There are few situations in life which convey to the mind of man more completely the sensations of comfort, security, and repose, than when, after a long day's ride, he sits at ease by a glowing fire, and hears—while all the ready service of a well-conducted inn is in bustling activity to minister to his wants or satisfy his appetite—the rain patter and the tempest roar without. Nor is it from any selfish comparison of their own fate with that of others less happy that men derive this sensation, notwithstanding the dictum of the most selfish of would-be philosophers. It is, on the contrary, from a comparison of their own situation at the moment with what that situation sometimes has been, or might even then be, that the good and the generous experience such feelings; and, though the thought of others exposed to the tempest must naturally cross their minds, yet that thought is mixed with pity and regret.

The little inn towards which Bernard de Rohan and his companions were proceeding, under the guidance of the priest, when last we left them, though the village in which it stood contained not above nine or ten cottages, was good for the time and the country. Its only sitting-room, of course, was the great kitchen, into which the door opened from the road; but that kitchen was well fenced from the wind and rain; the windows were small, and cased in stone; the door was sheltered by a deep porch, where host and travellers sat and amused themselves in the summer daytime; and, as it was the first house met with after passing some of the steepest mountains between France and Piedmont, everything was done to make it attractive in the eyes of weary wayfarers.

The thunder had passed, the air had become cold and raw, the night was as dark as a bad man's thoughts, a fierce wind was blowing, and the heavy rain dashed in gusts against the clattering casements; but all those indications of the harsh and boisterous state of the weather without did but serve to make the scene within seem more comfortable to the eyes of a traveller, who sat in one of the large seats within the sheltering nook of the chimney, watching the busy hostess prepare more than one savoury mess for his supper on the bright wood fire that blazed upon the hearth. In the mean time, several attendants of various kinds might be seen in different parts of the wide kitchen, cleaning and drying harness, clothes, baldrics, and weapons, or preparing other matters for the service of their lord, with all the devices of courtly luxury.

Those attendants, however, were not the attendants of Bernard de Rohan, nor was the traveller that cavalier himself; he being yet upon his way thither, and enduring all the fury of the storm.

The one of whom I now speak was a man of about the same age, but rather older. He was decidedly a handsomer man also: his features were all finer in form; he was taller; his complexion was fairer, without, however, being effeminate; and it was evident, too, that he knew his personal advantages, and was somewhat vain of them. He was dressed with much splendour, according to the fashion of that day; and, though he seemed to have met with some part of the storm, it was clear that he had not been long exposed to it.

In short, as he sat there, he might well be pronounced one of the handsomest and most splendid cavaliers of his day; but there was a something which a closely-observing eye might detect in the hanging brow and curling lip that was not altogether pleasant. It could scarcely be called a sneer; yet there was something supercilious and contemptuous in it too. Nor was it altogether haughty, though pride undoubtedly had its share. It was a dark and yet not gloomy expression. It seemed as if the heart beneath was full of many an unfathomable idea, and proud of its impenetrability. The thoughts might be good or bad; but it was evidently a countenance of much thought under a mask of lightness: a deep lake beneath a ripple.

The stranger had, as we have said, been looking on while the hostess, with a bustling maid, prepared manifold dishes for his supper; and he added, from time to time, a gay jest to either of them upon the progress of the work. His tone was familiar and easy; but it might be remarked that his jest always arose from something that came beneath his eye, and that, in general, he took no notice whatever of the reply, scarcely seeming to hear that any one else spoke, and making no rejoinder, but letting the matter drop till he thought fit to jest again.

At length, however, he said, "I prithee, dame, double yon portion of steaks from the roe-deer, and add me some twenty eggs to the omelet. You will have more visiters shortly."

The good woman started up with a look of some surprise, and might, perhaps, have thought her guest a conjuror, had not his words been followed so closely by the noise of horses' feet, that the source of his knowledge was evident at once. A moment after voices were heard calling, and the aubergiste, who had been aiding some of the servants at the other side of the kitchen, opened the door carefully and looked forth. The cold wind rushed in fiercely, like a besieging army into a stormed city, and the yellow wax flambeau which the host carried to the door, and which, in that land of bees, was in those days common to every country inn, was extinguished in a moment, notwithstanding the fierce flame wherewith it burned.

All on that side of the wide, dingy room was now in darkness; but voices were heard as of many persons speaking, with cries for horseboys and hostlers, in the easily-distinguished tongues of attendants, while the landlord assured the travellers again and again that he would bestow upon them a thousand-fold better accommodation and entertainment than there was the least chance of their obtaining in reality.

At the same time, a full, rich, merry voice was heard chuckling at the boasts of mine host, and exclaiming, "Ay, ay, landlord! is it not so? We shall have dolphins and mullets, ortolans and beccaficos, musk sherbet from Constantinople, true Roman Falernian mingled with honey, and, to crown all, a Pythagorean peacock! Nothing less will serve us in this cold night; though, methinks, a good capon and a tankard of mulled Avignon claret[1] would warm me well, were it but ready this minute."

While the jovial priest, whom I have described in the first chapter of this true history, descended from his ass, joking at every movement with the host, Bernard de Rohan, smiling at his new companion's merriment, sprang to the ground and entered the kitchen of the inn, leaving his attendants to lead round the horses to the stables at the back of the building. It might not, it is true, be very satisfactory to him to find that the inn was so fully tenanted as he soon saw that it was; but he was one of those who fail not to enjoy what may fall to their lot as far as possible; and, as he advanced towards the fire, he thanked Heaven for a place of shelter from the rude buffeting of the storm.

In the mean while, the first occupant of the inn continued, with that air of self-satisfied indifference which has been a part of the affectation of the pampered and insolent in all ages, to look at nothing but the proceedings of some rebellious sticks upon the hearth, which resisted all the soft persuasions of the woman whom the hostess had left to tend the savoury messes at the fire, while she herself aided her husband in receiving, like Hope, her new visiters with false promises. The occupant of the chimney-corner looked neither to the right nor to the left; and, to have judged by his countenance, one would have supposed that he heard not one sound of all the many that were stirring around him, nor had a greater interest in anything on earth than in the cooking of a steak of roe venison. Even when Bernard de Rohan advanced with his arms jingling as he trod, and, after a momentary glance at him, laid hold of his arm with a friendly smile, the stranger merely turned round, with a look of perfect unconcern, to see who it was that, either in enmity or good-fellowship, thus called his attention.

When he saw who it was, however, he became more animated, and, rising with a smile, shook hands with him warmly. "Ha! Bernard de Rohan!" he exclaimed, "I can hardly believe my eyes. Why, baron, who would have thought to meet you thus in a Savoyard inn? Have you then quitted Italy to follow Guise, and meet the enemy in the North? You have not thrown by the spear and sword, I see! But, in a word, say what do you here?"

"Why, to say truth," replied the other, "nothing is now to be done beyond the Apennines; and though, as you might well know, after all that occurred at Civita, I am as little likely to follow Guise as a greyhound is to hunt in company with a lion, yet there is no use in staying behind when he has not only left the field himself, but taken all his forces with him. I am tired of this warfare, too! I long for some repose. I have now been three years absent from France, and I have a yearning to see my own land once more."

"Yes, and some fair dame therein," rejoined his companion. "Is it not so, De Rohan? I remember well you seemed to have but small delight in the bright eyes of the young Italians, and I often thought that it must be some remembered love of the past that kept you thus heart-whole."

"It may be so, count," replied Bernard, gayly. "What man is there without a lady-love? If there be one, he is neither fit for war nor peace: he wants the great excitement to glory, and courtesy, and great deeds. But, even had it not been for that, Meyrand," he added, more seriously, "I love the ladies of my own land best. Bright looks are little to me without true hearts, and beauty but a frail substitute for goodness."

"Pshaw, Sir Moralizer!" cried his companion; "beauty is a woman's best possession till she be old; and then, when she has done with the Graces, let her take up with the Virtues, or the Muses, or anything else she likes."

"Let her take up with anything, in short," said the jolly priest, coming forward to the fire, and shaking his gown to dry it; "let her take up with anything but a libertine, a fop, or a courtier. Let her bear age, or ugliness, or anything but children to fools—so shall she do well in this world and the next! Is it not so, gay sir?"

The Count de Meyrand stared at him with a look of haughty surprise; but he found that the priest was as indifferent as he could be, and he relapsed for a minute or two into silence, while the page of Bernard de Rohan came up to disarm his lord. The operation was somewhat long, and, by the time it was accomplished, the trestles had been brought forth from their corner, the long wooden boards which, joined up the middle, served for a table, had been taken from the wall against which they stood and laid upon those trestles, and over all a fine white tablecloth had been spread, with the salt in the midst.

Plate after plate of well-cooked viands, emitting an odour most savoury to hungry men, was next placed on the board by the neat hostess, and the count, with Bernard de Rohan in the buff jerkin he had worn under his armour, moved to take their seats at the head of the table. The priest sat down beside his young travelling companion, while a sneering smile curled the lip of Meyrand, and he could not refrain from saying, in a low but not inaudible voice, "Why, baron, what a princely youth you have become, to travel with your fool, and in canonicals too."

Bernard did not reply; and the priest, though he heard every word, said nothing till, the attendants having all ranged themselves at the lower end of the table, together with the host and hostess, he proceeded to bless the meat. He had scarcely concluded, however, when the door of the inn suddenly opened, and a person rushed in in the garb of a servant. He was without hat or cloak, and there was a cut, though but a slight one, upon his forehead. "Help! help!" he cried, gazing eagerly around the circle; "help! help! they are carrying away my Lord of Masseran and my young lady to murder them in the mountains."

These words produced a very different effect upon the persons who heard them. The Count of Meyrand sat perfectly still and indifferent, listening with his usual air of cool self-possession to all that the man said, and never ceasing to carve with his dagger the meat that was before him, on which he had just commenced when the interruption took place.

On the other hand, Bernard de Rohan and each of his servants, as if moved by the same impulse, started up at once. The young gentleman's left hand fell naturally to grasp the scabbard of his sword, and, before the man had done speaking, he had taken three steps towards the door of the inn.

Two or three circumstances, however, occurred to interrupt him for a moment. There were various confused movements on the part of many persons present, and a clamour of several tongues all speaking at once.

At the same time the count exclaimed, "Stay one moment, baron! Stay and drink one cup of wine with me before you go out in this sweet stormy night to help one of the greatest scoundrels that Savoy can produce, or France either. Stay, stay one moment! Well," he added, seeing Bernard de Rohan turn from him with a look of impatience, "well, go and help Masseran, if you will! Heaven send the rogues may have cut his throat before you reach them!"

"Your horse, my lord!" cried one of the attendants.

"Your armour, sir!" said another.

"No, no, on foot! on foot!" cried Bernard de Rohan; "on foot as we are! Time is everything. Lead on, fellow! lead on! Send us out torches, mine host!"

The jovial priest had started up almost at the same time as his travelling companion. "By our Lady, I will go with you!" he cried, "to shrive the dying. It is a part of a priest's trade; though, I confess, if I were knight, and noble and gallant cavalier, I would stay where I am, like this brave count, and exercise my chivalry upon venison and tankards of wine."

While he was speaking, there drew out from some dark corner of the inn-kitchen—where he had remained unnoticed by any one—a tall, thin, gaunt man, with a straw hat on his head, and a large, coarse brown cloak enveloping almost the whole of his figure. He took three steps forward into the full light, and certainly there had seldom been seen a more striking, if not a more handsome countenance, or a more remarkable and even graceful bearing, than that which the stranger presented. He was a man apparently about five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline features, large, black, flashing eyes, the bronze of sun, and wind, and storm upon his face, and five or six deep scars upon his cheek and brow. He was remarkably erect in person, and, though certainly meager, was broad-shouldered and muscular, or rather, perhaps, I may say, sinewy; for the hand that grasped his cloak, and the part of the arm and wrist seen above it, displayed the strong markings of the muscles like cords under the skin.

He came directly in the way of Bernard de Rohan as the young cavalier advanced towards the door; and it must be confessed that there was something strange and startling in the sudden apparition of the stranger, which made the other pause, and, with an involuntary motion, advance his right hand towards the hilt of his sword.

He drew it back again instantly, however, somewhat ashamed of the movement, while the new personage thus brought upon the stage said, in a deep but melodious voice, "I will go with you too, young gentleman, and may do you better service than our good friend the priest here."

"But, Master Leon," exclaimed the landlord of the inn, advancing towards him with an entreating look.

"Hush!" cried the stranger, holding up his hand; and, at the same moment, the jovial priest turned also upon the host, exclaiming, "Fry your eggs, fry your eggs, Gandelot, and leave other people to fry theirs. Don't be afraid! we'll not toss the omelet into the fire, nor spill the grease, nor set the chimney in a blaze. You know me and I know him; and, though he is the last man that should say I can't do good service when I like it, yet I will go with him without a quarrel!"

When every one is speaking at once, a conversation which would be otherwise long is very rapidly brought to a conclusion; and though, as we have seen, there were here two or three interlocutors, all that we have described scarcely interrupted Bernard de Rohan half a minute. "Lead on, lead on, then!" he exclaimed impatiently, addressing the servant who had made the appeal for assistance, and to whom the Count de Meyrand had been addressing a few words in a low tone. "Lead on, I say, quick!" and in another moment they were all beyond the door of the inn, and standing upon the mountain-side in the cold air of night.

The count remained at the table; and, shaping their conduct upon that of their lord, not one of his servants attempted to move. Meyrand, however, did not, upon the whole, seem particularly well satisfied with what had taken place. Perhaps he might not be quite contented with the inactive part he was playing; and it is certain he asked himself whether Bernard de Rohan could attribute his conduct to want of courage. He recollected, however, that they had mounted to the assault of many a well-defended breach together, and he felt sure that there could be no doubt of that kind on his companion's mind. He remained in thought, however, for a minute or two longer, forgetting even the supper that was before him, and the air of indifference which he usually bore; but at length he beckoned one of his men to his side, and spoke a few words to him in a very low tone, only suffering the last two to be heard: they were, "You understand!"

The man bowed his head in reply, called three of his companions away from the table, sought hastily in the different corners of the inn kitchen for various offensive weapons, and then left the place, as if to follow and assist Bernard de Rohan and his party.