Вальтер Скотт
Quentin Durward
It was in that moment when a King might see upon what tempers he could certainly rely. The few independent nobles and knights who attended Louis, most of whom had only received from him frowns or discountenance, unappalled by the display of infinitely superior force, and the certainty of destruction in case they came to blows, hastened to array themselves around Dunois, and, led by him, to press towards the head of the table where the contending Princes were seated.
On the contrary, the tools and agents whom Louis had dragged forward out of their fitting and natural places into importance which was not due to them, showed cowardice and cold heart, and, remaining still in their seats, seemed resolved not to provoke their fate by intermeddling, whatever might become of their benefactor.
The first of the more generous party was the venerable Lord Crawford, who, with an agility which no one would have expected at his years, forced his way through all opposition (which was the less violent, as many of the Burgundians, either from a point of honour, or a secret inclination to prevent Louis’s impending fate, gave way to him), and threw himself boldly between the King and the Duke. He then placed his bonnet, from which his white hair escaped in dishevelled tresses, upon one side of his head – his pale cheek and withered brow coloured, and his aged eye lightened with all the fire of a gallant who is about to dare some desperate action. His cloak was flung over one shoulder, and his action intimated his readiness to wrap it about his left arm, while he unsheathed his sword with his right.
“I have fought for his father and his grandsire,” that was all he said, “and by Saint Andrew, end the matter as it will, I will not fail him at this pinch.”
What has taken some time to narrate, happened, in fact, with the speed of light; for so soon as the Duke assumed his threatening posture, Crawford had thrown himself betwixt him and the object of his vengeance; and the French gentlemen, drawing together as fast as they could, were crowding to the same point.
The Duke of Burgundy still remained with his hand on his sword, and seemed in the act of giving the signal for a general onset, which must necessarily have ended in the massacre of the weaker party, when Crevecoeur rushed forward, and exclaimed in a voice like a trumpet, “My liege Lord of Burgundy, beware what you do! This is your hall – you are the King’s vassal – do not spill the blood of your guest on your hearth, the blood of your Sovereign on the throne you have erected for him, and to which he came under your safeguard. For the sake of your house’s honour, do not attempt to revenge one horrid murder by another yet worse!”
“Out of my road, Crevecoeur,” answered the Duke, “and let my vengeance pass! – Out of my path! The wrath of kings is to be dreaded like that of Heaven.”
“Only when, like that of Heaven, it is just,” answered Crevecoeur firmly. “Let me pray of you, my lord, to rein the violence of your temper, however justly offended. – And for you, my Lords of France, where resistance is unavailing, let me recommend you to forbear whatever may lead towards bloodshed.”
“He is right,” said Louis, whose coolness forsook him not in that dreadful moment, and who easily foresaw that if a brawl should commence, more violence would be dared and done in the heat of blood than was likely to be attempted if peace were preserved.
“My cousin Orleans – kind Dunois – and you, my trusty Crawford – bring not on ruin and bloodshed by taking offence too hastily. Our cousin the Duke is chafed at the tidings of the death of a near and loving friend, the venerable Bishop of Liege, whose slaughter we lament as he does. Ancient, and, unhappily, recent subjects of jealousy lead him to suspect us of having abetted a crime which our bosom abhors. Should our host murder us on this spot – us, his King and his kinsman, under a false impression of our being accessory to this unhappy accident, our fate will be little lightened, but, on the contrary, greatly aggravated, by your stirring. – Therefore stand back, Crawford. – Were it my last word, I speak as a King to his officer, and demand obedience. – Stand back, and, if it is required, yield up your sword. I command you to do so, and your oath obliges you to obey.”
“True, true, my lord,” said Crawford, stepping back, and returning to the sheath the blade he had half drawn. – “It may be all very true; but, by my honour, if I were at the head of threescore and ten of my brave fellows, instead of being loaded with more than the like number of years, I would try whether I could have some reason out of these fine gallants, with their golden chains and looped up bonnets, with braw warld dyes [gaudy colors] and devices on them.”
The Duke stood with his eyes fixed on the ground for a considerable space, and then said, with bitter irony, “Crevecoeur, you say well; and it concerns our honour that our obligations to this great King, our honoured and loving guest, be not so hastily adjusted, as in our hasty anger we had at first proposed. We will so act that all Europe shall acknowledge the justice of our proceedings. – Gentlemen of France, you must render up your arms to my officers! Your master has broken the truce, and has no title to take farther benefit of it. In compassion, however, to your sentiments of honour, and in respect to the rank which he hath disgraced, and the race from which he hath degenerated, we ask not our cousin Louis’s sword.”
“Not one of us,” said Dunois, “will resign our weapon, or quit this hall, unless we are assured of at least our King’s safety, in life and limb.”
“Nor will a man of the Scottish Guard,” exclaimed Crawford, “lay down his arms, save at the command of the King of France, or his High Constable.”
“Brave Dunois,” said Louis, “and you, my trusty Crawford, your zeal will do me injury instead of benefit. – I trust,” he added with dignity, “in my rightful cause, more than in a vain resistance, which would but cost the lives of my best and bravest. Give up your swords. – The noble Burgundians, who accept such honourable pledges, will be more able than you are to protect both you and me. – Give up your swords. – It is I who command you.”
It was thus that, in this dreadful emergency, Louis showed the promptitude of decision and clearness of judgment which alone could have saved his life. He was aware that, until actual blows were exchanged, he should have the assistance of most of the nobles present to moderate the fury of their Prince; but that, were a melee once commenced, he himself and his few adherents must be instantly murdered. At the same time, his worst enemies confessed that his demeanour had in it nothing either of meanness or cowardice. He shunned to aggravate into frenzy the wrath of the Duke; but he neither deprecated nor seemed to fear it, and continued to look on him with the calm and fixed attention with which a brave man eyes the menacing gestures of a lunatic, whilst conscious that his own steadiness and composure operate as an insensible and powerful check on the rage even of insanity.
Crawford, at the King’s command, threw his sword to Crevecoeur, saying, “Take it! and the devil give you joy of it. – It is no dishonour to the rightful owner who yields it, for we have had no fair play.”
“Hold, gentlemen,” said the Duke in a broken voice, as one whom passion had almost deprived of utterance, “retain your swords; it is sufficient you promise not to use them. And you, Louis of Valois, must regard yourself as my prisoner, until you are cleared of having abetted sacrilege and murder. Have him to the Castle. – Have him to Earl Herbert’s Tower. Let him have six gentlemen of his train to attend him, such as he shall choose. – My Lord of Crawford, your guard must leave the Castle, and shall be honourably quartered elsewhere. Up with every drawbridge, and down with every portcullis. – Let the gates of the town be trebly guarded. – Draw the floating bridge to the right hand side of the river. – Bring round the Castle my band of Black Walloons [regiments of Dutch troops, wearing black armour], and treble the sentinels on every post! – You, D’Hymbercourt, look that patrols of horse and foot make the round of the town every half hour during the night and every hour during the next day – if indeed such ward shall be necessary after daybreak, for it is like we may be sudden in this matter. – Look to the person of Louis, as you love your life.”
He started from the table in fierce and moody haste, darted a glance of mortal enmity at the King, and rushed out of the apartment.
“Sirs,” said the King, looking with dignity around him, “grief for the death of his ally hath made your Prince frantic. I trust you know better your duty, as knights and noblemen, than to abet him in his treasonable violence against the person of his liege Lord.”
At this moment was heard in the streets the sound of drums beating, and horns blowing, to call out the soldiery in every direction.
“We are,” said Crevecoeur, who acted as the Marshal of the Duke’s household, “subjects of Burgundy, and must do our duty as such. Our hopes and prayers, and our efforts, will not be wanting to bring about peace and union between your Majesty and our liege Lord. Meantime, we must obey his commands. These other lords and knights will be proud to contribute to the convenience of the illustrious Duke of Orleans, of the brave Dunois, and the stout Lord Crawford. I myself must be your Majesty’s chamberlain, and bring you to your apartments in other guise than would be my desire, remembering the hospitality of Plessis. You have only to choose your attendants, whom the Duke’s commands limit to six.”
“Then,” said the King, looking around him, and thinking for a moment – “I desire the attendance of Oliver le Dain, of a private of my Life Guard called Balafre, who may be unarmed if you will – of Tristan l’Hermite, with two of his people – and my right royal and trusty philosopher, Martius Galeotti.”
“Your Majesty’s will shall be complied with in all points,” said the Count de Crevecoeur. “Galeotti,” he added, after a moment’s inquiry, “is, I understand, at present supping in some buxom company, but he shall instantly be sent for; the others will obey your Majesty’s command upon the instant.”
“Forward, then, to the new abode, which the hospitality of our cousin provides for us,” said the King. “We know it is strong, and have only to hope it may be in a corresponding degree safe.”
“Heard you the choice which King Louis has made of his attendants?” said Le Glorieux to Count Crevecoeur apart, as they followed Louis from the hall.
“Surely, my merry gossip,” replied the Count. “What hast thou to object to them?”
“Nothing, nothing – only they are a rare election! – A panderly barber – a Scottish hired cutthroat – a chief hangman and his two assistants, and a thieving charlatan. – I will along with you, Crevecoeur, and take a lesson in the degrees of roguery, from observing your skill in marshalling them. The devil himself could scarce have summoned such a synod, or have been a better president amongst them.”
Accordingly, the all licensed jester, seizing the Count’s arm familiarly, began to march along with him, while, under a strong guard, yet forgetting no semblance of respect, he conducted the King towards his new apartment.
[The historical facts attending this celebrated interview are expounded and enlarged upon in this chapter. Agents sent by Louis had tempted the people of Liege to rebel against their superior, Duke Charles, and persecute and murder their Bishop. But Louis was not prepared for their acting with such promptitude. They flew to arms with the temerity of a fickle rabble, took the Bishop prisoner, menaced and insulted him, and tore to pieces one or two of his canons. This news was sent to the Duke of Burgundy at the moment when Louis had so unguardedly placed himself in his power; and the consequence was that Charles placed guards on the Castle of Peronne, and, deeply resenting the treachery of the king of France in exciting sedition in his dominions, while he pretended the most intimate friendship, he deliberated whether he should not put Louis to death. Three days Louis was detained in this very precarious situation, and it was only his profuse liberality amongst Charles’s favourites and courtiers which finally ensured him from death or deposition. Comines, who was the Duke of Burgundy’s chamberlain at the time, and slept in his apartment, says Charles neither undressed nor slept, but flung himself from time to time on the bed, and, at other times, wildly traversed the apartment. It was long before his violent temper became in any degree tractable. At length he only agreed to give Louis his liberty, on condition of his accompanying him in person against, and employing his troops in subduing, the mutineers whom his intrigues had instigated to arms. This was a bitter and degrading alternative. But Louis, seeing no other mode of compounding for the effects of his rashness, not only submitted to this discreditable condition, but swore to it upon a crucifix said to have belonged to Charlemagne. These particulars are from Comines. There is a succinct epitome of them in Sir Nathaniel Wraxall’s History of France, vol. i. – S.]
CHAPTER XXVIII: UNCERTAINTY
Then happy low, lie down;
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV.
Forty men at arms, carrying alternately naked swords and blazing torches, served as the escort, or rather the guard, of King Louis, from the town hall of Peronne to the Castle; and as he entered within its darksome and gloomy strength, it seemed as if a voice screamed in his ear that warning which the Florentine has inscribed over the portal of the infernal regions, “Leave all hope behind.”
[The Florentine (1265-1321): Dante Alighieri, the greatest of Italian poets. The Divine Comedy, his chief work, describes his passage through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven; the inscription here referred to Dante places at the entrance of Hell.]
At that moment, perhaps, some feeling of remorse might have crossed the King’s mind, had he thought on the hundreds, nay, thousands whom, without cause, or on light suspicion, he had committed to the abysses of his dungeons, deprived of all hope of liberty, and loathing even the life to which they clung by animal instinct.
The broad glare of the torches outfacing the pale moon, which was more obscured on this than on the former night, and the red smoky light which they dispersed around the ancient buildings, gave a darker shade to that huge donjon, called the Earl Herbert’s Tower. It was the same that Louis had viewed with misgiving presentiment on the preceding evening, and of which he was now doomed to become an inhabitant, under the terror of what violence soever the wrathful temper of his overgrown vassal might tempt him to exercise in those secret recesses of despotism.
To aggravate the King’s painful feelings, he saw, as he crossed the courtyard, one or two bodies, over each of which had been hastily flung a military cloak. He was not long in discerning that they were corpses of slain Archers of the Scottish Guard, who having disputed, as the Count Crevecoeur informed him, the command given them to quit the post near the King’s apartments, a brawl had ensued between them and the Duke’s Walloon bodyguards, and before it could be composed by the officers on either side, several lives had been lost.
“My trusty Scots!” said the King as he looked upon this melancholy spectacle; “had they brought only man to man, all Flanders, ay, and Burgundy to boot, had not furnished champions to mate you.”
“Yes, an it please your Majesty,” said Balafre, who attended close behind the King, “Maistery mows the meadow [maist, a Scotch form of most. That is, there is strength in numbers] – few men can fight more than two at once. – I myself never care to meet three, unless it be in the way of special duty, when one must not stand to count heads.”
“Art thou there, old acquaintance,” said the King, looking behind him; “then I have one true subject with me yet.”
“And a faithful minister, whether in your councils, or in his offices about your royal person,” whispered Oliver le Dain.
“We are all faithful,” said Tristan l’Hermite gruffly; “for should they put to death your Majesty, there is not one of us whom they would suffer to survive you, even if we would.”
“Now, that is what I call good corporal bail for fidelity,” said Le Glorieux, who, as already mentioned, with the restlessness proper to an infirm brain, had thrust himself into their company.
Meanwhile the Seneschal, hastily summoned, was turning with laborious effort the ponderous key which opened the reluctant gate of the huge Gothic Keep, and was at last fain to call for the assistance of one of Crevecoeur’s attendants. When they had succeeded, six men entered with torches, and showed the way through a narrow and winding passage, commanded at different points by shot holes from vaults and casements constructed behind, and in the thickness of the massive walls. At the end of this passage arose a stair of corresponding rudeness, consisting of huge blocks of stone, roughly dressed with the hammer, and of unequal height. Having mounted this ascent, a strong iron clenched door admitted them to what had been the great hall of the donjon, lighted but very faintly even during the daytime (for the apertures, diminished, in appearance by the excessive thickness of the walls, resembled slits rather than windows), and now but for the blaze of the torches, almost perfectly dark. Two or three bats, and other birds of evil presage, roused by the unusual glare, flew against the lights, and threatened to extinguish them; while the Seneschal formally apologized to the King that the State Hall had not been put in order, such was the hurry of the notice sent to him, adding that, in truth, the apartment had not been in use for twenty years, and rarely before that time, so far as ever he had heard, since the time of King Charles the Simple.
“King Charles the Simple!” echoed Louis; “I know the history of the Tower now. – He was here murdered by his treacherous vassal, Herbert, Earl of Vermandois. – So say our annals. I knew there was something concerning the Castle of Peronne which dwelt on my mind, though I could not recall the circumstance. – Here, then, my predecessor was slain!”
“Not here, not exactly here, and please your Majesty,” said the old Seneschal, stepping with the eager haste of a cicerone who shows the curiosities of such a place.
“Not here, but in the side chamber a little onward, which opens from your Majesty’s bedchamber.”
He hastily opened a wicket at the upper end of the hall, which led into a bedchamber, small, as is usual in those old buildings; but, even for that reason, rather more comfortable than the waste hall through which they had passed. Some hasty preparations had been here made for the King’s accommodation. Arras had been tacked up, a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been long unused, and a pallet laid down for those gentlemen who were to pass the night in his chamber, as was then usual.
“We will get beds in the hall for the rest of your attendants,” said the garrulous old man; “but we have had such brief notice, if it please your Majesty. – And if it please your Majesty to look upon this little wicket behind the arras, it opens into the little old cabinet in the thickness of the wall where Charles was slain; and there is a secret passage from below, which admitted the men who were to deal with him. And your Majesty, whose eyesight I hope is better than mine, may see the blood still on the oak floor, though the thing was done five hundred years ago.”
While he thus spoke, he kept fumbling to open the postern of which he spoke, until the King said, “Forbear, old man – forbear but a little while, when thou mayst have a newer tale to tell, and fresher blood to show. – My Lord of Crevecoeur, what say you?”
“I can but answer, Sire, that these two interior apartments are as much at your Majesty’s disposal as those in your own Castle at Plessis, and that Crevecoeur, a name never blackened by treachery or assassination, has the guard of the exterior defences of it.”
“But the private passage into that closet, of which the old man speaks?” This King Louis said in a low and anxious tone, holding Crevecoeur’s arm fast with one hand, and pointing to the wicket door with the other.
“It must be some dream of Mornay’s,” said Crevecoeur, “or some old and absurd tradition of the place; but we will examine.”
He was about to open the closet door, when Louis answered, “No, Crevecoeur, no. – Your honour is sufficient warrant. – But what will your Duke do with me, Crevecoeur? He cannot hope to keep me long a prisoner; and – in short, give me your opinion, Crevecoeur.”
“My Lord, and Sire,” said the Count, “how the Duke of Burgundy must resent this horrible cruelty on the person of his near relative and ally, is for your Majesty to judge; and what right he may have to consider it as instigated by your Majesty’s emissaries, you only can know. But my master is noble in his disposition, and made incapable, even by the very strength of his passions, of any underhand practices. Whatever he does, will be done in the face of day, and of the two nations. And I can but add, that it will be the wish of every counsellor around him – excepting perhaps one – that he should behave in this matter with mildness and generosity, as well as justice.”
“Ah! Crevecoeur,” said Louis, taking his hand as if affected by some painful recollections, “how happy is the Prince who has counsellors near him, who can guard him against the effects of his own angry passions! Their names will be read in golden letters, when the history of his reign is perused. – Noble Crevecoeur, had it been my lot to have such as thou art about my person!”
“It had in that case been your Majesty’s study to have got rid of them as fast as you could,” said Le Glorieux.
“Aha! Sir Wisdom, art thou there?” said Louis, turning round, and instantly changing the pathetic tone in which he had addressed Crevecoeur, and adopting with facility one which had a turn of gaiety in it. – “Hast thou followed us hither?”
“Ay, Sir,” answered Le Glorieux, “Wisdom must follow, in motley, where Folly leads the way in purple.”
“How shall I construe that, Sir Solomon?” answered Louis. “Wouldst thou change conditions with me?”
“Not I, by my halidome,” quoth Le Glorieux, “if you would give me fifty crowns to boot.”
“Why, wherefore so? – Methinks I could be well enough contented, as princes go, to have thee for my king.”
“Ay, Sire,” replied Le Glorieux, “but the question is, whether, judging of your Majesty’s wit from its having lodged you here, I should not have cause to be ashamed of having so dull a fool.”
“Peace, sirrah!” said the Count of Crevecoeur, “your tongue runs too fast.”
“Let it take its course,” said the King, “I know of no such fair subject of raillery as the follies of those who should know better. – Here, my sagacious friend, take this purse of gold, and with it the advice never to be so great a fool as to deem yourself wiser than other people. Prithee, do me so much favour as to inquire after my astrologer, Martius Galeotti, and send him hither to me presently.”
“I will, without fail, my Liege,” answered the jester; “and I wot well I shall find him at Jan Dopplethur’s, for philosophers, as well as fools, know where the best wine is sold.”
“Let me pray for free entrance for this learned person through your guards, Seignior de Crevecoeur,” said Louis.
“For his entrance, unquestionably,” answered the Count; “but it grieves me to add that my instructions do not authorize me to permit any one to quit your Majesty’s apartments. – I wish your Majesty a goodnight,” he subjoined, “and will presently make such arrangements in the outer hall, as may put the gentlemen who are to inhabit it more at their ease.”
“Give yourself no trouble for them, Sir Count,” replied the King, “they are men accustomed to set hardships at defiance; and, to speak truth, excepting that I wish to see Galeotti, I would desire as little farther communication from without this night as may be consistent with your instructions.”
“These are, to leave your Majesty,” replied Crevecoeur, “undisputed possession of your own apartments. Such are my master’s orders.”
“Your Master, Count,” answered Louis, “whom I may also term mine, is a right gracious master. – My dominions,” he added, “are somewhat shrunk in compass, now that they have dwindled to an old hall and a bedchamber, but they are still wide enough for all the subjects which I can at present boast of.”
The Count of Crevecoeur took his leave, and shortly after, they could hear the noise of the sentinels moving to their posts, accompanied with the word of command from the officers, and the hasty tread of the guards who were relieved. At length all became still, and the only sound which filled the air was the sluggish murmur of the river Somme, as it glided, deep and muddy, under the walls of the castle.
“Go into the hall, my mates,” said Louis to his train; “but do not lie down to sleep. Hold yourselves in readiness, for there is still something to be done tonight, and that of moment.”
Oliver and Tristan retired to the hall, accordingly, in which Le Balafre and the two officers had remained, when the others entered the bedchamber. They found that those without had thrown fagots enough upon the fire to serve the purpose of light and heat at the same time, and, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, had sat down on the floor, in postures which variously expressed the discomposure and dejection of their minds. Oliver and Tristan saw nothing better to be done than to follow their example and, never very good friends in the days of their court prosperity, they were both equally reluctant to repose confidence in each other upon this strange and sudden reverse of fortune. So the whole party sat in silent dejection.
Meanwhile their master underwent, in the retirement of his secret chamber, agonies that might have atoned for some of those which had been imposed by his command. He paced the room with short and unequal steps, often stood still and clasped his hands together, and gave loose, in short, to agitation, which in public he had found himself able to suppress so successfully. At length, pausing and wringing his hands, he planted himself opposite to the wicket door, which had been pointed out by old Mornay as leading to the scene of the murder of one of his predecessors, and gradually gave voice to his feelings in a broken soliloquy.
“Charles the Simple – Charles the Simple! – what will posterity call the Eleventh Louis, whose blood will probably soon refresh the stains of thine! Louis the Fool – Louis the Driveller – Louis the Infatuated – are all terms too slight to mark the extremity of my idiocy! To think these hot headed Liegeois, to whom rebellion is as natural as their food, would remain quiet – to dream that the Wild Beast of Ardennes would for a moment be interrupted in his career of force and bloodthirsty brutality – to suppose that I could use reason and arguments to any good purpose with Charles of Burgundy, until I had tried the force of such exhortations with success upon a wild bull. Fool, and double idiot that I was! But the villain Martius shall not escape. – He has been at the bottom of this, he and the vile priest, the detestable Balue. If I ever get out of this danger, I will tear from his head the Cardinal’s cap, though I pull the scalp along with it! But the other traitor is in my hands – I am yet King enough – have yet an empire roomy enough – for the punishment of the quack salving, word mongering, star gazing, lie coining impostor, who has at once made a prisoner and a dupe of me! – The conjunction of the constellations – ay, the conjunction. – He must talk nonsense which would scarce gull a thrice sodden sheep’s head, and I must be idiot enough to think I understand him! But we shall see presently what the conjunction hath really boded. But first let me to my devotions.”
[Louis kept his promise of vengeance against Cardinal La Balue, whom he always blamed as having betrayed him to Burgundy. After he had returned to his own kingdom, he caused his late favourite to be immured in one of the iron cages at Loches. These were constructed with horrible ingenuity, so that a person of ordinary size could neither stand up at his full height, nor lie lengthwise in them. Some ascribe this horrid device to Balue himself. At any rate, he was confined in one of these dens for eleven years, nor did Louis permit him to be liberated till his last illness. S.]
Above the little door, in memory perhaps of the deed which had been done within, was a rude niche, containing a crucifix cut in stone. Upon this emblem the King fixed his eyes, as if about to kneel, but stopped short, as if he applied to the blessed image the principles of worldly policy, and deemed it rash to approach its presence without having secured the private intercession of some supposed favourite. He therefore turned from the crucifix as unworthy to look upon it, and selecting from the images with which, as often mentioned, his hat was completely garnished, a representation of the Lady of Clery, knelt down before it, and made the following extraordinary prayer; in which, it is to be observed, the grossness of his superstition induced him, in some degree, to consider the Virgin of Clery as a different person from the Madonna of Embrun, a favourite idol, to whom he often paid his vows.
“Sweet Lady of Clery,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands and beating his breast while he spoke, “blessed Mother of Mercy! thou who art omnipotent with Omnipotence, have compassion with me, a sinner! It is true, that I have something neglected thee for thy blessed sister of Embrun; but I am a King, my power is great, my wealth boundless; and, were it otherwise, I would double the gabelle on my subjects, rather than not pay my debts to you both. Undo these iron doors – fill up these tremendous moats – lead me, as a mother leads a child, out of this present and pressing danger! If I have given thy sister the county of Boulogne, to be held of her for ever, have I no means of showing devotion to thee also? Thou shalt have the broad and rich province of Champagne, and its vineyards shall pour their abundance into thy convent. I had promised the province to my brother Charles; but he, thou knowest, is dead – poisoned by that wicked Abbe of Saint John d’Angely, whom, if I live, I will punish! – I promised this once before, but this time I will keep my word. – If I had any knowledge of the crime, believe, dearest patroness, it was because I knew no better method of quieting the discontents of my kingdom. Oh, do not reckon that old debt to my account today; but be, as thou hast ever been, kind, benignant, and easy to be entreated! Sweetest Lady, work with thy child, that he will pardon all past sins, and one – one little deed which I must do this night – nay, it is no sin, dearest Lady of Clery – no sin, but an act of justice privately administered, for the villain is the greatest impostor that ever poured falsehood into a Prince’s ear, and leans besides to the filthy heresy of the Greeks. He is not deserving of thy protection, leave him to my care; and hold it as good service that I rid the world of him, for the man is a necromancer and wizard, that is not worth thy thought and care – a dog, the extinction of whose life ought to be of as little consequence in thine eyes as the treading out a spark that drops from a lamp, or springs from a fire. Think not of this little matter, gentlest, kindest Lady, but only consider how thou canst best aid me in my troubles! and I here, bind my royal signet to thy effigy, in token that I will keep word concerning the county of Champagne, and that this shall be the last time I will trouble thee in affairs of blood, knowing thou art so kind, so gentle, and so tender hearted.”
