CHAPTER XLI.
"There is a certain goddess, called Confidence, that carries much weight in honourable preferments. Fortune waits upon her—Cupid is at her beck; she sends them both of errands."
The Merchant's Wedding.
"O, run on my errand, thou bonny foot-page."
Old Ballad.
Louis arrived at the appointed hour, and found the Comtesse eager for his appearance. He was a frank, handsome-looking boy, whose arch smile and quick eye vouched that there were few cases where he might not safely be left to his own resources.
"Welcome, my young knight-errant!" exclaimed Madame de Soissons. "I am expecting you to do wonders."
“Nothing could be wonderful when performed in your service," replied the boy, with that readiness of compliment so characteristic of his time and court.
The Comtesse smiled, and continued: "First, I must take you into my full confidence. I am persuaded that the Lady Francesca's illness is but a pretext,—I want both to ascertain the fact and to communicate with her. Now, as her father has locked the door, this can only be effected through the window. Do you think you could manage your entrance to the Lady Francesca's chamber?"
"Ay, were it twice as high. The old ivy is as good as a ladder. But, unless I am much mistaken, it must be quite easy to get from your own window to hers;"—and, so saying, he softly unclosed the further lattice. "Yes," exclaimed he, "yonder turret is easily gained,—nothing like your old houses!”
"Mon Dieu!" said Marie, "but the height is fearful! Dare I hazard your life?"
"I would indeed hazard it," replied Louis; "but here I have not even the satisfaction of running a little danger for your sake. Now, what am I to say or do?"
"Give this note to Lady Francesca, and bring me back her answer. But, for the love of Heaven, be careful!"
The page laughed recklessly, and sprang upon the window-sill; in an instant he disappeared.
Marie stood breathless for a moment and then hurried to the open lattice, and watched the boy's progress. The moon had set; but, as such nights are never quite dark, she could see the shadowy outline of the slender figure as it passed along. The architectural ornaments—the uneven wall—the tough branches—were ample footing for the adventurous boy, who scrambled on with a rapidity which made Marie's head grow dizzy to look upon. At length he reached the angle of the wall, and it hid him from her sight. She stood at the casement still watching, but could see no more. The night wind was very chill, and she turned away: "My catching cold will not prevent my young adventurer from breaking his neck, neither will it in any way benefit Francesca." With this remark she drew her cloak more closely around her and flung herself into an armchair by the fire, to await the result.
In the mean time we will proceed to Francesca's chamber, where she was seated, sad and lonely, harassed by every painful image that fancy could conjure up—dreading the morrow, and yet impatient for its arrival. Weary as she was, she knew it was in vain to seek her pillow: people may sleep on the night before execution, but not on that before sentence is passed. No torture, though the human race are most ingenious in their devices of hate, can equal the low fever, the wearing depression of suspense. But a deeper consciousness than even that of actual evil was on the young Italian. She was weighed down by a terrible foreboding. She sat by the hearth, whose fitful light at times passed over her features. Her long black hair, which, loosened, fell even to her feet, was like a shroud, whence her pale face glanced forth—abandoned by the hope and the bloom of youth.
A slight noise at one of the windows aroused her from her gloomy reverie, and, looking up, she saw that some one was standing before it. The wretched catch at hope, however improbable. Was it possible that Evelyn had effected his escape? But, good God! the danger of such an ascent! She sprang to the casement, unfastened it—and sank back, for she gazed upon a stranger.
The page, who mistook her paleness for fear, exclaimed eagerly, "Do not be alarmed, lady: I come from Madame de Soissons, who is most anxious to know your pleasure. This note will explain all:" and he drew forth a little scroll, and gave it to Francesca, whose hand trembled so that at first she could not break the seal. Louis observed her agitation, and, with a thoughtful kindness beyond his years, led her to a seat, drew the lamp towards her, and then occupied himself with gathering together the brands of the decaying fire.
"I am not quite deserted!" murmured Francesca, as she opened the letter, which contained these few words:—
"Ma belle princesse, are you immured in a dungeon, or only locked in your own chamber?—I hope the latter, as then my rôle de confidante has no difficulties in the way of its performance. I hear you are ill of a fever,—I do not believe it; but I do want to know what is the matter. What can I do for you? I have spoken to Charles, who has the most amiable intentions; the sooner, however, they are fulfilled the better. Mr. Evelyn is sure of his pardon—of his estate, not quite so certain; however, I suppose you can live upon love. My messenger is trustworthy: you can either speak or write.
"Yours, in all curiosity and sincerity,
"Marie."
Francesca hid her face in her hands, in a transport of mute but tearful thankfulness. Evelyn in safety and at liberty!—the very hope was perfect happiness. She caught up a pen, but the characters she traced were scarcely legible:
"I am, indeed, dearest Marie, a prisoner. Lord Avonleigh and the Duke surprised Mr. Evelyn and myself together; and he, too, is confined in the Castle. This evening we were married,—to-morrow we were to have sailed for America. I had relied upon seeing you to-night, when I should have told you every thing. A pardon is all we ask—let Buckingham keep his ill-gotten estate; life, life is our only prayer. And in that far land, wherein our future lot will be cast, with what gratitude and what love shall we remember your name! A thousand thanks! Yours,
"Francesca."
"Stay yet one moment," said she, as she gave the note to Louis, and, approaching the dressing-table, took from a casket a Venetian chain, in which the purest gold was moulded by the most delicate workmanship. She flung it herself round the page's neck, and bade him "wear it for her sake."
"Not so, lady; believe me that the pleasure of serving you is its own best recompense," replied the youth, colouring.
"Nay," said she, "As a recompense it were indeed unworthy; but when I am far away.it will bring to your memory the gratitude of one to whom you have given life, and all that makes life dear." Louis kissed the hand extended to him, and, hastening to the casement, again commenced his perilous way. In a few minutes he was in Madame de Soissons' chamber, who sprang from her chair to welcome him.
"Never was wall scaled so bravely—an omen of future success, when you shall try such an adventure on your own account. But now tell me all."
"This letter will do it better than I can, who only know that the Lady Francesca is not ill.”
Marie opened it eagerly,—"Married!—going to America!"—and she sat down fairly breathless with astonishment. "Oh they will easily be reasoned out of this folly. Well," continued she, addressing the page, "do you give this note early to-morrow into the hands of the King himself. May I trust you to gather some violets? they will pass for an excuse—un petit brin de sentiment very justifiable on the last day. Make use of my name to deliver it. His being asleep is of no consequence: wake him,—a lady's message is not to be kept waiting. And here is un gage d'amitie for yourself." So saying, she gave him a velvet purse embroidered in gold, and whose contents were more than adequate to the promise of its glittering outside.
"Most happy," said Louis, "to be employed in the service of Madame," and left the room, not the one least satisfied with the result of the night's adventure.
"This marriage," thought the Comtesse, "certainly takes me by surprise; but I hold that it will save a great deal of trouble. Lord Avonleigh now cannot help himself—the thing is done. Well, I do enjoy his Grace's disappointment: the turns of the game have left us pretty even. I have to thank him for baffling my plans about Hortense, while he has to thank me for destroying his own. But I am very tired, and must bid good night to myself."