Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance
by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #40295 · 975,756 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Lord Montagu's Page: An Historical Romance
Author: G. P. R. James
Release date: July 22, 2012 [eBook #40295]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40295
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jane Robins and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE: AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE ***
[Illustration]
LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE
AN
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
BY
G.P.R. JAMES.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
CHILDS AND PETERSON,
602 ARCH STREET.
1858.
I. WATY
Lord Montagu's Page:
AN
HISTORICAL ROMANCE
OF THE
Seventeenth Century.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES,
_Author of_
"RICHELIEU," "DARNLEY," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," "OLD DOMINION," ETC.
PHILADELPHIA:
CHILDS & PETERSON, 602 ARCH ST.
1858.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
CHILDS & PETERSON,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO.
PHILADELPHIA.
PRINTED BY DEACON & PETERSON.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
[_From Allibone's forthcoming Dictionary of Authors._]
George Payne Rainsford James was born in London about the year 1800, and
commenced his literary career at an early age by anonymous contributions
to the journals and reviews which catered to the literary taste of "a
discerning public." Some of these juvenile effusions fell under the
notice of Washington Irving, and this gentleman, with his usual kindness
of heart, encouraged the young author to venture upon something of a
more important character than the fugitive essays which had hitherto
employed his pen. Thus strengthened in his literary proclivity, the
young aspirant nibbed his "gray-goose quill," commenced author in
earnest, and gave to the world in 1822 his first work,--a Life of Edward
the Black Prince. Mr. James now turned his attention to a field which
had recently been cultivated with eminent success,--historical
romance,--and completed in 1825 his novel of Richelieu, which, having
received the favorable verdict of Sir Walter Scott, made its appearance
in 1829. This was followed in the next year by Darnley and De L'Orme.
Richelieu was so fortunate as to secure the favor of the formidable
Christopher North of Blackwood; but this invaluable commendation was
withheld from Darnley:--
"Mr. Colburn has lately given us two books of a very different
character, Richelieu and Darnley. Richelieu is one of the most
spirited, amusing, and interesting romances I ever read;
characters well drawn--incidents well managed--story perpetually
progressive--catastrophe at once natural and unexpected--moral
good, but not goody--and the whole felt, in every chapter, to be
the work of a--Gentleman."--_Noctes Ambrosianæ, April, 1830;
Blackw. Mag., xxvii. 688, q.v._
From this time to the present Mr. James has been no idler in the
Republic of Letters, as the following alphabetical list of his writings
amply proves:--
1. Adra, or the Peruvians; a Poem, 1 vol. 2. Agincourt, 1844, 3 vols. 3.
Agnes Sorrel, 1853, 3 vols. 4. Arabella Stuart, 1853, 3 vols. 5. Arrah
Neil, 1845, 3 vols. 6. Attila, 1837, 3 vols. 7. Beauchamp, 1848, 3 vols.
8. Blanche of Navarre; a Play, 1839, 1 vol. 9. Book of the Passions,
1838, 1 vol. 10. Cameralzaman; a Fairy Drama, 1848,1 vol. 11.
Castelneau; or, The Ancient Régime, 1841, 3 vols. 12. Castle of
Ehrenstein, 1847, 3 vols. 13. Charles Tyrrell, 1839, 2 vols. 14. City of
the Silent; a Poem, 1 vol. 15. Commissioner; or, De Lunatico Inquirendo,
1842, 1 vol. 16. Convict, 1847, 3 vols. 17. Corse de Leon, the Brigand,
1841, 3 vols. 18. Dark Scenes of History, 1849, 3 vols. 19. Darnley,
1830, 3 vols. 20. Delaware, 3 vols; subsequently published under the
title of Thirty Years Since, 1848, 1 vol. 21. De L'Orme, 1830, 3 vols.
22. Desultory Man, 3 vols. 23. Educational Institutions of Germany, 1
vol. 24. Eva St. Clair, and other Tales, 1843, 2 vols. 25. False Heir,
1843, 3 vols. 26. Fate, 1851, 3 vols. 27. Fight of the Fiddlers, 1848, 1
vol. 28. Forest Days, 1843, 3 vols. 29. Forgery; or, Best Intentions,
1848, 3 vols. 30. Gentleman of the Old School, 1839, 3 vols. 31. Gipsy,
1835, 3 vols. 32. Gowrie; or, The King's Plot, 1 vol. 33. Heidelberg,
1846, 3 vols. 34. Henry Masterton, 1832, 3 vols. 35. Henry Smeaton,
1850, 3 vols. 36. Henry of Guise, 1839, 3 vols. 37. History of
Charlemagne, 1832, 1 vol. 38. History of Chivalry, 1 vol. 39. History of
Louis XIV., 1838, 4 vols. 40. History of Richard Coeur de Lion,
1841-42, 4 vols. 41. Huguenot, 1838, 3 vols. 42. Jacquerie, 1841, 3
vols. 43. John Jones's Tales from English History, for Little John
Joneses, 1849, 2 vols. 44. John Marston Hall, 1834, 3 vols; subsequently
published under the title of Little Ball o' Fire, 1847, 1 vol. 45.
King's Highway, 1840, 3 vols. 46. Last of the Fairies, 1847, 1 vol. 47.
Life of Edward the Black Prince, 1822, 2 vols. 48. Life of Henry IV. of
France, 1847, 3 vols. 49. Life of Vicissitudes, 1 vol. 50. Man-at-Arms,
1840, 3 vols. 51. Margaret Graham, 1847, 2 vols. 52. Mary of Burgundy,
1833, 3 vols. 53. Memoirs of Great Commanders, 1832, 3 vols. 54. Morley
Ernstein, 1842, 3 vols. 55. My Aunt Pontypool, 3 vols. 56. Old Dominion;
or, The Southampton Massacre, 1856, 3 vols. 57. Old Oak Chest, 3 vols.
58. One in a Thousand, 1835, 3 vols. 59. Pequinillo, 1852, 3 vols. 60.
Philip Augustus, 1831, 3 vols. 61. Prince Life, 1855, 1 vol. 62.
Revenge, 1851, 3 vols; so styled by the bookseller, without the author's
consent. It was originally published in papers under a different name.
63. Richelieu, 1829, 3 vols. 64. Robber, 1838, 3 vols. 65. Rose
D'Albret, 1840, 3 vols. 66. Russell, 1847, 3 vols. 67. Sir Theodore
Broughton, 1847, 3 vols. 68. Smuggler, 1845, 3 vols. 69. Stepmother,
1846, 3 vols. 70. Story without a Name, 1852, 1 vol. 71. String of
Pearls, 1849, 2 vols. 72. Ticonderoga; or, The Black Eagle, 1854, 3
vols. 73. Whim and its Consequences, 1847, 3 vols. 74. Woodman, 1847, 3
vols.
It will be seen that the above list presents a total of 188
vols.,--viz.: 51 works in 3 vols. each, 2 in 4 vols. each, 6 in 2 vols.
each, and 15 in 1 vol. each. Almost all of these volumes are of the
post-octavo size. Mr. James is also the editor of the Vernon Letters,
illustrative of the times of William III., 1841, 3 vols. 8vo; and of Wm.
Henry Ireland's historical romance of David Rizzio, 1849, 3 vols. p.
8vo; and was associated with Dr. E. E. Crowe in the Lives of the Most
Eminent Foreign Statesmen, 1832-38, 5 vols. p. 8vo., (4 vols. were Mr.
James's, and 1 vol. Dr. Crowe's,) and with Mr. Maunsell B. Field in the
composition of Adrian, or The Clouds of the Mind, 1852, 2 vols. p. 8vo.
To this list may be added Norfolk and Hereford, (in a collection
entitled Seven Tales by Seven Authors,) and enough articles in various
periodicals to fill eight or ten volumes. Perhaps we should not omit to
notice that a work entitled A Brief History of the United States
Boundary Question, drawn up from official papers, published in London,
1839, 8vo., and ascribed to Mr. James, is not his production; nor had he
any share (further than writing a preface, or something of that kind) in
another work often credited to him,--Memoirs of Celebrated Women, 1837,
2 vols. p. 8vo. During the reign of William IV. the author received the
appointment of historiographer of Great Britain; but this post was
resigned by him many years since.
There have been new editions of many of Mr. James's novels, and some or
all of them have appeared in Bentley's Series of Standard Novels. There
has been also a Parlor-Library Edition. A collective edition was
published by Smith, Elder & Co., commencing in June, 1844, and continued
by Parry, and by Simpkin, Marshall & Co. In America they have been very
popular and published in large quantities.
About 1850 Mr. James, with his family, removed permanently to the United
States, and resided for two or three years in Berkshire county,
Massachusetts. Since 1852 he has been British Consul at Richmond,
Virginia. The space which we have occupied by a recital of the titles
only of Mr. James's volumes necessarily restricts the quotation of
criticisms upon the merits or demerits of their contents. It has fallen
to the lot of few authors to be so much read, and at the same time so
much abused, as the owner of the fertile pen which claims the long list
of novels commencing with Richelieu in 1829 and extending to the Old
Dominion in 1856. That there should be a family likeness in this
numerous race--where so many, too, are nearly of an age--can be no
matter of surprise. The mind, like any other artisan, can only construct
from materials which lie within its range; and, when no time is allowed
for the accumulation and renewal of these, it is vain to hope that
variety of architecture will conceal the identity of substance. Yet,
after all, the champion of this popular author will probably argue that
this objection against the writings of Mr. James is greatly overstated
and extravagantly overestimated. The novelist can draw only from the
experience of human life in its different phases, and these admit not of
such variety as the inordinate appetite of the modern Athenians
unreasonably demands. A new series of catastrophes and perplexities, of
mortifications and triumphs, of joys and sorrows, cannot be evoked for
the benefit of the reader of each new novel. Again, Mr. James's admirer
insists that this charge of sameness so often urged against our
novelist's writings is perhaps overstated. Where one author, as is
frequently the case, gains the reputation of versatility of talent by
writing one or two volumes, it is not to be believed that Mr. James
exhibits less in one or two hundred. He who composes a library is not to
be judged by the same standard as he who writes but one book. And even
if the charge of "sameness" be admitted to its full extent, yet many
will cordially concur with the grateful and graceful acknowledgment of
one of the most eminent of modern critics:--
"I hail every fresh publication of James, though I half know
what he is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his
landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal
trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings
out of old materials. I look on him as I look on a musician
famous for 'variations.' I am grateful for his vein of
cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid landscapes,
for his power of painting women at once ladylike and loving, (a
rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at once beautiful and
well-bred, and for the solace which all this has afforded me,
sometimes over and over again, in illness and in convalescence,
when I required interest without violence, and entertainment at
once animated and mild."--LEIGH HUNT.
Two of the severest criticisms to which Mr. James's novels have been
subjected are, the one in the London Athenæum for April 11, 1846, and
the one in the North American Review, by E. P. Whipple, for April,
1844.
We have spoken of Mr. James's champions and admirers; and such are by no
means fabulous personages, notwithstanding the severe censures to which
we have alluded. A brief quotation from one of these eulogies will be
another evidence added to the many in this volume of a wide
dissimilarity in critical opinions:--
"His pen is prolific enough to keep the imagination constantly
nourished; and of him, more than of any modern writer, it may be
said, that he has improved his style by the mere dint of
constant and abundant practice. For, although so agreeable a
novelist, it must not be forgotten that he stands infinitely
higher as an historian.... The most fantastic and beautiful
coruscations which the skies can exhibit to the eyes of mankind
dart as if in play from the huge volumes that roll out from the
crater of the volcano.... The recreation of an enlarged
intellect is ever more valuable than the highest efforts of a
confined one. Hence we find in the works before us, [Corse de
Leon, the Ancient Régime, and The Jacquerie,] lightly as they
have been thrown off, the traces of study,--the footsteps of a
powerful and vigorous understanding."--_Dublin University
Magazine_, March, 1842.
The Edinburgh Review concludes some comments upon our author with the
remark,
"Our readers will perceive from these general observations that
we estimate Mr. James's abilities, as a romance-writer, highly:
his works are lively and interesting, and animated by a spirit
of sound and healthy morality in feeling, and of natural
delineation in character, which, we think, will secure for them
a calm popularity which will last beyond the present day."
We have before us more than thirty (to be exact, just thirty-two)
commendatory notices of our author, but brief extracts from two of these
is all for which we can find space.
"He belongs to the historical school of fiction, and, like the
masters of the art, takes up a real person or a real event, and,
pursuing the course of history, makes out the intentions of
nature by adding circumstances and heightening character, till,
like a statue in the hands of the sculptor, the whole is in fair
proportion, truth of sentiment, and character. For this he has
high qualities,--an excellent taste, extensive knowledge of
history, a right feeling of the chivalrous, and a heroic and a
ready eye for the picturesque: his proprieties are admirable;
his sympathy with whatever is high-souled and noble is deep and
impressive. His best works are Richelieu and Mary of
Burgundy."--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM: _Biographical and Critical History
of the Literature of the Last Fifty Years, 1833._
The critic next to be quoted, whilst coinciding in the objections
prominently urged against Mr. James as an author,--repetition,
tediousness, and deficiency of terseness,--yet urges on his behalf that
"There is a constant appeal in his brilliant pages not only to
the pure and generous, but to the elevated and noble sentiments;
he is imbued with the very soul of chivalry; and all his stories
turn on the final triumph of those who are influenced by such
feelings over such as are swayed by selfish or base desires. He
possesses great pictorial powers, and a remarkable facility of
turning his graphic pen at will to the delineation of the most
distant and opposite scenes, manners, and social customs.... Not
a word or a thought which can give pain to the purest heart ever
escapes from his pen; and the mind wearied with the cares and
grieved at the selfishness of the world reverts with pleasure to
his varied compositions, which carry it back, as it were, to
former days, and portray, perhaps in too brilliant colors, the
ideas and manners of the olden time."--SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON:
_Hist. of Europe,_ 1815-52, chap, v., 1853. See also _Alison's
Essays,_ 1850, iii. 545-546; _North British Review,_ Feb. 1857,
art on Modern Style.
Prefatory Dedication.
TO
GUSTAVUS A. MYERS, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR:--
In dedicating to you the following pages, I am moved not more by private
friendship and regard, than by esteem for your abilities, and respect
for your many and varied acquirements. It might seem somewhat
presumptuous in me to call for your acceptance or seek your approbation
of this work, when not only your general acquaintance with, but your
profound knowledge of, almost every branch of modern and ancient
literature qualify and might be expected to prompt you to minute and
severe criticism. But I have always found, in regard to my own works at
least, that those who were best fitted to judge were the most inclined
to be lenient, and that men of high talent and deep learning
condescended to tolerate, if not to approve, that which was assailed by
very small critics, or scoffed at by men who, calling themselves
humorists, omitted the word "_bad_" before the appellation in which they
gloried.
To your good humor, then, I leave the work, and will only add a few
words in regard to the object and construction of the story.
We have in the present day romances of many various kinds; and I really
know not how to class my present effort. It is not a love-story, for any
thing like that which was the great moving power of young energies--at
least in less material days than these--has very little part in the
book. I cannot call it a novel without a hero, because it is altogether
dedicated to the adventures of one man. I cannot call it a romance
without a heroine, because there is a woman in it, and a woman with whom
I am myself very much in love. I cannot call it absolutely a historical
romance, because there are several characters which are not historical,
and I am afraid I have taken a few little liberties with Chronology
which, were she as prudish a dame as some of the middle-aged ladies whom
I could mention, would either earn me a _box_ of the ear, or produce so
much scandal that my good name would be lost forever. Plague take the
months and the days! they are always getting in one's way. But I do
believe I have been very reverent and respectful to their grandmothers
the years, and, with due regard for precedence and the Court Guide, have
not put any of the latter out of her proper place.
I do not altogether wish to call this a book of character; for I do not
exactly understand that word as the public has lately been taught to
understand it. There is no peasant, or cobbler, or brick-layer's
apprentice, in the whole book, endowed with superhuman qualities, moral
and physical. There is no personage in high station--given as the type
of a class--imbued with intense selfishness or demoniac passions, wicked
without motive, heartless against common sense, and utterly degraded
from that noble humanity, God's best and holiest gift to mankind. There
is no meek, poor, puling, suffering lover, who condescends humbly to be
bamboozled and befooled through three volumes, or Heaven knows how many
numbers, for the sake of marrying the heroine in the end. I therefore
cannot properly, in the present day, call it a work of character.
I might call it, perhaps,--although the hero is an Englishman,--a
picture of the times of Louis XIII; but, alas! I have not ventured to
give a full picture of these times. We have become so uncommonly cleanly
and decorous in our own days, that a mere allusion to the dirt and
indecency of the age of our great-grandmothers is not to be tolerated.
In order, indeed, to preserve something like verisimilitude, I have been
obliged to glance, in one chapter, at the freedom of manners of the days
to which I refer; but it has been a mere glance, and given in such a
manner that the cheek of one who understands it, in the sense in which
one of those very days would understand it, must have lost the power of
blushing. At all events, it can never sully or offend the pure, nor lead
the impure any further wrong.
There are a great many explanations and comments, in illustration of the
times, which I should like to give for the benefit of that part of my
readers who have put on the right of knowing all things at the same time
that the third change was made in their dress, and I would have done so,
in notes; but, unfortunately, I do not write Greek; and a little
incident prevented me from writing those notes in Latin. A work--a most
interesting work--was published a few years ago in London, called the
Bernstein Hexe, or Amber Witch. More than one translation appeared; and
one of these had the original notes,--some written in Latin where they
were peculiarly anatomical and indecent; but, to my surprise, I found
that several ladies were fully versed in that sort of Latinity. I cannot
flatter myself with having a sufficient command of the Roman tongue to
be enabled to veil the meaning more completely from the unlearned.
Only in the case of two personages have I attempted to elaborate
character,--in regard to my hero, and in regard to the Cardinal de
Richelieu. The former, though not altogether fictitious, must go with
very little comment. I wished to show how a young heart may be hardened
by circumstances, and how it may be softened and its better feelings
evolved by a propitious change. The latter, I will confess, I have
labored much; because I think the world in general, and I myself also,
have done some injustice to one of the greatest men that ever lived.
Very early in life I depicted him when he had reached old age,--that is
to say, his old age; for he had not, at the time of his death, numbered
as many years as are now upon my own head. He had then been tried in the
fire of the most terrible circumstances which perhaps ever assayed a
human heart; not only tried, but hardened; and even then, upon his
death-bed, his burst of tenderness to his old friend, Bois Robert, his
delight in the arts, and passion for flowers, showed that the tenderer
and--may I not say more noble?--feelings of the man had not been
swallowed up by the hard duties of the statesman, or the galling cares
of the politician. I now present him to the reader at a much earlier
period of life,--young, vigorous, successful, happy,--when the germs of
all those qualities for which men have reproached or applauded him were
certainly developed, were growing to maturity; when the severity which
afterwards characterized him, and the gentleness which he as certainly
displayed, had both been exercised; but when the briers and thorns had
not fully grown up, and before the soft grass of the heart had been
trampled under foot.
All men have mixed characters. I do not believe in perfect evil or in
perfect goodness on this earth; but at various times of life the worse
or the better spirit predominates, according to the nourishment and
encouragement it receives. How far Richelieu changed, and when and how
he changed, would require a longer discussion than can be here afforded.
But one thing is to be always remembered,--that he was generally painted
by his enemies; and, where they admit high qualities and generous
feelings, we may be sure that it was done with even a niggard hand, and
add something to the tribute of the unwilling witness.
In regard to critics, it may be supposed that I have spoken, a few pages
back, somewhat irreverently: I do not mean to do so in the least.
Amongst them are some most admirable men,--some who have done great,
real, tangible service to the public,--who have guided, if not formed,
public taste; and for them I have the greatest possible respect. I speak
not of the contributors to our greater and more pretentious
Reviews,--although, perhaps, a mass of deeper learning, more close and
acute investigation, and purer critical taste, cannot be found in the
literature of the world than that contained in their pages; but I speak
of the whole body of contemporary critics, many of whose minor articles
are full of astute perception and sound judgment. But there are others
for whom, though I have the most profound contempt, I have a most humble
fear. It is useless in Southern climates, such as that which I inhabit,
to attempt to prevent oneself from being stung by mosquitos or to keep
one's ears closed against their musical but venomous song. The only plan
which presents any chance of success--at least, it is as good as any
other--is to go down upon your knees and humbly to beseech them to spare
you. I therefore most reverently beseech the moral mosquitos, who are
accustomed to whistle and sing about my lowly path, to forbear as much
as possible; and, although their critical virulence may be aroused to
the highest pitch by seeing a man walk quietly on for thirty years along
the only firm path he can find amongst the bogs and quagmires of
literature, to spare at least those parts which are left naked by his
tailor and his shoemaker; to remember, in other words, that, besides the
faults and errors for which I am myself clearly responsible, there is
some allowance to be made for the faults of my amanuensis and for the
errors of my printer. I admit that I am the worst corrector in the whole
world; but I do hope that the liberality of criticism will not think fit
to see, as has been lately done, errors of mind in errors clearly of the
printer; especially in works which, by some arrangement between Mr.
Newby and the Atlantic, I never by any means see till the book has
passed through the press. But, should they still be determined to lay
the whole blame upon the poor author's shoulders, I may as well furnish
them with some excuse for so doing. The best that I know is to be found
in the following little anecdote:--
When I was quite a young boy, there was a painter in Edinburgh, of the
name of Skirven, celebrated both for his taste and genius, and his
minute accuracy in portrait-painting. A very beautiful lady of my
acquaintance sat to him for her portrait in a falling collar of rich and
beautiful lace. Unfortunately, there was a hole in the lace. As usual,
he did not suffer her to see the portrait till it was completed; and,
when she did see it, there was a portrait of the hole as well as
herself. "Well, Mr. Skirven," she said, "I think you need not have
painted the hole."
"Well, madam," answered the painter, "then you should have mended it
first."
G. P. R. JAMES.
ASHLAND, VIRGINIA,
December, 1857.
LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
It was a dark and stormy night,--a very dark night indeed. No dog's
mouth, whether terrier, mastiff, or Newfoundland, was ever so dark as
that night. The hatches had been battened down, and every aperture but
one, by which any of the great, curly-pated, leaping waves could jump
into the vessel, had been closed.
What vessel? the reader may perhaps inquire. Well, that being a piece of
reasonable curiosity,--although I do wish, as a general thing, that
readers would not be so impatient,--I will gratify it, and answer the
inquirer's question; and, indeed, would have told him all about it in
five minutes if he would but have given me time.
What vessel? asks the reader. Why, a little, heavy-looking,
fore-and-aft, one-masted ship, somewhat tubbish in form, which had
battled with a not very favorable gale during a long stormy day, and
had, as the sun went down, approached the coast of France, it might be
somewhat too close for safety. The atmosphere in the cabin below was hot
and oppressive. How indeed could it be otherwise, when not one breath of
air, notwithstanding all the bullying and roaring of Boreas, had been
able to get in during the whole day? But such being the case, and
respiration in the little den being difficult, the only altogether
terrestrial animal--sailors are, of course, amphibious--which that
vessel contained had forced his way up to the deck through the only
narrow outlet which had been left open.
The amphibia have always a considerable dislike and some degree of
contempt for all land-animals, and the five sailors, with their skipper,
who formed all the crew so small a craft required, would probably have
driven below the intruder upon their labors, had they had time, leisure,
or light to notice him at all. But for near two hours he stood at the
stern on the weather side of the ship, holding on by the bulwarks, wet
to the skin, with his hat blown off and probably swimming back toward
Old England, and his hands numbed with cold and with hard grasping.
There is something in the very act of holding on tight which increases
the natural tenacity of purpose that exists in some minds, and, if I may
use a very vulgar figure, thickens the glue. At the end of the two
hours, one of the sailors, who had something to do at the stern in a
great hurry, ran up to the spot where the only passenger was clinging
and nearly tumbled over him. Then, of course, he cursed him, as men in a
hurry are wont to, and exclaimed, "Get down below! What the devil are
you doing up here, where you are in everybody's way? Get down, I say!"
"I will not," was the reply, in a quiet, and even sweet, but very
resolute, voice.
"Then I'll knock you overboard, by ----!" said the seaman, adding an oath
which did not much strengthen the threat in the ears to which it was
addressed.
"You cannot, and you dare not try," answered the other. But then the
voice of the skipper, who had been working hard at the tiller, was heard
exclaiming, "Let him alone, Tom;" and he beneficently called down
condemnation not only upon the eyes but upon all the members of his
subordinate. "Mind your own work, and let him alone."
Now, it may be worth while to ask what sort of a personage was this,
whom the somewhat irascible Master Tom threatened to knock overboard,
and who replied with so little reverence for the threat. He could not be
a very formidable person, at least in appearance,--a very necessary
qualification of the assertion; for I have known very formidable snakes
the most pitiful-looking reptiles I ever beheld; and some of the most
dangerous men ever seen, either on the same stage of life where we are
playing our parts with them, or on the wider boards of history, have
been the least impressive in person, and the meanest-looking of
creatures. But, as I was saying,--for it is too late to finish that
sentence now,--the single passenger could not be very formidable in
appearance; for Tom was probably too wise and too experienced to engage
in what he considered even an equal struggle on so dark a night, while
the wind was blowing a gale, and the little craft heeling gunwale to.
Yet he could not be one without some powers, internally if not
externally, which rendered him fully as careless of consequences as the
other. Well, he was only a lad of some five feet eight or nine in
height, slight-looking in form, and dressed in a common sailor's jacket.
But in a leathern belt round his waist was a large caseknife, on the
handle or hilt of which, while he continued to hold on to the rail of
the bulwark with his left hand, he clasped the fingers of his right in a
very resolute and uncompromising manner. We all know that bowie-knives,
in one land at least, are very useful companions, and in all lands very
formidable weapons. Now, the knife in the lad's black leather belt was
not at all unlike a bowie-knife, and not in the least less formidable.
There was the slight insinuating curve, the heavy haft, the tremendously
long blade, the razor-like edge, and the sharp, unfailing point; so that
it is not improbable that the youth's confidence was mightily
strengthened by the companionship of such a serviceable friend, although
he was not half the size of his adversary and not above a third of his
weight. Boys, however, are always daring; and he could not at the utmost
have passed much more than seventeen years on the surface of this cold
earth.
Now, all this account would have been spared the beloved reader had not
a trait of character at the outset of the career of any personage, in a
poem, novel, romance, or tale, been worth half a volume of description
afterward. It would have been spared, indeed, simply because the little
incident ended just where we have left it. Tom, the sailor, though a
reckless, ill-conditioned fellow, was obedient to the voice of his
commander, and, after having boused the boom a little to the one side or
the other of the vessel,--which side I neither know nor care,--he
returned to the bow, muttering a few objurgations of the youth, implying
that if it had not been for him they would never have come upon that
d----d voyage at all, and that probably they all would go to the bottom
for having such a Jonah on board.
The truth is, Tom had left his sweetheart at Plymouth.
As soon as he was gone, the skipper called the lad a little nearer and
said, "Tom says true enough, Master Ned. You were better below on every
account. I don't see what you want to come up for on such a night as
this."
"Because I do not want to be smothered, Captain Tinly," replied Master
Ned. "I had rather be frozen than stewed; rather be melted by the water
like a piece of salt or sugar than baked like a pasty. Besides, what
harm do I do here? I am in no one's way, and that sea-dog could do his
work as well with me here as without me. But I'll tell you what,
captain, we are getting into smoother water. Some land is giving us a
lee. We ought soon to see a light."
"Why, were you ever here before, youngster?" asked the master.
"Ay, twice," said the boy; "and I know that when the sea smooths down as
it is now doing, we cannot be far from the island; and you will soon see
the lantern."
"Well, keep a sharp look-out, then," was the reply: "you can see better
where you stand than I can, and it's so dark those fellows forward may
miss it. A minute or two to-night may save or sink us."
"It matters not much which," answered the young man. A strange thought
for one at the age when life is brightest! but there are cases when the
disappointment of all early hopes--when the first grasp of misfortune's
iron hand has been so hard that it seems to have crushed the butterfly
of the heart even unto death,--when it is not alone the gay colors have
been brushed off, the soft down swept away, but when Hope's own life
seems extinguished.
Happily, it is but for a time. There is immortality in Hope. She cannot
die; The fabled Phoenix of the ancients was but an emblem, like every
other myth; and, if the painting of Cupid burning a butterfly over a
flame was the image of love tormenting the soul, the Phoenix rising
from her ashes was surely a figure of the constant resurrection of Hope.
Ay, from her very ashes does she rise to brighter and still brighter
existence, till, soaring over the cold Lethe of the grave, she spreads
her wings afar to the Elysian fields beyond!
It is an old axiom, never to say "die;" and though there be those who
say it, ay, and in a momentary madness give the word the form of action,
did they but wait, they themselves would find that, though circumstances
remained unchanged, the prospect as rugged or the night as dark, the
sunshine of Hope would break forth again to cheer, or her star twinkle
through the gloom to guide.
The boy felt what he said at the time, but it was only for the time; and
there were years before him in which he never felt so again.
"Captain, there is a light surely toward the southwest," said the lad:
"that must be the light at St. Martin's-on-Re. It seems very far off. We
must be hugging the main shore too close."
"I don't see it," answered the skipper; "but there is one due east, or
half a point north. What the devil is that?"
The boy ran across the deck nearly at the risk of his life; for though
the sea and wind had both fallen, the little craft still pitched and
heeled so much that he lost his footing and had wellnigh gone overboard.
He held on, however, was up in a moment, and exclaimed, "Marans! The
light in Maran's church! You'll be on the sands in ten minutes! Put
about, put about, if you would save the ship!"
A great deal of hurry and confusion succeeded; and there was much
unnecessary noise, and still more unnecessary swearing. The youth who
had discovered the danger was the most silent of the party; but he was
not inactive, aiding the captain with more strength than he seemed to
possess, to bring the ship's head as near to the wind as possible. And
the manoeuvre was just in time; for the lead at one time showed that
they were just up the very verge of the sands at the moment when,
answering the helm better than she did at first, she made way toward the
west, and the danger was past. In half an hour--for their progress was
slow--the light upon the Isle de Re could be distinctly seen, and one by
one other lights and landmarks appeared, rendering the rest of the
voyage comparatively safe.
Still the lad kept his place upon the deck, addressing hardly a word to
any one, but watching with a keen eye the eastern line of shore, which
was every now and then visible notwithstanding the darkness. The moon,
too, began to give some light, though she could not be seen; for the
clouds were still thick, and their rapid race across the sky told that,
though the sea under the lea of the Isle de Re had lost all its
fierceness, the gale was blowing with unabated fury.
The lad quitted his hold of the bulwarks and walked slowly to the
captain's side, as if to speak to him; but the skipper spoke first. His
professional vanity was somewhat mortified, or perhaps he was afraid
that his professional reputation might suffer by the lad's report in the
ears of those whose approbation was valuable to him; and consequently he
was inclined to put a little bit of defensive armor on a spot where he
fancied himself vulnerable.
"We had a narrow squeak of it just now, Master Ned," he said. "However,
it was no fault of mine. I could not help it. It is twenty years since I
was last at this d--d place, and the chart they gave me is a mighty bad
one. Besides, those beastly gales we have had ever since Ushant might
puzzle the devil,--and this dark night, too!"
"You've saved the ship, captain," answered the lad: "that is all we have
to do with;" and then, perhaps thinking he might as well add something
to help the good skipper's palliatives for wellnigh running the ship
ashore, he added, "Besides, there is a strong current running,--what
between the sands of Oleron and the point of Re, and the Pertuis
d'Antioche--I do not know very well how it is; but I was so told by one
of the men last time I was here."
"Ay, 'tis so, I dare say," answered the captain. "Indeed, it must be
so; for we could never have got so far to the eastward without one of
those currents. I wish to heaven some one would put them all down, for
one can't keep them all in one's head, anyhow. You tell the duke, when
you see him again, about the currents, Master Ned."
"What is the use of telling him any thing at all but that we got safe to
Rochelle?" asked the lad. "If we get there--as there is now no doubt--he
will ask no questions how; and if we don't, anybody may blame us who
likes: it will make little difference to you or me."
The skipper was about to answer; but just at that moment a light broke
suddenly out upon that longish point of land which a boat that keeps
under the western shore of France has to double--as the reader very well
recollects--before it can make the port of La Rochelle; and the boy as
suddenly laid his hand on the captain's arm, saying, "Make for that
light as near as you can, captain; keep the lead going; drop your anchor
as close as you can, and send me ashore in a boat."
"Why, Master Ned, I was told to land you at Rochelle," replied the
other.
"You were told to do as I bade you," answered the lad, as stoutly as if
he had been a captain of horse,--adding the saving clause, "in every
thing except the navigation of your vessel. I must be put ashore where
you see that light. So send down for my bags, have the boat all ready,
and when I am landed go on to Rochelle and wait till you hear more."
The captain of the vessel did not hesitate to obey. The ship ran
speedily for the shore and approached perhaps nearer than was altogether
safe; the boat was lowered to the water, and the lad sprang in without
bidding adieu to any one. There was a heavy sea running upon the coast,
and it required no slight skill and strength on the part of the two
stout rowers to land him in safety; but he showed neither fear nor
hesitation, though probably he knew the extent of the danger and the
service better than any one; for, when he sprang out into the shallow
water where the boat grounded, he gave each of the men a gold-piece, and
then watched them with somewhat anxious eyes till they had got their
boat through the surf into the open sea.
CHAPTER II.
What an extraordinary world it is! Men in general are mere shellfish,
unapproachable except at certain tender points; such as the eyes of the
crab, or the soft yellow skin under an alligator's gullet,--Achilles'
heels which have been neglected by the mothers of those sapient reptiles
when they were dipped in Styx. But perhaps it is as well as it is; for
if a man were tender all over, and once began to think of all the misery
that is going on around him, the faces he would make would be horrible
to see. Reader, at this very moment there are thousands dying in agony,
there are many starving for lack of food, there is a whole host of
gentle hearts watching the expiring lamp of life in the eyes of those
most dearly loved, there are multitudes of noble spirits and mighty
minds struggling in doubt for to-morrow's daily crust, there is crime,
folly, sorrow, anguish, shame, remorse, despair, around us on every
side; and yet we are as merry as a grasshopper unless somebody snaps off
one of our own legs. There is not an instant of time that does not bring
with it a thousand waves of agony over the stormy sea of human
existence; and yet every man's light boat dances on, and the mariner
sings, till one of the many billows overwhelms him. It is quite as well
as it is.
Some, however, are blessed--or cursed, as it may be--with a faculty of
feeling for others; and that boy, as he took his way up from the shore
toward the little hillock of sand on which a bonfire of pine logs was
blazing,--with two heavy bags on his arms, and the rain dashed by the
fierce wind in his face,--could not help thinking of the roofless heads
and chilled hearts he knew were in the world.
"Poor souls!" he thought; "in an hour I shall be warm and dry and
comfortable, and to-morrow all this will be forgotten; but for them
there is no comfort, no better to-morrow."
Stay a minute, my lad! Do not go too fast and reckon without your host,
either for yourself or others. Joy may light up the dim eye, hope fan
the aching brow; and you,--after all you have seen and undergone even in
your short life,--how dare you count upon the events of the next
hour,--nay, of the next moment?
He climbed the hill stoutly but slowly; for it was steep, and his bags
were heavy. The wicked wind, too, fought with him all the way up, and
the rain, which had lately begun to fall, came loaded with small
particles of hail, as if it sought to aid the wind in keeping him back
till their united force could put out the beacon-fire. But the pine was
full of resin, and it burned on, with the flame and the smoke whirled
about by the wind but never extinguished, until at length he stood on
the windward side of the fire and looked round, as if expecting to see
the man who lighted it.
There was no one there, however; and the youth, who, it must be
acknowledged, was of a somewhat eager and impatient temper and apt to
come to hasty conclusions, fancied for a moment or two that those he
should have found there had grown weary of waiting in that boisterous
night, and had left him to enjoy its pleasures or its terrors by
himself. A moment after, however, as the flame swayed a little more to
the westward, he caught a glimpse of the ground on the other side of the
hill sinking rapidly down into a little dell where some less arid soil
seemed to have settled,--enough at least to bear some scanty herbage, a
few low bushes, and some thin pines; and there, amongst the latter,
appeared a small fixed light. It might be a candle in a cottage-window,
and probably was; for it was too red for a jack-o'lantern.
"Ah! I can at least find out where I am," thought the lad; "but I dare
say the men are there, taking care of their own skins and little caring
about mine."
Thus thinking, he began to descend, and had not proceeded far when a
voice hailed him in French. The lad made no answer, but went on; for, to
say sooth, he was somewhat moody with all the events of the last three
or four days.
"Is that you, Master Ned, I say?" repeated the voice, in English, but
with a very strong foreign accent.
"Ay, ay!" replied the youth; "but how the devil did you expect me to
find you if you did not stay by the fire?"
"Oh, we kept a good look-out," answered a stout man of some
five-and-thirty years of age, who was advancing to meet him. "We have
waited for you by the fire long enough these two last nights; and, as we
could see any one who came across the blaze, there was no use of our
getting frozen, or melted, or blown away on the top of the hill. But
what has made you so long behind? You were to have been here on Tuesday
night: so the letters said. What kept you?"
"Head-winds all the way from Ushant," replied the boy. "But let us go
on, Jargeau, for we must be far from the town, and time enough has been
lost already."
"Well, come down to the cottage," said the other, in a musing sort of
tone. "You want something to refresh you while the horses are being
saddled. Here; let me carry your bags." And as he spoke he laid his hand
upon one of the large leather-covered cases.
"Not that one," said the boy, sharply, pushing away his hand: "here; you
may take this." The man laughed, saying, "Ay, as sharp as ever!" and
they descended to the pines, where the light still glimmered behind one
of the few remaining panes of glass in the window of a dilapidated
cottage, on the leeward side of which stood three horses, tethered but
without their saddles.
The interior of the building offered no very cheerful aspect; but,
seeing that the boy had not eaten any thing for the last twelve hours,
that he was weary, wet, and cold, the sight of a very tolerable supply
of viands on the floor,--for there was furniture of no kind within,--and
a large black bottle fitted to hold at least a gallon, was very
consolatory.
The only other objects which the cottage contained were the rosin candle
fixed into a split log, and a lean but apparently strong man of perhaps
forty, whose face had evidently had at least a ten years' intimacy with
the brandy-flask. He was stretched out at length upon the ground, but
with his head and arm within reach of the viands and bottle; and though,
in answer to some observations of his comrade of the watch, he swore
manfully that he had touched neither, yet he wiped his mouth upon the
sleeve of his coat, as if he felt that something might be clinging to
his lips which would contradict him.
"Ah, Master Ned!" he exclaimed, in French, but without moving from where
he lay, "I am right glad you have come, for my throat is as dry as an
ear of rye, and Jargeau there would not have the cold meat touched nor
the bottle broached till you came."
"By the Lord, you have broached it, though!" exclaimed the other, who
had been stooping down: "the neck is quite wet, you vagabond; and, if we
did not need you, I would give you a touch of my knife for disobeying my
orders. But come, Master Ned, sit down on the floor and eat. There is
enough left in the bottle for you, at all events; and, on my soul, he
shall not have another drop till both you and I have finished."
The other man only laughed, and the boy applied himself to the food with
a good will. When he had eaten silently for some ten minutes, he
stretched out his hand, saying, "Give me the bottle, Jargeau: I will
have one draught of wine, and then I am ready. Pierrot, get up and put
the saddles on the horses."
"No wine will you get here," replied Jargeau; "but this is better for
you, wet as you are,--as good eau-de-vie as ever came from Tonnay
Charente. Take a good drink: you will need it."
"Get up and saddle the horses," said the boy before he drank, addressing
somewhat sharply the lean gentleman on the ground. "Have you forgotten
St. Martin's, good Pierrot?"
"I will have my drink first," answered the other, grinning. "I brought
the bottle here; and drop for drop all round is fair play."
As the quickest mode of ending all dispute, the youth drank and gave the
bottle to Pierrot; but it remained so long at his lips that Jargeau
snatched it angrily from him, swearing he would not leave a drop. He
seemed loath to part with it, but at length raised his long limbs from
the floor, and, lighting another rosin candle, went forth to perform his
task.
"And now, Master Ned," said Jargeau, "I have news for you which you may
be will not like. You are not going to La Rochelle to-night. There is no
one there whom you want to see."
"I must go," said the boy, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. "I
must go."
"But just listen, Master Ned," said Jargeau. "I know you are somewhat
hard-headed; but what is the use of going to a place where there is no
one to deal with? Now, the Prince de Soubise and the Duc de Rohan are
both at the Chateau of Mauzé; and with them are all the people you want
to see."
The lad paused and mused for several minutes without making any answer,
and Jargeau pressed him to take some more of the brandy, saying that he
would have a ride of thirty miles. But still he replied nothing, till at
length, awaking from his reverie, he asked, "Who is to guide me? I do
not know the way to Mauzé."
"Oh, Pierrot is here for the very purpose," answered Jargeau: "he will
guide you, and though, by one way or another, he will find means to make
all you leave of the brandy disappear, you know he is never drunk enough
not to find his way."
Master Ned, as they called him, again fell into thought for a moment or
two, and then answered, "It would be better for you to go yourself. But
perhaps you are wanted in Rochelle?"
"No," answered the other, in an indifferent tone; "I have got to go to
Fontenay, where some of our friends--you understand?--are to have a
meeting to-morrow night."
"Then you must be there, of course," replied Master Ned; "but, if
Pierrot is to ride thirty miles with me, the poor devil had better have
some food. He has tasted nothing but the brandy."
"That is enough for him," answered Jargeau: "he cares nothing for meat
when he can get drink."
"Well, then, let him have enough of what he likes best," answered the
lad; "and in the mean time I will get a cloak out of the bag, for we
shall have a wet ride as well as a long one." Thus saying, he rose, took
the bags into the farther corner of the cabin, and certainly took a
cloak out of one of them. Whether he brought forth any thing else I do
not say; but the cloak was soon over his shoulders, and a moment after
Pierrot appeared at the door, saying that the beasts were saddled.
"Here, Pierrot," exclaimed the lad; "come in and devour that chicken,
and then you shall have some more of the devil's drops."
"Take some more yourself, Ned," said Jargeau: "'tis the only way to
prevent catching the fever."
The lad assented, and, taking the bottle with both hands, put it to his
lips; but whether any of its contents passed beyond them I am doubtful,
seeing that the throat, which was fully exposed by his falling collar,
showed no signs of deglutition. He then handed the liquor to Pierrot,
who by this time had torn a large fat fowl to pieces and swallowed
one-half of it. The brandy fared still worse; for, although Jargeau
frowned upon him fiercely while he drank, the bottle, whatever remained
of the contents when he put it to his mouth, left that organ quite
empty.
"You drunken beast, you have swallowed it all!" said Jargeau.
"True," answered Pierrot, with a watery and somewhat swimming eye: "my
mouth is not large, but it is deep. I wish the Pertuis d'Antioche could
be filled with the same stuff and my mouth be laid at the other end.
There would be only one current then, Monsieur Jargeau."
The lad and the elderman both eyed him keenly as he spoke; but, strange
to say, the sight seemed to please the former more than the latter, and,
as they issued forth to mount, Jargeau drew Pierrot aside and said
something to him in a low but angry voice.
The lad took not the slightest notice of this little interlude, but,
advancing to where the horses stood with bent heads, not liking the rain
at all, he selected the one which seemed to him the strongest and best,
without asking consent of any one, placed his bags, tied together with a
strong leathern thong, over the pommel of the saddle, and then sprang
into his seat. "Come on, Pierrot!" he cried; "we have far to ride, it
seems, and but little time." Jargeau advanced to his side and said, in a
whisper, "That beast is half drunk. Take care of him. You remember it is
the Chateau of Mauzé you are going to. He may turn refractory."
"Oh, no fear," replied Master Ned. "I can drive him as well as any other
ass. I have driven him before. Mauzé?--that is upon the road to Niort,
is it not?"
"Yes," answered the other. "Where the road forks, keep to the right, and
then straight on: you cannot miss it. I think the moon will get the
better of the clouds and shine out."
"Good!" said the youth. "We want a little light."
Thus saying, he struck the horse with his heel, and the beast started
forward. Pierrot, who by this time had contrived to mount, followed, and
Jargeau returned to the cottage, as he said, to put out the light.
CHAPTER III.
There had been something a little peculiar in the way in which Master
Ned had pronounced the words, "We want a little light," which, if
Jargeau had remarked the curl of his lip as they were uttered, might
have induced him to turn his horse's head toward Rochelle instead of
Fontenay; for in truth the lad spoke of other than moonlight. Ned rode
on in silence, however, for some minutes, along a small road, or rather
path, which led from the old cottage, first to a small straggling
village, such as is still to be seen in the Bocage and its neighborhood,
and then to a place of junction with the highroad running from Marans to
Mauzé. It was called a highroad then, God wot; but it has fallen into a
second-class way now, and was in all but name a very low road always.
Pierrot was silent too,--not that he had not a strong impulse toward
eloquence upon him, but that he felt a certain confusion of thought
which did not permit of seeing distinctly which was the head, which the
tail, of a subject. The last draught of brandy had been a deep one. Yet
Pierrot was practised in all the various phases of drunkenness, and in
general knew how to carry his liquor discreetly; but this was in fact
the reason that he abstained from using his tongue, feeling an intense
conviction that it would either speak some gross nonsense, or betray
some secret, or commit some other of those lamentable blunders in which
drunken men's tongues are wont to indulge, if he once opened his mouth.
It was not an easy task to keep quiet, it is true; and, had he not been
a very experienced man, he could not have accomplished it. But the
struggle was soon brought to a conclusion; for, when they had ridden
about half a mile, Master Ned turned sharp upon him, and asked,
abruptly, "What was that Jargeau said to you, just as we were coming
away, Pierrot?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Pierrot, in a muddled voice, "but to lead you
right."
"Where?" demanded the lad, sternly.
"Why, to Mauzé, to-be-sure," replied Pierrot.
"What a pity he gave himself such unnecessary trouble!" answered the
lad, in a quiet tone: "neither you nor I go to Mauzé to-night, Pierrot."
"Then where, in Satan's name, are you going?" demanded his companion,
checking his horse.
"To Rochelle," replied Master Ned. "Jog on, Maître Pierrot. It is the
next turn on the right we take, I think. Jog on, I say. Why do you
stop?"
"Because I ought to go back and tell Jargeau, and ask him what I am to
do," answered the other, half bewildered with drink and astonishment.
"You are to do what I tell you, and to do it at once," replied the lad;
"and, if you do not, I have got a persuader here which will convince you
sooner than any other argument I can use." And as he spoke he drew one
of the large horse-pistols of that day from beneath his cloak and
pointed it straight at Pierrot's head. "It is the same argument that
stopped your running away and leaving us in the enemy's teeth at St.
Martin's-in-Rhé," he said.
"You young devil, the ball is in my leg still," answered Pierrot. "But
this is not fair, Master Ned. You might be right enough then, for you
thought I was going to betray you; though, on my life and soul, I was
only afraid. Now you want me to disobey those I am bound to serve, and
do not even give me a reason."
"I will give you a reason, though I have not much time, for fear the
powder in the pan should get damp," replied the boy; "but my reason is
that I was told to go to Rochelle and see Maître Clement Tournon; and
therefore I am going. Now, in the Isle de Rhé I did not think you were
going to betray us, and knew quite well it was mere fear; but at present
I do think Jargeau is seeking to betray me,--or mislead me, which is as
bad. At all events, you have got to go with me to Rochelle, or have the
lead in your head, Pierrot: so choose quickly, because you know I do not
wait long for any one."
"Well, I vow you are too hard upon me, Master Ned," said Pierrot, in a
whimpering tone. "You take the very bread out of my mouth and give me
over to the vengeance of that cold-blooded devil Jargeau."
"You will find me a worse devil still," replied Master Ned, coldly; but
even as he spoke he fell into a fit of thought, and then added, "Listen
to me, Pierrot, if the brandy has left you any brains, or ears either. I
want a man like you to go with me a long way, perhaps. It will not be I
who pay you, for I have got little enough, as you know; but I will be
your surety that you shall be well paid as long as you serve well. I
know you to the bottom. You are honest at heart, whether you are drunk
or sober; though liquor has not the same effect upon you as upon most
men. You are brave enough when you are sober, but a terrible coward when
you are drunk. Now, if you like to go with me, you shall have enough to
live on, and to get drunk on, when I choose to let you get drunk."
"How often will that be?" asked Pierrot, interrupting him.
"I will make no bargain," answered the lad; "but this much I will say:
you may drink whenever I do not tell you I have important business on
hand. When I do tell you that, you shall taste nothing stronger than
water."
"Good! good!" said Pierrot: "strong water you mean, of course."
"Well-water," said the lad, sharply. "But, remember, I am not to be
trifled with. As to Jargeau, I will take care he does nothing to injure
you. If it be as I think, I have got his head under my belt, and he will
soon know that it is so. Now choose quickly, for we have stood here too
long."
"Well, I'll go," said Pierrot; "but I am terribly afraid of that
Jargeau. However, your pistol is nearest; and so I'll go. I know you are
not to be trifled with, well enough; but I must find some way of letting
Jargeau know I have left him. It would be a shame to go without telling
him, you know, Master Ned."
"We shall find means enough in Rochelle of sending him word," answered
the lad, putting up his pistol and resuming his journey.
Pierrot followed with sundry half-articulate grunts; but he appeared
soon to recover both good humor and spirits, for ere they had gone half
a mile he burst forth into song, broken and irregular indeed, now a
scrap from one lay, now from another; but, at all events, the music
seemed to show that no very heavy thing was resting on his mind. His
rambling scraps of old ditties ran somewhat as follows:--
"Whither go you on this dark, dark night,
Wayfaring cavalier?
Go you to love, or go you to fight?
Either is better by clear moonlight,
Venturous cavalier.
"By my life, the moon is beginning to break through,--though how she
will manage it I don't know; for there is mud enough in yonder sky to
swallow up the tallest horse I ever rode.
"Oh, tell-tale moon,
You are up too soon
For the long train of kisses yet on the way.
Your eyes so bright
Make all the world light:
We might just as well kiss in the full of the day.
"She has got behind the cloud again. Moons and maidens don't know their
own minds.
"Katy went to the cupboard-door,
Ah, Katy, Katy!
What want you in your grandam's store?
Cunning little Katy.
"She went quietly over the floor:
Fie, Katy, Katy!
No use of the lock, no use of the door,
Against that little Katy.
"She's put away her own little snood:
Fie, little Katy!
She has got on her grandmother's hood:
Can that be pretty Katy?
"She has opened the back door into the wood:
Beware! Katy, Katy;
Such sly marches never bode good
To any little Katy.
"But there's a priest with the yeoman tall:
Is that it, little Katy?
And now she is wedded and bedded and all,
And no more little Katy."
The concluding stanzas, if they were neither very excellent nor very
tender, were at least an indication that his mind was settling down into
a calmer state than when he began. They were connected, at all events;
and continuity of thought is a great approach to reason, which dwelleth
not in the brains of any man together with much brandy. The finer spirit
was, therefore, apparently getting the better of the coarser; and Master
Ned thought the time was come for him to take advantage of the change of
dynasty and see whether he could not obtain some advantage from the new
ruler.
"Well, Pierrot," he said, "this is a very pretty business you have been
engaged in. After having had the honor of serving the King of England
and fighting for the liberty of the Protestants of France, you have been
persuaded to aid in trying to betray me into the hands of the enemy,
though you did not know that I might not be the bearer of important
messages to your own people."
"Whew!" cried Pierrot, with a long whistle. Now, whistles mean all kinds
of things, from the ostracism of a play-house gallery to the signal of
love or housebreaking; but the whistle of good Pierrot was decidedly a
whistle of astonishment, and so Master Ned interpreted it.
"Do not affect ignorance or surprise, Pierrot," he said: "that will not
do with me. Jargeau is a traitor: that is clear."
"Well, well, Master Ned," interposed his companion, "you are a mighty
sharp lad, beyond question; but sometimes you ride your horse too fast,
notwithstanding. Just stop a bit till my head gets a little--a very
little bit--clearer, and I'll set you right. As you think the matter
worse than it is, I may as well show you it is better. I don't mean to
say they did not want to trick you; but not the way you fancy."
"Why, are not all the towns round in the hands of the Papists?" asked
the lad. "We have had that news in England for the last four months."
"No, no, no," answered Pierrot: "the Papists may have the upper hand in
most of them, it is true; but stop a bit, and I'll tell you all clearly.
Your long pistol half sobered me; and when I can get to a spring and put
my head in, that will wash out the rest of the brandy. It is of no use
giving you a muddled tale."
"Take care you do not make one up," answered Master Ned. "I shall find
you out in five minutes."
Pierrot laughed. "I'd as soon try to cheat the devil," he said. "But let
us ride on. There is a well just where the roads cross, and it will
serve my turn. Brandy is a fine thing, but a mighty poor counsellor."
The lad followed the suggestion, for he did not wish to give his
companion too much time to think, and, urging their horses on, in about
five minutes they reached the spot where two highways crossed, and where
a large stone trough received the waters of a beautiful and plentiful
spring, affording solace to many a weary and thirsty horse in those days
of saddle-travelling. There Pierrot dismounted, slowly and deliberately,
for he could not precisely ascertain to what extent he retained a
balancing power till his feet touched the ground. With more directness
of purpose, however, than could have been expected, he made his way to
the trough, and, kneeling down, plunged his head once or twice into the
cool water. He then rose, with his long rugged black hair still
streaming; and, after the horses had been suffered to drink, the two
travellers resumed their way. The moon by this time had completely
scattered the clouds; glimpses of dark-blue sky appeared between the
broken masses, and the keen eye of the young lad could mark every
change in the expression of Pierrot's face as he went on.
"Now, Master Ned," he said, "I think my noddle has got clear enough of
the fumes to let you know something of what people have been about here,
which you do not know rightly, I can see. Rochelle is going to be taken
by the Catholics: that's clear to me."
"Unless the great Duke of Buckingham drive the Catholics beyond the
Loire, it must be taken," answered the lad. "You can never stand against
all France. But what makes you give up hope, Pierrot?"
"First, the King of France, and his devil of a Cardinal, are drawing
together a great army all around us," answered Pierrot,--"a greater army
than ever approached Rochelle before. That we could manage to resist,
perhaps. But then they are going very coolly to work fortifying every
town and well-pitched village of the Papists within fifty miles of the
city, and filling them with soldiers, so that every egg that comes to
market will have to be fought for. Well, that we could perhaps manage
too, for we could get supplies from England. But look here, Master Ned:
there are two parties in Rochelle. Our best lords and wisest citizens,
our chief generals and captains, know well that our only hope is in the
support of England; but there is a more numerous, if not a stronger,
party, who do not like your great duke, would have nothing to do with
your good country, and would have us stand alone and fight it out by
ourselves. One of their chief men is Jargeau."
"I see," said the lad. "But what did he seek by trying to entrap me to
go to Mauzé?"
"First, your letters were likely either to fall into the hands of the
Catholics, and, by showing how firmly Rochelle could count upon English
help, frighten them and make them reasonable," answered Pierrot, "or,
secondly, they might fall into the hands of Miguet and his other
friends, who would take care they should never reach their destination.
That was the plan, Master Ned."
"And not a bad plan, either," answered the other, thoughtfully,
"supposing I had any letters. But, as you say, Rochelle is in a bad
way; for, if her leaders are afraid to let each other know their exact
position and what they may count upon, she is a house divided against
herself, and cannot stand. But what made Jargeau think I had letters?
Nobody told him so, I think."
"No; but they told him you would have messages for our principal
people," answered Pierrot,--adding, not unwilling, perhaps, to show a
little scorn for one whose strong will had exercised what may be called
an unnatural ascendency over him more than once, "and Jargeau never
believed that they would trust messages to such a young boy as you."
"He must have thought my memory very bad," replied the lad, "not to be
able to carry a message from England to France. But my memory is not so
bad, good Pierrot, as he may find some day. At all events, if Rochelle
is to be lost by the intrigues of a man who does not choose his comrades
to know where succor lies when they like to seek it, all the world shall
know who ruined a good cause. But I suppose, Pierrot, all he told me of
the meeting of the Reformed leaders at Mauzé was a mere lure."
"No, no; it is all true," answered Pierrot. "The prince is there, and
Rohan, and a dozen of others; and if you could have got safe through
without the loss of your bags, you would have found some of those you
want; but I suppose he had provided against that. I don't know: he never
told me; but it is likely."
"Very likely," replied Master Ned; "but you say 'some of those I want.'
I only want one person; and him I must see if it be possible. Is Maître
Clement Tournon in the city?"
"He is not with those in the Chateau of Mauzé," replied Pierrot. "I know
little of him. He is a goldsmith,--a very quiet man?"
"Probably," answered the lad: "quiet men are the best friends in this
world. So, on to Rochelle! Will they let us pass the gates at night?"
"'Tis a hard question to answer," said Pierrot. "Sometimes they are very
strict, sometimes lax enough. But it is somewhat late, young lad, and,
if none of the guard is in love with moonlight, we shall find them all
asleep."
"Asleep in such times as these!" exclaimed the young man.
"Why, either the Papists are trying to throw us off our guard," said
Pierrot, "or they are too busy cutting off each others' heads to mind
ours. They have not troubled us much as yet. True, they have taken a
town or two, and stopped some of our parties into the country, and begun
what they call lines; but not a man of their armies has come within
cannon-shot. And there is not much more strictness than in the times of
the _little war_ which has been going on for the last fifty years. But
the people in the town vary from time to time. When one man commands,
the very nose of a Catholic will be fired at; and, when another is on
duty, the gates will be opened to Schomberg, or the devil, or any one
else who comes in a civil manner. But there is Rochelle peeping over the
trees yonder, just as if she had come out to see the moon shine."
"Well, then, mark me, good Pierrot," said Master Ned, "I expect you to
do all you can to make them open the gates to us. You understand what
that means, I suppose?"
"That I shall have a shot in my other leg or through my head if I do
not, I presume," answered Pierrot. "But don't be afraid. When you have
given me a crown, I shall have taken service with you; and then you
know, or ought to know, I will serve you well."
The lad, it would seem, had some reason to judge that the estimate which
his companion put upon such a bond was just. Indeed, in those days the
act of taking service, confirmed by earnest-money, implied much more
than it does in our more enlightened times. Then a man who had thus
bound himself thought himself obliged to let nobody cheat his master but
himself, to feel a personal interest in his purposes and in his safety.
Now, alas! we hire a man to rob us himself and help all others to rob
us,--to brush our coats in the evening, and cut our throats in the
morning if we have too many silver spoons. However, Master Ned put his
hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of money, which he held out
to Pierrot, who seemed for a moment to hesitate to take it. "I wish I
had told Jargeau I was going to quit him," he said: "not that he ever
gave me a sol, but plenty of promises. How much is it, Master Ned?"
"A spur rial," replied the boy,--"worth a number of your French crowns."
"Lead us not into temptation!" cried Pierrot, taking and pocketing the
money. "And now tell me what I am to do."
"All you can to make them open the gates," answered Master Ned. "You
have got the word, of course?"
"Nay, 'faith, not I," replied Pierrot: "Jargeau got it this evening, but
I did not think of asking. Never mind, however: all the people in
Rochelle know me, and I will get in if any one can."
He was destined to be disappointed, however. In the little suburb, just
before the gate, he and his companion passed a little tavern where
lights were burning and people singing and making a good deal of noise;
but it was in vain that Pierrot knocked at the large heavy door or
shouted through a small barred aperture. No one could be made to hear;
and he and Master Ned were forced to retreat to one of the cabarets of
the faubourg and await the coming of daylight.
CHAPTER IV.
"Who is that boy?" said one of the early shopkeepers of Rochelle,
speaking to his neighbor, who was engaged in the same laudable
occupation as himself,--namely, that of opening his shop for the
business of the day. At the same time he pointed out a handsome lad,
well but plainly dressed, who was walking along somewhat slowly toward
the better part of the city. "Who is that boy, I wonder?"
"He's a stranger, by that cloak with the silver lace," replied the
other: "most likely come over in the ship that nearly ran upon the pier
last night. He carries a sword, too. Those English make monkeys even of
their children; but he is a good looking youth nevertheless, and bears
himself manly. Ah! there is that worthless vagabond, Pierrot la Grange,
speaking to him. And now Master Pierrot is coming here. I will have
naught to do with him or his." And, so saying, he turned into his shop.
The other tradesman waited without, proposing in his own mind to ask
Pierrot sundry questions regarding his young companion; for, although he
had no curiosity, as he frequently assured his neighbors, yet he always
liked to know who everybody was, and what was his business.
Pierrot, however, had only had time to cross over from the other corner
of the street and ask, in a civil, and even sober, tone, where the
dwelling of Monsieur Clement Tournon could be found, when the good
tradesman exclaimed, "My life! what is that?" and instantly darted
across the street as fast as a somewhat short pair of legs could carry
him.
Now, the street there was not very wide; but it was crossed by one much
broader within fifty yards of the spot where the shopkeeper was
standing, called in that day "Rue de l'Horloge." It may have gone by a
hundred names since. The street was quite vacant, too, when Pierrot
addressed the tradesman; but the moment after, two sailors came up the
Rue de l'Horloge, and one of them, as soon as he set eyes on Master Ned,
who was standing with his back to the new-comers, laid his hand upon his
shoulder and said something in a tone apparently not the most civil, for
the lad instantly shook himself free, turned round, and put his hand
upon the hilt of the short sword he carried. It seemed to the good
shopkeeper that he made an effort to draw it; but whether it fitted too
close, or it had got somewhat rusted to the scabbard during the previous
rainy night, it would not come forth; and in the mean time the sailor
struck him a thundering blow on the head with a stick he carried. The
youth fell to the ground at once, but he did not get up again, and the
two tradesmen ran up, crying, "Shame! shame! Seize the fellow!"
"You've killed him, Tom, by the Lord!" cried the other sailor. "You
deserve hanging; but get back to the ship if you would escape it. Quick!
quick! or they will stop you."
"He was drawing his sword on me!" cried our friend Tom, whose
quarrel--not the first one--with Master Ned we have already seen as the
ship neared the Isle of Rhé. But, not quite confident in the
availability of his excuse, he took his companion's advice and began to
run, turning the corner of the Rue de l'Horloge. One of the tradesmen
pursued him, however, shouting, "Stop him! stop him!" and the malevolent
scoundrel had not run thirty yards, when he was seized by a strong,
middle-aged man, who was walking up the street with an elderly companion
and was followed by two common men dressed as porters.
The sailor made a struggle to get free, but it was in vain; and the
shopkeeper, who was pursuing, soon made the whole affair known to his
captors.
The elderly man with the white beard put one or two questions to the
prisoner, to which he received no reply; for since that untoward event
of the Tower of Babel the world is no longer of one speech, and Tom was
master of no other than his own.
"Take him to the prison," said the old man, addressing the two men who
had been following him. "Do not use him roughly, but see that he does
not escape."
"He shall not get away, Master Syndic," replied one of the porters; and,
while the syndic was speaking a few whispered words to his companion,
Tom was carried off to durance vile.
The two gentlemen then walked on with the tradesman by their side, and
were soon on the spot where the assault had been committed. By this time
a good many people had gathered round poor Master Ned; and the other
English sailor had lifted the lad's head upon his knee, while Pierrot
was pouring some water on his face. The shopkeeper, to whom the latter
had been speaking when the misadventure had occurred, was trying to
stanch the blood which flowed from a severe cut on the head; but the
moment he saw the syndic approach he exclaimed, "Ah, Monsieur Clement
Tournon, this poor lad was inquiring for you when that brute felled
him."
"Indeed!" said the old man, with less appearance of interest than might
perhaps have been expected. "Leave stopping the blood: its flow will do
him good; and some one carry him to my house, where he shall be well
tended."
Pierrot had risen from his knee as the syndic spoke, and now whispered a
word in his ear, which he evidently thought of much consequence; but the
old man remained unmoved, merely saying, "Not quite so close, my friend!
I tell you he shall be well tended. Neighbor Gasson, for charity, call
two or three of your lads and let them carry the poor lad up to my
dwelling."
At this moment the younger and stouter man who had seized and held
Master Ned's brutal assailant suggested that it would be better to take
the boy to his dwelling, as it was next door but one to the house of the
famous physician Cavillac.
"Nay, nay, Guiton," replied the syndic, "my poor place is hard by; and
yours," he added, in a lower tone, "may be too noisy. You go and send
down the doctor,--though I think the lad is but stunned, and will soon
be well again. Pierrot la Grange, follow us up, if you be, as you say,
his servant,--though how he happened to hire such a drunken fellow I
know not. Yes, I know you, Master Pierrot, though you have forgotten
me." Thus saying, he drew the personage whom he had called Guiton aside
and spoke to him during a few moments in a whisper. In the mean time,
two or three stout apprentices had been called forth from the
neighboring houses; and the youth, being raised in their arms, was being
carried along the Rue de l'Horloge. Clement Tournon followed quickly,
leaving his friend Guiton at the corner; and at the tenth door on the
left-hand side the party stopped and entered the passage of a tall house
standing somewhat back from the general line of the street. It was
rather a gloomy-looking edifice, with small windows and heavy doors
plated on the inner side with iron; but whether sad or cheerful mattered
little to poor Master Ned, for the state of stupor in which he lay was
not affected by the act of bearing him thither, nor by the still more
troublesome task of carrying him up a narrow stairs. That he was not
dead his heavy breathing showed; but that was almost the only sign of
life which could be discovered by a casual observer.
"Carry him into the small room behind the saloon," said Clement
Tournon, who was at this time following close; and in another minute the
lad was laid upon a bed in a room situated in the back of the house,
where little noise could penetrate, and which was cheerful and airy
enough.
"Thank you, lads; thank you!" said the syndic, speaking to the
apprentices. "Now leave us. You, Pierrot la Grange, stay here: undress
him and get him between the sheets."
The noise and the little crowd going up the steps had brought forth
several women-servants, belonging to Monsieur Tournon's household, in
large, helmet-shaped, white caps; and, after gazing in silence for a
moment or two, with wonder and compassion, upon the handsome pale
countenance, all bedabbled with blood, of the poor lad, they began to
make numerous suggestions to their master, who answered nothing, but
inquired, "Where is Lucette?"
She was gone, they told him, to Madame Loraine's school; and then,
rejecting all their counsels, and merely telling them that Dr. Cavillac
would soon be there, he ordered the room to be cleared of every one but
Pierrot and himself.
The old syndic paused for a moment or two after his commands had been
obeyed, gazing upon the pale face before him with a look of greater
interest than he had yet suffered to appear upon his countenance. Then,
suddenly turning to Pierrot, he said, "Now tell me all you know about
this youth. Who is he? What did he come hither for? What is his business
with me?"
"What is his business with you, Monsieur Tournon? I do not know,"
replied Pierrot la Grange. "What he came hither for was to bring letters
or messages from England; and as to who or what he is or was, that is
very simple. He is Lord Montagu's page."
"And his name?" asked the syndic.
"We used to call him Master Ned," replied Pierrot. "That was when I was
with the English army in the Isle de Rhé; but his name by rights, I
believe, is Edward Langdale." The old man continued silent; and Pierrot,
whose tendency to loquacity easily broke bounds, went on to tell how
Etienne Jargeau had received, some days before, information that Master
Ned would arrive upon the coast on business of importance, with
directions to have a small beacon-fire lighted that night, and every
night after, on a little hill just above the _trou bourbé_, till the lad
appeared. "You know Jargeau used to be a retainer of the Prince de
Soubise, monsieur," Pierrot continued; "but of late he has left his
service and has gone over--some say bought--to the French party."
"I trust we are all of the true French party," replied Monsieur Tournon.
"But the lad landed last night, you say. Had he no baggage with him?"
"Yes, two large leather bags with padlocks on them," rejoined Pierrot:
"they are left safe under lock and key at the Coq d'Or, where we were
obliged to rest last night because the guard was so sound asleep that we
could not wake them to let us in."
"Ay? so sluggardly? This must be amended," said the syndic. "At the Coq
d'Or, in the suburb? That is no safe place for such bags."
"So I was just thinking," replied Pierrot: "I will go up and fetch them.
He has got the key of the room in his pocket."
The worthy gentleman made a movement toward the bed, as if to take
the key; but Clement Tournon stopped him with a somewhat sarcastic
smile, saying, "If the Coq d'Or is no safe depository, Pierrot la Grange
is no safe messenger."
The man's face flushed. "You do me wrong, sir!" he exclaimed. "Bad
enough I may be; but I never stole a thing in my life."
"Not a cup of brandy?" asked the syndic, with another smile.
Pierrot laughed. "Fair booty, fair booty!" he cried: "strong waters are
fair booty everywhere, monsieur."
"Well, I suspect you of nothing worse," replied Tournon; "but, if you
were once to go for the bags, Heaven knows when we should see you again;
and then you would come without the bags; for there would be plenty of
people to lighten you of your load. Besides, the people of the cabaret
would not let you take them. I will send my head-polisher with you and
give him an order to receive the baggage in my name. They dare not
refuse my order. Get the key gently. I do not love putting my hands into
other people's pockets."
As soon as the key had been obtained, Clement Tournon led his companion
into a large, curious-looking apartment on the floor below, where round
the room appeared a number of dingy glass cases, through the small panes
of which came the gleam of various articles of gold and silver, while in
different parts of the room were several anvils and work-benches, with
some half-dozen men filing, hammering, and polishing. Near the window
was a tall desk within a sort of iron cage, and two clerks writing.
Every thing was orderly in the house of Clement Tournon; and, advancing
to one of the scribes, he directed him to write the order he had
promised, saw it made out and signed it, and then called a strong,
middle-aged man from a bench, whom he ordered to accompany Pierrot to
the tavern and return with him. He then took his way back to the little
room behind the great saloon and sat down by the bedside of Master Ned,
murmuring, "Poor boy! poor boy! He reminds me of my own poor Albert."
Ere five minutes were over, he was joined by the physician,--a man
celebrated in his day, well advanced in years, and with that peculiar
look of mysterious noncompromising solemnity which many a doctor still
affects, and which was then as necessary to the profession as rhubarb.
As a description of medical treatment in those times, though it might
prove in some degree interesting to those who are fond of "picking the
bare bone of antiquity," would neither interest nor instruct the general
reader, I will pass over in silence all the remedial means resorted to
in the case of Master Ned. I only know that cataplasms were applied to
the soles of his feet, and that some blood was taken from his arm. The
doctor, after examination, declared that the skull was not
fractured,--which might well have been the case; for, by a curious
arrangement of nature, those whose brains are the best worth preserving
have uniformly the thinnest cases in which to put them. "No, the skull
was not fractured," Monsieur Cavillac said; but the lad had received a
severe concussion of the brain, which was sometimes worse. He, however,
held out good hope, though he told the syndic that he did not
anticipate any change till the sun went down, and read him a lecture
upon the effect of the various changes of the moon, and even of the day,
upon the human frame, assuring him--a fact in which many still
believe--that a scotched viper never dies till the sun sets.
After he was gone, Clement Tournon took care to have all the directions
carried out to the letter, and the cataplasms had just been prepared and
applied when Pierrot and the polisher returned with the bags.
"Take him below," said the syndic, addressing his workman, and
indicating Pierrot by a nod of his head toward him,--"take him below,
and let him feed with our people; but take care that he does not get at
strong drink. Now, keep this place as quiet as possible, but tell old
Marton to come here in half an hour: for I have affairs, and must go at
that time."
"Can I not stay and attend upon my young master?" asked Pierrot, in a
respectful tone.
"No," said the syndic, dryly: "men who drink are always noisy."
When left alone with the door shut, what imaginations came upon the good
old merchant! "Would that I knew the lad's errand!" he thought; and his
eyes turned toward the bags, which had been set down at the foot of the
bed. "His letters must be in there," said Tournon to himself, "and the
key of the padlocks is doubtless in his pocket."
Ah, Mr. Syndic, it is a moment of temptation.
"Perhaps his business is matter of life and death, and an hour even may
be of vast consequence to me, to the city, to the Protestant cause.
Indeed, it must be so, or they never would have sent him over in such
stormy weather." So said fancy,--a quality much more nearly allied to
curiosity than people think; and Clement Tournon rose from his seat. But
the fine moral sense that was in him interfered. "No, never!" he said;
"no, never! I will not touch them so long as he lives. They shall not be
fingered by any one in my house."
Still, he felt strongly tempted; and after a while he rose again and
went to call Marton, feeling it would be better for him not to remain in
that room alone. His large-capped pippin-faced maid-servant was then
duly imbued with all the doctor's directions, warned to change the
cataplasms every two hours and to keep the wet cloths on the head cool;
and then Clement Tournon walked forth from his house toward the fine old
town-hall.
Marton sat and sewed. The invalid did not stir, and an hour passed by.
"It must be time to change the cataplasms," she thought: "he will not
wake till I come back: would Heaven he could, poor lad!" and down she
went to the kitchen where what she needed had been left to keep warm.
In the mean time, we may as well look about the room. It was a very
pretty little chamber, well and even luxuriously furnished withal. Two
windows looked out to the back court, and the sunshine came in over a
lower house behind. The rays first fell upon a small writing-desk of
dark carved oak, then touched upon a small bookcase in the same style,
well provided with books, and then upon a large armory, as it was then
called, or wardrobe, as we should now term it. There was moreover a
corner cupboard, also richly carved, with a glass door on two sides,
showing a number of little knick-knacks selected with great taste, some
ivory figures exquisitely cut, and a child's sampler of not the best
needlework.
Suddenly the door opened, and, with a quick step, but so light that one
could not hear a footfall, there entered a creature that seemed like a
dream, or a fairy, or a wreath of morning mist with fancy to shape it
into the form of a young girl. She could not be more than fifteen years
of age; but yet there were traces of early womanhood in neck and
shoulders and rounded limbs. But we may have to describe her hereafter,
and here we only stop to speak of the look of strange surprise which
opened the long, blue, deeply-fringed eyes more wide, and expanded the
nostril of the delicate nose, and raised the arched eyebrow, and showed
the pearl-like teeth between the rosy lips, as she beheld the pale and
bloody figure of the poor lad lying upon her own bed. She stood for a
moment in silent astonishment, and then was approaching slowly on
tiptoe--as if her foot could have made any noise--toward the bedside,
when a soft voice behind her said, "Lucette."
She started and turned round, and the old syndic, who stood in the
doorway, beckoned her into the passage beyond.
"My dear child," he said, "I have been obliged to give your room to a
poor young lad who has been sadly hurt, because it was the only one
where he could have perfect quiet. I will put you in the blue room on
the other side, where you may have some noise; but I know your good
heart will not let you feel annoyed at giving up your chamber for a day
or two to him and our good Marton, who has to nurse him."
"I will nurse him myself," said the young girl, "or at least help
Marton. Annoyed, grandfather? Could you think I would be annoyed in such
a case as his? Poor fellow! I will go and speak to him." And, before the
old man could tell her that it was in vain, she ran up to the bedside,
and said, in a low, sweet voice, "Be of good cheer, young gentleman: we
will nurse and tend you till you are quite well."
Her lips almost touched his ear as she spoke; and, whether it was that
the soft breath fanned him sweetly, or that the sound of a woman's
tongue had something that found a way to his heart when even hearing
failed, Ned Langdale turned suddenly in his bed, murmuring, "Mother,
dear mother, do not leave me."
CHAPTER V.
About nine o'clock in the evening the invalid wakened to a consciousness
of existence; but how wild and strange a consciousness! His speech was
incoherent, his eye vague and wandering. He seemed to make vehement
efforts to recover the power of reason and thought; but it was all in
vain. If in answer to a question he uttered a few connected words, the
next instant all was confused and senseless in the attempt at a
sentence; and, when Dr. Cavillac visited him at half-past ten, his pulse
was beating as if it would have burst the artery, and his eyes were
bloodshot and wild.
"Perfect silence, absence of light, with diet and blood-letting," said
the doctor,--"those are the only means to save him. Thank Heaven, he is
finely delirious. He can neither understand nor try to answer any
question. If he could but reason and talk, he were a dead youth. Now,
mark me, syndic: let there be a finger on every lip; let everybody in
your house be dumb for the next three days. If he speak, do not answer
him. If he do not speak, keep silence. Give him the drinks I told you;
and to-morrow I will bleed him again. In three days we shall know more,
and probably at that time he will recover his senses, it may be for
life, it may be for death; but all depends upon good nursing."
The prognosis of the physician was verified. At the end of three days
Edward Langdale did recover his senses; but some events had taken place
in the mean time which must be noticed before we follow his history
further. We must, in the first place, begin with that most interesting
personage, Master Pierrot, who is going to be introduced in a new
character,--that of a philosopher. Although the press very generally
assumes the form of majesty, and indulges in the plural number, probably
in the proud consciousness of its sovereign power over the minds, and
perhaps the bodies, of a certain number of human beings, it was with no
such vain confidence that the last sentence began, "We must," &c. That
formula was merely adopted to include you and me, dear reader, who,
having to jog over a good space of country together, had better agree
upon our line of travel before we set out upon each day's journey. It
was, therefore, merely a sort of suggestion on my part that we should
first look after Pierrot, and to be understood as implying nothing more.
Now, during the last few hours Pierrot had met with a number of severe
mortifications,--those somewhat sharp lessons of life which sometimes do
a man a great deal of good. In the first place, poor Master Ned had, in
very plain language, told him that he was a coward when drunk, if he was
a brave man when sober; and, as there was a certain consciousness in
Pierrot's breast that there was a good deal of truth in the lad's
assertion, of course the accusation was the more unpalatable. Secondly,
the conduct of Clement Tournon showed him that one bad habit could
deprive and had deprived him of the last scrap of confidence amongst
people of any character; and, lastly, the refusal to let him attend upon
his young master showed that even his fidelity and affection were
doubted. Now, Pierrot was really an affectionate fellow, and this
mortified him more than any thing else. It is probable that many a time
in life, since by an evil practice he had lost wealth and station and
consideration, Pierrot had resolved to cast the vice from him. He might
have so resolved a hundred or a hundred and fifty times; but he had
never kept his resolution. Never before, however, had any one doubted
his qualities of heart; and on the present occasion, with a good deal of
time to spare,--in fact, it was all to spare, as he sat in the kitchen
or passages of the syndic's house,--he bestowed the golden superfluity
upon thought. His mind was not naturally a weak one, though there is no
denying that it had been weakened by intemperance; and it was now making
a great effort.
"So," he said to himself, "I am not even to be trusted in the boy's
sick-room. Well, that is somewhat hard. No, it is not. The old man is
quite right. He knows I am a drunken rascal, and thinks I am not to be
trusted in any thing. Hang me if I have not a mind to make him think
better of me. But it is of no use: I should only begin again. Why need I
begin again at all? Master Ned knows me better than any of them; and he
only requires me not to drink when there is any thing important in the
wind. He knows I cannot help it at other times. But why cannot I help it
at other times, if I can help it then? I can help it if I like; and, by
Heaven, I will not drink any more, except when he gives me leave; and
I'll ask him never to give me leave. So we will settle the matter that
way. I do love that lad, though he gave me a shot in the leg to keep me
from running away and disgracing myself. I did not drink one drop last
night at the inn, because he told me not. I am mighty sick at my
stomach, however. I wish I had a drop of brandy, just to settle it. I
have a mind to go out and get just one gill to settle it,--only one
gill. No, I won't; for then I should take another, and so forth. It
shall not be said that my young master was lying sick and I went and
got drunk. Let my stomach take care of itself; and, if it chooses to be
sick, it must be so. I wonder if he will die, poor boy. He has a good
heart, though he is as hasty as a tinker's cur, and as stern as a
general. Marton," he continued, to the good woman who entered seeking
something, "how is Master Ned?"
"Much the same, Pierrot," answered Marton. "The doctor says there will
be no change yet a while."
"Marton, I am resolved not to drink any more," said Pierrot, in a solemn
tone.
"Keep to it," she replied, with a laugh, but evidently with very little
confidence. "Why, Pierrot la Grange, for the last ten years you have
been forever at the flask. You were a very good young man before that,
and well to do; ay, and a handsome man too. I have seldom seen a more
personable man than you were then, before you took to that filthy custom
of making a beast of yourself; but now your face is all over blotches,
and your nose is so red you might fire a cannon with it."
"Well, well, you shall see, Marton," rejoined Pierrot. "I have taken a
resolution, and fallen upon a plan by which I can keep it, too; and you
may tell the syndic that I will drink no more. Why, just now, I thought
to go out and get myself some brandy, with a spur rial--as he calls
it--which Master Ned gave me, because I am sick at the stomach; but I
resisted, and would not stir a step on account of my resolution."
"Ah! are you sick at the stomach?" said Marton, quietly. "Suppose I get
you a little cloves and strong waters."
Pierrot evidently hesitated; but then he suddenly exclaimed, "Not a
drop, Marton, thank you; not a drop. I was once sober for three whole
days, and, I dare say, should have continued so, but that fellow Jargeau
got hold of me and persuaded me to drink. It was his cue to make me
drunk then. So those who know me will never ask me to take a drop, if
they love me."
"That they certainly will not," said Marton, going away with what she
had come to fetch.
Her conversation with Pierrot had one good effect, however. She told her
master that she really believed La Grange intended not to drink any
more, not only inasmuch he told her so, but because he refused a glass
of cloves and strong waters which she had offered him on account of his
being sick at the stomach.
"Most likely sick because he has not had his morning's draught," said
Clement Tournon. "However, encourage all good resolutions, and do not
offer him any more. Marton, I will speak with him myself in the course
of the day, and can judge better than you can."
The worthy syndic could not keep his promise, however. The day passed
over, and he did not see Pierrot; for the town of Rochelle was in
considerable agitation at that time, the events passing round it being
sufficiently menacing to impress all minds with anxiety, but not
sufficiently urgent to produce unanimity by the presence of immediate
danger. Pierrot kept his resolution, however; and the day passed by
without his having tasted any fluid stronger than water. The next
morning, though he did not feel himself altogether comfortable, his
nausea had departed, and he was more bold in his purpose. About ten he
was sent for to speak with the syndic, who was much too wise a man to
ask him questions which had any relation to brandy. Clement Tournon,
however, examined him closely in regard to his knowledge of Edward
Langdale, what letters he brought, when he had sailed from England,
whether the intimations Jargeau had received had been accompanied by no
information of the young man's objects in coming to Rochelle.
"He had a long and stormy passage: that I know," answered Pierrot; "and
as to Jargeau, if he had any information he kept it to himself, as he
always does. But you can ask him himself, syndic. Whether the lad has
any letters, you should know better than I do; for, if he have, they
must be in his bags,--and you have had bags and keys too in your hands
these two days, when I have never had either at all."
"I pry not where I have no right," replied Clement Tournon, coldly. "No
hand opens his bags while he is alive and in my house. As for Jargeau,
he sees not matters as I do, or I would ask him for information. The
Lord Montagu I do not know, though you say the youth is his page; and I
cannot divine why that lord has sent him to me. Indeed, I heard his
lordship was in France."
"But he is the great Duke of Buckingham's right hand," said Pierrot;
"and perhaps Master Ned has been sent to you by the duke."
"I have some suspicion it may be so," answered the syndic. "I once had
some diamond pendants made for him in great haste; and perhaps he wishes
to employ me again."
"In making cannon-balls this time, perhaps, monsieur," said Pierrot,
dryly; but, to his surprise, the syndic answered, quite calmly, "Perhaps
so; for I am told that this morning at daybreak a fleet of ships-of-war
was descried standing in toward Rochelle, and the people thought it was
under English colors."
He looked keenly at Pierrot as he spoke; but the countenance of the
latter at once showed that he had not been trying to deceive any one as
to the amount of his knowledge; and he clapped his hands, exclaiming,
"Hurrah! We shall have some stirring times again, then, and shall not
have to lie here cooped up like rats in a trap, but have fighting every
day, and----"
"Plenty of brandy," said the syndic, finishing the sentence for him.
"Not a drop, upon my salvation!" said Pierrot.
"Well, your salvation may a good deal depend upon your keeping that
resolution," replied the syndic, "for a man does many things when he is
drunk for which drunkenness can be no excuse, though it may be an
aggravation. But hark! What is that? It was a cannon-shot, was it not?
The fleet must be nearing the town. I must to the council. Well, you may
go in and see the young gentleman. But mind, be as still as death. Say
nothing to him; and, if he recognises you, and asks you any questions,
answer shortly and quietly, and leave him. You said he was of gentle
birth, I think. You are sure he is of gentle birth?"
Though Pierrot might, and in fact did, think it strange that a merchant
of Rochelle should lay such stress upon gentle--otherwise noble--birth,
he assured the syndic, from what he had seen of the English, that all
the household pages of British noblemen were selected from good
families; and, while they were still speaking together, one of the
goldsmith's apprentices came to call the syndic to the city council,
telling him that a boat had just landed from the English fleet.
Clement Tournon called for his gown and chain; and, after giving
repeated directions to Pierrot as to his demeanor in the chamber of
Master Ned, and donned his robes in the man's presence, he proceeded to
the town-hall, followed by two of his men.
The inclinations, if not the affections, of Pierrot were divided. He
would fain have gone to the hall to know the news of the day,--news, as
it proved, much more important than he dreamed of. But then again came
the thought of his poor young master; and, being a conscientious man
when he was sober, and sometimes a conscientious man even when he was
drunk, he fancied it a duty to visit Master Ned. He soon found, however,
that he could do nothing in the world for him. The lad's mind still
wandered terribly; and, though he gave some indications of recollecting
Pierrot, he asked him no questions, and called him "My Lord Duke."
Pierrot might then have turned his steps to the hall, but in one of
Ned's half-muttered speeches the name of Jargeau was uttered; and,
remembering that personage would inevitably be at the place of meeting,
the good man thought it better to wait for tidings till the syndic
returned.
The news arrived soon enough for Pierrot's mortification, and
immediately spread through the whole house. It was to the effect that
the Lord Denbigh, in command of a powerful British fleet, had come to
offer assistance to the town of Rochelle; that there had been a warm and
even angry debate in the council, but in the end the anti-English party
had prevailed, and all that Tournon and Guiton could obtain was, that a
civil reply should be made to the English admiral, thanking him and King
Charles for their proffered aid, but declining it on the score that _no
previous intimation had been given to the citizens of the approach of a
fleet to their port_.
CHAPTER VI.
"Sweet chimes the bell,
O'er slope and woodland pealing,
Mellow'd by distance to a tranquil sound;
Sweetly the rill,
Through moss-bank gently stealing,
Speaks peace around.
"Calm sinks the sun
Unto his golden slumber,
And folds the clouds around his radiant head:
Up springs the moon;
Her star-train without number
Say, 'Nought is dead!'
"All live again,
Although their life be hidden;
For the short space of earth's dominion here.
By Heaven's own voice,
The soul of man is bidden
To hope midst fear.
"All Nature's works,
Though into ashes turning,
Fill the whole heart with a consoling voice:--
Be ready, man!
And, with thy lamp still burning,
Watch and rejoice!"
So sang Lucette,--or, rather, such is a very poor translation of her
song. At the best it was but an old ditty, composed probably by some of
the early Protestants of France. It may have been written by Clement
Marot, or his friend, the poet and printer, Lyon Jamets, for aught I
know. It is so long since I have read the works of either that I have
forgotten somewhat more than half of all their pens produced.
However, so sang Lucette in the chamber now assigned to Edward Langdale,
while Marton sat beside her, knitting, and from time to time fixing her
eyes upon the face of the invalid.
It may seem strange that Lucette should choose such a time and such a
place to indulge in music, though her voice was marvellously sweet and
had been cultivated to a degree rare in those days, and though people
who have sweet voices, well cultivated, and, moreover, the love, the
spirit, the inspiration of music in them, are fond of breaking forth
into song at very unseasonable times.
But, as it happened, it was not an unseasonable time, as Lucette herself
explained to Clement Tournon. When she turned her head, after her song
had ended, to take up her embroidery-frame, she saw the old syndic
standing in the doorway, looking somewhat surprised to hear her voice
then and there, but perfectly quiet and still. Without a word, she rose
and noiselessly approached the door, saying, in a very low voice, "He is
better. He has been speaking sensibly; but he grew drowsy after a moment
and fell asleep quite calmly, murmuring, 'Sing to me, mother; sing to
me,'--as if he did not well know where he was. So I thought it best to
humor him."
"You did right, my child," replied the syndic, putting his hand upon her
head, round which the light-brown hair with golden gleams upon it was
wound in many a long, silky tress. "The doctor is below: I hear his step
coming along the passage."
Why all doctors should have creaking shoes I never could divine; but it
is clearly an idiosyncrasy. They cannot help it. Perhaps the leather
gets affected by the close air of sick men's chambers; perhaps it
becomes imbued with sighs and groans,--a novel sort of tanning, but one
well calculated to give a creaking sound; or perhaps the doctors
themselves carry so far the necessary precaution of warming their
nethermost coverings that the material becomes too dry and cries out for
very thirst.
However that may be,--and I will not venture to decide the
question,--Dr. Cavillac's shoes did creak most lamentably; but they had
no effect upon the slumber of the poor invalid.
The doctor, the syndic, and Lucette spoke together for a few moments at
the door; but Cavillac did not go in. It is likely that he was conscious
of noisy feet. "It is critical," he said: "do not disturb him for the
world; let him sleep as long as he will. Let him be well watched; and,
when he wakes, speak low and gently to him; give him a few spoonfuls of
good old wine, (for he will be as weak as a child,) and then let me
know. You had better watch, my pretty Lucette, for there is no such good
nurse as a young girl with a kind heart,--except an old woman who does
not drink; and she is apt to have the rheumatism."
"But, doctor, Lucette must have repose, and these sleeps sometimes last
very long," said Clement Tournon. "I must not; I am bound not to let
fatigue affect her own health."
"I am not the least tired, dear father," said Lucette, with a bright
look. "His first sensible word did me more good than a whole night's
sleep. Do you think, doctor, that he will wake in his right mind again?"
"Certainly, my dear," answered the other. "I am sure he will; but his
recovery may be slow and will require much care."
"Then I will watch till he does wake," answered the beautiful young
girl. "I will watch as hopefully as ever Egyptian did to hear the
morning voice of Memnon."
"Listen to the little pagan!" said Cavillac, with a smile. "But I will
tell you a better plan, my child. He certainly will not wake for some
hours. You may see that by his great paleness. You go and lie down for a
short time; then let Marton call you. Come with me, syndic: I wish to
speak with you." And he drew the old man to the top of the stairs.
"Have you heard," he said, "that the cardinal has sent down a thousand
men to complete the lines round about us? This is growing serious."
"It is indeed!" said Clement Tournon, with a very sad look; "and those
rash men, either from obstinacy and over-confidence, or jealousy and
perhaps treachery, rejected yesterday the offer of succor from England,
and the fleet has sailed away."
"We should have had a hospital for fools long ago," said Cavillac. "It
is the great want of the city. But there are other things to be attended
to now. Send out everywhere for stores, my good friend, if you spend the
last livre of the city money. Depend upon it, this cardinal will try to
starve us out."
"He cannot do that while our port is open," answered the syndic.
"How long will it be open?" asked the physician, with a very meaning
look. "I have heard a whisper, my friend, that he will find means to
close it, either by a fleet from all the neighboring ports, or in some
other way. Look to it; look to it. There is less time to spare than the
men of Rochelle fancy."
Thus saying, he left Clement Tournon meditating in no very hopeful mood
over the state of the city, and the prospect, clear as a picture to his
calm reasoning eye, of all those horrors that were but too soon to fall
upon unhappy Rochelle. The house soon fell into profound silence: the
hours of labor were over, the sounds of hammer, tongs, and file were
still, and in about an hour Clement Tournon took his place by Edward
Langdale's bedside, sending good old Marton to seek some repose herself.
Twilight faded away into darkness; a little silver lamp was trimmed and
shaded in the corner of the chamber, and two or three hours passed in
silence, the good old man nodding from time to time, but never giving
way to sleep.
At length the light step of Lucette was heard in the deep stillness,--it
would not have been heard had there been the buzzing of a fly,--and,
approaching the bed, she gazed and listened.
"He lies sleeping sweetly," she said to the old man. "How differently he
breathes now! I can hardly hear him. Marton will be here in a minute.
Leave him to us, father, and take some rest yourself."
"As soon as she comes," answered the syndic. "What is the hour?"
"The great clock has just struck one," answered Lucette.
"I was drowsy, and did not hear it," said the syndic. "Have the wine
near, Lucette, and give him a spoonful at once when he wakes."
He made a movement toward the other side of the room as he spoke, and
Lucette took his place in the large chair; but hardly was she seated
when a voice was heard from the bed which made her start. "Where am I?"
asked Edward Langdale: "what has happened to me?"
"You are with dear friends," replied the sweet voice of Lucette at once.
"You have met with a little accident, but you are recovering fast. Here;
take a spoonful of wine. The doctor orders it."
"I will take any thing you give me," said the lad, "for I feel very
weak."
"Hush! silence! silence!" said Lucette, in a low but cheerful tone: "you
are to keep quite quiet, and take some wine from time to time, and try
to sleep again. To-morrow you will be quite well, I doubt not."
So saying, she poured the wine quietly between his lips; but the poor
lad could not refrain from saying, "That is very nice; and you are very
kind."
It is probable he would have added "and very beautiful," if he could
have descried in the dim light more than the faint outline of that fair
face and form; but Lucette replied, "I shall think you very _unkind_ if
you say one word more, except to ask for what you want."
"You understand it better than I do, Lucette, I see," said the old
syndic, in a whisper. "Woman, woman! for such tasks no hands are like
hers! But here comes Marton, and I will leave you."
The youth gazed after him as he departed, and looked at Marton curiously
as she moved slowly about the room; but his eyes found something more
satisfactory in the form of Lucette, although he could distinguish
little except that there was something graceful and more of his own age
before him, while from time to time she poured the wine between his
lips. He was feeble, however, and inclined to sleep; and before good Dr.
Cavillac, roused out of his bed, came to visit him, his eyes were again
closed, and he had relapsed into slumber.
It is one of the strange but frequent results of disease or of accident
of any kind which affects the brain, to blot out, as it were, from
memory all the events which have taken place within a certain preceding
period. It is sometimes a long, sometimes a short, period, according to
circumstances not very easily reduced to any rule. I have known a man
lose a language with which he had been for years familiar, and remember
one which he had long forgotten. I have known memory acutely distinct in
regard to events which had occurred a month or two before, and a perfect
blank as to those more recent.
Edward Langdale recollected nothing after a certain period, when he had
sped over from the town of Antwerp to London, bearing intelligence from
the Lord Montagu to the Duke of Buckingham, although he had perfectly
recovered his senses and some degree of strength, on the day following
that night when the delirium first left him. By degrees, however,
confused images of after-things began to present themselves: his voyage
from Portsmouth, the storms which had baffled and delayed his course,
even the approach to Rochelle, came back indistinctly. It only wanted,
in fact, the ringing of the bell to cause the curtain of oblivion to
rise, and the whole scene of the past to be revealed before the eyes of
memory.
There is nothing in the physical world at all like the sudden flash of
illumination carried along the many links which bind event to event in a
chain almost invisible, except the operation of the electric telegraph.
One touch applied, establishing the connection by the smallest possible
point, and thought--living thought--flashes on to its object, setting at
nought time and space and obstacle.
The connecting touch in the case of Master Ned was destined to be the
sudden appearance in his chamber of our friend Pierrot, who came in both
to see his young new master and to speak with good Clement Tournon. The
syndic held up his finger to the man as he entered, as a warning not to
trouble the young gentleman with speech, for the lad was still extremely
weak and could hardly turn in his bed. But the moment Edward Langdale
beheld him, he carried his hand suddenly to his head, saying, "Pierrot
la Grange! Pierrot la Grange! I remember it all now. Good Heaven! and I
have been lying here so long--God knows how long--and forgetting the
message to Clement Tournon! I must get up and seek him. Pierrot, get me
my clothes. I must get up."
"Lie still! lie still!" said the old syndic: "Clement Tournon is here,
my young friend. I am he. But we can have no talk now, for the physician
says you must still remain quite quiet and without agitation of any
kind."
"If you be Clement Tournon," answered the youth, "it will agitate me
more to be silent than to speak; but speak I must, if I die. Come
hither, nearer, I pray you, sir. Bend down your head. Do you remember
certain pendants of diamonds and the man you made them for? If so, give
his name in a low voice."
"The most gracious Duke of Buckingham," said the syndic, in a whisper.
"Then he bids me tell you," said Master Ned, "that his brother-in-law,
the Earl of Denbigh, will be here in three days with a puissant fleet,
and he begs you to prepare the minds of the citizens to give him a
worthy reception, for he hears you are somewhat divided here. I have
more to say; but that is the burden of it all. Pray lose no time. Good
Heavens! three days! How long have I been here?"
Clement Tournon's face assumed an expression of deep and even painful
thought for one moment; but he replied, in a calm, well-assured tone,
"Give yourself no uneasiness, my son. The whole has been settled,
notwithstanding the accident that happened to you. We will talk about
these matters more to-morrow. At present I must leave you, for I have
business of importance to transact; but Marton will tend you carefully,
and Lucette will come and sing to you, if you like it."
Do not let us pause upon the convalescence of our young friend; but for
the present at least let us follow Clement Tournon's movements, which
had some results at an after-period. He took his course straight to the
city prison, into the dark mysteries of which we need not pry.
Every prison was in those days hideous, and this, like others, had its
dungeons and cells, one hour's tenancy of which was a punishment hardly
merited by aught but murder. There was, moreover, what we should now
call a justice-room in the jail,--at least, a place where justice or
injustice was administered, according to the character of the
functionary who presided.
Here Clement Tournon seated himself by the side of one of the other
magistrates of the town, and Tom the sailor was brought before them. He
was followed by one of his companions, and by the captain of the little
vessel, which still lay in the port, while the two tradesmen who had
witnessed the assault were likewise present. The faces of the two
magistrates were grave and even stern, and probably had Master Tom shown
a swaggering and insolent air, such as he not unfrequently bore, they
might have dealt hardly with him. But Tom was one of those men whom we
not unfrequently meet with, and though apt to bully and even to fight
when he thought there was some advantage on his side, he was easily
cowed and depressed when he knew or believed that there were odds, or
even equality, on the other side. Besides, he had now been kept for
several days in what modern writers would call a loathsome cell, fed
upon bread and water, and had no companion but solitude. Now, beef and
good company are great promoters of swagger, and the absence of both had
terribly reduced Tom's usual tone. He was indeed inclined to whimper,
pleaded that he and Master Ned had quarrelled on board ship, that Ned
had attempted to draw sword upon him, and that he himself had been
drinking when he struck the blow. These excuses availed him little with
the magistrates; and, strange to say, he found no support either from
his captain or the man who had been his companion. The latter bore
testimony that when he first laid hands on the lad's shoulder he told
him "that he had got him safe on shore now, and would thrash him
soundly;" and the captain merely said, "I trust your honors will
liberate this man and put him in my hands. I warned him more than once
on the voyage to let the young gentleman alone. I suspect he has done
more mischief than he knows; and if you give him up to me I will put him
in irons till I get home, and then make him over to those who will deal
with him severely enough."
"The young gentleman is in a fair way of recovery," replied the syndic,
who understood the language in which the skipper spoke; "but a serious
offence has been committed in the streets of the city of Rochelle; and
we should certainly punish this man ourselves were it not for the honor
and respect which we bear the King of England. Much mischief he
certainly has done,--as those who sent Master Edward Langdale hither
will probably know by this time. But, captain, if you demand the
prisoner in the name of King Charles, and promise to convey full
intelligence of all that has occurred to those who are best qualified to
judge of the case, and moreover to give this man up to them, I will
speak with my friend here, who understands no English, but who probably
will agree with me that our reverence for your sovereign requires us to
follow your suggestion."
The captain willingly promised all that was demanded, and sealed his
assurance with an oath; and the prisoner was then placed in his custody.
"And now, captain, when do you set sail?" asked Clement Tournon. "The
wind is now fair, and the weather fine."
"I cannot go before Master Ned tells me," said the captain. "My cutter
is to be at his orders till he has done with her."
"I know not that he can yet write even his name," said the syndic; "but
you can come up to my house, where he now lies, this evening, and if the
physician permits he can speak with you."
"See what you have done, you d----d scoundrel!" said the captain,
turning sharply toward Tom. "I will be up at your house, sir, by five,
and hope the young gentleman will let me go, for I am tired of this
voyage."
The following morning, at daybreak, the little craft got under way,
bearing a letter in Clement Tournon's hand; and Edward Langdale remained
alone in France.
CHAPTER VII.
Oh, the calm lapses in the turbulent and turbid stream of life which
Heaven sometimes graciously affords us,--the short breathing-spaces in
the race,--the still pauses in the battle,--how sweet, how comforting
they are! Such a pause had fallen upon the city of Rochelle and all its
inhabitants. True, there were individual griefs and sufferings: the
door of the closet with the skeleton in it can never be altogether shut.
But to the city generally, and to its denizens generally, there was a
lull in the storm. It was nowhere more pleasantly felt than in the house
of good old Clement Tournon. He was a calm--a very calm--man; had been
so all his life. He had met with sorrows which had touched him deeply;
but he had borne them calmly. He had known pleasures; but he had enjoyed
them calmly. He had mingled with angry parties, and seen strife and
bloodshed; but he had been calm through all; and that very
calmness--which, by-the-way, is one of the most impressive qualities in
regard to our fellow-men which any one can possess--had won for him
great reverence upon the part of his neighbors.
Young Edward Langdale, too, shared in the temporary tranquillity. "Sweet
are the uses of adversity." It is a good text, and a true one also, if
we use the adversity wisely; but sometimes we do not; and, although
Master Ned had known more adversity than most youths of his age, we must
acknowledge that he had found it all very severe, and had not had wisdom
enough to discover honey in the stony rock. He had been hardened,
sharpened, rendered stern, in the rough school through which he had
passed. His character must have seemed to the reader somewhat harsh and
remorseless; at least so I intended it to appear. But he had now
suffered a long and heavy sickness: his frame was still feeble; his
activity, for the time at least, was lost; and some traits in his
character which seemed to have been smothered by coarser things revived
and shone out. There was a latent poetry in his nature, a love and
appreciation of all that was beautiful, a sense of harmony, and a
delight in music, together with those strong affections which are so
often combined with strength of character. These, in the body's
feebleness, asserted their power. Strange how the corporeal and the
mental wage such continual warfare upon each other! But even at times
when the bodily force and the strong will had possessed the most perfect
sway, and given him command and rule over men much older and higher than
himself, those qualities of heart and mind, though latent, had acted
unseen to win affection also.
Six days after his arrival in Rochelle, the little saloon in Clement
Tournon's house presented as calm and pleasant a scene as ever the eye
rested upon. There was the old man himself, with his small velvet cap
upon his head; and there was Master Ned, leaning back in a large chair,
with the hue of returning health coming back into his cheek,--always a
pleasant sight; and there was beautiful Lucette, who had just been
singing to the two, and who was now sitting on a low footstool, with her
fair, delicate hand resting on the head of a lute. A beautiful silver
lamp, with three burners,--modelled from those graceful lamps which we
see in the hands of the Tuscan peasantry,--gave light to the chamber;
for the wax tapers in two exquisitely-wrought candlesticks had been
extinguished to save the eyes of Master Ned from the glare; and a
water-pitcher and goblet, finely shaped from the antique and covered
with grotesque figures, stood on a little table at the youth's left
hand, to cool his lips, still dry and hot from his recent illness.
The eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon those specimens of the old
syndic's art, and he was expressing his admiration of the delicacy and
fineness of the designs, when Lucette observed, quietly, "He has much
more beautiful things than those, Master Ned. I wish, father, I might
bring and show him the pyx that was sent from Rome."
"Do so, my child," said Tournon. "And hark, Lucette----"
He whispered a word in the young girl's ear, and she left the room, but
returned in a minute or two, bringing with her two objects in soft
leathern covers,--one of which was a pyx, probably from the hands of
Benvenuto Cellini.
Edward took it from her hands and admired it greatly, gazing at the
various curious arabesques with which it was decorated, and at the
medallions displaying exquisitely-chiselled figures, while the old
syndic untied the other cover, and took forth a large cup, or hanap, of
pure gold, ornamented by a row of precious stones encircling it in a
sort of garland, which again was supported by some beautiful sculptured
figures. Master Ned rose feebly to lay the pyx upon the table, but the
moment his eyes lighted on the cup he stood still, gazing at it as if
sight had suspended every other faculty. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, at
length, addressing the merchant, who was watching him closely: "where
did you get that?"
"I bought it some four years ago, when I was in England," answered
Clement Tournon. "Something seems to surprise you. Did you ever see it
before?"
"See it!" exclaimed Master Ned. "Yes, often, my good friend,--ay,
several times every year, since I could see any thing, till just four
years ago last Martinmas. Every birthday--every festival-day--it was
brought forth; for it must be the same. Oh, yes! Is there not 'Edward
Langdale' engraved on one side of the foot, and 'Buckley Hall' upon the
other?"
"There is," said the syndic; "and that is the very reason I told Lucette
to bring it. I wished to ask you if you are any relation of those
Langdales of Buckley Hall. Edward Langdale! The two names are the same."
"They are, indeed," said Master Ned. "That cup is mine, my good friend:
at least, it ought to be,--it and much more which is now lost to me
forever."
"If it ought to be, it is thine still, my son," said the old syndic.
"Now, God forbid that I should withhold the rightful property of
another! But tell us how all this happened. Let me hear what you can
recollect of your own life and fate. I know something of Buckley Hall,
for it was in Huntingdon that I bought that cup. I would not purchase it
at first, because I thought it was stolen,--most likely from the court
of King James, who was then at Royston; but the goldsmith who had it
told me that he had bought it fairly from Master Richard Langdale, the
owner, and showed me a receipt for the money. I would fain hear how all
this happened."
"Not to-night; not to-night," answered the youth. "The sight of that cup
has shaken me much, my father; and to speak of those days would shake me
still more in my weak state. To-morrow I shall be stronger, I trust; and
then I will tell you all. I have often thought it would do me good if I
were to talk over the whole of those sad things with some one; for they
only seem to rankle and fester in the silence of my own bosom, and to
make me reckless and ill-tempered. But I must get a little better and
stronger first. Now I think I will go to bed."
He turned to go, but then paused, and, taking up the cup, gazed at it
earnestly for several minutes, saying, "I was just nine years old when
my father had my name engraved on it and gave it to me on my birthday,
bidding me never to fill it too full nor empty it too often."
"Wise counsel," said the old man; "but, if it be thine, take it, my son.
I am not a receiver of stolen goods."
"No," said Edward Langdale. "You knew not that he who sold it had no
right to do so; neither did he from whom you purchased it. Orphans are
often wronged, Monsieur Tournon; but I ought not to have been wronged by
him who wronged me. Well, to-morrow we will talk more of all these
matters."
A little after nightfall on the following day, the same three sat
together in the same room. There had been no music, however, that
evening; and Lucette was leaning her fair head upon the old merchant's
knee. Edward Langdale was evidently stronger and better,--though he said
he had slept but little. Yet there was more color in his cheek and lips,
and his face and air had more their usual character of bold decisive
frankness, than on the preceding night.
"Now I will tell you my whole story," he said, "beginning with my
earliest recollections. Indeed, there is not much to tell, and it may be
done very shortly."
MASTER NED'S HISTORY.
"Amongst the first of my remembrances is the burning of my father's
house. I recollect the house itself quite well; and a very handsome
place it was. There were four great octangular towers at the
corners,--one on the southwestern side, all covered with ivy, in which a
number of cream-colored owls used to make their abode during the day
sunshine. A deer-park surrounded the house, full of fern and
hawthorn-trees, and at the bottom of a bank was the highroad, with the
river brawling and rushing on by its side.
"Of the interior of the house I do not remember much, although there is
an impression on my mind of large rooms and furniture which had seen
better days. Of the events which there took place I can recall nothing
till the night of the fire,--the great fire, as it was called for many a
year. And well it deserved the name; for in its progress it not only
destroyed the house, but ate up the buttery, which was detached, and
consumed the farm-buildings and stabling, in which were lost many fine
horses and an immense quantity of agricultural produce.
"I remember on that night, the 18th of August, being startled out of my
sleep by loud cries and shrieks and all sorts of noises,--especially a
rushing, roaring sound, which frightened me more than all the rest. I
was a boy about seven years old at the time; and sleep clings to one at
that age like a tight garment, so that though I was as it were roused,
and even alarmed, I was half asleep still. It was more like an ugly
dream than a reality; and perhaps I might have lain down and fallen into
sound slumber again, had not some one suddenly thrown open the door,
rushed to the bed, and caught me up in her arms. I saw not distinctly to
whose bosom I was pressed, yet I felt sure. Whose could it be but a
mother's? She ran wildly with me to the door and there made a short
hesitating pause, then dashed along the corridor through flames and
smoke, ran down the stone steps, out of one of the back doors, upon the
smooth lawn behind, and laid me down under a large mulberry-tree. Hard
by were several persons, weeping and wringing their hands; but amongst
them was my little sister, some three years younger than myself. 'He is
safe! he is safe!' cried my mother. 'Run, some one, and tell Sir
Richard.'
"My father, who was at that time about forty years of age, joined us in
a few minutes, kissed me and my mother, remarked that she was scorched a
good deal and her beautiful hair much burned; but he left us speedily,
and returned to see what could be done to save the valuable property in
the house. I have been told since that he was evidently agitated and
confused, and his orders contradictory, and that much more might have
been saved if he had displayed more presence of mind. Corporeally, he
was undoubtedly a very brave man, and had shown himself such; but he was
not a man of ready action or strong determination. However, almost all
the plate was saved, and some of the pictures, which were fine; but
several boxes of papers of much importance, I am told, could not be
found in the confusion of the moment, and were undoubtedly lost. Memory
breaks off about that time; and I only remember that the whole house was
burned, and the greater part of the walls fell in, with the exception of
those of the ivy-tower, which were very ancient and much thicker than
the rest. Even there the wood-work was all consumed, and the stairs
fell, except where a few of the stone steps, about half-way up, still
clung to the masonry.
"My father often talked of rebuilding the house; but I believe his
finances had been previously embarrassed, and he had suffered a heavy
loss. We went then to live at Buckley Hall, which had fallen to my
mother from her uncle some two years before, and which was not many
miles distant from the old house. It was a more modern building, with
fine gardens, in stiff figures of all shapes, with urns, and fountains,
and many quaint devices; but it had no deer-park, and I sadly missed the
fern, and the hawthorn, and the wild broomy dells.
"My next remembrance is of being ill and confined to bed, and my mother
singing to me as I began to grow a little better; and I recollect quite
well her coming in one day, looking very anxious, and my asking her to
sing, with all the thoughtless impatience of youth. Well, she sang; but
the tears rolled down her cheeks; and when I was suffered to go out of
my room I could find my little sister no more. I never saw her again;
and she must have died, I suppose, of the same malady from which I had
suffered. My mother's health waned from that hour, slowly,--so slowly as
to be hardly seen to change between day and day,--but none the less
certainly. Gentle and sweet, patient and uncomplaining, she would not
burden any one even with a knowledge of what she felt. My father was all
kindness to her and to me; but he was sometimes too light and
thoughtless, I believe,--vowed that society would cheer her, and filled
his house with company,--not always the most considerate or the most
quiet. There was upon me, young as I was, an impression that my mother
was not well, that she loved tranquillity, that noise disturbed her; and
I did my best to keep still, and even silent, when I was near her. I
would sit with her for hours, reading; for when we came over to Buckley
we found a good teacher there, and I had rapidly learned to read. Then,
when I could bear inactivity no longer, I would go out and get my pony,
saddle him myself, and ride wild over the country, or wander about the
gardens and think. I learned a good deal about this time; for my father
was very expert in all manly exercises, and took a pleasure in teaching
me, and the good parson of the parish--a very learned but singular
man--took great care of my studies.
"At length, when I was about ten years old, the terrible moment came
when I was to lose a mother. I will not dwell upon that sad time; but my
heart seemed closed,--shut up. I cared for nothing,--loved
nothing,--took no interest in any thing; and yet I was cast more than
ever upon my own thoughts, for the good old parson, whose instructions
might have afforded me some diversion for the mind, removed suddenly to
a much better living, some fifteen miles distant.
"My father still gave me instruction in fencing, wrestling, the use of
the broad-sword; but he gave them and I received them languidly. At
length, one day, he said to me, 'Edward, you are sad, my boy; and it is
time you should resume your studies. I shall be very lonely without you;
but I think it will be better for you to go over to good Dr.
Winthorne's, whom you love so well, and who, I am sure, will receive you
as a pupil. We shall only be fifteen miles apart, and I can see you
often.'
"I made no objection, for Buckley had grown odious to me: every thing
there revived regrets: and in about a week I was quietly installed in
the neat and roomy parsonage, the glebe and garden of which were bounded
by the same stream which ran past the old house in which I was born. It
had been there a brawling stream; but here, some ten miles farther down
upon its winding course, it had become a slow and somewhat wide river.
"I wish I had time to tell you how I learned, and what I learned, under
the good clergyman's instruction. He had his own notions--and very
peculiar notions--in every thing. Latin and Greek he taught me; but he
taught me French and Italian too,--and taught them all at once. His
lessons were very short, for it was his maxim never to weary attention;
but he took especial care that my bodily faculties should not lose any
thing for want of exercise. He would say that he had known very clever
hunchbacks and very learned and ingenious lame men, but that each of
them had some peculiarity of judgment which showed that a straight
intellect seldom inhabited a crooked body, or a strong mind a feeble
one. He would make me wrestle and play at quoits and cudgels with
plough-boys, shoot with the gamekeepers of neighboring estates, ride my
pony over a rough country and dangerous leaps, and himself lead the way.
He was a devout man, notwithstanding, and was highly esteemed by his
parishioners, and by a small circle of noble gentlemen, to some of whom
he was allied and who were not unfrequent guests at the parsonage. All
this went on for about nine months, a considerable part of which time my
father was absent from Buckley, travelling, as they said, for his
health, in Italy, where he had spent some years when quite a young man.
At length, when he returned, I went home to pass some time with him; but
I found him not alone."
"Had he married again so early?" asked Clement Tournon, with a look of
consternation.
"Oh, no!" replied Master Ned: "he never married again; but there was a
young gentleman with him, some twenty-one or twenty-two years of age,
tall, very handsome, but with a dark and heavy brow, which almost
spoiled his beauty. He spoke English with a strong foreign accent, and
had altogether the appearance of a foreigner. I naturally presumed he
was a guest, and treated him as such; but it was evident that he was an
exceedingly favored guest, and all the servants seemed to pay him the
most profound attention. I know not why, but I speedily began to dislike
him: perhaps it was a certain sort of patronizing air he assumed toward
me,--not exactly that of an elder to a younger person, but that of a
superior to an inferior. My father's conduct, too, was very strange. He
did not introduce the visitor to me by name, but presented me to him,
saying, 'My son Edward,' and during the rest of the day called him
simply Richard. On the following morning I detected--or fancied I
detected--the servants looking at me, watching me with an appearance of
interest that almost amounted to compassion. They were all very fond of
me, and each seemed to regard Master Ned--the only name I went by--as
his own child; but when they now gazed upon me there was an air of
vexation--almost of pity--on their faces, and once or twice I thought
the old steward was about to tell me something of importance in private;
but he broke off, and turned his conversation to common subjects.
"All this, however, was so disagreeable to me, that, after having stayed
two days at Buckley, I returned to my old preceptor's house at
Applethorpe, feeling more wretched than I had felt since the first sad
shock of my mother's death.
"The same night, after supper, Dr. Winthorne questioned me closely as to
my visit, and asked what had caused me to return so soon. Whether he saw
any thing in my manner, or had heard of any thing from others, I did not
know; but I told him all frankly, and he fell into a fit of thought
which lasted till bedtime. On the following morning my studies, my
exercises, and my amusements were renewed with increased activity. There
was something more I wished to forget, as well as the irreparable loss
of my mother; and I left not one moment unemployed. It was now the month
of May, and the season had been both cold and rainy; but I never
suffered either cold or rain, either snow or sleet, to keep me
within-doors; and no naked Indian could be more hardy than I was. At
length, some warm skies, with flying clouds and showers, came to cheer
us; and, with my rod in my hand, I sallied forth one morning early to
lure the speckled tyrants of the stream out of the water. I walked on
with good success for about two miles, and arrived at a shadowy reach of
the river, where it lapsed into some deep pools, and then, tumbling over
a shelf of rock in a miniature cascade, rushed on deep and strong
toward the east. I have said I was early; but there was some one there
before me. A powerful-looking man, of some four or five and twenty years
of age, was wading the stream with a rod in his hand and a pair of
funnel-shaped boots upon his legs. Where he stood, the water did not
come much above his knees; but I knew that a little farther on it
deepened, and the bed of the stream was full of holes, in which the
finest trout usually lay; but the stranger seemed a skilful angler, and,
I doubted not, knew the river as well as I did. Not to disturb his
sport, I sat quietly down on the bank and watched him. He was not very
prepossessing in appearance, for his features were large and coarse, and
though there was a certain sort of dignity about his carriage, yet his
form was more that of a man accustomed to robust labor than to the more
graceful sports of a gentleman. However, as I was gazing, he hooked a
large fish, apparently somewhat too stout for his tackle; and, to
prevent the trout from getting among the roots and stones while he
played him, the fisherman kept stepping backward, with his face toward
me and his back toward the deep run and the pool. 'Take care! take
care!' I cried. But my warning came too late: his feet were already on
the ridge of rock, and the next instant he fell over into the very
deepest part of the water. He rose instantly, but whether he was seized
with cramp, or that his large heavy boots filled with water, I know not;
but he sank again at once with a loud cry, and I ran along the ridge of
stone to give him help. The stream was much swollen with the late rains,
and even there it was running very strong, so that I could hardly keep
my footing; but I contrived to get to a spot near which he was just
rising again, and held out the thickest end of my rod to him. It was
barely within his reach; but he grasped it with one hand so sharply as
almost to pull me over into the pool with him. I got my feet between two
large masses of stone, however, and pulled hard, drawing him toward me
till he could get hold of the rock with his hands. His safety was then
easily insured; and I only remarked two things peculiar in his demeanor:
one was, that he never thanked me; and the other, that in all the
struggle he had contrived to retain his fishing-rod.
"'Can you not swim?' he asked, as soon as we had both reached the bank.
I answered in the negative, and he added, 'Learn to swim. Please God, it
may save your life some day. Learn to swim.' I offered to take him up to
the parsonage that he might dry his clothes; but he refused, not very
civilly; and then he asked my name, looking me very steadily in the
face, without the slightest expression of gratitude for the aid I had
rendered him, and no trace of either agitation or trouble from the
danger he had run. 'You have kept your rod,' I said, 'but you have
broken your line.'
"'I never let go my hold,' he answered; 'but, as you say, I have broken
my line and lost my fish. Are you Sir Richard Langdale's son, the man up
at Buckley?' I answered that I was, and in a few minutes after we
parted. I did not forget his advice, however, for a part of every day
during that summer I passed in the water, learning and practising the
art of swimming, till none could swim better or longer. I have never
seen that man since; but he has fully repaid my service by inducing me
to learn that which has more than once been of great service to me.
"It was the month of October before I once more visited Buckley; and
then my father sent for me. I found the same young man still there whom
I had seen on my former visit; but now my father removed all doubt of
who he was, by saying, 'Edward, it is time that you should know that
this is your brother Richard,--your elder brother.'
"I need not dwell upon the mortification and annoyance which this
announcement caused me. I was very young, as you may know when I tell
you that this occurred about five years ago, and, though of a somewhat
sensitive character, I might have thought little of the matter after the
first shock, had my brother's manner pleased me, had he shown kindness
or affection for me. But, with a sort of presentiment of what he was to
become, I disliked him from the first; and he repaid me well, treating
me with a sort of supercilious coldness I could not bear. On the morning
of the fourth day, when he had gone out fowling with a number of
servants and dogs, I went into my father's chamber and announced to him
my intention of going back that morning to pursue my studies with good
Dr. Winthorne. Perhaps my tone was somewhat too decided and imperative
for one so young toward his father; but it certainly was respectful, and
my father did not oppose my purpose. He merely spoke--almost in an
apologetic manner--of my brother and myself, intimated that he saw my
annoyance, and, attributing it to motives which had never crossed my
mind, added, 'You will have fortune enough, Ned. You surely need not
grudge your brother his share.' I did not reply; but his words set me
musing, and, an hour after, I left Buckley and returned to Applethorpe.
There, as before, I told my worthy preceptor all that had occurred, and
he somewhat censured my conduct, but at the same time condoled with and
comforted me. 'This young man,' he said, 'must be the son of an Italian
lady, to whom, according to a vague rumor current about the time your
father married your mother, he had been previously wedded in her own
country. It was said her relations had separated her from him on account
of his religion and had shut her up in a convent, where she had died of
grief. What he said about your fortune being sufficient, alluded of
course to the Buckley estate, which, being derived from your mother,
must descend to you.'
"'I never thought of fortune,' I answered, 'and should be glad to have a
brother whom I could love; but I cannot like this young man.'
"I had now seen my father for the last time in life. A quarrel, it would
seem, took place between him and one of the gentlemen of the
neighborhood, and about six months after the period of my visit they met
and fought. Both were good swordsmen; and my father killed his adversary
on the spot. He was much wounded in the encounter, however, and died
some four-and-twenty hours after. Sir Richard, his son, had not thought
fit to send for me; but, as soon as the news reached Applethorpe, Dr.
Winthorne went over with me to Buckley. There a scene took place which I
shall never think of without pain. My brother's whole thoughts were of
the rich succession which had fallen to him. He had four or five lawyers
with him, some from the country, others brought post-haste from London.
He claimed the whole estates,--Buckley, and all that it contained; and
his lawyers showed that, the estate having fallen to my mother after her
marriage, without any deed of settlement having reserved it to herself
and her heirs, it had passed in pure possession to my father, and
descended to his eldest son. There was some dispute between him and Dr.
Winthorne, who, with the village attorney, advocated my cause warmly;
but in the end the good clergyman took my arm, saying, 'Come away,
Edward: there are too many bad feelings here already: there will be more
if we stay. Your brother, who strips you of your mother's fortune
because she perhaps trusted too far his father and yours, cannot deprive
you of Malden farm, which was left you by your great-uncle. Indeed, I
will not believe that your father did not intend to do you justice. His
last words to you implied it; and probably, Mr. Sykes, Sir Richard did
make a will, which we must leave you to have produced, if there be one.'
"These last words were addressed to my firm friend, the village lawyer,
who, though aged and a good deal deformed, wanted no energy. He had
always loved my mother, and whenever I could I had sent him game and
fish. I always see him when I am in England. But no will was ever found:
proofs of my father's marriage to the Signora Laura Scotti were
produced, and also of her death some five years before the marriage of
my mother, and my brother Richard remained possessed of all that had
once seemed destined for me. He found the property greatly encumbered,
it is true, paid no debt that he could by any means evade, and, being
naturally of a profuse and luxurious disposition, soon found it
necessary to sell much plate and jewels, many of which, beyond doubt,
were my mother's own. Among the rest must have gone the cup I saw last
night. As for myself, the little farm of Malden was all that was left
me, the annual income of which is not quite two hundred pounds a
year,--enough, perhaps, for any right ambition; but I had been educated
in high expectations, and I had received a shock which changed, or
seemed to change, my whole nature.
"One night, when we had been talking of these things, Dr. Winthorne laid
his hand upon my shoulder, saying, 'Ned, you must make yourself a name
and an estate. There are two courses before you: either pursue your
studies vigorously for a few years, and then go to the university and
push your fortunes in the Church or at the bar, or put yourself in the
way of another sort of advancement, and mingle in the strife of courts
and camps. You have talent for the one if you choose to embrace it; your
animal qualities may fit you for the other. If the latter be your
choice, among my noble kinsfolks I can put you on the entrance of the
road; but you are not a boy who can remain idle. Think over it till
to-morrow at this hour; and then tell me of your resolve.'
"My determination was soon formed. I could not make up my mind,
especially with the feelings that were then busy in me, to devote myself
to mere dry and thoughtful studies; and I chose the more active scenes.
The very next night Dr. Winthorne wrote to the Lord Montagu, distantly
related to his mother, and in about two months after I received the
appointment of gentleman-page in his household, the only path now open
in England to honor and renown. In this career I have met with many
vicissitudes, and have learned much in a harsher and sterner school than
that of good Dr. Winthorne. I have not suffered, I trust, in mind or in
body, and, if my character has been hardened, I do believe the change
took place, not in the four last years of action and endeavor, but in
the few months of suffering and endurance which immediately preceded and
followed my father's death. Let it not be thought, my excellent friend,
that in any thing I have said I wished to cast a reproach upon his
memory. I am sure that he intended to secure to me what by right and
equity was mine, whatever mere law may say; but probably the duel in
which he fell was hasty; and it was a habit of his mind to put off both
consideration and action as long as he could. Thought was a labor that
troubled him, and he often would not see dangers because reflection upon
the best way of meeting them would have been painful. As to my brother,
I have never seen him again: I hear he has returned to Italy, there to
spend what remains to him of his wealth. Thus, you see that, though that
cup is mine by right, it is no more mine by law than the estate of
Buckley, which has gone from me forever."
The old merchant mused, and Lucette exclaimed, eagerly, that Sir Richard
Langdale's conduct was cruel and unjust; but Master Ned answered, very
mildly,--more so, indeed, than he might have done had not sickness
softened him,--"There is much that is both cruel and unjust in the law;
but, when I think of the contrast between my home before and after he
appeared in it, and when I think of what my own heart was before and
after he put his icy hand upon it, how he took from it its gentleness,
and its kindness, and its confidence, I cannot but believe he has been
cruel, and, though the same blood may and does flow in our veins, his is
mingled with another stream, which is noway akin to mine."
"You must take that cup, Master Edward," said the syndic. "I cannot keep
it in conscience. Every time I saw it in the cupboard, I should----" But
his sentence was broken in upon, and all discussion stopped, by the
entrance of Marton, introducing a stout man in plain travelling-attire,
who was a stranger at least to Edward Langdale.
CHAPTER VIII.
The old syndic did not seem to know much more of his visitor than Edward
Langdale; but he called him Master Jean Baptiste, and asked him what
news from Niort.
"Nothing very good, monsieur," answered the stranger: "half a league
more of the Papist lines is finished, and it is hard to get through. It
was all done so quick and so quietly, no one knew any thing of it till
the day before yesterday, when some troops and a large supply of flour
were sent down to Ferriac."
"And where is the king himself?" demanded Clement Tournon, somewhat
anxiously.
"He is still at Nantes," replied the visitor. "But I want some talk with
you, Mr. Syndic, when I can have it alone; and it must be to-night,
too, for I have to go on by to-morrow at daybreak, if I can get a boat."
The old man at once raised a candlestick from the table and led the
stranger into another room, while Lucette and Edward remained together.
Now, the most natural thing in the world for a young lad between sixteen
and seventeen, and a young girl a year or two younger, when so thrown
upon their own resources, would have been to make love, or, at least, to
fall into it; and there was also a strong incentive in the gratitude
Edward felt for all Lucette's kind nursing and all the interest which
Lucette had taken in his illness and recovery. But the truth must be
told. They did not make love in any of the many ways in which that
article is prepared in any of the kingdoms of the earth. Moreover, they
did not fall in love in the least. I am sorry for it; for of all the
sweet and charming things which this world produces, that which is
scornfully called calf's love is the sweetest and most charming. If it
has really any thing to do with a calf at all, it is the sweetbread. Oh,
that early love! that early love! how pure, and tender, and soft, and
timid, and bright, and fragrant, it is! It is the opening of the
rose-bud of life, which may in after-times display warmer colors, give
forth more intense odor, but loses in delicacy and grace with every
petal that unfolds. But, as I have said, the truth must be told. They
neither talked of love nor thought of love, although Lucette was very
beautiful and believed Edward Langdale to be very handsome. She merely
made him describe to her the scenes in which his youth had been spent.
She talked to him of his mother, too; and he told her how sweetly that
mother had sung, and said to her that Lady Langdale's voice was very
like her own; and then he besought her to sing to him again; and she
sang to please him; and they fell into thought, and spoke of a thousand
things more, in which the reader would take no manner of interest, but
which interested them so much that, when Clement Tournon returned, they
fancied he had been gone but a few minutes; and he had been absent an
hour and a half.
His visitor did not come back with him, for he had taken some supper
and retired to rest; but the good old syndic's brow was gloomy, and the
news he had received, whatever it was, did not seem to have been very
favorable.
"To bed, to bed, Lucette!" said the old man: "we must not keep Master
Ned up late o' night. He will soon have to go travelling again; and he
must gather strength."
Lucette did not receive the intelligence that Ned must soon depart very
sadly, though she would have very well liked him to stay. She laughed
and kissed the old man, and ran away; but the syndic silently took hold
of the youth's hand and prevented him from retiring till the bright girl
was gone. "Stay a minute," he said, at length. "I have something to
speak to you about. How do you feel your strength and health to-night?"
"Oh, much improved," replied Master Ned. "I shall be as strong as ever
in a couple of days."
"That is well! that is well!" said Clement Tournon. "And whither do you
turn your steps when you leave Rochelle?"
"I have to traverse the whole of France, and even to approach close to
Paris," answered Master Ned; "for the end of my journey, as far as I yet
know, is to be at Dammartin. First, however, I must go to Mauzé, where,
I hear, the Duc de Rohan and Monsieur de Soubise are to be found. I have
letters for each."
The reply seemed to puzzle the old man a little, for he shook his head,
saying, "It will not do."
"Have they left Mauzé?" asked Edward. "This illness has been very
unfortunate."
"If you do not find them there, you will hear of them," answered the
syndic. "What I mean is, you cannot get straight to Mauzé. Things have
changed since you arrived, my son. The Papist troops are between us and
Mauzé; and you will have to make a long deviation from your way and come
upon the castle from the north."
"So be it!" said Master Ned. "If we can but have a fair wind, we can get
to Marans, and, running up the Sevres, reach Mauzé from the north. It is
not much longer, if I recollect right. I would embark to-morrow
morning, but I have still some preparations to make."
"You seem to know the country well, my son," said the old man, "and your
scheme is a good one. But what preparations can you have to make?--not,
indeed, that I would have you go too soon, lest your health should
suffer. I should think as soon as you feel strong enough you will be all
ready."
"Not quite, Monsieur Tournon," answered the lad. "I must follow my
orders, and those I have are very reasonable commands. I have, as I just
said, to cross three-quarters of France, which I could not do as an
Englishman, since these last troubles, without a safe-conduct. One has
been procured for me, however, from young Sir Peter Apsley, who obtained
it in order to go to Geneva to study. He has changed his mind since, and
I am to represent him; but, as there are mentioned in the paper a page
and two servants, I must engage such followers of the most trusty
character I can find. I have already got Pierrot la Grange, who is an
adept at masquerading, and I did think of bribing Jargeau to accompany
me; but I had some suspicions of him before I landed, and soon found
that he is treacherous. I must therefore look for a man and a boy here
to-morrow; and you must help me, my good father, for it is of much
consequence that they should be trusty."
"They will soon be found," answered the syndic; "but I fear me you will
be soon discovered, my son. This cardinal has eyes in every quarter, and
almost, I might say, in every house. As to the page, I may have to think
a little," and then he added, musingly: "Did pages wear long tunics, as
in my young days, Lucette might do; but I doubt whether she would put on
boys' clothes as they are worn now."
"Lucette!" exclaimed Edward Langdale, in a tone of unfeigned
astonishment. "That would never do. She could not ride half through
France at the pace I should have to go; and besides----But tell me, in
the name of Heaven, could you part with her so easily and on such a
journey?"
The old syndic smiled faintly, saying, "I could and must part with her
whenever it is for her good, my son; but I did not propose she should go
with you farther than Mauzé, where you would have to find another page.
There she must go before Saturday, as I will explain. Listen; for it is
fit you should know all that is going on here, that you may tell it to
those whom you are about to see. I will make it all clear to you, and
then I will go and consult my pillow till to-morrow morning. The king
and the cardinal are determined to crush out Rochelle. We have stood a
siege here before, and may perhaps do so now,--though I do not think it,
for Richelieu is not following the rash measures of those who went
before him. He has been hovering over this devoted city like an eagle
over a hare half hidden in the brushwood, and now he is ready to swoop.
They say that he and King Louis have been stayed at Nantes by some
troubles in the court; but nothing is neglected: day by day the troops
are gathering round, and we are now wellnigh hemmed in by land. The sea
is still open to us; but I have learned from a sure hand this night that
the cardinal has gathered together a navy of small armed vessels in all
the neighboring ports,--Rochefort, Marennes, Royan, Bourgneuf,
Painboeuf, and others. They will soon be off our harbor,--on Monday
next, they say; and though, thank Heaven, we have ships and good ones,
yet in point of numbers we are nothing. The foolish men of what they
call the French party refused, as you know, to give entrance to the Earl
of Denbigh's fleet, which would have kept the sea open to us and insured
us against blockade forever. But, as things stand now, I cannot expose a
girl like Lucette to the horrors of a siege with probably no escape.
Indeed, every useless mouth we can remove from Rochelle the better for
us; and, besides, those who have a right have required me to send her
out of the city without loss of time."
"Had you not better go with her yourself?" asked Master Ned.
"I will not run away from my post," answered the syndic. "I once could
have struck a good blow in defence of my native city; and, though that
is past, I can still aid her with counsel. Besides, where could I go?
Nowhere but to England. I may send what gold I have got to that country,
if I can find means; but my fate is with Rochelle, and Lucette's must
lie far away. God help us! we are at a dangerous pass, my son; and the
hunter's toils are tighter round us than some of our senseless citizens
will believe. As to Jargeau, you cannot trust him. Of Pierrot I have
doubts,--not of his honesty, for he is truthful and sturdy when he is
sober, nor of his ability, for he is a thing we often see in this
strange world, _a clever fool_,--shrewd enough in every thing that
imports but little, but weak as water in matters on which his own
fortunes and his soul's salvation rest. I doubt his power to abstain
from a vice which has ruled him for ten long years. True, he has been
sober ever since he has been here, and he promises sturdily; but, alas!
my son, I have seen so many a drunkard fall away from all good
resolutions with the first moment of a strong temptation that I wish you
had a better follower."
"I will keep him sober," answered Master Ned, boldly. "He knows I am not
to be trifled with. I think he has every inclination to reform but only
wants the strength of mind. I will give him the strength. Many a man is
feeble in some point till he has support, just as a pea trails upon the
ground till we plant a strong pole by it. I will be his pea-stick,
Monsieur Tournon. But as to another man and the page. If Mademoiselle
Lucette only goes to Mauzé, and you will trust her with me, I will see
her safe there if I get there myself, upon my honor; but I know not why
she should have to change her dress, for the distance is so small from
Maran's that----"
"You may be stopped and have to show your safe-conduct," answered the
syndic. "You know not how rapidly this cardinal is drawing the net
around us. But surely we can equip her so that she shall remain
concealed and yet not shock her modesty."
"Oh, yes," replied Master Ned: "'tis still the mode with us to wear a
loose, long, hanging coat over the justaucorps in cool weather; and this
is cool enough. I have one in my bags, and they are so freely fitted
that it matters not whether it be somewhat large or not. But what I fear
is her long, beautiful, amber hair. No boy's head ever bore such a
profusion,--though it is the custom now to wear it very long behind."
"We must have it cut," said the syndic, with as little reverence for
love-locks as any Puritanical preacher of the coming epoch: "a woman may
well yield her hair to save her liberty and her religion,--nay, perhaps
her life. But we will talk more to-morrow, my son, and we had better
both seek rest now and rise by dawn to-morrow."
The results of this conversation may easily be divined by the reader,
whose business it is, in a novel as well as in a tragedy, to supply from
his own wit or imagination all the little facts and circumstances which
it may please an author to omit. Yes, dear reader, always recollect that
you have your responsibilities as well as your privileges, your duties
as well as your powers, and then if you and I do not understand each
other it is not your fault.
The following evening, about seven o'clock, there assembled in the
little saloon, the syndic, Edward Langdale, a strong, supple-looking
man, of whom more hereafter, Pierrot la Grange, and a beautiful boy,
apparently some two years younger, and much shorter, than Master Ned. He
entered the last, dressed in one of the broad-brimmed hats of the day, a
handsome doublet, and a loose black velvet coat with hanging sleeves. It
descended nearly to the knees, and almost met a pair of large
riding-boots, which, together with the hat and feather, and a small
gold-hilted dagger on the left hip, gave the wearer a sort of cavalier
look which accorded well with the character assumed,--yes, assumed; for
a warm mantling blush that spread over Lucette's fair face, and the shy
impulse with which she threw herself into the old man's arms, would have
betrayed her sex to any one who was not in the secret. Every thing,
however, was now hurry, for a good-sized fishing-boat had been engaged
for a somewhat earlier hour; and, with a few words of admonition to
Lucette from the syndic, and some directions to the men, the whole party
set out for the port. Marton gave them egress, kissing Lucette tenderly
as she passed the door; and in ten minutes Clement Tournon held the
young girl in his arms by the side of the boat, taking one last embrace.
He wept not, it is true; but he heaved a heavy sigh. Edward Langdale
lifted her into the little bark, and, as the boat pushed off, he felt
that tears had fallen upon his bosom.
CHAPTER IX.
Although there can be few things more pleasant to many of the senses
with which our dull clay is vivified than to sail over a shining sea
under a moonlight sky,--although the feeling of repose which emanates
from rapid easy motion is then most sweetly tasted,--yet when we are in
haste we would always wish the breeze to be favorable and full. We could
bear a little more rocking of our sea-cradle did we but know that our
progress was all the faster. In this respect, at least, Edward Langdale
was not to be gratified that night. The wind, it is true, was not
exactly adverse; but it was not quite favorable, and, moreover, it was
light. The boat did not make three miles an hour through the water, and
was obliged to take a good stretch to the westward in order to avoid
sands and shoals.
In the mean time, the party in the boat was arranged very properly:
Lucette sat near the stern, and Master Ned next to her, with Pierrot on
his left; while on the other side were the newly-engaged servant and two
sailors. But Lucette was silent, and Edward thought it better for a time
to leave her so, as tears--springing from what sources it is not worth
while to inquire--were still flowing, and the youth heard every now and
then a gentle sob. For his part, he talked a little to Pierrot, who told
him that he had twice seen the good-man Jargeau that day, had honestly
notified him of his dereliction of his service, and had returned him his
two horses, as he, Pierrot, had been ordered. Jargeau, he said, had been
somewhat supercilious, somewhat triumphant, had shown that he knew all
about Master Ned's encounter in Rochelle, and its consequences, observed
that it would have been better for the youth if he had followed good
counsel, and had laughed heartily at Pierrot's own resolutions of
temperance, which he tried hard to make him break on the spot.
"I saw he had a great contempt for me, Master Ned," said the man; "but I
showed him I could resist."
"He will laugh at you ten times more if ever you break your resolution,"
answered Edward Langdale; "and then he will laugh with some reason. Of
course you gave him no cause to think we were going to-night?"
The man replied in the negative, and Edward--judging not amiss of the
precise moment when comfort is most available--applied himself to soothe
his beautiful young companion. It is a very delicate and even dangerous
task for a young man of any thing short of sixty; and it would be vain
to say that Edward Langdale did not perform the office of consoler
warmly. The nature of the case inspired tenderness; the gentleness and
care with which she had nursed him required it; and their very youth
justified it. He called her "dear Lucette" several times; and he tried
hard to prompt hope of a speedy return to Rochelle and a reunion with
her excellent father.
At the latter word Lucette gave a little start. "You mistake, Edward,"
she said: "he is not my father, though indeed he has been a father, and
more than a father, to me. But you are protecting an orphan, my friend.
I have neither father nor mother living."
"Then is he your grandfather, as you first called him?" asked the youth.
"I thought he was very old to have a daughter of your age."
"He is no relation whatever," she answered, gravely, "but is as dear to
me as any parent could have been. It is a long story, which I may some
time or other have an opportunity of telling you; but enough for the
present that he has had the care of my education in Rochelle for some
years, and has ever shown to me the affection of a father and won from
me the love and reverence of a child. I weep to part with him; but I
weep from many other causes. Rochelle has been to me like the nest to a
young bird; and now I am going forth into a world where I am almost a
stranger, to a fate that I know not, but which can hardly be a peaceful
one. Let us not talk of it; for it is better not even to think of it.
What will come must come; and I must bear all with patience."
"Well, then, let us look at that beautiful sea," said Edward Langdale.
"Is it not like an ocean of melted silver? Look there! Here comes a
great wave curling over in the moonlight: now we rise above it, and it
is past. So it is, Lucette, with the misfortunes of this world: they
seem ready to overwhelm us; but with good steering and a strong mind we
rise above them and leave them behind us."
"But who shall teach me to steer my boat?" asked Lucette, sadly.
Had it been a few years later in his life, Edward would probably have
said, "Let me;" but he did not say it, and he was wise. He applied
himself, however, with more earnestness than ever, to soothe his sweet
companion and to wean her thoughts from subjects of pain or anxiety; nor
did he do so without success. His mind was stored with the riches of
much and very various study, and he found, too, that her young hours had
not been employed in vain. She could talk with him of things which few
of her age and her country could converse upon; and, to his delight, he
found that she spoke English as well as he did himself, with hardly any
accent, and with perfect facility. Thenceforward their conversation was
carried on in his mother-tongue; and his mind easily saw the many
advantages which might arise, should any impediment present itself on
their journey, from their perfect acquaintance with two languages.
It was all very perilous for the two young people; and really, could it
have been avoided, they should not have been placed in such a situation;
but there are times and circumstances when proprieties must be forgotten
and folks must take their chance or die. Now, the period was rapidly
approaching when not a mouse could get out of Rochelle; and old Clement
Tournon foresaw its coming. To take advantage of Edward's journey was
all that was left for him; and that was almost too late. Besides,
decorum came in with George the First, and little of it was known in the
world at large before the time of William the Taciturn. Nevertheless,
was it not dangerous to set two young souls, full of early life, and
with all its passions and imaginations just budding, to sail over "the
moonlight sea" together, talking a language unknown to their companions,
with mystery and misfortune and interest on one side, and gratitude,
compassion, and curiosity on the other? They did not, it is true, get
out of that boat with the same feelings they carried into it; but then
all these matters are progressive, except in Italy, and some parts of
Spain, and two or three other countries I could name,--countries where
people jump into love with their eyes open, or fall into it with their
eyes shut. In England we slide into it. But, as I was remarking, all
such things--with the exceptions already specified--are progressive; and
there were several little accidents which helped the matter on. Lucette
was cold, and Edward fastened the agrafes of the loose coat over her
fair bosom; and then he wrapped a cloak round her; and then the wind
shifted and the sea began to run very high, and he had to put his arm
about her to keep her steady on the seat. Then, what between fear and
headache, she leaned her brow upon his shoulder; and he had to comfort
and reassure her the best way he could. There is something in animal
magnetism, dear reader, depend upon it,--although I think it acts in a
different way from that generally attributed to it.
But, to pause no more upon such discussions,--which are always very
fruitless,--I must say their situation soon became very unpleasant, and
even critical. The wind and the currents carried the little craft far to
the westward of Marans, and the boat shipped many a heavy sea. She was
good and stanch, however, and the sailors were fearless, hardy, and
experienced; but that comforted poor Lucette very little, so that all
her consolation was to cling through long hours to Edward Langdale and
to ask him from time to time if there was any danger. At length,
however,--just when, having run a good way to the northwest, they had
contrived to tack and lay their course with a better wind toward
Marans,--the sun began to rise, and Edward whispered, "Now we shall soon
be there, dear Lucette."
But he was mistaken. Expectation is always mistaken. There really seems
a perversity about those ladies with the distaff and scizzors which
leads them to spin the thread of our life with knots and tangles, to cut
it short at the very moment of fruition, and--especially when they see
any one foolish enough to calculate upon success--to ravel the whole
skein into inextricable confusion. The boat could only approach the
shore by continual tacking; and I would tell all the tacks she made, and
how long each took,--but, unhappily, I know nothing of nautical matters,
except that a ship has a head and a stern, as most other things have;
that a fair wind carries people rapidly to port, and a foul wind delays
them often a long time. The sun had passed the meridian at least three
hours when the boat at last reached the mouth of the Sevre Niortaise,
which would at that time float small vessels very comfortably. I know
not what it will do now; for the sands upon the west coast of France
have so encroached upon the domains of old Ocean that Hennebon was once
within a short distance of the sea and is now actually an inland town,
only to be reached by a post-road or a good long sail up the river
Blavet. As good fortune would have it, however, and thanks to the
paternal care of good Clement Tournon, there were plenty of provisions
on board the boat; and the Sevre Niortaise received them less hungry
than might otherwise have been the case. The ascent of the river as far
as the spot where it was proposed to stop occupied two hours more; but
all was calm now, and the change from danger to security is a great
promoter of rash hope. The color came back into Lucette's face, and she
and Edward Langdale talked gayly of the coming hours. At length they ran
up to a little landing where a few houses, all occupied by Protestants,
lined the shore, headed by a good-looking cabaret with white walls and a
brush upon the top of a pole. The Rochellois boatmen were well known to
the host, and his welcome was joyful; but when, after seeing Lucette
comfortably lodged in a room by herself,--although the landlord seemed
to think that too much care was taken of a boy who ought to take care of
himself,--Master Ned proceeded to inquire into the facilities for
reaching Mauzé, he found more serious impediments than he had expected.
No horses were to be bought nearer than Marans, some three miles
distant; and between the river and the chateau of Mauzé the host
reported several large bodies of Catholic soldiers and workmen, whose
conduct, according to his account, was not over-scrupulous. Horses,
however, had to be procured at all events; for to reach the chateau if
possible Edward Langdale was bound; and accordingly, with some
hesitation, he despatched Pierrot la Grange to Marans, with a strong
injunction to temperance. Pierrot's virtue was probably not very
severely tried; for the wine--the only wine to be procured in that part
of the country--was execrable; and brandy at that time, notwithstanding
the proximity of Rochelle, found its way to Marans in very small
quantities. At all events, toward ten o'clock at night he reappeared at
the cabaret with the four horses and their equipments, as his young
master had required, and a boy leading the two last-bought, while he
himself, mounted on one, led another by the bridle.
The landlord was conversing with the boatmen at the door, while Edward
was calmly sleeping on a bench in the kitchen; but the former seemed to
have received some intimation that the page was not exactly what he
appeared, for he requested Pierrot in a whisper to tell his young lord
that there was a minister in the hamlet, and that young people could be
married there just as well as at Mauzé.
In about an hour the whole party were mounted and on their road, Pierrot
having assured his master that he could guide him to Mauzé as well as
any man born on the spot. Nor did he exaggerate his knowledge, but
proceeded perfectly steadily and carefully, till at length the little
bridle-path they followed lost itself in the moors which cover that part
of the country.
The moon, however, was shining as brightly as it had done the night
before, and there seemed no difficulty in finding the way; but the wide
expanse before them looked solitary and cheerless with its gray shadows
and stunted bushes and pieces of fenny swamp, while here and there rose
a small clump of low rugged pines, or a deep pit obstructed the advance
of the travellers. At the end of about two hours, Pierrot remarked, "We
are not three miles from Mauzé now, sir, and we had better be a little
careful; for, if there be any folks we have to fear, they must be about
here." Hardly had he spoken when a line of lights came in sight, which
Master Ned instantly understood to proceed from scattered watch-fires;
and, halting for a few minutes, he held a short council with his
followers, in which their future proceedings were determined. The lights
extended some way to the right and left; and it was conjectured that
the lines which it was known the king's army were employed in
constructing stopped at a certain point on one side or the other,
leaving a passage round the extremity, by which the little village and
its castle could be reached. The question only was which side was free,
and Edward resolved to ride on in advance with one of the men and
reconnoitre, leaving Lucette and the other man at the first sheltered
spot they could find. One of the deep pits which I have mentioned was
soon met with, and its edge, on the opposite side from that which the
little party approached, was edged with a fringe of low wood, which
concealed it well. A road which had been cut for the purpose of digging
gravel--Heaven knows for what purpose the gravel itself was wanted, as
gravel walks were few in that part of the country--led right into the
pit; and along it Edward and his party found their way in. He lifted
Lucette from her horse, and, being more considerate than most lads of
his age, he paused to think which of the men he should leave with her.
That was soon settled. The man he had hired in Rochelle was well known
to Clement Tournon. His name was Jacques Beaupré, by-the-way; and the
good syndic had guaranteed his honesty, adding, that he was a courageous
man and witty. Now, Jacques had not uttered three words since he had
been in Edward's service, and therefore of his wit the young gentleman
knew nothing; but his honesty and his courage were much more important
on the present occasion. Pierrot, Master Ned knew, could be trusted in
all things but one; but there was much to be remembered. He himself
might be taken; and, once delivered from the restraint of his presence,
Edward naturally concluded that the bottle might have too great
temptations for his worthy follower, and Lucette be left to the perilous
guardianship of a drunken man. Jacques Beaupré was therefore left with
Lucette. The bags were taken off the horses and deposited in his care,
with orders to make his way to Mauzé, should any misadventure occur to
Edward, and to place them and Lucette under the care of the Prince de
Soubise. A warning was also given him to destroy, if possible, the bag
which had a red cross marked upon it, in case he saw that he could not
escape the Catholic army. It may be supposed that all these directions
alarmed poor Lucette a good deal; but she did not give way to her fears,
although she fully forgave Edward for making his parting embrace a
little warmer than even the customs of that day justified.
We are too apt in this world to make no allowance for the customs of
different times and phases of society. Some fall into this fault from
ignorance of any state of society but their own, with a vague idea of
something having been strange in the customs of the Greeks and Romans
and the people whom Mr. Hallam wrote about. Some who have read the
chronicles of other times forget the minute particulars in their
attention to more important facts. But believe me, dear reader, the
times and the country, the climate and the water, do make very great
difference in the notions which obtain regarding customs, and even
morals,--ay, morals. Half the morals in the world are made by
society,--and all the customs. I remember a Turkish ambassador, being
present at a dance, and asking, gravely, "What does all that palming
come to?" Since then the Turks have very generally left off their
petticoats, and have acquired a good many new notions; but they still
object to the "_palming_," and think its tendencies not desirable,--the
Koran notwithstanding. However, the age of which I am now writing was a
kissing age,--an age of _embrassades_. Everybody kissed everybody--on
certain occasions; but it was specified that, in public and before
witnesses, the kisses were to be bestowed on the right and left cheek,
and not upon the mouth,--especially in the case of young gentlemen and
ladies. Now, the dereliction of poor Edward Langdale was that his lips
did not altogether confine themselves to the cheek of Lucette. Where
they went, Heaven knows; but I do not. However, she forgave him; and I
do not see why we should not do so too. I am sure I should have kissed
her lips if I had had the opportunity; for they were rich, and soft, and
full, and her breath was as fragrant as new-mown hay.
After that kiss, he jumped upon his horse again and rode away, leaving
all his precious things behind him,--both those he had brought from
England and those he had found in Rochelle.
The title I have affixed to this book compels me to adhere to the
adventures of Master Ned; but, as that night was one of critical
influence upon his fate, I cannot finish its events at the fag-end of a
chapter which is already somewhat too long for the reader's patience,
and for the writer's too.
CHAPTER X.
Now, Edward Langdale was a very acute and intelligent lad before he
touched the shores of France on that journey. He had learned more of the
world and mankind in the few years he had been page to Lord Montagu than
many another youth does in a dozen. His previous education had fitted
him for such acquisition; and the circumstances in which he had
afterward been placed--circumstances which required the exercise of
every faculty--had acuminated every faculty. But, strange to say, each
sense seemed to acquire more acuteness after he left Lucette. He had no
notion in the world how it was so. He thought of those valuable leathern
bags of his, and of the letters which were in them, and of the chance
there was of their falling into an enemy's hands. He believed that was
all; but still, as the reader has a right to be let into all secrets, a
vague, indefinite, misty idea of danger to Lucette mingled with all
other considerations and sharpened every perception.
With Pierrot by his side, and taking advantage of every thing which
could screen his approach, he advanced as close to the king's lines as
he could without being perceived. He then rode along, seeing groups of
soldiers and sappers lying on the ground by their watch-fires, without
one man seemingly wakeful enough to have killed a rat had it invaded his
quarters. The end of the line on the right was soon reached; but now
there were evident signs of completed trenches and a more strict guard;
and, retreating a little to get under cover of the trees, which had
become both taller and closer in that quarter, he turned his course
toward the left, where the lines tended toward the Sevre Niortaise.
Still, nothing stirred; and at length Edward, to his great satisfaction,
perceived the spot where the rapidly-progressing works had been
abandoned at the set of sun, and where shovels and pickaxes and hatchets
were piled up after the labors of the day. Beyond was a wide extent of
moor and brushwood; and, after having gazed for a minute or two, he
determined to push his horse far enough round to make sure that the
passage was free before he went back for Lucette. His course was through
some marshy ground broken by brushes. The last fire of the French lines
was at a full quarter of a mile's distance, and every moment Edward
became more and more convinced that the way was quite open and the
passage safe. Suddenly, however, he checked his horse, making a sign to
Pierrot to stop, and saying, "Hark!"
"Horse, on my life!" cried Pierrot.
"Coming up from the left," replied Master Ned. "Down, down! and amongst
the bushes! Let the beasts take their own course. It may mislead them."
Each sprang to the ground in a moment. The horses, cast loose with a
sharp blow in the flank, scampered across the moor, and the youth and
Pierrot kneeled down amongst the shrubs. But the manoeuvre was in
vain. The moon was still shining brightly: they had been marked; and the
pursuers but too plainly perceived that the two horses which scampered
off were now without riders. There was a momentary search amongst the
bushes, and then a hard hand was laid upon Master Ned's shoulder. It
might have been a dangerous experiment at another moment; but there were
so many soldiers round as to render resistance hopeless; and Master Ned
rose quietly without uttering a word.
It was a somewhat lawless age; and in lawless ages some men's fingers
have a strange affection for other men's pockets. The worthy trooper,
whose right hand still retained its grasp of Edward's shoulder, felt his
left impelled by irresistible powers toward the spot where purses in
those days were generally carried; but he suddenly found his wrist
grasped with a strength which he had no idea lay in the slight-looking
limbs of his prisoner, who at the same time raised his voice aloud,
shouting, in the French tongue, "Officer! officer!"
The trooper had either miscalculated his distance from his companions,
or Master Ned's powers of endurance; for, while he struggled to free his
wrist from the clinging fingers which grasped it, half a dozen more
soldiers came up, with a gentleman in a handsome buff coat, or buffle,
laced with gold, who was evidently the leader of the band.
"How now, young man? how now?" cried the officer, regarding him by the
moonlight. "What! resisting the king's authority?"
"By no means, seigneur," replied Edward, who still held the soldier fast
by the wrist. "I am merely resisting plunder, which I know is not by the
king's authority. This man's hand was in my pocket. His intention might
be to take my purse,--which I should care little about, as there is not
much in it, and I can get more; but it might be to take my safe-conduct,
which I will not part with, but for proper examination, to any one."
"Ho, ho! a safe-conduct!" said the officer. "How dare you try to rob
him, Guillaume Bheel? Let him go, this instant."
"I can't," answered the man, with a good-humored roar of laughter: "the
young devil has got my wrist as tight as if every finger was a vice. My
hand was not in his pocket; for, by St. Ann, he did not let me get it
fairly in. I was only going to search him."
"Let the man's hand go, young gentleman," said the officer. "You mention
a safe-conduct. Let me see it."
"It is here," said Edward Langdale, drawing forth a handsome gilt
leather case. "I beg you to promise that it shall be returned to me when
you have examined it."
"It shall, if I find it all in proper form," replied the other; "but, in
the mean time, you will have to go to the lines, for I cannot examine
passes by moonlight. Some one see and catch the two horses. Have you
found the other man? Ah, there he is. Catch the horses, I say."
In the mean time he had opened the case and taken out the passport,
which, when spread out in the pale light, showed all the appearance of
an ordinary safe-conduct; and Edward, anxious to prevent any search for
Lucette and her guard, observed, in a quiet tone, "You will remark that
the paper covers more than myself and my servant; but, hearing that
there was danger on the road to Niort, we left the others behind."
"Then tell me, sir," said the officer, gravely, "how came it, when you
were furnished with such a safe-conduct as this, you attempted to pass
the lines without showing it, and tried to hide yourself when you saw my
party?"
"Oh, in Rochelle they tell very bloody tales of you gentlemen up here,"
replied Edward, laughing; "and I thought that at Niort I could show it
with less trouble."
"Then you come from Rochelle, do you?" said the officer. "Probably you
came over in Lord Denbigh's fleet?"
"No," answered the young man, boldly. "I came over before, in a
merchant-vessel; but I was obliged to stay some days in Rochelle to hire
servants and to get well; for I was ill there."
"Indeed," said the officer,--not in any tone of interest, but merely as
one of those insignificant ejaculations which men employ to stop a gap
when they have nothing else to say; and he continued humming some of the
Parisian airs which are now technically known as _Pont neufs_, till the
horses were caught,--which was not till after half an hour's ineffectual
effort; for they had some spirit and some skittishness. Indeed, it might
have been as well--under fear of the critics--to tell the reader that
the part of the country which we are now treading is rather famous for
the sale of horses, which, though not so good as the Limousin, are of
the same race, very hardy and sometimes very fleet.
At length the beasts were inveigled by some of the many methods of
deceit which men use to entrap bipeds or quadrupeds; and, mounted on
that which he indicated as his own, Master Ned, between two soldiers,
was led to the end of the trench, followed by Pierrot, as well guarded,
who had the good sense to keep his tongue under a rigorous rein. The two
were civilly inducted into a small building constructed of unplaned
boards, and, with a sentinel at the door, were left together while the
officer went to examine the safe-conduct: at least, so he said. In
truth, he went to show it to a superior officer.
Edward Langdale, however, took the opportunity, in a hurried manner, of
indoctrinating Pierrot in regard to what he was to say and what not to
say. He could have done it quite at leisure, it is true, for the officer
was full two hours absent; but the time was occupied with various
comments and discussions which might, under most circumstances, have
been of great use. Man almost always makes calculations in vain. He
stands upon a small point, unable to see an inch before his nose, while
Fate is working in the background beyond his sight, weaving round him a
web of fine threads, through which he cannot break, let him flutter as
hard as he will.
At length the officer reappeared, with the passport in its case. He
returned it to the young gentleman with a polite bow, saying, "Sir, your
safe-conduct seems in good form, and signed by the cardinal himself."
There he paused for a moment, and Edward replied, "Then I suppose I am
at liberty to proceed. Now you see, sir, how much better it would have
been for me to ride on straight to Niort, where in half an hour I could
have had a good supper and a bottle of wine."
"Your pardon, sir," said the other. "We can give you the bottle of wine
here,--though all you can have for supper, I am afraid, will be some
sardines, d'Olonne, and bread. But, as to proceeding, you will have to
make a little turn out of your way and go to Nantes. You will have four
soldiers out of my troop for protection,--merely for protection."
"As a prisoner, in short," said Edward, gravely. "I had thought the
cardinal's name was more potent in France."
"It is very potent," replied the officer, with a smile. "But he knows
his signature better than we do; and the truth is, although the seal is
certainly official, we had an intimation yesterday, about three o'clock,
that a young English gentleman, with three attendants, would endeavor to
pass the lines, and that it was necessary to stop him, as he was an
agent of the enemy. You have but one attendant; but your pass says
three, and you have yourself acknowledged that you have left two
behind."
"This is the work of some private enemy," said Master Ned, gravely; for
the situation was not at all pleasant. "The intimation, of course, came
from Rochelle?"
The officer nodded. "Then," continued the youth, "you put faith in your
enemies rather than in the signature of your own prime minister."
"Jargeau," whispered Pierrot. But the officer cut discussion short,
saying, "I act under orders, gentlemen, and can only say further that
you do not exactly go as prisoners, and may regulate your marches as you
please. You can set out at once if you please, or you can wait till
daybreak."
"At once," said Edward, somewhat sternly: "the end of my journey is
Geneva or Savoy, and I am anxious to get out of a country as soon as
possible where even a regular passport does not protect one from
detention."
"But the wine and the sardines?" said Pierrot.
"They can be brought while the men are making ready," replied the
officer; and, with a polite bow, he left them still under guard.
The wine and the sardines d'Olonne were brought and rapidly consumed.
Their horses' feet were heard before the door, and, mounting, Pierrot
and Master Ned, with four soldiers accompanying them, rode away in the
direction of Nantes. It is a long and rather dreary ride at all times,
and to Edward it was particularly unpleasant, for he had to remember a
fact which the reader has probably forgotten, namely, that people who
took advantage without right of other people's safe-conducts were in
those days very frequently hanged. Now, Master Ned had a mortal aversion
to hemp. All depends upon the application of things. An old saw well
applied is excellent, detestable when wrongly introduced. A
Burgundy-pitch plaster on the chest is a capital remedy for incipient
bronchitis, but has quite a contrary effect when applied to the mouth
and nose. It is all the same with hemp. Used in rigging a ship, it is
all very well; in the abstract it is a soft though somewhat tenacious
fibre, which would not much hurt a fly; but when twisted into several
strands and used as a tight cravat it is unpleasant, and often
dangerous. In this light it was viewed by Edward Langdale; but he had
run a good many hair's-breadth risks since he had been Lord Montagu's
page, and the idea of the hemp did not exclude from his mind the idea of
Lucette. (There are two "ideas" in the last sentence, which the verbal
critics may call tautologous; but I will let them both stand, for it
were well if there were as many ideas in most people's noddles.)
However, as it is a very dreary road from Mauzé toward Nantes, and as
the reflections of poor Edward Langdale were drearier still, I will not
pause upon the details, but merely say that thought after thought
followed each other through his head,--sometimes of the danger which he
himself ran, sometimes of the dangers which surrounded Lucette, and
sometimes of the chances of making his escape. This continued for some
three hours, during which time the body was suffering hardly less than
the mind. Barely recovered from severe illness, he had quitted Rochelle
too early: he had since undergone the fatigues of a storm at sea, a long
anxious ride, a short imprisonment, and now a three hours' journey, with
little f
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/40295