Henry of Guise: The States of Blois. G. P. R. James

tumult, when the greater part of men's time was given up to painful thoughts of self-defence, or the fierce struggles of civil contention, the wandering musicians were generally received with a glad heart to every abode, and obtained payment of some kind, either in food or money, for the temporary enjoyment they afforded.

      The party which now approached consisted of two men, a woman, and a boy. The two men were ferocious-looking persons enough, with dresses of gay colours, embroidered with tinsel, and each bearing in his girdle a dagger, the meretricious ornaments of which seemed adopted for the purpose of persuading people that it was there only for show, though in reality the sharp broad blade of highly tempered steel was very well calculated to effect any murderous purpose. The woman had once, perhaps, been pretty, and she now decked out charms, blighted perhaps by vice as much as faded by time, with every ornament within her reach. The boy, however, was the personage of the group certainly the most interesting. He preceded his brethren along the street, playing on a small pipe, from which he produced most exquisite sounds; while a small spaniel dog ran on before him, and from time to time stood upon his hind legs, much to the amusement of the children and women that followed the musicians.

      The truth is, the whole band had been lodging at the other end of the village, in one of those little public houses called, in those days, Répues; but hearing of the arrival of a body of gay cavaliers at the larger inn, they were coming up in haste to see how many sous their music could extract from the pockets of the troop. The two elder men and the woman were pushing in at once into the auberge, without taking any note of the young Count de Logères, whom they looked upon as a mere idler at an inn-door; but the boy stopped, and, uncovering his dark curly head, gazed for a moment in the count's face, with eyes full of fire and intelligence.

      He had scarcely paused a moment, however, when one of the men returning, caught him violently by the arm, exclaiming, "What are you lingering for, idle fool?" and struck him a blow upon the face with the open hand, which left the print of his fingers upon the boy's young cheek. The boy neither wept nor complained, but stood with his hands by his sides, a dark and bitter frown upon his brow, and a flashing fire in his eye, which showed that his passive calmness proceeded from no want of indignant sensibility to the injury. The blow might very likely have been repeated, had not the man's eye, at that moment, fallen upon Charles of Montsoreau, and perceived in his countenance a look of angry indignation, while his apparel and bearing at once showed that he was superior to the party whom the musicians had met with within.

      "Come in, Ignati," cried the musician, with somewhat of a foreign accent; "either play on your pipe to the gentleman here, or come and help us to sing to the company within doors."

      "I will not go in," said the boy, "unless you make me; but I will sing the gentleman a song here, if he likes it."

      "Ay, do, do," said the man; "sing him that Gaillard song with the chorus."

      "I am in no mood, my poor boy," said Charles of Montsoreau, "to take pleasure in your music. My heart is too sad for your gay sounds. There is something for you, however. Go in, and sing to the lighter hearts within."

      And giving him a small piece of money, he was turning away; but the boy drew closer to him, and looking up in his face with a sweet and kindly smile, pressed him to hear his music.

      "Oh let me sing to you," he said, "let me sing to you, noble gentleman. You don't know what music can do for a sad heart. It often makes mine less heavy; and I will choose you a song, where even the gay words are sad, so that they shall not be harsh to the most sorrowful ear."

      "Well, my good boy," replied the count, "if you must sing, let it be so; but you must expect me to listen but lightly, for I have many things to think of."

      The boy instantly laid down his pipe on a bench by the door, and lifting his two hands gracefully, which had before been clasped together, he looked up for a minute to the sky, and then began his song, as follows:--

      SONG.

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Dost thou remember brighter hours

      Shining upon thy happy way,

      Like morning sunshine upon dewy flowers?

      Oh, join my lay,

       And with me say,

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Has fortune's favour left thee

      (Ebbing fast away),

      Like stranded vessel by a summer sea?

      Oh, join my lay,

       And with me say,

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Have the eyes that once were smiling

      Now learnt to stray,

      Other hearts as fond as thine beguiling?

      Then join my lay,

       And with me say,

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      Has love's blossom suffer'd blight

      'Neath misfortune grey,

      Like flow'rs in the frost of a wintry night?

      Oh, join my lay,

       And with me say,

      Gué, gué, well-a-day!

      The boy's music had contrived to fix the attention of Charles of Montsoreau, and awakened an unexpected interest in the fate of the youth, who seemed capable, not only of the mere mechanical art of singing the words of others, or, like a taught bird, whistling music by rote, but of feeling every word and every tone that he uttered. As the young nobleman looked from his face to that of the man whom he accompanied, and who sat by his side on the bench at the door, gazing at him with an affected smile upon his coarse assassin-like features, he could not but think that it must be a hard fate for that poor, sensitive-looking boy to wander on under the domination of a harsh being like that, and he almost longed to deliver him from it. He gave the boy some additional money, however, which made the man's eyes gleam; and he was proceeding to ask some questions regarding the fate and history of the whole party, when Gondrin and the rest of the servants issued forth with the horses, and Charles of Montsoreau prepared to mount.

      "These are the vagabonds, my lord," said Gondrin, "who were up at the castle gates on the day you saved Mademoiselle de Clairvaut from drowning."

      "I did not see them," replied Charles of Montsoreau with some surprise--"I did not remark any one there."

      "No," answered the boy with a light smile, "no, you were thinking too much of some one else."

      "You must have made speed to get here before me," said Charles of Montsoreau.

      "Ay, we go by paths, sir, that you cannot go on horseback," joined in the man; "and we will be at the next inn gate before you to-night, if you would like to hear the boy's music again."

      "Perhaps I may," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "at all events, you shan't go without reward."

      "We will be there, we will be there," replied the man; and the Count having ascertained that the reckoning was paid, rode on upon his way.

      The little incident which had broken in upon the train of his melancholy thoughts did not very long occupy his mind. "This must be a shrewd boy," he thought, "to adapt his song so well to the circumstances; for it is clearly from what he saw at the castle gates that he judged of the nature of my feelings, and sang accordingly."

      Thus thinking, he rode on, and his mind readily reverted to the darker topics which had before occupied it. When he arrived at the sleeping place, which were in those days called Gîtes, he found a large and comfortable inn, such as was scarcely ever to be met with in any other country but France in those days. He looked naturally for the band of musicians at the door; but it seemed that they had either forgotten their promise, or had not yet arrived; and