Mary Stuart

A >> Alexandre Dumas, Pere >> Mary Stuart


"Time presses, madam; time presses," cried Melville, looking at the sand,
which, placed on the table, was marking the time. "They are coming back,
they will be here in a minute; and this time you must give them an
answer. Listen, madam, and at least profit by your situation as much as
you can. You are alone here with one woman, without friends, without
protection, without power: an abdication signed at such a juncture will
never appear to your people to have been freely given, but will always
pass as having been torn from you by force; and if need be, madam, if the
day comes when such a solemn declaration is worth something, well, then
you will have two witnesses of the violence done you: the one will be
Mary Seyton, and the other," he added in a low voice and looking uneasily
about him,--"the other will be Robert Melville."

Hardly had he finished speaking when the footsteps of the two nobles were
again heard on the staircase, returning even before the quarter of an
hour had elapsed; a moment afterwards the door opened, and Ruthven
appeared, while over his shoulder was seen Lindsay's head.

"Madam," said Ruthven, "we have returned. Has your Grace decided? We
come for your answer."

"Yes," said Lindsay, pushing aside Ruthven, who stood in his way, and
advancing to the table,--"yes, an answer, clear, precise, positive, and
without dissimulation."

"You are exacting, my lord," said the queen: "you would scarcely have the
right to expect that from me if I were in full liberty on the other side
of the lake and surrounded with a faithful escort; but between these
walls, behind these bars, in the depths of this fortress, I shall not
tell you that I sign voluntarily, lest you should not believe it. But no
matter, you want my signature; well, I am going to give it to you.
Melville, pass me the pen."

"But I hope," said Lord Ruthven, "that your Grace is not counting on
using your present position one day in argument to protest against what
you are going to do?"

The queen had already stooped to write, she had already set her hand to
the paper, when Ruthven spoke to her. But scarcely had he done so, than
she rose up proudly, and letting fall the pen, "My lord," said she, "what
you asked of me just now was but an abdication pure and simple, and I was
going to sign it. But if to this abdication is joined this marginal
note, then I renounce of my own accord, and as judging myself unworthy,
the throne of Scotland. I would not do it for the three united crowns
that I have been robbed of in turn."

"Take care, madam," cried Lord Lindsay, seizing the queen's wrist with
his steel gauntlet and squeezing it with all his angry strength--"take
care, for our patience is at an end, and we could easily end by breaking
what would not bend."

The queen remained standing, and although a violent flush had passed like
a flame over her countenance, she did not utter a word, and did not move:
her eyes only were fixed with such a great expression of contempt on
those of the rough baron, that he, ashamed of the passion that had
carried him away, let go the hand he had seized and took a step back.
Then raising her sleeve and showing the violet marks made on her arm by
Lord Lindsay's steel gauntlet,

"This is what I expected, my lords," said she, "and nothing prevents me
any longer from signing; yes, I freely abdicate the throne and crown of
Scotland, and there is the proof that my will has not been forced."

With these words, she took the pen and rapidly signed the two documents,
held them out to Lord Ruthven, and bowing with great dignity, withdrew
slowly into her room, accompanied by Mary Seyton. Ruthven looked after
her, and when she had disappeared, "It doesn't matter," he said; "she has
signed, and although the means you employed, Lindsay, may be obsolete
enough in diplomacy, it is not the less efficacious, it seems."

"No joking, Ruthven," said Lindsay; "for she is a noble creature, and if
I had dared, I should have thrown myself at her feet to ask her
forgiveness."

"There is still time," replied Ruthven, "and Mary, in her present
situation, will not be severe upon you: perhaps she has resolved to
appeal to the judgment of God to prove her innocence, and in that case a
champion such as you might well change the face of things."

"Do not joke, Ruthven," Lindsay answered a second time, with more
violence than the first; "for if I were as well convinced of her
innocence as I am of her crime, I tell you that no one should touch a
hair of her head, not even the regent."

"The devil! my lord," said Ruthven. "I did not know you were so
sensitive to a gentle voice and a tearful eye; you know the story of
Achilles' lance, which healed with its rust the wounds it made with its
edge: do likewise my lord, do likewise."

"Enough, Ruthven, enough," replied Lindsay; "you are like a corselet of
Milan steel, which is three times as bright as the steel armour of
Glasgow, but which is at the same time thrice as hard: we know one
another, Ruthven, so an end to railleries or threats; enough, believe me,
enough."

And after these words, Lord Lindsay went out first, followed by Ruthven
and Melville, the first with his head high and affecting an air of
insolent indifference, and the second, sad, his brow bent, and not even
trying to disguise the painful impression which this scene had made on
him.' ["History of Scotland, by Sir Walter Scott.--'The Abbott":
historical part.]




CHAPTER VI

The queen came out of her room only in the evening, to take her place at
the window which looked over the lake: at the usual time she saw the
light which was henceforth her sole hope shine in the little house in
Kinross; for a whole long month she had no other consolation than seeing
it, every night, fixed and faithful.

At last, at the end of this time, and as she was beginning to despair of
seeing George Douglas again, one morning, on opening the window, she
uttered a cry. Mary Seyton ran to her, and the queen, without having
strength to speak, showed her in the middle of the lake the tiny boat at
anchor, and in the boat Little Douglas and George, who were absorbed in
fishing, their favourite amusement. The young man had arrived the day
before, and as everyone was accustomed to his unexpected returns, the
sentinel had not even blown the horn, and the queen had not known that at
last a friend had come.

However, she was three days yet without seeing this friend otherwise than
she had just done-that is, on the lake. It is true that from morning
till evening he did not leave that spot, from which he could view the
queen's windows and the queen herself, when, to gaze at a wider horizon,
she leaned her face against the bars. At last, on the morning of the
fourth day, the queen was awakened by a great noise of dogs and horns:
she immediately ran to the window, for to a prisoner everything is an
event, and she saw William Douglas, who was embarking with a pack of
hounds and some huntsmen. In fact, making a truce, for a day, with his
gaoler's duties, to enjoy a pleasure more in harmony with his rank and
birth, he was going to hunt in the woods which cover the last ridge of
Ben Lomond, and which, ever sinking, die down on the banks of the lake.

The queen trembled with delight, for she hoped that Lady Lochleven would
maintain her ill-will, and that then George would replace his brother:
this hope was not disappointed. At the usual time the queen heard the
footsteps of those who were bringing her her breakfast; the door opened,
and she saw George Douglas enter, preceded by the servants who were
carrying the dishes. George barely bowed; but the queen, warned by him
not to be surprised at anything, returned him his greeting with a
disdainful air; then the servants performed their task and went out, as
they were accustomed.

"At last," said the queen, "you are back again, then."

George motioned with his finger, went to the door to listen if all the
servants had really gone away, and if no one had remained to spy. Then,
returning more at ease, and bowing respectfully--

"Yes, madam," returned he; "and, Heaven be thanked, I bring good news."

"Oh, tell me quickly!" cried the queen; "for staying in this castle is
hell. You knew that they came, did you not, and that they made me sign
an abdication?"

"Yes, madam," replied Douglas; "but we also knew that your signature had
been obtained from you by violence alone, and our devotion to your
Majesty is increased thereby, if possible."

"But, after all, what have you done?"

"The Seytons and the Hamiltons, who are, as your Majesty knows, your most
faithful servants,"--Mary turned round, smiling, and put out her hand to
Mary Seyton,--"have already," continued George, "assembled their troops,
who keep themselves in readiness for the first signal; but as they alone
would not be sufficiently numerous to hold the country, we shall make our
way directly to Dumbarton, whose governor is ours, and which by its
position and its strength can hold out long enough against all the
regent's troops to give to the faithful hearts remaining to you time to
come and join us."

"Yes, yes," said the queen; "I see clearly what we shall do once we get
out of this; but how are we to get out?"

"That is the occasion, madam," replied Douglas, "for which your Majesty
must call to your aid that courage of which you have given such great
proofs."

"If I have need only of courage and coolness," replied the queen, "be
easy; neither the one nor the other will fail me."

"Here is a file," said George, giving Mary Seyton that instrument which
he judged unworthy to touch the queen's hands, "and this evening I shall
bring your Majesty cords to construct a ladder. You will cut through one
of the bars of this window, it is only at a height of twenty feet; I
shall come up to you, as much to try it as to support you; one of the
garrison is in my pay, he will give us passage by the door it is his duty
to guard, and you will be free."

"And when will that be?" cried the queen.

"We must wait for two things, madam," replied Douglas: "the first, to
collect at Kinross an escort sufficient for your Majesty's safety; the
second, that the turn for night watch of Thomas Warden should happen to
be at an isolated door that we can reach without being seen."

"And how will you know that? Do you stay at the castle, then?"

"Alas! no, madam," replied George; "at the castle I am a useless and even
a dangerous fried for you, while once beyond the lake I can serve you in
an effectual manner."

"And how will you know when Warden's turn to mount guard has come?"

"The weathercock in the north tower, instead of turning in the wind with
the others, will remain fixed against it."

"But I, how shall I be warned?"

"Everything is already provided for on that side: the light which shines
each night in the little house in Kinross incessantly tells you that your
friends keep watch for you; but when you would like to know if the hour
of your deliverance approaches or recedes, in your turn place a light in
this window. The other will immediately disappear; then, placing your
hand on your breast, count your heartbeats: if you reach the number
twenty without the light reappearing, nothing is yet settled; if you only
reach ten, the moment approaches; if the light does not leave you time to
count beyond five, your escape is fixed for the following night; if it
reappears no more, it is fixed for the same evening; then the owl's cry,
repeated thrice in the courtyard, will be the signal; let down the ladder
when you hear it".

"Oh, Douglas," cried the queen, "you alone could foresee and calculate
everything thus. Thank you, thank you a hundred times!" And she gave him
her hand to kiss.

A vivid red flushed the young man's cheeks; but almost directly mastering
his emotion, he kneeled down, and, restraining the expression of that
love of which he had once spoken to the queen, while promising her never
more to speak of it, he took the hand that Mary extended, and kissed it
with such respect that no one could have seen in this action anything but
the homage of devotion and fidelity.

Then, having bowed to the queen, he went out, that a longer stay with her
should not give rise to any suspicions.

At the dinner-hour Douglas brought, as he had said, a parcel of cord. It
was not enough, but when evening came Mary Seyton was to unroll it and
let fall the end from the window, and George would fasten the remainder
to it: the thing was done as arranged, and without any mishap, an hour
after the hunters had returned.

The following day George left the castle.

The queen and Mary Seyton lost no time in setting about the rope ladder,
and it was finished on the third day. The same evening, the queen in her
impatience, and rather to assure herself of her partisans' vigilance than
in the hope that the time of her deliverance was so near, brought her
lamp to the window: immediately, and as George Douglas had told her, the
light in the little house at Kinross disappeared: the queen then laid her
hand on her heart and counted up to twenty-two; then the light
reappeared; they were ready for everything, but nothing was yet settled.
For a week the queen thus questioned the light and her heart-beats
without their number changing; at last, on the eighth day, she counted
only as far as ten; at the eleventh the light reappeared.

The queen believed herself mistaken: she did not dare to hope what this
announced. She withdrew the lamp; then, at the end of a quarter of an
hour, showed it again: her unknown correspondent understood with his
usual intelligence that a fresh trial was required of him, and the light
in the little house disappeared in its turn. Mary again questioned the
pulsations of her heart, and, fast as it leaped, before the twelfth beat
the propitious star was shining on the horizon: there was no longer any
doubt; everything was settled.

Mary could not sleep all night: this persistency of her partisans
inspired her with gratitude to the point of tears. The day came, and the
queen several times questioned her companion to assure herself that it
was not all a dream; at every sound it seemed to her that the scheme on
which her liberty hung was discovered, and when, at breakfast and at
dinner time, William Douglas entered as usual, she hardly dared look at
him, for fear of reading on his face the announcement that all was lost.

In the evening the queen again questioned the light: it made the same
answer; nothing had altered; the beacon was always one of hope.

For four days it thus continued to indicate that the moment of escape was
at hand; on the evening of the fifth, before the queen had counted five
beats, the light reappeared: the queen leaned upon Mary Seyton; she was
nearly fainting, between dread and 'delight. Her escape was fixed for
the next evening.

The queen tried once more, and obtained the same reply: there was no
longer a doubt; everything was ready except the prisoner's courage, for
it failed her for a moment, and if Mary Seyton had not drawn up a seat in
time, she would have fallen prone; but, the first moment over, she
collected herself as usual, and was stronger and more resolute than ever.

Till midnight the queen remained at the window, her eyes fixed on that
star of good omen: at last Mary Seyton persuaded her to go to bed,
offering, if she had no wish to sleep, to read her some verses by M.
Ronsard, or some chapters from the Mer des Histoires; but Mary had no
desire now for any profane reading, and had her Hours read, making the
responses as she would have done if she had been present at a mass said
by a Catholic priest: towards dawn, however, she grew drowsy, and as Mary
Seyton, for her part, was dropping with fatigue, she fell asleep directly
in the arm-chair at the head of the queen's bed.

Next day she awoke, feeling that someone was tapping her on the shoulder:
it was the queen, who had already arisen.

"Come and see, darling," said she,--"come and see the fine day that God
is giving us. Oh! how alive is Nature! How happy I shall be to be once
more free among those plains and mountains! Decidedly, Heaven is on our
side."

"Madam," replied Mary, "I would rather see the weather less fine: it
would promise us a darker night; and consider, what we need is darkness,
not light."

"Listen," said the queen; "it is by this we are going to see if God is
indeed for us; if the weather remains as it is, yes, you are right, He
abandons us; but if it clouds over, oh! then, darling, this will be a
certain proof of His protection, will it not?"

Mary Seyton smiled, nodding that she adopted her mistress's superstition;
then the queen, incapable of remaining idle in her great preoccupation of
mind, collected the few jewels that she had preserved, enclosed them in a
casket, got ready for the evening a black dress, in order to be still
better hidden in the darkness: and, these preparations made, she sat down
again at the window, ceaselessly carrying her eyes from the lake to the
little house in Kinross, shut up and dumb as usual.

The dinner-hour arrived: the queen was so happy that she received William
Douglas with more goodwill than was her wont, and it was with difficulty
she remained seated during the time the meal lasted; but she restrained
herself, and William Douglas withdrew, without seeming to have noticed
her agitation.

Scarcely had he gone than Mary ran to the window; she had need of air,
and her gaze devoured in advance those wide horizons which she was about
to cross anew; it seemed to her that once at liberty she would never shut
herself up in a palace again, but would wander about the countryside
continually: then, amid all these tremors of delight, from time to time
she felt unexpectedly heavy at heart. She then turned round to Mary
Seyton, trying to fortify her strength with hers, and the young girl kept
up her hopes, but rather from duty than from conviction.

But slow as they seemed to the queen, the hours yet passed: towards the
afternoon some clouds floated across the blue sky; the queen remarked
upon them joyfully to her companion; Mary Seyton congratulated her upon
them, not on account of the imaginary omen that the queen sought in them,
but because of the real importance that the weather should be cloudy,
that darkness might aid them in their flight. While the two prisoners
were watching the billowy, moving vapours, the hour of dinner arrived;
but it was half an hour of constraint and dissimulation, the more painful
that, no doubt in return for the sort of goodwill shown him by the queen
in the morning, William Douglas thought himself obliged, in his turn, to
accompany his duties with fitting compliments, which compelled the queen
to take a more active part in the conversation than her preoccupation
allowed her; but William Douglas did not seem in any way to observe this
absence of mind, and all passed as at breakfast.

Directly he had gone the queen ran to the window: the few clouds which
were chasing one another in the sky an hour before had thickened and
spread, and--all the blue was blotted out, to give place to a hue dull
and leaden as pewter. Mary Stuart's presentiments were thus realised: as
to the little house in Kinross, which one could still make out in the
dusk, it remained shut up, and seemed deserted.

Night fell: the light shone as usual; the queen signalled, it
disappeared. Mary Stuart waited in vain; everything remained in
darkness: the escape was for the same evening. The queen heard eight
o'clock, nine o'clock, and ten o'clock strike successively. At ten
o'clock the sentinels were relieved; Mary Stuart heard the patrols pass
beneath her windows, the steps of the watch recede: then all returned to
silence. Half an hour passed away thus; suddenly the owl's cry resounded
thrice, the queen recognised George Douglas's signal: the supreme moment
had come.

In these circumstances the queen found all her strength revive: she
signed to Mary Seyton to take away the bar and to fix the rope ladder,
while, putting out the lamp, she felt her way into the bedroom to seek
the casket which contained her few remaining jewels. When she came back,
George Douglas was already in the room.

"All goes well, madam," said he. "Your friends await you on the other
side of the lake, Thomas Warden watches at the postern, and God has sent
us a dark night."

The queen, without replying, gave him her hand. George bent his knee and
carried this hand to his lips; but on touching it, he felt it cold and
trembling.

"Madam," said he, "in Heaven's name summon all your courage, and do not
let yourself be downcast at such a moment."

"Our Lady-of-Good-Help," murmured Seyton, "come to our aid!"

"Summon to you the spirit of the kings your ancestors," responded George,
"for at this moment it is not the resignation of a Christian that you
require, but the strength and resolution of a queen."

"Oh, Douglas! Douglas," cried Mary mournfully, "a fortune-teller
predicted to me that I should die in prison and by a violent death: has
not the hour of the prediction arrived?"

"Perhaps," George said, "but it is better to die as a queen than to live
in this ancient castle calumniated and a prisoner."

"You are right, George," the queen answered; "but for a woman the first
step is everything: forgive me". Then, after a moment's pause, "Come,"
said she; "I am ready."

George immediately went to the window, secured the ladder again and more
firmly, then getting up on to the sill and holding to the bars with one
hand, he stretched out the other to the queen, who, as resolute as she
had been timid a moment before, mounted on a stool, and had already set
one foot on the window-ledge, when suddenly the cry, "Who goes there?"
rang out at the foot of the tower. The queen sprang quickly back, partly
instinctively and partly pushed by George, who, on the contrary, leaned
out of the window to see whence came this cry, which, twice again
renewed, remained twice unanswered, and was immediately followed by a
report and the flash of a firearm: at the same moment the sentinel on
duty on the tower blew his bugle, another set going the alarm bell, and
the cries, "To arms, to arms!" and "Treason, treason!" resounded
throughout the castle.

"Yes, yes, treason, treason!" cried George Douglas, leaping down into the
room. "Yes, the infamous Warden has betrayed us!" Then, advancing to
Mary, cold and motionless as a statue, "Courage, madam," said he,
"courage! Whatever happens, a friend yet remains for you in the castle;
it is Little Douglas."

Scarcely had he finished speaking when the door of the queen's apartment
opened, and William Douglas and Lady Lochleven, preceded by servants
carrying torches and armed soldiers, appeared on the threshold: the room
was immediately filled with people and light.

"Mother," said William Douglas, pointing to his brother standing before
Mary Stuart and protecting her with his body, "do you believe me now?
Look!"

The old lady was for a moment speechless; then finding a word at last,
and taking a step forward--

"Speak, George Douglas," cried she, "speak, and clear yourself at once of
the charge which weighs on your honour; say but these words, 'A Douglas
was never faithless to his trust,' and I believe you".

"Yes, mother," answered William, "a Douglas!... but he--he is not a
Douglas."

"May God grant my old age the strength needed to bear on the part of one
of my sons such a misfortune, and on the part of the other such an
injury!" exclaimed Lady Lochleven. "O woman born under a fatal star,"
she went on, addressing the queen, "when will you cease to be, in the
Devil's hands, an instrument of perdition and death to all who approach
you? O ancient house of Lochleven, cursed be the hour when this
enchantress crossed thy threshold!"

"Do not say that, mother, do not say that," cried George; "blessed be, on
the contrary, the moment which proves that, if there are Douglases who no
longer remember what they owe to their sovereigns, there are others who
have never forgotten it."

"Douglas! Douglas!" murmured Mary Stuart, "did I not tell you?"

"And I, madam," said George, "what did I reply then? That it was an
honour and a duty to every faithful subject of your Majesty to die for
you."

"Well, die, then!" cried William Douglas, springing on his brother with
raised sword, while he, leaping back, drew his, and with a movement quick
as thought and eager as hatred defended himself. But at the same moment
Mary Stuart darted between the two young people.

"Not another step, Lord Douglas," said she. "Sheathe your sword, George,
or if you use it, let be to go hence, and against everyone but your b
other. I still have need of your life; take care of it."

"My life, like my arm and my honour, is at your service, madam, and from
the moment you command it I shall preserve it for you."

With these words, rushing to the door with a violence and resolve which
prevented anyone's stopping him--

"Back!" cried he to the domestics who were barring the passage; "make way
for the young master of Douglas, or woe to you!".