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L'Orme

<h4>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h4> "Ah! Monsieur de l'Orme!" cried de Riquemont, the Prince's first ecuyer de la main, as I galloped up. "Here is a dreadful catastrophe! Monsieur le Comte, I am afraid, has accidentally shot himself. Twice during this morning I have seen him raise the visor of his casque with the muzzle of his pistol, and I warned him of the event." "No, De Riquemont!" replied I. "No! the Count has been murdered! Look at his pistols; you will find them charged. As I rode up the hill, I saw a horseman pass him, I heard a pistol fired, and beheld the Count fall." "I saw a horseman ride away also," cried one of the attendants: "he wore a green plume, and his horse, which was a thorough barb, had a large white spot on his left shoulder." "I know him, I know him, then!" replied I, "and I will avenge this on his head, or die." So saying, I turned and galloped down in the direction which the horseman had taken, without seeing or caring whether any one followed me or not. Certain that the assassin had betaken himself to the hollow way, I felt sure that, whether he went straight forward, or crossed over the hill, I must catch a glance of him if I rode fast. I was mounted on the noble horse the unhappy Prince had himself given me; and, as if feeling that my errand was to avenge his lord, he flew beneath me like the wind. I was just in time; for I had scarcely reached the bottom of the glen when I saw a hat and green feather sinking behind the hill to the right. I spurred across it in an instant, and at the distance of about one hundred and fifty yards before me, in the ravine below, I beheld the same horseman I had but too surely marked before, now galloping as if he well knew that the avenger of blood was behind him. The ravine led into a road which I was acquainted with, from De Retz and myself having followed it on our return from Sedan to Paris. It was the worst a fugitive could have taken, for it had scarce a turning in its whole length; and, once we were both upon it, the chase of the assassin became a matter of mere speed between my horse and his. They were as nearly matched as it is possible to conceive; and for more than four miles which that road extended, I did not gain upon him forty yards. At length, however, the path was traversed by the little river Bar, broad and spreading, but scarcely deeper than a horse's knee. The bridge was built of wood, old and insecure; and he that I pursued took the river in preference. In the midst his horse's foot slipped, and fell on his knees. His rider brought him up; but the beast was hurt, his speed was over, and before he had gained twenty lengths on the other side, I was up with him, and my hand upon his bridle-rein. "Turn, villain! Turn, murderer!" cried I, "and prepare to settle our long account together. This day, this hour, this moment, is either your last or mine." "By my faith, Monsieur de l'Orme," replied the Marquis de St. Brie--for to him it was spoken--"you hold very strange language; but you had better quit my rein; my attendants are within call, and you may repent this conduct. Are you mad?" From whatever accident it happened, his attendants were evidently not within call, or he would not have fled so rapidly from a single man. While he spoke also, I saw him slip his hand softly towards his holsters, and in another moment most probably I should have shared the fate of the Count de Soissons, but before he could reach his pistol, I struck him a violent blow with my clenched gauntlet that dashed him from his horse. I sprang to the ground, and he started up at the same moment, laying his hand upon his sword. "Draw! draw, villain!" cried I. "It is what I seek! draw!" "Doubtless," replied he, with a sneer, that he could not restrain even then, while at the same time fury and hesitation were strangely mingled in his countenance--"doubtless, when you are covered with a corslet and morion, and I am without any defensive arms." "That difference shall soon be done away," cried I, casting away my casque, and unbuckling my corslet, while I stood between him and his horse, and kept a wary eye upon him lest he should take me at a disadvantage; but he had other feelings on the subject, it seems, for before I was prepared, he said, in a faltering tone, "You have told me yourself, that whoever seeks your life shall die by your hand. The combat with you is not equal." "Fool!" cried I, "fool! You, a murderer, and an infidel!--are you superstitious? But draw, and directly, for I would not kill you like a dog. Think of the noble Prince you have just slain--think of the unhappy Bagnols, the proofs of whose innocence and your treason are now upon my person." "Ha!" cried he, suddenly drawing his sword, "have at you then. You know too much! At all events, 'tis time that one should die." So saying, he waited not for me to begin the attack, but himself lunged straight at my breast. The struggle was long and obstinate. He was an excellent swordsman, and was besides better armed for such an encounter than I was, his sword being a long Toledo rapier, while mine was a heavy-edged broadsword, which would thrust, it is true, but was ponderous and unwieldy. I was heated too, and rash, from almost every motive that could irritate the human heart. He had sought my own life--he had taken that of one I loved and esteemed--he had snatched from me all the advantages of success and victory, at the very moment they seemed given into my hand. Thus, anger made me lose my advantage; and it was not till a sharp wound in the shoulder taught me how near my adversary was my equal, that I began to fight with caution and coolness. The glaring of his deadly eye upon me showed me now whenever he meditated a thrust that he fancied certain; and I could perceive, as he saw the blood from my shoulder trickle over the buff coat I had worn under my corslet, a smile of triumph and of sanguinary hope curl his lip, as his faith in the astrologer's prophecy gave way. A wound in his neck soon turned his smile into an expression of mortal wrath, and making a double feint, which he thought certain, he lunged full at my heart. I was prepared--parried it instantly--lunged before he could recover, and the hilt of my sword knocked against his ribs, while the point shone out under his left shoulder. He felt that he was slain; but, grappling me tight with the last deathly clasp of expiring revenge, he drew his poignard, and, attempting to drive it into my heart, wounded me again in the arm. With difficulty I wrenched it from him, and cast him back upon the ground, where, after rolling for a moment in convulsive agony, and actually biting the earth with his teeth, he expired with a hollow groan and a struggle to start upon his feet. So keen, so eager, so hazardous had been the strife, that though I became conscious some spectators had been added to the scene of combat, I had not dared to withdraw my eye for an instant to ascertain who they were. When it was ended, however, a voice cried out, "Nobly done! bravely fought! Pardie, one does not see two such champions every day!" and turning round, I found myself in presence of an old officer, accompanied by another little man on horseback, together with about twenty musketeers on foot. "And now, pray tell us, sir," demanded the officer, "who you are, and whether you are for the king or the Princes?" "I can save him that trouble," interrupted the little man who accompanied him, riding a step forward, and exposing to my sight the funnel-shaped boots, the brown pourpoint, and the keen, inquisitive little countenance of my old persecutor, Jean le Hableur. "This, Monsieur le Chevalier," he continued, "is Monsieur le Comte de l'Orme, the dear friend and ally of his highness the Count de Soissons, and one of the chiefs of the rebels; and let me tell you that you had better put irons on both his hands and his feet, for a more daring or more cunning plotter never tied an honest man to a tree in a wood." "I shall certainly use no such measures against so brave a soldier as this young gentleman seems to be," replied the officer. "Nevertheless, you must surrender yourself a prisoner, sir," he added, "without you can show that this old man speaks falsely." "He speaks truth," replied I. "Do with me what you like--I am very careless of the event." "From your despairing tone, young sir," observed the officer, "I conclude that your party has lost a battle, and that Chatillon has gained one." "So far from it," replied I, "that never did any one suffer a more complete defeat than the Maréchal de Chatillon this day. His cannon, his baggage, and his treasure, are all in the hands of the Duke of Bouillon; and he has not now one man upon the field of battle but the dead, the wounded, and the prisoners." "God of heaven!" cried the old officer, deeply affected by the news. "Sir, you are surely too brave a man to tell me a falsehood?" "I speak the truth, upon my honour," replied I; "and more, I warn you that, if you do not speedily retreat, you will have the cavalry of the Prince upon you." "We must take you with us, however," answered the other. "Some one look to the young gentleman's wounds, for I see he is bleeding." My sword was now taken from me, my wounds were bandaged up, as well as the circumstances permitted; and being placed upon my horse, I was carried to the end of the road, where I found that the soldiers who had made me prisoner were only the advance party of a regiment that had been hurrying to join the army of the king. The old officer with whom I had spoken was the Count de Langerot, their commander, who, having heard the distant report of cannon, together with the rumours which spread fast among the peasantry, had ridden forward to gain some farther information, and had come up just before the death of the Marquis de St. Brie. The regiment immediately retreated to Le Chesne, and during the time I remained with it, I was treated with every sort of lenity and kindness by its commander; but this only lasted for a day; for the Maréchal de Chatillon having joined the regiment at Le Chesne, and collected together the scattered remnants of his army, sent me prisoner to Mezières, under a large escort, making me appear, by his precautions, a person of much more consequence than I really was, probably thinking that a prisoner of some import might do away, in a degree, the humiliating appearance of his defeat. Perhaps, however, I did him wrong; but I must confess, at the time, I could see no other object in sending me from Rethel to Mezières under a strong detachment of cavalry. At Mezières I was consigned to a small room in the château, which, though not a dungeon, approached somewhat near it in point of comfort; and here plenty of time had I to reflect at my leisure over the hopelessness of my situation. With the death of the Count de Soissons, every dream of my fancy had died also; and all that I could do, was to turn my eyes upon the past, and brood despairingly over the delights of the years gone by, with thoughts cold, unfruitful, agonising--as the spirits of the dead are said sometimes to hover round the treasures they amassed in their lives, at once regretting their loss, and grieving that they had not used them better. Thus hour after hour slipped away, each one a chain of heavy, painful minutes, gloomy, desolate, deathlike. My gaoler was a gaoler indeed. For several days he continued to bring me my food, without interchanging with me one word; and his looks had anything in them but consolation. At length, on the seventh morning, I think it was, he came with another like himself, bearing a heavy set of irons, and told me I must submit to having them put on my legs and arms. Of course I remonstrated against the degradation, urged my rank, and asked the reason of the change. "Because you are condemned to death," replied he. "That is enough, is not it?" "Condemned to death!" I exclaimed, "without a trial? It is false--it cannot be." "You'll find it too true, when they strike your head off," replied the gaoler; and without farther information left me to my own thoughts. I had before given up life, it is true--I had fancied that I cared not for it, now that I had lost all that made life deal--but, nevertheless, I found that the love of being lingered still, and that I could not think, without a shudder, on the fond fellowship betwixt body and soul being dissolved for ever.--For ever! the very word was awful; and that fate which I had never shrunk from, which I had often dared, in the phrensy of passion or the folly of adventure, acquired new strange terrors when I viewed it face to face, slowly advancing towards me, with a calm inevitable step. While I sat thinking upon death, and all the cold and cheerless ideas thereunto associated, a gay flourish of trumpets was borne upon the wind, jarring most painfully with all my feelings. The sounds came nearer, mingled with shout, and acclamation, and applause: and then, the evident arrival of some regiments of cavalry took place in the court of the château where I was confined; for there was the clanging of the hoofs, and jingling of the arms, and the cries of the commanders, and all the outcry and fracas of military discipline. During the whole day the noise continued with little intermission; and though I would have given worlds for quiet, quiet was not to be had. It was about four o'clock, and the rays of the summer sun were gleaming through the high windows of my prison, kindling in my bosom the warm remembrance of nature's free and beautiful face, when the gaoler entered, and told me I must follow him. I rose; and being placed between two soldiers, I was marched through several of the long passages of the château, as fast as my irons would permit, to a small anteroom, where, being made to sit down upon a bench, I was soon after joined by one or two others, manacled like myself. Here we were kept for some time, with guards at all the doors, and the gaoler standing by our side, without affording a look or word to any one. At length, however, the sound of persons speaking approached the door of what seemed the inner chamber; and, as it opened, I heard a voice which, however unexpected there, I was sure was that of the Chevalier de Montenero. The sound increased as he came nearer, and I could distinctly hear him say, "Your Eminence has promised me already as much as I could desire--the enjoyment of my fortune, and my station in France. All else that you could properly grant, or I could reasonably request, depends, unfortunately, upon papers which are, I am afraid, lost irrecoverably; and I have only to thank you for your patient hearing, and the justice you have done me." As he spoke, the Chevalier came forward, accompanied, as far as the door, by Richelieu himself, who seemed to do him the high honour of conducting him to the threshold of his cabinet. "Monsieur le Comte de Bagnols," said the minister, to my infinite surprise and astonishment, addressing by this name him whom I had always been taught to call the Chevalier de Montenero, "what I have done is nothing but what you had a right to claim. Your splendid actions in this last campaign prove too well your attachment to the king and the state, for me to refuse you every countenance and protection in my power to give; and believe me, if the letters, and the marriage certificate you allude to, can by any means be recovered, everything that you could wish will be rendered easy. In the meantime, the King's gratitude stops not here. We look upon the safety of the greater part of the army to have depended upon your exertions, and we must think of some means of rewarding it in the manner most gratifying to yourself. You will not leave Mezières for a few days--before then you shall hear from me." The Chevalier, or rather the Count de Bagnols, took his leave and withdrew, without casting his eyes upon any of the wretched beings that lined the side of the anteroom. My heart swelled, but I said nothing; and, in a moment after, was myself called to the presence of the minister. He was seating himself when I entered; and as he turned round upon me, very, very different was the aspect of his dark tremendous brow from that which I had beheld on another occasion. The heavy contemplative frown, the stern piercing eye, the stiff compressed lip, the blaze of soul that shone out in his glance, yet the icy rigidity of his features, all seemed to say, "I am fire in my enmities, and marble in my determinations;" and well spoke the inflexible spirit that dwelt within. When I thought over the easy flowing conversation which had passed between me and that very man, his unbent brow, his calm philosophising air, and compared the whole with the iron expression of the countenance before me, I could scarcely believe it had been aught but a dream. "Well, Sir Count de l'Orme," said he, in a deep hollow tone of voice, "you have chosen your party. You have abandoned an honourable path that was open to you. Of your own free-will you attached yourself to treason and to traitors, and you now taste the consequences." "Your Eminence," replied I, calmly--for my mind was made up to the worst--"is too generous, I am sure, to triumph over the fallen." "I am so," answered Richelieu, "and therefore I sent for you, to tell you that, though no power on earth can alter your fate--and you must die!--yet I am willing that any alleviating circumstance which you may desire should be granted you in the interim." "I have heard," replied I, "that no French noble can be judged, without being called for his own defence. It is a law not only of this country, but of the world--it is a law of reason, of humanity, of justice; and I hope it will not be dispensed with for the purpose of condemning me." "You have heard truly, sir," replied the Cardinal. "No one can be condemned without being heard, except it can be proved that he has knowingly and intentionally fled from the pursuit of justice: he is then condemned, as it is termed, par contumace. It was not at all difficult to prove your flight, and you were condemned by the proper tribunal, together with the Duke of Guise and the Baron de Bec. You are the only one yet made prisoner; and though perhaps the least guilty of the three, the necessity unfortunately exists of showing them, by the execution of your sentence, that no hope exists for them.--Have you anything to ask?" "Merely," replied I, "that time and materials may be allowed me to write some letters of great consequence to my family and others." "What time do you require?" demanded Richelieu. "The day of your execution rests with me. Name your time yourself; but remember that, if you ask longer than absolutely necessary for the purpose you have mentioned, you are only prolonging hours of miserable expectation, after all hope of life is over." I had now to fix the day of my own death. It was a bitter calculation, but running my eye through the brief future, I tried to divest my spirit of its clinging to corporeal existence, and estimate truly how much time was necessary to what I wished to accomplish, without leaving one hour to vain anticipations of my coming fate. "Three days," replied I, at length, "will be sufficient for my purpose." "Be it so," said the minister; and taking a paper already written, from his portfolio, he proceeded to fill up some blanks which appeared to have been left on purpose. I knew that it was the order for my execution; and my feelings may be better conceived than described, as I saw his thin, pale fingers move rapidly over the vacant spaces, fixing my fate for ever, till at last, with a firm determined hand, which spoke "irrevocable" in its every line, he wrote his name at the bottom, and handed it to the gaoler, who stood beside me, and advanced to receive it. "Have those fetters taken off," said the minister, in a stern tone, as he gave the paper. "You have exceeded your duty. See that the prisoner be furnished with writing materials, and admit any of his friends to see him, one at a time. Farther, let his comfort be attended to, as far as is consistent with security. Remove him!" His tone, his manner, admitted no reply; and as he concluded he turned away his head, while I was led out of the cabinet, and carried back to my cell. While the gaoler, after having taken off my irons, went grumblingly to seek the materials for writing, which he had been directed to furnish, my thoughts, flying even from my own situation, reverted to the title by which the minister had addressed the Chevalier de Montenero. The Count de Bagnols! Was it--could it be possible that he was that Count de Bagnols, said to have been assassinated by order of the Marquis de St. Brie? At first I could hardly believe it; but as I reflected, the conviction came more and more strongly upon my mind. Every circumstance that I remembered showed it more plainly. He himself had first told me the tale of his own supposed death, and that with a circumstantial accuracy that any one but a person actually on the spot could hardly have done. He had remained for years living under an assumed name, probably because he had not the papers necessary to establish his innocence of the charge the Marquis had brought against him. I had just heard the minister allude to those very papers. From Achilles I had learned that the Count's fortune had been transmitted to Spain; and the Viceroy of Catalonia had told me that the Chevalier was not a Spaniard. I had also overheard the Marquis de St. Brie, only a few nights before, declare that he had seen in the royal army some one whom he had believed dead many years, and to whose supposed death he was evidently in some degree accessory. To no one could what he had said be so well applied as to the Count de Bagnols. Undoubtedly, then, the Chevalier de Montenero, the man whom, perhaps, of all others, I esteemed the most on earth, but whose good opinion I had lost by a succession of inexplicable misunderstandings, was one and the same with that Count de Bagnols, the separate incidents of whose story had come to my knowledge by a thousand strange accidents, whose fate had always been to me a point of almost painful interest, and whose most important documents were still fortunately in my hands. I had now, then, the means at once of clearing myself of all suspicion in his eyes, and of conferring on him the means of equally showing his own innocence to the world. True that I could never see the happiness I knew I should give him--true that his good or bad opinion could serve me no longer upon earth; but still there was the consolation of knowing that my memory would remain pure and unsullied in his eyes; and that the benefit I had it in my power to confer would attach feelings of love to my name and regret to my loss. Surely the wish to be remembered with affection is hardly a weakness. The warrior's or the poet's hope of immortality on earth--the laurel that binds the lyre or the sword--is perhaps the most daring, yet the emptiest of all imaginative vanities; but there is something holier and sweeter in the dream of living in the love of those that have known us--it is, indeed, prolonging attachments beyond the grave, and perhaps derives its charm from an innate feeling in the breast of man, that friends part not here for ever. As soon, then, as paper and ink were brought me I sat down; and after writing my last farewell to my father, and a few lines expressive of my deep, my unchangeable affection to Helen Arnault, I proceeded to sketch out for the Count de Bagnols the history of my unfortunate adventure at Saragossa. I told him the promise I had entered into, never to disclose the circumstances to a Spaniard, and showed him that, as long as I had believed him to be such, my lips had been necessarily sealed. I pointed out to him the mistake which Garcias had committed; I related to him my rencontre with Jean Baptiste; and farther, as briefly as possible, I gave him the outline of everything which had occurred to me since we had last met, up to the moment that I wrote; and having told him how I had avenged him on the Marquis de St. Brie, I enclosed his papers, which I had always kept about my person. Lastly, I begged him, if I thereby rendered him any service--if I had ever held any place in his esteem--if I had by that explanation at all regained it, to see my father; and bearing him my last farewell, to entreat him for my sake to look upon Helen as his child--to remember how I had loved her, and to love her for her love to me; and now, wishing him personally all that happiness in his latter years which had been denied to his youth, I bade him an eternal adieu. This cost me all that night and the greater part of the next morning; but by the time that my gaoler visited me my packet was prepared, and showing him some louis--the last I had about me--I promised them to him if he would deliver that letter to the Count de Bagnols, if he was still in the town, bringing me back an acknowledgment that it had been received. In less than an hour he returned, and gave me a paper written hastily in the hand of the Chevalier. It only contained, "I have received a packet from the Count de l'Orme--BAGNOLS." I gave the gaoler his promised reward, and he left me. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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