One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre. G. P. R. James
Beatrice, in the same tone of mingled pride and gaiety--"no one, surely, my lord, except the King of that kingdom, or the poor frightened girl herself."
"Come, come, fair lady," cried Mayenne, laughing; "you carry your jest so far, that I will bid you take care what you say farther, lest I should dispose of your hand for you, too, for the purpose of showing you--to use your own figure--that I have more baits than one to my rat-trap."
"Indeed, lord Duke, you count wrongly, if you reckon that I am one," replied Beatrice. "You know too well that the task would neither be a very safe nor very easy one, to try to wed me to any one against my will. You may be lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and I, for one--being not of this kingdom, and thinking much better of you than of the crowned Vice at St. Cloud--will not deny your right; but you are not lieutenant-general of Beatrice of Ferrara; and you might find it more difficult to govern her than half the realm of France; and so, good morrow! Love me, Eugenie; and do not let these men persuade you that they are half such powerful and terrible things as they would make themselves appear. Fare you well!"
Each of the gentlemen in the prince's suite stepped forward to offer his hand to the gay, proud beauty, whose tone of light defiance had something in it more attractive to the general youth of those excited times, than all the retiring graces and gentle modesty of Eugenie de Menancourt. Beatrice scarcely noticed them while her friend took leave of her, but as soon as the embrace was over, she ran her eye over the three or four cavaliers who stood round, and, singling out one, gave him her hand, saying, "My lord of Aumale, I believe you are the only one here present, except my lord Duke, who never whispered that you loved me; and therefore I doubt not that you do love me enough to--hand me to my carriage."
The young noble, to whom she addressed herself, answered with all those professions which the formal gallantry of the day not only permitted, but required, and led her down to the rudely formed, but richly decorated, vehicle, which was the carriage of those days.
In the meanwhile, Eugenie de Menancourt remained waiting in some suspense, to hear the real object of the visit paid her by the Duke of Mayenne, the purport of which she could not conceive was merely to inquire after her health. Whether, however, the great leader of the League judged that his conversation with Beatrice of Ferrara was not the most favourable prelude to anything he had to say to the young heiress, or whether he really came but to trifle away a few minutes in a visit of ceremony, it is certain that he said nothing which could induce Eugenie to imagine that he had any immediate view of pressing her to a marriage with any one. After spending about ten minutes in ordinary conversation, upon general and uninteresting subjects, and expressing many a wish for the comfort and welfare of his fair ward, as he did not fail to style Mademoiselle de Menancourt, Mayenne rose, and left her to the enjoyment of solitude and her own reflections, which, for the time, were sweetened by the hope, that the evils to which her situation might ultimately give rise were yet remote.
CHAPTER VIII.
The carriage which contained Beatrice of Ferrara rolled on with slow and measured pace through the narrow and tortuous streets of old Paris, till at length, as it was performing the difficult man[oe]uvre of turning a sharp angle, it was encountered by a small party of horsemen, in the simple garments of peace, which, at that warlike period, was a less common occurrence than to see every one who could bear them clad in grim arms. The right of staring into carriages, when the velvet curtains were withdrawn, was already established in Paris; and it needed but a brief glance to make the principal cavalier of the group draw in his bridle rein, beckon the coachman to stop, and, springing to the ground, approach the portiere of the vehicle wherein Beatrice was placed. As usual in those days, she was not alone; but, while a number of lackeys graced the outside of her carriage, two or three female attendants were seated in the interior of the machine, leaving still a space within its ample bulk for many another, had it been necessary. More than one pair of eyes were thus upon her; and yet Beatrice, though brought up in a court--where feelings themselves were nearly reckoned contraband, and all expression of them prohibited altogether--could not repress the very evident signs of agitation which the approach of that cavalier occasioned. Her cheek reddened, her breathing became short, and she sank back upon the embroidered cushions of the carriage, as if she would fain have avoided the meeting. The agitation lasted but a moment, however; and as soon as he spoke, she was herself again: perhaps gaining courage from seeing that his own cheek was flushed, and that his own voice trembled as he addressed her.
"A thousand, thousand pardons, lady!" he said, standing bareheaded by the door, "for stopping your carriage in the streets; but these unfortunate wars have rendered it so long since we have met, that most anxious am I----!"
"My lord Count d'Aubin," replied Beatrice, raising her head proudly, "the time of your absence from Paris has not seemed to me so long as to make me rejoice that it is at an end!"
"I have no right to expect another answer," replied D'Aubin, in a low voice; "and yet, Beatrice, perhaps I could say something in my own defence."
"Which I should be most unwilling to hear," replied the lady, coldly. "I doubt not, sir Count, that you can say much in your own defence: I never yet knew man that could not, but a plain idiot, or one born dumb. But what is your defence to me? I am neither your judge nor your accuser. If your own heart charges you with ambition, or avarice, or falsehood, plead your cause with it, and, doubtless, you will meet with a most lenient judge. Will you bid the coachman drive on, sir? this is a foolish interruption, and a narrow street."
"Oh, Beatrice!" exclaimed the Count d'Aubin, piqued by her coldness, "at least delay one moment, till you tell me you are well and happy: I have just heard that you have been ill--very ill."
"I have, sir," she replied; "I caught the fever that was prevalent here; but I am well again, as you see, and should be perfectly happy, if I did not hear King Henry's artillery above once a week, and if people would not stop my carriage in the streets."
"And is that all you will say to me, Beatrice?" asked the Count, in the same low tone which he had hitherto used--"is that all you will say, after all that has passed?"
"I know nothing, sir, that has passed between us," replied Beatrice aloud, "except that once or twice, in a fit of wine or folly, you vowed that you loved Beatrice of Ferrara better than life, or wealth, or rank, or station; and that she received those vows as she has done a thousand others, from a thousand brighter persons than Philip Count d'Aubin, namely, as idle words, which foolish men will speak to foolish women, for want of better wit and more pleasant conversation; as words which you had probably spoken to a hundred others, before you spoke them to me, and which you will yet, in all probability, speak to a hundred more, who will believe them just as much as I did, and forget them quite as soon. Once more, sir, then, will you order the coachman to drive on, or let me do so, and retire from the wheel, lest it strike you, and the Catholic League lose a valiant convert by an ignoble death?"
"Nay, there at least you do me wrong!" replied the Count d'Aubin: "the Catholic League has no convert in me; I am here, under a safe conduct, on matters of no slight importance to my good cousin St. Real: but to his Majesty will I adhere, so long as he and I both live!"
"Indeed!" cried Beatrice, with a light laugh. "Is there anything in which the fickle Count d'Aubin will not be fickle? Nay, nay, make no rash vows; remember, you have not yet heard all the golden arguments which his Highness, the lieutenant-general of the kingdom and the League can hold out. Suppose he offer you the hand of some rich heiress; could you resist, sir Count? could you resist?"
D'Aubin coloured, perhaps because Beatrice had gone deeper into the secrets of his inmost thoughts than he felt agreeable. He answered, however, boldly, "I could resist anything against my honour."
"Honour!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a scoff: "honour! Marguerite, tell the coachman to drive on. Honour!"
D'Aubin drew back, with an air at once of pain and anger, made a silent sign to the coachman to proceed, and, springing on his horse, galloped down the street, followed by his attendants, at a pace which risked their own necks upon the unequal causeway of the town, and which certainly showed but little consideration for the safety of the passengers. The emotions