It was in a small cabinet in the princely chateau of Fontainebleau, some eight days after the grand entertainment at the Louvre which we have before mentioned, that Henry the Second of France was seated, conversing with one of his most trusted servants and most faithful friends, the well-known MarÉchal de Vieilleville. The cabinet, the ceiling of which was of dark black oak, carved and ornamented with small stars of gold, was hung with rich but very ancient tapestry, still beautiful, though the colours had faded in the passing of years. The dark green which formed the principal hue was no longer enlivened by the gorgeous red and yellow draperies which had once ornamented the principal figures, and a dim and melancholy hue pervaded the room, to which the fact of the light passing through some leafy trees without did not a little contribute.

It was not, however, the peculiar colouring of the hangings, nor the light passing through the green trees, that gave an unusual paleness to the countenance of the king, as, laying down the pen with which he had been writing, he gazed up in the face of Vieilleville, "What is it you tell me, marÉchal?" he said. "Dead? Crushed under one of the towers of the castle? The very best and most promising soldier France could produce! The dear friend of Brissac—lauded even by Montmorency! Heaven and earth! Did you say he was returned, this Lord of Masseran? Send for him instantly. Let a messenger be despatched to the capital at once. By my crown, if I thought that he had any hand in this, I would have his head off in the court before tomorrow's sun set. Send off a messenger for him, I say!"

"Sire, he is even now in the palace," replied the marÉchal. "It was seeing him pass along the court, in order to crave an audience, that made me intrude upon your majesty just now. I heard this sad business last night by a letter from Brissac; but I would not tell your majesty, lest it should spoil your rest after so bustling a day."

"What, you are one of those, Vieilleville, are you," said the king, with a slight smile, "who can believe that the death of a faithful subject may chase slumber from even a royal pillow? However, these despatches must be written. Leave me for an hour, and then bring hither this Lord of Masseran. Keep a good eye upon him, for he is as deceitful as a cat: but he shall find that I am not to be trifled with."

"I will venture to beseech you, sire," said the statesman, "in all that you do with this man, to recollect that he is himself a sovereign prince; for, were you to forget it, the example might be dangerous."

"If I make him an example, it shall be for good, not for evil, Vieilleville," replied the king. "Some of these petty princes need an example how they may be punished for treachery and double-dealing. I have heard more of him since he last set out for Savoy than I ever did before, and I much doubted that he would return to France again. But watch him well, good Vieilleville, and bring him hither in an hour. I shall have finished ere that."

The marÉchal withdrew; and, ere the hour was expired, a page sought him again from the king, requiring his presence, with that of the Lord of Masseran, whom Vieilleville, on quitting the cabinet, had informed that Henry could not yet receive him.

The angry spot was still upon the king's brow when they entered; but he spoke to the Lord of Masseran in a courteous tone, saying, "Well, my good lord, this is somewhat unexpected. I knew not that you could go to Savoy and return so quickly. How is it that you have shortened the way so well?"

"A melancholy interruption, sire," replied the Savoyard, "a melancholy interruption caused me to return ere half my journey was complete. Somewhat on this side of Lyons, I met a messenger coming with all speed to seek me, and bearing this letter, which I beg to lay at your majesty's feet."

The king took it and read, examining every line as he did so, in order to see whether it bore about it the marks of truth and authenticity. There was nothing, however, to make him doubt it. It seemed simply a letter from some seneschal or other officer, left behind by the Lord of Masseran to command during his absence, announcing to him that the prison tower of the castle had taken fire and fallen, crushing under its ruins the chamber in which the young Baron de Rohan had been confined. It went on to state that works had been already Commenced to supply its place in the walls, and gave some account of the probable expense which those works would occasion.

"That would be dear," muttered Henry, in a low voice, and between his teeth. "That would be dear payment to get rid of a troublesome friend. I rather suspect it can be done cheaper in Savoy. Have you no news, Monsieur de Masseran," he said aloud, "of how this terrible catastrophe occurred?"

"I have shown your majesty all the information I have received," replied the Marquis of Masseran. "I returned to Paris with all speed after having met with the messenger, and, not finding you there, came hither."

"What say you, De Vieilleville?" said the king: "you had letters last night, methinks, from some one in that neighbourhood."

"They bear the same sad news, sire," replied the MarÉchal de Vieilleville. "But they add, that everybody in that country marvelled much how this event could have occurred in a tower detached from the castle, built almost entirely of stone, and doubtless intrusted to a faithful guard."

"It is, indeed, most strange," said the Marquis of Masseran, thoughtfully. "There must have been some base neglect."

"This must be inquired into," said the king, "this must be inquired into. My good Lord of Vieilleville, call the page for these despatches. It behooves you, my Lord of Masseran, to make strict and immediate inquiry into the whole of this affair, in which you shall be aided and assisted by a commissary on our part. There are the despatches, boy. Why wait you? What is it now?"

"May it please your majesty," replied the page, "there is a lady without craving earnestly to see you. She calls herself the sister of the Count of Brienne, and I remember her well at the court some months ago. She seems in much grief, and—"

"Give her admission," said the king, "give her instant admission. She may throw some light upon all this affair, my good Lord of Masseran."

The marquis turned somewhat pale; for the appearance of Isabel of Brienne in the king's presence was not at all what he wished or calculated upon. He had hoped for an opportunity of telling his own tale, and causing his wife to tell hers so as to corroborate all he said, without the actual appearance of Isabel herself. He knew that the Count de Meyrand, though apparently taking no part in all that occurred since their arrival in Paris, had been continually and skilfully preparing the way for the development of his part in the transaction; had been labouring to make friends and gain supporters among those who possessed the king's ear, and had been apparently not a little successful, even with the fair Duchess of Valentinois herself.

It must not be supposed, however, that good Monsieur de Masseran was moved by any personal love or regard for the Count de Meyrand: there was but one tie between them, the tie of interest; and the moment that the Lord of Masseran saw that more was to be lost or risked by the Count de Meyrand than to be gained, that instant he was prepared to put an end to his affection for his noble friend. He was, however, as we have seen, in various respects, in the count's power; and he had trusted that their united operations would be sufficient to induce the king to act without listening to the fair girl herself. He had, moreover, believed, when he heard of the death of Bernard de Rohan, that one great obstacle being removed, the rest would be comparatively easy. The arrival of Isabel, however, was most inopportune; for he saw that, in the king's angry mood at the moment, the disclosure of all that had taken place within the last few weeks might be ruinous in another way, and not only overthrow his future schemes with regard to Mademoiselle de Brienne herself, but bring punishment on his head for what had occurred before.

As the interview, however, could be prevented by no means within his reach, he sought eagerly in his mind for excuses and defences for his conduct: but he had hardly time to arrange any plan ere Isabel herself entered, supported by the arm of one whom he felt far more inclined to fear than even herself. That person was good Father Willand; and his surprise and dismay were not a little increased by seeing the king receive the priest with a gracious smile as an old acquaintance, and, grasping his arm familiarly, ask him what had made him return from banishment.

"Why, to bring this poor lamb back to your majesty's fold," replied Father Willand, in his usual gay and unceremonious tone. "By my faith, sire, if all shepherds were like you, and mistook the wolf for the watch-dog, mutton would soon be dear in France."

"How so? how so, good father?" demanded Henry, laughing; and, at the same time, taking Isabel's hand in his own, he prevented her, with a kindly gesture, from throwing herself at his feet. "Cheer up, fair lady," he said, "cheer up. The king will protect you, and be a father to you. But how now, bold priest? How have I been so unwise a shepherd as to mistake the wolf for the watch-dog?"

"Why," answered Father Willand, boldly, and looking full in the face of the Lord of Masseran, "by giving one of the best of your flock"—and he pointed with his hand to Isabel—"into the care of a Savoyard wolf."

"Hush! hush! my good father," cried the king. "By Heavens! if you use such language, you will get yourself into a worse scrape, in your cure of Saint John of Bonvoisin, than that for which I was obliged to send you away from Paris, to keep your ears out of the way of knives. On my soul, we must find a bridle for that tongue of yours."

"Indeed, sire," exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, marking with pleasure a slight frown that had come upon the king's brow, "indeed, sire, such a bridle is most necessary; for that tongue is not only insolent, but mendacious."

"Hush, sir!" exclaimed the king, sternly; "you speak of one of the honestest men in France;" and he held out his hand to Father Willand, who kissed it respectfully. "Would that we had many such!" the king went on: "for the men who tell truth in the cabinet as well as in the pulpit, are those that are very needful here: albeit," he added, with a smile, "they may occasionally, in their hatred of hypocrites and knaves, give their tongue some license, and their conduct too. However, my good father, you will never be wise, so that I fear some day I shall have to make you a bishop, merely to keep you out of the way of strong fists and crabsticks. Now let us turn to the case of this young lady. The page told me, fair one, that you were anxious to see me immediately. What is it you would have?"

"Protection, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne, raising her fair face towards the king, filled with an expression of deep and hopeless grief, which touched the kind heart of the monarch, and made his tone even more kindly than it was before as he replied,

"And you shall have it, lady. But let me hear how it is that protection is needed: have you not a mother and a brother to protect and help you?"

"Alas! sire," replied Isabel of Brienne, "my mother is no more my father's wife nor my father's widow. She is now the wife of one to whose will she shows all dutiful obedience; but unto me the mother's care and tenderness are at an end."

"Fair lady," said the king, "the time that I can spare you is but short, and it may save you both trouble and grief, and, perhaps, from one cause or another, may likewise spare you a blush, if I tell you that I know the past. Lest you should suspect that my ears have been wronged and your conduct falsely told, the brief history of the facts is this: You have loved and been beloved by a very gallant gentleman, one who has served his king and country well and faithfully; and your mother, not holding him as dearly and highly as we may do or you have done, has opposed your marriage with the man of your choice, and endeavoured, as far as may be, to separate you from him. He, in the somewhat indiscreet eagerness of love, persuaded you, it would seem, to fly with him secretly, and unite your fate to his by a clandestine marriage, which, upon every principle of law and reason, must be null and void. However, at the very altar, I am told, your worthy stepfather here present surprised and separated you from this bold gentleman, took means to ensure that you should not meet again, and was bringing or sending you to Paris, when you contrived to escape. Thus far we know; what is there more? The tale that we have heard is very simple."

As the king ended, he looked round with a slight smile, which certainly might be interpreted either "This matter is very clear," or else "I know there is another version."

The person who answered it first, however, was the good priest. "That is the story, sire," he said. "'Tis a most excellent piece of goods, but smells somewhat of the manufacturer."

"How so, sir? But let the lady speak, and say if this be true or not."

"True, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne, much to the surprise of the Lord of Masseran. "It is all true; but there is much besides to be said, and some things which I must say, but which, perhaps, I cannot prove, especially now, when deep grief masters me. As your majesty has said—and no blush will stain my cheek while I do own it—I loved and was beloved by as noble a gentleman as ever graced this land; but I trust that I loved him wisely too, for to that love I have been plighted since my fifteenth year. My father—my good father, sire, who in times past has stricken in many a battle by your side, and also in many another well-fought field—joined my hand to his with promises which I, his daughter, was but too willing to fulfil. My mother, it is true, always looked somewhat coldly on him I loved, ever since he struck to the ground a base man, her intendant, for wronging an unprotected girl; but still my mother was present when we were plighted to each other; still she was present when my father, on his deathbed, made me promise that I would wed the man whom he had chosen. Oh, how willingly I promised! oh, how gladly I would have kept that promise! but they have rendered it vain;" and, unable to restrain herself, the tears burst forth, and she wept bitterly.

Henry had carried his eyes from her to the countenance of the Lord of Masseran from time to time while she spoke, and now, taking her hand kindly, he said, "Be comforted, dear lady, be comforted. This changes the matter greatly. What else have you to add?"

"Oh, much, much, sire," replied Isabel, wiping the tears from her eyes; "but I will be brief, sire; indeed I will be brief, and not waste your most precious time. Bernard de Rohan, my promised husband, went to serve his king in Italy—"

"And did serve him there right well," said the king. "But go on."

"He had been absent some time," she continued, "and I was longing for his return, when a nobleman of your majesty's court sought my hand, to my great surprise, with my mother's countenance. Thinking that he had been deceived, I told him the whole truth, but still he pursued his suit. I wish, sire, that it were not needful for me to give his name, but I fear I must."

"The Count de Meyrand," said the king. "He has already urged his suit to us. What more of him, fair lady?"

"He urged it upon me, sire," she answered, "after he knew that my heart was given and my hand was promised to another, that other being his own friend. He sought me, sire, he persecuted me, he used words that I will not repeat, nay, menaces, all with the countenance of my mother, who acted, I believe—nay, I know—under the commands of her new husband. I was in hopes of some relief when my Lord of Masseran here took us so suddenly to Savoy, but we were soon followed by the gentleman you have named. I was now told to think no more of Bernard de Rohan. I was informed that my hand was destined for the man whom, by this time, I detested, and that means would be found to make me obey. Vague and terrible fears came over me; but I obtained an opportunity of writing one letter to him I loved. Would that I had never done so! for that letter has killed him."

"Methinks, sire, it would have been better," said the Lord of Masseran, in a sneering tone, "if the fair lady was so tyrannically used in my poor dwelling, to write to her brother in the capital."

"I did," replied Isabel of Brienne, "often and most sorrowfully."

"But did you ever ask him to come to you?" demanded the Lord of Masseran. "He says not."

"Never," replied Isabel of Brienne. "On the contrary, I besought him not to come. I concealed half my grief, the daily anguish of witnessing my mother's sorrow, the taunts, the sneers, the bitterness, which, like the Egyptian pestilence, made our very food swarm with reptiles; I concealed much, much that I might have told, and still besought him not to come."

"May I ask why, madam?" said the king, with evident surprise. "De Vieilleville, there is something under this. I must hear the whole," he added, seeing her hesitate. "Lady, it must be told."

"It was, sire," said Isabel de Brienne, in a low but distinct voice, "it was that I feared, if brother and sister should be in the same house beyond the pale of your majesty's realm—in a place where few questions are asked, and secret acts do not easily transpire—I feared, I say, I feared much for my brother's safety."

"I understand," said the king, "I understand. But there must be great objects for such doings."

"Everything reverts, sire," said Vieilleville, addressing the king in a low voice, "everything reverts to the mother in case of the death of the son and daughter without children."

"These, sire, however," said Isabel, "were but suspicions, and perhaps were unjust—"

"Oh, most unjust, I do assure your majesty," said the Lord of Masseran, who had more than once shown a disposition to break in, but had been restrained by a gesture from the king. "Such base designs never entered my mind."

"Perhaps such suspicions were unjust, sire," continued Isabel; "but to speak of facts. I had been forced out more than once to hunting-parties where the Count of Meyrand joined us; and at length, on one occasion, I was told that I must needs go forth with my Lord of Masseran to visit a house of his farther in the mountains. I went with fear, sire, on many accounts. First, the hour he chose was strange, just before sunset; next, my mother was not with us; and next, the train appointed to accompany us was smaller than usual. Scarcely had night fallen, when we were suddenly attacked and overpowered by a large body of men—"

"Was this with violence?" demanded the king. "Was any one killed or hurt?"

"None but some of the old and faithful servants of my family," replied the young lady, "who forgot where they were, and how situated, and defended their young mistress with their lives. One of them escaped, and fled to a little inn for help; but, in the mean time, we were, as I have said, overpowered and carried off farther into the hills, my Lord of Masseran as well as myself; though I cannot help thinking that he went somewhat willingly, for certainly among the assailants there was one, if not more, of the attendants of his good friend the Count de Meyrand. When we had gone some way—a long way, indeed, it seemed to me—a cavalier who had been found at the inn, none other than Monsieur de Rohan, came to our rescue, having gathered together a number of persons sufficient to deliver us—"

"A number of brigands!" said the Lord of Masseran, interrupting her: "brigands, you mean, young lady! brigands!"

"Ha! ha!" cried the priest, "wonderfully good! That bolt was smartly shot, my good Lord of Masseran. But, as you have put a word to the lady's story, I will put another; she says 'persons,' you say 'brigands,' I say anybody he could get. I was one of the number: there were other people from the inn, and the brigands, it is very true, came and joined us; not liking, as your majesty may easily conceive, that the good Lord of Masseran, or any other lord, should take the trade out of their hands. However, we refused no help where we could get it. The Chevalier de Meyrand, who was at the inn when the man came crying for aid, remained at the table with the capons and the bottles of wine, not liking, as may well be supposed, to frustrate his own schemes or fight against his own people; and Bernard de Rohan, with what assistance he could get, set free the young lady, ay, and the Lord of Masseran to boot."

"Then there were, in truth, brigands with you, my good father," said the king.

"In sooth were there, sire," replied the priest; "some of the best brigands between this and Naples; and I have a shrewd notion that Corse de Leon was there himself."

"Indeed!" said the king, with a smile; "then I wish I had been there also: I would give half a province to see that man, who seems to have been born for a general, and become a brigand by accident."

"Brissac writes me word, sire," said the MarÉchal de Vieilleville, "that Corse de Leon has served you better in Piedmont than any three captains in your service."

"That may well be," said the king; "but yet we must not too openly favour such gentry. Now, lady, we have interrupted you too long."

"I have but little more to say, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne: "as those who had delivered us were carrying us back to the castle in safety, I had full opportunity—the first time for years—of speaking with my promised husband, who informed me that he came, not only to seek my hand, but to bear despatches from Monsieur de Brissac to my Lord of Masseran there. What I have to tell farther is not altogether of my own knowledge; but let him deny the facts if he can, for there are persons who can prove them if he does deny them. He received intelligence that Monsieur de Rohan brought him despatches and directions of an unpleasant kind, and he left the chateau that he might not receive them. He also ordered that admittance should be refused both to my mother and myself; and I had reason to believe that a new scheme was formed for compelling me to wed the Count de Meyrand. In these circumstances, your majesty, I saw no chance of escape but in doing as I did do. I was far from your protecting arm; I was, in fact, in the power and at the disposal, not of my mother, but of a stranger to our house and nation; and I knew that if I delayed or hesitated, even for a few days, I was likely to be borne far away beyond the power of rescue or deliverance. I held that my father's will and wishes justified me in what, at other times, might have been a rash, perhaps an improper act; and, having the opportunity both of seeing him I loved and escaping with him, I did not hesitate; our purpose being immediately to seek your presence, and cast ourselves at your majesty's feet, entreating your gracious pardon. We were afterward seized at the altar, as your majesty has been told; and I was then carried away, as if with the purpose of taking me to some remote place, but, in reality, to give the opportunity of a mock deliverance by the Count of Meyrand;" and she gave a brief account of what had taken place after the count came apparently to her rescue. "I doubt not that he was carrying me to Paris," she continued, "and might ultimately have brought me to your majesty's presence; but I neither chose to be entirely in his power and at his disposal after all that had happened, nor to quit that part of the country where I had reason to believe my brother was or might soon be, and where my husband—yes, sire, my husband, for a vow had been spoken which nothing but death could do away—where my husband lay a captive in the hands of that dangerous man. With the aid of Father Willand here I made my escape; but alas! alas! it was only to find that he who had loved me well and truly was no longer in life to protect and guide me. I found, sire, that he had died a horrible death in the castle of Masseran, by the falling of the tower under which he was confined."

She spoke, to all appearance, calmly; even the last words were distinct, though low; but she kept her eyes bent down, and, closing them for a moment, the drops of tears broke through the long black lashes like a crushed diamond.

"I grieve for you, dear lady," said the king, "and I sympathize with you also; for I loved this young gentleman well. But tell me, have you any suspicion that his death was brought about unfairly?"

"No, sire, no," she replied; "I have no cause to suppose so. I know nothing farther than that it is as I have told you."

"You see, sire," said the Lord of Masseran, "that she exculpates me from blame in this matter."

"No, my lord, no," replied the king. "Of the manner of this gentleman's death she knows nothing, but in regard to your preceding conduct she does anything but exculpate you. She says, or I am mistaken, that she had good reason to know a scheme had been formed for compelling her to marry the Count de Meyrand, and also for bearing her far away beyond the possibility of rescue or deliverance. Call you this exculpating you?"

"But I deny that this is the case, sire," replied the Lord of Masseran. "How could she tell what were my schemes or what were my plans? These are but vague suspicions, engendered by disappointment and anger."

"No, my lord, they are not," replied Isabel de Brienne. "They are not vague suspicions: they are certainties which I have never yet fully told to any one, no, not even to him I loved, because you are my mother's husband; but may I put you in mind of a German courier who was with you secretly on the twenty-ninth of last month—not the first that came that day—ay, and of the Spaniard who came two days afterward—"

The Lord of Masseran turned paler than his ruff, and clasped his hands together as if about to pray for mercy; but Isabel went on, "With his majesty's permission, I will first tell you in your ear, my lord, what I know of those couriers. Then, if you will have it so, and still deny the fact, I will speak aloud, and call on those who can prove it."

The king bowed his head in token of consent; and, while Isabel spoke for a few moments with the Lord of Masseran apart, he said to Vieilleville, with a thoughtful look, "You see Brissac's information was good."

"Might it not be better, sire," said Vieilleville, "to send this man for a few days to the Bastile, in order to ascertain how the case now stands?"

"It is not worth while," replied the king, in the same under voice; "the treaty will so soon be concluded that he can do no mischief, especially while we keep him about the court. On the contrary, Vieilleville, I hope and trust he will not drive this poor girl to say any more; for I suspect, if she were to tell all, I should be obliged to punish him; and that same sword of justice is the heaviest and most unpleasant one to wield I know. Well, fair lady, does your penitent admit the facts?"

"He does not deny, my lord," replied Isabel de Brienne, "that I had good cause for suspicion; and he has moreover promised me, both in his own name and in that of my mother, that I shall never be farther pressed to give my hand to any one, but shall be permitted to do the only thing that now remains for me to do in life—to retire from a world where I have known little but sorrow, and vow myself to the altar for ever."

"Nay, nay," said the king. "Not so, fair lady, not so. We will have you think of this better. Such charms as yours were never made for the cloister. At all events, let the first shadow of this grief pass away: you know not what may happen to change your views."

"Nothing can ever do so, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne. "Your majesty must not forget, that with him who is gone I have been brought up all my life. The sweet years of childhood, the happiest period that I have ever known, are in remembrance full of him and of his affection. To him all my thoughts have been given, all my wishes linked from childhood until now: the thoughts so nurtured have become part of my being. His glory I have felt as my glory, his happiness I have prayed for before my own, and his praise has been to my heart the most tuneful of all sounds. I can never think otherwise than I have thought, sire; and I will beseech your majesty not to give this good Lord of Masseran any motive to withdraw the word that he has plighted to me."

"Nay, I will not do that," replied the king. "I will hold him bound by that word, that neither he nor your mother shall offer any opposition to your wishes in this respect; but still, at the king's request, you must delay the execution of such a scheme, at least for a short time."

"I fear, sire," said the Lord of Masseran, "that it will be in vain. As your majesty well knows, and as I do not scruple to confess, I had other views and wishes for her; but I know that she is of so fixed and determined a nature, that when, believing she is right, she has made up her mind to a certain course of action, nothing will move her to abandon it."

"We shall see, we shall see," said the king. "I would fain not lose one of the brightest ornaments of our court. Vieilleville," he continued, "unto your care I will commend this young lady. Take her with you to the apartments of your daughter and of my daughter Claude. Bid the princess love her and sooth her, and consult with the queen where she can best be placed in the chateau, so as to have comfort, and ease, and repose, with as little of the bustle and gayety of a court as may be, for the time. Such things will be harsh to you, I know, young lady. Monsieur de Masseran, we will be father and mother also to her for a while. Father Willand, let me see you at nightfall: I have somewhat to say to you, my good friend."

"I shall make the almoner in waiting jealous," said Father Willand; "but I hope your majesty will order me some dinner: for I doubt much if, in your whole palace, I should find any one charitable enough to bestow an alms on a poor wandering priest like myself."

"You are mistaken, good father," said Vieilleville. "You will find your cover at my table: come with me; we must no farther occupy his majesty's time."

Thus saying, he led Isabel de Brienne to the door; but, before he had gone out, the king called him back, and said in a low voice, "Do not let the Savoyard quit the court. Should need be, tell him I require his presence the day after to-morrow. Discourage these ideas of nunneries. Poor Meyrand is madly in love with this girl; and it is strange to see how passion mixes itself up with his supercilious air of indifference. Perhaps she may be brought to yield."

"I think not, sire," replied Vieilleville, bluntly; and, with a low bow, he left the room.