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"A king had never asked Montagu and Warwick to consider amongst their duties any charge they had deemed dishonouring." "Dishonouring, Lady Bonville!" exclaimed Hastings, with a bent brow and a flushed cheek, "neither Montagu nor Warwick had, with safety, applied to me the word that has just passed your lips." "I crave your pardon," answered Katherine, bitterly.
"With submission to the Lord Hastings, sire, whom we know that love sometimes blinds, and whose allegiance to the earl's fair sister, the Lady of Bonville, perchance somewhat moves him to forget the day when Lord Warwick " "Cease, my lord," said Hastings, white with suppressed anger; "these references beseem not the councils of grave men."
But," resumed Hastings, with a withering sarcasm, "doubtless the Lady de Bonville more admires the happy lord who holds himself, by right of pedigree, superior to all things that make the statesman wise, the scholar learned, and the soldier famous. Way there back, gentles," and Hastings turned to the crowd behind, "way there, for my lord of Harrington and Bonville!"
The Lady Bonville might have stood by the side of Cornelia, the model of a young and high-born matron, in whose virtue the honour of man might securely dwell. "I understand you, my lord," she said, with her bright, thankful smile; "and as Lord Warwick's sister, I am grateful." "Your love for the great earl proves you are noble enough to forgive," said Richard, meaningly.
Since a fortnight so I am told Monsieur le Curé has had no bonne. The reason is that no good Suzette can be found to replace the one whom he married to a young farmer from Bonville.
"My Lady of Bonville," said the young duke, laying his hand on her arm, "mirth is not in my thoughts at this hour." "I believe your Highness; for the Lord Richard Plantagenet is not one of the Woodvilles. The mirth is theirs to-day." "Let who will have mirth, it is the breath of a moment. Mirth cannot tarnish glory, the mirror in which the gods are glassed."
The goldmaker must not speak of his craft before the goldsmith. Good Alwyn, thou mayest retire. All arts have their mysteries." Alwyn, with a sombre brow, moved to the door. "In sooth," he said, "I have overtarried, good my lord. The Lady Bonville will chide me; for she is of no patient temper." "Bridle thy tongue, artisan, and begone!" said Hastings, with unusual haughtiness and petulance.
And bedded deep in that exquisite and charming nature lay the dangerous and fatal weakness which has cursed so many victims, broken so many hearts, the vanity of the sex. We may now readily conceive how little predisposed was Sibyll to the blunt advances and displeasing warnings of the Lady Bonville, and the more so from the time in which they chanced.
Was it wonderful that, while that head drooped upon his breast, while in that enchanted change which Love the softener makes in lips long scornful, eyes long proud and cold, he felt that Katherine Nevile tender, gentle, frank without boldness, lofty without arrogance had replaced the austere dame of Bonville, whom he half hated while he wooed, oh, was it wonderful that the soul of Hastings fled back to the old time, forgot the intervening vows and more chill affections, and repeated only with passionate lips, "Katherine, loved still, loved ever, mine, mine, at last!"
In 1853, ten years after the date of Blanqui's memoir, M. de Bonville, prefect of the Lower Alps, addressed to the Government a report in which the following passages occur: "It is certain that the productive mould of the Alps, swept off by the increasing violence of that curse of the mountains, the torrents, is daily diminishing with fearful rapidity.
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