CHAPTER VII.
The observation may seem trite, that to every period of life is assignedby the Almighty and Munificent Being, who at our creation adapted toeach part of our material form the functions that it was to execute andthe labours it was to sustain, either peculiar powers of endurance orcounterbalancing feelings, which render the inevitable cares and sorrowsapportioned to every epoch of our being lighter and more easy to beborne. The woes of childhood are, in themselves, speedily forgotten. Thepains are soon succeeded by pleasures, and care, gnawing care, the rackof after-life, is then unknown. Boyhood, eager, enthusiastic, hopefulboyhood, the age of acquisition and expectation, though it may know fromtime to time a bitter pang, scarcely less in its degree than those thatafflict mature life, has so many compensating enjoyments, its ownsunshine is so bright, the light that shines upon it from the future isso dazzling, that the griefs serve but as a preparation and a warning,too little remembered when once they are past. Old age, with its decay,with the extinction of earthly hopes, with the prospect of the tomb, hasalso dulled sensibilities that allow us not to feel many of the morepainful things of early years. The blunted edge of appetite may not giveso keen a zest to pleasure; but the apathy which accompanies it extendsto griefs as well as joys, and, if wisely used, is one of the bestpreparations for a resignation of that state of being which we havetried in the balance of experience and have found wanting; wanting inall that can satisfy a high and ethereal spirit; wanting in all thingsbut its grand purpose of trial for a life to come. But, besides allthis, unto that period of old age, thus prepared and admonished foranother state, God himself has also given comfort and consolation, apromise and a hope: a promise brighter than all the promises of youth, ahope brighter than all those that have withered away upon our path oflife.
There is still another age, however; an age the most perilous, often themost full of pains; an age when the eager aspirations of youth reach outthe hand towards fruition; when the great truths of disappointment breakupon us; when we first learn the bitter lesson that hope has told usidle tales, that fortune is of fickle favour, that friendships are toooften false, that our own hearts do ourselves wrong, that enjoymentitself is often a vanity and often a vision, that we must suffer, andgrieve, and repent in the midst of a world which, shortly before, wefancied was composed of nothing but brightness, and beauty, andhappiness. I speak of the time of life when we first put on manhood, andmeet all its sorrows at the moment when we expect nothing but its joys.For that period, too, there is a bright compensation given, there is asustaining principle implanted in our breast, common to the highest andthe lowest, the savage and the civilized; a principle that furnishes abalm for many wounds, that surrounds us with an atmosphere ofconsolation, hope, and joy, and enables us to live on in one splendiddream, even in the midst of hard and dark realities.
That principle is love; and that principle was warm and strong in thebosom of Bernard de Rohan, as, on the day after that in which theconversations we have mentioned in our last chapter took place, hestood, a few minutes before the setting of the sun, under a group oftall fir-trees that had pitched themselves upon a pinnacle of the rock,about ten yards distant from the farther angle of the garden attached tothe chateau of Masseran. The trees grew very close together; and, whatbetween scanty soil and the mountain winds, their large trunks hadcontorted themselves into manifold strange shapes. From this group twoor three rows of the same kind of firs ran down the side of the hillinto the valley. One would have supposed that they were the remains ofsome old avenue had the lines been but a little more regular.
The shadow of those trees completely concealed any one who stood beneaththem, and the eyes must have been very near that could have perceivedBernard de Rohan as he leaned against one of them, gazing upon aparticular part of the garden wall immediately under one of the smallwatch-turrets. He thus waited some time, with an eagerness ofexpectation, it is true, which in no other situation or circumstance hadhe ever known before; but, at the same time, with sweet thoughts, andhopes, and happy memories, which cheered the moments, and made even theimpatience that he felt appear like some of those drinks which man hasinvented to satisfy his thirst, and which are at once pungent andgrateful to the taste. He had waited some time, we have said, when atlength, as a distant snowy peak began to change its hue and turn rosywith the rays of the setting sun, the small postern door on which hiseyes were fixed was seen to move upon its hinges, and then stood ajar.Bernard de Rohan sprang forward, passed the small open space in amoment, and, pushing back the door more fully, stood within the gardenof the castle of Masseran.
Scarce a step from the gate, with her hand pressed upon her heart, as ifto stop the palpitation of fear and agitation, stood a lady, perhaps oftwenty years of age. She was certainly not more; and her beauty, likethe morning sun, seemed to have the promise of a long, bright racebefore it. She was very graceful and very beautiful. The whole formseemed to breathe of a bright and high spirit; but even had it not beenthat her person so perfectly harmonized with her mind, and was, infact--as nature probably intended should be the case--an earthly type ofthe soul within, yet Bernard de Rohan would still have loved her asdeeply, as tenderly as he did, for he knew that spirit to be bright andbeautiful; he knew the heart to be tender, and devoted, andaffectionate; he knew the mind to be pure and high, and fixed in all itspurposes of right.
He had been brought up with her from youth; her father had been hisguardian, and a parent to him when his own parents were no more. She hadfancied herself a sister to him till the hearts of both told them it washappy she was not so. No disappointments had ever befallen them in thecourse of their affection; no obstacles had been thrown in their waytill that time; and yet, though neither opposed, nor troubled, nordisappointed, they loved each other with true and constant hearts, andfeared not the result of any hour of trial.
She was very beautiful, certainly. It was not alone that all thefeatures of her face were fine, but it was also that the form of theface itself was beautiful, and the way that the head was placed upon theneck, and the neck rose from the shoulders, all gave a peculiarity ofexpression, a grace, which is only to be compared to that of someancient statue from a master's hand. The eyes, too, were very, verylovely, deep blue, and full of liquid light; with dark black eyelashesthat curtained them like a dark cloud fringing the edge of the westernsky, but leaving a space for the bright light of evening to gush throughupon the world. Her complexion was a clear, warm brown; but now, as shestood, there was something, either in the agitation of the moment or inthe cold light of the hour, which made her look as pale as marble.
She was pressing her hand upon her heart, and leaning slightly forward,with an eager look towards the door, as if prepared to fly should anyone appear whom she did not expect. The instant she saw Bernard deRohan, however, her whole face was lighted up with a glad smile, and shesprang forward to meet him with the unchecked joy of pure and highaffection. They were in a moment in each other's arms.
"My Isabel! my beloved!" he said. "I thought that this man haddetermined to shut me out from beholding you again."
"And so he would," replied the lady. "So he would if he had the power.But oh! Bernard, I fear him--I fear him in every way: I fear him on myown account, I fear him on yours."
"Oh! fear not, fear not, Isabel," replied Bernard de Rohan. "He can butbring evil upon his own head if he attempts to wrong either you or me.Already has he placed himself in danger. But tell me, my beloved, tellme, is he really absent from the castle, or was it but a pretence toavoid seeing me when I came yesterday?"
"No, he is absent," replied Isabel de Brienne. "In that, at least, thereis no deception, for I saw him ride out with but a few horses yesterdaytowards midday. He took the small covered way by the back of the castleand by the other side of the gardens. I saw him from the window of mychamber in the keep, and I do not believe that he has since returned."
"It must have been to avoid me," said Bernard de Rohan, thoughtfully;"and yet, how could he know that I was he
re? Did he ever hint at suchknowledge, my Isabel?"
"Not to me," she answered; "but I have scarcely seen him since thatterrible night. I have been in my mother's sick chamber, to which hiscruelty and brutality have brought her. Nor would he ever, even if I hadseen him, nor would he ever mention your name to me. He would fain haveme forget it, Bernard; but on that score I have much to tell you too."
"I know that I judge your heart right, dear Isabel," replied Bernard deRohan, "when I say he would find it hard to make you forget that name;and yet I have had warnings within the last two days of many a dark andevil scheme, it would seem, against your peace and mine. A vague hinthas been given me that one whom I know to be brave, and whom the worldholds to be honest; one who was once my particular friend, and mycomrade in many a day of difficulty, and strife, and peril; one who, Iknow, must be well aware, from many things that I have casually said inthoughtless freedom of heart, that you and I are linked together bypromises that can never be broken, has been labouring hard to supplantme in your affection. Yet I will not believe them, Isabel; I will notbelieve, in the first place, that you would hear one word on such ascore from any man. Neither will I believe--though he has certainlylingered strangely away from the army; though he has changed, I may say,marvellously, and from a gay, rash, thoughtless youth, become acautious, calculating, somewhat impenetrable man--I will not believethat Adrian de Meyrand would do me wrong. No, no, I will trust himstill."
"Trust him not, Bernard! trust him not!" replied Isabel. "Trust him not,Bernard! I, at least, know what he is. You say that your Isabel," shecontinued, gazing on him tenderly, "would not hear one word of lovespoken by any other lips than your own. You do her right, dear Bernard.She would not, if she could help it; and even when against her will,against remonstrance and anger, she has been forced to hear such words,she has scarce forgiven herself for what she could not avoid, and hasreproached herself for that which was forced upon her. Do you, too,reproach her, Bernard?"
"Oh no," he replied, holding her to his heart, and gazing into the purebright eyes, which seemed, as they were, deep wells of innocence andtruth. "Oh no, dear Isabel; what was done unwillingly needs no reproach:but how was this? Tell me all! De Meyrand, then, has wronged me?"
"If he knew of your love for me, he has," replied Isabel de Brienne;"but promise me, Bernard, that no rash or hasty act will make me regrethaving spoken to you openly, and I will tell you all."
"None shall, my Isabel," replied her lover. "It is only dangerousrivals, or insolent ones, that require the sword of a brave man. DeMeyrand is not the one, and probably may never be the other. Speak, dearone! I must hear all."
"Well, then," she answered, "before we quitted the court, I remarkedthat this Count of Meyrand paid me assiduous court; and though certainlyhe was very attentive also to my mother and her new husband, still Iavoided him, for there was something in his look and his manner that didnot please me. I remarked, however, that many of the nobles of thecourt--nay, even the king himself--seemed so to smooth the way andremove all obstacles, that he was frequently near me. One day hefollowed me through the crowded halls of the Louvre by my mother's side,and, when I could not avoid him, poured into my ears a tale of lovewhich I speedily cut short. I told him at once that my heart was givenand my hand plighted to another; and I besought my mother to confirmwhat I said, and stop all farther importunity. He had fascinated her,Bernard; and though she did what I requested, it was but coldly. He leftme for the time; but the very next day, while I was alone in my mother'schamber, he came in and pursued the same theme. Then, Bernard, I fear Iacted ill. He aroused my anger. I was indignant that he should thuspersecute me after what I had said. I treated him with some scorn. Itold him cuttingly, in answer to a question which he should not haveasked, that, even were I not plighted in faith and bound by affection toanother, I should never have felt for him aught but cold indifference.He lost his temper at length, though it was long ere he would leave me;and as he did at length quit the room, I could hear something mutteredbetween his teeth which sounded very much like a menace. Since then Ihave only seen him three times. Once more at the court; but by that timemy brother had returned from Italy. He was with me, and the count didnot come near. I have twice seen him here, when I have been forced outby the Lord of Masseran upon the pretence of a hunting-party. He comesnot near the castle, however; and, when we did meet, he was distant andstately in his manner, but still there was something in his eyes thatmade me shudder."
"For the last two days he has been in the same small inn with myself,"replied Bernard de Rohan. "I will speak to him to-night, my Isabel,calmly and gently, I promise you; but he must learn to yield this suitif he still entertains it. Nay, look not grieved, dear one. I will keepmy promise faithfully, and forgive the past so he offend not in thefuture."
"I grieve and apprehend, dear Bernard," she replied, "but think not thatI would strive to stay you from any course that you yourself judgeright. I know you are moderate and just, and that you will not think, assome might do, that you prove your love for me by fiery haste to exposea life on which hangs all my hopes of happiness. Your honour is to mefar more than life; but oh, Bernard, judge but the more calmly, Ibeseech you, of what that honour requires, by thinking that not yourlife and happiness alone are the stake, but mine also. Having told youall truly, as I ever will through life, I must scarce venture a wordmore to persuade or dissuade; and yet I cannot think honour can callupon you even to speak angry or reproachful words, when this man himselfwas not told, by me at least, that it was his friend he was trying tosupplant."
Bernard de Rohan's brow was somewhat cloudy, though he smiled. "I fear,my Isabel," he said, "that he knew the fact too well. I can call many atime to my mind when I have dropped words concerning you which he couldnot mistake. However, I have said I will pass over all that is gone, andnow let us think of other brighter things."
"I know not," she replied, "I know not why, Bernard, but a dark shadowseems to overhang me, which prevents my thinking of brighter things.Within the last year, so much has happened to cause apprehension andanxiety, so much to give birth to pain and grief, that my spirit hassunk; and, whereas everything used to seem full of brightness and hope,all is now full of despondency."
"Cheer thee, cheer thee, Isabel," replied Bernard, adding those caressesthat cheer far more than words; "I will take thee from the midst of thesad things that must surround thee here. I know, dear Isabel, that thymother was often harsh and always cold, and, since I and your brotherhave left you, you have had no support or comfort under the pain whichher behaviour must have given."
"Oh, it was not her harshness nor her coldness, Bernard," replied IsabelBrienne; "I could have borne that easily; but when I recollected my dearfather--when I remembered all his high and noble qualities--hiskindness, his tenderness to her, and saw her again stand at the altar togive her hand to another so unlike him in everything, dark, treacherous,avaricious, and deceitful, it was then I first felt that I really wantedaid and consolation. It was then that I wanted help, I wanted protectionand support; and even at that time I would have written to you to cometo me with all speed if it had not been for some foolish feelings ofshame."
"They were indeed wrong, my Isabel," replied Bernard; "for surely,Isabel, with our faith plighted by your own father's will, with a long,dear intimacy from childhood until now, if you could not repose full,unhesitating trust and confidence in me, where, where could you placeit, Isabel?"
"I know it was foolish," she replied, "I know it was very foolish,Bernard; but yet, even now," and she looked down blushing upon theground, "but yet, even now, the same foolish hesitation makes me scrupleto tell you what I firmly believe is the best, nay, is the only plan bywhich we could hope to avoid the dangers that surround us."
"Nay, Isabel, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "after saying so much, youmust say more. You must tell me all, freely, candidly. The brightestpart of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitatingreliance, that interchange of every idea and every feel
ing, that perfectcommunity of all the heart's secrets and the mind's thoughts, whichbinds two beings together more closely, more dearly than the dearest ofhuman ties: more than the vow of passion or the oath of the altar. It isthat confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to earthlylove a permanence that we find but seldom in this world. Oh, Isabel, youmust not, indeed you must not, have even a thought that is not mine."
"Nor will I, Bernard," she replied, "nor will I; though I may blush tosay what I was going to say, I will not hesitate to say it. It is this,then, Bernard: You must take me hence without delay."
"Oh, how gladly," he cried, throwing his arms round her, and kissing theglowing cheek that rested on his shoulder; "oh, how gladly, Isabel! Iwaited but for the arrival of your brother to propose that step to youmyself. If this Lord of Masseran chooses to refuse me admission, Icannot force my way in, and you may be subject to every kind of griefand pain before I receive such authority from the king or from Brissacas will force him to give you up."
"That is not all, Bernard, that is not all," replied the lady. "This manis deceitful to all. Suppose but for a moment that, finding the King ofFrance obliged to withdraw his troops from Italy, as I hear has been thecase, he resolves to betray the trust that has been reposed in him, tosubmit himself again to the Duke of Savoy, to receive the troops of theemperor. Suppose, Bernard, he removes me and my mother beyond the limitsof Savoy, beyond the power of the king of our own country, beyond yourreach, Bernard, what would be the consequences then? I should be but amere slave in his hands. But listen to me still, dear Bernard; there ismore, more to be said; I have good reason to believe and know that allthese dangers are not merely imaginary, but that he is actually dealingwith the empire. I have seen couriers come and go, and heard themconverse long with him in the German tongue. I have seen officers whospoke neither French nor Italian surveying the castle, and consultingwith him over plans of other fortresses. Twice, also, when I havehesitated to ride forth with him, fearing dangers--I did not well knowwhat--my mother, who is already his complete slave, has held out vaguethreats to me of removing me to far-distant lands, where my obediencewould be more prompt and unhesitating. Now, even now, Bernard," shecontinued, "I believe that he is gone on some errand of this kind, andit would in no degree surprise me, ere three days are over, to see thisplace filled with German soldiers."
"Then, dear Isabel," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "we must lose no time.I wrote to your brother to meet me at Grenoble, and I have sent offmessengers to him there and at Paris. But we must not wait for hiscoming. Your father's written consent will justify us, and the king isalready aware that this man's faith and adherence to France is insecure.It would have been better, indeed, if your brother had been here, forthen he might, in the first place, have openly demanded you at the handsof this man."
"Oh no, no, Bernard," she replied; "I rejoice greatly that Henry is nothere. I feel a sort of terror at the idea of his falling into the handsof this Lord of Masseran. You know that Henry's death would place greatwealth at the disposal of my mother; and, though it is dreadful to say,yet I do fear there is no act at which this Italian would hesitate toobtain wealth or power, or any of the objects for which men strive onearth. I would not for the world that Henry should put himself into thehands of one so treacherous. If Henry be at Grenoble, we can fly to himat once, and be united there."
"Better, far better, dear Isabel," replied her lover, "that we should beunited before we go. There is a priest here who seems to have someregard for me, and who lingers still at the inn, I know not why. He willbe easily persuaded to unite our hands, as our hearts are alreadyunited, and then my right to protect and defend you will bear no denial.Let it be soon, too, my Isabel. Why not to-morrow night?"
She replied not for a moment or two. Not that she hesitated, not thatthere was a doubt in her own mind of what her answer must be; but yetshe paused, with her hand clasped in that of Bernard de Rohan, and hereyes hid upon his shoulder, while he went on to persuade her, thoughthere needed no persuasion.
"Consider, dear Isabel," he said, "the secret of this postern door isone that may be discovered at any time. He might return within a day. Ifwe were to meet often, our meeting might be discovered. What it isnecessary to do, it is necessary to do at once."
It need not be said that Bernard de Rohan's entreaties were successful.Isabel promised to be there at the same hour on the following night,prepared for flight; and Bernard de Rohan undertook to have the contractof their marriage drawn up by some neighbouring notary, and a priestready and willing to unite them.
"In four or five hours," he said, "we shall be within the pale ofFrance, and, as you saw the other night, we shall have plenty of willingguards thither, dear Isabel. Besides that wilder retinue, too, my owntrain is down at the hamlet; but, of course, I must bring few peoplewith me, for fear of attracting attention. Have you anybody in thecastle, dear Isabel, besides good Henriot, who can give you aid andassistance?"
"Oh yes," replied the lady; "there is the maid who conveyed to you thenote to-day. I can trust her."
"She seemed sullen or stupid," replied Bernard de Rohan: "I could notinduce her to utter more than one or two words, and those I did notdistinctly hear."
"She is very silent," replied Isabel, "but is not so dull as she looks.Give her but one thing to think of, and one object to attend to, and shewill execute what she is directed to do well enough; and perhaps it isall the better that she observes nothing which passes round her, and isso sparing of her words."
"Hush!" said Bernard de Rohan. "There is a light upon the terrace, nearthe castle, and some one seems coming hither. Adieu! dear Isabel, adieu!Though the evening is too dim for them to see us, it is better that Ishould leave you till to-morrow. But forget not, dear one; and oh! berather before than after the hour."
Thus saying, he pressed her to his bosom for a moment, and then passedthrough the postern door. He closed it not entirely, however, for somevague apprehension concerning the sweet girl he had just left behindcaused him to pause and listen, till he had assured himself that theperson whom he had seen approaching was no unfriendly one. In a fewminutes he heard another female voice saying distinctly to Isabel, "Yourlady mother, mademoiselle, desires that you would come and play to heron the lute."
"I come, I come, good Maddelene," replied the voice of Isabel deBrienne; and in the clear evening air Bernard de Rohan could hear thesound of receding footsteps.
Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2) Page 7
