Quentin Durward by Walter Scott (romantic love story reading TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Walter Scott
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“Hush! hush!” said Isabelle “for your own sake—for mine—be silent on such a theme. Tell me rather what it is you have to ask of me.”
“Forgiveness to one,” replied Quentin, “who, for his own selfish views, hath conducted himself as your enemy.”
“I trust I forgive all my enemies,” answered Isabelle; “but oh, Durward! through what scenes have your courage and presence of mind protected me!—Yonder bloody hall—the good Bishop—I knew not till yesterday half the horrors I had unconsciously witnessed!”
“Do not think on them,” said Quentin, who saw the transient colour which had come to her cheek during their conference fast fading into the most deadly paleness.—“Do not look back, but look steadily forward, as they needs must who walk in a perilous road. Hearken to me. King Louis deserves nothing better at your hand, of all others; than to be proclaimed the wily and insidious politician which he really is. But to tax him as the encourager of your flight—still more as the author of a plan to throw you into the hands of De la Marck—will at this moment produce perhaps the King's death or dethronement; and, at all events, the most bloody war between France and Burgundy which the two countries have ever been engaged in.”
“These evils shall not arrive for my sake, if they can be prevented,” said the Countess Isabelle; “and indeed your slightest request were enough to make me forego my revenge, were that at any time a passion which I deeply cherish. Is it possible I would rather remember King Louis's injuries than your invaluable services?—Yet how is this to be?—When I am called before my Sovereign, the Duke of Burgundy, I must either stand silent or speak the truth. The former would be contumacy; and to a false tale you will not desire me to train my tongue.”
“Surely not,” said Durward; “but let your evidence concerning Louis be confined to what you yourself positively know to be truth; and when you mention what others have reported, no matter how credibly, let it be as reports only, and beware of pledging your own personal evidence to that, which, though you may fully believe, you cannot personally know to be true. The assembled Council of Burgundy cannot refuse to a monarch the justice which in my country is rendered to the meanest person under accusation. They must esteem him innocent, until direct and sufficient proof shall demonstrate his guilt. Now, what does not consist with your own certain knowledge, should be proved by other evidence than your report from hearsay.”
“I think I understand you,” said the Countess Isabelle.
“I will make my meaning plainer,” said Quentin; and was illustrating it accordingly by more than one instance when the convent bell tolled.
“That,” said the Countess, “is a signal that we must part—part for ever!—But do not forget me, Durward; I will never forget you—your faithful services—”
She could not speak more, but again extended her hand, which was again pressed to his lips; and I know not how it was, that, in endeavouring to withdraw her hand, the Countess came so close to the grating that Quentin was encouraged to press the adieu on her lips. The young lady did not chide him—perhaps there was no time; for Crevecoeur and Crawford, who had been from some loophole eye witnesses if not ear witnesses, also, of what was passing, rushed into the apartment, the first in a towering passion, the latter laughing, and holding the Count back.
“To your chamber, young mistress—to your chamber!” exclaimed the Count to Isabelle, who, flinging down her veil, retired in all haste—“which should be exchanged for a cell, and bread and water.—And you, gentle sir, who are so malapert, the time will come when the interests of kings and kingdoms may not be connected with such as you are; and you shall then learn the penalty of your audacity in raising your beggarly eyes—”
“Hush! hush!—enough said—rein up—rein up,” said the old Lord “and you, Quentin, I command you to be silent, and begone to your quarters.—There is no such room for so much scorn, neither, Sir Count of Crevecoeur, that I must say now he is out of hearing.—Quentin Durward is as much a gentleman as the King, only, as the Spaniard says, not so rich. He is as noble as myself, and I am chief of my name. Tush, tush! man, you must not speak to us of penalties.”
“My lord, my lord,” said Crevecoeur impatiently, “the insolence of these foreign mercenaries is proverbial, and should receive rather rebuke than encouragement from you, who are their leader.”
“My Lord Count,” answered Crawford, “I have ordered my command for these fifty years without advice either from Frenchman or Burgundian; and I intend to do so, under your favour, so long as I shall continue to hold it.”
“Well, well, my lord,” said Crevecoeur, “I meant you no disrespect; your nobleness, as well as your age, entitle you to be privileged in your impatience; and for these young people. I am satisfied to overlook the past, since I will take care that they never meet again.”
“Do not take that upon your salvation, Crevecoeur,” said the old Lord, laughing; “mountains, it is said, may meet, and why not mortal creatures that have legs, and life and love to put those legs in motion? Yon kiss, Crevecoeur, came tenderly off—methinks it was ominous.”
“You are striving again to disturb my patience,” said Crevecoeur, “but I will not give you that advantage over me.—-Hark! they toll the summons to the Castle—an awful meeting, of which God only can foretell the issue.”
“This issue I can foretell,” said the old Scottish lord, “that if violence is to be offered to the person of the King, few as his friends are, and surrounded by his shall neither fall alone nor unavenged; and grieved I am that his own positive orders have prevented my taking measures to prepare for such an issue.”
“My Lord of Crawford,” said the Burgundian, “to anticipate such evil is the sure way to give occasion to it. Obey the orders of your royal master, and give no pretext for violence by taking hasty offence, and you will find that the day will pass over more smoothly than you now conjecture.”
CHAPTER XXXII: THE INVESTIGATION Me rather had my heart might feel your love, Than my displeased eye see your courtesy. Up, cousin, up—your heart is up, I know, Thus high at least—although your knee— KING RICHARD II
At the first toll of the bell which was to summon the great nobles of Burgundy together in council, with the very few French peers who could be present on the occasion, Duke Charles, followed by a part of his train, armed with partisans and battle axes, entered the Hall of Herbert's Tower, in the Castle of Peronne. King Louis, who had expected the visit, arose and made two steps towards the Duke, and then remained standing with an air of dignity, which, in spite of the meanness of his dress, and the familiarity of his ordinary manners, he knew very well how to assume when he judged it necessary. Upon the present important crisis, the composure of his demeanour had an evident effect upon his rival, who changed the abrupt and hasty step with which he entered the apartment into one more becoming a great vassal entering the presence of his Lord Paramount. Apparently the Duke had formed the internal resolution to treat Louis, in the outset at least, with the formalities due to his high station; but at the same time it was evident, that, in doing so, he put no small constraint upon the fiery impatience of his own disposition, and was scarce able to control the feelings of resentment and the thirst of revenge which boiled in his bosom. Hence, though he compelled himself to use the outward acts, and in some degree the language, of courtesy and reverence, his colour came and went rapidly—his voice was abrupt, hoarse, and broken—his limbs shook, as if impatient of the curb imposed on his motions—he frowned and bit his lip until the blood came—and every look and movement showed that the most passionate prince who ever lived was under the dominion of one of his most violent paroxysms of fury.
The King marked this war of passion with a calm and untroubled eye, for, though he gathered from the Duke's looks a foretaste of the bitterness of death, which he dreaded alike as a mortal and a sinful man, yet he was resolved, like a wary and skilful pilot, neither to suffer himself to be disconcerted by his own fears, nor to abandon the helm, while there was a chance of saving the vessel by adroit pilotage. Therefore, when the Duke, in a hoarse and broken tone, said something of the scarcity of his accommodations, he answered with a smile that he could not complain, since he had as yet found Herbert's Tower a better residence than it had proved to one of his ancestors.
“They told you the tradition then?” said Charles.
“Yes—here he was slain—but it was because he refused to take the cowl, and finish his days in a monastery.”
“The more fool he,” said Louis, affecting unconcern, “since he gained the torment of being a martyr, without the merit of being a saint.”
“I come,” said the Duke, “to pray your Majesty to attend a high council at which tidings of weight are to be deliberated upon concerning the welfare of France and Burgundy. You will presently meet them—that is, if such be your pleasure.”
“Nay, my fair cousin,” said the King, “never strain courtesy so far as to entreat what you may so boldly command.—To council, since such is your Grace's pleasure. We are somewhat shorn of our train,” he added, looking upon the small suite that arranged themselves to attend him, “but you, cousin, must shine out for us both.”
Marshalled by Toison d'Or, chief of the heralds of Burgundy, the Princes left the Earl Herbert's Tower, and entered the castle yard, which Louis observed was filled with the Duke's bodyguard and men at arms, splendidly accoutred, and drawn up in martial array. Crossing the court, they entered the Council Hall, which was in a much more modern part of the building than that of which Louis had been the tenant, and, though in disrepair, had been hastily arranged for the solemnity of a public council. Two chairs of state were erected under the same canopy, that for the King being raised two steps higher than the one which the Duke was to occupy; about twenty of the chief nobility sat, arranged in due order, on either hand of the chair of state; and thus, when both the Princes were seated, the person for whose trial, as it might be called, the council was summoned, held the highest place, and appeared to preside in it.
It was perhaps to get rid of this inconsistency, and the scruples which might have been inspired by it, that Duke Charles, having bowed slightly to the royal chair, bluntly opened the sitting with the following words—
“My good vassals and councillors, it is not unknown to you what disturbances have arisen in our territories, both in our father's time and in our own, from the rebellion of vassals against superiors, and subjects against their princes. And lately we have had the most dreadful proof of the height to which these evils have arrived in our case, by the scandalous flight of the Countess Isabelle of Croye, and her aunt the Lady Hameline, to take refuge with a foreign power, thereby renouncing their fealty to us, and inferring the forfeiture of their fiefs; and in another more dreadful and deplorable instance, by the sacrilegious and bloody murder of our beloved brother and ally, the Bishop of Liege, and the rebellion of that treacherous city, which was but too mildly punished for the last insurrection. We have been informed that these sad events may be traced, not merely to the inconstancy and folly of women, and the presumption of pampered citizens, but to the agency of foreign power, and the interference of a mighty neighbour, from whom, if good deeds could merit any return in kind, Burgundy could have expected nothing but the most sincere and devoted friendship. If this should prove truth,” said the Duke, setting his teeth and pressing his heel against the ground, “what consideration shall withhold us—the means being in our power—from taking such measures as shall effectually, and
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