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diff --git a/5274-0.txt b/5274-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..36dfc6f --- /dev/null +++ b/5274-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19376 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Chaplet of Pearls, by Charlotte M. Yonge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Chaplet of Pearls + +Author: Charlotte M. Yonge + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5274] +Posting Date: March 26, 2009 +Last Updated: October 12, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS *** + + + + +Produced by Hanh Vu + + + + + + + + +THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS + +By Charlotte M. Yonge + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER I. THE BRIDAL OF THE WHITE AND BLACK + +CHAPTER II. THE SEPARATION + +CHAPTER III. THE FAMILY COUNCIL + +CHAPTER IV. TITHONUS + +CHAPTER V. THE CONVENT BIRD + +CHAPTER VI. FOULLY COZENED + +CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN’S PASTORAL + +CHAPTER VIII. ‘LE BROUILLON’ + +CHAPTER IX. THE WEDDING WITH CRIMSON FAVOURS + +CHAPTER X. MONSIEUR’S BALLET + +CHAPTER XI. THE KING’S TRAGEDY + +CHAPTER XII. THE PALACE OF SLAUGHTER + +CHAPTER XIII. THE BRIDEGROOM’S ARRIVAL + +CHAPTER XIV. SWEET HEART + +CHAPTER XV. NOTRE-DAME DE BELLAISE + +CHAPTER XVI. THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAGE + +CHAPTER XVII. THE GHOSTS OF THE TEMPLARS + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOONBEAM + +CHAPTER XIX. LA RUE DES TROIS FEES + +CHAPTER XX. THE ABBE + +CHAPTER XXI. UNDER THE WALNUT-TREE + +CHAPTER XXII. DEPARTURE + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE EMPTY CRADLE + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE GOOD PRIEST OF NISSARD + +CHAPTER XXV. THE VELVET COACH + +CHAPTER XXVI. THE CHEVALIER’S EXPIATION + +CHAPTER XXVII. THE DYING KING + +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ORPHANS OF LA SABLERIE + +CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE KING’S NAME + +CHAPTER XXX. CAGED IN THE BLACKBIRD’S NEST + +CHAPTER XXXI. THE DARK POOL OF THE FUTURE + +CHAPTER XXXII. ‘JAM SATIS’ + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SCANDAL OF THE SYNOD OF MONTAUBAN + +CHAPTER XXXIV. MADAME LA DUCHESSE + +CHAPTER XXXV. THE ITALIAN PEDLAR + +CHAPTER XXXVI. SPELL AND POTION + +CHAPTER XXXVII. BEATING AGAINST THE BARS + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ENEMY IN PRESENCE + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE PEDLAR’S PREDICTION + +CHAPTER XL. THE SANDS OF OLONNE + +CHAPTER XLI. OUR LADY OF HOPE + +CHAPTER XLII. THE SILVER BULLET + +CHAPTER XLIII. LA BAISER D’EUSTACIE + +CHAPTER XLIV. THE GALIMAFRE + + + + + + +PREFACE + + + +It is the fashion to call every story controversial that deals with +times when controversy or a war of religion was raging; but it should +be remembered that there are some which only attempt to portray human +feelings as affected by the events that such warfare occasioned. ‘Old +Mortality’ and ‘Woodstock’ are not controversial tales, and the ‘Chaplet +of Pearls’ is so quite as little. It only aims at drawing certain scenes +and certain characters as the convulsions of the sixteenth century may +have affected them, and is, in fact, like all historical romance, the +shaping of the conceptions that the imagination must necessarily form +when dwelling upon the records of history. That faculty which might +be called the passive fancy, and might almost be described in Portia’s +song,-- + + ‘It is engendered in the eyes, + By READING fed--and there it dies,’-- + +that faculty, I say, has learnt to feed upon character and incident, and +to require that the latter should be effective and exciting. Is it +not reasonable to seek for this in the days when such things were not +infrequent, and did not imply exceptional wickedness or misfortune in +those engaged in them? This seems to me one plea for historical novel, +to which I would add the opportunity that it gives for study of the +times and delineation of characters. Shakespeare’s Henry IV. and Henry +V., Scott’s Louis XI., Manzoni’s Federigo Borromeo, Bulwer’s Harold, +James’s Philip Augustus, are all real contributions to our comprehension +of the men themselves, by calling the chronicles and memoirs +into action. True, the picture cannot be exact, and is sometimes +distorted--nay, sometimes praiseworthy efforts at correctness in the +detail take away whatever might have been lifelike in the outline. +Yet, acknowledging all this, I must still plead for the tales that +presumptuously deal with days gone by, as enabling the young to realize +history vividly--and, what is still more desirable, requiring an effort +of the mind which to read of modern days does not. The details of +Millais’ Inquisition or of his Huguenot may be in error in spite of all +his study and diligence, but they have brought before us for ever the +horrors of the _auto-da-fe_, and the patient, steadfast heroism of the +man who can smile aside his wife’s endeavour to make him tacitly betray +his faith to save his life. Surely it is well, by pen as by picture, +to go back to the past for figures that will stir the heart like these, +even though the details be as incorrect as those of the revolt of Liege +or of La Ferrette in ‘Quentin Durward’ and ‘Anne of Geierstein.’ + +Scott, however, willfully carved history to suit the purposes of his +story; and in these days we have come to feel that a story must earn +a certain amount of credibility by being in keeping with established +facts, even if striking events have to be sacrificed, and that the order +of time must be preserved. In Shakespeare’s days, or even in Scott’s, +it might have been possible to bring Henry III. and his _mignons_ to due +punishment within the limits of a tale beginning with the Massacre of +St. Bartholomew; but in 1868 the broad outlines of tragedy must be given +up to keep within the bounds of historical verity. + +How far this has been done, critics better read than myself must decide. +I have endeavoured to speak fairly, to the best of my ability, of +such classes of persons as fell in with the course of the narrative, +according to such lights as the memoirs of the time afford. The Convent +is scarcely a CLASS portrait, but the condition of it seems to be +justified by hints in the Port Royal memoirs, respecting Maubuisson and +others which Mere Angelique reformed. The intolerance of the ladies +at Montauban is described in Madame Duplessis-Mornay’s life; and if +Berenger’s education and opinions are looked on as not sufficiently +alien from Roman Catholicism, a reference to Froude’s ‘History of Queen +Elizabeth’ will show both that the customs of the country clergy, and +likewise that a broad distinction was made by the better informed among +the French between Calvinism and Protestantism or Lutheranism, in which +they included Anglicanism. The minister Gardon I do not consider as +representing his class. He is a POSSIBILITY modified to serve the +purposes of the story. + +Into historical matters, however, I have only entered so far as my +story became involved with them. And here I have to apologize for a +few blunders, detected too late for alteration even in the volumes. Sir +Francis Walsingham was a young rising statesman in 1572, instead of the +elderly sage he is represented; his daughter Frances was a mere infant, +and Sir Philip Sidney was not knighted till much later. For the rest, +I have tried to show the scenes that shaped themselves before me as +carefully as I could; though of course they must not be a presentiment +of the times themselves, but of my notion of them. + +C. M. Yonge + +November 14th, 1868 + + + + + +THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS + +or + +THE WHITE AND BLACK RIBAUMONT + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE BRIDAL OF THE WHITE AND BLACK + + + + Small was the ring, and small in truth the finger: + What then? the faith was large that dropped it down. + Aubrey De Vere, INFANT BRIDAL + + +Setting aside the consideration of the risk, the baby-weddings of the +Middle Ages must have been very pretty sights. + +So the Court of France thought the bridal of Henri Beranger Eustache de +Ribaumont and of Marie Eustacie Rosalie de Rebaumont du Nid-de-Merle, +when, amid the festivals that accompanied the signature of the treaty +of Cateau-Cabresis, good-natured King Henri II. presided merrily at the +union of the little pair, whose unite ages did not reach ten years. + +There they stood under the portal of Notre-Dame, the little bridegroom +in a white velvet coat, with puffed sleeves, slashed with scarlet satin, +as were the short, also puffed breeches meeting his long white knitted +silk stockings some way above the knee; large scarlet rosettes were in +his white shoes, a scarlet knot adorned his little sword, and his velvet +cap of the same colour bore a long white plume, and was encircled by a +row of pearls of priceless value. They are no other than that garland +of pearls which, after a night of personal combat before the walls of +Calais, Edward III. of England took from his helmet and presented to Sir +Eustache de Ribaumont, a knight of Picardy, bidding him say everywhere +that it was a gift from the King of England to the bravest of knights. + +The precious heirlooms were scarcely held with the respect due to an +ornament so acquired. The manly garb for the first time assumed by his +sturdy legs, and the possession of the little sword, were evidently the +most interesting parts of the affair to the youthful husband, who seemed +to find in them his only solace for the weary length of the ceremony. +He was a fine, handsome little fellow, fair and rosy, with bright blue +eyes, and hair like shining flax, unusually tall and strong-limbed for +his age; and as he gave his hand to his little bride, and walked with +her under a canopy up to kneel at the High Altar, for the marriage +blessing and the mass, they looked like a full-grown couple seen through +a diminishing-glass. + +The little bride was perhaps a less beautiful child, but she had a +splendid pair of black eyes, and a sweet little mouth, both set into +the uncomprehending solemnity of baby gravity and contentment in fine +clothes. In accordance with the vow indicated by her name of Marie, her +dress was white and blue, turquoise forget-me-nots bound the little lace +veil on her dark chestnut hair, the bosom of her white satin dress was +sprinkled with the same azure jewel, and turquoises bordered every seam +of the sweeping skirt with a train befitting a count’s daughter, and +meandered in gorgeous constellations round the hem. The little thing +lisped her own vows forth without much notion of their sense, and indeed +was sometimes prompted by her bridesmaid cousin, a pretty little girl +a year older, who thrust in her assistance so glibly that the King, as +well as others of the spectators, laughed, and observed that she would +get herself married to the boy instead of her cousin. + +There was, however, to be no doubt nor mistake about Beranger and +Eustacie de Ribaumont being man and wife. Every ceremony, religious or +domestic, that could render a marriage valid, was gone through with real +earnestness, although with infinite gaiety, on the part of the court. +Much depended on their union, and the reconcilement of the two branches +of the family had long been a favourite scheme of King Henri II. + +Both alike were descended from Anselme de Ribaumont, renowned in the +first Crusade, and from the brave Picard who had received the pearls; +but, in the miserable anarchy of Charles VI.’s reign, the elder brother +had been on the Burgundian side--like most of the other nobles of +Picardy--and had thus been brought into the English camp, where, +regarding Henry V. as lawfully appointed to the succession, and much +admiring him and his brother Nedford, he had become an ardent supporter +of the English claim. He had married an English lady, and had received +the grant if the castle of Leurre in Normandy by way of compensation for +his ancestral one of Ribaumont in Picardy, which had been declared to be +forfeited by his treason, and seized by his brother. + +This brother had always been an Armagnac, and had risen and thriven with +his party,--before the final peace between France and England obliged +the elder line to submit to Charles VII. Since that time there had been +a perpetual contention as to the restitution of Chateau Ribaumont, a +strife which under Louis XI. had become an endless lawsuit; and in +the days of dueling had occasioned a good many insults and private +encounters. The younger branch, or Black Ribaumonts, had received a +grant from Louis XI. of the lands of Nid-de-Merle, belonging to an +unfortunate Angevin noble, who had fallen under the royal displeasure, +and they had enjoyed court favour up to the present generation, when +Henri II., either from opposition to his father, instinct for honesty, +or both, had become a warm friend to the gay and brilliant young Baron +de Ribaumont, head of the white or elder branch of the family. + +The family contention seemed likely to wear out of its own accord, +for the Count de Ribaumont was an elderly and childless man, and his +brother, the Chevalier de Ribaumont, was, according to the usual lot +of French juniors, a bachelor, so that it was expected that the whole +inheritance would centre upon the elder family. However, to the general +surprise, the Chevalier late in life married, and became the father of a +son and daughter; but soon after calculations were still more thrown out +by the birth of a little daughter in the old age of the Count. + +Almost from the hour in which her sex was announced, the King had +promised the Baron de Ribaumont that she should be the wife of his young +son, and that all the possessions of the house should be settled upon +the little couple, engaging to provide for the Chevalier’s disappointed +heir in some commandery of a religious order of knighthood. + +The Baron’s wife was English. He had, when on a visit to his English +kindred, entirely turned the head of the lovely Annora Walwyn, and +finding that her father, one of the gravest of Tudor statesmen, would +not hear of her breaking her engagement to the honest Dorset squire +Marmaduke Thistlewood, he had carried her off by a stolen marriage and +_coup de main_, which, as her beauty, rank, and inheritance were all +considerable, had won him great reputation at the gay court of Henri II. + +Infants as the boy and girl were, the King had hurried on their marriage +to secure its taking place in the lifetime of the Count. The Countess +had died soon after the birth of the little girl, and if the arrangement +were to take effect at all, it must be before she should fall under the +guardianship of her uncle, the Chevalier. Therefore the King had caused +her to be brought up from the cottage in Anjou, where she had been +nursed, and in person superintended the brilliant wedding. He himself +led off the dance with the tiny bride, conducting her through its mazes +with fatherly kindliness and condescension; but Queen Catherine, who was +strongly in the interests of the Angevin branch, and had always detested +the Baron as her husband’s intimate, excused herself from dancing with +the bridegroom. He therefore fell to the share of the Dauphiness Queen +of Scots, a lovely, bright-eyed, laughing girl, who so completely +fascinated the little fellow, that he convulsed the court by observing +that he should not have objected to be married to some one like her, +instead of a little baby like Eustacie. + +Amid all the mirth, it was not only the Chevalier and the Queen who bore +displeased looks. In truth, both were too great adepts in court life +to let their dissatisfaction appear. The gloomiest face was that of him +whose triumph it was--the bridegroom’s father, the Baron de Ribaumont. +He had suffered severely from the sickness that prevailed in St. +Quentin, when in the last August the Admiral de Coligny had been +besieged there by the Spaniards, and all agreed that he had never been +the same man since, either in health or in demeanour. When he came back +from his captivity and found the King bent on crowning his return by +the marriage of the children, he had hung back, spoken of scruples about +such unconscious vows, and had finally only consented under stress of +the personal friendship of the King, and on condition that he and his +wife should at once have the sole custody of the little bride. Even then +he moved about the gay scene with so distressed and morose an air that +he was evidently either under the influence of a scruple of conscience +or of a foreboding of evil. + +No one doubted that it had been the latter, when, three days later, +Henri II., in the prime of his strength and height of his spirits, +encountered young Des Lorges in the lists, received the splinter of a +lance in his eye, and died two days afterwards. + +No sooner were his obsequies over than the Baron de Ribaumont set off +with his wife and the little bridal pair for his castle of Leurre, in +Normandy, nor was he ever seen at court again. + + + + +CHAPTER II. THE SEPARATION + + + + Parted without the least regret, + Except that they had ever met. + * * * * + Misses, the tale that I relate, + This lesson seems to carry: + Choose not alone a proper mate, + But proper time to marry! + COWPER, PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED + + +‘I will have it!’ + +‘Thou shalt not have it!’ + +‘Diane says it is mine.’ + +‘Diane knows nothing about it.’ + +‘Gentlemen always yield to ladies.’ + +‘Wives ought to mind their husbands.’ + +‘Then I will not be thy wife.’ + +‘Thou canst not help it.’ + +‘I will. I will tell my father what M. le Baron reads and sings, and +then I know he will.’ + +‘And welcome.’ + +Eustacie put out her lip, and began to cry. + +The ‘husband and wife,’ now eight and seven years old, were in a large +room hung with tapestry, representing the history of Tobit. A great +state bed, curtained with piled velvet, stood on a sort of _dais_ at +the further end; there was a toilet-table adorned with curiously shaped +boxes, and coloured Venetian glasses, and filagree pouncet-boxes, and +with a small mirror whose frame was inlaid with gold and ivory. A large +coffer, likewise inlaid, stood against the wall, and near it a +cabinet, of Dutch workmanship, a combination of ebony, ivory, wood, and +looking-glass, the centre retreating, and so arranged that by the help +of most ingenious attention to perspective and reflection, it appeared +like the entrance to a magnificent miniature cinque-cento palace, with +steps up to a vestibule paved in black and white lozenges, and with +three endless corridors diverging from it. So much for show; for +use, this palace was a bewildering complication of secret drawers and +pigeon-holes, all depending indeed upon one tiny gold key; but unless +the use of that key were well understood, all it led to was certain +outer receptacles of fragrant Spanish gloves, knots of ribbon, and +kerchiefs strewn over with rose leaves and lavender. However, Eustacie +had secured the key, and was now far beyond these mere superficial +matters. Her youthful lord had just discovered her mounted on a chair, +her small person decked out with a profusion of necklaces, jewels, +bracelets, chains, and rings; and her fingers, as well as they could +under their stiffening load, were opening the very penetralia of the +cabinet, the inner chamber of the hall, where lay a case adorned with +the Ribaumont arms and containing the far-famed chaplet of pearls. +It was almost beyond her reach, but she had risen on tip-toe, and was +stretching out her hand for it, when he, springing behind her on the +chair, availed himself of his superior height and strength to shut the +door of this Arcanum and turn the key. His mortifying permission to his +wife to absent herself arose from pure love of teasing, but the next +moment he added, still holding his hand on the key--‘As to telling what +my father reads, that would be treason. How shouldst thou know what it +is?’ + +‘Does thou think every one is an infant but thyself?’ + +‘But who told thee that to talk of my father’s books would get him into +trouble?’ continued the boy, as they still stood together on the high +heavy wooden chair. + +She tossed her pretty head, and pretended to pout. + +‘Was it Diane? I will know. Didst thou tell Diane?’ + +Instead of answering, now that his attention to the key was relaxed, +Eustacie made a sudden dart, like a little wild cat, at the back of the +chair and at the key. They chair over-balanced; Beranger caught at the +front drawer of the cabinet, which, unlocked by Eustacie, came out in +his hand, and chair, children, drawer, and curiosities all went rolling +over together on the floor with a hubbub that brought all the household +together, exclaiming and scolding. Madame de Ribaumont’s displeasure at +the rifling of her hoards knew no bounds; Eustacie, by way of defence, +shrieked ‘like twenty demons;’ Beranger, too honourable to accuse her, +underwent the same tempest; and at last both were soundly rapped over +the knuckles with the long handle of Madame’s fan, and consigned to two +separate closets, to be dealt with on the return of M. le Baron, while +Madame returned to her embroidery, lamenting the absence of that dear +little Diane, whose late visit at the chateau had been marked by such +unusual tranquility between the children. + +Beranger, in his dark closet, comforted himself with the shrewd +suspicion that his father was so employed as not to be expected at home +till supper-time, and that his mother’s wrath was by no means likely to +be so enduring as to lead her to make complaints of the prisoners; +and when he heard a trampling of horses in the court, he anticipated a +speedy release and summons to show himself to the visitors. He waited +long, however, before he heard the pattering of little feet; then a +stool scraped along the floor, the button of his door was undone, the +stool pushed back, and as he emerged, Eustacie stood before him with +her finger to her lip. ‘CHUT, Beranger! It is my father and uncle, and +Narcisse, and, oh! so many _gens d’armes_. They are come to summon M. le +Baron to go with them to disperse the _preche_ by the Bac de l’Oie. And +oh, Beranger, is he not there?’ + +‘I do not know. He went out with his hawk, and I do not think he could +have gone anywhere else. Did they say so to my mother?’ + +‘Yes; but she never knows. And oh, Beranger, Narcisse told me--ah, was +it to tease me?--that Diane has told them all they wanted to know, for +that they sent her here on purpose to see if we were not all Huguenots. + +‘Very likely, the little viper! Le me pass, Eustacie. I must go and tell +my father.’ + +‘Thou canst not get out that way; the court is full of men-at-arms. +Hark, there’s Narcisse calling me. He will come after me.’ + +There was not a moment to lose. Berenger flew along a corridor, and down +a narrow winding stair, and across the kitchen; then snatching at the +arm of a boy of his own age whom he met at the door, he gasped out, +‘Come and help me catch Follet, Landry!’ and still running across an +orchard, he pulled down a couple of apples from the trees, and bounded +into a paddock where a small rough Breton pony was feeding among the +little tawny Norman cows. The animal knew his little master, and trotted +towards him at his call of ‘Follet, Follet. Now be a wise Follet, and +play me no tricks. Thou and I, Follet, shall do good service, if thou +wilt be steady.’ + +Follet made his advances, but with a coquettish eye and look, as if +ready to start away at any moment. + +‘Soh, Follet. I have no bread for thee, only two apples; but, Follet, +listen. There’s my _beau-pere_ the Count, and the Chevalier, all spite, +and their whole troop of savage _gens d’armes_, come out to fall upon +the poor Huguenots, who are doing no harm at all, only listening to a +long dull sermon. And I am much afraid my father is there, for he went +out his hawk on his wrist, and he never does take Ysonde for any real +sport, as thou and I would do, Follet. He says it is all vanity of +vanities. But thou know’st, if they caught him at the _preche_ they +would call it heresy and treason, and all sorts of horrors, and any +way they would fall like demons on the poor Huguenots, Jacques and +all--thine own Jacques, Follet. Come, be a loyal pony, Follet. Be at +least as good as Eustacie.’ + +Follet was evidently attentive to this peroration, turning round his +ear in a sensible attitude, and advancing his nose to the apples. +As Beranger held them out to him, the other boy clutched his shaggy +forelock so effectually that the start back did not shake him off, and +the next moment Beranger was on his back. + +‘And I, Monsieur, what shall I do?’ + +‘Thou, Landry? I know. Speed like a hare, lock the avenue gate, and hide +the key. That will delay them a long time. Off now, Follet.’ + +Beranger and Follet understood one another far too well to care about +such trifles as saddle and bridle, and off they went through green +grassy balks dividing the fields, or across the stubble, till, about +three miles from the castle, they came to a narrow valley, dipping so +suddenly between the hills that it could hardly have been suspected by +one unaware of its locality, and the sides were dotted with copsewood, +which entirely hid the bottom. Beranger guided his pony to a winding +path that led down the steep side of the valley, already hearing the +cadence of a loud, chanting voice, throwing out its sounds over the +assembly, whence arose assenting hums over an undercurrent of sobs, as +though the excitable French assembly were strongly affected. + +The thicket was so close that Beranger was almost among the congregation +before he could see more than a passing glimpse of a sea of heads. +Stout, ruddy, Norman peasants, and high white-capped women, mingled with +a few soberly-clad townsfolk, almost all with the grave, steadfast cast +of countenance imparted by unresisted persecution, stood gathered +round the green mound that served as a natural pulpit for a Calvinist +minister, who more the dress of a burgher, but entirely black. To +Beranger’s despair, he was in the act of inviting his hearers to join +with him in singing one of Marot’s psalms; and the boy, eager to lose +not a moment, grasped the skirt of the outermost of the crowd. The man, +an absorbed-looking stranger, merely said, ‘Importune me not, child.’ + +‘Listen!’ said Beranger; ‘it imports---’ + +‘Peace,’ was the stern answer; but a Norman farmer looked round at that +moment, and Beranger exclaimed, ‘Stop the singing! The _gens d’armes_!’ +The psalm broke off; the whisper circulated; the words ‘from Leurre’ +were next conveyed from lip to lip, and, as it were in a moment, the +dense human mass had broken up and vanished, stealing through the +numerous paths in the brushwood, or along the brook, as it descended +through tall sedges and bulrushes. The valley was soon as lonely as +it had been populous; the pulpit remained a mere mossy bank, more +suggestive or fairy dances than of Calvinist sermons, and no one +remained on the scene save Beranger with his pony, Jacques the groom, a +stout farmer, the preacher, and a tall thin figure in the plainest dark +cloth dress that could be worn by a gentleman, a hawk on his wrist. + +‘Thou here, my boy!’ he exclaimed, as Beranger came to his side; and as +the little fellow replied in a few brief words, he took him by the hand, +and said to the minister, ‘Good Master Isaac, let me present my young +son to you, who under Heaven hath been the means of saving many lives +this day.’ + +Maitre Isaac Gardon, a noted preacher, looked kindly at the boy’s fair +face, and said, ‘Bless thee, young sir. As thou hast been already a +chosen instrument to save life, so mayest thou be ever after a champion +of the truth.’ + +‘Monsieur le Baron,’ interposed Jacques, ‘it were best to look to +yourself. I already hear sounds upon the wind.’ + +‘And you, good sir?’ said the Baron. + +‘I will see to him,’ said the farmer, grasping him as a sort of +property. ‘M. le Baron had best keep up the beck. Out on the moor there +he may fly the hawk, and that will best divert suspicion.’ + +‘Farewell, then,’ said the Baron, wringing the minister’s hand, and +adding, almost to himself, ‘Alas! I am weary of these shifts!’ and weary +indeed he seemed, for as the ground became so steep that the beck danced +noisily down its channel, he could not keep up the needful speed, but +paused, gasping for breath, with his hand on his side. ‘Beranger was off +his pony in an instant, assuring Follet that it ought to be proud to be +ridden by his father, and exhaling his own exultant feelings in caresses +to the animal as it gallantly breasted the hill. The little boy had +never been so commended before! He loved his father exceedingly; but +the Baron, while ever just towards him, was grave and strict to a degree +that the ideas even of the sixteenth century regarded as severe. +Little Eustacie with her lovely face, her irrepressible saucy grace and +audacious coaxing, was the only creature to whom he ever showed much +indulgence and tenderness, and even that seemed almost against his +will and conscience. His son was always under rule, often blamed, +and scarcely ever praised; but it was a hardy vigorous nature, and +respectful love throve under the system that would have crushed or +alienated a different disposition. It was not till the party had emerged +from the wood upon a stubble field, where a covey of partridges flew up, +and to Beranger’s rapturous delight furnished a victim for Ysonde, that +M. de Ribaumont dismounted from the pony, and walking towards home, +called his son to his side, and asked him how he had learnt the +intentions of the Count and the Chevalier. Beranger explained how +Eustacie had come to warn him, and also told what she had said of Diane +de Ribaumont, who had lately, by her father’s request, spent a few weeks +at the chateau with her cousins. + +‘My son,’ said the Baron, ‘it is hard to ask of babes caution and +secrecy; but I must know from thee what thy cousin may have heard of our +doings?’ + +‘I cannot tell, father,’ replied Beranger; ‘we played more than we +talked. Yet, Monsieur, you will not be angry with Eustacie if I tell you +what she said to me to-day?’ + +‘Assuredly not, my son.’ + +‘She said that her father would take her away if he knew what M. le +Baron read, and what he sung.’ + +‘Thou hast done well to tell me, my son. Thinkest thou that this comes +from Diane, or from one of the servants?’ + +‘Oh, from Diane, my father; none of the servants would dare to say such +a thing.’ + +‘It is as I suspected then,’ said the Baron. ‘That child was sent +amongst us as a spy.’ Tell me, Beranger, had she any knowledge of our +intended journey to England?’ + +‘To England! But no, father, I did not even know it was intended. To +England--to that Walwyn which my mother takes such pains to make us +speak rightly. Are we then, going?’ + +‘Listen, my son. Thou hast to-day proved thyself worthy of trust, and +thou shalt hear. My son, ere yet I knew the truth I was a reckless +disobedient youth, and I bore thy mother from her parents in England +without their consent. Since, by Heaven’s grace, I have come to a better +mind, we have asked and obtained their forgiveness, and it has long been +their desire to see again their daughter and her son. Moreover, since +the accession of the present Queen, it has been a land where the light +is free to shine forth; and though I verily believe what Maitre Gardon +says, that persecution is a blessed means of grace, yet it is grievous +to expose one’s dearest thereto when they are in no state to count +the cost. Therefore would I thither convey you all, and there amid thy +mother’s family would we openly abjure the errors in which we have been +nurture. I have already sent to Paris to obtain from the Queen-mother +the necessary permission to take my family to visit thy grand-father, +and it must now be our endeavour to start immediately on the receipt of +the reply, before the Chevalier’s information can lead to any hindrance +or detention of Eustacie.’ + +‘Then Eustacie will go with us, Monsieur?’ + +‘Certainly. Nothing is more important than that her faith should be the +same as yours! But discretion, my son: not a word to the little one.’ + +‘And Landry, father? I had rather Landry went than Eustacie. And Follet, +dear father, pray take him.’ + +After M. de Ribaumont’s grave confidence to his son and heir, he was +a little scandalized at the comparative value that the boy’s voice +indicated for wife, foster-brother, and pony, and therefore received +it in perfect silence, which silence continued until they reached +the chateau, where the lady met them at the door with a burst of +exclamations. + +‘Ah, there you are, safe, my dear Baron. I have been in despair. Here +were the Count and his brother come to call on you to join them in +dispersing a meeting of those poor Huguenots and they would not permit +me to send out to call you in! I verily think they suspected that you +were aware of it.’ + +M. de Ribaumont made no answer, but sat wearily down and asked for his +little Eustacie. + +‘Little vixen!’ exclaimed the Baroness, ‘she is gone; her father took +her away with him.’ And as her husband looked extremely displeased, she +added that Eustacie had been meddling with her jewel cabinet and had +been put in penitence. Her first impulse on seeing her father had been +to cling to him and poor out her complaints, whereupon he had declared +that he should take her away with him at once, and had in effect caused +her pony to be saddled, and he had ridden away with her to his old +tower, leaving his brother, the Chevalier, to conduct the attack on the +Huguenot conventicle. + +‘He had no power or right to remove her,’ said the Baron. ‘How could you +let him do so in my absence? He had made over her wardship to me, and +has no right to resume it!’ + +‘Well, perhaps I might have insisted on his waiting till your return; +but, you see, the children have never done anything but quarrel and +fight, and always by Eustacie’s fault; and if ever they are to endure +each other, it must be by being separated now.’ + +‘Madame,’ said the Baron, gravely, ‘you have done your utmost to ruin +your son’s chances of happiness.’ + +That same evening arrived the King’s passport permitting the Baron +de Ribaumont and his family to pay a visit to his wife’s friends in +England. The next morning the Baron was summoned to speak to one of +his farmers, a Huguenot, who had come to inform him that, through the +network of intelligence kept up by the members of the persecuted faith, +it had become known that the Chevalier de Ribaumont had set off for +court that night, and there was little doubt that his interference would +lead to an immediate revocation of the sanction to the journey, if to no +severer measures. At best, the Baron knew that if his own absence were +permitted, it would be only on condition of leaving his son in +the custody of either the Queen-mother or the Count. It had become +impossible to reclaim Eustacie. Her father would at once have pleaded +that she was being bred up in Huguenot errors. All that could be done +was to hasten the departure ere the royal mandate could arrive. A little +Norman sailing vessel was moored two evenings after in a lonely creek on +the coast, and into it stepped M. de Ribaumont, with his Bible, Marot’s +Psalter, and Calvin’s works, Beranger still tenderly kissing a lock of +Follet’s mane, and Madame mourning for the pearls, which her husband +deemed too sacred an heirloom to carry away to a foreign land. Poor +little Eustacie, with her cousin Diane, was in the convent of Bellaise +in Anjou. If any one lamented her absence, it was her father-in-law. + + + + +CHAPTER III. THE FAMILY COUNCIL + + + + He counsels a divorce + Shakespeare, KING HENRY VIII. + + +In the spring of the year 1572, a family council was assembled in Hurst +Walwyn Hall. The scene was a wainscoted oriel chamber closed off by a +screen from the great hall, and fitted on two sides by presses of books, +surmounted the one by a terrestrial, the other by a celestial globe, the +first ‘with the addition of the Indies’ in very eccentric geography, the +second with enormous stars studding highly grotesque figures, regarded +with great awe by most beholders. + +A solid oaken table stood in the midst, laden with books and papers, and +in a corner, near the open hearth, a carved desk, bearing on one slope +the largest copy of the ‘Bishops’ Bible’; on the other, one of the +Prayer-book. The ornaments of the oaken mantelpiece culminated in a +shield bearing a cross _boutonnee_, i.e. with trefoil terminations. It +was supported between a merman with a whelk shell and a mermaid with a +comb, and another like Siren curled her tail on the top of the gaping +baronial helmet above the shield, while two more upheld the main weight +of the chimney-piece on either side of the glowing wood-fire. + +In the seat of honour was an old gentleman, white-haired, and feeble +of limb, but with noble features and a keen, acute eye. This was +Sir William, Baron of Hurst Walwyn, a valiant knight at Guingate and +Boulogne, a statesman of whom Wolsey had been jealous, and a ripe +scholar who had shared the friendship of More and Erasmus. The lady who +sat opposite to him was several years younger, still upright, brisk and +active, though her hair was milk-white; but her eyes were of undimmed +azure, and her complexion still retained a beauteous pink and white. She +was highly educated, and had been the friend of Margaret Roper and her +sisters, often sharing their walks in the bright Chelsea garden. Indeed, +the musk-rose in her own favourite nook at Hurst Walwyn was cherished as +the gift of Sir Thomas himself. + +Near her sat sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun at Romsey till +her twenty-eight year, when, in the dispersion of convents, her sister’s +home had received her. There had she continued, never exposed to tests +of opinion, but pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictine +rule, faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of the +chaplain, a college friend of Bishop Ridley, and rejoicing in the use of +the vernacular prayers and Scriptures. When Queen Mary had sent for her +to consider of the revival of convents, her views had been found to have +so far diverged from those of the Queen that Lord Walwyn was thankful +to have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied herself firm to +old Romsey doctrine. She was not learned, like Lady Walwyn, but her +knowledge in all needlework and confectionery was consummate, so that +half the ladies in Dorset and Wilts longed to send their daughters to +be educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and soft cheeks had +the gentle contour of a dove’s form, nor had she lost the conventual +serenity of expression; indeed it was curious that, let Lady Walwyn +array her as she would, whatever she wore bore a nunlike air. Her silken +farthingales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like mufflers, her +coifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and her scrupulous +neatness enhanced the pure unearthly air of all belonging to her. + +Eager and lively, fair and handsome, sat the Baronne de Ribaumont, +or rather, since the higher title had been laid aside, Dame Annora +Thistlewood. The health of M. de Ribaumont had been shattered at St. +Quentin, and an inclement night of crossing the Channel had brought on +an attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to amaze +his English friends at finding the gay dissipated young Frenchman they +remembered, infinitely more strict and rigid than themselves. He was +never able to leave the house again after his first arrival at Hurst +Walwyn, and sank under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicing +to leave his wife and son, not indeed among such strict Puritans as +he preferred, but at least where the pure faith could be openly avowed +without danger. + +Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood, the husband to whom Annora Walwyn had been +destined before M. de Ribaumont had crossed her path, was about the same +time left a widower with one son and daughter, and as soon as a suitable +interval had passed, she became a far happier wife than she had been in +either the Baron’s gay or grave days. Her son had continued under +the roof of his grandfather, to whose charge his father had specially +committed him, and thus had been scarcely separated from his mother, +since Combe Manor was not above three miles across the downs from Hurst +Walwyn, and there was almost daily intercourse between the families. +Lucy Thistlewood had been brought to Hurst Walwyn to be something +between a maid of honour and a pupil to the ladies there, and her +brother Philip, so soon as he was old enough, daily rode thither to +share with Berenger the instructions of the chaplain, Mr. Adderley, who +on the present occasion formed one of the conclave, sitting a little +apart as not quite familiar, though highly esteemed. + +With an elbow on the table, and one hand toying with his long +riding-whip, sat, booted and spurred, the jovial figure of Sir +Marmaduke, who called out, in his hearty voice, ‘A good riddance of an +outlandish Papist, say I! Read the letter, Berenger lad. No, no, no! +English it! I know nothing of your mincing French! ‘Tis the worst fault +I know in you, boy, to be half a Frenchman, and have a French name’--a +fault that good Sir Marmaduke did his best to remedy by always terming +his step-son Berenger or Berry Ribmount, and we will so far follow +his example as henceforth to give the youth the English form of his +Christian name. He was by this time a tall lad of eighteen, with +straight features, honest deep blue eyes, very fair hair cut short and +brushed up to a crest upon the middle of his head, a complexion of red +and white that all the air of the downs and the sea failed to embrown, +and that peculiar openness and candour of expression which seems so much +an English birthright, that the only trace of his French origin was, +that he betrayed no unbecoming awkwardness in the somewhat embarrassing +position in which he was placed, literally standing, according to the +respectful discipline of the time, as the subject of discussion, before +the circle of his elders. His colour was indeed, deepened, but his +attitude was easy and graceful, and he used no stiff rigidity nor +restless movements to mask his anxiety. At Sir Marmaduke’s desire, he +could not but redden a good deal more, but with a clear, unhesitating +voice, he translated, the letter that he had received from the Chevalier +de Ribaumont, who, by the Count’s death, had become Eustacie’s guardian. +It was a request in the name of Eustacie and her deceased father, that +Monsieur le Baron de Ribaumont--who, it was understood, had embraced +the English heresy--would concur with his spouse in demanding from his +Holiness the Pope a decree annulling the childish marriage, which could +easily be declared void, both on account of the consanguinity of the +parties and the discrepancy of their faith; and which would leave each +of them free to marry again. + +‘Nothing can be better,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘How I have longed to +free him from that little shrew, whose tricks were the plague of my +life! Now there is nothing between him and a worthy match!’ + +‘We can make an Englishman of him now to the backbone,’ added Sir +Marmaduke, ‘and it is well that it should be the lady herself who wants +first to be off with it, so that none can say he has played her a scurvy +trick.’ + +‘What say you, Berenger?’ said Lord Walwyn. ‘Listen to me, fair nephew. +You know that all my remnant of hope is fixed upon you, and that I have +looked to setting you in the room of the son of my own; and I think that +under our good Queen you will find it easier to lead a quiet God-fearing +life than in your father’s vexed country, where the Reformed religion +lies under persecution. Natheless, being a born liegeman of the King of +France, and heir to estates in his kingdom, meseemeth that before you +are come to years of discretion it were well that you should visit them, +and become better able to judge for yourself how to deal in this matter +when you shall have attained full age, and may be able to dispose of +them by sale, thus freeing yourself from allegiance to a foreign prince. +And at the same time you can take measures, in concert with this young +lady, for loosing the wedlock so unhappily contracted.’ + +‘O sir, sir!’ cried Lady Thistlewood, ‘send him not to France to be +burnt by the Papists!’ + +‘Peace, daughter,’ returned her mother. ‘Know you not that there is +friendship between the court party and the Huguenots, and that the peace +is to be sealed by the marriage of the King’s sister with the King of +Navarre? This is the most suitable time at which he could go.’ + +‘Then, madam,’ proceeded the lady, ‘he will be running about to all the +preachings on every bleak moor and wet morass he can find, catching his +death with rheums, like his poor father.’ + +There was a general smile, and Sir Marmaduke laughed outright. + +‘Nay, dame,’ he said, ‘have you marked such a greed of sermons in our +Berry that you should fear his so untowardly running after them?’ + +‘Tilly-vally, Sir Duke,’ quoth Dame Annora, with a flirt of her fan, +learnt at the French court. ‘Men will run after a preacher in a marshy +bog out of pure forwardness, when they will nod at a godly homily on a +well-stuffed bench between four walls.’ + +‘I shall commit that matter to Mr. Adderley, who is good enough to +accompany him,’ said Lord Walwyn, ‘and by whose counsel I trust that he +will steer the middle course between the pope and Calvin.’ + +Mr. Adderley bowed in answer, saying he hoped that he should be enable +to keep his pupil’s mind clear between the allurements of Popery and the +errors of the Reformed; but meanwhile Lady Thistlewood’s mind had taken +a leap, and she exclaimed,-- + +‘And, son, whatever you do, bring home the chaplet of pearls! I know +they have set their minds upon it. They wanted me to deck Eustacie with +it on that unlucky bridal-day, but I would not hear of trusting her with +it, and now will it rarely become our Lucy on your real wedding-day.’ + +‘You travel swiftly, daughter,’ said Lord Walwyn. ‘Nor have we yet heard +the thoughts of one who ever thinks wisely. Sister,’ he added, turning +to Cecily St. John, ‘hold not you with us in this matter?’ + +‘I scarce comprehend it, my Lord,’ was the gentle reply. ‘I knew not +that it was possible to dissolve the tie of wedlock.’ + +‘The Pope’s decree will suffice,’ said Lord Walwyn. + +‘Yet, sir,’ still said the ex-nun, ‘methought you had shown me that the +Holly Father exceeded his power in the annulling of vows.’ + +‘Using mine own lessons against me, sweet sister?’ said Lord Walwyn, +smiling; ‘yet, remember, the contract was rashly made between two +ignorant babes; and, bred up as they have severally been, it were surely +best for them to be set free from vows made without their true will or +knowledge.’ + +‘And yet,’ said Cecily, perplexed, ‘when I saw my niece here wedded to +Sir Marmaduke, was it not with the words, ‘What God hath joined let no +man put asunder’?’ + +‘Good lack! aunt,’ cried Lady Thistlewood, ‘you would not have that poor +lad wedded to a pert, saucy, ill-tempered little moppet, bred up that +den of iniquity, Queen Catherine’s court, where my poor Baron never +trusted me after he fell in with the religion, and had heard of King +Antony’s calling me the Swan of England.’ + +At that moment there was a loud shriek, half-laugh, half-fright, coming +through the window, and Lady Thistlewood, starting up, exclaimed, ‘The +child will be drowned! Box their ears, Berenger, and bring them in +directly.’ + +Berenger, at her bidding, hurried out of the room into the hall, and +thence down a flight of steps leading into a square walled garden, with +a couple of stone male and female marine divinities accommodating their +fishy extremities as best they might on the corners of the wall. The +square contained a bowling-green of exquisitely-kept turf, that looked +as if cut out of green velvet, and was edged on its four sides by a +raised broad-paved walk, with a trimming of flower-beds, where the +earliest blossoms were showing themselves. In the centre of each side +another paved path intersected the green lawn, and the meeting of these +two diameters was at a circular stone basin, presided over by another +merman, blowing a conch on the top of a pile of rocks. On the gravelled +margin stood two distressed little damsels of seven and six years +old, remonstrating with all their might against the proceedings of +a roguish-looking boy of fourteen of fifteen, who had perched their +junior--a fat, fair, kitten-like element of mischief, aged about +five--_en croupe_ on the merman, and was about, according to her +delighted request, to make her a bower of water, by extracting the plug +and setting the fountain to play; but as the fountain had been still +all the winter, the plug was hard of extraction, especially to a young +gentleman who stood insecurely, with his feet wide apart upon pointed +and slippery point of rock-work; and Berenger had time to hurry up, +exclaiming, ‘Giddy pate! Dolly would Berenger drenched to the skin.’ + +‘And she has on her best blue, made out of mother’s French farthingale,’ +cried the discreet Annora. + +‘Do you know, Dolly, I’ve orders to box your ears, and send you in?’ +added Berenger, as he lifted his half-sister from her perilous position, +speaking, as he did so, without a shade of foreign accent, though with +much more rapid utterance than was usual in England. She clung to him +without much alarm, and retaliated by an endeavour to box his ears, +while Philip, slowly making his way back to the mainland, exclaimed, ‘Ah +there’s no chance now! Here comes demure Mistress Lucy, and she is the +worst mar-sport of all.’ + +A gentle girl of seventeen was drawing near, her fair delicately-tinted +complexion suiting well with her pale golden hair. It was a sweet face, +and was well set off by the sky-blue of the farthingale, which, with +her white lace coif and white ruff, gave her something the air of a +speedwell flower, more especially as her expression seemed to have +caught much of Cecily’s air of self-restrained contentment. She held +a basketful of the orange pistils of crocuses, and at once seeing that +some riot had taken place, she said to the eldest little girl, ‘Ah, Nan, +you had been safer gathering saffron with me.’ + +‘Nay, brother Berry came and made all well,’ said Annora; ‘and he had +been shut up so long in the library that he must have been very glad to +get out.’ + +‘And what came of it?’ cried Philip. ‘Are you to go and get yourself +unmarried?’ + +‘Unmarried!’ burst out the sisters Annora and Elizabeth. + +‘What, laughed Philip, ‘you knew not that this is an ancient husband, +married years before your father and mother?’ + +‘But, why? said Elizabeth, rather inclined to cry. ‘What has poor Lucy +done that you should get yourself unmarried from her?’ + +There was a laugh from both brothers; but Berenger, seeing Lucy’s +blushes, restrained himself, and said. ‘Mine was not such good luck, +Bess, but they gave me a little French wife, younger than Dolly, and +saucier still; and as she seems to wish to be quit of me, why, I shall +be rid of her.’ + +‘See there, Dolly,’ said Philip, in a warning voice, ‘that is the way +you’ll be served if you do not mend your ways.’ + +‘But I thought,’ said Annora gravely, ‘that people were married once for +all, and it could not be undone.’ + +‘So said Aunt Cecily, but my Lord was proving to her out of all law +that a contract between such a couple of babes went for nought,’ said +Berenger. + +‘And shall you, indeed, see Paris, and all the braveries there?’ asked +Philip. ‘I thought my Lord would never have trusted you out of his +sight.’ + +‘And now it is to be only with Mr. Adderley,’ said Berenger; ‘but there +will be rare doings to be seen at this royal wedding, and maybe I shall +break a lance there in your honour, Lucy.’ + +‘And you’ll bring me a French fan?’ cried Bess. + +‘And me a pouncet-box?’ added Annora. + +‘And me a French puppet dressed Paris fashion?’ said Dolly. + +‘And what shall he bring Lucy?’ added Bess. + +‘I know,’ said Annora; ‘the pearls that mother is always talking about! +I heard her say that Lucy should wear them on her wedding-day.’ + +‘Hush!’ interposed Lucy, ‘don’t you see my father yonder on the step, +beckoning to you?’ + +The children flew towards Sir Marmaduke, leaving Berenger and Lucy +together. + +‘Not a word to wish me good speed, Lucy, now I have my wish?’ said +Berenger. + +‘Oh, yes,’ said Lucy, ‘I am glad you should see all those brave French +gentlemen of whom you used to tell me.’ + +‘Yes, they will be all at court, and the good Admiral is said to be in +high favour. He will surely remember my father.’ + +‘And shall you see the lady?’ asked Lucy, under her breath. + +‘Eustacie? Probably; but that will make no change. I have heard too much +of _l’escadron de la Reine-mere_ to endure the thought of a wife from +thence, were she the Queen of Beauty herself. And my mother says that +Eustacie would lose all her beauty as she grew up--like black-eyed Sue +on the down; nor did I ever think her brown skin and fierce black eyes +to compare with you, Lucy. I could be well content never to see her +more; but,’ and here he lowered his voice to a tone of confidence, ‘my +father, when near his death, called me, and told me that he feared my +marriage would be a cause of trouble and temptation to me, and that I +must deal with it after my conscience when I was able to judge in +the matter. Something, too, he said of the treaty of marriage being +a burthen on his soul, but I know not what he meant. If ever I saw +Eustacie again, I was to give her his own copy of Clement Marot’s +Psalter, and to tell her that he had ever loved and prayed for her as a +daughter; and moreover, my father added,’ said Berenger, much moved at +the remembrance it brought across him, ‘that if this matter proved a +burthen and perplexity to me, I was to pardon him as one who repented of +it as a thing done ere he had learnt to weigh the whole world against a +soul.’ + +‘Yes, you must see her,’ said Lucy. + +‘Well, what more were you going to say, Lucy?’ + +‘I was only thinking,’ said Lucy, as she raised her eyes to him, ‘how +sorry she will be that she let them write that letter.’ + +Berenger laughed, pleased with the simplicity of Lucy’s admiration, but +with modesty and common sense enough to answer, ‘No fear of that, Lucy, +for an heiress, with all the court gallants of France at her feet.’ + +‘Ah, but you!’ + +‘I am all very well here, when you have never seen anybody but lubberly +Dorset squires that never went to London, nor Oxford, nor beyond their +own furrows,’ said Berenger; ‘but depend upon it, she has been bred up +to care for all the airs and graces that are all the fashion at Paris +now, and will be as glad to be rid of an honest man and a Protestant +as I shall to be quit of a court puppet and a Papist. Shall you have +finished my point-cuffs next week, Lucy? Depend upon it, no gentleman of +them all will wear such dainty lace of such a fancy as those will be.’ + +And Lucy smiled, well pleased. + +Coming from the companionship of Eustacie to that of gentle Lucy had +been to Berenger a change from perpetual warfareto perfect supremacy, +and his preference to his little sister, as he had been taught to call +her from the first, had been loudly expressed. Brother and sister they +had ever since considered themselves, and only within the last few +months had possibilities been discussed among the elders of the family, +which oozing out in some mysterious manner, had become felt rather than +known among the young people, yet without altering the habitual terms +that existed between them. Both were so young that love was the merest, +vaguest dream to them; and Lucy, in her quiet faith that Berenger was +the most beautiful, excellent, and accomplished cavalier the earth +could afford, was little troubled about her own future share in him. She +seemed to be promoted to belong to him just as she had grown up to curl +her hair and wear ruffs and farthingales. And to Berenger Lucy was +a very pleasant feature in that English home, where he had been far +happier than in the uncertainties of Chateau Leurre, between his naughty +playfellow, his capricious mother, and morose father. If in England his +lot was to be cast, Lucy was acquiesced in willingly as a portion of +that lot. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. TITHONUS + + + + A youth came riding towards a palace gate, + And from the palace came a child of sin + And took him by the curls and led him in! + Where sat a company with heated eyes. + Tennyson, A VISION OF SIN + + +It was in the month of June that Berenger de Ribaumont first came in +sight of Paris. His grandfather had himself begun by taking him to +London and presenting him to Queen Elizabeth, from whom the lad’s good +mien procured him a most favourable reception. She willingly promised +that on which Lord Walwyn’s heart was set, namely, that his title and +rank should be continued to his grandson; and an ample store of letter +of recommendation to Sir Francis Walsingham, the Ambassador, and all +others who could be of service in the French court, were to do their +utmost to provide him with a favourable reception there. + +Then, with Mr. Adderley and four or five servants, he had crossed the +Channel, and had gone first to Chateau Leurre, where he was rapturously +welcomed by the old steward Osbert. The old man had trained up his son +Landry, Berenger’s foster-brother, to become his valet, and had him +taught all the arts of hair-dressing and surgery that were part of the +profession of a gentleman’s body-servant; and the youth, a smart, acuter +young Norman, became a valuable addition to the suite, the guidance of +which, through a foreign country, their young master did not find very +easy. Mr. Adderley thought he knew French very well, through books, but +the language he spoke was not available, and he soon fell into a state +of bewilderment rather hard on his pupil, who, though a very good boy, +and crammed very full of learning, was still nothing more than a lad of +eighteen in all matters of prudence and discretion. + +Lord Walwyn was, as we have seen, one of those whose Church principles +had altered very little and very gradually; and in the utter diversity +of practice that prevailed in the early years of Queen Elizabeth, his +chaplain as well as the rector of the parish had altered no more than +was absolutely enjoined of the old ceremonial. If the poor Baron de +Ribaumont had ever been well enough to go to church on a Sunday, he +would perhaps have thought himself still in the realms of what he +considered as darkness; but as he had never openly broken with the +Gallic Church, Berenger had gone at once from mass at Leurre to the +Combe Walwyn service. Therefore when he spent a Sunday at Rouen, and +attended a Calvinist service in the building that the Huguenots were +permitted outside the town, he was much disappointed in it; he thought +its very fervour familiar and irreverent, and felt himself much more at +home in the cathedral into which he strayed in the afternoon. And, on +the Sunday he was at Leurre, he went, as a part of his old home-habits, +to mass at the old round-arched church, where he and Eustacie had played +each other so many teasing tricks at his mother’s feet, and had received +so many admonitory nips and strokes of her fan. All he saw there was +not congenial to him, but he liked it vastly better than the Huguenot +meeting, and was not prepared to understand or enter into Mr. Adderley’s +vexation, when the tutor assured him that the reverent gestures that +came naturally to him were regarded by the Protestants as idolatry, and +that he would be viewed as a recreants from his faith. All Mr. Adderley +hoped was that no one would hear of it: and in this he felt himself +disappointed, when, in the midst of his lecture, there walked into the +room a little, withered, brown, dark-eyed man, in a gorgeous dress of +green and gold, who doffing a hat with an umbrageous plume, precipitated +himself, as far as he could reach, towards Berenger’s neck, calling +him fair cousin and dear baron. The lad stood taken by surprise for +a moment, thinking that Tithonus must have looked just like this, and +skipped like this, just as he became a grasshopper; then he recollected +that this must be the Chevalier de Ribaumont, and tried to make up +for his want of cordiality. The old man had, it appeared, come out of +Picardy, where he lived on _soupe maigre_ in a corner of the ancestral +castle, while his son and daughter were at court, the one in Monsieur’s +suite, the other in that of the Queen-mother. He had come purely to meet +his dear young cousin, and render him all the assistance is his power, +conduct him to Paris, and give him introductions. + +Berenger, who had begun to find six Englishmen a troublesome charge in +France, was rather relieved at not being the only French scholar of +the party, and the Chevalier also hinted to him that he spoke with a +dreadful Norman accent that would never be tolerated at court, even if +it were understood by the way. Moreover, the Chevalier studied him all +over, and talked of Paris tailors and posture-masters, and, though the +pink of politeness, made it evident that there was immensely too much of +him. ‘It might be the custom in England to be so tall; here no one +was of anything like such a height, but the Duke of Guise. He, in his +position, with his air, could carry it off, but we must adapt ourselves +as best we can.’ + +And his shrug and look of concern made Berenger for a moment almost +ashamed of that superfluous height of which they were all so proud at +home. Then he recollected himself, and asked, ‘And why should not I be +tall as well as M. de Guise?’ + +‘We shall see, fair cousin,’ he answered, with an odd satirical bow; +‘we are as Heaven made us. All lies in the management and if you had the +advantages of training, PERHAPS you could even turn your height into a +grace.’ + +‘Am I such a great lubber?’ wondered Berenger; ‘they did not think so at +home. No; nor did the Queen. She said I was a proper stripling! Well, +it matters the less, as I shall not stay long to need their favour; and +I’ll show them there is some use in my inches in the tilt-yard. But if +they think me such a lout, what would they say to honest Philip?’ + +The Chevalier seemed willing to take on him the whole management of his +‘fair cousin.’ He inquired into the amount of the rents and dues which +old Osbert had collected and held ready to meet the young Baron’s +exigencies; and which would, it seemed, be all needed to make his dress +any way presentable at court. The pearls, too, were inquired for, and +handed over by Osbert to his young Lord’s keeping, with the significant +intimation that they had been demanded when the young Madame la Baronne +went to court; but that he had buried them in the orchard, and made +answer that they were not in the chateau. The contract of marriage, +which Berenger could just remember signing, and seeing signed by his +father, the King, and the Count, was not forthcoming; and the Chevalier +explained that it was in the hands of a notary at Paris. For this +Berenger was not sorry. His grandfather had desired him to master the +contents, and he thought he had thus escaped a very dry and useless +study. + +He did not exactly dislike the old Chevalier de Ribaumont. The system on +which he had been brought up had not been indulgent, so that compliments +and admiration were an agreeable surprise to him; and rebuffs and +rebukes from his elders had been so common, that hints, in the delicate +dressing of the old knight, came on him almost like gracious civilities. +There was no love lost between the Chevalier and the chaplain, that was +plain; but how could there be between an ancient French courtier and +a sober English divine? However, to Mr. Adderley’s great relief, no +attempts were made on Berenger’s faith, his kinsman even was disposed +to promote his attendance at such Calvinist places of worship as they +passed on the road, and treated him in all things as a mere guest, to +be patronized indeed, but as much an alien as if he had been born in +England. And yet there was a certain deference to him as head of the +family, and a friendliness of manner that made the boy feel him a real +relation, and all through the journey it came naturally that he should +be the entire manager, and Berenger the paymaster on a liberal scale. + +Thus had the travellers reached the neighbourhood of Paris, when a +jingling of chains and a trampling of horses announced the advance of +riders, and several gentlemen with a troop of servants came in sight. + +All were gaily dressed, with feathered hats, and short Spanish cloaks +jauntily disposed over one shoulder; and their horses were trapped with +bright silvered ornaments. As they advanced, the Chevalier +exclaimed: ‘Ah! It is my son! I knew he would come to meet me.’ And, +simultaneously, father and son leapt from their horses, and rushed +into each other’s arms. Berenger felt it only courteous to dismount and +exchange embraces with his cousin, but with a certain sense of repulsion +at the cloud of perfume that seemed to surround the younger Chevalier +de Ribaumont; the ear-rings in his ears; the general air of delicate +research about his riding-dress, and the elaborate attention paid to a +small, dark, sallow face and figure, in which the only tolerable feature +was an intensely black and piercing pair of eyes. + +‘Cousin, I am enchanted to welcome you.’ + +‘Cousin, I thank you.’ + +‘Allow me to present you.’ And Berenger bowed low in succession several +times in reply to salutations, as his cousin Narcisse named M. d’O, M. +de la Valette, M. de Pibrac, M. l’Abbe de Mericour, who had done him +the honour to accompany him in coming out to meet his father and M. +le Baron. Then the two cousins remounted, something was said to the +Chevalier of the devoirs of the demoiselles, and they rode on together +bandying news and repartee so fast, that Berenger felt that his ears +had become too much accustomed to the more deliberate English speech to +enter at once into what caused so much excitement, gesture, and wit. The +royal marriage seemed doubtful--the Pope refused his sanction; nay, but +means would be found--the King would not be impeded by the Pope; +Spanish influence--nay, the King had thrown himself at the head of the +Reformed--he was bewitched with the grim old Coligny--if order were not +soon taken, the Louvre itself would become a temple. + +Then one of the party turned suddenly and said, ‘But I forget, Monsieur +is a Huguenot?’ + +‘I am a Protestant of the English Church,’ said Berenger, rather +stiffly, in the formula of his day. + +‘Well, you have come at the right moment, ‘Tis all for the sermon now. +If the little Abbe there wished to sail with a fair wind, he should +throw away his breviary and study his Calvin.’ + +Berenger’s attention was thus attracted to the Abbe de Mericour, a young +man of about twenty, whose dress was darker than that of the rest, and +his hat of a clerical cut, though in other respects he was equipped with +the same point-device elegance. + +‘Calvin would never give him the rich abbey of Selicy,’ said another; +‘the breviary is the safer speculation.’ + +‘Ah! M. de Ribaumont can tell you that abbeys are no such securities +in these days. Let yonder Admiral get the upper hand, and we shall see +Mericour, the happy cadet of eight brothers and sisters, turned adrift +from their convents. What a fatherly spectacle M. le Marquis will +present!’ + +Here the Chevalier beckoned to Berenger, who, riding forward, learnt +that Narcisse had engaged lodgings for him and his suite at one of the +great inns, and Berenger returned his thanks, and a proposal to the +Chevalier to become his guest. They were by this time entering the city, +where the extreme narrowness and dirt of the streets contrasted with the +grandeur of the palatial courts that could be partly seen through +their archways. At the hostel they rode under such an arch, and found +themselves in a paved yard that would have been grand had it been +clean. Privacy had scarcely been invented, and the party were not at all +surprised to find that the apartment prepared for them was to serve both +day and night for Berenger, the Chevalier, and Mr. Adderley, besides +having a truckle-bed on the floor for Osbert. Meals were taken in +public, and it was now one o’clock--just dinner-time; so after a hasty +toilette the three gentlemen descended, the rest of the party having +ridden off to their quarters, either as attendants of Monsieur or to +their families. It was a sumptuous meal, at which a great number of +gentlemen were present, coming in from rooms hired over shops, &c--all, +as it seemed, assembled at Paris for the marriage festivities; but +Berenger began to gather that they were for the most part adherents of +the Guise party, and far from friendly to the Huguenot interest. Some of +them appeared hardly to tolerate Mr. Adderley’s presence at the table; +and Berenger, though his kinsman’s patronage secured civil treatment, +felt much out of his element, confused, unable to take part in the +conversation, and sure that he was where those at home did not wish to +see him. + +No sooner was the dinner over than he rose and expressed his intention +of delivering his letters of introduction in person to the English +ambassador and to the Admiral de Coligny, whom, as his father’s old +friend and the hero of his boyhood, he was most anxious to see. The +Chevalier demurred to this. Were it not better to take measures at once +for making himself presentable, and Narcisse had already supplied him +with directions to the fashionable hair-cutter, &c. It would be taken +amiss if he went to the Admiral before going to present himself to the +King. + +‘And I cannot see my cousins till I go to court?’ asked Berenger. + +‘Most emphatically No. Have I not told you that the one is in the suite +of the young Queen, the other in that of the Queen-mother? I will myself +present you, if only you will give me the honour of your guidance.’ + +‘With all thanks, Monsieur,’ said Berenger; ‘my grandfather’s desire +was that I should lose no time in going to his friend Sir Francis +Walsingham, and I had best submit myself to his judgment as to my +appearance at court.’ + +On this point Berenger was resolute, though the Chevalier recurred +to the danger of any proceeding that might be unacceptable at court. +Berenger, harassed and impatient, repeated that he did not care about +the court, and wished merely to fulfil his purpose and return, at which +his kinsman shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and muttered to +himself, ‘Ah, what does he know! He will regret it when too late; but I +have done my best.’ + +Berenger paid little attention to this, but calling Landry Osbert, and +a couple of his men, he bade them take their swords and bucklers, and +escort him in his walk through Paris. He set off with a sense of escape, +but before he had made many steps, he was obliged to turn and warn +Humfrey and Jack that they were not to walk swaggering along the +streets, with hand on sword, as if every Frenchman they saw was the +natural foe of their master. + +Very tall were the houses, very close and extremely filthy the streets, +very miserable the beggars; and yet here and there was to be seen the +open front of a most brilliant shop, and the thoroughfares were crowded +with richly-dressed gallants. Even the wider streets gave little space +for the career of the gay horsemen who rode along them, still less +for the great, cumbrous, though gaily-decked coaches, in which ladies +appeared glittering with jewels and fan in hand, with tiny white dogs on +their knees. + +The persons of whom Berenger inquired the way all uncapped most +respectfully, and replied with much courtesy; but when the hotel of the +English ambassador had been pointed out to him, he hardly believed it, +so foul and squalid was the street, where a large nail-studded door +occupied a wide archway. Here was a heavy iron knocker, to which Osbert +applied himself. A little door was at once opened by a large, powerful +John Bull of a porter, whose looks expanded into friendly welcome when +he heard the English tongue of the visitor. Inside, the scene was very +unlike that without. The hotel was built round a paved court, adorned +with statues and stone vases, with yews and cypresses in them, and a +grand flight of steps led up to the grand centre of the house, around +which were collected a number of attendants, wearing the Walsingham +colours. Among these Berenger left his two Englishmen, well content to +have fallen into an English colony. Landry followed him to announce the +visitor, Berenger waiting to know whether the Ambassador would be at +liberty to see him. + +Almost immediately the door was re-opened, and a keen-looking gentleman, +about six-and-thirty years of age, rather short in stature, but +nevertheless very dignified-looking, came forward with out-stretched +hands--‘Greet you well, my Lord de Ribaumont. We expected your coming. +Welcome, mine honoured friend’s grandson.’ + +And as Berenger bent low in reverent greeting, Sir Francis took his +hand and kissed his brow, saying, ‘Come in, my young friend; we are but +sitting over our wine and comfits after dinner. Have you dined?’ + +Berenger explained that he had dined at the inn, where he had taken +lodgings. + +‘Nay, but that must not be. My Lord Walwyn’s grandson here, and not my +guest! You do me wrong, sir, in not having ridden hither at once.’ + +‘Truly, my Lord, I ventured not. They sent me forth with quite a +company--my tutor and six grooms.’ + +‘Our chaplain will gladly welcome his reverend brother,’ said Sir +Francis; and as to the grooms, one of my fellows shall go and bring them +and their horses up. What!’ rather gravely, as Berenger still +hesitated. ‘I have letters for you here, which methinks will make your +grandfather’s wish clear to you.’ + +Berenger saw the Ambassador was displeased with his reluctance, and +answered quickly, ‘In sooth, my Lord, I would esteem myself only too +happy to be thus honoured, but in sooth----’ he repeated himself, and +faltered. + +‘In sooth, you expected more freedom than in my grave house,’ said +Walsingham, displeased. + +‘Not so, my Lord: it would be all that I could desire; but I have done +hastily. A kinsman of mine has come up to Paris with me, and I have +made him my guest. I know not how to break with him--the Chevalier de +Ribaumont.’ + +‘What, the young ruffler in Monsieur’s suite?’ + +‘No, my Lord; his father. He comes on my business. He is an old man, and +can ill bear the cost, and I could scarce throw him over.’ + +Berenger spoke with such earnest, bright, open simplicity, and look so +boyish and confiding, that Sir Francis’s heart was won, and he smiled as +he said, ‘Right, lad, you are a considerate youth. It were not well to +cast off your kinsman; but when you have read your letters, you may +well plead your grandfather’s desires, to say nothing of a hint from her +Grace to have an eye to you. And for the rest, you can acquit yourself +gracefully to the gentleman, by asking him to occupy the lodging that +you had taken.’ + +Berenger’s face brightened up in a manner that spoke for his sincerity; +and Sir Francis added, ‘And where be these lodgings?’ + +‘At the Croix de Lorraine.’ + +‘Ha! Your kinsman has taken you into a nest of Guisards. But come, let +me present you to my wife and my other guests, then will I give you +your letters, and you shall return and make your excuses to Monsieur le +Chevalier.’ + +Berenger seemed to himself to be on familiar ground again as his +host thus assumed the direction of him and ushered him into a large +dining-hall, where the table had been forsaken in favour of a lesser +table placed in the ample window, round which sat assembled some six or +eight persons, with fruit, wine, and conserves before them, a few little +dogs at their feet or on their laps, and a lute lying on the knee of +one of the young gentlemen. Sir Francis presented the young Lord de +Ribaumont, their expected guest, to Lady Walsingham, from whom he +received a cordial welcome, and her two little daughter, Frances and +Elizabeth, and likewise to the gentleman with the lute, a youth about +a year older than Berenger, and of very striking and prepossessing +countenance, who was named as Mr. Sidney, the son of the Lord Deputy of +Ireland. A couple of gentlemen who would in these times have been termed +_attaches_, a couple of lady attendants upon Lady Walsingham, and the +chaplain made up the party, which on this day chanced only to include, +besides the household, the young traveller, Sidney. Berenger was at once +seated, and accepted a welcoming-cup of wine (i.e. a long slender glass +with a beautifully twisted stem), responded to friendly inquiries about +his relatives at home, and acknowledged the healths that were drunk +in honour of their names; after which Lady Walsingham begged that Mr. +Sidney would sing the madrigal he had before promised: afterwards a glee +was sung by Sidney, one of the gentlemen, and Lady Walsingham; and it +was discovered that Mr. de Ribaumont had a trained ear, and the very +voice that was wanting to the Italian song they were practising. And +so sped a happy hour, till a booted and spurred messenger came in +with letters for his Excellency, who being thus roused from his dreamy +enjoyment of the music, carried young Ribaumont off with him to his +cabinet, and there made over to him a packet, with good news from home, +and orders that made it clear that he could do no other than accept the +hospitality of the Embassy. Thus armed with authority, he returned to +the Croix de Lorraine, where Mr. Adderley could not contain his joy at +the change to quarters not only so much more congenial, buts so much +safer; and the Chevalier, after some polite demur, consented to remain +in possession of the rooms, being in fact well satisfied with the +arrangement. + +‘Let him steep himself up to the lips among the English,’ said Tithonus +to his son. ‘Thus will he peaceably relinquish to you all that should +have been yours from the first, and at court will only be looked on as +an overgrown English page.’ + +The change to the Ambassador’s made Berenger happy at once. He was not +French enough in breeding, or even constitution, to feel the society +of the Croix de Lorraine congenial; and, kind as the Chevalier showed +himself, it was with a wonderful sense of relief that Berenger shook +himself free from both his fawning and his patronizing. There was a +constant sense of not understanding the old gentleman’s aims, whereas in +Walsingham’s house all was as clear, easy, and open as at home. + +And though Berenger had been educated in the country, it had been in +the same tone as that of his new friends. He was greatly approved by +Sir Francis as a stripling of parts and modesty. Mr. Sidney made him a +companion, and the young matron, Lady Walsingham, treated him as neither +lout nor lubber. Yet he could not be at ease in his state between +curiosity and repulsion towards the wife who was to be discarded by +mutual consent. The sight of the scenes of his early childhood had +stirred up warmer recollections of the pretty little playful torment, +who through the vista of years assumed the air of a tricksy elf rather +than the little vixen he used to think her. His curiosity had been +further stimulated by the sight of his rival, Narcisse, whose effeminate +ornaments, small stature, and seat on horseback filled Sir Marmaduke’s +pupil with inquisitive disdain as to the woman who could prefer anything +so unmanly. + +Sidney was to be presented at the after-dinner reception at the Louvre +the next day, and Sir Francis proposed to take young Ribaumont with him. +Berenger coloured, and spoke of his equipment, and Sidney good-naturedly +offered to come and inspect. That young gentleman was one of the +daintiest in apparel of his day; but he was amazed that the suit in +which Berenger had paid his devoir to Queen Elizabeth should have been +set aside--it was of pearl-grey velvet, slashed with rose-coloured +satin, and in shape and fashion point-device--unless, as the Ambassador +said good-humouredly, ‘my young Lord Ribaumont wished to be one of +Monsieur’s clique.’ Thus arrayed, then, and with the chaplet of pearls +bound round the small cap, with a heron-plume that sat jauntily on +one side of his fair curled head, Berenger took his seat beside the +hazel-eyed, brown-haired Sidney, in his white satin and crimson, and +with the Ambassador and his attendants were rolled off in the great +state-coach drawn by eight horses, which had no sinecure in dragging the +ponderous machine through the unsavoury _debris_ of the streets. + +Royalty fed in public. The sumptuous banqueting-room contained a +barrier, partitioning off a space where Charles IX. sat alone at his +table, as a State spectacle. He was a sallow, unhealthy-looking +youth, with large prominent dark eyes and a melancholy dreaminess of +expression, as if the whole ceremony, not to say the world itself, were +distasteful. Now and then, as though endeavouring to cast off the mood, +he would call to some gentleman and exchange a rough jest, generally +fortified with a tremendous oath, that startled Berenger’s innocent +ears. He scarcely tasted what was put on his plate, but drank largely +of sherbet, and seemed to be trying to linger through the space allotted +for the ceremony. + +Silence was observed, but not so absolute that Walsingham could not +point out to his young companions the notabilities present. The lofty +figure of Henri, Duke of Guise, towered high above all around him, +and his grand features, proud lip, and stern eye claimed such natural +superiority that Berenger for a moment felt a glow on his cheek as he +remembered his challenge of his right to rival that splendid stature. +And yet Guise was very little older than himself; but he walked, a +prince of men, among a crowd of gentlemen, attendants on him rather than +on the King. The elegant but indolent-looking Duke de Montmorency had +a much more attractive air, and seemed to hold a kind of neutral ground +between Guise on the one hand, and the Reformed, who mustered at the +other end of the apartment. Almost by intuition, Berenger knew the fine +calm features of the gray-haired Admiral de Coligny before he heard him +so addressed by the King’s loud, rough voice. When the King rose from +table the presentations took place, but as Charles heard the name of +the Baron de Ribaumont, he exclaimed, ‘What, Monsieur, are you presented +here by our good sister’s representative?’ + +Walsingham answered for him, alluding to the negotiations for Queen +Elizabeth’s marriage with one of the French princes--‘Sire, in the +present happy conjuncture, it needs not be a less loyal Frenchman to +have an inheritance in the lands of my royal mistress.’ + +‘What say you, Monsieur?’ sharply demanded the King: ‘are you come here +to renounce your country, religion--and love, as I have been told?’ + +‘I hope, Sire, never to be unfaithful where I owe faith,’ said Berenger, +heated, startled, and driven to extremity. + +‘Not ill answered for the English giant,’ said Charles aside to +an attendant: then turning eagerly to Sidney, whose transcendent +accomplishments had already become renowned, Charles welcomed him to +court, and began to discuss Ronsard’s last sonnet, showing no small +taste and knowledge of poetry. Greatly attracted by Sidney, the King +detained the whole English party by an invitation to Walsingham to hear +music in the Queen-mother’s apartments; and Berenger, following in the +wake of his friends, found himself in a spacious hall, with a raised +gallery at one end for the musicians, the walls decorated with the +glorious paintings collected by Francois I., Greek and Roman statues +clustered at the angles, and cabinets with gems and antiques disposed +at intervals. Not that Berenger beheld much of this: he was absolutely +dazzled with the brilliant assembly into which he was admitted. There +moved the most beautiful women in France, in every lovely-coloured tint +that dress could assume: their bosoms, arms, and hair sparkling with +jewels; their gossamer ruffs surrounding their necks like fairy wings; +their light laugh mingling with the music, as they sat, stood, or walked +in graceful attitudes conversing with one another or with the cavaliers, +whose brilliant velvet and jewels fifty mixed with their bright +array. These were the sirens he had heard of, the ‘squadron of the +Queen-mother,’ the dangerous beings against whom he was to steel +himself. And which of them was the child he had played with, to whom +his vows had been plighted? It was like some of the enchanting dreams +of romance merely to look at these fair creatures; and he stood as if +gazing into a magic-glass till Sir Francis Walsingham, looking round for +him, said, ‘Come, then, my young friend, you must do your devoirs to the +Queens. Sidney, I see, is as usual in his element; the King has seized +upon him.’ + +Catherine de Medicis was seated on a large velvet chair, conversing with +the German ambassador. Never beautiful, she appeared to more advantage +in her mature years than in her girlhood, and there was all the dignity +of a lifetime of rule in demeanour and gestures, the bearing of her +head, and motion of her exquisite hands. Her eyes were like her son’s, +prominent, and gave the sense of seeing all round at once, and her smile +was to the highest degree engaging. She received the young Baron de +Ribaumont far more graciously than Charles has done, held out her hand +to be kissed, and observed ‘that the young gentleman was like Madame _sa +mere_ whom she well remembered as much admired. Was it true that she was +married in England?’ + +Berenger bowed assent. + +‘Ah! You English make good spouses,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Ever +satisfied with home! But, your Excellency,’ added she, turning to +Walsingham, ‘what stones would best please my good sister for the +setting of the jewel my son would send her with his portrait? He is +all for emeralds, for the hue of hope; but I call it the colour of +jealousy.’ + +Walsingham made a sign that Berenger had better retreat from hearing +the solemn coquetting carried on by the maiden Queen through her gravest +ambassadors. He fell back, and remained watching the brilliant throng, +trying in vain to discover the bright merry eyes and velvet cheek he +remembered of old. Presently a kind salutation interrupted him, and a +gentleman who perceived him to be a stranger began to try to set him at +ease, pointed out to him the handsome, foppishly-dressed Duke of Anjou, +and his ugly, spiteful little brother of Alengon, then designated as +Queen Elizabeth’s future husband, who was saying something to a lady +that made her colour and bite her lips. ‘Is that the younger Queen?’ +asked Berenger, as his eye fell on a sallow, dark-complexioned, +sad-looking little creature in deep mourning, and with three or four +such stately-looking, black-robed, Spanish-looking duennas round her as +to prove her to be a person of high consequence. + +‘That? Oh no; that is Madame Catherine of Navarre, who has resided +here ever since her mother’s death, awaiting her brother, our royal +bridegroom. See, here is the bride, Madame Marguerite, conversing with +M. de Guise.’ + +Berenger paid but little heed to Marguerite’s showy but already rather +coarse beauty, and still asked where was the young Queen Elizabeth of +Austria. She was unwell, and not in presence. ‘Ah! then,’ he said, ‘her +ladies will not be here.’ + +‘That is not certain. Are you wishing to see any one of them?’ + +‘I would like to see----’ He could not help colouring till his cheeks +rivaled the colour of his sword-knot. ‘I want just to know if she is +here. I know not if she be called Madame or Mademoiselle de Ribaumont.’ + +‘The fair Ribaumont! Assuredly; see, she is looking at you. Shall I +present you?’ + +A pair of exceedingly brilliant dark eyes were fixed on Berenger with +a sort of haughty curiosity and half-recognition. The face was handsome +and brilliant, but he felt indignant at not perceiving a particle of a +blush at encountering him, indeed rather a look of amusement at the deep +glow which his fair complexion rendered so apparent. He would fain have +escaped from so public an interview, but her eye was upon him, and there +was no avoiding the meeting. As he moved nearer he saw what a beautiful +person she was, her rich primrose-coloured dress setting off her +brunette complexion and her stately presence. She looked older than he +had expected; but this was a hotbed where every one grew up early, and +the expression and manner made him feel that an old intimacy was here +renewed, and that they were no strangers. + +‘We need no introduction, cousin,’ she said, giving a hand to be +saluted. ‘I knew you instantly. It is the old face of Chateau Leurre, +only gone up so high and become so handsome.’ + +‘Cousins,’ thought he. ‘Well, it makes things easier! but what audacity +to be so much at her ease, when Lucy would have sunk into the earth with +shame.’ His bow had saved him the necessity of answering in words, and +the lady continued: + +‘And Madame _votre mere_. Is she well? She was very good to me.’ + +Berenger did not think that kindness to Eustacie had been her +chief perfection, but he answered that she was well and sent her +commendations, which the young lady acknowledged by a magnificent +curtsey. ‘And as beautiful as ever?’ she asked. + +‘Quite as beautiful,’ he said, ‘only somewhat more _embonpoint_.’ + +‘Ah!’ she said, smiling graciously, and raising her splendid eyes to +his face, ‘I understand better what that famous beauty was now, and the +fairness that caused her to be called the Swan.’ + +It was so personal that the colour rushed again into his cheek. No one +had ever so presumed to admire him; and with a degree gratified and +surprised, and sensible more and more of the extreme beauty of the lady, +there was a sort of alarm about him as if this were the very fascination +he had been warned against, and as if she were casting a net about him, +which, wife as she was, it would be impossible to him to break. + +‘Nay, Monsieur,’ she laughed, ‘is a word from one so near too much for +your modesty? Is it possible that no one has yet told you of your good +mien? Or do they not appreciate Greek noses and blue eyes in the land of +fat Englishmen? How have you ever lived _en province?_ Our princes are +ready to hang themselves at the thought of being in such banishment, +even at court--indeed, Monsieur has contrived to transfer the noose to +M. d’Alengon. Have you been at court, cousin?’ + +‘I have been presented to the Queen.’ + +She then proceeded to ask questions about the chief personages with a +rapid intelligence that surprised him as well as alarmed him, for he +felt more and more in the power of a very clever as well as beautiful +woman, and the attraction she exercised made him long the more to +escape; but she smiled and signed away several cavaliers who would have +gained her attention. She spoke of Queen Mary of Scotland, then in the +fifth years of her captivity, and asked if he did not feel bound to her +service by having been once her partner. Did not he remember that dance? + +‘I have heard my mother speak of it far too often to forget it,’ said +Berenger, glowing again for her who could speak of that occasion without +a blush. + +‘You wish to gloss over your first inconstancy, sir,’ she said, archly; +but he was spared from further reply by Philip Sidney’s coming to tell +him that the Ambassador was ready to return home. He took leave with +an alacrity that redoubled his courtesy so much that he desired to be +commended to his cousin Diane, whom he had not seen. + +‘To Diane?’ said the lady, inquiringly. + +‘To Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont,’ he corrected himself, ashamed of +his English rusticity. ‘I beg pardon if I spoke too familiarly of her.’ + +‘She should be flattered by M. le Baron’s slightest recollection,’ said +the lady, with an ironical tone that there was no time to analyze, +and with a mutual gesture of courtesy he followed Sidney to where Sir +Francis awaited them. + +‘Well, what think you of the French court?’ asked Sidney, so soon as the +young men were in private. + +‘I only know that you may bless your good fortune that you stand in no +danger from a wife from thence.’ + +‘Ha!’ cried Sidney, laughing, ‘you found your lawful owner. Why did you +not present me?’ + +‘I was ashamed of her bold visage.’ + +‘What!--was she the beauteous demoiselle I found you gallanting,’ said +Philip Sidney, a good deal entertained, ‘who was gazing at you with such +visible admiration in her languishing black eyes?’ + +‘The foul fiend seize their impudence!’ + +‘Fie! for shame! thus to speak of your own wife,’ said the mischievous +Sidney, ‘and the fairest----’ + +‘Go to, Sidney. Were she fairer than Venus, with a kingdom to her dower, +I would none of a woman without a blush.’ + +‘What, in converse with her wedded husband,’ said Sidney. ‘Were not that +over-shamefastness?’ + +‘Nay, now, Sidney, in good sooth give me your opinion. Should she set +her fancy on me, even in this hour, am I bound in honour to hold by this +accursed wedlock--lock, as it may well be called?’ + +‘I know no remedy,’ said Sidney, gravely, ‘save the two enchanted founts +of love and hate. They cannot be far away, since it was at the siege of +Paris that Rinaldo and Orlando drank thereof.’ + +Another question that Berenger would fain have asked Sidney, but could +not for very shame and dread of mockery, was, whether he himself were +so dangerously handsome as the lady had given him to understand. With a +sense of shame, he caught up the little mirror in his casket, and +could not but allow to himself that the features he there saw were +symmetrical--the eyes azure, the complexion of a delicate fairness, such +as he had not seen equaled, except in those splendid Lorraine princes; +nor could he judge of the further effect of his open-faced frank +simplicity and sweetness of expression--contemptible, perhaps, to the +astute, but most winning to the world-weary. He shook his head at the +fair reflection, smiled as he saw the colour rising at his own sensation +of being a fool, and then threw it aside, vexed with himself for being +unable not to feel attracted by the first woman who had shown herself +struck by his personal graces, and yet aware that this was the very +thing he had been warned against, and determined to make all the +resistance in his power to a creature whose very beauty and enchantment +gave him a sense of discomfort. + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE CONVENT BIRD + + + + Young knight, whatever that dost armes professe, + And through long labours huntest after fame, + Beware of fraud, beware of ficklenesse, + In choice and change of thy beloved dame. + Spenser, FAERY QUEENE + + +Berenger’ mind was relieved, even while his vanity was mortified, when +the Chevalier and his son came the next day to bring him the formal +letter requesting the Pope’s annulment of his marriage. After he had +signed it, it was to be taken to Eustacie, and so soon as he should +attain his twenty-first year he was to dispose of Chateau Leurre, as +well as of his claim to the ancestral castle in Picardy, to his cousin +Narcisse, and thus become entirely free to transfer his allegiance to +the Queen of England. + +It was a very good thing--that he well knew; and he had a strong sense +of virtue and obedience, as he formed with his pen the words in all +their fullness, Henri Beranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont et Seigneur +de Leurre. He could not help wondering whether the lady who looked at +him so admiringly really preferred such a mean-looking little fop as +Narcisse, whether she were afraid of his English home and breeding, or +whether all this open coquetry were really the court manners of +ladies towards gentlemen, and he had been an absolute simpleton to be +flattered. Any way, she would have been a most undesirable wife, and +he was well quit of her; but he did feel a certain lurking desire that, +since the bonds were cut and he was no longer in danger from her, he +might see her again, carry home a mental inventory of the splendid +beauties he had renounced, and decide what was the motive that actuated +her in rejecting his own handsome self. Meantime, he proceeded to enjoy +the amusements and advantage of his sojourn at Paris, of which by no +means the least was the society of Philip Sidney, and the charm his +brilliant genius imparted to every pursuit they shared. Books at the +University, fencing and dancing from the best professors, Italian +poetry, French sonnets, Latin epigrams; nothing came amiss to Sidney, +the flower of English youth: and Berenger had taste, intelligence, and +cultivation enough to enter into all in which Sidney led the way. The +good tutor, after all his miseries on the journey, was delighted to +write to Lord Walwyn, that, far from being a risk and temptation, this +visit was a school in all that was virtuous and comely. + +If the good man had any cause of dissatisfaction, it was with the +Calvinistic tendencies of the Ambassador’s household. Walsingham +was always on the Puritanical side of Elizabeth’s court, and such an +atmosphere as that of Paris, where the Roman Catholic system was at that +time showing more corruption than it has ever done before or since in +any other place, naturally threw him into sympathy with the Reformed. +The reaction that half a century later filled the Gallican Church with +saintliness had not set in; her ecclesiastics were the tools of a wicked +and bloodthirsty court, who hated virtue as much as schism in the men +whom they persecuted. The Huguenots were for the most part men whose +instincts for truth and virtue had recoiled from the popular system, and +thus it was indeed as if piety and morality were arrayed on one side, +and superstition and debauchery on the other. Mr. Adderley thus +found the tone of the Ambassador’s chaplain that of far more complete +fellowship with the Reformed pastors than he himself was disposed to +admit. There were a large number of these gathered at Paris; for the +lull in persecution that had followed the battle of Moncontour had given +hopes of a final accommodation between the two parties, and many had +come up to consult with the numerous lay nobility who had congregated +to witness the King of Navarre’s wedding. Among them, Berenger met his +father’s old friend Isaac Gardon, who had come to Paris for the purpose +of giving his only surviving son in marriage to the daughter of a +watchmaker to whom he had for many years been betrothed. By him the +youth, with his innocent face and gracious respectful manners, was +watched with delight, as fulfilling the fairest hopes of the poor Baron, +but the old minister would have been sorely disappointed had he known +how little Berenger felt inclined towards his party. + +The royal one of course Berenger could not love, but the rigid bareness, +and, as he thought, irreverence of the Calvinist, and the want of all +forms, jarred upon one used to a ritual which retained much of the +ancient form. In the early years of Elizabeth, every possible diversity +prevailed in parish churches, according to the predilections of rector +and squire; from forms scarcely altered from those of old times, down to +the baldest, rudest neglect of all rites; and Berenger, in his country +home, had been used to the first extreme. He could not believe that what +he heard and saw among the _Sacrementaires_, as they were called, was +what his father had prized; and he greatly scandalized Sidney, the pupil +of Hubert Languet, by openly expressing his distaste and dismay when he +found their worship viewed by both Walsingham and Sidney as a model to +which the English Protestants ought to be brought. + +However, Sidney excused all this as more boyish distaste to sermons and +love of externals, and Berenger himself reflected little on the subject. +The aspect of the venerable Coligny, his father’s friend, did far more +towards making him a Huguenot than any discussion of doctrine. The good +old Admiral received him affectionately, and talked to him warmly of his +father, and the grave, noble countenance and kind manner won his heart. +Great projects were on foot, and were much relished by the young King, +for raising an army and striking a blow at Spain by aiding the Reformed +in the Netherlands; and Coligny was as ardent as a youth in the cause, +hoping at once to aid his brethren, to free the young King from evil +influences, and to strike one good stroke against the old national +enemy. He talked eagerly to Sidney of alliances with England, and then +lamented over the loss of so promising a youth as young Ribaumont to the +Reformed cause in France. If the marriage with the heiress could have +taken effect, he would have obtained estates near enough to some of +the main Huguenot strongholds to be very important, and these would now +remain under the power of Narcisse de Ribaumont, a determined ally of +the Guise faction. It was a pity, but the Admiral could not blame the +youth for obeying the wish of his guardian grandfather; and he owned, +with a sigh, that England was a more peaceful land than his own beloved +country. Berenger was a little nettled at this implication, and began to +talk of joining the French standard in a campaign in their present home +and described the conversation, Walsingham said,-- + +‘The Admiral’s favourite project! He would do wisely not to brag of it +so openly. The King of Spain has too many in his interest in this place +not to be warned, and to be thus further egged on to compass the ruin of +Coligny.’ + +‘I should have thought,’ said Sidney. ‘that nothing could add to his +hatred of the Reformed.’ + +‘Scarcely,’ said Walsingham; ‘save that it is they who hinder the Duke +of Guise from being a good Frenchman, and a foe to Spain.’ + +Politics had not developed themselves in Berenger’s mind, and he +listened inattentively while Walsingham talked over with Sidney the +state of parties in France, where natural national enmity to Spain was +balanced by the need felt by the Queen-mother of the support of that +great Roman Catholic power against the Huguenots; whom Walsingham +believed her to dread and hate less for their own sake than from the +fear of loss of influence over her son. He believed Charles IX. himself +to have much leaning towards the Reformed, but the late victories has +thrown the whole court entirely into the power of the Guises, the truly +unscrupulous partisans of Rome. They were further inflamed against the +Huguenots by the assassination of the last Duke of Guise, and by the +violences that had been committed by some of the Reformed party, in +especial a massacre of prisoners at _Nerac_. + +Sidney exclaimed that the Huguenots had suffered far worse cruelties. + +‘That is true,’ replied Sir Francis, ‘but, my young friend, you will +find, in all matters of reprisals, that a party has no memory for what +it may commit, only for what it may receive.’ + +The conversation was interrupted by an invitation to the Ambassador’s +family and guests to a tilting-match and subsequent ball at the Louvre. +In the first Berenger did his part with credit; to the second he went +feeling full of that strange attraction of repulsion. He knew gentlemen +enough in Coligny’s suite for it to be likely that he might remain +unperceived among them, and he knew this would be prudent, but he found +himself unexpectedly near the ranks of ladies, and smile and gesture +absolutely drew him towards his semi-spouse, so that he had no +alternative but to lead her out to dance. + +The stately measure was trod in silence as usual, but he felt the dark +eyes studying him all the time. However, he could bear it better now +that the deed was done, and she had voluntarily made him less to her +than any gallant parading or mincing about the room. + +‘So you bear the pearls, sir?’ she said, as the dance finished. + +‘The only heirloom I shall take with me,’ he said. + +‘Is a look at them too great a favour to ask from their jealous +guardian?’ she asked. + +He smiled, half ashamed of his own annoyance at being obliged to place +them in her hands. He was sure she would try to cajole him out of them, +and by way of asserting his property in them he did not detach them from +the band of his black velvet cap, but gave it with them into her hand. +She looked at each one, and counted them wistfully. + +‘Seventeen!’ she said;’ and how beautiful! I never saw them so near +before. They are so becoming to that fair cheek that I suppose no offer +from my--my uncle, on our behalf, would induce you to part with them?’ + +An impulse of open-handed gallantry would have made him answer, ‘No +offer from your uncle, but a simple request from you;’ but he thought in +time of the absurdity of returning without them, and merely answered, +‘I have no right to yield them, fair lady. They are the witness to my +forefather’s fame and prowess.’ + +‘Yes, sir, and to those of mine also,’ she replied. ‘And you would take +them over to the enemy from whom that prowess extorted them?’ + +‘The country which honoured and rewarded that prowess!’ replied +Berenger. + +She looked at him with an interrogative glance of surprise at the +readiness of his answer; then, with half a sigh, said, ‘There are your +pearls, sir; I cannot establish our right, though I verily believe it +was the cause of our last quarrel;’ and she smiled archly. + +‘I believe it was,’ he said, gravely; but added, in the moment of relief +at recovering the precious heirloom, ‘though it was Diane who inspired +you to seize upon them.’ + +‘Ah! poor Diane! you sometimes recollect her then? If I remember right, +you used to agree with her better than with your little spouse, cousin!’ + +‘If I quarrelled with her less, I liked her less,’ answered +Berenger--who, since the act of separation, had not been so guarded in +his demeanour, and began to give way to his natural frankness. + +‘Indeed! Diane would be less gratified than I ought to be. And why, may +I ask?’ + +‘Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth.’ + +‘Truth! that was what _feu_ M. le Baron ever talked of; what Huguenots +weary one with.’ + +‘And the only thing worth seeking, the real pearl,’ said Berenger, +‘without which all else is worthless.’ + +‘Ah!’ she said, ‘who would have thought that soft, youthful face could +be so severe! You would never forgive a deceit?’ + +‘Never,’ he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; ‘or rather I might +forgive; I could never esteem.’ + +‘What a bare, rude world yours must be,’ she said, shivering. ‘And no +weak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true.’ + +‘Truth is strength!’ said Berenger. ‘For example: I see yonder a face +without bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour.’ + +‘Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine’s, no doubt--from the depths +of Languedoc, and dressed like a fright.’ + +‘No, no; the young girl behind the pale, yellow-haired lady.’ + +‘Comment, Monsieur. Do you not yet know the young Queen?’ + +‘But who is the young demoiselle!--she with the superb black eyes, and +the ruby rose in her black hair?’ + +‘Take care, sir, do you not know I have still a right to be jealous?’ +she said, blushing, bridling, and laughing. + +But this pull on the cords made him the more resolved; he would not be +turned from his purpose. ‘Who is she?’ he repeated; ‘have I ever seen +her before? I am sure I remember that innocent look of _espieglerie_.’ + +‘You may see it on any child’s face fresh out of the convent; it does +not last a month!’ was the still displeased, rather jealous answer. +‘That little thing--I believe they call her Nid-de-Merle--she has only +just been brought from her nunnery to wait on the young Queen. Ah! your +gaze was perilous, it is bringing on you one of the jests of Madame +Marguerite.’ + +With laughter and gaiety, a troop of gentlemen descended on M. de +Ribaumont, and told him that Madame Marguerite desired that he should be +presented to her. The princess was standing by her pale sister-in-law, +Elizabeth of Austria, who looked grave and annoyed at the mischievous +mirth flashing in Marguerite’s dark eyes. + +‘M. de Ribaumont,’ said the latter, her very neck heaving with +suppressed fun, ‘I see I cannot do you a greater favour than by giving +you Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle for your partner.’ + +Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had been guilty of +such a fixed stare as to bring all this upon the poor girl. He feared +that his vague sense of recognition had made his gaze more open than he +knew, and he was really and deeply ashamed of this as his worst act of +provincial ill-breeding. + +Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing eyes, panting +bosom, and a neck evidently aching with proud dignity and passion, she +received his low bow with a sweeping curtsey, as lofty as her little +person would permit. + +His cheeks burnt like fire, and he would have found words to apologize, +but she cut him short by saying, hastily and low, ‘Not a word, Monsieur! +Let us go through it at once. No one shall make game of us.’ + +He hardly durst look at her again; but as he went through his own +elaborate paces he knew that the little creature opposite was swimming, +bending, turning, bounding with the fluttering fierceness of an angry +little bird, and that the superb eyes were casting flashes on him that +seemed to carry him back to days of early boyhood. + +Once he caught a mortified, pleading, wistful glance that made him feel +as if he had inflicted a cruel injury by his thoughtless gaze, and he +resolved to plead the sense of recognition in excuse; but no sooner +was the performance over than she prevented all conversation by saying, +‘Lead me back at once to the Queen, sir; she is about to retire.’ They +were already so near that there was no time to say anything; he could +only hold as lightly as possible the tiny fingers that he felt burning +and quivering in his hand, and then, after bringing her to the side of +the chair of state, he was forced to release her with the mere whisper +of ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle;’ and the request was not replied to, save by +the additional stateliness of her curtsey. + +It was already late, and the party was breaking up; but his head +and heart were still in a whirl when he found himself seated in the +ambassadorial coach, hearing Lady Walsingham’s well-pleased rehearsal of +all the compliments she had received on the distinguished appearance +of both her young guests. Sidney, as the betrothed of her daughter, was +property of her own; but she also exulted in the praises of the young +Lord de Ribaumont, as proving the excellence of the masters whom she +had recommended to remove the rustic clownishness of which he had been +accused. + +‘Nay,’ said Sir Francis; ‘whoever called him too clownish for court +spake with design.’ + +The brief sentence added to Berenger’s confused sense of being in a +mist of false play. Could his kinsman be bent on keeping him from +court? Could Narcisse be jealous of him? Mademoiselle de Ribaumont was +evidently inclined to seek him, and her cousin might easily think her +lands safer in his absence. He would have been willing to hold aloof as +much as his uncle and cousin could wish, save for an angry dislike to +being duped and cajoled; and, moreover, a strong curiosity to hear and +see more of that little passionate bird, fresh from the convent cage. +Her gesture and her eyes irresistibly carried him back to old times, +though whether to an angry blackbird in the yew-tree alleys at Leurre, +or to the eager face that had warned him to save his father, he could +not remember with any distinctness. At any rate, he was surprised to +find himself thinking so little in comparison about the splendid beauty +and winning manners of his discarded spouse, though he quite believed +that, now her captive was beyond her grasp, she was disposed to catch +at him again, and try to retain him, or, as his titillated vanity might +whisper, his personal graces might make her regret the family resolution +which she had obeyed. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. FOULLY COZENED + + + + I was the more deceived.--HAMLET + + +The unhappy Charles IX. had a disposition that in good hands might have +achieved great nobleness; and though cruelly bound and trained to evil, +was no sooner allowed to follow its natural bent than it reached out +eagerly towards excellence. At this moment, it was his mother’s policy +to appear to leave the ascendancy to the Huguenot party, and he was +therefore allowed to contract friendships which deceived the intended +victims the more completely, because his admiration and attachment were +spontaneous and sincere. Philip Sidney’s varied accomplishment and pure +lofty character greatly attracted the young King, who had leant on his +arm conversing during great part of the ball, and the next morning +sent a royal messenger to invite the two young gentlemen to a part at +pall-mall in the Tuileries gardens. + +Pall-mall was either croquet or its nearest relative, and was so +much the fashion that games were given in order to keep up political +influence, perhaps, because the freedom of a garden pastime among groves +and bowers afforded opportunities for those seductive arts on which +Queen Catherine placed so much dependence. The formal gardens, with +their squares of level turf and clipped alleys, afforded excellent scope +both for players and spectators, and numerous games had been set on +foot, from all of which, however, Berenger contrived to exclude himself, +in his restless determination to find out the little Demoiselle de +Nid-de-Merle, or, at least, to discover whether any intercourse in early +youth accounted for his undefined sense of remembrance. + +He interrogated the first disengaged person he could find, but it was +only the young Abbe de Mericour, who had been newly brought up from +Dauphine by his elder brother to solicit a benefice, and who knew +nobody. To him ladies were only bright phantoms such as his books had +taught him to regard like the temptations of St. Anthony, but whom he +actually saw treated with as free admiration by the ecclesiastic as by +the layman. + +Suddenly a clamour of voices arose on the other side of the +closely-clipped wall of limes by which the two youths were walking. +There were the clear tones of a young maiden expostulating in indignant +distress, and the bantering, indolent determination of a male annoyer. + +‘Hark!’ exclaimed Berenger; ‘this must be seen to.’ + +‘Have a care,’ returned Mericour; ‘I have heard that a man needs look +twice are meddling.’ + +Scarcely hearing, Berenger strode on as he had done at the last village +wake, when he had rescued Cis of the Down from the impertinence of a +Dorchester scrivener. It was a like case, he saw, when breaking +through the arch of clipped limed he beheld the little Demoiselle de +Nid-de-Merle, driven into a corner and standing at bay, with glowing +cheeks, flashing eyes, and hands clasped over her breast, while a young +man, dressed in the extreme of foppery, was assuring her that she was +the only lady who had not granted him a token--that he could not allow +such _pensionnaire_ airs, and that now he had caught her he would have +his revenge, and win her rose-coloured break-knot. Another gentleman +stood by, laughing, and keeping guard in the walk that led to the more +frequented part of the gardens. + +‘Hold!’ thundered Berenger. + +The assailant had just mastered the poor girl’s hand, but she took +advantage of his surprise to wrench it away and gather herself up as +for a spring, but the Abbe in dismay, the attendant in anger, cried out, +‘Stay--it is Monsieur.’ + +‘Monsieur; be he who he may,’ exclaimed Berenger, ‘no honest man can see +a lady insulted.’ + +‘Are you mad? It is Monsieur the Duke of Anjou,’ said Mericour, pouncing +on his arm. + +‘Shall we have him to the guardhouse?’ added the attendant, coming up on +the other side; but Henri de Valois waved them both back, and burst +into a derisive laugh. ‘No, no; do you not see who it is? Monsieur the +English Baron still holds the end of the halter. His sale is not yet +made. Come away, D’O, he will soon have enough on his hands without +us. Farewell, fair lady, another time you will be free of your jealous +giant.’ + +So saying, the Duke of Anjou strolled off, feigning indifference and +contempt, and scarcely heeding that he had been traversed in one of the +malicious adventures which he delighted to recount in public before the +discomfited victim herself, often with shameful exaggeration. + +The girl clasped her hands over her brow with a gesture of dismay, and +cried, ‘Oh! if you have only not touched your sword.’ + +‘Let me have the honour of reconducting you, Mademoiselle,’ said +Berenger, offering his hand; but after the first sigh of relief, a +tempestuous access seized her. She seemed about to dash away his +hand, her bosom swelled with resentment, and with a voice striving for +dignity, though choked with strangled tears, she exclaimed, ‘No, indeed! +Had not M. le Baron forsaken me, I had never been thus treated!’ and her +eyes flashed through their moisture. + +‘Eustacie! You are Eutacie!’ + +‘Whom would you have me to be otherwise? I have the honour to wish M. le +Baron a good morning.’ + +‘Eustacie! Stay! Hear me! It concerns my honour. I see it is you--but +whom have I seen? Who was she?’ he cried, half wild with dismay and +confusion. ‘Was it Diane?’ + +‘You have seen and danced with Diane de Ribaumont,’ answered Eustacie, +still coldly; ‘but what of that? Let me go, Monsieur; you have cast me +off already.’ + +‘I! when all this has been of your own seeking?’ + +‘Mine?’ cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle between her dignity +and her passionate tears. ‘I meddled not. I heard that M. le Baron was +gone to a strange land, and had written to break off old ties.’ Her face +was in a flame, and her efforts for composure absolute pain. + +‘I!’ again exclaimed Berenger. ‘The first letter came from your uncle, +declaring that it was your wish!’ And as her face changed rapidly, ‘Then +it was not true! He has not had your consent?’ + +‘What! would I hold to one who despised me--who came here and never even +asked to see this hated spouse!’ + +I did! I entreated to see you. I would not sign the application +till--Oh, there has been treachery! And have they made you too sign it!’ + +When they showed me your name they were welcome to mine.’ + +Berenger struck his forehead with wrath and perplexity, then cried, +joyfully, ‘It will not stand for moment. So foul a cheat can be at once +exposed. Eutacie, you know--you understand, that it was not you but +Diane whom I saw and detested; and no wonder, when she was acting such a +cruel treason!’ + +‘Oh no, Diane would never so treat me,’ cried Eustacie. ‘I see how it +was! You did not know that my father was latterly called Marquis de +Nid-de-Merle, and when they brought me here, they WOULD call me after +him: they said a maid of honour must be Demoiselle, and my uncle said +there was only one way in which I could remain Madame de Ribaumont! And +the name must have deceived you. Thou wast always a great dull boy,’ she +added, with a sudden assumption of childish intimacy that annihilated +the nine years since their parting. + +‘Had I seen thee, I had not mistaken for an instant. This little face +stirred my heart; hers repelled me. And she deceived me wittingly, +Eustacie, for I asked after her by name.’ + +‘Ah, she wished to spare my embarrassment. And then her brother must +have dealt with her.’ + +‘I see,’ exclaimed Berenger, ‘I am to be palmed off thus that thou +mayest be reserved for Narcisse. Tell me, Eustacie, wast thou willing?’ + +‘I hate Narcisse!’ she cried. ‘But oh, I am lingering too long. Monsieur +will make some hateful tale! I never fell into his way before, my Queen +and Madame la Comtesse are so careful. Only to-day, as I was attending +her alone, the King came and gave her his arm, and I had to drop behind. +I must find her; I shall be missed,’ she added, in sudden alarm. ‘Oh, +what will they say?’ + +‘No blame for being with thy husband,’ he answered, clasping her hand. +‘Thou art mine henceforth. I will soon cut our way out of the web thy +treacherous kindred have woven. Meantime---’ + +‘Hush! There are voices,’ cried Eustacie in terror, and, guided by +something he could not discern, she fled with the swiftness of a bird +down the alley. Following, with the utmost speed that might not bear +the appearance of pursuit, he found that on coming to the turn she +had moderated her pace, and was more tranquilly advancing to a bevy +of ladies, who sat perched on the stone steps like great butterflies +sunning themselves, watching the game, and receiving the attentions of +their cavaliers. He saw her absorbed into the group, and then began to +prowl round it, in the alleys, in a tumult of amazement and indignation. +He had been shamefully deceived and cheated, and justice he would have! +He had been deprived of a thing of his own, and he would assert his +right. He had been made to injure and disown the creature he was bound +to protect, and he must console her and compensate to her, were it only +to redeem his honour. He never even thought whether he loved her; +he merely felt furious at the wrong he had suffered and been made to +commit, and hotly bent on recovering what belonged to him. He might even +have plunged down among the ladies and claimed her as his wife, if the +young Abbe de Mericour, who was two years older than he, and far less +of a boy for his years, had not joined him in his agitated walk. He then +learnt that all the court knew that the daughter of the late Marquis +de Nid-de-Merle, Comte de Ribaumont, was called by his chief title, but +that her marriage to himself had been forgotten by some and unknown to +others, and thus that the first error between the cousins had not been +wonderful in a stranger, since the Chevalier’s daughter had always been +Mdlle. de Ribaumont. The error once made, Berenger’s distaste to Diane +had been so convenient that it had been carefully encouraged, and the +desire to keep him at a distance from court and throw him into the +background was accounted for. The Abbe was almost as indignant as +Berenger, and assured him both of his sympathy and his discretion. + +‘I see no need for discretion,’ said Berenger. ‘I shall claim my wife in +the face of the sun.’ + +‘Take counsel first, I entreat,’ exclaimed Mericour. ‘The Ribaumonts +have much influence with the Guise family, and now you have offended +Monsieur.’ + +‘Ah! Where are those traitorous kinsmen?’ cried Berenger. + +‘Fortunately all are gone on an expedition with the Queen-mother. +You will have time to think. I have heard my brother say no one ever +prospered who offended the meanest follower of the house of Lorraine.’ + +‘I do not want prosperity, I only want my wife. I hope I shall never see +Paris and its deceivers again.’ + +‘Ah! But is it true that you have applied to have the marriage annulled +at Rome?’ + +‘We were both shamefully deceivers. That can be nothing.’ + +‘A decree of his Holiness: you a Huguenot; she an heiress. All is +against you. My friend, be cautions, exclaimed the young ecclesiastic, +alarmed by his passionate gestures. ‘To break forth now and be accused +of brawling in the palace precincts would be fatal--fatal--most fatal!’ + +‘I am as calm as possible,’ returned Berenger. ‘I mean to act most +reasonably. I shall stand before the King and tell him openly how I have +been tamperes with, demanding my wife before the whole court.’ + +‘Long before you could get so far the ushers would have dragged you away +for brawling, or for maligning an honour-able gentlemen. You would have +to finish your speech in the Bastille, and it would be well if even your +English friends could get you out alive.’ + +‘Why, what a place is this!’ began Berenger; but again Mericour +entreated him to curb himself; and his English education had taught +him to credit the house of Guide with so much mysterious power and +wickedness, that he allowed himself to be silenced, and promised to take +no open measures till he had consulted the Ambassador. + +‘He could not obtain another glimpse of Eustacie, and the hours passed +tardily till the break up of the party. Charles could scarcely release +Sidney from his side, and only let him go on condition that he should +join the next day in an expedition to the hunting chateau of Montpipeau, +to which the King seemed to look forward as a great holiday and +breathing time. + +When at length the two youths did return, Sir Francis Walsingham was +completely surprised by the usually tractable, well-behaved stripling, +whose praises he had been writing to his old friend, bursting in on him +with the outcry, ‘Sir, sir, I entreat your counsel! I have been foully +cozened.’ + +‘Of how much?’ said Sir Francis, in a tone of reprobation. + +‘Of my wife. Of mine honour. Sir, your Excellency, I crave pardon, if I +spoke too hotly,’ said Berenger, collecting himself; ‘but it is enough +to drive a man to frenzy.’ + +‘Sit down, my Lord de Ribaumont. Take breath, and let me know what is +this coil. What hath thus moved him, Mr. Sidney?’ + +‘It is as he says, sir,’ replied Sidney, who had beard all as they +returned; ‘he has been greatly wronged. The Chevalier de Ribaumont not +only writ to propose the separation without the lady’s knowledge, but +imposed his own daughter on our friend as the wife he had not seen since +infancy.’ + +‘There, sir,’ broke forth Berenger; ‘surely if I claim mine own in the +face of day, no man can withhold her from me!’ + +‘Hold!’ said Sir Francis. ‘What mean this passion, young sir? Methought +you came hither convinced that both the religion and the habits in which +the young lady had been bred up rendered your infantine contract most +unsuitable. What hath fallen out to make this change in your mind?’ + +‘That I was cheated, sir. The lady who palmed herself off on me as my +wife was a mere impostor, the Chevalier’s own daughter!’ + +‘That may be; but what known you of this other lady? Has she been bred +up in faith or manners such as your parents would have your wife?’ + +‘She is my wife,’ reiterated Berenger. ‘My faith is plighted to her. +That is enough for me.’ + +Sir Francis made a gesture of despair. ‘He has seen her, I suppose,’ +said he to Sidney. + +‘Yes truly, sir,’ answered Berenger; ‘and found that she had been as +greatly deceived as myself.’ + +‘Then mutual consent is wanting,’ said the statesman, gravely musing. + +‘That is even as I say,’ began Berenger, but Walsingham help up his +hand, and desired that he would make his full statement in the presence +of his tutor. Then sounding a little whistle, the Ambassador despatched +a page to request the attendance of Mr. Adderley, and recommended young +Ribaumont in the meantime to compose himself. + +Used to being under authority as Berenger was, the somewhat severe tone +did much to allay his excitement, and remind him that right and reason +were so entirely on his side, that he had only to be cool and rational +to make them prevail. He was thus able to give a collected and coherent +account of his discovery that the part of his wife had been assumed by +her cousin Diane, and that the signature of both the young pair to the +application to the Pope had been obtained on false pretences. That he +had, as Sidney said, been foully cozened, in both senses of the word, +was as clear as daylight; but he was much angered and disappointed to +find that neither the Ambassador nor his tutor could see that Eustacie’s +worthiness was proved by the iniquity of her relation, or that any one +of the weighty reasons for the expediency of dissolving the marriage was +remove. The whole affair had been in such good train a little before, +that Mr. Adderley was much distressed that it should thus have been +crossed, and thought the new phase of affairs would be far from +acceptable at Combe Walwyn. + +‘Whatever is just and honourable must be acceptable to my grandfather,’ +said Berenger. + +‘Even so,’ said Walsingham; ‘but it were well to consider whether +justice and honour require you to overthrow the purpose wherewith he +sent you hither.’ + +‘Surely, sir, justice and require me to fulfil a contract to which the +other party is constant,’ said Berenger, feeling very wise and prudent +for calling that wistful, indignant creature the other party. + +‘That is also true,’ said the Ambassador, ‘provided she be constant; but +you own that she signed the requisition for the dissolution.’ + +‘She did so, but under the same deception as myself, and further +mortified and aggrieved at my seeming faithlessness.’ + +‘So it may easily be represented,’ muttered Walsingham. + +‘How, sir?’ cried Berenger, impetuously; ‘do you doubt her truth?’ + +‘Heaven forefend,’ said Sir Francis, ‘that I should discuss any +fair lady’s sincerity! The question is how far you are bound. Have I +understood you that you are veritably wedded, not by a mere contract of +espousal?’ + +‘Berenger could produce no documents, for they had been left at Chateau +Leurre, and on his father’s death the Chevalier had claimed the custody +of them; but he remembered enough of the ceremonial to prove that the +wedding had been a veritable one, and that only the papal intervention +could annul it. + +Indeed an Englishman, going by English law, would own no power in the +Pope, nor any one on earth, to sever the sacred tie of wedlock; but +French courts of law would probably ignore the mode of application, and +would certainly endeavour to separate between a Catholic and a heretic. + +‘I am English, sir, in heart and faith,’ said Berenger, earnestly. ‘Look +upon me as such, and tell me, am I married or single at this moment?’ + +‘Married assuredly. More’s the pity,’ said Sir Francis. + +‘And no law of God or man divides us without our own consent.’ There was +no denying that the mutual consent of the young pair at their present +age was all that was wanting to complete the inviolability of their +marriage contract. + +Berenger was indeed only eighteen, and Eustacie more than a year +younger, but there was nothing in their present age to invalidate their +marriage, for persons of their rank were usually wedded quite as +young or younger. Walsingham was only concerned at his old friend’s +disappointment, and at the danger of the young man running headlong into +a connection probably no more suitable than that with Diane de Ribaumont +would have been. But it was not convenient to argue against the +expediency of a man’s loving his own wife; and when Berenger boldly +declared he was not talking of love but of justice, it was only possible +to insist that he should pause and see where true justice lay. + +And thus the much-perplexed Ambassador broke up the conference with his +hot and angry young guest. + +‘And Mistress Lucy---?’ sighed Mr. Adderley, in rather an _inapropos_ +fashion it must be owned; but then he had been fretted beyond endurance +by his pupil striding up and down his room, reviling Diane, and +describing Eustacie, while he was trying to write these uncomfortable +tidings to Lord Walwyn. + +‘Lucy! What makes you bring her up to me?’ exclaimed Berenger. ‘Little +Dolly would be as much to the purpose!’ + +‘Only, sir, no resident at Hurst Walwyn could fail to know that has been +planned and desired.’ + +‘Pshaw!’ cries Berenger; ‘have you not heard that it was a mere figment, +and that I could scarce have wedded Lucy safely, even had this matter +gone as you wish? This is the luckiest chance that could have befallen +her.’ + +‘That may be,’ said Mr. Adderley; ‘I wish she may think so--sweet young +lady!’ + +‘I tell you, Mr. Adderley, you should know better! Lucy has more sense. +My aunt, whom she follows more than any other creature, ever silenced +the very sport or semblance of love passages between us even as +children, by calling them unseemly in one wedded as I am. Brother and +sister we have ever been, and have loved as such--ay, and shall! I know +of late some schemes have crossed my mother’s mind---’ + +‘Yea, and that of others.’ + +‘But they have not ruffled Lucy’s quiet nature--trust me! And for the +rest? What doth she need me in comparison of this poor child? She--like +a bit of her own gray lavender in the shadiest nook of the walled +garden, tranquil there--sure not to be taken there, save to company +with fine linen in some trim scented coffer, whilst this fresh glowing +rosebud has grown up pure and precious in the very midst of the foulest +corruption Christendom can show, and if I snatch her not from it, I, +the innocence and sweetness, what is to be her fate? The very pity of a +Christian, the honour of a gentleman, would urge me, even if it were not +my most urgent duty!’ + +‘Mr. Adderley argued no more. When Berenger came to his duty in the +matter he was invincible, and moreover all the more provoking, because +he mentioned it with a sort of fiery sound of relish, and looked so very +boyish all the time. Poor Mr. Adderley!’ feeling as if his trust were +betrayed, loathing the very idea of a French court lady, saw that his +pupil had been allured into a headlong passion to his own misery, +and that of all whose hopes were set on him, yet preached to by this +stripling scholar about duties and sacred obligations! Well might he rue +the day he ever set foot in Paris. + +Then, to his further annoyance, came a royal messenger to invite the +Baron de Ribaumont to join the expedition to Montpipeau. Of course he +must go, and his tutor must be left behind, and who could tell into what +mischief he might not be tempted! + +Here, however, Sidney gave the poor chaplain some comfort. He believed +that no ladies were to be of the party, and that the gentlemen were +chiefly of the King’s new friends among the Huguenots, such as Coligny, +his son-in-law Teligny, Rochefoucauld, and the like, among whom the +young gentleman could not fall into any very serious harm, and might +very possibly be influenced against a Roman Catholic wife. At any rate, +he would be out of the way, and unable to take any dangerous steps. + +This same consideration so annoyed Berenger that he would have declined +the invitation, if royal invitations could have been declined. And in +the morning, before setting out, he dressed himself point device, and +with Osbert behind him marched down to the Croix de Larraine, to call +upon the Chevalier de Ribaumont. He had a very fine speech at his +tongue’s end when he set out, but a good deal of it had evaporated when +he reached the hotel, and perhaps he was not very sorry not to find the +old gentleman within. + +On his return, he indited a note to the Chevalier, explaining that he +had now seen his wife, Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont, and had come to +an understanding with her, by which he found that it was under a mistake +that the application to the Pope had been signed, and that they should, +therefore, follow it up with a protest, and act as if no such letter had +been sent. + +Berenger showed this letter to Walsingham, who, though much concerned, +could not forbid his sending it. ‘Poor lad,’ he said to the tutor; ‘’tis +an excellently writ billet for one so young. I would it were in a wiser +cause. But he has fairly the bit between his teeth, and there is no +checking him while he has this show of right on his side.’ + +And poor Mr. Adderley could only beseech Mr. Sidney to take care of him. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN’S PASTORAL + + + + Either very gravely gay, + Or very gaily grave, + --W. M. PRAED + + +Montpipeau, though in the present day a suburb of Paris, was in the +sixteenth century far enough from the city to form a sylvan retreat, +where Charles IX, could snatch a short respite from the intrigues of his +court, under pretext of enjoying his favourite sport. Surrounded with +his favoured associates of the Huguenot party, he seemed to breathe +a purer atmosphere, and to yield himself up to enjoyment greater than +perhaps his sad life had ever known. + +He rode among his gentlemen, and the brilliant cavalcade passed through +poplar-shaded roads, clattered through villages, and threaded their +way through bits of forest still left for the royal chase. The people +thronged out of their houses, and shouted not only ‘Vive le Roy,’ but +‘Vive l’Amiral,’ and more than once the cry was added, ‘Spanish war, or +civil war!’ The heart of France was, if not with the Reformed, at +least against Spain and the Lorrainers, and Sidney perceived, from the +conversation of the gentlemen round him, that the present expedition had +been devised less for the sake of the sport, than to enable the King to +take measures for emancipating himself from the thraldom of his mother, +and engaging the country in a war against Philip II. Sidney listened, +but Berenger chafed, feeling only that he was being further carried out +of reach of his explanation with his kindred. And thus they arrived +at Montpipeau, a tower, tall and narrow, like all French designs, but +expanded on the ground floor by wooden buildings capable of containing +the numerous train of a royal hunter, and surrounded by an extent of +waste land, without fine trees, though with covert for deer, boars, and +wolves sufficient for sport to royalty and death to peasantry. Charles +seemed to sit more erect in his saddle, and to drink in joy with every +breath of the thyme-scented breeze, from the moment his horse bounded +on the hollow-sounding turf; and when he leapt to the ground, with the +elastic spring of youth, he held out his hands to Sidney and to Teligny, +crying ‘Welcome, my friends. Here I am indeed a king!’ + +It was a lovely summer evening, early in August, and Charles bade the +supper to be spread under the elms that shaded a green lawn in front +of the chateau. Etiquette was here so far relaxed as to permit the +sovereign to dine with his suite, and tables, chairs, and benches were +brought out, drapery festooned in the trees to keep off sun and wind, +the King lay down in the fern and let his happy dogs fondle him, and +as a hers-girl passed along a vista in the distance, driving her goats +before her, Philip Sidney marvelled whether it was not even thus in +Arcadia. + +Presently there was a sound of horses trampling, wheels moving, a party +of gaily gilded archers of the guard jingled up, and in their midst +was a coach. Berenger’s heart seemed to leap at once to his lips, as a +glimpse of ruffs, hats, and silks dawned on him through the windows. + +The king rose from his lair among the fern, the Admiral stood forward, +all heads were bared, and from the coach-door alighted the young Queen; +no longer pale, subdued, and indifferent, but with a face shining with +girlish delight, as she held out her hand to the Admiral. ‘Ah! This is +well, this is beautiful,’ she exclaimed; ‘it is like our happy chases +in the Tyrol. Ah, Sire!’ to the King, ‘how I thank you for letting me be +with you.’ + +After her Majesty descended her gentleman-usher. Then came the +lady-in-waiting, Madame de Sauve, the wife of the state secretary in +attendance on Charles, and a triumphant, coquettish beauty, than a fat, +good-humoured Austrian dame, always called Madame la Comtesse, because +her German name was unpronounceable, and without whom the Queen never +stirred, and lastly a little figure, rounded yet slight, slender yet +soft and plump, with a kitten-like alertness and grace of motion, as +she sprang out, collected the Queen’s properties of fan, kerchief, +pouncet-box, mantle, &c., and disappeared in to the chateau, without +Berenger’s being sure of anything but that her little black hat had a +rose-coloured feather in it. + +The Queen was led to a chair placed under one of the largest trees, and +there Charles presented to her such of his gentlemen as she was not yet +acquainted with, the Baron de Ribaumont among the rest. + +‘I have heard of M. de Ribaumont,’ she said, in a tone that made +the colour mantle in his fair cheek; and with a sign of her hand she +detained him at her side till the King had strolled away with Madame la +Sauve, and no one remained near but her German countess. Then changing +her tone to one of confidence, which the high-bred homeliness of her +Austrian manner rendered inexpressibly engaging, she said, ‘I must +apologize, Monsieur, for the giddiness of my sister-in-law, which I fear +caused you some embarrassment.’ + +‘Ah, Madame,’ said Berenger, kneeling on one knee as she addressed him, +and his heart bounding with wild, undefined hope, ‘I cannot be grateful +enough. It was that which led to my being undeceived.’ + +‘It was true, then, that you were mistaken?’ said the Queen. + +‘Treacherously deceived, Madame, by those whose interest it is to keep +us apart,’ said Berenger, colouring with indignation; ‘they imposed +my other cousin on me as my wife, and caused her to think me cruelly +neglectful.’ + +‘I know,’ said the Queen. ‘Yet Mdlle. de Ribaumont is far more admired +than my little blackbird.’ + +‘That may be, Madame, but not by me.’ + +‘Yet is it true that you came to break off the marriage?’ + +‘Yes, Madame,’ said Berenger, honestly, ‘but I had not seen her.’ + +‘And now?’ said the Queen, smiling. + +‘I would rather die than give her up,’ said Berenger. ‘Oh, Madame, help +us of your grace. Every one is trying to part us, every one is arguing +against us, but she is my own true wedded wife, and if you will but give +her to me, all will be well.’ + +‘I like you, M. de Ribaumont,’ said the Queen, looking him full in the +face. ‘You are like our own honest Germans at my home, and I think you +mean all you say. I had much rather my dear little Nid de Merle were +with you than left here, to become like all the others. She is a good +little _Liegling_,--how do you call it in French? She has told me all, +and truly I would help you with all my heart, but it is not as if I +were the Queen-mother. You must have recourse to the King, who loves you +well, and at my request included you in the hunting-party.’ + +Berenger could only kiss her hand in token of earnest thanks before the +repast was announced, and the King came to lead her to the table spread +beneath the trees. The whole party supped together, but Berenger could +have only a distant view of his little wife, looking very demure and +grave by the side of the Admiral. + +But when the meal was ended, there was a loitering in the woodland +paths, amid healthy openings or glades trimmed into discreet wildness +fit for royal rusticity; the sun set in parting glory on one horizon, +the moon rising in crimson majesty on the other. A musician at intervals +touched the guitar, and sang Spanish or Italian airs, whose soft or +quaint melody came dreamily through the trees. Then it was that with +beating heart Berenger stole up to the maiden as she stood behind the +Queen, and ventured to whisper her name and clasp her hand. + +She turned, their eyes met, and she let him lead her apart into the +wood. It was not like a lover’s tryst, it was more like the continuation +of their old childish terms, only that he treated her as a thing of his +own, that he was bound to secure and to guard, and she received him as +her own lawful but tardy protector, to be treated with perfect reliance +but with a certain playful resentment. + +‘You will not run away from me now,’ he said, making full prize of her +hand and arm. + +‘Ah! is not she the dearest and best of queens?’ and the large eyes were +lifted up to him in such frank seeking of sympathy that he could see +into the depths of their clear darkness. + +‘It is her doing then. Though, Eustacie, when I knew the truth, not +flood nor fire should keep me long from you, my heart, my love, my +wife.’ + +‘What! wife in spite of those villainous letter?’ she said, trying to +pout. + +‘Wife for ever, inseparably! Only you must be able to swear that you +knew nothing of the one that brought me here.’ + +‘Poor me! No, indeed! There was Celine carried off at fourteen, Madame +de Blanchet a bride at fifteen; all marrying hither and thither; and +I--’ she pulled a face irresistibly droll--‘I growing old enough to +dress St. Catherine’s hair, and wondering where was M. le Baron.’ + +‘They thought me too young,’ said Berenger, ‘to take on me the cares of +life.’ + +‘So they were left to me?’ + +‘Cares! What cares have you but finding the Queen’s fan?’ + +‘Little you know!’ she said, half contemptuous, half mortified. + +‘Nay, pardon me, _ma mie_. Who has troubled you?’ + +‘Ah! you would call it nothing to be beset by Narcisse; to be told one’s +husband is faithless, till one half believes it; to be looked at by ugly +eyes; to be liable to be teased any day by Monsieur, or worse, by that +mocking ape, M. d’Alecon, and to have nobody who can or will hinder it.’ + +She was sobbing by this time, and he exclaimed, ‘Ah, would that I could +revenge all! Never, never shall it be again! What blessed grace has +guarded you through all?’ + +‘Did I not belong to you?’ she said exultingly. ‘And had not Sister +Monique, yes, and M. le Baron, striven hard to make me good? Ah, how +kind he was!’ + +‘My father? Yes, Eustacie, he loved you to the last. He bade me, on his +deathbed, give you his own Book of Psalms, and tell you he had always +loved and prayed for you.’ + +‘Ah! his Psalms! I shall love them! Even at Bellaise, when first we came +there, we used to sing them, but the Mother Abbess went out visiting, +and when she came back she said they were heretical. And Soeur Monique +would not let me say the texts he taught me, but I WOULD not forget +them. I say them often in my heart.’ + +‘Then,’ he cried joyfully, ‘you will willingly embrace my religion?’ + +‘Be a Huguenot?’ she said distastefully. + +‘I am not precisely a Huguenot; I do not love them,’ he answered +hastily; ‘but all shall be made clear to you at my home in England.’ + +‘England!’ she said. ‘Must we live in England? Away from every one?’ + +‘Ah, they will love so much! I shall make you so happy there,’ he +answered. ‘There you will see what it is to be true and trustworthy.’ + +‘I had rather live at Chateau Leurre, or my own Nid de Merle,’ she +replied. ‘There I should see Soeur Monique, and my aunt, the Abbess, +and we would have the peasants to dance in the castle court. Oh! if +you could but see the orchards at Le Bocage, you would never want to go +away. And we could come now and then to see my dear Queen. + +‘I am glad at least you would not live at court.’ + +‘Oh, no, I have been more unhappy here than ever I knew could be borne.’ + +And a very few words from him drew out all that had happened to her +since they parted. Her father had sent her to Bellaise, a convent +founded by the first of the Angevin branch, which was presided over by +his sister, and where Diane was also educated. The good sister Monique +had been mistress of the _pensionnaires_, and had evidently taken much +pains to keep her charge innocent and devout. Diane had been taken to +court about two years before, but Eustacie had remained at the convent +till some three months since, when she had been appointed maid of honour +to the recently-married Queen; and her uncle had fetched her from Anjou, +and had informed her at the same time that her young husband had turned +Englishman and heretic, and that after a few formalities had been +complied with, she would become the wife of her cousin Narcisse. Now +there was no person whom she so much dreaded as Narcisse, and when +Berenger spoke of him as a feeble fop, she shuddered as though she knew +him to have something of the tiger. + +‘Do you remember Benoit?’ she said; ‘poor Benoit, who came to Normandy +as my _laquais_? When I went back to Anjou he married a girl from +Leurre, and went to aid his father at the farm. The poor fellow had +imbibed the Baron’s doctrine--he spread it. It was reported that there +was a nest of Huguenots on the estate. My cousin came to break it up +with his _gens d’armes_ O Berenger, he would hear no entreaties, he +had no mercy; he let them assemble on Sunday, that they might be all +together. He fired the house; shot down those who escaped; if a prisoner +were made, gave him up to the Bishop’s Court. Benoit, my poor good +Benoit, who used to lead my palfrey, was first wounded, then tried, and +burnt--burnt in the PLACE at Lucon! I heard Narcisse laugh--laugh as he +talked of the cries of the poor creatures in the conventicler. My own +people, who loved me! I was but twelve years old, but even then the +wretch would pay me a half-mocking courtesy, as one destined to him; and +the more I disdained him and said I belonged to you, the more both he +and my aunt, the Abbess, smiled, as though they had their bird in a +cage; but they left me in peace till my uncle brought me to court, and +then all began again: and when they said you gave me up, I had no hope, +not even of a convent. But ah, it is all over now, and I am so happy! +You are grown so gentle and so beautiful, Berenger, and so much taller +than I ever figured you to myself, and you look as if you could take me +up in your arms, and let no harm happen to me.’ + +‘Never, never shall it!’ said Berenger, felling all manhood, strength, +and love stir within him, and growing many years in heart in that happy +moment. ‘My sweet little faithful wife, never fear again now you are +mine.’ + +Alas! poor children. They were a good way from the security they had +begun to fancy for themselves. Early the next morning, Berenger went +in his straightforward way to the King, thanked him, and requested his +sanction for at once producing themselves to the court as Monsieur le +Baron and Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont. + +At this Charles swore a great oath, as one in perplexity, and bade him +not go so fast. + +‘See here,’ said he, with the rude expletives only too habitual with +him; ‘she is a pretty little girl, and she and her lands are much better +with an honest man like you than with that _pendard_ of a cousin; but +you see he is bent on having her, and he belongs to a cut-throat crew +that halt at nothing. I would not answer for your life, if you tempted +him so strongly to rid himself of you.’ + +‘My own sword, Sire, can guard my life.’ + +‘Plague upon your sword! What does the foolish youth think it would +do against half-a-dozen poniards and pistols in a lane black as hell’s +mouth?’ + +The foolish young WAS thinking how could a king so full of fiery words +and strange oaths bear to make such an avowal respecting his own +capital and his own courtiers. All he could do was to bow and reply, +‘Nevertheless, Sire, at whatever risk, I cannot relinquish my wife; I +would take her at one to the Ambassador’s.’ + +‘How, sir!’ interrupted Charles, haughtily and angrily, ‘if you +forget that you are a French nobleman still, I should remember it! The +Ambassador may protect his own countrymen-none else.’ + +‘I entreat your Majesty’s pardon,’ said Berenger, anxious to retract his +false step. ‘It was your goodness and the gracious Queen’s that made me +hope for your sanction.’ + +‘All the sanction Charles de Valois can give is yours, and welcome,’ +said the King, hastily. ‘The sanction of the King of France is another +matter! To say the truth, I see no way out of the affair but +an elopement.’ ‘Sire!’ exclaimed the astonished Berenger, whose +strictly-disciplined education had little prepared him for such counsel. + +‘Look you! if I made you known as a wedded pair, the Chevalier and +his son would not only assassinate you, but down on me would come my +brother, and my mother, and M. de Guise and all their crew, veritably +for giving the prize out of the mouth of their satellite, but nominally +for disregarding the Pope, favouring a heretical marriage, and I know +not what, but, as things go here, I should assuredly get the worst of +it; and if you made safely off with your prize, no one could gainsay +you--I need know nothing about it--and lady and lands would be your +without dispute. You might ride off from the skirts of the forest; I +would lead the hunt that way, and the three days’ riding would bring you +to Normady, for you had best cross to England immediately. When she is +one there, owned by your kindred, Monsieur le cousin may gnash his teeth +as he will, he must make the best of it for the sake of the honour of +his house, and you can safely come back and raise her people and yours +to follow the Oriflamme when it takes the field against Spain. What! you +are still discontented? Speak out! Plain speaking is a treat not often +reserved for me.’ + +‘Sire, I am most grateful for your kindness, but I should greatly prefer +going straightforward.’ + +‘Peste! Well is it said that a blundering Englishman goes always right +before him! There, then! As your King on the one hand, as the friend who +has brought you and your wife together, sir, it is my command that you +do not compromise me and embroil greater matters than you can understand +by publicly claiming this girl. Privately I will aid you to the best of +my ability; publicly, I command you, for my sake, if you heed not your +own, to be silent!’ + +Berenger sought out Sidney, who smiled at his surprise. + +‘Do you not see,’ he said, ‘that the King is your friend, and would be +very glad to save the lady’s lands from the Guisards, but that he cannot +say so; he can only befriend a Huguenot by stealth.’ + +‘I would not be such a king for worlds!’ + +However, Eustacie was enchanted. It was like a prince and princess +in Mere Perinne’s fairy tales. Could they go like a shepherd and +shepherdess? She had no fears-no scruples. Would she not be with her +husband? It was the most charming frolic in the world. So the King +seemed to think it, though he was determined to call it all the Queen’s +doing--the first intrigue of her own, making her like all the rest of +us--the Queen’s little comedy. He undertook to lead the chase as far as +possible in the direction of Normandy, when the young pair might ride on +to an inn, meet fresh horses, and proceed to Chateau Leurre, and thence +to England. He would himself provide a safe-conduct, which, as Berenger +suggested, would represent them as a young Englishman taking home his +young wife. Eustacie wanted at least to masquerade as an Englishwoman, +and played off all the fragments of the language she had caught as a +child, but Berenger only laughed at her, and said they just fitted the +French bride. It was very pretty to laugh at Eustacie; she made such a +droll pretence at pouting with her rosebud lips, and her merry velvety +eyes belied them so drolly. + +Such was to be the Queen’s pastoral; but when Elisabeth found the +responsibility so entirely thrown on her, she began to look grave and +frightened. It was no doubt much more than she had intended when she +brought about the meeting between the young people, and the King, who +had planned the elopement, seemed still resolved to make all appear her +affair. She looked all day more like the grave, spiritless being she was +at court than like the bright young rural queen of the evening before, +and she was long in her little oratory chapel in the evening. Berenger, +who was waiting in the hall with the other Huguenot gentlemen, thought +her devotions interminable since they delayed all her ladies. At length, +however, a page came up to him, and said in a low voice, ‘The Queen +desires the presence of M. le Baron de Ribaumont.’ + +He followed the messenger, and found himself in the little chapel, +before a gaily-adorned altar, and numerous little shrines and niches +round. Sidney would have dreaded a surreptitious attempt to make him +conform, but Berenger had no notion of such perils,--he only saw +that Eustacie was standing by the Queen’s chair, and a kindly-looking +Austrian priest, the Queen’s confessor, held a book in his hand. + +The Queen came to meet him. ‘For my sake,’ she said, with all her +sweetness, ‘to ease my mind, I should like to see my little Eustacie +made entirely your own ere you go. Father Meinhard tells me it is safer +that, when the parties were under twelve years old, the troth should be +again exchanged. No other ceremony is needed.’ + +‘I desire nothing but to have her made indissolubly my own,’ said +Berenger, bowing. + +‘And the King permits,’ added Elisabeth. + +The King growled out, ‘It is your comedy, Madame; I meddle not.’ + +The Austrian priest had no common language with Berenger but Latin. He +asked a few questions, and on hearing the answers, declared that the +sacrament of marriage had been complete, but that--as was often done in +such cases--he would once more hear the troth-plight of the young pair. +The brief formula was therefore at once exchanged--the King, when the +Queen looked entreatingly at him, rousing himself to make the bride over +to Berenger. As soon as the vows had been made, in the briefest manner, +the King broke in boisterously: ‘There, you are twice marred, to please +Madame there; but hold your tongues all of you about this scene in the +play.’ + +Then almost pushing Eustacie over to Berenger, he added, ‘There she is! +Take your wife, sir; but mind, she was as much yours before as she is +now.’ + +But for all Berenger had said about ‘his wife,’ it was only now that +he really FELT her his own, and became husband rather than lover-man +instead of boy. She was entirely his own now, and he only desired to be +away with her; but some days’ delay was necessary. A chase on the scale +of the one that was to favour their evasion could not be got up without +some notice; and, moreover, it was necessary to procure money, for +neither Sidney nor Ribaumont had more than enough with them for the +needful liberalities to the King’s servants and huntsmen. Indeed +Berenger had spent all that remained in his purse upon the wares of an +Italian pedlar whom he and Eustacie met in the woods, and whose gloves +‘as sweet as fragrant posies,’ fans, scent-boxes, pocket mirrors, Genoa +wire, Venice chains, and other toys, afforded him the mean of making up +the gifts that he wished to carry home to his sisters; and Eustacie’s +counsel was merrily given in the choice. And when the vendor began +with a meaning smile to recommend to the young pair themselves a +little silver-netted heart as a love-token, and it turned out that all +Berenger’s money was gone, so that it could not be bought without +giving up the scented casket destined for Lucy, Eustacie turned with her +sweetest, proudest smile, and said, ‘No, no; I will not have it; what do +we two want with love-tokens now?’ + +Sidney had taken the youthful and romantic view of the case, and +considered himself to be taking the best possible bare of is young +friend, by enabling him to deal honourably with so charming a little +wife as Eustacie. Ambassador and tutor would doubtless be very angry; +but Sidney could judge for himself of the lady, and he therefore threw +himself into her interests, and sent his servant back to Paris to +procure the necessary sum for the journey of Master Henry Berenger and +Mistress Mary, his wife. Sidney was, on his return alone to Paris, to +explain all to the elders, and pacify them as best he could; and his +servant was already the bearer of a letter from Berenger that was to be +sent at once to England with Walsingham’s dispatches, to prepare Lord +Walwyn for the arrival of the runaways. The poor boy laboured to +be impressively calm and reasonable in his explanation of the +misrepresentation, and of his strong grounds for assuming his rights, +with his persuasion that his wife would readily join the English +church--a consideration that he knew would greatly smooth the way for +her. Indeed, his own position was impregnable: nobody could blame him +for taking his own wife to himself, and he was so sure of her charms, +that he troubled himself very little about the impression she might make +on his kindred. If they loved her, it was all right; if not, he could +take her back to his own castle, and win fame and honour under the +banner of France in the Low Countries. As the Lucy Thistlewood, she was +far too discreet to feel any disappointment or displeasure; or if she +should, it was her own fault and that of his mother, for all her life +she had known him to be married. So he finished his letter with a +message that the bells should be ready to ring, and that when Philip +heard three guns fired on the coast, he might light the big beacon pile +above the Combe. + +Meantime ‘the Queen’s Pastoral’ was much relished by all the spectators. +The state of things was only avowed to Charles, Elisabeth, and Philip +Sidney, and even the last did not know of the renewed troth which the +King chose to treat as such a secret; but no one had any doubt of the +mutual relations of M. de Ribaumont and Mdlle. de Nid de Merle, and +their dream of bliss was like a pastoral for the special diversion of +the holiday of Montpipeau. The transparency of their indifference +in company, their meeting eyes, their trysts with the secrecy of an +ostrich, were the subjects of constant amusement to the elders, more +especially as the shyness, blushes, and caution were much more on the +side of the young husband than on that of the lady. Fresh from her +convent, simple with childishness and innocence, it was to her only +the natural completion of her life to be altogether Berenger’s, and +the brief concealment of their full union added a certain romantic +enchantment, which added to her exultation in her victory over her cruel +kindred. She had been upon her own mind, poor child, for her few weeks +of court life. She had been upon her own mind, poor child, for her few +weeks of court life, but not long enough to make her grow older, though +just so long as to make the sense of her having her own protector with +her doubly precious. He, on the other hand, though full of happiness, +did also feel constantly deepening on him the sense of the charge +and responsibility he had assumed, hardly knowing how. The more dear +Eustacie became to him, the more she rested on him and became entirely +his, the more his boyhood and INSOUCIANCE drifted away behind him; and +while he could hardly bear to heave his darling a moment out of his +sight, the less he could endure any remark or jest upon his affection +for her. His home had been a refined one, where Cecile’s convent purity +seemed to diffuse an atmosphere of modest reserve such as did not +prevail in the court of the Maiden Queen herself, and the lad of +eighteen had not seem enough of the outer world to have rubbed off any +of that grace. His seniority to his little wife seemed to show itself +chiefly in his being put out of countenance for her, when she was too +innocent and too proud of her secret matronhood to understand or resent +the wit. + +Little did he know that this was the ballet-like interlude in a great +and terrible tragedy, whose first act was being played out on the stage +where they schemed and sported, like their own little drama, which was +all the world to them, and noting to the others. Berenger knew indeed +that the Admiral was greatly rejoiced that the Nid de Merle estates +should go into Protestant hands, and that the old gentleman lost no +opportunity of impressing on him that they were a heavy trust, to be +used for the benefit of ‘the Religion,’ and for the support of the King +in his better mind. But it may be feared that he did not give a very +attentive ear to all this. He did not like to think of those estates; +he would gladly have left them all the Narcisse, so that he might have +their lady, and though quite willing to win his spurs under Charles and +Coligny against the Spaniard, his heart and head were far too full to +take in the web of politics. Sooth to say, the elopement in prospect +seemed to him infinitely more important than Pope or Spaniard, Guise or +Huguenot, and Coligny observed with a sigh to Teligny that he was a good +boy, but nothing but the merest boy, with eyes open only to himself. + +When Charles undertook to rehearse their escape with them, and the Queen +drove out in a little high-wheeled litter with Mne. la Comtesse, +while Mme. De Sauve and Eustacie were mounted on gay palfreys with the +pommelled side-saddle lately invented by the Queen-mother, Berenger, +as he watched the fearless horsemanship and graceful bearing of his +newly-won wife, had no speculations to spend on the thoughtful face +of the Admiral. And when at the outskirts of the wood the King’s +bewildering hunting-horn--sounding as it were now here, now there, now +low, now high--called every attendant to hasten to its summons, leaving +the young squire and damsel errant with a long winding high-banked lane +before them, they reckoned the dispersion to be all for their sakes, and +did not note, as did Sidney’s clear eye, that when the entire company +had come straggling him, it was the King who came up with Mme. De Sauve +almost the last; and a short space after, as if not to appear to have +been with him, appeared the Admiral and his son-in-law. + +Sidney also missed one of the Admiral’s most trusted attendants, and +from this and other symptoms he formed his conclusions that the King had +scattered his followers as much for the sake of an unobserved conference +with Coligny as for the convenience of the lovers, and that letters had +been dispatched in consequence of that meeting. + +Those letters were indeed of a kind to change the face of affairs in +France. Marshal Strozzi, then commanding in the south-west, was bidden +to embark at La Rochelle in the last week of August, to hasten to +the succour of the Prince of Orange against Spain, and letters were +dispatched by Coligny to all the Huguenot partisans bidding them +assemble at Melun on the third of September, when they would be in the +immediate neighbourhood of the court, which was bound for Fontainebleau. +Was the star of the Guises indeed waning? Was Charles about to escape +from their hands, and commit himself to an honest, high-minded policy, +in which he might have been able to purify his national Church, and +wind back to her those whom her corruptions had driven to seek truth and +morality beyond her pale? + +Alas! there was a bright pair of eyes that saw more than Philip +Sidney’s, a pair of ears that heard more, a tongue and pen less faithful +to guard a secret. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. ‘LE BROUILON’ + + + + But never more the same two sister pearls + Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other. + --Tennyson + + +Berenger was obliged to crave permission from the King to spend some +hours in riding with Osbert to the first hostel on their way, to make +arrangements for the relay of horses that was to meet them there, and +for the reception of Veronique, Eustacie’s maid, who was to be sent off +very early in the morning on a pillion behind Osbert, taking with her +the articles of dress that would be wanted to change her mistress from +the huntress maid of honour to the English dame. + +It was not long after he had been gone that a sound of wheels and +trampling horses was heard in one of the forest drives. Charles, who +was amusing himself with shooting at a mark together with Sidney and +Teligny, handed his weapon to an attendant, and came up with looks of +restless anxiety to his Queen, who was placed in her chair under the +tree, with the Admiral and her ladies round her, as judges of the prize. + +‘Here is _le brouillon_,’ he muttered. ‘I thought we had been left in +peace too long.’ + +Elisabeth, who Brantome says was water, while her husband was fire, +tried to murmur some hopeful suggestion; and poor little Eustacie, +clasping her hands, could scarcely refrain from uttering the cry, ‘Oh, +it is my uncle! Do not let him take me!’ + +The next minute there appeared four horses greatly heated and jaded, +drawing one of the court coaches; and as it stopped at the castle gate, +two ladies became visible within it--the portly form of Queen Catherine, +and on the back seat the graceful figure of Diane de Ribaumont. + +Charles swore a great oath under his breath. He made a step forward, +but then his glance falling on Eustacie’s face, which had flushed to +the rosiest hue of the carnation, he put his finger upon his lip with +a menacing air, and then advanced to greet his mother, followed by his +gentlemen. + +‘Fear not, my dear child,’ said the young Queen, taking Eustacie’s arm +as she rose for the same purpose. ‘Obey the King, and he will take care +that all goes well.’ + +The gentle Elisabeth was, however, the least regarded member of the +royal family. Her mother-in-law had not even waited to greet her, but +had hurried the King into his cabinet, with a precipitation that made +the young Queen’s tender heart conclude that some dreadful disaster had +occurred, and before Mademoiselle de Ribaumont had had time to make her +reverence, she exclaimed, breathlessly, ‘Oh, is it ill news? Not from +Vienna?’ + +‘No, no, Madame; reassure yourself,’ replied Diane; ‘it is merely that +her Majesty, being on the way to Monceaux with Mesdames, turned out +of her road to make a flying visit to your graces, and endeavour to +persuade you to make her party complete.’ + +Elisabeth looked as if questioning with herself if this would possibly +be the whole explanation. Monceaux was a castle belonging to the Queen +Dowager at no great distance from Montpipeau, but there had been no +intention of leaving Paris before the wedding, which was fixed for the +seventeenth of August, and the bridegroom was daily expected. She asked +who was the party at Monceaux, and was told that Madame de Nemours had +gone thither the evening before, with her son, M. de Guise, to make +ready; and that Monsieur was escorting thither his two sisters, Madame +de Lorraine and Madame Marguerite. The Queen-mother had set out before +them very early in the morning. + +‘You must have made great speed,’ said Elisabeth; ‘it is scarcely two +o’clock.’ + +‘Truly we did, Madame; two of our horses even died upon the road; but +the Queen was anxious to find the King ere he should set off on one of +his long chases.’ + +Diane, at every spare moment, kept her eyes interrogatively fixed on her +cousin, and evidently expected that the taciturn Queen, to whom a long +conversation, in any language but Spanish, was always a grievance, would +soon dismiss them both; and Eustacie did not know whether to be thankful +or impatient, as Elisabeth, with tardy, hesitating, mentally-translated +speech, inquired into every circumstance of the death of the poor +horses, and then into all the court gossip, which she was currently +supposed neither to hear nor understand; and then bethought herself +that this good Mademoiselle de Ribaumont could teach her that embroidery +stitch she had so long wished to learn. Taking her arm, she entered +the hall, and produced her work, so as effectually to prevent any +communication between the cousins; Eustacie, meanwhile her heart +clinging to her friend, felt her eyes filling with tears at the thoughts +of how unkind her morrow’s flight would seem without one word of +farewell or of confidence, and was already devising tokens of tenderness +to be left behind for Diane’s consolation, when the door of the cabinet +opened, and Catherine sailed down the stairs, with her peculiar +gliding step and sweep of dignity. The King followed her with a face of +irresolution and distress. He was evidently under her displeasure; but +she advanced to the young Queen with much graciousness, and an air of +matronly solicitude. + +‘My daughter,’ she said, ‘I have just assured the King that I cannot +leave you in these damp forests. I could not be responsible for the +results of the exposure any longer. It is for him to make his own +arrangements, but I brought my coach empty on purpose to transport you +and your ladies to Monceaux. + +The women may follow with the mails. You can be ready as soon as the +horses are harnessed.’ + +Elisabeth was used to passiveness. She turned one inquiring look to +her husband, but he looked sullen, and, evidently cowed by his mother, +uttered not a word. She could only submit, and Catherine herself add +that there was room for Madame de Sauve and Mademoiselle de Nid de +Merle. Madame la Comtesse should follow! It was self-evident that +propriety would not admit of the only demoiselle being left behind among +the gentlemen. Poor Eustacie, she looked mutely round as if she hoped to +escape! What was the other unkindness to this? And ever under the +eyes of Diane too, who followed her to their chamber, when she went to +prepare, so that she could not even leave a token for him where he would +have been most certain to find it. Moments were few; but at the very +last, while the queens were being handed in the carriage, she caught +the eye of Philip Sidney. He saw the appealing look, and came near. She +tried to laugh. ‘Here is my gage, Monsieur Sidney,’ she said, and held +out a rose-coloured knot of ribbon; then, as he came near enough, she +whispered imploringly three of her few English words-- + +‘Give to HIM.’ + +‘I take the gage as it is meant,’ said Sidney, putting a knee to the +ground, and kissing the trembling fingers, ere he handed her into the +carriage. He smiled and waved his hand as he met her earnest eyes. One +bow contained a scrap of paper pricked with needle-holes. Sidney would +not have made out those pricks for the whole world, even had he been +able to do more than hastily secure the token, before the unhappy King, +with a paroxysm of violent interjections, demanded of him whether the +Queen of England, woman though she were, ever were so beset, and never +allowed a moment to herself; then, without giving time for an answer, he +flung away to his cabinet, and might be heard pacing up and down there +in a tempest of perplexity. He came forth only to order his horse, and +desire M. de Sauve and a few grooms to be ready instantly to ride with +him. His face was full of pitiable perplexity--the smallest obstacle was +met with a savage oath; and he was evidently in all the misery of a weak +yet passionate nature, struggling with impotent violence against a yoke +that evidently mastered it. + +He flung a word to his guests that he should return ere night, and they +thus perceived that he did not intend their dismissal. + +‘Poor youth,’ said Coligny, mildly, ‘he will be another being when we +have him in our camp with the King of Navarre for his companion.’ + +And then the Admiral repaired to his chamber to write one of his many +fond letters to the young wife of his old age; while his son-in-law and +Philip Sidney agreed to ride on, so as to met poor young Ribaumont, and +prepare him for the blow that had befallen him personally, while they +anxiously debated what this sudden descent of the Queen-mother might +portend. Teligny was ready to believe in any evil intention on her part, +but he thought himself certain of the King’s real sentiments, and in +truth Charles had never treated any man with such confidence as this +young Huguenot noble, to whom he had told his opinion of each of his +counsellors, and his complete distrust of all. That pitying affection +which clings to those who cling to it, as well as a true French loyalty +of heart, made Teligny fully believe that however Catherine might +struggle to regain her ascendancy, and whatever apparent relapses +might be caused by Charles’s habitual subjection to her, yet the high +aspirations and strong sense of justice inherent in the King were +asserting themselves as his youth was passing into manhood; and that the +much-desired war would enable him to develop all his higher qualities. +Sidney listened, partially agreed, talked of caution, and mused within +himself whether violence might not sometimes be mistaken for vigour. + +Ere long, the merry cadence of an old English song fell with a homelike +sound upon Sidney’s ear, and in another moment they were in sight of +Berenger, trotting joyously along, with a bouquet of crimson and +white heather-blossoms in his hand, and his bright young face full of +exultation in his arrangements. He shouted gaily as he saw them, calling +out, ‘I thought I should meet you! but I wondered not to have heard the +King’s bugle-horn. Where are the rest of the hunters?’ + +‘Unfortunately we have had another sort of hunt to-day,’ said Sidney, +who had ridden forward to meet him; ‘and one that I fear, will disquiet +you greatly.’ + +‘How! Not her uncle?’ exclaimed Berenger. + +‘No, cheer up, my friend, it was not she who was the object of the +chase; it was this unlucky King,’ he added, speaking English, ‘who has +been run to earth by his mother.’ + +‘Nay, but what is that to me?’ said Berenger, with impatient superiority +to the affairs of the nation. ‘How does it touch us?’ + +Sidney related the abstraction of the young Queen and her ladies, and +then handed over the rose-coloured token, which Berenger took +with vehement ardour; then his features quivered as he read the +needle-pricked words-two that he had playfully insisted on her speaking +and spelling after him in his adopted tongue, then not vulgarized, but +the tenderest in the language, ‘Sweet heart.’ That was all, but to him +they conveyed constancy to him and his, whatever might betide, and an +entreaty not to leave her to her fate. + +‘My dearest! never!’ he muttered; then turning hastily as he put the +precious token into his bosom, he exclaimed, ‘Are their women yet gone?’ +and being assured that they were not departed when the two friends had +set out, he pushed his horse on at speed, so as to be able to send +a reply by Veronique. He was barely in time: the clumsy wagon-like +conveyance of the waiting-women stood at the door of the castle, in +course of being packed with the Queen’s wardrobe, amid the janglings +of lackeys, and expostulating cries of _femmes de chambre_, all in the +worst possible humour at being crowded up with their natural enemies, +the household of the Queen-mother. + +Veronique, a round-faced Angevin girl--who, like her lady, had not +parted with all her rustic simplicity and honesty, and who had been +necessarily taken into their confidence--was standing apart from the +whirl of confusion, holding the leashes of two or three little dogs that +had been confided to her care, that their keepers might with more ease +throw themselves into the _melee_. Her face lighted up as she saw the +Baron de Ribaumont arrive. + +‘Ah, sir, Madame will be so happy that I have seen Monsieur once more,’ +she exclaimed under her breath, as he approached her. + +‘Alas! there is not a moment to write,’ he said, looking at the vehicle, +already fast filling, ‘but give her these flowers; they were gathered +for her; give her ten thousand thanks for her token. Tell her to hold +firm, and that neither king nor queen, bolt nor bar, shall keep me from +her. Tell her, our watchword is HOPE.’ + +The sharp eyes of the duenna of the Queen’s household, a rigid Spanish +dame, were already searching for stray members of her flock, and +Veronique had to hurry to her place, while Berenger remained to hatch +new plans, each wilder than the last, and torment himself with guesses +whether his project had been discovered. Indeed, there were moments when +he fancied the frustration of his purpose the special object of Queen +Catherine’s journey, but he had the wisdom to keep any such suggestion +to himself. + +The King came back by supper-time, looking no longer in a state of +indecision, but pale and morose. He spoke to no one as he entered, and +afterwards took his place at the head of the supper-table in silence, +which he did not break till the meal was nearly over. Then he said +abruptly, ‘Gentlemen, our party has been broken up, and I imagine that +after our great hunt tomorrow, no one will have any objection to return +to Paris. We shall have merrier sport at Fontainebleau when this most +troublesome of weddings is over.’ + +There was nothing to be done but to bow acquiescence, and the King again +became grimly silent. After supper he challenged Coligny to a game of +chess, and not a word passed during the protracted contest, either from +the combatants or any other person in the hall. It was as if the light +had suddenly gone out to others besides the disappointed and anxious +Berenger, and a dull shadow had fallen on the place only yesterday so +lively, joyous, and hopeful. + +Berenger, chained by the etiquette of the royal presence, sat like a +statue, his back against the wall, his arms crossed on his breast, his +eyes fixed, chewing the cud of the memories of his dream of bliss, or +striving to frame the future to his will, and to decide what was the +next reasonable step he could take, or whether his irrepressible longing +to ride straight off to Monceaux, claim his wife, and take her on +horseback behind him, were a mere impracticable vision. + +The King, having been checkmated twice out of three times by the +Admiral, too honest a man not truly to accept his declaration of not +wanting courtly play, pushed away the board, and was attended by them +all to his COUCHER, which was usually made in public; and the Queen +being absent, the gentlemen were required to stand around him till he +was ready to fall asleep. He did not seem disposed to talk, but begged +Sidney to fetch his lute, and sing to him some English airs that had +taken his fancy much when sung by Sidney and Berenger together. + +Berenger felt as if they would choke him in his present turbid state of +resentful uncertainty; but even as the unhappy young King spoke, it was +with a heavy, restless groan, as he added, ‘If you know any lullaby that +will give rest to a wretch tormented beyond bearing, let us have it.’ + +‘Alas, Sire!’ said the Admiral, seeing that no perilous ears remained +in the room; ‘there are better and more soothing words than any mundane +melody.’ + +‘_Peste_! My good father,’ said the King, petulantly, ‘has not old +Phlipote, my nurse, rocked me to the sound of your Marot’s Psalms, and +crooned her texts over me? I tell you I do not want to think. I want +what will drive thought away--to dull---’ + +‘Alas! what dulls slays,’ said the Admiral. + +‘Let it. Nothing can be worse than the present,’ said the wretched +Charles; then, as if wishing to break away from Coligny, he threw +himself round towards Berenger, and said, ‘Here; stoop down, Ribaumont; +a word with you. Your matters have gone up the mountains, as the +Italians say, with mine. But never fear. Keep silence, and you shall +have the bird in your hand, only you must be patient. Hold! I will make +you and Monsieur Sidney gentlemen of my bed-chamber, which will give you +the _entree_ of the Louvre; and if you cannot get her out of it without +an _eclat_, then you must be a much duller fellow than half my court. +Only that it is not their own wives that they abstract. + +With this Berenger must needs content himself; and the certainty of the +poor King’s good-will did enable him to do his part with Sidney in the +songs that endeavoured to soothe the torments of the evil spirit which +had on that day effected a fresh lodgment in that weak, unwilling heart. + +It was not till the memoirs of the secret actors in this tragedy were +brought to light that the key to these doings was discovered. M. de +Sauve, Charles’s secretary, had disclosed his proceedings to his wife; +she, flattered by the attentions of the Duke of Anjou, betrayed them to +him; and the Queen-mother, terrified at the change of policy, and the +loss of the power she had enjoyed for so many years, had hurried to the +spot. + +Her influence over her son resembled the fascination of a snake: +once within her reach he was unable to resist her; and when in their +_tete-a-tete_ she reproached him with ill-faith towards her, prophesied +the overthrow of the Church, the desertion of his allies, the ruin of +his throne, and finally announced her intention of hiding her head in +her own hereditary estates in Auvergne, begging, as a last favour, that +he would give his brother time to quit France instead of involving him +in his own ruin, the poor young man’s whole soul was in commotion. +His mother knew her strength, left the poison to work, and withdrew in +displeasure to Monceaux, sure that, as in effect happened, he would not +be long in following her, imploring her not to abandon him, and making +an unconditional surrender of himself, his conscience, and his friends +into her hands. Duplicity was so entirely the element of the court, +that, even while thus yielding himself, it was as one checked, but +continuing the game; he still continued his connection with +the Huguenots, hoping to succeed in his aims by some future +counter-intrigue; and his real hatred of the court policy, and the +genuine desire to make common cause with them, served his mother’s +purpose completely, since his cajolery thus became sincere. Her purpose +was, probably, not yet formed. It was power that she loved, and hoped to +secure by the intrigues she had played off all her life; but she herself +was in the hands of an infinitely more bloodthirsty and zealous faction, +who could easily accomplish their ends by working on the womanly terrors +of an unscrupulous mind. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE WEDDING WITH CRIMSON FAVOURS + + + + And trust me not at all or all in all. + --TENNYSON + + +So extensive was the Louvre, so widely separated the different suites +of apartments, that Diane and Eustacie had not met after the pall-mall +party till they sat opposite to their several queens in the coach +driving through the woods, the elder cousin curiously watching the eyes +of the younger, so wistfully gazing at the window, and now and then +rapidly winking as though to force back a rebellious tear. + +The cousins had been bred up together in the convent at Bellaise, and +had only been separated by Diane’s having been brought to court two +years sooner than Eustacie. They had always been on very kindly, +affectionate terms; Diane treating her little cousin with the patronage +of an elder sister, and greatly contributing to shield her from +the temptations of the court. The elder cousin was so much the more +handsome, brilliant, and admired, that no notion of rivalry had crossed +her mind; and Eustacie’s inheritance was regarded by her as reserved for +her brother, and the means of aggradizement an prosperity for herself +and her father. She looked upon the child as a sort of piece of property +of the family, to be guarded and watched over for her brother; and +when she had first discovered the error that the young baron was making +between the two daughters of the house, it was partly in kindness to +Eustacie, partly to carry out her father’s plans, and partly from +her own pleasure in conversing with anything so candid and fresh as +Berenger, that she had maintained the delusion. Her father believed +himself to have placed Berenger so entirely in the background, that he +would hardly be at court long enough to discover the imposition; and +Diane was not devoid of a strong hope of winning his affection and +bending his will so as to induce him to become her husband, and become +a French courtier for her sake--a wild dream, but a better castle in the +air than she had ever yet indulged in. + +This arrangement was, however, disconcerted by the King’s passion for +Sidney’s society, which brought young Ribaumont also to court; and at +the time of the mischievous introduction by Madame Marguerite, Diane had +perceived that the mistake would soon be found out, and that she should +no longer be able to amuse herself with the fresh-coloured, open-faced +boy who was unlike all her former acquaintance; but the magnetism that +shows a woman when she produces an effect had been experienced by her, +and she had been sure that a few efforts more would warm and mould the +wax in her fingers. That he should prefer a little brown thing, whose +beauty was so inferior to her own, had never crossed her mind; she +did not even know that he was invited to the pall-mall party, and was +greatly taken by surprise when her father sought an interview with her, +accused her of betraying their interests, and told her that this +foolish young fellow declared that he had been mistaken, and having now +discovered his veritable wife, protested against resigning her. + +By that time the whole party were gone to Montpipeau, but that the Baron +was among them was not known at the Louvre until Queen Catherine, who +had always treated Diane as rather a favoured, quick-witted _protegee_, +commanded her attendance, and on her way let her know that Madame +de Sauve had reported that, among all the follies that were being +perpetrated at the hunting-seat, the young Queen was absolutely throwing +the little Nid-de-Merle into the arms of her Huguenot husband, and that +if measures were not promptly taken all the great estates in the +Bocage would be lost to the young Chevalier, and be carried over to the +Huguenot interest. + +Still Diane could not believe that it was so much a matter of love +as that the young had begun to relish court favour and to value the +inheritance, and she could quite believe her little cousin had been +flattered by a few attentions that had no meaning in them. She was not +prepared to find that Eustacie shrank from her, and tried to avoid +a private interview. In truth, the poor child had received such +injunctions from the Queen, and so stern a warning look from the King, +that she durst not utter a syllable of the evening that had sealed her +lot, and was so happy with her secret, so used to tell everything +to Diane, so longing to talk of her husband, that she was afraid of +betraying herself if once they were alone together. Yet Diane, knowing +that her father trusted to her to learn how far things had gone, and +piqued at seeing the transparent little creature, now glowing and +smiling with inward bliss, now pale, pensive, sighing, and anxious, and +scorning her as too childish for the love that she seemed to affect, was +resolved on obtaining confidence from her. + +And when the whole female court had sat down to the silk embroidery in +which Catherine de Medicis excelled, Diane seated herself in the recess +of a window and beckoned her cousin to her side, so that it was not +possible to disobey. + +‘Little one,’ she said, ‘why have you cast off your poor cousin? There, +sit down’--for Eustacie stood, with her silk in her hand, as if meaning +instantly to return to her former place; and now, her cheeks in a flame, +she answered in an indignant whisper, ‘You know, Diane! How could you +try to keep him from me?’ + +‘Because it was better for thee, my child, than to be pestered with an +adventurer,’ she said, smiling, though bitterly. + +‘My husband!’ returned Eustacie proudly. + +‘Bah! You know better than that!’ Then, as Eustacie was about to +speak, but checked herself, Diane added, ‘Yes, my poor friend, he has +a something engaging about him, and we all would have hindered you from +the pain and embarrassment of a meeting with him.’ + +Eustacie smiled a little saucy smile, as though infinitely superior to +them all. + +‘_Pauvre petite_,’ said Diane, nettled; ‘she actually believes in his +love.’ + +‘I will not hear a word against my husband!’ said Eustacie, stepping +back, as if to return to her place, but Diane rose and laid her hand on +hers. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘we must no part thus. I only wish to know +what touches my darling so nearly. I thought she loved and clung to us; +why should she have turned from me for the sake of one who forgot her +for half his life? What can he have done to master this silly little +heart?’ + +‘I cannot tell you, Diane,’ said Eustacie, simply; and though she looked +down, the colour on her face was more of a happy glow than a conscious +blush. ‘I love him too much; only we understand each other now, and it +is of no use to try to separate us.’ + +‘Ah, poor little thing, so she thinks,’ said Diane; and as Eustacie +again smiled as one incapable of being shaken in her conviction, she +added, ‘And how do you know that he loves you?’ + +Diane was startled by the bright eyes that flashed on her and the bright +colour that made Eustacie perfectly beautiful, as she answered, ‘Because +I am his wife! That is enough!’ Then, before her cousin could speak +again, ‘But, Diane, I promised not to speak of it. I know he would +despise me if I broke my word, so I will not talk to you till I have +leave to tell you all, and I am going back to help Gabrielle de Limeuil +with her shepherdess.’ + +Mademoiselle de Ribaumont felt her attempt most unsatisfactory, but she +knew of old that Eustacie was very determined--all Bellaise know that +to oppose the tiny Baronne was to make her headstrong in her resolution; +and if she suspected that she was coaxed, she only became more +obstinate. To make any discoveries, Diane must take the line of most +cautious caresses, such as to throw her cousin off her guard; and this +she was forced to confess to her father when he sought an interview with +her on the day of her return to Paris. He shook his head. She must be +on the watch, he said, and get quickly into the silly girl’s confidence. +What! had she not found out that the young villain had been on the point +of eloping with her? If such a thing as that should succeed, the whole +family was lost, and she was the only person who could prevent it. He +trusted to her. + +The Chevalier had evidently come to regard his niece as his son’s lawful +property, and the Baron as the troublesome meddler; and Diane had much +the same feeling, enhanced by sore jealousy at Eustacie’s triumph over +her, and curiosity as to whether it could be indeed well founded. She +had an opportunity of judging the same evening--mere habit always caused +Eustacie to keep under her wing, if she could not be near the Queen, +whenever there was a reception, and to that reception of course Berenger +came, armed with his right as gentleman of the bedchamber. Eustacie was +colouring and fluttering, as if by the instinct of his presence, even +before the tall fair head became visible, moving forward as well as the +crowd would permit, and seeking about with anxious eyes. The glances +of the blue and the black eyes met at last, and a satisfied radiance +illuminated each young face; then the young man steered his way through +the throng, but was caught midway by Coligny, and led up to be presented +to a hook-nosed, dark-haired, lively-looking young man, in a suit of +black richly laced with silver. It was the King of Navarre, the royal +bridegroom, who had entered Paris in state that afternoon. Eustacie +tried to be proud of the preferment, but oh! she thought it mistimed, +and was gratified to mark certain wandering of the eye even while the +gracious King was speaking. Then the Admiral said something that brought +the girlish rosy flush up to the very roots of the short curls of flaxen +hair, and made the young King’s white teeth flash out in a mirthful, +good-natured laugh, and thereupon the way opened, and Berenger was +beside the two ladies, kissing Eustacie’s hand, but merely bowing to +Diane. + +She was ready to take the initiative. + +‘My cousins deem me unpardonable,’ she said; ‘yet I am going to purchase +their pardon. See this cabinet of porcelain _a le Reine_, and Italian +vases and gems, behind this curtain. There is all the siege of Troy, +which M. le Baron will not doubt explain to Mademoiselle, while I shall +sit on this cushion, and endure the siege of St. Quentin from the _bon_ +Sieur de Selinville.’ + +Monsieur de Selinville was the court bore, who had been in every battle +from Pavia to Montcontour, and gave as full memoirs of each as did +Blaise de Monluc, only _viva voce_ instead of in writing. Diane was +rather a favourite of his; she knew her way through all his adventures. +So soon as she had heard the description of the King of Navarre’s entry +into Paris that afternoon, and the old gentleman’s lamentation that his +own two nephews were among the three hundred Huguenot gentleman who had +formed the escort, she had only to observe whether his reminiscences +had gone to Italy or to Flanders in order to be able to put in the +appropriate remarks at each pause, while she listened all the while to +the murmurs behind the curtain. Yet it was not easy, with all her court +breeding, to appear indifferent, and solely absorbed in hearing of +the bad lodgings that had fallen to the share of the royal troops at +Brescia, when such sounds were reaching her. It was not so much the +actual words she heard, though these were the phrases--‘_mon ange_, +my heart, my love;’ those were common, and Diane had lived in the +Queen-mother’s squadron long enough to despise those who uttered +them only less than those who believed them. It was the full depth of +tenderness and earnestness, in the subdued tones of the voice, that gave +her a sense of quiet force and reality beyond all she had ever known. +She had heard and overheard men pour out frantic ravings of passion, but +never had listened to anything like the sweet protecting tenderness of +voice that seemed to embrace and shelter its object. Diane had no doubts +now; he had never so spoken to her; nay, perhaps he had had no such +cadences in his voice before. It was quite certain that Eustacie was +everything to him, she herself nothing; she who might have had any +gallant in the court at her feet, but had never seen one whom she +could believe in, whose sense of esteem had been first awakened by this +stranger lad who despised her. Surely he was loving this foolish child +simply as his duty; his belonging, as his right he might struggle hard +for her, and if he gained her, be greatly disappointed; for how could +Eustacie appreciate him, little empty-headed, silly thing, who would be +amused and satisfied by any court flatterer? + +However, Diane held out and played her part, caught scraps of the +conversation, and pieced them together, yet avoided all appearance +of inattention to M. de Selinville, and finally dismissed him, and +manoeuvred first Eustacie, and after a safe interval Berenger, out of +the cabinet. The latter bowed as he bade her good night, and said, with +the most open and cordial of smiles, ‘Cousin, I thank you with all my +heart.’ + +The bright look seemed to her another shaft. ‘What happiness!’ said she +to herself. ‘Can I overthrow it? Bah! it will crumble of its own accord, +even if I did nothing! And my father and brother!’ + +Communication with her father and brother was not always easy to Diane, +for she lived among the Queen-mother’s ladies. Her brother was quartered +in a sort of barrack among the gentlemen of Monsieur’s suite, and the +old Chevalier was living in the room Berenger had taken for him at the +Croix de Lorraine, and it was only on the most public days that they +attended at the palace. Such a day, however, there was on the ensuing +Sunday, when Henry of Navarre and Marguerite of France were to be +wedded. Their dispensation was come, but, to the great relief of +Eustacie, there was no answer with it to the application for the +CASSATION of her marriage. In fact, this dispensation had never emanated +from the Pope at all. Rome would not sanction the union of a daughter +of France with a Huguenot prince; and Charles had forged the document, +probably with his mother’s knowledge, in the hope of spreading her toils +more completely round her prey, while he trusted that the victims might +prove too strong for her, and destroy her web, and in breaking forth +might release himself. + +Strange was the pageant of that wedding on Sunday, the 17th of August, +1572. The outward seeming was magnificent, when all that was princely in +France stood on the splendidly decked platform in front of Notre-Dame, +around the bridegroom in the bright promise of his kingly endowments, +and the bride in her peerless beauty. Brave, noble-hearted, and devoted +were the gallant following of the one, splendid and highly gifted the +attendants of the other; and their union seemed to promise peace to a +long distracted kingdom. + +Yet what an abyss lay beneath those trappings! The bridegroom and his +comrades were as lions in the toils of the hunter, and the lure that had +enticed them thither was the bride, herself so unwilling a victim that +her lips refused to utter the espousal vows, and her head as force +forward by her brother into a sign of consent; while the favoured lover +of her whole lifetime agreed to the sacrifice in order to purchase the +vengeance for which he thirsted, and her mother, the corrupter of her +own children, looked complacently on at her ready-dug pit of treachery +and bloodshed. + +Among the many who played unconscious on the surface of that gulf of +destruction, were the young creatures whose chief thought in the pageant +was the glance and smile from the gallery of the Queen’s ladies to the +long procession of the English ambassador’s train, as they tried to +remember their own marriage there; Berenger with clear recollection of +his father’s grave, anxious face, and Eustacie chiefly remembering her +own white satin and turquoise dress, which indeed she had seen on every +great festival-day as the best raiment of the image of Notre Dame +de Bellaise. She remained in the choir during mass, but Berenger +accompanied the rest of the Protestants with the bridegroom at their +head into the nave, where Coligny beguiled the time with walking about, +looking at the banners that had been taken from himself and Conde at +Montcontour and Jarnac, saying that he hoped soon to see them taken down +and replaced by Spanish banners. Berenger had followed because he felt +the need of doing as Walsingham and Sidney thought right, but he had +not been in London long enough to become hardened to the desecration of +churches by frequenting ‘Paul’s Walk.’ He remained bareheaded, and stood +as near as he could to the choir, listening to the notes that floated +from the priests and acolytes at the high altar, longing from the time +when he and Eustacie should be one in their prayers, and lost in a +reverie, till a grave old nobleman passing near him reproved him for +dallying with the worship of Rimmon. But his listening attitude had not +passed unobserved by others besides Huguenot observers. + +The wedding was followed by a ball at the Louvre, from which, however, +all the stricter Huguenots absented themselves out of respect to Sunday, +and among them the family and guests of the English Ambassador, who were +in the meantime attending the divine service that had been postponed on +account of the morning’s ceremony. Neither was the Duke of Guise present +at the entertainment; for though he had some months previously been +piqued and entrapped into a marriage with Catherine of Cleves, yet his +passion for Marguerite was still so strong that he could not bear to +join in the festivities of her wedding with another. The absence of so +many distinguished persons caused the admission of many less constantly +privileged, and thus it was that Diane there met both her father and +brother, who eagerly drew her into a window, and demanded what she had +to tell them, laughing too at the simplicity of the youth, who had +left for the Chevalier a formal announcement that he had dispatched his +protest to Rome, and considered himself as free to obtain his wife by +any means in his power. + +‘Where is _la petite_?’ Narcisse demanded. Behind her Queen, as usual?’ + +‘The young Queen keeps her room to-night,’ returned Diane. ‘Nor do +I advise you, brother, to thrust yourself in the way of _la petite +entetee_ just at present.’ + +‘What, is she so besotted with the peach face? He shall pay for it!’ + +‘Brother, no duel. Father, remind him that she would never forgive him.’ + +‘Fear not, daughter,’ said the Chevalier; ‘this folly can be ended by +much quieter modes, only you must first give us information.’ + +‘She tells me nothing,’ said Diane; ‘she is in one of her own +humours--high and mighty.’ + +‘_Peste_! where is your vaunt of winding the little one round your +finger?’ + +‘With time, I said,’ replied Diane. Curiously enough, she had no +compunction in worming secrets from Eustacie and betraying them, but +she could not bear to think of the trap she had set for the unsuspecting +youth, and how ingenuously he had thanked her, little knowing how she +had listened to his inmost secrets. + +‘Time is everything,’ said her father; ‘delay will be our ruin. Your +inheritance will slip through your fingers, my son. The youth will soon +win favour by abjuring his heresy; he will play the same game with the +King as his father did with King Henri. You will have nothing but your +sword, and for you, my poor girl, there is nothing but to throw yourself +on the kindness of your aunt at Bellaise, if she can receive the vows of +a dowerless maiden.’ + +‘It will never be,’ said Narcisse. ‘My rapier will soon dispose of a big +rustic like that, who knows just enough of fencing to make him an easy +prey. What! I verily believe the great of entreaty. ‘And yet the fine +fellow was willing enough to break the marriage when he took her for the +bride.’ + +‘Nay, my son,’ argued the Chevalier, will apparently to spare his +daughter from the sting of mortification, ‘as I said, all can be done +without danger of bloodshed on either side, were we but aware of any +renewed project of elopement. The pretty pair would be easily waylaid, +the girl safely lodged at Bellaise, the boy sent off to digest his pride +in England.’ + +‘Unhurt?’ murmured Diane. + +Her father checked Narcisse’s mockery at her solicitude, as he added, +‘Unhurt? Yes. He is a liberal-hearted, gracious, fine young man, whom I +should much grieve to harm; but if you know of any plan of elopement +and conceal it, my daughter, then upon you will lie either the ruin and +disgrace of your family, or the death of one or both of the youths.’ + +Diane saw that her question had betrayed her knowledge. She spoke +faintly. ‘Something I did overhear, but I know not how to utter a +treason.’ + +‘There is no treason where there is no trust, daughter,’ said the +Chevalier, in the tone of a moral sage. ‘Speak!’ + +Diane never disobeyed her father, and faltered, ‘Wednesday; it is for +Wednesday. They mean to leave the palace in the midst of the masque; +there is a market-boat from Leurre to meet them on the river; his +servants will be in it.’ + +‘On Wednesday!’ Father and son looked at each other. + +‘That shall be remedied,’ said Narcisse. + +‘Child,’ added her father, turning kindly to Diane, ‘you have saved our +fortunes. There is put one thing more that you must do. Make her obtain +the pearls from him.’ + +‘Ah!’ sighed Diane, half shocked, half revengeful, as she thought how he +had withheld them from her. + +‘It is necessary,’ said the Chevalier. ‘The heirloom of our house must +not be risked. Secure the pearls, child, and you will have done good +service, and earned the marriage that shall reward you.’ + +When he was gone, Diane pressed her hands together with a strange +sense of misery. He, who had shrunk from the memory of little Diane’s +untruthfulness, what would he think of the present Diane’s treachery? +Yet it was to save his life and that of her brother--and for the +assertion of her victory over the little robber, Eustacie. + + + + +CHAPTER X. MONSIEUR’S BALLET. + + + + The Styx had fast bound her + Nine times around her. + --POPE, ODE ON ST.CECILIA’S DAY + + +Early on Monday morning came a message to Mademoiselle Nid de Merle that +she was to prepare to act the part of a nymph of Paradise in the King’s +masque on Wednesday night, and must dress at once to rehearse her part +in the ballet specially designed by Monsieur. + +Her first impulse was to hurry to her own Queen, whom she entreated to +find some mode of exempting her. But Elisabeth, who was still in bed, +looked distressed and frightened, made signs of caution, and when the +weeping girl was on the point of telling her of the project that would +thus be ruined, silenced her by saying, ‘Hush! my poor child, I have but +meddled too much already. Our Lady grant that I have not done you more +harm than good! Tell me no more.’ + +‘Ah! Madame, I will be discreet, I will tell you nothing; but if you +would only interfere to spare me from this ballet! It is Monsieur’s +contrivance! Ah! Madame, could you but speak to the King!’ + +‘Impossible, child,’ said the Queen. ‘Things are not her as they were at +happy Montpipeau.’ + +And the poor young Queen turned her face in to her pillow, and wept. + +Every one who was not in a dream of bliss like poor little Eustacie knew +that the King had been in so savage a mood ever since his return that no +one durst ask anything from him a little while since, he had laughed at +his gentle wife for letting herself, and Emperor’s daughter, be trampled +on where his brother Francis’s Queen, from her trumpery, beggarly +realm, had held up her head, and put down _la belle Mere_; he had amused +himself with Elisabeth’s pretty little patronage of the young Ribaumonts +as a promising commencement in intriguing like other people; but now +he was absolutely violent at any endeavour to make him withstand +his mother, and had driven his wife back into that cold, listless, +indifferent shell of apathy from which affection and hope had begun to +rouse her. She knew it would only make it the worse for her little Nid +de Merle for her to interpose when Monsieur had made the choice. + +And Eustacie was more afraid of Monsieur than even of Narcisse, and +her Berenger could not be there to protect her. However, there was +protection in numbers. With twelve nymphs, and cavaliers to match, +even the Duke of Anjou could not accomplish the being very insulting. +Eustacie--light, agile, and fairy-like--gained considerable credit for +ready comprehension and graceful evolutions. She had never been so +much complimented before, and was much cheered by praise. Diane showed +herself highly pleased with her little cousin’s success, embraced her, +and told her she was finding her true level at court. She would be the +prettiest of all the nymphs, who were all small, since fairies rather +than Amazons were wanted in their position. ‘And, Eustacie,’ she added, +‘you should wear the pearls.’ + +‘The pearls!’ said Eustacie. ‘Ah! but HE always wears them. I like to +see them on his bonnet--they are hardly whiter than his forehead.’ + +‘Foolish little thing!’ said Diane, ‘I shall think little of his love if +he cares to see himself in them more than you.’ + +The shaft seemed carelessly shot, but Diane knew that it would work, and +so it did. Eustacie wanted to prove her husband’s love, not to herself, +but to her cousin. + +He made his way to her in the gardens of the Louvre that evening, +greatly dismayed at the report that had reached him that she was to +figure as a nymph of Elysium. She would thus be in sight as a prominent +figure the whole evening, even till an hour so late that the market +boat which Osbert had arranged for their escape could not wait for them +without exciting suspicion, and besides, his delicate English feelings +were revolted at the notion of her forming a part of such a spectacle. +She could not understand his displeasure. If they could not go on +Wednesday, they could go on Saturday; and as to her acting, half the +noblest ladies in the court would be in piece, and if English husbands +did not like it, they must be the tyrants she had always heard of. + +‘To be a gazing-stock---’ began Berenger. + +‘Hush! Monsieur, I will hear no more, or I shall take care how I put +myself in your power.’ + +‘That has been done for you, sweetheart,’ he said, smiling with perhaps +a shade too much superiority; ‘you are mine entirely now.’ + +‘That is not kind,’ she pouted, almost crying--for between flattery, +excitement, and disappointment she was not like herself that day, and +she was too proud to like to be reminded that she was in any one’s +power. + +‘I thought,’ said Berenger, with the gentleness that always made him +manly in dealing with her, ‘I thought you like to own yourself mine.’ + +‘Yes, sir, when you are good, and do not try to hector me for what I +cannot avoid.’ + +Berenger was candid enough to recollect that royal commands did not +brook disobedience, and, being thoroughly enamoured besides of his +little wife, he hastened to make his peace by saying, ‘True, _ma mie_, +this cannot be helped. I was a wretch to find fault. Think of it no +more.’ + +‘You forgive me?’ she said, softened instantly. + +‘Forgive you? What for, pretty one? For my forgetting that you are still +a slave to a hateful Court?’ + +‘Ah! then, if you forgive me, let me wear the pearls.’ + +‘The poor pearls,’ said Berenger, taken aback for a moment, ‘the meed +of our forefather’s valour, to form part of the pageant and mummery? But +never mind, sweetheart,’ for he could not bear to vex her again: ‘you +shall have them to-night: only take care of them. My mother would look +back on me if she knew I had let them out of my care, but you and I are +one after all.’ + +Berenger could not bear to leave his wife near the Duke of Anjou and +Narcisse, and he offered himself to the King as an actor in the masque, +much as he detested all he heard of its subject. The King nodded +comprehension, and told him it was open to him either to be a demon in +a tight suit of black cloth, with cloven-hoof shoes, a long tail, and a +trident; or one of the Huguenots who were to be repulsed from Paradise +for the edification of the spectators. As these last were to wear suits +of knightly armour, Berenger much preferred making one of them in spite +of their doom. + +The masque was given at the hall of the Hotel de Bourbon, where a noble +gallery accommodated the audience, and left full space beneath for the +actors. Down the centre of the stage flowed a stream, broad enough to +contain a boat, which was plied by the Abbe de Mericour--transformed by +a gray beard and hair and dismal mask into Charon. + +But so unused to navigation was he, so crazy and ill-trimmed his craft, +that his first performance would have been his submersion in the Styx +had not Berenger, better accustomed to boats than any of the _dramatis +personoe_, caught him by the arms as he was about to step in, pointed +out the perils, weighted the frail vessel, and given him a lesson in +paddling it to and fro, with such a masterly hand, that, had there +been time for a change of dress, the part of Charon would have been +unanimously transferred to him; but the delay could not be suffered, +and poor Mericour, in fear of a ducking, or worse, of ridicule, balanced +himself, pole in hand, in the midst of the river. To the right of the +river was Elysium--a circular island revolving on a wheel which was an +absolute orrery, representing in concentric circles the skies, with the +sun, moon, the seven planets, twelve signs, and the fixed stars, +all illuminated with small lamps. The island itself was covered with +verdure, in which, among bowers woven of gay flowers, reposed twelve +nymphs of Paradise, of whom Eustacie was one. + +On the other side of the stream was another wheel, whose grisly emblems +were reminders of Dante’s infernal circles, and were lighted by lurid +flames, while little bells were hung round so as to make a harsh +jangling sound, and all of the court who had any turn for buffoonery +were leaping and dancing about as demons beneath it, and uttering wild +shouts. + +King Charles and his two brothers stood on the margin of the Elysian +lake. King Henry, the Prince of Conde, and a selection of the younger +and gayer Huguenots, were the assailants,--storming Paradise to gain +possession of the nymphs. It was a very illusive armour that they wore, +thin scales of gold or silver as cuirasses over their satin doublets, +and the swords and lances of festive combat in that court had been +of the bluntest foil ever since the father of these princes had died +beneath Montgomery’s spear. And when the King and his brothers, one of +them a puny crooked boy, were the champions, the battle must needs be +the merest show, though there were lookers-on who thought that, judging +by appearances, the assailants ought to have the best chance of victory, +both literal and allegorical. + +However, these three guardian angels had choice allies in the shape of +the infernal company, who, as fast as the Huguenots crossed swords or +shivered lances with their royal opponents, encircled them with their +long black arms, and dragged them struggling away to Tartarus. Henry of +Navarre yielded himself with a good-will to the horse-play with which +this was performed, resisting just enough to give his demoniacal captors +a good deal of trouble, while yielding all the time, and taking them +by surprise by agile efforts, that showed that if he were excluded from +Paradise it was only by his own consent, and that he heartily enjoyed +the merriment. Most of his comrades, in especial the young Count de +Rochefoucauld, entered into the sport with the same heartiness, but +the Prince of Conde submitted to his fate with a gloomy, disgusted +countenance, that added much to the general mirth; and Berenger, with +Eustacie before his eyes, looking pale, distressed, and ill at ease, was +a great deal too much in earnest. He had so veritable an impulse to leap +forward and snatch her from that giddy revolving prison, that he struck +against the sword of Monsieur with a hearty good-will. His silvered lath +snapped in his hand, and at that moment he was seized round the waist, +and, when his furious struggle was felt to be in earnest, he was pulled +over on his back, while yells and shouts of discordant laughter rang +round him, as demons pinioned him hand and foot. + +He thought he heard a faint cry from Eustacie, and, with a sudden, +unexpected struggle, started into a sitting posture; but a derisive +voice, that well he knew, cried, ‘Ha, the deadly sin of pride! Monsieur +thinks his painted face pleases the ladies. To the depths with him--’ +and therewith one imp pulled him backwards again, while others danced +a war-dance round him, pointing their forks at him; and the prime +tormentor, whom he perfectly recognized, not only leapt over him, but +spurned at his face with a cloven foot, giving a blow, not of gay French +malice, but of malignity. It was too much for the boy’s forbearance. +He struggled free, dashing his adversaries aside fiercely, and as they +again gathered about him, with the leader shouting, ‘Rage, too, rage! To +the prey, imps--’ he clenched his fist, and dealt the foremost foe such +a blow in the chest as to level him at once with the ground. + +‘Monsieur forgets,’ said a voice, friendly yet reproachful, ‘that this +is but sport. + +It was Henry of Navarre himself who spoke, and bent to give a hand to +the fallen imp. A flush of shame rushed over Berenger’s face, already +red with passion. He felt that he had done wrong to use his strength at +such a moment, and that, though there had been spite in is assailant, +he had not been therefore justified. He was glad to see Narcisse rise +lightly to his feet, evidently unhurt, and, with the frankness with +which he had often made it up with Philip Thistlewood or his other +English comrades after a sharp tussle, he held out his hand, saying, +‘Good demon, your pardon. You roused my spirit, and I forgot myself.’ + +‘Demons forget not,’ was the reply. ‘At him, imps!’ And a whole circle +of hobgoblins closed upon with their tridents, forks, and other horrible +implements, to drive him back within two tall barred gates, which, +illuminated by red flames, were to form the ghastly prison of the +vanquished. Perhaps fresh indignities would have been attempted, had +not the King of Navarre thrown himself on his side, shared with him the +brunt of all the grotesque weapons, and battled them off with infinite +spirit and address, shielding him as it were from their rude insults by +his own dexterity and inviolability, though retreating all the time till +the infernal gates were closed on both. + +Then Henry of Navarre, who never forgot a face, held out his hand, +saying, ‘Tartarus is no region of good omen for friendships, M. de +Ribaumont, but, for lack of yonder devil’s claw, here is mine. I like to +meet a comrade who can strike a hearty blow, and ask a hearty pardon.’ + +‘I was too hot, Sire,’ confessed Berenger, with one of his ingenuous +blushes, ‘but he enraged me.’ + +‘He means mischief.’ said Henry. ‘Remember, if you are molested +respecting this matter, that you have here a witness that you did the +part of a gentleman.’ + +Berenger bowed his thanks, and began something about the honour, but his +eye anxiously followed the circuit on which Eustacie was carried and the +glance was quickly remarked. + +‘How? Your heart is spinning in that Mahometan paradise, and that is +what put such force into your fists. Which of the houris is it? The +little one with the wistful eyes, who looked so deadly white, and +shrieked out when the devilry overturned you? Eh! Monsieur, you are a +happy man.’ + +‘I should be, Sire;’ and Berenger was on the point of confiding the +situation of his affairs to this most engaging of princes, when a fresh +supply of prisoners, chased with wild antics and fiendish yells by the +devils, came headlong in on them; and immediately, completing, as Henry +said, the galimatias of mythology, a pasteboard cloud was propelled +on the stage, and disclosed the deities Mercury and Cupid, who made a +complimentary address to the three princely brothers, inciting them to +claim the nymphs whom their valour had defended, and lead them through +the mazes of a choric celestial dance. + +This dance had been the special device of Monsieur and the +ballet-master, and during the last three days the houris had been almost +danced off their legs with rehearsing it morning, noon, and night, but +one at least of them was scarcely in a condition for its performance. +Eustacie, dizzied at the first minute by the whirl of her Elysian +merry-go-round, had immediately after become conscious of that which she +had been too childish to estimate merely in prospect, the exposure to +universal gaze. Strange staring eyes, glaring lights, frightful imps +seemed to wheel round her in an intolerable delirious succession. Her +only refuge was in closing her eyes, but even this could not long be +persevered in, so necessary a part of the pageant was she; and besides, +she had Berenger to look for, Berenger, whom she had foolishly laughed +at for knowing how dreadful it would be. But of course the endeavour to +seek for one object with her eyes made the dizziness even more dreadful; +and when, at length, she beheld him dragged down by the demoniacal +creatures, whose horrors were magnified by her confused senses, and the +next moment she was twirled out of sight, her cry of distracted alarm +was irrepressible. Carried round again and again, on a wheel that to her +was far more like Ixion’s than that of the spheres, she never cleared +her perceptions as to where he was, and only was half-maddened by +the fantastic whirl of incongruous imagery, while she barely sat out +Mercury’s lengthy harangue; and when her wheel stood still, and she was +released, she could not stand, and was indebted to Charon and one of her +fellow-nymphs for supporting her to a chair in the back of the scene. +Kind Charon hurried to bring her wine, the lady revived her with +essences, and the ballet-master clamoured for his performers. + +Ill or well, royal ballets must be danced. One long sob, one gaze round +at the refreshing sight of a room no longer in motion, one wistful look +at the gates of Tartarus, and the misery of the throbbing, aching head +must be disregarded. The ballet-master touched the white cheeks with +rouge, and she stepped forward just in time, for Monsieur himself was +coming angrily forward to learn the cause of the delay. + +Spectators said the windings of that dance were exquisitely graceful. +It was well that Eustacie’s drilling had been so complete, for she +moved through it blindly, senselessly, and when it was over was led back +between the two Demoiselles de Limeuil to the apartment that served as +a green-room, drooping and almost fainting. They seated her in a chair, +and consulted round her, and her cousin Narcisse was among the first to +approach; but no sooner had she caught sight of his devilish trim than +with a little shriek she shut her eyes, and flung herself to the other +side of the chair. + +‘My fair cousin,’ he said, opening his black vizard, ‘do you not see me? +I am no demon, remember! I am your cousin.’ + +‘That makes it no better,’ said Eustacie, too much disordered and +confused to be on her guard, and hiding her face with her hands. ‘Go, +go, I entreat.’ + +In fact he had already done this, and the ladies added their counsel; +for indeed the poor child could scarcely hold up her head, but she said, +‘I should like to stay, if I could: a little, a little longer. Will they +not open those dreadful bars?’ she added, presently. + +‘They are even now opening them,’ said Mdlle. de Limeuil. ‘Hark! they +are going to fight _en melle_. Mdlle. de Nid de Merle is better now?’ + +‘Oh yes; let not detain you.’ + +Eustacie would have risen, but the two sisters had fluttered back, +impatient to lose nothing of the sports; and her cousin in his grim +disguise stood full before her. ‘No haste, cousin,’ he said; ‘you are +not fit to move.’ + +‘Oh, then go,’ said Eustacie, suffering too much not to be petulant. +‘You make me worse.’ + +‘And why? It was not always thus,’ began Narcisse, so eager to seize an +opportunity as to have little consideration for her condition; but +she was unable to bear any more, and broke out: ‘Yes, it was; I always +detested you more than ever, since you deceived me so cruelly. Oh, do +but leave me!’ + +‘You scorn me, then! You prefer to me--who have loved you so long--that +childish new-comer, who was ready enough to cast you off.’ + +‘Prefer! He is my husband! It is an insult for any one else to speak to +me thus!’ said Eustacie, drawing herself up, and rising to her feet; +but she was forced to hold by the back of her chair, and Diane and her +father appearing at that moment, she tottered towards the former, and +becoming quite passive under the influence of violent dizziness and +headache, made no objection to being half led, half carried, through +galleries that connected the Hotel de Bourbon with the Louvre. + +And thus it was that when Berenger had fought out his part in the +_melle_ of the prisoners released, and had maintained the honours of the +rose-coloured token in his helmet, he found that his lady-love had been +obliged by indisposition to return home; and while he stood, folding his +arms to restrain their strong inclination to take Narcisse by the throat +and demand whether this were another of his deceptions, a train of +fireworks suddenly exploded in the middle of the Styx--a last surprise, +especially contrived by King Charles, and so effectual that half the +ladies were shrieking, and imagining that they and the whole hall had +blown up together. + +A long supper, full of revelry, succeeded, and at length Sidney ad +Ribaumont walked home together in the midst of their armed servants +bearing torches. All the way home Berenger was bitter in vituperation of +the hateful pageant and all its details. + +‘Yea, truly,’ replied Sidney; ‘methought that it betokens disease in the +mind of a nation when their festive revelry is thus ghastly, rendering +the most awful secrets made known by our God in order to warm man from +sin into a mere antic laughing-stock. Laughter should be moved by what +is fair and laughter-worthy--even like such sports as our own “Midsummer +Night’s Dream.” I have read that the bloody temper of Rome fed itself in +gladiator shows, and verily, what we beheld to-night betokens something +at once grisly and light-minded in the mood of this country.’ + +Sidney thought so the more when on the second ensuing morning the +Admiral de Coligny was shot through both hands by an assassin generally +known to have been posted by the Duke of Guise, yet often called by the +sinister sobriquet of _Le Tueur de Roi_. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. THE KING’S TRAGEDY. + + + + The night is come, no fears disturb + The sleep of innocence + They trust in kingly faith, and kingly oath. + They sleep, alas! they sleep + Go to the palace, wouldst thou know + How hideous night can be; + Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, + Nor heart is quiet there! + --Southey, BARTHOLOMEW’S EVE + + +‘Young gentlemen,’ said Sir Francis Walsingham, as he rose from dinner +on the Saturday, ‘are you bound for the palace this evening?’ + +‘I am, so please your Excellency,’ returned Berenger. + +‘I would have you both to understand that you must have a care of +yourselves,’ said the Ambassador. ‘The Admiral’s wound has justly caused +much alarm, and I hear that the Protestants are going vapouring about in +so noisy and incautious a manner, crying out for justice, that it is +but too likely that the party of the Queen-mother and the Guise will be +moved to strong measures.’ + +‘They will never dare lay a finger upon us!’ said Sidney. + +‘In a terror-stricken fray men are no respecters of persons,’ replied +Sir Francis. ‘This house is, of course, inviolable; and, whatever the +madness of the people, we have stout hearts enough here to enforce +respect thereto; but I cannot answer even for an Englishman’s life +beyond its precincts; and you, Ribaumont, whom I cannot even claim as my +Queen’s subject--I greatly fear to trust you beyond its bounds.’ + +‘I cannot help it, sir. Nay, with the most grateful thanks for all your +goodness to me, I must pray you not to take either alarm or offence if I +return not this night.’ + +‘No more, my friend,’ said Walsingham, quickly; ‘let me know nothing of +your purposes, but take care of yourself. I would you were safe at home +again, though the desire may seem inhospitable. The sooner the better +with whatever you have to do.’ + +‘Is the danger so imminent?’ asked Sidney. + +‘I know nothing, Philip. All I can tell is that, as I have read that +dogs and cattle scent an earthquake in the air, so man and women seem to +breathe a sense of danger in this city. And to me the graciousness +with which the Huguenots have been of late treated wears a strangely +suspicious air. Sudden and secret is the blow like to be, and we cannot +be too much on our guard. Therefore remember, my young friends both, +that your danger or death would fall heavily on those ye love and honour +at home.’ + +So saying, he left the two youths, unwilling to seek further confidence, +and Berenger held his last consultation with Sidney, to whom he gave +directions for making full explanation to Walsingham in his absence, and +expediting Mr. Adderley’s return to England. Osbert alone was to go to +the Louvre with him, after having seen the five English grooms on board +the little decked market-vessel on the Seine, which was to await the +fugitives. Berenger was to present himself in the palace as in his +ordinary court attendance, and, contriving to elude notice among the +throng who were there lodged, was to take up his station at the foot of +the stairs leading to the apartments of ladies, whence Eustacie was to +descend at about eleven o’clock, with her maid Veronique. Landry Osbert +was to join them from the lackey’s hall below, where he had a friend, +and the connivance of the porter at the postern opening towards the +Seine had been secured. + +Sidney wished much to accompany him to the palace, if his presence could +be any aid or protection, but on consideration it was decided that his +being at the Louvre was likely to attract notice to Ribaumont’s delaying +there. The two young men therefore shook hands and parted, as youths who +trusted that they had begun a lifelong friendship, with mutual promises +to write to one another--the one, the adventures of his flight; the +other, the astonishment it would excite. And auguries were exchanged of +merry meetings in London, and of the admiration the lovely little wife +would excite at Queen Elizabeth’s court. + +Then, with an embrace such as English friends then gave, they separated +at the gate; and Sidney stood watching, as Berenger walked free and bold +down the street, his sword at his side, his cloak over one shoulder, his +feathered cap on one side, showing his bright curling hair, a sunshiny +picture of a victorious bridegroom--such a picture as sent Philip +Sidney’s wits back to Arcadia. + +It was not a day of special state, but the palace was greatly crowded. +The Huguenots were in an excited mood, inclined to rally round Henry of +Navarre, whose royal title made him be looked on as is a manner their +monarch, though his kingdom had been swallowed by Spain, and he was no +more than a French duke distantly related to royalty in the male line, +and more nearly through his grandmother and bride. The eight hundred +gentlemen he had brought with him swarmed about his apartments, making +their lodging on staircases and in passages; and to Berenger it seemed +as if the King’s guards and Monsieur’s gentlemen must have come in in +equal numbers to balance them. Narcisse was there, and Berenger kept +cautiously amid his Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have a +quarrel thrust on him which he could not honourably desert. It was late +before he could work his way to the young Queen’s reception-room, where +he found Eustacie. She looked almost as white as at the masque; but +there was a graver, less childish expression in her face than he had +ever seen before, and her eyes glanced confidence when they met his. + +Behind the Queen’s chair a few words could be spoken. + +‘_Ma mie,_ art thou well again? Canst bear this journey now?’ + +‘Quite well, now! quite ready. Oh that we may never have masques in +England!’ + +He smiled--‘Never such as this!’ + +‘Ah! thou knowest best. I am glad I am thine already; I am so silly, +thou wouldest never have chosen me! But thou wilt teach me, and I will +strive to be very good! And oh! let me but give one farewell to Diane.’ + +‘It is too hard to deny thee aught to-night, sweetheart, but judge for +thyself. Think of the perils, and decide.’ + +Before Eustacie could answer, a rough voice came near, the King making +noisy sport with the Count de Rochefoucauld and others. He was louder +and ruder than Berenger had ever yet seen him, almost giving the notion +of intoxication; but neither he nor his brother Henry ever tasted wine, +though both had a strange pleasure in being present at the orgies of +their companions: the King, it was generally said, from love of the +self-forgetfulness of excitement--the Duke of Anjou, because his cool +brain there collected men’s secrets to serve afterwards for his spiteful +diversion. + +Berenger would willingly have escaped notice, but his bright face and +sunny hair always made him conspicuous, and the King suddenly strode up +to him: ‘You here, sir? I thought you would have managed your affairs +so as to be gone long ago!’ then before Berenger could reply, ‘However, +since here you are, come along with me to my bedchamber! We are to have +a carouse there to-night that will ring through all Paris! Yes, and +shake Rochefoucauld out of his bed at midnight! You will be one of us, +Ribaumont? I command it!’ + +And without waiting for reply he turned away with an arm round +Rochefoucauld’s neck, and boisterously addressed another of the company, +almost as wildly as if he were in the mood that Scots call ‘fey.’ + +‘Royalty seems determined to frustrate our plans,’ said Berenger, as +soon as the King was out of hearing. + +‘But you will not go! His comrades drink till--oh! two, three in the +morning. We should never get away.’ + +‘No, I must risk his displeasure. We shall soon be beyond his reach. But +at least I may make his invitation a reason for remaining in the Louvre. +People are departing! Soon wilt thou be my own.’ + +‘As soon as the Queen’s COUCHER is over! I have but to change to a +traveling dress.’ + +‘At the foot of the winding stair. Sweetest be brave!’ + +‘I fear nothing with thee to guard me. See, the Queen is rising.’ + +Elizabeth was in effect rising to make her respectful progress to the +rooms of the Queen-mother, to bid her good night; and Eustacie must +follow. Would Diane be there? Oh that the command to judge between her +heart and her caution had not been given! Cruel kindness! + +Diane was there, straight as a poplar, cold as marble, with fixed eyes. +Eustacie stole up to her, and touched her. She turned with a start. +‘Cousin, you have been very good to me!’ Diane started again, as if +stung. You will love me still, whatever you hear?’ + +‘Is this meant for farewell?’ said Diane, grasping her wrist. + +‘Do not ask me, Diane. I may not.’ + +‘Where there is no trust there is no treason,’ said Diane, dreamily. +‘No, answer me not, little one, there will be time for that another day. +Where is he?’ + +‘In the _oeil-de-boeuf_, between the King’s and Queen’s suites of rooms. +I must go. There is the Queen going. Diane, one loving word.’ + +‘Silly child, you shall have plenty another time,’ said Diane, breaking +away. ‘Follow thy Queen now!’ + +Catherine, who sat between her daughters Claude and Marguerite, looked +pre-occupied, and summarily dismissed her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, +whom Eustacie was obliged to follow to her own state-room. There all the +forms of the COUCHER were tediously gone through; every pin had its own +ceremony, and even when her Majesty was safely deposited under her blue +satin coverlet the ladies still stood round till she felt disposed to +fall asleep. Elisabeth was both a sleepy and a considerate person, so +that this was not so protracted a vigil as was sometimes exacted by the +more wakeful princesses; but Eustacie could not escape from it till it +was already almost midnight, the period for her tryst. + +Her heart was very full. It was not the usual flutter and terror of an +eloping girl. Eustacie was a fearless little being, and her conscience +had no alarms; her affections were wholly with Berenger, and her +transient glimpses of him had been as of something come out of a region +higher, tenderer, stronger, purer, more trustworthy than that where she +had dwelt. She was proud of belonging to him. She had felt upheld by the +consciousness through years of waiting, and now he more than realized +her hopes, and she could have wept for exulting joy. Yet it was a +strange, stealthy break with all she had to leave behind. The light +to which he belonged seemed strange, chill, dazzling light, and she +shivered at the thought of it, as if the new world, new ideas, and new +requirements could only be endured with him to shield her and help her +on. And withal, there seemed to her a shudder over the whole place on +that night. The King’s eyes looked wild and startled, the Queen-mother’s +calm was strained, the Duchess of Lorraine was evidently in a state of +strong nervous excitement; there were strange sounds, strange people +moving about, a weight on everything, as if they were under the shadow +of a thunder-cloud. ‘Could it be only her own fancy?’ she said to +herself, because this was to be the great event of her life, for surely +all these great people could not know or heed that little Eustacie de +Ribaumont was to make her escape that night! + +The trains of royalty were not sumptuously lodged. France never has +cared so much for comfort as for display. The waiting-lady of the +bedchamber slept in the ante-room of her mistress; the others, however +high their rank, were closely herded together up a winding stair +leading to a small passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses, wherein the +demoiselles slept, often with their maids, and then dressed themselves +in the space afforded by the passage. Eustacie’s cell was nearly at the +end of the gallery, and exchanging ‘good-nights’ with her companions, +she proceeded to her recess, where she expected to find Veronique ready +to adjust her dress. Veronique, however, was missing; but anxious to +lose no time, she had taken off her delicate white satin farthingale to +change it for an unobtrusive dark woolen kirtle, when, to her surprise +and dismay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself heard outside +the door at the other end. Half-a-dozen heads came out of their cells; +half-a-dozen voices asked and answered the question, ‘What is it?’ ‘They +are bolting our door outside.’ But only Eustacie sped like lightning +along the passage, pulled at the door, and cried, ‘Open! Open, I say!’ +No answer, but the other bolt creaked. + +‘You mistake, CONCIERGE! We are never bolted in! My maid is shut out.’ + +No answer, but the step retreated. Eustacie clasped her hands with a cry +that she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted the next +moment. + +Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed. ‘What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid they +will not let us out to-morrow?’ + +‘My maid!’ murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a colour +to her distress. + +‘Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us.’ + +This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intently +listening for Veronique’s step, wishing that her companions would hold +their peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed whether +it were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery of Madame la +Comtesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so full of strange +people, who could say what might happen? And there was a talk of +a conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any rate, every one was too much +frightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on the floor, some on +a chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled together in Gabrielle de +Limeuil’s recess, the nearest to the door, and one after another related +horrible tales of blood, murder, and vengeance--then, alas! Only too +frequent occurrences in their unhappy land--each bringing some frightful +contribution from her own province, each enhancing upon the last-told +story, and ever and anon pausing with bated breath at some fancied +sound, or supposed start of one of the others; then clinging close +together, and renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voice +that grew louder with the interest of the story. Eustacie alone would +not join the cluster. Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood with +her back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest indication +outside of a step that might lead to her release, or at least enable +her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently that her companions +would go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening with the like dreadful +fascination to each of the terrible histories, which added each moment +to the nervous horror of the whole party. Only one, a dull and composed +girl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head in +her companion’s lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder and +suppressed cry when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of the +already terrified, excited maidens. + +‘The tocsin! The bell of St. Germain! Fire! No, a Huguenot rising! Fire! +Oh, let us out! Let us out! The window! Where is the fire? Nowhere! +See the lights! Hark, that was a shot! It was in the palace! A heretic +rising! Ah! there was to be a slaughter of the heretics! I heard it +whispered. Oh, let us out! Open the door!’ + +But nobody heard: nobody opened. There was one who stood without word +or cry, close to the door--her eyes dilated, her cheek colourless, her +whole person, soul and body alike, concentrated in that one impulse to +spring forward the first moment the bolt should be drawn. But still the +door remained fast shut! + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE PALACE OF SLAUGHTER + + + + A human shambles with blood-reeking floor. + MISS SWANWICK, Esch. Agamemnon + + +The door was opened at last, but not till full daylight. It found +Eustacie as ready to rush forth, past all resistance, as she had been +the night before, and she was already in the doorway when her maid +Veronique, her face swollen with weeping, caught her by the hands and +implored her to turn back and listen. + +And words about a rising of the Huguenots, a general destruction, +corpses lying in the court, were already passing between the other +maidens and the CONCIERGE. Eustacie turned upon her servant: ‘Veronique, +what means it? Where is he?’ + +‘Alas! alas! Ah! Mademoiselle, do but lie down! Woe is me! I saw it all! +Lie down, and I will tell you.’ + +‘Tell! I will not move till you have told me where my husband is,’ said +Eustacie, gazing with eyes that seemed to Veronique turned to stone. + +‘Ah! my lady--my dear lady! I was on the turn of the stairs, and saw +all. The traitor--the Chevalier Narcisse--came on him, cloaked like +you--and--shot him dead--with, oh, such cruel words of mockery! Oh! woe +the day! Stay, stay, dear lady, the place is all blood--they +are slaying them all--all the Huguenots! Will no one stop +her?--Mademoiselle--ma’m’selle!--’ + +For Eustacie no sooner gathered the sense of Veronique’s words than she +darted suddenly forwards, and was in a few seconds more at the foot of +the stairs. There, indeed, lay a pool of dark gore, and almost in it +Berenger’s black velvet cap, with the heron plume. Eustacie, with a low +cry, snatched it up, continued her headlong course along the corridor, +swiftly as a bird, Veronique following, and vainly shrieking to her to +stop. Diane, appearing at the other end of the gallery, saw but for a +moment the little figure, with the cloak gathered round her neck, and +floating behind her, understood Veronique’s cry and joined in the chase +across hall and gallery, where more stains were to be seen, even down to +the marble stairs, every step slippery with blood. Others there were who +saw and stood aghast, not understanding the apparition that flitted +on so swiftly, never pausing till at the great door at the foot of the +stairs she encountered a gigantic Scottish archer, armed to the teeth. +She touched his arm, and standing with folder arms, looked up and said, +‘Good soldier, kill me! I am a Huguenots!’ + +‘Stop her! bring her back!’ cried Diane from behind. ‘It is Mdlle. De +Nil-de-Merle!’ + +‘No, no! My husband is Huguenot! I am a Huguenot! Let them kill me, +I say!’--struggling with Diane, who had now come up with her, and was +trying to draw her back. + +‘Puir lassie!’ muttered the stout Scotsman to himself, ‘this fearsome +night has driven her demented.’ + +But, like a true sentinel, he moved neither hand nor foot to interfere, +as shaking herself loose from Diane, she was springing down the steps +into the court, when at that moment the young Abbe de Mericour was seen +advancing, pale, breathless, horrorstruck, and to him Diane shrieked to +arrest the headlong course. He obeyed, seeing the wild distraction of +the white face and widely glaring eyes, took her by both hands, and held +her in a firm grasp, saying, ‘Alas, lady, you cannot go out. It is no +sight for any one.’ + +‘They are killing the Protestants,’ she said; ‘I am one! Let me find +them and die.’ + +A strong effort to free herself ensued, but it was so suddenly succeeded +by a swoon that the Abbe could scarcely save her from dropping on the +steps. Diane begged him to carry her in, since they were in full view of +men-at-arms in the court, and, frightful to say, of some of the ladies +of the palace, who, in the frenzy of that dreadful time, had actually +come down to examine the half-stripped corpses of the men with whom they +had jested not twelve hours before. + +‘Ah! it is no wonder,’ said the youthful Abbe, as he tenderly lifted +the inanimate figure. ‘This has been a night of horrors. I was coming +in haste to know whether the King knows of this frightful plot of M. de +Guise, and the bloody work that is passing in Paris.’ + +‘The King!’ exclaimed Diane. ‘M. l’Abbe, do you know where he is now? +In the balcony overlooking the river, taking aim at the fugitives! Take +care! Even your _soutane_ would not save you if M. d’O and his crew +heard you. But I must pray you to aid me with this poor child! I dread +that her wild cries should be heard.’ + +The Abbe, struck dumb with horror, silently obeyed Mdlle. De Ribaumont, +and brought the still insensible Eustacie to the chamber, now deserted +by all the young ladies. He laid her on her bed, and finding he could do +no more, left her to her cousin and her maid. + +The poor child had been unwell and feverish ever since the masque, and +the suspense of these few days with the tension of that horrible night +had prostrated her. She only awoke from her swoon to turn her head from +the light and refuse to be spoken to. + +‘But, Eustacie, child, listen; this is all in vain--he lives,’ said +Diane. + +‘Weary me not with falsehoods,’ faintly said Eustacie. + +‘No! no! no! They meant to hinder your flight, but---’ + +‘They knew of it?’ cried Eustacie, sitting up suddenly. ‘Then you told +them. Go--go; let me never see you more! You have been his death!’ + +‘Listen! I am sure he lives! What! would they injure one whom my father +loved? I heard my father say he would not have him hurt. Depend upon it, +he is safe on his way to England.’ + +Eustacie gave a short but frightful hysterical laugh, and pointed to +Veronique. ‘She saw it,’ she said; ‘ask her.’ + +‘Saw what?’ said Diane, turning fiercely on Veronique. ‘What vile deceit +have you half killed your lady with?’ + +‘Alas! Mademoiselle, I did but tell her what I had seen,’ sighed +Veronique, trembling. + +‘Tell me!’ said Diane, passionately. + +‘Yes, everything,’ said Eustacie, sitting up. + +‘Ah! Mademoiselle, it will make you ill again.’ + +‘I WILL be ill--I WILL die! Heaven’s slaying is better than man’s. Tell +her how you saw Narcisse.’ + +‘False girl!’ burst out Diane. + +‘No, no,’ cried Veronique. ‘Oh, pardon me, Mademoiselle, I could not +help it.’ + +In spite of her reluctance, she was forced to tell that she had found +herself locked out of her mistress’s room, and after losing much time +in searching for the CONCIERGE, learnt that the ladies were locked up +by order of the Queen-mother, and was strongly advised not to be running +about the passages. After a time, however, while sitting with the +CONCIERGE’S wife, she heard such frightful whispers from men with white +badges, who were admitted one by one by the porter, and all led silently +to a small lower room, that she resolved on seeking out the Baron’s +servant, and sending him to warn his master, while she would take up her +station at her lady’s door. She found Osbert, and with him was ascending +a narrow spiral leading from the offices--she, unfortunately, the +foremost. As she came to the top, a scuffle was going on--four men +had thrown themselves upon one, and a torch distinctly showed her the +younger Chevalier holding a pistol to the cheek of the fallen man, and +she heard the worlds, _‘Le baiser d’Eustacie! Jet e barbouillerai ce +chien de visage,’_ and at the same moment the pistol was discharged. She +sprang back, oversetting, as she believed, Osbert, and fled shrieking to +the room of the CONCIERGE, who shut her in till morning. + +‘And how--how,’ stammered Diane, ‘should you know it was the Baron?’ + +Eustacie, with a death-like look, showed for a moment what even in her +swoon she had held clenched to her bosom, the velvet cap soaked with +blood. + +‘Besides,’ added Veronique, resolved to defend her assertion, ‘whom else +would the words suit? Besides, are not all the heretic gentlemen dead? +Why, as I sat there in the porter’s room, I heard M. d’O call each one +of them by name, one after the other, into the court, and there the +white-sleeves cut them down or pistolled them like sheep for the +slaughter. They lie all out there on the terrace like so many carcases +at market ready for winter salting.’ + +‘All slain?’ said Eustacie, dreamily. + +‘All, except those that the King called into his own _garde robe_.’ + +‘Then, I slew him!’ Eustacie sank back. + +‘I tell you, child,’ said Diane, almost angrily, ‘he lives. Not a hair +of his head was to be hurt! The girl deceives you.’ + +But Eustacie had again become insensible, and awoke delirious, +entreating to have the door opened, and fancying herself still on the +revolving elysium, ‘Oh, demons, have pity!’ was her cry. + +Diane’s soothings were like speaking to the winds; and at last she saw +the necessity of calling in further aid; but afraid of the scandal that +the poor girl’s raving accusations might create, she would not send +for the Huguenots surgeon, Ambroise Pare, whom the King had carefully +secured in his own apartments, but employed one of the barber valets of +the Queen-mother’s household. Poor Eustacie was well pleased to see +her blood flowing, and sank back on her pillow murmuring that she had +confessed her husband’s faith, and would soon be one with him, and Diane +feared for a moment lest the swoon should indeed be death. + +The bleeding was so far effectual that it diminished the fever, and +Eustacie became rational again when she had dozed and wakened, but she +was little able or willing to speak, and would not so much as listen +to Diane’s asseverations that Veronique had made a frightful error, +and that the Baron would prove to be alive. Whether it were that +the admission that Diane had known of the project for preventing the +elopement that invalidated her words, or whether the sufferer’s +instinct made her believe Veronique’s testimony rather than her cousin’s +assurances, it was all ‘cramming words into her ear against the stomach +of her sense,’ and she turned away from them with a piteous, petulant +hopelessness: ‘Could they not even let her alone to die in peace!’ + +Diane was almost angered at this little silly child being in such an +agony of sorrow--she, who could never have known how to love him. And +after all this persistent grief was willfully thrown away. For Diane +spoke in perfect sincerity when she taxed Veronique with an injurious, +barbarous mistake. She knew her father’s strong aversion to violence, +and the real predilection that Berenger’s good mien, respectful manners, +and liberal usage had won from him, and she believed he had much rather +the youth lived, provided he were inoffensive. No doubt a little force +had been necessary to kidnap one so tall, active, and determined, +and Veronique had made up her horrible tale after the usual custom of +waiting-maids. + +Nothing else SHOULD be true. Did she think otherwise, she should be +even more frantic than Eustacie! Why, it would be her own doing! She had +betrayed the day of the escape--she had held aloof from warning. There +was pleasure in securing Nid-de-Merle for her brother, pleasure in +balking the foolish child who had won the heart that disregarded her. +Nay, there might have been even pleasure in the destruction of the +scorner of her charms--the foe of her house--there might have been pride +in receiving Queen Catherine’s dexterous hint that she had been an apt +pupil, if the young Baron had only been something different--something +less fair, gracious, bright, and pure. One bright angel seemed to have +flitted across her path, and nothing should induce her to believe she +had destroyed him. + +The stripped corpses of the murdered Huguenots of the palace had been +laid in a line on the terrace, and the ladies who had laughed with them +the night before went to inspect them in death. A few remnants of Soeur +Monique’s influence would have withheld Diane, but that a frenzy of +suspense was growing on her. She must see for herself. If it were so, +she must secure a fragment of the shining flaxen hair, if only as a +token that anything so pure and bright had walked the earth. + +She went on the horrible quest, shrinking where others stared. For it +was a pitiless time, and the squadron of the Queen-mother were as lost +to womanhood as the fishwomen of two centuries later. But Diane saw no +corpse at once so tall, so young, and so fair, though blond Normans and +blue-blooded Franks, lads scarce sixteen and stalwart warriors, lay +in one melancholy rank. She at least bore away the certainly that the +English Ribaumont was not there; and if not, he MUST be safe! She could +obtain no further certainty, for she knew that she must not expect to +see either her father or brother. There was a panic throughout the city. +All Paris imagined that the Huguenots were on the point of rising and +slaying all the Catholics, and, with the savagery of alarmed cowardice, +the citizens and the mob were assisting the armed bands of the Dukes of +Anjou and Guise to complete the slaughter, dragging their lodgers +from their hiding-places, and denouncing all whom they suspected of +reluctance to mass and confession. But on the Monday, Diane was able +to send an urgent message to her father that he must come to speak with +her, for Mdlle. De Nid-de-Merle was extremely ill. She would meet him in +the garden after morning mass. + +There accordingly, when she stepped forth pale, rigid, but stately, with +her large fan in her hand to serve as a parasol, she met both him and +her brother. She was for a moment sorry, for she had much power over her +father, while she was afraid of her brother’s sarcastic tongue and eye; +she knew he never scrupled to sting her wherever she was most sensitive, +and she would have been able to extract much more from her father in +his absence. France has never been without a tendency to produce the +tiger-monkey, or ferocious fop; and the GENUS was in its full ascendancy +under the sons of Catherine de Medicis, when the dregs of Francois the +First’s PSEUDO-chivalry were not extinct--when horrible, retaliating +civil wars of extermination had made life cheap; nefarious persecutions +had hardened the heart and steeled the eye, and the licentiousness +promoted by the shifty Queen as one of her instruments of government had +darkened the whole understanding. The most hateful heights of perfidy, +effeminacy, and hypocrisy were not reached till poor Charles IX., who +only committed crimes on compulsion, was in his grave, and Henry III. on +the throne; but Narcisse de Ribaumont was one of the choice companions +of the latter, and after the night and day of murder now stood before +his sister with scented hair and handkerchief--the last, laced, +delicately held by a hand in an embroidered glove--emerald pendants in +his ears, a moustache twisted into sharp points and turned up like +an eternal sardonic smile, and he led a little white poodle by a +rose-coloured ribbon. + +‘Well, sister,’ he said, as he went, through the motions of kissing her +hand, and she embraced her father; ‘so you don’t know how to deal with +megrims and transports?’ + +‘Father,’ said Diane, not vouchsafing any attention, ‘unless you +can send her some assurance of his life, I will not answer for the +consequences.’ + +Narcisse laughed: ‘Take her this dog, with my compliments. That is the +way to deal with such a child as that.’ + +‘You do not know what you say, brother,’ answered Diane with dignity. +‘It goes deeper than that.’ + +‘The deeper it goes, child,’ said the elder Chevalier, ‘the better it is +that she should be undeceived as soon as possible. She will recover, and +be amenable the sooner.’ + +‘Then he lives, father?’ exclaimed Diane. ‘He lives, though she is not +to hear it--say----’ + +‘What know I?’ said the old man, evasively. ‘On a night of confusion +many mischances are sure to occur! Lurking in the palace at the very +moment when there was a search for the conspirators, it would have been +a miracle had the poor young man escaped.’ + +Diane turned still whiter. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘that was why you made +Monsieur put Eustacie into the ballet, that they might not go on +Wednesday!’ + +‘It was well hinted by you, daughter. We could not have effectually +stopped them on Wednesday without making a scandal.’ + +‘Once more,’ said Diane, gasping, though still resolute; ‘is not the +story told by Eustacie’s woman false--that she saw him--pistolled--by +you, brother?’ + +‘_Peste_!’ cried Narcisse. ‘Was the prying wench there? I thought the +little one might be satisfied that he had neighbour’s fare. No matter; +what is done for one’s _beaux yeux_ is easily pardoned--and if not, why, +I have her all the same!’ + +‘Nevertheless, daughter,’ said the Chevalier, gravely, ‘the woman must +be silenced. Either she must be sent home, or taught so to swear to +having been mistaken, that _la petite_ may acquit your brother! But what +now, my daughter?’ + +‘She is livid!’ exclaimed Narcisse, with his sneer. ‘What, sir, did not +you know she was smitten with the peach on the top of a pole?’ + +‘Enough, brother,’ said Diane, recovering herself enough to speak +hoarsely, but with hard dignity. ‘You have slain--you need not insult, +one whom you have lost the power of understanding!’ + +‘Shallow schoolboys certainly form no part of my study, save to kick +them down-stairs when they grow impudent,’ said Narcisse, coolly. ‘It is +only women who think what is long must be grand.’ + +‘Come, children, no disputes,’ said the Chevalier. ‘Of course we regret +that so fine a youth mixed himself up with the enemies of the kingdom, +like the stork among the sparrows. Both Diane and I are sorry for the +necessity; but remember, child, that when he was interfering between +your brother and his just right of inheritance and destined wife, +he could not but draw such a fate on himself. Now all is smooth, the +estates will be united in their true head, and you--you too, my child, +will be provided for as suits your name. All that is needed is to soothe +the little one, so as to hinder her from making an outcry--and silence +the maid; my child will do her best for her father’s sake, and that of +her family.’ + +Diane was less demonstrative than most of her countrywomen. She had +had time to recollect the uselessness of giving vent to her indignant +anguish, and her brother’s derisive look held her back. The family +tactics, from force of habit, recurred to her; she made no further +objection to her father’s commands; but when her father and brother +parted with her, she tottered into the now empty chapel, threw herself +down, with her burning forehead on the stone step, and so lay for hours. +It was not in prayer. It was because it was the only place where she +could be alone. To her, heaven above and earth below seemed alike full +of despair, darkness, and cruel habitations, and she lay like one +sick with misery and repugnance to the life and world that lay before +her--the hard world that had quenched that one fair light and mocked +her pity. It was a misery of solitude, and yet no thought crossed her +of going to weep and sympathize with the other sufferer. No; rivalry +and jealousy came in there! Eustacie viewed herself as his wife, and the +very thought that she had been deliberately preferred and had enjoyed +her triumph hardened Diane’s heart against her. Nay, the open violence +and abandonment of her grief seemed to the more restrained and +concentrated nature of her elder a sign of shallowness and want of +durability; and in a certain contemptuous envy at her professing a right +to mourn, Diane never even reconsidered her own resolution to play out +her father’s game, consign Eustacie to her husband’s murdered, and leave +her to console herself with bridal splendours and a choice of admirers +from all the court. + +However, for the present Diane would rather stay away as much as +possible from the sick-bed of the poor girl; and when an approaching +step forced her to rouse herself and hurry away by the other door of +the chapel, she did indeed mount to the ladies’ bed-chamber, but only to +beckon Veronique out of hearing and ask for her mistress. + +Just the same still, only sleeping to have feverish dreams of the +revolving wheel or the demons grappling her husband, refusing all food +but a little drink, and lying silent except for a few moans, heedless +who spoke or looked at her. + +Diane explained that in that case it was needless to come to her, but +added, with the _vraisemblance_ of falsehood in which she had graduated +in Catherine’s school, ‘Veronique, as I told you, you were mistaken.’ + +‘Ah, Mademoiselle, if M. le Baron lives, she will be cured at once.’ + +‘Silly girl,’ said Diane, giving relief to her pent-up feeling by +asperity of manner, ‘how could he live when you and your intrigues got +him into the palace on such a night? Dead he is, OF COURSE; but it was +your own treacherous, mischievous fancy that laid it on my brother. He +was far away with M. de Guise at the attack on the Admiral. It was some +of Monsieur’s grooms you saw. You remember she had brought him into a +scrape with Monsieur, and it was sure to be remembered. And look you, if +you repeat the other tale, and do not drive it out of her head, you need +not look to be long with her--no, nor at home. My father will have no +one there to cause a scandal by an evil tongue.’ + +That threat convinced Veronique that she had been right; but she, too, +had learnt lessons at the Louvre, and she was too diplomatic not to ask +pardon for her blunder, promise to contradict it when her mistress +could listen, and express her satisfaction that it was not the Chevalier +Narcisse--for such things were not pleasant, as she justly observed, in +families. + +About noon on the Tuesday the Louvre was unusually tranquil. All the +world had gone forth to a procession to Notre Dame, headed by the King +and all the royal family, to offer thanksgiving for the deliverance of +the country from the atrocious conspiracy of the Huguenots. Eustacie’s +chamber was freed from the bustle of all the maids of honour arraying +themselves, and adjusting curls, feathers, ruffs and jewels; and such +relief as she was capable of experiencing she felt in the quiet. + +Veronique hoped she would sleep, and watched like a dragon to guard +against any disturbance, springing out with upraised finger when a soft +gliding step and rustling of brocade was heard. ‘Does she sleep?’ said +a low voice; and Veronique, in the pale thin face with tear-swollen eyes +and light yellow hair, recognized the young Queen. ‘My good girl,’ said +Elisabeth, with almost a beseeching gesture, ‘let me see her. I do not +know when again I may be able.’ + +Veronique stood aside, with the lowest possible of curtseys, just as +her mistress with a feeble, weary voice murmured, ‘Oh, make them let me +alone!’ + +‘My poor, poor child,’ said the Queen, bending over Eustacie, while her +brimming eyes let the tears fall fast, ‘I will not disturb you long, but +I could not help it.’ + +‘Her Majesty!’ exclaimed Eustacie, opening wide her eyes in amazement. + +‘My dear, suffer me here a little moment,’ said the meek Elisabeth, +seating herself so as to bring her face near to Eustacie’s; ‘I could not +rest till I had seen how it was with you and wept with you.’ + +‘Ah, Madame, you can weep,’ said Eustacie slowly, looking at the Queen’s +heavy tearful eyes almost with wonder; ‘but I do not weep because I am +dying, and that is better.’ + +‘My dear, my dear, do not so speak!’ exclaimed the gentle but rather +dull Queen. + +‘Is it wrong? Nay, so much the better--then I shall be with HIM,’ said +Eustacie in the same feeble dreamy manner, as if she did not understand +herself, but a little roused by seeing she had shocked her visitor. ‘I +would not be wicked. He was all bright goodness and truth: but his does +not seem to be goodness that brings to heaven, and I do not want to be +in the heaven of these cruel false men--I think it would go round and +round.’ She shut her eyes as if to steady herself, and that moment +seemed to give her more self-recollection, for looking at the weeping, +troubled visitor, she exclaimed, with more energy, ‘Oh! Madame, it must +be a dreadful fancy! Good men like him cannot be shut into those fiery +gates with the torturing devils.’ + +‘Heaven forbid!’ exclaimed the Queen. ‘My poor, poor child, grieve not +yourself thus. At my home, my Austrian home, we do not speak in this +dreadful way. My father loves and honours his loyal Protestants, and he +trusts that the good God accepts their holy lives in His unseen Church, +even though outwardly they are separate from us. My German confessor +ever said so. Oh! Child, it would be too frightful if we deemed that all +those souls as well as bodies perished in these frightful days. Myself, +I believe that they have their reward for their truth and constancy.’ + +Eustacie caught the Queen’s hand, and fondled it with delight, as though +those words had veritably opened the gates of heaven to her husband. +The Queen went on in her slow gentle manner, the very tone of which +was inexpressibly soothing and sympathetic: ‘Yes, and all will be clear +there. No more violence. At home our good men think so, and the King +will think the same when these cruel counselors will leave him to +himself; and I pray, I pray day and night, that God will not lay this +sin to his account, but open his eyes to repent. Forgive him, Eustacie, +and pray for him too.’ + +‘The King would have saved my husband, Madame,’ returned Eustacie. ‘He +bade him to his room. It was I, unhappy I, who detained him, lest our +flight should have been hindered.’ + +The Queen in her turn kissed Eustacie’s forehead with eager gratitude. +‘Oh, little one, you have brought a drop of comfort to a heavy heart. +Alas! I could sometimes feel you to be a happier wife than I, with your +perfect trust in the brave pure-spirited youth, unwarped by these wicked +cruel advisers. I loved to look at his open brow; it was so like our +bravest German Junkers. And, child, we thought, both of us, to have +brought about your happiness; but, ah! it has but caused all this +misery.’ + +‘No, no, dearest Queen,’ said Eustacie, ‘this month with all its woe has +been joy--life! Oh! I had rather lie here and die for his loss than be +as I was before he came. And NOW--now, you have given him to me for all +eternity--if but I am fit to be with him!’ + +Eustacie had revived so much during the interview that the Queen could +not believe her to be in a dying state; but she continued very ill, +the low fever still hanging about her, and the faintness continual. The +close room, the turmoil of its many inhabitants, and the impossibility +of quiet also harassed her greatly, and Elisabeth had little or no power +of making any other arrangements for her in the palace. Ladies when ill +were taken home, and this poor child had no home. The other maids of +honour were a gentler, simpler set than Catherine’s squadron, and were +far from unkind; but between them and her, who had so lately been the +brightest child of them all, there now lay that great gulf. _‘Ich habe +gelebt und geliebet.’_ That the little blackbird, as they used to call +her, should have been on the verge of running away with her own husband +was a half understood, amusing mystery discussed in exaggerating +prattle. This was hushed, indeed, in the presence of that crushed, +prostrate, silent sorrow; but there was still an utter incapacity of +true sympathy, that made the very presence of so many oppressive, +even when they were not in murmurs discussing the ghastly tidings of +massacres in other cities, and the fate of acquaintances. + +On that same day, the Queen sent for Diane to consult her about the +sufferer. Elisabeth longed to place her in her own cabinet and attend on +her herself; but she was afraid to do this, as the unhappy King was +in such a frenzied mood, and so constantly excited by his brother and +Guise, that it was possible that some half-delirious complaint from poor +Eustacie might lead to serious consequences. Indeed, Elisabeth, though +in no state to bear agitation, was absorbed in her endeavour to prevent +him from adding blood to blood, and a few days later actually saved the +lives of the King of Navarre and Prince of Conde, by throwing herself +before him half-dressed, and tearing his weapon from his hand. Her only +hope was that if she should give him a son, her influence for mercy +would revive with his joy. Meantime she was powerless, and she could +only devise the sending the poor little sufferer to a convent, where the +nuns might tend her till she was restored to health and composure. Diane +acquiesced, but proposed sending for her father, and he was accordingly +summoned. Diane saw him first alone, and both agreed that he had better +take Eustacie to Bellaise, where her aunt would take good care of her, +and in a few months she would no doubt be weary enough of the country to +be in raptures to return to Paris on any terms. + +Yet even as Diane said this, a sort of longing for the solitude of the +woods of Nid-de-Merle came over her, a recollection of the good Sister +Monique, at whose knee she had breathed somewhat of the free pure air +that her murdered cousin had brought with him; a sense that there she +could pour forth her sorrow. She offered herself at once to go with +Eustacie. + +‘No, no, my daughter,’ said the Chevalier, ‘that is unnecessary. There +is pleasanter employment for you. I told you that your position was +secured. Here is a brilliant offer--M. de Selinville,’ + +_‘Le bonhomme de Selinville!’_ exclaimed Diane, feeling rather as if the +compensation were like the little dog offered to Eustacie. + +‘Know ye not that his two heretic nephews perished the other night. +He is now the head of his name, the Marquis, the only one left of his +house.’ + +‘He begins early,’ said Diane. + +‘An old soldier, my daughter, scarce stays to count the fallen. He has +no time to lose. He is sixty, with a damaged constitution. It will be +but the affair of a few years, and then will my beautiful Marquise be +free to choose for herself. I shall go from the young Queen to obtain +permission from the Queen-mother.’ + +No question was asked. Diane never even thought objection possible. It +was a close to that present life which she had begun to loathe; it gave +comparative liberty. It would dull and confuse her heart-sick pain, +and give her a certain superiority to her brother. Moreover, it would +satisfy the old father, whom she really loved. Marriage with a worn-out +old man was a simple step to full display for young ladies without +fortune. + +The Chevalier told Queen Elisabeth his purpose of placing his niece +in the family convent, under the care of her aunt, the Abbess, in a +foundation endowed by her own family on the borders of her own estate. +Elisabeth would have liked to keep her nearer, but could not but own +that the change to the scenes of her childhood might be more beneficial +than a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the Chevalier spoke of +his niece with a tender solicitude that gained the Queen’s heart. +She consented, only stipulating that Eustacie’s real wishes should be +ascertained, and herself again made the exertion of visiting the patient +for the purpose. + +Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near as she could to +the narrow window. The Queen would not let her move, but took her damp +languid hand, and detailed her uncle’s proposal. It was plain that it +was not utterly distasteful. ‘Soeur Monique,’ she said, ‘Soeur Monique +would sing hymns to me, and then I should not see the imps at night.’ + +‘Poor child! And you would like to go? You could bear the journey?’ + +‘It would be in the air! And then I should not smell blood--blood!’ And +her cheeks became whiter again, if possible. + +‘Then you would not rather be at the Carmelites, or Maubuisson, near +me?’ + +‘Ah! Madame, there would not be Soeur Monique. If the journey would only +make me die, as soon as I came, with Soeur Monique to hush me, and keep +off dreadful images!’ + +‘Dear child, you should put away the thought of dying. Maybe you are to +live, that your prayers may win salvation for the soul of him you love.’ + +‘Oh, then! I should like to go into a convent so strict--so strict, +cried Eustacie, with renewed vigour. ‘Bellaise is nothing like strict +enough. Does your Majesty indeed think that my prayers will aid him?’ + +‘Alas! what hope could we have but in praying?’ said Elisabeth, with +tears in her eyes. ‘Little one, we will be joined at least in our +prayers and intercessions: thou wilt not forget in thine one who yet +lives, unhappier than all!’ + +‘And, oh, my good, my holy Queen, will you indeed pray for him--my +husband? He was so good, his faith can surely not long be reckoned +against him. He did not believe in Purgatory! Perhaps----’ Then frowning +with a difficulty far beyond a fever-clouded brain, she concluded--‘At +least, orisons may aid him! It is doing something for him! Oh, where are +my beads?--I can begin at once.’ + +The Queen put her arm round her, and together they said the _De +profundis_,--the Queen understood every word far more for the living +than the dead. Again Elisabeth had given new life to Eustacie. The +intercession for her husband was something to live for, and the severest +convent was coveted, until she was assured that she would not be allowed +to enter on any rule till she had time to recover her health, and show +the constancy of her purpose by a residence at Bellaise. + +Ere parting, however, the Queen bent over her, and colouring, as if much +ashamed of what she said, whispered--‘Child, not a word of the ceremony +at Montpipeau!--you understand? The King was always averse; it would +bring him and me into dreadful trouble with THOSE OTHERS, and alas! It +makes no difference now. You will be silent?’ + +And Eustacie signed her acquiescence, as indeed no difficulty was made +in her being regarded as the widow of the Baron de Ribaumont, when she +further insisted on procuring a widow’s dress before she quitted her +room, and declared, with much dignity, that she should esteem no person +her friend who called her Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle. To this the +Chevalier de Ribaumont was willing to give way; he did not care whether +Narcisse married her as Berenger’s widow or as the separated maiden +wife, and he thought her vehement opposition and dislike would die away +the faster the fewer impediments were placed in her way. Both he and +Diane strongly discouraged any attempt on Narcisse’s widow part at a +farewell interview; and thus unmolested, and under the constant soothing +influence of reciting her prayers, in the trust that they were availing +her husband, Eustacie rallied so much that about ten day after the +dreadful St. Batholomew, in the early morning, she was half-led +half-carried down the stairs between her uncle and Veronique. Her face +was close muffled in her thick black veil, but when she came to the +foot of the first stairs where she had found Berenger’s cap, a terrible +shuddering came on her; she again murmured something about the smell of +blood, and fell into a swoon. + +‘Carry her on at once,’ said Diane, who was following,--‘there will be +not end to it if you do not remove her immediately.’ + +And thus shielded from the sight of Marcisse’s intended passionate +gesture of farewell at the palace-door, Eustecie was laid at full length +on the seat of the great ponderous family coach, where Veronique hardly +wished to revive her till the eight horses should have dragged her +beyond the streets of Paris, with their terrible associations, and the +gibbets still hung with the limbs of the murdered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. THE BRIDEGROOM’S ARRIVAL + + + + The starling flew to his mother’s window stane, + It whistled and it sang, + And aye, the ower word of the tune + Was ‘Johnnie tarries lang.’ + --JOHNNIE OF BREDISLEE + + +There had been distrust and dissatisfaction at home for many a day past. +Berenger could hardly be censured for loving his own wife, and yet his +family were by not means gratified by the prospect of his bringing home +a little French Papist, of whom Lady Thistlewood remembered nothing +good. + +Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her stepmother, who insisted +on treating her with extreme pity as a deserted maiden, and thus +counteracting Aunt Cecily’s wise representations, that there never +should, and therefore never could, have been anything save fraternal +affection between the young people, and that pity was almost an insult +to Lucy. The good girl herself was made very uncomfortable by there +demonstrations, and avoided them as much as possible, chiefly striving +in her own gentle way to prepare her little sisters to expect numerous +charms in brother Berenger’s wife, and heartily agreeing with Philip +that Berenger knew his own mind best. + +‘And at any rate,’ quoth Philip, ‘we’ll have the best bonfire that +ever was seen in the country! Lucy, you’ll coax my father to give us a +tar-barrel!’ + +The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous pile of fagots, and the +fisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should first bring word to +Master Philip that the young lord and lady were in the creek. + +Philip gave his pony no rest, between the lock-out on the downs and the +borders of the creek; but day after day passed, and still the smacks +from Jersey held no person worth mentioning; and still the sense of +expectation kept Lucy starting at every sound, and hating herself for +her own folly. + +At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with riding and +consternation. ‘Oh! father, father, Paul Duval’s boat is come in, and +he says that the villain Papists have butchered every Protestant in +France.’ + +Sir Marmaduke’s asseveration was of the strongest, that he did not +believe a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his horse and rode down to +interrogate Paul Duval, and charge him not to spread the report was in +the air. He went to the Hall, and the butler met him with a grave face, +and took him to the study, where Lord Walwyn was sitting over letter +newly received from London, giving hints from the Low Countries of +bloody work in France. And when he returned to his home, his wife burst +out upon him in despair. Here had they been certainly killing her poor +buy. Not a doubt that he was dead. All from this miserable going to +France, that had been quite against her will. + +Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; but every day +some fresh wave of tidings floated in. Murder wholesale had surely been +perpetrated. Now came stories of death-bells at Rouen from the fishermen +on the coast; now markets and petty sessions discussed the foul +slaughter of the Ambassador and his household; truly related how the +Queen had put on mourning, and falsely that she had hung the French +Ambassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh wrote to his old friend from +London, that some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and that +no news had yet been received of Sir Francis Walsingham or of his suite. + +All these days seems so many years taken from the vital power of Lord +Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would themselves closely +around his grandson, but he reproached himself severely with having +trusted him in his youth and inexperience among the seductive perils of +Paris. The old man grieved over the promising young life cut off, and +charged on himself the loss and grief to the women, whose stay he had +trusted Berenger would have been. He said little, but his hand and head +grew more trembling; he scarcely ate or slept, and seemed to waste from +a vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of old age, till +Lady Walwyn had almost ceased to think of her grandson in her anxiety +for her husband. + +Letters came at last. The messenger despatched by Sir Francis Walsingham +had not been able to proceed till the ways had become safe, and he had +then been delayed; but on his arrival his tidings were sent down. There +were letters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart-broken +Mr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all possible praises of the +young Baron de Ribaumont, all possible reproach to themselves for +having let him be betrayed, without even a possibility of recovering his +remains for honourable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr. +Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had offered +to escort him to the Low Countries, whence he would make his way to +England, and would present himself at Hurst Walwyn, if his Lordship +could endure the sight of his creature who had so miserably failed in +his trust. + +Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he spoke. Then he +took off his spectacles, laid them down, and said calmly, ‘God’s will be +done. I thank God that my boy was blameless. Better they slew him than +sent him home tainted with their vices.’ + +The certainty, such as it was, seemed like repose after the suspense. +They knew to what to resign themselves, and even Lady Thistlewood’s +tempestuous grief had so spent itself that late in the evening the +family sat round the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one worn +out with sorrow, the others talking in hushed tones of that bright +boyhood, that joyous light quenched in the night of carnage. + +The butler slowly entered the hall, and approached Sir Marmaduke, +cautiously. ‘Can I speak with you, sir?’ + +‘What is it, Davy?’ demanded the lady, who first caught the words. ‘What +did you say?’ + +‘Madam, it is Humfrey Holt!’ + +Humfrey Holt was the head of the grooms who had gone with Berenger; and +there was a general start and suppressed exclamation. ‘Humfrey Hold!’ +said Lord Walwyn, feebly drawing himself to sit upright, ‘hath he, then, +escaped?’ + +‘Yea, my Lord,’ said Davy, ‘and he brings news of my young Lord’ + +‘Alack! Davy,’ said Lady Walwyn, ‘such news had been precious a while +ago.’ + +‘Nay, so please your Ladyship, it is better than you deem. Humfley says +my young Lord is yet living.’ + +‘Living! shrieked Lady Thistlewood, starting up. ‘Living! My son! and +where?’ + +‘They are bearing him home, my Lady,’ said the butler; ‘but I fear me, +by what Humfley says, that it is but in woeful case.’ + +‘Bringing him home! Which way?’ Philip darted off like an arrow from the +bow. Sir Marmaduke hastily demanded if aid were wanted; and Lady Walwyn, +interpreting the almost inaudible voice of her husband, bade that +Humfley should be called in to tell his own story. + +Hands were held out in greeting, and blessings murmured, as the groom +entered, looking battered and worn, and bowing low in confusion at being +thus unusually conspicuous, and having to tell his story to the head and +body, and slashed about the face so as it is a shame to see. Nor hath he +done aught these three weary weeks but moan from time to time so as +it is enough to break one’s heart to hear him; and I fear me ‘tis but +bringing him home to die.’ + +‘Even so, God be thanked; and you too, honest Humfley,’ said Lady +Walwyn.’ ‘Let us hear when and how this deed was done.’ + +‘Why, that, my Lord, I can’t so well say, being that I was not with him; +more’s the pity, or I’d have known the reason why, or even they laid a +finger on him. But when Master Landry, his French foster-brother, comes, +he will resolve you in his own tongue. I can’t parleyvoo with him, but +he’s an honest rogue for a Frenchman, and ‘twas he brought off my young +Lord. You see we were all told to be abroad the little French craft. + +Master Landry took me down and settled it all with the master, a French +farmer fellow that came a horse-dealing to Paris. I knew what my young +Lord was after, but none of the other varlets did; and I went down and +made as decent a place as I could between decks. My Lord and Master +Landry were gone down to the court meantime, and we were to lie off till +we heard a whistle like a mavis on the bank, then come and take them +aboard. Well, we waited and waited, and all the lights were out, and not +a sound did we hear till just an hour after midnight. Then a big bell +rang out, not like a decent Christianable bell, but a great clash, then +another, and a lot of strokes enough to take away one’s breath. Then +half the windows were lighted up, and we heard shots, and screeches, +and splashes, till, as I said to Jack Smithers, ‘twas as if one half +the place was murthering the other. The farmer got frightened, and would +have been off; but when I saw what he was at, “No,” says I, “not an inch +do we budge without news of my Lord.” So Jack stood by the rope, and let +them see that ‘twas as much as their life was worth to try to unmoor. +Mercy, what a night it was! Shrieks and shouts, and shots and howls, +here, there, and everywhere, and splashes into the rive; and by and by +we saw the poor murthered creatures come floating by. The farmer, he had +some words with one of the boats near, and I heard somewhat of Huguenot +and Hereteek, and I knew that was what they called good Protestants. +Then up comes the farmer with his sons looking mighty ugly at us, and +signing that unless we let them be off ‘twould be set ashore for us; and +we began to think as how we had best be set ashore, and go down the five +of us to see if we could stand by my young Lord in some strait, or give +notice to my Lord Ambassador.’ + +‘God reward you!’ exclaimed Lady Walwyn. + +‘Twas only our duty, my Lady,’ gruffly answered Humfrey; ‘but just as +Hal had got on the quay, what should I see but Master Landry coming +down the street with my young Lord in his back! I can tell you he was +well-nigh spent; and just then half a dozen butcherly villains came out +on him, bawling, “Tu-y! tu-y!” which it seems means “kill, kill.” He +turned about and showed them that he had got a white sleeve and white +cross in his bonnet, like them, the rascals, giving them to understand +that he was only going to throw the corpse into the river. I doubted him +then myself; but he caught sight of us, and in his fashion of talk with +us, called out to us to help, for there was life still. So two of us +took my Lord, and the other three gave the beggarly French cut-throats +as good as they meant for us; while Landry shouted to the farmer to +wait, and we got aboard, and made right away down the river. But never a +word has the poor young gentleman spoken, though Master Landry has done +all a barber or a sick-nurse could do; and he got us past the cities +by showing the papers in my Lord’s pocket, so that we got safe to the +farmer’s place. There we lay till we could get a boat to Jersey, and +thence again home; and maybe my young Lord will mend now Mistress Cecily +will have the handing of him.’ + +‘That is it the wisest Hands, good Humfrey,’ said Lord Walwyn, as the +tears of feeble age flowed down his cheeks. ‘May He who hath brought the +lad safely so far spare him yet, and raise him up. But whether he live +or die, you son and daughter Thistlewood will look that the faithfulness +of Humfrey Holt and his comrades be never forgotten or unrewarded.’ + +Humfrey again muttered something about no more than his duty; but by +this time sounds were heard betokening the approach of the melancholy +procession, who, having been relieved by a relay of servants sent at +once from the house, were bearing home the wounded youth. Philip first +of all dashed in hurrying and stumbling. He had been unprepared by +hearing Humfrey’s account, and, impetuous and affectionate as he was, +was entirely unrestrained, and flinging himself on his knees with the +half-audible words, ‘Oh! Lucy! Lucy! He is as good as dead!’ hid +his face between his arms on his sister’s lap, and sobbed with the +abandonment of a child, and with all his youthful strength; so much +adding to the consternation and confusion, that, finding all Lucy’s +gentle entreaties vain, his father at last roughly pulled up his face by +main force, and said, ‘Philip, hold your tongue! Are we to have you on +our hands as well as my Lady? I shall send you home this moment! Let +your sister go.’ + +This threat reduced the boy to silence. Lucy, who was wanted to assist +in preparing Berenger’s room, disengaged herself; but he remained in +the same posture, his head buried on the seat of the chair, and the +loud weeping only forcibly stifled by forcing his handkerchief into +his mouth, as if he had been in violent bodily pain. Nor did he venture +again to look up as the cause of all his distress was slowly carried +into the hall, corpse-like indeed. The bearers had changed several +times, all but a tall, fair Norman youth, who through the whole transit +had supported the head, endeavouring to guard it from shocks. When the +mother and the rest came forward, he made a gesture to conceal the face, +saying in French, ‘Ah! Mesdames; this is no sight for you.’ + +Indeed the head and face were almost entirely hidden by bandages, and +it was not till Berenger had been safely deposited on a large carved +bed that the anxious relatives were permitted to perceive the number +and extent of his hurts; and truly it was only by the breath, the vital +warmth, and the heavy moans when he was disturbed, or the dressings of +the wounds were touched, that showed him still to be a living man. +There proved to be no less than four wounds--a shot through the right +shoulder, the right arm also broken with a terrible blow with a sword, +a broad gash from the left temple to the right ear, and worse than all, +_‘le baiser d’Eustacie,’_ a bullet wound where the muzzle of the pistol +had absolutely been so close as to have burnt and blackened the cheek; +so that his life was, as Osbert averred, chiefly owing to the assassin’s +jealousy of his personal beauty, which had directed his shot to the +cheek rather than the head; and thus, though the bullet had terribly +shattered the upper jaw and roof of the mouth, and had passed out +through the back of the head, there was a hope that it had not +penetrated the seat of life or reason. The other gash on the face was +but a sword-wound, and though frightful to look at, was unimportant, +compared with the first wound with the pistol-shot in the shoulder, with +the arm broken and further injured by having served to suspend him round +Osbert’s neck; but it was altogether so appalling a sight, that it +was no wonder that Sis Marmaduke muttered low but deep curses on the +cowardly ruffians; while his wife wept in grief as violent, though more +silent, than her stepson’s, and only Cecily gathered the faintest ray of +hope. The wounds had been well cared for, the arm had been set, the hair +cut away, and lint and bandages applied with a skill that surprised her, +till she remembered that Landry Osbert had been bred up in preparation +to be Berenger’s valet, and thus to practise those minor arts of surgery +then required in a superior body-servant. For his part, though his eyes +looked red, and his whole person exhausted by unceasing watching, he +seemed unable to relinquish the care of his master for a moment, and +her nunnery French would not have perceived her tender touch and ready +skill. These were what made him consent to leave his post even for a +short meal, and so soon as he had eaten it he was called to Lord Walwyn +to supply the further account which Humfley had been unable to give. He +had waited, he explained, with a lackey, a friend of his in the palace, +till he became alarmed by the influx of armed men, wearing white crosses +and shirt-sleeves on their left arms, but his friend had assured him +that his master had been summoned to the royal bedchamber, where he +would be as safe as in church; and obtaining from Landry Osbert himself +a perfectly true assurance of being a good Catholic, had supplied him +with the badges that were needful for security. It was just then that +Madame’s maid crept down to his waiting-place with the intelligence that +her mistress had been bolted in, and after a short consultation they +agreed to go and see whether M. le Baron were indeed waiting, and, if +he were, to warn him of the suspicious state of the lower regions of the +palace. + +They were just in time to see, but not to prevent the attack upon their +young master; and while Veronique fled, screaming, Landry Osbert, who +had been thrown back on the stairs in her sudden flight, recovered +himself and hastened to his master. The murderers, after their blows +had been struck, had hurried along the corridor to join the body of +assassins, whose work they had in effect somewhat anticipated. +Landry, full of rage and despair, was resolved at least to save his +foster-brother’s corpse from further insult, and bore it down-stairs in +his arms. On the way, he perceived that life was not yet extinct, and +resolving to become doubly cautious, he sought in the pocket for the +purse that had been well filled for the flight, and by the persuasive +argument of gold crowns, obtained egress from the door-keeper of the +postern, where Berenger hoped to have emerged in a far different manner. +It was a favourable moment, for the main body of the murderers were at +that time being poster in the court by the captain of the guard, ready +to massacre the gentlemen of the King of Navarre’s suite, and he was +therefore unmolested by any claimant of the plunders of the apparent +corpse he bore on his shoulders. The citizens of Paris who had been +engaged in their share of the murders for more than an hour before the +tragedy began in the Louvre, frequently beset him on his way to the +quay, and but for the timely aid of his English comrades, he would +hardly have brought off his foster-brother safely. + +The pass with which King Charles had provided Berenger for himself and +his followers when his elopement was first planned, enabled Osbert to +carry his whole crew safely past all the stations where passports were +demanded. He had much wished to procure surgical aid at Rouen, but +learning from the boatmen on the river that the like bloody scenes were +there being enacted, he had decide on going on to his master’s English +home as soon as possible, merely trusting to his own skill by the way; +and though it was the slightest possible hope, yet the healthy state +of the wounds, and the mere fact of life continuing, had given him some +faint trust that there might be a partial recovery. + +Lord Walwyn repeated his agitated thanks and praises for such devotion +to his grandson. + +Osbert bower, laid his hand on his heart, and replied--‘Monseigneur is +good, but what say I? Monsieur le Baron is my foster-brother! Say that, +and all is said in one word.’ + +He was then dismissed, with orders to take some rest, but he obstinately +refused all commands in French or English to go to bed, and was found +some time after fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. SWEET HEART + + + + Ye hae marred a bonnier face than your ain. + DYING WORDS OF THE BONNIE EARL OF MORAY + + +One room at Hurst Walwyn, though large, wainscoted, and well furnished, +bore as pertinaciously the air of a cell as the appearance of Sister +Cecily St. John continued like that of a nun. There was a large sunny +oriel, in which a thrush sang merrily in a wicker cage; and yet the very +central point and leading feature of the room was the altar-like table, +covered with rich needlework, with a carved ebony crucifix placed on it, +and on the wall above, quaint and stiff, but lovely-featured, delicately +tinted pictures of Our Lady in the centre, and of St. Anne and St. +Cecilia on either side, with skies behind of most ethereal blue, and +robes tenderly trimmed with gold. A little shrine of purple spar, with a +crystal front, contained a fragment of sacred bone; a silver shell help +holy water, perpetuated from some blessed by Bishop Ridley. + + ‘With velvet bound and broidered o’er, + Her breviary book’ + +Lay open at ‘Sext,’ and there, too, lay with its three marks at the +Daily Lessons, the Bishop’s Bible, and the Common Prayer beside it. + +The elder Baron de Ribaumont had never pardoned Cecily his single glance +at that table, and had seriously remonstrated with his father-in-law +for permitting its existence, quoting Rachel, Achan, and Maachah. Yet +he never knew of the hair-cloth smock, the discipline, the cord and +sack-cloth that lay stored in the large carved awmry, and were secretly +in use on every fast or vigil, not with any notion of merit, but of +simple obedience, and with even deeper comprehension and enjoyment of +their spiritual significance, of which, in her cloister life, she had +comprehended little. + +It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and clasped hands +before the altar-table, the winter sunbeams making the shadows of +the ivy sprays dance upon the deep mourning dress and pale cheek. The +eyelashes were heavy with tear-drops, and veiled eyes that had not yet +attained to the region of calm, like the light quivering of the lips +showed that here was the beginning of the course of trial through which +serenity might be won, and for ever. + +By and by the latch was raise, and Cecily came forward. Lucy rose +quickly to her feet, and while giving and returning a fond embrace, +asked with her eyes the question that Cecily answered, ‘Still in the +same lethargy. The only shade of sense that I have seen is an unclosing +of the eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and a shiver +through all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till my Lord +forbade it to be sounded.’ + +‘That frightful bell that the men told us of,’ said Lucy, shuddering; +‘oh, what a heart that murderess must have had!’ + +‘Hold, Lucy! How should we judge her, who may at this moment be weeping +in desolation?’ + +Lucy looked up astonished. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘you have been so long shut +up with him that you hardly can have heard all-how she played fast and +loose, and for the sake of a mere pageant put off the flight from the +time when it would have been secure even until that dreadful eve!’ + +‘I know it,’ said Cecily. ‘I fear me much that her sin has been great; +yet, Lucy, it were better to pray for her than to talk wildly against +her.’ + +‘Alas!’ murmured Lucy, ‘I could bear it and glory in it when it seemed +death for the faith’s sake, but,’ and the tears burst out, ‘to find he +was only trapped and slain for the sake of a faithless girl--and that he +should love her still.’ + +‘She is his wife,’ said Cecily. ‘Child, from my soul I grieve for you, +but none the less must I, if no other will, keep before your eyes that +our Berenger’s faith belongs solely to her.’ + +‘You--you never would have let me forget it,’ said Lucy. ‘Indeed I am +more maidenly when not alone with you! I know verily that he is loyal, +and that my hatred to her is more than is meet. I will--I will pray for +her, but I would that you were in your convent still, and that I could +hide me there.’ + +‘That were scarce enough,’ said Cecily. ‘One sister we had who had fled +to our house to hide her sorrows for her betrothed had wedded another. +She took her sorrows for her vocation, strove to hurry on her vows, and +when they were taken, she chafed and fretted under them. It was she who +wrote to the commissioner the letter that led to the visitation of our +house, and, moreover, she was the only one of us who married.’ + +‘To her own lover?’ + +‘No, to a brewer at Winchester! I say not that you could ever be like +poor sister Bridget, but only that the cloister has no charm to still +the heart--prayer and duty can do as much without as within.’ + +‘When we deemed her worthy, I was glad of his happiness,’ said Lucy, +thoughtfully. + +‘You did, my dear, and I rejoiced. Think now how grievous it must be +with her, if she, as I fear she may, yielded her heart to those who +told her that to ensnare him was her duty, or if indeed she were as much +deceived as he.’ + +‘Then she will soon be comforted,’ said Lucy, still with some bitterness +in her voice; bitterness of which she herself was perhaps conscious, for +suddenly dropping in her knees, she hid her face, and cried. ‘Oh, help +me to pray for her, Aunt Cecily, and that I may do her wrong no more!’ + +And Cecily, in her low conventual chant, sang, almost under her breath, +the noonday Latin hymn, the words of which, long familiar to Lucy, had +never as yet so come home to her. + + ‘Quench Thou the fires of heat and strife, + The wasting fever of the heart; + From perils guard our feeble life, + And to our souls Thy help impart.’ + +Cecily’s judgment would have been thought weakly charitable by all +the rest of the family. Mr. Adderley had been forwarded by Sir Francis +Walsingham like a bale of goods, and arriving in a mood of such +self-reproach as would be deemed abject, by persons used to the modern +relations between noblemen and their chaplains, was exhilarated by the +unlooked-for comfort of finding his young charge at least living, and +in his grandfather’s house. From his narrative, Walsingham’s letter, +and Osbert’s account, Lord Walwyn saw no reason to doubt that the Black +Ribaumonts had thought that massacre a favourable moment for sweeping +the only survivor of the White or elder branch away, and that not only +had royalty lent itself to the cruel project, but that as Diane de +Ribaumont had failed as a bait, the young espoused wife had herself +been employed to draw him into the snare, and secure his presence at the +slaughter-house, away from his safe asylum at the Ambassador’s or even +in the King’s garde-robe. It was an unspeakably frightful view to take +of the case, yet scarcely worse than the reality of many of the dealings +of those with whom the poor young girl had been associated: certainly +not worse than the crimes, the suspicion of which was resting on +the last dowager Queen of France; and all that could be felt by the +sorrowing family, was comfort that at least corruption of mind had +either not been part of the game, or had been unsuccessful, and, by +all testimony, the victim was still the same innocent boy. This was all +their relief, while for days, for weeks, Berenger de Ribaumont lay in a +trance or torpor between life and death. Sometimes, as Cecily had said, +his eyes turned with a startled wistfulness towards the door, and the +sound of a bell seemed to thrill him with a start of agony; but for the +most part he neither appeared to see or hear, and a few moans were the +only sounds that escaped him. The Queen, in her affection for her old +friend, and her strong feeling for the victims of the massacre, sent +down the court physician, who turned him about, and elicited sundry +heavy groans, but could do no more than enjoin patient waiting on the +beneficent powers of nature in early youth. His visit produced one +benefit, namely, the strengthening of Cecily St. John’s hands against +the charms, elixirs, and nostrums with which Lady Thistlewood’s friends +supplied her,--plasters from the cunning women of Lyme Regis, made of +powder of giant’s bones, and snakes prayed into stone by St. Aldhelm, +pills of live woodlice, and fomentations of living earthworms and +spiders. Great was the censure incurred by Lady Walwyn for refusing to +let such remedies be tried on HER grandson. And he was so much more her +child than his mother’s, that Dame Annora durst do no more than maunder. + +In this perfect rest, it seemed as if after a time ‘the powers of +nature’ did begin to rally, there were appearances of healing about the +wounds, the difference between sleeping and waking became more evident, +the eyes lost the painful, half-closed, vacant look, but were either +shut or opened with languid recognition. The injuries were such as to +exclude him from almost every means of expression, the wound in his +mouth made speech impossible, and his right arm was not available for +signs. It was only the clearness of his eyes, and their response to what +was said, that showed that his mind was recovering tone, and then he +seemed only alive to the present, and to perceive nothing but what +related to his suffering and its alleviations. The wistfulness that +had shown itself at first was gone, and even when he improved enough to +establish a language of signs with eye, lip, or left hand, Cecily became +convinced that he has little or no memory of recent occurrences, and +that finding himself at home among familiar faces, his still dormant +perceptions demanded no further explanation. + +This blank was the most favourable state for his peace and for his +recovery, and it was of long duration, lasting even till he had made so +much progress that he could leave his bed, and even speak a few words, +though his weakness was much prolonged by the great difficulty with +which he could take nourishment. About two winters before, Cecily had +successfully nursed him through a severe attack of small-pox, and she +thought that he confounded his present state with the former illness, +when he had had nearly the same attendants and surroundings as at +present; and that his faculties were not yet roused enough to perceive +the incongruity. + +Once or twice he showed surprise at visits from his mother or Philip, +who had then been entirely kept away from him, and about Christmas he +brightened so much, and awoke to things about him so much more fully, +that Cecily thought the time of recollection could not be much longer +deferred. Any noise, however, seemed so painful to him, that the +Christmas festivities were held at Combe Manor instead of Hurst Walwyn; +only after church, Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood came in to make +him a visit, as he sat in a large easy-chair by his bedroom-fire, +resting after having gone through as much of the rites of the day as he +was able for, with Mr. Adderlay. The room looked very cheerful with +the bright wood-fire on the open hearth, shining on the gay tapestry +hangings, and the dark wood of the carved bed. The evergreen-decked +window shimmered with sun shine, and even the patient, leaning back +among crimson cushions, though his face and head were ghastly enough +wherever they were not covered with patches and bandages, still had a +pleasant smile with lip and eye to thank his stepfather for his cheery +wishes of ‘a merry Christmas, at least one better in health.’ + +‘I did not bring the little wenches, Berenger, lest they should weary +you,’ said his mother. + +Berenger looked alarmed, and said with the indistinctness with which he +always spoke, ‘Have they caught it? Are they marked?’ + +‘No, no, not like you, may boy,’ said Sir Marmaduke, sufficiently aware +of Berenger’s belief to be glad to keep it up, and yet obliged to walk +to the window to hide his diversion at the notion of his little girls +catching the contagion of sword-gashes and bullet-wounds. Dame Annora +prattled on, ‘But they have sent you their Christmas gifts by me. Poor +children, they have long been busied with them, and I fancy Lucy did +half herself. See, this kerchief is hemmed by little Dolly, and here +are a pair of bands and cuffs to match, that Nanny and Bessy have been +broidering with their choicest stitchery.’ + +Berenger smile, took, expressed admiration by gesture, and then said in +a dreamy, uncertain manner, ‘Methought I had some gifts for them;’ then +looking round the room, his eye fell on a small brass-bound casket which +had travelled with him to hold his valuables; he pointed to it with a +pleased look, as Sir Marmaduke lifted it and placed it on a chair by his +side. The key, a small ornamental brass one, was in his purse, not far +off, and Lady Thistlewood was full of exceeding satisfaction at the +unpacking not only of foreign gifts, but, as she hoped, of the pearls; +Cecily meantime stole quietly in, to watch that her patient was not +over-wearied. + +He was resuming the use of his right arm, though it was still weak and +stiff, and he evidently had an instinct against letting any one deal +with that box but himself; he tried himself to unlock it, and though +forced to leave this to Sir Marmaduke, still leant over it when opened, +as if to prevent his mother’s curious glances from penetrating its +recesses, and allowed no hands near it but his own. He first brought out +a pretty feather fan, saying as he held it to his mother, ‘For Nan, I +promised it. It was bought at the Halles,’ he added, more dreamily. + +Then again he dived, and brought out a wax medallion of Our Lady guarded +by angels, and made the sign that always brought Cecily to him. He +held it up to her with a puzzled smile, saying, ‘They thought me a mere +Papist for buying it--M. de Teligny, I think it was.’ + +They had heard how the good and beloved Teligny had been shot down on +the roof of his father-in-law’s house, by rabid assassins, strangers +to his person, when all who knew him had spared him, from love to his +gentle nature; and the name gave a strange thrill. + +He muttered something about ‘Pedlar,--Montpipeau,’--and still continued. +Then came a small silver casket, diffusing an odour of attar of +roses--he leant back in his chair--and his mother would have taken it +from him, supposing him overcome by the scent, but he held it fast and +shook his head, saying, ‘For Lucy,--but she must give it herself. She +gave up any gift for herself for it--she said we needed no love-tokens.’ +And he closed his eyes. Dame Annora plunged into the unpacking, and +brought out a pocket-mirror with enamelled cupids in the corner, +addressed to herself; and then came upon Berenger’s own. + +Again came a fringed pair of gloves among the personal jewellery such +as gentlemen were wont to wear, the rings, clasps and brooches he had +carried from home. Dame Annora’s impatience at last found vent in the +exclamation, ‘The pearls, son; I do not see the chaplet of pearls.’ + +‘She had them, ‘answered Berenger, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘to wear at +the masque.’ + +‘She----’ + +Sir Marmaduke’s great hand choked, as it were, the query on his wife’s +lips, unseen by her son, who, as if the words had touched some chord, +was more eagerly seeking in the box, and presently drew out a bow of +carnation ribbon with a small piece of paper full of pin-holes attached +to it. At once he carried it to his lips, kissed it fervently, and then, +sinking back in his chair, seemed to be trying to gather up the memory +that had prompted the impulse, knitted his brows together, and then +suddenly exclaimed, ‘Where is she?’ + +His mother tried the last antecedent. ‘Lucy? She shall come and thank +you to-morrow.’ + +He shook his head with a vehement negative, beckoned Cecily impatiently, +and said earnestly, ‘Is it the contagion? Is she sick? I will go to +her.’ + +Cecily and Sir Marmaduke both replied with a ‘No, no!’ and were +thankful, though in much suspense at the momentary pause, while again +he leant back on the cushions, looked steadily at the pin-holes, that +formed themselves into the word ‘Sweet heart,’ then suddenly began to +draw up the loose sleeve of his wrapping-gown and unbutton the wristband +of his right sleeve. His mother tried to help him, asking if he had hurt +or tired his arm. They would have been almost glad to hear that it was +so, but he shook her off impatiently, and the next moment had a view of +the freshly skinned over, but still wide and gaping gash on his arm. He +looked for a brief space, and said, ‘It is a sword-cut.’ + +‘Truly it is, lad,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘and a very bad one, happily +whole! Is this the first time you have seen it?’ + +He did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, and presently +burst out again, ‘Then it is no dream? Sir--have I been to France?’ + +‘Yes, my son, you have,’ said Sir Marmaduke, gently, and with more +tenderness than could have been looked for; ‘but what passed there is +much better viewed as a dream, and cast behind your back.’ + +Berenger had, while he spoke, taken up the same little mirror where he +had once admired himself; and as he beheld the scar and plaster that +disfigured his face, with a fresh start of recollection, muttered over, +‘_“Barbouiller ce chien de visage”_--ay, so he said. I felt the pistol’s +muzzle touch! Narcisse! Has God had mercy on me? I prayed Him. Ah! _“le +baiser d’Eustacie”_--so he said. I was waiting in the dark. Why did he +come instead of her? Oh! father, where is she?’ + +It was a sore task, but Sir Marmaduke went bravely and bluntly, though +far from unkindly, to the point: ‘She remains with her friends in +France.’ + +There the youth’s look of utter horror and misery shocked and startled +them all, and he groaned rather than said, ‘Left there! Left to them! +What have I done to leave her there?’ + +‘Come, Berenger, this will not serve,’ said his mother, trying to rouse +and cheer him. ‘You should rather be thankful that when you had been so +foully ensnared by their wiles, good Osbert brought you off with your +life away from those bloody doings. Yes, you may thank Heaven and +Osbert, for you are the only one of them living now.’ + +‘Of whom, mother?’ + +‘Of all the poor Protestants that like you were deluded by the pack of +murderers over there. What,’--fancying it would exhilarate him to hear +of his own escape--‘you knew not that the bloody Guise and the Paris +cut-throats rose and slew every Huguenot they could lay hands on? Why, +did not the false wench put off your foolish runaway project for the +very purpose of getting you into the trap on the night of the massacre?’ + +He looked with a piteous, appealing glance from her to Cecily and Sir +Marmaduke, as if in hopes that they would contradict. + +‘Too true, my lad,’ said Sir Marmaduke. ‘It is Heaven’s good mercy that +Osbert carried you out alive. No other Protestant left the palace alive +but the King of Navarre and his cousin, who turned renegades.’ + +‘And she is left there?’ he repeated. + +‘Heed her not, my dear boy,’ began his mother; ‘you are safe, and must +forget her ill-faith and----’ + +Berenger seemed scarcely to hear this speech--he held out his hands as +if stunned and dizzied, and only said, or rather indicated, ‘Let me lie +down.’ + +His stepfather almost carried him across the room, and laid him on his +bed, where he turned away from the light and shut his eyes; but the knot +of ribbon and the pin-pricked word was still in his hand, and his mother +longed to take away the token of this false love, as she believed it. +The great clock struck the hour for her to go. ‘Leave him quiet,’ +said Cecily, gently; ‘he can bear no more now. I will send over in the +evening to let you know how he fares.’ + +‘But that he should be so set on the little bloodthirsty baggage,’ +sighed Lady Thistlewood; and then going up to her son, she poured out +her explanation of being unable to stay, as her parents were already +at the Manor, with no better entertainers than Lucy, Philip, and the +children. She thanked him for the gifts, which she would take to them +with his love. All this passed by him as though he heard it not, but +when leaning down, she kissed his forehead, and at the same time tried +to withdraw the knot of ribbon: his fingers closed on it with a grasp +like steel, so cold were they, yet so fast. + +Sir Masmaduke lingered a few moments behind her, and Berenger opening +his eyes, as if to see whether solitude had been achieved, found the +kind-hearted knight gazing at him with eyes full of tears. ‘Berry, my +lad,’ he said, ‘bear it like a man. I know how hard it is. There’s not +a woman of them all that an honest, plain Englishman has a chance with, +when a smooth-tongued Frenchman comes round her! But a man may live a +true and honest life however sore his heart may be, and God Almighty +makes it up to him if he faces it out manfully.’ + +Good Sir Marmaduke in his sympathy had utterly forgotten both Berenger’s +French blood, and that he was the son of the very smooth-tongued +interloper who had robbed his life of its first bloom. Berenger was +altogether unequal to do more than murmur, as he held out his hand in +response to the kindness, ‘You do not know her.’ + +‘Ah! Poor lad.’ Sir Marmaduke shook his head and left him to Cecily. + +After the first shock, Berenger never rested till he had made Osbert, +Mr. Adderley, and Cecily tell him all they knew, and asked by name after +those whom he had known best at Paris. Alas! of all those, save such as +had been in the Ambassador’s house, there was but one account to give. +Venerable warrior, noble-hearted youth, devoted pastor, all alike had +perished! + +This frightful part of the story was altogether new to him. He had been +probably the earliest victim in the Louvre, as being the special object +of private malice, which had contrived to involve him in the general +catastrophe; and his own recollections carried him only to the flitting +of lights and ringing of bells, that has made him imagine that an alarm +of fire would afford a good opportunity of escape if SHE would but come. +A cloaked figure had approached,--he had held out his arms--met that +deadly stroke--heard the words hissed in his ear. + +He owned that for some time past strange recollections had been flitting +though his mind--a perpetual unsatisfied longing for and expectation of +his wife, and confused impressions of scenes and people had harassed him +perpetually, even when he could not discern between dreams and reality; +but knowing that he had been very ill, he had endeavoured to account for +everything as delirious fancies, but had become increasingly distressed +by their vividness, confusion, and want of outward confirmation. At +last these solid tokens and pledges from that time had brought certainty +back, and with it the harmony and clearness of his memory: and the +strong affection, that even his oblivion had not extinguished, now +recurred in all its warmth to its object. + +Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since that night when he +had hoped to have met Euctacie, and she must be believing him dead. His +first measure on the following day when he had been dressed and seated +in his chair was to send for his casket, and with his slow stiff arm +write thus:-- + +‘Mon Coeur, My own sweetheart,--Hast thou thought me dead, and thyself +deserted? Osbert will tell thee all, and why I can scarce write. Trust +thyself to him to bring to me. I shall be whole seeing thee. Or if thou +canst not come with him, write or send me the least token by him, and I +will come and bear thee home so soon as I can put foot in stirrup. Would +that I could write all that is in my heart! + + ‘Thy Husband.’ + + +It was all that either head or hand would enable him to say, but he +had the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, who was one of the few who +understood him at half a word. He desired Osbert to seek the lady out +wherever she might be, whether still at court or in a convent, convey +the letter to her if possible, and, if she could by any means escape, +obtain from Chateau Leurre such an escort as she could come to England +with. If, as was too much to be feared, she was under too close +restraint, Osbert should send intelligence home, as he could readily do +through the Ambassador’s household, and Berenger trusted by that time to +be able to take measures for claiming her in person. + +Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his journey were +needed, and there was an absolute commotion in the house when it was +known that Berenger had been writing to his faithless spouse, and +wishing to send for her. Lord Walwyn came up to visit his grandson, and +explain to him with much pity and consideration that he considered such +a step as vain, and only likely to lead to further insult. Berenger’s +respect forced him to listen without interruption, and though he panted +to answer, it was a matter of much difficulty, for the old lord was +becoming deaf, and could not catch the indistinct, agitated words-- + +‘My Lord, she is innocent as day.’ + +‘Ah! Anan, boy.’ + +‘I pledge my life on her love and innocence.’ + +‘Love! Yes, my poor boy; but if she be unworthy?--Eh? Cecily, what says +he?’ + +‘He is sure of her innocence, sir?’ + +‘That is of course. But, my dear lad, you will soon learn that even a +gentle, good woman who has a conscience-keeper is too apt to think +her very sense of right ought to be sacrificed to what she calls her +religion.--What is it, what is he telling you, Cecily?’ + +‘She was ready to be one of us,’ Berenger said, with a great effort to +make it clear. + +‘Ah, a further snare. Poor child! The very softest of them become the +worst deceivers, and the kindred who have had the charge of her all +their life could no doubt bend her will.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Berenger, finding argument impossible, ‘if you will but let +me dispatch Osbert, her answer will prove to you what she is.’ + +‘There is something in that,’ said Lord Walwyn, when he had heard it +repeated by Cecily. ‘It is, of course, needful that both she and her +relations should be aware of Berenger’s life, and I trow nothing but the +reply will convince him.’ + +‘Convince him!’ muttered Berenger. ‘Oh that I could make him understand. +What a wretch I am to have no voice to defend her!’ + +‘What?’ said the old lord again. + +‘Only that I could speak, sir; you should know why it is sacrilege to +doubt her.’ + +‘Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk is vain. You shall +have the means of sending your groom, if thus you will set your mind at +rest, though I had rather have trusted to Walsingham’s dealing. I will +myself give him a letter to Sir Francis, to forward him on his way; and +should the young lady prove willing to hold to her contract and come +to you here, I will pray him to do everything to aid her that may be +consistent with his duty in his post.’ + +This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Walwyn, and Berenger +was forced to be contented with it, though it galled him terribly to +have Eustacie distrusted, and be unable to make his vindication even +heard or understood, as well as to be forced to leave her rescue, and +even his own explanation to her, to a mere servant. + +This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to his progress in +recovery. His brain was in no state for excitement or agitation, and +pain and confusion were the consequence, and were counteracted, after +the practice of the time, by profuse bleedings, which prolonged his +weakness. The splintered state of the jaw and roof of the moth likewise +produced effects that made him suffer severely, and deprived him at +times even of the small power of speech that he usually possessed; and +though he had set his heart upon being able to start for Paris so soon +as Osbert’s answer should arrive, each little imprudence he committed, +in order to convince himself of his progress, threw him back so +seriously, that he was barely able to walk down-stairs to the hall, and +sit watching--watching, so that it was piteous to see him--the gates +of the courtyard, but the time that, on a cold March day, a booted and +spurred courier (not Osbert) entered by them. + +He sprang up, and faster than he had yet attempted to move, met the man +in the hall, and demanded the packet. It was a large one, done up +in canvas, and addressed to the Right Honourable and Worshipful Sir +William, Baron Walwyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to endure the +delay of carrying it to his grandfather’s library, which he entered with +far less delay and ceremony than was his wont. ‘Sit down, Berenger,’ +said the old man, while addressing himself to the fastenings; and the +permission was needed, for he could hardly have stood another minute. +The covering contained a letter to Lord Walwyn himself, and a packet +addressed to the Baron de Ribaumont which his trembling fingers could +scarcely succeed in cutting and tearing open. + +How shall it be told what the contents of the packet were? Lord Walwyn +reading on with much concern, but little surprise, was nevertheless +startled by the fierce shout with which Berenger broke out: + +‘A lie! A lie forged in hell!’ And then seizing the parchment, was about +to rend it with all the force of passion, when his grandfather, seizing +his hand, said, in his calm, authoritative voice, ‘Patience, my poor +son.’ + +‘How, how should I have patience when they send me such poisoned lies as +these of my wife, and she is in the power of the villains? Grandfather, +I must go instantly---’ + +‘Let me know what you have heard,’ said Lord Walwyn, holding him feebly +indeed, but with all the impressive power and gravity of his years. + +‘Falsehoods,’ said Berenger, pushing the whole mass of papers over to +him, and then hiding his head between his arms on the table. + +Lord Walwyn finished his own letter first. Walsingham wrote with +much kind compassion, but quite decisively. He had no doubt that the +Ribaumont family had acted as one wheel in the great plot that had +destroyed all the heads of Protestant families and swept away among +others, as they had hoped, the only scion of the rival house. The old +Chevalier de Ribaumont had, he said, begun by expressing sorrow for +the mischance that had exposed his brave young cousin to be lost in the +general catastrophe, and he had professed proportionate satisfaction on +hearing of the young man’s safety. But the Ambassador believed him to +have been privy to his son’s designs; and whether Mdlle. de Nid de Merle +herself had been a willing agent or not, she certainly had remained +in the hands of the family. The decree annulling the marriage had been +published, the lady was in a convent in Anjou, and Narcisse de Ribaumont +had just been permitted to assume the title of Marquis de Nid de Merle, +and was gone into Anjou to espouse her. Sir Francis added a message of +commiseration for the young Baron, but could not help congratulating his +old friend on having his grandson safe and free from these inconvenient +ties. + +Berenger’s own packet contained, in the first place, a copy of the +cassation of the marriage, on the ground of its having been contracted +when the parties were of too tender age to give their legal consent, and +its having been unsatisfied since they had reached ecclesiastical years +for lawful contraction of wedlock. + +The second was one of the old Chevalier’s polite productions. He was +perfectly able to ignore Berenger’s revocation of his application for +the separation, since the first letter had remained unanswered, and the +King’s peremptory commands had prevented Berenger from taking any open +measures after his return from Montpipeau. Thus the old gentleman, after +expressing due rejoicing at his dear young cousin’s recovery, and regret +at the unfortunate mischance that had led to his confounded with the +many suspected Huguenots, proceeded as if matters stood exactly as +they had been before the pall-mall party, and as if the decree that he +enclosed were obtained in accordance with the young Baron’s intentions. +He had caused it to be duly registered, and both parties were at liberty +to enter upon other contracts of matrimony. The further arrangements +which Berenger had undertaken to sell his lands in Normandy, and his +claim on the ancestral castle in Picardy, should be carried out, and +deeds sent for his signature so soon as he should be of age. In the +meantime, the Chevalier courteously imparted to his fair cousin the +marriage of his daughter, Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont with M. le +Comte de Selinville, which had taken place on the last St. Martin’s day, +and of his niece, Mademoiselle Eustacie de Ribaumont de Nid de Merle +with his son, who had received permission to take her father’s title +of Marquis de Nid de Merle. The wedding was to take place at Bellaise +before the end of the Cardinal, and would be concluded before this +letter came to hand. + +Lastly, there was an ill written and spelt letter, running somewhat +thus-- + +‘Monseigneur,--Your faithful servant hopes that Monsieur le Baron will +forgive him for not returning, since I have been assured by good priests +that it is not possible to save my soul in a country of heretics. I have +done everything as Monsieur commanded, I have gone down into Anjou, +and have had the honour to see the young lady to whom Monsieur le +Baron charged me with a commission, and I delivered to her his letter, +whereupon the lady replied that she thanked M. le Baron for the honour +he had done her, but that being on the point of marriage to M. le +Marquis de Nid de Merle, she did not deem it fitting to write to him, +nor had she any tokens to send him, save what he had received on the +St. Barthelemy midnight; they might further his suit elsewhere. These, +Monsieur, were her words, and she laughed as she said them, so gaily +that I thought her fairer than ever. I have prevailed with her to take +me into her service as intendant of the Chateau de Nid de Merle, knowing +as she does my fidelity to the name of Ribaumont. And so, trusting +Monseigneur will pardon me for what I do solely for the good of my soul, +I will ever pray for his welfare, and remain, + + ‘His faithful menial and valet, + ‘LANDRY OSBERT.’ + +The result was only what Lord Walwyn had anticipated, but he was +nevertheless shocked at the crushing weight of the blow. His heart was +full of compassion for the youth so cruelly treated in these his first +years of life, and as much torn in his affections as mangled in person. +After a pause, while he gathered up the sense of the letters, he laid +his hand kindly on his grandson’s arm, and said, ‘This is a woeful +budget, my poor son; we will do our best to help you to bear it.’ + +‘The only way to bear it,’ said Berenger, lifting up his face, ‘is +for me to take horse and make for Anjou instantly. She will hold out +bravely, and I may yet save her.’ + +‘Madness,’ said his grandfather; ‘you have then not read your fellow’s +letter?’ + +‘I read no letter from fellow of mine. Yonder is a vile forgery. +Narcisse’s own, most likely. No one else would have so profaned her as +to put such words into her mouth! My dear faithful foster-brother--have +they murdered him?’ + +‘Can you point to any proof that it is forged?’ said Lord Walwyn, aware +that handwriting was too difficult an art, and far too crabbed, +among persons of Osbert’s class, for there to be any individuality of +penmanship. + +‘It is all forged,’ said Berenger. ‘It is as false that she could frame +such a message as that poor Osbert would leave me.’ + +‘These priests have much power over the conscience,’ began Lord Walwyn; +but Berenger, interrupting his grandfather for the first time in his +life, cried, ‘No priest could change her whole nature. Oh! my wife! my +darling! what may they not be inflicting on her now! Sir, I must go. She +may be saved! The deadly sin may be prevented!’ + +‘This is mere raving, Berenger,’ said Lord Walwyn, not catching half +what he said, and understanding little more than his resolution to +hasten in quest of the lady. ‘You, who have not mounted a horse, nor +walked across the pleasance yet!’ + +‘My limbs should serve me to rescue her, or they are worth nothing to +me.’ + +Lord Walwyn would have argued that he need not regret his incapacity +to move, since it was no doubt already too late, but Berenger burst +forth--‘She will resist; she will resist to the utmost, even if she +deems me dead. Tortures will not shake her when she knows I live. I must +prepare.’ And he started to his feet. + +‘Grandson,’ said Lord Walwyn, laying a hand on his arm, ‘listen to me. +You are in not state to judge for yourself. I therefore command you to +desist from this mad purpose.’ + +He spoke gravely, but Berenger was disobedient for the first time. ‘My +Lord,’ he said, ‘you are but my grandfather. She is my wife. My duty is +to her.’ + +He had plucked his sleeve away and was gone, before Lord Walwyn had been +able to reason with him that there was no wife in the case, a conclusion +at which the old statesman would not have arrived had he known of the +ceremony at Montpipeau, and all that had there passed; but not only +did Berenger deem himself bound to respect the King’s secret, but +conversation was so difficult to him that he had told very little of his +adventures, and less to Lord Walwyn than any one else. In effect, +his grandfather considered this resolution of going to France as mere +frenzy, and so it almost was, not only on the score of health +and danger, but because as a ward, he was still so entirely under +subjection, that his journey could have been hindered by absolutely +forcible detention; and to this Lord Walwyn intended to resort, unless +the poor youth either came to a more rational mind, or became absolutely +unable to travel. + +The last--as he had apprehended--came to pass only too surely. The very +attempt to argue and to defend Eustacie was too much for the injured +head; and long before night Berenger full believed himself on +the journey, acted over its incidents, and struggled wildly with +difficulties, all the time lying on his bed, with the old servants +holding him down, and Cecily listening tearfully to his ravings. + +For weeks longer he was to lie there in greater danger than ever. He +only seemed soothed into quiet when Cecily chanted those old Latin hymns +of her Benedictine rule, and then--when he could speak at all--he showed +himself to be in imagination praying in Eustacie’s convent chapel, sure +to speak to her when the service should be over. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. NOTRE-DAME DE BELLAISE* + + + +There came a man by middle day, He spied his sport and went away, And +brought the king that very night, And brake my bower and slew my knight. The Border Widow’s Lament + + +*[footnote: Bellaise is not meant for a type of all nunneries, but +of the condition to which many of the lesser ones had come before the +general reaction and purification of the seventeenth century.] + + +That same Latin hymn which Cecily St. John daily chanted in her own +chamber was due from the choir of Cistercian sisters in the chapel of +the Convent of Our Lady at Bellaise, in the Bocage of Anjou; but there +was a convenient practice of lumping together the entire night and +forenoon hours at nine o’clock in the morning, and all the evening ones +at Compline, so that the sisters might have undisturbed sleep at +night and entertainment by day. Bellaise was a very comfortable little +nunnery, which only received richly dowered inmates, and was therefore +able to maintain them in much ease, though without giving occasion to a +breath of scandal. Founded by a daughter of the first Angevin Ribaumont, +it had become a sort of appanage for the superfluous daughters of the +house, and nothing would more have amazed its present head, Eustacie +Barbe de Ribaumont,--conventually known as La Mere Marie Seraphine de +St.-Louis, and to the world as Madame de Bellaise,--than to be accused +of not fulfilling the intentions of the Bienheureuse Barbe, the +foundress, or of her patron St. Bernard. + +Madame de Bellaise was a fine-looking woman of forty, in a high state +of preservation, owing to the healthy life she had led. Her eyes were of +brilliant, beautiful black her complexion had a glow, her hair--for she +wore it visibly--formed crisp rolls of jetty ringlets on her temples, +almost hiding her close white cap. The heavy thick veil was tucked back +beneath the furred purple silk hood that fastened under her chin. The +white robes of her order were not of serge, but of the finest cloth, and +were almost hidden by a short purple cloak with sleeves, likewise lined +and edged with fur, and fastened on the bosom with a gold brooch. Her +fingers, bearing more rings than the signet of her house, were concealed +in embroidered gauntlets of Spanish leather. One of them held an +ivory-handled riding-rod, the other the reins of the well-fed jennet, on +which the lady, on a fine afternoon, late in the Carnival, was cantering +home through the lanes of the Bocage, after a successful morning’s +hawking among the wheat-ears. She was attended by a pair of sisters, +arrayed somewhat in the same style, and by a pair of mounted grooms, the +falconer with his charge having gone home by a footway. + +The sound of horses’ feet approaching made her look towards a long lane +that came down at right angles to that along which she was riding, and +slacken her pace before coming to its opening. And as she arrived at the +intersection, she beheld advancing, mounted on a little rough pony, the +spare figure of her brother the Chevalier, in his home suit, so greasy +and frayed, that only his plumed hat (and a rusty plume it was) and the +old sword at his side showed his high degree. + +He waved his hand to her as a sign to halt, and rode quickly up, +scarcely giving time for a greeting ere he said, ‘Sister the little one +is not out with you.’ + +‘No, truly, the little mad thing, she is stricter and more head-strong +than ever was her preceptress. Poor Monique! I had hoped that we +should be at rest when that _cass-tete_ had carried off her scruples +to Ste.-Claire, at Lucon, but here is this little droll far beyond her, +without being even a nun!’ + +‘Assuredly not. The business must be concluded at once. She must be +married before Lent.’ + +‘That will scarce be--in her present frame.’ + +‘It must be. Listen, sister. Here is this miserable alive!’ + +‘Her spouse!’ + +‘Folly about her spouse! The decree from Rome has annulled the foolish +mummery of her infancy. It came a week after the Protestant conspiracy, +and was registered when the Norman peasants at Chateau Leurre showed +contumacy. It was well; for, behold, our gallant is among his English +friends, recovering, and even writing a billet. Anon he will be upon our +hands in person. By the best fortune, Gillot fell in with his messenger +this morning, prowling about on his way to the convent, and brought him +to me to be examined. I laid him fat in ward, and sent Gillot off to +ride day and night to bring my son down to secure the girl at once.’ + +‘You will never obtain her consent. She is distractedly in love with his +memory! Let her guess at his life, and---’ + +‘Precisely. Therefore must we be speedy. All Paris knows it by this +time, for the fellow went straight to the English Ambassador; and I +trust my son has been wise enough to set off already; for should we wait +till after Lent, Monsieur le Baron himself might be upon us.’ + +‘Poor child! You men little heed how you make a woman suffer.’ + +‘How, Reverend Mother! you pleading for a heretic marriage, that would +give our rights to a Huguenot--what say I?--an English renegade!’ + +‘I plead not, brother. The injustice towards you must be repaired; but +I have a certain love for my niece, and I fear she will be heartbroken +when she learns the truth, the poor child.’ + +‘Bah! The Abbess should rejoice in thus saving her soul! How if her +heretic treated Bellaise like the convents of England?’ + +‘No threats, brother. As a daughter of Ribaumont and a mother of the +Church will I stand by you,’ said the Abbess with dignity. + +‘And now tell me how it has been with the child. I have not seen her +since we agreed that the request did but aggravate her. You said her +health was better since her nurse had been so often with her, and that +she had ceased from her austerities.’ + +‘Not entirely; for when first she came, in her transports of despair and +grief on finding Soeur Monique removed, she extorted from Father Bonami +a sort of hope that she might yet save her husband’s, I mean the Baron’s +soul. Then, truly, it was a frenzy of fasts and prayers. Father Bonami +has made his profit, and so have the fathers of Chollet--all her money +has gone in masses, and in alms to purchase the prayers of the poor, +and she herself fasting on bread and water, kneeling barefooted in the +chapel till she was transfixed with cold. No _chaufferette_, not she! +Obstinate to the last degree! Tell her she would die--it was the best +news one could bring; all her desire, to be in a more rigid house with +Soeur Monique at Lucon. At length, Mere Perrine and Veronique found her +actually fainting and powerless with cold on the chapel-floor; and since +that time she has been more reasonable. There are prayers as much as +ever; but the fancy to kill herself with fasting has passed. She begins +to recover her looks, nay, sometimes I have thought she had an air of +hope in her eyes and lips; but what know I? I have much to occupy me, +and she persists in shutting herself up with her woman.’ + +‘You have not allowed her any communication from without?’ + +‘Mere Perrine has come and gone freely; but she is nothing. No, the +child could have no correspondence. She did, indeed, write a letter to +the Queen, as you know, brother, six weeks ago; but that has never been +answered, nor could any letters have harmed you, since it is only now +that this young man is known to be living.’ + +‘You are right, sister. No harm can have been done. All will go well. +The child must be wearied with her frenzy of grief and devotion! She +will catch gladly at an excuse for change. A scene or two, and she will +readily yield!’ + +‘It is true,’ said the Abbess, thoughtfully, ‘that she has walked and +ridden out lately. She has asked questions about her Chateaux, and their +garrisons. I have heard nothing of the stricter convent for many weeks; +but still, brother, you must go warily to work.’ + +‘And you, sister, must show no relenting. Let her not fancy she can work +upon you.’ + +By this time the brother and sister were at the gateway of the convent; +a lay sister presided there, but there was no _cloture_, as the strict +seclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier rode into the +cloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been entering a secular +Chateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Madame de +Bellaise to the parlour, while she dispatched a request that her niece +would attend her there. + +The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large room +furnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions, much +like other reception-rooms. A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed upon +the hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as indeed an +ecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup with the ladies +that evening. + +After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a low +voice at the door was heard, saying, ‘_Deus vobiscum_.’ The Abbess +answered, ‘_Et cum spiritu tuo_;’ and on this monastic substitute for a +knock and ‘come in,’ there appeared a figure draped and veiled from head +to foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable moving +cone. She made an obeisance as she entered, saying, ‘You commanded my +presence, Madame?’ + +‘Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of moment.’ + +‘At his service. I, too, would speak to him.’ + +‘First, then, my dear friend,’ said the Chevalier, ‘let me see you. That +face must not be muffled any longer from those who love you.’ + +She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade her +turn back her veil. She did so, and disclosed the little face, so well +known to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the dark eyes +sparkling, though at once softer and more resolute. + +‘Ah! my fair niece,’ said the Chevalier, ‘this is no visage to be +hidden! I am glad to see it re-embellished, and it will be lovelier than +ever when you have cast off this disguised.’ + +‘That will never be,’ said Eustacie. + +‘Ah! we know better! My daughter is sending down a counterpart of her +own wedding-dress for your bride of the _Mardi-Gras_.’ + +‘And who may that bride be?’ said Eustacie, endeavouring to speak as +though it were nothing to her. + +‘Nay, _ma petite_! it is too long to play the ignorant when the +bridegroom is on his way from Paris.’ + +‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, ‘you cannot suffer this +scandal. The meanest peasant may weep her first year of widowhood in +peace.’ + +‘Listen, child. There are weighty reasons. The Duke of Anjou is a +candidate for the throne of Poland, and my son is to accompany him +thither. He must go as Marquis de Nid de Merle, in full possession of +your estates.’ + +‘Let him take them,’ began Eustacie, ‘who first commits a cowardly +murder, and then forces himself on the widow he has made?’ + +‘Folly, child, folly,’ said the Chevalier, who supposed her ignorant of +the circumstances of her husband’s assassination; and the Abbess, who +was really ignorant, exclaimed--‘_Fid donc_ niece; you know not what you +say.’ + +‘I know, Madame--I know from an eye-witness,’ said Eustacie, firmly. ‘I +know the brutal words that embittered my husband’s death; and were +there no other cause, they would render wedlock with him who spoke them +sacrilege.’ Resolutely and steadily did the young wife speak, looking +at them with the dry fixed eye to which tears had been denied ever since +that eventful night.’ + +‘Poor child,’ said the Chevalier to his sister. ‘She is under the +delusion still. Husband! There is none in the case.’ Then waving his +hand as Eustacie’s face grew crimson, and her eyes flashed indignation, +while her lips parted, ‘It was her own folly that rendered it needful to +put an end to the boy’s presumption. Had she been less willful and more +obedient, instead of turning the poor lad’s head by playing at madame, +we could have let him return to his island fogs; but when SHE encouraged +him in contemplating the carrying her away, and alienating her and her +lands from the true faith, there was but one remedy--to let him perish +with the rest. My son is willing to forgive her childish pleasure in +a boy’s passing homage, and has obtained the King’s sanction to an +immediate marriage.’ + +‘Which, to spare you, my dear,’ added the aunt, ‘shall take place in our +chapel.’ + +‘It shall never take place anywhere,’ said Eustacie, quietly, though +with a quiver in her voice; ‘no priest will wed me when he has heard +me.’ + +‘The dispensation will overcome all scruples,’ said the Abbess. ‘Hear +me, niece. I am sorry for you, but it is best that you should know at +once that there is nothing in heaven or earth to aid you in resisting +your duty.’ + +Eustacie made no answer, but there was a strange half-smile on her lip, +and a light in her eye which gave her an air not so much of entreaty as +of defiance. She glanced from one to the other, as if considering, but +then slightly shook her head. ‘What does she mean?’ asked the Chevalier +and the Abbess one of another, as, with a dignified gesture, she moved +to leave the room. + +‘Follow her. Convince her that she has no hope,’ said the uncle; and +the Abbess, moving faster than her wont, came up with her at the archway +whence one corridor led to the chapel, another to her own apartments. +Her veil was down again, but her aunt roughly withdrew it, saying, ‘Look +at me, Eustacie. I come to warn you that you need not look to tamper +with the sisters. Not one will aid you in your headstrong folly. If you +cast not off ere supper-time this mockery of mourning, you shall taste +of that discipline you used to sigh for. We have borne with your fancy +long enough--you, who are no more a widow than I--nor wife.’ + +‘Wife and widow am I in the sight of Him who will protect me,’ said +Eustacie, standing her ground. + +‘Insolent! Why, did I not excuse this as a childish delusion, should I +not spurn one who durst love--what say I--not a heretic merely, but the +foe of her father’s house?’ + +‘He!’ cried Eustacie; ‘what had he ever done?’ + +‘He inherited the blood of the traitor Baron,’ returned her aunt. ‘Ever +have that recreant line injured us! My nephew’s sword avenged the wrongs +of many generations.’ + +‘Then,’ said Eustacie, looking at her with a steady, fixed look of +inquire, ‘you, Madame l’Abbesse, would have neither mercy nor pity for +the most innocent offspring of the elder line?’ + +‘Girl, what folly is this to talk to me of innocence. That is not +the question. The question is--obey willingly as my dear daughter, or +compulsion must be used.’ + +‘My question is answered,’ said Eustacie, on her side. ‘I see that there +is neither pity nor hope from you.’ + +And with another obeisance, she turned to ascend the stairs. Madame +paced back to her brother. + +‘What,’ he said; ‘you have not yet dealt with her?’ + +‘No, brother, I never saw a like mood. She seems neither to fear nor +to struggle. I knew she was too true a Ribaumont for weak tears and +entreaties; but, fiery little being as once she was, I looked to see her +force spend itself in passion, and that then the victory would have been +easy; but no, she ever looks as if she had some inward resource--some +security--and therefore could be calm. I should deem it some Huguenot +fanaticism, but she is a very saint as to the prayers of the Church, the +very torment of our lives.’ + +‘Could she escape?’ exclaimed the Chevalier, who had been considering +while his sister was speaking. + +‘Impossible! Besides, where could she go? But the gates shall be closed. +I will warn the portress to let none pass out without my permission.’ + +‘The Chevalier took a turn up and down the room; then exclaimed, ‘It +was very ill-advised to let her women have access to her! Let us have +Veronique summoned instantly.’ + +At that moment, however, the ponderous carriage of Monseigneur, with +out-riders, both lay and clerical, came trampling up to the archway, +and the Abbess hurried off to her own apartment to divest herself of her +hunting-gear ere she received her guest; and the orders to one of the +nuns to keep a watch on her niece were oddly mixed with those to the +cook, confectioner, and butterer. + +La Mere Marie Saraphine was not a cruel or an unkind woman. She had been +very fond of her pretty little niece in her childhood, but had +deeply resented the arrangement which had removed her from her own +superintendence to that of the Englishwoman, besides the uniting to the +young Baron one whom she deemed the absolute right of Narcisse. She had +received Eustacie on her first return with great joy, and had always +treated her with much indulgence, and when the drooping, broken-hearted +girl came back once more to the shelter of her convent, the +good-humoured Abbess only wished to make her happy again. + +But Eustacie’s misery was far beyond the ken of her aunt, and the jovial +turn of these consolations did but deepen her agony. To be congratulated +on her release from the heretic, assured of future happiness with her +cousin, and, above all, to hear Berenger abused with all the bitterness +of rival family and rival religion, tore up the lacerated spirit. Ill, +dejected, and broken down, too subdued to fire up in defence, and only +longing for the power of indulging in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunk +from her, and wrapped herself up in the ceaseless round of masses and +prayers, in which she was allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope for +her husband’s soul. The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent or +matters of pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console where +she could not sympathize, trusted that the fever of devotion would wear +itself out, and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two were +decorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious worker +of tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as confectioners. +Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days; now she was out of +their reach, they tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would not +be comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one whose +austerity reproached their own laxity; they resented her disappointment +at Soeur Monique’s having been transferred to Lucon, and they, too, +left her to the only persons whose presence she had ever seemed to +relish,--namely, her maid Veronique, and Veronique’s mother, her old +nurse Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles off. The woman had been +Eustacie’s foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of the +caressing care of a nurse. + +After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment looked towards the +chapel, then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, ‘No! no! speed is +my best hope;’ and at once mounted the stairs, and entered a room, where +the large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the holy water font +gave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw pallet covered with +sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained couch driven into the +rear, as unused. + +She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; ‘Ave Maria, be with me and +mine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruel +men. Have thou pity on the fatherless!’ + +Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veronique +entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same moment +began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten her dress. + +‘Make haste, Veronique. A dress of thine---’ + +‘All is known, then!’ cried Veronique, throwing up her arms. + +‘No, but he is coming--Narcisse--to marry me at once--_Marde-Gras_---’ + +‘_Et quoi_? Madame has but to speak the word, and it is impossible.’ + +‘And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere +speaking that word. I asked her, Veronique! She would have vengeance +on the most guiltless--the most guiltless--do you hear?--of the Norman +house. Never, never shall she have the chance! Come, thy striped +petticoat!’ + +‘But, oh! what will Madame do? Where would she go? Oh! it is +impossible.’ + +‘First to thy father’s. Yes, I know. He has once called it a madness +to think of rallying my vassals to protect their lady. That was when +he heard of it from thee--thou faint of heart--and thy mother. I shall +speak to him in person now. Make haste, I tell thee, girl. I must be out +of this place before I am watched or guarded,’ she added breathlessly. +‘I feel as if each moment I lost might have death upon it;’ and she +looked about her like a startled deer. + +‘To my father’s. Ah! there it is not so ill! But the twilights, the +length of way,’ sobbed Veronique, in grievous distress and perplexity. +‘Oh! Madame, I cannot see you go. The Mother Abbess is good. She must +have pity. Oh, trust to her!’ + +‘Trust! Did I not trust to my cousin Diane? Never! Nothing will kill me +but remaining in their hands.’ + +Veronique argued and implored in vain. Ever since, in the height of +those vehement austerities by which the bereaved and shattered sufferer +strove to appease her wretchedness by the utmost endeavour to save her +husband’s soul, the old foster-mother had made known to her that she +might thus sacrifice another than herself. Eustacie’s elastic heart had +begun to revive, with all its dauntless strength of will. What to her +women seemed only a fear, was to her only a hope. + +Frank and confiding as was her nature, however, the cruel deceptions +already practiced on her by her own kindred, together with the harsh +words with which the Abbess spoke of Berenger, had made her aware +that no comfort must be looked for in that quarter. It was, after all, +perhaps her won instinct, and the aunt’s want of sympathy, that withheld +her from seeking counsel of any save Perrine and her daughter, at any +rate till she could communicate with the kind young Queen. To her, then, +Eustacie had written, entreating that a royal mandate would recall her +in time to bestow herself in some trustworthy hands, or even in her +husband’s won Norman castle, where his heir would be both safe and +welcome. But time has passed--the whole space that she had reckoned as +needful for the going and coming of her messenger--allowing for all the +obstructions of winter roads--nay, he had come back; she knew letter was +delivered, but answer there was none. It might yet come--perhaps a royal +carriage and escort--and day after day had she waited and hoped, only +tardily admitting the conviction that Elisabeth of Austria was as +powerless as Eustacie de Ribaumont, and meantime revolving and proposing +many a scheme that could only have entered the brain of a brave-spirited +child as she was. To appeal to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinous +old tower in the woods, and thence send for aid to the Montmorencys; +to ride to Saumur, and claim the protection of the governor of the +province; to make her way to the coast and sail for England; to start +for Paris, and throw herself in person on the Queen’s protection,--all +had occurred to her, and been discussed with her two _confidantes_; +but the hope of the Queen’s interference, together with the exceeding +difficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from taking any +steps, since no suspicion had arisen in the minds of those about +her. Veronique, caring infinitely more for her mistress’s health and +well-being than for the object of Eustacie’s anxieties, had always +secretly trusted that delay would last till action was impossible, and +that the discovery would be made, only without her being accused of +treason. In the present stress of danger, she could but lament and +entreat, for Eustacie’s resolution bore her down; and besides, as she +said to herself, her Lady was after all going to her foster-father and +mother, who would make her hear reason, and bring her back at once, +and then there would be no anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddy +length of walk would be the worst of it--and, bah! most likely Madame +would be convinced by it, and return of her own accord. + +So Veronique, though not intermitting her protests, adjusted her own +dress upon her mistress,--short striped petticoat, black bodice, winged +turban-like white cap, and a great muffling gray cloth cloak and hook +over the head and shoulders--the costume in which Veronique was wont to +run to her home in the twilight on various errands, chiefly to carry +her mistress’s linen; for starching Eustacie’s plain bands and cuffs +was Mere Perrine’s special pride. The wonted bundle, therefore, now +contained a few garments, and the money and jewels, especially the +chaplet of pearls, which Eustacie regarded as a trust. + +Sobbing, and still protesting, Veronique, however, engaged that if her +Lady succeeded in safely crossing the kitchen in the twilight, and in +leaving the convent, she would keep the secret of her escape as long +as possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and making such +excuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of her flight till +next day. + +‘And then,’ said Eustacie, ‘I will send for thee, either to Saumur or +to the old tower! Adieu, dear Veronique, do not be frightened. Thou +dost not know how glad I am that the time for doing something is come! +To-morrow!’ + +‘To-morrow!’ thought Veronique, as she shut the door; ‘before that you +will be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling, weeping, in +dire need of being comforted. But I will make up a good fire, and shake +out the bed. I’ll let her have no more of that villainous palliasse. No, +no, let her try her own way, and repent of it; then, when this matter is +over, she will turn her mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be no +more languishing in this miserable hole.’ + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAGE. + + + +I winna spare for his tender age, Nor yet for his hie kin; + But soon as ever he born is, +He shall mount the gallow’s pin.--Fause Foodrage. + + +Dusk was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, when with a +trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the stone +staircase, leading to a back-door--an utterly uncanonical appendage to a +nunnery, but one much used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise. + +A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-open +kitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper preparing +for Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed it, when the +voice of the presiding lay-sister called out, ‘Veronique, is that you?’ + +‘Sister!’ returned Eustacie, with as much of the Angevin twang as she +could assume. + +‘Where are you going?’ + +‘To the Orchard Farm with this linen.’ + +‘Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from Madame about +nobody going out unreported, and you may chance to find the door locked +if you do not come back in good time. Oh! and I had well-night forgot; +tell your mother to be here early to-morrow, Madame would speak with +her.’ + +Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her fluttering +heart at the sense that she had indeed seized the last moment. Forth +then she stepped. How dark, waste, and lonely the open field looked! +But her heart did not fail her; she could only feel that a captivity was +over, and the most vague and terrible of her anxieties soothed, as she +made her way into one of the long shady lanes of the Bocage. It was +nearly dark, and very muddy, but she had all the familiarity of a native +with the way, and the farm, where she had trotted about in her infancy +like a peasant’s child, always seemed like home to her. It had been a +prime treat to visit it during her time of education at the convent, and +there was an association of pleasure in treading the path that seemed to +bear her up, and give her enjoyment in the mere adventure and feeling +of escape and liberty. She had no fear of the dark, nor of the distant +barking of dogs, but the mire was deep, and it was plodding work in +those heavy _sabots_, up the lane that led from the convent; and the +poor child was sorely weary long before she came to the top of the low +hill that she used scarcely to know to be rising round at all. The stars +had come out; and as she sat for a few moments to rest on a large +stone, she saw the lights of the cottage fires in the village below, and +looking round could also see the many gleams in the convent windows, the +read fire-light in her own room among them. She shivered a little as +she thought of its glowing comfort, but turned her back resolutely, +tightened her cloak over her head, looked up to a glimmer in the +watch-tower of her own castle far above her on the hill and closed +against her; and then smiled to herself with hope at the sparkle of a +window in a lonely farmhouse among the fields. + +With fresh vigour she rose, and found her way through lane and +field-path to the paddock where she had so often played. Here a couple +of huge dogs dashed forward with an explosion of barks, dying away into +low growls as she spoke to them by their names, and called aloud on +‘Blaise!’ and ‘Mere Perrine!’ The cottage door was opened, the light +streamed forth, and a man’s head in a broad had appeared. ‘Veronique, +girl, is this an hour to be gadding abroad?’ + +‘Blaise, do you not know me?’ + +‘It is our Lady. Ah!’ + +The next moment the wanderer was seated in the ample wooden chair of the +head of the family, the farmer and his two stout sons standing before +her as their liege Lady, and Mere Perrine hanging over her, in great +anxiety, not wholly dispelled by her low girlish laugh, partly of +exultation at her successful evasion, partly of amusement at their +wonder, and partly, too, because it was so natural to her to enjoy +herself at that hearth that she could not help it. A savoury mess from +the great caldron that was for ever stewing over the fire was at once +fished out for her, before she was allowed to explain herself; and as +she ate with the carved spoon and from the earthenware crock that had +been called Mademoiselle’s ever since her baby-days, Perrine chafed +and warmed her feet, fondled her, and assured her, as if she were still +their spoiled child, that they would do all she wished. + +Pierre and Tiennot, the two sons, were sent out to fodder the cattle, +and keep careful watch for any sounds of pursuers from the convent; +and Blaise, in the plenitude of his respects and deference, would have +followed them, but Eustacie desired him to remain to give her counsel. + +Her first inquire was after the watch-tower. She did not care for any +discomfort if her vassals would be faithful, and hold it out for her, +till she could send for help to the allies of her husband’s house, and +her eyes glanced as she spoke. + +But Blaise shook his head. He had looked at the tower as Madame bade, +but it was all in ruins, crumbling away, and, moreover, M. le Chevalier +had put a forester there--a grim, bad subject, who had been in the +Italian wars, and cared neither for saint nor devil, except Chevalier +Narcisse. Indeed, even if he had not been there, the place was +untenable, it would only be getting into a trap. + +‘Count Hebert held it out for twelve days against the English!’ said +Eustacie, proudly. + +‘Ah! ah! but there were none of your falconets, or what call you those +cannons then. No; if Madame would present herself as a choice morsel for +Monsieur le Chevalier to snap up, that is the place.’ + +Then came the other plan of getting an escort of the peasants together, +and riding with them towards the Huguenot territories around La +Rochelle, where, for her husband’s sake, Eustacie could hardly fail +to obtain friends. It was the more practicable expedient, but Blaise +groaned over it, wondered how many of the farmers could be trusted, +or brought together, and finally expressed his intention of going to +consult Martin, his staunch friend, at the next farm. Meantime, Madame +had better lie down and sleep. And Madame did sleep, in Perrine’s huge +box-bedstead, with a sweet, calm, childlike slumber, whilst her nurse +sat watching her with eyes full of tears of pity and distress; the poor +young thing’s buoyant hopefulness and absence of all fear seemed to the +old woman especially sad, and like a sort of want of comprehension of +the full peril in which she stood. + +Not till near dawn was Eustacie startled from her rest by approaching +steps. ‘Nurse, is all ready?’ she cried. ‘Can we set off? Are the horses +there?’ + +‘No, my child; it is but my good man and Martin who would speak with +you. Do not hasten. There is nothing amiss as yet.’ + +‘Oh, nurse,’ cried Eustacie, as she quickly arranged the dress in which +she had lain down, ‘the dear old farm always makes me sleep well. This +is the first time I have had no dream of the whirling wheel and fiery +gates! Oh, is it a token that HE is indeed at rest? I am so well, so +strong. I can ride anywhere now. Let them come in and tell me.’ + +Martin was a younger, brisker, cleverer man than Blaise, and besides +being a vassal of the young Lady, was a sort of agent to whom the Abbess +instructed many of the matters of husbandry regarding the convent lands. +He stood, like Blaise, bareheaded as he talked to little Lady, and heard +her somewhat peremptorily demand why they had not brought the horses and +men for her escort. + +It was impossible that night, explained Martin. Time was needed to bring +in the farm-horses, and summon the other peasants, without whom the +roads were unsafe in these times of disorder. He and Blaise must go +round and warn them to be ready. A man could not be ready in a wink +of the eye, as Madame seemed to think, and the two peasants looked +impenetrable in stolidity. + +‘Laggards that you are!’ cried Eustacie, petulantly, clasping her hands; +‘and meantime all will be lost. They will be upon me!’ + +‘Not so, Madame. It is therefore that I came here,’ said Martin, +deferentially, to the little fuming impatient creature; ‘Madame will be +far safer close at hand while the pursuit and search are going on. But +she must not stay here. This farm is the first place they will come to, +while they will never suspect mine, and my good woman Lucette will be +proud to keep watch for her. Madame knows that the place is full of +shrubs and thickets, where one half of an army might spend a fine day in +looking for the other.’ + +‘And at night you will get together the men and convoy me?’ asked +Eustacie, eagerly. + +‘All in good time, Madame. Now she must be off, ere the holy mothers be +astir. I have brought an ass for her to ride.’ + +Eustacie had no choice but compliance. None of the Orchard family could +go with her, as it was needful that they should stay at home and appear +as unconcerned as possible; but they promised to meet her at the hour +and place to be appointed, ad if possible to bring Veronique. + +Eating a piece of rye-bread as she went, Eustacie, in her gray cloak, +rode under Martin’s guardianship along the deep lanes, just budding with +spring, in the chill dewiness before sunrise. She was silent, and just +a little sullen, for she had found stout shrewd Martin less easy to talk +over than the admiring Blaise, and her spirit was excessively chafed by +the tardiness of her retainers. But the sun rose and cleared away all +clouds of temper, the cocks crew, the sheep bleated, and fresh morning +sounds met her ear, and seemed to cheer and fill her with hope; and in +some compunction for her want of graciousness, she thanked Martin, +and praised his ass with a pretty cordiality that would have fully +compensated for her displeasure, even if the honest man had been +sensible of it. + +He halted under the lee of a barn, and gave a low whistle. At the sound, +Lucette, a brown, sturdy young woman with a red handkerchief over her +head, and another over her shoulders, came running round the corner of +the barn, and whispered eagerly under her breath, ‘Ah! Madame, Madame, +what an honour!’ kissing Eustacie’s hand with all her might as she +spoke; ‘but, alas! I fear Madame cannot come into the house. The +questing Brother Francois--plague upon him!--has taken it into his head +to drop in to breakfast. I longed to give him the cold shoulder, but it +might have brought suspicion down.’ + +‘Right, good woman,’ said Martin; ‘but what shall Madame do? It is broad +way, and no longer safe to run the lanes!’ + +‘Give me a distaff,’ said Eustacie, rising to the occasion; ‘I will go +to that bushy field, and herd the cows.’ + +Madame was right, the husband and wife unwillingly agreed. There, in her +peasant dress, in the remote field, sloping up into a thick wood, she +was unlikely to attract attention; and though the field was bordered on +one side by the lane leading to the road to Paris, it was separated from +it by a steep bank, crowned by one of the thick hedgerows characteristic +of the Bocage. + +Here, then, they were forced to leave her, seated on a stone beneath a +thorn-bush, distaff in hand, with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of milk +for her provisions, and three or four cows grazing before her. From +the higher ground below the wood of ash and hazel, she could see the +undulating fields and orchards, a few houses, and that inhospitable +castle of her own. + +She had spent many a drearier day in the convent than this, in the free +sun and air, with the feeling of liberty, and unbounded hopes founded +on this first success. She told her beads diligently, trusting that the +tale of devotions for her husband’s spirit would be equally made up in +the field as in the church, and intently all day were her ears and +eyes on the alert. Once Lucette visited her, to bring her a basin of +porridge, and to tell her that all the world at the convent was in +confusion, that messengers had been sent out in all directions, and that +M. le Chevalier had ridden out himself in pursuit; but they should soon +hear all about it, for Martin was pretending to be amongst the busiest, +and he would know how to turn them away. Again, much later in the day, +Martin came striding across the field, and had just reached her, as she +sat in the hedgerow, when the great dog who followed him pricked his +ears, and a tramping and jingling was audible in the distance in the +lane. Eustacie held up her finger, her eyes dilating. + +‘It must be M. le Chevalier returning. Madame must wait a little longer. +I must be at home, or they may send out to seek me here, and that +would be ruin. I will return as soon as it is safe, if Madame will hide +herself in the hedgerow.’ + +Into the hedgerow accordingly crept Eustacie, cowering close to +a holly-tree at the very summit of the bank, and led by a strange +fascination to choose a spot where, unseen herself, she could gaze down +on the party who came clanking along the hollow road beneath. Nearer, +nearer, they came; and she shuddered with more of passion than of fear, +as she beheld, not only her uncle in his best well-preserved green suit, +but Narcisse, muddy with riding, though in his court braveries. Suddenly +they came to a halt close beneath her! Was she detected? Ah! just below +was the spot where the road to the convent parted from the road to the +farm; and, as Martin had apprehended, they were stopping for him. The +Chevalier ordered one of the armed men behind him to ride up to the +farm and summon Martin to speak with him; and then he and his son, while +waiting under the holly-bush, continued their conversation. + +‘So that is the state of things! A fine overthrow!’ quoth Narcisse. + +‘Bah! not at all. She will soon be in our hands again. I have spoken +with, or written to, every governor of the cities she must pass through, +and not one will abet the little runaway. At the first barrier she is +ours.’ + +‘_Et puis_?’ + +‘Oh, we shall have her mild as a sheep.’ (Eustacie set her teeth.) +‘Every one will be in the same story, that her marriage was a nullity; +she cannot choose but believe, and can only be thankful that we overlook +the escapade and rehabilitate her.’ + +‘Thank you, my good uncle,’ almost uttered his unseen auditor. + +‘Well! There is too much land down here to throw away; but the affair +has become horribly complicated and distasteful.’ + +‘No such thing. All the easier. She can no longer play the spotless +saint--get weak-minded priests on her side--be all for strict convents. +No, no; her time for that is past! Shut her up with trustworthy persons +from whom she will hear nothing from without, and she will understand +her case. The child? It will scarce be born alive, or at any rate she +need not know whether it is. Then, with no resource, no hope, what can +she do but be too thankful for pardon, and as glad to conceal the past +as we could wish?’ + +Eustacie clenched her fist. Had a pistol been within her reach, +the speaker’s tenure of life had been short! She was no chastened, +self-restrained, forgiving saint, the poor little thing, only a +hot-tempered, generous, keenly-sensitive being, well-nigh a child in +years and in impulses, though with the instincts of a mother awakening +within her, and of a mother who heard the life of her unborn babe +plotted against. She was absolutely forced to hold her lips together, +to repress the sobbing scream of fury that came to her throat; and the +struggles with her gasping breath, the surging of the blood in her ears, +hindered her from hearing or seeing anything for some seconds, +though she kept her station. By the time her perceptions had cleared +themselves, Martin, cap in hand, was in the lane below, listening +deferentially to the two gentlemen, who were assuring him that inquiry +had been made, and a guard carefully set at the fugitive could have +passed those, or be able to do so. She must certainly be hidden +somewhere near home, and Martin had better warn all his friends against +hiding her, unless they wished to be hung up on the thresholds of their +burning farm-steads. Martin bowed, and thought the fellows would know +their own interest and Mademoiselle’s better. + +‘Well,’ said the Chevalier, ‘we must begin without loss of time. My son +has brought down a set of fellows here, who are trained to ferret out +heretics. Not a runaway weasel cold escape them! We will set them on as +soon as ever they have taken a bit of supper up there at the Chateau; +and do you come up with us just to show them the way across to +Leonard’s. That’s no unlikely place for her to lurk in, as you said this +morning, good fellow.’ + +It was the most remote farm from that of Martin, and Eustacie felt how +great were his services, even while she flushed with anger to hear him +speaking of her as Mademoiselle. He was promising to follow immediately +to the castle, to meet _ces Messieurs_ there almost as soon as they +could arrive, but excusing himself from accompanying them, by the need +of driving home the big bull, whom no one else could manage. + +They consented, and rode on. Martin watched them out of sight, then +sprang up by some stepping-stones in the bank, a little below where +Eustacie sat, and came crackling through the boughs to where she was +crouching down, with fierce glittering eyes and panting breath, like a +wild animal ready to spring. + +‘Madame has heard,’ said Martin, under his breath. + +‘If I have heard! Oh that I were a man, to slay them where they stood! +Martin, Martin! you will not betray me. Some day WE will reward you.’ + +‘Madame need not have said THAT to me,’ said Martin, rather hurt. ‘I am +only thinking what she can do. Alas! I fear that she must remain in this +covert till it is dark, for these men’s eyes are all on the alert. At +dark, I or Lucette will come and find a shelter for her for the night.’ + +Long, long, then, did Eustacie sit, muffled in her gray cloak, shrinking +together to shelter herself from the sunset chill of early spring, but +shuddering more with horror than with cold as the cruel cold-blooded +words she had heard recurred to her, and feeling as if she were fast +within a net, every outlet guarded against her, and search everywhere; +yet still with the indomitable determination to dare and suffer to the +utmost ere that which was dearer than her own life should come into +peril from her enemies. + +The twilight closed in, the stars came out, sounds of life died away, +and still she sat on, becoming almost torpid in the cold darkness, until +at length she heard the low call of Lucette, ‘MADAME! AH!_la pauvre +Madame_.’ She started up, so stiff that she could hardly more, and only +guided by the voice to feel her way through the hedgerow in the right +direction. Another moment, and Lucette’s warn arms had received her; and +she was guided, scarce knowing how or where, in cautious silence to the +farmyard, and into the house, where a most welcome sight, a huge fire, +blazed cheerfully on the hearth, and Martin himself held open the door +for her. The other occupants of the kitchen were the sleeping child +in its wooden cradle, some cocks and hens upon the rafters, and a big +sheep-dog before the fire. + +The warmth, and the chicken that Lucette had killed and dressed, brought +the colour back to the exhausted wanderer’s cheek, and enabled her again +to hold council for her safety. It was plain, as Martin had found in +conversation with the men-at-arms, that precautions had been taken +against her escaping in any of the directions where she might hope to +have reached friends. Alone she could not go, and any escort sufficient +to protect her would assuredly be stopped at the first town; +besides which, collecting it in secret was impossible under present +circumstances, and it would be sure to be at once overtaken and +demolished by the Chevalier Narcisse’s well-armed followers. Martin, +therefore, saw no alternative but for her to lurk about in such +hiding-places as her faithful vassals could afford her, until the search +should blow over, and the vigilance of her uncle and cousin relax. Hope, +the high-spirited hope of early youth, looked beyond to indefinite but +infinite possibility. Anything was better than the shame and horror +of yielding, and Eustacie trusted herself with all her heart for the +present, fancying, she knew not what, the future. + +Indeed, the Vendean fidelity has often been tested, and she made full +proof of it among the lanes, copses, and homesteads of her own broad +lands. The whole country was a network of deep lanes, sunk between +impenetrable hedgerows, inclosing small fields, orchards, and thickets, +and gently undulating in low hills and shallow valleys, interspersed +with tall wasp-waisted windmills airily waving their arms on the top +of lofty masts. It was partitioned into small farms, inhabited by a +simple-hearted peasantry, religious and diligent, with a fair amount of +rural wealth and comfort. Their love for their lords was loyally warm, +and Eustacie monopolized it, from their detestation of her uncle’s +exactions; they would risk any of the savage punishments with which they +were threatened for concealing her; and as one by one it was needful to +take them into the secret, so as to disarm suspicion, and she was passed +from one farm to another, each proved his faithful attachment, and +though himself repaid by her thankful smile and confiding manner. + +The Chevalier and his son searched vigorously. On the slightest +suspicion, they came down to the farm, closed up the outlets, threatened +the owners, turned out the house, and the very place they had last +searched would become her quarters on the next night! Messages always +had warned her in time. Intelligence was obtained by Martin, who +contrived to remain a confidential agent, and warnings were dispatched +to her by many a strange messenger--by little children, by old women, or +even by the village innocent. + +The most alarming days were those when she was not the avowed object +of the chase, but when the pursuit of game rendered the coverts in the +woods and fields unsafe, and the hounds might lead to her discovery. On +one of these occasions Martin locked her up in the great hayloft of the +convent, where she could actually hear the chants in the chapel, and +distinguish the chatter of the lay-sisters in the yard. Another time, in +conjunction with the sacristan, he bestowed her in the great seigneurial +tribune (or squire’s pew) in the village church, a tall carved box, +where she was completely hidden; and the only time when she had failed +to obtain warning beforehand, she stood kneading bread at a tub in +Martin’s cottage, while the hunt passed by, and a man-at-arms looked in +and questioned the master on the last traces of the runaway. + +It was seldom possible to see Mere Perrine, who was carefully watched, +under the conviction that she must know where her nursling was; but one +evening Veronique ventured up to Martin’s farm, trusting to tidings that +the gentlemen had been Eustacie’s only secure harbour; and when, in +a bright evening gleam of the setting sun from beneath the clouds, +Veronique came in sight of her Lady, the Queen’s favourite, it was to +see her leading by a string a little shaggy cow, with a bell round its +neck, her gray cloak huddled round her, though dank with wet, a long +lock of black hair streaming over her brow, her garments clinging with +damp, her bare ankles scratched with thorns, her heavy SABOTS covered +with mire, her cheeks pale with cold and wet. + +The contrast overwhelmed poor Veronique. She dropped on her knees, +sobbing as if her heart would break, and declaring that this was what +the Abbess had feared; her Lady was fast killing herself. + +‘Hush! Veronique,’ said Eustacie; ‘that is all folly. I am wet and weary +now, but oh! if you knew how much sweeter to me life is now than it +was, shut up down there, with my fears. See,’ and she held up a bunch +of purple pasque-flowers and wood-sorrel, ‘this is what I found in the +wood, growing out of a rugged old dead root; and just by, sheltered +by the threefold leaves of the alleluia-flower, was a bird’s nest, the +mother-bird on her eggs, watching me with the wise black eye that saw I +would not hurt her. And it brought back the words I had heard long ago, +of the good God caring for the sparrows; and I knew He would care the +more for me and mine, because I have not where to lay my head.’ + +‘Alas!’ sobbed Veronique, ‘now she is getting to be a saint outright. +She will be sure to die! Ah, Madame--dear Madame! do but listen to me. +If you did but know how Madame de Bellaise is afflicting herself on your +account! She sent for me--ah! do not be angry, dear Lady?’ + +‘I wish to hear nothing about her,’ said Eustacie. + +‘Nay, listen, _de grace_--one moment, Madame! She has wept, she has +feared for you, all the lay-sisters say so. She takes no pleasure in +hawking, nor in visiting; and she did not eat more than six of Soeur +Bernardine’s best conserves. She does nothing but watch for tidings of +Madame. And she sent for me, as I told you, and conjured me, if I knew +where you were, or had any means of finding out, to implore you to trust +to her. She will swear on all the relics in the chapel never to give a +hint to Messieurs les Chevaliers if only you would trust her, and not +slay yourself with all this dreadful wandering.’ + +‘Never!’ said Eustacie; ‘she said too much!’ + +‘Ah! but she declares that, had she known the truth, she never would +have said that. Ah, yes, Madame, the Abbess is good!’ And Veronique, +holding her mistress’s cloak to secure a hearing, detailed the Abbess’ +plan for lodging her niece in secret apartments within the thickness +of the convent walls, where Mere Perrine could be with her, and every +sacred pledge should be given that could remove her fears. + +‘And could they make me believe them, so that the doubt and dread would +not kill me in themselves?’ said Eustacie. + +‘But it is death--certain death, as it is. Oh, if Madame would hear +reason!--but she is headstrong! She will grieve when it is too late!’ + +‘Listen, Veronique. I have a far better plan. The sacristan has a sister +who weaves red handkerchiefs at Chollet. She will receive me, and keep +me as long as there is need. Martin is to take me in his cart when he +carries the hay to the garrison. I shall be well hidden, and within +reach of your mother. And then, when my son is once come--then all will +be well! The peasants will rise in behalf of their young Lord, though +not for a poor helpless woman. No one will dare to dispute his claim, +when I have appealed to the King; and then, Veronique, you shall come +back to me, and all will be well!’ + +Veronique only began to wail aloud at her mistress’ obstinacy. Martin +came up, and rudely silenced her, and said afterwards to his wife, ‘Have +a care! That girl has--I verily believe--betrayed her Lady once; and if +she do not do so again, from pure pity and faintness of heart, I shall +be much surprised.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. THE GHOSTS OF THE TEMPLARS + + + + ‘Tis said, as through the aisles they passed, + They heard strange voices on the blast, + And through the cloister galleries small, + Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, + Loud sobs and laughter louder ran, + And voices unlike the voice of man, + As if the fiends kept holiday. + Scott, LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL + + +‘Ill news, Martin, I see by your look!’ cried Eustacie, starting to her +feet from the heap of straw on which she was sitting in his cowhouse, +one early April day, about seven weeks since her evasion from the +convent. + +‘Not so, I hope, Madame, but I do not feel at ease. Monsieur has not +sent for me, nor told me his plans for the morrow, and I much doubt me +whether that bode not a search here. Now I see a plan, provided Madame +would trust herself to a Huguenot.’ + +‘They would guard me for my husband’s sake.’ + +‘And could Madame walk half a league, as far as the Grange du Temple? +There live Matthieu Rotrou and his wife, who have, they say, baffled +a hundred times the gendarmes who sought their ministers. No one ever +found a pastor, they say, when Rotrou had been of the congregation; and +if they can do so much for an old preacher with a long tongue, surely +they can for a sweet young lady; and if they could shelter her just for +tomorrow, till the suspicion is over, then would I come for Madame with +my cart, and carry her into Chollet among the trusses of hay, as we had +fixed.’ + +Eustacie was already tying her cloak, and asking for Lucette; but +she was grieved to hear that Martin had sent her to vespers to disarm +suspicion, and moreover that he meant not to tell her of his new device. +‘The creature is honest enough,’ he said, ‘but the way to be safe with +women is not to let them know.’ + +He cut short all messages and expressions of gratitude, and leading +Eustacie to a small stream, he made her creep along its course, with her +feet in the water so as to be sheltered by the boughs that hung over the +banks, while he used his ling strides to enable him to double back +and enter into conversation with passers-by, quite of the track of the +Grange du Temple, but always telling her where he should join her again, +and leaving with her the great dog, whom she had come to regard as a +friend and protector. Leaving the brook, he conducted her beneath hedges +and by lonely woodland paths beyond the confines of her own property, +to a secluded valley, so shut in by wooded hills that she had not been +aware of its existence. Through an extensive orchard, she at length, +when nearly spent with the walk, beheld the cluster of stone buildings, +substantial as the erections of religious orders were wont to be. + +Martin found a seat for her, where she might wait while he went on alone +to the house, and presently returned with both the good people of the +farm. They were more offhand and less deferential than were her own +people, but were full of kindliness. They were middle-aged folk, most +neatly clad, and with a grave, thoughtful look about them, as if +life were a much heavier charge to them than to their light-hearted +neighbours. + +‘A fair day to you, Madame,’ said the farmer, doffing his wide-flapped +hat. ‘I am glad to serve a sufferer for the truth’s sake.’ + +‘My husband was,’ faltered Eustacie. + +‘AH! _la pauvre_,’ cried the good woman, pressing forward as she saw how +faint, heated, and exhausted was the wanderer. ‘Come in, _ma pauvrette_. +Only a bride at the Bartholomew! Alas! There, lean on me, my dear.’ + +To be _tutoyee_ by the Fermiere Rotrou was a shock; yet the kind manner +was comfortable, and Eustacie suffered herself to be led into +the farm-house, where, as the dame observed, she need not fear +chance-comers, for they lived much to themselves, and no one would be +about till their boy Robinet came in with the cows. She might rest and +eat there in security, and after that they would find a hiding-place for +her--safe as the horns of the altar--for a night or two; only for two +nights at most. + +‘Nor do I ask more,’ said Eustacie. ‘Then Martin will come for me.’ + +‘Ah, I or Blaise, or whichever of us can do it with least suspicion.’ + +‘She shall meet you here,’ added Rotrou. + +‘All right, good man; I understand; it is best I should not know where +you hide her. Those rogues have tricks that make it as well to know +nothing. Farewell, Madame, I commend you to all the saints till I come +for you on Monday morning.’ + +Eustacie gave him her hand to kiss, and tried to thank him, but somehow +her heart sank, and she felt more lonely than ever, when entirely cast +loose among these absolute strangers, than amongst her own vassals. Even +the farm-kitchen, large, stone-built, and scrupulously clean, seemed +strange and dreary after the little, smoky, earth-built living-rooms in +which her peasantry were content to live, and she never had seemed to +herself so completely desolate; but all the time she was so wearied out +with her long and painful walk, that she had no sooner taken some food +than she began to doze in her chair. + +‘Father,’ said the good wife, ‘we had better take _la pauvrette_ to her +rest at once.’ + +‘Ah! must I go any farther?’ sighed Eustacie. + +‘It is but a few fields beyond the yard, _ma petite_,’ said the good +woman consolingly; ‘and it will be safer to take you there ere we need a +light.’ + +The sun had just set on a beautiful evening of a spring that happily for +Eustacie had been unusually warm and mild, when they set forth, the dame +having loaded her husband with a roll of bedding, and herself taking a +pitcher of mild and a loaf of bread, whilst Eustacie, as usual, carried +her own small parcel of clothes and jewels. The way was certainly +not long to any one less exhausted than she; it was along a couple of +fields, and then through a piece of thicket, where Rotrou held back the +boughs and his wife almost dragged her on with kind encouraging words, +till they came up to a stone ivy-covered wall, and coasting along it +to a tower, evidently a staircase turret. Here Rotrou, holding aside an +enormous bush of ivy, showed the foot of a winding staircase, and his +wife assured her that she would not have far to climb. + +She knew where she was now. She had heard of the old Refectory of the +Knights Templars. Partly demolished by the hatred of the people upon the +abolition of the Order, it had ever since lain waste, and had become the +centre of all the ghostly traditions of the country; the locality of +all the most horrid tales of REVENANTS told under the breath at Dame +Perrine’s hearth or at recreation hour at Bellaise. Her courage was not +proof against spiritual terrors. She panted and leant against the wall, +as she faintly exclaimed, ‘The Temple--there--and alone!’ + +‘Nay, Lady, methought as _Monsieur votre mari_ knew the true light, you +would fear no vain terror nor power of darkness.’ + +Should these peasants--these villeins--be bold, and see the descendant +of the ‘bravest of knights,’ the daughter of the house of Ribaumont, +afraid? She rallied herself, and replied manfully, ‘I FEAR not, no!’ but +then, womanfully, ‘But it is the Temple! It is haunted! Tell me what I +must expect.’ + +‘I tell you truly, Madame,’ said Rotrou; ‘none whom I have sheltered +here have seen aught. On the faith of a Christian, no evil spirit--no +ghost--has ever alarmed them; but they were fortified by prayer and +psalm.’ + +‘I do pray! I have a psalm-book,’ said Eustacie, and she added to +herself, ‘No, they shall never see that I fear. After all, REVENANTS can +do nothing worse than scare one; they cannot touch one; the saints and +angels will not let them--and my uncle would do much worse.’ + +But to climb those winding stairs, and resign herself to be left alone +with the Templars for the night, was by far the severest trial that had +yet befallen the poor young fugitive. As her tire feet dragged up the +crumbling steps, her memory reverted to the many tales of the sounds +heard by night within those walls--church chants turning into diabolical +songs, and bewildered travelers into thickets and morasses, where they +had been found in the morning, shuddering as they told of a huge white +monk, with clanking weapons, and a burning cross of fire printed on his +shoulder and breast, who stood on the walls and hurled a shrieking babe +into the abyss. Were such spectacles awaiting her? Must she bear them? +And could her endurance hold out? Our Lady be her aid, and spare her in +her need! + +At the top of the stairs she found Rotrou’s hand, ready to help her +out on a stone floor, quite dark, but thickly covered, as she felt and +smelt, with trusses of hay, between which a glimmering light showed a +narrow passage. A few steps, guided by Rotrou’s hand, brought her out +into light again, and she found herself in a large chamber, with the +stone floor broken away in some places, and with a circular window, +thickly veiled with ivy, but still admitting a good deal of evening +light. + +It was in fact a chamber over the vaulted refectory of the knights. The +walls and vaults still standing in their massive solidity, must have +tempted some peasant, or mayhap some adventurer, rudely to cover in the +roof (which had of course been stripped of its leading), and thus in +the unsuspected space to secure a hiding-place, often for less innocent +commodities than the salt, which the iniquitous and oppressive _gabelle_ +had always led the French peasant to smuggle, ever since the days of the +first Valois. The room had a certain appearance of comfort; there was a +partition across it, a hearth with some remains of wood-ashes, a shelf, +holding a plate, cup, lamp, and a few other necessaries; and altogether +the aspect of the place was so unlike what Eustacie had expected, that +she almost forgot the Templar as she saw the dame begin to arrange +a comfortable-looking couch for her wearied limbs. Yet she felt very +unwilling to let them depart, and even ventured on faltering out the +inquiry whether the good woman could not stay with her,--she would +reward her largely. + +‘It is for the love of Heaven, Madame, not for gain,’ said Nanon Rotrou, +rather stiffly. ‘If you were ill, or needed me, all must then give way; +but for me to be absent this evening would soon be reported around the +village down there, for there are many who would find occasion against +us.’ But, by way of consolation, they gave her a whistle, and showed +her that the window of their cottage was much nearer to a loophole-slit +looking towards the east than she had fancied. The whistle perpetrated +a mist unearthly screech, a good deal like that of an owl, but more +discordant, and Nanon assured her that the sound would assuredly break +her slumbers, and bring her in a few minutes at any moment of need. +In fact, the noise was so like the best authenticated accounts of the +shrieks indulged in by the spirits of the Temple, that Eustacie had +wit enough to suspect that it might be the foundation of some of the +stories; and with that solace to her alarms, she endured the departure +of her hosts, Nanon promising a visit in the early morning. + +The poor child was too weary to indulge in many terrors, the beneficent +torpor of excessive fatigue was upon her, happily bringing slumberous +oblivion instead of feverish restlessness. She strove to repeat her +accustomed orisons; but sleep was too strong for her, and she was soon +lying dreamlessly upon the clean homely couch prepared for her. + +When she awoke, it was with a start. The moon was shining in through the +circular window, making strange white shapes on the floor, all quivering +with the shadows of the ivy sprays. It looked strange and eerie enough +at the moment, but she understood it the next, and would have been +reassured if she had not become aware that there was a low sound, a +tramp, tramp, below her. ‘Gracious saints! The Templar! Have mercy on +me! Oh! I was too sleepy to pray! Guard me from being driven wild by +fright!’ She sat upright, with wide-spread eyes, and, finding that she +herself was in the moonlight, through some opening in the roof, she took +refuge in the darkest corner, though aware as she crouched there, +that if this were indeed the Templar, concealment would be vain, and +remembering suddenly that she was out of reach of the loophole-window. + +And therewith there was a tired sound in the tread, as if the Templar +found his weird a very length one; then a long heavy breath, with +something so essentially human in its sound that the fluttering heart +beat more steadily. If reason told her that the living were more +perilous to her than the dead, yet feeling infinitely preferred them! It +might be Nanon Rotrou after all; then how foolish to be crouching there +in a fright! It was rustling through the hay. No-no Nanon; it is a +male figure, it has a long cloak on. Ah! it is in the moonlight-silver +hair--silver beard. The Templar! Fascinated with dismay, yet calling to +mind that no ghost has power unless addressed, she sat still, crossing +herself in silence, but unable to call to mind any prayer or invocation +save a continuous ‘Ave Mary,’ and trying to restrain her gasping breath, +lest, if he were not the Templar after all, he might discover her +presence. + +He moved about, took off his cloak, laid it down near the hay, then his +cap, not a helmet after all, and there was no fiery cross. + +He was in the gloom again, and she heard him moving much as though he +were pulling down the hay to form a bed. Did ghosts ever do anything so +sensible? If he were an embodied spirit, would it be possible to +creep past him and escape while he lay asleep? She was almost becoming +familiarized with the presence, and the supernatural terror was passing +off into a consideration of resources, when, behold, he was beginning to +sing. To sing was the very way the ghosts began ere they came to their +devilish outcries. ‘Our Lady keep it from bringing frenzy. But hark! +hark!’ It was not one of the chants, it was a tune and words heard +in older times of her life; it was the evening hymn, that the little +husband and wife had been wont to sing to the Baron in the Chateau de +Leurre--Marot’s version of the 4th Psalm. + + ‘_Plus de joie m’est donnee_ + _Par ce moyen, O Dieu Tres-Haut_, + _Que n’ont ceux qui ont grand annee_ + _De froment et bonne vinee_, + _D’huile et tout ce qu’il leur faut_.’ + +If it had indeed been the ghostly chant, perhaps Eustacie would not +have been able to help joining it. As it was, the familiar home words +irresistibly impelled her to mingle her voice, scarce knowing what she +did, in the verse-- + + ‘_Si qu’en paix et surete bonne_ + _Coucherai et reposerai_; + _Car, Seigneur, ta bonte tout ordonne_ + _Et elle seule espoir me donne_ + _Que sur et seul regnant serai_.’ + +The hymn died away in its low cadence, and then, ere Eustacie had +had time to think of the consequences of thus raising her voice, the +new-comer demanded: + +‘Is there then another wanderer here?’ + +‘Ah! sir, pardon me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I will not long importune you, but +only till morning light--only till the Fermiere Rotrou comes.’ + +‘If Matthieu and Anne Rotrou placed you here, then all is well,’ replied +the stranger. ‘Fear not, daughter, but tell me. Are you one of my +scattered flock, or one whose parents are known to me?’ Then, as she +hesitated, ‘I am Isaac Gardon--escaped, alas! alone, from the slaughter +of the Barthelemy.’ + +‘Master Gardon!’ cried Eustacie. ‘Oh, I know! O sir, my husband loved +and honoured you.’ + +‘Your husband?’ + +‘Yes, sir, le Baron de Ribaumont.’ + +‘That fair and godly youth! My dear old patron’s son! You--you! But--’ +with a shade of doubt, almost of dismay, ‘the boy was wedded--wedded to +the heiress---’ + +‘Yes, yes, I am that unhappy one! We were to have fled together on that +dreadful night. He came to meet me to the Louvre--to his doom!’ she +gasped out, nearer to tears than she had ever been since that time, such +a novelty was it to her to hear Berenger spoken of in kind or tender +terms; and in her warmth of feeling, she came out of her corner, and +held our her hand to him. + +‘Alas! poor thing!’ said the minister, compassionately, ‘Heaven has +tried you sorely. Had I known of your presence here, I would not have +entered; but I have been absent long, and stole into my lair here +without disturbing the good people below. Forgive the intrusion, +Madame.’ + +The minister replied warmly that surely persecution was a brotherhood, +even had she not been the window of one he had loved and lamented. + +‘Ah! sir, it does me good to hear you say so.’ + +And therewith Eustacie remembered the hospitalities of her loft. She +perceived by the tones of the old man’s voice that he was tired, and +probably fasting, and she felt about for the milk and bread with which +she had been supplied. It was a most welcome refreshment, though he only +partook sparingly; and while he ate, the two, so strangely met, came to +a fuller knowledge of one another’s circumstances. + +Master Isaac Gardon had, it appeared, been residing at Paris, in the +house of the watchmaker whose daughter had been newly married to his +son; but on the fatal eve of St. Bartholomew, he had been sent for to +pray with a sick person in another quarter of the city. The Catholic +friends of the invalid were humane, and when the horrors began, not only +concealed their kinsman, but almost forcibly shut up the minister in +the same cellar with him. And thus, most reluctantly, had he been spared +from the fate that overtook his son and daughter-in-law. A lone and +well-night broken-hearted man, he had been smuggled out of the city, +and had since that time been wandering from one to another of the many +scattered settlements of Huguenots in the northern part of France, +who, being left pastorless, welcomed visits from the minister of their +religion, and passed him on from one place to another, as his stay in +each began to be suspected by the authorities. He was now on his way +along the west side of France, with no fixed purpose, except so far as, +since Heaven had spared his life when all that made it dear had been +taken from him, he resigned himself to believe that there was yet some +duty left for him to fulfil. + +Meantime the old man was wearied out; and after due courtesies had +passed between him and the lady in the dark, he prayed long and +fervently, as Eustacie could judge from the intensity of the low murmurs +she heard; and then she heard him, with a heavy irrepressible sigh, lie +down on the couch of hay he had already prepared for himself, and soon +his regular breathings announced his sound slumbers. She was already on +the bed she had so precipitately quitted, and not a thought more did +she give to the Templars, living or dead, even though she heard an +extraordinary snapping and hissing, and in the dawn of the morning saw +a white weird thing, like a huge moth, flit in through the circular +window, take up its station on a beam above the hay, and look down with +the brightest, roundest eyes she had ever beheld. Let owls and bats +come where they would, she was happier than she had been for months. +Compassion for herself was plentiful enough, but to have heard Berenger +spoken of with love and admiration seemed to quiet the worst ache of her +lonely heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOONBEAM + + + + She wandered east, she wandered west, + She wandered out and in; + And at last into the very swine’s stythe + The queen brought forth a son.--Fause Foodrage + + +The morrow was Sunday, and in the old refectory, in the late afternoon, +a few Huguenots, warned by messages from the farm, met to profit by one +of their scanty secret opportunities for public worship. The hum of the +prayer, and discourse of the pastor, rose up through the broken vaulting +to Eustacie, still lying on her bed; for she had been much shaken by the +fatigues of the day and alarm of the night, and bitterly grieved, too, +by a message which Nanon conveyed to her, that poor Martin was in no +state to come for her in the next day; but he and his wife having been +seized upon by Narcisse and his men, and so savagely beaten in order to +force from them a confession of her hiding-place, that both were +lying helpless on their bed; and could only send an entreaty by the +trustworthy fool, that Rotrou would find means of conveying Madame into +Chollet in some cart of hay or corn, in which she could be taken past +the barriers. + +But this was not to be. Good Nanon had sacrificed the sermon to creep up +to Eustacie, and when the congregation were dispersing in the dusk, she +stole down the stairs to her husband; and a few seconds after he was +hurrying as fast as _detours_ would allow him to Blaise’s farm. An hour +and a half later, Dame Perrine, closely blindfolded for the last mile, +was dragged up the spiral staircase, and ere the bandage was removed +heard Eustacie’s voice, with a certain cheeriness, say, ‘Oh! nurse; my +son will soon come!’ + +The full moon gave her light, and the woman durst not have any other, +save from the wood-fire that Nanon had cautiously lighted and screened. +The moonshine was still supreme, when some time later a certain ominous +silence and half-whisper between the two women at the hearth made +Eustacie, with a low cry of terror, exclaim, ‘Nurse, nurse, what means +this? Oh! He lives! I know he lives! Perrine, I command you tell me!’ + +‘Living! Oh, yes, my love, my Lady,’ answered Perrine, returning towards +her; ‘fair and perfect as the day. Be not disquieted for a moment.’ + +‘I will--I will disquiet myself,’ panted Eustacie, ‘unless you tell me +what is amiss.’ + +‘Nothing amiss,’ said Nanon, gruffly. ‘Madame will give thanks for this +fair gift of a daughter.’ + +It must be owned the words felt chill. She had never thought of this! It +was as if the being for whom she had dared and suffered so much, in the +trust that he would be Berenger’s representative and avenger, had failed +her and disappointed her. No defender, no paladin, no so to be proud of! +Her heart and courage sank down in her weakness as they had never done +before; and, without speaking, she turned her head away towards the +darkness, feeling as if had been for nothing, and she might as well +sink away in her exhaustion. Mere Perrine was more angry with Nanon than +conscious of her Lady’s weakness. ‘Woman, you speak as if you knew not +the blow to this family, and to all who hoped for better days. What, +that my Lady, the heiress, who ought to be in a bed of state, with +velvet curtains, lace pillows, gold caudle-cups, should be here in a +vile ruin, among owls and bats, like any beggar, and all for the sake, +not of a young Lord to raise up the family, but of a miserable little +girl! Had I known how it would turn out, I had never meddled in this mad +scheme.’ + +Before Nanon could express her indignation, Eustacie had turned her head +opened her eyes, and called out, ‘Miserable! Oh! what do you mean? Oh, +it is true, Nanon? is it well with her? + +‘As well as heart could wish,’ answered Nanon, cheerily. ‘Small, but +a perfect little piece of sugar. There, Lady, she shall speak for +herself.’ + +And as Nanon laid the babe on the young mother’s bosom, the thrilling +touch at once put an end to all the repinings of the heiress, and awoke +far other instincts. + +‘My child! my little one, my poor little orphan--all cruel to her! Oh, +no welcome even from thy mother! Babe, babe, pardon me, I will make it +up to thee; indeed I will! Oh! let me see her! Do not take her away, +dear good woman, only hold her in the moonlight!’ + +The full rays of the moon, shining through the gable window, streamed +down very near where Eustacie lay, and by a slight movement Dame Rotrou +was able to render the little face as distinctly visible to her as if +it had been daylight, save that the blanching light was somewhat +embellishing to the new-born complexion, and increased that curious +resemblance so often borne for the first few hours of life to the future +self. Eustacie’s cry at once was, ‘Himself, himself--his very face! Let +me have her, my own moonbeam--his child--my joy!’ + +The tears, so long denied, rushed down like summer rain as she clasped +the child in her arms. Dame Perrine wandered to and fro, like one beside +herself, not only at her Lady’s wretched accommodations, but at the ill +omens of the moonlight illumination, of the owls who snapped and hissed +incessantly over the hay, and above all the tears over the babe’s face. +She tried to remonstrate with Eustacie, but was answered only, ‘Let me +weep! Oh, let me weep! It eases my heart! It cannot hurt my little one! +She cannot weep for her father herself, so I must weep for her.’ + +The weeping was gentle, not violent; and Dame Rotrou thought it did good +rather than harm. She was chiefly anxious to be quit of Perrine, who, +however faithful to the Lady of Ribaumont, must not be trusted to learn +the way to this Huguenot asylum, and must be escorted back by Rotrou ere +peep of dawn. The old woman knew that her own absence from home would be +suspicious, and with many grumblings submitted; but first she took the +child from Eustacie’s reluctant arms, promising to restore her in a few +moments, after finishing dressing her in the lace-edged swaddling bands +so carefully preserved ever since Eustacie’s own baby hood. In these +moments she had taken them all by surprise by, without asking any +questions, sprinkling the babe with water, and baptizing her by the +hereditary name of Berangere, the feminine of the only name Eustacie had +always declared her son should bear. Such baptisms were not unfrequently +performed by French nurses, but Eustacie exclaimed with a sound half +dismay, half indignation. + +‘_Eh quoi_!’ said Perrine, ‘it is only _ondoyee_. You can have all the +ceremonies if ever time shall fit; but do you think I could leave my +Lady’s child--mere girl though it be--alone with owls, and _follets_, +and REVENANTS, and heretics, and she unbaptized? She would be a +changeling long ere morning, I trow.’ + +‘Come, good woman,’ said Rotrou, from between the trusses of hay at the +entrance; ‘you and I must begin our Colin-Mail-lard again, or it may be +the worse for us both.’ + +And with the promise of being conducted to Eustacie again in three +nights’ time, if she would meet her guide at the cross-roads after dark, +Perrine was forced to take her leave. She had never suspected that all +this time Maitre Gardon had been hidden in the refectory below, and +still less did she guess that soon after her departure the old man was +installed as her Lady’s chief attendant. It was impossible that Nanon +should stay with Eustacie; she had her day’s work to attend to, and her +absence would have excited suspicion. He, therefore, came partly up +the stairs, and calling to Nanon, proffered himself to sit with ‘_cette +pauvre_,’ and make a signal in case Nanon should be wanted. The good +woman was thus relieved of a great care. She would not have dared to +ask it of him, but with a low reverence, she owned that it was an act of +great charity towards the poor lady, who, she hoped, was falling into +a tranquil sleep, but who she would hardly have dared to leave. The +pastor, though hardships, battles, and persecutions had left him +childless, had been the father of a large family; and perhaps he was +drawn the more strongly towards the mother and child, because he almost +felt as if, in fulfilling the part of a father towards the widow of +Berenger de Ribaumont, he was taking her in the stead of the widow of +his own Theodore. + +Had the little Baronne de Ribaumont been lodged in a tapes-tried +chamber, between curtains of velvet and gold, with a _beauffet_ by her +side glistening with gold and silver plate, as would have befitted her +station, instead of lying on a bed of straw, with no hangings to the +walls save cobwebs and hay, and wallflowers, no _beauffet_ but the old +rickety table, no attendants but Nanon and M. Gardon, no visitors but +the two white owls, no provisions save the homely fare that rustic +mothers lived upon--neither she nor her babe could have thriven better, +and probably not half so well. She had been used to a hardy, out-of-door +life, like the peasant women; and she was young and strong, so that she +recovered as they did. If the April shower beat in at the window, or the +hole in the roof, they made a screen of canvas, covered her with cloaks, +and heaped them with hay, and she took no harm; and the pure open +air that blew in was soft with all the southern sweetness of early +spring-tide, and the little one throve in it like the puff-ball owlets +in the hayloft, or the little ring-doves in the ivy, whose parent’s +cooing voice was Eustacie’s favourite music. Almost as good as these +her fellow-nestlings was the little Moonbeam, _la petite Rayonette_, +as Eustacie fondly called this light that had come back to her from the +sunshine she had lost. Had she cried or been heard, the sounds would +probably have passed for the wailings of the ghostly victims of the +Templars, but she exercised an exemplary forbearance in that respect, +for which Eustacie thought she could not be sufficiently admired. + +Like the child she was, Eustacie seemed to have put care from her, and +to be solely taken up with the baby, and the amusement of watching the +owl family. + +There was a lull in the search at this moment, for the Chevalier had +been recalled to Paris by the fatal illness of his son-in-law, M. de +Selinvine. The old soldier, after living half his life on bread and +salad, that he might keep up a grand appearance at Paris, had, on coming +into the wealth of the family, and marrying a beautiful wife, returned +to the luxuries he had been wont only to enjoy for a few weeks at a +time, with in military occupation of some Italian town. Three months of +festivities had been enough to cause his death; and the Chevalier was +summoned to assist his daughter in providing for his obsequies, and in +taking possession of the huge endowments which, as the last of his race, +he had been able to bequeath to her. Such was the news brought by the +old nurse Perrine, who took advantage of the slackening vigilance of the +enemy to come to see Eustacie. The old woman was highly satisfied; +for one of the peasants’ wives had--as if on purpose to oblige her +Lady--given birth to twins, one of whom had died almost immediately; and +the parents had consented to conceal their loss, and at once take the +little Demoiselle de Ribaumont as their own--guarding the secret till +her mother should be able to claim her. It was so entirely the practice, +under the most favourable circumstances, for French mothers to send +their infants to be nursed in cottages, that Perrine was amazed by the +cry of angry refusal that burst from Eustacie: ‘Part with my child! +leave her to her enemies!--never! never! Hold your tongue, Perrine! I +will not hear of such a thing!’ + +‘But, Madame, hear reason. She will pass for one of Simonette’s!’ + +‘She shall pass for none but mine!--I part with thee, indeed! All that +is left me of thy father!--the poor little orphaned innocent, that no +one loves but her mother!’ + +‘Madame--Mademoiselle, this is not common sense! Why, how can you hide +yourself? how travel with a baby on your neck, whose crying may betray +you?’ + +‘She never cries--never, never! And better I were betrayed than she.’ + +‘If it were a boy---’ began Perrine. + +‘If it were a boy, there would be plenty to care for it. I should not +care for it half so much. As for my poor little lonely girl, whom +every one wishes away but her mother--ah! yes, baby, thy mother will go +through fire and water for thee yet. Never fear, thou shalt not leave +her!’ + +‘No nurse can go with Madame. Simonette could not leave her home.’ + +‘What needs a nurse when she has me?’ + +‘But, Madame,’ proceeded the old woman, out of patience, ‘you are beside +yourself! What noble lady ever nursed her babe?’ + +‘I don’t care noble ladies--I care for my child,’ said the vehement, +petulant little thing. + +‘And how--what good will Madame’s caring for it do? What knows she of +infants? How can she take care of it?’ + +‘Our Lady will teach me,’ said Eustacie, still pressing the child +passionately to her heart; ‘and see--the owl--the ring-dove--can take +care of their little ones; the good God shows them how--He will tell me +how!’ + +Perrine regarded her Lady much as if she were in a naughty fit, refusing +unreasonably to part with a new toy, and Nanon Rotrou was much of the +same mind; but it was evident that if at the moment they attempted +to carry off the babe, the other would put herself into an agony of +passion, that they durst not call forth; and they found it needful to do +their best to soothe her out of the deluge of agitated tears that fell +from her eyes, as she grasped the child so convulsively that she might +almost have stifled it at once. They assured her that they would not +take it away now--not now, at any rate; and when the latent meaning +made her fiercely insist that it was to leave her neither now nor +ever, Perrine made pacifying declarations that it should be just as she +pleased--promises that she knew well, when in that coaxing voice, meant +nothing at all. Nothing calmed her till Perrine had been conducted away; +and even then Nanon could not hush her into anything like repose, and at +last called in the minister, in despair. + +‘Ah! sir, you are a wise man; can you find how to quiet the poor little +thing? Her nurse has nearly driven her distracted with talking of the +foster-parents she has found for the child.’ + +‘Not found!’ cried Eustacie. ‘No, for she shall never go!’ + +‘There!’ lamented Nanon--‘so she agitates herself, when it is but spoken +of. And surely she had better make up her mind, for there is no other +choice.’ + +‘Nay, Nanon,’ said M. Gardon, ‘wherefore should she part with the charge +that God has laid on her?’ + +Eustacie gave a little cry of grateful joy. ‘Oh, sir, come nearer! Do +you, indeed, say that they have no right to tear her from me?’ + +‘Surely not, Lady. It is you whose duty it is to shield and guard her.’ + +‘Oh, sir, tell me again! Yours is the right religion. Oh, you are the +minister for me! If you will tell me I ought to keep my child, then I +will believe everything else. I will do just as you tell me.’ And she +stretched out both hands to him, with vehement eagerness. + +‘Poor thing! This is no matter of one religion or another,’ said the +minister; ‘it is rather the duty that the Almighty hath imposed, and +that He hath made an eternal joy.’ + +‘Truly,’ said Nanon, ashamed at having taken the other side: ‘the good +_pasteur_ says what is according to nature. It would have gone hard with +me if any one had wished to part me from Robin or Sara; but these fine +ladies, and, for that matter, BOURGEOISES too, always do put out their +babes; and it seemed to me that Madame would find it hard to contrive +for herself--let alone the little one.’ + +‘Ah! but what would be the use of contriving for myself, without her?’ +said Eustacie. + +If all had gone well and prosperously with Madame de Ribaumont, probably +she would have surrendered an infant born in purple and in pall to the +ordinary lot of its contemporaries; but the exertions and suffering +she had undergone on behalf of her child, its orphanhood, her own +loneliness, and even the general disappointment in its sex, had given it +a hold on her vehement, determined heart, that intensified to the utmost +the instincts of motherhood; and she listened as if to an angle’s voice +as Maitre Gardon replied to Nanon-- + +‘I say not that it is not the custom; nay, that my blessed wife and +myself have not followed it; but we have so oft had cause to repent +the necessity, that far be it from me ever to bid a woman forsake her +sucking child.’ + +‘Is that Scripture?’ asked Eustacie. ‘Ah! sir, sir, tell me more! You +are giving me all--all--my child! I will be--I am--a Huguenot like her +father! and, when my vassals come, I will make them ride with you to La +Rochelle, and fight in your cause!’ + +‘Nay,’ said Maitre Gardon, taken by surprise; ‘but, Lady, your vassals +are Catholic.’ + +‘What matters it? In my cause they shall fight!’ said the feudal Lady, +‘for me and my daughter!’ + +And as the pastor uttered a sound of interrogative astonishment, she +continued-- + +‘As soon as I am well enough, Blaise will send out messages, and they +will meet me at midnight at the cross-roads, Martin and all, for +dear good Martin is quite well now, and we shall ride across country, +avoiding towns, wherever I choose to lead them. I had thought of +Chantilly, for I know M. de Montmorency would stand my friend against a +Guisard; but now, now I know you, sir, let me escort you to La Rochelle, +and do your cause service worthy of Nid de Merle and Ribaumont!’ And as +she sat up on her bed, she held up her little proud head, and waved her +right hand with the grace and dignity of a queen offering an alliance of +her realm. + +Maitre Gardon, who had hitherto seen her as a childish though cheerful +and patient sufferer, was greatly amazed, but he could not regard her +project as practicable, or in his conscience approve it; and after a +moment’s consideration he answered, ‘I am a man of peace, Lady, and +seldom side with armed men, nor would I lightly make one of those who +enroll themselves against the King.’ + +‘Not after all the Queen-mother had done!’ cried Eustacie. + +‘Martyrdom is better than rebellion,’ quietly answered the old man, +folding his hands. Then he added ‘Far be it from me to blame those who +have drawn the sword for the faith; yet, Lady, it would not be even thus +with your peasants; they might not follow you.’ + +‘Then,’ said Eustacie, with flashing eyes, ‘they would be traitors.’ + +‘Not to the King,’ said the pastor, gently. ‘Also, Lady, how will it +be with their homes and families--the hearths that have given you such +faithful shelter?’ + +‘The women would take to the woods,’ readily answered she; ‘it is +summer-time, and they should be willing to bear something for my sake. +I should grieve indeed,’ she added, ‘if my uncle misused them. They have +been very good to me, but then they belong to me.’ + +‘Ah! Lady, put from you that hardening belief of seigneurs. Think what +their fidelity deserves from their Lady.’ + +‘I will be good to them! I do love them! I will be their very good +mistress,’ said Eustacie, her eyes filling. + +‘The question is rather of forbearing than of doing,’ said the minister. + +‘But what would you have me do?’ asked Eustacie, petulantly. + +‘This, Lady. I gather that you would not return to your relations.’ + +‘Never! never! They would rend my babe from me; they would kill her, or +at least hide her for ever in a convent--they would force me into this +abhorrent marriage. No--no--no--my child and I would die a hundred +deaths together rather than fall into the hands of Narcisse.’ + +‘Calm yourself, Lady; there is no present fear, but I deem that the +safest course for the little one would be to place her in England. She +must be heiress to lands and estates there; is she not?’ + +‘Yes; and in Normandy.’ + +‘And your husband’s mother lives? Wherefore then should you not take me +for your guide, and make your way--more secretly than would be possible +with a peasant escort--to one of your Huguenot towns on the coast, +whence you could escape with the child to England?’ + +‘My _belle-mere_ has re-married! She has children! I would not bring +the daughter of Ribaumont as a suppliant to be scorned!’ said Eustacie, +pouting. ‘She has lands enough of her own.’ + +‘There is no need to discuss the question now,’ said M. Gardon, gravely; +for a most kind offer, involving much peril and inconvenience to +himself, was thus petulantly flouted. ‘Madame will think at her leisure +of what would have been the wishes of Monsieur le Baron for his child.’ + +He then held himself aloof, knowing that it was not well for her health, +mental or bodily, to talk any more, and a good deal perplexed himself by +the moods of his strange little impetuous convert, if convert she could +be termed. He himself was a deeply learned scholar, who had studied +all the bearings of the controversy; and, though bound to the French +Reformers who would gladly have come to terms with the Catholics at the +Conference of Plassy, and regretted the more decided Calvinism that +his party had since professed, and in which the Day of St. Bartholomew +confirmed them. He had a strong sense of the grievous losses they +suffered by their disunion from the Church. The Reformed were less and +less what his ardent youthful hopes had trusted to see them; and in his +old age he was a sorrow-stricken man, as much for the cause of religion +as for personal bereavements. He had little desire to win proselytes, +but rather laid his hand to build up true religion where he found it +suffering shocks in these unsettled, neglected times; and his present +wish was rather to form and guide this little willful warm-hearted +mother--whom he could not help regarding with as much affection as +pity--to find a home in the Church that had been her husband’s, than +to gain her to his own party. And most assuredly he would never let her +involve herself, as she was ready to do, in the civil war, without even +knowing the doctrine which grave and earnest men had preferred to their +loyalty. + +He could hear her murmuring to her baby, ‘No, no, little one, we are not +fallen so low as to beg our bread among strangers.’ To live upon her own +vassals had seemed to her only claiming her just rights, but it galled +her to think of being beholden to stranger Huguenots; and England +and her mother-in-law, without Berenger, were utterly foreign and +distasteful to her. + +Her mood was variable. Messages from Blaise and Martin came and went, +and it became known that her intended shelter at Chollet, together +with all the adjacent houses, had been closely searched by the younger +Ribaumont in conjunction with the governor; so that it was plain that +some treachery must exist, and that she only owed her present freedom to +her detention in the ruined temple; and it would be necessary to leave +that as soon as it was possible for her to attempt the journey. + +The plan that seemed most feasible to the vassals was, that Rotrou +should convey her in a cart of fagots as far as possible on the road +to Paris; that there his men should meet her by different roads, riding +their farm-horses--and Martin even hoped to be able to convey her own +palfrey to her from the monastery stable, and thence, taking a long +stretch across country, they trusted to be able to reach the lands of a +dependant of the house of Montmorency, who would not readily yield her +up to a Guise’s man. But, whether instigated by Perrine, or by their own +judgment, the vassals declared that, though Madame should be conducted +wherever she desired, it was impossible to encumber themselves with the +infant. Concealment would be impossible; rough, hasty rides would be +retarded, her difficulties would be tenfold increased, and the little +one would become a means of tracing her. There was no choice but to +leave it with Simonette. + +Angrily and haughtily did Eustacie always reject this alternative, and +send fresh commands back by her messenger, to meet the same reply in +another form. The strong will and practical resolution of the stout +farmers, who were about to make a terrible venture for her, and might +reasonably think they had a right to prescribe the terms that they +thought best. All this time Maitre Gardon felt it impossible to leave +her, still weak and convalescent, alone in the desolate ruin with her +young child; though still her pride would not bend again to seek the +counsel that she had so much detested, nor to ask for the instruction +that was to make her ‘believe like her husband.’ If she might not fight +for the Reformed, it seemed as if she would none of their doctrine! + +But, true lady that she was, she sunk the differences in her intercourse +with him. She was always prettily and affectionately grateful for every +service that he rendered her, and as graciously polite as though she had +been keeping house in the halls of Ribaumont. Then her intense love +for her child was so beautiful, and there was so much sweetness in +the cheerful patience with which she endured the many hardships of +her situation, that he could not help being strongly interested in the +willful, spirited little being. + +And thus time passed, until one night, when Martin ventured over the +farm with a report so serious that Rotrou, at all risks, brought him +up to communicate his own tidings. Some one had given information, +Veronique he suspected, and the two Chevaliers were certainly coming +the next day to search with fire the old buildings of the temple. It was +already dawning towards morning, and it would be impossible to do more +at present than to let Rotrou build up the lady in a vault, some little +way off, whence, after the search was over, she could be released, and +join her vassals the next night according to the original design. As +to the child, her presence in the vault was impossible, and Martin had +actually brought her intended nurse, Simonette, to Rotrou’s cottage to +receive her. + +‘Never!’ was all Eustacie answered. ‘Save both of us, or neither.’ + +‘Lady,’ said M. Gardon as she looked towards him, ‘I go my way with my +staff.’ + +‘And you--you more faithful than her vassals--will let me take her?’ + +‘Assuredly.’ + +‘Then, sir, even to the world’s end will I go with you’ + +Martin would have argued, have asked, but she would not listen to him. +It was Maitre Gardon who made him understand the project. There was +what in later times has been termed an underground railway amid the +persecuted Calvinists, and M. Gardon knew his ground well enough to have +little doubt of being able to conduct the lady safely to some town +on the coast, whence she might reach her friends in England. The plan +highly satisfied Martin. It relieved him and his neighbours from the +necessity of provoking perilous wrath, and it was far safer for her +herself than endeavouing to force her way with an escort too large not +to attract notice, yet not warlike enough for efficient defence. He +offered no further opposition, but augured that after all she would come +back a fine lady, and right them all. + +Eustacie, recovering from her anger, and recollecting his services, gave +him her hand to kiss, and bade him farewell with a sudden effusion of +gratitude and affection that warmed the honest fellow’s heart. Rewards +could not be given, lest they should become a clue for her uncle; and +perhaps they would have wounded both him and their kind hosts, who did +their best to assist her in their departure. A hasty meal was provided +by Nanon, and a basket so stored as to obviate the need of entering a +village, on that day at least, to purchase provisions; Eustacie’s money +and jewels again formed the nucleus of the bundle of clothes and spare +swaddling-banks of her babe; her peasant dress was carefully arranged--a +stout striped cloth skit and black bodice, the latter covered by a +scarlet Chollet kerchief. The winged white cap entirely hid her hair; a +gray cloak with a hood could either fold round her and her child or be +strapped on her shoulders. Her _sabots_ were hung on her shoulder, for +she had learnt to go barefoot, and walked much more lightly thus; and +her little bundle was slung on a staff on the back of Maitre Gardon, +who in his great peasant’s hat and coat looked so like a picture of St. +Joseph, that Eustacie, as the light of the rising sun fell on his white +beard and hair, was reminded of the Flight into Egypt, and came close +to him, saying shyly, ‘Our Blessed Lady will bless and feel for my baby. +She knows what this journey is.’ + +‘The Son of the Blessed Mary assuredly knows and blesses,’ he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. _LA RUE DES TROIS FEES_ + + + +And round the baby fast and close Her trembling grasp she folds. +And with a strong convulsive grasp The little infant holds.--SOUTHEY. + + +A wild storm had raged all the afternoon, hail and rain had careered on +the wings of the wind along the narrow street of the Three Fairies, at +the little Huguenot bourg of La Sablerie; torrents of rain had poached +the unpaved soil into a depth of mud, and thunder had reverberated over +the chimney-tops, and growled far away over the Atlantic, whose angry +waves were tossing on the low sandy coast about two miles from the town. + +The evening had closed in with a chill, misty drizzle, and, almost May +though it were, the Widow Noemi Laurent gladly closed the shutters of +her unglazed window, where small cakes and other delicate confections +were displayed, and felt the genial warmth of the little fire with which +she heated her tiny oven. She was the widow of a pastor who had suffered +for his faith in the last open persecution, and being the daughter of a +baker, the authorities of the town had permitted her to support herself +and her son by carrying on a trade in the more delicate ‘subtilties’ of +the art, which were greatly relished at the civic feasts. Noemi was a +grave, sad woman, very lonely ever since she had saved enough to send +her son to study for the ministry in Switzerland, and with an aching +heart that longed to be at rest from the toil that she looked on as a +steep ladder on her way to a better home. She occupied two tiny rooms +on the ground-floor of a tall house; and she had just arranged her few +articles of furniture with the utmost neatness, when there was a low +knock at her door, a knock that the persecuted well understood, and as +she lifted the latch, a voice she had known of old spoke the scriptural +salutation, ‘Peace be with this house.’ + +‘_Eh quoi_, Master Issac, is it thou? Come in--in a good hour--ah!’ + +As, dripping all round his broad hat and from every thread of his gray +mantle, the aged traveller drew into the house a female figure whom he +had been supporting on his other arm, muffled head and shoulders in a +soaked cloak, with a petticoat streaming with wet, and feet and ankles +covered with mire, ‘Here we are, my child,’ he said tenderly, as he +almost carried her to Noemi’s chair. Noemi, with kind exclamations of +‘_La pauvre_! _la pauvre_!’ helped the trembling cold hand to open the +wet cloak, and then cried out with fresh surprise and pity at the sight +of the fresh little infant face, nestled warm and snug under all the +wrappings in those weary arms. + +‘See,’ said the poor wanderer, looking up to the old man, with a faint +smile; ‘she is well--she is warm--it hurts her not.’ + +‘Can you take us in?’ added M. Gardon, hastily; ‘have you room?’ + +‘Oh yes; if you can sleep on the floor here, I will take this poor dear +to my own bed directly,’ said Noemi. ‘_Tenez_’ opening a chest; ‘you +will find dry clothes there, of my husband’s. And thou,’ helping +Eustacie up with her strong arm, and trying to take the little one, ‘let +me warm and dry thee within.’ + +Too much worn out to make resistance, almost past speaking, knowing +merely that she had reached the goal that had been promised her +throughout these weary days, feeling warmth, and hearing kind tones, +Eustacie submitted to be led into the inner room; and when the good +widow returned again, it was in haste to fetch some of the warm _potage_ +she had already been cooking over the fire, and hastily bade M. Gardon +help himself to the rest. She came back again with the babe, to wash +and dress it in the warmth of her oven fire. Maitre Gardon, in the black +suit of a Calvinist pastor, had eaten his _potage_, and was anxiously +awaiting her report. ‘Ah! _la pauvre_, with His blessing she will sleep! +she will do well. But how far did you come to-day?’ + +‘From Sainte Lucie. From the Grange du Temple since Monday.’ + +‘Ah! is it possible? The poor child! And this little one--sure, it is +scarce four weeks old?’ + +‘Four weeks this coming Sunday.’ + +‘Ah! the poor thing. The blessing of Heaven must have been with you to +bear her through. And what a lovely infant--how white--what beauteous +little limbs! Truly, she has sped well. Little did I think, good friend, +that you had this comfort left, or that our poor Theodore’s young wife +had escaped.’ + +‘Alas! no, Noemi; this is no child of Theodore’s. His wife shared his +martyrdom. It is I who am escaped alone to tell thee. But, nevertheless, +this babe is an orphan of that same day. Her father was the son of the +pious Baron de Ribaumont, the patron of your husband, and of myself in +earlier days.’ + +‘Ah!’ exclaimed Noemi, startled. ‘Then the poor young mother--is +she--can she be the lost Demoiselle de Nid de Merle?’ + +‘Is the thing known here? The will of Heaven be done; but she can send +to her husband’s kindred in England.’ + +‘She might rest safely enough, if others beside myself believed in +her being your son’s widow,’ said Noemi. ‘Wherefore should she not be +thought so?’ + +‘Poor Esperance! She would willingly have lent her name to guard +another,’ said Master Gardon, thoughtfully; ‘and, for the sake of +the child, my little lady may endure it. Ah! there is the making of a +faithful and noble woman in that poor young thing. Bravely, patiently, +cheerfully, hath she plodded this weary way; and, verily, she hath grown +like my own daughter to me--as I never thought to love earthly thing +again; and had this been indeed my Theodore’s child, I could hardly care +for it more.’ + +And as he related how he had fallen in with the forlorn Lady of +Ribaumont, and all that she had dared, done, and left undone for the +sake of her little daughter, good Noemi Laurent wept, and agreed with +him that a special providence must have directed them to his care, and +that some good work must await one who had been carried through so much. +His project was to remain here for a short time, to visit the flock who +had lost their pastor on the day of the massacre, and to recruit his own +strength; for he, too, had suffered severely from the long travelling, +and the exposure during many nights, especially since all that was warm +and sheltered had been devoted to Eustacie. And after this he proposed +to go to La Rochelle, and make inquiries for a trusty messenger +who could be sent to England to seek out the family of the Baron de +Ribaumont, or, mayhap, a sufficient escort with whom the lady could +travel; though he had nearly made up his mind that he would not +relinquish the care of her until he had safely delivered her to her +husband’s mother. + +Health and life were very vigorous in Eustacie; and though at first she +had been completely worn out, a few days of comfort, entire rest, and +good nursing restored her. Noemi dressed her much like herself, in a +black gown, prim little white starched ruff, and white cap,--a thorough +Calvinist dress, and befitting a minister’s widow. Eustacie winced a +little at hearing of the character that had been fastened upon her; +she disliked for her child, still more than for herself, to take this +_bourgeois_ name of Gardon; but there was no help for it, since, though +he chief personages of the town were Huguenot, there could be no safety +for her if the report were once allowed to arise that the Baronne de +Ribaumont had taken refuge there. + +It was best that she should be as little noticed as possible; nor, +indeed, had good Noemi many visitors. The sad and sorrowful woman had +always shut herself up with her Bible and her meditations, and sought no +sympathy from her neighbours, nor encourage gossip in her shop. In the +first days, when purchasers lingered to ask if it were true that Maitre +Gardon had brought his daughter-in-law and grandchild, her stern-faced, +almost grim answer, that ‘_la pauvre_ was ill at ease,’ silenced them, +and forced them to carry off their curiosity unsatisfied; but it became +less easy to arrange when Eustacie herself was on foot again--refreshed, +active, and with an irrepressible spring of energy and eagerness that +could hardly be caged down in the Widow Laurent’s tiny rooms. Poor +child, had she not been ill and prostrate at first, and fastened herself +on the tender side of the good woman’s heart by the sweetness of an +unselfish and buoyant nature in illness, Noemi could hardly have endured +such an inmate, not even half a Huguenot, full of little Catholic +observances like second nature to her; listening indeed to the Bible +for the short time, but always, when it was expounded, either asleep, or +finding some amusement indispensable for her baby; eager for the least +variety, and above all spoilt by Maitre Gardon to a degree absolutely +perplexing to the grave woman. + +He would not bid her lay aside the observances that, to Noemi, seemed +almost worship of the beast. He rather reverted to the piety which +originated them; and argued with his old friend that it was better +to build than to destroy, and that, before the fabric of truth, +superstition would crumble away of itself. The little he taught +her sounded to Noemi’s puzzled ears mere Christianity instead of +controversial Calvinism. And, moreover, he never blamed her for wicked +worldliness when she yawned; but even devised opportunities for taking +her out for a walk, to see as much life as might be on a market-day. He +could certainly not forget--as much as would have been prudent--that she +was a high-born lady; and even seemed taken aback when he found her with +her sleeves turned up over her shapely-delicate arms, and a thick apron +before her, with her hands in Veuve Laurent’s flour, showing her some +of those special mysterious arts of confectionery in which she had been +initiated by Soeur Bernardine, when, not three years ago, she had been +the pet of the convent at Bellaise. At first it was half sport and +the desire of occupation, but the produce of her manipulations was +so excellent as to excite quite a sensation in La Sablerie, and the +echevins and baillis sent in quite considerable orders for the cakes and +patties of Maitre Gardon’s Paris-bred daughter-in-law. + +Maitre Gardon hesitated. Noemi Laurent told him she cared little for the +gain--Heaven knew it was nothing to her--but that she thought it wrong +and inconsistent in him to wish to spare the poor child’s pride, which +was unchristian enough already. ‘Nay,’ he said sadly, ‘mortifications +from without do little to tame pride; nor did I mean to bring her here +that she should turn cook and confectioner to pamper the appetite of +Baillis La Grasse.’ + +But Eustacie’s first view was a bright pleasure in the triumph of her +skill; and when her considerate guardian endeavoured to impress on her +that there was no necessity for vexing herself with the task, she turned +round on him with the exclamation, ‘Nay, dear father, do you not see +it is my great satisfaction to be able to do something for our good +hostess, so that my daughter and I be not a burden to her?’ + +‘Well spoken, my Lady,’ said the pastor; ‘there is real nobility in that +way of thinking. Yet, remember, Noemi is not without means; she feels +not the burden. And the flock contribute enough for the shepherd’s +support, and yours likewise.’ + +‘Then let her give it to the poor creatures who so often come in +begging, and saying they have been burned out of house and home by one +party or the other,’ said Eustacie. ‘Let me have my way, dear sir; +Soeur Bernadine always said I should be a prime _menagere_. I like it so +much.’ + +And Madame de Ribaumont mixed sugar and dough, and twisted quaint +shapes, and felt important and almost light-hearted, and sang over her +work and over her child songs that were not always Marot’s psalms; and +that gave the more umbrage to Noemi, because she feared that Maitre +Gardon actually like to hear them, though, should their echo reach the +street, why it would be a peril, and still worse, a horrible scandal +that out of that sober, afflicted household should proceed profane tunes +such as court ladies sang. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. THE ABBE. + + + + By the day and night her sorrows fall + Where miscreant hands and rude + Have stained her pure, ethereal pall + With many a martyr’s blood. + And yearns not her maternal heart + To hear their secret sighs, + Upon whose doubting way apart + Bewildering shadows rise?--KEBLE + + +It was in the summer twilight that Eustacie, sitting on the doorstep +between the two rooms, with her baby on her knees, was dreamily humming +to her a tune, without even words, but one that she loved, because she +had first learnt to sing it with Berenger and his friend Sidney to the +lute of the latter; and its notes always brought before her eyes the +woods of Montpipeau. Then it was that, low and soft as was the voice, +that befell which Noemi had feared: a worn, ragged-looking young man, +who had been bargaining at the door for a morsel of bread in exchange +for a handkerchief, started at the sound, and moved so as to like into +the house. + +Noemi was at the moment not attending, being absorbed in the study of +the handkerchief, which was of such fine, delicate texture that an +idea of its having been stolen possessed her; and she sought the corner +where, as she expected, a coat-of-arms was embroidered. Just as she was +looking up to demand explanation, the stranger, with a sudden cry of +‘Good heavens, it is she!’ pushed past her into the house, and falling +on his knee before Eustacie, exclaimed, ‘O Lady, Lady, is it thus that I +see you?’ + +Eustacie had started up in dismay, crying out, ‘Ah! M. l’Abbe, as you +are a gentleman, betray me not. Oh! have they sent you to find me? Have +pity on us! You loved my husband!’ + +‘You have nothing to fear from me, Lady,’ said the young man, still +kneeling; ‘if you are indeed a distressed fugitive--so am I. If you have +shelter and friends--I have none.’ + +‘Is it indeed so?’ said Eustacie, wistfully, yet scarce reassured. ‘You +are truly not come from my uncle. Indeed, Monsieur, I would not doubt +you, but you see I have so much at stake. I have my little one here, and +they mean so cruelly by her.’ + +‘Madame, I swear by the honour of a nobleman--nay, by all that is +sacred--that I know nothing of your uncle. I have been a wanderer for +many weeks past; proscribed and hunted down because I wished to seek +into the truth.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Eustacie, with a sound of relief, and of apology, ‘pardon +me, sir; indeed, I know you were good. You loved my husband;’ and she +reached out her hand to raise him, when he kissed it reverently. Little +_bourgeoise_ and worn mendicant as they were in dress, the air of the +Louvre breathed round them; and there was all its grace and dignity as +the lady turned round to her astonished hosts, saying, ‘Good sir, kind +mother, this gentleman is, indeed, what you took me for, a fugitive for +the truth. Permit me to present to you, Monsieur l’Abbe de Mericour--at +least, so he was, when last I had the honour to see him.’ + +The last time HE had seen her, poor Eustacie had been incapable of +seeing anything save that bloody pool at the foot of the stairs. + +Mericour now turned and explained. ‘Good friends,’ he said courteously, +but with the _fierete_ of the noble not quite out of his tone, ‘I beg +your grace. I would not have used so little ceremony, if I had not been +out of myself at recognizing a voice and a tune that could belong to +none but Madame---’ + +‘Sit down, sir,’ said Noemi, a little coldly and stiffly--for Mericour +was a terrible name to Huguenots ears; ‘a true friend to this lady must +needs be welcome, above all if he comes in Heaven’s name.’ + +‘Sit down and eat, sir,’ added Gardon, much more heartily; ‘and forgive +us for not having been more hospitable--but the times have taught us to +be cautious, and in that lady we have a precious charge. Rest; for you +look both weary and hungry.’ + +Eustacie added an invitation, understanding that he would not sit +without her permission, and then, as he dropped into a chair, she +exclaimed, ‘Ah! sir, you are faint, but you are famished.’ + +‘It will pass,’ he said; ‘I have not eaten to-day.’ + +Instantly a meal was set before him, and ere long he revived; and as +the shutters were closed, and shelter for the night promised to him by a +Huguenot family lodging in the same house, he began to answer Eustacie’s +anxious questions, as well as to learn from her in return what had +brought her into her present situation. + +Then it was that she recollected that it had been he who, at her cousin +Diane’s call, had seized her when she was rushing out of the palace +in her first frenzy of grief, and had carried her back to the women’s +apartments. + +‘It was that day which brought me here,’ he said. + +And he told how, bred up in his own distant province, by a pious and +excellent tutor, he had devoutly believed in the extreme wickedness of +the Reformers; but in his seclusion he had been trained to such purity +of faith and morals, that, when his brother summoned him to court to +solicit a benefice, he had been appalled at the aspect of vice, and had, +at the same time, been struck by the pure lives of the Huguenots; for +truly, as things then were at the French court, crime seemed to have +arrayed itself on the side of the orthodox party, all virtue on that of +the schismatics. + +De Mericour consulted spiritual advisers, who told him that none but +Catholics could be truly holy, and that what he admired were merely +heathen virtues that the devil permitted the Huguenots to display in +order to delude the unwary. With this explanation he had striven to be +satisfied, though eyes unblended by guilt and a pure heart continued to +be revolted at the practices which his Church, scared at the evil +times, and forgetful of her own true strength, left undenounced in her +partisans. And the more that the Huguenot gentlemen thronged the court, +and the young Abbe was thrown into intercourse with them, and the more +he perplexed himself how the truth, the faith, the uprightness, the +forbearance, the purity that they evinced could indeed be wanting in +the zeal that made them acceptable. Then came the frightful morning when +carnage reigned in every street, and the men who had been treated as +favourite boon companions were hunted down like wild beasts in every +street. He had endeavoured to save life, but would have speedily been +slaughtered himself except for his soutane; and in all good faith he +had hurried to the Louvre, to inform royalty of the horrors that, as he +thought, a fanatic passion was causing the populace to commit. + +He found the palace become shambles--the King himself, wrought up to +frenzy, firing on the fugitives. And the next day, while his brain still +seemed frozen with horror, he was called on to join in the procession of +thanksgiving for the King’s deliverance from a dangerous plot. Surely, +if the plot were genuine, he thought, the procession should have +savoured of penance and humiliation rather than of barbarous exultation! +Yet these might be only the individual crimes of the Queen-mother, and +of the Guises seeking to mask themselves under the semblance of +zeal; and the infallible head of the visible Church would disown the +slaughter, and cast it from the Church with loathing as a blood-stained +garment. Behold, Rome was full of rejoicing, and sent sanction and +commendation of the pious zeal of the King! Had the voice of Holy Church +become indeed as the voice of the bloodhound? Was this indeed her call? + +The young man, whose life from infancy had been marked out for the +service of the Church--so destined by his parents as securing a wealthy +provision for a younger son, but educated by his good tutor with more +real sense of his obligations--felt the question in its full import. +He was under no vows; he had, indeed, received the tonsure, but was +otherwise unpledged, and he was bent on proving all things. The gaieties +in which he had at first mingled had become abhorrent to him, and he +studied with the earnestness of a newly-awakened mind in search of true +light. The very face of study and inquiry, in one of such a family as +that of his brother the Duke de Mericour, was enough to excite suspicion +of Huguenot inclinations. The elder brother tried to quash the folly of +the younger, by insisting on his sharing the debaucheries which, whether +as priest or monk, or simply as Christian man, it would be his duty to +abjure; and at length, by way of bringing things to a test, insisted +on his making one of a party who were about to break up and destroy a +Huguenot assembly. Unable, in his present mood, to endure the thought +of further cruelty, the young Abbe fled, gave secret warning to the +endangered congregation, and hastened to the old castle in Brittany, +where he had been brought up, to pour out his perplexities, and seek the +counsel of the good old chaplain who had educated him. Whether the kind, +learned, simple-hearted tutor could have settled his mind, he had no +time to discover, for he had scarcely unfolded his troubles before +warnings came down that he had better secure himself--his brother, as +head of the family, had obtained the royal assent to the imprisonment of +the rebellious junior, so as to bring him to a better mind, and cure +him of the Huguenot inclinations, which in the poor lad were simply +undeveloped. But in all the Catholic eyes he was a tainted man, and +his almost inevitable course was to take refuge with some Huguenot +relations. There he was eagerly welcome; instruction was poured in on +him; but as he showed a disposition to inquire and examine, and needed +time to look into what they taught him, as one who feared to break +his link with the Church, and still longed to find her blameless and +glorious, the righteous nation that keepeth the truth, they turned on +him and regarded him as a traitor and a spy, who had come among them on +false pretences. + +All the poor lad wanted was time to think, time to examine, time to +consult authorities, living and dead. The Catholics called this treason +to the Church, the Huguenots called it halting between two opinions; and +between them he was a proscribed, distrusted vagabond, branded on one +side as a recreant, and on the other as a traitor. He had asked for a +few months of quiet, and where could they be had? His grand-mother had +been the daughter of a Scottish nobleman in the French service, and he +had once seen a nephew of hers who had come to Paris during the time of +Queen Mary’s residence there. He imagined that if he were once out of +this distracted land of France, he might find respite for study, for +which he longed; and utterly ignorant of the real state of Scotland, +he had determined to make his way to his kindred there; and he had +struggled on the way to La Rochelle, cheated out of the small remains +of his money, selling his last jewels and all the clothing that was +not indispensable, and becoming so utterly unable to pay his passage to +England, that he could only trust to Providence to find him some means +of reaching his present goal. + +He had been listened to with kindness, and a sympathy such as M. +Gardon’s large mind enable him to bestow, where his brethren had been +incapable of comprehending that a man could sincerely doubt between them +and Rome. When the history was finished, Eustacie exclaimed, turning +to Maitre Gardon, ‘Ah! sir, is not this just what we sought? If this +gentleman would but convey a letter to my mother-in-law---’ + +M. Gardon smiled. ‘Scotland and England are by no means the same place, +Lady,’ he said. + +‘Whatever this lady would command, wherever she would send me, I am at +her service,’ cried the Abbe, fervently. + +And, after a little further debate, it was decided that it might really +be the best course, for him as for Madame de Ribaumont, to become the +bearer of a letter and token from her, entreating her mother-in-law to +notify her pleasure whether she should bring her child to England. She +had means enough to advance a sufficient sum to pay Mericour’s passage, +and he accepted it most punctiliously as a loan, intending, so soon as +her despatches were ready, to go on to La Rochelle, and make inquiry for +a ship. + +Chance, however, seemed unusually propitious, for the next day there +was an apparition in the streets of La Sablerie of four or five +weather-beaten, rollicking-looking men, their dress profusely adorned +with ribbons, and their language full of strange oaths. They were well +known at La Sablerie as sailors belonging to a ship of the fleet of the +Count de Montgomery, the unfortunate knight whose lance had caused the +death of King Henry II., and who, proscribed by the mortal hatred of +Catherine de Medicis, had become the admiral of a piratical fleet in the +Calvinist interest, so far winked at the Queen Elizabeth that it had its +head-quarters in the Channel Islands, and thence was a most formidable +foe to merchant vessels on the northern and eastern coasts of France; +and often indulged in descents on the coast, when the sailors--being in +general the scum of the nation--were apt to comport themselves more like +American buccaneers than like champions of any form of religion. + +La Sablerie was a Huguenot town, so they used no violence, but only +swaggered about, demanding from Bailli La Grasse, in the name of their +gallant Captain Latouche, contributions and provisions, and giving him +to understand that if he did not comply to the uttermost it should be +the worse for him. Their ship, it appeared, had been forced to put into +the harbour, about two miles off, and Maitre Gardon and the young Abbe +decided on walking thither to see it, and to have an interview with the +captain, so as to secure a passage for Mericour at least. Indeed Maitre +Gardon had, in consultation with Eustacie, resolved, if he found things +suitable, to arrange for their all going together. She would be far +safer out of France; and, although the Abbe alone could not have +escorted her, yet Maitre Gardon would gladly have secured for her +the additional protection of a young, strong, and spirited man; and +Eustacie, who was no scribe, was absolutely relieved to have the voyage +set before her as an alternative to the dreadful operation of composing +a letter to the _belle-mere_, whom she had not seen since she had been +seven years old, and of whose present English name she had the most +indistinct ideas. + +However, the first sight of the ship overthrew all such ideas. It was a +wretched single-decked vessel, carrying far more sail than experienced +nautical eyes would have deemed safe, and with no accommodation fit +for a woman and child, even had the aspect of captain or crew been more +satisfactory--for the ruffianly appearance and language of the former +fully rivaled that of his sailors. It would have been mere madness to +think of trusting the lady in such hands; and, without a word to each +other, Gardon and Mericour resolved to give no hint even that she and +her jewels were in La Sablerie. Mericour, however, made his bargain with +the captain, who understood to transport him as far as Guernsey, whence +he might easily make his way to Dorsetshire, where M. Gardon knew that +Berenger’s English home had been. + +So Eustacie, with no small trouble and consideration, indited her +letter--telling of her escape, the birth of her daughter, the dangers +that threatened her child--and begging that its grand-mother would give +it a safe home in England, and love it for the sake of its father. An +answer would find her at the Widow Noemi Laurent’s, Rue des Trois +Fees, La Sablerie. She could not bring herself to speak of the name of +Eserance Gardon which had been saddled upon her; and even M. de Mericour +remained in ignorance of her bearing this disguise. She recommended him +to the kindness of her mother-in-law; and M. Gardon added another letter +to the lady, on behalf of the charge to whom he promised to devote +himself until he should see them safe in friendly hands. Both +letters were addressed, as best they might be, between Eustacie’s +dim comprehension of the word Thistlewood, and M. Gardon’s notion of +spelling. ‘Jadis, Baronne de Ribaumont’ was the securest part of the +direction. + +And for a token, Eustacie looked over her jewels to find one that would +serve for a token; but the only ones she knew would be recognized, were +the brooch that had fastened the plume in Berenger’s bloody cap, and the +chaplet of pearls. To part with the first, or to risk the second in the +pirate-ship, was impossible, but Eustacie at last decided upon detaching +the pear-shaped pearl which was nearest the clasp, and which was so +remarkable in form and tint that there was no doubt of its being well +known. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. UNDER THE WALNUT-TREE + + + + Mistress Jean was making the elder-flower wine-- + ‘And what brings the + Laird at sic a like time?’ + LADY NAIRN, THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN + + +Summer was nearly ended, and Lucy Thistlewood was presiding in the great +kitchen of the Manor-house, standing under the latticed window near +the large oak-table, a white apron over her dress, presiding over the +collecting of elder-berries for the brew of household-wine for the +winter. The maids stood round her with an array of beechen bowls or red +and yellow crocks, while barefooted, bareheaded children came thronging +in with rush or wicker baskets of the crimson fruit, which the maids +poured in sanguine cascades into their earthenware; and Lucy requited +with substantial slices of bread and cheese, and stout homely garment +mostly of her own sewing. + +Lucy was altogether an inmate of her father’s house. She had not even +been at Hurst Walwyn for many months; for her step-mother’s reiterated +hopes that Berenger would make her his consolation for all he had +suffered from his French spouse rendered it impossible to her to meet +him with sisterly unconsciousness; and she therefore kept out of the +way, and made herself so useful at home, that Dame Annora only wondered +how it had been possible to spare her so long, and always wound up her +praises by saying, that Berenger would learn in time how lucky he had +been to lose the French puppet, and win the good English housewife. + +If only tidings would have come that the puppet was safe married. That +was the crisis which all the family desired yet feared for Berenger, +since nothing else they saw would so detach his thoughts from the past +as the leave him free to begin life again. The relapse brought on by the +cruel reply to Osbert’s message had been very formidable: he was long +insensible or delirious and then came a state of annihilated thought, +then of frightfully sensitive organs, when light, sound, movement, or +scent were alike agony; and when he slowly revived, it was with such +sunken spirits, that his silence was as much from depression as from +difficulty of speech. His brain was weak, his limbs feeble, the wound in +his mouth never painless; and all this necessarily added to his listless +indifference and weariness, as though all youthful hope and pleasure +were extinct in him. He had ceased to refer to the past. Perhaps he had +thought it over, and seen that the deferred escape, the request for the +pearls, the tryst at the palace, and detention from the king’s chamber, +made an uglier case against Eustacie than he could endure to own even to +himself. If his heart trusted, his mind could not argue out her defence, +and his tongue would not serve him for discussion with his grandfather, +the only person who could act for him. Perhaps the stunned condition of +his mind made the suspense just within the bounds of endurance, while +trust in his wife’s innocence rendered his inability to come to her aid +well-nigh intolerable; and doubt of her seemed both profanity and misery +unspeakable. He could do nothing. He had shot his only shaft by sending +Landry Osbert, and had found that to endeavour to induce his grandfather +to use further measures was worse than useless, and was treated as mere +infatuation. He knew that all he had to do was to endeavour for what +patience he could win from Cecily’s sweet influence and guidance, and +to wait till either certainty should come--that dreadful, miserable +certainty that all looked for, and his very helplessness might be +bringing about--or till he should regain strength to be again effective. + +And miserably slow work was this recovery. No one had surgical skill to +deal with so severe a wound as that which Narcisse had inflicted; and +the daily pain and inconvenience it caused led to innumerable drawbacks +that often--even after he had come as far as the garden--brought him +back to his bed in a dark room, to blood-letting, and to speechlessness. +No one knew much of his mind--Cecily perhaps the most; and next to her, +Philip--who, from the time he had been admitted to his step-brother’s +presence, had been most assiduous in tending him--seemed to understand +his least sign, and to lay aside all his boisterous roughness in his +eager desire to do him service. The lads had loved each other from the +moment they had met as children, but never so apparently as now, +when all the rude horse-play of healthy youths was over--and one was +dependent, the other considerate. And if Berenger had made on one else +believe in Eustacie, he had taught Philip to view her as the ‘Queen’s +men’ viewed Mary of Scotland. Philip had told Lucy the rough but +wholesome truth, that ‘Mother talks mere folly. Eustacie is no more to +be spoken of with you than a pheasant with old brown Partlet; and Berry +waits but to be well to bring her off from all her foes. And I’ll go +with him.’ + +It was on Philip’s arm that Berenger first crept round the +bowling-green, and with Philip at his rein that he first endured to +ride along the avenue on Lord Walwyn’s smooth-paced palfrey; and it +was Philip who interrupted Lucy’s household cares by rushing in and +shouting, ‘Sister, here! I have wiled him to ride over the down, and +he is sitting under the walnut-tree quite spent, and the three little +wenches are standing in a row, weeping like so many little mermaids. +Come, I say!’ + +Lucy at once followed him through the house, through the deep porch to +the court, which was shaded by a noble walnut-tree, where Sir Marmaduke +loved to sit among his dogs. There not sat Berenger, resting against the +trunk, overcome by the heat and exertion of his ride. His cloak and +hat lay on the ground; the dogs fawned round him, eager for the wonted +caress, and his three little sisters stood a little aloof, clinging to +one another and crying piteously. + +It was their first sight of him; and it seemed to them as if he were +behind a frightful mask. Even Lucy was not without a sensation of the +kind, of this effect in the change from the girlish, rosy complexion to +extreme paleness, on which was visible, in ghastly red and purple, the +great scar left by Narcisse, from the temple on the one side to the ear +on the other. + +The far more serious would on the cheek was covered with a black patch, +and the hair had almost entirely disappeared from the head, only a few +light brown locks still hanging round the neck and temples, so that +the bald brow gave a strange look of age; and the disfigurement was +terrible, enhanced as it was by the wasting effect of nearly a year of +sickness. Lucy was so much shocked, that she could hardly steady her +voice to chide the children for not giving a better welcome to their +brother. They would have clung round her, but she shook them off, and +sent Annora in haste for her mother’s fan; while Philip arriving with a +slice of diet-bread and a cup of sack, the one fanned him, and the other +fed him with morsels of the cake soaked in the wine, till he revived, +looked up with eyes that were unchanged, and thanked them with a few +faltering words, scarcely intelligible to Lucy. The little girls came +nearer, and curiously regarded him but when he held out his hand to his +favourite Dolly, she shrank back in reluctance. + +‘Do not chide her,’ he said wearily. ‘May she never become used to such +marks!’ + +‘What, would you have her live among cowards?’ exclaimed Philip; but +Berenger, instead of answering, looked up at the front of the house, +one of those fine Tudor facades that seem all carved timber and glass +lattice, and asked, so abruptly that Lucy doubted whether she heard him +alright,--‘How many windows are there in this front?’ + +‘I never counted,’ said Philip. + +‘I have,’ said Annora; ‘there are seven and thirty, besides the two +little ones in the porch.’ + +‘None shall make them afraid,’ he muttered. ‘Who would dare build such a +defenceless house over yonder?’--pointing south. + +‘Our hearts are guarded now,’ said Philip, proudly. Berenger half +smiled, as he was wont to do when he meant more than he could +conveniently utter, and presently he asked, in the same languid, musing +tone, ‘Lucy, were you ever really affrighted?’ + +Lucy questioned whether he could be really in his right mind, as if the +bewilderment of his brain was again returning; and while she paused, +Annora exclaimed, ‘Yes, when we were gathering cowslips, and the +brindled cow ran at us, and Lucy could not run because she had Dolly in +her arm. Oh! we were frightened then, till you came, brother.’ + +‘Yes,’ added Bessie; ‘and last winter too, when the owl shrieked at the +window---’ + +‘And,’ added Berenger, ‘sister, what was your greatest time of revelry?’ + +Annora again put in her word. ‘I know, brother; you remember the +fair-day, when my Lady Grandame was angered because you and Lucy went on +dancing when we and all then gentry had ceased. And when Lucy said she +had not seen that you were left alone, Aunt Cecily said it was because +the eyes of discretion were lacking.’ + +‘Oh, the Christmas feast was far grander,’ said Bessie. ‘Then Lucy had +her first satin farthingale, and three gallants, besides my brother, +wanted to dance with her.’ + +Blushing deeply, Lucy tried to hush the little ones, much perplexed by +the questions, and confused by the answers. Could he be contrasting the +life where a vicious cow had been the most alarming object, a greensward +dance with a step-brother the greatest gaiety, dye of the elder juice +the deepest stain, with the temptations and perils that had beset one +equally young? Resting his head on his hand, his elbow on his knee, +he seemed to be musing in a reverie that he could hardly brook, as his +young brow was knitted by care and despondency. + +Suddenly, the sounds in the village rose from the quiet sleepy summer +hum into a fierce yell of derisive vituperation, causing Philip at once +to leap up, and run across the court to the entrance-gate, while Lucy +called after him some vain sisterly warning against mingling in a fray. + +It seemed as if his interposition had a good effect, for the uproar +lulled almost as soon as he had hurried to the scene of action; and +presently he reappeared, eager and breathless. ‘I told them to bring him +up here,’ he said; ‘they would have flogged him at the cart’s-tail, the +rogues, just because my father is out of the way. I could not make out +his jargon, but you can, brother; and make that rascal Spinks let him +go.’ + +‘What should I have to do with it?’ said Berenger, shrinking from +the sudden exposure of his scarred face and maimed speech. ‘I am no +magistrate.’ + +‘But you can understand him; he is French, the poor rogue something abut +a letter, and wanting to ask his way. Ah! I thought that would touch +you, and it will cost you little pains, and slouching it over his face, +rose, and, leaning upon Annora’s shoulder, stepped forward, just as the +big burly blacksmith-constable and small shriveled cobbler advanced, +dragging along, by a cord round the wrists, a slight figure with a red +woolen sailor’s shirt, ragged black hosen, bare head, and almost bare +feet. + +Doffing their caps, the men began an awkward salutation to the young +Lord on his recovery, but he only touched his beaver in return, and +demanded, ‘How now! what have you bound him for?’ + +‘You see, my Lord,’ began the constable, ‘there have been a sort of +vagrants of late, and I’ll be bound’ twas no four-legged fox as took +Gaffer Shepherd’s lamb.’ + +The peroration was broken off, for with a start as if he had been shot, +Berenger cried aloud, ‘Mericour! the Abbe!’ + +‘Ah, Monsieur, if you know me,’ cried the young man, raising his head, +‘free me from this shame--aid me in my mission!’ + +‘Loose him, fellows,’ shouted Berenger; ‘Philip, a knife--Lucy, those +scissors.’ + +‘Tis my duty, my Lord,’ said Spinks, gruffly. ‘All vagabonds to be +apprehended and flogged at the cart’s-tail, by her Grace’s special +commands. How is it to be answered to his Honour, Sir Marmaduke?’ + +‘Oaf!’ cried Philip, ‘you durst not have used such violence had my +father been at home! Don’t you see my brother knows him?’ + +With hands trembling with haste, Berenger had seized the scissors +that, house-wife like, hung at Lucy’s waist, and was cutting the +rope, exclaiming in French, ‘Pardon, pardon, friend, for so shameful a +reception.’ + +‘Sir,’ was the reply, without a sign of recognition, ‘if, indeed, you +know my name, I entreat you to direct me to the chateau of Le Sieur +Tistefote, whose lady was once Baronne de Ribaumont.’ + +‘My mother! Ah, my friend, my friend! what would you?’ he cried in a +tone of tremulous hope and fear, laying one hand on Mericour’s shoulder, +and about to embrace him. + +Mericour retreated from him; but the high-spirited young man crossed his +arms on his breast, and gazing at the group with indignant scorn, made +answer, ‘My message is from her who deems herself a widow, to the +mother of the husband whom she little imagines to be not only alive, but +consoled.’ + +‘Faithful! Faithful!’ burst out Berenger, with a wild, exultant, +strangely-ringing shout. ‘Woe, woe to those who would have had me doubt +her! Philip--Lucy--hear! Her truth is clear to all the world!’ Then +changing back again to French, ‘Ten thousand blessings on you, Mericour! +You have seen her! Where--how?’ + +Mericour still spoke with frigid politeness. ‘I had the honour to part +with Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont in the town of La Sablerie, among +humble, Huguenot guardians, to whom she had fled, to save her infant’s +life--when no aid came.’ + +He was obliged to break off, for Berenger, stunned by the sudden rush +of emotion, reeled as he stood, and would have fallen but for the prompt +support of Lucy, who was near enough to guide him back to rest upon the +bench, saying resentfully in French as she did so, ‘My brother is still +very ill. I pray you, sir, have a care.’ + +She had not half understood the rapid words of the two young men, Philip +comprehended them far less, and the constable and his crew of course +not at all; and Spinks pushed forward among the group as he saw Berenger +sink back on the bench; and once more collaring his prisoner, exclaimed +almost angrily to Philip, ‘There now, sir, you’ve had enough of the +vagabond. We’ll keep him tight ere he bewitches any more of you.’ + +This rude interference proved an instant restorative. Berenger sprang up +at once, and seizing Spink’s arm, exclaimed, ‘Hands off, fellow! This is +my friend--a gentleman. He brings me tidings of infinite gladness. Who +insults him, insults me.’ + +Spinks scarcely withdrew his hand from Mericour’s neck; and scowling, +said, ‘Very odd gentleman--very queer tidings, Master Berenger, to fell +you like an ox. I must be answerable for the fellow till his Honour +comes.’ + +‘Ah! _Eh quoi_, wherefore not show the _canaille_ your sword?’ said +Mericour, impatiently. + +‘It may not be here, in England,’ said Berenger (who fortunately was not +wearing his weapon). ‘And in good time here comes my step-father,’ as +the gate swung back, and Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood rode through +it, the former sending his voice far before him to demand the meaning of +the hurly-burly that filled his court. + +Philip was the first to spring to his rein, exclaiming, ‘Father, it is +a Frenchman whom Spinks would have flogged at the cart’s-tail; but it +seems he is a friend of Berenger’s, and has brought him tidings. I know +not what--about his wife, I believe--any way he is beside himself with +joy.’ + +‘Sir, your Honour,’ shouted Spinks, again seizing Mericour, and striving +to drag him forward, ‘I would know whether the law is to be hindered +from taking its course because my young Lord there is a Frenchman and +bewitched.’ + +‘Ah,’ shrieked Lady Thistlewood, ‘I knew it. They will have sent secret +poison to finish him. Keep the fellow safe. He will cast it in the air.’ + +‘Ay, ay, my Lady,’ said Spinks, ‘there are plenty of us to testify +that he made my young Lord fall back as in a swoon, and reel like one +distraught. Pray Heaven it have not gone further.’ + +‘Sir,’ exclaimed Berenger, who on the other side held his friend’s hand +tight, ‘this is a noble gentleman--the brother of the Duke de Mericour. +He has come at great risk to bring me tidings of my dear and true wife. +And not one word will these demented rascals let me hear with their +senseless clamour.’ + +‘Berenger! You here, my boy!’ exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, more amazed by +this than all the rest. + +‘He touches him--he holds him! Ah! will no one tear him away?’ screamed +Lady Thistlewood. Nor would Spinks have been slow in obeying her if Sir +Marmaduke had not swung his substantial form to the ground, and +stepping up to the prisoner, rudely clawed on one side by Spinks, and +affectionately grasped on the other side by Berenger, shouted-- + +‘Let go, both!’ does he speak English? Peace, dame! If the lad be +bewitched, it is the right way. He looks like the other man. Eh, lad, +what does your friend say for himself?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Berenger, interpreting Mericour’s words as they were spoken, +‘he has been robbed and misused at sea by Montgomery’s pirate crews. He +fled from court for the religion’s sake; he met her--my wife’ (the voice +was scarcely intelligible, so tremulously was it spoken), ‘in hiding +among the Huguenots--he brings a letter and a token from her to my +mother.’ + +‘Ha! And you know him? You avouch him to be what he represents himself?’ + +‘I knew him at court. I know him well. Father, make these fellows cease +their insults! I have heard nothing yet. See here!’ holding out what +Mericour had put into his hand; ‘this you cannot doubt, mother.’ + +‘Parted the pearls! Ah, the little minx!’ cried the lady, as she +recognized the jewels. + +‘I thought he had been robbed?’ added Sir Marmaduke. + +‘The gentleman doubts?’ said Mericour, catching some of the words. ‘He +should know that what is confided in a French gentleman is only taken +from him with his life. Much did I lose; but the pearl I kept hidden in +my mouth.’ + +Therewith he produced the letter. Lady Thistlewood pronounced that no +power on earth should induce her to open it, and drew off herself and +her little girls to a safe distance from the secret poison she fancied +it contained; while Sir Marmaduke was rating the constables for taking +advantage of his absence to interpret the Queen’s Vagrant Act in their +own violent fashion; ending, however, by sending them round to the +buttery-hatch to drink the young Lord’s health. For the messeger, the +good knight heartily grasped his hand, welcoming him and thanking him +for having ‘brought comfort to you poor lad’s heart.’ + +But there Sir Marmaduke paused, doubting whether the letter had indeed +brought comfort; for Berenger, who had seized on it, when it was refused +by his mother, was sitting under the tree--turning away indeed, but not +able to conceal that his tears were gushing down like rain. The anxious +exclamation of his step-father roused him at length, but he scarce found +power or voice to utter, as he thrust the letter into the knight’s hand, +‘Ah! see what has she not suffered for me! me, whom you would have had +believed her faithless!’ + +He then grasped his friend’s arm, and with him disappeared into the +house, leaving Sir Marmaduke holding the letter in a state of the utmost +bewilderment, and calling by turns on his wife and daughter to read and +explain it to him. + +And as Lucy read the letter, with her mother could not yet prevail on +herself to touch, she felt at each word more grateful to the good Aunt +Cecily, whose influence had taught her always to view Berenger as a +brother, and not to condemn unheard the poor young wife. If she had not +been thus guarded, what distress might not this day of joy to Berenger +have brought to Lucy! Indeed, Lady Thistlewood was vexed enough as +it was, and ready to carry her incredulity to the most inconsistent +lengths. ‘It was all a trick for getting the poor boy back, that +they might make an end of him altogether. Tell her they thought him +dead.--‘Tilley-valley! It was a mere attempt on her own good-nature, to +get a little French impostor on her hands. Let Sir Duke look well to +it, and take care that her poor boy was not decoyed among them. The +Frenchman might be cutting his throat at that moment! Where was he? Had +Sir Duke been so lost as to let them out of sight together? No one had +either pity or prudence now that her poor father was gone;’ and she +began to weep. + +‘No great fear on that score, dame,’ laughed the knight. ‘Did you not +hear the lad shouting for ‘Phil, Phil!’ almost in a voice like old +times? It does one good to hear it.’ + +Just at twilight, Berenger came down the steps, conducting a graceful +gentleman in black, to whom Lady Thistlewood’s instinct impelled her +to make a low courtesy, before Berenger had said, ‘Madam, allow me to +present to you my friend, the Abbe de Mericour.’ + +‘Is it the same?’ whispered Bessie to Annora. ‘Surely he is translated!’ + +‘Only into Philip’s old mourning suit. I know it by the stain on the +knee. + +‘Then it is translated too. Never did it look so well on Philip! See, +our mother is quite gracious to him; she speaks to him as though he were +some noble visitor to my Lord.’ + +Therewith Sir Marmaduke came forward, shook Mericour with all his might +by the hand, shouted to him his hearty thanks for the good he had done +his poor lad and assured him of a welcome from the very bottom of his +heart. The good knight would fain have kept both Berenger and his friend +at the Manor, but Berenger was far too impatient to carry home his joy, +and only begged the loan of a horse for Mericour. For himself, he felt +as if fatigue or dejection would never touch him again, and he kissed +his mother and his sisters, including Lucy, all round, with an effusion +of delight. + +‘Is that indeed your step-father?’ said Mericour, as they rode away +together. ‘And the young man, is he your half-brother?’ + +‘Brother wholly in dear love,’ said Berenger; ‘no blood relation. The +little girls are my mother’s children.’ + +‘Ah! so large a family all one? All at home? None in convents?’ + +‘We have no convents.’ + +‘Ah, no, but all at home! All at peace! This is a strange place, your +England.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. DEPARTURE + + + + It is my mistress! + Since she is living, let the time run on + To good or bad.--CYMBELINE + + +Mericour found the welcome at Hurst Walwyn kindly and more polished than +that at Combe Manor. He was more readily understood, and found himself +at his natural element. Lord Walwyn, in especial, took much notice of +him, and conversed with him long and earnestly; while Berenger, too +happy and too weary to exert himself to say many words, sat as +near Cecily as he could, treating her as though she, who had never +contradicted in his trust in Eustacie, were the only person who could +worthily share his infinite relief, peace, and thankfulness. + +Lord Walwyn said scarcely anything to his grandson that night, only when +Berenger, as usual, bent his knee to ask his blessing on parting for the +night, he said, gravely, ‘Son, I am glad of your joy; I fear me you have +somewhat to pardon your grandsire. Come to my library so soon as morning +prayers be over; we will speak then. Not now, my dear lad,’ he added, as +Berenger, with tears in his eyes, kissed his hand, and would have begun; +‘you are too much worn and spent to make my dear ears hear. Sleep, and +take my blessing with you.’ + +It was a delight to see the young face freed from the haggard, dejected +expression that had been sadder than the outward wound; and yet it was +so questionable how far the French connection was acceptable to the +family, that when Berenger requested Mr. Adderley to make mention of the +mercy vouch-safed to him in the morning devotions, the chaplain bowed, +indeed, but took care to ascertain that his so doing would be agreeable +to my Lord and my Lady. + +He found that if Lady Walwyn was still inclined to regret that the +Frenchwoman was so entirely a wife, and thought Berenger had been very +hasty and imprudent, yet that the old Lord was chiefly distressed at +the cruel injustice he had so long been doing this poor youth thing. +A strong sense of justice, and long habit of dignified self-restraint, +alone prevented Lord Walwyn from severely censuring Mr. Adderley for +misrepresentations; but the old nobleman recollected that Walsingham had +been in the same story, and was too upright to visit his own vexation on +the honestly-mistaken tutor. + +However, when Berenger made his appearance in the study, looking as +if not one right, but weeks, had been spent in recovering health and +spirit, the old man’s first word was a gentle rebuke for his having been +left unaware of how far matters had gone; but he cut short the attempted +reply, but saying he knew it was chiefly owing to his own over-hasty +conclusion, and fear of letting his grandson injure himself by vainly +discussing the subject. Now, however, he examined Berenger closely on +all the proceedings Paris and at Montpipeau, and soon understood that +the ceremony had been renewed, ratifying the vows taken in infancy. The +old statesman’s face cleared up at once; for, as he explained, he had +now no anxieties as to the validity of the marriage by English law, at +least, in spite of the decree from Rome, which, as he pointed out to his +grandson, was wholly contingent on the absence of subsequent consent, +since the parties had come to an age for free-will. Had he known of +this, the re-marriage, he said, he should certainly have been less +supine. Why had Berenger been silent? + +‘I was commanded, sir. I fear I have transgressed the command by +mentioning it now. I must pray you to be secret.’ + +‘Secret, foolish lad. Know you not that the rights of your wife and your +children rest upon it?’ and as the change in Berenger’s looks showed +that he had not comprehended the full importance of the second ceremony +as nullifying the papal sentence, which could only quash the first on +the ground of want of mutual consent, he proceeded, ‘Command, quotha? +Who there had any right to command you, boy?’ + +‘Only one, sir.’ + +‘Come, this no moment for lover’s folly. It was not the girl, then? Then +it could no other than the miserable King--was it so?’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ said Berenger. ‘He bade me as king, and requested me as the +friend who gave her to me. I could do no otherwise, and I thought it +would be but a matter of a few days, and that our original marriage was +the only important one.’ + +‘Have you any parchment to prove it?’ + +‘No, sir. It passed but as a ceremony to satisfy the Queen’s scruples +ere she gave my wife to me to take home. I even think the King was +displeased at her requiring it.’ + +‘Was Mr. Sidney a witness?’ + +‘No, sir. None was present, save the King and Queen, her German +countess, and the German priest.’ + +‘The day?’ + +‘Lammas-day.’ + +‘The 1st of August of the year of grace 1572. I will write to Walsingham +to obtain the testimony, if possible, of king or of priest; but belike +they will deny it all. It was part of the trick. Shame upon it that a +king should dig pits for so small a game as you, my poor lad!’ + +‘Verily, my Lord,’ said Berenger, ‘I think the King meant us kindly, +and would gladly have sped us well away. Methought he felt his bondage +bitterly, and would fain have dared to be a true king. Even at the last, +he bade me to his _garde-robe_, and all there were unhurt.’ + +‘And wherefore obeyed you not?’ + +‘The carouse would have kept me too late for our flight.’ + +‘King’s behests may not lightly be disregarded,’ said the old courtier, +with a smile. ‘However, since he showed such seeming favour to you, +surely you might send a petition to him privately, through Sir Francis +Walsingham, to let the priest testify to your renewal of contract, +engaging not to use it to his detriment in France.’ + +‘I will do so, sir. Meanwhile,’ he added, as one who felt he had earned +a right to be heard in his turn, ‘I have your permission to hasten to +bring home my wife?’ + +Lord Walwyn was startled at this demand from one still so far from +recovered as Berenger. Even this talk, eager as the youth was, had +not been carried on without much difficulty, repetitions, and altered +phrases, when he could not pronounce distinctly enough to be understood +and the effort brought lines of pain into his brow. He could take little +solid food, had hardly any strength for walking or riding; and, though +all his wounds were whole, except that one unmanageable shot in the +mouth, he looked entirely unfit to venture on a long journey in the very +country that had sent him home a year before scarcely alive. Lord Walwyn +had already devised what he thought a far more practicable arrangement; +namely, to send Mr. Adderley and some of my Lady’s women by sea, under +the charge of Master Hobbs, a shipmaster at Weymouth, who traded with +Bordeaux for wine, and could easily put in near La Sablerie, and bring +off the lady and child, and, if she wished it, the pastor to whom such a +debt of gratitude was owing. + +Berenger was delighted with the notion of the sea rather than the land +journey; but he pointed out at once that this would remove all objection +to his going in person. He had often been out whole nights with the +fishermen, and knew that a sea-voyage would be better for his health +than anything,--certainly better than pining and languishing at home, +as he had done for months. He could not bear to think of separation +from Eustacie an hour longer than needful; nay, she had been cruelly +entreated enough already; and as long as he could keep his feet, it was +absolutely due to her that he should not let others, instead of himself, +go in search of her. It would be almost death to him to stay at home. + +Lord Walwyn looked at the pallid, wasted face, with all its marks +of suffering and intense eagerness of expression, increased by the +difficulty of utterance and need of subduing agitation. He felt that the +long-misunderstood patience and endurance had earned something; and he +knew, too, that for all his grandson’s submission and respect, the +boy, as a husband and father, had rights and duties that would assert +themselves manfully if opposed. It was true that the sea-voyage obviated +many difficulties, and it was better to consent with a good grace than +drive one hitherto so dutiful to rebellion. He did then consent, and was +rewarded by the lightning flash of joy and gratitude in the bright +blue eyes, and the fervent pressure and kiss of his hand, as Berenger +exclaimed, ‘Ah! sir, Eustacie will be such a daughter to you. You should +have seen how the Admiral liked her!’ + +The news of Lord Walwyn’s consent raised much commotion in the family. +Dame Annora was sure her poor son would be murdered outright this time, +and that nobody cared because he was only HER son; and she strove hard +to stir up Sir Marmaduke to remonstrate with her father; but the good +knight had never disputed a judgment of ‘my Lord’s’ in his whole life, +and had even received his first wife from his hands, when forsaken by +the gay Annora. So she could only ride over the Combe, be silenced by +her father, as effectually as if Jupiter had nodded, and bewail and +murmur to her mother till she lashed Lady Walwyn up into finding every +possible reason why Berenger should and must sail. Then she went home, +was very sharp with Lucy, and was reckoned by saucy little Nan to have +nineteen times exclaimed ‘Tilley-valley’ in the course of one day. + +The effect upon Philip was a vehement insistence on going with his +brother. He was sure no one else would see to Berry half as well; and as +to letting Berry go to be murdered again without him, he would not hear +of it; he must go, he would not stay at home; he should not study; no, +no, he should be ready to hang himself for vexation, and thinking +what they were doing to his brother. And thus he extorted from his +kind-hearted father an avowal that he should be easier a bout the lad +if Phil were there, and that he might go, provided Berry would have him, +and my Lord saw no objection. The first point was soon settled; and +as to the second, there was no reason at all that Philip should not +go where his brother did. In fact, excepting for Berenger’s state of +health, there was hardly any risk about the matter. Master Hobbs, to +whom Philip rode down ecstatically to request him to come and speak to +my Lord, was a stout, honest, experienced seaman, who was perfectly at +home in the Bay of Biscay, and had so strong a feudal feeling for the +house of Walwyn, that he placed himself and his best ship, the THROSTLE, +entirely at his disposal. The THROSTLE was a capital sailer, and carried +arms quite sufficient in English hands to protect her against Algerine +corsairs or Spanish pirates. He only asked for a week to make her cabin +ready for the reception of a lady, and this time was spent in sending +a post to London, to obtain for Berenger the permit from the Queen, +and the passport from the French Ambassador, without which he could not +safely have gone; and, as a further precaution, letters were requested +from some of the secret agents of the Huguenots to facilitate his +admission into La Sablerie. + +In the meantime, poor Mr. Adderley had submitted meekly to the decree +that sentenced him to weeks of misery on board the THROSTLE, but to his +infinite relief, an inspection of the cabins proved the space so small, +that Berenger represented to him grandfather that the excellent tutor +would be only an incumbrance to himself and every one else, and that +with Philip he should need no one. Indeed, he had made such a start into +vigour and alertness during the last few days that there was far less +anxiety about him, though with several sighs for poor Osbert. Cecily +initiated Philip into her simple rules for her patient’s treatment in +case of the return of his more painful symptoms. The notion of sending +female attendants for Eustacie was also abandoned: her husband’s +presence rendered them unnecessary, or they might be procured at La +Sablerie; and thus it happened that the only servants whom Berenger was +to take with him were Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, the same honest +fellows whose steadiness had so much conduced to his rescue at Paris. + +Claude de Mericour had in the meantime been treated as an honoured guest +at Combe Walwyn, and was in good esteem with its master. He would have +set forth at once on his journey to Scotland, but that Lord Walwyn +advised him to wait and ascertain the condition of his relatives there +before throwing himself on them. Berenger had, accordingly, when writing +to Sidney by the messenger above mentioned, begged him to find out from +Sir Robert Melville, the Scottish Envoy, all he could about the family +whose designation he wrote down at a venture from Mericour’s lips. + +Sidney returned a most affectionate answer, saying that he had never +been able to believe the little shepherdess a traitor and was charmed +that she had proved herself a heroine; he should endeavour to greet her +with all his best powers as a poet, when she should brighten the English +court; but his friend, Master Spenser, alone was fit to celebrate such +constancy. As to M. l’Abbe de Mericour’s friends, Sir Robert Melville +had recognized their name at once, and had pronounced them to be fierce +Catholics and Queensmen, so sorely pressed by the Douglases, that it was +believed they would soon fly the country altogether; and Sidney added, +what Lord Walwyn had already said, that to seek Scotland rather than +France as a resting-place in which to weigh between Calvinism and +Catholicism, was only trebly hot and fanatical. His counsel was that M. +de Mericour should so far conform himself to the English Church as to +obtain admission to one of the universities, and, through his uncle of +Leicester, he could obtain for him an opening at Oxford, where he might +fully study the subject. + +There was much to incline Mericour to accept this counsel. He had had +much conversation with Mr. Adderley, and had attended his ministrations +in the chapel, and both satisfied him far better than what he had seen +among the French Calninists; and the peace and family affection of the +two houses were like a new world to him. But he had not yet made up his +mind to that absolute disavowal of his own branch of the Church, which +alone could have rendered him eligible for any foundation at Oxford. +His attainments in classics would, Mr. Adderley thought, reach such a +standard as to gain one of the very few scholarships open to foreigners; +and his noble blood revolted at becoming a pensioner of Leicester’s, or +of any other nobleman. + +Lord Walwyn, upon this, made an earnest offer of his hospitality, and +entreated the young man to remain at Hurst Walwyn till the return +of Berenger and Philip, during which time he might study under the +directions of Mr. Adderley, and come to a decision whether to seek +reconciliation with his native Church and his brother, or to remain in +England. In this latter case, he might perhaps accompany both the youths +to Oxford, for, in spite of Berenger’s marriage, his education was +still not supposed to be complete. And when Mericour still demurred with +reluctance to become a burden on the bounty of the noble house, he was +reminded gracefully of the debt of gratitude that the family owed to him +for the relief he had brought to Berenger; and, moreover, Dame Annora +giggled out that, ‘if he would teach Nan and Bess to speak and read +French and Italian, it would be worth something to them.’ The others of +the family would have hushed up this uncalled-for proposal; but Mericour +caught at it as the most congenial mode of returning the obligation. +Every morning he undertook to walk or ride over to the Manor, and +there gave his lessons to the young ladies, with whom he was extremely +popular. He was a far more brilliant teacher than Lucy, and ten thousand +times preferable to Mr. Adderley, who had once begun to teach Annora her +accidence with lamentable want of success. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE EMPTY CRADLE + + + Eager to know + The worst, and with that fatal certainty + To terminate intolerable dread, + He spurred his courser forward--all his fears + Too surely are fulfilled.--SOUTHEY + + +Contrary winds made the voyage of the THROSTLE much more tardy than had +been reckoned on by Berenger’s impatience; but hope was before him, and +he often remembered his days in the little vessel as much happier than +he had known them to be at the time. + +It was in the calm days of right October that Captain Hobbs at length +was putting into the little harbour nearest to La Sablerie. Berenger, on +that morning, had for the first time been seized by a fit of anxiety as +to the impression his face would make, with its terrible purple scar, +great patch, and bald forehead, and had brought out a little black +velvet mask, called a _tour de nez_, often used in riding to protect the +complexion, intending to prepare Eustacie for his disfigurement. He had +fastened on a carnation-coloured sword-knot, would a scarf of the same +colour across his shoulder, clasped a long ostrich plume into his broad +Spanish hat, and looked out his deeply-fringed Spanish gloves; and +Philip was laughing merrily, not to say rudely, at him, for trying to +deck himself out so bravely. + +‘See, Master Hobbs,’ cried the boy in his high spirits, as he followed +his brother on deck, ‘you did not know you had so fine a gallant on +board. Here be braveries for my Lady.’ + +‘Hush, Phil,’ broke in Berenger, who had hitherto taken all the raillery +in perfect good part. ‘What is amiss, Master Hobbs?’ + +‘I cannot justly say, sir,’ returned Master Hobbs, without taking his +gaze off the coast, ‘but by yonder banks and creeks this should be the +Sables d’Olonne; and I do not see the steeple of La Sablerie, which has +always been the landmark for the harbour of St. Julien.’ + +‘What do you understand by that?’ asked Berenger, more struck by his +manner than his words. + +‘Well, sir, if I am right, a steeple that has stood three or four +hundred years does not vanish out of sight like a cloud of smoke for +nothing. I may be lightning, to be sure; or the Protestants may have +had it down for Popery; but methinks they would have too much Christian +regard for poor mariners than to knock down the only landmark on this +coast till you come to Nissard spire.’ Then he hailed the man at the +mast-head, demanding if he saw the steeple of La Sablerie. ‘No, no, +sir.’ But as other portions of the land became clearer, there was no +doubt that the THROSTLE was right in her bearings; so the skipper +gave orders to cast anchor and lower a boat. The passengers would have +pressed him with inquiries as to what he thought the absence of his +landmark could portend; but he hurried about, and shouted orders, with +the deaf despotism of a nautical commander; and only when all was made +ready, turned round and said, ‘Now, sir, maybe you had best let me go +ashore first, and find out how the land lies.’ + +‘Never!’ said Berenger, in an agony of impatience. + +‘I thought so,’ said the captain. ‘Well, then, sir, are your fellows +ready? Armed? All right.’ + +So Berenger descended to the boat, followed by Philip; next came the +captain, and then the two serving-men. Six of the crew were ready to row +them to the shore, and were bidden by their captain to return at once +to the vessel, and only return on a signal from him. the surging rush of +intense anxiety, sure to precede the destined moment of the consummation +of hope long deferred, kept Berenger silent, choked by something between +fear and prayer; but Philip, less engrossed, asked Master Hobbs if it +were not strange that none of the inhabitants of the squalid little huts +on the shore had not put out to greet them in some of the boats that +were drawn up on the beach. + +‘Poor wretches,’ said Hobbs; ‘they scarce know friend from foe, and are +slow to run their heads into the lion’s mouth. Strange fellows have the +impudence to sail under our flag at times.’ + +However, as they neared the low, flat, sandy shore, a few red caps +peeped out at the cottage-doors, and then, apparently gaining confidence +from the survey, some wiry, active figures appeared, and were hailed by +Hobbs. His Bordeaux trade had rendered him master of the coast language; +and a few incomprehensible shouts between him and the natives resulted +in a line being thrown to them, and the boat dragged as near as possible +to the landing-place, when half a dozen ran up, splashing with their +bare legs, to offer their shoulders for the transport of the passengers, +both of whom were seized upon before they were aware, Philip struggling +with all his might, till a call from Captain Hobbs warned him to resign +himself; and then he became almost helpless with laughter at the figure +cut by the long-legged Berenger upon a small fisherman’s back. + +They were landed. Could it be that Berenger was only two miles--only +half an hour’s walk form Eustacie? The bound his heart gave as he +touched the shore seemed to stifle him. He could not believe it. Yet he +knew how fully he had believed it, the next moment, when he listened to +what the fishermen were saying to Captain Hobbs. + +‘Did Monsieur wish to go to La Sablerie? Ah! then he did not know +what had happened. The soldiers had been there; there had been a great +burning. They had been out in their boats at sea, but they had seen the +sky red--red as a furnace, all night; and the steeple was down. Surely, +Monsieur had missed the steeple that was a guide to all poor seafarers; +and now they had to go all the way to Brancour to sell their fish.’ + +‘And the townspeople?’ Hobbs asked. + +‘Ah! poor things; ‘twas pity of them, for they were honest folk to deal +with, even if they were heretics. They loved fish at other seasons if +not in Lent; and it seemed but a fair return to go up and bury as many +of them as were not burnt to nothing in their church; and Dom Colombeau, +the good priest of Nissard, has said it was a pious work; and he was a +saint, if any one was.’ + +‘Alack, sir,’ said Hobbs, laying his hand on the arm of Berenger, who +seemed neither to have breathed nor moved while the man was speaking: +‘I feared that there had been some such bloody work when I missed the +steeple. But take heart yet: your lady is very like to have been out of +the way. We might make for La Rochelle, and there learn!’ Then, again to +the fisherman, ‘None escaped, fellow?’ + +‘Not one,’ replied the man. ‘They say that one of the great folks was in +a special rage with them for sheltering the lady he should have wedded, +but who had broken convent and turned heretic; and they had victualled +Montgomery’s pirates too.’ + +‘And the lady?’ continued Hobbs, ever trying to get a more supporting +hold of his young charge, in case the rigid tension of his limbs should +suddenly relax.’ + +‘I cannot tell, sir. I am a poor fisher; but I could guide you to the +place where old Gillot is always poking about. He listened to their +preachings, and knows more than we do.’ + +‘Let us go,’ said Berenger, at once beginning to stride along in his +heavy boots through the deep sand. Philip, who had hardly understood a +word of the _patois_, caught hold of him, and begged to be told what had +happened; but Master Hobbs drew the boy off, and explained to him and +to the two men what were the dreadful tidings that had wrought such +a change in Berenger’s demeanour. The way over the shifting sands was +toilsome enough to all the rest of the party; but Berenger scarcely +seemed to feel the deep plunge at every step as they almost ploughed +their way along for the weary two miles, before a few green bushes and +half-choked trees showed that they were reaching the confines of the +sandy waste. Berenger had not uttered a word the whole time, and his +silence hushed the others. The ground began to rise, grass was seen +still struggling to grow, and presently a large straggling mass of +black and gray ruins revealed themselves, with the remains of a once +well-trodden road leading to them. But the road led to a gate-way choked +by a fallen jamb and barred door, and the guide led them round the +ruins of the wall to the opening where the breach had been. The sand +was already blowing in, and no doubt veiled much; for the streets were +scarcely traceable through remnants of houses more or less dilapidated, +with shreds of broken or burnt household furniture within them. + +‘Ask him for _la rue des Trois Fees_,’ hoarsely whispered Berenger. + +The fisherman nodded, but soon seemed at fault; and an old man, followed +by a few children, soon appearing, laden with piece of fuel, he appealed +to him as Father Gillot, and asked whether he could find the street. The +old man seemed at home in the ruins, and led the way readily. ‘Did he +know the Widow Laurent’s house?’ + +‘Mademoiselle [footnote: This was the title of _bourgeoise_ wives, for +many years, in France.] Laurent! Full well he knew her; a good pious +soul was she, always ready to die for the truth,’ he added, as he read +sympathy in the faces round; ‘and no doubt she had witnessed a good +confession.’ + +‘Knew he aught of the lady she had lodged?’ + +‘He knew nothing of ladies. Something he had heard of the good widow +having sheltered that shining light, Isaac Gardon, quenched, no doubt, +in the same destruction; but for his part, he had a daughter in one of +the isles out there, who always sent for him if she suspected danger +here on the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a day +or two after Michael-mas.’ So saying, he led them to the threshold of a +ruinous building, in the very centre, as it were, of the desolation, and +said, ‘That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept her little +shop.’ + +Black, burnt, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. The building had fallen, +but the beams of the upper floor had fallen aslant, so as to shelter a +portion of the lower room, where the red-tile pavement, the hearth with +the gray ashes of the harmless home-fire, some unbroken crocks, a chain, +and a _sabot_, were still visible, making the contrast of dreariness +doubly mournful. + +Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with his hat in his hand, as if +the ruin were a sacred place to him, and stood gazing in a transfixed, +deadened way. The captain asked where the remains were. + +‘Our people,’ said the old man and the fisher, ‘laid them by night in +the earth near the church.’ + +Just then Berenger’s gaze fell on something half hidden under the fallen +timbers. He instantly sprang forward, and used all his strength to drag +it out in so headlong a manner that all the rest hurried to prevent his +reckless proceedings from bringing the heavy beams down on his head. +When brought to light, the object proved to be one of the dark, heavy, +wooden cradles used by the French peasantry, shining with age, but +untouched by fire. + +‘Look in,’ Berenger signed to Philip, his own eyes averted, his mouth +set. + +The cradle was empty, totally empty, save for a woolen covering, a +little mattress, and a string of small yellow shells threaded. + +Berenger held out his hand, grasped the baby-play thing convulsively, +then dropped upon his knees, clasping his hands over his ashy face, the +string of shells still wound among his fingers. Perhaps he had hitherto +hardly realized the existence of his child, and was solely wrapped up in +the thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirred +up fresh depths of feelings; he saw Eustacie wither tender sweetness as +a mother, he beheld the little likeness of her in the cradle; and oh! +that this should have been the end! Unable to repress a moan of anguish +from a bursting heart, he laid his face against the senseless wood, and +kissed it again and again, then lay motionless against it save for the +long-drawn gasps and sobs that shook his frame. Philip, torn to the +heart, would have almost forcibly drawn him away; but Master Hobbs, +with tears running down his honest cheeks, withheld the boy. ‘Don’t ye, +Master Thistlewood, ‘twill do him good. Poor young gentleman! I know +how it was when I came home and found our first little lad, that we had +thought so much on, had been take. But then he was safe laid in his +own churchyard, and his mother was there to meet me; while your poor +brother---Ah! God comfort him!’ + +‘_Le pauvre Monsieur_!’ exclaimed the old peasant, struck at the sight +of his grief, ‘was it then his child? And he, no doubt, lying wounded +elsewhere while God’s hand was heavy on this place. Yet he might hear +more. They said the priest came down and carried off the little ones to +be bred up in convents.’ + +‘Who?--where?’ asked Berenger, raising his head as if catching at a +straw in this drowning of all his hopes. + +‘’Tis true,’ added the fisherman. ‘It was the holy priest of Nissard, +for he send down to St. Julien for a woman to nurse the babes.’ + +‘To Nissard, then,’ said Berenger, rising. + +‘It is but a chance,’ said the old Huguenot; ‘many of the innocents were +with their mothers in yonder church. Better for them to perish like the +babes of Bethlehem than to be bred up in the house of Baal; but perhaps +Monsieur is English, and if so he might yet obtain the child. Yet he +must not hope too much.’ + +‘No, for there was many a little corpse among those we buried,’ said the +fisher. ‘Will the gentleman see the place?’ + +‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Philip, understanding the actions, and indeed many +of the words; ‘this place will kill him.’ + +‘To the grave,’ said Berenger, as if he heard nothing. + +‘See,’ added Philip, ‘there are better things than graves,’ and he +pointed to a young green sucker of a vine, which, stimulated by the +burnt soil, had shot up between the tiles of the floor. ‘Look, there is +hope to meet you even here.’ + +Berenger merely answered by gathering a leaf from the vine and putting +it into his bosom; and Philip, whom only extreme need could have thus +inspired, perceived that he accepted it as the augury of hope. + +Berenger turned to bid the two men bear the cradle with them, and then +followed the old man out into the PLACE, once a pleasant open paved +square, now grass-grown and forlorn. On one side lay the remains of the +church. The Huguenots had been so predominant at La Sablerie as to +have engrossed the building, and it had therefore shared the general +destruction, and lay in utter, desolate ruin, a mere shell, and the once +noble spire, the mariner’s guiding star, blown up with gun-cruel that +ever desolated the country. Beyond lay the burial-ground, in unspeakable +dreariness. The crossed of the Catholic dead had been levelled by the +fanaticism of the Huguenots, and though a great dominant stone cross +raised on steps had been re-erected, it stood uneven, tottering and +desolate among nettles, weeds, and briers. There seemed to have been a +few deep trenches dug to receive the bodies of the many victims of the +siege, and only rudely and slightly filled in with loose earth, on which +Philippe treading had nearly sunk in, so much to his horror that he +could hardly endure the long contemplation in which his brother stood +gazing on the dismal scene, as if to bear it away with him. Did the fair +being he had left in a king’s palace sleep her last sleep her last sleep +amid the tangled grass, the thistles and briers that grew so close +that it was hardly possible to keep from stumbling over them, where all +memorials of friend or foe were alike obliterated? Was a resting-place +among these nameless graves the best he could hope for the wife whose +eyes he had hoped by this time would be answering his own--was this her +shelter from foe, from sword, famine, and fire? + +A great sea-bird, swooping along with broad wings and wild wailing cry, +completed the weird dismay that had seized on Philip, and clutching at +his brother’s cloak, he exclaimed, ‘Berry, Berry, let us be gone, or we +shall both be distraught!’ + +Berenger yielded passively, but when the ruins of the town had been +again crossed, and the sad little party, after amply rewarding the old +man, were about to return to St. Julien, he stood still, saying, ‘Which +is the way to Nissard?’ and, as the men pointed to the south, he added, +‘Show me the way thither.’ + +Captain Hobbs now interfered. He knew the position of Nissard, among +dangerous sandbanks, between which a boat could only venture at the +higher tides, and by daylight. To go the six miles thither at present +would make it almost impossible to return to the THROSTLE that night, +and it was absolutely necessary that he at least should do this. He +therefore wished the young gentleman to return with him on board, sleep +there, and be put ashore at Nissard as soon as it should be possible in +the morning. But Berenger shook his head. He could not rest for a moment +till he had ascertained the fate of Eustacie’s child. Action alone could +quench the horror of what he had recognized as her own lot, and the +very pursuit of this one thread of hope seemed needful to him to make +it substantial. He would hear of nothing but walking at once to Nissard; +and Captain Hobbs, finding it impossible to debate the point with one so +dazed and crushed with grief, and learning from the fishermen that not +only was the priest one of the kindest and most hospitable men living, +but that there was a tolerable _caberet_ not far from the house, +selected from the loiterers who had accompanied them from St. Julien +a trustworthy-looking, active lad as a guide, and agreed with the high +tide on the morrow, either to concert measures for obtaining possession +of the lost infant, or, if all were in vain, to fetch them off. Then +he, with the mass of stragglers from St. Julien, went off direct for +the coast, while the two young brothers, their two attendants, and the +fishermen, turned southwards along the summit of the dreary sandbanks. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. THE GOOD PRIEST OF NISSARD + + + +Till at the set of sun all tracks and ways In darkness lay enshrouded. +And e’en thus The utmost limit of the great profound At length we +reach’d, where in dark gloom and mist Cimmeria’s people and their city +lie Enveloped ever.--ODYSSEY (MUSGROVE) + + +The October afternoon had set in before the brothers were the way to +Nissard; and in spite of Berenger’s excited mood, the walk through the +soft, sinking sand could not be speedily performed. It was that peculiar +sand-drift which is the curse of so many coasts, slowly, silently, +irresistibly flowing, blowing, creeping in, and gradually choking all +vegetation and habitation. Soft and almost impalpable, it lay heaped in +banks yielding as air, and yet far more than deep enough to swallow up +man and horse. Nay, tops of trees, summits of chimneys, told what it had +already swallowed. The whole scene far and wide presented nothing but +the lone, tame undulations, liable to be changed by every wind, and +solitary beyond expression--a few rabbits scudding hither and thither, +or a sea-gull floating with white, ghostly wings in the air, being the +only living things visible. On the one hand a dim, purple horizon showed +that the inhabited country lay miles inland; on the other lay the +pale, gray, misty expanse of sea, on which Philip’s eyes could lovingly +discern the THROSTLE’S masts. + +That view was Philip’s chief comfort. The boy was feeling more eerie and +uncomfortable than ever he had been before as he plodded along, sinking +deep with every step almost up to his ankles in the sand, on which the +bare-footed guide ran lightly, and Berenger, though sinking no less +deeply, seemed insensible to all inconveniences. This desolateness was +well-nigh unbearable; no one dared to speak while Berenger thus moved on +in the unapproachableness of his great grief, and Philip presently began +to feel a dreamy sense that they had all thus been moving for years, +that this was the world’s end, the land of shadows, and that his brother +was a ghost already. Besides vague alarms like these, there was the +dismal English and Protestant prejudice in full force in Philip’s +mind, which regarded the resent ground as necessarily hostile, and +all Frenchmen, above all French priests, as in league to cut off every +Englishman and Protestant. He believed himself in a country full of +murderers, and was walking on with the one determination that his +brother should not rush on danger without him, and that the Popish +rogues should be kept in mind that there was an English ship in sight. +Alas! that consolation was soon lost, for a dense gray mist was slowly +creeping in from the sea, and blotted out the vessel, then gathered in +closer, and obliterated all landmarks. Gradually it turned to a heavy +rain, and about the same time the ground on which they walked became no +longer loose sand-hills, but smooth and level. It was harder likewise +from the wet, and this afforded better walking, but there lay upon it +fragments of weed and shell, as though it were liable to be covered by +the sea, and there was a low, languid plash of the tide, which could +not be seen. Twilight began to deepen the mist. The guide was evidently +uneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began to ask what he--hitherto +obstinately deaf and contemptuous to French--was very slow to +comprehend. At last he found it was a question how near it was to +All Soul’s day; and then came an equally amazing query whether the +gentlemen’s babe had been baptized; for it appeared that on All Soul’s +day the spirits of unchristened infants had the power of rising from the +sands in a bewildering mist, and leading wayfarers into the sea. And +the poor guide, white and drenched, vowed he never would have undertaken +this walk if he had only thought of this. These slaughters of heretics +must so much have augmented the number of the poor little spirits; +and no doubt Monsieur would be specially bewildered by one so nearly +concerned with him. Philip, half frightened, could not help stepping +forward and pulling Berenger by the cloak to make him aware of this +strange peril; but he did not get much comfort. ‘Baptized? Yes; you +know she was, by the old nurse. Let me alone, I say. I would follow her +wherever she called me, the innocent, and glad--the sooner the better.’ + +And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impatience so utterly +unapproachable, that Philip, poor boy, could only watch his tall figure +in the wide cloak and slouched hat, stalking on ever more indistinct in +the gloom, while his much confused mind tried to settle the theological +point whether the old nurse’s baptism were valid enough to prevent poor +little Berangere from becoming one of these mischievous deluders; and +all this was varied by the notion of Captain Hobbs picking up their +corpses on the beach, and of Sir Marmaduke bewailing his only son. + +At last a strange muffled sound made him start in the dead silence, but +the guide hailed the sound with a joyful cry--- + +‘Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are we +saved!’ and on Philip’s hasty interrogation, he explained that it was +from the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always caused to be +rung during these sea-fogs, to disperse all evil beings, and guide the +wanderers. + +The guide strode on manfully, as the sound became clearer and nearer, +and Philip was infinitely relived to be free from all supernatural +anxieties, and to have merely to guard against the wiles of a Polish +priest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in his imagination as poor +little Berangere’s soul could be in that of the fisherman. + +The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and closed +round them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost sight of each +other, and had nothing but the bells’ voices to comfort them, till quite +suddenly there was a light upon the mist, a hazy reddish gleam--a window +seemed close to them. The guide, heartily thanking Our Lady and St. +Julian, knocked at a door, which opened at once into a warm, bright, +superior sort of kitchen, where a neatly-dressed elderly peasant woman +exclaimed, ‘Welcome, poor souls! Enter, then. Here, good Father, are +some bewildered creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost in +the fog?’ + +At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off the +fire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a cassock, +with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful face, ruddy from +sea-wind. + +‘Welcome, my friends,’ he said. ‘Thanks to the saints who have guided +you safely. You are drenched. Come to the fire at once.’ + +And as they moved on into the full light of the fire and the rude iron +lamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled plumes and +other appurtenances that marked the two youths as gentlemen, he +added, ‘Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our poor best for your +accommodation;’ and while both mechanically murmured a word of thanks, +and removed their soaked hats, the good man exclaimed, as he beheld +Berenger’s ashy face, with the sunken eyes and deep scars, ‘Monsieur +should come to bed at once. He is apparently recovering from a severe +wound. This way, sir; Jolitte shall make you some hot tisane.’ + +‘Wait, sir,’ said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding hollow +from exhaustion; ‘they say that you can tell me of my child. Let me +hear.’ + +‘Monsieur’s child!’ exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from him +to Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream of +explanation before Philip had arranged three words of French. + +‘You hear, sir,’ said Berenger, as the man finished: ‘I came hither to +seek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont.’ + +‘Eh!’ exclaimed the _cure_, ‘do I then see M. le Marquis de Nid de +Merle?’ + +‘No!’ cried Berenger; ‘no, I am not that _scelerat_! I am her true +husband, the Baron de Ribaumont.’ + +‘The Baron de Ribaumont perished at the St. Bartholomew,’ said the +_cure_, fixing his eyes on him, as though to confute an impostor. + +‘Ah, would that I had!’ said Berenger. ‘I was barely saved with the life +that is but misery now. I came to seek her--I found what you know. They +told me that you saved the children. Ah, tell me where mine is!--all +that is left me.’ + +‘A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few. But let me +understand to whom I speak,’ he added, much perplexed. ‘You, sir---’ + +‘I am her husband, married at five years old--contract renewed last +year. It was he whom you call Nid de Merle who fell on me, and left +me for dead. A faithful servant saved my life, but I have lain sick +in England till now, when her letter to my mother brought me to La +Sablerie, to find--to find THIS. Oh, sir, have pity on me! Tell me if +you know anything of her, or if you can give me her child.’ + +‘The orphans I was able to save are--the boys at nurse here, the girls +with the good nuns at Lucon,’ said the priest, with infinite pity in his +look. ‘Should you know it, sir?’ + +‘I would--I should,’ said Berenger. ‘But it is a girl. Ah, would that it +were here! But you--you, sir--you know more than these fellows. Is there +no--no hope of herself?’ + +‘Alas! I fear I can give you none,’ said the priest; ‘but I will tell +all I know; only I would fain see you eat, rest, and be dried.’ + +‘How can I?’ gasped he, allowing himself, however, to sink into a chair; +and the priest spoke: + +‘Perhaps you know, sir, that the poor lady fled from her friends, and +threw herself upon the Huguenots. All trace had been lost, when, at a +banquet given by the mayor of Lucon, there appeared some _patisseries_, +which some ecclesiastic, who had enjoyed the hospitality of Bellaise, +recognized as peculiar to the convent there, where she had been brought +up. They were presented to the mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, +who had boasted of the excellent _confitures_ of the heretic pastor’s +daughter that lodged in the town of La Sablerie. The place was in +disgrace for having afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery’s pirate +crews, and there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics. The +army were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it was +resolved to make an example, when, on M. de Nid de Merle’s summons, all +knowledge of the lady was denied. Is it possible that she was indeed not +there?’ + +Berenger shook his head. ‘She was indeed there,’ he said, with an +irrepressible groan. ‘Was there no mercy--none?’ + +‘Ask not, sir,’ said the compassionate priest; ‘the flesh shrinks, +though there may be righteous justice. A pillaged town, when men are +enraged, is like a place of devils unchained. I reached it only after it +had been taken by assault, when all was flame and blood. Ask me no +more; it would be worse for you to hear than me to tell,’ he concluded, +shuddering, but laying his hand kindly on Berenger’s arm. ‘At least it +is ended now and God is more merciful than men. Many died by the bombs +cast into to city, and she for whom you ask certainly fell not alive +into the hands of those who sought her. Take comfort, sir; there is One +who watches and takes count of our griefs. Sir, turning to Philip, ‘this +gentleman is too much spent with sorrow to bear this cold and damp. Aid +me, I entreat, to persuade him to lie down.’ + +Philip understood the priest’s French far better than that of the +peasants, and added persuasions that Berenger was far too much exhausted +and stunned to resist. To spend a night in a Popish priest’s house would +once have seemed to Philip a shocking alternative, yet here he was, +heartily assisting in removing the wet garments in which his brother +had sat only too long, and was heartily relieved to lay him down in the +priest’s own bed, even though there was an image over the head, which, +indeed, the boy never saw. He only saw his brother turn away from the +light with a low, heavy moan, as if he would fain be left alone with his +sorrow and his crushed hopes. + +Nothing could be kinder than Dome Colombeau, the priest of Nissard. +He saw to the whole of his guests being put into some sort of dry +habiliments before they sat round his table to eat of the savoury mess +in the great _pot-au-feu_, which had, since their arrival, received +additional ingredients, and moreover sundry villagers had crept into the +house. Whenever the good Father supped at home, any of his flock were +welcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitability. After a cup of hot cider +round, they carried off the fisherman to ledge in one of their cottages. +Shake-downs were found for the others, and Philip, wondering what was +to become of the good host himself, gathered that he meant to spend such +part of the night on the kitchen floor as he did not pass in prayer in +the church for the poor young gentleman, who was in such affliction. +Philip was not certain whether to resent this as an impertinence or an +attack on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either, that +the priest was aware what was their religion, and was still less certain +of his own comprehension of these pious intentions: he decided that, any +way, it was better not to make a fool of himself. Still, the notion +of the mischievousness of priests was so rooted in his head, that he +consulted Humfrey on the expedience of keeping watch all night, but was +sagaciously answered that ‘these French rogues don’t do any hurt unless +they be brought up to it, and the place was as safe as old Hurst.’ + +In fact, Philip’s vigilance would have been strongly against nature. He +never awoke till full daylight and morning sun were streaming through +the vine-leaves round the window, and then, to his dismay, he saw that +Berenger had left his bed, and was gone. Suspicions of foul play coming +over him in full force as he gazed round on much that he considered as +‘Popish furniture,’ he threw on his clothes, and hastened to open the +door, when, to his great relief, he saw Berenger hastily writing at a +table under the window, and Smithers standing by waiting for the billet. + +‘I am sending Smithers on board, to ask Hobbs to bring our cloak bags,’ +said Berenger, as his brother entered. ‘We must go on to Lucon.’ + +He spoke briefly and decidedly, and Philip was satisfied to see him +quite calm and collected--white indeed, and with the old haggard look, +and the great scar very purple instead of red, which was always a bad +sign with him. He was not disposed to answer questions; he shortly said, +‘He had slept not less than usual,’ which Philip knew meant very little; +and he had evidently made up his mind, and was resolved not to +let himself give way. If his beacon of hope had been so suddenly, +frightfully quenched, he still was kept from utter darkness by straining +his eyes and forcing his steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark that +remained. + +The priest was at his morning mass; and so soon as Berenger had given +his note to Smithers, and sent him off with a fisherman to the THROSTLE, +he took up his hat, and went out upon the beach, that lay glistening +in the morning sun, then turned straight towards the tall spire of the +church, with had been their last night’s guide. Philip caught his cloak. + +‘You are never going there, Berenger?’ + +‘Vex me not now,’ was all the reply he got. ‘There the dead and living +meet together.’ + +‘But, brother, they will take you for one of their own sort.’ + +‘Let them.’ + +Philip was right that it was neither a prudent nor consistent +proceeding, but Berenger had little power of reflection, and his impulse +at present bore him into the church belonging to his native faith and +land, without any defined felling, save that it was peace to kneel +there among the scattered worshippers, who came and went with their +fish-baskets in their hands, and to hear the low chant of the priest and +his assistant from within the screen. + +Philip meantime marched up and down outside in much annoyance, until the +priest and his brother came out, when the first thing he heard the good +Colombeau say was, ‘I would have called upon you before, my son, but +that I feared you were a Huguenot.’ + +‘I am an English Protestant,’ said Berenger; ‘but, ah! sir, I needed +comfort too much to stay away from prayer.’ + +Pere Colombeau looked at him in perplexity, thinking perhaps that here +might be a promising convert, if there were only time to work on him; +but Berenger quitted the subject at once, asking the distance to Lucon. + +‘A full day’s journey,’ answered Pere Colombeau, and added, ‘I am sorry +you are indeed a Huguenot. It was what I feared last night, but I feared +to add to your grief. The nuns are not permitted to deliver up children +to Huguenot relations.’ + +‘I am her father!’ exclaimed Berenger, indignantly. + +‘That goes for nothing, according to the rules of the Church,’ said the +priest. ‘The Church cannot yield her children to heresy.’ + +‘But we in England and not Calvinists,’ cried Berenger. ‘We are not like +your Huguenots.’ + +‘The Church would make no difference,’ said the priest. ‘Stay, sir,’ +as Berenger stuck his own forehead, and was about to utter a fierce +invective. ‘Remember that if your child lives, it is owing to the pity +of the good nuns. You seem not far from the bosom of the Church. Did you +but return---’ + +‘It is vain to speak of that,’ said Berenger, quickly. ‘Say, sir, would +an order from the King avail to open these doors?’ + +‘Of course it would, if you have the influence to obtain one.’ + +‘I have, I have,’ cried Berenger, eagerly. ‘The King has been my good +friend already. Moreover, my English grandfather will deal with the +Queen. The heiress of our house cannot be left in a foreign nunnery. +Say, sir,’ he added, turning to the priest, ‘if I went to Lucon at once +know your name, and refuse all dealings with you.’ + +‘She could not do so, if I brought an order from the King.’ + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘Then to Paris!’ And laying his hand on Philip’s shoulder, he asked the +boy whether he had understood, ad explained that he must go at once to +Paris--riding post--and obtain the order from the King. + +‘To Paris--to be murdered again!’ said Philip, in dismay. + +‘They do not spend their time there in murder,’ said Berenger. ‘And now +is the time, while the savage villain Narcisse is with his master in +Poland. I cannot but go, Philip; we both waste words. You shall take +home a letter to my Lord.’ + +‘I--I go not home without you,’ said Philip, doggedly. + +‘I cannot take you, Phil; I have no warrant.’ + +‘I have warrant for going, though. My father said he was easier about +you with me at your side. Where you go, I go.’ + +The brothers understood each other’s ways so well, that Berenger knew +the intonation in Philip’s voice that meant that nothing should make him +give way. He persuaded no more, only took measures for the journey, in +which the kind priest gave him friendly advice. There was no doubt that +the good man pitied him sincerely, and wished him success more than +perhaps he strictly ought to have done, unless as a possible convert. +Of money for the journey there was no lack, for Berenger had brought a +considerable sum, intending to reward all who had befriended Eustacie, +as well as to fit her out for the voyage; and this, perhaps, with +his papers, he had brought ashore to facilitate his entrance into La +Sablerie,--that entrance which, alas! he had found only too easy. He had +therefore only to obtain horses and a guide, and this could be done +at la Motte-Achard, where the party could easily be guided on foot, +or conveyed in a boat if the fog should not set in again, but all the +coast-line of Nissard was dangerous in autumn and winter; nay, even this +very August an old man, with his daughter, her infant, and a donkey, had +been found bewildered between the creeks on a sandbank, where they stood +still and patient, like a picture of the Flight into Egypt, when an old +fisherman found them, and brought them to the beneficent shelter of the +Presbytere. + +Stories of this kind were told at the meal that was something partaking +of the nature of both breakfast and early dinner, but where Berenger ate +little and spoke less. Philip watched him anxiously; the boy thought +the journey a perilous experiment every way, but, boyishly, was resolved +neither to own his fears of it nor to leave his brother. External perils +he was quite ready to face, and he fancied that his English birth would +give him some power of protecting Berenger, but he was more reasonably +in dread of the present shock bringing on such an illness as the last +relapse; and if Berenger lost his senses again, what should they do? He +even ventured to hint at this danger, but Berenger answered, ‘That will +scarce happen again. My head is stronger now. Besides, it was doing +nothing, and hearing her truth profaned, that crazed me. No one at least +will do that again. But if you wish to drive me frantic again, the way +would be to let Hobbs carry me home without seeking her child.’ + +Philip bore this in mind, when, with flood-tide, Master Hobbs landed, +and showed himself utterly dismayed at the turn affairs had taken. He +saw the needlessness of going to Lucon without royal authority; indeed, +he thought it possible that the very application there might give the +alarm, and cause all tokens of the child’s identity to be destroyed, +in order to save her from her heretic relations. But he did not at +all approve of the young gentlemen going off to Paris at once. It was +against his orders. He felt bound to take them home as he has brought +them, and they might then make a fresh start if it so pleased them; but +how could he return to my Lord and Sir Duke without them? ‘Mr. Ribaumont +might be right--it was not for him to say a father ought not to look +after his child--yet he was but a stripling himself, and my Lord had +said, ‘Master Hobbs, I trust him to you.’’ He would clearly have liked +to have called in a boat’s crew, mastered the young gentlemen, and +carried them on board as captives; but as this was out of his power, he +was obliged to yield the point. He disconsolately accepted the letters +in which Berenger had explained all, and in which he promised to go +at once to Sir Francis Walsingham’s at Paris, to run into no needless +danger, and to watch carefully over Philip; and craved pardon, in a +respectful but yet manly and determined tone, for placing his duty to +his lost, deserted child above his submission to his grandfather. Then +engaging to look out for a signal on the coast if he should said to +Bordeaux in January, to touch and take the passengers off, Captain Hobbs +took leave, and the brothers were left to their own resources. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. THE VELVET COACH + + + + No, my good Lord, Diana-- + ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + +A late autumn journey from the west coast to Paris was a more serious +undertaking in the sixteenth century than the good seaman Master Hobbs +was aware of, or he would have used stronger dissuasive measures against +such an undertaking by the two youths, when the elder was in so frail +a state of health; but there had been a certain deceptive strength +and vigour about young Ribaumont while under strong excitement and +determination, and the whole party fancied him far fitter to meet +the hardships than was really the case. Philip Thistlewood always +recollected that journey as the most distressing period of his life. + +They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore found the hiring +of horses often extremely difficult. They had intended to purchase, but +found no animals that, as Philip said, they would have accepted as a +gift, though at every wretched inn where they had to wait while the +country was scoured for the miserable jades, their proposed requirements +fell lower and lower. Dens of smoke, dirt, and boorishness were the +great proportion of those inns, where they were compelled to take refuge +by the breaking down of one or other of the beasts, or by stress of +weather. Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety rendering +the roads impassable; and at the best, the beasts could seldom be urged +beyond a walk, fetlock-deep in mire or water. Worse than all, Berenger, +far from recovered, and under the heavy oppression of a heartrending +grief, could hardly fail to lose the ground that he had gained under +the influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix itself on the wound on +his cheek, terrible pain and swelling set in, depriving him entirely +of sleep, permitting him to take no nourishment but fragments of +soft crumbs soaked in wine or broth--when the inns afforded any +such fare--and rendering speech excessively painful, and at last +unintelligible. + +Happily this was not until Philip and Humfrey both had picked up all +the most indispensable words to serve their needs, and storming could +be done in any language. Besides, they had fallen in at La Motte-Achard +with a sharp fellow named Guibert, who had been at sea, and knew a +little English, was a Norman by birth, knew who the Baron de Ribaumont +was, and was able to make himself generally useful, though ill supplying +the place of poor Osbert, who would have been invaluable in the present +predicament. Nothing was so much dreaded by any of the party as that +their chief should become utterly unable to proceed. Once let him be +laid up at one of these little _auberges_, and Philip felt as if all +would be over with him; and he himself was always the most restlessly +eager to push on, and seemed to suffer less even in the biting wind and +sleet than on the dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of the +inns. That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only comfort, +and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding him whenever his head +seemed aching or heated; and under this well-meant surgery it was no +wonder that he grew weaker every day, in spite of the most affectionate +and assiduous watching on his brother’s part. + +Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the cross-roads, or +rather in endless delays; and when at last they came on more frequented +ways, with better inns, well-paved _chaussees_, and horses more fit for +use, Berenger was almost beyond feeling the improvement. At their last +halt, even Philip was for waiting and sending on to Paris to inform Sir +Francis Walsingham of their situation; but Berenger only shook his +head, dressed himself, and imperatively signed to go on. It was a +bright morning, with a clear frost, and the towers and steeples of Paris +presently began to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; but +by this time Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently became +so faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift him +from his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little back +from the road. + +‘Look up, sir, it is but a league further,’ quoth Humfrey; ‘I can see +the roof of the big church they call Notre-Dame.’ + +‘He does not open his eyes, he is swooning,’ said Philip. ‘He must have +some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no lace where +we could get a drop of wine or strong waters?’ + +‘Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but ‘twas a +nunnery, as good as a grave against poor travelers. I would ride on, and +get some of Sir Francis’s folk to bring a litter or coach, but I +doubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young Lord’s +safe-conduct.’ + +Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but sank +back against Philip’s shoulder. Just then, a trampling and lumbering +became audible, and on the road behind appeared first three horsemen +riding abreast, streaming with black and white ribbons; then eight pair +of black horses, a man walking at the crested heads of each couple, and +behind these a coach, shaped like an urn reversed, and with a coronet +on the top, silvered, while the vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted, +alternately black, with silver figures, and white with black landscapes; +and with white draperies, embroidered with black and silver, floating +from the windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stood +behind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached the +group by the road-side, one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly, +‘Over near the walls from an affair of honour! Has he caught it badly? +Who was the other?’ + +Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, the coach +stopped, a lady’s head and hand appeared, and a female voice exclaimed, +in much alarm, ‘Halt! Ho, you there, in our colours, come here. What is +it? My brother here? Is he wounded?’ + +‘It is no wound, Madame,’ said Guibert, shoved forward by his English +comrades, ‘it is M. le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill, and--ah! here +is Monsieur Philippe.’ + +For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the most +beautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward, hat in +hand, as she exclaimed, ‘Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be true? What +means this? What ails him?’ + +‘It is his wound, Madame,’ said Philip, in his best French; ‘it +has broken out again, and he has almost dropped from his horse from +_defaillance_.’ + +‘Ah, bring him here--lay him on the cushions, we will have the honour of +transporting him,’ cried the lady; and, regardless of the wet road, she +sprang out of the coach, with her essences in her hand, followed by +at least three women, two pages, and two little white dogs which ran +barking towards the prostrate figure, but were caught up by their pages. +‘Ah, cousin, how dreadful,’ she cried, as she knelt down beside him, and +held her essences towards him. Voice and scent revived him, and with a +bewildered look and gesture half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed +round him, then rose to his feet without assistance, bent his head, and +making a sign that he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse. + +‘Cousin, cousin,’ exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes tears +were standing, ‘you will let me take you into the city--you cannot +refuse.’ + +‘Berry, indeed you cannot ride,’ entreated Philip; ‘you must take her +offer. Are you getting crazed at last?’ + +Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy; the +exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and bending +his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black and white +coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip’s arm, and said impressively, +‘Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine lady, sister to the +murderous villain that set upon him. If you would save his life, don’t +quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere than to our Ambassador’s. I’ll +not leave the coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I’ll +send Jack Smithers to make known we are coming.’ + +Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach, +where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a +corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon the +white velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with devices +and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns, +made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have disposed of +themselves in various nooks of the ample conveyance, and Philip, rather +at a loss to explain his intrusion, perched himself awkwardly on the +edge of the cushions in front of his brother, thinking that Humfrey +was an officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who +seemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger’s condition. ‘Ah! +I never guessed it had been so frightful as this. I should not have +known him. Ah! had I imagined---’ She leant back, covered her face, and +wept, as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward, +and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was at +once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast. + +‘Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?’ she asked, with sympathy +and tenderness that went to Philip’s heart, and he explained. ‘He cannot +speak, Madame; the shot in his cheek’ (the lady shuddered, and put +her handkerchief to her eyes) ‘from time to time cases this horrible +swelling and torture. After that he will be better.’ + +‘Frightful, frightful,’ she sighed, ‘but we will do our best to make up. +You, sir, must be his _trucheman_.’ + +Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man that +might be, made answer, ‘I am his brother, Madame.’ + +‘_Eh! Monsieur son frere_. Had _Madame sa mere_ a son so old?’ + +‘I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband’s son, at your service, Madame,’ +said Philip, colouring up to the ears; ‘I came with him for he is too +weak to be alone.’ + +‘Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir,’ she said, with a not +unflattering surprise. ‘But whence are you come? I little looked to see +Monsieur here.’ + +‘We came from Anjou, Madame. We went to La Sablerie,’ and he broke off. + +‘I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the heart;’ and again +she wiped away tear. ‘And now---’ + +‘We are coming to the Ambassador’s to obtain’--he stopped, for +Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved his +embarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear cousin go to +the Ambassador’s when he was among his own kindred. Perhaps Monsieur did +not know her; she must present herself as Madame de Selinville, _nee_ de +Ribaumont, a poor cousin of _ce cher Baron_, ‘and even a little to you, +_M. le frere_, if you will own me,’ and she held out a hand, which he +ought to have kissed, but not knowing how, he only shook it. She further +explained that her brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King of +Poland, but that her father lived with her at her hotel, and would be +enchanted to see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be +desolated at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She had +been returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she had +been praying for the soul of the late M. de Selinville, when a true +Providence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now, +nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried at +once to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the Ambassador, +and where every comfort should await him. She clasped her hands in +earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her kindness and +perceiving that every jolt of the splendid by springless vehicle caused +Berenger’s head a shoot of anguish, was almost acceding to her offer, +when he was checked by one of the most imperative of those silent +negatives. Hitherto, Master Thistlewood had been rather proud of his bad +French, and as long as he could be understood, considered trampling on +genders, tenses, and moods as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he +would just now have given a great deal for the command of any language +but a horseboy’s, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. ‘_Merci, +Madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passe notre parole d’aller droit +a l’Ambassadeur’s et pas ou else_,’ did not sound very right to his +ears; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew that if Berry +had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would have smiled now. But +this most charming and polite of ladies never betrayed it, if it were +ever such bad French; she only bowed her head, and said something very +pretty--if only he could make it out--of being the slave of one’s word, +and went on persuading. Nor did it make the conversation easier, that +she inquired after Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he were +unconscious, while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, that +he was aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as +possible should be said, and determined against being taken to her +hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that had it +not been for Humfrey’s words, he would have doubted whether, in spite of +all his bleeding, his brother’s brain were not wandering. + +However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn to +the Ambassador’s hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a hearty +greeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the time the +carriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the steps, +including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more than +a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become uneasy at the +non-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers’s appearance, all had +been made ready; and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy movements, made +courteous gestures of thanks to the lady, and alighted form the coach, +he was absolutely received into the dignified arms of the Ambassador. +‘Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad to see you here again, though in such +different guise. Your chamber is ready for you, and I have sent my +secretary to see if Maitre Par be at home, so we will, with God’s help, +have you better at ease anon.’ + +Even Philip’s fascination by Madame de Selinville could not hold out +against the comfort of hearing English voices all round him, and of +seeing his brother’s anxious brow expand, and his hand and eyes return +no constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on both sides; the +Ambassador thanked the lady for the assistance she had rendered to his +young friend and guest; she answered with a shade of stiffness, that she +left her kinsman in good hands, and said she should send to inquire +that evening, and her father would call on the morrow; then, as Lady +Walsingham did not ask her in, the black and white coach drove away. + +The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and spoke +no word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and turned at +length into another great courtyard, surrounded with buildings, where +she alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty hall, where ranks +of servants stoop up and bowed as she passed; then she ascended a +wide carved staircase, opened a small private door, and entered a tiny +wainscoted room hardly large enough for her farthingale to turn round +in. ‘You, Veronique, come in--only you,’ she said, at the door; and a +waiting-woman, who had been in the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad in +the Angevin costume, but in the richer and less characteristic dress of +the ordinary Parisian _femme de chambre_. + +‘Undo my mantle in haste!’ gasped Madame de Selinville. ‘O +Veronique--you saw--what destruction!’ + +‘Ah! if my sweet young lady only known how frightful he had become, she +had never sacrificed herself,’ sighed Veronique. + +‘Frightful! What, with the grave blue eyes that seem like the steady +avenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the picture at the +Louvre?’ murmured Madame de Selinville; then she added quickly, ‘Yes, +yes, it is well. She and you, Veronique, may see him frightful and +welcome. There are other eyes--make haste, girl. There--another +handerchief. Follow me not.’ + +And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great state +bedroom and the _salle_ beyond, to another chamber where more servants +waited and rose at her entrance. + +‘Is any one with my father?’ + +‘No, Madame;’ and a page knocking, opened the door and announced, +‘Madame la Comtesse.’ + +The Chevalier, in easy _deshabille_, with a flask of good wine, iced +water, and delicate cakes and _confitures_ before him, a witty and +licentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily enjoying +the luxuries that it had been his daughter’s satisfaction to procure for +him ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet her with a grace +and deference that showed how different a person was the Comtesse de +Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont. + +‘Ah! _ma belle_, my sweet,’ as there was a mutual kissing of hands, +‘thou art returned. Had I known thine hour, I had gone down for thy +first embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child; the convent has made +thee lovelier than ever.’ + +‘Father, who think you is here? It is he--the Baron.’ + +‘The Baron? Eh, father!’ she cried impetuously. ‘Who could it be but +one?’ + +‘My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head can never be thrusting +himself here again.’ + +‘But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my coach! I left him at +the Ambassador’s.’ + +‘Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will be ten thousand fresh +imbroglios.’ + +‘I could not; he is as immovable as ever, though unable to speak! Oh, +father, he is very ill, he suffers terribly. Oh, Narcisse! Ah! may I +never see him again!’ + +‘But what brings him blundering her again?’ exclaimed the Chevalier. +‘Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded against that! He +knows nothing of the survivance.’ + +‘I cannot tell much. He could not open his mouth, and his half-brother, +a big dull English boy, stammered out a few words of shocking French +against his will. But I believe they had heard of _la pauvre petite_ at +La Sablerie, came over for her, and finding the ruin my brother makes +wherever he goes, are returning seeking intelligence and succour for +HIM.’ + +‘That may be,’ said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. ‘It is well thy brother +is in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we may get him +back to England ere my son learns that he is here.’ + +‘Father, there is a better way! Give him my hand.’ + +‘_Eh quoi_, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are a thousand +better marriages.’ + +‘No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all--all +that I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever all his +claims to the ancestral castle--to La Leurre, and above all, that claim +to Nid de Merle as Eustacie’s widower, which, should he ever discover +the original contract, will lead to endless warfare.’ + +‘His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet--yet there might be +doubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formally +renewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child, it is +a horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no warning, and +the poor things had made off together. We could have cried shame till we +forced out a provision for thy brother; and my poor little Eustacie---’ +He had tears in his eyes as he broke off. + +Diane made an impatient gesture. ‘She would have died of tedium in +England, or broken forth so as to have a true scandal. That is all over, +father, now; weigh my proposal! Nothing else will save my brother from +all that his cruel hand merits! You will win infinite credit at court. +The King loved him more than you thought safe.’ + +‘The King has not a year to live, child, and he has personally offended +the King of Poland. Besides, this youth is heretic.’ + +‘Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he had by an +abjuration. And as to Monsieur’s enmity, if it be not forgotten, the +glory of bringing about a conversion would end that at once.’ + +‘Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury himself among the +English.’ + +‘It was unavoidable, father, and perhaps if he were here he would live +in an untamable state of distrust, whereas we may now win him gradually. +You will go and see him to-morrow, my dear father.’ + +‘I must have time to think of this thy sudden device.’ + +‘Nay, he is in no condition to hear of it at present. I did but speak +now, that you might not regard it as sudden when the fit moment comes. +It is the fixed purpose of my mind. I am no girl now, and I could act +for myself if I would; but as it is for your interest and that of my +brother thus to dispose of me, it is better that you should act for me.’ + +‘Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal,’ said the +Chevalier, looking up at his daughter’s handsome head drawn up proudly +with determination. + +‘Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me.’ And Diane sailed away in +her sweeping folds of black brocade. + +In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands locked together before +a much-gilded little waxem figure of St. Eustacie with his cross-bearing +stag by his side, which stood in a curtained recess in the alcove where +her stately bed was placed. + +‘Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles everyday to your shrine at +Bellaise, so he recovers; ten more if he listen favourably and loves me. +Nay, all--all the Selinville jewels to make you a shrine. All--all, so +he will only let me love him;’ and then, while taking up the beads, and +pronouncing the repeated devotions attached to each, her mind darted +back to the day when, as young children, she had played unfairly, +defrauded Landry Osbert, and denied it; how Berenger, though himself +uninjured, had refused to speak to her all that day--how she had hated +him then--how she had thought she had hated him throughout their brief +intercourse in the previous year; how she had played into her brother’s +hands; and when she thought to triumph over the man who had scorned her, +found her soul all blank desolation, and light gone out from the earth! +Reckless and weary, she had let herself be united to M. de Selinville, +and in her bridal honours and amusements had tried to crowd out the +sense of dreariness and lose herself in excitement. Then came the +illness and death of her husband, and almost at the same time the +knowledge of Berenger’s existence. She sought excitement again that +feverish form of devotion then in vogue at Paris, and which resulted in +the League. She had hitherto stunned herself as it were with penances, +processions, and sermons, for which the host of religious orders then +at Paris had given ample scope; and she was constantly devising new +extravagances. Even at this moment she wore sackcloth beneath her +brocade, and her rosary was of death’s heads. She was living on the +outward husk of the Roman Church not penetrating into its living power, +and the phase of religion which fostered Henry III. and the League +offered her no more. + +All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast glance of those +two eyes, the only feature still unchanged in the marred, wrecked +countenance. That honest, quiet refusal, that look which came from a +higher atmosphere, had filled her heart with passionate beatings and +aspirations once more, and more consciously than ever. Womanly feeling +for suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to him, and earn his +love, nay wrest it from him by the benefits she would heap upon him, +were all at work; but the primary sense was the longing to rest on the +only perfect truth she had ever known in man, and thus with passionate +ardour she poured forth her entreaties to St. Eustache, a married saint, +who had known love, and could feel for her, and could surely not object +to the affection to which she completely gave way for one whose hand was +now as free as her own. + +But St. Eustache was not Diane’s only hope. That evening she sent +Veronique to Rene of Milan, the court-perfumer, but also called by the +malicious, _l’empoisonneur de le Reine_, to obtain from him the most +infallible charm and love potion in his whole repertory. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. THE CHEVALIER’S EXPIATION + + + + Next, Sirs, did he marry? +And whom, Sirs, did he marry? One like himself, Though doubtless graced +with many virtues, young, And erring, and in nothing more astray Than in +this marriage.--TAYLOR, EDWIN THE FAIR. + + +Nothing could be kinder than the Ambassador’s family, and Philip found +himself at once at home there, at least in his brother’s room, which +was all the world to him. fortunately, Ambroise Pare, the most skillful +surgeon of his day, had stolen a day from his attendance of King +Charles, at St. Germain, to visit his Paris patients, and, though +unwilling to add to the list of cases, when he heard from Walsingham’s +secretary who the suffer was, and when injured, he came at once to +afford his aid. + +He found, however, that there was little scope for present treatment, +he could only set his chief assistant to watch the patient and to inform +him when the crisis should be nearer; but remarking the uneasy, anxious +expression in Berenger’s eyes, he desired to know whether any care +on his mind might be interfering with his recovery. A Huguenot, and +perfectly trustworthy, he was one who Walsingham knew might safely hear +the whole, and after hearing all, he at once returned to his patient, +and leaning over him, said, ‘Vex not yourself, sir; your illness is +probably serving you better than health could do.’ + +Sir Francis thought this quite probable, since Charles was so unwell +and so beset with his mother’s creatures that no open audience could +be obtained from him, and Pare, who always had access to him, might act +when no one else could reach him. Meantime the Ambassador rejoiced to +hear of the instinctive caution that had made Berenger silence Philip on +the object of the journey to Paris, since if the hostile family guessed +at the residence of the poor infant, they would have full opportunity +for obliterating all the scanty traces of her. Poor persecuted little +thing! the uncertain hope of her existence seemed really the only thread +that still bound Berenger to life. He had spent eighteen months in +hope deferred, and constant bodily pain; and when the frightful +disappointment met him at La Sablerie, it was not wonder that his heart +and hope seemed buried in the black scorched ruins where all he cared +for had perished. He was scarcely nineteen, but the life before him +seemed full of nothing but one ghastly recollection, and, as he said in +the short sad little letter which he wrote to his grandfather from his +bed, he only desired to live long enough to save Eustacie’s child from +being a nameless orphan maintained for charity in a convent, and to see +her safe in Aunt Cecily’s care; and then he should be content to have +done with this world for ever. + +The thought that no one except himself could save the child, seemed to +give him the resolution to battle for life that often bears the +patient through illness, though now he as suffering more severely and +consciously than ever he had done before; and Lady Walsingham often gave +up hopes of him. He was tenderly cared for by her and her women; but +Philip was the most constant nurse, and his unfailing assiduity and +readiness amazed the household, who had begun by thinking him ungainly, +loutish, and fit for nothing but country sports. + +The Chevalier de Ribaumont came daily to inquire; and the first time +he was admitted actually burst into tears at the sight of the swollen +disfigured face, and the long mark on the arm which lay half-uncovered. +Presents of delicacies, ointments, and cooling drinks were frequently +sent from him and from the Countess de Selinville; but Lady Walsingham +distrusted these, and kept her guest strictly to the regimen appointed +by Pare. Now and then, billets would likewise come. The first brought a +vivid crimson into Berenger’s face, and both it and all its successors +he instantly tore into the smallest fragments, without letting any one +see them. + +On the day of the Carnival, the young men of the household had asked +Master Thistlewood to come out with them and see the procession of the +_Boeuf Gras_; but before it could take place, reports were flying about +that put the city in commotion, caused the Ambassador to forbid all +going out, and made Philip expect another Huguenot massacre. The Duke +of Alencon and the King of Navarre had been detected, it was said, in a +conspiracy for overthrowing the power of the Queen-mother, bringing in +the Huguenots, and securing the crown to Alencon on the King’s death. +Down-stairs, the Ambassador and his secretaries sat anxiously striving +to sift the various contradictory reports; up-stairs, Philip and +Lady Walsingham were anxiously watching Berenger in what seemed the +long-expected crisis, and Philip was feeling as if all the French court +were welcome to murder one another so that they would only let Ambroise +Pare come to his brother’s relief. And it was impossible even to send! + +At last, however, when Ash-Wednesday was half over, there was a quiet +movement, and a small pale man in black was at the bedside, without +Philip’s having ever seen his entrance. He looked at his exhausted +patient, and said, ‘It is well; I could not have done you any good +before.’ + +And when he had set Berenger more at ease, he told how great had been +the confusion at St. Germain when the plot had become known to the +Queen-mother. The poor King had been wakened at two o’clock in the +morning, and carried to his litter, when Pare and his old nurse had +tended him. He only said, ‘Can they not let me die in peace?’ and his +weakness had been so great on arriving, that the surgeon could hardly +have left him for M. de Ribaumont, save by his own desire. ‘Yes, sir,’ +added Pare, seeing Berenger attending to him, ‘we must have you well +quickly; his Majesty knows all about you, and is anxious to see you.’ + +In spite of these good wishes, the recovery was very slow; for, as the +surgeon had suspected, the want of skill in those who had had the charge +of Berenger at the first had been the cause of much of his protracted +suffering. Pare, the inventor of trephining, was, perhaps, the only +man in Europe who could have dealt with the fracture in the back of +the head, and he likewise extracted the remaining splinters of the jaw, +though at the cost of much severe handling and almost intolerable pain: +but by Easter, Berenger found the good surgeon’s encouragement verified, +and himself on the way to a far more effectual cure than he had hitherto +thought possible. Sleep had come back to him, he experienced the luxury +of being free from all pain, he could eat without difficulty; and Pare, +always an enemy to wine, assured him that half the severe headaches +for which he had been almost bled to death, were the consequence of +his living on bread soaked in sack instead of solid food; and he was +forbidden henceforth to inflame his brain with anything stronger than +sherbet. His speech, too, was much improved; he still could not utter +all the consonants perfectly, and could not speak distinctly without +articulating very slowly, but all the discomfort and pain were gone; and +though still very weak, he told Philip that now all his course seemed +clear towards his child, instead of being like a dull, distraught dream. +His plan was to write to have a vessel sent from Weymouth, to lie off +the coast till his signal should be seen from la Motte-Achard, and then +to take in the whole party and the little yearling daughter, whom +he declared he should trust to no one but himself. Lady Walsingham +remonstrated a little at the wonderful plans hatched by the two lads +together, and yet she was too glad to see a beginning of brightening +on his face to make many objections. It was only too sand to think how +likely he was again to be disappointed. + +He was dressed, but had not left his room, and was lying on cushions +in the ample window overlooking the garden, while Frances and Elizabeth +Walsingham in charge of their mother tried to amuse him by their +childish airs and sports, when a message was brought that M. le +Chevalier de Ribaumont prayed to be admitted to see him privily. + +‘What bodes that?’ he languidly said. + +‘Mischief, no doubt,’ said Philip Walsingham. ‘Send him word that you +are seriously employed.’ + +‘Nay, that could scarce be, when he must have heard the children’s +voices,’ said Lady Walsingham. ‘Come away, little ones.’ + +The ladies took the hint and vanished, but Philip remained till the +Chevalier had entered, more resplendent than ever, in a brown velvet +suit slashed with green satin, and sparkling with gold lace-a contrast +to the deep mourning habit in which Berenger was dressed. After +inquiries for his health, the Chevalier looked at Philip, and expressed +his desire of speaking with his cousin alone. + +‘If it be of business,’ said Berenger, much on his guard, ‘my head is +still weak, and I would wish to have the presence of the Ambassador or +one of his secretaries.’ + +‘This is not so much a matte of business as of family,’ said the +Chevalier, still looking so uneasily at Philip that Berenger felt +constrained to advise him to join the young ladies in the garden; but +instead of doing this, the boy paced the corridors like a restless +dog waiting for his master, and no sooner heard the old gentleman +bow himself out than he hurried back again, to find Berenger heated, +panting, agitated as by a sharp encounter. + +‘Brother, what is it--what has the old rogue done to you?’ + +‘Nothing,’ said Berenger, tardily and wearily; and for some minutes he +did not attempt to speak, while Philip devoured his curiosity as best he +might. At last he said, ‘He was always beyond me. What think you? Now he +wants me to turn French courtier and marry his daughter.’ + +‘His daughter!’ exclaimed Philip, ‘that beautiful lady I saw in the +coach?’ + +A nod of assent. + +‘I only wish it were I.’ + +‘Philip,’ half angrily, ‘how can you be such a fool?’ + +‘Of course, I know it can’t be,’ said Philip sheepishly, but a little +offended. ‘But she’s the fairest woman my eyes ever beheld.’ + +‘And the falsest.’ + +‘My father says all women are false; only they can’t help it, and don’t +mean it.’ + +‘Only some do mean it,’ said Berenger, dryly. + +‘Brother!’ cried Philip, fiercely, as if ready to break a lance, ‘what +right have you to accuse that kindly, lovely dame of falsehood?’ + +‘It skills not going through all,’ said Berenger, wearily. ‘I know her +of old. She began by passing herself off on me as my wife.’ + +‘And you were not transported?’ + +‘I am not such a gull as you.’ + +‘How very beautiful your wife must have been!’ said Philip, with gruff +amazement overpowering his consideration. + +‘Much you know about it,’ returned Berenger, turning his face away. + +There was a long silence, first broken by Philip, asking more +cautiously, ‘And what did you say to him?’ + +‘I said whatever could show it was most impossible. Even I said the +brother’s handwriting was too plain on my face for me to offer myself +to the sister. But it seems all that is to be passed over as an unlucky +mistake. I wish I could guess what the old fellow is aiming at.’ + +‘I am sure the lady looked at you as if she loved you.’ + +‘Simpleton! She looked to see how she could beguile me. Love! They do +nothing for love here, you foolish boy, save _par amour_. If she loved +me, her father was the last person she would have sent me. No, no; +‘tis a new stratagem, if I could only seen my way into it. Perhaps Sir +Francis will when he can spend an hour on me.’ + +Though full of occupation, Sir Francis never failed daily to look +in upon his convalescent guest, and when he heard of the Chevalier’s +interview, he took care that Berenger should have full time to consult +him; and, of course, he inquired a good deal more into the particulars +of the proposal than Philip had done. When he learnt that the Chevalier +had offered all the very considerable riches and lands that Diane +enjoyed in right of her late husband as an equivalent for Berenger’s +resignation of all claims upon the Nid-de-Merle property, he noted it +on his tables, and desired to know what these claims might be. ‘I cannot +tell,’ said Berenger. ‘You may remember, sir, the parchments with our +contract of marriage had been taken away from Chateau Leurre, and I have +never seen them.’ + +‘Then,’ said the Ambassador, ‘you may hold it as certain that those +parchments give you some advantage which he hears, since he is willing +to purchase it at so heavy a price. Otherwise he himself would be the +natural heir of those lands.’ + +‘After my child,’ said Berenger, hastily. + +‘Were you on your guard against mentioning your trust in your child’s +life?’ said Sir Francis. + +The long scar turned deeper purple than ever. ‘Only so far as that I +said there still be rights I had no power to resign,’ said Berenger. +‘And then he began to prove to me---what I had no mind to hear’ (and his +voice trembled) ‘---all that I know but too well.’ + +‘Hum! you must not be left alone again to cope with him,’ said +Walsingham. ‘Did he make any question of the validity of your marriage?’ + +‘No, sir, it was never touched on. I would not let him take her name +into his lips.’ + +Walsingham considered for some minutes, and then said, ‘It is clear, +then, that he believes that the marriage can be sufficiently established +to enable you to disturb him in his possession of some part, at least, +of the Angevin inheritance, or he would not endeavour to purchase your +renunciation of it by the hand of a daughter so richly endowed.’ + +‘I would willingly renounce it if that were all! I never sought it; only +I cannot give up her child’s rights.’ + +‘And that you almost declared,’ proceeded Walsingham; ‘so that the +Chevalier has by his negotiation gathered from you that you have not +given up hope that the infant lives. Do your men know where you believe +she is?’ + +‘My Englishmen know it, of course,’ said Berenger; ‘but there is no fear +of them. The Chevalier speaks no English, and they scarcely any French; +and, besides, I believe they deem him equally my butcher with his son. +The other fellow I only picked up after I was on my way to Paris, and I +doubt his knowing my purpose.’ + +‘The Chevalier must have had speech with him, though,’ said Philip; ‘for +it was he who brought word that the old rogue wished to speak with you.’ + +‘It would be well to be quit yourself of the fellow ere leaving Paris,’ +said Walsingham. + +‘Then, sir,’ said Berenger, with an anxious voice, ‘do you indeed think +I have betrayed aught that can peril the poor little one?’ + +Sir Francis smiled. ‘We do not set lads of your age to cope with old +foxes,’ he answered; ‘and it seems to me that you used far discretion +in the encounter. The mere belief that the child lives does not show him +where she may be. In effect, it would seem likely to most that the +babe would be nursed in some cottage, and thus not be in the city of La +Sablerie at all. He might, mayhap, thus be put on a false scent.’ + +‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Berenger, startled; ‘that might bring the death of +some other person’s child on my soul.’ + +‘That shall be guarded against,’ said Sir Francis. ‘In the meantime, +my fair youth, keep your matters as silent as may be---do not admit +the Chevalier again in my absence; and, as to this man Guibert, I will +confer with my steward whether he knows too much, and whether it be +safer to keep of dismiss him!’ + +‘If only I could see the King, and leave Paris,’ sighed Berenger. + +And Walsingham, though unwilling to grieve the poor youth further, +bethought himself that this was the most difficult and hopeless matter +of all. As young Ribaumont grew better, the King grew worse; he himself +only saw Charles on rare occasions, surrounded by a host of watchful +eyes and ears, and every time he marked the progress of disease; and +though such a hint could be given by an Ambassador, he thought that by +far the best chance of recovery of the child lay in the confusion that +might probably follow the death of Charles IX. in the absence of his +next heir. + +Berenger reckoned on the influence of Elisabeth of Austria, who had been +the real worker in his union with Eutacie; but he was told that it was +vain to expect assistance from her. In the first year of her marriage, +she had fondly hoped to enjoy her husband’s confidence, and take her +natural place in his court; but she was of no mould to struggle with +Catherine de Medicis, and after a time had totally desisted. Even at the +time of the St. Bartholomew, she had endeavoured to uplift her voice +on the side of mercy, and had actually saved the lives of the King of +Navarre and Prince of Conde; and her father, the good Maximilian II., +had written in the strongest terms to Charles IX. expressing his horror +of the massacre. Six weeks later, the first hour after the birth of her +first and only child, she had interceded with her husband for the lives +of two Huguenots who had been taken alive, and failing then either +through his want of will or want of power, she had collapsed and yielded +up the endeavour. She ceased to listen to petitions from those who had +hoped for her assistance, as if to save both them and herself useless +pain, and seemed to lapse into a sort of apathy to all public interests. +She hardly spoke, mechanically fulfilled her few offices in the court, +and seemed to have turned her entire hope and trust into prayer for her +husband. Her German confessor had been sent home, and a Jesuit given her +in his stead, but she had made no resistance; she seemed to the outer +world a dull, weary stranger, obstinate in leading a conventual life; +but those who knew her best--and of these few was the Huguenot surgeon +Pare--knew that her heart had been broken two guilty lives, or to make +her husband free himself from his bondage to bloody counsels. To pray +for him was all that remained to her--and unwearied had been +those prayers. Since his health had declined, she had been equally +indefatigable in attending on him, and did not seem to have a single +interest beyond his sick chamber. + +As to the King of Navarre, for whose help Berenger had hoped, he had +been all these months in the dishonouable thraldom of Catherine de +Medicis, and was more powerless than ever at this juncture, having been +implicated in Alencon’s plot, and imprisoned at Vincennes. + +And thus, the more Berenger heard of the state of things, the less +hopeful did his cause appear, till he could almost have believed his +best chance lay in Philip’s plan of persuading the Huguenots to storm +the convent. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. THE DYING KING + + + + Die in terror of thy guiltiness, + Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death, Fainting, despair, + despairing yield thy breath + KING RICHARD III. + + +A few days later, when Berenger had sent out Philip, under the keeping +of the secretaries, to see the Queen-mother represent Royalty in one +of the grand processions of Rogation-tide, the gentle knock came to his +door that always announced the arrival of his good surgeon. + +‘You look stronger, M. le Baron; have you yet left your room?’ + +‘I have walked round the gallery above the hall,’ said Berenger. ‘I have +not gone down-stairs; that is for to-morrow.’ + +‘What would M. le Baron say if his chirurgeon took him not merely +down-stairs, but up on flight at the Louvre?’ + +‘Ha!’ cried Berenger; ‘to the King?’ + +‘It is well-nigh the last chance, Monsieur; the Queen-mother and all her +suite are occupied with services and sermons this week; and next week +private access to the King will be far more difficult. I have waited as +long as I could that you might gain strength to support the fatigue.’ + +‘Hope cancels fatigue,’ said Berenger, already at the other end of the +room searching for his long-disused cloak, sword, gloves, hat, and mask. + +‘Not the sword,’ said Pare, ‘so please you. M. le Baron must condescend +to obtain entrance as my assistant--the plain black doublet--yes, that +is admirable; but I did not know that Monsieur was so tall,’ he added, +in some consternation, as, for the first time, he saw his patient +standing up at his full height--unusual even in England, and more so +in France. Indeed, Berenger had grown during his year of illness, and +being, of course, extremely thin, looked all the taller, so as to be a +very inconvenient subject to smuggle into to palace unobserved. + +However, Ambroise had made up his mind to the risk, and merely assisted +Berenger in assuming his few equipments, then gave him his arm to go +down the stairs. Meeting Guibert on the way, Berenger left word with him +that he was going out to take the air with Maitre Pare; and on the man’s +offering to attend him, refused the proposal. + +Pare carriage waited in the court, and Berenger, seated in its depths, +rolled unseen through the streets, till he found himself at the little +postern of the Louvre, the very door whence he was to have led off his +poor Eustacie. Here Ambroise made him take off his small black mask, in +spite of all danger of his scars being remarked, since masks were not +etiquette in the palace, and, putting into his arms a small brass-bound +case of instruments, asked his pardon for preceding him, and alighted +from the carriage. + +This was Ambroise’s usual entrance, and it was merely guarded by a +Scottish archer, who probably observed nothing. They then mounted the +stone stair, the same where Osbert had dragged down his insensible +master; and as, at the summit, the window appeared where Berenger had +waited those weary hours, and heard the first notes of the bell of +St.-Germain-l’Auxerrois, his breath came in such hurried sobs, that Pare +would fain have given him time to recover himself, but he gasped, ‘Not +here--not here;’ and Pare, seeing that he could still move on, turned, +not to the corridor leading to the King’s old apartments, now too full +of dreadful associations for poor Charles, but towards those of the +young Queen. Avoiding the ante-room, where no doubt waited pages, users, +and attendants, Pare presently knocked at a small door, so hidden in the +wain-scoting of the passage that only a _habitue_ could have found it +without strict search. It was at once opened, and the withered, motherly +face of an old woman, with keen black eyes under a formal tight white +cap, looked out. + +‘Eh! Maitre Pare,’ she said, ‘you have brought the poor young gentleman? +On my faith, he looks scarcely able to walk! Come in, sir, and rest a +while in my chamber while Maitre Ambroise goes on to announce you to the +King. He is more at ease to-day, the poor child, and will relish some +fresh talk. + +Berenger knew this to be Philippe, the old Huguenot nurse, whom Charles +IX. loved most fondly, and in whom he found his greatest comfort. He was +very glad to sink into the seat she placed for him, the only one is her +small, bare room and recover breath there while Pare passed on to the +King, and she talked as one delighted to have a hearer. + +‘Ah, yes, rest yourself--stay; I will give you a few spoonfuls of the +cordial potage I have here for the King; it will comfort your heart. Ah! +you have been cruelly mauled--but he would have saved you if he could. + +‘Yes, good mother, I know that; the King has been my very good lord. + +‘Ah! blessings on you if you say so from your heart, Monsieur; you know +me for one of your poor Reformed. And I tell you--I who saw him born, +who nursed him from his birth--that, suffer as you may, you can never +suffer as he does. Maitre Ambroise may talk of his illness coming from +blowing too much on his horn; I know better. But, ah! to be here at +night would make a stone shed tears of blood. The Queen and I know it; +but we say nothing, we only pray. + +The sight of a Huguenot was so great a treat to the old woman in her +isolated life, that her tongue ran thus freely while Berenger sat, +scarce daring to speak or breathe in the strange boding atmosphere of +the palace, where the nurse and surgeon moved as tolerated, privileged +persons, in virtue of the necessity of the one to the King--of the other +to all the world. After all brief interval Pare returned and beckoned +to Berenger, who followed him across a large state-bedroom to a much +smaller one, which he entered from under a heavy blue velvet curtain, +and found himself in an atmosphere heavy with warmth and perfume, and +strangely oppressed besides. On one side of the large fire sat the +young Queen, faded, wan, and with all animation or energy departed, only +gazing with a silent, wistful intentness at her husband. He was opposite +to her in a pillowed chair, his feet on a stool, with a deadly white, +padded, puffy cheek, and his great black eyes, always prominent, now +with a glassy look, and strained wide, as though always gazing after +some horrible sight. ‘Madame la Comtesse stood in her old, wooden, +automaton fashion behind the Queen; otherwise, no one was present save +Pare, who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. de Ribaumont +advance. He stood still, however, merely bowing low, awaiting an +invitation to come forward, and trying to repress the startled tear +called up by the very shock of pity at the mournful aspect of the young +King and Queen. + +Elisabeth, absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to all besides, +did not even turn her head as he entered; but Charles signed to him +to approach, holding out a yellow, dropsical-looking hand; and as he +dropped on one knew and kissed it fervently, the King said, ‘Here he is, +Madame, the Baron de Ribaumont, the same whose little pleasure-boat was +sucked down in our whirlpool. + +All Elisabeth’s memories seemed to have been blotted out in that +whirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, and gave no look of +recognition, though she, too, allowed Berenger to salute her listless, +dejected hand. ‘One would hardly have known him again, continued the +King, in a low husky voice; ‘but I hope, sir, I see you recovering. + +‘Thanks, Sire, to Heaven’s goodness, and to your goodness in sparing to +me the services of Maitre Pare. + +‘Ah! there is none like Pare for curing a wound OUTSIDE,’ said Charles, +then leant back silent; and Berenger, still kneeling, was considering +whether he ought to proffer his petition, when the King continued, ‘How +fares your friend Sidney, M. le Baron? + +‘Right well, Sire. The Queen has made him one of her gentlemen. + +‘Not after this fashion,’ said Charles, as with his finger he traced +the long scar on Berenger’s face. ‘Our sister of England has different +badges of merit from ours for her good subjects. Ha! what say they of us +in England, Baron? + +‘I have lain sick at home, Sire, and have neither seen nor heard, said +Berenger. + +‘Ah! one day more at Montpipeau had served your turn,’ said the King; +‘but you are one who has floated up again. One--one at least whose blood +is not on my head. + +The Queen looked up uneasy and imploring, as Charles continued: ‘Would +that more of you would come in this way! They have scored you deep, but +know you what is gashed deeper still? Your King’s heart! Ah! you will +not come, as Coligny does, from his gibbet, with his two bleeding hands. +My father was haunted to his dying day by the face of one Huguenot +tailor. Why, I see a score, night by night! You are solid; let me feel +you, man. + +‘M. Pare,’ exclaimed the poor Queen, ‘take him away. + +‘No, Madame,’ said the King, holding tight in his hot grasp Berenger’s +hand, which was as pale as his own, long, thin, and wasted, but cold +from strong emotion; ‘take not away the only welcome sight I have seen +for well-nigh two years.’ He coughed, and the handkerchief he put to his +lips had blood on it; but he did not quit his hold of his visitor, and +presently said in a feeble whisper, ‘Tell me, how did you escape? + +Pare, over the King’s head, signed to him to make his narrative take +time; and indeed his speech was of necessity so slow, that by the time +he had related how Osbert had brought him safely to England, the King +had recovered himself so as to say, ‘See what it is to have a faithful +servant. Which of those they have left me would do as much for me? And +now, being once away with your life, what brings you back to this realm +of ours, after your last welcome? + +‘I left my wife here, Sire. + +‘Ha! and the cousin would have married her--obtained permission to call +himself Nid de Merle--but she slipped through his clumsy fingers; did +she not? Did you know anything of her, Madame? + +‘No,’ said the Queen, looking up. ‘She wrote to me once from her +convent; but I knew I could do nothing for her but bring her enemies’ +notice on her; so I made no answer. + +Berenger could hardly conceal his start of indignation--less at the +absolute omission, than at the weary indifference of the Queen’s +confession. Perhaps the King saw it, for he added, ‘So it is, Ribaumont; +the kindest service we can do our friends is to let them alone; and, +after all, it was not the worse for her. She did evade her enemies? + +‘Yes, Sire,’ said Berenger, commanding and steadying his voice with +great difficulty, ‘she escaped in time to give birth to our child in +the ruined loft of an old grange of the Templars, under the care of a +Huguenot farmer, and a pastor who had known my father. Then she took +refuge in La Sablerie, and wrote to my mother, deeming me dead. I was +just well enough to go in quest of her. I came--ah! Sire, I found only +charred ruins. Your Majesty knows how Huguenot bourgs are dealt with. + +‘And she---? + +Berenger answered but by a look. + +‘Why did you come to tell me this?’ said the King, passionately. ‘Do you +not know that they have killed me already? I thought you came because +there was still some one I could aid. + +‘There is, there is, Sire,’ said Berenger, for once interrupting +royalty. ‘None save you can give me my child. It is almost certain that +a good priest saved it; but it is in a convent, and only with a royal +order can one of my religion either obtain it, or even have my questions +answered. + +‘Nor with one in Paris,’ said the King dryly; ‘but in the country the +good mothers may still honour their King’s hand. Here, Ambroise, take +pen and ink, and write the order. To whom? + +‘To the Mother Prioress of the Ursulines at Lucon, so please our +Majesty,’ said Berenger, ‘to let me have possession of my daughter. + +‘Eh! is it only a little girl? + +‘Yes, Sire; but my heart yearns for her all the more,’ said Berenger, +with glistening eyes. + +‘You are right,’ said the poor King. ‘Mine, too, is a little girl; and +I bless God daily that she is no son--to be the most wretched thing the +France. Let her come in, Madame. She is little older than my friend’s +daughter. I would show her to him. + +The Queen signed to Madame la Comtesse to fetch the child, and Berenger +added, ‘Sire, you could do a further benefit to my poor little one. One +more signature of yours would attest that ratification of my marriage +which took place in your Majesty’s presence. + +‘Ah! I remember,’ said Charles. ‘You may have any name of mine that can +help you to oust that villain Narcisse; only wait to use it--spare me +any more storms. It will serve your turn as well when I am beyond +they, and you will make your claim good. What,’ seeing Berenger’s +interrogative look, ‘do you not know that by the marriage-contract the +lands of each were settled on the survivor? + +‘No, Sire; I have never seen the marriage-contract. + +‘Your kinsman knew it well,’ said Charles. + +Just then, Madame la Comtesse returned, leading the little Princess by +the long ribbons at her waist; Charles bent forward, calling, ‘Here, _ma +petite_, come here. Here is one who loves thy father. Look well at him, +that thou mayest know him. + +The little Madame Elisabeth so far understood, that, with a certain +lofty condescension, she extended her hand for the stranger to kiss, and +thus drew from the King the first smile that Berenger had seen. She was +more than half a year older than the Berangere on whom his hopes were +set, and whom he trusted to find not such a pale, feeble, tottering +little creature as this poor young daughter of France, whose round black +eyes gazed wonderingly at his scar; but she was very precocious, and +even already too much of a royal lady to indulge in any awkward personal +observation. + +By the time she had been rewarded for her good behaviour by one of the +dried plums in her father’s comfit-box, the order had been written +by Pare, and Berenger had prepared the certificate for the King’s +signature, according to the form given him by his grandfather. + +‘Your writing shakes nearly as much as mine,’ said the poor King, as +he wrote his name to this latter. ‘Now, Madame, you had better sign it +also; and tell this gentleman where to find Father Meinhard in Austria. +He was a little too true for us, do you see--would not give thanks for +shedding innocent blood. Ah!’--and with a gasp of mournful longing, the +King sank back, while Elisabeth, at his bidding, added her name to the +certificate, and murmured the name of a convent in Vienna, where her +late confessor could be found. + +‘I cannot thank you Majesty enough,’ said Berenger; ‘My child’s rights +are now secure in England at least, and this’--as he held the other +paper for the King--‘will give her to me. + +‘Ah! take it for what it is worth,’ said the King, as he scrawled his +‘CHARLES’ upon it. ‘This order must be used promptly, or it will avail +you nothing. Write to Ambroise how you speed; that is, if it will +bring me one breath of good news.’ And as Berenger kissed his hand with +tearful, inarticulate thanks, he proceeded, ‘Save for that cause, I +would ask you to come to me again. It does me good. It is like a breath +from Montpipeau--the last days of hope--before the frenzy--the misery. + +‘Whenever your Majesty does me the honour---’ began Berenger, forgetting +all except the dying man. + +‘I am not so senseless,’ interrupted the King sharply; ‘it would be +losing the only chance of undoing one wrong. Only, Ribaumont,’ he added +fervently, ‘for once let me hear that one man has pardoned me. + +‘Sire, Sire,’ sobbed Berenger, totally overcome, ‘how can I speak the +word? How feel aught but love, loyalty, gratitude? + +Charles half smiled again as he said in sad meditation--‘Ah! it was in +me to have been a good king if they had let me. Think of me, bid your +friend Sidney think of me, as I would have been--not as I have been--and +pray, pray for me.’ Then hiding his face in his handkerchief, in a +paroxysm of grief and horror, he murmured in a stifled tone, ‘Blood, +blood, deliver me, good Lord! + +In effect, there was so sudden a gush of blood from mouth and nose that +Berenger sprang to his feet in dismay, and was _bona fide_ performing +the part of assistant to the surgeon, when, at the Queen’s cry, not only +the nurse Philippe hurried in, but with her a very dark, keen-looking +man, who at once began applying strong essences to the King’s face, +as Berenger supported his head. In a few moments Pare looked up at +Berenger, and setting him free, intimated to him, between sign and +whisper, to go into Philippe’s room and wait there; and it was high +time, for though the youth had felt nothing in the stress of the moment, +he was almost swooning when he reached the little chamber, and lay back +in the nurse’s chair, with closed eyes, scarcely conscious how time +went, or even where he was, till he was partly aroused by hearing steps +returning. + +‘The poor young man,’ said Philippe’s kind voice, ‘he is fainting. Ah! +no wonder it overcame any kind heart. + +‘How is the King?’ Berenger tried to say, but his own voice still +sounded unnatural and far away. + +‘He is better for the time, and will sleep,’ said Pare, administering to +his other patient some cordial drops as he spoke. ‘There, sir; you will +soon be able to return to the carriage. This has been a sore trial to +your strength. + +‘But I have gained all--all I could hope,’ said Berenger, looking at his +precious papers. ‘But, alas! the poor King! + +‘You will never, never let a word of blame pass against him,’ cried +Philippe earnestly. ‘It is well that one of our people should have +seen how it really is with him. All I regret is that Maitre Rene thrust +himself in and saw you. + +‘Who?’ said Berenger, who had been too much engrossed to perceive any +one. + +‘Maitre Rene of Milan, the Queen-mother’s perfume. He came with some +plea of bringing a pouncet-box from her, but I wager it was as a spy. +I was doing my best to walk him gently off, when the Queen’s cry called +me, and he must needs come in after me. + +‘I saw him not,’ said Berenger; ‘perhaps he marked not me in the +confusion. + +‘I fear,’ said Pare gravely, ‘he was more likely to have his senses +about him than you. M. le Baron; these bleedings of the King’s are not +so new to us familiars to the palace. The best thing now to be done is +to have you to the carriage, if you can move. + +Berenger, now quite recovered, stood up, and gave his warm thanks to the +old nurse for her kindness to him. + +‘Ah! sir,’ she said, ‘you are one of us. Pray, pray that God will have +mercy on my poor child! He has the truth in his heart. Pray that it may +save him at the last. + +Ambroise, knowing that she would never cease speaking while there was +any one to hear her, almost dragged Berenger out at the little secret +door, conveyed him safely down the stairs, and placed him again in the +carriage. Neither spoke till the surgeon said, ‘You have seen a sad +sight, Monsieur le Baron: I need not bid you be discreet. + +‘There are some things that go too deep for speech,’ sighed the almost +English Berenger; then, after a pause, ‘Is there no hope for him? Is he +indeed dying? + +‘Without a miracle, he cannot live a month. He is as truly slain by the +St. Bartholomew as ever its martyrs were,’ said Pare, moved out of his +usual cautious reserve towards one who had seen so much and felt so +truly. ‘I tell you, sir, that his mother hath as truly slain her sons, +as if she had sent Rene there to them with his drugs. According as they +have consciences and hearts, so they pine and perish under her rule. + +Berenger shuddered, and almost sobbed, ‘And hath he no better hope, no +comforter?’ he asked. + +‘None save good old Flipote. As you heard, the Queen-mother will not +suffer his own Church to speak to him in her true voice. No confessor +but one chosen by the Cardinal of Lorraine may come near him; and with +him all is mere ceremony. But if at the last he opens his ear and heart +to take in the true hope of salvation, it will be from the voice of poor +old Philippe. + +And so it was! It was Philippe, who heard him in the night sobbing over +the piteous words, ‘My God, what horrors, what blood!’ and, as she took +from his tear-drenched handkerchief, spoke to him of the Blood that +speakth better things than the blood of Abel; and it was she who, in the +final agony, heard and treasured these last words, ‘If the Lord Jesus +will indeed receive me into the company of the blest!’ Surely, never +was repentance deeper than that of Charles IX.--and these, his parting +words, were such as to inspire the trust that it was not remorse. + +All-important as Berenger’s expedition had been, he still could think +of little but the poor King; and, wearied out as he was, he made very +little reply to the astonished friends who gathered round him on his +return. He merely told Philip that he had succeeded, and then lay almost +without speaking on his bed till the Ambassador made his evening visit, +when he showed him the two papers. Sir Francis could hardly believe his +good fortune in having obtained this full attestation of the marriage, +and promised to send to the English Ambassador in Germany, to obtain the +like from Father Meinhard. The document itself he advised Berenger not +to expose to the dangers of the French journey, but to leave it with him +to be forwarded direct to Lord Walwyn. It was most important, both as +obviating any dispute on the legitimacy of the child, if she lived; or, +if not, it would establish those rights of Berenger to the Nid de Merle +estates, of which he had heard from the King. This information explained +what were the claims that the Chevalier was so anxious to hush up by a +marriage with Madame de Selinville. Berenger, as his wife’s heir, was by +this contract the true owner of the estates seized by the Chevalier and +his son, and could only be ousted, either by his enemies proving his +contract to Eustacie invalid and to be unfulfilled, or by his own +voluntary resignation. The whole scheme was clear to Walsingham, and +he wasted advice upon unheeding ears, as to how Berenger should act to +obtain restitution so soon as he should be of age, and how he should try +to find out the notary who had drawn up the contract. If Berenger cared +at all, it was rather for the sake of punishing and balking Narcisse, +than with any desire of the inheritance; and even for righteous +indignation he was just now too weary and too sad. He could not discuss +his rights to Nid de Merle, if they passed over the rights of Eustacie’s +child, round whom his affection were winding themselves as his sole +hope. + +The next evening Pare came in quest of Berenger, and after a calm, +refreshing, hopeful Ascension-day, which had been a real balm to the +weary spirit, found him enjoying the sweet May sunshine under a tree +in the garden. ‘I am glad to find you out of doors,’ he said; ‘I fear I +must hasten your departure. + +‘I burn to lose no time,’ cried Berenger. ‘Prithee tell them I may +safely go! They all call it madness to think of setting out. + +‘Ordinarily it would be,’ said Pare; ‘but Rene of Milan has sent his +underlings to see who is my new, tall assistant. He will report all to +the Queen-mother; and though in this house you could scarcely suffer +personal harm, yet the purpose of your journey might be frustrated, and +the King might have to undergo another of those _bourrasques_ which he +may well dread. + +‘I will go this very night,’ said Berenger, starting up; ‘where is +Philip?--where is Sir Francis? + +Even that very night Pare thought not too soon, and the Ascension-tide +illuminations brought so many persons abroad that it would be easy to go +unnoticed; and in the general festivity, when every one was coming and +going from the country to gaze or worship at the shrines and the images +decked in every church, it would be easy for the barriers to be passed +without observation. Then the brothers would sleep at a large hostel, +the first on the road to England, where Walsingham’s couriers and guest +always baited, and the next morning he would send out to them their +attendants, with houses for their further journey back into Anjou. If +any enemies were on the watch, this would probably put them off the +scent, and it only remained further to be debated, whether the Norman +Guibert had better be dismissed at once or taken with them. There was +always soft place in Berenger’s heart for a Norman, and the man was +really useful; moreover, he would certainly be safer employed and in +their company, than turned loose to tell the Chevalier all he might have +picked up in the Hotel d’Angleterre. It was therefore decided that he +should be the attendant of the two young men, and he received immediate +orders that night to pack up their garments, and hold himself ready. + +Nevertheless, before the hour of departure, Guibert had stolen out, had +an interview with the Chevalier de Ribaumont at the Hotel de Selinville, +and came back with more than one good French crown in his pocket, and +hopes of more. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ORPHANS OF LA SABLERIE + + + +The cream tarts with pepper in them.--ARABIAN NIGHTS. + + +Hope, spring, and recovery carried the young Baronde Ribaumont on his +journey infinitely better than his companions had dared to expect. He +dreaded nothing so much as being overtaken by those tidings which would +make King Charles’s order mere waste paper; and therefore pressed on +with little regard to his own fatigue, although happily with increasing +strength, which carried him a further stage every day. + +Lucon was a closely-guarded, thoroughly Catholic city, and his +safe-conduct was jealously demanded; but the name of Ribaumont silenced +all doubt. ‘A relation, apparently, of M. de Nid de Merle,’ said the +officer on guard, and politely invited him to dinner and bed at the +castle; but these he thought it prudent to decline, explaining that he +brought a letter from the King to the Mother Prioress. + +The convent walls were pointed out to him, and he only delayed at the +inn long enough to arrange his dress as might appear to the Abbess most +respectful, and, poor boy, be least likely to startle the babe on whom +his heart was set. At almost every inn, the little children had shrieked +and run from his white and gashed face, and his tall, lank figure in +deep black; and it was very sadly that he said to Philip, ‘You must come +with me. If she turns from me as an ogre, your bright ruddy face will +win her. + +The men were left at the inn with charge to let Guibert speak for them, +and to avoid showing their nationality. The three months of Paris, +and the tailors there, had rendered Philip much less conspicuous than +formerly; but still people looked at him narrowly as he followed his +brother along the street. The two lads had made up their minds to +encumber themselves with no nurses, or womanfolk. The child should be +carried, fondled, and fed by her boy-father alone. He believed that, +when he once held her in his arms, he should scarcely even wish to give +her up to any one else; and, in his concentration of mind, had hardly +thought of all the inconveniences and absurdities that would arise; but, +really, was chiefly occupied by the fear that she would not at first let +him take her in his arms, and hold her to his heart. + +Philip, a little more alive to the probabilities, nevertheless was +disposed to regard them as ‘fun and pastime.’ He had had many a frolic +with his baby-sisters, and this would be only a prolonged one; besides, +it was ‘Berry’s’ one hope, and to rescue any creature from a convent was +a good work, in his Protestant eyes, which had not become a whit less +prejudiced at Paris. So he was quite prepared to take his full share of +his niece, or more, if she should object to her father’s looks, and he +only suggested halting at an old woman’s stall to buy some sweetmeats +by way of propitiation--a proceeding which much amazed the gazing +population of Lucon. Two reports were going about, one that the King +had vowed a silver image of himself to St. Ursula, if her Prioress would +obtain his recovery by their prayers; the other that he was going to +translate her to the royal Abbey of Fontevrault to take charge of his +daughter, Madame Elisabeth. Any way, high honour by a royal messenger +must be intended to the Prioress, Mere Monique, and the Luconnais were +proud of her sanctity. + +The portress had already heard the report, and opened her wicket +even before the bell could be rung, then eagerly ushered him into the +parlour, the barest and most ascetic-looking of rooms, with a boarded +partition across, unenlivened except by a grated hollow, and the outer +portion empty, save of a table, three chairs, and a rugged woodcut of a +very tall St. Ursula, with a crowd of pigmy virgins, not reaching higher +than the ample hem of her petticoat. + +‘Did Aunt Cecily live in such a place as this?’ exclaimed Philip, gazing +round; ‘or do they live on the fat among down cushions inside there? + +‘Hush--sh,’ said Berenger, frowning with anxiety; for a rustling was +heard behind the screen, and presently a black veil and white scapulary +appeared, and a sweet calm voice said, ‘Peace be with you, sir; what are +your commands? + +Berenger bowed low, and replied, ‘Thanks, reverend Lady; I bring a +letter from the King, to request your aid in a matter that touches me +nearly. + +‘His Majesty shall be obeyed. Come you from him? + +He was forced to reply to her inquiries after the poor King’s health +before she opened the letter, taking it under her veil to read it; so +that as he stood, trembling, almost sickening with anxiety, and scarcely +able to breathe, he could see nothing but the black folds; and at her +low murmured exclamation he started as if at a cannon-shot. + +‘De Ribaumont!’ she said; ‘can it be--the child--of--of--out poor dear +little _pensionnaire_ at Bellaise? + +‘It is--it is!’ cried Berenger. ‘O Madame, you knew her at Bellaise? + +‘Even so,’ replied the Prioress, who was in fact the Soeur Monique so +loved and regretted by Eustacie. ‘I loved and prayed for her with all my +heart when she was claimed by the world. Heaven’s will be done; but the +poor little thing loved me, and I have often thought that had I been +still at Bellaise when she returned she would not have fled. But of this +child I have no knowledge. + +‘You took charge of the babes of La Sablerie, Madame,’ said Berenger, +almost under his breath. + +‘Her infant among those poor orphans!’ exclaimed the Prioress, more and +more startled and amazed. + +‘If it be anywhere in this life, it is in your good keeping, Madame,’ +said Berenger, with tears in his eyes. ‘Oh! I entreat, withhold her no +longer. + +‘But,’ exclaimed the bewildered nun, ‘who would you then be, sir? + +‘I--her husband--widower of Eustacie--father of her orphan!’ cried +Berenger. ‘She cannot be detained from me, either by right or law. + +‘Her husband,’ still hesitated Monique. ‘But he is dead. The poor little +one--Heaven have mercy on her soul--wrote me a piteous entreaty, and +gave large alms for prayers and masses for his soul. + +The sob in his throat almost strangled his speech. ‘She mourned me to +the last as dead. I was borne away senseless and desperately wounded; +and when I recovered power to seek her it was too late! O Madame! have +pity--let me see all she has left to me. + +‘Is it possible?’ said the nun. ‘We would not learn the parentage of +our nurslings since all alike become children of Mother Church. +Then, suddenly bethinking herself, ‘But, surely, Monsieur cannot be a +Huguenot. + +It was no doubt the first time she had been brought in contact with +a schismatic, and she could not believe that such respectful courtesy +could come from one. He saw he must curb himself, and explain. ‘I am +neither Calvinist nor Sacrementaire, Madame. I was bred in England, +where we love our own Church. My aunt is a Benedictine Sister, who keeps +her rule strictly, though her convent is destroyed; and it is to her +that I shall carry my daughter. Ah, Lady, did you but know my heart’s +hunger for her! + +The Prioress, better read in the lives of the saints than in the sects +of heretics, did not know whether this meant that he was of her own +faith or not; and her woman’s heart being much moved by his pleadings, +she said, ‘I will heartily give your daughter to you, sir, as indeed I +must, if she be here; but you have never seen her? + +‘No; only her empty cradle in the burnt house. But I MUST know her. She +is a year old. + +‘We have two babes of that age; but I fear me you will scarce see much +likeness in either of them to any one you knew,’ said the Prioress, +thoughtfully. ‘However, there are two girls old enough to remember the +parentage of their companions, though we forbade them to mention it. +Would you see them, sir? + +‘And the infants, so please you, reverend Mother,’ exclaimed Berenger. + +She desired him to wait, and after an interval of suspense there was +a pattering of little _sabots_ behind the partition, and through the +grating he beheld six little girls in blue serge frocks and tight white +caps. Of the two infants, one with a puny, wizen, pinched face was in +the arms of the Prioress; the other, a big, stout, coarse child, with +hard brown cheeks and staring black-eyes, was on its own feet, but with +a great basket-work frame round its head to save it from falls. There +were two much more prepossessing children of three or four, and two +intelligent-looking girls of perhaps eight and ten, to the elder of whom +the Prioress turned, saying, ‘Agathe, I release you from my command not +to speak of your former life, and desire you to tell this gentleman if +you know who were the parents of these two little ones. + +‘Yes, reverend Mother,’ said Agathe, readily; ‘the old name of Claire’ +(touching the larger baby) ‘was Salome Potier: her mother was the +washerwoman; and Nannonciade, I don’t know what her name was, but her +father worked for Maitre Brassier who made the kettles. + +Philip felt relieved to be free from all doubt about these very +uninviting little ones, but Berenger, though sighing heavily, asked +quickly, ‘Permit me, Madame, a few questions.--Little maid, did you ever +hear of Isaac Gardon? + +‘Maitre Isaac! Oh yes, sir. We used to hear him preach at the church, +and sometimes he catechized us,’ she said, and her lip quivered. + +‘He was a heretic, and I abjure him,’ added the other girl, perking up +her head. + +‘Was he in the town? What became of him?’ exclaimed Berenger. + +‘He would not be in the town,’ said the elder girl. ‘My poor father had +sent him word to go away. + +‘_Eh quoi_? + +‘Our father was Bailli la Grasse,’ interposed the younger girl, +consequentially. ‘Our names were Marthe and Lucie la Grasse, but Agathe +and Eulalie are much prettier. + +‘But Maitre Gardon?’ still asked Berenger. + +‘He ought to be take and burnt,’ said the new Eulalie; ‘he brought it +all on us. + +‘How was it? Was my wife with him--Madame de Ribaumont? Speak, my child. + +‘That was the name,’ said one girl. + +‘But Maitre Gardon had no great lady with him,’ said the other, ‘only +his son’s widow and her baby, and they lodged with Noemi Laurent, who +made the _patisserie_. + +‘Ah!’ cried Berenger, lighting up with the new ray of hope. ‘Tell me, my +dear, that they fled with him, and where. + +‘I do not know of their going,’ said Agathe, confused and overborne by +his eagerness. + +‘Curb yourself, sir,’ said the Prioress, ‘they will recollect themselves +and tell you what they can. + +‘It was the little cakes with lemoned sugar,’ suggested the younger +girl. ‘Maitre Tressan always said there would be a judgment on us for +our daintiness. Ah! he was very cross about them, and after all it was +the Maitre of Lucon who ate fifteen of them all at once; but then he is +not a heretic. + +Happily for Berenger, Agathe unraveled this speech. + +‘Mademoiselle Gardon made the sugar-lemoned cakes, and the Mayor of +Lucon, one day when he supped with us, was so delighted with them that +he carried one away to show his wife, and afterwards he sent over to +order some more. Then, after a time, he sent secretly to my father to +ask him if Maitre Gardon was there; for there was a great outcry about +the lemon cakes, and the Duke of Alencon’s army were coming to demand +his daughter-in-law; because it seems she was a great lady, and the only +person who could make the cakes. + +‘Agathe!’ exclaimed the Prioress. + +‘I understand,’ said Berenger. ‘The Cure of Nissard told me that she was +traced through cakes, the secret of which was only known at Bellaise. + +‘That might be,’ said Mere Monique. ‘I remember there was something of +pride in the cakes of Bellaise, though I always tried to know nothing of +them. + +‘Well, little one, continue,’ entreated Berenger. ‘You are giving me +life and hope. + +‘I heard my father and mother talk about it,’ said Agathe, gaining +courage. ‘He said he knew nothing of great people, and would give nobody +up to the Catholics, but as to Maitre Isaac, he should let him know that +the Catholic army were coming, and that it would be the better for us +if we had no pastor within our walls; and that there was a cry that his +daughter’s lemon cakes were made by the lady that was lost. + +‘And they escaped! Ah! would that I could thank the good man! + +‘Surely yes, sir, I never saw them again. Maitre Tressan the elder +prayed with us. And when the cruel soldiers came and demanded the lady +and Maitre Isaac, and all obstinate Calvinists, our mayor and my father +and the rest made answer that they had no knowledge of the lady, and did +not know where Maitre Gardon was; and as to Huguenots, we were all one +as obstinate as the other, but that we would pay any fine within our +means so they would spare our lives. Then the man in the fine coat said, +it was the lady they wanted, not the fine; and a great deal he said +besides, I know not what but my father said, ‘It is our life’s blood +that they want,’ and he put on his breastplate and kissed us all, and +went away. Then came horrible noises and firing of cannon, and the +neighbours ran in and said that the enemy were battering down the old +crumbly bit of wall where the monastery was burnt; and just then our man +Joseph ran back all pale, and staring, to tell us my father was lying +badly hurt in the street. My mother hurried out, and locked the door to +keep us from following. + +The poor child broke down in tears, and her sister went on. ‘Oh, we were +so frightened--such frightful sounds came close, and people ran by all +blood and shrieking--and there was a glare in the sky--and nobody came +home--till at last it grew so dreadful that we hid in the cellar to hear +and see nothing. Only it grew hotter and hotter, and the light through +the little grating was red. And at last there was a noise louder than +thunder, and, oh, such a shaking--for it was the house falling down. But +we did not know that; we tried to open the door, and could not; then +we cried and called for father and mother--and no one heard--and we sat +still for fear, till we slept--and then it was all dark, and we were +very hungry. I don’t know how time went, but at last, when I was +daylight again, there was a talking above, a little baby crying, and +a kind voice too; and then we called out, ‘Oh, take us out and give us +bread.’ Then a face looked down the grating. Oh, it was like the face +of an angel to us, with all the white hair flying round. It was the +holy priest of Nissard; and when one of the cruel men said we were only +little heretics who ought to die like rats in a hole, he said we were +but innocents who did not know the difference. + +‘Ah! we did,’ said the elder girl. ‘You are younger, sister, you forget +more;’ and then, holding out her hands to Berenger, she exclaimed, ‘Ah! +sir, take us away with you. + +‘My child!’ exclaimed the Prioress, ‘you told me you were happy to be in +the good course. + +‘Oh yes!’ cried the poor child; ‘but I don’t want to be happy! I am +forgetting all my poor father and mother used to say. I can’t help it, +and they would be so grieved. Oh, take me away, sir! + +‘Take care, Agathe, you will be a relapsed heretic,’ said her sister, +solemnly. ‘For me, I am a true Catholic. I love the beautiful images and +the processions. + +‘Ah! but what would our mother have said!’ cried poor Agathe, weeping +more bitterly. + +‘Poor child, her old recollections have been renewed,’ said the +Prioress, with unchanged sweetness; ‘but it will pass. My dear, the +gentleman will tell you that it is as impossible for him to take you as +it is for me to let you go. + +‘It is so, truly, little one,’ said Berenger. ‘The only little girl I +cold have taken with me would have been my own;’ and as her eyes looked +at him wistfully, he added, ‘No doubt, if your poor mother could, she +would thank this good Mother-prioress for teaching you to serve God and +be a good child. + +‘Monsieur speaks well and kindly,’ said the Prioress; ‘and now, Agathe, +make your curtsey, and take away the little ones. + +‘Let me ask one question more, reverend Mother,’ said Berenger. +‘Ah! children, did you ever see her whom you call Isaac Gardon’s +daughter-in-law? + +‘No, sir,’ said the children; ‘but mother did, and she promised one day +to take us to see the baby, for it was so pretty--so white, that she had +never seen the like. + +‘So white!’ repeated Berenger to himself; and the Prioress, struck, +perhaps, by the almost flaxen locks that sparsely waved on his temples, +and the hue of the ungloved hand that rested on the edge of the +_grille_, said, smiling, ‘You come of a fair family, Monsieur. + +‘The White Ribaumonts,’ said Berenger, ‘and, moreover, my mother was +called the Swan of England; my little sisters have skins like snow. +Ah! Madame, though I have failed, I go away far happier than if I had +succeeded. + +‘And reveal the true faith,’ began the nun; but Philip in the meantime +was nudging his brother, and whispering in English, ‘No Popish +prayers, I say! Stay, give these poor little prisoners one feast of the +sweetmeats we brought. + +Of this last hint Berenger was glad, and the Prioress readily consented +to a distribution of the dainties among the orphans. He wished to leave +a more lasting token of his gratitude to the little maiden whose father +had perhaps saved Eustacie’s life, and recollecting that he had about +him a great gold coin, bearing the heads of Philip and Mary, he begged +leave to offer it to Agathe, and found that it was received by good Mere +Monique almost in the light of a relic, as bearing the head of so pious +a queen. + +Then, to complete Philip’s disgust he said, ‘I took with me my aunt’s +blessing when I set out; let me take yours with me also, reverend +Mother. + +When they were in the street again, Philip railed at him as though he +had subjected himself to a spell. + +‘She is almost a saint,’ answered Berenger. + +‘And have we not saints enough of our own, without running after Popish +ones behind grates? Brother, if ever the good old days come back of +invading France, I’ll march straight hither, and deliver the poor little +wretches so scandalously mewed up here, and true Protestants all the +time! + +‘Hush! People are noticing the sound of your English. + +‘Let them! I never thanked Heaven properly before that I have not a drop +of French---’ Here Berenger almost shook him by the shoulder, as +men turned at his broad tones and foreign words, and he walked on in +silence, while Berenger at his side felt as one treading on air, so +infinite was the burden taken off his mind. Though for the present +absolutely at sea as to where to seek Eustacie, the relief from +acquiescence in the horrible fate that had seemed to be hers was such, +that a flood of unspeakable happiness seemed to rush in on him, and bear +him up with a new infusion of life, buoyancy, and thankfulness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE KING’S NAME + + + + ‘Under which king, Bezonian? speak or die. + + ‘Under King Harry. + --KING HENRY IV. + + +‘One bird in the hand is not always worth two in the bush, assuredly,’ +said Philip, when Berenger was calm enough to hold council on what he +called this most blessed discovery; ‘but where to seek them? + +‘I have no fears now,’ returned Berenger. ‘We have not been bore through +so much not to be brought together at last. Soon, soon shall we have +her! A minister so distinguished as Isaac Gardon is sure to be heard +of either at La Rochelle, Montauban, or Nimes, their great gathering +places. + +‘For Rochelle, then?’ said Philip. + +‘Even so. We will be off early to-morrow, and from thence, if we do +not find her there, as I expected, we shall be able to write the thrice +happy news to those at home. + +Accordingly, the little cavalcade started in good time, in the cool +of the morning of the bright long day of early June, while apple petal +floated down on them in the lanes like snow, and nightingales in every +hedge seemed to give voice and tune to Berenger’s eager, yearning hopes. + +Suddenly there was a sound of horse’s feet in the road before them, and +as they drew aside to make way, a little troop of gendarmes filled the +narrow lane. The officer, a rough, harsh-looking man, laid his hand on +Berenger’s bridle, with the words, ‘In the name of the King! + +Philip began to draw his sword with one hand, and with the other to urge +his horse between the officer and his brother, but Berenger called out, +‘Back! This gentleman mistakes my person. I am the Baron de Ribaumont, +and have a safe-conduct from the King. + +‘What king?’ demanded the officer. + +‘From King Charles. + +‘I arrest you,’ said the officer, ‘in the name of King Henry III, and of +the Queen Regent Catherine. + +‘The King dead?’ Exclaimed Berenger. + +‘On the 30th of May. Now, sir. + +‘Your warrant--your cause?’ still demanded Berenger. + +‘There will be time enough for that when you are safely lodged, said the +captain, roughly pulling at the rein, which he had held all the time. + +‘What, no warrant?’ shouted Philip, ‘he is a mere robber!’ and with +drawn sword he was precipitating himself on the captain, when another +gendarme, who had been on the watch, grappled with him, and dragged +him off his horse before he could strike a blow. The other two English, +Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, strong full-grown men, rode in fiercely +to the rescue, and Berenger himself struggled furiously to loose himself +from the captain, and deliver his brother. Suddenly there was the report +of a pistol: poor Smithers fell, there was a moment of standing aghast, +and in that moment the one man and the two youths were each pounced on +by three or four gendarmes, thrown down and pinioned. + +‘Is this usage for gentlemen?’ exclaimed Berenger, as he was roughly +raised to his feet. + +‘The King’s power has been resisted,’ was all the answer; and when +he would have been to see how it was with poor Smithers, one of the +men-at-arms kicked over the body with sickening brutality, saying, ‘Dead +enough, heretic and English carrion! + +Philip uttered a cry of loathing horror, and turned white; Berenger, +above all else, felt a sort of frenzied despair as he thought of the +peril of the boy who had been trusted to him. + +‘Have you had enough, sir?’ said the captain. ‘Mount and come. + +They could only let themselves be lifted to their horses, and their +hands were then set free to use their bridles, each being guarded by +a soldier on each side of him. Philip attempted but once to speak, and +that in English: ‘Next time I shall take my pistol. + +He was rudely silenced, and rode on with wide-open stolid eyes and +dogged face, steadfastly resolved that no Frenchman should see him +flinch, and vexed that Berenger had his riding mask on so that his face +could not be studied; while he, on his side, was revolving all causes +possible for his arrest, and all means of enforcing he liberation, +if not of himself at least of Philip and Humfrey. He looked round for +Guibert, but could not see him. + +They rode on through the intricate lanes till the sun was high and +scorching, and Berenger felt how far he was from perfect recovery. At +last, however, some little time past noon, the gendarmes halted at a +stone fountain, outside a village, and disposing a sufficient guard +around his captives, the officer permitted them to dismount and rest, +while he, with the rest of the troop and the horses, went to the village +CABARET. Philip would have asked his brother what it meant, and what was +to be done, but Berenger shook his head, and intimated that silence was +safest as present, since they might be listened to; and Philip, who +so much imagined treachery and iniquity to be the order of the day in +France that he was scarcely surprised at the present disaster, resigned +himself to the same sullen endurance. Provisions and liquor were +presently sent up from the inn, but Berenger could taste nothing but the +cold water of the fountain, which trickled out cool and fresh beneath an +arch surmounted by a figure of Our Lady. He bathed his face and head +in the refreshing spring, and lay down on a cloak in the shade, Philip +keeping a constant change of drenched kerchiefs on his brow, and +hoping that he slept, till at the end to two or three hours the +captain returned, gave the word to horse, and the party rode on through +intricate lanes, blossoming with hawthorn, and ringing with songs of +birds that spoke a very different language now to Berenger’s heart from +what they had said in the hopeful morning. + +A convent bell was ringing to evensong, when passing its gateway; the +escort turned up a low hill, on the summit of which stood a chateau, +covering a considerable extent of ground, with a circuit of wall, +whitewashed so as perfectly to glare in the evening sun; at every angle +a round, slim turret, crowned by a brilliant red-tiled extinguisher-like +cap; and the whole surmounted by a tall old keep in the centre. There +was a square projection containing an arched gateway, with heavy +doorways, which were thrown open as the party approached. Philip looked +up as he rode in, and over the doorway beheld the familiar fretted +shield, with the leopard in the corner, and _‘A moi Ribaumont’_ round +it. Could it then be Berenger’s own castle, and was it thus that he was +approaching it? He himself had not looked up; he was utterly spent with +fatigue, dejection, and the severe headache brought on by the heat of +the sun, and was only intent on rallying his powers for the crisis of +fate that was probably approaching; and thus scarcely took note of the +court into which he rode, lying between the gateway and the _corps de +logis_, a building erected when comfort demanded more space than was +afforded by the old keep, against which one end leant; but still, though +inclosed in a court, the lower windows were small and iron-barred, and +all air of luxury was reserved for the mullioned casements of the upper +storey. The court was flagged, but grass shot up between the stones, and +the trim air of ease and inhabited comfort to which the brothers were +used at home was utterly wanting. Berenger was hustled off his horse, +and roughly pushed through a deep porch, where the first thing he heard +was the Chevalier de Ribaumont’s voice in displeasure. + +‘How now, sir; hands off! Is this the way you conduct my nephew? + +‘He resisted, sir. + +‘Sir,’ said Berenger, advancing into the hall, ‘I know not the meaning +of this. I am peacefully traveling with a passport from the King, when I +am set upon, no warrant shown me, my faithful servant slain, myself and +my brother, an English subject, shamefully handled. + +‘The violence shall be visited on whatever rascal durst insult a +gentleman and my nephew,’ said the Chevalier. ‘For release, it shall be +looked to; but unfortunately it is too true that there are orders +from the Queen in Council for your apprehension, and it was only on my +special entreaty for the honour of the family, and the affection I bear +you, that I was allowed to receive you here instead of your being sent +to an ordinary prison. + +‘On what pretext?’ demanded Berenger. + +‘It is known that you have letters in your possession from escaped +traitors now in England, to La Noue, Duplessis Mornay, and other +heretics. + +‘That is easily explained,’ said Berenger. ‘You know well, sir, that +they were to facilitate my search at La Sablerie. You shall see them +yourself, sir. + +‘That I must assuredly do,’ replied the Chevalier, ‘for it is the +order of her Majesty, I regret to say, that your person and baggage be +searched;’ then, as indignant colour rushed into Berenger’s face, and an +angry exclamation was beginning, he added, ‘Nay, I understand, my dear +cousin, it is very painful, but we would spare you as much as possible. +It will be quite enough if the search is made by myself in the presence +of this gentleman, who will only stand by for form’s sake. I have no +doubt it will enable us quickly to clear up matters, and set you free +again. Do me the honour to follow me to the chamber destined for you. + +‘Let me see the order for my arrest,’ said Berenger, holding his head +high. + +‘The English scruple must be gratified,’ said the Chevalier. And +accordingly the gendarme captain unfolded before him a paper, which was +evidently a distinct order to arrest and examine the person of Henri +Beranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont and Sieur de Leurre, suspected of +treasonable practices--and it bore the signature of Catherine. + +‘There is nothing here said of my step-father’s son, Philip Thistlewood, +nor of my servant, Humfrey Holt,’ said Berenger, gathering the sense +with his dizzy eyes as best he could. ‘They cannot be detained, being +born subjects of the Queen of England. + +‘They intercepted the justice of the King,’ said the captain, laying +his hand on Philip’s shoulder. ‘I shall have them off with me to the +garrison of Lugon, and deal with them there. + +‘Wait!’ said the Chevalier, interposing before Berenger’s fierce, +horror-struck expostulation could break forth; ‘this is an honourable +young gentleman, son of a chevalier of good reputation in England, and +he need not be so harshly dealt with. You will not separate either +him or the poor groom from my nephew, so the Queen’s authority be now +rightly acknowledged. + +The captain shrugged his shoulders, as if displeased; and the Chevalier, +turning to Berenger, said, ‘You understand, nephew, the lot of you all +depends on your not giving umbrage to these officers of her Majesty. I +will do my poor best for you; but submission is first needed. + +Berenger knew enough of his native country to be aware that _la justice +du Roi_ was a terrible thing, and that Philip’s resistance had really +put him in so much danger that it was needful to be most careful not +further to offend the functionary of Government; and abhorrent as the +proposed search was to him, he made no further objection, but taking +Philip’s arm, lest they should be separated, he prepared to follow +wherever he was to be conducted. The Chevalier led the way along a +narrow stone passage, with loophole-windows here and there; and Philip, +for all his proud, indifferent bearing, felt his flesh creep as he +looked for a stair descending into the bowels of the earth. A stair +there was, but it went up instead of down, and after mounting this, and +going through a sort of ante-room, a door was opened into a tolerably +spacious apartment, evidently in the old keep; for the two windows on +opposite sides were in an immensely massive wall, and the floor above +and vaulting below were of stone; but otherwise there was nothing +repulsive in the appearance of the room. There was a wood fire on the +hearth; the sun, setting far to the north, peeped in aslant at one +window; a mat was on the floor, tapestry on the lower part of the walls; +a table and chairs, and a walnut chest, with a chess-board and a few +books on it, were as much furniture as was to be seen in almost any +living-room of the day. Humfrey and Guibert, too, were already there, +with the small riding valises they and poor Smithers had had in charge. +These were at one opened, but contained merely clothes and linen, +nothing else that was noticed, except three books, at which the captain +looked with a stupid air; and the Chevalier did not seem capable of +discovering more than that all three were Latin--one, he believed, the +Bible. + +‘Yes, sir, the Vulgate--a copy older than the Reformation, so not liable +to be called an heretical version,’ said Berenger, to whom a copy had +been given by Lady Walwyn, as more likely to be saved if his baggage +were searched. ‘The other is the Office and Psalter after our English +rite; and this last is not mine, but Mr. Sidney’s--a copy of Virgilius +Maro, which he had left behind at Paris. + +The Chevalier, not willing to confess that he had taken the English +Prayer-book for Latin, hastily said, ‘Nothing wrong there--no, no, +nothing that will hurt the State; may it only be so with what you carry +on your person, fair cousin. Stand back, gentleman, this is gear for +myself alone. Now, fair nephew,’ he added, ‘not a hand shall be laid on +you, if you will give me your honourable word, as a nobleman, that you +are laying before me all that you carry about you. + +An instant’s thought convinced Berenger that resistance would save +nothing, and merely lead to indignity to himself and danger to Philip; +and therefore he gave the promise to show everything about him, without +compulsion. Accordingly, he produced his purse for current expenses, +poor King Charles’s safe-conduct, and other articles of no consequence, +from his pockets; then reluctantly opened his doublet, and took off +the belt containing his store of gold, which had been replenished at +Walsingham’s. This was greedily eyed by the captain, but the Chevalier +at once made it over to Philip’s keeping, graciously saying, ‘We do no +more than duty requires;’ but at the same time he made a gesture towards +another small purse that hung round Berenger’s neck by a black ribbon. + +‘On my sacred word and honour,’ said Berenger, ‘it contains nothing +important to any save myself. + +‘Alas! my bounden duty,’ urged the Chevalier. + +An angry reply died on Berenger’s lip. At the thought of Philip, he +opened the purse, and held out the contents on his palm: a tiny gold +ring, a tress of black hair, a fragment of carnation-ribbon pricked with +pin-holes, a string of small worthless yellow shells, and, threaded with +them, a large pear-shaped pearl of countless price. Even the Chevalier +was touched at the sight of this treasury, resting on the blanched palm +of the thin, trembling hand, and jealously watched by eyes glistening +with sudden moisture, though the lips were firm set. ‘Alas! my poor +young cousin,’ he said, ‘you loved her well. + +‘Not loved, but love,’ muttered Berenger to himself, as if having +recourse to the only cordial that could support him through the present +suffering; and he was closing his fingers again over his precious hoard, +when the Chevalier added, ‘Stay! Nephew--that pearl? + +‘Is one of the chaplet; the token she sent to England,’ he answered. + +‘_Pauvre petite!_ Then, at least a fragment remains of the reward of our +ancestor’s courage,’ said the Chevalier. + +And Berenger did not feel it needful to yield up that still better +possession, stored within his heart, that _la petite_ and her pearls +were safe together. It was less unendurable to produce the leather case +from a secret pocket within his doublet, since, unwilling as he was that +any eye should scan the letters it contained, there was nothing in them +that could give any clue towards tracing her. Nothing had been written +or received since his interview with the children at Lucon. There was, +indeed, Eustacie’s letter to his mother, a few received at Paris from +Lord Walwyn, reluctantly consenting to his journey in quest of his +child, his English passport, the unfortunate letters to La Noue; and +what evidently startled the Chevalier more than all the rest, the +copy of the certificate of the ratification of the marriage; but his +consternation was so arranged as to appear to be all on behalf of his +young kinsman. ‘This is serious!’ he said, striking his forehead; ‘you +will be accused of forging the late King’s name. + +‘This is but a copy,’ said Berenger, pointing to the heading; ‘the +original has been sent with our Ambassador’s dispatches to England. + +‘It is a pity,’ said the Chevalier, looking thoroughly vexed, ‘that you +should have brought fresh difficulties on yourself for a mere piece +of waste paper to be affected by the validity of your marriage. Dear +cousin,’--he glanced at the officer and lowered his voice,--‘let me tear +this paper; it would only do you harm, and the Papal decree annuls it. + +‘I have given my word,’ said Berenger, ‘that all that could do me harm +should be delivered up! Besides,’ he added, ‘even had I the feeling for +my own honour and that of my wife and child, living or dead, the harm, +it seems to me, would be to those who withhold her lands from me. + +‘Ah, fair nephew! you have fallen among designing persons who have +filled your head with absurd claims; but I will not argue the point now, +since it becomes a family, not a State matter. These papers’--and +he took them into his hand--‘must be examined, and to-morrow Captain +Delarue will take them to Paris, with any explanation you may desire +to offer. Meantime you and your companions remain my guest, at full +liberty, provided you will give me your parole to attempt no escape. + +‘No, sir,’ said Berenger, hotly, ‘we will not become our own jailers, +nor acquiesce in this unjust detention. I warn you that I am a +naturalized Englishman, acknowledged by the Queen as my grandfather’s +heir, and the English Ambassador will inform the court what Queen +Elizabeth thinks of such dealings with her subjects. + +‘Well said,’ exclaimed Philip, and drawing himself up, he added, +‘I refuse my parole, and warn you that it is at your peril that you +imprison an Englishman. + +‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said the Chevalier; ‘the difference will be that +I shall unwillingly be forced to let Captain Delarue post guards at the +outlets of this tower. A room beneath is prepared for your grooms, +and the court is likewise free to you. I will endeavour to make your +detention as little irksome as you will permit, and meantime allow me +to show you your sleeping chamber. He then politely, as if he had been +ushering a prince to his apartment, led the way, pointing to the door +through which they had entered the keep, and saying, ‘This is the only +present communication with the dwelling-house. Two gendarmes will always +be on the outside.’ He conducted the young men up a stone spiral stair +to another room, over that which they had already seen, and furnished as +fairly as ordinary sleeping chambers were wont to be. + +Here, said their compulsory host, he would leave them to prepare for +supper, when they would do him the honour to join him in the eating-hall +on their summons by the steward. + +His departing bow was duly returned by Berenger, but no sooner did his +steps die away on the stairs than the young man threw himself down on +his bed, in a paroxysm of suffering both mental and bodily. + +‘Berry, Berry, what is this? Speak to me. What does it all mean? cried +Philip. + +‘How can I tell?’ said Berenger, showing his face for a moment, covered +with tears; ‘only that my only friend is dead, and some villainous trick +has seized me, just--just as I might have found her. And I’ve been +the death of my poor groom, and got you into the power of these vile +dastards! Oh, would that I had come alone! Would that they had had the +sense to aim direct! + +‘Brother, brother, anything but this!’ cried Philip. ‘The rogues are not +worth it. Sir Francis will have us out in no time, or know the reason +why. I’d scorn to let them wring a tear from me. + +‘I hope they never may, dear Phil, nor anything worse. + +‘Now,’ continued Philip, ‘the way will be to go down to supper, since +they will have it so, and sit and eat at one’s ease as if one cared for +them no more than cat and dog. Hark! there’s the steward speaking to +Guibert. Come, Berry, wash your face and come. + +‘I--my head aches far too much, were there nothing else. + +‘What! it is nothing but the sun,’ said Philip. ‘Put a bold face on it, +man, and show them how little you heed. + +‘How LITTLE I heed!’ bitterly repeated Berenger, turning his face away, +utterly unnerved between disappointment, fatigue, and pain; and Philip +at that moment had little mercy. Dismayed and vaguely terrified, yet too +resolute in national pride to betray his own feelings, he gave vent to +his vexation by impatience with a temperament more visibly sensitive +than his own: ‘I never thought you so mere a Frenchman,’ he said +contemptuously. ‘If you weep and wail so like a sick wench, they will +soon have their will of you! I’d have let them kill me before they +searched me. + +‘’Tis bad enough without this from you, Phil,’ said Berenger, faintly, +for he was far too much spent for resentment or self-defence, and had +only kept up before the Chevalier by dint of strong effort. Philip was +somewhat aghast, both at the involuntary gesture of pain, and at finding +there was not even spirit to be angry with him: but his very dismay +served at the moment only to feed his displeasure; and he tramped off +in his heavy boots, which he chose to wear as a proof of disdain for his +companions. He explained that M. de Ribaumont was too much fatigued to +come to supper, and he was accordingly marched along the corridor, with +the steward before him bearing a lighted torch, and two gendarmes with +halberds behind him. And in his walk he had ample time for, first, the +resolution that illness, and not dejection, should have all the credit +of Berenger’s absence; then for recollecting of how short standing +had been his brother’s convalescence; and lastly, for a fury of +self-execration for his own unkindness, rude taunts, and neglect of the +recurring illness. He would have turned about and gone back at once, but +the two gendarmes were close behind, and he knew Humfrey would attend to +his brother; so he walked on to the hall--a handsome chamber, hung with +armour and spoils of hunting, with a few pictures on the panels, and a +great carved music-gallery at one end. The table was laid out somewhat +luxuriously for four, according to the innovation which was beginning to +separate the meals of the grandees from those of their household. + +Great concern was expressed by the Chevalier, as Philip, in French, much +improved since the time of his conversation with Madame de Selinville, +spoke of his brother’s indisposition, saying with emphasis, as he glared +at Captain Delarue, that Maitre Pare had forbidden all exposure to +mid-day heat, and that all their journeys had been made in morning or +evening coolness. ‘My young friend,’ as his host called him, ‘should, +he was assured, have mentioned this, since Captain Delarue had no +desire but to make his situation as little painful as possible.’ And +the Chevalier sent his steward at once to offer everything the house +contained that his prisoner could relish for supper; and then anxiously +questioned Philip on his health and diet, obtaining very short and glum +answers. The Chevalier and the captain glanced at each other with little +shrugs; and Philip, becoming conscious of his shock hair, splashed +doublet, and dirty boots, had vague doubts whether his English dignity +were not being regarded as English lubberliness; but, of course, he +hated the two Frenchmen all the more, and received their civility +with greater gruffness. They asked him the present object of his +journey--though, probably, the Chevalier knew it before, and he told of +the hope that they had of finding the child at Lucon. + +‘Vain, of course?’ said the Chevalier. ‘Poor infant! It is well for +itself, as for the rest of us, that its troubles were ended long ago.’ + +Philip started indignantly. + +‘Does your brother still nurture any vain hope?’ said the Chevalier. + +‘Not vain, I trust,’ said Philip. + +‘Indeed! Who can foolishly have so inspired him with a hope that merely +wears out his youth, and leads him into danger?’ + +Philip held his tongue, resolved to be impenetrable; and he was so far +successful, that the Chevalier merely became convinced that the brothers +were not simply riding to La Rochelle to embark for England, but had +some hope and purpose in view; though as to what that might be, Philip’s +bluff replies and stubborn silence were baffling. + +After the meal, the Chevalier insisted on coming to see how his guest +fared; and Philip could not prevent him. They found Berenger sitting on +the side of his bed, having evidently just started up on hearing their +approach. Otherwise he did not seem to have moved since Philip left him; +he had not attempted to undress; and Humfrey told Philip that not a word +had been extracted from him, but commands to let him alone. + +However, he had rallied his forces to meet the Chevalier, and answered +manfully to his excuses for the broiling ride to which he had been +exposed, that it mattered not, the effect would pass, it was a mere +chance; and refused all offers of medicaments, potions, and TISANES, +till his host at length left the room with a most correct exchange of +good nights. + +‘Berry, Berry, what a brute I have been!’ cried Philip. + +‘Foolish lad!’ and Berenger half smiled. ‘Now help me to bed, for the +room turns round!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. CAGED IN THE BLACKBIRD’S NEST + + + + Let him shun castles; +Safer shall he be on the sandy plain Than where castles mounted +stand.--KING HENRY VI. + + +While Berenger slept a heavy morning’s sleep after a resless night, +Philip explored the narrow domain above and below. The keep and its +little court had evidently been the original castle, built when the +oddly-nicknamed Fulkes and Geoffreys of Anjou had been at daggers drawn +with the Dukes of Normandy and Brittany, but it had since, like most +other such ancient feudal fortresses, become the nucleus of walls and +buildings for use, defence, or ornament, that lay beneath him like a +spider’s web, when he had gained the roof of the keep, garnished with +pepper-box turrets at each of the four angles. Beyond lay the green +copses and orchards of the Bocage, for it was true, as he had at first +suspected, that this was the chateau de Nid de Merle, and that Berenger +was a captive in his wife’s own castle. + +Chances of escape were the lad’s chief thought, but the building on +which he stood went sheer down for a considerable way. Then on the north +side there came out the sharp, high-pitched, tiled roof of the _corps du +logis_; on the south, another roof, surmounted by a cross at the gable, +and evidently belonging to the chapel; on the other two sides lay +courts--that to the east, a stable-yard; that to the west, a small +narrow, chilly-looking, paved inclosure, with enormously-massive walls, +the doorway walled up, and looking like a true prison-yard. Beyond +this wall--indeed, on every side--extended offices, servants’ houses, +stables, untidy desolate-looking gardens, and the whole was inclosed by +the white wall with flanking red-tiled turrets, whose gaudy appearance +had last night made Philip regard the whole as a flimsy, Frenchchified +erection, but he now saw it to be of extremely solid stone and lime, +and with no entrance but the great barbican gateway they had entered by; +moreover, with a yawning dry moat all round. Wherever he looked he saw +these tall, pointed red caps, resembling, he thought, those worn by +the victims of an _auto-de-fe_, as one of Walsingham’s secretaries had +described them to him; and he ground his teeth at them, as thought they +grinned at him like emissaries of the Inquisition. + +Descending, he found Berenger dressing in haste to avoid receiving an +invalid visit from the Chevalier, looking indeed greatly shaken, but +hardly so as would have been detected by eyes that had not seen him +during his weeks of hope and recovery. He was as resolved as Philip +could wish against any sign of weakness before his enemy, and altogether +disclaimed illness, refusing the stock of cooling drinks, cordials, and +febrifuges, which the Chevalier said had been sent by his sister the +Abbess of Bellaise. He put the subject of his health aside, only asking +if this were the day that the gendarme-captain would return to +Paris, and then begging to see that officer, so as to have a distinct +understanding of the grounds of his imprisonment. The captain had, +however, been a mere instrument; and when Philip clamoured to be taken +before the next justice of the peace, even Berenger smiled at him for +thinking that such a being existed in France. The only cause alleged was +the vague but dangerous suspicion of conveying correspondence between +England and the heretics, and this might become extremely perilous to +one undeniably half English, regarded as whole Huguenot, caught on +the way to La Rochelle with a letter to La Noue in his pocket; and, +moreover, to one who had had a personal affray with a king famous for +storing up petty offences, whom the last poor king had favoured, +and who, in fine, had claims to estates that could not spared to the +Huguenot interest. + +He was really not sure that there was not some truth in the professions +of the Chevalier being anxious to protect him from the Queen-mother and +the Guises; he had never been able to divest himself of a certain trust +in his old kinsman’s friendliness, and he was obliged to be beholden +to him for the forms in which to couch his defence. At the same time he +wrote to Sir Francis Walsingham, and to his grandfather, but with great +caution, lest his letters should be inspected by his enemies, and with +the less hope of their availing him because it was probable that the +Ambassador would return home on the king’s death. No answer could be +expected for at least a fortnight, and even then it was possible that +the Queen-mother might choose to refer the cause to King Henry, who was +then in Poland. + +Berenger wrote these letters with much thought and care, but when they +were once sealed, he collapsed again into despair and impatience, and +frantically paced the little court as if he would dash himself against +the walls that detained him from Eustacie; then threw himself moodily +into a chair, hid his face in his crossed arms, and fell a prey to all +the wretched visions called up by an excited brain. + +However, he was equally alive with Philip to the high-spirited +resolution that his enemies should not perceive or triumph in his +dejection. He showed himself at the noon-day dinner, before Captain +Delarue departed, grave and silent, but betraying no agitation; and he +roused himself from his sad musings at the supper-hour, to arrange his +hair, and assume the ordinary dress of gentlemen in the evening; though +Philip laughed at the roses adorning his shoes, and his fresh ruff, +as needless attentions to an old ruffian like the Chevalier. However, +Philip started when he entered the hall, and beheld, not the Chevalier +alone, but with him the beautiful lady of the velvet coach, and another +stately, extremely handsome dame, no longer in her first youth, and +in costly black and white garments. When the Chevalier called her his +sister, Madame de Bellaise, Philip had no notion that she was anything +but a widow, living a secular life; and though a couple of nuns attended +her, their dress was so much less conventual than Cecily’s that he did +not at first find them out. It was explained that Madame de Selinville +was residing with her aunt, and that, having come to visit her father, +he had detained the ladies to supper, hoping to enliven the sojourn of +his _beaux cousins_. + +Madame de Selinville, looking anxiously at Berenger, hoped she saw him +in better health. He replied, stiffly, that he was perfectly well; +and then, by way of safety, repaired to the society of the Abbess, who +immediately began plying him with questions about England, its court, +and especially the secret marriage of Queen Elisabeth and ‘_ce_ Comte +de Dudley,’ on which she was so minutely informed as to put him to the +blush. Then she was very curious about the dispersed convents, and how +many of the nuns had married; and she seemed altogether delighted to +have secured the attention of a youth from the outer world. His soul at +first recoiled from her as one of Eustacie’s oppressors, and from her +unconvent-like talk; and yet he could not but think her a good-natured +person, and wonder if she could rally have been hard upon his poor +little wife. And she, who had told Eustacie she would strangle with her +own hands the scion of the rival house!--she, like most women, was +much more bitter against an unseen being out of reach, than towards a +courteously-mannered, pale, suffering-looking youth close beside her. +She had enough affection for Eustacie to have grieved much at her +wanderings and at her fate; and now the sorrow-stricken look that by no +effort could be concealed really moved her towards the youth bereaved +husband. Besides, were not all feuds on the point of being made up by +the excellent device concocted between her brother and her niece? + +Meantime, Philip was in raptures with the kindness of the beautiful +Madame de Selinville. He, whom the Mistresses Walsingham treated as a +mere clumsy boy, was promoted by her manner to be a man and a cavalier. +He blushed up to the roots of his hair and looked sheepish whenever one +of her entrancing smiles lit upon him; but then she inquired after his +brother so cordially, she told him so openly how brilliant had been +Berenger’s career at the court, she regretted so heartily their present +danger and detention, and promised so warmly to use her interest with +Queen Catherine, that in the delight of being so talked to, he +forgot his awkwardness and spoke freely and confidentially, maybe too +confidentially, for he caught Berenger frowning at him, and made a +sudden halt in his narrative, disconcerted but very angry with his +brother for his distrust. + +When the ladies had ridden away to the convent in the summer evening, +and the two brothers had returned to their prison, Philip would have +begun to rave about Madame de Selinville, but his mouth was stopped at +once with ‘Don’t be such a fool, Phil!’ and when Perrine shut his eyes, +leant back, and folded his arms together, there was no more use in +talking to him. + +This exceeding defection continued for a day or two, while Berenger’s +whole spirit chafed in agony at his helplessness, and like demons there +ever haunted him the thoughts of what might betide Eustacie, young, +fair, forsaken, and believing herself a widow. Proudly defiant as +he showed himself to all eyes beyond his tower, he seemed to be fast +gnawing and pining himself away in the anguish he suffered through these +long days of captivity. + +Perhaps it was Philip’s excitement about any chance of meeting Madame +de Selinville that first roused him from the contemplation of his own +misery. It struck him that if he did not rouse himself to exert his +influence, the boy, left to no companionship save what he could make for +himself, might be led away by intercourse with the gendarmes, or by the +blandishments of Diane, whatever might be her game. He must be watched +over, and returned to Sir Marmaduke the same true-hearted honest lad +who had left home. Nor had Berenger lain so long under Cecily St. John’s +tender watching without bearing away some notes of patience, trust, and +dutifulness that returned upon him as his mind recovered tone after the +first shock. The whispers that had bidden him tarry the Lord’s leisure, +be strong, and commit his way to Him who could bring it to pass, and +could save Eustacie as she had already been saved, returned to him once +more: he chid himself for his faintness of heart, rallied his powers, +and determined that cheerfulness, dutifulness, and care for Philip +should no longer fail. + +So he reviewed his resources, and in the first place arranged for a +brief daily worship with his two English fellow-prisoners, corresponding +to the home hours of chapel service. Then he proposed to Philip to spend +an hour every day over the study of the Latin Bible; and when Philip +showed himself reluctant to give up his habit of staring over the +battlements, he represented that an attack on their faith was not so +improbable but that they ought to be prepared for it. + +‘I’m quite prepared,’ quoth Philip; ‘I shall not listen to a word they +say.’ + +However, he submitted to this, but was more contumacious as to +Berenger’s other proposal of profiting by Sidney’s copy of Virgil. +Here at least he was away from Mr. Adderley and study, and it passed +endurance to have Latin and captivity both at once. He was more obliged +for Berenger’s offer to impart to him the instruction in fencing he +had received during his first visit to Paris; the Chevalier made no +difficulty about lending them foils, and their little court became the +scene of numerous encounters, as well as of other games and exercises. +More sedentary sports were at their service, chess, tables, dice, or +cards, but Philip detested these, and they were only played in the +evening, or on a rainy afternoon, by Berenger and the Chevalier. + +It was clearly no part of the old gentleman’s plan to break their health +or spirits. He insisted on taking them out riding frequently, though +always with four gendarmes with loaded arquebuses, so as to preclude +all attempt at escape, or conversation with the peasants. The rides were +hateful to both youths, but Berenger knew that so many hours of tedium +were thus disposed of, and hoped also to acquire some knowledge of +the country; indeed, he looked at every cottage and every peasant with +affectionate eyes, as probably having sheltered Eustacie; and Philip, +after one visit paid to the convent at Bellaise, was always in hopes of +making such another. His boyish admiration of Madame de Selinville was +his chief distraction, coming on in accesses whenever there was a hope +of seeing her, and often diverting Berenger by its absurdities, even +though at other times he feared that the lad might be led away by it, or +dissension sown between them. Meetings were rare--now and then Madame +de Selinville would appear at dinner or at supper as her father’s +guest; and more rarely, the Chevalier would turn his horse’s head in the +direction of Bellaise, and the three gentlemen would be received in the +unpartitioned parlour, and there treated to such lemon cakes as had been +the ruin of La Sablerie; but in general the castle and the convent had +little intercourse, or only just enough to whet the appetite of the +prisoners for what constituted their only variety. + +Six weeks had lagged by before any answer from Paris was received, and +then there was no reply from Walsingham, who had, it appeared, returned +home immediately after King Charles’s funeral. The letter from the +Council bore that the Queen-mother was ready to accept the Baron de +Ribaumont’s excuses in good part, and to consider his youth; and she +had no doubt of his being treated with the like indulgence by the +King, provided he would prove himself a loyal subject, by embracing the +Catholic faith, renouncing all his illegitimate claims to the estates of +Nid de Merle, and, in pledge of his sincerity, wedding his cousin, +the Countess de Selinville, so soon as a dispensation should have been +procured. On no other consideration could he be pardoned or set at +liberty. + +‘Then,’ said Berenger, slowly, ‘a prisoner I must remain until it be the +will of Heaven to open the doors.’ + +‘Fair nephew!’ exclaimed the Chevalier, ‘make no rash replies. Bethink +you to what you expose yourself by obstinacy; I may no longer be able to +protect you when the King returns. And he further went on to represent +that, by renouncing voluntarily all possible claims on the Nid de Merle +estates, the Baron would save the honour of poor Eustacie (which indeed +equally concerned the rest of the family), since they then would gladly +drop all dispute of the validity of the marriage; and the lands of +Selinville would be an ample equivalent for these, as well as for all +expectations in England. + +‘Sir, it is impossible!’ said Berenger. ‘My wife lives.’ + +‘Comment! when you wear mourning for her.’ + +‘I wear black because I have been able to procure nothing else since I +have been convinced that she did not perish at La Sablerie. I was on my +way to seek her when I was seized and detained here.’ + +‘Where would you have sought her, my poor cousin?’ compassionately asked +the Chevalier. + +‘That I know not. She may be in England by this time; but that she +escaped from La Sablerie, I am well assured.’ + +‘Alas! my poor friend, you feed on delusion. I have surer evidence--you +shall see the man yourself--one of my son’s people, who was actually at +the assault, and had strict orders to seek and save her. Would that I +could feel the least hope left!’ + +‘Is the man here? Let me see him,’ said Berenger, hastily. + +He was at once sent for, and proved to be one of the stable servants, a +rough, soldierly-looking man, who made no difficulty in telling that M. +de Nid de Merle had bidden his own troop to use every effort to reach +the Widow Laurent’s house, and secure the lady. They had made for +it, but missed the way, and met with various obstacles; and when they +reached it, it was already in flames, and he had seen for a moment +Mademoiselle de Nid de Merle, whom he well knew by sight, with an infant +in her arms at an upper window. He had called to her by name, and was +about to send for a ladder, when recognizing the Ribaumont colours, she +had turned back, and thrown herself and her child into the flames. M. de +Nid de Merle was frantic when he heard of it, and they had searched for +the remains among the ruins; but, bah! it was like a lime-kiln, nothing +was to be found--all was calcined. + +‘No fragment left?’ said Berenger; ‘not a corner of tile or beam?’ + +‘Not so much wood as you could boil an egg with; I will swear it on the +Mass.’ + +‘That is needless,’ said Berenger. ‘I have seen the spot myself. That is +all I desired to ask.’ + +The Chevalier would have taken his hand and condoled with him over +the horrible story; but he drew back, repeating that he had seen Widow +Laurent’s house, and that he saw that some parts of the man’s story were +so much falsified that he could not believe the rest. Moreover, he knew +that Eustacie had not been in the town at the time of the siege. + +Now the Chevalier _bona fide_ believed the man’s story, so far as that +he never doubted that Eustacie had perished, and he looked on Berenger’s +refusal to accept the tale as the mournful last clinging to a vain hope. +In his eyes, the actual sight of Eustacie, and the total destruction of +the house, were mere matters of embellishment, possibly untrue, but not +invalidating the main fact. He only said, ‘Well, my friend, I will not +press you while the pain of this narration is still fresh.’ + +‘Thank you, sir; but this is not pain, for I believe not a word of it; +therefore it is impossible for me to entertain the proposal, even if I +could forsake my faith or my English kindred. You remember, sir, that +I returned this same answer at Paris, when I had no hope that my wife +survived.’ + +‘True, my fair cousin, but I fear time will convince you that this +constancy is unhappily misplaced. You shall have time to consider; and +when it is proved to you that my poor niece is out of the reach of your +fidelity, and when you have become better acquainted with the claims +of the Church to your allegiance, then may it only prove that your +conversion does not come too late. I have the honour to take my leave.’ + +‘One moment more, sir. Is there no answer as to my brother?’ + +‘None, cousin. As I told you, your country has at present no Ambassador; +but, of course, on your fulfillment of the conditions, he would be +released with you.’ + +‘So,’ said Philip, when the old knight had quitted the room, ‘of course +you cannot marry while Eustacie lives; but if---’ + +‘Not another word, profane boy!’ angrily cried Berenger. + +‘I was only going to say, it is a pity of one so goodly not to bring her +over to the true faith, and take her to England.’ + +‘Much would she be beholden to you!’ said Berenger. ‘So!’ he added, +sighing, ‘I had little hope but that it would be thus. I believe it is +all a web of this old plotter’s weaving, and that the Queen-mother acts +in it at his request. He wants only to buy me off with his daughter’s +estates from asserting my claim to this castle and lands; and I trow he +will never rise up here till--till---’ + +‘Till when, Berry?’ + +‘Till mayhap my grandfather can move the Queen to do something for +us; or till Madame de Selinville sees a face she likes better than her +brother’s carving; or, what can I tell? till malice is tired out, and +Heaven’s will sets us free. May Eustacie only have reached home! But I’m +sorry for you, my poor Phil.’ + +‘Never heed, brother,’ said Philip; ‘what is prison to me, so that I can +now and then see those lovely eyes?’ + +And the languishing air of the clumsy lad was so comical as to beguile +Berenger into a laugh. Yet Berenger’s own feeling would go back to his +first meeting with Diane; and as he thought of the eyes then fixed on +him, he felt that he was under a trial that might become more severe. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. THE DARK POOL OF THE FUTURE + + + + Triumph, triumph, only she + That knit his bonds can set him free. + --SOUTHEY + + +No change was made in the life of the captives of Nid de Merle after +the answer from Paris, except that Pere Bonami, who had already once +or twice dined at the Chevalier’s table, was requested to make formal +exposition of the errors of the Reformers and of the tenets of his own +Church to the Baron de Ribaumont. + +Philip took such good care not to be deluded that, though he sat by to +see fair play, yet it was always with his elbows on the table and +his fingers in his ears, regardless of appearing to the priest in the +character of the deaf adder. After all, he was not the object, and good +Pere Bonami at first thought the day his own, when he found that +almost all his arguments against Calvinism were equally impressed upon +Berenger’s mind, but the differences soon revealed themselves; and the +priest, though a good man, was not a very happily-chosen champion, for +he was one of the old-fashioned, scantily-instructed country priests, +who were more numerous before the Jesuit revival of learning, and knew +nothing of controversy save that adapted to the doctrines of Calvin; so +that in dealing with an Anglican of the school of Ridley and Hooker, +it was like bow ad arrow against sword. And tin those days of change, +controversial reading was one of the primary studies even of young +laymen, and Lord Walwyn, with a view to his grandson’s peculiar +position, had taken care that he should be well instructed, so that he +was not at all unequal to the contest. Moreover, apart from argument, +he clung as a point of honour to the Church as to the wife that he had +accepted in his childhood; and often tried to recall the sketch that +Philip Sidney had once given him of a tale that a friend of his designed +to turn into a poem, like Ariosto’s, in _terza rima_, of a Red Cross +knight separated from his Una as the true faith, and tempted by a +treacherous Duessa, who impersonated at once Falsehood and Rome. And he +knew so well that the last relaxation of his almost terrified resistance +would make him so entirely succumb to Diane’s beauty and brilliancy, +that he kept himself stiffly frigid and reserved. + +Diane never openly alluded to the terms on which he stood, but he often +found gifts from unknown hands placed in his room. The books which he +had found there were changed when he had had time to study them; and +marks were placed in some of the most striking passages. They were of +the class that turned the brain of the Knight of La Mancha, but with a +predominance of the pastoral, such as Diane of George of Montemayor and +his numerous imitators--which Philip thought horrible stuff--enduring +nothing but a few of the combats of Amadis de Gaul or Palmerin of +England, until he found that Madame de Selinville prodigiously admired +the ‘silly swains more silly than their sheep,’ and was very anxious +that M. le Baron should be touched by their beauties; whereupon honest +Philip made desperate efforts to swallow them in his brother’s stead, +but was always found fast asleep in the very middle of arguments between +Damon and Thyrsis upon the _devoirs_ of love, or the mournings of some +disconsolate nymph over her jealousies of a favoured rival. + +One day, a beautiful ivory box, exhaling sweet perfume, appeared in the +prison chamber, and therewith a sealed letter in verse, containing an +affecting description of how Corydon had been cruelly torn by the lions +in endeavouring to bear away Sylvie from her cavern, how Sylvie had been +rent from him and lost, and how vainly he continued to bewail her, and +disregard the loving lament of Daphne, who had ever mourned and pined +for him as she kept her flock, made the rivulets, the brooks, the +mountains re-echo with her sighs and plaints, and had wandered through +the hills and valleys, gathering simples wherewith she had compounded a +balsam that might do away with the scars that the claws of the lions had +left, so that he might again appear with the glowing cheeks and radiant +locks that had excited the envy of the god of day. + +Berenger burst out laughing over the practical part of this poetical +performance, and laughed the more at Philip’s hurt, injured air at his +mirth. Philip, who would have been the first to see the absurdity in any +other Daphne, thought this a passing pleasant device, and considered it +very unkind in his brother not even to make experiment of the balsam +of simples, but to declare that he had much rather keep his scars for +Eustacie’s sake than wear a smooth face to please Diane. + +Still Berenger’s natural courtesy stood in his way. He could not help +being respectful and attentive to the old Chevalier, when their terms +were, apparently at least, those of host and guest; and to a lady he +COULD not be rude and repellant, though he could be reserved. So, when +the kinsfolk met, no stranger would have discovered that one was a +prisoner and the others his captors. + +One August day, when Madame de Selinville and her lady attendants were +supping at the castle at the early hour of six, a servant brought in +word that an Italian pedlar craved leave to display his wares. He +was welcome, both for need’s sake and for amusement, and was readily +admitted. He was a handsome olive-faced Italian, and was followed by a +little boy with a skin of almost Moorish dye--and great was the display +at once made on the tables, of + + ‘Lawn as white as driven snow, + Cyprus, black as e’er was crow; + Gloves as sweet as fragrant posies, + Masks for faces and for noses;’ + +and there was a good deal of the eager, desultory bargaining that +naturally took place where purchasing was an unusual excitement and +novelty, and was to form a whole evening’s amusement. Berenger, while +supplying the defects of his scanty traveling wardrobe, was trying to +make out whether he had seen the man before, wondering if he were +the same whom he had met in the forest of Montipipeau, though a few +differences in dress, hair, and beard made him somewhat doubtful. + +‘Perfumes? Yes, lady, I have store of perfumes: ambergris and violet +dew, and the Turkish essence distilled from roses; yea, and the finest +spirit of the Venus myrtle-tree, the secret known to the Roman dames of +old, whereby they secured perpetual beauty and love--though truly Madame +should need no such essence. That which nature has bestowed on her +secures to her all hearts--and one valued more than all.’ + +‘Enough,’ said Diane, blushing somewhat, though with an effort at +laughing off his words; ‘these are the tricks of your trade.’ + +‘Madame is incredulous; yet, lady, I have been in the East. Yonder boy +comes from the land where there are spells that make known the secrets +of lives.’ + +The old Chevalier, who had hitherto been taken up with the abstruse +calculation--derived from his past days of economy--how much ribbon +would be needed to retrim his murrey _just-au-corps_, here began to lend +an ear, though saying nothing. Philip looked on in open-eyed wonder, and +nudged his brother, who muttered in return, ‘Jugglery!’ + +‘Ah, the fair company are all slow to believe,’ said the pedlar. ‘Hola, +Alessio!’ and taking a glove that Philip had left on the table, he held +it to the boy. A few unintelligible words passed between them; then the +boy pointed direct to Philip, and waved his hand northwards. ‘He says +the gentleman who owns this glove comes from the North, from far away,’ +interpreted the Italian; then as the boy made the gesture of walking in +chains, ‘that he is a captive.’ + +‘Ay,’ cried Philip, ‘right, lad; and can he tell how long I shall be +so?’ + +‘Things yet to come,’ said the mountebank, ‘are only revealed after long +preparation. For them must he gaze into the dark poor of the future. +The present and the past he can divine by the mere touch of what has +belonged to the person.’ + +‘It is passing strange,’ said Philip to Madame de Selinville. ‘You +credit it, Madame?’ + +‘Ah, have we not seen the wonders come to pass that a like diviner +fortold to the Queen-mother?’ said Diane: ‘her sons should be all +kings--that was told her when the eldest was yet Dauphin.’ + +‘And there is only one yet to come,’ said Philip, awe-struck. ‘But see, +what has he now?’ + +‘Veronique’s kerchief,’ returned Madame de Selinville, as the Italian +began to interpret the boy’s gesture. + +‘Pretty maidens, he says, serve fair ladies--bear tokens for them. This +damsel has once been the bearer of a bouquet of heather of the pink and +white, whose bells were to ring hope.’ + +‘Eh, eh, Madame, it is true?’ cried Veronique, crimson with surprise and +alarm. ‘M. le Baron knows it is true.’ + +Berenger had started at this revelation, and uttered an inarticulate +exclamation; but at that moment the boy, in whose hand his master +had placed a crown from the money newly paid, began to make vehement +gestures, which the main interpreted. ‘_Le Balafre_, he says, pardon +me, gentlemen, _le Balafre_ could reveal even a deeper scar of the +heart than of the visage’--and the boy’s brown hand was pressed on his +heart--‘yet truly there is yet hope (_esperance_) to be found. Yes’--as +the boy put his hand to his neck--‘he bears a pearl, parted from its +sister pearls. Where they are, there is hope. Who can miss Hope, who has +sought it at a royal death-bed?’ + +‘Ah, where is it?’ Berenger could not help exclaiming. + +‘Sir,’ said the pedlar, ‘as I told Messieurs and Mesdames before, +the spirits that cast the lights of the future on the dark pool need +invocation. Ere he can answer M. le Baron’s demands, he and I must have +time and seclusion. If Monsieur le Chevalier will grant us an empty +room, there will we answer all queries on which the spirits will throw +light.’ + +‘And how am I to know that you will not bring the devil to shatter the +castle, my friend?’ demanded the Chevalier. ‘Or more likely still, that +you are not laughing all the time at these credulous boys and ladies?’ + +‘Of that, sir, you may here convince yourself,’ said the mountebank, +putting into his hand a sort of credential in Italian, signed by +Renato di Milano, the Queen’s perfumer, testifying to the skill of his +compatriot Ercole Stizzito both in perfumery, cosmetics, and in the +secrets of occult sciences. + +The Chevalier was no Italian scholar, and his daughter interpreted the +scroll to him, in a rapid low voice, adding, ‘I have had many dealings +with Rene of Milan, father. I know he speaks sooth. There can be no harm +in letting the poor man play out his play--all the castle servants will +be frantic to have their fortunes told.’ + +‘I must speak with the fellow first, daughter,’ said the Chevalier. ‘He +must satisfy me that he has no unlawful dealings that could bring the +Church down on us.’ And he looked meaningly at the mountebank, who +replied by a whole muster-roll of ecclesiastics, male and female, who +had heard and approved his predictions. + +‘A few more words with thee, fellow,’ said the Chevalier, pointing the +way to one of the rooms opening out of the hall. ‘As master of the house +I must be convinced of his honesty,’ he added. ‘If I am satisfied, then +who will may seek to hear their fortune.’ + +Chevalier, man and boy disappeared, and Philip was the first to exclaim, +‘A strange fellow! What will he tell us? Madame, shall you hear him?’ + +‘That depends on my father’s report,’ she said. ‘And yet,’ sadly and +pensively, ‘my future is dark and void enough. Why should I vex myself +with hearing it?’ + +‘Nay, it may brighten,’ said Philip. + +‘Scarcely, while hearts are hard,’ she murmured with a slight shake of +the head, that Philip thought indescribably touching; but Berenger was +gathering his purchases together, and did not see. ‘And you, brother,’ +said Philip, ‘you mean to prove him?’ + +‘No,’ said Berenger. ‘Have you forgotten, Phil, the anger we met with, +when we dealt with the gipsy at Hurst Fair?’ + +‘Pshaw, Berry, we are past flogging now.’ + +‘Out of reach, Phil, of the rod, but scarce of the teaching it struck +into us.’ + +‘What?’ said Philip, sulkily. + +‘That divining is either cozening manor forsaking God, Phil. Either it +is falsehood, or it is a lying wonder of the devil.’ + +‘But, Berry, this man is not cheat.’ + +‘Then he is worse.’ + +‘Only, turn not away, brother. How should he have known things that even +I know not?--the heather.’ + +‘No marvel in that,’ said Berenger. ‘This is the very man I bought +Annora’s fan from; he was prowling round Montpipeau, and my heather was +given to Veronique with little secrecy. And as to the royal deathbed, it +was Rene, his master, who met me there.’ + +‘Then you think it mere cozeing? If so, we should find it out.’ + +‘I don’t reckon myself keener than an accomplished Italian mountebank,’ +said Berenger, dryly. + +Further conference was cut short by the return of the Chevalier, saying, +in his paternal genial way, ‘Well, children, I have examined the fellow +and his credentials, and for those who have enough youth and hope to +care to have the future made known to them, bah! it is well.’ + +‘Is it sorcery, sir?’ asked Philip, anxiously. + +The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders. ‘What know I?’ he said. ‘For those +who have a fine nose for brimstone there may be, but he assures me it is +but the white magic practiced in Egypt, and the boy is Christian!’ + +‘Did you try this secret, father?’ inquired Madame de Selinville. + +‘I, my daughter? An old man’s fortune is in his children. What have I to +ask?’ + +‘I--I scarcely like to be the first!’ said the lady, eager but +hesitating. ‘Veronique, you would have your fortune told?’ + +‘I will be the first,’ said Philip, stepping forward manfully. ‘I will +prove him for you, lady, and tell you whether he be a cozener or not, or +if his magic be fit for you to deal with.’ + +And confident in the inherent intuition of a plain Englishman, as +well as satisfied to exercise his resolution for once in opposition to +Berenger’s opinion, Master Thistlewood stepped towards the closet where +the Italian awaited his clients, and Berenger knew that it would be +worse than useless to endeavour to withhold him. He only chafed at +the smile which passed between father and daughter at this doughty +self-assertion. + +There was a long silence. Berenger sat with his eyes fixed on the window +where the twilight horizon was still soft and bright with the pearly +gold of the late sunset, thinking with an intensity of yearning what +it would be could he truly become certain of Eustacie’s present doings; +questioning whether he would try to satisfy that longing by the doubtful +auguries of the diviner, and then recollecting how he had heard from +wrecked sailors that to seek to delude their thirst with sea-water did +but aggravate their misery. He knew that whatever he might hear would +be unworthy of confidence. Either it merely framed to soothe and please +him--or, were it a genuine oracle, he had no faith in the instinct that +was to perceive it, but what he HAD faith in was the Divine protection +over his lost ones. ‘No,’ he thought to himself, ‘I will not by a +presumptuous sin, in my own impatience, risk incurring woes on them that +deal with familiar spirits and wizards that peep and mutter. If ever +I am to hear of Eustacie again, it shall be by God’s will, not the +devil’s.’ + +Diane de Selinville had been watching his face all the time, and now +said, with that almost timid air of gaiety that she wore when addressing +him: ‘You too, cousin, are awaiting Monsieur Philippe’s report to decide +whether to look into the pool of mystery.’ + +‘Not at all, Madame,’ said Berenger, gravely. ‘I do not understand white +magic.’ + +‘Our good cousin has been too well bred among the Reformers to +condescend to our little wickednesses, daughter,’ said the Chevalier; +and the sneer-much like that which would await a person now who scrupled +at joining in table-turning or any form of spiritualism--purpled +Berenger’s scar, now his only manner of blushing; but he instantly +perceived that it was the Chevalier’s desire that he should consult the +conjurer, and therefore became the more resolved against running into a +trap. + +‘I am sure,’ said Madame de Selinville, earnestly, though with an +affectation of lightness, ‘a little wickedness is fair when there is a +great deal at stake. For my part, I would not hesitate long, to find out +how soon the King will relent towards my fair cousin here!’ + +‘That, Madame,’ said Berenger, with the same grave dryness, ‘is likely +to be better known to other persons than this wandering Greek boy.’ + +Here Philip’s step was heard returning hastily. He was pale, and looked +a good deal excited, so that Madame de Selinville uttered a little cry, +and exclaimed, ‘Ah! is it so dreadful then?’ + +‘No, no, Madame,’ said Philip, turning round, with a fervour and +confidence he had never before shown. ‘On my word, there is nothing +formidable. You see nothing--nothing but the Italia and the boy. The boy +gazes into a vessel of some black liquid, and sees--sees there all you +would have revealed. Ah!’ + +‘Then you believe?’ asked Madame de Selinville. + +‘It cannot be false,’ answered Philip; ‘he told me everything. Things he +could not have known. My very home, my father’s house, passed in review +before that strange little blackamoor’s eyes; where I--though I would +have given worlds to see it--beheld only the lamp mirrored in the dark +pool.’ + +‘How do you know it was your father’s house?’ said Berenger. + +‘I could not doubt. Just to test the fellow, I bade him ask for my +native place. The little boy gazed, smiled, babbled his gibberish, +pointed. The man said he spoke of a fair mansion among green fields and +hills, “a grand _cavalier embonpoint_,”--those were his very words,--at +the door, with a tankard in one hand. Ah! my dear father, why could not +I see him too? But who could mistake him or the Manor?’ + +‘And did he speak of future as well as past?’ said Diane. + +‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Philip, with more agitation. ‘Lady, that will you +know for yourself.’ + +‘It was not dreadful?’ she said, rising. + +‘Oh no!’ and Philip had become crimson, and hesitated; ‘certes, not +dreadful. But---I must not say more.’ + +‘Save good night,’ said Berenger, rising; ‘See, our gendarmes are again +looking as if we had long exceeded their patience. It is an hour later +than we are wont to retire.’ + +‘If it be your desire to consult this mysterious fellow now you have +heard your brother’s report, my dear Baron,’ said the Chevalier, ‘the +gendarmes may devour their impatience a little longer.’ + +‘Thanks, sir,’ said Berenger; ‘but I am not tempted,’ and he gave the +usual signal to the gendarmes, who, during meals, used to stand as +sentries at the great door of the hall. + +‘It might settle your mind,’ muttered Philip, hesitating. ‘And +yet--yet---’ + +But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be escorted with +his brother along the passages to their own chamber, where he threw +himself into a chair with a long sigh, and did not speak. Berenger +meantime opened the Bible, glanced over the few verses he meant to read, +found the place in the Prayer-book, and was going to the stairs to call +Humfrey, when Philip broke forth: ‘Wait, Berry; don’t be in such haste.’ + +‘What, you want time to lose the taste of your dealings with the devil?’ +said Berenger, smiling. + +‘Pshaw! No devil in the matter,’ testily said Philip. ‘No, I was only +wishing you had not had a Puritan fit, and seen and heard for yourself. +Then I should not have had to tell you,’ and he sighed. + +‘I have no desire to be told,’ said Berenger, who had become more fixed +in the conviction that it was an imposture. + +‘No desire! Ah! I have none when I knew what it was. But you ought to +know.’ + +‘Well,’ said Berenger, ‘you will burst anon if I open not my ears.’ + +‘Dear Berry, speak not thus. It will be the worse for you when you +do hear. Alack, Berenger, all ours have been vain hopes. I asked for +HER--and the boy fell well-nigh into convulsions of terror as he gazed; +spoke of flames and falling houses. That was wherefore I pressed you not +again--it would have wrung your heart too much. The boy fairly wept and +writhed himself, crying out in his tongue for pity on the fair lady and +the little babe in the burning house. Alack! brother,’ said Philip, a +little hurt that his brother had not changed countenance. + +‘This is the lying tale of the man-at-arms which our own eyes +contradicted,’ said Berenger; ‘and no doubt was likewise inspired by the +Chevalier.’ + +‘See the boy, brother! How should he have heard the Chevalier? Nay, +you might hug your own belief, but it is hard that we should both be in +durance for your mere dream that she lives.’ + +‘Come, Phil, it will be the devil indeed that sows dissension between +us,’ said Berenger. ‘You know well enough that were it indeed with my +poor Eustacie as they would fain have us believe, rather than give +up her fair name I would not in prison for life. Or would you have me +renounce my faith, or wed Madame de Selinville upon the witness of a +pool of ink that I am a widower?’ he added, almost laughing. + +‘For that matter,’ muttered Philip, a good deal ashamed and half +affronted, ‘you know I value the Protestant faith so that I never heard +a word from the will old priest. Nevertheless, the boy, when I asked of +our release, saw the gates set open by Love.’ + +‘What did Love look like in the pool? Had he wings like the Cupids in +the ballets at the Louvre?’ asked Berenger provokingly. + +‘I tell you I saw nothing,’ said Philip, tartly: ‘this was the Italian’s +interpretation of the boy’s gesture. It was to be by means of love, he +said, and of a lady who---he made it plain enough who she was,’ added +the boy, colouring. + +‘No doubt, as the Chevalier have instructed him to say that I--I--’ he +hesitated, ‘that my--my love--I mean that he saw my shield per pale with +the field fretty and the sable leopard.’ + +‘Oh! it is to be my daughter, is it?’ said Berenger, laughing; ‘I am +very happy to entertain your proposals for her.’ + +‘Berenger, what mocking fiend has possessed you?’ cried Philip, half +angrily, half pitifully. ‘How can you so speak of that poor child?’ + +‘Because the more they try to force on me the story of her fate, the +plainer it is to me that they do not believe it. I shall find her yet, +and then, Phil, you shall have the first chance.’ + +Philip growled. + +‘Well, Phil,’ said his brother, good-humouredly, ‘any way, till this +Love comes that is to let us out, don’t let Moor or fiend come between +us. Let me keep my credence for the honest Bailli’s daughters at Lucon; +and remember I would give my life to free you, but I cannot give away my +faith.’ Philip bent his head. He was of too stubborn a mould to express +contrition or affection, but he mused for five minutes, then called +Humfrey, and at the last moment, as the heavy tread came up-stairs, he +turned round and said, ‘You’re in the right on’t there, Berry. Hap what +hap, the foul fiend may carry off the conjurer before I murmur at you +again! Still I wish you had seen him. You would know ‘tis sooth.’ + +While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamplight beaming on +his high white brow and clear eye, stood before his two comrades in +captivity, their true-hearted faces composed to reverence, and as he +read, ‘I have hated them that hold of superstitious vanities, and my +trust hath been in the Lord. I will be glad and rejoice in Thy +mercy, for Thou hast considered my trouble and hast known my soul in +adversities,’ feeling that here was the oracle by which he was willing +to abide--Diane de Selinville was entering the cabinet where the secrets +of the future were to be unveiled. + +There she stood--the beautiful court lady--her lace coif (of the Mary +of Scotland type) well framed the beautiful oval of her face, and set of +the clear olive of her complexion, softened by short jetty curls at the +temples, and lighted splendid dark eyes, and by the smiles of a +perfect pair of lips. A transparent veil hung back over the ruff like +frostwork-formed fairy wings, and over the white silk bodice and sleeves +laced with violet, and the violet skirt that fell in ample folds on the +ground; only, however, in the dim light revealing by an occasional gleam +that it was not black. It was a stately presence, yet withal there was +a tremor, a quiver of the downcast eyelids, and a trembling of the fair +hand, as though she were ill at ease; even though it was by no means the +first time she had trafficked with the dealers in mysterious arts who +swarmed around Catherine de Medicis. There were words lately uttered +that weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not forget them +in that gloomy light, as she gazed on the brown face of the Italian, +Ercole, faultless in outline as a classical mask, but the black depths +of the eyes sparkling with intensity of observation, as if they were +everywhere at once and gazed through and through. He wore his national +dress, with the short cloak over one shoulder; but the little boy, +who stood at the table, had been fantastically arrayed in a sort +of semi-Albanian garb, a red cap with a long tassel, a dark, +gold-embroidered velvet jacket sitting close to his body, and a white +kilt over his legs, bare except for buskins stiff with gold. The poor +little fellow looked pale in spite of his tawny hue, his enormous black +eyes were heavy and weary, and he seemed to be trying to keep aloof from +the small brazen vessel formed by the coils of two serpents that held +the inky liquid of which Philip had spoken. + +No doubt of the veritable nature of the charm crossed Diane; her doubt +was of its lawfulness, her dread of the supernatural region she was +invading. She hesitated before she ventured on her first question, and +started as the Italian first spoke,--‘What would the Eccelentissima? +Ladies often hesitate to speak the question nearest their hearts. Yet +is it ever the same. But the lady must be pleased to form it herself in +words, or the lad will not see her vision.’ + +‘Where, then, is my brother?’ said Diane, still reluctant to come direct +to the point. + +The boy gazed intently into the black pool, his great eyes dilating till +they seemed like black wells, and after a long time, that Diane could +have counted by the throbs of her heart, he began to close his fingers, +perform the action over the other arm of one playing on the lute, throw +his head back, close his eyes, and appear to be singing a lullaby. Then +he spoke a few words to his master quickly. + +‘He see,’ said Ercole, ‘a gentleman touching the lute, seated in a +bedroom, where lies, on a rich pillow, another gentleman,’--and as the +boy stroked his face, and pointed to his hands--‘wearing a mask and +gloves. It is, he says, in my own land, in Italy,’ and as the boy made +the action of rowing, ‘in the territory of Venice.’ + +‘It is well,’ said Madame de Selinville, who knew that nothing was more +probable than that her brother should be playing the King to his sleep +in the medicated mask and gloves that cherished the royal complexion, +and, moreover, that Henry was lingering to take his pastime in Italy to +the great inconvenience of his kingdom. + +Her next question came nearer her heat--‘You saw the gentleman with a +scar. Will he leave this castle?’ + +The boy gazed, then made gestures of throwing his arms wide, and of +passing out; and as he added his few words, the master explained: ‘He +sees the gentleman leaving the castle, through open gate, in full day, +on horseback; and--and it is Madame who is with them,’ he added, as the +lad pointed decidedly to her, ‘it is Madame who opens their prison.’ + +Diane’s face lighted with gladness for a moment; then she said, +faltering (most women of her day would not have been even thus +reserved), ‘Then I shall marry again?’ + +The boy gazed and knitted his brow; then, without any pantomime, looked +up and spoke. ‘The Eccellentissima shall be a bride once more, he +says,’ explained the man, ‘but after a sort he cannot understand. It +is exhausting, lady, thus to gaze into the invisible future; the boy +becomes confused and exhausted ere long.’ + +‘Once more--I will only ask of the past. My cousin, is he married or a +widower?’ + +The boy clasped his hands and looked imploringly, shaking his head at +the dark pool, as he murmured an entreating word to his master. ‘Ah! +Madame,’ said the Italian, ‘that question hath already been demanded by +the young Inglese. The poor child has been so terrified by the scene +it called up, that he implored he may not see it again. A sacked and +burning town, a lady in a flaming house---’ + +‘Enough, enough,’ said de; ‘I could as little bear to hear as he to see. +It is what we have ever known and feared. And now’--she blushed as she +spoke--‘sir, you will leave me one of those potions that Signor Renato +is wont to compound.’ + +‘_Capisco_!’ said Ercole; ‘but the Eccellentissima shall be obeyed if +she will supply the means, for the expense will be heavy.’ + +The bargain was agreed upon, and a considerable sum advanced for a +philter, compounded of strange Eastern plants and mystic jewels; and +then Diane, with a shudder of relief, passed into the full light of the +hall, bade her father good night, and was handed by him into the litter +that had long been awaiting her at the door. + +The Chevalier, then, with care on his brow, bent his steps towards the +apartment where the Italian still remained counting the money he had +received. + +‘So!’ he said as he entered, ‘so, fellow, I have not hindered your +gains, and you have been true to your agreement?’ + +‘Illustrissimo, yes. The pool of vision mirrored the flames, but nothing +beyond--nothing--nothing.’ + +‘They asked you then no more of those words you threw out of Esperance?’ + +‘Only the English youth, sir; and there were plenty of other hopes to +dance before the eyes of such a lad! With M. le Baron it will be needful +to be more guarded.’ + +‘M. le Baron shall not have the opportunity,’ said the Chevalier. ‘He +may abide by his decision, and what the younger one may tell him. Fear +not, good man, it shall be made good to you, if you obey my commands. I +have other work for you. But first repeat to me more fully what you told +me before. Where was it that you saw this unhappy girl under the name of +Esperance?’ + +‘At a hostel, sir, at Charente, where she was attending on an old +heretic teacher of the name of Gardon, who had fallen sick there, being +pinched by the fiend with rheumatic pains after his deserts. She bore +the name of Esperance Gardon, and passed for his son’s widow.’ + +‘And by what means did you know her not to be the mean creature she +pretended?’ said the Chevalier, with a gesture of scornful horror. + +‘Illustrissimo, I never forget a face. I had seen this lady with M. le +Baron when they made purchases of various trinkets at Montpipeau; and +I saw her full again. I had the honour to purchase from her certain +jewels, that the Eccellenza will probably redeem; and even--pardon, +sir--I cut off and bought of her, her hair.’ + +‘Her hair!’ exclaimed the Chevalier, in horror. ‘The miserable girl to +have fallen so low! Is it with you, fellow?’ + +‘Surely, Illustrissimo. Such tresses--so shining, so silky, so well +kept,--I reserved to adorn the heads of Signor Renato’s most princely +customers’, said the man, unpacking from the inmost recesses of one of +his most ingeniously arranged packages, a parcel which contained the +rich mass of beautiful black tresses. ‘Ah! her head looked so noble,’ he +added, ‘that I felt it profane to let my scissors touch those locks; but +she said that she could never wear them openly more, and that they did +but take up her time, and were useless to her child and her father--as +she called him; and she much needed the medicaments for the old man that +I gave her in exchange.’ + +‘Heavens! A daughter of Ribaumont!’ sighed the Chevalier, clenching his +hand. ‘And now, man, let me see the jewels with which the besotted child +parted.’ + +The jewels were not many, nor remarkable. No one but a member of the +family would have identified them, and not one of the pearls was there; +and the Chevalier refrained from inquiring after them, lest, by putting +the Italian on the scent of anything so exceptionally valuable, he +should defeat his own object, and lead to the man’s securing the pearls +and running away with them. But Ercole understood his glance, with the +quickness of a man whose trade forced him to read countenances. ‘The +Eccellenza is looking for the pearls of Ribaumont? The lady made no +offer of them to me.’ + +‘Do you believe that she has them still?’ + +‘I am certain of it, sir. I know that she has jewels--though she said +not what they were--which she preserved at the expense of her hair. It +was thus. The old man had, it seems, been for weeks on the rack with +pains caught by a chill when they fled from La Sablerie, and, though the +fever had left him, he was still so stiff in the joints as to be unable +to move. I prescribed for him unguents of balm and Indian spice, which, +as the Eccellenza knows, are worth far more than their weight in gold; +nor did these jewels make up the cost of these, together with the warm +cloak for him, and the linen for her child that she had been purchasing. +I tell you, sir, the babe must have no linen but the finest fabric of +Cambrai--yes, and even carnation-coloured ribbons--though, for herself, +I saw the homespun she was sewing. As she mused over what she could +throw back, I asked if she had no other gauds to make up the price, and +she said, almost within herself, “They are my child’s, not mine.” Then +remembering that I had been buying the hair of the peasant maidens, she +suddenly offered me her tresses. But I could yet secure the pearls, if +Eccellenza would.’ + +‘Do you then believe her to be in any positive want or distress?’ said +the Chevalier. + +‘Signor, no. The heretical households among whom she travels gladly +support the families of their teachers, and at Catholic inns they pay +their way. I understood them to be on their way to a synod of Satan at +the nest of heretics, Montauban, where doubtless the old miscreant would +obtain an appointment to some village.’ + +‘When did you thus full in with them?’ + +‘It was on one of the days of the week of Pentecost,’ said Ercole. ‘It +is at that time I frequent fairs in those parts, to gather my little +harvest on the maidens’ heads.’ + +‘_Parbleu_! class not my niece with those sordid beings, man,’ said the +Chevalier, angrily. ‘Here is your price’--tossing a heavy purse on +the table--‘and as much more shall await you when you bring me sure +intelligence where to find my niece. You understand; and mark, not one +word of the gentleman you saw here. You say she believes him dead?’ + +‘The Illustrissimo must remember that she never dropped her disguise +with me, but I fully think that she supposed herself a widow. And I +understand the Eccellenza, she is still to think so. I may be depended +on.’ + +‘You understand,’ repeated the Chevalier, ‘this sum shall reward you +when you have informed me where to find her--as a man like you can +easily trace her from Montauban. If you have any traffickings with her, +it shall be made worth your while to secure the pearls for the family; +but, remember, the first object is herself, and that she should be +ignorant of the existence of him whom she fancied her husband.’ + +‘I see, Signor; and not a word, of course, of my having come from you. I +will discover her, and leave her noble family to deal with her. Has the +Illustrissimo any further commands?’ + +‘None,’ began the Chevalier; then, suddenly, ‘This unhappy infant--is it +healthy? Did it need any of your treatment?’ + +‘Signor, no. It was a fair, healthy bambina of a year old, and I heard +the mother boasting that it had never had a day’s illness.’ + +‘Ah, the less a child has to do in the world, the more is it bent +on living,’ said the Chevalier with a sigh; and then, with a parting +greeting, he dismissed the Italian, but only to sup under the careful +surveillance of the steward, and then to be conveyed by early morning +light beyond the territory where the affairs of Ribaumont were +interesting. + +But the Chevalier went through a sleepless night. Long did he pace up +and down his chamber, grind his teeth, clench his fist and point them at +his head, and make gestures of tearing his thin gray locks; and many a +military oath did he swear under his breath as he thought to what a +pass things had come. His brother’s daughter waiting on an old Huguenot +_bourgeois_, making sugar-cakes, selling her hair! And what next? Here +was she alive after all, alive and disgracing herself; alive--yes, both +she and her husband--to perplex the Chevalier, and force him either to +new crimes or to beggar his son! Why could not the one have really died +on the St. Bartholomew, or the other at La Sablerie, instead of putting +the poor Chevalier in the wrong by coming to live again? + +What had he done to be thus forced to peril his soul at his age? Ah, had +he but known what he should bring on himself when he wrote the unlucky +letter, pretending that the silly little child wished to dissolve the +marriage! How should he have known that the lad would come meddling +over? And then, when he had dexterously brought about that each should +be offended with the other, and consent to the separation, why must +royalty step in and throw them together again? Yes, and he surely had a +right to feel ill-used, since it was in ignorance of the ratification of +the marriage that he had arranged the frustration of the elopement, and +that he had forced on the wedding with Narcisse, so as to drive Eustacie +to flight from the convent--in ignorance again of her life that he had +imprisoned Berenger, and tried to buy off his clams to Nid de Merle with +Diane’s hand. Circumstances had used him cruelly, and he shrank from +fairly contemplating the next step. + +He knew well enough what it must be. Without loss of time a letter must +be sent to Rome, backed by strong interest, so as to make it appear +that the ceremony at Montpipeau, irregular, and between a Huguenot and +Catholic, had been a defiance of the Papal decree, and must therefore +be nullified. This would probably be attainable, though he did not feel +absolutely secure of it. Pending this, Eustacie must be secluded in a +convent; and, while still believing herself a widow, must immediately on +the arrival of the decree and dispensation, be forced into the marriage +with Narcisse before she heard of Berenger’s being still alive. And then +Berenger would have no longer any excuse for holding out. His claims +would be disposed of, and he might be either sent to England, or he +might be won upon by Madame de Selinville’s constancy. + +And this, as the Chevalier believed, was the only chance of saving a +life that he was unwilling to sacrifice, for his captive’s patience and +courtesy had gained so much upon his heart that he was resolved to +do all that shuffling and temporizing could do to save the lad from +Narcisse’s hatred and to secure him Diane’s love. + +As to telling the truth and arranging his escape, that scarcely ever +crossed the old man’s mind. It would have been to resign the lands of +Nid de Merle, to return to the makeshift life he knew but too well, and, +what was worse, to ruin and degrade his son, and incur his resentment. +It would probably be easy to obtain a promise from Berenger, in his +first joy and gratitude, of yielding up all pretensions of his own or +his wife’s; but, however honourably meant, such a promise would be worth +very little, and would be utterly scorned by Narcisse. Besides, how +could he thwart the love of his daughter and the ambition of his son +both at once? + +No; the only security for the possession of Nid de Merle lay in either +the death of the young baron and his child or else in his acquiescence +in the invalidity of his marriage, and therefore in the illegitimacy of +the child. + +And it was within the bounds of possibility that, in his seclusion, he +might at length learn to believe in the story of the destruction at +La Sablerie, and, wearying of captivity, might yield at length to the +persuasions of Diane and her father, and become so far involved with +them as to be unable to draw back, or else be so stung by Eustacie’s +desertion as to accept her rival willingly. + +It was a forlorn hope, but it was the only medium that lay between +either the death or the release of the captive; and therefore the old +man clung to it as almost praiseworthy, and did his best to bring it +about by keeping his daughter ignorant that Eustacie lived, and writing +to his son that the Baron was on the point of becoming a Catholic and +marrying his sister: and thus that all family danger and scandal would +be avoided, provided the matter were properly represented at Rome. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. ‘JAM SATIS’ + + + + You may go walk, and give me leave a while, + My lessons make no music in three parts. + TAMING OF THE SHREW + + +Whether the dark pool really showed Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood or not, at +the moment that his son desired that his image should be called up, the +good knight was, in effect, sitting nodding over the tankard of sack +with which his supper was always concluded, while the rest of the +family, lured out of the sunny hall by the charms of a fresh summer +evening, had dispersed into the gardens or hall. + +Presently a movement in the neighbourhood made him think it incumbent on +him to open his eyes wide, and exclaim, ‘I’m not asleep.’ + +‘Oh no! you never are asleep when there’s anything you ought to see!’ +returned Dame Annora, who was standing by him with her hand on his +chair. + +‘How now? Any tidings of the lads?’ he exclaimed. + +‘Of the lads? No, indeed; but there will be bad tidings for the lads if +you do not see to it! Where do you think your daughter is, Sir Duke?’ + +‘Where? How should I know? She went out to give her sisters some +strawberries, I thought.’ + +‘See here,’ said Lady Thistlewood, leading the way to the north end of +the hall, where a door opened into what was called the Yew-tree Grove. +This consisted of five rows of yew-trees, planted at regular intervals, +and their natural mode of growth so interfered with by constant cutting, +that their ruddy trunks had been obliged to rise branchless, till about +twelve feet above ground they had been allowed to spread out their limbs +in the form of ordinary forest trees; and, altogether, their foliage +became a thick, unbroken, dark, evergreen roof, impervious to sunshine, +and almost impervious to rain, while below their trunks were like +columns forming five arcades, floored only by that dark red crusty earth +and green lichen growth that seems peculiar to the shelter of yew-trees. +The depth of the shade and the stillness of the place made it something +peculiarly soothing and quiet, more especially when, as now, the sunset +light came below the branches, richly tinted the russet pillars, cast +long shadows, and gleamed into all the recesses of the interlacing +boughs and polished leafage above. + +‘Do you see, Sir Duke?’ demanded his lady. + +‘I see my little maids making a rare feast under the trees upon their +strawberries set out on leaves. Bless their little hearts! what a pretty +fairy feast they’ve made of it, with the dogs looking on as grave as +judges! It takes me young again to get a smack of the haut-bois your +mother brought from Chelsea Gardens.’ + +‘Haut-bois! He’d never see if the house ere afire overhead. What’s that +beyond?’ + +‘No fire, my dear, but the sky all aglow with sunset, and the red cow +standing up against the light, chewing her cud, and looking as well +pleased as though she knew there wasn’t her match in Dorset.’ + +Lady Thistlewood fairly stamped, and pointed with her fan, like a +pistol, down a side aisle of the grove, where two figures were slowly +moving along. + +‘Eh! what? Lucy with her apron full of rose-leaves, letting them +float away while she cons the children’s lesson for the morrow with +Merrycourt? They be no great loss, when the place is full of roses. Or +why could you not call to the wench to take better heed of them, instead +of making all this pother?’ + +‘A pretty sort of lesson it is like to be! A pretty sort of return for +my poor son, unless you take the better heed!’ + +‘Would that I saw any return at all for either of the poor dear lads,’ +sighed the knight wearily; ‘but what you may be driving at I cannot +perceive.’ + +‘What! When ‘tis before your very eyes, how yonder smooth-tongued French +impostor, after luring him back to his ruin beyond seas, is supplanting +him even here, and your daughter giving herself over to the wily viper!’ + +‘The man is a popish priest,’ said Sir Marmaduke; ‘no more given to love +than Mr. Adderley or Friar Rogers.’ + +The dame gave a snort of derision:’ Prithee, how many popish priests be +now wedded parsons? Nor, indeed, even if his story be true, do I believe +he is a priest at all. I have seen many a young abbe, as they call +themselves, clerk only in name, loitering at court, free to throw off +the cassock any moment they chose, and as insolent as the rest. Why, the +Abbe de Lorraine, cardinal that is now, said of my complexion---’ + +‘No vows, quotha!’ muttered Sir Marmaduke, well aware of the Cardinal de +Lorraine’s opinion of his lady’s complexion. ‘So much the better; he +is too good a young fellow to be forced to mope single, and yet I hate +men’s breaking their word.’ + +‘And that’s all you have to say!’ angrily cried her ladyship. ‘No one +save myself ever thinks how it is to be with my poor dear wounded, +heart-broken son, when he comes home, to find himself so scurvily used +by that faithless girl of yours, ready---’ + +‘Hold, madam,’ said Sir Marmaduke, with real sternness; ‘nothing rash +against my daughter. How should she be faithless to a man who has been +wedded ever since she knew him?’ + +‘He is free now,’ said Lady Thistlewood, beginning to cry (for the last +letters received from Berenger had been those from Paris, while he still +believed Eustacie to have perished at La Sablerie); ‘and I do say it is +very hard that just when he is rid of the French baggage, the bane of +his life, and is coming home, maybe with a child upon his hands, and all +wounded, scarred, and blurred, the only wench he would or should have +married should throw herself away on a French vagabond beggar, and you +aiding and abetting.’ + +‘Come, come, Dame Nan,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘who told you I was aiding +and abetting?’ + +‘Tell me not, Sir Duke, you that see them a courting under your very +eyes, and will not stir a finger to hinder it. If you like to see your +daughter take up with a foreign adventurer, why, she’s no child of mine, +thank Heaven! And I’ve nought to do with it.’ + +‘Pshaw, dame, there’s no taking up in the case; and if there were, sure +it is not you that should be hard on Lucy.’ + +Whereupon Annora fell into such a flood of tears at the cruelty of +casting such things up to her, that Sir Marmaduke was fain in his +blundering way to declare that he only meant that an honest Englishman +had no chance where a Frenchman once came in, and then very nearly to +surrender at discretion. At any rate, he escaped from her tears by going +out at the door, and calling to Lucy to mind her rose-leaves; then, as +she gazed round, dismayed at the pink track along the ground, he asked +her what she had been doing. Whereto she answered with bright face and +honest eyes, that Mr. Mericour had been going over with her the ode +‘_Jam satis_,’ of Horatius, wherewith to prepare little Nan for him +to-morrow, and then she ran hurriedly away to secure the remainder of +the rose-leaves, while her companion was already on his knees picking up +the petals she had dropped. + +‘Master Merrycourt,’ said Sir Marmaduke, a little gruffly, ‘never heed +the flower-leaves. I want a word with you.’ + +Claude de Mericour rose hastily, as if somewhat struck by the tone. + +‘The matter is this,’ said the knight, leading him from the house, and +signing back the little girls who had sprung towards them--‘it has been +brought to my mind that you are but a youth, and, pardon me, my young +master, but when lads and lasses have their heads together over one +book, tongues wag.’ + +The colour rushed hotly into young Mericour’s face, and he answered +quickly, ‘My rank--I mean my order--should answer that.’ + +‘Stay, young man, we are not in France; your order, be it what it may, +has not hindered many a marriage in England; though, look you, no man +should ever wed with my consent who broke his word to God in so doing; +but they tell me your vows are not always made at your age.’ + +‘Nor are they,’ exclaimed Mericour, in a low voice, but with a sudden +light on his countenance. ‘The tonsure was given me as a child, but no +vow of celibacy has passed my lips.’ + +Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, ‘Oh!--’ with a prolongation of the sound that +lasted till Mericour began again. + +‘But, sir, let tongues wag as they will, it is for nought. Your fair +daughter was but as ever preparing beforehand with me the tasks with +which she so kindly indoctrinates her little sisters. I never thought of +myself as aught but a religious, and should never dream of human love.’ + +‘I thought so! I said so!’ said Sir Marmaduke, highly gratified. ‘I knew +you were an honourable man that would never speak of love to my daughter +by stealth, nor without means to maintain her after her birth.’ + +The word ‘birth’ brought the blood into the face of the son of the peer +of France, but he merely bowed with considerable stiffness and pride, +saying, ‘You did me justice, sir.’ + +‘Come, don’t be hurt, man,’ said Sir Marmaduke, putting his hand on his +shoulder. ‘I told you I knew you for an honourable man! You’ll be over +here to-morrow to hear the little maids their _Jam satis_, or whatever +you call it, and dine with us after to taste Lucy’s handiwork in jam +cranberry, a better thing as I take it.’ + +Mericour had recovered himself, smiled, shook the good Sir Marmaduke +proffered hand, and, begging to excuse himself from bidding good night +to the ladies on the score of lateness, he walked away to cross the +downs on his return to Combe Walwyn, where he was still resident, +according to the arrangement by which he was there to await Berenger’s +return, now deferred so much beyond all reasonable expectation. + +Sir Marmaduke, with a free heart, betook himself to the house, dreading +to find that Lucy had fallen under the objurgations of her step-mother, +but feeling impelled to stand her protector, and guided to the spot by +the high key of Dame Annora’s voice. + +He found Lucy--who, on the race occasions when good-natured Lady +Thistlewood was really angry with her, usually cowered meekly--now +standing her ground, and while the dame was pausing for breath, he heard +her gentle voice answering steadily, ‘No, madam, to him I could never +owe faith, nor troth, nor love, save such as I have for Philip.’ + +‘Then it is very unfeeling and ungrateful of you. Nor did you think so +once, but it is all his scars and---’ + +By this time Sir Marmaduke had come near enough to put his arm round +his daughter, and say, ‘No such thing, dame. It had been unseemly in the +lass had it been otherwise. She is a good girl and a discreet; and the +Frenchman, if he has made none of their vows, feels as bound as though +he had. He’s an honest fellow, thinking of his studies and not of ladies +or any such trumpery. So give me a kiss, Lucy girl, and thou shalt study +_Jam satis_, or any other jam he pleases, without more to vex thee.’ + +Lucy, now that the warfare was over, had begun to weep so profusely that +so soon as her father released her, she turned, made a mute gesture to +ask permission to depart, and hurried away; while Lady Thistlewood, +who disliked above all that her husband should think her harsh to +her step-children, began to relate the exceeding tenderness of the +remonstrance which had been followed with such disproportionate floods +of tears. + +Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night had put an end +to the subject which harassed him at a time when he felt less capable +than usual of bearing vexation, for he was yearning sadly after his only +son. The youths had been absent ten months, and had not been heard of +for more than three, when they were just leaving Paris in search of the +infant. Sir Francis Walsingham, whose embassy had ended with the death +of Charles IX., knew nothing of them, and great apprehensions respecting +them were beginning to prevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, seemed +to be eating out the peace and joy of his life. Philip, always at his +father’s side ever since he could run alone, was missed at every visit +to stable or kennel; the ring of his cheery voice was wanting to +the house; and the absence of his merry whistle seemed to make Sir +Marmaduke’s heart sink like lead as he donned his heavy boots, and went +forth in the silver dew of the summer morning to judge which of his +cornfields would soonest be ready for the sickle. Until this expedition +of his sons he had, for more than fourteen years never been alone in +those morning rounds on his farm; and much as he loved his daughters, +they seemed to weigh very light in the scale compared with the sturdy +heir who loved every acre with his own ancestral love. Indeed, perhaps, +Sir Marmaduke had deeper, fonder affection for the children of his first +marriage, because he had barely been able to give his full heart to +their mother before she was taken from him, and he had felt almost +double tenderness to be due to them, when he at length obtained his +first and only true love. Now, as he looked over the shinning billows +of the waving barley, his heart was very sore with longing for Philip’s +gladsome shout at the harvest-field, and he thought with surprise and +compunction how he had seen Lucy leave him struggling with a flood of +tears. While he was still thus gazing, a head appeared in the narrow +path that led across the fields, and presently he recognized the +slender, upright form of the young Frenchman. + +‘A fair good morrow to you, Master Merrycourt! You come right early to +look after your ode?’ + +‘Sir,’ said Mericour, gravely saluting him, ‘I come to make you my +confession. I find that I did not deal truly with you last night, but it +was all unwittingly.’ + +‘How?’ exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recollecting Lucy’s tears and looking +much startled. ‘You have not---’ and there he broke off, seeing Mericour +eager to speak. + +‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I was bred as one set apart from love. I had never +learnt to think it possible to me,--I thought so even when I replied to +you last evening; but, sir, the words you then spoke, the question you +asked me set my heart burning, and my senses whirling---’ And between +agitation and confusion he stammered and clasped his hands passionately, +trying to continue what he was saying, but muttering nothing +intelligible. + +Sir Marmaduke filled up the interval with a long whistle of perplexity; +but, too kind not to pity the youth’s distress, he laid his hand on his +shoulder, saying, ‘You found out you were but a hot-blooded youth after +all, but an honest one. For, as I well trust, my lass knows nought of +this.’ + +‘How should she know, sir, what I knew not myself?’ + +‘Ha! ha!’ chuckled Sir Duke to himself, ‘so ‘twas all Dame Nan’s doing +that the flame has been lighted! Ho! ho! But what is to come next is the +question?’ and he eyed the French youth from head to foot with the same +considering look with which he was wont to study a bullock. + +‘Sir, sir,’ cried Mericour, absolutely flinging himself on his knee +before him with national vehemence, ‘do give me hope! Oh! I will bless +you, I will---’ + +‘Get up, man,’ said the knight, hastily; ‘no fooling of this sort. The +milkmaids will be coming. Hope--why, what sort of hope can be given you +in the matter?’ he continued; ‘you are a very good lad, and I like you +well enough, but you are not the sort of stuff one gives one’s daughter +to. Ay, ay, I know you are a great man in your own country, but what are +you here?’ + +‘A miserable fugitive and beggar, I know that,’ said Mericour, +vehemently, ‘but let me have but hope, and there is nothing I will not +be!’ + +‘Pish!’ said Sir Marmaduke. + +‘Hear me,’ entreated the youth, recalled to common sense: ‘you know +that I have lingered at the chateau yonder, partly to study divinity +and settle my mind, and partly because my friend Ribaumont begged me to +await his return. I will be no longer idle; my mind is fixed. To France +I cannot return, while she gives me no choice between such doctrine and +practice as I saw at court, and such as the Huguenots would have imposed +on me. I had already chosen England as my country before--before this +wild hope had awakened in me. Here, I know my nobility counts for +nothing, though, truly, sir, few names in France are prouder. But it +shall be no hindrance. I will become one of your men of the robe. I have +heard that they can enrich themselves and intermarry with your country +_noblesse_.’ + +‘True, true,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘there is more sense in that notion +than there seemed to be in you at first. My poor brother Phil was to +have been a lawyer if he had lived, but it seems to me you are a long +way off from that yet! Why, our Templars be mostly Oxford scholars.’ + +‘So it was explained to me,’ said Mericour, ‘but for some weeks past the +Lady Burnet, to whose sons, as you know, I have been teaching French, +has been praying me to take the charge of them at Oxford, by which means +I should at least be there maintained, and perchance obtain the means +for carrying on my studies at the Temple.’ + +‘Not ill thought of,’ said the knight; ‘a fair course enough for you; +but look you, you must have good luck indeed to be in a state to marry +within ten or fifteen years,--very likely not then--having nothing of +your own, and my wench but little, for Lucy’s portion cannot be made +equal to her sisters’, her mother having been no heiress like Dame +Nan. And would you have me keep the maid unwedded till she be thirty or +thirty-five years old, waiting for your fortune?’ + +Mericour looked terribly disconcerted at this. + +‘Moreover,’ added the knight, ‘they will all be at me, so soon as those +poor lads come home--Heaven grant they do--to give her to Berenger.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Mericour, looking up with a sudden smile, ‘all that I would +ask is, what you are too good a father to do, that you would not put any +force on her inclinations.’ + +‘How now? you said you had never courted her!’ + +‘Nor have I, sir. But I see the force of your words. Should she love +another man, my dream were, of course, utterly vain, but if not---’ He +broke off. + +‘Well, well, I am no man to force a girl to a match against her will; +but never trust to that, man. I know what women are; and let a fantastic +stranger come across them, there’s an end of old friends. But yours is +an honest purpose, and you are a good youth; and if you had anything to +keep her with, you should have Lucy to-morrow, with all my heart.’ + +Then came the further question whether Mericour should be allowed an +interview with Lucy. Sir Marmaduke was simple enough to fancy that she +need not be made aware of the cause of Mericour’s new arrangement, and +decided against it. The young man sorrowfully acquiesced, but whether +such a secret could be kept was another thing. To him it would have been +impossible to renew their former terms of intercourse without betraying +his feelings, and he therefore absented himself. Lady Thistlewood +triumphed openly in Sir Marmaduke’s having found him out and banished +him from the house; Lucy looked white and shed silent tears. Her +father’s soft heart was moved, and one Sunday evening he whispered into +her ear that Dame Nan was all wrong, and Mericour only kept away because +he was an honourable man. Then Lucy smiled and brightened, and Sir Duke +fondly asked her if she were fool enough to fancy herself in love with +the man. + +‘Oh no, how should she, when he had never named love to her? She was +only glad her father esteemed him.’ + +So then foolish, fond Sir Marmaduke told her all that had passed, and +if it had not been too late, he would have sent for Mericour from Lady +Burnet’s; but his own story did almost as well in bringing back Lucy’s +soft pink color. She crept up into Cecily’s room one day, and found that +she knew all about it, and was as kind and sympathizing as she could +be--when a vocation had been given up, though no vows had been taken. +She did not quite understand it, but she would take it on trust. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SCANDAL OF THE SYNOD OF MONTAUBAN + + + + O ye, wha are sae guid yourself, + Sae pious and sae holy, + Ye’ve naught to do but mark and tell + Your neebour’s fauts and folly. + --BURNS + + +The old city of Montauban, once famous as the home of Ariosto’s Rinaldo +and his brethren, known to French romance as ‘_Les Quatre Fils Aymon_,’ +acquired in later times a very diverse species of fame,--that, namely, +of being one of the chief strong-holds of the Reformed. The Bishop Jean +de Lettes, after leading a scandalous life, had professed a sort of +Calvinism, had married, and retired to Geneva, and his successor had +not found it possible to live at Montauban from the enmity of the +inhabitants. Strongly situated, with a peculiar municipal constitution +of its own, and used to Provencal independence both of thought and +deed, the inhabitants had been so unanimous in their Calvinism, and +had offered such efficient resistance, as to have wrung from Government +reluctant sanction for the open observance of the Reformed worship, and +for the maintenance of a college for the education of their ministry. + +There then was convoked the National Synod, answering to the Scottish +General Assembly, excepting that the persecuted French Presbyterians met +in a different place every year. Delegated pastors there gathered from +every quarter. From Northern France came men used to live in constant +hazard of their lives; from Paris, confessors such as Merlin, the +chaplain who, leaving Coligny’s bedside, had been hidden for three days +in a hayloft, feeding on the eggs that a hen daily laid beside him; +army-chaplains were there who had passionately led battle-psalms ere +their colleagues charged the foe, and had striven with vain endeavours +to render their soldiers saints; while other pastors came from Pyrenean +villages where their generation had never seen flames lighted against +heresy, nor knew what it was to disperse a congregation in haste and +secrecy for hear of the enemy. + +The audience was large and sympathizing. Montauban had become the refuge +of many Huguenot families who could nowhere else profess their faith +without constant danger; and a large proportion of these were ladies, +wives of gentlemen in the army kept up by La Noue, or widows who feared +that their children might be taken from them to be brought up by their +Catholic relations, elderly dames who longed for tranquillity after +having lost husbands or sons by civil war. Thickly they lodged in +the strangely named _gasches_ and _vertiers_, as the divisions and +subdivisions of the city were termed, occupying floors or apartments +of the tall old houses; walking abroad in the streets in grave attire, +stiff hat, crimped ruff, and huge fan, and forming a society in +themselves, close-packed, punctilious and dignified, rigidly devout +but strictly censorious, and altogether as unlike their typical country +folks of Paris as if they had belonged to a different nation. And the +sourest and most severe of all were such as had lived farthest south, +and personally suffered the least peril and alarm. + +Dancing was unheard-of enormity; cards and dice were prohibited; and +stronger expletive than the elegant ones invented for the special use +of the King of Navarre was expiated either by the purse or the skin; +Marot’s psalmody was the only music, black or sad colour the only +wear; and, a few years later, the wife of one of the most distinguished +statesmen and councilors of Henri of Navarre was excommunicated for the +enormity of wearing her hair curled. + +To such a community it was a delightful festival to receive a national +assembly of ministers ready to regale them on daily sermons for a whole +month, and to retail in private the points of discipline debated in +the public assembly; and, apart from mere eagerness for novelty, many a +discreet heart beat with gladness at the meeting with the hunted pastor +of her native home, who had been the first to strike the spiritual +chord, and awake her mind to religion. + +Every family had their honoured guest, every reception-room was in turn +the scene of some pious little assembly that drank _eau sucree_, and +rejoiced in its favourite pastor; and each little congress indulged in +gentle scandal against its rival coterie. But there was one point on +which all the ladies agreed,--namely, that good Maitre Isaac Gardon had +fallen into an almost doting state of blindness to the vanities of his +daughter-in-law, and that she was a disgrace to the community, and ought +to be publicly reprimanded. + +Isaac Gardon, long reported to have been martyred--some said at +Paris, others averred at La Sablerie--had indeed been welcomed with +enthusiastic joy and veneration, when he made his appearance at +Montauban, pale, aged, bent, leaning on a staff, and showing the dire +effect of the rheumatic fever which had prostrated him after the night +of drenching and exposure during the escape from La Sablerie. Crowded as +the city was, there was a perfect competition among the tradesfolk for +the honour of entertaining him and the young widow and child of a St. +Bartholomew martyr. A cordwainer of the street of the Soubirous Hauts +obtained this honour, and the wife, though speaking only the sweet +Provencal tongue, soon established the most friendly relations with M. +Gardon’s daughter-in-law. + +Two or three more pastors likewise lodged in the same house, and ready +aid was given by Mademoiselle Gardon, as all called Eustacie, in +the domestic cares thus entailed, while her filial attention to her +father-in-law and her sweet tenderness to her child struck all this home +circle with admiration. Children of that age were seldom seen at home +among the better classes in towns. Then, as now, they were universally +consigned to country nurses, who only brought them home at three or four +years old, fresh from a squalid, neglected cottage life: and Eustacie’s +little moonbeam, _la petite Rayonette_, as she loved to call her, was +quite an unusual spectacle; and from having lived entirely with grown +people, and enjoyed the most tender and dainty care, she was intelligent +and brightly docile to a degree that appeared marvellous to those who +only saw children stupefied by a contrary system. She was a lovely +little thing, exquisitely fair, and her plump white limbs small but +perfectly moulded; she was always happy, because always healthy, and +living in an atmosphere of love; and she was the pet and wonder of all +the household, from the grinning apprentice to the grave young candidate +who hoped to be elected pastor to the Duke de Quinet’s village in the +Cevennes. + +And yet it was _la petite Rayonette_ who first brought her mother into +trouble. Since her emancipation from swaddling clothes she had been +equipped in a little gray woolen frock, such as Eustacie had learnt to +knit among the peasants, and varied with broad while stripes which gave +it something of the moonbeam effect; but the mother had not been able to +resist the pleasure of drawing up the bosom and tying it with a knot of +the very carnation colour that Berenger used to call her own. That knot +was discussed all up and down the Rue Soubirous Hauts, and even through +the Carriera Major! The widow of an old friend of Maitre Gardon had +remonstrated on the improprieties of such gay vanities, and Mdlle. +Gardon had actually replied, reddening with insolences, that her husband +had loved to see her wear the colour. + +Now, if the brethren at Paris had indulged their daughters in such +backslidings, see what had come of it! But that poor Theodore Gardon +should have admired his bride in such unhallowed adornments, was an +evident calumny; and many a head was shaken over it in grave and pious +assembly. + +Worse still; when she had been invited to a supper at the excellent +Madame Fargeau’s, the presumptuous little _bourgeoise_ had evidently not +known her place, but had seated herself as if she were a noble lady, +a _fille de qualite_, instead of a mere minister’s widow and a +watchmaker’s daughter. Pretend ignorance that precedence was to be here +observed! That was another Parisian piece of impudence, above all in +one who showed such ridiculous airs as to wipe her face with her own +handkerchief instead of the table-cloth, and to be reluctant to help +herself from the genera dish of _potage_ with her own spoon. Even that +might have been overlooked if she would have regaled them with a full +and particular account of her own rescue from the massacre at Paris; +but she merely coloured up, and said that she had been so ill as to +know scarcely anything about it; and when they pressed her further, +she shortly said, ‘They locked me up;’ and, before she could be +cross-examined as to who was this ‘they,’ Maitre Gardon interfered, +saying that she had suffered so much that he requested the subject might +never be mentioned to her. Nor would he be more explicit, and there +was evidently some mystery, and he was becoming blindly indulgent and +besotted by the blandishments of an artful woman. + +Eustacie was saved from hearing the gossip by her ignorance of the +Provencal, which was the only languages of all but the highest and most +cultivated classes, the hostess had very little _langue d’oui_, and +never ventured on any complicated discourse; and Isaac Gardon, who could +speak both the _oc_ and _oui_, was not a person whom it was easy to +beset with mere hearsay or petty remonstrance, but enough reached him +at last to make him one day say mildly, ‘My dear child, might not the +little one dispense with her ribbon while we are here?’ + +‘Eh, father? At the bidding of those impertinents?’ + +‘Take care, daughter; you were perfect with the tradesfolk and peasants, +but you cannot comport yourself as successfully with this _petite +noblesse_, or the pastors’ wives.’ + +‘They are insolent, father. I, in my own true person, would treat no +one as these petty dames treat me,’ said Eustacie. ‘I would not meddle +between a peasant woman and her child, nor ask questions that must needs +wring her heart.’ + +‘Ah, child! humility is a bitter lesson; and even this world needs it +now from you. We shall have suspicions; and I heard to-day that the King +is in Dauphiny, and with him M. de Nid de Merle. Be not alarmed; he +has no force with him, and the peace still subsists; but we must avoid +suspicion. There is a _preche_ at the Moustier to-day, in French; it +would be well if you were to attend it.’ + +‘I understand as little of French sermons as of Provencal,’ murmured +Eustacie; but it was only a murmur. + +Maitre Gardon had soon found out that his charge had not head enough to +be made a thorough-going controversial Calvinist. Clever, intelligent, +and full of resources as she was, she had no capacity for argument, and +could not enter into theoretical religion. Circumstances had driven her +from her original Church and alienated her from those who had practiced +such personal cruelties on her and hers, but the mould of her mind +remained what it had been previously; she clung to the Huguenots +because they protected her from those who would have forced an abhorrent +marriage on her and snatched her child from her; and, personally, she +loved and venerated Isaac Gardon with ardent, self-sacrificing filial +love and gratitude, accepted as truth all that came from his lips, read +the Scriptures, sang and prayed with him, and obeyed him as dutifully as +ever the true Esperance could have done; but, except the merest external +objections against the grossest and most palpable popular corruptions +and fallacies, she really never entered into the matter. She had been +left too ignorant of her own system to perceive its true clams upon +her; and though she could not help preferring High Mass to a Calvinist +assembly, and shrinking with instinctive pain and horror at the many +profanations she witnessed, the really spiritual leadings of her own +individual father-like leader had opened so much that was new and +precious to her, so full of truth, so full of comfort, giving so much +moral strength, that, unaware that all the foundations had been laid +by Mere Monique, the resolute, high-spirited little thing, out of sheer +constancy and constitutional courage, would have laid down her life as a +Calvinist martyr, in profound ignorance that she was not in the least a +Calvinist all the time. + +Hitherto, her wandering life amid the persecuted Huguenots of the West +had prevented her from hearing any preaching but good Isaac’s own, +which had been rather in the way of comfort and encouragement than of +controversy, but in this great gathering it was impossible that there +should not be plenty of vehement polemical oratory, such as was sue to +fly over that weary little head. After a specimen or two, the chances +of the sermon being in Provencal, and the necessity of attending to her +child, had been Eustacie’s excuse for usually offering to attend to the +_menage_, and set her hostess free to be present at the preachings. + +However, Rayonette was considered as no valid excuse; for did not whole +circles of black-eyed children sit on the floor in sleepy stolidity at +the feet of their mothers or nurses, and was it not a mere worldly +folly to pretend that a child of sixteen months could not be brought +to church? It was another instance of the mother’s frivolity and the +grandfather’s idolatry. + +The Moustier, or minster, the monastic church of Montauban, built on +Mont Auriol in honour of St. Theodore, had, twelve years before, +been plundered and sacked by the Calvinists, not only out of zeal for +iconoclasm, but from long-standing hatred and jealousy against the +monks. Catherine de Medicis had, in 1546, carried off two of the jasper +columns from its chief door-way to the Louvre; and, after some years +more, it was entirely destroyed. The grounds of the Auriol Mountain +Monastery have been desolate down to the present day, when they have +been formed into public gardens. When Eustacie walked through them, +carrying her little girl in her arms, a rose in her bosom to console +her for the loss of her bright breast-knot, they were in raw fresh +dreariness, with tottering, blackened cloisters, garden flowers run +wild, images that she had never ceased to regard as sacred lying broken +and defiled among the grass and weeds. + +Up the broad path was pacing the municipal procession, headed by the +three Consuls, each with a serjeant bearing a white rod in front and +a scarlet mantle, and the Consuls themselves in long robes with wide +sleeves of quartered black and scarlet, followed by six halberdiers, +likewise in scarlet, blazoned with the shield of the city--gules, a +golden willow-tree, pollarded and shedding its branches, a chief azure +with the three _fleur-de-lys_ of royalty. As little Rayonette gleefully +pointed at the brilliant pageant, Eustacie could not help saying, rather +bitterly, that these _messieurs_ seemed to wish to engross all the gay +colours from heaven and earth from themselves; and Maitre Isaac could +not help thinking she had some right on her side as he entered the +church once gorgeous with jasper, marbles, and mosaics, glowing with +painted glass, resplendent with gold and jewels, rich with paintings +and draperies of the most brilliant dyes; but now, all that was, soiled, +dulled, defaced; the whole building, even up to the end of the +chancel, was closely fitted with benches occupied by the ‘sad-coloured’ +congregation. Isaac was obliged by a strenuous effort of memory to +recall ‘Ne-hushtan’ and the golden calves, before he could clear from +his mind, ‘Now they break down all the carved work thereof with axes +and with hammers.’ But, then, did not the thorough going Reformers think +Master Isaac a very weak and back-sliding brother? + +Nevertheless, in right of his age, his former reputation, and his +sufferings, his place was full in the midst of the square-capped, +black-robed ministers who sat herded on a sort of platform together, +to address the Almighty and the congregation in prayers and discourses, +interspersed with psalms sung by the whole assembly. There was no +want of piety, depth, force, or fervour. These were men refined by +persecution, who had struggled to the light that had been darkened by +the popular system, and, having once been forced into foregoing their +scruples as to breaking the unity of the Church, regarded themselves +even as apostles of the truth. Listening to them, Isaac Gardon felt +himself rapt into the hopes of cleansing the aspirations of universal +re-integration that had shone before his early youth, ere the Church +had shown herself deaf, and the Reformers in losing patience had lost +purity, and disappointment had crushed him into an aged man. + +He was recalled by the echo of a gay, little inarticulate cry--those +baby tones that had become such music to his ears that he hardly +realized that they were not indeed from his grandchild. In a moment’s +glance he saw how it was. A little bird had flown in at one of the empty +window, and was fluttering over the heads of the congregation, and a +small, plump, white arm and hand was stretched out and pointing--a rosy, +fair, smiling face upturned; a little gray figure had scrambled up +on the knee of one of the still, black-hooded women; and the shout of +irrepressible delight was breaking on the decorum of the congregation, +in spite of hushes, in spite of the uplifted rod of a scarlet serjeant +on his way down the aisle to quell the disturbance; nay, as the bird +came nearer, the exulting voice, proud of the achievement of a new word, +shouted ‘_Moineau, moineau_.’ Angered by defiance to authority, down +came the rod, not indeed with great force, but with enough to make the +arms clasp round the mother’s neck, the face hide itself on in, a loud, +terrified wail ring through the church, and tempestuous sobbing follow +it up. Then uprose the black-hooded figure, the child tightly clasped, +and her mantle drawn round it, while the other hand motioned the +official aside, and down the aisle, even to the door, she swept with +the lofty carriage, high-drawn neck, and swelling bosom of an offended +princess. + +Maitre Gardon heard little more of the discourse, indeed he would have +followed at once had he not feared to increase the sensation and the +scandal. He came home to find Rayonette’s tears long ago dried, but her +mother furious. She would leave Montauban that minute, she would never +set foot in a heretic conventicle again, to have her fatherless child, +daughter of all the Ribaumonts, struck by base _canaille_. Even her +uncle could not have done worse; he at least would have respected her +blood. + +Maitre Gardon did not know that his charge could be in such a passion, +as, her eyes flashing through tears, she insisted on being taken away at +once. No, she would hear nothing. She seemed to fell resentment due to +the honour of all the Ribaumonts, and he was obliged peremptorily +to refuse to quit Montauban till his business at the Synod should +be completed, and then to leave her in a flood of angry tears and +reproaches for exposing her child to such usage, and approving it. + +Poor little thing, he found her meek and penitent for her unjust anger +towards himself. Whatever he desired she would do, she would stay or go +with him anywhere except to a sermon at the Moustier, and she did not +think that in her heart her good father desired little infants to be +beaten--least of all Berenger’s little one. And with Rayonette already +on his knee, stealing his spectacles, peace was made. + +Peace with him, but not with the congregation! Were people to stalk out +of church in a rage, and make no reparation? Was Maitre Isaac to talk +of orphans, only children, and maternal love, as if weak human affection +did not need chastisement? Was this saucy Parisienne to play the +offended, and say that if the child were not suffered at church she must +stay at home with it? The ladies agitated to have the obnoxious young +widow reprimanded in open Synod, but, to their still greater disgust, +not a pastor would consent to perform the office. Some said that Maitre +Gardon ought to rule his own household, others that they respected him +too much to interfere, and there were others abandoned enough to assert +that if any one needed a reprimand it was the serjeant. + +Of these was the young candidate, Samuel Mace, who had been educated +at the expense of the Dowager Duchess de Quinet, and hoped that her +influence would obtain his election to the pastorate of a certain +peaceful little village deep in the Cevennes. She had intimated that +what he wanted was a wife to teach and improve the wives of the peasant +farmers, and where could a more eligible one be found than Esperance +Gardon? Her cookery he tasted, her industry he saw, her tenderness to +her child, her attention to her father, were his daily admiration; and +her soft velvet eyes and sweet smile went so deep in his heart that he +would have bought her ells upon ells of pink ribbon, when once out of +sight of the old ladies; would have given a father’s love to her little +daughter, and a son’s duty and veneration to Isaac Gardon. + +His patroness did not deny her approval. The gossip had indeed reached +her, but she had a high esteem for Isaac Gardon, believed in Samuel +Mace’s good sense, and heeded Montauban scandal very little. Her +_protege_ would be much better married to a spirited woman who had seen +the world, than to a mere farmer’s daughter who had never looked beyond +her cheese. Old Gardon would be an admirable adviser, and if he were +taken into the _menage_ she would add to the endowment another arable +field, and grass for two more cows. If she liked the young woman on +inspection, the marriage should take place in her own august presence. + +What! had Maitre Gardon refused? Forbidden that the subject should be +mentioned to his daughter? Impossible! Either Mace had managed matters +foolishly, or the old man had some doubt of him which she could remove, +or else it was foolish reluctance to part with his daughter-in-law. +Or the gossips were right after all, and he knew her to be too +light-minded, if not worse, to be the wife of any pious young minister. +Or there was some mystery. Any way, Madame la Duchesse would see him, +and bring him to his senses, make him give the girl a good husband +if she were worthy, or devote her to condign punishment if she were +unworthy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. MADAME LA DUCHESSE + + + +He found an ancient dame in dim brocade.---TENNYSON + + +Madame la Duchesse de Quinet had been a great heiress and a personal +friend and favourite of Queen Jeanne d’Albret. She had been left a widow +after five years’ marriage, and for forty subsequent years had reigned +despotically in her own name and that of _mon fils_. Busied with the +support of the Huguenot cause, sometimes by arms, but more usually by +politics, and constantly occupied by the hereditary government of one +of the lesser counties of France, the Duke was all the better son for +relinquishing to her the home administration, as well as the education +of his two motherless boys; and their confidence and affection were +perfect, though he was almost as seldom at home as she was abroad. At +times, indeed, she had visited Queen Jeanne at Nerac; but since the good +Queen’s death, she only left the great chateau of Quinet to make a royal +progress of inspection through the family towns, castles, and estates, +sometimes to winter in her beautiful hereditary _hotel_ at Montauban, +and as at present to attend any great assembly of the Reformed. + +Very seldom was her will not law. Strong sense and judgment, backed by +the learning that Queen Marguerite of Navarre had introduced among the +companions of her daughter, had rendered her superior to most of those +with whom she came in contact: and the Huguenot ministers, who were much +more dependent on their laity than the Catholic priesthood, for the most +part treated her as not only a devout and honourable woman, an +elect lady, but as a sort of State authority. That she had the +right-mindedness to respect and esteem such men as Theodore Beza, +Merlin, &c., who treated her with great regard, but never cringed, had +not become known to the rest. Let her have once pronounced against +poor little Esperance Gardon, and public disgrace would be a matter of +certainty. + +There she sat in her wainscoted walnut cabinet, a small woman by her +inches, but stately enough to seem of majestic stature, and with gray +eyes, of inexpressible keenness, which she fixed upon the halting, +broken form of Isaac Gardon, and his grave, venerable face, as she half +rose and made a slight acknowledgment of his low bow. + +‘Sit, Maitre Gardon, you are lame,’ she said, with a wave of her hand. +‘I gave you the incommodity of coming to see me not openly discuss _en +pleine sale_.’ + +‘Madame is considerate,’ said Isaac, civilly, but with an open-eyed look +and air that at once showed her that she had not to deal with one of the +ministers who never forgot their low birth in intercourse with her. + +‘I understand,’ said she, coming to the point at once, ‘that you decline +the proposals of Samuel Mace for your daughter-in-law. Now I wish you +to know that Mace is a very good youth, whom I have known from his +birth’--and she went on in his praise, Isaac bowing at each pause, until +she had exhausted both Mace’s history and her own beneficent intentions +for him. Then he said, ‘Madame is very good, and the young man appeared +to me excellent. Nevertheless, this thing may not be. My daughter-in-law +has resolved not to marry again.’ + +‘Nay, but this is mere folly,’ said the Duchess. ‘We hold not Catholic +tenets on merit in abstaining, but rather go by St. Paul’s advice that +the younger widows should marry, rather than wax wanton. And, to tell +you the truth, Maitre Gardon, this daughter of yours does seem to have +set tongues in motion.’ + +‘Not by her own fault, Madame.’ + +‘Stay, my good friend; I never found a man--minister or lay--who was +a fair judge in these matters. You old men are no better than the +young--rather worse--because you do not distrust yourselves. Now, I +say no harm of the young woman, and I know an angel would be abused +at Montauban for not wearing sad-coloured wings; but she needs a man’s +care--you are frail, you cannot live for ever--and how is it to be with +her and her child?’ + +‘I hope to bestow them among her kindred ere I die, Madame,’ said Isaac. + +‘No kindred can serve a woman like a sensible husband! Besides, I +thought all perished at Paris. Listen, Isaac Gardon: I tell you plainly +that scandal is afloat. You are blamed for culpable indifference to +alleged levities--I say not that it is true--but I see this, that unless +you can bestow your daughter-in-law on a good, honest man, able to +silence the whispers of malice, there will be measures taken that will +do shame both to your own gray hairs and to the memory of your dead son, +as well as expose the poor young woman herself. You are one who has +a true tongue, Isaac Gardon; and if you can assure me that she is a +faithful, good woman, as poor Mace thinks her, and will give her to him +in testimony thereof, then shall not a mouth open against her. If not, +in spite of all my esteem for you, the discipline of the Reformed must +take its course.’ + +‘And for what?’ said Isaac, with a grave tone, almost of reproof. ‘What +discipline can punish a woman for letting her infant wear a coloured +ribbon, and shielding it from a blow?’ + +‘That is not all, Master Isaac,’ said the Duchess, seriously. ‘In spite +of your much-respected name, evil and censorious tongues will have it +that matters ought to be investigated; that there is some mystery; that +the young woman does not give a satisfactory account of herself, and +that the child does not resemble either her or your son--in short, that +you may be deceived by an impostor, perhaps a Catholic spy. Mind, I say +not that I credit all this, only I would show you what reports you must +guard against.’ + +‘_La pauvre petite_!’ said Isaac, under his breath, as if appalled; then +collecting himself, he said, ‘Madame, these are well-nigh threats. I had +come hither nearly resolved to confined in you without them.’ + +‘Then there is a mystery?’ + +‘Yes, Madame, but the deception is solely in the name. She is, in very +truth, a widow of a martyr of the St. Barthelemy, but that martyr was +not my son, whose wife was happy in dying with him.’ + +‘And who, then, is she?’ + +‘Madame la Duchesse had heard of the family of Ribaumont.’ + +‘Ha! M. de Ribaumont! A gay comrade of King Henry II., but who had his +eyes opened to the truth by M. l’Amiral, though he lacked courage for an +open profession. Yes, the very last pageant I beheld at court, was the +wedding of his little son to the Count de Ribaumont’s daughter. It was +said that the youth was one of our victims at Paris.’ + +‘Even so, Madame; and this poor child is the little one whom you saw +wedded to him.’ And then, in answer to the Duchess’s astonished inquiry, +he proceeded to relate how Eustacie had been forced to fly from her +kindred, and how he had first encountered her at his own lurking-placed, +and had accepted her as a charge imposed on him by Providence; then +explained how, at La Sablerie, she had been recognized by a young +gentleman whom she had known at Paris, but who professed to be fleeing +to England, there to study the Protestant controversy; and how she had +confided to him a letter to her husband’s mother, who was married in +England, begging her to send for her and her daughter, the latter being +heiress to certain English estates, as well as French. + +‘Madame,’ added Gardon, ‘Heaven forgive me, if I do the Youth injustice +by suspecting him, but no answer ever arrived to that letter; and while +we still expected one, a good and kindly citizen, who I trust has long +been received into glory, sent me notice that a detachment of Monsieur’s +army was on its way from La Rochelle, under command of M. de Nid de +Merle, to search out this poor lady in La Sablerie. He, good man, deemed +that, were we gone, he could make terms for the place, and we therefore +quitted it. Alas! Madame knows how it fared with the pious friend we +left. Little deeming how they would be dealt with, we took our way along +the Sables d’Olonne, where alone we could be safe, since, as Madame +knows, they are for miles impracticable for troops. But we had another +enemy there--the tide; and there was a time when we truly deemed that +the mercy granted us had been that we had fallen into the hand of the +Lord instead of the hand of cruel man. Yes, Madame, and even for that +did she give thanks, as she stood, never even trembling, on the low +sandbank, with her babe in her bosom, and the sea creeping up on all +sides. She only turned to me with a smile, saying, ‘She is asleep, she +will not feel it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and +sees her father.’ Never saw I a woman, either through nature or grace, +so devoid of fear. We were rescued at last, by the mercy of Heaven, +which sent a fisherman, who bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold, +and scarce able to move. He took us to a good priest’s, Colombeau of +Nissard, a man who, as Madame may know, is one of those veritable saints +who still are sustained by the truth within their Church, and is full of +charity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, sheltered +us, and sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was over-confident in +myself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was Heaven’s will that +the cold and wet of our night on the sands--though those tender young +frames did not suffer therefrom--should bring on an illness which has +made an old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping to +attain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold completed +the work; and then, Madame--oh that I could tell you the blessing she +was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all +the long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and body at Charente. +Ah! Madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not have been more to +me than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me than +her tender care.’ + +‘I must see her,’ ejaculated the Duchesse; then added, ‘But was it this +illness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?’ + +‘In part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assembly +was to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and to +give notice of my intention to my brethren before going to a foreign +land, whence perhaps I may never return.’ + +‘She ought to be in England,’ said Madame de Quinet; ‘she will never be +safe from these kinsmen in this country.’ + +‘M. de Nid de Merle has been all the spring in Poland with the King,’ +said the minister, ‘and the poor lady is thought to have perished at La +Sablerie. Thus the danger has been less pressing, but I would have taken +her to England at once, if I could have made sure of her reception, and +besides---’ he faltered. + +‘The means?’ demanded the Duchess, guessing at the meaning. + +‘Madame is right. She had brought away some money and jewels with her, +but alas, Madame, during my illness, without my knowledge, the dear +child absolutely sold them to procure comforts for me. Nay’--his eyes +filled with tears--‘she whom they blame for vanities sold the very hair +from her head to purchase unguents to ease the old man’s pains; nor did +I know it for many a day after. From day to day we can live, for our own +people willingly support a pastor and his family; and in every house my +daughter has been loved,--everywhere but in this harsh-judging town. But +for the expense of a voyage, even were we at Bordeaux or La Rochelle, we +have nothing, save by parting with the only jewels that remain to her, +and those--those, she says, are heirlooms; and, poor child, she guards +them almost as jealously as her infant, around whom she has fastened +them beneath her clothes. She will not even as yet hear of leaving them +in pledge, to be redeemed by the family. She says they would hardly know +her without them. And truly, Madame, I scarce venture to take her to +England, ere I know what reception would await her. Should her husband’s +family disown or cast her off, I could take better care of her here than +in a strange land.’ + +‘You are right, Maitre Gardon,’ said the Duchess; ‘the risk might be +great. I would see this lady. She must be a rare creature. Bear her my +greetings, my friend, and pray her to do me the honour of a visit this +afternoon. Tell her I would come myself to her, but that I understand +she does not wish to attract notice.’ + +‘Madame,’ said Isaac, rising, and with a strange manner, between a smile +and a tear of earnestness, ‘allow me to bespeak your goodness for my +daughter. The poor little thing is scarcely more than a child. She is +but eighteen even now, and it is not always easy to tell whether she +will be an angel of noble goodness, or, pardon me, a half-petulant +child.’ + +‘I understand:’ Madame de Quinet laughed, and she probably did +understand more than reluctant, anxious Isaac Gardon thought she did, of +his winning, gracious, yet haughty, head-strong little charge, so humbly +helpful one moment, so self-asserting and childish the next, so dear to +him, yet so unlike anything in his experience. + +‘Child,’ he said, as he found her in the sunny window engaged in +plaiting the deep folds of his starched ruffs, ‘you have something to +forgive me.’ + +‘Fathers do not ask their children’s pardon,’ said Eustacie, brightly, +but then, with sudden dismay, ‘Ah! you have not said I should go to the +Moustier again.’ + +‘No, daughter; but Madame de Quinet entreats--these are her words--that +you will do her the honour of calling on her. She would come to you, but +that she fears to attract notice to us.’ + +‘You have told her!’ exclaimed Eustacie. + +‘I was compelled, but I had already thought of asking your consent, and +she is a true and generous lady, with whom your secret will be safe, and +who can hush the idle tongues here. So, daughter,’ he added restlessly, +‘don your hood; that ruff will serve for another day.’ + +‘Another day, when the morrow is Sunday, and my father’s ruff is to put +to shame all the other pastors’,’ said Eustacie, her quick fingers still +moving. ‘No, he shall not go ill-starched for any Duchess in France. Now +am I in any haste to be lectured by Madame de Quinet, as they say she +lectured the Dame de Soubrera the other day.’ + +‘My child, you will go; much depends on it.’ + +‘Oh yes, I am going; only if Madame de Quinet knows who I am, she will +not expect me to hurry at her beck and call the first moment. Here, +Rayonette, my bird, my beauty, thou must have a clean cap; ay, and these +flaxen curls combed.’ + +‘Would you take the child?’ + +‘Would I go without Mademoiselle de Rambouillet? She is all her mother +is, and more. There, now she is a true rose-bud, ready to perch on my +arm. No, no _bon pere_. So great a girl is too much for you to carry. +Don’t be afraid, my darling, we are not going to a sermon, no one will +beat her; oh no, and if the insolent retainers and pert lacqueys laugh +at her mother, no one will hurt her.’ + +‘Nay, child,’ said Maitre Gardon; ‘this is a well-ordered household, +where contempt and scorn are not suffered. Only, dear, dear daughter, +let me pray you to be your true self with the Duchess.’ + +Eustacie shrugged her shoulders, and had mischief enough in her to +enjoy keeping her good father in some doubt and dread as he went halting +wearily by her side along the much-decorated streets that marked the +grand Gasche of Tarn and Tarascon. The Hotel de Quinet stretched out its +broad stone steps, covered with vaultings, absolutely across the street, +affording a welcome shade, and no obstruction where wheeled carriages +never came. + +All was, as Maitre Isaac had said, decorum itself. A couple of armed +retainers, rigid as sentinels, waited on the steps; a grave porter, +maimed in the wars opened the great door; half a dozen--_laquais_ in +sober though rich liveries sat on a bench in the hall, and had +somewhat the air of having been set to con a lesson. Two of them coming +respectfully forward, ushered Maitre Gardon and his companion to an +ante-room, where various gentlemen, or pastors, or candidates--among +them Samuel Mace--were awaiting a summons to the Duchess, or merely +using it as a place of assembly. A page of high birth, but well schooled +in steadiness of demeanour, went at once to announce the arrival; and +Gardon and his companion had not been many moments in conversation +with their acquaintance among the ministers, before the grave gentleman +returned, apparently from his audience and the page, coming to Eustacie, +intimated that she was to follow him to Madame le Duchesse’s presence. + +He conducted her across a great tapestry-hung saloon, where twelve or +fourteen ladies of all ages--from seventy to fifteen--sat at work: some +at tapestry, some spinning, some making coarse garments for the poor. A +great throne-like chair, with a canopy over it, a footstool, a desk +and a small table before it, was vacant, and the work--a poor child’s +knitted cap--laid down; but an elderly minister, seated at a carved +desk, had not discontinued reading from a great black book, and did not +even cease while the strangers crossed the room, merely making a slight +inclination with his head, while the ladies half rose, rustled a slight +reverence with their black, gray or russet skirts, but hardly lifted +their eyes. Eustacie thought the Louvre had never been half so +formidable or impressive. + +The page lifted a heavy green curtain behind the canopy, knocked at a +door, and, as it opened, Eustacie was conscious of a dignified presence, +that, in spite of her previous petulance, caused her instinctively to +bend in such a reverence as had formerly been natural to her; but, at +the same moment, a low and magnificent curtsey was made to her, a hand +was held out, a stately kiss was on her brow, and a voice of dignified +courtesy said, ‘Pardon me, Madame la Baronne, for giving you this +trouble. I feared that otherwise we could not safely meet.’ + +‘Madame is very good. My Rayonette, make thy reverence; kiss thy hand to +the lady, my lamb.’ And the little one obeyed, gazing with her blue eyes +full opened, and clinging to her mother. + +‘Ah! Madame la Baronne makes herself obeyed,’ said Madame de Quinet, +well pleased. ‘Is it then a girl?’ + +‘Yes, Madame, I could scarcely forgive her at first; but she has made +herself all the dearer to me.’ + +‘It is a pity,’ said Madame de Quinet, ‘for yours is an ancient stem.’ + +‘Did Madame know my parents?’ asked Eustacie, drawn from her spirit of +defiance by the equality of the manner with which she was treated. + +‘Scarcely,’ replied the Duchess; but, with a smile, ‘I had the honour to +see you married.’ + +‘Ah, then,’--Eustacie glowed, almost smiled, though a tear was in her +eyes--‘you can see how like my little one is to her father,--a true +White Ribaumont.’ + +The Duchess had not the most distinct recollection of the complexion of +the little bridegroom; but Rayonette’s fairness was incontestable, and +the old lady complimented it so as to draw on the young mother into +confidence on the pet moonbeam appellation which she used in dread of +exciting suspicion by using the true name of Berangere, with all the why +and wherefore. + +It was what the Duchess wanted. Imperious as some thought her, she would +on no account have appeared to cross-examine any one whose essential +nobleness of nature struck her as did little Eustacie’s at the first +moment she saw her; and yet she had decided, before the young woman +arrived, that her own good opinion and assistance should depend on the +correspondence of Madame de Ribaumont’s history of herself with Maitre +Gardon’s. + +Eustacie had, for a year and a half, lived with peasants; and, indeed, +since the trials of her life had really begun, she had never been with a +woman of her own station to whom she could give confidence, or from whom +she could look for sympathy. And thus a very few inquiries and tokens of +interest from the old lady drew out the whole story, and more than once +filled Madame de Quinet’s eyes with tears. + +There was only one discrepancy; Eustacie could not believe that the +Abbe de Mericour had been a faithless messenger. Oh, no! either those +savage-looking sailors had played him false, or else her _bele-mere_ +would not send for her. ‘My mother-in-law never loved me,’ said +Eustacie; ‘I know she never did. And now she has children by her second +marriage, and no doubt would not see my little one preferred to them. I +will not be HER suppliant.’ + +‘And what then would you do?’ said Madame de Quinet, with a more severe +tone. + +‘Never leave my dear father,’ said Eustacie, with a flash of eagerness; +‘Maitre Isaac I mean. He has been more to me than any--any one I ever +knew--save----’ + +‘You have much cause for gratitude to him,’ said Madame de Quinet. ‘I +honour your filial love to him. Yet, you have duties to this little one. +You have no right to keep her from her position. You ought to write to +England again. I am sure Maitre Isaac tells you so.’ + +Eustacie would have pouted, but the grave, kind authority of the manner +prevented her from being childish, and she said, ‘If I wrote, it should +be to my husband’s grandfather, who brought him up, designated him as +his heir, and whom he loved with all his heart. But, oh, Madame, he has +one of those English names! So dreadful! It sounds like Vol-au-vent, but +it is not that precisely.’ + +Madame de Quinet smiled, but she was a woman of resources. ‘See, my +friend,’ she said, ‘the pursuivant of the consuls here has the rolls of +the herald’s visitations throughout the kingdom. The arms and name of +the Baron de Ribaumont’s wife will there be entered; and from my house +at Quinet you shall write, and I, too, will write; my son shall take +care that the letters be forwarded safely, and you shall await their +arrival under my protection. That will be more fitting than running the +country with an old pastor, _hein_?’ + +‘Madame, nothing shall induce me to quit him!’ exclaimed Eustacie, +vehemently. + +‘Hear me out, child,’ said the Duchess. ‘He goes with us to assist my +chaplain; he is not much fitter for wandering than you, or less so. And +you, Madame, must, I fear me, still remain his daughter-in-law in my +household; or if you bore your own name and rank, this uncle and cousin +of yours might learn that you were still living; and did they claim +you---’ + +‘Oh, Madame, rather let me be your meanest kitchen-girl!’ + +‘To be--what do they call you?--Esperance Gardon will be quite enough. +I have various women here--widows, wives, daughters or sufferers for the +truth’s sake, who either are glad of rest, or are trained up to lead a +godly life in the discipline of my household. Among them you can live +without suspicion, provided,’ the old lady added, smiling, ‘you can +abstain from turning the heads of our poor young candidates.’ + +‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, gravely, ‘I shall never turn any one’s head. +There was only one who was obliged to love me, and happily I am nor fair +enough to win any one else.’ + +‘_Tenez_, child. Is this true simplicity? Did Gardon, truly, never tell +you of poor Samuel Mace?’ + +Eustacie’s face expressed such genuine amazement and consternation, that +the Duchess could not help touching her on the cheek, and saying, ‘Ah! +simple as a _pensionnaire_, as we used to say when no one else was +innocent. But it is true, my dear, that to poor Samuel we owe our +meeting. I will send him off, the poor fellow, at once to Bourge-le-Roy +to preach his three sermons; and when they had driven you a little out +of his head, he shall have Mariette there--a good girl, who will make +him an excellent wife. She is ugly enough, but it will be all the same +to him just then! I will see him, and let him know that I have reasons. +He lodges in your house, does he? Then you had better come to see me at +once. So will evil tongues best be silenced. + +‘But hold,’ the Duchess said, smiling. ‘You will think me a foolish old +woman, but is it true that you have saved the Pearls of Ribaumont, of +which good Canon Froissart tells?’ + +Eustacie lifted her child on her knee, untied the little gray frock, and +showed them fastened beneath, well out of sight. ‘I thought my treasures +should guard one another,’ she said. ‘One I sent as a token to my +mother-in-law. For the rest, they are not mine, but hers; her father +lent them to me, not gave: so she wears them thus; and anything but HER +life should go rather than THEY should.’ + +‘_Hein_, a fine guardian for them!’ was all the Duchess said in answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. THE ITALIAN PEDLAR + + + + This caitiff monk for gold did swear, + That by his drugs my rival fair + A saint in heaven should be.--SCOTT + + +A grand cavalcade bore the house of Quinet from Montauban--coaches, +wagons, outriders, gendarmes--it was a perfect court progress, and so +low and cumbrous that it was a whole week in reaching a grand old castle +standing on a hill-side among chestnut woods, with an avenue a mile long +leading up to it; and battlemented towers fit to stand a siege. + +Eustacie was ranked among the Duchess’s gentlewomen. She was so far +acknowledged as a lady of birth, that she was usually called Madame +Esperance; and though no one was supposed to doubt her being Theodore +Gardon’s widow, she was regarded as being a person of rank who had made +a misalliance by marrying him. This Madame de Quinet had allowed the +household to infer, thinking that the whole bearing of her guest was +too unlike that of a Paris _bourgeoise_ not to excite suspicion, but +she deemed it wiser to refrain from treating her with either intimacy or +distinction that might excite jealousy or suspicion. Even as it was, +the consciousness of a secret, or the remnants of Montauban gossip, +prevented any familiarity between Eustacie and the good ladies who +surrounded her; they were very civil to each other, but their only +connecting link was the delight that every one took in petting +pretty little Rayonette, and the wonder that was made of her signs of +intelligence and attempts at talking. Even when she toddled fearlessly +up to the stately Duchess on her canopied throne, and held out her +entreating hands, and lisped the word ‘_nontre_,’ Madame would pause in +her avocations, take her on her knee, and display that wonderful +gold and enamel creature which cried tic-tic, and still remained +an unapproachable mystery to M. le Marquis and M. le Vicomte, her +grandsons. + +Pale, formal stiff boys they looked, twelve and ten years old, and under +the dominion of a very learned tutor, who taught them Latin, Greek and +Hebrew, alternately with an equally precise, stiff old esquire, who +trained them in martial exercises, which seemed to be as much matters of +rote with them as their tasks, and to be quite as uninteresting. It did +not seem as if they ever played, or thought of playing; and if they were +ever to be gay, witty Frenchmen, a wonderful change must come over them. + +The elder was already betrothed to a Bearnese damsel, of an +unimpeachably ancient and Calvinistic family; and the whole +establishment had for the last three years been employed on tapestry +hangings for a whole suite of rooms, that were to be fitted up and +hung with the histories of Ruth, of Abigail, of the Shunammite, and of +Esther, which their diligent needles might hope to complete by the time +the marriage should take place, three years later! The Duchess, +who really was not unlike ‘that great woman’ the Shunammite, in her +dignified content with ‘dwelling among her own people,’ and her desire +to ‘receive a prophet in the name of a prophet,’ generally sat presiding +over the work while some one, chaplain, grandson, or young maiden, read +aloud from carefully assorted books; religious treatises at certain +hours, and at others, history. Often, however, Madame was called away +into her cabinet, where she gave audience to intendants, notaries from +her estates, pastors from the villages, captains of little garrisons, +soldiers offering service, farmers, women, shepherds, foresters, +peasants, who came either on her business or with their own needs--for +all of which she was ready with the beneficence and decision of an +autocrat. + +The chapel had been ‘purified,’ and made bare of all altar or image. It +was filled with benches and a desk, whence Isaac Gardon, the chaplain, +any pastor on a visit, or sometimes a candidate for his promotion, +would expound, and offer prayers, shortly in the week, more at length +on Sunday; and there, too, classes were held for the instruction of the +peasants. + +There was a great garden full of medicinal plants, and decoctions and +distilleries were the chief variety enjoyed by the gentlewomen. The +Duchess had studied much in quaint Latin and French medical books, and, +having great experience and good sense, was probably as good a doctor +as any one in the kingdom except Ambroise Pare and his pupils; and she +required her ladies to practise under her upon the numerous ailments +that the peasants were continually bringing for her treatment. ‘No one +could tell,’ she said, ‘how soon they might be dealing with gun-shot +wounds, and all ought to know how to sew up a gash, or cure an argue.’ + +This department suited Eustacie much better than the stitching, and +best of all she liked to be sent with Maitre Isaac to some cottage where +solace for soul and body were needed, and the inmate was too ill to be +brought to Madame la Duchess. She was learning much and improving too +in the orderly household, but her wanderings had made her something of a +little gipsy. She now and then was intolerably weary, and felt as if +she had been entirely spoilt for her natural post. ‘What would become +of her,’ she said to Maitre Isaac, ‘if she were too grand to dress +Rayonette?’ + +She was not greatly distressed that the Montauban pursuivant turned out +to have only the records of the Provencal nobility, and was forced to +communicate with his brethren at Bordeaux before he could bring down +the Ribaumont genealogy to the actual generation; and so slow was +communication, so tardy the mode of doing everything, that the chestnut +leaves were falling and autumn becoming winter before the blazoned +letter showed Ribaumont, de Picardie--‘Gules, fretty or, a canton of +the last, a leopard, sable. Eustacie Berangere, m. Annora, daughter +and heiress of Villiam, Baron of Valvem, in the county of Dorisette, +England, who beareth, azure, a siren regardant in a mirror proper.’ The +siren was drawn in all her propriety impaled with the leopard, and she +was so much more comprehensible than the names, to both Madame de Quinet +and Eustacie, that it was a pity they could not direct their letters to +her rather than to ‘Le Baron de Valvem,’ whose cruel W’s perplexed them +so much. However, the address was the least of Eustacie’s troubles; she +should be only too glad when she got to that, and she was sitting in +Maitre Isaac’s room, trying to make him dictate her sentences and asking +him how to spell every third word, when the dinner-bell rang, and the +whole household dropped down from _salon_, library, study, or chamber to +the huge hall, with its pavement of black and white marble, and its +long tables, for Madame de Quinet was no woman to discard wholesome old +practices. + +Then, as Eustacie, with Rayonette trotting at her side, and Maitre Isaac +leaning on her arm, slowly made her way to that high table where dined +Madame la Duchess, her grandsons, the ministers, the gentlemen in +waiting, and some three or four women besides herself, she saw that +the lower end of the great hall was full of silks, cloths, and ribbons +heaped together; and, passing by the lengthy rank of retainers, she +received a bow and look of recognition from a dark, acute-looking visage +which she remembered to belong to the pedlar she had met at Charente. + +The Duchess, at the head of her table, was not in the best of humours. +Her son had sent home letters by a courier whom he had picked up for +himself and she never liked nor trusted, and he required an immediate +reply when she particularly resented being hurried. It was a +_galimafre_, literally a hash, she said; for indeed most matters where +she was not consulted did become a _galimafre_ with her. Moreover, under +favour of the courier, her porters had admitted this pedlar, and the +Duchess greatly disliked pedlars. All her household stores were +bought at shops of good repute in Montauban, and no one ought to be so +improvident as to require dealings with these mountebank vagabonds, who +dangled vanities before the eyes of silly girls, and filled their heads +with Paris fashion, if they did not do still worse, and excite them to +the purchase of cosmetics and love-charms. + +Yet the excitement caused by the approach of a pedlar was invincible, +even by Madame la Duchess. It was inevitable that the crying need of +glove, kerchief, needle, or the like, should be discovered as soon as +he came within ken, and, once in the hall, there was no being rid of +him except by a flagrant act of inhospitality. This time it was worst of +all, for M. le Marquis himself must needs be the first to spy him, bring +him in, and be in want of a silver chain for his hawk; and his brother +the Vicomte must follow him up with all manner of wants inspired by the +mere sight of the pack. + +Every one with the smallest sum of money must buy, every one without +inspect and assist in bargaining; and all dinner-time, eyes, thoughts, +and words were wandering to the gay pile in the corner, or reckoning up +needs and means. The pedlar, too, knew what a Calvinist household was, +and had been extremely discreet, producing nothing that could reasonably +be objected to; and the Duchess, seeing that the stream was too strong +for her, wisely tried to steer her bark through it safely instead of +directly opposing it. + +As soon as grace was over, she called her maitre d’hotel, and bade +him look after that _galimafre_, and see that none of these fools were +unreasonably cheated, and that there was no attempt at gulling the young +ones with charms or fortune-telling, as well as to conclude the matter +so as to give no excuse for the Italian fellow lingering to sup and +sleep. She then retired to her cabinet to prepare her dispatches, which +were to include a letter to Lord Walwyn. Though a nominal friendship +subsisted between Elisabeth and the French court, the Huguenot chiefs +always maintained a correspondence with England, and there was little +danger but that the Duke de Quinet would be able to get a letter, sooner +or later, conveyed to any man of mark. In the course of her letter, +Madame de Quinet found it necessary to refer to Eustacie. She rang her +little silver handbell for the hall. There, of course, Master Page had +been engulfed in the _galimafre_, and not only forming one of the swarm +around the pedlar, but was actually aping courtly grimaces as he tried +a delicate lace ruffle on the hand of a silly little smirking maiden, +no older than himself! But this little episode was, like many others, +overlooked by Madame de Quinet, as her eye fell upon the little figure +of Rayonette standing on the table, with her mother and two or three +ladies besides coaxing her to open her mouth, and show the swollen gums +that had of late been troubling her, while the pedlar was evidently +expending his blandishments upon her. + +The maitre d’hotel was the first to perceive his mistress, and, as he +approached, received a sharp rebuke from her for allowing the fellow to +produce his quack medicines; and, at the same time, she desired him +to request Madame Esperance to come to her immediately on business. +Eustacie, who always had a certain self-willed sense of opposition when +the Duchess showed herself peremptory towards her, at first began to +make answer that she would come as soon as her business was concluded; +but the steward made a gesture towards the great lady sailing up and +down as she paced the _dais_ in stately impatience. ‘Good fellow,’ +she said, ‘I will return quickly, and see you again, though I am now +interrupted. Stay there, little one, with good Mademoiselle Perrot; +mother will soon be back.’ + +Rayonette, in her tooth-fretfulnes, was far from enduring to be forsaken +so near a strange man, and her cry made it necessary for Eustacie to +take her in arms, and carry her to the _dais_ where the Duchess was +waiting. + +‘So!’ said the lady, ‘I suspected that the fellow was a quack as well as +a cheat.’ + +‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, with spirit, ‘he sold me unguents that greatly +relieved my father last spring.’ + +‘And because rubbing relieved an old man’s rheumatics, you would let a +vagabond cheat drug and sicken this poor child for what is not ailment +at all--and the teeth will relieve in a few days. Or, if she were +feverish, have not we decoctions brewed from Heaven’s own pure herbs in +the garden, with no unknown ingredient?’ + +‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, ruffling into fierceness, ‘you are very good to +me; but I must keep the management of my daughter to myself.’ + +The Duchess looked at her from head to foot. Perhaps it was with an +impulse to treat her impertinence as she would have done that of a +dependant; but the old lady never forgot herself: she only shrugged +her shoulders and said, with studied politeness, ‘When I unfortunately +interrupted your consultation with this eminent physician, it was to ask +you a question regarding this English family. Will you do me the honour +to enter my cabinet?’ + +And whereas no one was looking, the old lady showed her displeasure by +ushering Madame de Ribaumont into her cabinet like a true noble stranger +guest; so that Eustacie felt disconcerted. + +The Duchess then began to read aloud her own letter to Lord Walwyn, +pausing at every clause, so that Eustacie felt the delay and discussion +growing interminable, and the Duchess then requested to have Madame de +Ribaumont’s own letter at once, as she wished to inclose it, make up her +packet, and send it without delay. Opening a secret door in her cabinet, +she showed Eustacie stair by which she might reach Maitre Gardon’s room +without crossing the hall. Eustacie hoped to find him there and tell him +how intolerable was the Duchess; but, though she found him, it was in +company with the tutor, who was spending an afternoon on Plato with him. +She could only take up her letter and retreat to Madame’s cabinet, where +she had left her child. She finished it as best she might, addressed +it after the herald’s spelling of the title, bound it with some of the +Duchess’s black floss silk--wondering meanwhile, but little guessing +that the pedlar knew, where was the tress that had bound her last +attempt at correspondence, guessing least of all that that tress lay +on a heart still living and throbbing for her. All this had made her a +little forget her haste to assert her liberty of action by returning to +the pedlar; but, behold, when she came back to the hall, it had resumed +its pristine soberness, and merely a few lingering figures were to be +seen, packing up their purchases. + +While she was still looking round in dismay, Mademoiselle Perrot came +up to her and said, ‘Ah! Madame, you may well wonder! I never saw Maitre +Benoit there so cross; the poor man did but offer to sell little Fanchon +the elizir that secures a good husband, and old Benoit descended on +him like a griffin enraged, would scarce give him time to compute his +charges or pack his wares, but hustled him forth like a mere thief! And +I missed my bargain for that muffler that had so taken my fancy. But, +Madame, he spoke to me apart, and said you were an old customer of his, +and that rather than the little angel should suffer with her teeth, +which surely threaten convulsions, he would leave with you this +sovereign remedy of sweet syrup--a spoonful to be given each night.’ + +Eustacie took the little flask. She was much inclined to give the syrup +by way of precaution, as well as to assure herself that she was not +under the Duchess’s dominion; but some strong instinct of the truth of +the lady’s words that the child was safer and healthier undoctored, +made her resolve at least to defer it until the little one showed any +perilous symptom. And as happily Rayonette only showed two little white +teeth, and much greater good-humour, the syrup was nearly forgotten, +when, a fortnight after, the Duchess received a dispatch from her son +which filled her with the utmost indignation. The courier had +indeed arrived, but the packet had proved to be filled with hay and +waste-paper. And upon close examination, under the lash, the courier had +been forced to confess to having allowed himself to be overtaken by the +pedlar, and treated by him to a supper at a _cabaret_. No doubt, +while he was afterwards asleep, the contents of his packet had been +abstracted. There had been important documents for the Duke besides +Eustacie’s letters, and the affair greatly annoyed the Duchess, though +she had the compensation of having been proved perfectly right in her +prejudice against pedlars, and her dislike of her son’s courier. She +sent for Eustacie to tell her privately of the loss, and of course the +young mother at once turned pale and exclaimed, ‘The wicked one! Ah! +what a blessing that I gave my little darling none of his dose!’ + +‘_Hein_? You had some from him then!’ demanded the Duchess with +displeasure. + +‘No, Madame, thanks, thanks to you. Oh! I never will be self-willed and +naughty again. Forgive me, Madame.’ And down she dropped on her knee, +with clasped hands and glistening eyes. + +‘Forgive you, silly child, for what?’ said Madame de Quinet, nearly +laughing. + +‘Ah! for the angry, passionate thoughts I had! Ah! Madame, I was all +but giving the stuff to my little angel in very spite--and then---’ +Eutacie’s voice was drowned in passion of tears, and she devoured the +old lady’s hand with her kisses. + +‘Come, come,’ said the Duchess, ‘let us be reasonable. A man may be a +thief, but it does not follow that he is a poisoner.’ + +‘Nay, that will we see,’ cried Eutacie. ‘He was resolved that the little +lamb should not escape, and he left a flask for her with Mademoiselle +Perrot. I will fetch it, if Madame will give me leave. Oh, the great +mercy of Heaven that made her so well that I gave her none!’ + +Madame de Quinet’s analytic powers did not go very far; and would +probably have decided against the syrup if it had been nothing but +virgin honey. She was one who fully believed that her dear Queen Jeanne +had been poisoned with a pair of gloves, and she had unlimited faith in +the powers of evil possessed by Rene of Milan. Of course, she detected +the presence of a slow poison, whose effects would have been attributed +to the ailment it was meant to cure; and though her evidence was +insufficient, she probably did Ercole no injustice. She declined testing +the compound on any unfortunate dog or cat, but sealed it up in the +presence of Gardon, Eutacie, and Mademoiselle Perrot, to be produced +against the pedlar if ever he should be caught. + +Then she asked Eutacie if there was any reason to suspect that he +recognized her. Eutacie related the former dealings with him, when she +had sold him her jewels and her hair, but she had no notion of his being +the same person whom she had seen when at Montpipeau. Indeed, he had +altered his appearance so much that he had been only discovered at +Nid-de-Merle by eyes sharpened by distrust of his pretensions to magic +arts. + +Madame de Quinet, however, concluded that Eutacie had been known, or +else that her jewels had betrayed her, and that the man must have been +employed by her enemies. If it had not been the depth of winter, she +would have provided for the persecuted lady’s immediate transmission +to England; but he storms of the Bay of Biscay would have made this +impossible in the state of French navigation, even if Isaac Gardon had +been in a condition to move; for the first return of cold had brought +back severe rheumatic pains, and with them came a shortness of breath +which even the Duchess did not know to be the token of heart complaint. +He was confined to his room, and it was kneeling by his bedside that +Eutacie poured out her thankfulness for her child’s preservation, and +her own repentance for the passing fit of self-will and petulance. The +thought of Rayonette’s safety seemed absolutely to extinguish the fresh +anxiety that had arisen since it had become evident that her enemies no +longer supposed her dead, but were probably upon her traces. Somehow, +danger had become almost a natural element to her, and having once +expressed her firm resolution that nothing should separate her from +her adopted father, to whom indeed her care became constantly more +necessary, she seemed to occupy herself very little with the matter; she +nursed him as merrily as ever, and left to him and Madame de Quinet the +grave consultations as to what was to be done for her security. There +was a sort of natural buoyancy about her that never realized a danger +till it came, and then her spirit was roused to meet it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. SPELL AND POTION + + + + Churl, upon thy eyes I throw + All the power this charm doth owe + MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM + + +Her rival lived! The tidings could not but be communicated to Diane +de Selinville, when her father set out _en grande tenue_ to demand his +niece from the Duke de Quinet. This, however, was not till spring was +advancing; for the pedlar had not been able to take a direct route back +to Nid-de-Merle, since his first measure had necessarily been to +escape into a province where the abstraction of a Huguenot nobleman’s +despatches would be considered as a meritorious action. Winter weather, +and the practice of his profession likewise, delayed Ercole so much that +it was nearly Easter before he brought his certain intelligence to the +Chevalier, and to the lady an elixir of love, clear and coloured as +crystal, and infallible as an inspirer of affection. + +Should she administer it, now that she knew her cousin not to be the +lawful object of affection she had so long esteemed him, but, as he +persisted in considering himself, a married man? Diane had more scruples +than she would have had a year before, for she had not so long watched +and loved one so true and conscientious as Berenger de Ribaumont without +having her perceptions elevated; but at the same time the passion of +love had become intensified, both by long continuance and by resistance. +She had attached herself, believing him free, and her affections could +not be disentangled by learning that he was bound--rather the contrary. + +Besides, there was plenty of sophistry. Her father had always assured +her of the invalidity of the marriage, without thinking it necessary +to dwell on his own arrangements for making it invalid, so that was no +reasonable ground of objection; and a lady of Diane’s period, living in +the world where she had lived, would have had no notion of objecting +to her lover for a previous amour, and as such was she bidden to rank +Berenger’s relations with Eutacie. And there was the less scruple on +Eutacie’s account, because the Chevalier, knowing that the Duchess had +a son and two grandsons, had conceived a great terror that she meant to +give his niece to one of them; and this would be infinitely worse, +both for the interests of the family and of their party, than even +her reunion with the young Baron. Even Narcisse, who on his return had +written to Paris a grudging consent to the experiment of his father and +sister, had allowed that the preservation of Berenger’s life was needful +till Eutacie should be in their power so as to prevent such a marriage +as that! To Diane, the very suggestion became certainty: she already saw +Eutacie’s shallow little heart consoled and her vanity excited by these +magnificent prospects, and she looked forward to the triumph of her own +constancy, when Berenger should find the image so long enshrined in his +heart crumble in its sacred niche. + +Yet a little while then would she be patient, even though nearly a +year had passed and still she saw no effect upon her prisoners, unless, +indeed, Philip had drunk of one of her potions by mistake and his clumsy +admiration was the consequence. The two youths went on exactly in +the same manner, without a complaint, without a request, occupying +themselves as best they might--Berenger courteously attentive recovered +his health, and the athletic powers displayed by the two brothers when +wrestling, fencing, or snow-balling in the courtyard, were the amazement +and envy of their guard. Twice in the course of the winter there had +been an alarm of wolves, and in their eagerness and excitement about +this new sport, they had accepted the Chevalier’s offer of taking their +parole for the hunt. They had then gone forth with a huge posse of +villagers, who beat the woods with their dogs till the beast was aroused +from its lair and driven into the alleys, where waited gentlemen, +gendarmes, and game keepers with their guns. These two chases were +chiefly memorable to Berenger, because in the universal intermingling +of shouting peasants he was able in the first to have some conversation +with Eutacie’s faithful protector Martin, who told him the incidents of +her wanderings, with tears in his eyes, and blessed him for his faith +that she was not dead; and in the second, he actually found himself +in the ravine of the Grange du Temple. No need to ask, every voice was +shouting the name, and though the gendarmes were round him and he durst +not speak to Rotrou, still he could reply with significative earnestness +to the low bow with which the farmer bent to evident certainty that here +was the imprisoned Protestant husband of the poor lady. Berenger wore +his black vizard mask as had been required of him, but the man’s eyes +followed him, as though learning by heart the outline of his tall +figure. The object of the Chevalier’s journey was, of course, a secret +from the prisoners, who merely felt its effects by having their meals +served to them in their own tower; and when he returned after about a +month’s absence though him looking harassed, aged, and so much out of +humour that he could scarcely preserve his usual politeness. In effect +he was greatly chagrined. + +‘That she is in their hands is certain, the hypocrites!’ he said to his +daughter and sister; ‘and no less so that they have designs on her; but +I let them know that these could be easily traversed.’ + +‘But where is she, the unhappy apostate child?’ said the Abbess. ‘They +durst not refuse her to you.’ + +‘I tell you they denied all present knowledge of her. The Duke himself +had the face to make as though he never heard of her. He had no concern +with his mother’s household and guests forsooth! I do not believe he +has; the poor fellow stands in awe of that terrible old heretic dragon, +and keeps aloof from her as much as he can. But he is, after all, a +_beau jeune home_; nor should I be surprised if he were the girl’s gay +bridegroom by this time, though I gave him a hint that there was an +entanglement about the child’s first marriage which, by French law, +would invalidate any other without a dispensation from the Pope.’ + +‘A hard nut that for a heretic,’ laughed the Abbess. + +‘He acted the ignorant--knew nothing about the young lady; but had the +civility to give me a guide and an escort to go to Quinet. _Ma foi_! I +believe they were given to hinder me--take me by indirect roads, make +me lose time at chateaux. When I arrived at the grim old chateau--a true +dungeon, precise as a convent--there was the dame, playing the Queen +Jeanne as well as she could, and having the insolence to tell me that it +was true that Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont, as she was pleased to call +her, had honoured her residence for some months, but that she had now +quitted it, and she flatly refused to answer any question whither she +was gone! The hag! she might at least have had the decorum to deny all +knowledge of her, but nothing is more impertinent that the hypocritical +sincerity of the heretics.’ + +‘But her people,’ exclaimed the Abbess; ‘surely some of them knew, and +could be brought to speak.’ + +‘All the servants I came in contact with played the incorruptible; but +still I have done something. There were some fellows in the village who +are not at their ease under that rule. I caused my people to inquire +them out. They knew nothing more than that the old heretic Gardon with +his family had gone away in Madame la Duchesse’s litter, but whither +they could not tell. But the _cabaretier_ there is furious secretly with +the Quinets for having spoilt his trade by destroying the shrine at the +holy well, and I have made him understand that it will be for his +profit to send me off intelligence so soon as there is any communication +between them and the lady. I made the same arrangement with a couple of +gendarmes of the escort the Duke gave me. So at least we are safe for +intelligence such as would hinder a marriage.’ + +‘But they will be off to England!’ said the Abbess. + +‘I wager they will again write to make sure of a reception. Moreover, +I have set that fellow Ercole and others of his trade to keep a strict +watch on all the roads leading to the ports, and give me due notice of +their passing thither. We have law on our side, and, did I once claim +her, no one could resist my right. Or should the war break out, as is +probable, then could my son sweep their whole province with his troops. +This time she cannot escape us. + +The scene that her father’s words and her own imagination conjured up, +of Eustacie attracting the handsome widower-duke, removed all remaining +scruples from Madame de Selinville. For his own sake, the Baron must be +made to fulfil the prophecy of the ink-pool, and allow his prison doors +to be opened by love. Many and many a tender art did Diane rehearse; +numerous were her sighs; wakeful, languishing, and restless her nights +and days; and yet, whatever her determination to practise upon her +cousin the witcheries that she had learnt in the _Escadron de la +Reine-mere_, and seen played off effectually where there was not one +grain of love to inspire them, her powers and her courage always failed +her in the presence of him whom she sought to attract. His quiet reserve +and simplicity always disconcerted her, and any attempt at blandishment +that he could not mistake was always treated by him as necessarily +an accidental error, as if any other supposition would render her +despicable; and yet there was now and then a something that made her +detect an effort in his restraint, as if it were less distaste +than self-command. Her brother had contemptuously acquiesced in the +experiment made by herself and her father, and allowed that so long as +there was any danger of the Quinet marriage, the Baron’s existence was +needful. He would not come to Nid-de-Merle, nor did they want him there, +knowing that he could hardly have kept his hands off his rival. But when +the war broke out again in the summer of 1575 he joined that detachment +of Guise’s army which hovered about the Loire, and kept watch on the +Huguenot cities and provinces of Western France. The Chevalier made +several expeditions to confer with his son, and to keep up his relations +with the network of spies whom he had spread over the Quinet provinces. +The prisoners were so much separated from all intercourse with the +dependants that they were entirely ignorant of the object of his absence +from home. On these occasions they never left their tower and its court, +and had no enlivenment save an occasional gift of dainties or message +of inquiry from the ladies at Bellaise. These were brought by a handsome +but slight, pale lad called Aime de Selinville, a relative of the late +Count, as he told them, who had come to act as a gentleman attendant +upon the widowed countess. The brothers rather wondered how he was +disposed of at the convent, but all there was so contrary to their +preconceived notions that they acquiesced. The first time he arrived +it was on a long, hot summer day, and he then brought them a cool iced +sherbet in two separate flasks, that for Philip being mixed with wine, +which was omitted for Berenger; and the youth stood lingering and +watching, anxious, he said, to be able to tell his lady how the drinks +were approved. Both were excellent, and to that effect the prisoners +replied; but no sooner was the messenger gone than Berenger said +smilingly, ‘That was a love potion, Phil.’ + +‘And you drank it!’ cried Philip, in horror. + +‘I did not think of it till I saw how the boy’s eyes were gazing +curiously at me as I swallowed it. You look at me as curiously, Phil. +Are you expecting it to work? Shall I be at the fair lady’s feet next +time we meet?’ + +‘How can you defy it, Berry?’ + +‘Nay, Phil; holy wedded love is not to be dispelled by a mountebank’s +decoction.’ + +‘But suppose it were poisonous, Berry, what can be done?’ cried Philip, +starting up in dismay. + +‘Then you would go home, Phil, and this would be over. But’--seeing his +brother’s terror--‘there is no fear of that. She is not like to wish to +poison me.’ + +And the potion proved equally ineffective on mind and body, as indeed +did all the manipulations exercised upon a little waxen image that was +supposed to represent M. le Baron. Another figure was offered to Diane, +in feminine form, with black beads for eyes and a black plaster for +hair, which, when stuck full of pins and roasted before the fire, was to +cause Eustacie to peak and pine correspondingly. But from this measure +Diane shrank. If aught was done against her rival it must be by her +father and brother, not by herself; and she would not feel herself +directly injuring her little cousin, nor sinking herself below him whom +she loved. Once his wife, she would be good for ever, held up by his +strength. + +Meantime Berenger had received a greater shock than she or her father +understood in the looking over of some of the family parchments kept in +store at the castle. The Chevalier, in showing them to him, had chiefly +desired to glorify the family by demonstrating how its honours had been +won, but Berenger was startled at finding that Nid-de-Merle had been, as +it appeared to him, arbitrarily and unjustly declared to be forfeited by +the Sieur de Bellaise, who had been thrown into prison by Louis XI. for +some demonstration in favour of the poor Duke de Berri, and granted +to the favourite Ribaumont. The original grant was there, and to his +surprise he found it was to male heirs--the male heirs alone of the +direct line of the Ribaumont--to whom the grant was made. How, then, +came it to Eustacie? The disposal had, with almost equal injustice, been +changed by King Henry II. and the late Count de Ribaumont in favour of +the little daughter whose union with the heir of the elder line was to +conclude all family feuds. Only now did Berenger understand what his +father had said on his death-bed of flagrant injustice committed in his +days of darkness. He felt that he was reaping the reward of the injuries +committed against the Chevalier and his son on behalf of the two +unconscious children. He would willingly at once have given up all claim +to the Nid-de-Merle estate--and he was now of age; two birthdays had +passed in his captivity and brought him to years of discretion--but he +had no more power than before to dispose of what was the property of +Eustacie and her child; and the whole question of the validity of his +marriage would be given up by his yielding even the posthumous claim +that might have devolved on him in case of Eustacie’s death. This would +be giving up her honour, a thing impossible. + +‘Alas!’ he sighed, ‘my poor father might well say he had bound a heavy +burthen round my neck.’ + +And from that time his hopes sank lower as the sense of the justice of +his cause left him. He could neither deny his religion nor his marriage, +and therefore could do nothing for his own deliverance; and he knew +himself to be suffering in the cause of a great injustice; indeed, to be +bringing suffering on the still more innocent Philip. + +The once proudly indifferent youth was flagging now; was losing +appetite, flesh, and colour; was unwilling to talk or to take exercise; +and had a wan and drooping air that was most painful to watch. It seemed +as if the return of summer brought a sense of the length and weariness +of the captivity, and that the sunshine and gaiety of the landscape had +become such a contrast to the captives’ deadness of spirit that they +could hardly bear to behold them, and felt the dull prison walls more +congenial to their feelings than the gaiety of the summer hay and +harvest-fields. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. BEATING AGAINST THE BARS + + + +My horse is weary of the stall, And I am sick of captive thrall.--LADY +OF THE LAKE + + +Letters! They were hailed like drops of water in a thirsty land. No +doubt they had been long on the way, ere they had reached the hands of +the Chevalier de Ribaumont, and it was quite possible that they had been +read and selected; but, as Berenger said, he defied any Frenchman to +imitate either Lord Walwyn’s style or Sir Marmaduke’s, and when late +in the autumn the packet was delivered to him, the two captives gloated +over the very outsides before they opened them. + +The first intelligence that greeted them made them give a cry of +amusement and surprise. Lady Thistlewood, whose regrets that each of her +girls was not a boy had passed into a proverb, had at length, in Dolly’s +seventh year, given birth to a son on Midsummer Day. + +‘Well,’ said Philip, sighing, ‘we must drink his health tonight! It is +well, if we are to rot here, that some one should make it up to them!’ + +‘And join Walwyn and Hurst!’ said Berenger; and then both faces grew +much graver, as by these letters, dated three months since, they +understood how many they must have missed, and likewise that nothing had +been heard of themselves since they had left Paris sixteen months ago. +Their letters, both to their relations and to Sir Francis Walsingham, +had evidently been suppressed; and Lord North, who had succeeded +Walsingham as ambassador, had probably been misled by design, either +by Narcisse de Nid-de-Merle himself, or by some of his agents, for Lord +Walwyn had heard from him that the young men were loitering among the +castles and garrisons of Anjou, leading a gay and dissipated life, +and that it was universally believed that the Baron de Ribaumont had +embraced the Catholic faith, and would shortly be presented to Henry +III. to receive the grant of the Selinville honours, upon his +marriage with his cousin, the widow of the last of the line. With much +earnestness and sorrow did good old Lord Walwyn write to his grandson, +conjuring him to bethink himself of his some, his pure faith, his loving +friends, and the hopes of his youth: and, at least, if he himself had +been led away by the allurements of the other party, to remember that +Philip had been intrusted to him in full confidence, and to return him +to his home. ‘It was grief and shame to him,’ said the good old man, +‘to look at Sir Marmaduke, who had risked his son in the charge of one +hitherto deemed trustworthy; and even if Berenger had indeed forgotten +and cast away those whom he had once seemed to regard with love and +duty, he commanded him to send home Philip, who owed an obedience to +his father that could not be gainsaid.’ Lord Walwyn further bade his +grandson remember that the arrangements respecting his inheritance had +been made in confidence that his heir was English in heart and faith, +and that neither the Queen nor his own conscience would allow him to let +his inheritance pass into French of Papist hands. There was scarcely a +direct reproach, but the shaken, altered handwriting showed how stricken +the aged man must be; and after his signature was added one still more +trembling line, ‘An ye return not speedily, ye will never see the old +grandsire more.’ + +Berenger scarcely finished the letter through his burning tears of +agony, and then, casting it from him, began to pace the room in fierce +agitation, bursting out into incoherent exclamations, grasping at +his hair, even launching himself against the massive window with such +frenzied gestures and wild words that Philip, who had read through all +with his usual silent obtuseness, became dismayed, and, laying hold of +him, said, ‘Prithee, brother, do not thus! What serves such passion?’ + +Berenger burst into a strange loud laugh at the matter-of-fact tone. +‘What serves it! what serves anything!’ he cried, ‘but to make me feel +what a miserable wretch I am? But he will die, Philip--he will die--not +having believed me! How shall we keep ourselves from the smooth-tongued +villain’s throat? That I should be thus judged a traitor by my +grandfather----’ + +And with a cry as of bodily anguish, he hid his face on the table, and +groaned as he felt the utter helplessness of his strong youth in bonds. + +‘It can’t be helped,’ was the next of the unconsolatory platitudes +uttered by Philip, who always grew sullen and dogged when his brother’s +French temperament broke forth under any sudden stroke. ‘If they will +believe such things, let them! You have not heard what my father says to +it.’ + +‘It will be all the same,’ groaned Berenger. + +‘Nay! now that’s a foul slander, and you should be ashamed of doing my +father such wrong,’ said Philip, ‘Listen;’ and he read: ‘I will believe +no ill of the lad no more than of thee, Phil. It is but a wild-goose +chase, and the poor young woman is scarce like to be above ground; +but, as I daily tell them, ‘tis hard a man should forfeit his land for +seeking his wife. My Lord North sends rumours that he is under Papist +guiding, and sworn brother with the Black Ribaumonts; and my Lady, his +grandmother, is like to break her heart, and my Lord credits them more +than he ought, and never a line as a token comes from you. Then there’s +Dame Annora, as proud of the babe as though neither she nor woman born +ever had a son before, and plains over him, that both his brothers +should be endowed, and he but a younger son. What will be the end on’t I +cannot tell. I will stand up for the right as best man may do, and never +forget that Berry is her first-born, and that his child may be living; +but the matter is none of mine, and my Lord is very aged, nor can a man +meddle between his wife and her father. So this I tell you that you may +make your brother lay it to heart. The sooner he is here the better, +if he be still, as I verily believe and maintain him to be, an honest +English heart that snaps his fingers at French papistry.’ ‘There,’ +conclude Philip triumphantly, ‘he knows an honest man! He’s friend and +good father to you as much as ever. Heed none of the rest. He’ll never +let this little rogue stand in your light.’ + +‘as if I cared for that!’ said Berenger, beginning his caged-tiger walk +again, and, though he tried to repress his anguish, breaking out at +times into fierce revilings of the cruel toils that beset him, and +despairing lamentations over those beloved ones at home, with sobs, +groans, and tears, such as Philip could not brook to witness. Both +because they were so violent and mourn-full, and because he thought them +womanish, though in effect no woman’s grief could have had half that +despairing force. The _fierte_ of the French noble, however, came to +his aid. At the first sound of the great supper-bell he dashed away his +tears, composed his features, washed his face, and demanded haughtily +of Philip, whether there were any traces in his looks that the cruel +hypocrite, their jailer, could gloat over. + +And with proud step and indifferent air he marched into the hall, +answered the Chevalier’s polite inquiry whether the letter had brought +good tidings by coolly thanking him and saying that all at home were +well; and when he met the old man’s inquiring glance out of the little +keen black bead in the puckered, withered eyelid, he put a perfectly +stony unmeaningness into his own gaze, till his eyes looked like the +blue porcelain from China so much prized by the Abbess. He even played +at chess all the evening with such concentrated attention as to be +uniformly victorious. + +Yet half the night Philip heard suppressed moans and sobs--then knew +that he was on his knees--then, after long and comparatively silent +weeping, he lay down again, and from the hour when he awoke in the +morning, he returned no more to the letters; and though for some little +time more sad and dispirited, he seemed to have come to regard the +misjudgment at home as a part of the burthen he was already bearing. + +That burthen was, however, pressing more heavily. The temperaments of +the two brothers so differed that while the French one was prostrated by +the agony of a stroke, and then rallied patiently to endure the effects, +the English character opposed a passive resistance to the blow, gave no +sign of grief or pain, and from that very determination suffered a sort +of exhaustion that made the effects of the evil more and more left. +Thus, from the time Philip’s somewhat tardy imagination had been made +to realize his home, his father, and his sisters, the home-sickness, +and weariness of his captivity, which had already begun to undermine his +health and spirits, took increasing effect. + +He made no complaint--he never expressed a wish--but, in the words of +the prophet, he seemed ‘pining away on his feet.’ He did not sleep, and +though, to avoid remark, he never failed to appear at meals, he scarcely +tasted food. He never willingly stirred from cowering over the fire, and +was so surly and ill-tempered that only Berenger’s unfailing good-humour +could have endured it. Even a wolf-hunt did not stir him. He only said +he hated outlandish beasts, and that it was not like chasing the hare in +Dorset. His calf-love for Madame de Selinville had entirely faded away +in his yearnings after home. She was only one of the tediously recurring +sights of his captivity, and was loathed like all the rest. The +regulation rides with the Chevalier were more detestable than ever, +and by and by they caused such fatigue that Berenger perceived that +his strength must be warning, and became so seriously alarmed that one +evening, when Philip had barely dragged himself to the hall, tasted +nothing but a few drops of wine, and then dropped into an uneasy slumber +in his chair, he could not but turn to the Chevalier an appealing, +indignant countenance, as he said, in a low but quivering voice, ‘You +see, sir, how he is altered!’ + +‘Alas! fair nephew, it is but too plain. He is just of the age when such +restraint tells severely upon the health.’ + +Then Berenger spoke out upon the foul iniquity of the boy’s detention. +For himself, he observed, he had nothing to say; he knew the term of his +release, and had not accepted them; but Philip, innocent of all damage +to the Ribaumont interests, the heir of an honourable family, what had +he done to incur the cruel imprisonment that was eating away his life? + +‘I tell you, sir,’ said Berenger, with eyes filled with tears,’ that his +liberty is more precious to me than my own. Were he but restored to our +home, full half the weight would be gone from my spirit.’ + +‘Fair nephew,’ said the Chevalier, ‘you speak as though I had any power +in the matter, and were not merely standing between you and the King.’ + +‘Then if so,’ said Berenger, ‘let the King do as he will with me, but +let Philip’s case be known to our Ambassador.’ + +‘My poor cousin,’ said the Chevalier, ‘you know not what you ask. Did I +grant your desire, you would only learn how implacable King Henri is +to those who have personally offended him--above all, to heretics. Nor +could the Ambassador do anything for one who resisted by force of +arms the King’s justice. Leave it to me; put yourself in my hands, and +deliverance shall come for him first, then for you.’ + +‘How, sir?’ + +‘One token of concession--one attendance at mass--one pledge that +the alliance shall take place when the formalities have been complied +with--then can I report you our own; give you almost freedom at once; +despatch our young friend to England without loss of time; so will +brotherly affection conquer those chivalrous scruples, most honourable +in you, but which, carried too far, become cruel obstinacy.’ + +Berenger looked at Philip; saw how faded and wan was the ruddy sun-burnt +complexion, how lank and bony the sturdy form, how listless and wasted +the hands. Then arose, bursting within him, the devoted generosity of +the French nature, which would even accept sin and ruin for self, that +so the friend may be saved; and after all, had he not gone to mass out +of mere curiosity?--did he not believe that there was salvation in the +Gallican Church? Was it not possible that, with Philip free to tell +his story at home, his own deliverance might come before he should be +irrevocably committed to Madame de Selinville? If Eustacie were living, +her claims must overthrow that which her rival was forcing upon him at +her own peril. Nay, how else could he obtain tidings of her? And for +those at home, did they deserve that he should sacrifice all, Philip +included, for their sake? The thoughts, long floating round his brain, +now surged upon him in one flood, and seemed to overwhelm in those +moments of confusion all his powers of calling up the other side of the +argument; he only had an instinct remaining that it would be a lie to +God and man alike. ‘God help me!’ he sighed to himself; and there was +sufficient consideration and perplexity expressed in his countenance to +cause the Chevalier to feel his cause almost gained; and rising eagerly, +with tears in his eyes, he exclaimed, ‘Embrace me, my dear, dear son! +The thing is done! Oh! what peace, what joy!’ + +The instinct of recoil came stronger now. He stepped back with folded +arms, saying again, ‘God help me! God forbid that I should be a +traitor!’ + +‘My son, hear me; these are but easily removed points of honour,’ began +the Chevalier; but at that moment Philip suddenly started from, or in +his slumber, leapt on his feet, and called out, ‘Avaunt, Satan!’ then +opened his eyes, and looked, as if barely recalling where he was. + +‘Philip!’ exclaimed Berenger, ‘did you hear?’ + +‘I--I don’t know,’ he said, half-bewildered. ‘Was I dreaming that the +fiend was parleying with us in the voice of M. le Chevalier there to +sell our souls for one hour of home?’ + +He spoke English, but Berenger replied in French. + +‘You were not wrong, Philip. Sir, he dreamt that the devil was +tempting me in your voice while you were promising me his liberty on my +fulfilling your first condition.’ + +‘What?’ said Philip, now fully awake, and gathering the state of things, +as he remembered the words that had doubtless been the cause of his +dream. ‘And if you did, Berenger, I give you warning they should never +see me at home. What! could I show my face there with such tidings? No! +I should go straight to La Noue, or to the Low Countries, and kill every +Papist I could for having debauched you!’ + +‘Hush! hush! Philip,’ said Berenger; ‘I could not break my faith to +Heaven or my wife even for your sake, and my cousin sees how little +beholden you would be to me for so doing. With your leave, Monsieur, we +will retire.’ + +The Chevalier detained Berenger for a moment to whisper, ‘What I see +is so noble a heart that I know you cannot sacrifice him to your +punctilio.’ + +Philip was so angry with Berenger, so excited, and so determined to show +that nothing ailed him, that for a short time he was roused, and seemed +to be recovering; but in a few days he flagged again, only, if possible +with more gruffness, moodiness, and pertinacity in not allowing that +anything was amiss. It was the bitterest drop of all in Berenger’s cup, +when in the end of January he looked back at what Philip had been only +a month before, and saw how he had wasted away and lost strength; the +impulse rather to ruin himself that destroy his brother came with such +force that he could scarcely escape it by his ever-recurring cry +for help to withstand it. And then Diane, in her splendid beauty and +withchery, would rise before him, so that he knew how a relaxation of +the lengthened weary effort would make his whole self break its +bonds and go out to her. Dreams of felicity and liberty, and not +with Eustacie, would even come over him, and he would awaken to +disappointment before he came to a sense of relief and thankfulness +that he was still his own. The dislike, distaste, and dread that came +so easily in his time of pain and weakness were less easy to maintain +in his full health and forced inactivity. Occupation of mind and hope +seemed the only chance of enabling either of the two to weather this +most dreary desert period; and Berenger, setting his thoughts resolutely +to consider what would be the best means of rousing Philip, decided +at length that any endeavour to escape, however arduous and desperate, +would be better than his present apathetic languor, even if it led to +nothing. After the first examination of their prison, Berenger had had +no thought of escape; he was then still weak and unenterprising. He had +for many months lived in hopes of interference from home; and, besides, +the likelihood that so English a party as his own would be quickly +pursued and recaptured, where they did not know their road and had +no passports, had deterred him lest should fall into still straiter +imprisonment. But he had since gained, in the course of his rides, and +by observation from the top of the tower, a much fuller knowledge of the +country. He knew the way to the grange du Temple, and to the chief towns +in the neighbourhood. Philip and Humfrey had both lost something of +their intensely national look and speech, and, moreover, was having +broken out again, there was hope of falling in with Huguenot partisans +even nearer that at La Rochelle. But whether successful or not, some +enterprise was absolutely needed to save Philip from his despondent +apathy; and Berenger, who in these eighteen months had grown into the +strength and vigour of manhood, felt as if he had force and power for +almost any effort save this hopeless waiting. + +He held council with Humfrey, who suggested that it might be well to +examine the vaults below the keep. He had a few days before, while +going after some of the firewood stored below the ground-floor chamber, +observed a door, locked, but with such rusty iron hinges that they might +possibly yield to vigorous efforts with a stone; and who could tell +where the underground passages might come out? + +Berenger eagerly seized the idea. Philip’s mood of contradiction +prompted him to pronounce it useless folly, and he vouchsafed no +interest in the arrangements for securing light, by selecting all the +bits of firewood fittest for torches, and saving all the oil possible +from the two lamps they were allowed. The chief difficulty was that +Guibert was not trusted, so that all had to be done out of his sight; +and on the first day Berenger was obliged to make the exploration alone, +since Humfrey was forced to engross Guibert in some occupation out of +sight, and Philip had refused to have anything to do with it, or be like +a rat routing in the corners of his trap. + +However, Berenger had only just ascertained that the ironwork was +so entirely rusted away as to offer no impediment, when Philip came +languidly roaming into the cellar, saying, ‘Here! I’ll hold the torch! +You’ll be losing yourself in this wolf’s mouth of a place if you go +alone.’ + +The investigation justified Philip’s predictions of its uselessness. +Nothing was detected but rats, and vaults, and cobwebs; it was cold, +earthy, and damp; and when they thought they must have penetrated far +beyond the precincts of the keep, they heard Humfrey’s voice close to +them, warning them that it was nearly dinner-time. + +The next day brought them a more promising discovery, namely of a long +straight passage, with a gleam of light at the end of it; and this for +the first time excited Philip’s interest or curiosity. He would have +hastened along it at once, but for the warning summons from Humfrey; and +in the excitement of even this grain of interest, he ate more heartily +at supper than he had done for weeks, and was afterwards more eager +to prove to Berenger that night was the best time to pursue their +researches. + +And Berenger, when convinced that Guibert was sound asleep, thought so +too, and accompanied by Humfrey, they descended into the passage. The +light, of course, was no longer visible, but the form of the crypt, +through which they now passed, was less antique than that under the +keep, and it was plain they were beneath a later portion of the Castle. +The gallery concluded in a wall, with a small barred, unglazed window, +perfectly dark, so that Berenger, who alone could reach to the bottom of +it, could not uses where it looked out. + +‘We must return by daylight; then, maybe, we may judge,’ sighed Philip. + +‘Hark!’ exclaimed Berenger. + +‘Rats,’ said Philip. + +‘No--listen--a voice! Take care!’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘we may be +close on some of the servants.’ + +But, much nearer than he expected, a voice on his right hand demanded, +‘Does any good Christian hear me?’ + +‘Who is there?’ exclaimed Philip. + +‘Ah! good sir, do I hear the voice of a companion in misery? Or, if you +be free, would you but send tidings to my poor father?’ + +‘It is a Norman accent!’ cried Berenger. ‘Ah! ah! can it be poor Landry +Osbert?’ + +‘I am--I am that wretch. Oh, would that M. le Baron could know!’ + +‘My dear, faithful foster-brother! They deceived me,’ cried Berenger, +in great agitation, as an absolute howl came from the other side of the +wall: ‘M. le Baron come to this! Woe worth the day!’ and Berenger with +difficulty mitigated his affectionate servant’s lamentations enough to +learn from him how he had been seized almost at the gates of Bellaise, +closely interrogated, deprived of the letter to Madame la Baronne, +and thrown into this dungeon. The Chevalier. Not an unmerciful man, +according to the time, had probably meant to release him as soon as the +marriage between his son and niece should have rendered it superfluous +to detain this witness to Berenger’s existence. There, then, the poor +fellow had lain for three years, and his work during this weary time +had been the scraping with a potsherd at the stone of his wall, and his +pertinacious perseverance had succeeded in forming a hole just large +enough to enable him to see the light of the torch carried by the +gentlemen. On his side, he said, there was nothing but a strong iron +door, and a heavily-barred window, looking, like that in the passage, +into the fosse within the walled garden; but, on the other hand, if he +could enlarge his hole sufficiently to creep through it, he could escape +with them in case of their finding a subterranean outlet. The opening +within his cell was, of course, much larger than the very small space +he had made by loosening a stone towards the passage, but he was obliged +always to build up each side of his burrow at the hours of his jailer’s +visit, lest his work should be detected, and to stamp the rubbish into +his floor. But while they talked, Humfrey and Philip, with their knives, +scraped so diligently that two more stones could be displaced; and, +looking down the widening hole through the prodigious mass of wall, +they could see a ghastly, ragged, long-bearded scarecrow, with an almost +piteous expression of joy on his face, at once again seeing familiar +faces. And when, at his earnest entreaty, Berenger stood so as to allow +his countenance to be as visible as the torch could make it through the +‘wall’s-hole,’ the vault echoed with the poor fellow’s delighted cry. +‘I am happy! M. le Baron is himself again. The assassin’s cruel work is +gone! Ah! thanks to the saints! Blessed be St. Lucie, it was not in vain +that I entreated her!’ + +The torches were, however, waxing so low that the sight could not long +be afforded poor Osbert; and, with a promise to return to him next day, +the party returned to the upper air, where they warmed themselves over +the fire, and held council over measures for the present relief of the +captive. Berenger grieved that he had given him up so entirely for lost +as to have made no exertions on his behalf, and declared his resolution +of entreating that he might be allowed to enjoy comparative comfort with +them in the keep. It was a risk, but the Chevalier might fairly suppose +that the knowledge of Osbert’s situation had oozed out through the +servants, and gratitude and humanity alike impelled Berenger to run some +risk for his foster-brother’s sake. He was greatly touched at the poor +fellow’s devotion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost tearful +smile at the joy with which he had proclaimed--what Berenger was quite +unaware of, since the keep furnished no mirrors--the disappearance of +his scars. ‘’Tis even so,’ said Philip, ‘though I never heeded it. You +are as white from crown to beard as one of the statues at Paris; but the +great red gash is a mere seam, save when yon old Satan angers you, and +then it blushes for all the rest of your face.’ + +‘And the cheek-wound is hidden, I suppose,’ said Berenger, feeling +under the long fair moustache and the beard, which was developing into +respectable proportions. + +‘Hidden? ay, entirely. No one would think your bald crown had only +twenty-one years over it; but you are a personable fellow still, quite +enough to please Daphne,’ said Philip. + +‘Pshaw!’ replied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear the shadow of a +jest again from Philip. + +It was quite true. These months of quiescence--enforced though they +were--had given his health and constitution time to rally after the +terrible shock they had sustained. The severe bleedings had, indeed, +rendered his complexion perfectly colourless; but there was something +in this, as well as in the height which the loss of hair gave his brow, +which, added to the depth and loftiness of countenance that this long +period of patience and resolution had impressed on his naturally fine +features, without taking away that open candour that had first attracted +Diane when he was a rosy lad. His frame had strengthened at the same +time, and assumed the proportions of manhood; so that, instead of +being the overgrown maypole that Narcisse used to sneer at, he was now +broad-shouldered and robust, exceedingly powerful, and so well made +that his height, upwards of six feet, was scarcely observed, except by +comparison with the rest of the world. + +And his character had not stood still. He had first come to Paris +a good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy: and though manly +affections, cares, and sorrows had been thrust on him, he had met them +like the boy that he was, hardly conscious how deep they went. Then +had come the long dream of physical suffering, with only one thought +pertinaciously held throughout--that of constancy to his lost wife; +and from this he had only thoroughly wakened in his captivity, +the resolution still holding fast, but with more of reflection and +principle, less of mere instinct, than when his powers were lost or +distracted in the effort of constant endurance of pain and weakness. The +charge of Philip, the endeavour both of educating him and keeping up +his spirits, as well as the controversy with Pere Bonami, had been no +insignificant parts of the discipline of these months; and, little as +the Chevalier had intended it, he had trained his young kinsman into a +far more substantial and perilous adversary, both in body and mind, than +when he had caged him in his castle of the Blackbird’s Nest. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ENEMY IN PRESENCE + + + + Then came and looked him in the face, + An angel beautiful and bright, + And then he knew it was a fiend, + That miserable knight. + --COLERIDGE + + +‘Father, dear father, what is it? What makes you look so ill, so +haggard?’ cried Diane de Selinville, when summoned the next morning to +meet her father in the parlour of the convent. + +‘Ah, child! see here. Your brother will have us make an end of it. He +has found her.’ + +‘Eustacie! Ah, and where?’ + +‘That he will not say, but see here. This is all billet tells me: “The +hare who has doubled so long is traced to her form. My dogs are on her, +and in a week’s time she will be ours. I request you, sir, to send me a +good purse of crowns to reward my huntsmen; and in the meantime--one +way or the other--that pet of my sister’s must be disposed of. Kept too +long, these beasts always become savage. Either let him be presented to +the royal menagerie, or there is a still surer way.”’ + +‘And that is all he says!’ exclaimed Diane. + +‘All! He was always cautions. He mentions no names. And now, child, what +is to be done? To give him up to the King is, at the best, life-long +imprisonment, yet, if he were still here when my son returns--Alas! +alas! child, I have been ruined body and soul between you! How could you +make me send after and imprison him? It was a mere assassination!’ and +the old man beat his head with grief and perplexity. + +‘Father!’ cried Diane, tearfully, ‘I cannot see you thus. We meant it +for the best. We shall yet save him.’ + +‘Save him! Ah, daughter, I tossed all night long thinking how to save +him, so strong, so noble, so firm, so patient, so good even to the old +man who has destroyed his hope--his life! Ah! I have thought till my +brain whirls.’ + +‘Poor father! I knew you would love him,’ said Diane, tenderly. ‘Ah! we +will save him yet. He shall be the best of sons to you. Look, it is only +to tell him that she whom he calls his wife is already in my brother’s +hands, wedded to him.’ + +‘Daughter,’--and he pushed back his gray hair with a weary distressed +gesture,--‘I am tired of wiles; I am old; I can carry them out no +longer.’ + +‘But this is very simple; it may already be true--at least it will soon +be true. Only tell him that she is my brother’s wife. Then will his +generosity awaken, then will he see that to persist in the validity of +his marriage would be misery, dishonour to her, then----’ + +‘Child, you know not how hard he is in his sense of right. Even for +his brother’s sake he would not give way an inch, and the boy was as +obstinate as he!’ + +‘Ah! but this comes nearer. He will be stung; his generosity will be +piqued. He will see that the kindest thing he can do will be to nullify +his claim, and the child----’ + +The Chevalier groaned, struck his brow with his fist, and muttered, +‘That will concern no one--that has been provided for. Ah! ah! children, +if I lose my own soul for you, you----’ + +‘Father, my sweet father, say not these cruel things. Did not the +Queen’s confessor tell us that all means were lawful that brought a soul +to the Church? and here are two.’ + +‘Two! Why, the youth’s heresy is part of his point of honour. Child, +child, the two will be murdered in my very house, and the guilt will be +on my soul.’ + +‘No, father! We will--we will save him. See, only tell him this.’ + +‘This--what? My brain is confused. I have thought long--long.’ + +‘Only this, father, dear father. You shall not be tormented any more, if +only you will tell him that my brother has made Eustacie his wife, then +will I do all the rest.’ + +Diane coaxed, soothed, and encouraged her father by her caresses, till +he mounted his mule to return to the castle at dinner-time, and she +promised to come early in the afternoon to follow up the stroke he was +to give. She had never seen him falter before,--he had followed out his +policy with a clear head and unsparing hand,--but now that Berenger’s +character was better known to him, and the crisis long delayed had come +so suddenly before his eyes, his whole powers seemed to reel under the +alternative. + +The dinner-bell clanged as he arrived at the castle, and the prisoners +were marched into the hall, both intent upon making their request on +Osbert’s behalf, and therefore as impatient for the conclusion of the +meal, and the absence of the servants, as was their host. His hands +trembled so much that Berenger was obliged to carve for him; he made the +merest feint of eating; and now and then raised his hand to his head as +if to bring back scattered ideas. + +The last servant quitted the room, when Berenger perceived that the +old man was hardly in a state to attend to his request, and yet the +miserable frost-bitten state of poor Landry seemed to compel him to +speak. + +‘Sir,’ he began, ‘you could do me a great kindness.’ + +The Chevalier looked up at him with glassy eyes. + +‘My son,’ he said, with an effort, ‘I also had something to say. Ah! +let me think. I have had enough. Call my daughter,’ he added, feeling +helplessly with his hands, so that Berenger started up in alarm, and +received him in his arms just in time to prevent his sinking to the +floor senseless. + +‘It is a stroke,’ exclaimed Berenger. ‘Call, Phil! Send the gendarmes.’ + +The gendarmes might be used to the sight of death of their own causing, +but they had a horror of that which came by Nature’s hand. The purple +face and loud gasps of the stricken man terrified them out of their +senses. _‘C’est un coup,’_ was the cry, and they went clattering off to +the servants. These, all men but one old crone, came in a mass to the +door, looked in, beheld their master rigid and prostrate on the floor, +supported by the prisoner, and with fresh shrieks about ‘Mesdames! a +priest! a doctor!’ away they rushed. The two brothers were not in much +less consternation, only they retained their senses. Berenger loosened +the ruff and doublet, and bade Philip practice that art of letting blood +which he had learnt for his benefit. When Madame de Selinville and her +aunt, with their escort, having been met half-way from Bellaise, arrived +sooner than could have been expected, they found every door open from +hall to entrance gateway, not a person keeping watch, and the old man +lying deathlike upon cushions in the hall, Philip bandaging his arm, +and Berenger rubbing his temples with wine and the hottest spices on the +table. ‘He is better--he is alive,’ said Berenger, as they entered; and +as both ladies would have fallen on him with shrieks and sobs, he bade +them listen, assured them that the only chance of life was in immediate +care, and entreated that bedding might be brought down, and strong +essences fetched to apply to the nose and temples. They obeyed, and the +sister infirmarer had arrived from the convent, he had opened his eyes, +and, as he saw Berenger, tried to murmur something that sounded like +_‘Mon fils.’_ + +‘He lives!--he speaks!--he can receive the sacraments!’ was the +immediate exclamation; and as preparations began to be made, the +brothers saw that their presence was no longer needed, and returned to +their own tower. + +‘So, sir,’ said the gendarme sergeant, as they walked down the passage, +‘you did not seize the moment for escape.’ + +‘I never thought of it,’ said Berenger. + +‘I hope, sir, you will not be the worse for it,’ said the sergeant. ‘An +honourable gentleman you have ever proved yourself to me, and I will +bear testimony that you did the poor old gentleman no hurt; but nobles +will have it their own way, and pay little heed to a poor soldier.’ + +‘What do you mean, friend?’ + +‘Why, you see, sir, it is unlucky that you two happened to be alone +with M. le Chevalier. No one can tell what may be said when they seek an +occasion against a person.’ + +To the brothers, however, this suggestion sounded so horrible and +unnatural, that they threw it from them. They applied themselves at +every moment possible to enlarging Osbert’ hole, and seeking an outlet +from the dungeon; but this they had not been able to discover, and it +was necessary to be constantly on their guard in visiting the vaults, +lest their absence from their apartment should be detected. They +believed that if Narcisse arrived at the castle, they should find in him +a far less gentle jailer than the poor old man, for whose state their +kindly young hearts could not but grieve. + +They heard that he had recovered consciousness enough to have made a +sort of confession; and Pere Bonami brought them his formal request, as +a dying man, for their pardon for all the injuries he had done them; +but his speech was too much affected for any specification of what +these were. The first thing they heard in early morning was that, in the +course of the night, he had breathed his last; and all day the bells +of all the churches round were answering one another with the slow, +swinging, melancholy notes of the knell. + +In the early twilight, Pere Bonami brought a message that Madame de +Selinville requested M. le Baron to come and speak with her, and he was +accordingly conducted, with the gendarme behind him, to a small chamber +opening into the hall--the same where the incantations of the Italian +pedlar had been played off before Philip and Diane. The gendarme +remained outside the door by which they entered the little dark room, +only lighted by one little lamp. + +‘Here, daughter,’ said the priest, ‘is your cousin. He can answer the +question you have so much at heart;’ and with these words Pere Bonami +passed beneath the black curtain that covered the entrance into the +hall, admitting as he raised it for a moment a floor of pure light from +the wax tapers, and allowing the cadence of the chanting of the priests +to fall on the ear. At first Berenger was scarcely able to discern the +pale face that looked as if tears were all dried up, and even before his +eyes had clearly perceived her in the gloom, she was standing before him +with clasped hands, demanding, in a hoarse, breathless whisper, ‘Had he +said anything to you?’ + +‘Anything? No, cousin,’ said Berenger, in a kind tone. ‘He had seemed +suffering and oppressed all dinner-time, and when the servants left us, +he murmured a few confused words, then sank.’ + +‘Ah, ah, he spoke it not! Thank Heaven! Ah! it is a load gone. Then +neither will I speak it,’ sighed Diane, half aloud. ‘Ah! cousin, he +loved you.’ + +‘He often was kind to us,’ said Berenger, impelled to speak as tenderly +as he could of the enemy, who had certainly tortured him, but as if he +loved him. + +‘He bade us save you,’ said Diane, her eyes shining with strange wild +light in the gloom. ‘He laid it on my aunt and me to save you; you must +let us. It must be done before my brother comes,’ she added, in hurried +accents. ‘The messengers are gone; he may be here any moment. He must +find you in the chapel--as--as my betrothed!’ + +‘And you sent for me here to tempt me--close to such a chamber as that?’ +demanded Berenger, his gentleness becoming sternness, as much with his +own worse self as with her. + +‘Listen. Ah! it is the only way. Listen, cousin. Do you know what killed +my father? It was my brother’s letter saying things must be brought to +an end: either you must be given up to the King, or worse--worse. And +now, without him to stand between you and my brother, you are lost. Oh! +take pity on his poor soul that has left his body, and bring not you +blood on his head.’ + +‘Nay,’ said Berenger, ‘if he repented, the after consequences to me will +have no effect on him now.’ + +‘Have pity then on yourself--on your brother.’ + +‘I have,’ said Berenger. ‘He had rather die with me than see me a +traitor.’ + +‘And least of all,’ she exclaimed, with choking grief, ‘have you +compassion on me!--on me who have lost the only one who felt for me--on +me who have loved you with every fibre of my heart--on me who have lived +on the music of your hardest, coldest word--on me who would lay my life, +my honour, in the dust for one grateful glance from you--and whom you +condemn to the anguish of--your death! Aye, and for what? For the mere +shadow of a little girl, who had no force to love you, or whom you know +nothing--nothing! Oh! are you a crystal rock or are you a man? See, I +kneel to you to save yourself and me.’ + +There were hot tears dropping from Berenger’s eyes as he caught Diane’s +hand, and held it forcibly to prevent her thus abasing herself. Her wild +words and gestures thrilled him in every pulse and wrung his heart, and +it was with a stifled, agitated voice that he said-- + +‘God help you and me both, Diane! To do what you ask would--would be no +saving of either. Nay, if you will kneel,’ as she struggled with him, +‘let it be to Him who alone can bring us through;’ and releasing her +hand, he dropped on his knees by her side, and covered his face with his +hands, in an earnest supplication that the spirit of resistance which +he almost felt slipping from him might be renewed. The action hushed and +silenced her, and as he rose he spoke no other word, but silently drew +back so much of the curtain that he could see into the hall, where the +dead man still lay uncoffined upon the bed where his own hands had laid +him, and the low, sweet requiem of kneeling priests floated round him. +Rest, rest, and calm they breathed into one sorely tried living soul, +and the perturbed heart was quelled by the sense how short the passage +was to the world where captivity and longing would be ended. He beckoned +to Pere Bonami to return to Diane, and then, protected by his presence +from any further demonstrations, kissed her hand and left her. + +He told Philip as little as possible of this interview, but his brother +remarked how much time he spent over the Psalms that evening. + +The next day the brothers saw from their upper winder the arrival of +Narcisse, or, as he had called himself for the last three years, the +Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, with many attendant gentlemen, and a band of +fifty or sixty gendarmes. The court was filled with their horses, and +rang with their calls for refreshment. And the captives judged it wise +to remain in their upper room incase they should be called for. + +They were proved to have been wise in so doing; for about an hour after +their arrival there was a great clanging of steel boots, and Narcisse +de Ribaumont, followed by a portly, heavily-armed gentleman, wearing a +scarf of office, by two of the servants, and by two gendarmes, entered +the room. It was the first time the cousins had met since _le baiser +d’Eutacie_ had been hissed into Berenger’s ear. Narcisse looked older, +sallower, and more worn than at that time; and Philip, seeing his +enemy for the first time, contrasted him with the stately presence of +Berenger, and felt as if a rat were strangling a noble steed. + +Each young man punctiliously removed his hat, and Nid-de-Merle, without +deigning further salutation, addressed his companion. ‘Sir, you are here +on the part of the King, and to you I deliver up these prisoners, who, +having been detained here on a charge of carrying on a treasonable +correspondence, and protected by my father out of consideration for the +family, have requited his goodness by an attempt to strangle him, which +has caused his death.’ + +Philip actually made a leap of indignation; Berenger, better prepared, +said to the officer, ‘Sir, I am happy to be placed in charged of a +King’s servant, who will no doubt see justice done, and shelter us from +the private malice that could alone devise so monstrous an accusation. +We are ready to clear ourselves upon oath over the corpse, and all the +household and our own guards can bear witness.’ + +‘The witnesses are here,’ said Narcisse, pointing to the servants, +ill-looking men, who immediately began to depose to having found their +master purple-faced and struggling in the hands of the two young men, +who had been left alone with him after dinner. + +Berenger felt that there was little use in self-defence. It was a +fabrication the more easily to secure his cousin’s purpose of destroying +him, and his best hope lay in passing into the hands of persons who were +less directly interested in his ruin. He drew himself up to his full +height, saying, ‘If there be justice in France, our innocence will be +proved. I demand, sir, that you examine the abbess, the priest, the +steward, the sergeant of gendarmes: they are impartial witnesses, and +will serve the King’s justice, if justice be his purpose. Or, if this be +but M. de Nid-de-Merle’s way of completing the work he left unfinished +four years ago, I am ready. Only let my brother go free. He is heir to +nothing here.’ + +‘Enough, sir. Words against the King’s justice will be reckoned against +you,’ said the officer. ‘I shall do myself the honour of attending the +funeral the day after to-morrow, and then I shall convey you to Tours, +to answer for this deed at your leisure. Monsieur le Marquis, are the +prisoners secure here, or would you have them _garde a vue_.’ + +‘No need for that,’ said Narcisse, lightly; ‘had there been any exit +they would have found it long ago. Your good fellows outside the door +keep them safe enough. M. le Baron de Ribaumont, I have the honour to +wish you a good morning.’ + +Berenger returned his bow with one full of defiance, and the door was +again locked upon the prisoners; while Philip exclaimed, ‘The cowardly +villain, Berry; is it a hanging matter?’ + +‘Not for noble blood,’ said Berenger. ‘We are more likely to be brought +to no trial, but to lie prisoners for life;’ then, as Philip grew white +and shivered with a sick horror, he added bravely, ‘But they shall not +have us, Philip. We know the vaults well enough to play at hide and seek +with them there, and even if we find no egress we may hold out till they +think us fled and leave open the doors!’ + +Philip’s face lighted up again, and they did their best by way of +preparation, collecting wood for torches, and putting aside food at +their meals. It was a very forlorn hope, but the occupation it caused +was effectual in keeping up Philip’s spirits, and saving him from +despondency. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE PEDLAR’S PREDICTION + + + + But if ne’er so close you wall him, + Do the best that you may; + Blind Love, if so you call him, + Will find out his way. + --OLD SONG + + +‘Too late,’ muttered Berenger to himself, as he stood by the fire in his +prison-chamber. Humfrey and Philip were busy in the vaults, and he was +taking his turn in waiting in the sitting-room to disarm suspicion. ‘It +is too late now, and I thank God that so it is.’ + +‘Do you indeed, M. le Baron?’ said a low voice close beside him; and, +as he turned in haste, he beheld, at the foot of the turret-stair, +the youth Aime de Selinville, holding a dark lantern in his hand, and +veiling its light. + +‘Ha!’ and he started to his feet. ‘Whence come you?’ + +‘From my Lady,’ was the youth’s answer. ‘She has sent me to ask whether +you persist in what you replied to her the other day. For if not, she +bids me say that it is not too late.’ + +‘And if I do persevere?’ + +‘Then--ah! what do I know? Who can tell how far malice can go? And +there are towers and bastilles where hope never enters. Moreover, your +researches underground are known.’ + +‘Sir,’ said Berenger, the heart-sinking quelled by the effort of +resistance, ‘Madame de Selinville has my answer--I must take the +consequences. Tell her, if she truly wishes me well, the honourable way +of saving us would be to let our English friends know what has befallen +us.’ + +‘You forget, M. le Baron, even if she could proclaim the dishonour of +her family, interference from a foreign power might only lead to a surer +mode of removing you,’ said Aime, lowering his voice and shuddering. + +‘Even so, I should thank her. Then would the bitterest pang be taken +away. Those at our home would not deem us faithless recreants.’ + +‘Thank her!’ murmured the lad in an inward voice. ‘Very well, sir, I +will carry her your decision. It is your final one. Disgrace, prison, +death--rather than freedom, love, wealth!’ + +‘The semblance of dishonour rather than the reality!’ said Berenger, +firmly. + +The light-footed page disappeared, and in a few moments a very different +tread came up from below, and Philip appeared. + +‘What is it, Berry? Methought I heard a voice.’ + +‘Forgive me, brother,’ said Berenger, holding out his hand; ‘I have +thrown away another offer.’ + +‘Tush, the thing to pardon would be having accepted one. I only wish +they would leave us in peace! What was it this time?’ + +‘A messenger through young Selinville. Strange, to trust her secrets to +that lad. But hush, here he is again, much sooner than I thought. What, +sir, have you been with your lady again?’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ the young said, with a trembling voice, and Berenger saw that +his eyes were red with weeping; ‘she bids me tell you that she yields. +She will save you eve while you have and despite her! There is only one +thing---’ + +‘And what is that?’ + +‘You must encumber yourself with the poor Aime. You must let me serve +you instead of her. Listen, sir, it cannot be otherwise.’ Then with a +brisker, more eager voice, he continued: ‘Monsieur knows that the family +burial-place is Bellaise? Well, to-morrow, at ten o’clock, all the +household, all the neighbourhood, will come and sprinkle holy water on +the bier. The first requiem will be sung, and then will all repair to +the convent. There will be the funeral mass, the banquet, the dole. +Every creature in the castle--nay, in all the neighbourhood for twenty +miles round--will be at the convent, for the Abbess has given out that +the alms are to be double, and the bread of wheat. Not a soul will +remain here, save the two gendarmes on guard at that door, and the poor +Aime, whom no one will miss, even if any person could be distinguished +in their black cloaks. Madame la Comtesse has given him this key, which +opens a door on the upper floor of the keep, unknown to the guards, who, +for that matter, shall have a good tankard of spiced wine to console +and occupy them. Then is the way clear to the castle court, which is not +over looked by their window, the horses are in the stables, and we are +off,--that is if M. le Baron will save a poor youth from the wrath of M. +de Nid-de-Merle.’ + +‘You are and honest fellow!’ cried Philip, shaking him vehemently by the +hand. ‘You shall go with us to England, and we will make a brave man of +you.’ + +‘We shall owe you our lives,’ said Berenger, warmly, ‘and be ever bound +to you. Tell your lady that THIS is magnanimity; that now I truly thank +her as our preserver, and shall bless her all the days of the life she +gives us. But my servants?’ + +‘Guibert is a traitor,’ said Aime; ‘he has been so ever since you +were at Paris. Breathe no word to him; but he, as a Catholic, shall be +invited to the funeral. Your stout Englishman should by all means be +with us.’ + +‘My Norman also,’ added Berenger,--‘my dear foster-brother, who has +languished in the dungeon for three years;’ and when the explanation had +been made, Aime assented, though half-unwillingly, to the necessity, +and presently quitted them to bear back their answer to his lady. Philip +shook his hand violently again, patted him on the back, so as almost +to take away his breath, and bade him never fear, they would be sworn +brothers to him for ever; and then threw up his hat into the air, and +was so near astonishing the donjon walls with a British hurrah, that +Berenger had to put his hand over his mouth and strangle the shout in +his very throat. + +The chief of that night was spent in enlarging the hole in Osbert’s +wall, so as to admit of his creeping through it; and they also prepared +their small baggage for departure. Their stock of money, though some had +been spent on renewing their clothes, and some in needful gratuities to +the servants and gendarmes, was sufficient for present needs, and they +intended to wear their ordinary dress. They were unlikely to meet any +of the peasants in the neighbourhood; and, indeed, Berenger had so +constantly ridden out in his black mask, that its absence, now that his +scars were gone, was as complete a change as could be effected in one +whose height was of unusual. + +‘There begins the kneel,’ said Philip, standing at the window. ‘It’s our +joy-bell, Berry! Every clang seems to me to say, “Home! home! home!” + +‘For you, Phil,’ said Berenger; ‘but I must be satisfied of Eutacie’s +fate first. I shall go first to Nissard--whither we were bound when we +were seized--then to La Rochelle, whence you may---’ + +‘No more of that,’ burst out Philip. ‘What! would you have me leave you +now, after all we have gone through together? Not that you will find +her. I don’t want to vex you, brother, on such a day as this, but you +conjurer’s words are coming true in the other matter.’ + +‘How? What mean you, Phil?’ + +‘What’s the meaning of Aime?’ asked Philip. ‘Even I am French scholar +enough for that. And who sends him?’ + +Meantime the court was already filling with swarms of persons of +every rank and degree, but several anxious hours had passed before +the procession was marshaled; and friars and monks, black, white, and +gray,--priests in rich robes and tall caps,--black-cloaked gentlemen and +men-at-arms,--all bearing huge wax tapers,--and peasants and beggars of +every conceivable aspect,--filed out of the court, bearing with them the +richly-emblazoned bier of the noble and puissant knight, the Beausire +Charles Eutache de Ribaumont Nid-de-Merle, his son walking behind in a +long black mantle, and all who counted kindred of friendship following +two and two; then all the servants, every one who properly belonged to +the castle, were counted out by the brothers from their windows, and +Guibert among them. + +‘Messieurs,’ a low, anxious voice sounded in the room. + +‘We will only fetch Osbert.’ + +It was a terrible only, as precious moments slipped away before there +appeared in the lower chamber Berenger and Humfrey, dragging between +them a squalid wretch, with a skin like stained parchment over a +skeleton, tangled hair and beard, staring bewildered eyes, and fragments +of garments, all dust, dirt, and rags. + +‘Leave me, leave me, dear master,’ said the object, stretching his whole +person towards the fire as they let him sink down before it. ‘You would +but ruin yourself.’ + +‘It is madness to take him,’ said Aime, impatiently. + +‘I go not without him,’ said Berenger. ‘Give me the soup, Philip.’ + +Some soup and wine had been placed by the fire, and likewise a shirt and +a suit of Humfrey’s clothes were spread before it. Aime burst out into +the yard, absolutely weeping with impatience, when, unheeding all his +remonstrances, his three companions applied themselves to feeding, +rubbing, and warming Osbert, and assuring him that the pains in his +limbs would pass away with warmth and exercise. He had been valiant +of heart in his dungeon; but his sudden plunge into upper air was like +rising from the grave, and brought on all the effects of his dreary +captivity, of which he had hardly been sensible when he had first +listened to the voice of hope. + +Dazzled, crippled, helpless, it seemed almost impossible that he should +share the flight, but Berenger remained resolute; and when Aime returned +from his fourth frantic promenade, he was told that all was ready. + +But for the strength of Berenger and Humfrey the poor fellow could never +have been carried up and up, nearly to the top of the keep, then along +a narrow gallery, then down again even to the castle hall, now empty, +though with the candle-sticks still around where the bier had been. +Aime knelt for a moment where the head had been, hiding his face; Osbert +rested in a chair; and Philip looked wistfully up at his own sword hung +over the chimney. + +‘Resume your swords, Messieurs,’ said Aime, observing him; ‘Madame +desires it; and take pistols also.’ + +They gladly obeyed; and when, after this short delay, they proceeded, +Osbert moved somewhat less painfully, but when they arrived at the +stable only four horses stood there. + +‘Ah! this miserable!’ cried Aime, passionately, ‘he ruins all my +arrangements.’ + +‘Leave me,’ again entreated Landry. ‘Once outside, I can act the beggar +and cripple, and get back to Normandy.’ + +‘Better leave me,’ said Humfrey; ‘they cannot keep me when you are out +of their clutches.’ + +‘Help me, Humfrey,’ said Berenger, beginning to lift his foster-brother +to the saddle, but there the poor man wavered, cried out that his head +swam, and he could not keep his seat, entreating almost in agony to be +taken down. + +‘Lean on me,’ said Berenger, putting his arms round him. ‘There! you +will be able to get to the Grange du Temple, where you will be in safe +shelter.’ + +‘Sir, sir,’ cried Aime, ready to tear his hair, ‘this is ruin! My lady +meant you to make all speed to La Rochelle and there embark, and this is +the contrary way!’ + +‘That cannot be helped,’ said Berenger; ‘it is the only safe place for +my foster-brother.’ + +Aime, with childish petulance, muttered something about ingratitude in +crossing his lady’s plans; but, as no one attended to him, he proceeded +to unfasten his horse, and then exclaimed, half crying, ‘Will no one +help me?’ + +‘Not able to saddle a horse! a pretty fellow for a cavalier!’ exclaimed +Philip, assisting, however, and in a few minutes they were all issuing +from a low side gate, and looking back with bounding hearts at the +drooping banner on the keep of Nid-de-Merle. + +Only young Aime went with bowed head and drooping look, as though +pouting, and Berenger, putting Osbert’s bridle into Humfrey’s hand, +stepped up to him, saying, ‘Hark you, M. de Selinville, I am sorry if +we seemed to neglect you. We owe you and your lady all gratitude, but +I must be the judge of my own duty, and you can only be with me if you +conform.’ + +The young seemed to be devouring his tears, but only said, ‘I was vexed +to see my lady’s plan marred, and your chance thrown away.’ + +‘Of that I must judge,’ said Berenger. + +They were in a by-lane, perfectly solitary. The whole country was at the +funeral. Through the frosty air there came an occasional hum or murmur +from Berenger, or the tinkle of a cow-bell in the fields, but no human +being was visible. It was certain, however, that the Rotrous, being +Huguenots, and no vassals of Nid-de-Merle, would not be at the +obsequies; and Berenger, walking with swift strides, supporting Osbert +on his horse, continued to cheer him with promises of rest and relief +there, and listened to no entreaties from Philip or Humfrey to take one +of their horses. Had not Osbert borne him on his shoulders through the +butchery at Paris, and endured three years of dungeon for his sake? + +As for Philip, the slow pace of their ride was all insufficient for his +glee. He made his horse caracole at every level space, till Berenger +reminded him that they might have far to ride that night, and even then +he was constantly breaking into attempts at shouting and whistling as +often repressed, and springing up in his stirrups to look over the high +hedges. + +The Grange was so well concealed in its wooded ravine, that only when +close upon the gate the party became aware that this farm-yard, usually +so solitary, formed an exception to the general desertion of the +country. There was a jingle and a stamp of horses in the court, which +could hardly be daylight echoes of the Templars. Berenger feared that +the Guisards might have descended Rotrou, and was stepping forward to +reconnoiter, while young De Selinville, trembling, besought him not to +run into danger, but to turn and hasten to La Rochelle. By this time, +however, the party had been espied by two soldiers stationed at the +gate, but not before Berenger had had time to remark that they did not +wear either the gold _fleur-de-lys_ like his late guards, or the white +cross of Lorraine; nor had they the strange air of gay ferocity usual +with the King’s mercenaries. And almost by instincts, at a venture, he +made the old Huguenot sign he had learnt form his father, and answered, +‘For God and the Religion.’ + +The countersign was returned. ‘Bearn and Bourbon is the word to-day, +comrade,’ replied the sentinel. ‘_Eh quoi_! have you had an encounter, +that you bring a wounded man?’ + +‘Not wounded, but nearly dead in a Guisard prison,’ said Berenger, with +an unspeakable sense of relief and security, as the sentries admitted +them into the large walled court, where horses were eating hay, being +watered and rubbed down; soldiers snatching a hasty meal in corners; +gentlemen in clanking breastplates coming in and out of the house, +evidently taking orders from a young man in a gray and silver suit, +whose brown eagle face, thin cheeks, arched nose, and black eyes of +keenest fire, struck Berenger at once with a sense of recognition as +well as of being under a glance that seemed to search out everybody and +everything at once. + +‘More friends!’ and the tone again recalled a flood of recollections. ‘I +thank and welcome you. What! You have met the enemy--where is he?’ + +‘My servant is not wounded. Sire,’ said Berenger, removing his hat and +bending low. ‘This is the effect of long captivity. We have but just +escaped.’ + +‘Then we are the same case! Pardon me, sir, I have seen you before, but +for once I am at fault.’ + +‘When I call myself De Ribaumont, your Grace will not wonder.’ + +‘The dead alive! If I mistake not, it was in the Inferno itself that we +last met! But we have broken through the gates at last! I remember poor +King Charles was delighted to hear that you lived! But where have you +been a captive?’ + +‘At Nid-de-Merle, Sire; my kinsmen accused me of treason in order to +hinder my search for my wife. We escaped even now during the funeral of +the Chevalier.’ + +‘By favour of which we are making our way to Parthenay unsuspected, +though, by my faith, we gather so like a snowball, that we could be a +match for a few hundreds of Guisards. Who is with you, M. de Ribaumont?’ + +‘Let me present to your Majesty my English brother, Philip Thistlewood,’ +said Berenger, drawing the lad forward, making due obeisance, though +entirely ignorant who was the plainly-dressed, travel-soiled stranger, +so evidently a born lord of men. + +‘An Englishman is ever welcome,’ was his gracious reception. + +‘And,’ added Berenger, ‘let me also present the young De Selinville, to +whom I owe my escape. Where is he, Philip?’ + +He seemed to be busy with the horses, and Berenger could not catch his +eye. + +‘Selinville! I thought that good Huguenot house was extinct.’ + +‘This is a relation of the late Count de Selinville, my cousin’s +husband, Sire. He arranged my evasion, and would be in danger at +Nid-de-Merle. Call him, Philip.’ + +Before this was done, however, the King’s attention was otherwise +claimed, and turning to one of his gentlemen he said, ‘Here, d’Augigne, +I present to you an acquaintance made in Tartarus. See to his +entertainment ere we start for Parthenay.’ + +Agrippa d’Aubigne, still young, but grave and serious-looking greeted +M. de Ribaumont as men meet in hours when common interests make rapid +friendships; and from him Berenger learnt, in a few words, that the King +of Navarre’s eyes had been opened at last to the treachery of the court, +and his own dishonourable bondage. During a feverish attack, one night +when D’Aubigne and D’Armagnac were sitting up with him, his resolution +was taken; and on the first hunting day after his recovery, he, with +these two, the Baron de Rosny and about thirty more of his suite, had +galloped away, and had joined the Monsieur and the Prince of Conde at +Alencon. He had abjured the Catholic faith, declared that nothing except +ropes should bring him back to Paris, and that he left there the mass +and his wife--the first he could dispense with, the last he meant to +have; and he was now on his way to Parthenay to meet his sister, whom +he had sent Rosny to demand. By the time Berenger had heard this, he had +succeeded in finding honest Rotrou, who was in a state of great triumph, +and readily undertook to give Osbert shelter, and as soon as he should +have recovered to send him to head-quarters with some young men who +he knew would take the field as soon as they learnt that the King of +Navarre had set up his standard. Even the inroads made into the good +farmer’s stores did not abate his satisfaction in entertaining the prime +hope of the Huguenot cause; but Berenger advanced as large a sum as +he durst out of his purse, under pretext of the maintenance of Osbert +during his stay at the Grange. He examined Rotrou upon his subsequent +knowledge of Isaac Gardon and Eutacie, but nothing had been heard of +them since their departure, now nearly three years back, except a dim +rumour that they had been seen at the Synod of Montauban. + +‘Well, my friend,’ said Philip, when about to remount, ‘this will do +rather better than a headlong gallop to Rochelle with Nid-de-Merle at +our heels.’ + +‘If M. le Baron is safe, it is well,’ said Aime shortly. + +‘Is Selinville there?’ said Berenger, coming up. ‘Here, let me take you +to the King of Navarre: he knew your family in Lauguedoc.’ + +‘No, no,’ petulantly returned the boy. ‘What am I that he should notice +me? It is M. de Ribaumont whom I follow, not him or his cause.’ + +‘Boy,’ said Berenger, dismayed, ‘remember, I have answered for you.’ + +‘I am no traitor,’ proudly answered the strange boy, and Berenger was +forced to be thus satisfied, though intending to watch him closely. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. THE SANDS OF OLONNE + + + + Is it the dew of night + That on her glowing cheek + Shines in the moonbeam?-- + Oh, she weeps, she weeps, + And the good angel that abandoned her + At her hell baptism, by her tears drawn down + Resumes his charge... and the hope + Of pardon and salvation rose + As now she understood + Thy lying prophecy of truth.--SOUTHEY + + +‘M. de Ribaumont,’ said Henry of Navarre, as he stood before the fire +after supper at Parthenay, ‘I have been thinking what commission I could +give you proportioned to your rank and influence.’ + +‘Thanks to your Grace, that inquiry is soon answered. I am a beggar +here. Even my paternal estate in Normandy is in the hands of my cousin.’ + +‘You have wrongs,’ said Henry, ‘and wrongs are sometimes better than +possessions in a party like ours.’ + +Berenger seized the opening to explain his position, and mention that +his only present desire was for permission, in the first place, to send +a letter to England by the messenger whom the King was dispatching +to Elisabeth, in tolerable security of her secret countenance; and, +secondly, to ride to Nissard to examine into the story he had previously +heeded so little, of the old man and his daughter rescued from the waves +the day before La Sablerie was taken. + +‘If Pluto relented, my dear Orpheus, surely Navarre may,’ said Henry +good-humouredly; ‘only may the priest not be more adamantine than Minos. +Where lies Nissard? On the Sable d’Olonne? Then you may go thither with +safety while we lie here, and I shall wait for my sister, or for news of +her.’ + +So Berenger arranged for an early start on the morrow; and young +Selinville listened with a frown, and strange look in his dark eyes. +‘You go not to England?’ he said. + +‘Not yet?’ said Berenger + +‘This was not what my Lady expected,’ he muttered; but though Berenger +silenced him by a stern look, he took the first opportunity of asking +Philip if it would not be far wiser for his brother to place himself in +safety in England. + +‘Wiser, but less honest,’ said Philip. + +‘He who has lost all here, who has incurred his grandfather’s anger,’ +pursued Aime, ‘were he not wiser to make his peace with his friends in +England?’ + +‘His friends in England would not like him the better for deserting his +poor wife’s cause,’ said Philip. ‘I advise you to hold your tongue, and +not meddle or make.’ + +Aime subsided, and Philip detected something like tears. He had still +much of rude English boyhood about him, and he laughed roughly. ‘A fine +fellow, to weep at a word! Hie thee back to feed my Lady’s lap-dog, ‘tis +all thou art fit for.’ + +‘There spoke English gratitude,’ said Aime, with a toss of the head and +flash of the eye. + +Philip despised him the more for casting up his obligations, but had no +retort to make. He had an idea of making a man of young Selinville, +and his notion of the process had something of the bullying tendency of +English young towards the poor-spirited or cowardly. He ordered the boy +roughly, teased him for his ignorance of manly exercises, tried to cure +his helplessness by increasing his difficulties, and viewed his fatigue +as affectation or effeminacy. Berenger interfered now and then to guard +the poor boy from a horse-jest or practical joke, but he too felt +that Aime was a great incumbrance, hopelessly cowardly, fanciful, and +petulant; and he was sometimes driven to speak to him with severity, +verging on contempt, in hopes of rousing a sense of shame. + +The timidity, so unusual and inexplicable in a youth of eighteen or +twenty, sowed itself irrepressibly at the Sands of Olonne. These were +not misty, as on Berenger’s former journey. Nissard steeple was soon in +sight, and the guide who joined them on a rough pony had no doubt +that there would be ample time to cross before high water. There was, +however, some delay, for the winter rains had brought down a good many +streams of fresh water, and the sands were heavy and wet, so that their +horses proceeded slowly, and the rush and dash of the waves proclaimed +that the low of the tide had begun. To the two brothers the break and +sweep was a home-sound, speaking of freshness and freedom, and the salt +breeze and spray carried with them life and ecstasy. Philip kept as +near the incoming waves as his inland-bred horse would endure, and sang, +shouted, and hallooed to them as welcome as English waves; but Aime de +Selinville had never even beheld the sea before: and even when the +tide was still in the distance, was filled with nervous terror as each +rushing fall sounded nearer; and, when the line of white foamy crests +became more plainly visible, he was impelled to hurry on towards the +steeple so fast that the guide shouted to him that he would only bury +himself in a quicksand. + +‘But,’ said he, white with alarm, and his teeth chattering, ‘how can we +creep with those dreadful waves advancing upon us to drown us?’ + +Berenger silence Philip’s rude laugh and was beginning to explain that +the speed of the waves could always be calculated by an experienced +inhabitant; and his voice had seemed to pacify Aime a little, when the +spreading water in front of a broken wave flowing up to his horse’s +feet, again rendered him nearly frantic. ‘Let us go back!’ he wildly +entreated, turning his horse; but Berenger caught his bridle, saying, +‘That would be truly death. Boy, unless you would be scorned, restrain +your folly. Nothing else imperils us.’ + +Here, however, the guide interposed, saying that it had become too late +to pursue their course along the curve of the shore, but they must at +once cut straight across, which he had intended to avoid, because of +the greater depth of a small river that they would have to cross, which +divided further out into small channels, more easily forded. They +thus went along the chord of the arc formed by the shore, and Aime was +somewhat reassured, as the sea was at first farther off; but before long +they reached the stream, which lost itself in many little channels in +the sands, so that when the tide was out there was a perfect network of +little streams dividing low shingly or grassy isles, but at nearly high +tide, as at present, many of these islets were submerged, and the strife +between river and sea caused sudden deepenings of the water in the +channels. + +The guide eagerly explained that the safest place for crossing was not +by the large sandbank furthest inland and looking firm and promising--it +was a recent shifting performance of the water’s heaping up, and would +certainly sink away and bury horse the channels on either side had +shingly bottoms, and were safe. + +‘This way,’ called Berenger, himself setting the example, and finding no +difficulty; the water did not rise above his boots, and the current was +not strong. He had reached the shingly isle when he looked round for his +companions; Humfrey and Philip were close behind him; but, in spite +of the loud ‘_gare_!’ of the guide, Aime, or his horse,--for each was +equally senseless with alarm,--were making inwards; the horse was trying +to tread on the sandbank, which gave way like the water itself, under +its frantic struggles--there was a loud cry--a shrill, unmistakable +woman’s shriek--the horse was sinking--a white face and helpless form +were being carried out on the waves, but not before Berenger had flung +himself from his horse, thrown off his cloak and sword, and dashed into +the water; and in the lapse of a few moments he struggled back to +the island, where were Philip and Humfrey, leg-deep in water: the one +received his burthen, the other helped him to land. + +‘On, gentlemen, not a moment to lose,’ cried the guide; and Berenger, +still panting, flung himself on his horse, held out his arms, gathered +the small, almost inanimate figure upon the horse’s neck before him, and +in a few minutes more they had crossed the perilous passage, and were +on a higher bank where they could safely halt; and Philip, as he came to +help his brother, exclaimed, ‘What a fool the boy is!’ + +‘Hush!’ said Berenger, gravely, as they laid the figure on the ground. + +‘What! he can’t have been drowned in that moment. We’ll bring him to.’ + +‘Hands off!’ said Berenger, kneeling over the gasping form, and adding +in a lower voice, ‘Don’t you see?’ He would his hand in the long +drenched hair, and held it up, with cheeks burning like fire, and his +scar purple. + +‘A woman!--what?--who?’ Then suddenly divining, he exclaimed, ‘The +jade!’ and started with wide eyes. + +‘Stand back,’ said Berenger; ‘she is coming to herself.’ + +Perhaps she had been more herself than he knew, for, as he supported her +head, her hand stole over his and held it fast. Full of consternation, +perplexity, and anger as he was, he could not but feel a softening pity +towards a creature so devoted, so entirely at his mercy. At the moment +when she lay helpless against him, gasps heaving her breast under her +manly doublet, her damp hair spread on his knees, her dark eyes in their +languor raised imploring his face, her cold hand grasping his, he +felt as if this great love were a reality, and as if he were hunting a +shadow; and, as if fate would have it so, he must save and gratify one +whose affection must conquer his, who was so tender, so beautiful--even +native generosity seemed on her side. But in the midst, as in his +perplexity he looked up over the gray sea, he seemed to see the picture +so often present to his mind of the pale, resolute girl, clasping her +babe to her breast, fearless of the advancing sea, because true and +faithful. And at that thought faith and prayer rallied once again round +his heart, shame at the instant’s wavering again dyed his cheek; he +recalled himself, and speaking the more coldly and gravely because his +heart was beating over hotly, he said, ‘Cousin, you are better. It is +but a little way to Nissard.’ + +‘Why have you saved me, if you will not pity me?’ she murmured. + +‘I will not pity, because I respect my kinswoman who has save our +lives,’ he said steadying his voice with difficulty. ‘The priests of +Nissard will aid me in sparing your name and fame.’ + +‘Ah!’ she cried, sitting up with a start of joy, ‘but he would make too +many inquiries! Take me to England first.’ + +Berenger started as he saw how he had been misunderstood. + +‘Neither here nor in England could my marriage be set aside, cousin. +No; not priest shall take charge of you, and place you in safety and +honour.’ + +‘He shall not!’ she cried hotly. ‘Why--why will you drive me from +you--me who ask only to follow you as a menial servant?’ + +‘That has become impossible,’ he answered; ‘to say nothing of my +brother, my servant and the guide have seen;’ and, as she remembered her +streaming hair, and tried, in dawning confusion, to gather it together, +he continued: ‘You shrank from the eye of the King of Navarre. You +cannot continue as you have done; you have not even strength.’ + +‘Ah! have you sailed for England,’ she murmured. + +‘It had only been greater shame,’ he said. ‘Cousin, I am head of your +family, husband of your kinswoman, and bound to respect the reputation +you have risked for me. I shall, therefore, place you in charge of the +priest till you can either return to your aunt or to some other convent. +You can ride now. We will not wait longer in these wet garments.’ + +He raised her from the ground, threw his own dry cloak round her +shoulders and unmanageable hair, and lifted her on his horse; but, as +she would have leant against him, he drew himself away, beckoned Philip, +and put the bridle into his hands, saying, ‘Take care of her. I shall +ride on and warm the priest.’ + +‘The rock of diamond,’ she murmured, not aware that the diamond had been +almost melting. That youthful gravity and resolution, with the mixture +of respect and protection, imposed as usual upon her passionate nature, +and daunted her into meekly riding beside Philip without a word--only +now and then he heard a low moan, and knew that she was weeping +bitterly. + +At first the lad had been shocked beyond measure, and would have held +aloof as from a kind of monster, but Madame de Selinville had been the +first woman to touch his fancy, and when he heard how piteously she was +weeping, and recollected where he should have been but for her, as +well as all his own harshness to her as a cowardly boy, he felt himself +brutally ungrateful, and spoke: ‘Don’t weep so, Madame; I am sorry I was +rude to you, but you see, how should I take you for a woman?’ + +Perhaps she heard, but she heeded not. + +‘My brother will take good care to shield you,’ Philip added. ‘He will +take care you are safe in one of your nunneries;’ and as she only wept +the more, he added, with a sudden thought, ‘You would not go there; you +would embrace the Protestant faith?’ + +‘I would embrace whatever was his.’ + +Philip muttered something about seeing what could be done. They were +already at the entrance of the village, and Berenger had come out to +meet them, and, springing towards him, Philip exclaimed, in a low voice, +‘Berry, she would abjure her Popish errors! You can’t give her up to a +priest.’ + +‘Foolery, Philip,’ answered Berenger, sternly. + +‘If she would be a convert!’ + +‘Let her be a modest woman first;’ and Berenger, taking her bridle, led +her to the priest’s house. + +He found that Pere Colombeau was preaching a Lent sermon, and that +nobody was at home but the housekeeper, to whom he had explained briefly +that the lady with him had been forced to escape in disguise, had been +nearly drowned, and was in need of refreshment and female clothing. +Jacinthe did not like the sound, but drenched clothes were such a +passport to her master’s house, that she durst not refuse. Berenger +carried off his other companions to the cabaret, and when he had dried +himself, went to wait for the priest at the church door, sitting in +the porch where more than one echo of the exhortation to repentance and +purity rang in his ears, and enforced his conviction that here he must +be cruel if he would be merciful. + +It was long before Pere Colombeau came out, and then, if the scar had +not blushed for all the rest of his face, the sickly, lanky lad of three +years since would hardly have been recognized to the good cure. But the +priest’s aspect was less benignant when Berenger tried to set before him +his predicament; he coldly asked where the unhappy lady was; and when +Berenger expressed his intention of coming the next morning to ask his +counsel, he only bowed. He did not ask the brothers to supper, nor show +any civility; and Berenger, as he walked back to the cabaret, perceived +that his story was but half believed, and that, if Diane’s passion were +still stronger than her truth or generosity, she would be able to make +out a terrible case against him, and to willing ears, naturally disposed +against a young cavalier and a heretic. + +He sat much dispirited by the fire of the little wine shop, thinking +that his forbearance had been well-nigh thrown away, and that his +character would never be cleared in Eustacie’s eyes, attaching, indeed, +more importance to the blot than would have been done by a youth less +carefully reared. + +It was quite dark when a knock came to the door: the cure’s white head +appeared in the lamplight; he nodded kindly to all the guests, and +entreated that M. de Ribaumont would do him a favour to come and speak +with him. + +No sooner were they outside the house, than the cure held out his hand, +saying ‘Sir, forgive me for a grievous injustice towards you;’ then +pressing his hand, he added with a voice tremulous with emotion, +‘Sir, it is no slight thing to have saved a wandering sheep by your +uprightness and loyalty.’ + +‘Have you then opened her eyes, father?’ said Berenger, relieved from a +heavy load. + +‘You have, my son,’ said the old man. ‘You have taught her what truth +and virtue are. For the rest, you shall heard for yourself.’ + +Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, and he found +himself in the church. The building was almost entirely dark; there +were two tall lights at the altar in distance, and a few little slender +tapers burning before certain niches and shrines, but without power +to conquer with the gloom more than enough to spread a pale circle of +yellow light beneath them, and to show mysteriously a bit of vaulting +above. A single lamp hung from an arch near the door, and beneath it, +near a pillar, knelt, or rather crouched, on the floor, a female figure +with a dark peasant cloak drawn over her head. + +‘The first token of penitence is reparation to the injured,’ said the +priest. + +Berenger looked at him anxiously. + +‘I will not leave you,’ he added. ‘See, I shall pray for you yonder, by +the altar,’ and he slowly moved up the aisle. + +‘Rise, cousin, I entreat you,’ said Berenger, much embarrassed, as he +disappeared in the darkness. + +‘I must speak thus,’ she answered, in a hoarse, exhausted voice. ‘Ah! +pardon, pardon!’ she added, rising, however, so far as to raise clasped +hands and an imploring face. ‘Ah! can you pardon? It was through me that +you bear those wounds; that she--Eustacie--was forced into the masque, +to detain you for THAT night. Ah! pardon.’ + +‘That is long past,’ said Berenger. ‘I have been too near death not to +have pardoned that long ago. Rise, cousin, I cannot see you thus.’ + +‘That is not all,’ continued Diane. ‘It was I--I who moved my father to +imprison you.’ Then, as he bent his head, and would have again entreated +her to rise, she held out her hand as if to silence him, and spoke +faster, more wildly. ‘Then--then I thought it would save your life. I +thought---’ she looked at him strangely with her great dark eyes, all +hollow and cavernous in her white face. + +‘I know,’ said Berenger, kindly, ‘you often urged it on me.’ + +There was a sort of movement on the part of the kneeling figure of +the priest at the altar, and she interrupted, saying precipitately. +‘Then--then, I did think you free.’ + +‘Ah!’ he gasped. ‘Now---!’ + +‘Now I know that she lives!’ and Diane once more sank at his feet a +trembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of shame and misery. + +Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly repressed, had the +ring of ecstasy in it. ‘Cousin--cousin!’ he cried, ‘all is forgiven--all +forgotten, if you will only tell me where!’ + +‘That I cannot,’ said Diane, rousing herself again, but speaking in a +dull, indifferent tone, as of one to whom the prime bitterness was past, +‘save that she is under the care of the Duchess de Quinet;’ and she +then proceeded, as though repeating a lesson: ‘You remember the Italian +conjurer whom you would not consult? Would that I had not!’ she added, +clasping her hands. ‘His prediction lured me? Well, he saw my father +privately, told him he had seen her, and had bought her jewels, even her +hair. My father sent him in quest of her again, but told not me till +the man returned with tidings that she was at Quinet, in favour with the +Duchess. You remember that he went from home. It was to demand he; +and, ah! you know how long I had loved you, and they told me that your +marriage was void, and that all would be well upon the dispensation +coming. And now the good father there tells me that I was +deceived--cruelly deceived--that such a dispensation would not be +granted save through gross misrepresentation.’ Then, as Berenger +began to show tokens of eagerness to come at tidings of Eustacie, she +continued, ‘Ah! it is vain to seek to excuse one you care not for. My +father could learn nothing from the Duchess; she avowed that she had +been there, but would say no more. However, he and my brother were sure +she was under their protection; they took measures, and--and the morning +my poor father was stricken, there had been a letter from my brother +to say he was on her track, and matters must be ended with you, for he +should have her in a week;’ and then, as Berenger started forward with +an inarticulate outburst, half of horror, half of interrogation, she +added, ‘Where, he said not, nor did I learn from him. All our one +interview was spend in sneers that answered to my wild entreaties; but +this I know--that you would never have reached Tours a living man.’ + +‘And now, now he is on the way to her!’ cried Berenger, ‘and you kept it +from me!’ + +‘There lay my hope,’ said Diane, raising her head; and now, with +glittering eyes and altered voice, ‘How could I not but hate her who had +bereaved me of you; her for whose sake I could not earn your love?’ + +The change of her tone had, perhaps, warned the priest to draw nearer, +and as she perceived him, she said, ‘Yes, father, this is not the way to +absolution, but my heart will burst if I say not all.’ + +‘Thou shalt not prevail, foul spirit,’ said the priest, looking +earnestly into the darkness, as though he beheld the fiend hovering +over her, ‘neither shall these holy walls be defiled with accents of +unhallowed love. You have made your reparation, daughter; it is enough.’ + +‘And can you tell me no more?’ said Berenger, sadly. ‘Can you give me no +clue that I may save her from the wolf that may be already on her track? +Cousin, if you would do this, I would bless you for ever.’ + +‘Alas! I would if I could! It is true, cousin, I have no heart to +deceive you any longer. But it is to Madame de Quinet that you must +apply, and if my brother has though me worth pursuit, you may be in +time! One moment,’--as he would have sprung away as if in the impulse to +fly to the rescue,--‘cousin; had you gone to England as I hoped, I +would have striven to deserve to win that love of yours, but you have +conquered by your constancy. Now, father, I have spoken my last save as +penitent.’ + +She covered her head and sank down again. + +Berenger, bewildered and impelled to be doing something, let the priest +lead him out before he exclaimed, ‘I said nothing to her of pardon!’ + +‘You do pardon?’ said the priest. + +He paused a moment. ‘Freely, if I find my wife. I can only remember +now that she set me on the way. I would ease her soul, poor thing, and +thinking would make me hard again.’ + +‘Do the English bring up their sons with such feelings?’ asked the cure, +pausing for a moment. + +‘Of course,’ said Berenger. ‘May I say that one word, sir?’ + +‘Not now,’ said the priest; ‘she had better be left to think of her sin +towards Heaven, rather than towards man.’ + +‘But do you leave her there, sir?’ + +‘I shall return. I shall pray for her true penitence,’ said the priest, +and Berenger perceived from his tone that one without the pale might +inquire no further. He only asked how safe and honourable shelter could +be found for her; and the cure replied that he had already spoken to her +of the convent of Lucon, and should take her there so soon as it could +safely be done, and that Abbess Monique, he trusted, would assist her +crushed spirit in finding the path of penitence. He thought her cousin +had better not endeavour to see her again; and Berenger himself was +ready to forget her very existence in his burning anxiety to outstrip +Narcisse in the quest of Eustacie. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. OUR LADY OF HOPE + + + + Welcome to danger’s hour, + Brief greeting serves the time of strife. + --SCOTT + + +As soon as it was possible to leave Nissard, Berenger was on his way +back to head-quarters, where he hoped to meet the Duke de Quinet among +the many Huguenot gentlemen who were flocking to the Bourbon standard; +nor was he disappointed in the hope, for he was presented to a handsome +middle-aged gentleman, who told him, with much politeness, that his +mother had had the honour to receive and entertain Mme. de Ribaumont and +that some months ago he had himself arranged for the conveyance of +her letters to England, but, he said, with a smile, he made a point of +knowing nothing of his mother’s guests, lest his duties as a governor +might clash with those of hospitality. He offered to expedite M. de +Ribaumont’s journey to Quinet, observing that, if Nid de Merle were, +indeed, on the point of seizing the lady, it must be by treachery; +indeed he had, not ten days back, had the satisfaction of hanging +an Italian mountebank who had last year stolen a whole packet of +dispatches, among them letters from Mme. de Ribaumont, and the fellow +was probably acting as a spy upon her, so that no time was to be lost in +learning from his mother where she was. On the next morning he was about +to send forward twenty men to reinforce a little frontier garrison on +the river Dronne, and as M. le Baron must pass through the place, it +would be conferring a favour on him to take the command. The men were +all well mounted, and would not delay; and when once across the frontier +of Guyenne, no escort would be needed. + +Berenger gladly accepted the proposal. It did not occur to him that +he was thus involved in the civil war, and bearing arms against the +sovereign. In spite of Queen Elisabeth’s alliance with the French court, +she connived at her youthful subjects seeking the bubble reputation +in the mouths of Valois cannon; and so little did Henry III. seem +to Berenger to be his king, that he never thought of the question of +allegiance,--nay, if the royal officers were truly concerned in his +arrest, he was already an outlaw. This was no moment for decision +between Catholic and Calvinist; all he wanted was to recover his wife +and forestall her enemies. + +Henry of Navarre gave his full consent to the detachment being placed +under charge of M. de Ribaumont. He asked somewhat significantly what +had become of the young gentleman who had attended M. de Ribaumont, and +Philip blushed crimson to the ears, while Berenger replied, with greater +coolness than he had given himself credit for, that the youth had +been nearly drowned on the Sable d’Olonne, and had been left at Dom +Colombeau’s to recover. The sharp-witted King looked for a moment rather +as Sir Hugh the Heron did when Marmion accounted for his page’s absence, +but was far too courteous and too INSOUCIANT to press the matter +further, though Berenger saw quite enough of is expression to feel that +he had been delivered from his companion only just in time. + +Berenger set forth as soon as his impatience could prevail to get the +men into their saddles. He would fain have ridden day and night, and +grudged every halt for refreshment, so as almost to run the risk of +making the men mutinous. Evening was coming on, and his troop had +dismounted at a cabaret, in front of which he paced up and down with +Philip, trying to devise some pretext for hastening them on another +stage before night, when a weary, travel-stained trooper rode up to the +door and was at once hailed as a comrade by the other men, and asked, +‘What cheer at Pont de Dronne?’ + +‘Bad enough,’ he answered, ‘unless you can make the more speed there!’ +then making obeisance to Berenger he continued his report, saying that +Captain Falconnet was sending him to M. le Duc with information that +the Guisards were astir, and that five hundred _gens d’armes_, under +the black Nid de Merle, as it was said, were on their way intending +to surprise Pont de Dronne, and thus cut the King of Navarre off from +Guyenne and his kingdom beyond it. After this Berenger had no more +difficulty with his men, who were most of them Quinet vassals, with +homes south of the Dronne, and the messenger only halted for a hasty +meal, hastening on to the Duke, that a more considerable succour might +at once be dispatched. + +‘Is she there whom they call the Lady of Hope?’ asked one of the +soldiers, a mercenary, less interested than most of his comrades, as he +had only a fortnight since transferred his services from Guise to Quinet. + +‘Our Lady of Sadness just now,’ replied the messenger; ‘her old father +is at the point of death. However, she is there, and at our last siege +twenty wine-skins would not so well have kept up men’s hearts.’ + +‘And the little one, the white fairy, is she there too? They say ‘tis +a spirit, a changeling that could not brook the inside of a church, but +flew out of the Moustier at Montauban like a white swan, in the middle +of a sermon.’ + +‘I only know I’ve seen her sleep like a dormouse through prayers, +sermon, and all at Pont de Dronne. _Follette_ is she be, she belongs to +the white elves of the moonlight.’ + +‘Well, they say bullets won’t touch her, and no place can be taken where +she is,’ replied the trooper. ‘Nay, that Italian pedlar rogue, the same +that the Duke has since hung, has sold to long Gilles and snub-nosed +Pierre silver bullets, wherewith they have sworn to shoot the one or the +other next time they had a chance.’ + +These words were spoken at not great distance from Berenger, but passed +by him as mere men-at-arms’ gossip, in his eagerness to expedite the +start of his party; and in less than an hour they were _en route_ for +Pont de Dronne; but hasten as he would, it was not till near noon the +next day that he came in sight of a valley, through which wound a river, +crossed by a high-backed bridge, with a tall pointed arch in the middle, +and a very small one on either side. An old building of red stone, +looking like what it was--a monastery converted into a fortress--stood +on the nearer, or northern bank, and on the belfry tower waved a flag +with the arms of Quinet. Higher up the valley, there was an ominous +hum, and clouds of smoke and dust; and the _gen d’armes_, who knew +the country, rejoiced that they were come just in time, and exchanged +anxious questions whether the enemy were not fording the river above +them, so as to attack not only the fortress on this northern side, but +the bridge tower on the southern bank of the river. + +Spurring down the hill, the party were admitted, at the well-guarded +gateway, into a large thickly-walled yard, where the soldiers and +horses remained, and Berenger and Philip, passing through a small arched +doorway into the body of the old monastery, were conducted to a great +wainscoted hall, where a pulpit projecting from the wall, and some +defaced emblematic ornaments, showed that this had once been the +refectory, though guard-room appliances now occupied it. The man who had +shown them in left them, saying he would acquaint Captain Falconnet with +their arrival, and just then a sound of singing drew both brothers to +the window. It looked out on what had once been the quadrangle, bounded +on three sides by the church, the refectory, and the monk’s lodgings, +the cloistered arcade running round all these. The fourth side was +skirted by the river, which was, however, concealed by an embankment, +raised, no doubt, to supply the place of the wall, which had been +unnecessary to the peaceful original inhabitants. What attracted +Berenger’s eyes was, however, a group in the cloister, consisting of +a few drooping figures, some of men in steel caps, others of veiled, +shrouded women, and strange, mingled feelings swept over him as he +caught the notes of the psalm sung over the open grave-- + + ‘Si qu’en paix et seurte bonne + Coucherai et reposerai-- + Car, Seigneur, ta bonte tout ordonne + Et elle seule espoir donne + Que seur et sain regnant serai.’ + +‘Listen, Philip,’ he said, with moistening eyes; then as they ended, ‘It +is the 4th Psalm: “I lay me down in peace and take my rest.” Eustacie +and I used to sing it to my father. It was well done in these mourners +to sing it over him whom they are laying down to take his rest while the +enemy are at the gates. See, the poor wife still kneels while the rest +disperse; how dejected and utterly desolate she looks.’ + +He was so intently watching her as not to perceive the entrance of a +tall, grizzled old man in a steel cap, evidently the commander of the +garrison. There was the brief welcome of danger’s hour--the briefer, +because Captain Falconnet was extremely deaf, and, taking it for granted +that the new-comers were gentlemen of the Duke’s, proceeded to appoint +them their posts without further question. Berenger had intended to +pursue his journey to Quinet without delay, but the intelligence that +the enemy were on the southern as well as the northern side of the river +rendered this impossible; and besides, in defending this key of Guyenne +against Narcisse, he was also defending Eustacie. + +The state of affairs was soon made known to him. The old monastery, +covering with its walls an extensive space, formed a fortress quite +strong enough to resist desultory attacks, and protect the long bridge, +which was itself strongly walled on either side, and with a barbican at +the further end. In former assaults the attacks had always been on the +north, the Catholic side, as it might be called; but now the enemy had +crossed the river above the fort, and were investing the place on both +sides. Long foreseeing this, the old commandant had guarded the bank of +the river with the earthwork, a long mound sloped irregularly on either +hand, over which numerous little paths had since been worn by the women +within, when on their way to the river with their washing; but he had +been setting every one to work to destroy and fill up these, so that +the rampart was smooth and slopping, perfectly easy indeed to cross, but +high and broad enough to serve as an effectual protection against such +artillery as the detached troops of the Guise party were likely to +possess; and the river was far too wide, deep, and strong in its main +current to be forded in the face of a hostile garrison. The captain had +about fifty _gen d’armes_ in his garrison, besides the twenty new-comers +whom he persisted in regarding as Berenger’s charge; and there were, +besides, some seventy peasants and silk spinners, who had come into the +place as a refuge from the enemy--and with these he hoped to hold put +till succour should come from the Duke. He himself took the command +of the north gate, where the former assaults had been made, and he +instructed to his new ally the tower protecting the bridge, advising him +to put on armour; but Berenger, trying on a steel cap, found that his +head could not bear the weight and heat, and was forced to return to his +broad-brimmed Spanish hat, while Philip in high glee armed himself as +best he could with what Captain Falconnet could lend him. he was too +much excited to eat of the scanty meal that was set before them: a real +flight seemed like a fair-day to him, and he was greatly exalted by +his brother’s post of command--a post that Berenger felt a heavy +responsibility only thrust upon him by the commandant’s incapacity of +hearing how utterly inexperienced he was. + +The formal summons to surrender to the King, and the refusal, had duly +passed, and it became evident that the first attack was to be on the +bridge-gate. Captain Falconnet hurried to the place, and the fighting +was hot and desperate. Every assailant who tried to throw his fagot into +the moat became a mark for arquebus or pistol, and the weapons that had +so lately hung over the hearth at Nid de Merle were now aimed again and +again at the heads and corslets of Guisards, with something of the same +exulting excitement as, only higher, more engrossing, and fiercer than, +that with which the lads had taken aim at a wolf, or ridden after a fox. +Scaling-ladders were planted and hurled down again; stones were cast +from the battlements, crushing the enemy; and throughout Berenger’s +quick eye, alert movements, and great height and strength, made him a +most valuable champion, often applauded by a low murmur of commendation +from old Falconnet, or a loud shout of ‘Ha, well done, the Duke’s +Englishman,’ from the _gen d’armes_--for English they would have him to +be--on the presumptions afforded by his companions, his complexion, and +his slow speech. Nor did Philip and Humfrey fail to render good service. +But just as the enemy had been foiled in a sharp assault and were +dragging away their wounded, Philip touched his brother, and saying, ‘I +can hold out no longer,’ showed blood trickling down his right side. + +Berenger threw an arm round him, and Captain Falconnet, seeing his case, +said, ‘You are hit, _petit Anglais_; you have done gallantly. There will +be time for you to take him to his quarters, sir; these fellows have +had enough for the present, and you can tarry with him till you hear the +bugle. Whither, did you ask? Let me see. You, Renaud, take him to the +chapel: the old chancel behind the boarding will be more private; and +desire Madame to look to him. Farewell! I hope it may prove slight; +you are a brave youth.’ And he shook hands with Philip, whose intense +gratification sustained him for many steps afterwards. + +He hardly remembered receiving the hurt, and was at first too busy to +heed it, or to call off any one attention, until a dread of falling, and +being trodden on, had seized him and made him speak; and indeed he was +so dizzy that Berenger with difficulty kept him on his feet over the +bridge, and in the court lifted him in his arms and carried him almost +fainting into the cloister, where by the new-made grave still knelt the +black-veiled mourner. She started to her feet as the soldier spoke to +her, and seemed at first not to gather the sense of his words; but then, +as if with an effort, took them in, made one slight sound like a moan +of remonstrance at the mention of the place, but again recollecting +herself, led the way along a stone passage, into which a flight of +stairs descended into the apsidal chancel, roughly boarded off from +the rest of the church. It was a ruinous, desolate place, and Berenger +looked round in dismay for some place on which to lay down his almost +unconscious burthen. The lady bent her head and signed towards the stone +sedilia in the wall; then, after two ineffectual essays to make her +voice audible, choked as it was with long weeping, she said, low and +huskily, ‘We will make him more comfortable soon;’ and added some orders +to the soldier, who disappeared up the stairway, and Berenger understood +that he was gone to fetch bedding. Then taking from under her heavy +mourning cloak a large pair of scissors, she signed to Berenger how to +support his brother, while they relieved him of his corslet, sword-belt, +and doublet. The soldier had meantime returned with an old woman, both +loaded with bedding, which she signed to them to arrange in one of the +little bays or niches that served to form a crown of lesser chapels +around the chancel. She flung aside her muffling cloak, but her black +hood still hung far over her face, and every now and then hand or +handkerchief was lifted as if to clear her eyes from the tears that +would not cease to gather and blind her; and she merely spoke when some +direction to an assistant, some sympathetic word to the patient, was +needed. Even Philip in his dizzy trance guessed that he was succeeding +to the bed whence one much dearer had gone to his quieter rest in the +cloister. Before he was laid there, however, the bugle sounded; there +was a loud shout, and Philip exclaimed, ‘Go, brother!’ + +‘Trust him to me, sir,’ said the sunken, extinguished voice; ‘we will do +our best for him.’ + +He was forced merely to lift Philip to the bed, and to hurry away, while +the soldier followed him saying, consolingly, ‘Fear not, sir, now our +Lady of Hope has him. Nothing goes ill to which she sets her hand.’ + +Another growl of artillery was not heard, and it was time for the +warriors to forget the wounded in the exigencies of the present. An +attack was made on both gates at once, and the commandant being +engaged at his own post, Berenger had to make the utmost of his brief +experience, backed by the counsel of a tough old sergeant; and great +was his sense of exhilaration, and absolute enjoyment in this full and +worthy taxing of every power of mind or body. The cry among the enemy, +‘Aime at the black plume,’ attested his prominence; but he black plum +was still unscathed when spring twilight fell. The din began to subside; +recalls were sounded by the besiegers; and Berenger heard his own +exploit bawled in the ear of the deaf commandant, who was advancing over +the bridge. The old captain complimented him, told him that he should +be well reported of to M. le Duc and Sieur la Noue, and invited him to +supper and bed in his own quarters. The supper Berenger accepted, so +soon as he should know how it was with his brother; but as to bed, he +intended to watch his brother, and visit his post form time to time. + +The captain entered by the main door of the chapel, where ten or twelve +wounded were now lying, tended by peasant women. Berenger merely +passed through, seeing as he went the black hood busy over a +freshly-brought-in-patient. He found a door which admitted him through +the rough screen of boards to the choir where he had been in the +earlier part of the day. The moonlight came through the shivered eastern +windows, but a canvas curtain had been hung so as to shelter Philip’s +vaulted recess from the cold draught, and the bed itself, with a chair +beside it, looked neat, clean, and comfortable. Philip himself was +cheery; he said the bullet had made a mere flesh-wound, and had passed +out on the other side, and the Lady of Hope, as they called he, was just +such another as Aunt Cecily, and had made him very comfortable, with +clean linen, good cool drinks, and the tenderest hand. But he was very +sleepy, so sleepy that he hardly cared to hear of the combat, only he +roused himself for a moment to say, ‘Brother, I have seen Dolly.’ + +‘Dolly!’ + +‘Our sister Dolly.’ + +‘Ah, Phil! many a strange visitor has come to me in the Walnut Chamber +at home.’ + +‘I tell you I was in my perfect senses,’ returned Philip; ‘there she +was, just as when we left her. And, what was stranger still, she talked +French.’ + +‘Sleep and see her again,’ laughed Berenger. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. THE SILVER BULLET + + + + I am all wonder, O my son, my soul + Is stunned within me; powers to speak to him + Or to interrogate him have I none, + Or even to look on him. + --Cowper’s ODYSSEY + + +In his waking senses Philip adhered to his story that his little sister +Dolly had stood at the foot of his bed, called him ‘_le pauvre_’ and +had afterwards disappeared, led away by the nursing lady. It seemed to +Berenger a mere delusion of feverish weakness; for Philip had lost a +great deal of blood, and the wound, though not dangerous, permitted no +attempt at moving, and gave much pain. Of the perfections of the lady as +nurse and surgeon Philip could not say enough, and, pale and overwept as +he allowed her to be, he declared that he was sure that her beauty must +equal Mme. De Selinville’s. Berenger laughed, and looking round this +strange hospital, now lighted by the full rays of the morning sun, he +was much struck by the scene. + +It was the chancel of the old abbey church. The door by which they +had entered was very small, and perhaps had led merely to the abbot’s +throne, as an irregularity for his own convenience, and only made +manifest by the rending away of the rich wooden stall work, some +fragments of which still clung to the walls. The east end, like that of +many French churches, formed a semicircle, the high altar having been in +the centre, and five tall deep bays forming lesser chapels embracing it, +their vaults all gathered up into one lofty crown above, and a slender +pillar separating between each chapel, each of which further contained +a tall narrow window. Of course, all had been utterly desolated, and +Philip was actually lying in one of these chapels, where the sculptured +figure of St. John and his Eagle still remained on the wall; and a +sufficient remnant of his glowing sanguine robe of love was still in +the window to serve as a shield from the _bise_. The high altar of +rich marbles was a mere heap of shattered rubbish; but what surprised +Berenger more than all the ruined architectural beauty which his +_cinque-cento_ trained taste could not understand, was, that the tiles +of the pavement were perfectly clean, and diligently swept, the rubbish +piled up in corners; and here and there the relics of a cross or carved +figure lay together, as by a tender, reverential hand. Even the morsels +of painted glass had been placed side by side on the floor, so as to +form a mosaic of dark red, blue, and green; and a child’s toy lay beside +this piece of patchwork. In the midst of his observations, however, +Captain Falconnet’s servant came to summon him to breakfast; and the old +woman appearing at the same time, he could not help asking whether the +lady were coming. + +‘Oh yes, she will come to dress his wound in good time,’ answered the +old woman. + +‘And when? I should like to hear what she thinks of it,’ said Berenger. + +‘How?’ said the old woman with a certain satisfaction in his +disappointment; ‘is our Lady of Hope to be coming down among you gay +gallants?’ + +‘But who is this Lady of Hope?’ demanded he. + +‘Who should she be but our good pastor’s daughter? Ah! and a brave, good +daughter she was too, abiding the siege because his breath was so bad +that he could not be moved.’ + +‘What was his name?’ asked Berenger, attracted strangely by what he +heard. + +‘Ribault, Monsieur--Pasteur Ribault. Ah! a good man, and sound preacher, +when preach he could; but when he could not, his very presence kept the +monks’ REVENANTS from vexing us--as a cat keeps mice away; and, ah! The +children have been changed creatures since Madame dealt with them. What! +Monsieur would know why they call her our Lady of Hope? Esperance is +her true name; and, moreover, in the former days this abbey had an image +that they called Notre-Dame de l’Esperance, and the poor deceived folk +thought it did great miracles. And so, when she came hither, and wrought +such cures, and brought blessing wherever she went, it became a saying +among us that at length we had our true Lady of Hope. + +A more urgent summons here forced Berenger away, and his repetition of +the same question received much the same answer from deaf old Captain +Falconnet. He was obliged to repair to his post with merely a piece of +bread in his hand; abut, though vigilance was needful, the day bade fair +to be far less actively occupied than its predecessor: the enemy were +either disposed to turn the siege into a blockade, or were awaiting +reinforcements and heavier artillery; and there were only a few +desultory attacks in the early part of the morning. About an hour before +noon, however, the besiegers seemed to be drawing out in arms, as if to +receive some person of rank, and at the same time sounds were heard +on the hills to the eastward, as if troops were on the march. Berenger +having just been told by the old sergeant that probably all would be +quiet for some time longer, and been almost laughed at by the veteran +for consulting him whether it would be permissible for him to be absent +a few minutes to visit his brother, was setting out across the bridge +for the purpose, his eyes in the direction of the rampart, which +followed the curve of the river. The paths which--as has been said--the +feet of the washerwomen and drawers of water had worn away in quieter +times, had been smoothed and scarped away on the outer side, so as +to come to an abrupt termination some feet above the gay marigolds, +coltsfoot, and other spring flowers that smiled by the water-side. +Suddenly he beheld on the rampart a tiny gray and white figure, +fearlessly trotting, or rather dancing, along the summit and the +men around him exclaimed, ‘The little moonbeam child!’ ‘A fairy--a +changeling!’--‘They cannot shoot at such a babe!’ ‘Nor could they +harm her!’ ‘Hola! little one! _Gare_! Go back to your mother!’ ‘Do not +disturb yourself, sir; she is safer than you,’ were the ejaculations +almost at the same moment, while he sprang forward, horrified at the +peril of such an infant. He had reached the angle between the bridge and +rampart, when he perceived that neither humanity nor superstition were +protecting the poor child; for, as she turned down the remnant of one of +the treacherous little paths, a man in bright steel and deep black had +spurred his horse to the river’s brink, and was deliberately taking aim +at her. Furious at such brutality, Berenger fired the pistol he held in +his hand, and the wretch dropped from his horse; but at the same moment +his pistol exploded, and the child rolled down the bank, whence a +piteous wail came up, impelling Berenger to leap down to her assistance, +in the full face of the enemy. Perhaps he was protected for the moment +by the confusion ensuing on the fall of the officer; and when he reached +the bottom of the bank, he saw the little creature on her feet, her +round cap and gray woolen dress stripped half off in the fall, and +her flaxen hair falling round her plump, white, exposed shoulder, but +evidently unhurt, and gathering yellow marigolds as composedly as though +she had been making May garlands. He snatched her up, and she said, with +the same infantine dignity, ‘Yes, take me up; the naughty people spoilt +the path. But I must take my beads first.’ And she tried to struggle +out of his arms, pointing therewith to a broken string among the marshy +herb-age on which gleamed--the pearls of Ribaumont! + +In the few seconds in which he grasped them, and then bore the child up +the embankment in desperate bounds, a hail of bullets poured round +him, ringing on his breastplate, shearing the plume from his hat, but +scarcely even heard; and in another moment he had sprung down, on the +inner side, grasping the child with all his might, but not daring even +to look at her, in the wondrous flash of that first conviction. She +spoke first. ‘Put me down, and let me have my beads,’ she said in a +grave, clear tone; and then first he beheld a pair of dark blue eyes, +a sweet wild-rose face--Dolly’s all over. He pressed her so fast and +so close, in so speechless and over powering an ecstasy, that again she +repeated, and in alarm, ‘Put me down, I want my mother!’ + +‘Yes, yes! your mother! your mother! your mother!’ he cried, unable to +let her out of his embrace; and then restraining himself as he saw her +frightened eyes, in absolute fear of her spurning him, or struggling +from him, ‘My sweet! my child! Ah! do you not know me?’ Then, +remembering how wild this was, he struggled to speak calmly: ‘What are +you called, my treasure?’ + +‘I am _la petite Rayonette_,’ she said, with puzzled dignity and +gravity; ‘and my mother says I have a beautiful long name of my own +besides.’ + +‘Berangere--my Berangere---’ + +‘That is what she says over me, as I go to sleep in her bosom at night,’ +said the child, in a wondering voice, soon exchanged for entreaty, ‘Oh, +hug me not so hard! Oh, let me go--let me go to her! Mother! mother!’ + +‘My child, mine own, I am take thee!--Oh, do not struggle with me!’ +he cried, himself imploring now. ‘Child, one kiss for thy father;’ +and meantime, putting absolute force on his vehement affection, he was +hurrying to the chancel. + +There Philip hailed them with a shout as of desperate anxiety relieved; +but before a word could be uttered, down the stairs flew the Lady of +Hope, crying wildly, ‘Not there--she is not--’ but perceiving the little +one in the stranger’s arms, she held out her own, crying, ‘Ah! is she +hurt, my angel?’ + +‘Unhurt, Eustacie! Our child is unhurt!’ Berenger said, with an agonized +endeavour to be calm; but for the moment her instinct was so entirely +absorbed in examining into the soundness of her child’s limbs, that she +neither saw nor hear anything else. + +‘Eustacie,’ he said, laying his hand on her arm, she started back, with +bewildered eyes. ‘Eustacie--wife? do you not know me? Ah! I forgot that +I am changed.’ + +‘You--you--’ she gasped, utterly confounded, and gazing as if turned to +stone, and though at that moment the vibration of a mighty discharge +of cannon rocked the walls, and strewed Philip’s bed with the crimson +shivers of St. John’s robe, yet neither of them would have been sensible +of it had not Humfrey rushed in at the same moment, crying, ‘They are +coming on like friends, sir!’ + +Berenger passed his hand over his face. ‘You will know me WHEN--IF I +return, my dearest,’ he said. ‘If not, then still, thank God! Philip, to +you I trust them!’ + +And with one kiss on that still, cold, almost petrified brow, he had +dashed away. There was a space of absolutely motionless silence, save +that Eustacie let herself drop on the chancel step, and the child, +presently breaking the spell, pulled her to attract her notice to the +flowers. ‘Mother, here are the _soucis_ for the poor gentleman’s broth. +See, the naughty people had spoilt all the paths, and I rolled down and +tore my frock, and down fell the beads, but be not angry, mother dear, +for the good gentleman picked them up, and carried me up the bank.’ + +‘The bank!’ cried Eustacie, with a scream, as the sense of the words +reached her ears. ‘Ah! no wonder! Well might thy danger bring thy +father’s spirit;’ and she grasped the little one fervently in her arms, +murmuring, ‘Thank, thank God, indeed! Oh! my precious one; and did He +send that blessed spirit to rescue thee?’ + +‘And will you tie up my frock? and may I put the flowers into the +broth?’ chattered Rayonette. ‘And why did he kiss me and hug me so +tight? and how did he know what you say over me as we fall asleep?’ + +Eustacie clasped her tighter, with a convulsive, shudder of +thankfulness; and Philip, but half hearing, and barely gathering the +meaning of her mood, ventured to speak, ‘Madame---’ + +As if touched by an electric shock, Eustacie started up, as recalled to +instant needs, and coming towards him said, ‘Do you want anything, sir? +Pardon one who has but newly seen a spirit from the other world--brought +by his child’s danger.’ And the dazed, trance-like look was returning. + +‘Spirit!’ cried Philip. ‘Nay, Madame, it was himself. Ah! and you are +she whom we have sought so long; and this dear child--no wonder she has +Dolly’s face.’ + +‘Who--what?’ said Eustacie, pressing her temples with her hands, as if +to retain her senses. ‘Speak; was yonder a living or dead man--and who?’ + +‘Living, thank God! and your own husband; that is, if you are really +Eustacie. Are you indeed?’ he added, becoming doubtful. + +‘Eustacie, that am I,’ she murmured. ‘But he is dead--they killed him; I +swathe blood where he had waited for me. His child’s danger brought him +from the grave.’ + +‘No, no. Look at me, sister Eustacie. Listen to me. Osbert brought him +home more dead than alive--but alive still.’ + +‘No!’ she cried, half passionately. ‘Never could he have lived and left +me to mourn him so bitterly.’ + +‘If you knew--’ cried Philip, growing indignant. ‘For weeks he lay in +deadly lethargy, and when, with his left hand, he wrote and sent Osbert +to you, your kinsfolk threw the poor fellow into a dungeon, and put us +off with lies that you were married to your cousin. All believed, only +he--sick, helpless, speechless, as he was--he trusted you still; and +so soon as Mericour came, though he could scarcely brook the saddle, +nothing would hold him from seeking you. We saw only ruin at La +Sablerie, and well-nigh ever since have we been clapped up in prison by +your uncle. We were on the way to Quinet to seek you. He has kept his +faith whole through wounds and pain and prison and threats,--ay, and +sore temptation,’ cried Philip, waxing eloquent; ‘and, oh, it cannot be +that you do not care for him!’ + +‘Doubt not my faith, sir,’ said Eustacie, proudly; ‘I have been as true +to him as if I had known he lived. Nor do I know who you are to question +me.’ + +At this moment the child pressed forward, holding between her tow +careful plump hands a red earthenware bowl, with the tisane steaming in +it, and the yellow petals strewn over the surface. She and Philip had +taken a great fancy to each other, and while her mother was busy +with the other patients, she had been left to her quiet play with her +fragments of glass, which she carried one by one to display, held up +to the light, to her new friends; who, in his weak state, and after +his long captivity, found her the more charming playmate because she so +strangely reminded him of his own little sisters. She thought herself +his little nurse, and missing from his broth the yellow petals that she +had been wont to think the charm of tisane, the housewifely little being +had trotted off, unseen and unmissed, across the quadrangle, over +the embankment, where she had often gathered them, or attended on the +‘_lessive_’ on the river’s brink; and now she broke forth exultingly, +‘Here, here is the tisane, with all the _soucis_. Let me feed you with +them, sir.’ + +‘Ah! thou sweet one,’ gasped Philip, ‘I could as soon eat them as David +could drink the water! For these--for these---!’ and the tears rushed +into his eyes. ‘Oh! let me but kiss her, Madame; I loved her from the +first moment. She has the very face of my little sweeting, (what French +word is good enough for her?) didst run into peril for me, not knowing +how near I was to thee? What, must I eat it? Love me then.’ + +But the boarded door was thrown back, and ‘Madame, more wounded,’ +resounded. The thrill of terror, the elastic reaction, at the ensuing +words, ‘from the north gate,’ was what made Eustacie in an instant know +herself to be not widow but wife. She turned round at once, holding out +her hand, and saying with a shaken, agitated voice, ‘_Mon frere_, +pardon me, I know not what I say; and, after all, he will find me _bien +mechante_ still.’ Then as Philip devoured her hand with kisses, and held +it fast, ‘I must go; these poor men need me. When I can, I will return.’ + +‘Only let me have the little one,’ entreated Philip; ‘it is almost home +already to look at her.’ + +And when Eustacie next looked in on them, they were both fast asleep. + +She, poor thing, the only woman with brains among the many scared +females in the garrison, might not rest or look the wonder in the face. +Fresh sufferers needed her care, and related gallant things of ‘the +Duke’s Englishman,’ things of desperate daring and prowess that sent the +blood throbbing to her heart with exultation, but only to be followed by +a pang of anguish at having let him go back to peril--nay, perhaps, to +death--without a word of tenderness or even recognition. She imaged him +as the sunny-faced youth who had claimed her in the royal castle, and +her longing to be at his side and cling to him as his own became every +moment more fervent and irresistible, until she gladly recollected the +necessity of carrying food to the defenders; and snatching an interval +from her hospital cares, she sped to the old circular kitchen of the +monastery, where she found the lame baker vainly trying to organize a +party of frightened women to carry provisions to the garrison of the +bridge-tower. + +‘Give some to me,’ she said. ‘My husband is there! I am come to fetch +his dinner.’ + +The peasant women looked and whispered as if they thought that, to add +to their misfortunes, their Lady of Hope had become distracted by grief; +and one or two, who held the old faith, and were like the crane among +the sparrows, even observed that it was a judgment for the profane +name that had been given her, against which she had herself uniformly +protested. + +‘My husband is come,’ said Eustacie, looking round with shining eyes. +‘Let us be brave wives, and not let our men famish.’ + +She lifted a loaf and a pitcher of broth, and with the latter poised on +her erect and graceful head, and elastic though steady step, she led the +way; the others following her with a sort of awe, as of one they fancied +in a superhuman state. In fact, there was no great danger in traversing +the bridge with its lofty parapet on either side; and her mind was too +much exalted and moved to be sensible of anything but a certain exulting +awe of the battle sounds. There was, however, a kind of lull in the +assault which had raged so fiercely ever since the fall of the officer, +and the arrival of the reinforcements. Either the enemy had paused to +take food, or were devising some fresh mode of attack; and as the +line of women advanced, there started forth from under the arch a +broad-shouldered, white-faced, golden-bearded personage, who cried +joyously, ‘My dearest, my bravest! this for me!’ and lifted the pitcher +from her head as he grasped her hand with a flesh and blood clasp +indeed, but the bright-cheeked, wavy-haired lad of her dream withered +away with a shock of disappointment, and she only looked up with wistful +puzzled earnestness instead of uttering the dear name that she had so +long been whispering to herself. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘this is precious +indeed to me, that you should let me feast my eyes once more on you. But +you may not tarry; the rogues may renew the attack at any moment.’ + +She had thought of herself as insisting on standing beside him and +sharing his peril. Had he been himself she must have don so, but this +was a stranger, whose claiming her made her shrink apart till she could +feel the identity which, though she believed, she could not realize. +Her hand lay cold and tremulous within his warm pressure, but he was too +much wrought up and too full of joy and haste to be sensible of anything +but of the brave affection that had dared all to come to him; and he +was perfectly happy, even as a trumpet-call among the foe warned him to +press her fingers to his lips and say, as his bright blue eye kindled, +‘God grant that we may meet and thank Him tonight! Farewell, my lost and +found! I fight as one who has something to fight for.’ + +He might not leave his post, but he watched her with eyes that could not +be satiated, as she recrossed the bridge; and, verily, his superabundant +ecstasy, and the energy that was born of it, were all needed to sustain +the spirits of his garrison through that terrible afternoon. The enemy +seemed to be determined to carry the place before it could be relieved, +and renewed the storm again and again with increasing violence; while +the defenders, disheartened by their pertinacity, dismayed at the +effects of the heavy artillery, now brought to bear on the tower, and +direfully afraid of having the bridge destroyed, would have abandoned +their barbican and shut themselves up within the body of the place, had +not Berenger been here, there, and everywhere, directing, commanding, +exhorting, cheering, encouraging, exciting enthusiasm by word and +example, winning proud admiration by feats of valour and dexterity +sprung of the ecstatic inspiration of new-found bliss, and watching, +as the conscious defender of his own most beloved, without a moment’s +respite, till twilight stillness sank on the enemy, and old Falconnet +came to relieve him, thanking him for his gallant defence, and auguring +that, by noonday tomorrow at latest, M. le Duc would succour them, +unless he were hampered by any folly of this young Navarre. + +Too blissful for the sense of fatigue, Berenger began to impart to the +Commandant his delight, but the only answer he got was ‘Hope, yes, every +hope;’ and he again recognized what he had already perceived, that the +indistinctness of his utterance made him entirely unintelligible to +the deaf Commandant, and that shouting did but proclaim to the whole +garrison, perhaps even to the enemy’s camp, what was still too new a +joy not to be a secret treasure of delight. So he only wrung the old +Captain’s hand, and strode away as soon as he was released. + +It was nearly dark, in spite of a rising moon, but beneath the cloister +arch was torchlight, glancing on a steel head-piece, and on a white cap, +both bending down over a prostrate figure; and he heard the voice he +loved so well say, ‘It is over! I can do no more. It were best to dig +his grave at once here in silence--it will discourage the people less. +Renaud and Armand, here!’ + +He paused for a few minutes unseen in the shadow while she closed the +eyes and composed the limbs of the dead soldier; then, kneeling, said +the Lord’s Prayer in French over him. Was this the being he had left as +the petted plaything of the palace? When she rose, she came to the arch +and gazed wistfully across the moonlit quadrangle, beyond the dark +shade cast by the buildings, saying to the soldier, ‘You are sure he was +safe?’ + +‘My Eustacie,’ said Berenger, coming forward, ‘we meet in grave times!’ + +The relief of knowing him safe after the sickening yearnings and +suspense of the day, and moreover the old ring of tenderness in his +tone, made her spring to him with real warmth of gladness, and cry, ‘It +is you! All is well. + +‘Blessedly well, _ma mie_, my sweetheart,’ he said, throwing his arm +round her, and she rested against him murmuring, ‘Now I feel it! Thou +are thyself!’ They were in the dark cloister passage, and when he would +have moved forward she clung closer to him, and murmured, ‘Oh, wait, +wait, yet an instant--thus I can feel that I have thee--the same--my +own!’ + +‘My poor darling,’ said Berenger, after a second, ‘you must learn to +bear with both my looks and speech, though I be but a sorry shattered +fellow for you.’ + +‘No, no,’ she cried, hanging on him with double fervour. ‘No, I am +loving you the more already,--doubly--trebly--a thousand times. Only +those moments were so precious, they made all these long years as +nothing. But come to the little one, and to your brother.’ + +The little one had already heard them, and was starting forward to meet +them, though daunted for a moment by the sight of the strange father: +she stood on the pavement, in the full flood of the moonlight from the +east window, which whitened her fair face, flaxen hair, and gray dress, +so that she did truly look like some spirit woven of the moonbeams. +Eustacie gave a cry of satisfaction: ‘Ah! good, good; it was by +moonlight that I saw her first!’ + +Berenger took her in his arm, and held her to his breast with a sense of +insatiable love, while Philip exclaimed, ‘Ay, well may you make much of +her, brother. Well might you seek them far and wide. Such treasures are +not to be found in the wide world.’ + +Berenger without answering, carried the little one to the step of the +ruined high altar, and there knelt, holding Eustacie by the hand, the +child in one arm, and, with the moon glancing on his high white brow +and earnest face, he spoke a few words of solemn thanks and prayer for +a blessing on their reunion, and the babe so wonderfully preserved to +them. + +Not till then did he carry her into the lamplight by Philip’s bed, and +scan therein every feature, to satisfy his eyes with the fulfilled hope +that had borne him through those darkest days, when, despairing of the +mother, the thought of the child had still sustained him to throw +his will into the balance of the scale between life and death. Little +Berangere gazed up into his face silently, with wondering, grave, +and somewhat sleepy eyes, and then he saw them fix themselves on his +powder-grimed and blood-stained hands. ‘Ah! little heart,’ he said, +‘I am truly in no state to handle so pure a piece of sugar as thou; I +should have rid myself of the battle-stains ere touching thee, but how +recollect anything at such a moment?’ + +Eustacie was glad he had broken the spell of silence; for having +recovered her husband, her first instinct was to wait upon him. She took +the child from him, explaining that she was going to put her to bed in +her own rooms up the stone stair, which for the present were filled with +fugitive women and children who had come in from the country, so that +the chancel must continue the lodging of Berenger and his brother; +and for the time of her absence she brought him water to wash away the +stains, and set before him the soup she had kept warm over her little +charcoal brazier. It was only when thus left that he could own, in +answer to Philip’s inquiries, that he could feel either hunger or +weariness; nay, he would only acknowledge enough of the latter to give +a perfect charm to rest under such auspices. Eustacie had dispatched her +motherly cares promptly enough to be with him again just as in taking +off his corselet he had found that it had been pierced by a bullet, +and pursuing the trace, through his doublet, he found it lodged in that +purse which he had so long worn next his heart, where it had spent its +force against the single pearl of Ribaumont. And holding it up to the +light, he saw that it was of silver. Then there returned on him and +Philip the words they had heard two days before, of silver bullets +forged for the destruction of the white moonlight fairy, and he further +remembered the moment’s shock and blow that in the midst of his wild +amaze on the river’s bank had made him gather his breath and strength to +bound desperately upwards, lest the next moment he should find himself +wounded and powerless. + +For the innocent, then, had the shot been intended; and she running +into danger out of her sweet, tender instincts of helpfulness, had been +barely saved at the extreme peril of her unconscious father’s life. +Philip, whose vehement affection for the little one had been growing +all day, was in the act of telling Berenger to string the bullet in the +place of the injured pearl, as the most precious heirloom of Ribaumont +bravery, when Eustacie returned, and learning all, grew pale and +shuddered as danger had never made her do before: but this strange day +had almost made a coward of her. + +‘And this is has spared,’ said Berenger, taking out the string of little +yellow shells. ‘Dost know them, sweet heart? They have been my chaplet +all this time.’ + +‘Ah!’ cried Eustacie, ‘poor, good Mademoiselle Noemi! she threaded them +for my child, when she was very little. Ah! could she have given them to +you--could it then not have been true--that horror?’ + +‘Alas! it was too true. I found these shells in the empty cradle, in the +burnt house, and deemed them all I should ever have of my babe.’ + +‘Poor Noemi! poor Noemi! She always longed to be a martyr; but we fled +from her, and the fate we had brought on her. That was the thought that +preyed on my dear father. He grieved so to have left his sheep--and it +was only for my sake. Ah! I have brought evil on all who have been good +to me, beginning with you. You had better cast me off, or I shall bring +yet worse!’ + +‘Let it be so, if we are only together.’ + +He drew her to him and she laid her head on his shoulder, murmuring, +‘Ah! father, father, were you but here to see it. So desolate yesterday, +so ineffably blest today. Oh! I cannot even grieve for him now, save +that he could not just have seen us; yet I think he knew it would be +so.’ + +‘Nay, it may be that he does see us,’ said Berenger. ‘Would that I had +known who it was whom you were laying down “_en paix et seurte bonne_!” + As it was, the psalm brought precious thoughts of Chateau Leurre, and +the little wife who was wont to sing it with me.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Eustacie, ‘it was when he sang those words as he was about +to sleep in the ruin of the Temple that first I--cowering there in +terror--knew him for no Templar’s ghost, but for a friend. That story +ended my worst desolation. That night he became my father; the next my +child came to me!’ + +‘My precious treasure! Ah! what you must have undergone, and I all +unknowing, capable of nothing wiser than going out of my senses, and +raging in a fever because I could convince no one that those were all +lies about your being aught but my true and loving wife. But tell me, +what brought thee hither to be the tutelary patron, where, but for the +siege, I had over-passed thee on the way to Quinet?’ + +Then Eustacie told him how the Italian pedlar had stolen her letters, +and attempted to poison her child--the pedlar whom he soon identified +with that wizard who had talked to him of ‘Esperance,’ until the cue +had evidently been given by the Chevalier. Soon after the Duke had +dispatched a messenger to say that the Chevalier de Ribaumont was on the +way to demand his niece; and as it was a period of peace, and the law +was decidedly on his side, Madame de Quinet would be unable to offer any +resistance. She therefore had resolved to send Eustacie away--not to +any of the seaports whither the uncle would be likely to trace her, but +absolutely to a place which he would have passed through on his journey +into Guyenne. The monastery of Notre-Dame de l’Esperance at Pont de +Dronne had been placed there, as well as a colony of silk-spinners, +attracted by the mulberry-trees of the old abbey garden. These, however, +having conceived some terror of the ghosts of the murdered monks, had +entreated for a pastor to protect them; and Madame la Duchesse thought +that in this capacity Isaac Gardon, known by one of the many aliases to +which the Calvinist ministers constantly resorted, might avoid suspicion +for the present. She took the persecuted fugitives for some stages in an +opposite direction, in her own coach, then returned to face and baffle +the Chevalier, while her trusty steward, by a long _detour_, conducted +them to Pont de Dronne, which they reached the very night after to +Chevalier had returned through it to Nid de Merle. + +The pastor and his daughter were placed under the special protection of +Captain Falconnet, and the steward had taken care that they should be +well lodged in three rooms that had once been the abbot’s apartments. +Their stay had been at first intended to be short, but the long journey +had been so full of suffering to Isaac, and left such serious effects, +that Eustacie could not bear to undertake it again, and Madame de Quinet +soon perceived that she was safer there than at the chateau, since +strangers were seldom admitted to the fortress, and her presence +there attracted no attention. But for Isaac Gardon’s declining health, +Eustacie would have been much happier here than at the chateau; the +homely housewifely life, where all depended on her, suited her; and, +using her lessons in domestic arts of nursing and medicine for the +benefit of her father’s flock, she had found, to her dismay, that +the simple people, in their veneration, had made her into a sort of +successor to the patroness of the convent. Isaac had revived enough for +a time to be able to conduct the worship in the church, and to instruct +some his flock; but the teaching of the young had been more and more +transferred to her, and, as he ingenuously said, had taught her more +than she ever knew before. He gradually became weaker through more +suffering, and was absolutely incapable of removal, when an attack +by the Guisards was threatened. Eustacie might have been sent back to +Quinet; but she would not hear of leaving him; and this first had been +a mere slight attack, as if a mere experiment on the strength of the +place. She had, however, then had to take the lead in controlling the +women, and teaching them to act as nurses, and to carry out provisions; +and she must then have been seen by some one, who reported her presence +there to Narcisse--perhaps by the Italian pedlar. Indeed Humfrey, who +came in for a moment to receive his master’s orders, report his watch, +and greet his lady, narrated, on the authority of the lately enlisted +men-at-arms, that M. de Nid de Merle had promised twenty crowns to any +one who might shoot down the heretics’ little white _diablesse_. + +About six weeks had elapsed since the first attack on Pont de Dronne, +and in that time Gardon had sunk rapidly. He died as he lived, a gentle, +patient man, not a characteristic Calvinist, though his lot had been +thrown with that party in his perplexed life of truth-seeking and +disappointment in the aspirations and hopes of early youth. He had been, +however, full of peace and trust that he should open his eyes where the +light was clear, and no cloud on either side would mar his perception; +and his thankfulness had been great for the blessing that his almost +heaven-sent daughter had been to him in his loneliness, bereavement, +and decay. Much as he loved her, he did not show himself grieved or +distressed on her account; but, as he told her, he took the summons to +leave her as a sign that his task was done, and the term of her trials +ended. ‘I trust as fully,’ he said, ‘that thou wilt soon be in safe and +loving hands, as though I could commit thee to them.’ + +And so he died in her arms, leaving her a far fuller measure of blessing +and of love than ever she had derived from her own father; and as the +enemy’s trumpets were already sounding on the hills, she had feared +insult to his remains, and had procured his almost immediate burial in +the cloister, bidding the assistants sing, as his farewell, that evening +psalm which had first brought soothing to her hunted spirit. + +There, while unable, after hours of weeping, to tear herself from the +grave of her father and protector, had she in her utter desolation been +startled by the summons, not only to attend to the wounded stranger, +but to lodge him in the chancel. ‘Only this was wanting,’ was the first +thought in her desolation, for this had been her own most cherished +resort. Either the _bise_, or fear of a haunted spot, or both, had +led to the nailing up of boards over the dividing screen, so that the +chancel was entirely concealed from the church; and no one ever thought +of setting foot there till Eustacie, whose Catholic reverence was +indestructible, even when she was only half sure that it was not worse +than a foible, had stolen down thither, grieved at its utter desolation, +and with fond and careful hands had cleansed it, and amended the ruin +so far as she might. She had no other place where she was sure of being +uninterrupted; and here had been her oratory, where she daily prayed, +and often came to hide her tears and rally her spirits through that long +attendance on her fatherly friend. It had been a stolen pleasure. Her +reverent work there, if once observed, would have been treated as rank +idolatry; and it was with consternation as well as grief that she found, +by the Captain’s command, that this her sanctuary and refuge was to be +invaded by strange soldiers! Little did she think---! + +And thus they sat, telling each other all, on the step of the ruined +chancel, among the lights and shadows of the apse. How unlike to stately +Louvre’s halls of statuary and cabinets of porcelain, or the Arcadian +groves of Montpipeau! And yet how little they recked that they were in +a beleaguered fortress, in the midst of ruins, wounded sufferers all +around, themselves in hourly jeopardy. It was enough that they had one +another. They were so supremely happy that their minds unconsciously +gathered up those pale lights and dark fantastic shades as adjuncts of +their bliss. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. LE BAISER D’EUSTACIE + + + + No pitying voice, no eye, affords + One tear to grace his obsequies. + --GRAY + + +Golden sunshine made rubies and sapphires of the fragments of glass in +the windows of Notre-Dame de l’Esperance, and lighted up the brown face +and earnest eyes of the little dark figure, who, with hands clasped +round her knees, sat gazing as if she could never gaze her fill, upon +the sleeping warrior beside whom she sat, his clear straight profile +like a cameo, both in chiseling and in colour, as it lay on the brown +cloak where he slept the profound sleep of content and of fatigue. + +Neither she nor Philip would have spoken or stirred to break that +well-earned rest; but sounds from without were not long in opening his +eyes, and as they met her intent gaze, he smiled and said, ‘Good morrow, +sweet heart! What, learning how ugly a fellow is come back to thee?’ + +‘No, indeed! I was trying to trace thine old likeness, and then +wondering how I ever liked thy boyish face better than the noble look +thou bearest now!’ + +‘Ah! when I set out to come to thee, I was a walking rainbow; yet I was +coxcomb enough to think thou wouldst overlook it.’ + +‘Show me those cruel strokes,’ she said; ‘I see one’--and her finger +traced the seam as poor King Charles had done--‘but where is the one my +wicked cousin called by that frightful name?’ + +‘Nay, verily, that sweet name spared my life! A little less spite at my +peach cheek, and I had been sped, and had not lisped and stammered all +my days in honour of _le baiser d’Eustacie_!’ and as he pushed aside his +long golden silk moustache to show the ineffaceable red and purple scar, +he added, smiling, ‘It has waited long for its right remedy.’ + +At that moment the door in the rood-screen opened. Captain Falconnet’s +one eye stared in amazement, and from beneath his gray moustache +thundered forth the word ‘Comment!’ in accents fit to wake the dead. + +Was this Esperance, the most irreproachable of pastor’s daughters and +widows? ‘What, Madame, so soon as your good father is under ground? At +least I thought ONE woman could be trusted; but it seems we must see to +the wounded ourselves.’ + +She blushed, but stood her ground; and Berenger shouted, ‘She is my +wife, sir!--my wife whom I have sought so long!’ + +‘That must be as Madame la Duchesse chooses,’ said the Captain. ‘She is +under her charge, and must be sent to her as soon as this _canaille_ is +cleared off. To your rooms, Madame!’ + +‘I am her husband!’ again cried Berenger. ‘We have been married sixteen +years.’ + +‘You need not talk to me of dowry; Madame la Duchesse will settle that, +if you are fool enough to mean anything by it. No, no, Mademoiselle, +I’ve no time for folly. Come with me, sir, and see if that be true which +they say of the rogues outside.’ + +And putting his arm into Berenger’s, he fairly carried him +off, discoursing by the way on _feu_ M. l’Amiral’s saying that +‘over-strictness in camp was perilous, since a young saint, an old +devil,’ but warning him that this was prohibited gear, as he was +responsible for the young woman to Madame la Duchesse. Berenger, who had +never made the Captain hear anything that he did not know before, looked +about for some interpreter whose voice might be more effectual, but +found himself being conducted to the spiral stair of the church steeple; +and suddenly gathering that some new feature in the case had arisen, +followed the old man eagerly up the winding steps to the little square +of leaden roof where the Quinet banner was planted. It commanded a wide +and splendid view, to the Bay of Biscay on the one hand, and the inland +mountains on the other; but the warder who already stood there pointed +silently to the north, where, on the road by which Berenger had come, +was to be seen a cloud of dust, gilded by the rays of the rising sun. + +Who raised it was a matter of no doubt; and Berenger’s morning orisons +were paid with folded hands, in silent thanks-giving, as he watched +the sparkling of pikes and gleaming of helmets--and the white flag of +Bourbon at length became visible. + +Already the enemy below were sending out scouts--they rode to the top of +the hill--then a messenger swan his horse across the river. In the camp +before the bridge-tower men buzzed out of their tents, like ants whose +hill is disturbed; horses were fastened to the cannon, tents were +struck, and it was plain that the siege was to be raised. + +Captain Falconnet did his ally the honour to consult him on the +expedience of molesting the Guisards by a sally, and trying to take some +of their guns; but Berenger merely bowed to whatever he said, while he +debated aloud the PROS and CONS, and at last decided that the garrison +had been too much reduced for this, and that M. le Duc would prefer +finding them drawn up in good order to receive him, to their going +chasing and plundering disreputable among the enemy--the Duke being here +evidently a much greater personage than the King of Navarre, hereditary +Governor of Guyenne though he were. Indeed, nothing was wanting to the +confusion of Berenger’s late assailants. In the camp on the north side +of the river, things were done with some order; but that on the other +side was absolutely abandoned, and crowds were making in disorder for +the ford, leaving everything behind them, that they might not have their +retreat cut off. Would there be a battle? Falconnet, taking in with his +eye the numbers of the succouring party, thought the Duke would allow +the besiegers to depart unmolested, but remembered with a sigh that +young king had come to meddle in their affair! + +However, it was needful to go down and marshal the men for the reception +of the new-comers, or to join in the fight, as the case might be. + +And it was a peaceful entrance that took place some hours later, and was +watched from the windows of the prior’s rooms by Eustacie, her child, +and Philip, whom she had been able to install in her own apartments, +which had been vacated by the refugee women in haste to return home, and +where he now sat in Maitre Gardon’s great straw chair, wrapped in +his loose gown, and looking out at the northern gates, thrown open to +receive the King and Duke, old Falconnet presenting the keys to the +Duke, the Duke bowing low as he offered them to the King, and the King +waving them back to the Duke and the Captain. Then they saw Falconnet +presenting the tall auxiliary who had been so valuable to him, his +gesture as he pointed up to the window, and the King’s upward look, as +he doffed his hat and bowed low, while Eustacie responded with the +most graceful of reverences, such as reminded Philip that his little +sister-in-law and tender nurse was in truth a great court lady. + +Presently Berenger came up-stairs, bringing with him his faithful +foster-brother Osbert, who, though looking gaunt and lean, had nearly +recovered his strength, and had accompanied the army in hopes of finding +his master. The good fellow was full of delight at the welcome of his +lady, and at once bestirred himself in assisting her in rectifying the +confusion in which her guests had left her apartment. + +Matters had not long been set straight when steps were heard on the +stone stair, and, the door opening wide, Captain Falconnet’s gruff voice +was heard, ‘This way, Monseigneur; this way, Sire.’ + +This was Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont’s first reception. She was +standing at the dark walnut table, fresh starching and crimping +Berenger’s solitary ruff, while under her merry superintendence those +constant playfellows, Philip and Rayonette, were washing, or pretending +to wash, radishes in a large wooden bowl, and Berenger was endeavouring +to write his letter of good tidings, to be sent by special messenger +to his grand-father. Philip was in something very like a Geneva gown; +Eustacie wore her prim white cap and frill, and coarse black serge +kirtle; and there was but one chair besides that one which Philip was +desired to retain, only two three-legged stools and a bench. + +Nevertheless, Madame de Ribaumont was equal to the occasion; nothing +could have been more courtly, graceful, or unembarrassed than her manner +of receiving of King’s gallant compliments, and of performing all the +courtesies suited to the hostess and queen of the place: it was the air +that would have befitted the stateliest castle hall, yet that in +its simplicity and brightness still more embellished the old ruinous +convent-cell. The King was delighted, he sat down upon one of the +three-legged stools, took Rayonette upon his knee, undertook to finish +washing the radishes, but ate nearly all he washed, declaring that they +put him in mind of his old hardy days on the mountains of Bearn. He +insisted on hearing all Rayonette’s adventure in detail; and on seeing +the pearls and the silver bullet, ‘You could scarcely have needed the +token, sir,’ said he with a smile to Berenger; ‘Mademoiselle had already +shown herself of the true blood of the bravest of knights.’ + +The tidings of the attack on Pont de Dronne had caused the Duke to make +a forced march to its relief, in which the King had insisted on joining +him; and they now intended to wait at Pont de Dronne till the rest +of the troops came up, and to continue their march through Guyenne to +Nerac, the capital of Henry’s county of Foix. The Duke suggested that +if Philip were well enough to move when the army proceeded, the family +might then take him to Quinet, where the Duchess would be very desirous +to see Madame; and therewith they took leave with some good-humoured +mirth as to whether M. le Ribaumont would join them at supper, or remain +in the bosom of his family, and whether he were to be regarded as a gay +bridegroom or a husband of sixteen year’s standing. + +‘Nay,’ said the King, ‘did his good Orpheus know how nearly his Eurydice +had slipped through his fingers again? how M. de Quinet had caught the +respectable Pluto yonder in the gray moustache actually arranging an +escort to send the lady safe back to Quinet _bon gre malgre_--and truly +a deaf Pluto was worse than even Orpheus had encountered!’ + +So laughing, he bowed again his compliments; but Eustacie demanded, so +soon as he was gone, what he meant by calling her by such names. If he +thought it was her Christian name, it was over-familiar--if not, she +liked it less. + +‘It is only that he last saw you in the Infernal Region, _ma mie_,’ +said Berenger; ‘and I have sought you ever since, as Orpheus sought +Eurydice.’ + +But her learning did not extend so far; and when the explanation was +made, she pouted, and owned that she could not bear to be reminded of +the most foolish and uncomfortable scene in her life--the cause of all +her troubles; and as Berenger was telling her of Diane’s confession +that her being involved in the pageant was part of the plot for their +detention at Paris, Osbert knocked at the door, and entered with a +bundle in his arms, and the air of having done the right thing. + +‘There, sir,’ he said with proud satisfaction, ‘I have been to the camp +across the river. I heard there were good stuffs to be had there for +nothing, and thought I would see if I could find a coat for Monsieur +Philippe, for his own is a mere ruin.’ + +This was true, for Eustacie had been deciding that between blood and +rents it had become a hopeless case for renovation; and Osbert joyfully +displayed a beautifully-embroidered coat of soft leather, which he had +purchased for a very small sum of a plunderer who had been there before +him. The camp had been so hastily abandoned that all the luggage +had been left, and, like a true valet, Osbert had not neglected the +opportunity of replenishing his master’s wardrobe. ‘And,’ said he, ‘I +saw there on whom M. le Baron knows,--M. de Nid de Merle.’ + +‘Here!’ cried Eustacie, startled for a moment, but her eyes resting +reassured on her husband. + +‘Madame need not be alarmed,’ said Osbert; ‘M. le Baron has well repaid +him. Ah! ah! there he lies, a spectacle for all good Christians to +delight in.’ + +‘It was then he, _le scelerat_?’ exclaimed Berenger; ‘I have already +thought it possible.’ + +‘And he fell by your hands!’ cried Eustacie. ‘That is as it should be.’ + +‘Yes, Madame,’ said Osbert; ‘it did my very heart good to see him +writhing there like a crushed viper. M. le Baron’s bullet was mortal, +and his own people thought him not worth the moving, so there he lies +on the ground howling and cursing. I would have given him the _coup de +grace_ myself, but that I thought M. le Baron might have some family +matters to settle with him; so I only asked what he thought now of +clapping guiltless folk into dungeons, and shooting innocent children +like sparrows; but he grinned and cursed like a demon, and I left him.’ + +‘In any one’s charge?’ asked Berenger. + +‘In the field’s, who is coming for him,’ said the descendant of the +Norseman. ‘I only told Humfrey that if he saw any one likely to meddle +he should tell them he was reserved for you. Eh! M. le Baron is not +going now. Supper is about to be served, and if M. le Baron would let me +array him with this ruff of Spanish point, and wax the ends of his belle +moustache---’ + +‘It is late,’ added Eustacie, laying her hand on his arm; ‘there may be +wild men about--he may be desperate! Oh, take care!’ + +‘_Ma mie_, do you not think me capable of guarding myself from a wild +cat leap of a dying man? He must not be left thus. Remember he is a +Ribaumont.’ + +Vindictiveness and revenge had their part in the fire of Eustacie’s +nature. Many a time had she longed to strangle Narcisse; and she was +on the point of saying, ‘Think of his attempts on that little one’s +life--think of your wounds and captivity;’ but she had not spent three +years with Isaac Gardon without learning that there was sin in giving +way to her keen hatred; and she forced herself to silence, while +Berenger said, reading her face, ‘Keep it back, sweet heart! Make it +not harder for me. I would as soon go near a dying serpent, but it were +barbarity to leave him as Osbert describes.’ + +Berenger was too supremely and triumphantly happy not to be full of +mercy; and as Osbert guided him to the hut where the miserable man lay, +he felt little but compassion. The scene was worse than he had expected; +for not only had the attendants fled, but plunderers had come in their +room, rent away the coverings from the bed, and torn the dying man from +it. Livid, nearly naked, covered with blood, his fingers hacked, +and ears torn for the sake of the jewels on them, lay the dainty and +effeminate tiger-fop of former days, moaning and scarcely sensible. But +when the mattress had been replaced, and Berenger had lifted him back to +it, laid a cloak over him, and moistened his lips, he opened his eyes, +but only to exclaim, ‘You there! As if I had not enough to mock me! +Away!’ and closed them sullenly. + +‘I would try to relieve you, cousin,’ said Berenger. + +The answer was a savage malediction on hypocrisy, and the words, ‘And my +sister?’ + +‘Your sister is in all honour and purity at the nunnery of Lucon.’ + +He laughed a horrible, incredulous laugh. ‘Safely disposed of ere you +cajoled _la petite_ with the fable of your faithfulness! Nothing like +a Huguenot for lying to both sides;’ and then ensued another burst +of imprecations on the delay that had prevented him from seizing the +fugitives--till he--till he felt as if the breath of hell were upon him, +and could not help vindicating himself, vain though he knew it to +be: ‘Narcisse de Ribaumont,’ he said gravely, ‘my word has never been +broken, and you know the keeping of it has not been without cost. On +that word believe that Madame de Selinville is as spotless a matron as +when she periled herself to save my life. I never even knew her sex till +I had drawn her half drowned from the sea, and after that I only saw her +in the presence of Dom Colombeau of Nissard, in whose care I left her.’ + +Narcisse’s features contorted themselves into a frightful sneer as he +muttered, ‘The intolerable fool; and that he should have got the better +of me, that is if it be true--and I believe not a word of it.’ + +‘At least,’ said Berenger, ‘waste not these last hours on hating and +reviling me, but let this fellow of mine, who is a very fair surgeon, +bind your wound again.’ + +‘Eh!’ said Narcisse, spitefully, turning his head, ‘your own rogue? Let +me see what work he made of _le baiser d’Eustacie_. Pray, how does it +please her?’ + +‘She thanks Heaven that your chief care was to spoil my face.’ + +‘I hear she is a prime doctress; but of course you brought her not +hither lest she should hear HOW you got out of our keeping.’ + +‘She knows it.’ + +‘Ah! she has been long enough at court to know one must overlook, that +one’s own little matters may be overlooked.’ + +Berenger burst out at last, ‘Her I will not hear blasphemed: the next +word against her I leave you to yourself.’ + +‘That is all I want,’ said Narcisse. ‘These cares of yours are only +_douceurs_ to your conceited heretical conscience, and a lengthening out +of this miserable affair. You would scoff at the only real service you +could render me.’ + +‘And that is---’ + +‘To fetch a priest. Ha! ha! one of your sort would sooner hang me. You +had rather see me perish body and soul in this Huguenot dog-hole! What! +do you stammer? Bring a psalm-singing heretic here, and I’ll teach him +and you what you MAY call blasphemy.’ + +‘A priest you shall have, cousin,’ said Berenger, gravely; ‘I will do +my utmost to bring you one. Meanwhile, strive to bring yourself into a +state in which he may benefit you.’ + +Berenger was resolved that the promise should be kept. He saw that +despair was hardening the wretched man’s heart, and that the possibility +of fulfilling his Church’s rites might lead him to address himself to +repentance; but the difficulties were great. Osbert, the only Catholic +at hand, was disposed to continue his vengeance beyond the grave, and +only at his master’s express command would even exercise his skill to +endeavour to preserve life till the confessor could be brought. Ordinary +Huguenots would regard the desire of Narcisse as a wicked superstition, +and Berenger could only hurry back to consult some of the gentlemen who +might be supposed more unprejudiced. + +As he was crossing the quadrangle at full speed, he almost ran against +the King of Navarre, who was pacing up and down reading letters, and +who replied to his hasty apologies by saying he looked as if the fair +Eurydice had slipped through his hands again into the Inferno. + +‘Not so, Sire, but there is one too near those gates. Nid de Merle is +lying at the point of death, calling for a priest.’ + +‘_Ventre Saint-Gris_!’ exclaimed the King, ‘he is the very demon of the +piece, who carved your face, stole your wife, and had nearly shot your +daughter.’ + +‘The more need of his repentance, Sire, and without a priest he will not +try to repent. I have promised him one.’ + +‘A bold promise!’ said Henry. ‘Have you thought how our good friends +here are likely to receive a priest of Baal into the camp?’ + +‘No, Sire, but my best must be done. I pray you counsel me.’ + +Henry laughed at the simple confidence of the request, but replied, ‘The +readiest way to obtain a priest will be to ride with a flag of truce to +the enemy’s camp--they are at St. Esme--and say that M. de Nid de Merle +is a prisoner and dying, and that I offer safe-conduct to any priest +that will come to him--though whether a red-hot Calvinist will respect +my safe-conduct or your escort is another matter.’ + +‘At least, Sire, you sanction my making this request?’ + +‘Have you men enough to take with you to guard you from marauders?’ + +‘I have but two servants, Sire, and I have left them with the wounded +man.’ + +‘Then I will send with you half a dozen Gascons, who have been long +enough at Paris with me to have no scruples.’ + +By the time Berenger had explained matters to his wife and brother, and +snatched a hasty meal, a party of gay, soldierly-looking fellows were in +the saddle, commanded by a bronzed sergeant who was perfectly at home +in conducting messages between contending parties. After a dark ride of +about five miles, the camp at the village of St. Esme was reached, +and this person recommended that he himself should go forward with a +trumpet, since M. de Ribaumont was liable to be claimed as an escaped +prisoner. There was then a tedious delay, but at length the soldier +returned, and another horseman with him. A priest who had come to the +camp in search of M. de Nid de Merle was willing to trust himself to the +King of Navarre’s safe-conduct. + +‘Thanks, sir,’ cried Berenger; ‘this is a work of true charity.’ + +‘I think I know that voice,’ said the priest. + +‘The priest of Nissard!’ + +‘Even so, sir. I was seeking M. de Nid de Merle, and had but just learnt +that he had been left behind wounded.’ + +‘You came to tell him of his sister?’ + +And as they rode together the priest related to Berenger that M. de +Solivet had remained in the same crushed, humiliated mood, not exactly +penitent, but too much disappointed and overpowered with shame to heed +what became of her provided she were not taken back to her brother or +her aunt. She knew that repentance alone was left for her, and permitted +herself to be taken to Lucon, where Mere Monique was the only person +whom she had ever respected. There had no doubt been germs of good +within her, but the crime and intrigue of the siren court of Catherine +de Medicis had choked them; and the first sense of better things had +been awakened by the frank simplicity of the young cousin, while, +nevertheless, jealousy and family tactics had led her to aid in his +destruction, only to learn through her remorse how much she loved him. +And when in his captivity she thought him in her power, but found +him beyond her reach, unhallowed as was her passion, yet still the +contemplation of the virtues of one beloved could not fail to raise her +standard. It was for his truth and purity that she had loved him, even +while striving to degrade these quantities; and when he came forth +from her ordeal unscathed, her worship of him might for a time be more +intense, but when the idol was removed, the excellence she had first +learnt to adore in him might yet lead that adoration up to the source of +all excellence. All she sought NOW was shelter wherein to weep and cower +unseen; but the priest believed that her tears would soon spring from +profound depths of penitence such as often concluded the lives of the +gay ladies of France. Mere Monique had received her tenderly, and the +good priest had gone from Lucon to announce her fate to her aunt and +brother. + +At Bellaise he had found the Abbess much scandalized. She had connived +at her niece’s releasing the prisoner, for she had acquired too much +regard for him to let him perish under Narcisse’s hands, and she had +allowed Veronique to personate Diane at the funeral mass, and also +purposely detained Narcisse to prevent the detection of the escape; but +the discovery that her niece had accompanied his flight had filled her +with shame and furry. + +Pursuit had been made towards La Rochelle, but when the neighbourhood +of the King of Navarre became known, no doubt was entertained that the +fugitives had joined him, and Narcisse, reserving his vengeance for the +family honour till he should encounter Berenger, had hotly resumed the +intention of pouncing on Eustacie at Pont de Dronne, which had been +decided on upon the report of the Italian spy, and only deferred by his +father’s death. This once done, Berenger’s own supposed infidelity would +have forced him to acquiesce in the annulment of the original marriage. + +It had been a horrible gulf, and Berenger shuddered as one who had +barely struggled to the shore, and found his dear ones safe, and his +enemies shattered and helpless on the strand. They hurried on so as to +be in time. The priest, a brave and cautious man, who had often before +carried the rites of the Church to dying men in the midst of the enemy, +was in a secular dress, and when Berenger had given the password, and +obtained admittance they separated, and only met again to cross the +bridge. They found Osbert and Humfrey on guard, saying that the sufferer +still lingered, occasionally in a terrible paroxysm of bodily anguish, +but usually silent, except when he upbraided Osbert with his master’s +breach of promise or incapacity to bring a priest through his Huguenot +friends. + +Such a taunt was on his tongue when Pere Colombeau entered, and checked +the scoff by saying, ‘See, my son, you have met with more pardon and +mercy even on earth than you had imagined possible.’ + +There was a strange spasm on Narcisse’s ghastly face, as though he +almost regretted the obligation forced on him, but Berenger scarcely +saw him again. It was needful for the security of the priest and the +tranquillity of the religious rites that he should keep watch outside, +lest any of the more fanatical of the Huguenots should deem it their +duty to break in on what they had worked themselves into believing +offensive idolatry. + +His watch did not prove uncalled for. At different times he had to plead +the King’s safe-conduct, and his own honour, and even to defend his own +Protestantism by appealing to his wounds and services. Hearts were not +soft enough then for the cruelty of disturbing a dying man to be any +argument at all in that fierce camp; but even there the name of Pere +Colombeau met with respect. The saintly priest had protected too many +enemies for any one who had heard of him to wish him ill. + +Nearly all night was Berenger thus forced to remain on guard, that the +sole hope of Narcisse’s repentance and salvation might not be swept away +by violence from without, renewing bitterness within. Not till towards +morning was he called back. The hard, lingering death struggle had spent +itself, and slow convulsive gasps showed that life was nearly gone; but +the satanic sneer had passed away, and a hand held out, a breathing like +the word ‘pardon’ seemed to be half uttered, and was answered from the +bottom of Berenger’s kind and pitying heart. Another quarter of an hour, +and Narcisse de Ribaumont Nid de Merle was dead. The priest looked pale, +exhausted, shocked, but would reveal nothing of the frame of mind he had +shown, only that if he had been touched by any saving penitence, it was +owing to his kinsman. + +Berenger wished to send the corpse to rest in the family vault at +Bellaise, where the Chevalier had so lately been laid; and the priest +undertook to send persons with a flag of truce to provide for the +transport, as well as to announce the death to the sister and the aunt. +Wearied as he was, he would not accept Berenger’s earnest invitation to +come and take rest and refreshment in the prior’s rooms, but took +leave of him at the further side of the fortress, with almost reverent +blessings, as to one not far from the kingdom of heaven; and Berenger, +with infinite peacefulness in his heart, went home in the silence of the +Sunday morning, and lay sleeping away his long fatigue through the chief +part of the day, while Pastor Merlin was preaching and eloquent sermon +upon his good brother Isaac Gardon, and Eustacie shed filial tears, more +of tenderness than sorrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. THE GALIMAFRE + + + + Speats and raxes, speats and raxes, speat and raxes + Lord Somerville’s billet + + +Never wont to let the grass grow under his feet, Henry of Navarre was +impatient of awaiting his troops at Pont de Dronne, and proposed +to hasten on to Quinet, as a convenient centre for collecting the +neighbouring gentry for conference. Thus, early on Monday, a party of +about thirty set forth on horseback, including the Ribaumonts, Rayonette +being perched by turns in front of her father or mother, and the Duke de +Quinet declaring that he should do his best to divide the journey into +stages not too long for Philip, since he was anxious to give his mother +plenty of time to make preparations for her royal guest. + +He had, however, little reckoned on the young King’s promptitude. The +first courier he had dispatched was overtaken at a _cabaret_ only five +leagues from Pont de Dronne, baiting his horse, as he said; the second +was found on the road with a lame horse; and the halt a day’s journey +remained beyond it. The last stage had been ridden, much to the Duke’s +discontent, for it brought them to a mere village inn, with scarcely any +accommodation. The only tolerable bed was resigned by the King to the +use of Philip, whose looks spoke the exhaustion of which his tongue +scorned to complain. So painful and feverish a night ensued that +Eustacie was anxious that he should not move until the Duke should, +as he promised, send a mule litter back for him; but this proposal he +resented; and in the height of his constitutional obstinacy, appeared +booted and spurred at the first signal to mount. + +Nor could Eustacie, as she soon perceived, annoy him more than by +showing her solicitude for him, or attracting to him the notice of the +other cavaliers. As the only lady of the party, she received a great +deal of attention, with some of which she would gladly have dispensed. +Whether it were the King’s habit of calling her ‘_la Belle Eurydice_,’ or +because, as she said, he was ‘_si laid_’ and reminded her of old unhappy +days of constraint, she did not like him, and had almost displeased her +husband and his brother by saying so. She would gladly have avoided the +gallantries of this day’s ride by remaining with Philip at the inn; but +not only was this impossible, but the peculiar ill-temper of concealed +suffering made Philip drive her off whenever she approached him with +inquiries; so that she was forced to leave him to his brother and +Osbert, and ride forward between the King and the Duke, the last of whom +she really liked. + +Welcome was the sight of the grand old chateau, its mighty wings of +chestnut forest stretching up the hills on either side, and the +stately avenue extending before it; but just then the last courier was +discovered, reeling in his saddle under the effects of repeated toasts +in honour of Navarre and Quinet. + +‘We are fairly sped,’ said the Duke to Eustacie, shrugging his shoulders +between amusement and dismay. + +‘Madame la Duchesse is equal to any _galimafre_,’ said Eustacie, +demurely; at which the Duke laughed heartily, saying, ‘It is not for the +family credit I fear, but for my own!’ + +‘Nay, triumph makes everything be forgiven.’ + +‘But not forgotten,’ laughed the Duke. ‘But, _allons_. Now for the +onset. We are already seen. The forces muster at the gateway.’ + +By the time the cavalcade were at the great paved archway into the +court, the Duchess stood at the great door, a grandson on either side, +and a great burly fresh-coloured gentleman behind her. + +M. de Quinet was off his horse in a second, his head bare, his hand on +the royal rein, and signing to his eldest son to hold the stirrup; but, +before the boy had comprehended, Henry had sprung down, and was kissing +the old lady’s hand, saying, ‘Pardon, Madame! I trust to your goodness +for excusing this surprise from an old friend’s son.’ + +Neither seeing nor caring for king or prince, the stranger gentleman at +the same moment pounced upon Eustacie and her little girl, crying aloud +in English, ‘Here she is! My dear, I am glad to see you. Give her to +me, poor Berenger’s little darling. Ah! she does not understand. Where’s +Merrycourt?’ + +Just then there was another English exclamation, ‘My father! Father! +dear father!’ and Philip, flinging himself from the saddle, fell almost +prone on that broad breast, sobbing convulsively, while the eyes that, +as he truly boasted, had never wasted a tear on his enemies, were +streaming so fast that his father’s welcome savoured of reproof: ‘What’s +all this? Before these French too.’ + +‘Take care, father,’ cried Berenger, leaping from his horse; ‘he has an +ugly wound just where you are holding him.’ + +‘Wounded! my poor boy. Look up.’ + +‘Where is your room, sir?’ said Berenger, seeing his hosts entirely +occupied with the King; and at once lifting the almost helpless Philip +like a little child in his strong arms, he followed Sir Marmaduke, who, +as if walking in his sleep, led the way up the great stone staircase +that led outside the house to the upper chambers. + +After a short interval, the Duchess, in the plenitude of her glory at +entertaining her dear Queen’s son, came up _en grande tenue_, leading +the King by the hand, the Duke walking backwards in front, and his two +sons each holding a big wax candle on either side. + +‘Here, Sire, is the chamber where the excellent Queen did me the honour +to repose herself.’ + +The Duke swung open the door of the state bed-chamber. There on the +velvet-hung bed sat _le gros Chevalier Anglais_, whom she had herself +installed there on Saturday. Both his hands were held fast in those of +a youth who lay beside him, deadly pale, and half undressed, with the +little Ribaumont attending to a wound in his side, while her child was +held in the arms of a very tall, bald-headed young man, who stood at +the foot of the bed. The whole group of interlopers looked perfectly +glorified with happiness and delight. Even the wounded youth, ghastly +and suffering as he was, lay stroking the big Englishman’s hand with +a languid, caressing air of content, almost like that of a dog who +has found his master. None of them were the least embarrassed, they +evidently thought this a visit of inquiry after the patient; and while +the Duchess stood confounded, and the Duke much inclined to laugh, +Eustacie turned eagerly, exclaiming, ‘Ah! Madame, I am glad you are +come. May I beg Mademoiselle Perrot for some of your cooling mallow +salve. Riding has sadly inflamed the wound.’ + +‘Riding--with such a wound! Are we all crazed?’ said Madame la Duchesse, +absolutely bewildered out of her dignified equanimity: and her son, +seeing her for once at a loss, came to her rescue. ‘His Grace will +condescend to the Andromeda Chamber, Madame. He kindly gave up his bed +to our young friend last night, when there was less choice than you can +give him.’ + +They all moved off again; and, before Eustacie was ready for the +mallows, Madame de Quinet, for whom the very name of a wound had +an attraction, returned with two hand-maidens bearing bandages and +medicaments, having by this time come to the perception that the wounded +youth was the son of the big Englishman who had arrived with young +Mericour in search of her little _protegee_, and that the tall man was +the husband so long supposed to be dead. She was curious to see her +pupil’s surgery, of which she highly approved, though she had no words +to express her indignation at the folly of traveling so soon. Indeed, +nothing but the passiveness of fatigue could have made her despotism +endurable to Philip; but he cared for nothing so long as he could see +his father’s face, and hear his voice--the full tones that his ear had +yearned for among the sharp expression of the French accent--and Sir +Marmaduke seemed to find the same perfect satisfaction in the sight of +him; indeed, all were so rejoiced to be together, that they scarcely +exerted themselves to ask questions. When Berenger would have made some +explanation, Sir Marmaduke only said, ‘Tell me not yet, my dear boy. I +see it is all right, and my head will hold no more yet but that I have +you and the lad again! Thank God for it! Never mind how.’ + +When, however, with some difficulty they got him away from Philip’s +bedside down to supper, the King came and made him high compliments upon +the distinguished bravery of his sons, and Mericour interpreted, till +Sir Marmaduke--though answering that of course the lads must do their +duty, and he was only glad to hear they had done it--became more and +more radiant and proud, as he began to gather what their trials and what +their steadfastness and courage had been. His goodly face, beaming with +honest gladness, was, as Henry told the Duchess, an absolute ornament to +her table. + +Unable, however, to converse with any one but Berenger and Mericour, and +pining all the time to get back to his son, the lengthy and ceremonious +meal was a weary penance to him; and so soon as his release was +possible, he made his way up-stairs again, where he found Philip much +refreshed by a long sleep, and only afraid that he should find the sight +of his father merely a dream; then, when satisfied on that head, eager +to hear of all at home--‘the sisters, the dogs, my mother, and my little +brother?’ as he arranged his inquiry. + +‘Ha! you heard of that, did you?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Philip, ‘the villains gave us letters once--only once--and +those what they thought would sting us most. O father, how could you all +think such foul shame of Berry?’ + +‘Don’t speak of it, Phil; I never did, nor Aunt Cecily, not for a +moment; but my Lord is not the man he was, and those foes of yours must +have set abroad vile reports for the very purpose of deceiving us. And +then this child must needs be born, poor little rogue. I shall be able +to take to him now all is right again; but by St. George, they have +tormented me so about him, and wanted me to take him as a providence +to join the estates together, instead of you and Berry, that I never +thought to care so little for a child of my own.’ + +‘We drank his health at Nid de Merle, and were not a little comforted +that you would have him in our place.’ + +‘I’d rather--Well, it skills not talking of it, but it just shows the +way of women. After all the outcry Dame Annora had made about her poor +son, and no one loving him or heeding his interest save herself, no +sooner was this little fellow born than she had no thought for any but +he, and would fain have had her father settle all his lands on him, +protesting that if Berry lived, his French lands were enough for him. +Out of sight, out of mind, is the way with women.’ + +Womanhood was already made accountable for all Lady Thistlewood’s +follies, and Philip acquiesced, asking further, ‘Nay, but how came you +hither, father? Was it to seek us or Eustacie?’ + +‘Both, both, my lad. One morning just after Christmas, I rid over to +Combe with my dame behind me, and found the house in commotion with a +letter that young Sidney, Berry’s friend, had just sent down by special +messenger. It had been writ more than a year, but, bless you, these poor +foreigners have such crooked ears and tongues that they don’t know what +to make of a plain man’s name, and the only wonder was that it ever came +at all. It seems the Duke here had to get it sent over by some of the +secret agents the French Protestants have in England, and what do they +do but send it to one of the Vivians in Cornwall; and it was handed +about among them for how long I cannot say, till there was a chance of +sending it up to my Lord of Warwick; and he, being able to make nothing +if it, shows it to his nephew, Philip Sidney, who, perceiving at once +whom it concerned, sends it straight to my Lord, with a handsome letter +hoping that it brought good tidings. There then it was, and so we first +knew that the poor lady had not been lost in the sack of the town, as +Master Hobbs told us. She told us how this Duchess had taken her under +her protection, but that her enemies were seeking her, and had even +attempted her child’s life.’ + +‘The ruffians! Even so.’ + +‘And she said her old pastor was failing in health, and prayed that some +trusty person might be sent to bring home at least the child to safety +with her kindred. There was a letter to the same effect, praising her +highly too, from the Duchess, saying that she would do her best to guard +her, but the kinsmen had the law on their side, and she would be safer +in England. Well, this was fair good news, save that we marveled the +more how you and Berry should have missed her; but the matter now was +who was the trusty person who should go. Claude Merrycourt was ready---’ + +‘How came he there?’ demanded Philip. ‘I thought he had gone, or been +sent off with Lady Burnet’s sons.’ + +‘Why, so he had; but there’s more to say on that score. He was so much +in favour at Combe, that my Lord would not be denied his spending the +holiday times there; and, besides, last summer we had a mighty coil. +The Horners of Mells made me a rare good offer for Lucy for their eldest +son, chiefly because they wanted a wife for him of my Lady Walwyn’s and +Mistress Cecily’s breeding; and my wife was all for accepting it, +having by that time given up all hope of poor Berry. But I would have no +commands laid on my girl, seeing that I had pledged my word not to cross +her in the matter, and she hung about my neck and prayed me so meekly to +leave her unwedded, that I must have been made of stone not to yield to +her. So I told Mr. Horner that his son Jack must wait for little Nancy +if he wanted a daughter of mine--and the stripling is young enough. I +believe he will. But women’s tongues are not easy to stop, and Lucy +was worn so thin, and had tears in her eyes--that she thought I never +marked--whenever she was fretted or flouted, and at last I took her back +to stay at Combe for Aunt Cecily to cheer up a bit; and--well, well, to +get rid of the matter and silence Dame Nan, I consented to a betrothal +between her and Merrycourt--since she vowed she would rather wait +single for him than wed any one else. He is a good youth, and is working +himself to a shadow between studying and teaching; but as to sending +him alone to bring Berry’s wife back, he was over-young for that. No one +could do that fitly save myself, and I only wish I had gone three years +ago, to keep you two foolish lads out of harm’s way. But they set up +an unheard-of hubbub, and made sure I should lose myself. What are you +laughing at, you Jacksauce?’ + +‘To think of you starting, father, with not a word of French, and never +from home further than once to London.’ + +‘Ah! you thought to come the traveled gentleman over me, but I’ve been +even with you. I made Dame Nan teach me a few words, but I never could +remember anything but that “mercy” is “thank ye”. However, Merrycourt +offered to come with me, and my Lord wished it. Moreover, I thought he +might aid in tracing you out. So I saw my Lord alone, and he passed his +word to me that, come what would, no one should persuade him to alter +his will to do wrong to Berenger’s daughter; and so soon as Master Hobbs +could get the THROSTLE unladen, and fitted out again, we sailed for +Bordeau, and there he is waiting for us, while Clause and I bought +horses and hired a guide, and made our way here on Saturday, where we +were very welcome; and the Duchess said she would but wait till she +could learn there were no bands of the enemy at hand, to go down with me +herself to the place where she had sent the lady. A right worthy dame is +this same Duchess, and a stately; and that young King, as they call him, +seems hard to please, for he told Berry that his wife’s courtliness and +ease in his reception were far above aught that he found here. What +he means is past a plain man, for as to Berry’s wife she is handy, and +notable enough, and ‘tis well he loves her so well; but what a little +brown thing it is, for a man to have gone through such risks for. +Nothing to look at beside his mother!’ + +‘If you could only see Madame de Selinville!’ sighed Philip; then--‘Ah! +sir, you would know the worth of Eustacie had you seen her in yonder +town.’ + +‘Very like!’ said Sir Marmaduke; ‘but after all our fears at home of a +fine court madam, it takes one aback to see a little homely brown thing, +clad like a serving wench. Well, Dame Nan will not be displeased, she +always said the girl would grow up no beauty, and ‘tis the way of +women to brook none fairer than themselves! Better so. She is a good +Protestant, and has done rarely by you, Phil.’ + +‘Truly, I might be glad ‘twas no court madam that stood by me when Berry +was called back to the fight: and for the little one, ‘tis the loveliest +and bravest little maid I ever saw. Have they told you of the marigolds, +father?’ + +‘Why, the King told the whole to the Duchess, so Berry said, and then +drank the health of the daughter of the bravest of knights; and Berry +held her up in his arms to bow again, and drink to them from his glass. +Berry looked a proud man, I can tell you, and a comely, spite of his +baldness; and ‘tis worth having come here to see how much you lads are +thought of--though to be sure ‘tis not often the poor creatures here see +so much of an Englishman as we have made of Berry.’ + +Philip could not but laugh. ‘’Tis scarce for that that they value him, +sir.’ + +‘Say you so? Nay, methinks his English heart and yours did them good +service. Indeed, the King himself told me as much by the mouth of +Merrycourt. May that youngster’s head only not be turned! Why, they set +him at table above Berenger, and above half the King’s gentlemen. Even +the Duchess makes as if he were one of her highest guests--he a poor +Oxford scholar, doubting if he can get his bread by the law, and flouted +as though he were not good enough for my daughter. ‘Tis the world +topsy turvy, sure enough! And that this true love that Berenger has run +through fire and water after, like a knight in a pedlar’s run through +turn out a mere little, brown, common-looking woman after all, not one +whit equal to Lucy!’ + +Sir Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that night, when he +had talked Philip into a state of feverishness and suffering that became +worse under Madame de Quinet’s reproofs and remedies, and only yielded +to Eustacie’s long and patient soothing. He then could almost have owned +that it was well she was not like his own cherished type of womanhood, +and the next day he changed his opinion still more, even as to her +appearance. + +There was a great gathering of favourers of the Huguenot cause on that +day; gentlemen came from all parts to consult with Henry of Navarre, and +Madame de Quinet had too much sense of the fitness of things to allow +Madame de Ribaumont to appear at the ensuing banquet in her shabby, +rusty black serge, and tight white borderless cap. The whole wardrobe of +the poor young Duchess de Quinet was placed at her service, and though, +with the thought of her adopted father on her heart, she refused gay +colours, yet when, her toilette complete, she said into Philip’s room, +he almost sprang up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and ceremoniously +bowed as to a stranger, and was only undeceived when little Rayonette +ran joyously to Philip, asking if _Manan_ was not _si belle, si belle_. + +The effects of her unrestful nights has now passed away, and left her +magnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and arch fire; the blooming +glow was restored to her cheek; and though neck, brow, and hands were +browner than in the shelter of convent or palace, she was far more near +absolute beauty than in former days, both from countenance and from +age. Her little proud head was clustered with glossy locks of jet, still +short, but curling round her brow and neck, whose warm brunette tints +contrasted well with the delicate, stiffened cobweb of her exquisite +standing ruff, which was gathered into a white satin bodice, with a +skirt of the same material, over which swept a rich black brocade train +open in front, with an open body and half-sleeves with falling lace, and +the hands, delicate and shapely as ever, if indeed a little tanned, held +fan and handkerchief with as much courtly grace as though they had never +stirred broth nor wrung out linen. Sir Marmaduke really feared he had +the court madam on his hands after all, but he forgot all about his +fears, as she stood laughing and talking, and by her pretty airs and +gestures, smiles and signs, making him enter into her mirth with Philip, +almost as well as if she had not spoken French. + +Even Berenger started, when he came up after the counsel to fetch her +to the banqueting-hall. She was more entirely the Eustacie of the Louvre +than he had ever realized seeing her, and yet so much more; and when the +Duchess beheld the sensation she produced among the _noblesse_, it was +with self-congratulation in having kept her in retirement while it +was still not known that she was not a widow. The King of Navarre had +already found her the only lady present possessed of the peculiar aroma +of high-breeding which belonged to the society in which both he and she +had been most at home, and his attentions were more than she liked from +one whose epithet of Eurydice she had never quite forgiven; at least, +that was the only reason she could assign for her distaste, but the +Duchess understood her better than did Berenger, nay, better than she +did herself, and kept her under the maternal wings of double form and +ceremony. + +Berenger, meanwhile, was in great favour. A command had been offered him +by the King of Navarre, who had promised that if he would cast in his +lot with the Huguenots, his claims on all the lands of Ribaumont should +be enforced on the King of France when terms were wrung from him, and +Narcisse’s death removed all valid obstacle to their recognition; but +Berenger felt himself bound by all home duties to return to England, nor +had he clear convictions as to the absolute right of the war in which +he had almost unconsciously drawn his sword. Under the Tudors the divine +right of kings was strongly believed in, and it was with many genuine +misgivings that the cause of Protestant revolt was favoured by Elisabeth +and her ministers; and Berenger, bred up in a strong sense of loyalty, +as well as in doctrines that, as he had received them, savoured as +little of Calvinism as of Romanism, was not ready to espouse the +Huguenot cause with all his heart; and as he could by no means have +fought on the side of King Henry III. or of the Guises, felt thankful +that the knot could be cut by renouncing France altogether, according +to the arrangement which had been defeated by the Chevalier’s own +supper-subtle machinations. + +At the conference of gentlemen held at Quinet, he had been startled by +hearing the name of the Sieur de Bellaise, and had identified him with +a grave, thin, noble-looking man, with an air of high-bred and patient +poverty. He was a Catholic but no Guisard, and supported the middle +policy of the Montmorency party, so far as he possessed any influence; +but his was only the weight of personal character, for he had merely a +small property that had descended to him through his grandmother, the +wife of the unfortunate Bellaise who had pined to death in the dungeon +at Loches, under Louis XI. Here, then, Berenger saw the right means of +riding himself and his family of the burthen that his father had mourned +over, and it only remained to convince Eustacie. Her first feeling when +she heard of the King’s offer, was that at last her ardent wish would +be gratified, she should see her husband at the head of her vassals, +and hear the war-cry motto ‘_A moi Ribaumont_.’ Then came the old +representation that the Vendeen peasants were faithful Catholics who +could hardly be asked to fight on the Calvinist side. The old spirit +rose in a flush, a pout, a half-uttered query why those creatures should +be allowed their opinions. Madame la Baronne was resuming her haughty +temperament in the _noblesse_ atmosphere; but in the midst came the +remembrance of having made that very speech in her Temple ruin--of the +grave sad look of rebuke and shake of the head with which the good old +minister had received it--and how she had sulked at him till forced to +throw herself on him to hinder her separation from her child. She burst +into tears, and as Berenger, in some distress, began to assure her that +he would and could do nothing without her consent, she struggled to +recover voice to say, ‘No! no! I only grieve that I am still as wicked +as ever, after these three years with that saint, my dear father. Do as +you will, only pardon me, the little fierce one!’ + +And then, when she was made to perceive that her husband would have to +fight alone, and could not take her with him to share his triumphs or +bind his wounds, at least not except by bringing her in contact with +Henry of Navarre and that atmosphere of the old court, she acquiesced +the more readily. She was a woman who could feel but not reason; and, +though she loved Nid de Merle, and had been proud of it, Berenger’s +description of the ill-used Sieur de Bellaise had the more effect on +her, because she well remembered the traditions whispered among the +peasants with whom her childhood had been passed, that the village +crones declared nothing had gone well with the place since the Bellaise +had been expelled, with a piteous tale of the broken-hearted lady, that +she had never till now understood. + +For the flagrant injustice perpetrated on her uncle and cousin in the +settlement on Berenger and herself she cared little, thinking they had +pretty well repaid themselves, and not entering into Berenger’s deeper +view, that this injustice was the more to be deplored as the occasion of +their guilt; but she had no doubt or question as to the grand stroke +of yielding up her claims on the estate to the Sieur de Bellaise. The +generosity of the deed struck her imagination, and if Berenger would +not lead her vassals to battle, she did not want them. There was no +difficulty with Sir Marmaduke; he only vowed that he liked Berenger’s +wife all the better for being free of so many yards of French dirt +tacked to her petticoat, and Philip hated the remembrance of those red +sugar-loaf pinnacles far too much not to wish his brother to be rid of +them. + +M. de Bellaise, when once he understood that restitution was intended, +astonished Sir Marmaduke by launching himself on Berenger’s neck with +tears of joy; and Henry of Navarre, though sorry to lose such a partisan +as the young Baron, allowed that the Bellaise claims, being those of a +Catholic, might serve to keep out some far more dangerous person whom +the court party might select in opposition to an outlaw and a Protestant +like M. de Ribaumont. + +‘So you leave us,’ he said in private to Berenger, to whom he had taken +a great liking. ‘I cannot blame you for not casting your lot into such +a witch’s caldron as this poor country. My friends think I dallied at +court like Rinaldo in Armida’s garden. They do not understand that when +one hears the name of Bourbon one does not willingly make war with the +Crown, still less that the good Calvin left a doctrine bitter to the +taste and tough of digestion. Maybe, since I have been forced to add my +spoon to stir the caldron, it may clear itself; if so, you will remember +that you have rights in Normandy and Picardy.’ + +This was the royal farewell. Henry and his suite departed the next +morning, but the Duchess insisted on retaining her other guests till +Philip’s cure should be complete. Meantime, Claude de Mericour had +written to his brother and arranged a meeting with him. He was now no +boy who could be coerced, but a staid, self-reliant, scholarly person, +with a sword by his side and an English passport to secure him, and his +brother did not regard him as quite the disgrace to his family he had at +first deemed him. He was at least no rebel; and though the law seemed to +French eyes infinitely beneath the dignity of a scion of nobility, still +it was something not to have him a heretic preacher, and to be able +at least to speak of him as betrothed to the sister of the Baron de +Ribaumont. Moreover, that Huguenot kinsman, whose extreme Calvinist +opinions had so nearly revolted Mericour, had died and left him all his +means, as the only Protestant in the family; and the amount, when Claude +arranged matters with his brother, proved to be sufficient to bear him +through his expenses handsomely as a student, with the hope of marriage +so soon as he should have kept his terms at the Temple. + +And thus the good ship THROSTLE bore home the whole happy party to +Weymouth, and good Sir Marmaduke had an unceasing cause for exultation +in the brilliant success of his mission to France. + +After all, the first to revisit that country was no other than the +once homesick Philip. He wearied of inaction, and thought his county +neighbours ineffably dull and lubberly, while they blamed him for being +a fine, Frenchified gentleman, even while finding no fault with their +old friend Berenger, or that notable little, lively, housewifely lady +his wife, whose broken English and bright simplicity charmed every one. +Sorely Philip needed something to do; he might have been a gentleman +pensioner, but he had no notion, he said, of loitering after a lady to +boat and hunt, when such a king as Henry of Navarre was in the field; +and he agreed with Eustacie in her estimate of the court, that it was +horribly dull, and wanting in all the sparkle and brilliancy that even +he had perceived at Paris. + +Eustacie gladly retreated to housewifery at Combe Walwyn, but a +strenuous endeavour on Lady Thistlewood’s part to marry her stepson to a +Dorset king’s daughter, together with the tidings of the renewed war in +France, spurred Philip into writing permission from his father to join +the King of Navarre as a volunteer. + +Years went by, and Philip was only heard of in occasional letters, +accompanied by presents to his sisters and to little Rayonette, and +telling of marches, exploits, and battles,--how he had taken a standard +of the League at Coutras, and how he had led a charge of pikemen at +Ivry, for which he received the thanks of Henry IV. But, though so near +home, he did not set foot on English ground till the throne of France +was secured to the hero of Navarre, and he had marched into Paris in +guise very unlike the manner he had left it. + +Then home he came, a bronzed gallant-looking warrior, the pride of the +county, ready for repose and for aid to his father in his hearty +old age, and bearing with him a pressing invitation from the King +to Monsieur and Madame de Ribaumont to resume their rank at court. +Berenger, who had for many years only known himself as Lord Walwyn, +shook his head. ‘I thank the King,’ he said, ‘but I am better content +to breed up my children as wholly English. He bade me to return when he +should have stirred the witch’s caldron into clearness. Alas! all he +has done is to make brilliant colours shine on the vapour thereof. Nay, +Phil; I know your ardent love for him, and marvel not at it. Before he +joined the Catholic Church I trusted that he might have given truth to +the one party, and unity to the other; but when the clergy accepted him +with all his private vices, and he surrendered unconditionally, I lost +hope. I fear there is worse in store. Queen Catherine did her most fatal +work of evil when she corrupted Henry of Navarre.’ + +‘If you say more, Berry, I shall be ready to challenge you!’ said +Philip. ‘When you saw him, you little knew the true king of souls that +he is, is greatness, or his love for his country.’ + +‘Nay, I believe it; but tell me, Philip, did you not hint that you had +been among former friends--at Lucon, you said, I think?’ + +Philip’s face changed. ‘Yes; it was for that I wished to see you alone. +My troop had to occupy the place. I had to visit the convent to arrange +for quartering my men so as least to scandalize the sisters. The Abbess +came to speak to me. I knew her only by her eyes! She is changed--aged, +wan, thin with their discipline and fasts--but she once or twice +smiled as she alone in old times could smile. The place rings with her +devotion, her charity, her penances, and truly her face is’--he could +hardly speak--‘like that of a saint. She knew me at once, asked for +you all, and bade me tell you that NOW she prays for you and yours +continually, and blesses you for having opened to her the way of peace. +Ah! Berry, I always told you she had not her equal.’ + +‘Think you so even now?’ + +‘How should I not, when I have seen what repentance has made of her?’ + +‘So!’ said Berenger, rather sorrowfully, ‘our great Protestant champion +has still left his heart behind in a French convent.’ + +‘Stay, Berenger! do you remember yonder villain conjurer’s prediction +that I should wed none but a lady whose cognizance was the leopard?’ + +‘And you seem bent on accomplishing it,’ said Berenger. + +‘Nay, but in another manner--that which you devised on the spur of +the moment. Berenger, I knew the sorcerer spake sooth when that little +moonbeam child of yours brought me the flowers from the rampart. I had +speech with her last night. She has all the fair loveliness that belongs +of right to your mother’s grandchild, but her eye, blue as it is, has +the Ribaumont spirit; the turn of the head and the smile are what I +loved long ago in yonder lady, and, above all, she is her own sweet +self. Berenger, give me your daughter Berangere, and I ask no portion +with her but the silver bullet. Keep the pearls for your son’s heirloom; +all I ask with Rayonette is the silver bullet.’ + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Chaplet of Pearls, by Charlotte M. Yonge + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS *** + +***** This file should be named 5274-0.txt or 5274-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/7/5274/ + +Produced by Hanh Vu + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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