 

                                Sir Walter Scott

                                Quentin Durward

 La guerre est ma patrie,
 Mon harnois ma maison,
 Et en toute saison
 Combattre c'est ma vie.
 

                                  Introduction

The scene of this romance is laid in the fifteenth century, when the feudal
system, which had been the sinews and nerves of national defence, and the spirit
of chivalry, by which, as by a vivifying soul, that system was animated, began
to be innovated upon and abandoned by those grosser characters who centred their
sum of happiness in procuring the personal objects on which they had fixed their
own exclusive attachment. The same egotism had indeed displayed itself even in
more primitive ages; but it was now for the first time openly avowed as a
professed principle of action. The spirit of chivalry had in it this point of
excellence, that however overstrained and fantastic many of its doctrines may
appear to us, they were all founded on generosity and self-denial, of which if
the earth were deprived, it would be difficult to conceive the existence of
virtue among the human race.
    Among those who were the first to ridicule and abandon the self-denying
principles in which the young knight was instructed, and to which he was so
carefully trained up, Louis the XIth of France was the chief. That Sovereign was
of a character so purely selfish - so guiltless of entertaining any purpose
unconnected with his ambition, covetousness, and desire of selfish enjoyment,
that he almost seems an incarnation of the devil himself, permitted to do his
utmost to corrupt our ideas of honour in its very source. Nor is it to be
forgotten that Louis possessed to a great extent that caustic wit which can turn
into ridicule all that a man does for any other person's advantage but his own,
and was, therefore, peculiarly qualified to play the part of a cold-hearted and
sneering friend.
    In this point of view, Goethe's conception of the character and reasoning of
Mephistophiles, the tempting spirit in the singular play of Faust, appears to me
more happy than that which has been formed by Byron, and even than the Satan of
Milton. These last great authors have given to the Evil Principle something
which elevates and dignifies his wickedness; a sustained and unconquerable
resistance against Omnipotence itself - a lofty scorn of suffering compared with
submission, and all those points of attraction in the Author of Evil, which have
induced Burns and others to consider him as the Hero of the Paradise Lost. The
great German poet has, on the contrary, rendered his seducing spirit a being
who, otherwise totally unimpassioned, seems only to have existed for the purpose
of increasing, by his persuasions and temptations, the mass of moral evil, and
who calls forth by his seductions those slumbering passions which otherwise
might have allowed the human being who was the object of the Evil Spirit's
operations to pass the tenor of his life in tranquillity. For this purpose
Mephistophiles is, like Louis XI., endowed with an acute and depreciating spirit
of caustic wit, which is employed incessantly in undervaluing and vilifying all
actions, the consequences of which do not lead certainly and directly to
self-gratification.
    Even an author of works of mere amusement may be permitted to be serious for
a moment, in order to reprobate all policy, whether of a public or private
character, which rests its basis upon the principles of Machiavel, or the
practice of Louis XI.
    The cruelties, the perjuries, the suspicions of this prince, were rendered
more detestable, rather than amended, by the gross and debasing superstition
which he constantly practised. The devotion to the heavenly saints, of which he
made such a parade, was upon the miserable principle of some deputy in office,
who endeavours to hide or atone for the malversations of which he is conscious,
by liberal gifts to those whose duty it is to observe his conduct, and
endeavours to support a system of fraud, by an attempt to corrupt the
incorruptible. In no other light can we regard his creating the Virgin Mary a
countess and colonel of his guards, or the cunning that admitted to one or two
peculiar forms of oath the force of a binding obligation, which he denied to all
other, strictly preserving the secret, which mode of swearing he really
accounted obligatory, as one of the most valuable of state mysteries.
    To a total want of scruple, or, it would appear, of any sense whatever of
moral obligation, Louis XI. added great natural firmness and sagacity of
character, with a system of policy so highly refined, considering the times he
lived in, that he sometimes overreached himself by giving way to its dictates.
    Probably there is no portrait so dark as to be without its softer shades. He
understood the interests of France, and faithfully pursued them so long as he
could identify them with his own. He carried the country safe through the
dangerous crisis of the war termed »for the public good;« in thus disuniting and
dispersing this grand and dangerous alliance of the great crown vassals of
France against the Sovereign, a King of a less cautious and temporising
character, and of a more bold and less crafty disposition than Louis XI., would,
in all probability, have failed. Louis had also some personal accomplishments
not inconsistent with his public character. He was cheerful and witty in
society; caressed his victim like the cat, which can fawn when about to deal the
most bitter wound; and none was better able to sustain and extol the superiority
of the coarse and selfish reasons by which he endeavoured to supply those nobler
motives for exertion, which his predecessors had derived from the high spirit of
chivalry.
    In fact, that system was now becoming ancient, and had, even while in its
perfection, something so overstrained and fantastic in its principles, as
rendered it peculiarly the object of ridicule, whenever, like other old
fashions, it began to fall out of repute, and the weapons of raillery could be
employed against it, without exciting the disgust and horror with which they
would have been rejected at an early period, as a species of blasphemy. In the
fifteenth century a tribe of scoffers had arisen, who pretended to supply what
was naturally useful in chivalry by other resources, and threw ridicule upon the
extravagant and exclusive principles of honour and virtue, which were openly
treated as absurd, because, in fact, they were cast in a mould of perfection too
lofty for the practice of fallible beings. If an ingenuous and high-spirited
youth proposed to frame himself on his father's principles of honour, he was
vulgarly derided as if he had brought to the field the good old knight's
Durindarte, or two-handed sword, ridiculous from its antique make and fashion,
although its blade might be the Ebro's temper, and its ornaments of pure gold.
    In like manner, the principles of chivalry were cast aside, and their aid
supplied by baser stimulants. Instead of the high spirit which pressed every man
forward in the defence of his country, Louis XI. substituted the exertions of
the ever-ready mercenary soldier, and persuaded his subjects, among whom the
mercantile class began to make a figure, that it was better to leave to
mercenaries the risks and labours of war, and to supply the Crown with the means
of paying them, than to peril themselves in defence of their own substance. The
merchants were easily persuaded by this reasoning. The hour did not arrive, in
the days of Louis XI., when the landed gentry and nobles could be in like manner
excluded from the ranks of war; but the wily monarch commenced that system,
which, acted upon by his successors, at length threw the whole military defence
of the state into the hands of the Crown.
    He was equally forward in altering the principles which were wont to
regulate the intercourse of the sexes. The doctrines of chivalry had
established, in theory at least, a system in which Beauty was the governing and
remunerating divinity - Valour her slave, who caught his courage from her eye,
and gave his life for her slightest service. It is true, the system here, as in
other branches, was stretched to fantastic extravagance, and cases of scandal
not unfrequently arose. Still they were generally such as those mentioned by
Burke, where frailty was deprived of half its guilt, by being purified from all
its grossness. In Louis XIth's practice, it was far otherwise. He was a low
voluptuary, seeking pleasure without sentiment, and despising the sex from whom
he desired to obtain it; his mistresses were of inferior rank, as little to be
compared with the elevated though faulty character of Agnes Sorel, as Louis was
to his heroic father, who freed France from the threatened yoke of England. In
like manner, by selecting his favourites and ministers from among the dregs of
the people, Louis showed the slight regard which he paid to eminent station and
high birth; and although this might be not only excusable but meritorious, where
the monarch's fiat promoted obscure talent, or called forth modest worth, it was
very different when the King made his favourite associates of such men as
Tristan l'Hermite, the chief of his Marshalsea, or police; and it was evident
that such a prince could no longer be, as his descendant Francis elegantly
designed himself, »the first gentleman in his dominions.«
    Nor were Louis's sayings and actions in private or public of a kind which
could redeem such gross offences against the character of a man of honour. His
word, generally accounted the most sacred test of a man's character, and the
least impeachment of which is a capital offence by the code of honour, was
forfeited without scruple on the slightest occasion, and often accompanied by
the perpetration of the most enormous crimes. If he broke his own personal and
plighted faith, he did not treat that of the public with more ceremony. His
sending an inferior person disguised as a herald to Edward IV., was in those
days, when heralds were esteemed the sacred depositaries of public and national
faith, a daring imposition, of which few save this unscrupulous prince would
have been guilty.1
    In short, the manners, sentiments, and actions of Louis XI. were such as
were inconsistent with the principles of chivalry, and his caustic wit was
sufficiently disposed to ridicule a system adopted on what he considered as the
most absurd of all bases, since it was founded on the principle of devoting
toil, talents, and time, to the accomplishment of objects, from which no
personal advantage could, in the nature of things, be obtained.
    It is more than probable that, in thus renouncing almost openly the ties of
religion, honour, and morality, by which mankind at large feel themselves
influenced, Louis sought to obtain great advantages in his negotiations with
parties who might esteem themselves bound, while he himself enjoyed liberty. He
started from the goal, he might suppose, like the racer who has got rid of the
weights with which his competitors are still encumbered, and expects to succeed
of course. But Providence seems always to unite the existence of peculiar danger
with some circumstance which may put those exposed to the peril upon their
guard. The constant suspicion attached to any public person who becomes badly
eminent for breach of faith, is to him what the rattle is to the poisonous
serpent; and men come at last to calculate, not so much on what their antagonist
says, as upon that which he is likely to do; a degree of mistrust which tends to
counteract the intrigues of such a faithless character, more than his freedom
from the scruples of conscientious men can afford him advantage. The example of
Louis XI. raised disgust and suspicion rather than a desire of imitation among
other nations in Europe, and the circumstance of his outwitting more than one of
his contemporaries, operated to put others on their guard. Even the system of
chivalry, though much less generally extended than heretofore, survived this
profligate monarch's reign, who did so much to sully its lustre, and long after
the death of Louis XI. it inspired the Knight without Fear and Reproach, and the
gallant Francis I. Indeed, although the reign of Louis had been as successful in
a political point of view as he himself could have desired, the spectacle of his
deathbed might of itself be a warning-piece against the seduction of his
example. Jealous of every one, but chiefly of his own son, he immured himself in
his Castle of Plessis, intrusting his person exclusively to the doubtful faith
of his Scottish mercenaries. He never stirred from his chamber; he admitted no
one into it, and wearied Heaven and every saint with prayers, not for the
forgiveness of his sins, but for the prolongation of his life. With a poverty of
spirit totally inconsistent with his shrewd worldly sagacity, he importuned his
physicians, until they insulted as well as plundered him. In his extreme desire
of life he sent to Italy for supposed relics, and the yet more extraordinary
importation of an ignorant crack-brained peasant, who, from laziness probably,
had shut himself up in a cave, and renounced flesh, fish, eggs, or the produce
of the dairy. This man, who did not possess the slightest tincture of letters,
Louis reverenced as if he had been the Pope himself, and to gain his goodwill
founded two cloisters.
    It was not the least singular circumstance of this course of superstition,
that bodily health and terrestrial felicity seemed to be his only object. Making
any mention of his sins when talking on the state of his health was strictly
prohibited; and when at his command a priest recited a prayer to Saint
Eutropius, in which he recommended the King's welfare both in body and soul,
Louis caused the two last words to be omitted, saying it was not prudent to
importune the blessed saint by too many requests at once. Perhaps he thought by
being silent on his crimes, he might suffer them to pass out of the recollection
of the celestial patrons, whose aid he invoked for his body.
    So great were the well-merited tortures of this tyrant's deathbed, that
Philip des Comines enters into a regular comparison between them and the
numerous cruelties inflicted on others by his order; and considering both, comes
to express an opinion, that the worldly pangs and agony suffered by Louis were
such as might compensate the crimes he had committed, and that, after a
reasonable quarantine in purgatory, he might in mercy be found duly qualified
for the superior regions.
    Fénélon also has left his testimony against this prince, whose mode of
living and governing he has described in the following remarkable passage: -
    »Pygmalion, tourmenté par une soif insatiable des richesses, se rend de plus
en plus misérable et odieux à ses sujets. C'est un crime à Tyr que d'avoir de
grands biens; l'avarice le rend défiant, soupçonneux, cruel; il persécute les
riches, et il craint les pauvres.
    C'est un crime encore plus grand à Tyr d'avoir de la vertu; car Pygmalion
suppose que les bons ne peuvent souffrir ses injustices et ses infamies; la
vertu le condamne, il s'aigrit et s'irrite contre elle. Tout l'agite,
l'inquiète, le ronge; il a peur de son ombre; il ne dort ni nuit ni jour; les
Dieux, pour le confondre, l'accablent de trésors don't il n'ose jouir; Ce qu'il
cherche pour être heureux est précisément ce qui l'empêche de l'être. Il
regrette tout ce qu'il donne, et craint toujours de perdre; il se tourmente pour
gagner.
    On ne le voit presque jamais; il est seul, triste, abattu, au fond de son
palais; ses amis mêmes n'osent l'aborder, de peur de lui devenir suspects. Une
garde terrible tient toujours des épées nues et des piques levées autour de sa
maison. Trente chambres qui communiquent les unes aux autres, et don't chacune a
une porte de fer avec six gros verroux, sont le lieu où il se renferme; on ne
sait jamais dans laquelle de ces chambres il couche; et on assure qu'il ne
couche jamais deux nuits de suite dans la même, de peur d'y être égorgé. Il ne
connoît ni les doux plaisirs, ni l'amitié encore plus douce. Si on lui parle de
chercher la joie, il sent qu'elle fuit loin de lui, et qu'elle refuse d'entrer
dans son coeur. Ses yeux creux sont pleins d'un feu âpre et farouche; ils sont
sans cesse errans de tous cotés; il prête l'oreille au moindre bruit, et se sent
tout ému; il est pâle, défait, et les noirs soucis sont peints sur son visage
toujours ridé. Il se tait, il soupire, il tire de son coeur de profonds
gémissemens, il ne peut cacher les remords qui déchirent ses entrailles. Les
mets les plus exquis le dégoûtent. Ses enfans, loin d'être son espérance, sont
le sujet de sa terreur: il en a fait ses plus dangereux ennemis. Il n'a eu toute
sa vie aucun moment d'assuré: il ne se conserve qu'à force de répandre le sang
de tous ceux qu'il craint. Insensé, qui ne voit pas que sa cruauté, à laquelle
il se confie, le fera périr! Quelqu'un de ses domestiques, aussi défiant que
lui, se hâtera de délivrer le monde de ce monstre.«
    The instructive but appalling scene of this tyrant's sufferings was at
length closed by death, 30th August 1485.
    The selection of this remarkable person as the principal character in the
romance - for it will be easily comprehended that the little love intrigue of
Quentin is only employed as the means of bringing out the story - afforded
considerable facilities to the Author. The whole of Europe was, during the
fifteenth century, convulsed with dissensions from such various causes, that it
would have required almost a dissertation to have brought the English reader
with a mind perfectly alive and prepared to admit the possibility of the strange
scenes to which he was introduced.
    In Louis XIth's time extraordinary commotions existed throughout all Europe.
England's civil wars were ended rather in appearance than reality, by the
short-lived ascendency of the House of York. Switzerland was asserting that
freedom which was afterwards so bravely defended. In the Empire, and in France,
the great vassals of the crown were endeavouring to emancipate themselves from
its control, while Charles of Burgundy by main force, and Louis more artfully by
indirect means, laboured to subject them to subservience to their respective
sovereignties. Louis, while with one hand he circumvented and subdued his own
rebellious vassals, laboured secretly with the other to aid and encourage the
large trading towns of Flanders to rebel against the Duke of Burgundy, to which
their wealth and irritability naturally disposed them. In the more woodland
districts of Flanders the Duke of Gueldres and William de la Marck, called from
his ferocity the Wild Boar of Ardennes, were throwing off the habits of knights
and gentlemen, to practise the violences and brutalities of common bandits.
    A hundred secret combinations existed in the different provinces of France
and Flanders; numerous private emissaries of the restless Louis - Bohemians,
pilgrims, beggars, or agents disguised as such - were everywhere spreading the
discontent which it was his policy to maintain in the dominions of Burgundy.
    Amidst so great an abundance of materials it was difficult to select such as
should be most intelligible and interesting to the reader; and the Author had to
regret that, though he made liberal use of the power of departing from the
reality of history, he felt by no means confident of having brought his story
into a pleasing, compact, and sufficiently intelligible form. The main-spring of
the plot is that which all who know the least of the feudal system can easily
understand, though the facts are absolutely fictitious. The right of a feudal
superior was in nothing more universally acknowledged than in his power to
interfere in the marriage of a female vassal. This may appear to exist as a
contradiction both of the civil and canon law, which declare that marriage shall
be free, while the feudal or municipal jurisprudence, in case of a fief passing
to a female, acknowledges an interest in the superior of the fief to dictate the
choice of her companion in marriage. This is accounted for on the principle that
the superior was, by his bounty, the original granter of the fief, and is still
interested that the marriage of the vassal shall place no one there who may be
inimical to his liege lord. On the other hand, it might be reasonably pleaded
that this right of dictating to the vassal to a certain extent in the choice of
a husband, is only competent to the superior from whom the fief is originally
derived. There is therefore no violent improbability in a vassal of Burgundy
flying to the protection of the King of France, to whom the Duke of Burgundy
himself was vassal; nor is it a great stretch of probability to affirm that
Louis, unscrupulous as he was, should have formed the design of betraying the
fugitive into some alliance which might prove inconvenient, if not dangerous, to
his formidable kinsman and vassal of Burgundy.
    I may add, that the Romance of QUENTIN DURWARD, which acquired a popularity
at home more extensive than some of its predecessors, found, also, unusual
success on the Continent, where the historical allusions awakened more familiar
ideas.
 
ABBOTSFORD, 1st December 1831.

                                Preface - 1823.2

 
            
                      And one who hath had losses - go to.
                                                         Much ado about Nothing.
 
When honest Dogberry sums up and recites all the claims which he had to
respectability, and which, as he opined, ought to have exempted him from the
injurious appellation conferred on him by Master Gentleman Conrade, it is
remarkable that he lays not more emphasis even upon his double gown (a matter of
some importance in a certain ci-devant capital which I wot of), or upon his
being »a pretty piece of flesh as any in Messina,« or even upon the conclusive
argument of his being »a rich fellow enough,« than upon his being one that hath
had losses.
    Indeed, I have always observed your children of prosperity, whether by way
of hiding their full glow of splendour from those whom fortune has treated more
harshly, or whether that to have risen in spite of calamity is as honourable to
their fortune as it is to a fortress to have undergone a siege - however this
be, I have observed that such persons never fail to entertain you with an
account of the damage they sustain by the hardness of the times. You seldom dine
at a well-supplied table, but the intervals between the champagne, the Burgundy,
and the hock, are filled, if your entertainer be a moneyed man, with the fall of
interest and the difficulty of finding investments for cash, which is therefore
lying idle on his hands; or, if he be a landed proprietor, with a woeful detail
of arrears and diminished rents. This hath its effects. The guests sigh and
shake their heads in cadence with their landlord, look on the sideboard loaded
with plate, sip once more the rich wines which flow around them in quick
circulation, and think of the genuine benevolence which, thus stinted of its
means, still lavishes all that it yet possesses on hospitality; and, what is yet
more flattering, on the wealth which, undiminished by these losses, still
continues, like the inexhaustible hoard of the generous Aboulcasem, to sustain,
without impoverishment, such copious drains. This querulous humour, however,
hath its limits, like to the conning of grievances, which all valetudinarians
know is a most fascinating pastime, so long as there is nothing to complain of
but chronic complaints. But I never heard a man whose credit was actually
verging to decay talk of the diminution of his funds; and my kind and
intelligent physician assures me, that it is a rare thing with those afflicted
with a good rousing fever, or any such active disorder, which
 
With mortal crisis doth portend
His life to appropinque an end,
 
to make their agonies the subject of amusing conversation.
Having deeply considered all these things, I am no longer able to disguise from
my readers that I am neither so unpopular nor so low in fortune as not to have
my share in the distresses which at present afflict the moneyed and landed
interests of these realms. Your authors who live upon a mutton-chop may rejoice
that it has fallen to threepence per pound, and if they have children, gratulate
themselves that the peck-loaf may be had for sixpence; but we who belong to the
tribe which is ruined by peace and plenty - we who have lands and beeves, and
sell what these poor gleaners must buy - we are driven to despair by the very
events which would make all Grub Street illuminate its attics, if Grub Street
could spare candle-ends for the purpose. I therefore put in my proud claim to
share in the distresses which only affect the wealthy; and write myself down,
with Dogberry, »a rich fellow enough,« but still »one who hath had losses.«
    With the same generous spirit of emulation, I have had lately recourse to
the universal remedy for the brief impecuniosity of which I complain - a brief
residence in a southern climate, by which I have not only saved many cart-loads
of coals, but have also had the pleasure to excite general sympathy for my
decayed circumstances among those who, if my revenue had continued to be spent
among them, would have cared little if I had been hanged. Thus, while I drink my
vin ordinaire, my brewer finds the sale of his small beer diminished - while I
discuss my flask of cinq francs, my modicum of port hangs on my wine-merchant's
hands - while my côtelette à-la-Maintenon is smoking on my plate, the mighty
sirloin hangs on its peg in the shop of my blue-aproned friend in the village.
Whatever, in short, I spend here is missed at home; and the few sous gained by
the garçon perruquier, nay, the very crust I give to his little bare-bottomed,
red-eyed poodle, are autant de perdu to my old friend the barber, and honest
Trusty, the mastiff dog in the yard. So that I have the happiness of knowing at
every turn that my absence is both missed and moaned by those who would care
little were I in my coffin, were they sure of the custom of my executors. From
this charge of self-seeking and indifference, however, I solemnly except Trusty,
the yard-dog, whose courtesies towards me, I have reason to think, were of a
more disinterested character than those of any other person who assisted me to
consume the bounty of the Public.
    Alas! the advantage of exciting such general sympathies at home cannot be
secured without incurring considerable personal inconvenience. »If thou wishest
me to weep, thou must first shed tears thyself,« says Horace; and, truly, I
could sometimes cry myself at the exchange I have made of the domestic comforts
which custom had rendered necessaries, for the foreign substitutes which caprice
and love of change had rendered fashionable. I cannot but confess with shame
that my homebred stomach longs for the genuine steak, after the fashion of
Dolly's, hot from the gridiron, brown without, and scarlet when the knife is
applied; and that all the delicacies of Very's carte, with his thousand various
orthographies of Biftecks de Mouton, do not supply the vacancy. Then my mother's
son cannot learn to delight in thin potations; and in these days when malt is
had for nothing, I am convinced that a double straick of John Barleycorn must
have converted »the poor domestic creature, small-beer,« into a liquor twenty
times more generous than the acid unsubstantial tipple, which here bears the
honoured name of wine, though, in substance and qualities, much similar to your
Seine water. Their higher wines, indeed, are well enough - there is nothing to
except against in their Chateau Margot, or Sillery; yet I cannot but remember
the generous qualities of my sound old Oporto. Nay, down to the garçon and his
poodle, though they are both amusing animals, and play ten thousand
monkey-tricks, which are diverting enough, yet there was more sound humour in
the wink with which our village Packwood used to communicate the news of the
morning, than all Antoine's gambols could have expressed in a week, and more of
human and dog-like sympathy in the wag of old Trusty's tail, than if his rival
Touton had stood on his hind-legs for a twelvemonth.
    These signs of repentance come perhaps a little late, and I own (for I must
be entirely candid with my dear friend the Public) that they have been somewhat
matured by the perversion of my niece Christy to the ancient Popish faith by a
certain whacking priest in our neighbourhood, and the marriage of my aunt
Dorothy to a demi-solde captain of horse, a ci-devant member of the Legion of
Honour, and who would, he assures us, have been a Field-Marshal by this time had
our old friend Bonaparte continued to live and to triumph. For the matter of
Christy, I must own her head had been so fairly turned at Edinburgh with five
routs a-night, that, though I somewhat distrusted the means and medium of her
conversion, I was at the same time glad to see that she took a serious thought
of any kind; - besides, there was little loss in the matter, for the Convent
took her off my hands for a very reasonable pension. But aunt Dorothy's marriage
on earth was a very different matter from Christian's celestial espousals. In
the first place, there were two thousand three-per-cents as much lost to my
family as if the sponge had been drawn over the national slate - for who the
deuce could have thought aunt Dorothy would have married? Above all, who would
have thought a woman of fifty years' experience would have married a French
anatomy, his lower branch of limbs corresponding with the upper branch, as if
one pair of half-extended compasses had been placed perpendicularly upon the top
of another, while the space on which the hinges revolved quite sufficed to
represent the body? All the rest was moustache, pelisse, and calico trowser. She
might have commanded a Polk of real Cossacks in 1815 for half the wealth which
she surrendered to this military scarecrow. However, there is no more to be said
upon the matter, especially as she had come the length of quoting Rousseau for
sentiment - and so let that pass.
    Having thus expectorated my bile against a land, which is, notwithstanding,
a very merry land, and which I cannot blame, because I sought it, and it did not
seek me, I come to the more immediate purpose of this Introduction, and which,
my dearest Public, if I do not reckon too much on the continuance of your
favours (though, to say truth, consistency and uniformity of taste are scarce to
be reckoned upon by those who court your good graces), may, perhaps, go far to
make me amends for the loss and damage I have sustained by bringing aunt Dorothy
to the country of thick calves, slender ankles, black moustaches, bodiless limbs
(I assure you the fellow is, as my friend Lord L-- said, a complete giblet-pie,
all legs and wings), and fine sentiments. If she had taken from the half-pay
list a ranting Highlandman, ay, or a dashing son of Erin, I would never have
mentioned the subject; but as the affair has happened, it is scarce possible not
to resent such a gratuitous plundering of her own lawful heirs and executors.
But »be hushed, my dark spirit!« and let us invite our dear Public to a more
pleasing theme to us, a more interesting one to others.
    By dint of drinking acid tiff, as above mentioned, and smoking cigars, in
which I am no novice, my Public are to be informed that I gradually sipp'd and
smoked myself into a certain degree of acquaintance with un homme come il faut,
one of the few fine old specimens of nobility who are still to be found in
France; who, like mutilated statues of an antiquated and obsolete worship, still
command a certain portion of awe and estimation in the eyes even of those by
whom neither one nor other are voluntarily rendered.
    On visiting the coffee-house of the village, I was, at first, struck with
the singular dignity and gravity of this gentleman's manners, his sedulous
attachment to shoes and stockings, in contempt of half-boots and pantaloons, the
croix de Saint Louis at his button-hole, and a small white cockade in the loop
of his old-fashioned shako. There was something interesting in his whole
appearance; and besides, his gravity among the lively group around him, seemed,
like the shade of a tree in the glare of a sunny landscape, more interesting
from its rarity. I made such advances towards acquaintance as the circumstances
of the place and the manners of the country authorised - that is to say, I drew
near him, smoked my cigar by calm and intermitted puffs, which were scarcely
visible, and asked him those few questions which good breeding everywhere, but
more especially in France, permits strangers to put, without hazarding the
imputation of impertinence. The Marquis de Hautlieu, for such was his rank, was
as short and sententious as French politeness permitted - he answered every
question, but proposed nothing, and encouraged no farther inquiry.
    The truth was, that, not very accessible to foreigners of any nation, or
even to strangers among his own countrymen, the Marquis was peculiarly shy
towards the English. A remnant of ancient national prejudice might dictate this
feeling; or it might arise from his idea that they are a haughty, purse-proud
people, to whom rank, united with straitened circumstances, affords as much
subject for scorn as for pity; or, finally, when he reflected on certain recent
events, he might perhaps feel mortified as a Frenchman, even for those successes
which had restored his master to the throne, and himself to a diminished
property and dilapidated chateau. His dislike, however, never assumed a more
active form than that of alienation from English society. When the affairs of
strangers required the interposition of his influence in their behalf, it was
uniformly granted with the courtesy of a French gentleman, who knew what is due
to himself and to national hospitality.
    At length, by some chance, the Marquis made the discovery, that the new
frequenter of his ordinary was a native of Scotland, a circumstance which told
mightily in my favour. Some of his own ancestors, he informed me, had been of
Scottish origin, and he believed his house had still some relations in what he
was pleased to call the province of Hanguisse, in that country. The connection
had been acknowledged early in the last century on both sides, and he had once
almost determined, during his exile (for it may be supposed that the Marquis had
joined the ranks of Condé, and shared all the misfortunes and distresses of
emigration), to claim the acquaintance and protection of his Scottish friends.
But, after all, he said, he cared not to present himself before them in
circumstances which could do them but small credit, and which they might think
entailed some little burden, perhaps even some little disgrace; so that he
thought it best to trust in Providence, and do the best he could for his own
support. What that was I never could learn; but I am sure it inferred nothing
which could be discreditable to the excellent old man, who held fast his
opinions and his loyalty, through good and bad repute, till time restored him,
aged, indigent, and broken-spirited, to the country which he had left in the
prime of youth and health, and sobered by age into patience, instead of that
tone of high resentment, which promised speedy vengeance upon those who expelled
him. I might have laughed at some points of the Marquis's character, at his
prejudices particularly, both of birth and politics, if I had known him under
more prosperous circumstances; but, situated as he was, even if they had not
been fair and honest prejudices, turning on no base or interested motive, one
must have respected him as we respect the confessor or the martyr of a religion
which is not entirely our own.
    By degrees we became good friends, drank our coffee, smoked our cigar, and
took our bavaroise together, for more than six weeks, with little interruption
from avocations on either side. Having, with some difficulty, got the key-note
of his inquiries concerning Scotland, by a fortunate conjecture that the
province d'Hanguisse could only be our shire of Angus, I was enabled to answer
the most of his queries concerning his allies there in a manner more or less
satisfactory, and was much surprised to find the Marquis much better acquainted
with the genealogy of some of the distinguished families in that county, than I
could possibly have expected.
    On his part, his satisfaction at our intercourse was so great, that he at
length wound himself to such a pitch of resolution, as to invite me to dine at
the Chateau de Hautlieu, well deserving the name, as occupying a commanding
eminence on the banks of the Loire. This building lay about three miles from the
town at which I had settled my temporary establishment; and when I first beheld
it I could easily forgive the mortified feelings which the owner testified at
receiving a guest in the asylum which he had formed out of the ruins of the
palace of his fathers. He gradually, with much gaiety, which yet evidently
covered a deeper feeling, prepared me for the sort of place I was about to
visit; and for this he had full opportunity whilst he drove me in his little
cabriolet, drawn by a large heavy Norman horse, towards the ancient building.
    Its remains run along a beautiful terrace overhanging the river Loire, which
had been formerly laid out with a succession of flights of steps, highly
ornamented with statues, rock-work, and other artificial embellishments,
descending from one terrace to another, until the very verge of the river was
attained. All this architectural decoration, with its accompanying parterres of
rich flowers and exotic shrubs, had, many years since, given place to the more
profitable scene of the vine-dresser's labours; yet the remains, too massive to
be destroyed, are still visible, and, with the various artificial slopes and
levels of the high bank, bear perfect evidence how actively Art had been here
employed to decorate Nature.
    Few of these scenes are now left in perfection; for the fickleness of
fashion has accomplished in England the total change which devastation and
popular fury have produced in the French pleasure-grounds. For my part, I am
contented to subscribe to the opinion of the best qualified judge of our time,3
who thinks we have carried to an extreme our taste for simplicity, and that the
neighbourhood of a stately mansion requires some more ornate embellishments than
can be derived from the meagre accompaniments of grass and gravel. A highly
romantic situation may be degraded, perhaps, by an attempt at such artificial
ornaments; but, then, in by far the greater number of sites, the intervention of
more architectural decoration than is now in use, seems necessary to redeem the
naked tameness of a large house, placed by itself in the midst of a lawn, where
it looks as much unconnected with all around as if it had walked out of town
upon an airing.
    How the taste came to change so suddenly and absolutely is rather a singular
circumstance, unless we explain it on the same principle on which the three
friends of the Father in Molière's comedy recommend a cure for the melancholy of
his daughter - that he should furnish her apartment, namely, with paintings -
with tapestry - or with china, according to the different commodities in which
each of them was a dealer. - Tried by this scale, we may perhaps discover that,
of old, the architect laid out the garden and the pleasure-grounds in the
neighbourhood of the mansion, and, naturally enough, displayed his own art there
in statues and vases, and paved terraces and flights of steps, with ornamented
balustrades; while the gardener, subordinate in rank, endeavoured to make the
vegetable kingdom correspond to the prevailing taste, and cut his evergreens
into verdant walls, with towers and battlements, and his detached trees into a
resemblance of statuary. But the wheel has since revolved, so as to place the
landscape gardener, as he is called, almost upon a level with the architect; and
hence a liberal and somewhat violent use is made of spade and pick-axe, and a
conversion of the ostentatious labours of the architect into a ferme ornée, as
little different from the simplicity of Nature, as displayed in the surrounding
country, as the comforts of convenient and cleanly walks, imperiously demanded
in the vicinage of a gentleman's residence, can possibly admit.
    To return from this digression, which has given the Marquis's cabriolet (its
activity greatly retarded by the downward propensities of Jean Roast-Beef, which
I suppose the Norman horse cursed as heartily as his countrymen of old time
execrated the stolid obesity of a Saxon slave) time to ascend the hill by a
winding causeway, now much broken, we came in sight of a long range of roofless
buildings, connected with the western extremity of the castle, which was totally
ruinous. »I should apologise,« he said, »to you, as an Englishman, for the taste
of my ancestors, in connecting that row of stables with the architecture of the
chateau. I know in your country it is usual to remove them to some distance; but
my family had an hereditary pride in horses, and were fond of visiting them more
frequently than would have been convenient if they had been kept at a greater
distance. Before the Revolution I had thirty fine horses in that ruinous line of
buildings.«
    This recollection of past magnificence escaped from him accidentally, for he
was generally sparing in alluding to his former opulence. It was quietly said,
without any affectation either of the importance attached to early wealth, or as
demanding sympathy for its having passed away. It awakened unpleasing
reflections, however, and we were both silent, till, from a partially repaired
corner of what had been a porter's lodge, a lively French paysanne, with eyes as
black as jet, and as brilliant as diamonds, came out with a smile, which showed
a set of teeth that duchesses might have envied, and took the reins of the
little carriage.
    »Madelon must be groom to-day,« said the Marquis, after graciously nodding
in return for her deep reverence to Monsieur, »for her husband is gone to
market; and for La Jeunesse, he is almost distracted with his various
occupations. - Madelon,« he continued, as we walked forward under the
entrance-arch, crowned with the mutilated armorial bearings of former lords, now
half-obscured by moss and rye-grass, not to mention the vagrant branches of some
unpruned shrubs - »Madelon was my wife's god-daughter, and was educated to be
fille-de-chamber to my daughter.«
    This passing intimation that he was a widowed husband and childless father,
increased my respect for the unfortunate nobleman, to whom every particular
attached to his present situation brought, doubtless, its own share of food for
melancholy reflection. He proceeded, after the pause of an instant, with
something of a gayer tone - »You will be entertained with my poor La Jeunesse,«
he said, »who, by the way, is ten years older than I am« - (the Marquis is above
sixty) - »he reminds me of the player in the Roman Comique who acted a whole
play in his own proper person - he insists on being maître d'hôtel, maître de
cuisine, valet-de-chamber, a whole suite of attendants in his own poor
individuality. He sometimes reminds me of a character in the Bridle of
Lammermore, which you must have read, as it is the work of one of your gens de
lettres, qu'on appelle, je crois, le Chevalier Scott.«4
    »I presume you mean Sir Walter?«
    »Yes - the same - the same,« answered the Marquis.
    We were now led away from more painful recollections; for I had to put my
French friend right in two particulars. In the first I prevailed with
difficulty; for the Marquis, though he disliked the English, yet, having been
three months in London, piqued himself on understanding the most intricate
difficulties of our language, and appealed to every dictionary, from Florio
downwards, that la Bride must mean the Bridle. Nay, so sceptical was he on this
point of philology, that, when I ventured to hint that there was nothing about a
bridle in the whole story, he, with great composure, and little knowing to whom
he spoke, laid the whole blame of that inconsistency on the unfortunate author.
I had next the common candour to inform my friend, upon grounds which no one
could know so well as myself, that my distinguished literary countryman, of whom
I shall always speak with the respect his talents deserve, was not responsible
for the slight works which the humour of the public had too generously, as well
as too rashly, ascribed to him. Surprised by the impulse of the moment, I even
might have gone farther, and clenched the negative by positive evidence, owning
to my entertainer that no one else could possibly have written these works,
since I myself was the author, when I was saved from so rash a commitment of
myself by the calm reply of the Marquis, that he was glad to hear these sort of
trifles were not written by a person of condition. »We read them,« he said, »as
we listen to the pleasantries of a comedian, or as our ancestors did to those of
a professed family-jester, with a good deal of amusement, which, however, we
should be sorry to derive from the mouth of one who has better claims to our
society.«
    I was completely recalled to my constitutional caution by this declaration;
and became so much afraid of committing myself, that I did not even venture to
explain to my aristocratic friend, that the gentleman whom he had named owed his
advancement, for aught I had ever heard, to certain works of his, which may,
without injury, be compared to romances in rhyme.
    The truth is, that, amongst some other unjust prejudices, at which I have
already hinted, the Marquis had contracted a horror, mingled with contempt, for
almost every species of author-craft slighter than that which compounds a folio
volume of law or of divinity, and looked upon the author of a romance, novel,
fugitive poem, or periodical piece of criticism, as men do on a venomous
reptile, with fear at once and with loathing. The abuse of the press, he
contended, especially in its lighter departments, had poisoned the whole
morality of Europe, and was once more gradually regaining an influence which had
been silenced amidst the voice of war. All writers, except those of the largest
and heaviest calibre, he conceived to be devoted to this evil cause, from
Rousseau and Voltaire down to Pigault le Brun and the author of the Scotch
novels; and although he admitted he read them pour passer le temps, yet, like
Pistol eating his leek, it was not without execrating the tendency, as he
devoured the story, of the work with which he was engaged.
    Observing this peculiarity, I backed out of the candid confession which my
vanity had meditated, and engaged the Marquis in farther remarks on the mansion
of his ancestors. »There,« he said, »was the theatre where my father used to
procure an order for the special attendance of some of the principal actors of
the Comédie Françoise, when the King and Madame Pompadour more than once visited
him at this place; - yonder, more to the centre, was the Baron's hall, where his
feudal jurisdiction was exercised when criminals were to be tried by the
Seigneur or his bailiff; for we had, like your old Scottish nobles, the right of
pit and gallows, or fossa cum furca, as the civilians term it; - beneath that
lies the Question-chamber, or apartment for torture; and truly, I am sorry a
right so liable to abuse should have been lodged in the hands of any living
creature. But,« he added, with a feeling of dignity derived even from the
atrocities which his ancestors had committed beneath the grated windows to which
he pointed, »such is the effect of superstition, that, to this day, the peasants
dare not approach the dungeons, in which, it is said, the wrath of my ancestors
had perpetrated, in former times, much cruelty.« As we approached the window,
while I expressed some curiosity to see this abode of terror, there arose from
its subterranean abyss a shrill shout of laughter, which we easily detected as
produced by a group of playful children, who had made the neglected vaults a
theatre, for a joyous romp at Colin Maillard.
    The Marquis was somewhat disconcerted, and had recourse to his tabatière;
but, recovering in a moment, observed, these were Madelon's children, and
familiar with the supposed terrors of the subterranean recesses. »Besides,« he
added, »to speak the truth, these poor children have been born after the period
of supposed illumination, which dispelled our superstition and our religion at
once; and this bids me to remind you, that this is a jour maigre. The Curé of
the parish is my only guest, besides yourself, and I would not voluntarily
offend his opinions. Besides,« he continued, more manfully, and throwing off his
restraint, »adversity has taught me other thoughts on these subjects than those
which prosperity dictated; and I thank God I am not ashamed to avow, that I
follow the observances of my church.«
    I hastened to answer, that, though they might differ from those of my own, I
had every possible respect for the religious rules of every Christian community,
sensible that we addressed the same Deity, on the same grand principle of
salvation, though with different forms; which variety of worship, had it pleased
the Almighty not to permit, our observances would have been as distinctly
prescribed to us as they are laid down under the Mosaic law.
    The Marquis was no shaker of hands, but upon the present occasion he grasped
mine, and shook it kindly - the only mode of acquiescence in my sentiments which
perhaps a zealous Catholic could, or ought consistently to have given upon such
an occasion.
    This circumstance of explanation and remark, with others which arose out of
the view of the extensive ruins, occupied us during two or three turns upon the
long terrace, and a seat of about a quarter of an hour's duration in a vaulted
pavilion of freestone, decorated with the Marquis's armorial bearings, the roof
of which, though disjointed in some of its groined arches, was still solid and
entire. »Here,« said he, resuming the tone of a former part of his conversation,
»I love to sit, either at noon, when the alcove affords me shelter from the
heat, or in the evening, when the sun's beams are dying on the broad face of the
Loire - here, in the words of your great poet, whom, Frenchman as I am, I am
more intimately acquainted with than most Englishmen, I love to rest myself,
 
                  Showing the code of sweet and bitter fancy.«
 
Against this various reading of a well-known passage in Shakespeare I took care
to offer no protest; for I suspect Shakespeare would have suffered in the
opinion of so delicate a judge as the Marquis, had I proved his having written
»chewing the cud,« according to all other authorities. Besides, I had had enough
of our former dispute, having been long convinced (though not till ten years
after I had left Edinburgh College), that the pith of conversation does not
consist in exhibiting your own superior knowledge on matters of small
consequence, but in enlarging, improving, and correcting the information you
possess, by the authority of others. I therefore let the Marquis show his code
at his pleasure, and was rewarded by his entering into a learned and
well-informed disquisition on the florid style of architecture introduced into
France during the seventeenth century. He pointed out its merits and its defects
with considerable taste; and having touched on topics similar to those upon
which I have formerly digressed, he made an appeal of a different kind in their
favour, founded on the associations with which they were combined. »Who,« he
said, »would willingly destroy the terraces of the Chateau of Sully, since we
cannot tread them without recalling the image of that statesman, alike
distinguished for severe integrity and for strong and unerring sagacity of mind?
Were they an inch less broad, a ton's weight less massive, or were they deprived
of their formality by the slightest inflections, could we suppose them to remain
the scene of his patriotic musings? Would an ordinary root-house be a fit scene
for the Duke occupying an arm-chair, and his Duchess a tabouret - teaching from
thence lessons of courage and fidelity to his sons, - of modesty and submission
to his daughters, of rigid morality to both; while the circle of young noblesse
listened with ears attentive, and eyes modestly fixed on the ground in a
standing posture, neither replying nor sitting down, without the express command
of their prince and parent? - No, Monsieur,« he said, with enthusiasm; »destroy
the princely pavilion in which this edifying family-scene was represented, and
you remove from the mind the vraisemblance, the veracity of the whole
representation. Or can your mind suppose this distinguished peer and patriot
walking in a jardin Anglois? Why, you might as well fancy him dressed with a
blue frock and white waistcoat, instead of his Henri Quatre coat and chapeau
à-plumes - Consider how he could have moved in the tortuous maze of what you
have called a ferme ornée, with his usual attendants of two files of Swiss
guards preceding, and the same number following him. To recall his figure, with
his beard - haut-de-chausses à canon, united to his doublet by ten thousand
aiguilettes and knots of ribbon, you could not, supposing him in a modern jardin
Anglois, distinguish the picture in your imagination, from the sketch of some
mad old man, who has adopted the humour of dressing like his
great-great-grandfather, and whom a party of gens-d'armes were conducting to the
Hôpital des Fous. But look on the long and magnificent terrace, if it yet
exists, which the loyal and exalted Sully was wont to make the scene of his
solitary walk twice a day, while he pondered over the patriotic schemes which he
nourished for advancing the glory of France; or at a later, and more sorrowful
period of life, brooded over the memory of his murdered master, and the fate of
his distracted country; - throw in that noble background of arcades, vases,
images, urns, and whatever could express the vicinity of a ducal palace, and the
landscape becomes consistent at once. The factionnaires, with their harquebusses
ported, placed at the extremities of the long and level walk, intimate the
presence of the feudal prince; while the same is more clearly shown by the guard
of honour which precede and follow him, their halberds carried upright, their
mien martial and stately, as if in the presence of an enemy, yet moved, as it
were, with the same soul as their princely superior - teaching their steps to
attend upon his, marching as he marches, halting as he halts, accommodating
their pace even to the slight irregularities of pause and advance dictated by
the fluctuations of his reverie, and wheeling with military precision before and
behind him, who seems the centre and animating principle of their armed files,
as the heart gives life and energy to the human body. Or, if you smile,« added
the Marquis, looking doubtfully on my countenance, »at a promenade so
inconsistent with the light freedom of modern manners, could you bring your mind
to demolish that other terrace trod by the fascinating Marchioness de Sevigné,
with which are united so many recollections connected with passages in her
enchanting letters?«
    A little tired of this disquisition, which the Marquis certainly dwelt upon
to exalt the natural beauties of his own terrace, which, dilapidated as it was,
required no such formal recommendation, I informed my companion, that I had just
received from England a journal of a tour made in the South of France by a young
Oxonian friend of mine, a poet, a draughtsman, and a scholar - in which he gives
such an animated and interesting description of the Chateau-Grignan, the
dwelling of Madame de Sevigné's beloved daughter, and frequently the place of
her own residence, that no one who ever read the book would be within forty
miles of the same without going a pilgrimage to the spot. The Marquis smiled,
seemed very much pleased, and asked the title at length of the work in question;
and writing down to my dictation, »An Itinerary of Provence and the Rhone, made
during the year 1819; by John Hughes, A.M., of Oriel College, Oxford,« observed,
he could now purchase no books for the Chateau, but would recommend that the
Itinéraire should be commissioned for the library to which he was abonné in the
neighbouring town. »And here,« he said, »comes the Curé to save us farther
disquisition; and I see La Jeunesse gliding round the old portico on the
terrace, with the purpose of ringing the dinner-bell - a most unnecessary
ceremony for assembling three persons, but which it would break the old man's
heart to forego. Take no notice of him at present, as he wishes to perform the
duties of the inferior departments incognito; when the bell has ceased to sound,
he will blaze forth on us in the character of major-domo.«
    As the Marquis spoke we had advanced towards the eastern extremity of the
Chateau, which was the only part of the edifice that remained still habitable.
    »The Bande Noire,« said the Marquis, »when they pulled the rest of the house
to pieces, for the sake of the lead, timber, and other materials, have, in their
ravages, done me the undesigned favour to reduce it to dimensions better fitting
the circumstances of the owner. There is enough of the leaf left for the
caterpillar to coil up his chrysalis in, and what needs he care though reptiles
have devoured the rest of the bush?«
    As he spoke thus we reached the door, at which La Jeunesse appeared, with an
air at once of prompt service and deep respect, and a countenance which, though
puckered by a thousand wrinkles, was ready to answer the first good-natured word
of his master with a smile, which showed his white set of teeth, firm and fair
in despite of age and suffering. His clean silk stockings, washed till their
tint had become yellowish - his cue tied with a rosette - the thin grey curl on
either side of his lank cheek - the pearl-coloured coat without a collar - the
solitaire, the jabot, the ruffles at the wrist, and the chapeau-bras - all
announced that La Jeunesse considered the arrival of a guest at the Chateau as
an unusual event, which was to be met with a corresponding display of
magnificence and parade on his part.
    As I looked at the faithful though fantastic follower of his master, who
doubtless inherited his prejudices as well as his cast-clothes, I could not but
own, in my own mind, the resemblance pointed out by the Marquis betwixt him and
my own Caleb, the trusty squire of the Master of Ravenswood. But a Frenchman, a
Jack-of-all-trades by nature, can, with much more ease and suppleness, address
himself to a variety of services, and suffice in his own person to discharge
them all, than is possible for the formality and slowness of a Scotchman.
Superior to Caleb in dexterity, though not in zeal, La Jeunesse seemed to
multiply himself with the necessities of the occasion, and discharged his
several tasks with such promptitude and assiduity, that farther attendance than
his was neither missed nor wished for.
    The dinner, in particular, was exquisite. The soup, although bearing the
term of maigre, which Englishmen use in scorn, was most delicately flavoured,
and the matelot of pike and eels reconciled me, though a Scotsman, to the
latter. There was even a petit plat of bouilli for the heretic, so exquisitely
dressed as to retain all the juices, and, at the same time, rendered so
thoroughly tender, that nothing could be more delicate. The potage, with another
small dish or two, were equally well arranged. But what the old maître d'hôtel
valued himself upon as something superb, smiling with self-satisfaction, and in
enjoyment of my surprise, as he placed it on the table, was an immense assiette
of spinage, not smoothed into a uniform surface, as by our uninaugurated cooks
upon your side of the water, but swelling into hills, and declining into vales,
over which swept a gallant stag, pursued by a pack of hounds in full cry, and a
noble field of horsemen with bugle-horns, and whips held upright, and brandished
after the manner of broadswords - hounds, huntsmen, and stag, being all very
artificially cut out of toasted bread. Enjoying the praises which I failed not
to bestow on this chef d'oeuvre, the old man acknowledged it had cost the best
part of two days to bring it to perfection; and added, giving honour where
honour was due, that an idea so brilliant was not entirely his own, but that
Monsieur himself had taken the trouble to give him several valuable hints, and
even condescended to assist in the execution of some of the most capital
figures. The Marquis blushed a little at this éclaircissement, which he might
probably have wished to suppress, but acknowledged he had wished to surprise me
with a scene from the popular poem of my country, Miladi Lac. I answered, that
so splendid a cortège much more resembled a grand chasse of Louis Quatorze than
of a poor King of Scotland, and that the paysage was rather like Fountainbleau
than the wilds of Callander. He bowed graciously in answer to this compliment,
and acknowledged that recollections of the costume of the old French Court, when
in its splendour, might have misled his imagination - and so the conversation
passed on to other matters.
    Our dessert was exquisite - the cheese, the fruits, the salad, the olives,
the cerneaux, and the delicious white wine, each in their way were impayables;
and the good Marquis, with an air of great satisfaction, observed that his guest
did sincere homage to their merits. »After all,« he said, »and yet it is but
confessing a foolish weakness - but, after all, I cannot but rejoice in feeling
myself equal to offering a stranger a sort of hospitality which seems pleasing
to him. Believe me, it is not entirely out of pride that we pauvres revenants
live so very retired, and avoid the duties of hospitality. It is true, that too
many of us wander about the halls of our fathers rather like ghosts of their
deceased proprietors than like living men restored to their own possessions -
yet it is rather on your account, than to spare our own feelings, that we do not
cultivate the society of our foreign visitors. We have an idea that your opulent
nation is particularly attached to faste and to grand chère - to your ease and
enjoyment of every kind; and the means of entertainment left to us are, in most
cases, so limited, that we feel ourselves totally precluded from such expense
and ostentation. No one wishes to offer his best where he has reason to think it
will not give pleasure; and, as many of you publish your journals, Monsieur le
Marquis would not probably be much gratified by seeing the poor dinner which he
was able to present to Milord Anglois put upon permanent record.«
    I interrupted the Marquis, that, were I to wish an account of my
entertainment published, it would be only in order to preserve the memory of the
very best dinner I ever had eaten in my life. He bowed in return, and presumed
»that I either differed much from the national taste, or the accounts of it were
greatly exaggerated.« He was particularly obliged to me for showing the value of
the possessions which remained to him. »The useful,« he said, »had no doubt
survived the sumptuous at Hautlieu as elsewhere. Grottoes, statues, curious
conservatories of exotics, temple and tower, had gone to the ground; but the
vineyard, the potager, the orchard, the étang, still existed; and once more he
expressed himself happy to find that their combined productions could make what
even a Briton accepted as a tolerable meal. I only hope,« he continued, »that
you will convince me your compliments are sincere, by accepting the hospitality
of the Chateau de Hautlieu as often as better engagements will permit during
your stay in this neighbourhood.«
    I readily promised to accept an invitation offered with such grace, as to
make the guest appear the person conferring the obligation.
    The conversation then changed to the history of the Chateau and its vicinity
- a subject which was strong ground to the Marquis, though he was no great
antiquary, and even no very profound historian, when other topics were
discussed. The Curé, however, chanced to be both, and withal a very conversable
pleasing man, with an air of prévenance, and ready civility of communication,
which I have found a leading characteristic of the Catholic clergy, whether they
are well-informed or otherwise. It was from him that I learned there still
existed the remnant of a fine library in the Chateau de Hautlieu. The Marquis
shrugged his shoulders as the Curé gave me this intimation, looked to the one
side and the other, and displayed the same sort of petty embarrassment which he
had been unable to suppress when La Jeunesse blabbed something of his
interference with the arrangements of the cuisine. »I should be happy to show
the books,« he said, »but they are in such a wild condition, so dismantled, that
I am ashamed to exhibit them to any one.«
    »Forgive me, my dear sir,« said the Curé, »you know you permitted the great
English Bibliomaniac, Dr. Dibdin, to consult your curious reliques, and you know
how highly he spoke of them.«
    »What could I do, my dear friend?« said the Marquis; »the good Doctor had
heard some exaggerated account of these remnants of what was once a library - he
had stationed himself in the auberge below, determined to carry his point or die
under the walls. I even heard of his taking the altitude of the turret, in order
to provide scaling-ladders. You would not have had me reduce a respectable
divine, though of another church, to such an act of desperation? I could not
have answered it in conscience.«
    »But you know, besides, Monsieur le Marquis,« continued the Curé, »that Dr.
Dibdin was so much grieved at the dilapidation your library had sustained, that
he avowedly envied the powers of our church, so much did he long to launch an
anathema at the heads of the perpetrators.«
    »His resentment was in proportion to his disappointment, I suppose,« said
our entertainer.
    »Not so,« said the Curé; »for he was so enthusiastic on the value of what
remains, that I am convinced nothing but your positive request to the contrary
prevented the Chateau of Hautlieu occupying at least twenty pages in that
splendid work of which he sent us a copy, and which will remain a lasting
monument of his zeal and erudition.«
    »Dr. Dibdin is extremely polite,« said the Marquis; »and when we have had
our coffee - here it comes - we will go to the turret; and I hope, as Monsieur
has not despised my poor fare, so he will pardon the state of my confused
library, while I shall be equally happy if it can afford anything which can give
him amusement. Indeed,« he added, »were it otherwise, you, my good father, have
every right over books, which, without your intervention, would never have
returned to the owner.«
    Although this additional act of courtesy was evidently wrested by the
importunity of the Curé from his reluctant friend, whose desire to conceal the
nakedness of the land, and the extent of his losses, seemed always to struggle
with his disposition to be obliging, I could not help accepting an offer, which,
in strict politeness, I ought perhaps to have refused. But then the remains of a
collection of such curiosity as had given to our bibliomaniacal friend the
desire of leading the forlorn hope in an escalade - it would have been a
desperate act of self-denial to have declined an opportunity of seeing. La
Jeunesse brought coffee, such as we only taste on the Continent, upon a salver,
covered with a napkin, that it might be censé for silver; and chasse-caffé from
Martinique, on a small waiter, which was certainly so. Our repast thus finished,
the Marquis led me up an escalier dérobé, into a very large and
well-proportioned saloon, of nearly one hundred feet in length; but so waste and
dilapidated, that I kept my eyes on the ground, lest my kind entertainer should
feel himself called upon to apologise for tattered pictures and torn tapestry;
and, worse than both, for casements that had yielded, in one or two instances,
to the boisterous blast.
    »We have contrived to make the turret something more habitable,« said the
Marquis, as he moved hastily through this chamber of desolation. »This,« he
said, »was the picture gallery in former times, and in the boudoir beyond, which
we now occupy as a book-closet, were preserved some curious cabinet paintings,
whose small size required that they should be viewed closely.«
    As he spoke, he held aside a portion of the tapestry I have mentioned, and
we entered the room of which he spoke.
    It was octangular, corresponding to the external shape of the turret whose
interior it occupied. Four of the sides had latticed windows, commanding each,
from a different point, the most beautiful prospect over the majestic Loire, and
the adjacent country through which it winded; and the casements were filled with
stained glass, through two of which streamed the lustre of the setting sun,
showing a brilliant assemblage of religious emblems and armorial bearings, which
it was scarcely possible to look at with an undazzled eye; but the other two
windows, from which the sun-beams had passed away, could be closely examined,
and plainly showed that the lattices were glazed with stained glass, which did
not belong to them originally, but, as I afterwards learned, to the profaned and
desecrated chapel of the Castle. It had been the amusement of the Marquis, for
several months, to accomplish this rifacciamento, with the assistance of the
Curate and the all-capable La Jeunesse; and though they had only patched
together fragments, which were in many places very minute, yet the stained
glass, till examined very closely, and with the eye of an antiquary, produced,
on the whole, a very pleasing effect.
    The sides of the apartment, not occupied by the lattices, were (except the
space for the small door) fitted up with presses and shelves, some of
walnut-tree, curiously carved, and brought to a dark colour by time, nearly
resembling that of a ripe chestnut, and partly of common deal, employed to
repair and supply the deficiencies occasioned by violence and devastation. On
these shelves were deposited the wrecks, or rather the precious relics, of a
most splendid library.
    The Marquis's father had been a man of information, and his grandfather was
famous even in the Court of Louis XIV., where literature was in some degree
considered as the fashion, for the extent of his acquirements. Those two
proprietors, opulent in their fortunes, and liberal in the indulgence of their
taste, had made such additions to a curious old Gothic library, which had
descended from their ancestors, that there were few collections in France which
could be compared to that of Hautlieu. It had been completely dispersed, in
consequence of an ill-judged attempt of the present Marquis, in 1790, to defend
his Chateau against a revolutionary mob. Luckily, the Curé, who, by his
charitable and moderate conduct, and his evangelical virtues, possessed much
interest among the neighbouring peasantry, prevailed on many of them to buy, for
the petty sum of a few sous, and sometimes at the vulgar rate of a glass of
brandy, volumes which had cost large sums, but which were carried off in mere
spite by the ruffians who pillaged the castle. He himself also had purchased as
many of the books as his funds could possibly reach, and to his care it was
owing that they were restored to the turret in which I found them. It was no
wonder, therefore, that the good Curé had some pride and pleasure in showing the
collection to strangers.
    In spite of odd volumes, imperfections, and all the other mortifications
which an amateur encounters in looking through an ill-kept library, there were
many articles in that of Hautlieu, calculated, as Bayes says, »to elevate and
surprise« the bibliomaniac. There were
 
               »The small rare volume, dark with tarnish'd gold,«
 
as Dr. Ferrier feelingly sings - curious and richly painted missals, manuscripts
of 1380, 1320, and even earlier, and works in Gothic type, printed in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. But of these I intend to give a more detailed
account should the Marquis grant his permission.
    In the meantime, it is sufficient to say, that, delighted with the day I had
spent at Hautlieu, I frequently repeated my visit, and that the key of the
octangular tower was always at my command. In those hours I became deeply
enamoured of a part of French history, which, although most important to that of
Europe at large, and illustrated by an inimitable old historian, I had never
sufficiently studied. At the same time, to gratify the feelings of my excellent
host, I occupied myself occasionally with some family memorials, which had
fortunately been preserved, and which contained some curious particulars
respecting the connection with Scotland, which first found me favour in the eyes
of the Marquis de Hautlieu.
 
I pondered on these things, more meo, until my return to Britain, to beef and
sea-coal fires, a change of residence which took place since I drew up these
Gallic reminiscences. At length, the result of my meditations took the form of
which my readers, if not startled by this preface, will presently be enabled to
judge. Should the Public receive it with favour, I shall not regret having been
for a short time an Absentee.
 

                                 Chapter First

 Look here upon this picture, and on this,
 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
                                                                         Hamlet.
 
The latter part of the fifteenth century prepared a train of future events, that
ended by raising France to that state of formidable power, which has ever since
been, from time to time, the principal object of jealousy to the other European
nations. Before that period, she had to struggle for her very existence with the
English, already possessed of her fairest provinces; while the utmost exertions
of her King, and the gallantry of her people, could scarcely protect the
remainder from a foreign yoke. Nor was this her sole danger. The princes who
possessed the grand fiefs of the crown, and, in particular, the Dukes of
Burgundy and Bretagne, had come to wear their feudal bonds so lightly, that they
had no scruple in lifting the standard against their liege and sovereign lord,
the King of France, on the slightest pretence. When at peace, they reigned as
absolute princes in their own provinces; and the House of Burgundy, possessed of
the district so called, together with the fairest and richest part of Flanders,
was itself so wealthy, and so powerful, as to yield nothing to the crown, either
in splendour or in strength.
    In imitation of the grand feudatories, each inferior vassal of the crown
assumed as much independence as his distance from the sovereign power, the
extent of his fief, or the strength of his chateau, enabled him to maintain; and
these petty tyrants, no longer amenable to the exercise of the law, perpetrated
with impunity the wildest excesses of fantastic oppression and cruelty. In
Auvergne alone, a report was made of more than three hundred of these
independent nobles, to whom incest, murder, and rapine, were the most ordinary
and familiar actions.
    Besides these evils, another, springing out of the long-continued wars
betwixt the French and English, added no small misery to this distracted
kingdom. Numerous bodies of soldiers, collected into bands, under officers
chosen by themselves, from among the bravest and most successful adventurers,
had been formed in various parts of France out of the refuse of all other
countries. These hireling combatants sold their swords for a time to the best
bidder; and, when such service was not to be had, they made war on their own
account, seizing castles and towers, which they used as the places of their
retreat, - making prisoners, and ransoming them, - exacting tribute from the
open villages, and the country around them, - and acquiring, by every species of
rapine, the appropriate epithets of Tondeurs and Ecorcheurs, that is, Clippers
and Flayers.
    In the midst of the horrors and miseries arising from so distracted a state
of public affairs, reckless and profuse expense distinguished the courts of the
lesser nobles, as well as of the superior princes; and their dependants, in
imitation, expended in rude, but magnificent display, the wealth which they
extorted from the people. A tone of romantic and chivalrous gallantry (which,
however, was often disgraced by unbounded license) characterised the intercourse
between the sexes; and the language of knight-errantry was yet used, and its
observances followed, though the pure spirit of honourable love, and benevolent
enterprise, which it inculcates, had ceased to qualify and atone for its
extravagances. The jousts and tournaments, the entertainments and revels, which
each petty court displayed, invited to France every wandering adventurer; and it
was seldom that, when arrived there, he failed to employ his rash courage, and
headlong spirit of enterprise, in actions for which his happier native country
afforded no free stage.
    At this period, and as if to save this fair realm from the various woes with
which it was menaced, the tottering throne was ascended by Louis XI., whose
character, evil as it was in itself, met, combated, and in a great degree
neutralised, the mischiefs of the time - as poisons of opposing qualities are
said, in ancient books of medicine, to have the power of counteracting each
other.
    Brave enough for every useful and political purpose, Louis had not a spark
of that romantic valour, or of the pride generally associated with it, which
fought on for the point of honour, when the point of utility had been long
gained. Calm, crafty, and profoundly attentive to his own interest, he made
every sacrifice, both of pride and passion, which could interfere with it. He
was careful in disguising his real sentiments and purposes from all who
approached him, and frequently used the expressions, »that the King knew not how
to reign, who knew not how to dissemble; and that, for himself, if he thought
his very cap knew his secrets, he would throw it into the fire.« No man of his
own, or of any other time, better understood how to avail himself of the
frailties of others, and when to avoid giving any advantage by the untimely
indulgence of his own.
    He was by nature vindictive and cruel, even to the extent of finding
pleasure in the frequent executions which he commanded. But, as no touch of
mercy ever induced him to spare, when he could with safety condemn, so no
sentiment of vengeance ever stimulated him to a premature violence. He seldom
sprung on his prey till it was fairly within his grasp, and till all hope of
rescue was vain; and his movements were so studiously disguised, that his
success was generally what first announced to the world the object he had been
manoeuvring to attain.
    In like manner, the avarice of Louis gave way to apparent profusion, when it
was necessary to bribe the favourite or minister of a rival prince for averting
any impending attack, or to break up any alliance confederated against him. He
was fond of license and pleasure; but neither beauty nor the chase, though both
were ruling passions, ever withdrew him from the most regular attendance to
public business and the affairs of his kingdom. His knowledge of mankind was
profound, and he had sought it in the private walks of life, in which he often
personally mingled; and, though naturally proud and haughty, he hesitated not,
with an inattention to the arbitrary divisions of society which was then thought
something portentously unnatural, to raise from the lowest rank men whom he
employed on the most important duties, and knew so well how to choose them, that
he was rarely disappointed in their qualities.
    Yet there were contradictions in the character of this artful and able
monarch; for human nature is rarely uniform. Himself the most false and
insincere of mankind, some of the greatest errors of his life arose from too
rash a confidence in the honour and integrity of others. When these errors took
place, they seem to have arisen from an over-refined system of policy, which
induced Louis to assume the appearance of undoubting confidence in those whom it
was his object to overreach; for, in his general conduct, he was as jealous and
suspicious as any tyrant who ever breathed.
    Two other points may be noticed, to complete the sketch of this formidable
character, by which he rose among the rude chivalrous sovereigns of the period
to the rank of a keeper among wild beasts, who, by superior wisdom and policy,
by distribution of food, and some discipline by blows, comes finally to
predominate over those, who, if unsubjected by his arts, would by main strength
have torn him to pieces.
    The first of these attributes was Louis's excessive superstition, a plague
with which Heaven often afflicts those who refuse to listen to the dictates of
religion. The remorse arising from his evil actions Louis never endeavoured to
appease by any relaxation in his Machiavellian stratagems, but laboured, in
vain, to soothe and silence that painful feeling by superstitious observances,
severe penance, and profuse gifts to the ecclesiastics. The second property,
with which the first is sometimes found strangely united, was a disposition to
low pleasures and obscure debauchery. The wisest, or at least the most crafty
Sovereign of his time, he was fond of low life, and, being himself a man of wit,
enjoyed the jests and repartees of social conversation more than could have been
expected from other points of his character. He even mingled in the comic
adventures of obscure intrigue, with a freedom little consistent with the
habitual and guarded jealousy of his character, and he was so fond of this
species of humble gallantry, that he caused a number of its gay and licentious
anecdotes to be enrolled in a collection well known to book-collectors, in whose
eyes (and the work is unfit for any other) the right edition is very precious.5
    By means of this monarch's powerful and prudent, though most unamiable
character, it pleased Heaven, who works by the tempest as well as by the soft
small rain, to restore to the great French nation the benefits of civil
government, which, at the time of his accession, they had nearly lost.
    Ere he had succeeded to the crown, Louis had given evidence of his vices
rather than of his talents. His first wife, Margaret of Scotland, was »done to
death by slanderous tongues« in her husband's Court, where, but for the
encouragement of Louis himself, not a word would have been breathed against that
amiable and injured princess. He had been an ungrateful and a rebellious son, at
one time conspiring to seize his father's person, and at another, levying open
war against him. For the first offence, he was banished to his appanage of
Dauphiné, which he governed with much sagacity - for the second he was driven
into absolute exile, and forced to throw himself on the mercy, and almost on the
charity, of the Duke of Burgundy and his son, where he enjoyed hospitality,
afterwards indifferently requited, until the death of his father in 1461.
    In the very outset of his reign, Louis was almost overpowered by a league
formed against him by the great vassals of France, with the Duke of Burgundy, or
rather his son, the Count de Charalois, at its head. They levied a powerful
army, blockaded Paris, fought a battle of doubtful issue under its very walls,
and placed the French monarchy on the brink of actual destruction. It usually
happens in such cases, that the more sagacious general of the two gains the real
fruit, though perhaps not the martial fame, of the disputed field. Louis, who
had shown great personal bravery during the battle of Montl'héry, was able, by
his prudence, to avail himself of its undecided character, as if it had been a
victory on his side. He temporised until the enemy had broken up their leaguer,
and shoved so much dexterity in sowing jealousies among those great powers, that
their alliance »for the public weal,« as they termed it, but, in reality, for
the overthrow of all but the external appearance of the French monarchy,
dissolved itself, and was never again renewed in a manner so formidable. From
this period, Louis, relieved of all danger from England, by the Civil wars of
York and Lancaster, was engaged for several years, like an unfeeling but able
physician, in curing the wounds of the body politic, or rather in stopping, now
by gentle remedies, now by the use of fire and steel, the progress of those
mortal gangrenes with which it was then infected. The brigandage of the Free
Companies, and the unpunished oppressions of the nobility, he laboured to
lessen, since he could not actually stop them; and, by dint of unrelaxed
attention, he gradually gained some addition to his own regal authority, or
effected some diminution of those by whom it was counterbalanced.
    Still the King of France was surrounded by doubt and danger. The members of
the league for the public weal, though not in unison, were in existence, and,
like a scotched snake, might reunite and become dangerous again. But a worse
danger was the increasing power of the Duke of Burgundy, then one of the
greatest Princes of Europe, and little diminished in rank by the very slight
dependence of his duchy upon the crown of France.
    Charles, surnamed the Bold, or rather the Audacious, for his courage was
allied to rashness and frenzy, then wore the ducal coronet of Burgundy, which he
burned to convert into a royal and independent regal crown. The character of
this Duke was in every respect the direct contrast to that of Louis XI.
    The latter was calm, deliberate, and crafty, never prosecuting a desperate
enterprise, and never abandoning one likely to be successful, however distant
the prospect. The genius of the Duke was entirely different. He rushed on danger
because he loved it, and on difficulties because he despised them. As Louis
never sacrificed his interest to his passion, so Charles, on the other hand,
never sacrificed his passion, or even his humour, to any other consideration.
Notwithstanding the near relationship that existed between them, and the support
which the Duke and his father had afforded to Louis in his exile when Dauphin,
there was mutual contempt and hatred betwixt them. The Duke of Burgundy despised
the cautious policy of the King, and imputed to the faintness of his courage,
that he sought by leagues, purchases, and other indirect means, those
advantages, which, in his place, the Duke would have snatched with an armed
hand. He likewise hated the King, not only for the ingratitude he had manifested
for former kindnesses, and for personal injuries and imputations which the
ambassadors of Louis had cast upon him, when his father was yet alive, but also,
and especially, because of the support which he afforded in secret to the
discontented citizens of Ghent, Liege, and other great towns in Flanders. These
turbulent cities, jealous of their privileges, and proud of their wealth, were
frequently in a state of insurrection against their liege lords the Dukes of
Burgundy, and never failed to find underhand countenance at the Court of Louis,
who embraced every opportunity of fomenting disturbance within the dominions of
his overgrown vassal.
    The contempt and hatred of the Duke were retaliated by Louis with equal
energy, though he used a thicker veil to conceal his sentiments. It was
impossible for a man of his profound sagacity not to despise the stubborn
obstinacy which never resigned its purpose, however fatal perseverance might
prove, and the headlong impetuosity, which commenced its career without allowing
a moment's consideration for the obstacles to be encountered. Yet the King hated
Charles even more than he contemned him, and his scorn and hatred were the more
intense, that they were mingled with fear; for he knew that the onset of the mad
bull, to whom he likened the Duke of Burgundy, must ever be formidable, though
the animal makes it with shut eyes. It was not alone the wealth of the
Burgundian provinces, the discipline of the warlike inhabitants, and the mass of
their crowded population, which the King dreaded, for the personal qualities of
their leader had also much in them that was dangerous. The very soul of bravery,
which he pushed to the verge of rashness, and beyond it - profuse in expenditure
- splendid in his court, his person, and his retinue, in all which he displayed
the hereditary magnificence of the house of Burgundy, Charles the Bold drew into
his service almost all the fiery spirits of the age whose tempers were
congenial; and Louis saw too clearly what might be attempted and executed by
such a train of resolute adventurers, following a leader of a character as
ungovernable as their own.
    There was yet another circumstance which increased the animosity of Louis
towards his overgrown vassal; he owed him favours which he never meant to repay,
and was under the frequent necessity of temporising with him, and even of
enduring bursts of petulant insolence, injurious to the regal dignity, without
being able to treat him otherwise than as his fair cousin of Burgundy.
    It was about the year 1468, when their feuds were at the highest, though a
dubious and hollow truce, as frequently happened, existed for the time betwixt
them, that the present narrative opens. The person first introduced on the stage
will be found indeed to be of a rank and condition, the illustration of whose
character scarcely called for a dissertation on the relative position of two
great princes; but the passions of the great, their quarrels, and their
reconciliations, involve the fortunes of all who approach them; and it will be
found, on proceeding farther in our story, that this preliminary Chapter is
necessary for comprehending the history of the individual whose adventures we
are about to relate.
 

                                 Chapter Second

                                 The Wanderer.

 Why then the world is my oyster, which I with sword will open.
                                                                 Ancient Pistol.
 
It was upon a delicious summer morning, before the sun had assumed its scorching
power, and while the dews yet cooled and perfumed the air, that a youth, coming
from the north-eastward, approached the ford of a small river, or rather a large
brook, tributary to the Cher, near to the royal Castle of Plessis-les-Tours,
whose dark and multiplied battlements rose in the background over the extensive
forest with which they were surrounded. These woodlands comprised a noble chase,
or royal park, fenced by an enclosure, termed, in the Latin of the middle ages,
Plexitium, which gives the name of Plessis to so many villages in France. The
castle and village of which we particularly speak, was called Plessis-les-Tours,
to distinguish it from others, and was built about two miles to the southward of
the fair town of that name, the capital of ancient Touraine, whose rich plain
has been termed the Garden of France.
    On the bank of the above-mentioned brook, opposite to that which the
traveller was approaching, two men, who appeared in deep conversation, seemed,
from time to time, to watch his motions; for, as their station was much more
elevated, they could remark him at a considerable distance.
    The age of the young traveller might be about nineteen, or betwixt that and
twenty; and his face and person, which were very prepossessing, did not,
however, belong to the country in which he was now a sojourner. His short grey
cloak and hose were rather of Flemish than of French fashion, while the smart
blue bonnet, with a single sprig of holly and an eagle's feather, was already
recognised as the Scottish head-gear. His dress was very neat, and arranged with
the precision of a youth conscious of possessing a fine person. He had at his
back a satchel, which seemed to contain a few necessaries, a hawking gauntlet on
his left hand, though he carried no bird, and in his right a stout hunter's
pole. Over his left shoulder hung an embroidered scarf which sustained a small
pouch of scarlet velvet, such as was then used by fowlers of distinction to
carry their hawks' food, and other matters belonging to that much-admired sport.
This was crossed by another shoulder-belt, to which was hung a hunting-knife, or
couteau de chasse. Instead of the boots of the period, he wore buskins of half-
deer's-skin.
    Although his form had not yet attained its full strength, he was tall and
active, and the lightness of the step with which he advanced, showed that his
pedestrian mode of travelling was pleasure rather than pain to him. His
complexion was fair, in spite of a general shade of darker hue, with which the
foreign sun, or perhaps constant exposure to the atmosphere in his own country,
had, in some degree, embrowned it.
    His features, without being quite regular, were frank, open, and pleasing. A
half smile, which seemed to arise from a happy exuberance of animal spirits,
showed, now and then, that his teeth were well set, and as pure as ivory; whilst
his bright blue eye, with a corresponding gaiety, had an appropriate glance for
every object which it encountered, expressing good-humour, lightness of heart,
and determined resolution.
    He received and returned the salutation of the few travellers who frequented
the road in those dangerous times with the action which suited each. The
strolling spearman, half soldier, half brigand, measured the youth with his eye,
as if balancing the prospect of booty with the chance of desperate resistance;
and read such indications of the latter in the fearless glance of the passenger,
that he changed his ruffian purpose for a surly »Good-morrow, comrade,« which
the young Scot answered with as martial, though a less sullen tone. The
wandering pilgrim, or the begging friar, answered his reverent greeting with a
paternal benedicite; and the dark-eyed peasant girl looked after him for many a
step after they had passed each other, and interchanged a laughing good-morrow.
In short, there was an attraction about his whole appearance not easily escaping
attention, and which was derived from the combination of fearless frankness and
good-humour, with sprightly looks, and a handsome face and person. It seemed,
too, as if his whole demeanour bespoke one who was entering on life with no
apprehension of the evils with which it is beset, and small means for struggling
with its hardships, except a lively spirit and a courageous disposition; and it
is with such tempers that youth most readily sympathises, and for whom chiefly
age and experience feel affectionate and pitying interest.
    The youth whom we have described had been long visible to the two persons
who loitered on the opposite side of the small river which divided him from the
park and the castle; but as he descended the rugged bank to the water's edge,
with the light step of a roe which visits the fountain, the younger of the two
said to the other, »It is our man - it is the Bohemian! If he attempts to cross
the ford, he is a lost man - the water is up, and the ford impassable.«
    »Let him make that discovery himself, gossip,« said the elder personage; »it
may, perchance, save a rope, and break a proverb.«
    »I judge him by the blue cap,« said the other, »for I cannot see his face. -
Hark, sir - he hallooes to know whether the water be deep.«
    »Nothing like experience in this world,« answered the other - »let him try.«
    The young man, in the meanwhile, receiving no hint to the contrary, and
taking the silence of those to whom he applied as an encouragement to proceed,
entered the stream without farther hesitation than the delay necessary to take
off his buskins. The elder person, at the same moment, hallooed to him to
beware, adding, in a lower tone, to his companion, »Mortdieu, - gossip - you
have made another mistake - this is not the Bohemian chatterer.«
    But the intimation to the youth came too late. He either did not hear or
could not profit by it, being already in the deep stream. To one less alert, and
practised in the exercise of swimming, death had been certain, for the brook was
both deep and strong.
    »By Saint Anne! but he is a proper youth,« said the elder man - »Run,
gossip, and help your blunder, by giving him aid, if thou canst. He belongs to
thine own troop - if old saws speak truth, water will not drown him.«
    Indeed, the young traveller swam so strongly, and buffeted the waves so
well, that, notwithstanding the strength of the current, he was carried but a
little way down from the ordinary landing-place.
    By this time the younger of the two strangers was hurrying down to the shore
to render assistance, while the other followed him at a graver pace, saying to
himself as he approached, »I knew water would never drown that young fellow. -
By my halidome, he is ashore, and grasps his pole! - If I make not the more
haste, he will beat my gossip for the only charitable action which I ever saw
him perform, or attempt to perform, in the whole course of his life.«
    There was some reason to augur such a conclusion of the adventure, for the
bonny Scot had already accosted the younger Samaritan, who was hastening to his
assistance, with these ireful words - »Discourteous dog! why did you not answer
when I called to know if the passage was fit to be attempted? May the foul fiend
catch me, but I will teach you the respect due to strangers on the next
occasion.«
    This was accompanied with that significant flourish with his pole which is
called le moulinet, because the artist, holding it in the middle, brandished the
two ends in every direction, like the sails of a windmill in motion. His
opponent, seeing himself thus menaced, laid hand upon his sword, for he was one
of those who on all occasions are more ready for action than for speech; but his
more considerate comrade, who came up, commanded him to forbear, and, turning to
the young man, accused him in turn of precipitation in plunging into the swollen
ford, and of intemperate violence in quarrelling with a man who was hastening to
his assistance.
    The young man, on hearing himself thus reproved by a man of advanced age and
respectable appearance, immediately lowered his weapon, and said he would be
sorry if he had done them injustice; but, in reality, it appeared to him as if
they had suffered him to put his life in peril for want of a word of timely
warning, which could be the part neither of honest men nor of good Christians,
far less of respectable burgesses, such as they seemed to be.
    »Fair son,« said the elder person, »you seem, from your accent and
complexion, a stranger; and you should recollect your dialect is not so easily
comprehended by us, as perhaps it may be uttered by you.«
    »Well, father,« answered the youth, »I do not care much about the ducking I
have had, and I will readily forgive your being partly the cause, provided you
will direct me to some place where I can have my clothes dried; for it is my
only suit, and I must keep it somewhat decent.«
    »For whom do you take us, fair son?« said the elder stranger, in answer to
this question.
    »For substantial burgesses, unquestionably,« said the youth; »or, hold -
you, master, may be a money-broker, or a corn-merchant; and this man a butcher,
or grazier.«
    »You have hit our capacities rarely,« said the elder, smiling. »My business
is indeed to trade in as much money as I can; and my gossip's dealings are
somewhat of kin to the butcher's. As to your accommodation, we will try to serve
you; but I must first know who you are, and whither you are going; for, in these
times, the roads are filled with travellers on foot and horseback, who have
anything in their head but honesty and the fear of God.«
    The young man cast another keen and penetrating glance on him who spoke, and
on his silent companion, as if doubtful whether they, on their part, merited the
confidence they demanded; and the result of his observation was as follows.
    The eldest, and most remarkable of these men in dress and appearance,
resembled the merchant or shopkeeper of the period. His jerkin, hose, and cloak,
were of a dark uniform colour, but worn so threadbare, that the acute young Scot
conceived that the wearer must be either very rich or very poor, probably the
former. The fashion of the dress was close and short - a kind of garments which
were not then held decorous among gentry, or even the superior class of
citizens, who generally wore loose gowns which descended below the middle of the
leg.
    The expression of this man's countenance was partly attractive, and partly
forbidding. His strong features, sunk cheeks, and hollow eyes, had nevertheless
an expression of shrewdness and humour congenial to the character of the young
adventurer. But then, those same sunken eyes, from under the shroud of thick
black eyebrows, had something in them that was at once commanding and sinister.
Perhaps this effect was increased by the low fur cap, much depressed on the
forehead, and adding to the shade from under which those eyes peered out; but it
is certain that the young stranger had some difficulty to reconcile his looks
with the meanness of his appearance in other respects.
    His cap, in particular, in which all men of any quality displayed either a
brooch of gold or of silver, was ornamented with a paltry image of the Virgin,
in lead, such as the poorer sort of pilgrims bring from Loretto.
    His comrade was a stout-formed, middle-sized man, more than ten years
younger than his companion, with a down-looking visage, and a very ominous
smile, when by chance he gave way to that impulse, which was never, except in
reply to certain secret signs that seemed to pass between him and the elder
stranger. This man was armed with a sword and dagger; and underneath his plain
habit, the Scotsman observed that he concealed a jazeran, or flexible shirt of
linked mail, which, as being often worn by those, even of peaceful professions,
who were called upon at that perilous period to be frequently abroad, confirmed
the young man in his conjecture, that the wearer was by profession a butcher,
grazier, or something of that description, called upon to be much abroad.
    The young stranger, comprehending in one glance the result of the
observation which has taken us some time to express, answered, after a moment's
pause, »I am ignorant whom I may have the honour to address,« making a slight
reverence at the same time, »but I am indifferent who knows that I am a cadet of
Scotland; and that I come to seek my fortune in France or elsewhere, after the
custom of my countrymen.«
    »Pasques-dieu! and a gallant custom it is,« said the elder stranger. »You
seem a fine young springald, and at the right age to prosper, whether among men
or women. What say you? I am a merchant, and want a lad to assist in my traffic
- I suppose you are too much a gentleman to assist in such mechanical drudgery?«
    »Fair sir,« said the youth, »if your offer be seriously made - of which I
have my doubts - I am bound to thank you for it, and I thank you accordingly;
but I fear I should be altogether unfit for your service.«
    »What!« said the senior, »I warrant thou knows better how to draw the bow,
than how to draw a bill of charges, - canst handle a broadsword better than a
pen - ha!«
    »I am, master,« answered the young Scot, »a braeman, and therefore, as we
say, a bowman. But besides that, I have been in a convent, where the good
fathers taught me to read and write, and even to cipher.«
    »Pasques-dieu! that is too magnificent,« said the merchant. »By our Lady of
Embrun, thou art a prodigy, man!«
    »Rest you merry, fair master,« said the youth, who was not much pleased with
his new acquaintance's jocularity; »I must go dry myself, instead of standing
dripping here, answering questions.«
    The merchant only laughed louder as he spoke, and answered, »Pasques-dieu!
the proverb never fails - fier come un Ecossois - but come, youngster, you are
of a country I have a regard for, having traded in Scotland in my time - an
honest poor set of folks they are; and, if you will come with us to the village,
I will bestow on you a cup of burnt sack and a warm breakfast, to atone for your
drenching. - But, téte-bleu! what do you with a hunting-glove on your hand? Know
you not there is no hawking permitted in a royal chase?«
    »I was taught that lesson,« answered the youth, »by a rascally forester of
the Duke of Burgundy. I did but fly the falcon I had brought with me from
Scotland, and that I reckoned on for bringing me into some note, at a heron near
Peronne, and the rascally schelm shot my bird with an arrow.«
    »What did you do?« said the merchant.
    »Beat him,« said the youngster, brandishing his staff, »as near to death as
one Christian man should belabour another - I wanted not to have his blood to
answer for.«
    »Know you,« said the burgess, »that had you fallen into the Duke of
Burgundy's hands, he would have hung you up like a chestnut?«
    »Ay, I am told he is as prompt as the King of France for that sort of work.
But, as this happened near Peronne, I made a leap over the frontiers, and
laughed at him. If he had not been so hasty, I might, perhaps, have taken
service with him.«
    »He will have a heavy miss of such a paladin as you are, if the truce should
break off,« said the merchant, and threw a look at his own companion, who
answered him with one of the downcast lowering smiles, which gleamed along his
countenance, enlivening it as a passing meteor enlivens a winter sky.
    The young Scot suddenly stopped, pulled his bonnet over his right eyebrow,
as one that would not be ridiculed, and said firmly, »My masters, and especially
you, sir, the elder, and who should be the wiser, you will find, I presume, no
sound or safe jesting at my expense. I do not altogether like the tone of your
conversation. I can take a jest with any man, and a rebuke, too, from my elder,
and say, thank you, sir, if I know it to be deserved; but I do not like being
borne in hand as if I were a child, when, God wot, I find myself man enough to
belabour you both, if you provoke me too far.«
    The eldest man seemed like to choke with laughter at the lad's demeanour -
his companion's hand stole to his sword-hilt, which the youth observing, dealt
him a blow across the wrist, which made him incapable of grasping it; while his
companion's mirth was only increased by the incident. »Hold, hold,« he cried,
»most doughty Scot, even for thine own dear country's sake; and you, gossip,
forbear your menacing look. Pasques-dieu! let us be just traders, and set off
the wetting against the knock on the wrist, which was given with so much grace
and alacrity. - And hark ye, my young friend,« he said to the young man, with a
grave sternness which, in spite of all the youth could do, damped and overawed
him, »no more violence. I am no fit object for it, and my gossip, as you may
see, has had enough of it. Let me know your name.«
    »I can answer a civil question civilly,« said the youth; »and will pay
fitting respect to your age, if you do not urge my patience with mockery. Since
I have been here in France and Flanders, men have called me, in their fantasy,
the Varlet with the Velvet Pouch, because of this hawk-purse which I carry by my
side; but my true name, when at home, is Quentin Durward.«
    »Durward!« said the querist; »is it a gentleman's name?«
    »By fifteen descents in our family,« said the young man; »and that makes me
reluctant to follow any other trade than arms.«
    »A true Scot! Plenty of blood, plenty of pride, and right great scarcity of
ducats, I warrant thee. - Well, gossip,« he said to his companion, »go before
us, and tell them to have some breakfast ready yonder at the Mulberry-grove; for
this youth will do as much honour to it as a starved mouse to a housewife's
cheese. And for the Bohemian - hark in thy ear« -
    His comrade answered by a gloomy, but intelligent smile, and set forward at
a round pace, while the elder man continued, addressing young Durward, - »You
and I will walk leisurely forward together, and we may take a mass at Saint
Hubert's Chapel in our way through the forest; for it is not good to think of
our fleshly before our spiritual wants.«
    Durward, as a good Catholic, had nothing to object against this proposal,
although he might probably have been desirous, in the first place, to have dried
his clothes and refreshed himself. Meanwhile, they soon lost sight of their
downward-looking companion, but continued to follow the same path which he had
taken, until it led them into a wood of tall trees, mixed with thickets and
brushwood, traversed by long avenues, through which were seen, as through a
vista, the deer trotting in little herds with a degree of security which argued
their consciousness of being completely protected.
    »You asked me if I were a good bowman,« said the young Scot - »Give me a bow
and a brace of shafts, and you shall have a piece of venison in a moment.«
    »Pasques-dieu! my young friend,« said his companion, »take care of that; my
gossip yonder hath a special eye to the deer; they are under his charge, and he
is a strict keeper.«
    »He hath more the air of a butcher, than of a gay forester,« answered
Durward. »I cannot think yon hang-dog look of his belongs to any one who knows
the gentle rules of woodcraft.«
    »Ah, my young friend,« answered his companion, »my gossip hath somewhat an
ugly favour to look upon at the first; but those who become acquainted with him,
never are known to complain of him.«
    Quentin Durward found something singularly and disagreeably significant in
the tone with which this was spoken; and, looking suddenly at the speaker,
thought he saw in his countenance, in the slight smile that curled his upper
lip, and the accompanying twinkle of his keen dark eye, something to justify his
unpleasing surprise. »I have heard of robbers,« he thought to himself, »and of
wily cheats and cut-throats - what if yonder fellow be a murderer, and this old
rascal his decoy-duck? I will be on my guard - they will get little by me but
good Scottish knocks.«
    While he was thus reflecting, they came to a glade, where the large forest
trees were more widely separated from each other, and where the ground beneath,
cleared of underwood and bushes, was clothed with a carpet of the softest and
most lovely verdure, which, screened from the scorching heat of the sun, was
here more beautifully tender than it is usually to be seen in France. The trees
in this secluded spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which
rose like great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of
the earth, there peeped out, in the most open spot of the glade, a lowly chapel,
near which trickled a small rivulet. Its architecture was of the rudest and most
simple kind; and there was a very small lodge beside it, for the accommodation
of a hermit or solitary priest, who remained there for regularly discharging the
duty of the altar. In a small niche, over the arched doorway, stood a stone
image of Saint Hubert, with the bugle-horn around his neck, and a leash of
greyhounds at his feet. The situation of the chapel in the midst of a park or
chase, so richly stocked with game, made the dedication to the Sainted Huntsman
peculiarly appropriate.6
    Towards this little devotional structure the old man directed his steps,
followed by young Durward; and, as they approached, the priest, dressed in his
sacerdotal garments, made his appearance, in the act of proceeding from his cell
to the chapel, for the discharge, doubtless, of his holy office. Durward bowed
his body reverently to the priest, as the respect due to his sacred office
demanded; whilst his companion, with an appearance of still more deep devotion,
kneeled on one knee to receive the holy man's blessing, and then followed him
into church, with a step and manner expressive of the most heartfelt contrition
and humility.
    The inside of the chapel was adorned in a manner adapted to the occupation
of the patron-saint while on earth. The richest furs of such animals as are made
the objects of the chase in different countries, supplied the place of tapestry
and hangings around the altar and elsewhere, and the characteristic
emblazonments of bugles, bows, quivers, and other emblems of hunting, surrounded
the walls, and were mingled with the heads of deer, wolves, and other animals
considered beasts of sport. The whole adornments took an appropriate and silvan
character; and the mass itself, being considerably shortened, proved to be of
that sort which is called a hunting-mass, because in use before the noble and
powerful, who, while assisting at the solemnity, are usually impatient to
commence their favourite sport.
    Yet, during this brief ceremony, Durward's companion seemed to pay the most
rigid and scrupulous attention; while Durward, not quite so much occupied with
religious thoughts, could not forbear blaming himself in his own mind, for
having entertained suspicions derogatory to the character of so good and so
humble a man. Far from now holding him as a companion and accomplice of robbers,
he had much to do to forbear regarding him as a saint-like personage.
    When mass was ended, they retired together from the chapel, and the elder
said to his young comrade, »It is but a short walk from hence to the village -
you may now break your fast with an unprejudiced conscience - follow me.«
    Turning to the right, and proceeding along a path which seemed gradually to
ascend, he recommended to his companion by no means to quit the track, but, on
the contrary, to keep the middle of it as nearly as he could. Durward could not
help asking the cause of this precaution.
    »You are now near the Court, young man,« answered his guide; »and,
Pasques-dieu! there is some difference betwixt walking in this region and on
your own heathy hills. Every yard of this ground, excepting the path which we
now occupy, is rendered dangerous, and well-nigh impracticable, by snares and
traps, armed with scythe-blades, which shred off the unwary passenger's limb as
sheerly as a hedge-bill lops a hawthorn-sprig - and calthrops that would pierce
your foot through, and pit-falls deep enough to bury you in them for ever; for
you are now within the precincts of the royal demesne, and we shall presently
see the front of the Chateau.«
    »Were I the King of France,« said the young man, »I would not take so much
trouble with traps and gins, but would try instead to govern so well, that no
man should dare to come near my dwelling with a bad intent; and for those who
came there in peace and good-will, why, the more of them the merrier we should
be.«
    His companion looked round affecting an alarmed gaze, and said, »Hush, hush,
Sir Varlet with the Velvet Pouch! for I forgot to tell you, that one great
danger of these precincts is, that the very leaves of the trees are like so many
ears, which carry all which is spoken to the King's own cabinet.«
    »I care little for that,« answered Quentin Durward; »I bear a Scottish
tongue in my head, bold enough to speak my mind to King Louis's face, God bless
him - and for the ears you talk of, if I could see them growing on a human head,
I would crop them out of it with my wood-knife.«
 

                                 Chapter Third

                                  The Castle.

 Full in the midst a mighty pile arose,
 Where iron-grated gates their strength oppose
 To each invading step - and, strong and steep,
 The battled walls arose, the fosse sunk deep.
 Slow round the fortress roll'd the sluggish stream,
 And high in middle air the warder's turrets gleam.
                                                                      Anonymous.
 
While Durward and his new acquaintance thus spoke, they came in sight of the
whole front of the Castle of Plessis-les-Tours, which, even in those dangerous
times, when the great found themselves obliged to reside within places of
fortified strength, was distinguished for the extreme and jealous care with
which it was watched and defended.
    From the verge of the wood where young Durward halted with his companion, in
order to take a view of this royal residence, extended, or rather arose, though
by a very gentle elevation, an open esplanade, devoid of trees and bushes of
every description, excepting one gigantic and half-withered old oak. This space
was left open, according to the rules of fortification in all ages, in order
that an enemy might not approach the walls under cover, or unobserved from the
battlements, and beyond it arose the Castle itself.
    There were three external walls, battlemented and turreted from space to
apace, and at each angle, the second enclosure rising higher than the first, and
being built so as to command the exterior defence in case it was won by the
enemy; and being again, in the same manner, itself commanded by the third and
innermost barrier. Around the external wall, as the Frenchman informed his young
companion (for, as they stood lower than the foundation of the wall, he could
not see it), was sunk a ditch of about twenty feet in depth, supplied with water
by a dam-head on the river Cher, or rather on one of its tributary branches. In
front of the second enclosure, he said, there ran another fosse, and a third,
both of the same unusual dimensions, was led between the second and the
innermost enclosure. The verge, both of the outer and inner circuit of this
triple moat, was strongly fenced with palisades of iron, serving the purpose of
what are called chevaux-de-frise in modern fortification, the top of each pale
being divided into a cluster of sharp spikes, which seemed to render any attempt
to climb over an act of self-destruction.
    Far within the innermost enclosure arose the Castle itself, containing
buildings of different periods, crowded around, and united with the ancient and
grim-looking donjon-keep, which was older than any of them, and which rose, like
a black Ethiopian giant, high into the air, while the absence of any windows
larger than shot-holes, irregularly disposed for defence, gave the spectator the
same unpleasant feeling which we experience on looking at a blind man. The other
buildings seemed scarcely better adapted for the purposes of comfort, for the
windows opened to an inner and enclosed courtyard; so that the whole external
front looked much more like that of a prison than a palace. The reigning King
had even increased this effect; for, desirous that the additions which he
himself had made to the fortifications should be of a character not easily
distinguished from the original building (for, like many jealous persons, he
loved not that his suspicions should be observed), the darkest-coloured brick
and freestone were employed, and soot mingled with the lime, so as to give the
whole Castle the same uniform tinge of extreme and rude antiquity.
    This formidable place had but one entrance, at least Durward saw none along
the spacious front, except where, in the centre of the first and outward
boundary, arose two strong towers, the usual defences of a gateway; and he could
observe their ordinary accompaniments, portcullis and drawbridge - of which the
first was lowered, and the last raised. Similar entrance-towers were visible on
the second and third bounding wall, but not in the same line with those on the
outward circuit; because the passage did not cut right through the whole three
enclosures at the same point, but, on the contrary, those who entered had to
proceed nearly thirty yards betwixt the first and second wall, exposed, if their
purpose were hostile, to missiles from both; and again, when the second boundary
was passed, they must make a similar digression from the straight line, in order
to attain the portal of the third and innermost enclosure; so that, before
gaining the outer court, which ran along the front of the building, two narrow
and dangerous defiles were to be traversed under a flanking discharge of
artillery, and three gates, defended in the strongest manner known to the age,
were to be successively forced.
    Coming from a country alike desolated by foreign war and internal feuds, - a
country, too, whose unequal and mountainous surface, abounding in precipices and
torrents, affords so many situations of strength, - young Durward was
sufficiently acquainted with all the various contrivances by which men, in that
stern age, endeavoured to secure their dwellings; but he frankly owned to his
companion that he did not think it had been in the power of art to do so much
for defence, where nature had done so little; for the situation, as we have
hinted, was merely the summit of a gentle elevation ascending upwards from the
place where they were standing.
    To enhance his surprise, his companion told him that the environs of the
Castle, except the single winding-path by which the portal might be safely
approached, were, like the thickets through which they had passed, surrounded
with every species of hidden pit-fall, snare, and gin, to entrap the wretch who
should venture thither without a guide; that upon the walls were constructed
certain cradles of iron, called swallows' nests, from which the sentinels, who
were regularly posted there, could, without being exposed to any risk, take
deliberate aim at any who should attempt to enter without the proper signal or
password of the day; and that the Archers of the Royal Guard performed that duty
day and night, for which they received high pay, rich clothing, and much honour
and profit at the hands of King Louis. »And now tell me, young man,« he
continued, »did you ever see so strong a fortress, and do you think there are
men bold enough to storm it?«
    The young man looked long and fixedly on the place, the sight of which
interested him so much, that he had forgotten, in the eagerness of youthful
curiosity, the wetness of his dress. His eye glanced, and his colour mounted to
his cheek like that of a daring man who meditates an honourable action, as he
replied, »It is a strong castle and strongly guarded; but there is no
impossibility to brave men.«
    »Are there any in your country who could do such a feat?« said the elder,
rather scornfully.
    »I will not affirm that,« answered the youth; »but there are thousands that,
in a good cause, would attempt as bold a deed.«
    »Umph!« - said the senior, »perhaps you are yourself such a gallant!«
    »I should sin if I were to boast where there is no danger,« answered young
Durward; »but my father has done as bold an act, and I trust I am no bastard.«
    »Well,« said his companion, smiling, »you might meet your match, and your
kindred withal in the attempt; for the Scottish Archers of King Louis's
Life-guards stand sentinels on yonder walls - three hundred gentlemen of the
best blood in your country.«
    »And were I King Louis,« said the youth, in reply, »I would trust my safety
to the faith of the three hundred Scottish gentlemen, throw down my bounding
walls to fill up the moat, call in my noble peers and paladins, and live as
became me, amid breaking of lances in gallant tournaments, and feasting of days
with nobles, and dancing of nights with ladies, and have no more fear of a foe
than I have of a fly.«
    His companion again smiled, and turning his back on the Castle, which, he
observed, they had approached a little too nearly, he led the way again into the
wood, by a more broad and beaten path than they had yet trodden. »This,« he
said, »leads us to the village of Plessis, as it is called, where you, as a
stranger, will find reasonable and honest accommodation. About two miles onward
lies the fine city of Tours, which gives name to this rich and beautiful
earldom. But the village of Plessis, or Plessis of the Park, as it is sometimes
called, from its vicinity to the royal residence, and the chase with which it is
encircled, will yield you nearer, and as convenient hospitality.«
    »I thank you, kind master, for your information,« said the Scot; »but my
stay will be so short here, that if I fail not in a morsel of meat, and a drink
of something better than water, my necessities in Plessis, be it of the park or
the pool, will be amply satisfied.«
    »Nay,« answered his companion, »I thought you had some friend to see in this
quarter.«
    »And so I have - my mother's own brother,« answered Durward; »and as pretty
a man, before he left the braes of Angus, as ever planted brogue on heather.«
    »What is his name?« said the senior; »we will inquire him out for you; for
it is not safe for you to go up to the Castle, where you might be taken for a
spy.«
    »Now, by my father's hand!« said the youth, »I taken for a spy! - By Heaven,
he shall brook cold iron that brands me with such a charge! - But for my uncle's
name, I care not who knows it - it is Lesly. Lesly - an honest and noble name.«
    »And so it is I doubt not,« said the old man; »but there are three of the
name in the Scottish Guard.«
    »My uncle's name is Ludovic Lesly,« said the young man.
    »Of the three Leslys,« answered the merchant, »two are called Ludovic.«
    »They call my kinsman Ludovic with the Scar,« said Quentin. - »Our family
names are so common in a Scottish house, that, where there is no land in the
case, we always give a to-name.«
    »A nom de guerre, I suppose you to mean,« answered his companion; »and the
man you speak of, we, I think, call Le Balafré, from that scar on his face - a
proper man, and a good soldier. I wish I may be able to help you to an interview
with him, for he belongs to a set of gentlemen whose duty is strict, and who do
not often come out of garrison, unless in the immediate attendance on the King's
person. - And now, young man, answer me one question. I will wager you are
desirous to take service with your uncle in the Scottish Guard. It is a great
thing, if you propose so; especially as you are very young, and some years'
experience is necessary for the high office which you aim at.«
    »Perhaps I may have thought on some such thing,« said Durward, carelessly;
»but if I did, the fancy is off.«
    »How so, young man?« said the Frenchman, something sternly - »Do you speak
thus of a charge which the most noble of your countrymen feel themselves emulous
to be admitted to?«
    »I wish them joy of it,« said Quentin, composedly. - »To speak plain, I
should have liked the service of the French King full well; only dress me as
fine, and feed me as high as you will, I love the open air better than being
shut up in a cage or a swallow's nest yonder, as you call these same grated
pepper-boxes. Besides,« he added, in a lower voice, »to speak truth, I love not
the Castle when the covin-tree7 bears such acorns as I see yonder.«
    »I guess what you mean,« said the Frenchman; »but speak yet more plainly.«
    »To speak more plainly, then,« said the youth, »there grows a fair oak some
flight-shot or so from yonder Castle - and on that oak hangs a man in a grey
jerkin, such as this which I wear.«
    »Ay and indeed!« said the man of France - »Pasques-dieu! see what it is to
have youthful eyes! Why, I did see something, but only took it for a raven among
the branches. But the sight is no ways strange, young man; when the summer fades
into autumn, and moonlight nights are long, and roads become unsafe, you will
see a cluster of ten, ay of twenty such acorns, hanging on that old doddered
oak. - But what then? - they are so many banners displayed to scare knaves; and
for each rogue that hangs there, an honest man may reckon that there is a thief,
a traitor, a robber on the highway, a pilleur and oppressor of the people, the
fewer in France. These, young man, are signs of our Sovereign's justice.«
    »I would have hung them farther from my palace, though, were I King Louis,«
said the youth. - »In my country, we hang up dead corbies where living corbies
haunt, but not in our gardens or pigeon-houses. The very scent of the carrion -
faugh - reached my nostrils at the distance where we stood.«
    »If you live to be an honest and loyal servant of your Prince, my good
youth,« answered the Frenchman, »you will know there is no perfume to match the
scent of a dead traitor.«
    »I shall never wish to live till I lose the scent of my nostrils or the
sight of my eyes,« said the Scot. - »Show me a living traitor, and here are my
hand and my weapon; but when life is out, hatred should not live longer. - But
here, I fancy, we come upon the village; where I hope to show you that neither
ducking nor disgust have spoiled mine appetite for my breakfast. So, my good
friend, to the hostelrie, with all the speed you may. - Yet, ere I accept of
your hospitality, let me know by what name to call you.«
    »Men call me Maitre Pierre,« answered his companion. - »I deal in no titles.
A plain man, that can live on mine own good - that is my designation.«
    »So be it, Maitre Pierre,« said Quentin, »and I am happy my good chance has
thrown us together; for I want a word of seasonable advice, and can be thankful
for it.«
    While they spoke thus, the tower of the Church, and a tall wooden crucifix,
rising above the trees, showed that they were at the entrance of the village.
    But Maitre Pierre, deflecting a little from the road, which had now joined
an open and public causeway, said to his companion, that the inn to which he
intended to introduce him stood somewhat secluded, and received only the better
sort of travellers.
    »If you mean those who travel with the better filled purses,« answered the
Scot, »I am none of the number, and will rather stand my chance of your flayers
on the highway, than of your flayers in the hostelrie.«
    »Pasques-dieu!« said his guide, »how cautious your countrymen of Scotland
are! An Englishman, now, throws himself headlong into a tavern, eats and drinks
of the best, and never thinks of the reckoning till his belly is full. But you
forget, Master Quentin, since Quentin is your name, you forget I owe you a
breakfast for the wetting which my mistake procured you - It is the penance of
my offence towards you.«
    »In truth,« said the light-hearted young man, »I had forgot wetting,
offence, and penance, and all. I have walked my clothes dry, or nearly so, but I
will not refuse your offer in kindness; for my dinner yesterday was a light one,
and supper I had none. You seem an old and respectable burgess, and I see no
reason why I should not accept your courtesy.«
    The Frenchman smiled aside, for he saw plainly that the youth, while he was
probably half famished, had yet some difficulty to reconcile himself to the
thoughts of feeding at a stranger's cost, and was endeavouring to subdue his
inward pride by the reflection, that, in such slight obligations, the acceptor
performed as complaisant a part as he by whom the courtesy was offered.
    In the meanwhile, they descended a narrow lane, overshadowed by tall elms,
at the bottom of which a gateway admitted them into the court-yard of an inn of
unusual magnitude, calculated for the accommodation of the nobles and suitors
who had business at the neighbouring Castle, where very seldom, and only when
such hospitality was altogether unavoidable, did Louis XI. permit any of his
Court to have apartments. A scutcheon, bearing the fleur-de-lys, hung over the
principal door of the large irregular building; but there was about the yard and
the offices little or none of the bustle which in those days, when attendants
were maintained both in public and in private houses, marked that business was
alive, and custom plenty. It seemed as if the stern and unsocial character of
the royal mansion in the neighbourhood had communicated a portion of its solemn
and terrific gloom even to a place designed, according to universal custom
elsewhere, for the temple of social indulgence, merry society, and good cheer.
    Maitre Pierre, without calling any one, and even without approaching the
principal entrance, lifted the latch of a side door, and led the way into a
large room, where a fagot was blazing on the hearth, and arrangements made for a
substantial breakfast.
    »My gossip has been careful,« said the Frenchman to the Scot. - »You must be
cold, and I have commanded a fire; you must be hungry, and you shall have
breakfast presently.«
    He whistled, and the landlord entered, - answered Maitre Pierre's bon jour
with a reverence, - but in no respects showed any part of the prating humour
properly belonging to a French publican of all ages.
    »I expected a gentleman,« said Maitre Pierre, »to order breakfast - Hath he
done so?«
    In answer, the landlord only bowed; and while he continued to bring, and
arrange upon the table, the various articles of a comfortable meal, omitted to
extol their merits by a single word. And yet the breakfast merited such
eulogiums as French hosts are wont to confer upon their regales, as the reader
will be informed in the next Chapter.
 

                                 Chapter Fourth

                                 The Déjeuner.

 Sacred heaven! what masticators! what bread!
                                                               Yorick's Travels.
 
We left our young stranger in France situated more comfortably than he had found
himself since entering the territories of the ancient Gauls. The breakfast, as
we hinted in the conclusion of the last Chapter, was admirable. There was a pâté
de Périgord, over which a gastronome would have wished to live and die, like
Homer's lotus-eaters, forgetful of kin, native country, and all social
obligations whatever. Its vast walls of magnificent crust seemed raised like the
bulwarks of some rich metropolitan city, an emblem of the wealth which they are
designed to protect. There was a delicate ragout, with just that petit point de
l'ail which Gascons love, and Scottishmen do not hate. There was, besides, a
delicate ham, which had once supported a noble wild boar in the neighbouring
wood of Montrichart. There was the most exquisite white bread, made into little
round loaves called boules (whence the bakers took their French name of
boulangers), of which the crust was so inviting, that, even with water alone, it
would have been a delicacy. But the water was not alone, for there was a flask
of leather called bottrine, which contained about a quart of exquisite Vin de
Beaulne. So many good things might have created appetite under the ribs of
death. What effect, then, must they have produced upon a youngster of scarce
twenty, who (for the truth must be told) had eaten little for the two last days,
save the scarcely ripe fruit which chance afforded him an opportunity of
plucking, and a very moderate portion of barley-bread? He threw himself upon the
ragout, and the plate was presently vacant - he attacked the mighty pasty,
marched deep into the bowels of the land, and, seasoning his enormous meal with
an occasional cup of wine, returned to the charge again and again, to the
astonishment of mine host, and the amusement of Maitre Pierre.
    The latter, indeed, probably because he found himself the author of a kinder
action than he had thought of, seemed delighted with the appetite of the young
Scot; and when, at length, he observed that his exertions began to languish,
endeavoured to stimulate him to new efforts, by ordering confections, darioles,
and any other light dainties he could think of, to entice the youth to continue
his meal. While thus engaged, Maitre Pierre's countenance expressed a kind of
good-humour almost amounting to benevolence, which appeared remote from its
ordinary sharp, caustic, and severe character. The aged almost always sympathise
with the enjoyments of youth, and with its exertions of every kind, when the
mind of the spectator rests on its natural poise, and is not disturbed by inward
envy or idle emulation.
    Quentin Durward also, while thus agreeably employed, could do no otherwise
than discover that the countenance of his entertainer, which he had at first
found so unprepossessing, mended when it was seen under the influence of the Vin
de Beaune, and there was kindness in the tone with which he reproached Maitre
Pierre, that he amused himself with laughing at his appetite, without eating
anything himself.
    »I am doing penance,« said Maitre Pierre, »and may not eat anything before
noon, save some comfiture and a cup of water. - Bid yonder lady,« he added,
turning to the innkeeper, »bring them hither to me.«
    The innkeeper left the room, and Maitre Pierre proceeded, - »Well, have I
kept faith with you concerning the breakfast I promised you?«
    »The best meal I have eaten,« said the youth, »since I left Glen-houlakin.«
    »Glen - what?« demanded Maitre Pierre; »are you going to raise the devil,
that you use such long-tailed words?«
    »Glen-houlakin,« answered Quentin, good-humouredly, »which is to say the
Glen of the Midges, is the name of our ancient patrimony, my good sir. You have
bought the right to laugh at the sound, if you please.«
    »I have not the least intention to offend,« said the old man; »but I was
about to say, since you like your present meal so well, that the Scottish
Archers of the Guard eat as good a one, or a better, every day.«
    »No wonder,« said Durward; »for if they be shut up in the swallows' nests
all night, they must needs have a curious appetite in the morning.«
    »And plenty to gratify it upon,« said Maitre Pierre. »They need not, like
the Burgundians, chouse a bare back, that they may have a full belly - they
dress like counts, and feast like abbots.«
    »It is well for them,« said Durward.
    »And wherefore will you not take service here, young man? Your uncle might,
I dare say, have you placed on the file when there should a vacancy occur. And,
hark in your ear, I myself have some little interest, and might be of some use
to you. You can ride, I presume, as well as draw the bow?«
    »Our race are as good horsemen as ever put a plated shoe into a steel
stirrup; and I know not but I might accept of your kind offer. Yet, look you,
food and raiment are needful things, but, in my case, men think of honour, and
advancement, and brave deeds of arms. Your King Louis - God bless him, for he is
a friend and ally of Scotland - but he lies here in this castle, or only rides
about from one fortified town to another; and gains cities and provinces by
politic embassies, and not in fair fighting. Now, for me, I am of the Douglases'
mind, who always kept the fields, because they loved better to hear the lark
sing than the mouse squeak.«
    »Young man,« said Maitre Pierre, »do not judge too rashly of the actions of
sovereigns. Louis seeks to spare the blood of his subjects, and cares not for
his own. He showed himself a man of courage at Montl'héry.«
    »Ay, but that was some dozen years ago or more,« answered the youth. - »I
should like to follow a master that would keep his honour as bright as his
shield, and always venture foremost in the very throng of the battle.«
    »Why did you not tarry at Brussels, then, with the Duke of Burgundy? He
would put you in the way to have your bones broken every day; and, rather than
fail, would do the job for you himself - especially if he heard that you had
beaten his forester.«
    »Very true,« said Quentin; »my unhappy chance has shut that door against
me.«
    »Nay, there are plenty of dare-devils abroad, with whom mad youngsters may
find service,« said his adviser. »What think you, for example, of William de la
Marck?«
    »What!« exclaimed Durward, »serve Him with the Beard - serve the Wild Boar
of Ardennes - a captain of pillagers and murderers, who would take a man's life
for the value of his gaberdine, and who slays priests and pilgrims as if they
were so many lance-knights and men-at-arms? It would be a blot on my father's
scutcheon for ever.«
    »Well, my young hot-blood,« replied Maitre Pierre, »if you hold the Sanglier
too unscrupulous, wherefore not follow the young Duke of Gueldres?«8
    »Follow the foul fiend as soon,« said Quentin. »Hark in your ear - he is a
burden too heavy for earth to carry - hell gapes for him! Men say that he keeps
his own father imprisoned, and that he has even struck him - Can you believe
it?«
    Maitre Pierre seemed somewhat disconcerted with the naïve horror with which
the young Scotsman spoke of filial ingratitude, and he answered, »You know not,
young man, how short a while the relations of blood subsist amongst those of
elevated rank;« then changed the tone of feeling in which he had begun to speak,
and added, gaily, »besides, if the Duke has beaten his father, I warrant you his
father hath beaten him of old, so it is but a clearing of scores.«
    »I marvel to hear you speak thus,« said the Scot, colouring with
indignation; »grey hairs such as yours ought to have fitter subjects for
jesting. If the old Duke did beat his son in childhood, he beat him not enough;
for better he had died under the rod, than have lived to make the Christian
world ashamed that such a monster had ever been baptized.«
    »At this rate,« said Maitre Pierre, »as you weigh the characters of each
prince and leader, I think you had better become a captain yourself; for where
will one so wise find a chieftain fit to command him?«
    »You laugh at me, Maitre Pierre,« said the youth, good-humouredly, »and
perhaps you are right; but you have not named a man who is a gallant leader, and
keeps a brave party up here, under whom a man might seek service well enough.«
    »I cannot guess whom you mean.«
    »Why, he that hangs like Mahomet's coffin (a curse be upon Mahomet!) between
the two loadstones - he that no man can call either French or Burgundian, but
who knows to hold the balance between them both, and makes both of them fear and
serve him, for as great princes as they be.«
    »I cannot guess whom you mean,« said Maitre Pierre, thoughtfully.
    »Why, whom should I mean but the noble Louis de Luxembourg, Count of Saint
Paul, the High Constable of France? Yonder he makes his place good, with his
gallant little army, holding his head as high as either King Louis, or Duke
Charles, and balancing between them like the boy who stands on the midst of a
plank, while two others are swinging on the opposite ends.«9
    »He is in danger of the worst fall of the three,« said Maitre Pierre. »And
hark ye, my young friend, you who hold pillaging such a crime, do you know that
your politic Count of Saint Paul was the first who set the example of burning
the country during the time of war? and that before the shameful devastation
which he committed, open towns and villages, which made no resistance, were
spared on all sides?«
    »Nay, faith,« said Durward, »if that be the case, I shall begin to think no
one of these great men is much better than another, and that a choice among them
is but like choosing a tree to be hung upon. But this Count de Saint Paul, this
Constable, hath possessed himself by clean conveyance of the town which takes
its name from my honoured saint and patron, Saint Quentin,«10 (here he crossed
himself), »and methinks, were I dwelling there, my holy patron would keep some
look-out for me - he has not so many named after him as your more popular saints
- and yet he must have forgotten me, poor Quentin Durward, his spiritual
god-son, since he lets me go one day without food, and leaves me the next
morning to the harbourage of Saint Julian, and the chance courtesy of a
stranger, purchased by a ducking in the renowned river Cher, or one of its
tributaries.«
    »Blaspheme not the saints, my young friend,« said Maitre Pierre. »Saint
Julian is the faithful patron of travellers; and peradventure, the blessed Saint
Quentin hath done more and better for thee than thou art aware of.«
    As he spoke the door opened, and a girl, rather above than under fifteen
years old, entered with a platter, covered with damask, on which was placed a
small saucer of the dried plums, which have always added to the reputation of
Tours, and a cup of the curiously chased plate which the goldsmiths of that city
were anciently famous for executing with a delicacy of workmanship that
distinguished them from the other cities of France, and even excelled the skill
of the metropolis. The form of the goblet was so elegant, that Durward thought
not of observing closely whether the material was of silver, or, like what had
been placed before himself, of a baser metal, but so well burnished as to
resemble the richer ore.
    But the sight of the young person by whom this service was executed,
attracted Durward's attention far more than the petty minutiæ of the duty which
she performed.
    He speedily made the discovery that a quantity of long black tresses, which,
in the maiden fashion of his own country, were unadorned by any ornament, except
a single chaplet lightly woven out of ivy leaves, formed a veil around a
countenance, which, in its regular features, dark eyes, and pensive expression,
resembled that of Melpomene, though there was a faint glow on the cheek, and an
intelligence on the lips and in the eye, which made it seem that gaiety was not
foreign to a countenance so expressive, although it might not be its most
habitual expression. Quentin even thought he could discern that depressing
circumstances were the cause why a countenance so young and so lovely was graver
than belongs to early beauty; and as the romantic imagination of youth is rapid
in drawing conclusions from slight premises, he was pleased to infer, from what
follows, that the fate of this beautiful vision was wrapped in silence and
mystery.
    »How now, Jacqueline?« said Maitre Pierre, when she entered the apartment -
»Wherefore this? Did I not desire that Dame Perette should bring what I wanted?
- Pasques-dieu! - Is she, or does she think herself, too good to serve me?«
    »My kinswoman is ill at ease,« answered Jacqueline, in a hurried yet a
humble tone; »ill at ease, and keeps her chamber.«
    »She keeps it alone, I hope!« replied Maitre Pierre, with some emphasis; »I
am vieux routier, and none of those upon whom feigned disorders pass for
apologies.«
    Jacqueline turned pale, and even tottered at the answer of Maitre Pierre;
for it must be owned, that his voice and looks, at all times harsh, caustic, and
unpleasing, had, when he expressed anger or suspicion, an effect both sinister
and alarming.
    The mountain chivalry of Quentin Durward was instantly awakened, and he
hastened to approach Jacqueline, and relieve her of the burden she bore, and
which she passively resigned to him, while, with a timid and anxious look, she
watched the countenance of the angry burgess. It was not in nature to resist the
piercing and pity-craving expression of her looks, and Maitre Pierre proceeded,
not merely with an air of diminished displeasure, but with as much gentleness as
he could assume in countenance and manner, »I blame not thee, Jacqueline, and
thou art too young to be, what it is pity to think thou must be one day - a
false and treacherous thing, like the rest of thy giddy sex. No man ever lived
to man's estate, but he had the opportunity to know you all.11 Here is a
Scottish cavalier will tell you the same.«
    Jacqueline looked for an instant on the young stranger as if to obey Maitre
Pierre, but the glance, momentary as it was, appeared to Durward a pathetic
appeal to him for support and sympathy; and with the promptitude dictated by the
feelings of youth, and the romantic veneration for the female sex inspired by
his education, he answered hastily, »That he would throw down his gage to any
antagonist, of equal rank and equal age, who should presume to say such a
countenance, as that which he now looked upon, could be animated by other than
the purest and the truest mind.«
    The young woman grew deadly pale, and cast an apprehensive glance upon
Maitre Pierre, in whom the bravado of the young gallant seemed only to excite
laughter, more scornful than applausive. Quentin, whose second thoughts
generally corrected the first, though sometimes after they had found utterance,
blushed deeply at having uttered what might be construed into an empty boast, in
presence of an old man of a peaceful profession; and, as a sort of just and
appropriate penance, resolved patiently to submit to the ridicule which he had
incurred. He offered the cup and trencher to Maitre Pierre with a blush in his
cheek, and a humiliation of countenance, which endeavoured to disguise itself
under an embarrassed smile.
    »You are a foolish young man,« said Maitre Pierre, »and know as little of
women as of princes, - whose hearts,« he said, crossing himself devoutly, »God
keeps in his right hand.«
    »And who keeps those of the women then?« said Quentin, resolved, if he could
help it, not to be borne down by the assumed superiority of this extraordinary
old man, whose lofty and careless manner possessed an influence over him of
which he felt ashamed.
    »I am afraid you must ask of them in another quarter,« said Maitre Pierre,
composedly.
    Quentin was again rebuffed, but not utterly disconcerted. »Surely,« he said
to himself, »I do not pay this same burgess of Tours all the deference which I
yield him, on account of the miserable obligation of a breakfast, though it was
a right good and substantial meal. Dogs and hawks are attached by feeding only -
man must have kindness, if you would bind him with the cords of affection and
obligation. But he is an extraordinary person; and that beautiful emanation that
is even now vanishing - surely a thing so fair belongs not to this mean place,
belongs not even to the money-gathering merchant himself, though he seems to
exert authority over her, as doubtless he does over all whom chance brings
within his little circle. It is wonderful what ideas of consequence these
Flemings and Frenchmen attach to wealth - so much more than wealth deserves,
that I suppose this old merchant thinks the civility I pay to his age is given
to his money - I, a Scottish gentleman of blood and coat-armour, and he a
mechanic of Tours!«
    Such were the thoughts which hastily traversed the mind of young Durward;
while Maitre Pierre said with a smile, and at the same time patting Jacqueline's
head, from which hung down her long tresses, »This young man will serve me,
Jacqueline, - thou mayst withdraw. I will tell thy negligent kinswoman she does
ill to expose thee to be gazed on unnecessarily.«
    »It was only to wait on you,« said the maiden. »I trust you will not be
displeased with my kinswoman, since« -
    »Pasques-dieu!« said the merchant, interrupting her, but not harshly, »do
you bandy words with me, you brat, or stay you to gaze upon the youngster here?
- Begone - he is noble, and his services will suffice me.«
    Jacqueline vanished; and so much was Quentin Durward interested in her
sudden disappearance, that it broke his previous thread of reflection, and he
complied mechanically, when Maitre Pierre said, in a tone of one accustomed to
be obeyed, as he threw himself carelessly upon a large easy chair, »Place that
tray beside me.«
    The merchant then let his dark eyebrows sink over his keen eyes, so that the
last became scarce visible, or but shot forth occasionally a quick and vivid
ray, like those of the sun setting behind a dark cloud, through which its beams
are occasionally darted, but singly, and for an instant.
    »That is a beautiful creature,« said the old man at last, raising his head,
and looking steadily and firmly at Quentin, when he put the question - »a lovely
girl to be the servant of an auberge? - she might grace the board of an honest
burgess; but 'tis a vile education, a base origin.«
    It sometimes happens that a chance shot will demolish a noble castle in the
air, and the architect on such occasions entertains little good will towards him
who fires it, although the damage on the offender's part may be wholly
unintentional. Quentin was disconcerted, and was disposed to be angry - he
himself knew not why - with this old man for acquainting him that this beautiful
creature was neither more nor less than what her occupation announced - the
servant of the auberge - an upper servant, indeed, and probably a niece of the
landlord, or such like; but still a domestic, and obliged to comply with the
humour of the customers, and particularly of Maitre Pierre, who probably had
sufficiency of whims, and was rich enough to ensure their being attended to.
    The thought, the lingering thought, again returned on him, that he ought to
make the old gentleman understand the difference betwixt their conditions, and
call on him to mark, that, how rich soever he might be, his wealth put him on no
level with a Durward of Glen-houlakin. Yet, whenever he looked on Maitre
Pierre's countenance with such a purpose, there was, notwithstanding the
downcast look, pinched features, and mean and miserly dress, something which
prevented the young man from asserting the superiority over the merchant which
he conceived himself to possess. On the contrary, the oftener and more fixedly
Quentin looked at him, the stronger became his curiosity to know who or what
this man actually was; and he set him down internally for at least a Syndic or
high magistrate of Tours, or one who was, in some way or other, in the full
habit of exacting and receiving deference.
    Meantime, the merchant seemed again sunk into a reverie, from which he
raised himself only to make the sign of the cross devoutly, and to eat some of
the dried fruit, with a morsel of biscuit. He then signed to Quentin to give him
the cup, adding, however, by way of question, as he presented it - »You are
noble, you say?«
    »I surely am,« replied the Scot, »if fifteen descents can make me so - So I
told you before. But do not constrain yourself on that account, Maitre Pierre -
I have always been taught it is the duty of the young to assist the more aged.«
    »An excellent maxim,« said the merchant, availing himself of the youth's
assistance in handing the cup, and filling it from a ewer which seemed of the
same materials with the goblet, without any of those scruples in point of
propriety, which, perhaps, Quentin had expected to excite.
    »The devil take the ease and familiarity of this old mechanical burgher,«
said Durward once more to himself; »he uses the attendance of a noble Scottish
gentleman with as little ceremony as I would that of a gillie from Glen-isla.«
    The merchant, in the meanwhile, having finished his cup of water, said to
his companion, »From the zeal with which you seem to relish the Vin de Beaune, I
fancy you would not care much to pledge me in this elemental liquor. But I have
an elixir about me which can convert even the rock water into the richest wines
of France.«
    As he spoke, he took a large purse from his bosom, made of the fur of the
sea-otter, and streamed a shower of small silver pieces into the goblet, until
the cup, which was but a small one, was more than half full.
    »You have reason to be more thankful, young man,« said Maitre Pierre, »both
to your patron Saint Quentin, and to Saint Julian, than you seemed to be but
now. I would advise you to bestow alms in their name. Remain in this hostelry
until you see your kinsman, Le Balafre, who will be relieved from guard in the
afternoon. I will cause him to be acquainted that he may find you here, for I
have business in the Castle.«
    Quentin Durward would have said something to have excused himself from
accepting the profuse liberality of his new friend; but Maitre Pierre, bending
his dark brows, and erecting his stooping figure into an attitude of more
dignity than he had yet seen him assume, said, in a tone of authority, »No
reply, young man, but do what you are commanded.«
    With these words he left the apartment, making a sign, as he departed, that
Quentin must not follow him.
    The young Scotsman stood astounded, and knew not what to think of the
matter. His first most natural, though perhaps not most dignified impulse, drove
him to peep into the silver goblet, which assuredly was more than half full of
silver pieces to the number of several scores, of which perhaps Quentin had
never called twenty his own at one time during the course of his whole life. But
could he reconcile it to his dignity as a gentleman, to accept the money of this
wealthy plebeian? - This was a trying question; for, though he had secured a
good breakfast, it was no great reserve upon which to travel either back to
Dijon, in case he chose to hazard the wrath, and enter the service of the Duke
of Burgundy, or to Saint Quentin, if he fixed on that of the Constable Saint
Paul; for to one of those powers, if not to the King of France, he was
determined to offer his services. He perhaps took the wisest resolution in the
circumstances, in resolving to be guided by the advice of his uncle; and, in the
meantime, he put the money into his velvet hawking-pouch, and called for the
landlord of the house, in order to restore the silver cup - resolving, at the
same time, to ask him some questions about this liberal and authoritative
merchant.
    The man of the house appeared presently; and, if not more communicative, was
at least more loquacious, than he had been formerly. He positively declined to
take back the silver cup. It was none of his, he said, but Maitre Pierre's, who
had bestowed it on his guest. He had, indeed, four silver hanaps of his own,
which had been left him by his grandmother, of happy memory, but no more like
the beautiful carving of that in his guest's hand, than a peach was like a
turnip, - that was one of the famous cups of Tours, wrought by Martin Dominique,
an artist who might brag all Paris.
    »And, pray, who is this Maitre Pierre,« said Durward, interrupting him, »who
confers such valuable gifts on strangers?«
    »Who is Maitre Pierre?« said the host, dropping the words as slowly from his
mouth, as if he had been distilling them.
    »Ay,« said Durward, hastily and peremptorily, »who is this Maitre Pierre,
and why does he throw about his bounties in this fashion? And who is the
butcherly-looking fellow whom he sent forward to order breakfast?«
    »Why, fair sir, as to who Maitre Pierre is, you should have asked the
question of himself; and for the gentleman who ordered breakfast to be made
ready, may God keep us from his closer acquaintance!«
    »There is something mysterious in all this,« said the young Scot. »This
Maitre Pierre tells me he is a merchant.«
    »And if he told you so,« said the innkeeper, »surely he is a merchant.«
    »What commodities does he deal in?«
    »Oh, many a fair matter of traffic,« said the host; »and especially he has
set up silk manufactories here which match those rich bales that the Venetians
bring from India and Cathay. You might see the rows of mulberry-trees as you
came hither, all planted by Maitre Pierre's command, to feed the silk-worms.«
    »And that young person who brought in the confections, who is she, my good
friend?« said the guest.
    »My lodger, sir, with her guardian, some sort of aunt or kinswoman, as I
think,« replied the innkeeper.
    »And do you usually employ your guests in waiting on each other?« said
Durward; »for I observed that Maitre Pierre would take nothing from your hand,
or that of your attendant.«
    »Rich men may have their fancies, for they can pay for them,« said the
landlord; »this is not the first time that Maitre Pierre has found the true way
to make gentlefolks serve at his beck.«
    The young Scotsman felt somewhat offended at the insinuation; but,
disguising his resentment, he asked whether he could be accommodated with an
apartment at this place for a day, and perhaps longer.
    »Certainly,« the innkeeper replied; »for whatever time he was pleased to
command it.«
    »Could he be permitted,« he asked, »to pay his respects to the ladies, whose
fellow-lodger he was about to become?«
    The innkeeper was uncertain. »They went not abroad,« he said, »and received
no one at home.«
    »With the exception, I presume, of Maitre Pierre?« said Durward.
    »I am not at liberty to name any exceptions,« answered the man, firmly but
respectfully.
    Quentin, who carried the notions of his own importance pretty high,
considering how destitute he was of means to support them, being somewhat
mortified by the innkeeper's reply, did not hesitate to avail himself of a
practice common enough in that age. »Carry to the ladies,« he said, »a flask of
vernât with my humble duty; and say, that Quentin Durward, of the house of
Glen-houlakin, a Scottish cavalier of honour, and now their fellow-lodger,
desires the permission to dedicate his homage to them in a personal interview.«
    The messenger departed, and returned, almost instantly, with the thanks of
the ladies, who declined the proffered refreshment, and, with their
acknowledgments to the Scottish cavalier, regretted that, residing there in
privacy, they could not receive his visit.
    Quentin bit his lip, took a cup of the rejected vernât, which the host had
placed on the table. »By the mass, but this is a strange country,« said he to
himself, »where merchants and mechanics exercise the manners and munificence of
nobles, and little travelling damsels, who hold their court in a cabaret, keep
their state like disguised princesses! I will see that black-browed maiden
again, or it will go hard, however;« and having formed this prudent resolution,
he demanded to be conducted to the apartment which he was to call his own.
    The landlord presently ushered him up a turret staircase, and from thence
along a gallery, with many doors opening from it, like those of cells in a
convent; a resemblance which our young hero, who recollected, with much ennui,
an early specimen of a monastic life, was far from admiring. The host paused at
the very end of the gallery, selected a key from the large bunch which he
carried at his girdle, opened the door, and showed his guest the interior of a
turret-chamber, small, indeed, but which, being clean and solitary, and having
the pallet bed, and the few articles of furniture, in unusually good order,
seemed, on the whole, a little palace.
    »I hope you will find your dwelling agreeable here, fair sir,« said the
landlord. - »I am bound to pleasure every friend of Maitre Pierre.«
    »Oh, happy ducking!« exclaimed Quentin Durward, cutting a caper on the
floor, so soon as his host had retired: »Never came good luck in a better or a
wetter form. I have been fairly deluged by my good fortune.«
    As he spoke thus, he stepped towards the little window, which, as the turret
projected considerably from the principal line of the building, not only
commanded a very pretty garden, of some extent, belonging to the inn, but
overlooked, beyond its boundary, a pleasant grove of those very mulberry-trees,
which Maitre Pierre was said to have planted for the support of the silk-worm.
Besides, turning the eye from these more remote objects, and looking straight
along the wall, the turret of Quentin was opposite to another turret, and the
little window at which he stood commanded a similar little window, in a
corresponding projection of the building. Now, it would be difficult for a man
twenty years older than Quentin, to say why this locality interested him more
than either the pleasant garden or the grove of mulberry-trees; for, alas! eyes
which have been used for forty years and upwards, look with indifference on
little turret-windows, though the lattice be half open to admit the air, while
the shutter is half closed to exclude the sun, or perhaps a too curious eye -
nay, even though there hang on the one side of the casement a lute, partly
mantled by a light veil of sea-green silk. But, at Durward's happy age, such
accidents, as a painter would call them, form sufficient foundation for a
hundred airy visions and mysterious conjectures, at recollection of which the
full-grown man smiles while he sighs, and sighs while he smiles.
    As it may be supposed that our friend Quentin wished to learn a little more
of his fair neighbour, the owner of the lute and veil, - as it may be supposed
he was at least interested to know whether she might not prove the same whom he
had seen in humble attendance on Maitre Pierre, it must of course be understood,
that he did not produce a broad staring visage and person in full front of his
own casement. Durward knew better the art of bird-catching; and it was to his
keeping his person skilfully withdrawn on one side of his window, while he
peeped through the lattice, that he owed the pleasure of seeing a white, round,
beautiful arm, take down the instrument, and that his ears had presently after
their share in the reward of his dexterous management.
    The maid of the little turret, of the veil, and of the lute, sung exactly
such an air as we are accustomed to suppose flowed from the lips of the
high-born dames of chivalry, when knights and troubadours listened and
languished. The words had neither so much sense, wit, or fancy, as to withdraw
the attention from the music, nor the music so much of art, as to drown all
feeling of the words. The one seemed fitted to the other; and if the song had
been recited without the notes, or the air played without the words, neither
would have been worth noting. It is, therefore, scarcely fair to put upon record
lines intended not to be said or read, but only to be sung. But such scraps of
old poetry have always had a sort of fascination for us; and as the tune is lost
for ever - unless Bishop happens to find the notes, or some lark teaches
Stephens to warble the air - we will risk our credit, and the taste of the Lady
of the Lute, by preserving the verses, simple and even rude as they are: -
 
»Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
 
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know -
But where is County Guy?«
 
Whatever the reader may think of this simple ditty, it had a powerful effect on
Quentin, when married to heavenly airs and sung by a sweet and melting voice,
the notes mingling with the gentle breezes which wafted perfumes from the
garden, and the figure of the songstress being so partially and obscurely
visible, as threw a veil of mysterious fascination over the whole.
    At the close of the air, the listener could not help showing himself more
boldly than he had yet done, in a rash attempt to see more than he had yet been
able to discover. The music instantly ceased - the casement was closed, and a
dark curtain, dropped on the inside, put a stop to all further observation on
the part of the neighbour in the next turret.
    Durward was mortified and surprised at the consequence of his precipitance,
but comforted himself with the hope, that the Lady of the Lute could neither
easily forego the practice of an instrument which seemed so familiar to her, nor
cruelly resolve to renounce the pleasures of fresh air and an open window, for
the churlish purpose of preserving for her own exclusive ear the sweet sounds
which she created. There came, perhaps, a little feeling of personal vanity to
mingle with these consolatory reflections. If, as he shrewdly suspected, there
was a beautiful dark-tressed damsel inhabitant of the one turret, he could not
but be conscious that a handsome, young, roving, bright-locked gallant, a
cavalier of fortune, was the tenant of the other; and romances, those prudent
instructors, had taught his youth, that if damsels were shy, they were yet
neither void of interest nor of curiosity in their neighbour's affairs.
    Whilst Quentin was engaged in these sage reflections, a sort of attendant or
chamberlain of the inn informed him that a cavalier desired to speak with him
below.
 

                                 Chapter Fifth

                                The Man-at-Arms.

 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
 Seeking the bubble reputation
 Even in the cannon's mouth.
                                                                 As You Like It.
 
The cavalier who awaited Quentin Durward's descent into the apartment where he
had breakfasted, was one of those of whom Louis XI. had long since said that
they held in their hands the fortune of France, as to them were entrusted the
direct custody and protection of the royal person.
    Charles the Sixth had instituted this celebrated body, the Archers, as they
were called, of the Scottish Body-guard, with better reason than can generally
be alleged for establishing round the throne a guard of foreign and mercenary
troops. The divisions which tore from his side more than half of France,
together with the wavering and uncertain faith of the nobility who yet
acknowledged his cause, rendered it impolitic and unsafe to commit his personal
safety to their keeping. The Scottish nation was the hereditary enemy of the
English, and the ancient, and, as it seemed, the natural allies of France. They
were poor, courageous, faithful - their ranks were sure to be supplied from the
superabundant population of their own country, than which none in Europe sent
forth more or bolder adventurers. Their high claims of descent, too, gave them a
good title to approach the person of a monarch more closely than other troops,
while the comparative smallness of their numbers prevented the possibility of
their mutinying, and becoming masters where they ought to be servants.
    On the other hand, the French monarchs made it their policy to conciliate
the affections of this select band of foreigners, by allowing them honorary
privileges and ample pay, which last most of them disposed of with military
profusion in supporting their supposed rank. Each of them ranked as a gentleman
in place and honour; and their near approach to the King's person gave them
dignity in their own eyes, as well as importance in those of the nation of
France. They were sumptuously armed, equipped, and mounted; and each was
entitled to allowance for a squire, a valet, a page, and two yeomen, one of whom
was termed coutelier, from the large knife which he wore to despatch those whom
in the mêlée his master had thrown to the ground. With these followers, and a
corresponding equipage, an Archer of the Scottish Guard was a person of quality
and importance; and vacancies being generally filled up by those who had been
trained in the service as pages or valets, the cadets of the best Scottish
families were often sent to serve under some friend and relation in those
capacities, until a chance of preferment should occur.
    The coutelier and his companion, not being noble or capable of this
promotion, were recruited from persons of inferior quality; but as their pay and
appointments were excellent, their masters were easily able to select from among
their wandering countrymen the strongest and most courageous to wait upon them
in these capacities.
    Ludovic Lesly, or, as we shall more frequently call him, Le Balafré, by
which name he was generally known in France, was upwards of six feet high,
robust, strongly compacted in person, and hard-favoured in countenance, which
latter attribute was much increased by a large and ghastly scar, which,
beginning on his forehead, and narrowly missing his right eye, had laid bare his
cheek-bone, and descended from thence almost to the tip of his ear, exhibiting a
deep seam, which was sometimes scarlet, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, and
sometimes approaching to black; but always hideous, because at variance with the
complexion of the face in whatever state it chanced to be, whether agitated or
still, flushed with unusual passion, or in its ordinary state of weatherbeaten
and sunburnt swarthiness.
    His dress and arms were splendid. He wore his national bonnet, crested with
a tuft of feathers, and with a Virgin Mary of massive silver for a brooch. These
brooches had been presented to the Scottish Guard, in consequence of the King,
in one of his fits of superstitious piety, having devoted the swords of his
guard to the service of the Holy Virgin, and, as some say, carried the matter so
far as to draw out a commission to Our Lady as their Captain General. The
Archer's gorget, arm-pieces, and gauntlets, were of the finest steel, curiously
inlaid with silver, and his hauberk, or shirt of mail, was as clear and bright
as the frostwork of a winter morning upon fern or brier. He wore a loose surcoat
or cassock, of rich blue velvet, open at the sides like that of a herald, with a
large white St. Andrew's cross of embroidered silver bisecting it both before
and behind - his knees and legs were protected by hose of mail and shoes of
steel - a broad strong poniard (called the Mercy of God) hung by his right side
- the baldric for his two-handed sword, richly embroidered, hung upon his left
shoulder; but, for convenience, he at present carried in his hand that unwieldy
weapon, which the rules of his service forbade him to lay aside.
    Quentin Durward, though, like the Scottish youth of the period, he had been
early taught to look upon arms and war, thought he had never seen a more
martial-looking, or more completely equipped and accomplished man-at-arms, than
now saluted him in the person of his mother's brother, called Ludovic with the
Scar, or Le Balafré; yet he could not but shrink a little from the grim
expression of his countenance, while, with its rough moustaches, he brushed
first the one and then the other cheek of his kinsman, welcomed his nephew to
France, and, in the same breath, asked what news from Scotland.
    »Little good tidings, dear uncle,« replied young Durward; »but I am glad
that you know me so readily.«
    »I would have known thee, boy, in the landes of Bordeaux, had I met thee
marching there like a crane on a pair of stilts.12 But sit thee down - sit thee
down - if there is sorrow to hear of, we will have wine to make us bear it. -
Ho! old Pinch-Measure, our good host, bring us of thy best, and that in an
instant.«
    The well-known sound of the Scottish-French was as familiar in the taverns
near Plessis, as that of the Swiss-French in the modern guinguettes of Paris;
and promptly - ay, with the promptitude of fear and precipitation, was it heard
and obeyed. A flagon of champagne stood before them, of which the elder took a
draught, while the nephew helped himself only to a moderate sip, to acknowledge
his uncle's courtesy, saying, in excuse, that he had already drunk wine that
morning.
    »That had been a rare good apology in the mouth of thy sister, fair nephew,«
said La Balafré; »you must fear the wine-pot less, if you would wear beard on
your face, and write yourself soldier. But, come - come - unbuckle your Scottish
mail-bag - give us the news of Glen-houlakin - How doth my sister?«
    »Dead, fair uncle,« answered Quentin, sorrowfully.
    »Dead!« echoed his uncle, with a tone rather marked by wonder than sympathy
- »why, she was five years younger than I, and I was never better in my life.
Dead! the thing is impossible. I have never had so much as a headache, unless
after revelling out my two or three days' furlough with the brethren of the
joyous science - and my poor sister is dead! - And your father, fair nephew,
hath he married again?«
    And, ere the youth could reply, he read the answer in his surprise at the
question, and said, »What! no? - I would have sworn that Allan Durward was no
man to live without a wife. He loved to have his house in order - loved to look
on a pretty woman too; and was somewhat strict in life withal - matrimony did
all this for him. Now, I care little about these comforts; and I can look on a
pretty woman without thinking on the sacrament of wedlock - I am scarce holy
enough for that.«
    »Alas! dear uncle, my mother was left a widow a year since, when
Glen-houlakin was harried by the Ogilvies. My father, and my two uncles, and my
two elder brothers, and seven of my kinsmen, and the harper, and the tasker, and
some six more of our people, were killed in defending the castle; and there is
not a burning hearth or a standing stone in all Glen-houlakin.«
    »Cross of Saint Andrew!« said Le Balafré; »that is what I call an onslaught!
Ay, these Ogilvies were ever but sorry neighbours to Glen-houlakin - an evil
chance it was; but fate of war - fate of war. - When did this mishap befall,
fair nephew?« With that he took a deep draught of wine, and shook his head with
much solemnity, when his kinsman replied, that his family had been destroyed
upon the festival of Saint Jude last by-past.
    »Look ye there,« said the soldier; »I said it was all chance - on that very
day I and twenty of my comrades carried the Castle of Roche-noir by storm, from
Amaury Bras-de-fer, a captain of free lances, whom you must have heard of. I
killed him on his own threshold, and gained as much gold as made this fair
chain, which was once twice as long as it now is - and that minds me to send
part of it on an holy errand, - Here, Andrew - Andrew!«
    Andrew, his yeoman, entered, dressed like the Archer himself in the general
equipment, but without the armour for the limbs, - that of the body more
coarsely manufactured - his cap without a plume, and his cassock made of serge,
or ordinary cloth instead of rich velvet. Untwining his gold chain from his
neck, Balafré twisted off, with his firm and strong-set teeth, about four inches
from the one end of it, and said to his attendant, »Here, Andrew, carry this to
my gossip, jolly Father Boniface, the monk of St. Martin's - greet him well from
me, by the same token that he could not say God save ye when we last parted at
midnight - Tell my gossip that my brother and sister, and some others of my
house, are all dead and gone, and I pray him to say masses for their souls as
far as the value of these links will carry him, and to do on trust what else may
be necessary to free them from Purgatory. And hark ye, as they were just-living
people, and free from all heresy, it may be that they are well-nigh out of limbo
already, so that a little matter may have them free of the fetlocks; and in that
case, look ye, ye will say I desire to take out the balance of the gold in
curses upon a generation called the Ogilvies of Angus-shire, in what way soever
the church may best come at them. You understand all this, Andrew?«
    The coutelier nodded.
    »Then look that none of the links find their way to the wine-house ere the
Monk touches them; for if it so chance, thou shalt taste of saddle-girth and
stirrup-leather, till thou art as raw as Saint Bartholomew. - Yet hold, I see
thy eye has fixed on the wine measure, and thou shalt not go without tasting.«
    So saying he filled him a brimful cup, which the coutelier drank off, and
retired to do his patron's commission.
    »And now, fair nephew, let us hear what was your own fortune in this unhappy
matter.«
    »I fought it out among those who were older and stouten than I was, till we
were all brought down,« said Durward, »and I received a cruel wound.«
    »Not a worse slash than I received ten years since myself,« said Le Balafré.
- »Look at this now, my fair nephew,« tracing the dark crimson gash which was
imprinted on his face - »An Ogilvie's sword never ploughed so deep a furrow.«
    »They ploughed deep enough,« answered Quentin, sadly; »but they were tired
at last, and my mother's entreaties procured mercy for me, when I was found to
retain some spark of life; but although a learned monk of Aberbrothick, who
chanced to be our guest at the fatal time, and narrowly escaped being killed in
the fray, was permitted to bind my wounds, and finally to remove me to a place
of safety, it was only on promise, given both by my mother and him, that I
should become a monk.«
    »A monk!« exclaimed the uncle - »Holy Saint Andrew! that is what never
befell me. No one, from my childhood upwards, ever so much as dreamed of making
me a monk - And yet I wonder when I think of it; for you will allow that, bating
the reading and writing, which I could never learn, and the psalmody, which I
could never endure, and the dress, which is that of a mad beggar - Our Lady
forgive me! - [here he crossed himself] - and their fasts, which do not suit my
appetite, I would have made every whit as good a monk as my little gossip at St.
Martin's yonder. But I know not why, none ever proposed the station to me. - Oh
so, fair nephew, you were to be a monk, then - and wherefore, I pray you?«
    »That my father's house might be ended, either in the cloister or in the
tomb,« answered Quentin, with deep feeling.
    »I see,« answered his uncle - »I comprehend. Cunning rogues - very cunning!
They might have been cheated, though; for, look ye, fair nephew, I myself
remember the canon Robersart who had taken the vows, and afterwards broke out of
cloister, and became a captain of Free Companions. He had a mistress, the
prettiest wench I ever saw, and three as beautiful children - There is no
trusting monks, fair nephew, - no trusting them - they may become soldiers and
fathers when you least expect it - but on with your tale.«
    »I have little more to tell,« said Durward, »except that, considering my
poor mother to be in some degree a pledge for me, I was induced to take upon me
the dress of a novice, and conformed to the cloister rules, and even learned to
read and write.«
    »To read and write!« exclaimed Le Balafré, who was one of that sort of
people who think all knowledge is miraculous which chances to exceed their own -
»To write, say'st thou, and to read! I cannot believe it - never Durward could
write his name that ever I heard of, nor Lesly either. I can answer for one of
them - I can no more write than I can fly. Now, in Saint Louis's name, how did
they teach it you?«
    »It was troublesome at first,« said Durward, »but became more easy by use;
and I was weak with my wounds, and loss of blood, and desirous to gratify my
preserver, Father Peter, and so I was the more easily kept to my task. But after
several months' languishing, my good kind mother died, and as my health was now
fully restored, I communicated to my benefactor, who was also Sub-Prior of the
Convent, my reluctance to take the vows; and it was agreed between us, since my
vocation lay not to the cloister, that I should be sent out into the world to
seek my fortune, and that, to save the Sub-Prior from the anger of the Ogilvies,
my departure should have the appearance of flight; and to colour it, I brought
off the Abbot's hawk with me. But I was regularly dismissed, as will appear from
the hand and seal of the Abbot himself.«
    »That is right, that is well,« said his uncle. »Our King cares little what
other theft thou mayst have made, but hath a horror at anything like a breach of
the cloister. And, I warrant thee, thou hadst no great treasure to bear thy
charges?«
    »Only a few pieces of silver,« said the youth; »for to you, fair uncle, I
must make a free confession.«
    »Alas!« replied Le Balafré, »that is hard. Now, though I am never a hoarder
of my pay, because it doth ill to bear a charge about one in these perilous
times, yet I always have (and I would advise you to follow my example) some odd
gold chain or bracelet, or carcanet, that serves for the ornament of my person,
and can at need spare a superfluous link or two, or it may be a superfluous
stone for sale, that can answer any immediate purpose. - But you may ask, fair
kinsman, how you are to come by such toys as this?« - (he shook his chain with
complacent triumph) - »they hang not on every bush - they grow not in the fields
like the daffodils, with whose stalks children make knight's collars. What then!
- you may get such where I got this, in the service of the good King of France,
where there is always wealth to be found, if a man has but the heart to seek it,
at the risk of a little life or so.«
    »I understood,« said Quentin, evading a decision to which he felt himself as
yet scarcely competent, »that the Duke of Burgundy keeps a more noble state than
the King of France, and that there is more honour to be won under his banners -
that good blows are struck there, and deeds of arms done; while the most
Christian King, they say, gains his victories by his ambassadors' tongues.«
    »You speak like a foolish boy, fair nephew,« answered he with the Scar; »and
yet, I bethink me, when I came hither I was nearly as simple: I could never
think of a King but what I supposed him either sitting under the high deas, and
feasting amid his high vassals and Paladins, eating blanc manger, with a great
gold crown upon his head, or else charging at the head of his troops like
Charlemagne in the romaunts, or like Robert Bruce or William Wallace in our own
true histories, such as Barbour and the Minstrel. Hark in thine ear, man - it is
all moonshine in the water. Policy - policy does it all. But what is policy, you
will say? It is an art this French King of ours has found out, to fight with
other men's swords, and to wage his soldiers out of other men's purses. Ah! it
is the wisest prince that ever put purple on his back - and yet he weareth not
much of that neither - I see him often go plainer than I would think befitted me
to do.«
    »But you meet not my exception, fair uncle,« answered young Durward; »I
would serve, since serve I must in a foreign land, somewhere where a brave deed,
were it my hap to do one, might work me a name.«
    »I understand you, my fair nephew,« said the royal man-at-arms, »I
understand you passing well; but you are unripe in these matters. The Duke of
Burgundy is a hot-brained, impetuous, pudding-headed, iron-ribbed dare-all. He
charges at the head of his nobles and native knights, his liegemen of Artois and
Hainault; think you, if you were there, or if I were there myself, that we could
be much farther forward than the Duke and all his brave nobles of his own land?
If we were not up with them, we had a chance to be turned on the
Provost-Marshall's hands for being slow in making to; if we were abreast of
them, all would be called well, and we might be thought to have deserved our
pay; and grant that I was a spear's length or so in the front, which is both
difficult and dangerous in such a mêlée where all do their best, why, my lord
duke says, in his Flemish tongue, when he sees a good blow struck, Ha! gut
getroffen! a good lance - a brave Scot - give him a florin to drink our health;
but neither rank nor lands, nor treasures, come to the stranger in such a
service - all goes to the children of the soil.«
    »And where should it go, in Heaven's name, fair uncle?« demanded young
Durward.
    »To him that protects the children of the soil,« said Balafré, drawing up
his gigantic height. »Thus says King Louis: - My good French peasant - mine
honest Jacques Bonhomme - get you to your tools, your plough and your harrow,
your pruning knife and your hoe - here is my gallant Scot that will fight for
you, and you shall only have the trouble to pay him - And you, my most serene
duke, my illustrious count, and my most mighty marquis, e'en rein up your fiery
courage till it is wanted, for it is apt to start out of the course, and to hurt
its master; here are my companies of ordonance - here are my French Guards -
here are, above all, my Scottish Archers, and mine honest Ludovic with the Scar,
who will fight, as well or better than you, with all that undisciplined valour,
which, in your fathers' time, lost Cressy and Azincour. Now, see you not in
which of these states a cavalier of fortune holds the highest rank, and must
come to the highest honour?«
    »I think I understand you, fair uncle,« answered the nephew; »but, in my
mind, honour cannot be won where there is no risk. Sure, this is - I pray you
pardon me - an easy and almost slothful life, to mount guard round an elderly
man whom no one thinks of harming, to spend summer-day and winter-night up in
yonder battlements, and shut up all the while in iron cages, for fear you should
desert your posts - uncle, uncle, it is but the hawk upon his perch, who is
never carried out to the fields!«
    »Now, by Saint Martin of Tours, the boy has some spirit! a right touch of
the Lesly in him; much like myself, though always with a little more folly in
it. Hark ye, youth - Long live the King of France! - scarce a day but there is
some commission in hand, by which some of his followers may win both coin and
credit. Think not that the bravest and most dangerous deeds are done by
daylight. I could tell you of some, as scaling castles, making prisoners, and
the like, where one who shall be nameless hath run higher risk, and gained
greater favour, than any desperado in the train of desperate Charles of
Burgundy. And if it please his Majesty to remain behind, and in the background,
while such things are doing, he hath the more leisure of spirit to admire, and
the more liberality of hand to reward the adventurers, whose dangers, perhaps,
and whose feats of arms, he can better judge of than if he had personally shared
them. Oh, 'tis a sagacious and most politic monarch!«
    His nephew paused, and then said, in a low but impressive tone of voice,
»The good Father Peter used often to teach me there might be much danger in
deeds by which little glory was acquired. I need not say to you, fair uncle,
that I do in course suppose that these secret commissions must needs be
honourable.«
    »For whom or for what take you me, fair nephew?« said Balafré, somewhat
sternly; »I have not been trained, indeed, in the cloister, neither can I write
or read. But I am your mother's brother; I am a loyal Lesly. Think you that I am
like to recommend to you anything unworthy? The best knight in France, Du
Guesclin himself, if he were alive again, might be proud to number my deeds
among his achievements.«
    »I cannot doubt your warranty, fair uncle,« said the youth; »you are the
only adviser my mishap has left me. But is it true, as fame says, that this King
keeps a meagre Court here at his Castle of Plessis? No repair of nobles or
courtiers, none of his grand feudatories in attendance, none of the high
officers of the crown; half solitary sports, shared only with the menials of his
household; secret councils, to which only low and obscure men are invited; rank
and nobility depressed, and men raised from the lowest origin to the kingly
favour - all this seems unregulated, resembles not the manners of his father,
the noble Charles, who tore from the fangs of the English lion this more than
half-conquered kingdom of France.«
    »You speak like a giddy child,« said Le Balafré; »and even as a child, you
harp over the same notes on a new string. Look you: if the King employs Oliver
Dain, his barber, to do what Oliver can do better than any peer of them all, is
not the kingdom the gainer? If he bids his stout Provost-Marshal, Tristan,
arrest such or such a seditious burgher, take off such or such a turbulent
noble, the deed is done and no more of it; when, were the commission given to a
duke or peer of France, he might perchance send the King back a defiance in
exchange. If, again, the King pleases to give to plain Ludovic le Balafré a
commission which he will execute, instead of employing the High Constable, who
would perhaps betray it, doth it not show wisdom? Above all, doth not a monarch
of such conditions best suit cavaliers of fortune, who must go where their
services are most highly prized, and most frequently in demand? - No, no, child;
I tell thee Louis knows how to choose his confidants, and what to charge them
with; suiting, as they say, the burden to each man's back. He is not like the
King of Castile, who choked of thirst, because the great butler was not beside
to hand his cup. - But hark to the bell of Saint Martin's! I must hasten back to
the Castle. - Farewell - make much of yourself, and at eight to- morning present
yourself before the drawbridge, and ask the sentinel for me. Take heed you step
not off the straight and beaten path in approaching the portal! There are such
traps and snap-haunches as may cost you a limb, which you will sorely miss. You
shall see the King, and learn to judge him for yourself - farewell.«
    So saying, Balafré hastily departed, forgetting, in his hurry, to pay for
the wine he had called for, a shortness of memory incidental to persons of his
description, and which his host, overawed, perhaps, by the nodding bonnet and
ponderous two-handed sword, did not presume to use any efforts for correcting.
It might have been expected that, when left alone, Durward would have again
betaken himself to his turret, in order to watch for the repetition of those
delicious sounds which had soothed his morning reverie. But that was a chapter
of romance, and his uncle's conversation had opened to him a page of the real
history of life. It was no pleasing one, and for the present the recollections
and reflections which it excited were qualified to overpower other thoughts, and
especially all of a light and soothing nature.
    Quentin resorted to a solitary walk along the banks of the rapid Cher,
having previously inquired of his landlord for one which he might traverse
without fear of disagreeable interruption from snares and pitfalls, and there
endeavoured to compose his turmoiled and scattered thoughts, and consider his
future motions, upon which his meeting with his uncle had thrown some dubiety.
 

                                 Chapter Sixth

                                 The Bohemians.

 Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
 Sae dantingly gaed he,
 He play'd a spring and danced a round
 Beneath the gallows tree!
                                                                       Old Song.
 
The manner in which Quentin Durward had been educated was not of a kind to
soften the heart, or perhaps to improve the moral feeling. He, with the rest of
his family, had been trained to the chase as an amusement, and taught to
consider war as their only serious occupation, and that it was the great duty of
their lives stubbornly to endure, and fiercely to retaliate, the attacks of
their feudal enemies, by whom their race had been at last almost annihilated.
And yet there mixed with these feuds a spirit of rude chivalry, and even
courtesy, which softened their rigour; so that revenge, their only justice, was
still prosecuted with some regard to humanity and generosity. The lessons of the
worthy old monk, better attended to, perhaps, during a long illness and
adversity, than they might have been in health and success, had given young
Durward still farther insight into the duties of humanity towards others; and,
considering the ignorance of the period, the general prejudices entertained in
favour of a military life, and the manner in which he himself had been bred, the
youth was disposed to feel more accurately the moral duties incumbent on his
station than was usual at the time.
    He reflected on his interview with his uncle with a sense of embarrassment
and disappointment. His hopes had been high; for although intercourse by letters
was out of the question, yet a pilgrim, or an adventurous trafficker, or a
crippled soldier, sometimes brought Lesly's name to Glen-houlakin, and all
united in praising his undaunted courage, and his success in many petty
enterprises which his master had entrusted to him. Quentin's imagination had
filled up the sketch in his own way, and assimilated his successful and
adventurous uncle (whose exploits probably lost nothing in the telling) to some
of the champions and knights-errant of whom minstrels sang, and who won crowns
and kings' daughters by dint of sword and lance. He was now compelled to rank
his kinsman greatly lower in the scale of chivalry; but blinded by the high
respect paid to parents, and those who approach that character - moved by every
early prejudice in his favour - inexperienced besides, and passionately attached
to his mother's memory, he saw not, in the only brother of that dear relation,
the character he truly held, which was that of an ordinary mercenary soldier,
neither much worse nor greatly better than many of the same profession whose
presence added to the distracted state of France.
    Without being wantonly cruel, Le Balafré was, from habit, indifferent to
human life and human suffering; he was profoundly ignorant, greedy of booty,
unscrupulous how he acquired it, and profuse in expending it on the
gratification of his passions. The habit of attending exclusively to his own
wants and interests, had converted him into one of the most selfish animals in
the world; so that he was seldom able, as the reader may have remarked, to
proceed far in any subject without considering how it applied to himself, or, as
it is called, making the case his own, though not upon feelings connected with
the golden rule, but such as were very different. To this must be added, that
the narrow round of his duties and his pleasures had gradually circumscribed his
thoughts, hopes, and wishes, and quenched in a great measure the wild spirit of
honour, and desire of distinction in arms, by which his youth had been once
animated. Balafré was, in short, a keen soldier, hardened, selfish, and
narrow-minded; active and bold in the discharge of his duty, but acknowledging
few objects beyond it, except the formal observance of a careless devotion,
relieved by an occasional debauch with brother Boniface, his comrade and
confessor. Had his genius been of a more extended character, he would probably
have been promoted to some important command, for the King, who knew every
soldier of his body-guard personally, reposed much confidence in Balafré's
courage and fidelity; and, besides, the Scot had either wisdom or cunning enough
perfectly to understand, and ably to humour, the peculiarities of that
sovereign. Still, however, his capacity was too much limited to admit of his
rising to higher rank, and though smiled on and favoured by Louis on many
occasions, Balafré continued a mere Life-guards-man, or Scottish Archer.
    Without seeing the full scope of his uncle's character, Quentin felt shocked
at his indifference to the disastrous extirpation of his brother-in-law's whole
family, and could not help being surprised, moreover, that so near a relative
had not offered him the assistance of his purse, which, but for the generosity
of Maitre Pierre, he would have been under the necessity of directly craving
from him. He wronged his uncle, however, in supposing that this want of
attention to his probable necessities was owing to avarice. Not precisely
needing money himself at that moment, it had not occurred to Balafré that his
nephew might be in exigencies; otherwise, he held a near kinsman so much a part
of himself, that he would have provided for the weal of the living nephew, as he
endeavoured to do for that of his deceased sister and her husband. But whatever
was the motive, the neglect was very unsatisfactory to young Durward, and he
wished more than once he had taken service with the Duke of Burgundy before he
quarrelled with his forester. »Whatever had then become of me,« he thought to
himself, »I should always have been able to keep up my spirits with the
reflection, that I had, in case of the worst, a stout back-friend in this uncle
of mine. But now I have seen him, and, woe worth him, there has been more help
in a mere mechanical stranger, than I have found in my own mother's brother, my
countryman and a cavalier! One would think the slash, that has carved all
comeliness out of his face, had let at the same time every drop of gentle blood
out of his body.«
    Durward now regretted he had not had an opportunity to mention Maitre Pierre
to Le Balafré, in the hope of obtaining some farther account of that personage:
but his uncle's questions had followed fast on each other, and the summons of
the great bell of Saint Martin of Tours had broken off their conference rather
suddenly. That old man, he thought to himself, was crabbed and dogged in
appearance, sharp and scornful in language, but generous and liberal in his
actions; and such a stranger is worth a cold kinsman - »What says our old
Scottish proverb? - Better kind fremit, than fremit kindred.13 I will find out
that man, which, methinks, should be no difficult task, since he is so wealthy
as mine host bespeaks him. He will give me good advice for my governance, at
least; and if he goes to strange countries, as many such do, I know not but his
may be as adventurous a service as that of those Guards of Louis.«
    As Quentin framed this thought, a whisper from those recesses of the heart
in which lies much that the owner does not know of, or will not acknowledge
willingly, suggested that, perchance, the lady of the turret, she of the veil
and lute, might share that adventurous journey.
    As the Scottish youth made these reflections, he met two grave-looking men,
apparently citizens of Tours, whom, doffing his cap with the reverence due from
youth to age, he respectfully asked to direct him to the house of Maitre Pierre.
    »The house of whom, my fair son?« said one of the passengers.
    »Of Maitre Pierre, the great silk-merchant, who planted all the
mulberry-trees in the park yonder,« said Durward.
    »Young man,« said one of them who was nearest to him, »you have taken up an
idle trade a little too early.«
    »And have chosen wrong subjects to practise your fooleries upon,« said the
farther one, still more gruffly. »The Syndic of Tours is not accustomed to be
thus talked to by strolling jesters from foreign parts.«
    Quentin was so much surprised at the causeless offence which these two
decent-looking persons had taken at a very simple and civil question, that he
forgot to be angry at the rudeness of their reply, and stood staring after them
as they walked on with amended pace, often looking back at him, as if they were
desirous to get as soon as possible out of his reach.
    He next met a party of vine-dressers, and addressed to them the same
question; and in reply, they demanded to know whether he wanted Maitre Pierre,
the schoolmaster? or Maitre Pierre, the carpenter? or Maitre Pierre, the beadle?
or half-a-dozen of Maitre Pierres besides. When none of those corresponded with
the description of the person after whom he inquired, the peasants accused him
of jesting with them impertinently, and threatened to fall upon him and beat
him, in guerdon of his raillery. The oldest amongst them, who had some influence
over the rest, prevailed on them to desist from violence.
    »You see by his speech and his fool's cap,« said he, »that he is one of the
foreign mountebanks who are come into the country, and whom some call magicians
and soothsayers, and some jugglers, and the like, and there is no knowing what
tricks they have amongst them. I have heard of such a one paying a liard to eat
his bellyful of grapes in a poor man's vineyard; and he ate as many as would
have loaded a wain, and never undid a button of his jerkin - and so let him pass
quietly, and keep his way, as we will keep ours. - And you, friend, if you would
shun worse, walk quietly on, in the name of God, our Lady of Marmoutier, and
Saint Martin of Tours, and trouble us no more about your Maitre Pierre, which
may be another name for the devil, for aught we know.«
    The Scot, finding himself much the weaker party, judged it his wisest course
to walk on without reply; but the peasants, who at first shrunk from him in
horror, at his supposed talents for sorcery and grape-devouring, took heart of
grace as he got to a distance, and having uttered a few cries and curses,
finally gave them emphasis with a shower of stones, although at such a distance
as to do little or no harm to the object of their displeasure. Quentin, as he
pursued his walk, began to think, in his turn, either that he himself lay under
a spell, or that the people of Touraine were the most stupid, brutal, and
inhospitable of the French peasants. The next incident which came under his
observation did not tend to diminish this opinion.
    On a slight eminence, rising above the rapid and beautiful Cher, in the
direct line of his path, two or three large chestnut-trees were so happily
placed as to form a distinguished and remarkable group; and beside them stood
three or four peasants, motionless, with their eyes turned upwards, and fixed,
apparently, upon some object amongst the branches of the tree next to them. The
meditations of youth are seldom so profound as not to yield to the slightest
impulse of curiosity, as easily as the lightest pebble, dropped casually from
the hand, breaks the surface of a limpid pool Quentin hastened his pace, and ran
lightly up the rising ground, time enough to witness the ghastly spectacle which
attracted the notice of these gazers - which was nothing less than the body of a
man, convulsed by the last agony, suspended on one of the branches.
    »Why do you not cut him down?« said the young Scot, whose hand was as ready
to assist affliction, as to maintain his own honour when he deemed it assailed.
    One of the peasants, turning on him an eye from which fear had banished all
expression but its own, and a face as pale as clay, pointed to a mark cut upon
the bark of the tree, having the same rude resemblance to a fleur-de-lys which
certain talismanic scratches, well known to our revenue officers, bear to a
broad arrow. Neither understanding nor heeding the import of this symbol, young
Durward sprung lightly as the ounce up into the tree, drew from his pouch that
most necessary implement of a Highlander or woodsman, the trusty skene-dhu,14
and, calling to those below to receive the body on their hands, cut the rope
asunder in less than a minute after he had perceived the exigency.
    But his humanity was ill seconded by the bystanders. So far from rendering
Durward any assistance, they seemed terrified at the audacity of his action, and
took to flight with one consent, as if they feared their merely looking on might
have been construed into accession to his daring deed. The body, unsupported
from beneath, fell heavily to earth in such a manner, that Quentin, who
presently afterwards jumped down, had the mortification to see that the last
sparks of life were extinguished. He gave not up his charitable purpose,
however, without farther efforts. He freed the wretched man's neck from the
fatal noose, undid the doublet, threw water on the face, and practised the other
ordinary remedies resorted to for recalling suspended animation.
    While he was thus humanely engaged, a wild clamour of tongues, speaking a
language which he knew not, arose around him; and he had scarcely time to
observe that he was surrounded by several men and women of a singular and
foreign appearance, when he found himself roughly seized by both arms, while a
naked knife, at the same moment, was offered to his throat. »Pale slave of
Eblis!« said a man, in imperfect French, »are you robbing him you have murdered?
- But we have you - and you shall abye it.«
    There were knives drawn on every side of him, as these words were spoken,
and the grim and distorted countenances which glared on him, were like those of
wolves rushing on their prey.
    Still the young Scot's courage and presence of mind bore him out. »What mean
ye, my masters?« he said; »if that be your friend's body, I have just now cut
him down, in pure charity, and you will do better to try to recover his life,
than to misuse an innocent stranger to whom he owes his chance of escape.«
    The women had by this time taken possession of the dead body, and continued
the attempts to recover animation which Durward had been making use of, though
with the like bad success; so that, desisting from their fruitless efforts, they
seemed to abandon themselves to all the Oriental expressions of grief; the women
making a piteous wailing, and tearing their long black hair, while the men
seemed to rend their garments, and to sprinkle dust upon their heads. They
gradually became so much engaged in their mourning rites, that they bestowed no
longer any attention on Durward, of whose innocence they were probably satisfied
from circumstances. It would certainly have been his wisest plan to have left
these wild people to their own courses, but he had been bred in almost reckless
contempt of danger, and felt all the eagerness of youthful curiosity.
    The singular assemblage, both male and female, wore turbans and caps, more
similar, in general appearance, to his own bonnet, than to the hats commonly
worn in France. Several of the men had curled black beards, and the complexion
of all was nearly as dark as that of Africans. One or two, who seemed their
chiefs, had some tawdry ornaments of silver about their necks and in their ears,
and wore showy scarfs of yellow, or scarlet, or light green; but their legs and
arms were bare, and the whole troop seemed wretched and squalid in appearance.
There were no weapons among them that Durward saw, except the long knives with
which they had lately menaced him, and one short crooked sabre, or Moorish
sword, which was worn by an active-looking young man, who often laid his hand
upon the hilt, while he surpassed the rest of the party in his extravagant
expressions of grief, and seemed to mingle with them threats of vengeance.
    The disordered and yelling group were so different in appearance from any
beings whom Quentin had yet seen, that he was on the point of concluding them to
be a party of Saracens, of those heathen hounds, who were the opponents of
gentle knights and Christian monarchs, in all the romances which he had heard or
read, and was about to withdraw himself from a neighbourhood so perilous, when a
galloping of horse was heard, and the supposed Saracens, who had raised by this
time the body of their comrade upon their shoulders, were at once charged by a
party of French soldiers.
    This sudden apparition changed the measured wailing of the mourners into
irregular shrieks of terror. The body was thrown to the ground in an instant,
and those who were around it showed the utmost and most dexterous activity in
escaping, under the bellies as it were of the horses, from the point of the
lances which were levelled at them, with exclamations of »Down with the accursed
heathen thieves - take and kill - bind them like beasts - spear them like
wolves!«
    These cries were accompanied with corresponding acts of violence; but such
was the alertness of the fugitives, the ground being rendered unfavourable to
the horsemen by thickets and bushes, that only two were struck down and made
prisoners, one of whom was the young fellow with the sword, who had previously
offered some resistance. Quentin, whom fortune seemed at this period to have
chosen for the butt of her shafts, was at the same time seized by the soldiers,
and his arms, in spite of his remonstrances, bound down with a cord; those who
apprehended him showing a readiness and despatch in the operation, which proved
them to be no novices in matters of police.
    Looking anxiously to the leader of the horsemen, from whom he hoped to
obtain liberty, Quentin knew not exactly whether to be pleased or alarmed upon
recognising in him the down-looking and silent companion of Maitre Pierre. True,
whatever crime these strangers might be accused of, this officer might know,
from the history of the morning, that he, Durward, had no connection with them
whatever; but it was a more difficult question, whether this sullen man would be
either a favourable judge or a willing. witness in his behalf, and he felt
doubtful whether he would mend his condition by making any direct application to
him.
    But there was little leisure for hesitation. »Trois-Eschelles and
Petit-André,« said the down-looking officer to two of his band, »these same
trees stand here quite convenient. I will teach these misbelieving, thieving
sorcerers, to interfere with the King's justice, when it has visited any of
their accursed race. Dismount, my children, and do your office briskly.«
    Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André were in an instant on foot, and Quentin
observed that they had each, at the crupper and pommel of his saddle, a coil or
two of ropes, which they hastily undid, and showed that, in fact, each coil
formed a halter, with the fatal noose adjusted, ready for execution. The blood
ran cold in Quentin's veins, when he saw three cords selected, and perceived
that it was proposed to put one around his own neck. He called on the officer
loudly, reminded him of their meeting that morning, claimed the right of a
free-born Scotsman, in a friendly and allied country, and denied any knowledge
of the persons along with whom he was seized, or of their misdeeds.
    The officer whom Durward thus addressed scarce deigned to look at him while
he was speaking, and took no notice whatever of the claim he preferred to prior
acquaintance. He barely turned to one or two of the peasants who were now come
forward, either to volunteer their evidence against the prisoners, or out of
curiosity, and said gruffly, »Was yonder young fellow with the vagabonds?«
    »That he was, sir, an it please your noble Provostship,« answered one of the
clowns; »he was the very first blasphemously to cut down the rascal whom his
Majesty's justice most deservedly hung up, as we told your worship.«
    »I'll swear by God, and Saint Martin of Tours, to have seen him with their
gang,« said another, »when they pillaged our métairie.«
    »Nay, but, father,« said a boy, »yonder heathen was black, and this youth is
fair; yonder one had short curled hair, and this hath long fair locks.«
    »Ay, child,« said the peasant, »and perhaps you will say yonder one had a
green coat and this a grey jerkin. But his worship, the Provost, knows that they
can change their complexions as easily as their jerkins, so that I am still
minded he was the same.«
    »It is enough that you have seen him intermeddle with the course of the
King's justice, by attempting to recover an executed traitor,« said the officer.
- »Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André, despatch.«
    »Stay, signior officer!« exclaimed the youth, in mortal agony - »hear me
speak - let me not die guiltlessly - my blood will be required of you by my
countrymen in this world, and by Heaven's justice in that which is to follow.«
    »I will answer for my actions in both,« said the Provost, coldly; and made a
sign with his left hand to the executioners; then, with a smile of triumphant
malice, touched with his forefinger his right arm, which hung suspended in a
scarf, disabled probably by the blow which Durward had dealt him that morning.
    »Miserable, vindictive wretch!« answered Quentin, persuaded by that action
that private revenge was the sole motive of this man's rigour, and that no mercy
whatever was to be expected from him.
    »The poor youth raves,« said the functionary: »speak a word of comfort to
him ere he make his transit, Trois-Eschelles; thou art a comfortable man in such
cases, when a confessor is not to be had. Give him one minute of ghostly advice,
and despatch matters in the next. I must proceed on the rounds. - Soldiers,
follow me!«
    The Provost rode on, followed by his guard, excepting two or three, who were
left to assist in the execution. The unhappy youth cast after him an eye almost
darkened by despair, and thought he heard, in every tramp of his horse's
retreating hoofs, the last slight chance of his safety vanish. He looked around
him in agony, and was surprised, even in that moment, to see the stoical
indifference of his fellow-prisoners. They had previously testified every sign
of fear, and made every effort to escape; but now, when secured, and destined
apparently to inevitable death, they awaited its arrival with the utmost
composure. The scene of fate before them, gave, perhaps, a more yellow tinge to
their swarthy cheeks; but it neither agitated their features, nor quenched the
stubborn haughtiness of their eye. They seemed like foxes, which, after all
their wiles and artful attempts at escape are exhausted, die with a silent and
sullen fortitude, which wolves and bears, the fiercer objects of the chase, do
not exhibit.
    They were undaunted by the conduct of the fatal executioners, who went about
their work with more deliberation than their master had recommended, and which
probably arose from their having acquired by habit a kind of pleasure in the
discharge of their horrid office. We pause an instant to describe them, because,
under a tyranny, whether despotic or popular, the character of the hangman
becomes a subject of great importance.
    These functionaries were essentially different in their appearance and
manners. Louis used to call them Democritus and Heraclitus, and their master,
the Provost, termed them, Jean-qui-pleure, and Jean-qui-rit.
    Trois-Eschelles was a tall, thin, ghastly man, with a peculiar gravity of
visage, and a large rosary round his neck, the use of which he was accustomed
piously to offer to those sufferers on whom he did his duty. He had one or two
Latin texts continually in his mouth on the nothingness and vanity of human
life; and, had it been regular to have enjoyed such a plurality, he might have
held the office of confessor to the jail in commendam with that of executioner.
Petit-André, on the contrary, was a joyous-looking, round, active, little
fellow, who rolled about in execution of his duty as if it were the most
diverting occupation in the world. He seemed to have a sort of fond affection
for his victims, and always spoke of them in kindly and affectionate terms. They
were his poor honest fellows, his pretty dears, his gossips, his good old
fathers, as their age or sex might be; and as Trois-Eschelles endeavoured to
inspire them with a philosophical or religious regard to futurity, Petit-André
seldom failed to refresh them with a jest or two, as if to induce them to pass
from life as something that was ludicrous, contemptible, and not worthy of
serious consideration.
    I cannot tell why or wherefore it was, but these two excellent persons,
notwithstanding the variety of their talents, and the rare occurrence of such
among persons of their profession, were both more utterly detested than perhaps
any creatures of their kind, whether before or since; and the only doubt of
those who knew aught of them was, whether the grave and pathetic
Trois-Eschelles, or the frisky, comic, alert Petit-André was the object of the
greatest fear, or of the deepest execration. It is certain they bore the palm in
both particulars over every hangman in France, unless it were perhaps their
master, Tristan l'Hermite, the renowned Provost-Marshal, or his master, Louis
XI.15
    It must not be supposed that these reflections were of Quentin Durward's
making. Life, death, time, and eternity, were swimming before his eyes - a
stunning and overwhelming prospect, from which human nature recoiled in its
weakness; though human pride would fain have borne up. He addressed himself to
the God of his fathers; and when he did so, the little rude and unroofed chapel,
which now held almost all his race but himself, rushed on his recollection. »Our
feudal enemies gave my kindred graves in our own land,« he thought, »but I must
feed the ravens and kites of a foreign land, like an excommunicated felon!« The
tears gushed involuntarily from his eyes. Trois-Eschelles, touching one
shoulder, gravely congratulated him on his heavenly disposition for death, and
pathetically exclaiming, Beati qui in Domino moriuntur, remarked, the soul was
happy that left the body while the tear was in the eye. Petit-André, slapping
the other shoulder, called out, »Courage, my fair son! since you must begin the
dance, let the ball open gaily, for all the rebecs are in tune,« twitching the
halter at the same time, to give point to his joke. As the youth turned his
dismayed looks, first on one and then on the other, they made their meaning
plainer by gently urging him forward to the fatal tree, and bidding him be of
good courage, for it would be over in a moment.
    In this fatal predicament, the youth cast a distracted look around him. »Is
there any good Christian who hears me,« he said, »that will tell Ludovic Lesly
of the Scottish Guard, called in this country Le Balafré, that his nephew is
here basely murdered?«
    The words were spoken in good time, for an Archer of the Scottish Guard,
attracted by the preparations for the execution, was standing by, with one or
two other chance passengers, to witness what was passing.
    »Take heed what you do,« he said to the executioners; »if this young man be
of Scottish birth, I will not permit him to have foul play.«
    »Heaven forbid, Sir Cavalier,« said Trois-Eschelles; »but we must obey our
orders,« drawing Durward forward by one arm.
    »The shortest play is ever the fairest,« said Petit-André, pulling him
onward by the other.
    But Quentin had heard words of comfort, and, exerting his strength, he
suddenly shook off both the finishers of the law, and, with his arms still
bound, ran to the Scottish Archer. »Stand by me, countryman,« he said, in his
own language, »for the love of Scotland and Saint Andrew! I am innocent - I am
your own native landsman. Stand by me, as you shall answer at the last day.«
    »By Saint Andrew! they shall make at you through me,« said the Archer, and
unsheathed his sword.
    »Cut my bonds, countryman,« said Quentin, »and I will do something for
myself.«
    This was done with a touch of the Archer's weapon; and the liberated
captive, springing suddenly on one of the Provost's guard, wrested from him a
halbert with which he was armed; »And now,« he said, »come on, if you dare!«
    The two officers whispered together.
    »Ride thou after the Provost-Marshal,« said Trois-Eschelles, »and I will
detain them here, if I can. - Soldiers of the Provost's guard, stand to your
arms.«
    Petit-André mounted his horse, and left the field, and the other
Marshals-men in attendance drew together so hastily at the command of
Trois-Eschelles, that they suffered the other two prisoners to make their escape
during the confusion. Perhaps they were not very anxious to detain them; for
they had of late been sated with the blood of such wretches, and like other
ferocious animals, were, through long slaughter, become tired of carnage. But
the pretext was, that they thought themselves immediately called upon to attend
to the safety of Trois-Eschelles; for there was a jealousy, which occasionally
led to open quarrels, betwixt the Scottish Archers and the Marshal-guards, who
executed the orders of their Provost.
    »We are strong enough to beat the proud Scots twice over, if it be your
pleasure,« said one of these soldiers to Trois-Eschelles.
    But that cautious official made a sign to him to remain quiet, and addressed
the Scottish Archer with great civility. »Surely, sir, this is a great insult to
the Provost-Marshal, that you should presume to interfere with the course of the
King's justice, duly and lawfully committed to his charge; and it is no act of
justice to me, who am in lawful possession of my criminal. Neither is it a
well-meant kindness to the youth himself, seeing that fifty opportunities of
hanging him may occur, without his being found in so happy a state of
preparation as he was before your ill-advised interference.«
    »If my young countryman,« said the Scot, smiling, »be of opinion I have done
him an injury, I will return him to your charge without a word more dispute.«
    »No, no! - for the love of Heaven, no!« exclaimed Quentin. »I would rather
you swept my head off with your long sword - it would better become my birth,
than to die by the hands of such a foul churl.«
    »Hear how he revileth,« said the finisher of the law. »Alas! how soon our
best resolutions pass away! - he was in a blessed frame for departure but now,
and in two minutes he has become a contemner of authorities.«
    »Tell me at once,« said the Archer, »what has this young man done?«
    »Interfered,« answered Trois-Eschelles, with some earnestness, »to take down
the dead body of a criminal, when the fleur-de-lys was marked on the tree where
he was hung with my own proper hand.«
    »How is this, young man?« said the Archer, »how came you to have committed
such an offence?«
    »As I desire your protection,« answered Durward, »I will tell you the truth
as if I were at confession. I saw a man struggling on the tree, and I went to
cut him down out of mere humanity. I thought neither of fleur-de-lys nor of
clove-gilliflower, and had no more idea of offending the King of France than our
Father the Pope.«
    »What a murrain had you to do with the dead body, then?« said the Archer.
»You'll see them hanging, in the rear of this gentleman, like grapes on every
tree, and you will have enough to do in this country if you go a-gleaning after
the hangman. However, I will not quit a countryman's cause if I can help it. -
Hark ye, Master Marshals-man, you see this is entirely a mistake. You should
have some compassion on so young a traveller. In our country at home he has not
been accustomed to see such active proceedings as yours and your master's.«
    »Not for want of need of them, Signor Archer,« said Petit-André, who
returned at this moment. »Stand fast, Trois-Eschelles, for here comes the
Provost-Marshal; we shall presently see how he will relish having his work taken
out of his hand before it is finished.«
    »And in good time,« said the Archer, »here come some of my comrades.«
    Accordingly, as the Provost Tristan rode up with his patrol on one side of
the little hill which was the scene of the altercation, four or five Scottish
Archers came as hastily up on the other, and at their head the Balafré himself.
    Upon this urgency, Lesly showed none of that indifference towards his nephew
of which Quentin had in his heart accused him; for he no sooner saw his comrade
and Durward standing upon their defence, than he exclaimed, »Cunningham, I thank
thee. - Gentlemen - comrades, lend me your aid - It is a young Scottish
gentleman - my nephew - Lindesay - Guthrie - Tyrie, draw, and strike in!«
    There was now every prospect of a desperate scuffle between the parties, who
were not so disproportioned in numbers, but that the better arms of the Scottish
cavaliers gave them an equal chance of victory. But the Provost-Marshal, either
doubting the issue of the conflict, or aware that it would be disagreeable to
the King, made a sign to his followers to forbear from violence, while he
demanded of Balafré, who now put himself forward as the head of the other party,
»What he, a cavalier of the King's Body Guard, purposed by opposing the
execution of a criminal?«
    »I deny that I do so,« answered the Balafré - »Saint Martin! there is, I
think, some difference between the execution of a criminal, and the slaughter of
my own nephew?«
    »Your nephew may be a criminal as well as another, Signor,« said the
Provost-Marshal; »and every stranger in France is amenable to the laws of
France.«
    »Yes, but we have privileges, we Scottish Archers,« said Balafré; »have we
not, comrades?«
    »Yes, yes,« they all exclaimed together. »Privileges - privileges! Long live
King Louis - long live the bold Balafré - long live the Scottish Guard - and
death to all who would infringe our privileges!«
    »Take reason with you, gentlemen cavaliers,« said the Provost-Marshal;
»consider my commission.«
    »We will have no reason at your hand,« said Cunningham; »our own officers
shall do us reason. We will be judged by the King's grace, or by our own
Captain, now that the Lord High Constable is not in presence.«
    »And we will be hanged by none,« said Lindesay, »but Sandie Wilson, the auld
Marshals-man of our ain body.«
    »It would be a positive cheating of Sandie, who is as honest a man as ever
tied noose upon hemp, did we give way to any other proceeding,« said the
Balafré. »Were I to be hanged myself, no other should tie tippet about my
craig.«
    »But hear ye,« said the Provost-Marshal, »this young fellow belongs not to
you, and cannot share what you call your privileges.«
    »What we call our privileges, all shall admit to be such,« said Cunningham.
    »We will not hear them questioned!« was the universal cry of the Archers.
    »Ye are mad, my masters,« said Tristan l'Hermite - »No one disputes your
privileges; but this youth is not one of you.«
    »He is my nephew,« said the Balafré, with a triumphant air.
    »But no Archer of the Guard, I think,« retorted Tristan l'Hermite.
    The Archers looked on each other in some uncertainty.
    »Stand to it yet, comrade,« whispered Cunningham to Balafré - »Say he is
engaged with us.«
    »Saint Martin! you say well, fair countryman,« answered Lesly; and raising
his voice, swore that he had that day enrolled his kinsman as one of his own
retinue.
    This declaration was a decisive argument.
    »It is well, gentlemen,« said the Provost Tristan, who was aware of the
King's nervous apprehension of disaffection creeping in among his Guards - »You
know, as you say, your privileges, and it is not my duty to have brawls with the
King's Guards, if it is to be avoided. But I will report this matter for the
King's own decision; and I would have you to be aware, that, in doing so, I act
more mildly than perhaps my duty warrants me.«
    So saying, he put his troop into motion, while the Archers, remaining on the
spot, held a hasty consultation what was next to be done.
    »We must report the matter to Lord Crawford, our Captain, in the first
place, and have the young fellow's name put on the roll.«
    »But, gentlemen, and my worthy friends and preservers,« said Quentin, with
some hesitation, »I have not yet determined whether to take service with you or
no.«
    »Then settle in your own mind,« said his uncle, »whether you choose to do
so, or be hanged - for I promise you, that, nephew of mine as you are, I see no
other chance of your 'scaping the gallows.«
    This was an unanswerable argument, and reduced Quentin at once to acquiesce
in what he might have otherwise considered as no very agreeable proposal; but
the recent escape from the halter which had been actually around his neck, would
probably have reconciled him to a worse alternative than was proposed.
    »He must go home with us to our caserne,« said Cunningham; »there is no
safety for him out of our bounds, whilst these man-hunters are prowling about.«
    »May I not then abide for this night at the hostelry, where I breakfasted,
fair uncle?« said the youth - thinking, perhaps, like many a new recruit, that
even a single night of freedom was something gained.
    »Yes, fair nephew,« answered his uncle, ironically, »that we may have the
pleasure of fishing you out of some canal or moat, or perhaps out of a loop of
the Loire, knit up in a sack, for the greater convenience of swimming - for that
is like to be the end on't - The Provost-Marshal smiled on us when we parted,«
continued he, addressing Cunningham, »and that is a sign his thoughts were
dangerous.«
    »I care not for his danger,« said Cunningham; »such game as we are beyond
his bird-bolts. But I would have thee tell the whole to the Devil's Oliver, who
is always a good friend to the Scottish Guard, and will see Father Louis before
the Provost can, for he is to shave him to-morrow.«
    »But hark you,« said Balafré, »it is ill going to Oliver empty-handed, and I
am as bare as the birch in December.«
    »So are we all,« said Cunningham - »Oliver must not scruple to take our
Scottish words for once. We will make up something handsome among us against the
next pay-day; and if he expects to share, let me tell you, the pay-day will come
about all the sooner.«
    »And now for the Chateau,« said Balafré; »and my nephew shall tell us by the
way how he brought the Provost-Marshal on his shoulders, that we may know how to
frame our report both to Crawford and Oliver.«16
 

                                Chapter Seventh

                                 The Enrolment.

 Justice of Peace. - Here, hand me down the Statute -
 read the articles -
 Swear, kiss the book - subscribe, and be a hero;
 Drawing a portion from the public stock
 For deeds of valour to be done hereafter -
 Sixpence per day, subsistence and arrears.
                                                         The Recruiting Officer.
 
An attendant upon the Archers having been dismounted, Quentin Durward was
accommodated with his horse, and, in company of his martial countrymen, rode at
a round pace towards the Castle of Plessis, about to become, although on his own
part involuntarily, an inhabitant of that gloomy fortress, the outside of which
had, that morning, struck him with so much surprise.
    In the meanwhile, in answer to his uncle's repeated interrogations, he gave
him an exact account of the accident which had that morning brought him into so
much danger. Although he himself saw nothing in his narrative save what was
affecting, he found it was received with much laughter by his escort.
    »And yet it is no good jest either,« said his uncle, »for what, in the
devil's name, could lead the senseless boy to meddle with the body of a cursed
misbelieving Jewish Moorish pagan?«
    »Had he quarrelled with the Marshals-men about a pretty wench, as Michael of
Moffat did, there had been more sense in it,« said Cunningham.
    »But I think it touches our honour, that Tristan and his people pretend to
confound our Scottish bonnets with these pilfering vagabonds' tocques and
turbands, as they call them,« said Lindesay - »If they have not eyes to see the
difference, they must be taught by rule of hand. But it's my belief, Tristan but
pretends to mistake, that he may snap up the kindly Scots that come over to see
their kinsfolks.«
    »May I ask, kinsman,« said Quentin, »what sort of people these are of whom
you speak?«
    »In troth you may ask,« said his uncle, »but I know not, fair nephew, who is
able to answer you. Not I, I am sure, although I know, it may be, as much as
other people; but they have appeared in this land within a year or two, just as
a flight of locusts might do.«17
    »Ay,« said Lindesay, »and Jacques Bonhomme (that is our name for the
peasant, young man, - you will learn our way of talk in time), - honest Jacques,
I say, cares little what wind either brings them or the locusts, so he but knows
any gale that would carry them away again.«
    »Do they do so much evil?« asked the young man.
    »Evil? - why, boy, they are heathens, or Jews, or Mahommedans at the least,
and neither worship Our Lady nor the Saints« - (crossing himself) - »and steal
what they can lay hands on, and sing, and tell fortunes,« added Cunningham.
    »And they say there are some goodly wenches amongst these women,« said
Guthrie; »but Cunningham knows that best.«
    »How, brother!« said Cunningham; »I trust ye mean me no reproach?«
    »I am sure I said ye none,« answered Guthrie.
    »I will be judged by the company,« said Cunningham. - »Ye said as much as
that I, a Scottish gentleman, and living within pale of holy Church, had a fair
friend among these offscourings of Heathenesse.«
    »Nay, nay,« said Balafré, »he did but jest - We will have no quarrels among
comrades.« »We must have no such jesting then,« said Cunningham, murmuring, as
if he had been speaking to his own beard.
    »Be there such vagabonds in other lands than France?« said Lindesay.
    »Ay, in good sooth are there - tribes of them have appeared in Germany, and
in Spain, and in England,« answered Balafré. »By the blessing of good Saint
Andrew, Scotland is free of them yet.«
    »Scotland,« said Cunningham, »is too cold a country for locusts, and too
poor a country for thieves.«
    »Or perhaps John Highlander will suffer no thieves to thrive there but his
own,« said Guthrie.
    »I let you all know,« said Balafré, »that I come from the Braes of Angus,
and have gentle Highland kin in Glen-isla, and I will not have the Highlanders
slandered.«
    »You will not deny that they are cattle-lifters?« said Guthrie.
    »To drive a spreagh, or so, is no thievery,« said Balafré, »and that I will
maintain when and how you dare.«
    »For shame, comrade,« said Cunningham; »who quarrels now? - the young man
should not see such mad misconstruction. - Come, here we are at the Chateau. I
will bestow a runlet of wine to have a rouse in friendship, and drink to
Scotland, Highland and Lowland both, if you will meet me at dinner at my
quarters.«
    »Agreed - agreed,« said Balafré; »and I will bestow another to wash away
unkindness, and to drink a health to my nephew on his first entrance to our
corps.«
    At their approach, the wicket was opened, and the drawbridge fell. One by
one they entered; but when Quentin appeared, the sentinels crossed their pikes,
and commanded him to stand, while bows were bent, and harquebusses aimed at him
from the walls, a rigour of vigilance used, notwithstanding that the young
stranger came in company of a party of the garrison, nay, of the very body which
furnished the sentinels who were then upon duty.
    Le Balafré, who had remained by his nephew's side on purpose, gave the
necessary explanations, and, after some considerable hesitation and delay, the
youth was conveyed under a strong guard to the Lord Crawford's apartment.
    This Scottish nobleman was one of the last relics of the gallant band of
Scottish lords and knights who had so long and so truly served Charles VI. in
those bloody wars which decided the independence of the French crown, and the
expulsion of the English. He had fought, when a boy, abreast with Douglas and
with Buchan, had ridden beneath the banner of the Maid of Arc, and was perhaps
one of the last of those associates of Scottish chivalry who had so willingly
drawn their swords for the fleur-de-lys, against their »auld enemies of
England.« Changes which had taken place in the Scottish kingdom, and perhaps his
having become habituated to French climate and manners, had induced the old
Baron to resign all thoughts of returning to his native country, the rather that
the high office which he held in the household of Louis, and his own frank and
loyal character, had gained a considerable ascendency over the King, who, though
in general no ready believer in human virtue or honour, trusted and confided in
those of the Lord Crawford, and allowed him the greater influence, because he
was never known to interfere excepting in matters which concerned his charge.
    Balafré and Cunningham followed Durward and the guard to the apartment of
their officer, by whose dignified appearance, as well as with the respect paid
to him by these proud soldiers, who seemed to respect no one else, the young man
was much and strongly impressed.
    Lord Crawford was tall, and through advanced age had become gaunt and thin;
yet retaining in his sinews the strength, at least, if not the elasticity, of
youth, he was able to endure the weight of his armour during a march as well as
the youngest man who rode in his band. He was hard-favoured, with a scarred and
weatherbeaten countenance, and an eye that had looked upon death as his
playfellow in thirty pitched battles, but which nevertheless expressed a calm
contempt of danger, rather than the ferocious courage of a mercenary soldier.
His tall erect figure was at present wrapped in a loose chambergown, secured
around him by his buff belt, in which was suspended his richly-hilted poniard.
He had round his neck the collar and badge of the order of Saint Michael. He sat
upon a couch covered with deer's hide, and with spectacles on his nose (then a
recent invention), was labouring to read a huge manuscript called the Rosier de
la Guerre, a code of military and civil policy which Louis had compiled for the
benefit of his son the Dauphin, and upon which he was desirous to have the
opinion of the experienced Scottish warrior.
    Lord Crawford laid his book somewhat peevishly aside upon the entrance of
these unexpected visitors, and demanded, in his broad national dialect, »What,
in the foul fiend's name, they lacked now?«
    Le Balafré, with more respect than perhaps he would have shown to Louis
himself, stated at full length the circumstances in which his nephew was placed,
and humbly requested his Lordship's protection. Lord Crawford listened very
attentively. He could not but smile at the simplicity with which the youth had
interfered in behalf of the hanged criminal, but he shook his head at the
account which he received of the ruffle betwixt the Scottish Archers and the
Provost-Marshal's guard.18
    »How often,« he said, »will you bring me such ill-winded pirns to ravel out?
How often must I tell you, and especially both you, Ludovic Lesly, and you,
Archie Cunningham, that the foreign soldier should bear himself modestly and
decorously towards the people of the country, if you would not have the whole
dogs of the town at your heels? However, if you must have a bargain,19 I would
rather it were with that loon of a Provost than any one else; and I blame you
less for this onslaught than for other frays that you have made, Ludovic, for it
was but natural and kind-like to help your young kinsman. This simple bairn must
come to no skaith neither; so give me the roll of the company yonder down from
the shelf, and we will even add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the
privileges.«
    »May it please your Lordship,« - said Durward -
    »Is the lad crazed!« exclaimed his uncle - »Would you speak to his Lordship,
without a question asked?«
    »Patience, Ludovic,« said Lord Crawford, »and let us hear what the bairn has
to say.«
    »Only this, if it may please your Lordship,« replied Quentin, »that I told
my uncle formerly I had some doubts about entering this service. I have now to
say that they are entirely removed, since I have seen the noble and experienced
commander under whom I am to serve; for there is authority in your look.«
    »Weel said, my bairn,« said the old Lord, not insensible to the compliment;
»we have had some experience, had God sent us grace to improve by it, both in
service and in command. There you stand, Quentin, in our honourable corps of
Scottish Body-guards, as esquire to your uncle, and serving under his lance. I
trust you will do well, for you should be a right man-at-arms, if all be good
that is upcome,20 and you are come of a gentle kindred. - Ludovic, you will see
that your kinsman follow his exercise diligently, for we will have spears
breaking one of these days.«
    »By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my Lord - this peace makes cowards of us
all. I myself feel a sort of decay of spirit, closed up in this cursed dungeon
of a Castle.«
    »Well, a bird whistled in my ear,« continued Lord Crawford, »that the old
banner will be soon dancing in the field again.«
    »I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to that very tune,« said
Balafré.
    »Thou wilt drink to any tune,« said Lord Crawford; »and I fear me, Ludovic,
you will drink a bitter browst of your own brewing one day.«
    Lesly, a little abashed, replied, »that it had not been his wont for many a
day; but his Lordship knew the use of the company, to have a carouse to the
health of a new comrade.«
    »True,« said the old leader, »I had forgot the occasion. I will send a few
stoups of wine to assist your carouse; but let it be over by sunset. And, hark
ye - let the soldiers for duty be carefully pricked off; and see that none of
them be more or less partakers of your debauch.«
    »Your Lordship shall be lawfully obeyed,« said Ludovic, »and your health
duly remembered.«
    »Perhaps,« said Lord Crawford, »I may look in myself upon your mirth - just
to see that all is carried decently.«
    »Your Lordship shall be most dearly welcome,« said Ludovic; and the whole
party retreated in high spirits to prepare for their military banquet, to which
Lesly invited about a score of his comrades, who were pretty much in the habit
of making their mess together.
    A soldier's festival is generally a very extempore affair, providing there
is enough of meat and drink to be had; but, on the present occasion, Ludovic
bustled about to procure some better wine than ordinary; observing, that »the
old Lord was the surest gear in their aught, and that, while he preached
sobriety to them, he himself, after drinking at the royal table as much wine as
he could honestly come by, never omitted any creditable opportunity to fill up
the evening over the wine-pot; so you must prepare, comrades,« he said, »to hear
the old histories of the battles of Vernoil and Beaugé.«21
    The Gothic apartment in which they generally met was, therefore, hastily put
into the best order; their grooms were despatched to collect green rushes to
spread upon the floor; and banners, under which the Scottish Guard had marched
to battle, or which they had taken from the enemies' ranks, were displayed, by
way of tapestry, over the table, and around the walls of the chamber.
    The next point was, to invest the young recruit as hastily as possible with
the dress and appropriate arms of the Guard, that he might appear in every
respect the sharer of its important privileges, in virtue of which, and by the
support of his countrymen, he might freely brave the power and the displeasure
of the Provost-Marshal - although the one was known to be as formidable as the
other was unrelenting.
    The banquet was joyous in the highest degree; and the guests gave vent to
the whole current of their national partiality on receiving into their ranks a
recruit from their beloved fatherland. Old Scottish songs were sung, old tales
of Scottish heroes told - the achievements of their fathers, and the scenes in
which they were wrought, wore recalled to mind: and, for a time, the rich plains
of Touraine seemed converted into the mountainous and sterile regions of
Caledonia.
    When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and each was endeavouring to say
something to enhance the dear remembrance of Scotland, it received a new impulse
from the arrival of Lord Crawford, who, as Le Balafré had well prophesied, sat
as it were on thorns at the royal board, until an opportunity occurred of making
his escape to the revelry of his own countrymen. A chair of state had been
reserved for him at the upper end of the table; for, according to the manners of
the age, and the constitution of that body, although their leader and commander
under the King and High Constable, the members of the corps (as we should now
say, the privates), being all ranked as noble by birth, their Captain sat with
them at the same table without impropriety, and might mingle when he chose in
their festivity, without derogation from his dignity as commander.
    At present, however, Lord Crawford declined occupying the seat prepared for
him, and bidding them »hold themselves merry,« stood looking on the revel with a
countenance which seemed greatly to enjoy it.
    »Let him alone,« whispered Cunningham to Lindesay, as the latter offered the
wine to their noble Captain, »let him alone - hurry no man's cattle - let him
take it of his own accord.«
    In fact, the old Lord, who at first smiled, shook his head, and placed the
untasted wine-cup before him, began presently, as if it were in absence of mind,
to sip a little of the contents, and in doing so, fortunately recollected that
it would be ill luck did he not drink a draught to the health of the gallant lad
who had joined them this day. The pledge was filled, and answered, as may well
be supposed, with many a joyous shout, when the old leader proceeded to acquaint
them that he had possessed Master Oliver with an account of what had passed that
day: »And as,« he said, »the scraper of chins hath no great love for the
stretcher of throats, he has joined me in obtaining from the King an order,
commanding the Provost to suspend all proceedings, under whatever pretence,
against Quentin Durward; and to respect, on all occasions, the privileges of the
Scottish Guard.«
    Another shout broke forth, the cups were again filled till the wine sparkled
on the brim, and there was an acclaim to the health of the noble Lord Crawford,
the brave conservator of the privileges and rights of his countrymen. The good
old Lord could not but in courtesy do reason to this pledge also, and gliding
into the ready chair, as it were, without reflecting what he was doing, he
caused Quentin to come up beside him, and assailed him with many more questions
concerning the state of Scotland, and the great families there, than he was well
able to answer; while ever and anon, in the course of his queries, the good Lord
kissed the wine-cup by way of parenthesis, remarking, that sociality became
Scottish gentlemen, but that young men, like Quentin, ought to practise it
cautiously, lest it might degenerate into excess; upon which occasion he uttered
many excellent things, until his own tongue, although employed in the praises of
temperance, began to articulate something thicker than usual. It was now that,
while the military ardour of the company augmented with each flagon which they
emptied, Cunningham called on them to drink the speedy hoisting of the Oriflamme
(the royal banner of France).
    »And a breeze of Burgundy to fan it!« echoed Lindesay.
    »With all the soul that is left in this worn body do I accept the pledge,
bairns,« echoed Lord Crawford; »and as old as I am, I may see it flutter yet.
Hark ye, my mates« (for wine had made him something communicative), »ye are all
true servants to the French crown, and wherefore should ye not know there is an
envoy come from Duke Charles of Burgundy, with a message of an angry favour.«
    »I saw the Count of Crèvecoeur's equipage, horses and retinue,« said another
of the guests, »down at the inn yonder, at the Mulberry Grove. They say the King
will not admit him into the Castle.«
    »Now, Heaven send him an ungracious answer!« said Guthrie; »but what is it
he complains of?«
    »A world of grievances upon the frontier,« said Lord Crawford; »and
latterly, that the King hath received under his protection a lady of his land, a
young Countess, who hath fled from Dijon, because, being a ward of the Duke, he
would have her marry his favourite, Campo-basso.«
    »And hath she actually come hither alone, my lord?« said Lindesay.
    »Nay, not altogether alone, but with the old Countess, her kinswoman, who
hath yielded to her cousin's wishes in this matter.«
    »And will the King,« said Cunningham, »he being the Duke's feudal sovereign,
interfere between the Duke and his ward, over whom Charles hath the same right,
which, were he himself dead, the King would have over the heiress of Burgundy? «
    »The King will be ruled, as he is wont, by rules of policy; and you know,«
continued Crawford, »that he hath not publicly received these ladies, nor placed
them under the protection of his daughters, the Lady of Beaujeu, or the Princess
Joan, so, doubtless, he will be guided by circumstances. He is our Master - but
it is no treason to say, he will chase with the hounds, and run with the hare,
with any Prince in Christendom.«
    »But the Duke of Burgundy understands no such doubling,« said Cunningham.
    »No,« answered the old Lord; »and, therefore, it is likely to make work
between them.«
    »Well - Saint Andrew farther the fray!« said Le Balafré. »I had it foretold
me ten, ay, twenty years since, that I was to make the fortune of my house by
marriage. Who knows what may happen, if once we come to fight for honour and
ladies' love, as they do in the old romaunts? «
    »Thou name ladies' love, with such a trench in thy visage!« said Guthrie.
    »As well not love at all, as love a Bohemian woman of Heathenesse,« retorted
Le Balafré.
    »Hold there, comrades,« said Lord Crawford; »no tilting with sharp weapons,
no jesting with keen scoffs - friends all. And for the lady, she is too wealthy
to fall to a poor Scottish lord, or I would put in my own claim, fourscore years
and all, or not very far from it. But here is her health, nevertheless, for they
say she is a lamp of beauty.«
    »I think I saw her,« said another soldier, »when I was upon guard this
morning at the inner barrier; but she was more like a dark lantern than a lamp,
for she and another were brought into the Chateau in close litters.«
    »Shame! shame! Arnot!« said Lord Crawford; »a soldier on duty should say
nought of what he sees. Besides,« he added after a pause, his own curiosity
prevailing over the show of discipline which he had thought it necessary to
exert, »why should these litters contain this very same Countess Isabelle de
Croye?«
    »Nay, my Lord,« replied Arnot, »I know nothing of it save this, that my
coutelier was airing my horses in the road to the village,. and fell in with
Doguin the muleteer, who brought back the litters to the inn, for they belong to
the fellow of the Mulberry Grove yonder - he of the Fleur-de-Lys, I mean - and
so Doguin asked Saunders Steed to take a cup of wine, as they were acquainted,
which he was no doubt willing enough to do« -
    »No doubt - no doubt,« said the old Lord; »it is a thing I wish were
corrected among you, gentlemen; but all your grooms, and couteliers, and
jackmen, as we should call them in Scotland, are but too ready to take a cup of
wine with any one - It is a thing perilous in war, and must be amended. But,
Andrew Arnot, this is a long tale of yours, and we will cut it with a drink; as
the Highlander says, Skeoch doch nan skial;22 and that's good Gaelic. - Here is
to the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and a better husband to her than Campo-basso,
who is a base Italian cullion! - And now, Andrew Arnot, what said the muleteer
to this yeoman of thine? «
    »Why, he told him in secrecy, if it please your Lordship,« continued Arnot,
»that these two ladies whom he had presently before convoyed up to the Castle in
the close litters, were great ladies, who had been living in secret at his
master's house for some days, and that the King had visited them more than once
very privately, and had done them great honour; and that they had fled up to the
Castle, as he believed, for fear of the Count de Crèvecoeur, the Duke of
Burgundy's ambassador, whose approach was just announced by an advanced
courier.«
    »Ay, Andrew, come you there to me?« said Guthrie; »then I will be sworn it
was the Countess whose voice I heard singing to the lute, as I came even now
through the inner court - the sound came from the bay-windows of the Dauphin's
Tower; and such melody was there as no one ever heard before in the Castle of
Plessis of the Park. By my faith, I thought it was the music of the Fairy
Melusina's making. There I stood - though I knew your board was covered, and
that you were all impatient - there I stood like« -
    »Like an ass, Johnny Guthrie,« said his commander; »thy long nose smelling
the dinner, thy long ears hearing the music, and thy short discretion not
enabling thee to decide which of them thou didst prefer. - Hark! is that not the
Cathedral bell tolling to vespers? - Sure it cannot be that time yet? The mad
old sexton has toll'd even-song an hour too soon.«
    »In faith, the bell rings but too justly the hour,« said Cunningham; »yonder
the sun is sinking on the west side of the fair plain.«
    »Ay,« said the Lord Crawford, »is it even so? - Well, lads, we must live
within compass - Fair and soft goes far - slow fire makes sweet malt - to be
merry and wise is a sound proverb. - One other rouse to the weal of old
Scotland, and then each man to his duty.«
    The parting-cup was emptied, and the guests dismissed - the stately Baron
taking the Balafré's arm, under pretence of giving him some instructions
concerning his nephew, but, perhaps, in reality, lest his own lofty pace should
seem to the public eye less steady than became his rank and high command. A
serious countenance did he bear as he passed through the two courts which
separated his lodging from the festal chamber, and solemn as the gravity of a
hogshead was the farewell caution, with which he prayed Ludovic to attend his
nephew's motions, especially in the matters of wenches and wine-cups.
    Meanwhile, not a word that was spoken concerning the beautiful Countess
Isabelle had escaped the young Durward, who, conducted into a small cabin, which
he was to share with his uncle's page, made his new and lowly abode the scene of
much high musing. The reader will easily imagine that the young soldier should
build a fine romance on such a foundation as the supposed, or rather the
assumed, identification of the Maiden of the Turret, to whose lay he had
listened with so much interest, and the fair cup-bearer of Maitre Pierre, with a
fugitive Countess, of rank and wealth, flying from the pursuit of a hated lover,
the favourite of an oppressive guardian, who abused his feudal power. There was
an interlude in Quentin's vision concerning Maitre Pierre, who seemed to
exercise such authority even over the formidable officer from whose hands he had
that day, with much difficulty, made his escape. At length the youth's reveries,
which had been respected by little Will Harper, the companion of his cell, were
broken in upon by the return of his uncle, who commanded Quentin to bed, that he
might arise betimes in the morning, and attend him to his Majesty's antechamber,
to which he was called by his hour of duty, along with five of his comrades.
 

                                 Chapter Eighth

                                   The Envoy.

 Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France
 For ere thou canst report I will be there,
 The thunder of my cannon shall be heard -
 So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath.
                                                                      King John.
 
Had sloth been a temptation by which Durward was easily beset, the noise with
which the caserne of the guards resounded after the first toll of primes, had
certainly banished the syren from his couch; but the discipline of his father's
tower, and of the convent of Aberbrothick, had taught him to start with the
dawn; and he did on his clothes gaily, amid the sounding of bugles and the clash
of armour, which announced the change of the vigilant guards - some of whom were
returning to barracks after their nightly duty, whilst some were marching out to
that of the morning - and others, again, amongst whom was his uncle, were arming
for immediate attendance upon the person of Louis. Quentin Durward soon put on,
with the feelings of so young a man on such an occasion, the splendid dress and
arms appertaining to his new situation; and his uncle, who looked with great
accuracy and interest to see that he was completely fitted out in every respect,
did not conceal his satisfaction at the improvement which had been thus made in
his nephew's appearance. »If thou dost prove as faithful and bold as thou art
well-favoured, I shall have in thee one of the handsomest and best esquires in
the Guard, which cannot but be an honour to thy mother's family. Follow me to
the presence-chamber; and see thou keep close at my shoulder.«
    So saying, he took up a partisan, large, weighty, and beautifully inlaid and
ornamented, and directing his nephew to assume a lighter weapon of a similar
description, they proceeded to the inner court of the palace, where their
comrades, who were to form the guard of the interior apartments, were already
drawn up, and under arms - the squires each standing behind their masters, to
whom they thus formed a second rank. Here were also in attendance many
yeomen-prickers, with gallant horses and noble dogs, on which Quentin looked
with such inquisitive delight, that his uncle was obliged more than once to
remind him that the animals were not there for his private amusement, but for
the King's, who had a strong passion for the chase, one of the few inclinations
which he indulged, even when coming in competition with his course of policy;
being so strict a protector of the game in the royal forests, that it was
currently said, you might kill a man with greater impunity than a stag.
    On a signal given, the Guards were put into motion by the command of Le
Balafré, who acted as officer upon the occasion; and, after some minutiæ of word
and signal, which all served to show the extreme and punctilious jealousy with
which their duty was performed, they marched into the hall of audience, where
the King was immediately expected.
    New as Quentin was to scenes of splendour, the effect of that which was now
before him rather disappointed the expectations which he had formed of the
brilliancy of a Court. There were household officers, indeed, richly attired;
there were guards gallantly armed, and there were domestics of various degrees:
But he saw none of the ancient counsellors of the kingdom, none of the high
officers of the crown, heard none of the names which in those days sounded an
alarum to chivalry; saw none either of those generals or leaders, who, possessed
of the full prime of manhood, were the strength of France, or of the more
youthful and fiery nobles, those early aspirants after honour, who were her
pride. The jealous habits - the reserved manners - the deep and artful policy of
the King, had estranged this splendid circle from the throne, and they were only
called around it upon certain stated and formal occasions, when they went
reluctantly, and returned joyfully, as the animals in the fable are supposed to
have approached and left the den of the lion.
    The very few persons who seemed to be there in the character of counsellors,
were mean-looking men, whose countenances sometimes expressed sagacity, but
whose manners showed they were called into a sphere for which their previous
education and habits had qualified them but indifferently. One or two persons,
however, did appear to Durward to possess a more noble mien, and the strictness
of the present duty was not such as to prevent his uncle communicating the names
of those whom he thus distinguished.
    With the Lord Crawford, who was in attendance, dressed in the rich habit of
his office, and holding a leading staff of silver in his hand, Quentin, as well
as the reader was already acquainted. Among others who seemed of quality, the
most remarkable was the Count de Dunois, the son of that celebrated Dunois,
known by the name of the Bastard of Orleans, who, fighting under the banner of
Jeanne d'Arc, acted such a distinguished part in liberating France from the
English yoke. His son well supported the high renown which had descended to him
from such an honoured source; and, notwithstanding his connection with the royal
family, and his hereditary popularity both with the nobles and the people,
Dunois had, upon all occasions, manifested such an open, frank loyalty of
character, that he seemed to have escaped all suspicion, even on the part of the
jealous Louis, who loved to see him near his person, and sometimes even called
him to his councils. Although accounted complete in all the exercises of
chivalry, and possessed of much of the character of what was then termed a
perfect knight, the person of the Count was far from being a model of romantic
beauty. He was under the common size, though very strongly built, and his legs
rather curved outwards, into that make which is more convenient for horseback,
than elegant in a pedestrian. His shoulders were broad, his hair black, his
complexion swarthy, his arms remarkably long and nervous. The features of his
countenance were irregular, even to ugliness; yet, after all, there was an air
of conscious worth and nobility about the Count de Dunois, which stamped at the
first glance the character of the high-born nobleman, and the undaunted soldier.
His mien was bold and upright, his step free and manly, and the harshness of his
countenance was dignified by a glance like an eagle, and a frown like a lion.
His dress was a hunting suit, rather sumptuous than gay, and he acted on most
occasions as Grand Huntsman, though we are not inclined to believe that he
actually held the office.
    Upon the arm of his relation Dunois, walking with a step so slow and
melancholy, that he seemed to rest on his kinsman and supporter, came Louis Duke
of Orleans, the first Prince of the blood royal (afterwards King, by the name of
Louis XII.), and to whom the guards and attendants rendered their homage as
such. The jealously-watched object of Louis's suspicions, this Prince, who,
failing the King's offspring, was heir to the kingdom, was not suffered to
absent himself from Court, and, while residing there, was alike denied
employment and countenance. The dejection which his degraded and almost captive
state naturally impressed on the deportment of this unfortunate Prince, was at
this moment greatly increased by his consciousness that the King meditated, with
respect to him, one of the most cruel and unjust actions which a tyrant could
commit, by compelling him to give his hand to the Princess Joan of France, the
younger daughter of Louis, to whom he had been contracted in infancy, but whose
deformed person rendered the insisting upon such an agreement an act of
abominable rigour.23
    The exterior of this unhappy Prince was in no respect distinguished by
personal advantages; and in mind he was of a gentle, mild, and beneficent
disposition, qualities which were visible even through the veil of extreme
dejection, with which his natural character was at present obscured. Quentin
observed that the Duke studiously avoided even looking at the Royal Guards, and
when he returned their salute, that he kept his eyes bent on the ground, as if
he feared the King's jealousy might have construed that gesture of ordinary
courtesy, as arising from the purpose of establishing a separate and personal
interest among them.
    Very different was the conduct of the proud Cardinal and Prelate, John of
Balue, the favourite minister of Louis for the time, whose rise and character
bore as close a resemblance to that of Wolsey, as the difference betwixt the
crafty and politic Louis and the headlong and rash Henry VIII. of England would
permit. The former had raised his minister from the lowest rank, to the dignity,
or at least to the emoluments, of Grand Almoner of France, loaded him with
benefices, and obtained for him the hat of a cardinal; and although he was too
cautious to repose in the ambitious Balue the unbounded power and trust which
Henry placed in Wolsey, yet he was more influenced by him than by any other of
his avowed counsellors. The Cardinal, accordingly, had not escaped the error
incidental to those who are suddenly raised to power from an obscure situation,
for he entertained a strong persuasion, dazzled doubtless by the suddenness of
his elevation, that his capacity was equal to intermeddling with affairs of
every kind, even those most foreign to his profession and studies. Tall and
ungainly in his person, he affected gallantry and admiration of the fair sex,
although his manners rendered his pretensions absurd, and his profession marked
them as indecorous. Some male or female flatterer had, in evil hour, possessed
him with the idea that there was much beauty of contour in a pair of huge
substantial legs, which he had derived from his father, a car-man of Limoges,
or, according to other authorities, a miller of Verdun; and with this idea he
had become so infatuated, that he always had his cardinal's robes a little
looped up on one side, that the sturdy proportion of his limbs might not escape
observation. As he swept through the stately apartment in his crimson dress and
rich cope, he stooped repeatedly to look at the arms and appointments of the
cavaliers on guard, asked them several questions in an authoritative tone, and
took upon him to censure some of them for what he termed irregularities of
discipline, in language to which these experienced soldiers dared no reply,
although it was plain they listened to it with impatience and with contempt.
    »Is the King aware,« said Dunois to the Cardinal, »that the Burgundian Envoy
is peremptory in demanding an audience?«
    »He is,« answered the Cardinal; »and here, as I think, comes the
all-sufficient Oliver Dain,24 to let us know the royal pleasure.«
    As he spoke, a remarkable person, who then divided the favour of Louis with
the proud Cardinal himself, entered from the inner apartment, but without any of
that important and consequential demeanour which marked the full-blown dignity
of the churchman. On the contrary, this was a little, pale, meagre man, whose
black silk jerkin and hose, without either coat, cloak, or cassock, formed a
dress ill qualified to set off to advantage a very ordinary person. He carried a
silver basin in his hand, and a napkin flung over his arm indicated his menial
capacity. His visage was penetrating and quick, although he endeavoured to
banish such expression from his features, by keeping his eyes fixed on the
ground, while, with the stealthy and quiet pace of a cat, he seemed modestly
rather to glide than to walk through the apartment. But though modesty may
easily obscure worth, it cannot hide court-favour; and all attempts to steal
unperceived through the presence-chamber were vain, on the part of one known to
have such possession of the King's ear, as had been attained by his celebrated
barber and groom of the chamber, Oliver le Dain, called sometimes Oliver le
Mauvais, and sometimes Oliver le Diable, epithets derived from the unscrupulous
cunning with which he assisted in the execution of the schemes of his master's
tortuous policy. At present he spoke earnestly for a few moments with the Count
de Dunois, who instantly left the chamber, while the tonsor glided quietly back
towards the royal apartment, whence he had issued, every one giving place to
him; which civility he only acknowledged by the most humble inclination of the
body, excepting in a very few instances, where he made one or two persons the
subject of envy to all the other courtiers, by whispering a single word in their
ear; and at the same time muttering something of the duties of his place, he
escaped from their replies as well as from the eager solicitations of those who
wished to attract his notice. Ludovic Lesly had the good fortune to be one of
the individuals, who, on the present occasion, was favoured by Oliver with a
single word, to assure him that his matter was fortunately terminated.
    Presently afterwards he had another proof of the same agreeable tidings; for
Quentin's old acquaintance, Tristan l'Hermite, the Provost-Marshal of the royal
household, entered the apartment, and came straight to the place where Le
Balafré was posted. This formidable officer's uniform, which was very rich, had
only the effect of making his sinister countenance and bad mien more strikingly
remarkable, and the tone which he meant for conciliatory, was like nothing so
much as the growling of a bear. The import of his words, however, was more
amicable than the voice in which they were pronounced. He regretted the mistake
which had fallen between them on the preceding day, and observed it was owing to
the Sieur Le Balafré's nephew not wearing the uniform of his corps, or
announcing himself as belonging to it, which had led him into the error for
which he now asked forgiveness.
    Ludovic Lesly made the necessary reply, and as soon as Tristan had turned
away, observed to his nephew, that they had now the distinction of having a
mortal enemy from henceforward in the person of this dreaded officer. »But we
are above his volée - a soldier,« said he, »who does his duty, may laugh at the
Provost-Marshal.«
    Quentin could not help being of his uncle's opinion, for, as Tristan parted
from them, it was with the look of angry defiance which the bear casts upon the
hunter whose spear has wounded him. Indeed, even when less strongly moved, the
sullen eye of this official expressed a malevolence of purpose which made men
shudder to meet his glance; and the thrill of the young Scot was the deeper and
more abhorrent, that he seemed to himself still to feel on his shoulders the
grasp of the two death-doing functionaries of this fatal officer.
    Meanwhile, Oliver, after he had prowled around the room in the stealthy
manner which we have endeavoured to describe, - all, even the highest officers
making way for him, and loading him with their ceremonious attentions, which his
modesty seemed desirous to avoid - again entered the inner apartment, the doors
of which were presently thrown open, and King Louis entered the
presence-chamber.
    Quentin, like all others, turned his eyes upon him; and started so suddenly,
that he almost dropped his weapon, when he recognised in the King of France,
that silk-merchant, Maitre Pierre, who had been the companion of his morning
walk. Singular suspicions respecting the real rank of this person had at
different times crossed his thoughts; but this, the proved reality, was wilder
than his wildest conjecture.
    The stern look of his uncle, offended at this breach of the decorum of his
office, recalled him to himself; but not a little was he astonished when the
King, whose quick eye had at once discovered him, walked straight to the place
where he was posted, without taking notice of any one else. - »So,« he said,
»young man, I am told you have been brawling on your first arrival in Touraine;
but I pardon you, as it was chiefly the fault of a foolish old merchant, who
thought your Caledonian blood required to be heated in the morning with Vin de
Beaune. If I can find him, I will make him an example to those who debauch my
Guards. - Balafré,« he added, speaking to Lesly, »your kinsman is a fair youth,
though a fiery. We love to cherish such spirits, and mean to make more than ever
we did of the brave men who are around us. Let the year, day, hour, and minute
of your nephew's birth be written down and given to Oliver Dain.«
    Le Balafré bowed to the ground, and re-assumed his erect military position,
as one who would show by his demeanour his promptitude to act in the King's
quarrel or defence. Quentin, in the meantime, recovered from his first surprise,
studied the King's appearance more attentively, and was surprised to find how
differently he now construed his deportment and features than he had done at
their first interview.
    These were not much changed in exterior, for Louis, always a scorner of
outward show, wore, on the present occasion, an old dark-blue hunting-dress, not
much better than the plain burgher suit of the preceding day, and garnished with
a huge rosary of ebony, which had been sent to him by no less a personage than
the Grand Seignior, with an attestation that it had been used by a Coptic hermit
on Mount Lebanon, a personage of profound sanctity. And instead of his cap with
a single image, he now wore a hat, the band of which was garnished with at least
a dozen of little paltry figures of saints stamped in lead. But those eyes,
which, according to Quentin's former impression, only twinkled with the love of
gain, had, now that they were known to be the property of an able and powerful
monarch, a piercing and majestic glance; and those wrinkles on the brow, which
he had supposed were formed during a long series of petty schemes of commerce,
seemed now the furrows which sagacity had worn while toiling in meditation upon
the fate of nations.
    Presently after the King's appearance, the Princesses of France, with the
ladies of their suite, entered the apartment. With the eldest, afterwards
married to Peter of Bourbon, and known in French history by the name of the Lady
of Beaujeau, our story has but little to do. She was tall, and rather handsome,
possessed eloquence, talent, and much of her father's sagacity, who reposed
great confidence in her, and loved her as well perhaps as he loved any one.
    The younger sister, the unfortunate Joan, the destined bride of the Duke of
Orleans, advanced timidly by the side of her sister, conscious of a total want
of those external qualities which women are most desirous of possessing, or
being thought to possess. She was pale, thin, and sickly in her complexion; her
shape visibly bent to one side, and her gait so unequal that she might be called
lame. A fine set of teeth, and eyes which were expressive of melancholy,
softness, and resignation, with a quantity of light brown locks, were the only
redeeming points which flattery itself could have dared to number, to counteract
the general homeliness of her face and figure. To complete the picture, it was
easy to remark, from the Princess's negligence in dress, and the timidity of her
manner, that she had an unusual and distressing consciousness of her own
plainness of appearance, and did not dare to make any of those attempts to mend
by manners or by art what nature had left amiss, or in any other way to exert a
power of pleasing. The King (who loved her not) stepped hastily to her as she
entered. - »How now!« he said, »our world-contemning daughter - Are you robed
for a hunting-party, or for the convent, this morning? Speak - answer.«
    »For which your highness pleases, sire,« said the Princess, scarce raising
her voice above her breath.
    »Ay, doubtless, you would persuade me it is your desire to quit the Court,
Joan, and renounce the world and its vanities. - Ha! maiden, wouldst thou have
it thought that we, the first-born of Holy Church, would refuse our daughter to
Heaven? - Our Lady and Saint Martin forbid we should refuse the offering, were
it worthy of the altar, or were thy vocation in truth thitherward!«
    So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, looking, in the meantime, as
appeared to Quentin, very like a cunning vassal, who was depreciating the merit
of something which he was desirous to keep to himself, in order that he might
stand excused for not offering it to his chief or superior. »Does he thus play
the hypocrite with Heaven,« thought Durward, »and sport with God and the Saints,
as he may safely do with men, who dare not search his nature too closely?«
    Louis meantime resumed, after a moment's mental devotion - »No, fair
daughter, I and another know your real mind better - Ha! fair cousin of Orleans,
do we not? Approach, fair sir, and lead this devoted vestal of ours to her
horse.«
    Orleans started when the King spoke, and hastened to obey him; but with such
precipitation of step, and confusion, that Louis called out, »Nay, cousin, rein
your gallantry, and look before you - Why, what a headlong matter a gallant's
haste is on some occasions! - You had well-nigh taken Anne's hand instead of her
sister's. - Sir, must I give Joan's to you myself?«
    The unhappy Prince looked up, and shuddered like a child, when forced to
touch something at which it has instinctive horror - then making an effort, took
the hand which the Princess neither gave nor yet withheld. As they stood, her
cold damp fingers enclosed in his trembling hand, with their eyes looking on the
ground, it would have been difficult to say which of these two youthful beings
was rendered more utterly miserable - the Duke, who felt himself fettered to the
object of his aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, or the
unfortunate young woman, who too plainly saw that she was an object of
abhorrence to him, to gain whose kindness she would willingly have died.
    »And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies - We will ourselves lead forth our
daughter of Beaujeau,« said the King; »and God's blessing and Saint Hubert's be
on our morning's sport!«
    »I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, Sire,« said the Comte de Dunois -
»the Burgundian Envoy is before the gates of the Castle, and demands an
audience.«
    »Demands an audience, Dunois?« replied the King - »Did you not answer him,
as we sent you word by Oliver, that we were not at leisure to see him to-day -
and that to-morrow was the festival of Saint Martin, which, please Heaven, we
would disturb by no earthly thoughts, - and that on the succeeding day we were
designed for Amboise - but that we would not fail to appoint him as early an
audience, when we returned, as our pressing affairs would permit?«
    »All this I said,« answered Dunois; »but yet, Sire« -
    »Pasques-dieu! man, what is it that thus sticks in thy throat?« said the
King. »This Burgundian's terms must have been hard of digestion.«
    »Had not my duty, your Grace's commands, and his character as an Envoy,
restrained me,« said Dunois, »he should have tried to digest them himself; for,
by Our Lady of Orleans, I had more mind to have made him eat his own words, than
to have brought them to your Majesty.«
    »Body of me, Dunois,« said the King, »it is strange that thou, one of the
most impatient fellows alive, shouldst have so little sympathy with the like
infirmity in our blunt and fiery cousin, Charles of Burgundy. Why, man, I mind
his blustering messages no more than the towers of this Castle regard the
whistling of the north-east wind, which comes from Flanders, as well as this
brawling Envoy.«
    »Know then, Sire,« replied Dunois, »that the Count of Crèvecoeur tarries
below, with his retinue of pursuivants and trumpets, and says, that since your
Majesty refuses him the audience which his master has instructed him to demand,
upon matters of most pressing concern, he will remain there till mid-night, and
accost your Majesty at whatever hour you are pleased to issue from your Castle,
whether for business, exercise, or devotion; and that no consideration, except
the use of absolute force, shall compel him to desist from this resolution.«
    »He is a fool,« said the King, with much composure. »Does the hot-headed
Hainaulter think it any penance for a man of sense to remain for twenty-four
hours quiet within the walls of his Castle, when he hath the affairs of a
kingdom to occupy him? These impatient coxcombs think that all men, like
themselves, are miserable, save when in saddle and stirrup. Let the dogs be put
up, and well looked to, gentle Dunois - We will hold council to-day, instead of
hunting.«
    »My Liege,« answered Dunois, »you will not thus rid yourself of Crèvecoeur;
for his master's instructions are, that if he hath not this audience which he
demands, he shall nail his gauntlet to the palisades before the Castle, in token
of mortal defiance on the part of his master, shall renounce the Duke's fealty
to France, and declare instant war.«
    »Ay,« said Louis, without any perceptible alteration of voice, but frowning
until his piercing dark eye became almost invisible under his shaggy eyebrows,
»is it even so? - will our ancient vassal prove so masterful - our dear cousin
treat us thus unkindly? - Nay, then, Dunois, we must unfold the Oriflamme, and
cry Dennis Montjoye!«
    »Marry and amen, and in a most happy hour!« said the martial Dunois; and the
guards in the hall, unable to resist the same impulse, stirred each upon his
post, so as to produce a low but distinct sound of clashing arms. The King cast
his eye proudly round, and, for a moment, thought and looked like his heroic
father.
    But the excitement of the moment presently gave way to the host of political
considerations, which, at that conjuncture, rendered an open breach with
Burgundy so peculiarly perilous. Edward IV., a brave and victorious king, who
had in his own person fought thirty battles, was now established on the throne
of England, was brother to the Duchess of Burgundy, and, it might well be
supposed, waited but a rupture between his near connection and Louis, to carry
into France, through the ever-open gate of Calais, those arms which had been
triumphant in the English civil wars, and to obliterate the recollection of
internal dissensions by that most popular of all occupations amongst the
English, an invasion of France. To this consideration was added the uncertain
faith of the Duke of Bretagne, and other weighty subjects of reflection. So
that, after a deep pause, when Louis again spoke, although in the same tone, it
was with an altered spirit. »But God forbid,« he said, »that aught less than
necessity should make us, the Most Christian King, give cause to the effusion of
Christian blood, if anything short of dishonour may avert such a calamity. We
tender our subjects' safety dearer than the ruffle which our own dignity may
receive from the rude breath of a malapert ambassador, who hath perhaps exceeded
the errand with which he was charged. - Admit the Envoy of Burgundy to our
presence.«
    »Beati pacifici,« said the Cardinal Balue.
    »True; and your Eminence knoweth that they who humble themselves shall be
exalted,« added the King.
    »The Cardinal spoke an Amen, to which few assented; for even the pale cheek
of Orleans kindled with shame, and Balafré suppressed his feelings so little, as
to let the butt-end of his partisan fall heavily on the floor, - a movement of
impatience for which he underwent a bitter reproof from the Cardinal, with a
lecture on the mode of handling his arms when in presence of the Sovereign.« The
King himself seemed unusually embarrassed at the silence around him. »You are
pensive, Dunois,« he said - »You disapprove of our giving way to this hot-headed
Envoy.«
    »By no means,« said Dunois; »I meddle not with matters beyond my sphere. I
was but thinking of asking a boon of your Majesty.«
    »A boon, Dunois - what is it? - You are an unfrequent suitor, and may count
on our favour.«
    »I would, then, your Majesty would send me to Evreux to regulate the
clergy,« said Dunois, with military frankness.
    »That were indeed beyond thy sphere,« replied the King, smiling.
    »I might order priests as well,« replied the Count, »as my Lord Bishop of
Evreux, or my Lord Cardinal, if he likes the title better, can exercise the
soldiers of your Majesty's guard.«
    The King smiled again, and more mysteriously, while he whispered Dunois,
»The time may come when you and I will regulate the priests together - But this
is for the present a good conceited animal of a Bishop. Ah, Dunois! Rome, Rome
puts him and other burdens upon us - But patience, cousin, and shuffle the
cards, till our hand is a stronger one.«25
    The flourish of trumpets in the courtyard now announced the arrival of the
Burgundian nobleman. All in the presence-chamber made haste to arrange
themselves according to their proper places of precedence, the King and
daughters remaining in the centre of the assembly.
    The Count of Crèvecoeur, a renowned and undaunted warrior, entered the
apartment; and, contrary to the usage among the envoys of friendly powers, he
appeared all armed, excepting his head, in a gorgeous suit of the most superb
Milan armour, made of steel, inlaid and embossed with gold, which was wrought
into the fantastic taste called the Arabesque. Around his neck, and over his
polished cuirass, hung his master's order of the Golden Fleece, one of the most
honoured associations of chivalry then known in Christendom. A handsome page
bore his helmet behind him, a herald preceded him, bearing his letters of
credence which he offered on his knee to the King; while the ambassador himself
paused in the midst of the hall, as if to give all present time to admire his
lofty look, commanding stature, and undaunted composure of countenance and
manner. The rest of his attendants waited in the antechamber, or courtyard.
    »Approach, Seignior Count de Crèvecoeur,« said Louis, after a moment's
glance at his commission; »we need not our cousin's letters of credence, either
to introduce to us a warrior so well known, or to assure us of your highly
deserved credit with your master. We trust that your fair partner, who shares
some of our ancestral blood, is in good health. Had you brought her in your
hand, Seignior Count, we might have thought you wore your armour, on this
unwonted occasion, to maintain the superiority of her charms against the amorous
chivalry of France. As it is, we cannot guess the reason of this complete
panoply.« »Sire,« replied the ambassador, »the Count of Crèvecoeur must lament
his misfortune, and entreat your forgiveness, that he cannot, on this occasion,
reply with such humble deference as is due to the royal courtesy with which your
Majesty has honoured him. But, although it is only the voice of Philip
Crèvecoeur de Cordès which speaks, the words he utters must be those of his
gracious Lord and Sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy.«
    »And what has Crèvecoeur to say in the words of Burgundy?« said Louis, with
an assumption of sufficient dignity. »Yet hold - remember, that in this
presence, Philip Crèvecoeur de Cordès speaks to him who is his Sovereign's
Sovereign.«
    Crèvecoeur bowed, and then spoke aloud: - »King of France, the mighty Duke
of Burgundy once more sends you a written schedule of the wrongs and oppressions
committed on his frontiers by your Majesty's garrisons and officers; and the
first point of inquiry is, whether it is your Majesty's purpose to make him
amends for these injuries?«
    The King, looking slightly at the memorial which the herald delivered to him
upon his knee, said, »These matters have been already long before our Council.
Of the injuries complained of, some are in requital of those sustained by my
subjects, some are affirmed without any proof, some have been retaliated by the
Duke's garrisons and soldiers; and if there remain any which fall under none of
these predicaments, we are not, as a Christian prince, averse to make
satisfaction for wrongs actually sustained by our neighbour, though committed
not only without our countenance, but against our express order.«
    »I will convey your Majesty's answer,« said the ambassador, »to my most
gracious master; yet, let me say, that, as it is in no degree different from the
evasive replies which have already been returned to his just complaints, I
cannot hope that it will afford the means of re-establishing peace and
friendship betwixt France and Burgundy.«
    »Be that at God's pleasure,« said the King. »It is not for dread of thy
master's arms, but for the sake of peace only, that I return so temperate an
answer to his injurious reproaches. Proceed with thine errand.«
    »My master's next demand,« said the ambassador, »is, that your Majesty will
cease your secret and underhand dealings with his towns of Ghent, Liege, and
Malines. He requests that your Majesty will recall the secret agents, by whose
means the discontents of his good citizens of Flanders are inflamed; and dismiss
from your Majesty's dominions, or rather deliver up to the condign punishment of
their liege lord, those traitorous fugitives, who, having fled from the scenes
of their machinations, have found too ready a refuge in Paris, Orleans, Tours,
and other French cities.«
    »Say to the Duke of Burgundy,« replied the King, »that I know of no such
indirect practices as those with which he injuriously charges me; that my
subjects of France have frequent intercourse with the good cities of Flanders,
for the purpose of mutual benefit by free traffic, which it would be as much
contrary to the Duke's interest as mine to interrupt; and that many Flemings
have residence in my kingdom, and enjoy the protection of my laws, for the same
purpose; but none, to our knowledge, for those of treason or mutiny against the
Duke. Proceed with your message - you have heard my answer.«
    »As formerly, Sire, with pain,« replied the Count of Crèvecoeur; »it not
being of that direct or explicit nature which the Duke, my master, will accept,
in atonement for a long train of secret machinations, not the less certain,
though now disavowed by your Majesty. But I proceed with my message. The Duke of
Burgundy farther requires the King of France to send back to his dominions
without delay, and under a secure safeguard, the persons of Isabelle Countess of
Croye, and of her relation and guardian the Countess Hameline, of the same
family, in respect the said Countess Isabelle, being, by the law of the country,
and the feudal tenure of her estates, the ward of the said Duke of Burgundy,
hath fled from his dominions, and from the charge which he, as a careful
guardian, was willing to extend over her, and is here maintained in secret by
the King of France, and by him fortified in her contumacy to the Duke, her
natural lord and guardian, contrary to the laws of God and man, as they ever
have been acknowledged in civilised Europe. - Once more I pause for your
Majesty's reply.«
    »You did well, Count de Crèvecoeur,« said Louis, scornfully, »to begin your
embassy at an early hour; for if it be your purpose to call on me to account for
the flight of every vassal whom your master's heady passion may have driven from
his dominions, the bead-roll may last till sunset. Who can affirm that these
ladies are in my dominions? who can presume to say, if it be so, that I have
either countenanced their flight hither, or have received them with offers of
protection? Nay, who is it will assert, that, if they are in France, their place
of retirement is within my knowledge?«
    »Sire,« said Crèvecoeur, »may it please your Majesty, I was provided with a
witness on this subject - one who beheld these fugitive ladies in the inn called
the Fleur-de-Lys, not far from this Castle - one who saw your Majesty in their
company, though under the unworthy disguise of a burgess of Tours - one who
received from them, in your royal presence, messages and letters to their
friends in Flanders - all which he conveyed to the hand and ear of the Duke of
Burgundy.«
    »Bring him forward,« said the King; »place the man before my face who dares
maintain these palpable falsehoods.«
    »You speak in triumph, my lord; for you are well aware that this witness no
longer exists. When he lived, he was called Zamet Magraubin, by birth one of
those Bohemian wanderers. He was yesterday, as I have learned, executed by a
party of your Majesty's Provost-Marshal, to prevent, doubtless, his standing
here, to verify what he said of this matter to the Duke of Burgundy, in presence
of his Council, and of me, Philip Crèvecoeur de Cordès.«
    »Now, by Our Lady of Embrun!« said the King, »so gross are these
accusations, and so free of consciousness am I of aught that approaches them,
that, by the honour of a King, I laugh, rather than am wroth at them. My
Provost-guard daily put to death, as is their duty, thieves and vagabonds; and
is my crown to be slandered with whatever these thieves and vagabonds may have
said to our hot cousin of Burgundy and his wise counsellors? I pray you, tell my
kind cousin, if he loves such companions, he had best keep them in his own
estates; for here they are like to meet short shrift and a tight cord.«
    »My master needs no such subjects, Sir King,« answered the Count, in a tone
more disrespectful than he had yet permitted himself to make use of; »for the
noble Duke uses not to inquire of witches, wandering Egyptians, or others, upon
the destiny and fate of his neighbours and allies.«
    »We have had patience enough, and to spare,« said the King, interrupting
him; »and since thy sole errand here seems to be for the purpose of insult, we
will send some one in our name to the Duke of Burgundy - convinced, in thus
demeaning thyself towards us, thou hast exceeded thy commission, whatever that
may have been.«
    »On the contrary,« said Crèvecoeur, »I have not yet acquitted myself of it.
- Hearken, Louis of Valois, King of France - Hearken, nobles and gentlemen, who
may be present - Hearken, all good and true men - And thou, Toison d'Or,«
addressing the herald, »make proclamation after me. - I, Philip Crèvecoeur of
Cordès, Count of the Empire, and Knight of the honourable and princely Order of
the Golden Fleece, in the name of the most puissant Lord and Prince, Charles, by
the grace of God, Duke of Burgundy and Lotharingia, of Brabant and Limbourg, of
Luxembourg and of Gueldres; Earl of Flanders and of Artois; Count Palatine of
Hainault, of Holland, Zealand, Namur, and Zutphen; Marquis of the Holy Empire;
Lord of Friezeland, Salines, and Malines, do give you, Louis, King of France,
openly to know, that you, having refused to remedy the various griefs, wrongs,
and offences, done and wrought by you, or by and through your aid, suggestion,
and instigation, against the said Duke and his loving subjects, he, by my mouth,
renounces all allegiance and fealty towards your crown and dignity - pronounces
you false and faithless; and defies you as a Prince, and as a man. There lies my
gage, in evidence of what I have said.«
    So saying, he plucked the gauntlet off his right hand, and flung it down on
the floor of the hall.
    Until this last climax of audacity, there had been a deep silence in the
royal apartment during the extraordinary scene; but no sooner had the clash of
the gauntlet, when cast down, been echoed by the deep voice of Toison d'Or, the
Burgundian herald, with the ejaculation, »Vive Bourgogne!« than there was a
general tumult. While Dunois, Orleans, old Lord Crawford, and one or two others,
whose rank authorised their interference, contended which should lift up the
gauntlet, the others in the hall exclaimed, »Strike him down! Cut him to pieces!
Comes he here to insult the King of France in his own palace!«
    But the King appeased the tumult by exclaiming, in a voice like thunder,
which overawed and silenced every other sound, »Silence, my lieges, lay not a
hand on the man, not a finger on the gage! - And you, Sir Count, of what is your
life composed, or how is it warranted, that you thus place it on the cast of a
die so perilous? or is your Duke made of a different metal from other princes,
since he thus asserts his pretended quarrel in a manner so unusual?«
    »He is indeed framed of a different and more noble metal than the other
princes of Europe,« said the undaunted Count of Crèvecoeur; »for, when not one
of them dared to give shelter to you - to you, I say, King Louis - when you were
yet only Dauphin, an exile from France, and pursued by the whole bitterness of
your father's revenge, and all the power of his kingdom, you were received and
protected like a brother by my noble master, whose generosity of disposition you
have so grossly misused. Farewell, Sire, my mission is discharged.«
    So saying, the Count de Crèvecoeur left the apartment abruptly, and without
farther leave-taking.
    »After him - after him - take up the gauntlet and after him!« said the King.
- »I mean not you, Dunois, nor you, my Lord of Crawford, who, methinks, may be
too old for such hot frays; nor you, cousin of Orleans, who are too young for
them. - My Lord Cardinal - my Lord Bishop of Auxerre - it is your holy office to
make peace among princes; - do you lift the gauntlet, and remonstrate with Count
Crèvecoeur on the sin he has committed, in thus insulting a great monarch in his
own Court, and forcing us to bring the miseries of war upon his kingdom, and
that of his neighbour.«
    Upon this direct personal appeal, the Cardinal Balue proceeded to lift the
gauntlet, with such precaution as one would touch an adder, - so great was
apparently his aversion to this symbol of war, - and presently left the royal
apartment to hasten after the challenger.
    Louis paused and looked round the circle of his courtiers, most of whom,
except such as we have already distinguished, being men of low birth, and raised
to their rank in the King's household for other gifts than courage or feats of
arms, looked pale on each other, and had obviously received an unpleasant
impression from the scene which had been just acted. Louis gazed on them with
contempt, and then said aloud, »Although the Count of Crèvecoeur be presumptuous
and overweening, it must be confessed that in him the Duke of Burgundy hath as
bold a servant as ever bore message for a prince. I would I knew where to find
as faithful an envoy to carry back my answer.«
    »You do your French nobles injustice, Sire,« said Dunois; »not one of them
but would carry a defiance to Burgundy on the point of his sword.«
    »And, Sire,« said old Crawford, »you wrong also the Scottish gentlemen who
serve you. I, or any of my followers, being of meet rank, would not hesitate a
moment to call yonder proud Count to a reckoning; my own arm is yet strong
enough for the purpose, if I have but your Majesty's permission.«
    »But your Majesty,« continued Dunois, »will employ us in no service through
which we may win honour to ourselves, to your Majesty, or to France.«
    »Say rather,« said the King, »that I will not give way, Dunois, to the
headlong impetuosity, which, on some punctilio of chivalry, would wreck
yourselves, the throne, France, and all. There is not one of you who knows not
how precious every hour of peace is at this moment, when so necessary to heal
the wounds of a distracted country; yet there is not one of you who would not
rush into war on account of a tale of a wandering gipsy, or some errant damosel,
whose reputation, perhaps, is scarce higher. - Here comes the Cardinal, and we
trust with more pacific tidings - How now, my Lord - have you brought the Count
to reason and to temper?«
    »Sire,« said Balue, »my task hath been difficult. I put it to yonder proud
Count, how he dared to use towards your Majesty the presumptuous reproach with
which his audience had broken up, and which must be understood as proceeding,
not from his master, but from his own insolence, and as placing him therefore in
your Majesty's discretion, for what penalty you might think proper.«
    »You said right,« replied the King; »and what was his answer?«
    »The Count,« continued the Cardinal, »had at that moment his foot in the
stirrup, ready to mount; and, on hearing my expostulation, he turned his head
without altering his position. Had I, said he, been fifty leagues distant, and
had heard by report that a question vituperative of my Prince had been asked by
the King of France, I had, even at that distance, instantly mounted, and
returned to disburden my mind of the answer which I gave him but now.«
    »I said, sirs,« said the King, turning around, without any show of angry
emotion, »that in the Count Philip of Crèvecoeur, our cousin the Duke possesses
as worthy a servant as ever rode at a prince's right hand. - But you prevailed
with him to stay?«
    »To stay for twenty-four hours; and in the meanwhile to receive again his
gage of defiance,« said the Cardinal; »he has dismounted at the Fleur-de-Lys.«
    »See that he be nobly attended and cared for, at our charges,« said the
King; »such servant is a jewel in a prince's crown. Twenty-four hours?« he
added, muttering to himself, and looking as if he were stretching his eyes to
see into futurity; »twenty-four hours? 'tis of the shortest. Yet twenty-four
hours, ably and skilfully employed, may be worth a year in the hand of indolent
or incapable agents. - Well. - To the forest - to the forest, my gallant lords!
- Orleans, my fair kinsman, lay aside that modesty, though it becomes you; mind
not my Joan's coyness. The Loire may as soon avoid mingling with the Cher, as
she from favouring your suit, or you from preferring it,« he added, as the
unhappy prince moved slowly on after his betrothed bride. »And now for your
boar-spears, gentlemen; for Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured one that will
try both dog and man. - Dunois, lend me your spear, - take mine, it is too
weighty for me; but when did you complain of such a fault in your lance? - To
horse - to horse, gentlemen.«
    And all the chase rode on.
 

                                 Chapter Ninth

                                 The Boar-Hunt.

 I will converse with unrespective boys
 And iron-witted fools. None are for me
 That look into me with suspicious eyes.
                                                                   King Richard.
 
All the experience which the Cardinal had been able to collect of his master's
disposition, did not, upon the present occasion, prevent his falling into a
great error of policy. His vanity induced him to think that he had been more
successful in prevailing upon the Count of Crèvecoeur to remain at Tours, than
any other moderator whom the King might have employed, would, in all
probability, have been. And as he was well aware of the importance which Louis
attached to the postponement of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could not
help showing that he conceived himself to have rendered the King great and
acceptable service. He pressed nearer to the King's person than he was wont to
do, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation on the events of the morning.
    This was injudicious in more respects than one; for princes love not to see
their subjects approach them with an air conscious of deserving, and thereby
seeming desirous to extort acknowledgement and recompense for their services; and
Louis, the most jealous monarch that ever lived, was peculiarly averse and
inaccessible to any one who seemed either to presume upon service rendered, or
to pry into his secrets.
    Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious sometimes are, by the self-satisfied
humour of the moment, the Cardinal continued to ride on the King's right hand,
turning the discourse, whenever it was possible, upon Crèvecoeur and his
embassy; which, although it might be the matter at that moment most in the
King's thoughts, was nevertheless precisely that which he was least willing to
converse on. At length Louis, who had listened to him with attention, yet
without having returned any answer which could tend to prolong the conversation,
signed to Dunois, who rode at no great distance, to come up on the other side of
his horse.
    »We came hither for sport and exercise,« said he, »but the reverend Father
here would have us hold a council of state.«
    »I hope your Highness will excuse my assistance,« said Dunois; »I am born to
fight the battles of France, and have heart and hand for that, but I have no
head for her councils.«
    »My Lord Cardinal hath a head turned for nothing else, Dunois,« answered
Louis; »he hath confessed Crèvecoeur at the Castle-gate, and he hath
communicated to us his whole shrift - Said you not the whole?« he continued,
with an emphasis on the word, and a glance at the Cardinal, which shot from
betwixt his long dark eyelashes, as a dagger gleams when it leaves the scabbard.
    The Cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to reply to the King's jest, he
said, »That though his order were obliged to conceal the secrets of their
penitents in general, there was no sigillum confessionis which could not be
melted at his Majesty's breath.«
    »And as his Eminence,« said the King, »is ready to communicate the secrets
of others to us, he naturally expects that we should be equally communicative to
him; and, in order to get upon this reciprocal footing, he is very reasonably
desirous to know if these two ladies of Croye be actually in our territories. We
are sorry we cannot indulge his curiosity, not ourselves knowing in what precise
place errant damsels, disguised princesses, distressed countesses, may lie
leaguer within our dominions, which are, we thank God and our Lady of Embrun,
rather too extensive for us to answer easily his Eminence's most reasonable
inquiries. But supposing they were with us, what say you, Dunois, to our
cousin's peremptory demand!«
    »I will answer you, my Liege, if you will tell me in sincerity, whether you
want war or peace,« replied Dunois, with a frankness which, while it arose out
of his own native openness and intrepidity of character, made him from time to
time a considerable favourite with Louis, who, »like all astucious persons, was
as desirous of looking into the hearts of others as of concealing his own.«
    »By my halidome,« said he, »I should be as well contented as thyself,
Dunois, to tell thee my purpose, did I myself but know it exactly. But say I
declared for war, what should I do with this beautiful and wealthy young
heiress, supposing her to be in my dominions?«
    »Bestow her in marriage on one of your own gallant followers, who has a
heart to love, and an arm to protect her,« said Dunois.
    »Upon thyself, ha!« said the King. »Pasques-dieu! thou art more politic than
I took thee for, with all thy bluntness.«
    »Nay, sire,« answered Dunois, »I am aught except politic. By our lady of
Orleans, I come to the point at once, as I ride my horse at the ring. Your
Majesty owes the house of Orleans at least one happy marriage.«
    »And I will pay it, Count. Pasques-dieu, I will pay it! - See you not yonder
fair couple?«
    The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Orleans and the Princess, who,
neither daring to remain at a greater distance from the King, nor in his sight
appear separate from each other, were riding side by side, yet with an interval
of two or three yards betwixt them, a space which timidity on the one side, and
aversion on the other, prevented them from diminishing, while neither dared to
increase it.
    Dunois looked in the direction of the King's signal, and as the situation of
his unfortunate relative and the destined bride reminded him of nothing so much
as of two dogs, which, forcibly linked together, remain nevertheless as widely
separated as the length of their collars will permit, he could not help shaking
his head, though he ventured not on any other reply to the hypocritical tyrant.
Louis seemed to guess his thoughts.
    »It will be a peaceful and quiet household they will keep - not much
disturbed with children, I should augur.26 But these are not always a blessing.«
    It was, perhaps, the recollection of his own filial ingratitude that made
the King pause as he uttered the last reflection, and which converted the sneer
that trembled on his lip into something resembling an expression of contrition.
But he instantly proceeded in another tone.
    »Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy sacrament of matrimony« (here
he crossed himself), »I would rather the house of Orleans raised for me such
gallant soldiers as thy father and thyself, who share the blood-royal of France
without claiming its rights, than that the country should be torn to pieces,
like to England, by wars arising from the rivalry of legitimate candidates for
the crown. The lion should never have more than one cub.«
    Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that contradicting his arbitrary
Sovereign might well hurt his kinsman's interests, but could do him no service;
yet he could not forbear adding, in the next moment,
    »Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of my father, I must needs own,
that, setting the frailty of his parents on one side, he might be termed
happier, and more fortunate, as the son of lawless love, than of conjugal
hatred.«
    »Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak thus of holy wedlock,«
answered Louis, jestingly. »But to the devil with the discourse, for the boar is
unharboured. - Lay on the dogs in the name of the holy Saint Hubert! - Ha! ha!
tra-la-la-lira-la!« - And the King's horn rung merrily through the woods as he
pushed forward on the chase, followed by two or three of his guards, amongst
whom was our friend Quentin Durward. And here it was remarkable, that, even in
the keen prosecution of his favourite sport, the King, in indulgence of his
caustic disposition, found leisure to amuse himself by tormenting Cardinal
Balue.
    It was one of that able statesman's weaknesses, as we have elsewhere hinted,
to suppose himself, though of low rank and limited education, qualified to play
the courtier and the man of gallantry. He did not, indeed, actually enter the
lists of chivalrous combat like Becket, or levy soldiers like Wolsey. But
gallantry, in which they also were proficients, was his professed pursuit; and
he likewise affected great fondness for the martial amusement of the chase. Yet,
however well he might succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his
wealth, and his influence as a statesman, might atone for deficiencies in
appearance and manners, the gallant horses, which he purchased at almost any
price, were totally insensible to the dignity of carrying a Cardinal, and paid
no more respect to him than they would have done to his father, the carter,
miller, or tailor, whom he rivalled in horsemanship. The King knew this, and, by
alternately exciting and checking his own horse, he brought that of the
Cardinal, whom he kept close by his side, into such a state of mutiny against
his rider, that it became apparent they must soon part company; and then, in the
midst of its starting, bolting, rearing, and lashing out, alternately, the royal
tormentor rendered the rider miserable, by questioning him upon many affairs of
importance, and hinting his purpose to take that opportunity of communicating to
him some of those secrets of state, which the Cardinal had but a little while
before seemed so anxious to learn.27
    A more awkward situation could hardly be imagined, than that of a
privy-counsellor forced to listen to and reply to his sovereign, while each
fresh gambade of his unmanageable horse placed him in a new and more precarious
attitude - his violet robe flying loose in every direction, and nothing securing
him from an instant and perilous fall, save the depth of the saddle, and its
height before and behind. Dunois laughed without restraint; while the King, who
had a private mode of enjoying his jest inwardly, without laughing aloud, mildly
rebuked his minister on his eager passion for the chase, which would not permit
him to dedicate a few moments to business. »I will no longer be your hindrance
to a course,« continued he, addressing the terrified Cardinal, and giving his
own horse the rein at the same time.
    Before Balue could utter a word by way of answer or apology, his horse,
seizing the bit with his teeth, went forth at an uncontrollable gallop, soon
leaving behind the King and Dunois, who followed at a more regulated pace,
enjoying the statesman's distressed predicament. If any of our readers has
chanced to be run away with in his time (as we ourselves have in ours), he will
have a full sense at once of the pain, peril, and absurdity of the situation.
Those four limbs of the quadruped, which, noway under the rider's control, nor
sometimes under that of the creature they more properly belong to, fly at such a
rate as if the hindermost meant to overtake the foremost - those clinging legs
of the biped which we so often wish safely planted on the greensward, but which
now only augment our distress by pressing the animal's sides - the hands which
have forsaken the bridle for the mane - the body, which, instead of sitting
upright on the centre of gravity, as old Angelo used to recommend, or stooping
forward like a jockey's at Newmarket, lies, rather than hangs, crouched upon the
back of the animal, with no better chance of saving itself than a sack of corn -
combine to make a picture more than sufficiently ludicrous to spectators,
however uncomfortable to the exhibitor. But add to this some singularity of
dress or appearance on the part of the unhappy cavalier - a robe of office, a
splendid uniform, or any other peculiarity of costume, - and let the scene of
action be a race-course, a review, a procession, or any other place of concourse
and public display, and if the poor wight would escape being the object of a
shout of inextinguishable laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or two, or,
which will be more effectual, to be killed on the spot; for on no slighter
condition will his fall excite anything like serious sympathy. On the present
occasion, the short violet-coloured gown of the Cardinal, which he used as a
riding dress (having changed his long robes before he left the Castle), his
scarlet stockings, and scarlet hat, with the long strings hanging down, together
with his utter helplessness, gave infinite zest to his exhibition of
horsemanship.
    The horse, having taken matters entirely into his own hand, flew rather than
galloped up a long green avenue, overtook the pack in hard pursuit of the boar,
and then, having overturned one or two yeomen prickers, who little expected to
be charged in the rear, - having ridden down several dogs, and greatly confused
the chase, - animated by the clamorous expostulations and threats of the
huntsman, carried the terrified Cardinal past the formidable animal itself,
which was rushing on at a speedy trot, furious and embossed with the foam which
he churned around his tusks. Balue, on beholding himself so near the boar, set
up a dreadful cry for help, which, or perhaps the sight of the boar, produced
such an effect on his horse, that the animal interrupted its headlong career by
suddenly springing to one side; so that the Cardinal, who had long kept his seat
only because the motion was straight forward, now fell heavily to the ground.
The conclusion of Balue's chase took place so near the boar, that, had not the
animal been at that moment too much engaged about his own affairs, the vicinity
might have proved as fatal to the Cardinal, as it is said to have done to
Favila, King of the Visigoths, of Spain. The powerful Churchman got off,
however, for the fright, and, crawling as hastily as he could out of the way of
hounds and huntsmen, saw the whole chase sweep by him without affording him
assistance; for hunters in those days were as little moved by sympathy for such
misfortunes as they are in our own.
    The King, as he passed, said to Dunois, »Yonder lies his Eminence low enough
- he is no great huntsman, though for a fisher (when a secret is to be caught)
he may match Saint Peter himself. He has, however, for once, I think, met with
his match.«
    The Cardinal did not hear the words, but the scornful look with which they
were spoken led him to suspect their general import. The devil is said to seize
such opportunities of temptation as was now afforded by the passions of Balue,
bitterly moved as they had been by the scorn of the King. The momentary fright
was over so soon as he had assured himself that his fall was harmless; but
mortified vanity, and resentment against his Sovereign, had a much longer
influence on his feelings.
    After all the chase had passed him, a single cavalier, who seemed rather to
be a spectator than a partaker of the sport, rode up with one or two attendants,
and expressed no small surprise to find the Cardinal upon the ground, without a
horse or attendants, and in such a plight as plainly showed the nature of the
accident which had placed him there. To dismount, and offer his assistance in
this predicament, - to cause one of his attendants resign a staid and quiet
palfrey for the Cardinal's use - to express his surprise at the customs of the
French Court, which thus permitted them to abandon to the dangers of the chase,
and forsake in his need, their wisest statesman, were the natural modes of
assistance and consolation which so strange a reconnoitre supplied to Crèvecoeur,
for it was the Burgundian ambassador who came to the assistance of the fallen
Cardinal.
    He found the minister in a lucky time and humour for essaying some of those
practices on his fidelity, to which it is well known that Balue had the criminal
weakness to listen. Already in the morning, as the jealous temper of Louis had
suggested, more had passed betwixt them than the Cardinal durst have reported to
his master. But although he had listened with gratified ears to the high value,
which, he was assured by Crèvecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy placed upon his person
and talents, and not without a feeling of temptation, when the Count hinted at
the munificence of his master's disposition, and the rich benefices of Flanders,
it was not until the accident, as we have related, had highly irritated him,
that, stung with wounded vanity, he resolved, in a fatal hour, to show Louis XI.
that no enemy can be so dangerous as an offended friend and confidant.
    On the present occasion, he hastily requested Crèvecoeur to separate from
him, lest they should be observed, but appointed him a meeting for the evening
in the Abbey of Saint Martin's at Tours, after vesper service; and that in a
tone which assured the Burgundian that his master had obtained an advantage
hardly to have been hoped for, except in such a moment of exasperation.
    In the meanwhile, Louis, who, though the most politic Prince of his time,
upon this, as on other occasions, had suffered his passions to interfere with
his prudence, followed contentedly the chase of the wild boar, which was now
come to an interesting point. It had so happened that a sounder (i.e., in the
language of the period, a boar of only two years old) had crossed the track of
the proper object of the chase, and withdrawn in pursuit of him all the dogs
(except two or three couple of old stanch hounds), and the greater part of the
huntsmen. The King saw, with internal glee, Dunois, as well as others, follow
upon this false scent, and enjoyed in secret the thought of triumphing over that
accomplished knight, in the art of venerie, which was then thought almost as
glorious as war. Louis was well mounted, and followed close on the hounds; so
that, when the original boar turned to bay in a marshy piece of ground, there
was no one near him but the King himself.
    Louis showed all the bravery and expertness of an experienced huntsman; for,
unheeding the danger, he rode up to the tremendous animal, which was defending
itself with fury against the dogs, and struck him with his boar-spear; yet, as
the horse shyed from the boar, the blow was not so effectual as either to kill
or disable him. No effort could prevail on the horse to charge a second time; so
that the King, dismounting, advanced on foot against the furious animal, holding
naked in his hand one of those short, sharp, straight, and pointed swords, which
huntsmen used for such encounters. The boar instantly quitted the dogs to rush
on his human enemy, while the King, taking his station, and posting himself
firmly, presented the sword, with the purpose of aiming it at the boar's throat,
or rather chest, within the collar-bone; in which case, the weight of the beast,
and the impetuosity of its career, would have served to accelerate its own
destruction. But, owing to the wetness of the ground, the King's foot slipped,
just as this delicate and perilous manoeuvre ought to have been accomplished, so
that the point of the sword encountering the cuirass of bristles on the outside
of the creature's shoulder, glanced off without making any impression, and Louis
fell flat on the ground. This was so far fortunate for the Monarch, because the
aminal, owing to the King's fall, missed his blow in his turn, and in passing
only rent with his tusk the King's short hunting-cloak, instead of ripping up
his thigh. But when, after running a little ahead in the fury of his course, the
boar turned to repeat his attack on the King at the moment when he was rising,
the life of Louis was in imminent danger. At this critical moment, Quentin
Durward, who had been thrown out in the chase by the slowness of his horse, but
who, nevertheless, had luckily distinguished and followed the blast of the
King's horn, rode up, and transfixed the animal with his spear.
    The King, who had by this time recovered his feet, came in turn to Durward's
assistance, and cut the animal's throat with his sword. Before speaking a word
to Quentin, he measured the huge creature not only by paces, but even by feet -
then wiped the sweat from his brow, and the blood from his hands - then took off
his hunting-cap, hung it on a bush, and devoutly made his orisons to the little
leaden images which it contained - and at length, looking upon Durward, said to
him, »Is it thou, my young Scot? - thou hast begun thy woodcraft well, and
Maitre Pierre owes thee as good entertainment as he gave thee at the
Fleur-de-Lys yonder. - Why dost thou not speak? Thou hast lost thy forwardness
and fire, methinks, at the Court, where others find both.«
    Quentin, as shrewd a youth as ever Scottish breeze breathed caution into,
had imbibed more awe than confidence towards his dangerous master, and was far
too wise to embrace the perilous permission of familiarity which he seemed thus
invited to use. He answered in very few and well-chosen words, that if he
ventured to address his Majesty at all, it could be but to crave pardon for the
rustic boldness with which he had conducted himself when ignorant of his high
rank.
    »Tush! man,« said the King; »I forgive thy sauciness for thy spirit and
shrewdness. I admired how near thou didst hit upon my gossip Tristan's
occupation. You have nearly tasted of his handiwork since, as I am given to
understand. I bid thee beware of him; he is a merchant who deals in rough
bracelets and tight necklaces. Help me to my horse - I like thee, and will do
thee good. Build on no man's favour but mine - not even on thine uncle's or Lord
Crawford's - and say nothing of thy timely aid in this matter of the boar; for
if a man makes boast that he has served a King in such a pinch, he must take the
braggart humour for its own recompense.«
    The King then winded his horn, which brought up Dunois and several
attendants, whose compliments he received on the slaughter of such a noble
animal, without scrupling to appropriate a much greater share of merit than
actually belonged to him; for he mentioned Durward's assistance as slightly as a
sportsman of rank, who, in boasting of the number of birds which he has bagged,
does not always dilate upon the presence and assistance of the gamekeeper. He
then ordered Dunois to see that the boar's carcass was sent to the brotherhood
of Saint Martin, at Tours, to mend their fare on holy-days, and that they might
remember the King in their private devotions.
    »And,« said Louis, »who hath seen his Eminence my Lord Cardinal? Methinks it
were but poor courtesy, and cold regard to Holy Church, to leave him afoot here
in the forest.«
    »May it please you, sire,« said Quentin, when he saw that all were silent,
»I saw his Lordship the Cardinal accommodated with a horse, on which he left the
forest.«
    »Heaven cares for its own,« replied the King. »Set forward to the Castle, my
lords; we'll hunt no more this morning. - You, Sir Squire,« addressing Quentin,
»reach me my wood-knife - It has dropped from the sheath beside the quarry there.
Ride on, Dunois - I follow instantly.«
    Louis, whose lightest motions were often conducted like stratagems, thus
gained an opportunity to ask Quentin privately, »My bonny Scot, thou hast an
eye, I see - Canst thou tell me who helped the Cardinal to a palfrey? - Some
stranger, I suppose; for, as I passed without stopping, the courtiers would
likely be in no hurry to do him such a timely good turn.«
    »I saw those who aided his Eminence but an instant, sire,« said Quentin; »it
was only a hasty glance, for I had been unluckily thrown out, and was riding
fast, to be in my place; but I think it was the Ambassador of Burgundy and his
people.«
    »Ha!« said Louis. - »Well, be it so - France will match them yet.«
    There was nothing more remarkable happened, and the King, with his retinue,
returned to the Castle.
 

                                 Chapter Tenth

                                 The Sentinel.

            Where should this music be? i' the air, or the earth?
                                                                    The Tempest.
 
 -- I was all ear,
 And took in strains that might create a soul
 Under the ribs of death.
                                                                          Comus.
 
Quentin had hardly reached his little cabin, in order to make some necessary
changes in his dress, when his worthy relative required to know the full
particulars of all that had befallen him at the hunt.
    The youth, who could not help thinking that his uncle's hand was probably
more powerful than his understanding, took care, in his reply, to leave the King
in full possession of the victory which he had seemed desirous to appropriate.
Le Balafré's reply was a boast of how much better he himself would have behaved
in the like circumstances, and it was mixed with a gentle censure of his
nephew's slackness, in not making in to the King's assistance, when he might be
in imminent peril. The youth had prudence, in answer, to abstain from all
farther vindication of his own conduct, except that, according to the rules of
woodcraft, he held it ungentle to interfere with the game attacked by another
hunter, unless he was specially called upon for his assistance. This discussion
was scarcely ended, when occasion was afforded Quentin to congratulate himself
for observing some reserve towards his kinsman. A low tap at the door announced
a visitor - it was presently opened, and Oliver Dain, or Mauvais, or Diable, for
by all these names he was known, entered the apartment.
    This able but most unprincipled man has been already described, in so far as
his exterior is concerned. The aptest resemblance of his motions and manners
might perhaps be to those of the domestic cat, which, while couching in seeming
slumber, or gliding through the apartment with slow, stealthy, and timid steps,
is now engaged in watching the hole of some unfortunate mouse, now in rubbing
herself with apparent confidence and fondness against those by whom she desires
to be caressed, and, presently after, is flying upon her prey, or scratching,
perhaps, the very object of her former cajolements.
    He entered with stooping shoulders, a humble and modest look, and threw such
a degree of civility into his address to the Seignior Balafré, that no one who
saw the interview could have avoided concluding that he came to ask a boon of
the Scottish Archer. He congratulated Lesly on the excellent conduct of his
young kinsman in the chase that day, which, he observed, had attracted the
King's particular attention. He here paused for a reply; and, with his eyes
fixed on the ground, save just when once or twice they stole upwards to take a
side glance at Quentin, heard Balafré observe, »That his Majesty had been
unlucky in not having himself by his side instead of his nephew, as he would
questionless have made in, and speared the brute, a matter which he understood
Quentin had left upon his Majesty's royal hands, so far as he could learn the
story. But it will be a lesson to his Majesty,« he said, »while he lives, to
mount a man of my inches on a better horse; for how could my great hill of a
Flemish dray-horse keep up with his Majesty's Norman runner? I am sure I spurred
till his sides were furrowed. It is ill considered, Master Oliver, and you must
represent it to his Majesty.«
    Master Oliver only replied to this observation by turning towards the bold
bluff speaker one of those slow dubious glances, which, accompanied by a slight
motion of the hand, and a gentle depression of the head to one side, may be
either interpreted as a mute assent to what is said, or as a cautious
deprecation of farther prosecution of the subject. It was a keener, more
scrutinising glance, which he bent on the youth, as he said, with an ambiguous
smile, »So, young man, is it the wont of Scotland to suffer your Princes to be
endangered for the lack of aid in such emergencies as this of to-day?«
    »It is our custom,« answered Quentin, determined to throw no farther light
on the subject, »not to encumber them with assistance in honourable pastimes,
when they can aid themselves without it. We hold that a Prince in a
hunting-field must take his chance with others, and that he comes there for the
very purpose. What were woodcraft without fatigue and without danger?«
    »You hear the silly boy,« said his uncle; »that is always the way with him;
he hath an answer or a reason ready to be rendered to every one. I wonder whence
he hath caught the gift; I never could give a reason for anything I have ever
done in my life, except for eating when I was a-hungry, calling the muster-roll,
and such points of duty as the like.«
    »And pray, worthy Seignior,« said the royal tonsor, looking at him from
under his eyelids, »what might your reason be for calling the muster-roll on
such occasions?«
    »Because the Captain commanded me,« said Le Balafré. »By Saint Giles, I know
no other reason! If he had commanded Tyrie or Cunningham, they must have done
the same.«
    »A most military final cause!« said Oliver. - »But, Seignior Le Balafré, you
will be glad, doubtless, to learn, that his Majesty is so far from being
displeased with your nephew's conduct, that he hath selected him to execute a
piece of duty this afternoon.«
    »Selected him?« said Balafré in great surprise; - »Selected me, I suppose,
you mean?«
    »I mean precisely as I speak,« replied the barber, in a mild but decided
tone; »the King hath a commission with which to entrust your nephew.«
    »Why, wherefore, and for what reason?« said Balafré; »Why doth he choose the
boy, and not me?«
    »I can go no farther back than your own ultimate cause, Seignior Le Balafré;
such are his Majesty's commands. But,« said he, »if I might use the presumption
to form a conjecture, it may be his Majesty hath work to do, fitter for a youth
like your nephew, than for an experienced warrior like yourself, Seignior
Balafré. - Wherefore, young gentleman, get your weapons and follow me. Bring
with you a harquebuss, for you are to mount sentinel.«
    »Sentinel!« said the uncle - »Are you sure you are right, Master Oliver? The
inner guards of the Castle have ever been mounted by those only who have (like
me) served twelve years in our honourable body.«
    »I am quite certain of his Majesty's pleasure,« said Oliver, »and must no
longer delay executing it.«
    »But,« said Le Balafré, »my nephew is not even a free Archer, being only an
Esquire, serving under my lance.«
    »Pardon me,« answered Oliver; »the King sent for the register not
half-an-hour since, and enrolled him among the Guard. - Have the goodness to
assist to put your nephew in order for the service.«
    Balafré, who had no ill-nature, or even much jealousy in his disposition,
hastily set about adjusting his nephew's dress, and giving him directions for
his conduct under arms, but was unable to refrain from larding them with
interjections of surprise at such luck chancing to fall upon the young man so
early.
    »It had never taken place before in the Scottish Guard,« he said, »not even
in his own instance. But doubtless his service must be to mount guard over the
popinjays and Indian peacocks, which the Venetian ambassador had lately
presented to the King - it could be nothing else; and such duty being only fit
for a beardless boy« (here he twirled his own grim moustaches), »he was glad the
lot had fallen on his fair nephew.«
    Quick and sharp of wit, as well as ardent in fancy, Quentin saw visions of
higher importance in this early summons to the royal presence, and his heart
beat high at the anticipation of rising into speedy distinction. He determined
carefully to watch the manners and language of his conductor, which he suspected
must, in some cases at least, be interpreted by contraries, as soothsayers are
said to discover the interpretation of dreams. He could not but hug himself on
having observed strict secrecy on the events of the chase, and then formed a
resolution, which, for so young a person, had much prudence in it, that while he
breathed the air of this secluded and mysterious Court, he would keep his
thoughts locked in his bosom, and his tongue under the most careful regulation.
    His equipment was soon complete, and, with his harquebuss on his shoulder
(for though they retained the name of Archers, the Scottish Guard very early
substituted firearms for the long bow, in the use of which their nation never
excelled), he followed Master Oliver out of the barrack.
    His uncle looked long after him, with a countenance in which wonder was
blended with curiosity; and though neither envy nor the malignant feelings which
it engenders, entered into his honest meditations, there was yet a sense of
wounded or diminished self-importance, which mingled with the pleasure excited
by his nephew's favourable commencement of service.
    He shook his head gravely, opened a privy cupboard, took out a large
bottrine of stout old wine, shook it to examine how low the contents had ebbed,
filled and drank a hearty cup; then took his seat, half reclining, on the great
oaken settle, and having once again slowly shaken his head, received so much
apparent benefit from the oscillation, that, like the toy called a mandarin, he
continued the motion until he dropped into a slumber, from which he was first
roused by the signal to dinner.
    When Quentin Durward left his uncle to these sublime meditations, he
followed his conductor, Master Oliver, who, without crossing any of the
principal courts, led him, partly through private passages exposed to the open
air, but chiefly through a maze of stairs, vaults, and galleries, communicating
with each other by secret doors, and at unexpected points, into a large and
spacious latticed gallery, which, from its breadth, might have been almost
termed a hall, hung with tapestry more ancient than beautiful, and with a very
few of the hard, cold, ghastly-looking pictures, belonging to the first dawn of
the arts, which preceded their splendid sunrise. These were designed to
represent the Paladins of Charlemagne, who made such a distinguished figure in
the romantic history of France; and as the gigantic form of the celebrated
Orlando constituted the most prominent figure, the apartment acquired from him
the title of Roland's Hall, or Roland's Gallery.28
    »You will keep watch here,« said Oliver, in a low whisper, as if the hard
delineations of monarchs and warriors around could have been offended at the
elevation of his voice, or as if he had feared to awaken the echoes that lurked
among the groined vaults and Gothic drop-work on the ceiling of this huge and
dreary apartment.
    »What are the orders and signs of my watch?« answered Quentin in the same
suppressed tone.
    »Is your harquebuss loaded?« replied Oliver, without answering his query.
    »That,« answered Quentin, »is soon done;« and proceeded to charge his
weapon, and to light the slow-match (by which when necessary it was discharged),
at the embers of a wood-fire, which was expiring in the huge hall chimney - a
chimney itself so large, that it might have been called a Gothic closet or
chapel appertaining to the hall.
    When this was performed, Oliver told him that he was ignorant of one of the
high privileges of his own corps, which only received orders from the King in
person, or the High Constable of France, in lieu of their own officers. »You are
placed here by his Majesty's command, young man,« added Oliver, »and you will
not be long here without knowing wherefore you are summoned. Meantime your walk
extends along this gallery. You are permitted to stand still while you list, but
on no account to sit down or quit your weapon. You are not to sing aloud, or
whistle upon any account; but you may, if you list, mutter some of the church's
prayers, or what else you list that has no offence in it, in a low voice.
Farewell, and keep good watch.«
    »Good watch!« thought the youthful soldier as his guide stole away from him
with that noiseless gliding step which was peculiar to him, and vanished through
a side-door behind the arras - »Good watch! But upon whom and against whom? -
for what, save bats or rats, are there here to contend with, unless these grim
old representatives of humanity should start into life for the disturbance of my
guard? Well, it is my duty, I suppose, and I must perform it.«
    With the vigorous purpose of discharging his duty, even to the very rigour,
he tried to while away the time with some of the pious hymns which he had
learned in the convent in which he had found shelter after the death of his
father - allowing in his own mind, that, but for the change of a novice's frock
for the rich military dress which he now wore, his soldierly walk in the royal
gallery of France resembled greatly those of which he had tired excessively in
the cloistered seclusion of Aberbrothick.
    Presently, as if to convince himself he now belonged not to the cell but to
the world, he chanted to himself, but in such tone as not to exceed the license
given to him, some of the ancient rude ballads which the old family harper had
taught him of the defeat of the Danes at Aberlemno and Forres, the murder of
king Duffus at Forfar, and other pithy sonnets and lays, which appertained to
the history of his distant native country, and particularly of the district to
which he belonged. This wore away a considerable space of time, and it was now
more than two hours past noon, when Quentin was reminded by his appetite, that
the good fathers of Aberbrothick, however strict in demanding his attendance
upon the hours of devotion, were no less punctual in summoning him to those of
refection; whereas here, in the interior of a royal palace, after a morning
spent in exercise, and a noon exhausted in duty, no man seemed to consider it as
a natural consequence that he must be impatient for his dinner.
    There are, however, charms in sweet sounds which can lull to rest even the
natural feelings of impatience, by which Quentin was now visited. At the
opposite extremities of the long hall or gallery, were two large doors,
ornamented with heavy architraves, probably opening into different suites of
apartments, to which the gallery served as a medium of mutual communication. As
the sentinel directed his solitary walk betwixt these two entrances, which
formed the boundary of his duty, he was startled by a strain of music, which was
suddenly waked near one of those doors, and which, at least in his imagination,
was a combination of the same lute and voice by which he had been enchanted on
the preceding day. All the dreams of yesterday morning, so much weakened by the
agitating circumstances which he had since undergone, again rose more vivid from
their slumber, and, planted on the spot where his ear could most conveniently
drink in the sounds, Quentin remained, with his harquebuss shouldered, his mouth
half-open, ear, eye, and soul directed to the spot, rather the picture of a
sentinel than a living form, - without any other idea than that of catching, if
possible, each passing sound of the dulcet melody.
    These delightful sounds were but partially heard - they languished,
lingered, ceased entirely, and were from time to time renewed after uncertain
intervals. But, besides that music, like beauty, is often most delightful, or at
least most interesting to the imagination, when its charms are but partially
displayed, and the imagination is left to fill up what is from distance but
imperfectly detailed, Quentin had matter enough to fill up his reverie during
the intervals of fascination. He could not doubt, from the report of his uncle's
comrades, and the scene which had passed in the presence-chamber that morning,
that the syren who thus delighted his ears, was not, as he had profanely
supposed, the daughter or kinswoman of a base Cabaretier, but the same disguised
and distressed Countess, for whose cause kings and princes were now about to
buckle on armour, and put lance in rest. A hundred wild dreams, such as romantic
and adventurous youth readily nourished in a romantic and adventurous age,
chased from his eyes the bodily presentment of the actual scene, and substituted
their own bewildering delusions, when at once, and rudely, they were banished by
a rough grasp laid upon his weapon, and a harsh voice which exclaimed close to
his ear, »Ha! Pasques-dieu, Sir Squire, methinks you keep sleepy ward here!«
    The voice was the tuneless, yet impressive and ironical tone of Maitre
Pierre, and Quentin, suddenly recalled to himself, saw with shame and fear, that
he had, in his reverie, permitted Louis himself - entering probably by some
secret door, and gliding along by the wall, or behind the tapestry - to approach
him so nearly as almost to master his weapon.
    The first impulse of his surprise was to free his harquebuss by a violent
exertion, which made the King stagger backward into the hall. His next
apprehension was, that in obeying the animal instinct, as it may be termed,
which prompts a brave man to resist an attempt to disarm him, he had aggravated,
by a personal struggle with the King, the displeasure produced by the negligence
with which he had performed his duty upon guard; and, under this impression, he
recovered his harquebuss without almost knowing what he did, and having again
shouldered it, stood motionless before the Monarch, whom he had reason to
conclude he had mortally offended.
    Louis, whose tyrannical disposition was less founded on natural ferocity or
cruelty of temper, than on cold-blooded policy and jealous suspicion, had,
nevertheless, a share of that caustic severity which would have made him a
despot in private conversation, and always seemed to enjoy the pain which he
inflicted on occasions like the present. But he did not push his triumph far,
and contented himself with saying, - »Thy service of the morning hath already
overpaid some negligence in so young a soldier - Hast thou dined?«
    Quentin, who rather looked to be sent to the Provost-Marshal, than greeted
with such a compliment, answered humbly in the negative.
    »Poor lad,« said Louis, in a softer tone than he usually spoke in, »hunger
hath made him drowsy. - I know thine appetite is a wolf,« he continued; »and I
will save thee from one wild beast as thou didst me from another; - thou hast
been prudent too in that matter, and I thank thee for it. - Canst thou yet hold
out an hour without food?«
    »Four-and-twenty, sire,« replied Durward, »or I were no true Scot.«
    »I would not for another kingdom be the pasty which should encounter thee
after such a vigil,« said the King; »but the question now is, not of thy dinner
but of my own. I admit to my table this day, and in strict privacy, the Cardinal
Balue and this Burgundian - this Count de Crèvecoeur, and something may chance -
the devil is most busy when foes meet on terms of truce.«
    He stopped, and remained silent, with a deep and gloomy look. As the King
was in no haste to proceed, Quentin at length ventured to ask what his duty was
to be in these circumstances.
    »To keep watch at the buffet, with thy loaded weapon,« said Louis; »and if
there is treason, to shoot the traitor dead.«
    »Treason, sire! and in this guarded Castle!« exclaimed Durward.
    »You think it impossible,« said the King, not offended, it would seem, by
his frankness; »but our history has shown that treason can creep into an
auger-hole - Treason excluded by guards! Oh, thou silly boy! - quis custodiat
ipsos custodes - who shall exclude the treason of those very warders?«
    »Their Scottish honour,« answered Durward, boldly.
    »True; most right - thou pleasest me,« said the King, cheerfully; »the
Scottish honour was ever true, and I trust it accordingly. But treason!« - Here
he relapsed into his former gloomy mood, and traversed the apartment with
unequal steps - »She sits at our feasts, she sparkles in our bowls, she wears
the beard of our counsellors, the smiles of our courtiers, the crazy laugh of
our jesters - above all, she lies hid under the friendly air of a reconciled
enemy. Louis of Orleans trusted John of Burgundy - he was murdered in the Rue
Barbette. John of Burgundy trusted the faction of Orleans - he was murdered on
the bridge of Montereau. - I will trust no one - no one. Hark ye; I will keep my
eye on that insolent Count; ay, and on the Churchman too, whom I hold not too
faithful. When I say Ecosse, en avant,29 shoot Crèvecoeur dead on the spot.«
    »It is my duty,« said Quentin, »your Majesty's life being endangered.«
    »Certainly - I mean it no otherwise,« said the King. - »What should I get by
slaying this insolent soldier? - Were it the Constable Saint Paul indeed« - Here
he paused, as if he thought he had said a word too much, but resumed, laughing,
»There's our brother-in-law, James of Scotland - your own James, Quentin -
poniarded the Douglas when on a hospitable visit, within his own royal castle of
Skirling.«
    »Of Stirling,« said Quentin,»and so please your Highness. - It was a deed of
which came little good.«
    »Stirling call you the Castle?« said the King, overlooking the latter part
of Quentin's speech - »Well, let it be Stirling - the name is nothing to the
purpose. But I meditate no injury to these men - none - It would serve me
nothing. They may not purpose equally fair by me - I rely on thy harquebuss.«
    »I shall be prompt at the signal,« said Quentin; »but yet« -
    »You hesitate,« said the King. »Speak out - I give thee full leave. From
such as thou art, hints may be caught that are right valuable.«
    »I would only presume to say,« replied Quentin, »that your Majesty having
occasion to distrust this Burgundian, I marvel that you suffer him to approach
so near your person, and that in privacy.«
    »Oh, content you, Sir Squire,« said the King. »There are some dangers,
which, when they are braved, disappear, and which yet, when there is an obvious
and apparent dread of them displayed, become certain and inevitable. When I walk
boldly up to a surly mastiff, and caress him, it is ten to one I soothe him to
good temper; if I show fear of him, he flies on me and rends me. I will be thus
far frank with thee - It concerns me nearly that this man returns not to his
headlong master in a resentful humour. I run my risk, therefore. I have never
shunned to expose my life for the weal of my kingdom. - Follow me.«
    Louis led his young Life-guards-man, for whom he seemed to have taken a
special favour, through the side door by which he had himself entered, saying,
as he showed it him, »He who would thrive at Court must know the private wickets
and concealed staircases - ay, and the traps and pitfalls of the palace, as well
as the principal entrances, folding-doors, and portals.«
    After several turns and passages, the King entered a small vaulted room,
where a table was prepared for dinner with three covers. The whole furniture and
arrangements of the room were plain almost to meanness. A buffet, or folding and
movable cupboard, held a few pieces of gold and silver plate, and was the only
article in the chamber which had, in the slightest degree, the appearance of
royalty. Behind this cupboard, and completely hidden by it, was the post which
Louis assigned to Quentin Durward; and after having ascertained, by going to
different parts of the room, that he was invisible from all quarters, he gave
him his last charge - »Remember the word, Ecosse, en avant; and so soon as ever
I utter these sounds, throw down the screen - spare not for cup or goblet, and
be sure thou take good aim at Crèvecoeur - If thy piece fail, cling to him, and
use thy knife - Oliver and I can deal with the Cardinal.«
    Having thus spoken, he whistled aloud, and summoned into the apartment
Oliver, who was premier-valet of the chamber as well as barber, and who, in
fact, performed all offices immediately connected with the King's person, and
who now appeared, attended by two old men, who were the only assistants or
waiters at the royal table. So soon as the King had taken his place, the
visitors were admitted; and Quentin, though himself unseen, was so situated as
to remark all the particulars of the interview.
    The King welcomed his visitors with a degree of cordiality, which Quentin
had the utmost difficulty to reconcile with the directions which he had
previously received, and the purpose for which he stood behind the buffet with
his deadly weapon in readiness. Not only did Louis appear totally free from
apprehension of any kind, but one would have supposed that those visitors whom
he had done the high honour to admit to his table, were the very persons in whom
he could most unreservedly confide, and whom he was most willing to honour.
Nothing could be more dignified, and, at the same time, more courteous, than his
demeanour. While all around him, including even his own dress, was far beneath
the splendour which the petty princes of the kingdom displayed in their
festivities, his own language and manners were those of a mighty Sovereign in
his most condescending mood. Quentin was tempted to suppose, either that the
whole of his previous conversation with Louis had been a dream, or that the
dutiful demeanour of the Cardinal, and the frank, open, and gallant bearing of
the Burgundian noble, had entirely erased the King's suspicion.
    But whilst the guests, in obedience to the King, were in the act of placing
themselves at the table, his Majesty darted one keen glance on them, and then
instantly directed his look to Quentin's post. This was done in an instant; but
the glance conveyed so much doubt and hatred towards his guests, such a
peremptory injunction on Quentin to be watchful in attendance, and prompt in
execution, that no room was left for doubting that the sentiments of Louis
continued unaltered, and his apprehensions unabated. He was, therefore, more
than ever astonished at the deep veil under which that Monarch was able to
conceal the movements of his jealous disposition.
    Appearing to have entirely forgotten the language which Crèvecoeur had held
towards him in the face of his Court, the King conversed with him of old times,
of events which had occurred during his own exile in the territories of
Burgundy, and inquired respecting all the nobles with whom he had been then
familiar, as if that period had indeed been the happiest of his life, and as if
he retained towards all who had contributed to soften the term of his exile, the
kindest and most grateful sentiments.
    »To an ambassador of another nation,« he said, »I would have thrown
something of state into our reception; but to an old friend, who often shared my
board at the Castle of Genappes,30 I wished to show myself, as I love best to
live, old Louis of Valois, as simple and plain as any of his Parisian badauds.
But I directed them to make some better cheer than ordinary for you, Sir Count,
for I know your Burgundian proverb, Mieux vault bon repas que bel habit; and
therefore I bid them have some care of our table. For our wine, you know well it
is the subject of an old emulation betwixt France and Burgundy, which we will
presently reconcile; for I will drink to you in Burgundy, and you, Sir Count,
shall pledge me in Champagne. - Here, Oliver, let me have a cup of Vin
d'Auxerre;« and he hummed gaily a song then well known -
 
»Auxerre est la boisson des Rois.
 
Here, Sir Count, I drink to the health of the noble Duke of Burgundy, our kind
and loving cousin. - Oliver, replenish yon golden cup with Vin de Rheims, and
give it to the Count on your knee - he represents our loving brother. - My Lord
Cardinal, we will ourself fill your cup.«
    »You have already, Sire, even to overflowing,« said the Cardinal, with the
lowly mien of a favourite towards an indulgent master.
    »Because we know that your Eminence can carry it with a steady hand,« said
Louis. »But which side do you espouse in the great controversy - Sillery or
Auxerre - France or Burgundy?«
    »I will stand neutral, Sire,« said the Cardinal,»and replenish my cup with
Auvernat.«
    »A neutral has a perilous part to sustain,« said the King; but as he
observed the Cardinal colour somewhat, he glided from the subject, and added,
»But you prefer the Auvernat, because it is so noble a wine it endures not
water. - You, Sir Count, hesitate to empty your cup. I trust you have found no
national bitterness at the bottom.«
    »I would, Sire,« said the Count de Crèvecoeur, »that all national quarrels
could be as pleasantly ended as the rivalry betwixt our vineyards.«
    »With time, Sir Count,« answered the King, »with time - such time as you
have taken to your draught of Champagne. - And now that it is finished, favour
me by putting the goblet in your bosom, and keeping it as a pledge of our
regard. It is not to every one that we would part with it. It belonged of yore
to that terror of France, Henry V. of England, and was taken when Rouen was
reduced, and those islanders expelled from Normandy by the joint arms of France
and Burgundy. It cannot be better bestowed than on a noble and valiant
Burgundian, who well knows that on the union of these two nations depends the
continuance of the freedom of the Continent from the English yoke.«
    The Count made a suitable answer, and Louis gave unrestrained way to the
satirical gaiety of disposition which sometimes enlivened the darker shades of
his character. Leading, of course, the conversation, his remarks, always shrewd
and caustic, and often actually witty, were seldom good-natured, and the
anecdotes with which he illustrated them were often more humorous than delicate;
but in no one word, syllable, or letter, did he betray the state of mind of one
who, apprehensive of assassination, hath in his apartment an armed soldier, with
his piece loaded, in order to prevent or anticipate an attack on his person.
    The Count of Crèvecoeur gave frankly into the King's humour; while the
smooth churchman laughed at every jest, and enhanced every ludicrous idea,
without exhibiting any shame at expressions which made the rustic young Scot
blush even in his place of concealment.31 In about an hour and a half the tables
were drawn; and the King, taking courteous leave of his guests, gave the signal
that it was his desire to be alone.
    So soon as all, even Oliver, had retired, he called Quentin from his place
of concealment; but with a voice so faint, that the youth could scarce believe
it to be the same which had so lately given animation to the jest, and zest to
the tale. As he approached, he saw an equal change in his countenance. The light
of assumed vivacity had left the King's eyes, the smile had deserted his face,
and he exhibited all the fatigue of a celebrated actor, when he has finished the
exhausting representation of some favourite character, in which, while upon the
stage, he had displayed the utmost vivacity.
    »Thy watch is not yet over,« said he to Quentin - »refresh thyself for an
instant - yonder table affords the means - I will then instruct thee in thy
farther duty. Meanwhile, it is ill talking between a full man and a fasting.«
    He threw himself back on his seat, covered his brow with his hand, and was
silent.
 

                                Chapter Eleventh

                              The Hall of Roland.

 Painters show Cupid blind - Hath Hymen eyes?
 Or is his sight warp'd by those spectacles
 Which parents, guardians, and advisers, lend him,
 That he may look through them on lands and mansions,
 On jewels, gold, and all such rich dotations,
 And see their value ten times magnified? -
 Methinks 'twill brook a question
                                              The Miseries of Enforced Marriage.
 
Louis the XIth of France, though the sovereign in Europe who was fondest and
most jealous of power, desired only its substantial enjoyment; and though he
knew well enough, and at times exacted strictly, the observances due to his
rank, was in general singularly careless of show.
    In a prince of sounder moral qualities, the familiarity with which he
invited subjects to his board - nay, occasionally sat at theirs - must have been
highly popular; and even such as he was, the King's homeliness of manners atoned
for many of his vices with that class of his subjects who were not particularly
exposed to the consequences of his suspicion and jealousy. The tiers état, or
commons of France, who rose to more opulence and consequence under the reign of
this sagacious Prince, respected his person, though they loved him not; and it
was resting on their support that he was enabled to make his party good against
the hatred of the nobles, who conceived that he diminished the honour of the
French crown, and obscured their own splendid privileges, by that very neglect
of form which gratified the citizens and commons.
    With patience, which most other princes would have considered as degrading,
and not without a sense of amusement, the Monarch of France waited till his
Life-guards-man had satisfied the keenness of a youthful appetite. It may be
supposed, however, that Quentin had too much sense and prudence to put the royal
patience to a long or tedious proof; and indeed he was repeatedly desirous to
break off his repast ere Louis would permit him. »I see it in thine eye,« he
said, good-naturedly, »that thy courage is not half abated. Go on - God and
Saint Dennis! - charge again. I tell thee that meat and mass« (crossing himself)
»never hindered the work of a good Christian man. Take a cup of wine; but mind
thou be cautious of the wine-pot - it is the vice of thy countrymen as well as
of the English, who, lacking that folly, are the choicest soldiers ever wore
armour. And now wash speedily - forget not thy benedicite, and follow me.«
    Quentin obeyed, and, conducted by a different, but as mazelike an approach
as he had formerly passed, he followed Louis into the Hall of Roland.
    »Take notice,« said the King, imperatively,»thou hast never left this post -
let that be thine answer to thy kinsman and comrades - and, hark thee, to bind
the recollection on thy memory, I give thee this gold chain« (flinging on his
arm one of considerable value). »If I go not brave myself, those whom I trust
have ever the means to ruffle it with the best. But, when such chains as these
bind not the tongue from wagging too freely, my gossip, L'Hermite, hath an
amulet for the throat, which never fails to work a certain cure. And now attend.
- No man, save Oliver or I myself, enters here this evening; but ladies will
come hither, perhaps from the one extremity of the hall, perhaps from the other,
perhaps one from each. You may answer if they address you, but, being on duty,
your answer must be brief; and you must neither address them in your turn, nor
engage in any prolonged discourse. But hearken to what they say. Thine ears as
well as thy hands are mine - I have bought thee, body and soul. Therefore, if
thou hearest aught of their conversation, thou must retain it in memory until it
is communicated to me, and then forget it. And, now I think better on it, it
will be best that thou pass for a Scottish recruit, who hath come straight down
from his mountains, and hath not yet acquired our most Christian language. -
Right. - So, if they speak to thee, thou wilt not answer - this will free you
from embarrassment, and lead them to converse without regard to your presence.
You understand me. - Farewell. Be wary, and thou hast a friend.«
    The King had scarce spoken these words ere he disappeared behind the arras,
leaving Quentin to meditate on what he had seen and heard. The youth was in one
of those situations from which it is pleasanter to look forward than to look
back; for the reflection that he had been planted like a marksman in a thicket
who watches for a stag, to take the life of the noble Count of Crèvecoeur, had
in it nothing ennobling. It was very true, that the King's measures seemed on
this occasion merely cautionary and defensive; but how did the youth know but he
might be soon commanded on some offensive operation of the same kind? This would
be an unpleasant crisis, since it was plain, from the character of his master,
that there would be destruction in refusing, while his honour told him there
would be disgrace in complying. He turned his thoughts from this subject of
reflection, with the sage consolation so often adopted by youth when prospective
dangers intrude themselves on their mind, that it was time enough to think what
was to be done when the emergence actually arrived, and that sufficient for the
day was the evil thereof.
    Quentin made use of this sedative reflection the more easily, that the last
commands of the King had given him something more agreeable to think of than his
own condition. The Lady of the Lute was certainly one of those to whom his
attention was to be dedicated; and well in his mind did he promise to obey one
part of the King's mandate, and listen with diligence to every word that might
drop from her lips, that he might know if the magic of her conversation equalled
that of her music. But with as much sincerity did he swear to himself, that no
part of her discourse should be reported by him to the King, which might affect
the fair speaker otherwise than favourably.
    Meantime, there was no fear of his again slumbering on his post. Each
passing breath of wind, which, finding its way through the open lattice, waved
the old arras, sounded like the approach of the fair object of his expectation.
He felt, in short, all that mysterious anxiety, and eagerness of expectation,
which is always the companion of love, and sometimes hath a considerable share
in creating it.
    At length, a door actually creaked and jingled (for the doors even of
palaces did not in the fifteenth century turn on their hinges so noiseless as
ours); but, alas! it was not at that end of the hall from which the lute had
been heard. It opened, however, and a female figure entered, followed by two
others, whom she directed by a sign to remain without, while she herself came
forward into the hall. By her imperfect and unequal gait, which showed to
peculiar disadvantage as she traversed this long gallery, Quentin at once
recognised the Princess Joan, and, with the respect which became his situation,
drew himself up in a fitting attitude of silent vigilance, and lowered his
weapon to her as she passed. She acknowledged the courtesy by a gracious
inclination of her head, and he had an opportunity of seeing her countenance
more distinctly than he had in the morning.
    There was little in the features of this ill-fated Princess to atone for the
misfortune of her shape and gait. Her face was, indeed, by no means disagreeable
in itself, though destitute of beauty; and there was a meek expression of
suffering patience in her large blue eyes, which were commonly fixed upon the
ground. But besides that she was extremely pallid in complexion, her skin had
the yellowish discoloured tinge which accompanies habitual bad health; and
though her teeth were white and regular, her lips were thin and pale. The
Princess had a profusion of flaxen hair, but it was so light-coloured, as to be
almost of a bluish tinge; and her tire-woman, who doubtless considered the
luxuriance of her mistress's tresses as a beauty, had not greatly improved
matters, by arranging them in curls around her pale countenance, to which they
added an expression almost corpse-like and unearthly. To make matters still
worse, she had chosen a vest or cymar of a pale green silk, which gave her, on
the whole, a ghastly and even spectral appearance.
    While Quentin followed this singular apparition with eyes in which curiosity
was blended with compassion, for every look and motion of the Princess seemed to
call for the latter feeling, two ladies entered from the upper end of the
apartment.
    One of these was the young person, who, upon Louis's summons, had served him
with fruit, while Quentin made his memorable breakfast at the Fleur-de-Lys.
Invested now with all the mysterious dignity belonging to the nymph of the veil
and lute, and proved, besides (at least in Quentin's estimation), to be the
high-born heiress of a rich earldom, her beauty made ten times the impression
upon him which it had done when he beheld in her one whom he deemed the daughter
of a paltry innkeeper, in attendance upon a rich and humorous old burgher. He
now wondered what fascination could ever have concealed from him her real
character. Yet her dress was nearly as simple as before, being a suit of deep
mourning, without any ornaments. Her head-dress was but a veil of crape, which
was entirely thrown back, so as to leave her face uncovered; and it was only
Quentin's knowledge of her actual rank, which gave in his estimation new
elegance to her beautiful shape, a dignity to her step which had before remained
unnoticed, and to her regular features, brilliant complexion, and dazzling eyes,
an air of conscious nobleness, that enhanced their beauty.
    Had death been the penalty, Durward must needs have rendered to this beauty
and her companion the same homage which he had just paid to the royalty of the
Princess. They received it as those who were accustomed to the deference of
inferiors, and returned it with courtesy; but he thought - perhaps it was but a
youthful vision - that the young lady coloured slightly, kept her eyes on the
ground, and seemed embarrassed, though in a trifling degree, as she returned his
military salutation. This must have been owing to her recollection of the
audacious stranger in the neighbouring turret at the Fleur-de-Lys; but did that
discomposure express displeasure? This question he had no means to determine.
    The companion of the youthful Countess, dressed like herself simply, and in
deep mourning, was at the age when women are apt to cling most closely to that
reputation for beauty which has for years been diminishing. She had still
remains enough to show what the power of her charms must once have been, and,
remembering past triumphs, it was evident from her manner that she had not
relinquished the pretensions to future conquests. She was tall and graceful,
though somewhat haughty in her deportment, and returned the salute of Quentin
with a smile of gracious condescension, whispering, the next instant, something
into her companion's ear, who turned towards the soldier, as if to comply with
some hint from the elder lady, but answered, nevertheless, without raising her
eyes. Quentin could not help suspecting that the observation called on the young
lady to notice his own good mien; and he was (I do not know why) pleased with
the idea, that the party referred to did not choose to look at him, in order to
verify with her own eyes the truth of the observation. Probably he thought there
was already a sort of mysterious connection beginning to exist between them,
which gave importance to the slightest trifle.
    This reflection was momentary, for he was instantly wrapped up in attention
to the meeting of the Princess Joan with these stranger ladies. She had stood
still upon their entrance, in order to receive them, conscious, perhaps, that
motion did not become her well; and as she was somewhat embarrassed in receiving
and repaying their compliments, the elder stranger, ignorant of the rank of the
party whom she addressed, was led to pay her salutation in a manner, rather as
if she conferred than received an honour through the interview.
    »I rejoice, madam,« she said, with a smile, which was meant to express
condescension at once and encouragement, »that we are at length permitted the
society of such a respectable person of our own sex as you appear to be. I must
say, that my niece and I have had but little for which to thank the hospitality
of King Louis - Nay, niece, never pluck my sleeve - I am sure I read in the
looks of this young lady sympathy for our situation. - Since we came hither,
fair madam, we have been used little better than mere prisoners; and after a
thousand invitations to throw our cause and our persons under the protection of
France, the Most Christian King has afforded us at first but a base inn for our
residence, and now a corner of this moth-eaten palace, out of which we are only
permitted to creep towards sunset, as if we were bats or owls, whose appearance
in the sunshine is to be held matter of ill omen.«
    »I am sorry,« said the Princess, faltering with the awkward embarrassment of
the interview, »that we have been unable, hitherto, to receive you according to
your deserts. - Your niece, I trust, is better satisfied?«
    »Much - much better than I can express,« answered the youthful Countess - »I
sought but safety, and I have found solitude and secrecy besides. The seclusion
of our former residence, and the still greater solitude of that now assigned to
us, augment, in my eye, the favour which the King vouchsafed to us unfortunate
fugitives.«
    »Silence, my silly cousin,« said the elder lady, »and let us speak according
to our conscience, since at last we are alone with one of our own sex - I say
alone, for that handsome young soldier is a mere statue, since he seems not to
have the use of his limbs, and I am given to understand he wants that of his
tongue, at least in civilised language - I say, since no one but this lady can
understand us, I must own there is nothing I have regretted equal to taking this
French journey. I looked for a splendid reception, tournaments, carousals,
pageants, and festivals; and instead of which, all has been seclusion and
obscurity! and the best society whom the King introduced to us, was a Bohemian
vagabond, by whose agency he directed us to correspond with our friends in
Flanders. - Perhaps,« said the lady, »it is his politic intention to mew us up
here until our lives' end, that he may seize on our estates, after the
extinction of the ancient house of Croye. The Duke of Burgundy was not so cruel;
he offered my niece a husband, though he was a bad one.«
    »I should have thought the veil preferable to an evil husband,« said the
Princess, with difficulty finding opportunity to interpose a word.
    »One would at least wish to have the choice, madam,« replied the voluble
dame. »It is, Heaven knows, on account of my niece that I speak; for myself, I
have long laid aside thoughts of changing my condition. I see you smile, but, by
my halidome, it is true - yet that is no excuse for the King, whose conduct,
like his person, hath more resemblance to that of old Michaud, the money-changer
of Ghent, than to the successor of Charlemagne.«
    »Hold!« said the Princess, with some asperity in her tone; »remember you
speak of my father.«
    »Of your father!« replied the Burgundian lady, in surprise.
    »Of my father,« repeated the Princess, with dignity. »I am Joan of France. -
But fear not, madam,« she continued, in the gentle accent which was natural to
her, »you designed no offence, and I have taken none. Command my influence to
render your exile and that of this interesting young person more supportable.
Alas! it is but little I have in my power; but it is willingly offered.«
    Deep and submissive was the reverence with which the Countess Hameline de
Croye, so was the elder lady called, received the obliging offer of the
Princess's protection. She had been long the inhabitant of Courts, was mistress
of the manners which are there acquired, and held firmly the established rule of
courtiers of all ages, who, although their usual private conversation turns upon
the vices and follies of their patrons, and on the injuries and neglect which
they themselves have sustained, never suffer such hints to drop from them in the
presence of the Sovereign or those of his family. The lady was therefore
scandalised to the last degree at the mistake which had induced her to speak so
indecorously in presence of the daughter of Louis. She would have exhausted
herself in expressing regret and making apologies, had she not been put to
silence and restored to equanimity by the Princess, who requested, in the most
gentle manner, yet which, from a Daughter of France, had the weight of a
command, that no more might be said in the way either of excuse or of
explanation.
    The Princess Joan then took her own chair with a dignity which became her,
and compelled the two strangers to sit, one on either hand, to which the younger
consented with unfeigned and respectful diffidence, and the elder with an
affectation of deep humility and deference, which was intended for such. They
spoke together, but in such a low tone, that the sentinel could not overhear
their discourse, and only remarked, that the Princess seemed to bestow much of
her regard on the younger and more interesting lady; and that the Countess
Hameline, though speaking a great deal more, attracted less of the Princess's
attention by her full flow of conversation and compliment, than did her
kinswoman by her brief and modest replies to what was addressed to her.
    The conversation of the ladies had not lasted a quarter of an hour, when the
door at the lower end of the hall opened, and a man entered shrouded in a
riding-cloak. Mindful of the King's injunction, and determined not to be a
second time caught slumbering, Quentin instantly moved towards the intruder,
and, interposing between him and the ladies, requested him to retire instantly.
    »By whose command?« said the stranger, in a tone of contemptuous surprise.
    »By that of the King,« said Quentin, firmly, »which I am placed here to
enforce.«
    »Not against Louis of Orleans,« said the Duke, dropping his cloak.
    The young man hesitated a moment; but how enforce his orders against the
first Prince of the blood, about to be allied, as the report now generally went,
with the King's own family?
    »Your Highness,« he said, »is too great that your pleasure should be
withstood by me. I trust your Highness will bear me witness that I have done the
duty of my post, so far as your will permitted.«
    »Go to - you shall have no blame, young soldier,« said Orleans; and passing
forward, paid his compliments to the Princess, with that air of constraint which
always marked his courtesy when addressing her.
    »He had been dining,« he said, »with Dunois, and understanding there was
society in Roland's Gallery, he had ventured on the freedom of adding one to the
number.«
    The colour which mounted into the pale cheek of the unfortunate Joan, and
which for the moment spread something of beauty over her features, evinced that
this addition to the company was anything but indifferent to her. She hastened
to present the Prince to the two Ladies of Croye, who received him with the
respect due to his eminent rank; and the Princess, pointing to a chair,
requested him to join their conversation party.
    The Duke declined the freedom of assuming a seat in such society; but taking
a cushion from one of the settles, he laid it at the feet of the beautiful young
Countess of Croye, and so seated himself, that, without appearing to neglect the
Princess, he was enabled to bestow the greater share of his attention on her
lovely neighbour.
    At first, it seemed as if this arrangement rather pleased than offended his
destined bride. She encouraged the Duke in his gallantries towards the fair
stranger, and seemed to regard them as complimentary to herself. But the Duke of
Orleans, though accustomed to subject his mind to the stern yoke of his uncle
when in the King's presence, had enough of princely nature to induce him to
follow his own inclinations whenever that restraint was withdrawn; and his high
rank giving him a right to overstep the ordinary ceremonies, and advance at once
to familiarity, his praises of the Countess Isabelle's beauty became so
energetic, and flowed with such unrestrained freedom, owing perhaps to his
having drunk a little more wine than usual - for Dunois was no enemy to the
worship of Bacchus - that at length he seemed almost impassioned, and the
presence of the Princess appeared well-nigh forgotten.
    The tone of compliment which he indulged was grateful only to one individual
in the circle; for the Countess Hameline already anticipated the dignity of an
alliance with the first Prince of the blood, by means of her whose birth,
beauty, and large possessions, rendered such an ambitious consummation by no
means impossible, even in the eyes of a less sanguine projector, could the views
of Louis XI. have been left out of the calculation of chances. The younger
Countess listened to the Duke's gallantries with anxiety and embarrassment, and
ever and anon turned an entreating look towards the Princess, as if requesting
her to come to her relief. But the wounded feelings, and the timidity of Joan of
France, rendered her incapable of an effort to make the conversation more
general; and at length, excepting a few interjectional civilities of the Lady
Hameline, it was maintained almost exclusively by the Duke himself, though at
the expense of the younger Countess of Croye, whose beauty formed the theme of
his high-flown eloquence.
    Nor must I forget that there was a third person, the unregarded sentinel,
who saw his fair visions melt away like wax before the sun, as the Duke
persevered in the warm tenor of his passionate discourse. At length the Countess
Isabelle de Croye made a determined effort to cut short what was becoming
intolerably disagreeable to her, especially from the pain to which the conduct
of the Duke was apparently subjecting the Princess.
    Addressing the latter, she said, modestly, but with some firmness, that the
first boon she had to claim from her promised protection was, »that her Highness
would undertake to convince the Duke of Orleans, that the ladies of Burgundy,
though inferior in wit and manners to those of France, were not such absolute
fools as to be pleased with no other conversation than that of extravagant
compliment.«
    »I grieve, lady,« said the Duke, preventing the Princess's answer, »that you
will satirise, in the same sentence, the beauty of the dames of Burgundy and the
sincerity of the Knights of France. If we are hasty and extravagant in the
expression of our admiration, it is because we love as we fight, without letting
cold deliberation come into our bosoms, and surrender to the fair with the same
rapidity with which we defeat the valiant.«
    »The beauty of our countrywomen,« said the young Countess, with more of
reproof than she had yet ventured to use towards the high-born suitor, »is as
unfit to claim such triumphs, as the valour of the men of Burgundy is incapable
of yielding them.«
    »I respect your patriotism, Countess,« said the Duke; »and the last branch
of your theme shall not be impugned by me, till a Burgundian knight shall offer
to sustain it with lance in rest. But for the injustice which you have done to
the charms which your land produces, I appeal from yourself to yourself. - Look
there,« he said, pointing to a large mirror, the gift of the Venetian republic,
and then of the highest rarity and value, »and tell me, as you look, what is the
heart that can resist the charms there represented?«
    The Princess, unable to sustain any longer the neglect of her lover, here
sunk backwards on her chair, with a sigh, which at once recalled the Duke from
the land of romance, and induced the Lady Hameline to ask whether her Highness
found herself ill.
    »A sudden pain shot through my forehead,« said the Princess, attempting to
smile; »but I shall be presently better.«
    Her increasing paleness contradicted her words, and induced the Lady
Hameline to call for assistance, as the Princess was about to faint.
    The Duke, biting his lip, and cursing the folly which could not keep guard
over his tongue, ran to summon the Princess's attendants, who were in the next
chamber: and when they came hastily, with the usual remedies, he could not but,
as a cavalier and gentleman, give his assistance to support and to recover her.
His voice, rendered almost tender by pity and self-reproach, was the most
powerful means of recalling her to herself, and just as the swoon was passing
away, the King himself entered the apartment.
 

                                Chapter Twelfth

                                The Politician.

 This is a lecturer, so skill'd in policy,
 That (no disparagement to Satan's cunning)
 He well might read a lesson to the devil,
 And teach the old seducer new temptations.
                                                                       Old Play.
 
As Louis entered the Gallery, he bent his brows in the manner we have formerly
described as peculiar to him, and sent, from under his gathered and gloomy
eyebrows, a keen look on all around; in darting which, as Quentin afterwards
declared, his eyes seemed to turn so small, so fierce, and so piercing, as to
resemble those of an aroused adder looking through the bush of heath in which he
lies coiled.
    When, by this momentary and sharpened glance, the King had reconnoitered the
cause of the bustle which was in the apartment, his first address was to the
Duke of Orleans.
    »You here, my fair cousin?«he said; - and, turning to Quentin, added
sternly, »Had you not charge?«
    »Forgive the young man, Sire,« said the Duke; »he did not neglect his duty;
but I was informed that the Princess was in this gallery.«
    »And I warrant you would not be withstood when you came hither to pay your
court,« said the King, whose detestable hypocrisy persisted in representing the
Duke as participating in a passion which was felt only on the side of his
unhappy daughter; »and it is thus you debauch the sentinels of my guard, young
man? - But what cannot be pardoned to a gallant who only lives par amours!«
    The Duke of Orleans raised his head, as if about to reply, in some manner
which might correct the opinion conveyed in the King's observation; but the
instinctive reverence, not to say fear, of Louis, in which he had been bred from
childhood, chained up his voice.
    »And Joan hath been ill?« said the King; »but do not be grieved, Louis; it
will soon pass away; lend her your arm to her apartment, while I will conduct
these strange ladies to theirs.«
    The order was given in a tone which amounted to a command, and Orleans
accordingly made his exit with the Princess at one extremity of the gallery,
while the King, ungloving his right hand, courteously handed the Countess
Isabelle and her kinswoman to their apartment, which opened from the other. He
bowed profoundly as they entered, and remained standing on the threshold for a
minute after they had disappeared; then, with great composure, shut the door by
which they had retired, and turning the huge key, took it from the lock, and put
it into his girdle - an appendage which gave him still more perfectly the air of
some old miser, who cannot journey in comfort unless he bear with him the key of
his treasure closet.
    With slow and pensive step, and eyes fixed on the ground, Louis now paced
towards Quentin Durward, who, expecting his share of the royal displeasure,
viewed his approach with no little anxiety.
    »Thou hast done wrong,« said the King, raising his eyes, and fixing them
firmly on him when he had come within a yard of him, - »thou hast done foul
wrong, and deservest to die. - Speak not a word in defence! - What hadst thou to
do with Dukes or Princesses? - what with any thing but my order?«
    »So please your Majesty,« said the young soldier, »what could I do?«
    »What couldst thou do when thy post was forcibly passed?« answered the King,
scornfully, - »what is the use of that weapon on thy shoulder? Thou shouldst
have levelled thy piece, and if the presumptuous rebel did not retire on the
instant, he should have died within this very hall! Go - pass into these farther
apartments. In the first thou wilt find a large staircase, which leads to the
inner Bailley; there thou wilt find Oliver Dain. Send him to me - do thou begone
to thy quarters. - As thou dost value thy life, be not so loose of thy tongue as
thou hast been this day slack of thy hand.«
    Well pleased to escape so easily, yet with a soul which revolted at the
cold-blooded cruelty which the King seemed to require from him in the execution
of his duty, Durward took the road indicated, hastened down stairs, and
communicated the royal pleasure to Oliver, who was waiting in the court beneath.
The wily tonsor bowed, sighed, and smiled, as, with a voice even softer than
ordinary, he wished the youth a good evening; and they parted, Quentin to his
quarters, and Oliver to attend the King.
    In this place, the Memoirs which we have chiefly followed in compiling this
true history, were unhappily defective; for, founded chiefly on information
supplied by Quentin, they do not convey the purport of the dialogue which, in
his absence, took place between the King and his secret counsellor. Fortunately
the Library of Hautlieu contains a manuscript copy of the Chronique Scandaleuse
of Jean de Troyes, much more full than that which has been printed; to which are
added several curious memoranda, which we incline to think must have been
written down by Oliver himself after the death of his master, and before he had
the happiness to be rewarded with the halter which he had so long merited. From
this we have been able to extract a very full account of the obscure favourite's
conversation with Louis upon the present occasion, which throws a light upon the
policy of that Prince, which we might otherwise have sought for in vain.
    When the favourite attendant entered the Gallery of Roland, he found the
King pensively seated upon the chair which his daughter had left some minutes
before. Well acquainted with his temper, he glided on with his noiseless step
until he had just crossed the line of the King's sight, so as to make him aware
of his presence, then shrank modestly backward and out of sight, until he should
be summoned to speak or to listen. The monarch's first address was an unpleasant
one: - »So, Oliver, your fine schemes are melting like snow before the south
wind! - I pray to our Lady of Embrun that they resemble not the ice-heaps of
which the Switzer churls tell such stories, and come rushing down upon our
heads.«
    »I have heard with concern that all is not well, Sire,« answered Oliver.
    »Not well!« exclaimed the King, rising and hastily marching up and down the
gallery, - »All is ill, man - and as ill nearly as possible; - so much for thy
fond romantic advice, that I, of all men, should become a protector of
distressed damsels! I tell thee Burgundy is arming, and on the eve of closing an
alliance with England. And Edward, who hath his hands idle at home, will pour
his thousands upon us through that unhappy gate of Calais. Singly, I might
cajole or defy them; but united, united - and with the discontent and treachery
of that villain Saint Paul! - All thy fault, Oliver, who counselled me to
receive the women, and to use the services of that damned Bohemian to carry
messages to their vassals.«
    »My lord,« said Oliver, »you know my reasons. The Countess's domains lie
between the frontiers of Burgundy and Flanders - her castle is almost
impregnable - her rights over neighbouring estates are such as, if well
supported, cannot but give much annoyance to Burgundy, were the lady but wedded
to one who should be friendly to France.«
    »It is, it is a tempting bait,« said the King; »and could we have concealed
her being here, we might have arranged such a marriage for this rich heiress, as
would have highly profited France. - But that cursed Bohemian, how couldst thou
recommend such a heathen hound for a commission which required trust?«
    »Please you,« said Oliver, »to remember it was your Grace's self who trusted
him too far - much farther than I recommended. He would have borne a letter
trustily enough to the Countess's kinsman, telling him to hold out her castle,
and promising speedy relief; but your Highness must needs put his prophetic
powers to the test; and thus he became possessed of secrets which were worth
betraying to Duke Charles.«
    »I am ashamed, I am ashamed,« said Louis. »And yet, Oliver, they say that
these heathen people are descended from the sage Chaldeans, who did read the
mysteries of the stars in the plains of Shinar.«
    Well aware that his master, with all his acuteness and sagacity, was but the
more prone to be deceived by soothsayers, astrologers, diviners, and all that
race of pretenders to occult science, and that he even conceived himself to have
some skill in these arts, Oliver dared to press this point no farther; and only
observed that the Bohemian had been a bad prophet on his own account, else he
would have avoided returning to Tours, and saved himself from the gallows he had
merited.
    »It often happens that those who are gifted with prophetic knowledge,«
answered Louis, with much gravity, »have not the power of foreseeing those
events in which they themselves are personally interested.«
    »Under your Majesty's favour,« replied the confidant, »that seems as if a
man could not see his own hand by means of the candle which he holds, and which
shows him every other object in the apartment.«
    »He cannot see his own features by the light which shows the faces of
others,« replied Louis; »and that is the more faithful illustration of the case.
- But this is foreign to my purpose at present. The Bohemian hath had his
reward, and peace be with him. - But these ladies - Not only does Burgundy
threaten us with war for harbouring them, but their presence is likely to
interfere with my projects in my own family. My simple cousin of Orleans hath
barely seen this damsel, and I venture to prophesy that the sight of her is like
to make him less pliable in the matter of his alliance with Joan.«
    »Your Majesty,« answered the counsellor, »may send the Ladies of Croye back
to Burgundy, and so make your peace with the Duke. Many might murmur at this as
dishonourable; but if necessity demands the sacrifice« -
    »If profit demanded the sacrifice, Oliver, the sacrifice should be made
without hesitation,« answered the King. »I am an old experienced salmon, and use
not to gulp the angler's hook because it is busked up with a feather called
honour. But what is worse than a lack of honour, there were, in returning those
ladies to Burgundy, a forfeiture of those views of advantage which moved us to
give them an asylum. It were heart-breaking to renounce the opportunity of
planting a friend to ourselves, and an enemy to Burgundy, in the very centre of
his dominions, and so near to the discontented cities of Flanders. Oliver, I
cannot relinquish the advantages which our scheme of marrying the maiden to a
friend of our own house seems to hold out to us.«
    »Your Majesty,« said Oliver, after a moment's thought, »might confer her
hand on some right trusty friend, who would take all blame on himself, and serve
your Majesty secretly, while in public you might disown him.«
    »And where am I to find such a friend?« said Louis. »Were I to bestow her
upon any one of our mutinous and ill-ruled nobles, would it not be rendering him
independent? and hath it not been my policy for years to prevent them from
becoming so? - Dunois indeed - him, and him only, I might perchance trust. - He
would fight for the crown of France, whatever were his condition. But honours
and wealth change men's natures - Even Dunois I will not trust.«
    »Your Majesty may find others,« said Oliver, in his smoothest manner, and in
a tone more insinuating than that which he usually employed in conversing with
the King, who permitted him considerable freedom; »men dependent entirely on
your own grace and favour, and who could no more exist without your countenance
than without sun or air - men rather of head than of action - men who« -
    »Men who resemble thyself, ha!« said King Louis. - »No, Oliver, by my faith
that arrow was too rashly shot! - What! because I indulge thee with my
confidence, and let thee, in reward, poll my lieges a little now and then, dost
thou think it makes thee fit to be the husband of that beautiful vision, and a
Count of the highest class to the boot? - thee - thee, I say, low born, and
lower-bred, whose wisdom is at best a sort of cunning and whose courage is more
than doubtful?«
    »Your Majesty imputes to me a presumption of which I am not guilty, in
supposing me to aspire so highly,« said Oliver.
    »I am glad to hear it, man,« replied the King; »and truly, I hold your
judgment the healthier that you disown such a reverie. But methinks thy speech
sounded strangely in that key. - Well, to return. - I dare not wed this beauty
to one of my subjects - I dare not return her to Burgundy - I dare not transmit
her to England, or to Germany, where she is likely to become the prize of some
one more apt to unite with Burgundy than with France, and who would be more
ready to discourage the honest malcontents in Ghent and Liege, than to yield
them that wholesome countenance which might always find Charles the Hardy enough
to exercise his valour on, without stirring from his own domains - and they were
in so ripe a humour for insurrection, the men of Liege in especial, that they
alone, well heated and supported, would find my fair cousin work for more than a
twelvemonth; - and backed by a warlike Count of Croye, - Oh, Oliver! the plan is
too hopeful to be resigned without a struggle. - Cannot thy fertile brain devise
some scheme?«
    Oliver paused for a long time - then at last replied, »What if a bridal
could be accomplished betwixt Isabelle of Croye, and young Adolphus, the Duke of
Gueldres?«
    »What!« said the King, in astonishment; »sacrifice her, and she, too, so
lovely a creature, to the furious wretch who deposed, imprisoned, and has often
threatened to murder, his own father! - No, Oliver, no - that were too
unutterably cruel even for you and me, who look so steadfastly to our excellent
end, the peace and welfare of France, and respect so little the means by which
it is attained. Besides, he lies distant from us, and is detested by the people
of Ghent and Liege. - No, no - I will none of Adolphus of Gueldres - think on
some one else.«
    »My invention is exhausted, Sire,« said the counsellor; »I can remember no
one who, as husband to the Countess of Croye, would be likely to answer your
Majesty's views. He must unite such various qualities - a friend to your Majesty
- an enemy to Burgundy - of policy enough to conciliate the Gauntois and
Liegeois, and of valour sufficient to defend his little dominions against the
power of Duke Charles - Of noble birth besides - that your Highness insists
upon; and of excellent and most virtuous character, to the boot of all.«
    »Nay, Oliver,« said the King, »I leaned not so much - that is, so very much,
on character; but methinks Isabelle's bridegroom should be something less
publicly and generally abhorred than Adolphus of Gueldres. - For example, since
I myself must suggest some one, - why not William de la Marck?«
    »On my halidome, Sire,« said Oliver, »I cannot complain of your demanding
too high a standard of moral excellence in the happy man, if the Wild Boar of
Ardennes can serve your turn. De La Marck! - why, he is the most notorious
robber and murderer on all the frontiers - excommunicated by the Pope for a
thousand crimes.«
    »We will have him released from the sentence, friend Oliver, - Holy Church
is merciful.«
    »Almost an outlaw,« continued Oliver, »and under the ban of the Empire, by
an ordinance of the Chamber at Ratisbon.«
    »We will have the ban taken off, friend Oliver,« continued the King, in the
same tone; »the Imperial Chamber will hear reason.«
    »And admitting him to be of noble birth,« said Oliver, »he hath the manners,
the face, and the outward form, as well as the heart of a Flemish butcher - she
will never accept of him.«
    »His mode of wooing, if I mistake him not,« said Louis, »will render it
difficult for her to make a choice.«
    »I was far wrong indeed, when I taxed your Majesty with being over
scrupulous,« said the counsellor. »On my life, the crimes of Adolphus are but
virtues to those of De la Marck! - And then how is he to meet with his bride? -
Your Majesty knows he dare not stir far from his own Forest of Ardennes.«
    »That must be cared for,« said the King; »and, in the first place, the two
ladies must be acquainted privately that they can be no longer maintained at
this Court, except at the expense of a war between France and Burgundy, and
that, unwilling to deliver them up to my fair cousin of Burgundy, I am desirous
they should secretly depart from my dominions.«
    »They will demand to be conveyed to England,« said Oliver; »and we shall
have her return to Flanders with an island lord, having a round fair face, long
brown hair, and three thousand archers at his back.«
    »No - no,« replied the King; »we dare not (you understand me) so far offend
our fair cousin of Burgundy as to let her pass to England. It would bring his
displeasure as certainly as our maintaining her here. No, no - to the safety of
the Church alone we will venture to commit her; and the utmost we can do is to
connive at the Ladies Hameline and Isabelle de Croye departing in disguise, and
with a small retinue, to take refuge with the Bishop of Liege, who will place
the fair Isabelle for the time under the safeguard of a convent.«
    »And if that convent protect her from William de la Marck, when he knows of
your Majesty's favourable intentions, I have mistaken the man.«
    »Why, yes,« answered the King, »thanks to our secret supplies of money, De
la Marck hath together a handsome handful of as unscrupulous soldiery as ever
were outlawed; with which he contrives to maintain himself among the woods, in
such a condition as makes him formidable both to the Duke of Burgundy and the
Bishop of Liege. He lacks nothing but some territory which he may call his own;
and this being so fair an opportunity to establish himself by marriage, I think
that, Pasques-dieu! he will find means to win and wed, without more than a hint
on our part. The Duke of Burgundy will then have such a thorn in his side, as no
lancet of our time will easily cut out from his flesh. The Boar of Ardennes,
whom he has already outlawed, strengthened by the possession of that fair lady's
lands, castles, and seigniory, with the discontented Liegeois to boot, who, by
my faith, will not be in that case unwilling to choose him for their captain and
leader - let Charles then think of wars with France when he will, or rather let
him bless his stars if she war not with him. - How dost thou like the scheme,
Oliver, ha?«
    »Rarely,« said Oliver, »save and except the doom which confers that lady on
the Wild Boar of Ardennes. - By my halidome, saving in a little outward show of
gallantry, Tristan, the Provost-Marshal, were the more proper bridegroom of the
two.«
    »Anon thou didst propose Master Oliver the barber,« said Louis; »but friend
Oliver and gossip Tristan, though excellent men in the way of counsel and
execution, are not the stuff that men make Counts of. Know you not that the
burghers of Flanders value birth in other men, precisely because they have it
not themselves? - A plebeian mob ever desire an aristocratic leader. Yonder Ked,
or Cade, or - how called they him? - in England, was fain to lure his rascal
rout after him, by pretending to the blood of the Mortimers. William de la Marck
comes of the blood of the Princes of Sedan, as noble as mine own. - And now to
business. I must determine the Ladies of Croye to a speedy and secret flight,
under sure guidance. This will be easily done - we have but to hint the
alternative of surrendering them to Burgundy. Thou must find means to let
William de la Marck know of their motions, and let him choose his own time and
place to push his suit. I know a fit person to travel with them.«
    »May I ask to whom your Majesty commits such an important charge?« asked the
tonsor.
    »To a foreigner, be sure,« replied the King; »one who has neither kin nor
interest in France, to interfere with the execution of my pleasure; and who
knows too little of the country, and its factions, to suspect more of my purpose
than I choose to tell him - in a word, I design to employ the young Scot who
sent you hither but now.«
    Oliver paused in a manner which seemed to imply a doubt of the prudence of
the choice, and then added, »Your Majesty has reposed confidence in that
stranger boy earlier than is your wont.«
    »I have my reason,« answered the King. - »Thou knows« (and he crossed
himself) »my devotion for the blessed Saint Julian. I had been saying my orisons
to that holy Saint late in the night before last, wherein (as he is known to be
the guardian of travellers) I made it my humble petition that he would augment
my household with such wandering foreigners, as might best establish throughout
our kingdom unlimited devotion to our will; and I vowed to the good Saint in
guerdon, that I would, in his name, receive, and relieve, and maintain them.«
    »And did Saint Julian,« said Oliver, »send your Majesty this long-legged
importation from Scotland in answer to your prayers?«
    Although the barber, who well knew that his master had superstition in a
large proportion to his want of religion, and that on such topics nothing was
more easy than to offend him - although, I say, he knew the royal weakness, and
therefore carefully put the preceding question in the softest and most simple
tone of voice, Louis felt the innuendo which it contained, and regarded the
speaker with high displeasure.
    »Sirrah,« he said, »thou art well called Oliver the Devil, who darest thus
to sport at once with thy master and with the blessed Saints. I tell thee, wert
thou one grain less necessary to me, I would have thee hung up on yonder oak
before the Castle, as an example to all who scoff at things holy! - Know, thou
infidel slave, that mine eyes were no sooner closed, than the blessed Saint
Julian was visible to me, leading a young man, whom he presented to me, saying,
that his fortune should be to escape the sword, the cord, the river, and to
bring good fortune to the side which he should espouse, and to the adventures in
which he should be engaged. I walked out on the succeeding morning, and I met
with this youth, whose image I had seen in my dream. In his own country he hath
escaped the sword, amid the massacre of his whole family, and here, within the
brief compass of two days, he hath been strangely rescued from drowning and from
the gallows, and hath already, on a particular occasion, as I but lately hinted
to thee, been of the most material service to me. I receive him as sent hither
by Saint Julian, to serve me in the most difficult, the most dangerous, and even
the most desperate services.«
    The King, as he thus expressed himself, doffed his hat, and selecting from
the numerous little leaden figures with which the hat-band was garnished, that
which represented Saint Julian, he placed it on the table, as was often his wont
when some peculiar feeling of hope, or perhaps of remorse, happened to thrill
across his mind, and kneeling down before it, muttered, with an appearance of
profound devotion, »Sancte Juliane, adsis precibus nostris! Ora, ora, pro nobis!
«
    This was one of those ague-fits of superstitious devotion which often seized
on Louis in such extraordinary times and places, that they gave one of the most
sagacious Monarchs who ever reigned, the appearance of a madman, or at least of
one whose mind was shaken by some deep consciousness of guilt.
    While he was thus employed, his favourite looked at him with an expression
of sarcastic contempt, which he scarce attempted to disguise. Indeed, it was one
of this man's peculiarities, that, in his whole intercourse with his master, he
laid aside that fondling, purring affectation of officiousness and humility,
which distinguished his conduct to others; and if he still bore some resemblance
to a cat, it was when the animal is on its guard, - watchful, animated, and
alert for sudden exertion. The cause of this change was probably Oliver's
consciousness, that his master was himself too profound a hypocrite not to see
through the hypocrisy of others.
    »The features of this youth, then, if I may presume to speak,« said Oliver,
»resemble those of him whom your dream exhibited?«
    »Closely and intimately,« said the King, whose imagination, like that of
superstitious people in general, readily imposed upon itself - »I have had his
horoscope cast, besides, by Galeotti Martivalle, and I have plainly learned,
through his art and mine own observation, that, in many respects, this
unfriended youth has his destiny under the same constellation with mine.«
    Whatever Oliver might think of the causes thus boldly assigned for the
preference of an unexperienced stripling, he dared make no farther objections,
well knowing that Louis, who, while residing in exile, had bestowed much of his
attention on the supposed science of judicial astrology, would listen to no
raillery of any kind which impeached his skill. He therefore only replied, that
he trusted the youth would prove faithful in the discharge of a task so
delicate.
    »We will take care he hath no opportunity to be otherwise,« said Louis; »for
he shall be privy to nothing, save that he is sent to escort the Ladies of Croye
to the residence of the Bishop of Liege. Of the probable interference of William
de la Marck, he shall know as little as they themselves. None shall know that
secret but the guide; and Tristan or thou must find one fit for our purpose.«
    »But in that case,« said Oliver, »judging of him from his country and his
appearance, the young man is like to stand to his arms so soon as the Wild Boar
comes on them, and may not come off so easily from the tusks as he did this
morning.«
    »If they rend his heart-strings,« said Louis, composedly, »Saint Julian,
blessed be his name! can send me another in his stead. It skills as little that
the messenger is slain after his duty is executed, as that the flask is broken
when the wine is drunk out. - Meanwhile, we must expedite the ladies' departure,
and then persuade the Count de Crèvecoeur that it has taken place without our
connivance; we having been desirous to restore them to the custody of our fair
cousin, which their sudden departure has unhappily prevented.«
    »The Count is perhaps too wise, and his master too prejudiced, to believe
it.«
    »Holy Mother!« said Louis, »what unbelief would that be in Christian men!
But, Oliver, they shall believe us. We will throw into our whole conduct towards
our fair cousin, Duke Charles, such thorough and unlimited confidence, that not
to believe we have been sincere with him in every respect, he must be worse than
an infidel. I tell thee, so convinced am I that I could make Charles of Burgundy
think of me in every respect as I would have him, that, were it necessary for
silencing his doubts, I would ride unarmed, and on a palfrey, to visit him in
his tent, with no better guard about me than thine own simple person, friend
Oliver.«
    »And I,« said Oliver, »though I pique not myself upon managing steel in any
other shape than that of a razor, would rather charge a Swiss battalion of
pikes, than I would accompany your Highness upon such a visit of friendship to
Charles of Burgundy, when he hath so many grounds to be well assured that there
is enmity in your Majesty's bosom against him.«
    »Thou art a fool, Oliver,« said the King, »with all thy pretensions to
wisdom - and art not aware that deep policy must often assume the appearance of
the most extreme simplicity, as courage occasionally shrouds itself under the
show of modest timidity. Were it needful, full surely would I do what I have
said - the Saints always blessing our purpose, and the heavenly constellations
bringing round in their course a proper conjuncture for such an exploit.«
    In these words did King Louis XI. give the first hint of the extraordinary
resolution which he afterwards adopted, in order to dupe his great rival, the
subsequent execution of which had very nearly proved his own ruin.
    He parted with his counsellor, and presently afterwards went to the
apartment of the Ladies of Croye. Few persuasions beyond his mere license would
have been necessary to determine their retreat from the Court of France, upon
the first hint that they might not be eventually protected against the Duke of
Burgundy; but it was not so easy to induce them to choose Liege for the place of
their retreat. They entreated and requested to be transferred to Bretagne or
Calais, where, under protection of the Duke of Bretagne, or King of England,
they might remain in a state of safety, until the Sovereign of Burgundy should
relent in his rigorous purpose towards them. But neither of these places of
safety at all suited the plans of Louis, and he was at last successful in
inducing them to adopt that which did coincide with them.
    The power of the Bishop of Liege for their defence was not to be questioned,
since his ecclesiastical dignity gave him the means of protecting the fugitives
against all Christian Princes; while, on the other hand, his secular forces, if
not numerous, seemed at least sufficient to defend his person, and all under his
protection, from any sudden violence. The difficulty was to reach the little
Court of the Bishop in safety; but for this Louis promised to provide, by
spreading a report that the Ladies of Croye had escaped from Tours by night,
under fear of being delivered up to the Burgundian Envoy, and had taken their
flight towards Bretagne. He also promised them the attendance of a small but
faithful retinue, and letters to the commanders of such towns and fortresses as
they might pass, with instructions to use every means for protecting and
assisting them in their journey.
    The Ladies of Croye, though internally resenting the ungenerous and
discourteous manner in which Louis thus deprived them of the promised asylum in
his Court, were so far from objecting to the hasty departure which he proposed,
that they even anticipated his project, by entreating to be permitted to set
forward that same night. The Lady Hameline was already tired of a place where
there were neither admiring courtiers, nor festivities to be witnessed; and the
Lady Isabelle thought she had seen enough to conclude, that were the temptation
to become a little stronger, Louis XI., not satisfied with expelling them from
his Court, would not hesitate to deliver her up to her irritated Suzerain, the
Duke of Burgundy. Lastly, Louis himself readily acquiesced in their hasty
departure, anxious to preserve peace with Duke Charles, and alarmed lest the
beauty of Isabelle should interfere with and impede the favourite plan which he
had formed, for bestowing the hand of his daughter Joan upon his cousin of
Orleans.
 

                               Chapter Thirteenth

                                  The Journey.

 Talk not of kings - I scorn the poor comparison
 I am a sage, and can command the elements -
 At least men think I can; and on that thought
 I found unbounded empire.
                                                                      Albumazar.
 
Occupation and adventure might be said to crowd upon the young Scottishman with
the force of a spring-tide; for he was speedily summoned to the apartment of his
Captain, the Lord Crawford, where, to his astonishment, he again beheld the
King. After a few words respecting the honour and trust which were about to be
reposed in him, which made Quentin internally afraid that they were again about
to propose to him such a watch as he had kept upon the Count of Crèvecoeur, or
perhaps some duty still more repugnant to his feelings, he was not relieved
merely, but delighted, with hearing that he was selected, with the assistance of
four others under his command, one of whom was a guide, to escort the Ladies of
Croye to the little Court of their relative, the Bishop of Liege, in the safest
and most commodious, and, at the same time, in the most secret manner possible.
A scroll was given him, in which were set down directions for his guidance, for
the places of halt (generally chosen in obscure villages, solitary monasteries,
and situations remote from towns), and for the general precautions which he was
to attend to, especially on approaching the frontier of Burgundy. He was
sufficiently supplied with instructions what he ought to say and do to sustain
the personage of the Maître d'Hôtel of two English ladies of rank, who had been
on a pilgrimage to Saint Martin of Tours, and were about to visit the holy city
of Cologne, and worship the relics of the sage Eastern Monarchs, who came to
adore the nativity of Bethlehem; for under that character the Ladies of Croye
were to journey.
    Without having any defined notions of the cause of his delight, Quentin
Durward's heart leapt for joy at the idea of approaching thus nearly to the
person of the Beauty of the Turret, and in a situation which entitled him to her
confidence, since her protection was in so great a degree entrusted to his
conduct and courage. He felt no doubt in his own mind, that he should be her
successful guide through the hazards of her pilgrimage. Youth seldom thinks of
dangers, and bred up free, and fearless, and self-confiding, Quentin, in
particular, only thought of them to defy them. He longed to be exempted from the
restraint of the Royal presence, that he might indulge the secret glee with
which such unexpected tidings filled him, and which prompted him to bursts of
delight which would have been totally unfitting for that society.
    But Louis had not yet done with him. That cautious Monarch had to consult a
counsellor of a different stamp from Oliver le Diable, and who was supposed to
derive his skill from the superior and astral intelligences, as men, judging
from their fruits, were apt to think the counsels of Oliver sprung from the
Devil himself.
    Louis therefore led the way, followed by the impatient Quentin, to a
separate tower of the Castle of Plessis, in which was installed, in no small
ease and splendour, the celebrated astrologer, poet, and philosopher, Galeotti
Marti, or Martius, or Martivalle, a native of Narni, in Italy, the author of the
famous Treatise, De Vulgo Incognitis,32 and the subject of his age's admiration,
and of the panegyrics of Paulus Jovius. He had long flourished at the court of
the celebrated Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary,33 from whom he was in some
measure decoyed by Louis, who grudged the Hungarian Monarch the society and the
counsels of a sage, accounted so skilful in reading the decrees of Heaven.
    Martivalle was none of those ascetic, withered, pale professors of mystic
learning of those days, who bleared their eyes over the midnight furnace, and
macerated their bodies by outwatching the polar bear. He indulged in all courtly
pleasures, and, until he grew corpulent, had excelled in all martial sports and
gymnastic exercises, as well as in the use of arms; insomuch, that Janus
Pannonius has left a Latin epigram, upon a wrestling match betwixt Galeotti and
a renowned champion of that art, in the presence of the Hungarian King and
Court, in which the Astrologer was completely victorious.
    The apartments of this courtly and martial sage were far more splendidly
furnished than any which Quentin had yet seen in the royal palace; and the
carving and ornamented woodwork of his library, as well as the magnificence
displayed in the tapestries, showed the elegant taste of the learned Italian.
Out of his study one door opened to his sleeping-apartment, another led to the
turret which served as his observatory. A large oaken table, in the midst of the
chamber, was covered with a rich Turkey carpet, the spoils of the tent of a
Pacha, after the great battle of Jaiza, where the Astrologer had fought abreast
with the valiant champion of Christendom, Matthias Corvinus. On the table lay a
variety of mathematical and astrological instruments, all of the most rich
materials and curious workmanship. His astrolabe of silver was the gift of the
Emperor of Germany, and his Jacob's staff of ebony, jointed with gold, and
curiously inlaid, was a mark of esteem from the reigning Pope.
    There were various other miscellaneous articles disposed on the table, or
hanging around the walls; amongst others, two complete suits of armour, one of
mail, the other of plate, both of which, from their great size, seemed to call
the gigantic Astrologer their owner; a Spanish toledo, a Scottish broad-sword, a
Turkish scimitar, with bows, quivers, and other warlike weapons; musical
instruments of several different kinds; a silver crucifix, a sepulchral antique
vase, and several of the little brazen Penates of the ancient heathens, with
other curious nondescript articles, some of which, in the superstitious opinions
of that period, seemed to be designed for magical purposes. The library of this
singular character was of the same miscellaneous description with his other
effects. Curious manuscripts of classical antiquity lay mingled with the
voluminous labours of Christian divines, and of those painstaking sages who
professed the chemical science, and proffered to guide their students into the
most secret recesses of nature, by means of the Hermetical Philosophy. Some were
written in the Eastern character, and others concealed their sense or nonsense
under the veil of hieroglyphics and cabalistic characters. The whole apartment,
and its furniture of every kind, formed a scene very impressive on the fancy,
considering the general belief then indisputably entertained, concerning the
truth of the occult sciences; and that effect was increased by the manners and
appearance of the individual himself, who, seated in a huge chair, was employed
in curiously examining a specimen, just issued from the Frankfort press, of the
newly invented art of printing.
    Galeotti Martivalle was a tall, bulky, yet stately man, considerably past
his prime, and whose youthful habits of exercise, though still occasionally
resumed, had not been able to contend with his natural tendency to corpulence,
increased by sedentary study, and indulgence in the pleasures of the table. His
features, though rather overgrown, were dignified and noble, and a Santon might
have envied the dark and downward sweep of his long-descending beard. His dress
was a chamber-robe of the richest Genoa velvet, with ample sleeves, clasped with
frogs of gold, and lined with sables. It was fastened round his middle by a
broad belt of virgin parchment, round which were represented, in crimson
characters, the signs of the Zodiac. He rose and bowed to the King, yet with the
air of one to whom such exalted society was familiar, and who was not at all
likely, even in the royal presence, to compromise the dignity then especially
affected by the pursuers of science.
    »You are engaged, father,« said the King, »and, as I think, with this
new-fashioned art of multiplying manuscripts, by the intervention of machinery.
Can things of such mechanical and terrestrial import interest the thoughts of
one, before whom Heaven has unrolled her own celestial volumes?«
    »My brother,« replied Martivalle, - »for so the tenant of this cell must
term even the King of France, when he deigns to visit him as a disciple, -
believe me that, in considering the consequences of this invention, I read with
as certain augury, as by any combination of the heavenly bodies, the most awful
and portentous changes. When I reflect with what slow and limited supplies the
stream of science hath hitherto descended to us; how difficult to be obtained by
those most ardent in its search; how certain to be neglected by all who regard
their ease; how liable to be diverted, or altogether dried up, by the invasions
of barbarism; can I look forward, without wonder and astonishment, to the lot of
a succeeding generation, on whom knowledge will descend like the first and
second rain, uninterrupted, unabated, unbounded; fertilising some grounds, and
overflowing others; changing the whole form of social life; establishing and
overthrowing religions; erecting and destroying kingdoms« -
    »Hold, Galeotti,« said Louis, - »shall these changes come in our time?«
    »No, my royal brother,« replied Martivalle; »this invention may be likened
to a young tree, which is now newly planted, but shall, in succeeding
generations, bear fruit as fatal, yet as precious, as that of the Garden of
Eden; the knowledge, namely, of good and evil.«
    Louis answered, after a moment's pause, »Let futurity look to what concerns
them - we are men of this age, and to this age we will confine our care.
Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. - Tell me, hast thou proceeded
farther in the horoscope which I sent to thee, and of which you made me some
report? I have brought the party hither, that you may use palmistry, or
chiromancy, if such is your pleasure. The matter is pressing.«
    The bulky sage arose from his seat, and approaching the young soldier, fixed
on him his keen large dark eyes, as if he were in the act of internally spelling
and dissecting every lineament and feature. - Blushing and borne down by this
close examination on the part of one whose expression was so reverend at once
and commanding, Quentin bent his eyes on the ground, and did not again raise
them, till in the act of obeying the sonorous command of the Astrologer, »Look
up, and be not afraid, but hold forth thy hand.«
    When Martivalle had inspected his palm, according to the form of the mystic
arts which he practised, he led the King some steps aside. - »My royal brother,«
he said, »the physiognomy of this youth, together with the lines impressed on
his hand, confirm, in a wonderful degree, the report which I founded on his
horoscope, as well as that judgment which your own proficiency in our sublime
arts induced you at once to form of him. All promises that this youth will be
brave and fortunate.«
    »And faithful?« said the King; »for valour and fortune square not always
with fidelity.«
    »And faithful also,« said the Astrologer; »for there is manly firmness in
look and eye, and his linea vitæ is deeply marked and clear, which indicates a
true and upright adherence to those who do benefit or lodge trust in him. But
yet« -
    »But what?« said the King; »Father Galeotti, wherefore do you now pause?«
    »The ears of Kings,« said the Sage, »are like the palates of those dainty
patients, which are unable to endure the bitterness of the drugs necessary for
their recovery.«
    »My ears and my palate have no such niceness,« said Louis; »let me hear what
is useful counsel, and swallow what is wholesome medicine. I quarrel not with
the rudeness of the one, or the harsh taste of the other. I have not been
cockered in wantonness or indulgence; my youth was one of exile and suffering.
My ears are used to harsh counsel, and take no offence at it.«
    »Then plainly, Sire,« replied Galeotti, »if you have aught in your proposed
commission, which - which, in short, may startle a scrupulous conscience -
entrust it not to this youth - at least, not till a few years' exercise in your
service has made him as unscrupulous as others.«
    »And is this what you hesitated to speak, my good Galeotti? and didst thou
think thy speaking it would offend me?« said the King. »Alack, I know that thou
art well sensible, that the path of royal policy cannot be always squared (as
that of private life ought invariably to be) by the abstract maxims of religion
and of morality. Wherefore do we, the Princes of the earth, found churches and
monasteries, make pilgrimages, undergo penances, and perform devotions, with
which others may dispense, unless it be because the benefit of the public, and
the welfare of our kingdoms, force us upon measures which grieve our consciences
as Christians? But Heaven has mercy - the Church, an unbounded stock of merits,
and the intercession of our Lady of Embrun, and the blessed saints, is urgent,
everlasting, and omnipotent.« - He laid his hat on the table, and devoutly
kneeling before the images stuck in his hat- repeated in an earnest tone, »
Sancte Huberte, Sancte Juliane, Sancte Martine, Sancte Rosalia, Sancti quotquot
adestis, orate pro me peccatore!« He then smote his breast, arose, re-assumed
his hat, and continued; - »Be assured, good father, that whatever there may be
in our commission, of the nature at which you have hinted, the execution shall
not be entrusted to this youth, nor shall he be privy to such part of our
purpose.«
    »In this,« said the Astrologer, »you, my royal brother, will walk wisely. -
Something may be apprehended likewise from the rashness of this your young
commissioner; a failing inherent in those of sanguine complexion. But I hold
that, by the rules of art, this chance is not to be weighed against the other
properties discovered from his horoscope and otherwise.«
    »Will this next midnight be a propitious hour in which to commence a
perilous journey?« said the King. - »See, here is your ephemerides - you see the
position of the moon in regard to Saturn, and the ascendence of Jupiter - That
should argue, methinks, in submission to your better art, success to him who
sends forth the expedition at such an hour.«
    »To him who sends forth the expedition,« said the Astrologer, after a pause,
»this conjunction doth indeed promise success; but, methinks, that Saturn being
combust, threatens danger and infortune to the party sent; whence I infer that
the errand may be perilous, or even fatal, to those who are to journey Violence
and captivity, methinks, are intimated in that adverse conjunction.«
    »Violence and captivity to those who are sent,« answered the King, »but
success to the wishes of the sender - Runs it not thus, my learned father?«
    »Even so,« replied the Astrologer.
    The King paused, without giving any farther indication how far this
presaging speech (probably hazarded by the Astrologer from his conjecture that
the commission related to some dangerous purpose) squared with his real object,
which, as the reader is aware, was to betray the Countess Isabelle of Croye into
the hands of William de la Marck, a nobleman indeed of high birth, but degraded
by his crimes into a leader of banditti, distinguished for his turbulent
disposition and ferocious bravery.
    The King then pulled forth a paper from his pocket, and, ere he gave it to
Martivalle, said, in a tone which resembled that of an apology - »Learned
Galeotti, be not surprised, that, possessing in you an oracular treasure,
superior to that lodged in the breast of any now alive, not excepting the great
Nostradamus himself, I am desirous frequently to avail myself of your skill in
those doubts and difficulties which beset every Prince who hath to contend with
rebellion within his land, and with external enemies, both powerful and
inveterate.«
    »When I was honoured with your request, Sire,« said the philosopher, »and
abandoned the Court of Buda for that of Plessis, it was with the resolution to
place at the command of my royal patron whatever my art had, that might be of
service to him.«
    »Enough, good Martivalle - I pray thee attend to the import of this
question.« - He proceeded to read from the paper in his hand: - »A person having
on hand a weighty controversy, which is like to draw to debate either by law or
by force of arms, is desirous, for the present, to seek accommodation by a
personal interview with his antagonist. He desires to know what day will be
propitious for the execution of such a purpose; also what is likely to be the
success of such a negotiation, and whether his adversary will be moved to answer
the confidence thus reposed in him with gratitude and kindness, or may rather be
likely to abuse the opportunity and advantage which such meeting may afford
him?«
    »It is an important question,« said Martivalle, when the King had done
reading, »and requires that I should set a planetary figure, and give it instant
and deep consideration.«
    »Let it be so, my good father in the sciences, and thou shalt know what it
is to oblige a King of France. We are determined, if the constellations forbid
not, - and our own humble art leads us to think that they approve our purpose, -
to hazard something, even in our own person, to stop these anti-Christian wars.«
    »May the saints forward your Majesty's pious intent,« said the Astrologer,
»and guard your sacred person!«
    »Thanks, learned father. - Here is something the while, to enlarge your
curious library.«
    He placed under one of the volumes a small purse of gold; for, economical
even in his superstitions, Louis conceived the Astrologer sufficiently bound to
his service by the pensions he had assigned him, and thought himself entitled to
the use of his skill at a moderate rate, even upon great exigencies.
    Louis, having thus, in legal phrase, added a refreshing fee to his general
retainer, turned from him to address Durward. - »Follow me,« he said, »my bonny
Scot, as one chosen by Destiny and a Monarch to accomplish a bold adventure. All
must be got ready, that thou mayst put foot in stirrup the very instant the
bell of Saint Martin's tolls twelve. One minute sooner, one minute later, were
to forfeit the favourable aspect of the constellations which smile on your
adventure.«
    Thus saying, the King left the apartment, followed by his young guardsman;
and no sooner were they gone, than the Astrologer gave way to very different
feelings from those which seemed to animate him during the royal presence.
    »The niggardly slave!« he said, weighing the purse in his hand, - for, being
a man of unbounded expense, he had almost constant occasion for money, - »The
base sordid scullion! - A coxswain's wife would give more to know that her
husband had crossed the narrow seas in safety. He acquire any tincture of humane
letters! - yes, when prowling foxes and yelling wolves become musicians. He read
the glorious blazoning of the firmament! - ay, when sordid moles shall become
lynxes. - Post tot promissa - after so many promises made, to entice me from the
Court of the magnificent Matthias, where Hun and Turk, Christian and Infidel,
the Czar of Muscovia and the Khan of Tartary themselves, contended to load me
with gifts, - doth he think I am to abide in this old Castle, like a bullfinch
in a cage, fain to sing as oft as he chooses to whistle, and call for seed and
water? - Not so - aut inveniam viam, aut faciam - I will discover or contrive a
remedy. The Cardinal Balue is politic and liberal - this query shall to him, and
it shall be his Eminence's own fault if the stars speak not as he would have
them.«
    He again took the despised guerdon, and weighed it in his hand. »It may be,«
he said, »there is some jewel, or pearl of price, concealed in this paltry case
- I have heard he can be liberal even to lavishness, when it suits his caprice
or interest.«
    He emptied the purse, which contained neither more nor less than ten gold
pieces. The indignation of the Astrologer was extreme. »Thinks he that for such
paltry rate of hire I will practise that celestial science which I have studied
with the Armenian Abbot of Istrahoff, who had not seen the sun for forty years,
- with the Greek Dubravius, who is said to have raised the dead, - and have even
visited the Scheik Ebn Hali in his cave in the deserts of Thebais? - No, by
Heaven! - he that contemns art shall perish through his own ignorance. Ten
pieces! - a pittance which I am half ashamed to offer to Toinette, to buy her
new breast-laces.«
    So saying, the indignant Sage nevertheless plunged the contemned pieces of
gold into a large pouch which he wore at his girdle, which Toinette, and other
abettors of lavish expense, generally contrived to empty fully faster than the
philosopher, with all his art, could find the means of filling.34
 

                               Chapter Fourteenth

                                  The Journey.

 I see thee yet, fair France - thou favour'd land
 Of art and nature - thou art still before me;
 Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport,
 So well the grateful soil returns its tribute;
 Thy sunburnt daughters, with their laughing eyes
 And glossy raven-locks. But, favour'd France,
 Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell
 In ancient times as now.
                                                                      Anonymous.
 
Avoiding all conversation with any one (for such was his charge), Quentin
Durward proceeded hastily to array himself in a strong hut plain cuirass, with
thigh and arm pieces, and placed on his head a good steel cap without any visor.
To these was added a handsome cassock of shamois leather, finely dressed and
laced down the seams with some embroidery, such as might become a superior
officer in a noble household.
    These were brought to his apartment by Oliver, who, with his quiet,
insinuating smile and manner, acquainted him that his uncle had been summoned to
mount guard, purposely that he might make no inquiries concerning these
mysterious movements.
    »Your excuse will be made to your kinsman,« said Oliver, smiling again;
»and, my dearest son, when you return safe from the execution of this pleasing
trust, I doubt not you will be found worthy of such promotion as will dispense
with your accounting for your motions to any one, while it will place you at the
head of those who must render an account of theirs to you.«
    So spoke Oliver le Diable, calculating, probably, in his own mind, the great
chance there was that the poor youth whose hand he squeezed affectionately as he
spoke, must necessarily encounter death or captivity in the commission entrusted
to his charge. He added to his fair words a small purse of gold, to defray
necessary expenses on the road, as a gratuity on the King's part.
    At a few minutes before twelve at midnight, Quentin, according to his
directions, proceeded to the second courtyard, and paused under the Dauphin's
Tower, which, as the reader knows, was assigned for the temporary residence of
the Countesses of Croye. He found at this place of rendezvous the men and horses
appointed to compose the retinue, leading two sumpter mules already loaded with
baggage, and holding three palfreys for the two Countesses and a faithful
waiting-woman, with a stately war-horse for himself, whose steel-plated saddle
glanced in the pale moonlight. Not a word of recognition was spoken on either
side. The men sat still in their saddles, as if they were motionless; and by the
same imperfect light Quentin saw with pleasure that they were all armed, and
held long lances in their hands. They were only three in number; but one of them
whispered to Quentin, in a strong Gascon accent, that their guide was to join
them beyond Tours.
    Meantime, lights glanced to and fro at the lattices of the tower, as if
there was bustle and preparation among its inhabitants. At length, a small door,
which led from the bottom of the tower to the court, was unclosed, and three
females came forth attended by a man wrapped in a cloak. They mounted in silence
the palfreys which stood prepared for them, while their attendant on foot led
the way, and gave the passwords and signals to the watchful guards, whose posts
they passed in succession. Thus they at length reached the exterior of these
formidable barriers. Here the man on foot, who had hitherto acted as their
guide, paused, and spoke low and earnestly to the two foremost females.
    »May heaven bless you, Sire,« said a voice which thrilled upon Quentin
Durward's ear, »and forgive you, even if your purposes be more interested than
your words express! To be placed in safety under the protection of the good
Bishop of Liege, is the utmost extent of my desire.«
    The person whom she thus addressed, muttered an inaudible answer, and
retreated back through the barrier gate, while Quentin thought that, by the
moon-glimpse, he recognised in him the King himself, whose anxiety for the
departure of his guests had probably induced him to give his presence, in case
scruples should arise on their part, or difficulties on that of the guards of
the Castle.
    When the riders were beyond the Castle, it was necessary for some time to
ride with great precaution, in order to avoid the pitfalls, snares, and similar
contrivances, which were placed for the annoyance of strangers. The Gascon was,
however, completely possessed of the clew to this labyrinth, and in a quarter of
an hour's riding they found themselves beyond the limits of Plessis le Parc, and
not far distant from the city of Tours.
    The moon, which had now extricated herself from the clouds through which she
was formerly wading, shed a full sea of glorious light upon a landscape equally
glorious. They saw the princely Loire rolling his majestic tide through the
richest plain in France, and sweeping along between banks ornamented with towers
and terraces, and with olives and vineyards. They saw the walls of the city of
Tours the ancient capital of Touraine, raising their portal towers and
embattlements white in the moonlight, while from within their circle rose the
immense Gothic mass, which the devotion of the sainted Bishop Perpetuus erected
as early as the fifth century, and which the zeal of Charlemagne and his
successors had enlarged with such architectural splendour as rendered it the
most magnificent church in France. The towers of the church of Saint Gatien were
also visible, and the gloomy strength of the Castle, which was said to have
been, in ancient times, the residence of the Emperor Valentinian.
    Even the circumstances in which he was placed, though of a nature so
engrossing, did not prevent the wonder and delight with which the young
Scottishman, accustomed to the waste though impressive landscape of his own
mountains, and the poverty even of his country's most stately scenery, looked on
a scene, which art and nature seemed to have vied in adorning with their richest
splendour. But he was recalled to the business of the moment by the voice of the
elder lady (pitched at least an octave higher than those soft tones which bid
adieu to King Louis), demanding to speak with the leader of the band. Spurring
his horse forward, Quentin respectfully presented himself to the ladies in that
capacity, and thus underwent the interrogatories of the Lady Hameline.
    »What was his name, and what his degree?«
    He told both.
    »Was he perfectly acquainted with the road?«
    »He could not,« he replied, »pretend to much knowledge of the route, but he
was furnished with full instructions, and he was, at their first resting-place,
to be provided with a guide, in all respects competent to the task of directing
their farther journey; meanwhile, a horseman, who had just joined them, and made
the number of their guard four, was to be their guide for the first stage.«
    »And wherefore were you selected for such a duty, young gentleman?« said the
lady. - »I am told you are the same youth who was lately upon guard in the
gallery in which we met the Princess of France. You seem young and inexperienced
for such a charge - a stranger, too, in France, and speaking the language as a
foreigner.«
    »I am bound to obey the commands of the King, madam, but am not qualified to
reason on them,« answered the young soldier.
    »Are you of noble birth?« demanded the same querist.
    »I may safely affirm so, madam,« replied Quentin.
    »And are you not,« said the younger lady, addressing him in her turn, but
with a timorous accent, »the same whom I saw when I was called to wait upon the
King at yonder inn?«
    Lowering his voice, perhaps from similar feelings of timidity, Quentin
answered in the affirmative.
    »Then, methinks, my cousin,« said the Lady Isabelle, addressing the Lady
Hameline, »we must be safe under this young gentleman's safeguard; he looks not,
at least, like one to whom the execution of a plan of treacherous cruelty upon
two helpless women could be with safety entrusted.«
    »On my honour, madam,« said Durward, »by the fame of my house, by the bones
of my ancestry, I could not, for France and Scotland laid into one, be guilty of
treachery or cruelty towards you!«
    »You speak well, young man,« said the Lady Hameline; »but we are accustomed
to hear fair speeches from the King of France and his agents. It was by these
that we were induced, when the protection of the Bishop of Liege might have been
attained with less risk than now, or when we might have thrown ourselves on that
of Winceslaus of Germany, or of Edward of England, to seek refuge in France. And
in what did the promises of the King result? In an obscure and shameful
concealing of us, under plebeian names, as a sort of prohibited wares, in yonder
paltry hostelry, when we, - who, as thou knows, Marthon« (addressing her
domestic), »never put on our head-tire save under a canopy, and upon a dais of
three degrees, - were compelled to attire ourselves, standing on the simple
floor, as if we had been two milkmaids.«
    Marthon admitted that her lady spoke a most melancholy truth.
    »I would that had been the sorest evil, dear kinswoman,« said the Lady
Isabelle; »I could gladly have dispensed with state.«
    »But not with society,« said the elder Countess; »that, my sweet cousin, was
impossible.«
    »I would have dispensed with all, my dearest kinswoman,« answered Isabelle,
in a voice which penetrated to the very heart of her young conductor and guard,
»with all, for a safe and honourable retirement. I wish not - God knows, I never
wished - to occasion war betwixt France and my native Burgundy, or that lives
should be lost for such as I am. I only implored permission to retire to the
Convent of Marmoutier, or to any other holy sanctuary.«
    »You spoke then like a fool, my cousin,« answered the elder lady, »and not
like a daughter of my noble brother. It is well there is still one alive, who
hath some of the spirit of the noble house of Croye. How should a high-born lady
be known from a sunburnt milkmaid, save that spears are broken for the one, and
only hazel-poles shattered for the other? I tell you, maiden, that while I was
in the very earliest bloom, scarcely older than yourself, the famous Passage of
Arms at Haflinghem was held in my honour; the challengers were four, the
assailants so many as twelve. It lasted three days; and cost the lives of two
adventurous knights, the fracture of one back-bone, one collar-bone, three legs,
and two arms, besides flesh-wounds and bruises beyond the heralds' counting; and
thus have the ladies of our house ever been honoured. Ah! had you but half the
heart of your noble ancestry, you would find means at some Court, where ladies'
love and fame in arms are still prized, to maintain a tournament, at which your
hand should be the prize, as was that of your great-grandmother of blessed
memory, at the spear-running of Strasbourg; and thus should you gain the best
lance in Europe, to maintain the rights of the House of Croye, both against the
oppression of Burgundy and the policy of France.«
    »But, fair kinswoman,« answered the younger Countess, »I have been told by
my old nurse, that although the Rhinegrave was the best lance at the great
tournament at Strasbourg, and so won the hand of my respected ancestor, yet the
match was no happy one, as he used often to scold, and sometimes even to beat,
my great-grandmother of blessed memory.«
    »And wherefore not?« said the elder Countess, in her romantic enthusiasm for
the profession of chivalry; »why should those victorious arms, accustomed to
deal blows when abroad, be bound to restrain their energies at home? A thousand
times rather would I be beaten twice a-day by a husband whose arm was as much
feared by others as by me, than be the wife of a coward, who dared neither to
lift hand to his wife, nor to any one else!«
    »I should wish you joy of such an active mate, fair aunt,« replied Isabelle,
»without envying you; for if broken bones be lovely in tourneys, there is
nothing less amiable in ladies' bower.«
    »Nay, but the beating is no necessary consequence of wedding with a knight
of fame in arms,« said the Lady Hameline; »though it is true that our ancestor
of blessed memory, the Rhinegrave Gottfried, was something rough-tempered, and
addicted to the use of Rheinwein. - The very perfect knight is a lamb among
ladies, and a lion among lances. There was Thibault of Montigni - God be with
him! - he was the kindest soul alive, and not only was he never so discourteous
as to lift hand against his lady, but, by our good dame, he who beat all enemies
without doors, found a fair foe who could belabour him within. - Well, 'twas his
own fault - he was one of the challengers at the Passage of Haflinghem, and so
well bestirred himself, that, if it had pleased Heaven, and your grandfather,
there might have been a lady of Montigni, who had used his gentle nature more
gently.«
    The Countess Isabelle, who had some reason to dread this Passage of
Haflinghem, it being a topic upon which her aunt was at all times very diffuse,
suffered the conversation to drop; and Quentin, with the natural politeness of
one who had been gently nurtured, dreading lest his presence might be a
restraint on their conversation, rode forward to join the guide, as if to ask
him some questions concerning their route.
    Meanwhile, the ladies continued their journey in silence, or in such
conversation as is not worth narrating, until day began to break; and as they
had then been on horseback for several hours, Quentin, anxious lest they should
be fatigued, became impatient to know their distance from the nearest
resting-place.
    »I will show it you,« answered the guide, »in half-an-hour.«
    »And then you leave us to other guidance?« continued Quentin.
    »Even so, Seignior Archer,« replied the man; »my journeys are always short
and straight. - When you and others, Seignior Archer, go by the bow, I always go
by the cord.«
    The moon had by this time long been down, and the lights of dawn were
beginning to spread bright and strong in the east, and to gleam on the bosom of
a small lake, on the verge of which they had been riding for a short space of
time. This lake lay in the midst of a wide plain, scattered over with single
trees, groves, and thickets; but which might be yet termed open, so that objects
began to be discerned with sufficient accuracy. Quentin cast his eye on the
person whom he rode beside, and under the shadow of a slouched overspreading
hat, which resembled the sombrero of a Spanish peasant, he recognised the
facetious features of the same Petit-André, whose fingers, not long since, had,
in concert with those of his lugubrious brother, Trois-Eschelles, been so
unpleasantly active about his throat. - Impelled by aversion, not altogether
unmixed with fear (for in his own country the executioner is regarded with
almost superstitious horror), which his late narrow escape had not diminished,
Durward instinctively moved his horse's head to the right, and pressing him at
the same time with the spur, made a demi-volte, which separated him eight feet
from his hateful companion.
    »Ho, ho, ho, ho!« exclaimed Petit-André; »by our Lady of the Grève, our
young soldier remembers us of old. - What! comrade, you bear no malice, I trust?
- every one wins his bread in this country. No man need be ashamed of having
come through my hands, for I will do my work with any that ever tied a living
weight to a dead tree. - And God hath given me grace to be such a merry fellow
withal - Ha! ha! ha! - I could tell you such jests I have cracked between the
foot of the ladder and the top of the gallows, that, by my halidome, I have been
obliged to do my job rather hastily, for fear the fellows should die with
laughing, and so shame my mystery!«
    As he thus spoke, he edged his horse sideways, to regain the interval which
the Scot had left between them, saying, at the same time, »Come, Seignior
Archer, let there be no unkindness betwixt us! - For my part, I always do my
duty without malice, and with a light heart, and I never love a man better than
when I have put my scant-of-wind collar about his neck, to dub him Knight of the
Order of Saint Patibularius, as the Provost's Chaplain, the worthy Father
Vaconeldiablo, is wont to call the Patron Saint of the Provostry.«
    »Keep back, thou wretched object!« exclaimed Quentin, as the finisher of the
law again sought to approach him closer, »or I shall be tempted to teach you the
distance that should be betwixt men of honour and such an outcast.«
    »La you there, how hot you are!« said the fellow; »had you said men of
honesty, there had been some savour of truth in it; but for men of honour, good
lack, I have to deal with them every day, as nearly and closely as I was about
to do business with you. - But peace be with you, and keep your company to
yourself. I would have bestowed a flagon of Auvernat upon you to wash away every
unkindness - but 'tis like you scorn my courtesy. - Well. Be as churlish as you
list - I never quarrel with my customers - my jerry-come-tumbles, my merry
dancers, my little playfellows, as Jacques Butcher says to his lambs - those in
fine, who, like your seigniorship, have H.E.M.P. written on their foreheads -
No, no, let them use me as they list, they shall have my good service at last -
and yourself shall see, when you next come under Petit-André's hands, that he
knows how to forgive an injury.«
    So saying, and summing up the whole with a provoking wink, and such an
interjectional tchick as men quicken a dull horse with, Petit-André drew off to
the other side of the path, and left the youth to digest the taunts he had
treated him with, as his proud Scottish stomach best might. A strong desire had
Quentin to have belaboured him while the staff of his lance could hold together;
but he put a restraint on his passion, recollecting that a brawl with such a
character could be creditable at no time or place, and that a quarrel of any
kind, on the present occasion, would be a breach of duty, and might involve the
most perilous consequences. He therefore swallowed his wrath at the ill-timed
and professional jokes of Mons. Petit-André, and contented himself with devoutly
hoping that they had not reached the ears of his fair charge, on which they
could not be supposed to make an impression in favour of himself, as one
obnoxious to such sarcasms. But he was speedily roused from such thoughts by the
cry of both ladies at once, »Look back - look back! - For the love of Heaven
look to yourself, and us - we are pursued!«
    Quentin hastily looked back, and saw that two armed men were in fact
following them, and riding at such a pace as must soon bring them up with their
party. »It can,« he said, »be only some of the Provostry making their rounds in
the forest. - Do thou look,« he said to Petit-André, »and see what they may be.«
    Petit-André obeyed; and rolling himself jocosely in the saddle after he had
made his observations, replied, »These, fair sir, are neither your comrades nor
mine - neither Archers nor Marshalmen - for I think they wear helmets, with
visors lowered, and gorgets of the same. - A plague upon these gorgets, of all
other pieces of armour! - I have fumbled with them an hour before I could undo
the rivets.«
    »Do you, gracious ladies,« said Durward, without attending to Petit-André,
»ride forward - not so fast as to raise an opinion of your being in flight, and
yet fast enough to avail yourself of the impediment which I shall presently
place between you and these men who follow us.«
    The Countess Isabelle looked to their guide, and then whispered to her aunt,
who spoke to Quentin thus - »We have confidence in your care, fair Archer, and
will rather abide the risk of whatever may chance in your company, than we will
go onward with that man, whose mien is, we think, of no good augury.«
    »Be it as you will, ladies,« said the youth - »There are but two who come
after us; and though they be knights, as their arms seem to show, they shall, if
they have any evil purpose, learn how a Scottish gentleman can do his devoir in
the presence and for the defence of such as you. - Which of you there,« he
continued, addressing the guards whom he commanded, »is willing to be my
comrade, and to break a lance with these gallants?«
    Two of the men obviously faltered in resolution; but the third, Bertrand
Guyot, swore, »that cap de diou, were they Knights of King Arthur's Round Table,
he would try their mettle, for the honour of Gascony.«
    While he spoke, the two knights - for they seemed of no less rank - came up
with the rear of the party, in which Quentin, with his sturdy adherent, had by
this time stationed himself. They were fully accoutred in excellent armour of
polished steel, without any device by which they could be distinguished.
    One of them, as they approached, called out to Quentin, »Sir Squire, give
place - we come to relieve you of a charge which is above your rank and
condition. You will do well to leave these ladies in our care, who are fitter to
wait upon them, especially as we know that in yours they are little better than
captives.«
    »In return to your demand, sir,« replied Durward, »know, in the first place,
that I am discharging the duty imposed upon me by my present Sovereign; and
next, that, however unworthy I may be, the ladies desire to abide under my
protection.«
    »Out, sirrah!« exclaimed one of the champions; »will you, a wandering
beggar, put yourself on terms of resistance against belted knights?«
    »They are indeed terms of resistance,« said Quentin, »since they oppose your
insolent and unlawful aggression; and if there be difference of rank between us,
which as yet I know not, your discourtesy has done it away. Draw your sword, or,
if you will use the lance, take ground for your career.«
    While the knights turned their horses, and rode back to the distance of
about a hundred and fifty yards, Quentin, looking to the ladies, bent low on his
saddle-bow, as if desiring their favourable regard, and as they streamed towards
him their kerchiefs, in token of encouragement, the two assailants had gained
the distance necessary for their charge.
    Calling to the Gascon to bear himself like a man, Durward put his steed into
motion; and the four horsemen met in full career in the midst of the ground
which at first separated them. The shock was fatal to the poor Gascon; for his
adversary, aiming at his face, which was undefended by a visor, ran him through
the eye into the brain, so that he fell dead from his horse.
    On the other hand, Quentin, though labouring under the same disadvantage,
swayed himself in the saddle so dexterously, that the hostile lance, slightly
scratching his cheek, passed over his right shoulder; while his own spear,
striking his antagonist fair upon the breast, hurled him to the ground. Quentin
jumped off, to unhelm his fallen opponent; but the other knight (who had never
yet spoken), seeing the fortune of his companion, dismounted still more speedily
than Durward, and bestriding his friend, who lay senseless, exclaimed, »In the
name of God and Saint Martin, mount, good fellow, and get thee gone with thy
woman's ware! - Ventre Saint Gris, they have caused mischief enough this
morning.«
    »By your leave, Sir Knight,« said Quentin, who could not brook the menacing
tone in which this advice was given, »I will first see whom I have had to do
with, and learn who is to answer for the death of my comrade.«
    »That shalt thou never live to know or to tell,« answered the knight. »Get
thee back in peace, good fellow. If we were fools for interrupting your passage,
we have had the worst, for thou hast done more evil than the lives of thou and
thy whole band could repay. - Nay, if thou wilt have it« (for Quentin now drew
his sword, and advanced on him), »take it with a vengeance!«
    So saying, he dealt the Scot such a blow on the helmet, as, till that moment
(though bred where good blows were plenty), he had only read of in romance. It
descended like a thunderbolt, beating down the guard which the young soldier had
raised to protect his head, and reaching his helmet of proof, cut it through so
far as to touch his hair, but without farther injury; while Durward, dizzy,
stunned, and beat down on one knee, was for an instant at the mercy of the
knight, had it pleased him to second his blow. But compassion for Quentin's
youth, or admiration of his courage, or a generous love of fair play, made him
withhold from taking such advantage; while Durward, collecting himself, sprung
up and attacked his antagonist with the energy of one determined to conquer or
die, and at the same time with the presence of mind necessary for fighting the
quarrel out to the best advantage. Resolved not again to expose himself to such
dreadful blows as he had just sustained, he employed the advantage of superior
agility, increased by the comparative lightness of his armour, to harass his
antagonist, by traversing on all sides, with a suddenness of motion and rapidity
of attack, against which the knight, in his heavy panoply, found it difficult to
defend himself without much fatigue.
    It was in vain that this generous antagonist called aloud to Quentin, »that
there now remained no cause of fight betwixt them, and that he was loath to be
constrained to do him injury.« Listening only to the suggestions of a passionate
wish to redeem the shame of his temporary defeat, Durward continued to assail
him with the rapidity of lightning - now menacing him with the edge, now with
the point of his sword - and ever keeping such an eye on the motions of his
opponent, of whose superior strength he had had terrible proof, that he was
ready to spring backward, or aside, from under the blows of his tremendous
weapon.
    »Now the devil be with thee for an obstinate and presumptuous fool,«
muttered the knight, »that cannot be quiet till thou art knocked on the head!«
So saying, he changed his mode of fighting, collected himself as if to stand on
the defensive, and seemed contented with parrying, instead of returning, the
blows which Quentin unceasingly aimed at him, with the internal resolution, that
the instant when either loss of breath, or any false or careless pass of the
young soldier, should give an opening, he would put an end to the fight by a
single blow. It is likely he might have succeeded in this artful policy, but
Fate had ordered it otherwise.
    The duel was still at the hottest, when a large party of horse rode up,
crying, »Hold in the King's name!« Both champions stepped back - and Quentin
saw, with surprise, that his Captain, Lord Crawford, was at the head of the
party who had thus interrupted their combat. There was also Tristan l'Hermite,
with two or three of his followers; making, in all, perhaps twenty horse.
 

                               Chapter Fifteenth

                                   The Guide.

 He was a son of Egypt, as he told me,
 And one descended from those dread magicians,
 Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt in Goshen,
 With Israel and her Prophet - matching rod
 With his the sons of Levi's - and encountering
 Jehovah's miracles with incantations,
 Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel,
 And those proud sages wept for their first-born,
 As wept the unletter'd peasant.
                                                                      Anonymous.
 
The arrival of Lord Crawford and his guard put an immediate end to the
engagement which we endeavoured to describe in the last chapter; and the Knight,
throwing off his helmet, hastily gave the old Lord his sword, saying, »Crawford,
I render myself - But hither - and lend me your ear - a word, for God's sake -
save the Duke of Orleans!«
    »How! - what? - the Duke of Orleans!« exclaimed the Scottish commander, -
»How came this, in the name of the foul-fiend? It will ruin the callant with the
King, for ever and a day.«
    »Ask no questions,« said Dunois - for it was no other than he - »it was all
my fault. - See, he stirs. I came forth but to have a snatch at yonder damsel,
and make myself a landed and a married man - and see what is come on't. Keep
back your canaille - let no man look upon him.« So saying, he opened the visor
of Orleans, and threw water on his face, which was afforded by the neighbouring
lake.
    Quentin Durward, meanwhile, stood like one planet-struck; so fast did new
adventures pour in upon him. He had now, as the pale features of his first
antagonist assured him, borne to the earth the first Prince of the blood in
France, and had measured swords with her best champion, the celebrated Dunois;
both of them achievements honourable in themselves; but whether they might be
called good service to the King, or so esteemed by him, was a very different
question.
    The Duke had now recovered his breath, and was able to sit up and give
attention to what passed betwixt Dunois and Crawford, while the former pleaded
eagerly, that there was no occasion to mention in the matter the name of the
most noble Orleans, while he was ready to take the whole blame on his own
shoulders; and to avouch that the Duke had only come hither in friendship to
him.
    Lord Crawford continued listening with his eyes fixed on the ground, and
from time to time he sighed and shook his head. At length he said, looking up,
»Thou knows, Dunois, that, for thy father's sake, as well as thine own, I
would full fain do thee a service.«
    »It is not for myself I demand anything,« answered Dunois. »Thou hast my
sword, and I am your prisoner - what needs more? - But it is for this noble
Prince, the only hope of France, if God should call the Dauphin. He only came
hither to do me a favour - in an effort to make my fortune - in a matter which
the King had partly encouraged.«
    »Dunois,« replied Crawford, »if another had told me thou hadst brought the
noble Prince into this jeopardy to serve any purpose of thine own, I had told
him it was false. And now, that thou dost pretend so thyself, I can hardly
believe it is for the sake of speaking the truth.«
    »Noble Crawford,« said Orleans, who had now entirely recovered from his
swoon, »you are too like in character to your friend Dunois, not to do him
justice. It was indeed I that dragged him hither, most unwillingly, upon an
enterprise of harebrained passion, suddenly and rashly undertaken. - Look on me
all who will,« he added, rising up and turning to the soldiery - »I am Louis of
Orleans, willing to pay the penalty of my own folly. I trust the King will limit
his displeasure to me, as is but just. - Meanwhile, as a Child of France must
not give up his sword to any one - not even to you, brave Crawford -
fare-thee-well, good steel.«
    So saying, he drew his sword from its scabbard, and flung it into the lake.
It went through the air like a stream of lightning, and sunk in the flashing
waters, which speedily closed over it. All remained standing in irresolution and
astonishment, so high was the rank, and so much esteemed was the character of
the culprit; while, at the same time, all were conscious that the consequences
of his rash enterprise, considering the views which the King had upon him, were
likely to end in his utter ruin.
    Dunois was the first who spoke, and it was in the chiding tone of an
offended and distrusted friend: - »So! your Highness hath judged it fit to cast
away your best sword, in the same morning when it was your pleasure to fling
away the King's favour, and to slight the friendship of Dunois?«
    »My dearest kinsman,« said the Duke, »when or how was it in my purpose to
slight your friendship by telling the truth, when it was due to your safety and
my honour?«
    »What had you to do with my safety, my most princely cousin, I would pray to
know?« answered Dunois gruffly; - »What, in God's name, was it to you, if I had
a mind to be hanged, or strangled, or flung into the Loire, or poniarded, or
broke on the wheel, or hung up alive in an iron cage, or buried alive in a
castle fosse, or disposed of in any other way in which it might please King
Louis to get rid of his faithful subject? - (you need not wink and frown, and
point to Tristan l'Hermite - I see the scoundrel as well as you do.) But it
would not have stood so hard with me - And so much for my safety. And then for
your own honour - By the blush of Saint Magdalene, I think the honour would have
been to have missed this morning's work, or kept it out of sight. Here has your
Highness got yourself unhorsed by a wild Scottish boy.«
    »Tut, tut!« said Lord Crawford; »never shame his Highness for that. It is
not the first time a Scottish boy hath broke a good lance - I am glad the youth
hath borne him well.«
    »I will say nothing to the contrary,« said Dunois; »yet, had your Lordship
come something later than you did, there might have been a vacancy in your band
of Archers.«
    »Ay, ay,« answered Lord Crawford; »I can read your handwriting in that cleft
morion. - Some one take it from the lad and give him a bonnet, which, with its
steel lining, will keep his head better than that broken loom. - And let me tell
your Lordship, that your own armour of proof is not without some marks of good
Scottish handwriting. - But, Dunois, I must now request the Duke of Orleans and
you to take horse and accompany me, as I have power and commission to convey you
to a place different from that which my good-will might assign you.«
    »May I not speak one word, my Lord of Crawford, to yonder fair ladies?« said
the Duke of Orleans.
    »Not one syllable,« answered Lord Crawford; »I am too much a friend of your
Highness to permit such an act of folly.« - Then, addressing Quentin, he added,
»You, young man, have done your duty. Go on to obey the charge with which you
are entrusted.«
    »Under favour, my Lord,« said Tristan, with his usual brutality of manner,
»the youth must find another guide. I cannot do without Petit-André, when there
is so like to be business on hand for him.«
    »The young man,« said Petit-André, now coming forward, »has only to keep the
path which lies straight before him, and it will conduct him to a place where he
will find the man who is to act as his guide. - I would not for a thousand
ducats be absent from my Chief this day! I have hanged knights and squires many
a one, and wealthy Echevins, and burgomasters to boot - even counts and
marquisses have tasted of my handiwork - but, a-humph« - He looked at the Duke,
as if to intimate that he would have filled up the blank with »a Prince of the
blood!« - »Ho, ho, ho! Petit-André, thou wilt be read of in Chronicle!«
    »Do you permit your ruffians to hold such language in such a presence?« said
Crawford, looking sternly to Tristan.
    »Why do you not correct him yourself, my Lord?« said Tristan, sullenly.
    »Because thy hand is the only one in this company that can beat him without
being degraded by such an action.«
    »Then rule your own men, my Lord, and I will be answerable for mine,« said
the Provost-Marshal.
    Lord Crawford seemed about to give a passionate reply; but, as if he had
thought better of it, turned his back short upon Tristan, and, requesting the
Duke of Orleans and Dunois to ride one on either hand of him, he made a signal
of adieu to the ladies, and said to Quentin, »God bless thee, my child; thou
hast begun thy service valiantly, though in an unhappy cause.« He was about, to
go off - when Quentin could hear Dunois whisper to Crawford, »Do you carry us to
Plessis?«
    »No, my unhappy and rash friend,« answered Crawford, with a sigh; »to
Loches.«
    »To Loches!« The name of a castle, or rather prison, yet more dreaded than
Plessis itself, fell like a death-toll upon the ear of the young Scotchman. He
had heard it described as a place destined to the workings of those secret acts
of cruelty with which even Louis shamed to pollute the interior of his own
residence. There were in this place of terror dungeons under dungeons, some of
them unknown even to the keepers themselves; living graves, to which men were
consigned, with little hope of farther employment during the rest of their life,
than to breathe impure air, and feed on bread and water. At this formidable
castle were also those dreadful places of confinement called cages, in which the
wretched prisoner could neither stand upright, nor stretch himself at length, an
invention, it is said, of the Cardinal Balue.35 It is no wonder that the name of
this place of horrors, and the consciousness that he had been partly the means
of despatching thither two such illustrious victims, struck so much sadness into
the heart of the young Scot, that he rode for some time with his head dejected,
his eyes fixed on the ground, and his heart filled with the most painful
reflections.
    As he was now again at the head of the little troop, and pursuing the road
which had been pointed out to him, the Lady Hameline had an opportunity to say
to him, -
    »Methinks, fair sir, you regret the victory which your gallantry has
attained in our behalf?«
    There was something in the question which sounded like irony, but Quentin
had tact enough to answer simply and with sincerity.
    »I can regret nothing that is done in the service of such ladies as you are;
but, methinks, had it consisted with your safety, I had rather have fallen by
the sword of so good a soldier as Dunois, than have been the means of consigning
that renowned knight and his unhappy chief, the Duke of Orleans, to yonder
fearful dungeons.«
    »It was, then, the Duke of Orleans,« said the elder lady, turning to her
niece. »I thought so, even at the distance from which we beheld the fray. - You
see, kinswoman, what we might have been, had this sly and avaricious monarch
permitted us to be seen at his Court. The first Prince of the blood of France,
and the valiant Dunois, whose name is known as wide as that of his heroic father
- This young gentleman did his devoir bravely and well; but methinks 'tis pity
that he did not succumb with honour, since his ill-advised gallantry has stood
betwixt us and these princely rescuers.« The Countess Isabelle replied in a firm
and almost a displeased tone; with an energy, in short, which Quentin had not
yet observed her use.
    »Madam,« she said, »but that I know you jest, I would say your speech is
ungrateful to our brave defender, to whom we owe more, perhaps, than you are
aware of. Had these gentlemen succeeded so far in their rash enterprise as to
have defeated our escort, is it not still evident, that on the arrival of the
Royal Guard, we must have shared their captivity? For my own part, I give tears,
and will soon bestow masses, on the brave man who has fallen, and, I trust« (she
continued, more timidly), »that he who lives will accept my grateful thanks.«
    As Quentin turned his face towards her, to return the fitting
acknowledgments, she saw the blood which streamed down on one side of his face,
and exclaimed, in a tone of deep feeling, »Holy Virgin, he is wounded! he
bleeds! - Dismount, sir, and let your wound be bound up.«
    In spite of all that Durward could say of the slightness of his hurt, he was
compelled to dismount, and to seat himself on a bank, and unhelmet himself,
while the ladies of Croye, who, according to a fashion not as yet antiquated,
pretended some knowledge of leechcraft, washed the wound, stanched the blood,
and bound it with the kerchief of the younger Countess, in order to exclude the
air, for so their practice prescribed.
    In modern times, gallants seldom or never take wounds for ladies' sake, and
damsels on their side never meddle with the cure of wounds. Each has a danger
the less. That which the men escape will be generally acknowledged; but the
peril of dressing such a slight wound as that of Quentin's, which involved
nothing formidable or dangerous, was perhaps as real in its way as the risk of
encountering it.
    We have already said the patient was eminently handsome; and the removal of
his helmet, or more properly, of his morion, had suffered his fair locks to
escape in profusion, around a countenance in which the hilarity of youth was
qualified by a blush of modesty at once and pleasure. And then the feelings of
the younger Countess, when compelled to hold the kerchief to the wound, while
her aunt sought in their baggage for some vulnerary remedy, were mingled at once
with a sense of delicacy and embarrassment; a thrill of pity for the patient,
and of gratitude for his services, which exaggerated, in her eyes, his good mien
and handsome features. In short, this incident seemed intended by Fate to
complete the mysterious communication which she had, by many petty and
apparently accidental circumstances, established betwixt two persons, who,
though far different in rank and fortune, strongly resembled each other in
youth, beauty, and the romantic tenderness of an affectionate disposition. It
was no wonder, therefore, that from this moment the thought of the Countess
Isabelle, already so familiar to his imagination, should become paramount in
Quentin's bosom, nor that, if the maiden's feelings were of a less decided
character, at least so far as known to herself, she should think of her young
defender, to whom she had just rendered a service so interesting, with more
emotion than of any of the whole band of high-born nobles who had for two years
past besieged her with their adoration. Above all, when the thought of
Campo-basso, the unworthy favourite of Duke Charles, with his hypocritical mien,
his base, treacherous spirit, his wry neck, and his squint, occurred to her, his
portrait was more disgustingly hideous than ever, and deeply did she resolve no
tyranny should make her enter into so hateful a union.
    In the meantime, whether the good Lady Hameline of Croye understood and
admired masculine beauty as much as when she was fifteen years younger (for the
good Countess was at least thirty-five, if the records of that noble house speak
the truth), or whether she thought she had done their young protector less
justice than she ought, in the first view which she had taken of his services,
it is certain that he began to find favour in her eyes.
    »My niece,« she said, »has bestowed on you a kerchief for the binding of
your wound; I will give you one to grace your gallantry, and to encourage you in
your farther progress in chivalry.«
    So saying, she gave him a richly embroidered kerchief of blue and silver,
and pointing to the housing of her palfrey, and the plumes in her riding-
desired him to observe that the colours were the same.
    The fashion of the time prescribed one absolute mode of receiving such a
favour, which Quentin followed accordingly, by tying the napkin around his arm;
yet his manner of acknowledgement had more of awkwardness, and less of gallantry
in it than perhaps it might have had at another time, and in another presence;
for though the wearing of a lady's favour, given in such a manner, was merely
matter of general compliment, he would much rather have preferred the right of
displaying on his arm that which bound the wound inflicted by the sword of
Dunois.
    Meantime they continued their pilgrimage, Quentin now riding abreast of the
ladies, into whose society he seemed to be tacitly adopted. He did not speak
much, however, being filled by the silent consciousness of happiness, which is
afraid of giving too strong vent to its feelings. The Countess Isabelle spoke
still less, so that the conversation was chiefly carried on by the Lady
Hameline, who showed no inclination to let it drop; for, to initiate the young
Archer, as she said, into the principles and practice of chivalry, she detailed
to him, at full length, the Passage of Arms at Haflinghem, where she had
distributed the prizes among the victors.
    Not much interested, I am sorry to say, in the description of this splendid
scene, or in the heraldic bearings of the different Flemish and German knights,
which the lady blazoned with pitiless accuracy, Quentin began to entertain some
alarm lest he should have passed the place where his guide was to join him - a
most serious disaster, and from which, should it really have taken place, the
very worst consequences were to be apprehended.
    While he hesitated whether it would be better to send back one of his
followers, to see whether this might not be the case, he heard the blast of a
horn, and looking in the direction from which the sound came, beheld a horseman
riding very fast towards them. The low size, and wild, shaggy, untrained state
of the animal, reminded Quentin of the mountain breed of horses in his own
country; but this was much more finely limbed, and, with the same appearance of
hardiness, was more rapid in its movements. The head particularly, which, in the
Scottish pony, is often lumpish and heavy, was small and well placed in the neck
of this animal, with thin jaws, full sparkling eyes, and expanded nostrils.
    The rider was even more singular in his appearance than the horse which he
rode, though that was extremely unlike the horses of France. Although he managed
his palfrey with great dexterity, he sat with his feet in broad stirrups,
something resembling shovels, so short in the leathers, that his knees were
well-nigh as high as the pommel of his saddle. His dress was a red turban of
small size, in which he wore a sullied plume, secured by a clasp of silver; his
tunic, which was shaped like those of the Estradiots (a sort of troops whom the
Venetians at that time levied in the provinces, on the eastern side of their
gulf), was green in colour, and tawdrily laced with gold; he wore very wide
drawers or trousers of white, though none of the cleanest, which gathered
beneath the knee, and his swarthy legs were quite bare, unless for the
complicated laces which bound a pair of sandals on his feet; he had no spurs,
the edge of his large stirrups being so sharp as to serve to goad the horse in a
very severe manner. In a crimson sash this singular horseman wore a dagger on
the right side, and on the left a short crooked Moorish sword; and by a
tarnished baldric over the shoulder hung the horn which announced his approach.
He had a swarthy and sunburnt visage, with a thin beard, and piercing dark eyes,
a well-formed mouth and nose, and other features which might have been
pronounced handsome, but for the black elf-locks which hung around his face, and
the air of wildness and emaciation, which rather seemed to indicate a savage
than a civilised man.
    »He also is a Bohemian!« said the ladies to each other; »Holy Mary, will the
King again place confidence in these outcasts?«
    »I will question the man, if it be your pleasure,« said Quentin, »and assure
myself of his fidelity as I best may.«
    Durward, as well as the Ladies of Croye, had recognised in this man's dress
and appearance, the habit and the manners of those vagrants with whom he had
been nearly confounded by the hasty proceedings of Trois-Eschelles and
Petit-André, and he, too, entertained very natural apprehensions concerning the
risk of reposing trust in one of that vagrant race.
    »Art thou come hither to seek us?« was his first question.
    The stranger nodded.
    »And for what purpose?«
    »To guide you to the palace of Him of Liege.«
    »Of the Bishop?«
    The Bohemian again nodded.
    »What token canst thou give me, that we should yield credence to thee?«
    »Even the old rhyme, and no other,« answered the Bohemian, -
 
»The page slew the boar,
The peer had the gloire.«
 
»A true token,« said Quentin; »lead on, good fellow - I will speak farther with
thee presently.« Then falling back to the ladies, he said, »I am convinced this
man is the guide we are to expect, for he hath brought me a pass-word, known, I
think, but to the King and me. But I will discourse with him farther, and
endeavour to ascertain how far he is to be trusted.«
 

                               Chapter Sixteenth

                                  The Vagrant.

 I am as free as Nature first made man,
 Ere the base laws of servitude began,
 When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
                                                        The Conquest of Grenada.
 
While Quentin held the brief communication with the ladies, necessary to assure
them that this extraordinary addition to their party was the guide whom they
were to expect on the King's part, he noticed (for he was as alert in observing
the motions of the stranger as the Bohemian could be on his part), that the man
not only turned his head as far back as he could, to peer at them, but that,
with a singular sort of agility, more resembling that of a monkey than of a man,
he had screwed his whole person around on the saddle, so as to sit almost
sidelong upon the horse, for the convenience, as it seemed, of watching them
more attentively.
    Not greatly pleased with this manoeuvre, Quentin rode up to the Bohemian,
and said to him, as he suddenly assumed his proper position on the horse,
»Methinks, friend, you will prove but a blind guide, if you look at the tail of
your horse rather than his ears.«
    »And if I were actually blind,« answered the Bohemian, »I could not the less
guide you through any county in this realm of France, or in those adjoining to
it.«
    »Yet you are no Frenchman born,« said the Scot.
    »I am not,« answered the guide.
    »What countryman, then, are you?« demanded Quentin.
    »I am of no country,« answered the guide.
    »How! of no country?« repeated the Scot.
    »No,« answered the Bohemian, »of none. I am a Zingaro, a Bohemian, an
Egyptian, or whatever the Europeans, in their different languages, may choose to
call our people; but I have no country.«
    »Are you a Christian?« asked the Scotchman.
    The Bohemian shook his head.
    »Dog,« said Quentin (for there was little toleration in the spirit of
Catholicism in those days), »dost thou worship Mahoun?«
    »No,« was the indifferent and concise answer of the guide, who neither
seemed offended nor surprised at the young man's violence of manner.
    »Are you a Pagan, then, or what are you?«
    »I have no religion,«36 answered the Bohemian.
    Durward started back; for though he had heard of Saracens and Idolaters, it
had never entered into his idea or belief, that any body of men could exist who
practised no mode of worship whatever. He recovered from his astonishment, to
ask his guide where he usually dwelt.
    »Wherever I chance to be for the time,« replied the Bohemian. »I have no
home.«
    »How do you guard your property?«
    »Excepting the clothes which I wear, and the horse I ride on, I have no
property.«
    »Yet you dress gaily, and ride gallantly,« said Durward. »What are your
means of subsistence?«
    »I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, and have no other means of
subsistence than chance throws in my way,« replied the vagabond.
    »Under whose laws do you live?«
    »I acknowledge obedience to none, but as it suits my pleasure or my
necessities,« said the Bohemian.
    »Who is your leader, and commands you?«
    »The father of our tribe - if I choose to obey him,« said the guide -
»otherwise I have no commander.« »You are then,« said the wondering querist,
»destitute of all that other men are combined by - you have no law, no leader,
no settled means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven
compassionate you, no country - and, may Heaven enlighten and forgive you, you
have no God! What is it that remains to you, deprived of government, domestic
happiness, and religion?«
    »I have liberty,« said the Bohemian - »I crouch to no one - obey no one -
respect no one. - I go where I will - live as I can - and die when my day
comes.«
    »But you are subject to instant execution, at the pleasure of the Judge?«
    »Be it so,« returned the Bohemian; »I can but die so much the sooner.«
    »And to imprisonment also,« said the Scot; »and where, then, is your boasted
freedom?«
    »In my thoughts,« said the Bohemian, »which no chains can bind; while yours,
even while your limbs are free, remain fettered by your laws and your
superstitions, your dreams of local attachment, and your fantastic visions of
civil policy. Such as I are free in spirit when our limbs are chained - You are
imprisoned in mind, even when your limbs are most at freedom.«
    »Yet the freedom of your thoughts,« said the Scot, »relieves not the
pressure of the gyves on your limbs.«
    »For a brief time that may be endured,« answered the vagrant; »and if within
that period I cannot extricate myself, and fail of relief from my comrades, I
can always die, and death is the most perfect freedom of all.«
    There was a deep pause of some duration, which Quentin at length broke by
resuming his queries.
    »Yours is a wandering race, unknown to the nations of Europe - Whence do
they derive their origin?«
    »I may not tell you,« answered the Bohemian.
    »When will they relieve this kingdom from their presence, and return to the
land from whence they came?« said the Scot.
    »When the day of their pilgrimage shall be accomplished,« replied his
vagrant guide.
    »Are you not sprung from those tribes of Israel, which were carried into
captivity beyond the great river Euphrates?« said Quentin, who had not forgotten
the lore which had been taught him at Aberbrothick.
    »Had we been so,« answered the Bohemian, »we had followed their faith and
practised their rites.«
    »What is thine own name?« said Durward.
    »My proper name is only known to my brethren - The men beyond our tents call
me Hayraddin Maugrabin, that is, Hayraddin the African Moor.«
    »Thou speakest too well for one who hath lived always in thy filthy horde,«
said the Scot.
    »I have learned some of the knowledge of this land,« said Hayraddin. - »When
I was a little boy, our tribe was chased by the hunters after human flesh. An
arrow went through my mother's head, and she died. I was entangled in the
blanket on her shoulders, and was taken by the pursuers. A priest begged me from
the Provost's archers, and trained me up in Frankish learning for two or three
years.«
    »How came you to part with him?« demanded Durward.
    »I stole money from him - even the God which he worshipped,« answered
Hayraddin, with perfect composure; »he detected me, and beat me - I stabbed him
with my knife, fled to the woods, and was again united to my people.«
    »Wretch!« said Durward, »did you murder your benefactor?«
    »What had he to do to burden me with his benefits? - The Zingaro boy was no
house-bred cur, to dog the heels of his master, and crouch beneath his blows,
for scraps of food - He was the imprisoned wolf-whelp, which at the first
opportunity broke his chain, rended his master, and returned to the wilderness.«
    There was another pause, when the young Scot, with a view of still farther
investigating the character and purpose of this suspicious guide, asked
Hayraddin, »Whether it was not true that his people, amid their ignorance,
pretended to a knowledge of futurity, which was not given to the sages,
philosophers, and divines, of more polished society?«
    »We pretend to it,« said Hayraddin, »and it is with justice.«
    »How can it be that so high a gift is bestowed on so abject a race?« said
Quentin.
    »Can I tell you?« answered Hayraddin - »Yes, I may indeed, but it is when
you shall explain to me why the dog can trace the footsteps of a man, while man,
the nobler animal, hath not power to trace those of the dog. These powers, which
seem to you so wonderful, are instinctive in our race. From the lines on the
face and on the hand, we can tell the future fate of those who consult us, even
as surely as you know from the blossom of the tree in spring, what fruit it will
bear in the harvest.«
    »I doubt of your knowledge, and defy you to the proof.«
    »Defy me not, Sir Squire,« said Hayraddin Maugrabin - »I can tell you, that,
say what you will of your religion, the Goddess whom you worship rides in this
company.«
    »Peace!« said Quentin in astonishment; »on thy life, not a word farther but
in answer to what I ask thee. - Canst thou be faithful?«
    »I can - all men can,« said the Bohemian.
    »But wilt thou be faithful?«
    »Wouldst thou believe me the more should I swear it?« answered Maugrabin
with a sneer.
    »Thy life is in my hand,« said the young Scot.
    »Strike, and see whether I fear to die,« answered the Bohemian.
    »Will money render thee a trusty guide?« demanded Durward.
    »If I be not such without it, No,« replied the heathen.
    »Then what will bind thee?« asked the Scot.
    »Kindness,« replied the Bohemian.
    »Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to us on this
pilgrimage?«
    »No,« replied Hayraddin, »it were extravagant waste of a commodity so rare.
To thee I am bound already.«
    »How?« exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever.
    »Remember the chestnut-trees on the banks of the Cher! The victim whose body
thou didst cut down was my brother, Zamet the Maugrabin.«
    »And yet,« said Quentin, »I find you in correspondence with those very
officers by whom your brother was done to death; for it was one of them who
directed me where to meet with you - the same, doubtless, who procured yonder
ladies your services as a guide.«
    »What can we do?« answered Hayraddin gloomily - »These men deal with us as
the sheep- do with the flock; they protect us for a while, drive us hither and
thither at their pleasure, and always end by guiding us to the shambles.«
    Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohemian spoke truth in
this particular, and that the Provost-guard, employed to suppress the vagabond
bands by which the kingdom was infested, entertained correspondence among them,
and forbore for a certain time the exercise of their duty, which always at last
ended in conducting their allies to the gallows. This is a sort of political
relation between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise of their mutual
professions, which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means unknown to
our own.
    Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of the retinue, very
little satisfied with the character of Hayraddin, and entertaining little
confidence in the professions of gratitude which he had personally made to him.
He proceeded to sound the other two men who had been assigned him for
attendants, and he was concerned to find them stupid, and as unfit to assist him
with counsel, as in the rencounter they had shown themselves reluctant to use
their weapons.
    »It is all the better,« said Quentin to himself, his spirit rising with the
apprehended difficulties of his situation; »that lovely young lady shall owe all
to me. - What one hand - ay, and one head can do - methinks I can boldly count
upon. I have seen my father's house on fire, and him and my brothers lying dead
amongst the flames - I gave not an inch back, but fought it out to the last. Now
I am two years older, and have the best and fairest cause to bear me well that
ever kindled mettle within a brave man's bosom.«
    Acting upon this resolution, the attention and activity which Quentin
bestowed during the journey had in it something that gave him the appearance of
ubiquity. His principal and most favourite post was of course by the side of the
ladies; who, sensible of his extreme attention to their safety, began to
converse with him in almost the tone of familiar friendship, and appeared to
take great pleasure in the naïveté, yet shrewdness, of his conversation. Yet
Quentin did not suffer the fascination of this intercourse to interfere with the
vigilant discharge of his duty.
    If he was often by the side of the Countesses, labouring to describe to the
natives of a level country the Grampian mountains and, above all, the beauties
of Glen-houlakin - he was as often riding with Hayraddin in the front of the
cavalcade, questioning him about the road and the resting-places, and recording
his answers in his mind, to ascertain whether, upon cross-examination, he could
discover anything like meditated treachery. As often again he was in the rear,
endeavouring to secure the attachment of the two horsemen by kind words, gifts,
and promises of additional recompense when their task should be accomplished.
    In this way they travelled for more than a week, through bye-paths and
unfrequented districts, and by circuitous routes, in order to avoid large towns.
Nothing remarkable occurred, though they now and then met strolling gangs of
Bohemians, who respected them, as under the conduct of one of their tribe -
straggling soldiers, or perhaps banditti, who deemed their party too strong to
be attacked - or parties of the Marechaussée, as they would now be termed, whom
Louis, who searched the wounds of the land with steel and cautery, employed to
suppress the disorderly bands which infested the interior. These last suffered
them to pursue their way unmolested, by virtue of a pass-word, with which
Quentin had been furnished for that purpose by the King himself.
    Their resting-places were chiefly the monasteries, most of which were
obliged by the rules of their foundation to receive pilgrims, under which
character the ladies travelled, with hospitality, and without any troublesome
inquiries into their rank and character, which most persons of distinction were
desirous of concealing while in the discharge of their vows. The pretence of
weariness was usually employed by the Countesses of Croye as an excuse for
instantly retiring to rest, and Quentin, as their Major Domo, arranged all that
was necessary betwixt them and their entertainers, with a shrewdness which saved
them all trouble, and an alacrity that failed not to excite a corresponding
degree of good will on the part of those who were thus sedulously attended to.
    One circumstance gave Quentin peculiar trouble, which was the character and
nation of his guide; who, as a heathen and an infidel vagabond, addicted,
besides, to occult arts (the badge of all his tribe), was often looked upon as a
very improper guest for the holy resting-places at which the company usually
halted, and was not in consequence admitted within even the outer circuit of
their walls save with extreme reluctance. This was very embarrassing; for, on
the one hand, it was necessary to keep in good humour a man who was possessed of
the secret of their expedition; and, on the other, Quentin deemed it
indispensable to maintain a vigilant though secret watch on Hayraddin's conduct,
in order that, as far as might be, he should hold no communication with any one
without being observed. This, of course, was impossible if the Bohemian was
lodged without the precincts of the convent at which they stopped, and Durward
could not help thinking that Hayraddin was desirous of bringing about this
latter arrangement; for, instead of keeping himself still and quiet in the
quarters allotted to him, his conversation, tricks, and songs, were, at the same
time, so entertaining to the novices and younger brethren, and so unedifying in
the opinion of the seniors of the fraternity, that, in more cases than one, it
required all the authority, supported by threats, which Quentin could exert over
him, to restrain his irreverent and untimeous jocularity, and all the interest
he could make with the Superiors, to prevent the heathen hound from being thrust
out of doors. He succeeded, however, by the adroit manner in which he apologised
for the acts of indecorum committed by their attendant, and the skill with which
he hinted the hope of his being brought to a better sense of principles and
behaviour, by the neighbourhood of holy relics, consecrated buildings, and,
above all, of men dedicated to religion.
    But upon the tenth or twelfth day of their journey, after they had entered
Flanders, and were approaching the town of Namur, all the efforts of Quentin
became inadequate to suppress the consequences of the scandal given by his
heathen guide. The scene was a Franciscan convent, and of a strict and reformed
order, and the Prior a man who afterwards died in the odour of sanctity. After
rather more than the usual scruples (which were, indeed, in such a case to be
expected) had been surmounted, the obnoxious Bohemian at length obtained
quarters in an outhouse inhabited by a lay-brother who acted as gardener. The
ladies retired to their apartment, as usual, and the Prior, who chanced to have
some distant alliances and friends in Scotland, and who was fond of hearing
foreigners tell of their native countries, invited Quentin, with whose mien and
conduct he seemed much pleased, to a slight monastic refection in his own cell.
Finding the Father a man of intelligence, Quentin did not neglect the
opportunity of making himself acquainted with the state of affairs in the
country of Liege, of which, during the last two days of their journey, he had
heard such reports, as made him very apprehensive for the security of his charge
during the remainder of their route, nay, even of the Bishop's power to protect
them, when they should be safely conducted to his residence. The replies of the
Prior were not very consolatory.
    He said, that »the people of Liege were wealthy burghers, who, like Jeshurun
of old, had waxed fat and kicked - that they were uplifted in heart because of
their wealth and their privileges - that they had divers disputes with the Duke
of Burgundy, their liege lord, upon the subject of imposts and immunities - and
that they had repeatedly broken out into open mutiny, whereat the Duke was so
much incensed, as being a man of a hot and fiery nature, that he had sworn, by
Saint George, on the next provocation, he would make the city of Liege like to
the desolation of Babylon, and the downfall of Tyre, a hissing and a reproach to
the whole territory of Flanders.«
    »And he is a prince, by all report, likely to keep such a vow,« said
Quentin; »so the men of Liege will probably beware how they give him occasion.«
    »It were to be so hoped,« said the Prior; »and such are the prayers of the
godly in the land, who would not that the blood of the citizens were poured
forth like water, and that they should perish, even as utter castaways, ere they
make their peace with Heaven. Also the good Bishop labours night and day to
preserve peace, as well becometh a servant of the altar; for it is written in
Holy Scripture, Beati pacifici. But« -- here the good Prior stopped, with a deep
sigh.
    Quentin modestly urged the great importance of which it was to the ladies
whom he attended, to have some assured information respecting the internal state
of the country, and what an act of Christian charity it would be, if the worthy
and reverend Father would enlighten them upon that subject.
    »It is one,« said the Prior, »on which no man speaks with willingness; for
those who speak evil of the powerful, etiam in cubiculo, may find that a winged
thing shall carry the matter to his ears. Nevertheless, to render you, who seem
an ingenuous youth, and your ladies, who are devout votaresses accomplishing a
holy pilgrimage, the little service that is in my power, I will be plain with
you.«
    He then looked cautiously round, and lowered his voice, as if afraid of
being overheard.
    »The people of Liege,« he said, »are privily instigated to their frequent
mutinies by men of Belial, who pretend, but, as I hope, falsely, to have
commission to that effect from our most Christian King; whom, however, I hold to
deserve that term better than were consistent with his thus disturbing the peace
of a neighbouring state. Yet so it is, that his name is freely used by those who
uphold and inflame the discontents at Liege. There is, moreover, in the land, a
nobleman of good descent, and fame in warlike affairs; but otherwise, so to
speak, Lapis offensionis et petra scandali, - a stumbling-block of offence to
the countries of Burgundy and Flanders. His name is William de la Marck.«
    »Called William with the Beard,« said the young Scot, »or the Wild Boar of
Ardennes?«
    »And rightly so called, my son,« said the Prior; »because he is as the wild
boar of the forest, which treadeth down with his hoofs, and rendeth with his
tusks. And he hath formed to himself a band of more than a thousand men, all,
like himself, contemners of civil and ecclesiastical authority, and holds
himself independent of the Duke of Burgundy, and maintains himself and his
followers by rapine and wrong, wrought, without distinction, upon churchmen and
laymen. Imposuit manus in Christos Domini, - he hath stretched forth his hand
upon the anointed of the Lord, regardless of what is written, - Touch not mine
anointed, and do my prophets no wrong. - Even to our poor house did he send for
sums of gold and sums of silver, as a ramson for our lives, and those of our
brethren; to which we returned a Latin supplication stating our inability to
answer his demand, and exhorting him in the words of the preacher, Ne moliaris
amico tuo malum, cum habet in te fiduciam. Nevertheless, this Gulielmus
Barbatus, this William de la Marck, as completely ignorant of humane letters as
of humanity itself, replied, in his ridiculous jargon, Si non payatis, brulabo
monasterium vestrum.«37
    »Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good father,« said the youth, »were
at no loss to conceive the meaning?« »Alas! my son,« said the Prior, »Fear and
Necessity are shrewd interpreters; and we were obliged to melt down the silver
vessels of our altar to satisfy the rapacity of this cruel chief - May Heaven
requite it to him sevenfold! Pereat improbus - Amen, amen, anathema esto!«
    »I marvel,« said Quentin, »that the Duke of Burgundy, who is so strong and
powerful, doth not bait this boar to purpose, of whose ravages I have already
heard so much.«
    »Alas! my son,« said the Prior, »the Duke Charles is now at Peronne,
assembling his captains of hundreds and his captains of thousands, to make war
against France; and thus, while Heaven hath set discord between the hearts of
those great princes, the country is misused by such subordinate oppressors. But
it is in evil time that the Duke neglects the cure of these internal gangrenes;
for this William de la Marck hath of late entertained open communication with
Rouslaer and Pavilion, the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, and it is to be
feared he will soon stir them up to some desperate enterprise.«
    »But the Bishop of Liege,« said Quentin, »he hath still power enough to
subdue this disquieted and turbulent spirit - hath he not, good father? - Your
answer to this question concerns me much.«
    »The Bishop, my child,« replied the Prior, »hath the sword of Saint Peter,
as well as the keys. He hath power as a secular prince, and he hath the
protection of the mighty House of Burgundy; he hath also spiritual authority as
a prelate, and he supports both with a reasonable force of good soldiers and
men-at- This William de la Marck was bred in his household, and bound to him by
many benefits. But he gave vent, even in the court of the Bishop, to his fierce
and bloodthirsty temper, and was expelled thence for a homicide committed on one
of the Bishop's chief domestics. From thenceforward, being banished from the
good Prelate's presence, he hath been his constant and unrelenting foe; and now,
I grieve to say, he hath girded his loins, and strengthened his horn against
him.«
    »You consider, then, the situation of the worthy Prelate as being
dangerous?« said Quentin, very anxiously.
    »Alas! my son,« said the good Franciscan, »what or who is there in this
weary wilderness, whom we may not hold as in danger? But Heaven forefend, I
should speak of the reverend Prelate as one whose peril is imminent. He has much
treasure, true counsellors, and brave soldiers; and, moreover, a messenger who
passed hither to the eastward yesterday, saith that the Duke of Burgundy hath
despatched, upon the Bishop's request, an hundred men-at-arms to his assistance.
This reinforcement, with the retinue belonging to each lance, are enough to deal
with William de la Marck, on whose name be sorrow! - Amen.«
    At this crisis their conversation was interrupted by the Sacristan, who, in
a voice almost inarticulate with anger, accused the Bohemian of having practised
the most abominable arts of delusion among the younger brethren. He had added to
their nightly meal cups of a heady and intoxicating cordial, of ten times the
strength of the most powerful wine, under which several of the fraternity had
succumbed, - and indeed, although the Sacristan had been strong to resist its
influence, they might yet see, from his inflamed countenance and thick speech,
that even he, the accuser himself, was in some degree affected by this
unhallowed potation. Moreover, the Bohemian had sung songs of worldly vanity and
impure pleasures; he had derided the cord of Saint Francis, made jest of his
miracles, and termed his votaries fools and lazy knaves. Lastly, he had
practised palmistry, and foretold to the young Father Cherubin, that he was
beloved by a beautiful lady, who should make him father to a thriving boy.
    The Father Prior listened to these complaints for some time in silence, as
struck with mute horror by their enormous atrocity. When the Sacristan had
concluded, he rose up, descended to the court of the convent, and ordered the
lay brethren, on pain of the worst consequences of spiritual disobedience, to
beat Hayraddin out of the sacred precincts, with their broom-staves and
cart-whips.
    This sentence was executed accordingly, in the presence of Quentin Durward,
who, however vexed at the occurrence, easily saw that his interference would be
of no avail.
    The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, notwithstanding the
exhortations of the Superior, was more ludicrous than formidable. The Bohemian
ran hither and thither through the court, amongst the clamour of voices, and
noise of blows, some of which reached him not, because purposely misaimed;
others, sincerely designed for his person, were eluded by his activity; and the
few that fell upon his back and shoulders he took without either complaint or
reply. The noise and riot was the greater, that the inexperienced
cudgel-players, among whom Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each other more
frequently than they hit him; till at length, desirous of ending a scene which
was more scandalous than edifying, the Prior commanded the wicket to be flung
open, and the Bohemian, darting through it with the speed of lightning, fled
forth into the moonlight.
    During this scene, a suspicion which Durward had formerly entertained,
recurred with additional strength. Hayraddin had, that very morning, promised to
him more modest and discreet behaviour than he was wont to exhibit, when they
rested in a convent on their journey; yet he had broken his engagement, and had
been even more offensively obstreperous than usual. Something probably lurked
under this; for whatever were the Bohemian's deficiencies, he lacked neither
sense, nor, when he pleased, self-command; and might it not be probable that he
wished to hold some communication, either with his own horde or some one else,
from which he was debarred in the course of the day, by the vigilance with which
he was watched by Quentin, and had recourse to this stratagem in order to get
himself turned out of the convent?
    No sooner did this suspicion dart once more through Quentin's mind, than,
alert as he always was in his motions, he resolved to follow his cudgelled
guide, and observe (secretly if possible) how he disposed of himself.
Accordingly, when the Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out at the gate of
the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to the Prior the necessity of keeping
sight of his guide, followed in pursuit of him.
 

                              Chapter Seventeenth

                                The Espied Spy.

 What, the rude ranger? and spied spy? - hands off -
 You are for no such rustics.
                                                Ben Jonson's Tale of Robin Hood.
 
When Quentin sallied from the convent, he could mark the precipitate retreat of
the Bohemian, whose dark figure was seen in the far moonlight flying with the
speed of a flogged hound quite through the street of the little village, and
across the level meadow that lay beyond.
    »My friend runs fast,« said Quentin to himself; »but he must run faster yet,
to escape the fleetest foot that ever pressed the heather of Glen-houlakin.«
    Being fortunately without his cloak and armour, the Scottish mountaineer was
at liberty to put forth a speed which was unrivalled in his own glens, and
which, notwithstanding the rate at which the Bohemian ran, was likely soon to
bring his pursuer up with him. This was not, however, Quentin's object; for he
considered it more essential to watch Hayraddin's motions, than to interrupt
them. He was the rather led to this by the steadiness with which the Bohemian
directed his course; and which, continuing, even after the impulse of the
violent expulsion had subsided, seemed to indicate that his career had some more
certain goal for its object than could have suggested itself to a person
unexpectedly turned out of good quarters when midnight was approaching, to seek
a new place of repose. He never even looked behind him; and consequently Durward
was enabled to follow him unobserved. At length the Bohemian having traversed
the meadow, and attained the side of a little stream, the banks of which were
clothed with alders and willows, Quentin observed that he stood still, and blew
a low note on his horn, which was answered by a whistle at some little distance.
    »This is a rendezvous,« thought Quentin; »but how shall I come near enough
to overhear what passes? the sound of my steps, and the rustling of the boughs
through which I must force my passage, will betray me, unless I am cautious - I
will stalk them, by Saint Andrew, as if they were Glen-isla deer - they shall
learn that I have not conned woodcraft for nought. Yonder they meet, the two
shadows - and two of them there are - odds against me if I am discovered, and if
their purpose be unfriendly, as is much to be doubted. And then the Countess
Isabelle loses her poor friend! - Well, and he were not worthy to be called
such, if he were not ready to meet a dozen in her behalf. - Have I not crossed
swords with Dunois, the best knight in France, and shall I fear a tribe of
yonder vagabonds? Pshaw! - God and Saint Andrew to friend, they will find me
both stout and wary.«
    Thus resolving, and with a degree of caution taught him by his silvan
habits, our friend descended into the channel of the little stream, which varied
in depth, sometimes scarce covering his shoes, sometimes coming up to his knees,
and so crept along, his form concealed by the boughs overhanging the bank, and
his steps unheard amid the ripple of the water. (We have ourselves, in the days
of yore, thus approached the nest of the wakeful raven.) In this manner the Scot
drew near unperceived, until he distinctly heard the voices of those who were
the subject of his observation, though he could not distinguish the words. Being
at this time under the drooping branches of a magnificent weeping willow, which
almost swept the surface of the water, he caught hold of one of its boughs, by
the assistance of which, exerting at once much agility, dexterity, and strength,
he raised himself up into the body of the tree, and sat, secure from discovery,
among the central branches.
    From this situation he could discover that the person with whom Hayraddin
was now conversing was one of his own tribe, and, at the same time, he
perceived, to his great disappointment, that no approximation could enable him
to comprehend their language, which was totally unknown to him. They laughed
much; and as Hayraddin made a sign of skipping about, and ended by rubbing his
shoulder with his hand, Durward had no doubt that he was relating the story of
the bastinading which he had sustained previous to his escape from the convent.
    On a sudden, a whistle was again heard in the distance, which was once more
answered by a low tone or two of Hayraddin's horn. Presently afterwards, a tall,
stout, soldierly-looking man, a strong contrast in point of thewes and sinews to
the small and slender-limbed Bohemians, made his appearance. He had a broad
baldric over his shoulder, which sustained a sword that hung almost across his
person; his hose were much slashed, through which slashes was drawn silk or
tiffany, of various colours; they were tied by at least five hundred points or
strings, made of ribbon, to the tight buff-jacket which he wore, and the right
sleeve of which displayed a silver boar's head, the crest of his Captain. A very
small hat sat jauntily on one side of his head, from which descended a quantity
of curled hair, which fell on each side of a broad face, and mingled with as
broad a beard, about four inches long. He held a long lance in his hand; and his
whole equipment was that of one of the German adventurers, who were known by the
name of lanzknechts, in English, spear-men, who constituted a formidable part of
the infantry of the period. These mercenaries were, of course, a fierce and
rapacious soldiery, and having an idle tale current among themselves, that a
lanzknecht was refused admittance into heaven on account of his vices, and into
hell on the score of his tumultuous, mutinous, and insubordinate disposition,
they manfully acted as if they neither sought the one, nor eschewed the other.
    »Donner and blitz!« was his first salutation, in a sort of German-French,
which we can only imperfectly imitate, »why have you kept me dancing in
attendance dis dree nights?«
    »I could not see you sooner, Meinherr,« said Hayraddin, very submissively;
»there is a young Scot, with as quick an eye as the wild-cat, who watches my
least motions. He suspects me already, and, should he find his suspicion
confirmed, I were a dead man on the spot, and he would carry back the women into
France again.«
    »Was henker!« said the lanzknecht; »we are three - we will attack them
to-morrow, and carry the women off without going farther. You said the two
valets were cowards - you and your comrade may manage them, and der Toifel sall
hold me, but I match your Scots wild-cat.«
    »You will find that foolhardy,« said Hayraddin; »for, besides that we
ourselves count not much in fighting, this spark hath matched himself with the
best knight in France, and come off with honour - I have seen those who saw him
press Dunois hard enough.«
    »Hagel and sturmwetter! It is but your cowardice that speaks,« said the
German soldier.
    »I am no more a coward than yourself,« said Hayraddin; »but my trade is not
fighting. - If you keep the appointment where it was laid, it is well - if not,
I guide them safely to the Bishop's Palace, and William de la Marck may easily
possess himself of them there, provided he is half as strong as he pretended a
week since.«
    »Potz tousend!« said the soldier, »we are as strong and stronger; but we
hear of a hundreds of the lances of Burgund, - das ist, - see you, - five men to
a lance do make five hundreds, and then hold me the devil, they will be fainer
to seek for us, than we to seek for them; for der Bischoff hath a goot force on
footing - ay, indeed!«
    »You must then hold to the ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings, or
give up the adventure,« said the Bohemian.
    »Geb up - geb up the adventure of the rich bride for our noble hauptman -
Toifel! I will charge through hell first. - Mein soul, we will be all princes
and hertzogs, whom they call dukes, and we will hab a snab at the wein-kellar,
and at the mouldy French crowns, and it may be at the pretty garces too, when He
with de beard is weary on them.«
    »The ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings then still holds?« said the
Bohemian.
    »Mein Got, ay, - you will swear to bring them there; and when they are on
their knees before the cross, and down from off their horses, which all men do,
except such black heathens as thou, we will make in on them, and they are ours.«
    »Ay; but I promised this piece of necessary villainy only on one condition,«
said Hayraddin. - »I will not have a hair of the young man's head touched. If
you swear this to me, by your Three dead Men of Cologne, I will swear to you, by
the Seven Night Walkers, that I will serve you truly as to the rest. And if you
break your oath, the Night Walkers shall wake you seven nights from your sleep,
between night and morning, and, on the eighth, they shall strangle and devour
you.«
    »But, donner and hagel, what need you be so curious about the life of this
boy, who is neither your bloot nor kin?« said the German.
    »No matter for that, honest Heinrick; some men have pleasure in cutting
throats, some in keeping them whole - So swear to me, that you will spare him
life and limb, or by the bright star Aldeboran, this matter shall go no farther
- Swear, and by the Three Kings, as you call them, of Cologne - I know you care
for no other oath.«
    »Du bist ein comische man,« said the lanzknecht; »I swear« -
    »Not yet,« said the Bohemian - »Faces about, brave lanzknecht, and look to
the east, else the Kings may not hear you.«
    The soldier took the oath in the manner prescribed, and then declared that
he would be in readiness, observing the place was quite convenient, being scarce
five miles from their present leaguer.
    »But were it not making sure work to have a fahnlein of riders on the other
road, by the left side of the inn, which might trap them if they go that way?«
    The Bohemian considered a moment, and then answered, »No - the appearance of
their troops in that direction might alarm the garrison of Namur, and then they
would have a doubtful fight, instead of assured success. Besides, they shall
travel on the right bank of the Maes, for I can guide them which way I will;
for, sharp as this same Scottish mountaineer is, he hath never asked any one's
advice, save mine, upon the direction of their route. - Undoubtedly, I was
assigned to him by an assured friend, whose word no man mistrusts till they come
to know him a little.«
    »Hark ye, friend Hayraddin,« said the soldier, »I would ask you somewhat. -
You and your bruder were, as you say yourself, gross sternen-deuter, that is,
star-lookers and geister-seers - Now, what henker was it made you not foresee
him, your bruder Zamet, to be hanged?«
    »I will tell you, Heinrick,« said Hayraddin; - »if I could have known my
brother was such a fool as to tell the counsel of King Louis to Duke Charles of
Burgundy, I could have foretold his death as sure as I can foretell fair weather
in July. Louis hath both ears and hands at the Court of Burgundy, and Charles's
counsellors love the chink of French gold as well as thou dost the clatter of a
wine-pot. - But fare-thee-well, and keep appointment - I must await my early
Scot a bow-shot without the gate of the den of the lazy swine yonder, else will
he think me about some excursion which bodes no good to the success of his
journey.«
    »Take a draught of comfort first,« said the lanzknecht, tendering him a
flask, - »but I forget; thou art beast enough to drink nothing but water, like a
vile vassal of Mahound and Termagund.«
    »Thou art thyself a vassal of the wine-measure and the flagon,« said the
Bohemian, - »I marvel not that thou art only trusted with the bloodthirsty and
violent part of executing what better heads have devised. - He must drink no
wine, who would know the thoughts of others, or hide his own. But why preach to
thee, who hast a thirst as eternal as a sandbank in Arabia? - Fare-thee-well. -
Take my comrade Tuisco with thee - his appearance about the monastery may breed
suspicion.«
    The two worthies parted, after each had again pledged himself to keep the
rendezvous at the Cross of the Three Kings.
    Quentin Durward watched until they were out of sight, and then descended
from his place of concealment, his heart throbbing at the narrow escape which he
and his fair charge had made - if, indeed, it could yet be achieved - from a
deep-laid plan of villainy. Afraid, on his return to the monastery, of stumbling
upon Hayraddin, he made a long detour, at the expense of traversing some very
rough ground, and was thus enabled to return to his asylum on a different point
from that by which he left it.
    On the route, he communed earnestly with himself concerning the safest plan
to be pursued. He had formed the resolution, when he first heard Hayraddin avow
his treachery, to put him to death so soon as the conference broke up, and his
companions were at a sufficient distance; but when he heard the Bohemian express
so much interest in saving his own life, he felt it would be ungrateful to
execute upon him, in its rigour, the punishment his treachery had deserved. He
therefore resolved to spare his life, and even, if possible, still to use his
services as a guide, under such precautions as should ensure the security of the
precious charge, to the preservation of which his own life was internally
devoted.
    But whither were they to turn? - the Countesses of Croye could neither
obtain shelter in Burgundy, from which they had fled, nor in France, from which
they had been in a manner expelled. The violence of Duke Charles in the one
country, was scarcely more to be feared than the cold and tyrannical policy of
King Louis in the other. After deep thought, Durward could form no better or
safer plan for their security, than that, evading the ambuscade, they should
take the road to Liege by the left hand of the Maes, and throw themselves, as
the ladies originally designed, upon the protection of the excellent Bishop.
That Prelate's will to protect them could not be doubted, and, if reinforced by
this Burgundian party of men-at-arms, he might be considered as having the
power. At any rate, if the dangers to which he was exposed from the hostility of
William de la Marck, and from the troubles in the city of Liege, appeared
imminent, he would still be able to protect the unfortunate ladies until they
could be despatched to Germany with a suitable escort.
    To sum up this reasoning - for when is a mental argument conducted without
some reference to selfish consideration? - Quentin imagined that the death or
captivity to which King Louis had, in cold blood, consigned him, set him at
liberty from his engagements to the Crown of France; which, therefore, it was
his determined purpose to renounce. The Bishop of Liege was likely, he
concluded, to need soldiers, and he thought that, by the interposition of his
fair friends, who now, especially the elder Countess, treated him with much
familiarity, he might get some command, and perhaps might have the charge of
conducting the Ladies of Croye to some place more safe than the neighbourhood of
Liege. And, to conclude, the ladies had talked, although almost in a sort of
jest, of raising the Countess's own vassals, and, as others did in those stormy
times, fortifying her strong castle against all assailants whatever; they had
jestingly asked Quentin, whether he would accept the perilous office of their
Seneschal; and, on his embracing the office with ready glee and devotion, they
had, in the same spirit, permitted him to kiss both their hands on their
confidential and honourable appointment. Nay, he thought that the hand of the
Countess Isabelle, one of the best formed and most beautiful to which true
vassal ever did such homage, trembled when his lips rested on it a moment longer
than ceremony required, and that some confusion appeared on her cheek and in her
eye as she withdrew it. Something might come of all this; and what brave man, at
Quentin Durward's age, but would gladly have taken the thoughts which it
awakened, into the considerations which were to determine his conduct?
    This point settled, he had next to consider in what degree he was to use the
farther guidance of the faithless Bohemian. He had renounced his first thought
of killing him in the wood, and, if he took another guide, and dismissed him
alive, it would be sending the traitor to the camp of William de la Marck, with
intelligence of their motions. He thought of taking the Prior into his counsels,
and requesting him to detain the Bohemian by force, until they should have time
to reach the Bishop's castle; but, on reflection, he dared not hazard such a
proposition to one who was timid both as an old man and a friar, who held the
safety of his convent the most important object of his duty, and who trembled at
the mention of the Wild Boar of Ardennes.
    At length Durward settled a plan of operation on which he could the better
reckon, as the execution rested entirely upon himself; and, in the cause in
which he was engaged, he felt himself capable of everything. With a firm and
bold heart, though conscious of the dangers of his situation, Quentin might be
compared to one walking under a load, of the weight of which he is conscious,
but which yet is not beyond his strength and power of endurance. Just as his
plan was determined, he reached the convent.
    Upon knocking gently at the gate, a brother, considerately stationed for
that purpose by the Prior, opened it, and acquainted him that the brethren were
to be engaged in the choir till daybreak, praying Heaven to forgive to the
community the various scandals which had that evening taken place among them.
    The worthy friar offered Quentin permission to attend their devotions; but
his clothes were in such a wet condition, that the young Scot was obliged to
decline the opportunity, and request permission, instead, to sit by the kitchen
fire, in order to his attire being dried before morning; as he was particularly
desirous that the Bohemian, when they should next meet, should observe no traces
of his having been abroad during the night. The friar not only granted his
request, but afforded him his own company, which fell in very happily with the
desire which Durward had to obtain information concerning the two routes which
he had heard mentioned by the Bohemian in his conversation with the lanzknecht.
The friar, entrusted upon many occasions with the business of the convent
abroad, was the person in the fraternity best qualified to afford him the
information he requested, but observed, that, as true pilgrims, it became the
duty of the ladies whom Quentin escorted, to take the road on the right side of
the Maes, by the Cross of the Kings, where the blessed relics of Caspar,
Melchior, and Balthasar (as the Catholic Church has named the eastern Magi who
came to Bethlehem with their offerings), had rested as they were transported to
Cologne, and on which spot they had wrought many miracles.
    Quentin replied, that the ladies were determined to observe all the holy
stations with the utmost punctuality, and would certainly visit that of the
Cross, either in going to or returning from Cologne, but they had heard reports
that the road by the right side of the river was at present rendered unsafe by
the soldiers of the ferocious William de la Marck.
    »Now may Heaven forbid,« said Father Francis, »that the Wild Boar of
Ardennes should again make his lair so near us! - Nevertheless, the broad Maes
will be a good barrier betwixt us, even should it so chance.«
    »But it will be no barrier between my ladies and the marauder, should we
cross the river, and travel on the right bank,« answered the Scot.
    »Heaven will protect its own, young man,« said the friar; »for it were hard
to think that the Kings of yonder blessed city of Cologne, who will not endure
that a Jew or Infidel should even enter within the walls of their town, could be
oblivious enough to permit their worshippers, coming to their shrine as true
pilgrims, to be plundered and misused by such a miscreant dog as this Boar of
Ardennes, who is worse than a whole desert of Saracen heathens, and all the ten
tribes of Israel to boot.«
    Whatever reliance Quentin, as a sincere Catholic, was bound to rest upon the
special protection of Melchior, Caspar, and Balthasar, he could not but
recollect, that the pilgrim habits of the ladies being assumed out of mere
earthly policy, he and his charge could scarcely expect their countenance on the
present occasion; and therefore resolved, as far as possible, to avoid placing
the ladies in any predicament where miraculous interposition might be necessary;
whilst, in the simplicity of his good faith, he himself vowed a pilgrimage to
the Three Kings of Cologne in his own proper person, provided the simulate
design of those over whose safety he was now watching, should be permitted by
those reasonable and royal as well as sainted personages, to attain the desired
effect.
    That he might enter into this obligation with all solemnity, he requested
the friar to show him into one of the various chapels which opened from the main
body of the church of the convent, where, upon his knees, and with sincere
devotion, he ratified the vow which he had made internally. The distant sound of
the choir, the solemnity of the deep and dead hour which he had chosen for this
act of devotion, the effect of the glimmering lamp with which the little Gothic
building was illuminated - all contributed to throw Quentin's mind into the
state when it most readily acknowledges its human frailty, and seeks that
supernatural aid and protection, which, in every worship, must be connected with
repentance for past sins, and resolutions of future amendment. That the object
of his devotion was misplaced, was not the fault of Quentin; and its purpose
being sincere, we can scarce suppose it unacceptable to the only true Deity, who
regards the motives, and not the forms of prayer, and in whose eyes the sincere
devotion of a heathen is more estimable than the specious hypocrisy of a
Pharisee.
    Having commended himself and his helpless companions to the Saints, and to
the keeping of Providence, Quentin at length retired to rest, leaving the friar
much edified by the depth and sincerity of his devotion.
 

                               Chapter Eighteenth

                                   Palmistry.

 When many a merry tale and many a song
 Cheer'd the rough road, we wished the rough road long.
 The rough road, then, returning in a round,
 Mock'd our enchanted steps, for all was fairy ground.
                                                                 Samuel Johnson.
 
By peep of day Quentin Durward had forsaken his little cell, had roused the
sleepy grooms, and, with more than his wonted care, seen that everything was
prepared for the day's journey. Girths and bridles, the horse-furniture, and the
shoes of the horses themselves, were carefully inspected with his own eyes, that
there might be as little chance as possible of the occurrence of any of those
casualties, which, petty as they seem, often interrupt or disconcert travelling.
The horses were also, under his own inspection, carefully fed, so as to render
them fit for a long day's journey, or, if that should be necessary, for a hasty
flight.
    Quentin then betook himself to his own chamber, armed himself with unusual
care, and belted on his sword with the feeling at once of approaching danger,
and of stern determination to dare it to the uttermost.
    These generous feelings gave him a loftiness of step, and a dignity of
manner, which the Ladies of Croye had not yet observed in him, though they had
been highly pleased and interested by the grace, yet naïveté, of his general
behaviour and conversation, and the mixture of shrewd intelligence which
naturally belonged to him, with the simplicity arising from his secluded
education and distant country. He let them under stand, that it would be
necessary that they should prepare for their journey this morning rather earlier
than usual; and, accordingly, they left the convent immediately after a morning
repast, for which, as well as the other hospitalities of the House, the ladies
made acknowledgement by a donation to the altar, befitting rather their rank than
their appearance. But this excited no suspicion, as they were supposed to be
Englishwomen; and the attribute of superior wealth attached at that time to the
insular character as strongly as in our own day.
    The Prior blessed them as they mounted to depart, and congratulated Quentin
on the absence of his heathen guide; »for,« said the venerable man, »better
stumble in the path than be upheld by the arm of a thief or robber.«
    Quentin was not quite of his opinion; for, dangerous as he knew the Bohemian
to be, he thought he could use his services, and, at the same time, baffle his
treasonable purpose, now that he saw clearly to what it tended. But his anxiety
upon this subject was soon at an end, for the little cavalcade was not an
hundred yards from the monastery and the village before Maugrabin joined it,
riding as usual on his little active and wild-looking jennet. Their road led
them along the side of the same brook where Quentin had overheard the mysterious
conference of the preceding evening, and Hayraddin had not long rejoined them,
ere they passed under the very willow-tree which had afforded Durward the means
of concealment, when he became an unsuspected hearer of what then passed betwixt
that false guide and the lanzknecht.
    The recollections which the spot brought back stirred Quentin to enter
abruptly into conversation with his guide, whom hitherto he had scarce spoken
to.
    »Where hast thou found night-quarter, thou profane knave?« said the Scot.
    »Your wisdom may guess, by looking on my gaberdine,« answered the Bohemian,
pointing to his dress, which was covered with the seeds of hay.
    »A good hay-stack,« said Quentin, »is a convenient bed for an astrologer,
and a much better than a heathen scoffer at our blessed religion, and its
ministers, ever deserves.«
    »It suited my Klepper better than me, though,« said Hayraddin, patting his
horse on the neck; »for he had food and shelter at the same time. The old bald
fools turned him loose, as if a wise man's horse could have infected with wit or
sagacity a whole convent of asses. Lucky that Klepper knows my whistle, and
follows me as truly as a hound, or we had never met again, and you in your turn
might have whistled for a guide.«
    »I have told thee more than once,« said Durward, sternly, »to restrain thy
ribaldry when thou chancest to be in worthy men's company, a thing which, I
believe, hath rarely happened to thee in thy life before now; and I promise
thee, that did I hold thee as faithless a guide as I esteem thee a blasphemous
and worthless caitiff, my Scottish dirk and thy heathenish heart had ere now
been acquainted, although the doing such a deed were as ignoble as the sticking
of swine.«
    »A wild boar is near akin to a sow,« said the Bohemian, without flinching
from the sharp look with which Quentin regarded him, or altering, in the
slightest degree, the caustic indifference which he affected in his language;
»and many men,« he subjoined, »find both pride, pleasure, and profit, in
sticking them.«
    Astonished at the man's ready confidence, and uncertain whether he did not
know more of his own history and feelings than was pleasant for him to converse
upon, Quentin broke off a conversation in which he had gained no advantage over
Maugrabin, and fell back to his accustomed post beside the ladies.
    We have already observed, that a considerable degree of familiarity had
begun to establish itself between them. The elder Countess treated him (being
once well assured of the nobility of his birth) like a favoured equal; and
though her niece showed her regard to their protector less freely, yet, under
every disadvantage of bashfulness and timidity, Quentin thought he could plainly
perceive, that his company and conversation were not by any means indifferent to
her.
    Nothing gives such life and soul to youthful gaiety as the consciousness
that it is successfully received; and Quentin had accordingly, during the former
period of their journey, amused his fair charge with the liveliness of his
conversation, and the songs and tales of his country, the former of which he
sung in his native language, while his efforts to render the latter into his
foreign and imperfect French, gave rise to a hundred little mistakes and errors
of speech, as diverting as the narratives themselves. But on this anxious
morning, he rode beside the Ladies of Croye without any of his usual attempts to
amuse them, and they could not help observing his silence as something
remarkable.
    »Our young companion has seen a wolf,« said the Lady Hameline, alluding to
an ancient superstition, »and he has lost his tongue in consequence.«38
    »To say I had tracked a fox were nearer the mark,« thought Quentin, but gave
the reply no utterance.
    »Are you well, Seignior Quentin?« said the Countess Isabelle, in a tone of
interest at which she herself blushed, while she felt that it was something more
than the distance between them warranted.
    »He hath sat up carousing with the jolly friars,« said the Lady Hameline;
»the Scots are like the Germans, who spend all their mirth over the Rheinwein,
and bring only their staggering steps to the dance in the evening, and their
aching heads to the ladies' bower in the morning.«
    »Nay, gentle ladies,« said Quentin, »I deserve not your reproach. The good
friars were at their devotion all night; and for myself, my drink was barely a
cup of their thinnest and most ordinary wine.«
    »It is the badness of his fare that has put him out of humour,« said the
Countess Isabelle. »Cheer up, Seignior Quentin; and should we ever visit my
ancient Castle of Bracquemont together, if I myself should stand your cupbearer,
and hand it to you, you shall have a generous cup of wine, that the like never
grew upon the vines of Hochheim or Johannisberg.«
    »A glass of water, noble lady, from your hand« - Thus far did Quentin begin,
but his voice trembled; and Isabelle continued, as if she had been insensible of
the tenderness of the accentuation upon the personal pronoun.
    »The wine was stocked in the deep vaults of Bracquemont, by my
great-grandfather the Rhinegrave Godfrey,« said the Countess Isabelle. »Who won
the hand of her great-grandmother,« interjected the Lady Hameline, interrupting
her niece, »by proving himself the best son of chivalry, at the great tournament
of Strasbourg - ten knights were slain in the lists. But those days are now
over, and no one now thinks of encountering peril for the sake of honour, or to
relieve distressed beauty.«
    To this speech, which was made in the tone in which a modern beauty, whose
charms are rather on the wane, may be heard to condemn the rudeness of the
present age, Quentin took upon him to reply, »that there was no lack of that
chivalry which the Lady Hameline seemed to consider as extinct, and that, were
it eclipsed everywhere else, it would still glow in the bosoms of the Scottish
gentlemen.«
    »Hear him!« said the Lady Hameline; »he would have us believe, that in his
cold and bleak country still lives the noble fire which has decayed in France
and Germany! The poor youth is like a Swiss mountaineer, mad with partiality to
his native land - he will next tell us of the vines and olives of Scotland.«
    »No, madam,« said Durward; »of the wine and the oil of our mountains I can
say little, more than that our swords can compel these rich productions, as
tribute from our wealthier neighbours. But for the unblemished faith and unfaded
honour of Scotland, I must now put to the proof how far you can repose trust in
them, however mean the individual who can offer nothing more as a pledge of your
safety.«
    »You speak mysteriously - you know of some pressing and present danger,«
said the Lady Hameline.
    »I have read it in his eye for this hour past!« exclaimed the Lady Isabelle,
clasping her hands. »Sacred Virgin, what will become of us?«
    »Nothing, I hope, but what you would desire,« answered Durward. »And now I
am compelled to ask - Gentle ladies, can you trust me?«
    »Trust you?« answered the Countess Hameline - »certainly - But why the
question? Or how far do you ask our confidence?«
    »I, on my part,« said the Countess Isabelle, »trust you implicitly, and
without condition. If you can deceive us, Quentin, I will no more look for
truth, save in Heaven!«
    »Gentle lady,« replied Durward, highly gratified, »you do me but justice. My
object is to alter our route, by proceeding directly by the left bank of the
Maes to Liege, instead of crossing at Namur. This differs from the order
assigned by King Louis, and the instructions given to the guide. But I heard
news in the monastery of marauders on the right bank of the Maes, and of the
march of Burgundian soldiers to suppress them. Both circumstances alarm me for
your safety. Have I your permission so far to deviate from the route of your
journey?«
    »My ample and full permission,« answered the younger lady.
    »Cousin,« said the Lady Hameline, »I believe with you that the youth means
us well; - but bethink you - we transgress the instructions of King Louis, so
positively iterated.«
    »And why should we regard his instructions?« said the Lady Isabelle. »I am,
I thank Heaven for it, no subject of his; and, as a suppliant, he has abused the
confidence he induced me to repose in him. I would not dishonour this young
gentleman by weighing his word for an instant against the injunctions of yonder
crafty and selfish despot.«
    »Now, may God bless you for that very word, lady,« said Quentin, joyously;
»and if I deserve not the trust it expresses, tearing with wild horses in this
life, and eternal tortures in the next, were e'en too good for my deserts.«
    So saying, he spurred his horse, and rejoined the Bohemian. This worthy
seemed of a remarkably passive, if not a forgiving temper. Injury or threat
never dwelt, or at least seemed not to dwell, on his recollection; and he
entered into the conversation which Durward presently commenced, just as if
there had been no unkindly word betwixt them in the course of the morning.
    The dog, thought the Scot, snarls not now, because he intends to clear
scores with me at once and for ever, when he can snatch me by the very throat;
but we will try for once whether we cannot foil a traitor at his own weapons. -
»Honest Hayraddin,« he said, »thou hast travelled with us for ten days, yet hast
never shown us a specimen of your skill in fortune-telling; which you are,
nevertheless, so fond of practising, that you must needs display your gifts in
every convent at which we stop, at the risk of being repaid by a night's lodging
under a hay-stack.«
    »You have never asked me for a specimen of my skill,« said the gipsy. »You
are like the rest of the world, contented to ridicule those mysteries which they
do not understand.«
    »Give me then a present proof of your skill,« said Quentin; and, ungloving
his hand, he held it out to the gipsy.
    Hayraddin carefully regarded all the lines which crossed each other on the
Scotchman's palm, and noted, with equally scrupulous attention, the little
risings or swellings at the roots of the fingers, which were then believed as
intimately connected with the disposition, habits, and fortunes of the
individual, as the organs of the brain are pretended to be in our own time.
    »Here is a hand,« said Hayraddin, »which speaks of toils endured, and
dangers encountered. I read in it an early acquaintance with the hilt of the
sword; and yet some acquaintance also with the clasps of the mass-book.«
    »This of my past life you may have learned elsewhere,« said Quentin; »tell
me something of the future.«
    »This line from the hill of Venus,« said the Bohemian, »not broken off
abruptly, but attending and accompanying the line of life, argues a certain and
large fortune by marriage, whereby the party shall be raised among the wealthy
and the noble by the influence of successful love.«
    »Such promises you make to all who ask your advice,« said Quentin; »they are
part of your art.«
    »What I tell you is as certain,« said Hayraddin, »as that you shall in brief
space be menaced with mighty danger; which I infer from this bright blood-red
line cutting the table-line transversely, and intimating stroke of sword, or
other violence, from which you shall only be saved by the attachment of a
faithful friend.«
    »Thyself, ha?« said Quentin, somewhat indignant that the chiromantist should
thus practise on his credulity, and endeavour to found a reputation by
predicting the consequences of his own treachery.
    »My art,« replied the Zingaro, »tells me nought that concerns myself.«
    »In this, then, the seers of my land,« said Quentin, »excel your boasted
knowledge; for their skill teaches them the dangers by which they are themselves
beset. I left not my hills without having felt a portion of the double vision
with which their inhabitants are gifted; and I will give thee a proof of it, in
exchange for thy specimen of palmistry. Hayraddin, the danger which threatens me
lies on the right bank of the river - I will avoid it by travelling to Liege on
the left bank.«
    The guide listened with an apathy, which, knowing the circumstances in which
Maugrabin stood, Quentin could not by any means comprehend. »If you accomplish
your purpose,« was the Bohemian's reply, »the dangerous crisis will be
transferred from your lot to mine.«
    »I thought,« said Quentin, »that you said but now, that you could not
presage your own fortune?«
    »Not in the manner in which I have but now told you yours,« answered
Hayraddin; »but it requires little knowledge of Louis of Valois, to presage that
he will hang your guide, because your pleasure was to deviate from the road
which he recommended.«
    »The attaining with safety the purpose of the journey, and ensuring its
happy termination,« said Quentin, »must atone for a deviation from the exact
line of the prescribed route.«
    »Ay,« replied the Bohemian, »if you are sure that the King had in his own
eye the same termination of the pilgrimage which he insinuated to you.«
    »And of what other termination is it possible that he could have been
meditating? or why should you suppose he had any purpose in his thought, other
than was avowed in his direction?« inquired Quentin.
    »Simply,« replied the Zingaro, »that those who know aught of the Most
Christian King, are aware that the purpose about which he is most anxious, is
always that which he is least willing to declare. Let our gracious Louis send
twelve embassies, and I will forfeit my neck to the gallows a year before it is
due, if in eleven of them there is not something at the bottom of the ink-horn
more than the pen has written in the letters of credence.«
    »I regard not your foul suspicions,« answered Quentin; »my duty is plain and
peremptory - to convey these ladies in safety to Liege; and I take on me to
think that I best discharge that duty in changing our prescribed route, and
keeping the left side of the river Maes. It is likewise the direct road to
Liege. By crossing the river, we should lose time, and incur fatigue to no
purpose - Wherefore should we do so?«
    »Only because pilgrims, as they call themselves, destined for Cologne,« said
Hayraddin, »do not usually descend the Maes so low as Liege; and that the route
of the ladies will be accounted contradictory of their professed destination.«
    »If we are challenged on that account,« said Quentin, »we will say that
alarms of the wicked Duke of Gueldres, or of William de la Marck, or of the
Ecorcheurs and lanzknechts, on the right side of the river, justify our holding
by the left, instead of our intended route.«
    »As you will, my good seignior,« replied the Bohemian - »I am, for my part,
equally ready to guide you down the left as down the right side of the Maes -
Your excuse to your master you must make out for yourself.«
    Quentin, although rather surprised, was, at the same time, pleased with the
ready, or at least the unrepugnant acquiescence of Hayraddin in their change of
route, for he needed his assistance as a guide, and yet had feared that the
disconcerting of his intended act of treachery would have driven him to
extremity. Besides, to expel the Bohemian from their society, would have been
the ready mode to bring down William de la Marck, with whom he was in
correspondence, upon their intended route; whereas, if Hayraddin remained with
them, Quentin thought he could manage to prevent the Moor from having any
communication with strangers, unless he was himself aware of it.
    Abandoning, therefore, all thoughts of their original route, the little
party followed that by the left bank of the broad Maes, so speedily and
successfully, that the next day early brought them to the purposed end of their
journey. They found that the Bishop of Liege, for the sake of his health, as he
himself alleged, but rather, perhaps, to avoid being surprised by the numerous
and mutinous population of the city, had established his residence in his
beautiful Castle of Schonwaldt, about a mile without Liege.
    Just as they approached the Castle, they saw the Prelate returning in long
procession from the neighbouring city, in which he had been officiating at the
performance of High Mass. He was at the head of a splendid train of religious,
civil, and military men, mingled together, or, as the old ballad-maker expresses
it,
 
»With many a cross-bearer before,
And many a spear behind.«
 
The procession made a noble appearance, as, winding along the verdant banks of
the broad Maes, it wheeled into, and was as it were devoured by, the huge Gothic
portal of the Episcopal residence.
    But when the party came more near, they found that circumstances around the
Castle argued a doubt and sense of insecurity, which contradicted that display
of pomp and power which they had just witnessed. Strong guards of the Bishop's
soldiers were heedfully maintained all around the mansion and its immediate
vicinity; and the prevailing appearances in an ecclesiastical residence, seemed
to argue a sense of danger in the reverend Prelate, who found it necessary thus
to surround himself with all the defensive precautions of war. The Ladies of
Croye, when announced by Quentin, were reverently ushered into the great Hall,
where they met with the most cordial reception from the Bishop, who met them
there at the head of his little Court. He would not permit them to kiss his
hand, but welcomed them with a salute, which had something in it of gallantry on
the part of a prince to fine women, and something also of the holy affection of
a pastor to the sisters of his flock.
    Louis of Bourbon, the reigning Bishop of Liege, was in truth a generous and
kind-hearted prince; whose life had not indeed been always confined, with
precise strictness, within the bounds of his clerical profession; but who,
notwithstanding, had uniformly maintained the frank and honourable character of
the House of Bourbon, from which he was descended.
    In later times, as age advanced, the Prelate had adopted habits more
beseeming a member of the hierarchy than his early reign had exhibited, and was
loved among the neighbouring princes, as a noble ecclesiastic, generous and
magnificent in his ordinary mode of life, though preserving no very ascetic
severity of character, and governing with an easy indifference, which, amid his
wealthy and mutinous subjects, rather encouraged than subdued rebellious
purposes.
    The Bishop was so fast an ally of the Duke of Burgundy, that the latter
claimed almost a joint sovereignty in his bishopric, and repaid the good-natured
ease with which the Prelate admitted claims which he might easily have disputed,
by taking his part on all occasions with the determined and furious zeal which
was a part of his character. He used to say, he considered Liege as his own, the
Bishop as his brother (indeed they might be accounted such, in consequence of
the Duke having married for his first wife the Bishop's sister), and that he who
annoyed Louis of Bourbon, had to do with Charles of Burgundy; a threat which,
considering the character and the power of the prince who used it, would have
been powerful with any but the rich and discontented city of Liege, where much
wealth had, according to the ancient proverb, made wit waver.
    The Prelate, as we have said, assured the Ladies of Croye of such
intercession as his interest at the Court of Burgundy, used to the uttermost,
might gain for them, and which, he hoped, might be the more effectual, as
Campo-basso, from some late discoveries, stood rather lower than formerly in the
Duke's personal favour. He promised them also such protection as it was in his
power to afford; but the sigh with which he gave the warrant, seemed to allow
that his power was more precarious than in words he was willing to admit.
    »At every event, my dearest daughters,« said the Bishop, with an air in
which, as in his previous salute, a mixture of spiritual unction qualified the
hereditary gallantry of the House of Bourbon, »Heaven forbid I should abandon
the lamb to the wicked wolf, or noble ladies to the oppression of faitours. I am
a man of peace, though my abode now rings with arms; but be assured I will care
for your safety as for my own; and should matters become yet more distracted
here, which, with our Lady's grace, we trust will be rather pacified than
inflamed, we will provide for your safe-conduct to Germany; for not even the
will of our brother and protector, Charles of Burgundy, shall prevail with us to
dispose of you in any respect contrary to your own inclinations. We cannot
comply with your request of sending you to a convent; for, alas! such is the
influence of the sons of Belial among the inhabitants of Liege, that we know no
retreat to which our authority extends, beyond the bounds of our own castle, and
the protection of our soldiery. But here you are most welcome, and your train
shall have all honourable entertainment; especially this youth whom you
recommend so particularly to our countenance, and on whom in especial we bestow
our blessing.«
    Quentin kneeled, as in duty bound, to receive the Episcopal benediction.
    »For yourselves,« proceeded the good Prelate, »you shall reside here with my
sister Isabelle, a Canoness of Triers, and with whom you may dwell in all
honour, even under the roof of so gay a bachelor as the Bishop of Liege.«
    He gallantly conducted the ladies to his sister's apartment, as he concluded
the harangue of welcome; and his Master of the Household, an officer, who,
having taken Deacon's orders, held something between a secular and
ecclesiastical character, entertained Quentin with the hospitality which his
master enjoined, while the other personages of the retinue of the Ladies of
Croye were committed to the inferior departments.
    In this arrangement Quentin could not help remarking, that the presence of
the Bohemian, so much objected to in country convents, seemed, in the household
of this wealthy, and perhaps we might say worldly prelate, to attract neither
objection nor remark.
 

                               Chapter Nineteenth

                                   The City.

 Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
 To any sudden act of mutiny
                                                                   Julius Cæsar.
 
Separated from the Lady Isabelle, whose looks had been for so many days his
load-star, Quentin felt a strange vacancy and chillness of the heart, which he
had not yet experienced in any of the vicissitudes to which his life had
subjected him. No doubt the cessation of the close and unavoidable intercourse
and intimacy betwixt them was the necessary consequence of the Countess having
obtained a place of settled residence; for, under what pretext could she, had
she meditated such an impropriety, have had a gallant young squire, such as
Quentin, in constant attendance upon her?
    But the shock of the separation was not the more welcome that it seemed
unavoidable, and the proud heart of Quentin swelled at finding he was parted
with like an ordinary postilion, or an escort whose duty is discharged; while
his eyes sympathised so far as to drop a secret tear or two over the ruins of
all those airy castles, so many of which he had employed himself in constructing
during their too interesting journey. He made a manly, but, at first, a vain
effort, to throw off this mental dejection; and so, yielding to the feelings he
could not suppress, he sat him down in one of the deep recesses formed by a
window which lighted the great Gothic hall of Schonwaldt, and there mused upon
his hard fortune, which had not assigned him rank or wealth sufficient to
prosecute his daring suit.
    Quentin tried to dispel the sadness which overhung him by despatching
Charlet, one of the valets, with letters to the court of Louis, announcing the
arrival of the Ladies of Croye at Liege. At length his natural buoyancy of
temper returned, much excited by the title of an old romaunt which had been just
printed at Strasbourg, and which lay beside him in the window, the title of
which set forth,
 
How the Squire of lowe degree
Loved the King's daughter of Hongarie.
 
While he was tracing the letters blake of the ditty so congenial to his own
situation, Quentin was interrupted by a touch on the shoulder, and, looking up,
beheld the Bohemian standing by him.
    Hayraddin, never a welcome sight, was odious from his late treachery, and
Quentin sternly asked him, why he dared take the freedom to touch a Christian
and a gentleman?
    »Simply,« answered the Bohemian, »because I wished to know if the Christian
gentleman had lost his feeling as well as his eyes and ears. I have stood
speaking to you these five minutes, and you have stared on that scrap of yellow
paper, as if it were a spell to turn you into a statue, and had already wrought
half its purpose.«
    »Well, what dost thou want? Speak, and begone!«
    »I want what all men want, though few are satisfied with it,« said
Hayraddin; »I want my due; my ten crowns of gold for guiding the ladies hither.«
    »With what face darest thou ask any guerdon beyond my sparing thy worthless
life?« said Durward fiercely; »thou knows that it was thy purpose to have
betrayed them on the road.«
    »But I did not betray them,« said Hayraddin; »if I had, I would have asked
no guerdon from you or from them, but from him whom their keeping on the
right-hand side of the river might have benefited. The party that I have served
is the party who must pay me.«
    »Thy guerdon perish with thee, then, traitor,« said Quentin, telling out the
money. »Get thee to the Boar of Ardennes, or to the devil! but keep hereafter
out of my sight, lest I send thee thither before thy time.«
    »The Boar of Ardennes!« repeated the Bohemian, with a stronger emotion of
surprise than his features usually expressed; »it was then no vague guess - no
general suspicion - which made you insist on changing the road? - Can it be -
are there really in other lands arts of prophecy more sure than those of our
wandering tribes? The willow-tree under which we spoke could tell no tales. But
no - no - no - Dolt that I was! - I have it - I have it! - the willow by the
brook near yonder convent - I saw you look towards it as you passed it, about
half-a-mile from yon hive of drones - that could not indeed speak, but it might
hide one who could hear! I will hold my councils in an open plain henceforth;
not a bunch of thistles shall be near me for a Scot to shroud amongst - Ha! ha!
the Scot hath beat the Zingaro at his own subtle weapons. But know, Quentin
Durward, that you have foiled me to the marring of thine own fortune - Yes! the
fortune I have told thee of, from the lines on thy hand, had been richly
accomplished but for thine own obstinacy.«
    »By Saint Andrew,« said Quentin, »thy impudence makes me laugh in spite of
myself - How, or in what, should thy successful villainy have been of service to
me? I heard, indeed, that you did stipulate to save my life, which condition
your worthy allies would speedily have forgotten, had we once come to blows -
but in what thy betrayal of these ladies could have served me, but by exposing
me to death or captivity, is a matter beyond human brains to conjecture.«
    »No matter thinking of it, then,« said Hayraddin, »for I mean still to
surprise you with my gratitude. Had you kept back my hire, I should have held
that we were quit, and had left you to your own foolish guidance. As it is, I
remain your debtor for yonder matter on the banks of the Cher.«
    »Methinks I have already taken out the payment in cursing and abusing thee,«
said Quentin.
    »Hard words, or kind ones,« said the Zingaro, »are but wind, which make no
weight in the balance. Had you struck me, indeed, instead of threatening« -
    »I am likely enough to take out payment in that way, if you provoke me
longer.«
    »I would not advise it,« said the Zingaro; »such payment, made by a rash
hand, might exceed the debt, and unhappily leave a balance on your side, which I
am not one to forget or forgive. And now farewell, but not for a long space - I
go to bid adieu to the Ladies of Croye.«
    »Thou?« said Quentin, in astonishment - »thou be admitted to the presence of
the ladies, and here, where they are in a manner recluses, under the protection
of the Bishop's sister, a noble canoness? - It is impossible.«
    »Marthon, however, waits to conduct me to their presence,« said the Zingaro,
with a sneer; »and I must pray your forgiveness if I leave you something
abruptly.«
    He turned as if to depart, but instantly coming back, said, with a tone of
deep and serious emphasis, »I know your hopes - they are daring, yet not vain if
I aid them. I know your fears, they should teach prudence, not timidity. Every
woman may be won. A count is but a nickname, which will befit Quentin as well as
the other nickname of duke befits Charles, or that of king befits Louis.«
    Ere Durward could reply, the Bohemian had left the hall. Quentin instantly
followed; but, better acquainted than the Scot with the passages of the house,
Hayraddin kept the advantage which he had gotten; and the pursuer lost sight of
him as he descended a small back staircase. Still Durward followed, though
without exact consciousness of his own purpose in doing so. The staircase
terminated by a door opening into the alley of a garden, in which he again
beheld the Zingaro hastening down a pleached walk.
    On two sides the garden was surrounded by the buildings of the castle - a
huge old pile, partly castellated, and partly resembling an ecclesiastical
building; on the other two sides the enclosure was a high embattled wall.
Crossing the alleys of the garden to another part of the building, where a
postern-door opened behind a large massive buttress, overgrown with ivy,
Hayraddin looked back, and waved his hand in signal of an exulting farewell to
his follower, who saw that in effect the postern-door was opened by Marthon, and
that the vile Bohemian was admitted into the precincts, as he naturally
concluded, of the apartment of the Countesses of Croye. Quentin bit his lips
with indignation, and blamed himself severely that he had not made the ladies
sensible of the full infamy of Hayraddin's character, and acquainted with his
machinations against their safety. The arrogating manner in which the Bohemian
had promised to back his suit, added to his anger and his disgust; and he felt
as if even the hand of the Countess Isabelle would be profaned, were it possible
to attain it by such patronage. »But it is all a deception,« he said - »a turn
of his base juggling artifice. He has procured access to these ladies upon some
false pretence, and with some mischievous intention. It is well I have learned
where they lodge. I will watch Marthon, and solicit an interview with them, were
it but to place them on their guard. It is hard that I must use artifice and
brook delay, when such as he have admittance openly and without scruple. They
shall find, however, that though I am excluded from their presence, Isabelle's
safety is still the chief subject of my vigilance.
    While the young lover was thus meditating, an aged gentleman of the Bishop's
household approached him from the same door by which he had himself entered the
garden, and made him aware, though with the greatest civility of manner, that
the garden was private, and reserved only for the use of the Bishop, and guests
of the very highest distinction.
    Quentin heard him repeat this information twice ere he put the proper
construction upon it; and then starting as from a reverie, he bowed and hurried
out of the garden, the official person following him all the way, and
overwhelming him with formal apologies for the necessary discharge of his duty.
Nay, so pertinacious was he in his attempts to remove the offence which he
conceived Durward to have taken, that he offered to bestow his own company upon
him, to contribute to his entertainment; until Quentin, internally cursing his
formal foppery, found no better way of escape, than pretending a desire of
visiting the neighbouring city, and setting off thither at such a round pace as
speedily subdued all desire in the gentleman-usher to accompany him farther than
the drawbridge. In a few minutes Quentin was within the walls of the city of
Liege, then one of the richest in Flanders, and of course in the world.
    Melancholy, even love-melancholy, is not so deeply seated, at least in minds
of a manly and elastic character, as the soft enthusiasts who suffer under it
are fond of believing. It yields to unexpected and striking impressions upon the
senses, to change of place, to such scenes as create new trains of association,
and to the influence of the busy hum of mankind. In a few minutes Quentin's
attention was as much engrossed by the variety of objects presented in rapid
succession by the busy streets of Liege, as if there had neither been a Countess
Isabelle, nor a Bohemian, in the world.
    The lofty houses, - the stately, though narrow and gloomy streets, - the
splendid display of the richest goods and most gorgeous armour in the warehouses
and shops around, - the walks crowded by busy citizens of every description,
passing and repassing with faces of careful importance or eager bustle, - the
huge wains, which transported to and fro the subjects of export and import, the
former consisting of broad cloths and serge, arms of all kinds, nails and
iron-work, while the latter comprehended every article of use or luxury,
intended either for the consumption of an opulent city, or received in barter,
and destined to be transported elsewhere, - all these objects combined to form
an engrossing picture of wealth, bustle, and splendour, to which Quentin had
been hitherto a stranger. He admired also the various streams and canals, drawn
from and communicating with the Maes, which, traversing the city in various
directions, offered to every quarter the commercial facilities of
water-carriage, and he failed not to hear a mass in the venerable old Church of
Saint Lambert, said to have been founded in the eighth century.
    It was upon leaving this place of worship that Quentin began to observe,
that he, who had been hitherto gazing on all around him with the eagerness of
unrestrained curiosity, was himself the object of attention to several groups of
substantial-looking burghers, who seemed assembled to look upon him as he left
the church, and amongst whom arose a buzz and whisper, which spread from one
party to another; while the number of gazers continued to augment rapidly, and
the eyes of each who added to it were eagerly directed to Quentin, with a stare
which expressed much interest and curiosity, mingled with a certain degree of
respect.
    At length he now formed the centre of a considerable crowd, which yet
yielded before him while he continued to move for ward; while those who followed
or kept pace with him studiously avoided pressing on him, or impeding his
motions. Yet his situation was too embarrassing to be long endured, without
making some attempt to extricate himself, and to obtain some explanation.
    Quentin looked around him, and fixing upon a jolly, stout-made, respectable
man, whom, by his velvet cloak and gold chain, he concluded to be a burgher of
eminence, and perhaps a magistrate, he asked him, »Whether he saw anything
particular in his appearance, to attract public attention in a degree so
unusual? or whether it was the ordinary custom of the people of Liege thus to
throng around strangers who chanced to visit their city?«
    »Surely not, good seignior,« answered the burgher; »the Liegeois are neither
so idly curious as to practise such a custom, nor is there anything in your
dress or appearance, saving that which is most welcome to this city, and which
our townsmen are both delighted to see, and desirous to honour.«
    »This sounds very polite, worthy sir,« said Quentin; »but, by the Cross of
Saint Andrew, I cannot even guess at your meaning.«
    »Your oath, sir,« answered the merchant of Liege, »as well as your accent,
convinces me that we are right in our conjecture.«
    »By my patron Saint Quentin!« said Durward, »I am farther off from your
meaning than ever.«
    »There again now,« rejoined the Liegeois, looking, as he spoke, most
provokingly, yet most civilly, politic and intelligent. - »It is surely not for
us to see that which you, worthy seignior, deem it proper to conceal. But why
swear by Saint Quentin, if you would not have me construe your meaning? - We
know the good Count of Saint Paul, who lies there at present, wishes well to our
cause.«
    »On my life,« said Quentin, »you are under some delusion. - I know nothing
of Saint Paul.«
    »Nay, we question you not,« said the burgher; »although, hark ye - I say,
hark in your ear - my name is Pavillon.«
    »And what is my business with that, Seignior Pavillon?« said Quentin.
    »Nay, nothing - only methinks it might satisfy you that I am trustworthy. -
Here is my colleague Rouslaer, too.«
    Rouslaer advanced, a corpulent dignitary, whose fair round belly, like a
battering-ram, »did shake the press before him,« and who, whispering caution to
his neighbour, said in a tone of rebuke, »You forget, good colleague, the place
is too open - the seignior will retire to your house or mine, and drink a glass
of Rhenish and sugar, and then we shall hear more of our good friend and ally,
whom we love with all our honest Flemish hearts.«
    »I have no news for any of you,« said Quentin, impatiently; »I will drink no
Rhenish; and I only desire of you, as men of account and respectability, to
disperse this idle crowd, and allow a stranger to leave your town as quietly as
he came into it.«
    »Nay, then, sir,« said Rouslaer, »since you stand so much on your incognito,
and with us, too, who are men of confidence, let me ask you roundly, wherefore
wear you the badge of your company if you would remain unknown in Liege?«
    »What badge, and what order?« said Quentin; »you look like reverend men and
grave citizens, yet, on my soul, you are either mad yourselves, or desire to
drive me so.«
    »Sapperment!« said the other burgher, »this youth would make Saint Lambert
swear! Why, who wear bonnets with the Saint Andrew's cross and fleur-de-lys,
save the Scottish Archers of King Louis's Guards?«
    »And supposing I am an Archer of the Scottish Guard, why should you make a
wonder of my wearing the badge of my company?« said Quentin impatiently.
    »He has avowed it, he has avowed it!« said Rouslaer and Pavillon, turning to
the assembled burghers in attitudes of congratulation, with waving arms,
extended palms, and large round faces radiating with glee. »He hath avowed
himself an Archer of Louis's Guard - of Louis, the guardian of the liberties of
Liege!«
    A general shout and cry now arose from the multitude, in which were mingled
the various sounds of »Long live Louis of France! Long live the Scottish Guard!
Long live the valiant Archer! Our liberties, our privileges, or death! No
imposts! Long live the valiant Boar of Ardennes! Down with Charles of Burgundy!
and confusion to Bourbon and his bishopric!«
    Half-stunned by the noise, which began anew in one quarter so soon as it
ceased in another, rising and falling like the billows of the sea, and augmented
by thousands of voices which roared in chorus from distant streets and
market-places, Quentin had yet time to form a conjecture concerning the meaning
of the tumult, and a plan for regulating his own conduct.
    He had forgotten that, after his skirmish with Orleans and Dunois, one of
his comrades had, at Lord Crawford's command, replaced the morion, cloven by the
sword of the latter, with one of the steel-lined bonnets, which formed a part of
the proper and well-known equipment of the Scottish Guards. That an individual
of this body, which was always kept very close to Louis's person, should have
appeared in the streets of a city, whose civil discontents had been aggravated
by the agents of that King, was naturally enough interpreted by the burghers of
Liege into a determination on the part of Louis openly to assist their cause;
and the apparition of an individual archer was magnified into a pledge of
immediate and active support from Louis - nay, into an assurance that his
auxiliary forces were actually entering the town at one or other, though no one
could distinctly tell which, of the city-gates.
    To remove a conviction so generally adopted, Quentin easily saw was
impossible - nay, that any attempt to undeceive men so obstinately prepossessed
in their belief, would be attended with personal risk, which, in this case, he
saw little use of incurring. He therefore hastily resolved to temporise, and to
get free the best way he could; and this resolution he formed while they were in
the act of conducting him to the Stadthouse, where the notables of the town were
fast assembling, in order to hear the tidings which he was presumed to have
brought, and to regale him with a splendid banquet.
    In spite of all his opposition, which was set down to modesty, he was on
every side surrounded by the donors of popularity, the unsavoury tide of which
now floated around him. His two burgomaster friends, who were Schoppen, or
Syndics of the city, had made fast both his arms. Before him, Nikkel Blok, the
chief of the butchers' incorporation, hastily summoned from his office in the
shambles, brandished his death-doing axe, yet smeared with blood and brains,
with a courage and grace which brantwein alone could inspire. Behind him came
the tall, lean, raw-boned, very drunk, and very patriotic figure of Claus
Hammerlain, president of the mystery of the workers in iron, and followed by at
least a thousand unwashed artificers of his class. Weavers, nailers, ropemakers,
artisans of every degree and calling, thronged forward to join the procession
from every gloomy and narrow street. Escape seemed a desperate and impossible
adventure.
    In this dilemma, Quentin appealed to Rouslaer, who held one arm, and to
Pavillon, who had secured the other, and who were conducting him forward at the
head of the ovation, of which he had so unexpectedly become the principal
object. He hastily acquainted them with his having thoughtlessly adopted the
bonnet of the Scottish Guard, on an accident having occurred to the head-piece
in which he had proposed to travel; he regretted that, owing to this
circumstance, and the sharp wit with which the Liegeois drew the natural
inference of his quality, and the purpose of his visit, these things had been
publicly discovered; and he intimated, that, if just now conducted to the
Stadthouse, he might unhappily feel himself under the necessity of communicating
to the assembled notables certain matters, which he was directed by the King to
reserve for the private ears of his excellent gossips, Meinheers Rouslaer and
Pavillon of Liege.
    This last hint operated like magic on the two citizens, who were the most
distinguished leaders of the insurgent burghers, and were, like all demagogues
of their kind, desirous to keep everything within their own management, so far
as possible. They therefore hastily agreed that Quentin should leave the town
for the time, and return by night to Liege, and converse with them privately in
the house of Rouslaer, near the gate opposite to Schonwaldt. Quentin hesitated
not to tell them, that he was at present residing in the Bishop's palace, under
pretence of bearing despatches from the French Court, although his real errand
was, as they had well conjectured, designed to the citizens of Liege; and this
tortuous mode of conducting a communication, as well as the character and rank
of the person to whom it was supposed to be entrusted, was so consonant to the
character of Louis, as neither to excite doubt nor surprise.
    Almost immediately after this éclaircissement was completed, the progress of
the multitude brought them opposite to the door of Pavillon's house, in one of
the principal streets, but which communicated from behind with the Maes, by
means of a garden, as well as an extensive manufactory of tan-pits, and other
conveniences for dressing hides; for the patriotic burgher was a felt-dresser,
or currier.
    It was natural that Pavillon should desire to do the honours of his dwelling
to the supposed envoy of Louis, and a halt before his house excited no surprise
on the part of the multitude; who, on the contrary, greeted Meinheer Pavillon
with a loud vivat, as he ushered in his distinguished guest. Quentin speedily
laid aside his remarkable bonnet, for the cap of a felt-maker, and flung a cloak
over his other apparel. Pavillon then furnished him with a passport to pass the
gates of the city, and to return by night or day as should suit his convenience;
and lastly, committed him to the charge of his daughter, a fair and smiling
Flemish lass, with instructions how he was to be disposed of, while he himself
hastened back to his colleague, to amuse their friends at the Stadthouse, with
the best excuses which they could invent for the disappearance of King Louis's
envoy. We cannot, as the footman says in the play, recollect the exact nature of
the lie which the bell-wethers told the flock; but no task is so easy as that of
imposing upon a multitude whose eager prejudices have more than half done the
business, ere the impostor has spoken a word.
    The worthy burgess was no sooner gone, than his plump daughter, Trudchen,
with many a blush, and many a wreathed smile, which suited very prettily with
lips like cherries, laughing blue eyes, and a skin transparently pure, escorted
the handsome stranger through the pleached alleys of the Sieur Pavillon's
garden, down to the water-side, and there saw him fairly embarked in a boat,
which two stout Flemings, in their trunk-hose, fur caps, and many-buttoned
jerkins, had got in readiness with as much haste as their low-country nature
would permit.
    As the pretty Trudchen spoke nothing but German, Quentin - no disparagement
to his loyal affection to the Countess of Croye - could only express his thanks
by a kiss on those same cherry lips, which was very gallantly bestowed, and
accepted with all modest gratitude; for gallants with a form and face like our
Scottish Archer, were not of every-day occurrence among the bourgeoisie of
Liege.39 While the boat was rowed up the sluggish waters of the Maes, and passed
the defences of the town, Quentin had time enough to reflect what account he
ought to give of his adventure in Liege, when he returned to the Bishop's palace
of Schonwaldt; and disdaining alike to betray any person who had reposed
confidence in him, although by misapprehension, or to conceal from the
hospitable Prelate the mutinous state of his capital, he resolved to confine
himself to so general an account as might put the Bishop upon his guard, while
it should point out no individual to his vengeance.
    He was landed from the boat, within half-a-mile of the castle, and rewarded
his rowers with a guilder, to their great satisfaction. Yet, short as was the
space which divided him from Schonwaldt, the castle-bell had tolled for dinner,
and Quentin found, moreover, that he had approached the castle on a different
side from that of the principal entrance, and that to go round would throw his
arrival considerably later. He, therefore, made straight towards the side that
was nearest to him, as he discerned that it presented an embattled wall,
probably that of the little garden already noticed, with a postern opening upon
the moat, and a skiff moored by the postern, which might serve, he thought, upon
summons, to pass him over. As he approached, in hopes to make his entrance this
way, the postern opened, a man came out, and, jumping into the boat, made his
way to the farther side of the moat, and then, with a long pole, pushed the
skiff back towards the place where he had embarked. As he came near, Quentin
discerned that this person was the Bohemian, who, avoiding him, as was not
difficult, held a different path towards Liege, and was presently out of his
ken.
    Here was new subject for meditation. Had this vagabond heathen been all this
while with the Ladies of Croye, and for what purpose should they so far have
graced him with their presence? Tormented with this thought, Durward became
doubly determined to seek an explanation with them, for the purpose at once of
laying bare the treachery of Hayraddin, and announcing to them the perilous
state in which their protector, the Bishop, was placed, by the mutinous state of
his town of Liege.
    As Quentin thus resolved, he entered the castle by the principal gate, and
found that part of the family who assembled for dinner in the great hall,
including the Bishop's attendant clergy, officers of the household, and
strangers below the rank of the very first nobility, were already placed at
their meal. A seat at the upper end of the board had, however, been reserved
beside the Bishop's domestic chaplain, who welcomed the stranger with the old
college jest of Sero venientibus ossa, while he took care so to load his plate
with dainties, as to take away all appearance of that tendency to reality,
which, in Quentin's country, is said to render a joke either no joke, or at best
an unpalatable one.40
    In vindicating himself from the suspicion of ill breeding, Quentin briefly
described the tumult which had been occasioned in the city by his being
discovered to belong to the Scottish Archer Guard of Louis, and endeavoured to
give a ludicrous turn to the narrative by saying, that he had been with
difficulty extricated by a fat burgher of Liege and his pretty daughter.
    But the company were too much interested in the story to taste the jest. All
operations of the table were suspended while Quentin told his tale; and when he
had ceased, there was a solemn pause, which was only broken by the Major-Domo
saying in a low and melancholy tone, »I would to God that we saw those hundred
lances of Burgundy!«
    »Why should you think so deeply on it?« said Quentin - »You have many
soldiers here, whose trade is arms; and your antagonists are only the rabble of
a disorderly city, who will fly before the first flutter of a banner with
men-at-arms arrayed beneath it.«
    »You do not know the men of Liege,« said the Chaplain, »of whom it may be
said, that, not even excepting those of Ghent, they are at once the fiercest and
the most untameable in Europe. Twice has the Duke of Burgundy chastised them for
their repeated revolts against their Bishop, and twice hath he suppressed them
with much severity, abridged their privileges, taken away their banners, and
established rights and claims to himself, which were not before competent over a
free city of the Empire - Nay, the last time he defeated them with much
slaughter near Saint Tron, where Liege lost nearly six thousand men, what with
the sword, what with those drowned in the flight; and thereafter, to disable
them from further mutiny, Duke Charles refused to enter at any of the gates
which they had surrendered, but, beating to the ground forty cubits' breadth of
their city wall, marched into Liege as a conqueror, with visor closed, and lance
in rest, at the head of his chivalry, by the breach which he had made. Nay, well
were the Liegeois then assured, that, but for the intercession of his father,
Duke Philip the Good, this Charles, then called Count of Charalois, would have
given their town up to spoil. And yet, with all these fresh recollections, with
their breaches unrepaired, and their arsenals scarcely supplied, the sight of an
archer's bonnet is sufficient again to stir them to uproar. May God amend all!
but I fear there will be bloody work between so fierce a population and so fiery
a Sovereign; and I would my excellent and kind Master had a see of lesser
dignity and more safety, for his mitre is lined with thorns instead of ermine.
This much I say to you, Seignior Stranger, to make you aware, that, if your
affairs detain you not at Schonwaldt, it is a place from which each man of sense
should depart as speedily as possible. I apprehend that your ladies are of the
same opinion; for one of the grooms who attended them on the route, has been
sent back by them to the Court of France with letters, which, doubtless, are
intended to announce their going in search of a safer asylum.«
 

                               Chapter Twentieth

                                  The Billet.

            Go to - thou art made, if thou desirest to be so - If not, let me
            see thee still the fellow of servants, and not fit to touch
            Fortune's fingers.
                                                                  Twelfth Night.
 
When the tables were drawn, the Chaplain, who seemed to have taken a sort of
attachment to Quentin Durward's society, or who perhaps desired to extract from
him farther information concerning the meeting of the morning, led him into a
with-drawing apartment, the windows of which, on one side, projected into the
garden; and as he saw his companion's eye gaze rather eagerly upon the spot, he
proposed to Quentin to go down and take a view of the curious foreign shrubs
with which the Bishop had enriched its parterres.
    Quentin excused himself, as unwilling to intrude, and therewithal
communicated the check which he had received in the morning. The Chaplain
smiled, and said, »That there was indeed some ancient prohibition respecting the
Bishop's private garden; but this,« he added, with a smile, »was when our
reverend father was a princely young prelate of not more than thirty years of
age, and when many fair ladies frequented the Castle for ghostly consolation.
Need there was,« he said, with a downcast look, and a smile, half simple, and
half intelligent, »that these ladies, pained in conscience, who were ever lodged
in the apartments now occupied by the noble Canoness, should have some space for
taking the air, secure from the intrusion of the profane. But of late years,« he
added, »this prohibition, although not formally removed, has fallen entirely out
of observance, and remains but as the superstition which lingers in the brain of
a superannuated gentleman-usher. If you please,« he added, »we will presently
descend, and try whether the place be haunted or no.«
    Nothing could have been more agreeable to Quentin than the prospect of a
free entrance into the garden, through means of which, according to a chance
which had hitherto attended his passion, he hoped to communicate with, or at
least obtain sight of, the object of his affections, from some such turret or
balcony-window, or similar »coign of vantage,« as at the hostelry of the
Fleur-de-Lys, near Plessis, or the Dauphin's Tower, within that Castle itself.
Isabelle seemed still destined, wherever she made her abode, to be the Lady of
the Turret.
    When Durward descended with his new friend into the garden, the latter
seemed a terrestrial philosopher, entirely busied with the things of the earth;
while the eyes of Quentin, if they did not seek the heavens, like those of an
astrologer, ranged, at least, all around the windows, balconies, and especially
the turrets, which projected on every part from the inner front of the old
building, in order to discover that which was to be his cynosure.
    While thus employed, the young lover heard with total neglect, if indeed he
heard at all, the enumeration of plants, herbs, and shrubs, which his reverend
conductor pointed out to him; of which this was choice, because of prime use in
medicine; and that more choice for yielding a rare flavour to pottage; and a
third, choicest of all, because possessed of no merit but its extreme scarcity.
Still it was necessary to preserve some semblance at least of attention; which
the youth found so difficult, that he fairly wished at the devil the officious
naturalist and the whole vegetable kingdom. He was relieved at length by the
striking of a clock, which summoned the Chaplain to some official duty.
    The reverend man made many unnecessary apologies for leaving his new friend,
and concluded by giving him the agreeable assurance, that he might walk in the
garden till supper, without much risk of being disturbed.
    »It is,« said he, »the place where I always study my own homilies, as being
most sequestered from the resort of strangers. I am now about to deliver one of
them in the chapel, if you please to favour me with your audience. I have been
thought to have some gift - But the glory be where it is due!«
    Quentin excused himself for this evening under pretence of a severe
headache, which the open air was likely to prove the best cure for; and at
length the well-meaning priest left him to himself.
    It may be well imagined, that in the curious inspection which he now made,
at more leisure, of every window or aperture which looked into the garden, those
did not escape which were in the immediate neighbourhood of the small door by
which he had seen Marthon admit Hayraddin, as he pretended, to the apartment of
the Countesses. But nothing stirred or showed itself, which could either confute
or confirm the tale which the Bohemian had told, until it was becoming dusky;
and Quentin began to be sensible, he scarce knew why, that his sauntering so
long in the garden might be subject of displeasure or suspicion.
    Just as he had resolved to depart, and was taking what he had destined for
his last turn under the windows which had such attraction for him, he heard
above him a slight and cautious sound, like that of a cough, as intended to call
his attention, and to avoid the observation of others. As he looked up in joyful
surprise, a casement opened - a female hand was seen to drop a billet, which
fell into a rosemary bush that grew at the foot of the wall. The precaution used
in dropping this letter prescribed equal prudence and secrecy in reading it. The
garden, surrounded, as we have said, upon two sides by the buildings of the
palace, was commanded, of course, by the windows of many apartments; but there
was a sort of grotto of rock-work, which the Chaplain had shown Durward with
much complacency. To snatch up the billet, thrust it into his bosom, and hie to
this place of secrecy, was the work of a single minute. He there opened the
precious scroll, and blessed, at the same time, the memory of the monks of
Aberbrothick, whose nurture had rendered him capable of deciphering its
contents.
    The first line contained the injunction, »Read this in secret,« - and the
contents were as follows: - »What your eyes have too boldly said, mine have
perhaps too rashly understood. But unjust persecution makes its victims bold,
and it were better to throw myself on the gratitude of one than to remain the
object of pursuit to many. Fortune has her throne upon a rock; but brave men
fear not to climb. If you dare do aught for one that hazards much, you need but
pass into this garden at prime to-morrow, wearing in your cap a blue-and-white
feather; but expect no farther communication. Your stars have, they say,
destined you for greatness, and disposed you to gratitude. - Farewell - be
faithful, prompt, and resolute, and doubt not thy fortune.« Within this letter
was enclosed a ring with a table-diamond, on which were cut, in form of a
lozenge, the ancient arms of the House of Croye.
    The first feeling of Quentin upon this occasion was unmingled ecstasy - a
pride and joy which seemed to raise him to the stars - a determination to do or
die, influenced by which he treated with scorn the thousand obstacles that
placed themselves betwixt him and the goal of his wishes.
    In this mood of rapture, and unable to endure any interruption which might
withdraw his mind, were it but for a moment, from so ecstatic a subject of
contemplation, Durward, retiring to the interior of the castle, hastily assigned
his former pretext of a headache for not joining the household of the Bishop at
the supper-meal, and lighting his lamp, betook himself to the chamber which had
been assigned him, to read, and to read again and again, the precious billet,
and to kiss a thousand times the no less precious ring.
    But such high-wrought feelings could not remain long in the same ecstatic
tone. A thought pressed upon him, though he repelled it as ungrateful - as even
blasphemous - that the frankness of the confession implied less delicacy, on the
part of her who made it, than was consistent with the high romantic feeling of
adoration with which he had hitherto worshipped the Lady Isabelle. No sooner did
this ungracious thought intrude itself, than he hastened to stifle it, as he
would have stifled a hissing and hateful adder, that had intruded itself into
his couch. Was it for him - him the Favoured - on whose account she had stooped
from her sphere, to ascribe blame to her for the very act of condescension,
without which he dared not have raised his eyes towards her? Did not her very
dignity of birth and of condition reverse, in her case, the usual rules which
impose silence on the lady until her lover shall have first spoken? To these
arguments, which he boldly formed into syllogisms, and avowed to himself, his
vanity might possibly suggest one which he cared not to embody even mentally
with the same frankness - that the merit of the party beloved might perhaps
warrant, on the part of the lady, some little departure from common rules; and
after all, as in the case of Malvolio, there was example for it in chronicle.
The squire of low degree, of whom he had just been reading, was, like himself, a
gentleman void of land and living, and yet the generous Princess of Hungary
bestowed on him, without scruple, more substantial marks of her affection than
the billet he had just received -
 
»Welcome,« she said, »my swetie Squyre,
My heartis roote, my soule's desire;
I will give thee kisses three,
And als five hundrid pounds in fee.«
 
And, again, the same faithful history made the King of Hongrie himself avouch,
 
»I have yknown many a page
Come to be Prince by marriage.«
 
So that, upon the whole, Quentin generously and magnanimously reconciled himself
to a line of conduct on the Countess's part, by which he was likely to be so
highly benefited.
    But this scruple was succeeded by another doubt, harder of digestion. The
traitor Hayraddin had been in the apartments of the ladies, for aught Quentin
knew, for the space of four hours, and considering the hints which he had thrown
out of possessing an influence of the most interesting kind over the fortunes of
Quentin Durward, what should assure him that this train was not of his laying?
and if so, was it not probable that such a dissembling villain had set it on
foot to conceal some new plan of treachery - perhaps to seduce Isabelle out of
the protection of the worthy Bishop? This was a matter to be closely looked
into, for Quentin felt a repugnance to this individual proportioned to the
unabashed impudence with which he had avowed his profligacy, and could not bring
himself to hope that anything in which he was concerned could ever come to an
honourable or happy conclusion.
    These various thoughts rolled over Quentin's mind like misty clouds, to dash
and obscure the fair landscape which his fancy had at first drawn, and his couch
was that night a sleepless one. At the hour of prime - ay, and an hour before
it, was he in the castle-garden, where no one now opposed either his entrance or
his abode, with a feather of the assigned colour, as distinguished as he could
by any means procure in such haste. No notice was taken of his appearance for
nearly two hours; at length he heard a few notes of the lute, and presently the
lattice opened right above the little postern-door at which Marthon had admitted
Hayraddin, and Isabelle, in maidenly beauty, appeared at the opening, greeted
him half-kindly, half-shyly, coloured extremely at the deep and significant
reverence with which he returned her courtesy - shut the casement, and
disappeared.
    Daylight and champaign could discover no more! The authenticity of the
billet was ascertained - it only remained what was to follow; and of this the
fair writer had given him no hint. But no immediate danger impended - the
Countess was in a strong castle, under the protection of a prince, at once
respectable for his secular, and venerable for his ecclesiastical authority.
There was neither immediate room nor occasion for the exulting Squire
interfering in the adventure; and it was sufficient if he kept himself prompt to
execute her commands whensoever they should be communicated to him. But Fate
purposed to call him into action sooner than he was aware of.
    It was the fourth night after his arrival at Schonwaldt, when Quentin had
taken measures for sending back on the morrow, to the Court of Louis, the
remaining groom who had accompanied him on his journey, with letters from
himself to his uncle and Lord Crawford, renouncing the service of France, for
which the treachery to which he had been exposed by the private instructions of
Hayraddin gave him an excuse, both in honour and prudence; and he betook himself
to his bed with all the rosy-coloured ideas around him which flutter about the
couch of a youth when he loves dearly, and thinks his love is as sincerely
repaid.
    But Quentin's dreams, which at first partook of the nature of those happy
influences under which he had fallen asleep, began by degrees to assume a more
terrific character.
    He walked with the Countess Isabelle beside a smooth and inland lake, such
as formed the principal characteristic of his native glen; and he spoke to her
of his love, without any consciousness of the impediments which lay between
them. She blushed and smiled when she listened - even as he might have expected
from the tenor of the letter, which, sleeping or waking, lay nearest to his
heart. But the scene suddenly changed from summer to winter - from calm to
tempest; the winds and the waves rose with such a contest of surge and
whirlwind, as if the demons of the water and of the air had been contending for
their roaring empires in rival strife. The rising waters seemed to cut off their
advance and their retreat - the increasing tempest, which dashed them against
each other, seemed to render their remaining on the spot impossible; and the
tumultuous sensations produced by the apparent danger awoke the dreamer.
    He awoke; but although the circumstances of the vision had disappeared, and
given place to reality, the noise, which had probably suggested them, still
continued to sound in his ears.
    Quentin's first impulse was to sit erect in bed and listen with astonishment
to sounds, which, if they had announced a tempest, might have shamed the wildest
that ever burst down from the Grampians; and again in a minute he became
sensible, that the tumult was not excited by the fury of the elements, but by
the wrath of men.
    He sprung from bed, and looked from the window of his apartment; but it
opened into the garden, and on that side all was quiet, though the opening of
the casement made him still more sensible, from the shouts which reached his
ears, that the outside of the castle was beleaguered and assaulted, and that by
a numerous and determined enemy. Hastily collecting his dress and arms, and
putting them on with such celerity as darkness and surprise permitted, his
attention was solicited by a knocking at the door of his chamber. As Quentin did
not immediately answer, the door, which was a slight one, was forced open from
without, and the intruder, announced by his peculiar dialect to be the Bohemian,
Hayraddin Maugrabin, entered the apartment. A phial, which he held in his hand,
touched by a match, produced a dark flash of ruddy fire, by means of which he
kindled a lamp, which he took from his bosom.
    »The horoscope of your destinies,« he said energetically to Durward, without
any farther greeting, »now turns upon the determination of a minute.«
    »Caitiff!« said Quentin, in reply, »there is treachery around us; and where
there is treachery, thou must have a share in it.«
    »You are mad,« answered Maugrabin - »I never betrayed any one but to gain by
it - and wherefore should I betray you, by whose safety I can take more
advantage than by your destruction? Hearken for a moment, if it be possible for
you, to one note of reason, ere it is sounded into your ear by the death-shot of
ruin. The Liegeois are up - William de la Marck with his band leads them - Were
there means of resistance, their numbers, and his fury, would overcome them; but
there are next to none. If you would save the Countess and your own hopes,
follow me, in the name of her who sent you a table diamond, with three leopards
engraved on it!«
    »Lead the way,« said Quentin, hastily - »In that name I dare every danger!«
    »As I shall manage it,« said the Bohemian, »there is no danger, if you can
but withhold your hand from strife which does not concern you; for, after all,
what is it to you whether the Bishop, as they call him, slaughters his flock, or
the flock slaughters the shepherd? - Ha! ha! ha! Follow me, but with caution and
patience; subdue your own courage, and confide in my prudence - and my debt of
thankfulness is paid, and you have a Countess for your spouse - Follow me.«
    »I follow,« said Quentin, drawing his sword; »but the moment in which I
detect the least sign of treachery, thy head and body are three yards separate!«
    Without more conversation, the Bohemian, seeing that Quentin was now fully
armed and ready, ran down the stairs before him, and winded hastily through
various side-passages, until they gained the little garden. Scarce a light was
to be seen on that side, scarce any bustle was to be heard; but no sooner had
Quentin entered the open space, than the noise on the opposite side of the
castle became ten times more stunningly audible, and he could hear the various
war-cries of »Liege! Liege! Sanglier! Sanglier!« shouted by the assailants,
while the feebler cry of »Our Lady for the Prince Bishop!« was raised in a faint
and faltering tone, by those of the prelate's soldiers who had hastened, though
surprised and at disadvantage, to the defence of the walls.
    But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding the martial character of
Quentin Durward, was indifferent to him, in comparison of the fate of Isabelle
of Croye, which, he had reason to fear, would be a dreadful one, unless rescued
from the power of the dissolute and cruel freebooter, who was now, as it seemed,
bursting the gates of the castle. He reconciled himself to the aid of the
Bohemian, as men in a desperate illness refuse not the remedy prescribed by
quacks and mountebanks, and followed across the garden, with the intention of
being guided by him until he should discover symptoms of treachery, and then
piercing him through the heart, or striking his head from his body. Hayraddin
seemed himself conscious that his safety turned on a feather-weight, for he
forbore, from the moment they entered the open air, all his wonted jibes and
quirks, and seemed to have made a vow to act at once with modesty, courage, and
activity.
    At the opposite door, which led to the ladies' apartments, upon a low signal
made by Hayraddin, appeared two women, muffled in the black silk veils which
were then, as now, worn by the women in the Netherlands. Quentin offered his arm
to one of them, who clung to it with trembling eagerness, and indeed hung upon
him so much, that had her weight been greater, she must have much impeded their
retreat. The Bohemian, who conducted the other female, took the road straight
for the postern which opened upon the moat, through the garden wall, close to
which the little skiff was drawn up, by means of which Quentin had formerly
observed Hayraddin himself retreating from the castle.
    As they crossed, the shouts of storm and successful violence seemed to
announce that the castle was in the act of being taken; and so dismal was the
sound in Quentin's ears, that he could not help swearing aloud, »But that my
blood is irretrievably devoted to the fulfilment of my present duty, I would
back to the wall, take faithful part with the hospitable Bishop, and silence
some of those knaves whose throats are full of mutiny and robbery!«
    The lady, whose arm was still folded in his, pressed it lightly as he spoke,
as if to make him understand that there was a nearer claim on his chivalry than
the defence of Schonwaldt; while the Bohemian exclaimed, loud enough to be
heard, »Now, that I call right Christian frenzy, which would turn back to fight,
when love and fortune both demand that we should fly. - On, on - with all the
haste you can make - Horses wait us in yonder thicket of willows.«
    »There are but two horses,« said Quentin, who saw them in the moonlight.
    »All that I could procure without exciting suspicion - and enough, besides,«
replied the Bohemian. »You two must ride for Tongres ere the way becomes unsafe
- Marthon will abide with the women of our horde, with whom she is an old
acquaintance. Know she is a daughter of our tribe, and only dwelt among you to
serve our purpose as occasion should fall.«
    »Marthon!« exclaimed the Countess, looking at the veiled female, with a
shriek of surprise; »is not this my kinswoman?«
    »Only Marthon,« said Hayraddin - »Excuse me that little piece of deceit. I
dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild Boar of Ardennes.«
    »Wretch!« said Quentin, emphatically - »but it is not - shall not be too
late - I will back to rescue the Lady Hameline.«
    »Hameline,« whispered the lady, in a disturbed voice, »hangs on thy arm, to
thank thee for her rescue.«
    »Ha! what! - How is this?« said Quentin, extricating himself from her hold,
and with less gentleness than he would at any other time have used towards a
female of any rank - »Is the Lady Isabelle then left behind? - Farewell -
farewell.«
    As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid hold of him -
»Nay, hear you - hear you - you run upon your death! What the foul fiend did you
wear the colours of the old one for? - I will never trust blue and white silk
again. But she has almost as large a dower - has jewels and gold - hath
pretensions, too, upon the earldom.«
    While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the Bohemian struggled
to detain Quentin, who at length laid his hand on his dagger, in order to
extricate himself.
    »Nay, if that be the case,« said Hayraddin, unloosing his hold, »go - and
the devil, if there be one, go along with you!« - And, soon as freed from his
hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with the speed of the wind.
    Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess Hameline, who had sunk down on
the ground, between shame, fear, and disappointment.
    »Here has been a mistake,« he said; »up, lady, and come with me - I will
provide you, ere morning comes, a gallanter husband than this smock-faced boy;
and if one will not serve, you shall have twenty.«
    The Lady Hameline was as violent in her passions as she was vain and weak in
her understanding. Like many other persons, she went tolerably well through the
ordinary duties of life; but in a crisis like the present, she was entirely
incapable of doing aught, save pouring forth unavailing lamentations, and
accusing Hayraddin of being a thief, a base slave, an impostor, a murderer.
    »Call me Zingaro,« returned he, composedly, »and you have said all at once.«
    »Monster! you said the stars had decreed our union, and caused me to write -
Oh, wretch that I was!« exclaimed the unhappy lady.
    »And so they had decreed your union,« said Hayraddin, »had both parties been
willing - but think you the blessed constellations can make any one wed against
his will? - I was led into error with your accursed Christian gallantries, and
fopperies of ribbons and favours - and the youth prefers veal to beef, I think -
that's all. - Up and follow me; and take notice, I endure neither weeping nor
swooning.«
    »I will not stir a foot,« said the Countess, obstinately.
    »By the bright welkin, but you shall, though!« exclaimed Hayraddin. »I swear
to you, by all that ever fools believed in, that you have to do with one, who
would care little to strip you naked, bind you to a tree, and leave you to your
fortune!«
    »Nay,« said Marthon, interfering, »by your favour she shall not be misused.
I wear a knife as well as you, and can use it - She is a kind woman, though a
fool. - And you, madam, rise up and follow us - Here has been a mistake; but it
is something to have saved life and limb. There are many in yonder castle would
give all the wealth in the world to stand where we do now.«
    As Marthon spoke, a clamour, in which the shouts of victory were mingled
with screams of terror and despair, was wafted to them from the Castle of
Schonwaldt.
    »Hear that, lady!« said Hayraddin, »and be thankful you are not adding your
treble pipe to yonder concert. Believe me, I will care for you honestly, and the
stars shall keep their words, and find you a good husband.«
    Like some wild animal, exhausted and subdued by terror and fatigue, the
Countess Hameline yielded herself up to the conduct of her guides, and suffered
herself to be passively led whichever way they would. Nay, such was the
confusion of her spirits and the exhaustion of her strength, that the worthy
couple, who half bore, half led her, carried on their discourse in her presence
without her even understanding it.
    »I ever thought your plan was folly,« said Marthon. »Could you have brought
the young people together, indeed, we might have had a hold on their gratitude,
and a footing in their castle. But what chance of so handsome a youth wedding
this old fool?«
    »Rizpah,« said Hayraddin, »you have borne the name of a Christian, and dwelt
in the tents of those besotted people, till thou hast become a partaker in their
follies. How could I dream that he would have made scruples about a few years,
youth or age, when the advantages of the match were so evident? And thou
knows, there would have been no moving yonder coy wench to be so frank as this
coming Countess here, who hangs on our arms as dead a weight as a wool-pack. I
loved the lad too, and would have done him a kindness: to wed him to this old
woman, was to make his fortune: to unite him to Isabelle, were to have brought
on him De la Marck, Burgundy, France, - every one that challenges an interest in
disposing of her hand. And this silly woman's wealth being chiefly in gold and
jewels, we should have had our share. But the bow-string has burst, and the
arrow failed. Away with her - we will bring her to William with the Beard. By
the time he has gorged himself with wassail, as is his wont, he will not know an
old Countess from a young one. Away, Rizpah - bear a gallant heart. The bright
Aldeboran still influences the destinies of the Children of the Desert!«
 

                              Chapter Twenty-First

                                   The Sack.

 The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
 And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
 In liberty of bloody hand shall range,
 With conscience wide as hell.
                                                                        Henry V.
 
The surprised and affrighted garrison of the Castle of Schonwaldt had,
nevertheless, for some time, made good the defence of the place against the
assailants; but the immense crowds which, issuing from the city of Liege,
thronged to the assault like bees, distracted their attention, and abated their
courage.
    There was also disaffection at least, if not treachery, among the defenders;
for some called out to surrender, and others, deserting their posts, tried to
escape from the castle. Many threw themselves from the walls into the moat, and
such as escaped drowning, flung aside their distinguishing badges, and saved
themselves by mingling among the motley crowd of assailants. Some few, indeed,
from attachment to the Bishop's person, drew around him, and continued to defend
the great keep, to which he had fled; and others, doubtful of receiving quarter,
or from an impulse of desperate courage, held out other detached bulwarks and
towers of the extensive building. But the assailants had got possession of the
courts and lower parts of the edifice, and were busy pursuing the vanquished,
and searching for spoil, while one individual, as if he sought for that death
from which all others were flying, endeavoured to force his way into the scene
of tumult and horror, under apprehensions still more horrible to his
imagination, than the realities around were to his sight and senses. Whoever had
seen Quentin Durward that fatal night, not knowing the meaning of his conduct,
had accounted him a raging madman; whoever had appreciated his motives, had
ranked him nothing beneath a hero of romance.
    Approaching Schonwaldt on the same side from which he had left it, the youth
met several fugitives making for the wood, who naturally avoided him as an
enemy, because he came in an opposite direction from that which they had
adopted. When he came nearer, he could hear, and partly see, men dropping from
the garden-wall into the castle fosse, and others who seemed precipitated from
the battlements by the assailants. His courage was not staggered, even for an
instant. There was not time to look for the boat, even had it been practicable
to use it, and it was in vain to approach the postern of the garden, which was
crowded with fugitives, who ever and anon, as they were thrust through it by the
pressure behind, fell into the moat which they had no means of crossing.
    Avoiding that point, Quentin threw himself into the moat, near what was
called the little gate of the castle, and where there was a drawbridge, which
was still elevated. He avoided with difficulty the fatal grasp of more than one
sinking wretch, and, swimming to the drawbridge, caught hold of one of the
chains which was hanging down, and, by a great exertion of strength and
activity, swayed himself out of the water, and attained the platform from which
the bridge was suspended. As with hands and knees he struggled to make good his
footing, a lanzknecht, with his bloody sword in his hand, made towards him, and
raised his weapon for a blow, which must have been fatal.
    »How now, fellow!« said Quentin, in a tone of authority - »Is that the way
in which you assist a comrade? - Give me your hand.«
    The soldier, in silence, and not without hesitation, reached him his arm,
and helped him upon the platform, when, without allowing him time for
reflection, the Scot continued in the same tone of command - »To the western
tower, if you would be rich - the Priest's treasury is in the western tower.«
    The words were echoed on every hand: »To the western tower - the treasure is
in the western tower!« And the stragglers who were within hearing of the cry,
took, like a herd of raging wolves, the direction opposite to that which
Quentin, come life, come death, was determined to pursue.
    Bearing himself as if he were one, not of the conquered, but of the victors,
he made a way into the garden, and pushed across it, with less interruption than
he could have expected; for the cry of »To the western tower!« had carried off
one body of the assailants, and another was summoned together, by war-cry and
trumpet-sound, to assist in repelling a desperate sally, attempted by the
defenders of the Keep, who had hoped to cut their way out of the Castle, bearing
the Bishop along with them. Quentin, therefore, crossed the garden with an eager
step and throbbing heart, commending himself to those heavenly powers which had
protected him through the numberless perils of his life, and bold in his
determination to succeed, or leave his life in this desperate undertaking. Ere
he reached the garden, three men rushed on him with levelled lances, crying,
»Liege, Liege!«
    Putting himself in defence, but without striking, he replied, »France,
France, friend to Liege!«
    »Vivat France!« cried the burghers of Liege, and passed on. The same signal
proved a talisman to avert the weapons of four or five of La Marck's followers,
whom he found straggling in the garden, and who set upon him, crying,
»Sanglier!«
    In a word, Quentin began to hope, that his character as an emissary of King
Louis, the private instigator of the insurgents of Liege, and the secret
supporter of William de la Marck, might possibly bear him through the horrors of
the night.
    On reaching the turret, he shuddered when he found the little side-door,
through which Marthon and the Countess Hameline had shortly before joined him,
was now blockaded with more than one dead body.
    Two of them he dragged hastily aside, and was stepping over the third body,
in order to enter the portal, when the supposed dead man laid hand on his cloak,
and entreated him to stay and assist him to rise. Quentin was about to use
rougher methods than struggling to rid himself of this untimely obstruction,
when the fallen man continued to exclaim, »I am stifled here, in mine own
armour! - I am the Syndic Pavillon of Liege! If you are for us, I will enrich
you - if you are for the other side, I will protect you; but do not - do not
leave me to die the death of a smothered pig!«
    In the midst of this scene of blood and confusion, the presence of mind of
Quentin suggested to him, that this dignitary might have the means of protecting
their retreat. He raised him on his feet, and asked him if he was wounded.
    »Not wounded - at least I think not,« answered the burgher; »but much out of
wind.«
    »Sit down then on this stone, and recover your breath,« said Quentin; »I
will return instantly.«
    »For whom are you?« said the burgher, still detaining him.
    »For France - for France,« answered Quentin, studying to get away.
    »What! my lively young Archer?« said the worthy Syndic. »Nay, if it has been
my fate to find a friend in this fearful night, I will not quit him, I promise
you. Go where you will, I follow; and, could I get some of the tight lads of our
guildry together, I might be able to help you in turn; but they are all
squandered abroad like so many peas. - Oh, it is a fearful night!«
    During this time he was dragging himself on after Quentin, who, aware of the
importance of securing the countenance of a person of such influence, slackened
his pace to assist him, although cursing in his heart the encumbrance that
retarded his pace.
    At the top of the stair was an anteroom, with boxes and trunks, which bore
marks of having been rifled, as some of the contents lay on the floor. A lamp,
dying in the chimney, shed a feeble beam on a dead or senseless man, who lay
across the hearth.
    Bounding from Pavillon, like a greyhound from his keeper's leash, and with
an effort which almost overthrew him, Quentin sprung through a second and a
third room, the last of which seemed to be the bedroom of the Ladies of Croye.
No living mortal was to be seen in either of them. He called upon the Lady
Isabelle's name, at first gently, then more loudly, and then with an accent of
despairing emphasis; but no answer was returned. He wrung his hands, tore his
hair, and stamped on the earth with desperation. At length, a feeble glimmer of
light, which shone through a crevice in the wainscoting of a dark nook in the
bedroom, announced some recess or concealment behind the arras. Quentin hasted
to examine it. He found there was indeed a concealed door, but it resisted his
hurried efforts to open it. Heedless of the personal injury he might sustain, he
rushed at the door with his whole force and weight of his body; and such was the
impetus of an effort made betwixt hope and despair, that it would have burst
much stronger fastenings.
    He thus forced his way, almost headlong, into a small oratory, where a
female figure, which had been kneeling in agonising supplication before the holy
image, now sunk at length, on the floor, under the new terrors implied in this
approaching tumult. He hastily raised her from the ground, and, joy of joys! it
was she whom he sought to save - the Countess Isabelle. He pressed her to his
bosom - he conjured her to awake - entreated her to be of good cheer - for that
she was now under the protection of one who had heart and hand enough to defend
her against armies.
    »Durward!« she said, as she at length collected herself, »is it indeed you?
- then there is some hope left. I thought all living and mortal friends had left
me to my fate - Do not again abandon me!«
    »Never - never!« said Durward. »Whatever shall happen - whatever danger
shall approach, may I forfeit the benefits purchased by yonder blessed sign, if
I be not the sharer of your fate until it is again a happy one!«
    »Very pathetic and touching, truly,« said a rough, broken, asthmatic voice
behind - »A love affair, I see; and, from my soul, I pity the tender creature,
as if she were my own Trudchen.«
    »You must do more than pity us,« said Quentin, turning towards the speaker;
»you must assist in protecting us, Meinheer Pavillon. Be assured this lady was
put under my especial charge by your ally the King of France; and, if you aid me
not to shelter her from every species of offence and violence, your city will
lose the favour of Louis of Valois. Above all, she must be guarded from the
hands of William de la Marck.«
    »That will be difficult,« said Pavillon, »for these schelms of lanzknechts
are very devils at rummaging out the wenches; but I'll do my best - We will to
the other apartment, and there I will consider - It is but a narrow stair, and
you can keep the door with a pike, while I look from the window, and get
together some of my brisk boys of the curriers' guildry of Liege, that are as
true as the knives they wear in their girdles. - But first undo me these clasps
- - for I have not worn this corselet since the battle of Saint Tron;41 and I am
three stone heavier since that time, if there be truth in Dutch beam and scale.«
    The undoing of the iron enclosure gave great relief to the honest man, who,
in putting it on, had more considered his zeal to the cause of Liege, than his
capacity of bearing arms. It afterwards turned out, that being, as it were,
borne forward involuntarily, and hoisted over the walls by his company as they
thronged to the assault, the magistrate had been carried here and there, as the
tide of attack and defence flowed or ebbed, without the power, latterly, of even
uttering a word; until, as the sea casts a log of driftwood ashore in the first
creek, he had been ultimately thrown down in the entrance to the Ladies of
Croye's apartments, where the encumbrance of his own armour, with the
superincumbent weight of two men slain in the entrance, and who fell above him,
might have fixed him down long enough, had he not been relieved by Durward.
    The same warmth of temper which rendered Hermann Pavillon a hotheaded and
intemperate zealot in politics, had the more desirable consequence of making
him, in private, a good-tempered, kind-hearted man, who, if sometimes a little
misled by vanity, was always well-meaning and benevolent. He told Quentin to
have an especial care of the poor pretty yung frou; and, after this unnecessary
exhortation, began to halloo from the window, »Liege, Liege, for the gallant
skinners' guild of curriers!«
    One or two of his immediate followers collected at the summons, and at the
peculiar whistle with which it was accompanied (each of the crafts having such a
signal among themselves), and, more joining them, established a guard under the
window from which their leader was bawling, and before the postern-door.
    Matters seemed now settling into some sort of tranquillity. All opposition
had ceased, and the leaders of the different classes of assailants were taking
measures to prevent indiscriminate plunder. The great bell was tolled, a summons
to a military council, and its iron tongue communicating to Liege the triumphant
possession of Schonwaldt by the insurgents, was answered by all the bells in
that city; whose distant and clamorous voices seemed to cry, Hail to the
victors! It would have been natural, that Meinheer Pavillon should now have
sallied from his fastness; but either in reverent care of those whom he had
taken under his protection, or perhaps for the better assurance of his own
safety, he contented himself with despatching messenger on messenger, to command
his lieutenant, Peterkin Geislaer, to attend him directly.
    Peterkin came, at length, to his great relief, as being the person upon
whom, on all pressing occasions, whether of war, politics, or commerce, Pavillon
was most accustomed to repose confidence. He was a stout, squat figure, with a
square face, and broad black eyebrows, that announced him to be opinionative and
disputatious, - an advice-giving countenance, so to speak. He was endued with a
buff jerkin, wore a broad belt, and cutlass by his side, and carried a halberd
in his hand.
    »Peterkin, my dear lieutenant,« said his commander, »this has been a
glorious day - night I should say - I trust thou art pleased for once?«
    »I am well enough pleased that you are so,« said the doughty lieutenant;
»though I should not have thought of your celebrating the victory, if you call
it one, up in this garret by yourself, when you are wanted in council.«
    »But am, I wanted there?« said the Syndic.
    »Ay, marry are you, to stand up for the rights of Liege, that are in more
danger than ever,« answered the lieutenant.
    »Pshaw, Peterkin,« answered his principal, »thou art ever such a frampold
grumbler« -
    »Grumbler? not I,« said Peterkin; »what pleases other people will always
please me. Only I wish we have not got King Stork, instead of King Log, like the
fabliau that the Clerk of Saint Lambert's used to read us out of Meister's
Æsop's book.«
    »I cannot guess your meaning, Peterkin,« said the Syndic.
    »Why then, I tell you, Master Pavillon, that this Boar, or Bear, is like to
make his own den of Schonwaldt, and 'tis probable to turn out as bad a neighbour
to our town as ever was the old Bishop, and worse. Here has he taken the whole
conquest in his own hand, and is only doubting whether he should be called
Prince or Bishop; - and it is a shame to see how they have mishandled the old
man among them.«
    »I will not permit it, Peterkin,« said Pavillon, bustling up; »I disliked
the mitre, but not the head that wore it. We are ten to one in the field,
Peterkin, and will not permit these courses.«
    »Ay, ten to one in the field, but only man to man in the castle; besides
that Nikkel Blok the butcher and all the rabble of the suburbs, take part with
William de la Marck, partly for saus and braus (for he has broached all the
ale-tubs and wine-casks), and partly for old envy towards us, who are the
craftsmen, and have privileges.«
    »Peter,« said Pavillon, »we will go presently to the city. I will stay no
longer in Schonwaldt.«
    »But the bridges of this castle are up, master,« said Geislaer - »the gates
locked, and guarded by these lanzknechts; and, if we were to try to force our
way, these fellows, whose every-day business is war, might make wild work of us,
that only fight of a holiday.«
    »But why has he secured the gates?« said the alarmed burgher; »or what
business hath he to make honest men prisoners?«
    »I cannot tell - not I,« said Peter. »Some noise there is about the Ladies
of Croye, who have escaped during the storm of the castle. That first put the
Man with the Beard beside himself with anger, and now he's beside himself with
drink also.«
    The Burgomaster cast a disconsolate look towards Quentin, and seemed at a
loss what to resolve upon. Durward, who had not lost a word of the conversation,
which alarmed him very much, saw nevertheless that their only safety depended on
his preserving his own presence of mind, and sustaining the courage of Pavillon.
He struck boldly into the conversation, as one who had a right to have a voice
in the deliberation. - »I am ashamed,« he said, »Meinheer Pavillon, to observe
you hesitate what to do on this occasion. Go boldly to William de la Marck, and
demand free leave to quit the castle, you, your lieutenant, your squire, and
your daughter. He can have no pretence for keeping you prisoner.«
    »For me and my lieutenant - that is myself and Peter? - good - but who is my
squire?«
    »I am, for the present,« replied the undaunted Scot.
    »You!« said the embarrassed burgess; »but are you not the envoy of King
Louis of France!«
    »True, but my message is to the magistrates of Liege - and only in Liege
will I deliver it. - Were I to acknowledge my quality before William de la
Marck, must I not enter into negotiations with him? ay, and it is like, be
detained by him. You must get me secretly out of the castle in the capacity of
your squire.«
    »Good - my squire; - but you spoke of my daughter - my daughter is, I trust,
safe in my house in Liege - where I wish her father was, with all my heart and
soul.«
    »This lady,« said Durward, »will call you father while we are in this
place.«
    »And for my whole life afterwards,« said the Countess, throwing herself at
the citizen's feet, and clasping his knees. - »Never shall the day pass in which
I will not honour you, love you, and pray for you as a daughter for a father, if
you will but aid me in this fearful strait - Oh, be not hard-hearted! think your
own daughter may kneel to a stranger, to ask him for life and honour - think of
this, and give me the protection you would wish her to receive!«
    »In troth,« said the good citizen, much moved with her pathetic appeal - »I
think, Peter, that this pretty maiden hath a touch of our Trudchen's sweet look,
- I thought so from the first; and that this brisk youth here, who is so ready
with his advice, is somewhat like Trudchen's bachelor - I wager a groat, Peter,
that this is a true-love matter, and it is a sin not to farther it.«
    »It were shame and sin both,« said Peter, a good-natured Fleming,
notwithstanding all his self-conceit; and as he spoke he wiped his eyes with the
sleeve of his jerkin.
    »She shall be my daughter, then,« said Pavillon, »well wrapped up in her
black silk veil; and if there are not enough of true-hearted skinners to protect
her, being the daughter of their Syndic, it were pity they should ever tug
leather more. - But hark ye, - questions must be answered - How if I am asked
what should my daughter make here at such an onslaught?«
    »What should half the women in Liege make here when they followed us to the
Castle?« said Peter; »they had no other reason, sure, but that it was just the
place in the world that they should not have come to. - Our yung frou Trudchen
has come a little farther than the rest - that is all.«
    »Admirably spoken,« said Quentin; »only be bold, and take this gentleman's
good counsel, noble Meinheer Pavillon, and, at no trouble to yourself, you will
do the most worthy action since the days of Charlemagne. - Here, sweet lady,
wrap yourself close in this veil« (for many articles of female apparel lay
scattered about the apartment), - »be but confident, and a few minutes will
place you in freedom and safety. - Noble sir,« he added, addressing Pavillon,
»set forward.«
    »Hold - hold - hold a minute,« said Pavillon, »my mind misgives me! - This
De la Marck is a fury; a perfect boar in his nature as in his name; what if the
young lady be one of those of Croye? - and what if he discover her, and be
addicted to wrath?«
    »And if I were one of those unfortunate women,« said Isabelle, again
attempting to throw herself at his feet, »could you for that reject me in this
moment of despair? Oh, that I had been indeed your daughter, or the daughter of
the poorest burgher!«
    »Not so poor - not so poor neither, young lady - we pay as we go,« said the
citizen.
    »Forgive me, noble sir,« again began the unfortunate maiden.
    »Not noble, nor sir, neither,« said the Syndic; »a plain burgher of Liege,
that pays bills of exchange in ready guilders. - But that is nothing to the
purpose. - Well, say you be a countess, I will protect you nevertheless.«
    »You are bound to protect her, were she a duchess,« said Peter, »having once
passed your word.«
    »Right, Peter, very right,« said the Syndic; »it is our Low Dutch fashion,
Ein Wort, ein Mann; and now let us to this gear. We must take leave of this
William de la Marck; and yet I know not, my mind misgives me when I think of
him; and were it a ceremony which could be waved, I have no stomach to go
through it.«
    »Were you not better, since you have a force together, make for the gate and
force the guard?« said Quentin.
    But with united voice, Pavillon and his adviser exclaimed against the
propriety of such an attack upon their ally's soldiers, with some hints
concerning its rashness, which satisfied Quentin that it was not a risk to be
hazarded with such associates. They resolved, therefore, to repair boldly to the
great hall of the castle, where, as they understood, the Wild Boar of Ardennes
held his feast, and demand free egress for the Syndic of Liege and his company,
a request too reasonable, as it seemed, to be denied. Still the good Burgomaster
groaned when he looked on his companions, and exclaimed to his faithful Peter -
»See what it is to have too bold and too tender a heart! Alas! Perkin, how much
have courage and humanity cost me! and how much may I yet have to pay for my
virtues, before Heaven makes us free of this damned Castle of Schonwaldt!«
    As they crossed the courts still strewed with the dying and dead, Quentin,
while he supported Isabelle through the scene of horrors, whispered to her
courage and comfort, and reminded her that her safety depended entirely on her
firmness and presence of mind.
    »Not on mine - not on mine,« she said, »but on yours - on yours only. - Oh,
if I but escape this fearful night, never shall I forget him who saved me! One
favour more only, let me implore at your hand, and I conjure you to grant it, by
your mother's fame and your father's honour!«
    »What is it you can ask that I could refuse?« said Quentin, in a whisper.
    »Plunge your dagger in my heart,« said she, »rather than leave me captive in
the hands of these monsters.«
    Quentin's only answer was a pressure of the young Countess's hand, which
seemed as if, but for terror, it would have returned the caress. And, leaning on
her youthful protector, she entered the fearful hall, preceded by Pavillon and
his lieutenant, and followed by a dozen of the Kurschenschaft, or skinner's
trade, who attended, as a guard of honour, on the Syndic.
    As they approached the hall, the yells of acclamation, and bursts of wild
laughter, which proceeded from it, seemed rather to announce the revel of
festive demons, rejoicing after some accomplished triumph over the human race,
than of mortal beings, who had succeeded in a bold design. An emphatic tone of
mind, which despair alone could have inspired, supported the assumed courage of
the Countess Isabelle; undaunted spirits, which rose with the extremity,
maintained that of Durward; while Pavillon and his lieutenant made a virtue of
necessity, and faced their fate like bears bound to a stake, which must
necessarily stand the dangers of the course.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Second

                                 The Revellers.

            Cade. - Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford?
             Dick. - Here, sir.
             Cade. - They fell before thee like sheep and oxen; and thou
            behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughterhouse.
                                                   Second Part of King Henry VI.
 
There could hardly exist a more strange and horrible change than had taken place
in the castle-hall of Schonwaldt since Quentin had partaken of the noontide meal
there; and it was indeed one which painted, in the extremity of their dreadful
features, the miseries of war - more especially when waged by those most
relentless of all agents, the mercenary soldiers of a barbarous age - men who,
by habit and profession, had become familiarised with all that was cruel and
bloody in the art of war, while they were devoid alike of patriotism, and of the
romantic spirit of chivalry.
    Instead of the orderly, decent, and somewhat formal meal, at which civil and
ecclesiastical officers had, a few hours before, sat mingled in the same
apartment, where a light jest could only be uttered in a whisper, and where,
even amid superfluity of feasting and of wine, there reigned a decorum which
almost amounted to hypocrisy, there was now such a scene of wild and roaring
debauchery, as Satan himself, had he taken the chair as founder of the feast,
could scarcely have improved.
    At the head of the table sat, in the Bishop's throne and state, which had
been hastily brought thither from his great council-chamber, the redoubted Boar
of Ardennes himself, well deserving that dreaded name, in which he affected to
delight, and which he did as much as he could think of to deserve. His head was
unhelmeted, but he wore the rest of his ponderous and bright armour, which
indeed he rarely laid aside. Over his shoulders hung a strong surcoat, made of
the dressed skin of a huge wild boar, the hoofs being of solid silver, and the
tusks of the same. The skin of the head was so arranged, that drawn over the
casque, when the Baron was armed, or over his bare head, in the fashion of a
hood, as he often affected when the helmet was laid aside, and as he now wore
it, the effect was that of a grinning ghastly monster; and yet the countenance
which it overshadowed scarce required such horrors to improve those which were
natural to its ordinary expression.
    The upper part of De la Marck's face, as Nature had formed it, almost gave
the lie to his character; for though his hair, when uncovered, resembled the
rude and wild bristles of the hood he had drawn over it, yet an open, high, and
manly forehead, broad ruddy cheeks, large, sparkling, light-coloured eyes, and a
nose hooked like the beak of the eagle, promised something valiant and generous.
But the effect of these more favourable traits was entirely overpowered by his
habits of violence and insolence, which, joined to debauchery and intemperance,
had stamped upon the features a character inconsistent with the rough gallantry
which they would otherwise have exhibited. The former had, from habitual
indulgence, swollen the muscles of the cheeks, and those around the eyes, in
particular the latter; evil practices and habits had dimmed the eyes themselves,
reddened the part of them that should have been white, and given the whole face
a hideous likeness of the monster, which it was the terrible Baron's pleasure to
resemble. But, from an odd sort of contradiction, De la Marck, while he assumed
in other respects the appearance of the Wild Boar, and even seemed pleased with
the name, yet endeavoured, by the length and growth of his beard, to conceal the
circumstance that had originally procured him that denomination. This was an
unusual thickness and projection of the mouth and upper jaw, which, with the
huge projecting side teeth, gave that resemblance to the bestial creation,
which, joined to the delight that De la Marck had in hunting the forest so
called, originally procured for him the name of the Boar of Ardennes. The beard,
broad, grisly, and uncombed, neither concealed the natural horrors of the
countenance, nor dignified its brutal expression.
    The soldiers and officers sat around the table, intermixed with the men of
Liege, some of them of the very lowest description; among whom Nikkel Blok the
butcher, placed near De la Marck himself, was distinguished by his tucked-up
sleeves, which displayed arms smeared to the elbows with blood, as was the
cleaver which lay on the table before him. The soldiers wore, most of them,
their beards long and grisly, in imitation of their leader; had their hair
plaited and turned upwards in the manner that might best improve the natural
ferocity of their appearance; and intoxicated, as many of them seemed to be,
partly with the sense of triumph, and partly with the long libations of wine
which they had been quaffing, presented a spectacle at once hideous and
disgusting. The language which they held, and the songs which they sung, without
even pretending to pay each other the compliment of listening, were so full of
license and blasphemy, that Quentin blessed God that the extremity of the noise
prevented them from being intelligible to his companion.
    It only remains to say, of the better class of burghers who were associated
with William de la Marck's soldiers in this fearful revel, that the wan faces
and anxious mien of the greater part, showed that they either disliked their
entertainment, or feared their companions; while some of lower education, or a
nature more brutal, saw only in the excesses of the soldier a gallant bearing,
which they would willingly imitate, and the tone of which they endeavoured to
catch so far as was possible, and stimulated themselves to the task by
swallowing immense draughts of wine and Schwarzbier - indulging a vice which at
all times was too common in the Low Countries.
    The preparations for the feast had been as disorderly as the quality of the
company. The whole of the Bishop's plate - nay, even that belonging to the
service of the Church - for the Boar of Ardennes regarded not the imputation of
sacrilege - was mingled with black-jacks, or huge tankards made of leather, and
drinking-horns of the most ordinary description.
    One circumstance of horror remains to be added and accounted for; and we
willingly leave the rest of the scene to the imagination of the reader. Amidst
the wild license assumed by the soldiers of De la Marck, one who was excluded
from the table (a lanzknecht, remarkable for his courage and for his daring
behaviour during the storm of the evening), had impudently snatched up a large
silver goblet, and carried it off, declaring it should atone for his loss of the
share of the feast. The leader laughed till his sides shook at a jest so
congenial to the character of the company; but when another, less renowned, it
would seem, for audacity in battle, ventured on using the same freedom, De la
Marck instantly put a check to a jocular practice, which would soon have cleared
his table of all the more valuable decorations. - »Ho! by the spirit of the
thunder!« he exclaimed, »those who dare not be men when they face the enemy,
must not pretend to be thieves among their friends. What! thou frontless
dastard, thou - thou who didst wait for opened gate and lowered bridge, when
Conrade Horst forced his way over moat and wall, must thou be malapert! - Knit
him up to the stanchions of the hall-window! - He shall beat time with his feet,
while we drink a cup to his safe passage to the devil.«
    The doom was scarce sooner pronounced than accomplished; and in a moment the
wretch wrestled out his last agonies, suspended from the iron bars. His body
still hung there when Quentin and the others entered the hall, and, intercepting
the pale moonbeam, threw on the castle-floor an uncertain shadow, which
dubiously, yet fearfully, intimated the nature of the substance that produced
it.
    When the Syndic Pavillon was announced from mouth to mouth in this
tumultuous meeting, he endeavoured to assume, in right of his authority and
influence, an air of importance and equality, which a glance at the fearful
object at the window, and at the wild scene around him, rendered it very
difficult for him to sustain, notwithstanding the exhortations of Peter, who
whispered in his ear, with some perturbation, »Up heart, master, or we are but
gone men!«
    The Syndic maintained his dignity, however, as well as he could, in a short
address, in which he complimented the company upon the great victory gained by
the soldiers of De la Marck and the good citizens of Liege.
    »Ay,« answered De la Marck, sarcastically, »we have brought down the game at
last, quoth my lady's brach to the wolf-hound. But ho! Sir Burgomaster, you come
like Mars, with Beauty by your side. Who is this fair one? - Unveil, unveil - no
woman calls her beauty her own to-night.«
    »It is my daughter, noble leader,« answered Pavillon; »and I am to pray your
forgiveness for her wearing her veil. She has a vow for that effect to the Three
blessed Kings.«
    »I will absolve her of it presently,« said De la Marck; »for here, with one
stroke of a cleaver, will I consecrate myself Bishop of Liege; and I trust one
living bishop is worth three dead kings.«
    There was a shuddering and murmur among the guests; for the community of
Liege, and even some of the rude soldiers reverenced the Kings of Cologne, as
they were commonly called, though they respected nothing else.
    »Nay, I mean no treason against their defunct majesties,« said De la Marck;
»only Bishop I am determined to be. A prince both secular and ecclesiastical,
having power to bind and loose, will best suit a band of reprobates such as you,
to whom no one else would give absolution. - But come hither, noble Burgomaster
- sit beside me, when you shall see me make a vacancy for my own preferment.
Bring in our predecessor in the holy seat.«
    A bustle took place in the hall, while Pavillon, excusing himself from the
proffered seat of honour, placed himself near the bottom of the table, his
followers keeping close behind him, not unlike a flock of sheep which, when a
stranger dog is in presence, may be sometimes seen to assemble in the rear of an
old bell-wether, who is, from office and authority, judged by them to have
rather more courage than themselves. Near the spot sat a very handsome lad, a
natural son, as was said, of the ferocious De la Marck, and towards whom he
sometimes showed affection, and even tenderness. The mother of the boy, a
beautiful concubine, had perished by a blow dealt her by the ferocious leader in
a fit of drunkenness or jealousy; and her fate had caused her tyrant as much
remorse as he was capable of feeling. His attachment to the surviving orphan
might be partly owing to these circumstances. Quentin, who had learned this
point of the leader's character from the old priest, planted himself as close as
he could to the youth in question; determined to make him, in some way or other,
either a hostage or a protector, should other means of safety fail them.
    While all stood in a kind of suspense, waiting the event of the orders which
the tyrant had issued, one of Pavillon's followers whispered Peter, »Did not our
master call that wench his daughter? - Why it cannot be our Trudchen. This
strapping lass is taller by two inches; and there is a black lock of hair peeps
forth yonder from under her veil. By Saint Michael of the Market-place, you
might as well call a black bullock's hide a white heifer's!«
    »Hush! hush!« said Peter, with some presence of mind - »What if our master
hath a mind to steal a piece of doevenison out of the Bishop's park here,
without our good dame's knowledge? And is it for thee or me to be a spy on him?«
    »That will not I, brother,« answered the other, »though I would not have
thought of his turning deer-stealer at his years. Sapperment - what a shy fairy
it is! See how she crouches down on yonder seat, behind folk's backs, to escape
the gaze of the Marckers. - But hold, hold; what are they about to do with the
poor old Bishop?«
    As he spoke, the Bishop of Liege, Louis of Bourbon, was dragged into the
hall of his own palace, by the brutal soldiery. The dishevelled state of his
hair, beard, and attire, bore witness to the ill-treatment he had already
received; and some of his sacerdotal robes, hastily flung over him, appeared to
have been put on in scorn and ridicule of his quality and character. By good
fortune, as Quentin was compelled to think it, the Countess Isabelle, whose
feelings at seeing her protector in such an extremity, might have betrayed her
own secret and compromised her safety, was so situated as neither to hear nor
see what was about to take place; and Durward sedulously interposed his own
person before her, so as to keep her from observing alike, and from observation.
    The scene which followed was short and fearful. When the unhappy Prelate was
brought before the footstool of the savage leader, although in former life only
remarkable for his easy and good-natured temper, he showed in this extremity a
sense of his dignity and noble blood, well becoming the high race from which he
was descended. His look was composed and undismayed; his gesture, when the rude
hands which dragged him forward were unloosed, was noble, and at the same time
resigned, somewhat between the bearing of a feudal noble, and of a Christian
martyr; and so much was even De la Marck himself staggered by the firm demeanour
of his prisoner, and recollection of the early benefits he had received from
him, that he seemed irresolute, cast down his eyes, and it was not until he had
emptied a large goblet of wine, that, resuming his haughty insolence of look and
manner, he thus addressed his unfortunate captive: - »Louis of Bourbon,« said
the truculent soldier, drawing hard his breath, clenching his hands, setting his
teeth, and using the other mechanical actions to rouse up and sustain his native
ferocity of temper - »I sought your friendship, and you rejected mine. What
would you now give that it had been otherwise? - Nikkel, be ready.«
    The butcher rose, seized his weapon, and stealing round behind De la Marck's
chair, stood with it uplifted in his bare and sinewy arms.
    »Look at that man, Louis of Bourbon,« said De la Marck again - »What terms
wilt thou now offer, to escape this dangerous hour?«
    The Bishop cast a melancholy but unshaken look upon the grisly satellite,
who seemed prepared to execute the will of the tyrant, and then he said with
firmness, »Hear me, William de la Marck; and good men all, if there be any here
who deserve that name, hear the only terms I can offer to this ruffian. -
William de la Marck, thou hast stirred up to sedition an imperial city - hast
assaulted and taken the palace of a Prince of the Holy German Empire - slain his
people - plundered his goods - maltreated his person; for this thou art liable
to the Ban of the Empire - hast deserved to be declared outlawed and fugitive,
landless and rightless. Thou hast done more than all this. More than mere human
laws hast thou broken - more than mere human vengeance hast thou deserved. Thou
hast broken into the sanctuary of the Lord - laid violent hands upon a Father of
the Church - defiled the house of God with blood and rapine, like a sacrilegious
robber« -
    »Hast thou yet done?« said De la Marck, fiercely interrupting him, and
stamping with his foot.
    »No,« answered the Prelate, »for I have not yet told thee the terms which
you demanded to hear from me.«
    »Go on,« said De la Marck; »and let the terms please me better than the
preface, or woe to thy grey head!« And flinging himself back in his seat, he
grinded his teeth till the foam flew from his lips, as from the tusks of the
savage animal whose name and spoils he wore.
    »Such are thy crimes,« resumed the Bishop, with calm determination; »now
hear the terms, which, as a merciful Prince and a Christian Prelate, setting
aside all personal offence, forgiving each peculiar injury, I condescend to
offer. Fling down thy leading-staff - renounce thy command - unbind thy
prisoners - restore thy spoil - distribute what else thou hast of goods, to
relieve those whom thou hast made orphans and widows - array thyself in
sackcloth and ashes - take a palmer's staff in thy hand, and go barefooted on
pilgrimage to Rome, and we will ourselves be intercessors for thee with the
Imperial Chamber at Ratisbon for thy life, with our Holy Father the Pope for thy
miserable soul.«
    While Louis of Bourbon proposed these terms, in a tone as decided as if he
still occupied his episcopal throne, and as if the usurper kneeled a suppliant
at his feet, the tyrant slowly raised himself in his chair, the amazement with
which he was at first filled giving way gradually to rage, until, as the Bishop
ceased, he looked to Nikkel Blok, and raised his finger, without speaking a
word. The ruffian struck as if he had been doing his office in the common
shambles, and the murdered Bishop sunk, without a groan, at the foot of his own
episcopal throne.42 The Liegeois, who were not prepared for so horrible a
catastrophe, and who had expected to hear the conference end in some terms of
accommodation, started up unanimously, with cries of execration, mingled with
shouts of vengeance.
    But William de la Marck, raising his tremendous voice above the tumult, and
shaking his clenched hand and extended arm, shouted aloud, »How now, ye porkers
of Liege! ye wallowers in the mud of the Maes! - do ye dare to mate yourselves
with the Wild Boar of Ardennes? - Up, ye Boar's brood!« (an expression by which
he himself, and others, often designated his soldiers) »let these Flemish hogs
see your tusks!«
    Every one of his followers started up at the command, and mingled as they
were among their late allies, prepared too for such a surprisal, each had, in an
instant, his next neighbour by the collar, while his right hand brandished a
broad dagger, that glimmered against lamplight and moonshine. Every arm was
uplifted, but no one struck; for the victims were too much surprised for
resistance, and it was probably the object of De la Marck only to impose terror
on his civic confederates.
    But the courage of Quentin Durward, prompt and alert in resolution beyond
his years, and stimulated at the moment by all that could add energy to his
natural shrewdness and resolution, gave a new turn to the scene. Imitating the
action of the followers of De la Marck, he sprung on Carl Eberson, the son of
their leader, and mastering him with ease, held his dirk at the boy's throat,
while he exclaimed, »Is that your game? then here I play my part.« »Hold! hold!«
exclaimed De la Marck, »it is a jest - a jest - Think you I would injure my good
friends and allies of the city of Liege! - Soldiers, unloose your holds; sit
down; take away the carrion« (giving the Bishop's corpse a thrust with his
foot), »which hath caused this strife among friends, and let us drown unkindness
in a fresh carouse.«
    All unloosened their holds, and the citizens and the soldiers stood gazing
on each other, as if they scarce knew whether they were friends or foes. Quentin
Durward took advantage of the moment.
    »Hear me,« he said, »William de la Marck, and you burghers and citizens of
Liege; - and do you, young sir, stand still« (for the boy Carl was attempting to
escape from his gripe); »no harm shall befall you unless another of these sharp
jests shall pass round.«
    »Who art thou, in the fiend's name,« said the astonished De la Marck, »who
art come to hold terms and take hostages from us in our own lair - from us who
exact pledges from others, but yield them to no one?«
    »I am a servant of King Louis of France,« said Quentin, boldly; »an Archer
of his Scottish Guard, as my language and dress may partly tell you. I am here
to behold and to report your proceedings; and I see with wonder, that they are
those of heathens rather than Christians - of madmen, rather than men possessed
of reason. The hosts of Charles of Burgundy will be instantly in motion against
you all; and if you wish assistance from France, you must conduct yourself in a
different manner. - For you, men of Liege, I advise your instant return to your
own city; and if there is any obstruction offered to your departure, I denounce
those by whom it is so offered, foes to my master, his Most Gracious Majesty of
France.«
    »France and Liege! France and Liege!« cried the followers of Pavillon, and
several other citizens, whose courage began to rise at the bold language held by
Quentin.
    »France and Liege, and long live the gallant Archer! We will live and die
with him!«
    William de la Marck's eyes sparkled, and he grasped his dagger, as if about
to launch it at the heart of the audacious speaker; but glancing his eye around,
he read something in the looks of his soldiers, which even he was obliged to
respect. Many of them were Frenchmen, and all of them knew the private support
which William had received, both in men and in money, from that kingdom; nay,
some of them were rather startled at the violent and sacrilegious action which
had been just committed. The name of Charles of Burgundy, a person likely to
resent to the utmost the deeds of that night, had an alarming sound, and the
extreme impolicy of at once quarrelling with the Liegeois and provoking the
Monarch of France, made an appalling impression on their minds, confused as
their intellects were. De la Marck, in short, saw he would not be supported,
even by his own band, in any farther act of immediate violence, and relaxing the
terrors of his brow and eye, declared that »he had not the least design against
his good friends of Liege, all of whom were at liberty to depart from Schonwaldt
at their pleasure; although he had hoped they would revel one night with him, at
least, in honour of their victory.« He added, with more calmness than he
commonly used, that »he would be ready to enter into negotiation concerning the
partition of spoil, and the arrangement of measures for their mutual defence,
either the next day, or as soon after as they would. Meantime he trusted that
the Scottish gentleman would honour his feast by remaining all night at
Schonwaldt.«
    The young Scot returned his thanks, but said, his motions must be determined
by those of Pavillon, to whom he was directed particularly to attach himself;
but that, unquestionably, he would attend him on his next return to the quarters
of the valiant William de la Marck.
    »If you depend on my motions,« said Pavillon, hastily and aloud, »you are
likely to quit Schonwaldt without an instant's delay; - and, if you do not come
back to Schonwaldt, save in my company, you are not likely to see it again in a
hurry.«
    This last part of the sentence the honest citizen muttered to himself,
afraid of the consequences of giving audible vent to feelings, which,
nevertheless, he was unable altogether to suppress.
    »Keep close about me, my brisk Kurschner lads,« he said to his body-guard,
»and we will get as fast as we can out of this den of thieves.«
    Most of the better classes of the Liegeois seemed to entertain similar
opinions with the Syndic, and there had been scarce so much joy amongst them at
the obtaining possession of Schonwaldt, as now seemed to arise from the prospect
of getting safe out of it. They were suffered to leave the castle without
opposition of any kind; and glad was Quentin when he turned his back on those
formidable walls.
    For the first time since they had entered that dreadful hall, Quentin
ventured to ask the young Countess how she did.
    »Well, well,« she answered, in feverish haste, »excellently well - do not
stop to ask a question; let us not lose an instant in words - Let us fly - let
us fly!«
    She endeavoured to mend her pace as she spoke; but with so little success,
that she must have fallen from exhaustion had not Durward supported her. With
the tenderness of a mother, when she conveys her infant out of danger, the young
Scot raised his precious charge in his arms; and while she encircled his neck
with one arm, lost to every other thought save the desire of escaping, he would
not have wished one of the risks of the night unencountered, since such had been
the conclusion.
    The honest Burgomaster was, in his turn, supported and dragged forward by
his faithful counsellor Peter, and another of his clerks; and thus, in
breathless haste, they reached the banks of the river, encountering many
strolling bands of citizens, who were eager to know the events of the siege, and
the truth of certain rumours already afloat, that the conquerors had quarrelled
among themselves.
    Evading their curiosity as they best could, the exertions of Peter and some
of his companions at length procured a boat for the use of the company, and with
it an opportunity of enjoying some repose, equally welcome to Isabelle, who
continued to lie almost motionless in the arms of her deliverer, and to the
worthy Burgomaster, who, after delivering a broken string of thanks to Durward,
whose mind was at the time too much occupied to answer him, began a long
harangue, which he addressed to Peter, upon his own courage and benevolence, and
the dangers to which these virtues had exposed him, on this and other occasions.
    »Peter, Peter,« he said, resuming the complaint of the preceding evening,
»if I had not had a bold heart, I would never have stood out against paying the
burghers-twentieths, when every other living soul was willing to pay the same. -
Ay, and then a less stout heart had not seduced me into that other battle of
Saint Tron, where a Hainault man-at-arms thrust me into a muddy ditch with his
lance, which neither heart nor hand that I had could help me out of, till the
battle was over. - Ay, and then, Peter, this very night my courage seduced me,
moreover, into too strait a corselet, which would have been the death of me, but
for the aid of this gallant young gentleman, whose trade is fighting, whereof I
wish him heartily joy. And then for my tenderness of heart, Peter, it has made a
poor man of me - that is, it would have made a poor man of me, if I had not been
tolerably well to pass in this wicked world; - and Heaven knows what trouble it
is likely to bring on me yet, with ladies, countesses, and keeping of secrets,
which, for aught I know, may cost me half my fortune, and my neck into the
bargain!«
    Quentin could remain no longer silent, but assured him, that whatever danger
or damage he should incur on the part of the young lady now under his
protection, should be thankfully acknowledged, and, as far as was possible,
repaid.
    »I thank you, young Master Squire Archer, I thank you,« answered the citizen
of Liege; »but who was it told you that I desired any repayment at your hand for
doing the duty of an honest man? I only regretted that it might cost me so and
so; and I hope I may have leave to say so much to my lieutenant, without either
grudging my loss or my peril.«
    Quentin accordingly concluded that his present friend was one of the
numerous class of benefactors to others, who take out their reward in grumbling,
without meaning more than, by showing their grievances, to exalt a little the
idea of the valuable service by which they have incurred them, and therefore
prudently remained silent, and suffered the Syndic to maunder on to his
lieutenant concerning the risk and the loss he had encountered by his zeal for
the public good, and his disinterested services to individuals, until they
reached his own habitation.
    The truth was, that the honest citizen felt that he had lost a little
consequence, by suffering the young stranger to take the lead at the crisis
which had occurred at the castle-hall of Schonwaldt; and however delighted with
the effect of Durward's interference at the moment, it seemed to him, on
reflection, that he had sustained a diminution of importance, for which he
endeavoured to obtain compensation, by exaggerating the claims which he had upon
the gratitude of his country in general, his friends in particular, and more
especially still, on the Countess of Croye, and her youthful protector.
    But when the boat stopped at the bottom of his garden, and he had got
himself assisted on shore by Peter, it seemed as if the touch of his own
threshold had at once dissipated those feelings of wounded self-opinion and
jealousy, and converted the discontented and obscured demagogue into the honest,
kind, hospitable, and friendly host. He called loudly for Trudchen, who
presently appeared; for fear and anxiety would permit few within the walls of
Liege to sleep during that eventful night. She was charged to pay the utmost
attention to the care of the beautiful and half-fainting stranger; and, admiring
her personal charms, while she pitied her distress, Gertrude discharged the
hospitable duty with the zeal and affection of a sister.
    Late as it now was, and fatigued as the Syndic appeared, Quentin, on his
side, had difficulty to escape a flask of choice and costly wine, as old as the
battle of Azincour; and must have submitted to take his share, however
unwilling, but for the appearance of the mother of the family, whom Pavillon's
loud summons for the keys of the cellar brought forth from her bedroom. She was
a jolly little round-about woman, who had been pretty in her time, but whose
principal characteristics for several years had been a red and sharp nose, a
shrill voice, and a determination that the Syndic, in consideration of the
authority which he exercised when abroad, should remain under the rule of due
discipline at home.
    So soon as she understood the nature of the debate between her husband and
his guest, she declared roundly, that the former, instead of having occasion for
more wine, had got too much already; and, far from using, in furtherance of his
request, any of the huge bunch of keys which hung by a silver chain at her
waist, she turned her back on him without ceremony, and ushered Quentin to the
neat and pleasant apartment in which he was to spend the night, amid such
appliances to rest and comfort as probably he had till that moment been entirely
a stranger to; so much did the wealthy Flemings excel, not merely the poor and
rude Scots, but the French themselves, in all the conveniences of domestic life.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Third

                                  The Flight.

 -- Now bid me run,
 And I will strive with things impossible;
 Yea, get the better of them.

 -- Set on your foot;
 And, with a heart new fired, I follow you,
 To do I know not what.
                                                                   Julius Cæsar.
 
In spite of a mixture of joy and fear, doubt, anxiety, and other agitating
passions, the exhausting fatigues of the preceding day were powerful enough to
throw the young Scot into a deep and profound repose, which lasted until late on
the day following; when his worthy host entered the apartment, with looks of
care on his brow.
    He seated himself by his guest's bedside, and began a long and complicated
discourse upon the domestic duties of a married life, and especially upon the
awful power and right supremacy which it became married men to sustain in all
differences of opinion with their wives. Quentin listened with some anxiety. He
knew that husbands, like other belligerent powers, were sometimes disposed to
sing Te Deum, rather to conceal a defeat than to celebrate a victory; and he
hastened to probe the matter more closely, »by hoping their arrival had been
attended with no inconvenience to the good lady of the household.«
    »Inconvenience! - no,« answered the Burgomaster - »No woman can be less
taken unawares than Mother Mabel - always happy to see her friends - always a
clean lodging and a handsome meal ready for them, with God's blessing on bed and
board - No woman on earth so hospitable - only 'tis pity her temper is something
particular.«
    »Our residence here is disagreeable to her, in short?« said the Scot,
starting out of bed, and beginning to dress himself hastily. »Were I but sure
the Lady Isabelle were fit for travel after the horrors of the last night, we
would not increase the offence by remaining here an instant longer.«
    »Nay,« said Pavillon, »that is just what the young lady herself said to
Mother Mabel; and truly I wish you saw the colour that came to her face when she
said it - a milkmaid that has skated five miles to market against the frost-wind
is a lily compared to it - I do not wonder Mother Mabel may be a little jealous,
poor dear soul.«
    »Has the Lady Isabelle then left her apartment?« said the youth, continuing
his toilette operations with more despatch than before.
    »Yes,« replied Pavillon; »and she expects your approach with much
impatience, to determine which way you shall go - since you are both determined
on going. But I trust you will tarry breakfast?«
    »Why did you not tell me this sooner?« said Durward, impatiently.
    »Softly - softly,« said the Syndic; »I have told you too soon, I think, if
it puts you into such a hasty fluster. Now I have some more matter for your ear,
if I saw you had some patience to listen to me.«
    »Speak it, worthy sir, as soon and as fast as you can - I listen devoutly.«
    »Well then,« resumed the Burgomaster, »I have but one word to say, and that
is, that Trudchen, who is as sorry to part with yonder pretty lady as if she had
been some sister of hers, wants you to take some other disguise, for there is
word in the town that the Ladies of Croye travel the country in pilgrim's
dresses, attended by a French life-guardsman of the Scottish Archers; and it is
said one of them was brought into Schonwaldt last night by a Bohemian after we
had left it; and it was said still farther, that this same Bohemian had assured
William de la Marck that you were charged with no message either to him or to
the good people of Liege, and that you had stolen away the young Countess, and
travelled with her as her paramour. And all this news hath come from Schonwaldt
this morning; and it has been told to us and the other councillors, who know not
well what to advise; for though our own opinion is that William de la Marck has
been a thought too rough both with the Bishop and with ourselves, yet there is a
great belief that he is a good-natured soul at bottom - that is, when he is
sober - and that he is the only leader in the world to command us against the
Duke of Burgundy; - and, in truth, as matters stand, it is partly my own mind
that we must keep fair with him, for we have gone too far to draw back.«
    »Your daughter advises well,« said Quentin Durward, abstaining from
reproaches or exhortations, which he saw would be alike unavailing to sway a
resolution, which had been adopted by the worthy magistrate in compliance at
once with the prejudices of his party and the inclination of his wife - »Your
daughter counsels well - We must part in disguise, and that instantly. We may, I
trust, rely upon you for the necessary secrecy, and for the means of escape?«
    »With all my heart - with all my heart,« said the honest citizen, who, not
much satisfied with the dignity of his own conduct, was eager to find some mode
of atonement. »I cannot but remember that I owed you my life last night, both
for unclasping that accursed steel doublet, and helping me through the other
scrape, which was worse; for yonder Boar and his brood look more like devils
than men. So I will be true to you as blade to haft, as our cutlers say, who are
the best in the whole world. Nay, now you are ready, come this way - you shall
see how far I can trust you.«
    The Syndic led him from the chamber in which he had slept to his own
counting-room, in which he transacted his affairs of business; and after bolting
the door, and casting a piercing and careful eye around him, he opened a
concealed and vaulted closet behind the tapestry, in which stood more than one
iron chest. He proceeded to open one which was full of guilders, and placed it
at Quentin's discretion, to take whatever sum he might think necessary for his
companion's expenses and his own.
    As the money with which Quentin was furnished on leaving Plessis was now
nearly expended, he hesitated not to accept the sum of two hundred guilders; and
by doing so took a great weight from the mind of Pavillon, who considered the
desperate transaction in which he thus voluntarily became the creditor, as an
atonement for the breach of hospitality which various considerations in a great
measure compelled him to commit.
    Having carefully locked his treasure-chamber, the wealthy Fleming next
conveyed his guest to the parlour, where, in full possession of her activity of
mind and body, though pale from the scenes of the preceding night, he found the
Countess attired in the fashion of a Flemish maiden of the middling class. No
other was present excepting Trudchen, who was sedulously employed in completing
the Countess's dress, and instructing her how to bear herself. She extended her
hand to him, which, when he had reverently kissed, she said to him, »Seignior
Quentin, we must leave our friends here unless I would bring on them a part of
the misery which has pursued me ever since my father's death. You must change
your dress and go with me, unless you also are tired of befriending a being so
unfortunate.«
    »I! - I tired of being your attendant! - To the end of the earth will I
guard you! But you - you yourself - are you equal to the task you undertake? -
Can you, after the terrors of last night« -
    »Do not recall them to my memory,« answered the Countess; »I remember but
the confusion of a horrid dream. - Has the excellent Bishop escaped?«
    »I trust he is in freedom,« said Quentin, making a sign to Pavillon, who
seemed about to enter on the dreadful narrative, to be silent.
    »Is it possible for us to rejoin him; - Hath he gathered any power?« said
the lady.
    »His only hopes are in Heaven,« said the Scot; »but wherever you wish to go,
I stand by your side, a determined guide and guard.«
    »We will consider,« said Isabelle; and, after a moment's pause, she added,
»A convent would be my choice, but that I fear it would prove a weak defence
against those who pursue me.«
    »Hem! hem!« said the Syndic; »I could not well recommend a convent within
the district of Liege; because the Boar of Ardennes, though in the main a brave
leader, a trusty confederate, and a well-wisher to our city, has, nevertheless,
rough humours, and payeth, on the whole, little regard to cloisters, convents,
nunneries, and the like. Men say that there are a score of nuns - that is, such
as were nuns - who march always with his company.«
    »Get yourself in readiness hastily, Seignior Durward,« said Isabelle,
interrupting this detail, »since to your faith I must needs commit myself.«
    No sooner had the Syndic and Quentin left the room, than Isabelle began to
ask of Gertrude various questions concerning the roads, and so forth, with such
clearness of spirit and pertinence, that the latter could not help exclaiming,
»Lady, I wonder at you! - I have heard of masculine firmness, but yours appears
to me more than belongs to humanity.«
    »Necessity,« answered the Countess - »necessity, my friend, is the mother of
courage, as of invention. No long time since, I might have fainted when I saw a
drop of blood shed from a trifling cut - I have since seen life-blood flow
around me, I may say, in waves, yet I have retained my senses and my
self-possession. - Do not think it was an easy task,« she added, laying on
Gertrude's arm a trembling hand, although she still spoke with a firm voice;
»the little world within me is like a garrison besieged by a thousand foes, whom
nothing but the most determined resolution can keep from storming it on every
hand, and at every moment. Were my situation one whit less perilous than it is -
were I not sensible that my only chance to escape a fate more horrible than
death, is to retain my recollection and self-possession - Gertrude, I would at
this moment throw myself into your arms, and relieve my bursting bosom by such a
transport of tears and agony of terror, as never rushed from a breaking heart!«
    »Do not do so, lady!« said the sympathising Fleming; »take courage, tell
your beads, throw yourself on the care of Heaven; and surely, if ever Heaven
sent a deliverer to one ready to perish, that bold and adventurous young
gentleman must be designed for yours. There is one, too,« she added, blushing
deeply, »in whom I have some interest. Say nothing to my father; but I have
ordered my bachelor, Hans Glover, to wait for you at the eastern gate, and never
to see my face more, unless he brings word that he has guided you safe from the
territory.«
    To kiss her tenderly was the only way in which the young Countess could
express her thanks to the frank and kind-hearted city-maiden, who returned the
embrace affectionately, and added, with a smile, »Nay, if two maidens and their
devoted bachelors cannot succeed in a disguise and an escape, the world is
changed from what I am told it wont to be.«
    A part of this speech again called the colour into the Countess's pale
cheeks, which was not lessened by Quentin's sudden appearance. He entered
completely attired as a Flemish boor of the better class, in the holyday suit of
Peter, who expressed his interest in the young Scot by the readiness with which
he parted with it for his use; and swore, at the same time, that were he to be
curried and tugged worse than ever was bullock's hide, they should make nothing
out of him, to the betraying of the young folks. Two stout horses had been
provided by the activity of Mother Mabel, who really desired the Countess and
her attendant no harm, so that she could make her own house and family clear of
the dangers which might attend upon harbouring them. She beheld them mount and
go off with great satisfaction, after telling them that they would find their
way to the east gate by keeping their eye on Peter, who was to walk in that
direction as their guide, but without holding any visible communication with
them. The instant her guests had departed, Mother Mabel took the opportunity to
read a long practical lecture to Trudchen upon the folly of reading romances,
whereby the flaunting ladies of the Court were grown so bold and venturous,
that, instead of applying to learn some honest housewifery, they must ride,
for-sooth, a damsel-erranting through the country, with no better attendant than
some idle squire, debauched page, or rake-helly archer from foreign parts, to
the great danger of their health, the impoverishing of their substance, and the
irreparable prejudice of their reputation.
    All this Gertrude heard in silence, and without reply; but, considering her
character, it might be doubted whether she derived from it the practical
inference which it was her mother's purpose to enforce.
    Meantime, the travellers had gained the eastern gate of the city, traversing
crowds of people, who were fortunately too much busied in the political events
and rumours of the hour, to give any attention to a couple who had so little to
render their appearance remarkable. They passed the guards in virtue of a
permission obtained for them by Pavillon, but in the name of his colleague
Rouslaer, and they took leave of Peter Geislaer with a friendly though brief
exchange of good wishes on either side. Immediately afterwards, they were joined
by a stout young man, riding a good grey horse, who presently made himself known
as Hans Glover, the bachelor of Trudchen Pavillon. He was a young fellow with a
good Flemish countenance - not, indeed, of the most intellectual cast, but
arguing more hilarity and good-humour than wit, and, as the Countess could not
help thinking, scarce worthy to be bachelor to the generous Trudchen. He seemed,
however, fully desirous to second the views which she had formed in their
favour; for, saluting them respectfully, he asked of the Countess in Flemish on
which road she desired to be conducted?
    »Guide me,« said she, »towards the nearest town on the frontiers of
Brabant.«
    »You have then settled the end and object of your journey?« said Quentin,
approaching his horse to that of Isabelle, and speaking French, which their
guide did not understand.
    »Surely,« replied the young lady; »for, situated as I now am, it must be of
no small detriment to me if I were to prolong a journey in my present
circumstances, even though the termination should be a rigorous prison.«
    »A prison?« said Quentin.
    »Yes, my friend, a prison; but I will take care that you shall not share
it.«
    »Do not talk - do not think of me,« said Quentin. »Saw I you but safe, my
own concerns are little worth minding.«
    »Do not speak so loud,« said the Lady Isabelle; »you will surprise our guide
- you see he has already rode on before us;« - for, in truth, the good-natured
Fleming, doing as he desired to be done by, had removed from them the restraint
of a third person, upon Quentin's first motion towards the lady. - »Yes,« she
continued, when she noticed they were free from observation, »to you, my friend,
my protector - why should I be ashamed to call you what Heaven has made you to
me? - to you it is my duty to say, that my resolution is taken to return to my
native country, and to throw myself on the mercy of the Duke of Burgundy. It was
mistaken, though well-meant advice, which induced me ever to withdraw from his
protection, and place myself under that of the crafty and false Louis of
France.«
    »And you resolve to become the bride, then, of the Count of Campo-basso, the
unworthy favourite of Charles?«
    Thus spoke Quentin with a voice in which internal agony struggled with his
desire to assume an indifferent tone, like that of the poor condemned criminal,
when, affecting a firmness which he is far from feeling, he asks if the
death-warrant be arrived.
    »No, Durward, no,« said the Lady Isabelle, sitting up erect in her saddle,
»to that hated condition all Burgundy's power shall not sink a daughter of the
House of Croye. Burgundy may seize on my lands and fiefs, he may imprison my
person in a convent; but that is the worst I have to expect; and worse than that
I will endure ere I give my hand to Campo-basso.«
    »The worst!« said Quentin; »and what worse can there be than plunder and
imprisonment? - Oh, think, while you have God's free air around you, and one by
your side who will hazard life to conduct you to England, to Germany, even to
Scotland, in all of which you shall find generous protectors - Oh, while this is
the case, do not resolve so rashly to abandon the means of liberty, the best
gift that Heaven gives! - Oh, well sung a poet of my own land -
 
Ah, freedom is a noble thing, -
Freedom makes man to have liking -
Freedom the zest to pleasure gives -
He lives at ease who freely lives.
Grief, sickness, poortith, want, are all
Summ'd up within the name of thrall.«
 
She listened with a melancholy smile to her guide's tirade in praise of liberty;
and then answered, after a moment's pause, »Freedom is for man alone - woman
must ever seek a protector, since nature made her incapable to defend herself.
And where am I to find one? - In that voluptuary Edward of England - in the
inebriated Wenceslaus of Germany - in Scotland? - Ah, Durward, were I your
sister, and could you promise me shelter in some of those mountain-glens which
you love to describe, where, for charity, or for the few jewels I have
preserved, I might lead an unharassed life, and forget the lot I was born to -
Could you promise me the protection of some honoured matron of the land - of
some baron whose heart was as true as his sword - that were indeed a prospect,
for which it were worth the risk of farther censure to wander farther and
wider!«
    There was a faltering tenderness of voice with which the Countess Isabelle
made this admission, that at once filled Quentin with a sensation of joy, and
cut him to the very heart. He hesitated a moment ere he made an answer, hastily
reviewing in his mind the possibility there might be that he could procure her
shelter in Scotland; but the melancholy truth rushed on him, that it would be
alike base and cruel to point out to her a course, which he had not the most
distant power or means to render safe. »Lady,« he said at last, »I should act
foully against my honour and oath of chivalry, did I suffer you to ground any
plan upon the thoughts that I have the power in Scotland to afford you other
protection than that of the poor arm which is now by your side. I scarce know
that my blood flows in the veins of an individual who now lives in my native
land. The Knight of Innerquharity stormed our Castle at midnight, and cut off
all that belonged to my name. Were I again in Scotland, our feudal enemies are
numerous and powerful, I single and weak; and even had the King a desire to do
me justice, he dared not, for the sake of redressing the wrongs of a poor
individual, provoke a chief who rides with five hundred horse.«
    »Alas!« said the Countess, »there is then no corner of the world safe from
oppression, since it rages as unrestrained amongst those wild hills which afford
so few objects to covet, as in our rich and abundant Lowlands!«
    »It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it,« said the Scot, »that for little
more than the pleasure of revenge, and the lust of bloodshed, our hostile clans
do the work of executioners on each other; and Ogilvies and the like act the
same scenes in Scotland, as De la Marck and his robbers do in this country.«
    »No more of Scotland, then,« said Isabelle, with a tone of indifference,
either real or affected - »no more of Scotland, - which indeed I mentioned but
in jest, to see if you really dared to recommend to me, as a place of rest, the
most distracted kingdom in Europe. It was but a trial of your sincerity, which I
rejoice to see may be relied on, even when your partialities are most strongly
excited. So, once more, I will think of no other protection than can be afforded
by the first honourable baron holding of Duke Charles, to whom I am determined
to render myself.«
    »And why not rather betake yourself to your own estates, and to your own
strong castle, as you designed when at Tours?« said Quentin. »Why not call
around you the vassals of your father, and make treaty with Burgundy, rather
than surrender yourself to him? Surely there must be many a bold heart that
would fight in your cause; and I know at least of one, who would willingly lay
down his life to give example.«
    »Alas!« said the Countess, »that scheme, the suggestion of the crafty Louis,
and, like all which he ever suggested, designed more for his advantage than for
mine, has become impracticable, since it was betrayed to Burgundy by the double
traitor Zamet Hayraddin. My kinsman was then imprisoned, and my houses
garrisoned. Any attempt of mine would but expose my dependants to the vengeance
of Duke Charles; and why should I occasion more bloodshed than has already taken
place on so worthless an account? No, I will submit myself to my Sovereign as a
dutiful vassal, in all which shall leave my personal freedom of choice
uninfringed; the rather that I trust my kinswoman, the Countess Hameline, who
first counselled, and indeed urged my flight, has already taken this wise and
honourable step.«
    »Your kinswoman!« repeated Quentin, awakened to recollections to which the
young Countess was a stranger, and which the rapid succession of perilous and
stirring events, had, as matters of nearer concern, in fact banished from his
memory.
    »Ay - my aunt - the Countess Hameline of Croye - know you aught of her?«
said the Countess Isabelle; »I trust she is now under the protection of the
Burgundian banner. You are silent. Know you aught of her?«
    The last question, urged in a tone of the most anxious inquiry, obliged
Quentin to give some account of what he knew of the Countess's fate. He
mentioned, that he had been summoned to attend her in a flight from Liege, which
he had no doubt the Lady Isabelle would be partaker in - he mentioned the
discovery that had been made after they had gained the forest - and finally, he
told his own return to the castle, and the circumstances in which he found it.
But he said nothing of the views with which it was plain the Lady Hameline had
left the Castle of Schonwaldt, and as little about the floating report of her
having fallen into the hands of William de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his even
hinting at the one, and regard for the feelings of his companion, at a moment
when strength and exertion were most demanded of her, prevented him from
alluding to the latter, which had, besides, only reached him as a mere rumour.
    This tale, though abridged of those important particulars, made a strong
impression on the Countess Isabelle, who, after riding some time in silence,
said at last, with a tone of cold displeasure, »And so you abandoned my
unfortunate relative in a wild forest, at the mercy of a vile Bohemian and a
traitorous waiting-woman? - Poor kinswoman, thou wert wont to praise this
youth's good faith!«
    »Had I not done so, madam,« said Quentin, not unreasonably offended at the
turn thus given to his gallantry, »what had been the fate of one to whose
service I was far more devotedly bound? Had I not left the Countess Hameline of
Croye to the charge of those whom she had herself selected as counsellors and
advisers, the Countess Isabelle had been ere now the bride of William de la
Marck, the Wild Boar of Ardennes.«
    »You are right,« said the Countess Isabelle, in her usual manner; »and I,
who have the advantage of your unhesitating devotion, have done you foul and
ungrateful wrong. But oh, my unhappy kinswoman! and the wretch Marthon, who
enjoyed so much of her confidence, and deserved it so little - it was she that
introduced to my kinswoman the wretched Zamet and Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, by
their pretended knowledge in soothsaying and astrology, obtained a great
ascendency over her mind; it was she who, strengthening their predictions,
encouraged her in - I know not what to call them - delusions concerning matches
and lovers, which my kinswoman's age rendered ungraceful and improbable. I doubt
not that, from the beginning, we had been surrounded by these snares by Louis of
France, in order to determine us to take refuge at his Court, or rather to put
ourselves into his power; after which rash act on our part, how unkingly,
unknightly, ignobly, un-gentleman-like, he hath conducted himself towards us,
you, Quentin Durward, can bear witness. But, alas! my kinswoman - what think you
will be her fate?«
    Endeavouring to inspire hopes which he scarce felt, Durward answered, that
the avarice of these people was stronger than any other passion; that Marthon,
even when he left them, seemed to act rather as the Lady Hameline's protectress;
and in fine, that it was difficult to conceive any object these wretches could
accomplish by the ill usage or murder of the Countess, whereas they might be
gainers by treating her well, and putting her to ransom.
    To lead the Countess Isabelle's thoughts from this melancholy subject,
Quentin frankly told her the treachery of the Maugrabin, which he had discovered
in the night-quarter near Namur, and which appeared the result of an agreement
betwixt the King and William de la Marck. Isabelle shuddered with horror, and
then recovering herself said, »I am ashamed, and I have sinned in permitting
myself so far to doubt of the saints' protection, as for an instant to have
deemed possible the accomplishment of a scheme so utterly cruel, base, and
dishonourable, while there are pitying eyes in heaven to look down on human
miseries. It is not a thing to be thought of with fear or abhorrence, but to be
rejected as such a piece of incredible treachery and villainy, as it were atheism
to believe could ever be successful. But I now see plainly why that hypocritical
Marthon often seemed to foster every seed of petty jealousy or discontent
betwixt my poor kinswoman and myself, whilst she always mixed with flattery,
addressed to the individual who was present, whatever could prejudice her
against her absent kinswoman. Yet never did I dream she could have proceeded so
far as to have caused my once affectionate kinswoman to have left me behind in
the perils of Schonwaldt, while she made her own escape.«
    »Did the Lady Hameline not mention to you, then,« said Quentin, »her
intended flight?«
    »No,« replied the Countess, »but she alluded to some communication which
Marthon was to make to me. To say truth, my poor kinswoman's head was so turned
by the mysterious jargon of the miserable Hayraddin, whom that day she had
admitted to a long and secret conference, and she threw out so many strange
hints that - that - in short, I cared not to press on her, when in that humour,
for any explanation. Yet it was cruel to leave me behind her.«
    »I will excuse the Lady Hameline from intending such unkindness,« said
Quentin; »for such was the agitation of the moment, and the darkness of the
hour, that I believe the Lady Hameline as certainly conceived herself
accompanied by her niece, as I at the same time, deceived by Marthon's dress and
demeanour, supposed I was in the company of both the Ladies of Croye: - and of
her especially,« he added, with a low but determined voice, »without whom the
wealth of worlds would not have tempted me to leave Schonwaldt.«
    Isabelle stooped her head forward, and seemed scarce to hear the emphasis
with which Quentin had spoken. But she turned her face to him again when he
began to speak of the policy of Louis; and it was not difficult for them, by
mutual communication to ascertain that the Bohemian brothers, with their
accomplice Marthon, had been the agents of that crafty monarch, although Zamet,
the elder of them, with a perfidy peculiar to his race, had attempted to play a
double game, and had been punished accordingly. In the same humour of mutual
confidence, and forgetting the singularity of their own situation, as well as
the perils of the road, the travellers pursued their journey for several hours,
only stopping to refresh their horses at a retired dorff, or hamlet, to which
they were conducted by Hans Glover, who, in all other respects, as well as in
leaving them much to their own freedom in conversation, conducted himself like a
person of reflection and discretion.
    Meantime, the artificial distinction which divided the two lovers (for such
we may now term them) seemed dissolved, or removed, by the circumstances in
which they were placed; for if the Countess boasted the higher rank, and was by
birth entitled to a fortune incalculably larger than that of the youth, whose
revenue lay in his sword, it was to be considered that, for the present, she was
as poor as he, and for her safety, honour, and life, exclusively indebted to his
presence of mind, valour, and devotion. They spoke not indeed of love, for
though the young lady, her heart full of gratitude and confidence, might have
pardoned such a declaration, yet Quentin, on whose tongue there was laid a
check, both by natural timidity, and by the sentiments of chivalry, would have
held it an unworthy abuse of her situation had he said anything which could have
the appearance of taking undue advantage of the opportunities which it afforded
them. They spoke not then of love, but the thoughts of it were on both sides
unavoidable; and thus they were placed in that relation to each other, in which
sentiments of mutual regard are rather understood than announced, and which,
with the freedoms which it permits, and the uncertainties that attend it, often
forms the most delightful hours of human existence, and as frequently leads to
those which are darkened by disappointment, fickleness, and all the pains of
blighted hope and unrequited attachment.
    It was two hours after noon, when the travellers were alarmed by the report
of the guide, who, with paleness and horror in his countenance, said that they
were pursued by a party of De la Marck's Schwarz-reiters. These soldiers, or
rather banditti, were bands levied in the Lower Circles of Germany, and
resembled the lanzknechts in every particular, except that the former acted as
light cavalry. To maintain the name of Black Troopers, and to strike additional
terror into their enemies, they usually rode on black chargers, and smeared with
black ointment their arms and accoutrements, in which operation their hands and
faces often had their share. In morals and in ferocity these Schwarz-reiters
emulated their pedestrian brethren the Lanzknechts.43
    On looking back, and discovering along the long level road which they had
traversed a cloud of dust advancing, with one or two of the headmost troopers
riding furiously in front of it, Quentin addressed his companion - »Dearest
Isabelle, I have no weapon left save my sword; but since I cannot fight for you,
I will fly with you. Could we gain yonder wood that is before us ere they come
up, we may easily find means to escape.«
    »So be it, my only friend,« said Isabelle, pressing her horse to the gallop;
»and thou, good fellow,« she added, addressing Hans Glover; »get thee off to
another road, and do not stay to partake our misfortune and danger.«
    The honest Fleming shook his head, and answered her generous exhortation,
with Nein, nein! das geht nicht,44 and continued to attend them, all three
riding towards the shelter of the wood as fast as their jaded horses could go,
pursued, at the same time, by the Schwarz-reiters, who increased their pace when
they saw them fly. But notwithstanding the fatigue of the horses, still the
fugitives being unarmed, and riding lighter in consequence, had considerably the
advantage of the pursuers, and were within about a quarter of a mile of the
wood, when a body of men-at-arms, under a knight's pennon, was discovered
advancing from the cover, so as to intercept their flight.
    »They have bright armour,« said Isabelle; »they must be Burgundians. Be they
who they will, we must yield to them, rather than to the lawless miscreants who
pursue us.«
    A moment after, she exclaimed, looking on the pennon, »I know the cloven
heart which it displays! It is the banner of the Count of Crèvecoeur, a noble
Burgundian - to him I will surrender myself.«
    Quentin Durward sighed; but what other alternative remained, and how happy
would he have been but an instant before, to have been certain of the escape of
Isabelle, even under worse terms? They soon joined the band of Crèvecoeur, and
the Countess demanded to speak to the leader, who had halted his party till he
should reconnoitre the Black Troopers; and as he gazed on her with doubt and
uncertainty, she said, »Noble Count - Isabelle of Croye, the daughter of your
old companion in arms, Count Reinold of Croye, renders herself, and asks
protection from your valour for her and hers.«
    »Thou shalt have it, fair kinswoman, were it against a host - always
excepting my liege lord of Burgundy. But there is little time to talk of it.
These filthy-looking fiends have made a halt, as if they intended to dispute the
matter. - By Saint George of Burgundy, they have the insolence to advance
against the banner of Crèvecoeur! What! will not the knaves be ruled? - Damian,
my lance - Advance banner - Lay your spears in the rest - Crèvecoeur to the
Rescue!«
    Crying his war-cry, and followed by his men-at-arms, he galloped rapidly
forward to charge the Schwarz-reiters.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Fourth

                                 The Surrender.

 Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive:
 Deal with me what your nobleness suggests -
 Thinking the chance of war may one day place you
 Where I must now be reckon'd - i' the roll
 Of melancholy prisoners.
                                                                      Anonymous.
 
The skirmish betwixt the Schwarz-reiters and the Burgundian men-at-arms lasted
scarcely five minutes, so soon were the former put to the rout by the
superiority of the latter, in armour, weight of horse, and military spirit. In
less than the space we have mentioned, the Count of Crèvecoeur, wiping his
bloody sword upon his horse's mane ere he sheathed it, came back to the verge of
the forest, where Isabelle had remained a spectator of the combat. One part of
his people followed him, while the other continued to pursue the flying enemy
for a little space along the causeway.
    »It is shame,« said the Count, »that the weapons of knights and gentlemen
should be soiled by the blood of those brutal swine.«
    So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath, and added, »This is a rough
welcome to your home, my pretty cousin, but wandering princesses must expect
such adventures. And well I came up in time, for, let me assure you, the Black
Troopers respect a countess's coronet as little as a country-wench's coif, and I
think your retinue is not qualified for much resistance.«
    »My Lord Count,« said the Lady Isabelle, »without farther preface, let me
know if I am a prisoner, and where you are to conduct me.«
    »You know, you silly child,« answered the Count, »how I would answer that
question, did it rest on my own will. But you, and your foolish match-making,
marriage-hunting aunt, have made such wild use of your wings of late, that I
fear you must be contented to fold them up in a cage for a little while. For my
part, my duty, and it is a sad one, will be ended when I have conducted you to
the Court of the Duke, at Peronne; for which purpose, I hold it necessary to
deliver the command of this reconnoitring party to my nephew, Count Stephen,
while I return with you thither, as I think you may need an intercessor - And I
hope the young giddy-pate will discharge his duty wisely.«
    »So please you, fair uncle,« said Count Stephen, »if you doubt my capacity
to conduct the men-at- even remain with them yourself, and I will be the servant
and guard of the Countess Isabelle of Croye.«
    »No doubt, fair nephew,« answered his uncle, »this were a goodly improvement
on my scheme; but methinks I like it as well in the way I planned it. Please
you, therefore, to take notice, that your business here is not to hunt after and
stick these black hogs, for which you seemed but now to have felt an especial
vocation, but to collect and bring to me true tidings what is going forward in
the country of Liege, concerning which we hear such wild rumours. Let some
half-score of lances follow me, and the rest remain with my banner under your
guidance.«
    »Yet one moment, cousin of Crèvecoeur,« said the Countess Isabelle, »and let
me, in yielding myself prisoner, stipulate at least for the safety of those who
have befriended me in my misfortunes. Permit this good fellow, my trusty guide,
to go back unharmed to his native town of Liege.«
    »My nephew,« said Crèvecoeur, after looking sharply at Glover's honest
breadth of countenance, »shall guard this good fellow, who seems, indeed, to
have little harm in him, as far into the territory as he himself advances, and
then leave him at liberty.«
    »Fail not to remember me to the kind Gertrude,« said the Countess to her
guide, and added, taking a string of pearls from under her veil, »Pray her to
wear this in remembrance of her unhappy friend.«
    Honest Glover took the string of pearls, and kissed with clownish gesture,
but with sincere kindness, the fair hand which had found such a delicate mode of
remunerating his own labours and peril.
    »Umph! signs and tokens!« said the Count; »any farther bequests to make, my
fair cousin? - It is time we were on our way.«
    »Only,« said the Countess, making an effort to speak, »that you will be
pleased to be favourable to this - this young gentleman.«
    »Umph!« said Crèvecoeur, casting the same penetrating glance on Quentin
which he had bestowed on Glover, but apparently with a much less satisfactory
result, and mimicking, though not offensively, the embarrassment of the Countess
- »Umph! - Ay, - this is a blade of another temper. - And pray, my cousin, what
has this - this very young gentleman done, to deserve such intercession at your
hands?«
    »He has saved my life and honour,« said the Countess, reddening with shame
and resentment.
    Quentin also blushed with indignation, but wisely concluded, that to give
vent to it might only make matters worse.
    »Life and honour? - Umph!« said again the Count Crèvecoeur; »methinks it
would have been as well, my cousin, if you had not put yourself in the way of
lying under such obligations to this very young gentleman. - But let it pass.
The young gentleman may wait on us, if his quality permit, and I will see he has
no injury - only I will myself take in future the office of protecting your life
and honour, and may perhaps find for him some fitter duty than that of being a
squire of the body to damosels errant.«
    »My Lord Count,« said Durward, unable to keep silence any longer, »lest you
should talk of a stranger in slighter terms than you might afterwards think
becoming, I take leave to tell you, that I am Quentin Durward, an Archer of the
Scottish Body-guard, in which, as you well know, none but gentlemen and men of
honour are enrolled.«
    »I thank you for your information, and I kiss your hands, Seignior Archer,«
said Crèvecoeur, in the same tone of raillery. »Have the goodness to ride with
me to the front of the party.«
    As Quentin moved onward at the command of the Count, who had now the power,
if not the right, to dictate his motions, he observed that the Lady Isabelle
followed his motions with a look of anxious and timid interest, which amounted
almost to tenderness, and the sight of which brought water into his eyes. But he
remembered that he had a man's part to sustain before Crèvecoeur, who, perhaps,
of all the chivalry in France or Burgundy, was the least likely to be moved to
anything but laughter by a tale of true love sorrow. He determined, therefore,
not to wait his addressing him, but to open the conversation in a tone which
should assert his claim to fair treatment, and to more respect than the Count,
offended perhaps at finding a person of such inferior note placed so near the
confidence of his high-born and wealthy cousin, seemed disposed to entertain for
him.
    »My Lord Count of Crèvecoeur,« he said, in a temperate but firm tone of
voice, »may I request of you, before our interview goes farther, to tell me if I
am at liberty, or am to account myself your prisoner?«
    »A shrewd question,« replied the Count, »which at present I can only answer
by another - Are France and Burgundy, think you, at peace or war with each
other?«
    »That,« replied the Scot, »you, my lord, should certainly know better than
I. I have been absent from the Court of France, and have heard no news for some
time.«
    »Look you there,« said the Count; »you see how easy it is to ask questions,
but how difficult to answer them. Why, I myself, who have been at Peronne with
the Duke for this week and better, cannot resolve this riddle any more than you;
and yet, Sir Squire, upon the solution of that question depends the said point,
whether you are prisoner or free man: and, for the present, I must hold you as
the former - Only, if you have really and honestly been of service to my
kinswoman, and if you are candid in your answers to the questions I shall ask,
affairs shall stand the better with you.«
    »The Countess of Croye,« said Quentin, »is best judge if I have rendered any
service, and to her I refer you on that matter. My answers you will yourself
judge of when you ask me your questions.«
    »Umph! - haughty enough,« muttered the Count of Crèvecoeur, »and very like
one that wears a lady's favour in his hat, and thinks he must carry things with
a high tone, to honour the precious remnant of silk and tinsel. - Well, sir, I
trust it will be no abatement of your dignity, if you answer me, how long you
have been about the person of the Lady Isabelle of Croye?«
    »Count of Crèvecoeur,« said Quentin Durward, »if I answer questions which
are asked in a tone approaching towards insult, it is only lest injurious
inferences should be drawn from my silence respecting one to whom we are both
obliged to render justice. I have acted as escort to the Lady Isabelle since she
left France to retire into Flanders.«
    »Ho! ho!« said the Count; »and that is to say, since she fled from
Plessis-les-Tours? - You, an Archer of the Scottish Guard, accompanied her, of
course, by the express orders of King Louis?«
    However little Quentin thought himself indebted to the King of France, who,
in contriving the surprisal of the Countess Isabelle by William de la Marck, had
probably calculated on the young Scotchman being slain in her defence, he did
not yet conceive himself at liberty to betray any trust which Louis had reposed,
or had seemed to repose, in him, and therefore replied to Count Crèvecoeur's
inference, »that it was sufficient for him to have the authority of his superior
officer for what he had done, and he inquired no farther.«
    »It is quite sufficient,« said the Count. »We know the King does not permit
his officers to send the Archers of his Guard to prance like paladins by the
bridle-rein of wandering ladies, unless he hath some politic purpose to serve.
It will be difficult for King Louis to continue to aver so boldly, that he knew
not of the Ladies of Croye's having escaped from France, since they were
escorted by one of his own Life-guard. - And whither, Sir Archer, was your
retreat directed?«
    »To Liege, my lord,« answered the Scot; »where the ladies desired to be
placed under the protection of the late Bishop.«
    »The late Bishop!« exclaimed the Count of Crèvecoeur; »is Louis of Bourbon
dead? - Not a word of his illness had reached the Duke - Of what did he die?«
    »He sleeps in a bloody grave, my lord - that is, if his murderers have
conferred one on his remains.«
    »Murdered!« exclaimed Crèvecoeur again - »Holy Mother of Heaven! - young
man, it is impossible!«
    »I saw the deed done with my own eyes, and many an act of horror besides.«
    »Saw it! and made not in to help the good Prelate!« exclaimed the Count; »or
to raise the castle against his murderers? - Know'st thou not, that even to look
on such a deed, without resisting it, is profane sacrilege?«
    »To be brief, my lord,« said Durward, »ere this act was done, the castle was
stormed by the bloodthirsty William de la Marck, with help of the insurgent
Liegeois.«
    »I am struck with thunder,« said Crèvecoeur. »Liege in insurrection! -
Schonwaldt taken! - the Bishop murdered! - Messenger of sorrow, never did one
man unfold such a packet of woes! - Speak - knew you of this assault - of this
insurrection - of this murder? - Speak - thou art one of Louis's trusted
Archers, and it is he that has aimed this painful arrow. - Speak, or I will have
thee torn with wild horses!«
    »And if I am so torn, my lord, there can be nothing rent out of me, that may
not become a true Scottish gentleman. I know no more of these villanies than
you, - was so far from being partaker in them, that I would have withstood them
to the uttermost, had my means, in a twentieth degree, equalled my inclination.
But what could I do? - they were hundreds, and I but one. My only care was to
rescue the Countess Isabelle, and in that I was happily successful. Yet, had I
been near enough when the ruffian deed was so cruelly done on the old man, I had
saved his grey hairs, or I had avenged them; and as it was, my abhorrence was
spoken loud enough to prevent other horrors.«
    »I believe thee, youth,« said the Count; »thou art neither of an age nor
nature to be trusted with such bloody work, however well fitted to be the squire
of dames. But alas! for the kind and generous Prelate, to be murdered on the
hearth where he so often entertained the stranger with Christian charity and
princely bounty - and that by a wretch, a monster! a portentous growth of blood
and cruelty! - bred up in the very hall where he has imbrued his hands in his
benefactor's blood! But I know not Charles of Burgundy - nay, I should doubt of
the justice of Heaven, if vengeance be not as sharp, and sudden, and severe, as
this villainy has been unexampled in atrocity. And, if no other shall pursue the
murderer,« - Here he paused, grasped his sword, then, quitting his bridle,
struck both gauntleted hands upon his breast, until his corselet clattered, and
finally held them up to Heaven, as he solemnly continued - »I - I, Philip
Crèvecoeur of Cordès, make a vow to God, Saint Lambert, and the Three Kings of
Cologne, that small shall be my thought of other earthly concerns, till I take
full revenge on the murderers of the good Louis of Bourbon, whether I find them
in forest or field, in city or in country, in hill or in plain, in King's Court,
or in God's Church! and thereto I pledge lands and living, friends and
followers, life and honour. So help me God, and Saint Lambert of Liege, and the
Three Kings of Cologne!«
    When the Count of Crèvecoeur had made his vow, his mind seemed in some sort
relieved from the overwhelming grief and astonishment with which he had heard
the fatal tragedy that had been acted at Schonwaldt, and he proceeded to
question Durward more minutely concerning the particulars of that disastrous
affair, which the Scot, nowise desirous to abate the spirit of revenge which the
Count entertained against William de la Marck, gave him at full length.
    »But those blind, unsteady, faithless, fickle beasts, the Liegeois,« said
the Count, »that they should have combined themselves with this inexorable
robber and murderer, to put to death their lawful Prince!«
    Durward here informed the enraged Burgundian that the Liegeois, or at least
the better class of them, however rashly they had run into the rebellion against
their Bishop, had no design, so far as appeared to him, to aid in the execrable
deed of De la Marck; but, on the contrary, would have prevented it if they had
had the means, and were struck with horror when they beheld it.
    »Speak not of the faithless, inconstant plebeian rabble!« said Crèvecoeur.
»When they took arms against a Prince, who had no fault, save that he was too
kind and too good a master for such a set of ungrateful slaves - when they armed
against him, and broke into his peaceful house, what could there be in their
intention but murder? - when they banded themselves with the Wild Boar of
Ardennes, the greatest homicide in the marches of Flanders, what else could
there be in their purpose but murder, which is the very trade he lives by? And
again, was it not one of their own vile rabble who did the very deed, by thine
own account? - I hope to see their canals running blood by the light of their
burning houses. Oh, the kind, noble, generous lord, whom they have slaughtered!
- Other vassals have rebelled under the pressure of imposts and penury; but the
men of Liege in the fullness of insolence and plenty.« - He again abandoned the
reins of his war-horse, and wrung bitterly the hands, which his mail-gloves
rendered untractable. Quentin easily saw that the grief which he manifested was
augmented by the bitter recollection of past intercourse and friendship with the
sufferer, and was silent accordingly, respecting feelings which he was unwilling
to aggravate, and at the same time felt it impossible to soothe.
    But the Count of Crèvecoeur returned again and again to the subject -
questioned him on every particular of the surprise of Schonwaldt, and the death
of the Bishop; and then suddenly, as if he had recollected something which had
escaped his memory, demanded what had become of the Lady Hameline, and why she
was not with her kinswoman? »Not,« he added, contemptuously, »that I consider
her absence as at all a loss to the Countess Isabelle; for, although she was her
kinswoman, and upon the whole a well-meaning woman, yet the Court of Cocagne
never produced such a fantastic fool; and I hold it for certain, that her niece,
whom I have always observed to be a modest and orderly young lady, was led into
the absurd frolic of flying from Burgundy to France, by that blundering,
romantic, old, match-making and match-seeking idiot!«
    What a speech for a romantic lover to hear! and to hear, too, when it would
have been ridiculous in him to attempt what it was impossible for him to
achieve, - namely, to convince the Count, by force of arms, that he did foul
wrong to the Countess - the peerless in sense as in beauty - in terming her a
modest and orderly young woman; qualities which might have been predicated with
propriety of the daughter of a sunburnt peasant, who lived by goading the oxen,
while her father held the plough. And then, to suppose her under the domination
and supreme guidance of a silly and romantic aunt! - the slander should have
been repelled down the slanderer's throat. But the open, though severe,
physiognomy of the Count of Crèvecoeur, the total contempt which he seemed to
entertain for those feelings which were uppermost in Quentin's bosom, overawed
him; not for fear of the Count's fame in arms - that was a risk which would have
increased his desire of making out a challenge - but in dread of ridicule, the
weapon of all others most feared by enthusiasts of every description, and which,
from its predominance over such minds, often checks what is absurd, and fully as
often smothers that which is noble.
    Under the influence of this fear, of becoming an object of scorn rather than
resentment, Durward, though with some pain, confined his reply to a confused
account of the Lady Hameline having made her escape from Schonwaldt before the
attack took place. He could not, indeed, have made his story very distinct,
without throwing ridicule on the near relation of Isabelle, and perhaps
incurring some himself, as having been the object of her preposterous
expectations. He added to his embarrassed detail, that he had heard a report,
though a vague one, of the Lady Hameline having again fallen into the hands of
William de la Marck.
    »I trust in Saint Lambert that he will marry her,« said Crèvecoeur; »as
indeed, he is likely enough to do, for the sake of her money-bags; and equally
likely to knock her on the head, so soon as these are either secured in his own
grasp, or, at farthest, emptied.«
    The Count then proceeded to ask so many questions concerning the mode in
which both ladies had conducted themselves on the journey, the degree of
intimacy to which they admitted Quentin himself, and other trying particulars,
that, vexed, and ashamed, and angry, the youth was scarce able to conceal his
embarrassment from the keen-sighted soldier and courtier, who seemed suddenly
disposed to take leave of him, saying, at the same time, »Umph - I see it is as
I conjectured, on one side at least; I trust the other party has kept her senses
better. - Come, Sir Squire, spur on, and keep the van, while I fall back to
discourse with the Lady Isabelle. I think I have learned now so much from you,
that I can talk to her of these sad passages without hurting her nicety, though
I have fretted yours a little. - Yet stay, young gallant - one word ere you go.
You have had, I imagine, a happy journey through Fairy-land - all full of heroic
adventure, and high hope, and wild minstrel-like delusion, like the gardens of
Morgaine la Fée. Forget it all, young soldier,« he added, tapping him on the
shoulder; »remember yonder lady only as the honoured Countess of Croye - forget
her as a wandering and adventurous damsel: And her friends - one of them I can
answer for - will remember, on their part, only the services you have done her,
and forget the unreasonable reward which you have had the boldness to propose to
yourself.«
    Enraged that he had been unable to conceal from the sharp-sighted Crèvecoeur
feelings which the Count seemed to consider as the object of ridicule, Quentin
replied indignantly, »My Lord Count, when I require advice of you, I will ask
it; when I demand assistance of you, it will be time enough to grant or refuse
it; when I set peculiar value on your opinion of me, it will not be too late to
express it.«
    »Heyday!« said the Count; »I have come between Amadis and Oriana, and must
expect a challenge to the lists!«
    »You speak as if that were an impossibility,« said Quentin - »When I broke a
lance with the Duke of Orleans, it was against a breast in which flowed better
blood than that of Crèvecoeur - When I measured swords with Dunois, I engaged a
better warrior.«
    »Now Heaven nourish thy judgment, gentle youth,« said Crèvecoeur, still
laughing at the chivalrous inamorato. »If thou speak'st truth, thou hast had
singular luck in this world; and, truly, if it be the pleasure of Providence
exposes thee to such trials, without a beard on thy lip, thou wilt be mad with
vanity ere thou writest thyself man. Thou canst not move me to anger, though
thou mayst to mirth. Believe me, though thou mayst have fought with Princes,
and played the champion for Countesses, by some of those freaks which Fortune
will sometimes exhibit, thou art by no means the equal of those of whom thou
hast been either the casual opponent, or more casual companion. I can allow
thee, like a youth who hath listened to romances till he fancied himself a
Paladin, to form pretty dreams for some time; but thou must not be angry at a
well-meaning friend, though he shake thee something roughly by the shoulders to
awake thee.«
    »My Lord of Crèvecoeur,« said Quentin, »my family« -
    »Nay, it was not utterly of family that I spoke,« said the Count; »but of
rank, fortune, high station, and so forth, which place a distance between
various degrees and classes of persons. As for birth, all men are descended from
Adam and Eve.«
    »My Lord Count,« repeated Quentin, »my ancestors, the Durwards of
Glen-houlakin« -
    »Nay,« said the Count, »if you claim a farther descent for them than from
Adam, I have done! Good even to you.«
    He reined back his horse, and paused to join the Countess, to whom, if
possible, his insinuations and advices, however well meant, were still more
disagreeable than to Quentin, who, as he rode on, muttered to himself,
»Cold-blooded, insolent, overweening coxcomb! - Would that the next Scottish
Archer who has his harquebuss pointed at thee, may not let thee off so easily as
I did!«
    In the evening they reached the town of Charleroi, on the Sambre, where the
Count of Crèvecoeur had determined to leave the Countess Isabelle, whom the
terror and fatigue of yesterday, joined to a flight of fifty miles since
morning, and the various distressing sensations by which it was accompanied, had
made incapable of travelling farther, with safety to her health. The Count
consigned her, in a state of great exhaustion, to the care of the Abbess of the
Cistercian convent in Charleroi, a noble lady, to whom both the families of
Crèvecoeur and Croye were related, and in whose prudence and kindness he could
repose confidence.
    Crèvecoeur himself only stopped to recommend the utmost caution to the
governor of a small Burgundian garrison who occupied the place, and required him
also to mount a guard of honour upon the convent during the residence of the
Countess Isabelle of Croye, - ostensibly to secure her safety, but perhaps
secretly to prevent her attempting to escape. The Count only assigned as a cause
for the garrison being vigilant, some vague rumours which he had heard of
disturbances in the Bishopric of Liege. But he was determined himself to be the
first who should carry the formidable news of the insurrection and the murder of
the Bishop, in all their horrible reality, to Duke Charles; and for that
purpose, having procured fresh horses for himself and suite, he mounted with the
resolution of continuing his journey to Peronne without stopping for repose; and
informing Quentin Durward that he must attend him, he made, at the same time, a
mock apology for parting fair company, but hoped, that to so devoted a squire of
dames a night's journey by moonshine would be more agreeable, than supinely to
yield himself to slumber like an ordinary mortal.
    Quentin, already sufficiently afflicted by finding that he was to be parted
from Isabelle, longed to answer this taunt with an indignant defiance; but aware
that the Count would only laugh at his anger, and despise his challenge, he
resolved to wait some future time, when he might have an opportunity of
obtaining some amends from this proud lord, who, though for very different
reasons, had become nearly as odious to him as the Wild Boar of Ardennes
himself. He therefore assented to Crèvecoeur's proposal, as to what he had no
choice of declining, and they pursued in company, and with all the despatch they
could exert, the road between Charleroi and Peronne.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Fifth

                              The Unbidden Guest.

 No human quality is so well wove
 In warp and woof, but there's some flaw in it:
 I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's cur,
 A wise man so demean him, drivelling idiocy
 Had well-nigh been ashamed on't. For your crafty,
 Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest,
 Weaves his own snares so fine, he's often caught in them.
                                                                       Old Play.
 
Quentin, during the earlier part of the night journey, had to combat with that
bitter heartache, which is felt when youth parts, and probably for ever, with
her he loves. As, pressed by the urgency of the moment, and the impatience of
Crèvecoeur, they hasted, on through the rich lowlands of Hainault, under the
benign guidance of a rich and lustrous harvest-moon, she shed her yellow
influence over rich and deep pastures, woodland, and corn-fields, from which the
husbandmen were using her light to withdraw the grain, such was the industry of
the Flemings, even at that period; she shone on broad, level, and fructifying
rivers, where glided the white sail in the service of commerce, uninterrupted by
rock or torrent, beside lively quiet villages, whose external decency and
cleanliness expressed the ease and comfort of the inhabitants; - she gleamed
upon the feudal castle of many a gallant Baron and Knight, with its deep moat,
battlemented court, and high belfry, - for the chivalry of Hainault was renowned
among the nobles of Europe; - and her light displayed at a distance, in its
broad beam, the gigantic towers of more than one lofty minster.
    Yet all this fair variety, however differing from the waste and wilderness
of his own land, interrupted not the course of Quentin's regrets and sorrows. He
had left his heart behind him when he departed from Charleroi; and the only
reflection which the farther journey inspired was, that every step was carrying
him farther from Isabelle. His imagination was taxed to recall every word she
had spoken, every look she had directed towards him; and, as happens frequently
in such cases, the impression made upon his imagination by the recollection of
these particulars, was even stronger than the realities themselves had excited.
    At length, after the cold hour of midnight was past, in spite alike of love
and of sorrow, the extreme fatigue which Quentin had undergone the two preceding
days began to have an effect on him, which his habits of exercise of every kind,
and his singular alertness and activity of character, as well as the painful
nature of the reflections which occupied his thoughts, had hitherto prevented
his experiencing. The ideas of his mind began to be so little corrected by the
exertions of his senses, worn out and deadened as the latter now were by
extremity of fatigue, that the visions which the former drew superseded or
perverted the information conveyed by the blunted organs of seeing and hearing;
and Durward was only sensible that he was awake, by the exertions which,
sensible of the peril of his situation, he occasionally made, to resist falling
into a deep and dead sleep. Every now and then a strong consciousness of the
risk of falling from or with his horse roused him to exertion and animation; but
ere long his eyes again were dimmed by confused shades of all sorts of mingled
colours, the moonlight landscape swam before them, and he was so much overcome
with fatigue, that the Count of Crèvecoeur, observing his condition, was at
length compelled to order two of his attendants, one to each rein of Durward's
bridle, in order to prevent the risk of his falling from his horse.
    When at length they reached the town of Landrecy, the Count, in compassion
to the youth, who had now been in a great measure without sleep for three
nights, allowed himself and his retinue a halt of four hours, for rest and
refreshment.
    Deep and sound were Quentin's slumbers, until they were broken by the sound
of the Count's trumpet, and the cry of his Fouriers and harbingers, »Debout!
debout! - Ha! Messires, en route, en route!« - Yet, unwelcomely early as the
tones came, they awake him a different being in strength and spirits from what
he had fallen asleep. Confidence in himself and his fortunes returned with his
reviving spirits, and with the rising sun. He thought of his love no longer as a
desperate and fantastic dream, but as a high and invigorating principle to be
cherished in his bosom, although he might never propose to himself, under all
the difficulties by which he was beset, to bring it to any prosperous issue. -
»The pilot,« he reflected, »steers his bark by the polar star, although he never
expects to become possessor of it; and the thoughts of Isabelle of Croye shall
make me a worthy man-at-arms, though I may never see her more. When she hears
that a Scottish soldier, named Quentin Durward, distinguished himself in a
well-fought field, or left his body on the breach of a disputed fortress, she
will remember the companion of her journey, as one who did all in his power to
avert the snares and misfortunes which beset it, and perhaps will honour his
memory with a tear, his coffin with a garland.«
    In this manly mood of bearing his misfortune, Quentin felt himself more able
to receive and reply to the jests of the Count of Crèvecoeur, who passed several
on his alleged effeminacy and incapacity of undergoing fatigue. The young Scot
accommodated himself so good-humouredly to the Count's raillery, and replied at
once so happily and so respectfully, that the change of his tone and manner made
obviously a more favourable impression on the Count than he had entertained from
his prisoner's conduct during the preceding evening, when, rendered irritable by
the feelings of his situation, he was alternately moodily silent or fiercely
argumentative.
    The veteran soldier began at length to take notice of his young companion,
as a pretty fellow, of whom something might be made; and more than hinted to
him, that, would he but resign his situation in the Archer-Guard of France, he
would undertake to have him enrolled in the household of the Duke of Burgundy in
an honourable condition, and would himself take care of his advancement. And
although Quentin, with suitable expressions of gratitude, declined this favour
at present, until he should find out how far he had to complain of his original
patron, King Louis, he, nevertheless, continued to remain on good terms with the
Count of Crèvecoeur; and, while his enthusiastic mode of thinking, and his
foreign and idiomatical manner of expressing himself, often excited a smile on
the grave cheek of the Count, that smile had lost all that it had of sarcastic
and bitter, and did not exceed the limits of good humour and good manners.
    Thus travelling on with much more harmony than on the preceding day, the
little party came at last within two miles of the famous and strong town of
Peronne, near which the Duke of Burgundy's army lay encamped, ready, as was
supposed, to invade France; and, in opposition to which, Louis XI, had himself
assembled a strong force near Saint Maxence, for the purpose of bringing to
reason his over-powerful vassal.
    Peronne, situated upon a deep river, in a flat country, and surrounded by
strong bulwarks and profound moats, was accounted in ancient, as in modern
times, one of the strongest fortresses in France.45 The Count of Crèvecoeur, his
retinue, and his prisoner, were approaching the fortress about the third hour
after noon; when, riding through the pleasant glades of a large forest, which
then covered the approach to the town on the east side, they were met by two men
of rank, as appeared from the number of their attendants, dressed in the habits
worn in time of peace; and who, to judge from the falcons which they carried on
their wrists, and the number of spaniels and greyhounds led by their followers,
were engaged in the amusement of hawking. But on perceiving Crèvecoeur, with
whose appearance and liveries they were sufficiently intimate, they quitted the
search which they were making for a heron along the banks of a long canal, and
came galloping towards him.
    »News, news, Count of Crèvecoeur!« they cried both together; - »will you
give news, or take news? or will you barter fairly?«
    »I would barter fairly, Messires,« said Crèvecoeur, after saluting them
courteously, »did I conceive you had any news of importance sufficient to make
an equivalent for mine.«
    The two sportsmen smiled on each other; and the elder of the two, a fine
baronial figure, with a dark countenance, marked with that sort of sadness which
some physiognomists ascribe to a melancholy temperament, and some, as the
Italian statuary augured of the visage of Charles I, consider as predicting an
unhappy death,46 turning to his companion, said, »Crèvecoeur has been in
Brabant, the country of commerce, and he has learned all its artifices - he will
be too hard for us if we drive a bargain.«
    »Messires,« said Crèvecoeur, »the Duke ought in justice to have the first of
my wares, as the Seigneur takes his toll before open market begins. But tell me,
are your news of a sad or a pleasant complexion?«
    The person whom he particularly addressed was a lively looking man, with an
eye of great vivacity, which was corrected by an expression of reflection and
gravity about the mouth and upper lip - the whole physiognomy marking a man who
saw and judged rapidly, but was sage and slow in forming resolutions or in
expressing opinions. This was the famous Knight of Hainault, son of Collart, or
Nicolas de l'Elite, known in history, and amongst historians, by the venerable
name of Philip des Comines, at this time close to the person of Duke Charles the
Bold,47 and one of his most esteemed counsellors. He answered Crèvecoeur's
question concerning the complexion of the news of which he and his companion,
the Baron de Hymbercourt, were the depositaries. - »They were,« he said, »like
the colours of the rainbow, various in hue, as they might be viewed from
different points, and placed against the black cloud or the fair sky - Such a
rainbow was never seen in France or Flanders, since that of Noah's ark.«
    »My tidings,« replied Crèvecoeur, »are altogether like the comet, gloomy,
wild, and terrible in themselves, yet to be accounted the forerunners of still
greater and more dreadful evils which are to ensue.«
    »We must open our bales,« said Comines to his companion, »or our market will
be forestalled by some new-comers, for ours are public news. - In one word,
Crèvecoeur - listen, and wonder - King Louis is at Peronne!«
    »What!« said the Count, in astonishment, »has the Duke retreated without a
battle? and do you remain here in your dress of peace, after the town is
besieged by the French? - for I cannot suppose it taken.«
    »No, surely,« said D'Hymbercourt, »the banners of Burgundy have not gone
back a foot; and still King Louis is here.«
    »Then Edward of England must have come over the seas with his bowmen,« said
Crèvecoeur, »and, like his ancestors, gained a second field of Poictiers?«
    »Not so,« said Comines - »Not a French banner has been borne down, not a
sail spread from England - where Edward is too much amused among the wives of
the citizens of London, to think of playing the Black Prince. Hear the
extraordinary truth. You know, when you left us, that the conference between the
commissioners on the parts of France and Burgundy was broken up, without much
apparent chance of reconciliation.«
    »True; and we dreamt of nothing but war.«
    »What has followed has been indeed so like a dream,« said Comines, »that I
almost expect to awake, and find it so. Only one day since, the Duke had in
council protested so furiously against farther delay, that it was resolved to
send a defiance to the King, and march forward instantly into France. Toison
d'Or, commissioned for the purpose, had put on his official dress, and had his
foot in the stirrup to mount his horse, when lo! the French herald Mont-joie
rode into our camp. We thought of nothing else than that Louis had been
beforehand with our defiance; and began to consider how much the Duke would
resent the advice, which had prevented him from being the first to declare war.
But a council being speedily assembled, what was our wonder when the herald
informed us, that Louis, King of France, was scarce an hour's riding behind,
intending to visit Charles, Duke of Burgundy, with a small retinue, in order
that their differences might be settled at a personal interview?«
    »You surprise me, Messires,« said Crèvecoeur; »and yet you surprise me less
than you might have expected; for, when I was last at Plessis-les-Tours, the
all-trusted Cardinal Balue, offended with his master, and Burgundian at heart,
did hint to me, that he could so work upon Louis's peculiar foibles, as to lead
him to place himself in such a position with regard to Burgundy, that the Duke
might have the terms of peace of his own making. But I never suspected that so
old a fox as Louis could have been induced to come into the trap of his own
accord. What said the Burgundian counsellors?«
    »As you may guess,« answered D'Hymbercourt; »talked much of faith to be
observed, and little of advantage to be obtained by such a visit; while it was
manifest they thought almost entirely of the last, and were only anxious to find
some way to reconcile it with the necessary preservation of appearances.«
    »And what said the Duke?« continued the Count of Crèvecoeur.
    »Spoke brief and bold as usual,« replied Comines. »Which of you was it, he
asked, who witnessed the meeting of my cousin Louis and me after the battle of
Montl'hery,48 when I was so thoughtless as to accompany him back within the
intrenchments of Paris with half-a-score of attendants, and so put my person at
the King's mercy? I replied, that most of us had been present; and none could
ever forget the alarm which it had been his pleasure to give us. Well, said the
Duke, you blamed me for my folly, and I confessed to you that I had acted like a
giddy-pated boy; and I am aware, too, that my father of happy memory being then
alive, my kinsman, Louis, would have had less advantage by seizing on my person
than I might now have by securing his. But, nevertheless, if my royal kinsman
comes hither on the present occasion, in the same singleness of heart under
which I then acted, he shall be royally welcome - If it is meant, by this
appearance of confidence, to circumvent and to blind me, till he execute some of
his politic schemes, by Saint George of Burgundy, let him look to it! And so,
having turned up his moustaches, and stamped, on the ground, he ordered us all to
get on our horses, and receive so extraordinary a guest.«
    »And you met the King accordingly?« replied the Count of Crèvecoeur -
»Miracles have not ceased! - How was he accompanied?«
    »As slightly as might be,« answered D'Hymbercourt; »only a score or two of
the Scottish Guard, and a few knights and gentlemen of his household - among
whom his astrologer, Galeotti, made the gayest figure.«
    »That fellow,« said Crèvecoeur, »holds some dependence on the Cardinal Balue
- I should not be surprised that he has had his share in determining the King to
this step of doubtful policy. Any nobility of higher rank?«
    »There are Monsieur of Orleans, and Dunois,« replied Comines.
    »I will have a rouse with Dunois,« said Crèvecoeur, »wag the world as it
will. But we heard that both he and the Duke had fallen into disgrace, and were
in prison.«
    »They were both under arrest in the Castle of Loches, that delightful place
of retirement for the French nobility,« said D'Hymbercourt; »but Louis has
released them, in order to bring them with him - perhaps because he cared not to
leave Orleans behind. For his other attendants, faith, I think his gossip, the
Hangman Marshal, with two or three of his retinue, and Oliver, his barber, may
be the most considerable - and the whole bevy so poorly arrayed, that, by my
honour, the King resembles most an old usurer, going to collect desperate debts,
attended by a body of catchpolls.«
    »And where is he lodged?« said Crèvecoeur.
    »Nay, that,« replied Comines, »is the most marvellous of all. Our Duke
offered to let the King's Archer Guard have a gate of the town, and a bridge of
boats over the Somme, and to have assigned to Louis himself the adjoining house,
belonging to a wealthy burgess, Giles Orthen; but, in going thither, the King
espied the banners of De Lau and Pencil de Rivière, whom he had banished from
France; and scared, as it would seem, with the thought of lodging so near
refugees and malcontents of his own making, he craved to be quartered in the
Castle of Peronne, and there he hath his abode accordingly.«
    »Why, God ha' mercy!« exclaimed Crèvecoeur, »this is not only not being
content with venturing into the lion's den, but thrusting his head into his very
jaws - Nothing less than the very bottom of the rat-trap would serve the crafty
old politician!«
    »Nay,« said Comines, »D'Hymbercourt hath not told you the speech of Le
Glorieux49 - which, in my mind, was the shrewdest opinion that was given.«
    »And what said his most illustrious wisdom?« asked the Count.
    »As the Duke,« replied Comines, »was hastily ordering some vessels and
ornaments of plate, and the like, to be prepared as presents for the King and
his retinue, by way of welcome on his arrival, Trouble not thy small brain about
it, my friend Charles, said Le Glorieux, I will give thy cousin Louis a nobler
and a fitter gift than thou canst; and that is my cap and bells, and my bauble
to boot; for, by the mass, he is a greater fool than I am, for putting himself
in thy power. - But if I give him no reason to repent it, sirrah, how then? said
the Duke. Then, truly, Charles, thou shalt have cap and bauble thyself, as the
greatest fool of the three of us. I promise you this knavish quip touched the
Duke closely - I saw him change colour and bite his lip. - And now, our news are
told, noble Crèvecoeur, and what think you they resemble?«
    »A mine full charged with gunpowder,« answered Crèvecoeur, »to which, I
fear, it is my fate to bring the kindled linstock. Your news and mine are like
flax and fire, which cannot meet without bursting into flame, or like certain
chemical substances which cannot be mingled without an explosion. Friends -
gentlemen - ride close by my rein; and when I tell you what has chanced in the
bishopric of Liege, I think you will be of opinion, that King Louis might as
safely have undertaken a pilgrimage to the infernal regions, as this ill-timed
visit to Peronne.«
    The two nobles drew up close on either hand of the Count, and listened, with
half-suppressed exclamations, and gestures of the deepest wonder and interest,
to his account of the transactions at Liege and Schonwaldt. Quentin was then
called forward, and examined and re-examined on the particulars of the Bishop's
death, until at length he refused to answer any farther interrogatories, not
knowing wherefore they were asked, or what use might be made of his replies.
They now reached the rich and level banks of the Somme, and the ancient walls of
the little town of Peronne la Pucelle, and the deep green meadows adjoining, now
whitened with the numerous tents of the Duke of Burgundy's army, amounting to
about fifteen thousand men.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Sixth

                                 The Interview.

 When Princes meet, Astrologers may mark it
 An ominous conjunction, full of boding,
 Like that of Mars with Saturn.
                                                                       Old Play.
 
One hardly knows whether to term it a privilege or a penalty annexed to the
quality of princes, that, in their intercourse with each other, they are
required, by the respect which is due to their own rank and dignity, to regulate
their feelings and expressions by a severe etiquette, which precludes all
violent and avowed display of passion, and which, but that the whole world are
aware that this assumed complaisance is a matter of ceremony, might justly pass
for profound dissimulation. It is no less certain, however, that the
overstepping of these bounds of ceremonial, for the purpose of giving more
direct vent to their angry passions, has the effect of compromising their
dignity with the world in general; as was particularly noted when those
distinguished rivals, Francis the First, and the Emperor Charles, gave each
other the lie direct, and were desirous of deciding their differences hand to
hand, in single combat.
    Charles of Burgundy, the most hasty and impatient, nay, the most imprudent
prince of his time, found himself, nevertheless, fettered within the magic
circle which prescribed the most profound deference to Louis, as his Suzerain
and liege Lord, who had deigned to confer upon him, a vassal of the crown, the
distinguished honour of a personal visit. Dressed in his ducal mantle, and
attended by his great officers, and principal knights and nobles, he went in
gallant cavalcade to receive Louis XI. His retinue absolutely blazed with gold
and silver; for the wealth of the Court of England being exhausted by the wars
of York and Lancaster, and the expenditure of France limited by the economy of
the Sovereign, that of Burgundy was for the time the most magnificent in Europe.
The cortège of Louis, on the contrary, was few in number, and comparatively mean
in appearance, and the exterior of the King himself, in a threadbare cloak, with
his wonted old high-crowned hat stuck full of images, rendered the contrast yet
more striking; and as the Duke, richly attired with the coronet and mantle of
state, threw himself from his noble charger, and, kneeling on one knee, offered
to hold the stirrup while Louis dismounted from his little ambling palfrey, the
effect was almost grotesque.
    The greeting between the two potentates was, of course, as full of affected
kindness and compliment as it was totally devoid of sincerity. But the temper of
the Duke rendered it much more difficult for him to preserve the necessary
appearances in voice, speech, and demeanour; while in the King, every species of
simulation and dissimulation seemed so much a part of his nature, that those
best acquainted with him could not have distinguished what was feigned from what
was real.
    Perhaps the most accurate illustration, were it not unworthy two such high
potentates, would be, to suppose the King in the situation of a stranger,
perfectly acquainted with the habits and dispositions of the canine race, who,
for some purpose of his own, is desirous to make friends with a large and surly
mastiff, that holds him in suspicion, and is disposed to worry him on the first
symptoms either of diffidence or of umbrage. The mastiff growls internally,
erects his bristles, shows his teeth, yet is ashamed to fly upon the intruder,
who seems at the same time so kind and so confiding, and therefore the animal
endures advances which are far from pacifying him, watching, at the same time,
the slightest opportunity which may justify him in his own eyes for seizing his
friend by the throat.
    The King was no doubt sensible, from the altered voice, constrained manner,
and abrupt gestures of the Duke, that the game he had to play was delicate, and
perhaps he more than once repented having ever taken it in hand. But repentance
was too late, and all that remained for him was that inimitable dexterity of
management, which the King understood equally at least with any man that ever
lived.
    The demeanour which Louis used towards the Duke was such as to resemble the
kind overflowing of the heart in a moment of sincere reconciliation with an
honoured and tried friend, from whom he had been estranged by temporary
circumstances now passed away, and forgotten as soon as removed. The King blamed
himself for not having sooner taken the decisive step of convincing his kind and
good kinsman by such a mark of confidence as he was now bestowing, that the
angry passages which had occurred betwixt them were nothing in his remembrance,
when weighed against the kindness which received him when an exile from France,
and under the displeasure of the King his father. He spoke of the Good Duke of
Burgundy, as Philip the father of Duke Charles was currently called, and
remembered a thousand instances of his paternal kindness.
    »I think, cousin,« he said, »your father made little difference in his
affection betwixt you and me; for I remember when by an accident I had
bewildered myself in a hunting party, I found the good Duke upbraiding you with
leaving me in the forest, as if you had been careless of the safety of an elder
brother.«
    The Duke of Burgundy's features were naturally harsh and severe; and when he
attempted to smile, in polite acquiescence to the truth of what the King told
him, the grimace which he made was truly diabolical.
    »Prince of dissemblers,« he said in his secret soul, »would that it stood
with my honour to remind you how you have requited all the benefits of our
House!«
    »And then,« continued the King, »if the ties of consanguinity and gratitude
are not sufficient to bind us together, my fair cousin, we have those of
spiritual relationship; for I am godfather to your fair daughter Mary, who is as
dear to me as one of my own maidens; and when the Saints (their holy name be
blessed!) sent me a little blossom, which withered in the course of three
months, it was your princely father who held it at the font, and celebrated the
ceremony of baptism, with richer and prouder magnificence than Paris itself
could have afforded. Never shall I forget the deep, the indelible impression
which the generosity of Duke Philip, and yours, my dearest cousin, made upon the
half-broken heart of the poor exile!«
    »Your Majesty,« said the Duke, compelling himself to make some reply,
»acknowledged that slight obligation in terms which overpaid all the display
which Burgundy could make, to show due sense of the honour you had done its
Sovereign.«
    »I remember the words you mean, fair cousin,« said the King, smiling; »I
think they were, that in guerdon of the benefit of that day, I, poor wanderer,
had nothing to offer, save the persons of myself, of my wife, and of my child. -
Well, and I think I have indifferently well redeemed my pledge.«
    »I mean not to dispute what your Majesty is pleased to aver,« said the Duke;
»but« -
    »But you ask,« said the king, interrupting him, »how my actions have
accorded with my words - Marry thus: the body of my infant child Joachim rests
in Burgundian earth - my own person I have this morning placed unreservedly in
your power - and, for that of my wife, - truly, cousin, I think, considering the
period of time which has passed, you will scarce insist on my keeping my word in
that particular. She was born on the Day of the Blessed Annunciation« (he
crossed himself, and muttered an Ora pro nobis), »some fifty years since; but
she is no farther distant than Rheims, and if you insist on my promise being
fulfilled to the letter, she shall presently wait your pleasure.«
    Angry as the Duke of Burgundy was, at the barefaced attempt of the King to
assume towards him a tone of friendship and intimacy, he could not help laughing
at the whimsical reply of that singular monarch, and his laugh was as discordant
as the abrupt tones of passion in which he often spoke. Having laughed longer
and louder than was at that period, or would now be, thought fitting the time
and occasion, he answered in the same tone, bluntly declining the honour of the
Queen's company, but stating his willingness to accept that of the King's eldest
daughter, whose beauty was celebrated.
    »I am happy, fair cousin,« said the King, with one of those dubious smiles
of which he frequently made use, »that your gracious pleasure has not fixed on
my younger daughter Joan. I should otherwise have had spear-breaking between you
and my cousin of Orleans; and, had harm come of it, I must on either side have
lost a kind friend and affectionate cousin.«
    »Nay, nay, my royal sovereign,« said Duke Charles, »the Duke of Orleans
shall have no interruption from me in the path which he has chosen par amours.
The cause in which I couch my lance against Orleans, must be fair and straight.«
    Louis was far from taking amiss this brutal allusion to the personal
deformity of the Princess Joan. On the contrary, he was rather pleased to find,
that the Duke was content to be amused with broad jests, in which he was himself
a proficient, and which (according to the modern phrase) spared much sentimental
hypocrisy. Accordingly, he speedily placed their intercourse on such a footing,
that Charles, though he felt it impossible to play the part of an affectionate
and reconciled friend to a monarch whose ill offices he had so often
encountered, and whose sincerity on the present occasion he so strongly doubted,
yet had no difficulty in acting the hearty landlord towards a facetious guest;
and so the want of reciprocity in kinder feelings between them, was supplied by
the tone of good fellowship which exists between two boon companions, - a tone
natural to the Duke from the frankness, and, it might be added, the grossness of
his character, and to Louis, because, though capable of assuming any mood of
social intercourse, that which really suited him best was mingled with grossness
of ideas, and of caustic humour in expression.
    Both Princes were happily able to preserve, during the period of a banquet
at the town-house of Peronne, the same kind of conversation, on which they met
as on a neutral ground, and which, as Louis easily perceived, was more available
than any other to keep the Duke of Burgundy in that state of composure which
seemed necessary to his own safety.
    Yet he was alarmed to observe, that the Duke had around him several of those
French nobles, and those of the highest rank, and in situations of great trust
and power, whom his own severity or injustice had driven into exile; and it was
to secure himself from the possible effects of their resentment and revenge,
that (as already mentioned) he requested to be lodged in the Castle or Citadel
of Peronne, rather than in the town itself.50 This was readily granted by Duke
Charles, with one of those grim smiles, of which it was impossible to say
whether it meant good or harm to the party whom it concerned.
    But when the King, expressing himself with as much delicacy as he could, and
in the manner he thought best qualified to lull suspicion asleep, asked, whether
the Scottish Archers of his Guard might not maintain the custody of the Castle
of Peronne during his residence there, in lieu of the gate of the town which the
Duke had offered to their care, Charles replied, with his wonted sternness of
voice, and abruptness of manner, rendered more alarming by his habit when he
spoke, of either turning up his moustaches, or handling his sword or dagger, the
last of which he used frequently to draw a little way, and then return to the
sheath,51 - »Saint Martin! No, my liege. You are in your vassal's camp and city
- so men call me in respect to your Majesty - my castle and town are yours, and
my men are yours; so it is indifferent whether my men-at-arms or the Scottish
Archers guard either the outer gate or defences of the Castle. - No, by Saint
George! Peronne is a virgin fortress - she shall not lose her reputation by any
neglect of mine. Maidens must be carefully watched, my royal cousin, if we would
have them continue to live in good fame.«
    »Surely, fair cousin, and I altogether agree with you,« said the King, »I
being in fact more interested in the reputation of the good little town than you
are - Peronne being, as you know, fair cousin, one of those upon the same river
Somme, which, pledged to your father of happy memory for redemption of money,
are liable to be redeemed upon repayment. And, to speak truth, coming, like an
honest debtor, disposed to clear off my obligations of every kind, I have
brought here a few sumpter mules loaded with silver for the redemption - enough
to maintain even your princely and royal establishment, fair cousin, for the
space of three years.«
    »I will not receive a penny of it,« said the Duke, twirling his moustaches;
»the day of redemption is past, my royal cousin; nor was there ever serious
purpose that the right should be exercised, the cession of these towns being the
sole recompense my father ever received from France, when, in a happy hour for
your family, he consented to forget the murder of my grandfather, and to
exchange the alliance of England for that of your father. Saint George! if he
had not so acted, your royal self, far from having towns on the Somme, could
scarce have kept those beyond the Loire. No - I will not render a stone of them,
were I to receive for every stone so rendered its weight in gold. I thank God,
and the wisdom and valour of my ancestors, that the revenues of Burgundy, though
it be but a duchy, will maintain my state, even when a King is my guest, without
obliging me to barter my heritage.«
    »Well, fair cousin,« answered the King, with the same mild and placid manner
as before, and unperturbed by the loud tone and violent gestures of the Duke, »I
see that you are so good a friend to France, that you are unwilling to part with
aught that belongs to her. But we shall need some moderator in these affairs
when we come to treat of them in council - What say you to Saint Paul?«
    »Neither Saint Paul, nor Saint Peter, nor e'er a Saint in the Calendar,«
said the Duke of Burgundy, »shall preach me out of the possession of Peronne.«
    »Nay, but you mistake me,« said King Louis, smiling; »I mean Louis de
Luxembourg, our trusty constable, the Count of Saint Paul. - Ah! Saint Mary of
Embrun! we lack but his head at our conference! the best head in France, and the
most useful to the restoration of perfect harmony betwixt us.«
    »By Saint George of Burgundy!« said the Duke, »I marvel to hear your Majesty
talk thus of a man, false and perjured, both to France and Burgundy - one, who
hath ever endeavoured to fan into a flame our frequent differences, and that
with the purpose of giving himself the airs of a mediator. I swear by the Order
I wear, that his marshes shall not be long a resource for him!«
    »Be not so warm, cousin,« said the King, smiling, and speaking under his
breath; »when I wished for the Constable's head, as a means of ending the
settlement of our trifling differences, I had no desire for his body, which
might remain at Saint Quentin's with much convenience.«
    »Ho! ho! I take your meaning, my royal cousin,« said Charles, with the same
dissonant laugh which some other of the King's coarse pleasantries had extorted;
and added, stamping his heel on the ground, »I allow, in that sense, the head of
the Constable might be useful at Peronne.«
    These, and other discourses, by which the King mixed hints at serious
affairs amid matters of mirth and amusement, did not follow each other
consecutively; but were adroitly introduced during the time of the banquet at
the Hôtel de Ville, during a subsequent interview in the Duke's own apartments,
and, in short, as occasion seemed to render the introduction of such delicate
subjects easy and natural.
    Indeed, however rashly Louis had placed himself in a risk, which the Duke's
fiery temper, and the mutual subjects of exasperated enmity which subsisted
betwixt them rendered of doubtful and perilous issue, never pilot on an unknown
coast conducted himself with more firmness and prudence. He seemed to sound with
the utmost address and precision the depths and shallows of his rival's mind and
temper, and manifested neither doubt nor fear when the result of his experiments
discovered much more of sunken rocks and of dangerous shoals than of safe
anchorage.
    At length a day closed, which must have been a wearisome one to Louis, from
the constant exertion, vigilance, precaution, and attention, which his situation
required, as it was a day of constraint to the Duke, from the necessity of
suppressing the violent feelings to which he was in the general habit of giving
uncontrolled vent.
    No sooner had the latter retired into his own apartment, after he had taken
a formal leave of the King for the night, than he gave way to the explosions of
passion which he had so long suppressed; and many an oath and abusive epithet,
as his jester Le Glorieux said, »fell that night upon heads which they were
never coined for,« his domestics reaping the benefit of that hoard of injurious
language which he could not in decency bestow on his royal guest, even in his
absence, and which was yet become too great to be altogether suppressed. The
jests of the clown had some effect in tranquillising the Duke's angry mood; - he
laughed loudly, threw the jester a piece of gold, caused himself to be disrobed
in tranquillity, swallowed a deep cup of wine and spices, went to bed, and slept
soundly.
    The couchée of King Louis is more worthy of notice than that of Charles; for
the violent expression of exasperated and headlong passion, as indeed it belongs
more to the brutal than the intelligent part of our nature, has little to
interest us, in comparison to the deep workings of a vigorous and powerful mind.
    Louis was escorted to the lodgings he had chosen in the Castle or Citadel of
Peronne by the chamberlains and harbingers of the Duke of Burgundy, and received
at the entrance by a strong guard of archers and men-at-arms.
    As he descended from his horse to cross the drawbridge, over a moat of
unusual width and depth, he looked on the sentinels, and observed to Comines,
who accompanied him, with other Burgundian nobles, »They wear Saint Andrew's
crosses - but not those of my Scottish Archers.«
    »You will find them as ready to die in your defence, Sire,« said the
Burgundian, whose sagacious ear had detected in the King's tone of speech a
feeling, which doubtless Louis would have concealed if he could. »They wear the
Saint Andrew's Cross as the appendage of the collar of the Golden Fleece, my
master the Duke of Burgundy's Order.«
    »Do I not know it?« said Louis, showing the collar which he himself wore in
compliment to his host; »it is one of the dear bonds of fraternity which exist
between my kind brother and myself. We are brothers in chivalry as in spiritual
relationship; cousins by birth, and friends by every tie of kind feeling and
good neighbourhood. - No farther than the base-court, my noble lords and
gentlemen! I can permit your attendance no farther - you have done me enough of
grace.«
    »We were charged by the Duke,« said D'Hymbercourt, »to bring your Majesty to
your lodging. - We trust your Majesty will permit us to obey our master's
command.«
    »In this small matter,« said the King, »I trust you will allow my command to
outweigh his, even with you his liege subjects. - I am something indisposed, my
lords - something fatigued. Great pleasure hath its toils, as well as great
pain. I trust to enjoy your society better to-morrow. - And yours too, Seignior
Philip of Comines - I am told you are the annalist of the time - we that desire
to have a name in history must speak you fair, for men say your pen hath a sharp
point when you will. - Good-night, my lords and gentles, to all and each of
you.«
    The Lords of Burgundy retired, much pleased with the grace of Louis's
manner, and the artful distribution of his attentions; and the King was left
with only one or two of his own personal followers, under the archway of the
base-court of the Castle of Peronne, looking on the huge tower which occupied
one of the angles, being, in fact, the Donjon, or principal Keep of the palace.
This tall, dark, massive building was seen clearly by the same moon which was
lighting Quentin Durward betwixt Charleroi and Peronne, which, as the reader is
aware, shone with peculiar lustre. The great Keep was in form nearly resembling
the White Tower in the Citadel of London, but still more ancient in its
architecture, deriving its date, as was affirmed, from the days of Charlemagne.
The walls were of a tremendous thickness, the windows very small, and grated
with bars of iron, and the huge clumsy bulk of the building cast a dark and
portentous shadow over the whole of the courtyard.
    »I am not to be lodged there,« the King said, with a shudder, that had
something in it ominous.
    »No,« replied the grey-headed seneschal, who attended upon him unbonneted -
»God forbid! - Your Majesty's apartments are prepared in these lower buildings
which are hard by, and in which King John slept two nights before the battle of
Poictiers.«
    »Hum - that is no lucky omen neither,« muttered the King; »but what of the
Tower, my old friend? and why should you desire of Heaven that I may not be
there lodged?«
    »Nay, my gracious liege,« said the seneschal, »I know no evil of the Tower
at all - only that the sentinels say lights are seen, and strange noises heard
in it at night; and there are reasons why that may be the case, for anciently it
was used as a state prison, and there are many tales of deeds which have been
done in it.«
    Louis asked no farther questions; for no man was more bound than he to
respect the secrets of a prison-house. At the door of the apartments destined
for his use, which, though of later date than the Tower, were still both ancient
and gloomy, stood a small party of the Scottish Guard, which the Duke, although
he declined to concede the point to Louis, had ordered to be introduced, so as
to be near the person of their master. The faithful Lord Crawford was at their
head.
    »Crawford - my honest and faithful Crawford,« said the King, »where hast
thou been to-day? - Are the Lords of Burgundy so inhospitable as to neglect one
of the bravest and most noble gentlemen that ever trod a court? - I saw you not
at the banquet.«
    »I declined it, my liege,« said Crawford - »times are changed with me. The
day has been that I could have ventured a carouse with the best man in Burgundy,
and that in the juice of his own grape; but a matter of four pints now flusters
me, and I think it concerns your Majesty's service to set in this an example to
my callants.«
    »Thou art ever prudent,« said the King; »but surely your toil is the less
when you have so few men to command? - and a time of festivity requires not so
severe self-denial on your part as a time of danger.«
    »If I have few men to command,« said Crawford, »I have the more need to keep
the knaves in fitting condition; and whether this business be like to end in
feasting or fighting, God and your Majesty know better than old John of
Crawford.«
    »You surely do not apprehend any danger?« said the King hastily, yet in a
whisper.
    »Not I,« answered Crawford; »I wish I did; for, as old Earl Tineman52 used
to say, apprehended dangers may be always defended dangers. - The word for the
night, if your Majesty pleases?«
    »Let it be Burgundy, in honour of our host and of a liquor that you love,
Crawford.«
    »I will quarrel with neither Duke nor drink, so called,« said Crawford,
»provided always that both be sound. A good night to your Majesty!«
    »A good night, my trusty Scot,« said the King, and passed on to his
apartments.
    At the door of his bedroom Le Balafré was placed sentinel. »Follow me
hither,« said the King, as he passed him; and the Archer accordingly, like a
piece of machinery put into motion by an artist, strode after him into the
apartment, and remained there fixed, silent, and motionless, attending the royal
command.
    »Have you heard from that wandering Paladin, your nephew?« said the King;
»for he hath been lost to us, since, like a young knight who had set out upon
his first adventures, he sent us home two prisoners, as the first fruits of his
chivalry.«
    »My lord, I heard something of that,« said Balafré; »and I hope your Majesty
will believe, that if he acted wrongfully, it was in no shape by my precept or
example, since I never was so bold as to unhorse any of your Majesty's most
illustrious house, better knowing my own condition, and« -
    »Be silent on that point,« said the King: »your nephew did his duty in the
matter.«
    »There indeed,« continued Balafré, »he had the cue from me. - Quentin, said
I to him, whatever comes of it, remember you belong to the Scottish
Archer-Guard, and do your duty whatever comes on't.«
    »I guess he had some such exquisite instructor,« said Louis; »but it
concerns me that you answer me my first question - Have you heard of your nephew
of late? - Stand aback, my masters,« he added, addressing the gentlemen of his
chamber, »for this concerneth no ears but mine.« »Surely, please your Majesty,«
said Balafré; »I have seen this very evening the groom Chariot, whom my kinsman
despatched from Liege, or some castle of the Bishop's which is near it, and
where he hath lodged the Ladies of Croye in safety.«
    »Now our Lady of Heaven be praised for it!« said the King. »Art thou sure of
it? - sure of the good news?«
    »As sure as I can be of aught,« said Le Balafré; »the fellow, I think, hath
letters for your Majesty from the Ladies of Croye.«
    »Haste to get them,« said the King - »Give the harquebuss to one of these
knaves - to Oliver - to any one. - Now our Lady of Embrun be praised! and silver
shall be the screen that surrounds her high altar!«
    Louis, in this fit of gratitude and devotion, doffed, as usual, his hat,
selected from the figures with which it was garnished that which represented his
favourite image of the Virgin, placed it on a table, and, kneeling down,
repeated reverently the vow he had made.
    The groom, being the first messenger whom Durward had despatched from
Schonwaldt, was now introduced with his letters. They were addressed to the King
by the Ladies of Croye, and barely thanked him in very cold terms for his
courtesy while at his Court, and something more warmly, for having permitted
them to retire, and sent them in safety from his dominions; expressions at which
Louis laughed very heartily, instead of resenting them. He then demanded of
Charlot, with obvious interest, whether they had not sustained some alarm or
attack upon the road? Charlot, a stupid fellow, and selected for that quality,
gave a very confused account of the affray in which his companion, the Gascon,
had been killed, but knew of no other. Again Louis demanded of him, minutely and
particularly, the route which the party had taken to Liege; and seemed much
interested when he was informed, in reply, that they had, upon approaching
Namur, kept the more direct road to Liege, upon the right bank of the Maes,
instead of the left bank, as recommended in their route. The King then ordered
the man a small present, and dismissed him, disguising the anxiety he had
expressed, as if it only concerned the safety of the Ladies of Croye.
    Yet the news, though they implied the failure of one of his own favourite
plans, seemed to imply more internal satisfaction on the King's part than he
would have probably indicated in a case of brilliant success. He sighed like one
whose breast has been relieved from a heavy burden, muttered his devotional
acknowledgments with an air of deep sanctity, raised up his eyes, and hastened
to adjust newer and surer schemes of ambition.
    With such purpose, Louis ordered the attendance of his astrologer, Martins
Galeotti, who appeared with his usual air of assumed dignity, yet not without a
shade of uncertainty on his brow, as if he had doubted the King's kind
reception. It was, however, favourable, even beyond the warmest which he had
ever met with at any former interview. Louis termed him his friend, his father
in the sciences - the glass by which a king should look into distant futurity -
and concluded by thrusting on his finger a ring of very considerable; value.
Galeotti, not aware of the circumstances which had thus suddenly raised his
character in the estimation of Louis, yet understood his own profession too well
to let that ignorance be seen. He received with grave modesty the praises of
Louis, which he contended were only due to the nobleness of the science which he
practised, a science the rather the more deserving of admiration on account of
its working miracles through means of so feeble an agent as himself; and he and
the King took leave, for once much satisfied with each other.
    On the astrologer's departure, Louis threw himself into a chair, and
appearing much exhausted, dismissed the rest of his attendants, excepting Oliver
alone, who, creeping around with gentle assiduity and noiseless step, assisted
him in the task of preparing for repose.
    While he received this assistance, the King, unlike to his wont, was so
silent and passive, that his attendant was struck by the unusual change in his
deportment. The worst minds have often something of good principle in them -
banditti show fidelity to their captain, and sometimes a protected and promoted
favourite has felt a gleam of sincere interest in the monarch to whom he owed
his greatness. Oliver le Diable, le Mauvais (or by whatever other name he was
called expressive of his evil propensities), was, nevertheless, scarcely so
completely identified with Satan as not to feel some touch of grateful feeling
for his master in this singular condition, when, as it seemed, his fate was
deeply interested and his strength seemed to be exhausted. After for a short
time rendering to the King in silence the usual services paid by a servant to
his master at the toilette, the attendant was at length tempted to say, with the
freedom which his Sovereign's indulgence had permitted him in such
circumstances, »Tête dieu, Sire, you seem as if you had lost a battle; and yet
I, who was near your Majesty during this whole day, never knew you fight a field
so gallantly.«
    »A field!« said King Louis, looking up, and assuming his wonted causticity
of tone and manner; »Pasques-dieu, my friend Oliver, say I have kept the arena
in a bull-fight; for a blinder, and more stubborn, untameable, uncontrollable
brute, than our cousin of Burgundy, never existed, save in the shape of a
Murcian bull, trained for the bull-feasts. - Well, let it pass - I dodged him
bravely. But, Oliver, rejoice with me that my plans in Flanders have not taken
effect, whether as concerning those two rambling Princesses of Croye, or in
Liege - you understand me?«
    »In faith, I do not, Sire,« replied Oliver; »it is impossible for me to
congratulate your Majesty on the failure of your favourite schemes, unless you
tell me some reason for the change in your own wishes and views.«
    »Nay,« answered the King, »there is no change in either, in a general view.
But, Pasques-dieu, my friend, I have this day learned more of Duke Charles than
I before knew. When he was Count de Charalois, in the time of the old Duke
Philip and the banished Dauphin of France, we drank, and hunted, and rambled
together - and many a wild adventure we have had. And in those days I had a
decided advantage over him - like that which a strong spirit naturally assumes
over a weak one. But he has since changed - has become a dogged, daring,
assuming, disputatious dogmatist, who nourishes an obvious wish to drive matters
to extremities, while he thinks he has the game in his own hands. I was
compelled to glide as gently away from each offensive topic, as if I touched
red-hot iron. I did but hint at the possibility of those erratic Countesses of
Croye, ere they attained Liege (for thither I frankly confessed that, to the
best of my belief, they were gone), falling into the hands of some wild snapper
upon the frontiers, and, Pasques-dieu! you would have thought I had spoken of
sacrilege. It is needless to tell you what he said, and quite enough to say,
that I would have held my head's safety very insecure, if, in that moment,
accounts had been brought of the success of thy friend, William with the Beard,
in his and thy honest scheme of bettering himself by marriage.«
    »No friend of mine, if it please your Majesty,« said Oliver - »neither
friend nor plan of mine.«
    »True, Oliver,« answered the King; »thy plan had not been to wed, but to
shave such a bridegroom. Well, thou didst wish her as bad a one, when thou didst
modestly hint at thyself. However, Oliver, lucky the man who has her not; for
hang, draw, and quarter, were the most gentle words which my gentle cousin spoke
of him who should wed the young Countess, his vassal, without his most ducal
permission.«
    »And he is, doubtless, as jealous of any disturbances in the good town of
Liege?« asked the favourite.
    »As much, or much more so,« replied the King, »as your understanding may
easily anticipate; but, ever since I resolved on coming hither, my messengers
have been in Liege, to repress, for the present, every movement to insurrection;
and my very busy and bustling friends, Rouslaer and Pavillon, have orders to be
quiet as a mouse until this happy meeting between my cousin and me is over.«
    »Judging, then, from your Majesty's account,« said Oliver, drily, »the
utmost to be hoped from this meeting is, that it should not make your condition
worse? - Surely this is like the crane that thrust her head into the fox's
mouth, and was glad to thank her good fortune that it was not bitten off. Yet
your Majesty seemed deeply obliged even now to the sage philosopher who
encouraged you to play so hopeful a game.«
    »No game,« said the King, sharply, »is to be despaired of until it is lost,
and that I have no reason to expect it will be in my own case. On the contrary,
if nothing occurs to stir the rage of this vindictive madman, I am sure of
victory; and surely, I am not a little obliged to the skill which selected for
my agent, as the conductor of the Ladies of Croye, a youth whose horoscope so
far corresponded with mine, that he hath saved me from danger, even by the
disobedience of my own commands, and taking the route which avoided De la
Marck's ambuscade.«
    »Your Majesty,« said Oliver, »may find many agents who will serve you on the
terms of acting rather after their own pleasure than your instructions.«
    »Nay, nay, Oliver,« said Louis, impatiently, »the heathen poet speaks of
Vota diis exaudita malignis, - wishes, that is, which the saints grant to us in
their wrath; and such, in the circumstances, would have been the success of
William de la Marck's exploit, had it taken place about this time, and while I
am in the power of this Duke of Burgundy. - And this my own art foresaw -
fortified by that of Galeotti; - that is, I foresaw not the miscarriage of De la
Marck's undertaking, but I foresaw that the expedition of yonder Scottish Archer
should end happily for me - and such has been the issue, though in a manner
different from what I expected; for the stars, though they foretell general
results, are yet silent on the means by which such are accomplished, being often
the very reverse of what we expect, or even desire. - But why talk I of these
mysteries to thee, Oliver, who art in so far worse than the very devil, who is
thy namesake, since he believes and trembles; whereas thou art an infidel both
to religion and to science, and wilt remain so till thine own destiny is
accomplished, which, as thy horoscope and physiognomy alike assure me, will be
by the intervention of the gallows!«
    »And if it indeed shall be so,« said Oliver, in a resigned tone of voice,
»it will be so ordered, because I was too grateful a servant to hesitate at
executing the commands of my royal master.«
    Louis burst into his usual sardonic laugh. - »Thou has broke thy lance on me
fairly, Oliver; and, by Our Lady, thou art right, for I defied thee to it. But,
prithee, tell me in sadness, dost thou discover anything in these men's measures
towards us, which may argue any suspicion of ill-usage?«
    »My liege,« replied Oliver, »your Majesty, and yonder learned philosopher,
look for augury to the stars and heavenly host - I am an earthly reptile, and
consider but the things connected with my vocation. But, methinks, there is a
lack of that earnest and precise attention on your Majesty, which men show to a
welcome guest of a degree so far above them. The Duke, to-night, pleaded
weariness, and saw your Majesty not farther than to the street, leaving to the
officers of his household the task of conveying you to your lodgings. The rooms
here are hastily and carelessly fitted up - the tapestry is hung up awry - and,
in one of the pieces, as you may observe, the figures are reversed, and stand on
their heads, while the trees grow with their roots uppermost.«
    »Pshaw! accident, and the effect of hurry,« said the King, »When did you
ever know me concerned about such trifles as these?«
    »Not on their own account are they worth notice,« said Oliver; »but as
intimating the degree of esteem in which the officers of the Duke's household
observe your Grace to be held by him. Believe me, that, had his desire seemed
sincere that your reception should be in all points marked by scrupulous
attention, the zeal of his people would have made minutes do the work of days -
And when,« he added, pointing to the basin and ewer, »was the furniture of your
Majesty's toilette of other substance than silver?«
    »Nay,« said the King, with a constrained smile, »that last remark upon the
shaving utensils, Oliver, is too much in the style of thine own peculiar
occupation to be combated by any one. - True it is, that when I was only a
refugee, and an exile, I was served upon gold plate by order of the same
Charles, who accounted silver too mean for the Dauphin, though he seems to hold
that metal too rich for the King of France. Well, Oliver, we will to bed - Our
resolution has been made and executed; there is nothing to be done, but to play
manfully the game on which we have entered. I know that my cousin of Burgundy,
like other wild bulls, shuts his eyes when he begins his career. I have but to
watch that moment, like one of the tauridors whom we saw at Burgos, and his
impetuosity places him at my mercy.«
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Seventh

                                 The Explosion.

 'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all,
 When to the startled eye, the sudden glance
 Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud.
                                                               Thomson's Summer.
 
The preceding chapter, agreeably to its title, was designed as a retrospect
which might enable the reader fully to understand the terms upon which the King
of France and the Duke of Burgundy stood together, when the former, moved,
partly perhaps by his belief in astrology, which was represented as favourable
to the issue of such a measure, and in a great measure doubtless by the
conscious superiority of his own powers of mind over those of Charles, had
adopted the extraordinary, and upon any other ground altogether inexplicable,
resolution of committing his person to the faith of a fierce and exasperated
enemy - a resolution also the more rash and unaccountable, as there were various
examples in that stormy time to show, that safe-conducts, however solemnly
plighted, had proved no assurance for those in whose favour they were conceived;
and indeed the murder of the Duke's grandfather, at the Bridge of Montereau, in
presence of the father of Louis, and at an interview solemnly agreed upon for
the establishment of peace and amnesty, was a horrible precedent, should the
Duke be disposed to resort to it.
    But the temper of Charles, though rough, fierce, headlong, and unyielding,
was not, unless in the full tide of passion, faithless or ungenerous, faults
which usually belong to colder dispositions. He was at no pains to show the King
more courtesy than the laws of hospitality positively demanded; but, on the
other hand, he evinced no purpose of overleaping their sacred barriers.
    On the following morning after the King's arrival, there was a general
muster of the troops of the Duke of Burgundy, which were so numerous and so
excellently appointed, that, perhaps, he was not sorry to have an opportunity of
displaying them before his great rival. Indeed, while he paid the necessary
compliment of a vassal to his Suzerain, in declaring that these troops were the
King's, and not his own, the curl of the upper lip, and the proud glance of his
eye, intimated his consciousness, that the words he used were but empty
compliment, and that his fine army, at his own unlimited disposal, was as ready
to march against Paris as in any other direction. It must have added to Louis's
mortification, that he recognised, as forming part of this host, many banners of
French nobility, not only of Normandy and Bretagne, but of provinces more
immediately subjected to his own authority, who, from various causes of
discontent, had joined and made common cause with the Duke of Burgundy.
    True to his character, however, Louis seemed to take little notice of these
malcontents, while, in fact, he was revolving in his mind the various means by
which it might be possible to detach them from the banners of Burgundy and bring
them back to his own, and resolved for that purpose, that he would cause those
to whom he attached the greatest importance to be secretly sounded by Oliver and
other agents.
    He himself laboured diligently, but at the same time cautiously, to make
interest with the Duke's chief officers and advisers, employing for that purpose
the usual means of familiar and frequent notice, adroit flattery, and liberal
presents; not, as he represented, to alienate their faithful services from their
noble master, but that they might lend their aid in preserving peace betwixt
France and Burgundy - an end so excellent in itself, and so obviously tending to
the welfare of both countries, and of the reigning Princes of either.
    The notice of so great and so wise a King was in itself a mighty bribe;
promises did much, and direct gifts, which the customs of the time permitted the
Burgundian courtiers to accept without scruple, did still more. During a
boar-hunt in the forest, while the Duke, eager always upon the immediate object,
whether business or pleasure, gave himself entirely up to the ardour of the
chase, Louis, unrestrained by his presence, sought and found the means of
speaking secretly and separately to many of those who were reported to have most
interest with Charles, among whom D'Hymbercourt and Comines were not forgotten;
nor did he fail to mix up the advances which he made towards those two
distinguished persons with praises of the valour and military skill of the
first, and of the profound sagacity and literary talents of the future historian
of the period.
    Such an opportunity of personally conciliating, or, if the reader pleases,
corrupting, the ministers of Charles, was perhaps what the King had proposed to
himself as a principal object of his visit, even if his art should fail to
cajole the Duke himself. The connection betwixt France and Burgundy was so
close, that most of the nobles belonging to the latter country had hopes or
actual interests connected with the former, which the favour of Louis could
advance, or his personal displeasure destroy. Formed for this and every other
species of intrigue, liberal to profusion when it was necessary to advance his
plans, and skilful in putting the most plausible colour upon his proposals and
presents, the King contrived to reconcile the spirit of the proud to their
profit, and to hold out to the real or pretended patriot the good of both France
and Burgundy, as the ostensible motive; whilst the party's own private interest,
like the concealed wheel of some machine, worked not the less powerfully that
its operations were kept out of sight. For each man he had a suitable bait, and
a proper mode of presenting it, he poured the guerdon into the sleeve of those
who were too proud to extend their hand, and trusted that his bounty, though it
descended like the dew, without noise and imperceptibly, would not fail to
produce, in due season, a plentiful crop of good will at least, perhaps of good
offices, to the donor. In fine, although he had been long paving the way by his
ministers for an establishment of such an interest in the Court of Burgundy as
should be advantageous to the interests of France, Louis's own personal
exertions, directed, doubtless, by the information of which he was previously
possessed, did more to accomplish that object in a few hours than his agents had
effected in years of negotiation.
    One man alone the King missed, whom he had been particularly desirous of
conciliating, and that was the Count de Crèvecoeur, whose firmness, during his
conduct as Envoy at Plessis, far from exciting Louis's resentment, had been
viewed as a reason for making him his own if possible. He was not particularly
gratified when he learnt that the Count, at the head of an hundred lances, was
gone towards the frontiers of Brabant, to assist the Bishop, in case of
necessity, against William de la Marck and his discontented subjects; but he
consoled himself that the appearance of this force, joined with the directions
which he had sent by faithful messengers, would serve to prevent any premature
disturbances in that country, the breaking out of which might, he foresaw,
render his present situation very precarious.
    The Court upon this occasion dined in the forest when the hour of noon
arrived, as was common in those great hunting parties; an arrangement at this
time particularly agreeable to the Duke, desirous as he was to abridge that
ceremonious and deferential solemnity with which he was otherwise under the
necessity of receiving King Louis. In fact, the King's knowledge of human nature
had in one particular misled him on this remarkable occasion. He thought that
the Duke would have been inexpressibly flattered to have received such a mark of
condescension and confidence from his liege lord; but he forgot that the
dependence of this Dukedom upon the Crown of France was privately the subject of
galling mortification to a Prince so powerful, so wealthy, and so proud as
Charles, whose aim it certainly was to establish an independent kingdom. The
presence of the King at the Court of the Duke of Burgundy imposed on that prince
the necessity of exhibiting himself in the subordinate character of a vassal,
and of discharging many rites of feudal observance and deference, which, to one
of his haughty disposition, resembled derogation from the character of a
Sovereign Prince, which on all occasions he affected as far as possible to
sustain.
    But although it was possible to avoid much ceremony by having the dinner
upon the green turf, with sound of bugles, broaching of barrels, and all the
freedom of a silvan meal, it was necessary that the evening repast should, even
for that very reason, be held with more than usual solemnity.
    Previous orders for this purpose had been given, and, upon returning to
Peronne, King Louis found a banquet prepared with such a profusion of splendour
and magnificence, as became the wealth of his formidable vassal, possessed as he
was of almost all the Low Countries, then the richest portion of Europe. At the
head of the long board, which groaned under plate of gold and silver, filled to
profusion with the most exquisite dainties, sat the Duke, and on his right hand,
upon a seat more elevated than his own, was placed his royal guest. Behind him
stood on one side the son of the Duke of Gueldres, who officiated as his grand
carver - on the other, Le Glorieux, his jester, without whom he seldom stirred;
for, like most men of his hasty and coarse character, Charles carried to
extremity the general taste of that age for court-fools and jesters -
experiencing that pleasure in their display of eccentricity and mental infirmity
which his more acute, but not more benevolent, rival, loved better to extract
from marking the imperfections of humanity in its nobler specimens, and finding
subject for mirth in the »fears of the brave, and follies of the wise.« And,
indeed, if the anecdote related by Brantome be true, that a court-fool, having
overheard Louis, in one of his agonies of repentant devotion, confess his
accession to the poisoning of his brother Henry, Count of Guyenne, divulged it
next day at dinner before the assembled court, that monarch might be supposed
rather more than satisfied with the pleasantries of professed jesters for the
rest of his life.
    But, on the present occasion, Louis neglected not to take notice of the
favourite buffoon of the Duke, and to applaud his repartees; which he did the
rather that he thought he saw that the folly of Le Glorieux, however grossly it
was sometimes displayed, covered more than the usual quantity of shrewd and
caustic observation proper to his class.
    In fact, Tiel Wetzweiler, called Le Glorieux, was by no means a jester of
the common stamp. He was a tall, fine-looking man, excellent at many exercises,
which seemed scarce reconcilable with mental imbecility, because it must have
required patience and attention to attain them. He usually followed the Duke to
the chase and to the fight; and at Montl'hery, when Charles was in considerable
personal danger, wounded in the throat, and likely to be made prisoner by a
French knight who had hold of his horse's rein, Tiel Wetzweiler charged the
assailant so forcibly, as to overthrow him and disengage his master. Perhaps he
was afraid of this being thought too serious a service for a person of his
condition, and that it might excite him enemies among those knights and nobles
who had left the care of their master's person to the court fool. At any rate,
he chose rather to be laughed at than praised for his achievement, and made such
gasconading boasts of his exploits in the battle, that most men thought the
rescue of Charles was as ideal as the rest of his tale; and it was on this
occasion he acquired the title of Le Glorieux (or the Boastful), by which he was
ever afterwards distinguished.
    Le Glorieux was dressed very richly, but with little of the usual
distinction of his profession; and that little rather of a symbolical than a
very literal character. His head was not shorn, on the contrary, he wore a
profusion of long curled hair, which descended from under his cap, and joining
with a well-arranged and handsomely trimmed beard, set off features, which, but
for a wild lightness of eye, might have been termed handsome. A ridge of scarlet
velvet carried across the top of his cap, indicated, rather than positively
represented, the professional cock's-comb, which distinguished the head-gear of
a fool in right of office. His bauble, made of ebony, was crested, as usual,
with a fool's head, with ass's ears formed of silver; but so small, and so
minutely carved, that, till very closely examined, it might have passed for an
official baton of a more solemn character. These were the only badges of his
office which his dress exhibited. In other respects, it was such as to match
with that of the most courtly nobles. His bonnet displayed a medal of gold; he
wore a chain of the same metal around his neck; and the fashion of his rich
garments was not much more fantastic than those of young gallants who have their
clothes made in the extremity of the existing fashion.
    To this personage Charles, and Louis, in imitation of his host, often
addressed themselves during the entertainment; and both seemed to manifest, by
hearty laughter, their amusement at the answers of Le Glorieux.
    »Whose seats be those that are vacant?« said Charles to the jester.
    »One of those at least should be mine by right of succession, Charles,«
replied Le Glorieux.
    »Why so, knave?« said Charles.
    »Because they belong to the Sieur D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines, who are
gone so far to fly their falcons, that they have forgot their supper. They who
would rather look at a kite on the wing than a pheasant on the board, are of kin
to the fool, and he should succeed to the stools, as a part of their movable
estate.«
    »That is but a stale jest, my friend Tiel,« said the Duke; »but, fools or
wise men, here come the defaulters.«
    As he spoke, Comines and D'Hymbercourt entered the room, and, after having
made their reverence to the two Princes, assumed in silence the seats which were
left vacant for them.
    »What ho! sirs,« exclaimed the Duke, addressing them, »your sport has been
either very good or very bad, to lead you so far and so late. Sir Philip des
Comines, you are dejected - hath D'Hymbercourt won so heavy a wager on you? -
You are a philosopher, and should not grieve at bad fortune. - By Saint George!
D'Hymbercourt looks as sad as thou dost. - How now, sirs? Have you found no
game? or have you lost your falcons? or has a witch crossed your way? or has the
Wild Huntsman53 met you in the forest? By my honour, you seem as if you were
come to a funeral, not a festival.«
    While the Duke spoke, the eyes of the company were all directed towards
D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines; and the embarrassment and dejection of their
countenances, neither being of that class of persons to whom such expression of
anxious melancholy was natural, became so remarkable, that the mirth and
laughter of the company, which the rapid circulation of goblets of excellent
wine had raised to a considerable height, were gradually hushed; and, without
being able to assign any reason for such a change in their spirits, men spoke in
whispers to each other, as on the eve of expecting some strange and important
tidings.
    »What means this silence, Messires?« said the Duke, elevating his voice,
which was naturally harsh. »If you bring these strange looks, and this stranger
silence, into festivity, we shall wish you had abode in the marshes seeking for
herons, or rather for woodcocks and howlets.«
    »My gracious Lord,« said Des Comines, »as we were about to return hither
from the forest, we met the Count of Crèvecoeur.«
    »How!« said the Duke; »already returned from Brabant? - but he found all
well there, doubtless?«
    »The Count himself will presently give your Grace an account of his news,«
said D'Hymbercourt, »which we have heard but imperfectly.«
    »Body of me, where is the Count?« said the Duke.
    »He changes his dress, to wait upon your Highness,« answered D'Hymbercourt.
    »His dress? Saint Dieu!« exclaimed the impatient Prince, »what care I for
his dress? I think you have conspired with him to drive me mad.«
    »Or rather, to be plain,« said Des Comines, »he wishes to communicate these
news at a private audience.«
    »Tête-dieu! my Lord King,« said Charles, »this is ever the way our
counsellors serve us - If they have got hold of aught which they consider as
important for our ear, they look as grave upon the matter, and are as proud of
their burden as an ass of a new pack-saddle. - Some one bid Crèvecoeur come to
us directly! - he comes from the frontiers of Liege, and we, at least« (he laid
some emphasis on the pronoun), »have no secrets in that quarter which we would
shun to have proclaimed before the assembled world.«
    All perceived that the Duke had drunk so much wine as to increase the native
obstinacy of his disposition; and though many would willingly have suggested
that the present was neither a time for hearing news, nor for taking counsel,
yet all knew the impetuosity of his temper too well to venture on farther
interference, and sat in anxious expectation of the tidings which the Count
might have to communicate.
    A brief interval intervened, during which the Duke remained looking eagerly
to the door, as if in a transport of impatience, whilst the guests sat with
their eyes bent on the table as if to conceal their curiosity and anxiety. Louis
alone, maintaining perfect composure, continued his conversation alternately
with the grand carver and with the jester.
    At length Crèvecoeur entered, and was presently saluted by the hurried
question of his master, »What news from Liege and Brabant, Sir Count? - the
report of your arrival has chased mirth from our table - we hope your actual
presence will bring it back to us.«
    »My liege and master,« answered the Count, in a firm but melancholy tone,
»the news which I bring you are fitter for the council board than the feasting
table.«
    »Out with them, man, if they were tidings from Antichrist!« said the Duke,
»but I can guess them - the Liegeois are again in mutiny.«
    »They are, my lord,« said Crèvecoeur very gravely.
    »Look there, man,« said the Duke, »I have hit at once on what you had been
so much afraid to mention to me - the hare-brained burghers are again in arms.
It could not be in better time, for we may at present have the advice of our own
Suzerain,« bowing to King Louis, with eyes which spoke the most bitter, though
suppressed resentment, »to teach us how such mutineers should be dealt with. -
Hast thou more news in thy packet? Out with them, and then answer for yourself
why you went not forward to assist the Bishop.«
    »My lord, the farther tidings are heavy for me to tell, and will be
afflicting to you to hear. - No aid of mine, or of living chivalry, could have
availed the excellent Prelate. William de la Marck, united with the insurgent
Liegeois, has taken his Castle of Schonwaldt, and murdered him in his own hall.«
    »Murdered him!« repeated the Duke, in a deep and low tone, but which
nevertheless was heard from the one end of the hall in which they were assembled
to the other, »thou hast been imposed upon, Crèvecoeur, by some wild report - it
is impossible!«
    »Alas! my lord!« said the Count, »I have it from an eyewitness, an archer of
the King of France's Scottish Guard, who was in the hall when the murder was
committed by William de la Marck's order.«
    »And who was doubtless aiding and abetting in the horrible sacrilege,« said
the Duke, starting up and stamping with his foot with such fury, that he dashed
in pieces the footstool which was placed before him. »Bar the doors of this
hall, gentlemen - secure the windows - let no stranger stir from his seat, upon
pain of instant death! - Gentlemen of my chamber, draw your swords.« And turning
upon Louis, he advanced his own hand slowly and deliberately to the hilt of his
weapon, while the King, without either showing fear, or assuming a defensive
posture, only said,
    »These news, fair cousin, have staggered your reason.«
    »No!« replied the Duke, in a terrible tone, »but they have awakened a just
resentment, which I have too long suffered to be stifled by trivial
considerations of circumstance and place. Murderer of thy brother! - rebel
against thy parent! - tyrant over thy subjects! - treacherous ally! - perjured
King! - dishonoured gentleman! - thou art in my power, and I thank God for it.«
    »Rather thank my folly,« said the King; »for when we met on equal terms at
Montl'hery, methinks you wished yourself farther from me than you are now.«
    The Duke still held his hand on the hilt of his sword, but refrained to draw
his weapon, or to strike a foe who offered no sort of resistance which could in
anywise provoke violence.
    Meanwhile, wild and general confusion spread itself through the hall. The
doors were now fastened and guarded by order of the Duke, but several of the
French nobles, few as they were in number, started from their seats, and
prepared for the defence of their Sovereign. Louis had spoken not a word either
to Orleans or Dunois since they were liberated from restraint at the Castle of
Loches, if it could be termed liberation, to be dragged in King Louis's train,
objects of suspicion evidently, rather than of respect and regard; but,
nevertheless, the voice of Dunois was first heard above the tumult, addressing
himself to the Duke of Burgundy. - »Sir Duke, you have forgotten that you are a
vassal of France, and that we, your guests, are Frenchmen. If you lift a hand
against our Monarch, prepare to sustain the utmost effects of our despair; for,
credit me, we shall feast as high with the blood of Burgundy as we have done
with its wine. - Courage, my Lord of Orleans - and you, gentlemen of France,
form yourselves round Dunois, and do as he does!«
    It was in that moment when a King might see upon what tempers he could
certainly rely. The few independent nobles and knights who attended Louis, most
of whom had only received from him frowns or discountenance, unappalled by the
display of infinitely superior force, and the certainty of destruction in case
they came to blows, hastened to array themselves around Dunois, and, led by him,
to press, towards the head of the table where the contending Princes were
seated.
    On the contrary, the tools and agents whom Louis had dragged forward out of
their fitting and natural places, into importance which was not due to them,
showed cowardice and cold heart, and, remaining still in their seats, seemed
resolved not to provoke their fate by intermeddling, whatever might become of
their benefactor.
    The first of the more generous party was the venerable Lord Crawford, who,
with an agility which no one would have expected at his years, forced his way
through all opposition (which was the less violent, as many of the Burgundians,
either from a point of honour, or a secret inclination to prevent Louis's
impending fate, gave way to him), and threw himself boldly between the King and
the Duke. He then placed his bonnet, from which his white hair escaped in
dishevelled tresses, upon one side of his head - his pale cheek and withered
brow coloured, and his aged eye lightened with all the fire of a gallant who is
about to dare some desperate action. His cloak was flung over one shoulder, and
his action intimated his readiness to wrap it about his left arm, while he
unsheathed his sword with his right.
    »I have fought for his father and his grandsire,« that was all he said,
»and, by Saint Andrew, end the matter as it will, I will not fail him at this
pinch.«
    What has taken some time to narrate, happened, in fact, with the speed of
light; for so soon as the Duke assumed his threatening posture, Crawford had
thrown himself betwixt him and the object of his vengeance; and the French
gentlemen, drawing together as fast as they could, were crowding to the same
point.
    The Duke of Burgundy still remained with his hand on his sword, and seemed
in the act of giving the signal for a general onset, which must necessarily have
ended in the massacre of the weaker party, when Crèvecoeur rushed forward, and
exclaimed in a voice like a trumpet, - »My liege Lord of Burgundy, beware what
you do! This is your hall - you are the King's vassal - do not spill the blood
of your guest on your hearth, the blood of your Sovereign on the throne you have
erected for him, and to which he came under your safeguard. For the sake of your
house's honour, do not attempt to revenge one horrid murder by another yet
worse!«
    »Out of my road, Crèvecoeur,« answered the Duke, »and let my vengeance pass!
- Out of my path! - The wrath of Kings is to be dreaded like that of Heaven.«
    »Only when, like that of Heaven, it is just,« answered Crèvecoeur, firmly.
»Let me pray of you, my lord, to rein the violence of your temper, however
justly offended. - And for you, my Lords of France, where resistance is
unavailing, let me recommend you to forbear whatever may lead towards
bloodshed.«
    »He is right,« said Louis, whose coolness forsook him not in that dreadful
moment, and who easily foresaw, that if a brawl should commence, more violence
would be dared and done in the heat of blood, than was likely to be attempted if
peace were preserved. - »My cousin Orleans - kind Dunois - and you, my trusty
Crawford - bring not on ruin and bloodshed by taking offence too hastily. Our
cousin the Duke is chafed at the tidings of the death of a near and loving
friend, the venerable Bishop of Liege, whose slaughter we lament as he does.
Ancient, and unhappily, recent subjects of jealousy, lead him to suspect us of
having abetted a crime which our bosom abhors. Should our host murder us on this
spot - us, his King and his kinsman, under a false impression of our being
accessory to this unhappy accident, our fate will be little lightened, but, on
the contrary, greatly aggravated, by your stirring. - Therefore, stand back,
Crawford - Were it my last word, I speak as a King to his officer, and demand
obedience - Stand back, and, if it is required, yield up your sword. I command
you to do so, and your oath obliges you to obey.«
    »True, true, my lord,« said Crawford, stepping back, and returning to the
sheath the blade he had half drawn - »It may be all very true; but, by my
honour, if I were at the head of threescore and ten of my brave fellows, instead
of being loaded with more than the like number of years, I would try whether I
could have some reason out of these fine gallants, with their golden chains and
looped-up bonnets, with braw-warld dyes and devices on them.«
    The Duke stood with his eyes fixed on the ground for a considerable space,
and then said, with bitter irony, »Crèvecoeur, you say well; and it concerns our
honour, that our obligations to this great King, our honoured and loving guest,
be not so hastily adjusted, as in our hasty anger we had at first proposed. We
will so act, that all Europe shall acknowledge the justice of our proceedings. -
Gentlemen of France, you must render up your arms to my officers! Your master
has broken the truce, and has no title to take farther benefit of it. In
compassion, however, to your sentiments of honour, and in respect to the rank
which he hath disgraced, and the race from which he hath degenerated, we ask not
our cousin Louis's sword.«
    »Not one of us,« said Dunois, »will resign our weapon, or quit this hall,
unless we are assured of at least our King's safety, in life and limb.«
    »Nor will a man of the Scottish Guard,« exclaimed Crawford, »lay down his
arms, save at the command of the King of France, or his High Constable.«
    »Brave Dunois,« said Louis, »and you, my trusty Crawford, your zeal will do
me injury instead of benefit. - I trust,« he added with dignity, »in my rightful
cause, more than in a vain resistance, which would but cost the lives of my best
and bravest. - Give up your swords - the noble Burgundians, who accept such
honourable pledges, will be more able than you are to protect both you and me. -
Give up your swords - It is I who command you.«
    It was thus that, in this dreadful emergency, Louis showed the promptitude
of decision, and clearness of judgment, which alone could have saved his life.
He was aware, that until actual blows were exchanged, he should have the
assistance of most of the nobles present to moderate the fury of their Prince;
but that were a mêlée once commenced, he himself and his few adherents must be
instantly murdered. At the same time, his worst enemies confessed, that his
demeanour had in it nothing either of meanness or cowardice. He shunned to
aggravate into frenzy the wrath of the Duke; but he neither deprecated nor
seemed to fear it, and continued to look on him with the calm and fixed
attention with which a brave man eyes the menacing gestures of a lunatic, whilst
conscious that his own steadiness and composure operate as an insensible and
powerful check on the rage even of insanity.
    Crawford, at the King's command, threw his sword to Crèvecoeur, saying,
»Take it! and the devil give you joy of it. - It is no dishonour to the rightful
owner who yields it, for we have had no fair play.«
    »Hold, gentlemen,« said the Duke, in a broken voice, as one whom passion had
almost deprived of utterance; »retain your swords; it is sufficient you promise
not to use them. - And you, Louis of Valois, must regard yourself as my
prisoner, until you are cleared of having abetted sacrilege and murder. Have him
to the Castle - Have him to Earl Herbert's Tower. Let him have six gentlemen of
his train to attend him, such as he shall choose. - My Lord of Crawford, your
guard must leave the Castle, and shall be honourably quartered elsewhere. Up
with every drawbridge, and down with every portcullis - Let the gates of the
town be trebly guarded - Draw the floating-bridge to the right-hand side of the
river - Bring round the Castle my band of Black Walloons, and treble the
sentinels on every post! - You, D'Hymbercourt, look that patrols of horse and
foot make the round of the town every half-hour during the night, and every hour
during the next day, - If indeed such ward shall be necessary after daybreak,
for it is like we may be sudden in this matter. - Look to the person of Louis,
as you love your life.«
    He started from the table in fierce and moody haste, darted a glance of
mortal enmity at the King, and rushed out of the apartment.
    »Sirs,« said the King, looking with dignity around him, »grief for the death
of his ally hath made your Prince frantic. I trust you know better your duty, as
knights and noblemen, than to abet him in his treasonable violence against the
person of his liege Lord.«
    At this moment was heard in the streets the sound of drums beating, and
horns blowing, to call out the soldiery in every direction.
    »We are,« said Crèvecoeur, who acted as the Marshal of the Duke's household,
»subjects of Burgundy, and must do our duty as such. Our hopes and prayers, and
our efforts, will not be wanting to bring about peace and union between your
Majesty and our liege Lord. Meantime, we must obey his commands. These other
lords and knights will be proud to contribute to the convenience of the
illustrious Duke of Orleans, of the brave Dunois, and the stout Lord Crawford. I
myself must be your Majesty's chamberlain, and bring you to your apartments in
other guise than would be my desire, remembering the hospitality of Plessis. You
have only to choose your attendants, whom the Duke's commands limit to six.«
    »Then,« said the King, looking around him, and thinking for a moment, - »I
desire the attendance of Oliver le Dain, of a private of my Life-Guard called
Balafré, who may be unarmed if you will - of Tristan l'Hermite, with two of his
people - and my right loyal and trusty philosopher, Martius Galeotti.«
    »Your Majesty's will shall be complied with in all points,« said the Count
de Crèvecoeur. »Galeotti,« he added, after a moment's inquiry, »is, I
understand, at present supping in some buxom company, but he shall instantly be
sent for; the others will obey your Majesty's command upon the instant.«
    »Forward, then, to the new abode, which the hospitality of our cousin
provides for us,« said the King. »We know it is strong, and have only to hope it
may be in a corresponding degree safe.«
    »Heard ye the choice which King Louis has made of his attendants?« said Le
Glorieux to Count Crèvecoeur apart, as they followed Louis from the hall.
    »Surely, my merry gossip,« replied the Count, - »What hast thou to object to
them?«
    »Nothing, nothing - only they are a rare election! - A panderly barber - a
Scottish hired cut-throat - a chief hangman and his two assistants, and a
thieving charlatan. - I will along with you, Crèvecoeur, and take a lesson in
the degrees of roguery, from observing your skill in marshalling them. The devil
himself could scarce have summoned such a synod, or have been a better president
amongst them.«
    Accordingly, the all-licensed jester, seizing the Count's arm familiarly,
began to march along with him, while, under a strong guard, yet forgetting no
semblance of respect, he conducted the King towards his new apartment.54
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Eighth

                                  Uncertainty.

 -- Then, happy low, lie down;
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
                                                         Henry IV., Part Second.
 
Forty men-at-arms, carrying alternately naked swords and blazing torches, served
as the escort, or rather the guard, of King Louis, from the town-hall of Peronne
to the Castle; and as he entered within its darksome and gloomy strength, it
seemed as if a voice screamed in his ear that warning which the Florentine has
inscribed over the portal of the infernal regions, »Leave all hope behind.«
    At that moment, perhaps, some feeling of remorse might have crossed the
King's mind, had he thought on the hundreds, nay, thousands, whom, without
cause, or on light suspicion, he had committed to the abysses of his dungeons,
deprived of all hope of liberty, and loathing even the life to which they clung
by animal instinct.
    The broad glare of the torches outfacing the pale moon, which was more
obscured on this than on the former night, and the red smoky light which they
dispersed around the ancient buildings, gave a darker shade to that huge donjon,
called the Earl Herbert's Tower. It was the same that Louis had viewed with
misgiving presentiment on the preceding evening, and of which he was now doomed
to become an inhabitant, under the terror of what violence soever the wrathful
temper of his overgrown vassal might tempt him to exercise in those secret
recesses of despotism.
    To aggravate the King's painful feelings, he saw, as he crossed the
courtyard, one or two bodies, over each of which had been hastily flung a
military cloak. He was not long of discerning that they were corpses of slain
archers of the Scottish Guard, who having disputed, as the Count Crèvecoeur
informed him, the command given them to quit the post near the King's
apartments, a brawl had ensued between them and the Duke's Walloon body-guards,
and before it could be composed by the officers on either side, several lives
had been lost.
    »My trusty Scots!« said the King, as he looked upon this melancholy
spectacle; »had they brought only man to man, all Flanders, ay, and Burgundy to
boot, had not furnished champions to mate you.«
    »Yes, an it please your Majesty,« said Balafré, who attended close behind
the King, »Maistery mows the meadow-few men can fight more than two at once. - I
myself never care to meet three, unless it be in the way of special duty, when
one must not stand to count heads.«
    »Art thou there, old acquaintance?« said the King, looking behind him; »then
I have one true subject with me yet.«
    »And a faithful minister, whether in your councils, or in his offices about
your royal person,« whispered Oliver le Dain.
    »We are all faithful,« said Tristan l'Hermite, gruffly; »for should they put
to death your Majesty, there is not one of us whom they would suffer to survive
you, even if we would.«
    »Now, that is what I call good corporal bail for fidelity,« said Le
Glorieux, who, as already mentioned, with the restlessness proper to an infirm
brain, had thrust himself into their company.
    Meanwhile, the Seneschal, hastily summoned, was turning with laborious
effort the ponderous key which opened the reluctant gate of the huge Gothic
Keep, and was at last fain to call for the assistance of one of Crèvecoeur's
attendants. When they had succeeded, six men entered with torches, and showed
the way through a narrow and winding passage, commanded at different points by
shot-holes from vaults and casements constructed behind, and in the thickness of
the massive walls. At the end of this passage arose a stair of corresponding
rudeness, consisting of huge blocks of stone, roughly dressed with the hammer,
and of unequal height. Having mounted this ascent, a strong iron-clenched door
admitted them to what had been the great hall of the donjon, lighted but very
faintly even during the day-time (for the apertures, diminished in appearance by
the excessive thickness of the walls, resembled slits rather than windows), and
now, but for the blaze of the torches, almost perfectly dark. Two or three bats,
and other birds of evil presage, roused by the unusual glare, flew against the
lights, and threatened to extinguish them; while the Seneschal formally
apologised to the King, that the State-hall had not been put in order, such was
the hurry of the notice sent to him; and adding, that, in truth, the apartment
had not been in use for twenty years, and rarely before that time, so far as
ever he had heard, since the time of King Charles the Simple.
    »King Charles the Simple!« echoed Louis; »I know the history of the Tower
now. - He was here murdered by his treacherous vassal, Herbert, Earl of
Vermandois - So say our annals. I knew there was something concerning the Castle
of Peronne which dwelt on my mind, though I could not recall the circumstance. -
Here, then, my predecessor was slain!«
    »Not here, not exactly here, and please your Majesty,« said the old
Seneschal, stepping with the eager haste of a cicerone, who shows the
curiosities of such a place - »Not here, but in the side chamber a little
onward, which opens from your Majesty's bedchamber.«
    He hastily opened a wicket at the upper end of the hall, which led into a
bedchamber, small, as is usual in those old buildings; but, even for that
reason, rather more comfortable than the waste hall through which they had
passed. Some hasty preparations had been here made for the King's accommodation.
Arras had been tacked up, a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been long
unused, and a pallet laid down for those gentlemen who were to pass the night in
his chamber, as was then usual.
    »We will get beds in the hall for the rest of your attendants,« said the
garrulous old man; »but we have had such brief notice, if it please your Majesty
- And if it please your Majesty to look upon this little wicket behind the
arras, it opens into the little old cabinet in the thickness of the wall, where
Charles was slain; and there is a secret passage from below, which admitted the
men who were to deal with him. And your Majesty, whose eyesight I hope is better
than mine, may see the blood still on the oak-floor, though the thing was done
five hundred years ago.«
    While he thus spoke, he kept fumbling to open the postern of which he spoke,
until the King said, »Forbear, old man - forbear but a little while, when thou
mayst have a newer tale to tell, and fresher blood to show - My Lord of
Crèvecoeur, what say you?«
    »I can but answer, Sire, that these two interior apartments are as much at
your Majesty's disposal as those in your own Castle at Plessis, and that
Crèvecoeur, a name never blackened by treachery or assassination, has the guard
of the exterior defences of it.«
    »But the private passage into that closet, of which the old man speaks?«
This King Louis said in a low and anxious tone, holding Crèvecoeur's arm fast
with one hand, and pointing to the wicket-door with the other.
    »It must be some dream of Mornay's,« said Crèvecoeur, »or some old and
absurd tradition of the place; - but we will examine.«
    He was about to open the closet door, when Louis answered, »No, Crèvecoeur,
no - Your honour is sufficient warrant. - But what will your Duke do with me,
Crèvecoeur? He cannot hope to keep me long a prisoner; and, in short, give me
your opinion, Crèvecoeur.«
    »My Lord, and Sire,« said the Count, »how the Duke of Burgundy must resent
this horrible cruelty on the person of his near relative and ally, is for your
Majesty to judge; and what right he may have to consider it as instigated by
your Majesty's emissaries, you only can know. But my master is noble in his
disposition, and made incapable, even by the very strength of his passions, of
any underhand practices. Whatever he does will be done in the face of day and of
the two nations. And I can but add, that it will be the wish of every counsellor
around him - excepting perhaps one - that he should behave in this matter with
mildness and generosity, as well as justice.«
    »Ah! Crèvecoeur,« said Louis, taking his hand as if affected by some painful
recollections, »how happy is the Prince who has counsellors near him, who can
guard him against the effects of his own angry passions! Their names will be
read in golden letters, when the history of his reign is perused. - Noble
Crèvecoeur, had it been my lot to have such as thou art about my person!«
    »It had in that case been your Majesty's study to have got rid of them as
fast as you could,« said Le Glorieux.
    »Aha! Sir Wisdom, art thou there?« said Louis, turning round, and instantly
changing the pathetic tone in which he had addressed Crèvecoeur, and adopting
with facility one which had a turn of gaiety in it - »Hast thou followed us
hither?«
    »Ay, sir,« answered Le Glorieux; »Wisdom must follow in motley, where Folly
leads the way in purple.«
    »How shall I construe that, Sir Solomon?« answered Louis - »Wouldst thou
change conditions with me?«
    »Not I, by my halidome,« quoth Le Glorieux, »if you would give me fifty
crowns to boot.«
    »Why, wherefore so? - Methinks I could be well enough contented, as princes
go, to have thee for my king.«
    »Ay, Sire,« replied Le Glorieux; »but the question is, whether, judging of
your Majesty's wit from its having lodged you here, I should not have cause to
be ashamed of having so dull a fool.«
    »Peace, sirrah!« said the Count of Crèvecoeur; »your tongue runs too fast.«
    »Let it take its course,« said the King; »I know of no such fair subject of
raillery, as the follies of those who should know better. - Here, my sagacious
friend, take this purse of gold, and with it the advice, never to be so great a
fool as to deem yourself wiser than other people. Prithee, do me so much favour,
as to inquire after my astrologer, Martius Galeotti, and send him hither to me
presently.«
    »I will, without fail, my Liege,« answered the jester; »and I wot well I
shall find him at Jan Dopplethur's; for philosophers, as well as fools, know
where the best wine is sold.«
    »Let me pray for free entrance for this learned person through your guards,
Seignior de Crèvecoeur,« said Louis.
    »For his entrance, unquestionably,« answered the Count; »but it grieves me
to add, that my instructions do not authorise me to permit any one to quit your
Majesty's apartments. - I wish your Majesty a good night,« he subjoined, »and
will presently make such arrangements in the outer hall, as may put the
gentlemen who are to inhabit it more at their ease.«
    »Give yourself no trouble for them, Sir Count,« replied the King; »they are
men accustomed to set hardships at defiance; and, to speak truth, excepting that
I wish to see Galeotti, I would desire as little farther communication from
without this night as may be consistent with your instructions.«
    »These are, to leave your Majesty,« replied Crèvecoeur, »undisputed
possession of your own apartments. Such are my master's orders.«
    »Your Master, Count Crèvecoeur,« answered Louis, »whom I may also term mine,
is a right gracious master. - My dominions,« he added, »are somewhat shrunk in
compass, now that they have dwindled to an old hall and a bedchamber; but they
are still wide enough for all the subjects which I can at present boast of.«
    The Count of Crèvecoeur took his leave; and shortly after, they could hear
the noise of the sentinels moving to their posts, accompanied with the word of
command from the officers, and the hasty tread of the guards who were relieved.
At length all became still, and the only sound which filled the air, was the
sluggish murmur of the river Somme, as it glided, deep and muddy, under the
walls of the castle.
    »Go into the hall, my mates,« said Louis to his train; »but do not lie down
to sleep. Hold yourselves in readiness, for there is still something to be done
to-night, and that of moment.«
    Oliver and Tristan retired to the hall accordingly, in which Le Balafré and
the Provost-Marshal's two officers had remained, when the others entered the
bedchamber. They found that those without had thrown fagots enough upon the fire
to serve the purpose of light and heat at the same time, and, wrapping
themselves in their cloaks, had sat down on the floor, in postures which
variously expressed the discomposure and dejection of their minds. Oliver and
Tristan saw nothing better to be done, than to follow their example; and, never
very good friends in the days of their court-prosperity, they were both equally
reluctant to repose confidence in each other upon this strange and sudden
reverse of fortune. So that the whole party sat in silent dejection.
    Meanwhile, their master underwent, in the retirement of his secret chamber,
agonies that might have atoned for some of those which had been imposed by his
command. He paced the room with short and unequal steps, often stood still and
clasped his hands together, and gave loose, in short, to agitation, which, in
public, he had found himself able to suppress so successfully. At length,
pausing, and wringing his hands, he planted himself opposite to the wicket-door,
which had been pointed out by old Mornay as leading to the scene of the murder
of one of his predecessors, and gradually gave voice to his feelings in a broken
soliloquy.
    »Charles the Simple - Charles the Simple! - what - will posterity call the
Eleventh Louis, whose blood will probably soon refresh the stains of thine?
Louis the Fool - Louis the Driveller - Louis the Infatuated - are all terms too
slight to mark the extremity of my idiocy! To think these hotheaded Liegeois, to
whom rebellion is as natural as their food, would remain quiet - to dream that
the Wild Beast of Ardennes would for a moment be interrupted in his career of
force and bloodthirsty brutality - to suppose that I could use reason and
arguments to any good purpose with Charles of Burgundy, until I had tried the
force of such exhortations with success upon a wild bull - Fool, and double
idiot that I was! But the villain Martius shall not escape - He has been at the
bottom of this, he and the vile priest, the detestable Balue.55 If I ever get
out of this danger, I will tear from his head the Cardinal's cap, though I pull
the scalp along with it! But the other traitor is in my hands - I am yet King
enough - have yet an empire roomy enough - for the punishment of the
quack-salving, word-mongering, star-gazing, lie-coining impostor, who has at
once made a prisoner and a dupe of me! - The conjunction of the constellations -
ay, the conjunction - He must talk nonsense which would scarce gull a
thrice-sodden sheep's head, and I must be idiot enough to think I understood
him! But we shall see presently what the conjunction hath really boded. But
first let me to my devotions.«
    Above the little door, in memory perhaps of the deed which had been done
within, was a rude niche, containing a crucifix cut in stone. Upon this emblem
the King fixed his eyes, as if about to kneel, but stopped short, as if he
applied to the blessed image the principles of worldly policy, and deemed it
rash to approach its presence without having secured the private intercession of
some supposed favourite. He therefore turned from the crucifix as unworthy to
look upon it, and selecting from the images with which, as often mentioned, his
hat was completely garnished, a representation of the Lady of Clery, knelt down
before it, and made the following extraordinary prayer; in which, it is to be
observed, the grossness of his superstition induced him, in some degree, to
consider the Virgin of Clery as a different person from the Madonna of Embrun, a
favourite idol, to whom he often paid his vows.
    »Sweet Lady of Clery,« he exclaimed clasping his hands and beating his
breast while he spoke - »blessed Mother of Mercy! thou who art omnipotent with
Omnipotence, have compassion with me a sinner! It is true, that I have something
neglected thee for thy blessed sister of Embrun; but I am a King, my power is
great, my wealth boundless; and, were it otherwise, I would double the gabelle
on my subjects, rather than not pay my debts to you both. Undo these iron doors
- fill up these tremendous moats - lead me, as a mother leads a child, out of
this present and pressing danger! If I have given thy sister the county of
Boulogne, to be held of her for ever, have I no means of showing devotion to
thee also? Thou shall have the broad and rich province of Champagne; and its
vineyards shall pour their abundance into thy convent. I had promised the
province to my brother Charles; but he, thou knows, is dead - poisoned by that
wicked Abbé of Saint John d'Angely, whom, if I live, I will punish! - I promised
this once before, but this time I will keep my word. - If I had any knowledge of
the crime, believe, dearest patroness, it was because I knew no better method of
quieting the discontents of my kingdom. Oh, do not reckon that old debt to my
account to-day; but be, as thou hast ever been, kind, benignant, and easy to be
entreated! Sweetest Lady, work with thy child, that he will pardon all past
sins, and one - one little deed which I must do this night - nay, it is no sin,
dearest Lady of Clery - no sin, but an act of justice privately administered;
for the villain is the greatest impostor that ever poured falsehood into a
Prince's ear, and leans besides to the filthy heresy of the Greeks. He is not
deserving of thy protection; leave him to my care; and hold it as good service
that I rid the world of him, for the man is a necromancer and wizard, that is
not worth thy thought and care - a dog, the extinction of whose life ought to be
of as little consequence in thine eyes, as the treading out a spark that drops
from a lamp, or springs from a fire. Think not of this little matter, gentlest,
kindest Lady, but only consider how thou canst best aid me in my troubles! and I
here bind my royal signet to thy effigy, in token that I will keep word
concerning the county of Champagne, and that this shall be the last time I will
trouble thee in affairs of blood, knowing thou art so kind, so gentle, and so
tender-hearted.«
    After this extraordinary contract with the object of his adoration, Louis
recited, apparently with deep devotion, the seven penitential psalms in Latin,
and several aves and prayers especially belonging to the service of the Virgin.
He then arose, satisfied that he had secured the intercession of the Saint to
whom he had prayed, the rather, as he craftily reflected, that most of the sins
for which he had requested her mediation on former occasions had been of a
different character, and that, therefore, the Lady of Clery was less likely to
consider him as a hardened and habitual shedder of blood, than the other saints
whom he had more frequently made confidants of his crimes in that respect.56
    When he had thus cleared his conscience, or rather whited it over like a
sepulchre, the king thrust his head out at the door of the hall, and summoned Le
Balafré into his apartment. »My good soldier,« he said, »thou hast served me
long, and hast had little promotion. We are here in a case where I may either
live or die; but I would not willingly die an ungrateful man, or leave, so far
as the saints may place it in my power, either a friend or an enemy
unrecompensed. Now I have a friend to be rewarded, that is thyself - an enemy to
be punished according to his deserts, and that is the base, treacherous villain,
Martius Galeotti, who, by his impostures and specious falsehoods, has trained me
hither into the power of my mortal enemy, with as firm a purpose of my
destruction, as ever butcher had of slaying the beast which he drove to the
shambles.«
    »I will challenge him on that quarrel, since they say he is a fighting
blade, though he looks somewhat unwieldy,« said Le Balafré. »I doubt not but the
Duke of Burgundy is so much a friend to men of the sword, that he will allow us
a fair field within some reasonable space; and if your Majesty live so long, and
enjoy so much freedom, you shall behold me do battle in your right, and take as
proper a vengeance on this philosopher as your heart could desire.«
    »I commend your bravery and your devotion to my service,« said the King.
»But this treacherous villain is a stout man-at-arms, and I would not willingly
risk thy life, my brave soldier.«
    »I were no brave soldier, if it please your Majesty,« said Balafré, »if I
dared not face a better man than he. A fine thing it would be for me, who can
neither read nor write, to be afraid of a fat lurdane, who has done little else
all his life!«
    »Nevertheless,« said the King, »it is not our pleasure so to put thee in
venture, Balafré. This traitor comes hither, summoned by our command. We would
have thee, so soon as thou canst find occasion, close up with him, and smite him
under the fifth rib - Dost thou understand me?«
    »Truly I do,« answered Le Balafré; »but, if it please your Majesty, this is
a matter entirely out of my course of practice. I could not kill you a dog
unless it were in hot assault, or pursuit, or upon defiance given, or such
like.«
    »Why sure, thou dost not pretend to tenderness of heart!« said the King;
»thou who hast been first in storm and siege, and most eager, as men tell me, on
the pleasures and advantages which are gained on such occasions by the rough
heart and the bloody hand?«
    »My lord,« answered Le Balafré, »I have neither feared nor spared your
enemies, sword in hand. And an assault is a desperate matter, under risks which
raise a man's blood so, that, by Saint Andrew, it will not settle for an hour or
two, - which I call a fair license for plundering after a storm. And God pity us
poor soldiers, who are first driven mad with danger, and then madder with
victory. I have heard of a legion consisting entirely of saints; and methinks it
would take them all to pray and intercede for the rest of the army, and for all
who wear plumes and corselets, buff coats and broadswords. But what your Majesty
purposes is out of my course of practice, though I will never deny that it has
been wide enough. As for the Astrologer, if he be a traitor, let him e'en die a
traitor's death - I will neither meddle nor make with it. Your Majesty has your
Provost, and two of his Marshal's men without, who are more fit for dealing with
him than a Scottish gentleman of my family and standing in the service.«
    »You say well,« said the King; »but, at least, it belongs to thy duty to
prevent interruption, and to guard the execution of my most just sentence.«
    »I will do so against all Peronne,« said Le Balafré. »Your Majesty need not
doubt my fealty in that which I can reconcile to my conscience, which, for mine
own convenience and the service of your royal Majesty, I can vouch to be a
pretty large one - at least, I know I have done some deeds for your Majesty,
which I would rather have eaten a handful of my own dagger than I would have
done for any else.«
    »Let that rest,« said the King; »and hear you - when Galeotti is admitted,
and the door shut on him, do you stand to your weapon, and guard the entrance on
the inside of the apartment. Let no one intrude - that is all I require of you.
Go hence, and send the Provost-Marshal to me.«
    Balafré left the apartment accordingly, and in a minute afterwards Tristan
l'Hermite entered from the hall.
    »Welcome, gossip,« said the King; »what thinkest thou of our situation?«
    »As of men sentenced to death,« said the Provost-Marshal, »unless there come
a reprieve from the Duke.«
    »Reprieved or not, he that decoyed us into this snare shall go our fourrier
to the next world, to take up lodgings for us,« said the King with a grisly and
ferocious smile. »Tristan, thou hast done many an act of brave justice - finis -
I should have said funis coronat opus - thou must stand by me to the end.«
    »I will, my liege,« said Tristan; »I am but a plain fellow, but I am
grateful. I will do my duty within these walls, or elsewhere; and while I live,
your Majesty's breath shall pour as potential a note of condemnation, and your
sentence be as literally executed, as when you sat on your own throne. They may
deal with me the next hour for it if they will - I care not.«
    »It is even what I expected of thee, my loving gossip,« said Louis; »but
hast thou good assistance? - the traitor is strong and able-bodied, and will
doubtless be clamorous for aid. The Scot will do nought but keep the door; and
well that he can be brought to that by flattery and humouring. Then Oliver is
good for nothing but lying, flattering, and suggesting dangerous counsels; and,
Ventre Saint-dieu! I think is more like one day to deserve the halter himself,
than to use it to another. Have you men, think you, and means, to make sharp and
sure work?«
    »I have Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André with me,« said he, »men so expert in
their office, that out of three men, they would hang up one ere his two
companions were aware. And we have all resolved to live or die with your
Majesty, knowing we shall have as short breath to draw when you are gone, as
ever fell to the lot of any of our patients. - But what is to be our present
subject, an it please your Majesty? I love to be sure of my man; for, as your
Majesty is pleased sometimes to remind me, I have now and then mistaken the
criminal, and strung up in his place an honest labourer, who had given your
Majesty no offence.«
    »Most true,« said the other. »Know then, Tristan, the condemned person is
Martius Galeotti. - You start, but it is even as I say. The villain hath trained
us all hither by false and treacherous representations, that he might put us
into the hands of the Duke of Burgundy without defence.«
    »But not without vengeance!« said Tristan; »were it the last act of my life,
I would sting him home like an expiring wasp, should I be crushed to pieces on
the next instant!«
    »I know thy trusty spirit,« said the King, »and the pleasure which, like
other good men, thou dost find in the discharge of thy duty, since virtue, as
the schoolmen say, is its own reward. But away and prepare the priests, for the
victim approaches.«
    »Would you have it done in your own presence, my gracious liege?« said
Tristan.
    Louis declined this offer; but charged the Provost-Marshal to have
everything ready for the punctual execution of his commands the moment the
Astrologer left his apartment; »for,« said the King, »I will see the villain
once more, just to observe how he bears himself towards the master whom he has
led into the toils. I shall love to see the sense of approaching death strike
the colour from that ruddy cheek, and dim that eye which laughed as it lied. -
Oh, that there were but another with him, whose counsels aided his
prognostications! But if I survive this - look to your scarlet, my Lord
Cardinal! for Rome shall scarce protect you - be it spoken under favour of Saint
Peter and the blessed Lady of Clery, who is all over mercy. - Why do you tarry?
Go get your grooms ready. I expect the villain instantly. I pray to Heaven he
take not fear and come not! - that were indeed a baulk. - Begone, Tristan - thou
wert not wont to be so slow when business was to be done.«
    »On the contrary, an it like your Majesty, you were ever wont to say that I
was too fast, and mistook your purpose, and did the job on the wrong subject.
Now, please your Majesty to give me a sign, just when you part with Galeotti for
the night, whether the business goes on or no. I have known your Majesty once or
twice change your mind, and blame me for over despatch.«57
    »Thou suspicious creature,« answered King Louis, »I tell thee I will not
change my mind; - but to silence thy remonstrances, observe, if I say to the
knave at parting, There is a Heaven above us! then let the business go on; but
if I say, Go in peace, you will understand that my purpose is altered.«
    »My head is somewhat of the dullest out of my own department,« said Tristan
l'Hermite. »Stay, let me rehearse - If you bid him depart in peace, am I to have
him dealt upon!«
    »No, no - idiot, no,« said the King; »in that case you let him pass free.
But if I say There is a Heaven above us! up with him a yard or two nearer the
planets he is so conversant with.«
    »I wish we may have the means here,« said the Provost.
    »Then up with him, or down with him, it matters not which,« said the King,
grimly smiling.
    »And the body,« said the Provost, »how shall we dispose of it?«
    »Let me see an instant,« said the King - »the windows of the hall are too
narrow; but that projecting oriel is wide enough. We will over with him into the
Somme, and put a paper on his breast, with the legend, Let the justice of the
King pass toll-free. The Duke's officers may seize it for duties if they dare.«
    The Provost-Marshal left the apartment of Louis, and summoned his two
assistants to council in an embrasure in the great hall, where Trois-Eschelles
stuck a torch against the wall to give them light. They discoursed in whispers,
little noticed by Oliver le Dain, who seemed sunk in dejection, and Le Balafré,
who was fast asleep.
    »Comrades,« said the Provost to his executioners, »perhaps you have thought
that our vocation was over, or that, at least, we were more likely to be the
subjects of the duty of others, than to have any more to discharge on our own
parts. But courage, my mates! our gracious master has reserved for us one noble
cast of our office, and it must be gallantly executed, as by men who would live
in history.«
    »Ay, I guess how it is,« said Trois-Eschelles; »our patron is like the old
Kaisars of Rome, who, when things come to an extremity, or, as we would say, to
the ladder-foot with them, were wont to select from their own ministers of
justice some experienced person, who might spare their sacred persons from the
awkward attempts of a novice, or blunderer in our mystery. It was a pretty
custom for Ethnics; but, as a good catholic, I should make some scruple at
laying hands on the Most Christian King.«
    »Nay, but, brother, you are ever too scrupulous,« said Petit-André. »If he
issues word and warrant for his own execution, I see not how we can in duty
dispute it. He that dwells at Rome must obey the Pope - the Marshal's men must
do their master's bidding, and he the King's.«
    »Hush, you knaves!« said the Provost-Marshal, »there is here no purpose
concerning the King's person, but only that of the Greek heretic pagan and
Mahomedan wizard, Martius Galeotti.«
    »Galeotti!« answered Petit-André; »that comes quite natural. I never knew
one of these legerdemain fellows, who pass their life, as one may say, in
dancing upon a tight rope, but what they came at length to caper at the end of
one - tchick.«
    »My only concern is,« said Trois-Eschelles, looking upwards, »that the poor
creature must die without confession.«
    »Tush! tush!« said the Provost-Marshal, in reply, »he is a rank heretic and
necromancer - a whole college of priests could not absolve him from the doom he
has deserved. Besides, if he hath a fancy that way, thou hast a gift,
Trois-Eschelles, to serve him for ghostly father thyself. But what is more
material, I fear you must use your poniards, my mates; for you have not here the
fitting conveniences for the exercise of your profession.«
    »Now our Lady of the Isle of Paris forbid,« said Trois-Eschelles, »that the
King's command should find me destitute of my tools! I always wear around my
body Saint Francis's cord, doubled four times, with a handsome loop at the
farther end of it; for I am of the company of Saint Francis, and may wear his
cowl when I am in extremis - I thank God and the good fathers of Saumur.«
    »And for me,« said Petit-André, »I have always in my budget a handy block
and sheaf, or a pulley as they call it, with a strong screw for securing it
where I list, in case we should travel where trees are scarce, or high-branched
from the ground, I have found it a great convenience.«
    »That will suit as well,« said the Provost-Marshal; »you have but to screw
your pulley into yonder beam above the door, and pass the rope over it. I will
keep the fellow in some conversation near the spot until you adjust the noose
under his chin, and then« -
    »And then we run up the rope,« said Petit-André, »and, tchick, our
Astrologer is so far in Heaven, that he hath not a foot on earth.«
    »But these gentlemen,« said Trois-Eschelles, looking towards the chimney,
»do not these help, and so take a handsel of our vocation?«
    »Hem! no,« answered the Provost; »the barber only contrives mischief, which
he leaves other men to execute; and for the Scot, he keeps the door when the
deed is a-doing, which he hath not spirit or quickness sufficient to partake in
more actively - every one to his trade.«
    With infinite dexterity, and even a sort of professional delight, which
sweetened the sense of their own precarious situation, the worthy executioners
of the Provost's mandates adapted their rope and pulley for putting in force the
sentence which had been uttered against Galeotti by the captive Monarch -
seeming to rejoice that that last action was to be one so consistent with their
past life. Tristan l'Hermite58 sat eyeing their proceedings with a species of
satisfaction; while Oliver paid no attention to them whatever; and Ludovic
Lesly, if, awake by the bustle, he looked upon them at all, considered them as
engaged in matters entirely unconnected with his own duty, and for which he was
not to be regarded as responsible in one way or other.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Ninth

                                 Recrimination.

 Thy time is not yet out - the devil thou servest
 Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids
 The friends who drudge for him, as the blind man
 Was aided by the guide, who lent his shoulder
 O'er rough and smooth, until he reached the brink
 Of the fell precipice - then hurl'd him downward.
                                                                       Old Play.
 
When obeying the command, or rather the request of Louis, - for he was in
circumstances in which, though a Monarch, he could only request Le Glorieux to
go in search of Martius Galeotti, - the jester had no trouble in executing his
commission, betaking himself at once to the best tavern in Peronne, of which he
himself was rather more than an occasional frequenter, being a great admirer of
that species of liquor which reduced all other men's brains to a level with his
own.
    He found, or rather observed, the Astrologer in the corner of the public
drinking-room - stove, as it is called in German and Flemish, from its principal
furniture - sitting in close colloquy with a female in a singular, and something
like a Moorish or Asiatic garb, who, as Le Glorieux approached Martius, rose as
in the act to depart.
    »These,« said the stranger, »are news upon which you may rely with absolute
certainty;« and with that disappeared among the crowd of guests who sat grouped
at different tables in the apartment.
    »Cousin Philosopher,« said the jester, presenting himself, »Heaven no sooner
relieves one sentinel than it sends another to supply the place. One fool being
gone, here I come another, to guide you to the apartments of Louis of France.«
    »And art thou the messenger?« said Martius, gazing on him with prompt
apprehension, and discovering at once the jester's quality, though less
intimated, as we have before noticed, than was usual, by his external
appearance.
    »Ay, sir, and like your learning,« answered Le Glorieux; »when Power sends
Folly to entreat the approach of Wisdom, 'tis a sure sign what foot the patient
halts upon.«
    »How if I refuse to come, when summoned at so late an hour by such a
messenger?« said Galeotti.
    »In that case, we will consult your ease, and carry you,« said Le Glorieux.
»Here are half-a-score of stout Burgundian yeomen at the door, with whom He of
Crèvecoeur has furnished me to that effect. For know, that my friend Charles of
Burgundy and I have not taken away our kinsman Louis's crown, which he was ass
enough to put into our power, but have only filed and clipt it a little, and
though reduced to the size of a spangle, it is still pure gold. In plain terms,
he is still paramount over his own people, yourself included, and Most Christian
King of the old dining-hall in the Castle of Peronne, to which you, as his liege
subject, are presently obliged to repair.«
    »I attend you, sir,« said Martius Galeotti, and accompanied Le Glorieux
accordingly - seeing, perhaps, that no evasion was possible.
    »Ay, sir,« said the Fool, as they went towards the Castle, »you do well; for
we treat our kinsman as men use an old famished lion in his cage, and thrust him
now and then a calf to mumble, to keep his old jaws in exercise.«
    »Do you mean,« said Martius, »that the King intends me bodily injury?«
    »Nay, that you can guess better than I,« said the jester; »for though the
night be cloudy, I warrant you can see the stars through the mist. I know
nothing of the matter, not I - only my mother always told me to go warily near
an old rat in a trap, for he was never so much disposed to bite.«
    The Astrologer asked no more questions, and Le Glorieux, according to the
custom of those of his class, continued to run on in a wild and disordered
strain of sarcasm and folly mingled together, until he delivered the philosopher
to the guard at the castle-gate of Peronne; where he was passed from warder to
warder, and at length admitted within Herbert's Tower.
    The hints of the jester had not been lost on Martius Galeotti, and he saw
something which seemed to confirm them in the look and manner of Tristan, whose
mode of addressing him, as he marshalled him to the King's bedchamber, was
lowering, sullen, and ominous. A close observer of what passed on earth, as well
as among the heavenly bodies, the pulley and the rope also caught the
Astrologer's eye; and as the latter was in a state of vibration, he concluded
that some one who had been busy adjusting it had been interrupted in the work by
his sudden arrival. All this he saw, and summoned together his subtilty to evade
the impending danger, resolved, should he find that impossible, to defend
himself to the last against whomsoever should, assail him.
    Thus resolved, and with a step and look corresponding to the determination
he had taken, Martius presented himself before Louis, alike unabashed at the
miscarriage of his predictions, and undismayed at the Monarch's anger, and its
probable consequences.
    »Every good planet be gracious to your Majesty!« said Galeotti, with an
inclination almost Oriental in manner - »Every evil constellation withhold their
influences from my royal master!«
    »Methinks,« replied the King, »that when you look around this apartment,
when you think where it is situated, and how guarded, your wisdom might consider
that my propitious stars had proved faithless, and that each evil conjunction
had already done its worst. Art thou not ashamed, Martius Galeotti, to see me
here, and a prisoner, when you recollect by what assurances I was lured hither?«
    »And art thou not ashamed, my royal Sire?« replied the philosopher; »thou,
whose step in science was so forward, thy apprehension so quick, thy
perseverance so unceasing, - art thou not ashamed to turn from the first frown
of fortune, like a craven from the first clash of arms? Didst thou propose to
become participant of those mysteries which raise men above the passions, the
mischances, the pains, the sorrows of life, a state only to be attained by
rivalling the firmness of the ancient Stoic, and dost thou shrink from the first
pressure of adversity, and forfeit the glorious prize for which thou didst start
as a competitor, frightened out of the course, like a scared racer, by shadowy
and unreal evils?«
    »Shadowy and unreal! frontless as thou art!« exclaimed the King, »is this
dungeon unreal? - the weapons of the guards of my detested enemy Burgundy, which
you may hear clash at the gate, are those shadows? - What, traitor, are real
evils, if imprisonment, dethronement, and danger of life, are not so?«
    »Ignorance - ignorance, my brother, and prejudice,« answered the sage, with
great firmness, »are the only real evils. Believe me, that Kings, in the
plenitude of power, if immersed in ignorance and prejudice, are less free than
sages in a dungeon, and loaded with material chains. Towards this true happiness
it is mine to guide you - be it yours to attend to my instructions.«
    »And it is to such philosophical freedom that your lessons would have guided
me?« said the King, very bitterly. »I would you had told me at Plessis, that the
dominion promised me so liberally was an empire over my own passions; that the
success of which I was assured, related to my progress in philosophy; and that I
might become as wise and as learned as a strolling mountebank of Italy! I might
surely have attained this mental ascendency at a more moderate price than that
of forfeiting the fairest crown in Christendom, and becoming tenant of a dungeon
in Peronne! Go, sir, and think not to escape condign punishment - There is a
Heaven above us!«
    »I leave you not to your fate,« replied Martius, »until I have vindicated,
even in your eyes, darkened as they are, that reputation, a brighter gem than
the brightest in thy crown, and at which the world shall wonder, ages after all
the race of Capet are mouldered into oblivion in the charnels of Saint Denis.«
    »Speak on,« said Louis; »thine impudence cannot make me change my purposes
or my opinion - Yet, as I may never again pass judgment as a King, I will not
censure thee unheard. Speak, then - though the best thou canst say will be to
speak the truth. Confess that I am a dupe, thou an impostor, thy pretended
science a dream, and the planets which shine above us as little influential of
our destiny, as their shadows, when reflected in the river, are capable of
altering its course.«
    »And how know'st thou,« answered the Astrologer, boldly, »the secret
influence of yonder blessed lights? Speak'st thou of their inability to
influence waters, when yet thou know'st that even the weakest, the moon herself,
- weakest because nearest to this wretched earth of ours, - holds under her
domination, not such poor streams as the Somme, but the tides of the mighty
ocean itself, which ebb and increase as her disc waxes and wanes, and watch her
influence as a slave waits the nod of a Sultana? And now, Louis of Valois,
answer my parable in turn - Confess, art thou not like the foolish passenger,
who becomes wroth with his pilot because he cannot bring the vessel into harbour
without experiencing occasionally the adverse force of winds and currents? I
could indeed point to thee the probable issue of thine enterprise as prosperous,
but it was in the power of Heaven alone to conduct thee thither; and if the path
be rough and dangerous, was it in my power to smooth or render it more safe?
Where is thy wisdom of yesterday, which taught thee so truly to discern that the
ways of destiny are often ruled to our advantage, though in opposition to our
wishes?«
    »You remind me - you remind me,« said the King hastily, »of one specific
falsehood. You foretold, yonder Scot should accomplish his enterprise
fortunately for my interest and honour; and thou knows it has so terminated,
that no more mortal injury could I have received, than from the impression which
the issue of that affair is like to make on the excited brain of the Mad Bull of
Burgundy. This is a direct falsehood - Thou canst plead no evasion here - canst
refer to no remote favourable turn of the tide, for which, like an idiot sitting
on the bank until the river shall pass away, thou wouldst have me wait
contentedly. - Here thy craft deceived thee - Thou wert weak enough to make a
specific prediction, which has proved directly false.«
    »Which will prove most firm and true,« answered the Astrologer, boldly. »I
would desire no greater triumph of art over ignorance, than that prediction and
its accomplishment will afford. I told thee he would be faithful in any
honourable commission - Hath he not been so? - I told thee he would be
scrupulous in aiding any evil enterprise - Hath he not proved so? - If you doubt
it, go ask the Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin.«
    The King here coloured deeply with shame and anger.
    »I told thee,« continued the Astrologer, »that the conjunction of planets
under which he set forth, augured danger to the person - and hath not his path
been beset by danger? - I told thee that it augured an advantage to the sender,
- and of that thou wilt soon have the benefit.«
    »Soon have the benefit!« exclaimed the King; »Have I not the result already,
in disgrace and imprisonment?«
    »No,« answered the Astrologer, »the End is not as yet - thine own tongue
shall ere long confess the benefit which thou hast received, from the manner in
which the messenger bore himself in discharging thy commission.«
    »This is too - too insolent,« said the King, »at once to deceive and to
insult - But hence! - think not my wrongs shall be unavenged. - There is a
Heaven above us!«
    Galeotti turned to depart. »Yet stop,« said Louis - »thou bearest thine
imposture bravely out - Let me hear your answer to one question, and think ere
you speak. - Can thy pretended skill ascertain the hour of thine own death?«
    »Only by referring to the fate of another,« said Galeotti.
    »I understand not thine answer,« said Louis.
    »Know then, O King,« said Martius, »that this only I can tell with certainty
concerning mine own death, that it shall take place exactly twenty-four hours
before that of your Majesty.«59
    »Ha! sayest thou?« said Louis, his countenance again altering. - »Hold -
hold - go not - wait one moment. - Saidst thou, my death should follow thine so
closely?«
    »Within the space of twenty-four hours,« repeated Galeotti, firmly, »if
there be one sparkle of true divination in those bright and mysterious
intelligences, which speak each on their courses, though without a tongue. I
wish your Majesty good rest.«
    »Hold - hold - go not,« said the King, taking him by the arm, and leading
him from the door. »Martius Galeotti, I have been a kind master to thee -
enriched thee - made thee my friend - my companion - the instructor of my
studies. - Be open with me, I entreat you. - Is there aught in this art of yours
in very deed? - Shall this Scot's mission be, in fact, propitious to me? - And
is the measure of our lives so very - very nearly matched? Confess, my good
Martius, you speak after the trick of your trade - Confess, I pray you, and you
shall have no displeasure at my hand. I am in years - a prisoner - likely to be
deprived of a kingdom - to one in my condition truth is worth kingdoms, and it
is from thee, dearest Martius, that I must look for this inestimable jewel.«
    »And I have laid it before your Majesty,« said Galeotti, »at the risk that,
in brutal passion, you might turn upon me and rend me.«
    »Who, I, Galeotti?« replied Louis, mildly. »Alas! thou mistakes me! - Am I
not captive, - and should not I be patient, especially since my anger can only
show my impotence? - Tell me then in sincerity - Have you fooled me? - Or is
your science true, and do you truly report it?« »Your Majesty will forgive me if
I reply to you,« said Martius Galeotti, »that time only - time and the event,
will convince incredulity. It suits ill the place of confidence which I have
held at the council-table of the renowned conqueror, Matthias Corvinus of
Hungary - nay, in the cabinet of the Emperor himself - to reiterate assurances
of that which I have advanced as true. If you will not believe me, I can but
refer to the course of events. A day or two days' patience, will prove or
disprove what I have averred concerning the young Scot; and I will be contented
to die on the wheel, and have my limbs broken joint by joint, if your Majesty
have not advantage, and that in a most important degree, from the dauntless
conduct of that Quentin Durward. But if I were to die under such tortures, it
would be well your Majesty should seek a ghostly father; for, from the moment my
last groan is drawn, only twenty-four hours will remain to you for confession
and penitence.«
    Louis continued to keep hold of Galeotti's robe as he led him towards the
door, and pronounced, as he opened it, in a loud voice, »To-morrow we'll talk
more of this. Go in peace, my learned father - Go in peace - Go in peace!«
    He repeated these words three times; and still afraid that the
Provost-Marshal might mistake his purpose, he led the Astrologer into the hall,
holding fast his robe, as if afraid that he should be torn from him, and put to
death before his eyes. He did not unloose his grasp until he had not only
repeated again and again the gracious phrase, »Go in peace,« but even made a
private signal to the Provost-Marshal, to enjoin a suspension of all proceedings
against the person of the Astrologer.
    Thus did the possession of some secret information, joined to audacious
courage and readiness of wit, save Galeotti from the most imminent danger; and
thus was Louis, the most sagacious as well as the most vindictive, amongst the
monarchs of the period, cheated of his revenge by the influence of superstition
upon a selfish temper, and a mind to which, from the consciousness of many
crimes, the fear of death was peculiarly terrible.
    He felt, however, considerable mortification at being obliged to relinquish
his purposed vengeance; and the disappointment seemed to be shared by his
satellites, to whom the execution was to have been committed. Le Balafré alone,
perfectly indifferent on the subject, so soon as the countermanding signal was
given, left the door at which he had posted himself, and in a few minutes was
fast asleep.
    The Provost-Marshal, as the group reclined themselves to repose in the hall
after the King retired to his bedchamber, continued to eye the goodly form of
the Astrologer, with the look of a mastiff watching a joint of meat which the
cook had retrieved from his jaws, while his attendants communicated to each
other in brief sentences their characteristic sentiments.
    »The poor blinded necromancer,« whispered Trois-Eschelles, with an air of
spiritual unction and commiseration, to his comrade, Petit-André, »hath lost the
fairest chance of expiating some of his vile sorceries, by dying through means
of the cord of the blessed Saint Francis! and I had purpose, indeed, to leave
the comfortable noose around his neck, to scare the foul fiend from his unhappy
carcass.«
    »And I,« said Petit-André, »have missed the rarest opportunity of knowing
how far a weight of seventeen stone will stretch a three-plied cord! - It would
have been a glorious experiment in our line, - and the jolly old boy would have
died so easily!«
    While this whispered dialogue was going forward, Martius, who had taken the
opposite side of the huge stone fireplace, round which the whole group was
assembled, regarded them askance, and with a look of suspicion. He first put his
hand into his vest, and satisfied himself that the handle of a very sharp
double-edged poniard, which he always carried about him, was disposed
conveniently for his grasp; for, as we have already noticed, he was, though now
somewhat unwieldy, a powerful, athletic man, and prompt and active at the use of
his weapon. Satisfied that this trusty instrument was in readiness, he next took
from his bosom a scroll of parchment, inscribed with Greek characters, and
marked with cabalistic signs, drew together the wood in the fireplace, and made
a blaze by which he could distinguish the features and attitude of all who sat
or lay around, - the heavy and deep slumbers of the Scottish soldier, who lay
motionless, with his rough countenance as immovable as if it were cast in bronze
- the pale and anxious face of Oliver, who at one time assumed the appearance of
slumber, and again opened his eyes and raised his head hastily, as if stung by
some internal throe, or awakened by some distant sound - the discontented,
savage, bull-dog aspect of the Provost, who looked
 
-- »frustrate of his will,
Not half sufficed, and greedy yet to kill« -
 
while the background was filled up by the ghastly, hypocritical countenance of
Trois-Eschelles, whose eyes were cast up towards Heaven, as if he was internally
saying his devotions; and the grim drollery of Petit-André, who amused himself
with mimicking the gestures and wry faces of his comrade before he betook
himself to sleep.
    Amidst these vulgar and ignoble countenances, nothing could show to greater
advantage than the stately form, handsome mien, and commanding features of the
Astrologer, who might have passed for one of the ancient magi, imprisoned in a
den of robbers, and about to invoke a spirit to accomplish his liberation. And,
indeed, had he been distinguished by nothing else than the beauty of the
graceful and flowing beard which descended over the mysterious roll which he
held in his hand, one might have been pardoned for regretting that so noble an
appendage had been bestowed on one who put both talents, learning, and the
advantages of eloquence, and a majestic person, to the mean purposes of a cheat
and an impostor.
    Thus passed the night in Count Herbert's Tower, in the Castle of Peronne.
When the first light of dawn penetrated the ancient Gothic chamber, the King
summoned Oliver to his presence, who found the Monarch sitting in his nightgown,
and was astonished at the alteration which one night of mortal anxiety had made
in his looks. He would have expressed some anxiety on the subject, but the King
silenced him by entering into a statement of the various modes by which he had
previously endeavoured to form friends at the Court of Burgundy, and which
Oliver was charged to prosecute so soon as he should be permitted to stir
abroad.
    And never was that wily minister more struck with the clearness of the
King's intellect, and his intimate knowledge of all the springs which influence
human actions, than he was during that memorable consultation.
    About two hours afterwards, Oliver accordingly obtained permission from the
Count of Crèvecoeur to go out and execute the commissions which his master had
entrusted him with; and Louis, sending for the Astrologer, in whom he seemed to
have renewed his faith, held with him, in like manner, a long consultation, the
issue of which appeared to give him more spirits and confidence than he had at
first exhibited; so that he dressed himself, and received the morning
compliments of Crèvecoeur with a calmness, at which the Burgundian Lord could
not help wondering, the rather that he had already heard that the Duke had
passed several hours in a state of mind which seemed to render the King's safety
very precarious.
 

                               Chapter Thirtieth

                                  Uncertainty.

 Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark,
 That reels amid the strife of meeting currents.
                                                                       Old Play.
 
If the night passed by Louis was carefully anxious and agitated, that spent by
the Duke of Burgundy, who had at no time the same mastery over his passions,
and, indeed, who permitted them almost a free and uncontrolled dominion over his
actions, was still more disturbed.
    According to the custom of the period, two of his principal and most
favoured counsellors, D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines, shared his bedchamber,
couches being prepared for them near the bed of the prince. Their attendance was
never more necessary than upon this night, when, distracted by sorrow, by
passion, by the desire of revenge, and by the sense of honour, which forbade him
to exercise it upon Louis in his present condition, the Duke's mind resembled a
volcano in eruption, which throws forth all the different contents of the
mountain, mingled and molten into one burning mass.
    He refused to throw off his clothes, or to make any preparation for sleep;
but spent the night in a succession of the most violent bursts of passion. In
some paroxysms he talked incessantly to his attendants so thick and so rapidly,
that they were really afraid his senses would give way; choosing for his theme,
the merits and the kindness of heart of the murdered Bishop of Liege, and
recalling all the instances of mutual kindness, affection, and confidence, which
had passed between them, until he had worked himself into such a transport of
grief that he threw himself upon his face in the bed, and seemed ready to choke
with the sobs and tears which he endeavoured to stifle. Then, starting from the
couch, he gave vent at once to another and more furious mood, and traversed the
room hastily, uttering incoherent threats, and still more incoherent oaths of
vengeance, while, stamping with his foot, according to his customary action, he
invoked Saint George, Saint Andrew, and whomsoever else he held most holy, to
bear witness, that he would take bloody vengeance on De la Marck, on the people
of Liege, and on him who was the author of the whole. - These last threats,
uttered more obscurely than the others, obviously concerned the person of the
King; and at one time the Duke expressed his determination to send for the Duke
of Normandy, the brother of the King, and with whom Louis was on the worst
terms, in order to compel the captive monarch to surrender either the Crown
itself, or some of its most valuable rights and appanages.
    Another day and night passed in the same stormy and fitful deliberations, or
rather rapid transitions of passion; for the Duke scarcely ate or drank, never
changed his dress, and, altogether, demeaned himself like one in whom rage might
terminate in utter insanity. By degrees he became more composed, and began to
hold, from time to time, consultations with his ministers, in which much was
proposed, but nothing resolved on. Comines assures us, that at one time a
courier was mounted in readiness to depart for the purpose of summoning the Duke
of Normandy; and in that event, the prison of the French monarch would probably
have been found, as in similar cases, a brief road to his grave.
    At other times, when Charles had exhausted his fury, he sat with his
features fixed in stern and rigid immobility, like one who broods over some
desperate deed, to which he is as yet unable to work up his resolution. And
unquestionably it would have needed little more than an insidious hint from any
of the counsellors who attended, his person, to have pushed the Duke to some
very desperate action. But the nobles of Burgundy, from the sacred character
attached to the person of a King, and a Lord Paramount, and from a regard to the
public faith, as well as that of their Duke, which had been pledged when Louis
threw himself into their power, were almost unanimously inclined to recommend
moderate measures; and the arguments which D'Hymbercourt and Des Comines had now
and then ventured to insinuate during the night, were, in the cooler hours of
the next morning, advanced and urged by Crèvecoeur and others. Possibly their
zeal in behalf of the King might not be entirely disinterested. Many, as we have
mentioned, had already experienced the bounty of the King; others had either
estates or pretensions in France, which placed them a little under his
influence; and it is certain that the treasure, which had loaded four mules when
the King entered Peronne, became much lighter in the course of these
negotiations.
    In the course of the third day, the Count of Campo-basso brought his Italian
wit to assist the councils of Charles; and well was it for Louis that he had not
arrived when the Duke was in his first fury. Immediately on his arrival, a
regular meeting of the Duke's counsellors was convened, for considering the
measures to be adopted in this singular crisis.
    On this occasion, Campo-basso gave his opinion, couched in the apologue of
the Traveller, the Adder, and the Fox; and reminded the Duke of the advice which
Reynard gave to the man, that he should crush his mortal enemy, now that chance
had placed his fate at his disposal. Des Comines, who saw the Duke's eyes
sparkle at a proposal which his own violence of temper had already repeatedly
suggested, hastened to state the possibility that Louis might not be, in fact,
so directly accessory to the sanguinary action which had been committed at
Schonwaldt; that he might be able to clear himself of the imputation laid to his
charge, and perhaps to make other atonement for the distractions which his
intrigues had occasioned in the Duke's dominions, and those of his allies; and
that an act of violence perpetrated on the King, was sure to bring both on
France and Burgundy a train of the most unhappy consequences, among which not
the least to be feared was, that the English might avail themselves of the
commotions and civil discord which must needs ensue, to repossess themselves of
Normandy and Guyenne, and renew those dreadful wars, which had only, and with
difficulty, been terminated by the union of both France and Burgundy against the
common enemy. Finally, he confessed that he did not mean to urge the absolute
and free dismissal of Louis; but only that the Duke should avail himself no
farther of his present condition, than merely to establish a fair and equitable
treaty between the countries, with such security on the King's part, as should
make it difficult for him to break his faith, or disturb the internal peace of
Burgundy in future. D'Hymbercourt, Crèvecoeur, and others, signified their
reprobation of the violent measures proposed by Campo-basso, and their opinion,
that in the way of treaty more permanent advantages could be obtained, and in a
manner more honourable for Burgundy, than by an action which would stain her
with a breach of faith and hospitality.
    The Duke listened to these arguments with his looks fixed on the ground, and
his brows so knitted together as to bring his bushy eyebrows into one mass. But
when Crèvecoeur proceeded to say, that he did not believe Louis either knew of,
or was accessory to, the atrocious act of violence committed at Schonwaldt,
Charles raised his head, and darting a fierce look at his counsellor, exclaimed,
»Have you too, Crèvecoeur, heard the gold of France clink? - Methinks it rings
in my councils as merrily as ever the bells of Saint Denis - Dare any one say
that Louis is not the fomenter of these feuds in Flanders?«
    »My gracious lord,« said Crèvecoeur, »my hand has ever been more conversant
with steel than with gold; and so far am I from holding that Louis is free from
the charge of having caused the disturbances in Flanders, that it is not long
since, in the face of his whole Court, I charged him with that breach of faith,
and offered him defiance in your name. But although his intrigues have been
doubtless the original cause of these commotions, I am so far from believing
that he authorised the death of the Archbishop, that I believe one of his
emissaries publicly protested against it; and I could produce the man, were it
your Grace's pleasure to see him.«
    »It is our pleasure,« said the Duke. »Saint George! can you doubt that we
desire to act justly? Even in the highest flight of our passion we are known for
an upright and a just judge. We will see France ourself - we will ourself charge
him with our wrongs, and ourself state to him the reparation which we expect and
demand. If he shall be found guiltless of this murder, the atonement for other
crimes may be more easy - If he hath been guilty, who shall say that a life of
penitence in some retired monastery were not a most deserved and a most merciful
doom? - Who,« he added, kindling, as he spoke, »who shall dare to blame a
revenge yet more direct and more speedy? - Let your witness attend - We will to
the Castle at the hour before noon. Some articles we will minute down with which
he shall comply, or woe on his head! others shall depend upon the proof. Break
up the council, and dismiss yourselves. I will but change my dress, as this is
scarce a fitting trim in which to wait on my most gracious Sovereign.«
    With a deep and bitter emphasis on the last expression, the Duke arose and
strode out of the room.
    »Louis's safety, and, what is worse, the honour of Burgundy, depend on a
cast of the dice,« said D'Hymbercourt to Crèvecoeur and to Des Comines - »Haste
thee to the Castle, Des Comines - thou hast a better filed tongue than either
Crèvecoeur or I. Explain to Louis what storm is approaching - he will best know
how to pilot himself. I trust this life-guardsman will say nothing which can
aggravate; for who knows what may have been the secret commission with which he
was charged?«
    »The young man,« said Crèvecoeur, »seems bold, yet prudent and wary far
beyond his years. In all which he said to me he was tender of the King's
character, as of that of the Prince whom he serves. I trust he will be equally
so in the Duke's presence. I must go seek him, and also the young Countess of
Croye.«
    »The Countess! - you told us you had left her at Saint Bridget's Nunnery.«
    »Ay, but I was obliged,« said the Count, »to send for her express, by the
Duke's orders; and she has been brought hither on a litter, as being unable to
travel otherwise. She was in a state of the deepest distress, both on account of
the uncertainty of the fate of her kinswoman, the Lady Hameline, and the gloom
which overhangs her own; guilty as she has been of a feudal delinquency, in
withdrawing herself from the protection of her liege lord, Duke Charles, who is
not the person in the world most likely to view with indifference what trenches
on his seignorial rights.«
    The information that the young Countess was in the hands of Charles, added
fresh and more pointed thorns to Louis's reflections. He was conscious that, by
explaining the intrigues by which he had induced the Lady Hameline and her to
resort to Plessis, she might supply that evidence which he had removed by the
execution of Zamet Maugrabin; and he knew well how much such proof of his having
interfered with the rights of the Duke of Burgundy would furnish both motive and
pretext for Charles's availing himself to the uttermost of his present
predicament.
    Louis discoursed on these matters with great anxiety to the Sieur des
Comines, whose acute and political talents better suited the King's temper than
the blunt martial character of Crèvecoeur, or the feudal haughtiness of
D'Hymbercourt.
    »These iron-handed soldiers, my good friend Comines,« he said to his future
historian, »should never enter a King's cabinet, but be left with the halberds
and partisans in the antechamber. Their hands are indeed made for our use, but
the monarch who puts their heads to any better occupation than that of anvils
for his enemies' swords and maces, ranks with the fool who presented his
mistress with a dog-leash for a carcanet. It is with such as thou, Philip, whose
eyes are gifted with the quick and keen sense that sees beyond the exterior
surface of affairs, that Princes should share their council-table, their cabinet
- what do I say? - the most secret recesses of their soul.«
    Des Comines, himself so keen a spirit, was naturally gratified with the
approbation of the most sagacious Prince in Europe; and he could not so far
disguise his internal satisfaction, but that Louis was aware he had made some
impression on him.
    »I would,« continued he, »that I had such a servant, or rather that I were
worthy to have such a one! I had not then been in this unfortunate situation;
which, nevertheless, I should hardly regret, could I but discover any means of
securing the services of so experienced a statist.«
    Des Comines said, that all his faculties, such as they were, were at the
service of his Most Christian Majesty, saving always his allegiance to his
rightful lord, Duke Charles of Burgundy.
    »And am I one who would seduce you from that allegiance?« said Louis,
pathetically. »Alas! am I not now endangered by having reposed too much
confidence in my vassal? and can the cause of feudal good faith be more sacred
with any than with me, whose safety depends on an appeal to it? - No, Philip des
Comines - continue to serve Charles of Burgundy; and you will best serve him, by
bringing round a fair accommodation with Louis of France. In doing thus, you
will serve us both, and one, at least, will be grateful. I am told your
appointments in this Court hardly match those of the Grand Falconer; and thus
the services of the wisest counsellor in Europe are put on a level, or rather
ranked below, those of a fellow who feeds and physics kites! France has wide
lands - her King has much gold. Allow me, my friend, to rectify this scandalous
inequality. The means are not distant - Permit me to use them.«
    The King produced a weighty bag of money; but Des Comines, more delicate in
his sentiments than most courtiers of that time, declined the proffer, declaring
himself perfectly satisfied with the liberality of his native Prince, and
assuring Louis that his desire to serve him could not be increased by the
acceptance of any such gratuity as he had proposed.
    »Singular man!« exclaimed the King; »let me embrace the only courtier of his
time, at once capable and incorruptible. Wisdom is to be desired more than fine
gold; and, believe me, I trust in thy kindness, Philip, at this pinch, more than
I do in the purchased assistance of many who have received my gifts. I know you
will not counsel your master to abuse such an opportunity, as fortune, and, to
speak plain, Des Comines, as my own folly, has afforded him.«
    »To abuse it, by no means,« answered the historian; »but most certainly to
use it.«
    »How, and in what degree?« said Louis. »I am not ass enough to expect that I
shall escape without some ransom - but let it be a reasonable one - reason I am
ever willing to listen to at Paris or at Plessis, equally as at Peronne.«
    »Ah, but if it like your Majesty,« replied Des Comines, »Reason at Paris or
Plessis was used to speak in so low and soft a tone of voice, that she could not
always gain an audience of your Majesty - at Peronne she borrows the
speaking-trumpet of Necessity, and her voice becomes lordly and imperative.«
    »You are figurative,« said Louis, unable to restrain an emotion of
peevishness; »I am a dull, blunt man, Sir of Comines. I pray you leave your
tropes, and come to plain ground. What does your Duke expect of me?«
    »I am the bearer of no propositions, my lord,« said Des Comines; »the Duke
will soon explain his own pleasure; but some things occur to me as proposals,
for which your Majesty ought to hold yourself prepared. As, for example, the
final cession of these towns here upon the Somme.«
    »I expected so much,« said Louis.
    »That you should disown the Liegeois, and William de la Marck.«
    »As willingly as I disclaim Hell and Satan,« said Louis.
    »Ample security will be required, by hostages, or occupation of fortresses,
or otherwise, that France shall in future abstain from stirring up rebellion
among the Flemings.«
    »It is something new,« answered the King, »that a vassal should demand
pledges from his Sovereign; but let that pass too.«
    »A suitable and independent appanage for your illustrious brother, the ally
and friend of my master - Normandy or Champagne. The Duke loves your father's
house, my liege.«
    »So well,« answered Louis, »that, mort Dieu! he's about to make them all
kings. - Is your budget of hints yet emptied?«
    »Not entirely,« answered the counsellor: »it will certainly be required that
your Majesty will forbear molesting, as you have done of late, the Duke de
Bretagne, and that you will no longer contest the right which he and other grand
feudatories have, to strike money, to term themselves dukes and princes by the
grace of God« -
    »In a word, to make so many kings of my vassals. Sir Philip, would you make
a fratricide of me? - You remember well my brother Charles - he was no sooner
Duke of Guyenne than he died. - And what will be left to the descendant and
representative of Charlemagne, after giving away these rich provinces, save to
be smeared with oil at Rheims, and to eat his dinner under a high canopy?«
    »We will diminish your Majesty's concern on that score, by giving you a
companion in that solitary exaltation,« said Philip des Comines. - »The Duke of
Burgundy, though he claims not at present the title of an independent king,
desires nevertheless to be freed in future from the abject marks of subjection
required of him to the crown of France; - it is his purpose to close his ducal
coronet with an imperial arch, and surmount it with a globe, in emblem that his
dominions are independent.«
    »And how dares the Duke of Burgundy, the sworn vassal of France,« exclaimed
Louis, starting up, and showing an unwonted degree of emotion - »how dares he
propose such terms to his Sovereign, as, by every law of Europe, should infer a
forfeiture of his fief?«
    »The doom of forfeiture it would in this case be difficult to enforce,«
answered Des Comines, calmly. - »Your Majesty is aware, that the strict
interpretation of the feudal law is becoming obsolete even in the Empire, and
that superior and vassal endeavour to mend their situation in regard to each
other, as they have power and opportunity. - Your Majesty's interferences with
the Duke's vassals in Flanders will prove an exculpation of my master's conduct,
supposing him to insist that, by enlarging his independence, France should in
future be debarred from any pretext of doing so.«
    »Comines, Comines!« said Louis, arising again, and pacing the room in a
pensive manner, »this is a dreadful lesson on the text Voe victis! - You cannot
mean that the Duke will insist on all these hard conditions?«
    »At least I would have your Majesty be in a condition to discuss them all.«
    »Yet moderation, Des Comines, moderation in success, is - no one knows
better than you - necessary to its ultimate advantage.«
    »So please your Majesty, the merit of moderation is, I have observed, most
apt to be extolled by the losing party. The winner holds in more esteem the
prudence which calls on him not to leave an opportunity unimproved.«
    »Well, we will consider« - replied the King; »but at least thou hast reached
the extremity of your Duke's unreasonable exaction? there can remain nothing -
or if there does, for so thy brow intimates - what is it - what indeed can it be
- unless it be my crown? which these previous demands, if granted, will deprive
of all its lustre?«
    »My lord,« said Des Comines, »what remains to be mentioned, is a thing
partly - indeed in a great measure - within the Duke's own power, though he
means to invite your Majesty's accession to it, for in truth it touches you
nearly.«
    »Pasques Dieu!« exclaimed the King, impatiently, »what is it? - Speak out,
Sir Philip - am I to send him my daughter for a concubine, or what other
dishonour is he to put on me?«
    »No dishonour, my liege; but your Majesty's cousin, the illustrious Duke of
Orleans« - »Ha!« exclaimed the King; but Des Comines proceeded without heeding
the interruption.
    »- Having conferred his affections on the young Countess Isabelle de Croye,
the Duke expects your Majesty will, on your part, as he on his, yield your
assent to the marriage, and unite with him in endowing the right noble couple
with such an appanage, as, joined to the Countess's estates, may form a fit
establishment for a Child of France.«
    »Never, never!« said the King, bursting out into that emotion which he had
of late suppressed with much difficulty, and striding about in a disordered
haste, which formed the strongest contrast to the self-command which he usually
exhibited, - »Never, never! - let them bring scissors, and shear my hair like
that of the parish-fool, whom I have so richly resembled! - let them bid the
monastery or the grave yawn for me - let them bring red-hot basins to sear my
eyes - axe or aconite - whatever they will - but Orleans shall not break his
plighted faith to my daughter, or marry another while she lives!«
    »Your Majesty,« said Des Comines, »ere you set your mind so keenly against
what is proposed, will consider your own want of power to prevent it. Every wise
man, when he sees a rock giving way, withdraws from the bootless attempt of
preventing the fall.«
    »But a brave man,« said Louis, »will at least find his grave beneath it. Des
Comines, consider the great loss - the utter destruction, such a marriage would
bring upon my kingdom. Recollect, I have but one feeble boy, and this Orleans is
the next heir - consider that the church hath consented to his union with Joan,
which unites so happily the interests of both branches of my family, - think on
all this, and think too that this union has been the favourite scheme of my
whole life - that I have schemed for it, fought for it, watched for it, prayed
for it, - and sinned for it. Philip des Comines, I will not forego it! Think,
man, think! - pity me in this extremity - thy quick brain can speedily find some
substitute for this sacrifice - some ram to be offered up instead of that
project which is dear to me as the Patriarch's only son was to him. Philip, pity
me! - you at least should know, that to men of judgment and foresight, the
destruction of the scheme on which they have long dwelt, and for which they have
long toiled, is more inexpressibly bitter than the transient grief of ordinary
men, whose pursuits are but the gratification of some temporary passion - you,
who know how to sympathise with the deeper, the more genuine distress of baffled
prudence and disappointed sagacity, - will you not feel for me?«
    »My Lord and King!« replied Des Comines, »I do sympathise with your distress
in so far as duty to my master« -
    »Do not mention him!« said Louis, acting, or at least appearing to act,
under an irresistible and headlong impulse, which withdrew the usual guard which
he maintained over his language - »Charles of Burgundy is unworthy of your
attachment. He who can insult and strike his counsellors - he who can
distinguish the wisest and most faithful among them, by the opprobrious name of
Booted-Head!« -
    The wisdom of Philip des Comines did not prevent his having a high sense of
personal consequence; and he was so much struck with the words which the King
uttered, as it were, in the career of a passion which overleaped ceremony, that
he could only reply by repetition of the words »Booted-Head! It is impossible
that my master the Duke could have so termed the servant who has been at his
side since he could mount a palfrey - and that too before a foreign monarch? -
it is impossible!«
    Louis instantly saw the impression he had made, and avoiding alike a tone of
condolence, which might have seemed insulting, and one of sympathy, which might
have savoured of affectation, he said, with simplicity and at the same time with
dignity, »My misfortunes make me forget my courtesy, else I had not spoken to
you of what it must be unpleasant for you to hear. But you have in reply taxed
me with having uttered impossibilities - this touches my honour; yet I must
submit to the charge, if I tell you not the circumstances which the Duke,
laughing until his eyes ran over, assigned for the origin of that opprobrious
name, which I will not offend your ears by repeating. Thus, then, it chanced.
You, Sir Philip des Comines, were at a hunting-match with the Duke of Burgundy,
your master; and when he alighted after the chase, he required your services in
drawing off his boots. Reading in your looks, perhaps, some natural resentment
of this disparaging treatment, he ordered you to sit down in turn, and rendered
you the same office he had just received from you. But offended at your
understanding him literally, he no sooner plucked one of your boots off, than he
brutally beat it about your head till the blood flowed, exclaiming against the
insolence of a subject who had the presumption to accept of such a service at
the hand of his Sovereign; and hence he, or his privileged fool, Le Glorieux, is
in the current habit of distinguishing you by the absurd and ridiculous name of
Tête botté, which makes one of the Duke's most ordinary subjects of pleasantry.«
60
    While Louis thus spoke, he had the double pleasure of galling to the quick
the person whom he addressed - an exercise which it was in his nature to enjoy,
even where he had not, as in the present case, the apology, that he did so in
pure retaliation - and that of observing that he had at length been able to find
a point in Des Comines' character which might lead him gradually from the
interests of Burgundy to those of France. But although the deep resentment which
the offended courtier entertained against his master induced him at a future
period to exchange the service of Charles for that of Louis, yet, at the present
moment, he was contented to throw out only some general hints of his friendly
inclination towards France, which he well knew the King would understand how to
interpret. And indeed it would be unjust to stigmatise the memory of the
excellent historian with the desertion of his master on this occasion, although
he was certainly now possessed with sentiments much more favourable to Louis
than when he entered the apartment.
    He constrained himself to laugh at the anecdote which Louis had detailed,
and then added, »I did not think so trifling a frolic would have dwelt on the
mind of the Duke so long as to make it worth telling again. Some such passage
there was of drawing off boots and the like, as your Majesty knows that the Duke
is fond of rude play; but it has been much exaggerated in his recollection. Let
it pass on.«
    »Ay, let it pass on,« said the King; »it is indeed shame it should have
detained us a minute. - And now, Sir Philip, I hope you are French so far as to
afford me your best counsel in these difficult affairs. You have, I am well
aware, the clew to the labyrinth, if you would but impart it.« »Your Majesty may
command my best advice and service,« replied Des Comines, »under reservation
always of my duty to my own master.«
    This was nearly what the courtier had before stated; but he now repeated it
in a tone so different, that whereas Louis understood from the former
declaration that the reserved duty to Burgundy was the prime thing to be
considered, so he now saw clearly that the emphasis was reversed, and that more
weight was now given by the speaker to his promise of counsel, than to a
restriction which seemed interposed for the sake of form and consistency. The
King resumed his own seat, and compelled Des Comines to sit by him, listening at
the same time to that statesman, as if the words of an oracle sounded in his
ears. Des Comines spoke in that low and impressive tone which implies at once
great sincerity and some caution, and at the same time so slowly, as if he was
desirous that the King should weigh and consider each individual word as having
its own peculiar and determined meaning. »The things,« he said, »which I have
suggested for your Majesty's consideration, harsh as they sound in your ear, are
but substitutes for still more violent proposals brought forward in the Duke's
counsels by such as are more hostile to your Majesty. And I need scarce remind
your Majesty, that the more direct and more violent suggestions find readiest
acceptance with our master, who loves brief and dangerous measures better than
those that are safe, but at the same time circuitous.«
    »I remember« - said the King. »I have seen him swim a river at the risk of
drowning, though there was a bridge to be found for riding two hundred yards
round.«
    »True, Sire; and he that weighs not his life against the gratification of a
moment of impetuous passion, will, on the same impulse, prefer the gratification
of his will to the increase of his substantial power.«
    »Most true,« replied the King; »a fool will ever grasp rather at the
appearance than the reality of authority. All this I know to be true of Charles
of Burgundy. But, my dear friend, Des Comines, what do you infer from these
premises?«
    »Simply this, my lord,« answered the Burgundian, »that as your Majesty has
seen a skilful angler control a large and heavy fish, and finally draw him to
land by a single hair, which fish had broke through a tackle tenfold stronger,
had the fisher presumed to strain the line on him, instead of giving him head
enough for all his wild flourishes; even so your Majesty, by gratifying the Duke
in these particulars on which he has pitched his ideas of honour, and the
gratification of his revenge, may evade many of the other unpalatable
propositions at which I have hinted; and which - including, I must state openly
to your Majesty, some of those through which France would be most especially
weakened - will slide out of his remembrance and attention, and, being referred
to subsequent conferences and future discussion, may be altogether eluded.«
    »I understand you, my good Sir Philip; but to the matter,« said the King.
»To which of those happy propositions is your Duke so much wedded that
contradiction will make him unreasonable and intractable?«
    »To any or to all of them, if it please your Majesty, on which you may
happen to contradict him. This is precisely what your Majesty must avoid; and,
to take up my former parable, you must needs remain on the watch, ready to give
the Duke line enough whenever he shoots away under the impulse of his rage. His
fury, already considerably abated, will waste itself if he be unopposed, and you
will presently find him become more friendly and more tractable.«
    »Still,« said the King, musing, »there must be some, particular demands
which lie deeper at my cousin's heart than the other proposals. Were I but aware
of these, Sir Philip« -
    »Your Majesty may make the lightest of his demands the most important,
simply by opposing it,« said Des Comines; »nevertheless, my lord, thus far I can
say, that every shadow of treaty will be broken off if your Majesty renounce not
William de la Marck and the Liegeois.«
    »I have already said that I will disown them,« said the King, »and well they
deserve it at my hand; the villains have commenced their uproar at a moment that
might have cost me my life.«
    »He that fires a train of powder,« replied the historian, »must expect a
speedy explosion of the mine. - But more than mere disavowal of their cause win
be expected of your Majesty by Duke Charles; for know, that he will demand your
Majesty's assistance to put the insurrection down, and your royal presence to
witness the punishment which he destines for the rebels.«
    »That may scarce consist with our honour, Des Comines,« said the King.
    »To refuse it will scarcely consist with your Majesty's safety,« replied Des
Comines. »Charles is determined to show the people of Flanders that no hope,
nay, no promise of assistance from France, will save them in their mutinies from
the wrath and vengeance of Burgundy.«
    »But, Sir Philip, I will speak plainly,« answered the King - »Could we but
procrastinate the matter, might not these rogues of Liege make their own part
good against Duke Charles? The knaves are numerous and steady - Can they not
hold out their town against him?«
    »With the help of the thousand archers of France whom your Majesty promised
them, they might have done something; but« -
    »Whom I promised them!« said the King - »Alas! good Sir Philip! you much
wrong me in saying so.«
    »- But without whom,« continued Des Comines, not heeding the interruption -
»as your Majesty will not now likely find it convenient to supply them - what
chance will the burghers have of making good their town, in whose walls the
large breaches made by Charles after the battle of St. Tron are still
unrepaired; so that the lances of Hainault, Brabant, and Burgundy, may advance
to the attack twenty men in front?«
    »The improvident idiots!« said the King - »If they have thus neglected their
own safety, they deserve not my protection. Pass on - I will make no quarrel for
their sake.«
    »The next point, I fear, will sit closer to your Majesty's heart,« said Des
Comines.
    »Ah!« replied the King, »you mean that infernal marriage! I will not consent
to the breach of the contract betwixt my daughter Joan and my cousin of Orleans
- it would be wresting the sceptre of France from me and my posterity; for that
feeble boy the Dauphin is a blighted blossom, which will wither without fruit.
This match between Joan and Orleans has been my thought by day, my dream by
night - I tell thee, Sir Philip, I cannot give it up! - Besides, it is inhuman
to require me, with my own hand, to destroy at once my own scheme of policy, and
the happiness of a pair brought up for each other.«
    »Are they then so much attached?« said Des Comines.
    »One of them at least is,« said the King, »and the one for whom I am bound
to be most anxious. But you smile, Sir Philip - you are no believer in the force
of love.«
    »Nay,« said Des Comines, »if it please you, Sire, I am so little an infidel
in that particular, that I was about to ask whether it would reconcile you in
any degree to your acquiescing in the proposed marriage betwixt the Duke of
Orleans and Isabelle de Croye, were I to satisfy you that the Countess's
inclinations are so much fixed on another, that it is likely it will never be a
match?«
    King Louis sighed. - »Alas!« he said, »my good and dear friend, from what
sepulchre have you drawn such dead man's comfort? Her inclinations, indeed! -
Why, to speak truth, supposing that Orleans detested my daughter Joan, yet, but
for this ill-ravelled web of mischance, he must needs have married her; so you
may conjecture how little chance there is of this damsel being able to refuse
him under a similar compulsion, and he a Child of France besides. - Ah, no,
Philip! - little fear of her standing obstinate against the suit of such a
lover. - Varium et mutabile, Philip.«
    »Your Majesty may, in the present instance, undervalue the obstinate courage
of this young lady. She comes of a race determinately wilful; and I have picked
out of Crèvecoeur that she has formed a romantic attachment to a young squire,
who, to say truth, rendered her many services on the road.«
    »Ha!« said the King, - »an archer of my Guards, by name Quentin Durward?«
    »The same, as I think,« said Des Comines; »he was made prisoner along with
the Countess, travelling almost alone together.«
    »Now, our Lord and our Lady, and Monseigneur Saint Martin, and Monseigneur
Saint Julian, be praised every one of them!« said the King, »and all laud and
honour to the learned Galeotti, who read in the stars that this youth's destiny
was connected with mine! If the maiden be so attached to him as to make her
refractory to the will of Burgundy, this Quentin hath indeed been rarely useful
to me.«
    »I believe, my lord,« answered the Burgundian, »according to Crèvecoeur's
report, that there is some chance of her being sufficiently obstinate; besides,
doubtless, the noble Duke himself, notwithstanding what your Majesty was pleased
to hint in way of supposition, will not willingly renounce his fair cousin, to
whom he has been long engaged.«
    »Umph!« answered the King - »But you have never seen my daughter Joan. - A
howlet, man! - an absolute owl, whom I am ashamed of! But let him be only a wise
man, and marry her, I will give him leave to be mad par amours for the fairest
lady in France. - And now, Philip, have you given me the full map of your
master's mind?«
    »I have possessed you, Sire, of those particulars on which he is at present
most disposed to insist. But your Majesty well knows that the Duke's disposition
is like a sweeping torrent, which only passes smoothly forward when its waves
encounter no opposition; and what may be presented to chafe him into fury, it is
impossible even to guess. Were more distinct evidence of your Majesty's
practices (pardon the phrase, where there is so little time for selection) with
the Liegeois and William de la Marck to occur unexpectedly, the issue might be
terrible. - There are strange news from that country - they say La Marck hath
married Hameline the elder Countess of Croye.«
    »That old fool was so mad on marriage, that she would have accepted the hand
of Satan,« said the King; »but that La Marck, beast as he is, should have
married her, rather more surprises me.«
    »There is a report also,« continued Des Comines, »that an envoy, or herald,
on La Marck's part, is approaching Peronne; this is like to drive the Duke
frantic with rage - I trust that he has no letters, or the like, to show on your
Majesty's part?«
    »Letters to a Wild Boar!« answered the King. - »No, no, Sir Philip, I was no
such fool as to cast pearls before swine. - What little intercourse I had with
the brute animal was by message, in which I always employed such low-bred slaves
and vagabonds, that their evidence would not be received in a trial for robbing
a hen-roost.«
    »I can then only farther recommend,« said Des Comines, taking his leave,
»that your Majesty should remain on your guard, be guided by events, and, above
all, avoid using any language or argument with the Duke which may better become
your dignity than your present condition.«
    »If my dignity,« said the King, »grow troublesome to me - which it seldom
doth while there are deeper interests to think of - I have a special remedy for
that swelling of the heart - It is but looking into a certain ruinous closet,
Sir Philip, and thinking of the death of Charles the Simple; and it cures me as
effectually as the cold bath would cool a fever. - And now, my friend and
monitor, must thou be gone? Well, Sir Philip, the time must come when thou wilt
tire reading lessons of state policy to the Bull of Burgundy, who is incapable
of comprehending your most simple argument - If Louis of Valois then lives, thou
hast a friend in the Court of France. I tell thee, my Philip, it would be a
blessing to my kingdom should I ever acquire thee; who, with a profound view of
subjects of state, hast also a conscience, capable of feeling and discerning
between right and wrong. So help me, our Lord and Lady, and Monseigneur Saint
Martin, Oliver and Balue have hearts as hardened as the nether millstone; and my
life is imbittered by remorse and penances for the crimes they make me commit.
Thou, Sir Philip, possessed of the wisdom of present and past time, canst teach
how to become great without ceasing to be virtuous.«
    »A hard task, and which few have attained,« said the historian; »but which
is yet within the reach of princes, who will strive for it. Meantime, Sire, be
prepared, for the Duke will presently confer with you.«
    Louis looked long after Philip when he left the apartment, and at length
burst into a bitter laugh. »He spoke of fishing - I have sent him home a trout
properly tickled! - And he thinks himself virtuous because he took no bribe, but
contented himself with flattery and promises, and the pleasure of avenging an
affront to his vanity! - Why, he is but so much the poorer for the refusal of
the money - not a jot the more honest. He must be mine, though, for he hath the
shrewdest head among them. Well, now for nobler game! I am to face this
leviathan Charles, who will presently swim hitherward, cleaving the deep before
him. I must, like a trembling sailor, throw a tub overboard to amuse him. But I
may one day find the chance - of driving a harpoon into his entrails!«61
 

                              Chapter Thirty-First

                                 The Interview.

 Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. - Gentle maiden,
 Keep you your promise plight - leave age its subtleties,
 And grey-hair'd policy its maze of falsehood;
 But be you candid as the morning sky,
 Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to stain it.
                                                                      The Trial.
 
On the perilous and important morning which preceded the meeting of the two
Princes in the Castle of Peronne, Oliver le Dain did his master the service of
an active and skilful agent, making interest for Louis in every quarter, both
with presents and promises; so that, when the Duke's anger should blaze forth,
all around should be interested to smother, and not to increase, the
conflagration. He glided like night, from tent to tent, from house to house,
making himself friends, but not in the Apostle's sense, with the Mammon of
unrighteousness. As was said of another active political agent, »his finger was
in every man's palm, his mouth was in every man's ear;« and for various reasons,
some of which we have formerly hinted at, he secured the favour of many
Burgundian nobles, who either had something to hope or fear from France, or who
thought that, were the power of Louis too much reduced, their own Duke would be
likely to pursue the road to despotic authority, to which his heart naturally
inclined him, with a daring and unopposed pace.
    Where Oliver suspected his own presence or arguments might be less
acceptable, he employed that of other servants of the King; and it was in this
manner that he obtained, by the favour of the Count de Crèvecoeur, an interview
betwixt Lord Crawford, accompanied by Le Balafré, and Quentin Durward, who,
since he had arrived at Peronne, had been detained in a sort of honourable
confinement. Private affairs were assigned as the cause of requesting this
meeting; but it is probable that Crèvecoeur, who was afraid that his master
might be stirred up in passion to do something dishonourably violent towards
Louis, was not sorry to afford an opportunity to Crawford to give some hints to
the young Archer, which might prove useful to his master.
    The meeting between the countrymen was cordial, and even affecting.
    »Thou art a singular youth,« said Crawford, stroking the head of young
Durward, as a grandsire might do that of his descendant; »Certes, you have had
as meikle good fortune as if you had been born with a lucky-hood on your head.«
    »All comes of his gaining an archer's place at such early years,« said Le
Balafré; »I never was so much talked of, fair nephew, because I was
five-and-twenty years old before I was hors de page.«
    »And an ill-looking mountainous monster of a page thou wert, Ludovic,« said
the old commander, »with a beard like a baker's shool, and a back like old
Wallace Wight.«
    »I fear,« said Quentin, with downcast eyes, »I shall enjoy that title to
distinction but a short time - since it is my purpose to resign the service of
the Archer-Guard.«
    Le Balafré was struck almost mute with astonishment, and Crawford's ancient
features gleamed with displeasure. The former at length mustered words enough to
say, »Resign! - leave your place in the Scottish Archers! - such a thing was
never dreamed of. I would not give up my situation, to be made Constable of
France.«
    »Hush! Ludovic,« said Crawford; »this youngster knows better how to shape
his course with the wind than we of the old world do. His journey hath given him
some pretty tales to tell about King Louis; and he is turning Burgundian, that
he may make his own little profit by telling them to Duke Charles.«
    »If I thought so,« said Le Balafré, »I would cut his throat with my own
hand, were he fifty times my sister's son!«
    »But you would first inquire, whether I deserved to be so treated, fair
kinsman?« answered Quentin; - »and you, my lord, know that I am no tale-bearer;
nor shall either question or torture draw out of me a word to King Louis's
prejudice, which may have come to my knowledge while I was in his service. - So
far my oath of duty keeps me silent. But I will not remain in that service, in
which, besides the perils of fair battle with mine enemies, I am to be exposed
to the dangers of ambuscade on the part of my friends.«
    »Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade,« said the slow-witted Le Balafré,
looking sorrowfully at the Lord Crawford, »I am afraid, my lord, that all is
over with him! I myself have had thirty bushments break upon me, and truly I
think I have laid in ambuscade twice as often myself, it being a favourite
practice in our King's mode of making war.«
    »It is so indeed, Ludovic,« answered Lord Crawford, »nevertheless, hold your
peace, for I believe I understand this gear better than you do.«
    »I wish to Our Lady you may, my lord,« answered Ludovic; »but it wounds me
to the very midriff, to think my sister's son should fear an ambushment.«
    »Young man,« said Crawford, »I partly guess your meaning. You have met foul
play on the road where you travelled by the King's command, and you think you
have reason to charge him with being the author of it.«
    »I have been threatened with foul play in the execution of the King's
commission,« answered Quentin; »but I have had the good fortune to elude it -
whether his Majesty be innocent or guilty in the matter, I leave to God and his
own conscience. He fed me when I was a-hungered - received me when I was a
wandering stranger. I will never load him in his adversity with accusations
which may indeed be unjust, since I heard them only from the vilest mouths.«
    »My dear boy - my own lad!« said Crawford, taking him in his arms - »Ye
think like a Scot, every joint of you! Like one that will forget a cause of
quarrel with a friend whose back is already at the wall, and remember nothing of
him but his kindness.«
    »Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my nephew,« said Ludovic Lesly, »I will
embrace him also - though I would have you to know, that to understand the
service of an ambushment is as necessary to a soldier, as it is to a priest to
be able to read his breviary.«
    »Be hushed, Ludovic,« said Crawford; »ye are an ass, my friend, and ken not
the blessing Heaven has sent you in this braw callant. - And now tell me,
Quentin, my man, hath the King any advice of this brave, Christian, and manly
resolution of yours; for, poor man, he had need, in his strait, to ken what he
has to reckon upon. Had he but brought the whole brigade of Guards with him! -
But God's will be done - Kens he of your purpose, think you?«
    »I really can hardly tell,« answered Quentin; »but I assured his learned
Astrologer, Martius Galeotti, of my resolution to be silent on all that could
injure the King with the Duke of Burgundy. The particulars which I suspect, I
will not (under your favour) communicate even to your lordship; and to the
philosopher I was, of course, far less willing to unfold myself.«
    »Ha! - ay!« answered Lord Crawford - »Oliver did indeed tell me that
Galeotti prophesied most stoutly concerning the line of conduct you were to
hold; and I am truly glad to find he did so on better authority than the stars.«
    »He prophesy!« said Le Balafré, laughing; »the stars never told him that
honest Ludovic Lesly used to help yonder wench of his to spend the fair ducats
he flings into her lap.«
    »Hush! Ludovic,« said his captain, »hush! thou beast, man! - If thou dost
not respect my grey hairs, because I have been e'en too much of a routier
myself, respect the boy's youth and innocence, and let us have no more of such
unbecoming daffing.«
    »Your Honour may say your pleasure,« answered Ludovic Lesly; »but, by my
faith, second-sighted Saunders Souplejaw, the town-souter of Glen-houlakin, was
worth Gallotti, or Gallipotty, or whatever ye call him, twice told, for a
prophet. He foretold that all my sister's children would die some day; and he
foretold it in the very hour that the youngest was born, and that is this lad
Quentin - who, no doubt, will one day die, to make up the prophecy - the mare's
the pity - the whole curney of them is gone but himself. And Saunders foretold
to myself one day, that I should be made by marriage, which doubtless will also
happen in due time, though it hath not yet come to pass - though how or when, I
can hardly guess, as I care not myself for the wedded state, and Quentin is but
a lad. Also, Saunders predicted« -
    »Nay,« said Lord Crawford, »unless the prediction be singularly to the
purpose, I must cut you short, my good Ludovic; for both you and I must now
leave your nephew, with prayers to Our Lady to strengthen him in the good mind
he is in; for this is a case in which a light word might do more mischief than
all the Parliament of Paris could mend. My blessing with you, my lad; and be in
no hurry to think of leaving our body; for there will be good blows going
presently in the eye of day, and no ambuscade.«
    »And my blessing, too, nephew,« said Ludovic Lesly; »for, since you have
satisfied our most noble captain, I also am satisfied, as in duty bound.«
    »Stay, my lord,« said Quentin, and led Lord Crawford a little apart from his
uncle. »I must not forget to mention, that there is a person besides in the
world, who, having learned from me these circumstances, which it is essential to
King Louis's safety should at present remain concealed, may not think that the
same obligation of secrecy, which attaches to me as the King's soldier, and as
having been relieved by his bounty, is at all binding on her.«
    »On her!« replied Crawford; »nay, if there be a woman in the secret, the
Lord ha' mercy, for we are all on the rocks again!«
    »Do not suppose so, my lord,« replied Durward, »but use your interest with
the Count of Crèvecoeur to permit me an interview with the Countess Isabelle of
Croye, who is the party possessed of my secret, and I doubt not that I can
persuade her to be as silent as I shall unquestionably myself remain, concerning
whatever may incense the Duke against King Louis.«
    The old soldier mused for a long time - looked up to the ceiling, then down
again upon the floor - then shook his head, - and at length said, »There is
something in all this, which, by my honour, I do not understand. The Countess
Isabelle of Croye! - an interview with a lady of her birth, blood, and
possessions! - and thou a raw Scottish lad, so certain of carrying thy point
with her? Thou art either strangely confident, my young friend, or else you have
used your time well upon the journey. But, by the cross of Saint Andrew! I will
move Crèvecoeur in thy behalf; and, as he truly fears that Duke Charles may be
provoked against the King, to the extremity of falling foul, I think it likely
he may grant thy request, though, by my honour, it is a comical one!«
    So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old lord left the apartment,
followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming his looks on those of his principal,
endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the cause of his wonder, to look as
mysterious and important as Crawford himself.
    In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his attendant, Le Balafré.
The old man seemed in singular humour, laughing and chuckling to himself in a
manner which strangely distorted his stern and rigid features, and at the same
time shaking his head, as at something which he could not help condemning, while
he found it irresistibly ludicrous. »My certes, countryman,« said he, »but you
are not blate - you will never lose fair lady for faint heart! Crèvecoeur
swallowed your proposal as he would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me
roundly, by all the saints in Burgundy, that, were less than the honour of
princes and the peace of kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so much as
the print of the Countess Isabelle's foot on the clay. Were it not that he had a
dame, and a fair one, I would have thought that he meant to break a lance for
the prize himself. Perhaps he thinks of his nephew, the County Stephen. A
Countess! - would no less serve you to be minting at? - But come along - your
interview with her must be brief - But I fancy you know how to make the most of
little time - ho! ho! ho! - By my faith, I can hardly chide thee for the
presumption, I have such a good will to laugh at it!«
    With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and disconcerted by the blunt
inferences of the old soldier, and vexed at beholding in what an absurd light
his passion was viewed by every person of experience, Durward followed Lord
Crawford in silence to the Ursuline convent, in which the Countess was lodged,
and in the parlour of which he found the Count de Crèvecoeur.
    »So, young gallant,« said the latter, sternly, »you must see the fair
companion of your romantic expedition once more, it seems?«
    »Yes, my Lord Count,« answered Quentin, firmly; »and what is more, I must
see her alone.«
    »That shall never be,« said the Count de Crèvecoeur. - »Lord Crawford, I
make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old friend and companion in
arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort of a - what was I
going to say? - in short, she is a fool, and your man-at-arms here a
presumptuous coxcomb - In a word, they shall not meet alone.«
    »Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your presence,« said
Quentin, much delighted. »You have told me much that I did not dare,
presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.«
    »Ay, truly said, my friend,« said Crawford. »You have been imprudent in your
communications; and, since you refer to me, and there is a good stout grating
across the parlour, I would advise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst
with their tongues. What, man! the life of a King, and many thousands besides,
is not to be weighed with the chance of two young things whilly-whawing in ilk
other's ears for a minute.«
    So saying, he dragged off Crèvecoeur, who followed very reluctantly, and
cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left the room.
    In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side of the
grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she stopped short,
and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half-a-minute. »Yet why should
I be ungrateful,« she said, »because others are unjustly suspicious? - My friend
- my preserver, I may almost say, so much have I been beset by treachery - my
only faithful and constant friend!«
    As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate, nay,
suffered him to retain it until he had covered it with kisses, not unmingled
with tears. She only said, »Durward, were we ever to meet again, I would not
permit this folly.«
    If it be considered that Quentin had guarded her through so many perils -
that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous protector, perhaps my
fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses should be of the number, will
pardon the derogation.
    But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace back
from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon he had to
ask of her? - »For that you have a request to make, I have learned from the old
Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of Crèvecoeur. Let it be but
reasonable,« she said, »but such as poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour
uninfringed, and you cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But, oh! do not
speak hastily, - do not say,« she added, looking around with timidity, »aught
that might, if overheard, do prejudice to us both!«
    »Fear not, noble lady,« said Quentin, sorrowfully; »it is not here that I
can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or expose you to the
censures of your proud kindred, as the object of the most devoted love to one,
poorer and less powerful - not perhaps less noble than themselves. Let that pass
like a dream of the night to all but one bosom, where, dream as it is, it will
fill up the room of all existing realities.«
    »Hush! hush!« said Isabelle; »for your own sake, - for mine, - be silent on
such a theme. Tell me rather what it is you have to ask of me.«
    »Forgiveness to one,« replied Quentin, »who, for his own selfish views, hath
conducted himself as your enemy.«
    »I trust I forgive all my enemies,« answered Isabelle; »but oh, Durward!
through what scenes have your courage and presence of mind protected me! -
Yonder bloody hall - the good Bishop - I knew not till yesterday half the
horrors I had unconsciously witnessed!«
    »Do not think on them,« said Quentin, who saw the transient colour which had
come to her cheek during their conference, fast fading into the most deadly
paleness - »Do not look back, but look steadily forward, as they needs must who
walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me. King Louis deserves nothing better at
your hand, of all others, than to be proclaimed the wily and insidious
politician which he really is. But to tax him as the encourager of your flight -
still more as the author of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la Marck -
will at this moment produce perhaps the King's death or dethronement; and, at
all events, the most bloody war between France and Burgundy which the two
countries have ever been engaged in.«
    »These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be prevented,« said
the Countess Isabelle; »and indeed your slightest request were enough to make me
forego my revenge, were that at any time a passion which I deeply cherish. Is it
possible I would rather remember King Louis's injuries than your invaluable
services? - Yet how is this to be? - When I am called before my Sovereign, the
Duke of Burgundy, I must either stand silent, or speak the truth. The former
would be contumacy; and to a false tale you will not desire me to train my
tongue.«
    »Surely not,« said Durward; »but let your evidence concerning Louis be
confined to what you yourself positively know to be truth; and when you mention
what others have reported, no matter how credibly, let it be as reports only,
and beware of pledging your own personal evidence to that which, though you may
fully believe, you cannot personally know to be true. The assembled Council of
Burgundy cannot refuse to a monarch the justice which in my country is rendered
to the meanest person under accusation. They must esteem him innocent until
direct and sufficient proof shall demonstrate his guilt. Now, what does not
consist with your own certain knowledge, should be proved by other evidence than
your report from hearsay.«
    »I think I understand you,« said the Countess Isabelle.
    »I will make my meaning plainer,« said Quentin; and was illustrating it
accordingly by more than one instance, when the convent-bell tolled.
    »That,« said the Countess, »is a signal that we must part - part for ever! -
But do not forget me, Durward; I will never forget you - your faithful services«
-
    She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, which was again
pressed to his lips; and I know not how it was that, in endeavouring to withdraw
her hand, the Countess came so close to the grating, that Quentin was encouraged
to press the adieu on her lips. The young lady did not chide him - perhaps there
was no time; for Crèvecoeur and Crawford, who had been from some loop-hole
eye-witnesses, if not ear-witnesses also, of what was passing, rushed into the
apartment, the first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and holding the
Count back.
    »To your chamber, young mistress - to your chamber!« exclaimed the Count to
Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, retired in all haste - »which should be
exchanged for a cell and bread and water. - And you, gentle sir, who are so
malapert, the time will come when the interests of Kings and kingdoms may not be
connected with such as you are; and you shall then learn the penalty of your
audacity in raising your beggarly eyes« -
    »Hush! hush! - enough said - rein up - rein up,« said the old Lord; - »and
you, Quentin, I command you to be silent, and begone to your quarters. - There
is no such room for so much scorn neither, Sir Count of Crèvecoeur, that I must
say, now he is out of hearing - Quentin Durward is as much a gentleman as the
King, only, as the Spaniard says, not so rich. He is as noble as myself, and I
am chief of my name. Tush, tush! man, you must not speak to us of penalties.«
    »My lord, my lord,« said Crèvecoeur, impatiently, »the insolence of these
foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and should receive rather rebuke than
encouragement from you, who are their leader.«
    »My Lord Count,« answered Crawford, »I have ordered my command for these
fifty years, without advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian; and I intend to
do so, under your favour, so long as I shall continue to hold it.«
    »Well, well, my lord,« said Crèvecoeur, »I meant you no disrespect; your
nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to be privileged in your impatience;
and for these young people, I am satisfied to overlook the past, since I will
take care that they never meet again.«
    »Do not take that upon your salvation, Crèvecoeur,« said the old Lord,
laughing; »mountains, it is said, may meet, and why not mortal creatures that
have legs, and life and love to put those legs in motion? Yon kiss, Crèvecoeur,
came tenderly off - methinks it was ominous.«
    »You are striving again to disturb my patience,« said Crèvecoeur, »but I
will not give you that advantage over me. - Hark! they toll the summons to the
Castle - an awful meeting, of which God only can foretell the issue.«
    »This issue I can foretell,« said the old Scottish Lord, »that if violence
is to be offered to the person of the King, few as his friends are, and
surrounded by his enemies, he shall neither fall alone nor unavenged; and
grieved I am that his own positive orders have prevented my taking measures to
prepare for such an issue.«
    »My Lord of Crawford,« said the Burgundian, »to anticipate such evil is the
sure way to give occasion to it. Obey the orders of your royal master, and give
no pretext for violence by taking hasty offence, and you will find that the day
will pass over more smoothly than you now conjecture.«
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Second

                               The Investigation.

 Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,
 Than my displeased eye see your courtesy.
 Up, cousin, up - your heart is up, I know,
 Thus high at least - although your knee -
                                                                King Richard II.
 
At the first toll of the bell, which was to summon the great nobles of Burgundy
together in council, with the very few French peers who could be present on the
occasion, Duke Charles, followed by a part of his train, armed with partisans
and battle-axes, entered the Hall of Herbert's Tower, in the Castle of Peronne.
King Louis, who had expected the visit, arose and made two steps towards the
Duke, and then remained standing with an air of dignity, which, in spite of the
meanness of his dress, and the familiarity of his ordinary manners, he knew very
well how to assume when he judged it necessary. Upon the present important
crisis, the composure of his demeanour had an evident effect upon his rival, who
changed the abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the apartment into one
more becoming a great vassal entering the presence of his Lord Paramount.
Apparently the Duke had formed the internal resolution to treat Louis, in the
outset at least, with the formalities due to his high station; but at the same
time it was evident that, in doing so, he put no small constraint upon the fiery
impatience of his own disposition, and was scarce able to control the feelings
of resentment and the thirst of revenge which boiled in his bosom. Hence, though
he compelled himself to use the outward acts, and in some degree the language,
of courtesy and reverence, his colour came and went rapidly - his voice was
abrupt, hoarse, and broken - his limbs shook, as if impatient of the curb
imposed on his motions - he frowned and bit his lip until the blood came - and
every look and movement showed that the most passionate prince who ever lived
was under the dominion of one of his most violent paroxysms of fury.
    The King marked this war of passion, with a calm and untroubled eye; for,
though he gathered from the Duke's looks a foretaste of the bitterness of death,
which he dreaded alike as a mortal and a sinful man, yet he was resolved, like a
wary and skilful pilot, neither to suffer himself to be disconcerted by his own
fears, nor to abandon the helm, while there was a chance of saving the vessel by
adroit pilotage. Therefore, when the Duke, in a hoarse and broken tone, said
something of the scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with a smile, that
he could not complain, since he had as yet found Herbert's Tower a better
residence than it had proved to one of his ancestors.
    »They told you the tradition then?« said Charles - »Yes - here he was slain
- but it was because he refused to take the cowl, and finish his days in a
monastery.«
    »The more fool he,« said Louis, affecting unconcern, »since he gained the
torment of being a martyr, without the merit of being a saint.«
    »I come,« said the Duke, »to pray your Majesty to attend a high council, at
which things of weight are to be deliberated upon concerning the welfare of
France and Burgundy. You will presently meet them - that is if such be your
pleasure« -
    »Nay, my fair cousin,« said the King, »never strain courtesy so far, as to
entreat what you may so boldly command - To council, since such is your Grace's
pleasure. We are somewhat shorn of our train,« he added, looking upon the small
suite that arranged themselves to attend him - »but you, cousin, must shine out
for us both.«
    Marshalled by Toison d'Or, chief of the heralds of Burgundy, the Princes
left the Earl Herbert's Tower, and entered the castle-yard, which Louis observed
was filled with the Duke's body-guard and men-at-arms, splendidly accoutred, and
drawn up in martial array. Crossing the court, they entered the Council Hall,
which was in a much more modern part of the building than that of which Louis
had been the tenant, and, though in disrepair, had been hastily arranged for the
solemnity of a public council. Two chairs of state were erected under the same
canopy, that for the King being raised two steps higher than the one which the
Duke was to occupy; about twenty of the chief nobility sat, arranged in due
order, on either hand of the chair of state; and thus, when both the Princes
were seated, the person for whose trial, as it might be called, the council was
summoned, held the highest place, and appeared to preside in it.
    It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, and the scruples which
might have been inspired by it, that Duke Charles, having bowed slightly to the
royal chair, bluntly opened the sitting with the following words: -
    »My good vassals and councillors, it is not unknown to you what disturbances
have arisen in our territories, both in our father's time, and in our own, from
the rebellion of vassals against superiors, and subjects against their princes.
And lately we have had the most dreadful proof of the height to which these
evils have arrived in our case, by the scandalous flight of the Countess
Isabelle of Croye, and her aunt the Lady Hameline, to take refuge with a foreign
power, thereby renouncing their fealty to us, and inferring the forfeiture of
their fiefs; and in another more dreadful and deplorable instance, by the
sacrilegious and bloody murder of our beloved brother and ally the Bishop of
Liege, and the rebellion of that treacherous city, which was but too mildly
punished for the last insurrection. We have been informed that these sad events
may be traced, not merely to the inconstancy and folly of women, and the
presumption of pampered citizens, but to the agency of foreign power, and the
interference of a mighty neighbour, from whom, if good deeds could merit any
return in kind, Burgundy could have expected nothing but the most sincere and
devoted friendship. If this should prove truth,« said the Duke, setting his
teeth, and pressing his heel against the ground, »what consideration shall
withhold us - the means being in our power - from taking such measures, as shall
effectually, and at the very source, close up the main spring, from which these
evils have yearly flowed on us?«
    The Duke had begun his speech with some calmness, but he elevated his voice
at the conclusion; and the last sentence was spoken in a tone which made all the
councillors tremble, and brought a transient fit of paleness across the King's
cheek. He instantly recalled his courage, however, and addressed the council in
his turn, in a tone evincing so much ease and composure, that the Duke, though
he seemed desirous to interrupt or stop him, found no decent opportunity to do
so.
    »Nobles of France and of Burgundy,« he said, »Knights of the Holy Spirit and
of the Golden Fleece! since a King must plead his cause as an accused person, he
cannot desire more distinguished judges, than the flower of nobleness, and
muster and pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin of Burgundy hath but darkened the
dispute between us, in so far as his courtesy has declined to state it in
precise terms. I, who have no cause for observing such delicacy, nay, whose
condition permits me not to do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. It is to
Us, my lords - to Us, his liege Lord, his kinsman, his ally, that unhappy
circumstances, perverting our cousin's clear judgment and better nature, have
induced him to apply the hateful charges of seducing his vassals from their
allegiance, stirring up the people of Liege to revolt, and stimulating the
outlawed William de la Marck to commit a most cruel and sacrilegious murder.
Nobles of France and Burgundy, I might truly appeal to the circumstances in
which I now stand, as being in themselves a complete contradiction of such an
accusation; for is it to be supposed, that, having the sense of a rational being
left me, I should have thrown myself unreservedly into the power of the Duke of
Burgundy, while I was practising treachery against him, such as could not fail
to be discovered, and which, being discovered, must place me, as I now stand, in
the power of a justly exasperated prince? The folly of one who should seat
himself quietly down to repose on a mine, after he had lighted the match which
was to cause instant explosion, would have been wisdom compared to mine. I have
no doubt, that, amongst the perpetrators of those horrible treasons at
Schonwaldt, villains have been busy with my name - but am I to be answerable,
who have given them no right to use it? - If two silly women, disgusted on
account of some romantic cause of displeasure, sought refuge at my Court, does
it follow that they did so by my direction? - It will be found, when inquired
into, that, since honour and chivalry forbade my sending them back prisoners to
the Court of Burgundy - which, I think, gentlemen, no one who wears the collar
of these Orders would suggest - that I came as nearly as possible to the same
point, by placing them in the hands of the venerable father in God, who is now a
saint in heaven.« - Here Louis seemed much affected, and pressed his kerchief to
his eyes - »In the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, and still more
closely united with that of Burgundy, whose situation, exalted condition in the
church, and, alas! whose numerous virtues, qualified him to be the protector of
these unhappy wanderers for a little while, and the mediator betwixt them and
their liege Lord. I say, therefore, the only circumstances which seem, in my
brother of Burgundy's hasty view of this subject, to argue unworthy suspicions
against me, are such as can be explained on the fairest and most honourable
motives; and I say, moreover, that no one particle of credible evidence can be
brought to support the injurious charges which have induced my brother to alter
his friendly looks towards one who came to him in full confidence of friendship
- have caused him to turn his festive hall into a court of justice, and his
hospitable apartments into a prison.«
    »My lord, my lord,« said Charles, breaking in as soon as the King paused,
»for your being here at a time so unluckily coinciding with the execution of
your projects, I can only account by supposing, that those who make it their
trade to impose on others, do sometimes egregiously delude themselves. The
engineer is sometimes killed by the springing of his own petard. - For what is
to follow, let it depend on the event of this solemn inquiry. - Bring hither the
Countess Isabelle of Croye.«
    As the young lady was introduced, supported on the one side by the Countess
of Crèvecoeur, who had her husband's commands to that effect, and on the other
by the Abbess of the Ursuline convent, Charles exclaimed, with his usual
harshness of voice and manner, - »Soh! sweet Princess - you, who could scarce
find breath to answer us when we last laid our just and reasonable commands on
you, yet have had wind enough to run as long a course as ever did hunted doe -
what think you of the fair work you have made between two great Princes, and two
mighty countries, that have been like to go to war for your baby face?«
    The publicity of the scene, and the violence of Charles's manner, totally
overcame the resolution which Isabelle had formed of throwing herself at the
Duke's feet, and imploring him to take possession of her estates, and permit her
to retire into a cloister. She stood motionless, like a terrified female in a
storm, who hears the thunder roll on every side of her, and apprehends in every
fresh peal, the bolt which is to strike her dead. The Countess of Crèvecoeur, a
woman of spirit equal to her birth and to the beauty which she preserved even in
her matronly years, judged it necessary to interfere. »My Lord Duke,« she said,
»my fair cousin is under my protection. I know better than your Grace how women
should be treated, and we will leave this presence instantly, unless you use a
tone and language more suitable to our rank and sex.«
    The Duke burst out into a laugh. »Crèvecoeur,« he said, »thy tameness hath
made a lordly dame of thy Countess; but that is no affair of mine. Give a seat
to yonder simple girl, to whom, so far from feeling enmity, I design the highest
grace and honour. - Sit down, mistress, and tell us at your leisure what fiend
possessed you to fly from your native country, and embrace the trade of a damsel
adventurous.«
    With much pain, and not without several interruptions, Isabelle confessed,
that, being absolutely determined against a match proposed to her by the Duke of
Burgundy, she had indulged the hope of obtaining protection of the Court of
France.
    »And under protection of the French Monarch,« said Charles - »Of that,
doubtless, you were well assured?«
    »I did indeed so think myself assured,« said the Countess
    Isabelle, »otherwise I had not taken a step so decided.« - Here Charles
looked upon Louis with a smile of inexpressible bitterness, which the King
supported with the utmost firmness, except that his lip grew something whiter
than it was wont to be. - »But my information concerning King Louis's intentions
towards us,« continued the Countess, after a short pause, »was almost entirely
derived from my unhappy aunt, the Lady Hameline, and her opinions were formed
upon the assertions and insinuations of persons whom I have since discovered to
be the vilest traitors and most faithless wretches in the world.« She then
stated, in brief terms, what she had since come to learn of the treachery of
Marthon, and of Hayraddin Maugrabin, and added, that she »entertained no doubt
that the elder Maugrabin, called Zamet, the original adviser of their flight,
was capable of every species of treachery, as well as of assuming the character
of an agent of Louis without authority.«
    There was a pause while the Countess continued her story, which she
prosecuted, though very briefly, from the time she left the territories of
Burgundy, in company with her aunt, until the storming of Schonwaldt, and her
final surrender to the Count of Crèvecoeur. All remained mute after she had
finished her brief and broken narrative, and the Duke of Burgundy bent his
fierce dark eyes on the ground, like one who seeks for a pretext to indulge his
passion, but finds none sufficiently plausible to justify himself in his own
eyes. »The mole,« he said, at length, looking upwards, »winds not his dark
subterraneous path beneath our feet the less certainly, that we, though
conscious of his motions, cannot absolutely trace them. Yet I would know of King
Louis, wherefore he maintained these ladies at his Court, had they not gone
thither by his own invitation.«
    »I did not so entertain them, fair cousin,« answered the King. »Out of
compassion, indeed, I received them in privacy, but took an early opportunity of
placing them under the protection of the late excellent Bishop, your own ally,
and who was (may God assoil him!) a better judge than I, or any secular prince,
how to reconcile the protection due to the fugitives, with the duty which a King
owes to his ally, from whose dominions they have fled. I boldly ask this young
lady, whether my reception of them was cordial, or whether it was not, on the
contrary, such as made them express regret that they had made my Court their
place of refuge?«
    »So much was it otherwise than cordial,« answered the Countess, »that it
induced me, at least, to doubt how far it was possible that your Majesty should
have actually given the invitation of which we had been assured, by those who
called themselves your agents; since, supposing them to have proceeded only as
they were duly authorised, it would have been hard to reconcile your Majesty's
conduct with that to be expected from a king, a knight, and a gentleman.«
    The Countess turned her eyes to the King as she spoke, with a look which was
probably intended as a reproach, but the breast of Louis was armed against all
such artillery. On the contrary, waving slowly his expanded hands, and looking
around the circle, he seemed to make a triumphant appeal to all present, upon
the testimony borne to his innocence in the Countess's reply.
    Burgundy, meanwhile, cast on him a look which seemed to say, that if in some
degree silenced, he was as far as ever from being satisfied, and then said
abruptly to the Countess, - »Methinks, fair mistress, in this account of your
wanderings you have forgot all mention of certain love-passages - So, ho!
blushing already? - Certain knights of the forest, by whom your quiet was for a
time interrupted. Well - that incident hath come to our ear, and something we
may presently form out of it. - Tell me, King Louis, were it not well, before
this vagrant Helen of Troy, or of Croye, set more kings by the ears, were it not
well to carve out a fitting match for her?«
    King Louis, though conscious what ungrateful proposal was likely to be made
next, gave a calm and silent assent to what Charles said; but the Countess
herself was restored to courage by the very extremity of her situation. She
quitted the arm of the Countess of Crèvecoeur, on which she had hitherto leaned,
came forward timidly, yet with an air of dignity, and kneeling before the Duke's
throne, thus addressed him: - »Noble Duke of Burgundy, and my liege Lord; I
acknowledge my fault in having withdrawn myself from your dominions without your
gracious permission, and will most humbly acquiesce in any penalty you are
pleased to impose. I place my lands and castles at your rightful disposal, and
pray you only of your own bounty, and for the sake of my father's memory, to
allow the last of the line of Croye, out of her large estate, such a moderate
maintenance as may find her admission into a convent for the remainder of her
life.«
    »What think you, Sire, of the young person's petition to us?« said the Duke,
addressing Louis.
    »As of a holy and humble motion,« said the King, »which doubtless comes from
that grace which ought not to be resisted or withstood.«
    »The humble and lowly shall be exalted,« said Charles. »Arise, Countess
Isabelle - we mean better for you than you have devised for yourself. We mean
neither to sequestrate your estates, nor to abase your honours, but, on the
contrary, will add largely to both.«
    »Alas! my lord,« said the Countess, continuing on her knees, »it is even
that well-meant goodness which I fear still more than your Grace's displeasure,
since it compels me« -
    »Saint George of Burgundy!« said Duke Charles, »is our will to be thwarted,
and our commands disputed, at every turn? Up, I say, minion, and withdraw for
the present - when we have time to think of thee, we will so order matters,
that, Tête-Saint-Gris! you shall either obey us or do worse.«
    Notwithstanding this stern answer, the Countess Isabelle remained at his
feet, and would probably, by her pertinacity, have driven him to say upon the
spot something yet more severe, had not the Countess of Crèvecoeur, who better
knew that Prince's humour, interfered to raise her young friend, and to conduct
her from the hall.
    Quentin Durward was now summoned to appear, and presented himself before the
King and Duke with that freedom, distant alike from bashful reserve and
intrusive boldness, which becomes a youth at once well-born and well-nurtured,
who gives honour where it is due, but without permitting himself to be dazzled
or confused by the presence of those to whom it is to be rendered. His uncle had
furnished him with the means of again equipping himself in the arms and dress of
an Archer of the Scottish Guard, and his complexion, mien, and air, suited in an
uncommon degree his splendid appearance. His extreme youth, too, prepossessed
the councillors in his favour, the rather that no one could easily believe that
the sagacious Louis would have chosen so very young a person to become the
confidant of political intrigues; and thus the King enjoyed, in this, as in
other cases, considerable advantage from his singular choice of agents, both as
to age and rank, where such election seemed least likely to be made. At the
command of the Duke, sanctioned by that of Louis, Quentin commenced an account
of his journey with the Ladies of Croye to the neighbourhood of Liege, premising
a statement of King Louis's instructions, which were, that he should escort them
safely to the castle of the Bishop.
    »And you obeyed my orders accordingly,« said the King.
    »I did, Sire,« replied the Scot.
    »You omit a circumstance,« said the Duke. »You were set upon in the forest
by two wandering knights.«
    »It does not become me to remember or to proclaim such an incident,« said
the youth, blushing ingenuously.
    »But it doth not become me to forget it,« said the Duke of Orleans. »This
youth discharged his commission manfully, and maintained his trust in a manner
that I shall long remember. - Come to my apartment, Archer, when this matter is
over, and thou shalt find I have not forgot thy brave bearing, while I am glad
to see it is equalled by thy modesty.«
    »And come to mine,« said Dunois. »I have a helmet for thee, since I think I
owe thee one.« Quentin bowed low to both, and the examination was resumed. At
the command of Duke Charles he produced the written instructions which he had
received for the direction of his journey.
    »Did you follow these instructions literally, soldier?« said the Duke.
    »No, if it please your Grace,« replied Quentin. »They directed me, as you
may be pleased to observe, to cross the Maes near Namur; whereas I kept the left
bank, as being both the nigher and the safer road to Liege.«
    »And wherefore that alteration?« said the Duke.
    »Because I began to suspect the fidelity of my guide,« answered Quentin.
    »Now, mark the questions I have next to ask thee,« said the Duke. »Reply
truly to them, and fear nothing from the resentment of any one. But if you
palter or double in your answers, I will have thee hung alive in an iron chain
from the steeple of the market-house, where thou shalt wish for death for many
an hour ere he come to relieve you!«
    There was a deep silence ensued. At length, having given the youth time, as
he thought, to consider the circumstances in which he was placed, the Duke
demanded to know of Durward who his guide was, by whom supplied, and wherefore
he had been led to entertain suspicion of him? To the first of these questions,
Quentin Durward answered, by naming Hayraddin Maugrabin, the Bohemian; to the
second, that the guide had been recommended by Tristan l'Hermite; and in reply
to the third point, he mentioned what had happened in the Franciscan convent
near Namur; how the Bohemian had been expelled from the holy house; and how,
jealous of his behaviour, he had dogged him to a rendezvous with one of William
de la Marck's lanzknechts, where he overheard them arrange a plan for surprising
the ladies who were under his protection.
    »Now, hark ye,« said the Duke, »and once more remember thy life depends on
thy veracity, did these villains mention their having this King's - I mean this
very King Louis of France's authority, for their scheme of surprising the
escort, and carrying away the ladies?«
    »If such infamous fellows had said so,« replied Quentin, »I know not how I
should have believed them, having the word of the King himself to place in
opposition to theirs.«
    Louis, who had listened hitherto with most earnest attention, could not help
drawing his breath deeply, when he heard Durward's answer, in the manner of one
from whose bosom a heavy weight has been at once removed. The Duke again looked
disconcerted and moody; and, returning to the charge, questioned Quentin still
more closely, whether he did not understand, from these men's private
conversation, that the plots which they meditated had King Louis's sanction?
    »I repeat, that I heard nothing which could authorise me to say so,«
answered the young man, who, though internally convinced of the King's accession
to the treachery of Hayraddin, yet held it contrary to his allegiance to bring
forward his own suspicions on the subject; »and if I had heard such men make
such an assertion, I again say that I would not have given their testimony
weight against the instructions of the King himself.«
    »Thou art a faithful messenger,« said the Duke, with a sneer; »and I venture
to say, that in obeying the King's instructions, thou hast disappointed his
expectations in a manner that thou mightest have smarted for, but that
subsequent events have made thy bull-headed fidelity seem like good service.«
    »I understand you not, my lord,« said Quentin Durward; »all I know is, that
my master King Louis sent me to protect these ladies, and that I did so
accordingly, to the extent of my ability, both in the journey to Schonwaldt, and
through the subsequent scenes which took place. I understood the instructions of
the King to be honourable, and I executed them honourably; had they been of a
different tenor, they would not have suited one of my name or nation.«
    »Fier come un Ecossois,« said Charles, who, however disappointed at the
tenor of Durward's reply, was not unjust enough to blame him for his boldness.
»But hark thee, Archer, what instructions were those which made thee, as some
sad fugitives from Schonwaldt have informed us, parade the streets of Liege, at
the head of those mutineers, who afterwards cruelly murdered their temporal
Prince and spiritual Father? And what harangue was it which thou didst make
after that murder was committed, in which you took upon you, as agent for Louis,
to assume authority among the villains who had just perpetrated so great a
crime?«
    »My lord,« said Quentin, »there are many who could testify, that I assumed
not the character of an envoy of France in the town of Liege, but had it fixed
upon me by the obstinate clamours of the people themselves, who refused to give
credit to any disclamation which I could make. This I told to those in the
service of the Bishop when I had made my escape from the city, and recommended
their attention to the security of the Castle, which might have prevented the
calamity and horror of the succeeding night. It is, no doubt, true, that I did,
in the extremity of danger, avail myself of the influence which my imputed
character gave me, to save the Countess Isabelle, to protect my own life, and,
so far as I could, to rein in the humour for slaughter, which had already broke
out in so dreadful an instance. I repeat, and will maintain it with my body,
that I had no commission of any kind from the King of France, respecting the
people of Liege, far less instructions to instigate them to mutiny; and that,
finally, when I did avail myself of that imputed character, it was as if I had
snatched up a shield to protect myself in a moment of emergency, and used it, as
I should surely have done, for the defence of myself and others, without
inquiring whether I had a right to the heraldic emblazonments which it
displayed.«
    »And therein, my young companion and prisoner,« said Crèvecoeur, unable any
longer to remain silent, »acted with equal spirit and good sense; and his doing
so cannot justly be imputed as blame to King Louis.«
    There was a murmur of assent among the surrounding nobility, which sounded
joyfully in the ears of King Louis, whilst it gave no little offence to Charles.
He rolled his eyes angrily around, and the sentiments, so generally expressed by
so many of his highest vassals and wisest councillors, would not perhaps have
prevented his giving way to his violent and despotic temper, had not Des
Comines, who foresaw the danger, prevented it, by suddenly announcing a herald
from the city of Liege.
    »A herald from weavers and nailers!« exclaimed the Duke - »but, admit him
instantly. By Our Lady, I will learn from this same herald something farther of
his employers' hopes and projects, than this young French-Scottish man-at-arms
seems desirous to tell me.«
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Third

                                  The Herald.

            Ariel. -- Hark! they roar.
             Prospero. Let them be hunted soundly.
                                                                    The Tempest.
 
There was room made in the assembly, and no small curiosity evinced by those
present to see the herald whom the insurgent Liegeois had ventured to send to so
haughty a Prince as the Duke of Burgundy, while in such high indignation against
them. For it must be remembered, that at this period heralds were only
despatched from sovereign princes to each other upon solemn occasions; and that
the inferior nobility employed pursuivants, a lower rank of officers-at-arms. It
may be also noticed in passing, that Louis XI., a habitual derider of whatever
did not promise real power or substantial advantage, was in especial a professed
contemner of heralds and heraldry, »red, blue, and green, with all their
trumpery,«62 to which the pride of his rival Charles, which was of a very
different kind, attached no small degree of ceremonious importance.
    The herald, who was now introduced into the presence of the monarchs, was
dressed in a tabard, or coat, embroidered with the arms of his master, in which
the boar's head made a distinguished appearance, in blazonry, which, in the
opinion of the skilful, was more showy than accurate. The rest of his dress - a
dress always sufficiently tawdry - was overcharged with lace, embroidery, and
ornament of every kind; and the plume of feathers which he wore was so high, as
if intended to sweep the roof of the hall. In short, the usual gaudy splendour
of the heraldic attire was caricatured and overdone. The Boar's-head was not
only repeated on every part of his dress, but even his bonnet was formed into
that shape, and it was represented with gory tongue and bloody tusks, or in
proper language, langed and dentated gules; and there was something in the man's
appearance which seemed to imply a mixture of boldness and apprehension, like
one who has undertaken a dangerous commission, and is sensible that audacity
alone can carry him through it with safety. Something of the same mixture of
fear and effrontery was visible in the manner in which he paid his respects, and
he showed also a grotesque awkwardness, not usual amongst those who were
accustomed to be received in the presence of princes.
    »Who art thou, in the devil's name?« was the greeting with which Charles the
Bold received this singular envoy.
    »I am Rouge Sanglier,« answered the herald, »the officer-at-arms of William
de la Marck, by the grace of God, and the election of the Chapter, Prince Bishop
of Liege.«
    »Ha!« exclaimed Charles; but as if subduing his own passion he made a sign
to him to proceed.
    »And in right of his wife, the honourable Countess Hameline of Croye, Count
of Croye, and Lord of Bracquemont.«
    The utter astonishment of Duke Charles at the extremity of boldness with
which these titles were announced in his presence, seemed to strike him dumb;
and the herald, conceiving, doubtless, that he had made a suitable impression by
the annunciation of his character, proceeded to state his errand.
    »Annuncio vobis gaudium magnum,« he said; »I let you, Charles of Burgundy
and Earl of Flanders, to know, in my master's name, that under favour of a
dispensation of our Holy Father of Rome, presently expected, and appointing a
fitting substitute ad sacra, he proposes to exercise at once the office of
Prince Bishop, and maintain the rights of Count of Croye.«
    The Duke of Burgundy, at this and other pauses in the herald's speech, only
ejaculated »Ha!« or some similar interjection, without making any answer; and
the tone of exclamation was that of one who, though surprised and moved, is
willing to hear all that is to be said ere he commits himself by making an
answer. To the farther astonishment of all who were present, he forbore from his
usual abrupt and violent gesticulations, remaining with the nail of his thumb
pressed against his teeth, which was his favourite attitude when giving
attention, and keeping his eyes bent on the ground, as if unwilling to betray
the passion which might gleam in them.
    The envoy, therefore, proceeded boldly and unabashed in the delivery of his
message. »In the name, therefore, of the Prince Bishop of Liege, and Count of
Croye, I am to require of you, Duke Charles, to desist from those pretensions
and encroachments which you have made on the free and imperial city of Liege, by
connivance with the late Louis of Bourbon, unworthy Bishop thereof.« -
    »Ha!« again exclaimed the Duke.
    »Also to restore the banners of the community, which you took violently from
the town, to the number of six-and-thirty, - to rebuild the breaches in their
walls, and restore the fortifications which you tyrannically dismantled, - and
to acknowledge my master, William de la Marck, as Prince Bishop, lawfully
elected in a free Chapter of Canons, of which behold the procès verbal.«
    »Have you finished?« said the Duke.
    »Not yet,« replied the envoy: »I am farther to require your Grace, on the
part of the said right noble and venerable Prince, Bishop, and Count, that you
do presently withdraw the garrison from the Castle of Bracquemont, and other
places of strength, belonging to the Earldom of Croye, which have been placed
there, whether in your own most gracious name, or in that of Isabelle, calling
herself Countess of Croye, or any other, until it shall be decided by the
Imperial Diet, whether the fiefs in question shall not pertain to the sister of
the late Count, my most gracious Lady Hameline, rather than to his daughter, in
respect of the jus emphyteusis.«
    »Your master is most learned,« replied the Duke.
    »Yet,« continued the herald, »the noble and venerable Prince and Count will
be disposed, all other disputes betwixt Burgundy and Liege being settled, to fix
upon the Lady Isabelle such an appanage as may become her quality.«
    »He is generous and considerate,« said the Duke in the same tone.
    »Now, by a poor fool's conscience,« said Le Glorieux apart to the Count of
Crèvecoeur, »I would rather be in the worst cow's hide that ever died of the
murrain, than in that fellow's painted coat! The poor man goes on like
drunkards, who only look to the other pot, and not to the score which mine host
chalks up behind the lattice.«
    »Have you yet done?« said the Duke to the herald.
    »One word more,« answered Rouge Sanglier, »from my noble and venerable lord
aforesaid, respecting his worthy and trusty ally, the Most Christian King« -
    »Ha!« exclaimed the Duke, starting, and in a fiercer tone than he had yet
used; but, checking himself, he instantly composed himself again to attention.
    »Which most Christian King's royal person it is rumoured that you, Charles
of Burgundy, have placed under restraint, contrary to your duty as a vassal of
the Crown of France, and to the faith observed among Christian Sovereigns. For
which reason, my said noble and venerable master, by my mouth, charges you to
put his Royal and Most Christian ally forthwith at freedom, or to receive the
defiance which I am authorised to pronounce to you.«
    »Have you yet done?« said the Duke.
    »I have,« answered the herald, »and await your Grace's answer, trusting it
may be such as will save the effusion of Christian blood.«
    »Now, by Saint George of Burgundy« - said the Duke - but ere he could
proceed further, Louis arose, and struck in with a tone of so much dignity and
authority, that Charles could not interrupt him.
    »Under your favour, fair cousin of Burgundy,« said the King, »we ourselves
crave priority of voice in replying to this insolent fellow. - Sirrah herald, or
whatever thou art, carry back notice to the perjured outlaw and murderer,
William de la Marck that the King of France will be presently before Liege, for
the purpose of punishing the sacrilegious murderer of his late beloved kinsman,
Louis of Bourbon; and that he proposes to gibbet De la Marck alive, for the
insolence of terming himself his ally, and putting his royal name into the mouth
of one of his own base messengers.«
    »And whatever else on my part,« said Charles, »which it may not misbecome a
prince to send to a common thief and murderer. - And begone! - Yet stay. - Never
herald went from the Court of Burgundy without having cause to cry, Largesse! -
Let him be scourged till the bones are laid bare!«
    »Nay, but if it please your Grace,« said Crèvecoeur and D'Hymbercourt
together, »he is a herald, and so far privileged.«
    »It is you, Messires,« replied the Duke, »who are such owls as to think that
the tabard makes the herald. I see by that fellow's blazoning he is a mere
impostor. Let Toison d'Or step forward, and question him in your presence.«
    In spite of his natural effrontery, the envoy of the Wild Boar of Ardennes
now became pale; and that notwithstanding some touches of paint with which he
had adorned his countenance. Toison d'Or, the chief herald, as we have elsewhere
said, of the Duke, and King-at-arms within his dominions, stepped forward with
the solemnity of one who knew what was due to his office, and asked his supposed
brother, in what College he had studied the science which he professed.
    »I was bred a pursuivant at the Heraldic College of Ratisbon,« answered
Rouge Sanglier, »and received diploma of Ehrenhold from that same learned
fraternity.«
    »You could not derive it from a source more worthy,« answered Toison d'Or,
bowing still lower than he had done before; »and if I presume to confer with you
on the mysteries of our sublime science, in obedience to the orders of the most
gracious Duke, it is not in hopes of giving, but of receiving knowledge.«
    »Go to,« said the Duke, impatiently. »Leave off ceremony, and ask him some
question that may try his skill.«
    »It were injustice to ask a disciple of the worthy College of Arms at
Ratisbon, if he comprehendeth the common terms of blazonry,« said Toison d'Or;
»but I may, without offence, crave of Rouge Sanglier to say if he is instructed
in the more mysterious and secret terms of the science, by which the more
learned do emblematically, and as it were parabolically, express to each other
what is conveyed to others in the ordinary language, taught in the very
accidence as it were of Heraldry?«
    »I understand one sort of blazonry as well as another,« answered Rouge
Sanglier, boldly; »but it may be we have not the same terms in Germany which you
have here in Flanders.«
    »Alas, that you will say so!« replied Toison d'Or; »our noble science, which
is indeed the very banner of nobleness and glory of generosity, being the same
in all Christian countries, nay, known and acknowledged even by the Saracens and
Moors. I would, therefore, pray of you to describe what coat you will after the
celestial fashion, that is, by the planets.«
    »Blazon it yourself as you will,« said Rouge Sanglier; »I will do no such
apish tricks upon commandment, as an ape is made to come aloft.«
    »Show him a coat, and let him blazon it his own way,« said the Duke; »and if
he fails, I promise him that his back shall be gules, azure, and sable.«
    »Here,« said the herald of Burgundy, taking from his pouch a piece of
parchment, »is a scroll, in which certain considerations led me to prick down,
after my own poor fashion, an ancient coat. I will pray my brother, if indeed he
belong to the honourable College of Arms at Ratisbon, to decipher it in fitting
language.«
    Le Glorieux, who seemed to take great pleasure in this discussion, had by
this time bustled himself close up to the two heralds. »I will help thee, good
fellow,« said he to Rouge Sanglier, as he looked hopelessly upon the scroll.
»This, my lords and masters, represents the cat looking out at the
dairy-window.«
    This sally occasioned a laugh, which was something to the advantage of Rouge
Sanglier, as it led Toison d'Or, indignant at the misconstruction of his
drawing, to explain it as the coat-of-arms assumed by Childebert, King of
France, after he had taken prisoner Gandemar, King of Burgundy; representing an
ounce, or tiger-cat, the emblem of the captive prince, behind a grating, or, as
Toison d'Or technically defined it, »Sable, a musion passant Or, oppressed with
a trellis gules, cloué of the second.«
    »By my bauble,« said Le Glorieux, »if the cat resemble Burgundy, she has the
right side of the grating now-a-days.«
    »True, good fellow,« said Louis, laughing, while the rest of the presence,
and even Charles himself, seemed disconcerted at so broad a jest, - »I owe thee
a piece of gold for turning something that looked like sad earnest into the
merry game which I trust it will end in.«
    »Silence, Le Glorieux,« said the Duke; »and you, Toison d'Or, who are too
learned to be intelligible, stand back, - and bring that rascal forward, some of
you. - Hark ye, villain,« he said in his harshest tone, »do you know the
difference between argent and or, except in the shape of coined money?«
    »For pity's sake, your Grace, be good unto me! - Noble King Louis, speak for
me!«
    »Speak for thyself,« said the Duke - »In a word, art thou herald or not?«
    »Only for this occasion!« acknowledged the detected official.
    »Now, by Saint George!« said the Duke, eyeing Louis askance, »we know no
king - no gentleman - save one, who would have so prostituted the noble science
on which royalty and gentry rest! save that King, who sent to Edward of England
a serving man disguised as a herald.«63
    »Such a stratagem,« said Louis, laughing, or affecting to laugh, »could only
be justified at a Court where no heralds were at the time, and when the
emergency was urgent. But, though it might have passed on the blunt and
thick-witted islander, no one with brains a whit better than those of a wild
boar would have thought of passing such a trick upon the accomplished Court of
Burgundy.«
    »Send him who will,« said the Duke, fiercely, »he shall return on their
hands in poor case. - Here! - drag him to the market-place! - slash him with
bridle-reins and dog-whips until the tabard hang about him in tatters! - Upon
the Rouge Sanglier! - ça ça! - Haloo, haloo!«
    Four or five large hounds, such as are painted in the hunting-pieces upon
which Rubens and Schneiders laboured in conjunction, caught the well-known notes
with which the Duke concluded, and began to yell and bay as if the boar were
just roused from his lair.
    »By the rood!« said King Louis, observant to catch the vein of his dangerous
cousin, »since the ass has put on the boar's hide, I would set the dogs on him
to bait him out of it!«
    »Right! right!« exclaimed Duke Charles, the fancy exactly chiming in with
his humour at the moment - »it shall be done! - Uncouple the hounds! - Hyke a
Talbot! hyke a Beaumont! - We will course him from the door of the Castle to the
east gate.«
    »I trust your Grace will treat me as a beast of chase,« said the fellow,
putting the best face he could upon the matter, »and allow me fair law?«
    »Thou art but vermin,« said the Duke, »and entitled to no law, by the letter
of the book of hunting; nevertheless, thou shalt have sixty yards in advance,
were it but for the sake of thy unparalleled impudence. - Away, away, sirs! - we
will see this sport.« - And the council breaking up tumultuously, all hurried,
none faster than the two Princes, to enjoy the humane pastime which King Louis
had suggested.
    The Rouge Sanglier showed excellent sport; for, winged with terror, and
having half-a-score of fierce boar-hounds hard at his haunches, encouraged by
the blowing of horns and the woodland cheer of the hunters, he flew like the
very wind, and had he not been encumbered with his herald's coat (the worst
possible habit for a runner), he might fairly have escaped dog-free; he also
doubled once or twice, in a manner much approved of by the spectators. None of
these, nay, not even Charles himself, was so delighted with the sport as King
Louis, who, partly from political considerations, and partly as being naturally
pleased with the sight of human suffering when ludicrously exhibited, laughed
till the tears ran from his eyes, and in his ecstasies of rapture, caught hold
of the Duke's ermine cloak, as if to support himself; whilst the Duke, no less
delighted, flung his arm around the King's shoulder, making thus an exhibition
of confidential sympathy and familiarity, very much at variance with the terms
on which they had so lately stood together.
    At length the speed of the pseudo-herald could save him no longer from the
fangs of his pursuers; they seized him, pulled him down, and would probably soon
have throttled him, had not the Duke called out - »Stave and tail! - stave and
tail! - Take them off him!« - He hath shown so good a course, that, though he
has made no sport at bay, we will not have him despatched.
    Several officers accordingly busied themselves in taking off the dogs; and
they were soon seen coupling some up, and pursuing others which ran through the
streets, shaking in sport and triumph the tattered fragments of painted cloth
and embroidery rent from the tabard, which the unfortunate wearer had put on in
an unlucky hour.
    At this moment, and while the Duke was too much engaged with what passed
before him to mind what was said behind him, Oliver le Dain, gliding behind King
Louis, whispered into his ear - »It is the Bohemian, Hayraddin Maugrabin - It
were not well he should come to speech of the Duke.«
    »He must die,« answered Louis, in the same tone - »dead men tell no tales.«
    One instant afterwards Tristan l'Hermite, to whom Oliver had given the hint,
stepped forward before the King and the Duke, and said, in his blunt manner, »So
please your Majesty and your Grace, this piece of game is mine, and I claim him
- he is marked with my stamp - the fleur-de-lys is branded on his shoulder, as
all men may see. - He is a known villain, and hath slain the King's subjects,
robbed churches, deflowered virgins, slain deer in the royal parks« -
    »Enough, enough,« said Duke Charles, »he is my royal cousin's property by
many a good title. What will your Majesty do with him?«
    »If he is left to my disposal,« said the King, »I will at least give him one
lesson in the science of heraldry, in which he is so ignorant - only explain to
him practically, the meaning of a cross potence, with a noose dangling proper.«
    »Not as to be by him borne, but as to bear him. - Let him take the degrees
under your gossip Tristan - he is a deep professor in such mysteries.«
    Thus answered the Duke, with a burst of discordant laughter at his own wit,
which was so cordially chorussed by Louis, that his rival could not help looking
kindly at him, while he said -
    »Ah, Louis, Louis! would to God thou wert as faithful a monarch as thou art
a merry companion! - I cannot but think often on the jovial time we used to
spend together.«
    »You may bring it back when you will,« said Louis; »I will grant you as fair
terms as for very shame's sake you ought to ask in my present condition, without
making yourself the fable of Christendom; and I will swear to observe them upon
the holy relique which I have ever the grace to bear about my person, being a
fragment of the true cross.«
    Here he took a small golden reliquary, which was suspended from his neck
next to his shirt by a chain of the same metal, and having kissed it devoutly,
continued -
    »Never was false oath sworn on this most sacred relique, but it was avenged
within the year.«
    »Yet,« said the Duke, »it was the same on which you swore amity to me when
you left Burgundy, and shortly after sent the Bastard of Rubempré to murder or
kidnap me.«
    »Nay, gracious cousin, now you are ripping up ancient grievances,« said the
King; »I promise you, that you were deceived in that matter. - Moreover, it was
not upon this relique which I then swore, but upon another fragment of the true
cross which I got from the Grand Seignior, weakened in virtue, doubtless, by
sojourning with infidels. Besides, did not the war of the Public Good break out
within the year; and was not a Burgundian army encamped at Saint Denis, backed
by all the great feudatories of France; and was I not obliged to yield up
Normandy to my brother? - O God, shield us from perjury on such a warrant as
this!«
    »Well, cousin,« answered the Duke, »I do believe thou hadst a lesson to keep
faith another time. - And now for once, without finesse and doubling, will you
make good your promise, and go with me to punish this murdering La Marck and the
Liegeois?«
    »I will march against them,« said Louis, »with the Ban, and Arrière-Ban of
France, and the Oriflamme displayed.«
    »Nay, nay,« said the Duke, »that is more than is needful, or may be
advisable. The presence of your Scottish Guard, and two hundred choice lances,
will serve to show that you are a free agent. A large army might« -
    »Make me so in effect, you would say, my fair cousin?« said the King. »Well,
you shall dictate the number of my attendants.«
    »And to put this fair cause of mischief out of the way, you will agree to
the Countess Isabelle of Croye wedding with the Duke of Orleans?«
    »Fair cousin,« said the King, »you drive my courtesy to extremity. The Duke
is the betrothed bridegroom of my daughter Joan. Be generous - yield up this
matter, and let us speak rather of the towns on the Somme.«
    »My council will talk to your Majesty of these,« said Charles; »I myself
have less at heart the acquisition of territory, than the redress of injuries.
You have tampered with my vassals, and your royal pleasure must needs dispose of
the hand of a Ward of Burgundy. Your Majesty must bestow it within the pale of
your own royal family, since you have meddled with it - otherwise our conference
breaks off.«
    »Were I to say I did this willingly,« said the King, »no one would believe
me; therefore do you, my fair cousin, judge of the extent of my wish to oblige
you, when I say most reluctantly, that the parties consenting, and a
dispensation from the Pope being obtained, my own objections shall be no bar to
this match which you propose.«
    »All besides can be easily settled by our ministers,« said the Duke, »and we
are once more cousins and friends.«
    »May Heaven be praised!« said Louis, »who, holding in his hand the hearts of
princes, doth mercifully incline them to peace and clemency, and prevent the
effusion of human blood. - Oliver,« he added apart to that favourite, who ever
waited around him like the familiar beside a sorcerer, »Hark thee - tell Tristan
to be speedy in dealing with yonder runagate Bohemian.«
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Fourth

                                 The Execution.

 I'll take thee to the good green wood,
 And make thine own hand choose the tree.
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
»Now God be praised, that gave us the power of laughing and making others laugh,
and shame to the dull cur who scorns the office of a jester! Here is a joke, and
that none of the brightest (though it might pass, since it has amused two
Princes), which hath gone farther than a thousand reasons of state to prevent a
war between France and Burgundy.«
    Such was the inference of Le Gloricux, when, in consequence of the
reconciliation of which we gave the particulars in the last chapter, the
Burgundian guards were withdrawn from the Castle of Peronne, the abode of the
King removed from the ominous Tower of Count Herbert, and, to the great joy both
of French and Burgundians, an outward show at least of confidence and friendship
seemed so established between Duke Charles and his liege lord. Yet still the
latter, though treated with ceremonial observance, was sufficiently aware that
he continued to be the object of suspicion, though he prudently affected to
overlook it, and appeared to consider himself as entirely at his ease.
    Meanwhile, as frequently happens in such cases, whilst the principal parties
concerned had so far made up their differences, one of the subaltern agents
concerned in their intrigues, was bitterly experiencing the truth of the
political maxim, that if the great have frequent need of base tools, they make
amends to society by abandoning them to their fate, so soon as they find them no
longer useful.
    This was Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, surrendered by the Duke's officers to the
King's Provost-Marshal, was by him placed in the hands of his two trusty
aides-de-camp, Trois-Eschelles and Petit-André, to be despatched without loss of
time. One on either side of him, and followed by a few guards and a multitude of
rabble, - this playing the Allegro, that the Penseroso, - he was marched off (to
use a modern comparison, like Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy) to the
neighbouring forest; where, to save all farther trouble and ceremonial of a
gibbet, and so forth, the disposers of his fate proposed to knit him up to the
first sufficient tree.
    They were not long in finding an oak, as Petit-André facetiously expressed
it, fit to bear such an acorn; and placing the wretched criminal on a bank,
under a sufficient guard, they began their extemporaneous preparations for the
final catastrophe. At that moment, Hayraddin, gazing on the crowd, encountered
the eyes of Quentin Durward, who, thinking he recognised the countenance of his
faithless guide in that of the detected impostor, had followed with the crowd to
witness the execution, and assure himself of the identity.
    When the executioners informed him that all was ready, Hayraddin, with much
calmness, asked a single boon at their hands »Anything, my son, consistent with
our office,« said Trois-Eschelles.
    »That is,« said Hayraddin, »anything but my life.«
    »Even so,« said Trois-Eschelles, »and something more; for as you seem
resolved to do credit to our mystery, and die like a man, without making wry
mouths - why, though our orders are to be prompt, I care not if I indulge you
ten minutes longer.«
    »You are even too generous,« said Hayraddin.
    »Truly we may be blamed for it,« said Petit-André; »but what of that? - I
could consent almost to give my life for such a jerry-come-tumble, such a smart,
tight, firm lad, who proposes to come from aloft with a grace, as an honest
fellow should do.«
    »So that if you want a confessor,« said Trois-Eschelles -
    »Or a lire of wine,« said his facetious companion -
    »Or a psalm,« said Tragedy -
    »Or a song,« said Comedy -
    »Neither, my good, kind, and most expeditious friends,« said the Bohemian -
»I only pray to speak a few minutes with yonder Archer of the Scottish Guard.«
    The executioners hesitated a moment; but Trois-Eschelles, recollecting that
Quentin Durward was believed, from various circumstances, to stand high in the
favour of their master, King Louis, they resolved to permit the interview.
    When Quentin, at their summons, approached the condemned criminal, he could
not but be shocked at his appearance, however justly his doom might have been
deserved. The remnants of his heraldic finery, rent to tatters by the fangs of
the dogs, and the clutches of the bipeds who had rescued him from their fury to
lead him to the gallows, gave him at once a ludicrous and a wretched appearance.
His face was discoloured with paint, and with some remnants of a fictitious
beard, assumed for the purpose of disguise, and there was the paleness of death
upon his cheek and upon his lip; yet, strong in passive courage, like most of
his tribe, his eye, while it glistened and wandered, as well as the contorted
smile of his mouth, seemed to bid defiance to the death he was about to die.
    Quentin was struck, partly with horror, partly with compassion, as he
approached the miserable man; and these feelings probably betrayed themselves in
his manner, for Petit-André called out, »Trip it more smartly, jolly Archer -
This gentleman's leisure cannot wait for you, if you walk as if the pebbles were
eggs, and you afraid of breaking them.«
    »I must speak with him in privacy,« said the criminal, despair seeming to
croak in his accent as he uttered the words.
    »That may hardly consist with our office, my merry Leap-the-ladder,« said
Petit-André; »we know you for a slippery eel of old.«
    »I am tied with your horse-girths, hand and foot,« said the criminal - »You
may keep guard around me, though out of ear-shot - the Archer is your own King's
servant - And if I give you ten guilders« -
    »Laid out in masses, the sum may profit his poor soul,« said
Trois-Eschelles.
    »Laid out in wine or brantwein, it will comfort my poor body,« responded
Petit-André. »So let them be forthcoming, my little crack-rope.«
    »Pay the bloodhounds their fee,« said Hayraddin to Durward; »I was plundered
of every stiver when they took me - it shall avail thee much.«
    Quentin paid the executioners their guerdon, and, like men of promise, they
retreated out of hearing - keeping, however, a careful eye on the criminal's
motions. After waiting an instant till the unhappy man should speak, as he still
remained silent, Quentin at length addressed him, »And to this conclusion thou
hast at length arrived?«
    »Ay,« answered Hayraddin, »it required neither astrologer, nor
physiognomist, nor chiromantist, to foretell that I should follow the destiny of
my family.«
    »Brought to this early end by thy long course of crime and treachery?« said
the Scot.
    »No, by the bright Aldeboran and all his brother twinklers!« answered the
Bohemian. »I am brought hither by my folly in believing that the bloodthirsty
cruelty of a Frank could be restrained even by what they themselves profess to
hold most sacred. A priest's vestment would have been no safer garb for me than
a herald's tabard, however sanctimonious are your professions of devotion and
chivalry.«
    »A detected impostor has no right to claim the immunities of the disguise he
had usurped,« said Durward.
    »Detected!« said the Bohemian. »My jargon was as good as yonder old fool of
a herald's; - but let it pass. As well now as hereafter.«
    »You abuse time,« said Quentin. »If you have aught to tell me, say it
quickly, and then take some care of your soul.«
    »Of my soul?« said the Bohemian, with a hideous laugh. »Think ye a leprosy
of twenty years can be cured in an instant? - If I have a soul, it hath been in
such a course since I was ten years old and more, that it would take me one
month to recall all my crimes, and another to tell them to the priest! - and
were such space granted me, it is five to one I would employ it otherwise.«
    »Hardened wretch, blaspheme not! Tell me what thou hast to say, and I leave
thee to thy fate,« said Durward, with mingled pity and horror.
    »I have a boon to ask,« said Hayraddin, - »but first I will buy it of you;
for your tribe, with all their professions of charity, give nought for nought.«
    »I could well-nigh say, thy gifts perish with thee,« answered Quentin, »but
that thou art on the very verge of eternity. - Ask thy boon - reserve thy bounty
- it can do me no good - I remember enough of your good offices of old.«
    »Why, I loved you,« said Hayraddin, »for the matter that chanced on the
banks of the Cher; and I would have helped you to a wealthy dame. You wore her
scarf, which partly misled me; and indeed I thought that Hameline, with her
portable wealth, was more for your market-penny than the other hen-sparrow, with
her old roost at Bracquemont, which Charles has clutched, and is likely to keep
his claws upon.«
    »Talk not so idly, unhappy man,« said Quentin; »yonder officers become
impatient.«
    »Give them ten guilders for ten minutes more,« said the culprit, - who, like
most in his situation, mixed with his hardihood a desire of procrastinating his
fate, - »I tell thee it shall avail thee much.«
    »Use then well the minutes so purchased,« said Durward, and easily made a
new bargain with the Marshal's men.
    This done, Hayraddin continued. - »Yes, I assure you I meant you well; and
Hameline would have proved an easy and convenient spouse. Why, she has
reconciled herself even with the Boar of Ardennes, though his mode of wooing was
somewhat of the roughest, and lords it yonder in his sty, as if she had fed on
mast-husks and acorns all her life.«
    »Cease this brutal and untimely jesting,« said Quentin, »or, once more I
tell you, I will leave you to your fate.«
    »You are right,« said Hayraddin, after a moment's pause; »what cannot be
postponed must be faced! - Well, know then, I came hither in this accursed
disguise, moved by a great reward from De la Marck, and hoping a yet mightier
one from King Louis, not merely to bear the message of defiance which you may
have heard of, but to tell the King an important secret.«
    »It was a fearful risk,« said Durward.
    »It was paid for as such, and such it hath proved,« answered the Bohemian.
»De la Marck attempted before to communicate with Louis by means of Marthon; but
she could not, it seems, approach nearer to him than the astrologer, to whom she
told all the passages of the journey, and of Schonwaldt; but it is a chance if
her tidings ever reach Louis, except in the shape of a prophecy. But hear my
secret, which is more important than aught she could tell. William de la Marck
has assembled a numerous and strong force within the city of Liege, and augments
it daily by means of the old priest's treasures. But he proposes not to hazard a
battle with the chivalry of Burgundy, and still less to stand a siege in the
dismantled town. This he will do - he will suffer the hot-brained Charles to sit
down before the place without opposition; and in the night make an outfall or
sally upon the leaguer with his whole force. Many he will have in French armour,
who will cry, France, Saint Louis, and Denis Montjoye, as if there were a strong
body of French auxiliaries in the city. This cannot choose but strike utter
confusion among the Burgundians; and if King Louis with his guards, attendants,
and such soldiers as he may have with him, shall second his efforts, the Boar of
Ardennes nothing doubts the discomfiture of the whole Burgundian army. There is
my secret, and I bequeath it to you. Forward, or prevent the enterprise - sell
the intelligence to King Louis, or to Duke Charles, I care not - save or destroy
whom thou wilt; for my part, I only grieve that I cannot spring it like a mine,
to the destruction of them all!«
    »It is indeed an important secret,« said Quentin, instantly comprehending
how easily the national jealousy might be awakened in a camp consisting partly
of French, partly of Burgundians.
    »Ay, so it is,« answered Hayraddin; »and, now you have it, you would fain
begone, and leave me without granting the boon for which I have paid
beforehand.«
    »Tell me thy request,« said Quentin - »I will grant it if it be in my
power.«
    »Nay, it is no mighty demand - it is only in behalf of poor Klepper, my
palfrey, the only living thing that may miss me. - A due mile south, you will
find him feeding by a deserted collier's hut; whistle to him thus,« - (he
whistled a peculiar note), »and call him by his name, Klepper, he will come to
you; here is his bridle under my gaberdine - it is lucky the hounds got it not,
for he obeys no other. Take him, and make much of him - I do not say for his
master's sake, - but because I have placed at your disposal the event of a
mighty war. He will never fail you at need - night and day, rough and smooth,
fair and foul, warm stables and the winter sky, are the same to Klepper; had I
cleared the gates of Peronne, and got so far as where I left him, I had not been
in this case. - Will you be kind to Klepper?«
    »I swear to you that I will,« answered Quentin, affected by what seemed a
trait of tenderness in a character so hardened.
    »Then fare thee well!« said the criminal - »Yet stay - stay - I would not
willingly die in discourtesy, forgetting a lady's commission. - This billet is
from the very gracious and extremely silly Lady of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, to
her black-eyed niece - I see by your look I have chosen a willing messenger. -
And one word more - I forgot to say that in the stuffing of my saddle you will
find a rich purse of gold pieces, for the sake of which I put my life on the
venture which has cost me so dear. Take them, and replace a hundred-fold the
guilders you have bestowed on these bloody slaves - I make you mine heir.«
    »I will bestow them in good works and masses for the benefit of thy soul,«
said Quentin.
    »Name not that word again,« said Hayraddin, his countenance assuming a
dreadful expression; »there is - there can be - there shall be - no such thing!
- it is a dream of priest-craft!«
    »Unhappy - most unhappy being! Think better! - let me speed for a priest -
these men will delay yet a little longer - I will bribe them to it,« said
Quentin - »What canst thou expect, dying in such opinions, and impenitent?«
    »To be resolved into the elements,« said the hardened atheist, pressing his
fettered arms against his bosom; »my hope, trust, and expectation is, that the
mysterious frame of humanity shall melt into the general mass of nature, to be
recompounded in the other forms with which she daily supplies those which daily
disappear, and return under different forms, - the watery particles to streams
and showers, the earthy parts to enrich their mother earth, the airy portions to
wanton in the breeze, and those of fire to supply the blaze of Aldeboran and his
brethren - In this faith have I lived, and I will die in it! - Hence! begone! -
disturb me no farther! - I have spoken the last word that mortal ears shall
listen to!«
    Deeply impressed with the horrors of his condition, Quentin Durward yet saw
that it was vain to hope to awaken him to a sense of his fearful state. He bade
him, therefore, farewell; to which the criminal only replied by a short and
sullen nod, as one who, plunged in reverie, bids adieu to company which
distracts his thoughts. He bent his course towards the forest, and easily found
where Klepper was feeding. The creature came at his call, but was for some time
unwilling to be caught, snuffing and starting when the stranger approached him.
At length, however, Quentin's general acquaintance with the habits of the
animal, and perhaps some particular knowledge of those of Klepper, which he had
often admired while Hayraddin and he travelled together, enabled him to take
possession of the Bohemian's dying bequest. Long ere he returned to Peronne, the
Bohemian had gone where the vanity of his dreadful creed was to be put to the
final issue - a fearful experience for one who had neither expressed remorse for
the past, nor apprehension for the future!
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Fifth

                              A Prize for Honour.

 'Tis brave for Beauty when the best blade wins her.
                                                             The Count Palatine.
 
When Quentin Durward reached Peronne, a council was sitting, in the issue of
which he was interested more deeply than he could have apprehended, and which,
though held by persons of a rank with whom one of his could scarce be supposed
to have community of interest, had nevertheless the most extraordinary influence
on his fortunes.
    King Louis, who, after the interlude of De la Marck's envoy, had omitted no
opportunity to cultivate the returning interest which that circumstance had
given him in the Duke's opinion, had been engaged in consulting him, or, it
might be almost said, receiving his opinion, upon the number and quality of the
troops, by whom, as auxiliary to the Duke of Burgundy, he was to be attended in
their joint expedition against Liege. He plainly saw the wish of Charles was to
call into his camp such Frenchmen as, from their small number and high quality,
might be considered rather as hostages than as auxiliaries; but, observant of
Crèvecoeur's advice, he assented as readily to whatever the Duke proposed, as if
it had arisen from the free impulse of his own mind.
    The King failed not, however, to indemnify himself for his complaisance, by
the indulgence of his vindictive temper against Balue, whose counsels had led
him to repose such exuberant trust in the Duke of Burgundy. Tristan, who bore
the summons for moving up his auxiliary forces, had the farther commission to
carry the Cardinal to the Castle of Loches, and there shut him up in one of
those iron cages which he himself is said to have invented.
    »Let him make proof of his own devices,« said the King; »he is a man of holy
church - we may not shed his blood; but, Pasques-dieu! his bishopric, for ten
years to come, shall have an impregnable frontier to make up for its small
extent! - And see the troops are brought up instantly.«
    Perhaps by this prompt acquiescence, Louis hoped to evade the more
unpleasing condition with which the Duke had clogged their reconciliation. But
if he so hoped, he greatly mistook the temper of his cousin; for never man lived
more tenacious of his purpose than Charles of Burgundy, and least of all was he
willing to relax any stipulation which he made in resentment, or revenge of a
supposed injury.
    No sooner were the necessary expresses despatched to summon up the forces
who were selected to act as auxiliaries, than Louis was called upon by his host
to give public consent to the espousals of the Duke of Orleans and Isabelle of
Croye. The King complied with a heavy sigh, and presently after urged a slight
expostulation, founded upon the necessity of observing the wishes of the Duke
himself.
    »These have not been neglected,« said the Duke of Burgundy; »Crèvecoeur hath
communicated with Monsieur d'Orleans, and finds him (strange to say) so dead to
the honour of wedding a royal bride, that he acceded to the proposal of marrying
the Countess of Croye as the kindest proposal which father could have made to
him.«
    »He is the more ungracious and thankless,« said Louis; »but the whole shall
be as you, my cousin, will; if you can bring it about with consent of the
parties themselves.«
    »Fear not that,« said the Duke; and accordingly, not many minutes after the
affair had been proposed, the Duke of Orleans and the Countess of Croye, the
latter attended, as on the preceding occasion, by the Countess of Crèvecoeur,
and the Abbess of the Ursulines, were summoned to the presence of the Princes,
and heard from the mouth of Charles of Burgundy, unobjected to by that of Louis,
who sat in silent and moody consciousness of diminished consequence, that the
union of their hands was designed by the wisdom of both Princes, to confirm the
perpetual alliance which in future should take place betwixt France and
Burgundy.
    The Duke of Orleans had much difficulty in suppressing the joy which he felt
upon the proposal, and which delicacy rendered improper in the presence of
Louis; and it required his habitual awe of that monarch to enable him to rein in
his delight, so much as merely to reply, »that his duty compelled him to place
his choice at the disposal of his Sovereign.«
    »Fair cousin of Orleans,« said Louis, with sullen gravity, »since I must
speak on so unpleasant an occasion, it is needless for me to remind you that my
sense of your merits had led me to propose for you a match into my own family.
But since my cousin of Burgundy thinks that the disposing of your hand otherwise
is the surest pledge of amity between his dominions and mine, I love both too
well not to sacrifice to them my own hopes and wishes.«
    The Duke of Orleans threw himself on his knees, and kissed, - and, for once,
with sincerity of attachment, - the hand which the King, with averted
countenance, extended to him. In fact he, as well as most present, saw, in the
unwilling acquiescence of this accomplished dissembler, who, even with that very
purpose, had suffered his reluctance to be visible, a King relinquishing his
favourite project, and subjugating his paternal feelings to the necessities of
state, and interest of his country. Even Burgundy was moved, and Orleans' heart
smote him for the joy which he involuntarily felt on being freed from his
engagement with the Princess Joan. If he had known how deeply the King was
cursing him in his soul, and what thoughts of future revenge he was agitating,
it is probable his own delicacy on the occasion would not have been so much
hurt.
    Charles next turned to the young Countess, and bluntly announced the
proposed match to her, as a matter which neither admitted delay nor hesitation;
adding, at the same time, that it was but a too favourable consequence of her
intractability on a former occasion.
    »My Lord Duke and Sovereign,« said Isabelle, summoning up all her courage,
»I observe your Grace's commands, and submit to them.«
    »Enough, enough,« said the Duke, interrupting her, »we will arrange the
rest. - Your Majesty,« he continued, addressing King Louis, »hath had a boar's
hunt in the morning, what say you to rousing a wolf in the afternoon?«
    The young Countess saw the necessity of decision. - »Your Grace mistakes my
meaning,« she said, speaking, though timidly, yet loudly and decidedly enough to
compel the Duke's attention, which, from some consciousness, he would otherwise
have willingly denied to her. - »My submission,« she said, »only respected those
lands and estates which your Grace's ancestors gave to mine, and which I resign
to the House of Burgundy, if my Sovereign thinks my disobedience in this matter
renders me unworthy to hold them.«
    »Ha! Saint George!« said the Duke, stamping furiously on the ground, »does
the fool know in what presence she is - and to whom she speaks?«
    »My lord,« she replied, still undismayed, »I am before my Suzerain, and, I
trust, a just one. If you deprive me of my lands, you take away all that your
ancestors' generosity gave, and you break the only bonds which attach us
together. You gave not this poor and persecuted form, still less the spirit
which animates me - And these it is my purpose to dedicate to Heaven in the
convent of the Ursulines, under the guidance of this Holy Mother Abbess.«
    The rage and astonishment of the Duke can hardly be conceived, unless we
could estimate the surprise of a falcon, against whom a dove should ruffle its
pinions in defiance. - »Will the Holy Mother receive you without an appanage?«
he said, in a voice of scorn.
    »If she doth her convent, in the first instance, so much wrong,« said the
Lady Isabelle, »I trust there is charity enough among the noble friends of my
house, to make up some support for the orphan of Croye.«
    »It is false!« said the Duke; »it is a base pretext to cover some secret and
unworthy passion. - My Lord of Orleans, she shall be yours, if I drag her to the
altar with my own hands!«
    The Countess of Crèvecoeur, a high-spirited woman, and confident in her
husband's merits and his favour with the Duke, could keep silent no longer. »My
lord,« she said, »your passions transport you into language utterly unworthy -
The hand of no gentlewoman can be disposed of by force.«
    »And it is no part of the duty of a Christian Prince,« added the Abbess, »to
thwart the wishes of a pious soul, who, broken with the cares and persecutions
of the world, is desirous to become the bride of Heaven.«
    »Neither can my cousin of Orleans,« said Dunois, »with honour accept a
proposal, to which the lady has thus publicly stated her objections.«
    »If I were permitted,« said Orleans, on whose facile mind Isabelle's beauty
had made a deep impression, »some time to endeavour to place my pretensions
before the Countess in a more favourable light« -
    »My lord,« said Isabelle, whose firmness was now fully supported by the
encouragement which she received from all around, »it were to no purpose - my
mind is made up to decline this alliance, though far above my deserts.«
    »Nor have I time,« said the Duke, »to wait till these whimsies are changed
with the next change of the moon. - Monseigneur d'Orleans, she shall learn
within this hour, that obedience becomes matter of necessity.«
    »Not in my behalf, Sire,« answered the Prince, who felt that he could not,
with any show of honour, avail himself of the Duke's obstinate disposition; »to
have been once openly and positively refused, is enough for a son of France. He
cannot prosecute his addresses farther.«
    The Duke darted one furious glance at Orleans, another at Louis; and reading
in the countenance of the latter, in spite of his utmost efforts to suppress his
feelings, a look of secret triumph, he became outrageous.
    »Write,« he said, to the Secretary, »our doom of forfeiture and imprisonment
against this disobedient and insolent minion. She shall to the Zuchthaus, to the
penitentiary, to herd with those whose lives have rendered them her rivals in
effrontery!«
    There was a general murmur.
    »My Lord Duke,« said the Count of Crèvecoeur, taking the word for the rest,
»this must be better thought on. We, your faithful vassals, cannot suffer such a
dishonour to the nobility and chivalry of Burgundy. If the Countess hath done
amiss, let her be punished - but in the manner that becomes her rank, and ours,
who stand connected with her house by blood and alliance.«
    The Duke paused a moment, and looked full at his councillor with the stare
of a bull which, when compelled by the neat-herd from the road which he wishes
to go, deliberates with himself whether to obey, or to rush on his driver, and
toss him into the air.
    Prudence, however, prevailed over fury - he saw the sentiment was general in
his council - was afraid of the advantages which Louis might derive from seeing
dissension among his vassals; and probably - for he was rather of a coarse and
violent, than of a malignant temper - felt ashamed of his own dishonourable
proposal.
    »You are right,« he said, »Crèvecoeur, and I spoke hastily. Her fate shall
be determined according to the rules of chivalry. Her flight to Liege hath given
the signal for the Bishop's murder. He that best avenges that deed, and brings
us the head of the Wild Boar of Ardennes, shall claim her hand of us; and if she
denies his right, we can at least grant him her fiefs, leaving it to his
generosity to allow her what means he will to retire into a convent.«
    »Nay!« said the Countess, »think I am the daughter of Count Reinold - of
your father's old, valiant, and faithful servant. Would you hold me out as a
prize to the best sword-player?«
    »Your ancestress,« said the Duke, »was won at a tourney - you shall be
fought for in real mêlée. Only thus far, for Count Reinold's sake, the
successful prizer shall be a gentleman of unimpeached birth, and unstained
bearings; but, be he such, and the poorest who ever drew the strap of a
sword-belt through the tongue of a buckle, he shall have at least the proffer of
your hand. I swear it, by St. George, by my ducal crown, and by the Order that I
wear! - Ha! Messires,« he added, turning to the nobles present, »this at least
is, I think, in conformity with the rules of chivalry?«
    Isabelle's remonstrances were drowned in a general and jubilant assent,
above which was heard the voice of old Lord Crawford, regretting the weight of
years that prevented his striking for so fair a prize. The Duke was gratified by
the general applause, and his temper began to flow more smoothly, like that of a
swollen river when it hath subsided within its natural boundaries.
    »Are we, to whom fate has given dames already,« said Crèvecoeur, »to be
bystanders at this fair game? It does not consist with my honour to be so, for I
have myself a vow to be paid at the expense of that tusked and bristled brute,
De la Marck.«
    »Strike boldly in, Crèvecoeur,« said the Duke; »win her, and since thou
canst not wear her thyself, bestow her where thou wilt - on Count Stephen, your
nephew, if you list.«
    »Gramercy, my lord!« said Crèvecoeur, »I will do my best in the battle; and,
should I be fortunate enough to be foremost, Stephen shall try his eloquence
against that of the Lady Abbess.«
    »I trust,« said Dunois, »that the chivalry of France are not excluded from
this fair contest?«
    »Heaven forbid! brave Dunois,« answered the Duke, »were it but for the sake
of seeing you do your uttermost. But,« he added, »though there be no fault in
the Lady Isabelle wedding a Frenchman, it will be necessary that the Count of
Croye must become a subject of Burgundy.«
    »Enough, enough,« said Dunois; »my bar sinister may never be surmounted by
the Coronet of Croye - I will live and die French. But yet, though I should lose
the lands, I will strike a blow for the lady.«
    Le Balafré dared not speak aloud in such a presence, but he muttered to
himself -
    »Now, Saunders Souplejaw, hold thine own! - thou always saidst the fortune
of our house was to be won by marriage, and never had you such a chance to keep
your word with us.«
    »No one thinks of me,« said Le Glorieux, »who am sure to carry off the prize
from all of you.«
    »Right, my sapient friend,« said Louis; »when a woman is in the case, the
greatest fool is ever the first in favour.«
    While the princes and their nobles thus jested over her fate, the Abbess and
the Countess of Crèvecoeur endeavoured in vain to console Isabelle, who had
withdrawn with them from the council-presence. The former assured her, that the
Holy Virgin would frown on every attempt to withdraw a true votaress from the
shrine of Saint Ursula; while the Countess of Crèvecoeur whispered more temporal
consolation, that no true knight, who might succeed in the emprise proposed,
would avail himself, against her inclinations, of the Duke's award; and that
perhaps the successful competitor might prove one who should find such favour in
her eyes as to reconcile her to obedience. Love, like despair, catches at
straws; and, faint and vague as was the hope which this insinuation conveyed,
the tears of the Countess Isabelle flowed more placidly while she dwelt upon it.
64
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Sixth

                                   The Sally.

 The wretch condemn'd with life to part
 Still, still on hope relies,
 And every pang that rends the heart
 Bids expectation rise.

 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
 Adorns and cheers the way;
 And still, the darker grows the night,
 Emits a brighter ray.
                                                                      Goldsmith.
 
Few days had passed ere Louis had received, with a smile of gratified vengeance,
the intelligence, that his favourite and his councillor, the Cardinal Balue, was
groaning within a cage of iron, so disposed as scarce to permit him to enjoy
repose in any posture except when recumbent; and of which, be it said in
passing, he remained the unpitied tenant for nearly twelve years. The auxiliary
forces which the Duke had required Louis to bring up had also appeared; and he
comforted himself that their numbers were sufficient to protect his person
against violence, although too limited to cope, had such been his purpose, with
the large army of Burgundy. He saw himself also at liberty, when time should
suit, to resume his project of marriage between his daughter and the Duke of
Orleans; and although he was sensible to the indignity of serving with his
noblest peers under the banners of his own vassal, and against the people whose
cause he had abetted, he did not allow these circumstances to embarrass him in
the meantime, trusting that a future day would bring him amends. - »For chance,«
said he to his trusty Oliver, »may indeed gain one hit, but it is patience and
wisdom which win the game at last.«
    With such sentiments, upon a beautiful day in the latter end of harvest, the
King mounted his horse; and, indifferent that he was looked upon rather as a
part of the pageant of a victor, than in the light of an independent Sovereign
surrounded by his guards and his chivalry, King Louis sallied from under the
Gothic gateway of Peronne, to join the Burgundian army, which commenced at the
same time its march against Liege.
    Most of the ladies of distinction who were in the place attended, dressed in
their best array, upon the battlements and defences of the gate, to see the
gallant show of the warriors setting forth on the expedition. Thither had the
Countess Crèvecoeur brought the Countess Isabelle. The latter attended very
reluctantly; but the peremptory order of Charles had been, that she who was to
bestow the palm in the tourney, should be visible to the knights who were about
to enter the lists.
    As they thronged out from under the arch, many a pennon and shield was to be
seen, graced with fresh devices, expressive of the bearer's devoted resolution
to become a competitor for a prize so fair. Here a charger was painted starting
for the goal - there an arrow aimed at a mark - one knight bore a bleeding
heart, indicative of his passion - another a skull and a coronet of laurels,
showing his determination to win or die. Many others there were; and some so
cunningly intricate and obscure, that they might have defied the most ingenious
interpreter. Each knight, too, it may be presumed, put his courser to his
mettle, and assumed his most gallant seat in the saddle, as he passed for a
moment under the view of the fair bevy of dames and damsels, who encouraged
their valour by their smiles, and the waving of kerchiefs and of veils. The
Archer Guard, selected almost at will from the flower of the Scottish nation,
drew general applause, from the gallantry and splendour of their appearance.
    And there was one among these strangers, who ventured on a demonstration of
acquaintance with the Lady Isabelle, which had not been attempted even by the
most noble of the French nobility. It was Quentin Durward, who, as he passed the
ladies in his rank, presented to the Countess of Croye, on the point of his
lance, the letter of her aunt.
    »Now, by my honour,« said the Count of Crèvecoeur, »that is over insolent in
an unworthy adventurer!«
    »Do not call him so, Crèvecoeur,« said Dunois; »I have good reason to bear
testimony to his gallantry - and in behalf of that lady, too.«
    »You make words of nothing,« said Isabelle, blushing with shame, and partly
with resentment; »it is a letter from my unfortunate aunt - She writes
cheerfully, though her situation must be dreadful.«
    »Let us hear, let us hear what says the Boar's bride,« said Crèvecoeur.
    The Countess Isabelle read the letter, in which her aunt seemed determined
to make the best of a bad bargain, and to console herself for the haste and
indecorum of her nuptials, by the happiness of being wedded to one of the
bravest men of the age, who had just acquired a princedom by his valour. She
implored her niece not to judge of her William (as she called him) by the report
of others, but to wait till she knew him personally. He had his faults, perhaps,
but they were such as belonged to characters whom she had ever venerated.
William was rather addicted to wine, but so was the gallant Sir Godfrey, her
grandsire; - he was something hasty and sanguinary in his temper, such had been
her brother Reinold of blessed memory; he was blunt in speech, few Germans were
otherwise; and a little wilful and peremptory, but she believed all men loved to
rule. More there was to the same purpose; and the whole concluded with the hope
and request, that Isabelle would, by means of the bearer, endeavour her escape
from the tyrant of Burgundy, and come to her loving kinswoman's Court of Liege,
where any little differences concerning their mutual rights of succession to the
Earldom might be adjusted by Isabelle's marrying Earl Eberson - a bridegroom
younger indeed than his bride, but that, as she (the Lady Hameline) might
perhaps say from experience, was an inequality more easy to be endured than
Isabelle could be aware of.65
    Here the Countess Isabelle stopped; the Abbess observing, with a prim
aspect, that she had read quite enough concerning such worldly vanities, and the
Count of Crèvecoeur breaking out, »Aroint thee, deceitful witch! - Why, this
device smells rank as the toasted cheese in a rat-trap - Now fie, and double
fie, upon the old decoy-duck!«
    The Countess of Crèvecoeur gravely rebuked her husband for his violence -
»The Lady Hameline,« she said, »must have been deceived by De la Marck with a
show of courtesy.«
    »He show courtesy!« said the Count - »I acquit him of all such
dissimulation. You may as well expect courtesy from a literal wild boar - you
may as well try to lay leaf-gold on old rusty gibbet-irons. No - idiot as she
is, she is not quite goose enough to fall in love with the fox who has snapped
her, and that in his very den. But you women are all alike - fair words carry it
- and, I dare say, here is my pretty cousin impatient to join her aunt in this
fool's paradise, and marry the Boar-Pig.«
    »So far from being capable of such folly,« said Isabelle, »I am doubly
desirous of vengeance on the murderers of the excellent Bishop, because it will,
at the same time, free my aunt from the villain's power.«
    »Ah! there indeed spoke the voice of Croye!« exclaimed the Count; and no
more was said concerning the letter.
    But while Isabelle read her aunt's epistle to her friends, it must be
observed that she did not think it necessary to recite a certain postscript, in
which the Countess Hameline, lady-like, gave an account of her occupations, and
informed her niece, that she had laid aside for the present a surcoat which she
was working for her husband, bearing the arms of Croye and La Marck in conjugal
fashion, parted per pale, because her William had determined, for purposes of
policy, in the first action to have others dressed in his coat-armour, and
himself to assume the arms of Orleans, with a bar sinister - in other words,
those of Dunois. There was also a slip of paper in another hand, the contents of
which the Countess did not think it necessary to mention, being simply these
words - »If you hear not of me soon, and that by the trumpet of Fame, conclude
me dead, but not unworthy.«
    A thought, hitherto repelled as wildly incredible, now glanced, with double
keenness, through Isabelle's soul. As female wit seldom fails in the contrivance
of means, she so ordered it, that ere the troops were fully on march, Quentin
Durward received from an unknown hand the billet of Lady Hameline, marked with
three crosses opposite to the postscript, and having these words subjoined: -
»He who feared not the arms of Orleans when on the breast of their gallant
owner, cannot dread them when displayed on that of a tyrant and murderer.« A
thousand thousand times was this intimation kissed and pressed to the bosom of
the young Scot! for it marshalled him on the path where both Honour and Love
held out the reward, and possessed him with a secret unknown to others, by which
to distinguish him whose death could alone give life to his hopes, and which he
prudently resolved to lock up in his own bosom.
    But Durward saw the necessity of acting otherwise respecting the information
communicated by Hayraddin, since the proposed sally of De la Marck, unless
heedfully guarded against, might prove the destruction of the besieging army; so
difficult was it, in the tumultuous warfare of those days, to recover from a
nocturnal surprise. After pondering on the matter, he formed the additional
resolution, that he would not communicate the intelligence save personally, and
to both the Princes while together; perhaps, because he felt that to mention so
well-contrived and hopeful a scheme to Louis whilst in private, might be too
strong a temptation to the wavering probity of that Monarch, and lead him to
assist, rather than repel, the intended sally. He determined, therefore, to
watch for an opportunity of revealing the secret whilst Louis and Charles were
met, which, as they were not particularly fond of the constraint imposed by each
other's society, was not likely soon to occur.
    Meanwhile the march continued, and the confederates soon entered the
territories of Liege. Here the Burgundian soldiers, at least a part of them,
composed of those bands who had acquired the title of Ecorcheurs, or flayers,
showed, by the usage which they gave the inhabitants, under pretext of avenging
the Bishop's death, that they well deserved that honourable title; while their
conduct greatly prejudiced the cause of Charles, the aggrieved inhabitants, who
might otherwise have been passive in the quarrel, assuming arms in self-defence,
harassing his march, by cutting off small parties, and falling back before the
main body upon the city itself, thus augmenting the numbers and desperation of
those who had resolved to defend it. The French, few in number, and those the
choice soldiers of the country, kept, according to the King's orders, close by
their respective standards, and observed the strictest discipline; a contrast
which increased the suspicions of Charles, who could not help remarking, that
the troops of Louis demeaned themselves as if they were rather friends to the
Liegeois, than allies of Burgundy.
    At length, without experiencing any serious opposition, the army arrived in
the rich valley of the Maes, and before the large and populous city of Liege.
The Castle of Schonwaldt they found had been totally destroyed, and learned that
William de la Marck, whose only talents were of a military cast, had withdrawn
his whole forces into the city, and was determined to avoid the encounter of the
chivalry of France and Burgundy in the open field. But the invaders were not
long of experiencing the danger which must always exist in attacking a large
town, however open, if the inhabitants are disposed to defend it desperately.
    A part of the Burgundian vanguard, conceiving that, from the dismantled and
breached state of the walls, they had nothing to do but to march into Liege at
their ease, entered one of the suburbs with the shouts of »Burgundy, Burgundy!
Kill, kill - all is ours - Remember Louis of Bourbon!« But as they marched in
disorder through the narrow streets, and were partly dispersed for the purpose
of pillage, a large body of the inhabitants issued suddenly from the town, fell
furiously upon them, and made considerable slaughter. De la Marck even availed
himself of the breaches in the walls, which permitted the defenders to issue out
at different points, and, by taking separate routes into the contested suburb,
to attack, in the front, flank, and rear, at once, the assailants, who, stunned
by the furious, unexpected, and multiplied nature of the resistance offered,
could hardly stand to their arms. The evening, which began to close, added to
their confusion.
    When this news was brought to Duke Charles, he was furious with rage, which
was not much appeased by the offer of King Louis, to send the French men-at-arms
into the suburbs, to rescue and bring off the Burgundian vanguard. Rejecting
this offer briefly, he would have put himself at the head of his own Guards, to
extricate those engaged in the incautious advance; but D'Hymbercourt and
Crèvecoeur entreated him to leave the service to them, and, marching into the
scene of action at two points, with more order and proper arrangement for mutual
support, these two celebrated captains succeeded in repulsing the Liegeois, and
in extricating the vanguard, who lost, besides prisoners, no fewer than eight
hundred men, of whom about a hundred were men-at-arms. The prisoners, however,
were not numerous, most of them having been rescued by D'Hymbercourt, who now
proceeded to occupy the contested suburb, and to place guards opposite to the
town, from which it was divided by an open space, or esplanade, of five or six
hundred yards, left free of buildings for the purposes of defence. There was no
moat betwixt the suburb and town, the ground being rocky in that place. A gate
fronted the suburb, from which sallies might be easily made, and the wall was
pierced by two or three of those breaches which Duke Charles had caused to be
made after the battle of Saint Tron, and which had been hastily repaired with
mere barricades of timber. D'Hymbercourt turned two culverins on the gate, and
placed two others opposite to the principal breach, to repel any sally from the
city, and then returned to the Burgundian army, which he found in great
disorder.
    In fact, the main body and rear of the numerous army of the Duke had
continued to advance, while the broken and repulsed vanguard was in the act of
retreating; and they had come into collision with each other, to the great
confusion of both. The necessary absence of D'Hymbercourt, who discharged all
the duties of Maréchal du Camp, or, as we should now say, of
Quarter-master-general, augmented the disorder; and to complete the whole, the
night sank down dark as a wolf's mouth: there fell a thick and heavy rain, and
the ground, on which the beleaguering army must needs take up their position,
was muddy and intersected with many canals. It is scarce possible to form an
idea of the confusion which prevailed in the Burgundian army, where leaders were
separated from their soldiers, and soldiers from their standards and officers.
Every one, from the highest to the lowest, was seeking shelter and accommodation
where he could individually find it; while the wearied and wounded, who had been
engaged in the battle, were calling in vain for shelter and refreshment; and
while those who knew nothing of the disaster were pressing on to have their
share in the sack of the place, which they had no doubt was proceeding merrily.
    When D'Hymbercourt returned, he had a task to perform of incredible
difficulty, and imbittered by the reproaches of his master, who made no
allowance for the still more necessary duty in which he had been engaged, until
the temper of the gallant soldier began to give way under the Duke's
unreasonable reproaches. - »I went hence to restore some order in the van,« he
said, »and left the main body under your Grace's own guidance; and now, on my
return, I can neither find that we have front, flank, nor rear, so utter is the
confusion.«
    »We are the more like a barrel of herrings,« answered Le Glorieux, »which is
the most natural resemblance for a Flemish army.«
    The jester's speech made the Duke laugh, and perhaps prevented a farther
prosecution of the altercation betwixt him and his general.
    By dint of great exertion, a small lust-haus, or country villa of some
wealthy citizen of Liege, was secured and cleared of other occupants, for the
accommodation of the Duke and his immediate attendants; and the authority of
D'Hymbercourt and Crèvecoeur at length established a guard in the vicinity, of
about forty men-at-arms, who lighted a very large fire, made with the timber of
the out-houses, which they pulled down for the purpose.
    A little to the left of this villa, and betwixt it and the suburb, which, as
we have said, was opposite to the city-gate, and occupied by the Burgundian
vanguard, lay another pleasure-house, surrounded by a garden and courtyard, and
having two or three small enclosures or fields in the rear of it. In this the
King of France established his own head-quarters. He did not himself pretend to
be a soldier further than a natural indifference to danger and much sagacity
qualified him to be called such; but he was always careful to employ the most
skilful in that profession, and reposed in them the confidence they merited.
Louis and his immediate attendants occupied this second villa; a part of his
Scottish Guard were placed in the court, where there were out-houses and sheds
to shelter them from the weather; the rest were stationed in the garden. The
remainder of the French men-at-arms were quartered closely together and in good
order, with alarm-posts stationed, in case of their having to sustain an attack.
    Dunois and Crawford, assisted by several old officers and soldiers, amongst
whom Le Balafré was conspicuous for his diligence, contrived, by breaking down
walls, making openings through hedges, filling up ditches, and the like, to
facilitate the communication of the troops with each other, and the orderly
combination of the whole in case of necessity.
    Meanwhile, the King judged it proper to go without farther ceremony to the
quarters of the Duke of Burgundy, to ascertain what was to be the order of
proceeding, and what co-operation was expected from him. His presence occasioned
a sort of council of war to be held, of which Charles might not otherwise have
dreamed.
    It was then that Quentin Durward prayed earnestly to be admitted, as having
something of importance to deliver to the two Princes. This was obtained without
much difficulty, and great was the astonishment of Louis, when he heard him
calmly and distinctly relate the purpose of William de la Marck to make a sally
upon the camp of the besiegers, under the dress and banners of the French. Louis
would probably have been much better pleased to have had such important news
communicated in private; but as the whole story had been publicly told in
presence of the Duke of Burgundy, he only observed, »that, whether true or
false, such a report concerned them most materially.«
    »Not a whit! - not a whit!« - said the Duke, carelessly. »Had there been
such a purpose as this young man announces, it had not been communicated to me
by an Archer of the Scottish Guard.«
    »However that may be,« answered Louis, »I pray you, fair cousin, you and
your captains, to attend, that to prevent the unpleasing consequences of such an
attack, should it be made unexpectedly, I will cause my soldiers to wear white
scarfs over their armour - Dunois, see it given out on the instant - that is,«
he added, »if our brother and general approves of it.«
    »I see no objection,« replied the Duke, »if the chivalry of France are
willing to run the risk of having the name of the Knights of the Smock-sleeve
bestowed on them in future.«
    »It would be a right well adapted title, friend Charles,« said Le Glorieux,
»considering that a woman is the reward of the most valiant.«
    »Well spoken, Sagacity,« said Louis - »Cousin, good-night, I will go arm me.
- By the way, what if I win the Countess with mine own hand?«
    »Your Majesty,« said the Duke, in an altered tone of voice, »must then
become a true Fleming.«
    »I cannot,« answered Louis, in a tone of the most sincere confidence, »be
more so than I am already, could I but bring you, my dear cousin, to believe
it.«
    The Duke only replied by wishing the King good-night, in a tone resembling
the snort of a shy horse, starting from the caress of the rider when he is about
to mount, and is soothing him to stand still.
    »I could pardon all his duplicity,« said the Duke to Crèvecoeur, »but cannot
forgive his supposing me capable of the gross folly of being duped by his
professions.«
    Louis, too, had his conferences with Oliver le Dain, when he returned to his
own quarters. - »This Scot,« he said, »is such a mixture of shrewdness and
simplicity, that I know not what to make of him. Pasques-dieu! think of his
unpardonable folly in bringing out honest De la Marck's plan of a sally before
the face of Burgundy, Crèvecoeur, and all of them, instead of rounding it in my
ear, and giving me at least the choice of abetting or defeating it!«
    »It is better as it is, Sire,« said Oliver; »there are many in your present
train who would scruple to assail Burgundy undefied, or to ally themselves with
De la Marck.«
    »Thou art right, Oliver. Such fools there are in the world, and we have no
time to reconcile their scruples by a little dose of self-interest. We must be
true men, Oliver, and good allies of Burgundy, for this night at least - time
may give us a chance of better game. Go, tell no man to unarm himself; and let
them shoot, in case of necessity, as sharply on those who cry France and St.
Denis! as if they cried Hell and Satan! I will myself sleep in my armour. Let
Crawford place Quentin Durward on the extreme point of our line of sentinels,
next to the city. Let him e'en have the first benefit of the sally which he has
announced to us - if his luck bear him out, it is the better for him. But take
an especial care of Martius Galeotti, and see he remain in the rear, in a place
of the most absolute safety - he is even but too venturous; and, like a fool,
would be both swordsman and philosopher. See to these things, Oliver, and
good-night - Our Lady of Clery, and Monseigneur St. Martin of Tours, be gracious
to my slumbers!«66
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Seventh

                                   The Sally.

 He look'd, and saw what numbers numberless
 The city-gates out-pour'd.
                                                              Paradise Regained.
 
A dead silence soon reigned over that great host which lay in leaguer before
Liege. For a long time the cries of the soldiers repeating their signals, and
seeking to join their several banners, sounded like the howling of bewildered
dogs seeking their masters. But at length, overcome with weariness by the
fatigues of the day, the dispersed soldiers crowded under such shelter as they
could meet with, and those who could find none sunk down through very fatigue
under walls, hedges, and such temporary protection, there to await the morning -
a morning which some of them were never to behold. A dead sleep fell on almost
all, excepting those who kept a faint and weary watch by the lodgings of the
King and the Duke. The dangers and hopes of the morrow - even the schemes of
glory which many of the young nobility had founded upon the splendid prize held
out to him who should avenge the murdered Bishop of Liege - glided from their
recollection as they lay stupefied with fatigue and sleep. But not so with
Quentin Durward. The knowledge that he alone was possessed of the means of
distinguishing La Marck in the contest - the recollection by whom that
information had been communicated, and the fair augury which might be drawn from
her conveying it to him - the thought that his fortune had brought him to a most
perilous and doubtful crisis indeed, but one where there was still, at least, a
chance of his coming off triumphant, - banished every desire to sleep, and
strung his nerves with vigour, which defied fatigue.
    Posted, by the King's express order, on the extreme point between the French
quarters and the town, a good way to the right of the suburb which we have
mentioned, he sharpened his eye to penetrate the mass which lay before him, and
excited his ears, to catch the slightest sound which might announce any
commotion in the beleaguered city. But its huge clocks had successively knelled
three hours after midnight, and all continued still and silent as the grave.
    At length, and just when Quentin began to think the attack would be deferred
till day-break, and joyfully recollected that there would be then light enough
to descry the Bar Sinister across the Fleur-de-lis of Orleans, he thought he
heard in the city a humming murmur, like that of disturbed bees mustering for
the defence of their hives. He listened - the noise continued; but it was of a
character so undistinguished by any peculiar or precise sound, that it might be
the murmur of a wind arising among the boughs of a distant grove, or perhaps
some stream, swollen by the late rain, which was discharging itself into the
sluggish Maes with more than usual clamour. Quentin was prevented by these
considerations from instantly giving the alarm, which, if done carelessly, would
have been a heavy offence.
    But, when the noise rose louder, and seemed pouring at the same time towards
his own post, and towards the suburb, he deemed it his duty to fall back as
silently as possible, and call his uncle, who commanded the small body of
Archers destined to his support. All were on their feet in a moment, and with as
little noise as possible. In less than a second Lord Crawford was at their head,
and, despatching an archer to alarm the King and his household, drew back his
little party to some distance behind their watchfire, that they might not be
seen by its light. The rushing sound, which had approached them more nearly,
seemed suddenly to have ceased; but they still heard distinctly the more distant
heavy tread of a large body of men approaching the suburb. »The lazy Burgundians
are asleep on their post,« whispered Crawford; »make for the suburb, Cunningham,
and awaken the stupid oxen.«
    »Keep well to the rear as you go,« said Durward; »if ever I heard the tread
of mortal men, there is a strong body interposed between us and the suburb.«
    »Well said, Quentin, my dainty callant,« said Crawford; »thou art a soldier
beyond thy years. They only made halt till the others come forward. - I would I
had some knowledge where they are!«
    »I will creep forward, my lord,« said Quentin, »and endeavour to bring you
information.«
    »Do so, my bonny chield; thou hast sharp ears and eyes, and good-will - but
take heed - I would not lose thee for two and a plack.«67
    Quentin, with his harquebuss ready prepared, stole forward, through ground
which he had reconnoitred carefully in the twilight of the preceding evening,
until he was not only certain that he was in the neighbourhood of a very large
body of men, who were standing fast betwixt the King's quarters and the suburbs,
but also that there was a detached party of smaller number in advance, and very
close to him. They seemed to whisper together, as if uncertain what to do next.
At last the step of two or three Enfans perdus, detached from that smaller
party, approached him so near as twice a pike's length. Seeing it impossible to
retreat undiscovered, Quentin called out aloud, »Qui vive?« and was answered by
»Vive Li - Li - ege - c'est-à-dire« (added he who spoke, correcting himself),
»Vive la France!« - Quentin instantly fired his harquebuss - a man groaned and
fell, and he himself, under the instant but vague discharge of a number of
pieces, the fire of which ran in a disorderly manner along the column, and
showed it to be very numerous, hastened back to the main guard.
    »Admirably done, my brave boy!« said Crawford. - »Now, callants, draw in
within the courtyard - they are too many to mell with in the open field.«
    They drew within the courtyard and garden accordingly, where they found all
in great order, and the King prepared to mount his horse.
    »Whither away, Sire?« said Crawford; »you are safest here with your own
people.«
    »Not so,« said Louis, »I must instantly to the Duke. He must be convinced of
our good faith at this critical moment, or we shall have both Liegeois and
Burgundians upon us at once.« And, springing on his horse, he bade Dunois
command the French troops without the house, and Crawford the Archer-Guard and
other household troops to defend the lust-haus and its enclosures. He commanded
them to bring up two sakers, and as many falconets (pieces of cannon for the
field), which had been left about half-a-mile in the rear; and, in the meantime,
to make good their post, but by no means to advance, whatever success they might
obtain; and having given these orders, he rode off, with a small escort, to the
Duke's quarters.
    The delay which permitted these arrangements to be carried fully into effect
was owing to Quentin's having fortunately shot the proprietor of the house, who
acted as guide to the column which was designed to attack it, and whose attack,
had it been made instantly, might have had a chance of being successful.
    Durward, who, by the King's order, attended him to the Duke's, found the
latter in a state of choleric distemperature, which almost prevented his
discharging the duties of a general, which were never more necessary; for,
besides the noise of a close and furious combat which had now taken place in the
suburb upon the left of their whole army, - besides the attack upon the King's
quarters, which was fiercely maintained in the centre, - a third column of
Liegeois, of even superior numbers, had filed out from a more distant breach,
and, marching by lanes, vineyards, and passes known to themselves, had fallen
upon the right flank of the Burgundian army, who, alarmed at their war-cries of
Vive la France! and Denis Montjoie! which mingled with those of Liege and Rouge
Sanglier, and at the idea, thus inspired, of treachery on the part of the French
confederates, made a very desultory and imperfect resistance; while the Duke,
foaming, and swearing, and cursing his liege Lord and all that belonged to him,
called out to shoot with bow and gun on all that was French, whether black or
white, - alluding to the sleeves with which Louis's soldiers had designated
themselves.
    The arrival of the King, attended only by Le Balafré and Quentin, and
half-a-score of archers, restored confidence between France and Burgundy.
D'Hymbercourt, Crèvecoeur, and others of the Burgundian leaders, whose names
were then the praise and dread of war, rushed devotedly into the conflict; and,
while some commanders hastened to bring up more distant troops, to whom the
panic had not extended, others threw themselves into the tumult, re-animated the
instinct of discipline, and while the Duke toiled in the front, shouting,
hacking, and hewing, like an ordinary man-at-arms, brought their men by degrees
into array, and dismayed the assailants by the use of their artillery. The
conduct of Louis, on the other hand, was that of a calm, collected, sagacious
leader, who neither sought not avoided danger, but showed so much
self-possession and sagacity that the Burgundian leaders readily obeyed the
orders which he issued.
    The scene was now become in the utmost degree animated and horrible. On the
left the suburb, after a fierce contest, had been set on fire, and a wide and
dreadful conflagration did not prevent the burning ruins from being still
disputed. On the centre, the French troops, though pressed by immense odds, kept
up so close and constant a fire, that the little pleasure-house shone bright
with the glancing flashes, as if surrounded with a martyr's crown of flames. On
the left, the battle swayed backwards and forwards, with varied success, as
fresh reinforcements poured out of the town, or were brought forward from the
rear of the Burgundian host; and the strife continued with unremitting fury for
three mortal hours, which at length brought the dawn, so much desired by the
besiegers. The enemy, at this period, seemed to be slackening their efforts upon
the right and in the centre, and several discharges of cannon were heard from
the lust-haus.
    »Go,« said the King to Le Balafré and Quentin, the instant his ear had
caught the sound; »they have got up the sakers and falconets - the
pleasure-house is safe, blessed be the Holy Virgin! - Tell Dunois to move this
way, but rather nearer the walls of Liege, with all our men-at-arms, excepting
what he may leave for the defence of the house, and cut in between those
thick-headed Liegeois on the right and the city, from which they are supplied
with recruits.«
    The uncle and nephew galloped off to Dunois and Crawford, who, tired of
their defensive war, joyfully obeyed the summons, and, filing out at the head of
a gallant body of about two hundred French gentlemen, besides squires, and the
greater part of the Archers and their followers, marched across the field,
trampling down the wounded, until they gained the flank of the large body of
Liegeois, by whom the right of the Burgundians had been so fiercely assailed.
The increasing daylight discovered that the enemy were continuing to pour out
from the city, either for the purpose of continuing the battle on that point, or
of bringing safely off the forces who were already engaged.
    »By Heaven!« said old Crawford to Dunois, »were I not certain it is thou
that art riding by my side, I would say I saw thee among yonder banditti and
burghers, marshalling and arraying them with thy mace - only, if yon be thou,
thou art bigger than thou art wont to be. Art thou sure yonder armed leader is
not thy wraith, thy doubleman, as these Flemings call it?«
    »My wraith!« said Dunois; »I know not what you mean. But yonder is a caitiff
with my bearings displayed on crest and shield, whom I will presently punish for
his insolence.«
    »In the name of all that is noble, my lord, leave the vengeance to me!« said
Quentin.
    »To thee, indeed, young man!« said Dunois; »that is a modest request - No -
these things brook no substitution.« - Then turning on his saddle, he called out
to those around him, »Gentlemen of France, form your line, level your lances!
Let the rising sunbeams shine through the battalions of yonder swine of Liege
and hogs of Ardennes, that masquerade in our ancient coats.«
    The men-at-arms answered with a loud shout of »A Dunois! a Dunois! - Long
live the bold Bastard! - Orleans to the rescue!« - And, with their leader in the
centre, they charged at full gallop. They encountered no timid enemy. The large
body which they charged, consisted (excepting some mounted officers) entirely of
infantry, who, setting the butt of their lances against their feet, the front
rank kneeling, the second stooping, and those behind presenting their spears
over their heads, offered such resistance to the rapid charge of the men-at-arms
as the hedgehog presents to his enemy. Few were able to make way through that
iron wall; but of those few was Dunois, who, giving spur to his horse, and
making the noble animal leap more than twelve feet at a bound, fairly broke his
way into the middle of the phalanx, and made toward the object of his animosity.
What was his surprise to find Quentin still by his side, and fighting in the
same front with himself - youth, desperate courage, and the determination to do
or die, having still kept the youth abreast with the best knight in Europe; for
such was Dunois reported, and truly reported, at the period.
    Their spears were soon broken; but the lanzknechts were unable to withstand
the blows of their long heavy swords; while the horses and riders, armed in
complete steel, sustained little injury from their lances. Still Dunois and
Durward were contending with rival efforts to burst forward to the spot where he
who had usurped the armorial bearings of Dunois was doing the duty of a good and
valiant leader, when Dunois, observing the boar's head and tusks - the usual
bearing of William de la Marck - in another part of the conflict, called out to
Quentin, »Thou art worthy to avenge the arms of Orleans! I leave thee the task.
- Balafré, support your nephew; but let none dare to interfere with Dunois'
boar-hunt!«
    That Quentin Durward joyfully acquiesced in this division of labour cannot
be doubted, and each pressed forward upon his separate object, followed, and
defended from behind, by such men-at-arms as were able to keep up with them.
    But at this moment the column which De la Marck had proposed to support,
when his own course was arrested by the charge of Dunois, had lost all the
advantages they had gained during the night; while the Burgundians, with
returning day, had begun to show the qualities which belong to superior
discipline. The great mass of Liegeois were compelled to retreat, and at length
to fly; and, falling back on those who were engaged with the French men-at-arms,
the whole became a confused tide of fighters, fliers, and pursuers, which rolled
itself towards the city walls, and at last was poured into the ample and
undefended breach through which the Liegeois had sallied.
    Quentin made more than human exertions to overtake the special object of his
pursuit, who was still in his sight, striving, by voice and example, to renew
the battle, and bravely supported by a chosen party of lanzknechts. Le Balafré,
and several of his comrades, attached themselves to Quentin, much marvelling at
the extraordinary gallantry displayed by so young a soldier. On the very brink
of the breach, De la Marck - for it was himself - succeeded in effecting a
momentary stand, and repelling some of the most forward of the pursuers. He had
a mace of iron in his hand, before which everything seemed to go down, and was
so much covered with blood, that it was almost impossible to discern those
bearings on his shield which had so much incensed Dunois.
    Quentin now found little difficulty in singling him out; for the commanding
situation of which he had possessed himself, and the use he made of his terrible
mace, caused many of the assailants to seek safer points of attack than that
where so desperate a defender presented himself. But Quentin, to whom the
importance attached to victory over this formidable antagonist was better known,
sprung from his horse at the bottom of the breach, and letting the noble animal,
the gift of the Duke of Orleans, run loose through the tumult, ascended the
ruins to measure swords with the Boar of Ardennes. The latter, as if he had seen
his intention, turned towards Durward with mace uplifted; and they were on the
point of encounter, when a dreadful shout of triumph, of tumult, and of despair,
announced that the besiegers were entering the city at another point, and in the
rear of those who defended the breach. Assembling around him, by voice and
bugle, the desperate partners of his desperate fortune, De la Marck, at those
appalling sounds, abandoned the breach, and endeavoured to effect his retreat
towards a part of the city from which he might escape to the other side of the
Maes. His immediate followers formed a deep body of well-disciplined men, who,
never having given quarter, were resolved now not to ask it, and who, in that
hour of despair, threw themselves into such firm order, that their front
occupied the whole breadth of the street through which they slowly retired,
making head from time to time, and checking the pursuers, many of whom began to
seek a safer occupation, by breaking into the houses for plunder. It is
therefore probable that De la Marck might have effected his escape, his disguise
concealing him from those who promised themselves to win honour and grandeur
upon his head, but for the stanch pursuit of Quentin, his uncle Le Balafré, and
some of his comrades. At every pause which was made by the lanzknechts, a
furious combat took place betwixt them and the Archers, and in every mêlée
Quentin sought De la Marck; but the latter, whose present object was to retreat,
seemed to evade the young Scot's purpose of bringing him to single combat. The
confusion was general in every direction. The shrieks and cries of women, the
yelling of the terrified inhabitants, now subjected to the extremity of military
license, sounded horribly shrill amid the shouts of battle, - like the voice of
misery and despair contending with that of fury and violence, which should be
heard farthest and loudest.
    It was just when De la Marck, retiring through this infernal scene, had
passed the door of a small chapel of peculiar sanctity, that the shouts of
»France! France! - Burgundy! Burgundy!« apprised him that a part of the
besiegers were entering the farther end of the street, which was a narrow one,
and that his retreat was cut off. - »Conrade,« he said, »take all the men with
you - Charge yonder fellows roundly, and break through if you can - with me it
is over. I am man enough, now that I am brought to bay, to send some of these
vagabond Scots to hell before me.«
    His lieutenant obeyed, and, with most of the few lanzknechts who remained
alive, hurried to the farther end of the street, for the purpose of charging
those Burgundians who were advancing, and so forcing their way, so as to escape.
About six of De la Marck's best men remained to perish with their master, and
fronted the Archers, who were not many more in number. - »Sanglier! Sanglier!
Hola! gentlemen of Scotland,« said the ruffian but undaunted chief, waving his
mace, »who longs to gain a coronet, - who strikes at the Boar of Ardennes? -
You, young man, have, methinks, a hankering; but you must win ere you wear it.«
    Quentin heard but imperfectly the words, which were partly lost in the
hollow helmet; but the action could not be mistaken, and he had but time to bid
his uncle and comrades, as they were gentlemen, to stand back, when De la Marck
sprung upon him with a bound like a tiger, aiming at the same time a blow with
his mace, so as to make his hand and foot keep time together, and giving his
stroke full advantage of the descent of his leap; but, light of foot and quick
of eye, Quentin leaped aside, and disappointed an aim which would have been
fatal had it taken effect.
    They then closed, like the wolf and the wolf-dog, their comrades on either
side remaining inactive spectators, for Le Balafré roared out for fair play,
adding, »that he would venture his nephew on him were he as wight as Wallace.«
    Neither was the experienced soldier's confidence unjustified; for, although
the blows of the despairing robber fell like those of the hammer on the anvil,
yet the quick motions, and dexterous swordmanship, of the young Archer, enabled
him to escape, and to requite them with the point of his less noisy, though more
fatal weapon; and that so often and so effectually, that the huge strength of
his antagonist began to give way to fatigue, while the ground on which he stood
became a puddle of blood. Yet, still unabated in courage and ire, the wild Boar
of Ardennes fought on with as much mental energy as at first, and Quentin's
victory seemed dubious and distant, when a female voice behind him called him by
his name, ejaculating, »Help! help! for the sake of the blessed Virgin!«
    He turned his head, and with a single glance beheld Gertrude Pavilion, her
mantle stripped from her shoulders, dragged forcibly along by a French soldier;
one of several, who, breaking into the chapel close by, had seized, as their
prey, on the terrified females who had taken refuge there.
    »Wait for me but one moment,« exclaimed Quentin to De la Marck, and sprung
to extricate his benefactress from a situation of which he conjectured all the
dangers.
    »I wait no man's pleasure,« said De la Marck, flourishing his mace, and
beginning to retreat - glad, no doubt, at being free of so formidable an
assailant.
    »You shall wait mine, though, by your leave,« said Balafré; »I will not have
my nephew baulked.« - So saying, he instantly assaulted De la Marck with his
two-handed sword.
    Quentin found, in the meanwhile, that the rescue of Gertrude was a task more
difficult than could be finished in one moment. Her captor, supported by his
comrades, refused to relinquish his prize; and whilst Durward, aided by one or
two of his countrymen, endeavoured to compel him to do so, the former beheld the
chance which Fortune had so kindly afforded him for fortune and happiness, glide
out of his reach; so that, when he stood at length in the street with the
liberated Gertrude, there was no one near them. Totally forgetting the
defenceless situation of his companion, he was about to spring away in pursuit
of the Boar of Ardennes, as the greyhound tracks the deer, when, clinging to him
in her despair, she exclaimed, »For the sake of your mother's honour, leave me
not here! - As you are a gentleman, protect me to my father's house, which once
sheltered you and the Lady Isabelle! - For her sake, leave me not!«
    Her call was agonising, but it was irresistible; and bidding a mental adieu,
with unutterable bitterness of feeling, to all the gay hopes which had
stimulated his exertion, carried him through that bloody day, and which at one
moment seemed to approach consummation, Quentin, like an unwilling spirit, who
obeys a talisman which he cannot resist, protected Gertrude to Pavilion's house,
and arrived in time to defend that and the Syndic himself against the fury of
the licentious soldiery.
    Meantime, the King and the Duke of Burgundy entered the city on horseback,
and through one of the breaches. They were both in complete armour, but the
latter, covered with blood from the plume to the spur, drove his steed furiously
up the breach, which Louis surmounted with the stately pace of one who leads a
procession. They despatched orders to stop the sack of the city, which had
already commenced, and to assemble their scattered troops. The Princes
themselves proceeded towards the great church, both for the protection of many
of the distinguished inhabitants, who had taken refuge there, and in order to
hold a sort of military council after they had heard High Mass.
    Busied, like other officers of his rank, in collecting those under his
command, Lord Crawford, at the turning of one of the streets which leads to the
Maes, met Le Balafré sauntering composedly towards the river, holding in his
hand, by the gory locks, a human head, with as much indifference as a fowler
carries a game-pouch.
    »How now, Ludovic!« said his commander; »what are ye doing with that
carrion?«
    »It is all that is left of a bit of work which my nephew shaped out, and
nearly finished, and I put the last hand to,« said Le Balafré - »a good fellow
that I despatched yonder, and who prayed me to throw his head into the Maes -
Men have queer fancies when old Small-Back68 is griping them; but Small-Back
must lead down the dance with us all in our time.«
    »And you are going to throw that head into the Maes?« said Crawford, looking
more attentively on the ghastly memorial of mortality.
    »Ay, truly am I,« said Ludovic Lesly. »If you refuse a dying man his boon,
you are likely to be haunted by his ghost, and I love to sleep sound at nights.«
    »You must take your chance of the ghost, man,« said Crawford; »for, by my
soul, there is more lies on that dead pow than you think for. Come along with me
- not a word more - Come along with me.«
    »Nay, for that matter,« said Le Balafré, »I made him no promise; for, in
truth, I had off his head before the tongue had well done wagging; and as I
feared him not living, by Saint Martin of Tours, I fear him as little when he is
dead. Besides, my little gossip, the merry Friar of Saint Martin's, will lend me
a pot of holy water.«
    When High Mass had been said at the Cathedral Church of Liege, and the
terrified town was restored to some moderate degree of order, Louis and Charles,
with their peers around, proceeded to hear the claims of those who had any to
make for services performed during the battle. Those which respected the County
of Croye and its fair mistress were first received, and to the disappointment of
sundry claimants, who had thought themselves sure of the rich prize, there
seemed doubt and mystery to involve their several pretensions. Crèvecoeur showed
a boar's hide, such as De la Marck usually wore; Dunois produced a cloven
shield, with his armorial bearings; and there were others, who claimed the merit
of having despatched the murderer of the Bishop, producing similar tokens - the
rich reward fixed on De la Marck's head having brought death to all who were
armed in his resemblance.
    There was much noise and contest among the competitors, and Charles,
internally regretting the rash promise which had placed the hand and wealth of
his fair vassal on such a hazard, was in hopes he might find means of evading
all these conflicting claims, when Crawford pressed forward into the circle,
dragging Le Balafré after him, who, awkward and bashful, followed like an
unwilling mastiff towed in a leash, as his leader exclaimed - »Away with your
hoofs and hides, and painted iron! - No one, save he who slew the Boar, can show
the tusks!«
    So saying, he flung on the floor the bloody head, easily known as that of De
la Marck, by the singular conformation of the jaws, which in reality had a
certain resemblance to those of the animal whose name he bore, and which was
instantly recognised by all who had seen him.69
    »Crawford,« said Louis, while Charles sat silent, in gloomy and displeased
surprise, »I trust it is one of my faithful Scots who has won this prize?«
    »It is Ludovic Lesly, Sire, whom we call Le Balafré,« replied the old
soldier.
    »But is he noble?« said the Duke; »is he of gentle blood? - otherwise our
promise is void.«
    »He is a cross ungainly piece of wood enough,« said Crawford, looking at the
tall, awkward, embarrassed figure of the Archer; »but I will warrant him a
branch of the tree of Rothes for all that - and they have been as noble as any
house in France or Burgundy, ever since it is told of their founder, that,
 
Between the less-lee70 and the mair,
He slew the Knight, and left him there.«
 
»There is then no help for it,« said the Duke, »and the fairest and richest
heiress in Burgundy must be the wife of a rude mercenary soldier like this, or
die secluded in a convent - and she the only child of our faithful Reginald de
Croye! - I have been too rash.« And a cloud settled on his brow, to the surprise
of his peers, who seldom saw him evince the slightest token of regret for the
necessary consequences of an adopted resolution.
    »Hold but an instant,« said the Lord Crawford; »it may be better than your
Grace conjectures. Hear but what this cavalier has to say. - Speak out, man, and
a murrain to thee,« he added, apart to Le Balafré.
    But that blunt soldier, though he could make a shift to express himself
intelligibly enough to King Louis, to whose familiarity he was habituated, yet
found himself incapable of enunciating his resolution before so splendid an
assembly as that before which he then stood; and after having turned his
shoulder to the Princes, and preluded with a hoarse chuckling laugh, and two or
three tremendous contortions of countenance, he was only able to pronounce the
words, »Saunders Souplejaw« - and then stuck fast.
    »May it please your Majesty and your Grace,« said Crawford, »I must speak
for my countryman and old comrade. You shall understand that he has had it
prophesied to him by a Seer in his own land, that the fortune of his house is to
be made by marriage; but as he is, like myself, something the worse for the wear
- loves the wine-house better than a lady's summer-parlour, and, in short,
having some barrack tastes and likings, which would make greatness in his own
person rather an encumbrance to him, he hath acted by my advice, and resigns the
pretensions acquired by the fate of slaying William de la Marck, to him by whom
the Wild Boar was actually brought to bay, who is his maternal nephew.«
    »I will vouch for that youth's services and prudence,« said King Louis,
overjoyed to see that fate had thrown so gallant a prize to one over whom he had
some influence. »Without his prudence and vigilance we had been ruined - It was
he who made us aware of the night-sally.«
    »I then,« said Charles, »owe him some reparation for doubting his veracity.«
    »And I can attest his gallantry as a man-at-arms,« said Dunois.
    »But,« interrupted Crèvecoeur, »though the uncle be a Scottish gentillâtre,
that makes not the nephew necessarily so.«
    »He is of the House of Durward,« said Crawford; »descended from that Allan
Durward, who was High Steward of Scotland.«
    »Nay, if it be young Durward,« said Crèvecoeur, »I say no more. - Fortune
has declared herself on his side too plainly, for me to struggle farther with
her humorsome ladyship; - but it is strange, from lord to horseboy, how
wonderfully these Scots stick by each other.«
    »Highlanders shoulder to shoulder,« answered Lord Crawford, laughing at the
mortification of the proud Burgundian.
    »We have yet to inquire,« said Charles, thoughtfully, »what the fair lady's
sentiments may be towards this fortunate adventurer.«
    »By the mass!« said Crèvecoeur, »I have but too much reason to believe your
Grace will find her more amenable to authority than on former occasions. - But
why should I grudge this youth his preferment? since, after all, it is sense,
firmness, and gallantry, which have put him in possession of WEALTH, RANK, and
BEAUTY!«
 
I had already sent these sheets to the press, concluding, as I thought, with a
moral of excellent tendency for the encouragement of all fair-haired, blue-eyed,
long-legged, stout-hearted emigrants from my native country, who might be
willing in stirring times to take up the gallant profession of Cavalieros of
Fortune. But a friendly monitor, one of those who like the lump of sugar which
is found at the bottom of a tea-cup, as well as the flavour of the souchong
itself, has entered a bitter remonstrance, and insists that I should give a
precise and particular account of the espousals of the young heir of
Glen-houlakin and the lovely Flemish Countess, and tell what tournaments were
held, and how many lances were broken, upon so interesting an occasion; nor
withhold from the curious reader the number of sturdy boys, who inherited the
valour of Quentin Durward, and of bright damsels, in whom were renewed the
charms of Isabelle de Croye. I replied in course of post, that times were
changed, and public weddings were entirely out of fashion. In days, traces of
which I myself can remember, not only were the »fifteen friends« of the happy
pair invited to witness their union, but the bridal minstrelsy still continued,
as in the »Ancient Mariner,« to »nod their heads« till morning shone on them.
The sack-posset was eaten in the nuptial chamber - the stocking was thrown - and
the bride's garter was struggled for in presence of the happy couple whom Hymen
had made one flesh. The authors of the period were laudably accurate in
following its fashions. They spared you not a blush of the bride, not a
rapturous glance of the bridegroom, not a diamond in her hair, not a button on
his embroidered waistcoat; until at length, with Astræa, »they fairly put their
characters to bed.« But how little does this agree with the modest privacy which
induces our modern brides - sweet bashful darlings! - to steal from pomp and
plate, and admiration and flattery, and, like honest Shenstone,
 
»Seek for freedom at an inn!«
 
To these, unquestionably, an exposure of the circumstances of publicity with
which a bridal in the fifteenth century was always celebrated, must appear in
the highest degree disgusting. Isabelle de Croye would be ranked in their
estimation far below the maid who milks, and does the meanest chares; for even
she, were it in the church-porch, would reject the hand of her journeyman
shoemaker, should he propose »faire des noces,« as it is called on Parisian
signs, instead of going down on the top of the long coach to spend the honeymoon
incognito at Deptford or Greenwich. I will not, therefore, tell more of this
matter, but will steal away from the wedding, as Ariosto from that of Angelica,
leaving it to whom it may please to add farther particulars, after the fashion
of their own imagination.
 
»Some better bard shall sing, in feudal state
How Braquemont's Castle op'd its Gothic gate,
When on the wand'ring Scot, its lovely heir
Bestow'd her beauty and an earldom fair.«71
 

                                     Notes

1 The heralds of the middle ages, like the feciales of the Romans, were invested
with a character which was held almost sacred. To strike a herald was a crime
which inferred a capital punishment; and to counterfeit the character of such an
august official was a degree of treason towards those men, who were accounted
the depositaries of the secrets of monarchs and the honour of nobles. Yet a
prince so unscrupulous as Louis XI. did not hesitate to practise such an
imposition, when he wished to enter into communication with Edward IV. of
England.
Exercising that knowledge of mankind for which he was so eminent, he selected,
as an agent fit for his purpose, a simple valet. This man, whose address had
been known to him, he disguised as a herald, with all the insignia of his
office, and sent him in that capacity to open a communication with the English
army. Two things are remarkable in this transaction. First, that the stratagem,
though of so fraudulent a nature, does not seem to have been necessarily called
for, since all that King Louis could gain by it would be, that he did not commit
himself by sending a more responsible messenger. The other circumstance worthy
of notice is, that Comines, though he mentions the affair at great length, is so
pleased with the King's shrewdness in selecting, and dexterity at
indoctrinating, his pseudo-herald, that he forgets all remark on the impudence
and fraud of the imposition, as well as the great risk of discovery. From both
which circumstances we are led to the conclusion, that the solemn character
which the heralds endeavoured to arrogate to themselves had already begun to
lose regard among statesmen and men of the great world.
Even Ferne, zealous enough for the dignity of the herald, seems to impute this
intrusion on their rights in some degree to necessity. »I have heard some,« he
says, »but with shame enough, allow of the action of Louis XI. of the kingdom of
France, who had so unknightly a regard both of his own honour and also of armes,
that he seldom had about his court any officer-at-armes. And therefore, at such
time as Edward IV., King of England, had entered France with a hostile power,
and lay before the town of Saint Quentin, the same French King, for want of a
herald to carry his mind to the English King, was constrained to suborn a
vadelict, or common serving-man, with a trumpet-banner, having a hole made
through the middest for this preposterous herauld to put his head through, and
to cast it over his shoulders instead of a better coat-armour of France. And
thus came this hastily-arrayed courier as a counterfeit officer-at-armes, with
instructions from his sovereign's mouth to offer peace to our King. Well,
replies Torquatus, the other interlocutor in the dialogue, that fault was never
yet to be seen in any of our English Kings, nor ever shall be, I hope.« -
FERNE'S Blazen of Gentry, 1586, p. 161.
In this curious book, the author, besides some assertions in favour of
coat-armour, too nearly approaching blasphemy to be quoted, informs us, that the
Apostles were gentlemen of blood, and many of them descended from that worthy
conqueror, Judas Maccabæus; but through the course of time and persecution of
wars, poverty oppressed the kindred, and they were constrained to servile works.
So were the four doctors and fathers of the church (Ambrose, Augustine, Hierome,
and Gregorie) gentlemen both of blood and arms, p. 98. The Author's copy of this
rare tract (memorial of a hopeful young friend, now no more) exhibits a curious
sally of the national and professional irritability of a Scottish herald.
This person appears to have been named Thomas Drysdale, Islay Herald, who
purchased the volume in 1619, and seems to have perused it with patience and
profit till he came to the following passage in Ferne, which enters into the
distinction between sovereign and feudatory crowns. »There is also a King, and
he a homager, or foedatorie to the estate and majestie of another King, as to
his superior lord, as that of Scotland to our English empire.« This assertion
set on fire the Scottish blood of Islay Herald, who, forgetting the book had
been printed nearly forty years before, and that the author was probably dead,
writes on the margin in great wrath, and in a half-text hand, »He is a traitor
and lyar in his throat, and I offer him the combat, that says Scotland's Kings
were ever feudatorie to England.«
 
2 It is scarcely necessary to say, that all that follows is imaginary
 
3 See Price's Essay on the Picturesque, in many passages; but I would
particularise the beautiful and highly poetical account which he gives of his
own feelings on destroying, at the dictate of an improver, an ancient
sequestrated garden, with its yew hedges, ornamented iron gates, and secluded
wilderness.
 
4 It is scarce necessary to remind the reader that this passage was published
during the Author's incognito; and, as Lucio expresses it, spoken »according to
the trick.«
 
5 This editio princeps, which, when in good preservation, is much sought after
by connoisseurs, is entitled, Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, contenant Cent
Histoires Nouveaux, qui sont moult plaisans à raconter en toutes bonnes
compagnies par manière de joyeuxeté. Paris, Antoine Verard. Sans date d'année
d'impression; en folio gotique. - See DE BURE. See note, p. 156.
 
6 Every vocation had, in the middle ages, its protecting saint. The chase, with
its fortunes and its hazards, the business of so many, and the amusement of all,
was placed under the direction of Saint Hubert.
This silvan saint was the son of Bertrand, Duke of Acquitaine, and, while in the
secular state, was a courtier of King Pepin. He was passionately fond of the
chase, and used to neglect attendance on divine worship for this amusement.
While he was once engaged in this pastime, a stag appeared before him, having a
crucifix bound betwixt his horns, and he heard a voice which menaced him with
eternal punishment if he did not repent of his sins. He retired from the world
and took orders, his wife having also retreated into the cloister. Hubert
afterwards became Bishop of Maestrecht and Liege; and from his zeal in
destroying remnants of idolatry, is called the Apostle of Ardennes and of
Brabant. Those who were descended of his race were supposed to possess the power
of curing persons bitten by mad dogs.
 
7 The large tree in front of a Scottish castle was sometimes called so. It is
difficult to trace the derivation; but at that distance from the castle the
laird received guests of rank, and thither he conveyed them on their departure.
 
8 This was Adolphus, son of Arnold and of Catherine de Bourbon. The present
story has little to do with him, though one of the most atrocious characters of
his time. He made war against his father; in which unnatural strife he made the
old man prisoner, and used him with the most brutal violence, proceeding, it is
said, even to the length of striking him with his hand. Arnold, in resentment of
this usage, disinherited the unprincipled wretch, and sold to Charles of
Burgundy whatever rights he had over the duchy of Gueldres and earldom of
Zutphen. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles, restored these possessions to
the unnatural Adolphus, who was slain in 1477.
 
9 This part of Louis XIth's reign was much embarrassed by the intrigues of the
Constable Saint Paul, who affected independence, and carried on intrigues with
England, France, and Burgundy, at the same time. According to the usual fate of
such variable politicians, the Constable ended by drawing upon himself the
animosity of all the powerful neighbours whom he had in their turn amused and
deceived. He was delivered up by the Duke of Burgundy to the King of France,
tried, and hastily executed for treason, A.D. 1475.
 
10 It was by his possession of this town of Saint Quentin that the Constable vas
able to carry on those political intrigues, which finally cost him so dear.
 
11 It was a part of Louis's very unamiable character, and not the best part of
it, that he entertained a great contempt for the understanding, and not less for
the character, of the fair sex.
 
12 The crutches or stilts, which in Scotland are used to pass rivers. They are
employed by the peasantry of the country near Bordeaux, to traverse those
deserts of loose sand called Landes.
 
13 Better kind strangers than estranged kindred. The motto is engraved on a
dirk, belonging to a person who had but too much reason to choose such a device.
It was left by him to my father, and is connected with a strange course of
adventures, which may one day be told. The weapon is now in my possession.
 
14 Black knife; a species of knife without clasp or hinge, formerly much used by
the Highlanders, who seldom travelled without such an ugly weapon, though it is
now rarely used.
 
15 One of these two persons, I learned from the Chronique de Jean de Troyes, but
too late to avail myself of the information, might with more accuracy have been
called Petit-Jean, than Petit-André. This was actually the name of the son of
Henry de Cousin, master executioner of the High Court of Justice. The Constable
Saint Paul was executed by him with such dexterity, that the head, when struck
off, struck the ground at the same time with the body. This was in 1475.
 
16 In a former volume of this edition of the Waverley Novels (Guy Mannering),
the reader will find some remarks on the gipsies as they are found in Scotland.
But it is well known that this extraordinary variety of the human race exists in
nearly the same primitive state, speaking the same language, in almost all the
kingdoms of Europe, and conforming in certain respects to the manners of the
people around them, but yet remaining separated from them by certain material
distinctions, in which they correspond with each other, and thus maintain their
pretensions to be considered as a distinct race. Their first appearance in
Europe took place in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when various bands
of this singular people appeared in the different countries of Europe. They
claimed an Egyptian descent, and their features attested that they were of
Eastern origin. The account given by these singular people was, that it was
appointed to them, as a penance, to travel for a certain number of years. This
apology was probably selected as being most congenial to the superstitions of
the countries which they visited. Their appearance, however, and manners,
strongly contradicted the allegation that they travelled from any religious
motive.
Their dress and accoutrements were at once showy and squalid; those who acted as
captains and leaders of any horde, and such always appeared as their commanders,
were arrayed in dresses of the most showy colours, such as scarlet or light
green; were well mounted; assumed the title of dukes and counts, and affected
considerable consequence. The rest of the tribe were most miserable in their
diet and apparel, fed without hesitation on animals which had died of disease,
and were clad in filthy and scanty rags, which hardly sufficed for the ordinary
purposes of common decency. Their complexion was positively Eastern, approaching
to that of the Hindoos.
Their manners were as depraved as their appearance was poor and beggarly. The
men were in general thieves, and the women of the most abandoned character. The
few arts which they studied with success, were of a slight and idle, though
ingenious description. They practised working in iron, but never upon any great
scale. Many were good sportsmen, good musicians, and masters, in a word, of all
those trivial arts, the practice of which is little better than mere idleness.
But their ingenuity never ascended into industry. Two or three other
peculiarities seem to have distinguished them in all countries. Their
pretensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and by astrology, acquired them
sometimes respect, but oftener drew them under suspicion as sorcerers; and
lastly, the universal accusation that they augmented their horde by stealing
children, subjected them to doubt and execration. From this it happened, that
the pretension set up by these wanderers, of being pilgrims in the act of
penance, although it was at first admitted, and in many instances obtained them
protection from the governments of the countries through which they travelled,
was afterwards totally disbelieved, and they were considered as incorrigible
rogues and vagrants; they incurred almost everywhere sentence of banishment, and
where suffered to remain, were rather objects of persecution than of protection
from the law.
There is a curious and accurate account of their arrival in France in the
Journal of a Doctor of Theology, which is preserved and published by the learned
Pasquier. The following is an extract: - »On August 27th, 1427, came to Paris
twelve penitents, Penanciers (penance-doers), as they called themselves, viz., a
duke, an earl, and ten men, all on horseback, and calling themselves good
Christians. They were of Lower Egypt, and gave out that, not long before, the
Christians had subdued their country, and obliged them to embrace Christianity
on pain of being put to death. Those who were baptized were great lords in their
own country, and had a king and queen there. Soon after their conversion, the
Saracens overran the country, and obliged them to renounce Christianity. When
the Emperor of Germany, the King of Poland, and other Christian Princes heard of
this, they fell upon them, and obliged the whole of them, both great and small,
to quit the country, and go to the Pope at Rome, who enjoined them seven years'
penance to wander over the world without lying in a bed.
They had been wandering five years when they came to Paris first; the principal
people, and soon after the commonalty, about 100 or 120, reduced (according to
their own account) from 1000 or 1200, when they went from home, the rest being
dead, with their king and queen. They were lodged by the police at some distance
from the city, at Chapel Saint Denis.
Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore two silver rings in each,
which they said were esteemed ornaments in their country. The men were black,
their hair curled; the women remarkably black, their only clothes a large old
duffle garment tied over the shoulders with a cloth or cord, and under it a
miserable rocket. In short, they were the most poor miserable creatures that had
ever been seen in France; and, notwithstanding their poverty, there were among
them women, who, by looking into people's hands, told their fortunes, and, what
was worse, they picked people's pockets of their money, and got it into their
own, by telling these things through airy magic, et cætera.«
Notwithstanding the ingenious account of themselves rendered by these gipsies,
the Bishop of Paris ordered a friar, called Le Petit Jacobin, to preach a
sermon, excommunicating all the men and women who had had recourse to these
Bohemians on the subject of the future, and shown their hands for that purpose.
They departed from Paris for Pontoise in the month of September.
Pasquier remarks upon this singular journal, that however the story of a penance
savours of a trick, these people wandered up and down France, under the eye, and
with the knowledge, of the magistrates, for more than a hundred years; and it
was not till 1561, that a sentence of banishment was passed against them in that
kingdom.
The arrival of the Egyptians (as these singular people were called) in various
parts of Europe, corresponds with the period in which Timur or Tamerlane invaded
Hindostan, affording its natives the choice between the Koran and death. There
can be little doubt that these wanderers consisted originally of the Hindostanee
tribes, who, displaced, and flying from the sabres of the Mahommedans, undertook
this species of wandering life, without well knowing whither they were going. It
is natural to suppose the band, as it now exists, is much mingled with
Europeans; but most of these have been brought up from childhood among them, and
learned all their practices.
It is strong evidence of this, that when they are in closest contact with the
ordinary peasants around them, they still keep their language a mystery. There
is little doubt, however, that it is a dialect of the Hindostanee, from the
specimens produced by Grellman, Hoyland, and others, who have written on the
subject. But the Author has, besides their authority, personal occasion to know
that an individual, out of mere curiosity, and availing himself with patience
and assiduity of such opportunites as offered, has made himself capable of
conversing with any gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the royal Hal, drink with
any tinker in his own language. The astonishment excited among these vagrants on
finding a stranger participant of their mystery, occasions very ludicrous
scenes. It is to be hoped this gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses
on so singular a topic.
There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at present; for
although much more reconciled to society since they have been less the objects
of legal persecution, the gipsies are still a ferocious and vindictive people.
But notwithstanding this is certainly the case, I cannot but add, from my own
observation of nearly fifty years, that the manners of these vagrant tribes are
much ameliorated; - that I have known individuals amongst them who have united
themselves to civilised society, and maintain respectable characters, and that a
great alteration has been wrought in their cleanliness and general mode of life.
 
17 In a former volume of this edition of the Waverley Novels (Guy Mannering),
the reader will find some remarks on the gipsies as they are found in Scotland.
But it is well known that this extraordinary variety of the human race exists in
nearly the same primitive state, speaking the same language, in almost all the
kingdoms of Europe, and conforming in certain respects to the manners of the
people around them, but yet remaining separated from them by certain material
distinctions, in which they correspond with each other, and thus maintain their
pretensions to be considered as a distinct race. Their first appearance in
Europe took place in the beginning of the fifteenth century, when various bands
of this singular people appeared in the different countries of Europe. They
claimed an Egyptian descent, and their features attested that they were of
Eastern origin. The account given by these singular people was, that it was
appointed to them, as a penance, to travel for a certain number of years. This
apology was probably selected as being most congenial to the superstitions of
the countries which they visited. Their appearance, however, and manners,
strongly contradicted the allegation that they travelled from any religious
motive.
Their dress and accoutrements were at once showy and squalid; those who acted as
captains and leaders of any horde, and such always appeared as their commanders,
were arrayed in dresses of the most showy colours, such as scarlet or light
green; were well mounted; assumed the title of dukes and counts, and affected
considerable consequence. The rest of the tribe were most miserable in their
diet and apparel, fed without hesitation on animals which had died of disease,
and were clad in filthy and scanty rags, which hardly sufficed for the ordinary
purposes of common decency. Their complexion was positively Eastern, approaching
to that of the Hindoos.
Their manners were as depraved as their appearance was poor and beggarly. The
men were in general thieves, and the women of the most abandoned character. The
few arts which they studied with success, were of a slight and idle, though
ingenious description. They practised working in iron, but never upon any great
scale. Many were good sportsmen, good musicians, and masters, in a word, of all
those trivial arts, the practice of which is little better than mere idleness.
But their ingenuity never ascended into industry. Two or three other
peculiarities seem to have distinguished them in all countries. Their
pretensions to read fortunes, by palmistry and by astrology, acquired them
sometimes respect, but oftener drew them under suspicion as sorcerers; and
lastly, the universal accusation that they augmented their horde by stealing
children, subjected them to doubt and execration. From this it happened, that
the pretension set up by these wanderers, of being pilgrims in the act of
penance, although it was at first admitted, and in many instances obtained them
protection from the governments of the countries through which they travelled,
was afterwards totally disbelieved, and they were considered as incorrigible
rogues and vagrants; they incurred almost everywhere sentence of banishment, and
where suffered to remain, were rather objects of persecution than of protection
from the law.
There is a curious and accurate account of their arrival in France in the
Journal of a Doctor of Theology, which is preserved and published by the learned
Pasquier. The following is an extract: - »On August 27th, 1427, came to Paris
twelve penitents, Penanciers (penance-doers), as they called themselves, viz., a
duke, an earl, and ten men, all on horseback, and calling themselves good
Christians. They were of Lower Egypt, and gave out that, not long before, the
Christians had subdued their country, and obliged them to embrace Christianity
on pain of being put to death. Those who were baptized were great lords in their
own country, and had a king and queen there. Soon after their conversion, the
Saracens overran the country, and obliged them to renounce Christianity. When
the Emperor of Germany, the King of Poland, and other Christian Princes heard of
this, they fell upon them, and obliged the whole of them, both great and small,
to quit the country, and go to the Pope at Rome, who enjoined them seven years'
penance to wander over the world without lying in a bed.
They had been wandering five years when they came to Paris first; the principal
people, and soon after the commonalty, about 100 or 120, reduced (according to
their own account) from 1000 or 1200, when they went from home, the rest being
dead, with their king and queen. They were lodged by the police at some distance
from the city, at Chapel Saint Denis.
Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore two silver rings in each,
which they said were esteemed ornaments in their country. The men were black,
their hair curled; the women remarkably black, their only clothes a large old
duffle garment tied over the shoulders with a cloth or cord, and under it a
miserable rocket. In short, they were the most poor miserable creatures that had
ever been seen in France; and, notwithstanding their poverty, there were among
them women, who, by looking into people's hands, told their fortunes, and, what
was worse, they picked people's pockets of their money, and got it into their
own, by telling these things through airy magic, et cætera.«
Notwithstanding the ingenious account of themselves rendered by these gipsies,
the Bishop of Paris ordered a friar, called Le Petit Jacobin, to preach a
sermon, excommunicating all the men and women who had had recourse to these
Bohemians on the subject of the future, and shown their hands for that purpose.
They departed from Paris for Pontoise in the month of September.
Pasquier remarks upon this singular journal, that however the story of a penance
savours of a trick, these people wandered up and down France, under the eye, and
with the knowledge, of the magistrates, for more than a hundred years; and it
was not till 1561, that a sentence of banishment was passed against them in that
kingdom.
The arrival of the Egyptians (as these singular people were called) in various
parts of Europe, corresponds with the period in which Timur or Tamerlane invaded
Hindostan, affording its natives the choice between the Koran and death. There
can be little doubt that these wanderers consisted originally of the Hindostanee
tribes, who, displaced, and flying from the sabres of the Mahommedans, undertook
this species of wandering life, without well knowing whither they were going. It
is natural to suppose the band, as it now exists, is much mingled with
Europeans; but most of these have been brought up from childhood among them, and
learned all their practices.
It is strong evidence of this, that when they are in closest contact with the
ordinary peasants around them, they still keep their language a mystery. There
is little doubt, however, that it is a dialect of the Hindostanee, from the
specimens produced by Grellman, Hoyland, and others, who have written on the
subject. But the Author has, besides their authority, personal occasion to know
that an individual, out of mere curiosity, and availing himself with patience
and assiduity of such opportunites as offered, has made himself capable of
conversing with any gipsy whom he meets, or can, like the royal Hal, drink with
any tinker in his own language. The astonishment excited among these vagrants on
finding a stranger participant of their mystery, occasions very ludicrous
scenes. It is to be hoped this gentleman will publish the knowledge he possesses
on so singular a topic.
There are prudential reasons for postponing this disclosure at present; for
although much more reconciled to society since they have been less the objects
of legal persecution, the gipsies are still a ferocious and vindictive people.
But notwithstanding this is certainly the case, I cannot but add, from my own
observation of nearly fifty years, that the manners of these vagrant tribes are
much ameliorated; - that I have known individuals amongst them who have united
themselves to civilised society, and maintain respectable characters, and that a
great alteration has been wrought in their cleanliness and general mode of life.
 
18 Such disputes between the Scots Guards, and the other constituted authorities
of the ordinary military corps, often occurred. In 1474, two Scotsmen had been
concerned in robbing John Pensart, a fishmonger, of a large sum of money. They
were accordingly apprehended by Philip du Four, Provost, with some of his
followers. But ere they could lodge one of them, called Mortimer, in the prison
of the Chastellet, they were attacked by two Archers of the King's Scottish
Guard, who rescued the prisoner. - See Chronique de Jean de Troyes, at the said
year, 1474.
 
19 A quarrel, videlicet.
 
20 That is, if your courage corresponds with your personal appearance.
 
21 In both these battles, the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under Stewart,
Earl of Buchan, were distinguished. At Beaugé they were victorious, killing the
Duke of Clarence, Henry Vth's brother, and cutting off his army. At Vernoil they
were defeated, and nearly extirpated.
 
22 »Cut a tale with a drink;« an expression used when a man preaches over his
liquor, as bons vivans say in England.
 
23 Here the King touches on the very purpose for which he pressed on the match
with such tyrannic severity, which was, that as the Princess's personal
deformity admitted little chance of its being fruitful, the branch of Orleans,
which was next in succession to the crown, might be, by the want of heirs,
weakened or extinguished. In a letter to the Comte de Dammarten, Louis, speaking
of his daughter's match, says, »Qu'ils n'auroient pas beaucoup d'embarras à
nourrir les enfans qui naitroient de leur union; mais cependant elle aura lieu,
quelque chose qu'on en puisse dire.« - WRAXALL'S History of France, vol. i.p.
143, note.
 
24 Oliver's name, or nickname, was Le Diable, which was bestowed on him by
public hatred, in exchange for Le Daim, or Le Dain. He was originally the King's
barber, but afterwards a favourite counsellor.
 
25 Dr. Dryasdust here remarks, that cards, said to have been invented in a
preceding reign, for the amusement of Charles V. during the intervals of his
mental disorder, seem speedily to have become common among the courtiers, since
they already furnished Louis XI. with a metaphor. The same proverb was quoted by
Durandarte, in the enchanted cave of Montesinos. The alleged origin of the
invention of cards, produced one of the shrewdest replies I have ever heard
given in evidence. It was made by the late Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh to a counsel
of great eminence at the Scottish Bar. The Doctor's testimony went to prove the
insanity of the party whose mental capacity was the point at issue. On a
cross-interrogation, he admitted that the person in question played admirably at
whist. »And do you seriously say, doctor,« said the learned counsel, »that a
person having a superior capacity for a game so difficult, and which requires in
a pre-eminent degree, memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time
deranged in his understanding?« - »I am no card-player,« said the doctor, with
great address, »but I have read in history that cards were invented for the
amusement of an insane king.« The consequences of this reply were decisive.
 
26 Here the King touches on the very purpose for which he pressed on the match
with such tyrannic severity, which was, that as the Princess's personal
deformity admitted little chance of its being fruitful, the branch of Orleans,
which was next in succession to the crown, might be, by the want of heirs,
weakened or extinguished. In a letter to the Comte de Dammarten, Louis, speaking
of his daughter's match, says, »Qu'ils n'auroient pas beaucoup d'embarras à
nourrir les enfans qui naitroient de leur union; mais cependant elle aura lieu,
quelque chose qu'on en puisse dire.« - WRAXALL'S History of France, vol. i.p.
143, note.
 
27 A friendly, though unknown correspondent, has pointed out to me that I have
been mistaken in alleging that the Cardinal was a bad rider. If so, I owe his
memory an apology; for there are few men who, until my latter days, have loved
that exercise better than myself. But the Cardinal may have been an indifferent
horseman, though he wished to be looked upon as equal to the dangers of the
chase. He was a man of assumption and ostentation, as he showed at the siege of
Paris in 1465, where, contrary to the custom and usage of war, he mounted guard
during the night with an unusual sound of clarions, trumpets, and other
instruments. In imputing to the Cardinal a want of skill in horsemanship, I
recollected his adventure in Paris when attacked by assassins, on which occasion
his mule, being scared by the crowd, ran away with the rider, and taking its
course to a monastery, to the abbot of which he formerly belonged, was the means
of saving his master's life. - See JEAN DE TROYES' Chronicle.
 
28 Charlemagne, I suppose on account of his unsparing rigour to the Saxons, and
other heathens, was accounted a saint during the dark ages; and Louis XI., as
one of his successors, honoured his shrine with peculiar observance.
 
29 Forward, Scotland.
 
30 During his residence in Burgundy, in his father's lifetime, Genappes was the
usual abode of Louis. This period of exile is often alluded to in the novel.
 
31 The nature of Louis XIth's coarse humour may be guessed at by those who have
perused the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, which are grosser than most similar
collections of the age.
 
32 Concerning things unknown to the generality of mankind.
 
33 Martius Galeotti was a native of Narni, in Umbria. He was secretary to
Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and tutor to his son, John Corvinus. While
at his court, he composed a work, De jocose dictis et factis Regis Matthiæ
Corvini. He left Hungary in 1477, and was made prisoner at Venice on a charge of
having propagated heterodox opinions in a treatise entitled, De homine interiore
et corpore ejus. He was obliged to recant some of these doctrines, and might
have suffered seriously but for the protection of Sextus IV., then Pope, who had
been one of his scholars. He went to France, attached himself to Louis XI., and
died in his service.
 
34 Martius Galeotti was a native of Narni, in Umbria. He was secretary to
Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and tutor to his son, John Corvinus. While
at his court, he composed a work, De jocose dictis et factis Regis Matthiæ
Corvini. He left Hungary in 1477, and was made prisoner at Venice on a charge of
having propagated heterodox opinions in a treatise entitled, De homine interiore
et corpore ejus. He was obliged to recant some of these doctrines, and might
have suffered seriously but for the protection of Sextus IV., then Pope, who had
been one of his scholars. He went to France, attached himself to Louis XI., and
died in his service.
 
35 Who himself tenanted one of these dens for more than eleven years.
 
36 It was a remarkable feature of the character of these wanderers that they did
not, like the Jews, whom they otherwise resembled in some particulars, possess
or profess any particular religion, whether in form or principle. They readily
conformed, as far as might be required, with the religion of any country in
which they happened to sojourn, nor did they ever practise it more than was
demanded of them. It is certain that in India they embraced neither the tenets
of the religion of Bramah nor of Mahomet. They have hence been considered as
belonging to the outcast East Indian tribes of Nuts or Parias. Their want of
religion is supplied by a good deal of superstition. Such of their ritual as can
be discovered, for example that belonging to marriage, is savage in the extreme,
and represents the customs of the Hottentots more than of any civilised people.
They adopt various observances, picked up from the religion of the country in
which they live. It is, or rather was, the custom of the tribes on the Borders
of England and Scotland, to attribute success to those journeys which are
commenced by passing through the parish church; and they usually try to obtain
permission from the beadle to do so when the church is empty, for the
performance of divine service is not considered as essential to the omen. They
are, therefore, totally devoid of any effectual sense of religion; and the
higher or more instructed class may be considered as acknowledging no deity save
those of Epicurus, and such is described as being the faith, or no faith, of
Hayraddin Maugrabin.
I may here take notice, that nothing is more disagreeable to this indolent and
voluptuous people than being forced to follow any regular profession. When Paris
was garrisoned by the allied troops in the year 1815, the Author was walking
with a British officer near a post held by the Prussian troops. He happened at
the time to smoke a cigar, and was about, while passing the sentinel, to take it
out of his mouth, in compliance with a general regulation to that effect, when,
greatly to the astonishment of the passengers, the soldier addressed them in
these words: »Rauchen sie immerfort, verdamt sey der Preussische dienst;« that
is, »Smoke away; may the Prussian service be d-d!« Upon looking closer at the
man, he seemed plainly to be a Zigeuner, or gipsy, who took this method of
expressing his detestation of the duty imposed on him. When the risk he ran by
doing so is considered, it will be found to argue a deep degree of dislike which
could make him commit himself so unwarily. If he had been overheard by a
sergeant or corporal, the prügel would have been the slightest instrument of
punishment employed.
 
37 A similar story is told of the Duke of Vendome, who answered in this sort of
macaronic Latin the classical expostulations of a German convent against the
imposition of a contribution.
 
38 »Vox duoque Moerim
Jam fugit ipsa; lupi Moerim videre priores.« -
                                                            VIRGILII ix. ecloga.
 
The commentators add, in explanation of this passage, the opinion of Pliny: »The
being beheld by a wolf in Italy is accounted noxious, and is supposed to take
away the speech of a man, if these animals behold him ere he sees them.«
 
39 The adventure of Quentin at Liege may be thought overstrained, yet it is
extraordinary what slight circumstances will influence the public mind in a
moment of doubt and uncertainty. Most readers must remember, that, when the
Dutch were on the point of rising against the French yoke, their zeal for
liberation received a strong impulse from the landing of a person in a British
volunteer uniform, whose presence, though that of a private individual, was
received as a guarantee of succours from England.
 
40 »A sooth boord (true joke) is no boord,« says the Scot.
 
41 Fought by the insurgents of Liege against the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the
Bold, when Count of Charalois, in which the people of Liege were defeated with
great slaughter.
 
42 In assigning the present date to the murder of the Bishop of Liege, Louis de
Bourbon, history has been violated. It is true that the Bishop was made prisoner
by the insurgents of that city. It is also true that the report of the
insurrection came to Charles with a rumour that the Bishop was slain, which
excited his indignation against Louis, who was then in his power. But these
things happened in 1468, and the Bishop's murder did not take place till 1482.
In the months of August and September of that year, William de la Marck, called
the Wild Boar of Ardennes, entered into a conspiracy with the discontented
citizens of Liege against their Bishop, Louis of Bourbon, being aided with
considerable sums of money by the King of France. By this means, and the
assistance of many murderers and banditti, who thronged to him as to a leader
befitting them, De la Marck assembled a body of troops, whom he dressed in
scarlet as a uniform, with a boar's head on the left sleeve. With this little
army he approached the city of Liege. Upon this, the citizens who were engaged
in the conspiracy came to their Bishop, and offering to stand by him to the
death, exhorted him to march out against these robbers. The Bishop, therefore,
put himself at the head of a few troops of his own, trusting to the assistance
of the people of Liege. But so soon as they came in sight of the enemy the
citizens, as before agreed, fled from the Bishop's banner, and he was left with
his own handful of adherents. At this moment De la Marck charged at the head of
his banditti with the expected success. The Bishop was brought before the
profligate knight, who first cut him over the face, then murdered him with his
own hand, and caused his body to be exposed naked in the great square of Liege
before Saint Lambert's Cathedral.
Such is the actual narrative of a tragedy which struck with horror the people of
the time. The murder of the Bishop has been fifteen years antedated in the text,
for reasons which the reader of romances will easily appreciate.
 
43 Fynes Morrison describes this species of soldiery as follows: - »He that at
this day looks upon their Schwarz-reiters (that is, black horsemen) must confess
that, to make their horses and boots shine, they make themselves as black as
colliers. These horsemen wear black clothes, and poor though they be, spend no
small time in brushing them. The most of them have black horses, which, while
they painfully dress, and (as I have said) delight to have their boots and shoes
shine with blacking stuff, their hands and faces become black, and thereof they
have their foresaid name. Yet I have heard Germans say, that they do thus make
themselves black to seem more terrible to their enemies.« - FYNES MORRISON'S
Itinerary. Edition 1617, Part III. p. 165.
 
44 »No, no! that must not be.«
 
45 Indeed, though lying on an exposed and warlike frontier, it was never taken
by an enemy, but preserved the proud name of Peronne la Pucelle, until the Duke
of Wellington, a great destroyer of that sort of reputation, took the place in
the memorable advance upon Paris in 1815.
 
46 De Hymbercourt, or Imbercourt, was put to death by the inhabitants of Ghent,
with the Chancellor of Burgundy, in the year 1477. Mary of Burgundy, daughter of
Charles the Bold, appeared in mourning in the marketplace, and with tears
besought the life of her servants from her insurgent subjects, but in vain.
47 Philip des Comines was described in the former editions of this work as a
little man, fitted rather for counsel than action. This was a description made
at a venture, to vary the military portraits with which the age and work abound.
Sleidan the historian, upon the authority of Matthieu d'Arvas, who knew Philip
des Comines, and had served in his household, says he was a man of tall stature,
and a noble presence. The learned Monsieur Petitot, editor of the edition of
Memoirs relative to the History of France, a work of great value, intimates that
Philip des Comines made a figure at the games of chivalry and pageants exhibited
on the wedding of Charles of Burgundy with Margaret of England in 1468. - See
the Chronicle of Jean de Troyes, in Petitot's edition of the Mémoires Relatifs à
l'Histoire de France, vol. xiii. p. 375, Note. I have looked into Oliver de la
Marcke, who, in lib. ii., chapter iv., of his Memoirs, gives an ample account of
these »fierce vanities,« containing as many miscellaneous articles as the
reticule of the old merchant of Peter Schlemil, who bought shadows, and carried
with him in his bag whatever any one could wish or demand in return. There are
in that splendid description, knights, dames, pages, and archers, good store
besides of castles, fiery dragons, and dromedaries; there are leopards riding
upon lions; there are rocks, orchards, fountains, spears broken and whole, and
the twelve labours of Hercules. In such a brilliant medley I had some trouble in
finding Philip des Comines. He is the first named, however, of a gallant band of
assailants, knights and noblemen, to the number of twenty, who, with the Prince
of Orange as their leader, encountered, in a general tourney, with a party of
the same number under the profligate Adolf of Cleves, who acted as challenger,
by the romantic title of Arbre d'or. The encounter, though with arms of
courtesy, was very fierce, and separated by main force, not without difficulty.
Philip des Comines has, therefore, a title to be accounted tam Marte, quam
Mercurio, though, when we consider the obscurity which has settled on the rest
of this troupe dorée, we are at no loss to estimate the most valuable of his
qualifications.
 
48 After the battle of Montl'hery, in 1465, Charles, then Comte de Charolais,
had an interview with Louis under the walls of Paris, each at the head of a
small party. The two princes dismounted, and walked together so deeply engaged
in discussing the business of their meeting, that Charles forgot the peculiarity
of his situation; and when Louis turned back towards the town of Paris, from
which he came, the Count of Charolais kept him company so far as to pass the
line of outworks with which Paris was surrounded, and enter a field-work which
communicated with the town by a trench. At this period he had only five or six
persons in company with him. His escort caught an alarm for his safety, and his
principal followers rode forward from where he had left them, remembering that
his grandfather had been assassinated at Montereau in a similar parley, on 10th
September 1419. To their great joy the Count returned uninjured, accompanied
with a guard belonging to Louis. The Burgundians taxed him with rashness in no
measured terms. »Say no more of it,« said Charles; »I acknowledge the extent of
my folly, but I was not aware what I was doing till I entered the redoubt.« -
Mémoires de PHILIPPE DES COMINES, chap. xiii.
Louis was much praised for his good faith on this occasion; and it was natural
that the Duke should call it to recollection when his enemy so unexpectedly put
himself in his power by his visit to Peronne.
 
49 The jester of Charles of Burgundy, of whom more hereafter.
 
50 The arrival of three brothers, Princes of the House of Savoy, of Monseigneur
de Lau, whom the King had long detained in prison, of Sire Poncet de Rivière,
and the Seigneur d'Urfé, who, by the way, as a romance-writer of a peculiar
turn, might have been happily enough introduced into the present work, but the
fate of the Euphuist was a warning to the Author. All of these nobles bearing
the emblem of Burgundy, the cross, namely, of Saint Andrew, inspired Louis with
so much suspicion, that he very impolitically demanded to be lodged in the old
Castle of Peronne, and thus rendered himself an absolute captive. See COMINES'
Memoirs for the year 1468.
 
51 This gesture, very indicative of a fierce character, is also by
stage-tradition a distinction of Shakespeare's Richard III.
 
52 An Earl of Douglas, so called.
 
53 The famous apparition sometimes called Le Grand Veneur. Sully gives some
account of this hunting spectre.
 
54 The historical facts attending this celebrated interview are expounded and
enlarged upon in Chapter Twenty-Seventh. Agents sent by Louis had tempted the
people of Liege to rebel against their superior, Duke Charles, and persecute and
murder their Bishop. But Louis was not prepared for their acting with such
promptitude. They flew to arms with the temerity of a fickle rabble, took the
Bishop prisoner, menaced and insulted him, and tore to pieces one or two of his
canons. This news was sent to the Duke of Burgundy at the moment when Louis had
so unguardedly placed himself in his power; and the consequence was, that
Charles placed guards on the Castle of Peronne, and, deeply resenting the
treachery of the King of France in exciting sedition in his dominions while he
pretended the most intimate friendship, he deliberated whether he should not put
Louis to death.
Three days Louis was detained in this very precarious situation; and it was only
his profuse liberality amongst Charles's favourites and courtiers which finally
ensured him from death or deposition. Comines, who was the Duke of Burgundy's
chamberlain at the time, and slept in his apartment, says, Charles neither
undressed nor slept, but flung himself from time to time on the bed, and at
other times wildly traversed the apartment. It was long before his violent
temper became in any degree tractable. At length he only agreed to give Louis
his liberty on condition of his accompanying him in person against, and
employing his troops in subduing, the mutineers whom his intrigues had
instigated to arms.
This was a bitter and degrading alternative. But Louis, seeing no other mode of
compounding for the effects of his rashness, not only submitted to this
discreditable condition, but swore to it upon a crucifix said to have belonged
to Charlemagne. These particulars are from Comines. There is a succinct epitome
of them in Sir Nathaniel Wraxall's History of France, vol. i.
 
55 Louis kept his promise of vengeance against Cardinal La Balue, whom he always
blamed as having betrayed him to Burgundy. After he had returned to his own
kingdom, he caused his late favourite to be immured in one of the iron cages at
Loches. These were constructed with horrible ingenuity, so that a person of
ordinary size could neither stand up at his full height nor lie lengthwise in
them. Some ascribe this horrid device to Balue himself. At any rate, he was
confined in one of these dens for eleven years, nor did Louis permit him to be
liberated till his last illness.
 
56 While I perused these passages in the old manuscript chronicle, I could not
help feeling astonished that an intellect acute as that of Louis XI. certainly
was, could so delude itself by a sort of superstition of which one would think
the stupidest savages incapable; but the terms of the King's prayer on a similar
occasion, as preserved by Brantome, are of a tenor fully as extraordinary. It is
that which, being overheard by a fool or jester, was by him made public, and let
in light on an act of fratricide which might never have been suspected. The way
in which the story is narrated by the corrupted courtier, who could jest with
all that is criminal as well as with all that is profligate, is worthy the
reader's notice; for such actions are seldom done where there are not men with
hearts of the nether millstone, capable and willing to make them matters of
laughter.
»Among the numerous good tricks of dissimulation, feints and finesses of
gallantry, which the good King (Louis XI.) did in his time, he put to death his
brother, the Duke de Guyenne, at the moment when the Duke least thought of such
a thing, and while the King was making the greatest show of love to him during
his life, and of affection for him at his death, managing the whole concern with
so much art, that it would never have been known had not the King taken into his
own service a fool who had belonged to his deceased brother. But it chanced that
Louis, being engaged in his devout prayers and orisons at the high altar of our
Lady of Clery, whom he called his good patroness, and no person nigh except this
fool, who, without his knowledge, was within earshot, he thus gave vent to his
pious homilies: -
Ah, my good lady, my gentle mistress, my only friend, in whom alone I have
resource, I pray you to supplicate God in my behalf, and to be my advocate with
him that he may pardon me the death of my brother, whom I caused to be poisoned
by that wicked Abbot of Saint John. I confess my guilt to thee as to my good
patroness and mistress. But then what could I do? he was perpetually causing
disorder in my kingdom. Cause me then to be pardoned, my good Lady, and I know
what a reward I will give thee.«
This singular confession did not escape the jester, who upbraided the King with
the fratricide in the face of the whole company at dinner, which Louis was fain
to let pass without observation, in case of increasing the slander.
 
57 Varillas, in a history of Louis XI., observes, that his Provost-Marshal was
often so precipitate in execution, as to slay another person instead of him whom
the King had indicated. This always occasioned a double execution, for the wrath
or revenge of Louis was never satisfied with a vicarious punishment.
 
58 The author has endeavoured to give to the odious Tristan l'Hermite a species
of dogged and brutal fidelity to Louis, similar to the attachment of a bull-dog
to his master. With all the atrocity of his execrable character, he was
certainly a man of courage, and was, in his youth, made knight on the breach of
Fronsac, with a great number of other young nobles, by the honour-giving hand of
the elder Dunois, the celebrated hero of Charles the Vth's reign.
 
59 The death of Martius Galeotti was in some degree connected with Louis XI. The
astrologer was at Lyons, and hearing that the King was approaching the city, got
on horseback in order to meet him. As he threw himself hastily from his horse to
pay his respects to the King, he fell with a violence which, joined to his
extreme corpulence, was the cause of his death in 1478.
But the acute and ready-witted expedient to escape instant death had no
reference to the history of this philosopher. The same, or nearly the same,
story is told of Tiberius, who demanded of a soothsayer, Thrasullus, if he knew
the day of his own death, and received for answer, it would take place just
three days before that of the Emperor. On this reply, instead of being thrown
over the rocks into the sea, as had been the tyrant's first intention, he was
taken great care of for the rest of his life. - Taciti Annal. lib. vi. cap. 22.
The circumstances in which Louis XI. received a similar reply from an astrologer
are as follows: - The soothsayer in question had presaged that a female
favourite, to whom the King was very much attached, should die in a week. As he
proved a true prophet, the King was as much incensed as if the astrologer could
have prevented the evil he predicted. He sent for the philosopher, and had a
party stationed to assassinate him as he retired from the royal presence. Being
asked by the King concerning his own fortunes, he confessed that he perceived
signs of some imminent danger. Being farther questioned concerning the day of
his own death, he was shrewd enough to answer with composure, that it would be
exactly three days before that of his Majesty. There was, of course, care taken
that he should escape his destined fate; and he was ever after much protected by
the King, as a man of real science, and intimately connected with the royal
destinies.
Although almost all the historians of Louis represent him as a dupe to the
common but splendid imposture of judicial astrology, yet his credulity could not
be deep-rooted, if the following anecdote, reported by Bayle, be correct: -
Upon one occasion, Louis intending to hunt, and doubtful of the weather,
inquired of an astrologer near his person whether it would be fair. The sage,
having recourse to his astrolabe, answered with confidence in the affirmative.
At the entrance of the forest the royal cortège was met by a charcoalman, who
expressed to some menials of the train his surprise that the King should have
thought of hunting in a day which threatened tempest. The collier's prediction
proved true. The King and his court were driven from their sport well drenched;
and Louis, having heard what the collier had said, ordered the man before him.
»How were you more accurate in foretelling the weather, my friend,« said he,
»than this learned man?« - »I am an ignorant man, Sire,« answered the collier,
»was never at school, and cannot read or write. But I have an astrologer of my
own, who shall foretell weather with any of them. It is, with reverence, the ass
who carries my charcoal, who always, when bad weather is approaching, points
forward his ears, walks more slowly than usual, and tries to rub himself against
walls, and it was from these signs that I foretold yesterday's storm.« The King
burst into a fit of laughing, dismissed the astrological biped, and assigned the
collier a small pension to maintain the quadruped, swearing he would never in
future trust to any other astrologer than the charcoal-man's ass.
But if there is any truth in this story, the credulity of Louis was not of a
nature to be removed by the failure there mentioned. He is said to have believed
in the prediction of Angelo Cattho, his physician, and the friend of Comines,
who foretold the death of Charles of Burgundy in the very time and hour when it
took place at the battle of Morat. Upon this assurance Louis vowed a silver
screen to the shrine of Saint Martin, which he afterwards fulfilled at the
expense of one hundred thousand francs. It is well known, besides, that he was
the abject and devoted slave of his physicians. Coctier, or Cottier, one of
their number, besides the retaining fee of ten thousand crowns, extorted from
his royal patient great sums in lands and money, and, in addition to all, the
Bishopric of Amiens for his nephew. He maintained over Louis unbounded
influence, by using to him the most disrespectful harshness and insolence. »I
know,« he said to the suffering King, »that one morning you will turn me adrift
like so many others. But, by Heaven, you had better beware, for you will not
live eight days after you have done so!« It is unnecessary to dwell longer on
the fears and superstitions of a prince, whom the wretched love of life induced
to submit to such indignities.
 
60 The story is told more bluntly, and less probably, in the French memoirs of
the period, which affirm that Comines, out of a presumption inconsistent with
his excellent good sense, had asked of Charles of Burgundy to draw off his
boots, without having been treated with any previous familiarity to lead to such
a freedom. I have endeavoured to give the anecdote a turn more consistent with
the sense and prudence of the great author concerned.
 
61 There is little doubt that, during the interesting scene at Peronne, Philip
des Comines first learned intimately to know the great powers of mind of Louis
XI., by which he was so much dazzled, that it is impossible, in reading his
Memoirs, not to be sensible that he was blinded by them to the more odious
shades of his character. He entertained from this time forward a partiality to
France. The historian passed into France about 1472, and rose high in the good
graces of Louis XI. He afterwards became the proprietor of the lordship of
Argenton and others, a title which was given him by anticipation in the former
editions of this work. He did not obtain it till he was in the French service.
After the death of Louis, Philip des Comines fell under the suspicion of the
daughter of Louis, called our Lady of Beaujeu, as too zealous a partisan of the
rival House of Orleans. The historian himself was imprisoned for eight months in
one of the iron cages which he has so forcibly described. It was there that he
regretted the fate of a court-life. »I have ventured on the great ocean,« he
said in his affliction, »and the waves have devoured me.« He was subjected to a
trial, and exiled from court for some years by the Parliament of Paris, being
found guilty of holding intercourse with disaffected persons. He survived this
cloud, however, and was afterwards employed by Charles VIII. in one or two
important missions, where talents were required. Louis XII. also transferred his
favour to the historian, but did not employ him. He died at his Castle of
Argenton in 1509, and was regretted as one of the most profound statesmen, and
certainly the best historian, of his age. In a poem to his memory by the poet
Ronsard, he received the distinguished praise that he was the first to show the
lustre which valour and noble blood derived from being united with learning.
 
62 The heralds of the middle ages, like the feciales of the Romans, were
invested with a character which was held almost sacred. To strike a herald was a
crime which inferred a capital punishment; and to counterfeit the character of
such an august official was a degree of treason towards those men, who were
accounted the depositaries of the secrets of monarchs and the honour of nobles.
Yet a prince so unscrupulous as Louis XI. did not hesitate to practise such an
imposition, when he wished to enter into communication with Edward IV. of
England.
Exercising that knowledge of mankind for which he was so eminent, he selected,
as an agent fit for his purpose, a simple valet. This man, whose address had
been known to him, he disguised as a herald, with all the insignia of his
office, and sent him in that capacity to open a communication with the English
army. Two things are remarkable in this transaction. First, that the stratagem,
though of so fraudulent a nature, does not seem to have been necessarily called
for, since all that King Louis could gain by it would be, that he did not commit
himself by sending a more responsible messenger. The other circumstance worthy
of notice is, that Comines, though he mentions the affair at great length, is so
pleased with the King's shrewdness in selecting, and dexterity at
indoctrinating, his pseudo-herald, that he forgets all remark on the impudence
and fraud of the imposition, as well as the great risk of discovery. From both
which circumstances we are led to the conclusion, that the solemn character
which the heralds endeavoured to arrogate to themselves had already begun to
lose regard among statesmen and men of the great world.
Even Ferne, zealous enough for the dignity of the herald, seems to impute this
intrusion on their rights in some degree to necessity. »I have heard some,« he
says, »but with shame enough, allow of the action of Louis XI. of the kingdom of
France, who had so unknightly a regard both of his own honour and also of armes,
that he seldom had about his court any officer-at-armes. And therefore, at such
time as Edward IV., King of England, had entered France with a hostile power,
and lay before the town of Saint Quentin, the same French King, for want of a
herald to carry his mind to the English King, was constrained to suborn a
vadelict, or common serving-man, with a trumpet-banner, having a hole made
through the middest for this preposterous herauld to put his head through, and
to cast it over his shoulders instead of a better coat-armour of France. And
thus came this hastily-arrayed courier as a counterfeit officer-at-armes, with
instructions from his sovereign's mouth to offer peace to our King. Well,
replies Torquatus, the other interlocutor in the dialogue, that fault was never
yet to be seen in any of our English Kings, nor ever shall be, I hope.« -
FERNE'S Blazen of Gentry, 1586, p. 161.
In this curious book, the author, besides some assertions in favour of
coat-armour, too nearly approaching blasphemy to be quoted, informs us, that the
Apostles were gentlemen of blood, and many of them descended from that worthy
conqueror, Judas Maccabæus; but through the course of time and persecution of
wars, poverty oppressed the kindred, and they were constrained to servile works.
So were the four doctors and fathers of the church (Ambrose, Augustine, Hierome,
and Gregorie) gentlemen both of blood and arms, p. 98. The Author's copy of this
rare tract (memorial of a hopeful young friend, now no more) exhibits a curious
sally of the national and professional irritability of a Scottish herald.
This person appears to have been named Thomas Drysdale, Islay Herald, who
purchased the volume in 1619, and seems to have perused it with patience and
profit till he came to the following passage in Ferne, which enters into the
distinction between sovereign and feudatory crowns. »There is also a King, and
he a homager, or foedatorie to the estate and majestie of another King, as to
his superior lord, as that of Scotland to our English empire.« This assertion
set on fire the Scottish blood of Islay Herald, who, forgetting the book had
been printed nearly forty years before, and that the author was probably dead,
writes on the margin in great wrath, and in a half-text hand, »He is a traitor
and lyar in his throat, and I offer him the combat, that says Scotland's Kings
were ever feudatorie to England.«
 
63 The heralds of the middle ages, like the feciales of the Romans, were
invested with a character which was held almost sacred. To strike a herald was a
crime which inferred a capital punishment; and to counterfeit the character of
such an august official was a degree of treason towards those men, who were
accounted the depositaries of the secrets of monarchs and the honour of nobles.
Yet a prince so unscrupulous as Louis XI. did not hesitate to practise such an
imposition, when he wished to enter into communication with Edward IV. of
England.
Exercising that knowledge of mankind for which he was so eminent, he selected,
as an agent fit for his purpose, a simple valet. This man, whose address had
been known to him, he disguised as a herald, with all the insignia of his
office, and sent him in that capacity to open a communication with the English
army. Two things are remarkable in this transaction. First, that the stratagem,
though of so fraudulent a nature, does not seem to have been necessarily called
for, since all that King Louis could gain by it would be, that he did not commit
himself by sending a more responsible messenger. The other circumstance worthy
of notice is, that Comines, though he mentions the affair at great length, is so
pleased with the King's shrewdness in selecting, and dexterity at
indoctrinating, his pseudo-herald, that he forgets all remark on the impudence
and fraud of the imposition, as well as the great risk of discovery. From both
which circumstances we are led to the conclusion, that the solemn character
which the heralds endeavoured to arrogate to themselves had already begun to
lose regard among statesmen and men of the great world.
Even Ferne, zealous enough for the dignity of the herald, seems to impute this
intrusion on their rights in some degree to necessity. »I have heard some,« he
says, »but with shame enough, allow of the action of Louis XI. of the kingdom of
France, who had so unknightly a regard both of his own honour and also of armes,
that he seldom had about his court any officer-at-armes. And therefore, at such
time as Edward IV., King of England, had entered France with a hostile power,
and lay before the town of Saint Quentin, the same French King, for want of a
herald to carry his mind to the English King, was constrained to suborn a
vadelict, or common serving-man, with a trumpet-banner, having a hole made
through the middest for this preposterous herauld to put his head through, and
to cast it over his shoulders instead of a better coat-armour of France. And
thus came this hastily-arrayed courier as a counterfeit officer-at-armes, with
instructions from his sovereign's mouth to offer peace to our King. Well,
replies Torquatus, the other interlocutor in the dialogue, that fault was never
yet to be seen in any of our English Kings, nor ever shall be, I hope.« -
FERNE'S Blazen of Gentry, 1586, p. 161.
In this curious book, the author, besides some assertions in favour of
coat-armour, too nearly approaching blasphemy to be quoted, informs us, that the
Apostles were gentlemen of blood, and many of them descended from that worthy
conqueror, Judas Maccabæus; but through the course of time and persecution of
wars, poverty oppressed the kindred, and they were constrained to servile works.
So were the four doctors and fathers of the church (Ambrose, Augustine, Hierome,
and Gregorie) gentlemen both of blood and arms, p. 98. The Author's copy of this
rare tract (memorial of a hopeful young friend, now no more) exhibits a curious
sally of the national and professional irritability of a Scottish herald.
This person appears to have been named Thomas Drysdale, Islay Herald, who
purchased the volume in 1619, and seems to have perused it with patience and
profit till he came to the following passage in Ferne, which enters into the
distinction between sovereign and feudatory crowns. »There is also a King, and
he a homager, or foedatorie to the estate and majestie of another King, as to
his superior lord, as that of Scotland to our English empire.« This assertion
set on fire the Scottish blood of Islay Herald, who, forgetting the book had
been printed nearly forty years before, and that the author was probably dead,
writes on the margin in great wrath, and in a half-text hand, »He is a traitor
and lyar in his throat, and I offer him the combat, that says Scotland's Kings
were ever feudatorie to England.«
 
64 The perilling the hand of an heiress upon the event of a battle was not so
likely to take place in the fourteenth century as when the laws of chivalry were
in more general observance. Yet it was not unlikely to occur to so absolute a
Prince as Duke Charles, in circumstances like those supposed.
 
65 It is almost unnecessary to add, that the marriage of William de la Marck
with the Lady Hameline is as apocryphal as the lady herself. The real bride of
the Wild Boar of Ardennes was Joan D'Arschel, Baroness of Scoonhoven.
 
66 The Duke of Burgundy, full of resentment for the usage which the Bishop had
received from the people of Liege (whose death, as already noticed, did not take
place for some years after), and knowing that the walls of the town had not been
repaired since they were breached by himself after the battle of Saint Tron,
advanced recklessly to their chastisement. His commanders shared his
presumptuous confidence: for the advanced guard of his army, under the Maréchal
of Burgundy and Seigneur D'Hymbercourt, rushed upon one of the suburbs, without
waiting for the rest of their army, which, commanded by the Duke in person,
remained about seven or eight leagues in the rear. The night was closing, and,
as the Burgundian troops observed no discipline, they were exposed to a sudden
attack from a party of the citizens commanded by Jean de Vilde, who, assaulting
them in front and rear, threw them into great disorder, and killed more than
eight hundred men, of whom one hundred were men-at-arms.
When Charles and the King of France came up, they took up their quarters in two
villas situated near to the wall of the city. In the two or three days which
followed, Louis was distinguished for the quiet and regulated composure with
which he pressed the siege, and provided for defence in case of sallies; while
the Duke of Burgundy, no way deficient in courage, and who showed the rashness
and want of order which was his principal characteristic, seemed also extremely
suspicious that the King would desert him and join with the Liegeois.
They lay before the town for five or six days, and at length fixed the 30th of
October, 1468, for a general storm. The citizens, who had probably information
of their intent, resolved to prevent their purpose, and determined on
anticipating it by a desperate sally through the breaches in their walls. They
placed at their head six hundred of the men of the little territory of
Franchemont, belonging to the Bishopric of Liege, and reckoned the most valiant
of their troops. They burst out of the town on a sudden, surprised the Duke of
Burgundy's quarters, ere his guards could put on their armour, which they had
laid off to enjoy some repose before the assault. The King of France's lodgings
were also attacked and endangered. A great confusion ensued, augmented
incalculably by the mutual jealousy and suspicions of the French and
Burgundians. The people of Liege were, however, unable to maintain their hardy
enterprise, when the men-at-arms of the King and Duke began to recover from
their confusion, and were finally forced to retire within their walls, after
narrowly missing the chance of surprising both King Louis and the Duke of
Burgundy, the most powerful Princes of their time. At daybreak the storm took
place, as had been originally intended, and the citizens, disheartened and
fatigued by the nocturnal sally, did not make so much resistance as was
expected. Liege was taken and miserably pillaged, without regard to sex or age,
things sacred or things profane. These particulars are fully related by Comines
in his Memoirs, liv. ii. chaps. 11, 12, 13, and do not differ much from the
account of the same events given in the text.
 
67 A homely Scottish expression for something you value.
 
68 A cant expression in Scotland for death, usually delineated as a skeleton.
 
69 We have already noticed the anachronism respecting the crimes of this
atrocious baron; and it is scarce necessary to repeat, that if he in reality
murdered the Bishop of Liege in 1482, the Count of La Marck could not be slain
in the defence of Liege four years earlier. In fact, the Wild Boar of Ardennes,
as he was usually termed, was of high birth, being the third son of John I.,
Count of La Marck and Aremberg, and ancestor of the branch called Barons of
Lumain. He did not escape the punishment due to his atrocity, though it did not
take place at the time, or in the manner narrated in the text. Maximilian,
Emperor of Austria, caused him to be arrested at Utrecht, where he was beheaded
in the year 1485, three years after the Bishop of Liege's death.
 
70 An old rhyme, by which the Leslies vindicate their descent from an ancient
knight who is said to have slain a gigantic Hungarian champion, and to have
formed a proper name for himself by a play of words upon the place where he
fought his adversary.
 
71 »E come a ritornare in sua contrada
Trovasse e buon naviglio e miglior tempo
E dell' India a Medor desse lo scettro
Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro.«
                                          ORLANDO FURIOSO, Canto XXX. Stanza 16.
