Quentin Durward
Sir Walter Scott
CHAPTER X: THE SENTINEL Page 2
These delightful sounds were but partially heard -- they languished, lingered, ceased entirely, and were from time to time renewed after uncertain intervals. But, besides that music, like beauty, is often most delightful, or at least most interesting, to the imagination when its charms are but partially displayed and the imagination is left to fill up is from distance but imperfectly detailed, Quentin had matter enough to fill up his reverie during the intervals of fascination. He could not doubt, from the report of his uncle's comrades and the scene which had passed in the presence chamber that morning, that the siren who thus delighted his ears, was not, as he had profanely supposed, the daughter or kinswoman of a base Cabaretier (inn keeper), but the same disguised and distressed Countess for whose cause kings and princes were now about to buckle on armour, and put lance in rest. A hundred wild dreams, such as romantic and adventurous youth readily nourished in a romantic and adventurous age, chased from his eyes the bodily presentiment of the actual scene, and substituted their own bewildering delusions, when at once, and rudely, they were banished by a rough grasp laid upon his weapon, and a harsh voice which exclaimed, close to his ear, "Ha! Pasques dieu, Sir Squire, methinks you keep sleepy ward."
The voice was the tuneless, yet impressive and ironical tone of Maitre Pierre, and Quentin, suddenly recalled to himself, saw, with shame and fear, that he had, in his reverie, permitted Louis himself -- entering probably by some secret door, and gliding along by the wall, or behind the tapestry -- to approach him so nearly as almost to master his weapon.
The first impulse of his surprise was to free his harquebuss by a violent exertion, which made the King stagger backward into the hall. His next apprehension was that, in obeying the animal instinct, as it may be termed, which prompts a brave man to resist an attempt to disarm him, he had aggravated, by a personal struggle with the King, the displeasure produced by the negligence with which he had performed his duty upon guard; and, under this impression, he recovered his harquebuss without almost knowing what he did, and, having again shouldered it, stood motionless before the Monarch, whom he had reason to conclude he had mortally offended.
Quentin, who ratlooked to be sent to the Provost Marshal than greeted such a compliment, answered humbly in the negative.
"Poor lad," said Louis, in a softer tone than he usually spoke in, "hunger hath made him drowsy. -- I know thine appetite is a wolf," he continued; "and I will save thee from one wild beast as thou didst me from another; thou hast been prudent too in that matter, and I thank thee for it. -- Canst thou yet hold out an hour without food?"
"Four-and-twenty, Sire," replied Durward, "or I were no true Scot."
"I would not for another kingdom be the pasty which should encounter thee after such a vigil," said the King; "but the question now is, not of thy dinner, but of my own. I admit to my table this day, and in strict privacy, the Cardinal Balue and this Burgundian -- this Count de Crevecoeur -- and something may chance; the devil is most busy when foes meet on terms of truce."
He stopped, and remained silent, with a deep and gloomy look. As the King was in no haste to proceed, Quentin at length ventured to ask what his duty was to be in these circumstances.
"To keep watch at the beauffet, with thy loaded weapon," said Louis; "and if there is treason, to shoot the traitor."
"Treason, Sire! and in this guarded castle!" exclaimed Durward.
"You think it impossible," said the King, not offended, it would seem, by his frankness; "but our history has shown that treason can creep into an auger hole. -- Treason excluded by guards! Oh, thou silly boy! -- quis custodiat ipsos custodes -- who shall exclude the treason of those very warders?"
"Their Scottish honour," answered Durward, boldly.
"True: most right: -- thou pleasest me," said the King, cheerfully; "the Scottish honour was ever true, and I trust it accordingly. But treason!" -- here he relapsed into his former gloomy mood, and traversed the apartment with unequal steps -- "she sits at our feasts, she sparkles in our bowls, she wears the beard of our counsellors, the smiles of our courtiers, the crazy laugh of our jesters -- above all, she lies hid under the friendly air of a reconciled enemy. Louis of Orleans trusted John of Burgundy -- he was murdered in the Rue Barbette. John of Burgundy trusted the faction of Orleans -- he was murdered on the bridge of Montereau. -- I will trust no one -- no one. Hark ye; I will keep my eye on that insolent Count; ay, and on the churchman too, whom I hold not too faithful. When I say, Ecosse, en avant (Forward, Scotland), shoot Crevecoeur dead on the spot."
"It is my duty," said Quentin, "your Majesty's life being endangered."
"Certainly -- I mean it no otherwise," said the King. "What should I get by slaying this insolent soldier? -- Were it the Constable Saint Paul indeed" -- here he paused, as if he thought he had said a word too much, but resumed, laughing, "our brother-in-law, James of Scotland -- your own James, Quentin -- poniarded the Douglas when on a hospitable visit, within his own royal castle of Skirling."
(Douglas: the allusion in the text is to the fate of James, Earl of Douglas, who, upon the faith of a safe conduct, after several acts of rebellion, visited James the Second in the Castle of Stirling. The king stabbed Douglas, who received his mortal wound from Sir Patrick Grey, one of the king's attendants.)
"Of Stirling," said Quentin, "and so please your Highness. -- It was a deed of which came little good."
"Stirling call you the castle?" said the King, overlooking the latter part of Quentin's speech. "Well, let it be Stirling -- the name is nothing to the purpose. But I meditate no injury to these men -- none. -- It would serve me nothing. They may not purpose equally fair by me -- I rely on thy harquebuss."
"I shall be prompt at the signal," said Quentin; "but yet"
"You hesitate," said the King. "Speak out -- I give thee full leave. From such as thou art, hints may be caught that are right valuable."
"I would only presume to say," replied Quentin, "that your Majesty having occasion to distrust this Burgundian, I marvel that you suffer him to approach so near your person, and that in privacy."
"Oh, content you, Sir Squire," said the King. "There are some dangers which when they are braved, disappear, and which yet, when there is an obvious and apparent dread of them displayed, become certain and inevitable. When I walk boldly up to a surly mastiff, and caress him, it is ten to one I soothe him to good temper; if I show fear of him, he flies on me and rends me. I will be thus far frank with thee. -- It concerns me nearly that this man returns not to his headlong master in a resentful humour. I run my risk, therefore. I have never shunned to expose my life for the weal of my kingdom. Follow me."
Louis led his young Life Guardsman, for whom he seemed to have taken a special favour, through the side door by which he had himself entered, saying, as he showed it him, "He who would thrive at Court must know the private wickets and concealed staircases -- ay, and the traps and pitfalls of the palace, as well as the principal entrances, folding doors, and portals."
After several turns and passages, the King entered a small vaulted room, where a table was prepared for dinner with three covers. The whole furniture and arrangements of the room were plain almost to meanness. A beauffet, or folding and movable cupboard, held a few pieces of gold and silver plate, and was the only article in the chamber which had in the slightest degree the appearance of royalty. Behind this cupboard, and completely hidden by it, was the post which Louis assigned to Quentin Durward; and after having ascertained, by going to different parts of the room, that he was invisible from all quarters, he gave him his last charge: "Remember the word, Posse, en avant; and so soon as ever I utter these sounds, throw down the screen -- spare not for cup or goblet, and be sure thou take good aim at Crevecoeur -- if thy piece fail, cling to him, and use thy knife -- Oliver and I can deal with the Cardinal."
Having thus spoken, he whistled aloud, and summoned into the apartment Oliver, who was premier valet of the chamber as well as barber, and who, in fact, performed all offices immediately connected with the King's person, and who now appeared, attended by two old men, who were the only assistants or waiters at the royal table. So soon as the King had taken his place, the visitors were admitted; and Quentin, though himself unseen, was so situated as to remark all the particulars of the interview.
The King welcomed his visitors with a degree of cordiality which Quentin had the utmost difficulty to reconcile with the directions which he had previously received, and the purpose for which he stood behind the beauffet with his deadly weapon in readiness. Not only did Louis appear totally free from apprehension of any kind, but one would have supposed that those visitors whom he had done the high honour to admit to his table were the very persons in whom he could most unreservedly confide, and whom he was, most willing to honour. Nothing could be more dignified, and, at the same time, more courteous than his demeanour. While all around him, including even his own dress, was far beneath the splendour which the petty princes of the kingdom displayed in their festivities, his own language and manners were those of a mighty Sovereign in his most condescending mood. Quentin was tempted to suppose, either that the whole of his previous conversation with Louis had been a dream, or that the dutiful demeanour of the Cardinal, and the frank, open, and gallant bearing of the Burgundian noble had entirely erased the King's suspicion.
But whilst the guests, in obedience to the King, were in the act of placing themselves at the table, his Majesty darted one keen glance on them, and then instantly directed his look to Quentin's post. This was done in an instant; but the glance conveyed so much doubt and hatred towards his guests, such a peremptory injunction on Quentin to be watchful in attendance, and prompt in execution, that no room was left for doubting that the sentiments of Louis continued unaltered, and his apprehensions unabated. He was, therefore, more than ever astonished at the deep veil under which that Monarch was able to conceal the movements of his jealous disposition.
Appearing to have entirely forgotten the language which Crevecoeur had held towards him in the face of his Court, the King conversed with him of old times, of events which had occurred during his own exile in the territories of Burgundy, and inquired respecting all the nobles with whom he had been then familiar, as if that period had indeed been the happiest of his life, and as if he retained towards all who had contributed to soften the term of his exile, the kindest and most grateful sentiments.
"To an ambassador of another nation," he said, "I would have thrown something of state into our reception; but to an old friend, who often shared my board at the Castle of Genappes (during his residence in Burgundy, in his father's lifetime, Genappes was the usual abode of Louis. . . . S.), I wished to show myself, as I love best to live, old Louis of Valois, as simple and plain as any of his Parisian badauds (idlers). But I directed them to make some better cheer than ordinary for you, Sir Count, for I know your Burgundian proverb, 'Mieux vault bon repas que bel habit' (a good meal is better than a beautiful coat. (Present spelling is vaut.)); and therefore I bid them have some care of our table. For our wine, you know well it is the subject of an old emulation betwixt France and Burgundy, which we will presently reconcile; for I will drink to you in Burgundy, and you, Sir Count, shall pledge me in Champagne. -- Here, Oliver, let me have a cup of Vin d'Auxerre;" and he hummed gaily a song then well known,
(Auxerre wine is the beverage of kings)
"Here, Sir Count, I drink to the health of the noble Duke of Burgundy, our kind and loving cousin. -- Oliver, replenish yon golden cup with Vin de Rheims, and give it to the Count on your knee -- he represents our loving brother. -- My Lord Cardinal, we will ourself fill your cup."
"You have already, Sire, even to overflowing," said the Cardinal, with the lowly mien of a favourite towards an indulgent master.
"Because we know that your Eminence can carry it with a steady hand," said Louis. "But which side do you espouse in the great controversy, Sillery or Auxerre -- France or Burgundy?"
"I will stand neutral, Sire," said the Cardinal, "and replenish my cup with Auvernat."
"A neutral has a perilous part to sustain," said the King; but as he observed the Cardinal colour somewhat, he glided from the subject and added, "But you prefer the Auvernat, because it is so noble a wine it endures not water. -- You, Sir Count, hesitate to empty your cup. I trust you have found no national bitterness at the bottom."
"I would, Sire," said the Count de Crevecoeur, "that all national quarrels could be as pleasantly ended as the rivalry betwixt our vineyards."
"With time, Sir Count," answered the King, "with time -- such time as you have taken to your draught of Champagne. -- And now that it is finished, favour me by putting the goblet in your bosom, and keeping it as a pledge of our regard. It is not to every one that we would part with it. It belonged of yore to that terror of France, Henry V of England, and was taken when Rouen was reduced, and those islanders expelled from Normandy by the joint arms of France and Burgundy. It cannot be better bestowed than on a noble and valiant Burgundian, who well knows that on the union of these two nations depends the continuance of the freedom of the continent from the English yoke."
The Count made a suitable answer, and Louis gave unrestrained way to the satirical gaiety of disposition which sometimes enlivened the darker shades of his character. Leading, of course, the conversation, his remarks, always shrewd and caustic, and often actually witty, were seldom good natured, and the anecdotes with which he illustrated them were often more humorous than delicate; but in no one word, syllable, or letter did he betray the state of mind of one who, apprehensive of assassination, hath in his apartment an armed soldier with his piece loaded, in order to prevent or anticipate an attack on his person.
The Count de Crevecoeur gave frankly in to the King's humour (the nature of Louis XI's coarse humour may be guessed at by those who have perused the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, which are grosser than most similar collections of the age. S.); while the smooth churchman laughed at every jest and enhanced every ludicrous idea, without exhibiting any shame at expressions which made the rustic young Scot blush even in his place of concealment. In about an hour and a half the tables were drawn; and the King, taking courteous leave of his guests, gave the signal that it was his desire to be alone.
So soon as all, even Oliver, had retired, he called Quentin from his place of concealment; but with a voice so faint, that the youth could scarcely believe it to be the same which had so lately given animation to the jest, and zest to the tale. As he approached, he saw an equal change in his countenance. The light of assumed vivacity had left the King's eyes, the smile had deserted his face, and he exhibited all the fatigue of a celebrated actor, when he has finished the exhausting representation of some favourite character, in which, while upon the stage, he had displayed the utmost vivacity.
"Thy watch is not yet over," said he to Quentin; "refresh thyself for an instant -- yonder table affords the means; I will then instruct thee in thy fartduty. Meanwhile it is ill talking between a full man and a fasting."
He threw himself back on his seat, covered his brow with his hand, and was silent.