Quentin Durward

“Now, by Our Lady of Embrun,” said the King, “so gross are these accusations, and so free of consciousness am I of aught that approaches them, that, by the honour of a King, I laugh, rather than am wroth at them. My Provost guard daily put to death, as is their duty, thieves and vagabonds; and is my crown to be slandered with whatever these thieves and vagabonds may have said to our hot cousin of Burgundy and his wise counsellors? I pray you, tell my kind cousin, if he loves such companions, he had best keep them in his own estates; for here they are like to meet short shrift and a tight cord.”

“My master needs no such subjects, Sir King,” answered the Count, in a tone more disrespectful than he had yet permitted himself to make use of; “for the noble Duke uses not to inquire of witches, wandering Egyptians, or others, upon the destiny and fate of his neighbours and allies.”

“We have had patience enough, and to spare,” said the King, interrupting him; “and since thy sole errand here seems to be for the purpose of insult, we will send some one in our name to the Duke of Burgundy – convinced, in thus demeaning thyself towards us, thou hast exceeded thy commission, whatever that may have been.”

“On the contrary,” said Crevecoeur, “I have not yet acquitted myself of it – Hearken, Louis of Valois, King of France – Hearken, nobles and gentlemen, who may be present. – Hearken, all good and true men. – And thou, Toison d’Or,” addressing the herald, “make proclamation after me. – I, Philip Crevecoeur of Cordes, Count of the Empire, and Knight of the honourable and princely Order of the Golden Fleece, in the name of the most puissant Lord and Prince, Charles, by the grace of God, Duke of Burgundy and Lotharingia, of Brabant and Limbourg, of Luxembourg and of Gueldres; Earl of Flanders and of Artois; Count Palatine of Hainault, of Holland, Zealand, Namur, and Zutphen; Marquis of the Holy Empire; Lord of Friezeland, Salines, and Malines, do give you, Louis, King of France, openly to know, that you, having refused to remedy the various griefs, wrongs, and offences, done and wrought by you, or by and through your aid, suggestion, and instigation, against the said Duke and his loving subjects, he, by my mouth, renounces all allegiance and fealty towards your crown and dignity – pronounces you false and faithless; and defies you as a Prince, and as a man. There lies my gage, in evidence of what I have said.”

So saying, he plucked the gauntlet off his right hand, and flung it down on the floor of the hall.

Until this last climax of audacity, there had been a deep silence in the royal apartment during the extraordinary scene; but no sooner had the clash of the gauntlet, when cast down, been echoed by the deep voice of Toison d’Or, the Burgundian herald, with the ejaculation, “Vive Bourgogne!” than there was a general tumult. While Dunois, Orleans, old Lord Crawford, and one or two others, whose rank authorized their interference, contended which should lift up the gauntlet, the others in the hall exclaimed, “Strike him down! Cut him to pieces! Comes he here to insult the King of France in his own palace?”

But the King appeased the tumult by exclaiming, in a voice like thunder, which overawed and silenced every other sound, “Silence, my lieges, lay not a hand on the man, not a finger on the gage! – And you, Sir Count, of what is your life composed, or how is it warranted, that you thus place it on the cast of a die so perilous? or is your Duke made of a different metal from other princes, since he thus asserts his pretended quarrel in a manner so unusual?”

“He is indeed framed of a different and more noble metal than the other princes of Europe,” said the undaunted Count of Crevecoeur; “for, when not one of them dared to give shelter to you – to you, I say, King Louis – when you were yet only Dauphin, an exile from France, and pursued by the whole bitterness of your father’s revenge, and all the power of his kingdom, you were received and protected like a brother by my noble master, whose generosity of disposition you have so grossly misused. Farewell, Sire, my mission is discharged.”

So saying, the Count de Crevecoeur left the apartment abruptly, and without farther leave taking.

“After him – after him – take up the gauntlet and after him!” said the King. “I mean not you, Dunois, nor you, my Lord of Crawford, who, methinks, may be too old for such hot frays; nor you, cousin of Orleans, who are too young for them. – My Lord Cardinal – my Lord Bishop of Auxerre – it is your holy office to make peace among princes; do you lift the gauntlet, and remonstrate with Count Crevecoeur on the sin he has committed, in thus insulting a great monarch in his own Court, and forcing us to bring the miseries of war upon his kingdom, and that of his neighbour.”

Upon this direct personal appeal, the Cardinal Balue proceeded to lift the gauntlet, with such precaution as one would touch an adder – so great was apparently his aversion to this symbol of war – and presently left the royal apartment to hasten after the challenger.

Louis paused and looked round the circle of his courtiers, most of whom, except such as we have already distinguished, being men of low birth, and raised to their rank in the King’s household for other gifts than courage or feats of arms, looked pale on each other, and had obviously received an unpleasant impression from the scene which had been just acted. Louis gazed on them with contempt, and then said aloud, “Although the Count of Crevecoeur be presumptuous and overweening, it must be confessed that in him the Duke of Burgundy hath as bold a servant as ever bore message for a prince. I would I knew where to find as faithful an Envoy to carry back my answer.”

“You do your French nobles injustice, Sire,” said Dunois; “not one of them but would carry a defiance to Burgundy on the point of his sword.”

“And, Sire,” said old Crawford, “you wrong also the Scottish gentlemen who serve you. I, or any of my followers, being of meet rank, would not hesitate a moment to call yonder proud Count to a reckoning; my own arm is yet strong enough for the purpose, if I have but your Majesty’s permission.”

“But your Majesty,” continued Dunois, “will employ us in no service through which we may win honour to ourselves, to your Majesty, or to France.”

“Say rather,” said the King, “that I will not give way, Dunois, to the headlong impetuosity, which, on some punctilio of chivalry, would wreck yourselves, the throne, France, and all. There is not one of you who knows not how precious every hour of peace is at this moment, when so necessary to heal the wounds of a distracted country; yet there is not one of you who would not rush into war on account of the tale of a wandering gipsy, or of some errant damosel, whose reputation, perhaps, is scarce higher. – Here comes the Cardinal, and we trust with more pacific tidings. – How now, my Lord, – have you brought the Count to reason and to temper?”

“Sire,” said Balue, “my task hath been difficult. I put it to yonder proud Count, how he dared to use towards your Majesty the presumptuous reproach with which his audience had broken up, and which must be understood as proceeding, not from his master, but from his own insolence, and as placing him therefore in your Majesty’s discretion for what penalty you might think proper.”

“You said right,” replied the King; “and what was his answer?”

“The Count,” continued the Cardinal, “had at that moment his foot in the stirrup, ready to mount; and, on hearing my expostulation, he turned his head without altering his position. ‘Had I,’ said he, ‘been fifty leagues distant, and had heard by report that a question vituperative of my Prince had been asked by the King of France, I had, even at that distance, instantly mounted, and returned to disburden my mind of the answer which I gave him but now.’”

“I said, sirs,” said the King, turning around, without any show of angry emotion, “that in the Count Philip of Crevecoeur, our cousin the Duke possesses as worthy a servant as ever rode at a prince’s right hand. – But you prevailed with him to stay?”

“To stay for twenty-four hours; and in the meanwhile to receive again his gage of defiance,” said the Cardinal; “he has dismounted at the Fleur de Lys.”

“See that he be nobly attended and cared for, at our charges,” said the King; “such a servant is a jewel in a prince’s crown. Twenty-four hours?” he added, muttering to himself, and looking as if he were stretching his eyes to see into futurity; “twenty-four hours? It is of the shortest. Yet twenty-four hours, ably and skilfully employed, may be worth a year in the hand of indolent or incapable agents. – Well – to the forest – to the forest, my gallant lords! – Orleans, my fair kinsman, lay aside that modesty, though it becomes you; mind not my Joan’s coyness. The Loire may as soon avoid mingling with the Cher, as she from favouring your suit, or you from preferring it,” he added, as the unhappy prince moved slowly on after his betrothed bride. “And now for your boar spears, gentlemen – for Allegre, my pricker, hath harboured one that will try both dog and man. – Dunois, lend me your spear – take mine, it is too weighty for me; but when did you complain of such a fault in your lance? – To horse – to horse, gentlemen.”

And all the chase rode on.

CHAPTER IX: THE BOAR HUNT

I will converse with unrespective boysAnd iron witted fools. None are for me that look into me with suspicious eyes.KING RICHARD

All the experience which the Cardinal had been able to collect of his master’s disposition, did not, upon the present occasion, prevent his falling into a great error of policy. His vanity induced him to think that he had been more successful in prevailing upon the Count of Crevecoeur to remain at Tours, than any other moderator whom the King might have employed, would, in all probability, have been. And as he was well aware of the importance which Louis attached to the postponement of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could not help showing that he conceived himself to have rendered the King great and acceptable service. He pressed nearer to the King’s person than he was wont to do, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation on the events of the morning.

This was injudicious in more respects than one, for princes love not to see their subjects approach them with an air conscious of deserving, and thereby seeming desirous to extort, acknowledgment and recompense for their services; and Louis, the most jealous monarch that ever lived, was peculiarly averse and inaccessible to any one who seemed either to presume upon service rendered or to pry into his secrets.

Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious sometimes are, by the self satisfied humour of the moment, the Cardinal continued to ride on the King’s right hand, turning the discourse, whenever it was possible, upon Crevecoeur and his embassy which, although it might be the matter at that moment most in the King’s thoughts, was nevertheless precisely that which he was least willing to converse on. At length Louis, who had listened to him with attention, yet without having returned any answer which could tend to prolong the conversation, signed to Dunois, who rode at no great distance, to come up on the other side of his horse.

“We came hither for sport and exercise,” said he, “but the reverend Father here would have us hold a council of state.”

“I hope your Highness will excuse my assistance,” said Dunois; “I am born to fight the battles of France, and have heart and hand for that, but I have no head for her councils.”

“My Lord Cardinal hath a head turned for nothing else, Dunois,” answered Louis; “he hath confessed Crevecoeur at the Castle gate, and he hath communicated to us his whole shrift. – Said you not the whole?” he continued, with an emphasis on the word, and a glance at the Cardinal, which shot from betwixt his long dark eyelashes as a dagger gleams when it leaves the scabbard.

The Cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to reply to the King’s jest, he said that though his order were obliged to conceal the secrets of their penitents in general, there was no sigillum confessionis [seal of confession] which could not be melted at his Majesty’s breath.

“And as his Eminence,” said the King, “is ready to communicate the secrets of others to us, he naturally expects that we should be equally communicative to him; and, in order to get upon this reciprocal footing, he is very reasonably desirous to know if these two ladies of Croye be actually in our territories. We are sorry we cannot indulge his curiosity, not ourselves knowing in what precise place errant damsels, disguised princesses, distressed countesses, may lie leaguer within our dominions, which are, we thank God and our Lady of Embrun, rather too extensive for us to answer easily his Eminence’s most reasonable inquiries. But supposing they were with us, what say you, Dunois, to our cousin’s peremptory demand?”

“I will answer you, my Liege, if you will tell me in sincerity, whether you want war or peace,” replied Dunois, with a frankness which, while it arose out of his own native openness and intrepidity of character, made him from time to time a considerable favourite with Louis, who, like all astucious persons, was as desirous of looking into the hearts of others as of concealing his own.

“By my halidome,” said he, “I should be as well contented as thyself, Dunois, to tell thee my purpose, did I myself but know it exactly. But say I declared for war, what should I do with this beautiful and wealthy young heiress, supposing her to be in my dominions?”

“Bestow her in marriage on one of your own gallant followers, who has a heart to love, and an arm to protect her,” said Dunois.

“Upon thyself, ha!” said the King. “Pasques dieu! thou art more politic than I took thee for, with all thy bluntness.”

“Nay,” answered Dunois, “I am aught except politic. By our Lady of Orleans, I come to the point at once, as I ride my horse at the ring. Your Majesty owes the house of Orleans at least one happy marriage.”

“And I will pay it, Count. Pasques dieu, I will pay it! – See you not yonder fair couple?”

The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Orleans and the Princess, who, neither daring to remain at a greater distance from the King, nor in his sight appear separate from each other, were riding side by side, yet with an interval of two or three yards betwixt them, a space which timidity on the one side, and aversion on the other, prevented them from diminishing, while neither dared to increase it.

Dunois looked in the direction of the King’s signal, and as the situation of his unfortunate relative and the destined bride reminded him of nothing so much as of two dogs, which, forcibly linked together, remain nevertheless as widely separated as the length of their collars will permit, he could not help shaking his head, though he ventured not on any other reply to the hypocritical tyrant. Louis seemed to guess his thoughts.

“It will be a peaceful and quiet household they will keep – not much disturbed with children, I should augur. But these are not always a blessing.”

[Here the King touches on the very purpose for which he pressed on the match with such tyrannic severity, which was that as the Princess’s personal deformity admitted little chance of its being fruitful, the branch of Orleans, which was next in succession to the crown, might be, by the want of heirs, weakened or extinguished]

It was, perhaps, the recollection of his own filial ingratitude that made the King pause as he uttered the last reflection, and which converted the sneer that trembled on his lip into something resembling an expression of contrition. But he instantly proceeded in another tone.

“Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy sacrament of matrimony” (here he crossed himself), “I would rather the house of Orleans raised for me such gallant soldiers as thy father and thyself, who share the blood royal of France without claiming its rights, than that the country should be torn to pieces, like to England, by wars arising from the rivalry of legitimate candidates for the crown. The lion should never have more than one cub.”

Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that contradicting his arbitrary Sovereign might well hurt his kinsman’s interests but could do him no service; yet he could not forbear adding, in the next moment,

“Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of my father, I must needs own that, setting the frailty of his parents on one side, he might be termed happier, and more fortunate, as the son of lawless love than of conjugal hatred.”

“Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak thus of holy wedlock,” answered Louis jestingly. “But to the devil with the discourse, for the boar is unharboured. – Lay on the dogs, in the name of the holy Saint Hubert! – Ha! ha! tra-la-la-lira-la” – And the King’s horn rang merrily through the woods as he pushed forward on the chase, followed by two or three of his guards, amongst whom was our friend Quentin Durward. And here it was remarkable that, even in the keen prosecution of his favourite sport, the King in indulgence of his caustic disposition, found leisure to amuse himself by tormenting Cardinal Balue.

It was one of that able statesman’s weaknesses, as we have elsewhere hinted, to suppose himself, though of low rank and limited education, qualified to play the courtier and the man of gallantry. He did not, indeed, actually enter the lists of chivalrous combat, like Becket, or levy soldiers, like Wolsey. But gallantry, in which they also were proficients, was his professed pursuit; and he likewise affected great fondness for the martial amusement of the chase. Yet, however well he might succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his wealth, and his influence as a statesman might atone for deficiencies in appearance and manners, the gallant horses, which he purchased at almost any price, were totally insensible to the dignity of carrying a Cardinal, and paid no more respect to him than they would have done to his father, the carter, miller, or tailor, whom he rivalled in horsemanship. The King knew this, and, by alternately exciting and checking his own horse, he brought that of the Cardinal, whom he kept close by his side, into such a state of mutiny against his rider, that it became apparent they must soon part company; and then, in the midst of its starting, bolting, rearing, and lashing out, alternately, the royal tormentor rendered the rider miserable, by questioning him upon many affairs of importance, and hinting his purpose to take that opportunity of communicating to him some of those secrets of state which the Cardinal had but a little while before seemed so anxious to learn.

[In imputing to the Cardinal a want of skill in horsemanship, I recollected his adventure in Paris when attacked by assassins, on which occasion his mule, being scared by the crowd, ran away with the rider, and taking its course to a monastery, to the abbot of which he formerly belonged; was the means of saving his master’s life… S.]

A more awkward situation could hardly be imagined than that of a privy councillor forced to listen to and reply to his sovereign, while each fresh gambade of his unmanageable horse placed him in a new and more precarious attitude – his violet robe flying loose in every direction, and nothing securing him from an instant and perilous fall save the depth of the saddle, and its height before and behind. Dunois laughed without restraint; while the King, who had a private mode of enjoying his jest inwardly, without laughing aloud, mildly rebuked his minister on his eager passion for the chase, which would not permit him to dedicate a few moments to business.

“I will no longer be your hindrance to a course,” continued he, addressing the terrified Cardinal, and giving his own horse the rein at the same time.

Before Balue could utter a word by way of answer or apology, his horse, seizing the bit with his teeth, went forth at an uncontrollable gallop, soon leaving behind the King and Dunois, who followed at a more regulated pace, enjoying the statesman’s distressed predicament. If any of our readers has chanced to be run away with in his time (as we ourselves have in ours), he will have a full sense at once of the pain, peril, and absurdity of the situation. Those four limbs of the quadruped, which, noway under the rider’s control, nor sometimes under that of the creature they more properly belong to, fly at such a rate as if the hindermost meant to overtake the foremost; those clinging legs of the biped which we so often wish safely planted on the greensward, but which now only augment our distress by pressing the animal’s sides – the hands which have forsaken the bridle for the mane – the body, which, instead of sitting upright on the centre of gravity, as old Angelo [a celebrated riding and fencing master at the beginning of the nineteenth century] used to recommend, or stooping forward like a jockey’s at Newmarket [the scene of the annual horse races has been at Newmarket Heath since the time of James I], lies, rather than hangs, crouched upon the back of the animal, with no better chance of saving itself than a sack of corn – combine to make a picture more than sufficiently ludicrous to spectators, however uncomfortable to the exhibiter. But add to this some singularity of dress or appearance on the part of the unhappy cavalier – a robe of office, a splendid uniform, or any other peculiarity of costume – and let the scene of action be a race course, a review, a procession, or any other place of concourse and public display, and if the poor wight would escape being the object of a shout of inextinguishable laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or two, or, which will be more effectual, to be killed on the spot; for on no slighter condition will his fall excite anything like serious sympathy. On the present occasion, the short violet coloured gown of the Cardinal, which he used as riding dress (having changed his long robes before he left the Castle), his scarlet stockings, and scarlet hat, with the long strings hanging down, together with his utter helplessness, gave infinite zest to his exhibition of horsemanship.

The horse, having taken matters entirely into his own hand, flew rather than galloped up a long green avenue; overtook the pack in hard pursuit of the boar, and then, having overturned one or two yeomen prickers, who little expected to be charged in the rear – having ridden down several dogs, and greatly confused the chase – animated by the clamorous expostulations and threats of the huntsman, carried the terrified Cardinal past the formidable animal itself, which was rushing on at a speedy trot, furious and embossed with the foam which he churned around his tusks. Balue, on beholding himself so near the boar, set up a dreadful cry for help, which, or perhaps the sight of the boar, produced such an effect on his horse, that the animal interrupted its headlong career by suddenly springing to one side; so that the Cardinal, who had long kept his seat only because the motion was straight forward, now fell heavily to the ground. The conclusion of Balue’s chase took place so near the boar that, had not the animal been at that moment too much engaged about his own affairs, the vicinity might have proved as fatal to the Cardinal, as it is said to have done to Favila, King of the Visigoths of Spain [he was killed by a bear while hunting]. The powerful churchman got off, however, for the fright, and, crawling as hastily as he could out of the way of hounds and huntsmen, saw the whole chase sweep by him without affording him assistance, for hunters in those days were as little moved by sympathy for such misfortunes as they are in our own. The King, as he passed, said to Dunois, “Yonder lies his Eminence low enough – he is no great huntsman, though for a fisher (when a secret is to be caught) he may match Saint Peter himself. He has, however, for once, I think, met with his match.”

The Cardinal did not hear the words, but the scornful look with which they were spoken led him to suspect their general import. The devil is said to seize such opportunities of temptation as were now afforded by the passions of Balue, bitterly moved as they had been by the scorn of the King. The momentary fright was over so soon as he had assured himself that his fall was harmless; but mortified vanity, and resentment against his Sovereign, had a much longer influence on his feelings. After all the chase had passed him, a single cavalier, who seemed rather to be a spectator than a partaker of the sport, rode up with one or two attendants, and expressed no small surprise to find the Cardinal upon the ground, without a horse or attendants, and in such a plight as plainly showed the nature of the accident which had placed him there. To dismount, and offer his assistance in this predicament – to cause one of his attendants to resign a staid and quiet palfrey for the Cardinal’s use – to express his surprise at the customs of the French Court, which thus permitted them to abandon to the dangers of the chase, and forsake in his need, their wisest statesman, were the natural modes of assistance and consolation which so strange a rencontre supplied to Crevecoeur, for it was the Burgundian ambassador who came to the assistance of the fallen Cardinal.