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Title: The Chaplet of Pearls

Author: Charlotte M Yonge

Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5274]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 23, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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A web page for Charlotte M Yonge will be found at www.menorot.com/cmyonge.htm






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 Bordeax 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 he 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 he 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---' be 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 tembling 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 brisher, 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 evenheard; 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 satisfac-
tion:  '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 be--till be 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










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