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

the road indicated; hastened down stairs, and communicated the royal pleasure to Oliver, who was waiting in the court beneath. The wily tonsor bowed, sighed, and smiled, as, with a voice even softer than ordinary, he wished the youth a good evening; and they parted, Quentin to his quarters, and Oliver to attend the King.

In this place, the Memoirs which we have chiefly followed in compiling this true history were unhappily defective; for, founded chiefly on information supplied by Quentin, they do not convey the purport of the dialogue which, in his absence, took place between the King and his secret counsellor. Fortunately the Library of Hautlieu contains a manuscript copy of the Chronique Scandaleuse of Jean de Troyes [the Marquis de Hautlieu is the name of an imaginary character in whose library Scott declares himself to have found the memorials which form the basis of the novel of Quentin Durward], much more full than that which has been printed; to which are added several curious memoranda, which we incline to think must have been written down by Oliver himself after the death of his master, and before he had the happiness to be rewarded with the halter which he had so long merited. From this we have been able to extract a very full account of the obscure favourite's conversation with Louis upon the present occasion, which throws a light upon the policy of that Prince, which we might otherwise have sought for in vain.

When the favourite attendant entered the Gallery of Roland, he found the King pensively seated upon the chair which his daughter had left some minutes before. Well acquainted with his temper, he glided on with his noiseless step until he had just crossed the line of the King's sight, so as to make him aware of his presence, then shrank modestly backward and out of sight, until he should be summoned to speak or to listen. The Monarch's first address was an unpleasant one: “So, Oliver, your fine schemes are melting like snow before the south wind!—I pray to Our Lady of Embrun that they resemble not the ice heaps of which the Switzer churls tell such stories, and come rushing down upon our heads.”

“I have heard with concern that all is not well, Sire,” answered Oliver.

“Not well!” exclaimed the King, rising and hastily marching up and down the gallery. “All is ill, man—and as ill nearly as possible; so much for thy fond romantic advice, that I, of all men, should become a protector of distressed damsels! I tell thee Burgundy is arming, and on the eve of closing an alliance with England. And Edward, who hath his hands idle at home, will pour his thousands upon us through that unhappy gate of Calais. Singly, I might cajole or defy them; but united, united—and with the discontent and treachery of that villain Saint Paul!—All thy fault, Oliver, who counselled me to receive the women, and to use the services of that damned Bohemian to carry messages to their vassals.”

“My lord,” said Oliver, “you know my reasons. The Countess's domains lie between the frontiers of Burgundy and Flanders—her castle is almost impregnable—her rights over neighbouring estates are such as, if well supported, cannot but give much annoyance to Burgundy, were the lady but wedded to one who should be friendly to France.”

“It is, it is a tempting bait,” said the King; “and could we have concealed her being here, we might have arranged such a marriage for this rich heiress as would have highly profited—France. But that cursed Bohemian, how couldst thou recommend such a heathen hound for a commission which required trust?”

“Please you,” said Oliver, “to remember it was your Grace's self who trusted him too far—much farther than I recommended. He would have borne a letter trustily enough to the Countess's kinsman, telling him to hold out her castle, and promising speedy relief; but your Highness must needs put his prophetic powers to the test; and thus he became possessed of secrets which were worth betraying to Duke Charles.”

“I am ashamed, I am ashamed,” said Louis. “And yet, Oliver, they say that these heathen people are descended from the sage Chaldeans, who did read the mysteries of the stars in the plains of Shinar [they lie between the Tigris and Euphrates].”

Well aware that his master, with all his acuteness and sagacity, was but the more prone to be deceived by soothsayers, astrologers, diviners, and all that race of pretenders to occult science, and that he even conceived himself to have some skill in these arts. Oliver dared to press this point no farther; and only observed that the Bohemian had been a bad prophet on his own account, else he would have avoided returning to Tours, and saved himself from the gallows he had merited.

“It often happens that those who are gifted with prophetic knowledge,” answered Louis, with much gravity, “have not the power of foreseeing those events in which they themselves are personally interested.”

“Under your Majesty's favour,” replied the confidant, “that seems as if a man could not see his own hand by means of the candle which he holds, and which shows him every other object in the apartment.”

“He cannot see his own features by the light which shows the faces of others,” replied Louis; “and that is the more faithful illustration of the case.—But this is foreign to my purpose at present. The Bohemian hath had his reward, and peace be with him.—But these ladies!—Not only does Burgundy threaten us with war for harbouring them, but their presence is like to interfere with my projects in my own family. My simple cousin of Orleans hath barely seen this damsel, and I venture to prophesy that the sight of her is like to make him less pliable in the matter of his alliance with Joan.”

“Your Majesty,” answered the counsellor, “may send these ladies of Croye back to Burgundy, and so make your peace with the Duke. Many might murmur at this as dishonourable; but if necessity demands the sacrifice—”

“If profit demanded the sacrifice, Oliver, the sacrifice should be made without hesitation,” answered the King. “I am an old, experienced salmon, and use not to gulp the angler's hook because it is busked up with a feather called honour. But what is worse than a lack of honour, there were, in returning those ladies to Burgundy, a forfeiture of those views of advantage which moved us to give them an asylum. It were heart breaking to renounce the opportunity of planting a friend to ourselves, and an enemy to Burgundy, in the very centre of his dominions, and so near to the discontented cities of Flanders. Oliver, I cannot relinquish the advantages which our scheme of marrying the maiden to a friend of our own house seems to hold out to us.”

“Your Majesty,” said Oliver, after a moment's thought, “might confer her hand on some right trusty friend, who would take all blame on himself, and serve your Majesty secretly, while in public you might disown him.”

“And where am I to find such a friend?” said Louis. “Were I to bestow her upon any one of our mutinous and ill ruled nobles, would it not be rendering him independent? and hath it not been my policy for years to prevent them from becoming so?—Dunois indeed—him, and him only, I might perchance trust.—He would fight for the crown of France, whatever were his condition. But honours and wealth change men's natures.—Even Dunois I will not trust.”

“Your Majesty may find others,” said Oliver, in his smoothest manner, and in a tone more insinuating than that which he usually employed in conversing with the King, who permitted him considerable freedom; “men dependent entirely on your own grace and favour, and who could no more exist without your countenance than without sun or air—men rather of head than of action—men who”

“Men who resemble thyself, ha!” said King Louis. “No, Oliver, by my faith that arrow was too rashly shot!—What! because I indulge thee with my confidence, and let thee, in reward, poll my lieges a little now and then, dost thou think it makes thee fit to be the husband of that beautiful vision, and a Count of the highest class to boot?—thee—thee, I say, low born, and lower bred, whose wisdom is at best a sort of dinning, and whose courage is more than doubtful.”

“Your Majesty imputes to me a presumption of which I am not guilty, in supposing me to aspire so highly,” said Oliver.

“I am glad to hear it, man,” said the King; “and truly, I hold your judgment the healthier that you disown such a reverie. But methinks thy speech sounded strangely in that key.—Well, to return.—I dare not wed this beauty to one of my subjects—I dare not return her to Burgundy—I dare not transmit her to England or to Germany, where she is likely to become the prize of some one more apt to unite with Burgundy than with France, and who would be more ready to discourage the honest malcontents in Ghent and Liege, than to yield them that wholesome countenance which might always find Charles the Hardy enough to exercise his valour on, without stirring from his domains—and they were in so ripe a humour for insurrection, the men of Liege in especial, that they alone, well heated and supported, would find my fair cousin work for more than a twelvemonth; and backed by a warlike Count of Croye—O, Oliver! the plan is too hopeful to be resigned without a struggle.—Cannot thy fertile brain devise some scheme?”

Oliver paused for a long time—then at last replied, “What if a bridal could be accomplished betwixt Isabelle of Croye and young Adolphus, the Duke of Gueldres?”

“What!” said the King, in astonishment “sacrifice her, and she, too, so lovely a creature, to the furious wretch who deposed, imprisoned, and has often threatened to murder his own father!—No, Oliver, no that were too unutterably cruel even for you and me, who look so steadfastly to our excellent end, the peace and the welfare of France, and respect so little the means by which it is attained. Besides, he lies distant from us and is detested by the people of Ghent and Liege.—No, no—I will none of Adolphus of Gueldres—think on some one else.”

“My invention is exhausted, Sire,” said the counsellor; “I can remember no one who, as husband to the Countess of Croye, would be likely to answer your Majesty's views. He must unite such various qualities—a friend to your Majesty—an enemy to Burgundy—of policy enough to conciliate the Ghentois and Liegeois, and of valour sufficient to defend his little dominions against the power of Duke Charles—of noble birth besides—that your Highness insists upon; and of excellent and virtuous character to the boot of all.”

“Nay, Oliver,” said the King, “I leaned not so much—that is so very much, on character; but methinks Isabelle's bridegroom should be something less publicly and generally abhorred than Adolphus of Gueldres. For example, since I myself must suggest some one—why not William de la Marck?”

“On my halidome, Sire,” said Oliver, “I cannot complain of your demanding too high a standard of moral excellence in the happy man, if the Wild Boar of Ardennes can serve your turn. De la Marck!—why, he is the most notorious robber and murderer on all the frontiers—excommunicated by the Pope for a thousand crimes.”

“We will have him released from the sentence, friend Oliver—Holy Church is merciful.”

“Almost an outlaw,” continued Oliver, “and under the ban of the Empire, by an ordinance of the Chamber at Ratisbon.”

[Ratisbon was the seat of the German Reichstag from 1663 to 1806.]

“We will have the ban taken off, friend Oliver,” continued the King, in the same tone; “the Imperial Chamber will hear reason.”

[A supreme court of appeals established in 1495 by Maximilian I: the first law court established in Germany.]

“And admitting him to be of noble birth,” said Oliver, “he hath the manners, the face, and the outward form, as well as the heart, of a Flemish butcher—she will never accept of him.”

“His mode of wooing, if I mistake him not,” said Louis, “will render it difficult for her to make a choice.”

“I was far wrong indeed, when I taxed your Majesty with being over scrupulous,” said the counsellor. “On my life, the crimes of Adolphus are but virtues to those of De la Marck!—And then how is he to meet with his bride? Your Majesty knows he dare not stir far from his own forest of Ardennes.”

“That must be cared for,” said the King; “and, in the first place, the two ladies must be acquainted privately that they can be no longer maintained at this Court, except at the expense of a war between