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

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      CHAPTER VII.

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      The conduct which, as we have seen, was pursued by Charles of Montsoreau, had not been framed alone upon the supposition that his love for Marie de Clairvaut was without return. That belief, indeed, ultimately decided his determination; but a thousand other considerations had previously led him up to a point, where it wanted but one word to change the balance in either direction.

      He had set out that morning for Morly full of hope and joy. He was not, indeed, confident that he was beloved; but he was confident that Marie de Clairvaut herself saw his affection, and had done nothing to check it. From all that he knew of her himself--from all that he had heard of her--from the casual conversation of Madame de Saulny, he was very, very sure, that the conduct of Marie de Clairvaut would have been quite different, if she had not felt a sufficient degree of regard for him, to know that love might follow if he sought it. This was quite enough to give him hope and happiness. He had, indeed, remarked his brother's ill humour upon many occasions, and he had attributed it justly to the disappointment of a desire to engross all their fair guest's conversation; but he had not the slightest idea of the eager and fiery passions that were rising up in the breast of Gaspar of Montsoreau.

      When he mounted his horse, then, to visit the old Count de Morly--one who, though only distantly related to his family, had been his father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor--Charles of Montsoreau looked forward to his return in the evening, and to the audience he had craved of Marie de Clairvaut, with a heart full of joyful emotions, and with fear bearing a very small proportion to hope. There was much happiness in his whole air; but it was thoughtful happiness, and for two or three miles he rode on in silence.

      His companion, the Abbé de Boisguerin, was silent too, and thoughtful, and from time to time, as they rode along, he gazed upon his former pupil with a look of contemplative earnestness, a slight frown upon his calm, cold brow, and the thin nostril raised with something between triumph and scorn in the expression. He said not a single word till he saw that Charles of Montsoreau himself began to feel his own silence strange, and looked round as if about to commence some conversation. Then, however, the Abbé spoke.

      "If you are awake, Charles," he said, "I should wish some conference with you; if you are dreaming, dream on: Heaven forbid that I should disturb you, for your visions seem pleasant ones."

      "They were, dear friend," replied Charles, with a smile; "but I can give them up for a time, in the hopes of their being realised."

      "Visions are often realised," replied the Abbé.

      "Indeed!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you surely are jesting, my sage friend. I thought to hear you reprove such idle fancies, and tell me that visions, however specious, were seldom, if ever, realised."

      "No, far from it," replied the Abbé: "the visions of a strong, sensible, and reasoning mind like yours, Charles, are, on the contrary, very often realised; for they are seldom formed but upon some sufficient basis. But still I must have my lesson; and I will tell you, my dear Charles, that the visions which we have formed upon the best grounds, and which are consequently often realised in all their parts, are not unfrequently those productive of the utmost misery to ourselves, even when we thought them the most hopeful, the most happy. It is, Charles, that a thousand other things mingle with the realisation of our dreams, which in our dreams we dreamt not of, turning as with a fairy's wand the pure gold to dross, rendering the sweetness bitter, and changing wholesome food to poison. Look at that distant hill--the Peak of Geran--how soft, and blue, and smooth, and beautiful it looks, and yet you and I know that the small sharp stones with which it is covered will cut, till they bleed, the feet of the person who attempts to climb it. That soft blue mountain in the distance, Charles, is as the vision of an eager mind, and the rough impracticable stony side, as the realisation of the dream itself. I would always ask every one who indulges in a vision--Have you calculated beyond all question of doubt what may be the concomitant pangs, sorrows, and evils that even probably will accompany the realisation of that which you desire?--I would ask everyone this question, Charles; and I now ask you."

      "I should think, my dear friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "that it would be utterly impossible for any one to answer such a question in the affirmative. The very fallibility of our human nature would prevent our doing so with truth. Good and evil must, of course, be always mingled in this world; and all that we can do is to think calmly, and endeavour to judge rationally, of that which is the best for our ultimate happiness. We must prepare ourselves to take the consequences, be they what they may. If you ask me the question you have mentioned, I should at once reply--No, I have not calculated all even of the probable evils which might attend the realisation of the visions with which I was occupied, because my mind is not capable of discovering one half of the chances attending any future event."

      Charles spoke somewhat warmly; for there is always a degree of bitterness to the confident mind of youth in any words that tend to shadow the bright promises of hope, and to teach us by doctrine that which we can only learn by experience, the fallacy of expectations, the mingled nature of our best pleasures, the dust and ashes of human enjoyment. The Abbé gazed upon his face for a moment ere he replied; but then said, "I would put my question closer to you, Charles of Montsoreau, and I will put it seriously. Have you calculated all the self-evident evils that would attend the realisation of the visions which you were pondering?"

      "Why, my dear Abbé," replied Charles with a smile, "it would seem by your serious aspect, that to-day you had turned prophet as well as preacher, could divine my thoughts, and see their results."

      "I can divine your thoughts, Charles, and do," replied the Abbé; "and as it is a subject on which, however unwillingly, I must speak, I will tell you at once what these thoughts were. The results are in the hand of God, and in the hand of God alone. But I can and will show you some of the probable results."

      "Nay, then," replied Charles, seeing that the Abbé spoke quite seriously, "such being the case, my dear Abbé, I need not tell you, that if you speak to me with warning, as your words imply, I will listen to you with every sort of deference. Speak, I beg you, and speak freely. Though no longer your pupil in name, I will gladly be so in reality. So now let me hear entirely what you have to say."

      "Well, then, Charles," replied the Abbé, "what I have to say is this, and simply this. Your visions were of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You fancied that by the various services which you have rendered her you have obtained a strong hold upon her regard, a claim even upon her hand; that she showed a fondness for your society, a degree of affection for your person, which promised you fair in every respect; and, in fact, believing--and with some degree of justice--that you yourself love her deeply, you saw every prospect of that love being gratified by obtaining hers, and ultimately, perhaps, her hand. Now, Charles, was this, or was this not, the matter in your thoughts? was this the vision upon which your mind was bent? were not these the prospects which you contemplated just now?"

      "They were," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I do not deny it."

      "Well, СКАЧАТЬ