For the first time in life—and it was very early to begin—Edward Langdale felt that loneliness of heart which parting for an indefinite time from one we dearly love produces in all but the very light or the very hard. He had never loved before; he had never even thought of love; but now he loved truly and well. He might not indeed have loved even now, for he and Lucette were both so young that the idea might not have come into the mind of either; but their love had been a growth rather than a passion; and, as the reader skilled in such mysteries must have seen, it had been watered and trained and nourished by all those accidents which raise affection from a small germ to a beautiful flower. First, she had nursed him so tenderly that he could not but feel grateful to her; then she had been cast upon his care in dangers and difficulties of many kinds, so that deep interest in her had sprung up. Then, again, she was so beautiful, in her first fresh youth, that he could not but admire what he protected and cherished. Then she was so innocent, so gentle, so ductile, and yet so good in every thought, that he could not but esteem and reverence what he admired. Then had come his turn of nursing, and the interest became warmer, more tender; and at length, when the mere thought of stating, in order to account for their companionship, that they sought to be married first entered the mind of each, it let a world of light into their hearts, and the whole was pointed, directed, confirmed, by the sudden ceremony which bound them together. They had promised at the altar to love each other forever, and they felt that they could keep their word.

But Edward, as he rolled along by the side of Madame de Lagny, could not help asking himself painful questions: "I shall love her ever," he said to himself; "but she is so young, so very young,—a mere child! Will her love last through a long separation? will not her feelings change with changing years? does she even love me now as I love her?"

Luckily he asked himself the last question, for it went some way to answer the others to his satisfaction. There had been something in her embrace, in her kiss, in her eyes, in her clinging tenderness, which told him that she did love as he did; and he, feeling, or at least believing, that he would love still, however long they might be separated, learned to credit the sweet tale of Hope and believe that she would love constantly too.

Nevertheless, he felt very sad; and yet he exerted himself eagerly and successfully to make the journey pass as pleasantly as he could to poor Madame de Lagny, who, though she had not undertaken her disagreeable task out of any affection to either Edward or Lucette, but merely in obedience to the wishes of Richelieu, had learned to love both her young companions, and had taken their part sincerely in the discussion with the Duc de Rohan. She was both a keen-sighted and a clear-minded old lady; and she saw well the gloomy sadness of Edward Langdale, and understood its cause; but she saw likewise that he was making every effort to show her courteous attention; and no old women are ever ungrateful for the attention of young men.

For three days the weary journey back to Nantes continued; and in that time the good marquise contrived to store the young Englishman's mind with many of her own peculiar apothegms, some good and some indifferent, but all the fruit of much worldly experience grafted upon a keen and sensible mind.

"Never despair, my son," she said. "Many a man is lighted on his way by a candle; nobody by a stone. Of a misfortune you can remove, think as much as you like; of a situation you cannot change, think as little as possible. If you have a marsh to go through, gallop as fast as you can; and, if you have a heavy hour, fill it with action. A wasp will not sting you if you do not touch it; and we do not feel sorrow when we do not think of it."

Such were a few of the old lady's maxims, and one of them struck Edward Langdale's fancy very much. "If you have a marsh to go through," he repeated to himself, "gallop as fast as you can; and, if you have a heavy hour, fill it with action." He thought that the next two years would indeed be a marsh to him, and he resolved to gallop through them as fast as he could. But there was one sad reflection which he could not banish, one point in his situation which gave him anxiety rather than pain. He knew not how to hold any communication with his young bride. He was well aware that every effort would be made to prevent it. Lucette had been once sent to England to keep her out of the hands of the Duchesse de Chevreuse: where might she not be sent now? Her two cousins Soubise and Rohan were constantly roving from place to place, and there was as little chance of any letter from him finding her as of any news of where she was reaching him.

The old fable of Midas telling his misfortune to the reeds is founded upon a deep knowledge of human nature. Man must have some one to share the burden of heavy thoughts, and Edward told his to Madame de Lagny. The old lady was better than the reeds, for she whispered consolation. "I can help you but little, my son," she said; "but, if you could attach yourself to the cardinal, he could help you a great deal. However, I will do the best I can for you and the dear child your little wife. If you want to write to her, send your letter to me at the court, wherever it is, and the letter shall reach her sooner or later. I will find means to let her know that she must send hers to me likewise, and they shall reach you; if you will keep me always informed of where you are."

Edward not only pressed her hand, but kissed it; and not five minutes after, when they were within ten miles of the city of Nantes, a man came riding at full speed after the carriage, drew up his horse at the great leathern excrescence called the portiÈre, and asked, in a brusque tone, if Monsieur Langdale was in the coach.

"Yes; I am he," answered Edward. "What want you with me?"

"A letter," replied the man. And, handing in a sealed packet, he turned his horse's head and rode away.

It was still early in the day, and the youth, breaking open the letter, read the contents. They ran thus:—

"My Lord and Brother:—

"On the wing for England, I have received your letter. Tell the insolent varlet that he shall never see her face again, the devil and the pope and the cardinal to boot, or my name is not "Soubise."

Edward's brow became fearfully contracted, and he muttered, "At the end of the earth."

"Show it to me! show it to me!" exclaimed Madame de Lagny, who was not without her share of woman's curiosity. "What is it makes you look so angry, my son?"

Edward handed her the letter, and she read it with attention, but not with the indignation he expected to see. On the contrary, she seemed pleased and amused. "Let me keep this," she said. "Methinks that Monsieur de Soubise may find the triple alliance of the devil, the pope, and the cardinal to boot somewhat too much for him. The cardinal alone might be enough, without two such powerful auxiliaries. But let me keep it. It can be of no value to you."

"Oh, none!" answered Edward. "Keep it if you will, madame. But the Prince de Soubise shall find that, if he have a strong will, I have a strong will also; and, if he have some advantages, we have youth and activity and resolution."

"And the Cardinal de Richelieu," said Madame de Lagny, emphatically: "he is not the man to leave any work incomplete, nor to be bearded by any one. However, we must be near Nantes by this time. Now let us consider what your course is to be when we arrive."

The good marquise then proceeded to indoctrinate her young companion with all the forms of a court, which, though not so rigid as they afterward became,—for Louis XIV. was the father of etiquette,—were sufficiently numerous and arbitrary to puzzle a young man like Edward. He found that, although he had once by the force of circumstances won easy access to the cardinal prime minister, he had now various ceremonies to go through before he could hope for an audience. To call, to put down his name and address in a book, to see principal and secondary officers, and to give as it were an abstract of his business, were all proceedings absolutely necessary, Madame de Lagny thought, before he could see the cardinal; and Edward, with a faint smile, asked her if she did not think it would be better for him to commit a little treason as the shortest way to the minister's presence.

"Heaven forbid!" cried the old lady. "But in the mean time you must go to an auberge near the chateau, where his Eminence can find you at any moment." And she proceeded to recommend the house of an excellent man, who had been cook to poor Monsieur de Lagny, and now, she assured Edward, kept the very best auberge in Nantes.

At length the city was reached, and the coach drove straight to the castle, where Madame de Lagny took a really affectionate leave of Edward and retired to her own apartments. The young Englishman then proceeded to inquire for Richelieu, found he was absent at a small distance from the town, and, having written his name in a book, betook himself to the inn which his travelling-companion had mentioned. In the court of the castle he had seen no one but a guard or two and some servants at the door of the hall. In the great place there was hardly a human being to be seen,—no gay cavaliers on horseback or on foot, no heavy carrosse with its crowd of laquais. At the other side of the square, indeed, near the end of the little street which led toward the dwelling of Monsieur de Tronson, was a group of workmen; and another larger group just appeared beyond some buildings close by the river-side. But, altogether, the whole town had a melancholy and deserted look. A sort of ominous silence reigned around, too, which Edward felt to be very depressing to the spirits, especially in a country celebrated even then for the light hilarity of its population.

The inn, however, was fresh-looking and clean, and the landlord, who soon appeared, although he was not at the entrance as usual when the coach stopped, was the perfection of a French aubergist,—as polished as a prince, and full of smiles. While Pierrot la Grange and Jacques BeauprÉ stayed by the carriage, at their master's desire, to take out the little sum of his baggage and to bestow a small gratuity upon the coachman, the host led his guest up to a large, somewhat gloomy chamber floored with polished tiles, recommended his fish—the best in the world—and his poultry, which he asseverated strongly were the genuine production of Maine, and took the young gentleman's pleasure as to his dinner.

He had hardly gone when the two servants appeared, bringing various articles; but their principal load was evidently in the mind. The face of Pierrot, which temperate habits had not yet improved in fatness, though it had become somewhat blanched in hue, was at least three inches longer since they entered Nantes; and Jacques BeauprÉ, always solemn even in the midst of his fun, was now not only solemn, but gloomy.

"I wish we were safe out of this place, sir," said Pierrot, shutting the door after him. "It is a horrible place!"

"What is the matter?" asked Edward: "the whole town looks sad, and you both seem to have caught the infection."

"Did not the landlord tell you, sir?" said Jacques BeauprÉ. "I thought landlords always told all they knew, and a little more. But I suppose he has lived long enough near a court to keep his tongue in his mouth, for fear somebody should cut it out."

"The matter, sir, is this," said Pierrot: "the poor young Count de Chalais, who was confined in the dungeons close under the room where they put you, has been condemned to die this morning,—they say, for a few light words."

"Indeed!" said Edward, with a somewhat sickening memory of the dangers he himself had seen: "that is very sad. But probably the king will pardon him."

"Oh, not he," answered Pierrot: "they say the poor countess, his mother, has moved heaven and earth to save him, without the least effect. His head is probably off by this time."

"No, no; that cannot be," rejoined Jacques: "did not the boy tell us that the two executioners had both been spirited away?"

"Yes, but he said that a soldier—a prisoner—had been found to undertake the job," answered Pierrot. "Oh, it is a bad business, Master Ned! They say the queen herself has been brought before the council, and the Duke of Anjou threatened with death, and half the court exiled, and the cardinal in such a humor that——"

"That every one as he walks along is feeling his ears, to be sure that there is any head upon his shoulders," added Jacques BeauprÉ. "Would it not be better for you, sir, to go to that good Monsieur de Tronson, and be civil to him, and make as many friends as possible?"

Edward paused in thought for a moment, and then replied, "That is well bethought, BeauprÉ; for though I think I have nothing to fear, yet in common courtesy I owe my second visit to one who has been so kind to me. I will go directly. Let the landlord know that I may be a little later than I mentioned at dinner."

Edward put on his hat and went out into the place, taking care to mark particularly the position of the auberge, that he might not be forced to inquire his way in a town where so many dangers lurked on every side. The road to Monsieur de Tronson's house was easy; and, crossing the square, the young gentleman directed his course toward the end of the street where, when passing in the coach, he had seen a crowd of workmen, who were still gathered round a spot about a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards in advance. On approaching nearer, Edward caught sight of a platform of wood raised some eight or ten steps from the ground. He could only discern a part, for the people had gathered thickly round; but, though he had never before seen the preparations for a public execution, it flashed through his mind at once that this was the scaffold on which the unhappy Chalais was to suffer. To avoid the terrible scene, he turned toward the left; but, just as he was approaching the end of the street, a shout came up from the water-side and a dull rushing sound from the southeast. A large crowd poured into the square from both sides; and before Edward could escape he was caught by the two currents and forced along to within thirty yards of the scaffold. He tried to free himself and force his way out, but a warning voice sounded in his ear.

"Be quiet, young gentleman," said an elderly man close by, speaking in a low tone. "This young count has to die, and, if he be your best friend, take no notice. Suspicion is as good as proof here just now. Look where he comes!"

Edward turned his eyes in the direction to which the old man was looking, and beheld a sight which was but a mere prologue to the horrors that were to follow, but which could never be banished from his memory. Surrounded by a body of guards came a tall, handsome young man, without his cloak, as if he had been torn from his dungeon unprepared, but still showing, in such habiliments as he did wear, all the extravagant splendor of the times. By his side, with her hand passed through his arm, as if to support him, and pouring a torrent of words into his ear, was an elderly lady in a widow's dress. Her face and carriage were noble and dignified, though lines of past grief and present anguish were strongly marked upon her countenance; but when she lifted her eyes toward the scaffold, and beheld there a stout, bad-looking man leaning on a large, heavy sword, a sort of spasm passed over her features.

"That is his mother," whispered the same voice which Edward had heard before.

Behind the mother and the son came the confessor, a dull-faced, heavy monk; and then a good number of guards, and one or two men in black robes,—probably exempts, or other inferior officers of the court. But the eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon the mother and her son; and the thought of his own dear mother gave him the power—I might almost call it the faculty—of sympathizing with the noble-minded woman, to a degree that made the whole scene one of actual agony.

"I wish I could get out," he said, speaking to the old man, who was jammed up against him: "this is horrible. Can you not make way?"

"Try to force your way through the castle-wall," replied the other, cynically: "you have but to see a man die, young gentleman."

"Ay, but how?" said Edward.

"By the sword," said the old man: "it is an interesting sight,—much better than by the cord. I have seen every execution that has taken place in the city for twenty years. Perhaps I may see yours some day. They are fine sights,—the only sights that interest me now; but this is likely to be a bungled business, for the old countess there bribed both the executioners to get out of the way, and this fellow does not understand the trade. He is paler than the criminal. See how he shakes!"

Edward raised his eyes for an instant and saw the unhappy mother supporting her luckless son up the very steps of the scaffold,—not that he wanted aid, for his step was firm and his look bold and frowning. There was a fearful sort of fascination in the sight; and the lad gazed on till he saw the last embrace taken and the young count make a sign and speak a word to the executioner. Then he withdrew his eyes, till, a moment after, there was a shrill cry of anguish and a murmur amongst the crowd; and he looked up again only to see the wretched young man, all bleeding, leaning his wounded head upon his mother's bosom.

The executioner had missed his stroke. Again and again he missed it. He complained of the sword: a heavier one was handed up to him; but still his shaking arm refused to perform its hideous office, till, after more than thirty blows,[4] the head of the unhappy young man was literally hacked off, almost at his mother's feet.

The noble woman raised her hands and her eyes to heaven, exclaiming, "I thank thee, O God, that my son has died a martyr and not a criminal!"

The last acts of the terrible drama Edward did not see. He felt as if his heart would burst with the mingled feelings of indignation and horror which all he had beheld awakened; and after the second or third blow he kept his eyes resolutely bent down, till the pressure of the crowd relaxed as the spectators of the bloody scene began to disperse. Then, sick at heart, and with a strange feeling of hatred for the world, he turned his steps back to the inn. He was in no mood for conversation with any one.