Читать книгу Henry of Guise (Historical Novel) - G. P. R. James - Страница 9

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The prudent plans and purposes of the most prudent and politic people in this world are almost all contingent--contingent, in the first place, upon circumstances, the great rulers of all earthly things, and, in the second place, not less than the first, upon the characters, thoughts, and feelings of the very persons who frame them. Many a one may be tempted to tell us, that it must be a prudent man to form prudent resolutions, and that such a prudent man will keep them; but now the reverse of this common-place reasoning is directly the case, and the most prudent determinations are but too often taken by the most imprudent people, and violated without the slightest ceremony or contrition. This is, indeed, almost universally the case; for really prudent people have no need to make resolutions at all, and those who make them have almost always some intimation in their own mind that there is a likelihood of their being broken.

The case of Marie de Clairvaut was not exactly that of a person either wanting in prudence or in firmness. She often considered thoughtfully and long, regarding proprieties and improprieties before she determined on any course of action; and, in the present instance, as she sat by her solitary toilet-table in her own chamber, she revolved in her mind her situation--the guest of two young and wealthy nobles; and although she felt perfectly confident, both from their whole demeanour and from the redoubted power and influence of her uncle, that she would be treated with the most perfect courtesy, hospitality, and kindness, she saw that she would have in some degree a difficult task to perform, both in regard to them and to herself.

Though younger than either of them, Marie de Clairvaut had seen a great deal more of the world; and from her own circumstances, and those of her family, she had been called upon to consider subjects and to deal with events, which rarely fall within the scope of a young, a very young woman's reflections. We have said in the end of the last chapter, that Marie de Clairvaut prepared to make herself as happy as she could; and it was the feeling that she had given way somewhat incautiously to such a design, during the first day that she had spent within the walls of the château of Montsoreau that made her--as she sat preparing to retire to rest--think seriously over her situation, and, as we have said, frame her resolutions according to the result of her reflections.

Some time was likely to elapse before she could hear from her uncle; and in the mean while two great perils menaced her in her present situation, as great and as probable, perhaps, as any that fancy painted in regard to her falling into the hands of the reiters, though certainly of a very different character. The first of these perils was, that either of her two gay and gallant hosts should fall in love with her. The days of chivalry were not then over--men did occasionally fall in love with a lady and not with her wealth; and there had been observable more than once, on the countenances of the two brothers, various looks and expressions so strongly indicative of admiration, that Marie, without any particular vanity, might well suppose that warmer feelings still, might spring up in the track of those which had risen already so rapidly.

The next great danger was one of a still more terrible character--it was, that she herself might fall in love with one or other of the brothers. Now there were various things which rendered this probable, as well as various things which rendered it improbable. In the first place, though of a gentle and affectionate disposition, she had never yet seen any one whom she could really love; and though she had mingled with courts and moved in scenes where those startling changes were constantly taking place which try and ultimately use and wear away the finer feelings of the human heart, yet her bosom had been originally richly stored by God with warm, and kind, and generous sensations; and all that she had seen of the world and its worldliness had but tended to make her not only hate and detest it, but cling to any thing that savoured of a fresher nature. She had lived enough in courts and crowds to make her abhor them, but not enough to forget her abhorrence; and she was now cast entirely into the society of two beings as little like those courts and crowds as it was possible to conceive: she was dependent upon them for amusement, support, protection; and withal there was that touching knowledge that she was admired and liked; which, to a generous and a feeling mind, is fully as powerful--though acting in a different way--as to a vain and a selfish one.

Had there been, in the simplicity and the want of knowledge of the world which characterised the two brothers, any thing in the least degree laughable or extravagant, there might have been no occasion for fear; but such was not the case: their manners and their tone were in the highest degree courteous, nay, courtly. They felt within themselves the station in which they were born, the high education which they had received, the superiority of their mental and corporeal powers over most of those with whom they had ever been brought in contact; and that feeling added a dignified and somewhat commanding ease to the grace which nature had bestowed and education improved.

Marie de Clairvaut then considered all these things calmly and deliberately, wisely making use of her own dispassionate judgment, so long as she knew that judgment to be cool and unbiassed. The reader, skilful in the human heart, perhaps may be inclined to ask, whether there was or was not really some little indication, in her own heart, of a liking and admiration for one of the two brothers, which caused her to be thus circumspect and careful? All that we can answer is, that she herself did not think so; but merely feeling that, placed in an unusual situation, she was responsible to herself, and to them, and to her uncle, for her conduct, she took the very first opportunity of contemplating all the circumstances that surrounded her, in order to shape her conduct by the dictates of reason. She took a strong resolution, indeed, but that was the only indication of weakness that she discovered.

In the first place, then, she resolved, on her own part, not to be betrayed by any circumstances whatever into falling in love with either the elder or the younger brother; and, in the next place, she resolved to do all in her power, without acting insincerely in any degree, or discourteously, to prevent either of them from falling in love with her. Such a resolution implied that she was not to allow herself to be so happy as she had at first hoped and expected to be; but, nevertheless, she framed her purposes accordingly, and determined that only so much of her time should be given to the two brothers as kindness and lady-like courtesy required. She would not attempt to assume a false character, for such a thing was quite contrary to the frankness and sincerity of her nature. While she was with them she would appear what she really was, but she would avoid, as far as possible, all those occasions of intimacy and constant communication, which her residence in their mansion, during troublous times, might naturally produce.

Now, all this was very wise and very prudent and we have endeavoured to show, that Marie de Clairvaut was not one of those people whose prudent resolutions are taken from a consciousness, secret or avowed, that prudence itself is wanting. Nevertheless, Marie de Clairvaut was a girl of less than nineteen years of age, and no more mistress, either of events, or of her own conduct and resolutions, under particular circumstances, than if she had been fifty. She began her plan, indeed, on the following morning, by pleading occupations of various kinds as an excuse for remaining the greater part of the day in her own apartments. But, alas! there were two enemies in her own camp.

One was Madame de Saulny, who thought herself bound to remain with her fair cousin, and yet had a very strong inclination for the more extended society which the château afforded. The other was a still more dangerous foe, namely, herself, who, to say sooth, found the time pass uncommonly heavily, having with her on her journey neither books, nor any other of those sources of occupation which might have helped to while away the hours in the solitude of her own chamber. Having but a fretful companion in the good marquise, and none of any interest amongst her inferior followers, the first day wore away tediously, and, if we may say the truth, the hours that she gave up in solitude had the evil effect of making those that she spent with three intelligent and highminded men appear far more delightful than they might otherwise have done.

She found, also, that all three possessed accomplishments very rare amongst the high nobility of that day; that the whole world of art and nature, as far as it was then known, had been opened to their inquiries: and not only did music, and song, and poetry, aid to make the day pass pleasantly, but they also rendered the conversation that occupied another portion of the time refined, and bright, and comprehensive. They were not driven to talk of nothing but horses, or armour, or the battlefield, or the chase, though such matters were not altogether excluded; but, as must ever be the case, every subject spoken of received a peculiar colour, a tone, a shade from the mind and habitual feelings of the speaker. If Charles of Montsoreau spoke of a horse, it was not in the terms of a horse-dealer, but it was either as the sculptor, the painter, the poet, or the soldier: he dwelt upon the beauty of its form, the docility of its nature, the fiery energies which render it the most poetical object in the whole inferior creation. If he talked of the chase, it was not alone of the slaughter of stout boars, or the tearing down the antlered quarry; but it was of the eager excitement of the scene; the rapid motion through fair woods and bright prospects; the music of echo and the hounds; the expectation, the strife, the slight portion of danger; of all, in short, which makes the real difference between the hunter and the butcher.

Marie de Clairvaut was not so much of a recluse the second day as the first; and with music, and song, and conversation, such as we have described, it passed as pleasantly as might be; but there were several other little incidents which from time to time took place to vary any monotony that might have been felt. A report of reiters having been seen at a small distance reached the castle in the morning, and some horsemen were sent out to ascertain the fact. Preparations of different kinds were made for offering indomitable resistance in case of any fresh attack by a larger force. The armoury was explored; and while every sort of weapon needful for arming the peasantry was brought forth, pikes, and arquebuses, and morions, Charles of Montsoreau pointed out to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut many a curious old relic of other days, to each of which some legend was attached--the casque and hauberk of the crusader, the arms of some noble ancestor slain on the bloody field of Poitiers, or still older and less certain, the gigantic gauntlets of a follower of Hugh Capet, and the mighty sword and horn of one of the paladins of the Great Charles.

Then came in the youthful peasantry to be enrolled--some called upon as of right by their young lords, but many flocking with voluntary readiness to the château at the first sound of war; then a tour of the battlements was to be made, and Marie de Clairvaut, accompanied her two young hosts round the towers and the walls, gazing from breastwork and embrasure over as bright, but as curious, a scene, as it was possible to conceive. The light mist which we have mentioned as occupying the lower parts of the ground on the day before, had been dispelled during the night by the severity of the frost; but it had settled down upon all the branches and stems of the bare trees in glittering crystals of white, which now reflected with dazzling brilliancy the rays of the clear unclouded sun.

Perched, as was usually the custom at that time, upon one of the highest points of the country round, even the windows of the castle commanded a very extensive view: but from the tops of the higher towers on which Marie de Clairvaut now stood, miles beyond miles were extended beneath her eye on every side; and the whole shone bright and clear in the sun's light, displaying a varied landscape of forest and field, and hill and plain, all covered with the same glistening frostwork, and only varied in hue by the deep shadows cast by the low winter sun, and by the blue tints of the far distance, where the distinction between field and forest was lost, and some high hills bounded the prospect.

Though somewhat monotonous, there was much to admire; and Marie, and those who accompanied her, stopped often to gaze and to comment on the scene. It must be acknowledged, that Charles of Montsoreau kept not far from her side as she walked on, and that, though his brother was near her on the other hand, it was towards the younger that she generally turned, either to hear what he said, or to make some observations on the objects beneath her eyes. Throughout the course of that day, indeed, she gave him much of her attention, perhaps a greater share than his brother thought quite equitable; and certainly had Marie been asked, when she retired to rest that night, which of the two brothers was the most graceful, which sang, or spoke, or acted most pleasingly, she would undoubtedly have fixed upon Charles.

Perhaps she might ask herself some questions on the subject; but her heart was sufficiently free and at ease, to make her believe that there could be no earthly harm in preferring the society of one in a slight degree to that of the other, and of rendering justice, as she considered it, to both. If there was, indeed, in her own mind the slightest idea that any particular feeling of preference was growing up in her bosom for Charles of Montsoreau, the only effect that it had was, to make her think it was very natural such a thing should be the case, as he had been the first to give her assistance and protection, and to peril his life in her behalf. Though the elder was very courteous, she thought, and very kind, and graceful, and agreeable, it could not be expected that she should like him as well as the person who had been actively interested in her defence; and thus she slept at ease, imagining that both brothers were but mere common acquaintances, who might never be thought of three times after she left them; though, in comparing the one with the other, she was inclined to like the younger better than the elder brother.

While the two young noblemen had been carried, by the most natural feelings in the world, to bestow the chief share of their attention upon the beautiful and interesting girl who had so suddenly and strangely become an inmate of their dwelling, the Abbé de Boisguerin had held more than one long and apparently interesting conversation with the Marquise de Saulny. In those conversations--whether they took place in the halls, or the armoury, or on the battlements while the Marquise, with two of Marie's women, followed the young lady over the château--the Abbé, as we have said, seemed to take considerable interest: but still, from time to time, his eyes fixed upon the graceful and beautiful form of Marie de Clairvaut, or gazed earnestly upon the fair face as, beaming with the radiance of the heart, it turned from one brother to the other at every interesting point of the conversation. In the expression of his eyes, fine, intelligent, and speaking as they were, there was something, perhaps, not altogether pleasing--a look of admiration, indeed, but a look mingled with or taking its meaning from, feelings, perhaps, not the most pure and holy. It was more like the gratified admiration of a critic, than the ordinary impression produced by beauty upon a fine mind.

However that might be, Madame de Saulny soon became aware, though she was a woman and a French woman, that the Abbé de Boisguerin, in the attentions which he paid her, was not actuated by any admiration of her own personal charms; and as she was fond of such attentions, and not very scrupulous as to any innocent means of attracting or holding them, she made Marie de Clairvaut, her personal beauty, and the high qualities of her mind and heart, one of the chief topics of her conversation with a person whom she saw was already, in a great degree, occupied with such subjects.

It may be asked, what were the real feelings of the Abbé de Boisguerin himself? It will be fully time to dwell upon those feelings hereafter; for at the time we speak of, if there were any feelings in his bosom at all different from those which ordinarily occupied it, they were yet but as seeds in which the first green bursting forth of the germ was scarcely apparent, even to the closest inspection. It is true that he sat up for more than two hours after the young lady herself and her two noble hosts had all retired to rest. It is true that, with his arms crossed upon his chest, he walked up and down the hall, in which he was now left solitary, musing beneath the light of the untrimmed lamps, and revolving many a strange fancy and shadowy imagination in his own powerful mind. He felt that they were but fancies; but he told himself that it is often from the storehouses of imagination that strong minds draw the rich ore from which they manufacture splendid realities. Ambition finds there her materials; love his gayest robes; passion gains thence many a device for his own ends; and even science and philosophy have often to thank imagination for many a grand discovery, for many a bright thought and happy suggestion.

As he paced up and down that hall in silence and solitude, communing with his own heart and his own mind, the consciousness of vast powers, great courage, and mighty scope of intellect, became more distinct, and clear, and potent in his own bosom. He asked himself, what, with such a mind, he might not be, if, looking on the troublous times in which he lived as a mere scene for his ambition, he were to plunge at once into the contentions of the day, and, with the sole object of his own aggrandisement in view, employ upon all things round him the mastery of superior intellect. He asked himself this; and with that thought, there might come up before his mind the thought of love likewise, the thought of passions, which have so frequently gone hand in hand with ambition, and of gratifications to be obtained by the obtainment of power.

As he thought, he paused, casting down his eyes, and they accidentally fell upon the sort of half clerical garments that he wore. He gazed for a moment at his own dress, and then he murmured to himself, with a meaning smile, "Thank Heaven! I have taken no vows but such as can be thrown off as easily as this garment."