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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In 'Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times', G. P. R. James intricately weaves a historical narrative set against the backdrop of the tumultuous events of the French Revolution. The novel showcases James's signature prose style'—richly descriptive and imbued with a dramatic tension that captures the era's chaos and fervor. Through the eyes of the titular character, Rose, the reader is drawn into a web of political intrigue, passion, and societal upheaval, reflecting the broader context of Romantic literature's engagement with history and individual agency in times of crisis. James's work serves as a vivid exploration of personal and collective struggles during a time when loyalty was often tested, illuminating the fragility of human relationships amid revolutionary zeal. G. P. R. James emerged as a prominent figure in the early 19th century, partially influenced by the historical events of his time and the burgeoning Romantic movement. His background in law and his profound interest in history reflect in his works, often merging meticulous research with imaginative storytelling. This duality allows James to transport his readers into the emotional depths of his characters, as they navigate the perils of their surroundings in 'Rose D'Albret'. Recommended for enthusiasts of historical fiction and those intrigued by the complexities of human emotion during significant societal shifts, 'Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times' is a compelling read. James's ability to blend gripping narrative with rich historical detail makes this novel not only entertaining but also a critical reflection on the nature of loyalty and the price of freedom. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times
Table of Contents
Introduction
When private devotion collides with public upheaval, a young woman’s integrity becomes the compass by which treacherous times are navigated, and the hard choices of loyalty, love, and survival reveal what endures when institutions and allegiances falter.
Rose D’Albret; or, Troublous Times is a historical romance by G. P. R. James, a prolific nineteenth-century British novelist renowned for vividly imagined tales set against real political convulsions. The novel unfolds in France during an era of civil and religious strife, situating personal dramas within the broader clash of factions and faiths that marked the early modern period. Published in the nineteenth century amid the popularity of historical fiction that followed Sir Walter Scott, it reflects the genre’s interest in chivalric codes, court intrigue, and the felt impact of national crises on individual destinies.
Without revealing its turns, the premise centers on Rose D’Albret, whose path through contested loyalties and fraught alliances exposes the pressures exerted on conscience in an unstable world. James crafts a tapestry of guarded conversations, sudden reversals, and moral crossroads, allowing dangers to emerge as much from salons and council chambers as from shadowed roads. Readers encounter a narrative that balances tenderness and tension: moments of quiet reflection alternate with episodes of peril, while the central figure’s sense of duty is tested by the conflicting claims of affection, honor, and the shifting demands of power.
James’s voice is measured and omniscient, attentive to social nuance and the telling historical detail. He is known for patient scene-setting that clarifies motives before conflicts crest, and for an unhurried cadence that accumulates suspense through moral and political implication rather than spectacle alone. In this book, the atmosphere is sober yet romantic, with a steady current of danger coursing beneath composed exteriors. Dialogue advances character as much as plot, and the narrative’s reflective asides invite readers to weigh choices not merely for their consequences but for what they disclose about character under pressure.
Thematically, the novel probes the tension between private fidelity and public allegiance, asking how far duty to family, faith, or faction may claim a life when the grounds of authority are contested. It considers the ethics of obedience and resistance, the uses and abuses of power, and the fragility of trust in polarized times. Rose’s predicament frames a broader inquiry into identity formed amid coercion, rumor, and competing loyalties. The story also explores the costs of stability, suggesting that peace secured without justice is precarious, and that steadfastness must be tempered by prudence to avoid becoming self-destructive.
For readers today, its questions resonate in an age attuned to polarization and the ambiguities of leadership. The novel offers a lens on how institutions falter when rhetoric outruns responsibility, and how individuals find moral footing when truth is contested by partisan narratives. It invites reflection on civic courage, the value of moderation, and the patience required to discern trustworthy alliances. Beyond its period charm, the book speaks to the contemporary unease of living through unsettled politics, proposing that humane conduct and clear self-knowledge matter most when certainty is in short supply.
Approach this tale for its layered intrigue, courtly manners, and carefully marshaled historical color; stay for the steady moral inquiry that animates its characters’ choices. James provides an experience that is immersive rather than hurried, prioritizing clarity of motive, the slow reveal of danger, and the emotional stakes of commitment under strain. Readers who appreciate historical romances grounded in political reality will find a narrative that rewards attention to detail and sympathy for complexity, offering an elegant, reflective journey through perilous circumstances in which courage and conscience must learn to move in step.
Synopsis
Set in France during a period of civil and religious unrest, Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times opens with the young heroine living under the guardianship of an influential provincial noble. Orphaned yet well-born, Rose occupies a precarious position, prized for her lineage and the alliances her hand could seal. The country around her is unsettled: garrisons change masters, roads bristle with patrols, and the crown struggles to keep fractious factions in check. Against this backdrop, the narrative introduces Rose's quiet strength, her adherence to conscience, and the limits imposed by custom and law—elements that shape the choices she must make as events gather force.
Within the château that shelters and confines her, competing interests converge. Counselors, priests, and captains move in and out with letters, warrants, and rumors, while Rose's guardian weighs expediency over inclination. A proposed marriage becomes a tool of policy, promised to secure support in the province and consolidate power at court. The plan is pressed with calculated urgency, but Rose's reserve suggests resistance. Her sympathy leans toward a soldier of proven honor, a man whose service in the field has earned him both enemies and the king’s notice. Their mutual regard, carefully portrayed, remains constrained by circumstance and the conflicting claims of duty.
The return of this soldier to the province sets several rivalries in motion. A powerful courtier, ambitious and watchful, marks him as an obstacle both politically and personally. Social gatherings—hunts, councils, and solemn entertainments—reveal the era’s delicate codes, where a word can be a challenge and a look an accusation. The soldier’s frankness contrasts with the polished duplicity around him, drawing sympathies but also provoking schemes. Rose’s position is examined from every angle: her inheritance, faith, and alliances are weighed by others with more zeal than tenderness. A first, contained clash hints at the bolder confrontations that will follow as loyalties are tested.
Trouble rises beyond private disagreements. The district becomes a hinge between forces professing loyalty to the crown yet maneuvering for advantage. A nearby town is alarmed; strong places are provisioned; messengers ride by night. The château itself, commanding a road, gains sudden strategic importance, and the garrison’s temper hardens. Summoned to wider service, the soldier accepts a hazardous commission that removes him at a critical moment. Rose must respond to emissaries demanding her assent to a union she has not granted, while legal forms are marshaled to expedite the business. The sense of time closing in clarifies stakes without yet determining how the pressure will resolve.
A failed stratagem brings danger nearer. In darkness and confusion—bells, torches, and hurried orders—an attempt is made to control Rose’s movements under color of protection. Loyal servants and unexpected allies intervene, securing a brief respite and a path toward consultation rather than compulsion. Travel through forests and walled towns introduces new actors: an old captain with plain speech, a cautious lawyer versed in provincial rights, and a churchman whose counsel carries weight at court. Intercepted correspondence fuels suspicions against the absent soldier, connecting him to plots he denies. Rose confronts conflicting testimonies, maintaining a guarded trust while insisting on proofs that the restless times seldom provide.
The scene shifts toward the centers of decision. At a royal progress and in council chambers, petitions and accusations meet. The court’s glitter conceals sharp contention as ministers balance pacification with discipline. Called to defend his conduct, the soldier faces charges that mingle private malice and public anxiety. A formal inquiry, and a narrowly averted duel, show how quickly honor may be implicated in policy. Parallel to this, information surfaces about Rose’s title and wardship—technical points of law and custom with practical consequences. The new facts do not end the dispute, but they unsettle calculations, forcing adversaries to adapt and creating a space in which Rose’s voice carries more weight.
Determined not to lose by hesitation, Rose’s opponents press for a swift marriage under legal warrants. Preparations gather in the château chapel, where symbols of devotion serve purposes of state. Rose appeals to conscience and established forms: the necessity of free consent, the presence of proper witnesses, and the right to be heard. Friends assemble—some openly, others cautiously—each bringing a piece of leverage: a counter-order, a testimony, a promise of timely arrival by those with authority to decide. The atmosphere is tense but procedural; no gesture is made without a document to justify it. The story pauses on the threshold of an irreversible act.
Events converge at midnight moments and daylit councils. Marching feet, messengers, and a sudden arrival interrupt carefully laid plans. Facts long obscured are presented in a manner that cannot be ignored, weakening a principal accusation and complicating the alliance that depends upon it. In the midst of soldiers, clerks, and household retainers, the essential question becomes simple: what choice is lawful, prudent, and consistent with honor? The immediate crisis subsides without stifling consequences or triumphs being displayed on the page. The narrative preserves its balance by showing how resolution in such times rarely arrives as a single stroke, but rather as a sequence of constrained decisions.
The closing movement draws together the book’s constant themes: steadfastness under pressure, the reach and limits of authority, and the compatibility of private fidelity with public peace. Rose D’Albret is presented as a figure who neither defies order nor yields her conscience, negotiating with patience and intelligence. Around her, men of arms and men of counsel learn that policy without justice invites resistance, and courage without prudence courts disaster. The wider conflict is not miraculously ended, yet the prospect of stability appears through lawful settlement and earned trust. The story’s essence is clear: in troublous times, character and measured judgment steady the course.
Historical Context
G. P. R. James situates Rose D’Albret in late sixteenth-century France, a landscape fractured by civil strife and shifting loyalties. The time frame evokes the French Wars of Religion, especially the turbulent decades between the 1560s and the 1590s, when provincial strongholds, forest roads, and châteaux in regions such as Guyenne, Gascony, and Béarn became theaters of conflict. Town walls, seigneurial jurisdictions, and itinerant companies of soldiers defined daily life, while confessional divisions penetrated courts and households. The surname d’Albret signals connections to Navarre and the southwest, imbuing the narrative with the political weight of that frontier world at the crossing of French and Iberian interests.
The French Wars of Religion (1562–1598) pitted Calvinist Huguenots against militant Catholic forces, producing eight rounds of civil war marked by massacres, sieges, and temporary edicts of pacification. Figures such as Catherine de’ Medici, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, the princes of Condé, and the Guise family shaped this prolonged crisis. Confessional rivalries aligned with noble factions and regional grievances, ravaging cities like Orléans and Rouen and strongholds such as La Rochelle. The novel mirrors this fractured political order through its focus on garrison towns, local vendettas, and precarious truces, using personal alliances and betrayals to dramatize the broader national impasse over sovereignty and religious coexistence.
The House of Albret, rulers of Navarre and lords in Béarn and parts of Gascony, stands at the center of France’s confessional transformation. Jeanne d’Albret (1528–1572), queen of Navarre and mother of Henri de Navarre, adopted Calvinism and imposed reforms in Béarn during the 1560s, reorganizing church institutions and patronizing Reformed pastors at Pau and Nérac. Her actions made the Albret name synonymous with Huguenot leadership in the southwest. The novel’s titular surname evokes this legacy, embedding its characters in the contested geography of Navarre and Béarn and invoking the real power struggles over marriage alliances, wardship, and territorial control that animated the Albret sphere during the civil wars.
The St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre began in Paris on the night of 23–24 August 1572 after an attempted assassination of Admiral Coligny two days prior. Violence soon spread to provincial centers such as Lyon, Bordeaux, Orléans, Rouen, and Toulouse, resulting in the deaths of thousands of Protestants. King Charles IX, influenced by Catherine de’ Medici and court radicals, sanctioned measures that turned factional fear into systematic slaughter. In the novel’s world, remembered horrors like these inform suspicion, coded speech, and the defensive architecture of households. The ever-present fear of nocturnal raids and sudden reversals of protection underscores how fragile patronage and law became under sectarian pressure.
The Catholic League’s ascendancy and the War of the Three Henries (1587–1589) plunged France into a contest among Henry III, Henry of Guise, and Henry of Navarre. The Day of the Barricades in Paris on 12 May 1588 humiliated the crown, while the assassination of the Duke of Guise at Blois in December 1588 and King Henry III’s murder in August 1589 left Navarre heir to a rebellious kingdom. League militias dominated key cities, allied with Spain, and enforced confessional orthodoxy through municipal councils. The book channels this climate through conspiracies, secret councils, and fortified towns, highlighting how civic bodies and noble bands usurped royal justice in the provinces.
Henry of Navarre’s struggle to secure the throne as Henry IV (r. 1589–1610) provides the decisive arc of pacification shaping the era. Victories at Arques (21 September 1589) and Ivry (14 March 1590) demonstrated his military command, yet sieges defined the conflict: Paris withstood him in 1590 until the Spanish Army of Flanders under the Duke of Parma relieved the city, and Rouen held out until Parma intervened again in 1592. Recognizing the political reality of a Catholic capital, Henry abjured Protestantism at Saint-Denis on 25 July 1593, was crowned at Chartres on 27 February 1594, and entered Paris on 22 March 1594, relying on amnesties, pensions, and negotiations to peel away League loyalties. The Edict of Nantes, signed on 13 April 1598, codified a pragmatic settlement: it guaranteed liberty of conscience, regulated Protestant worship by geographic zones, opened mixed chambers of justice (Chambres de l’Édit), and granted approximately one hundred fifty fortified places de sûreté to Huguenots for a limited term. In parallel, the Peace of Vervins with Spain on 2 May 1598 ended foreign intervention, enabling the crown to demobilize forces and reassert fiscal and judicial control in the provinces. The novel’s plotlines—truce-making between rival nobles, the recalibration of loyalties after conversions, and the uneasy coexistence of confessional communities under royal guarantees—echo this consolidation. By staging encounters on roads, in castles, and in council chambers, the narrative reproduces the era’s blend of force and negotiation, foregrounding how personal honor, patronage networks, and localized military power were slowly subordinated to the reemergent authority of the Bourbon monarchy.
Spanish intervention and border politics intensified the conflict’s regional character. The Spanish Netherlands supplied the Duke of Parma’s expeditions that relieved Paris in 1590 and Rouen in 1592, while Spanish garrisons in Brittany and the capture of Amiens in 1597 pressured Henry IV until its recapture that September. In the southwest, peasant uprisings known as the Croquants (1594–1597) erupted in Périgord, Limousin, and Quercy against taxation, billeting, and seigneurial exactions. The novel reflects these realities through depictions of road insecurity, shifting occupation forces, and negotiations with local magnates, capturing how international rivalry and fiscal burdens filtered down to village life and provincial lordships.
The book functions as a critique of sectarian zeal, private war, and aristocratic impunity. By charting coercive marriages, wardship disputes, and the ways fortified households supplanted courts, it exposes how class privilege and factional militias subverted legal norms. The portrayal of peasantry and townsfolk caught between levies, billeting, and confiscations interrogates the social costs of noble ambition and religious dogmatism. It also questions the moral calculus of conversion and raison d’état by showing the human toll of expediency. In dramatizing the hard-won necessity of toleration and centralized justice, the narrative indicts the systemic injustices that flourished when sovereignty fragmented and confession became a weapon.
Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times
TROUBLOUS TIMES.
CHAPTER I.
Whatever effect the institution of chivalry[1] might have upon the manners and customs of the people of Europe; however much it might mitigate the rudeness of the middle ages, and soften the character of nations just emerging from barbarism, there was one point which it left untouched by its softening influence, and which remained, till within a few years of the present period, as a case of great hardship upon those who are supposed to have benefited more particularly by the rise of chivalrous feeling. Women, to whose defence the knights of old devoted their swords: women, for whose honour and renown so many a gallant champion has shed his blood: women, for whose love so many wars have been kindled and so many deeds done, were, till within a short period of the present day, mere slaves in those matters where their own happiness was concerned. Their influence, it is true, might be great over the heart and mind, but in person, at least till after their marriage, they were simply bonds-women; they ruled without power even over themselves, and had no authority whatsoever in those transactions which were of the most importance to them.
Where parents were living--although even then it was thought scarcely necessary to consult a young woman upon the disposal of her own hand,--yet we may suppose that parental affection might occasionally enable her to exercise some influence, however small, in the acceptance or rejection of a lover. But where the parents were dead, she had for many centuries, especially in France, no voice whatever in the matter, and was consigned, often against her inclination, to the arms of one whom perhaps she had never seen, whom she often regarded with indifference, and often with hate. It is little to be wondered at that such a state of things produced gross immorality. The first act of a young woman's life, the act alone by which she obtained comparative freedom, being one by which all the fine and delicate sensibilities, planted by God in the female heart, were violated at once,--it is little to be wondered at, I say, that the vows by which men endeavoured to supply the place of principles, should be violated likewise at the voice of inclination.
The fault, however, was in the feudal system[2]; and the manner in which lands were first acquired in Europe, produced regulations for their transmission which generated the greatest social evils,--from the consequences of which indeed we are not yet altogether free. Each feoff was required to be held by a man who could do service to his sovereign in the field; and, consequently, when any vassal or vavasor died, leaving behind him one or more daughters, the law required that the feoff should be managed by a guardian till such time as, by marriage, the heiress[4] or heiresses could present men to do homage for their lands, and perform military service to the superior lord. Thus, an heiress could not marry without her lord's approbation; and by the constitutions of St. Louis[3] it was enacted, that, even where a daughter was left under the care of her mother, the lord might require security that she should not form an alliance without his consent; and the good king, in the rule which he lays down for the choice of a husband for a ward, directs the guardian simply, if there be two or three who offer, to take the richest.
As the feudal system declined in France, however, the power of the lord over his vassals of course diminished, and long before the end of the sixteenth century it was but little exercised by one nobleman over another. In cases where large inheritances fell to daughters, their marriages were made up in their own families; and though they themselves had, in general, as little choice allowed them as ever, yet their own relations were the persons who selected the future companions of their life. Thus fathers, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, had all far more to do with the marriage than the person whose weal or woe was to be affected by it.
When a father died, however, leaving his daughter to the care of a guardian, he transmitted to him the great power he himself possessed; and if the young lady were the heiress of great wealth, it generally happened that the person selected for her husband was a son or near relation of her guardian. Very often, indeed, her hand was made a matter of merchandise and sold to the best bidder, so that the guardianship of an heiress was not unfrequently a profitable speculation.
During the last half of the sixteenth century, indeed, almost all these rules and regulations were broken through, in the midst of the civil contentions which then existed in France; and we find several instances, even in the highest ranks of society, of children marrying against the will of their parents, when an opportunity was afforded them of escaping parental rule. Such was the case with the daughter of the Duke of Montpensier; but in this, as in many other instances, religious differences had their share, and the principle of liberty, which rose with the Protestant religion, affected even the relations of domestic life. To guard against the opportunities thus afforded, by the troubles of the times, for ladies to choose as they thought fit, many very violent and tyrannical acts were committed; and, on the other hand, where power could venture to outstep the law, shameful breaches of right and justice took place to get possession of the person of an heiress, who was looked upon and treated by all parties merely as the chief title-deed of the estate. Thus the celebrated Duke of Mayenne himself carried off by force out of Guienne, from the care of her own mother, Mademoiselle de Caumont[5] in order to marry her to one of his own sons, though she had been already contracted to another person from the very cradle.
Such a strange state of things was farther complicated by the rights of the monarch to certain privileges of guardianship, known by the name of gardes nobles, by which he was entitled, by himself or his officers, to take into his charge the estates and persons of certain orphans under age; and, according to the corrupt practices of the times, the tutelage of the royal wards, in particular provinces, was often made a matter of merchandise, and still more frequently was bestowed upon unworthy persons, and obtained by the most corrupt means.
To all these complicated and evil arrangements must be added another custom of those times, which perhaps was devised for the purpose of obviating some of the bad consequences of the existing state of things. I allude to the habit of affiancing at a very early period. Sometimes this engagement between the children of two noble houses was confirmed by every ceremony which could render the act inviolable in the eyes of the church and the eyes of the law: sometimes, however, a less solemn compact was entered into by the parents, subject to certain conditions, and these were frequently rescinded, changed, or modified, according to circumstances. In many instances the heiress of a noble house was left by a dying parent to the guardianship of a friend, under contract to marry that friend's heir on arriving at a fixed period of life; and in such circumstances, whatever might be her inclination to break this engagement, when her reason or her heart led her towards another union, she would have found it very difficult to escape from the trammels imposed upon her, even to take shelter within the walls of a convent.
It has seemed necessary to give these explanations in this introductory chapter, that the reader may clearly understand the circumstances of the parties in the following tale; and I shall only farther add, that at the time when the history is supposed to commence, a long period of strife and confusion had thrown the country into a state of anarchy, in which law was daily set at defiance, even for the pettiest objects; every evil passion found indulgence under the shield of faction; the most violent, the most unjust, and the most criminal proceedings took place in every part of the realm; might made right throughout the country; and the bigoted priesthood were generally found ready to assist in any dark plot or cunning scheme, where the interests of their patrons might be served, or the objects of their own order advanced.
At the same time, though tranquillity was in no degree recovered, everything was tending to its restoration. Henry III. who had sanctioned, instigated, or committed every sort of crime, had fallen under the knife of the assassin. Henri Quatre was daily strengthening his tottering throne by victory, clemency, and policy. The battle of Arques had been fought and won, and the king, with a small but veteran and gallant army, had advanced towards the capital and was besieging the town of Dreux.
CHAPTER II.
On the confines of Normandy, towards that part of Maine which joins the Orleanois, and nearly on a straight line between Mortagne and Orleans, lies a track of wild common land, unfit for cultivation. It is now covered with low bushes, stunted trees, gorse, fern, and brushwood, though often presenting patches of short grass, which serve as pasture-ground for the sheep and cattle of the neighbouring villages, which are few and far between.
The extent of this somewhat dreary district is about five miles in one direction and six in another, and it is broken by hill and dale, deep pits and quarries, rushy pools and swamps, over which at night hovers the will-o'-the-wisp[7], while every now and then a tall beech or wide spreading oak attests the existence in former days of an extensive forest, now only traditionary. On one of the hills towards Chartres appear the ruins of an old castle, which, though not referable to any very remote period, must have been a place of some strength, and below is a little hamlet, with a small church, containing several curious monuments, where knights are seen stretched in well sculptured armour, and leaguers in starched ruffs and slashed pourpoints, lie recumbent in grey stone.
Here, however, in times not very long gone, stretched one of those forests for which France was once famous, though the woods had been cut down some years before the Revolution, and, converted into gold, had furnished many a luxurious banquet, or been spent in revelry and ostentation. It never, indeed, was very extensive, when compared with many of the forests that surrounded it, but still, towards the end of the sixteenth century it possessed scenes of wild beauty rarely to be met with, and some of the finest trees in the country. Through a portion of the wood ran one of the many windings of the river Huisne; and the ground being hilly, as I have said, from the principal eminences, the winding course of that stream might be discovered for several miles, while here and there many a château, or maison forte, appeared in sight, filled with branches of the families of Sourdis, Estrées, Chazeul, de Harault, Liancourt, and others.
One or two village spires also graced the scene, but the eye could catch no town of any great magnitude, which was probably one of the reasons why that district had suffered less severely during the wars of the league than almost any other in France. Several causes, however, had combined to obtain for it this happy immunity. No Protestants were to be found in the immediate neighbourhood, and though all the gentlemen possessing property on the banks of the river were steady Catholics, yet they were in general attached to the cause of order and loyalty, and, while withheld by a feeling of bigotry from supporting in arms a monarch whom they considered a heretic, were unwilling to give the slightest aid to a faction, which they well knew had anything at heart but the maintenance of a religion which they used as a pretext for rebellion.
Thus the tide of war had rolled up the valleys of the Seine and of the Loire; Orleans had been a scene of strife and bloodshed; Alençon had been taken and retaken more than once; Dreux and Chartres had seen armies frequently under their walls; but the track I speak of, with the country round for several miles, had escaped the scourge of civil contention, and a truce, or convention, existed amongst the noblemen of that part of the country, by virtue of which each enjoyed his own in peace with his neighbours, and feared little the approach of hostile armies, as the ground was unfavourable to military evolutions; and nothing was to be obtained by marching through a country where no wealthy cities afforded an object either to cupidity or ambition.
When any great event was imminent, indeed, and the fortunes of France seemed to hang upon the result of an approaching battle, small bands of armed men hurrying up to join this force or that, would cross the district, carefully watched by the retainers of the different lords in the vicinity of the forest in order to prevent any outrage, and often the little village church would be thronged with soldiery, who in a few days after left their bones upon some bloody field; or at other times the wild hymns of the Huguenots would rise up at nightfall from the woodlands, in a strain of strange and scarcely earthly harmony. Then too, in the open field, the Calvinistic preacher would harangue his stern and determined brethren in language full of fiery enthusiasm, and often the Roman Catholic peasant would pause to listen, and go away almost convinced that the traditions to which he had so long clung were false and superstitious.
Few acts of violence, however, were heard of; and when any of the many bands of plunderers, who taking advantage of the anarchy of the times, scoured the country, pillaging and oppressing both parties alike, appeared in the woods and fields, the gentry, making common cause against them, soon drove them out to carry on their lawless trade elsewhere. Some severe acts of retribution too had been practised on those who were taken, and sometimes for weeks the old oaks were decorated with the acorns of Tristan the Hermit, as a warning to others of the same class to avoid the dangerous vicinity.
It was not wonderful, therefore, that, on a cold clear day, of the frosty spring of the year 159-, a stout, homely man, about forty years of age, dressed in a plain brown peasant's coat, with a black cloak and large riding boots, should ride along upon a strong bay horse, apparently quite at his ease, though night was not far distant. His dress and his whole appearance bespoke him a farmer well to do in the world; but farmers in those days were not above any of the acts required by their calling; and over the crupper of the horse was thrown a large sack of corn, either for sale or for provender.
I have said that the good peasant appeared quite at his ease, and so indeed he was, utterly unconscious of danger; but that did not imply that he went unprepared for defence, for those were times when such precautions had become habitual with all men. The very labourer went to the field with pike, or large knife, or arquebuse, if he could get it, and the good man we speak of had a long, broad, straight sword, with iron hilt and clasps, by his side, and two pistols at his saddle-bow. He was a strong, and seemingly an active man, too, though of no very bulky proportions, and somewhat short in stature; and there was an air of determination and vigour about him which would have made a single opponent think twice before he attacked him. Moreover, his countenance displayed a good deal of cool self-possessed nonchalance, if I may be permitted for once to use a foreign word, which showed that he was not one to sell either his corn or his life very cheap, and he rode his horse like one well accustomed to its back, and who found no difficulty in managing it at his will.
The evening, though, as I have said, very cold, was beautifully clear; the western sky was all gold and sunshine, the blades of grass, and the leaves that still hung upon the branches--which, like the ungrateful world, had cast off so many of their green companions in the dull moment of adversity--were all white with frost, and the road, though somewhat sandy in its materials, was as hard as adamant.
With a quick habitual motion of the eyes, the farmer glanced from right to left, marking everything around him as he advanced, and once, where the scene was more open and unencumbered with trees, halted for an instant and looked round. He still showed the careless confidence of his heart by humming from time to time snatches of a common song of the day, and once or twice laughed lightly at some thoughts which were passing in his own mind. His features were good, though somewhat too strongly marked, his eyes bright, and clear, his complexion ruddy with health and exposure, and his limbs well knit and strong from labour and hard exercise.
At length the worthy man, trotting on at no very quick pace, began to descend the side of one of the hills of the forest and entered a sort of wild dell, where small broken spots of turf were interspersed with clumps of younger trees, principally ashes and elms, while the older tenants of the wood hung upon the slopes higher up. At the bottom was a small stream of very clear water, flowing on towards the Huisne, through water-cresses and other plants of the brook, but now nearly frozen over, though towards the mid-course the quickness of the current, and perhaps the depth from which the fountain rose at no great distance, kept the water free from ice. A little wooden bridge spanned it over, leaving room for two horses abreast, but the old and congealed ruts at the side showed that the carts, which occasionally came along the road, passed through the stream itself; and some vehicle which had traversed the valley not long before had so far broken away the frozen surface of the rivulet, that the traveller had clear space to let his horse drink, before he crossed the bridge.
As he paused to do so, however, and slackened his rein for that purpose, he gazed round, and his eyes were quickly attracted by the sight of some objects not very pleasant to contemplate for a wayfarer in those days. About two hundred yards farther down the stream sat a party of some eight or nine men, with their horses tied by the foot, and feeding on the frosty grass as well as they could. Though the number was so small, a cornet, or ensign of a troop of cavalry, rested against a tree, for the ground was too hard to plant it in the earth in the usual manner; and the steel caps, corslets, and arms which each man bore, plainly showed the farmer that one of the wandering bands of soldiery, who were constantly marching hither and thither, to plunder or to fight, as the case might be, was now before him.
From the force they seemed to muster, the good farmer at once concluded that such an inefficient body was more likely to be engaged in a marauding expedition than in a march to join either the army of the King or the Duke of Mayenne; but the green and red scarfs which they wore evinced that, when engaged in regular military operations, it was to the party of the latter they were attached, though the district in which they now were generally favoured the royal cause.
However, as he himself, whatever his private opinions might be, bore no distinctive signs of either faction about him the traveller hoped that he might be suffered to pass unmolested, especially as his dress and appearance offered no great show of wealth; and, therefore, without displaying the slightest concern or apprehension, he suffered his horse to conclude his draught, and then was preparing to resume his journey, when, after a brief consultation, one of the soldiers advanced at a quick pace on foot, and planted himself on the opposite side of the bridge, while another ran higher up the hill, and the rest rose slowly from the ground, and began to untie their horses.
All these movements were remarked by the traveller; but still he maintained his air of easy carelessness till the soldier who had placed himself opposite advanced a step or two towards him, exclaiming, in an impatient tone, as if irritated by his apathy, "Qui vive?"
The farmer was not without his reply, however, though, to say "Long live the king," which he might be inclined to do, would have been a dangerous experiment, and he therefore replied, without the least hesitation, "Vive la France!"
"Come, come, master peasant, that will not do," exclaimed the other, advancing upon him, pistol in hand; "thou art some accursed Politic! Are you for the Holy Union or Henry of Bourbon?"
"Nay, good Sir, do not be angry," replied the farmer; "I am a poor man of no party. I have nothing to do with these matters at present, and mind only my own concerns."
"If thou art of no party," said the soldier, "thou art an enemy to both. So, get off thy horse; I have a fancy for him."
"Nay, I pray you," cried the other, "do not take my beast. How am I to carry my corn?"
"We will save you that trouble," rejoined the soldier, with the courtesy usual on such occasions; "and if you have any weight of gold upon you, we will deliver you of that burden also. So, get off at once, Master What's-your-name, or I will send you off with a pistol-shot."
"My name is Chasseron," answered the peasant, "and a name well known for wronging no man; but if I must get off and part with my poor beast, I pray you help me down with the corn, for I cannot dismount till it is away.--But if you will leave me the nag," he added, "I will pay you his full value, if you will come to my place. He and I have been old friends, and I would fain not part with him."
"Get down! get down!" cried the soldier impatiently. "Clumsy boor, can't you dismount with a sack behind you?" and at the same moment he came nearer and laid his hand upon the load.
The instant he did so, the farmer thrust his strong hand between his cuirass and his neck, half strangling him with his large knuckles; and with his right drawing a pistol from his saddle-bow, he brought the muzzle close to his ear, exclaiming, "Now, master, I see you have some command, by your scarf. So if the way be not cleared very speedily, you shall go up or down as the case may be, without any brains in your skull. I've got one life under my fist, and they can but take one in return, so now we shall see how they love you. Don't struggle, or you shall soon struggle no more; but turn round, tell them to get out of the way, and then march on with me to the top of hill."
"I can't turn," said the soldier, in a rueful tone.
"Oh, then, I'll turn you," answered Chasseron with a laugh; and without quitting his hold, he whirled his adversary round with prodigious strength, lifting him nearly off the ground as he did so. "Now drop your pistol," he continued. "Drop it this instant!"
The man did so; and, touching his horse gently with his heel, the stout farmer put him into a slow walk, while several of the marauders ran forward to see what was going on.
"Bid them back!" cried Chasseron, jogging his companion's head with the muzzle of his weapon. "Bid them back, or you are a dead man, without shrift."
"Keep off! keep off, Beauvois," cried his adversary. "Keep off, La Motte, or by the Holy Virgin he will kill me!"
"That I will," muttered Chasseron heartily; and the soldiers halted for an instant as if to consult. But your good companion of those days was not very careful of a comrade's life; and it seemed to be soon agreed that the insolence of the farmer was not to be tolerated out of any consideration for the gentleman in his hands. There was, therefore, some cocking of pistols and looking at pans, with various other indications of coming strife.
Chasseron, however, continued to advance, dragging his captive along, and keeping a watchful eye upon all the proceedings of the enemy, while the poor fellow in his hands shouted again and again to the hard ears of his companions to hold back for God's sake. They on their part paid little attention to his petitions; and, in a moment or two, several of the soldiers began to creep closer, in order to get within pistol-shot, while the rest mounted their horses as if to make an attack on the rear of the enemy. No sooner had the foremost of those on foot reached a fitting distance, than he began to take a deliberate aim at the horseman; but the latter, muttering to himself, "This is unpleasant, Pardie!" turned suddenly towards him, withdrew the pistol from the ear of the fellow whom he held, levelled it at the other, and fired. The man went down in a moment, his weapon discharging itself in the air as he fell.
At the same time the captive struggled hard in the hands of Chasseron, and, by a sudden effort, grasped his dagger to stab him before he could resist. But the farmer was still quicker in his movements, his other pistol was drawn in an instant and once more at his friend's head, and while two shots from the enemy passed close to him, one grazing his arm, the other going through his hat, he exclaimed, "Throw down the dague[6], or you are a dead man!"
The order was obeyed in an instant; but it was repeated with regard to the sword, which was also cast to the ground at a word; and then to the surprise of the Leaguer, he was instantly set free.
"Now," cried Chasseron, "I give you your life. Run back as hard as you can to your comrades; and, if you have any command over them, bid them leave off attacking a man, who never did them any harm."
His prisoner required not two biddings to take to his heels; and the good farmer, setting spurs to his horse, galloped up the hill as hard as he could go, while the men who had mounted pursued him, at full speed, firing at him as he went, and the soldier, who had at first ran on upon the road, cast himself in the way, prepared to stop his advance.
As it was now a flight and pursuit, one moment was a matter of life and death to the farmer; and as he rode on upon the enemy before him, he leveled his remaining pistol and fired. Though now at full speed, his aim was not less true than before; but the ball striking his adversary's steel cap in an oblique direction, glanced off without wounding him, and the soldier fired in turn without effect. Drawing his sword, the farmer galloped on; but he had to do with a resolute and powerful opponent in the man who barred the way; the others were coming up at a furious pace, and the life of poor Master Chasseron was in no light peril, when suddenly a party of four horsemen, well mounted and armed, appeared on the top of the hill, riding quickly, as if attracted by the report of the firearms.
Now they might be friends, or they might be enemies; but Chasseron determined to look upon them as the former, till they proved themselves otherwise; and, waving his hand towards them, he cried, "Help! help! Hurrah!" and, as his antagonist in front turned to see who they were, he let fall a blow on his cap, which brought him on his knee. The farmer was obliged instantly to wheel, however, to defend himself against those who followed; and with wonderful strength and agility he crossed swords with one, threw his discharged pistol at the face of another, knocking out some of his front teeth, and watched a third, who was somewhat behind.
However unequal might be the combat, he maintained it gallantly, while the appearance of the fresh party, now galloping down at full speed, made his enemies hesitate in their operations. Nor was the cry of "Vive le Roy!" which came from the advancing cavaliers, nor the sight of the white scarfs with which they were decorated, calculated to reassure the Leaguers. The men who had remained below on foot, however, now rushed up; and, withdrawing from the attack upon the farmer to meet the more honourable adversaries who were by this time close upon them, they attempted to give some little array to their front, and to recharge their pistols.
But before this could be done, the new comers were amongst them; Chasseron turned to give his powerful aid; white scarfs and green were mingled together in a moment; and, after a brief struggle, the Leaguers were driven down into the valley with the loss of two of their number. After attempting to make a stand at the bridge they were put to flight; and springing from their horses, the men who had mounted followed the example of those on foot, and took refuge in the wood, whither the victors did not think fit to pursue them. As soon as it was clear that resistance had ceased, the successful party halted by the stream, surrounding the good peasant with whom the strife began; while he, on his part, hat in hand, thanked them heartily for his deliverance.
"Parbleu!" he exclaimed, "if you had not come up, Monsieur, I should have lost my wheat and my money too. I had killed one of them, and might have got the better of two more; but I do not think I could have managed all the seven."
These words were addressed to a young gentleman apparently not more than one or two and twenty years of age. His complexion was pale, but clear; his eyes dark and thoughtful; his deep brown hair waving from under his hat, for he wore no defensive arms, and his short beard curling round his mouth and chin. All the features of his face were remarkably fine and delicate, but the forehead was broad and high, and the eyebrows strongly marked. His whole air, and the expression of his countenance, were grave and thoughtful; and although he had led the others in their charge with gallant determination, yet it had been with calm coolness which displayed not the slightest sign of vehemence or emotion. The quick-eyed farmer had remarked also that he had contented himself with driving back the enemy, and defending his own person, without striking at any one or using the pistols with which his saddle-bow was garnished. In person he was tall and well made, though neither much above the ordinary height, nor apparently particularly robust. His carriage, however, was graceful; and he sat his horse with ease and power, managing it during the combat as if well accustomed to the tilt yard if not to the battle field, and drawing it suddenly up by the side of the stream when he saw that the other party had betaken themselves to the wood.
To the address of the good countryman he replied briefly, saying, "You are very welcome, my good Sir; though I am not fond of such affairs, nor much habituated to them. Neither are you, I should suppose; and yet you seem to have defended yourself skilfully and vigorously.--Are you not hurt?"
"Not a whit!" answered the farmer; "and as to defending myself, that's an old trade of mine; I have borne arms in my day, though I have given that occupation up for the present; but there is many a man in the army remembers Michael Chasseron. I did not wish to hurt any one, if they would have let me pass quietly; so what they have got is their own fault. And now we may as well see to their baggage: there may be curious things amongst it."
"That you may do if you like," replied the young gentleman; "neither I nor my servants can have anything to do with plunder."
"Nor I either," answered the farmer; "I am always content with my own, if I could but get it; but these good men may have other things upon them besides gold and silver. Papers, young gentleman, papers which may be serviceable to the King; and for those, by your good leave, I will look, begging you to stand by me for a minute or two, lest our friends come out from their hiding-holes again."
"Willingly, willingly," said his companion, "that is a laudable object, and in that we will help you." Thus saying he dismounted himself, and bidding two of his servants do the same, proceeded with Chasseron to search the bodies of those who had fallen, three horses which remained tied to a tree, and some baggage which had been left on the ground where the Leaguers had been sitting.
In a small leather bag buckled on the back of one of the chargers was found a packet of letters and papers regarding the movements of various bodies of men, which the good farmer examined with a curious eye. He then handed them to the young gentleman, who had come down to his assistance, saying. "You had better take them to the King, Sir."
"Nay," replied the stranger, "take them yourself, my good friend; I am not going to the camp; and if this intelligence be of importance you may get rewarded."
The farmer shook his head, laughing. "His Majesty," he said, "has scarcely money, I hear, to buy himself a dinner. But I will take them, for if I don't go myself, I will ensure that he gets them; and now let us look at that fellow I cut over the head upon the hill, if we leave him there, he will be frozen to death tonight, and that would be scarce christian."
On approaching the spot where the man lay, they found him still alive, though bleeding and stunned by the blow he had received. After some consultation they took him up and placed him across one of the Leaguers' horses; and Chasseron then laid his hand upon his brow, saying thoughtfully, "Where shall we take him? The nearest place is Marzay, M. de Liancourt's château; but I don't rightly know whether they will give me shelter there for the night; and this business has stopped me so, that I shall not be able to get to Marolles before dark."
"Oh I will answer for your welcome, my good friend," replied the young gentleman, "I am going to Marzay myself; M. de Liancourt is my uncle."
"Well then, we will come along," replied the farmer, mounting his horse again; and, the wounded man being given into the charge of one of the gentleman's servants, they rode on up the hill, Chasseron keeping in front with the leader of the party.
After they had gone about two hundred yards at a slow pace, the farmer turned towards his companion, who had fallen into a silent reverie, and looking in his face for a moment he said, "I could almost swear I have seen you somewhere before; but yet I know that can't be, for it is some fifteen years ago."
"I must have been a child then," replied the cavalier, "for I have yet to see three-and-twenty."
"It was your father, I suppose," continued Chasseron, "he was then a young man, and you are as like him as one leaf on a tree is to another."
"What might be his name?" asked the stranger, with a faint smile; "give me that, and I will soon tell you if it was my father."
"That is easily done," replied the farmer; "his name was Louis de la Grange, Baron de Montigni. He was a good soldier, and a good man."
"You are right," said the young gentleman; "such was my father's name, and such was his character; but he has been dead now more than ten years."
"Ah so I heard," answered Chasseron; "we must all die, and the great reaper generally takes the best ears, and leaves the worthless ones standing. I am glad to see his son, however.--But how comes it, Sir, that you are not with the King? Many a man younger than you fought at Arques, I believe."
"That is not improbable," replied De Montigni; "but my uncle sent me to Padua to study, and laid his injunctions on me to remain there. Neither, to say the truth, did I feel much inclination to take part in all this strife, at least so long as the present King was in arms against his sovereign."
"Parbleu! I do not see how he could help it," cried Chasseron; "if he could not believe the Catholic doctrines, and they held a dagger to his throat and bade him swear he did believe them, he had but one choice, either to tell a lie, or knock the dagger out of their hands."
"I do not blame him," replied the young nobleman, "and for that very reason I felt unwilling either to take arms for my King or against him. Besides, I have friends on both sides, am not very fond of shedding blood, and, to tell the truth, my friend, I found better society amongst the dead than amongst the living. I mea--"
"Oh, I understand what you mean," answered the farmer: "you mean you loved your books better than hard blows."
The young gentleman's cheek grew somewhat red; "I am not afraid of blows," he said, "and I think you have had no occasion to suppose so."
"Pardie, no!" replied Chasseron frankly; "and I should not blame you if you were. I am a very peaceable man myself, when men will let me alone; and I desire nothing but to enjoy my own in tranquillity; so if you could find peace at Padua with Horace, and Cicero, and Virgil, you were quite right to take it."
"You seem to know something of such studies," said the young Baron de Montigni, with a smile.
"Oh yes," replied Chasseron: "I see you judge by externals alone, my young friend; and because I am here a poor cultivator of the soil, you think that I am a mere peasant; but I am of gentle blood like yourself--hold my own land, what is left of it; and your friend Virgil should have taught you that there is no degradation in agriculture; so that, though I have for a time beaten my sword into a reaping-hook, I am not a bit the worse gentleman for that."
"Nay, God forbid," replied the young gentleman, "I hold it one of the most honourable employments a man can follow; but you must not censure me for seeking occupation in my books, as you say, while you seek occupation in your fields."
"There is some difference, however," replied Chasseron; "in living with the dead as you say, you cut yourself off from doing good to the living, which ought to be the great object of each man's life. You may tell me, that amongst those great men, those sages of antiquity, you can best learn how to live, and gain precepts to be applied to your future conduct; but there is a danger in being too long a learner; and, in studying precepts all your life, you may forget ever to apply them. Each man has duties, and those of busy times like these are active ones. One's king, one's country, one's friends, one's relations, one's fellow-citizens, all have claims upon us which the dead have not; and the exercise of our abilities affords lessons for our conduct[1q], to which all the maxims of philosophers and moralists are but bubbles."
"Methinks," replied De Montigni, "that the cultivator of the soil is not much more called into active life than the cultivator of letters."
"Your pardon, your pardon, worthy Sir," answered the farmer; "he is always mingling with his fellow-creatures; he is ever ready to take his part with the rest when need shall be; he is daily benefiting mankind, and not spending his life in studying how; he is still learning more, even while he is enacting much; and, by the practice of what is right, he learns to do it well."
The young gentleman smiled gaily, but changed the subject, saying, "Perhaps you are right; but now tell me, as you seem to have studied all these things deeply, and most likely have lived with your eyes open to all that has taken place, what has been doing here of late, and what is the real state of France? for, but imperfect and maimed accounts reach us in foreign lands, perverted by the prejudices of men, and coloured by all the passions of the relators. Nor have I indeed paid much attention to what I heard, till I was summoned back by my uncle; for the only tidings that reached us, came through the League, except once or twice, when some Royalists passed by Venice."
"Your question is a wide one," replied Chasseron, "and I should have to write a history to tell you. It is but needful to say, that France is growing tired of the League; men are recovering from the fever which had driven them mad. The King, now with many, now with few, is still gaining ground on his enemies; but his friends are sometimes more mischievous to him than his foes. Half the Catholics serve him coldly, intrigue in his very camp, his court, and at his table, because he is a heretic. The Huguenots murmur and complain because he is obliged to buy, bribe, and reward their adversaries. Both fight well when there is a battle or a siege, but both are well inclined to leave him when he is obliged to spend his time in those slow and difficult movements, which are no less necessary in a campaign than the combat or the storming party. In the meanwhile, fed with foreign gold, supported by foreign troops, confederated with the implacable enemies of the land, and slaughtering Frenchmen with the swords of the Spaniard, the only hold which the League have upon the people of France is the frail pretext of religion, the almost incurable anarchy into which they have thrown the country, and the possession of a number of towns and fortresses, lands, governments, and territories, which those who have grasped them are unwilling to resign and know they can only retain so long as this great serpent of the League remains uncrushed."
"But let me hear," rejoined the young baron, "if you can tell me why, when the King had Paris at his mercy, he did not make himself master of it. If I have been informed aright, he could have taken it in an hour?"
"Perhaps he might," replied Chasseron, "and yet he did not. I think it was very foolish of him, for my part; but still there would have been terrible bloodshed, many thousands of good citizens would have perished, the capital would have been a scene of slaughter, violence, and devastation, such as the world has seldom witnessed. After all, perhaps it is as well for a King not to do all that a King can do; and yet the Parisians deserved no great mercy at his hands. But he, poor foolish man, chose rather to wander about fighting here and fighting there, sleeping hard, sometimes half starved, and working day and night, than take their beds from under these rebellious citizens, or give their wives and daughters up to his soldiers."
"And he was right," cried De Montigni warmly, "and God will bless him for it. If I am not much mistaken, that act will set him firmly on the throne of France."
"Perhaps so," said the farmer, "but old soldiers get hardened to such things, and men do marvel and grumble too, that when he could have terminated this long and desolating war by one bold and severe stroke, he should have hesitated for the sake of the most rebellious race in France. There is much to be said on either side, and I am inclined to think myself that the King was wrong, though I was of a different opinion at the time."
