Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Now for the pleasant occupation of arranging the masques and mummeries. She called her Marys to her, and they fell to discussing the music for the wedding. That led to sending for Signor David whose company never failed to delight Mary. It was always such a pleasure to hear his voice, and now and then she would command him to sing for her.

When he came, all five Marys greeted him warmly.

“Come and sit here,” commanded the Queen. “Now, Signor David, please sing the new song you brought to me last Monday.”

They listened entranced to his beautiful voice.

“You shall lead the choir for my brothers wedding,” declared the Queen.

He was overwhelmed with delight, as he always was by the slightest favor; that was why it was such a pleasure to do little things for him. If she could give him some small task, the doing of it seemed to please him more than praise. His attitude toward her was one of adoring devotion.

“David,” she said, “I am going to make you my valet de chambre. Then we shall not have to send for you when we want you. You will be here among us. Where do you lodge now, Signor David?”

“In the porters lodge, Madame.”

“Well, henceforth you shall lodge in the palace, and your chamber shall be near mine, as I shall need your services often. Can you write in the French language, David?”

“Madame, it is as my native language.”

“Then why did you not tell us before!” cried Mary in French. “Now we shall all speak French. We like to do so when we are alone.”

“Tell us about yourself, David,” said Flem. “That is if Her Majesty would permit it.”

“Her Majesty permits,” said Mary, “and is as eager to hear as you are, my dear Flem.”

“There is little to tell,” began David. “My life was of no great interest… until I came to the Court of Scotland. I was born at Pancalieri. We were very poor, but my father was a musician. From my childhood it was singing… singing songs… and, of course, playing the lute.”

“Then I am glad of that, David,” said the Queen. “Not the poverty, of course, but the singing and the lute-playing. Doubtless it has made you the musician you are.”

“I am glad of it now, Madame, since it brought me to your notice.”

“What else, David?” asked Beaton.

“When I was of an age to leave home, I was sent to serve the Archbishop of Turin. There I played music, sang in his choir, and acted as his secretary.”

“Were you as competent a secretary as a musician?” asked Beaton.

“I think I gave satisfaction, my lady, since from the Archbishop I was able to go to Nice and the Court of the Duke of Savoy.”

“And there became secretary to Moretta,” added Mary. “Who knows, I might make use of those secretarial qualities also. I will do this, David: I will pay you a salary of sixty-five pounds a year, and, if you please me, I shall increase it.”

“Madame, your goodness overwhelms me. It is sufficient reward to serve Your Majesty.”

“But it is not sufficient for us, is it?” she demanded of her Marys.

“We would have you dressed in velvets, you see,” explained Flem.

Mary said: “Beaton, my dear, give David money so that next time he comes to us he may be dressed in velvet. And he must have a jewel too.” She looked down at her hands and drew off a ruby ring. “The color suits you, David. And I think it will fit your little finger.”

His dark eyes gleamed, and they saw the tears shining there. He fell to his knees, and taking the ring he put it on his little finger; then he pressed it against his lips.

“There it shall remain,” he said, “until the day I die. A constant reminder of the day Your Majesty gave it to me.”

JOHN KNOX preached the wedding sermon in the Kirk of St. Giles.

Lord James was a favorite of his; he looked to the young man, with high hopes. Naturally there were times when it was necessary to admonish his pupil, but John Knox had declared Lord James to be a friend of God and the true religion, which meant a friend to John Knox; and John Knox, the practical man, while keeping his eyes fixed on his place in Heaven, saw no reason for ignoring advantages which might accure here on earth.

He was not sure of Agnes Keith. He did not trust women. So now he spoke out. “Unto this day the Kirk has received comfort from you. Let God and the Kirk not find you fainter in purpose than you were before, or it will be said that your wife has changed your nature.”

Mary was restless, waiting impatiently for the sermon to be over. When would the odious man finish? Was this the way to preach a wedding sermon? But Jamie was listening intently; and others seemed spellbound by the fire-breathing preacher.

Through the streets, when the church ceremony was over, went the wedding procession. It was magnificent, but Mary remembered another in comparison with which this seemed like a village wedding. Yet it was more grand than any seen before in Edinburgh, and it would show the people how she loved this brother of hers. He was a Protestant and she was a Catholic; but that made no difference to their love, she believed, and she wished her people to take this to heart.

James, now Earl of Mar, still hankered after the Earldom of Moray; but Huntley, who lived in the Northern Highlands like a king, could not be persuaded to give it up. James had said: “It is a sad thing, my dearest sister, that there should be those in this country who endow themselves with a status above that of the Queen.”

“It is,” Mary agreed. James was referring to Huntley; Mary was thinking of John Knox.

The feasting went on for several days, and the citizens gathered outside Holyrood listening to the music and seeing what they could of the dancers. There were banquets and masques; and Mary had arranged that everything should take place in the elegant French manner.

Through the streets of Edinburgh John Knox stalked, shaking his fist at the palace.

“Within those walls,” he roared, “the Devil dances. Painted harlots mingle with seducers. There’ll be fornication in the Palace of Holyrood this night.” That subject dominated his mind; it was one on which he seemed compelled to dwell. “Jezebel calls the tune, and her four handmaidens—Sin, Lechery, Lust and Evil-living—beckon the weak.”

During the revelry, Mary found time to talk to her brother. “Jamie, on occasions like this I feel at peace with the whole world. I would like to call my enemies to me and speak peaceably with them. I fear John Knox is too far set against me, but what of the Queen of England? If I could have a meeting with her … if we could discuss, in person, our differences, would that not be a good thing?”

James smiled at his sister. “It would indeed.”

James was indulgent. She was so pretty, and so impetuously foolish at times. She would never be a great ruler; she would be no match for the Queen beyond the Border. Elizabeth of England would never have tolerated in her country such a powerful nobleman as James intended to be in Scotland.

But such thoughts made him fonder of her than ever. He liked to see her dancing and enjoying her French games, laughing at the witticisms of her fool, La Jardinière, frittering away the days whilst the grown-ups got on with the work.

“I am glad,” she said, “that you are in agreement with me, Jamie. I will sound Randolph on the subject at the earliest possible moment. Oh, Jamie, I do so long to see her. One hears so many tales of her. Her courtiers say she is dazzlingly beautiful, but we hear different reports sometimes. I should enjoy meeting her face-to-face.”

James looked into his sister’s animated face. “She would never forgive you if she saw you.”

“Forgive me! For what, James?”

“For being a hundred times more beautiful than herself.”

Mary was delighted. Compliments came rarely from James. Poor frivolous lass! James was thinking. Thinking to set herself against the shrewdest woman in the world!

But it was for her frivolity—and all that it might lead to—that he loved her.

At that evening’s banquet, Mary, who had previously had a word with the Englishman Randolph, lifted her golden goblet of wine and, rising to her feet, cried: “I drink to the health of my sister of England, Queen Elizabeth.” Whereupon all at the table rose and drank with her, to the especial delight of Thomas Randolph who adored his Queen, and Mary Beaton who adored Randolph and so was delighted to see friendly relations between him and her beloved Mary.

And as the bridegroom, James, the new Earl, joined in the toast, he was not thinking of a possible meeting between the two Queens, because he did not believe it would come to pass; he was not thinking of his bride and his marriage, because that was something accomplished and he never wasted time in profitless thought; what occupied his mind was how he could openly call himself the Earl of Moray and take possession of the rich lands which went with the title, and he concluded that this could only come about through the downfall of the Cock o’ the North.

BOTHWELL WAS not pleased by the state of affairs. His prospects had promised to be so fair at that time when the Queen had sent for him to arrange her voyage back to Scotland. Since then he had twice been banished from Court. He was growing ambitious. He knew that James Stuart was against him; he knew too that James Stuart was a friend of the English. The Queen—a foolish woman—did not realize that. In her sentimental way she thought of her dear Jamie merely as her brother, not as the man whose chief aim was to strip her of power that he might add to his own.

He, Bothwell, wanted to see Scotland free from the French and the English. He was ready to serve the Queen; but he wanted a high place for the Earl of Bothwell.

He realized now that he had been foolish to allow his feud with the Hamiltons to put him out of favor. What he had done by his impulsive prank was to play right into the hands of James Stuart and Maitland; but he would beat them at their own game, and to do this he must contrive reconciliation with the Earl of Arran.

How to do this? Bothwell had an idea. He would seek the mediation of John Knox. Knox, of course, would condemn Bothwell for his profligate ways, but even so the Earl would not be so damned in the eyes of the preacher as some were, since he was a professed Protestant; moreover Knox himself came from the Border country and had lived with his parents in a district over which the Hepburns held sway. It was not difficult, therefore, to obtain, through a third party, the desired interview.

Knox received Bothwell in the sparsely furnished room at the manse not far from Market Cross.

“At last,” cried Knox, rising and standing as though he were addressing a meeting, “you have seen the errors of your ways. You have lived a riotous life and now you have come home… like the prodigal son. You wish to leave your sins behind you … to lead a better life…. You wish to love your neighbor as yourself—”

Patience was not one of Bothwell’s virtues. He cut the preacher short. “If I could have Arran’s friendship instead of his enmity,” he said, “I could stay at Court with a mere handful of servants. As it is, I have about me hundreds of men-at-arms. I must be prepared to meet an attack at any time, and it is very expensive.”

Knox was inclined to be lenient. When he was a boy he had been humble before the lords of the estate. This man with the arrogant manner had reawakened that youthful respect. Hard-livers the Hepburns had always been, but they had not been harsh with their own. Moreover, Knox saw in this lusty man one whose friendship could be useful to him.

“My lord,” he said, “I shall pray for you. I shall pray that I may be given the means of comforting you.”

Bothwell frowned. He had not come for a sermon and he was not going to promise to mend his ways. He interrupted: “You have influence with Arran. I would have you make him understand that this quarrel between us is fruitless. Arrange a meeting and reconciliation between us. That is what I ask, Master Knox.”

“My lord, the angels are smiling at this moment. Brotherly love, they sing. Rejoice, for he whom we thought to be lost to the Devil has turned to God. You will not lose, my lord, for this nights work.”

Bothwell thanked the preacher and left. He was pleased with what he had done.

He was even more delighted when, at the meeting arranged by Knox, he took Arran’s hand in his and, looking into the half-crazy eyes, swore eternal friendship.

After that they surprised all Edinburgh. During the next few days wherever Arran was, there was Bothwell. They drank together; they were seen walking arm-in-arm along the Canongate.

MARY, with a small train of followers, had traveled up to Falkland Palace to enjoy a little hawking. To the delight of all who saw her, she rode out, a dainty sight, her falcon on her wrist. Beside her rode her brother, the Earl of Mar, and among those who accompanied them were her brother’s new wife, Agnes Keith, and the four Marys.

It was when they had returned after an afternoons sport that a special messenger came riding to the palace. He must see the Queen at once, he declared; he had a dispatch for her which was a warning, and of the utmost importance.

“Whence comes he?” asked Mar.

“From the Earl of Arran, my lord, who declares that the Queen must, without delay, be made aware of the plots against her.”

James Stuart took the dispatch at once to Mary and remained with her while she read it.

“But this is… incredible!” she cried. “It cannot be true. Arran is mad. He says that there is a plot concocted by himself, his father, Châtelherault, and Bothwell. They plan to abduct me, carry me off to Dumbarton Castle, murder any who resist, and keep me a prisoner until I marry Arran. They will force me to the marriage, if need be. And Bothwell is to see that all is carried out according to plan.”

“Why does Arran let you into the secret?”

“At the last moment he cannot go on with it. He wishes to warn me against Bothwell who is ruthless enough to attempt anything. James, it is ridiculous. Arran is no longer half-mad; he has completely lost his wits.”

James took the dispatch and read it. “It is coherent enough. It does not read like the words of a madman.”

“Jamie… you cannot believe …”

“My dearest sister, we cannot be too careful. Arran is mad enough for anything. Châtelherault is ambitious enough and Bothwell is wild enough to attempt to carry out this plan.”

“Seize my person! Keep me prisoner!”

“Aye! And inflict God knows what humiliations upon you.”

“It is a mad notion of Arran s, I am sure. The plan has no meaning outside that poor brain. You will remember he once before talked of kidnapping me… and it came to nothing.”

“Mary, you are the Queen. You are also a very desirable woman. Do not lose sight of these facts.”

“What am I to do, Jamie?”

“Have them all placed under arrest. That is the only way to ensure safety.”

“First we should ascertain how deep in madness Arran is.”

“An order should be issued at once for the arrest of Arran, Châtelherault and Bothwell.”

“Let us take Arran first and hear what he has to say.”

“What! And leave his father and Bothwell free to carry out their diabolical plans! Bothwell is at the bottom of this, you may depend upon it. Bothwell and Châtelherault! They are a pair of knaves, using this poor madman to serve their ends.”

“But of what use could my marriage with Arran be to Bothwell?”

“How can we know what plans the Borderer makes?”

Mary was uneasy. She had hoped that the friendship between Arran and Bothwell would put an end to the strife; could it be possible that the insolent Borderer had arranged it in order to sway poor Arran to his will?

Only a few hours after the messenger from Arran had arrived, a member of the Hamilton family came riding with all speed to the castle of Falkland. He was Gavin Hamilton, the Abbot of Kilwinning, and he declared that his kinsman, the Duke of Châtelherault, had begged him to set out with all speed to Falkland as the Duke feared his son had completely lost his reason. He had come to his fathers house of Kinneil with a wild story, and the Duke thought the Queen should know that he had put his son under lock and key.

“Madam,” cried Gavin Hamilton, “the story of this wild plot to kidnap you is untrue. There never was such a plot. The young Earl imagined it. He threw himself at the Duke’s feet, crying that he was possessed by devils and that Bothwell had persuaded him to treason. The Duke threatened to kill his son, and now Arran has escaped through a window by means of knotted sheets. It is not known where he is, but the Duke of Châtelherault considered it expedient to put the whole story before Your Majesty.”

Mary commanded Gavin Hamilton to go to a private chamber where he would be given refreshment. When she was alone with her brother she turned her anxious face to him. Though the plan seemed wild, she feared that it might contain some substance, and she could not help picturing herself the prisoner of Arran and Bothwell.

James said: “We will at least keep Master Gavin Hamilton under restraint until we have thoroughly probed this matter.”

Before Gavin had finished the meal which was brought to him, Bothwell himself appeared at Falkland Castle.

“Send him to me at once,” said Mary when she heard of his arrival.

He came swaggering in, insolent and arrogant as ever. He showed no sign that he was aware that his plan had miscarried.

James and Maitland were both with the Queen.

“My lord Bothwell,” she began, “we have had strange visitors this day.”

“Madam?” he questioned. His cool eyes appraised her, stripping her of her jewels, her velvets. She believed that in his mind’s eye he set her side by side with the peasant women with whom, she had heard, he amused himself from time to time. His gaze made her uncomfortable.

“I beg of you, do not feign ignorance,” she said with heightened color.

“I feign nothing, Madam. I am entirely ignorant of the comings of your strange visitors.”

“The Abbot of Kilwinning has been here. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“I do not know the fellow, Madam.”

“You know that he is a Hamilton. He brings me news of the Duke of Châtelherault.”

“Bad news, I assume, from Your Majesty’s agitation.”

The cold eyes of James Stuart watched him; the shrewd ones of Maitland never left his face.

“He has exposed your plot, my lord.”

“Plot? What plot? To what plot does Your Majesty refer?”

“The plot which was conceived by you, Arran and Châtelherault, to kidnap me.”

“What is this? I know of no such plot, Madam.”

Mary turned helplessly to James and Maitland.

“You will need to convince Her Majesty of that more successfully than you are doing at the moment,” James said.

“I do not understand your lordship.”

“There is a grave accusation against you.”

“Who makes this accusation? Mad Arran?”

“The plot,” said Maitland flippantly, “does not seem so mad as the man who made it.”

“So Arran has accused me?”

“Arran has laid bare the facts.”

“Bring the fellow here!” cried Bothwell. “Let him accuse me to my face. By God! I’ll challenge him … or any who accuse me … to single combat.”

“No such combat could serve to elucidate this matter,” said Maitland.

“By God!” cried Bothwell. “Combat can decide whether a man shall live or die. I give you my word it can be both judge and jury.”

“It shall not be in this case,” said Maitland. “The Queen is determined to uncover the truth.”

James had given a signal, and six men-at-arms appeared. They knew what they had to do.

Bothwell’s hand went to his sword; but deciding this was not the time for violence, he hesitated.

He looked straight at the Queen, and his gaze, which seemed to hold something of contempt in it, made her shiver.

“I demand justice,” he said.

She answered quickly: “It shall be yours, my lord.”

He allowed himself to be led away.

MARY TRIED to forget the unpleasant affair. She turned from the subject whenever it was raised.

“I am tired… tired of these perpetual quarrels!” she cried.

And then perhaps there would be a wedding at Court to amuse her; then she could briefly forget. She was planning for her meeting with the Queen of England. It should be the most splendid meeting in history. There should be tents set up on the Border and each country should display its chivalry. Her pageants should rival those of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

But the Queen of England continually found excuses for postponing the meeting.

Meanwhile poor Arran had wandered the countryside, a raving lunatic, and had eventually arrived at the house of an old friend, Sir William Kirkcaldy, in a sorry state, his clothes torn, his body weak from hunger and his mind so distorted that he believed he was the Queens husband and that, instead of lying in a state of collapse at the door of Hallyards, Sir Williams mansion, he was lying in an oak bed at Holyrood with the Queen.

He had wept at the feet of Kirkcaldy and told him he was possessed by devils, that he was the thrall of witches. He was brought to Falkland and later imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. Bothwell was also imprisoned there. The Duke of Châtelherault had thrown himself at Marys feet and wept so bitterly that she had embraced him and told him he should not suffer. James, however, had insisted that Dumbarton Castle should be confiscated on the grounds that the son and his confederate could not be imprisoned while the father was held to be guiltless.

“Then,” said Mary, “let us free Bothwell and Arran.”

“All in good time,” said James.

“Yet should not these men have a speedy trial? Should they be kept imprisoned before they have been proved guilty?”

James smiled tenderly. “Dearest sister, Arran would have to be restrained in any case, so he suffers no hardship. As for Bothwell, it is as well to keep that rogue out of mischief for a while. Even if he is guiltless in this matter, his sins are many. Let this imprisonment serve to wipe off some of the punishment which is most surely due to him.”

Mary had to be content with that. She was not really sorry. Arran’s madness and his preoccupation with marriage to herself perturbed her. Bothwell had a like effect.

Then fresh trouble broke out.

It started when Sir John Gordon, son of Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, strolling through the streets of Edinburgh, had come face-to-face with Lord Ogilvie of Airlie and drawn his sword; in the fight Ogilvie was wounded, and Gordon taken and imprisoned in the Tolbooth.

The story of their feud was then brought to light. Lord Ogilvie had brought an action against John Gordon. One of the Ogilvies—a dissolute youth—had tried to persuade his stepmother to become his mistress, at which his father had been so enraged as to disinherit him and give a portion of his land to Sir John Gordon. Young Ogilvie had called a family conference, and Lord Ogilvie, maintaining that whatever the circumstances, his kinsman had no right to give away to outsiders that which belonged to his family, had brought a lawsuit in the hope of retrieving the property for the Ogilvies.

Sir John Gordon was infuriated at the bringing of the action. In the Highlands Lord Huntley and all the family of Gordon were regarded as rulers; they did not suffer insults, and if any were offered them it was—as was customary with the Borderer Bothwell—a matter for swordplay. Hence, swaggering through the streets of Edinburgh and meeting Ogilvie, it had seemed right and natural to draw the sword. That he—a Gordon—should be thrust into prison for such an action was an insult.

He had immediately found means of escaping and had fled to the stronghold of the North.

When James Stuart heard of this his eyes glistened and he licked his lips. He remembered the rich lands of Strathearn and Cardel which went with the Earldom of Moray and which were at that time held by the Gordons; he immediately began to see ways in which he could turn this affair to his advantage.

“It is time,” he said to the Queen, “for Your Majesty to journey North. We must settle this affair with Huntley and his Gordons. You cannot allow young Gordon to flout your authority. We shall have every knave and vagabond breaking prison, believing it is a noble thing to do.”

“Jamie,” she said “cannot we ask him to come back and face a trial?”

“Ask him to come back! He never would. He would flout you again as the Gordons have always flouted you.”

“I have not noticed that they have done this. There is one who has—in the Kirk and the streets of Edinburgh.”

“You may be sure,” said James quickly, “that that fellow Randolph has given his account of this to his Queen. What, think you, will she say when she hears of it, if you do nothing in the matter? She will say Arran and Both-well languish in prison, and those are Protestant nobles; Sir John Gordon goes free—but then he is a Catholic! You cannot afford to show the Queen of England that you so favor the Catholics. It is small wonder that she continually postpones your meeting.”

“Then set Arran and Bothwell free so that she cannot make this charge.”

“My dearest sister, you dare not. These two men are dangerous. You know, do you not, that I would protect you with my life?”

“Yes, Jamie.”

“Then Your Majesty must allow me to do so… in my own way.”

“Please, Jamie, show me what I ought to do.”

So James showed her. He insisted that they set out for the North.

The people came to cheer, but instead of poets, musicians and courtiers in her train, there rode men-at-arms.

On James’s instructions she demanded that the Earl of Huntley should deliver up his houses, Findlater and Auchendown, as a penalty for his sons breach of the law.

Old Huntley, furious to have been disturbed in his domain, and knowing that James Stuarts desire was to wrest not only the title but the lands which went with it from the Earldom of Moray, gathered a strong force of Highlanders together and prepared to repulse the Queens men. It was civil war in the Highlands, and the result was the capture of John Gordon—the cause of the trouble—and old Huntley himself; but as the latter was taken he was seized with an apoplectic fit, so great was his chagrin, and he died on the spot.

So ended the Queens first journey to the North. She was depressed, although she had enjoyed riding through the magnificent country at the head of her troops; yet when she contemplated the huge body of the Cock o’ the North, she was hard put to it to hide her tears from her brother James, who had now publicly assumed the grand title of Earl of Moray.

RIDING SOUTH a pleasant surprise awaited Mary.

A young Frenchman joined the party, one whom she had known and liked both in France and on her first coming to Scotland. He had been forced, most regretfully, to return to France with the rest of those who had accompanied her, but now he was back again bringing letters and messages from her friends—and a devotion which had been enhanced by absence.

This was Pierre de Chastelard, the young poet who had been in the train of Henri de Montmorency, the Sieur d’Amville.

Pierre was young and handsome, related to the Chevalier de Bayard whose good looks he had inherited. He came fresh from romantic Dauphiné, and he cherished romantic dreams concerning the Queen of Scots.

He was a little arrogant; so he had been unable to resist talking of his joy at the prospect of seeing Mary again. He thought of her as his lady; and even as his lady-love.

He could not have said when he had begun to feel so sure of Mary’s response. Perhaps his attitude had begun to change when Catherine, the Queen-Mother of France, had selected him for this mission. Perhaps it was something which she had said to him, something such as: “I know of your admiration for the Queen of Scots. I remember noting it. And I have heard of the sport you have in those gloomy castles across the sea. Ah, my daughter the Queen of Scots is a most comely woman and she will be glad to see an old friend, I doubt not. I remember how devoted she was to my dear son…. And think! It is three years since she had a husband. Poor child! Well, Monsieur de Chastelard, you will comfort her.”

“I, Madame?”

“Yes, you. You are a handsome man, are you not?” The laugh which accompanied the words held a hundred suggestions and was more expressive than words. It could be cruel and mocking but it could arouse such hopes. That coarse face had suddenly been near his own, expression suddenly lighting the eyes which were usually without any. “Well, Monsieur de Chastelard, remember the honor of France.”

He had thought he understood. She was aware of everything that went on in the châteaux, it was said. In France they were beginning to understand her. She had a new name now—Madame le Serpent. She was telling him something. Was it: “You love the Queen of Scots. Do not be too backward. Hesitancy never leads to victory”? She knew something. She was telling him that Mary was not inaccessible.

So he had set off Rill of hope, and now he found himself before the Queen, who was a little older but seemed more healthy and was many times more beautiful than he remembered her.

How warmly she received him!

“Monsieur de Chastelard, I knew you at once. This is a great pleasure indeed. What news… what news of my uncles and my dear aunt the Duchesse de Guise? What news of the King and… my mother-in-law? What news of Monsieur d’Amville?”

She seized hungrily on the letters which he had brought. She read them at once. Monsieur de Chastelard must stay beside her. He must tell her all… all that was happening to her dear friends and relations in her beloved France.

Her eyes filled with tears. She was homesick afresh.

“Yet,” she said, “I am so happy that you are here.”

There were many to note her pleasure in the young man and the passionate glances he gave her.

As for Pierre, as soon as he was alone, he put his feelings into verse.

“O Déesse immortelle,” he wrote,

Écoute donc ma voix

Toi qui tiens en tutelle…”

IT WAS PLEASANT to see Signor David again. His large eyes shone with delight. He did not say how desolate the place had been without her; poor David le Chante, as she sometimes called him, was far too modest for that. And with the gallant Chastelard in her train—and what enchanting poems he wrote to her and what a pleasure it was to answer them in verse!—and David showing such decorous devotion, she could almost believe that she was back in France.