"But," exclaimed the regent, "such a marriage is intolerable."
"Mésalliances are in fashion," said Dubois; "there is nothing else talked of – Louis XIV. made a mésalliance in marrying Madame de Maintenon, to whom you pay a pension as his widow – La Grande Mademoiselle made a mésalliance in marrying the Duc de Lauzun – you did so in marrying Mademoiselle de Blois, so much so, indeed, that when you announced the marriage to your mother, the princess palatine, she replied by a blow. Did not I do the same when I married the daughter of a village schoolmaster? After such good examples, why should not your daughter do so in her turn?"
"Silence, demon," said the regent.
"Besides," continued Dubois, "the Duchesse de Berry's passion began to be talked about, and this will quiet the talk; for it will be known all through Paris to-morrow. Decidedly, monseigneur, your family begins to settle down."
The Duc d'Orleans uttered an oath, to which Dubois replied by a laugh, which Mephistopheles might have envied.
"Silence!" cried a Swiss, who did not know who it was that was making a noise, and did not wish the pious exhortation of the chaplain to be lost.
"Silence, monseigneur," repeated Dubois; "you are disturbing the ceremony."
"If we are not silent," replied the duke, "the next thing they will do will be to turn us out."
"Silence!" repeated the Swiss, striking the flagstone with his halberd, while the Duchesse de Berry sent M. de Mouchy to learn who was causing the disturbance.
M. de Mouchy obeyed the orders of the duchess, and perceiving two persons who appeared to be concealing themselves in the shade, he approached them.
"Who is making this noise?" said he; "and who gave you permission to enter this chapel?"
"One who has a great mind to send you all out by the window," replied the regent, "but who will content himself at present with begging you to order M. de Riom to set out at once for Cognac, and to intimate to the Duchesse de Berry that she had better absent herself from the Palais Royal."
The regent went out, signing to Dubois to follow; and, leaving M. de Mouchy bewildered at his appearance, returned to the Palais Royal.
That evening the regent wrote a letter, and ringing for a valet:
"Take care that this letter is dispatched by an express courier to-morrow morning, and is delivered only to the person to whom it is addressed."
That person was Madame Ursule, Superior of the Ursuline Convent at Clisson.
CHAPTER III.
WHAT PASSED THREE NIGHTS LATER AT EIGHT HUNDRED LEAGUES FROM THE PALAIS ROYAL
Three nights after that on which we have seen the regent, first at Chelles and then at Meudon, a scene passed in the environs of Nantes which cannot be omitted in this history; we will therefore exercise our privilege of transporting the reader to that place.
On the road to Clisson, two or three miles from Nantes – near the convent known as the residence of Abelard – was a large dark house, surrounded by thick stunted trees; hedges everywhere surrounded the inclosure outside the walls, hedges impervious to the sight, and only interrupted by a wicket gate.
This gate led into a garden, at the end of which was a wall, having a small, massive, and closed door. From a distance this grave and dismal residence appeared like a prison; it was, however, a convent, full of young Augustines, subject to a rule lenient as compared with provincial customs, but rigid as compared with those of Paris.
The house was inaccessible on three sides, but the fourth, which did not face the road, abutted on a large sheet of water; and ten feet above its surface were the windows of the refectory.
This little lake was carefully guarded, and was surrounded by high wooden palisades. A single iron gate opened into it, and at the same time gave a passage to the waters of a small rivulet which fed the lake, and the water had egress at the opposite end.
In the summer, a small boat belonging to the garden was seen on the water, and was used for fishing.
Sometimes, also, in summer, on dark nights, the river-gate was mysteriously opened, and a man, wrapped in a large brown cloak, silently dropped into the little boat, which appeared to detach itself from its fastenings, then glided quietly along, and stopped under one of the barred windows of the refectory.
Soon a sound was heard, imitating the croaking of a frog or the cry of the owl so common there, and then a young girl would appear at the window, and pass her head through the opening between the bars, which were, however, too high for the man to reach. A low and tender conversation was then carried on, and at length, after a different hour and a different signal had been agreed upon for their next interview, they separated, the boat disappeared, the gate shut gently, and the young girl closed the window with a sigh.
But now it was the month of February, and in the terrible winter of 1719. The trees were powdered with hoar frost, and it was at this time impossible to glide quietly along in the little boat, for the lake was covered with ice. And yet, in this biting cold, in this dark, starless night, a cavalier ventured alone into the open country, and along a cross-road which led to Clisson. He threw the reins on the neck of his horse, which proceeded at a slow and careful pace.
Soon, however, in spite of his instinctive precaution, the poor animal, which had no light to guide him, struck against a stone and nearly fell. The rider soon perceived that his horse was lamed, and on seeing a trail of blood upon the snow, discovered that it was wounded.
The young man appeared seriously annoyed at the accident, and while deliberating what course to take, he heard a sound of horses' feet on the same road; and, feeling sure that if they were pursuing him he could not escape them, he remounted his horse, drew aside behind some fallen trees, put his sword under his arm, drew out a pistol, and waited.
The cavalcade soon appeared; they were four in number, and rode silently along, passing the group of trees which hid the cavalier, when suddenly they stopped. One who appeared the chief alighted, took out a dark lantern, and examined the road.
As they could not see far, they returned some steps, and, by the light of their lantern, perceived the cavalier.
The sound of cocking pistols was now heard.
"Hola!" said the cavalier with the wounded horse, taking the initiative; "who are you, and what do you want?"
"It is he," murmured two or three voices.
The man with the lantern advanced toward the cavalier.
"Advance one step further and you are a dead man," said the cavalier. "Declare your name at once, that I may know with whom I have to deal."
"Shoot no one, Gaston de Chanlay," replied the man with the lantern, calmly; "and put up your pistols."
"Ah! it is the Marquis de Pontcalec."
"Yes; it is I."
"And what do you come here for, may I ask?"
"To demand some explanation of your conduct. Approach and reply, if you please."
"The invitation is singular, marquis. If you wish for an answer, could you not ask it in other terms?"
"Approach, Gaston," said another voice; "we really wish to speak with you."
"A la bonne heure," said Chanlay, "I recognize you there, Montlouis; but I confess I am not accustomed to M. de Pontcalec's manner of proceeding."
"My manners are those of a frank and open Breton, monsieur," replied the marquis, "of one who has nothing to hide from his friends, and is willing to be questioned as freely as he questions others."
"I join Montlouis," said another voice, "in begging Gaston to explain amicably. Surely it is not our interest to quarrel among ourselves."
"Thanks, Du Couëdic," said De Chanlay, "I am of the same opinion; so here I am" – and sheathing his sword at these words, the young man issued from his retreat and approached the group.
"M. de Talhouet," said Pontcalec, in