G. P. R. James

Which evinces the necessity of saying, no; and shows what it is to hunt upon a wrong scent.

IN journeying onward towards the Bourbonnois, the thoughts of De Blenau had full time to rest upon the late occurrences; and though these had been of such a fearful nature, yet so rapidly had they passed, that dangers and sorrows, prisons and trials, floated before his remembrance like a confused and uncertain dream; and it required an effort to fix all the particular circumstances in their correct position, for the purpose of investigating the motives of the principal actors in those events which had so deeply affected himself.

This, when he could turn his mind from happier contemplations, was the principal occupation of his thoughts; and more especially in reflecting upon the conduct of the King, De Blenau imagined that he could perceive a regular design in every part of the Monarch’s behaviour, which in truth it did not possess. Under this view he was left to conclude, that he had been ordered to retire to Bourbon for the specific reason that he had there no acquaintance or influence which could be dangerous to the Government; but it is more probable that Louis, not wishing to reverse the Cardinal’s sentence entirely, by freely pardoning De Blenau, had in the hurry of the moment mentioned any province that suggested itself. However that might be, it so happened that De Blenau was hardly known to any individual within the limits to which, by the King’s command, he was bound to confine himself. Nor did he feel any additional uncomfort in the prospect of passing a short space of time in comparative solitude; for his mind was not likely to be well attuned to society, while constrained to absent himself from those he loved best; and he was rather pleased than otherwise, that the time of his separation from Pauline would be passed without the annoyance of associating with people to whom he was indifferent.

De Blenau’s first care, on arriving at Moulins, was to write to Pauline de Beaumont.

Fancy might easily supply his letter, which is otherwise irrecoverably gone; but as each reader’s imagination will do more justice to it, according to his own taste, than mine could do, I will leave it unwritten here, especially as I have undertaken to commemorate truth only; and I really know nothing of the matter. Suffice it that it was full of all that affection, and gratitude, and hope, and delight could suggest, and gave a bright picture of a bright and happy mind. As couriers and posts in those days were as different from such things at present, as the first wooden clock was from a modern chronometer, De Blenau did not choose to trust his letter to the uncertain conveyance of the Government carrier, or, as he was then called, the Ordinaire; but placing it in the hands of his trusty page, Henry de La Mothe, he sent him forth upon a journey to St. Germain, with orders to deliver many a kind greeting to Pauline in person, and to bring back an answer with all speed.

The boy set out, and De Blenau, flattering himself with the idea that his banishment from court would not be of any long continuance, took his residence for the time in the immediate neighbourhood of Moulins, contenting himself with an old chateau, the proprietor of which was very willing—his fortune and his castle both being somewhat decayed—to sacrifice his pride of birth, in consideration of a handsome remuneration from the young Count.

Here De Blenau had dwelt some time, waiting the return of his messenger, and in possession of that quiet solitude most consonant to his feelings, when he was disturbed by a billet left at his gate by a horseman, who waited not to be questioned, but rode away immediately after having delivered it. The note itself merely contained a request, that the Count de Blenau would ride in the direction of St. Amand on the following evening, at the hour of four, when he would meet with one who had business of importance to communicate. The hand-writing was unknown to him, and De Blenau at first hesitated whether to obey the summons or not; but curiosity has a thousand ways of strengthening itself, and at last he reasoned himself into a belief, that whatever it might be, no harm could accrue from his compliance.

Accordingly, on the following evening, as the hour drew near, he mounted his horse, and, accompanied by his usual attendants, proceeded towards St. Amand. Having ridden on for more than an hour without meeting any one above the rank of a peasant, he began to accuse himself for having been the dupe of what might prove some foolish joke. He had even reined in his horse with the purpose of returning, when he perceived a person approaching on horseback, who, notwithstanding a sort of carelessness,—even perhaps, slovenliness of manner and carriage—had about him that undefinable air, which in all ages, and in every guise, denotes a gentleman, and a distinguished one. It was not, however, till he came near, that De Blenau recognised Gaston Duke of Orleans, whom he had not seen for some time. The moment he did remember him, he gave him the centre of the road, and saluting him respectfully, was passing on, never dreaming that the summons he had received could have proceeded from him.

“Good day, Monsieur de Blenau. You are close upon the hour,” said the Duke, drawing up his horse, and at once allowing the Count to understand that it was with him that the appointment had been made.

“I was not aware,” replied De Blenau, “that the summons which I received last night was from so honourable a hand, or I should have had no hesitation in obeying.”

“Why, that is right,” said the Duke. “The truth is, I wished much to see you, Monsieur le Comte, upon a business wherein you may not only be of much service to yourself and me, but also to your country. We will ride on, if you please; and as we go, I will explain myself farther.”

De Blenau turned his horse and rode on with the Duke; but the warning which Chavigni had given him, came strongly into his mind; and Gaston of Orleans was too famous for the unfortunate conspiracies in which he had been engaged, for De Blenau to think with aught but horror, of acting in any way with a man, the weak versatility of whose disposition had already brought more than one of his friends to the scaffold. He therefore waited for the Duke’s communication, determined to cut it short as soon as propriety admitted; and even to deviate from the respect due to his rank, rather than become the confidant of a Prince, whose station was his sole title to reverence.

“You do not answer me, Monsieur de Blenau,” said the Duke, after having waited a moment or two for some reply. “Are you, Sir, inclined to serve your country; or is the Cardinal de Richelieu your good friend?”

“That I am inclined to serve my country,” replied De Blenau, “your Highness need not doubt; and when my sword can avail that country against a foreign adversary, it shall always be ready at her call. In regard to his Eminence of Richelieu, I hope that he is no more my enemy than I am his; and that he will no more attempt to injure me than I will to injure him.”

“But has he not endeavoured to injure you already?” said the Duke. “Listen to me, Sir Count. Suppose that there were many men at this moment well inclined to free France from the yoke under which she labours. Suppose I were to tell you that——”

“Let me beseech your Highness,” interposed De Blenau, “to tell me no more; for, if I understand you rightly, it must be a confidence dangerous either to you or me—dangerous to you, if I reveal it; and dangerous to me, if I do not. Pardon me, my Lord, for interrupting you; but let my ears remain in their present innocence of what you mean. What may be your wishes with me, I know not: but before you proceed farther, let me say that I will enter into no scheme whatever against a government to which his Majesty has given his sanction, and which it is always in his power to alter or remove at his pleasure, without any one being entitled to question his authority either in raising it or casting it down. And now, having ventured to premise thus much, if I can serve your Highness personally, in any way where my honour and my allegiance are not at all implicated, I shall be most happy in an opportunity of showing my attachment to your royal person and family.”

“Why then, Monsieur de Blenau,” replied the Duke, “I think the best thing we can do is, to turn our horses different ways, and forget that we have met to-day at all. Our conference has been short, but it has been to the purpose. But of course, before we part, I expect your promise, as a man of honour, that you will not betray me.”

“I have nothing to betray, my Lord,” replied De Blenau with a smile. “We have met on the road to St. Amand. We have not been five minutes in each other’s company. Your Highness has told me nothing, whatever I may have suspected; therefore you may rest perfectly secure that I have nothing to betray, even if they put me to the torture to-morrow. But as I think that for your Highness’s sake, we had better be as little together as possible, I will humbly take my leave.”

So saying, De Blenau bowed low, and turned his horse towards Moulins, the Duke of Orleans preparing to take the other road; but suddenly the latter stopped, and turning his head, asked if De Blenau had gained any news of Mademoiselle de Beaumont.

“I am not aware of what your Highness alludes to,” replied De Blenau, quickly reining in his horse, and returning to the side of the Duke.

“What, then you have not heard—When had you letters from St. Germain?”

“Heard what? In the name of God, speak, my Lord!” cried De Blenau: “Do not keep me in suspense.”

“Nay, Monsieur de Blenau, I know but little,” answered the Duke. “All my news came yesterday in a letter from St. Germain, whereby I find that Mademoiselle de Beaumont has disappeared; and as no one knows whither she is gone, and no cause is apparent for her voluntary absence, it is conjectured that Richelieu, finding, as it is whispered, that she endeavoured to convey intelligence to you in the Bastille, has caused her to be arrested and confined au secret.”

“But when did she disappear?—Who saw her last?—Have no traces been discovered?—Why do they not apply to the King?” exclaimed De Blenau, with a degree of agitation that afforded amusement, rather than excited sympathy in the frivolous mind of the Duke of Orleans.

“Really, Monsieur de Blenau, to none of all your questions can I at all reply,” answered Gaston. “Very possibly, the lady may have gone off with some fair lover, in which case she will have taken care to leave no traces of her flight.—What think you of the weather?—will it rain to-day?”

“Hell and fury!” cried De Blenau, incensed at the weak trifling of the Prince, at a moment when his feelings were so deeply interested; and turning his horse round without farther adieu, he struck his spurs into the animal’s sides, and, followed by his attendants, galloped off towards Moulins. Arrived at the chateau which he inhabited, his thoughts were still in such a troubled state, as to forbid all calm consideration. “Prepare every thing to set out. Saddle fresh horses. Send to Moulins for the PropriÉtaire,” were De Blenau’s first commands, determined at all risks to set out for St. Germain, and seek for Pauline himself. But while his orders were in train of execution, reflection came to his aid, and he began to think that the news which the Duke had given him might not be true—that Gaston might either be deceived himself, or that he might have invented the story for the purpose of forcing him into a conspiracy against Richelieu’s government. “At all events,” thought he, “Henry de La Mothe cannot be longer absent than to-morrow. I may miss him on the road, and thus be four days without information instead of one.” Accordingly, after some farther hesitation, he determined to delay his journey one day, and counterordered the preparations which he had before commanded. Nevertheless, his mind was too much agitated to permit of his resting inactive; and quitting the chateau, he walked quickly on the road towards Paris; but he had not proceeded more than a quarter of a league, when from the top of a hill he perceived a horseman coming at full speed towards him. At first, while the distance rendered his form altogether indistinct, De Blenau decided that it was Henry de La Mothe—it must be—it could be nobody else. Then again he began to doubt—the horse did not look like his; and De Blenau had almost determined that it was not his Page, when the fluttering scarf of blue and gold becoming apparent, decided the question, and he hurried forward, impatient even of the delay which must yet intervene.

The Page rode on at full speed; and even from that circumstance De Blenau drew an unfavourable augury: he had something evidently to communicate which required haste. His horse, too, was not the same which had carried him away, and he must have changed him on the road: this too was a sign of that urgent despatch which could alone proceed from some painful cause. However, the Page came rapidly forward, recognized his lord, and drawing in his horse, alighted to give relief to De Blenau’s doubts, only by confirming his fears.

His first tidings were perfectly similar to the information which had been given by the Duke of Orleans; but the more minute details which he had obtained, forming part of the history which he gave De Blenau of all that had occurred to him on his journey, I shall take the liberty of abridging myself, instead of leaving them in the desultory and long-winded condition in which they proceeded from the mouth of Monsieur de La Mothe.

Setting out from Moulins on one of the Count de Blenau’s strongest horses, and furnished with plenty of that patent anti-attrition composition, which has facilitated the progression of all sorts of people in all ages of the world, and in all states except in Lycurgus-governed Sparta—namely gold, Henry de La Mothe was not long in reaching St. Germain; and with all the promptitude of his age and nature, he hastened eagerly towards the Palace, promising himself infinite pleasure in delivering a genuine love-letter into the fair hands of Mademoiselle Pauline. No small air of consequence, therefore, did he assume in inquiring for Mademoiselle de Beaumont, and announcing that he must speak with her himself: but the boyish vivacity of the Page was soon changed into sorrowful anxiety, when the old servant of Anne of Austria, to whom his inquiries had been addressed, informed him that the young lady had disappeared, and was no where to be heard of. Now Henry de La Mothe, the noble Count de Blenau’s gay Page, was an universal favourite at St. Germain; so out of pure kindness, and without the least inclination in the world to gossip, the old servant took him into the Palace, and after treating him to a cup of old St. Vallier wine, told him all about the disappearance of Pauline, which formed a history occupying exactly one hour and ten minutes in delivering.

Amongst other interesting particulars, he described to the Page how he himself had accompanied Mademoiselle de Hauteford and Mademoiselle de Beaumont from Chantilly to Paris, for the purpose of conveying news to Monsieur de Blenau, in the Bastille;—and how that night he followed the two young ladies as far as the church of St. Gervais, where they separated, and he remained at the church door, while Mademoiselle de Hauteford went in and prayed for the good success of Pauline;—and farther, how Mademoiselle de Hauteford said all the prayers she knew, and composed a great many new ones to pass the time, and yet no Pauline returned;—and how at last she came out to know what the Devil had become of her;—and how he told her, that he could not tell.

He then went on to describe their search for Pauline, and their disappointment and distress at not finding her, and the insolence of a lying Innkeeper, who lived opposite the prison, and who assured him that the young lady was safe, for that he himself had delivered her from peril by the valour of his invincible arm. After this, he took up the pathetic, and showed forth in moving terms the agony and despair of Madame de Beaumont on first hearing of the non-appearance of her daughter; and then commented upon the extraordinary insensibility that she had since shown. “For after two days,” said he, “she seemed to grow quite satisfied, and to forget it all, the cold hearted old——cat.”

“’Tis just like her,” said Henry de La Mothe. “They say, when her husband was killed, she never shed a tear. But mark me, Monsieur Mathieu, she shall not have the Count’s letter. As Mademoiselle is not here, I’ll take it back to him unopened; so have a care not to tell the old Marquise that I have been here. Before I go back, however, I’ll away to Paris, to gather what news I can. That aubergiste meant something—I know him well. ’Tis old Jacques Chatpilleur, the vivandier, who served with the army in Roussillon, when I was there with the Count.”

“Well, well, my good youth, go to Paris if you please,” replied the old servant. “You’ll gain no tidings more than I have given you.—Did not I make all sorts of inquiries myself? and they are not likely to deceive me, I wot. Young birds think they can fly before they can peck; but go, go,—you’ll gain no more than what I have told you.”

Henry de La Mothe did not feel very well assured of the truth of this last position; and therefore, though his back ached with a four days’ ride as fast as he could go, he set out again for Paris, where he arrived before night-fall; and entering the city by the Port St. Antoine, directed his course to the house of our doughty friend, Jacques Chatpilleur, where he was instantly acknowledged as an old acquaintance by the worthy aubergiste, and treated with suitable distinction. Although every moment was precious, the Page did not think fit to enter upon the business that brought him till the auberge was clear of intruders; and this being the hour at which many an honest burgess of the good city solaced his inward man with boudin blanc and Burgundy when the fatigues of the day began to cease, Henry de La Mothe thought he might as well follow the same agreeable calling, and while he was at Rome, do as Romans did.

More than an hour passed before the Page had an opportunity of communicating fully with the good aubergiste; but when Jacques Chatpilleur heard that the lady he had delivered from the clutches of Letrames, was no less a person than Pauline, only daughter and heiress of the late celebrated Marquis de Beaumont, and that, notwithstanding his assistance, she had somehow been carried off on that identical night, his strange woodcock-shaped person became agitated with various extraordinary contortions, proceeding from an odd mixture of pleasure and grief, which at once took possession of him, and contended for the mastery.

“Mon Dieu!” cried he, “to think that it was Mademoiselle de Beaumont, and that she should be lost after all!” And the aubergiste set himself to think of how it could all have happened. “I’ll bet a million,” cried he at length, starting from his reverie, and clapping his hands together with a concussion that echoed to the Bastille itself—“I’ll bet a million that it was that great gluttonous Norman vagabond, who on that very night eat me up a matelot d’anguille and a dinde piquÉe. He is understrapping cut-throat to Master Chavigni, and he has never been here since. He has carried her off, for a million; and taken her away to some prison in the provinces, all for trying to give a little news to the good Count. But I’ll ferret out his route for you. On with your beaver and come with me. Margueritte, look to the doors while I am absent. I know where the scoundrel lodged; so come along, and we’ll soon hear more of him.”

So saying, the landlord of the Sanglier Gourmand led Henry de La Mothe forth into the Rue St. Antoine, and thence through the several turnings and windings by which the Norman had carried Pauline to the late lodgings of Monsieur Marteville. Here Jacques Chatpilleur summoned all persons in the house, male and female, lodger and landlord, to give a full, true, and particular account of all they knew, believed, or suspected concerning the tall Norman who usually dwelt there. And such was the tone of authority which he used, and the frequency of his reference to Henry de La Mothe, whom he always specified as “this honourable youth,” that the good folks instantly transformed, in their own imaginations, the Page of the Count de Blenau into little less than the valet de chambre of the prime Minister, and consequently answered all questions with becoming deference.

The sum of the information which was thus obtained amounted to this, that on the evening in question, Monsieur Marteville had brought thither a young lady—whether by force or not, no one could specify; that she was dressed as a Languedoc peasant, which Monsieur Chatpilleur acknowledged to be the disguise Pauline had assumed; and that the same evening he had carried her away again on horseback, leading her steed by the bridle rein. It farther appeared that the Norman, while preparing to set out, had asked a great many questions about Troyes in Champagne, and had inquired whether there was not a wood extending over some leagues near Mesnil St. Loup, which was reported to be infested by robbers. From all this the inhabitants of the house had concluded universally that his journey was destined to be towards Troyes, and that he would take care to avoid the wood of Mesnil St. Loup.

Henry de La Mothe now fancied that he had the clue completely in his hands, and returning with Jacques Chatpilleur to his auberge, he took one night’s necessary rest, and having exchanged his horse, which was knocked up with its journey, he set out the next morning on his return to Moulins.

After this recital, all considerations of personal safety, the King’s commands to remain in Bourbon, the enmity of the Cardinal, and the warnings of Chavigni, vanished from the mind of De Blenau like smoke; and returning to the Chateau, he ordered his horses to be instantly prepared, chose ten of his most resolute servants to accompany him, ordered Henry de La Mothe to remain till he had recovered from his fatigues, and then to return to St. Germain, and tell Madame de Beaumont that he would send her news of her daughter, or lose his life in the search; and having made all other necessary arrangements, he took his departure for Troyes without a consideration of the consequences.