Early on the morning of the appointed day, two companies met in the Plain-palais, just outside the Porte Neuve. They were in strong contrast each with the other. Those who had approached the town from the vineyards of Savoy were a gallant band, who sat proudly on their richly caparisoned horses, and wore with a lordly air their embroidered surcoats of scarlet and silver. They bore no arms except their swords, as they had come upon a peaceful errand, witnessed by the white flag their trumpeter bore before them. At their head rode young Victor de Lormayeur, in his richest dress, but with a gloomy, preoccupied air. When they came within a short distance of the other party, he stopped, and turned to those behind with a brief word of command.
There were three dark blots on the gay coloring of the Savoyard troop. Three horsemen bore each behind him a meager and ill-clad figure, a patch of black or gray amidst the scarlet and the white. These were the prisoners whose ransom Gabrielle was to pay. At Victor’s signal they were asked to dismount and take their places in front of the cavalcade, which then advanced at a foot pace, the riders uncovering as they drew near to the men of Geneva.
Then came forward slowly a group of sober, grave looking citizens, robed in black, relieved here and there by a touch of violet. They were on foot; but in their midst, on a palfrey, sat a slight figure, closely veiled, dressed in a riding robe of plain but very fine black cloth, trimmed with costly fur, marten or “cat of Mars,” as it was called then. Strapped behind her on the palfrey was a mail, or pormanteau, of modest dimensions. The first thing Victor noticed was that the lady did not seem a practiced rider, which, under the circumstances, was not unnatural.
He dismounted, and approaching still nearer, made the lowest of “reverences” to the lady, and bowed to her companions with suitable though stately courtesy. If a Gentleman of the Spoon, he was a gentleman still, and would not show the contempt he felt for these miserable burghers. Then followed certain formalities; and each party solemnly asserted its readiness to perform what was agreed upon in the letters exchanged between the illustrious “Count of Lormayeur and the praiseworthy” citizens of Geneva. Then Germain de Caulaincourt and his two companions were handed over to the Genevans, who received them with lively demonstrations of joy.
“And now,” said the young count, with a smile, “it is our turn to welcome, not a captive, indeed, but one who will find us her willing captives and true servitors.”
A grave, quiet-looking man, in very sober attire, led the palfrey forward. With him came the first syndic, bearing his staff of office, and followed by a notary dressed in his robe and carrying a bag.
“Sir Count,” said the syndic, “we bring and deliver to you, as covenanted, the Lady Olive de Castelar, otherwise Damoiselle Gabrielle Berthelier. The notary here present will place in your hands the papers relating to her, and give you any other satisfaction you may reasonably demand.”
Victor bowed once more to the lady, then, turning to the notary, received from his hand the offered papers. There was the precious fragment that attested the child’s birth and parentage, and a few entries from the registry of her “Quarter,” in which she was mentioned as the ward and adopted daughter of Citizen Ami Berthelier.
“I presume,” Victor said, addressing the person who held the lady’s rein, “that you are the worthy citizen whom we have to thank for the care and upbringing of our young kinswoman?”
“Not so, my lord,” he answered, with evident embarrassment. “Master Berthelier being absent, I am here to represent him, as the neighbor and next friend of the maiden.”
“But, of course,” said the notary, “you are prepared, Master Antoine, to swear to her identity — though it be a mere matter of form.”
“I swear it,” said Antoine Calvin.
“As I do also,” said Syndic Amblarde “Come. We can take oath. Sir Count, under any form, not contrary to the rules of our religion, which may be satisfactory to your excellency.”
“Enough said,” the courteous young count made answer. “I am quite satisfied.” Then he turned to the lady: “Fair lady and dear cousin, permit me to welcome you to your kindred and your country, and in token of my true obeisance and devotion, to kiss your hand.”
The hand beneath the lady’s riding cloak trembled, as if about to come forth, but the syndic interposed.
“Were it not meet and fitting that the maiden should first raise her veil, so as to be fairly seen by those to whom we are delivering her?”
The veil was raised, just a little, affording a tantalizing glimpse of a beautiful, downcast face, with traces of recent tears. But the pain and reluctance of the maiden were so evident that the chivalrous Victor hastened to say “Do not incommode yourself, sweet lady; your servitor will wait in patience till you condescend to rejoice him with the sight of your beauty. Will it please you now to bid farewell to these your good friends, whom we trust never to give you cause to regret?”
But the half-raised veil had been dropped again, and an indistinct, broken murmur was understood to mean, “All my farewells have been said already!” so, with a deferential word of apology, Victor laid his hand on the palfrey’s rein, and the captives” ransom was paid. The two bands saluted, as courteous foes when they meet on neutral ground. Then they went their different ways. But, ere they parted, the veiled figure on the palfrey had heard De Caulaincourt ask, “But where is Norbert? Why has he not come to meet me?”
The lively Savoyard cavalcade rode on, Victor in close attendance on his destined bride, whom, little as he liked to think of in that character, he yet regarded with no small interest. It occurred to him as rather strange that she should have come quite alone; he had expected her to bring an attendant of her own sex, two or three, perhaps. He expressed a courteous fear that she might be incommoded on the journey for the lack of a tiring-maid or bower-woman, but added that this lack would be supplied when they reached Lormayeur, which he hoped to do that night.
Then for the first time he heard her voice, and its sound was pleasant in his ears —
“We of Geneva have small need of tire-women. And no Genevan would have come with me — because of the religion.”
“Ah, the religion!” Victor said, scornfully. Then his tone changing: “Have no concern, sweet lady, about this matter of religion. We are both young, and you are very beautiful. I am sure the good God would have us enjoy our youth, without troubling our heads about death, purgatory, hell, and heaven, and the like melancholy themes.”
“Is heaven a melancholy theme?” asked the young lady.
“All we have got to go through on the chance of getting there most certainly is. I, for one, prefer to leave the business with the priests, who are paid for minding it. Very ill they do it sometimes, I must own.”
“True, Sir Count; therefore might it not be well to look into things a little for ourselves?”
“Perhaps; but there is a time for all things, and this is the time for ease and joyaunce, for pleasure and for pastime. A face so fair as that of the Lady of Castelar is meant to be the cynosure of adoring eyes, not hidden by a nun’s veil or bent over stupid books.”
“Do you think books stupid, Sir Count?”
“Well, not all books. Not Amadis de Gaul or The Seven Champions of Christendom. But you do not have such books in your Geneva, I believe, fair lady?”
“No; at least, I have not seen them there. We have good books, like the Bible.”
“The Bible! Heaven help you, lady! Or rather, heaven help the poor folk that are there still; since, the saints be thanked, your loveliness is being translated into scenes more fit for it. Lady, I am transported at the thought of introducing you to pastimes you have never dreamed of yet, but for which you are so wondrously fitted. Perhaps, even, you have never learned to dance?”
“I think,” said the lady, with a slight tremor in her voice — ” I think I could manage a country dance, if it were very simple — or a virolet. We have them sometimes.”
“May I have the supreme honor and felicity of being your instructor in the gentle art, as we Savoyards practice it? “asked Victor; adding mentally, Perhaps they of Geneva are not quite such barbarians, after all. I have no doubt,” he resumed, that the Lady of Castelar loves music, and can make it. With a face so lovely there must go a voice to match.”
“I can sing psalms.”
From such lips the dismallest of Clement Marot’s dismal productions must sound like the melody of angels.”
“There be angels — of divers kinds,” said the lady demurely.
This strain of compliment Victor pursued for some time, with but brief answers from the lady, whose voice had sometimes a half-choked sound, which he attributed to suppressed weeping, and redoubled his efforts to cheer and console her. As he went on, he grew more and more florid in his compliments and unsparing in his flattery, all being entirely in the taste and after the manner of the age. But the strange thing was, that as his language heated his imagination cooled. He liked the young lady well, he liked her increasingly — as a friend or comrade. As his destined bride he found it difficult to think of her.
The noonday sun grew hot, but shade and refreshment were ready for the travelers. Some of Victor’s people had gone on before, and set up the pavilion in a pleasant glade, upon flowery grass. Here the midday meal was spread, and here, if she chose it, the lady could repose herself.
The repast was choice and abundant; and Victor saw with satisfaction that the lady did fair justice to the venison pasty, the “blanc mange” of capon’s breast, and the sugared cheese-cakes he pressed upon her, though she drank but little wine. The hand that held the knife and spoon was not so small and delicate as he expected. “No doubt,” he thought, “the poor child, brought up in ignorance of her rank, has done rough household work with it, after the wont of these burghers” wives and daughters.”
Her face, better seen now, lost nothing of its beauty, yet it stirred in him entirely the instinct of camaraderie, not any warmer feeling.
As they toyed with the delicate confections that concluded the repast, a visitor was announced. It proved to be the Prior of Saint Marcaud, a monastery of the neighborhood, who had come to pay his respects to the son of the lord of the soil, the Count of Lormayeur, passing by chance through his domain. Victor, of course, presented him to the Lady of Castelar; but, supposing the churchman would be necessarily obnoxious to the fair Genevan, was not surprised to see her shrink into herself, and even lower her veil. The prior, on the other hand — in the intervals of eating marchepane and drinking yin de Beaume, and also of detailing to the young count the difficulties and needs of his monastery — regarded her with interest and attention, perhaps not altogether friendly. She may have observed it, for when the visit had lasted about half an hour she turned courteously to Victor: “Did I not hear you say, Sir Count, that we have a long way to travel before nightfall?”
At this rather broad hint the prior took his leave, Victor going forth with him.
“I wonder, Sir Count,” said the churchman, “if the late Lady of Castelar, the mother of your guest, can have been a Frenchwoman?”
“No, father; she was an Italian from Piedmont, as I happen to know. She died young, but she was renowned for her beauty, which this young lady inherits. Don’t you think so? In such matters churchmen, proverbially, are good judges.”
“Yes, but — if I may venture to say so — just a little bony, not quite mince — delicate — enough for my taste. A French cast of face, reminding me of someone I had lately seen. Of whom I could not think, and now-the thought is so strange I scarce like to say it. She favors the heretic preacher who was brought to the monastery by those that took him, and whom I sent to your father.”
“What a notion!” said Victor, with a laugh. Though, after all, the Frenchman was a gentleman. We brought him with us yesterday to Geneva; and on the way he thanked me very courteously for having sent something now and again to him and his companions, to mend their cheer when they were in the dungeon. Will you absolve me, father, for the same?”
“’Twas no mortal sin,” said the prior good-naturedly.
“Still, Sir Count, you have need of care, lest your kindness of heart should outrun your good judgment. You should keep strict watch upon that young lady, and see that she be well converted from the error of her heretic ways. Forgive my freedom, M. de Lormayeur.”
Victor did not mind his freedom of speech, but he was hurt at his depreciatory remarks about the Lady of Castelar. Still, they parted amicably, and after a reasonable rest the wayfarers pursued their journey. With even greater assiduity than before, Victor devoted himself to his fair companion. After the fashion and the taste of the time, he racked his brains for flattering speeches, which would now be thought too gross and exaggerated, but were then quite permissible. He praised her hair, her cheeks, her lips, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her eyes.
“But I am not the first, doubtless, to call those adorable orbs the sweetest ever seen,” he said. “Even in your grave, cold Geneva, there must have been many to tell you of their exceeding beauty.”
“I do not think they said-quite that,” was the faltering answer.
“Those fair lips can only speak the truth,” Victor pursued. “Else such dullness of sense and soul, even in that nest of heretics, would be past credence. But, sweet lady, you are going now into a world which will soon be at your feet; so it is well you should understand the might of the weapons with which you are gifted. A face of such surpassing loveliness Good Sir Count, I cannot but be flattered that you think it so. Still, if it please you, I would rather hear just now somewhat of who I am than of what, in your too partial judgment, I seem to be.”
“How well she speaks,” thought Victor, “and how frankly she answers me! I have heard that “they of Geneva” make their girls learn like their boys. I should hold her life and dear as a friend — or a brother in arms, if that were possible. But a bride — the saints help me! “Here the beloved and gracious image of Arletta rose before him in contrast. He choked down some strange feeling with an effort ere he answered, in his former tone of compliment and complaisance” The fair damoiselle I have the honor of addressing is no less illustrious a person than the Lady Olive de Castelar, sole heiress to the broad lands and the rich revenues of her noble house.”
“Is she — am I — heiress to any ties of kindred or relationship?”
“Sweet lady, your mother died at your birth, and your father soon afterward. Brother or sister you had none. My father’s father was first cousin to yours, so that you and I are cousins in the third degree. However, should certain hopes I am bold enough to conceive be crowned with success, a dispensation from his holiness will make everything right.”
“Do you really think it will, Sir Count?”
“Of a surety. But I ought to tell you, lady, you have another kinsman, on your mother’s side — a Piedmontese — a soldier of fortune, named Santana, who fought under the late duke, and was high in his favor. You know what ill-luck our present leige lord, Duke Emanuel Philibert, has had, and how he has lost the greater part of Savoy.”
Poor gentleman! he could not look into things for himself, and he took Santana on trust from his father, grateful to anyone who stuck to him in his troubles. The villain has got his ear, and won from him, too easily, the grant of the Castelar succession and estates-your estates, fair lady. He represented to his highness that the direct line was extinct. So, to do him justice, he thought, like everyone else. “But now,” Victor added incautiously, “we have the trump card — ”
“The trump card appreciates the honor at its just price,” said the lady with a bow.
Victor was covered with confusion. He had shown his hand too plainly; and the lady, evidently of keen intelligence, let nothing escape her. He hastened to retrieve his error. “The trump card in this game is the queen of hearts,” he said.
“Take care lest the queen, in your hands, should change to a knave.”
“How sharp she is!” thought Victor. “From this queen’s eyes,” he protested, “can naught look forth save the truth and candor of her soul.”
“Then will I use truth and candor in speaking to you, Sir Count. I perfectly understand you now, and also your illustrious father. Not for love of the unknown Genevan maiden have you undertaken this business. But for these same broad lands and possessions, she might have lived and died in her obscurity-and her heresy. And should she perhaps, even now, resign in your favor her rights and claims to them, methinks you would be well content.”
“Lady, you misjudge me,” Victor pleaded, in a fever of confusion and perplexity, whilst inwardly he cursed his own awkwardness and the lady’s wit. Yet, strange to say, he admired her the more, and felt the more anxious to propitiate her. “You misjudge me sorely; though perchance I have deserved it. I own that, before I saw you, before I basked in the light of your beauty, I may have thought, possibly, of lands — of wealth.”
“Very natural and usual subjects of thought,” the lady said.
Her veil was raised now, and she looked full in the face of Victor. The look, as he read it, was arch, provoking, bewitching, as of one who had the best of the situation, and knew it, and meant to keep it. A new spirit came over him; at that moment it seemed easy to him to do what before he deemed intolerable. Yes; and the faster it were done the easier. Better sin the whole sin out.” Better at once meet the inevitable, satisfy his father, and seal his own fate forever. The customs of the time, and all he knew of knightly practice and device, sanctioned his purpose.
“Dear, adorable maiden,” he began; she dropped her veil again, and drew a little apart from him, but he went on bravely, “do you not see that there is one best, one perfect way of uniting all claims? It is not well, it is not right, perhaps, to speak of it so soon. Perhaps in justice I ought to leave you free — free to see and enjoy the fair world of joyaunce and of song, of dance and tournay and festival, from which hitherto you have been shut out. But all these, and more, you shall have in full measure. Indeed, if your true servitor can make it so, your life shall be all one long sweet joy. Is it too soon, then, to ask for a word of hope and encouragement? If you think so, bid me be silent and wait, for a month, a year, two years even, if you will. Only speak. Lady, I am at your feet.”
“But that you say so, I should have thought you were on your horse,” was the unexpected answer.
Her coolness piqued Victor all the more. Having cried down the voice of his own heart, and done the thing his truer nature abhorred, the very stress of the effort drove him on to the bitter end. Was it bitter, after all? A rush of feeling came upon him; something strange possessed him — like strong wine. They were alone now, far in advance of their escort, riding through a wood. He sprang from his horse, and knelt in good earnest before her on the grass.
She reined in her palfrey, and looked at him, for a moment, as one perplexed. Then she said, in an odd, strained voice “Sir Count, I pray of you to rise.”
“Not till I have had a word from those fair lips of yours. Should that word be “Wait,” should you set me a time of probation, I am still your obedient and most humble servitor.”
“Then obey me by rising. If you will not, you force me instead to ask of you some other thing.”
“Ask what you will. “Twill be my honor and my joy to grant it.”
“No joy in this, and no honor, to thee or to me.” She dismounted and stood straight up before him on the grass. “Sir Count, the boon I ask of thee is — to draw that sword of thine, and kill me.”
He gazed at her amazed — petrified. Had she suddenly gone mad?
Ere he found a word to speak, she had flung off her hood, her veil, her kerchief, and run her fingers rapidly through her disordered hair.
“The queen has changed into a knave,” said Norbert de Caulaincourt.
Victor’s fair open face grew deadly pale. Once, twice, thrice he crossed himself with trembling hand, as he struggled to his feet, he knew not how.
“This is witchcraft?” he murmured.
“Only the witchcraft of a son who would save his father, and a friend who would save a young lady he esteemed from a dreaded fate.”
“Geneva shall smart for this!”
“Geneva was not to blame. All was done in good faith. I had neither confederate nor helper, save Gabrielle’s nurse. And you can do no more to Geneva than you have done before.”
“Holy saints! To think of my father’s fury — ”
“I have laid my account for that, and will pay the reckoning.”
“If I bring you to him — ”
“You may, in justice. But if, as I think, you are generous, you may slay me where I stand instead. I should thank you.”
‘Tis the strangest thing I ever heard,” said Victor, standing still and gazing at him as one amazed. Yet, amidst all his amazement, one thought came surging up — a thought of joy. He was free now. Who could force him to wed a maiden who was safe within the hostile walls of Geneva? As his heart for the moment lightened, his eye was caught by a gleam of scarlet between the trees. It was the escort coming up to them. They must know nothing — he would stop them. “Stand where thou art,” he said hastily to Norbert; then he mounted his horse, rode back, gave his commands, and returned.
“Thou and I must settle this matter alone,” he said.
“I await your pleasure,” answered Norbert.
Now that his part was played and his work done, he seemed turned to stone. He did not care, just then, what happened to himself. He supposed he had to die. That was all. He only hoped it would be soon over.
“How did you ever come to think of such a thing?” Victor asked weakly. His superficial feeling still was sheer bewilderment, but underneath was a sort of admiration for the boy’s audacity and cleverness, and, mingling with all, that strange, unutterable sense of relief.
“It was the only way.”
Victor stood bewildered. At last he broke out, “I have been a fool, a cursed fool! I let myself be duped too easily. How I am to face my father after this, St. Victor, my patron, may tell me, if he knows! “Twill not help my case to bring to Lormayeur, instead of the heiress of Castelar, a slip of a boy?”
Then, raising his eyes from the ground, he looked at Norbert steadily, thoughtfully.
Norbert met his gaze; the boy’s face was strong, determined, fearless — the young man’s weak, perplexed, angry. Yet presently there dawned in it a gleam of kindliness.
“You are the most consummate young villain I ever saw, but you are a brave one! I am bound to confess that your courage deserves the honor of my sword. But then, on the other hand, I cannot fight a beardless boy. Would it make things fair, think you, if I were to bind one arm to my side and fight you with the other? I have seen it done. Will you try it?”
“To what end?” asked Norbert, impatiently, even with a touch of scorn. “My life is forfeit, and yours to take. I could not save it by wounding you, suppose I did so.”
“Hast aught to ask of me?”
“Yes; to be quick and make an end.”
“You said you ventured in this matter to save your father. But he was saved already.”
“At the cost of another.”
“You call it cost; I should say the gain of the lady. What was she to thee, that thou shouldest do this for her?” Then first Norbert felt All the romance of his young life swept over him. And he was about to die! His look changed; his firm lip began to quiver.
“Nothing-that anyone knew,” he answered.
Victor looked at him curiously, with quickened interest.
“Ha! by my faith is that it? Hast thou — a boy, a mere child almost — been playing already with these sharp tools, whereby a man cuts himself, belike to the very heart! Yet why not? I was young as thou when first I began to care for — not the Lady Olive de Castelar.”
He turned his face away, and silence fell once more between the pair. He was too bewildered even to reflect how fatally he had betrayed himself to this Genevan boy, who would think him a liar and deceiver. Naught for that at this moment did he care. He could care for nothing, he could see nothing, save the face of Arletta. She semed to stand before him — actually there — beside the neglected steeds, who were cropping their evening meal of grass as contentedly as if love and death were not in the world at all. Arletta looked at him, spoke to him, pleaded with him for the life of the brave boy who knew, so young, what it was to love — as they did.
Then gradually her face changed into the dimly remembered face of his own mother, who had been a gentle-hearted lady, kind and pitiful to all. Amongst the very few words he remembered hearing her say were these: “My son, God loves the merciful.” Ay,” he thought, God loves the merciful. Then, perhaps — who knows? — if I show mercy to this boy, He will show the like to Arletta and to me, and give us each to other at last.” It was not the very highest of motives; yet perhaps there were nobler impulses struggling in the depths of that confused, ill-lighted soul than came forth into conscious thought. Besides, it is so easy to be kind when one is happy; and there is no denying that Victor’s failure, even weighted with the prospect of his father’s terrible wrath, made him happy — infinitely happier than success would have done. With the sudden decision of the undecided, he turned to Norbert.
“Your life is forfeit,” he said; but there was that in his look and tone that belied the sternness of the words. Norbert bowed.
“Then, boy, I give it thee, for thine own courage, and for the love of God. Take thy palfrey, and go back to Geneva as thou camest. Take the next turning to the left, so shalt thou avoid my men. I shall tell my father — wait! — yes, I shall tell him that by the sorcery of these wicked Genevan heretics the Lady of Castelar was enabled to change herself into a hare, and disappear from our sight into the wood.”
“God reward you, Sir Count!” said the delighted Norbert, bowing low, then springing on his palfrey.
“Hark thee, young cockerel!” Victor resumed, “shouldest ever take it into that hare-brained head. Of thine to save thy soul and make thy fortune among good Catholics — come to me, for, on my honor as a Gentleman of the Spoon, thou art a lad of mettle, and I like thee.”