Quentin Durward by Walter Scott (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

vanities.—Ha! maiden, wouldst thou have it thought that we, the first born of Holy Church, would refuse our daughter to Heaven?—Our Lady and Saint Martin forbid we should refuse the offering, were it worthy of the altar, or were thy vocation in truth thitherward!”

So saying, the King crossed himself devoutly, looking in the meantime, as appeared to Quentin, very like a cunning vassal, who was depreciating the merit of something which he was desirous to keep to himself, in order that he might stand excused for not offering it to his chief or superior.

“Dares he thus play the hypocrite with Heaven,” thought Durward, “and sport with God and the Saints, as he may safely do with men, who dare not search his nature too closely?”

Louis meantime resumed, after a moment's mental devotion, “No, fair daughter, I and another know your real mind better. Ha! fair cousin of Orleans, do we not? Approach, fair sir, and lead this devoted vestal of ours to her horse.”

Orleans started when the King spoke and hastened to obey him; but with such precipitation of step, and confusion, that Louis called out, “Nay, cousin, rein your gallantry, and look before you. Why, what a headlong matter a gallant's haste is on some occasions! You had well nigh taken Anne's hand instead of her sister's.—Sir, must I give Joan's to you myself?”

The unhappy Prince looked up, and shuddered like a child, when forced to touch something at which it has instinctive horror—then making an effort, took the hand which the Princess neither gave nor yet withheld. As they stood, her cold, damp fingers enclosed in his trembling hand, with their eyes looking on the ground, it would have been difficult to say which of these two youthful beings was rendered more utterly miserable—the Duke, who felt himself fettered to the object of his aversion by bonds which he durst not tear asunder, or the unfortunate young woman, who too plainly saw that she was an object of abhorrence to him, to gain whose kindness she would willingly have died.

“And now to horse, gentlemen and ladies—we will ourselves lead forth our daughter of Beaujeu,” said the King; “and God's blessing and Saint Hubert's be on our morning's sport!”

“I am, I fear, doomed to interrupt it, Sire,” said the Comte de Dunois; “the Burgundian Envoy is before the gates of the Castle and demands an audience.”

“Demands an audience, Dunois?” replied the King. “Did you not answer him, as we sent you word by Oliver, that we were not at leisure to see him today,—and that tomorrow was the festival of Saint Martin, which, please Heaven, we would disturb by no earthly thoughts—and that on the succeeding day we were designed for Amboise—but that we would not fail to appoint him as early an audience, when we returned, as our pressing affairs would permit.”

“All this I said,” answered Dunois, “but yet, Sire—”

“Pasques dieu! man, what is it that thus sticks in thy throat?” said the King. “This Burgundian's terms must have been hard of digestion.”

“Had not my duty, your Grace's commands, and his character as an envoy, restrained me,” said Dunois, “he should have tried to digest them himself; for, by our Lady of Orleans, I had more mind to have made him eat his own words, than to have brought them to your Majesty.”

“Body of me,” said the King, “it is strange that thou, one of the most impatient fellows alive, should have so little sympathy with the like infirmity in our blunt and fiery cousin, Charles of Burgundy. Why, man, I mind his blustering messages no more than the towers of this Castle regard the whistling of the northeast wind, which comes from Flanders, as well as this brawling Envoy.”

“Know then, Sire,” replied Dunois, “that the Count of Crevecoeur tarries below, with his retinue of pursuivants and trumpets, and says, that since your Majesty refuses him the audience which his master has instructed him to demand, upon matters of most pressing concern, he will remain there till midnight, and accost your Majesty at whatever hour you are pleased to issue from your Castle, whether for business, exercise, or devotion; and that no consideration, except the use of absolute force, shall compel him to desist from this.”

“He is a fool,” said the King, with much composure. “Does the hot headed Hainaulter think it any penance for a man of sense to remain for twenty-four hours quiet within the walls of his Castle, when he hath the affairs of a kingdom to occupy him? These impatient coxcombs think that all men, like themselves, are miserable, save when in saddle and stirrup. Let the dogs be put up, and well looked to, gentle Dunois.—We will hold council today, instead of hunting.”

“My Liege,” answered Dunois, “you will not thus rid yourself of Crevecoeur; for his master's instructions are, that if he hath not this audience which he demands, he shall nail his gauntlet to the palisade before the Castle in token of mortal defiance on the part of his master, shall renounce the Duke's fealty to France, and declare instant war.”

“Ay,” said Louis without any perceptible alteration of voice, but frowning until his piercing dark eyes became almost invisible under his shaggy eyebrows, “is it even so? will our ancient vassal prove so masterful—our dear cousin treat us thus unkindly?—Nay, then, Dunois, we must unfold the Oriflamme, and cry Dennis Montjoye!”

[Montjoie St. Denis, a former war cry of the French soldiers. Saint Denis was a patron saint of France who suffered martyrdom in the third century. Montjoie (mont and joie) may be the name of the hill where the saint met his death; or it may signify that any such place is a “hill of joy.”]

“Marry and amen, and in a most happy hour!” said the martial Dunois; and the guards in the hall, unable to resist the same impulse, stirred each upon his post, so as to produce a low but distinct sound of clashing arms. The King cast his eye proudly round, and, for a moment, thought and looked like his heroic father.

But the excitement of the moment presently gave way to the host of political considerations, which, at that conjuncture, rendered an open breach with Burgundy so peculiarly perilous. Edward IV, a brave and victorious king, who had in his own person fought thirty battles, was now established on the throne of England, was brother to the Duchess of Burgundy, and, it might well be supposed, waited but a rupture between his near connexion and Louis, to carry into France, through the ever open gate of Calais, those arms which had been triumphant in the English civil wars, and to obliterate the recollection of internal dissensions by that most popular of all occupations amongst the English, an invasion of France. To this consideration was added the uncertain faith of the Duke of Bretagne, and other weighty subjects of reflection. So that, after a deep pause, when Louis again spoke, although in the same tone, it was with an altered spirit. “But God forbid,” he said, “that aught less than necessity should make us, the Most Christian' King, give cause to the effusion of Christian blood, if anything short of dishonour may avert such a calamity. We tender our subjects' safety dearer than the ruffle which our own dignity may receive from the rude breath of a malapert ambassador, who hath perhaps exceeded the errand with which he was charged.—Admit the Envoy of Burgundy to our presence.”

“Beati pacifici, [blessed are the peace makers]” said the Cardinal Balue.

“True; and your Eminence knoweth that they who humble themselves shall be exalted,” added the King.

The Cardinal spoke an Amen, to which few assented, for even the pale cheek of Orleans kindled with shame, and Balafre suppressed his feelings so little, as to let the butt end of his partisan fall heavily on the floor—a movement of impatience for which he underwent a bitter reproof from the Cardinal, with a lecture on the mode of handling his arms when in presence of the Sovereign. The King himself seemed unusually embarrassed at the silence around him.

“You are pensive, Dunois,” he said. “You disapprove of our giving way to this hot headed Envoy.”

“By no means,”' said Dunois; “I meddle not with matters beyond my sphere. I was thinking of asking a boon of your Majesty.”

“A boon, Dunois—what is it? You are an unfrequent suitor, and may count on our favour.”

“I would, then, your Majesty would send me to Evreux to regulate the clergy,” said Dunois, with military frankness.

“That were indeed beyond thy sphere,” replied the King, smiling.

“I might order priests as well,” replied the Count, “as my Lord Bishop of Evreux, or my Lord Cardinal, if he likes the title better, can exercise the soldiers of your Majesty's guard.”

The King smiled again, and more mysteriously, while he whispered Dunois, “The time may come when you and I will regulate the priests together.—But this is for the present a good conceited animal of a Bishop. Ah, Dunois! Rome, Rome puts him and other burdens upon us.—But patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards, till our hand is a stronger one.”

[Dr. Dryasdust here remarks that cards, said to have been invented in a preceding reign, for the amusement of Charles V during the intervals of his mental disorder, seem speedily to have become common among the courtiers.... The alleged origin of the invention of cards produced one of the shrewdest replies I have ever heard given in evidence. It was made by the late Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh to a counsel of great eminence at the Scottish bar. The Doctor's testimony went to prove the insanity of the party whose mental capacity was the point at issue. On a cross interrogation, he admitted that the person in question played admirably at whist. “And do you seriously say, doctor,” said the learned counsel, “that a person having a superior capacity for a game so difficult, and which requires in a preeminent degree, memory, judgment, and combination, can be at the same time deranged in his understanding?”—“I am no card player,” said the doctor, with great address, “but I have read in history that cards were invented for the amusement of an insane king.” The consequences of this reply were decisive. S.]

The flourish of trumpets in the courtyard now announced the arrival of the Burgundian nobleman. All in the presence chamber made haste to arrange themselves according to their proper places of precedence, the King and his daughters remaining in the centre of the assembly.

The Count of Crevecoeur, a renowned and undaunted warrior, entered the apartment; and, contrary to the usage among the envoys of friendly powers, he appeared all armed, excepting his head, in a gorgeous suit of the most superb Milan armour, made of steel, inlaid and embossed with gold, which was wrought into the fantastic taste called the Arabesque. Around his neck and over his polished cuirass, hung his master's order of the Golden Fleece, one of the most honoured associations of chivalry then known in Christendom. A handsome page bore his helmet behind him, a herald preceded him, bearing his letters of credence which he offered on his knee to the King; while the ambassador himself paused in the midst of the hall, as if to give all present time to admire his lofty look, commanding stature, and undaunted composure of countenance and manner. The rest of his attendants waited in the antechamber, or courtyard.

[The military order of the Golden Fleece was instituted by Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, in the year 1429, the King of Spain being grand master of the order, as Duke of Burgundy.]

“Approach, Seignior Count de Crevecoeur,” said Louis, after a moment's glance at his commission; “we need not our cousin's letters of credence, either to introduce to us a warrior so well known, or to assure us of your highly deserved credit with your master. We trust that your fair partner, who shares some of our ancestral blood, is in good health. Had you brought her in your hand, Seignior Count, we might have thought you wore your armour, on this unwonted occasion, to maintain the superiority of her charms against the amorous chivalry of France. As it is, we cannot guess the reason of this complete panoply.”

“Sire,” replied the ambassador, “the Count of Crevecoeur must lament his misfortune, and entreat your forgiveness, that he cannot, on this occasion, reply with such humble deference as is due to the royal courtesy with which your Majesty has honoured him. But, although it is only the voice of Philip Crevecoeur de Cordes which speaks, the words which he utters must be those of his gracious Lord and Sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy.”

“And what has Crevecoeur to say in the words of Burgundy?” said Louis, with an