Isabel looked up. The pilgrim, whom she had before seen, was standing near the window, leaning on his staff, not exactly turned towards her, but standing with his shoulder towards the open lattice, and his eyes apparently bent onward towards Savoy. There was something in his air familiar to her, though she could not tell in what it consisted. It had struck her before as he pa.s.sed: even more, perhaps, in that momentary glance than it did now, when she saw him fully; and she could scarcely think that it was the pilgrim who spoke, or, if so, that it was to her that he addressed himself. After a moment, however, he turned his face again for an instant towards the window, repeating,

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite!" replied Isabel.

"Then come near the window," said the same voice: "sit in the window-seat as if you were looking out. I will rest on this stepping-stone hard by. Let our words be short, and few, and low in tone; each word well pondered before it is spoken, and your eyes upon the door of the room from time to time."

The view which Isabel had of his face had shown her the features of an old man, somewhat sharp and keen, though they were much hidden under his hood, which was formed like that of a Capuchin. His beard, which was very white, was not so long as that of the generality of monks, and she concluded that it had been only suffered to grow during the period of his pilgrimage. He was a venerable-looking man, however; and, as it was evident that he knew something of her situation, she imagined that he bore her some message, and hastened to follow his directions. The moment she had taken her place at the window, he sat down on one of the stepping-stones placed to aid travellers in mounting their horses, and there, with his face still turned away from her, commenced the conversation by asking, "Do you not know me?"

"Your voice and your air," she said, "are familiar to me, but I know nothing more."

"I am Father Willand," said the pilgrim, "who baptized you in your infancy, watched you for the first nine years of your life, till your father procured me what he thought advancement in Paris, and who united you last night to the man for whom that father had ever destined you."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Isabel; "I thought you had fallen into the power of that evil Piedmontese; for I could not conceive it possible, when we were all so completely surrounded, that you should make your way out."

"They caught the other priest instead of me," replied Father Willand, "and I lay hid behind the altar till they were all dispersed and gone.

Your husband, lady, however, has fallen into the power of one enemy, and you into the power of another, or, what is worse than an enemy, a daring, treacherous, unhesitating lover."

"Call him not so, Father Willand! call him not so!" replied Isabel.

"Love elevates, enn.o.bles, and purifies--"

"Do not let us discuss love, lady," replied the priest; "I have nothing to do with it, but yet understand it, perhaps, better than you do. Love is applied to a thousand different things, and what is its right meaning were of long argument. All I know is, that you must not remain with this man an hour longer than you can help."

"Tell me how I can escape from him," said Isabel, in the same low tone.

"Nothing I desire more! But still let me do him justice: he has this day behaved well and kindly towards me; perilled his life to save me, and treated me with respect and delicacy."

"Perilled his life!" said Father Willand; "guns fired without b.a.l.l.s, lady! swords drawn without bloodshed! a farce that would not have deceived a child! They knew you to be but a child, or they would not have tried it! Did you see one man fall or fallen? Did you see one drop of blood shed for all the powder expended?"

"But still," said Isabel, though she had certainly neither seen wounds nor death follow the apparently smart encounter between the Count de Meyrand and the Lord of Ma.s.seran, "but still, he has been gentle and kind, and professes to leave me entirely to decide upon my own conduct."

"Try him, try him," said the priest: "use the liberty he professes to give, and you will find yourself a stricter prisoner than you were when in the castle of Ma.s.seran. Hearken," he continued, "for I must not be here long. I have followed you from last night till now; taking shorter paths than you have been led by, it is true; but still, lady, I am somewhat old and somewhat fat: and, though of the quick tribe, an old greyhound will not run as long as a young one. I must have some repose; but to-night I shall be ready to give you aid wherever you may then be.

When it comes, take it at a moment's warning; and, in the mean time, to make yourself sure of what you are about, exercise this liberty that you think you have. The Count de Meyrand judges you are about to set out for Paris to-morrow morning direct; tell him to-night that you have considered, and determined upon going to Gren.o.ble to meet your brother Harry. Then see what he says. If he agree thereunto honestly, well and good; trust him! If, on the contrary, he teach you to feel that his will must be your law, then trust me, and come with me whithersoever I shall guide you!"

Isabel paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Not to Gren.o.ble," she said at length; "I must not go to Gren.o.ble yet! That is too far; but if any one would convey intelligence to my brother of where I am, and bid him join me instantly at Latour, then, indeed, I might succeed--"

"Succeed in what?" demanded the priest.

"In freeing him," replied Isabel; and, though the blood rose up in her cheek as she said it, she added, the more resolutely from a slight smile that came from the priest's countenance as he turned for an instant towards her, "in freeing my husband."

"Oh, fear not, fear not, pretty one!" replied the priest. "We'll get your bird out of the cage yet, never fear. Indeed, I did not come hither without taking care that those should have information of where he is, and how he is, who may best contrive the means for his escape."

"Still," replied Isabel, "I would rather not be far absent from the spot until I see him free."

"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go to Gren.o.ble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. I only told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count of Meyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggs in a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamb lies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and he who would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark my words, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest even now, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free and active this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour, then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Gren.o.ble. You will see in a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at once when you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your head upon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."

"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where--"

"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We must use bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, between Paris and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, than all the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into many a house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfy yourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow me at a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will, and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be as secret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. I have heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twenty hours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for we must talk together no more."

Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window, pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terrible question, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whom can we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had to ask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every one in advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated, and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, how few are there throughout all existence that we can trust--fully, entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another; the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, the energy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! in looking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be, that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wrongly withheld.

The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself was more limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of these two men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Those she had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she had already had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and she could not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the first evil impression of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which she could not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that little seemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved.

Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender but imperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them, and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from the twilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an evening landscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long set to our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but those that bore an uninterested part therein--objects animate or inanimate alike--the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all still retain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when other things are forgotten.

The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne a willing, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For that reason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he had referred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of time between, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself and the objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasant recollections which attached themselves by the fine links of a.s.sociation to the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the rough and somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. She remembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; she remembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty of purpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness; and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse for anything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that her father had really p.r.o.nounced such words, she thought that she remembered his having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had driven him into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not have recalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any other circ.u.mstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow more and more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let the result of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand be what it would.

CHAPTER XII.

In one of the sweetest situations that it is possible to conceive--with green sloping hills, covered with the richest vegetation, rising on the four sides thereof, and forming, as it were, a beautiful basin, with four long valleys, each of which bears onward its stream of clear and sparkling water--is the little town of Bourgoin, which was at that time, as now, neat, clean, and fresh-looking, with perhaps fewer inhabitants than it can at present boast, but without any of the manufactories which have since somewhat diminished its beauty, if they have increased its wealth.

It was the custom in those days for the signs to hang out far from the doors of the inn; and often at each side of the doorway was placed the name of the landlord, with a long recommendation of the fare and lodging to be found within, with the price of the various meals which were to be furnished to a visiter. A bench was there also, and a wide door, giving entrance to a courtyard.

Such was not, however, altogether the aspect of the little auberge at Bourgoin. The village was too small to have a regular inn, or _gite_, and the homely symbol of a bush, suspended from a long pole, thrust forth horizontally from the front of the building, was the only sign that it could boast. The landlord and landlady were in their green old age, and were what they term in France _bona.s.se_, though that word has been applied to a beast who, if one may judge by his look, is of a very opposite sort of disposition to that which I wish to describe. They were, in short, good-humoured, honest country-people; and when the landlady beheld a considerable company of hors.e.m.e.n draw in their bridles at her door, with a young lady and her maid in a litter in the midst, her first thought was really not of self-interest, but of what she could best do to make her fair guest happy and comfortable during the time that she was about to stay in her dwelling.

The Count de Meyrand sprang to the side of the litter which contained Isabel de Brienne; and, as if with an instinctive insight into their lord's wishes, all his attendants but one, who was holding back the curtain, and one at the head of the nearest horse, kept aloof while the lady descended.

"Monsieur de Meyrand," said Isabel de Brienne, as she quitted the litter, "I cannot help repeating again that it is much against my inclination I have come hither. If you did not choose to conduct me, as I asked you, on the direct road to Gren.o.ble, you might, at least, have suffered me to remain for the night at Latour."

"Indeed, dear lady," replied the count, still with an air of perfect deference, "it would have been dangerous for you to do so. There, but a few leagues from Chambery, and still less from Beauvoisin, we should have been entirely at the mercy of the enemy. In regard to Gren.o.ble, I only besought you to pause till you could hear my reasons. You are too much fatigued to attend to them now; but, ere you set out to-morrow, you shall hear them at full."

"Your politeness, my good lord," replied Isabel de Brienne, with an air of grief and vexation, "is somewhat compulsory." Thus saying, she advanced towards the landlady, who had kept back at a sign from one of the count's attendants, but not so far as to prevent her from noting all that had pa.s.sed; the ears of aubergistes and aubergistes' wives acquiring by long and peculiar practice a facility of hearing everything and not hearing anything, according to circ.u.mstances, which is truly astonishing.

The Count de Meyrand bowed low, and, following to the door, he ordered apartments immediately to be prepared for his fair charge, and then took leave of her for the night, while a slight smile played upon his lip as he turned away, and he said in his heart, "If I could trust this man of Ma.s.seran, I would humour the girl, and see what might be done by softness. She smiled upon me this morning, and made me almost forget her former insolence. It were as well, however, to bring down this high temper; and, now the storm is somewhat roused, it may as well go on. No one can say I do her wrong in using some gentle force to bring her to Paris to the presence of her lawful king, who will soon judge whether that ring be to remain upon her finger or not."

As he thus thought, he pictured to his own imagination the marriage of fair Isabel de Brienne with Bernard de Rohan annulled by the royal authority. He fancied his own claim to her hand heard and conceded. He thought of how her travelling alone with him by slow journeys across the whole of France might render her own consent a matter more of necessity than choice; and, with inward satisfaction, he revolved the air of cool indifference with which he would treat the whole proceedings, as if there were absolutely nothing on earth worth the attention of so high a gentleman.

In the mean while Isabel de Brienne was led to her chamber by the hostess, who asked many a kindly question, not directly pertinent to the conversation which she had overheard, but tending to elicit the cause of that anxiety and distress of mind which she witnessed. Isabel did not satisfy her, it is true; but she replied so sweetly and gently, that the good woman went away with her mind made up that she was the most amiable young lady she had ever seen, and that she was, moreover, very much ill used by some one. Who that was she could not very well satisfy herself; but, nevertheless, she looked with no very favourable eye upon the Count de Meyrand, and made but short replies to the various questions which he asked her when she came down again.

After giving various directions to the soubrette, to which that taciturn person replied less than ever, Isabel seated herself near the window in melancholy thought. Removed almost by force from Latour, where the good priest, Father Willand, expected to find her, and having been now fully convinced, by the conduct of this Count de Meyrand, that she was little better than a prisoner in his hands, she knew not whence to hope for succour or deliverance. There was many a dark and painful point in her situation on which we must not dwell; many a present and many a future danger to herself, to him she loved, and to their mutual happiness. The thoughts connected with these points mingled with the chief strain of her reflections, and rendered them, bitter as they were, still more bitter and grievous to be borne.

As she thus sat and gazed out of the window--at some distance from it, indeed, so that those who were immediately beneath did not see where she was placed--she suddenly saw a small body of hors.e.m.e.n come over the brow of the gentle hill opposite, and ride down into the village. Isabel instinctively drew back; for, though her actual situation was painful in no slight degree, yet among those hors.e.m.e.n she recognised the colours of the Lord of Ma.s.seran, and it seemed to her that it would be even more terrible to fall into his power than to remain in that of the Count de Meyrand. The men came on at a quick rate, some four or five in number, and were pa.s.sing by the door of the little auberge without pausing, when she heard the voice of the Count de Meyrand call to them, and bid them stop to speak with him. The first questions which he asked were put in a low voice, but the man whom he addressed spoke louder in reply, and Isabel heard the latter say distinctly, "Yes, my lord, he is gone on with all speed to Paris, and we are following him as fast as we can. We hope to come up with him at Lyons."

"By my faith, this is somewhat strange," answered the count; and then again what he said farther was lost to the ear.

In a few minutes the Count de Meyrand suffered the hors.e.m.e.n to go on; but he seemed much moved by what he had heard, saying aloud, "This man will never be honest. We must not let him be long in advance. The horses must be ready by daybreak to-morrow, Matthew. Pierre, put your foot in the stirrup, and ride after those men: I saw one of them turn away from the road just now, by the clump of trees on the top of the hill. If they put their hand into the wolf's mouth, they must bear a bite."

Before the daylight failed, the man to whom he last spoke returned, informing him that, as far as he could discover, the whole party had gone on towards Lyons; and the count, better satisfied, turned once more into the inn, and sat himself down to supper in a musing mood. He sent up, indeed, an humble entreaty that the fair lady whom he had the honour to escort, as he termed it, would join him at the evening meal; but the reply returned was, that Mademoiselle de Brienne had retired to rest.

The count soon after sought his pillow himself; but, accustomed by old habits to wake at any particular hour a.s.signed, he started up with the first gleam of daylight, and gave instant orders for preparing to set out. There were few persons yet up in the inn; but the good landlady was roused, unwillingly, from her bed, and ordered instantly to wake Mademoiselle de Brienne, and give her notice that it was time to depart.

The count himself stood at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms folded upon his chest, in that gloomy frame of mind to which dissatisfaction with ourselves is even more sure to give birth than dissatisfaction with the things around us. But he was roused from his revery by hearing some bustle and anxious exclamations above, the voice of the hostess raised to the tones of wonder and astonishment, the tongue of the silent maid heard at a considerably louder pitch than was at all usual, and other indications so decided of something having gone wrong as to induce the Count de Meyrand himself to quit his usual calm deliberation, and spring up the stairs with a quick step and an angry brow.

He found the door of the room which had been a.s.signed to Mademoiselle de Brienne unclosed, the hostess standing a few steps within, the soubrette near the bedside, the window wide open, with the morning air sighing quietly through the lattice, and Isabel herself nowhere to be seen.

"Where is your mistress?" demanded the count, furiously, fixing his eyes upon the soubrette.