“Mechant!” cried her ladyship, tapping him playfully with her fan. “You know perfectly well I had nothing to do with it. I won’t forgive you, unless you dance the gavotte with me.”
Professing that nothing would delight him so much, the count led her to the ball-room.
Next day there was a stag-hunt, as usual, in the Great Park. Many a noble gallant rode forth with the Duke of York; but not one could compare, in richness of apparel or distinction of appearance, with Buckingham or Bellegarde, both of whom joined the hunting-party.
It would have been difficult to say which of the two was the most splendidly equipped, or the best mounted. They formed the most conspicuous figures among the crowd of huntsmen collected that morning on Cranbourne Chase, dotted with old oaks and thorns, lying to the right of the Long Walk, which had then only been recently planted by Charles.
No court dames graced the party with their presence. They were all out hawking with the king and the Duchess of Portsmouth in the Home Park.
Pleasant it was to watch the cavalcade as it proceeded at a slow pace with the hounds, which were held in leash, to a covert on the further side of the plain.
Here a noble hart was quickly unharbored. Horns were blown, hounds unslipped, and, amid joyous outcries, the chase commenced.
“Hyke, Ringwood! — hyke, Rupert!” shouted the Duke of York, cheering on the pack as the hart flew swiftly across the plain, in the direction of a thicket on the heights about two miles off, and known as Hawk’s Hill Wood.
Once within the thicket, the hart was safe for a short time; but being at last driven out, he dashed down a long, sweeping glade, bordered on either side by magnificent trees.
Nothing could be more animating than the chase at this moment. The stag was in full view — the hounds were speeding after him, making the woods ring with their melody — and the whole splendid cavalcade was galloping on at the top of their speed.
At the head of the group rode the Duke of York; and close behind him came Buckingham and Bellegarde, both looking as full of excitement as the prince himself.
But the hart ran very fleetly, and soon began to outstrip his pursuers. At first, they thought he was making for the Great Lake, which lay amid the woods on the right, and in the immediate neighborhood of which the ground was marshy and extremely dangerous; but, fortunately, he turned off in a different direction, and led them into a more open part of the forest.
Here the country was beautifully undulating — rising into gentle knolls crowned with trees, or dipping into dells, and everywhere offering charming sylvan prospects; but the huntsmen, as may be supposed, thought only of the stag; and as long as they kept him in view, cared for little else.
They had ridden on in this way for two or three miles, and were close upon the confines of Ascot Heath, whither it seemed certain that the hart would take them, when the Duke of Buckingham’s charger fell suddenly lame, and prevented him from going on with the hunt.
Bellegarde had no time to express his regret at the accident; but he cast a look of concern at the duke, as he galloped off with the others.
Buckingham found, on examination, that his horse had sprained a sinew; but hoping to reach the castle before the poor animal became dead lame, he rode him slowly on.
Naturally, he took the shortest route; and as more than a mile would be saved by passing through the woods that surrounded the Great Lake, he plunged into them, being tolerably well acquainted with their intricacies.
It has already been stated that, in the immediate vicinity of the lake, there was a dangerous swamp. On issuing from the thicket, the duke came upon this marsh, which did not betray itself in appearance from the solid ground.
No sooner did the unfortunate animal set foot upon the treacherous surface than he was engulfed, and, while floundering about, sank deeper and deeper.
With great difficulty, the duke extricated himself from his perilous position, but he could not save his horse. In a few minutes, the doomed animal, which continued to struggle violently to the last, disappeared altogether.
CHAPTER II
IN WHAT MANNER BUCKINGHAM ENCOUNTERED CLAUDE DUVAL
Buckingham was standing on the bank of the lake, rooted to the spot, in a kind of stupor, when he heard sounds in the wood that convinced him that horsemen were at hand, and, naturally concluding they must belong to the chase, he called out loudly.
His cry evoked a person who astonished him as much as if the wild huntsman, who once haunted the shores of that gloomy mere, had suddenly appeared before him on his sable steed, and attended by his swart hounds.
A masked horseman, wrapped in a long, black cloak, burst from the wood, and drew up at a little distance from him. The duke knew at once that it must be Claude Duval.
The redoubted robber was not alone, but was attended only by a stripling, who was masked like himself, and equally well mounted. The figure of this youth, well-defined in a picturesque green velvet riding-dress, was of almost feminine slightness and symmetry.
The graceful squire kept close behind his master.
Removing his feathered hat, Duval courteously saluted the duke. Buckingham haughtily returned the salutation.
“The devil, whom you serve, and who has lent you a helping hand, by first laming my horse, and then stifling him in this cursed quagmire, must have brought you hither!” he cried; “you could not otherwise have discovered me.”
“Pardon me,” rejoined Duval, with the marked and peculiar Gascon accent by which his speech was ever characterized; “I did not derive my information from the source you suppose. I am really concerned to find your grace in this unpleasant predicament, because you may think I am taking an unfair advantage of you.”
“No matter what I think,” said Buckingham. “You are armed, and on horseback; I am on foot, and without pistols; so there is nothing for it but submission on my part.”
“I am glad to find your grace so complaisant,” replied Duval; “I was rather apprehensive, from some remarks that have been repeated to me, that I might have been obliged to—”
“No more,” interrupted the duke, impatiently. “Here is my purse.”
“Well filled, I hope?”
“It ought to contain two hundred pistoles, which I won last night at piquet from the Count de Bellegarde. If the amount is not exact, you must blame the count, not me.”
“The Count de Bellegarde is a man of honor,” said Duval. ““a paltry sum, but the amount is immaterial. What is important, is the fame that will accrue to me from this encounter with your grace.”
At a sign from his master, the youthful squire then rode up, and, with a graceful bow, took the purse from the duke.
“By my faith, a pretty page!” exclaimed Buckingham, struck by the youth’s manner.
“I had counted upon the pleasure of hearing your grace’s celebrated ballad,” observed Duval; “but, under the circumstances, I will not press you to sing it. However, you will now be able to add the final couplet.”
“The laugh is decidedly against me,” said the duke. “But you ought to give me my revenge.”
“Pardieu! I am quite ready to do so — in any way your grace may desire,” rejoined Duval.
“Accord me another meeting.”
“Your grace does me infinite honor. I shall be charmed.”
“Do not misunderstand me. This must be a hostile meeting. I shall come to it armed.”
“Tant mieux. “not my fault that you are unarmed at the present moment. If perfectly agreeable to your grace, we will meet, three nights hence, at midnight, on Cranbourne Chase. Your grace shall be at liberty to bring a parrain with you — say Mr. Talbot Harland. I will only bring with me my faithful squire, Leon. But I engage — foi de Duval! — that he shall offer no interference whatever. You hear, Léon?”
The youthful squire bowed assent.
“I agree!” cried Buckingham. “On the third night hence — at midnight — I shall look for you on Cranbourne Chase. I will bring with me Mr. Talbot Harla
nd, and will bind him to secrecy.”
“I have one condition to make,” said Duval.
“Name it,” rejoined the duke.
“If I fall, you will not remove my mask.”
“I will not — I swear it!” cried Buckingham.
Here Leon made a movement towards his master; but Duval motioned him back.
“Your grace will aid the poor boy to carry off my body?” he cried.
“Rest easy: your wish shall be fulfilled,” rejoined Buckingham. “What is more, I promise to defer the final couplet of my ballad till after the next meeting.”
“In that case, you may never have an opportunity of finishing it,” said Duval. “I have the honor to salute your grace.”
Next moment, Buckingham was left alone by the side of the lake.
CHAPTER III
LEON REMOKES HIS MASK
Claude Duval had reached the centre of the thicket, when his course being impeded by underwood, he came to a halt, and perceived that Léon was weeping.
Now that the squire’s mask was removed, it could be seen that the features it had hidden were those of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman.
We have already seen that charming face, under more than one aspect.
“In tears, mignonne!” exclaimed Duval. “Don’t dim those bright eyes. I thought you were laughing at the successful issue of my encounter with Buckingham.”
“I can only think of the hostile meeting you have appointed with him,” she replied. “I hope it may not prove fatal to you. I have a presentiment of ill.”
“Fatal! Ha! ha!” he cried. “Why, I have fought twenty duels, and mean to fight as many more. Buckingham will not harm me, mignonne. If you allow yourself to feel any uneasiness, it ought to be for him.”
“You don’t mean to kill him?” she cried, anxiously.
“Ma foi, non! But since he has provoked me to the combat, I shall give him cause to remember it. He shall not boast too loudly of his duel with Claude Duval.”
“All you say doesn’t cheer me,” she rejoined, sadly.
“What will happen to me if you fall?”
“You must find another lover, I suppose. But I don’t contemplate such a catastrophe.”
“You seemed to contemplate it just now.”
“Pshaw! that was nothing. One must mention such things.”
“You are never serious; but it is a serious matter to me. I wish you wouldn’t meet the duke.”
“I should deserve to forfeit your love if I complied with the request. I cannot retreat. After I have settled this little affair, we will go to Paris.”
“Oh, that will be delightful!” she exclaimed, brightening up at the idea. “But you have talked so often of taking me to Paris, that you must excuse me if I still doubt.”
“I will fulfil my promise now, little sceptic,” he cried. “To confess the truth, I am tired of my follies. There must be an end of them some time. I meant the encounter I have just had with Buckingham to be the last. But he has forced me into a duel, and I cannot avoid meeting him.”
“Why not? He knows you only as Claude Duval.”
“What matter? Claude Duval has his honor to maintain, as well as the Count de Bellegarde. Buckingham shall not come off with flying colors. The final couplet of his ballad shall be descriptive of his own defeat.”
“Heaven grant it may be so!” ejaculated Sabine, fervently.
“Courage, ma mie!” he exclaimed, in a voice calculated to banish her apprehensions. “All will be well, rely on it. You will soon see Paris, delicious St. Cloud, and superb Versailles. Meanwhile, let us pass the time merrily. Banish care. I will explain my plans to you as soon as I have definitely arranged them; but whatever I may do, you must not leave Windsor Castle till the evening of the duel.”
“Command, and I will obey,” she rejoined.
“I have no more orders to give just now. Neither must we linger here. Hist! there is some one among the trees. “Buckingham, I’ll be sworn. Let us haste to the forester’s hut, where I have left my steed, where I can change my attire and my peruke, and do all that is necessary for my re-appearance in my proper character. Adieu, mon ami Duval! Soyez le bienvenu, Monsieur le Comte de Bellegarde!”
And laughing gaily, he forced his way through the wood, followed by Sabine.
CHAPTER IV
BUCKINGHAM’S PURSE IS RESTORED BY BELLEGARDE
Having no alternative but to proceed to the castle on foot, and not choosing to trust himself to the marshy ground near the lake, Buckingham struck into the wood.
But ill luck seemed to attend him. He lost his way, and for more than an hour was involved in the thicket.
As he ascended the long glade leading to the summit of Sion Hill, he looked about in every direction for his companions of the chase, but could see nothing of them.
At length, the trampling of a horse caught his ears, and, turning at the sound, he perceived the Count de Bellegarde galloping towards him.
The count naturally expressed surprise to find the duke on foot, and on hearing what had happened, immediately dismounted, and offered his own horse to his grace. Buckingham, however, declined the obliging offer, and, soon afterwards, was accommodated with a horse by a huntsman who came up. His grace described the accident that had befallen him in the quagmire near the lake, but said nothing about his encounter with Claude Duval.
If any suspicions as to the possibility of the count having personated the gallant robber had crossed him, they were now entirely dispelled.
Bellegarde, by his own account, had seen the stag killed on Ascot Heath, and had hunted a second hart with the Duke of York, when, having had enough, or for some other reason, he quitted the chase.
“Where his highness has got to, heaven knows!” he cried. “But I think the hart he is now hunting will take him to Bagshot Heath — perhaps to Reading.”
“I thought you were never fatigued, count,” observed Buckingham.
“Rarely,” he replied. “Nor must your grace imagine I am fatigued now. But I have some preparations to make.”
“Preparations for what?” asked the duke, curiously.
“For my journey to Paris, I am going thither to-morrow.”
“Going to Paris to-morrow!” cried Buckingham, in surprise. “I need not say how sorry I shall be to lose you. Have you announced your departure to his majesty? I am sure he will be grieved.”
“I have said nothing about it as yet. In fact, it was only yesterday that I received an order from the Duke of Orleans, summoning me to St. Cloud. I am strongly inclined to disobey the mandate, but I dare not.”
“No; you must go,” cried Buckingham. “But come back soon, or the Duchess of Portsmouth will break her heart. During your exile from court she was inconsolable.”
“You flatter me. But I am not quite so necessary to my fair cousin’s happiness as your grace imagines. She will soon reconcile herself to my absence.”
The foregoing conversation occurred in the Long Walk, at that time bordered by double rows of young trees, planted by Charles, to whom we are indebted for the present magnificent avenue to the castle.
As the interlocutors approached the regal pile, they met the hawking party, with the king and the Duchess of Portsmouth at its head, returning from the Home Park.
His majesty halted, to talk to them; and noticing the sorry steed on which Buckingham was mounted, inquired whether any accident had happened to him in the chase.
The duke described how he had lost his charger in the marsh, near the lake, and Charles was expressing regret at the occurrence, when a singular smile on Bellegarde’s countenance caught his attention. He asked the count why he laughed.
“Not at the duke’s misfortune, your majesty may be quite sure,” replied Bellegarde. “I smile because his grace has omitted the best part of the story. I have been wondering whether he would relate it.”
“Ah! what is it?” said the king, to Buckingham.
“Faith, sire, I have not the least idea,” r
ejoined the duke, evasively.
“Then I must tell it myself,” observed Bellegarde. “If any of the details are incorrect, his grace will set me right.”
These preliminary observations caused Dorinda Neville and several other fair equestrians to press forward; and a little circle was formed round the count, everybody being curious to hear his narration.
“I had quitted the chase at Ascot Heath,” commenced Bellegarde, in the lively manner that peculiarly belonged to him; “and had just entered the wood that bounds the Great Park, when I observed two persons galloping along a glade.
“I ought to mention that I was alone at the time. Thinking the persons I beheld were hastening to join the chase, I halloed to them, and they instantly stopped. I then saw the mistake I had committed. Both were masked.”
“Oddsfish! I’ll wager this is another story of Claude Duval!” exclaimed the king.
“Both were masked, as I have said,” pursued Bellegarde; “and this circumstance roused my suspicions — or, rather, I should say, convinced me that one of them was the audacious rascal whom your majesty has just mentioned. He was as finely dressed as any of your train, and attended by a youthful squire.
“Well, they both rode towards me. Not expecting such an encounter in the park, and being unarmed, while I remarked that Duval had pistols in his holsters, my first impulse was to gallop off; but having very little to lose, I remained stationary.
“As Duval came up, he bowed very politely, and, of course, I returned the salute. “jour, Monsieur Duval, “I cried. “am rather surprised to see you here in his majesty’s park in broad daylight.’
““don’t know why you should express surprise at seeing me, Monsieur le Comte,’ he rejoined. “are aware of my intention to rob his Grace of Buckingham. I have waited for an opportunity, and it has at last presented itself. Only a few minutes since I succeeded in my design.’
““I exclaimed, in amazement. “Have you really dared to rob the duke?’— ‘My master has just taken this from him,’ said the squire, exhibiting a purse to my view. “did his grace offer no resistance?’ I asked. “had him at a disadvantage,’ replied Duval. “was unhorsed, and without arms.”’
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 611
