THE STORY OF A PICTURE.

No place is more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of the imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded by wood and mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in such deep seclusion, as to be unseen by the mere casual traveller. On such a spot, completely circled by a branch of the Cevennes, in the ancient district of Auvergne, it was once my hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth, that they appeared bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning rocks, and overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortification, that the building might have been passed and repassed within a mile of its vicinity undiscovered.

It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently ruinous to give it the interest of age, yet containing costly tapestried chambers, panelled halls, long rambling galleries, secret rooms, and those deep dark dungeons, where many a brave man has languished and died unknown, save by his ruthless captor, all still in sufficient preservation to fill the mind with visions of the past as with the breathing realities of the present. There was a small chapel in the building, which had once been evidently richly adorned, but whose shrines and hangings were now all crumbling to decay. It was a melancholy visionary place, yet infused with a charm impossible to be resisted, and day after day my wanderings turned to the chateau; contented at first with rambling over chamber, hall, and gallery, imagination feasting on the thoughts of what had been the life, the stir, the pageantry, where all was now the solitude of silence and neglect. There were still some pictures hanging from the walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cobweb and the dust, that I had heeded them little, till one day the sun gleaming upon an antique frame, unobserved before, attracted me to the picture it enshrined, and in a moment heart, mind, and fancy were irresistibly enchained.

To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted me for days and nights, as something almost unearthly, would be a hopeless task; yet turn from it as I would, or seek amusement in other objects, still it rose before me, pale, shadowy, yet so lovely, baffling every effort to dismiss it from my mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still literally to glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil around her. Hands small, thin, and delicately white were crossed upon her bosom; the large dark eyes were raised, and the pale lips parted as in prayer; she seemed standing near an ancient altar; but every other object in the picture time had rendered wholly indistinct.

That I could obtain any information from the half-blind, wholly deaf guardian of the chateau was little probable; but the old man, to my astonishment, volunteered the tradition of the portrait, even before I had sufficiently rallied from its effect to look into its past. This tale, when separated from the garrulous annotations of his age and office, was simple and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was impossible. The beings of whom I heard seemed to breathe and move around me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had characterised it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to lose their wild appearance, and blending in beautiful keeping with mount and rock, and richly-cultured lands, seemed to teem with the innumerable retainers of the proud nobles to whom they had once belonged. Under the influence of such dreamy visions the following papers were hastily written. Pretensions to a connected romance they have none; they tell but the story of a picture, which I would fain bring before the mind’s eye of the reader, even as its remembrance still so vividly lingers on my own.

I.

It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there no relaxation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in aught diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit-stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed the last tournament of France. The lists extending through the most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the terrific towers of the Bastile, were adorned by pavilions and tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy brocades, velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of their owners, betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh all the nobility of France. Over one, whose silver covering glittered so resplendently in the July sun that the aching eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France’s banner, the fleur de lis, which, combined with the splendid accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved that majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light breeze sporting with the many standards, at times gave their devices to view, at others, laid them idly by their staves. Streamers and pennons in gay relief stood forth against the clear blue sky; while the brilliant armour, the glittering spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays, there seemed a hundred suns.

France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in the lists, for none chose to remain mere spectators of games in which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself. Montmorenci, Coligny, Andelot, CondÉ, Nemours—names bearing with them such undying memories, their mention is sufficient—all were this day present; for the blood-red standard of intolerance and persecution as yet remained unfurled. The very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset; the pealing shouts of welcome as each knight was recognised, marching at the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion; the answering cheers of the men-at-arms; the trampling of many steeds; the frequent clash of steel, as the knights passed and repassed in the lists ere they formed into bands; now and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill prolonged blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling burst of martial music, lingering awhile in its own rude tones, then subsiding gently into the softer song of minstrelsy and love, more fitted to the ears of beauty than the wilder notes of war.

And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine de Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received universal homage; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though most expressive features accorded little with the heavy gorgeousness of her jewelled robes; no retiring yet much-loved Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy; no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic mien would have done honour to a diadem—had there been none of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The diamond coronet of fleur de lis entwining the sterner thistle, that lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank; and the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dauphine, is all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair, bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young girls, indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing on the smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled cheek true tokens of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early youth.

The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity which, while it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart to tremble.

“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or will for more?” asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a birth more southern than Scotia’s colder shores.

“He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered, in a lowered voice, “for, he fears the challenge of the king—fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as yet unrivalled, courage none dare question; but the practice of a soldier brings these things to greater perfection than monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign challenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the count avoid the lists.”

“Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted his sword within its scabbard. I would trust myself to the men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon gallant, bearing thy colours? Is the young esquire of thy father a rival to the goodly count?”

“Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of my love, when he doffed the page’s garb and donned the squire’s. When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of little value.”

“Thinkest thou so? Methought the lowly homage that he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother. But there is some stir below; the trumpets sound the king again as challenger.”

A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form, but there was no answer.

A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie de Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she exclaimed, “Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not let this be! in mercy speak to her grace the queen, implore her to avert this combat!”

“Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue? Nay, an thou lookest thus, I must do thy bidding,” and Mary hastily approached the seat of Catherine de Medicis, whom, however, she found already agitated and alarmed, and in the very act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave the lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed, yet unable to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat, seeking to reassure the trembling Idalie, and watch with her the effect of the queen’s solicitation.

At the moment of the esquire’s joining the knightly ring, the Comte de Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had flung himself at the king’s feet, imploring him in earnest accents to withdraw his challenge, and not expose him to the misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in a friendly joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion impressed on the striking countenance of Montgomeri; he was not one to bend his knee in entreaty, even to his sovereign, for a mere trivial cause. The princes and nobles round were themselves struck by his earnestness, knowing too well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every martial deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained unmoved.

“Tush, man!” he said, joyously; “what more harm will your good lance do our sacred person, than those whose blows yet tingle on our flesh? we have run many a gallant course to-day, and how shall we be the worse for a tilt with thee? Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do thy courage such dishonour as to tax it now; yet, by our Lady, such presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from this folly, and don thine armour, as thou wouldst were our foes in Paris; my chaplet is not perfect till it hath a leaf from thee.”

“It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to pardon me, and seek some opponent more worthy of this honour.”

“I know of none,” replied the king, so frankly and feelingly, that the warrior’s head bent even to the ground; “and Montgomeri will obey his sovereign, if he will not oblige his friend. Sir Count, we COMMAND your acceptance of our challenge.”

Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was reluctantly withdrawing, when the king again spoke—

“We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare to accept our challenge even as a criminal for execution; therefore, mark you lords and gentles, and bear witness to our words—whatever ill or scathe may chance to us in our intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him from all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How now, sir squire, what would our royal consort, that ye seek us thus rudely?”

The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message.

The king laughed loud and lightly.

“By our Lady, this is good,” he said. “Heard ye ever the like of this, my lords? What spell doth our brave Montgomeri bear about him, that we may not meet him even as others in friendly combat? Back to your royal mistress, Conrad; commend us in all love and duty to her grace, and say we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she have our noble guests proclaim Montgomeri so brave and skilful that Henri dared not meet him even after his challenge had gone forth? Shame, shame, on such advisers!”

The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance, and mounting a fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the lists, attended by pages and esquires, and managing his fiery steed so gracefully as to rivet on him many admiring glances. He paused beneath the queen’s gallery, doffing his deep-plumed helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a faithful chevalier; then looking up, he smiled proudly and undauntedly. At that moment the trumpets proclaimed the entrance of the challenged, and the king hastily replacing his helmet, clasped it but slightly, and galloped to his post.

A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of Montgomeri, and as the spectators marked the pink and white scarf across his shoulder, and the opal clasp that secured the deep plumes of his helmet, all eyes involuntarily turned to see the fair being to whom those colours proclaimed him vowed; nor when they traced the bandeau of opals on the pale high brow of Idalie de Montemar, her flowing robes secured by a girdle of the same precious stones, and discovered it was to her service the knight was pledged, did they marvel that at length the cold, stern, unbending Gabriel de Lorges had bowed beneath the spell of love.

The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst the assembled thousands. The combatants, ere the signal sounded, slowly traversed the lists, meeting at both extremities, and greeting each other in all solemn and chivalric fashion. Montgomeri’s lance sank as he saluted the queen’s pavilion, but it was to Idalie his lowest homage was tendered. She sought to smile in answer; but her lip only quivered, for her eye, awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to accept the challenge.

The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of thunder the knights met in the centre of the course. The lances of both shivered. A loud and ringing shout echoed far and wide, forming a deep bass to the military music bursting forth at the same moment; but then the sound changed, and so suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed turned, by the very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of wailing and despair. The horses of both combatants were seen careering wildly, and with empty saddles, round the lists. Princes, nobles, and knights crowded so swiftly and in such numbers to the spot where the combatants had met, that the eager populace could trace nothing but that one warrior was down and seemingly senseless, the which no one could assert. Order and restraint gave place to the wildest tumult; the people, en masse, rushed indiscriminately into the lists, heedless of the efforts of the men-at-arms to keep them back, and scarcely restrained even by the rapid and agitated approach of the queen consort and the princesses towards the principal group. Words of terrific import were whispered one to another, till the whisper grew loud and rumour became certainty. The music ceased, save the solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the warlike sports concluded. As if by magic, the lists were cleared, the tents struck, and every trace of the tournament removed. But even then the popular ferment continued; there were men hurrying to and fro, little knots of persons assembling in the street, speaking in anxious whispers, or hastening in silence to their homes. Ever and anon the muffled tone of heavy bells came borne on the air, and then the dead silence, ever the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night all trace of the morning’s glittering splendour and animated life had disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very desert of solitude and gloom.

II.

Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of the fatal tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless and insensible as he had fallen in the lists, when, from the insecure fastening of his helmet, it had given way before the lance of Montgomeri, and caused him to receive the full force of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally injuring the brain. Still life was not extinct, and, though against all reason, hopes were still entertained by many for his eventual recovery. In one of the apartments of the Louvre, forming the suite of the queen dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comte de Montgomeri and his betrothed bride. Sometimes sanguine that Henri would, nay, must recover; at others plunged in the depth of despair—had been the alternate moods of the count during these eleven days. His friends conjured him to lose no time in retiring from France, at least for a time; and Idalie herself, though she shrunk from the idea of parting, with an indefinable feeling of foreboding dread, yet so trembled for his safety if he remained, as to add her solicitations to those of others. Still the count lingered. The very thought of his having been the ill-fated hand to give the death-blow to the monarch he revered, and the friend he loved, was too horrible to be realized. He could not believe that such would be; yet so dark was his despair, so agonizing his self-accusations, that even his interviews with Idalie had lost their soothing sweetness, and he did but deplore that her pure love had been given to one so darkly fated as himself.

It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte de Montemar, who had been engaged with papers at the further end of the apartment, approached and sought to comfort him by an appeal to those holier feelings, which Montgomeri possessed in a much higher degree than most of his countrymen.

“It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “to poison thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remember, thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light—out of a very chaos the most unwavering order; and does He not do so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge thee to quit France till order is restored, and our gracious sovereign’s last words remembered and acted upon. Italian blood is hot and eager to avenge; but fear not, we shall meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the few moments still left my poor child!”

Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Montgomeri folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and promised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed him.

“And wilt thou indeed do this?” she rejoined, imploringly. “Oh, bless thee for such promise! Yet I fear thee, Montgomeri. And when apart from me, and these troubled thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not your own life alone which you risk; that one is bound up in it which cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile when the oak has fallen? And as the oak is to the lowly yet clinging ivy, so art thou to me.”

Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which had increased with each day that brought the hour of parting nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been, still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length caused her head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with such a burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, and tenderly he conjured her to reveal its cause.

“I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of the woman whom thou lovest; but scorn it not, upbraid it not, bid it go from me! Is there not woe enough in parting, that before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shapeless darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling, save that we shall not meet as we have parted?”

“Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it not; ’tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the frame is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me—”

He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading by a private passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were suddenly drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted on her features.

“This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would apologize for our intrusion,” she said, turning towards the Count de Montemar; “our business is too weighty for an indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges,” she added, addressing him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s courtly words, “tarry not another night in Paris; you have been unwise to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, no marvel. Fly at once; put the broad seas between you and France, and there may be happiness in store for you yet. Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for Montgomeri’s, I am here: do not look upon me thus.”

“Now must we part—now? Your highness means not now!” exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed round the count’s arm. “What has he done that he should fly?”

“Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may be but wrung from woman’s agony, for the grief of Catherine de Medicis is of no softening nature; yet ought Montgomeri to leave Paris without delay, for there may be some to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate. Detain him not, Idalie; we shall visit Scotland perchance ere long, and there no grief shall damp a bridal.”

“Stay but one moment more, royal lady,” entreated De Lorges, as the dauphine turned to go; “one word, for mercy. How fares the king? Is there no more hope? Does he still lay as he has done ever since that fatal stroke?”

Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrowfully.

“No, Montgomeri, no!” she said, after a pause of much feeling; “the soul has escaped the shattered prison, and Henri is at rest.”

Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost convulsive groan. He knew not till that moment how powerfully hope had sustained him. The shock was almost as fearful as if he had never thought of death; and yet the horrible conviction that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant left his mind.

“Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child, of both. Part them ere long,” whispered the queen (dauphine no more), as the count knelt before her in involuntary homage; “think not of us now. Would to God we were still Dauphine of France and not her queen. Montgomeri’s danger, I fear, is imminent; let him not linger, and may our Lady guard him still.”

She departed as she spoke; and Montemar, infected with her evident anxiety, hesitated not to obey.

“Rouse thee, Montgomeri,” he said, earnestly; “fly, for the sake of this poor, drooping flower; let not our Idalie weep for a darker doom than even this sad parting. Come to thy father’s heart awhile, my child. Have I no claim upon thy love?”

Gently he drew her from Montgomeri’s still detaining arm, almost relieved to find her insensible to any further suffering. His beseeching words to fly ere Idalie again awoke to consciousness, moved the count to action. Still he lingered to kiss again and again the pale cheek and lips of his beloved; then convulsively wringing the count’s hand, rushed from the room and from the palace at the very moment that voices shouted “Long live Francis the Second, God preserve the King!”

III.

Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count de Montgomeri an exile from his country; and so virulent was Catherine against him, so determinately forgetful of Henri’s last words, absolving the count of all intentional evil, whatever might ensue, that even his best friends dared not wish him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of hope deferred. No doubt of his affection ever entered her heart; she knew him fond and faithful as herself; but there seemed no end, no term to the long, long interval of absence. Her future was bounded by the hour of meeting, and a very void of interest, and hope, and pleasure seemed the space which stretched between. Yet, for her father’s sake, her ever unselfish nature struggled with the stagnating gloom. The court was loathsome to them both, for even the friendship of the young queen could not remove from Idalie the horror which Catherine de Medicis inspired. In the Chateau de Montemar, then, these eighteen months had mostly been passed, and Idalie compelled herself to seek and feel interest in the families of her father’s vassals, and in the many lessons of feudal government and policy which, as the heiress of all his large estates and of his proud, unsullied name, her father delighted to pour into her heart.

One other subject engrossed the Count de Montemar, and of which he spoke so often and so solemnly to his daughter, that his feelings on the subject became hers; it was the wide-spreading over France of the new religion, deemed by all orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which, if not checked, would entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in consequence bring incalculable mischief to the country, both temporally and spiritually. De Montemar was no bigot, looking only to violent measures for the extermination of this far-spreading evil; but it grieved and affected him in no common degree. He spent hours and hours with his confessor and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing subject; and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the priest, a true and zealous though humble follower of his own church, he became more and more convinced of the truth of the olden creed, and what he deemed the foul and awful apostasy of the new.

Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these discussions, and therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction of the truth and beauty of her long-cherished religion sink into her soul like balm. Saddened by her individual sorrow, shrinking in consequence from all the exciting amusements then reigning in France, her fathers favourite subject became equally a resource and comfort to her, thus unconsciously fitting her for the martyr part which she was only too soon called upon to play.

The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his youth, and was still suffering from the serious wounds received in his last campaign. Within the last three months he had gradually become weaker and weaker, till at length Idalie watched beside the couch, from which she had been told that her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She had heard it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere the kindly sympathy of the benevolent priest and of her cousin Louis could in any degree assuage. Motherless from early childhood, a more than common tie bound her to her father; and so deep was the darkness which those cruel tidings seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too, might “flee away, and be at rest.”

Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie arose from the seat where she had kept vigil for many weary nights and days, and looked forth upon the night. The moon was at the full, and shed such clear and silvery light around, that even the rugged crags and stunted pines seemed softened into beauty. The vale beneath slumbered in shadow, save where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth, seemingly bathed in liquid silver. Sweet odours from the flowers of the night lingered on the breeze, and the rippling gush of a streamlet, reflecting every star and ray upon its bosom, was the only sound that broke the silence. The holy calm of Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of the watcher, and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A few minutes afterwards the voice of the count recalled her to his side.

“Is it a fancy, or was Louis here but now, my child?” he asked, feebly. “Is he from the court? and did he not bring news? Wherefore came he?”

“Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father; and he sought, as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to share it.”

“Bless him for his faithful love! He has in truth been to me a son, and will be to thee a brother, mine own love; but tell me, is it indeed truth, or have my thoughts again wandered, has my young sovereign gone before me to the grave?”

“Alas! my father, ’tis even so.”

An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lips of the dying man, and for several minutes he was silent. When again he spoke, his voice was firmer.

“Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master; and it is well, for the regency of Catherine de Medicis can bring with it but misery. Listen to me, beloved one! I leave thee sole heiress of our olden heritage, of a glorious name, which from age to age hath descended in a line so pure, so stainless, that the name of De Montemar hath become a very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There have been times when daughters, not sons, succeeded; and yet did its lustre not diminish nor its power decrease. Thou knowest this, my child. I know not wherefore I recall it now.”

“Dost thou doubt me, father?” replied Idalie, sadly, and somewhat reproachfully. “Thinkest thou my heart is so engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall decrease with me?”

“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained thee, yet I meant it not.” Pausing a moment, he continued hurriedly, “Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering, falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics gain ground; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand for their destruction; but my whole soul trembles for my native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn aside thyself from the one true path; but oh, for thy dead father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands, and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. Thou wilt not wed with heresy, my child?”

“Never, my father! I can pity and pray for these misguided ones; but never shall my hand be given to one unfaithful to his God. Yet wherefore this fear? Am I not the plighted bride of one who would rather die than lead me astray, or turn aside himself?”

The fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish radiance, his cheek burned, and his mind evidently so far wandered as to prevent either his hearing or understanding his daughter’s last words.

“And thou wilt promise this?” he said, in a voice at once alarmingly hollow, yet strangely excited; “thou wilt solemnly promise never to give thyself and thy fair heritage to the heretic; thou wilt not let the foul spot blacken our noble line? Promise me this, my child.”

Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced that Montgomeri, who, when he left her, had been as true and zealous a Catholic as herself, was not of a nature to change, Idalie knelt down beside the couch, and in distinct and solemn accents made the vow required.

The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden strength, and laid both his hands on the bent head of his child. “Now blessings, blessings on thee for this, my sainted one!” he said, distinctly; “thou hast removed all doubt, all fear; death has no terror now, no sting. God’s blessing be upon thee, love, and give—”

His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow, and minutes thus passed. A cloud had come before the moon, and when her light broke forth again, Idalie knelt by the couch of the dead.

Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge her grief in solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an express arrived from Paris, and she was compelled to prepare her chateau and vassals for the reception of the young king, the queen mother, and court, who in their progress to the south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself from the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits. Although chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and warmth which had characterised it not half a century previous, its memory still lingered in the minds of men; and something of this feeling actuated the men of Montemar as they looked on their youthful countess. Shrinking and timid as she had been while her parent lived, a new spirit now seemed her own; and it was with all the proud consciousness that she was now sole representative of one of the most ancient and most noble families of France that Idalie de Montemar, at the head of her loyal vassals, received her royal guests, and knelt in homage to the youthful Charles.

But amid all that royal group only one had power over the heart of Idalie, and she grieved to see the saddened brow and anxious glance, which had usurped the place of the radiant smiles and sparkling eye, which had never before failed to beam forth from the lovely countenance of Mary Queen of Scots. Robed so completely in white (the costume of royal widows) as to receive the designation of La Reine blanche, her beauty rather increased than diminished by its softened tone; she was to many an object of still deeper interest now than she had been hitherto; but it was very soon evident to Idalie that the petty mortifications springing from rooted envy and dislike, to which she was daily, almost hourly subjected by Catherine, were poisoning all youthful enjoyment, and that even while she clave with her whole soul to France, she felt it must not be her home much longer.

Feeling deeply, as she did, that it was to Mary’s faithful friendship her betrothed husband owed his life, Idalie’s high spirit rose indignant at this treatment. That the marked respect with which she treated her, the constant deference to her wishes, during the royal sojourn, exposed her to Catherine’s fatal malice, she cared not for. Soothed by her affection, roused to a sense of her own dignity as sovereign of Scotland, if no longer of France, it was during her sojourn at the Chateau de Montemar, Mary resolved on her return to her native land, and by earnest persuasions prevailed on the young countess to sue for the royal permission to accompany her. It was granted, ungraciously enough; for her engagement with the Count de Montgomeri was known, and the hatred borne by Catherine de Medicis towards that unfortunate nobleman had in no way diminished by time.

“Will the good Count Gabriel de Lorges accompany his young bride on her return? Know ye, my lords, if so, we will give him welcome,” the queen mother soon after inquired, in the hearing of Idalie, and in a voice so peculiarly sweet and gracious as to cause the countess’s heart, for the moment, to bound up with sudden hope of his permitted, even welcomed return, and then as suddenly sink down, she knew not wherefore, save that Catherine’s deadliest purposes ever breathed through smiles.

A few months after her visit to the chateau, Mary quitted France, attended by Idalie de Montemar, and some other youthful friends, to whom she clung, as the sole memories left her of that beautiful and happy land, which her foreboding spirit whispered she should never look on more. Intent on soothing the grief of her royal friend, Idalie had but little time to think of her own feelings; but when she did seek to define them, she became conscious that they were not all joy. Again did the same dim shadow envelope every thought, every hope directed towards the hour of meeting. Every day that brought it nearer seemed to throw a chilling weight on her heart’s ecstatic bound. Her very love felt too intense, too twined with her being, to find rest, even in the thought of looking on him, listening to him again. She strove with the baseless shadow, but it clung pertinaciously to every mental image, and weighed upon her spirits like lead.

Scotland was reached at last; the heavy pomp and ceremony attending the sovereign’s landing and progress to Holyrood at length at an end, and Idalie had retired to the chamber appointed for the use of herself and suite, seeking calmness and rest from the opposing emotions at one and the same time engrossing her.

Why should she not be joyful? the morrow Montgomeri would be at her side once more, and all unchanged to her; not a doubt had stolen on the bright vision of his love, not a shade darkened the pure thoughts of his constancy—what, then, did she dread?

A summons to the chamber of the queen startled her, for she had been dismissed, she thought, for the night. Hastily obeying, she ran lightly along the private gallery pointed out as her nearest way, and without pausing drew aside the arras and entered. A cry of astonishment, of bliss at the same moment escaped her lips, and, clasped to the heart of the Count de Montgomeri, all darkness and dread faded for the time in a burst of happy tears upon his bosom.

“Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we parted, dearest,” said Idalie, after long and earnest commune, as they sat together the following day in an olden chamber of Holyrood, far removed from the sovereign and the court. “Thou too art changed; and if in thee, a soldier and a man, absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow, pallor on thy cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange that I, a poor, weak girl, should suffer too? I scarce had loved thee, Gabriel, had there been no change.”

“I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less touching impress on thy cheek,” replied the count; “but for me, harsh storms and ruffled thoughts have joined with the yearning thoughts for thee to make me as thou seest. Why look upon me thus? canst doubt me, dearest?”

“Oh, no, no! thy love is not changed, save that it may be dearer still; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we parted. There are deeper sterner feelings in thy soul than heretofore; the change is there. The storms of which thou speakest have not been outward only—glory, ambition, love, are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.”

“And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou not love thy soldier still?”

“Oh, yes! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms—why is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely stern? It was not always thus?”

“Call it not stern my love: ’tis but the shadow of my spirit’s change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have marked it; yet ’tis not sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards myself. When we parted, dearest, I lived for earth and earthly things; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest; ’tis thus that I am changed.”

“And is this all?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his face; “is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy cheek and brow bear such true witness? The thought of heaven brings with it but balm and rest—not strife and pain. Gabriel, this is not all.”

“It is not all, my own! I would not have a thought concealed from thee; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. Listen to me beloved one; and oh, believe, Montgomeri would not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod; yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy church; the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over-spreading the pure light marking the path of Jesus, thou wouldst feel with me, and acknowledge that I could not think of God and heaven, and yet be other than I am. Idalie, speak to me! wherefore art thou thus?”

He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted, her lip and check blanched almost as death. Her large eyes distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as stone.

“It cannot, cannot be,” she murmured, in a low shuddering tone. “Montgomeri could not be other than true: no, no. Why will you speak thus, love?” she added, somewhat less unnaturally. “What can such strange words mean, save that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be unsheathed in persecuting wars—answer me, Gabriel, is it not so?”

“Alas! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon of every true man is needed to protect the creed which conviction has embraced. In these dark times this badge of Protestantism and the sword of defence must ever be raised together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic; but thou—”

“Thou art no heretic; no, no—it cannot be!” burst from the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprang from his embrace, “Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me—thou wouldst try the love I bear thee! Oh, not thus, not thus! Say thou art no heretic; thou art still the man my father loved, trusted, blessed; him to whom he gave his child. Speak to me; answer me—but one word!”

“I will, I will, mine own! let me but see thee calm. Am I not thine own? Art thou not mine? Come to my heart, sweet one; thou wilt find no change towards thee!”

“Answer me,” she reiterated; “Gabriel, thou hast not answered! By the love thou bearest me, by the vow unto my father—to love and cherish me till death—by thine own truth—I charge thee answer me, thou art no heretic?”

“If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by the Pope and his pampered minions in every land, to deny to them all allegiance, to refuse all belief in the intervention of saints and martyrs, or that absolution, bought and sold, can bring pardon and peace; if to read and believe the Holy Scriptures, and follow as they teach—if this is to be a heretic, Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it. Yes, dearest, I am a heretic in all, save love for thee!”

A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and Idalie fell forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Montgomeri could restore her to life, though he used a tenderness and skill strange in a rough warrior like himself; but no fond look returned his anxious gaze. She struggled to withdraw herself from his embrace, but the tone of reproachful agony with which he pronounced her name rendered the struggle vain; and, clinging to him, she sobbed. “I thought not of this, dreamed not of this; even in the dark foreboding haze clinging round the hour of meeting. Gabriel, in mercy leave me, or I shall forget my vow, and hurl down on me the wrath of the dead.”

“Leave thee!—vow!—wrath of the dead!” he repeated. “Oh, do not talk so wildly, love; reproach, upbraid me, as thou wilt; but tell me not to leave thee. Wherefore should we part?”

“Gabriel, it must be! I have no strength when I gaze on thee. Let not perjury darken this deep misery: leave me!”

“Perjury! what hast thou sworn?” demanded Montgomeri, hoarse, and choked with strong emotion.

“Never to wed with heresy! To retain the faith of my ancestors pure and unsullied as I received it. My father, from his bed of death, demanded this vow, and I pledged it unhesitatingly; for could I doubt thee?”

She had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was such a sudden and agonized change on the features of the count, that it not only banished calmness, but reawakened hope.

“Oh, say thou wert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest Gabriel, have I not judged thee wrongly, that still we may pray together as we have prayed? Thou hast not turned aside from our old and sainted creed. Say but this grief is causeless; that I may still love thee without sin; that there is no need to part!”

“Part!” he passionately exclaimed, “and from thee? Oh, no, no!”

“Then thou art, in truth, no heretic? It has all been a dark and terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet love!” she answered, in a voice of such trusting joyance, that Montgomeri started from her side, and hurriedly paced the room.

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up confidingly in his face; but its expression was enough. Shrinking from him, she implored, “Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on me thus, or that fearful dream will come again!”

“Would, would to God it were a dream!” he exclaimed, and his hands clasped both hers with convulsive pressure. “Idalie, I am no Catholic; I dare not again kneel as I have knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not even to retain thy precious love, to claim thee mine—thee, dearer than life, than happiness, than all, save eternity—I dare not deny my faith. But, oh, is there no other way? Can it be, that for this, a firm conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that which my soul believes, for this that we must part? Idalie, canst thou sentence me to this?”

“I have sworn,” she said, her white lips quivering with the effort. “My vow is registered in heaven—sworn unto the dead; by death only to be absolved.”

“To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient faith. Idalie, oh, hear me; let me plead now! Give to Louis de Montemar the government of thine ancestral lands, the control of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek them when thou wilt, unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his counsels. I ask but for thee; and here, far removed from the blood and misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for each other still. May not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain unbroken?”

“Montgomeri, it may not be,” she said, in a low yet collected tone, for it seemed as if the noble spirit of her race returned to give her strength for that harrowing hour.

“Tempt me not by such words as these—the love I bear thee is trial all-sufficient. My oath was pledged that I would never wed with heresy—never give my hand to one unfaithful to our old and sainted creed. Perchance that oath alone may save me from a like perdition, and if so, then is it well.”

“And doth thou scorn me for this—despise and loathe me? Oh, Idalie, thou knowest not all I have endured. In mercy add not to the anguish of this hour, by scorn of the change which imperious conscience alone had power to impel.”

“Scorn thee, Montgomeri! No; if thou, the good, the wise, can thus decide, and so find peace, is it for me to judge thee harshly? No, Idalie can never blame thee, Gabriel.”

He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the impassionate kisses he pressed on check and brow. She felt his hot tears fall fast upon her face, for in that suffering hour it was the iron-souled warrior that wept, not the pale, slight girl he held.

“This must not be, beloved,” she whispered, in low soothing tones. “Montgomeri, my noble love—for in this last hour I may still call thee so—oh, rouse thee from this woman’s weakness; this is no mood for thee. Thou must forget me, Gabriel; or so think of me as to be once again the brave, the high-souled warrior thou hast ever been. For my sake, rouse thee, love! The God we part to serve will hear my prayers, and bless thee.”

“And thou!” burst passionately from the lips of the count. “Oh, what shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the void of everlasting absence? In the rush of battle the warrior may find forgetfulness in death; but—”

“No, no, not death; Gabriel, for my sake, live, though not for me: add not this pang to a heart already tried enough. Promise me to live, and for me! Leave me to my God, Montgomeri, and He will give me peace.”

He could not answer, and minutes—many minutes—rolled away, and neither moved from the detaining arms of the other. Fortunately perhaps for both, a page entered with a summons to the count from the queen. Idalie lifted up her head, and while her very blood seemed turned to ice, a smile circled that pale lip.

“Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait, indulgent as she is.”

“But we shall meet again, sweet love?”

There was no answer; but Montgomeri would not understand that silence. He strained her once more to his heart, and turned away: another minute the arras fell, and he was gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to detain him, and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped senseless on the ground.

VI.

It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar, about three months after the event narrated in our last chapter, that the only remaining scions of that noble house were seated in earnest and evidently sorrowful converse. The beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by the richly-stained glass of the antique windows through which they passed, fantastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The furniture was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with couches and cushions of tapestry, ancient as the days of Matilda of Flanders, which, though somewhat heavy in themselves, accorded well with the aspect of solemn grandeur pervading the whole apartment.

“Do not refuse me, Louis,” pleaded Idalie, after a long and painful discussion relative to her papers and parchments, which strewed the table, had passed between them; “do not thus entreat me to retain my heritage. Is a broken heart, a sinking frame fit chief for Montemar? I have borne much, suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which my whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all my earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me of their heavy charge.”

“But only wait awhile, sweet cousin,” he replied; “sorrow has had as yet no time to expend its force. Do not act so soon on the resolution of a moment’s agony; wait but one brief year, and think well on all you would resign. Has earth no spell to fright away thy purpose?”

“None; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has departed. Nay more, it is filled with hopes I dare not hope, and thoughts I dare not think. I would fly from these.”

“And will a convent aid thee so to do?”

“I know not; yet there at least temptation, which I have no strength to meet, will not assail me more.”

“No strength to meet! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the stake might envy thee thy strength.”

“Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me,” and for the first time her voice quivered, and she buried her face in her clasped hands. A fierce malediction on Montgomeri was bursting from the lips of Louis, as he looked on the faded form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full extent of his cousin’s agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous himself, Idalie’s perfect calmness since her return had deceived him; but the tone in which those few words were said strangely and suddenly revealed the whole, and the young man’s whole heart spoke in his half-uttered curse.

“No, no; curse him not, Louis!” passionately implored Idalie. “Promise me, by the sweet memories of our childhood, still to be his friend. In these awful times, when the poisoned draught and midnight dagger are ever near these persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save.”

“I will, I will, for thy sweet sake,” he replied, earnestly. “Yet why fear such danger for him? he never will be rash enough to return to France.”

“Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so conjure you to be his friend. He is here, may be near me still, even as he hovered close beside me in my passage home. He thought to be unknown, even to me; me, whom he was there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not one word to betray himself, or give me again the torture of farewell. I knew him close beside me; I heard the disguised accents of his voice, and yet we were as if the grave had parted us. Oh, Louis, Louis! the strength which then upheld me has departed from me; I dare not look upon his face and listen to his voice again. Only the convent walls can shield me from a broken vow, a dead father’s curse; and wilt thou keep me from their refuge? No, no; relieve me from this fearful heritage, and let me be at peace.”

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One week after Louis de Montemar had been acknowledged by all the vassals of his cousin as their suzerain or feudal lord, to whom and to his heirs they had sworn undying allegiance, Idalie stood within the convent church of our Lady of Montemar, preparing to take those awful vows which severed her from earth, and all its cares and joys, and hopes and woes, for ever. It was midnight, but the large waxen tapers burning on the high altar and many shrines completely illuminated the main body of the church, while the deep shadows of the aisles and more distant arches of the nave heightened the effect of light, and rendered the building larger in appearance than in reality. Clouds of incense floated on the air, from the rich silver censers held by six beautiful boys, clothed in white, standing on either side the altar. Behind, and exquisitely illuminated by a peculiarly softened light falling full upon it, hung a picture of the Saviour kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, his countenance powerfully expressive of the words, “Nevertheless, not what I will, but what Thou wilt.”

The church was crowded in the nave and aisles, the choir and chancel being left for the relations of the novice and those of higher rank. As Idalie had but few of the former, and had particularly wished the ceremony to be as private as possible, these parts of the building were comparatively unoccupied, except by monks and priests.

Clothed with unwonted gorgeousness, Idalie stood beside the altar. A rich robe of grey Genoa velvet descended to her feet, sweeping the marble ground in heavy folds, girded round the waist with a broad belt of large rubies and opals; glittering stars of the same clasped down the stomacher, and looped the wide sleeve of richest lace, and braids of diamonds glistened in the dark tresses of her hair, and sparkled on the high, pure brow, which, marble pale, seemed all unfitted for their weight. Her eyes were raised, her lips slightly parted, her thin white hands crossed upon her bosom, as in the heartfelt utterance of voiceless prayer. Silence, deep as the grave, had succeeded the priest’s prayer, lasting but a moment, for Idalie sinking noiselessly on the ground, the black pall was thrown over her, and the distant discharge of cannon, mingled with the muffled toll of the convent bell, proclaimed far and near that Idalie de Montemar was now an inmate of the tomb. A groan so deep and hollow at that instant reverberated through the building, that all present started, and shudderingly drew nearer each other, unable to trace whence or from whom it came, until a tall shrouded figure was discovered leaning against one of the pillars supporting the arched roof of the choir; his face was buried in his cloak, but he was seen to shiver, as by some rudely-passing wind. The organ swelled forth in thrilling tones the requiem for the dead, sweet childish voices prolonged the solemn strain, till it faded softer and softer in the distance, swelling, falling, then dying all away. Removing the pall, the priests waited for Idalie to rise and kneel before the altar, that the ceremony might continue. They waited, but there was no movement. She lay even as she had fallen. A cry of terror burst from the aged priest, and at the same instant, heedless of the personal danger inseparable from discovery, bareheaded and unshrouded—heedless of all save one agonizing fear—Gabriel de Lorges rushed forward, and knelt beside her.

“Idalie! loveliest! dearest! speak to me, answer me; say that I have not murdered thee! Answer me, in mercy, but one word!”

He spoke in vain. Louis de Montemar, priests, and many others crowded round him. They sought to withdraw her from Montgomeri’s convulsive hold, to wake her from the seeming trance. But all was useless; she had passed to heaven in that music swell. The broken-hearted was at rest.^[4]

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4.The after-fate of the unfortunate but guiltless regicide belongs to history.