuge in France. And in what
did the promises of the King result? In an obscure and shameful
concealing of us, under plebeian names, as a sort of prohibited wares,
in yonder paltry hostelry, when we, —who, as thou knowest, Marthon,"
(addressing her domestic,) "never put on our head-tire save under a
canopy, and upon a dais of three degrees, —were compelled to attire
ourselves, standing on the simple floor, as if we had been two
milkmaids."
Marthon admitted that her lady spoke a most melancholy truth.
"I would that had been the sorest evil, dear kinswoman," said the
Lady Isabelle; "I could gladly have dispensed with state."
"But not with society," said the elder Countess; "that, my sweet
cousin, was impossible."
"I would have dispensed with all, my dearest kinswoman," answered
Isabelle, in a voice which penetrated to the very heart of her young
conductor and guard, "with all, for a safe and honourable retirement. I
wish not—God knows, I never wished—to occasion war betwixt France
and my native Burgundy, or that lives should be lost for such as I am.
I only implored permission to retire to the Convent of Marmoutier, or
to any other holy sanctuary."
"You spoke then like a fool, my cousin," answered the elder lady,
"and not like a daughter of my noble brother. It is well there is still
one alive, who hath some of the spirit of the noble House of Croye. How
should a high-born lady be known from a sunburnt milkmaid, save that
spears are broken for the one, and only hazel-poles shattered for the
other? I tell you, maiden, that while I was in the very earliest bloom,
scarcely older than yourself, the famous Passage of Arms at Haflinghem
was held in my honour; the challengers were four, the assailants so
many as twelve. It lasted three days; and cost the lives of two
adventurous knights, the fracture of one back-bone, one collar-bone,
three legs and two arms, besides flesh-wounds and bruises beyond the
heralds' counting; and thus have the ladies of our House ever been
honoured. Ah! had you but half the heart of your noble ancestry, you
would find means at some Court, where ladies' love and fame in arms are
still prized, to maintain a tournament, at which your hand should be
the prize, as was that of your great-grandmother of blessed memory, at
the spear-running of Strasbourg; and thus should you gain the best
lance in Europe, to maintain the rights of the House of Croye, both
against the oppression of Burgundy and the policy of France."
"But, fair kinswoman," answered the younger Countess, "I have been
told by my old nurse, that although the Rhinegrave was the best lance
at the great tournament at Strasbourg, and so won the hand of my
respected ancestor, yet the match was no happy one, as he used often to
scold, and sometimes even to beat, my great-grandmother of blessed
memory."
"And wherefore not?" said the elder Countess, in her romantic
enthusiasm for the profession of chivalry; "why should those victorious
arms, accustomed to deal blows when abroad, be bound to restrain their
energies at home? A thousand times rather would I be beaten twice
a-day, by a husband whose arm was as much feared by others as by me,
than be the wife of a coward, who dared neither to lift hand to his
wife, nor to any one else!"
"I should wish you joy of such an active mate, fair aunt," replied
Isabelle, "without envying you; for if broken bones be lovely in
tourneys, there is nothing less amiable in ladies' bower."
"Nay, but the beating is no necessary consequence of wedding with a
knight of fame in arms," said the Lady Hameline; "though it is true
that our ancestor of blessed memory, the Rhinegrave Gottfried, was
something rough-tempered, and addicted to the use of Rheinwein.—The
very perfect knight is a lamb among ladies, and a lion among lances.
There was Thibault of Montigni—God be with him!—he was the kindest
soul alive, and not only was he never so discourteous as to lift hand
against his lady, but, by our good dame, he who beat all enemies
without doors, found a fair foe who could belabour him within.—Well,
'twas his own fault—he was one of the challengers at the Passage of
Haflinghem, and so well bestirred himself, that, if it had pleased
Heaven, and your grandfather, there might have been a lady of Montigni,
who had used his gentle nature more gently."
The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to dread this Passage of
Haflinghem, it being a topic upon which her aunt was at all times very
diffuse, suffered the conversation to drop; and Quentin, with the
natural politeness of one who had been gently nurtured, dreading lest
his presence might be a restraint on their conversation, rode forward
to join the guide, as if to ask him some questions concerning their
route.
Meanwhile, the ladies continued their journey in silence, or in
such conversation as is not worth narrating, until day began to break;
and as they had then been on horseback for several hours, Quentin,
anxious lest they should be fatigued, became impatient to know their
distance from the nearest resting-place.
"I will show it you," answered the guide, "in half an hour."
"And then you leave us to other guidance?" continued Quentin.
"Even so, Seignior Archer," replied the man; "my journeys are
always short and straight.— When you and others, Seignior Archer, go
by the bow, I always go by the cord."
The moon had by this time long been down, and the lights of dawn
were beginning to spread bright and strong in the east, and to gleam on
the bosom of a small lake, on the verge of which they had been riding
for a short space of time. This lake lay in the midst of a wide plain,
scattered over with single trees, groves, and thickets; but which might
be yet termed open, so that objects began to be discerned with
sufficient accuracy. Quentin cast his eye on the person whom he rode
beside, and, under the shadow of a slouched overspreading hat, which
resembled the sombrero of a Spanish peasant, he recognised the
facetious features of the same Petit-André, whose fingers, not long
since, had, in concert with those of his lugubrious brother,
Trois-Eschelles, been so unpleasantly active about his
throat.—Impelled by aversion, not altogether unmixed with fear, (for
in his own country the executioner is regarded with almost
superstitious horror,) which his late narrow escape had not diminished,
Durward instinctively moved his horse's head to the right, and pressing
him at the same time with the spur, made a demi-volte, which separated
him eight feet from his hateful companion.
"Ho, ho, ho, ho!" exclaimed Petit-André; "by our Lady of the Gréve,
our young soldier remembers us of old.—What! comrade, you bear no
malice, I trust?—every one wins his bread in this country. No man
need be ashamed of having come through my hands, for I will do my work
with any that ever tied a living weight to a dead tree.—And God hath
given me grace to be such a merry fellow withal—Ha! ha! ha!—I could
tell you such jests I have cracked between the foot of the ladder and
the top of the gallows, that, by my halidome, I have been obliged to do
my job rather hastily, for fear the fellows should die with laughing,
and so shame my mystery!"
As he thus spoke, he edged his horse sideways, to regain the
interval which the Scot had left between them, saying at the same time,
"Come, Seignior Archer, let there be no unkindness betwixt us!—For my
part, I always do my duty without malice, and with a light heart, and I
never love a man better than when I have put my scant-of-wind collar
about his neck, to dub him Knight of the Order of Saint Patibularius,
as the Provost's Chaplain, the worthy Father Vaconeldiablo, is wont to
call the Patron Saint of the Provostry."
"Keep back, thou wretched object!" exclaimed Quentin, as the
finisher of the law again sought to approach him closer, "or I shall be
tempted to teach you the distance that should be betwixt men of honour
and such an outcast."
"La you there, how hot you are!" said the fellow; "had you said men
of honesty, there had been some savour of truth in it;—but for men of
honour, good lack, I have to deal with them every day, as nearly and
closely as I was about to do business with you.—But peace be with
you, and keep your company to yourself. I would have bestowed a flagon
of Auvernât upon you to wash away every unkindness —but 'tis like you
scorn my courtesy.—Well. Be as churlish as you list—I never quarrel
with my customers—my jerry-come-tumbles, my merry dancers, my little
playfellows, as Jacques Butcher says to his lambs—those, in fine,
who, like your seigniorship, have H. E. M. P. written on their
foreheads —No, no, let them use me as they list, they shall have my
good service at last—and yourself shall see, when you next come under
Petit-André's hands, that he knows how to forgive an injury."
So saying, and summing up the whole with a provoking wink, and such
an interjectional tchick as men quicken a dull horse with, Petit-André
drew off to the other side of the path, and left the youth to digest
the taunts he had treated him with as his proud Scottish stomach best
might. A strong desire had Quentin to have belaboured him while the
staff of his lance could hold together; but he put a restraint on his
passion, recollecting that a brawl with such a character could be
creditable at no time or place, and that a quarrel of any kind, on the
present occasion, would be a breach of duty, and might involve the most
perilous consequences. He therefore swallowed his wrath at the
ill-timed and professional jokes of Mons. Petit-André, and contented
himself with devoutly hoping that they had not reached the ears of his
fair charge, on which they could not be supposed to make an impression
in favour of himself, as one obnoxious to such sarcasms. But he was
speedily aroused from such thoughts by the cry of both the ladies at
once, "Look back— look back!—For the love of Heaven look to
yourself, and us—we are pursued!"
Quentin hastily looked back, and saw that two armed men were in
fact following them, and riding at such a pace as must soon bring them
up with their party. "It can," he said, "be only some of the Provostry
making their rounds in the Forest. —Do thou look," he said to
Petit-André, "and see what they may be."
Petit-André obeyed; and rolling himself jocosely in the saddle
after he had made his observations, replied, "These, fair sir, are
neither your comrades nor mine—neither Archers nor Marshalmen —for
I think they wear helmets, with visors lowered, and gorgets of the
same.—A plague upon these gorgets, of all other pieces of armour!—I
have fumbled with them an hour before I could undo the rivets."
"Do you, gracious ladies," said Durward, without attending to
Petit-André, "ride forward—not so fast as to raise an opinion of your
being in flight, and yet fast enough to avail yourself of the
impediment which I shall presently place between you and these men who
follow us."
The Countess Isabelle looked to their guide, and then whispered to
her aunt, who spoke to Quentin thus—"We have confidence in your care,
fair Archer, and will rather abide the risk of whatever may chance in
your company, than we will go onward with that man, whose mien is, we
think, of no good augury."
"Be it as you will, ladies," said the youth— "There are but two
who come after us; and though they be knights, as their arms seem to
show, they shall, if they have any evil purpose, learn how a Scottish
gentleman can do his devoir in the presence and for the defence of such
as you.—Which of you there," he continued, addressing the guards whom
he commanded, "is willing to be my comrade, and to break a lance with
these gallants?"
Two of the men obviously faltered in resolution; but the third,
Bertrand Guyot, swore, "that cap de diou, were they Knights of King
Arthur's Round Table, he would try their mettle, for the honour of
Gascony."
While he spoke, the two knights—for they seemed of no less
rank—came up with the rear of the party, in which Quentin, with his
sturdy adherent, had by this time stationed himself. They were fully
accoutred in excellent armour of polished steel, without any device by
which they could be distinguished.
One of them, as they approached, called out to Quentin, "Sir
Squire, give place—we come to relieve you of a charge which is above
your rank and condition. You will do well to leave these ladies in our
care, who are fitter to wait upon them, especially as we know that in
yours they are little better than captives."
"In return to your demand, sirs," replied Durward, "know, in the
first place, that I am discharging the duty imposed upon me by my
present Sovereign; and next, that however unworthy I may be, the ladies
desire to abide under my protection."
"Out, sirrah!" exclaimed one of the champions; "will you, a
wandering beggar, put yourself on terms of resistance against belted
knights?"
"They are indeed terms of resistance," said Quentin, "since they
oppose your insolent and unlawful aggression; and if there be
difference of rank between us, which as yet I know not, your
discourtesy has done it away. Draw your sword, or, if you will use the
lance, take ground for your career."
While the knights turned their horses, and rode back to the
distance of about a hundred and fifty yards, Quentin, looking to the
ladies, bent low on his saddle-bow, as if desiring their favourable
regard, and as they streamed towards him their kerchiefs,
in token of encouragement, the two assailants had gained the
distance necessary for their charge.
Calling to the Gascon to bear himself like a man, Durward put his
steed into motion; and the four horsemen met in full career in the
midst of the ground which at first separated them. The shock was fatal
to the poor Gascon; for his adversary, aiming at his face, which was
undefended by a visor, ran him through the eye into the brain, so that
he fell dead from his horse.
On the other hand, Quentin, though labouring under the same
disadvantage, swayed himself in the saddle so dexterously, that the
hostile lance, slightly scratching his cheek, passed over his right
shoulder; while his own spear, striking his antagonist fair upon the
breast, hurled him to the ground. Quentin jumped off, to unhelm his
fallen opponent; but the other knight, (who had never yet spoken,)
seeing the fortune of his companion, dismounted still more speedily
than Durward, and bestriding his friend, who lay senseless, exclaimed,
"In the name of God and Saint Martin, mount, good fellow, and get thee
gone with thy woman's ware!—Ventre Saint Gris, they have caused
mischief enough this morning."
"By your leave, Sir Knight," said Quentin, who could not brook the
menacing tone in which this advice was given, "I will first see whom I
have had to do with, and learn who is to answer for the death of my
comrade."
"That shalt thou never live to know or to tell," answered the
Knight. "Get thee back in peace, good fellow. If we were fools for
interrupting your passage, we have had the worst, for thou hast done
more evil than the lives of thou and thy whole band could repay.—Nay,
if thou wilt have it," (for Quentin now drew his sword, and advanced on
him,) "take it with a vengeance!"
So saying, he dealt the Scot such a blow on the helmet, as, till
that moment, (though bred where good blows were plenty,) he had only
read of in romance. It descended like a thunderbolt, beating down the
guard which the young soldier had raised to protect his head, and,
reaching his helmet of proof, cut it through so far as to touch his
hair, but without farther injury; while Durward, dizzy, stunned, and
beaten down on one knee, was for an instant at the mercy of the knight,
had it pleased him to second his blow. But compassion for Quentin's
youth, or admiration of his courage, or a generous love of fair play,
made him withhold from taking such advantage; while Durward, collecting
himself, sprung up and attacked his antagonist with the energy of one
determined to conquer or die, and at the same time with the presence of
mind necessary for fighting the quarrel out to the best advantage.
Resolved not again to expose himself to such dreadful blows as he had
just sustained, he employed the advantage of superior agility,
increased by the comparative lightness of his armour, to harass his
antagonist, by traversing on all sides, with a suddenness of motion
and rapidity of attack, against which the knight, in his heavy panoply,
found it difficult to defend himself without much fatigue.
It was in vain that this generous antagonist called aloud to
Quentin, "that there now remained no cause of fight betwixt them, and
that he was loath to be constrained to do him injury." Listening only
to the suggestions of a passionate wish to redeem the shame of his
temporary defeat, Durward continued to assail him with the rapidity of
lightning —now menacing him with the edge, now with the point of his
sword—and ever keeping such an eye on the motions of his opponent, of
whose superior strength he had had terrible proof, that he was ready to
spring backward, or aside, from under the blows of his tremendous
weapon.
"Now the devil be with thee for an obstinate and presumptuous
fool," muttered the knight, "that cannot be quiet till thou art knocked
on the head!" So saying, he changed his mode of fighting, collected
himself as if to stand on the defensive, and seemed contented with
parrying, instead of returning, the blows which Quentin unceasingly
aimed at him, with the internal resolution, that the instant when
either loss of breath, or any false or careless pass of the young
soldier, should give an opening, he would put an end to the fight by a
single blow. It is likely he might have succeeded in this artful
policy, but Fate had ordered it otherwise.
The duel was still at the hottest, when a large party of horse rode
up, crying, "Hold, in the King's name!" Both champions stepped
back—and Quentin saw, with surprise, that his Captain, Lord Crawford,
was at the head of the party who had thus interrupted their combat.
There was also Tristan l'Hermite, with two or three of his followers;
making, in all, perhaps twenty horse.
CHAPTER XV. THE GUIDE.
He was a son of Egypt, as he told me,
And one descended from those dread magicians,
Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt in Goshen,
With Israel and her Prophet—matching rod
With his the sons of Levi's—and encountering
Jehovah's miracles with incantations,
Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel,
And those proud sages wept for their first-born,
As wept the unletter'd peasant.
Anonymous.
The arrival of Lord Crawford and his guard put an immediate end to
the engagement which we endeavoured to describe in the last chapter;
and the Knight, throwing off his helmet, hastily gave the old lord his
sword, saying, "Crawford, I render myself—But hither—and lend me
your ear—a word, for God's sake—save the Duke of Orleans!"
"How?—what?—the Duke of Orleans!" exclaimed the Scottish
commander,—"How came this, in the name of the foul fiend? It will
ruin the callant with the King, for ever and a day."
"Ask no questions," said Dunois—for it was no other than he—"it
was all my fault.—See, he stirs. I came forth but to have a snatch at
yonder damsel, and make myself a landed and a married man —and see
what is come on't. Keep back your canaille—let no man look upon him."
So saying, he opened the visor of Orleans, and threw water on his face,
which was afforded by the neighbouring lake.
Quentin Durward, meanwhile, stood like one planet-struck; so fast
did new adventures pour in upon him. He had now, as the pale features
of his first antagonist assured him, borne to the earth the first
Prince of the blood in France, and had measured swords with her best
champion, the celebrated Dunois;—both of them achievements honourable
in themselves; but whether they might be called good service to the
King, or so esteemed by him, was a very different question.
The Duke had now recovered his breath, and was able to sit up and
give attention to what passed betwixt Dunois and Crawford, while the
former pleaded eagerly, that there was no occasion to mention in the
matter the name of the most noble Orleans, while he was ready to take
the whole blame on his own shoulders; and to avouch that the Duke had
only come thither in friendship to him.
Lord Crawford continued listening, with his eyes fixed on the
ground, and from time to time he sighed and shook his head. At length
he said, looking up, "Thou knowest, Dunois, that for thy father's sake,
as well as thine own, I would full fain do thee a service."
"It is not for myself I demand any thing," answered Dunois. "Thou
hast my sword, and I am your prisoner—what needs more?—But it is
for this noble Prince, the only hope of France, if God should call the
Dauphin. He only came hither to do me a favour—in an effort to make
my fortune —in a matter which the King had partly encouraged."
"Dunois," replied Crawford, "if another had told me thou hadst
brought the noble Prince into this jeopardy to serve any purpose of
thine own, I had told him it was false. And now, that thou dost pretend
so thyself, I can hardly believe it is for the sake of speaking the
truth."
"Noble Crawford," said Orleans, who had now entirely recovered from
his swoon, "you are too like in character to your friend Dunois, not to
do him justice. It was indeed I that dragged him hither, most
unwillingly, upon an enterprise of harebrained passion, suddenly and
rashly undertaken.— Look on me all who will," he added, rising up and
turning to the soldiery—"I am Louis of Orleans, willing to pay the
penalty of my own folly. I trust the King will limit his displeasure to
me, as is but just.—Meanwhile, as a child of France must not give up
his sword to any one—not even to you, brave Crawford—fare thee
well, good steel."
So saying, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and flung it into
the lake. It went through the air like a stream of lightning, and sunk
in the flashing waters, which speedily closed over it. All remained
standing in irresolution and astonishment, so high was the rank, and so
much esteemed was the character, of the culprit; while, at the same
time, all were conscious that the consequences of his rash enterprise,
considering the views which the King had upon him, were likely to end
in his utter ruin.
Dunois was the first who spoke, and it was in the chiding tone of
an offended, and distrusted friend:—"So! your Highness hath judged it
fit to cast away your best sword, in the same morning when it was your
pleasure to fling away the King's favour, and to slight the friendship
of Dunois?"
"My dearest kinsman," said the Duke, "when or how was it in my
purpose to slight your friendship, by telling the truth, when it was
due to your safety and my honour?"
"What had you to do with my safety, my most princely cousin, I
would pray to know?" answered Dunois gruffly;—"What, in God's name,
was it to you, if I had a mind to be hanged or strangled, or flung into
the Loire, or poniarded, or broke on the wheel, or hung up alive in an
iron cage, or buried alive in a castle-fosse, or disposed of in any
other way in which it might please King Louis to get rid of his
faithful subject?—(you need not wink and frown, and point to Tristan
l'Hermite—I see the scoundrel as well as you do.) But it would not
have stood so hard with me—And so much for my safety. And then for
your own honour— by the blush of Saint Magdalene, I think the honour
would have been to have missed this morning's work, or kept it out of
sight. Here has your highness got yourself unhorsed by a wild Scottish
boy."
"Tut, tut!" said Lord Crawford; "never shame his Highness for that.
It is not the first time a Scottish boy hath broke a good lance—I am
glad the youth hath borne him well."
"I will say nothing to the contrary," said Dunois; "yet, had your
Lordship come something later than you did, there might have been a
vacancy in your band of Archers."
"Ay, ay," answered Lord Crawford; "I can read your handwriting in
that cleft morion.—Some one take it from the lad, and give him a
bonnet, which, with its steel lining, will keep his head better than
that broken loom.—And let me tell your Lordship, that your own armour
of proof is not without some marks of good Scottish handwriting.
—But, Dunois, I must now request the Duke of Orleans and you to take
horse and accompany me, as I have power and commission to convey you to
a place different from that which my good-will might assign you."
"May I not speak one word, my Lord of Crawford, to yonder fair
ladies?" said the Duke of Orleans.
"Not one syllable," answered Lord Crawford; "I am too much a friend
of your Highness to permit such an act of folly."—Then, addressing
Quentin, he added, "You, young man, have done your duty. Go on to obey
the charge with which you are instrusted."
"Under favour, my Lord," said Tristan, with his usual brutality of
manner, "the youth must find another guide. I cannot do without
Petit-André, when there is so like to be business on hand for him."
"The young man," said Petit-André, now coming forward, "has only to
keep the path which lies straight before him, and it will conduct him
to a place where he will find the man who is to act as his guide.—I
would not for a thousand ducats be absent from my Chief this day! I
have hanged knights and squires many a one, and wealthy Echevins, and
burgomasters to boot—even counts and marquisses have tasted of my
handywork— but, a-humph"—He looked at the Duke, as if to intimate
that he would have filled up the blank, with "a Prince of the
blood!"—"Ho, ho, ho! Petit-André, thou wilt be read of in Chronicle!"
"Do you permit your ruffians to hold such language in such a
presence?" said Crawford, looking sternly to Tristan.
"Why do you not correct him yourself, my Lord?" said Tristan,
sullenly.
"Because thy hand is the only one in this company that can beat
him, without being degraded by such an action."
"Then rule your own men, my Lord, and I will be answerable for
mine," said the Provost-Marshal.
Lord Crawford seemed about to give a passionate reply; but, as if
he had thought better of it, turned his back short upon Tristan, and
requesting the Duke of Orleans and Dunois to ride one on either hand of
him, he made a signal of adieu to the ladies, and said to Quentin, "God
bless thee, my child; thou hast begun thy service valiantly, though in
an unhappy cause." He was about to go off—when Quentin could hear
Dunois whisper to Crawford, "Do you carry us to Plessis?"
"No, my unhappy and rash friend," answered Crawford, with a sigh;
"to Loches."
"To Loches!" The name of a castle, or rather prison, yet more
dreaded than Plessis itself, fell like a death-toll upon the ear of the
young Scotchman. He had heard it described as a place destined to the
workings of those secret acts of cruelty with which even Louis shamed
to pollute the interior of his own residence. There were in this place
of terror dungeons under dungeons, some of them unknown even to the
keepers themselves; living graves, to which men were consigned, with
little hope of farther employment during the rest of their life, than
to breathe impure air, and feed on bread and water. At this formidable
castle were also those dreadful places of confinement called cages, in
which the wretched prisoner could neither stand upright, nor stretch
himself at length, an invention, it is said, of the Cardinal Balue.
[Note: Who himself tenanted one of these dens for more than eleven
years.] It is no wonder that the name of this place of horrors, and the
consciousness that he had been partly the means of dispatching thither
two such illustrious victims, struck so much sadness into the heart of
the young Scot, that he rode for some time with his head dejected, his
eyes fixed on the ground, and his heart filled with the most painful
reflections.
As he was now again at the head of the little troop, and pursuing
the road which had been pointed out to him, the Lady Hameline had an
opportunity to say to him,—
"Methinks, fair sir, you regret the victory which your gallantry
has attained in our behalf?"
There was something in the question which sounded like irony, but
Quentin had tact enough to answer simply and with sincerity,
"I can regret nothing that is done in the service of such ladies as
you are; but, methinks, had it consisted with your safety, I had rather
have fallen by the sword of so good a soldier as Dunois, than have been
the means of consigning that renowned knight and his unhappy chief, the
Duke of Orleans, to yonder fearful dungeons."
"It was, then, the Duke of Orleans," said the elder lady, turning
to her niece. "I thought so, even at the distance from which we beheld
the fray. —You see, kinswoman, what we might have been, had this sly
and avaricious monarch permitted us to be seen at his Court. The first
Prince of the blood of France, and the valiant Dunois, whose name is
known as wide as that of his heroic father —This young gentleman did
his devoir bravely and well; but methinks 'tis pity that he did not
succumb with honour, since his ill-advised gallantry has stood betwixt
us and these princely rescuers."
The Countess Isabelle replied in a firm and almost a displeased
tone; with an energy, in short, which Quentin had not yet observed her
use.
"Madam," she said, "but that I know you jest, I would say your
speech is ungrateful to our brave defender, to whom we owe more,
perhaps, than you are aware of. Had these gentelemen succeeded so far
in their rash enterprise as to have defeated our escort, is it not
still evident, that, on the arrival of the Royal Guard, we must have
shared their captivity? For my own part, I give tears, and will soon
bestow masses, on the brave man who has fallen, and I trust," (she
continued, more timidly,) "that he who lives will accept my grateful
thanks."
As Quentin turned his face towards her, to return the fitting
acknowledgments, she saw the blood which streamed down on one side of
his face, and exclaimed, in a tone of deep feeling, "Holy Virgin, he is
wounded! he bleeds!—Dismount, sir, and let your wound be bound up."
In spite of all that Durward could say of the slightness of his
hurt, he was compelled to dismount, and to seat himself on a bank, and
unhelmet himself, while the ladies of Croye, who, according to a
fashion not as yet antiquated, pretended to some knowledge of
leech-craft, washed the wound, stanched the blood, and bound it with
the kerchief of the younger Countess, in order to exclude the air, for
so their practice prescribed.
In modern times, gallants seldom or never take wounds for ladies'
sake, and damsels on their side never meddle with the cure of wounds.
Each has a danger the less. That which the men escape will be generally
acknowledged; but the peril of dressing such a slight wound as that of
Quentin's, which involved nothing formidable or dangerous, was perhaps
as real in its way as the risk of encountering it.
We have already said the patient was eminently handsome; and the
removal of his helmet, or, more properly, of his morion, had suffered
his fair locks to escape in profusion, around a countenance in which
the hilarity of youth was qualified by a blush of modesty at once and
pleasure. And then the feelings of the younger Countess, when compelled
to hold the kerchief to the wound, while her aunt sought in their
baggage for some vulnerary remedy, were mingled at once with a sense of
delicacy and embarrassment; a thrill of pity for the patient, and of
gratitude for his services, which exaggerated, in her eyes, his good
mien and handsome features. In short, this incident seemed intended by
Fate to complete the mysterious communication which she had, by many
petty and apparently accidental circumstances, established betwixt two
persons, who, though far different in rank and fortune, strongly
resembled each other in youth, beauty, and the romantic tenderness of
an affectionate disposition. It was no wonder, therefore, that from
this moment the thoughts of the Countess Isabelle, already so familiar
to his imagination, should become paramount in Quentin's bosom, nor
that if the maiden's feelings were of a less decided character, at
least so far as known to herself, she should think of her young
defender, to whom she had just rendered a service so interesting, with
more emotion than of any of the whole band of high-born nobles who had
for two years past besieged her with their adoration. Above all, when
the thought of Campo-Basso, the unworthy favourite of Duke Charles,
with his hypocritical mien, his base, treacherous spirit, his wry neck,
and his squint, occurred to her, his portrait was more disgustingly
hideous than ever, and deeply did she resolve no tyranny should make
her enter into so hateful a union.
In the meantime, whether the good Lady Hameline of Croye understood
and admired masculine beauty as much as when she was fifteen years
younger, (for the good Countess was at least thirty-five, if the
records of that noble house speak the truth,) or whether she thought
she had done their young protector less justice than she ought, in the
first view which she had taken of his services, it is certain that he
began to find favour in her eyes.
"My niece," she said, "has bestowed on you a kerchief for the
binding of your wound; I will give you one to grace your gallantry, and
to encourage you in your farther progress in chivalry."
So saying, she gave him a richly embroidered kerchief of blue and
silver, and pointing to the housing of her palfrey, and the plumes in
her riding-cap, desired him to observe that the colours were the same.
The fashion of the time prescribed one absolute mode of receiving
such a favour, which Quentin followed accordingly, by tying the napkin
round his arm; yet his manner of acknowledgment had more of
awkwardness, and less of gallantry in it, than perhaps it might have
had at another time, and in another presence; for though the wearing of
a lady's favour, given in such a manner, was merely matter of general
compliment, he would much rather have preferred the right of displaying
on his arm that which bound the wound inflicted by the sword of Dunois.
Meantime they continued their pilgrimage, Quentin now riding
abreast of the ladies, into whose society he seemed to be tacitly
adopted. He did not speak much, however, being filled by the silent
consciousness of happiness, which is afraid of giving too strong vent
to its feelings. The Countess Isabelle spoke still less, so that the
conversation was chiefly carried on by the Lady Hameline, who showed no
inclination to let it drop; for, to initiate the young Archer, as she
said, into the principles and practice of chivalry, she detailed to
him, at full length, the Passage of Arms at Haflinghem, where she had
distributed the prizes among the victors.
Not much interested, I am sorry to say, in the description of this
splendid scene, or in the heraldic bearings of the different Flemish
and German knights, which the lady blazoned with pitiless accuracy,
Quentin began to entertain some alarm lest he should have passed the
place where his guide was to join him—a most serious disaster, and
from which, should it really have taken place, the very worst
consequences were to be apprehended.
While he hesitated whether it would be better to send back one of
his followers, to see whether this might not be the case, he heard the
blast of a horn, and looking in the direction from which the sound
came, beheld a horseman riding very fast towards them. The low size,
and wild, shaggy, untrained state of the animal, reminded Quentin of
the mountain breed of horses in his own country; but this was much more
finely limbed, and, with the same appearance of hardiness, was more
rapid in its movements. The head particularly, which, in the Scottish
pony, is often lumpish and heavy, was small and well placed in the neck
of this animal, with thin jaws, full sparkling eyes, and expanded
nostrils.
The rider was even more singular in his appearance than the horse
which he rode, though that was extremely unlike the horses of France.
Although he managed his palfrey with great dexterity, he sat with his
feet in broad stirrups, something resembling shovels, so short in the
leathers, that his knees were wellnigh as high as the pommel of his
saddle. His dress was a red turban of small size, in which he wore a
sullied plume, secured by a clasp of silver; his tunic, which was
shaped like those of the Estradiots, (a sort of troops whom the
Venetians at that time levied in the provinces, on the eastern side of
their gulf,) was green in colour, and tawdrily laced with gold; he wore
very wide drawers or trowsers of white, though none of the cleanest,
which gathered beneath the knee, and his swarthy legs were quite bare,
unless for the complicated laces which bound a pair of sandals on his
feet; he had no spurs, the edge of his large stirrups being so sharp as
to serve to goad the horse in a very severe manner. In a crimson sash
this singular horseman wore a dagger on the right side, and on the left
a short crooked Moorish sword; and by a tarnished baldric over the
shoulder hung the horn which announced his approach. He had a swarthy
and sun-burnt visage, with a thin beard, and piercing dark eyes, a
well-formed mouth and nose, and other features which might have been
pronounced handsome, but for the black elf-locks which hung around his
face, and the air of wildness and emaciation, which rather seemed to
indicate a savage than a civilized man.
"He also is a Bohemian!" said the ladies to each other; "Holy Mary,
will the King again place confidence in these outcasts?"
"I will question the man, if it be your pleasure," said Quentin,
"and assure myself of his fidelity as I best may."
Durward, as well as the ladies of Croye, had recognised in this
man's dress and appearance, the habit and the manners of those vagrants
with whom he had nearly been confounded by the hasty proceedings of
Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André, and he, too, entertained very natural
apprehensions concerning the risk of reposing trust in one of that
vagrant race.
"Art thou come hither to seek us?" was his first question.
The stranger nodded.
"And for what purpose?"
"To guide you to the palace of him of Liege."
"Of the Bishop?"
The Bohemian again nodded.
"What token canst thou give me, that we should yield credence to
thee?"
"Even the old rhyme, and no other," answered the Bohemian,—
"The page slew the boar,
The peer had the gloire."
"A true token," said Quentin; "Lead on, good fellow—I will speak
further with thee presently." Then falling back to the ladies, he said,
"I am convinced this man is the guide we are to expect, for he hath
brought me a pass-word, known, I think, but to the King and me. But I
will discourse with him further, and endeavour to ascertain how far he
is to be trusted."
CHAPTER XVI. THE VAGRANT.
I am as free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
The Conquest of Granada.
While Quentin held the brief communication with the ladies,
necessary to assure them that this extraordinary addition to their
party was the guide whom they were to expect on the King's part, he
noticed, (for he was as alert in observing the motions of the stranger,
as the Bohemian could be on his part,) that the man not only turned his
head as far back as he could, to peer at them, but that, with a
singular sort of agility, more resembling that of a monkey than of a
man, he had screwed his whole person around on the saddle, so as to sit
almost sidelong upon the horse, for the convenience, as it seemed, of
watching them more attentively.
Not greatly pleased with this manoeuvre, Quentin rode up to the
Bohemian, and said to him, as he suddenly assumed his proper position
on the horse, "Methinks, friend, you will prove but a blind guide, if
you look at the tail of your horse rather than his ears."
"And if I were actually blind," answered the Bohemian, "I could
not the less guide you through any country in this realm of France, or
in those adjoining to it."
"Yet you are no Frenchman born," said the Scot.
"I am not," answered the guide.
"What countryman, then, are you?" demanded Quentin.
"I am of no country," answered the guide.
"How! of no country?" repeated the Scot.
"No," answered the Bohemian, "of none. I am a Zingaro, a Bohemian,
an Egyptian, or whatever the Europeans, in their different languages,
may choose to call our people; but I have no country."
"Are you a Christian?" asked the Scotchman.
The Bohemian shook his head.
"Dog!" said Quentin, (for there was little toleration in the spirit
of Catholicism in those days,) "dost thou worship Mahoun?"
"No," was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, who
neither seemed offended or surprised at the young man's violence of
manner.
"Are you a Pagan then, or what are you?"
"I have no religion," [Note:
Religion of the Bohemians. It was a remarkable feature of the
character of these wanderers, that they did not, like the Jews, whom
they otherwise resembled in some particulars, possess or profess any
particular religion, whether in form or principle. They readily
conformed, as far as might be required, with the religion of any
country in which they happened to sojourn, nor did they ever practise
it more than was demanded of them. It is certain that in India they
embraced neither the tenets of the religion of Bramah nor of Mahomet.
They have hence been considered as belonging to the outcast East Indian
tribes of Nuts of Parias. Their want of religion is supplied by a good
deal of superstition. Such of their ritual as can be discovered, for
example that belonging to marriage, is savage in the extreme, and
resembles the customs of the Hottentots more than of any civilized
people. They adopt various observances, picked up from the religion of
the country in which they live. It is, or rather was, the custom of the
tribes on the Borders of England and Scotland, to attribute success to
those journeys which are commenced by passing through the parish
church; and they usually try to obtain permission from the beadle to do
so when the church is empty, for the performance of divine service is
not considered as essential to the omen. They are, therefore, totally
devoid of any effectual sense of religion; and the higher, or more
instructed class, may be considered as acknowledging no deity save
those of Epicurus, and such is described as being the faith, or no
faith, of Hayraddin Maugrabin.
I may here take notice, that nothing is more disagreeable to this
indolent and voluptuous people, than being forced to follow any regular
profession. When Paris was garrisoned by the Allied troops in the year
1815, the author was walking with a British officer, near a post held
by the Prussian troops. He happened at the time to smoke a cigar, and
was about, while passing the sentinel, to take it out of his mouth, in
compliance with a general regulation to that effect, when, greatly to
the astonishment of the passengers, the soldier addressed them in these
words; "Rauchen sic immerfort; verdamt sey der Preussiche dienst!" that
is, "Smoke away; may the Prussian service be d—d!" Upon looking
closely at the man, he seemed plainly to be a Zigeuner, or gipsy, who
took this method of expressing his detestation of the duty imposed on
him. When the risk he ran by doing so is considered, it will be found
to argue a deep degree of dislike which could make him commit himself
so unwarily. If he had been overheard by a sergeant or corporal, the
prugel would have been the slightest instrument of punishment employed.
] answered the Bohemian.
Durward started back; for though he had heard of Saracens and
Idolaters, it had never entered into his ideas or belief, that any body
of men could exist who practised no mode of worship whatever. He
recovered from his astonishment, to ask his guide where he usually
dwelt.
"Wherever I chance to be for the time," replied the Bohemian. "I
have no home."
"How do you guard your property?"
"Excepting the clothes which I wear, and the horse I ride on, I
have no property."
"Yet you dress gaily, and ride gallantly," said Durward. "What are
your means of subsistence?"
"I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, and have no other
means of subsistence than chance throws in my way," replied the
vagabond.
"Under whose laws do you live?"
"I acknowledge obedience to none, but as it suits my pleasure or my
necessities," said the Bohemian.
"Who is your leader, and commands you?"
"The Father of our tribe—if I choose to obey him," said the
guide—"otherwise I have no commander."
"You are then," said the wondering querist, "destitute of all that
other men are combined by—you have no law, no leader, no settled
means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven
compassionate you, no country—and, may Heaven enlighten and forgive
you, you have no God! What is it that remains to you, deprived of
government, domestic happiness, and religion?"
"I have liberty," said the Bohemian—"I crouch to no one—obey no
one—respect no one.—I go where I will—live as I can—and die
when my day comes."
"But you are subject to instant execution, at the pleasure of the
Judge?"
"Be it so," returned the Bohemian; "I can but die so much the
sooner."
"And to imprisonment also," said the Scot; "and where then is your
boasted freedom?"
"In my thoughts," said the Bohemian, "which no chains can bind;
while yours, even when your limbs are free, remain fettered by your
laws and your superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, and your
fantastic visions of civil policy. Such as I are free in spirit when
our limbs are chained— You are imprisoned in mind, even when your
limbs are most at freedom."
"Yet the freedom of your thoughts," said the Scot, "relieves not
the pressure of the gyves on your limbs."
"For a brief time that may be endured," answered the vagrant; "and
if within that period I cannot extricate myself, and fail of relief
from my comrades, I can always die, and death is the most perfect
freedom of all."
There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin at length
broke by resuming his queries.
"Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of
Europe—Whence do they derive their origin?"
"I may not tell you," answered the Bohemian.
"When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, and
return to the land from whence they came?" said the Scot.
"When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished," replied
his vagrant guide.
"Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel, which were
carried into captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?" said Quentin,
who had not forgotten the lore which had been taught him at
Aberbrothick.
"Had we been so," answered the Bohemian, "we had followed their
faith, and practised their rites."
"What is thine own name?" said Durward.
"My proper name is only known to my brethren —The men beyond our
tents call me Hayraddin Maugrabin, that is, Hayraddin the African
Moor."
"Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived always in thy filthy
horde," said the Scot.
"I have learned some of the knowledge of this land," said
Hayraddin.—"When I was a little boy, our tribe was chased by the
hunters after human flesh. An arrow went through my mother's head, and
she died. I was entangled in the blanket on her shoulders, and was
taken by the pursuers. A priest begged me from the Provost's archers,
and trained me up in Frankish learning for two or three years."
"How came you to part with him?" demanded Durward.
"I stole money from him—even the God which he worshipped,"
answered Hayraddin, with perfect composure; "he detected me, and beat
me—I stabbed him with my knife, fled to the woods, and was again
united to my people."
"Wretch!" said Durward, "did you murder your benefactor?"
"What had he to do to burden me with his benefits? —The Zingaro
boy was no house-bred cur, to dog the heels of his master, and crouch
beneath his blows, for scraps of food—He was the imprisoned
wolf-whelp, which at the first opportunity broke his chain, rended his
master, and returned to his wilderness."
There was another pause, when the young Scot, with a view of still
farther investigating the character and purpose of this suspicious
guide, asked Hayraddin, "Whether it was not true that his people, amid
their ignorance, pretended to a knowledge of futurity, which was not
given to the sages, philosophers, and divines, of more polished
society?"
"We pretend to it," said Hayraddin, "and it is with justice."
"How can it be, that so high a gift is bestowed on so abject a
race?" said Quentin.
"Can I tell you?" answered Hayraddin—"Yes, I may indeed; but it
is when you shall explain to me why the dog can trace the footsteps of
a man, while man, the nobler animal, hath not power to trace those of
the dog. These powers, which seem to you so wonderful, are instinctive
in our race. From the lines on the face and on the hand, we can tell
the future fate of those who consult us, even as surely as you know
from the blossom of the tree in spring, what fruit it will bear in the
harvest."
"I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the proof."
"Defy me not, Sir Squire," said Hayraddin Maugrabin—"I can tell
you, that, say what you will of your religion, the Goddess whom you
worship rides in this company."
"Peace!" said Quentin, in astonishment; "on thy life, not a word
farther, but in answer to what I ask thee.—Canst thou be faithful?"
"I can—all men can," said the Bohemian.
"But wilt thou be faithful?"
"Wouldst thou believe me the more should I swear it?" answered
Maugrabin, with a sneer.
"Thy life is in my hand," said the young Scot.
"Strike, and see whether I fear to die," answered the Bohemian.
"Will money render thee a trusty guide?" demanded Durward.
"If I be not such without it, No," replied the heathen.
"Then what will bind thee?" asked the Scot.
"Kindness," replied the Bohemian.
"Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to us on
this pilgrimage?"
"No," replied Hayraddin, "it were extravagant waste of a commodity
so rare. To thee I am bound already."
"How!" exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever.
"Remember the chestnut-trees on the banks of the Cher! The victim,
whose body thou didst cut down, was my brother, Zamet, the Maugrabin."
"And yet," said Quentin, "I find you in correspondence with those
very officers by whom your brother was done to death; for it was one of
them who directed me where to meet with you—the same, doubtless, who
procured yonder ladies your services as a guide."
"What can we do?" answered Hayraddin, gloomily—"These men deal
with us as the sheep-dogs do with the flock; they protect us for a
while, drive us hither and thither at their pleasure, and always end by
guiding us to the shambles."
Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohemian spoke
truth in this particular, and that the Provost-guard, employed to
suppress the vagabond bands by which the kingdom was infested,
entertained correspondence among them, and forbore, for a certain time,
the exercise of their duty, which always at last ended in conducting
their allies to the gallows. This is a sort of political relation
between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise of their mutual
professions, which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means
unknown to our own.
Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of the
retinue, very little satisfied with the character of Hayraddin, and
entertaining little confidence in the professions of gratitude which he
had personally made to him. He proceeded to sound the other two men who
had been assigned him for attendants, and he was concerned to find them
stupid, and as unfit to assist him with counsel, as in the rencounter
they had shown themselves reluctant to use their weapons.
"It is all the better," said Quentin to himself, his spirit rising
with the apprehended difficulties of his situation; "that lovely young
lady shall owe all to me.—What one hand—ay, and one head can
do,—methinks I can boldly count upon. I have seen my father's house
on fire, and he and my brothers lying dead amongst the flames—I gave
not an inch back, but fought it out to the last. Now I am two years
older, and have the best and fairest cause to bear me well, that ever
kindled mettle within a brave man's bosom."
Acting upon this resolution, the attention and activity which
Quentin bestowed during the journey, had in it something that gave him
the appearance of ubiquity. His principal and most favourite post was
of course by the side of the ladies; who, sensible of his extreme
attention to their safety, began to converse with him in almost the
tone of familiar friendship, and appeared to take great pleasure in the
naïveté, yet shrewdness, of his conversation. But Quentin did not
suffer the fascination of this intercourse to interfere with the
vigilant discharge of his duty.
If he was often by the side of the Countesses, labouring to
describe to the natives of a level country the Grampian mountains, and,
above all, the beauties of Glen-houlakin,—he was as often riding with
Hayraddin, in the front of the cavalcade, questioning him about the
road, and the resting-places, and recording his answers in his mind, to
ascertain whether upon cross-examination he could discover any thing
like meditated treachery. As often again he was in the rear,
endeavouring to secure the attachment of the two horsemen, by kind
words, gifts, and promises of additional recompense, when their task
should be accomplished.
In this way they travelled for more than a week, through by-paths
and unfrequented districts, and by circuitous routes, in order to avoid
large towns. Nothing remarkable occurred, though they now and then met
strolling gangs of Bohemians, who respected them, as under the conduct
of one of their tribe,—straggling soldiers, or perhaps banditti, who
deemed their party too strong to be attacked, —or parties of the
Marechaussée, as they would now be termed, whom Louis, who searched the
wounds of the land with steel and cautery, employed to suppress the
disorderly bands which infested the interior. These last suffered them
to pursue their way unmolested, by virtue of a password, with which
Quentin had been furnished for that purpose by the King himself.
Their resting-places were chiefly the monasteries, most of which
were obliged by the rules of their foundation to receive pilgrims,
under which character the ladies travelled, with hospitality, and
without any troublesome enquiries into their rank and character, which
most persons of distinction were desirous of concealing while in the
discharge of their vows. The pretence of weariness was usually employed
by the Countesses of Croye, as an excuse for instantly retiring to
rest, and Quentin, as their Major Domo, arranged all that was necessary
betwixt them and their entertainers, with a shrewdness which saved them
all trouble, and an alacrity that failed not to excite a corresponding
degree of good-will on the part of those who were thus sedulously
attended to.
One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, which was the
character and nation of his guide; who, as a heathen, and an infidel
vagabond, addicted besides to occult arts, (the badge of all his
tribe,) was often looked upon as a very improper guest for the holy
resting-places at which the company usually halted, and was not in
consequence admitted within even the outer circuit of their walls, save
with extreme reluctance. This was very embarrassing; for, on the one
hand, it was necessary to keep in good humour a man who was possessed
of the secret of their expedition; and on the other, Quentin deemed it
indispensable to maintain a vigilant though secret watch on Hayraddin's
conduct, in order that, as far as might be, he should hold no
communication with any one without being observed. This of course was
impossible, if the Bohemian was lodged without the precincts of the
convent at which they stopped, and Durward could not help thinking that
Hayraddin was desirous of bringing about this latter arrangement; for,
instead of keeping himself still and quiet in the quarters allotted to
him, his conversation, tricks, and songs, were at the same time so
entertaining to the novices and younger brethren, and so unedifying in
the opinion of the seniors of the fraternity, that, in more cases than
one, it required all the authority, supported by threats, which Quentin
could exert over him, to restrain his irreverent and untimeous
jocularity, and all the interest he could make with the Superiors, to
prevent the heathen hound from being thrust out of doors. He succeeded,
however, by the adroit manner in which he apologized for the acts of
indecorum committed by their attendant, and the skill with which he
hinted the hope of his being brought to a better sense of principles
and behaviour, by the neighbourhood of holy relics, consecrated
buildings, and, above all, of men dedicated to religion.
But upon the tenth or twelfth day of their journey, after they had
entered Flanders, and were approaching the town of Namur, all the
efforts of Quentin became inadequate to suppress the consequences of
the scandal given by his heathen guide. The scene was a Franciscan
convent, and of a strict and reformed order, and the Prior a man who
afterwards died in the odour of sanctity. After rather more than the
usual scruples (which were indeed in such a case to be expected) had
been surmounted, the obnoxious Bohemian at length obtained quarters in
an out-house inhabited by a lay-brother, who acted as gardener. The
ladies retired to their apartment, as usual, and the Prior, who chanced
to have some distant alliances and friends in Scotland, and who was
fond of hearing foreigners tell of their native countries, invited
Quentin, with whose mien and conduct he seemed much pleased, to a
slight monastic refection in his own cell. Finding the Father a man of
intelligence, Quentin did not neglect the opportunity of making himself
acquainted with the state of affairs in the country of Liege, of which,
during the last two days of their journey, he had heard such reports,
as made him very apprehensive for the security of his charge during the
remainder of their route, nay, even of the Bishop's power to protect
them, when they should be safely conducted to his residence. The
replies of the Prior were not very consolatory.
He said, that "the people of Liege were wealthy burghers, who, like
Jeshurun of old, had waxed fat and kicked—that they were uplifted in
heart because of their wealth and their privileges—that they had
divers disputes with the Duke of Burgundy, their liege lord, upon the
subject of imposts and immunities—and that they had repeatedly broken
out into open mutiny, whereat the Duke was so much incensed, as being a
man of a hot and fiery nature, that he had sworn, by Saint George, on
the next provocation, he would make the city of Liege like to the
desolation of Babylon, and the downfall of Tyre, a hissing and a
reproach to the whole territory of Flanders."
"And he is a prince, by all report, likely to keep such a vow,"
said Quentin; "so the men of Liege will probably beware how they give
him occasion."
"It were to be so hoped," said the Prior; "and such are the prayers
of the godly in the land, who would not that the blood of the citizens
were poured forth like water, and that they should perish, even as
utter castaways, ere they make their peace with Heaven. Also the good
Bishop labours night and day to preserve peace, as well becometh a
servant of the altar; for it is written in holy scripture, Beati
pacifici. But"—here the good Prior stopped, with a deep sigh.
Quentin modestly urged the great importance of which it was to the
ladies whom he attended, to have some assured information respecting
the internal state of the country, and what an act of Christian charity
it would be, if the worthy and reverend Father would enlighten them
upon that subject.
"It is one," said the Prior, "on which no man speaks with
willingness; for those who speak evil of the powerful, etiam in
cubiculo, may find that a winged thing shall carry the matter to his
ears. Nevertheless, to render you, who seem an ingenuous youth, and
your ladies, who are devout votaresses accomplishing a holy pilgrimage,
the little service that is in my power, I will be plain with you."
He then looked cautiously round, and lowered his voice, as if
afraid of being oveheard.
"The people of Liege," he said, "are privily instigated to their
frequent mutinies by men of Belial, who pretend, but, as I hope,
falsely, to have commission to that effect from our most Christian
King; whom, however, I hold to deserve that term better than were
consistent with his thus disturbing the peace of a neighbouring state.
Yet so it is, that his name is freely used by those who uphold and
inflame the discontents at Liege. There is, moreover, in the land, a
nobleman of good descent, and fame in warlike affairs; but otherwise,
so to speak, Lapis offensionis et petra scandali,—a stumbling-block
of offence to the countries of Burgundy and Flanders. His name is
William de la Marck."
"Called William with the Beard," said the young Scot, "or the Wild
Boar of Ardennes?"
"And rightly so called, my son," said the Prior; "because he is as
the wild boar of the forest, which treadeth down with his hoofs, and
rendeth with his tusks. And he hath formed to himself a band of more
than a thousand men, all, like himself, contemners of civil and
ecclesiastical authority, and holds himself independent of the Duke of
Burgundy, and maintains himself and his followers by rapine and wrong,
wrought without distinction, upon churchmen and laymen. Imposuit manus
in Christos Domini,—he hath stretched forth his hand upon the
anointed of the Lord, regardless of what is written,—'Touch not mine
anointed, and do my prophets no wrong.'—Even to our poor house did he
send for sums of gold and sums of silver, as a ransom for our lives,
and those of our brethren; to which we returned a Latin supplication,
stating our inability to answer his demand, and exhorting him in the
words of the preacher, Ne moliaris amico tuo malum, cum habet in te
fiduciam. Nevertheless, this Gulielmus Barbatus, this William de la
Marck, as completely ignorant of humane letters as of humanity itself,
replied, in his ridiculous jargon, 'Si non payatis, brulabo monasterium
vestrum.'" [Note: A similar story is told of the Duke of Vendome, who
answered in this sort of macaronic Latin the classical expostulations
of a German convent against the imposition of a contribution.]
"Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good father," said the
youth, "were at no loss to conceive the meaning?"
"Alas, my son," said the Prior, "Fear and Necessity are shrewd
interpreters; and we were obliged to melt down the silver vessels of
our altar to satisfy the rapacity of this cruel chief—May Heaven
requite it to him seven-fold! Pereat improbus—Amen, amen, anathema
esto!"
"I marvel," said Quentin, "that the Duke of Burgundy, who is so
strong and powerful, doth not bait this boar to purpose, of whose
ravages I have already heard so much."
"Alas! my son," said the Prior, "the Duke Charles is now at
Peronne, assembling his captains of hundreds and his captains of
thousands, to make war against France; and thus, while Heaven hath set
discord between the hearts of those great princes, the country is
misused by such subordinate oppressors. But it is in evil time that the
Duke neglects the cure of these internal gangrenes; for this William de
la Marck hath of late entertained open communication with Rouslaer and
Pavillon, the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, and it is to be
feared he will soon stir them up to some desperate enterprise."
"But the Bishop of Liege," said Quentin, "he hath still power
enough to subdue this disquieted and turbulent spirit—hath he not,
good father?— Your answer to this question concerns me much."
"The Bishop, my child," replied the Prior, "hath the sword of Saint
Peter, as well as the keys. He hath power as a secular prince, and he
hath the protection of the mighty House of Burgundy; he hath also
spiritual authority as a prelate, and he supports both with a
reasonable force of good soldiers and men-at-arms. This William de la
Marck was bred in his household, and bound to him by many benefits. But
he gave vent, even in the court of the Bishop, to his fierce and
blood-thirsty temper, and was expelled thence for a homicide, committed
on one of the Bishop's chief domestics. From thenceforward, being
banished from the good Prelate's presence, he hath been his constant
and unrelenting foe; and now, I grieve to say, he hath girded his
loins, and strengthened his horn against him."
"You consider, then, the situation of the worthy Prelate as being
dangerous?" said Quentin, very anxiously.
"Alas! my son," said the good Franciscan, "what or who is there in
this weary wilderness, whom we may not hold as in danger? But Heaven
forefend, I should speak of the reverend Prelate as one whose peril is
imminent. He has much treasure, true counsellors, and brave soldiers;
and, moreover, a messenger who passed hither to the eastward yesterday,
saith that the Duke of Burgundy hath dispatched, upon the Bishop's
request, an hundred men-at-arms to his assistance. This reinforcement,
with the retinue belonging to each lance, are enough to deal with
William de la Marck, on whose name be sorrow!—Amen."
At this crisis their conversation was interrupted by the
Sacristan, who, in a voice almost inarticulate with anger, accused the
Bohemian of having practised the most abominable arts of delusion among
the younger brethren. He had added to their nightly meal cups of a
heady and intoxicating cordial, of ten times the strength of the most
powerful wine, under which several of the fraternity had
succumbed,—and indeed, although the Sacristan had been strong to
resist its influence, they might yet see, from his inflamed countenance
and thick speech, that even he, the accuser himself, was in some degree
affected by this unhallowed potation. Moreover, the Bohemian had sung
songs of worldly vanity and impure pleasures; he had derided the cord
of Saint Francis, made jest of his miracles, and termed his votaries
fools and lazy knaves. Lastly, he had practised palmistry, and foretold
to the young Father Cherubin, that he was beloved by a beautiful lady,
who should make him father to a thriving boy.
The Father Prior listened to these complaints for some time in
silence, as struck with mute horror by their enormous atrocity. When
the Sacristan had concluded, he rose up, descended to the court of the
convent, and ordered the lay brethren, on pain of the worst
consequences of spiritual disobedience, to beat Hayraddin out of the
sacred precincts, with their broom-staves and cart-whips.
This sentence was executed accordingly, in the presence of Quentin
Durward, who, however vexed at the occurrence, easily saw that his
interference would be of no avail.
The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, notwithstanding the
exhortations of the Superor, was more ludicrous than formidable. The
Bohemian ran hither and thither through the court, amongst the clamour
of voices, and noise of blows, some of which reached him not, because
purposely misaimed; others, sincerely designed for his person, were
eluded by his activity; and the few that fell upon his back and
shoulders, he took without either complaint or reply. The noise and
riot was the greater, that the inexperienced cudgel-players, among whom
Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each other more frequently than they
did him; till at length, desirous of ending a scene which was more
scandalous than edifying, the Prior commanded the wicket to be flung
open, and the Bohemian, darting through it with the speed of lightning,
fled forth into the moonlight.
During this scene, a suspicion which Durward had formerly
entertained, recurred with additional strength. Hayraddin had, that
very morning, promised to him more modest and discreet behaviour than
he was wont to exhibit, when they rested in a convent on their journey;
yet he had broken his engagement, and had been even more offensively
obstreperous than usual. Something probably lurked under this; for
whatever were the Bohemian's deficiencies, he lacked neither sense,
nor, when he pleased, self-command; and might it not be probable that
he wished to hold some communication, either with his own horde or some
one else, from which he was debarred in the course of the day, by the
vigilance with which he was watched by Quentin, and had recourse to
this strategem in order to get himself turned out of the convent?
No sooner did this suspicion dart once more through Durward's mind,
than, alert as he always was in his motions, he resolved to follow his
cudgelled guide, and observe (secretly if possible) how he disposed of
himself. Accordingly, when the Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out
at the gate of the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to the Prior
the necessity of keeping sight of his guide, followed in pursuit of
him.
CHAPTER XVII. THE ESPIED SPY.
What, the rude ranger? and spied spy?—hands off—
You are for no such rustics.
Ben Jonson's Tale of Robin Hood.
When Quentin sallied from the convent, he could mark the
precipitate retreat of the Bohemian, whose dark figure was seen in the
far moonlight, flying with the speed of a flogged hound quite through
the street of the little village, and across the level meadow that lay
beyond.
"My friend runs fast," said Quentin to himself; "but he must run
faster yet, to escape the fleetest foot that ever pressed the heather
of Glen-houlakin."
Being fortunately without his cloak and armour, the Scottish
mountaineer was at liberty to put forth a speed which was unrivalled in
his own glens, and which, notwithstanding the rate at which the
Bohemian ran, was likely soon to bring his pursuer up with him. This
was not, however, Quentin's object; for he considered it more essential
to watch Hayraddin's motions, than to interrupt them. He was the rather
led to this, by the steadiness with which the Bohemian directed his
course; and which continuing, even after the impulse of the violent
expulsion had subsided, seemed to indicate that his career had some
more certain goal for its object than could have suggested itself to a
person unexpectedly turned out of good quarters when midnight was
approaching, to seek a new place of repose. He never even looked behind
him; and consequently Durward was enabled to follow him unobserved. At
length the Bohemian having traversed the meadow, and attained the side
of a little stream, the banks of which were clothed with alders and
willows, Quentin observed that he stood still, and blew a low note on
his horn, which was answered by a whistle at some little distance.
"This is a rendezvous," thought Quentin; "but how shall I come near
enough to overhear the import of what passes? the sound of my steps,
and the rustling of the boughs through which I must force my passage,
will betray me, unless I am cautious —I will stalk them, by Saint
Andrew, as if they were Glen-isla deer—they shall learn that I have
not conned woodcraft for nought. Yonder they meet, the two
shadows—and two of them there are—odds against me if I am
discovered, and if their purpose be unfriendly, as is much to be
doubted. And then the Countess Isabelle loses her poor
friend!—Well—and he were not worthy to be called such, if he were
not ready to meet a dozen in her behalf.—Have I not crossed swords
with Dunois, the best knight in France, and shall I fear a tribe of
yonder vagabonds?—Pshaw—God and Saint Andrew to friend, they will
find me both stout and wary."
Thus resolving, and with a degree of caution taught him by his
silvan habits, our friend descended into the channel of the little
stream, which varied in depth, sometimes scarce covering his shoes,
sometimes coming up to his knees, and so crept along, his from
concealed by the boughs overhanging the bank, and his steps unheard
amid the ripple of the water. (We have ourselves, in the days of yore,
thus approached the nest of the wakeful raven.) In this manner, the
Scot drew near unperceived, until he distinctly heard the voices of
those who were the subject of his observation, though he could not
distinguish the words. Being at this time under the drooping branches
of a magnificent weeping willow, which almost swept the surface of the
water, he caught hold of one of its boughs, by the assistance of which,
exerting at once much agility, dexterity, and strength, he raised
himself up into the body of the tree, and sat, secure from discovery,
among the central branches.
From this situation he could discover that the person with whom
Hayraddin was now conversing was one of his own tribe, and, at the same
time, he perceived, to his great disappointment, that no approximation
could enable him to comprehend their language, which was totally
unknown to him. They laughed much; and as Hayraddin made a sign of
skipping about, and ended by rubbing his shoulder with his hand,
Durward had no doubt that he was relating the story of the bastinading
which he had sustained previous to his escape from the convent.
On a sudden, a whistle was again heard in the distance, which was
once more answered by a low tone or two of Hayraddin's horn. Presently
afterwards, a tall, stout, soldierly-looking man, a strong contrast in
point of thewes and sinews to the small and slender-limbed Bohemians,
made his appearance. He had a broad baldric over his shoulder, which
sustained a sword that hung almost across his person; his hose were
much slashed, through which slashes was drawn silk or tiffancy, of
various colours; they were tied by at least five hundred points or
strings, made of ribbon, to the tight buff-jacket which he wore, and
the right sleeve of which displayed a silver boar's head, the crest of
his Captain. A very small hat sat jauntily on one side of his head,
from which descended a quantity of curled hair, which fell on each side
of a broad face, and mingled with as broad a beard, about four inches
long. He held a long lance in his hand; and his whole equipment was
that of one of the German adventurers, who were known by the name of
lanzknechts, in English, spearmen, who constituted a formidable part of
the infantry of the period. These mercenaries were, of course, a fierce
and rapacious soldiery, and having an idle tale current among
themselves, that a lanzknecht was refused admittance into heaven on
account of his vices, and into hell on the score of his tumultuous,
mutinous, and insubordinate disposition, they manfully acted as if they
neither sought the one, nor eschewed the other.
"Donner and blitz!" was his first salutation, in a sort of
German-French, which we can only imperfectly imitate, "Why have you
kept me dancing in attendance dis dree nights?"
"I could not see you sooner, Meinherr," said Hayraddin, very
submissively; "there is a young Scot, with as quick an eye as the
wild-cat, who watches my least motions. He suspects me already, and,
should he find his suspicion confirmed, I were a dead man on the spot,
and he would carry back the women into France again."
"Was henker!" said the lanzknecht; "we are three—we will attack
them to-morrow, and carry the women off without going farther. You said
the two valets were cowards—you and your comrade may manage them, and
the Teufel sall hold me, but I match your Scots wild-cat."
"You will find that foolhardy," said Hayraddin; "for, besides that
we ourselves count not much in fighting, this spark hath matched
himself with the best knight in France, and come off with honour— I
have seen those who saw him press Dunois hard enough."
"Hagel and sturmwetter! It is but your cowardice that speaks," said
the German soldier.
"I am no more a coward than yourself," said Hayraddin; "but my
trade is not fighting.—If you keep the appointment where it was laid,
it is well—if not, I guide them safely to the Bishop's Palace, and
William de la Marck may easily possess himself of them there, provided
he is half as strong as he pretended a week since."
"Poz tausend!" said the soldier, "we are as strong and stronger;
but we hear of a hundreds of the lances of Burgund,—das ist,—see
you,— five men to a lance do make five hundreds, and then hold me the
devil, they will be fainer to seek for us, than we to seek for them;
for der Bischoff hath a goot force on footing—ay, indeed!"
"You must then hold to the ambuscade at the Cross of the Three
Kings, or give up the adventure," said the Bohemian.
"Geb up—geb up the adventure of the rich bride for our noble
hauptman—Teufel! I will charge through hell first.—Mein soul, we
will be all princes and hertzogs, whom they call dukes, and we will hab
a snab at the wein-kellar, and at the moudly French crowns, and it may
be at the pretty garces too, when He with de beard is weary on them."
"The ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings then still holds?"
said the Bohemian.
"Mein Got, ay,—you will swear to bring them there; and when they
are on their knees before the cross, and down from off their horses,
which all men do, except such black heathens as thou, we will make in
on them, and they are ours."
"Ay, but I promised this piece of necessary villainy only on one
condition," said Hayraddin.— "I will not have a hair of the young
man's head touched. If you swear this to me, by your Three dead Men of
Cologne, I will swear to you, by the Seven Night Walkers, that I will
serve you truly as to the rest. And if you break your oath, the Night
Walkers shall wake you seven nights from your sleep, between night and
morning, and, on the eighth, they shall strangle and devour you."
"But, donner and hagel, what need you be so curious about the life
of this boy, who is neither your bloot nor kin?" said the German.
"No matter for that, honest Heinrick; some men have pleasure in
cutting throats, some in keeping them whole—So swear to me, that you
will spare him life and limb, or, by the bright star Aldeboran, this
matter shall go no further—Swear, and by the Three Kings, as you call
them, of Cologne—I know you care for no other oath."
"Du bist ein comische man," said the lanzknecht, "I swear"—
"Not yet," said the Bohemian—"Faces about, brave lanzknecht, and
look to the east, else the Kings may not hear you."
The soldier took the oath in the manner prescribed, and then
declared that he would be in readiness, observing the place was quite
convenient, being scarce five miles from their present leaguer.
"But, were it not making sure work to have a fahnlein of riders on
the other road, by the left side of the inn, which might trap them if
they go that way?"
The Bohemian considered a moment, and then answered, "No—the
appearance of their troops in that direction might alarm the garrison
of Namur, and then they would have a doubtful fight, instead of assured
success. Besides, they shall travel on the right bank of the Maes, for
I can guide them which way I will; for, sharp as this same Scottish
mountaineer is, he hath never asked any one's advice, save mine, upon
the direction of their route.—Undoubtedly, I was assigned to him by
an assured friend, whose word no man mistrusts till they come to know
him a little."
"Hark ye, friend Hayraddin," said the soldier, "I would ask you
somewhat.—You and your bruder were, as you say yourself, gross
sternen-deuter, that is, star-lookers and geister-seers—Now, what
henker was it made you not foresee him, your bruder Zamet, to be
hanged?"
"I will tell you, Heinrick," said Hayraddin;— "if I could have
known my brother was such a fool as to tell the counsel of King Louis
to Duke Charles of Burgundy, I could have foretold his death as sure as
I can foretell fair weather in July. Louis hath both ears and hands at
the Court of Burgundy, and Charles's counsellors love the chink of
French gold as well as thou dost the clatter of a wine-pot.—But fare
thee well, and keep appointment —I must await my early Scot a
bow-shot without the gate of the den of the lazy swine yonder, else
will he think me about some excursion which bodes no good to the
success of his journey."
"Take a draught of comfort first," said the lanzknecht, tendering
him a flask,—"but I forget; thou art beast enough to drink nothing
but water, like a vile vassal of Mahound and Termagund."
"Thou art thyself a vassal of the wine-measure and the flagon,"
said the Bohemian,—"I marvel not that thou art only trusted with the
bloodthirsty and violent part of executing what better heads have
devised.—He must drink no wine, who would know the thoughts of
others, or hide his own. But why preach to thee, who hast a thirst as
eternal as a sand-bank in Arabia?—Fare thee well.—Take my comrade
Tuisco with thee—his appearance about the monastery may breed
suspicion."
The two worthies parted, after each had again pledged himself to
keep the rendezvous at the Cross of the Three Kings.
Quentin Durward watched until they were out of sight, and then
descended from his place of concealment, his heart throbbing at the
narrow escape which he and his fair charge had made—if, indeed, it
could yet be achieved—from a deep-laid plan of villainy. Afraid, on
his return to the monastery, of stumbling upon Hayraddin, he made a
long detour, at the expense of traversing some very rough ground, and
was thus enabled to return to his asylum on a different point from that
by which he left it.
On the route, he communed earnestly with himself concerning the
safest plan to be pursued. He had formed the resolution, when he first
heard Hayraddin avow his treachery, to put him to death so soon as the
conference broke up, and his companions were at a sufficient distance;
but when he heard the Bohemian express so much interest in saving his
own life, he felt it would be ungrateful to execute upon him, in its
rigour, the punishment his treachery had deserved. He therefore
resolved to spare his life, and even, if possible, still to use his
services as a guide, under such precautions as should ensure the
security of the precious charge, to the preservation of which his own
life was internally devoted.
But whither were they to turn—the Countesses of Croye could
neither obtain shelter in Burgundy, from which they had fled, nor in
France, from which they had been in a manner expelled. The violence of
Duke Charles in the one country, was scarcely more to be feared than
the cold and tyrannical policy of King Louis in the other. After deep
thought, Durward could form no better or safer plan for their security,
than that, evading the ambuscade, they should take the road to Liege by
the left hand of the Maes, and throw themselves, as the ladies
originally designed, upon the protection of the excellent Bishop. That
Prelate's will to protect them could not be doubted, and, if reinforced
by this Burgundian party of men-at-arms, he might be considered as
having the power. At any rate, if the dangers to which he was exposed
from the hostility of William de la Marck, and from the troubles in the
city of Liege, appeared imminent, he would still be able to protect the
unfortunate ladies until they could be dispatched to Germany with a
suitable escort.
To sum up this reasoning—for when is a mental argument conducted
without some reference to selfish considerations?—Quentin imagined
that the death or captivity to which King Louis had, in cold blood,
consigned him, set him at liberty from his engagements to the Crown of
France; which, therefore, it was his determined purpose to renounce.
The Bishop of Liege was likely, he concluded, to need soldiers, and he
thought that, by the interposition of his fair friends; who now,
especially the elder Countess, treated him with much familiarity, he
might get some command, and perhaps might have the charge of conducting
the Ladies of Croye to some place more safe than the neighbourhood of
Liege. And, to conclude, the ladies had talked, although almost in a
sort of jest, of raising the Countess's own vassals, and, as others did
in those stormy times, fortifying her strong castle against all
assailants whatever; they had jestingly asked Quentin, whether he would
accept the perilous office of their Seneschal; and, on his embracing
the office with ready glee and devotion, they had, in the same spirit,
permitted him to kiss both their hands on that confidential and
honourable appointment. Nay, he thought that the hand of the Countess
Isabelle, one of the best formed and most beautiful to which true
vassal ever did such homage, trembled when his lips rested on it a
moment longer than ceremony required, and that some confusion appeared
on her cheek and in her eye as she withdrew it. Something might come of
all this; and what brave man, at Quentin Durward's age, but would
gladly have taken the thoughts which it awakened, into the
considerations which were to determine his conduct?
This point settled, he had next to consider in what degree he was
to use the further guidance of the faithless Bohemian. He had renounced
his first thought of killing him in the wood, and if he took another
guide, and dismissed him alive, it would be sending the traitor to the
camp of William de la Marck, with intelligence of their motions. He
thought of taking the Prior into his counsels, and requesting him to
detain the Bohemian by force, until they should have time to reach the
Bishop's castle; but, on reflection, he dared not hazard such a
proposition to one who was timid both as an old man and a friar, who
held the safety of his convent the most important object of his duty,
and who trembled at the mention of the Wild Boar of Ardennes.
At length Durward settled a plan of operation, on which he could
the better reckon, as the execution rested entirely upon himself; and,
in the cause in which he was engaged, he felt himself capable of every
thing. With a firm and bold heart, though conscious of the dangers of
his situation, Quentin might be compared to one walking under a load,
of the weight of which he is conscious, but which yet is not beyond his
strength and power of endurance. Just as his plan was determined, he
reached the convent.
Upon knocking gently at the gate, a brother, considerately
stationed for that purpose by the Prior, opened it, and acquainted him
that the brethren were to be engaged in the choir till day break,
praying Heaven to forgive to the community the various scandals which
had that evening taken place among them.
The worthy friar offered Quentin permission to attend their
devotions; but his clothes were in such a wet condition, that the young
Scot was obliged to decline the opportunity, and request permission,
instead, to sit by the kitchen fire, in order to his attire being dried
before morning; as he was particularly desirous that the Bohemian, when
they should next meet, should observe no traces of his having been
abroad during the night. The friar not only granted his request, but
afforded him his own company, which fell in very happily with the
desire which Durward had to obtain information concerning the two
routes which he had heard mentioned by the Bohemian in his conversation
with the lanzknecht. The friar, intrusted upon many occasions with the
business of the convent abroad, was the person in the fraternity best
qualified to afford him the information he requested, but observed,
that, as true pilgrims, it became the duty of the ladies whom Quentin
escorted, to take the road on the right side of the Maes, by the Cross
of the Kings, where the blessed relics of Caspar, Melchior, and
Balthasar, (as the Catholic Church has named the eastern Magi who came
to Bethlehem with their offerings,) had rested as they were transported
to Cologne, and on which spot they had wrought many miracles.
Quentin replied, that the ladies were determined to observe all
the holy stations with the utmost punctuality, and would certainly
visit that of the Cross, either in going to or returning from Cologne,
but they had heard reports that the road by the right side of the river
was at present rendered unsafe by the soldiers of the ferocious William
de la Marck.
"Now may Heaven forbid," said Father Francis, "that the Wild Boar
of Ardennes should again make his lair so near us!—Nevertheless, the
broad Maes will be a good barrier betwixt us, even should it so
chance."
"But it will be no barrier between my ladies and the marauder,
should we cross the river, and travel on the right bank," answered the
Scot.
"Heaven will protect its own, young man," said the friar; "for it
were hard to think that the Kings of yonder blessed city of Cologne,
who will not endure that a Jew or Infidel should even enter within the
walls of their town, could be oblivious enought to permit their
worshippers, coming to their shrine as true pilgrims, to be plundered
and misused by such a miscreant dog as this Boar of Ardennes, who is
worse than a whole desert of Saracen heathens, and all the ten tribes
of Israel to boot."
Whatever reliance Quentin, as a sincere Catholic, was bound to rest
upon the special protection of Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar, he
could not but recollect, that the pilgrim habits of the ladies being
assumed out of mere earthly policy, he and his charge could scarcely
expect their countenance on the present occasion; and therefore
resolved, as far as possible, to avoid placing the ladies in any
predicament where miraculous interposition might be necessary; whilst,
in the simplicity of his good faith, he himself vowed a pilgrimage to
the Three Kings of Cologne in his own proper person, provided the
simulate design of those over whose safety he was now watching, should
be permitted by those reasonable and royal, as well as sainted
personages, to attain the desired effect.
That he might enter into this obligation with all solemnity, he
requested the friar to show him into one of the various chapels which
opened from the main body of the church of the convent, where, upon his
knees, and with sincere devotion, he ratified the vow which he had made
internally. The distant sound of the choir, the solemnity of the deep
and dead hour which he had chosen for this act of devotion, the effect
of the glimmering lamp with which the little Gothic building was
illuminated —all contributed to throw Quentin's mind into the state
when it most readily acknowledges its human frailty, and seeks that
supernatural aid and protection, which, in every worship, must be
connected with repentance for past sins, and resolutions of future
amendment. That the object of his devotion was misplaced, was not the
fault of Quentin; and, its purpose being sincere, we can scarce suppose
it unacceptable to the only true Deity, who regards the motives, and
not the forms of prayer, and in whose eyes the sincere devotion of a
heathen is more estimable than the specious hypocrisy of a Pharisee.
Having commended himself and his helpless companions to the Saints,
and to the keeping of Providence, Quentin at length retired to rest,
leaving the friar much edified by the depth and sincerity of his
devotion.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I. PALMISTRY.
When many a merry tale and many a song
Cheer'd the rough road, we wish'd the rough road long.
The rough road, then, returning in a round,
Mock'd our enchanted steps, for all was fairy ground.
Samuel Johnson.
By peep of day Quentin Durward had forsaken his little cell, had
roused the sleepy grooms, and, with more than his wonted care, seen
that every thing was prepared for the day's journey. Girths and
bridles, the horse-furniture, and the shoes of the horses themselves,
were carefully inspected with his own eyes, that there might be as
little chance as possible of the occurrence of any of those casualties,
which, petty as they seem, often interrupt or disconcert travelling.
The horses were also, under his own inspection, carefully fed, so as to
render them fit for a long day's journey, or, if that should be
necessary, for a hasty flight.
Quentin then betook himself to his own chamber, armed himself with
unusual care, and belted on his sword with the feeling at once of
approaching danger, and of stern determination to dare it to the
uttermost.
These generous feelings gave him a loftiness of step, and a dignity
of manner, which the Ladies of Croye had not yet observed in him,
though they had been highly pleased and interested by the grace, yet
naïveté, of his general behaviour and conversation, and the mixture of
shrewd intelligence which naturally belonged to him, with the
simplicity arising from his secluded education and distant country. He
let them understand, that it would be necessary that they should
prepare for their journey this morning rather earlier than usual; and,
accordingly, they left the convent immediately after a morning repast,
for which, as well as the other hospitalities of the House, the ladies
made acknowledgment by a donation to the altar, befitting rather their
rank than their appearance. But this excited no suspicion, as they were
supposed to be Englishwomen; and the attribute of superior wealth
attached at that time to the insular character as strongly as in our
own day.
The Prior blessed them as they mounted to depart, and congratulated
Quentin on the absence of his heathen guide; "for," said the venerable
man, "better stumble in the path, than be upheld by the arm of a thief
or robber."
Quentin was not quite of his opinion; for, dangerous as he knew the
Bohemian to be, he thought he could use his services, and, at the same
time, baffle his treasonable purpose, now that he saw clearly to what
it tended. But his anxiety upon this subject was soon at an end, for
the little cavalcade was not an hundred yards from the monastery and
the village before Maugrabin joined it, riding as usual on his little
active and wild-looking jennet. Their road led them along the side of
the same brook where Quentin had overheard the mysterious conference of
the preceding evening, and Hayraddin had not long rejoined them, ere
they passed under the very willow-tree which had afforded Durward the
means of concealment, when he became an unsuspected hearer of what then
passed betwixt that false guide and the lanzknecht.
The recollections which the spot brought back stirred Quentin to
enter abruptly into conversation with his guide, whom hitherto he had
scarce spoken to.
"Where hast thou found night-quarter, thou profane knave?" said the
Scot.
"Your wisdom may guess, by looking on my gaberdine," answered the
Bohemian, pointing to his dress, which was covered with the seeds of
hay.
"A good hay-stack," said Quentin, "is a convenient bed for an
astrologer, and a much better than a heathen scoffer at our blessed
religion, and its ministers, ever deserves."
"It suited my Klepper better than me, though," said Hayraddin,
patting his horse on the neck; "for he had food and shelter at the same
time. The old bald fools turned him loose, as if a wise man's horse
could have infected with wit or sagacity a whole convent of asses.
Lucky that Klepper knows my whistle, and follows me as truly as a
hound, or we had never met again, and you in your turn might have
whistled for a guide."
"I have told thee more than once," said Durward, sternly, "to
restrain thy ribaldry when thou chancest to be in worthy men's company,
a thing which, I believe, hath rarely happened to thee in thy life
before now; and I promise thee, that, did I hold thee as faithless a
guide as I esteem thee a blasphemous and worthless caitiff, my Scottish
dirk and thy heathenish heart had ere now been acquainted, although the
doing such a deed were as ignoble as the sticking of swine."
"A wild boar is near akin to a sow," said the Bohemian, without
flinching from the sharp look with which Quentin regarded him, or
altering, in the slightest degree, the caustic indifference which he
affected in his language; "and many men," he subjoined, "find both
pride, pleasure, and profit, in sticking them."
Astonished at the man's ready confidence, and uncertain whether he
did not know more of his own history and feelings than was pleasant for
him to converse upon, Quentin broke off a conversation in which he had
gained no advantage over Maugrabin, and fell back to his accustomed
post beside the ladies.
We have already observed, that a considerable degree of familiarity
had begun to establish itself between them. The elder Countess treated
him (being once well assured of the nobility of his birth) like a
favoured equal; and though her niece showed her regard to their
protector less freely, yet, under every disadvantage of bashfulness and
timidity, Quentin thought he could plainly perceive, that his company
and conversation were not by any means indifferent to her.
Nothing gives such life and soul to youthful gaiety as the
consciousness that it is successfully received; and Quentin had
accordingly, during the former period of their journey, amused his fair
charge with the liveliness of his conversation, and the songs and tales
of his country, the former of which he sung in his native language,
while his efforts to render the latter into his foreign and imperfect
French, gave rise to a hundred little mistakes and errors of speech, as
diverting as the narratives themselves. But on this anxious morning, he
rode beside the ladies of Croye without any of his usual attempts to
amuse them, and they could not help observing his silence as something
remarkable.
"Our young companion has seen a wolf," said the Lady Hameline,
alluding to an ancient superstition, "and he has lost his tongue in
consequence." [Note:
Vox quoque Moerim Jam fugit ipsa; lupi Moerim videre priores.
Virgilii, ix. ecloga.
The commentators add, in explanation of this passage, the opinion
of Pliny: "The being beheld by a wolf in Italy is accounted noxious,
and is supposed to take away the speech of a man, if these animals
behold him ere he sees them."
]
"To say I had tracked a fox were nearer the mark," thought
Quentin, but gave the reply no utterance.
"Are you well, Seignior Quentin?" said the Countess Isabelle, in a
tone of interest at which she herself blushed, while she felt that it
was something more than the distance between them warranted.
"He hath sat up carousing with the jolly friars," said the Lady
Hameline; "the Scots are like the Germans, who spend all their mirth
over the Rheinwein, and bring only their staggering steps to the dance
in the evening, and their aching heads to the ladies' bower in the
morning."
"Nay, gentle ladies," said Quentin, "I deserve not your reproach.
The good friars were at their devotions almost all night; and for
myself, my drink was barely a cup of their thinnest and most ordinary
wine."
"It is the badness of his fare that has put him out of humour,"
said the Countess Isabelle. "Cheer up, Seignior Quentin; and should we
ever visit my ancient Castle of Bracquemont together, if I myself
should stand your cup-bearer, and hand it to you, you shall have a
generous cup of wine, that the like never grew upon the vines of
Hochheim or Johannisberg."
"A glass of water, noble lady, from your hand" —Thus far did
Quentin begin, but his voice trembled; and Isabelle continued, as if
she had been insensible of the tenderness of the accentuation upon the
personal pronoun.
"The wine was stocked in the deep vaults of Bracquemont, by my
great-grandfather the Rhinegrave Godfrey," said the Countess Isabelle.
"Who won the hand of her great-grandmother," interjected the Lady
Hameline, interrupting her niece, "by proving himself the best son of
chivalry, at the great tournament of Strasbourg—ten knights were
slain in the lists. But those days are over, and no one now thinks of
encountering peril for the sake of honour, or to relieve distressed
beauty."
To this speech, which was made in the tone in which a modern
beauty, whose charms are rather on the wane, may be heard to condemn
the rudeness of the present age, Quentin took upon him to reply, "that
there was no lack of that chivalry which the Lady Hameline seemed to
consider as extinct, and that, were it eclipsed everywhere else, it
would still glow in the bosoms of the Scottish gentlemen."
"Hear him!" said the Lady Hameline; "he would have us believe, that
in his cold and bleak country still lives the noble fire which has
decayed in France and Germany! The poor youth is like a Swiss
mountaineer, mad with partiality to his native land—he will next tell
us of the vines and olives of Scotland."
"No, madam," said Durward; "of the wine and the oil of our
mountains I can say little, more than that our swords can compel these
rich productions, as tribute from our wealthier neighbours. But for the
unblemished faith and unfaded honour of Scotland, I must now put to the
proof how far you can repose trust in them, however mean the
individual who can offer nothing more as a pledge of your safety."
"You speak mysteriously—you know of some pressing and present
danger," said the Lady Hameline.
"I have read it in his eye for this hour past!" exclaimed the Lady
Isabelle, clasping her hands. "Sacred Virgin, what will become of us?"
"Nothing, I hope, but what you would desire," answered Durward.
"And now I am compelled to ask—Gentle ladies, can you trust me?"
"Trust you?" answered the Countess Hameline —"certainly—But why
the question? Or how far do you ask our confidence?"
"I, on my part," said the Countess Isabelle, "trust you implicitly,
and without condition. If you can deceive us, Quentin, I will no more
look for truth, save in Heaven."
"Gentle lady," replied Durward, highly gratified, "you do me but
justice. My object is to alter our route, by proceeding directly by the
left bank of the Maes to Liege, instead of crossing at Namur. This
differs from the order assigned by King Louis, and the instructions
given to the guide. But I heard news in the monastery of marauders on
the right bank of the Maes, and of the march of Burgundian soldiers to
suppress them. Both circumstances alarm me for your safety. Have I your
permission so far to deviate from the route of your journey?"
"My ample and full permission," answered the younger lady.
"Cousin," said the Lady Hameline, "I believe with you, that the
youth means us well;—but bethink you—we transgress the instructions
of King Louis, so positively iterated."
"And why should we regard his instructions?" said the Lady
Isabelle. "I am, I thank Heaven for it, no subject of his; and, as a
suppliant, he has abused the confidence he induced me to repose in him.
I would not dishonour this young gentleman by weighing his word for an
instant against the injunctions of yonder crafty and selfish despot."
"Now, may God bless you for that very word, lady," said Quentin,
joyously; "and if I deserve not the trust it expresses, tearing with
wild horses in this life, and eternal tortures in the next, were e'en
too good for my deserts."
So saying, he spurred his horse, and rejoined the Bohemian. This
worthy seemed of a remarkably passive, if not a forgiving temper.
Injury or threat never dwelt, or at least seemed not to dwell, on his
recollection; and he entered into the conversation which Durward
presently commenced, just as if there had been no unkindly word betwixt
them in the course of the morning.
"The dog," thought the Scot, "snarls not now, because he intends to
clear scores with me at once and for ever, when he can snatch me by the
very throat; but we will try for once whether we cannot foil a traitor
at his own weapons.—Honest Hayraddin," he said, "thou hast travelled
with us for ten days, yet hast never shown us a specimen of your skill
in fortune-telling; which you are, nevertheless, so fond of practising,
that you must needs display your gifts in every convent at which we
stop, at the risk of being repaid by a night's lodging under a
haystack."
"You have never asked me for a specimen of my skill," said the
gipsy. "You are like the rest of the world, contented to ridicule those
mysteries which they do not understand."
"Give me then a present proof of your skill," said Quentin; and,
ungloving his hand, he held it out to the Zingaro.
Hayraddin carefully regarded all the lines which crossed each other
on the Scotchman's palm, and noted, with equally scrupulous attention,
the little risings or swellings at the roots of the fingers, which were
then believed as intimately connected with the disposition, habits, and
fortunes of the individual, as the organs of the brain are pretended to
be in our own time.
"Here is a hand," said Hayraddin, "which speaks of toils endured,
and dangers encountered. I read in it an early acquaintance with the
hilt of the sword; and yet some acquaintance also with the clasps of
the mass-book."
"This of my past life you may have learned elsewhere," said
Quentin; "tell me something of the future."
"This line from the hill of Venus," said the Bohemian, "not broken
off abruptly, but attending and accompanying the line of life, argues a
certain and large fortune by marriage, whereby the party shall be
raised among the wealthy and the noble by the influence of successful
love."
"Such promises you make to all who ask your advice," said Quentin;
"they are part of your art."
"What I tell you is as certain," said Hayraddin, "as that you shall
in a brief space be menaced with mighty danger; which I infer from this
bright blood-red line cutting the table-line transversely, and
intimating stroke of sword, or other violence, from which you shall
only be saved by the attachment of a faithful friend."
"Thyself, ha?" said Quentin, somewhat indignant that the
chiromantist should thus practise on his credulity, and endeavour to
found a reputation by predicting the consequences of his own treachery.
"My art," replied the Zingaro, "tells me nought that concerns
myself."
"In this, then, the seers of my land," said Quentin, "excel your
boasted knowledge; for their skill teaches them the dangers by which
they are themselves beset. I left not my hills without having felt a
portion of the double vision with which their inhabitants are gifted;
and I will give thee a proof of it, in exchange for thy specimen of
palmistry. Hayraddin, the danger which threatens me lies on the right
bank of the river—I will avoid it by travelling to Liege on the left
bank."
The guide listened with an apathy, which, knowing the circumstances
in which Maugrabin stood, Quentin could not by any means comprehend.
"If you accomplish your purpose," was the Bohemian's reply, "the
dangerous crisis will be transferred from your lot to mine."
"I thought," said Quentin, "that you said but now, that you could
not presage your own fortune?"
"Not in the manner in which I have but now told you yours,"
answered Hayraddin; "but it requires little knowledge of Louis of
Valois, to presage that he will hang your guide, because your pleasure
was to deviate from the road which he recommended."
"The attaining with safety the purpose of the journey, and ensuring
its happy termination," said Quentin, "must atone for a deviation from
the exact line of the prescribed route."
"Ay," replied the Bohemian, "if you are sure that the King had in
his own eye the same termination of the pilgrimage which he insinuated
to you."
"And of what other termination is it possible that he could have
been meditating? or why should you suppose he had any purpose in his
thought, other than was avowed in his direction?" enquired Quentin.
"Simply," replied the Zingaro, "that those who know aught of the
Most Christian King, are aware, that the purpose about which he is most
anxious, is always that which he is least willing to declare. Let our
gracious Louis send twelve embassies, and I will forfeit my neck to the
gallows a year before it is due, if in eleven of them there is not
something at the bottom of the ink-horn more than the pen has written
in the letters of credence."
"I regard not your foul suspicions," answered Quentin; "my duty is
plain and peremptory—to convey these ladies in safety to Liege; and I
take it on me to think that I best discharge that duty in changing our
prescribed route, and keeping the left side of the river Maes. It is
likewise the direct road to Liege. By crossing the river, we should
lose time, and incur fatigue, to no purpose—Wherefore should we do
so?"
"Only because pilgrims, as they call themselves, destined for
Cologne," said Hayraddin, "do not usually descend the Maes so low as
Liege; and that the route of the ladies will be accounted contradictory
of their professed destination."
"If we are challenged on that account," said Quentin, "we will say
that alarms of the wicked Duke of Gueldres, or of William de la Marck,
or of the Ecorcheurs and lanzknechts, on the right side of the river,
justify our holding by the left, instead of our intended route."
"As you will, my good seignior," replied the Bohemian—"I am, for
my part, equally ready to guide you down the left as down the right
side of the Maes—Your excuse to your master you must make out for
yourself."
Quentin, although rather surprised, was at the same time pleased
with the ready, or at least the unrepugnant acquiescence of Hayraddin
in their change of route, for he needed his assistance as a guide, and
yet had feared that the disconcerting of his intended act of treachery
would have driven him to extremity. Besides, to expel the Bohemian from
their society, would have been the ready mode to bring down William de
la Marck, with whom he was in correspondence, upon their intended
route; whereas if Hayraddin remained with them, Quentin thought he
could manage to prevent the Moor from having any communication with
strangers, unless he was himself aware of it.
Abandoning, therefore, all thoughts of their original route, the
little party followed that by the left bank of the broad Maes, so
speedily and successfully, that the next day early brought them to the
purposed end of their journey. They found that the Bishop of Liege, for
the sake of his health, as he himself alleged, but rather, perhaps, to
avoid being surprised by the numerous and mutinous population of the
city, had established his residence in his beautiful Castle of
Schonwaldt, about a mile without Liege.
Just as they approached the Castle, they saw the Prelate returning
in long procession from the neighbouring city, in which he had been
officiating at the performance of High Mass. He was at the head of a
splendid train of religious, civil, and military men, mingled together,
or, as the old ballad-maker expresses it,
"With many a cross-bearer before, And many a spear behind."
The procession made a noble appearance, as, winding along the
verdant banks of the broad Maes, it wheeled into, and was as it were
devoured by, the huge Gothic portal of the Episcopal residence.
But when the party came more near, they found that circumstances
around the Castle argued a doubt and sense of insecurity, which
contradicted that display of pomp and power which they had just
witnessed. Strong guards of the Bishop's soldiers were heedfully
maintained all around the mansion and its immediate vicinity; and the
prevailing appearances in an ecclesiastical residence, seemed to argue
a sense of danger in the reverend Prelate, who found it necessary thus
to surround himself with all the defensive precautions of war. The
ladies of Croye, when announced by Quentin, were reverently ushered
into the great Hall, where they met with the most cordial reception
from the Bishop, who met them there at the head of his little Court. He
would not permit them to kiss his hand, but welcomed them with a
salute, which had something in it of gallantry on the part of a prince
to fine women, and something also of the holy affection of a pastor to
the sisters of his flock.
Louis of Bourbon, the reigning Bishop of Liege, was in truth a
generous and kind-hearted prince; whose life had not indeed been always
confined, with precise strictness, within the bounds of his clerical
profession; but who, notwithstanding, had uniformly maintained the
frank and honourable character of the House of Bourbon, from which he
was descended.
In later times, as age advanced, the Prelate had adopted habits
more beseeming a member of the hierarchy than his early reign had
exhibited, and was loved among the neighbouring princes, as a noble
ecclesiastic, generous and magnificent in his ordinary mode of life,
though preserving no very ascetic severity of character, and governing
with an easy indifference, which, amid his wealthy and mutinous
subjects, rather encouraged than subdued rebellious purposes.
The Bishop was so fast an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, that the
latter claimed almost a joint sovereignty in his bishopric, and repaid
the good-natured ease with which the Prelate admitted claims which he
might easily have disputed, by taking his part on all occasions, with
the determined and furious zeal which was a part of his character. He
used to say, he considered Liege as his own, the Bishop as his brother,
(indeed they might be accounted such, in consequence of the Duke having
married for his first wife, the Bishop's sister,) and that he who
annoyed Louis of Bourbon, had to do with Charles of Burgundy; a threat
which, considering the character and the power of the prince who used
it, would have been powerful with any but the rich and discontented
city of Liege, where much wealth had, according to the ancient proverb,
made wit waver.
The Prelate, as we have said, assured the Ladies of Croye of such
intercession as his interest at the Court of Burgundy, used to the
uttermost, might gain for them, and which, he hoped, might be the more
effectual, as Campo-Basso, from some late discoveries, stood rather
lower than formerly in the Duke's personal favour. He promised them
also such protection as it was in his power to afford; but the sigh
with which he gave the warrant, seemed to allow that his power was
more precarious than in words he was willing to admit.
"At every event, my dearest daughters," said the Bishop, with an
air in which, as in his previous salute, a mixture of spiritual unction
qualified the hereditary gallantry of the House of Bourbon, "Heaven
forbid I should abandon the lamb to the wicked wolf, or noble ladies to
the oppression of faitours. I am a man of peace, though my abode now
rings with arms; but be assured I will care for your safety as for my
own; and should matters become yet more distracted here, which, with
our Lady's grace, we trust will be rather pacified than inflamed, we
will provide for your safe-conduct to Germany; for not even the will of
our brother and protector, Charles of Burgundy, shall prevail with us
to dispose of you in any respect contrary to your own inclinations. We
cannot comply with your request of sending you to a convent; for, alas!
such is the influence of the sons of Belial among the inhabitants of
Liege, that we know no retreat to which our authority extends, beyond
the bounds of our own castle, and the protection of our soldiery. But
here you are most welcome, and your train shall have all honourable
entertainment; especially this youth, whom you recommend so
particularly to our countenance, and on whom in especial we bestow our
blessing."
Quentin kneeled, as in duty bound, to receive the Episcopal
benediction.
"For yourselves," proceeded the good Prelate, "you shall reside
here with my sister Isabelle, a Canoness of Triers, and with whom you
may dwell in all honour, even under the roof of so gay a bachelor as
the Bishop of Liege."
He gallantly conducted the ladies to his sister's apartment, as he
concluded the harangue of welcome; and his Master of the Household, an
officer, who, having taken Deacon's orders, held something between a
secular and ecclesiastical character, entertained Quentin with the
hospitality which his master enjoined, while the other personages of
the retinue of the Ladies of Croye were committed to the inferior
departments.
In this arrangement Quentin could not help remarking, that the
presence of the Bohemian, so much objected to in country convents,
seemed, in the household of this wealthy, and perhaps we might say
worldly prelate, to attract neither objection nor remark.
CHAPTER II. THE CITY.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To any sudden act of mutiny!
Julius Cæsar.
Separated from the Lady Isabelle, whose looks had been for so many
days his load-star, Quentin felt a strange vacancy and chillness of the
heart, which he had not yet experienced in any of the vicissitudes to
which his life had subjected him. No doubt the cessation of the close
and unavoidable intercourse and intimacy betwixt them was the necessary
consequence of the Countess having obtained a place of settled
residence; for, under what pretext could she, had she meditated such an
impropriety, have had a gallant young squire, such as Quentin, in
constant attendance upon her?
But the shock of the separation was not the more welcome that it
seemed unavoidable, and the proud heart of Quentin swelled at finding
he was parted with like an ordinary postilion, or an escort whose duty
is discharged; while his eyes sympathized so far as to drop a secret
tear or two over the ruins of all those airy castles, so many of which
he had employed himself in constructing during their too interesting
journey. He made a manly, but, at first, a vain effort, to throw off
this mental dejection; and so, yielding to the feelings he could not
suppress, he sat him down in one of the deep recesses formed by a
window which lighted the great Gothic hall of Schonwaldt, and there
mused upon his hard fortune, which had not assigned him rank or wealth
sufficient to prosecute his daring suit.
Quentin tried to dispel the sadness which overhung him by
dispatching Charlet, one of the valets, with letters to the court of
Louis, announcing the arrival of the Ladies of Croye at Liege. At
length his natural buoyancy of temper returned, much excited by the
title of an old romaunt which had been just printed at Strasbourg, and
which lay beside him in the window, the title of which set forth,
How the Squire of lowe degree, Loved the King's daughter of
Hongarie.
While he was tracing the "letters blake" of the ditty so congenial
to his own situation, Quentin was interrupted by a touch on the
shoulder, and, looking up, beheld the Bohemian standing by him.
Hayraddin, never a welcome sight, was odious from his late
treachery, and Quentin sternly asked him, why he dared take the freedom
to touch a Christian and a gentleman?
"Simply," answered the Bohemian, "because I wished to know if the
Christian gentleman had lost his feeling as well as his eyes and ears.
I have stood speaking to you these five minutes, and you have stared on
that scrap of yellow paper, as if it were a spell to turn you into a
statue, and had already wrought half its purpose."
"Well, what dost thou want? Speak, and begone!"
"I want what all men want, though few are satisfied with it," said
Hayraddin; "I want my due; my ten crowns of gold for guiding the ladies
hither."
"With what face darest thou ask any guerdon beyond my sparing thy
worthless life?" said Durward, fiercely; "thou knowest that it was thy
purpose to have betrayed them on the road."
"But I did not betray them," said Hayraddin; "if I had, I would
have asked no guerdon from you or from them, but from him whom their
keeping upon the right-hand side of the river might have benefited. The
party that I have served is the party who must pay me."
"Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor!" said Quentin,
telling out the money. "Get thee to the Boar of Ardennes, or to the
devil! but keep hereafter out of my sight, lest I send thee thither
before thy time."
"The Boar of Ardennes!" repeated the Bohemian, with a stronger
emotion of surprise than his features usually expressed; "it was then
no vague guess—no general suspicion—which made you insist on
changing the road?—Can it be—are there really in other lands arts
of prophecy more sure than those of our wandering tribes? The
willow-tree under which we spoke could tell no tales. But
no—no—no—Dolt that I was!—I have it—I have it!—The willow
by the brook near yonder convent—I saw you look towards it as you
passed it, about half a mile from yon hive of drones—that could not
indeed speak, but it might hide one who could hear! I will hold my
councils in an open plain henceforth; not a bunch of thistles shall be
near me for a Scot to shroud amongst—Ha! ha! the Scot hath beat the
Zingaro at his own subtle weapons. But know, Quentin Durward, that you
have foiled me to the marring of thine own fortune —Yes! the fortune
I told thee of, from the lines on thy hand, had been richly
accomplished but for thine own obstinacy."
"By Saint Andrew," said Quentin, "thy impudence makes me laugh in
spite of myself—How, or in what, should thy successful villainy have
been of service to me? I heard, indeed, that you did stipulate to save
my life, which condition your worthy allies would speedily have
forgotten, had we once come to blows—but in what thy betrayal of
these ladies could have served me, but by exposing me to death or
captivity, is a matter beyond human brains to conjecture."
"No matter thinking of it, then," said Hayraddin, "for I mean still
to surprise you with my gratitude. Had you kept back my hire, I should
have held that we were quit, and had left you to your own foolish
guidance. As it is, I remain your debtor for yonder matter on the banks
of the Cher."
"Methinks I have already taken out the payment in cursing and
abusing thee," said Quentin.
"Hard words, or kind ones," said the Zingaro, "are but wind, which
make no weight in the balance. Had you struck me, indeed, instead of
threatening"—
"I am likely enough to take out payment in that way, if you provoke
me longer."
"I would not advise it," said the Zingaro; "such payment, made by a
rash hand, might exceed the debt, and unhappily leave a balance on your
side, which I am not one to forget or forgive. And now farewell, but
not for a long space—I go to bid adieu to the Ladies of Croye."
"Thou?" said Quentin in astonishment—"thou be admitted to the
presence of the ladies, and here, where they are in a manner recluses
under the protection of the Bishop's sister, a noble canoness? It is
impossible."
"Marthon, however, waits to conduct me to their presence," said the
Zingaro, with a sneer; "and I must pray your forgiveness if I leave you
something abruptly."
He turned as if to depart, but instantly coming back, said, with a
tone of deep and serious emphasis, "I know your hopes—they are
daring, yet not vain if I aid them. I know your fears—they should
teach prudence, not timidity. Every woman may be won. A count is but a
nickname, which will befit Quentin as well as the other nickname of
duke befits Charles, or that of king befits Louis."
Ere Durward could reply, the Bohemian had left the hall. Quentin
instantly followed; but, better acquainted than the Scot with the
passages of the house, Hayraddin kept the advantage which he had
gotten; and the pursuer lost sight of him as he descended a small back
staircase. Still Durward followed, though without exact consciousness
of his own purpose in doing so. The staircase terminated by a door
opening into the alley of a garden, in which he again beheld the
Zingaro hastening down a pleached walk.
On two sides, the garden was surrounded by the buildings of the
castle—a huge old pile, partly castellated, and partly resembling an
ecclesiastical building; on the other two sides, the enclosure was a
high embattled wall. Crossing the alleys of the garden to another part
of the building, where a postern-door opened behind a large massive
butress, overgrown with ivy, Hayraddin looked back, and waved his hand
in signal of an exulting farewell to his follower, who saw that in
effect the postern-door was opened by Marthon, and that the vile
Bohemian was admitted into the precincts, as he naturally concluded, of
the apartment of the Countesses of Croye. Quentin bit his lips with
indignation, and blamed himself severely that he had not made the
ladies sensible of the full infamy of Hayraddin's character, and
acquainted with his machinations against their safety. The arrogating
manner which the Bohemian had promised to back his suit, added to his
anger and his disgust; and he felt as if even the hand of the Countess
Isabelle would be profaned, were it possible to attain it by such
patronage. "But it is all a deception," he said— "a turn of his base
juggling artifice. He has procured access to these ladies upon some
false pretence, and with some mischievous intention. It is well I have
learned where they lodge. I will watch Marthon, and solicit an
interview with them, were it but to place them on their guard. It is
hard that I must use artifice and brook delay, when such as he have
admittance openly and without scruple. They shall find, however, that
though I am excluded from their presence, Isabelle's safety is still
the chief subject of my vigilance."
While the young lover was thus meditating, an aged gentleman of the
Bishop's household approached him from the same door by which he had
himself entered the garden, and made him aware, though with the
greatest civility of manner, that the garden was private, and reserved
only for the use of the Bishop, and guests of the very highest
distinction.
Quentin heard him repeat this information twice ere he put the
proper construction upon it; and then starting as from a reverie, he
bowed and hurried out of the garden, the official person following him
all the way, and overwhelming him with formal apologies for the
necessary discharge of his duty. Nay, so pertinacious was he in his
attempts to remove the offence which he conceived Durward to have
taken, that he offered to bestow his own company upon him, to
contribute to his entertainment; until Quentin, internally cursing his
formal foppery, found no better way of escape, than pretending a desire
of visiting the neighbouring city, and setting off thither at such a
round pace as speedily subdued all desire in the gentleman-usher to
accompany him farther than the drawbridge. In a few minutes, Quentin
was within the walls of the city of Liege, then one of the richest in
Flanders, and of course in the world.
Melancholy, even love-melancholy, is not so deeply seated, at least
in minds of a manly and elastic character, as the soft enthusiasts who
suffer under it are fond of believing. It yields to unexpected and
striking impressions upon the senses, to change of place, to such
scenes as create new trains of association, and to the influence of the
busy hum of mankind. In a few minutes, Quentin's attention was as much
engrossed by the variety of objects presented in rapid succession by
the busy streets of Liege, as if there had neither been a Countess
Isabelle, nor a Bohemian, in the world.
The lofty houses,—the stately, though narrow and gloomy
streets,—the splendid display of the richest goods and most gorgeous
armour in the warehouses and shops around,—the walks crowded by busy
citizens of every description, passing and repassing with faces of
careful importance or eager bustle,—the huge wains, which transported
to and fro the subjects of export and import, the former consisting of
broad cloths and serge, arms of all kinds, nails and iron work, while
the latter comprehended every article of use or luxury, intended either
for the consumption of an opulent city, or received in barter, and
destined to be transported elsewhere,—all these objects combined to
form an engrossing picture of wealth, bustle, and splendour, to which
Quentin had been hitherto a stranger. He admired also the various
streams and canals, drawn from and communicating with the Maes, which,
traversing the city in various directions, offered to every quarter the
commercial facilities of water-carriage, and he failed not to hear a
mass in the venerable old Church of Saint Lambert, said to have been
founded in the eighth century.
It was upon leaving this place of worship that Quentin began to
observe, that he, who had been hitherto gazing on all around him with
the eagerness of unrestrained curiosity, was himself the object of
attention to several groups of substantial-looking burghers, who seemed
assembled to look upon him as he left the church, and amongst whom
arose a buzz and whisper, which spread from one party to another; while
the number of gazers continued to augment rapidly, and the eyes of each
who added to it were eagerly directed to Quentin, with a stare which
expressed much interest and curiosity, mingled with a certain degree of
respect.
At length he now formed the centre of a considerable crowd, which
yet yielded before him while he continued to move forward; while those
who followed or kept pace with him, studiously avoided pressing on him,
or impeding his motions. Yet his situation was too embarrassing to be
long endured, without making some attempt to extricate himself, and to
obtain some explanation.
Quentin looked around him, and fixing upon a jolly, stout-made,
respectable man, whom, by his velvet cloak and gold chain, he concluded
to be a burgher of eminence, and perhaps a magistrate, he asked him,
"Whether he saw any thing particular in his appearance, to attract
public attention in a degree so unusual? or whether it was the ordinary
custom of the people of Liege thus to throng around strangers who
chanced to visit their city?"
"Surely not, good seignior," answered the burgher; "the Liegeois
are neither so idly curious as to practise such a custom, nor is there
any thing in your dress or appearance, saving that which is most
welcome to this city, and which our townsmen are both delighted to see,
and desirous to honour."
"This sounds very polite, worthy sir," said Quentin; "but by the
Cross of Saint Andrew, I cannot even guess at your meaning."
"Your oath, sir," answered the merchant of Liege, "as well as your
accent, convinces me that we are right in our conjecture."
"By my patron Saint Quentin!" said Durward, "I am farther off from
your meaning than ever."
"There again now," rejoined the Liegeois, looking, as he spoke,
most provokingly, yet most civilly, politic and intelligent.—"It is
surely not for us to see that which you, worthy seignior, deem it
proper to conceal. But why swear by Saint Quentin, if you would not
have me construe your meaning? —We know the good Count of Saint Paul,
who lies there at present, wishes well to our cause."
"On my life," said Quentin, "you are under some delusion—I know
nothing of Saint Paul."
"Nay, we question you not," said the burgher; "although, hark
ye—I say, hark in your ear—my name is Pavillon."
"And what is my business with that, Seignior Pavillon?" said
Quentin.
"Nay, nothing—only methinks it might satisfy you that I am
trustworthy—Here is my colleague Rouslaer, too."
Rouslaer advanced, a corpulent dignitary, whose fair round belly,
like a battering-ram, "did shake the press before him," and who,
whispering caution to his neighbour, said, in a tone of rebuke—"You
forget, good colleague, the place is too open—the seignior will
retire to your house or mine, and drink a glass of Rhenish and sugar,
and then we shall hear more of our good friend and ally, whom we love
with all our honest Flemish hearts."
"I have no news for any of you," said Quentin, impatiently; "I will
drink no Rhenish; and I only desire of you, as men of account and
respectability, to disperse this idle crowd, and allow a stranger to
leave your town as quietly as he came into it."
"Nay, then, sir," said Rouslaer, "since you stand so much on your
incognito, and with us, too, who are men of confidence, let me ask you
roundly, wherefore wear you the badge of your company if you would
remain unknown in Liege?"
"What badge, and what order?" said Quentin; "you look like reverend
men and grave citizens, yet, on my soul, you are either mad yourselves,
or desire to drive me so."
"Sapperment!" said the other burgher, "this youth would make Saint
Lambert swear! Why, who wear bonnets with the Saint Andrew's cross and
fleur-de-lys, save the Scottish Archers of King Louis's Guards?"
"And supposing I am an Archer of the Scottish Guard, why should you
make a wonder of my wearing the badge of my company?" said Quentin,
impatiently.
"He has avowed it, he has avowed it!" said Rouslaer and Pavillon,
turning to the assembled burghers in attitudes of congratulation, with
waving arms, extended palms, and large round faces radiating with glee.
"He hath avowed himself an Archer of Louis's Guard—of Louis, the
guardian of the liberties of Liege!"
A general shout and cry now arose from the multitude, in which were
mingled the various sounds of "Long live Louis of France! Long live the
Scottish Guard! Long live the valiant Archer! Our liberties, our
privileges, or death! No imposts! Long live the valiant Boar of
Ardennes! Down with Charles of Burgundy! and confusion to Bourbon and
his bishopric!"
Half-stunned by the noise, which began anew in one quarter so soon
as it ceased in another, rising and falling like the billows of the
sea, and augmented by thousands of voices which roared in chorus from
distant streets and market-places, Quentin had yet time to form a
conjecture concerning the meaning of the tumult, and a plan for
regulating his own conduct.
He had forgotten that, after his skirmish with Orleans and Dunois,
one of his comrades had, at Lord Crawford's command, replaced the
morion, cloven by the sword of the latter, with one of the steel-lined
bonnets, which formed a part of the proper and well-known equipment of
the Scotch Guards. That an individual of this body, which was always
kept very close to Louis's person, should have appeared in the streets
of a city, whose civil discontents had been aggravated by the agents of
that King, was naturally enough interpreted by the burghers of Liege
into a determination on the part of Louis openly to assist their cause;
and the apparition of an individual archer was magnified into a pledge
of immediate and active support from Louis —nay, into an assurance
that his auxiliary forces were actually entering the town at one or
other, though no one could distinctly tell which, of the city-gates.
To remove a conviction so generally adopted, Quentin easily saw was
impossible—nay, that any attempt to undeceive men so obstinately
prepossessed in their belief, would be attended with personal risk,
which, in this case, he saw little use of incurring. He therefore
hastily resolved to temporize, and to get free the best way he could;
and this resolution he formed while they were in the act of conducting
him to the Stadthouse, where the notables of the town were fast
assembling, in order to hear the tidings which he was presumed to have
brought, and to regale him with a splendid banquet.
In spite of all his opposition, which was set down to modesty, he
was on every side surrounded by the donors of popularity, the unsavoury
tide of which now floated around him. His two burgomaster friends, who
were Schoppen, or Syndics of the city, had made fast both his arms.
Before him, Nikkel Blok, the chief of the butcher's incorporation,
hastily summoned from his office in the shambles, brandished his
death-doing axe, yet smeared with blood and brains, with a courage and
grace which brantwein alone could inspire. Behind him came the tall,
lean, raw-boned, very drunk, and very patriotic figure of Claus
Hammerlein, president of the mystery of the workers in iron, and
followed by at least a thousand unwashed artificers of his class.
Weavers, nailers, ropemakers, artisans of every degree and calling,
thronged forward to join the procession from every gloomy and narrow
street. Escape seemed a desperate and impossible adventure.
In this dilemma, Quentin appealed to Rouslaer, who held one arm,
and to Pavillon, who had secured the other, and who were conducting him
forward at the head of the ovation, of which he had so unexpectedly
become the principal object. He hastily acquainted them "with his
having thoughtlessly adopted the bonnet of the Scottish Guard, on an
accident having occurred to the head-piece in which he had proposed to
travel; he regretted that, owing to this circumstance, and the sharp
wit with which the Liegeois drew the natural inference of his quality
and the purpose of his visit, these things had been publicly
discovered; and he intimated, that, if just now conducted to the
Stadthouse, he might unhappily feel himself under the necessity of
communicating to the assembled notables certain matters, which he was
directed by the King to reserve for the private ears of his excellent
gossips, Meinheers Rouslaer and Pavillon of Liege."
This last hint operated like magic on the two citizens, who were
the most distinguished leaders of the insurgent burghers, and were,
like all demagogues of their kind, desirous to keep every thing within
their own management, so far as possible. They therefore hastily agreed
that Quentin should leave the town for the time, and return by night to
Liege, and converse with them privately in the house of Rouslaer, near
the gate opposite to Schonwaldt. Quentin hesitated not to tell them,
that he was at present residing in the Bishop's palace, under pretence
of bearing dispatches from the French Court, although his real errand
was, as they had well conjectured, designed to the citizens of Liege;
and this tortuous mode of conducting a communication, as well as the
character and rank of the person to whom it was supposed to be
intrusted, was so consonant to the character of Louis, as neither to
excite doubt nor surprise.
Almost immediately after this éclaircissement was completed, the
progress of the multitude brought them opposite to the door of
Pavillon's house, in one of the principal streets, but which
communicated from behind with the Maes, by means of a garden, as well
as an extensive manufactory of tanpits and other conveniences for
dressing hides; for the patriotic burgher was a felt-dresser, or
currier.
It was natural that Pavillon should desire to do the honours of
his dwelling to the supposed envoy of Louis, and a halt before his
house excited no surprise on the part of the multitude; who, on the
contrary, greeted Meinheer Pavillon with a loud vivat, as he ushered in
his distinguished guest. Quentin speedily laid aside his remarkable
bonnet, for the cap of a felt-maker, and flung a cloak over his other
apparel. Pavillon then furnished him with a passport to pass the gates
of the city, and to return by night or day as should suit his
convenience; and, lastly, committed him to the charge of his daughter,
a fair and smiling Flemish lass, with instructions how he was to be
disposed of, while he himself hastened back to his colleague, to amuse
their friends at the Stadthouse, with the best excuses which they could
invent for the disappearance of King Louis's envoy. We cannot, as the
footman says in the play, recollect the exact nature of the lie which
the belwethers told the flock; but no task is so easy as that of
imposing upon a multitude whose eager prejudices have more than half
done the business, ere the impostor has spoken a word.
The worthy burgess was no sooner gone, than his plump daughter,
Trudchen, with many a blush, and many a wreathed smile, which suited
very prettily with lips like cherries, laughing blue eyes, and a skin
transparently pure, escorted the handsome stranger through the pleached
alleys of the Sieur Pavillon's garden, down to the water-side, and
there saw him fairly embarked in a boat, which two stout Flemings, in
their trunk-hose, fur caps, and many-buttoned jerkins, had got in
readiness with as much haste as their low-country nature would permit.
As the pretty Trudchen spoke nothing but German, Quentin,—no
disparagement to his loyal affection to the Countess of Croye,—could
only express his thanks by a kiss on those same cherry lips, which was
very gallantly bestowed, and accepted with all modest gratitude; for
gallants with a form and face like our Scottish Archer, were not of
every-day occurrence among the bourgeoisie of Liege. [Note: The
adventure of Quentin at Liege may be thought over-strained, yet it is
extraordinary what slight circumstances will influence the public mind
in a moment of doubt and uncertainty. Most readers must remember, that,
when the Dutch were on the point of rising against the French yoke,
their zeal for liberation received a strong impulse from the landing of
a person in a British volunteer-uniform, whose presence, though that of
a private individual, was received as a guarantee of succours from
England.]
While the boat was rowed up the sluggish waters of the Maes, and
passed the defences of the town, Quentin had time enough to reflect
what account he ought to give of his adventure in Liege, when he
returned to the Bishop's palace of Schonwaldt; and disdaining alike to
betray any person who had reposed confidence in him, although by
misapprehension, or to conceal from the hospitable Prelate the mutinous
state of his capital, he resolved to confine himself to so general an
account as might put the Bishop upon his guard, while it should point
out no individual to his vengeance.
He was landed from the boat, within half a mile of the castle, and
rewarded his rowers with a guilder, to their great satisfaction. Yet,
short as was the space which divided him from Schonwaldt, the
castle-bell had tolled for dinner, and Quentin found, moreover, that he
had approached the castle on a different side from that of the
principal entrance, and that to go round would throw his arrival
considerably later. He, therefore, made straight towards the side that
was nearest him, as he discerned that it presented an embattled wall,
probably that of the little garden already noticed, with a postern
opening upon the moat, and a skiff moored by the postern, which might
serve, he thought, upon summons, to pass him over. As he approached, in
hopes to make his entrance this way, the postern opened, a man came
out, and, jumping into the boat, made his way to the farther side of
the moat, and then with a long pole, pushed the skiff back towards the
place where he had embarked. As he came near, Quentin discerned that
this person was the Bohemian, who, avoiding him, as was not difficult,
held a different path towards Liege, and was presently out of his ken.
Here was new subject for meditation. Had this vagabond heathen been
all this while with the Ladies of Croye, and for what purpose should
they so far have graced him with their presence? Tormented with this
thought, Durward became doubly determined to seek an explanation with
them, for the purpose at once of laying bare the treachery of
Hayraddin, and announcing to them the perilous state in which their
protector, the Bishop, was placed, by the mutinous state of his town of
Liege.
As Quentin thus resolved, he entered the castle by the principal
gate, and found that part of the family who assembled for dinner in the
great hall, including the Bishop's attendant clergy, officers of the
household, and strangers below the rank of the very first nobility,
were already placed at their meal. A seat at the upper end of the
board, had, however, been reserved beside the Bishop's domestic
chaplain, who welcomed the stranger with the old college jest of, Sero
venientibus ossa, while he took care so to load his plate with
dainties, as to take away all appearance of that tendency to reality,
which, in Quentin's country, is said to render a joke either no joke,
or at best an unpalatable one. [Note: "A sooth boord [true joke] is no
boord," says the Scot.]
In vindicating himself from the suspicion of ill-breeding, Quentin
briefly described the tumult which had been occasioned in the city by
his being discovered to belong to the Scottish Archer-guard of Louis,
and endeavoured to give a ludicrous turn to the narrative by saying,
that he had been with difficulty extricated by a fat burgher of Liege
and his pretty daughter.
But the company were too much interested in the story to taste the
jest. All operations of the table were suspended while Quentin told his
tale; and when he had ceased, there was a solemn pause, which was only
broken by the Major-Domo saying, in a low and melancholy tone, "I
would to God that we saw those hundred lances of Burgundy!"
"Why should you think so deeply on it?" said Quentin—"You have
many soldiers here, whose trade is arms; and your antagonists are only
the rabble of a disorderly city, who will fly before the first flutter
of a banner with men-at-arms arrayed beneath it."
"You do not know the men of Liege," said the Chaplain, "of whom it
may be said, that, not even excepting those of Ghent, they are at once
the fiercest and the most untameable in Europe. Twice has the Duke of
Burgundy chastised them for their repeated revolts against their
Bishop, and twice hath he suppressed them with much severity, abridged
their privileges, taken away their banners, and established rights and
claims to himself, which were not before competent over a free city of
the Empire—Nay, the last time he defeated them with much slaughter
near Saint Tron, where Liege lost nearly six thousand men, what with
the sword, what with those drowned in the flight; and, thereafter, to
disable them from farther mutiny, Duke Charles refused to enter at any
of the gates which they had surrendered, but, beating to the ground
forty cubits breadth of their city wall, marched into Liege as a
conqueror, with visor closed, and lance in rest, at the head of his
chivalry, by the breach which he had made. Nay, well were the Liegeois
then assured, that, but for the intercession of his father, Duke Philip
the Good, this Charles, then called Count of Charalois, would have
given their town up to spoil. And yet, with all these fresh
recollections, with their breaches unrepaired, and their arsenals
scarcely supplied, the sight of an Archer's bonnet is sufficient again
to stir them to uproar. May God amend all! but I fear there will be
bloody work between so fierce a population and so fiery a Sovereign;
and I would my excellent and kind master had a see of lesser dignity
and more safety, for his mitre is lined with thorns instead of ermine.
This much I say to you, Seignior stranger, to make you aware, that, if
your affairs detain you not at Schonwaldt, it is a place from which
each man of sense should depart as speedily as possible. I apprehend
that your ladies are of the same opinion; for one of the grooms who
attended them on the route, has been sent back by them to the Court of
France with letters, which, doubtless, are intended to announce their
going in search of a safer asylum."
CHAPTER III. THE BILLET.
Go to—thou art made, if thou desirest to be so—If not, let me
see thee still the fellow of servants, and not fit to touch Fortune's
fingers.
Twelfth Night.
When the tables were drawn, the Chaplain, who seemed to have taken
a sort of attachment to Quentin Durward's society, or who perhaps
desired to extract from him farther information concerning the meeting
of the morning, led him into a withdrawing apartment, the windows of
which, on one side, projected into the garden; and as he saw his
companion's eye gaze rather eagerly upon the spot, he proposed to
Quentin to go down and take a view of the curious foreign shrubs with
which the Bishop had enriched its parterres.
Quentin excused himself, as unwilling to intrude, and therewithal
communicated the check which he had received in the morning. The
Chaplain smiled, and said, "That there was indeed some ancient
prohibition respecting the Bishop's private garden; but this," he
added, with a smile, "was when our reverend father was a princely young
prelate of not more than thirty years of age, and when many fair ladies
frequented the Castle for ghostly consolation. Need there was," he
said, with a downcast look, and a smile, half simple and half
intelligent, "that these ladies, pained in conscience, who were ever
lodged in the apartments now occupied by the noble Canoness, should
have some space for taking the air, secure from the intrusion of the
profane. But of late years," he added, "this prohibition, although not
formally removed, has fallen entirely out of observance, and remains
but as the superstition which lingers in the brain of a superannuated
gentleman-usher. If you please," he added, "we will presently descend,
and try whether the place be haunted or no."
Nothing could have been more agreeable to Quentin than the prospect
of a free entrance into the garden, through means of which, according
to a chance which had hitherto attended his passion, he hoped to
communicate with, or at least obtain sight of, the object of his
affections, from some such turret or balcony-window, or similar "coign
of vantage," as at the hostelry of the Fleur-de-Lys, near Plessis, or
the Dauphin's Tower, within that Castle itself. Isabelle seemed still
destined, wherever she made her abode, to be the Lady of the Turret.
When Durward descended with his new friend into the garden, the
latter seemed a terrestrial philosopher, entirely busied with the
things of the earth; while the eyes of Quentin, if they did not seek
the heavens, like those of an astrologer, ranged at least all around
the windows, balconies, and especially the turrets, which projected on
every part from the inner front of the old building, in order to
discover that which was to be his cynosure.
While thus employed, the young lover heard with total neglect, if
indeed he heard at all, the enumeration of plants, herbs, and shrubs,
which his reverend conductor pointed out to him; of which this was
choice, because of prime use in medicine; and that more choice for
yielding a rare flavour to pottage; and a third, choicest of all,
because possessed of no merit but its extreme scarcity. Still it was
necessary to preserve some semblance at least of attention; which the
youth found so difficult, that he fairly wished at the devil the
officious naturalist and the whole vegetable kingdom. He was relieved
at length by the striking of a clock, which summoned the Chaplain to
some official duty.
The reverend man made many unnecessary apologies for leaving his
new friend, and concluded by giving him the agreeable assurance, that
he might walk in the garden till supper, without much risk of being
disturbed.
"It is," said he, "the place where I always study my own homilies,
as being most sequestered from the resort of strangers. I am now about
to deliver one of them in the chapel, if you please to favour me with
your audience.—I have been thought to have some gift—But the glory
be where it is due!"
Quentin excused himself for this evening, under pretence of a
severe headach, which the open air was likely to prove the best cure
for; and at length the well-meaning priest left him to himself.
It may be well imagined, that in the curious inspection which he
now made, at more leisure, of every window or aperture which looked
into the garden, those did not escape which were in the immediate
neighbourhood of the small door by which he had seen Marthon admit
Hayraddin, as he pretended, to the apartment of the Countesses. But
nothing stirred or showed itself, which could either confute or confirm
the tale which the Bohemian had told, until it was becoming dusky; and
Quentin began to be sensible, he scarce knew why, that his sauntering
so long in the garden might be subject of displeasure or suspicion.
Just as he had resolved to depart, and was taking what he had
destined for his last turn under the windows which had such attraction
for him, he heard above him a slight and cautious sound, like that of a
cough, as intended to call his attention, and to avoid the observation
of others. As he looked up in joyful surprise, a casement opened—a
female hand was seen to drop a billet, which fell into a rosemary bush
that grew at the foot of the wall. The precaution used in dropping this
letter, prescribed equal prudence and secrecy in reading it. The
garden, surrounded, as we have said, upon two sides, by the buildings
of the palace, was commanded, of course, by the windows of many
apartments; but there was a sort of grotto of rock-work, which the
Chaplain had shown Durward with much complacency. To snatch up the
billet, thrust it into his bosom, and hie to this place of secrecy, was
the work of a single minute. He there opened the precious scroll, and
blessed, at the same time, the memory of the Monks of Aberbrothick,
whose nurture had rendered him capable of deciphering its contents.
The first line contained the injunction, "Read this in
secret,"—and the contents were as follows: "What your eyes have too
boldly said, mine have perhaps too rashly understood. But, unjust
persecution makes its victims bold, and it were better to throw myself
on the gratitude of one, than to remain the object of pursuit to many.
Fortune has her throne upon a rock; but brave men fear not to climb. If
you dare do aught for one that hazards much, you need but pass into
this garden at prime to-morrow, wearing in your cap a blue-and-white
feather; but expect no farther communication. Your stars have, they
say, destined you for greatness, and disposed you to
gratitude.—Farewell—be faithful, prompt, and resolute, and doubt
not thy fortune." Within this letter was enclosed a ring with a table
diamond, on which were cut, in form of a lozenge, the ancient arms of
the House of Croye.
The first feeling of Quentin upon this occasion was unmingled
ecstasy—a pride and joy which seemed to raise him to the stars,—a
determination to do or die, influenced by which he treated with scorn
the thousand obstacles that placed themselves betwixt him and the goal
of his wishes.
In this mood of rapture, and unable to endure any interruption
which might withdraw his mind, were it but for a moment, from so
ecstatic a subject of contemplation, Durward, retiring to the interior
of the castle, hastily assigned his former pretext of a headach for not
joining the household of the Bishop at the supper-meal, and, lighting
his lamp, betook himself to the chamber which had been assigned him,
to read, and to read again and again, the precious billet, and to kiss
a thousand times the no less precious ring.
But such high-wrought feelings could not remain long in the same
ecstatic tone. A thought pressed upon him, though he repelled it as
ungrateful—as even blasphemous—that the frankness of the confession
implied less delicacy, on the part of her who made it, than was
consistent with the high romantic feeling of adoration with which he
had hitherto worshipped the Lady Isabelle. No sooner did this
ungracious thought intrude itself, than he hastened to stifle it, as he
would have stifled a hissing and hateful adder, that had intruded
itself into his couch. Was it for him—him the Favoured—on whose
account she had stooped from her sphere, to ascribe blame to her for
the very act of condescension, without which he dared not have raised
his eyes towards her? Did not her very dignity of birth and of
condition, reverse, in her case, the usual rules which impose silence
on the lady until her lover shall have first spoken? To these
arguments, which he boldly formed into syllogisms, and avowed to
himself, his vanity might possibly suggest one which he cared not to
embody even mentally with the same frankness—that the merit of the
party beloved might perhaps warrant, on the part of the lady, some
little departure from common rules; and, after all, as in the case of
Malvolio, there was example for it in chronicle. The Squire of low
degree, of whom he had just been reading, was, like himself, a
gentleman void of land and living, and yet the generous Princess of
Hungary bestowed on him, without scruple, more substantial marks of her
affection, than the billet he had just received:—
"Welcome," she said, "my swete Squyre,
My heartis roote, my soule's desire;
I will give thee kisses three,
And als five hundrid poundis in fee."
And again the same faithful history made the King of Hongrie
himself avouch,
"I have yknown many a page
Come to be Prince by marriage."
So that, upon the whole, Quentin generously and magnanimously
reconciled himself to a line of conduct on the Countess's part, by
which he was likely to be so highly benefited.
But this scruple was succeeded by another doubt, harder of
digestion. The traitor Hayraddin had been in the apartments of the
ladies, for aught Quentin knew, for the space of four hours, and,
considering the hints which he had thrown out, of possessing an
influence of the most interesting kind over the fortunes of Quentin
Durward, what should assure him that this train was not of his laying?
and if so, was it not probable that such a dissembling villain had set
it on foot to conceal some new plan of treachery—perhaps to seduce
Isabelle out of the protection of the worthy Bishop? This was a matter
to be closely looked into, for Quentin felt a repugnance to this
individual proportioned to the unabashed impudence with which he had
avowed his profligacy, and could not bring himself to hope, that any
thing in which he was concerned could ever come to an honourable or
happy conclusion.
These various thoughts rolled over Quentin's mind like misty
clouds, to dash and obscure the fair landscape which his fancy had at
first drawn, and his couch was that night a sleepless one. At the hour
of prime—ay, and an hour before it, was he in the castle-garden,
where no one now opposed either his entrance or his abode, with a
feather of the assigned colour, as distinguished as he could by any
means procure in such haste. No notice was taken of his appearance for
nearly two hours; at length he heard a few notes of the lute, and
presently the lattice opened right above the little postern-door at
which Marthon had admitted Hayraddin, and Isabelle, in maidenly beauty,
appeared at the opening, greeted him half-kindly half-shyly, coloured
extremely at the deep and significant reverence with which he returned
her courtesy—shut the casement, and disappeared.
Daylight and champaign could discover no more! The authenticity of
the billet was ascertained—it only remained what was to follow; and
of this the fair writer had given him no hint. But no immediate danger
impended—The Countess was in a strong castle, under the protection of
a Prince, at once respectable for his secular, and venerable for his
ecclesiastical authority. There was neither immediate room nor occasion
for the exulting Squire interfering in the adventure; and it was
sufficient if he kept himself prompt to execute her commands whenever
they should be communicated to him. But Fate purposed to call him into
action sooner than he was aware of.
It was the fourth night after his arrival at Schonwaldt, when
Quentin had taken measures for sending back on the morrow, to the Court
of Louis, the remaining groom who had accompanied him on his journey,
with letters from himself to his uncle and Lord Crawford, renouncing
the service of France, for which the treachery to which he had been
exposed by the private instructions of Hayraddin gave him an excuse,
both in honour and prudence; and he betook himself to his bed with all
the rosy-coloured ideas around him which flutter about the couch of a
youth when he loves dearly, and thinks his love as sincerely repaid.
But Quentin's dreams, which at first partook of the nature of those
happy influences under which he had fallen asleep, began by degrees to
assume a more terrific character.
He walked with the Countess Isabelle beside a smooth and inland
lake, such as formed the principal characteristic of his native glen;
and he spoke to her of his love, without any consciousness of the
impediments which lay between them. She blushed and smiled when she
listened—even as he might have expected from the tenor of the letter,
which, sleeping or waking, lay nearest to his heart. But the scene
suddenly changed from summer to winter —from calm to tempest; the
winds and the waves rose with such a contest of surge and whirlwind, as
if the demons of the water and of the air had been contending for their
roaring empires in rival strife. The rising waters seemed to cut off
their advance and their retreat—the increasing tempest, which dashed
them against each other, seemed to render their remaining on the spot
impossible; and the tumultuous sensations produced by the apparent
danger awoke the dreamer.
He awoke; but although the circumstances of the vision had
disappeared, and given place to reality, the noise, which had probably
suggested them, still continued to sound in his ears.
Quentin's first impulse was to sit erect in bed, and listen with
astonishment to sounds, which, if they had announced a tempest, might
have shamed the wildest that ever burst down from the Grampians; and
again in a minute he became sensible, that the tumult was not excited
by the fury of the elements, but by the wrath of men.
He sprung from bed, and looked from the window of his apartment;
but it opened into the garden, and on that side all was quiet, though
the opening of the casement made him still more sensible, from the
shouts which reached his ears, that the outside of the castle was
beleaguered and assaulted, and that by a numerous and determined enemy.
Hastily collecting his dress and arms, and putting them on with such
celerity as darkness and surprise permitted, his attention was
solicited by a knocking at the door of his chamber. As Quentin did not
immediately answer, the door, which was a slight one, was forced open
from without, and the intruder, announced by his peculiar dialect to be
the Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin, entered the apartment. A phial,
which he held in his hand, touched by a match, produced a dark flash of
ruddy fire, by means of which he kindled a lamp, which he took from his
bosom.
"The horoscope of your destinies," he said energetically to
Durward, without any farther greeting, "now turns upon the
determination of a minute."
"Caitiff!" said Quentin, in reply, "there is treachery around us;
and where there is treachery, thou must have a share in it."
"You are mad," answered Maugrabin—"I never betrayed any one but
to gain by it—and wherefore should I betray you, by whose safety I
can take more advantage than by your destruction? Hearken for a moment,
if it be possible for you, to one note of reason, ere it is sounded
into your ear by the death-shot of ruin. The Liegeois are up—William
de la Marck with his band leads them —Were there means of resistance,
their numbers, and his fury, would overcome them; but there are next to
none. If you would save the Countess and your own hopes, follow me, in
the name of her who sent you a table-diamond, with three leopards
engraved on it!"
"Lead the way," said Quentin, hastily—"In that name I dare every
danger!"
"As I shall manage it," said the Bohemian, "there is no danger, if
you can but withhold your hand from strife which does not concern you;
for, after all, what is it to you whether the Bishop, as they call him,
slaughters his flock, or the flock slaughters the shepherd?—Ha! ha!
ha! Follow me, but with caution and patience; subdue your own courage,
and confide in my prudence—and my debt of thankfulness is paid, and
you have a Countess for your spouse.—Follow me."
"I follow," said Quentin, drawing his sword; "but the moment in
which I detect the least sign of treachery, thy head and body are three
yards separate!"
Without more conversation, the Bohemian, seeing that Quentin was
now fully armed and ready, ran down the stairs before him, and winded
hastily through various side-passages, until they gained the little
garden. Scarce a light was to be seen on that side, scarce any bustle
was to be heard; but no sooner had Quentin entered the open space, than
the noise on the opposite side of the castle became ten times more
stunningly audible, and he could hear the various war-cries of "Liege!
Liege! Sanglier! Sanglier!" shouted by the assailants, while the
feebler cry of "Our Lady for the Prince Bishop!" was raised in a faint
and faltering tone, by those of the prelate's soldiers who had
hastened, though surprised and at disadvantage, to the defence of the
walls.
But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding the martial
character of Quentin Durward, was indifferent to him in comparison of
the fate of Isabelle of Croye, which, he had reason to fear, would be a
dreadful one, unless rescued from the power of the dissolute and cruel
freebooter, who was now, as it seemed, bursting the gates of the
castle. He reconciled himself to the aid of the Bohemian, as men in a
desperate illness refuse not the remedy prescribed by quacks and
mountebanks, and followed across the garden, with the intention of
being guided by him until he should discover symptoms of treachery, and
then piercing him through the heart, or striking his head from his
body. Hayraddin seemed himself conscious that his safety turned on a
feather-weight, for he forbore, from the moment they entered the open
air, all his wonted gibes and quirks, and seemed to have made a vow to
act at once with modesty, courage, and activity.
At the opposite door, which led to the ladies' apartments, upon a
low signal made by Hayraddin, appeared two women, muffled in the black
silk veils which were then, as now, worn by the women in the
Netherlands. Quentin offered his arm to one of them, who clung to it
with trembling eagerness, and indeed hung upon him so much, that had
her weight been greater, she must have much impeded their retreat. The
Bohemian, who conducted the other female, took the road straight for
the postern which opened upon the moat, through the garden wall, close
to which the little skiff was drawn up, by means of which Quentin had
formerly observed Hayraddin himself retreating from the castle.
As they crossed, the shouts of storm and successful violence seemed
to announce that the castle was in the act of being taken; and so
dismal was the sound in Quentin's ears, that he could not help swearing
aloud, "But that my blood is irretrievably devoted to the fulfilment
of my present duty, I would back to the wall, take faithful part with
the hospitable Bishop, and silence some of those knaves whose throats
are full of mutiny and robbery!"
The lady, whose arm was still folded in his, pressed it lightly as
he spoke, as if to make him understand that there was a nearer claim on
his chivalry than the defence of Schonwaldt; while the Bohemian
exclaimed, loud enough to be heard, "Now, that I call right Christian
frenzy, which would turn back to fight, when love and fortune both
demand that we should fly.—On, on—with all the haste you can
make—Horses wait us in yonder thicket of willows."
"There are but two horses," said Quentin, who saw them in the
moonlight.
"All that I could procure without exciting suspicion— and enough,
besides," replied the Bohemian. "You too must ride for Tongres ere the
way becomes unsafe—Marthon will abide with the women of our horde,
with whom she is an old acquaintance. Know, she is a daughter of our
tribe, and only dwelt among you to serve our purpose as occasion should
fall."
"Marthon!" exclaimed the Countess, looking at the veiled female
with a shriek of surprise; "is not this my kinswoman?"
"Only Marthon," said Hayraddin—"Excuse me that little piece of
deceit. I dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild
Boar of Ardennes."
"Wretch!" said Quentin, emphatically—"but it is not—shall not
be too late—I will back to rescue the Lady Hameline."
"Hameline," whispered the lady, in a disturbed voice, "hangs on thy
arm, to thank thee for her rescue."
"Ha! what!—How is this?" said Quentin, extricating himself from
her hold, and with less gentleness than he would at any other time have
used towards a female of any rank—"Is the Lady Isabelle then left
behind!—Farewell—farewell."
As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid hold of
him—"Nay, hear you—hear you—you run upon your death! What the
foul fiend did you wear the colours of the old one for? —I will never
trust blue and white silk again. But she has almost as large a
dower—has jewels and gold—hath pretensions, too, upon the earldom."
While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the Bohemian
struggled to detain Quentin, who at length laid his hand on his dagger,
in order to extricate himself.
"Nay, if that be the case," said Hayraddin, unloosing his hold,
"go—and the devil, if there be one, go along with you!"—And, soon
as freed from his hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with the speed
of the wind.
Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess Hameline, who had sunk
down on the ground, between shame, fear, and disappointment.
"Here has been a mistake," he said; "up, lady, and come with me—I
will provide you, ere morning comes, a gallanter husband than this
smock-faced boy; and if one will not serve, you shall have twenty."
The Lady Hameline was as violent in her passions, as she was vain
and weak in her understanding. Like many other persons, she went
tolerably well through the ordinary duties of life; but in a crisis
like the present, she was entirely incapable of doing aught, save
pouring forth unavailing lamentations, and accusing Hayraddin of being
a thief, a base slave, an impostor, a murderer.
"Call me Zingaro," returned he, composedly, "and you have said all
at once."
"Monster! you said the stars had decreed our union, and caused me
to write—O wretch that I was!" exclaimed the unhappy lady.
"And so they had decreed your union," said Hayraddin, "had both
parties been willing—but think you the blessed constellations can
make any one wed against his will?—I was led into error with your
accursed Christian gallantries, and fopperies of ribbons and
favours—and the youth prefers veal to beef, I think—that's
all.—Up and follow me; and take notice, I endure neither weeping nor
swooning."
"I will not stir a foot," said the Countess, obstinately.
"By the bright welkin, but you shall, though!" exclaimed Hayraddin.
"I swear to you, by all that ever fools believed in, that you have to
do with one, who would care little to strip you naked, bind you to a
tree, and leave you to your fortune!"
"Nay," said Marthon, interfering, "by your favour, she shall not be
misused. I wear a knife as well as you, and can use it—She is a kind
woman, though a fool.—And you, madam, rise up and follow us—Here
has been a mistake; but it is something to have saved life and limb.
There are many in yonder castle would give all the wealth in the world
to stand where we do now."
As Marthon spoke, a clamour, in which the shouts of victory were
mingled with screams of terror and despair, was wafted to them from the
Castle of Schonwaldt.
"Hear that, lady!" said Hayraddin, "and be thankful you are not
adding your treble pipe to yonder concert. Believe me, I will care for
you honestly, and the stars shall keep their words, and find you a good
husband."
Like some wild animal, exhausted and subdued by terror and fatigue,
the Countess Hameline yielded herself up to the conduct of her guides,
and suffered herself to be passively led whichever way they would. Nay,
such was the confusion of her spirits and the exhaustion of her
strength, that the worthy couple, who half bore, half led her, carried
on their discourse in her presence without her even understanding it.
"I ever thought you plan was folly," said Marthon. "Could you have
brought the young people together, indeed, we might have had a hold on
their gratitude, and a footing in their castle. But what chance of so
handsome a youth wedding this old fool?"
"Rizpah," said Hayraddin, "you have borne the name of a Christian,
and dwelt in the tents of those besotted people, till thou hast become
a partaker in their follies. How could I dream that he would have made
scruples about a few years, youth or age, when the advantages of the
match were so evident? And thou knowest, there would have been no
moving yonder coy wench to be so frank as this coming Countess here,
who hangs on our arms as dead a weight as a wool-pack. I loved the lad
too, and would have done him a kindness: to wed him to this old woman,
was to make his fortune: to unite him to Isabelle, were to have brought
on him De la Marck, Burgundy, France,—every one that challenges an
interest in disposing of her hand. And this silly woman's wealth being
chiefly in gold and jewels, we should have had our share. But the
bow-string has burst, and the arrow failed. Away with her—we will
bring her to William with the Beard. By the time he has gorged himself
with wassail, as is his wont, he will not know an old Countess from a
young one. Away, Rizpah —bear a gallant heart. The bright Aldeboran
still influences the destinies of the Children of the Desert!"
CHAPTER IV. THE SACK.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range,
With conscience wide as hell.
Henry V.
The surprised and affrighted garrison of the Castle of Schonwaldt
had, nevertheless, for some time, made good the defence of the place
against the assailants; but the immense crowds which, issuing from the
city of Liege, thronged to the assault like bees, distracted their
attention, and abated their courage.
There was also disaffection at least, if not treachery, among the
defenders; for some called out to surrender, and others, deserting
their posts, tried to escape from the castle. Many threw themselves
from the walls into the moat, and such as escaped drowning, flung aside
their distinguishing badges, and saved themselves by mingling among the
motley crowd of assailants. Some few, indeed, from attachment to the
Bishop's person, drew around him, and continued to defend the great
keep, to which he had fled; and others, doubtful of receiving quarter,
or from an impulse of desperate courage, held out other detached
bulwarks and towers of the extensive building. But the assailants had
got possession of the courts and lower parts of the edifice, and were
busy pursuing the vanquished, and searching for spoil, while one
individual, as if he sought for that death from which all others were
flying, endeavoured to force his way into the scene of tumult and
horror, under apprehensions still more horrible to his imagination,
than the realities around were to his sight and senses. Whoever had
seen Quentin Durward that fatal night, not knowing the meaning of his
conduct, had accounted him a raging madman; whoever had appreciated his
motives, had ranked him nothing beneath a hero of romance.
Approaching Schonwaldt on the same side from which he had left it,
the youth met several fugitives making for the wood, who naturally
avoided him as an enemy, because he came in an opposite direction from
that which they had adopted. When he came nearer, he could hear, and
partly see, men dropping from the garden-wall into the castle fosse,
and others who seemed precipitated from the battlements by the
assailants. His courage was not staggered, even for an instant. There
was not time to look for the boat, even had it been practicable to use
it, and it was in vain to approach the postern of the garden, which was
crowded with fugitives, who ever and anon, as they were thrust through
it by the pressure behind, fell into the moat which they had no means
of crossing.
Avoiding that point, Quentin threw himself into the moat, near what
was called the little gate of the castle, and where there was a
drawbridge, which was still elevated. He avoided with difficulty the
fatal grasp of more than one sinking wretch, and, swimming to the
drawbridge, caught hold of one of the chains which was hanging down,
and, by a great exertion of strength and activity, swayed himself out
of the water, and attained the platform from which the bridge was
suspended. As with hands and knees he struggled to make good his
footing, a lanzknecht, with his bloody sword in his hand, made towards
him, and raised his weapon for a blow, which must have been fatal.
"How now, fellow!" said Quentin, in a tone of authority—"Is that
the way in which you assist a comrade?—Give me your hand."
The soldier in silence, and not without hesitation, reached him his
arm, and helped him upon the platform, when without allowing him time
for reflection, the Scot continued in the same tone of command—"To
the western tower, if you would be rich—the Priest's treasury is in
the western tower."
These words were echoed on every hand: "To the western tower—the
treasure is in the western tower!" And the stragglers who were within
hearing of the cry, took, like a herd of raging wolves, the direction
opposite to that which Quentin, come life, come death, was determined
to pursue.
Bearing himself as if he were one, not of the conquered, but of the
victors, he made a way into the garden, and pushed across it, with less
interruption than he could have expected; for the cry of "To the
western tower!" had carried off one body of the assailants, and another
was summoned together, by war-cry and trumpet sound, to assist in
repelling a desperate sally, attempted by the defenders of the Keep,
who had hoped to cut their way out of the castle, bearing the Bishop
along with them. Quentin, therefore, crossed the garden with an eager
step and throbbing heart, commending himself to those heavenly powers
which had protected him through the numberless perils of his life, and
bold in his determination to succeed, or leave his life in this
desperate undertaking. Ere he reached the garden, three men rushed on
him with leveled lances, crying, "Liege, Liege!"
Putting himself in defence, but without striking, he replied,
"France, France, friend to Liege!"
"Vivat France!" cried the burghers of Liege, and passed on. The
same signal proved a talisman to avert the weapons of four or five of
La Marck's followers, whom he found straggling in the garden, and who
set upon him, crying, "Sanglier!"
In a word, Quentin began to hope, that his character as an emissary
of King Louis, the private instigator of the insurgents of Liege, and
the secret supporter of William de la Marck, might possibly bear him
through the horrors of the night.
On reaching the turret, he shuddered when he found the little
side-door, through which Marthon and the Countess Hameline had shortly
before joined him, was now blockaded with more than one dead body.
Two of them he dragged hastily aside, and was stepping over the
third body, in order to enter the portal, when the supposed dead man
laid hand on his cloak, and entreated him to stay and assist him to
rise. Quentin was about to use rougher methods than struggling to rid
himself of this untimely obstruction, when the fallen man continued to
exclaim, "I am stifled here, in mine own armour!—I am the Syndic
Pavillon of Liege! If you are for us, I will enrich you—if you are
for the other side, I will protect you; but do not—do not leave me to
die the death of a smothered pig!"
In the midst of this scene of blood and confusion, the presence of
mind of Quentin suggested to him, that this dignitary might have the
means of protecting their retreat. He raised him on his feet, and asked
him if he was wounded.
"Not wounded—at least I think not"—answered the burgher; "but
much out of wind."
"Sit down then on this stone, and recover your breath," said
Quentin; "I will return instantly."
"For whom are you?" said the burgher, still detaining him.
"For France—for France," answered Quentin, studying to get away.
"What! my lively young Archer?" said the worthy Syndic. "Nay, if it
has been my fate to find a friend in this fearful night, I will not
quit him, I promise you. Go where you will, I follow; and, could I get
some of the tight lads of our guildry together, I might be able to help
you in turn; but they are all squandered abroad like so many
pease.—Oh, it is a fearful night!"
During this time, he was dragging himself on after Quentin, who,
aware of the importance of securing the countenance of a person of such
influence, slackened his pace to assist him, although cursing in his
heart the encumbrance that retarded him.
At the top of the stair was an anteroom, with boxes and trunks,
which bore marks of having been rifled, as some of the contents lay on
the floor. A lamp, dying in the chimney, shed a feeble beam on a dead
or senseless man, who lay across the hearth.
Bounding from Pavillon, like a greyhound from his keeper's leash,
and with an effort which almost overthrew him, Quentin sprung through a
second and a third room, the last of which seemed to be the bedroom of
the Ladies of Croye. No living mortal was to be seen in either of them.
He called upon the Lady Isabelle's name, at first gently, then more
loudly, and then with an accent of despairing emphasis; but no answer
was returned. He wrung his hands, tore his hair, and stamped on the
earth with desperation. At length, a feeble glimmer of light, which
shone through a crevice in the wainscoting of a dark nook in the
bedroom, announced some recess or concealment behind the arras. Quentin
hasted to examine it. He found there was indeed a concealed door, but
it resisted his hurried efforts to open it. Heedless of the personal
injury he might sustain, he rushed at the door with his whole force and
weight of his body; and such was the impetus of an effort made betwixt
hope and despair, that it would have burst much stronger fastenings.
He thus forced his way, almost headlong, into a small oratory,
where a female figure, which had been kneeling in agonizing
supplication before the holy image, now sunk at length on the floor,
under the new terrors implied in this approaching tumult. He hastily
raised her from the ground, and, joy of joys! it was she whom he sought
to save—the Countess Isabelle. He pressed her to his bosom— he
conjured her to awake—entreated her to be of good cheer—for that
she was now under the protection of one who had heart and hand enough
to defend her against armies.
"Durward!" she said, as she at length collected herself, "is it
indeed you?—then there is some hope left. I thought all living and
mortal friends had left me to my fate—Do not again abandon me!"
"Never—never!" said Durward. "Whatever shall happen—whatever
danger shall approach, may I forfeit the benefits purchased by yonder
blessed sign, if I be not the sharer of your fate until it is again a
happy one!"
"Very pathetic and touching, truly," said a rough, broken,
asthmatic voice behind—"A love affair, I see; and, from my soul, I
pity the tender creature, as if she were my own Trudchen."
"You must do more than pity us," said Quentin, turning towards the
speaker; "you must assist in protecting us, Meinheer Pavillon. Be
assured this lady was put under my especial charge by your ally the
King of France; and, if you aid me not to shelter her from every
species of offence and violence, your city will lose the favour of
Louis of Valois. Above all, she must be guarded from the hands of
William de la Marck."
"That will be difficult," said Pavillon, "for these schelms of
lanzknechts are very devils at rummaging out the wenches; but I'll do
my best—We will to the other apartment, and there I will consider
—It is but a narrow stair, and you can keep the door with a pike,
while I look from the window, and get together some of my brisk boys of
the currier's guildry of Liege, that are as true as the knives they
wear in their girdles.—But first undo me these clasps—for I have
not worn this corslet since the battle of Saint Tron; [Note: Fought by
the insurgents of Liege against the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold,
when Count of Charalois, in which the people of Liege were defeated
with great slaughter.] and I am three stone heavier since that time, if
there be truth in Dutch beam and scale."
The undoing of the iron enclosure gave great relief to the honest
man, who, in putting it on, had more considered his zeal to the cause
of Liege, than his capacity of bearing arms. It afterwards turned out,
that being, as it were, borne forward involuntarily, and hoisted over
the walls by his company as they thronged to the assault, the
magistrate had been carried here and there, as the tide of attack and
defence flowed or ebbed, without the power, latterly, of even uttering
a word; until, as the sea casts a log of driftwood ashore in the first
creek, he had been ultimately thrown down in the entrance to the
Ladies of Croye's apartments, where the encumbrance of his own armour,
with the superincumbent weight of two men slain in the entrance, and
who fell above him, might have fixed him down long enough, had he not
been relieved by Durward.
The same warmth of temper which rendered Hermann Pavillon a
hotheaded and intemperate zealot in politics, had the more desirable
consequence of making him, in private, a good-tempered, kindhearted
man, who, if sometimes a little misled by vanity, was always
well-meaning and benevolent. He told Quentin to have an especial care
of the poor pretty yung frau; and, after this unnecessary exhortation,
began to halloo from the window, "Liege, Liege, for the gallant
skinners' guild of curriers!"
One or two of his immediate followers collected at the summons, and
at the peculiar whistle with which it was accompanied, (each of the
crafts having such a signal among themselves,) and, more joining them,
established a guard under the window from which their leader was
bawling, and before the postern-door.
Matters seemed now settling into some sort of tranquillity. All
opposition had ceased, and the leaders of the different classes of
assailants were taking measures to prevent indiscriminate plunder. The
great bell was tolled, as summons to a military council, and its iron
tongue communicating to Liege the triumphant possession of Schonwaldt
by the insurgents, was answered by all the bells in that city; whose
distant and clamorous voices seemed to cry, Hail to the victors! It
would have been natural, that Meinheer Pavillon should now have sallied
from his fastness; but, either in reverent care of those whom he had
taken under his protection, or perhaps for the better assurance of his
own safety, he contented himself with dispatching messenger on
messenger, to command his lieutenant, Peterkin Geislaer, to attend him
directly.
Peterkin came at length, to his great relief, as being the person
upon whom, on all pressing occasions, whether of war, politics, or
commerce, Pavillon was most accustomed to repose confidence. He was a
stout, squat figure, with a square face, and broad black eyebrows, that
announced him to be opinionative and disputatious,—an advice-giving
countenance, so to speak. He was endued with a buff jerkin, wore a
broad belt and cutlass by his side, and carried a halberd in his hand.
"Peterkin, my dear lieutenant," said his commander, "this has been
a glorious day—night, I should say—I trust thou art pleased for
once?"
"I am well enough pleased that you are so," said the doughty
lieutenant; "though I should not have thought of your celebrating the
victory, if you call it one, up in this garret by yourself, when you
are wanted in council."
"But am I wanted there?" said the Syndic.
"Ay, marry are you, to stand up for the rights of Liege, that are
in more danger than ever," answered the Lieutenant.
"Pshaw, Peterkin," answered his principal, "thou art ever such a
frampold grumbler"—
"Grumbler? not I," said Peterkin; "what pleases other people, will
always please me. Only I wish we have not got King Stork, instead of
King Log, like the fabliau that the Clerk of Saint Lamberts used to
read us out of Meister's Æsop's book."
"I cannot guess your meaning, Peterkin," said the Syndic.
"Why then, I tell you, Master Pavillon, that this Boar, or Bear, is
like to make his own den of Schonwaldt, and 'tis probable to turn out
as bad a neighbour to our town as ever was the old Bishop, and worse.
Here has he taken the whole conquest in his own hand, and is only
doubting whether he should be called Prince or Bishop;—and it is a
shame to see how they have mishandled the old man among them."
"I will not permit it, Peterkin," said Pavillon, bustling up; "I
disliked the mitre, but not the head that wore it. We are ten to one in
the field, Peterkin, and will not permit these courses."
"Ay, ten to one in the field, but only man to man in the castle;
besides that Nikkel Blok the butcher, and all the rabble of the
suburbs, take part with William de la Marck, partly for saus and braus,
(for he has broached all the ale-tubs and wine-casks,) and partly for
old envy towards us, who are the craftsmen, and have privileges."
"Peter," said Pavillon, "we will go presently to the city. I will
stay no longer in Schonwaldt."
"But the bridges of this castle are up, master," said
Geislaer—"the gates locked, and guarded by these lanzknechts: and,
if we were to try to force our way, these fellows, whose every-day
business is war, might make wild work of us, that only fight of a
holyday."
"But why has he secured the gates?" said the alarmed burgher; "or
what business hath he to make honest men prisoners?"
"I cannot tell—not I," said Peter. "Some noise there is about the
Ladies of Croye, who have escaped during the storm of the Castle. That
first put the Man with the Beard beside himself with anger, and now
he's beside himself with drink also."
The Burgomaster cast a disconsolate look towards Quentin, and
seemed at a loss what to resolve upon. Durward, who had not lost a word
of the conversation, which alarmed him very much, saw nevertheless that
their only safety depended on his preserving his own presence of mind,
and sustaining the courage of Pavillon. He struck boldly into the
conversation, as one who had a right to have a voice in the
deliberation.—"I am ashamed," he said, "Meinheer Pavillon, to observe
you hesitate what to do on this occasion. Go boldly to William de la
Marck, and demand free leave to quit the castle, you, your lieutenant,
your squire, and your daughter. He can have no pretence for keeping you
prisoner."
"For me and my lieutenant—that is myself and Peter?—good—but
who is my squire?"
"I am, for the present," replied the undaunted Scot.
"You!" said the embarrassed burgess; "but are you not the envoy of
King Louis of France?"
"True, but my message is to the magistrates of Liege—and only in
Liege will I deliver it.—Were I to acknowledge my quality before
William de la Marck, must I not enter into negotiation with him? ay,
and, it is like, be detained by him. You must get me secretly out of
the Castle in the capacity of your squire."
"Good—my squire;—but you spoke of my daughter—my daughter is,
I trust, safe in my house in Liege—where I wish her father was, with
all my heart and soul."
"This lady," said Durward, "will call you father while we are in
this place."
"And for my whole life afterwards," said the Countess, throwing
herself at the citizen's feet, and clasping his knees.—"Never shall
the day pass in which I will not honour you, love you, and pray for you
as a daughter for a father, if you will but aid me in this fearful
strait—O, be not hard-hearted! think your own daughter may kneel to a
stranger, to ask him for life and honour—think of this, and give me
the protection you would wish her to receive!"
"In troth," said the good citizen, much moved with her pathetic
appeal—"I think, Peter, that this pretty maiden hath a touch of our
Trudchen's sweet look,—I thought so from the first; and that this
brisk youth here, who is so ready with his advice, is somewhat like
Trudchen's bachelor—I wager a groat, Peter, that this is a true-love
matter, and it is a sin not to further it."
"It were shame and sin both," said Peter, a good-natured Fleming,
notwithstanding all his self-conceit; and as he spoke, he wiped his
eyes with the sleeve of his jerkin.
"She shall be my daughter, then," said Pavillon, "well wrapped up
in her black silk veil; and if there are not enough of true-hearted
skinners to protect her, being the daughter of their Syndic, it were
pity they should ever tug leather more.—But hark ye,—questions must
be answered—How if I am asked what should my daughter make here at
such an onslaught?"
"What should half the women in Liege make here when they followed
us to the Castle?" said Peter; "they had no other reason, sure, but
that it was just the place in the world that they should not have come
to.—Our yung frau Trudchen has come a little farther than the
rest—that is all."
"Admirably spoken," said Quentin: "only be bold, and take this
gentleman's good counsel, noble Meinheer Pavillon, and, at no trouble
to yourself, you will do the most worthy action since the days of
Charlemagne.—Here, sweet lady, wrap yourself close in this veil,"
(for many articles of female apparel lay scattered about the
apartment,)—"be but confident, and a few minutes will place you in
freedom and safety.—Noble sir," he added, addressing Pavillon, "set
forward."
"Hold—hold—hold a minute," said Pavillon, "my mind misgives
me!—This De la Marck is a fury; a perfect boar in his nature as in
his name; what if the young lady be one of those of Croye? —and what
if he discover her, and be addicted to wrath?"
"And if I were one of those unfortunate women," said Isabelle,
again attempting to throw herself at his feet, "could you for that
reject me in this moment of despair? Oh, that I had been indeed your
daughter, or the daughter of the poorest burgher!"
"Not so poor—not so poor neither, young lady —we pay as we go,"
said the citizen.
"Forgive me, noble sir,"—again began the unfortunate maiden.
"Not noble, nor sir neither," said the Syndic; "a plain burgher of
Liege, that pays bills of exchange in ready guilders.—But that is
nothing to the purpose.—Well, say you be a countess, I will protect
you nevertheless."
"You are bound to protect her, were she a duchess," said Peter,
"having once passed your word."
"Right, Peter, very right," said the Syndic; "it is our old Low
Dutch fashion, ein wort, ein man; and now let us to this gear.—We
must take leave of this William de la Marck; and yet I know not, my
mind misgives me when I think of him; and were it a ceremony which
could be waved, I have no stomach to go through it."
"Were you not better, since you have a force together, make for the
gate and force the guard?" said Quentin.
But with united voice, Pavillon and his adviser exclaimed against
the propriety of such an attack upon their ally's soldiers, with some
hints concerning its rashness, which satisfied Quentin that it was not
a risk to be hazarded with such associates. They resolved, therefore,
to repair boldly to the great hall of the castle, where, as they
understood, the Wild Boar of Ardennes held his feast, and demand free
egress for the Syndic of Liege and his company, a request too
reasonable, as it seemed, to be denied. Still the good Burgomaster
groaned when he looked on his companions, and exclaimed to his faithful
Peter,—"See what it is to have too bold and too tender a heart! Alas!
Perkin, how much have courage and humanity cost me! and how much may I
yet have to pay for my virtues, before Heaven makes us free of this
damned Castle of Schonwaldt!"
As they crossed the courts, still strewed with the dying and dead,
Quentin, while he supported Isabelle through the scene of horrors,
whispered to her courage and comfort, and reminded her that her safety
depended entirely on her firmness and presence of mind.
"Not on mine—not on mine," she said, "but on yours—on yours
only.—O, if I but escape this fearful night, never shall I forget him
who saved me! One favour more only, let me implore at your hand, and I
conjure you to grant it, by your mother's fame and your father's
honour!"
"What is it you can ask that I could refuse?" said Quentin, in a
whisper.
"Plunge your dagger in my heart," said she, "rather than leave me
captive in the hands of these monsters."
Quentin's only answer was a pressure of the young Countess's hand,
which seemed as if, but for terror, it would have returned the caress.
And, leaning on her youthful protector, she entered the fearful hall,
preceded by Pavillon and his Lieutenant, and followed by a dozen of the
Kurschenschaft, or skinner's trade, who attended, as a guard of honour,
on the Syndic.
As they approached the hall, the yells of acclamation, and bursts
of wild laughter, which proceeded from it, seemed rather to announce
the revel of festive demons, rejoicing after some accomplished triumph
over the human race, than of mortal beings, who had succeeded in a bold
design. An emphatic tone of mind, which despair alone could have
inspired, supported the assumed courage of the Countess Isabelle;
undaunted spirits, which rose with the extremity, maintained that of
Durward; while Pavillon and his lieutenant made a virtue of necessity,
and faced their fate like bears bound to a stake, which must
necessarily stand the dangers of the course.
CHAPTER V. THE REVELLERS.
Cade. Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford?
Dick. Here, sir.
Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen; and thou
behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house.
Second Part of King Henry VI.
There could hardly exist a more strange and horrible change than
had taken place in the castle-hall of Schonwaldt since Quentin had
partaken of the noontide meal there; and it was indeed one which
painted, in the extremity of their dreadful features, the miseries of
war—more especially when waged by those most relentless of all
agents, the mercenary soldiers of a barbarous age—men who, by habit
and profession, had become familiarized with all that was cruel and
bloody in the art of war, while they were devoid alike of patriotism
and of the romantic spirit of chivalry.
Instead of the orderly, decent, and somewhat formal meal, at which
civil and ecclesiastical officers had, a few hours before, sat mingled
in the same apartment, where a light jest could only be uttered in a
whisper, and where, even amid superfluity of feasting and of wine,
there reigned a decorum which almost amounted to hypocrisy, there was
now such a scene of wild and roaring debauchery, as Satan himself, had
he taken the chair as founder of the feast, could scarcely have
improved.
At the head of the table sat, in the Bishop's throne and state,
which had been hastily brought thither from his great council-chamber,
the redoubted Boar of Ardennes himself, well deserving that dreaded
name, in which he affected to delight, and which he did as much as he
could think of to deserve. His head was unhelmeted, but he wore the
rest of his ponderous and bright armour, which indeed he rarely laid
aside. Over his shoulders hung a strong surcoat, made of the dressed
skin of a huge wild-boar, the hoofs being of solid silver, and the
tusks of the same. The skin of the head was so arranged, that, drawn
over the casque, when the Baron was armed, or over his bare head, in
the fashion of a hood, as he often affected when the helmet was laid
aside, and as he now wore it, the effect was that of a grinning,
ghastly monster; and yet the countenance which it overshadowed scarce
required such horrors to improve those which were natural to its
ordinary expression.
The upper part of De la Marck's face, as Nature had formed it,
almost gave the lie to his character; for though his hair, when
uncovered, resembled the rude and wild bristles of the hood he had
drawn over it, yet an open, high, and manly forehead, broad ruddy
cheeks, large, sparkling, light-coloured eyes, and a nose hooked like
the beak of the eagle, promised something valiant and generous. But the
effect of these more favourable traits was entirely overpowered by his
habits of violence and insolence, which, joined to debauchery and
intemperance, had stamped upon the features a character inconsistent
with the rough gallantry which they would otherwise have exhibited. The
former had, from habitual indulgence, swoln the muscles of the cheeks,
and those around the eyes, in particular the latter; evil practices and
habits had dimmed the eyes themselves, reddened the part of them that
should have been white, and given the whole face a hideous likeness of
the monster, which it was the terrible Baron's pleasure to resemble.
But from an odd sort of contradiction, De la Marck, while he assumed in
other respects the appearance of the Wild Boar, and even seemed pleased
with the name, yet endeavoured, by the length and growth of his beard,
to conceal the circumstance that had originally procured him that
denomination. This was an unusual thickness and projection of the mouth
and upper jaw, which, with the huge projecting side teeth, gave that
resemblance to the bestial creation, which, joined to the delight that
De la Marck had in haunting the forest so called, originally procured
for him the name of the Boar of Ardennes. The beard, broad, grisly, and
uncombed, neither concealed the natural horrors of the countenance, nor
dignified its brutal expression.
The soldiers and officers sat around the table, intermixed with the
men of Liege, some of them of the very lowest description; among whom
Nikkel Blok the butcher, placed near De la Marck himself, was
distinguished by his tucked-up sleeves, which displayed arms smeared to
the elbows with blood, as was the cleaver which lay on the table before
him. The soldiers wore, most of them, their beards long and grisly, in
imitation of their leader; had their hair plaited and turned upwards,
in the manner that might best improve the natural ferocity of their
appearance; and intoxicated, as many of them seemed to be, partly with
the sense of triumph, and partly with the long libations of wine which
they had been quaffing, presented a spectacle at once hideous and
disgusting. The language which they held, and the songs which they
sung, without even pretending to pay each other the compliment of
listening, were so full of license and blasphemy, that Quentin blessed
God that the extremity of the noise prevented them from being
intelligible to his companion.
It only remains to say, of the better class of burghers who were
associated with William de la Marck's soldiers in this fearful revel,
that the wan faces and anxious mien of the greater part, showed that
they either disliked their entertainment, or feared their companions;
while some of lower education, or a nature more brutal, saw only in the
excesses of the soldier a gallant bearing, which they would willingly
imitate, and the tone of which they endeavoured to catch so far as was
possible, and stimulated themselves to the task, by swallowing immense
draughts of wine and schwarz bier—indulging a vice which at all times
was too common in the Low Countries.
The preparations for the feast had been as disorderly as the
quality of the company. The whole of the Bishop's plate—nay, even
that belonging to the service of the Church, for the Boar of Ardennes
regarded not the imputation of sacrilege—was mingled with
black-jacks, or huge tankards made of leather, and drinking-horns of
the most ordinary description.
One circumstance of horror remains to be added and accounted for;
and we willingly leave the rest of the scene to the imagination of the
reader. Amidst the wild license assumed by the soldiers of De la Marck,
one who was excluded from the table, (a lanzknecht, remarkable for his
courage and for his daring behaviour during the storm of the evening,)
had impudently snatched up a large silver goblet, and carried it off,
declaring it should atone for his loss of the share of the feast. The
leader laughed till his sides shook at a jest so congenial to the
character of the company; but when another, less renowned, it would
seem, for audacity in battle, ventured on using the same freedom, De la
Marck instantly put a check to a jocular practice, which would soon
have cleared his table of all the more valuable decorations.—"Ho! by
the spirit of the thunder!" he exclaimed, "those who dare not be men
when they face the enemy, must not pretend to be thieves among their
friends. What! thou frontless dastard, thou—thou who didst wait for
opened gate and lowered bridge, when Conrade Horst forced his way over
moat and wall, must thou be malapert?—Knit him up to the stanchions
of the hall-window!—He shall beat time with his feet, while we drink
a cup to his safe passage to the devil."
The doom was scarce sooner pronounced than accomplished; and in a
moment the wretch wrestled out his last agonies, suspended from the
iron bars. His body still hung there when Quentin and the others
entered the hall, and intercepting the pale moonbeam, threw on the
castle-floor an uncertain shadow, which dubiously, yet fearfully,
intimated the nature of the substance that produced it.
When the Syndic Pavillon was announced from mouth to mouth in this
tumultuous meeting, he endeavoured to assume, in right of his authority
and influence, an air of importance and equality, which a glance at the
fearful object at the window, and at the wild scene around him,
rendered it very difficult for him to sustain, notwithstanding the
exhortations of Peter, who whispered in his ear, with some
perturbation, "Up heart, master, or we are but gone men!"
The Syndic maintained his dignity, however, as well as he could, in
a short address, in which he complimented the company upon the great
victory gained by the soldiers of De la Marck and the good citizens of
Liege.
"Ay," answered De la Marck, sarcastically, "we have brought down
the game at last, quoth my lady's brach to the wolf-hound. But ho! Sir
Burgomaster, you come like Mars, with Beauty by your side. Who is this
fair one?—Unveil, unveil—no woman calls her beauty her own
to-night."
"It is my daughter, noble leader," answered Pavillon; "and I am to
pray your forgiveness for her wearing a veil. She has a vow for that
effect to the Three Blessed Kings."
"I will absolve her of it presently," said De la Marck; "for here,
with one stroke of a cleaver, will I consecrate myself Bishop of Liege;
and I trust one living bishop is worth three dead kings."
There was a shuddering and murmur among the guests; for the
community of Liege, and even some of the rude soldiers, reverenced the
Kings of Cologne, as they were commonly called, though they respected
nothing else.
"Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct majesties," said De
la Marck; "only bishop I am determined to be. A prince both secular and
ecclesiastical, having power to bind and loose, will best suit a band
of reprobates such as you, to whom no one else would give
absolution.—But come hither, noble Burgomaster—sit beside me, when
you shall see me make a vacancy for my own preferment. —Bring in our
predecessor in the holy seat."
A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavillon, excusing himself
from the proffered seat of honour, placed himself near the bottom of
the table, his followers keeping close behind him, not unlike a flock
of sheep which, when a stranger dog is in presence, may be sometimes
seen to assemble in the rear of an old belwether, who is, from office
and authority, judged by them to have rather more courage than
themselves. Near the spot sat a very handsome lad, a natural son, as
was said, of the ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he sometimes
showed affection, and even tenderness. The mother of the boy, a
beautiful concubine, had perished by a blow dealt her by the ferocious
leader in a fit of drunkenness or jealousy; and her fate had caused her
tyrant as much remorse as he was capable of feeling. His attachment to
the surviving orphan might be partly owing to these circumstances.
Quentin, who had learned this point of the leader's character from the
old priest, planted himself as close as he could to the youth in
question; determined to make him, in some way or other, either a
hostage or a protector, should other means of safety fail them.
While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting the event of the
orders which the tyrant had issued, one of Pavillon's followers
whispered Peter, "Did not our master call that wench his daughter?
—Why, it cannot be our Trudchen. This strapping lass is taller by two
inches; and there is a black lock of hair peeps forth yonder from under
her veil. By Saint Michael of the Market-place, you might as well call
a black bullock's hide a white heifer's!"
"Hush! hush!" said Peter, with some presence of mind—"What if our
master hath a mind to steal a piece of doe-venison out of the Bishop's
park here without our good dame's knowledge? And is it for thee or me
to be a spy on him?"
"That will not I, brother," answered the other, "though I would not
have thought of his turning deer-stealer at his years.
Sapperment—what a shy fairy it is! See how she crouches down on
yonder seat, behind folk's backs, to escape the gaze of the
Marckers.—But hold, hold; what are they about to do with the poor old
Bishop?"
As he spoke, the Bishop of Liege, Louis of Bourbon, was dragged
into the hall of his own palace by the brutal soldiery. The dishevelled
state of his hair, beard, and attire, bore witness to the ill treatment
he had already received; and some of his sacerdotal robes hastily flung
over him, appeared to have been put on in scorn and ridicule of his
quality and character. By good fortune, as Quentin was compelled to
think it, the Countess Isabelle, whose feelings at seeing her protector
in such an extremity might have betrayed her own secret and compromised
her safety, was so situated as neither to hear nor see what was about
to take place; and Durward sedulously interposed his own person before
her, so as to keep her from observing alike, and from observation.
The scene which followed was short and fearful. When the unhappy
Prelate was brought before the footstool of the savage leader, although
in former life only remarkable for his easy and good-natured temper, he
showed in this extremity a sense of his dignity and noble blood, well
becoming the high race from which he was descended. His look was
composed and undismayed; his gesture, when the rude hands which dragged
him forward were unloosed, was noble, and at the same time resigned,
somewhat between the bearing of a feudal noble and of a Christian
martyr; and so much was even De la Marck himself staggered by the firm
demeanour of his prisoner, and recollection of the early benefits he
had received from him, that he seemed irresolute, cast down his eyes,
and it was not until he had emptied a large goblet of wine, that,
resuming his haughty insolence of look and manner, he thus addressed
his unfortunate captive: —"Louis of Bourbon," said the truculent
soldier, drawing hard his breath, clenching his hands, setting his
teeth, and using the other mechanical actions to rouse up and sustain
his native ferocity of temper—"I sought your friendship, and you
rejected mine. What would you now give that it had been
otherwise?—Nikkel, be ready."
The butcher rose, seized his weapon, and stealing round behind De
la Marck's chair, stood with it uplifted in his bare and sinewy arms.
"Look at that man, Louis of Bourbon," said De la Marck
again—"What terms wilt thou now offer, to escape this dangerous
hour?"
The Bishop cast a melancholy but unshaken look upon the grisly
satellite, who seemed prepared to execute the will of the tyrant, and
then he said with firmness, "Hear me, William de la Marck; and good men
all, if there be any here who deserve that name, hear the only terms I
can offer to this ruffian.—William de la Marck, thou hast stirred up
to sedition an imperial city—hast assaulted and taken the palace of a
Prince of the Holy German Empire— slain his people—plundered his
goods—maltreated his person; for this thou art liable to the Ban of
the Empire—hast deserved to be declared outlawed and fugitive,
landless and rightless. Thou hast done more than all this. More than
mere human laws hast thou broken—more than mere human vengeance hast
thou deserved. Thou hast broken into the sanctuary of the Lord—laid
violent hands upon a Father of the Church—defiled the house of God
with blood and rapine, like a sacrilegious robber"—
"Hast thou yet done?" said De la Marck, fiercely interrupting him,
and stamping with his foot.
"No," answered the Prelate, "for I have not yet told thee the terms
which you demanded to hear from me."
"Go on," said De la Marck; "and let the terms please me better than
the preface, or woe to thy grey head!" And flinging himself back in his
seat, he grinded his teeth till the foam flew from his lips, as from
the tusks of the savage animal whose name and spoils he wore.
"Such are thy crimes," resumed the Bishop, with calm determination;
"now hear the terms, which, as a merciful Prince and a Christian
Prelate, setting aside all personal offence, forgiving each peculiar
injury, I condescend to offer. Fling down thy leading-staff—renounce
thy command— unbind thy prisoners—restore thy spoil—distribute
what else thou hast of goods, to relieve those whom thou hast made
orphans and widows—array thyself in sackcloth and ashes—take a
palmer's staff in thy hand, and go barefooted on pilgrimage to Rome,
and we will ourselves be intercessors for thee with the Imperial
Chamber at Ratisbon for thy life, with our Holy Father the Pope for thy
miserable soul."
While Louis of Bourbon proposed these terms, in a tone as decided
as if he still occupied his episcopal throne, and as if the usurper
kneeled a suppliant at his feet, the tyrant slowly raised himself in
his chair, the amazement with which he was at first filled giving way
gradually to rage, until, as the Bishop ceased, he looked to Nikkel
Blok, and raised his finger, without speaking a word. The ruffian
struck, as if he had been doing his office in the common shambles, and
the murdered Bishop sunk, without a groan, at the foot of his own
episcopal throne. [Note:
Murder of the Bishop of Liege. In assigning the present date to
the murder of the Bishop of Liege, Louis de Bourbon, history has been
violated. It is true that the Bishop was made prisoner by the
insurgents of that city. It is also true that the report of the
insurrection came to Charles with a rumour that the Bishop was slain,
which excited his indignation against Louis, who was then in his power.
But these things happened in 1468, and the Bishop's murder did not take
place till 1482. In the months of August and September of that year,
William de la Marck, called the Wild Boar of Ardennes, entered into a
conspiracy with the discontented citizens of Liege against their
Bishop, Louis of Bourbon, being aided with considerable sums of money
by the King of France. By this means, and the assistance of many
murderers and banditti, who thronged to him as to a leader befitting
them, De la Marck assembled a body of troops, whom he dressed in
scarlet as a uniform, with a boar's head on the left sleeve. With this
little army he approached the city of Liege. Upon this the citizens,
who were engaged in the conspiracy, came to their Bishop, and, offering
to stand by him to the death, exhorted him to march out against these
robbers. The Bishop, therefore, put himself at the head of a few troops
of his own, trusting to the assistance of the people of Liege. But so
soon as they came in sight of the enemy, the citizens, as before
agreed, fled from the Bishop's banner, and he was left with his own
handful of adherents. At this moment De la Marck charged at the head of
his banditti with the expected success. The Bishop was brought before
the profligate Knight, who first cut him over the face, then murdered
him with his own hand, and caused his body to be exposed naked in the
great square of Liege before Saint Lambert's cathedral.
Such is the actual narrative of a tragedy which struck with horror
the people of the time. The murder of the Bishop has been fifteen years
antedated in the text, for reasons which the reader of romances will
easily appreciate.
] The Liegeois, who were not prepared for so horrible a
catastrophe, and who had expected to hear the conference end in some
terms of accommodation, started up unanimously, with cries of
execration, mingled with shouts of vengeance.
But William de la Marck, raising his tremendous voice above the
tumult, and shaking his clenched hand and extended arm, shouted aloud,
"How now, ye porkers of Liege! ye wallowers in the mud of the
Maes!—do ye dare to mate yourselves with the Wild Boar of
Ardennes?—Up, ye Boar's brood!" (an expression by which he himself,
and others, often designated his soldiers,) "let these Flemish hogs see
your tusks!"
Every one of his followers started up at the command, and mingled
as they were among their late allies, prepared too for such a
surprisal, each had, in an instant, his next neighbour by the collar,
while his right hand brandished a broad dagger, that glimmered against
lamplight and moonshine. Every arm was uplifted, but no one struck; for
the victims were too much surprised for resistance, and it was probably
the object of De la Marck only to impose terror on his civic
confederates.
But the courage of Quentin Durward, prompt and alert in resolution
beyond his years, and stimulated at the moment by all that could add
energy to his natural shrewdness and resolution, gave a new turn to the
scene. Imitating the action of the followers of De la Marck, he sprung
on Carl Eberson, the son of their leader,and mastering him with ease,
held his dirk at the boy's throat, while he exclaimed, "Is that your
game? then here I play my part."
"Hold! hold!" exclaimed De la Marck; "it is a jest—a jest—Think
you I would injure my good friends and allies of the city of
Liege?—Soldiers, unloose your holds; sit down; take away the carrion"
(giving the Bishop's corpse a thrust with his foot) "which hath caused
this strife among friends, and let us drown unkindness in a fresh
carouse."
All unloosened their holds, and the citizens and soldiers stood
gazing on each other, as if they scarce knew whether they were friends
or foes. Quentin Durward took advantage of the moment.
"Hear me," he said, "William de la Marck, and you, burghers and
citizens of Liege;—and do you, young sir, stand still," (for the boy
Carl was attempting to escape from his gripe;) "no harm shall befall
you, unless another of these sharp jests shall pass round."
"Who art thou, in the fiend's name," said the astonished De la
Marck, "who art come to hold terms and take hostages from us in our own
lair— from us, who exact pledges from others, but yield them to no
one?"
"I am a servant of King Louis of France," said Quentin, boldly; "an
Archer of his Scottish Guard, as my language and dress may partly tell
you. I am here to behold and to report your proceedings; and I see with
wonder, that they are those of heathens, rather than Christians—of
madmen, rather than men possessed of reason. The hosts of Charles of
Burgundy will be instantly in motion against you all; and if you wish
assistance from France, you must conduct yourselves in a different
manner. —For you, men of Liege, I advise your instant return to your
own city; and if there is any obstruction offered to your departure, I
denounce those by whom it is so offered, foes to my master, his most
gracious Majesty of France."
"France and Liege! France and Liege!" cried the followers of
Pavillon, and several other citizens, whose courage began to rise at
the bold language held by Quentin.
"France and Liege, and long live the gallant Archer! We will live
and die with him!"
William de la Marck's eyes sparkled, and he grasped his dagger as
if about to launch it at the heart of the audacious speaker; but
glancing his eye around, he read something in the looks of his
soldiers, which even he was obliged to respect. Many of them were
Frenchmen, and all of them knew the private support which William had
received, both in men and in money, from that kingdom; nay, some of
them were rather startled at the violent and sacrilegious action which
had been just committed. The name of Charles of Burgundy, a person
likely to resent to the utmost the deeds of that night, had an alarming
sound, and the extreme impolicy of at once quarrelling with the
Liegeois and provoking the Monarch of France, made an appalling
impression on their minds, confused as their intellects were. De la
Marck, in short, saw he would not be supported, even by his own band,
in any farther act of immediate violence, and relaxing the terrors of
his brow and eye, declared that "he had not the least design against
his good friends of Liege, all of whom were at liberty to depart from
Schonwaldt at their pleasure; although he had hoped they would revel
one night with him, at least, in honour of their victory." He added,
with more calmness than he commonly used, that "he would be ready to
enter into negotiation concerning the partition of spoil, and the
arrangement of measures for their mutual defence, either the next day,
or as soon after as they would. Meantime, he trusted that the Scottish
gentleman would honour his feast by remaining all night at Schonwaldt."
The young Scot returned his thanks, but said, his motions must be
determined by those of Pavillon, to whom he was directed particularly
to attach himself; but that, unquestionably, he would attend him on his
next return to the quarters of the valiant William de la Marck.
"If you depend on my motions," said Pavillon, hastily and aloud,
"you are likely to quit Schonwaldt without an instant's delay; and, if
you do not come back to Schonwaldt, save in my company, you are not
likely to see it again in a hurry."
This last part of the sentence the honest citizen muttered to
himself, afraid of the consequences of giving audible vent to feelings,
which, nevertheless, he was unable altogether to suppress.
"Keep close about me, my brisk Kurschner lads," he said to his
body-guard, "and we will get as fast as we can out of this den of
thieves."
Most of the better classes of the Liegeois seemed to entertain
similar opinions with the Syndic, and there had been scarce so much joy
amongst them at the obtaining possession of Schonwaldt, as now seemed
to arise from the prospect of getting safe out of it. They were
suffered to leave the castle without opposition of any kind; and glad
was Quentin when he turned his back on those formidable walls.
For the first time since they had entered that dreadful hall,
Quentin ventured to ask the young Countess how she did.
"Well, well," she answered, in feverish haste, "excellently
well—do not stop to ask a question; let us not lose an instant in
words—Let us fly— let us fly!"
She endeavoured to mend her pace as she spoke; but with so little
success, that she must have fallen from exhaustion, had not Durward
supported her. With the tenderness of a mother, when she conveys her
infant out of danger, the young Scot raised his precious charge in his
arms; and, while she encircled his neck with one arm, lost to every
other thought save the desire of escaping, he would not have wished one
of the risks of the night unencountered, since such had been the
conclusion.
The honest Burgomaster was, in his turn, supported and dragged
forward by his faithful counsellor Peter, and another of his clerks;
and thus, in breathless haste, they reached the banks of the river,
encountering many strolling bands of citizens, who were eager to know
the event of the siege, and the truth of certain rumours already
afloat, that the conquerors had quarrelled among themselves.
Evading their curiosity as they best could, the exertions of Peter
and some of his companions at length procured a boat for the use of the
company, and with it an opportunity of enjoying some repose, equally
welcome to Isabelle, who continued to lie almost motionless in the arms
of her preserver, and to the worthy Burgomaster, who, after delivering
a broken string of thanks to Durward, whose mind was at the time too
much occupied to answer him, began a long harangue, which he addressed
to Peter, upon his own courage and benevolence, and the dangers to
which these virtues had exposed him, on this and other occasions.
"Peter, Peter," he said, resuming the complaint of the preceding
evening, "if I had not had a bold heart, I would never have stood out
against paying the burghers-twentieths, when every other living soul
was willing to pay the same.—Ay, and then a less stout heart had not
seduced me into that other battle of Saint Tron, where a Hainault
man-at-arms thrust me into a muddy ditch with his lance, which neither
heart nor hand that I had could help me out of, till the battle was
over.—Ay, and then, Peter, this very night my courage seduced me,
moreover, into too strait a corslet, which would have been the death of
me, but for the aid of this gallant young gentleman, whose trade is
fighting, whereof I wish him heartily joy. And then for my tenderness
of heart, Peter, it has made a poor man of me —that is, it would have
made a poor man of me, if I had not been tolerably well to pass in this
wicked world;—and Heaven knows what trouble it is like to bring on me
yet, with ladies, countesses, and keeping of secrets, which, for aught
I know, may cost me half my fortune, and my neck into the bargain!"
Quentin could remain no longer silent, but assured him, that
whatever danger or damage he should incur on the part of the young lady
now under his protection, should be thankfully acknowledged, and, as
far as was possible, repaid.
"I thank you, young Master Squire Archer, I thank you," answered
the citizen of Liege; "but who was it told you that I desired any
repayment at your hand for doing the duty of an honest man? I only
regretted that it might cost me so and so; and I hope I may have leave
to say so much to my lieutenant, without either grudging my loss or my
peril."
Quentin accordingly concluded that his present friend was one of
the numerous class of benefactors to others, who take out their reward
in grumbling, without meaning more than, by showing their grievances,
to exalt a little the idea of the valuable service by which they have
incurred them, and therefore prudently remained silent, and suffered
the Syndic to maunder on to his lieutenant concerning the risk and the
loss he had encountered by his zeal for the public good, and his
disinterested services to individuals, until they reached his own
habitation.
The truth was, that the honest citizen felt that he had lost a
little consequence, by suffering the young stranger to take the lead at
the crisis which had occurred at the castle-hall of Schonwaldt; and,
however delighted with the effect of Durward's interference at the
moment, it seemed to him, on reflection, that he had sustained a
diminution of importance, for which he endeavoured to obtain
compensation, by exaggerating the claims which he had upon the
gratitude of his country in general, his friends in particular, and
more especially still, on the Countess of Croye, and her youthful
protector.
But when the boat stopped at the bottom of his garden, and he had
got himself assisted on shore by Peter, it seemed as if the touch of
his own threshold had at once dissipated those feelings of wounded
self-opinion and jealousy, and converted the discontented and obscured
demagogue into the honest, kind, hospitable, and friendly host. He
called loudly for Trudchen, who presently appeared; for fear and
anxiety would permit few within the walls of Liege to sleep during that
eventful night. She was charged to pay the utmost attention to the care
of the beautiful and half-fainting stranger; and, admiring her personal
charms, while she pitied her distress, Gertrude discharged the
hospitable duty with the zeal and affection of a sister.
Late as it now was, and fatigued as the Syndic appeared, Quentin,
on his side, had difficulty to escape a flask of choice and costly
wine, as old as the battle of Azincour; and must have submitted to take
his share, however unwilling, but for the appearance of the mother of
the family, whom Pavillon's loud summons for the keys of the cellar
brought forth from her bedroom. She was a jolly little roundabout
woman, who had been pretty in her time, but whose principal
characteristics for several years had been a red and sharp nose, a
shrill voice, and a determination that the Syndic, in consideration of
the authority which he exercised when abroad, should remain under the
rule of due discipline at home.
So soon as she understood the nature of the debate between her
husband and his guest, she declared roundly, that the former, instead
of having occasion for more wine, had got too much already; and, far
from using, in furtherance of his request, any of the huge bunch of
keys which hung by a silver chain at her waist, she turned her back on
him without ceremony, and ushered Quentin to the neat and pleasant
apartment in which he was to spend the night, amid such appliances to
rest and comfort as probably he had till that moment been entirely a
stranger to; so much did the wealthy Flemings excel, not merely the
poor and rude Scots, but the French themselves, in all the conveniences
of domestic life.
CHAPTER VI. THE FLIGHT.
—Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible;
Yea, get the better of them.
—Set on your foot;
And, with a heart new fired, I follow you,
To do I know not what.
Julius Cæsar.
In spite of a mixture of joy and fear, doubt, anxiety, and other
agitating passions, the exhausting fatigues of the preceding day were
powerful enough to throw the young Scot into a deep and profound
repose, which lasted until late on the day following; when his worthy
host entered the apartment, with looks of care on his brow.
He seated himself by his guest's bedside, and began a long and
complicated discourse upon the domestic duties of a married life, and
especially upon the awful power and right supremacy which it became
married men to sustain in all differences of opinion with their wives.
Quentin listened with some anxiety. He knew that husbands, like other
belligerent powers, were sometimes disposed to sing Te Deum, rather to
conceal a defeat than to celebrate a victory; and he hastened to probe
the matter more closely, "by hoping their arrival had been attended
with no inconvenience to the good lady of the household."
"Inconvenience!—no," answered the Burgomaster— "No woman can be
less taken unawares than Mother Mabel—always happy to see her friends
—always a clean lodging and a handsome meal ready for them, with
God's blessing on bed and board—No woman on earth so
hospitable—only 'tis pity her temper is something particular."
"Our residence here is disagreeable to her, in short?" said the
Scot, starting out of bed, and beginning to dress himself hastily.
"Were I but sure the Lady Isabelle were fit for travel after the
horrors of the last night, we would not increase the offence by
remaining here an instant longer."
"Nay," said Pavillon, "that is just what the young lady herself
said to Mother Mabel; and truly I wish you saw the colour that came to
her face as she said it—a milkmaid that has skated five miles to
market against the frost-wind is a lily compared to it—I do not
wonder Mother Mabel may be a little jealous, poor dear soul."
"Has the Lady Isabelle then left her apartment?" said the youth,
continuing his toilette operations with more dispatch than before.
"Yes," replied Pavillon; "and she expects your approach with much
impatience, to determine which way you shall go—since you are both
determined on going.—But I trust you will tarry breakfast?" "Why did
you not tell me this sooner?" said Durward, impatiently.
"Softly—softly," said the Syndic; "I have told it you too soon, I
think, if it puts you into such a hasty fluster. Now I have some more
matter for your ear, if I saw you had some patience to listen to me."
"Speak it, worthy sir, as soon and as fast as you can—I listen
devoutly."
"Well, then," resumed the Burgomaster, "I have but one word to say,
and that is, that Trudchen, who is as sorry to part with yonder pretty
lady as if she had been some sister of hers, wants you to take some
other disguise; for there is word in the town that the Ladies of Croye
travel the country in pilgrim's dresses, attended by a French
life-guardsman of the Scottish Archers; and it is said one of them was
brought into Schonwaldt last night by a Bohemian after we had left it;
and it was said still farther, that this same Bohemian had assured
William de la Marck that you were charged with no message either to him
or to the good people of Liege, and that you had stolen away the young
Countess, and travelled with her as her paramour. And all this news
hath come from Schonwaldt this morning; and it has been told to us and
the other counsellors, who know not well what to advise; for though our
own opinion is that William de la Marck has been a thought too rough
both with the Bishop and with ourselves, yet there is a great belief
that he is a good-natured soul at bottom—that is, when he is
sober—and that he is the only leader in the world to command us
against the Duke of Burgundy;— and, in truth, as matters stand, it is
partly my own mind that we must keep fair with him, for we have gone
too far to draw back."
"Your daughter advises well," said Quentin Durward, abstaining from
reproaches or exhortations, which he saw would be alike unavailing to
sway a resolution, which had been adopted by the worthy magistrate in
compliance at once with the prejudices of his party and the inclination
of his wife—"Your daughter counsels well—We must part in disguise,
and that instantly. We may, I trust, rely upon you for the necessary
secrecy, and for the means of escape?"
"With all my heart—with all my heart," said the honest citizen,
who, not much satisfied with the dignity of his own conduct, was eager
to find some mode of atonement. "I cannot but remember that I owed you
my life last night, both for unclasping that accursed steel doublet,
and helping me through the other scrape, which was worse; for yonder
Boar and his brood look more like devils than men. So I will be true to
you as blade to haft, as our cutlers say, who are the best in the whole
world. Nay, now you are ready, come this way—you shall see how far I
can trust you."
The Syndic led him from the chamber in which he had slept to his
own counting-room, in which he transacted his affairs of business; and
after bolting the door, and casting a piercing and careful eye around
him, he opened a concealed and vaulted closet behind the tapestry, in
which stood more than one iron chest. He proceeded to open one which
was full of guilders, and placed it at Quentin's discretion, to take
whatever sum he might think necessary for his companion's expenses and
his own.
As the money with which Quentin was furnished on leaving Plessis
was now nearly expended, he hesitated not to accept the sum of two
hundred guilders; and by doing so took a great weight from the mind of
Pavillon, who considered the desperate transaction in which he thus
voluntarily became the creditor, as an atonement for the breach of
hospitality which various considerations in a great measure compelled
him to commit.
Having carefully locked his treasure-chamber, the wealthy Fleming
next conveyed his guest to the parlour, where, in full possession of
her activity of mind and body, though pale from the scenes of the
preceding night, he found the Countess attired in the fashion of a
Flemish maiden of the middling class. No other was present excepting
Trudchen, who was sedulously employed in completing the Countess's
dress, and instructing her how to bear herself. She extended her hand
to him, which, when he had reverently kissed, she said to him,
"Seignior Quentin, we must leave our friends here, unless I would bring
on them a part of the misery which has pursued me ever since my
father's death. You must change your dress and go with me, unless you
also are tired of befriending a being so unfortunate."
"I!—I tired of being your attendant!—To the end of the earth
will I guard you! But you—you yourself—are you equal to the task
you undertake? —Can you, after the terrors of last night"—
"Do not recall them to my memory," answered the Countess; "I
remember but the confusion of a horrid dream.—Has the excellent
Bishop escaped?"
"I trust he is in freedom," said Quentin, making a sign to
Pavillon, who seemed about to enter on the dreadful narrative, to be
silent.
"Is it possible for us to rejoin him?—Hath he gathered any
power?" said the lady.
"His only hopes are in Heaven," said the Scot; "but wherever you
wish to go, I stand by your side, a determined guide and guard."
"We will consider," said Isabelle; and after a moment's pause, she
added, "A convent would be my choice, but that I fear it would prove a
weak defence against those who pursue me."
"Hem! hem!" said the Syndic; "I could not well recommend a convent
within the district of Liege; because the Boar of Ardennes, though in
the main a brave leader, a trusty confederate, and a well-wisher to our
city, has, nevertheless, rough humours, and payeth, on the whole,
little regard to cloisters, convents, nunneries, and the like. Men say
that there are a score of nuns—that is, such as were nuns—who march
always with his company."
"Get yourself in readiness hastily, Seignior Durward," said
Isabelle, interrupting this detail, "since to your faith I must needs
commit myself."
No sooner had the Syndic and Quentin left the room, than Isabelle
began to ask of Gertrude various questions concerning the roads, and
so forth, with such clearness of spirit and pertinence, that the latter
could not help exclaiming, "Lady, I wonder at you!—I have heard of
masculine firmness, but yours appears to me more than belongs to
humanity."
"Necessity," answered the Countess—"necessity, my friend, is the
mother of courage, as of invention. No long time since, I might have
fainted when I saw a drop of blood shed from a trifling cut —I have
since seen life-blood flow around me, I may say, in waves, yet I have
retained my senses and my self-possession.—Do not think it was an
easy task," she added, laying on Gertrude's arm a trembling hand,
although she still spoke with a firm voice; "the little world within me
is like a garrison besieged by a thousand foes, whom nothing but the
most determined resolution can keep from storming it on every hand, and
at every moment. Were my situation one whit less perilous than it
is—were I not sensible that my only chance to escape a fate more
horrible than death, is to retain my recollection and
self-possession—Gertrude, I would at this moment throw myself into
your arms, and relieve my bursting bosom by such a transport of tears
and agony of terror, as never rushed from a breaking heart!"
"Do not do so, lady!" said the sympathizing Fleming; "take courage,
tell your beads, throw yourself on the care of Heaven; and surely, if
ever Heaven sent a deliverer to one ready to perish, that bold and
adventurous young gentleman must be designed for yours. There is one,
too," she added, blushing deeply, "in whom I have some interest. Say
nothing to my father; but I have ordered my bachelor, Hans Glover, to
wait for you at the eastern gate, and never to see my face more, unless
he brings word that he has guided you safe from the territory."
To kiss her tenderly was the only way in which the young Countess
could express her thanks to the frank and kind-hearted city-maiden, who
returned the embrace affectionately, and added, with a smile, "Nay, if
two maidens and their devoted bachelors cannot succeed in a disguise
and an escape, the world is changed from what I am told it wont to be."
A part of this speech again called the colour into the Countess's
pale cheeks, which was not lessened by Quentin's sudden appearance. He
entered completely attired as a Flemish boor of the better class, in
the holyday suit of Peter, who expressed his interest in the young Scot
by the readiness with which he parted with it for his use; and swore,
at the same time, that, were he to be curried and tugged worse than
ever was bullock's hide, they should make nothing out of him, to the
betraying of the young folks. Two stout horses had been provided by the
activity of Mother Mabel, who really desired the Countess and her
attendant no harm, so that she could make her own house and family
clear of the dangers which might attend upon harbouring them. She
beheld them mount and go off with great satisfaction, after telling
them that they would find their way to the east gate by keeping their
eye on Peter, who was to walk in that direction as their guide, but
without holding any visible communication with them.
The instant her guests had departed, Mother Mabel took the
opportunity to read a long practical lecture to Trudchen upon the folly
of reading romances, whereby the flaunting ladies of the Court were
grown so bold and venturous, that, instead of applying to learn some
honest housewifery, they must ride, forsooth, a damsel-erranting
through the country, with no better attendant than some idle squire,
debauched page, or rake-helly archer from foreign parts, to the great
danger of their health, the impoverishing of their substance, and the
irreparable prejudice of their reputation.
All this Gertrude heard in silence, and without reply; but,
considering her character, it might be doubted whether she derived from
it the practical inference which it was her mother's purpose to
enforce.
Meantime, the travellers had gained the eastern gate of the city,
traversing crowds of people, who were fortunately too much busied in
the political events and rumours of the hour, to give any attention to
a couple who had so little to render their appearance remarkable. They
passed the guards in virtue of a permission obtained for them by
Pavillon, but in the name of his colleague Rouslaer, and they took
leave of Peter Geislaer with a friendly though brief exchange of good
wishes on either side. Immediately afterwards, they were joined by a
stout young man, riding a good grey horse, who presently made himself
known as Hans Glover, the bachelor of Trudchen Pavillon. He was a young
fellow with a good Flemish countenance— not, indeed, of the most
intellectual cast, but arguing more hilarity and good-humour than wit,
and, as the Countess could not help thinking, scarce worthy to be
bachelor to the generous Trudchen. He seemed, however, fully desirous
to second the views which she had formed in their favour; for, saluting
them respectfully, he asked of the Countess in Flemish, on which road
she desired to be conducted?
"Guide me," said she, "towards the nearest town on the frontiers of
Brabant."
"You have then settled the end and object of your journey?" said
Quentin, approaching his horse to that of Isabelle, and speaking
French, which their guide did not understand.
"Surely," replied the young lady; "for, situated as I now am, it
must be of no small detriment to me if I were to prolong a journey in
my present circumstances, even though the termination should be a
rigorous prison."
"A prison!" said Quentin.
"Yes, my friend, a prison; but I will take care that you shall not
share it."
"Do not talk—do not think of me," said Quentin. "Saw I you but
safe, my own concerns are little worth minding."
"Do not speak so loud," said the Lady Isabelle; "you will surprise
our guide—you see he has already rode on before us;"—for, in truth,
the good-natured Fleming, doing as he desired to be done by, had
removed from them the constraint of a third person, upon Quentin's
first motion towards the lady.—"Yes," she continued, when she noticed
they were free from observation, "to you, my friend, my protector—why
should I be ashamed to call you what Heaven has made you to me?—to
you it is my duty to say, that my resolution is taken to return to my
native country, and to throw myself on the mercy of the Duke of
Burgundy. It was mistaken, though well-meant advice, which induced me
ever to withdraw from his protection, and place myself under that of
the crafty and false Louis of France."
"And you resolve to become the bride, then, of the Count of
Campo-basso, the unworthy favourite of Charles?"
Thus spoke Quentin, with a voice in which internal agony struggled
with his desire to assume an indifferent tone, like that of the poor
condemned criminal, when, affecting a firmness which he is far from
feeling, he asks if the death-warrant be arrived.
"No, Durward, no," said the Lady Isabelle, sitting up erect in her
saddle, "to that hated condition all Burgundy's power shall not sink a
daughter of the House of Croye. Burgundy may seize on my lands and
fiefs, he may imprison my person in a convent; but that is the worst I
have to expect; and worse than that I will endure ere I give my hand to
Campo-basso."
"The worst!" said Quentin; "and what worse can there be than
plunder and imprisonment?— Oh, think, while you have God's free air
around you, and one by your side who will hazard life to conduct you to
England, to Germany, even to Scotland, in all of which you shall find
generous protectors —O, while this is the case, do not resolve so
rashly to abandon the means of liberty, the best gift that Heaven
gives!—O, well sung a poet of my own land—
'Ah, freedom is a noble thing—
Freedom makes man to have liking—
Freedom the zest to pleasure gives—
He lives at ease who freely lives.
Grief, sickness, poortith, want, are all
Summ'd up within the name of thrall.' "
She listened with a melancholy smile to her guide's tirade in
praise of liberty; and then answered after a moment's pause, "Freedom
is for man alone—woman must ever seek a protector, since nature made
her incapable to defend herself. And where am I to find one?—In that
voluptuary Edward of England—in the inebriated Wenceslaus of
Germany—in Scotland?—Ah, Durward, were I your sister, and could you
promise me shelter in some of those mountain-glens which you love to
describe, where, for charity, or for the few jewels I have preserved, I
might lead an unharassed life, and forget the lot I was born to—Could
you promise me the protection of some honoured matron of the land—of
some baron whose heart was as true as his sword—that were indeed a
prospect, for which it were worth the risk of farther censure to
wander farther and wider!"
There was a faltering tenderness of voice with which the Countess
Isabelle made this admission, that at once filled Quentin with a
sensation of joy, and cut him to the very heart. He hesitated a moment
ere he made an answer, hastily reviewing in his mind the possibility
there might be that he could procure her shelter in Scotland; but the
melancholy truth rushed on him, that it would be alike base and cruel
to point out to her a course, which he had not the most distant power
or means to render safe. "Lady," he said at last, "I should act foully
against my honour and oath of chivalry, did I suffer you to ground any
plan upon the thoughts that I have the power in Scotland to afford you
other protection than that of the poor arm which is now by your side. I
scarce know that my blood flows in the veins of an individual who now
lives in my native land. The Knight of Innerquharity stormed our castle
at midnight, and cut off all that belonged to my name. Were I again in
Scotland, our feudal enemies are numerous and powerful, I single and
weak; and even had the King a desire to do me justice, he dared not,
for the sake of redressing the wrongs of a poor individual, provoke a
chief who rides with five hundred horse."
"Alas!" said the Countess, "there is then no corner of the world
safe from oppression, since it rages as unrestrained amongst those wild
hills which afford so few objects to covet, as in our rich and abundant
Lowlands!"
"It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it," said the Scot, "that,
for little more than the pleasure of revenge and the lust of bloodshed,
our hostile clans do the work of executioners on each other; and
Ogilvies and the like act the same scenes in Scotland, as De la Marck
and his robbers do in this country."
"No more of Scotland, then," said Isabelle, with a tone of
indifference, either real or affected—"no more of Scotland,—which
indeed I mentioned but in jest, to see if you really dared recommend to
me, as a place of rest, the most distracted kingdom in Europe. It was
but a trial of your sincerity, which I rejoice to see may be relied on,
even when your partialities are most strongly excited. So, once more, I
will think of no other protection than can be afforded by the first
honourable baron holding of Duke Charles, to whom I am determined to
render myself."
"And why not rather betake yourself to your own estates, and to
your own strong castle, as you designed when at Tours?" said Quentin.
"Why not call around you the vassals of your father, and make treaty
with Burgundy, rather than surrender yourself to him? Surely there must
be many a bold heart that would fight in your cause; and I know at
least of one, who would willingly lay down his life to give example."
"Alas!" said the Countess, "that scheme, the suggestion of the
crafty Louis, and, like all which he ever suggested, designed more for
his advantage than for mine, has become impracticable, since it was
betrayed to Burgundy by the double traitor Zamet Maugrabin. My kinsman
was then imprisoned, and my houses garrisoned. Any attempt of mine
would but expose my dependents to the vengeance of Duke Charles; and
why should I occasion more bloodshed than has already taken place on so
worthless an account? No, I will submit myself to my Sovereign as a
dutiful vassal, in all which shall leave my personal freedom of choice
uninfringed; the rather that I trust my kinswoman, the Countess
Hameline, who first counselled, and indeed urged my flight, has already
taken this wise and honourable step."
"Your kinswoman!" repeated Quentin, awakened to recollections to
which the young Countess was a stranger, and which the rapid succession
of perilous and stirring events, had, as matters of nearer concern, in
fact banished from his memory.
"Ay—my aunt—the Countess Hameline of Croye —know you aught of
her?" said the Countess Isabelle; "I trust she is now under the
protection of the Burgundian banner.—You are silent! Know you aught
of her?"
The last question, urged in a tone of the most anxious enquiry,
obliged Quentin to give some account of what he knew of the Countess's
fate. He mentioned, that he had been summoned to attend her in a flight
from Liege, which he had no doubt the Lady Isabelle would be partaker
in—he mentioned the discovery that had been made after they had
gained the forest—and finally, he told his own return to the castle,
and the circumstances in which he found it. But he said nothing of the
views with which it was plain the Lady Hameline had left the Castle of
Schonwaldt, and as little about the floating report of her having
fallen into the hands of William de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his
even hinting at the one, and regard for the feelings of his companion,
at a moment when strength and exertion were most demanded of her,
prevented him from alluding to the latter, which had, besides, only
reached him as a mere rumour.
This tale, though abridged of those important particulars, made a
strong impression on the Countess Isabelle, who, after riding some time
in silence, said at last, with a tone of cold displeasure, "And so you
abandoned my unfortunate relative in a wild forest, at the mercy of a
vile Bohemian and a traitorous waiting-woman?—Poor kinswoman, thou
wert wont to praise this youth's good faith!"
"Had I not done so, madam," said Quentin, not unreasonably offended
at the turn thus given to his gallantry, "what had been the fate of one
to whose service I was far more devoutly bound? Had I not left the
Countess Hameline of Croye to the charge of those whom she had herself
selected as counsellors and advisers, the Countess Isabelle had been
ere now the bride of William de la Marck, the Wild Boar of Ardennes."
"You are right," said the Countess Isabelle, in her usual manner;
"and I, who have the advantage of your unhesitating devotion, have done
you foul and ungrateful wrong. But oh, my unhappy kinswoman! and the
wretch Marthon, who enjoyed so much of her confidence, and deserved it
so little— it was she that introduced to my kinswoman the wretched
Zamet and Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, by their pretended knowledge in
soothsaying and astrology, obtained a great ascendency over her mind;
it was she who, strengthening their predictions, encouraged her in—I
know not what to call them—delusions concerning matches and lovers,
which my kinswoman's age rendered ungraceful and improbable. I doubt
not that, from the beginning, we had been surrounded by these snares by
Louis of France, in order to determine us to take refuge at his Court,
or rather to put ourselves into his power; after which rash act on our
part, how unkingly, unknightly, ignobly, ungentlemanlike, he hath
conducted himself towards us, you, Quentin Durward, can bear witness.
But alas! my kinswoman— what think you will be her fate?"
Endeavouring to inspire hopes which he scarce felt, Durward
answered, that the avarice of these people was stronger than any other
passion; that Marthon, even when he left them, seemed to act rather as
the Lady Hameline's protectress; and, in fine, that it was difficult to
conceive any object these wretches could accomplish by the ill usage or
murder of the Countess, whereas they might be gainers by treating her
well, and putting her to ransom.
To lead the Countess Isabelle's thoughts from this melancholy
subject, Quentin frankly told her the treachery of the Maugrabin, which
he had discovered in the night-quarter near Namur, and which appeared
the result of an agreement betwixt the King and William de la Marck.
Isabelle shuddered with horror, and then recovering herself, said, "I
am ashamed, and I have sinned in permitting myself so far to doubt of
the saints' protection, as for an instant to have deemed possible the
accomplishment of a scheme so utterly cruel, base, and dishonourable,
while there are pitying eyes in Heaven to look down on human miseries.
It is not a thing to be thought of with fear or abhorrence, but to be
rejected as such a piece of incredible treachery and villainy, as it
were atheism to believe could ever be successful. But I now see plainly
why that hypocritical Marthon often seemed to foster every seed of
petty jealousy or discontent betwixt my poor kinswoman and myself,
whilst she always mixed with flattery, addressed to the individual who
was present, whatever could prejudice her against her absent kinswoman.
Yet never did I dream she could have proceeded so far as to have caused
my once affectionate kinswoman to have left me behind in the perils of
Schonwaldt, while she made her own escape."
"Did the Lady Hameline not mention to you, then," said Quentin,
"her intended flight?"
"No," replied the Countess, "but she alluded to some communication
which Marthon was to make to me. To say truth, my poor kinswoman's head
was so turned by the mysterious jargon of the miserable Hayraddin, whom
that day she had admitted to a long and secret conference, and she
threw out so many strange hints, that—that—in short, I cared not
to press on her, when in that humour, for any explanation. Yet it was
cruel to leave me behind her."
"I will excuse the Lady Hameline from intending such unkindness,"
said Quentin; "for such was the agitation of the moment, and the
darkness of the hour, that I believe the Lady Hameline as certainly
conceived herself accompanied by her niece, as I at the same time,
deceived by Marthon's dress and demeanour, supposed I was in the
company of both the Ladies of Croye:—and of her especially," he
added, with a low but determined voice, "without whom the wealth of
worlds would not have tempted me to leave Schonwaldt."
Isabelle stooped her head forward, and seemed scarce to hear the
emphasis with which Quentin had spoken. But she turned her face to him
again when he began to speak of the policy of Louis; and it was not
difficult for them, by mutual communication, to ascertain that the
Bohemian brothers, with their accomplice Marthon, had been the agents
of that crafty monarch, although Zamet, the elder of them, with a
perfidy peculiar to his race, had attempted to play a double game, and
had been punished accordingly. In the same humour of mutual confidence,
and forgetting the singularity of their own situation, as well as the
perils of the road, the travellers pursued their journey for several
hours, only stopping to refresh their horses at a retired dorff, or
hamlet, to which they were conducted by Hans Glover, who, in all other
respects, as well as in leaving them much to their own freedom in
conversation, conducted himself like a person of reflection and
discretion.
Meantime, the artificial distinction which divided the two lovers,
(for such we may now term them,) seemed dissolved, or removed, by the
circumstances in which they were placed; for if the Countess boasted
the higher rank, and was by birth entitled to a fortune incalculably
larger than that of the youth, whose revenue lay in his sword, it was
to be considered that, for the present, she was as poor as he, and for
her safety, honour, and life, exclusively indebted to his presence of
mind, valour, and devotion. They spoke not indeed of love, for though
the young lady, her heart full of gratitude and confidence, might have
pardoned such a declaration, yet Quentin, on whose tongue there was
laid a check, both by natural timidity and by the sentiments of
chivalry, would have held it an unworthy abuse of her situation had he
said any thing which could have the appearance of taking undue
advantage of the opportunities which it afforded them. They spoke not
then of love, but the thoughts of it were on both sides unavoidable;
and thus they were placed in that relation to each other, in which
sentiments of mutual regard are rather understood than announced, and
which, with the freedoms which it permits, and the uncertainties that
attend it, often forms the most delightful hours of human existence,
and as frequently leads to those which are darkened by disappointment,
fickleness, and all the pains of blighted hope and unrequited
attachment.
It was two hours after noon, when the travellers were alarmed by
the report of the guide, who, with paleness and horror in his
countenance, said that they were pursued by a party of De la Marck's
Schwarz-reiters. These soldiers, or rather banditti, were bands levied
in the Lower Circles of Germany, and resembled the lanzknechts in every
particular, except that the former acted as light cavalry. To maintain
the name of Black Troopers, and to strike additional terror into their
enemies, they usually rode on black chargers, and smeared with black
ointment their arms and accoutrements, in which operation their hands
and faces often had their share. In morals and in ferocity these
Schwarz-reiters emulated their pedestrian brethren the lanzknechts.
[Note:
Schwarz-reiters. Fynes Morrison describes this species of soldiery
as follows: "He that at this day looks upon their Schwarz-reiters,
(that is, black horsemen,) must confess, that, to make their horses and
boots shine, they make themselves as black as colliers. These horsemen
wear black clothes, and poor though they be, spend no small time in
brushing them. The most of them have black horses, which, while they
painfully dress, and (as I have said) delight to have their boots and
shoes shine with blacking-stuff, their hands and faces become black,
and thereof they have their foresaid name. Yet I have heard Germans
say, that they do thus make themselves black to seem more terrible to
their enemies."—Fynes Morrison's Itinerary. Edition 1617, p. 165.
] On looking back, and discovering along the long level road which
they had traversed a cloud of dust advancing, with one or two of the
headmost troopers riding furiously in front of it, Quentin addressed
his companion—"Dearest Isabelle, I have no weapon left save my sword;
but since I cannot fight for you, I will fly with you. Could we gain
yonder wood that is before us ere they come up, we may easily find
means to escape."
"So be it, my only friend," said Isabelle, pressing her horse to
the gallop; "and thou, good fellow," she added, addressing Hans Glover,
"get thee off to another road, and do not stay to partake our
misfortune and danger."
The honest Fleming shook his head, and answered her generous
exhortation, with Nein, nein! das geht nichts, [Note: "No, no! that
must not be."] and continued to attend them, all three riding towards
the shelter of the wood as fast as their jaded horses could go,
pursued, at the same time, by the Schwarz-reiters, who increased their
pace when they saw them fly. But notwithstanding the fatigue of the
horses, still the fugitives, being unarmed, and riding lighter in
consequence, had considerably the advantage of the pursuers, and were
within about a quarter of a mile of the wood, when a body of
men-at-arms, under a knight's pennon, was discovered advancing from the
cover, so as to intercept their flight.
"They have bright armour," said Isabelle; "they must be
Burgundians. Be they who they will, we must yield to them, rather than
to the lawless miscreants who pursue us."
A moment after, she exclaimed, looking on the pennon, "I know the
cloven heart which it displays! It is the banner of the Count of
Crèvecoeur, a noble Burgundian—to him I will surrender myself."
Quentin Durward sighed; but what other alternative remained? and
how happy would he have been but an instant before, to have been
certain of the escape of Isabelle, even under worse terms? They soon
joined the band of Crèvecoeur, and the Countess demanded to speak to
the leader, who had halted his party till he should reconnoitre the
Black Troopers; and as he gazed on her with doubt and uncertainty, she
said, "Noble Count,—Isabelle of Croye, the daughter of your old
companion in arms, Count Reinold of Croye, renders herself, and asks
protection from your valour for her and hers."
"Thou shalt have it, fair kinswoman, were it against a
host—always excepting my liege Lord of Burgundy. But there is little
time to talk of it. These filthy-looking fiends have made a halt, as if
they intended to dispute the matter.—By Saint George of Burgundy,
they have the insolence to advance against the banner of
Crèvecoeur!—What! will not the knaves be ruled?—Damian, my lance
—Advance banner—Lay your spears in the rest— Crèvecoeur to the
Rescue!"
Crying his war-cry, and followed by his men-at-arms, he galloped
rapidly forward to charge the Schwarz-reiters.
CHAPTER VII. THE SURRENDER.
Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive;
Deal with me what your nobleness suggests—
Thinking the chance of war may one day place you
Where I must now be reckon'd—i' the roll
Of melancholy prisoners.
Anonymous.
The skirmish betwixt the Schwarz-reiters and the Burgundian
men-at-arms lasted scarcely five minutes, so soon were the former put
to the rout by the superiority of the latter, in armour, weight of
horse, and military spirit. In less than the space we have mentioned,
the Count of Crèvecoeur, wiping his bloody sword upon his horse's mane
ere he sheathed it, came back to the verge of the forest, where
Isabelle had remained a spectator of the combat. One part of his people
followed him, while the other continued to pursue the flying enemy for
a little space along the causeway.
"It is shame," said the Count, "that the weapons of knights and
gentlemen should be soiled by the blood of those brutal swine."
So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath, and added, "This
is a rough welcome to your home, my pretty cousin, but wandering
princesses must expect such adventures. And well I came up in time,
for, let me assure you, the Black Troopers respect a countess's coronet
as little as a country-wench's coif, and I think your retinue is not
qualified for much resistance."
"My Lord Count," said the Lady Isabelle, "without farther preface,
let me know if I am a prisoner, and where you are to conduct me."
"You know, you silly child," answered the Count, "how I would
answer that question, did it rest on my own will. But you and your
foolish match-making, marriage-hunting aunt, have made such wild use of
your wings of late, that I fear you must be contented to fold them up
in a cage for a little while. For my part, my duty, and it is a sad
one, will be ended when I have conducted you to the Court of the Duke,
at Peronne; for which purpose, I hold it necessary to deliver the
command of this reconnoitring party to my nephew, Count Stephen, while
I return with you thither, as I think you may need an intercessor—And
I hope the young giddy-pate will discharge his duty wisely."
"So please you, fair uncle," said Count Stephen, "if you doubt my
capacity to conduct the men-at-arms, even remain with them yourself,
and I will be the servant and guard of the Countess Isabelle of Croye."
"No doubt, fair nephew," answered his uncle, "this were a goodly
improvement on my scheme; but methinks I like it as well in the way I
planned it. Please you, therefore, to take notice, that your business
here is not to hunt after and stick these black hogs, for which you
seemed but now to have felt an especial vocation, but to collect and
bring to me true tidings what is going forward in the country of Liege,
concerning which we hear such wild rumours. Let some half score of
lances follow me, and the rest remain with my banner, under your
guidance."
"Yet one moment, cousin of Crèvecoeur," said the Countess Isabelle,
"and let me, in yielding myself prisoner, stipulate at least for the
safety of those who have befriended me in my misfortunes. Permit this
good fellow, my trusty guide, to go back unharmed to his native town of
Liege."
"My nephew," said Crèvecoeur, after looking sharply at Glover's
honest breadth of countenance, "shall guard this good fellow, who
seems, indeed, to have little harm in him, as far into the territory as
he himself advances, and then leave him at liberty."
"Fail not to remember me to the kind Gertrude," said the Countess
to her guide, and added, taking a string of pearls from under her veil,
"Pray her to wear this in remembrance of her unhappy friend."
Honest Glover took the string of pearls, and kissed, with clownish
gesture, but with sincere kindness, the fair hand which had found such
a delicate mode of remunerating his own labours and peril.
"Umph! signs and tokens!" said the Count; "any farther bequests to
make, my fair cousin?— It is time we were on our way."
"Only," said the Countess, making an effort to speak, "that you
will be pleased to be favourable to this—this young gentleman."
"Umph!" said Crèvecoeur, casting the same penetrating glance on
Quentin which he had bestowed on Glover, but apparently with a much
less satisfactory result, and mimicking, though not offensively, the
embarrassment of the Countess—"Umph! —Ay,—this is a blade of
another temper.—And pray, my cousin, what has this—this very young
gentleman done, to deserve such intercession at your hands?"
"He has saved my life and honour," said the Countess, reddening
with shame and resentment.
Quentin also blushed with indignation, but wisely concluded, that
to give vent to it might only make matters worse.
"Life and honour?—Umph!" said again the Count Crèvecoeur;
"methinks it would have been as well, my cousin, if you had not put
yourself in the way of lying under such obligations to this very young
gentleman.—But let it pass. The young gentleman may wait on us, if
his quality permit, and I will see he has no injury—only I will
myself take in future the office of protecting your life and honour,
and may perhaps find for him some fitter duty than that of being a
squire of the body to damosels errant."
"My Lord Count," said Durward, unable to keep silence any longer,
"lest you should talk of a stranger in slighter terms than you might
afterwards think becoming, I take leave to tell you, that I am Quentin
Durward, an Archer of the Scottish Body-guard, in which, as you well
know, none but gentlemen and men of honour are enrolled."
"I thank you for your information, and I kiss your hands, Seignior
Archer," said Crèvecoeur, in the same tone of raillery. "Have the
goodness to ride with me to the front of the party."
As Quentin moved onward at the command of the Count, who had now
the power, if not the right, to dictate his motions, he observed that
the Lady Isabelle followed his motions with a look of anxious and timid
interest, which amounted almost to tenderness, and the sight of which
brought water into his eyes. But he remembered that he had a man's part
to sustain before Crèvecoeur, who, perhaps of all the chivalry in
France or Burgundy, was the least likely to be moved to any thing but
laughter by a tale of true-love sorrow. He determined, therefore, not
to wait his addressing him, but to open the conversation in a tone
which should assert his claim to fair treatment, and to more respect
than the Count, offended perhaps at finding a person of such inferior
note placed so near the confidence of his high-born and wealthy cousin,
seemed disposed to entertain for him.
"My Lord Count of Crèvecoeur," he said, in a temperate but firm
tone of voice, "may I request of you, before our interview goes
farther, to tell me if I am at liberty, or am to account myself your
prisoner?"
"A shrewd question," replied the Count, "which, at present, I can
only answer by another—Are France and Burgundy, think you, at peace
or war with each other?"
"That," replied the Scot, "you, my lord, should certainly know
better than I. I have been absent from the Court of France, and have
heard no news for some time."
"Look you there," said the Count; "you see how easy it is to ask
questions, but how difficult to answer them. Why, I myself, who have
been at Peronne with the Duke for this week and better, cannot resolve
this riddle any more than you; and yet, Sir Squire, upon the solution
of that question depends the said point, whether you are prisoner or
free man; and, for the present, I must hold you as the former—Only,
if you have really and honestly been of service to my kinswoman, and if
you are candid in your answers to the questions I shall ask, affairs
shall stand the better with you."
"The Countess of Croye," said Quentin, "is best judge if I have
rendered any service, and to her I refer you on that matter. My answers
you will yourself judge of when you ask me your questions."
"Umph!—haughty enough," muttered the Count of Crèvecoeur, "and
very like one that wears a lady's favour in his hat, and thinks he must
carry things with a high tone, to honour the precious remnant of silk
and tinsel.—Well, sir, I trust it will be no abatement of your
dignity, if you answer me, how long you have been about the person of
the Lady Isabelle of Croye?"
"Count of Crèvecoeur," said Quentin Durward, "if I answer
questions which are asked in a tone approaching towards insult, it is
only lest injurious inferences should be drawn from my silence
respecting one to whom we are both obliged to render justice. I have
acted as escort to the Lady Isabelle since she left France to retire
into Flanders."
"Ho! ho!" said the Count; "and that is to say, since she fled from
Plessis-les-Tours?—You, an Archer of the Scottish Guard, accompanied
her, of course, by the express orders of King Louis?"
However little Quentin thought himself indebted to the King of
France, who, in contriving the surprisal of the Countess Isabelle by
William de la Marck, had probably calculated on the young Scotchman
being slain in her defence, he did not yet conceive himself at liberty
to betray any trust which Louis had reposed, or had seemed to repose in
him, and therefore replied to Count Crèvecoeur's inference, "that it
was sufficient for him to have the authority of his superior officer
for what he had done, and he enquired no farther."
"It is quite sufficient," said the Count. "We know the King does
not permit his officers to send the Archers of his Guard to prance like
paladins by the bridle-rein of wandering ladies, unless he hath some
politic purpose to serve. It will be difficult for King Louis to
continue to aver so boldly, that he knew not of the Ladies of Croye's
having escaped from France, since they were escorted by one of his own
Life-guard.—And whither, Sir Archer, was your retreat directed?"
"To Liege, my lord," answered the Scot; "where the ladies desired
to be placed under the protection of the late Bishop."
"The late Bishop!" exclaimed the Count of Crèvecoeur; "is Louis of
Bourbon dead?—Not a word of his illness had reached the Duke—Of
what did he die?"
"He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord—that is, if his murderers
have conferred one on his remains."
"Murdered!" exclaimed Crèvecoeur again— "Holy Mother of
Heaven!—young man, it is impossible!"
"I saw the deed done with my own eyes, and many an act of horror
besides."
"Saw it! and made not in to help the good Prelate!" exclaimed the
Count, "or to raise the castle against his murderers?—Know'st thou
not, that even to look on such a deed, without resisting it, is profane
sacrilege?"
"To be brief, my lord," said Durward, "ere this act was done, the
castle was stormed by the blood-thirsty William de la Marck, with help
of the insurgent Liegeois."
"I am struck with thunder!" said Crèvecoeur. "Liege in
insurrection!—Schonwaldt taken!—the Bishop murdered!—Messenger of
sorrow, never did one man unfold such a packet of woes!— Speak—knew
you of this assault—of this insurrection —of this
murder?—Speak—thou art one of Louis's trusted Archers, and it is he
that has aimed this painful arrow.—Speak, or I will have thee torn
with wild horses!"
"And if I am so torn, my lord, there can be nothing rent out of me,
that may not become a true Scottish gentleman. I know no more of these
villainies than you,—was so far from being partaker in them, that I
would have withstood them to the uttermost, had my means, in a
twentieth degree, equalled my inclination. But what could I do?—they
were hundreds, and I but one. My only care was to rescue the Countess
Isabelle, and in that I was happily successful. Yet, had I been near
enough when the ruffian deed was so cruelly done on the old man, I had
saved his grey hairs, or I had avenged them; and as it was, my
abhorrence was spoken loud enough to prevent other horrors."
"I believe thee, youth," said the Count; "thou art neither of an
age nor nature to be trusted with such bloody work, however well fitted
to be the squire of dames. But alas! for the kind and generous Prelate,
to be murdered on the hearth where he so often entertained the stranger
with Christian charity and princely bounty—and that by a wretch, a
monster! a portentous growth of blood and cruelty!—bred up in the
very hall where he has imbrued his hands in his benefactor's blood! But
I know not Charles of Burgundy—nay, I should doubt of the justice of
Heaven, if vengeance be not as sharp, and sudden, and severe, as this
villainy has been unexampled in atrocity. And, if no other shall pursue
the murderer,"—here he paused, grasped his sword, then quitting his
bridle, struck both gauntleted hands upon his breast, until his corslet
clattered, and finally held them up to Heaven, as he solemnly
continued—"I—I, Philip Crèvecoeur of Cordès, make a vow to God,
Saint Lambert, and the Three Kings of Cologne, that small shall be my
thought of other earthly concerns, till I take full revenge on the
murderers of the good Louis of Bourbon, whether I find them in forest
or field, in city or in country, in hill or plain, in King's court, or
in God's church! and thereto I pledge lands and living, friends and
followers, life and honour. So help me God and Saint Lambert of Liege,
and the Three Kings of Cologne!"
When the Count of Crèvecoeur had made his vow, his mind seemed in
some sort relieved from the overwhelming grief and astonishment with
which he had heard the fatal tragedy that had been acted at Schonwaldt,
and he proceeded to question Durward more minutely concerning the
particulars of that disastrous affair, which the Scot, nowise desirous
to abate the spirit of revenge which the Count entertained against
William de la Marck, gave him at full length.
"But those blind, unsteady, faithless, fickle beasts, the
Liegeois," said the Count, "that they should have combined themselves
with this inexorable robber and murderer, to put to death their lawful
Prince!"
Durward here informed the enraged Burgundian that the Liegeois, or
at least the better class of them, however rashly they had run into the
rebellion against their Bishop, had no design, so far as appeared to
him, to aid in the execrable deed of De la Marck; but, on the
contrary, would have prevented it if they had had the means, and were
struck with horror when they beheld it.
"Speak not of the faithless, inconstant, plebeian rabble!" said
Crèvecoeur. "When they took arms against a Prince, who had no fault,
save that he was too kind and too good a master for such a set of
ungrateful slaves—when they armed against him, and broke into his
peaceful house, what could there be in their intention but
murder?—when they banded themselves with the wild Boar of Ardennes,
the greatest homicide in the marches of Flanders, what else could there
be in their purpose but murder, which is the very trade he lives by?
And again, was it not one of their own vile rabble who did the very
deed, by thine own account?—I hope to see their canals running blood
by the light of their burning houses. Oh, the kind, noble, generous
lord, whom they have slaughtered!—Other vassals have rebelled under
the pressure of imposts and penury; but the men of Liege, in the
fulness of insolence and plenty."—He again abandoned the reins of his
war-horse, and wrung bitterly the hands, which his mail-gloves rendered
untractable. Quentin easily saw that the grief which he manifested was
augmented by the bitter recollection of past intercourse and friendship
with the sufferer, and was silent accordingly; respecting feelings
which he was unwilling to aggravate, and at the same time felt it
impossible to soothe.
But the Count of Crèvecoeur returned again and again to the
subject—questioned him on every particular of the surprise of
Schonwaldt, and the death of the Bishop; and then suddenly, as if he
had recollected something which had escaped his memory, demanded what
had become of the Lady Hameline, and why she was not with her
kinswoman? "Not," he added contemptuously, "that I consider her absence
as at all a loss to the Countess Isabelle; for, although she was her
kinswoman, and upon the whole a well-meaning woman, yet the Court of
Cocagne never produced such a fantastic fool; and I hold it for
certain, that her niece, whom I have always observed to be a modest and
orderly young woman, was led into the absurd frolic of flying from
Burgundy to France, by that blundering, romantic, old, match-making and
match-seeking idiot!"
What a speech for a romantic lover to hear! and to hear, too, when
it would have been ridiculous in him to attempt what it was impossible
for him to achieve,—namely, to convince the Count, by force of arms,
that he did foul wrong to the Countess— the peerless in sense as in
beauty—in terming her a modest and orderly young woman; qualities
which might have been predicated with propriety of the daughter of a
sunburnt peasant, who lived by goading the oxen, while her father held
the plough. And, then, to suppose her under the domination and supreme
guidance of a silly and romantic aunt —the slander should have been
repelled down the slanderer's throat. But the open, though severe,
physiognomy of the Count of Crèvecoeur, the total contempt which he
seemed to entertain for those feelings which were uppermost in
Quentin's bosom, overawed him; not for fear of the Count's fame in
arms—that was a risk which would have increased his desire of making
out a challenge—but in dread of ridicule, the weapon of all others
most feared by enthusiasts of every description, and which, from its
predominance over such minds, often checks what is absurd, and fully as
often smothers that which is noble.
Under the influence of this fear, of becoming an object of scorn
rather than resentment, Durward, though with some pain, confined his
reply to a confused account of the Lady Hameline having made her escape
from Schonwaldt before the attack took place. He could not, indeed,
have made his story very distinct, without throwing ridicule on the
near relation of Isabelle, and perhaps incurring some himself, as
having been the object of her preposterous expectations. He added to
his embarrassed detail, that he had heard a report, though a vague one,
of the Lady Hameline having again fallen into the hands of William de
la Marck.
"I trust in Saint Lambert that he will marry her," said Crèvecoeur;
"as, indeed, he is likely enough to do, for the sake of her money-bags;
and equally likely to knock her on the head, so soon as these are
either secured in his own grasp, or, at farthest, emptied."
The Count then proceeded to ask so many questions concerning the
mode in which both ladies had conducted themselves on the journey, the
degree of intimacy to which they admitted Quentin himself, and other
trying particulars, that, vexed and ashamed and angry, the youth was
scarce able to conceal his embarrassment from the keen-sighted soldier
and courtier, who seemed suddenly disposed to take leave of him,
saying, at the same time, "Umph—I see it is as I conjectured, on one
side at least; I trust the other party has kept her senses
better.—Come, Sir Squire, spur on, and keep the van, while I fall
back to discourse with the Lady Isabelle. I think I have learned now so
much from you, that I can talk to her of these sad passages without
hurting her nicety, though I have fretted yours a little.—Yet stay,
young gallant—one word ere you go. You have had, I imagine, a happy
journey through Fairy-land—all full of heroic adventure, and high
hope and wild minstrel-like delusion, like the gardens of Morgaine la
Fée. Forget it all, young soldier," he added, tapping him on the
shoulder; "remember yonder lady only as the honoured Countess of
Croye—forget her as a wandering and adventurous damsel: And her
friends —one of them I can answer for—will remember, on their part,
only the services you have done her, and forget the unreasonable reward
which you have had the boldness to propose to yourself."
Enraged that he had been unable to conceal from the sharp-sighted
Crèvecoeur feelings which the Count seemed to consider as the object of
ridcule, Quentin replied, indignantly, "My Lord Count, when I require
advice of you, I will ask it; when I demand assistance of you, it will
be time enough to grant or refuse it; when I set peculiar value on
your opinion of me, it will not be too late to express it."
"Heyday!" said the Count; "I have come between Amadis and Oriana,
and must expect a challenge to the lists!"
"You speak as if that were an impossibility," said Quentin—"When
I broke a lance with the Duke of Orleans, it was against a breast in
which flowed better blood than that of Crèvecoeur—When I measured
swords with Dunois, I engaged a better warrior."
"Now Heaven nourish thy judgment, gentle youth!" said Crèvecoeur,
still laughing at the chivalrous inamorato. "If thou speak'st truth,
thou hast had singular luck in this world; and, truly, if it be the
pleasure of Providence exposes thee to such trials, without a beard on
thy lip, thou wilt be mad with vanity ere thou writest thyself man.
Thou canst not move me to anger, though thou mayst to mirth. Believe
me, though thou mayst have fought with Princes, and played the champion
for Countesses, by some of those freaks which Fortune will sometimes
exhibit, thou art by no means the equal of those of whom thou hast been
either the casual opponent, or more casual companion. I can allow thee,
like a youth who hath listened to romances till he fancied himself a
Paladin, to form pretty dreams for some time; but thou must not be
angry at a well-meaning friend, though he shake thee something roughly
by the shoulders to awake thee."
"My Lord of Crèvecoeur," said Quentin, "my family"—
"Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke," said the Count;
"but of rank, fortune, high station, and so forth, which place a
distance between various degrees and classes of persons. As for birth,
all men are descended from Adam and Eve."
"My Lord Count," repeated Quentin, "my ancestors, the Durwards of
Glen-houlakin"—
"Nay," said the Count, "if you claim a farther descent for them
than from Adam, I have done! Good-even to you."
He reined back his horse, and paused to join the Countess, to whom,
if possible, his insinuations and advices, however well meant, were
still more disagreeable than to Quentin, who, as he rode on, muttered
to himself, "Cold-blooded, insolent, overweening coxcomb!—Would that
the next Scottish Archer who has his harquebuss pointed at thee, may
not let thee off so easily as I did!"
In the evening they reached the town of Charleroi, on the Sambre,
where the Count of Crèvecoeur had determined to leave the Countess
Isabelle, whom the terror and fatigue of yesterday, joined to a flight
of fifty miles since morning, and the various distressing sensations by
which it was accompanied, had made incapable of travelling farther,
with safety to her health. The Count consigned her, in a state of great
exhaustion, to the care of the Abbess of the Cistercian convent in
Charleroi, a noble lady, to whom both the families of Crèvecoeur and
Croye were related, and in whose prudence and kindness he could repose
confidence.
Crèvecoeur himself only stopped to recommend the utmost caution to
the governor of a small Burgundian garrison who occupied the place, and
required him also to mount a guard of honour upon the convent during
the residence of the Countess Isabelle of Croye,—ostensibly to secure
her safety, but perhaps secretly to prevent her attempting to escape.
The Count only assigned as a cause for the garrison being vigilant,
some vague rumours which he had heard of disturbances in the Bishopric
of Liege. But he was determined himself to be the first who should
carry the formidable news of the insurrection and the murder of the
Bishop, in all their horrible reality, to Duke Charles; and for that
purpose, having procured fresh horses for himself and suite, he mounted
with the resolution of continuing his journey to Peronne without
stopping for repose; and informing Quentin Durward that he must attend
him, he made, at the same time, a mock apology for parting fair
company, but hoped, that to so devoted a squire of dames a night's
journey by moonshine would be more agreeable, than supinely to yield
himself to slumber like an ordinary mortal.
Quentin, already sufficiently afflicted by finding that he was to
be parted from Isabelle, longed to answer this taunt with an indignant
defiance; but aware that the Count would only laugh at his anger, and
despise his challenge, he resolved to wait some future time, when he
might have an opportunity of obtaining some amends from this proud
lord, who, though for very different reasons, had become nearly as
odious to him as the Wild Boar of Ardennes himself. He therefore
assented to Crèvecoeur's proposal, as to what he had no choice of
declining, and they pursued in company, and with all the dispatch they
could exert, the road between Charleroi and Peronne.
CHAPTER VIII. THE UNBIDDEN GUEST.
No human quality is so well wove
In warp and woof, but there's some flaw in it.
I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's cur,
A wise man so demean him, drivelling idiocy
Had wellnigh been ashamed on't. For your crafty,
Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest,
Weaves his own snares so fine, he's often caught in them.
Old Play.
Quentin, during the earlier part of the night-journey, had to
combat with that bitter heart-ach, which is felt when youth parts, and
probably for ever, with her he loves. As, pressed by the urgency of the
moment, and the impatience of Crèvecoeur, they hasted on through the
rich lowlands of Hainault, under the benign guidance of a rich and
lustrous harvest-moon, she shed her yellow influence over rich and deep
pastures, woodland, and corn fields, from which the husbandmen were
using her light to withdraw the grain, such was the industry of the
Flemings, even at that period; she shone on broad, level, and
fructifying rivers, where glided the white sail in the service of
commerce, uninterrupted by rock or torrent, beside lively quiet
villages, whose external decency and cleanliness expressed the ease and
comfort of the inhabitants;— she gleamed upon the feudal castle of
many a gallant Baron and Knight, with its deep moat, battlemented
court, and high belfry,—for the chivalry of Hainault was renowned
among the nobles of Europe; —and her light displayed at a distance,
in its broad beam, the gigantic towers of more than one lofty minster.
Yet all this fair variety, however differing from the waste and
wilderness of his own land, interrupted not the course of Quentin's
regrets and sorrows. He had left his heart behind him, when he departed
from Charleroi; and the only reflection which the farther journey
inspired was, that every step was carrying him farther from Isabelle.
His imagination was taxed to recall every word she had spoken, every
look she had directed towards him; and, as happens frequently in such
cases, the impression made upon his imagination by the recollection of
these particulars, was even stronger than the realities themselves had
excited.
At length, after the cold hour of midnight was past, in spite alike
of love and of sorrow, the extreme fatigue which Quentin had undergone
the two preceding days began to have an effect on him, which his habits
of exercise of every kind, and his singular alertness and activity of
character, as well as the painful nature of the reflections which
occupied his thoughts, had hitherto prevented his experiencing. The
ideas of his mind began to be so little corrected by the exertions of
his senses, wornout and deadened as the latter now were by extremity of
fatigue, that the visions which the former drew superseded or
perverted the information conveyed by the blunted organs of seeing and
hearing; and Durward was only sensible that he was awake, by the
exertions which, sensible of the peril of his situation, he
occasionally made, to resist falling into a deep and dead sleep. Every
now and then, a strong consciousness of the risk of falling from or
with his horse roused him to exertion and animation; but ere long his
eyes again were dimmed by confused shades of all sorts of mingled
colours, the moonlight landscape swam before them, and he was so much
overcome with fatigue, that the Count of Crèvecoeur, observing his
condition, was at length compelled to order two of his attendants, one
to each rein of Durward's bridle, in order to prevent the risk of his
falling from his horse.
When at length they reached the town of Landrecy, the Count, in
compassion to the youth, who had now been in a great measure without
sleep for three nights, allowed himself and his retinue a halt of four
hours, for rest and refreshment.
Deep and sound were Quentin's slumbers, until they were broken by
the sound of the Count's trumpet, and the cry of his Fouriers and
harbingers, "Débout! débout!—Ha! Messires, en route, en
route!"—Yet, unwelcomely early as the tones came, they awaked him a
different being in strength and spirits from what he had fallen asleep.
Confidence in himself and his fortunes returned with his reviving
spirits, and with the rising sun. He thought of his love no longer as a
desperate and fantastic dream, but as a high and invigorating
principle, to be cherished in his bosom, although he might never
propose to himself, under all the difficulties by which he was beset,
to bring it to any prosperous issue.—"The pilot," he reflected,
"steers his bark by the polar star, although he never expects to become
possessor of it; and the thoughts of Isabelle of Croye shall make me a
worthy man-at-arms, though I may never see her more. When she hears
that a Scottish soldier, named Quentin Durward, distinguished himself
in a well-fought field, or left his body on the breach of a disputed
fortress, she will remember the companion of her journey, as one who
did all in his power to avert the snares and misfortunes which beset
it, and perhaps will honour his memory with a tear, his coffin with a
garland."
In this manly mood of bearing his misfortune, Quentin felt himself
more able to receive and reply to the jests of the Count of Crèvecoeur,
who passed several on his alleged effeminacy and incapacity of
undergoing fatigue. The young Scot accommodated himself so
good-humouredly to the Count's raillery, and replied at once so happily
and so respectfully, that the change of his tone and manner made
obviously a more favourable impression on the Count than he had
entertained from his prisoner's conduct during the preceding evening,
when, rendered irritable by the feelings of his situation, he was
alternately moodily silent or fiercely argumentative.
The veteran soldier began at length to take notice of his young
companion, as a pretty fellow, of whom something might be made; and
more than hinted to him, that, would he but resign his situation in
the Archer-guard of France, he would undertake to have him enrolled in
the household of the Duke of Burgundy in an honourable condition, and
would himself take care of his advancement. And although Quentin, with
suitable expressions of gratitude, declined this favour at present,
until he should find out how far he had to complain of his original
patron, King Louis, he, nevertheless, continued to remain on good terms
with the Count of Crèvecoeur; and, while his enthusiastic mode of
thinking, and his foreign and idiomatical manner of expressing himself,
often excited a smile on the grave cheek of the Count, that smile had
lost all that it had of sarcastic and bitter, and did not exceed the
limits of good humour and good manners.
Thus travelling on with much more harmony than on the preceding
day, the little party came at last within two miles of the famous and
strong town of Peronne, near which the Duke of Burgundy's army lay
encamped, ready, as was supposed, to invade France; and, in opposition
to which, Louis XI. had himself assembled a strong force near Saint
Maxence, for the purpose of bringing to reason his over-powerful
vassal.
Peronne, situated upon a deep river, in a flat country, and
surrounded by strong bulwarks and profound moats, was accounted in
ancient, as in modern times, one of the strongest fortresses in France.
[Note: Indeed, though lying on an exposed and warlike frontier, it was
never taken by an enemy, but preserved the proud name of Peronne la
Pucelle, until the Duke of Wellington, a great destroyer of that sort
of reputation, took the place in the memorable advance upon Paris in
1815.] The Count of Crèvecoeur, his retinue, and his prisoner, were
approaching the fortress about the third hour after noon; when, riding
through the pleasant glades of a large forest, which then covered the
approach to the town on the east side, they were met by two men of
rank, as appeared from the number of their attendants, dressed in the
habits worn in time of peace; and who, to judge from the falcons which
they carried on their wrists, and the number of spaniels and greyhounds
led by their followers, were engaged in the amusement of hawking. But
on perceiving Crèvecoeur, with whose appearance and liveries they were
sufficiently intimate, they quitted the search which they were making
for a heron along the banks of a long canal, and came galloping towards
him.
"News, news, Count of Crèvecoeur!" they cried both
together;—"will you give news, or take news? or will you barter
fairly?"
"I would barter fairly, Messires," said Crèvecoeur, after saluting
them courteously, "did I conceive you had any news of importance
sufficient to make an equivalent for mine."
The two sportsmen smiled on each other; and the elder of the two, a
fine baronial figure, with a dark countenance, marked with that sort of
sadness which some physiognomists ascribe to a melancholy temperament,
and some, as the Italian statuary augured of the visage of Charles I.,
consider as predicting an unhappy death, [Note: D'Hymbercourt, or
Imbercourt, was put to death by the inhabitants of Ghent with the
Chancellor of Burgundy, in the year 1477. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of
Charles the Bold, appeared in mourning in the market-place, and with
tears besought the life of her servants from her insurgent subjects,
but in vain.] turning to his companion, said, "Crèvecoeur has been in
Brabant, the country of commerce, and he has learned all its
artifices—he will be too hard for us if we drive a bargain."
"Messires," said Crèvecoeur, "the Duke ought in justice to have the
first of my wares, as the Seigneur takes his toll before open market
begins. But tell me, are your news of a sad or a pleasant complexion?"
The person whom he particularly addressed was a lively-looking man,
with an eye of great vivacity, which was corrected by an expression of
reflection and gravity about the mouth and upper lip—the whole
physiognomy marking a man who saw and judged rapidly, but was sage and
slow in forming resolutions or in expressing opinions. This was the
famous Knight of Hainault, son of Collart, or Nicolas de l'Elite, known
in history, and amongst historians, by the venerable name of Philip des
Comines, at this time close to the person of Duke Charles the Bold,
[Note:
Philip des Comines. Philip des Comines was described in the former
editions of this work as a little man, fitted rather for counsel than
action. This was a description made at a venture, to vary the military
portraits with which the age and work abound. Sleidan the historian,
upon the authority of Matthieu d'Arves, who knew Philip des Comines,
and had served in his household, says he was a man of tall stature, and
a noble presence. The learned Monsieur Petitot, editor of the edition
of Memoirs relative to the History of France, a work of great value,
intimates that Philip des Comines made a figure at the games of
chivalry and pageants exhibited on the wedding of Charles of Burgundy
with Margaret of England in 1468.—See the Chronicle of Jean de
Troyes, in Petitot's edition of the Memoirs Relatifs à l'Histoire de
France, vol. xiii. p. 375. Note. I have looked into Oliver de la Marck,
who, in lib. ii., chapter iv., of his Memoirs, gives an ample account
of these "fierce vanities," containing as many miscellaneous articles
as the reticule of the old merchant of Peter Schleml, who bought
shadows, and carried with him in his bag whatever any one could wish or
demand in return. There are in that splendid description, knights,
dames, pages, and archers, good store besides of castles, fiery
dragons, and dromedaries; there are leopards riding upon lions; there
are rocks, orchards, fountains, spears broken and whole, and the twelve
labours of Hercules. In such a brilliant medley I had some trouble in
finding Philip des Comines. He is the first named, however, of a
gallant band of assailants, knights and noblemen, to the number of
twenty, who, with the Prince of Orange as their leader, encountered, in
a general tourney, with a party of the same number under the profligate
Adolf of Cleves, who acted as challenger, by the romantic title of
Arbre d'or. The encounter, though with arms of courtesy, was very
fierce, and separated by main force, not without difficulty. Philip des
Comines has, therefore, a title to be accounted tam Marte quam
Mercurio, though, when we consider the obscurity which has settled on
the rest of this troupe dorée, we are at no loss to estimate the most
valuable of his qualifications.
] and one of his most esteemed counsellors. He answered
Crèvecoeur's question concerning the complexion of the news of which he
and his companion, the Baron d'Hymbercourt, were the
depositaries.—"They were," he said, "like the colours of the
rainbow, various in hue, as they might be viewed from different points,
and placed against the black cloud or the fair sky— Such a rainbow
was never seen in France or Flanders since that of Noah's ark."
"My tidings," replied Crèvecoeur, "are altogether like the comet;
gloomy, wild, and terrible in themselves, yet to be accounted the
forerunners of still greater and more dreadful evils which are to
ensue."
"We must open our bales," said Comines to his companion, "or our
market will be forestalled by some new-comers, for ours are public
news.—In one word, Crèvecoeur—listen, and wonder—King Louis is at
Peronne!"
"What!" said the Count, in astonishment; "has the Duke retreated
without a battle? and do you remain here in your dress of peace, after
the town is besieged by the French?—for I cannot suppose it taken."
"No, surely," said D'Hymbercourt, "the banners of Burgundy have not
gone back a foot; and still King Louis is here."
"Then Edward of England must have come over the seas with his
bowmen," said Crèvecoeur, "and, like his ancestors, gained a second
field of Poictiers."
"Not so," said Comines—"Not a French banner has been borne down,
not a sail spread from England—where Edward is too much amused among
the wives of the citizens of London, to think of playing the Black
Prince. Hear the extraordinary truth. You know, when you left us, that
the conference between the commissioners on the parts of France and
Burgundy was broken up, without apparent chance of reconciliation?"
"True; and we dreamt of nothing but war."
"What has followed has been indeed so like a dream," said Comines,
"that I almost expect to awake, and find it so. Only one day since, the
Duke had in Council protested so furiously against farther delay, that
it was resolved to send a defiance to the King, and march forward
instantly into France. Toison d'Or, commissioned for the purpose, had
put on his official dress, and had his foot in the stirrup to mount his
horse, when lo! the French herald Mont-joie rode into our camp. We
thought of nothing else than that Louis had been beforehand with our
defiance; and began to consider how much the Duke would resent the
advice, which had prevented him from being the first to declare war.
But a council being speedily assembled, what was our wonder when the
herald informed us, that Louis, King of France, was scarce an hour's
riding behind, intending to visit Charles, Duke of Burgundy, with a
small retinue, in order that their differences might be settled at a
personal interview!"
"You surprise me, Messires," said Crèvecoeur; "and yet you surprise
me less than you might have expected; for, when I was last at
Plessis-les-Tours, the all-trusted Cardinal Balue, offended with his
master, and Burgundian at heart, did hint to me, that he could so work
upon Louis's peculiar foibles, as to lead him to place himself in such
a position with regard to Burgundy, that the Duke might have the terms
of peace of his own making. But I never suspected that so old a fox as
Louis could have been induced to come into the trap of his own accord.
What said the Burgundian counsellors?"
"As you may guess," answered D'Hymbercourt; "talked much of faith
to be observed, and little of advantage to be obtained, by such a
visit; while it was manifest they thought almost entirely of the last,
and were only anxious to find some way to reconcile it with the
necessary preservation of appearances."
"And what said the Duke?" continued the Count of Crèvecoeur.
"Spoke brief and bold, as usual," replied Comines. "'Which of you
was it,' he asked, 'who witnessed the meeting of my cousin Louis and me
after the battle of Montl'hery, [Note:
Meeting of Louis and Charles after the Battle of Montl'hery. After
the battle of Montl'hery, in 1465, Charles, then Compte de Charalois,
had an interview with Louis under the walls of Paris, each at the head
of a small party. The two princes dismounted, and walked together so
deeply engaged in discussing the business of their meeting, that
Charles forgot the peculiarity of his situation; and when Louis turned
back towards the town of Paris, from which he came, the Count of
Charalois kept him company so far as to pass the line of outworks with
which Paris was surrounded, and enter a fieldwork which communicated
with the town by a trench. At this period he had only five or six
persons in company with him. His escort caught an alarm for his safety,
and his principal followers rode forward from where he had left them,
remembering that his grandfather had been assassinated at Montereau in
a similar parley, on 10th September, 1419. To their great joy the Count
returned uninjured, accompanied with a guard belonging to Louis. The
Burgundians taxed him with rashness in no measured terms. "Say no more
of it," said Charles; "I acknowledge the extent of my folly, but I was
not aware what I was doing till I entered the redoubt."—Memoires de
Philippe des Comines, chap. xiii.
Louis was much praised for his good faith on this occasion; and it
was natural that the Duke should call it to recollection when his enemy
so unexpectedly put himself in his power by his visit to Peronne.
] when I was so thoughtless as to accompany him back within the
intrenchments of Paris with half a score of attendants, and so put my
person at the King's mercy?' I replied, that most of us had been
present; and none could ever forget the alarm which it had been his
pleasure to give us. 'Well,' said the Duke, 'you blamed me for my
folly, and I confessed to you that I had acted like a giddy-pated boy;
and I am aware, too, that my father of happy memory being then alive,
my kinsman, Louis, would have had less advantage by seizing on my
person than I might now have by securing his. But, nevertheless, if my
royal kinsman comes hither on the present occasion, in the same
singleness of heart under which I then acted, he shall be royally
welcome. If it is meant by this appearance of confidence, to circumvent
and to blind me, till he execute some of his politic schemes, by Saint
George of Burgundy, let him look to it!' And so, having turned up his
mustaches, and stamped on the ground, he ordered us all to get on our
horses, and receive so extraordinary a guest."
"And you met the King accordingly?" replied the Count of
Crèvecoeur—"Miracles have not ceased!—How was he accompanied?"
"As slightly as might be," answered D'Hymbercourt; "only a score or
two of the Scottish Guard, and a few knights and gentlemen of his
household —among whom his astrologer, Galeotti, made the gayest
figure."
"That fellow," said Crèvecoeur, "holds some dependence on the
Cardinal Balue—I should not be surprised that he has had his share in
determining the King to this step of doubtful policy. Any nobility of
higher rank?"
"There are Monsieur of Orleans and Dunois," replied Comines.
"I will have a rouze with Dunois," said Crèvecoeur, "wag the world
as it will. But we heard that both he and the Duke had fallen into
disgrace, and were in prison?"
"They were both under arrest in the Castle of Loches, that
delightful place of retirement for the French nobility," said
D'Hymbercourt; "but Louis has released them, in order to bring them
with him —perhaps because he cared not to leave Orleans behind. For
his other attendants, faith, I think his gossip, the Hangman Marshal,
with two or three of his retinue, and Oliver, his barber, may be the
most considerable—and the whole bevy so poorly arrayed, that, by my
honour, the King resembles most an old usurer going to collect
desperate debts, attended by a body of catchpolls."
"And where is he lodged?" said Crèvecoeur.
"Nay, that," replied Comines, "is the most marvellous of all. Our
Duke offered to let the King's Archer-Guard have a gate of the town,
and a bridge of boats over the Somme, and to have assigned to Louis
himself the adjoining house, belonging to a wealthy burgess, Giles
Orthen; but, in going thither, the King espied the banners of De Lau
and Pencil de Rivière, whom he had banished from France; and scared, as
it would seem, with the thought of lodging so near refugees and
malecontents of his own making, he craved to be quartered in the Castle
of Peronne, and there he hath his abode accordingly."
"Why, God ha'mercy!" exclaimed Crèvecoeur, "this is not only
venturing into the lion's den, but thrusting his head into his very
jaws—Nothing less than the very bottom of the rat-trap would serve
the crafty old politician!"
"Nay," said Comines, "D'Hymbercourt hath not told you the speech of
Le Glorieux [Note: The jester of Charles of Burgundy, of whom more
hereafter.]—which, in my mind, was the shrewdest opinion that was
given." "And what said his most illustrious wisdom?" asked the Count.
"As the Duke," replied Comines, "was hastily ordering some vessels
and ornaments of plate, and the like, to be prepared as presents for
the King and his retinue, by way of welcome on his arrival, 'Trouble
not thy small brain about it, my friend Charles,' said Le Glorieux, 'I
will give thy cousin Louis a nobler and a fitter gift than thou canst;
and that is my cap and bells, and my bauble to boot; for, by the mass,
he is a greater fool than I am, for putting himself in thy
power.'—'But if I give him no reason to repent it, sirrah, how then?'
said the Duke. 'Then, truly, Charles, thou shalt have cap and bauble
thyself, as the greatest fool of the three of us.' I promise you this
knavish quip touched the Duke closely—I saw him change colour and
bite his lip.—And now, our news are told, noble Crèvecoeur, and what
think you they resemble?"
"A mine full-charged with gunpowder," answered Crèvecoeur, "to
which, I fear, it is my fate to bring the kindled linstock. Your news
and mine are like flax and fire, which cannot meet without bursting
into flame, or like certain chemical substances which cannot be mingled
without an explosion. Friends,—gentlemen,—ride close by my rein;
and when I tell you what has chanced in the bishopric of Liege, I think
you will be of opinion, that King Louis might as safely have undertaken
a pilgrimage to the infernal regions, as this ill-timed visit to
Peronne."
The two nobles drew up close on either hand of the Count, and
listened, with half-suppressed exclamations, and gestures of the
deepest wonder and interest, to his account of the transactions at
Liege and Schonwaldt. Quentin was then called forward, and examined and
re-examined on the particulars of the Bishop's death, until at length
he refused to answer any further interrogatories, not knowing wherefore
they were asked, or what use might be made of his replies.
They now reached the rich and level banks of the Somme, and the
ancient walls of the little town of Peronne la Pucelle, and the deep
green meadows adjoining, now whitened with the numerous tents of the
Duke of Burgundy's army, amounting to about fifteen thousand men.
CHAPTER IX. THE INTERVIEW.
When Princes meet, Astrologers may mark it
An ominous conjunction, full of boding,
Like that of Mars with Saturn.
Old Play.
One hardly knows whether to term it a privilege or a penalty
annexed to the quality of princes, that, in their intercourse with each
other, they are required, by the respect which is due to their own rank
and dignity, to regulate their feelings and expressions by a severe
etiquette, which precludes all violent and avowed display of passion,
and which, but that the whole world are aware that this assumed
complaisance is a matter of ceremony, might justly pass for profound
dissimulation. It is no less certain, however, that the overstepping of
these bounds of ceremonial, for the purpose of giving more direct vent
to their angry passions, has the effect of compromising their dignity
with the world in general; as was particularly noted when those
distinguished rivals, Francis the First, and the Emperor Charles, gave
each other the lie direct, and were desirous of deciding their
differences hand to hand, in single combat.
Charles of Burgundy, the most hasty and impatient, nay, the most
imprudent prince of his time, found himself, nevertheless, fettered
within the magic circle which prescribed the most profound deference to
Louis, as his Suzerain and liege Lord, who had deigned to confer upon
him, a vassal of the crown, the distinguished honour of a personal
visit. Dressed in his ducal mantle, and attended by his great officers,
and principal knights and nobles, he went in gallant cavalcade, to
receive Louis XI. His retinue absolutely blazed with gold and silver;
for the wealth of the Court of England being exhausted by the wars of
York and Lancaster, and the expenditure of France limited by the
economy of the Sovereign, that of Burgundy was for the time the most
magnificent in Europe. The cortège of Louis, on the contrary, was few
in number, and comparatively mean in appearance, and the exterior of
the King himself, in a threadbare cloak, with his wonted old
high-crowned hat stuck full of images, rendered the contrast yet more
striking; and as the Duke, richly attired with the coronet and mantle
of state, threw himself from his noble charger, and, kneeling on one
knee, offered to hold the stirrup while Louis dismounted from his
little ambling palfrey, the effect was almost grotesque.
The greeting between the two potentates was, of course, as full of
affected kindness and compliment, as it was totally devoid of
sincerity. But the temper of the Duke rendered it much more difficult
for him to preserve the necessary appearances, in voice, speech, and
demeanour; while in the King, every species of simulation and
dissimulation seemed so much a part of his nature, that those best
acquainted with him could not have distinguished what was feigned from
what was real.
Perhaps the most accurate illustration, were it not unworthy two
such high potentates, would be, to suppose the King in the situation of
a stranger, perfectly acquainted with the habits and dispositions of
the canine race, who, for some purpose of his own, is desirous to make
friends with a large and surly mastiff, that holds him in suspicion,
and is disposed to worry him on the first symptoms either of diffidence
or of umbrage. The mastiff growls internally, erects his bristles,
shows his teeth, yet is ashamed to fly upon the intruder, who seems at
the same time so kind and so confiding, and therefore the animal
endures advances which are far from pacifying him, watching at the same
time the slightest opportunity which may justify him in his own eyes
for seizing his friend by the throat.
The King was no doubt sensible, from the altered voice, constrained
manner, and abrupt gestures of the Duke, that the game he had to play
was delicate, and perhaps he more than once repented having ever taken
it in hand. But repentance was too late, and all that remained for him
was that inimitable dexterity of management, which the King understood
equally at least with any man that ever lived.
The demeanour which Louis used towards the Duke, was such as to
resemble the kind overflowing of the heart in a moment of sincere
reconciliation with an honoured and tried friend, from whom he had
been estranged by temporary circumstances now passed away, and
forgotten as soon as removed. The King blamed himself for not having
sooner taken the decisive step, of convincing his kind and good kinsman
by such a mark of confidence as he was now bestowing, that the angry
passages which had occurred betwixt them were nothing in his
remembrance, when weighed against the kindness which received him when
an exile from France, and under the displeasure of the King his father.
He spoke of the Good Duke of Burgundy, as Philip the father of Duke
Charles was currently called, and remembered a thousand instances of
his paternal kindness.
"I think, cousin," he said, "your father made little difference in
his affection, betwixt you and me; for I remember, when by an accident
I had bewildered myself in a hunting-party, I found the Good Duke
upbraiding you with leaving me in the forest, as if you had been
careless of the safety of an elder brother."
The Duke of Burgundy's features were naturally harsh and severe;
and when he attempted to smile, in polite acquiescence to the truth of
what the King told him, the grimace which he made was truly diabolical.
"Prince of dissemblers," he said, in his secret soul, "would that
it stood with my honour to remind you how you have requited all the
benefits of our House!"
"And then," continued the King, "if the ties of consanguinity and
gratitude are not sufficient to bind us together, my fair cousin, we
have those of spiritual relationship; for, I am godfather to your fair
daughter Mary, who is as dear to me as one of my own maidens; and when
the Saints (their holy name be blessed!) sent me a little blossom which
withered in the course of three months, it was your princely father who
held it at the font, and celebrated the ceremony of baptism, with
richer and prouder magnificence than Paris itself could have afforded.
Never shall I forget the deep, the indelible impression, which the
generosity of Duke Philip, and yours, my dearest cousin, made upon the
half-broken heart of the poor exile!"
"Your Majesty," said the Duke, compelling himself to make some
reply, "acknowledged that slight obligation in terms which overpaid all
the display which Burgundy could make, to show due sense of the honour
you had done its Sovereign."
"I remember the words you mean, fair cousin," said the King,
smiling; "I think they were, that in guerdon of the benefit of that
day, I, poor wanderer, had nothing to offer, save the persons of
myself, of my wife, and of my child.—Well, and I think I have
indifferently well redeemed my pledge."
"I mean not to dispute what your Majesty is pleased to aver," said
the Duke; "but"—
"But you ask," said the King, interrupting him, "how my actions
have accorded with my words— Marry thus: the body of my infant child
Joachim rests in Burgundian earth—my own person I have this morning
placed unreservedly in your power— and, for that of my wife,—truly,
cousin, I think, considering the period of time which has passed, you
will scarce insist on my keeping my word in that particular. She was
born on the day of the Blessed Annunciation," (he crossed himself, and
muttered an Orapronobis,) "some fifty years since; but she is no
farther distant than Rheims, and if you insist on my promise being
fulfilled to the letter, she shall presently wait your pleasure."
Angry as the Duke of Burgundy was at the barefaced attempt of the
King to assume towards him a tone of friendship and intimacy, he could
not help laughing at the whimsical reply of that singular monarch, and
his laugh was as discordant as the abrupt tones of passion in which he
often spoke. Having laughed longer and louder than was at that period,
or would now be, thought fitting the time and occasion, he answered in
the same tone, bluntly declining the honour of the Queen's company, but
stating his willingness to accept that of the King's eldest daughter,
whose beauty was celebrated.
"I am happy, fair cousin," said the King, with one of those dubious
smiles of which he frequently made use, "that your gracious pleasure
has not fixed on my younger daughter Joan. I should otherwise have had
spear-breaking between you and my cousin of Orleans; and, had harm come
of it, I must on either side have lost a kind friend and affectionate
cousin."
"Nay, nay, my royal sovereign," said Duke Charles, "the Duke of
Orleans shall have no interruption from me in the path which he has
chosen par amours. The cause in which I couch my lance against Orleans,
must be fair and straight."
Louis was far from taking amiss this brutal allusion to the
personal deformity of the Princess Joan. On the contrary, he was rather
pleased to find, that the Duke was content to be amused with broad
jests, in which he was himself a proficient, and which (according to
the modern phrase) spared much sentimental hypocrisy. Accordingly, he
speedily placed their intercourse on such a footing, that Charles,
though he felt it impossible to play the part of an affectionate and
reconciled friend to a monarch whose ill offices he had so often
encountered, and whose sincerity on the present occasion he so strongly
doubted, yet had no difficulty in acting the hearty landlord towards a
facetious guest; and so the want of reciprocity in kinder feelings
between them, was supplied by the tone of good fellowship which exists
between two boon companions,—a tone natural to the Duke from the
frankness, and, it might be added, the grossness of his character, and
to Louis, because, though capable of assuming any mood of social
intercourse, that which really suited him best was mingled with
grossness of ideas, and caustic humour in expression.
Both Princes were happily able to preserve, during the period of a
banquet at the town-house of Peronne, the same kind of conversation, on
which they met as on a neutral ground, and which, as Louis easily
perceived, was more available than any other to keep the Duke of
Burgundy in that state of composure which seemed necessary to his own
safety.
Yet he was alarmed to observe, that the Duke had around him several
of those French nobles, and those of the highest rank, and in
situations of great trust and power, whom his own severity or injustice
had driven into exile; and it was to secure himself from the possible
effects of their resentment and revenge, that (as already mentioned) he
requested to be lodged in the Castle or Citadel of Peronne, rather than
in the town itself. [Note: The arrival of three brothers, Princes of
the House of Savoy, of Monseigneur de Lau, whom the King had long
detained in prison, of Sire Poncet de Rivière, and the Seigneur de
Urfé,—who, by the way, as a romance writer of a peculiar turn, might
have been happily enough introduced into the present work, but the fate
of the Euphuist was a warning to the author—all of these nobles
bearing the emblem of Burgundy, the cross, namely, of Saint Andrew,
inspired Louis with so much suspicion, that he very impolitically
demanded to be lodged in the old Castle of Peronne, and thus rendered
himself an absolute captive.—See Comines' Memoirs for the year 1468.]
This was readily granted by Duke Charles, with one of those grim
smiles, of which it was impossible to say, whether it meant good or
harm to the party whom it concerned.
But when the King, expressing himself with as much delicacy as he
could, and in the manner he thought best qualified to lull suspicion
asleep, asked, whether the Scottish Archers of his Guard might not
maintain the custody of the castle of Peronne during his residence
there, in lieu of the gate of the town which the Duke had offered to
their care, Charles replied, with his wonted sternness of voice, and
abruptness of manner, rendered more alarming by his habit, when he
spoke, of either turning up his mustaches or handling his sword or
dagger, the last of which he used frequently to draw a little way, and
then return to the sheath, [Note: This gesture, very indicative of a
fierce character, is also by stage-tradition a distinction of
Shakspeare's Richard III.]—"Saint Martin! No, my liege. You are in
your vassal's camp and city—so men call me in respect to your
Majesty—my castle and town are yours, and my men are yours; so it is
indifferent whether my men-at-arms or the Scottish Archers guard either
the outer gate or defences of the Castle.—No, by Saint George!
Peronne is a virgin fortress—she shall not lose her reputation by any
neglect of mine. Maidens must be carefully watched, my royal cousin, if
we would have them continue to live in good fame."
"Surely, fair cousin, and I altogether agree with you," said the
King, "I being in fact more interested in the reputation of the good
little town than you are—Peronne being, as you know, fair cousin, one
of those upon the same river Somme, which, pledged to your father of
happy memory for redemption of money, are liable to be redeemed upon
repayment. And, to speak truth, coming, like an honest debtor, disposed
to clear off my obligations of every kind, I have brought here a few
sumpter mules loaded with silver for the redemption— enough to
maintain even your princely and royal establishment, fair cousin, for
the space of three years."
"I will not receive a penny of it," said the Duke, twirling his
mustaches; "the day of redemption is past, my royal cousin; nor was
there ever serious purpose that the right should be exercised, the
cession of these towns being the sole recompense my father ever
received from France, when, in a happy hour for your family, he
consented to forget the murder of my grandfather, and to exchange the
alliance of England for that of your father. Saint George! if he had
not so acted, your royal self, far from having towns on the Somme,
could scarce have kept those beyond the Loire. No—I will not render a
stone of them, were I to receive for every stone so rendered its weight
in gold. I thank God, and the wisdom and valour of my ancestors, that
the revenues of Burgundy, though it be but a duchy, will maintain my
state, even when a King is my guest, without obliging me to barter my
heritage."
"Well, fair cousin," answered the King, with the same mild and
placid manner as before, and unperturbed by the loud tone and violent
gestures of the Duke, "I see that you are so good a friend to France,
that you are unwilling to part with aught that belongs to her. But we
shall need some moderator in these affairs when we come to treat of
them in council—What say you to Saint Paul?"
"Neither Saint Paul, nor Saint Peter, nor e'er a Saint in the
Calendar," said the Duke of Burgundy, "shall preach me out of the
possession of Peronne."
"Nay, but you mistake me," said King Louis, smiling; "I mean Louis
de Luxembourg, our trusty constable, the Count of Saint Paul.—Ah!
Saint Mary of Embrun! we lack but his head at our conference! the best
head in France, and the most useful to the restoration of perfect
harmony betwixt us."
"By Saint George of Burgundy!" said the Duke, "I marvel to hear
your Majesty talk thus of a man, false and perjured both to France and
Burgundy —one, who hath ever endeavoured to fan into a flame our
frequent differences, and that with the purpose of giving himself the
airs of a mediator. I swear by the Order I wear, that his marshes shall
not be long a resource for him!"
"Be not so warm, cousin," replied the King, smiling, and speaking
under his breath; "when I wished for the constable's head, as a means
of ending the settlement of our trifling differences, I had no desire
for his body, which might remain at Saint Quentin's with much
convenience."
"Ho! ho! I take your meaning, my royal cousin," said Charles, with
the same dissonant laugh which some other of the King's coarse
pleasantries had extorted, and added, stamping with his heel on the
ground, "I allow, in that sense, the head of the Constable might be
useful at Peronne."
These, and other discourses, by which the King mixed hints at
serious affairs amid matters of mirth and amusement, did not follow
each other consecutively; but were adroitly introduced during the time
of the banquet at the Hôtel de Ville, during a subsequent interview in
the Duke's own apartments, and, in short, as occasion seemed to render
the introduction of such delicate subjects easy and natural.
Indeed, however rashly Louis had placed himself in a risk, which
the Duke's fiery temper, and the mutual subjects of exasperated enmity
which subsisted betwixt them, rendered of doubtful and perilous issue,
never pilot on an unknown coast conducted himself with more firmness
and prudence. He seemed to sound, with the utmost address and
precision, the depths and shallows of his rival's mind and temper, and
manifested neither doubt nor fear, when the result of his experiments
discovered much more of sunken rocks, and of dangerous shoals, than of
safe anchorage.
At length a day closed, which must have been a wearisome one to
Louis, from the constant exertion, vigilance, precaution, and
attention, which his situation required, as it was a day of constraint
to the Duke, from the necessity of suppressing the violent feelings to
which he was in the general habit of giving uncontrolled vent.
No sooner had the latter retired into his own apartment, after he
had taken a formal leave of the King for the night, than he gave way to
the explosion of passion which he had so long suppressed; and many an
oath and abusive epithet, as his jester, Le Glorieux, said, "fell that
night upon heads which they were never coined for,"—his domestics
reaping the benefit of that hoard of injurious language, which he
could not in decency bestow on his royal guest, even in his absence,
and which was yet become too great to be altogether suppressed. The
jests of the clown had some effect in tranquillizing the Duke's angry
mood;—he laughed loudly, threw the jester a piece of gold, caused
himself to be disrobed in tranquillity, swallowed a deep cup of wine
and spices, went to bed, and slept soundly.
The couchée of King Louis is more worthy of notice than that of
Charles; for the violent expression of exasperated and headlong
passion, as indeed it belongs more to the brutal than the intelligent
part of our nature, has little to interest us, in comparison to the
deep workings of a vigorous and powerful mind.
Louis was escorted to the lodgings he had chosen in the Castle, or
Citadel of Peronne, by the chamberlains and harbingers of the Duke of
Burgundy, and received at the entrance by a strong guard of archers and
men-at-arms.
As he descended from his horse to cross the drawbridge, over a moat
of unusual width and depth, he looked on the sentinels, and observed to
Comines, who accompanied him, with other Burgundian nobles, "They wear
Saint Andrew's crosses—but not those of my Scottish Archers."
"You will find them as ready to die in your defence, Sire," said
the Burgundian, whose sagacious ear had detected in the King's tone of
speech a feeling, which doubtless Louis would have concealed if he
could. "They wear the Saint Andrew's Cross as the appendage of the
collar of the Golden Fleece, my master the Duke of Burgundy's Order."
"Do I not know it?" said Louis, showing the collar which he himself
wore in compliment to his host; "It is one of the dear bonds of
fraternity which exist between my kind brother and myself. We are
brothers in chivalry, as in spiritual relationship; cousins by birth,
and friends by every tie of kind feeling and good neighbourhood.—No
farther than the base-court, my noble lords and gentlemen! I can permit
your attendance no farther— you have done me enough of grace."
"We were charged by the Duke," said D'Hymbercourt, "to bring your
Majesty to your lodging. —We trust your Majesty will permit us to
obey our master's command."
"In this small matter," said the King, "I trust you will allow my
command to outweigh his, even with you his liege subjects.—I am
something indisposed, my lords—something fatigued. Great pleasure
hath its toils, as well as great pain. I trust to enjoy your society
better to-morrow.—And yours too, Seignior Philip of Comines—I am
told you are the annalist of the time—we that desire to have a name
in history, must speak you fair, for men say your pen hath a sharp
point, when you will.—Good-night, my lords and gentles, to all and
each of you."
The Lords of Burgundy retired, much pleased with the grace of
Louis's manner, and the artful distribution of his attentions; and the
King was left with only one or two of his own personal followers,
under the archway of the base-court of the Castle of Peronne, looking
on the huge tower which occupied one of the angles, being in fact the
Donjon, or principal Keep, of the place. This tall, dark, massive
building, was seen clearly by the same moon which was lighting Quentin
Durward betwixt Charleroi and Peronne, which, as the reader is aware,
shone with peculiar lustre. The great Keep was in form nearly
resembling the White Tower in the Citadel of London, but still more
ancient in its architecture, deriving its date, as was affirmed, from
the days of Charlemagne. The walls were of a tremendous thickness, the
windows very small, and grated with bars of iron, and the huge clumsy
bulk of the building cast a dark and portentous shadow over the whole
of the court-yard.
"I am not to be lodged there!" the King said, with a shudder, that
had something in it ominous.
"No," replied the grey-headed seneschal, who attended upon him
unbonneted—"God forbid!— Your Majesty's apartments are prepared in
these lower buildings which are hard by, and in which King John slept
two nights before the battle of Poitiers."
"Hum—that is no lucky omen neither"—muttered the King; "but
what of the Tower, my old friend? and why should you desire of Heaven
that I may not be there lodged?"
"Nay, my gracious liege," said the seneschal, "I know no evil of
the Tower at all—only that the sentinels say lights are seen, and
strange noises heard in it, at night; and there are reasons why that
may be the case, for anciently it was used as a state prison, and there
are many tales of deeds which have been done in it."
Louis asked no farther questions; for no man was more bound than he
to respect the secrets of a prison-house. At the door of the apartments
destined for his use, which, though of later date than the Tower, were
still both ancient and gloomy, stood a small party of the Scottish
Guard, which the Duke, although he declined to concede the point to
Louis, had ordered to be introduced, so as to be near the person of
their master. The faithful Lord Crawford was at their head.
"Crawford—my honest and faithful Crawford," said the King, "where
hast thou been to-day?— Are the lords of Burgundy so inhospitable as
to neglect one of the bravest and most noble gentlemen that ever trode
a court?—I saw you not at the banquet."
"I declined it, my liege," said Crawford—"times are changed with
me. The day has been that I could have ventured a carouse with the best
man in Burgundy, and that in the juice of his own grape; but a matter
of four pints now flusters me, and I think it concerns your Majesty's
service to set in this an example to my callants."
"Thou art ever prudent," said the King; "but surely your toil is
the less when you have so few men to command?—and a time of festivity
requires not so severe self-denial on your part as a time of danger."
"If I have few men to command," said Crawford, "I have the more
need to keep the knaves in fitting condition; and whether this business
be like to end in feasting or fighting, God and your Majesty know
better than old John of Crawford."
"You surely do not apprehend any danger?" said the King hastily,
yet in a whisper.
"Not I," answered Crawford; "I wish I did; for, as old Earl Tineman
[Note: An Earl of Douglas, so called.] used to say, apprehended dangers
may be always defended dangers.—The word for the night, if your
Majesty pleases?"
"Let it be Burgundy, in honour of our host and of a liquor that you
love, Crawford."
"I will quarrel with neither Duke nor drink, so called," said
Crawford, "provided always that both be sound. A good night to your
Majesty!"
"A good night, my trusty Scot," said the King, and passed on to his
apartments.
At the door of his bedroom Le Balafré was placed sentinel. "Follow
me hither," said the King, as he passed him; and the Archer
accordingly, like a piece of machinery put in motion by an artist,
strode after him into the apartment, and remained there fixed, silent,
and motionless, attending the royal command.
"Have you heard from that wandering Paladin, your nephew?" said the
King; "for he hath been lost to us, since, like a young knight who had
set out upon his first adventures, he sent us home two prisoners, as
the first fruits of his chivalry."
"My lord, I heard something of that," said Balafré; "and I hope
your Majesty will believe, that if he hath acted wrongfully, it was in
no shape by my precept or example, since I never was so bold as to
unhorse any of your Majesty's most illustrious house, better knowing my
own condition, and"—
"Be silent on that point," said the King; "your nephew did his duty
in the matter."
"There indeed," continued Balafré, "he had the cue from
me.—'Quentin,' said I to him, 'whatever comes of it, remember you
belong to the Scottish Archer-guard, and do your duty whatever comes
on't."'
"I guessed he had some such exquisite instructer," said Louis; "but
it concerns me that you answer my first question—Have you heard of
your nephew of late?—Stand aback, my masters," he added, addressing
the gentlemen of his chamber, "for this concerneth no ears but mine."
"Surely, please your Majesty," said Balafré, "I have seen this very
evening the groom Charlot, whom my kinsman dispatched from Liege, or
some castle of the Bishop's which is near it, and where he hath lodged
the Ladies of Croye in safety."
"Now our Lady of Heaven be praised for it!" said the King. "Art
thou sure of it?—sure of the good news?"
"As sure as I can be of aught," said Le Balafré; "the fellow, I
think, hath letters for your Majesty from the Ladies of Croye."
"Haste to get them," said the King—"Give thy harquebuss to one of
these knaves—to Oliver —to any one.—Now our Lady of Embrun be
praised! and silver shall be the screen that surrounds her high altar!"
Louis, in this fit of gratitude and devotion, doffed, as usual, his
hat, selected from the figures with which it was garnished that which
represented his favourite image of the Virgin, placed it on a table,
and, kneeling down, repeated reverently the vow he had made.
The groom, being the first messenger whom Durward had dispatched
from Schonwaldt, was now introduced with his letters. They were
addressed to the King by the Ladies of Croye, and barely thanked him in
very cold terms for his courtesy while at his Court, and, something
more warmly, for having permitted them to retire, and sent them in
safety from his dominions; expressions at which Louis laughed very
heartily, instead of resenting them. He then demanded of Charlot, with
obvious interest, whether they had not sustained some alarm or attack
upon the road? Charlot, a stupid fellow, and selected for that quality,
gave a very confused account of the affray in which his companion, the
Gascon, had been killed, but knew of no other. Again Louis demanded of
him, minutely and particularly, the route which the party had taken to
Liege; and seemed much interested when he was informed, in reply, that
they had, upon approaching Namur, kept the more direct road to Liege,
upon the right bank of the Maes, instead of the left bank, as
recommended in their route. The King then ordered the man a small
present, and dismissed him, disguising the anxiety he had expressed,
as if it only concerned the safety of the Ladies of Croye.
Yet the news, though they inferred the failure of one of his own
favourite plans, seemed to imply more internal satisfaction on the
King's part than he would have probably indicated in a case of
brilliant success. He sighed like one whose breast has been relieved
from a heavy burden, muttered his devotional acknowledgments with an
air of deep sanctity, raised up his eyes, and hastened to adjust newer
and surer schemes of ambition.
With such purpose, Louis ordered the attendance of his astrologer,
Martius Galeotti, who appeared with his usual air of assumed dignity,
yet not without a shade of uncertainty on his brow, as if he had
doubted the King's kind reception. It was, however, favourable, even
beyond the warmest which he had ever met with at any former interview.
Louis termed him his friend, his father in the sciences—the glass by
which a king should look into distant futurity—and concluded by
thrusting on his finger a ring of very considerable value. Galeotti,
not aware of the circumstances which had thus suddenly raised his
character in the estimation of Louis, yet understood his own profession
too well to let that ignorance be seen. he received with grave modesty
the praises of Louis, which he contended were only due to the nobleness
of the science which he practised, a science the rather the more
deserving of admiration on account of its working miracles through
means of so feeble an agent as himself; and he and the King took
leave, for once much satisfied with each other.
On the Astrologer's departure, Louis threw himself into a chair,
and appearing much exhausted, dismissed the rest of his attendants,
excepting Oliver alone, who, creeping around with gentle assiduity and
noiseless step, assisted him in the task of preparing for repose.
While he received this assistance, the King, unlike to his wont,
was so silent and passive, that his attendant was struck by the unusual
change in his deportment. The worst minds have often something of good
principle in them—banditti show fidelity to their captain, and
sometimes a protected and promoted favourite has felt a gleam of
sincere interest in the monarch to whom he owed his greatness. Oliver
le Diable, le Mauvais, (or by whatever other name he was called
expressive of his evil propensities,) was, nevertheless, scarcely so
completely identified with Satan as not to feel some touch of grateful
feeling for his master in this singular condition, when, as it seemed,
his fate was deeply interested, and his strength seemed to be
exhausted. After for a short time rendering to the King in silence the
usual services paid by a servant to his master at the toilet, the
attendant was at length tempted to say, with the freedom which his
Sovereign's indulgence had permitted him in such circumstances,
"Tête-dieu, Sire, you seem as if you had lost a battle; and yet I, who
was near your Majesty during this whole day, never knew you fight a
field so gallantly."
"A field!" said King Louis, looking up, and assuming his wonted
causticity of tone and manner; "Pasques-dieu, my friend Oliver, say I
have kept the arena in a bull-fight; for a blinder, and more stubborn,
untameable, uncontrollable brute, than our cousin of Burgundy, never
existed, save in the shape of a Murcian bull, trained for the
bullfeasts. —Well, let it pass—I dodged him bravely. But, Oliver,
rejoice with me that my plans in Flanders have not taken effect,
whether as concerning those two rambling Princesses of Croye, or in
Liege—you understand me?"
"In faith, I do not, Sire," replied Oliver; "it is impossible for
me to congratulate your Majesty on the failure of your favourite
schemes, unless you tell me some reason for the change in your own
wishes and views."
"Nay," answered the King, "there is no change in either, in a
general view. But, Pasques-dieu, my friend, I have this day learned
more of Duke Charles than I before knew. When he was Count de
Charalois, in the time of the old Duke Philip and the banished Dauphin
of France, we drank, and hunted, and rambled together—and many a wild
adventure we have had. And in those days I had a decided advantage over
him—like that which a strong spirit naturally assumes over a weak
one. But he has since changed—has become a dogged, daring, assuming,
disputatious dogmatist, who nourishes an obvious wish to drive matters
to extremities, while he thinks he has the game in his own hands. I was
compelled to glide as gently away from each offensive topic, as if I
touched redhot iron. I did but hint at the possibility of those erratic
Countesses of Croye, ere they attained Liege, (for thither I frankly
confessed that, to the best of my belief, they were gone,) falling into
the hands of some wild snapper upon the frontiers, and, Pasques-dieu!
you would have thought I had spoken of sacrilege. It is needless to
tell you what he said, and quite enough to say, that I would have held
my head's safety very insecure, if, in that moment, accounts had been
brought of the success of thy friend, William with the Beard, in his
and thy honest scheme of bettering himself by marriage."
"No friend of mine, if it please your Majesty," said
Oliver—"neither friend nor plan of mine."
"True, Oliver," answered the King; "thy plan had not been to wed,
but to shave such a bridegroom. Well, thou didst wish her as bad a one,
when thou didst modestly hint at thyself. However, Oliver, lucky the
man who has her not; for hang, draw, and quarter, were the most gentle
words which my gentle cousin spoke of him who should wed the young
Countess, his vassal, without his most ducal permission."
"And he is, doubtless, as jealous of any disturbances in the good
town of Liege?" asked the favourite.
"As much, or much more so," replied the King, "as your
understanding may easily anticipate; but, ever since I resolved on
coming hither, my messengers have been in Liege, to repress, for the
present, every movement to insurrection; and my very busy and bustling
friends, Rouslaer and Pavillon, have orders to be quiet as a mouse
until this happy meeting between my cousin and me is over."
"Judging, then, from your Majesty's account," said Oliver, dryly,
"the utmost to be hoped from this meeting is, that it should not make
your condition worse?—Surely this is like the crane that thrust her
head into the fox's mouth, and was glad to thank her good fortune that
it was not bitten off. Yet your Majesty seemed deeply obliged even now
to the sage philosopher who encouraged you to play so hopeful a game."
"No game," said the King, sharply, "is to be despaired of until it
is lost, and that I have no reason to expect it will be in my own case.
On the contrary, if nothing occurs to stir the rage of this vindictive
madman, I am sure of victory; and surely, I am not a little obliged to
the skill which selected for my agent, as the conductor of the Ladies
of Croye, a youth whose horoscope so far corresponded with mine, that
he hath saved me from danger, even by the disobedience of my own
commands, and taking the route which avoided De la Marck's ambuscade."
"Your Majesty," said Oliver, "may find many agents who will serve
you on the terms of acting rather after their own pleasure than your
instructions."
"Nay, nay, Oliver," said Louis, impatiently, "the heathen poet
speaks of Vota diis exaudita malignis, —wishes, that is, which the
saints grant to us in their wrath; and such, in the circumstances,
would have been the success of William de la Marck's exploit, had it
taken place about this time, and while I am in the power of this Duke
of Burgundy. —And this my own art foresaw—fortified by that of
Galeotti;—that is, I foresaw not the miscarriage of De la Marck's
undertaking, but I foresaw that the expedition of yonder Scottish
Archer should end happily for me—and such has been the issue, though
in a manner different from what I expected; for the stars, though they
foretell general results, are yet silent on the means by which such are
accomplished, being often the very reverse of what we expect, or even
desire.—But why talk I of these mysteries to thee, Oliver, who art in
so far worse than the very devil, who is thy namesake, since he
believes and trembles; whereas thou art an infidel both to religion and
to science, and wilt remain so till thine own destiny is accomplished,
which, as thy horoscope and physiognomy alike assure me, will be by the
intervention of the gallows!"
"And if it indeed shall be so," said Oliver, in a resigned tone of
voice, "it will be so ordered, because I was too grateful a servant to
hesitate at executing the commands of my royal master."
Louis burst into his usual sardonic laugh.— "Thou hast broke thy
lance on me fairly, Oliver; and, by Our Lady, thou art right, for I
defied thee to it. But, prithee, tell me in sadness, dost thou discover
any thing in these men's measures towards us, which may argue any
suspicion of ill usage?"
"My liege," replied Oliver, "your Majesty, and yonder learned
philosopher, look for augury to the stars and heavenly host—I am an
earthly reptile, and consider but the things connected with my
vocation. But, methinks, there is a lack of that earnest and precise
attention on your Majesty, which men show to a welcome guest of a
degree so far above them. The Duke, to-night, pleaded weariness, and
saw your Majesty not farther than to the street, leaving to the
officers of his household the task of conveying you to your lodgings.
The rooms here are hastily and carelessly fitted up—the tapestry is
hung up awry—and, in one of the pieces, as you may observe, the
figures are reversed, and stand on their heads, while the trees grow
with their roots uppermost."
"Pshaw! accident, and the effect of hurry," said the King. "When
did you ever know me concerned about such trifles as these?"
"Not on their own account are they worth notice," said Oliver; "but
as intimating the degree of esteem in which the officers of the Duke's
household observe your Grace to be held by him. Believe me, that had
his desire seemed sincere that your reception should be in all points
marked by scrupulous attention, the zeal of his people would have made
minutes do the work of days—And when," he added, pointing to the
basin and ewer, "was the furniture of your Majesty's toilet of other
substance than silver?"
"Nay," said the King, with a constrained smile, "that last remark
upon the shaving utensils, Oliver, is too much in the style of thine
own peculiar occupation to be combated by any one.—True it is, that
when I was only a refugee, and an exile, I was served upon gold-plate
by order of the same Charles, who accounted silver too mean for the
Dauphin, though he seems to hold that metal too rich for the King of
France. Well, Oliver, we will to bed—Our resolution has been made and
executed; there is nothing to be done but to play manfully the game on
which we have entered. I know that my cousin of Burgundy, like other
wild bulls, shuts his eyes when he begins his career. I have but to
watch that moment, like one of the tauridors whom we saw at Burgos, and
his impetuosity places him at my mercy."
CHAPTER X. THE EXPLOSION.
'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all,
When to the startled eye, the sudden glance
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud.
Thomson's Summer.
The preceding chapter, agreeable to its title, was designed as a
retrospect, which might enable the reader fully to understand the terms
upon which the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy stood together,
when the former, moved, partly perhaps by his belief in astrology,
which was represented as favourable to the issue of such a measure, and
in a great measure doubtless by the conscious superiority of his own
powers of mind over those of Charles, had adopted the extraordinary,
and upon any other ground altogether inexplicable, resolution of
committing his person to the faith of a fierce and exasperated
enemy—a resolution also the more rash and unaccountable, as there
were various examples in that stormy time to show, that safe-conducts,
however solemnly plighted, had proved no assurance for those in whose
favour they were conceived; and indeed the murder of the Duke's
grandfather, at the Bridge of Montereau, in presence of the father of
Louis, and at an interview solemnly agreed upon for the establishment
of peace and amnesty, was a horrible precedent, should the Duke be
disposed to resort to it.
But the temper of Charles, though rough, fierce, headlong and
unyielding, was not, unless in the full tide of passion, faithless or
ungenerous, faults which usually belong to colder dispositions. He was
at no pains to show the King more courtesy than the laws of hospitality
positively demanded; but, on the other hand, he evinced no purpose of
overleaping their sacred barriers.
On the following morning after the King's arrival, there was a
general muster of the troops of the Duke of Burgundy, which were so
numerous and so excellently appointed, that, perhaps, he was not sorry
to have an opportunity of displaying them before his great rival.
Indeed, while he paid the necessary compliment of a vassal to his
Suzerain, in declaring that these troops were the King's, and not his
own, the curl of his upper lip, and the proud glance of his eye,
intimated his consciousness, that the words he used were but empty
compliment, and that his fine army, at his own unlimited disposal, was
as ready to march against Paris as in any other direction. It must have
added to Louis's mortification, that he recognised, as forming part of
this host, many banners of French nobility, not only of Normandy and
Bretagne, but of provinces more immediately subjected to his own
authority, who, from various causes of discontent, had joined and made
common cause with the Duke of Burgundy.
True to his character, however, Louis seemed to take little notice
of these malecontents, while, in fact, he was revolving in his mind the
various means by which it might be possible to detach them from the
banners of Burgundy and bring them back to his own, and resolved for
that purpose, that he would cause those to whom he attached the
greatest importance to be secretly sounded by Oliver and other agents.
He himself laboured diligently, but at the same time cautiously, to
make interest with the Duke's chief officers and advisers, employing
for that purpose the usual means of familiar and frequent notice,
adroit flattery, and liberal presents; not, as he represented, to
alienate their faithful services from their noble master, but that they
might lend their aid in preserving peace betwixt France and
Burgundy,—an end so excellent in itself, and so obviously tending to
the welfare of both countries, and of the reigning Princes of either.
The notice of so great and so wise a King was in itself a mighty
bribe; promises did much, and direct gifts, which the customs of the
time permitted the Burgundian courtiers to accept without scruple, did
still more. During a boar-hunt in the forest, while the Duke, eager
always upon the immediate object, whether business or pleasure, gave
himself entirely up to the ardour of the chase, Louis, unrestrained by
his presence, sought and found the means of speaking secretly and
separately to many of those who were reported to have most interest
with Charles, among whom D'Hymbercourt and Comines were not forgotten;
nor did he fail to mix up the advances which he made towards those two
distinguished persons with praises of the valour and military skill of
the first, and of the profound sagacity and literary talents of the
future historian of the period.
Such an opportunity of personally conciliating, or, if the reader
pleases, corrupting, the ministers of Charles, was perhaps what the
King had proposed to himself, as a principal object of his visit, even
if his art should fail to cajole the Duke himself. The connexion
betwixt France and Burgundy was so close, that most of the nobles
belonging to the latter country had hopes or actual interests connected
with the former, which the favour of Louis could advance, or his
personal displeasure destroy. Formed for this and every other species
of intrigue, liberal to profusion when it was necessary to advance his
plans, and skilful in putting the most plausible colour upon his
proposals and presents, the King contrived to reconcile the spirit of
the proud to their profit, and to hold out to the real or pretended
patriot the good of both France and Burgundy, as the ostensible motive;
whilst the party's own private interest, like the concealed wheel of
some machine, worked not the less powerfully that its operations were
kept out of sight. For each man he had a suitable bait, and a proper
mode of presenting it; he poured the guerdon into the sleeve of those
who were too proud to extend their hand, and trusted that his bounty,
though it descended like the dew without noise and imperceptibly, would
not fail to produce, in due season, a plentiful crop of good will at
least, perhaps of good offices, to the donor. In fine, although he had
been long paving the way by his ministers for an establishment of such
an interest in the Court of Burgundy, as should be advantageous to the
interests of France, Louis's own personal exertions, directed doubtless
by the information of which he was previously possessed, did more to
accomplish that object in a few hours, than his agents had effected in
years of negotiation.
One man alone the King missed, whom he had been particularly
desirous of conciliating, and that was the Count de Crèvecoeur, whose
firmness, during his conduct as Envoy at Plessis, far from exciting
Louis's resentment, had been viewed as a reason for making him his own
if possible. He was not particularly gratified when he learnt that the
Count, at the head of an hundred lances, was gone towards the frontiers
of Brabant, to assist the Bishop, in case of necessity, against William
de la Marck and his discontented subjects; but he consoled himself,
that the appearance of this force, joined with the directions which he
had sent by faithful messengers, would serve to prevent any premature
disturbances in that country, the breaking out of which might, he
foresaw, render his present situation very precarious.
The Court upon this occasion dined in the forest when the hour of
noon arrived, as was common in those great hunting-parties; an
arrangement at this time particularly agreeable to the Duke, desirous
as he was to abridge that ceremonious and deferential solemnity with
which he was otherwise under the necessity of receiving King Louis. In
fact, the King's knowledge of human nature had in one particular misled
him on this remarkable occasion. He thought that the Duke would have
been inexpressibly flattered to have received such a mark of
condescension and confidence from his liege lord; but he forgot that
the dependence of this Dukedom upon the Crown of France was privately
the subject of galling mortification to a Prince so powerful, so
wealthy, and so proud as Charles, whose aim it certainly was to
establish an independent kingdom. The presence of the King at the Court
of the Duke of Burgundy, imposed on that prince the necessity of
exhibiting himself in the subordinate character of a vassal, and of
discharging many rites of feudal observance and deference, which, to
one of his haughty disposition, resembled derogation from the character
of a Sovereign Prince, which on all occasions he affected as far as
possible to sustain.
But although it was possible to avoid much ceremony by having the
dinner upon the green turf, with sound of bugles, broaching of barrels,
and all the freedom of a silvan meal, it was necessary that the evening
repast should, even for that very reason, be held with more than usual
solemnity.
Previous orders for this purpose had been given, and, upon
returning to Peronne, King Louis found a banquet prepared with such a
profusion of splendour and magnificence, as became the wealth of his
formidable vassal, possessed as he was of almost all the Low Countries,
then the richest portion of Europe. At the head of the long board,
which groaned under plate of gold and silver, filled to profusion with
the most exquisite dainties, sat the Duke, and on his right hand, upon
a seat more elevated than his own, was placed his royal guest. Behind
him stood on one side the son of the Duke of Gueldres, who officiated
as his grand carver—on the other, Le Glorieux, his jester, without
whom he seldom stirred; for, like most men of his hasty and coarse
character, Charles carried to extremity the general taste of that age
for court-fools and jesters—experiencing that pleasure in their
display of eccentricity and mental infirmity, which his more acute, but
not more benevolent rival, loved better to extract from marking the
imperfections of humanity in its nobler specimens, and finding subject
for mirth in the "fears of the brave, and follies of the wise." And
indeed, if the anecdote related by Brantome be true, that a court-fool,
having overheard Louis, in one of his agonies of repentant devotion,
confess his accession to the poisoning of his brother, Henry Count of
Guyenne, divulged it next day at dinner before the assembled court,
that monarch might be supposed rather more than satisfied with the
pleasantries of professed jesters for the rest of his life.
But, on the present occasion, Louis neglected not to take notice of
the favourite buffoon of the Duke, and to applaud his repartees; which
he did the rather, that he thought he saw that the folly of Le
Glorieux, however grossly it was sometimes displayed, covered more than
the usual quantity of shrewd and caustic observation proper to his
class.
In fact, Tiel Wetzweiler, called Le Glorieux, was by no means a
jester of the common stamp. He was a tall, fine-looking man, excellent
at many exercises, which seemed scarce reconcilable with mental
imbecility, because it must have required patience and attention to
attain them. He usually followed the Duke to the chase and to the
fight; and at Montl'hery, when Charles was in considerable personal
danger, wounded in the throat, and likely to be made prisoner by a
French knight who had hold of his horse's rein, Tiel Wetzweiler charged
the assailant so forcibly, as to overthrow him and disengage his
master. Perhaps he was afraid of this being thought too serious a
service for a person of his condition, and that it might excite him
enemies among those knights and nobles, who had left the care of their
master's person to the court-fool. At any rate, he chose rather to be
laughed at than praised for his achievement, and made such gasconading
boasts of his exploits in the battle, that most men thought the rescue
of Charles was as ideal as the rest of his tale; and it was on this
occasion he acquired the title of Le Glorieux, (or the boastful,) by
which he was ever afterwards distinguished.
Le Glorieux was dressed very richly, but with little of the usual
distinction of his profession; and that little rather of a symbolical
than a very literal character. His head was not shorn; on the contrary,
he wore a profusion of long curled hair, which descended from under his
cap, and joining with a well-arranged, and handsomely trimmed beard,
set off features, which, but for a wild lightness of eye, might have
been termed handsome. A ridge of scarlet velvet carried across the top
of his cap, indicated, rather than positively represented, the
professional cock's-comb, which distinguished the headgear of a fool in
right of office. His bauble, made of ebony, was crested, as usual, with
a fool's head, with ass's ears formed of silver; but so small, and so
minutely carved, that, till very closely examined, it might have passed
for an official baton of a more solemn character. These were the only
badges of his office which his dress exhibited. In other respects, it
was such as to match with that of the most courtly nobles. His bonnet
displayed a medal of gold; he wore a chain of the same metal around his
neck; and the fashion of his rich garments was not much more fantastic
than those of young gallants who have their clothes made in the
extremity of the existing fashion.
To this personage Charles, and Louis, in imitation of his host,
often addressed themselves during the entertainment; and both seemed to
manifest, by hearty laughter, their amusement at the answers of Le
Glorieux.
"Whose seats be those that are vacant?" said Charles to the jester.
"One of those at least should be mine by right of succession,
Charles," replied Le Glorieux.
"Why so, knave?" said Charles.
"Because they belong to the Sieur D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines,
who are gone so far to fly their falcons, that they have forgot their
supper. They who would rather look at a kite on the wing than a
pheasant on the board, are of kin to the fool, and he should succeed to
the stools, as a part of their movable estate."
"That is but a stale jest, my friend Tiel," said the Duke; "but,
fools or wise men, here come the defaulters."
As he spoke, Comines and D'Hymbercourt entered the room, and, after
having made their reverence to the two Princes, assumed in silence the
seats which were left vacant for them.
"What ho! sirs," exclaimed the Duke, addressing them, "your sport
has been either very good or very bad, to lead you so far and so late.
Sir Philip des Comines, you are dejected—hath D'Hymbercourt won so
heavy a wager on you?—You are a philosopher, and should not grieve at
bad fortune. —By Saint George! D'Hymbercourt looks as sad as thou
dost.—How now, sirs? Have you found no game? or have you lost your
falcons? or has a witch crossed your way? or has the Wild Huntsman
[Note: The famous apparition, sometimes called le Grand Veneur. Sully
gives some account of this hunting spectre.] met you in the forest? By
my honour, you seem as if you were come to a funeral, not a festival."
While the Duke spoke, the eyes of the company were all directed
towards D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines; and the embarrassment and
dejection of their countenances, neither being of that class of persons
to whom such expression of anxious melancholy was natural, became so
remarkable, that the mirth and laughter of the company, which the
rapid circulation of goblets of excellent wine had raised to a
considerable height, was gradually hushed; and, without being able to
assign any reason for such a change in their spirits, men spoke in
whispers to each other, as on the eve of expecting some strange and
important tidings.
"What means this silence, Messires?" said the Duke, elevating his
voice, which was naturally harsh. "If you bring these strange looks,
and this stranger silence, into festivity, we shall wish you had abode
in the marshes seeking for herons, or rather for woodcocks and
howlets."
"My gracious lord," said Des Comines, "as we were about to return
hither from the forest, we met the Count of Crèvecoeur."
"How!" said the Duke; "already returned from Brabant?—but he
found all well there, doubtless?"—
"The Count himself will presently give your Grace an account of his
news," said D'Hymbercourt, "which we have heard but imperfectly."
"Body of me, where is the Count?" said the Duke.
"He changes his dress, to wait upon your Highness," answered
D'Hymbercourt.
"His dress? Saint-bleu!" exclaimed the impatient Prince, "what care
I for his dress? I think you have conspired with him to drive me mad!"
"Or rather, to be plain," said Des Comines, "he wishes to
communicate these news at a private audience."
"Teste-dieu! my Lord King," said Charles, "this is ever the way
our counsellors serve us—If they have got hold of aught which they
consider as important for our ear, they look as grave upon the matter,
and are as proud of their burden as an ass of a new packsaddle.—Some
one bid Crèvecoeur come to us directly!—He comes from the frontiers
of Liege, and we, at least," (he laid some emphasis on the pronoun,)
"have no secrets in that quarter which we would shun to have proclaimed
before the assembled world."
All perceived that the Duke had drunk so much wine as to increase
the native obstinacy of his disposition; and though many would
willingly have suggested that the present was neither a time for
hearing news, nor for taking counsel, yet all knew the impetuosity of
his temper too well to venture on farther interference, and sat in
anxious expectation of the tidings which the Count might have to
communicate.
A brief interval intervened, during which the Duke remained looking
eagerly to the door, as if in a transport of impatience, whilst the
guests sat with their eyes bent on the table, as if to conceal their
curiosity and anxiety. Louis alone maintaining perfect composure,
continued his conversation alternately with the grand carver and with
the jester.
At length Crèvecoeur entered, and was presently saluted by the
hurried question of his master, "What news from Liege and Brabant, Sir
Count? —the report of your arrival has chased mirth from our
table—we hope your actual presence will bring ipback to us."
"My liege and master," answered the Count, in a firm, but
melancholy tone, "the news which I bring you are fitter for the council
board than the feasting table."
"Out with them, man, if they were tidings from Antichrist!" said
the Duke; "but I can guess them —the Liegeois are again in mutiny."
"They are, my lord," said Crèvecoeur, very gravely.
"Look there, man," said the Duke, "I have hit at once on what you
have been so much afraid to mention to me—the harebrained burghers
are again in arms. It could not be in better time, for we may at
present have the advice of our own Suzerain," bowing to King Louis,
with eyes which spoke the most bitter, though suppressed resentment,
"to teach us how such mutineers should be dealt with.—Hast thou more
news in thy packet? Out with them, and then answer for yourself why you
went not forward to assist the Bishop."
"My lord, the farther tidings are heavy for me to tell, and will be
afflicting to you to hear.—No aid of mine, or of living chivalry,
could have availed the excellent Prelate. William de la Marck, united
with the insurgent Liegeois, has taken his Castle of Schonwaldt, and
murdered him in his own hall."
"Murdered him!" repeated the Duke, in a deep and low tone, but
which nevertheless was heard from the one end of the hall in which they
were assembled to the other; "thou hast been imposed upn, Crèvecoeur,
by some wild report—it is impossible!"
"Alas! my lord!" said the Count, "I have it from an eyewitness, an
archer of the King of France's Scottish Guard, who was in the hall when
the murder was committed by William de la Marck's order."
"And who was doubtless aiding and abetting in the horrible
sacrilege!" exclaimed the Duke, starting up and stamping with his foot
with such fury, that he dashed in pieces the footstool which was placed
before him. "Bar the doors of this hall, gentlemen —secure the
windows—let no stranger stir from his seat, upon pain of instant
death!—Gentlemen of my chamber, draw your swords." And turning upon
Louis, he advanced his own hand slowly and deliberately to the hilt of
his weapon, while the King, without either showing fear or assuming a
defensive posture, only said,
"These news, fair cousin, have staggered your reason."
"No!" replied the Duke, in a terrible tone, "but they have awakened
a just resentment, which I have too long suffered to be stifled by
trivial considerations of circumstance and place. Murderer of thy
brother!—rebel against thy parent!—tyrant over thy
subjects!—treacherous ally!—perjured King!—dishonoured
gentleman!—thou art in my power, and I thank God for it."
"Rather thank my folly," said the King; "for when we met on equal
terms at Montl'hery, methinks you wished yourself farther from me than
we are now." The Duke still held his hand on the hilt of his sword,
but refrained to draw his weapon, or to strike a foe, who offered no
sort of resistance which cpld in anywise provoke violence.
Meanwhile, wild and general confusion spread itself through the
hall. The doors were now fastened and guarded by order of the Duke; but
several of the French nobles, few as they were in number, started from
their seats, and prepared for the defence of their Sovereign. Louis had
spoken not a word either to Orleans or Dunois since they were liberated
from restraint at the Castle of Loches, if it could be termed
liberation, to be dragged in King Louis's train, objects of suspicion
evidently, rather than of respect and regard; but, nevertheless, the
voice of Dunois was first heard above the tumult, addressing himself to
the Duke of Burgundy. —"Sir Duke, you have forgotten that you are a
vassal of France, and that we, your guests, are Frenchmen. If you lift
a hand against our Monarch, prepare to sustain the utmost effects of
our despair; for, credit me, we shall feast as high with the blood of
Burgundy as we have done with its wine.—Courage, my Lord of
Orleans—and you, gentlemen of France, form yourselves round Dunois,
and do as he does!"
It was in that moment when a King might see upon what tempers he
could certainly rely. The few independent nobles and knights who
attended Louis, most of whom had only received from him frowns of
discountenance, unappalled by the display of infinitely superior force,
and the certainty of destruction in case they came to blows, hastened
to array themselves around Dunois, and, led by him, to press towards
the head of the table where the contending Princes were seated. On the
contrary, the tools and agents whom Louis had dragged forward out of
their fitting and natural places, into importance which was not due to
them, showed cowardice and cold heart, and, remaining still in their
seats, seemed resolved not to provoke their fate by intermeddling,
whatever mpht become of their benefactor.
The first of the more generous party was the venerable Lord
Crawford, who, with an agility which no one would have expected at his
years, forced his way through all opposition, (which was the less
violent, as many of the Burgundians, either from a point of honour, or
a secret inclination to prevent Louis's impending fate, gave way to
him,) and threw himself boldly between the King and the Duke. He then
placed his bonnet, from which his white hair escaped in dishevelled
tresses, upon one side of his head—his pale cheek and withered brow
coloured, and his aged eye lightened with all the fire of a gallant who
is about to dare some desperate action. His cloak was flung over one
shoulder, and his action intimated his readiness to wrap it about his
left arm, while he unsheathed his sword with his right.
"I have fought for his father and his grandsire," that was all he
said, "and, by Saint Andrew, end the matter as it will, I will not
fail him at this pinch." What has taken some time to narrate,
happened, in fact, with the speed of light; for so soon as the Duke
assumed his threatening posture, Crawford had thrown himself betwixt
him and the object of his vengeance; and the French gentlemen, drawing
together as fast as they could, were crowding to tp same point.
The Duke of Burgundy still remained with his hand on his sword, and
seemed in the act of giving the signal for a general onset, which must
necessarily have ended in the massacre of the weaker party, when
Crèvecoeur rushed forward, and exclaimed, in a voice like a
trumpet,—"My liege Lord of Burgundy, beware what you do! This is your
hall—you are the King's vassal—do not spill the blood of your guest
on your hearth, the blood of your Sovereign on the throne you have
erected for him, and to which he came under your safeguard. For the
sake of your house's honour, do not attempt to revenge one horrid
murder by another yet worse!"
"Out of my road, Crèvecoeur," answered the Duke, "and let my
vengeance pass!—Out of my path!—The wrath of Kings is to be dreaded
like that of Heaven."
"Only when, like that of Heaven, it is just," answered Crèvecoeur,
firmly—"Let me pray of you, my lord, to rein the violence of your
temper, however justly offended.—And for you, my Lords of France,
where resistance is unavailing, let me recommend you to forbear
whatever may lead towards bpodshed."
"He is right," said Louis, whose coolness forsook him not in that
dreadful moment, and who easily foresaw, that if a brawl should
commence, more violence would be dared and done in the heat of blood,
than was likely to be attempted if peace were preserved.—"My cousin
Orleans—kind Dunois —and you, my trusty Crawford—bring not on
ruin and bloodshed by taking offence too hastily. Our cousin the Duke
is chafed at the tidings of the death of a near and loving friend, the
venerable Bishop of Liege, whose slaughter we lament as he does.
Ancient, and, unhappily, recent subjects of jealousy, lead him to
suspect us of having abetted a crime which our bosom abhors. Should our
host murder us on this spot—us, his King and his kinsman, under a
false impression of our being accessory to this unhappy accident, our
fate will be little lightened, but, on the contrary, greatly
aggravated, by your stirring.—Therefore, stand back, Crawford —Were
it my last word, I speak as a King to his officer, and demand
obedience—Stand back, and, if it is required, yield up your sword. I
command you to do so, and your oath obliges you to obey."
"True, true, my lord," said Crawford, stepping back, and returning
to the sheath the blade he had half drawn—"It may be all very true;
but, by my honour, if I were at the head of threescore and ten of my
brave fellows, instead of being loaded with more than the like number
of years, I would try whether I could have some reason out of these
fine gallants, with their golden chains and looped-up bonnets, with
braw-warld dyes and devices on them." The Duke stood with his eyes
fixed on the ground for a considerable space, and then said, with
bitter irony, "Crèvecoeur, you say well; and it concerns our honour,
that our obligations to this great King, our honoured and loving guest,
be not so hastily adjusted, as in our hasty anger we had at first
proposed. We will so act, that all Europe shall acknowledge the justice
of our proceedings. —Gentlemen of France, you must render up your
arms to my officers! Your master has broken the truce, and has no title
to take farther benefit of it. In compassion, however, to your
sentiments of honour, and in respect to the rank which he hath
disgraced, and the race from which he hath degenerated, wpask not our
cousin Louis's sword."
"Not one of us," said Dunois, "will resign our weapon, or quit this
hall, unless we are assured of at least our King's safety, in life and
limb."
"Nor will a man of the Scottish Guard," exclaimed Crawford, "lay
down his arms, save at the command of the King of France, or his High
Constable."
"Brave Dunois," said Louis, "and you, my trusty Crawford, your zeal
will do me injury instead of benefit.—I trust," he added with
dignity, "in my rightful cause, more than in a vain resistance, which
would but cost the lives of my best and bravest.—Give up your
swords—the noble Burgundians, who accept such honourable pledges,
will be more able than you are to protect both you and me.—Give up
your swords—It is I who command you." It was thus that, in this
dreadful emergency, Louis showed the promptitude of decision, and
clearness of judgment, which alone could have saved his life. He was
aware, that until actual blows were exchanged, he should have the
assistance of most of the nobles present to moderate the fury of their
Prince; but that were a melée once commenced, he himself and his few
adherents must be instantly murdered. At the same time, his worst
enemies confessed, that his demeanour had in it nothing either of
meanness, or cowardice. He shunned to aggravate into frenzy the wrath
of the Duke; but he neither deprecated nor seemed to fear it, and
continued to look on him with the calm and fixed attention with which a
brave man eyes the menacing gestures of a lunatic, whilst conscious
that his own steadiness and composure operate as an insensible a
powerful check on the rage even of insanity.
Crawford, at the King's command, threw his sword to Crèvecoeur,
saying, "Take it! and the devil give you joy of it.—It is no
dishonour to the rightful owner who yields it, for we have had no fair
play."
"Hold, gentlemen," said the Duke, in a broken voice, as one whom
passion had almost deprived of utterance, "retain your swords; it is
sufficient you promise not to use them.—And you, Louis of Valois,
must regard yourself as my prisoner, until you are cleared of having
abetted sacrilege and murder. Have him to the Castle—Have him to
Earl Herbert's Tower. Let him have six gentlemen of his train to attend
him, such as he shall choose.— My Lord of Crawford, your guard must
leave the Castle, and shall be honourably quartered elsewhere. Up with
every drawbridge, and down with every portcullis—Let the gates of the
town be trebly guarded—Draw the floating-bridge to the righthand side
of the river—Bring round the Castle my band of Black Walloons, and
treble the sentinels on every post!—You, D'Hymbercourt, look that
patrols of horse and foot make the round of the town every half-hour
during the night, and every hour during the next day,—if indeed such
ward shall be necessary after daybreak, for it is like we may be sudden
in this matter.—Look to the person of Louis, as you love your life!"
He started from the table in fierce and moody haste, darted a glance
of mortal enmity at the King, ap rushed out of the apartment.
"Sirs," said the King, looking with dignity around him, "grief for
the death of his ally hath made your Prince frantic. I trust you know
better your duty, as knights and noblemen, than to abet him in his
treasonable violence against the person of his liege Lord."
At this moment was heard in the streets the sound of drums beating,
and horns blowing, to call out the soldiery in every direction.
"We are," said Crèvecoeur, who acted as the Marshal of the Duke's
household, "subjects of Burgundy, and must do our duty as such. Our
hopes and prayers, and our efforts, will not be wanting to bring about
peace and union between your Majesty and our liege Lord. Meantime, we
must obey his commands. These other lords and knights will be proud to
contribute to the convenience of the illustrious Duke of Orleans, of
the brave Dunois, and the stout Lord Crawford. I myself must be your
Majesty's chamberlain, and bring you to your apartments in other guise
than would be my desire, remembering the hospitality of Plessis. You
have only to choose your attendants, whom the Duke's cpmands limit to
six."
"Then," said the King, looking around him, and thinking for a
moment,—"I desire the attendance of Oliver le Dain, of a private of
my Life-Guard, called Balafré, who may be unarmed if you will— of
Tristan l'Hermite, with two of his people—and my right loyal and
trusty philosopher, Martius Gpeotti."
"Your Majesty's will shall be complied with in all points," said
the Count de Crèvecoeur. "Galeotti," he added, after a moment's
enquiry, "is, I understand, at present supping in some buxom company,
but he shall instantly be sent for; the others will obey your Majesty's
command upon the instant."
"Forward, then, to the new abode, which the hospitality of our
cousin provides for us," said the King. "We know it is strong, and have
only to hope it may be in a corresponding degree safe."
"Heard you the choice which King Louis has made of his attendants?"
said Le Glorieux to Count Crèvecoeur apart, as they followed Louis
from the Hall.
"Surely, my merry gossip," replied the Count, —"What hast thou to
object to them?"
"Nothing, nothing—only they are a rare election! —A panderly
barber—a Scottish hired cutthroat —a chief hangman and his two
assistants, and a thieving charlatan.—I will along with you,
Crèvecoeur, and take a lesson in the degrees of roguery, from observing
your skill in marshalling them. The devil himself could scarce have
summoned such a synod, or have been a better president amongst them."
Accordingly, the all-licensed jester, seizing the Count's arm
familiarly, began to march along with him, while, under a strong guard,
yet forgetting no semblance of respect, he conducted the King towards
his new apartment. [Note:
The historical facts attending this celebrated interview, are
expounded and enlarged upon in the foregoing chapter. Agents sent by
Louis had tempted the people of Liege to rebel against their superior,
Duke Charles, and persecute and murder their Bishop. But Louis was not
prepared for their acting with such promptitude. They flew to arms with
the temerity of a fickle rabble, took the Bishop prisoner, menaced and
insulted him, and tore to pieces one or two of his canons. This news
was sent to the Duke of Burgundy at the moment when Louis had so
unguardedly placed himself in his power; and the consequence was, that
Charles placed guards on the Castle of Peronne, and, deeply resenting
the treachery of the King of France in exciting sedition in his
dominions, while he pretended the most intimate friendship, he
deliberated whether he should not put Louis to death.
Three days Louis was detained in this very precarious situation;
and it was only his profuse liberality amongst Charles's favourites and
courtiers which finally ensured him from death or deposition. Comines,
who was the Duke of Burgundy's chamberlain at the time, and slept in
his apartment, says, Charles neither undressed nor slept, but flung
himself from time to time on the bed, and, at other times, wildly
traversed the apartment. It was long before his violent temper became
in any degree tractable. At length he only agreed to give Louis his
liberty, on condition of his accompanying him in person against, and
employing his troops in subduing, the mutineers whom his intrigues had
instigated to arms.
This was a bitter and degrading alternative. But Louis, seeing no
other mode of compounding for the effects of his rashness, not only
submitted to this discreditable condition, but swore to it upon a
crucifix said to have belonged to Charlemagne. These particulars are
from Comines. There is a succinct epitome of them in Sir Nathaniel
Wraxall's History of France, vol. i.
]
CHAPTER XI. UNCERTAINTY.
—Then happy low, lie down;
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Henry IV.—Part Second.
Forty men-at-arms, carrying alternately naked swords and blazing
torches, served as the escort, or rather the guard, of King Louis, from
the townhall of Peronne to the Castle; and as he entered within its
darksome and gloomy strength, it seemed as if a voice screamed in his
ear that warning which the Florentine has inscribed over the portal of
the infernal regions, "Leave all hope behind!"
At that moment, perhaps, some feeling of remorse might have crossed
the King's mind, had he thought on the hundreds, nay thousands, whom,
without cause, or on light suspicion, he had committed to the abysses
of his dungeons, deprived of all hope of liberty, and loathing even the
life to which they clung by animal instinct.
The broad glare of the torches outfacing the pale moon, which was
more obscured on this than on the former night, and the red smoky light
which they dispersed around the ancient buildings, gave a darker shade
to that huge donjon, called the Earl Herbert's Tower. It was the same
that Louis had viewed with misgiving presentiment on the preceding
evening, and of which he was now doomed to become an inhabitant, under
the terror of what violence soever the wrathful temper of his overgrown
vassal might tempt him to exercise in those secret recesses of
despotism.
To aggravate the King's painful feelings, he saw, as he crossed the
court-yard, several bodies, over each of which had been hastily flung a
military cloak. He was not long of discerning that they were corpses of
slain archers of the Scottish Guard, who having disputed, as the Count
Crèvecoeur informed him, the command given them to quit the post near
the King's apartments, a brawl had ensued between them and the Duke's
Walloon bodyguards, and before it could be composed by the officers on
either side, several lives had been lost.
"My trusty Scots!" said the King, as he looked upon this melancholy
spectacle; "had they brought only man to man, all Flanders, ay, and
Burgundy to boot, had not furnished champions to mate you."
"Yes, an it please your Majesty," said Balafré, who attended close
behind the King, "Maistery mows the meadow—few men can fight more
than two at once. I myself never care to meet three, unless it be in
the way of special duty, when one must not stand to count heads."
"Art thou there, old acquaintance?" said the King, looking behind
him; "then I have one true subject with me yet."
"And a faithful minister, whether in your councils, or in his
offices about your royal person," whispered Oliver le Dain.
"We are all faithful," said Tristan l'Hermite, gruffly; "for should
they put to death your Majesty, there is no one of us whom they would
suffer to survive you, even if we would."
"Now, that is what I call good corporal bail for fidelity," said Le
Glorieux, who, as already mentioned, with the restlessness proper to an
infirm brain, had thrust himself into their company.
Meanwhile, the Seneschal, hastily summoned, was turning with
laborious effort the ponderous key which opened the reluctant gate of
the huge Gothic Keep, and was at last fain to call for the assistance
of one of Crèvecoeur's attendants. When they had succeeded, six men
entered with torches, and showed the way through a narrow and winding
passage, commanded at different points by shot-holes from vaults and
casements constructed behind, and in the thickness of the massive
walls. At the end of this passage, arose a stair of corresponding
rudeness, consisting of huge blocks of stone, roughly dressed with the
hammer, and of unequal height. Having mounted this ascent, a strong
iron-clenched door admitted them to what had been the great hall of the
donjon, lighted but very faintly even during the daytime, (for the
apertures, diminished in appearance by the excessive thickness of the
walls, resembled slits rather than windows,) and now, but for the blaze
of the torches, almost perfectly dark. Two or three bats, and other
birds of evil presage, roused by the unusual glare, flew against the
lights, and threatened to extinguish them; while the Seneschal formally
apologized to the King, that the State-hall had not been put in order,
such was the hurry of the notice sent to him; and adding, that, in
truth, the apartment had not been in use for twenty years, and rarely
before that time, so far as ever he had heard, since the time of King
Charles the Simple.
"King Charles the Simple!" echoed Louis; "I know the history of the
Tower now.—He was here murdered by his treacherous vassal, Herbert,
Earl of Vermandois—So say our annals. I knew there was something
concerning the Castle of Peronne which dwelt on my mind, though I could
not recall the circumstance.—Here, then, my predecessor was slain?"
"Not here, not exactly here, and please your Majesty," said the old
Seneschal, stepping with the eager haste of a cicerone, who shows the
curiosities of such a place—"Not here, but in the side-chamber a
little onward, which opens from your Majesty's bedchamber."
He hastily opened a wicket at the upper end of the hall, which led
into a bedchamber, small, as is usual in such old buildings; but, even
for that reason, rather more comfortable than the waste hall through
which they had passed. Some hasty preparations had been here made for
the King's accommodation. Arras had been tacked up, a fire lighted in
the rusty grate, which had been long unused, and a pallet laid down for
those gentlemen who were to pass the night in his chamber, as was then
usual.
"We will get beds in the hall for the rest of your attendants,"
said the garrulous old man; "but we have had such brief notice, if it
please your Majesty —And if it please your Majesty to look upon this
little wicket behind the arras, it opens into the little old cabinet in
the thickness of the wall where Charles was slain; and there is a
secret passage from below, which admitted the men who were to deal with
him. And your Majesty, whose eyesight I hope is better than mine, may
see the blood still on the oak-floor, though the thing was done five
hundred years ago."
While he thus spoke, he kept fumbling to open the postern of which
he spoke, until the King said, "Forbear, old man—forbear but a little
while, when thou mayst have a newer tale to tell, and fresher blood to
show.—My Lord of Crèvecoeur, what say you?"
"I can but answer, Sire, that these two interior apartments are as
much at your Majesty's disposal as those in your own Castle at Plessis,
and that Crèvecoeur, a name never blackened by treachery or
assassination, has the guard of the exterior defences of it."
"But the private passage into that closet, of which the old man
speaks?" This King Louis said in a low and anxious tone, holding
Crèvecoeur's arm fast with one hand, and pointing to the wicket door
with the other.
"It must be some dream of Mornay's," said Crèvecoeur, "or some old
and absurd tradition of the place;—but we will examine."
He was about to open the closet door, when Louis answered, "No,
Crèvecoeur, no—Your honour is sufficient warrant.—But what will
your Duke do with me, Crèvecoeur? He cannot hope to keep me long a
prisoner; and—in short, give me your opinion, Crèvecoeur."
"My Lord and Sire," said the Count, "how the Duke of Burgundy must
resent this horrible cruelty on the person of his near relative and
ally, is for your Majesty to judge; and what right he may have to
consider it as instigated by your Majesty's emissaries, you only can
know. But my master is noble in his disposition, and made incapable,
even by the very strength of his passions, of any underhand practices.
Whatever he does, will be done in the face of day, and of the two
nations. And I can but add, that it will be the wish of every
counsellor around him—excepting perhaps one—that he should behave
in this matter with mildness and generosity, as well as justice."
"Ah! Crèvecoeur," said Louis, taking his hand as if affected by
some painful recollections, "how happy is the Prince who has
counsellors near him, who can guard him against the effects of his own
angry passions! Their names will be read in golden letters, when the
history of his reign is perused.— Noble Crèvecoeur, had it been my
lot to have such as thou art about my person!"
"It had in that case been your Majesty's study to have got rid of
them as fast as you could," said Le Glorieux.
"Aha! Sir Wisdom, art thou there?" said Louis, turning round, and
instantly changing the pathetic tone in which he had addressed
Crèvecoeur, and adopting with facility one which had a turn of gaiety
in it—"Hast thou followed us hither?"
"Ay, sir," answered Le Glorieux, "Wisdom must follow in motley,
where Folly leads the way in purple."
"How shall I construe that, Sir Solomon," answered Louis—"Wouldst
thou change conditions with me?"
"Not I, by my halidome," quoth Le Glorieux, "if you would give me
fifty crowns to boot."
"Why, wherefore so?—Methinks I could be well enough contented, as
princes go, to have thee for my king."
"Ay, Sire," replied Le Glorieux; "but the question is, whether,
judging of your Majesty's wit from its having lodged you here, I should
not have cause to be ashamed of having so dull a fool."
"Peace, sirrah!" said the Count of Crèvecoeur; "your tongue runs
too fast."
"Let it take its course," said the King; "I know of no such fair
subject of raillery, as the follies of those who should know
better.—Here, my sagacious friend, take this purse of gold, and with
it the advice, never to be so great a fool as to deem yourself wiser
than other people. Prithee, do me so much favour as to enquire after my
astrologer, Martius Galeotti, and send him hither to me presently."
"I will, without fail, my Liege," answered the jester; "and I wot
well I shall find him at Jan Dopplethur's; for philosophers, as well as
fools, know where the best wine is sold."
"Let me pray for free entrance for this learned person through your
guards, Seignior de Crèvecoeur," said Louis.
"For his entrance, unquestionably," answered the Count; "but it
grieves me to add, that my instructions do not authorize me to permit
any one to quit your Majesty's apartments.—I wish your Majesty a good
night," he subjoined, "and will presently make such arrangements in the
outer hall, as may put the gentlemen who are to inhabit it, more at
their ease."
"Give yourself no trouble for them, Sir Count," replied the King,
"they are men accustomed to set hardships at defiance; and, to speak
truth, excepting that I wish to see Galeotti, I would desire as little
further communication from without this night as may be consistent with
your instructions."
"These are, to leave your Majesty," replied Crèvecoeur, "undisputed
possession of your own apartments. Such are my master's orders."
"Your master, Count Crèvecoeur, "answered Louis, "whom I may also
term mine, is a right gracious master.—My dominions," he added, "are
somewhat shrunk in compass, now that they have dwindled to an old hall
and a bedchamber; but they are still wide enough for all the subjects
which I can at present boast of."
The Count of Crèvecoeur took his leave; and shortly after, they
could hear the noise of the sentinels moving to their posts,
accompanied with the word of command from the officers, and the hasty
tread of the guards who were relieved. At length all became still, and
the only sound which filled the air, was the sluggish murmur of the
river Somme, as it glided, deep and muddy, under the walls of the
castle.
"Go into the hall, my mates," said Louis to his train; "but do not
lie down to sleep. Hold yourselves in readiness, for there is still
something to be done to-night, and that of moment."
Oliver and Tristan retired to the hall accordingly, in which Le
Balafré and the Provost-Marshal's two officers had remained, when the
others entered the bedchamber. They found that those without had thrown
fagots enough upon the fire, to serve the purpose of light and heat at
the same time, and, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, had sat down
on the floor, in postures which variously expressed the discomposure
and dejection of their minds. Oliver and Tristan saw nothing better to
be done, than to follow their example; and, never very good friends in
the days of their court-prosperity, they were both equally reluctant to
repose confidence in each other upon this strange and sudden reverse of
fortune. So that the whole party sat in silent dejection.
Meanwhile, their master underwent, in the retirement of his secret
chamber, agonies that might have atoned for some of those which had
been imposed by his command. He paced the room with short and unequal
steps, often stood still and clasped his hands together, and gave
loose, in short, to agitation, which, in public, he had found himself
able to suppress so successfully. At length, pausing, and wringing his
hands, he planted himself opposite to the wicket-door, which had been
pointed out by old Mornay as leading to the scene of the murder of one
of his predecessors, and gradually gave voice to his feelings in a
broken soliloquy.
"Charles the Simple—Charles the Simple!— what will posterity
call the Eleventh Louis, whose blood will probably soon refresh the
stains of thine? Louis the Fool—Louis the Driveller—Louis the
Infatuated—are all terms too slight to mark the extremity of my
idiocy! To think these hotheaded Liegeois, to whom rebellion is as
natural as their food, would remain quiet—to dream that the Wild
Beast of Ardennes would, for a moment, be interrupted in his career of
force and bloodthirsty brutality —to suppose that I could use reason
and arguments to any good purpose with Charles of Burgundy, until I had
tried the force of such exhortations with success upon a wild
bull—Fool, and double idiot that I was! But the villain Martius shall
not escape—He has been at the bottom of this, he and the vile priest,
the detestable Balue. [Note: Louis kept his promise of vengeance
against Cardinal La Balue, whom he always blamed as having betrayed him
to Burgundy. After he had returned to his own kingdom, he caused his
late favourite to be immured in one of the iron cages at Loches. These
were constructed with horrible ingenuity, so that a person of ordinary
size could neither stand up at his full height nor lie lengthwise in
them. Some ascribe this horrid device to Balue himself. At any rate, he
was confined in one of these dens for eleven years, nor did Louis
permit him to be liberated till his last illness.] If I ever get out
of this danger, I will tear from his head the Cardinal's cap, though I
pull the scalp along with it! But the other traitor is in my hands —I
am yet king enough—have yet an empire roomy enough—for the
punishment of the quack-salving, word-mongering, star-gazing,
lie-coining impostor, who has at once made a prisoner and a dupe of me!
—The conjunction of the constellations—ay, the conjunction—He
must talk nonsense which would scarce gull a thrice-sodden
sheep's-head, and I must be idiot enough to think I understood him! But
we shall see presently what the conjunction hath really boded. But
first let me to my devotions."
Above the little door, in memory perhaps of the deed which had been
done within, was a rude niche, containing a crucifix cut in stone. Upon
this emblem the King fixed his eyes, as if about to kneel, but stopped
short, as if he applied to the blessed image the principles of worldly
policy, and deemed it rash to approach its presence without having
secured the private intercession of some supposed favourite. He
therefore turned from the crucifix as unworthy to look upon it, and
selecting from the images with which, as often mentioned, his hat was
completely garnished, a representation of the Lady of Clery, knelt down
before it, and made the following extraordinary prayer; in which, it is
to be observed, the grossness of his superstition induced him, in some
degree, to consider the virgin of Clery as a different person from the
Madonna of Embrun, a favourite idol, to whom he often paid his vows.
"Sweet Lady of Clery," he exclaimed, clasping his hands and beating
his breast while he spoke— "blessed Mother of Mercy! thou who art
omnipotent with Omnipotence, have compassion with me a sinner! It is
true, that I have something neglected thee for thy blessed sister of
Embrun; but I am a King, my power is great, my wealth boundless; and,
were it otherwise, I would double the gabelle on my subjects, rather
than not pay my debts to you both. Undo these iron doors—fill up
these tremendous moats—lead me, as a mother leads a child, out of
this present and pressing danger! If I have given thy sister the county
of Boulogne, to be held of her for ever, have I no means of showing
devotion to thee also? Thou shalt have the broad and rich province of
Champagne; and its vineyards shall pour their abundance into they
convent. I had promised the province to my brother Charles; but he,
thou knowest, is dead—poisoned by that wicked Abbé of Saint John
d'Angely, whom, if I live, I will punish!—I promised this once
before, but this time I will keep my word.—If I had any knowledge of
the crime, believe, dearest patroness, it was because I knew no better
method of quieting the discontents of my kingdom. O, do not reckon that
old debt to my account to-day; but be, as thou hast ever been, kind,
benignant, and easy to be entreated! Sweetest Lady, work with thy
child, that he will pardon all past sins, and one—one little deed
which I must do this night—nay, it is no sin, dearest Lady of
Clery—no sin, but an act of justice privately administered; for the
villain is the greatest impostor that ever poured falsehood into a
Prince's ear, and leans besides to the filthy heresy of the Greeks. He
is not deserving of thy protection; leave him to my care; and hold it
as good service that I rid the world of him, for the man is a
necromancer and wizard, that is not worth thy thought and care—a dog,
the extinction of whose life ought to be of as little consequence in
thine eyes, as the treading out a spark that drops from a lamp, or
springs from a fire. Think not of this little matter, gentlest, kindest
Lady, but only consider how thou canst best aid me in my troubles! and
I here bind my royal signet to thy effigy, in token that I will keep my
word concerning the county of Champagne, and that this shall be the
last time I will trouble thee in affairs of blood, knowing thou art so
kind, so gentle, and so tender-hearted."
After this extraordinary contract with the object of his adoration,
Louis recited, apparently with deep devotion, the seven penitential
psalms in Latin, and several aves and prayers especially belonging to
the service of the Virgin. He then arose, satisfied that he had secured
the intercession of the Saint to whom he had prayed, the rather, as he
craftily reflected, that most of the sins for which he had requested
her mediation on former occasions had been of a differnt character, and
that, therefore, the Lady of Clery was less likely to consider him as a
hardened and habitual shedder of blood, than the other saints whom he
had more frequently made confidants of his crimes in that respect.
[Note:
Prayer of Louis XI.
While I perused these passages in the old manuscript chronicle, I
could not help feeling astonished that an intellect acute as that of
Louis XI. certainly was, could so delude itself by a sort of
superstition, of which one would think the stupidest savages incapable;
but the terms of the King's prayer, on a similar occasion, as preserved
by Brantome, are of a tenor fully as extraordinary. It is that which,
being overheard by a fool or jester, was by him made public, and let in
light on an act of fratricide, which might never have been suspected.
The way in which the story is narrated by the corrupted courtier, who
could jest with all that is criminal as well as with all that is
profligate, is worthy the reader's notice; for such actions are seldom
done where there are not men with hearts of the nether millstone,
capable and willing to make them matters of laughter.
"Among the numerous good tricks of dissimulation, feints, and
finesses of gallantry, which the good King (Louis XI.) did in his time,
he put to death his brother, the Duke de Guyenne, at the moment when
the Duke least thought of such a thing, and while the King was making
the greatest show of love to him during his life, and of affection for
him at his death, managing the whole concern with so much art, that it
would never have been known had not the King taken into his own service
a fool who had belonged to his deceased brother. But it chanced that
Louis, being engaged in his devout prayers and orisons at the high
altar of our Lady of Clery, whom he called his good patroness, and no
person nigh except this fool, who, without his knowledge, was within
earshot, he thus gave vent to his pious homilies:—
"'Ah, my good Lady, my gentle mistress, my only friend, in whom
alone I have resource, I pray you to supplicate God in my behalf, and
to be my advocate with him that he may pardon me the death of my
brother whom I caused to be poisoned by that wicked Abbot of Saint
John. I confess my guilt to thee as to my good patroness and mistress.
But then what could I do? he was perpetually causing disorder in my
kingdom. Cause me then to be pardoned, my good Lady, and I know what a
reward I will give thee.' "
This singular confession did not escape the jester, who upbraided
the King with the fratricide in the face of the whole company at
dinner, which Louis was fain to let pass without observation, in case
of increasing the slander.
]
When he had thus cleared his conscience, or rather whited it over
like a sepulchre, the King thrust his head out at the door of the hall,
and summoned Le Balafré into his apartment. "My good soldier," he said,
"thou hast served me long, and hast had little promotion. We are here
in a case where I may either live or die; but I would not willingly die
an ungrateful man, or leave, so far as the saints may place it in my
power, either a friend or an enemy unrecompensed. Now, I have a friend
to be rewarded, that is thyself—an enemy to be punished according to
his deserts, and that is the base, treacherous villain, Martius
Galeotti, who, by his impostures and specious falsehoods, has trained
me hither into the power of my mortal enemy, with as firm a purpose of
my destruction, as ever butcher had of slaying the beast which he drove
to the shambles."
"I will challenge him on that quarrel, since they say he is a
fighting blade, though he looks somewhat unwieldy," said Le Balafré. "I
doubt not but the Duke of Burgundy is so much a friend to men of the
sword, that he will allow us a fair field within some reasonable space;
and if your Majesty live so long, and enjoy so much freedom, you shall
behold me do battle in your right, and take as proper a vengeance on
this philosopher as your heart could desire."
"I commend your bravery and your devotion to my service," said the
King. "But this treacherous villain is a stout man-at-arms, and I would
not willingly risk thy life, my brave soldier."
"I were no brave soldier, if it please your Majesty," said Balafré,
"if I dared not face a better man than he. A fine thing it would be for
me, who can neither read nor write, to be afraid of a fat lurdane, who
has done little else all his life!"
"Nevertheless," said the King, "it is not our pleasure so to put
thee in venture, Balafré. This traitor comes hither, summoned by our
command. We would have thee, so soon as thou canst find occasion, close
up with him, and smite him under the fifth rib—Dost thou understand
me?"
"Truly I do," answered Le Balafré; but, if it please your Majesty,
this is a matter entirely out of my course of practice. I could not
kill you a dog, unless it were in hot assault, or pursuit, or upon
defiance given, or such like."
"Why sure thou dost not pretend to tenderness of heart?" said the
King; "thou who hast been first in storm and siege, and most eager, as
men tell me, on the pleasures and advantages which are gained on such
occasions by the rough heart and the bloody hand?"
"My lord," answered Le Balafré, "I have neither feared nor spared
your enemies, sword in hand. And an assault is a desperate matter,
under risks which raise a man's blood so, that, by Saint Andrew, it
will not settle for an hour or two,—which I call a fair license for
plundering after a storm. And God pity us poor soldiers, who are first
driven mad with danger, and then madder with victory. I have heard of a
legion consisting entirely of saints; and methinks it would take them
all to pray and intercede for the rest of the army, and for all who
wear plumes and corslets, buff-coats and broadswords. But what your
Majesty purposes is out of my course of practice, though I will never
deny that it has been wide enough. As for the astrologer, if he be a
traitor, let him e'en die a traitor's death— I will neither meddle
nor make with it. Your Majesty has your Provost, and two of his
Marshal's-men without, who are more fit for dealing with him than a
Scottish gentleman of my family and standing in the service."
"You say well," said the King; "but, at least, it belongs to thy
duty to prevent interruption, and to guard the execution of my most
just sentence."
"I will do so against all Peronne," said Le Balafré. "Your Majesty
need not doubt my fealty in that which I can reconcile to my
conscience, which, for mine own convenience and the service of your
royal Majesty, I can vouch to be a pretty large one —at least, I know
I have done some deeds for your Majesty, which I would rather have
eaten a handful of my own dagger than I would have done for any else."
"Let that rest," said the King; "and hear you —when Galeotti is
admitted, and the door shut on him, do you stand to your weapon, and
guard the entrance on the inside of the apartment. Let no one
intrude—that is all I require of you. Go hence, and send the
Provost-Marshal to me."
Balafré left the apartment accordingly, and in a minute afterwards
Tristan l'Hermite entered from the hall.
"Welcome, gossip," said the King; "what thinkest thou of our
situation?"
"As of men sentenced to death," said the Provost-Marshal, "unless
there come a reprieve from the Duke."
"Reprieved or not, he that decoyed us into this snare shall go our
fourrier to the next world, to take up lodgings for us," said the King,
with a grisly and ferocious smile. "Tristan, thou hast done many an act
of brave justice—finis—I should have said funis—coronat opus.
Thou must stand by me to the end."
"I will, my liege," said Tristan; "I am but a plain fellow, but I
am grateful. I will do my duty within these walls, or elsewhere; and
while I live, your Majesty's breath shall pour as potential a note of
condemnation, and your sentence be as literally executed, as when you
sat on your own throne. They may deal with me the next hour for it if
they will—I care not."
"It is even what I expected of thee, my loving gossip," said Louis;
"but hast thou good assistance? —the traitor is strong and
able-bodied, and will doubtless be clamorous for aid. The Scot will do
nought but keep the door; and well that he can be brought to that, by
flattery and humouring. Then Oliver is good for nothing but lying,
flattering, and suggesting dangerous counsels; and, Ventre Saint-dieu!
I think is more like one day to deserve the halter himself, than to use
it to another. Have you men, think you, and means, to make sharp and
sure work?"
"I have Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André with me," said he—"men so
expert in their office, that out of three men, they would hang up one
ere his two companions were aware. And we have all resolved to live or
die with your Majesty, knowing we shall have as short breath to draw
when you are gone, as ever fell to the lot of any of our patients.
—But what is to be our present subject, an it please your Majesty? I
love to be sure of my man; for, as your Majesty is pleased sometimes to
remind me, I have now and then mistaken the criminal, and strung up in
his place an honest labourer, who had given your Majesty no offence."
"Most true," said the other. "Know then, Tristan, that the
condemned person is Martius Galeotti.—You start, but it is even as I
say. The villain hath trained us all hither by false and treacherous
representations, that he might put us into the hands of the Duke of
Burgundy without defence."
"But not without vengeance!" said Tristan; "were it the last act of
my life, I would sting him home like an expiring wasp, should I be
crushed to pieces on the next instant!"
"I know thy trusty spirit," said the King, "and the pleasure which,
like other good men, thou dost find in the discharge of thy duty,
since virtue, as the schoolmen say, is its own reward. But away, and
prepare the priests, for the victim approaches."
"Would you have it done in your own presence, my gracious liege?"
said Tristan.
Louis declined this offer; but charged the Provost-Marshal to have
every thing ready for the punctual execution of his commands the moment
the Astrologer left his apartment; "for," said the King, "I will see
the villain once more, just to observe how he bears himself towards the
master whom he has led into the toils. I shall love to see the sense of
approaching death strike the colour from that ruddy cheek, and dim that
eye which laughed as it lied.—O, that there were but another with
him, whose counsels aided his prognostications! But if I survive
this—look to your scarlet, my Lord Cardinal! for Rome shall scarce
protect you—be it spoken under favour of Saint Peter and the blessed
Lady of Clery, who is all over mercy. —Why do you tarry? Go get your
grooms ready. I expect the villain instantly. I pray to Heaven he take
not fear and come not!—that were indeed a baulk. Begone,
Tristan—thou wert not wont to be so slow when business was to be
done."
"On the contrary, an it like your Majesty, you were ever wont to
say that I was too fast, and mistook your purpose, and did the job on
the wrong subject. Now, please your Majesty to give me a sign, just
when you part with Galeotti for the night, whether the business goes on
or no. I have known your Majesty once or twice change your mind, and
blame me for over-dispatch." [Note: Varillas, in a history of Louis
XI., observes, that his Provost-Marshal was often so precipitate in
execution as to slay another person instead of him whom the King had
indicated. This always occasioned a double execution, for the wrath or
revenge of Louis was never satisfied with a vicarious punishment.]
"Thou suspicious creature," answered King Louis, "I tell thee I
will not change my mind;— but to silence thy remonstrances, observe,
if I say to the knave at parting, 'There is a Heaven above us!' then
let the business go on; but if I say, 'Go in peace,' you will
understand that my purpose is altered."
"My head is somewhat of the dullest out of my own department," said
Tristan' l'Hermite. "Stay, let me rehearse—If you bid him depart in
peace, I am to have him dealt upon?"
"No, no—idiot, no!" said the King; "in that case you let him pass
free. But if I say, 'There is a Heaven above us!' up with him a yard or
two nearer the planets he is so conversant with."
"I wish we may have the means here," said the Provost.
"Then up with him or down with him, it matters not which," answered
the King, grimly smiling.
"And the body," said the Provost, "how shall we dispose of it?"
"Let me see an instant," said the King—"the windows of the hall
are too narrow; but that projecting oriel is wide enough. We will over
with him into the Somme, and put a paper on his breast, with the
legend, 'Let the justice of the King pass toll-free.' The Duke's
officers may seize it for duties if they dare."
The Provost-Marshal left the apartment of Louis, and summoned his
two assistants to council in an embrasure in the great hall, where
Trois-Eschelles stuck a torch against the wall to give them light. They
discoursed in whispers, little noticed by Oliver le Dain, who seemed
sunk in dejection, and Le Balafré, who was fast asleep.
"Comrades," said the Provost to his executioners, "perhaps you have
thought that our vocation was over, or that, at least, we were more
likely to be the subjects of the duty of others, than to have any more
to discharge on our own parts. But courage, my mates! our gracious
master has reserved for us one noble cast of our office, and it must be
gallantly executed, as by men who would live in history."
"Ay, I guess how it is," said Trois-Eschelles; "our patron is like
the old Kaisars of Rome, who, when things came to an extremity, or, as
we would say, to the ladder foot with them, were wont to select from
their own ministers of justice some experienced person, who might spare
their sacred persons from the awkward attempts of a novice or blunderer
in our mystery. It was a pretty custom for Ethnics; but, as a good
catholic, I should make some scruple at laying hands on the Most
Christian King."
"Nay, but, brother, you are ever too scrupulous," said Petit-André.
"If he issues word and warrant for his own execution, I see not how we
can in duty dispute it. He that dwells at Rome must obey the Pope—the
Marshal's-men must do their master's bidding, and he the King's."
"Hush, you knaves!" said the Provost-Marshal, "there is here no
purpose concerning the King's person, but only that of the Greek
heretic pagan and Mahomedan wizard, Martius Galeotti."
"Galeotti!" answered Petit-André; "that comes quite natural. I
never knew one of these legerdemain fellows, who pass their life, as
one may say, in dancing upon a tight rope, but what they came at length
to caper at the end of one—tchick!"
"My only concern is," said Trois-Eschelles, looking upwards, "that
the poor creature must die without confession."
"Tush! tush!" said the Provost-Marshal, in reply, "he is a rank
heretic and necromancer— a whole college of priests could not absolve
him from the doom he has deserved. Besides, if he hath a fancy that
way, thou hast a gift, Trois-Eschelles, to serve him for ghostly father
thyself. But, what is more material, I fear you must use your poniards,
my mates; for you have not here the fitting conveniences for the
exercise of your profession."
"Now, our Lady of the Isle of Paris forbid," said Trois-Eschelles,
"that the King's command should find me destitute of my tools! I always
wear around my body Saint Francis's cord, doubled four times, with a
handsome loop at the further end of it; for I am of the company of
Saint Francis, and may wear his cowl when I am in extremis—I thank
God and the good fathers of Saumur."
"And for me," said Petit-André, "I have always in my budget a handy
block and sheaf, or a pulley as they call it, with a strong screw for
securing it where I list, in case we should travel where trees are
scarce, or high-branched from the ground. I have found it a great
convenience."
"That will suit as well," said the Provost-Marshal; "you have but
to screw your pulley into yonder beam above the door, and pass the rope
over it. I will keep the fellow in some conversation near the spot
until you adjust the noose under his chin, and then"—
"And then we run up the rope," said Petit-André, "and, tchick! our
Astrologer is so far in Heaven, that he hath not a foot on earth."
"But these gentlemen," said Trois-Eschelles, looking towards the
chimney, "do not these help, and so take a handsel of our vocation?"
"Hem! no," answered the Provost; "the barber only contrives
mischief, which he leaves other men to execute; and for the Scot, he
keeps the door when the deed is a-doing, which he hath not spirit or
quickness sufficient to partake in more actively—every one to his
trade."
With infinite dexterity, and even a sort of professional delight
which sweetened the sense of their own precarious situation, the worthy
executioners of the Provost's mandates adapted their rope and pulley
for putting in force the sentence which had been uttered against
Galeotti by the captive Monarch —seeming to rejoice that that last
action was to be one so consistent with their past life. Tristan
l'Hermite sat eyeing their proceedings with a species of satisfaction;
while Oliver paid no attention to them whatever; and Ludovic Lesly, if,
awaked by the bustle, he looked upon them at all, considered them as
engaged in matters entirely unconnected with his own duty, and for
which he was not to be regarded as responsible in one way or other.
[Note: The author has endeavoured to give to the odious Tristan
l'Hermite a species of dogged and brutal fidelity to Louis, similar to
the attachment of a bull-dog to his master. With all the atrocity of
his execrable character, he was certainly a man of courage, and was, in
his youth, made knight on the breach of Fronsac, with a great number of
other young nobles, by the honour-giving hand of the elder Dunois, the
celebrated hero of Charles the Vth's reign.]
CHAPTER XII. RECRIMINATION.
Thy time is not yet out—the devil thou servest
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids
The friends who drudge for him, as the blind man
Was aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder
O'er rough and smooth, until he reach'd the brink
Of the fell precipice—then hurl'd him downward.
Old Play.
When obeying the command, or rather the request, of Louis,—for he
was in circumstances in which, though a monarch, he could only request
Le Glorieux to go in search of Martius Galeotti,—the jester had no
trouble in executing his commission, betaking himself at once to the
best tavern in Peronne, of which he himself was rather more than an
occasional frequenter, being a great admirer of that species of liquor
which reduced all other men's brains to a level with his own.
He found, or rather observed, the Astrologer in the corner of the
public drinking-room—stove, as it is called in German and Flemish,
from its principal furniture—sitting in close colloquy with a female
in a singular, and something like a Moorish or Asiatic garb, who, as Le
Glorieux approached Martius, rose as in the act to depart.
"These," said the stranger, "are news on which you may rely with
absolute certainty;" and with that disappeared among the crowd of
guests who sat grouped at different tables in the apartment.
"Cousin Philosopher," said the jester, presenting himself, "Heaven
no sooner relieves one sentinel than it sends another to supply the
place. One fool being gone, here I come another, to guide you to the
apartments of Louis of France."
"And art thou the messenger?" said Martius, gazing on him with
prompt apprehension, and discovering at once the jester's quality,
though less intimated, as we have before noticed, than was usual, by
his external appearance.
"Ay, sir, and like your learning," answered Le Glorieux; "when
Power sends Folly to entreat the approach of Wisdom, 'tis a sure sign
what foot the patient halts upon."
"How if I refuse to come, when summoned at so late an hour by such
a messenger?" said Galeotti.
"In that case we will consult your ease, and carry you," said Le
Glorieux. "Here are half a score of stout Burgundian yeomen at the
door, with whom He of Crèvecoeur has furnished me to that effect. For
know, that my friend Charles of Burgundy and I have not taken away our
kinsman Louis's crown, which he was ass enough to put into our power,
but have only filed and clipt it a little; and, though reduced to the
size of a spangle, it is still pure gold. In plain terms, he is still
paramount over his own people, yourself included, and Most Christian
King of the old dining-hall in the Castle of Peronne, to which you, as
his liege subject, are presently obliged to repair."
"I attend you, sir," said Martius Galeotti, and accompanied Le
Glorieux accordingly—seeing, perhaps, that no evasion was possible.
"Ay, sir," said the Fool, as they went towards the Castle, "you do
well; for we treat our kinsman as men use an old famished lion in his
cage, and thrust him now and then a calf to mumble, to keep his old
jaws in exercise."
"Do you mean," said Martius, "that the King intends me bodily
injury?"
"Nay, that you can guess better than I," said the jester; "for,
though the night be cloudy, I warrant you can see the stars through the
mist. I know nothing of the matter, not I—only my mother always told
me to go warily near an old rat in a trap, for he was never so much
disposed to bite."
The Astrologer asked no more questions, and Le Glorieux, according
to the custom of those of his class, continued to run on in a wild and
disordered strain of sarcasm and folly mingled together, until he
delivered the philosopher to the guard at the castle-gate of Peronne;
where he was passed from warder to warder, and at length admitted
within Herbert's Tower.
The hints of the jester had not been lost on Martius Galeotti, and
he saw something which seemed to confirm them in the look and manner of
Tristan, whose mode of addressing him, as he marshalled him to the
King's bedchamber, was lowering, sullen, and ominous. A close observer
of what passed on earth, as well as among the heavenly bodies, the
pulley and the rope also caught the Astrologer's eye; and as the latter
was in a state of vibration, he concluded that some one who had been
busy adjusting it had been interrupted in the work by his sudden
arrival. All this he saw, and summoned together his subtilty to evade
the impending danger, resolved, should he find that impossible, to
defend himself to the last against whomsoever should assail him.
Thus resolved, and with a step and look corresponding to the
determination he had taken, Martius presented himself before Louis,
alike unabashed at the miscarriage of his predictions, and undismayed
at the Monarch's anger, and its probable consequences.
"Every good planet be gracious to your Majesty!" said Galeotti,
with an inclination almost Oriental in manner—"Every evil
constellation withhold their influences from my royal master!"
"Methinks," replied the King, "that when you look around this
apartment, when you think where it is situated, and how guarded, your
wisdom might consider that my propitious stars had proved faithless,
and that each evil conjunction had already done its worst. Art thou not
ashamed, Martius Galeotti, to see me here, and a prisoner, when you
recollect by what assurances I was lured hither?"
"And art thou not ashamed, my royal Sire?" replied the philosopher;
"thou, whose step in science was so forward, thy apprehension so quick,
thy perseverance so unceasing,—art thou not ashamed to turn from the
first frown of fortune, like a craven from the first clash of arms?
Didst thou propose to become participant of those mysteries which raise
men above the passions, the mischances, the pains, the sorrows of life,
a state only to be attained by rivalling the firmness of the ancient
Stoic, and dost thou shrink from the first pressure of adversity, and
forfeit the glorious prize for which thou didst start as a competitor,
frightened out of the course, like a scared racer, by shadowy and
unreal evils?"
"Shadowy and unreal! frontless as thou art!" exclaimed the King,
"is this dungeon unreal?— the weapons of the guards of my detested
enemy Burgundy, which you may hear clash at the gate, are those
shadows?—What, traitor, are real evils, if imprisonment,
dethronement, and danger of life, are not so?"
"Ignorance—ignorance, my brother, and prejudice," answered the
sage, with great firmness, "are the only real evils. Believe me, that
Kings in the plenitude of power, if immersed in ignorance and
prejudice, are less free than sages in a dungeon, and loaded with
material chains. Towards this true happiness it is mine to guide
you—be it yours to attend to my instructions."
"And it is to such philosophical freedom that your lessons would
have guided me?" said the King, very bitterly. "I would you had told me
at Plessis, that the dominion promised me so liberally was an empire
over my own passions; that the success of which I was assured, related
to my progress in philosophy; and that I might become as wise and as
learned as a strolling mountebank of Italy! I might surely have
attained this mental ascendency at a more moderate price than that of
forfeiting the fairest crown in Christendom, and becoming tenant of a
dungeon in Peronne! Go, sir, and think not to escape condign
punishment—-There is a Heaven above us!"
"I leave you not to your fate," replied Martius, "until I have
vindicated, even in your eyes, darkened as they are, that reputation, a
brighter gem than the brightest in thy crown, and at which the world
shall wonder, ages after all the race of Capet are mouldered into
oblivion in the charnels of Saint Denis."
"Speak on," said Louis; "thine impudence cannot make me change my
purposes or my opinion— Yet as I may never again pass judgment as a
King, I will not censure thee unheard. Speak, then— though the best
thou canst say will be to speak the truth. Confess that I am a dupe,
thou an impostor, thy pretended science a dream, and the planets which
shine above us as little influential of our destiny, as their shadows,
when reflected in the river, are capable of altering its course."
"And how know'st thou," answered the Astrologer, boldly, "the
secret influence of younder blessed lights? Speak'st thou of their
inability to influence waters, when yet thou know'st that even the
weakest, the moon herself,—weakest because nearest to this wretched
earth of ours,—holds under her domination, not such poor streams as
the Somme, but the tides of the mighty ocean itself, which ebb and
increase as her disk waxes and wanes, and watch her influence as a
slave waits the nod of a Sultana? And now, Louis of Valois, answer my
parable in turn—Confess, art thou not like the foolish passenger, who
becomes wroth with his pilot because he cannot bring the vessel into
harbour without experiencing occasionally the adverse force of winds
and currents? I could indeed point to thee the probable issue of thine
enterprise as prosperous, but it was in the power of Heaven alone to
conduct thee thither; and if the path be rough and dangerous, was it in
my power to smooth or render it more safe? Where is thy wisdom of
yesterday, which taught thee so truly to discern that the ways of
destiny are often ruled to our advantage, though in opposition to our
wishes?"
"You remind me—you remind me," said the King, hastily, "of one
specific falsehood. You foretold, yonder Scot should accomplish his
enterprise fortunately for my interest and honour; and thou knowest it
has so terminated, that no more mortal injury could I have received,
than from the impression which the issue of that affair is like to make
on the excited brain of the Mad Bull of Burgundy. This is a direct
falsehood—Thou canst plead no evasion here—canst refer to no remote
favourable turn of the tide, for which, like an idiot sitting on the
bank until the river shall pass away, thou wouldst have me wait
contentedly.—Here thy craft deceived thee—Thou wert weak enough to
make a specific prediction, which has proved directly false."
"Which will prove most firm and true," answered the Astrologer,
boldly. "I would desire no greater triumph of art over ignorance, than
that prediction and its accomplishment will afford. I told thee he
would be faithful in any honourable commission —Hath he not been
so?—I told thee he would be scrupulous in aiding any evil
enterprise—Hath he not proved so? If you doubt it, go ask the
Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin."
The King here coloured deeply with shame and anger.
"I told thee," continued the Astrologer, "that the conjunction of
planets under which he set forth, augured danger to the person—and
hath not his path been beset by danger?—I told thee that it augured
an advantage to the sender—and of that thou wilt soon have the
benefit."
"Soon have the benefit!" exclaimed the King; "Have I not the result
already, in disgrace and imprisonment?"
"No," answered the Astrologer, "the End is not as yet—thine own
tongue shall ere long confess the benefit which thou hast received,
from the manner in which the messenger bore himself in discharging thy
commission."
"This is too—too insolent," said the King, "at once to deceive
and to insult—But hence!—think not my wrongs shall be
unavenged.—There is a Heaven above us!."
Galeotti turned to depart. "Yet stop," said Louis—"thou bearest
thine imposture bravely out —Let me hear your answer to one question,
and think ere you speak.—Can thy pretended skill ascertain the hour
of thine own death?"
"Only by referring to the fate of another," said Galeotti.
"I understand not thine answer," said Louis.
"Know then, O King," said Martius, "that this only I can tell with
certainty concerning mine own death, that it shall take place exactly
twenty-four hours before that of your Majesty." [Note:
Martius Galeotti. The death of Martius Galeotti was in some degree
connected with Louis XI. The astrologer was at Lyons, and hearing that
the King was approaching the city, got on horseback in order to meet
him. As he threw himself hastily from his horse to pay his respects to
the King, he fell with a violence which, joined to his extreme
corpulence, was the cause of his death in 1478.
But the acute and ready-witted expedient to escape instant death,
had no reference to the history of this philosopher. The same, or
nearly the same story, is told of Tiberius, who demanded of a
soothsayer, Thrasullus, if he knew the day of his own death, and
received for answer, it would take place just three days before that of
the Emperor. On this reply, instead of being thrown over the rocks into
the sea, as had been the tyrant's first intention, he was taken great
care of for the rest of his life.—Taciti Annal. lib. vi. cap. 22.
The circumstances in which Louis XI. received a similar reply from
an astrologer are as follow:—The soothsayer in question had presaged
that a female favourite, to whom the King was very much attached,
should die in a week. As he proved a true prophet, the King was as much
incensed as if the astrologer could have prevented the evil he
predicted. He sent for the philosopher, and had a party stationed to
assassinate him as he retired from the royal presence. Being asked by
the King concerning his own fortunes, he confessed that he perceived
signs of some imminent danger. Being farther questioned concerning the
day of his own death, he was shrewd enough to answer with composure,
that it would be exactly three days before that of his Majesty. There
was, of course, care taken that he should escape his destined fate; and
he was ever after much protected by the King, as a man of real science,
and intimately connected with the royal destinies.
Although almost all the historians of Louis represent him as a dupe
to the common but splendid imposture of judicial astrology, yet his
credulity could not be deep-rooted, if the following anecdote, reported
by Bayle, be correct.
Upon one occasion, Louis intending to hunt, and doubtful of the
weather, enquired of an astrologer near his person whether it would be
fair. The sage, having recourse to his astrolabe, answered with
confidence in the affirmative. At the entrance of the forest the royal
cortège was met by a charcoalman, who expressed to some menials of the
train his surprise that the King should have thought of hunting in a
day which threatened tempest. The collier's prediction proved true. The
King and his court were driven from their sport well drenched; and
Louis, having heard what the collier had said, ordered the man before
him. "How were you more accurate in foretelling the weather, my
friend," said he, "than this learned man?" —"I am an ignorant man,
Sire," answered the collier, "was never at school, and cannot read or
write. But I have an astrologer of my own, who shall foretell weather
with any of them. It is, with reverence, the ass who carries my
charcoal, who always, when bad weather is approaching, points forward
his ears, walks more slowly than usual, and tries to rub himself
against walls; and it was from these signs that I foretold yesterday's
storm." The King burst into a fit of laughing, dismissed the
astrological biped, and assigned the collier a small pension to
maintain the quadruped, swearing he would never in future trust to any
other astrologer than the charcoalman's ass.
But if there is any truth in this story, the credulity of Louis was
not of a nature to be removed by the failure there mentioned. He is
said to have believed in the prediction of Angelo Cattho, his
physician, and the friend of Comines, who foretold the death of Charles
of Burgundy in the very time and hour when it took place at the battle
of Morat. Upon this assurance, Louis vowed a silver screen to the
shrine of Saint Martin, which he afterwards fulfilled at the expense of
one hundred thousand francs. It is well known, besides, that he was the
abject and devoted slave of his physicians. Coctier, or Cottier, one of
their number, besides the retaining fee of ten thousand crowns,
extorted from his royal patient great sums in lands and money, and, in
addition to all, the Bishopric of Amiens for his nephew. He maintained
over Louis unbounded influence, by using to him the most disrespectful
harshness and insolence. "I know," he said to the suffering King, "that
one morning you will turn me adrift like so many others. But, by
Heaven, you had better beware, for you will not live eight days after
you have done so!" It is unnecessary to dwell longer on the fears and
superstitions of a prince, whom the wretched love of life induced to
submit to such indignities.
]
"Ha! say'st thou?" said Louis, his countenance again
altering.—"Hold—hold—go not—wait one moment.—Saidst thou, my
death should follow thine so closely?"
"Within the space of twenty-four hours," repeated Galeotti, firmly,
"if there be one sparkle of true divination in those bright and
mysterious intelligences, which speak, each on their courses, though
without a tongue.—I wish your Majesty good rest."
"Hold—hold—go not," said the King, taking him by the arm, and
leading him from the door. "Martius Galeotti, I have been a kind master
to thee—enriched thee—made thee my friend—my companion—the
instructor of my studies.—Be open with me, I entreat you.—Is there
aught in this art of yours in very deed?—Shall this Scot's mission
be, in fact, propitious to me?—And is the measure of our lives so
very—very nearly matched? Confess, my good Martius, you speak after
the trick of your trade—Confess, I pray you, and you shall have no
displeasure at my hand. I am in years— a prisoner—likely to be
deprived of a kingdom— to one in my condition truth is worth
kingdoms, and it is from thee, dearest Martius, that I must look for
this inestimable jewel."
"And I have laid it before your Majesty," said Galeotti, "at the
risk that, in brutal passion, you might turn upon me and rend me."
"Who, I, Galeotti?" replied Louis mildly; "Alas! thou mistakest
me!—Am I not captive,— and should not I be patient, especially
since my anger can only show my impotence?—Tell me then in
sincerity—Have you fooled me?—Or is your science true, and do you
truly report it?"
"Your Majesty will forgive me if I reply to you," said Martius
Galeotti, "that time only— time and the event, will convince
incredulity. It suits ill the place of confidence which I have held at
the council-table of the renowned conqueror, Matthias Corvinus of
Hungary—nay, in the cabinet of the Emperor himself—to reiterate
assurances of that which I have advanced as true. If you will not
believe me, I can but refer to the course of events. A day, or two
days' patience, will prove or disprove what I have averred concerning
the young Scot; and I will be contented to die on the wheel, and have
my limbs broken joint by joint, if your Majesty have not advantage, and
that in a most important degree, from the dauntless conduct of that
Quentin Durward. But if I were to die under such tortures, it would be
well your Majesty should seek a ghostly father; for, from the moment my
last groan is drawn, only twenty-four hours will remain to you for
confession and penitence."
Louis continued to keep hold of Galeotti's robe as he led him
towards the door, and pronounced as he opened it, in a loud voice,
"To-morrow we'll talk more of this. Go in peace, my learned father
—Go in peace—Go in peace!"
He repeated these words three times; and, still afraid that the
Provost-Marshal might mistake his purpose, he led the Astrologer into
the hall, holding fast his robe, as if afraid that he should be torn
from him, and put to death before his eyes. He did not unloose his
grasp until he had not only repeated again and again the gracious
phrase, "Go in peace," but even made a private signal to the
Provost-Marshal, to enjoin a suspension of all proceedings against the
person of the Astrologer.
Thus did the possession of some secret information, joined to
audacious courage and readiness of wit, save Galeotti from the most
imminent danger; and thus was Louis, the most sagacious as well as the
most vindictive, amongst the monarchs of the period, cheated of his
revenge by the influence of superstition upon a selfish temper, and a
mind to which, from the consciousness of many crimes, the fear of death
was peculiarly terrible.
He felt, however, considerable mortification at being obliged to
relinquish his purposed vengeance; and the disappointment seemed to be
shared by his satellites, to whom the execution was to have been
committed. Le Balafré alone, perfectly indifferent on the subject, so
soon as the countermanding signal was given, left the door at which he
had posted himself, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.
The Provost-Marshal, as the group reclined themselves to repose in
the hall after the King retired to his bedchamber, continued to eye the
goodly form of the Astrologer, with the look of the mastiff watching a
joint of meat which the cook had retrieved from his jaws, while his
attendants communicated to each other in brief sentences their
characteristic sentiments.
"The poor blinded necromancer," whispered Trois-Eschelles, with an
air of spiritual unction and commiseration, to his comrade, Petit
André, "hath lost the fairest chance of expiating some of his vile
sorceries, by dying through means of the cord of the blessed Saint
Francis! and I had purpose, indeed, to leave the comfortable noose
around his neck, to scare the foul fiend from his unhappy carcass."
"And I," said Petit-André, "have missed the rarest opportunity of
knowing how far a weight of seventeen stone will stretch a three-plied
cord! —It would have been a glorious experiment in our line,—and
the jolly old boy would have died so easily!"
While this whispered dialogue was going forward, Martius, who had
taken the opposite side of the huge stone fire-place, round which the
whole group was assembled, regarded them askance, and with a look of
suspicion. He first put his hand into his vest, and satisfied himself
that the handle of a very sharp double-edged poniard, which he always
carried about him, was disposed conveniently for his grasp; for, as we
have already noticed, he was, though now somewhat unwieldy, a powerful,
athletic man, and prompt and active at the use of his weapon. Satisfied
that this trusty instrument was in readiness, he next took from his
bosom a scroll of parchment, inscribed with Greek characters, and
marked with cabalistic signs, drew together the wood in the fire-place,
and made a blaze by which he could distinguish the features and
attitude of all who sat or lay around—the heavy and deep slumbers of
the Scottish soldier, who lay motionless, with his rough countenance as
immovable as if it were cast in bronze—the pale and anxious face of
Oliver, who at one time assumed the appearance of slumber, and again
opened his eyes and raised his head hastily, as if stung by some
internal throe, or awakened by some distant sound—the discontented,
savage, bull-dog aspect of the Provost, who looked
—"frustrate of his will,
Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill"—
while the background was filled up by the ghastly hypocritical
countenance of Trois-Eschelles, whose eyes were cast up towards Heaven,
as if he was internally saying his devotions; and the grim drollery of
Petit-André, who amused himself with mimicking the gestures and wry
faces of his comrade before he betook himself to sleep.
Amidst these vulgar and ignoble countenances, nothing could show to
greater advantage than the stately form, handsome mien, and commanding
features of the Astrologer, who might have passed for one of the
ancient magi, imprisoned in a den of robbers, and about to invoke a
spirit to accomplish his liberation. And, indeed, had he been
distinguished by nothing else than the beauty of the graceful and
flowing beard which descended over the mysterious roll which he held in
his hand, one might have been pardoned for regretting that so noble an
appendage had been bestowed on one, who put both talents, learning, and
the advantages of eloquence, and a majestic person, to the mean
purposes of a cheat and an impostor.
Thus passed the night in Count Herbert's Tower, in the Castle of
Peronne. When the first light of dawn penetrated the ancient Gothic
chamber, the King summoned Oliver to his presence, who found the
Monarch sitting in his nightgown, and was astonished at the alteration
which one night of mortal anxiety had made in his looks. He would have
expressed some anxiety on the subject, but the King silenced him by
entering into a statement of the various modes by which he had
previously endeavoured to form friends at the Court of Burgundy, and
which Oliver was charged to prosecute so soon as he should be permitted
to stir abroad. And never was that wily minister more struck with the
clearness of the King's intellect, and his intimate knowledge of all
the springs which influence human actions, than he was during that
memorable consultation.
About two hours afterwards, Oliver accordingly obtained permission
from the Count of Crèvecoeur to go out and execute the commissions
which his master had intrusted him with; and Louis, sending for the
Astrologer, in whom he seemed to have renewed his faith, held with him,
in like manner, a long consultation, the issue of which appeared to
give him more spirits and confidence than he had at first exhibited; so
that he dressed himself, and received the morning compliments of
Crèvecoeur with a calmness, at which the Burgundian Lord could not help
wondering, the rather that he had already heard that the Duke had
passed several hours in a state of mind which seemed to render the
King's safety very precarious.
CHAPTER XIII. UNCERTAINTY.
Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark,
That reels amid the strife of meeting currents.
Old Play.
If the night passed by Louis was carefully anxious and agitated,
that spent by the Duke of Burgundy, who had at no time the same mastery
over his passions, and, indeed, who permitted them almost a free and
uncontrolled dominion over his actions, was still more disturbed.
According to the custom of the period, two of his principal and
most favoured counsellors, D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines, shared his
bedchamber, couches being prepared for them near the bed of the prince.
Their attendance was never more necessary than upon this night, when,
distracted by sorrow, by passion, by the desire of revenge, and by the
sense of honour, which forbade him to exercise it upon Louis in his
present condition, the Duke's mind resembled a volcano in eruption,
which throws forth all the different contents of the mountain, mingled
and molten into one burning mass.
He refused to throw off his clothes, or to make any preparation for
sleep; but spent the night in a succession of the most violent bursts
of passion. In some paroxysms he talked incessantly to his attendants
so thick and so rapidly, that they were really afraid his senses would
give way; choosing for his theme, the merits and the kindness of heart
of the murdered Bishop of Liege, and recalling all the instances of
mutual kindness, affection, and confidence, which had passed between
them, until he had worked himself into such a transport of grief, that
he threw himself upon his face in the bed, and seemed ready to choke
with the sobs and tears which he endeavoured to stifle. Then starting
from the couch, he gave vent at once to another and more furious mood,
and traversed the room hastily, uttering incoherent threats, and still
more incoherent oaths of vengeance, while stamping with his foot,
according to his customary action, he invoked Saint George, Saint
Andrew, and whomsoever else he held most holy, to bear witness, that he
would take bloody vengeance on De la Marck, on the people of Liege, and
on him who was the author of the whole.—These last threats, uttered
more obscurely than the others, obviously concerned the person of the
King; and at one time the Duke expressed his determination to send for
the Duke of Normandy, the brother of the King, and with whom Louis was
on the worst terms, in order to compel the captive monarch to surrender
either the Crown itself, or some of its most valuable rights and
appanages.
Another day and night passed in the same stormy and fitful
deliberations, or rather rapid transitions of passion; for the Duke
scarcely ate or drank, never changed his dress, and, altogether,
demeaned himself like one in whom rage might terminate in utter
insanity. By degrees he became more composed, and began to hold, from
time to time, consultations with his ministers, in which much was
proposed, but nothing resolved on. Comines assures us, that at one time
a courier was mounted in readiness to depart for the purpose of
summoning the Duke of Normandy; and in that event, the prison of the
French monarch would probably have been found, as in similar cases, a
brief road to his grave.
At other times, when Charles had exhausted his fury, he sat with
his features fixed in stern and rigid immobility, like one who broods
over some desperate deed to which he is as yet unable to work up his
resolution. And unquestionably it would have needed little more than an
insidious hint from any of the counsellors who attended his person, to
have pushed the Duke to some very desperate action. But the nobles of
Burgundy, from the sacred character attached to the person of a King,
and a Lord Paramount, and from a regard to the public faith, as well as
that of their Duke, which had been pledged when Louis threw himself
into their power, were almost unanimously inclined to recommend
moderate measures; and the arguments which D'Hymbercourt and Des
Comines had now and then ventured to insinuate during the night, were,
in the cooler hours of the next morning, advanced and urged by
Crèvecoeur and others. Possibly their zeal in behalf of the King might
not be entirely disinterested. Many, as we have mentioned, had already
experienced the bounty of the King; others had either estates or
pretensions in France, which placed them a little under his influence;
and it is certain that the treasure, which had loaded four mules when
the King entered Peronne, became much lighter in the course of these
negotiations.
In the course of the third day, the Count of Campo-basso brought
his Italian wit to assist the counsels of Charles; and well was it for
Louis, that he had not arrived when the Duke was in his first fury.
Immediately on his arrival, a regular meeting of the Duke's counsellors
was convened, for considering the measures to be adopted in this
singular crisis.
On this occasion, Campo-basso gave his opinion, couched in the
apologue of the Traveller, the Adder, and the Fox; and reminded the
Duke of the advice which Reynard gave to the man, that he should crush
his mortal enemy, now that chance had placed his fate at his disposal.
Des Comines, who saw the Duke's eyes sparkle at a proposal which his
own violence of temper had already repeatedly suggested, hastened to
state the possibility, that Louis might not be, in fact, so directly
accessary to the sanguinary action which had been committed at
Schonwaldt; that he might be able to clear himself of the imputation
laid to his charge, and perhaps to make other atonement for the
distractions which his intrigues had occasioned in the Duke's
dominions, and those of his allies; and that an act of violence
perpetrated on the King, was sure to bring both on France and Burgundy
a train of the most unhappy consequences, among which not the least to
be feared was, that the English might avail themselves of the
commotions and civil discord which must needs ensue, to repossess
themselves of Normandy and Guyenne, and renew those dreadful wars,
which had only, and with difficulty, been terminated by the union of
both France and Burgundy against the common enemy. Finally, he
confessed, that he did not mean to urge the absolute and free dismissal
of Louis; but only, that the Duke should avail himself no farther of
his present condition, than merely to establish a fair and equitable
treaty between the countries, with such security on the King's part, as
should make it difficult for him to break his faith, or disturb the
internal peace of Burgundy in future. D'Hymbercourt, Crèvecoeur, and
others, signified their reprobation of the violent measures proposed by
Campo-basso, and their opinion, that in the way of treaty more
permanent advantages could be obtained, and in a manner more honourable
for Burgundy, than by an action which would stain her with a breach of
faith and hospitality.
The Duke listened to these arguments with his looks fixed on the
ground, and his brows so knitted together as to bring his bushy
eyebrows into one mass. But when Crèvecoeur proceeded to say, that he
did not believe Louis either knew of, or was accessary to, the
atrocious act of violence committed at Schonwaldt, Charles raised his
head, and darting a fierce look at his counsellor, exclaimed, "Have you
too, Crèvecoeur, heard the gold of France clink?—Methinks it rings
in my councils as merrily as ever the bells of Saint Dennis—Dare any
one say that Louis is not the fomenter of these feuds in Flanders?"
"My gracious lord," said Crèvecoeur, "my hand has ever been more
conversant with steel than with gold; and so far am I from holding that
Louis is free from the charge of having caused the disturbances in
Flanders, that it is not long since, in the face of his whole Court, I
charged him with that breach of faith, and offered him defiance in your
name. But although his intrigues have been doubtless the original cause
of these commotions, I am so far from believing that he authorized the
death of the Archbishop, that I believe one of his emissaries publicly
protested against it; and I could produce the man, were it your Grace's
pleasure to see him."
"It is our pleasure," said the Duke. "Saint George! can you doubt
that we desire to act justly? Even in the highest flight of our
passion, we are known for an upright and a just judge. We will see
France ourself—we will ourself charge him with our wrongs, and
ourself state to him the reparation which we expect and demand. If he
shall be found guiltless of this murder, the atonement for other crimes
may be more easy—If he hath been guilty, who shall say that a life of
penitence in some retired monastery were not a most deserved and a most
merciful doom?—Who," he added, kindling as he spoke, "who shall dare
to blame a revenge yet more direct and more speedy? Let your witness
attend—We will to the Castle at the hour before noon. Some articles
we will minute down with which he shall comply, or woe on his head!
others shall depend upon the proof. Break up the council, and dismiss
yourselves. I will but change my dress, as this is scarce a fitting
trim in which to wait on my most gracious Sovereign."
With a deep and bitter emphasis on the last expression, the Duke
arose, and strode out of the room.
"Louis's safety, and, what is worse, the honour of Burgundy, depend
on a cast of the dice," said D'Hymbercourt to Crèvecoeur and to Des
Comines —"Haste thee to the Castle, Des Comines—thou hast a better
filed tongue than either Crèvecoeur or I. Explain to Louis what storm
is approaching—he will best know how to pilot himself. I trust this
life-guardsman will say nothing which can aggravate; for who knows what
may have been the secret commission with which he was charged?"
"The young man," said Crèvecoeur, "seems bold, yet prudent and wary
far beyond his years. In all which he said to me he was tender of the
King's character, as of that of the Prince whom he serves. I trust he
will be equally so in the Duke's presence. I must go seek him, and also
the young Countess of Croye."
"The Countess!—you told us you had left her at Saint Bridget's
Nunnery?"
"Ay, but I was obliged," said the Count, "to send for her express,
by the Duke's orders; and she has been brought hither on a litter, as
being unable to travel otherwise. She was in a state of the deepest
distress, both on account of the uncertainty of the fate of her
kinswoman, the Lady Hameline, and the gloom which overhangs her own;
guilty as she has been of a feudal delinquency, in withdrawing herself
from the protection of her liege lord, Duke Charles, who is not the
person in the world most likely to view with indifference what trenches
on his seigniorial rights."
The information that the young Countess was in the hands of
Charles, added fresh and more pointed thorns to Louis's reflections. He
was conscious that, by explaining the intrigues by which he had induced
the Lady Hameline and her to resort to Peronne, she might supply that
evidence which he had removed by the execution of Zamet Maugrabin; and
he knew well how much such proof of his having interfered with the
rights of the Duke of Burgundy, would furnish both motive and pretext
for Charles's availing himself to the uttermost of his present
predicament.
Louis discoursed on these matters with great anxiety to the Sieur
Des Comines, whose acute and political talents better suited the King's
temper than the blunt martial character of Crèvecoeur, or the feudal
haughtiness of D'Hymbercourt.
"These iron-handed soldiers, my good friend Comines," he said to
his future historian, "should never enter a King's cabinet, but be left
with the halberds and partisans in the antechamber. Their hands are
indeed made for our use, but the monarch who puts their heads to any
better occupation than that of anvils for his enemies' swords and
maces, ranks with the fool who presented his mistress with a dog-leash
for a carcanet. It is with such as thou, Philip, whose eyes are gifted
with the quick and keen sense that sees beyond the exterior surface of
affairs, that Princes should share their council-table, their
cabinet—what do I say?—the most secret recesses of their soul."
Des Comines, himself so keen a spirit, was naturally gratified with
the approbation of the most sagacious Prince in Europe; and he could
not so far disguise his internal satisfaction, but that Louis was aware
he had made some impression on him.
"I would," continued he, "that I had such a servant, or rather that
I were worthy to have such a one! I had not then been in this
unfortunate situation; which, nevertheless, I should hardly regret,
could I but discover any means of securing the services of so
experienced a statist."
Des Comines said, that all his faculties, such as they were, were
at the service of his Most Christian Majesty, saving always his
allegiance to his rightful lord, Duke Charles of Burgundy.
"And am I one who would seduce you from that allegiance?" said
Louis, pathetically. "Alas! am I not now endangered by having reposed
too much confidence in my vassal? and can the cause of feudal good
faith be more sacred with any than with me, whose safety depends on an
appeal to it?—No, Philip Des Comines—continue to serve Charles of
Burgundy; and you will best serve him, by bringing round a fair
accommodation with Louis of France. In doing thus, you will serve us
both, and one, at least, will be grateful. I am told your appointments
in this Court hardly match those of the Grand Falconer; and thus the
services of the wisest counsellor in Europe are put on a level, or
rather ranked below, those of a fellow who feeds and physics kites!
France has wide lands—her King has much gold. Allow me, my friend, to
rectify this scandalous inequality. The means are not distant —Permit
me to use them."
The King produced a weighty bag of money; but Des Comines, more
delicate in his sentiments than most courtiers of that time, declined
the proffer, declaring himself perfectly satisfied with the liberality
of his native Prince, and assuring Louis that his desire to serve him
could not be increased by the acceptance of any such gratuity as he had
proposed.
"Singular man!" exclaimed the King; "let me embrace the only
courtier of his time, at once capable and incorruptible. Wisdom is to
be desired more than fine gold; and believe me, I trust in thy
kindness, Philip, at this pinch, more than I do in the purchased
assistance of many who have received my gifts. I know you will not
counsel your master to abuse such an opportunity, as fortune, and, to
speak plain, Des Comines, as my own folly, has afforded him."
"To abuse it, by no means," answered the historian; "but most
certainly to use it."
"How, and in what degree?" said Louis. "I am not ass enough to
expect that I shall escape without some ransom—but let it be a
reasonable one—reason I am ever willing to listen to—at Paris or at
Plessis, equally as at Peronne."
"Ah, but if it like your Majesty," replied Des Comines, "Reason at
Paris or Plessis was used to speak in so low and soft a tone of voice,
that she could not always gain an audience of your Majesty —at
Peronne, she borrows the speaking-trumpet of Necessity, and her voice
becomes lordly and imperative."
"You are figurative," said Louis, unable to restrain an emotion of
peevishness; "I am a dull, blunt man, Sir of Comines. I pray you leave
your tropes, and come to plain ground. What does your Duke expect of
me?"
"I am the bearer of no propositions, my lord," said Des Comines;
"the Duke will soon explain his own pleasure; but some things occur to
me as proposals, for which your Majesty ought to hold yourself
prepared. As, for example, the final cession of these towns here upon
the Somme."
"I expected so much," said Louis.
"That you should disown the Liegeois, and William de la Marck."
"As willingly as I disclaim Hell and Satan," said Louis.
"Ample security will be required, by hostages, or occupation of
fortresses, or otherwise, that France shall in future abstain from
stirring up rebellion among the Flemings."
"It is something new," answered the King, "that a vassal should
demand pledges from his Sovereign: but let that pass too."
"A suitable and independent appanage for your illustrious brother,
the ally and friend of my master— Normandy or Champagne. The Duke
loves your father's house, my Liege."
"So well," answered Louis, "that, mort Dieu! he's about to make
them all kings.—Is your budget of hints yet emptied?"
"Not entirely," answered the counsellor: "it will certainly be
required that your Majesty shall forbear molesting, as you have done of
late, the Duke de Bretagne, and that you will no longer contest the
right, which he and other grand feudatories have, to strike money, to
term themselves dukes and princes by the grace of God"—
"In a word, to make so many kings of my vassals. Sir Philip, would
you make a fratricide of me?—You remember well my brother Charles—
he was no sooner Duke of Guyenne than he died. —And what will be left
to the descendant and representative of Charlemagne, after giving away
these rich provinces, save to be smeared with oil at Rheims, and to eat
his dinner under a high canopy?"
"We will diminish your Majesty's concern on that score, by giving
you a companion in that solitary exaltation," said Philip des
Comines.—"The Duke of Burgundy, though he claims not at present the
title of an independent king, desires nevertheless to be freed in
future from the abject marks of subjection required of him to the crown
of France;—it is his purpose to close his ducal coronet with an
imperial arch, and surmount it with a globe, in emblem that his
dominions are independent."
"And how dares the Duke of Burgundy, the sworn vassal of France,"
exclaimed Louis, starting up, and showing an unwonted degree of
emotion— "how dares he propose such terms to his Sovereign, as, by
every law of Europe, should infer a forfeiture of his fief?"
"The doom of forfeiture it would in this case be difficult to
enforce," answered Des Comines, calmly. —"Your Majesty is aware, that
the strict interpretation of the feudal law is becoming obsolete even
in the Empire, and that superior and vassal endeavour to mend their
situation in regard to each other, as they have power and
opportunity.—Your Majesty's interferences with the Duke's vassals in
Flanders will prove an exculpation of my master's conduct, supposing
him to insist that, by enlarging his independence, France should in
future be debarred from any pretext of doing so."
"Comines, Comines!" said Louis, arising again, and pacing the room
in a pensive manner, "this is a dreadful lesson on the text Væ
victis!—You cannot mean that the Duke will insist on all these hard
conditions?"
"At least I would have your Majesty be in a condition to discuss
them all."
"Yet moderation, Des Comines, moderation in success, is—no one
knows better than you—necessary to its ultimate advantage."
"So please your Majesty, the merit of moderation is, I have
observed, most apt to be extolled by the losing party. The winner holds
in more esteem the prudence which calls on him not to leave an
opportunity unimproved."
"Well, we will consider"—replied the King; "but at least thou
hast reached the extremity of your Duke's unreasonable exaction? there
can remain nothing—or if there does, for so thy brow intimates—what
is it—what indeed can it be—unless it be my crown? which these
previous demands, if granted, will deprive of all its lustre!"
"My lord," said Des Comines, "what remains to be mentioned, is a
thing partly—indeed in a great measure—within the Duke's own power,
though he means to invite your Majesty's accession to it, for in truth
it touches you nearly."
"Pasques-dieu!" exclaimed the King impatiently, "what is
it?—Speak out, Sir Philip—am I to send him my daughter for a
concubine, or what other dishonour is he to put on me?"
"No dishonour, my liege; but your Majesty's cousin, the illustrious
Duke of Orleans"—
"Ha!" exclaimed the King; but Des Comines proceeded without heeding
the interruption.
"—Having conferred his affections on the young Countess Isabelle
de Croye, the Duke expects your Majesty will, on your part, as he on
his, yield your assent to the marriage, and unite with him in endowing
the right noble couple with such an appanage, as, joined to the
Countess's estates, may form a fit establishment for a child of
France."
"Never, never!" said the King, bursting out into that emotion which
he had of late suppressed with much difficulty, and striding about in a
disordered haste, which formed the strongest contrast to the
self-command which he usually exhibited,—"Never, never!—let them
bring scissors, and shear my hair like that of the parish-fool, whom I
have so richly resembled! let them bid the monastery or the grave yawn
for me—let them bring redhot basins to sear my eyes—axe or
aconite—whatever they will—but Orleans shall not break his plighted
faith to my daughter, or marry another while she lives!"
"Your Majesty," said Des Comines, "ere you set your mind so keenly
against what is proposed, will consider your own want of power to
prevent it. Every wise man, when he sees a rock giving way, withdraws
from the bootless attempt of preventing the fall."
"But a brave man," said Louis, "will at least find his grave
beneath it. Des Comines, consider the great loss—the utter
destruction, such a marriage will bring upon my kingdom. Recollect, I
have but one feeble boy, and this Orleans is the next heir—consider
that the church hath consented to his union with Joan, which unites so
happily the interests of both branches of my family,—think on all
this, and think too that this union has been the favourite scheme of my
whole life—that I have schemed for it, fought for it, watched for it,
prayed for it,—and sinned for it. Philip des Comines, I will not
forego it! Think, man, think!—pity me in this extremity—thy quick
brain can speedily find some substitute for this sacrifice—some ram
to be offered up instead of that project which is dear to me as the
Patriarch's only son was to him. Philip, pity me!—you, at least,
should know, that to men of judgment and foresight, the destruction of
the scheme on which they have long dwelt, and for which they have long
toiled, is more inexpressibly bitter than the transient grief of
ordinary men, whose pursuits are but the gratification of some
temporary passion—you, who know how to sympathize with the deeper,
the more genuine distress of baffled prudence and disappointed
sagacity,— will you not feel for me?"
"My Lord and King!" replied Des Comines, "I do sympathize with your
distress, in so far as duty to my master"—
"Do not mention him!" said Louis, acting, or at least appearing to
act, under an irresistible and headlong impulse, which withdrew the
usual guard which he maintained over his language—"Charles of
Burgundy is unworthy of your attachment. He who can insult and strike
his counsellors—he who can distinguish the wisest and most faithful
among them, by the opprobrious name of Booted-Head!"—
The wisdom of Philip des Comines did not prevent his having a high
sense of personal consequence; and he was so much struck with the words
which the King uttered, as it were, in the career of a passion which
overleaped ceremony, that he could only reply by repetition of the
words "Booted-Head! It is impossible that my master the Duke could
have so termed the servant who has been at his side since he could
mount a palfrey—and that too before a foreign monarch?—it is
impossible!"
Louis instantly saw the impression he had made, and avoiding alike
a tone of condolence, which might have seemed insulting, and one of
sympathy, which might have savoured of affectation, he said, with
simplicity, and at the same time with dignity, "My misfortunes make me
forget my courtesy, else I had not spoken to you of what it must be
unpleasant for you to hear. But you have in reply taxed me with having
uttered impossibilities—this touches my honour; yet I must submit to
the charge, if I tell you not the circumstances which the Duke,
laughing until his eyes ran over, assigned for the origin of that
opprobrious name, which I will not offend your ears by repeating. Thus,
then, it chanced. You, Sir Philip Des Comines, were at a hunting-match
with the Duke of Burgundy, your master; and when he alighted after the
chase, he required your services in drawing off his boots. Reading in
your looks, perhaps, some natural resentment of this disparaging
treatment, he ordered you to sit down in turn, and rendered you the
same office he had just received from you. But offended at your
understanding him literally, he no sooner plucked one of your boots
off, than he brutally beat it about your head till the blood flowed,
exclaiming against the insolence of a subject, who had the presumption
to accept of such a service at the hand of his Sovereign; and hence he,
or his privileged fool Le Glorieux, is in the current habit of
distinguishing you by the absurd and ridiculous name of Têtebottè,
which makes one of the Duke's most ordinary subjects of pleasantry."
[Note: The story is told more bluntly, and less probably, in the French
memoirs of the period, which affirm that Comines, out of a presumption
inconsistent with his excellent good sense, had asked of Charles of
Burgundy to draw off his boots, without having been treated with any
previous familiarity to lead to such a freedom. I have endeavoured to
give the anecdote a turn more consistent with the sense and prudence of
the great author concerned.]
While Louis thus spoke, he had the double pleasure of galling to
the quick the person whom he addressed—an exercise which it was in
his nature to enjoy, even where he had not, as in the present case, the
apology, that he did so in pure retaliation, —and that of observing
that he had at length been able to find a point in Des Comines'
character which might lead him gradually from the interests of Burgundy
to those of France. But although the deep resentment which the offended
courtier entertained against his master induced him at a future period
to exchange the service of Charles for that of Louis, yet, at the
present moment, he was contented to throw out only some general hints
of his friendly inclination towards France, which he well knew the King
would understand how to interpret. And indeed it would be unjust to
stigmatize the memory of the excellent historian with the desertion of
his master on this occasion, although he was certainly now possessed
with sentiments much more favourable to Louis than when he entered the
apartment.
He constrained himself to laugh at the anecdote which Louis had
detailed, and then added, "I did not think so trifling a frolic would
have dwelt on the mind of the Duke so long as to make it worth telling
again. Some such passage there was of drawing off boots and the like,
as your Majesty knows that the Duke is fond of rude play; but it has
been much exaggerated in his recollection. Let it pass on."
"Ay, let it pass on," said the King; "it is indeed shame it should
have detained us a minute.—And now, Sir Philip, I hope you are French
so far as to afford me yor best counsel in these difficult affairs. You
have, I am well aware, the clew to the labyrinth, if you would but
impart it."
"Your Majesty may command my best advice and service," replied Des
Comines, "under reservation always of my duty to my own master."
This was nearly what the courtier had before stated; but he now
repeated it in a tone so different, that whereas Louis understood from
the former declaration, that the reserved duty to Burgundy was the
prime thing to be considered, so he now saw clearly that the emphasis
was reversed, and that more weight was now given by the speaker to his
promise of counsel, than to a restriction which seemed interposed for
the sake of form and consistency. The King resumed his own seat, and
compelled Des Comines to sit by him, listening at the same time to that
statesman, as if the words of an oracle sounded in his ears. Des
Comines spoke in that low and impressive tone, which implies at once
great sincerity and some caution, and at the same time so slowly, as if
he was desirous that the King should weigh and consider each individual
word as having its own peculiar and determined meaning. "The things,"
he said, "which I have suggested for your Majesty's consideration,
harsh as they sound in your ear, are but substitutes for still more
violent proposals brought forward in the Duke's councils, by such as
are more hostile to your Majesty. And I need scarce remind your
Majesty, that the more direct and more violent suggestions find
readiest acceptance with our master, who loves brief and dangerous
measures better than those that are safe, but at the same time
circuitous."
"I remember"—said the King, "I have seen him swim a river at the
risk of drowning, though there was a bridge to be found for riding two
hundred yards round."
"True, Sire; and he that weighs not his life against the
gratification of a moment of impetuous passion, will, on the same
impulse, prefer the gratification of his will to the increase of his
substantial power."
"Most true," replied the King; "a fool will ever grasp rather at
the appearance than the reality of authority. All this I know to be
true of Charles of Burgundy. But, my dear friend Des Comines, what do
you infer from these premises?"
"Simply this, my lord," answered the Burgundian, "that as your
Majesty has seen a skilful angler control a large and heavy fish, and
finally draw him to land by a single hair, which fish had broke
through a tackle tenfold stronger, had the fisher presumed to strain
the line on him, instead of giving him head enough for all his wild
flourishes; even so your Majesty, by gratifying the Duke in these
particulars on which he has pitched his ideas of honour, and the
gratification of his revenge, may evade many of the other unpalatable
propositions at which I have hinted; and which—including, I must
state openly to your Majesty, some of those through which France would
be most especially weakened—will slide out of his remembrance and
attention, and, being referred to subsequent conferences and future
discussion, may be altogether eluded."
"I understand you, my good Sir Philip; but to the matter," said the
King. "To which of those happy propositions is your Duke so much
wedded, that contradiction will make him unreasonable and untractable?"
"To any or to all of them, if it please your Majesty, on which you
may happen to contradict him. This is precisely what your Majesty must
avoid; and to take up my former parable, you must needs remain on the
watch, ready to give the Duke line enough whenever he shoots away under
the impulse of his rage. His fury, already considerably abated, will
waste itself if he be unopposed, and you will presently find him become
more friendly and more tractable."
"Still," said the King, musing, "there must be some particular
demands which lie deeper at my cousin's heart than the other
proposals. Were I but aware of these, Sir Philip"—
"Your Majesty may make the lightest of his demands the most
important, simply by opposing it," said Des Comines; "nevertheless, my
lord, thus far I can say, that every shadow of treaty will be broken
off, if your Majesty renounce not William de la Marck and the
Liegeois."
"I have already said that I will disown them," said the King, "and
well they deserve it at my hand; the villains have commenced their
uproar at a moment that might have cost me my life."
"He that fires a train of powder," replied the historian, "must
expect a speedy explosion of the mine.—But more than mere disavowal
of their cause will be expected of your Majesty by Duke Charles; for
know, that he will demand your Majesty's assistance to put the
insurrection down, and your royal presence to witness the punishment
which he destines for the rebels."
"That may scarce consist with our honour, Des Comines," said the
King.
"To refuse it will scarcely consist with your Majesty's safety,"
replied Des Comines. "Charles is determined to show the people of
Flanders, that no hope, nay no promise, of assistance from France, will
save them in their mutinies from the wrath and vengeance of Burgundy."
"But, Sir Philip, I will speak plainly," answered the King—"Could
we but procrastinate the matter, might not these rogues of Liege make
their own part good against Duke Charles? The knaves are numerous and
steady—Can they not hold out their town against him?"
"With the help of the thousand archers of France whom your Majesty
promised them, they might have done something; but"—
"Whom I promised them!" said the King— "Alas! good Sir Philip!
you much wrong me in saying so."
"—But without whom," continued Des Comines, not heeding the
interruption,—"as your Majesty will not now likely find it convenient
to supply them,—what chance will the burghers have of making good
their town, in whose walls the large breaches made by Charles after the
battle of St Tron are still unrepaired; so that the lances of Hainault,
Brabant, and Burgundy, may advance to the attack twenty men in front?"
"The improvident idiots!" said the King—"If they have thus
neglected their own safety, they deserve not my protection.—Pass
on—I will make no quarrel for their sake."
"The next point, I fear, will sit closer to your Majesty's heart,"
said Des Comines.
"Ah!" replied the King, "you mean that infernal marriage! I will
not consent to the breach of the contract betwixt my daughter Joan and
my cousin of Orleans—it would be wresting the sceptre of France from
me and my posterity; for that feeble boy the Dauphin is a blighted
blossom, which will wither without fruit. This match between Joan and
Orleans has been my thought by day, my dream by night—I tell thee,
Sir Philip, I cannot give it up!—Besides, it is inhuman to require
me, with my own hand, to destroy at once my own scheme of policy, and
the happiness of a pair brought up for each other."
"Are they then so much attached?" said Des Comines.
"One of them at least is," said the King, "and the one for whom I
am bound to be most anxious. But you smile, Sir Philip,—you are no
believer in the force of love."
"Nay," said Des Comines, "if it please you, Sire, I am so little an
infidel in that particular, that I was about to ask whether it would
reconcile you in any degree to your acquiescing in the proposed
marriage betwixt the Duke of Orleans and Isabelle de Croye, were I to
satisfy you that the Countess's inclinations are so much fixed on
another, that it is likely it will never be a match?"
King Louis sighed.—"Alas!" he said, "my good and dear friend,
from what sepulchre have you drawn such dead man's comfort? Her
inclination, indeed!—Why, to speak truth, supposing that Orleans
detested my daughter Joan, yet, but for this ill-ravelled web of
mischance, he must needs have married her; so you may conjecture how
little chance there is of this damsel being able to refuse him under a
similar compulsion, and he a Child of France besides.—Ah, no,
Philip!—little fear of her standing obstinate against the suit of
such a lover. —Varium et mutabile, Philip."
"Your Majesty may, in the present instance, undervalue the
obstinate courage of this young lady. She comes of a race
determinately wilful; and I have picked out of Crèvecoeur that she has
formed a romantic attachment to a young squire, who, to say truth,
rendered her many services on the road."
"Ha!" said the King,—"an archer of my Guards, by name Quentin
Durward?"
"The same, as I think," said Des Comines; "he was made prisoner
along with the Countess, travelling almost alone together."
"Now, our Lord and our Lady, and Monseigneur Saint Martin, and
Monseigneur Saint Julian, be praised every one of them!" said the King,
"and all laud and honour to the learned Galeotti, who read in the stars
that this youth's destiny was connected with mine! If the maiden be so
attached to him as to make her refractory to the will of Burgundy, this
Quentin hath indeed been rarely useful to me."
"I believe, my lord," answered the Burgundian, "according to
Crèvecoeur's report, that there is some chance of her being
sufficiently obstinate; besides, doubtless, the noble Duke himself,
notwithstanding what your Majesty was pleased to hint in way of
supposition, will not willingly renounce his fair cousin, to whom he
has been long engaged."
"Umph!" answered the King—"But you have never seen my daughter
Joan.—A howlet, man! —an absolute owl, whom I am ashamed of! But
let him be only a wise man, and marry her, I will give him leave to be
mad par amours for the fairest lady in France.—And now, Philip, have
you given me the full map of your master's mind?"
"I have possessed you, Sire, of those particulars on which he is at
present most disposed to insist. But your Majesty well knows that the
Duke's disposition is like a sweeping torrent, which only passes
smoothly forward when its waves encounter no opposition; and what may
be presented to chafe him into fury, it is impossible even to guess.
Were more distinct evidence of your Majesty's practices (pardon the
phrase, where there is so little time for selection) with the Liegeois
and William de la Marck to occur unexpectedly, the issue might be
terrible.—There are strange news from that country —they say La
Marck hath married Hameline the elder Countess of Croye."
"That old fool was so mad on marriage, that she would have accepted
the hand of Satan," said the King; "but that La Marck, beast as he is,
should have married her, rather more surprises me."
"There is a report also," continued Des Comines, "that an envoy, or
herald, on La Marck's part, is approaching Peronne;—this is like to
drive the Duke frantic with rage—I trust that he has no letters, or
the like, to show on your Majesty's part?"
"Letters to a Wild Boar!" answered the King, —"No, no, Sir
Philip, I was no such fool as to cast pearls before swine—What little
intercourse I had with the brute animal was by message, in which I
always employed such low-bred slaves and vagabonds, that their
evidence would not be received in a trial for robbing a hen-roost."
"I can then only further recommend," said Des Comines, taking his
leave, "that your Majesty should remain on your guard, be guided by
events, and, above all, avoid using any language or argument with the
Duke which may better become your dignity than your present condition."
"If my dignity," said the King, "grow troublesome to me,—which it
seldom doth while there are deeper interests to think of,—I have a
special remedy for that swelling of the heart—It is but looking into
a certain ruinous closet, Sir Philip, and thinking of the death of
Charles the Simple; and it cures me as effectually as the cold bath
would cool a fever.—And now, my friend and monitor, must thou be
gone? Well, Sir Philip, the time must come when thou wilt tire reading
lessons of state policy to the Bull of Burgundy, who is incapable of
comprehending your most simple argument—If Louis of Valois then
lives, thou hast a friend in the Court of France. I tell thee, my
Philip, it would be a blessing to my kingdom should I ever acquire
thee; who, with a profound view of subjects of state, hast also a
conscience, capable of feeling and discerning between right and wrong.
So help me, our Lord and Lady, and Monseigneur Saint Martin, Oliver and
Balue have hearts as hardened as the nether millstone; and my life is
embittered by remorse and penances for the crimes they make me commit.
Thou, Sir Philip, possessed of the wisdom of present and past times,
canst teach how to become great without ceasing to be virtuous."
"A hard task, and which few have attained," said the historian;
"but which is yet within the reach of princes, who wil strive for it.
Meantime, Sire, be prepared, for the Duke will presently confer with
you."
Louis looked long after Philip when he left the apartment, and at
length burst into a bitter laugh. "He spoke of fishing—I have sent
him home, a trout properly tickled!—And he thinks himself virtuous
because he took no bribe, but contented himself with flattery and
promises, and the pleasure of avenging an affront to his vanity!—Why,
he is but so much the poorer for the refusal of the money —not a jot
the more honest. He must be mine, though, for he hath the shrewdest
head among them.—Well, now for nobler game! I am to face this
leviathan Charles, who will presently swim hitherward, cleaving the
deep before him. I must, like a trembling sailor, throw a tub overboard
to amuse him. But I may one day find the chance— of driving a harpoon
into his entrails!" [Note: There is little doubt that, during the
interesting scene at Peronne, Philip des Comines first learned
intimately to know the great powers of mind of Louis XI., by which he
was so much dazzled that it is impossible, in reading his Memoirs, not
to be sensible that he was blinded by them to the more odious shades of
his character. He entertained from this time forward a partiality to
France. The historian passed into France about 1472, and rose high in
the good graces of Louis XI. He afterwards became the proprietor of the
Lordship of Argenton and others, a title which was given him by
anticipation in the former editions of this work. He did not obtain it
till he was in the French service. After the death of Louis, Philip des
Comines fell under the suspicion of the daughter of Louis, called our
Lady of Beaujeu, as too zealous a partisan of the rival House of
Orleans. The historian himself was imprisoned for eight months in one
of the iron cages which he has so forcibly described. It was there that
he regretted the fate of a court life. "I have ventured on the great
ocean," he said, in his affliction, "and the waves have devoured me."
He was subjected to a trial, and exiled from court for some years by
the Parliament of Paris, being found guilty of holding intercourse with
disaffected persons. He survived this cloud, however, and was
afterwards employed by Charles VIII. in one or two important missions,
where talents were required. Louis XII. also transferred his favour to
the historian, but did not employ him. He died at his Castle of
Argenton, in 1509, and was regretted as one of the most profound
statesmen, and certainly the best historian of his age. In a poem to
his memory by the poet Ronsard, he received the distinguished praise
that he was the first to show the lustre which valour and noble blood
derived from being united with learning.]
CHAPTER XIV. THE INTERVIEW.
Hold fast thy truth, young soldier.—Gentle maiden,
Keep you your promise plight—leave age its subtleties,
And grey-hair'd policy its maze of falsehood;
But be you candid as the morning sky,
Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to stain it.
The Trial.
On the perilous and important morning which preceded the meeting of
the two Princes in the Castle of Peronne, Oliver le Dain did his master
the service of an active and skilful agent, making interest for Louis
in every quarter, both with presents and promises; so that when the
Duke's anger should blaze forth, all around should be interested to
smother, and not to increase, the conflagration. He glided, like night,
from tent to tent, from house to house, making himself friends, but
not, in the Apostle's sense, with the Mammon of unrighteousness. As was
said of another active political agent, "his finger was in every man's
palm, his mouth was in every man's ear;" and for various reasons, some
of which we have formerly hinted at, he secured the favour of many
Burgundian nobles, who either had something to hope or fear from
France, or who thought that, were the power of Louis too much reduced,
their own Duke would be likely to pursue the road to despotic
authority, to which his heart naturally inclined him, with a daring and
unopposed pace.
Where Oliver suspected his own presence or arguments might be less
acceptable, he employed that of other servants of the King; and it was
in this manner that he obtained, by the favour of the Count de
Crèvecoeur, an interview betwixt Lord Crawford, accompanied by Le
Balafré, and Quentin Durward, who, since he had arrived at Peronne, had
been detained in a sort of honourable confinement. Private affairs were
assigned as the cause of requesting this meeting; but it is probable
that Crèvecoeur, who was afraid that his master might be stirred up in
passion to do something dishonourably violent towards Louis, was not
sorry to afford an opportunity to Crawford to give some hints to the
young archer, which might prove useful to his master.
The meeting between the countrymen was cordial, and even affecting.
"Thou art a singular youth," said Crawford, stroking the head of
young Durward, as a grandsire might do that of his descendant; "Certes,
you have had as meikle good fortune as if you had been born with a
lucky hood on your head."
"All comes of his gaining an archer's place at such early years,"
said Le Balafré; "I never was so much talked of, fair nephew, because I
was five-and-twenty years old before I was hors de page."
"And an ill-looking mountainous monster of a page thou wert,
Ludovic," said the old commander, "with a beard like a baker's shool,
and a back like old Wallace Wight."
"I fear," said Quentin, with downcast eyes, "I shall enjoy that
title to distinction but a short time —since it is my purpose to
resign the service of the Archer-guard."
Le Balafré was struck almost mute with astonishment, and Crawford's
ancient features gleamed with displeasure. The former at length
mustered words enough to say, "Resign!—leave your place in the
Scottish Archers!—such a thing was never dreamt of. I would not give
up my situation, to be made Constable of France."
"Hush! Ludovic," said Crawford; "this youngster knows better how to
shape his course with the wind than we of the old world do. His journey
hath given him some pretty tales to tell about King Louis; and he is
turning Burgundian, that he may make his own little profit by telling
them to Duke Charles."
"If I thought so," said Le Balafré, "I would cut his throat with my
own hand, were he fifty times my sister's son!"
"But you would first enquire, whether I deserved to be so treated,
fair kinsman?" answered Quentin; —"and you, my lord, know that I am
no tale-bearer; nor shall either question or torture draw out of me a
word to King Louis's prejudice, which may have come to my knowledge
while I was in his service.—So far my oath of duty keeps me silent.
But I will not remain in that service, in which, besides the perils of
fair battle with mine enemies, I am to be exposed to the dangers of
ambuscade on the part of my friends."
"Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade," said the slow-witted Le
Balafré, looking sorrowfully at the Lord Crawford, "I am afraid, my
lord, that all is over with him! I myself have had thirty bushments
break upon me, and truly I think I have laid in ambuscade twice as
often myself, it being a favourite practice in our King's mode of
making war."
"It is so indeed, Ludovic," answered Lord Crawford; "nevertheless,
hold your peace, for I believe I understand this gear better than you
do."
"I wish to our Lady you may, my lord," answered Ludovic; "but it
wounds me to the very midriff, to think my sister's son should fear an
ambushment."
"Young man," said Crawford, "I partly guess your meaning. You have
met foul play on the road where you travelled by the King's command,
and you think you have reason to charge him with being the author of
it?"
"I have been threatened with foul play in the execution of the
King's commission," answered Quentin; "but I have had the good fortune
to elude it—whether his Majesty be innocent or guilty in the matter,
I leave to God and his own conscience. He fed me when I was
a-hungered—received me when I was a wandering stranger. I will never
load him in his adversity with accusations which may indeed be unjust,
since I heard them only from the vilest mouths."
"My dear boy—my own lad!" said Crawford, taking him in his
arms—"Ye think like a Scot, every joint of you! Like one that will
forget a cause of quarrel with a friend whose back is already at the
wall, and remember nothing of him but his kindness."
"Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my nephew," said Ludovic
Lesly, "I will embrace him also—though I would have you to know, that
to understand the service of an ambushment is as necessary to a
soldier, as it is to a priest to be able to read his breviary."
"Be hushed, Ludovic," said Crawford; "ye are an ass, my friend, and
ken not the blessing Heaven has sent you in this braw callant.—And
now tell me, Quentin, my man, hath the King any advice of this brave,
christian, and manly resolution of yours? for, poor man, he had need,
in his strait, to ken what he has to reckon upon. Had he but brought
the whole brigade of Guards with him!—But God's will be done—Kens
he of your purpose, think you?"
"I really can hardly tell," answered Quentin; "but I assured his
learned astrologer, Martius Galeotti, of my resolution to be silent on
all that could injure the King with the Duke of Burgundy. The
particulars which I suspect, I will not (under your favour) communicate
even to your lordship; and to the philosopher I was, of course, far
less willing to unfold myself."
"Ha!—ay!"—answered Lord Crawford—"Oliver did indeed tell me
that Galeotti prophesied most stoutly concerning the line of conduct
you were to hold; and I am truly glad to find he did so on better
authority than the stars."
"He prophesy!" said Le Balafré, laughing; "the stars never told him
that honest Ludovic Lesly used to help yonder wench of his to spend the
fair ducats he flings into her lap."
"Hush! Ludovic," said his captain, "hush! thou beast, man!—If
thou dost not respect my grey hairs, because I have been e'en too much
of a routier myself, respect the boy's youth and innocence, and let us
have no more of such unbecoming daffing."
"Your honour may say your pleasure," answered Ludovic Lesly; "but,
by my faith, second-sighted Saunders Souplejaw, the town-souter of
Glenhoulakin, was worth Gallotti, or Gallipotty, or whatever ye call
him, twice told, for a prophet. He foretold that all my sister's
children would die some day; and he foretold it in the very hour that
the youngest was born, and that is this lad Quentin— who, no doubt,
will one day die, to make up the prophecy—the more's the pity—the
whole curney of them is gone but himself. And Saunders foretold to
myself one day, that I should be made by marriage, which doubtless will
also happen in due time, though it hath not yet come to pass—though
how or when, I can hardly guess, as I care not myself for the wedded
state, and Quentin is but a lad. Also, Saunders predicted"—
"Nay," said Lord Crawford, "unless the prediction be singularly to
the purpose, I must cut you short, my good Ludovic; for both you and I
must now leave your nephew, with prayers to Our Lady to strengthen him
in the good mind he is in; for this is a case in which a light word
might do more mischief than all the Parliament of Paris could
mend.—My blessing with you, my lad; and be in no hurry to think of
leaving our body; for there will be good blows going presently in the
eye of day, and no ambuscade."
"And my blessing too, nephew," said Ludovic Lesly; "for, since you
have satisfied our most noble captain, I also am satisfied, as in duty
bound."
"Stay, my lord," said Quentin, and led Lord Crawford a little apart
from his uncle. "I must not forget to mention, that there is a person
besides in the world, who, having learned from me these circumstances,
which it is essential to King Louis's safety should at present remain
concealed, may not think that the same obligation of secrecy, which
attaches to me as the King's soldier, and as having been relieved by
his bounty, is at all binding on her."
"On her!" replied Crawford; "nay, if there be a woman in the
secret, the Lord ha' mercy, for we are all on the rocks again!"
"Do not suppose so, my lord," replied Durward, "but use your
interest with the Count of Crèvecoeur to permit me an interview with
the Countess Isabelle of Croye, who is the party possessed of my
secret, and I doubt not that I can persuade her to be as silent as I
shall unquestionably myself remain, concerning whatever may incense
the Duke against King Louis."
The old soldier mused for a long time—looked up to the ceiling,
then down again upon the floor —then shook his head,—and at length
said, "There is something in all this, which, by my honour, I do not
understand. The Countess Isabelle of Croye! —an interview with a lady
of her birth, blood, and possessions!—and thou, a raw Scottish lad,
so certain of carrying thy point with her? Thou art either strangely
confident, my young friend, or else you have used your time well upon
the journey. But, by the Cross of Saint Andrew! I will move Crèvecoeur
in thy behalf; and, as he truly fears that Duke Charles may be provoked
against the King to the extremity of falling foul, I think it likely he
may grant thy request, though, by my honour, it is a comical one!"
So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old Lord left the
apartment, followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming his looks on those
of his principal, endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the cause of
his wonder, to look as mysterious and important as Crawford himself.
In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his attendant Le
Balafré. The old man seemed in singular humour, laughing and chuckling
to himself in a manner which strangely distorted his stern and rigid
features, and at the same time shaking his head, as at something which
he could not help condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous.
"My certes, countryman," said he, "but you are not blate—you will
never lose fair lady for faint heart! Crèvecoeur swallowed your
proposal as he would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me
roundly, by all the saints in Burgundy, that were less than the honour
of princes and the peace of kingdoms at stake, you should never see
even so much as the print of the Countess Isabelle's foot on the clay.
Were it not that he had a dame, and a fair one, I would have thought
that he meant to break a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps he thinks
of his nephew, the County Stephen. A Countess!—would no less serve
you to be minting at?—But come along—your interview with her must
be brief—But I fancy you know how to make the most of little
time—ho! ho! ho!—By my faith, I can hardly chide thee for the
presumption, I have such a good will to laugh at it!"
With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and disconcerted by the
blunt inferences of the old soldier, and vexed at beholding in what an
absurd light his passion was viewed by every person of experience,
Durward followed Lord Crawford in silence to the Ursuline convent, in
which the Countess was lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the
Count de Crèvecoeur.
"So, young gallant," said the latter, sternly, "you must see the
fair companion of your romantic expedition once more, it seems?"
"Yes, my Lord Count," answered Quentin, firmly; "and what is more,
I must see her alone."
"That shall never be," said the Count de Crèvecoeur.— "Lord
Crawford, I make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old
friend and companion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has
confessed a sort of a—what was I going to say? —in short, she is a
fool, and your man-at-arms here a presumptuous coxcomb—In a word,
they shall not meet alone."
"Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your
presence," said Quentin, much delighted. "You have told me much that I
did not dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope."
"Ay, truly said, my friend," said Crawford. "You have been
imprudent in your communications; and, since you refer to me, and there
is a good stout grating across the parlour, I would advise you to trust
to it, and let them do the worst with their tongues. What, man! the
life of a King, and many thousands besides, is not to be weighed with
the chance of two young things whilly-whawing in ilk other's ears for a
minute?"
So saying, he dragged off Crèvecoeur, who followed very
reluctantly, and cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left
the room.
In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side
of the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she
stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half a
minute. "Yet why should I be ungrateful," she said, "because others are
unjustly suspicious?— My friend—my preserver, I may almost say, so
much have I been beset by treachery—my only faithful and constant
friend!"
As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate,
nay, suffered him to retain it, until he had covered it with kisses,
not unmingled with tears. She only said, "Durward, were we ever to meet
again, I would not permit this folly."
If it be considered that Quentin had guarded her through so many
perils—that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous
protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses
should be of the number, will pardon the derogation.
But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace
back from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what
boon he had to ask of her?—"For that you have a request to make, I
have learned from the old Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my
cousin of Crèvecoeur. Let it be but reasonable," she said, "but such as
poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, and you
cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But, O! do not speak hastily,
—do not say," she added, looking around with timidity, "aught that
might, if overheard, do prejudice to us both!"
"Fear not, noble lady," said Quentin, sorrowfully; "it is not here
that I can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or
expose you to the censure of your proud kindred, as the object of the
most devoted love to one, poorer and less powerful—not perhaps less
noble than themselves. Let that pass like a dream of the night to all
but one bosom, where, dream as it is, it will fill up the room of all
existing realities."
"Hush! hush!" said Isabelle; "for your own sake,—for mine,—be
silent on such a theme. Tell me rather what it is you have to ask of
me."
"Forgiveness to one," replied Quentin, "who, for his own selfish
views, hath conducted himself as your enemy."
"I trust I forgive all my enemies," answered Isabelle; "but oh,
Durward! through what scenes have your courage and presence of mind
protected me!—Yonder bloody hall—the good Bishop—I knew not till
yesterday half the horrors I had unconsciously witnessed!"
"Do not think on them," said Quentin, who saw the transient colour
which had come to her cheek during their conference, fast fading into
the most deadly paleness—"Do not look back, but look steadily
forward, as they needs must who walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me.
King Louis deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others, than to
be proclaimed the wily and insidious politician, which he really is.
But to tax him as the encourager of your flight—still more as the
author of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la Marck—will at
this moment produce perhaps the King's death or dethronement; and, at
all events, the most bloody war between France and Burgundy which the
two countries have ever been engaged in."
"These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be
prevented," said the Countess Isabelle; "and indeed your slightest
request were enough to make me forego my revenge, were that at any time
a passion which I deeply cherish. Is it possible I would rather
remember King Louis's injuries, than your invaluable services?—Yet
how is this to be? —When I am called before my Sovereign, the Duke of
Burgundy, I must either stand silent, or speak the truth. The former
would be contumacy; and to a false tale you will not desire me to train
my tongue."
"Surely not," said Durward; "but let your evidence concerning Louis
be confined to what you yourself positively know to be truth; and when
you mention what others have reported, no matter how credibly, let it
be as reports only, and beware of pledging your own personal evidence
to that, which, though you may fully believe, you cannot personally
know to be true. The assembled Council of Burgundy cannot refuse to a
Monarch the justice, which in my country is rendered to the meanest
person under accusation. They must esteem him innocent, until direct
and sufficient proof shall demonstrate this guilt. Now, what does not
consist with your own certain knowledge, should be proved by other
evidence than your report from hearsay."
"I think I understand you," said the Countess Isabelle.
"I will make my meaning plainer," said Quentin; and was
illustrating it accordingly by more than one instance, when the
convent-bell tolled.
"That," said the Countess, "is a signal that we must part—part
for ever!—But do not forget me, Durward; I will never forget
you—your faithful services"—
She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, which was
again pressed to his lips; and I know not how it was, that, in
endeavouring to withdraw her hand, the Countess came so close to the
grating, that Quentin was encouraged to press the adieu on her lips.
The young lady did not chide him—perhaps there was no time; for
Crèvecoeur and Crawford, who had been from some loophole eye-witnesses,
if not ear-witnesses also, of what was passing, rushed into the
apartment, the first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and
holding the Count back.
"To your chamber, young mistress—to your chamber!" exclaimed the
Count to Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, retired in all
haste,—"which should be exchanged for a cell, and bread and water.
—And you, gentle sir, who are so malapert, the time will come when
the interests of kings and kingdoms may not be connected with such as
you are; and you shall then learn the penalty of your audacity in
raising your beggarly eyes"—
"Hush! hush!—enough said—rein up—rein up," said the old
Lord;—"and you, Quentin, I command you, be silent, and begone to your
quarters.—There is no such room for so much scorn neither, Sir Count
of Crèvecoeur, that I must say now he is out of hearing—Quentin
Durward is as much a gentleman as the King, only, as the Spaniard says,
not so rich. He is as noble as myself, and I am chief of my name. Tush,
tush! man, you must not speak to us of penalties."
"My lord, my lord," said Crèvecoeur, impatiently, "the insolence of
these foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and should receive rather
rebuke than encouragement from you, who are their leader."
"My Lord Count," answered Crawford, "I have ordered my command for
these fifty years, without advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian;
and I intend to do so, under your favour, so long as I shall continue
to hold it."
"Well, well, my lord," said Crèvecoeur, "I meant you no disrespect;
your nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to be privileged in
your impatience; and for these young people, I am satisfied to overlook
the past, since I will take care that they never meet again."
"Do not take that upon your salvation, Crèvecoeur," said the old
Lord, laughing; "mountains, it is said, may meet, and why not mortal
creatures that have legs, and life and love to put those legs in
motion? You kiss, Crèvecoeur, came tenderly off—methinks it was
ominous."
"You are striving again to disturb my patience," said Crèvecoeur,
"but I will not give you that advantage over me.—Hark! they toll the
summons to the Castle—an awful meeting, of which God only can
foretell the issue."
"This issue I can foretell," said the old Scottish Lord, "that if
violence is to be offered to the person of the King, few as his friends
are, and surrounded by his enemies, he shall neither fall alone nor
unavenged; and grieved I am, that his own positive orders have
prevented my taking measures to prepare for such an issue."
"My Lord of Crawford," said the Burgundian, "to anticipate such
evil is the sure way to give occasion to it. Obey the orders of your
royal master, and give no pretext for violence by taking hasty offence,
and you will find that the day will pass over more smoothly than you
now conjecture."
CHAPTER XV. THE INVESTIGATION.
Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
Than my displeased eye see your courtesy.
Up, cousin, up—your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least—although your knee—
King Richard II.
At the first toll of the bell, which was to summon the great nobles
of Burgundy together in council, with the very few French peers who
could be present on the occasion, Duke Charles, followed by a part of
his train, armed with partisans and battle-axes, entered the Hall of
Herbert's Tower, in the Castle of Peronne. King Louis, who had expected
the visit, arose and made two steps towards the Duke, and then remained
standing with an air of dignity, which, in spite of the meanness of his
dress, and the familiarity of his ordinary manners, he knew very well
how to assume when he judged it necessary. Upon the present important
crisis, the composure of his demeanour had an evident effect upon his
rival, who changed the abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the
apartment, into one more becoming a great vassal entering the presence
of his Lord Paramount. Apparently the Duke had formed the internal
resolution to treat Louis, in the outset at least, with the
formalities due to his high station; but at the same time it was
evident, that, in doing so, he put no small constraint upon the fiery
impatience of his own disposition, and was scarce able to control the
feelings of resentment, and the thirst of revenge, which boiled in his
bosom. Hence, though he compelled himself to use the outward acts, and
in some degree the language, of courtesy and reverence, his colour came
and went rapidly—his voice was abrupt, hoarse, and broken—his limbs
shook, as if impatient of the curb imposed on his motions—he frowned
and bit his lip until the blood came—and every look and movement
showed that the most passionate prince who ever lived, was under the
dominion of one of his most violent paroxysms of fury.
The King marked this war of passion with a calm and untroubled eye;
for, though he gathered from the Duke's looks a foretaste of the
bitterness of death, which he dreaded alike as a mortal and a sinful
man, yet he was resolved, like a wary and skilful pilot, neither to
suffer himself to be disconcerted by his own fears, nor to abandon the
helm, while there was a chance of saving the vessel by adroit pilotage.
Therefore, when the Duke, in a hoarse and broken tone, said something
of the scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with a smile, that
he could not complain, since he had as yet found Herbert's Tower a
better residence than it had proved to one of his ancestors.
"They told you the tradition then?" said Charles —"Yes—here he
was slain—but it was because he refused to take the cowl, and finish
his days in a monastery."
"The more fool he," said Louis, affecting unconcern, "since he
gained the torment of being a martyr, without the merit of being a
saint."
"I come," said the Duke, "to pray your Majesty to attend a high
council, at which things of weight are to be deliberated upon
concerning the welfare of France and Burgundy. You will presently meet
them—that is, if such be your pleasure"—
"Nay, my fair cousin," said the King, "never strain courtesy so
far, as to entreat what you may so boldly command—To council, since
such is your Grace's pleasure. We are somewhat shorn of our train," he
added, looking upon the small suite that arranged themselves to attend
him—"but you, cousin, must shine out for us both."
Marshalled by Toison d'Or, chief of the heralds of Burgundy, the
Princes left the Earl Herbert's Tower, and entered the castle-yard,
which Louis observed was filled with the Duke's body-guard and
men-at-arms, splendidly accoutred, and drawn up in martial array.
Crossing the court, they entered the Council-hall, which was in a much
more modern part of the building than that of which Louis had been the
tenant, and, though in disrepair, had been hastily arranged for the
solemnity of a public council. Two chairs of state were erected under
the same canopy, that for the King being raised two steps higher than
the one which the Duke was to occupy; about twenty of the chief
nobility sat, arranged in due order, on either hand of the chair of
state; and thus, when both the Princes were seated, the person for
whose trial, as it might be called, the council was summoned, held the
highest place, and appeared to preside in it.
It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, and the scruples
which might have been inspired by it, that Duke Charles, having bowed
slightly to the royal chair, bluntly opened the sitting with the
following words:—
"My good vassals and counsellors, it is not unknown to you what
disturbances have arisen in our territories, both in our father's time,
and in our own, from the rebellion of vassals against superiors, and
subjects against their princes. And lately, we have had the most
dreadful proof of the height to which these evils have arrived in our
case, by the scandalous flight of the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and
her aunt the Lady Hameline, to take refuge with a foreign power,
thereby renouncing their fealty to us, and inferring the forfeiture of
their fiefs; and in another more dreadful and deplorable instance, by
the sacrilegious and bloody murder of our beloved brother and ally the
Bishop of Liege, and the rebellion of that treacherous city, which was
but too mildly punished for the last insurrection. We have been
informed that these sad events may be traced, not merely to the
inconstancy and folly of women, and the presumption of pampered
citizens, but to the agency of foreign power, and the interference of a
mighty neighbour, from whom, if good deeds could merit any return in
kind, Burgundy could have expected nothing but the most sincere and
devoted friendship. If this should prove truth," said the Duke, setting
his teeth, and pressing his heel against the ground, "what
consideration shall withold us—the means being in our power—from
taking such measures, as shall effectually, and at the very source,
close up the main spring, from which these evils have yearly flowed on
us?"
The Duke had begun his speech with some calmness, but he elevated
his voice at the conclusion; and the last sentence was spoken in a tone
which made all the counsellors tremble, and brought a transient fit of
paleness across the King's cheek. He instantly recalled his courage,
however, and addressed the council in his turn, in a tone evincing so
much ease and composure, that the Duke, though he seemed desirous to
interrupt or stop him, found no decent opportunity to do so.
"Nobles of France and of Burgundy," he said, "Knights of the Holy
Spirit and of the Golden Fleece! since a King must plead his cause as
an accused person, he cannot desire more distinguished judges, than the
flower of nobleness, and muster and pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin
of Burgundy hath but darkened the dispute between us, in so far as his
courtesy has declined to state it in precise terms. I, who have no
cause for observing such delicacy, nay, whose condition permits me not
to do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. It is to Us, my
lords—to Us, his liege Lord, his kinsman, his ally,—that unhappy
circumstances, perverting our cousin's clear judgment and better
nature, have induced him to apply the hateful charges of seducing his
vassals from their allegiance, stirring up the people of Liege to
revolt, and stimulating the outlawed William de la Marck to commit a
most cruel and sacrilegious murder. Nobles of France and Burgundy, I
might truly appeal to the circumstances in which I now stand, as being
in themselves a complete contradiction of such an accusation; for is it
to be supposed, that, having the sense of a rational being left me, I
should have thrown myself unreservedly into the power of the Duke of
Burgundy, while I was practising treachery against him, such as could
not fail to be discovered, and which, being discovered, must place me,
as I now stand, in the power of a justly exasperated prince? The folly
of one who should seat himself quietly down to repose on a mine, after
he had lighted the match which was to cause instant explosion, would
have been wisdom compared to mine. I have no doubt, that, amongst the
perpetrators of those horrible treasons at Schonwaldt, villains have
been busy with my name—but am I to be answerable, who have given them
no right to use it?—If two silly women, disgusted on account of some
romantic cause of displeasure, sought refuge at my Court, does it
follow that they did so by my direction? —It will be found, when
enquired into, that, since honour and chivalry forbade my sending them
back prisoners to the Court of Burgundy,—which I think, gentlemen, no
one who wears the collar of these Orders would suggest,—that I came
as nearly as possible to the same point, by placing them in the hands
of the venerable father in God, who is now a saint in heaven."—Here
Louis seemed much affected, and pressed his kerchief to his eyes—"In
the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, and still more closely
united with that of Burgundy, whose situation, exalted condition in the
church, and, alas! whose numerous virtues, qualified him to be the
protector of these unhappy wanderers for a little while, and the
mediator betwixt them and their liege Lord. I say, therefore, the only
circumstances which seem in my brother of Burgundy's hasty view of this
subject, to argue unworthy suspicions against me, are such as can be
explained on the fairest and most honourable motives; and I say,
moreover, that no one particle of credible evidence can be brought to
support the injurious charges which have induced my brother to alter
his friendly looks towards one who came to him in full confidence of
friendship—have caused him to turn his festive hall into a court of
justice, and his hospitable apartments into a prison."
"My lord, my lord," said Charles, breaking in so soon as the King
paused, "for your being here at a time so unluckily coinciding with the
execution of your projects, I can only account by supposing, that those
who make it their trade to impose on others, do sometimes egregiously
delude themselves. The engineer is sometimes killed by the springing of
his own petard.—For what is to follow, let it depend on the event of
this solemn enquiry.—Bring hither the Countess Isabelle of Croye!"
As the young lady was introduced, supported on the one side by the
Countess of Crèvecoeur, who had her husband's commands to that effect,
and on the other by the Abbess of the Ursuline convent, Charles
exclaimed, with his usual harshness of voice and manner,—Soh! sweet
Princess—you, who could scarce find breath to answer us when we last
laid our just and reasonable commands on you, yet have had wind enough
to run as long a course as ever did hunted doe—what think you of the
fair work you have made between two great Princes, and two mighty
countries, that have been like to go to war for your baby face?"
The publicity of the scene, and the violence of Charles's manner,
totally overcame the resolution which Isabelle had formed, of throwing
herself at the Duke's feet, and imploring him to take possession of her
estates, and permit her to retire into a cloister. She stood
motionless, like a terrified female in a storm, who hears the thunder
roll on every side of her, and apprehends, in every fresh peal, the
bolt which is to strike her dead. The Countess of Crèvecoeur, a woman
of spirit equal to her birth, and to the beauty which she preserved
even in her matronly years, judged it necessary to interfere. "My Lord
Duke," she said, "my fair cousin is under my protection. I know better
than your Grace how women should be treated, and we will leave this
presence instantly, unless you use a tone and language more suitable to
our rank and sex."
The Duke burst out into a laugh. "Crèvecoeur," he said, "thy
tameness hath made a lordly dame of thy Countess; but that is no affair
of mine. Give a seat to yonder simple girl, to whom, so far from
feeling enmity, I design the highest grace and honour.—Sit down,
mistress, and tell us at your leisure what fiend possessed you to fly
from your native country, and embrace the trade of a damsel
adventurous."
With much pain, and not without several interruptions, Isabelle
confessed, that, being absolutely determined against a match proposed
to her by the Duke of Burgundy, she had indulged the hope of obtaining
protection of the Court of France.
"And under protection of the French Monarch," said Charles—"Of
that, doubtless, you were well assured?"
"I did indeed so think myself assured," said the Countess Isabelle,
"otherwise I had not taken a step so decided."—Here Charles looked
upon Louis with a smile of inexpressible bitterness, which the King
supported with the utmost firmness, except that his lip grew something
whiter than it was wont to be.—"But my information concerning King
Louis's intentions towards us," continued the Countess, after a short
pause, "was almost entirely derived from my unhappy aunt, the Lady
Hameline, and her opinions were formed upon the assertions and
insinuations of persons whom I have since discovered to be the vilest
traitors, and most faithless wretches in the world." She then stated,
in brief terms, what she had since come to learn of the treachery of
Marthon, and of Hayraddin Maugrabin, and added, that she "entertained
no doubt that the elder Maugrabin, called Zamet, the original adviser
of their flight, was capable of every species of treachery, as well as
of assuming the character of an agent of Louis without authority."
There was a pause while the Countess had continued her story, which
she prosecuted, though very briefly, from the time she left the
territories of Burgundy, in company with her aunt, until the storming
of Schonwaldt, and her final surrender to the Count of Crèvecoeur. All
remained mute after she had finished her brief and broken narrative,
and the Duke of Burgundy bent his fierce dark eyes on the ground, like
one who seeks for a pretext to indulge his passion, but finds none
sufficiently plausible to justify himself in his own eyes. "The mole,"
he said at length, looking upwards, "winds not his dark subterranean
path beneath our feet the less certainly, that we, though conscious of
his motions, cannot absolutely trace them. Yet I would know of King
Louis, wherefore he maintained these ladies at his Court, had they not
gone thither by his own invitation."
"I did not so entertain them, fair cousin," answered the King. "Out
of compassion, indeed, I received them in privacy, but took an early
opportunity of placing them under the protection of the late excellent
Bishop, your own ally, and who was (may God assoil him!) a better judge
than I, or any secular prince, how to reconcile the protection due to
fugitives, with the duty which a king owes to his ally from whose
dominions they have fled. I boldly ask this young lady, whether my
reception of them was cordial, or whether it was not, on the contrary,
such as made them express regret that they had made my Court their
place of refuge?"
"So much was it otherwise than cordial," answered the Countess,
"that it induced me, at least, to doubt how far it was possible that
your Majesty should have actually given the invitation of which we had
been assured, by those who called themselves your agents; since,
supposing them to have proceeded only as they were duly authorized, it
would have been hard to reconcile your Majesty's conduct with that to
be expected from a king, a knight, and a gentleman."
The Countess turned her eyes to the King as she spoke, with a look
which was probably intended as a reproach, but the breast of Louis was
armed against all such artillery. On the contrary, waving slowly his
expanded hands, and looking around the circle, he seemed to make a
triumphant appeal to all present, upon the testimony borne to his
innocence in the Countess's reply.
Burgundy, meanwhile, cast on him a look which seemed to say, that
if in some degree silenced, he was as far as ever from being satisfied,
and then said abruptly to the Countess,—"Methinks, fair mistress, in
this account of your wanderings, you have forgot all mention of certain
love-passages— So, ho! blushing already?—Certain knights of the
forest, by whom your quiet was for a time interrupted. Well—that
incident hath come to our ear, and something we may presently form out
of it.— Tell me, King louis, were it not well, before this vagrant
Helen of Troy, or of Croye, set more kings by the ears,—were it not
well to carve out a fitting match for her?"
King Louis, though conscious what ungrateful proposal was likely to
be made next, gave a calm and silent assent to what Charles said; but
the Countess herself was restored to courage by the very extremity of
her situation. She quitted the arm of the Countess of Crèvecoeur, on
which she had hitherto leaned, came forward timidly, yet with an air of
dignity, and, kneeling before the Duke's throne, thus addressed
him:—"Noble Duke of Burgundy, and my liege Lord; I acknowledge my
fault in having withdrawn myself from your dominions without your
gracious permission, and will most humbly acquiesce in any penalty you
are pleased to impose. I place my lands and castles at your rightful
disposal, and pray you only of your own bounty, and for the sake of my
father's memory, to allow the last of the line of Croye, out of her
large estate, such a moderate maintenance as may find her admission
into a convent for the remainder of her life."
"What think you, Sire, of the young person's petition to us?" said
the Duke, addressing Louis.
"As of a holy and humble motion," said the King, "which doubtless
comes from that grace which ought not to be resisted or withstood."
"The humble and lowly shall be exalted," said Charles. "Arise,
Countess Isabelle—we mean better for you than you have devised for
yourself. We mean neither to sequestrate your estates, nor to abase
your honours, but, on the contrary, will add largely to both."
"Alas! my lord," said the Countess, continuing on her knees, "it is
even that well-meant goodness which I fear still more than your Grace's
displeasure, since it compels me"—
"Saint George of Burgundy!" said Duke Charles, "is our will to be
thwarted, and our commands disputed, at every turn? Up, I say, minion,
and withdraw for the present—when we have time to think of thee, we
will so order matters, that, Teste-Saint-Gris! you shall either obey
us, or do worse."
Notwithstanding this stern answer, the Countess Isabelle remained
at his feet, and would probably, by her pertinacity, have driven him to
say upon the spot something yet more severe, had not the Countess of
Crèvecoeur, who better knew that Prince's humour, interfered to raise
her young friend, and to conduct her from the hall.
Quentin Durward was now summoned to appear, and presented himself
before the King and Duke with that freedom, distant alike from bashful
reserve and intrusive boldness, which becomes a youth at once well-born
and well-nurtured, who gives honour where it is due, but without
permitting himself to be dazzled or confused by the presence of those
to whom it is to be rendered. His uncle had furnished him with the
means of again equipping himself in the arms and dress of an Archer of
the Scottish Guard, and his complexion, mien, and air, suited in an
uncommon degree his splendid appearance, His extreme youth, too,
prepossessed the counsellors in his favour, the rather that no one
could easily believe that the sagacious Louis would have chosen so very
young a person to become the confidant of political intrigues; and thus
the King enjoyed, in this as in other cases, considerable advantage
from his singular choice of agents, both as to age and rank, where such
election seemed least likely to be made. At the command of the Duke,
sanctioned by that of Louis, Quentin commenced an account of his
journey with the Ladies of Croye to the neighbourhood of Liege,
premising a statement of King Louis's instructions, which were, that he
should escort them safely to the castle of the Bishop.
"And you obeyed my orders accordingly?" said the King.
"I did, Sire," replied the Scot.
"You omit a circumstance," said the Duke. "You were set upon in the
forest by two wandering knights."
"It does not become me to remember or to proclaim such an
incident," said the youth, blushing ingenuously.
"But it doth not become me to forget it," said the Duke of Orleans.
"This youth discharged his commission manfully, and maintained his
trust in a manner that I shall long remember.—Come to my apartment,
Archer, when this matter is over, and thou shalt find I have not forgot
thy brave bearing, while I am glad to see it is equalled by thy
modesty."
"And come to mine," said Dunois. "I have a helmet for thee, since I
think I owe thee one." Quentin bowed low to both, and the examination
was resumed. At the command of Duke Charles, he produced the written
instructions which he had received for the direction of his journey.
"Did you follow these instructions literally, soldier?" said the
Duke.
"No, if it please your Grace," replied Quentin. "They directed me,
as you may be pleased to observe, to cross the Maes near Namur; whereas
I kept the left bank, as being both the nigher and the safer road to
Liege."
"And wherefore that alteration?" said the Duke.
"Because I began to suspect the fidelity of my guide," answered
Quentin.
"Now mark the questions I have next to ask thee," said the Duke.
"Reply truly to them, and fear nothing from the resentment of any one.
But if you palter or double in your answers, I will have thee hung
alive in an iron chain from the steeple of the market-house, where thou
shalt wish for death for many an hour ere he come to relieve you!"
There was a deep silence ensued. At length, having given the youth
time, as he thought, to consider the circumstances in which he was
placed, the Duke demanded to know of Durward, who his guide was, by
whom supplied, and wherefore he had been led to entertain suspicion of
him? To the first of these questions, Quentin Durward answered, by
naming Hayraddin Maugrabin, the Bohemian; to the second, that the guide
had been recommended by Tristan l'Hermite; and in reply to the third
point, he mentioned what had happened in the Franciscan convent, near
Namur; how the Bohemian had been expelled from the holy house; and how,
jealous of his behaviour, he had dogged him to a rendezvous with one of
William de la Marck's lanzknechts, where he overheard them arrange a
plan for surprising the ladies who were under his protection.
"Now, hark thee," said the Duke, "and once more remember thy life
depends on the veracity, did these villains mention their having this
King's —I mean this very King Louis of France's authority, for their
scheme of surprising the escort, and carrying away the ladies?"
"If such infamous fellows had said so," replied Quentin, "I know
not how I should have believed them, having the word of the King
himself to place in opposition to theirs."
Louis, who had listened hitherto with most earnest attention, could
not help drawing his breath deeply, when he heard Durward's answer, in
the manner of one from whose bosom a heavy weight has been at once
removed. The Duke again looked disconcerted and moody; and, returning
to the charge, questioned Quentin still more closely, whether he did
not understand, from these men's private conversation, that the plots
which they meditated had King Louis's sanction?"
"I repeat, that I heard nothing which could authorize me to say
so," answered the young man, who, though internally convinced of the
King's accession to the treachery of Hayraddin, yet held it contrary to
his allegiance to bring forward his own suspicions on the subject; "and
if I had heard such men make such an assertion, I again say, that I
would not have given their testimony weight against the instructions of
the King himself."
"Thou art a faithful messenger," said the Duke, with a sneer; "and
I venture to say, that in obeying the King's instructions, thou hast
disappointed his expectations in a manner that thou mightst have
smarted for, but that subsequent events have made thy bull-headed
fidelity seem like good service."
"I understand you not, my lord," said Quentin Durward; "all I know
is, that my master King Louis sent me to protect these ladies, and that
I did so accordingly, to the extent of my ability, both in the journey
to Schonwaldt, and through the subsequent scenes which took place. I
understood the instructions of the King to be honourable, and I
executed them honourably; had they been of a different tenor, they
would not have suited one of my name or nation."
"Fier comme un Ecossois," said Charles, who, however disappointed
at the tenor of Durward's reply, was not unjust enough to blame him for
his boldness. "But hark thee, Archer, what instructions were those
which made thee, as some sad fugitives from Schonwaldt have informed
us, parade the streets of Liege, at the head of those mutineers, who
afterwards cruelly murdered their temporal Prince and spiritual Father?
And what harangue was it which thou didst make after that murder was
committed, in which you took upon you, as agent for Louis, to assume
authority among the villains who had just perpetrated so great a
crime?"
"My lord," said Quentin, "there are many who could testify, that I
assumed not the character of an envoy of France in the town of Liege,
but had it fixed upon me by the obstinate clamours of the people
themselves, who refused to give credit to any disclamation which I
could make. This I told to those in the service of the Bishop when I
had made my escape from the city, and recommended their attention to
the security of the Castle, which might have prevented the calamity and
horror of the succeeding night. It is, no doubt, true, that I did, in
the extremity of danger, avail myself of the influence which my imputed
character gave me, to save the Countess Isabelle, to protect my own
life, and, so far as I could, to rein in the humour for slaughter,
which had already broke out in so dreadful an instance. I repeat, and
will maintain it with my body, that I had no commission of any kind
from the King of France, respecting the people of Liege, far less
instructions to instigate them to mutiny; and that, finally, when I did
avail myself of that imputed character, it was as if I had snatched up
a shield to protect myself in a moment of emergency, and used it, as I
should surely have done, for the defence of myself and others, without
enquiring whether I had a right to the heraldic emblazonments which it
displayed."
"And therein my young companion and prisoner," said Crèvecoeur,
unable any longer to remain silent, "acted with equal spirit and good
sense; and his doing so cannot justly be imputed as blame to King
Louis."
There was a murmur of assent among the surrounding nobility which
sounded joyfully in the ears of King Louis, whilst it gave no little
offence to Charles. He rolled his eyes angrily around; and the
sentiments, so generally expressed by so many of his highest vassals
and wisest counsellors, would not perhaps have prevented his giving way
to his violent and despotic temper, had not Des Comines, who foresaw
the danger, prevented it, by suddenly announcing a herald from the city
of Liege.
"A herald from weavers and nailers?" exclaimed the Duke—"but,
admit him instantly. By Our Lady, I will learn from this same herald
something further of his employers' hopes and projects, than this young
French-Scottish man-at-arms seems desirous to tell me!"
CHAPTER XVI. THE HERALD.
Ariel. —Hark! they roar.
Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly.
The Tempest.
There was room made in the assembly, and no small curiosity evinced
by those present to see the herald whom the insurgent Liegeois had
ventured to send to so haughty a Prince as the Duke of Burgundy, while
in such high indignation against them. For it must be remembered, that
at this period heralds were only dispatched from sovereign princes to
each other upon solemn occasions; and that the inferior nobility
employed pursuivants, a lower rank of officers-at-arms. It may be also
noticed in passing, that Louis XI., an habitual derider of whatever did
not promise real power or substantial advantage, was in especial a
professed contemner of heralds and heraldry, "red, blue, and green,
with all their trumpery," [Note: For a remarkable instance of this, see
note, at the end of the Chapter.] to which the pride of his rival
Charles, which was of a very differen |