CHAPTER XI.
The Count de Meyrand and his horsemen wound slowly away from the door ofthe little cabaret, leaving Isabel de Brienne and her maid the onlytenants of the place. Both were extremely tired; and the lady herselfwould have desired to lie down to rest at once rather than wait for thepreparation of any kind of food, but that she was also anxious toconverse over her situation with her attendant, and to see if, betweenthem, they could not devise some plan of future conduct which mightobviate the difficulties which surrounded her. She, therefore, did noteven propose to take rest, and began the conversation at once; but,taciturn as the woman always was, she was at present more so than ever.There was not only a sort of sullenness in her manner, which somewhatdispleased Isabel, but she spoke rather in the tone of one who had beeninjured than in compassion for the greater sufferings of her mistress.In answer to all inquiries regarding what had been done in the chapelafter her lady had lost the power of observing what was passing, shereplied merely that she had been as frightened as anybody, and thoughtof nobody but herself.
"You seem to be grieved, Marguerite," said Isabel de Brienne, after thissort of conduct had proceeded some time, "you seem to be grieved,Marguerite, that you have aided me in this business, and so brought someinconveniences upon yourself."
"No, mademoiselle," she said, shortly, "but I am very tired."
"Then I think you had better go to bed," replied Isabel; "I shall notwant you for some hours."
"I will, presently, mademoiselle," replied the maid; "but I am veryhungry."
Isabel had not the heart to smile, as she might have done on anotheroccasion; for selfishness is, perhaps, less offensive when it stands outin its plain simplicity than when it is discovered through ahypocritical disguise. In fact, like ugliness, it is more ugly whenpainted. Almost as the soubrette spoke, however, the good woman of thehouse, who was a widow, brought in with her own hands and the hands of amaid-servant--which were exactly like another pair of her own, for theyenacted nothing without her orders--several dishes for the morning meal,which were placed with all due reverence before Isabel de Brienne. Theyoung lady tried to eat; but, as she did so, the thought of many painfulthings, of the probable situation of him she loved best, and of the darkfate that might be hanging over him, came across her mind; and, to usethe homely but expressive words of old John Hall, when describing theconduct of the first famous Duke of Buckingham between his arrest andhis execution, "The meat would not down."
The soubrette, however, made up for her mistress's want of appetite, andate plentifully of all that was set before her. When she had done,Isabel bade her retire to rest, and, at the same time, ordered the foodto be taken away. The soubrette at once obeyed, and left the room; andthe kind-hearted hostess remarking that the young lady had takennothing, was pressing her at least to drink some wine, for theexcellence of which she vouched, when Isabel de Brienne, whose face wastowards the window, gave a slight start, and replied almost immediately,"No, my good dame; the first thing that will do me good is a littlequiet reflection. I think," she added, "that I saw just now a good monk,seemingly a pilgrim by the scallop on his shoulder pass close to thewindow, as if to sit down on the bench at the door. Give him that dishof meat, and tell him a lady sent it who begs a prayer of him, as shehas been in some trouble since last night."
The worthy dame of the cabaret gladly took up the dish with her ownhands and carried it forth to the wanderer. She then returned to removesome other things, and Isabel asked, somewhat eagerly, "What did hesay?"
"Oh! madam, he sent you thanks," replied the hostess, "and took out arosary, which he said had hung up at Loretto for many years, and beganimmediately to repeat as many paters and aves as would cost a score ofcrowns from our parish priest."
"Did he say nothing else?" asked Isabel, with a somewhat disappointedlook.
The hostess replied in the negative, and shortly after left the younglady alone to repose. A deeper shade of melancholy then came over her.She sat and leaned her head upon her hand, and again and again thethoughts of her own situation, and that of him she loved, came acrossher mind with the painful, fruitless reiteration which is the mostwearying, perhaps, of all the forms of care. To know and feel thatactivity and exertion are absolutely necessary; to have hope only justsufficient to deprive one of the courage of despair; to believe thatthere is a possibility of changing our situation, yet not to know howthat change can be by any means effected, how exertion should bedirected, or where hope would guide; such is the state into which, fromtime to time, we fall in our passage through life, and stand like men inone of those thick, impervious mists which are not absolutely darkness,but which are worse than darkness itself, from not being, like it,dissolvable by light.
She thought not, indeed, so much of herself as of another. She thoughtof Bernard de Rohan with deep, with strong, with tender affection; and,after some minutes of vague and wild inquiries as to what she could donext, she was obliged to turn to chance and fortune to find a footingfor hope to rest upon--no, not to chance and fortune, but to thebeneficence and mercy of God. There, then, her hope fixed, ay, andseemed to refresh itself. "Could she not," she asked herself, "could shenot be, by some means, instrumental in aiding him she loved, let hissituation be what it might?"
She had gathered from the struggle that had taken place in the chapel,from the want of all sounds of clashing steel or other indications ofactual combat, and also from the manner in which she had been herselfdealt with, that her lover had been overpowered and made a prisonerbefore he could resist. She did not believe that the Lord of Masseranwould dare to attempt his life. The risk, she thought, would be far toogreat for the object to be attained; for, in truth, she knew not whatthat object was, and believed it to be less than it really was, and fardifferent. If, then, he were a captive in the chateau of Masseran, couldshe not, she asked herself, find means to procure his deliverance? Shehad heard of such things being done--ay, in the very age and times inwhich she lived. She had heard of woman's weak hand and perseveringaffection executing what man's strength and wisdom had failed toperform, and hers was a heart which, though gentle, kind, and yieldingin the moment of happiness and security, was conscious of fortitude, andstrength, and courage, when danger and evil assailed those that sheloved.
"My father's spirit," she said, "the spirit of him who endured the wholewrath and indignation of a despotic king sooner than abandon the friendof his youth, will bear me up through any trials, while I have theobject of delivering him I love."
But how, how? was the question; what means could she take, whatstratagems could she employ, while she was watched by the eyes of Adriande Meyrand? Should she confide her purposes to him? Should she appeal tohis courtesy--to his friendship for her lover--to his generosity? Shouldshe confide in him? Dared she to do so?
As she asked herself these questions, something darkened the light, asif passing across the window. She looked up. It was all clear again. Theday was bright and sunshiny, and the rays pouring in from the southwest.The window was a narrow cottage lattice, in a stone frame, divided intothree partitions. It might have been a branch of the honeysuckle thatclimbed around it, which had been blown across by the wind, and causedthe shadow. It might have been but a cloud passing over the sun; and shebent her head again, and fell once more into thought. The instant after,the shadow came again, and a voice said, "Are you quite alone?"
Isabel looked up. The pilgrim, whom she had before seen, was standingnear the window, leaning on his staff, not exactly turned towards her,but standing with his shoulder towards the open lattice, and his eyesapparently bent onward towards Savoy. There was something in his airfamiliar to her, though she could not tell in what it consisted. It hadstruck her before as he passed: even more, perhaps, in that momentaryglance than it did now, when she saw him fully; and she could scarcelythink that it was the pilgrim who spoke, or, if so, that it was to herthat he addressed himself. After a moment, however, he turned his faceagain for an instant towards the window, repeating,
"Are you quite alone?"
"Quite!" replied Isabel.
"Then come near the window," said the same voice: "sit in thewindow-seat as if you were looking out. I will rest on thisstepping-stone hard by. Let our words be short, and few, and low intone; each word well pondered before it is spoken, and your eyes uponthe door of the room from time to time."
The view which Isabel had of his face had shown her the features of anold man, somewhat sharp and keen, though they were much hidden under hishood, which was formed like that of a Capuchin. His beard, which wasvery white, was not so long as that of the generality of monks, and sheconcluded that it had been only suffered to grow during the period ofhis pilgrimage. He was a venerable-looking man, however; and, as it wasevident that he knew something of her situation, she imagined that hebore her some message, and hastened to follow his directions. The momentshe had taken her place at the window, he sat down on one of thestepping-stones placed to aid travellers in mounting their horses, andthere, with his face still turned away from her, commenced theconversation by asking, "Do you not know me?"
"Your voice and your air," she said, "are familiar to me, but I knownothing more."
"I am Father Willand," said the pilgrim, "who baptized you in yourinfancy, watched you for the first nine years of your life, till yourfather procured me what he thought advancement in Paris, and who unitedyou last night to the man for whom that father had ever destined you."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Isabel; "I thought you had fallen into thepower of that evil Piedmontese; for I could not conceive it possible,when we were all so completely surrounded, that you should make your wayout."
"They caught the other priest instead of me," replied Father Willand,"and I lay hid behind the altar till they were all dispersed and gone.Your husband, lady, however, has fallen into the power of one enemy, andyou into the power of another, or, what is worse than an enemy, adaring, treacherous, unhesitating lover."
"Call him not so, Father Willand! call him not so!" replied Isabel."Love elevates, ennobles, and purifies--"
"Do not let us discuss love, lady," replied the priest; "I have nothingto do with it, but yet understand it, perhaps, better than you do. Loveis applied to a thousand different things, and what is its right meaningwere of long argument. All I know is, that you must not remain with thisman an hour longer than you can help."
"Tell me how I can escape from him," said Isabel, in the same low tone."Nothing I desire more! But still let me do him justice: he has this daybehaved well and kindly towards me; perilled his life to save me, andtreated me with respect and delicacy."
"Perilled his life!" said Father Willand; "guns fired without balls,lady! swords drawn without bloodshed! a farce that would not havedeceived a child! They knew you to be but a child, or they would nothave tried it! Did you see one man fall or fallen? Did you see one dropof blood shed for all the powder expended?"
"But still," said Isabel, though she had certainly neither seen woundsnor death follow the apparently smart encounter between the Count deMeyrand and the Lord of Masseran, "but still, he has been gentle andkind, and professes to leave me entirely to decide upon my own conduct."
"Try him, try him," said the priest: "use the liberty he professes togive, and you will find yourself a stricter prisoner than you were whenin the castle of Masseran. Hearken," he continued, "for I must not behere long. I have followed you from last night till now; taking shorterpaths than you have been led by, it is true; but still, lady, I amsomewhat old and somewhat fat: and, though of the quick tribe, an oldgreyhound will not run as long as a young one. I must have some repose;but to-night I shall be ready to give you aid wherever you may then be.When it comes, take it at a moment's warning; and, in the mean time, tomake yourself sure of what you are about, exercise this liberty that youthink you have. The Count de Meyrand judges you are about to set out forParis to-morrow morning direct; tell him to-night that you haveconsidered, and determined upon going to Grenoble to meet your brotherHarry. Then see what he says. If he agree thereunto honestly, well andgood; trust him! If, on the contrary, he teach you to feel that his willmust be your law, then trust me, and come with me whithersoever I shallguide you!"
Isabel paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Not to Grenoble," she said atlength; "I must not go to Grenoble yet! That is too far; but if any onewould convey intelligence to my brother of where I am, and bid him joinme instantly at Latour, then, indeed, I might succeed--"
"Succeed in what?" demanded the priest.
"In freeing him," replied Isabel; and, though the blood rose up in hercheek as she said it, she added, the more resolutely from a slight smilethat came from the priest's countenance as he turned for an instanttowards her, "in freeing my husband."
"Oh, fear not, fear not, pretty one!" replied the priest. "We'll getyour bird out of the cage yet, never fear. Indeed, I did not come hitherwithout taking care that those should have information of where he is,and how he is, who may best contrive the means for his escape."
"Still," replied Isabel, "I would rather not be far absent from the spotuntil I see him free."
"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go toGrenoble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. Ionly told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count ofMeyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggsin a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamblies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and hewho would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark mywords, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest evennow, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free andactive this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour,then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Grenoble. You will seein a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at oncewhen you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your headupon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."
"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where--"
"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We mustuse bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, betweenParis and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, thanall the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into manya house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfyyourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow meat a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will,and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be assecret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. Ihave heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twentyhours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for wemust talk together no more."
Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window,pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terriblequestion, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whomcan we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had toask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every onein advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated,and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, howfew are there throughout all existence that we can trust--fully,entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another;the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, theenergy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! inlooking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be,that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wronglywithheld.
The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself wasmore limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of thesetwo men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Thoseshe had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she hadalready had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and shecould not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the firstevil impressio
n of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which shecould not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that littleseemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved.Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender butimperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them,and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from thetwilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an eveninglandscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long setto our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but thosethat bore an uninterested part therein--objects animate or inanimatealike--the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all stillretain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when otherthings are forgotten.
The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne awilling, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For thatreason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he hadreferred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of timebetween, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself andthe objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasantrecollections which attached themselves by the fine links of associationto the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the roughand somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. Sheremembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; sheremembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty ofpurpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness;and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse foranything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that herfather had really pronounced such words, she thought that she rememberedhis having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had drivenhim into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not haverecalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any othercircumstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow moreand more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let theresult of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand bewhat it would.
Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2) Page 11