IT was the small Chapel of St. Catherine, otherwise called the Queen’s Chapel, attached to the Palace-church of St. Germain en Laye, to which Potier, Bishop of Beauvais, proceeded with slow steps from the door of private communication with the chateau, on a night in October, one thousand six hundred and forty-two. He was preceded by two young AbbÉs, carrying lighted tapers, and followed by a group, whose white garments spoke that they came on some occasion of joy. The first of these was Anne of Austria, with her eyes animated, and her countenance glowing with the interest she took in every thing which bore the least appearance of secrecy or romance. Her right arm was passed through that of the Marchioness de Beaumont, who moved on with a calm, rather grave countenance; while on the Queen’s left, walked a young lady in the first gay spring of life, ever and anon turning a smiling, playful glance behind to Pauline de Beaumont, who, leaning on the arm of Claude de Blenau, followed, agitated, blushing, and happy, towards the altar at which they were to be united for ever. Seguin, the Queen’s physician, and Henri de La Mothe, the Count’s page, were admitted as witnesses to the ceremony; and an attendant was stationed at the door, to guard against any troublesome devotee entering the church during the time it was thus occupied.

The idea of marrying Pauline de Beaumont privately to the Count de Blenau, had entirely originated with the Queen, whose passion for any thing romantic often threw both herself and her friends into situations of great danger. In the present instance, she represented to Madame de Beaumont that a thousand circumstances might occur in those unhappy times, to tear De Blenau again from her he loved; or that the Cardinal might positively prohibit their marriage, and then, she asked, who would dare to oppose him? whereas their private union would obviate all difficulties, and incur no danger.

Madame de Beaumont made many objections, and her daughter hesitated; but the wishes of the Queen overcame all the Marchioness’s scruples; and the entreaties of De Blenau were not less powerful with Pauline.

The appointed night being arrived, and all the arrangements having been made as privately as possible, Pauline, as we have said, followed her Mother and the Queen into the Chapel of St. Catherine. But as she did so, there was a sort of despondency fell upon her that she could not account for. As she leaned upon De Blenau, she felt that she was most happy in being united to him. She was agitated, it was true, but still it was natural that she should be so, she thought. All her duties, all her ideas, were, by one single word, about to suffer an entire change, yet that did not take from her happiness. But still there was an undefined fear, a sort of melancholy presentiment, which weighed upon her spirits she knew not why. She asked herself, was De Blenau less kind? Oh, no! And as the thought passed through her mind, she raised her eyes for a moment from the ground, on which they had been bent, and turned them on her lover. In so doing, they met the full, soft, affectionate gaze, with which De Blenau was at that moment regarding her, and a deep blush rose in her cheek, but soon faded away, and left her again pale and thoughtful. She had not, however, much time to analyse her feelings; for, by this time, the Bishop had reached the altar, and waited their approach.

Potier, Bishop of Beauvais, had little of that gentleness of disposition, or suavity of manner, calculated to re-assure Pauline. He had undertaken the office which he came there to fulfil, merely at the desire of the Queen, and that not without making considerable opposition. But, though Potier was obstinate, Anne of Austria was still more so. She had resolved that the ceremony should be performed, and that he should perform it, and she carried her point; but yet he made his dislike to the task very apparent, and regarded the innocent Pauline with no very friendly looks.

“Come, Mademoiselle,” said he, as Pauline seemed to linger for a moment, “you and Monsieur le Comte will have enough of each other’s society after my office is over. Let us proceed with the ceremony.”

The group arranged themselves round the altar, and the Bishop opening the book began to read. The promise, which was to bind her to De Blenau for ever, trembled on Pauline’s lips, when a confused noise at the private door leading to the Palace caught her ear, and she paused.

De Blenau, who had not heard it, turned towards her in surprise; but immediately the voice of the attendant, who had been stationed there as portgreve, was heard exclaiming to some one, who apparently endeavoured to make his way into the church, “Stand back, I say. You do not enter here! What is your authority?”

“My authority,” replied another voice, “is a warrant of Council. Oppose it if you dare. Strike him down, if he does not let you pass.” And immediately the door bursting open, an Officer of the Cardinal’s Guard, with a file of soldiers, entered the church.

“Guard the doors,” cried the Officer, “and let no one quit the place.” And giving his partizan to one of the soldiers, he advanced towards the high Gothic arch, forming the boundary between the main aisle and the Chapel of St. Catherine.

Pauline clung to De Blenau. “Oh, Claude!” cried she, “they are going to tear you from me again. My heart misgave me.—I was sure that something dreadful would interpose between us.”

De Blenau whispered a few words of comfort to her, and Potier himself was moved by her agitation. “Do not be afraid, young Lady,” said he; “we are on sacred ground.—Stop, sir,” he continued, advancing to the steps of the Chapel, which the Officer had just reached: “what seek you here? And how do you presume to bring armed men into this Church?”

“I come, sir,” answered the Officer, “with a warrant from his Majesty’s Council, to arrest Claude Count de Blenau;” and he made a step towards the Chapel.

“Hold!” exclaimed the Bishop, “You arrest him not here. This ground is sanctuary; and I command you, in the name of God and our holy religion, to withdraw your men, and instantly to quit this Church.” And he waved his hand with an air of dignified authority.

The Officer paused. “But, Monseigneur,” he replied, “the Count is charged with high treason.”

“With high treason!” exclaimed the Queen.—“With high treason!” echoed Pauline, clinging still closer to De Blenau’s arm, which she held encircled by both her own.

“He is charged with high treason,” repeated the Officer; “and I must fulfil my duty.”

“Were he charged with all the crimes which disgrace humanity,” replied the Bishop, “here he is sanctuarized; and I command you, on pain of excommunication—you, Sir Officer, and your soldiers, to quit the church. I stand not here to see this altar violated, whatever be your authority.”

The Officer paused a moment, uncertain how to act. “Well, holy Father,” replied he at length, “I obey; but I shall take especial care to guard every door of the church; so that if there be any blame, it does not fall on me.” And muttering between his teeth the discontent he did not dare to vent aloud, he slowly withdrew his men.

The eye of Anne of Austria watched them intently till the last soldier had passed through the door which communicated with the Palace. Then turning quickly to the Count, she exclaimed, “Fly quick, De Blenau, up that staircase, cross the jube, through the monks’ gallery round the choir. You will find a door on the right that leads into the King’s cabinet. Wait there till I send—Quick, fly—I desire—I command you.”

“Oh fly, Claude, fly!” reiterated Pauline, “they will murder you surely this time, if you do not fly.”

“Pardon me, your Majesty—pardon me, dear Pauline,” replied De Blenau; “it cannot be. There is no man in France more innocent, in deed, word, or even thought, of treason against his King and Country than I am; and Claude de Blenau flies from no one, so long as his honour and integrity remain by him: when these fail, then he may become a coward. But to these will I now trust, and instantly surrender myself to his Majesty’s warrant. I did not interfere while Monseigneur defended the rights of the sanctuary, for he did but the duties of his high office; nor indeed was I willing to yield my sword to a servant of Cardinal Richelieu. Take it, Henry,” he continued, unbuckling it from his side, and giving it to the Page; “take it, and keep it for your master.”

“De Blenau, you are an obstinate man,” said the Queen. “I will urge nothing; but look at this pale cheek, and fancy what the feelings of that sweet girl must be.” And she pointed to Pauline who stood by with the tears chasing each other down her face.

Notwithstanding the firmness with which he spoke, there had been many a bitter pang struggling in De Blenau’s breast. The appeal of the Queen, and the sight of Pauline’s distress, overcame his calmness; and starting forward, he caught her in his arms and pressed an ardent kiss upon her lips. “Dear, dear Pauline,” he exclaimed, “all will go well, be assured. My innocence will protect me.”

Pauline shook her head mournfully, but her heart was too full to reply.

“Then you will not fly?” demanded the Queen, with some degree of impatience.

“He is in the right, Madam,” said the Bishop. “As a good subject, he is bound to obey the laws of his country; and in duty to himself, he ought not to give weight to the charge against him by seeming afraid to meet it.”

Anne of Austria turned away with a look of angry disappointment. “Well, at all events,” said she, “let us conclude the ceremony which has been thus interrupted, and afterwards the Count can act as he pleases.”

De Blenau hesitated. He felt that what the Queen proposed, if carried into effect, would be the only consolation he could receive under the new misfortune that had befallen him; but he felt also that it was a selfishness to wish it, and he looked towards the Bishop who had so well supported his first resolution. But Potier bent his eyes gravely on the ground, disapproving the proposal, yet unwilling farther to oppose the Queen.

“It shall be as Pauline decides,” said De Blenau, taking her hand and raising it gently to his lips. “Pauline,” he continued, “you know how deeply I love you; you know how I have longed for the hour that should give me your hand. But I fear that I should be cruelly selfish, were I to ask you to become the bride of one whose fate is so uncertain—Speak, dear Pauline.”

Mademoiselle de Beaumont spoke not, but she raised her eyes to De Blenau with an expression which told that every feeling of her heart was given to him. The Marchioness, however, interposed. “No!” said she: “Claude, you are right; it is better to wait. The time will come, I feel sure, when you will be able to claim Pauline in the midst of smiles and happiness, instead of tears and danger. Does not your Majesty think this delay advisable?”

“My opinion has been expressed already,” replied Anne of Austria peevishly. “But it is not my affair—act as you think fit. But were I Pauline, and my lover gave me up so calmly, I would seek another in his absence to console me.”

De Blenau, deeply hurt, bit his lip, and by a strong effort forced himself to silence: but Pauline placed her hand in his, and raising her eyes to his face: “Fear not, Claude,” she said; “in life and in death, I am yours. None other shall ever possess the hand of Pauline de Beaumont.”

“You are a noble girl, Pauline,” exclaimed the Queen. “De Blenau, I was wrong; but it vexes me to see that you will always be more in the right than I am. Do not look so sad, Pauline. The more I think of it, the more I feel sure that De Blenau’s innocence will stand him in good stead yet, in spite of the meager Cardinal: and I begin to reckon also somewhat on my own influence with Louis; he is far kinder than in former days; and I will make it a point of earnest prayer, that De Blenau be fairly used. Besides, they have now no plea against him. There are no secret letters to be discovered—no correspondence with the public enemy.”

Pauline shook her head mournfully. A cloud had come over the sun of her days, and she fancied that he would never beam brightly again.

“If we could ascertain the reason of this arrest,” said Madame de Beaumont, “it might in some degree satisfy our minds.”

“That may be easily done,” replied the Bishop, “as Monsieur de Blenau is resolved to surrender himself. We can question the Officer, in regard to what occurred at the place from whence he comes; and by that means discover what circumstances have arisen to cast suspicion on the Count.”

What the Bishop proposed was instantly agreed to; and De Blenau sent forward his Page to inform the Officer of his determination.

Anne of Austria then took a few steps along the nave, and turned to see if he still held his resolution. De Blenau bowed. “I follow your Majesty,” he said “I feel that I have nothing to fear.” And they passed on slowly and sadly to the other end of the church.

As they went, Pauline still clung to the arm of her lover, as if she feared that every moment they would tear him from her; and tear after tear rolled silently down her cheeks. The heart of De Blenau also was too full for words, so that silence hung upon the whole party.

At the door which communicated with the Palace, stood the Cardinal’s Officer, with two or three of his men; and as she approached, the Queen desired him to follow her to the saloon. The Officer bowed low, and replied, that he would obey her commands; but immediately advancing to De Blenau, he laid his hand upon the Count’s arm. “In the King’s name, Monsieur le Comte de Blenau,” said he, “I arrest you for high treason. Behold my warrant.”

Pauline recoiled with a look of fear; and De Blenau calmly put the man’s hand from off his sleeve. “Pass on, Sir,” he said, “I am your prisoner.” The Officer hesitated; “Pass on, Sir,” repeated the Count; “you have my word. I am your prisoner.”

The man passed on, but not before he had made a sign to the soldiers who were with him, who suffered the Count and Pauline to pass, and then closing in, followed at a few paces distance.

On reaching the saloon, the Queen took her seat; and beckoning to Pauline, who, faint and terrified, was hardly able to support herself, she made her sit down on the footstool at her feet. “Now, Sir Officer,” said Anne of Austria, “what news bring you from Narbonne? How fares his Majesty the King?”

“May it please you, Madame,” he replied, “I come not from Narbonne, as your Majesty supposes, but from Tarascon, where the King had just arrived when I departed.”

“The King at Tarascon!” exclaimed Anne of Austria. “In the name of Heaven, what does he at Tarascon?”

“That is beyond my knowledge,” answered the Officer. “All I can tell your Majesty is, that for the last week there has been strange flying of couriers from one place to another. Monsieur de Chavigni has almost killed himself with riding between Tarascon and Narbonne. Every thing is altered, evidently, but no one knows how or why; and just as Aleron, Monsieur de BrezÉ’s maitre d’hotel, was about to give me the whole history, I received an order to set off for Paris instantly, and when I arrived there, to take twenty troopers from the caserne, and come on hither on the errand which I have the honour to perform.”

“But did you hear nothing?” demanded the Queen, earnestly. “Did this Aleron tell you nothing?”

“Nothing, Madame,” replied the Officer. “He had just made me promise inviolable secrecy, and we were interrupted before he began his tale; or I would have told your Majesty with pleasure.”

“But from report?” said the Queen. “Did you gain no knowledge from rumour?”

“Oh, there were rumours enough, truly,” answered the man; “but as fast as one came, it was contradicted by another. Some said that the troops at Perpignan had revolted, and some that Monsieur le Grand had killed Cardinal Mazarin. Others brought word that Monsieur de Noyers had tried to poison the King; and others, that the King had kicked Fontrailles for hunting in short boots.”

“Nonsense!” said the Queen; “all nonsense.—It is unfortunate,” she continued, musing, “that we can get no information. But tell me, where are you ordered to conduct Monsieur de Blenau?—To the Bastille?”

At the name of a place where both De Blenau and herself had suffered so much, and which was associated in her mind with every horrible idea, Pauline clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out the frightful visions it recalled.

“No, Madame,” replied the Officer, “I am commanded to conduct Monsieur de Blenau, as quickly as possible, to Tarascon; and allow me to remind your Majesty that the time is passing fast.”

De Blenau made a sign to the Officer, indicating that he was ready. He saw that Pauline’s hands still covered her eyes, and, wishing to spare her the pain of such a parting, he bowed profoundly to the Queen, and moved in silence to the door. The Queen and Madame de Beaumont saw his intention, and remained silent; but as he reached the door, he could not resist the desire to turn and look once more upon her whom he was leaving perhaps for ever—who had so nearly been his bride—whom he had loved so long—who had undergone so much for him. It was excusable, but the delay defeated his purpose. The sudden silence alarmed Pauline—she raised her eyes—she saw De Blenau in the act of departing, and the last fixed painful glance with which he regarded her. All but her love was that moment forgotten; and starting wildly forward, she threw herself into his arms, and wept bitterly on his bosom. But Madame de Beaumont advancing, gently disengaged her from his embrace: Pauline hid her eyes upon her mother’s shoulder; and De Blenau, with a heart ready to break, fled quickly from a scene that his fortitude could support no longer.