"Keep to the right," said a deep voice near him, as he stopped to choose his path; and the next moment the brigand, coming forth from the bushes among which he had been sitting, walked on upon his way beside him.

"Ours is a busy life, you see," he said; "but yet it is not every night that we have so much business to do as we have had lately."

"Nor, I should think," replied Bernard de Rohan, "is it every night that you have upon your hands business which can leave so much satisfaction behind."

"I know not," answered the brigand, "and yet, in some sort, what you say is true. For I have had pleasure in what I have done: I have had pleasure in serving that bright lady; why, it matters not: I have had pleasure in serving you; why, it matters not: I have had pleasure in frustrating a base and villanous scheme; why, it matters not. But you must not think, baron, that in the ordinary business of my everyday life there are any of those weak thoughts about me which poison its enjoyments and make the memory of each day bitter. You and I are different beings, born for a different course."

"We are both men," said Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay!" answered the brigand; "and so are the dove and falcon both birds.

As well might that dove think that the life of the falcon must be miserable because it is a bird of prey, as you judge of my feelings by your own. I am a bird of prey; I am the brother of the eagle on the rock. Our joys and our pursuits are the same; and they leave no more regret with me than they do with that eagle, when he folds his wings in his eyrie after the day's chase is done."

The comparison was one which, as Bernard de Rohan very well understood, was pleasant and satisfactory to his companion's feelings, but he could not admit its justice to any great extent. He cared not to point out, however, where it failed, and merely replied, "But there is a difference between men and brutes. Man has his reason to guide him, and must be governed by laws. The eagle has no law but the instinct which G.o.d has given him."

"Is not G.o.d's law the best?" exclaimed the brigand. "G.o.d gave the eagle his law, and therefore that law is right. It is because man's law is not G.o.d's law that I stand here upon the mountain. Were laws equal and just, there would be few found to resist them. While they are unequal and unjust, the poor-hearted may submit and tremble; the powerless may yield and suffer: the bold, the free, the strong, and the determined fall back upon the law of G.o.d, and wage war against the injustice of man. If you and I, baron," he continued, growing excited with the heat of his argument, "if you and I were to stand before a court of human justice, as it is called, pleading the same cause, accused of the same acts, would our trial be the same, our sentence, our punishment? No! all would be different; and why? Because you are Bernard de Rohan, a wealthy baron of the land, and I am none. A name would make the difference. A mere name would bring the sword on my head and leave yours unwounded. If so it be, I say--if such be the world's equity, I set up a retribution for myself. I raise a kingdom in the pa.s.ses of these mountains: a kingdom where all the privileges of earth are reversed. Here, under my law, the n.o.ble, and the rich, and the proud are those that must bow down and suffer; the poor, and the humble, and the good those that have protection and immunity. Go ask in the peasant's cottage: visit the good pastor's fireside: inquire of the shepherd of the mountain, or the farmer on the plains. Go ask them, I say, if under the sword of Corse de Leon they lose a sheep from their flock or a sheaf from their field. Go ask them if, when the tyrant of the castle--the lawless tyrant; or the tyrant of the city--the lawful tyrant, plunders their property, insults their lowliness, grinds the face of the poor, or wrings the heart of the meek, ask them, I say, if there is not retribution to be found in the midnight court of Corse de Leon, if there is not punishment and justice poured forth even upon the privileged heads above."

Bernard de Rohan felt that it would be useless to argue with him; for it was evident that he was not one of those who are doubtful or wavering in the course they pursue. There was some truth, too, in what the man said: truth which Bernard de Rohan ventured to admit to his own heart, even in that age, when such sentiments could only be looked upon as treasonable.

He was silent, then, considering how to reply, when the brigand himself went on.

"Think not," he continued, "that I have chosen my part without deep thought. There are some--and perhaps you think me one of them--who are driven by circ.u.mstances, led by their pa.s.sions, or their follies, or their vices, to a state of opposition with the rest of mankind, and who then, when cast out from society, find a thousand specious reasons for warring against it. But such is not my case. Ever since my youth have such things been dwelling in my mind. I had pondered them long. I had fully made up my mind as to what was right and what was wrong, years before injustice and iniquity--years before the insolence of privileged tyranny drove me forth to practise what I had long proposed. Here I exercise the right that is in man. I take the brown game upon the mountain, which is mine as much as that of any n.o.ble in the land. I pay no tax to king or to collector. There is no duty on the wine I drink.

There is no toll upon the roads I follow. You will say that I do more than this: that I take from others what is not mine and what is theirs; but I have told you why I do so. They have taken from me what was not theirs; and I wage war against a world which first waged war against me; in which, even among themselves, the hand of every one is against his brother; in which, whether it be in camp, or court, or city, or mart, or church, injustice and iniquity are striving to s.n.a.t.c.h from one another the rod of oppression, and keep the humble beneath their own yoke."

"I cannot think," replied Bernard de Rohan, willing to answer as generally as possible, "I cannot think that the state of society is so terrible as you represent it. There may be occasional instances of corruption and oppression, and doubtless there are. I have seen some myself, and endeavoured to prevent them; but still these things are by no means general."

"Not general!" exclaimed the brigand, turning upon him almost fiercely.

"Sir Baron, I say they are universal. There are one or two exceptions, it is true. You are one of those exceptions yourself. You are one of those who deserve to be convinced; and I can convince you. I can show you men who pretend to be holy, and humble, and good, oppressing most basely those who are in their power. I can show you tyranny and injustice at every step and in every station throughout the earth, from the tradesman's shop to the monarch's throne. I can show it to you in every garb, and in every profession, and in every place. I can, ay, and will show it to you, within these twelve months, in such forms of cruelty and blood that you shall say the brigand on the hillside is mild compared with the man of courts or the man of refectories; that he may be an eagle, but that these are vultures."

"I see not," replied Bernard de Rohan, with a smile, "I see not how you can show me all this. You forget that we shall most likely part here in Savoy. That, as soon as I can rescue Mademoiselle de Brienne from the situation in which she is placed, I shall hasten onward to my own country, and we shall most likely never meet again."

"Not so, not so," replied the brigand. "We shall meet again. Either with her or without her, you must, as you say, go thither soon. My steps are bound likewise towards France; for think not that I dwell always here, or appear always thus: were it so, my head would soon be over the gate of Chamberry. I will find means to show you a part of what I have said, perhaps to give you some a.s.sistance likewise, when you most need and least expect it. But remember," he added, "if misfortunes should befall me, or danger threaten me, it is a part of our compact that you do not strive to give me any aid; that you neither raise your voice nor your arm in my behalf."

"Nay, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I cannot promise that. I must ever remember the generous a.s.sistance you have afforded me this night, and must do my best to prove that I am grateful for it."

"The best way of proving it," replied the brigand, "is by doing what I ask you. You are held wise for a young man: now ask yourself if you can judge so well of what is for my advantage as I can judge myself. I tell you that I have many means of deliverance which you know nothing of; and, therefore, any attempt to aid me, without my asking you, might ruin me and ruin yourself likewise."

"If you will ask me," replied Bernard de Rohan, "when aid can be serviceable to you, I shall be contented."

"I will, I will," answered the brigand; "and now tell me, What have you arranged with fair Isabel of Brienne? for I take an interest in your fate and hers."

"You seem indeed to do so," replied the young cavalier; "and yet I know not why it should be so, for I cannot remember that we ever met before."

"Once," replied the brigand, "only once. Several years ago we were side by side, but for a moment. You and I, and that fair girl, and her brother--her brother, the young Count Henry, who is now in Paris. It was but for a moment, but that moment was one by me never to be forgotten."

"I cannot recall it," replied Bernard de Rohan. "It is strange, too, if it was a moment of such importance. But you say that her brother is in Paris: I wrote to Henry to meet me in Gren.o.ble, and I think he must be there by this time."

"Oh! he is in Paris still," replied the other. "He is a good youth; but he is weak and young--ay, younger than his years. He will be easily persuaded to stay in Paris, and flutter in bright silks, and flaunt at tournaments, run at the ring, or fence at Moors' heads upon a turning pole. He is at Paris still, depend upon it; and, if you count upon his coming ere you claim the lady's hand, you must seek him in the capital, and bring him with you."

"I shall demand her hand at once," replied Bernard de Rohan; "but we doubt that there will be opposition from one who has no right to make it; and, to bear down that opposition, Henry de Brienne must be with me.

He is the guardian of his father's promise solemnly given to me before I first went to Italy. But I will write to him as soon as day breaks to-morrow. Hark! do you not hear voices coming up the pa.s.s?"

"Most likely your servants and the priest," replied the brigand.

"I wonder they have not joined us before," replied Bernard de Rohan. "We should have fared ill if their a.s.sistance had been all we had to trust to."

"They could not do better," replied the brigand. "The other party had caught a sight of us when you stood to argue with me at the corner of the rock, and they broke down the little wooden bridge behind them. Your servants know none of the paths; the priest knows not that which we took; so doubtless, by this time, they think that we are hewed into mincemeat. However, remember at that spot, by the broken bridge, a loud halloo, a blast of your horn, or a whistle thrice repeated, will at any time bring some one to you who can lead you to me should you want my a.s.sistance. Now, jolly priest, now," he added, raising his voice, "here we are safe, though no great thanks to you."

"If you are safe, and sound, and sober," said the priest, coming up with the attendants of Bernard de Rohan, "it is more than I expected; for we could not reach you for our lives; and as we were scrambling over the hills, and each losing his way according to his fancy, we heard as much noise as at a boor's wedding, though the concert was somewhat different.

But now let us hasten back as fast as possible: why, we are a league and a half from the inn, and I shall be so hoa.r.s.e with shouting and the night air that I shall not be able to sing matins."

CHAPTER V.

The Count de Meyrand was awake early, and dressed with the most scrupulous exactness of appearance, without a riband tumbled or a point out of place. He descended slowly about seven of the clock from the chamber in which he had pa.s.sed the night, by the long black double-railed staircase, that led at once from the rooms above into the kitchen, which, as I have said before, served also as the saloon of the inn. His air and his countenance bore the same appearance of indifference which they usually displayed, and he made no inquiry whatsoever regarding the events of the preceding evening, although he had retired to rest more than an hour before Bernard de Rohan had returned to the inn. His servants came and went, seeking directions concerning this thing and that, and communicating with him, from time to time, in a low tone. The aubergiste, with many a lowly reverence, asked his distinguished guest manifold questions concerning his breakfast; but still the Count de Meyrand was not heard to ask any questions either regarding the fate of his friend, or the somewhat remarkable events which had lately taken place.

At length, however, the jovial priest made his appearance; and whether it was that the count was in a better humour for raillery than on the night before, or whether he remarked, by the keen twinkling of the other's eye, that he was about to commence an attack upon him, which would not easily cease, he chose to be the first to open the encounter, saying, "Well, good father, though I know it is not an easy thing to cool a priest's courage, yet I trust your last night's expedition has rather diminished your chivalrous ardour."

"Not a whit," replied the priest. "Everything depends upon how much a man's courage wants cooling. Yours, n.o.ble count, seems not of a quality very likely to boil over; and, doubtless, ten steps from the door of the inn would have sent you home shivering. Mine carried me, however, a little farther."

"Ay, doubtless," interrupted the count, "up to the point where you met with these rogues; and then you waited behind a great stone to see who had the best of the fray. Is it not so? I see you have brought home no desperate wounds with you."

"None," replied the priest, "that I cannot bear as tranquilly and well as you, my n.o.ble lord, could bear the sorrow of your best friend. My trade, however, is not bloodshed; I love not hard blows, and shall always keep out of their way as far as I can. So my confession is made; but here comes one who has a greater liking for wounds and bruises than I have; and now Heaven send us all as good food as I have a good stomach. Mine host! mine host! that omelet will be overdone, and the sin of burned eggs is one to which I refuse absolution. By Hercules! as the Romans used to say--Body of Bacchus! as the Italians say--Dame! as we say in France, did ever mortal man see such a basket of fine trouts?

Why, it is a gift for an abbot! Look! my n.o.ble baron, look!" he continued, turning to Bernhard de Rohan, who now made his appearance; "did you ever see such fair river-G.o.ds in your life? Put them upon the ashes, host, put them upon the ashes!"

Bernard de Rohan did not pay so much attention to the fishes as the priest, by his commendation, seemed to think they deserved; but, turning to his friend, he shook him by the hand, saying, "Well, Meyrand, you certainly always were a very unaccountable sort of personage, or I should be inclined seriously to quarrel with you for suffering me to go last night without a.s.sistance, at the imminent risk of getting my throat cut for want of your help."

"If you risked getting your throat cut, De Rohan," replied his companion, "that was your fault; I had nothing to do with that; I even deviated so far from my usual habits as to ask you to stay, and not do it. I have always a reason for everything I do, good Sir Bernard, and I take it for granted that other people have a reason too. I supposed that you had some motive for going and getting your throat cut, and therefore did not in the least blame you for doing so, if you chose; but I had no reason for anything of the kind, and therefore I stayed where I was.

Indeed, I had every reason in the world not to go: I was warm and comfortable, and had good wine and good viands before me; I was tired with a long day's hunting, and had got my boots off. Then what to me was the Lord of Ma.s.seran, that I should try to save his life or liberty? I had no motive for serving him: indeed, quite the contrary. Every one knows him to be an egregious scoundrel, and at this moment he owes me thirty thousand crowns, which he will never pay, and which I have no chance of getting, unless some honest brigand should cut his throat, when the King of France would doubtless take possession of his lands and pay his creditors."

"Good faith, you are better acquainted with him than I am," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Pray let me know something of his history; for I never heard anything of him till some six months ago, when letters from France informed me that the widowed Countess of Brienne, the mother of my friend and comrade, Henry of Brienne, was about to be married to a Marquis of Ma.s.seran."

"Oh! his history is told in a few words," replied the Count de Meyrand, laughing; "but serve the breakfast, my good host, and do not stand with your mouth open listening to the venerable character of your n.o.ble lord, for I take it we are here upon his domain."

"No, no!" replied the host, "he is no lord of mine, n.o.ble sir; this is ducal domain we stand upon."

"It matters not," answered the count; "this Lord of Ma.s.seran, then, Bernard, though his mother was a Frenchwoman, was born on the other side of those Alps, a Piedmontese vagabond; half Frenchman, half Italian; a sort of water-snake, neither adder nor eel; though a sort of third-size sovereign, an underling of the Duke of Savoy. He who would have been beggarly for a French gentleman, was ten times more beggarly for a prince; and thus, in all probability, he would have gone on living--filled with all the small Italian vices of our day; sharing, it is said, with the brigands who take refuge on the territories of such small lords; and employing the stiletto or the drug when it suited his purpose to get rid of troublesome friends--thus, I say, he would have gone on living what is considered in Italy a very respectable, quiet, insignificant life, had a fancy not suddenly come into the head of our worthy king to take possession of the dominions of his friend and cousin, the Duke of Savoy, which fancy at once raises this Lord of Ma.s.seran into a person of importance. He has, it seems, upon his lands one or two small towns and one or two small castles; but these towns and these castles are so situated as to command several pa.s.ses and defiles valuable to France. Now my Lord of Ma.s.seran is a conscientious man, and, of course, nothing would ever induce him to take part with any one who could not pay him for the same. From the poor Duke of Savoy not a livre tournois was to be expected. The King of France himself, though a perfect Croesus in promises, was known to be somewhat threadbare in the treasury. He, however, was the more hopeful speculation of the two, for he had power if he had not money, and there was a probability of his paying one friend out of what he pillaged from another. With him, then, my Lord of Ma.s.seran chose to deal, and promised to give free pa.s.sage to the troops of France upon certain conditions, which are, of course, a secret. One thing, however, is evident; my Lord of Ma.s.seran did with the king as some of our followers do when they take service of us. He asked, in short, for something in hand. Now the worthy monarch of France had nothing to give but the hand of a fair widow in her fortieth year. With that hand, however, went a dowry of some twenty thousand crowns a year, and the Lord of Ma.s.seran came to Paris and opened the campaign against the widow's heart. She has the repute, as you should know better than any one, of being somewhat hard and stern in her purpose, and cutting with her tongue. She was inconsolable, too, for the death of her n.o.ble husband; always wore black, like the mother of the late king, and looked the picture of widowhood. My Lord of Ma.s.seran, however, with his Piedmontese eloquence, found means to win the widow, with the support of the king. The lady thought, it would seem, to spend her days in Paris; but that city soon became a residence unsuited to the health of her new husband. There were strange stories current regarding him; but there was one thing certain, namely, that he was marvellously fond of those small, square, spotted pieces of mischief, which have the art of conveying so many fortunes from hand to hand. He played largely; he won generally; and his fortune seemed immense. One night, at the Louvre, he borrowed from me the large sum I have named, with a promise to repay it the next morning; but it would seem that, after I left the hall, either fortune went against him, or he took an irresistible longing for Savoy. His lady raved and raged, we are told: but she found that she had now to do with one, upon whose dull ear the sweet sounds of a woman's tongue, raised to ever so high a pitch, had no effect. The Lord of Ma.s.seran paid not the least attention to anything that she said; he did not seem to hear her; but, with the most kind courtesy and ceremonious respect, handed her to the carriage which was prepared to bear her away; and she found herself on the road to Savoy before she could arrange any scheme for resistance.

This is his history; mine is soon told: I choose not so easily to abandon my hold of my Lord of Ma.s.seran; and I am here hunting his game, riding through his woods, and visiting his castle gate; for he seems to me to be as deaf to my sweet solicitations for repayment as he showed himself to the melodious intonations of his lady's voice. Now, priest, though your clerical appet.i.te may be good, do not devour all the trout in the dish, for I am hungry as well as you, and have told a long story."

"And a good one too," replied the priest, laughing, and putting over the dish to the count; but he suddenly added, "Have you never got within the gates of his castle, then, my n.o.ble lord?" and he fixed his eyes full upon the face of the Count de Meyrand.

A very slight change of colour took place on the count's cheek; but he replied at once, "Oh yes, I have been within, but to no purpose."

"He must be an obdurate man indeed," said the priest, "if your persuasions, my n.o.ble lord, can have no effect upon him. I wonder what mine would have! Perhaps he might listen to the voice of the Church: I will go up and try."

"Why what hast thou to do with him?" demanded the count, suddenly turning his eyes sharply upon the priest. "On what pretext wilt thou go thither?"