CHAPTER III. THE FLIGHT.
You sun that sits upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile, to him and thee,
My native land, good night
Childe Harold.
The sudden order for the dispersion of the
company which had assembled to witness the
tournament, was a stroke of policy on the part
of Henri to enable him to avoid the chagrin of
beholding the Dumoiselle Louise, on whom he
looked with special grace, publicly bestow the
favors which the laws of chivalry authorized,
upon the champion who had put lance in rest
in her behalf. What was usually a most interesting
part of the knightly sport was thus entirely
dispensed with on this occasion, and the jealous
monarch immediately adjourned to the halls of
the Louvre whither he had ordered Tremlet to
hasten soon as he could effect a change of apparel,
and receive his royal congratulations
and those of the beautiful Louise.
It was early in the evening, twilight had just
begun to “let her curtain down”—two persons
sat within a bower of the gardens of the Louvre.
Around them were statues of fawns and nymphs,
and fountains gushing water as clear as the purest
crystal.
“Louise, you are mine, and not Henri III.
nor all the royal family shall rob me of you,
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while my brow can bear a casque, or my hand
wield a sword!”
The Demoiselle de L'Estoile gazed tenderly
upon her lover, and there was sadness and perplexity
upon her fair brow, as she answered:
“I am yours, Tremlet, but were the suspicion
of the relation in which we stand to each other
but breathed into Henri's ear, his Medicis hand
would press a poisoned chalice to your lips. I
would abandon life, rank, everything, sooner
than my love. May that licentious monarch
never bring me to so dread an alternative!”
“And were Marguerite of Valois but cognizant
of half what I feel for you, my beautiful
Louise, she too would empty the drug into my
goblet! Indeed, she has intimated as much already!
O what a detestable court! where chivalry
is sunk in sensuality, and wrongs are redressed
by the midnight assassin. Let us leave
it, my Louise. I have a home in England—I
have ancestors there! Come with me—let us
abandon this effeminate and unworthy kingdom—
let us breathe an air pure and untainted by
vice!”
“I would joyfully abandon my estates to follow
you, mon cher chevalier; but how could
we leave the kingdom undiscovered?” replied
she, gazing fondly into his face, and threading
with her snowy and tender fingers the curls of
his dark brown hair. “Valiant as you have
shown yourself at the jousting to-day, you could
not, I fear, nor would it be in the power of any
cavalier to elude the wiles by which this palace
and its environs are beset!”
Tremlet's face assumed an expression of deep
thought for a moment, he kept his looks bent on
the ground; then raising his eyes, he exclaimed:
“I have it! In the grand hall there is a fauteuil
of the king, at the farther extremity, canopied
with brocade and fretted with gold. In a
niche behind is a bust of Pallas resting on a
marble pedestal, its face directed towards the
arch which conducts into the dining-saloon.
Turning the bust so as to face in an opposite direction,
the pedestal is made instantly to revolve
and the back of the royal seat swings slowly
open, disclosing a flight of stone steps leading to
a dark subterranean passage. This once secret
corridor is now so well known that it is rarely
used in the stratagems of the royal family. It
was employed last by Cosmo de Medicis, when
Bernardo Girolamo so mysteriously disappeared.
Make all the necessary preparation, and I will
meet you there to-morrow night, when the chap
el bell strikes two. The passage conducts, after
many a weary turn, under the palace walls and
moat, directly to the banks of the Seine, where
there shall be a boat with trusty oarsmen to row
us down the river to a vessel which shall bear us
from this land to the shores of England.”
“Tremlet, you have splintered a lance in defending
my honor, and rather than lose your
love, I would brave every danger. I will be there!”
He seized her snowy, jewelled fingers and
pressed them passionately to his lips.
“You have a brave heart, Louise!”
“It is my affection for you that gives it courage.”
The lovers remained conversing in the gardens
of the Louvre as long as it was prudent
and even longer, for their absence had been noticed
by the wary Henry, and as they returned,
they were met by youthful pages and valets in
the royal liveries, who had been sent by the king
in search of them.
The hour appointed by the Chevalier Tremlet
for the meeting at the bust of Pallas, on the succeeding
night drew nigh. The moon streamed
through the easements, pouring a flood of silver
light on the thousand objects of magnificence,
strewn in profusion about the grand saloon, as
with stealthy tread and drawn rapier, the knight
trod lightly over the thickly piled Turkey carpets.
As he drew near to the kingly chair, he
saw reclining in it a figure arrayed in a robe of
white damask, ornamented profusely with silver
lace that glittered in the moonbeams.
“Louise, bien-aime!”
The lady rose to her feet, and Marguerite de
Valois stood before him!
“The Queen of Navarre?”
“The Chevalier Tremlet! You have come
to meet your minion, have you?” Marguerite
began bitterly, but her voice and manner softened
as she proceeded. “But I forgive you. From
my heart I pardon you. Your magnanimity
has subdued all the Medicis within me!”
“Magnanimity, my queen?”
“Yes. You saw me when I emptied the fatal
powder into the goblet of my royal brother,
mistaking it for that of Louise de L'Estoile. I
felt while I did it that your eyes were bent on
me, and when I looked up, I met your strange,
earnest, pained gaze. I saw you follow the cup
with your eyes, and ready to spring to your feet,
at the moment Henri spoke. All this you knew,
yet not by word, or glance, or gesture, have you
intimated it to me, nor to any one, as I believe.”
“I confess I saw the act,” said Tremlet.
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“And you perilled your life besides, to avert
the consequences of my deed from another.
Chevalier Tremlet, if Marguerite of Valois be
jealous and revengeful, she can yet appreciate
true honor in another. I now do what I have
never before done—I pardon a faithless lover!”
Tremlet bent his knee before her, and pressed
gratefully the small, fair hand he held. At that
moment Louise de L'Estoile, arrayed in a travelling
dress of russet colored velvet, with a candle
in her hand flickering in its socket, appeared
through an adjoining portal of the saloon.
She started at what she beheld—her lover kneeling
and affectionately caressing the slender digits
of the queen of Navarre!
“Delay not! Come forward!” said Marguerite,
in a soft, low tone, beckoning to her; “did
you think a meeting like this, within this palace,
could be private? The very walls have ears!”
Louise advanced timorously, not knowing the
mood of her majesty, and at a loss to explain
the scene she had just witnessed.
“Give me your hand,” said Marguerite, and
taking the fairy palm, she placed it within that
of the chevalier, uttering in a tone not entirely
free from emotion:
“The queen of Navarre sanctions your union,
and bestows her blessing upon it. Go, and God
be with you!”
She again extended her hand for Tremlet to
kiss, and tenderly embracing the lady Louise,
turned and slowly left the room. Marguerite
had gained a great and unusual victory over herself;
it was seldom that her better feelings thus
prevailed. For a few days afterwards she was
sad, and a soft melancholy prevailed in her glorious
eyes, but she soon learned to forget her
transient passion, and consoled herself as she al
ways did, with a new lover, from the handsome
train of gallants who surrounded the king.
When the queen of Navarre had left them,
Tremlet, after forcing up a clasp with the point
of his dagger, turned round the marble image
of Minerva, and the pedestal began slowly to
revolve. After waiting for a few moments, the
velvet back of the fauteuil appeared suddenly endowed
with motion and swung gradually open,
upon hinges that creaked from long disuse.
Throwing his arm around Louise, he hastily
descended the slippery steps, and leaving the
door to shut of its own accord by means of its
hidden machinery, he pursued his devious way
through the tortuous labyrinth of passages which
presented themselves. His course appeared to
be perfectly familiar to him, and he advanced
with a certainty that immediately disarmed his
companion of all the terrors the place was calculated
to awaken. After passing underneath
the foss, which enveloped the palace walls on
every side, and which was indicated by the water
dripping through the masonry, their course
was short to the outlet of the passage, near the
banks of the Seine. As they reached the open
air, Tremlet conveyed the lovely demoiselle to a
boat in waiting, and in silence they rowed in the
direction of the mouth of the Seine. When the
morning dawned they were miles away from
Paris, and a short distance before them was a
small vessel riding at anchor. They embarked,
and before Henri III. of France had thought of
rising from his piles of cushions, or had dreamed
of sending a valet for his shaving water,
Louise de L'Estoile, already the betrothed of
the Chevalier Tremlet, was crossing the English
Channel on her way to Dover.
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Duganne, A. J. H. (Augustine Joseph Hickey), 1823-1884 [n.d.], The Prince Corsair, or, The three brothers of Guzan: a tale of the Indian Ocean. (Samuel French, New York) [word count] [eaf552T].
