Henry of Guise (Historical Novel). G. P. R. James

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СКАЧАТЬ the colour did not return into his cheek.

      Marie, on her part, was anxious and agitated; she spoke low, for she feared that her voice might tremble if she used a louder tone. Her eye fell beneath that of her lover, and the colour came and went in her cheek like light quivering on the wings of a bird; and yet she was the first to propose that they should go forth together.

      "Your brother is absent," she said, "and I understand sent up some time ago, while I was asleep, to ask if I would go out to see some game taken in the nets. Would it please you to go and join him?"

      "Much," replied the young nobleman. "He is not far; I know where the nets were to be laid."

      "Then we will walk thither," she said: "I fear I shall be afraid of horses for many a long day. Madame de Saulny, you will come with us, will you not?"

      But Madame de Saulny declined; and Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut went forth, followed by two of her maids, and some other attendants, at a respectful distance. The hearts of both beat even painfully; and for some steps from the castle gates they proceeded in silence, till at length she inquired how he had found the friend he went to visit. The young nobleman replied that he feared he was dying; and, after a few words more on that subject, the conversation again dropped.

      At length, as they descended the side of the hill, Charles of Montsoreau lifted his eyes to the face of his fair companion, saying in a low tone, "I told you this morning, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, that I should ask a few minutes' audience of you. Let me offer you my arm--nay, be not agitated, I have nothing to say which should move you. I have to apologise, as I told you, for some parts of my conduct yesterday, and to ask you to forgive me."

      "Oh, I told you," she replied, "and I tell you again, that there is nothing to apologise for, nothing that I have to forgive; every thing that I have to be grateful for, every thing that will make me thankful to you through my whole life."

      "Would that I could believe it were so!" replied Charles of Montsoreau. "But I remember that in the first agony of thinking you lost for ever, of thinking that bright spirit gone, that gentle heart cold, that beautiful form inanimate for ever, I gave way to transports of grief and sorrow, I spoke words, I used actions, that I neither would have dared to speak or use towards you, if I had known that you were then living and conscious. And yet I am sure, quite sure, that you knew, and saw, and heard those words and actions; and I fear that they may have offended you."

      "Oh no, no, indeed!" replied Marie de Clairvaut, with her eyes bent down, her hand trembling upon his arm, and the colour glowing bright in her cheek--"Oh no, no, indeed! I did see, I did hear; but----"

      In the course of that bright and beautiful thing called Love, very often between two beings in every respect worthy of each other there comes a moment when the very slightest touch of that pardonable hypocrisy in woman, which, from a combination of many bright and beautiful feelings, teaches her in some degree to veil or hide the passion of her heart--when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy, I say, at a moment when it should be all cast away together, and the bosom of love laid bare to the eye of love--when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy seals the misery of both for ever.

      It was such a moment then with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. She knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not know it; but she knew herself beloved, and might well have acknowledged her love in return. Had she done so, had she acknowledged that her own feelings towards him had rendered the caresses which he bestowed upon what he thought her dead form easily pardonable, the passionate grief for her death deeply touching to her heart--had she done this, their course might have gone on in brightness. But she knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not know it; and the first impulse was to give way to woman's habitual hypocrisy, to cast a veil over the true feelings of her heart, and to hide the timid love of her bosom till it was drawn forth by him.

      "Oh no, no, indeed!" she said; "I did see, I did hear; but--I thought it was but natural grief for one under your charge and protection that you thought lost in so terrible a manner----"

      She hesitated to go on; she feared that she spoke coldly; and she thought of adding some word or two more which might take from the chilliness of such an answer, and let her real feelings more truly appear. Before she could collect herself to do so, however, Charles of Montsoreau answered, with a deep sigh, "You thought it was but natural, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; you thought it was but natural; and so, indeed----"

      But as he spoke, his brother turned the angle of the little wood through which they were proceeding down the hill, and came towards them, followed by several of the huntsmen. There was a frown upon his brow, a fire in his dark eye, which Charles of Montsoreau saw and understood full well. But he met his brother calmly and steadfastly--with deep and bitter grief in his heart, it is true, but with grief which he had power over himself to conceal.

      The angry feelings of the heart of Gaspar de Montsoreau were not so easily repressed, and he spoke in a tone and manner well calculated to produce angry words between himself and his brother.

      "Why, how now, Charles!" he exclaimed; "are you back so soon? Where is the Abbé? Montsoreau seems to possess greater attractions for you than Morly."

      "Of course," replied Charles of Montsoreau, calmly; "but even if it did not, I should have returned in haste. The Abbé I left behind at Morly, as he has no other occupation here."

      "And you have pleasant occupation," rejoined his brother, with a tone in which assumed courtesy but covered ill the intended sneer--"and you have pleasant occupation as squire to this fairest of all fair ladies."

      "It is, indeed, so sweet to attend upon her," replied Charles, "that I grieve I must lose the task so soon. In consideration of various circumstances, my dear Gaspar, I find that it will be absolutely necessary for me to proceed to Logères immediately. I have lingered too long here already. My people will think that I neglect them; and I have determined to set off by dawn to-morrow morning."

      The first expression that came upon the countenance of Gaspar de Montsoreau was undoubtedly that of satisfaction; but, with the pause of a single instant, better feelings sprang up, and he grasped his brother's hand with a look of real anxiety, exclaiming, "Good God, Charles, at this season of the year! In this disturbed state of the country! Remember, Logères is more than a hundred and fifty leagues distant!"

      "If this fair lady undertook as long a journey," replied Charles of Montsoreau with a melancholy smile, "in still severer weather, merely for the sake of doing what she thought was right, should I hesitate, Gaspar? Fie; she will think us all a household of priests and friars, who go not forth but when the sun shines, and think an easterly wind excuse sufficient for not visiting the neighbouring village. I will not diminish your garrison, either, very much, my dear brother. You must give me Gondrin with me, as he comes originally from Logères; but, besides him, I shall only take my own ordinary attendants, and I will find means to fight my way through, depend upon it."

      Gaspar de Montsoreau was easily reconciled to this arrangement. He still raised some objections, indeed; but, when he looked at Marie de Clairvaut, those objections became more and more faint in their tone, and he could scarcely refrain from a gaiety so different from the gloom of the morning, as to mark painfully how little he wished for his brother's stay. Marie de Clairvaut returned to the château in sadness and grief. She knew not, indeed, to the full extent, how much the departure of Charles of Montsoreau was attributable to her own words; but she felt that it was so, in some degree. She blamed herself more bitterly than she even deserved; and, hastening to her own room, she locked the door, and wept long and bitterly.

      After some time, she was visited by Madame de Saulny, who pressed so eagerly for admittance, that she could not refuse her. Tears were still in her eyes, and traces of СКАЧАТЬ