Lord Montagu's Page Part 45

"Not so, my lord," replied Edward. "It has vast and magnificent advantages,--the power to do good, to stop evil, to reward the worthy, ay, and even to punish the bad,--to save and elevate one's country. But great and valuable things must always be purchased at a high price; and I can easily conceive that the sense of responsibility, the opposition of petty factions and base intrigues, the stupidity of some men, the cunning devices of others, the importunity and the ingrat.i.tude of all, the want of domestic peace, the continual sacrifice of personal comfort, must make the high position your Eminence speaks of any thing but a bed of roses."

"You shall have your safe-conduct to-morrow morning," said Richelieu.

"Such sentiments are sufficient to corrupt the whole court of France.

Sir, if they were to become general, and men would but act upon them, I should have nothing to do. There would be n.o.body to envy me. n.o.body would try to overthrow me. They would only look upon me as the wheel-horse of the car of state, and wonder that I could pull along so patiently. The ingrat.i.tude of all!" he repeated, in a meditative tone.

"Ay, it is but too true! Those are the petrifying waters which harden the heart and seem to turn the very spirit into stone. Do you know what has been done within this hour, Monsieur Langdale?"

"No," replied the young Englishman: "I have heard of nothing important, sir."

"Why, I thought it must be at the gates of Paris by this time," said Richelieu. "A treaty has been signed with Roch.e.l.le; and a good man--a marvellous good man in his way--says I am no true Catholic, because I will not starve some thousands of men to death or make them take the ma.s.s with a lie upon their mouths. I do not understand his reasoning, but that is my fault, of course; but through this very treaty of Roch.e.l.le I think I shall make more real Catholics than he would make false ones. But now, Monsieur Langdale, you think I have kept you here unreasonably; but you are mistaken. I wished to have news from various quarters ere I suffered you to go back to England. I need not tell you to return by the month of July next; but, for many reasons, I desire you should return before. I leave it to yourself to do so or not; but you will find it for your benefit. To-morrow you shall have all necessary pa.s.ses,--though it is probable that the fall of this very city of Roch.e.l.le will lead to peace between France and England. If it do so, remember a conversation which took place between us a good many months ago."

"I will not forget it, my lord," replied Edward. "I believe I have always kept my word to your Eminence."

"You have," said Richelieu. "You have. Would to G.o.d I could say the same of all men! And, now, what money will you want for your pa.s.sage?"

"None, your Eminence," replied Edward. "I have a little property in England, the rents of which acc.u.mulated while I was lodged and fed by good Monsieur de Bourbonne; and I can get what I want at Roch.e.l.le."

"Oh, go not into that miserable place!" said Richelieu,--"at least not till all the bodies are interred and it is free from pestilence. This siege will ever be memorable in the annals of the world for the sufferings of the people, and for the resolution of their leaders also.

I can admire great qualities even in my enemies. But here comes Tronson to call me to the king. Come to me to-morrow."

CHAPTER XLIV.

Four days more pa.s.sed before Edward actually got his proper pa.s.ses and safe-conduct; but then they came in the most precise style and ample form. His whole person was described with accuracy. He was mentioned as a young English gentleman attached to Lord Montagu, travelling under the particular protection of his Majesty the King of France, with two _palfreniers_ and other servants and attendants; and all governors of towns and provinces, and officers civil and military, as well throughout the realm of France as in neighboring countries in amity with that power, were directed not only to let him freely pa.s.s and give him aid and a.s.sistance, but to show him every hospitable attention and courtesy on his journey or journeys in any direction whatsoever during the next two years ensuing. The whole was signed by the king's own hand and countersigned by the cardinal. Though I possess one of these pa.s.sports myself on parchment, signed with an immense "_Louis_," I regret to say it does not have the countersignature of Richelieu; but it is certain that they were occasionally given under his administration also. At all events, Edward comprehended that, wherever he bent his steps, no more interruptions of his journey would occur on the part of any of the officers of the crown.

The cardinal himself he could not see before his departure, for those were very busy times; but on the sixth day the young gentleman re-entered the city of Roch.e.l.le with his good friend Clement Tournon, and went direct to the syndic's house. The royal soldiers were in possession of the place; the walls were in progress of demolition; and there was an aspect of disappointment and sadness upon the faces of the people generally, though some were rejoicing openly in the return of peace and plenty, little heeding the loss of a certain degree of that liberty which they had at one time cherished as the best of human possessions.

The royal forces, however, had not confined themselves to razing the fortifications, but, with that good-humor which is one of the chief and most amiable characteristics of the French people, had aided the citizens in burying the dead, in cleansing the streets, and in purifying the town generally, so that, on the whole, the city bore a much more cheerful and happy appearance than it had done when Edward had last visited it. In the court before the house of the old syndic, two of the apprentices were busy rooting out the gra.s.s from between the stones; and Marton herself, with a gay face, though it was still somewhat pale and thin, came running down to greet her old master. These were all that remained of the once numerous household; and the joy of his return to his ancient dwelling was mingled with sufficient bitterness to draw some natural tears from Clement Tournon's eyes.

Many little incidents occurred to Edward Langdale during his short stay in Roch.e.l.le which we need not dwell upon here. Amongst the servants of his host he was in some sort a hero for the part he had taken in saving their beloved master. Several of the citizens, too, came to visit him; and, in the stormy night of the 2d of November, Guiton himself, wrapped in his large mantle, presented himself to pa.s.s an hour or two with his old friend and the syndic's young guest.

It was a night very memorable,--much like that on which Edward had crossed the seas some eighteen months before. The winds burst in sharp gusts over the town, still rising in force, and howling as they rose; the cas.e.m.e.nt shook and rattled, the tiles were swept from the roofs and dashed to pieces in the streets, and rain mingled with sleet dashed in the faces of the pa.s.sers-by. Many died that night of those who were still sick in the hospitals. The conversation of the mayor was by no means cheerful. He had been forced into his high position against his own desire; he had drawn the sword unwillingly, but, full of energy and hope, he had sheathed it with even less willingness, and saw in the surrender of Roch.e.l.le the ruin of the Protestant cause and the destruction of the religious liberties of France. His heart was depressed, and all his thoughts seemed gloomy. Once, when one of the fiercest gusts shook the house, he burst forth in an absent tone, exclaiming, "Ay, blow! blow! You may blow now without doing any damage to Fortune's favorite! By the Lord in Heaven, Mr. Langdale, it would seem that this man Richelieu's fortunes have even bent the clouds and storms to his subjection! Here that tempestuous sea which was never known for six weeks to an end to be without storm and s.h.i.+pwreck has been as calm and tranquil as a fish-pond in a garden for months--ever since that accursed d.y.k.e was first commenced; and now no sooner is Roch.e.l.le lost than up rises the spirit of the tempest. Hark how it howls! At high tide half the d.y.k.e that has ruined us will be swept away! Mark my words, young gentleman: by this time to-morrow all the succors which we needed so many months will be able to enter our port in safety."

And it was so. On the following day, more than forty toises of the d.y.k.e were carried away, and a fleet of small wine-vessels from the neighboring country entered the harbor without difficulty.

The storm raged fiercely for the next two days; and the time was spent in friendly intercourse by Clement Tournon and Edward Langdale, who wished to embark from Roch.e.l.le but could find no vessel ready or willing to put to sea.

Of all the remarkable changes which have taken place in the state of society during the last two hundred years--changes which produce and will daily produce other changes--none is so wonderful as in the facility of locomotion. The change from the caterpillar to the b.u.t.terfly is not so great. Go back two hundred years, and you will find nothing but delay and uncertainty. Ay, within a shorter s.p.a.ce than that, the back of your own horse, the inconvenient inside of a heavy coach going three miles in an hour, or the still slower wagon with its miscellaneous denizens, or the post-horse with its postilion riding beside it, were, in every part of Europe, the only means afforded to the traveller of journeying from place to place over the land; while over the water slow s.h.i.+ps could only be found occasionally at certain ports, and their departure and arrival depended upon a thousand other chances and events than the pleasure of the winds and waves. It is only wonderful that a voyage did not occupy a lifetime. Now----But it is no use telling my reader what this now is. He knows it so well that he forgets even the inconveniences that he himself has suffered, perhaps a score or two of years ago, and can hardly conceive the possibility of the hards.h.i.+ps, the troubles and disappointments, of a journey in the seventeenth century, till he takes up some of the memoirs or romances of that day, and finds a whole host of minor miseries recorded which render an expedition to Mount Sinai at present but a joke in comparison. It is true that our present system has its evils as well as its benefits, viewed by different persons according to their different professional or habitual tastes. The picturesque traveller will tell you that you lose one-half of the scenery; the timid traveller, that you risk breaking your neck; the police-officer, that thieves and swindlers get off much more easily than they used to do; and members of Parliament, that their const.i.tuents are a great deal too near at hand. But there are compensations for all these little troubles and especially in the case of those of the police-officer; for, if the thief or swindler has easy means of getting away, there are--thanks to electric telegraphs--more easy means still of catching him.

All Edward's preparations were made: the calculation of what rents had acc.u.mulated in the hands of good Dr. Winthorne was easy also, and to get the amount in gold and silver was easier still, with Clement Tournon at his right hand. But, as there seemed, upon inquiry, no probability whatever of a s.h.i.+p sailing from Roch.e.l.le within a reasonable time, Edward determined to run across the country to Calais, between which port and England there always has been a desultory trade carried on, even in time of war, down to the reign of the third George.

"I shall see you soon again, Edward," said old Clement Tournon, as the young gentleman descended the stairs to mount his horse.

"I trust so," said Edward. "But I really cannot tell how soon I shall return."

"Nor I how soon I shall go over," said the old man, with a smile. "I have business myself at Huntingdon; and if you are in that neighborhood a month hence we shall meet there. You have told me all the places where you intend to stop, and I have made a note of it,--so that I shall easily find you wherever you are."

Edward was surprised, but not so much, perhaps, as might be expected; for, from vague hints which his good old host had let drop, he had gathered that Clement Tournon, steadfast and perhaps a little bigoted in the Protestant faith, had a strong inclination to make England his future home. He had been there often; he loved the country and the people, and still more the religion; and most of the ties between him and Roch.e.l.le seemed to have been severed when the city lost its independence. Often in Edward's hearing he had called England the land of comfort and peace,--alas! it was not destined long to remain so,--and even that very day he had remarked that the state of France, with its constant broils, intrigues, and factions, might suit a young and aspiring spirit, but was not fitted for declining years.

He and his young friend parted with deep and mutual regret. It is seldom that so much friends.h.i.+p ever exists between the old and the young; but each might feel that he owed the other his life, not by any sudden act which might be the result of a momentary impulse, but by calm, determined, persevering kindness, which could not but have a deeper source.

This has been a very short chapter: but we may as well change the scene; for our s.p.a.ce, according to the law of Goths and Vandals, which altereth not, is very short, alas!

CHAPTER XLV.

The days of _vis-a-vis_ lined with sky-blue velvet had not come, though, as any one who is read in the pleasant Antoine Hamilton must know, one generation was sufficient to produce them. But, had they been in existence, there were no roads for them to travel upon; for we hear that just about this time one of the presidents of the Parliament of Paris lost his life by the great imprudence of travelling in a large heavy coach over a French country-road.

I was in great hope at this place to be enabled to introduce, for the gratification of my readers, a solitary horseman. But I am disappointed; for Edward Langdale, now that I have again to bring him on the scene, had good Pierrot la Grange with him. And it would never do to have a solitary horseman two.

It was on a road, then, leading from London into the heart of the country, that Lord Montagu's page--Lord Montagu's page no longer, for he had formally resigned his attendance upon that n.o.bleman--rode along, on a cold, bright, wintry evening, with the renowned Pierrot la Grange, whose face, by adherence to the total-abstinence system, though much less brilliant in hue, had become much smoother, plumper, and fairer.

Both he and his master were well armed, as was the custom of the day, and each was a likely man enough to repel any thing like attack on the part of others; for be it remarked that Edward Langdale was very much changed by the pa.s.sage of twenty months over his head since first we introduced him to the reader. He was broader, stronger, older, in appearance; and, though of course there was nothing of the mould of age about him, yet all the batterings and bruisings he had gone through had certainly stamped manhood both on his face and form. He had a very tolerable beard also,--at least as far as mustache and royal were concerned,--trimmed in that shape which the pencil of Vand.y.k.e has transmitted to us in his portraits of some of the most memorable characters in modern history. It is probable that he had grown a little also; for at his age men will grow, notwithstanding all the world will do to keep them down. He was, in short, somewhat above the middle height, though not a very tall man,--of that height which is more serviceable in the field than in the ring.

At the crossing of two roads, one of which ran into Cambridges.h.i.+re, while the other took toward Huntingdon, was a small, low inn: I mean low in structure, for it was by no means low in character. It was one of the neatest inns I ever set my eyes on,--for it was standing in my day and is probably standing still,--with its neat well-whitewashed front, its carved doorway, its various gables, and its mullioned windows and the lozenge-shaped panes set in primitive lead. To the right of the inn, as you looked from the door upon the road, was a very neat farm-yard, half full of golden straw, with a barn and innumerable chickens,--chanticleers of all hues and colors, and dame partlets of every breed. Beyond the barn, at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, ran a beautiful clear stream, which crossed both the roads very nearly at their bifurcation, and which, though so shallow as only to wash gently the fetlocks of the pa.s.sengers' horses, was, and must be still, renowned for its beautiful trout, silvery, with gold and crimson spots and the flesh the color of a blush-rose. On the other side of the stream, about a quarter of a mile farther up, was a picturesque little mill, with a group of towering Huntingdon poplars shading it on the east.

Here Edward Langdale drew in his horse, although the sun was not fully down.

G.o.d knows what made him do so, for he had proposed to ride farther: but there was an aspect of peace and rural beauty and contented happiness about the whole place which might touch that latent poetry in his disposition already alluded to. Or it might be that all the fierce scenes of strife and turmoil and care and danger he had pa.s.sed through in the last twenty months had made his heart thirsty for a little calm repose; and where could he find it so well as there? Expectation, however, is always destined to be disappointed. This is the great moral of the fable of life. The people of the house, who had much respect for a man who came with an armed servant and whose saddle-bags were well stuffed, gave him a clean, comfortable room looking over the court-yard to the river, and served him his supper in the chamber underneath.

It was night before he sat down; but, before the fine broiled trout had disappeared, the sound of several horses' feet was heard from the road, and then that of voices calling for hostlers and stable-boys.

Edward had easily divined, from his first entrance into the house, that this which he now occupied was the only comfortable public room in the inn,--although there was another on the other side of the pa.s.sage, where neighboring farmers held their meetings and smoked their pipes. He expected, therefore, that his calm little supper would be interrupted, and was not at all surprised to see a gentleman of good mien, a little below the middle age, followed by two or three attendants, enter the parlor and throw himself into a chair.

The stranger cast a hasty and careless glance around, and then gave some directions to one of his followers in the French language. It was not the sort of half French spoken a good deal in the court of England at that time, but whole, absolute, perfect French, with French idioms and a French tongue.

As long as the conversation referred to nothing more than boots and baggage and supper and good wine, Edward took no notice, but went on with his meal, anxious to finish it as soon as possible. But soon after, when the person the stranger had been speaking to had left the room, that gentleman began a different sort of discourse with another of his followers, and commented pretty freely, and with some wit, upon the state of parties at the court of England.

"Your pardon for interrupting you," said Edward at once. "My servant and myself both understand French; and it would be neither civil nor honest to overhear your conversation without giving you that warning."

The other thanked him for his courtesy, adding, "You are a Frenchman, of course?"

"Not so," answered Edward. "I am an Englishman; but I have spent some time in France."

Next came a great number of those questions which n.o.body can put so directly without any lack of politeness as a Frenchman:--how long he had lived in France; whom he knew there; when he had left it.

Edward answered all very vaguely, for he never had any great relaxation of tongue; but the stranger caught at the admission that he had been only a fortnight in England, exclaiming, "Then you must have been in France when Roch.e.l.le surrendered."

"I was," answered the young gentleman: "it is not quite three weeks since I left that city."

"Ha!" said the stranger, eyeing him from head to foot. "Will you favor me, sir, by telling me the state of the place and the condition of its inhabitants? It is a subject in which I take a great interest. Methinks they surrendered somewhat promptly when succor was so near."

"Not so, sir," replied Edward. "When men have nothing to eat,--when they have seen their fathers, and their brothers, and their mothers, and their sisters, die of famine in their streets,--when the very rats and mice of a city are all consumed, and the wharves have been stripped of mussels and limpets,--they must either die or surrender. There is no use of dying; for death is the worst sort of capitulation, and the city becomes the enemy's without even a parchment promise."