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CORSE DE LEON:

Or,

The Brigand.

A Romance.

by

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

Author of "The Robber," "The Gentleman of the Old School," etc.

In Two Volumes.

VOL. I.







New-York: Published by Harper & Brothers, No. 82 Cliff-Street.
1841.




CORSE DE LEON;

OR,

THE BRIGAND.




CHAPTER I.


There are a thousand small and apparently accidental circumstances,
which, in our course through life, bring a temporary gloom upon us,
render our expectations from the future fearful and cheerless, and
diminish our confidence in all those things whereon man either rashly
relies or builds his reasonable trusts. Strength, youth, wealth, power,
the consciousness of rectitude, the providence of God: all these will
occasionally lose their sustaining influence, even upon the most hopeful
mind, from causes too slight to justify such an effect.

These accidental circumstances, these mental clouds, resemble much those
other clouds which sometimes, at the close of a bright day, come over a
landscape previously warm and shining, cast a gray shade over its rich
hues, shut out the redoubled glory of the setting sun, and make gloom
and shadow spread over the summer scene. Though nothing is changed but
the light in which things dwell, though the colour of the tree and the
form of the rock are the same, yet the brightness of the whole is
departed, and the lustre gone out as if for ever.

There are times, however, when a gloom, which seems to have no
counterpart in the physical world, comes over the mind; when all has
gone fairly with us; when every object around is full of brightness and
hope; when the horses of Fortune's car have never once even stumbled on
the way; and not a sorrow rough enough to rub the down from the wing of
a butterfly has fallen upon our hearts for years; and yet a deep and
shadowy despondence steals over our spirits, as if the immortal within
us were telling the mortal of anxieties, and griefs, and dangers
approaching--discovered by the fine sympathies of the higher part of our
being with things undiscovered by the mere material creature.

Cares, sorrows, and perils, corporeal agony, and anguish of the heart,
are often but as the fire which tempers the pure iron into the fine
steel, at once proving and strengthening the spirit. The last grand
lesson which leads generous youth to vigorous manhood, which confirms
our powers, and gives the great man's mastery over Fate, is to endure;
and I am inclined to believe that such sudden and unaccountable feelings
of despondency--I do not mean the ordinary fits of gloom that haunt a
moody and a wayward spirit, but, on the contrary, the dark impression,
the heavy shadow that once or twice, in the midst of a bright lifetime,
comes irresistibly upon a gay or placid mind--I am inclined to think, I
say, that such despondence is only given to the highminded and the
great: a prophetic voice, announcing, not to the ear, but to the heart,
that the day of trial comes: the trumpet of Fate, calling on a champion,
dauntless and strong, to rouse him to the battle, and arm his spirit for
some awful strife.

The day had been as bright and beautiful as a summer day in the south of
Europe can be, and yet it had spared the traveller and the labourer many
of the inconveniences and discomforts which those beautiful days of the
south sometimes bring along with them: for the year was yet young, and
with all the brightness of youth it had all the tenderness too. There
had been a fresh breeze in the sky during the hotter part of the day;
and one would have felt that it blew from the cool tops of snowy
mountains, even had one not seen, from time to time, some of the distant
peaks of the high Alps towering white over the greener hills below.

There was also a world of streams, and rivulets, and cascades about,
which gave additional freshness and life to the air that blew heavy with
the perfume of the flowers upon the banks; and the high swelling of the
mountains round still gave a pleasant shade to one side of the valley.
Each sense had something to delight it; and there was over every object
which nature presented that aspect of peaceful enjoyment which is the
greatest soother of man's heart.

The spot was in the extreme verge of Savoy, bordering upon France. It
would little benefit the reader to say exactly where, for the aspect of
the land has changed: the towns of that age and their laborious denizens
would not be recognised by their successors of the present day; the
castle, the fortress, and the palace are ruined and swept away, and even
the roads themselves now wind through other valleys or climb over other
hills. It was somewhere between Nice and St. Jean de Maurienne: that
space is surely limited enough to afford the reader a definite idea of
the scene. Let him take a map and a pair of compasses, he will find it
but a span; and in reality it is less--with a universe around it.

Nevertheless, it was a very lovely scene, as I have said, with the hills
tall and blue, and the snowy mountains looking down upon one through the
long defiles; with the valleys green and fresh, and the streams bright
and sparkling. Here and there, too, upon some rocky height which
commanded the entrance of the gorges of the mountain, a feudal castle
would raise its battlements, gray, and stern, and warlike; and either in
the open plain--where such a thing was found--or in the warm valleys in
the hills, were seen the villages and small towns of Savoy, with their
grayish white walls and their graceful church towers crowning the
loveliness of the whole with the aspect of human life. The period of the
world's history whereof I speak was one of gorgeous pageantry, and gay
wit and deeds of arms: a period when chivalry and the feudal system,
just about to be extinguished for ever, blazed with a dying flame.
Montmorency still lived, though Bayard and Francis had left the busy
scene but a few years before, and Henry the Second had not yet closed
his career in the last tournament which Europe was destined to witness.
The songs of Marot and the wit of Rabelais still rang in the ear, and
Ronsard, Dorat, and Montaigne were entering gayly upon the path of
letters.

It was in the year 1558, then, and towards the close of the day, that a
small party of horsemen wound along through the bright scenery of which
we have spoken. It consisted only of four persons, two of whom were
merely armed servants, such as usually attended upon a cavalier of those
times, not exactly acting the part of soldier on ordinary occasions, but
very well fitted so to do when any particular exigency required the
exertion of the strong hand. The third was a youth of no very remarkable
appearance, in the garb of a page; but the fourth was evidently the
leader of the whole, and, as such, the person who merits the most
accurate description. I will attempt to paint him to the eye of the
reader, as I have myself seen him represented by the hand of an unknown
artist in one of the palaces on the banks of the Brenta.

He was in person about the middle height, rather above it than below,
and at this period was not more than twenty-three years of age. His
forehead was broad and fine, with short dark hair curling round it: his
features were small, except the eye and brow, the former of which was
large and full, and the latter strongly marked. The mouth was very
handsome, showing, when half open in speaking, the brilliant white
teeth, and giving to the whole countenance a look of playful gayety;
but, when shut, there was an expression of much thoughtfulness,
approaching perhaps to sternness, about it, which the rounded and
somewhat prominent chin confirmed. The upper lip was very short; but on
either side, divided in the middle, was a short black mustache, not
overhanging the mouth, but raised above it; and the beard, which was
short and black like the hair, was only suffered to grow in such a
manner as to ornament, but not to encumber, the chin.

In form the cavalier was muscular, and powerfully made, his breadth of
chest and shoulders giving the appearance of a more advanced period of
life than that at which he had yet arrived. He was evidently a soldier,
for he was fully armed, as if having lately been or being still in
scenes of strife and danger; and, to say the truth, a man fully armed in
those days was certainly more loaded with weapons, offensive and
defensive, than was probably ever the case before or since.

The picture I have spoken of represents him with not only the complete
armour which was then still used to encase the person, with the long,
heavy sword, the dagger, and the large pistols, but also with four short
carbines--at least such they appear to be--one at each corner of the
saddle. His head, indeed, is seen unencumbered by the steel cap, which
usually completed the armour, but which is borne by the page at his
saddlebow, while the cavalier himself appears wearing upon his head the
somewhat cooler covering of a black velvet cap, without feather or any
other ornament.

The horse that carried him, which was a tall, powerful charger, fared
better in some respects than his master; for before this epoch, the
heavy armour with which steed as well as man used at one time to be
encumbered was lightened in favour of the quadruped, and the horse which
bore the young gentleman of whom we speak was only covered with such
pieces as might protect his head and chest in the shock of the charge.

The day, I have said, had been bright and sweet, and all nature had been
as fresh and happy as a young heart upon a holyday. Similar, too, had
been the mood of Bernard de Rohan as he rode along; not so much that the
scene and its charms created, as that they found, sympathetic feelings
in his bosom; for his disposition was naturally cheerful and bright,
full of gay thoughts and happy enthusiasms. He was returning, too, from
another country--from the midst of strangers, and perils, and
fatigues--to enjoy an interval of tranquillity in his own bright land,
and the society of those he loved.

France was within his sight; the tongues that he heard around him spoke
nearly the same language as that which he had used from infancy; and,
though the nominal frontier of Savoy lay some fifteen miles before him,
yet, in all but the name, he was in his own country. There was little of
that cold restraint about him which is either acquired by harsh dealings
with evil men, or is natural from some inward pravity of the heart, and
the cheerful mood of his mind found its way forth in many an outward
sign. From time to time he had turned round to speak to the page or to
one of the servants with some light jest or gay inquiry. Now he would
point out a distant spot in the landscape as they stood upon some
beetling point half way up the mountain, and ask if they recognised this
or that town in Dauphine; now he would pat the proud crest of his stout
horse, and talk to the noble animal as if he expected an answer; and now
would even break forth into a snatch of song. His heart, in short, was
as a fountain, so filled with happiness that it welled over, and the
waters sparkled as they overflowed the brim.

The servants smiled to see their lord so gay, especially an elder one,
who, commenting with the other, remarked that he might well look happy,
bearing back home such glory as he had won.

Thus passed the earlier part of the day's journey; but towards the
evening the mood of Bernard de Rohan changed. His open brow did not grow
cloudy, it is true, but there came a look of gloom upon it: the lips no
longer opened with a bland smile, and the teeth were shut together with
that stern expression we have already noticed. His eyes gazed on upon
the scene, but with somewhat of a vacant aspect, and everything told
that the spirit was busy in its tabernacle dealing with high thoughts.
Nor could any one who looked upon him suppose those thoughts were other
than sad ones. Intense they certainly were, and certainly they were not
gay.

Yet Bernard de Rohan had no remembered grief. Fate had indeed once
struck him severely, but ever after had spared him altogether; had
plucked not a flower from his bosom, nor cast a shadow on his path.

In early years he had lost both his parents, but that was the only
misfortune which had befallen him, and it was long ago. He scarcely
remembered them; and all that remained was a soft memory, affectionate
but not painful. Since then his course had been from one bright thing to
another. Wise and tender friends, the amusements, the sports, the
studies of youth, virtue and honour, wealth and station, praise,
success, and glory had been his. He had no thirst for power: so what
could he want more? Had any one asked him that question, he would have
replied, Nothing: nothing but what he might well hope to attain; and
yet, about an hour before the sun reached the edge of the sky, a fit of
gloom fell upon him, dark, vague, unaccountable, like one of those mists
that in mountain lands suddenly surround the wayfarer, shutting out the
beauty and the brightness, and leaving all around dull, chilly, vague,
uncertain, and confused.

For nearly half an hour he gave way to the sensations that oppressed
him. They seemed at first too mighty to be struggled with. It was what,
in the language of Northern poetry, is called "having the cloud upon
him," and he could not cast it off; till at length it seemed to rise
gradually, and the power returned, first, of arguing with himself upon
the unreasonableness of such feelings, and then of smiling--though with
a mingled smile--at his own weakness in giving way to them.

The effect wore off; but he was still communing with himself on the
sensations he had just experienced, when the page called his attention
to the clouds that were gathering round the mountains. With that quick
transition so common to hill countries, especially in the south, the sky
was becoming rapidly obscured. The lurid masses of stormy vapour writhed
themselves round the peaks; and, although beneath their dark canopy a
gleam of intense red light was seen marking the far western sky on the
side of France, the whole heaven above was soon covered with a thick
expanse of deep gray cloud. At a considerable distance, in the more open
part of the country, which lay beyond the mouth of the defile,
stretching in long lines of dark purple towards the sunset, appeared a
large square tower, with some other neighbouring buildings, cutting with
their straight lines the rounded forms of the trees.

"That must be Voiron," said the cavalier, as if in answer to his page's
observation regarding the coming storm. "We must quicken our pace and
reach shelter, or we shall have to pass half the night in cleaning our
arms, if yonder frowning cloud fulfil one half its menaces."

"Voiron must be ten leagues off, sir," replied one of the attendants;
"we shall not reach it this night."

"Then we must find some other covering," replied the master, gayly;
"but, at all events, put to your spurs, for the battle has already
begun."

Even as he spoke the large drops fell slowly and heavily, denting the
dusty covering of the road. Bernard de Rohan and his followers rode on
at full speed, though the descent was steep, the way bad, and the gray
twilight creeping over the scene. Five minutes more brought them to a
turn where they could obtain a wider view; but, alas! no place of refuge
was to be seen, except where the same tall dark tower rose heavily
across the streaks of red light in the west, marking the place of some
distant town or village. The attendants, who had pictured to themselves
during the morning's ride all the comforts of the cheerful inn, the good
rich wine of Dauphine, the stretching forth at ease of the strong,
laborious limb, the easy gossip with the village girls, the
light-hearted song in the porch, and all the relaxing joys of an hour's
idleness, now begun to think of the long and tedious task of cleaning
arms and clothing, and spending many an hour in rubbing the cold steel;
and, to say sooth, their lord also would have been better pleased with
fairer weather.

The road, as such roads ever must do, wound its way round many a turn
and angle of the rock, so that it was very possible for several persons
to be within a short distance of each other, without the one who
followed ever seeing him who was but a few hundred yards before him. At
the spot which we have mentioned, Bernard de Rohan paused for a moment
to look round for some place of shelter, and the road before him seemed
perfectly clear and free. He could see completely into the valley on his
right, and across the plains beyond, while the path which he was
following could be traced along the side of the hill, round two or three
sharp angles of the rock, about two hundred yards apart from each other.
All at first was clear, as I have said, when suddenly there emerged, at
the salient point which cut that part of the sky where the light still
lingered, the figure of a human being, which was lost again round the
turn almost as soon as it was seen.

"There is a peasant on a mule," exclaimed the cavalier, gladly. "We
cannot be far from some village."

"It looks more like a priest on an ass, my lord," replied the attendant
who had spoken before.

"Well, well," said his master, "we shall find the better lodgings."

"And the better wine," rejoined his follower; "but, perhaps, not the
better welcome."

"Oh, they are good men, these priests of Savoy," replied Bernard de
Rohan, spurring on; "but we must not lose him again."

In a few minutes they again caught sight of the object of their pursuit.
He was now much nearer, but still it was somewhat difficult to
distinguish whether he were priest or peasant, till, coming up with him
by dint of hard riding--for his long-eared charger was bearing him on at
a rapid pace--they found that he was, as the attendant had supposed, a
jovial priest; not, indeed, extravagantly fat, as but too many were in
that day, but in good case of body, and bearing a countenance rosy with
health, and apparently sparkling with a cheerful disposition. He seemed,
indeed, to be of a character somewhat eccentric; for, contrary to all
clerical rule, he had covered his head with one of the large straw hats
of the peasantry, which accorded but ill with the rest of his
habiliments. His features, which the young cavalier thought he had seen
somewhere before, were good, with an expression of much sharpness; and,
though undoubtedly he heard the tramp of horses' feet behind him, in a
land and in times not famous for safe travelling, either his conscience
or his courage were so good, that he turned not his head to see who
followed him thus closely, but kept his ass at the same brisk canter,
while the young cavalier rode up to his side, and gave him the ordinary
salutation of the day.

"A good-evening to you, father!" said Bernard de Rohan, riding between
him and the edge of the precipice.

"Pray let us have it quickly, my son," replied the priest; "for the one
we have got seems likely to be as bad a one as ever I saw, at present."

"Indeed it is," answered the young gentleman, smiling at his somewhat
cynical reply; "I am heartily glad to have met with you, my good father,
for I trust you can show us some place of shelter."

"Good faith," replied the priest, turning for a moment to look at the
cavalier's followers, "I cannot say I am so glad of the encounter; for
where I am going we cannot be sure of finding too many of the good
things of this life, and the lion's portion is always sure to go to the
fighting men."

"Nay, nay! we will share alike!" rejoined Bernard.

"Ay! but I am a king in those matters," answered the priest; "I do not
like to share at all. But come on, come on; I am only jesting. We shall
find plenty, I doubt not; for, when last I passed that little inn, there
was good meat and wine enough to have fed a refectory for a week, or an
army for a year. Come on quick, I say, for yon foul-mouthed railer at
the top of the hill is beginning to roar at us as well as spit at us. We
have still far to go, and a storm in these mountains is like a dull
jest, I can tell you, young gentleman; for one never knows what may come
next."

"Why, what can come next," demanded the cavalier, "but fine weather
after the storm?"

"A rock upon your head," replied the priest, "or an avalanche at your
heels, which would smother you in your steel case like a lobster in his
shell. Come on! come on! Sancta Maria! why, my small ass will out-run
your tall charger now!" and, bestowing a buffet with his straw hat upon
the flank of his bearer, the beast quickened his pace still more, and,
with a malicious whisk of the tail and fling with his hind feet, set off
into a gallop. But we must pause to change the scene, and precede the
travellers on their way.




CHAPTER II.


There are few situations in life which convey to the mind of man more
completely the sensations of comfort, security, and repose, than when,
after a long day's ride, he sits at ease by a glowing fire, and
hears--while all the ready service of a well-conducted inn is in
bustling activity to minister to his wants or satisfy his appetite--the
rain patter and the tempest roar without. Nor is it from any selfish
comparison of their own fate with that of others less happy that men
derive this sensation, notwithstanding the dictum of the most selfish of
would-be philosophers. It is, on the contrary, from a comparison of
their own situation at the moment with what that situation sometimes has
been, or might even then be, that the good and the generous experience
such feelings; and, though the thought of others exposed to the tempest
must naturally cross their minds, yet that thought is mixed with pity
and regret.

The little inn towards which Bernard de Rohan and his companions were
proceeding, under the guidance of the priest, when last we left them,
though the village in which it stood contained not above nine or ten
cottages, was good for the time and the country. Its only sitting-room,
of course, was the great kitchen, into which the door opened from the
road; but that kitchen was well fenced from the wind and rain; the
windows were small, and cased in stone; the door was sheltered by a deep
porch, where host and travellers sat and amused themselves in the summer
daytime; and, as it was the first house met with after passing some of
the steepest mountains between France and Piedmont, everything was done
to make it attractive in the eyes of weary wayfarers.

The thunder had passed, the air had become cold and raw, the night was
as dark as a bad man's thoughts, a fierce wind was blowing, and the
heavy rain dashed in gusts against the clattering casements; but all
those indications of the harsh and boisterous state of the weather
without did but serve to make the scene within seem more comfortable to
the eyes of a traveller, who sat in one of the large seats within the
sheltering nook of the chimney, watching the busy hostess prepare more
than one savoury mess for his supper on the bright wood fire that blazed
upon the hearth. In the mean time, several attendants of various kinds
might be seen in different parts of the wide kitchen, cleaning and
drying harness, clothes, baldrics, and weapons, or preparing other
matters for the service of their lord, with all the devices of courtly
luxury.

Those attendants, however, were not the attendants of Bernard de Rohan,
nor was the traveller that cavalier himself; he being yet upon his way
thither, and enduring all the fury of the storm.

The one of whom I now speak was a man of about the same age, but rather
older. He was decidedly a handsomer man also: his features were all
finer in form; he was taller; his complexion was fairer, without,
however, being effeminate; and it was evident, too, that he knew his
personal advantages, and was somewhat vain of them. He was dressed with
much splendour, according to the fashion of that day; and, though he
seemed to have met with some part of the storm, it was clear that he had
not been long exposed to it.

In short, as he sat there, he might well be pronounced one of the
handsomest and most splendid cavaliers of his day; but there was a
something which a closely-observing eye might detect in the hanging brow
and curling lip that was not altogether pleasant. It could scarcely be
called a sneer; yet there was something supercilious and contemptuous in
it too. Nor was it altogether haughty, though pride undoubtedly had its
share. It was a dark and yet not gloomy expression. It seemed as if the
heart beneath was full of many an unfathomable idea, and proud of its
impenetrability. The thoughts might be good or bad; but it was evidently
a countenance of much thought under a mask of lightness: a deep lake
beneath a ripple.

The stranger had, as we have said, been looking on while the hostess,
with a bustling maid, prepared manifold dishes for his supper; and he
added, from time to time, a gay jest to either of them upon the progress
of the work. His tone was familiar and easy; but it might be remarked
that his jest always arose from something that came beneath his eye, and
that, in general, he took no notice whatever of the reply, scarcely
seeming to hear that any one else spoke, and making no rejoinder, but
letting the matter drop till he thought