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

“But you would first inquire whether I deserved to be so treated, fair kinsman?” answered Quentin; “and you, my lord, know that I am no tale bearer; nor shall either question or torture draw out of me a word to King Louis's prejudice, which may have come to my knowledge while I was in his service.—So far my oath of duty keeps me silent. But I will not remain in that services in which, besides the perils of fair battle with mine enemies, I am to be exposed to the dangers of ambuscade on the part of my friends.”

“Nay, if he objects to lying in ambuscade,” said the slow witted Le Balafre, looking sorrowfully at the Lord Crawford, “I am afraid, my lord, that all is over with him! I myself have had thirty bushments break upon me, and truly I think I have laid in ambuscade twice as often myself, it being a favourite practice in our King's mode of making war.”

“It is so indeed, Ludovic,” answered Lord Crawford; “nevertheless, hold your peace, for I believe I understand this gear better than you do.”

“I wish to Our Lady you may, my lord,” answered Ludovic; “but it wounds me to the very midriff, to think my sister's son should fear an ambushment.”

“Young man,” said Crawford, “I partly guess your meaning. You have met foul play on the road where you travelled by the King's command, and you think you have reason to charge him with being the author of it.”

“I have been threatened with foul play in the execution of the King's commission,” answered Quentin; “but I have had the good fortune to elude it—whether his Majesty be innocent or guilty in the matter, I leave to God and his own conscience. He fed me when I was a-hungered—received me when I was a wandering stranger. I will never load him in his adversity with accusations which may indeed be unjust, since I heard them only from the vilest mouths.”

“My dear boy—my own lad!” said Crawford, taking him in his arms.—“Ye think like a Scot, every joint of you! Like one that will forget a cause of quarrel with a friend whose back is already at the wall, and remember nothing of him but his kindness.”

“Since my Lord Crawford has embraced my nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly, “I will embrace him also—though I would have you to know that to understand the service of an ambushment is as necessary to a soldier as it is to a priest to be able to read his breviary.”

“Be hushed, Ludovic,” said Crawford; “ye are an ass, my friend, and ken not the blessing Heaven has sent you in this braw callant.—And now tell me, Quentin, my man, hath the King any advice of this brave, Christian, and manly resolution of yours, for, poor man, he had need, in his strait, to ken what he has to reckon upon. Had he but brought the whole brigade of Guards with him!—But God's will be done.—Kens he of your purpose, think you?”

“I really can hardly tell,” answered Quentin; “but I assured his learned Astrologer, Martius Galeotti, of my resolution to be silent on all that could injure the King with the Duke of Burgundy. The particulars which I suspect, I will not (under your favour) communicate even to your lordship; and to the philosopher I was, of course, far less willing to unfold myself.”

“Ha!—ay!” answered Lord Crawford.—“Oliver did indeed tell me that Galeotti prophesied most stoutly concerning the line of conduct you were to hold; and I am truly glad to find he did so on better authority than the stars.”

“He prophesy!” said Le Balafre, laughing; “the stars never told him that honest Ludovic Lesly used to help yonder wench of his to spend the fair ducats he flings into her lap.”

“Hush! Ludovic,” said his captain, “hush! thou beast, man!—If thou dost not respect my gray hairs, because I have been e'en too much of a routier myself, respect the boy's youth and innocence, and let us have no more of such unbecoming daffing.”

“Your honour may say your pleasure,” answered' Ludovic Lesly; “but, by my faith, second sighted Saunders Souplesaw, the town souter of Glen Houlakin, was worth Galeotti, or Gallipotty, or whatever ye call him, twice told, for a prophet. He foretold that all my sister's children, would die some day; and he foretold it in the very hour that the youngest was born, and that is this lad Quentin—who, no doubt, will one day die, to make up the prophecy—the more's the pity—the whole curney of them is gone but himself. And Saunders foretold to myself one day, that I should be made by marriage, which doubtless will also happen in due time, though it hath not yet come to pass—though how or when, I can hardly guess, as I care not myself for the wedded state, and Quentin is but a lad. Also, Saunders predicted—”

“Nay,” said Lord Crawford, “unless the prediction be singularly to the purpose, I must cut you short, my good Ludovic; for both you and I must now leave your nephew, with prayers to Our Lady to strengthen him in the good mind he is in; for this is a case in which a light word might do more mischief than all the Parliament of Paris could mend. My blessing with you, my lad; and be in no hurry to think of leaving our body; for there will be good blows going presently in the eye of day, and no ambuscade.”

“And my blessing, too, nephew,” said Ludovic Lesly; “for, since you have satisfied our most noble captain, I also am satisfied, as in duty bound.”

“Stay, my lord,” said Quentin, and led Lord Crawford a little apart from his uncle. “I must not forget to mention that there is a person besides in the world, who, having learned from me these circumstances, which it is essential to King Louis's safety should at present remain concealed, may not think that the same obligation of secrecy, which attaches to me as the King's soldier, and as having been relieved by his bounty, is at all binding on her.”

“On her!” replied Crawford; “nay, if there be a woman in the secret, the Lord have mercy, for we are all on the rocks again!”

“Do not suppose so, my lord,” replied Durward, “but use your interest with the Count of Crevecoeur to permit me an interview with the Countess Isabelle of Croye, who is the party possessed of my secret, and I doubt not that I can persuade her to be as silent as I shall unquestionably myself remain, concerning whatever may incense the Duke against King Louis.”

The old soldier mused for a long time—looked up to the ceiling, then down again upon the floor—then shook his head—and at length said, “There is something in all this, which, by my honour, I do not understand. The Countess Isabelle of Croye!—an interview with a lady of her birth, blood, and possessions!—and thou a raw Scottish lad, so certain of carrying thy point with her? Thou art either strangely confident, my young friend, or else you have used your time well upon the journey. But, by the cross of Saint Andrew, I will move Crevecoeur in thy behalf; and, as he truly fears that Duke Charles may be provoked against the King to the extremity of falling foul, I think it likely he may grant thy request, though, by my honour, it is a comical one!”

So saying, and shrugging up his shoulders, the old Lord left the apartment, followed by Ludovic Lesly, who, forming his looks on those of his principal, endeavoured, though knowing nothing of the cause of his wonder, to look as mysterious and important as Crawford himself.

In a few minutes Crawford returned, but without his attendant, Le Balafre. The old man seemed in singular humour, laughing and chuckling to himself in a manner which strangely distorted his stern and rigid features, and at the same time shaking his head, as at something which he could not help condemning, while he found it irresistibly ludicrous. “My certes, countryman,” said he, “but you are not blate—you will never lose fair lady for faint heart! Crevecoeur swallowed your proposal as he would have done a cup of vinegar, and swore to me roundly, by all the saints in Burgundy, that were less than the honour of princes and the peace of kingdoms at stake, you should never see even so much as the print of the Countess Isabelle's foot on the clay. Were it not that he had a dame, and a fair one, I would have thought that he meant to break a lance for the prize himself. Perhaps he thinks of his nephew, the County Stephen. A Countess!—would no less serve you to be minting at?—But come along—your interview with her must be brief.—But I fancy you know how to make the most of little time—ho! ho! ho!—By my faith, I can hardly chide thee for the presumption, I have such a good will to laugh at it!”

With a brow like scarlet, at once offended and disconcerted by the blunt inferences of the old soldier, and vexed at beholding in what an absurd light his passion was viewed by every person of experience, Durward followed Lord Crawford in silence to the Ursuline convent, in which the Countess was lodged, and in the parlour of which he found the Count de Crevecoeur.

“So, young gallant,” said the latter sternly, “you must see the fair companion of your romantic expedition once more, it seems.”

“Yes, my Lord Count,” answered Quentin firmly, “and what is more, I must see her alone.”

“That shall never be,” said the Count de Crevecoeur.—“Lord Crawford, I make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old friend and companion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort of a—what was I going to say?—in short, she is a fool, and your man at arms here a presumptuous coxcomb.—In a word, they shall not meet alone.”

“Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your presence,” said Quentin, much delighted. “You have told me much that I did not dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.”

“Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. “You have been imprudent in your communications; and, since you refer to me, and there is a good stout grating across the parlour, I would advise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst with their tongues. What, man! the life of a King, and many thousands besides, is not to be weighed with the chance of two young things whilly whawing in ilk other's ears for a minute.”

So saying, he dragged off Crevecoeur, who followed very reluctantly, and cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left the room.

In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side of the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half a minute. “Yet why should I be ungrateful,” she said, “because others are unjustly suspicious?—My friend—my preserver, I may almost say, so much have I been beset by treachery, my only faithful and constant friend!”

As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate, nay, suffered him to retain it until he had covered it with kisses, not unmingled with tears. She only said, “Durward, were we ever to meet again, I would not permit this folly.”

If it be considered that Quentin had guided her through so many perils—that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses should be of the number, will pardon the derogation.

But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace back from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon he had to ask of her?—“For that you have a request to make, I have learned from the old Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of Crevecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, “but such as poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, and you cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But, oh! do not speak hastily—do not say,” she added, looking around with timidity, “aught that might, if overheard, do prejudice to us both!”

“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin sorrowfully; “it is not here that I can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or expose you to the censures of your proud kindred, as the object