tears of the Marechal obscured the glass that covered the large medallion, and he was effacing them with respectful kisses, when, his door being roughly opened, he quickly drew his sword.
“Who goes there?” he cried, in his surprise, which was much increased when he saw M. de Launay, who, hat in hand, advanced toward him, and said to him, with embarrassment:
“Monsieur, it is with a heart pierced with grief that I am forced to tell you that the King has commanded me to arrest you. A carriage awaits you at the gate, attended by thirty of the Cardinal-Duke’s musketeers.”
Bassompierre had not risen: and he still held the medallion in his right hand, and the sword in the other. He tendered it disdainfully to this man, saying:
“Monsieur, I know that I have lived too long, and it is that of which I was thinking; in the name of the great Henri, I restore this sword peacefully to his son. Follow me.”
He accompanied these words with a look so firm that De Launay was depressed, and followed him with drooping head, as if he had himself been arrested by the noble old man, who, seizing a flambeau, issued from the court and found all the doors opened by horse-guards, who had terrified the people of the chateau in the name of the King, and commanded silence. The carriage was ready, and departed rapidly, followed by many horses. The Marechal, seated beside M. de Launay, was about to fall asleep, rocked by the movement of the vehicle, when a voice cried to the driver, “Stop!” and, as he continued, a pistol-shot followed. The horses stopped.
“I declare, Monsieur, that this is done without my participation,” said Bassompierre. Then, putting his head out at the door, he saw that they were in a little wood, and that the road was too narrow to allow the horses to pass to either the right or the left of the carriage—a great advantage for the aggressors, since the musketeers could not advance. He tried to see what was going on when a cavalier, having in his hand a long sword, with which he parried the strokes of the guard, approached the door, crying:
“Come, come, Monsieur le Marechal!”
“What! is that you, you madcap, Henri, who are playing these pranks? Gentlemen, let him alone; he is a mere boy.”
And, as De Launay called to the musketeers to cease, Bassompierre recognized the cavalier.
“And how the devil came you here?” cried Bassompierre. “I thought you were at Tours, or even farther, if you had done your duty; but here you are returned to make a fool of yourself.”
“Truly, it was not for you I returned, but for a secret affair,” said Cinq-Mars, in a lower tone; “but, as I take it, they are about to introduce you to the Bastille, and I am sure you will not betray me, for that delightful edifice is the very Temple of Discretion. Yet had you thought fit,” he continued, aloud, “I should have released you from these gentlemen in the wood here, which is so dense that their horses would not have been able to stir. A peasant informed me of the insult passed upon us, more than upon you, by this violation of my father’s house.”
“It is the King’s order, my boy, and we must respect his will; reserve your ardor for his service, though I thank you with all my heart. Now farewell, and let me proceed on my agreeable journey.”
De Launay interposed, “I may inform you, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, that I have been desired by the King himself to assure Monsieur le Marechal, that he is deeply afflicted at the step he has found it necessary to take, and that it is solely from an apprehension that Monsieur le Marechal may be led into evil that his Majesty requests him to remain for a few days in the Bastille.”—[He remained there twelve years.]
Bassompierre turned his head toward Cinq-Mars with a hearty laugh. “You see, my friend, how we young men are placed under guardianship; so take care of yourself.”
“I will go, then,” said Henri; “this is the last time I shall play the knight-errant for any one against his will;” and, reentering the wood as the carriage dashed off at full speed, he proceeded by narrow paths toward the castle, followed at a short distance by Grandchamp and his small escort.
On arriving at the foot of the western tower, he reined in his horse. He did not alight, but, approaching so near the wall that he could rest his foot upon an abutment, he stood up, and raised the blind of a window on the ground-floor, made in the form of a portcullis, such as is still seen on some ancient buildings.
It was now past midnight, and the moon was hidden behind the clouds. No one but a member of the family could have found his way through darkness so profound. The towers and the roof formed one dark mass, which stood out in indistinct relief against the sky, hardly less dark; no light shone throughout the chateau, wherein all inmates seemed buried in slumber. Cinq-Mars, enveloped in a large cloak, his face hidden under the broad brim of his hat, awaited in suspense a reply to his signal.
It came; a soft voice was heard from within:
“Is that you, Monsieur Cinq-Mars?”
“Alas, who else should it be? Who else would return like a criminal to his paternal house, without entering it, without bidding one more adieu to his mother? Who else would return to complain of the present, without a hope for the future, but I?”
The gentle voice replied, but its tones were agitated, and evidently accompanied with tears: “Alas! Henri, of what do you complain? Have I not already done more, far more than I ought? It is not my fault, but my misfortune, that my father was a sovereign prince. Can one choose one’s birthplace or one’s rank, and say for example, ‘I will be a shepherdess?’ How unhappy is the lot of princesses! From the cradle, the sentiments of the heart are prohibited to them; and when they have advanced beyond childhood, they are ceded like a town, and must not even weep. Since I have known you, what have I not done to bring my future life within the reach of happiness, in removing it far from a throne? For two years I have struggled in vain, at once against my evil fortune, that separates me from you, and against you, who estrange me from the duty I owe to my family. I have sought to spread a belief that I was dead; I have almost longed for revolutions. I should have blessed a change which deprived me of my rank, as I thanked Heaven when my father was dethroned; but the court wonders at my absence; the Queen requires me to attend her. Our dreams are at an end, Henri; we have already slumbered too long. Let us awake, be courageous, and think no more of those dear two years—forget all in the one recollection of our great resolve. Have but one thought; be ambitious for—be ambitious—for my sake.”
“Must we, then, indeed, forget all, Marie?” murmured Cinq-Mars.
She hesitated.
“Yes, forget all—that I myself have forgotten.” Then, after a moment’s pause, she continued with earnestness: “Yes, forget our happy days together, our long evenings, even our walks by the lake and through the wood; but keep the future ever in mind. Go, Henri; your father was Marechal. Be you more; be you Constable, Prince. Go; you are young, noble, rich, brave, beloved—”
“Beloved forever?” said Henri.
“Forever; for life and for eternity.”
Cinq-Mars, tremulously extending his hand to the window, exclaimed:
“I swear, Marie, by the Virgin, whose name you bear, that you shall be mine, or my head shall fall on the scaffold!”
“Oh, Heaven! what is it you say?” she cried, seizing his hand in her own. “Swear to me that you will share in no guilty deeds; that you will never forget that the King of France is
