Chapter V: The Countess's Boudoir

I was hastily conducted to a chamber by Antoine, the servant who had brought this alarming intelligence, and who marched before me, bearing two tall candles of pink wax, bowing to his knees at every second step. I inquired if the chevalier who had just been brought hither was dangerously wounded. Antoine replied, that he was speechless, pale, and pierced near the right lung; but a skilful surgeon had announced that he believed the patient would be out of danger in a day or two.

This was some comfort, and when the valet left me, I threw off my clothes; but frequently pausing during the process of disrobing, I looked around me with a vague misbelief of my own identity; nor did the pallor of my face and the wild expression of my eyes, as I surveyed myself in a huge mirror that was bordered by an old Flemish marqueterie frame mounted with ormulu, quite reassure me that I was not myself, but somebody else.

Opposite hung a quaint picture of a tall dame, with one of those steeple-like coifs worn by Parisian ladies in the days of the unhappy dauphiness Margaret of Scotland, and Isabella of Bavaria.

I was really in the house of the king's powerful mistress--the famous Countess d'Amboise--she to whom my carefully-treasured letter had been addressed--she who held in her fair, plump hands even more than the wary and subtle Richelieu the balance of peace and war between France and the empire; and she who had promised to me her protection, and more than protection, her kindest favour; but, while her guest, I knew myself to be perhaps the destroyer of a brother to whom she was evidently sincerely attached! I threw myself into the bed of soft down, and under its canopy of plumes and gilding strove to sleep, to forget that I was weary, and that daybreak was almost at hand; but an hour or more elapsed before the highbacked marqueterie chairs of Utrecht velvet, or the huge tapestry on the walls faded away, as the night lamp burned dim, and assuredly the misshapen figures on the arras were ghastly enough! They represented Louis XI., surrounded by his principal soldiers, placing around the neck of Launay de Morville the collar of his own military order, as the reward of valour and prowess in the field; and the whole group in their fleur-de-lised surcoats vibrated slowly and with a lifelike motion in the cold wind which found entrance by a hundred crannies; for the château was old, having been built by Jacques d'Amboise, abbot of Chigny, in 1490. It had been enlarged and remodelled by the Duc de Sully, who was Grand Master of the king's artillery in 1599, and who decorated the walls in the most florid style of French architecture. Here, too, dwelt Louis de Clermont de Bussy d'Amboise, so famous for his accomplishments and valour, and who, at an assignation with the beautiful Madame de Montresor was most unpleasantly slain by her husband and his valets. Latterly it had been a residence of the princely house of Guise in Lorraine, and on being sold by them, was bought by the king, and by him bestowed with a patent of nobility upon Clara d'Ische. Since then, as a protection against robbers and lovers, it was usually protected by twenty of the grey musketeers; but, fortunately for me, on this night the usual guard had been withdrawn, as the French troops were all moving towards Lorraine.

The next morning was somewhat advanced, when the same attendant, Antoine, who appeared to be greatly trusted by the countess, came to dress me, and brought me a cup of hot coffee, which, for breakfast, I preferred to the poor thin wine and cold sliced meat usually taken by the Parisians.

I inquired for the wounded chevalier.

'He had been pronounced out of danger by an eminent physician--in fact, his Majesty's own medical attendant, who had come from the Louvre to visit him. Madame the Countess was quite radiant with joy, as she dearly loved her brother the wild chevalier, and was now awaiting me in her boudoir.'

As I hastily swallowed my hot coffee from a silver cup and salver, the figure of this remarkable woman seemed to rise before me in fancy, with her dark voluptuous eyes, half veiled by their long and drooping silky lashes, her delicate lips so strangely red and full; her complexion of surpassing brilliance; her luxuriant hair, her large, full, and stately form, with hands and feet which, for one of her size, were wonderfully and beautifully small.

And then her smile, unequalled in pretty roguery and witchery!

I finished my coffee and sighed, I knew not why.

'Let me be wary,' thought I, 'or I shall really end by loving this woman.'

Antoine, with considerable circumspection, conducted me towards her boudoir or dressing-room, and raising a curtain, ushered me at once and unannounced into her presence. This little apartment was charming. It was nearly circular, being in a tower of the château, and from a window I could see the smoke of Paris and the two dark towers of Notre Dame in the distance. The walls were hung with pale-blue silk and silver; the furniture was all tapestry, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The tables were buhl; the carpet Persian, and the ceiling of blue, powdered with fleurs-de-lis, and painted in a florid style, to suit the French taste of the age. Nothing was spared in the way of expense, and it was averred that, for the fair inmate of the Château d'Amboise, the king, when his own funds failed, gave her more than one order for a thousand crowns of the sum, upon Messire Estein Janin, Seigneur de Bertiliac (treasurer to her Majesty _the Queen Consort_), whose office and residence were then in the Petit Bourbon.

A prie-dieu of oak, richly carved and covered with blue velvet embroidered with silver, stood in the centre of the apartment; on it lay a gilded missal; but both seemed as if they were much less in use than the mirror, the fan, and the curling-tongs on the toilette-table.

The Countess was seated before a mirror, with a fan of feathers in her hand. Her neck, arms, and perhaps rather too much of her large, fair bosom, were bare; but their whiteness was dazzling, and contrasted powerfully with the rich deep tint of the soft and silky hair which fell in wavy masses over her shoulders, and which the expert hands of her tire-woman, a fair-haired creature, plainly dressed (in fact, my pretty mask of the last night), were wreathing, curling, and pinning up for the morning, previous to the visit of her perruquier.

A brilliant young noble clad in white velvet laced with broad bars of gold, and having a diamond star sparkling on his left breast, was rising from his knee before her, as I entered, and for an instant I was conscious of a pang of jealousy. His complexion was dark; his eyes keen; his mouth beautifully cut, and his bearing was more than courtly--it was full of natural grace. The manner in which madame smiled and held out her hand, reassured me.

'Welcome, M. Arthur,' said she; 'this conjuncture is fortunate. M. le Marquis, allow me to present to you the young gentleman of whom we have just been speaking, ard who is so warmly recommended to me by our friend Monseigneur le Duc de Lennox. M. Arthur, this gentleman is Monseigneur le Marquis de Gordon, Commander of the King's Scottish Guard.'

I bowed low on hearing this, and all momentary emotion of pique gave way to the warmth of heart and cameraderie with which Scotsmen always meet in a foreign land. The uniform of the marquis was white, as worn by the Scottish guard 'in token of their unspotted fidelity and unstained honour.' The diamond badge on his left breast was the star and cross of St. Andrew.

'A friend of my mother's house will always be welcome to me,' said he, pressing my hand; 'for Henrietta Stewart made some mixture in the blood of Lennox and Huntly, allying them thus for ever. I have just heard your story from the Countess, and sympathize with you; it is the old tale of local oppression and misgovernment, which will ever exist while the affairs of Scotland are committed to the care of needy lawyers and desperate placemen. But our king will find it perilous work to push his projects on the Scottish Church--of that anon. And so you wish to serve king Louis?'

'Yes, my Lord, in any military capacity that may become a gentleman. I have come to France to feed myself with the sword that fed my father before me; for he, too, served in the Scottish Guard.'

'True--at the siege of Rochelle, at Caumont, and the capture of the Château de Sully; I have seen his name in our records, which bear honourable testimony to his bravery and worth.'

My heart swelled as the Marquis spoke. This handsome young noble was then in his thirtieth year. George, Lord Gordon, was styled marquis in France, being eldest son and heir-apparent of that Marquis of Huntly, who was Lieutenant of the North and commander of the insurgent Scottish Catholics who defeated the king's troops at the battle of Benrinnes.

'You have come at a fortunate time, sir. A war with Lorraine and the vaunting empire is now in every man's mouth; and I shall be glad to rally round king Louis every Scottish gentleman who may be useful to his cause. His ministers have already drawn up the plan of the campaign at the Louvre.'

'Indeed, ma foi! they have lost no time,' said the Countess, fanning herself vehemently.

'The frontiers of Lorraine and Alsace are all as well known to us as the Boulevardes.'

The attendant of the Countess, who listened intently to all that passed, trembled very perceptibly at these words, and I could perceive that when the Countess glanced at her, she blushed to the temples.

'When we unfurl the oriflamme beyond the Rhine,' resumed the Marquis, clanking his steel spurs; 'ma foi! madame, but we shall make the kettle-drums boil, ere we run short of provant.'

A cloud crossed the beautiful face of Clara d'Amboise, but a smile chased it away.

'You forget, Marquis,' said she, 'that my mother was a lady of Lorraine; and to speak thus in my boudoir is merely to imitate Rodomont in the old romance. He was ever noisy and furious.'

The Marquis laughed, showing teeth as white as her own under a moustache as dark as her eyebrows; and he replied,--

'Pardon me, madame; but while in your presence in future, I shall be dumb on this subject, and every other you dislike--ay! dumb as--'

'The old bell of Burgundy,' added Clara, laughing.

'Dumb as--what, madame?'

'The old bell which Clotaire II. carried away from the church of Notre Dame de Soissons, that stood in a pleasant valley by the banks of the Aisne. The successors of Clovis had made Soissons the seat of the empire, and as this old bell had been rung there on a thousand joyful occasions, it resented to such a degree its removal to Paris that it became dumb, and all the bell-ringers in the city could not elicit a sound from it. "Diable!" said king Clotaire, "this bell shows very bad taste, indeed, not to like our city of Paris." So he sent it back to its old belfry; and the moment it found itself swinging securely in the ancient church of Notre Dame de Soissons it rung for seven hours, though untouched by mortal hand, and rung so loudly, too, as to be heard for seven miles down the valley of the Aisne.'

'A marvellous story--but scarcely suited to the days of Louis XIII.'

'Scarcely,' added the Countess; and as the last chesnut braid of her magnificent hair was finished, she smiled gaily, and said to her attendant, 'You, my dear Nicola, may leave us now.'

The young girl made a low reverence, and with one of her disdainful smiles lurking in her charming eyes and mouth withdrew.

'Who is that girl?' asked the Marquis, with considerable interest.

'My attendant,' replied the Countess briefly.

'So I perceive, madame; is she a Parisian?

'No--a provincial.'

'A provincial!'

'Why this surprise, M. le Marquis?'

'Her air is queenly. I never saw hands more divinely formed. Her birth must be above her station.'

'Poor Nicola! she would be quite overwhelmed if she heard you; it would turn the poor girl's head. But, Marquis, what of all this?'

'Merely that she is even worthy to be your attendant,' replied the politic captain of cuirassiers, as he kissed the hand of Clara.

'You are very inquisitive, Marquis,' said she, giving him a pat on the mouth with her feather fan; 'I can assure you that she is only a poor girl consigned to my care--the daughter of a brave soldier who fought at the battle of Prague.'

'When our present enemy, the Duke of Lorraine, commanded the Imperialists.'

'Lorraine?' murmured the Countess, with some confusion. 'Yes--he did command there.'

'And the cowardly Elector Guelph was defeated,' added the Marquis, with a smile.

Madame d'Amboise gave him a furtive and uneasy glance, and then turned away. He gazed at her broadly in turn, with a smile which said plainly.

'Here is a _secret--a mystery_, which I cannot fathom.'

To change the subject, she said, in her playful way,

'Were you ever really in love, Marquis?'

'Your invariable query--yes, often,' said Gordon, with a smile.

'Indeed!'

'But never with more than one woman at a time, madame; be assured that no one can love either a place, a woman, or aught else very long--a gay woman least of all, perhaps.'

'Mon Dieu, Marquis, you become more and more French every day.'

Gordon seemed to be still reflecting; but he turned suddenly to me, and said,

'Mr. Blane, you are about six feet high I think.'

'I am only five feet ten inches, my Lord.'

'Bravo, you are just the height for a cuirassier of the guard, and shall be one. We require but two more to complete our hundred men-at-arms; and I expect the Viscount Dundrennan and Sir Quentin Home daily from Scotland. You lodge--'

'With Maître Pierre Omelette, at the Golden Fleur-de-lis.'

'Ah--in the Rue d'Ecosse--the name attracted you to that street I presume.'

'Yes, Marquis.'

He smiled and patted me kindly on the shoulder.

'On riding back to the Louvre, I shall mention your name to Patrick Gordon our Marechal de Logis; he will make all the necessary arrangements, after which, you will be a chevalier of the Scottish guard--farewell; Madame la Comtesse adieu; I hope to see you in Paris soon--we have not had much of the sun there lately.'

'Antoine, show out M. le Marquis,' said she, giving Gordon her beautiful hand to kiss.

'Harkee Blane,' he whispered, hurriedly as he passed us; 'you are in a fair way to fortune; but as a brother Scot and friend of my kinsman, I may warn you that you stand upon a precipice. Already she deems you one of her lovers, and as such will consider nothing too good for you for a time; but BE WARY! This chamber has occasionally led to the Bastille or to the more dreadful oubliettes of the Louvre. Farewell,' he added, raising his voice; 'the price of a horse is about six hundred crowns--but our Marechal de Logis will arrange everything for you. His apartments are at the Louvre, where he occupies the very shrine of love and beauty.'

'How, Marquis?' asked madame.

'He has the apartments of the beautiful Diana de Poictiers--the Duchess de Valentinois--whose spirit is said to haunt them.'

He retired, and left me standing midway between the arras and the chair of the Countess, irresolute, dreading what was to follow, yet unwilling to retire, and confounded by the mysterious tenor of his emphatic whisper, which at that moment I could scarcely analyse.