CHAPTER III. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, THE spirits of St. Maur had not been so elated for many a day ; his movements seemed in some sort to harmonize with the rapid current of his feelings; he ran rather than walked through the narrow streets of old Lutetia, back to the rue St. Antoine. But when the first heat caused by the strange rencontre subsided, and reflection made him conscious of his own state of mind, and enabled him to scrutinize the conduct of the two ladies, the fair horizon of joy and hope was dimmed with clouds. His own gaunt poverty stared him in the face; he was unable to sustain the merest expense appertaining to the part of a youthful gallant; he could not as he very sorrowfully confessed, purchase, or even hire, the necessary costume for the masqued party of the morrow. And who were these ladies, whose danger from the mob had at first alarmed him, and whose subsequent eccentric, even suspicious conduct, served to tantalize his curiosity and excite his fancy? Guests they were of the Cardinal; but was their conduct befitting in all respects ladies of quality? The elder one was staid and reserved, but more apparently for the sake of concealment, than from any sense of decorum; and in her youthful companion, there could not fail to be noticed a tone of levity and carelessness which made St. Maur thoughtful when he reflected on it; for in his day-dreams of beauty, he had associated with the other lovely attributes of the sex, a retiring modesty, which required much seeking and pleading ere won by such cavaliers as himself. Why, therefore, should he feel such a deep interest in one whose features he had not seen, and who had not scrupled to make an assignation with him, a stranger? The mystery, again, of retiring to the convent instead of to their own house, was unfathomable. He vowed that he would be very cautious and prudent, for there might be some danger or disgrace preparing. But be this as it might, he was captivated; the very uncertainty of all that appertained to his new friends, if he might so designate them, spoke to his imagination; a new life seemed to burst upon him; he felt a fresh strength and courage, as though a voice called in the depths of his own humiliation and despondency, bidding him bestir himself, for there was happiness yet in store, and honour within reach, to be plucked by a daring hand. His step was once more elastic and bounding, his look martial and confident; and even in the onset, he experienced how much these graces worked in his favour; for as he entered the auberge, mine host, who had fully made up his mind to have a reckoning once and for all, and to rid the Golden Angel of such an unwelcome and unprofitable guest, was so struck with the altered demeanour of the youth, that he shrunk back from the task. His courage died within him, and as St. Maur glared fiercely though unconsciously, upon his host, the latter had certain misgivings that the intended attack would be met with sundry kicks or perhaps worse rebuffs, and he very quietly changed his plan of battle, presenting his guest, with a show of courtesy, a well-trimmed lamp to light him safely up the crazy staircase. It was not till St. Maur was seated in his humble apartment, that he recalled the altered behaviour of the Sieur la Motte, nor did he immediately become aware of the cause; but when it did break upon him, he could not repress a smile at the expense of the host of the Golden Angel. For a while he lay without rest, thinking over the events of the night, and in imagination, again and again travelling with his fair escort to the faubourg St. Jacques, listening to the quick tones of her voice, and ever and anon turning round in the endeavour to catch a glimpse at her face. At length he fell asleep, but his spirits were still agitated. Once more he is conducting the ladies to the convent; strange perils beset them; the assassin darts from his lurking place and is with difficulty repelled; barricades front his path, over which he conducts the ladies with great toil, rewarded sweetly by a gentle pressure of the hand, The dream changes-streets and barricades vanish. It is evening, just growing dark, and he is leaving the Golden Angel, wrapped in the flowing velvet cloak of a chevalier of the Order of St. Esprit, on the shoulder, the badge of the Holy Dove; his hat streaming with feathers. Carefully he paces the streets, and often pauses to allow the wind to drop, lest it should blow aside the cloak, and display the poverty and raggedness of the nether apparel with which, in the vision, he believed himself clothed. He arrives at a handsome hôtel-the carriage entrance, or porte cochère, is open. Guests are entering-he feels a trepidation lest his robes should be displaced, but ventures onward-steps beneath the archway, and gains the vestibule. The porter eyes the youth maliciously, but allows him to pass: the lacqueys bow lowly as he ascends the magnificent staircase. One glimpse is caught of the saloon; and at the same instant, music starting into existence, gay figures glide quickly behind the pillars. He hastens onward; is recognised by a shepherdess, who disengages herself from the dance, and runs forward to meet him. It is the fair spirit of Val-de-Grace; he is about to take her hand and press it to his lips, but is suddenly drawn backward; that malicious old porter, whose caution is now actively alert, throws open the knightly robes, and discovers the youth to be apparelled in the garb of a mean mendicant. Laughter and yells pursue the miserable lover; he is driven from the saloon, and awakes to find himself in the little garret of the auberge; another day just breaking over his head. Awake and aroused, he is scarcely more happy; he has dreamt of poverty-but its waking evils are sharpest; and in spite of the noble resolves to cast away despair, and take the world by storm, fear and melancholy, so long the jailers of his heart, again seize him. Still his thoughts revert to those silvery tones which had bound his soul captive. Could he, he inwardly exclaimed, but call her his own! "Were it but his happiness to be her defender through life's conflicts, how gladly would he dare the wide world to the combat! Her levity! that was an oppressive shadow, but self-love came to his aid; and vanity interprets her forwardness to his own good graces and qualities. How often did he repeat the words-the third house in the Place Royale! Her name, indeed, was to him unknown; but the locality had wherewithal to feed the imagination. In this, the nineteenth century, the quarter of Paris to which he was invited is very far from being a favoured spot; but in the middle of the seventeenth century, the Place Royale, situate in what is called "the Marais, was a newly-erected square of the noblest proportions, and the mansions or hôtels inhabited by the noblesse of the highest rank. Here, then, was incident enough to turn the brain of any young man of two-and-twenty. That gallant ecclesiastic, the Coadjutor De Retz, would have been delighted beyond measure with such an adventure, and would have both compromised clerical character and risked life ere he desisted from its pursuit. Nothing but a new adventure and fresh passion would have cooled his ardour; but with St. Maur the case was widely different. Bred in the provinces, partly at convents and partly at the houses of remote kinsmen, almost a pensioner on their bounty, he was a stranger to that confidence which results from continued prosperity and independent station. The loneliness of his fate had, however, saved him from many vices almost unavoidable in the career of his more fortunate compeers; it had also induced a habit of reflection, and perchance of castle-building-that paradise of the unfortunate--which tinged his habitual thoughts with a hue of romance, To this may be attributed the strong impression made by the fair stranger; he felt how deeply she had moved his heart; but while exulting in the birth of the new passion, he was sorely troubled lest she should not realize the ideal of long-cherished fancy. Falling in love, which to the gay Parisian noblesse was a pastime, and a relief to the advancement of fortune so zealously pursued in state intrigues, was to him a very grave affair. And then his lamentable poverty! the bitterest reflection of all! What dame of high or low degree would listen to his suit? He was, indeed, shut out from the court of Love. He looked round the little attic; there was in it all he could call his own--and that how little! The few jewels and ornaments of value once possessed, had gradually disappeared during his stay in Paris, an anxious suitor and time-waiter on the smiles of men in power. Suddenly he started. The dusky feather which still wreathed his hat, betrayed beneath its fibres the concentrated glow of the pure emerald. He remembered the bright gift, thrown aside on retiring to rest. Was not here, he thought, the means by which he might, at least for a while, prosecute his suit under more favourable auspices? But dare he dispose of the gift? Would it not be a violation of courtesy, and an outrage on the sanctity with which he enwrapped every circumstance, however minute, connected with his passion. For a while he was in despair, and his mind in a state of conflict; but romance gave way to the influence of necessity; it was not the gift of her he worshipped, and so, he thought, might be disposed of honourably. The course once resolved on, he became a man of action. Quitting hastily the auberge, he walked rapidly to the Isle de la Cité that little island in the Seine, which was once, as we have before intimated, the whole of Paris, and on which are congregated so many of its ancient edifices. Its south-western bank is named the Quai des Orfèvres, or the Jewellers' Quay, so called from being inhabited by the wealthiest of that class. Regardless of the throngs of politicians for the whole population of the city seemed abroad, and all talkers or listeners, discussing the latest morceau of intelligence which had escaped from the head-quarters of the court or the faction-he selected the richest shop on the quay, and entering, was followed by the goldsmith and his two assistants, who had been listening before the door like their neighbours, scarcely expecting a customer at that early hour, and amidst the din of political strife. Eight hundred crowns was declared the worth of the bracelet, after it had undergone a minute examination by the goldsmith and his apprentices. This to St. Maur was pleasing intelligence, and elated him considerably, for he had remarked that the jeweller occasionally cast towards him a furtive glance while testing the gems, which he attributed to a suspicion of the genuineness of the emeralds; and this impression was confirmed by the man adding, that although the sum mentioned was the presumed value, yet he must have the opinion of a neighbour on their quality before he concluded the bargain. One of the apprentices left the shop with this view, and the jeweller proceeding to his strong room, brought forth a bag, weighty with gold, which he placed ostentationsly on the counter. The assistant taking longer time to perform his errand than was expected, the goldsmith made many apologies for the delay, attri buting it to the disturbed state of the city, and the probable absence of his neighbour, who, unlike himself, was an active politician, and very likely to be engaged in pursuits less profitable and prudent than attending to his shop. "A year ago," said the jeweller, your jewels would have been well worth a thousand crowns, but every one is selling now; there are no buyers, and I must keep this bracelet, eating up its interest, till quiet times again bless the city. There is M. de Beaufort hawk~ing his plate, the gift of the good Henry to the fair Gabrielle, over all the town, wishing us goldsmiths to lend more than it ever cost his honoured grandfather-and there is Monsieur de Retz wishes to borrow money without any security at all!" "And the court-and the Prince of Condé," replied St. Maur, "do they never trouble you?" |