Blanche : 
 
 The Maid of Lille
 
 I 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNVCRSITY OF 
 
 iPORNIA 
 ' DIEGO
 
 
 
 Williams Book Store { 
 75 Washington St. I 
 Boston, : Mags _
 
 BLANCHE: THE MAID OF 
 LILLE
 
 BLANCHE: 
 
 The Maid of Lille 
 
 Translated from the German of 
 
 OSSIP SCHUBIN 
 
 by 
 
 SARAH H. ADAMS 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 M C M I I
 
 Copyright, 7902, by 
 SARAH H. ADAMS 
 
 Colonial 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Stmonds & Co. 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 A FEW years since we chose to spend 
 the summer in a chalet among the 
 Dolomites of South Tyrol. Weird, 
 fantastic, inaccessible, mysterious, gro 
 tesque, and yet often wearing a 
 jewelled crown of eternal ice, these 
 peaks soared into the ether above and 
 around us. " Nothing," says a recent 
 traveller, " can surpass the majesty and 
 beauty of the towers and ramparts, the 
 battlemented walls, impregnable castles, 
 and gracefully pinnacled cathedrals into 
 the forms of which their summits are 
 5
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 built up. Their colouring is another 
 striking characteristic; many of them 
 rivet the eye with the richness of the 
 tints, deep reds, bright yellows, sil 
 very whites, and the dark blues and 
 blacks of the rocks. But all these 
 colours are modified and softened by 
 a peculiar grayish white tint. The 
 mountains look as if powdered over 
 with some substance less hard and cold 
 than newly fallen snow." 
 
 Although within a day's drive of 
 Pieve di Cadore, Titian's birthplace 
 and not far from Cortina, we could 
 hardly have found a more isolated spot. 
 It was a hermitage, and we knew lit 
 erally no one within hundreds of 
 miles. 
 
 6
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Ossip Schubin, the popular German 
 novelist at that time, had sent us a 
 volume of stories, with the request that 
 we would translate them. We selected 
 the story now offered as being most in 
 sympathy with our romantic surround 
 ings. 
 
 A learned Englishman has said, " If 
 histories were written as histories should 
 be, boys and girls would cry to read 
 them." But alas ! how is the spirit, 
 the tone, of a dead century to be made 
 to breathe again and report itself? The 
 landscape alone is permanent ; new fig 
 ures constantly fill the foreground. 
 Poetry, legend, myths, help us to 
 divine some of the strange chords in 
 the human chant, which, heavily bur- 
 7
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 dened with sorrow, come down to us 
 through the ages. 
 
 In this twentieth century no one 
 sentiment or emotion is allowed so far 
 to dominate as to crush out all others. 
 But how was it in the days of the 
 Crusaders, of the Minnesingers, of 
 the Troubadours ? If we would realise 
 the seclusion, the loneliness of many 
 lives centuries ago, we have only to 
 enter either " The Wartburg " or the 
 castle of Solmes Brauenfels in the 
 Rhine valley, which dates back a thou 
 sand years. Look into the gloomy 
 keeps ; hear the shrieking of the bars 
 in the heavy portcullis ; gaze down 
 into the damp, ugly moats ; or listen 
 to the soughing of the stormy winds 
 
 8
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in the branches of the tall forest trees 
 which closely environ these grim 
 abodes. It is conceivable that Eliza 
 beth languished and died at "The 
 Wartburg," when the chivalrous Tann- 
 hauser no longer came to inspire with 
 love and song. Could even Martin 
 Luther have lived in these cold, black 
 walls without his work which daily 
 rekindled his soul as he studied the 
 inspired pages of the Bible ? 
 
 Among the annals of a wicked old 
 past, this story appears as a legend 
 dimly connected with the pathetic face 
 of the " Maid of Lille " a copy of 
 which is in the Boston Art Museum. 
 
 There is no appeal here to the 
 modern girl. The word "altruism" 
 9
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 had not been invented. Yet there 
 was genius in loving as Blanche did 
 what trustful, boundless love, what 
 exaggeration of the object loved ! And 
 while to-day we strive to master a use 
 less sorrow by a useful activity, we can 
 still appreciate the beauty and holiness 
 of such love. 
 
 SARAH H. ADAMS. 
 
 10
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 IN the museum at Lille, somewhat 
 aside from the bewildering mass of 
 pictures, stands, in a glass case, a mas 
 terpiece of unknown origin the 
 " tete de cire," a maiden's bust 
 moulded in coloured wax. 
 
 You will smile when you hear 
 of a coloured wax bust and think of 
 Madame Tussaud's collection, or of a 
 pretty, insignificant doll's head ; but 
 should you ever see the " tete de cire," 
 instead of laughing you will fold your 
 hands, and, instead of Madame Tus 
 saud's glass-eyed puppets, will think of 
 ii
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 a lovely girl cut off in her early bloom, 
 whom you once saw at rest on the 
 hard pillow of her coffin. Pale, with 
 exquisite features, reddish brown hair, 
 eyes slightly blinking, as if afraid of 
 too much sun, a painfully resigned 
 smile about her mouth, and with neck 
 slightly bent forward, as if awaiting her 
 death-stroke, full of touching inno 
 cence and of a languid grace, this 
 waxen bust stands out of its dull gold 
 case, the image of an angel who 
 had lived an earthly life and whose 
 heart was broken by a mortal pain. 
 
 Whence came this masterly produc 
 tion ? Nobody knows ! One ascribes 
 it to Leonardo, another to Raphael, 
 while still others have sought for its 
 
 12
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 origin in antiquity. Upon one point 
 only all agree, that the bust was 
 made from a cast taken after death. 
 
 The painter, Wickar, brought it out 
 of Italy into France. 'Twas said that 
 he found it in a Tuscan convent. 
 
 V * > 
 
 The lovely girl smiles, pleased at the 
 critical debates of the curious, who 
 wish to attribute this graceful creation 
 to one of the illustrious Heroes of Art : 
 smiles and dreams !
 
 No, it could not be 'twould be a 
 sacrilege ! 
 
 He was forty-five and she scarcely 
 seventeen. It could not be ! 
 
 After a series of adventurous cam 
 paigns, after mourning over many de 
 feats and celebrating many victories, 
 and finally losing his left leg in the 
 memorable battle of Marignano, Gott 
 fried de Montalme, finding himself dis 
 abled for the rough work of a soldier, 
 had returned to France and to his 
 father's castle, whose gates his brother, 
 the duke, hospitably opened to him.
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 He found this brother a widower, 
 and at the point of death ; but beside 
 the dying man's couch was a lovely 
 little maiden who offered her cheeks 
 to be kissed in welcome to the wan 
 derer. She was the Duke of Mon- 
 talme's only child Blanche, a heart's 
 balm ! the light of his eyes ! 
 
 Leaving no male heir, the entire 
 inheritance of the Duke of Montalme 
 his castle and lands, with all the 
 feudal rights appertaining thereto, 
 would devolve upon the returned 
 warrior, Gottfried. The little maiden 
 was badly provided for, and this the 
 duke knew full well, and it made his 
 dying heart sad. 
 
 Gottfried sat by the bedside of his 
 15
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 brother through the warm May nights. 
 He heard the ticking of the death- 
 watch in the wainscoting of the old 
 walls, heard the dewdrops, as they 
 slowly rustled through the leaves of 
 the giant lindens outside, heard the 
 laboured breath of the dying man 
 but more distinctly than all did he 
 hear the beating of his own heart. 
 
 Toward morning, when the first slant 
 sunbeams shed a rosy glimmer into the 
 gray twilight of the sick man's room, 
 this beating grew louder, for, with the 
 early sun, Blanche slipped into the 
 chamber, and, leaning compassion 
 ately over the sufferer, whispered, 
 " Are you better, my father ? " 
 
 Ah ! for the Duke of Montalme 
 
 16
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 there was no better, and one night he 
 laid his damp, cold hand upon his 
 brother's warm and powerful one, 
 saying, with the directness his near 
 relationship warranted, " Gottfried, it 
 would be a great comfort to me if 
 you would take Blanche for your 
 wife." 
 
 At this Gottfried blushed up to the 
 roots of his gray hair, and murmured, 
 " What an idea to come into your head 
 I an old cripple, and this young 
 blossom ! It would be a sacrilege ! " 
 
 " She does not dislike you," said the 
 duke. 
 
 The brave Gottfried blushed deeper, 
 and said, " She is but a child." 
 
 " Oh, these conscientious notions ! ' 
 17
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 grumbled the exhausted man. But 
 notions or not, Gottfried was firm, and 
 of a marriage-bond with the child 
 would not hear; he promised to afford 
 the little maiden loving care and pro 
 tection promised to guard her as 
 the apple of his eye as his own 
 child, until he could, with confidence, 
 lay her hand into that of a worthy 
 lover's. 
 
 And while he promised this, his 
 voice sounded hollow and sad like 
 the tolling of a funeral bell. The 
 duke, with the clear-sightedness of 
 the dying, cast a glance into his 
 brother's heart, and discovered there 
 a holy secret. 
 
 " You're an angel, Gottfried," he 
 
 18
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 murmured, " but you make a mistake,' * 
 and shortly after breathed his last. 
 
 On the day of the funeral Dame 
 Isabella von Auberive, a distant rela 
 tive whom Gottfried, for propriety's 
 sake, had summoned hither, arrived 
 at the castle to share with him in 
 the care of the young girl. Beside 
 her father's bier, surrounded by the 
 dim, nickering candles, he kissed the 
 sweet orphan reverently on the brow, 
 as one kisses the hem of a Madonna's 
 robe ; and promised her his loving 
 care. But when she, in a torrent of 
 childish grief, wound her arms about 
 his neck and pressed her little head 
 against his shoulder, he became almost 
 as white as the dead man in his coffin, 
 19
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 and tenderly but firmly released him 
 self from her. 
 
 It could not be 'twould be sacri 
 lege. 
 
 20
 
 II 
 
 DURING the brilliant period in the 
 reign of King Francis I., it happened 
 that in the marvellously fair, luxuriant 
 Touraine, through whose velvet green 
 meadows ran the " gay-jewel-glisten 
 ing Loire, the frolicsome, flippant 
 Loire," there arose on its banks, one 
 by one, the stately dwellings of many 
 a proud lord. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the others, in 
 a retired spot, where King Francis's 
 elegant hunters seldom found their 
 way, towered up the Castle of Mon- 
 talme ; large, massive, with gloomy 
 21
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 little windows sunk into deep holes in 
 the walls, and with a round turret on 
 either wing. Stern and forbidding, it 
 looked down into the moat in whose 
 waterless bed toads and frogs revelled 
 amid the moist green foliage ; for the 
 age was fast drawing to a close in 
 which every nobleman had been a 
 little king, and the simple heroic 
 French feudality, blinded by the nim 
 bus of Francis I., were rapidly being 
 transformed into a mere host of 
 courtiers. 
 
 The dull uniformity in the architec 
 ture of Montalme stood out in striking 
 contrast to the rest of the castles of 
 sunny, pleasure-loving Touraine. The 
 internal arrangement corresponded to 
 
 22
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 the plain exterior, and to the nai've 
 pretensions of a century when, even in 
 Blois and Amboise, the favourite cas 
 tles of the king, the doors were so low 
 that Francis himself, who is known to 
 have been of regal stature, had to stoop 
 to enter them. The scantiness of the 
 furniture in this huge Castle of Mon- 
 talme added to its forlorn aspect ; nor 
 was the slightest deference paid to pre 
 vailing fashion. The ladies wore som 
 bre-coloured dresses, cut high in the 
 neck, and covering the arms down to 
 the very end of the wrists ; skirts hang 
 ing in long, heavy folds, allowing only 
 the pointed toe of the leather shoe to 
 peep out. The gentlemen wore the 
 hair long, and their faces smoothly 
 23
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 shaved ; their doublets reached in folds 
 almost to the knees, as had been the 
 fashion under the simple, economical 
 rule of the late king. 
 
 A year had glided by since the death 
 of the duke. Blanche enjoyed the 
 happiness of youth, free from care, 
 and Gottfried the peace of honest, 
 high-souled self-denial. A guardian 
 angel, he limped about modestly at 
 the side of his niece, rejoicing to be 
 able to remove every stone which 
 threatened to mar the smoothness of 
 her path, or to scare away the hawks 
 lurking in ambush to surprise her 
 innocence. 
 
 24
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 And when considering the charms 
 of his dear little niece, Gottfried 
 thought of the orgies in the Amboise 
 Castle, of the " petite bande " and the 
 merry raids of the king, the real aim 
 of which was nothing higher than 
 some foolish love-adventure, he shud 
 dered. Deeply and often he pondered 
 the matter. Blanche was eighteen it 
 was time for her to be married and 
 yet his brave, faithful heart shrank 
 with anguish at the bare thought of it. 
 He would not hesitate (at least he be 
 lieved this of himself) to part with her 
 if only he could find a true-hearted, 
 honourable man. But in this age of 
 beauty and song the age of King 
 Francis such an one was hard to find. 
 25
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 Meanwhile Blanche was contented 
 with her lonely, monotonous life, per 
 haps, in part, because she knew no 
 other, yet, also, because a fountain of 
 youthful gaiety was still unexhausted 
 in her heart. There were many 
 things to do in the daytime, and she 
 played chess with her uncle in the 
 long winter evenings, while sparks 
 flashed out of the heavy oak logs in 
 the chimney, and the single tallow 
 candle in its artistically wrought iron 
 candlestick wove a little island of 
 light in the Cimmerian darkness of 
 the monstrous hall. 
 
 Sometimes Gottfried entertained her 
 with stories the legend of Tristran 
 and Iseult or the pathetic tale of 
 
 26
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 the Count of Lusignano and the 
 fair Melusina ; often, too, he told 
 her of his own adventures in foreign 
 lands. 
 
 But the happier Blanche made her 
 self in this lonely life, the more furious 
 became Dame Isabella. She was a 
 worthy woman, but never could realise 
 that her once distinguished beauty had 
 long been buried under a weight of 
 corpulence, and therefore did not 
 restrain herself from putting on all 
 sorts of ridiculous airs and graces, in 
 order to attract the attention of the 
 whole neighbourhood to her supposed 
 charms. Out of sheer ennui she ogled 
 even her page, Philemon, a boy of 
 twelve years, although he cherished 
 27
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 a modest but so much the more glow 
 ing adolescent passion for the lovely 
 Blanche. 
 
 Whilst winding endless skeins of 
 silk off the hands of the page, she 
 sighed in a heart-breaking way, and 
 made the most pointed remarks about 
 the laziness and unmannerliness of 
 those noblemen who purposely avoided 
 any approach to the kind, chivalrous 
 king. 
 
 Gottfried long forbore to respond to 
 such innuendoes. Of what use would 
 it be to try to explain to this silly old 
 person that the court of King Francis 
 was not the proper sphere for such a 
 fat old woman as herself, or for a little 
 maiden like Blanche, who would re- 
 
 28
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 ceive a kind of adulation before 
 which the good, true-hearted warrior 
 shuddered ? Once, however, when 
 Dame Isabella, more excited than 
 usual, stormed in upon him and in 
 sisted that the young girl's future 
 should be taken into immediate con 
 sideration, he gave her an angry 
 answer. But it did not silence her, 
 and though the worthy woman talked 
 plenty of nonsense, yet she some 
 times made a remark that Gottfried 
 could not think wholly unjustifiable. 
 " Blanche is eighteen years old ! " 
 stormed Dame Auberive ; " if you do 
 not wish her to marry you must 
 resolve to place her in one of the 
 nunneries, which are the only respect- 
 29
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 able refuge for unmarried women of 
 her position." 
 
 " Who told you that I did not want 
 Blanche to marry ? " exclaimed Gott 
 fried, with anger and agitation ; " it is 
 only that I have not yet found any one 
 good enough for her." But Dame 
 Isabella replied with cutting scorn, 
 " No one will ever seem to you good 
 enough for her ! " and bounced out of 
 the room the picture of righteous 
 indignation. 
 
 Shortly after this it happened that 
 a young knight was brought into the 
 castle badly wounded ; he had fallen 
 among thieves, been robbed, and left 
 unconscious by the roadside. He must 
 be a man of rank, the servants thought 
 
 30
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 who brought him in, for his dress, 
 though soiled and torn, was of the 
 finest material, and he wore the full 
 beard with close-shaved hair which 
 most of the courtiers wore in imita 
 tion of the king. Gottfried recog 
 nised in him a certain Henri de Lancy 
 who, at the battle of Marignano, had 
 fought beside him and won general 
 admiration for his bravery, and had, 
 more than all, dragged him his old 
 friend Gottfried out of the thick of 
 the battle after a ball had broken his leg. 
 As he bent over the handsome 
 youth lying there before him with 
 closed eyes, so pale and helpless, an 
 emotion of deep pity overcame Gott 
 fried, and he exerted himself to the
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 utmost to lavish on De Lancy all the 
 comforts which the poor castle of 
 Montalme could command. 
 
 The sight of the wounded knight 
 roused the quiet castle out of its phleg 
 matic drowsiness, and the heart of 
 Dame Isabella beat so wildly that her 
 orders confused the heads of her ser 
 vants. Even through the veins of the 
 innocent Blanche thrilled a strange, 
 dreamy unrest. 
 
 At that time there prevailed, to 
 gether with a sultry kind of vicious- 
 ness, compared with which modern 
 profligacy appears petty and childish, 
 a frank, genial naivete, which is lost 
 to our age with its prudish, artificial 
 morality. The most delicate maiden 
 
 32
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 did not hesitate, at that time, to lend 
 help in nursing a sick man ; and be 
 sides, women in that century thanks 
 to the rarity of doctors found it 
 necessary to acquire some knowledge 
 of the healing art. 
 
 Hence it was that Blanche came to 
 the assistance of Dame Isabella and her 
 Uncle Gottfried in the care of De 
 Lancy, and as her hand was the most 
 delicate, it usually fell to her to loosen 
 the bandages around the ugly wound 
 on his head, and as she had the stead 
 iest nerve, it was she who, with Gott 
 fried's help, removed the splinter of a 
 broken sword-point from his shoulder. 
 
 Quiet and helpful as an angel, she 
 hovered about the unconscious man. 
 33
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 But once, as she was bending over his 
 couch to watch the breathing of the 
 sufferer, a great abatement of the 
 wound fever happily set in. De Lancy 
 opened his eyes, which, though at 
 times blue as the heavens above, were 
 at others black as an abyss. The 
 " petite bande " knew these eyes well. 
 
 Just now they were very blue and 
 fixed with peculiar pleasure on the 
 tender little maiden. But she drew 
 back embarrassed. The strange, mar 
 vellous eyes had driven away his guard 
 ian angel, and from that hour she 
 avoided the sick man's room. 
 
 9 9 ; * 
 
 We shall readily imagine that Henri 
 
 de Lancy would not endure to be 
 
 34
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 nursed like a sick woman, and, as soon 
 as he could lift hand and foot, he 
 dragged himself off his couch possi 
 bly his impatience to see the pretty 
 girl again had also something to do 
 with this haste. 
 
 It provoked the young dandy that 
 he could noj: introduce himself into 
 the presence of the ladies in a more 
 elegant costume ; yet his comparatively 
 simple travelling dress was becoming 
 to him, and still more (at least in the 
 eyes of the sweet Blanche) his paleness, 
 his deep-sunk, feverish eyes, and the 
 weakness in all his movements, which 
 he strove to hide ; for there is some 
 thing which appeals to the sympathies 
 of a true woman in seeing a strong, 
 35
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 chivalrous man impatient and mortified 
 at his weakness. Under her dropped 
 eyelids Blanche watched all his move 
 ments, and was constantly considering 
 how to remove what might interfere 
 with the comfort of the helpless inva 
 lid. Yet she did not offer him the 
 slightest service herself, only secretly 
 made Dame Isabella acquainted with 
 the need. Her sympathy and her 
 charming bashfulness did not fail to 
 touch the heart of the convalescent. 
 
 The " petite bande " would have 
 laughed in scorn and right heartily, 
 had they seen how modestly the auda 
 cious De Lancy exerted himself to 
 please the unpretending little girl with 
 the pale face of a novice. 
 
 36
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 And Lady Isabella neglected the 
 page Philemon and adorned herself to 
 such a degree that well it cost 
 De Lancy all the trouble in the world 
 not to laugh in her face. The finest 
 part of her toilet was her " coiffure," 
 which in style dated back at least 
 thirty years. It consisted of a tower 
 ing head-dress that ran up to a point, 
 from which an enormous veil fluttered 
 down to her knees. 
 
 The days came and went the 
 beautiful July days flooding Tou- 
 raine with golden sunshine from dawn 
 to dewy eve. The air was heavy with 
 the perfume of roses and linden blos- 
 37
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 soms. Henri's hollow face had re 
 gained its full, natural contour, and 
 his arm had long been freed from the 
 sling. He was able to travel yet of 
 his departure spoke never so much as a 
 dying word. 
 
 He was only a merry-hearted, heed 
 less fellow, but with a very attractive 
 manner ; when it pleased him he 
 could assume toward women at once 
 such a courteous, amiable, respectful 
 manner that no one could long be 
 vexed with him, even were she the 
 proudest of the daughters of earth. 
 He had so completely enchanted 
 Dame Isabella that she spent whole 
 nights pondering over the preparation 
 of the most rechercht viands. She 
 
 38
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 served up to him the most skilfully 
 made pies, capons dressed with spices 
 after the Spanish custom, or young 
 peacocks which she knew how to 
 roast so artistically as not to singe a 
 feather on tail or little cro.wn ; and 
 when the dame saw with what love- 
 intoxicated gaze he often fastened his 
 eyes on the beautiful girl, she fur 
 thered his intercourse with her as only 
 she could. It would have delighted 
 her to win such an aristocratic connec 
 tion as De Lancy. 
 
 But there was one person in Mon- 
 talme who could not feel friendly 
 toward the gallant young knight 
 and this was the lord of the castle 
 himself. 
 39
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 " How long is he going to stay ? " 
 he growled out one day to Dame Isa 
 bella. " He has sent for his clothes and 
 his pages, and next he will be inviting 
 his friends here to display Blanche's 
 charms to the whole country." 
 
 " Don't imagine this," said Isabella, 
 with a shrewd smile ; " lovers are 
 miserly, and would, if possible, keep 
 the joy of their heart out of sight 
 of the entire world.* ' 
 
 "The joy of his heart ! " exclaimed 
 Gottfried. " Then it is high time that 
 I interfered and obliged him to declare 
 himself!" 
 
 " Let nothing of the kind occur 
 to you ! " exclaimed Isabella, with a 
 look of horror. " Spare the germ of 
 
 40
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 his young love until it ripens into an 
 earnest desire for the happiness of 
 marriage." 
 
 Gottfried became gloomy. " If I 
 thought that the man would woo the 
 girl honourably ! He is a most attract 
 ive fellow, but although brave and 
 generous, the best among the young 
 coxcombs of to-day are proud of trans 
 gressions which the worst in my day 
 would have been ashamed of, and, in 
 fact, they regard it only as a good joke, 
 an aristocratic pastime, to seduce an 
 innocent girl ! " and he struck his 
 brow with his fist. 
 
 " Such an idea should never come 
 into your mind," said Isabella, passion 
 ately ; " it is shocking in you to insult 
 41
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 the man who saved your life, by such 
 scandalous suspicions. You call your 
 suspicions conscientious they should 
 properly bear quite a different name." 
 
 "What, then?" growled Gottfried. 
 Dame Isabella stood on the tips of 
 her toes, and hissed in his ear, 
 "Jealousy !" 
 
 At this he ground his teeth, his 
 eyebrows contracted with pain ; - - he 
 turned on his heels and left the room : 
 determined to watch and be silent ! 
 
 42
 
 Ill 
 
 IN the cool, lofty rooms of the Cas 
 tle of Montalme Blanche wandered 
 about all this time like one bewildered 
 by a great joy. Her eyes were half- 
 closed, as if dazzled by too clear a 
 radiance, and her voice was full of 
 plaintive rapture, like that in which 
 the nightingale sobs his love through 
 the warm summer nights, and all her 
 motions had an added grace. 
 
 But one day Dame Isabella whis 
 pered to her, "He is desperately in 
 love with you ! " 
 43
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 And it awakened Blanche out of her 
 sweet, unconscious ecstasy. She began 
 to test it to doubt ! She noticed ex 
 actly how often he addressed a word 
 directly to her, was sad if he passed 
 her without seeking response ; his 
 glance to her glance his smile to 
 her smile ! 
 
 44
 
 IV 
 
 DREAMY afternoon stillness brooded 
 over Montalme, the doves cooed mon 
 otonously on the roof. In one of the 
 deep, oak-panelled window niches 
 Blanche stood gazing down into the 
 courtyard, which was full of dark shad 
 ows. There stood De Lancy in the 
 picturesque costume Titian has immor 
 talised in the portraits of Francis I., 
 the puffed sleeves and high ruff under 
 which the handsomest man in France 
 was pleased to hide the stoop in his 
 shoulders and the thickness of his neck. 
 45
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 To young De Lancy this costume 
 was wonderfully becoming. With the 
 black -velvet bonnet at his ear, he was 
 amusing himself with a falcon, which, 
 perched on his shoulder, he alternately 
 teased and soothed ; then a greyhound 
 stretched to full length came bound 
 ing forward with light, quick leaps, 
 and sprang upon him. De Lancy 
 slipped his thin, delicate hand behind 
 his ear, and stroked him with all the 
 tenderness which men of our day are 
 accustomed to bestow on their dogs 
 and horses, with a certain pride in 
 their training. At this, however, the 
 falcon became jealous, beat his wings, 
 and pecked the hound with his beak. 
 De Lancy enjoyed teasing the two 
 
 46
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 animals, and when by alternate caresses 
 he had made both positively unhappy, 
 he pressed with one hand the head of 
 the falcon against his cheek, and with 
 the other the head of the hound to 
 his breast. Then the two creatures 
 were contented, and he smiled his 
 eyes grew darker, and his white teeth 
 glistened. 
 
 But the heart of the maiden, who, 
 gazing down into the court, saw the 
 pretty play, was convulsed with pain, 
 was it a kind of jealousy which agi 
 tated her or simply a wish ? Sud 
 denly De Lancy glanced up, and 
 espying the young lady of the castle, 
 greeted her respectfully. Blanche 
 thanked him somewhat bashfully, and 
 47
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 drew back trembling from head to foot. 
 When she ventured again to look 
 down into the court, De Lancy was 
 no longer to be seen. 
 
 But the wings of the gently moved 
 afternoon air bore to her ear a little 
 song which the gay youth trilled to 
 himself as he strolled away : 
 
 " Ha! me chere ennemie 
 Si tu veux m'apaiser, 
 Redonne moy la vie 
 Par 1'esprit d'un baiser. 
 Ha ! j'en ay la douceur 
 Senti jusque au coeur. 
 C'est une douce rage 
 Qui nous poindra doucement 
 Quand d'un meme courage 
 On s'aime incessament. 
 Heureux sera le jour 
 
 Que je mourrai d'amour ! " 
 
 48
 
 THIS audacious lov$-song at that 
 time flitted from lip to lip at the court 
 of King Francis, until about a year 
 later the poet Ronsard sang it, and 
 after he had enriched it with two or 
 three daintily elaborated verses it was 
 incorporated with his works. 
 
 De Lancy had often hummed it 
 when hastening through the gray cor 
 ridors, or walking in the garden under 
 the sombre boughs of the blossoming 
 lindens. But never had Blanche heard 
 it so completely and clearly. Warm 
 49
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 and full the tones of his voice rang in 
 her ears. Through this exuberant and 
 frivolous nature passed the agitating 
 sense of an almost pathetic tenderness. 
 
 Blanche stared before her into the 
 empty air, and there came into her 
 face a great terror a mighty long 
 ing!
 
 VI 
 
 GOTTFRIED watched and suffered 
 each hour more suspicious and uneasy. 
 
 In the castle chapel of Montalme 
 stood a narrow-chested saint with 
 peaked beard, St. Sebaldus, who 
 bore on his wooden forefinger an ame 
 thyst ring. With this ring was con 
 nected a legend, viz., --that who 
 ever would have the courage to draw it 
 off the finger at midnight and put it 
 on his own to him Heaven would 
 grant the fulfilment of his wish, even 
 51
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 were it the most presumptuous in the 
 world. But should the one who took 
 off the jewel let it fall from his finger 
 ere returning it on the following 
 night, as in duty bound, to the saint, 
 some terrible misfortune would speed 
 ily overtake him. 
 
 It was midnight, and deathly still 
 ness reigned ; the moonlight played 
 about the pointed roof and glittered in 
 the deeply set windows of the old cas 
 tle. Black and heavy, almost as a bier- 
 cloth, the shadow of this gigantic old 
 building spread over the ground. In 
 the garden below, the nightingales 
 sobbed their sweet songs in the flower 
 ing lindens, sometimes interrupted by 
 the weird screech of an owl. Then a 
 
 52
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 slender figure glided softly through the 
 echoing corridors of the castle the 
 figure of a love-sick girl. At times 
 she paused and listened and laid her 
 hand upon her breast. A vague, 
 ghostly fear chilled the blood in her 
 veins. Now she stepped through the 
 high hall adjoining the chapel. She 
 opened the -door heavily weighted with 
 its ornamental iron bands and rosettes. 
 The moonlight glanced through the 
 coloured windows and painted fantastic 
 images on the brown church pews. 
 Two long, brilliant streaks of light 
 cut through the shadows which broad 
 ened out over the marble floor. 
 
 Above the altar hung a Madonna 
 with attenuated arms and too long a 
 53
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 neck, as the " Primitives " in their 
 naive awkwardness like to picture her. 
 Blanche knelt before her and lisped 
 an Ave and the Lord's Prayer ; then 
 turning to the saint who, stiff and 
 complacent, gazed down from his 
 pedestal, she drew the ring off his 
 finger and put it on her own. 
 
 Just at this moment she heard a 
 slight rustle outside, a confused feeling 
 of dread and fear suddenly came over 
 her, a vague, painful fear of all the 
 mysterious powers of night and dark 
 ness. Quite beside herself, she was 
 hurrying out of the chapel when, in 
 her confusion, she almost rushed into 
 the arms of a man who stepped toward 
 her in the adjacent hall. 
 
 54
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 Although she had passed so softly 
 through the house, one ear had recog 
 nised her step, Henri de Lancy, 
 by whose chamber she was obliged to 
 go in her way to the chapel. 
 
 And now he stood before her, and 
 his blue eyes shone in the clear moon 
 light, and he bent over her smiling. 
 She started back, but did not fly 
 only remained standing as if spell 
 bound. When he seized her hand and 
 she tried to free herself, however, he 
 held her fast, whispering, " Stay only 
 a little while, I pray you ; I've so 
 much to say to you ! " 
 
 " Leave me ! leave me ! " she cried, 
 timidly. 
 
 " Only a minute ! " he begged of 
 55
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 her. " You have always avoided me, I 
 could never say it to you, but indeed 
 you must long have known how in 
 finitely I love you ! " 
 
 He stooped over her she trembled 
 like a delicate rose-bud with which the 
 spring wind plays. She thought of the 
 saint's ring which she had on her finger 
 for the purpose of conjuring Heaven to 
 grant her Henri de Lancy's love. Had 
 the conjuration then worked so speed 
 ily ? Oh, measureless joy ! Oh, never- 
 anticipated blessedness ! 
 
 And yet - 
 
 It was so still so late ! " Leave 
 me ! leave me ! " she whispered. 
 " Wait, I must ask Gottfried." 
 
 " And do you believe he will know 
 
 56
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 better than yourself whether you love 
 me?" 
 
 He laid his arm round her his 
 kiss hovered over her lips when 
 the door was torn open, and, with drawn 
 dagger and face distorted with rage, 
 Gottfried rushed upon De Lancy. 
 " Cowardly traitor ! " he yelled, and 
 stopped, for Blanche, uttering a hoarse 
 shriek of anguish, stretched out her 
 arms before the beloved man to protect 
 him. 
 
 Woe ! woe ! in this moment the en 
 chanted ring slipped from her finger ! 
 
 57
 
 VII 
 
 ANGRY men's voices echoed through 
 the halls and galleries then stillness 
 reigned again. 
 
 Without, the dewdrops rustled in 
 the leaves, but the nightingales were 
 hushed. In her lonely chamber sat a 
 pale, sad girl, tearless and comfortless. 
 When the gray morning came a 
 gloomy rider stormed out of the 
 castle.
 
 VIII 
 
 AT that time, in the beginning of 
 the sixteenth century, shortly after 
 the battle of Marignano, and the 
 great awakening at Wittenberg, there 
 brooded over creation a sultry atmos 
 phere, in which the thoughts and feel 
 ings of men frothed and raved with 
 unbridled wantonness, stimulated by 
 the storm-ridden air. 
 
 King Francis had brought back with 
 him to his native land, after his sojourn 
 in Italy and his conference with Pope 
 Leo, a highly cultivated artistic taste, 
 59
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 united with a certain subtle depravity 
 of morals. Henceforth his court be 
 came an open field for the fine arts, 
 and an arena for the most debauched, 
 sensual orgies. And not merely owing 
 to his high position, but also because 
 he maintained in the midst of his wild 
 est excesses the prestige of a magnani 
 mous chivalry, his example influenced 
 all the young people of France directly 
 and irresistibly. 
 
 It was in the zenith of this regal 
 frivolity and regal favour that Henri's 
 voluptuous life was interrupted by the 
 above-related intermezzo of sincere, 
 honest love for this child of Mon- 
 talme. But it was at the very time 
 when King Francis, basely deserting 
 
 60
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 his noble wife, the good Queen 
 Claude, at the head of a jolly troupe 
 of knights, accompanied by the most 
 beautiful women of France, was rov 
 ing from city to city, from castle to 
 castle, from forest to forest, making 
 the air resound with the clang of cym 
 bals, the blowing of horns, and the 
 baying of dogs ; in summer drop 
 ping down on the fairest flower-strewn 
 meadows, or near mossy-green woods 
 to hold their revels, and in winter 
 pelting each other with snowballs and 
 filling the various castles with shouts 
 and laughter. 
 
 Now here now there he ap 
 peared as in a fairy tale like a vision 
 the impersonation of joy. Where 
 61
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 one hoped to find him he had just 
 vanished, and where he was not ex 
 pected he came. This constant 
 change of residence frequently embar 
 rassed his ministers or those immedi 
 ately responsible for affairs of state, as 
 well as the foreign ambassadors. And 
 whilst the most serious problems were 
 perplexing their heads, he, with his 
 knights and the " petite bande," was 
 ranging all over the country in search 
 of adventure, and when needed was 
 never to be found. 
 
 It was as difficult to prevent one's 
 self from being infected with the friv 
 olity of the king's court if living in 
 the midst of it as to keep one's 
 health intact in a plague lazaretto. 
 
 62
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 To have done it, one must have been 
 peculiarly organised, and Henri de 
 Lancy was not peculiarly organised. 
 
 63
 
 IX 
 
 WEEKS passed. Ever slower the 
 time dragged on amid the aching still 
 ness of Montalme. Blanche's trem 
 bling hope, which resolved itself at 
 first into hot, feverish unrest, changed 
 by degrees to stony despair. 
 
 She grew paler and paler her lan 
 guid steps ever more feeble her 
 talk abstracted and disconnected. With 
 head slightly bent forward, her lips 
 half-open, and her eyes fixed on va 
 cancy, she watched and listened in 
 
 64
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 vain ! He came not, and nobody 
 came who could give her any knowl 
 edge of him. Once when Gottfried, 
 who did not allow her to be out of 
 his sight in this sad, sad time, sought 
 for her in vain in castle and garden, 
 led by a jealous suspicion, he climbed 
 up into the tower chamber which De 
 Lancy had occupied. Through the 
 half-open door he espied Blanche. 
 She was sitting at the foot of the bed 
 upon which De Lancy had been laid 
 when wounded. She smiled, and on 
 her innocent lips trembled the words 
 of his daring love-song : 
 
 " Si tu veux m'apaiser 
 Redonne moi la vie 
 Par 1'esprit d'un baiser." 
 65
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 She was dreaming ! 
 
 Whole nights she sat up sleepless in 
 her bed and murmured or sang softly 
 to herself. And now many times 
 through the stillness of night she 
 heard the beat of a horse's hoof 
 at full speed passing her window. 
 Who could the rider be who thus 
 hurried by Montalme at the dead of 
 night ? 
 
 There was one person in the castle 
 whose faith was firm as a rock in De 
 Lancy's truth. This was Dame Isa 
 bella. Daily she invented fresh ex 
 cuses for his remaining away daily 
 arrayed herself in expectation of his 
 return. For hours together she 
 would grin and curtsey before the 
 
 66
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 mirror, preparing for her advent at 
 court. 
 
 99 -9 
 
 One day when Blanche, with her 
 hands in her lap, sat brooding, Dame 
 Isabella rushed to her, exclaiming, 
 " Blanche ! Blanche ! quick, the royal 
 hunting party is coming by the 
 castle ! " 
 
 Blanche trembled, for she knew that 
 he must be among the king's retinue. 
 She stepped to the window. 
 
 Like a gold embroidered thunder 
 cloud, the hunting-party whirled out 
 of the distance and drew nearer. 
 Horns sounded and rapid hoof-beats 
 vibrated on the air. As they ap- 
 67
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 preached, a good chance was afforded 
 to see the costly apparel of the ladies, 
 and also of the gentlemen, of whom 
 an old chronicler of the times avers, 
 not without point, that some among 
 them wore their lands and castles on 
 their shoulders. 
 
 They fluttered by like a glittering 
 swarm of birds of paradise. Blanche 
 stretched her little head forward 
 there he was one of the first ! 
 
 He did not even look up but 
 rushed by like a storm-wind, his face 
 turned to a blonde, regal lady, and 
 looking proud and imposing indeed. 
 Blanche staggered back. What could 
 there have been in that brilliant 
 throng of further interest to her ? 
 
 68
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 Dame Isabella, however, lingered at 
 the window, and grinned and bowed 
 with might and main, while her huge 
 head-gear rocked comically back and 
 forth. 
 
 And now the king approached on 
 a milk-white steed with scarlet vel 
 vet, gold-embroidered housings. He 
 looked up, and was reminded of an 
 amusing picture which De Lancy, on 
 his return to court, when questioned 
 by the ladies as to the adventure 
 which had detained him so long 
 away, had drawn of a worthy old 
 scarecrow who tended his wounds in 
 Montalme. The existence of the 
 lovely maiden Blanche he had deemed 
 it wisest to conceal. Stifling a laugh, 
 69
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 Francis returned Dame Isabella's greet 
 ing with roguish exaggeration, then 
 turning, whispered to those nearest 
 him, whereupon they also looked up, 
 and being greeted by her, the entire 
 retinue stopped a minute to inspect 
 the self-satisfied old monstrosity. But 
 they did not all possess the amiable 
 courtesy which distinguished the king 
 even in his unrestrained naughtiness. 
 One of the ladies smiled, another 
 laughed, and, like a spark in a ton of 
 powder, this laugh was enough to set 
 off the kindling stuff of repressed hilar 
 ity which at once exploded. 
 
 So pointed were the looks so 
 hearty the laughter of the party 
 that even the self-admiring Isabella 
 
 70
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 could not in the slightest degree be 
 deceived as to the cause of their merri 
 ment. Mortified, she drew back out 
 of sight, and the hunting party passed 
 on. Yet at a distance the sound of 
 the continued laughter was audible. 
 Dame Isabella was furious. " They 
 laughed at me, they pointed at me 
 with their fingers ! " she repeated, 
 over and over again, her corpulent 
 figure, and especially her double chin, 
 trembling in a remarkable way ; and 
 utterly forgetting her former admira 
 tion of the court, she added, " The 
 disorderly mob ! the base women ! " 
 
 Blanche, who, with her elbows in 
 her hands, was staring straight before 
 her like one stunned, thought, " Per-
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 haps he is laughing at me too ! " and 
 thought these words aloud ; since she 
 had been so absorbed in sorrow and 
 longing she had often uttered whole 
 sentences like one in a feverish dream. 
 
 "That you may be sure of!" said 
 Dame Isabella, in a huff, and rustled 
 out of the room to lay aside once and 
 for all the ugly headgear which she 
 had had a chance to observe was in 
 appalling contradiction to the prevail 
 ing style. She distinctly recalled 
 Henri de Lancy's expressed admira 
 tion for this same head ornament. 
 Now she knew that he had been mak 
 ing fun of her, and anger and resent 
 ment gnawed at her heart. 
 
 It chanced that on the following 
 
 72
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 day two mendicant friars sought admis 
 sion to the castle. Dame Isabella asked 
 to have these bare-footed martyrs con 
 ducted to her room, welcomed them 
 hospitably and in the most respectful 
 manner ; in the first place because she 
 was pious, but in the second because 
 these wandering monks served as a 
 kind of peripatetic newspaper ; for 
 which their roving life afforded them 
 sufficient variety of material. Thus 
 the lady obtained the most precise 
 information about the frivolities of the 
 king and his rollicking companions, 
 especially the handsome De Lancy, 
 who, she was told, among all these 
 lawless revellers was the worst. He 
 was not only following the royal ex- 
 73
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 ample to the last extent (the monks 
 exaggerated perhaps a trifle, seeing 
 how much it pleased their listener), 
 but of late he had actually formed a 
 liaison with a married woman, the 
 Countess de Sologne, whom, as she 
 was carefully guarded by her husband's 
 jealousy, he visited secretly at night. 
 And they ended by saying, " It would 
 not surprise us if the castle lady heard 
 the reckless knight ride by, since it 
 was the shortest way to Laemort, the 
 hereditary seat of the Solognes." 
 
 We may rest assured that Dame 
 Isabella gave the monks for this 
 precious communication plenty of 
 money to spend on their way. Pos 
 sessed of her glorious bit of knowledge, 
 
 74
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 she was dying to tell it, and seeing 
 Blanche at the chess-board, opposite 
 her uncle, who exerted himself all the 
 time to try to distract her thoughts, 
 she began immediately to relate what 
 she had heard. They were not pru 
 dish in those days, and if here and there 
 one cared to preserve the innocence of 
 a young girl, that blissful ignorance 
 was by no means maintained which 
 to-day is held peculiarly sacred and 
 inviolate. 
 
 Dame Isabella repeated word for 
 word all she had heard of the shame 
 ful proceedings which hourly went on 
 in the Castle of Amboise, and of the 
 startling depravity of Henri de Lancy. 
 In vain Gottfried attempted, by his 
 75
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 displeased looks, to silence her ; she 
 went on further, and advised Blanche 
 to rejoice that she had escaped the 
 danger of becoming the wife of this 
 vicious fellow. Blanche sat stiff and 
 straight, not uttering a word, and con 
 tinued to shove the little ivory figures 
 slowly over the board that she made 
 the castle execute the peculiar leaps 
 of the knight, Isabella did not notice. 
 But when she finished by saying that 
 they might hear Henri de Lancy ride 
 by nightly, since the nearest way to 
 his beloved duchess led by Montalme, 
 they suddenly heard a painful quiver 
 like the dropping of a little bird 
 which had been shot through the 
 heart. Blanche had fainted and fallen. 
 
 76
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 " Cruel woman ! " exclaimed Gott 
 fried, furiously, " must you tell ? I 
 could be silent ! " 
 
 He had long known of Henri's 
 infidelity. 
 
 Consciousness soon returned to the 
 poor girl, and with it the recollection 
 of her sorrow. Blanche longed to lose 
 herself again, but the blessing was 
 denied her. Not even the repose of 
 sleep did Heaven grant her. She 
 would lie awake, listening feverishly 
 the whole night ; but no sound dis 
 turbed the deathlike stillness either 
 the first or the second night. During 
 the day Blanche dragged herself from 
 room to room, as if her once flying 
 feet were weighted with lead, but 
 77
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 most of the time she sat stiffly erect 
 with her hands lying helplessly in her 
 lap, staring before her with glazed 
 eyes. 
 
 The third day was drawing to a 
 close. Gottfried came in, and, seating 
 himself beside her, inquired after her 
 health. She replied there was nothing 
 the matter with her, but at the same 
 time crept close to him like a very sick 
 child, and he, who had usually repulsed 
 her innocent caresses, now put his arm 
 around her slender body and laid her 
 little head tenderly on his shoulder ; 
 he no longer thought of his own pain, 
 but of hers. 
 
 She begged him to tell her a story, 
 as a sick child begs for a cradle-song. 
 
 78
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 He had told her many a tale in by 
 gone days, yet of all she liked best to 
 hear of his own adventures and what 
 he himself had seen. Therefore he 
 asked now, "A true story, my jewel ?" 
 She shuddered, " Oh, no ! no ! a fic 
 tion, my uncle, pray ! " 
 
 He passed his hand thoughtfully 
 over his brow. Nothing occurred to 
 him but a little legend which had 
 been told him by a half-crazy monk 
 who was crouching on the steps of the 
 Milan Cathedral, and with a somewhat 
 tremulous voice he began : 
 
 " It happens occasionally that in the 
 midst of the blessedness of heaven an 
 angel looking down yearns for earth, 
 which seems attractive in the enchant- 
 79
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 ment of distance. Then St. Peter, at 
 the Almighty's command, grudgingly 
 opens the gates of heaven a little, and 
 the angel slips through. But however 
 much he exerts himself and beats his 
 wings, the little fluttering things carry 
 him up, and he cannot escape from 
 the spheres of sinless purity which 
 float around Paradise. St. Peter rattles 
 his bunch of keys and again the gates 
 of heaven open, and now on the 
 threshold stands Jesus Christ, well- 
 beloved Son of the Father, and infi 
 nitely compassionate Son of Man, who 
 knows the earth thoroughly. And 
 when the lovely, unwise rebel turns 
 his gold-encircled little head to ques 
 tion him concerning it, he beckons 
 
 80
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 him to come nearer, and smiling lays 
 a warm beating weight on his breast. 
 Then he says, ' Try it ! ' 
 
 " And lo ! when now the angel at 
 tempts to lift his wings the little 
 weight which Jesus Christ has laid 
 on his breast draws him down to earth 
 
 for the weight is a human heart. 
 Slowly, slowly he descends from the 
 spheres until he lands on a green 
 meadow. There he sinks into a deep, 
 dreamless sleep, and when he awakes 
 he has lost his wings, forgotten his 
 heavenly origin, and has become a man 
 
 only with an intense longing in his 
 soul for virtue and purity, which he is 
 not himself aware is homesickness ; 
 holiness, happiness, heaven, and home 
 81
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 being to him unconsciously one and 
 the same thing. Yet but now how- 
 e'er much his yearning may hurry 
 him upward again, his heart chains 
 him fast to the earth and he cannot 
 return to his radiant home until a 
 great human grief has broken the 
 heart which was laid on his breast. 
 Then our Lord Jesus Christ glides 
 downward to earth takes the poor 
 rebel in his arms and carries him back 
 to Paradise." 
 
 Gottfried paused. Blanche was si 
 lent a moment, then she sighed, "Your 
 story is sad, almost as sad as if it were 
 a true one ! " 
 
 To which Gottfried replied, " But it 
 has a lovely ending ! " 
 
 82
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 The sad maiden, however, was per 
 fectly silent, and looking into her 
 melancholy eyes he discerned a doubt 
 in them if even the joy of heaven 
 could compensate for that which we 
 suffer and are deprived of on earth. 
 
 After a little while Blanche began, 
 " Is the dear God then displeased if 
 an angel looking down yearns for the 
 earth ? " 
 
 "No," murmured Gottfried, "but he 
 is sad, very sad ! "
 
 X 
 
 FOR two nights she had had no 
 sleep ; on the third she was exhausted 
 and slept soundly, and dreamed a sweet 
 wonderfully sweet dream. 
 
 It seemed to her that she met her 
 beloved in the garden. A delicious 
 perfume was wafted from the crown 
 of the lindens, soft greenish shadows 
 spread twilight over the earth, and all 
 nature, as in measureless rapture, held 
 its breath, no lightest touch of air 
 stirred she lay in his arms, love- 
 
 84
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 enchanted and his lips closed her 
 mouth. 
 
 Thus she dreamed when suddenly 
 she sprang up as if one had struck her 
 heart with an iron hammer. 
 
 Was not that the sound of a horse's 
 hoof which broke on the stillness of 
 night ? In her long white nightdress 
 she flew to the window. 
 
 She recognised him, notwithstand 
 ing the speed of his horse, and in 
 spite of the curtain of darkness with 
 which midnight sought to veil his 
 figure. She bent far over the window- 
 breasting and stretched out her arms ; 
 a frightful longing confused her senses, 
 and she sang poor child ! without 
 knowing what the words meant : 
 85
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 " Si tu veux m'apaiser 
 Redonne moi la vie 
 Par 1'esprit d'un baiser. 
 
 " Heureux sera le jour 
 Quand je mourrai d'amour ! " 
 
 Louder and louder the voice swelled 
 out, piercing as a cry of anguish ; yet 
 full of a powerful sweetness the song 
 echoed through the sultry stillness of 
 night. It struck the ear of the rider. 
 He checked his horse, looked around 
 him, and then spurred the animal anew 
 until he leaped wildly on. 
 
 She bent forward farther forward, 
 " Plus d'espoir ! " she groaned. Her 
 heart was so heavy, so heavy ! Beneath, 
 the dew glistened like a silver sheen 
 
 86
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 over the azure fields, out of which an 
 angel seemed calling her to " Cool rest 
 cool rest ! " 
 
 She bent forward forward ! and 
 then fell many, many fathoms deep 
 into the moat below. 
 
 The heavy fall was heard in the 
 castle, and soon the servants with 
 torches hurried forth to see what had 
 happened. 
 
 There, below, glimmered something 
 white as a blossom broken off by the 
 storm. They climbed down. The 
 light of the torches played over a pale, 
 lovely face which smiled in death. 
 She was not disfigured, not a particle 
 87
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 of dust, not a speck of mud or soil 
 of earth, adhered to her white gar 
 ment, although she had fallen among 
 plants growing in the mud. In spot 
 less purity the white folds wound about 
 her beautiful limbs. And when the 
 people saw this, they marvelled, and 
 said, " A miracle ! " Then one pressed 
 through the throng, deathly pale with 
 distorted face Henri de Lancy ! 
 
 But Gottfried coldly turned him 
 away from the dead maiden. 
 
 Right tenderly the old soldier lifted 
 the lovely body in his arms, murmur 
 ing : 
 
 " Her heart was broken she is 
 released ! " 
 
 88
 
 XI 
 
 IT was an age full of horrors, when 
 the noblest blood of illustrious Hellen 
 ism rose up to face a background of 
 battles, orgies, and pulpit harangues. 
 It was not only a period in which 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, in disguise and 
 at the head of a bacchanalian troop 
 tore through the streets of Florence ; 
 Benvenuto Cellini stabbed his enemies 
 at the street corners ; Pope Leo at a 
 cardinal's supper presented a sacrifice 
 of doves to the Goddess of Love upon 
 a white marble altar, and offered to 
 89
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 his favourite, Raphael, a cardinal's hat 
 in payment of his bills but a time 
 also when Savonarola preached the 
 loftiest asceticism ; Rabelais, in the 
 midst of his obscene rhapsodies, cre 
 ated the wonderful idyl of 1'Abbaye de 
 Telesme; Fra Angelico on his knees 
 painted his picture of Christ, and the 
 triumphal procession of an emperor 
 ended in a monastery! 
 
 A time full of enigmas ! and among 
 the many enigmas which lived in it, 
 was one of a sad, silent monk, of 
 whom his cloister-brethren asserted 
 that he once had led a very dissolute 
 life, but now was the most absorbed 
 devote. 
 
 And whilst King Francis, at vari- 
 
 90
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 ance with himself and the world, tried 
 to maintain, even to the end, the appear 
 ance of ostentatious levity, and to win 
 fresh renown as a patron of art, and to 
 console himself for his lost self-respect 
 with the flatteries of the Duchess 
 d'Etampes, this monk devoted every 
 single hour which remained to him, 
 after the barest satisfaction of his 
 physical needs, and the fulfilment of 
 his religious duties, to one and the 
 same work, a sweet girl's head, 
 which he, with his slender, effemi 
 nate, courtier's hand, formed out of 
 wax after a death mask, and ever again 
 re-formed, and could never finish to 
 his own satisfaction. Discouraged, dis 
 appointed, he destroyed each day the 
 91
 
 BLANCHE 
 
 work of the preceding until finally, 
 in the very last year of his life he 
 became more tranquil, and then under 
 his never-weary hands arose an ex 
 quisite maiden's head with a sweet, 
 thoughtful expression of face, the 
 little head bent forward as if listening 
 to a great joy, yet weighed down by 
 the presentiment of a terrible pain ! 
 
 And he worked at the head on his 
 knees, like Fra Angelico at his ecstatic 
 pictures of saints, and he coloured it 
 most beautifully but still, not as if 
 it were the head of a living maiden, 
 but as of one who had died in the 
 freshness of youth. When he suc 
 ceeded, he smiled and closed his eyes 
 for ever. 
 
 92
 
 XII 
 
 AFTER long wanderings, the bust 
 has found a resting-place in the mu 
 seum at Lille. Full of a dreamy 
 pathos, it stands in its glass case an 
 atonement for Love betrayed in 
 memory of the bitterest repentance. 
 
 As the embodiment of an old leg 
 end, it interests us and seems to say : 
 " A tear for Blanche of Montalme ; 
 for Henri de Lancy a prayer ! " 
 
 93
 
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