Quentin Durward

So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old Lord left the apartment, followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming his looks on those of his principal, endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the cause of his wonder, to look as mysterious and important as Crawford himself.

In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his attendant, Le Balafre. The old man seemed in singular humour, laughing and chuckling to himself in a manner which strangely distorted his stern and rigid features, and at the same time shaking his head, as at something which he could not help condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous. “My certes, countryman,” said he, “but you are not blate – you will never lose fair lady for faint heart! Crevecoeur swallowed your proposal as he would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me roundly, by all the saints in Burgundy, that were less than the honour of princes and the peace of kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so much as the print of the Countess Isabelle’s foot on the clay. Were it not that he had a dame, and a fair one, I would have thought that he meant to break a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps he thinks of his nephew, the County Stephen. A Countess! – would no less serve you to be minting at? – But come along – your interview with her must be brief. – But I fancy you know how to make the most of little time – ho! ho! ho! – By my faith, I can hardly chide thee for the presumption, I have such a good will to laugh at it!”

With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and disconcerted by the blunt inferences of the old soldier, and vexed at beholding in what an absurd light his passion was viewed by every person of experience, Durward followed Lord Crawford in silence to the Ursuline convent, in which the Countess was lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the Count de Crevecoeur.

“So, young gallant,” said the latter sternly, “you must see the fair companion of your romantic expedition once more, it seems.”

“Yes, my Lord Count,” answered Quentin firmly, “and what is more, I must see her alone.”

“That shall never be,” said the Count de Crevecoeur. – “Lord Crawford, I make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old friend and companion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort of a – what was I going to say? – in short, she is a fool, and your man at arms here a presumptuous coxcomb. – In a word, they shall not meet alone.”

“Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your presence,” said Quentin, much delighted. “You have told me much that I did not dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.”

“Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. “You have been imprudent in your communications; and, since you refer to me, and there is a good stout grating across the parlour, I would advise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst with their tongues. What, man! the life of a King, and many thousands besides, is not to be weighed with the chance of two young things whilly whawing in ilk other’s ears for a minute.”

So saying, he dragged off Crevecoeur, who followed very reluctantly, and cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left the room.

In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side of the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half a minute. “Yet why should I be ungrateful,” she said, “because others are unjustly suspicious? – My friend – my preserver, I may almost say, so much have I been beset by treachery, my only faithful and constant friend!”

As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate, nay, suffered him to retain it until he had covered it with kisses, not unmingled with tears. She only said, “Durward, were we ever to meet again, I would not permit this folly.”

If it be considered that Quentin had guided her through so many perils – that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses should be of the number, will pardon the derogation.

But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace back from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon he had to ask of her? – “For that you have a request to make, I have learned from the old Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of Crevecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, “but such as poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, and you cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But, oh! do not speak hastily – do not say,” she added, looking around with timidity, “aught that might, if overheard, do prejudice to us both!”

“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin sorrowfully; “it is not here that I can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or expose you to the censures of your proud kindred, as the object of the most devoted love to one, poorer and less powerful – not perhaps less noble – than themselves. Let that pass like a dream of the night to all but one bosom, where, dream as it is, it will fill up the room of all existing realities.”

“Hush! hush!” said Isabelle “for your own sake – for mine – be silent on such a theme. Tell me rather what it is you have to ask of me.”

“Forgiveness to one,” replied Quentin, “who, for his own selfish views, hath conducted himself as your enemy.”

“I trust I forgive all my enemies,” answered Isabelle; “but oh, Durward! through what scenes have your courage and presence of mind protected me! – Yonder bloody hall – the good Bishop – I knew not till yesterday half the horrors I had unconsciously witnessed!”

“Do not think on them,” said Quentin, who saw the transient colour which had come to her cheek during their conference fast fading into the most deadly paleness. – “Do not look back, but look steadily forward, as they needs must who walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me. King Louis deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others; than to be proclaimed the wily and insidious politician which he really is. But to tax him as the encourager of your flight – still more as the author of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la Marck – will at this moment produce perhaps the King’s death or dethronement; and, at all events, the most bloody war between France and Burgundy which the two countries have ever been engaged in.”

“These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be prevented,” said the Countess Isabelle; “and indeed your slightest request were enough to make me forego my revenge, were that at any time a passion which I deeply cherish. Is it possible I would rather remember King Louis’s injuries than your invaluable services? – Yet how is this to be? – When I am called before my Sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy, I must either stand silent or speak the truth. The former would be contumacy; and to a false tale you will not desire me to train my tongue.”

“Surely not,” said Durward; “but let your evidence concerning Louis be confined to what you yourself positively know to be truth; and when you mention what others have reported, no matter how credibly, let it be as reports only, and beware of pledging your own personal evidence to that, which, though you may fully believe, you cannot personally know to be true. The assembled Council of Burgundy cannot refuse to a monarch the justice which in my country is rendered to the meanest person under accusation. They must esteem him innocent, until direct and sufficient proof shall demonstrate his guilt. Now, what does not consist with your own certain knowledge, should be proved by other evidence than your report from hearsay.”

“I think I understand you,” said the Countess Isabelle.

“I will make my meaning plainer,” said Quentin; and was illustrating it accordingly by more than one instance when the convent bell tolled.

“That,” said the Countess, “is a signal that we must part – part for ever! – But do not forget me, Durward; I will never forget you – your faithful services – ”

She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, which was again pressed to his lips; and I know not how it was, that, in endeavouring to withdraw her hand, the Countess came so close to the grating that Quentin was encouraged to press the adieu on her lips. The young lady did not chide him – perhaps there was no time; for Crevecoeur and Crawford, who had been from some loophole eye witnesses if not ear witnesses, also, of what was passing, rushed into the apartment, the first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and holding the Count back.

“To your chamber, young mistress – to your chamber!” exclaimed the Count to Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, retired in all haste – “which should be exchanged for a cell, and bread and water. – And you, gentle sir, who are so malapert, the time will come when the interests of kings and kingdoms may not be connected with such as you are; and you shall then learn the penalty of your audacity in raising your beggarly eyes – ”

“Hush! hush! – enough said – rein up – rein up,” said the old Lord “and you, Quentin, I command you to be silent, and begone to your quarters. – There is no such room for so much scorn, neither, Sir Count of Crevecoeur, that I must say now he is out of hearing. – Quentin Durward is as much a gentleman as the King, only, as the Spaniard says, not so rich. He is as noble as myself, and I am chief of my name. Tush, tush! man, you must not speak to us of penalties.”

“My lord, my lord,” said Crevecoeur impatiently, “the insolence of these foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and should receive rather rebuke than encouragement from you, who are their leader.”

“My Lord Count,” answered Crawford, “I have ordered my command for these fifty years without advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian; and I intend to do so, under your favour, so long as I shall continue to hold it.”

“Well, well, my lord,” said Crevecoeur, “I meant you no disrespect; your nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to be privileged in your impatience; and for these young people. I am satisfied to overlook the past, since I will take care that they never meet again.”

“Do not take that upon your salvation, Crevecoeur,” said the old Lord, laughing; “mountains, it is said, may meet, and why not mortal creatures that have legs, and life and love to put those legs in motion? Yon kiss, Crevecoeur, came tenderly off – methinks it was ominous.”

“You are striving again to disturb my patience,” said Crevecoeur, “but I will not give you that advantage over me. – Hark! they toll the summons to the Castle – an awful meeting, of which God only can foretell the issue.”

“This issue I can foretell,” said the old Scottish lord, “that if violence is to be offered to the person of the King, few as his friends are, and surrounded by his shall neither fall alone nor unavenged; and grieved I am that his own positive orders have prevented my taking measures to prepare for such an issue.”

“My Lord of Crawford,” said the Burgundian, “to anticipate such evil is the sure way to give occasion to it. Obey the orders of your royal master, and give no pretext for violence by taking hasty offence, and you will find that the day will pass over more smoothly than you now conjecture.”

CHAPTER XXXII: THE INVESTIGATION

Me rather had my heart might feel your love,
Than my displeased eye see your courtesy.
Up, cousin, up – your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least – although your knee —

    KING RICHARD II

At the first toll of the bell which was to summon the great nobles of Burgundy together in council, with the very few French peers who could be present on the occasion, Duke Charles, followed by a part of his train, armed with partisans and battle axes, entered the Hall of Herbert’s Tower, in the Castle of Peronne. King Louis, who had expected the visit, arose and made two steps towards the Duke, and then remained standing with an air of dignity, which, in spite of the meanness of his dress, and the familiarity of his ordinary manners, he knew very well how to assume when he judged it necessary. Upon the present important crisis, the composure of his demeanour had an evident effect upon his rival, who changed the abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the apartment into one more becoming a great vassal entering the presence of his Lord Paramount. Apparently the Duke had formed the internal resolution to treat Louis, in the outset at least, with the formalities due to his high station; but at the same time it was evident, that, in doing so, he put no small constraint upon the fiery impatience of his own disposition, and was scarce able to control the feelings of resentment and the thirst of revenge which boiled in his bosom. Hence, though he compelled himself to use the outward acts, and in some degree the language, of courtesy and reverence, his colour came and went rapidly – his voice was abrupt, hoarse, and broken – his limbs shook, as if impatient of the curb imposed on his motions – he frowned and bit his lip until the blood came – and every look and movement showed that the most passionate prince who ever lived was under the dominion of one of his most violent paroxysms of fury.

The King marked this war of passion with a calm and untroubled eye, for, though he gathered from the Duke’s looks a foretaste of the bitterness of death, which he dreaded alike as a mortal and a sinful man, yet he was resolved, like a wary and skilful pilot, neither to suffer himself to be disconcerted by his own fears, nor to abandon the helm, while there was a chance of saving the vessel by adroit pilotage. Therefore, when the Duke, in a hoarse and broken tone, said something of the scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with a smile that he could not complain, since he had as yet found Herbert’s Tower a better residence than it had proved to one of his ancestors.

“They told you the tradition then?” said Charles.

“Yes – here he was slain – but it was because he refused to take the cowl, and finish his days in a monastery.”

“The more fool he,” said Louis, affecting unconcern, “since he gained the torment of being a martyr, without the merit of being a saint.”

“I come,” said the Duke, “to pray your Majesty to attend a high council at which tidings of weight are to be deliberated upon concerning the welfare of France and Burgundy. You will presently meet them – that is, if such be your pleasure.”

“Nay, my fair cousin,” said the King, “never strain courtesy so far as to entreat what you may so boldly command. – To council, since such is your Grace’s pleasure. We are somewhat shorn of our train,” he added, looking upon the small suite that arranged themselves to attend him, “but you, cousin, must shine out for us both.”

Marshalled by Toison d’Or, chief of the heralds of Burgundy, the Princes left the Earl Herbert’s Tower, and entered the castle yard, which Louis observed was filled with the Duke’s bodyguard and men at arms, splendidly accoutred, and drawn up in martial array. Crossing the court, they entered the Council Hall, which was in a much more modern part of the building than that of which Louis had been the tenant, and, though in disrepair, had been hastily arranged for the solemnity of a public council. Two chairs of state were erected under the same canopy, that for the King being raised two steps higher than the one which the Duke was to occupy; about twenty of the chief nobility sat, arranged in due order, on either hand of the chair of state; and thus, when both the Princes were seated, the person for whose trial, as it might be called, the council was summoned, held the highest place, and appeared to preside in it.

It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, and the scruples which might have been inspired by it, that Duke Charles, having bowed slightly to the royal chair, bluntly opened the sitting with the following words —

“My good vassals and councillors, it is not unknown to you what disturbances have arisen in our territories, both in our father’s time and in our own, from the rebellion of vassals against superiors, and subjects against their princes. And lately we have had the most dreadful proof of the height to which these evils have arrived in our case, by the scandalous flight of the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and her aunt the Lady Hameline, to take refuge with a foreign power, thereby renouncing their fealty to us, and inferring the forfeiture of their fiefs; and in another more dreadful and deplorable instance, by the sacrilegious and bloody murder of our beloved brother and ally, the Bishop of Liege, and the rebellion of that treacherous city, which was but too mildly punished for the last insurrection. We have been informed that these sad events may be traced, not merely to the inconstancy and folly of women, and the presumption of pampered citizens, but to the agency of foreign power, and the interference of a mighty neighbour, from whom, if good deeds could merit any return in kind, Burgundy could have expected nothing but the most sincere and devoted friendship. If this should prove truth,” said the Duke, setting his teeth and pressing his heel against the ground, “what consideration shall withhold us – the means being in our power – from taking such measures as shall effectually, and at the very source, close up the main spring from which these evils have yearly flowed on us?”

The Duke had begun his speech with some calmness, but he elevated his voice at the conclusion; and the last sentence was spoken in a tone which made all the councillors tremble, and brought a transient fit of paleness across the King’s cheek. He instantly recalled his courage, however, and addressed the council in his turn in a tone evincing so much ease and composure that the Duke, though he seemed desirous to interrupt or stop him, found no decent opportunity to do so.

“Nobles of France and of Burgundy,” he said, “Knights of the Holy Spirit and of the Golden Fleece! Since a King must plead his cause as an accused person he cannot desire more distinguished judges than the flower of nobleness and muster and pride of chivalry. Our fair cousin of Burgundy hath but darkened the dispute between us, in so far as his courtesy has declined to state it in precise terms. I, who have no cause for observing such delicacy, nay, whose condition permits me not to do so, crave leave to speak more precisely. It is to Us, my lords – to Us, his liege lord, his kinsman, his ally, that unhappy circumstances, perverting our cousins’s clear judgment and better nature, have induced him to apply the hateful charges of seducing his vassals from their allegiance, stirring up the people of Liege to revolt, and stimulating the outlawed William de la Marck to commit a most cruel and sacrilegious murder. Nobles of France and Burgundy, I might truly appeal to the circumstances in which I now stand, as being in themselves a complete contradiction of such an accusation, for is it to be supposed that, having the sense of a rational being left me, I should have thrown myself unreservedly into the power of the Duke of Burgundy while I was practising treachery against him such as could not fail to be discovered, and which being discovered, must place me, as I now stand, in the power of a justly exasperated prince? The folly of one who should seat himself quietly down to repose on a mine, after he had lighted the match which was to cause instant explosion, would have been wisdom compared to mine. I have no doubt that, amongst the perpetrators of those horrible treasons at Schonwaldt, villains have been busy with my name – but am I to be answerable, who have given them no right to use it? – If two silly women, disgusted on account of some romantic cause of displeasure, sought refuge at my Court, does it follow that they did so by my direction? – It will be found, when inquired into, that, since honour and chivalry forbade my sending them back prisoners to the Court of Burgundy – which, I think, gentlemen, no one who wears the collar of these Orders would suggest – that I came as nearly as possible to the same point by placing them in the hands of the venerable father in God, who is now a saint in Heaven.”

Here Louis seemed much affected and pressed his kerchief to his eyes. “In the hands, I say, of a member of my own family, and still more closely united with that of Burgundy, whose situation, exalted condition in the church, and, alas! whose numerous virtues qualified him to be the protector of these unhappy wanderers for a little while, and the mediator betwixt them and their liege lord. I say, therefore, the only circumstances which seem, in my brother of Burgundy’s hasty view of this subject, to argue unworthy suspicions against me, are such as can be explained on the fairest and most honourable motives; and I say, moreover, that no one particle of credible evidence can be brought to support the injurious charges which have induced my brother to alter his friendly looks towards one who came to him in full confidence of friendship – have caused him to turn his festive hall into a court of justice, and his hospitable apartments into a prison.”