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 withtimes when controversy or a war of religion was raging; but it shouldbe remembered that there are some which only attempt to portray humanfeelings as affected by the events that such warfare occasioned. 'OldMortality' and 'Woodstock' are not controversial tales, and the 'Chapletof Pearls' is so quite as little. It only aims at drawing certain scenesand certain characters as the convulsions of the sixteenth century mayhave affected them, and is, in fact, like all historical romance, theshaping of the conceptions that the imagination must necessarily formwhen dwelling upon the records of history. That faculty which mightbe called the passive fancy, and might almost be described in Portia'ssong, --

 '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, andto require that the latter should be effective and exciting. Is itnot reasonable to seek for this in the days when such things were notinfrequent, and did not imply exceptional wickedness or misfortune inthose 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 thetimes and delineation of characters. Shakespeare's Henry IV. And HenryV. , Scott's Louis XI. , Manzoni's Federigo Borromeo, Bulwer's Harold, James's Philip Augustus, are all real contributions to our comprehensionof the men themselves, by calling the chronicles and memoirsinto action. True, the picture cannot be exact, and is sometimesdistorted--nay, sometimes praiseworthy efforts at correctness in thedetail take away whatever might have been lifelike in the outline. Yet, acknowledging all this, I must still plead for the tales thatpresumptuously deal with days gone by, as enabling the young to realizehistory vividly--and, what is still more desirable, requiring an effortof the mind which to read of modern days does not. The details ofMillais' Inquisition or of his Huguenot may be in error in spite of allhis study and diligence, but they have brought before us for ever thehorrors of the _auto-da-fe_, and the patient, steadfast heroism of theman who can smile aside his wife's endeavour to make him tacitly betrayhis 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 Liegeor of La Ferrette in 'Quentin Durward' and 'Anne of Geierstein. '

Scott, however, willfully carved history to suit the purposes of hisstory; and in these days we have come to feel that a story must earna certain amount of credibility by being in keeping with establishedfacts, even if striking events have to be sacrificed, and that the orderof 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 duepunishment within the limits of a tale beginning with the Massacre ofSt. Bartholomew; but in 1868 the broad outlines of tragedy must be givenup 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, ofsuch classes of persons as fell in with the course of the narrative, according to such lights as the memoirs of the time afford. The Conventis scarcely a CLASS portrait, but the condition of it seems to bejustified by hints in the Port Royal memoirs, respecting Maubuisson andothers which Mere Angelique reformed. The intolerance of the ladiesat Montauban is described in Madame Duplessis-Mornay's life; and ifBerenger's education and opinions are looked on as not sufficientlyalien from Roman Catholicism, a reference to Froude's 'History of QueenElizabeth' will show both that the customs of the country clergy, andlikewise that a broad distinction was made by the better informed amongthe French between Calvinism and Protestantism or Lutheranism, in whichthey included Anglicanism. The minister Gardon I do not consider asrepresenting his class. He is a POSSIBILITY modified to serve thepurposes of the story. 

Into historical matters, however, I have only entered so far as mystory became involved with them. And here I have to apologize for afew blunders, detected too late for alteration even in the volumes. SirFrancis Walsingham was a young rising statesman in 1572, instead of theelderly 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 ascarefully as I could; though of course they must not be a presentimentof 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 theMiddle Ages must have been very pretty sights. 

So the Court of France thought the bridal of Henri Beranger Eustache deRibaumont and of Marie Eustacie Rosalie de Rebaumont du Nid-de-Merle, when, amid the festivals that accompanied the signature of the treatyof Cateau-Cabresis, good-natured King Henri II. Presided merrily at theunion of the little pair, whose unite ages did not reach ten years. 

There they stood under the portal of Notre-Dame, the little bridegroomin a white velvet coat, with puffed sleeves, slashed with scarlet satin, as were the short, also puffed breeches meeting his long white knittedsilk stockings some way above the knee; large scarlet rosettes were inhis white shoes, a scarlet knot adorned his little sword, and his velvetcap of the same colour bore a long white plume, and was encircled by arow of pearls of priceless value. They are no other than that garlandof pearls which, after a night of personal combat before the walls ofCalais, Edward III. Of England took from his helmet and presented to SirEustache de Ribaumont, a knight of Picardy, bidding him say everywherethat 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 anornament so acquired. The manly garb for the first time assumed by hissturdy legs, and the possession of the little sword, were evidently themost interesting parts of the affair to the youthful husband, who seemedto 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 blueeyes, and hair like shining flax, unusually tall and strong-limbed forhis age; and as he gave his hand to his little bride, and walked withher under a canopy up to kneel at the High Altar, for the marriageblessing and the mass, they looked like a full-grown couple seen througha diminishing-glass. 

The little bride was perhaps a less beautiful child, but she had asplendid pair of black eyes, and a sweet little mouth, both set intothe uncomprehending solemnity of baby gravity and contentment in fineclothes. In accordance with the vow indicated by her name of Marie, herdress was white and blue, turquoise forget-me-nots bound the little laceveil on her dark chestnut hair, the bosom of her white satin dress wassprinkled with the same azure jewel, and turquoises bordered every seamof the sweeping skirt with a train befitting a count's daughter, andmeandered in gorgeous constellations round the hem. The little thinglisped her own vows forth without much notion of their sense, and indeedwas sometimes prompted by her bridesmaid cousin, a pretty little girla year older, who thrust in her assistance so glibly that the King, aswell as others of the spectators, laughed, and observed that she wouldget herself married to the boy instead of her cousin. 

There was, however, to be no doubt nor mistake about Beranger andEustacie de Ribaumont being man and wife. Every ceremony, religious ordomestic, that could render a marriage valid, was gone through with realearnestness, although with infinite gaiety, on the part of the court. Much depended on their union, and the reconcilement of the two branchesof the family had long been a favourite scheme of King Henri II. 

Both alike were descended from Anselme de Ribaumont, renowned in thefirst Crusade, and from the brave Picard who had received the pearls;but, in the miserable anarchy of Charles VI. 's reign, the elder brotherhad been on the Burgundian side--like most of the other nobles ofPicardy--and had thus been brought into the English camp, where, regarding Henry V. As lawfully appointed to the succession, and muchadmiring him and his brother Nedford, he had become an ardent supporterof the English claim. He had married an English lady, and had receivedthe grant if the castle of Leurre in Normandy by way of compensation forhis ancestral one of Ribaumont in Picardy, which had been declared to beforfeited by his treason, and seized by his brother. 

This brother had always been an Armagnac, and had risen and thriven withhis party, --before the final peace between France and England obligedthe elder line to submit to Charles VII. Since that time there had beena perpetual contention as to the restitution of Chateau Ribaumont, astrife which under Louis XI. Had become an endless lawsuit; and inthe days of dueling had occasioned a good many insults and privateencounters. The younger branch, or Black Ribaumonts, had received agrant from Louis XI. Of the lands of Nid-de-Merle, belonging to anunfortunate Angevin noble, who had fallen under the royal displeasure, and they had enjoyed court favour up to the present generation, whenHenri II. , either from opposition to his father, instinct for honesty, or both, had become a warm friend to the gay and brilliant young Baronde 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 hisbrother, the Chevalier de Ribaumont, was, according to the usual lotof French juniors, a bachelor, so that it was expected that the wholeinheritance would centre upon the elder family. However, to the generalsurprise, the Chevalier late in life married, and became the father of ason and daughter; but soon after calculations were still more thrown outby 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 hadpromised the Baron de Ribaumont that she should be the wife of his youngson, and that all the possessions of the house should be settled uponthe little couple, engaging to provide for the Chevalier's disappointedheir in some commandery of a religious order of knighthood. 

The Baron's wife was English. He had, when on a visit to his Englishkindred, entirely turned the head of the lovely Annora Walwyn, andfinding that her father, one of the gravest of Tudor statesmen, wouldnot hear of her breaking her engagement to the honest Dorset squireMarmaduke Thistlewood, he had carried her off by a stolen marriage and_coup de main_, which, as her beauty, rank, and inheritance were allconsiderable, 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 marriageto secure its taking place in the lifetime of the Count. The Countesshad died soon after the birth of the little girl, and if the arrangementwere to take effect at all, it must be before she should fall under theguardianship of her uncle, the Chevalier. Therefore the King had causedher to be brought up from the cottage in Anjou, where she had beennursed, and in person superintended the brilliant wedding. He himselfled off the dance with the tiny bride, conducting her through its mazeswith fatherly kindliness and condescension; but Queen Catherine, who wasstrongly in the interests of the Angevin branch, and had always detestedthe Baron as her husband's intimate, excused herself from dancing withthe bridegroom. He therefore fell to the share of the Dauphiness Queenof Scots, a lovely, bright-eyed, laughing girl, who so completelyfascinated the little fellow, that he convulsed the court by observingthat 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 boredispleased looks. In truth, both were too great adepts in court lifeto let their dissatisfaction appear. The gloomiest face was that of himwhose 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 beenbesieged there by the Spaniards, and all agreed that he had never beenthe same man since, either in health or in demeanour. When he came backfrom his captivity and found the King bent on crowning his return bythe marriage of the children, he had hung back, spoken of scruples aboutsuch unconscious vows, and had finally only consented under stress ofthe personal friendship of the King, and on condition that he and hiswife should at once have the sole custody of the little bride. Even thenhe moved about the gay scene with so distressed and morose an air thathe was evidently either under the influence of a scruple of conscienceor 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 alance in his eye, and died two days afterwards. 

No sooner were his obsequies over than the Baron de Ribaumont set offwith his wife and the little bridal pair for his castle of Leurre, inNormandy, 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, andthen 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 largeroom hung with tapestry, representing the history of Tobit. A greatstate bed, curtained with piled velvet, stood on a sort of _dais_ atthe further end; there was a toilet-table adorned with curiously shapedboxes, and coloured Venetian glasses, and filagree pouncet-boxes, andwith a small mirror whose frame was inlaid with gold and ivory. A largecoffer, likewise inlaid, stood against the wall, and near it acabinet, of Dutch workmanship, a combination of ebony, ivory, wood, andlooking-glass, the centre retreating, and so arranged that by the helpof most ingenious attention to perspective and reflection, it appearedlike the entrance to a magnificent miniature cinque-cento palace, withsteps up to a vestibule paved in black and white lozenges, and withthree endless corridors diverging from it. So much for show; foruse, this palace was a bewildering complication of secret drawers andpigeon-holes, all depending indeed upon one tiny gold key; but unlessthe use of that key were well understood, all it led to was certainouter receptacles of fragrant Spanish gloves, knots of ribbon, andkerchiefs strewn over with rose leaves and lavender. However, Eustaciehad secured the key, and was now far beyond these mere superficialmatters. 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 couldunder their stiffening load, were opening the very penetralia of thecabinet, the inner chamber of the hall, where lay a case adorned withthe Ribaumont arms and containing the far-famed chaplet of pearls. It was almost beyond her reach, but she had risen on tip-toe, and wasstretching out her hand for it, when he, springing behind her on thechair, availed himself of his superior height and strength to shut thedoor of this Arcanum and turn the key. His mortifying permission to hiswife to absent herself arose from pure love of teasing, but the nextmoment he added, still holding his hand on the key--'As to telling whatmy father reads, that would be treason. How shouldst thou know what itis?'

'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 intotrouble?' continued the boy, as they still stood together on the highheavy 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 thechair and at the key. They chair over-balanced; Beranger caught at thefront drawer of the cabinet, which, unlocked by Eustacie, came out inhis hand, and chair, children, drawer, and curiosities all went rollingover together on the floor with a hubbub that brought all the householdtogether, exclaiming and scolding. Madame de Ribaumont's displeasure atthe 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 overthe knuckles with the long handle of Madame's fan, and consigned to twoseparate closets, to be dealt with on the return of M. Le Baron, whileMadame returned to her embroidery, lamenting the absence of that dearlittle Diane, whose late visit at the chateau had been marked by suchunusual tranquility between the children. 

Beranger, in his dark closet, comforted himself with the shrewdsuspicion that his father was so employed as not to be expected at hometill supper-time, and that his mother's wrath was by no means likely tobe 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 aspeedy release and summons to show himself to the visitors. He waitedlong, however, before he heard the pattering of little feet; then astool scraped along the floor, the button of his door was undone, thestool pushed back, and as he emerged, Eustacie stood before him withher finger to her lip. 'CHUT, Beranger! It is my father and uncle, andNarcisse, and, oh! so many _gens d'armes_. They are come to summon M. LeBaron to go with them to disperse the _preche_ by the Bac de l'Oie. Andoh, Beranger, is he not there?'

'I do not know. He went out with his hawk, and I do not think he couldhave gone anywhere else. Did they say so to my mother?'

'Yes; but she never knows. And oh, Beranger, Narcisse told me--ah, wasit to tease me?--that Diane has told them all they wanted to know, forthat 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 tellmy 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 downa narrow winding stair, and across the kitchen; then snatching at thearm 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 anorchard, he pulled down a couple of apples from the trees, and boundedinto a paddock where a small rough Breton pony was feeding among thelittle tawny Norman cows. The animal knew his little master, and trottedtowards him at his call of 'Follet, Follet. Now be a wise Follet, andplay me no tricks. Thou and I, Follet, shall do good service, if thouwilt be steady. '

Follet made his advances, but with a coquettish eye and look, as ifready 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 uponthe poor Huguenots, who are doing no harm at all, only listening to along dull sermon. And I am much afraid my father is there, for he wentout his hawk on his wrist, and he never does take Ysonde for any realsport, as thou and I would do, Follet. He says it is all vanity ofvanities. But thou know'st, if they caught him at the _preche_ theywould call it heresy and treason, and all sorts of horrors, and anyway they would fall like demons on the poor Huguenots, Jacques andall--thine own Jacques, Follet. Come, be a loyal pony, Follet. Be atleast as good as Eustacie. '

Follet was evidently attentive to this peroration, turning round hisear in a sensible attitude, and advancing his nose to the apples. As Beranger held them out to him, the other boy clutched his shaggyforelock so effectually that the start back did not shake him off, andthe 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 hidethe key. That will delay them a long time. Off now, Follet. '

Beranger and Follet understood one another far too well to care aboutsuch trifles as saddle and bridle, and off they went through greengrassy balks dividing the fields, or across the stubble, till, aboutthree miles from the castle, they came to a narrow valley, dipping sosuddenly between the hills that it could hardly have been suspected byone unaware of its locality, and the sides were dotted with copsewood, which entirely hid the bottom. Beranger guided his pony to a windingpath that led down the steep side of the valley, already hearing thecadence of a loud, chanting voice, throwing out its sounds over theassembly, whence arose assenting hums over an undercurrent of sobs, asthough the excitable French assembly were strongly affected. 

The thicket was so close that Beranger was almost among the congregationbefore he could see more than a passing glimpse of a sea of heads. Stout, ruddy, Norman peasants, and high white-capped women, mingled witha few soberly-clad townsfolk, almost all with the grave, steadfast castof countenance imparted by unresisted persecution, stood gatheredround the green mound that served as a natural pulpit for a Calvinistminister, who more the dress of a burgher, but entirely black. ToBeranger's despair, he was in the act of inviting his hearers to joinwith him in singing one of Marot's psalms; and the boy, eager to losenot 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 thatmoment, 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, thedense human mass had broken up and vanished, stealing through thenumerous paths in the brushwood, or along the brook, as it descendedthrough tall sedges and bulrushes. The valley was soon as lonely asit had been populous; the pulpit remained a mere mossy bank, moresuggestive or fairy dances than of Calvinist sermons, and no oneremained on the scene save Beranger with his pony, Jacques the groom, astout farmer, the preacher, and a tall thin figure in the plainest darkcloth 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 asthe 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 youngson to you, who under Heaven hath been the means of saving many livesthis day. '

Maitre Isaac Gardon, a noted preacher, looked kindly at the boy's fairface, and said, 'Bless thee, young sir. As thou hast been already achosen instrument to save life, so mayest thou be ever after a championof the truth. '

'Monsieur le Baron, ' interposed Jacques, 'it were best to look toyourself. 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 ofproperty. 'M. Le Baron had best keep up the beck. Out on the moor therehe may fly the hawk, and that will best divert suspicion. '

'Farewell, then, ' said the Baron, wringing the minister's hand, andadding, almost to himself, 'Alas! I am weary of these shifts!' and wearyindeed he seemed, for as the ground became so steep that the beck dancednoisily down its channel, he could not keep up the needful speed, butpaused, gasping for breath, with his hand on his side. 'Beranger was offhis pony in an instant, assuring Follet that it ought to be proud to beridden by his father, and exhaling his own exultant feelings in caressesto the animal as it gallantly breasted the hill. The little boy hadnever been so commended before! He loved his father exceedingly; butthe Baron, while ever just towards him, was grave and strict to a degreethat the ideas even of the sixteenth century regarded as severe. Little Eustacie with her lovely face, her irrepressible saucy grace andaudacious coaxing, was the only creature to whom he ever showed muchindulgence and tenderness, and even that seemed almost against hiswill and conscience. His son was always under rule, often blamed, and scarcely ever praised; but it was a hardy vigorous nature, andrespectful love throve under the system that would have crushed oralienated a different disposition. It was not till the party had emergedfrom the wood upon a stubble field, where a covey of partridges flew up, and to Beranger's rapturous delight furnished a victim for Ysonde, thatM. De Ribaumont dismounted from the pony, and walking towards home, called his son to his side, and asked him how he had learnt theintentions of the Count and the Chevalier. Beranger explained howEustacie had come to warn him, and also told what she had said of Dianede Ribaumont, who had lately, by her father's request, spent a few weeksat the chateau with her cousins. 

'My son, ' said the Baron, 'it is hard to ask of babes caution andsecrecy; but I must know from thee what thy cousin may have heard of ourdoings?'

'I cannot tell, father, ' replied Beranger; 'we played more than wetalked. Yet, Monsieur, you will not be angry with Eustacie if I tell youwhat she said to me to-day?'

'Assuredly not, my son. '

'She said that her father would take her away if he knew what M. LeBaron read, and what he sung. '

'Thou hast done well to tell me, my son. Thinkest thou that this comesfrom Diane, or from one of the servants?'

'Oh, from Diane, my father; none of the servants would dare to say sucha thing. '

'It is as I suspected then, ' said the Baron. 'That child was sentamongst us as a spy. ' Tell me, Beranger, had she any knowledge of ourintended journey to England?'

'To England! But no, father, I did not even know it was intended. ToEngland--to that Walwyn which my mother takes such pains to make usspeak rightly. Are we then, going?'

'Listen, my son. Thou hast to-day proved thyself worthy of trust, andthou shalt hear. My son, ere yet I knew the truth I was a recklessdisobedient youth, and I bore thy mother from her parents in Englandwithout their consent. Since, by Heaven's grace, I have come to a bettermind, we have asked and obtained their forgiveness, and it has long beentheir desire to see again their daughter and her son. Moreover, sincethe accession of the present Queen, it has been a land where the lightis free to shine forth; and though I verily believe what Maitre Gardonsays, that persecution is a blessed means of grace, yet it is grievousto expose one's dearest thereto when they are in no state to countthe cost. Therefore would I thither convey you all, and there amid thymother's family would we openly abjure the errors in which we have beennurture. I have already sent to Paris to obtain from the Queen-motherthe necessary permission to take my family to visit thy grand-father, and it must now be our endeavour to start immediately on the receipt ofthe reply, before the Chevalier's information can lead to any hindranceor detention of Eustacie. '

'Then Eustacie will go with us, Monsieur?'

'Certainly. Nothing is more important than that her faith should be thesame 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 wasa little scandalized at the comparative value that the boy's voiceindicated for wife, foster-brother, and pony, and therefore receivedit in perfect silence, which silence continued until they reachedthe chateau, where the lady met them at the door with a burst ofexclamations. 

'Ah, there you are, safe, my dear Baron. I have been in despair. Herewere the Count and his brother come to call on you to join them indispersing a meeting of those poor Huguenots and they would not permitme to send out to call you in! I verily think they suspected that youwere aware of it. '

M. De Ribaumont made no answer, but sat wearily down and asked for hislittle Eustacie. 

'Little vixen!' exclaimed the Baroness, 'she is gone; her father tookher away with him. ' And as her husband looked extremely displeased, sheadded that Eustacie had been meddling with her jewel cabinet and hadbeen put in penitence. Her first impulse on seeing her father had beento cling to him and poor out her complaints, whereupon he had declaredthat he should take her away with him at once, and had in effect causedher pony to be saddled, and he had ridden away with her to his oldtower, leaving his brother, the Chevalier, to conduct the attack on theHuguenot conventicle. 

'He had no power or right to remove her, ' said the Baron. 'How could youlet him do so in my absence? He had made over her wardship to me, andhas 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 andfight, and always by Eustacie's fault; and if ever they are to endureeach other, it must be by being separated now. '

'Madame, ' said the Baron, gravely, 'you have done your utmost to ruinyour son's chances of happiness. '

That same evening arrived the King's passport permitting the Baronde Ribaumont and his family to pay a visit to his wife's friends inEngland. The next morning the Baron was summoned to speak to one ofhis farmers, a Huguenot, who had come to inform him that, through thenetwork of intelligence kept up by the members of the persecuted faith, it had become known that the Chevalier de Ribaumont had set off forcourt that night, and there was little doubt that his interference wouldlead to an immediate revocation of the sanction to the journey, if to noseverer measures. At best, the Baron knew that if his own absence werepermitted, it would be only on condition of leaving his son inthe custody of either the Queen-mother or the Count. It had becomeimpossible to reclaim Eustacie. Her father would at once have pleadedthat she was being bred up in Huguenot errors. All that could be donewas to hasten the departure ere the royal mandate could arrive. A littleNorman sailing vessel was moored two evenings after in a lonely creek onthe coast, and into it stepped M. De Ribaumont, with his Bible, Marot'sPsalter, and Calvin's works, Beranger still tenderly kissing a lock ofFollet's mane, and Madame mourning for the pearls, which her husbanddeemed too sacred an heirloom to carry away to a foreign land. Poorlittle Eustacie, with her cousin Diane, was in the convent of Bellaisein 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 HurstWalwyn Hall. The scene was a wainscoted oriel chamber closed off by ascreen 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, thefirst 'with the addition of the Indies' in very eccentric geography, thesecond with enormous stars studding highly grotesque figures, regardedwith great awe by most beholders. 

A solid oaken table stood in the midst, laden with books and papers, andin a corner, near the open hearth, a carved desk, bearing on one slopethe largest copy of the 'Bishops' Bible'; on the other, one of thePrayer-book. The ornaments of the oaken mantelpiece culminated in ashield bearing a cross _boutonnee_, i. E. With trefoil terminations. Itwas supported between a merman with a whelk shell and a mermaid with acomb, and another like Siren curled her tail on the top of the gapingbaronial helmet above the shield, while two more upheld the main weightof the chimney-piece on either side of the glowing wood-fire. 

In the seat of honour was an old gentleman, white-haired, and feebleof limb, but with noble features and a keen, acute eye. This wasSir William, Baron of Hurst Walwyn, a valiant knight at Guingate andBoulogne, a statesman of whom Wolsey had been jealous, and a ripescholar who had shared the friendship of More and Erasmus. The lady whosat opposite to him was several years younger, still upright, brisk andactive, though her hair was milk-white; but her eyes were of undimmedazure, and her complexion still retained a beauteous pink and white. Shewas highly educated, and had been the friend of Margaret Roper and hersisters, often sharing their walks in the bright Chelsea garden. Indeed, the musk-rose in her own favourite nook at Hurst Walwyn was cherished asthe gift of Sir Thomas himself. 

Near her sat sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun at Romsey tillher twenty-eight year, when, in the dispersion of convents, her sister'shome had received her. There had she continued, never exposed to testsof opinion, but pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictinerule, faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of thechaplain, a college friend of Bishop Ridley, and rejoicing in the use ofthe vernacular prayers and Scriptures. When Queen Mary had sent for herto consider of the revival of convents, her views had been found to haveso far diverged from those of the Queen that Lord Walwyn was thankfulto have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied herself firm toold Romsey doctrine. She was not learned, like Lady Walwyn, but herknowledge in all needlework and confectionery was consummate, so thathalf the ladies in Dorset and Wilts longed to send their daughters tobe educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and soft cheeks hadthe gentle contour of a dove's form, nor had she lost the conventualserenity of expression; indeed it was curious that, let Lady Walwynarray her as she would, whatever she wore bore a nunlike air. Her silkenfarthingales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like mufflers, hercoifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and her scrupulousneatness 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 AnnoraThistlewood. The health of M. De Ribaumont had been shattered at St. Quentin, and an inclement night of crossing the Channel had brought onan attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to amazehis English friends at finding the gay dissipated young Frenchman theyremembered, infinitely more strict and rigid than themselves. He wasnever able to leave the house again after his first arrival at HurstWalwyn, and sank under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicingto leave his wife and son, not indeed among such strict Puritans ashe preferred, but at least where the pure faith could be openly avowedwithout danger. 

Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood, the husband to whom Annora Walwyn had beendestined before M. De Ribaumont had crossed her path, was about the sametime left a widower with one son and daughter, and as soon as a suitableinterval had passed, she became a far happier wife than she had been ineither the Baron's gay or grave days. Her son had continued underthe roof of his grandfather, to whose charge his father had speciallycommitted him, and thus had been scarcely separated from his mother, since Combe Manor was not above three miles across the downs from HurstWalwyn, and there was almost daily intercourse between the families. Lucy Thistlewood had been brought to Hurst Walwyn to be somethingbetween a maid of honour and a pupil to the ladies there, and herbrother Philip, so soon as he was old enough, daily rode thither toshare with Berenger the instructions of the chaplain, Mr. Adderley, whoon the present occasion formed one of the conclave, sitting a littleapart as not quite familiar, though highly esteemed. 

With an elbow on the table, and one hand toying with his longriding-whip, sat, booted and spurred, the jovial figure of SirMarmaduke, who called out, in his hearty voice, 'A good riddance of anoutlandish Papist, say I! Read the letter, Berenger lad. No, no, no!English it! I know nothing of your mincing French! 'Tis the worst faultI know in you, boy, to be half a Frenchman, and have a French name'--afault that good Sir Marmaduke did his best to remedy by always terminghis step-son Berenger or Berry Ribmount, and we will so far followhis example as henceforth to give the youth the English form of hisChristian name. He was by this time a tall lad of eighteen, withstraight features, honest deep blue eyes, very fair hair cut short andbrushed up to a crest upon the middle of his head, a complexion of redand 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 muchan English birthright, that the only trace of his French origin was, that he betrayed no unbecoming awkwardness in the somewhat embarrassingposition in which he was placed, literally standing, according to therespectful discipline of the time, as the subject of discussion, beforethe circle of his elders. His colour was indeed, deepened, but hisattitude was easy and graceful, and he used no stiff rigidity norrestless movements to mask his anxiety. At Sir Marmaduke's desire, hecould not but redden a good deal more, but with a clear, unhesitatingvoice, he translated, the letter that he had received from the Chevalierde 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, thatMonsieur le Baron de Ribaumont--who, it was understood, had embracedthe English heresy--would concur with his spouse in demanding from hisHoliness the Pope a decree annulling the childish marriage, which couldeasily be declared void, both on account of the consanguinity of theparties and the discrepancy of their faith; and which would leave eachof them free to marry again. 

'Nothing can be better, ' exclaimed his mother. 'How I have longed tofree him from that little shrew, whose tricks were the plague of mylife! Now there is nothing between him and a worthy match!'

'We can make an Englishman of him now to the backbone, ' added SirMarmaduke, 'and it is well that it should be the lady herself who wantsfirst to be off with it, so that none can say he has played her a scurvytrick. '

'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 havelooked to setting you in the room of the son of my own; and I think thatunder our good Queen you will find it easier to lead a quiet God-fearinglife than in your father's vexed country, where the Reformed religionlies under persecution. Natheless, being a born liegeman of the King ofFrance, and heir to estates in his kingdom, meseemeth that before youare 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 matterwhen you shall have attained full age, and may be able to dispose ofthem by sale, thus freeing yourself from allegiance to a foreign prince. And at the same time you can take measures, in concert with this younglady, for loosing the wedlock so unhappily contracted. '

'O sir, sir!' cried Lady Thistlewood, 'send him not to France to beburnt by the Papists!'

'Peace, daughter, ' returned her mother. 'Know you not that there isfriendship between the court party and the Huguenots, and that the peaceis to be sealed by the marriage of the King's sister with the King ofNavarre? This is the most suitable time at which he could go. '

'Then, madam, ' proceeded the lady, 'he will be running about to all thepreachings on every bleak moor and wet morass he can find, catching hisdeath 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 ourBerry 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 marshybog out of pure forwardness, when they will nod at a godly homily on awell-stuffed bench between four walls. '

'I shall commit that matter to Mr. Adderley, who is good enough toaccompany him, ' said Lord Walwyn, 'and by whose counsel I trust that hewill steer the middle course between the pope and Calvin. '

Mr. Adderley bowed in answer, saying he hoped that he should be enableto keep his pupil's mind clear between the allurements of Popery and theerrors of the Reformed; but meanwhile Lady Thistlewood's mind had takena leap, and she exclaimed, --

'And, son, whatever you do, bring home the chaplet of pearls! I knowthey have set their minds upon it. They wanted me to deck Eustacie withit on that unlucky bridal-day, but I would not hear of trusting her withit, and now will it rarely become our Lucy on your real wedding-day. '

'You travel swiftly, daughter, ' said Lord Walwyn. 'Nor have we yet heardthe thoughts of one who ever thinks wisely. Sister, ' he added, turningto Cecily St. John, 'hold not you with us in this matter?'

'I scarce comprehend it, my Lord, ' was the gentle reply. 'I knew notthat 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 theHolly 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 twoignorant babes; and, bred up as they have severally been, it were surelybest for them to be set free from vows made without their true will orknowledge. '

'And yet, ' said Cecily, perplexed, 'when I saw my niece here wedded toSir Marmaduke, was it not with the words, 'What God hath joined let noman put asunder'?'

'Good lack! aunt, ' cried Lady Thistlewood, 'you would not have that poorlad wedded to a pert, saucy, ill-tempered little moppet, bred up thatden of iniquity, Queen Catherine's court, where my poor Baron nevertrusted me after he fell in with the religion, and had heard of KingAntony's calling me the Swan of England. '

At that moment there was a loud shriek, half-laugh, half-fright, comingthrough the window, and Lady Thistlewood, starting up, exclaimed, 'Thechild will be drowned! Box their ears, Berenger, and bring them indirectly. '

Berenger, at her bidding, hurried out of the room into the hall, andthence down a flight of steps leading into a square walled garden, witha couple of stone male and female marine divinities accommodating theirfishy extremities as best they might on the corners of the wall. Thesquare contained a bowling-green of exquisitely-kept turf, that lookedas if cut out of green velvet, and was edged on its four sides by araised broad-paved walk, with a trimming of flower-beds, where theearliest blossoms were showing themselves. In the centre of each sideanother paved path intersected the green lawn, and the meeting of thesetwo diameters was at a circular stone basin, presided over by anothermerman, blowing a conch on the top of a pile of rocks. On the gravelledmargin stood two distressed little damsels of seven and six yearsold, remonstrating with all their might against the proceedings ofa roguish-looking boy of fourteen of fifteen, who had perched theirjunior--a fat, fair, kitten-like element of mischief, aged aboutfive--_en croupe_ on the merman, and was about, according to herdelighted request, to make her a bower of water, by extracting the plugand setting the fountain to play; but as the fountain had been stillall the winter, the plug was hard of extraction, especially to a younggentleman who stood insecurely, with his feet wide apart upon pointedand 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 withmuch more rapid utterance than was usual in England. She clung to himwithout much alarm, and retaliated by an endeavour to box his ears, while Philip, slowly making his way back to the mainland, exclaimed, 'Ahthere's no chance now! Here comes demure Mistress Lucy, and she is theworst mar-sport of all. '

A gentle girl of seventeen was drawing near, her fair delicately-tintedcomplexion 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, withher white lace coif and white ruff, gave her something the air of aspeedwell flower, more especially as her expression seemed to havecaught much of Cecily's air of self-restrained contentment. She helda basketful of the orange pistils of crocuses, and at once seeing thatsome 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 hadbeen shut up so long in the library that he must have been very glad toget out. '

'And what came of it?' cried Philip. 'Are you to go and get yourselfunmarried?'

'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 Lucydone that you should get yourself unmarried from her?'

There was a laugh from both brothers; but Berenger, seeing Lucy'sblushes, restrained himself, and said. 'Mine was not such good luck, Bess, but they gave me a little French wife, younger than Dolly, andsaucier still; and as she seems to wish to be quit of me, why, I shallbe rid of her. '

'See there, Dolly, ' said Philip, in a warning voice, 'that is the wayyou'll be served if you do not mend your ways. '

'But I thought, ' said Annora gravely, 'that people were married once forall, and it could not be undone. '

'So said Aunt Cecily, but my Lord was proving to her out of all lawthat a contract between such a couple of babes went for nought, ' saidBerenger. 

'And shall you, indeed, see Paris, and all the braveries there?' askedPhilip. 'I thought my Lord would never have trusted you out of hissight. '

'And now it is to be only with Mr. Adderley, ' said Berenger; 'but therewill be rare doings to be seen at this royal wedding, and maybe I shallbreak 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 Lucytogether. 

'Not a word to wish me good speed, Lucy, now I have my wish?' saidBerenger. 

'Oh, yes, ' said Lucy, 'I am glad you should see all those brave Frenchgentlemen of whom you used to tell me. '

'Yes, they will be all at court, and the good Admiral is said to be inhigh 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 muchof _l'escadron de la Reine-mere_ to endure the thought of a wife fromthence, were she the Queen of Beauty herself. And my mother says thatEustacie would lose all her beauty as she grew up--like black-eyed Sueon the down; nor did I ever think her brown skin and fierce black eyesto compare with you, Lucy. I could be well content never to see hermore; but, ' and here he lowered his voice to a tone of confidence, 'myfather, when near his death, called me, and told me that he feared mymarriage would be a cause of trouble and temptation to me, and that Imust deal with it after my conscience when I was able to judge inthe matter. Something, too, he said of the treaty of marriage beinga burthen on his soul, but I know not what he meant. If ever I sawEustacie again, I was to give her his own copy of Clement Marot'sPsalter, and to tell her that he had ever loved and prayed for her as adaughter; and moreover, my father added, ' said Berenger, much moved atthe remembrance it brought across him, 'that if this matter proved aburthen and perplexity to me, I was to pardon him as one who repented ofit as a thing done ere he had learnt to weigh the whole world against asoul. '

'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, 'howsorry she will be that she let them write that letter. '

Berenger laughed, pleased with the simplicity of Lucy's admiration, butwith 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 lubberlyDorset squires that never went to London, nor Oxford, nor beyond theirown furrows, ' said Berenger; 'but depend upon it, she has been bred upto care for all the airs and graces that are all the fashion at Parisnow, and will be as glad to be rid of an honest man and a Protestantas I shall to be quit of a court puppet and a Papist. Shall you havefinished my point-cuffs next week, Lucy? Depend upon it, no gentleman ofthem 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 hadbeen to Berenger a change from perpetual warfareto perfect supremacy, and his preference to his little sister, as he had been taught to callher from the first, had been loudly expressed. Brother and sister theyhad ever since considered themselves, and only within the last fewmonths had possibilities been discussed among the elders of the family, which oozing out in some mysterious manner, had become felt rather thanknown among the young people, yet without altering the habitual termsthat existed between them. Both were so young that love was the merest, vaguest dream to them; and Lucy, in her quiet faith that Berenger wasthe most beautiful, excellent, and accomplished cavalier the earthcould afford, was little troubled about her own future share in him. Sheseemed to be promoted to belong to him just as she had grown up to curlher hair and wear ruffs and farthingales. And to Berenger Lucy wasa very pleasant feature in that English home, where he had been farhappier than in the uncertainties of Chateau Leurre, between his naughtyplayfellow, his capricious mother, and morose father. If in England hislot was to be cast, Lucy was acquiesced in willingly as a portion ofthat 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 insight of Paris. His grandfather had himself begun by taking him toLondon and presenting him to Queen Elizabeth, from whom the lad's goodmien procured him a most favourable reception. She willingly promisedthat on which Lord Walwyn's heart was set, namely, that his title andrank should be continued to his grandson; and an ample store of letterof recommendation to Sir Francis Walsingham, the Ambassador, and allothers who could be of service in the French court, were to do theirutmost to provide him with a favourable reception there. 

Then, with Mr. Adderley and four or five servants, he had crossed theChannel, and had gone first to Chateau Leurre, where he was rapturouslywelcomed by the old steward Osbert. The old man had trained up his sonLandry, Berenger's foster-brother, to become his valet, and had himtaught all the arts of hair-dressing and surgery that were part of theprofession of a gentleman's body-servant; and the youth, a smart, acuteryoung Norman, became a valuable addition to the suite, the guidance ofwhich, through a foreign country, their young master did not find veryeasy. Mr. Adderley thought he knew French very well, through books, butthe language he spoke was not available, and he soon fell into a stateof 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 ofeighteen in all matters of prudence and discretion. 

Lord Walwyn was, as we have seen, one of those whose Church principleshad altered very little and very gradually; and in the utter diversityof practice that prevailed in the early years of Queen Elizabeth, hischaplain as well as the rector of the parish had altered no more thanwas absolutely enjoined of the old ceremonial. If the poor Baron deRibaumont had ever been well enough to go to church on a Sunday, hewould perhaps have thought himself still in the realms of what heconsidered as darkness; but as he had never openly broken with theGallic Church, Berenger had gone at once from mass at Leurre to theCombe Walwyn service. Therefore when he spent a Sunday at Rouen, andattended a Calvinist service in the building that the Huguenots werepermitted outside the town, he was much disappointed in it; he thoughtits very fervour familiar and irreverent, and felt himself much more athome in the cathedral into which he strayed in the afternoon. And, onthe 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 playedeach other so many teasing tricks at his mother's feet, and had receivedso many admonitory nips and strokes of her fan. All he saw there wasnot congenial to him, but he liked it vastly better than the Huguenotmeeting, and was not prepared to understand or enter into Mr. Adderley'svexation, when the tutor assured him that the reverent gestures thatcame naturally to him were regarded by the Protestants as idolatry, andthat he would be viewed as a recreants from his faith. All Mr. Adderleyhoped was that no one would hear of it: and in this he felt himselfdisappointed, when, in the midst of his lecture, there walked into theroom a little, withered, brown, dark-eyed man, in a gorgeous dress ofgreen and gold, who doffing a hat with an umbrageous plume, precipitatedhimself, as far as he could reach, towards Berenger's neck, callinghim fair cousin and dear baron. The lad stood taken by surprise fora moment, thinking that Tithonus must have looked just like this, andskipped like this, just as he became a grasshopper; then he recollectedthat this must be the Chevalier de Ribaumont, and tried to make upfor his want of cordiality. The old man had, it appeared, come out ofPicardy, where he lived on _soupe maigre_ in a corner of the ancestralcastle, while his son and daughter were at court, the one in Monsieur'ssuite, the other in that of the Queen-mother. He had come purely to meethis 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 inFrance, was rather relieved at not being the only French scholar ofthe party, and the Chevalier also hinted to him that he spoke with adreadful Norman accent that would never be tolerated at court, even ifit were understood by the way. Moreover, the Chevalier studied him allover, and talked of Paris tailors and posture-masters, and, though thepink of politeness, made it evident that there was immensely too much ofhim. 'It might be the custom in England to be so tall; here no onewas of anything like such a height, but the Duke of Guise. He, in hisposition, with his air, could carry it off, but we must adapt ourselvesas best we can. '

And his shrug and look of concern made Berenger for a moment almostashamed of that superfluous height of which they were all so proud athome. Then he recollected himself, and asked, 'And why should not I betall 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 theadvantages of training, PERHAPS you could even turn your height into agrace. '

'Am I such a great lubber?' wondered Berenger; 'they did not think so athome. 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; andI'll show them there is some use in my inches in the tilt-yard. But ifthey 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 whichold Osbert had collected and held ready to meet the young Baron'sexigencies; and which would, it seemed, be all needed to make his dressany way presentable at court. The pearls, too, were inquired for, andhanded over by Osbert to his young Lord's keeping, with the significantintimation that they had been demanded when the young Madame la Baronnewent to court; but that he had buried them in the orchard, and madeanswer that they were not in the chateau. The contract of marriage, which Berenger could just remember signing, and seeing signed by hisfather, the King, and the Count, was not forthcoming; and the Chevalierexplained that it was in the hands of a notary at Paris. For thisBerenger was not sorry. His grandfather had desired him to master thecontents, and he thought he had thus escaped a very dry and uselessstudy. 

He did not exactly dislike the old Chevalier de Ribaumont. The system onwhich he had been brought up had not been indulgent, so that complimentsand admiration were an agreeable surprise to him; and rebuffs andrebukes from his elders had been so common, that hints, in the delicatedressing of the old knight, came on him almost like gracious civilities. There was no love lost between the Chevalier and the chaplain, that wasplain; but how could there be between an ancient French courtier anda sober English divine? However, to Mr. Adderley's great relief, noattempts were made on Berenger's faith, his kinsman even was disposedto promote his attendance at such Calvinist places of worship as theypassed on the road, and treated him in all things as a mere guest, tobe patronized indeed, but as much an alien as if he had been born inEngland. And yet there was a certain deference to him as head of thefamily, and a friendliness of manner that made the boy feel him a realrelation, and all through the journey it came naturally that he shouldbe the entire manager, and Berenger the paymaster on a liberal scale. 

Thus had the travellers reached the neighbourhood of Paris, when ajingling of chains and a trampling of horses announced the advance ofriders, and several gentlemen with a troop of servants came in sight. 

All were gaily dressed, with feathered hats, and short Spanish cloaksjauntily disposed over one shoulder; and their horses were trapped withbright silvered ornaments. As they advanced, the Chevalierexclaimed: 'Ah! It is my son! I knew he would come to meet me. ' And, simultaneously, father and son leapt from their horses, and rushedinto each other's arms. Berenger felt it only courteous to dismount andexchange embraces with his cousin, but with a certain sense of repulsionat the cloud of perfume that seemed to surround the younger Chevalierde Ribaumont; the ear-rings in his ears; the general air of delicateresearch about his riding-dress, and the elaborate attention paid to asmall, dark, sallow face and figure, in which the only tolerable featurewas 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 severaltimes 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 himthe honour to accompany him in coming out to meet his father and M. Le Baron. Then the two cousins remounted, something was said to theChevalier of the devoirs of the demoiselles, and they rode on togetherbandying news and repartee so fast, that Berenger felt that his earshad become too much accustomed to the more deliberate English speech toenter at once into what caused so much excitement, gesture, and wit. Theroyal marriage seemed doubtful--the Pope refused his sanction; nay, butmeans would be found--the King would not be impeded by the Pope;Spanish influence--nay, the King had thrown himself at the head of theReformed--he was bewitched with the grim old Coligny--if order were notsoon taken, the Louvre itself would become a temple. 

Then one of the party turned suddenly and said, 'But I forget, Monsieuris a Huguenot?'

'I am a Protestant of the English Church, ' said Berenger, ratherstiffly, 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 shouldthrow away his breviary and study his Calvin. '

Berenger's attention was thus attracted to the Abbe de Mericour, a youngman of about twenty, whose dress was darker than that of the rest, andhis hat of a clerical cut, though in other respects he was equipped withthe 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 securitiesin these days. Let yonder Admiral get the upper hand, and we shall seeMericour, the happy cadet of eight brothers and sisters, turned adriftfrom their convents. What a fatherly spectacle M. Le Marquis willpresent!'

Here the Chevalier beckoned to Berenger, who, riding forward, learntthat Narcisse had engaged lodgings for him and his suite at one of thegreat inns, and Berenger returned his thanks, and a proposal to theChevalier to become his guest. They were by this time entering the city, where the extreme narrowness and dirt of the streets contrasted with thegrandeur of the palatial courts that could be partly seen throughtheir archways. At the hostel they rode under such an arch, and foundthemselves in a paved yard that would have been grand had it beenclean. Privacy had scarcely been invented, and the party were not at allsurprised to find that the apartment prepared for them was to serve bothday and night for Berenger, the Chevalier, and Mr. Adderley, besideshaving a truckle-bed on the floor for Osbert. Meals were taken inpublic, and it was now one o'clock--just dinner-time; so after a hastytoilette the three gentlemen descended, the rest of the party havingridden off to their quarters, either as attendants of Monsieur or totheir families. It was a sumptuous meal, at which a great number ofgentlemen were present, coming in from rooms hired over shops, &c--all, as it seemed, assembled at Paris for the marriage festivities; butBerenger began to gather that they were for the most part adherents ofthe Guise party, and far from friendly to the Huguenot interest. Some ofthem 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 theconversation, and sure that he was where those at home did not wish tosee him. 

No sooner was the dinner over than he rose and expressed his intentionof delivering his letters of introduction in person to the Englishambassador and to the Admiral de Coligny, whom, as his father's oldfriend and the hero of his boyhood, he was most anxious to see. TheChevalier demurred to this. Were it not better to take measures at oncefor making himself presentable, and Narcisse had already supplied himwith directions to the fashionable hair-cutter, &c. It would be takenamiss if he went to the Admiral before going to present himself to theKing. 

'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 suiteof the young Queen, the other in that of the Queen-mother? I will myselfpresent you, if only you will give me the honour of your guidance. '

'With all thanks, Monsieur, ' said Berenger; 'my grandfather's desirewas that I should lose no time in going to his friend Sir FrancisWalsingham, and I had best submit myself to his judgment as to myappearance at court. '

On this point Berenger was resolute, though the Chevalier recurredto the danger of any proceeding that might be unacceptable at court. Berenger, harassed and impatient, repeated that he did not care aboutthe court, and wished merely to fulfil his purpose and return, at whichhis kinsman shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and muttered tohimself, 'Ah, what does he know! He will regret it when too late; but Ihave done my best. '

Berenger paid little attention to this, but calling Landry Osbert, anda couple of his men, he bade them take their swords and bucklers, andescort 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 warnHumfrey and Jack that they were not to walk swaggering along thestreets, with hand on sword, as if every Frenchman they saw was thenatural 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 theopen front of a most brilliant shop, and the thoroughfares were crowdedwith richly-dressed gallants. Even the wider streets gave little spacefor the career of the gay horsemen who rode along them, still lessfor the great, cumbrous, though gaily-decked coaches, in which ladiesappeared glittering with jewels and fan in hand, with tiny white dogs ontheir knees. 

The persons of whom Berenger inquired the way all uncapped mostrespectfully, and replied with much courtesy; but when the hotel of theEnglish ambassador had been pointed out to him, he hardly believed it, so foul and squalid was the street, where a large nail-studded dooroccupied a wide archway. Here was a heavy iron knocker, to which Osbertapplied himself. A little door was at once opened by a large, powerfulJohn Bull of a porter, whose looks expanded into friendly welcome whenhe heard the English tongue of the visitor. Inside, the scene was veryunlike that without. The hotel was built round a paved court, adornedwith statues and stone vases, with yews and cypresses in them, and agrand flight of steps led up to the grand centre of the house, aroundwhich were collected a number of attendants, wearing the Walsinghamcolours. Among these Berenger left his two Englishmen, well content tohave fallen into an English colony. Landry followed him to announce thevisitor, Berenger waiting to know whether the Ambassador would be atliberty 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, butnevertheless very dignified-looking, came forward with out-stretchedhands--'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 hishand and kissed his brow, saying, 'Come in, my young friend; we are butsitting over our wine and comfits after dinner. Have you dined?'

Berenger explained that he had dined at the inn, where he had takenlodgings. 

'Nay, but that must not be. My Lord Walwyn's grandson here, and not myguest! You do me wrong, sir, in not having ridden hither at once. '

'Truly, my Lord, I ventured not. They sent me forth with quite acompany--my tutor and six grooms. '

'Our chaplain will gladly welcome his reverend brother, ' said SirFrancis; and as to the grooms, one of my fellows shall go and bring themand their horses up. What!' rather gravely, as Berenger stillhesitated. 'I have letters for you here, which methinks will make yourgrandfather's wish clear to you. '

Berenger saw the Ambassador was displeased with his reluctance, andanswered quickly, 'In sooth, my Lord, I would esteem myself only toohappy to be thus honoured, but in sooth----' he repeated himself, andfaltered. 

'In sooth, you expected more freedom than in my grave house, ' saidWalsingham, displeased. 

'Not so, my Lord: it would be all that I could desire; but I have donehastily. A kinsman of mine has come up to Paris with me, and I havemade him my guest. I know not how to break with him--the Chevalier deRibaumont. '

'What, the young ruffler in Monsieur's suite?'

'No, my Lord; his father. He comes on my business. He is an old man, andcan ill bear the cost, and I could scarce throw him over. '

Berenger spoke with such earnest, bright, open simplicity, and look soboyish and confiding, that Sir Francis's heart was won, and he smiled ashe said, 'Right, lad, you are a considerate youth. It were not well tocast off your kinsman; but when you have read your letters, you maywell plead your grandfather's desires, to say nothing of a hint from herGrace to have an eye to you. And for the rest, you can acquit yourselfgracefully to the gentleman, by asking him to occupy the lodging thatyou 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, letme present you to my wife and my other guests, then will I give youyour letters, and you shall return and make your excuses to Monsieur leChevalier. '

Berenger seemed to himself to be on familiar ground again as hishost thus assumed the direction of him and ushered him into a largedining-hall, where the table had been forsaken in favour of a lessertable placed in the ample window, round which sat assembled some six oreight persons, with fruit, wine, and conserves before them, a few littledogs at their feet or on their laps, and a lute lying on the knee ofone of the young gentlemen. Sir Francis presented the young Lord deRibaumont, their expected guest, to Lady Walsingham, from whom hereceived a cordial welcome, and her two little daughter, Frances andElizabeth, and likewise to the gentleman with the lute, a youth abouta year older than Berenger, and of very striking and prepossessingcountenance, who was named as Mr. Sidney, the son of the Lord Deputy ofIreland. A couple of gentlemen who would in these times have been termed_attaches_, a couple of lady attendants upon Lady Walsingham, and thechaplain made up the party, which on this day chanced only to include, besides the household, the young traveller, Sidney. Berenger was at onceseated, and accepted a welcoming-cup of wine (i. E. A long slender glasswith a beautifully twisted stem), responded to friendly inquiries abouthis relatives at home, and acknowledged the healths that were drunkin honour of their names; after which Lady Walsingham begged that Mr. Sidney would sing the madrigal he had before promised: afterwards a gleewas sung by Sidney, one of the gentlemen, and Lady Walsingham; and itwas discovered that Mr. De Ribaumont had a trained ear, and the veryvoice that was wanting to the Italian song they were practising. Andso sped a happy hour, till a booted and spurred messenger came inwith letters for his Excellency, who being thus roused from his dreamyenjoyment of the music, carried young Ribaumont off with him to hiscabinet, 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 thehospitality of the Embassy. Thus armed with authority, he returned tothe Croix de Lorraine, where Mr. Adderley could not contain his joy atthe change to quarters not only so much more congenial, buts so muchsafer; and the Chevalier, after some polite demur, consented to remainin possession of the rooms, being in fact well satisfied with thearrangement. 

'Let him steep himself up to the lips among the English, ' said Tithonusto his son. 'Thus will he peaceably relinquish to you all that shouldhave been yours from the first, and at court will only be looked on asan overgrown English page. '

The change to the Ambassador's made Berenger happy at once. He was notFrench enough in breeding, or even constitution, to feel the societyof the Croix de Lorraine congenial; and, kind as the Chevalier showedhimself, it was with a wonderful sense of relief that Berenger shookhimself free from both his fawning and his patronizing. There was aconstant sense of not understanding the old gentleman's aims, whereas inWalsingham's house all was as clear, easy, and open as at home. 

And though Berenger had been educated in the country, it had been inthe same tone as that of his new friends. He was greatly approved bySir Francis as a stripling of parts and modesty. Mr. Sidney made him acompanion, and the young matron, Lady Walsingham, treated him as neitherlout nor lubber. Yet he could not be at ease in his state betweencuriosity and repulsion towards the wife who was to be discarded bymutual consent. The sight of the scenes of his early childhood hadstirred up warmer recollections of the pretty little playful torment, who through the vista of years assumed the air of a tricksy elf ratherthan the little vixen he used to think her. His curiosity had beenfurther stimulated by the sight of his rival, Narcisse, whose effeminateornaments, small stature, and seat on horseback filled Sir Marmaduke'spupil with inquisitive disdain as to the woman who could prefer anythingso unmanly. 

Sidney was to be presented at the after-dinner reception at the Louvrethe next day, and Sir Francis proposed to take young Ribaumont with him. Berenger coloured, and spoke of his equipment, and Sidney good-naturedlyoffered to come and inspect. That young gentleman was one of thedaintiest in apparel of his day; but he was amazed that the suit inwhich Berenger had paid his devoir to Queen Elizabeth should have beenset aside--it was of pearl-grey velvet, slashed with rose-colouredsatin, and in shape and fashion point-device--unless, as the Ambassadorsaid good-humouredly, 'my young Lord Ribaumont wished to be one ofMonsieur's clique. ' Thus arrayed, then, and with the chaplet of pearlsbound round the small cap, with a heron-plume that sat jauntily onone side of his fair curled head, Berenger took his seat beside thehazel-eyed, brown-haired Sidney, in his white satin and crimson, andwith the Ambassador and his attendants were rolled off in the greatstate-coach drawn by eight horses, which had no sinecure in dragging theponderous machine through the unsavoury _debris_ of the streets. 

Royalty fed in public. The sumptuous banqueting-room contained abarrier, partitioning off a space where Charles IX. Sat alone at histable, as a State spectacle. He was a sallow, unhealthy-lookingyouth, with large prominent dark eyes and a melancholy dreaminess ofexpression, as if the whole ceremony, not to say the world itself, weredistasteful. Now and then, as though endeavouring to cast off the mood, he would call to some gentleman and exchange a rough jest, generallyfortified with a tremendous oath, that startled Berenger's innocentears. He scarcely tasted what was put on his plate, but drank largelyof sherbet, and seemed to be trying to linger through the space allottedfor the ceremony. 

Silence was observed, but not so absolute that Walsingham could notpoint out to his young companions the notabilities present. The loftyfigure of Henri, Duke of Guise, towered high above all around him, and his grand features, proud lip, and stern eye claimed such naturalsuperiority that Berenger for a moment felt a glow on his cheek as heremembered his challenge of his right to rival that splendid stature. And yet Guise was very little older than himself; but he walked, aprince of men, among a crowd of gentlemen, attendants on him rather thanon the King. The elegant but indolent-looking Duke de Montmorency hada much more attractive air, and seemed to hold a kind of neutral groundbetween Guise on the one hand, and the Reformed, who mustered at theother end of the apartment. Almost by intuition, Berenger knew the finecalm features of the gray-haired Admiral de Coligny before he heard himso addressed by the King's loud, rough voice. When the King rose fromtable the presentations took place, but as Charles heard the name ofthe Baron de Ribaumont, he exclaimed, 'What, Monsieur, are you presentedhere by our good sister's representative?'

Walsingham answered for him, alluding to the negotiations for QueenElizabeth's marriage with one of the French princes--'Sire, in thepresent happy conjuncture, it needs not be a less loyal Frenchman tohave an inheritance in the lands of my royal mistress. '

'What say you, Monsieur?' sharply demanded the King: 'are you come hereto 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 toan attendant: then turning eagerly to Sidney, whose transcendentaccomplishments had already become renowned, Charles welcomed him tocourt, and began to discuss Ronsard's last sonnet, showing no smalltaste and knowledge of poetry. Greatly attracted by Sidney, the Kingdetained the whole English party by an invitation to Walsingham to hearmusic in the Queen-mother's apartments; and Berenger, following in thewake of his friends, found himself in a spacious hall, with a raisedgallery at one end for the musicians, the walls decorated with theglorious paintings collected by Francois I. , Greek and Roman statuesclustered at the angles, and cabinets with gems and antiques disposedat intervals. Not that Berenger beheld much of this: he was absolutelydazzled with the brilliant assembly into which he was admitted. Theremoved the most beautiful women in France, in every lovely-coloured tintthat dress could assume: their bosoms, arms, and hair sparkling withjewels; their gossamer ruffs surrounding their necks like fairy wings;their light laugh mingling with the music, as they sat, stood, or walkedin graceful attitudes conversing with one another or with the cavaliers, whose brilliant velvet and jewels fifty mixed with their brightarray. These were the sirens he had heard of, the 'squadron of theQueen-mother, ' the dangerous beings against whom he was to steelhimself. And which of them was the child he had played with, to whomhis vows had been plighted? It was like some of the enchanting dreamsof romance merely to look at these fair creatures; and he stood as ifgazing into a magic-glass till Sir Francis Walsingham, looking round forhim, said, 'Come, then, my young friend, you must do your devoirs to theQueens. Sidney, I see, is as usual in his element; the King has seizedupon him. '

Catherine de Medicis was seated on a large velvet chair, conversing withthe German ambassador. Never beautiful, she appeared to more advantagein her mature years than in her girlhood, and there was all the dignityof a lifetime of rule in demeanour and gestures, the bearing of herhead, 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 smilewas to the highest degree engaging. She received the young Baron deRibaumont far more graciously than Charles has done, held out her handto be kissed, and observed 'that the young gentleman was like Madame _samere_ whom she well remembered as much admired. Was it true that she wasmarried in England?'

Berenger bowed assent. 

'Ah! You English make good spouses, ' she said, with a smile. 'Eversatisfied with home! But, your Excellency, ' added she, turning toWalsingham, 'what stones would best please my good sister for thesetting of the jewel my son would send her with his portrait? He isall for emeralds, for the hue of hope; but I call it the colour ofjealousy. '

Walsingham made a sign that Berenger had better retreat from hearingthe solemn coquetting carried on by the maiden Queen through her gravestambassadors. He fell back, and remained watching the brilliant throng, trying in vain to discover the bright merry eyes and velvet cheek heremembered of old. Presently a kind salutation interrupted him, and agentleman who perceived him to be a stranger began to try to set him atease, pointed out to him the handsome, foppishly-dressed Duke of Anjou, and his ugly, spiteful little brother of Alengon, then designated asQueen Elizabeth's future husband, who was saying something to a ladythat 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 foursuch stately-looking, black-robed, Spanish-looking duennas round her asto prove her to be a person of high consequence. 

'That? Oh no; that is Madame Catherine of Navarre, who has residedhere ever since her mother's death, awaiting her brother, our royalbridegroom. See, here is the bride, Madame Marguerite, conversing withM. De Guise. '

Berenger paid but little heed to Marguerite's showy but already rathercoarse beauty, and still asked where was the young Queen Elizabeth ofAustria. She was unwell, and not in presence. 'Ah! then, ' he said, 'herladies 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 cheeksrivaled the colour of his sword-knot. 'I want just to know if she ishere. I know not if she be called Madame or Mademoiselle de Ribaumont. '

'The fair Ribaumont! Assuredly; see, she is looking at you. Shall Ipresent you?'

A pair of exceedingly brilliant dark eyes were fixed on Berenger witha sort of haughty curiosity and half-recognition. The face was handsomeand brilliant, but he felt indignant at not perceiving a particle of ablush at encountering him, indeed rather a look of amusement at the deepglow which his fair complexion rendered so apparent. He would fain haveescaped from so public an interview, but her eye was upon him, and therewas no avoiding the meeting. As he moved nearer he saw what a beautifulperson she was, her rich primrose-coloured dress setting off herbrunette complexion and her stately presence. She looked older than hehad expected; but this was a hotbed where every one grew up early, andthe expression and manner made him feel that an old intimacy was hererenewed, and that they were no strangers. 

'We need no introduction, cousin, ' she said, giving a hand to besaluted. '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 audacityto be so much at her ease, when Lucy would have sunk into the earth withshame. ' His bow had saved him the necessity of answering in words, andthe 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 herchief perfection, but he answered that she was well and sent hercommendations, which the young lady acknowledged by a magnificentcurtsey. '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 tohis face, 'I understand better what that famous beauty was now, and thefairness that caused her to be called the Swan. '

It was so personal that the colour rushed again into his cheek. No onehad ever so presumed to admire him; and with a degree gratified andsurprised, 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 fascinationhe 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 foryour modesty? Is it possible that no one has yet told you of your goodmien? Or do they not appreciate Greek noses and blue eyes in the land offat Englishmen? How have you ever lived _en province?_ Our princes areready to hang themselves at the thought of being in such banishment, even at court--indeed, Monsieur has contrived to transfer the noose toM. 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 arapid intelligence that surprised him as well as alarmed him, for hefelt more and more in the power of a very clever as well as beautifulwoman, and the attraction she exercised made him long the more toescape; but she smiled and signed away several cavaliers who would havegained her attention. She spoke of Queen Mary of Scotland, then in thefifth years of her captivity, and asked if he did not feel bound to herservice 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, ' saidBerenger, glowing again for her who could speak of that occasion withouta 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 tellhim that the Ambassador was ready to return home. He took leave withan alacrity that redoubled his courtesy so much that he desired to becommended to his cousin Diane, whom he had not seen. 

'To Diane?' said the lady, inquiringly. 

'To Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont, ' he corrected himself, ashamed ofhis English rusticity. 'I beg pardon if I spoke too familiarly of her. '

'She should be flattered by M. Le Baron's slightest recollection, ' saidthe lady, with an ironical tone that there was no time to analyze, and with a mutual gesture of courtesy he followed Sidney to where SirFrancis awaited them. 

'Well, what think you of the French court?' asked Sidney, so soon as theyoung men were in private. 

'I only know that you may bless your good fortune that you stand in nodanger from a wife from thence. '

'Ha!' cried Sidney, laughing, 'you found your lawful owner. Why did younot present me?'

'I was ashamed of her bold visage. '

'What!--was she the beauteous demoiselle I found you gallanting, ' saidPhilip Sidney, a good deal entertained, 'who was gazing at you with suchvisible admiration in her languishing black eyes?'

'The foul fiend seize their impudence!'

'Fie! for shame! thus to speak of your own wife, ' said the mischievousSidney, '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 thatover-shamefastness?'

'Nay, now, Sidney, in good sooth give me your opinion. Should she sether fancy on me, even in this hour, am I bound in honour to hold by thisaccursed wedlock--lock, as it may well be called?'

'I know no remedy, ' said Sidney, gravely, 'save the two enchanted fountsof love and hate. They cannot be far away, since it was at the siege ofParis that Rinaldo and Orlando drank thereof. '

Another question that Berenger would fain have asked Sidney, but couldnot for very shame and dread of mockery, was, whether he himself wereso dangerously handsome as the lady had given him to understand. With asense of shame, he caught up the little mirror in his casket, andcould not but allow to himself that the features he there saw weresymmetrical--the eyes azure, the complexion of a delicate fairness, suchas he had not seen equaled, except in those splendid Lorraine princes;nor could he judge of the further effect of his open-faced franksimplicity and sweetness of expression--contemptible, perhaps, to theastute, but most winning to the world-weary. He shook his head at thefair reflection, smiled as he saw the colour rising at his own sensationof being a fool, and then threw it aside, vexed with himself for beingunable not to feel attracted by the first woman who had shown herselfstruck by his personal graces, and yet aware that this was the verything he had been warned against, and determined to make all theresistance in his power to a creature whose very beauty and enchantmentgave 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, whenthe Chevalier and his son came the next day to bring him the formalletter requesting the Pope's annulment of his marriage. After he hadsigned it, it was to be taken to Eustacie, and so soon as he shouldattain his twenty-first year he was to dispose of Chateau Leurre, aswell as of his claim to the ancestral castle in Picardy, to his cousinNarcisse, and thus become entirely free to transfer his allegiance tothe Queen of England. 

It was a very good thing--that he well knew; and he had a strong senseof virtue and obedience, as he formed with his pen the words in alltheir fullness, Henri Beranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont et Seigneurde Leurre. He could not help wondering whether the lady who looked athim so admiringly really preferred such a mean-looking little fop asNarcisse, whether she were afraid of his English home and breeding, orwhether all this open coquetry were really the court manners ofladies towards gentlemen, and he had been an absolute simpleton to beflattered. Any way, she would have been a most undesirable wife, andhe 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, hemight see her again, carry home a mental inventory of the splendidbeauties he had renounced, and decide what was the motive that actuatedher in rejecting his own handsome self. Meantime, he proceeded to enjoythe amusements and advantage of his sojourn at Paris, of which by nomeans the least was the society of Philip Sidney, and the charm hisbrilliant genius imparted to every pursuit they shared. Books at theUniversity, fencing and dancing from the best professors, Italianpoetry, French sonnets, Latin epigrams; nothing came amiss to Sidney, the flower of English youth: and Berenger had taste, intelligence, andcultivation enough to enter into all in which Sidney led the way. Thegood tutor, after all his miseries on the journey, was delighted towrite to Lord Walwyn, that, far from being a risk and temptation, thisvisit was a school in all that was virtuous and comely. 

If the good man had any cause of dissatisfaction, it was with theCalvinistic tendencies of the Ambassador's household. Walsinghamwas always on the Puritanical side of Elizabeth's court, and such anatmosphere as that of Paris, where the Roman Catholic system was at thattime showing more corruption than it has ever done before or since inany other place, naturally threw him into sympathy with the Reformed. The reaction that half a century later filled the Gallican Church withsaintliness had not set in; her ecclesiastics were the tools of a wickedand bloodthirsty court, who hated virtue as much as schism in the menwhom they persecuted. The Huguenots were for the most part men whoseinstincts for truth and virtue had recoiled from the popular system, andthus it was indeed as if piety and morality were arrayed on one side, and superstition and debauchery on the other. Mr. Adderley thusfound the tone of the Ambassador's chaplain that of far more completefellowship with the Reformed pastors than he himself was disposed toadmit. There were a large number of these gathered at Paris; for thelull in persecution that had followed the battle of Moncontour had givenhopes of a final accommodation between the two parties, and many hadcome up to consult with the numerous lay nobility who had congregatedto witness the King of Navarre's wedding. Among them, Berenger met hisfather's old friend Isaac Gardon, who had come to Paris for the purposeof giving his only surviving son in marriage to the daughter of awatchmaker to whom he had for many years been betrothed. By him theyouth, with his innocent face and gracious respectful manners, waswatched with delight, as fulfilling the fairest hopes of the poor Baron, but the old minister would have been sorely disappointed had he knownhow 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 allforms, jarred upon one used to a ritual which retained much of theancient form. In the early years of Elizabeth, every possible diversityprevailed in parish churches, according to the predilections of rectorand squire; from forms scarcely altered from those of old times, down tothe baldest, rudest neglect of all rites; and Berenger, in his countryhome, had been used to the first extreme. He could not believe that whathe heard and saw among the _Sacrementaires_, as they were called, waswhat his father had prized; and he greatly scandalized Sidney, the pupilof Hubert Languet, by openly expressing his distaste and dismay when hefound their worship viewed by both Walsingham and Sidney as a model towhich the English Protestants ought to be brought. 

However, Sidney excused all this as more boyish distaste to sermons andlove of externals, and Berenger himself reflected little on the subject. The aspect of the venerable Coligny, his father's friend, did far moretowards making him a Huguenot than any discussion of doctrine. The goodold Admiral received him affectionately, and talked to him warmly of hisfather, 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 Reformedin 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 evilinfluences, and to strike one good stroke against the old nationalenemy. He talked eagerly to Sidney of alliances with England, and thenlamented over the loss of so promising a youth as young Ribaumont to theReformed cause in France. If the marriage with the heiress could havetaken effect, he would have obtained estates near enough to some ofthe main Huguenot strongholds to be very important, and these would nowremain under the power of Narcisse de Ribaumont, a determined ally ofthe Guise faction. It was a pity, but the Admiral could not blame theyouth for obeying the wish of his guardian grandfather; and he owned, with a sigh, that England was a more peaceful land than his own belovedcountry. Berenger was a little nettled at this implication, and began totalk of joining the French standard in a campaign in their present homeand described the conversation, Walsingham said, --

'The Admiral's favourite project! He would do wisely not to brag of itso openly. The King of Spain has too many in his interest in this placenot to be warned, and to be thus further egged on to compass the ruin ofColigny. '

'I should have thought, ' said Sidney. 'that nothing could add to hishatred of the Reformed. '

'Scarcely, ' said Walsingham; 'save that it is they who hinder the Dukeof Guise from being a good Frenchman, and a foe to Spain. '

Politics had not developed themselves in Berenger's mind, and helistened inattentively while Walsingham talked over with Sidney thestate of parties in France, where natural national enmity to Spain wasbalanced by the need felt by the Queen-mother of the support of thatgreat Roman Catholic power against the Huguenots; whom Walsinghambelieved her to dread and hate less for their own sake than from thefear of loss of influence over her son. He believed Charles IX. Himselfto have much leaning towards the Reformed, but the late victories hasthrown the whole court entirely into the power of the Guises, the trulyunscrupulous partisans of Rome. They were further inflamed against theHuguenots by the assassination of the last Duke of Guise, and by theviolences that had been committed by some of the Reformed party, inespecial 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 willfind, in all matters of reprisals, that a party has no memory for whatit may commit, only for what it may receive. '

The conversation was interrupted by an invitation to the Ambassador'sfamily 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 wentfeeling full of that strange attraction of repulsion. He knew gentlemenenough in Coligny's suite for it to be likely that he might remainunperceived among them, and he knew this would be prudent, but he foundhimself unexpectedly near the ranks of ladies, and smile and gestureabsolutely drew him towards his semi-spouse, so that he had noalternative but to lead her out to dance. 

The stately measure was trod in silence as usual, but he felt the darkeyes studying him all the time. However, he could bear it better nowthat the deed was done, and she had voluntarily made him less to herthan 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 jealousguardian?' she asked. 

He smiled, half ashamed of his own annoyance at being obliged to placethem 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 fromthe 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 nearbefore. They are so becoming to that fair cheek that I suppose no offerfrom my--my uncle, on our behalf, would induce you to part with them?'

An impulse of open-handed gallantry would have made him answer, 'Nooffer from your uncle, but a simple request from you;' but he thought intime of the absurdity of returning without them, and merely answered, 'I have no right to yield them, fair lady. They are the witness to myforefather's fame and prowess. '

'Yes, sir, and to those of mine also, ' she replied. 'And you would takethem over to the enemy from whom that prowess extorted them?'

'The country which honoured and rewarded that prowess!' repliedBerenger. 

She looked at him with an interrogative glance of surprise at thereadiness of his answer; then, with half a sigh, said, 'There are yourpearls, sir; I cannot establish our right, though I verily believe itwas the cause of our last quarrel;' and she smiled archly. 

'I believe it was, ' he said, gravely; but added, in the moment of reliefat recovering the precious heirloom, 'though it was Diane who inspiredyou 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, ' answeredBerenger--who, since the act of separation, had not been so guarded inhis demeanour, and began to give way to his natural frankness. 

'Indeed! Diane would be less gratified than I ought to be. And why, mayI ask?'

'Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth. '

'Truth! that was what _feu_ M. Le Baron ever talked of; what Huguenotsweary 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 couldbe so severe! You would never forgive a deceit?'

'Never, ' he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; 'or rather I mightforgive; I could never esteem. '

'What a bare, rude world yours must be, ' she said, shivering. 'And noweak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true. '

'Truth is strength!' said Berenger. 'For example: I see yonder a facewithout bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour. '

'Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine's, no doubt--from the depthsof 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, andthe 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 beturned from his purpose. 'Who is she?' he repeated; 'have I ever seenher 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 doesnot last a month!' was the still displeased, rather jealous answer. 'That little thing--I believe they call her Nid-de-Merle--she has onlyjust been brought from her nunnery to wait on the young Queen. Ah! yourgaze was perilous, it is bringing on you one of the jests of MadameMarguerite. '

With laughter and gaiety, a troop of gentlemen descended on M. DeRibaumont, and told him that Madame Marguerite desired that he should bepresented to her. The princess was standing by her pale sister-in-law, Elizabeth of Austria, who looked grave and annoyed at the mischievousmirth flashing in Marguerite's dark eyes. 

'M. De Ribaumont, ' said the latter, her very neck heaving withsuppressed fun, 'I see I cannot do you a greater favour than by givingyou Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle for your partner. '

Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had been guilty ofsuch a fixed stare as to bring all this upon the poor girl. He fearedthat his vague sense of recognition had made his gaze more open than heknew, and he was really and deeply ashamed of this as his worst act ofprovincial ill-breeding. 

Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing eyes, pantingbosom, and a neck evidently aching with proud dignity and passion, shereceived his low bow with a sweeping curtsey, as lofty as her littleperson 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 ownelaborate paces he knew that the little creature opposite was swimming, bending, turning, bounding with the fluttering fierceness of an angrylittle bird, and that the superb eyes were casting flashes on him thatseemed to carry him back to days of early boyhood. 

Once he caught a mortified, pleading, wistful glance that made him feelas if he had inflicted a cruel injury by his thoughtless gaze, and heresolved to plead the sense of recognition in excuse; but no soonerwas the performance over than she prevented all conversation by saying, 'Lead me back at once to the Queen, sir; she is about to retire. ' Theywere already so near that there was no time to say anything; he couldonly hold as lightly as possible the tiny fingers that he felt burningand quivering in his hand, and then, after bringing her to the side ofthe chair of state, he was forced to release her with the mere whisperof 'Pardon, Mademoiselle;' and the request was not replied to, save bythe additional stateliness of her curtsey. 

It was already late, and the party was breaking up; but his headand heart were still in a whirl when he found himself seated in theambassadorial coach, hearing Lady Walsingham's well-pleased rehearsal ofall the compliments she had received on the distinguished appearanceof both her young guests. Sidney, as the betrothed of her daughter, wasproperty of her own; but she also exulted in the praises of the youngLord de Ribaumont, as proving the excellence of the masters whom shehad recommended to remove the rustic clownishness of which he had beenaccused. 

'Nay, ' said Sir Francis; 'whoever called him too clownish for courtspake with design. '

The brief sentence added to Berenger's confused sense of being in amist of false play. Could his kinsman be bent on keeping him fromcourt? Could Narcisse be jealous of him? Mademoiselle de Ribaumont wasevidently inclined to seek him, and her cousin might easily think herlands safer in his absence. He would have been willing to hold aloof asmuch as his uncle and cousin could wish, save for an angry dislike tobeing duped and cajoled; and, moreover, a strong curiosity to hear andsee 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 couldnot remember with any distinctness. At any rate, he was surprised tofind himself thinking so little in comparison about the splendid beautyand winning manners of his discarded spouse, though he quite believedthat, now her captive was beyond her grasp, she was disposed to catchat him again, and try to retain him, or, as his titillated vanity mightwhisper, his personal graces might make her regret the family resolutionwhich 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 haveachieved great nobleness; and though cruelly bound and trained to evil, was no sooner allowed to follow its natural bent than it reached outeagerly towards excellence. At this moment, it was his mother's policyto appear to leave the ascendancy to the Huguenot party, and he wastherefore allowed to contract friendships which deceived the intendedvictims the more completely, because his admiration and attachment werespontaneous and sincere. Philip Sidney's varied accomplishment and purelofty character greatly attracted the young King, who had leant on hisarm conversing during great part of the ball, and the next morningsent a royal messenger to invite the two young gentlemen to a part atpall-mall in the Tuileries gardens. 

Pall-mall was either croquet or its nearest relative, and was somuch the fashion that games were given in order to keep up politicalinfluence, perhaps, because the freedom of a garden pastime among grovesand bowers afforded opportunities for those seductive arts on whichQueen Catherine placed so much dependence. The formal gardens, withtheir squares of level turf and clipped alleys, afforded excellent scopeboth for players and spectators, and numerous games had been set onfoot, from all of which, however, Berenger contrived to exclude himself, in his restless determination to find out the little Demoiselle deNid-de-Merle, or, at least, to discover whether any intercourse in earlyyouth accounted for his undefined sense of remembrance. 

He interrogated the first disengaged person he could find, but it wasonly the young Abbe de Mericour, who had been newly brought up fromDauphine by his elder brother to solicit a benefice, and who knewnobody. To him ladies were only bright phantoms such as his books hadtaught him to regard like the temptations of St. Anthony, but whom heactually saw treated with as free admiration by the ecclesiastic as bythe layman. 

Suddenly a clamour of voices arose on the other side of theclosely-clipped wall of limes by which the two youths were walking. There were the clear tones of a young maiden expostulating in indignantdistress, 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 looktwice are meddling. '

Scarcely hearing, Berenger strode on as he had done at the last villagewake, when he had rescued Cis of the Down from the impertinence of aDorchester scrivener. It was a like case, he saw, when breakingthrough the arch of clipped limed he beheld the little Demoiselle deNid-de-Merle, driven into a corner and standing at bay, with glowingcheeks, flashing eyes, and hands clasped over her breast, while a youngman, dressed in the extreme of foppery, was assuring her that she wasthe only lady who had not granted him a token--that he could not allowsuch _pensionnaire_ airs, and that now he had caught her he would havehis revenge, and win her rose-coloured break-knot. Another gentlemanstood by, laughing, and keeping guard in the walk that led to the morefrequented part of the gardens. 

'Hold!' thundered Berenger. 

The assailant had just mastered the poor girl's hand, but she tookadvantage of his surprise to wrench it away and gather herself up asfor 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 seea lady insulted. '

'Are you mad? It is Monsieur the Duke of Anjou, ' said Mericour, pouncingon his arm. 

'Shall we have him to the guardhouse?' added the attendant, coming up onthe other side; but Henri de Valois waved them both back, and burstinto a derisive laugh. 'No, no; do you not see who it is? Monsieur theEnglish Baron still holds the end of the halter. His sale is not yetmade. Come away, D'O, he will soon have enough on his hands withoutus. Farewell, fair lady, another time you will be free of your jealousgiant. '

So saying, the Duke of Anjou strolled off, feigning indifference andcontempt, and scarcely heeding that he had been traversed in one of themalicious adventures which he delighted to recount in public before thediscomfited victim herself, often with shameful exaggeration. 

The girl clasped her hands over her brow with a gesture of dismay, andcried, 'Oh! if you have only not touched your sword. '

'Let me have the honour of reconducting you, Mademoiselle, ' saidBerenger, offering his hand; but after the first sigh of relief, atempestuous access seized her. She seemed about to dash away hishand, her bosom swelled with resentment, and with a voice striving fordignity, though choked with strangled tears, she exclaimed, 'No, indeed!Had not M. Le Baron forsaken me, I had never been thus treated!' and hereyes flashed through their moisture. 

'Eustacie! You are Eutacie!'

'Whom would you have me to be otherwise? I have the honour to wish M. LeBaron a good morning. '

'Eustacie! Stay! Hear me! It concerns my honour. I see it is you--butwhom have I seen? Who was she?' he cried, half wild with dismay andconfusion. '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 meoff already. '

'I! when all this has been of your own seeking?'

'Mine?' cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle between her dignityand her passionate tears. 'I meddled not. I heard that M. Le Baron wasgone to a strange land, and had written to break off old ties. ' Her facewas 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, 'Thenit was not true! He has not had your consent?'

'What! would I hold to one who despised me--who came here and never evenasked to see this hated spouse!'

I did! I entreated to see you. I would not sign the applicationtill--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 onceexposed. Eutacie, you know--you understand, that it was not you butDiane whom I saw and detested; and no wonder, when she was acting such acruel treason!'

'Oh no, Diane would never so treat me, ' cried Eustacie. 'I see how itwas! You did not know that my father was latterly called Marquis deNid-de-Merle, and when they brought me here, they WOULD call me afterhim: they said a maid of honour must be Demoiselle, and my uncle saidthere was only one way in which I could remain Madame de Ribaumont! Andthe name must have deceived you. Thou wast always a great dull boy, ' sheadded, with a sudden assumption of childish intimacy that annihilatedthe nine years since their parting. 

'Had I seen thee, I had not mistaken for an instant. This little facestirred 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 musthave dealt with her. '

'I see, ' exclaimed Berenger, 'I am to be palmed off thus that thoumayest be reserved for Narcisse. Tell me, Eustacie, wast thou willing?'

'I hate Narcisse!' she cried. 'But oh, I am lingering too long. Monsieurwill make some hateful tale! I never fell into his way before, my Queenand Madame la Comtesse are so careful. Only to-day, as I was attendingher 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 thytreacherous kindred have woven. Meantime---'

'Hush! There are voices, ' cried Eustacie in terror, and, guided bysomething he could not discern, she fled with the swiftness of a birddown the alley. Following, with the utmost speed that might not bearthe appearance of pursuit, he found that on coming to the turn shehad moderated her pace, and was more tranquilly advancing to a bevyof ladies, who sat perched on the stone steps like great butterfliessunning themselves, watching the game, and receiving the attentions oftheir cavaliers. He saw her absorbed into the group, and then began toprowl 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 hisright. He had been made to injure and disown the creature he was boundto protect, and he must console her and compensate to her, were it onlyto redeem his honour. He never even thought whether he loved her;he merely felt furious at the wrong he had suffered and been made tocommit, and hotly bent on recovering what belonged to him. He might evenhave plunged down among the ladies and claimed her as his wife, if theyoung Abbe de Mericour, who was two years older than he, and far lessof a boy for his years, had not joined him in his agitated walk. He thenlearnt that all the court knew that the daughter of the late Marquisde Nid-de-Merle, Comte de Ribaumont, was called by his chief title, butthat her marriage to himself had been forgotten by some and unknown toothers, and thus that the first error between the cousins had not beenwonderful in a stranger, since the Chevalier's daughter had always beenMdlle. De Ribaumont. The error once made, Berenger's distaste to Dianehad been so convenient that it had been carefully encouraged, and thedesire to keep him at a distance from court and throw him into thebackground was accounted for. The Abbe was almost as indignant asBerenger, and assured him both of his sympathy and his discretion. 

'I see no need for discretion, ' said Berenger. 'I shall claim my wife inthe face of the sun. '

'Take counsel first, I entreat, ' exclaimed Mericour. 'The Ribaumontshave much influence with the Guise family, and now you have offendedMonsieur. '

'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 everprospered 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 seeParis and its deceivers again. '

'Ah! But is it true that you have applied to have the marriage annulledat Rome?'

'We were both shamefully deceivers. That can be nothing. '

'A decree of his Holiness: you a Huguenot; she an heiress. All isagainst you. My friend, be cautions, exclaimed the young ecclesiastic, alarmed by his passionate gestures. 'To break forth now and be accusedof brawling in the palace precincts would be fatal--fatal--most fatal!'

'I am as calm as possible, ' returned Berenger. 'I mean to act mostreasonably. I shall stand before the King and tell him openly how I havebeen tamperes with, demanding my wife before the whole court. '

'Long before you could get so far the ushers would have dragged you awayfor brawling, or for maligning an honour-able gentlemen. You would haveto finish your speech in the Bastille, and it would be well if even yourEnglish friends could get you out alive. '

'Why, what a place is this!' began Berenger; but again Mericourentreated him to curb himself; and his English education had taughthim to credit the house of Guide with so much mysterious power andwickedness, that he allowed himself to be silenced, and promised to takeno open measures till he had consulted the Ambassador. 

'He could not obtain another glimpse of Eustacie, and the hours passedtardily till the break up of the party. Charles could scarcely releaseSidney from his side, and only let him go on condition that he shouldjoin the next day in an expedition to the hunting chateau of Montpipeau, to which the King seemed to look forward as a great holiday andbreathing time. 

When at length the two youths did return, Sir Francis Walsingham wascompletely surprised by the usually tractable, well-behaved stripling, whose praises he had been writing to his old friend, bursting in on himwith the outcry, 'Sir, sir, I entreat your counsel! I have been foullycozened. '

'Of how much?' said Sir Francis, in a tone of reprobation. 

'Of my wife. Of mine honour. Sir, your Excellency, I crave pardon, if Ispoke too hotly, ' said Berenger, collecting himself; 'but it is enoughto drive a man to frenzy. '

'Sit down, my Lord de Ribaumont. Take breath, and let me know what isthis coil. What hath thus moved him, Mr. Sidney?'

'It is as he says, sir, ' replied Sidney, who had beard all as theyreturned; 'he has been greatly wronged. The Chevalier de Ribaumont notonly writ to propose the separation without the lady's knowledge, butimposed his own daughter on our friend as the wife he had not seen sinceinfancy. '

'There, sir, ' broke forth Berenger; 'surely if I claim mine own in theface of day, no man can withhold her from me!'

'Hold!' said Sir Francis. 'What mean this passion, young sir? Methoughtyou came hither convinced that both the religion and the habits in whichthe young lady had been bred up rendered your infantine contract mostunsuitable. 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 mywife was a mere impostor, the Chevalier's own daughter!'

'That may be; but what known you of this other lady? Has she been bredup 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 asgreatly 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 hishand, and desired that he would make his full statement in the presenceof his tutor. Then sounding a little whistle, the Ambassador despatcheda page to request the attendance of Mr. Adderley, and recommended youngRibaumont in the meantime to compose himself. 

Used to being under authority as Berenger was, the somewhat severe tonedid much to allay his excitement, and remind him that right and reasonwere so entirely on his side, that he had only to be cool and rationalto make them prevail. He was thus able to give a collected and coherentaccount of his discovery that the part of his wife had been assumed byher cousin Diane, and that the signature of both the young pair to theapplication to the Pope had been obtained on false pretences. That hehad, as Sidney said, been foully cozened, in both senses of the word, was as clear as daylight; but he was much angered and disappointed tofind that neither the Ambassador nor his tutor could see that Eustacie'sworthiness was proved by the iniquity of her relation, or that any oneof the weighty reasons for the expediency of dissolving the marriage wasremove. The whole affair had been in such good train a little before, that Mr. Adderley was much distressed that it should thus have beencrossed, and thought the new phase of affairs would be far fromacceptable 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 whetherjustice and honour require you to overthrow the purpose wherewith hesent you hither. '

'Surely, sir, justice and require me to fulfil a contract to which theother party is constant, ' said Berenger, feeling very wise and prudentfor calling that wistful, indignant creature the other party. 

'That is also true, ' said the Ambassador, 'provided she be constant; butyou own that she signed the requisition for the dissolution. '

'She did so, but under the same deception as myself, and furthermortified 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 anyfair lady's sincerity! The question is how far you are bound. Have Iunderstood you that you are veritably wedded, not by a mere contract ofespousal?'

'Berenger could produce no documents, for they had been left at ChateauLeurre, and on his father's death the Chevalier had claimed the custodyof them; but he remembered enough of the ceremonial to prove that thewedding had been a veritable one, and that only the papal interventioncould annul it. 

Indeed an Englishman, going by English law, would own no power in thePope, nor any one on earth, to sever the sacred tie of wedlock; butFrench courts of law would probably ignore the mode of application, andwould certainly endeavour to separate between a Catholic and a heretic. 

'I am English, sir, in heart and faith, ' said Berenger, earnestly. 'Lookupon 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 wasno denying that the mutual consent of the young pair at their presentage was all that was wanting to complete the inviolability of theirmarriage contract. 

Berenger was indeed only eighteen, and Eustacie more than a yearyounger, but there was nothing in their present age to invalidate theirmarriage, for persons of their rank were usually wedded quite asyoung or younger. Walsingham was only concerned at his old friend'sdisappointment, and at the danger of the young man running headlong intoa connection probably no more suitable than that with Diane de Ribaumontwould have been. But it was not convenient to argue against theexpediency of a man's loving his own wife; and when Berenger boldlydeclared he was not talking of love but of justice, it was only possibleto insist that he should pause and see where true justice lay. 

And thus the much-perplexed Ambassador broke up the conference with hishot 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 enduranceby his pupil striding up and down his room, reviling Diane, anddescribing Eustacie, while he was trying to write these uncomfortabletidings to Lord Walwyn. 

'Lucy! What makes you bring her up to me?' exclaimed Berenger. 'LittleDolly would be as much to the purpose!'

'Only, sir, no resident at Hurst Walwyn could fail to know that has beenplanned 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 mattergone as you wish? This is the luckiest chance that could have befallenher. '

'That may be, ' said Mr. Adderley; 'I wish she may think so--sweet younglady!'

'I tell you, Mr. Adderley, you should know better! Lucy has more sense. My aunt, whom she follows more than any other creature, ever silencedthe very sport or semblance of love passages between us even aschildren, by calling them unseemly in one wedded as I am. Brother andsister we have ever been, and have loved as such--ay, and shall! I knowof 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 therest? What doth she need me in comparison of this poor child? She--likea bit of her own gray lavender in the shadiest nook of the walledgarden, tranquil there--sure not to be taken there, save to companywith fine linen in some trim scented coffer, whilst this fresh glowingrosebud has grown up pure and precious in the very midst of the foulestcorruption 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 aChristian, the honour of a gentleman, would urge me, even if it were notmy most urgent duty!'

'Mr. Adderley argued no more. When Berenger came to his duty in thematter he was invincible, and moreover all the more provoking, becausehe mentioned it with a sort of fiery sound of relish, and looked so veryboyish all the time. Poor Mr. Adderley!' feeling as if his trust werebetrayed, loathing the very idea of a French court lady, saw that hispupil 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 thisstripling scholar about duties and sacred obligations! Well might he ruethe day he ever set foot in Paris. 

Then, to his further annoyance, came a royal messenger to invite theBaron de Ribaumont to join the expedition to Montpipeau. Of course hemust go, and his tutor must be left behind, and who could tell into whatmischief he might not be tempted!

Here, however, Sidney gave the poor chaplain some comfort. He believedthat no ladies were to be of the party, and that the gentlemen werechiefly of the King's new friends among the Huguenots, such as Coligny, his son-in-law Teligny, Rochefoucauld, and the like, among whom theyoung gentleman could not fall into any very serious harm, and mightvery 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 declinedthe invitation, if royal invitations could have been declined. And inthe morning, before setting out, he dressed himself point device, andwith Osbert behind him marched down to the Croix de Larraine, to callupon the Chevalier de Ribaumont. He had a very fine speech at histongue's end when he set out, but a good deal of it had evaporated whenhe reached the hotel, and perhaps he was not very sorry not to find theold gentleman within. 

On his return, he indited a note to the Chevalier, explaining that hehad now seen his wife, Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont, and had come toan understanding with her, by which he found that it was under a mistakethat 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 hadbeen sent. 

Berenger showed this letter to Walsingham, who, though much concerned, could not forbid his sending it. 'Poor lad, ' he said to the tutor; ''tisan excellently writ billet for one so young. I would it were in a wisercause. But he has fairly the bit between his teeth, and there is nochecking 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 thesixteenth century far enough from the city to form a sylvan retreat, where Charles IX, could snatch a short respite from the intrigues of hiscourt, under pretext of enjoying his favourite sport. Surrounded withhis favoured associates of the Huguenot party, he seemed to breathea purer atmosphere, and to yield himself up to enjoyment greater thanperhaps his sad life had ever known. 

He rode among his gentlemen, and the brilliant cavalcade passed throughpoplar-shaded roads, clattered through villages, and threaded theirway through bits of forest still left for the royal chase. The peoplethronged 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, orcivil war!' The heart of France was, if not with the Reformed, atleast against Spain and the Lorrainers, and Sidney perceived, from theconversation of the gentlemen round him, that the present expedition hadbeen devised less for the sake of the sport, than to enable the King totake 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 outof reach of his explanation with his kindred. And thus they arrivedat Montpipeau, a tower, tall and narrow, like all French designs, butexpanded on the ground floor by wooden buildings capable of containingthe numerous train of a royal hunter, and surrounded by an extent ofwaste land, without fine trees, though with covert for deer, boars, andwolves sufficient for sport to royalty and death to peasantry. Charlesseemed to sit more erect in his saddle, and to drink in joy with everybreath of the thyme-scented breeze, from the moment his horse boundedon the hollow-sounding turf; and when he leapt to the ground, with theelastic 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 thesupper to be spread under the elms that shaded a green lawn in frontof the chateau. Etiquette was here so far relaxed as to permit thesovereign to dine with his suite, and tables, chairs, and benches werebrought 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, andas a hers-girl passed along a vista in the distance, driving her goatsbefore her, Philip Sidney marvelled whether it was not even thus inArcadia. 

Presently there was a sound of horses trampling, wheels moving, a partyof gaily gilded archers of the guard jingled up, and in their midstwas a coach. Berenger's heart seemed to leap at once to his lips, as aglimpse 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 withgirlish delight, as she held out her hand to the Admiral. 'Ah! This iswell, this is beautiful, ' she exclaimed; 'it is like our happy chasesin the Tyrol. Ah, Sire!' to the King, 'how I thank you for letting me bewith you. '

After her Majesty descended her gentleman-usher. Then came thelady-in-waiting, Madame de Sauve, the wife of the state secretary inattendance on Charles, and a triumphant, coquettish beauty, than a fat, good-humoured Austrian dame, always called Madame la Comtesse, becauseher German name was unpronounceable, and without whom the Queen neverstirred, and lastly a little figure, rounded yet slight, slender yetsoft and plump, with a kitten-like alertness and grace of motion, asshe sprang out, collected the Queen's properties of fan, kerchief, pouncet-box, mantle, &c. , and disappeared in to the chateau, withoutBerenger's being sure of anything but that her little black hat had arose-coloured feather in it. 

The Queen was led to a chair placed under one of the largest trees, andthere Charles presented to her such of his gentlemen as she was not yetacquainted with, the Baron de Ribaumont among the rest. 

'I have heard of M. De Ribaumont, ' she said, in a tone that madethe colour mantle in his fair cheek; and with a sign of her hand shedetained him at her side till the King had strolled away with Madame laSauve, and no one remained near but her German countess. Then changingher tone to one of confidence, which the high-bred homeliness of herAustrian manner rendered inexpressibly engaging, she said, 'I mustapologize, Monsieur, for the giddiness of my sister-in-law, which I fearcaused 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 gratefulenough. 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 keepus apart, ' said Berenger, colouring with indignation; 'they imposedmy other cousin on me as my wife, and caused her to think me cruellyneglectful. '

'I know, ' said the Queen. 'Yet Mdlle. De Ribaumont is far more admiredthan 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, helpus of your grace. Every one is trying to part us, every one is arguingagainst us, but she is my own true wedded wife, and if you will but giveher to me, all will be well. '

'I like you, M. De Ribaumont, ' said the Queen, looking him full in theface. 'You are like our own honest Germans at my home, and I think youmean all you say. I had much rather my dear little Nid de Merle werewith you than left here, to become like all the others. She is a goodlittle _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 Iwere the Queen-mother. You must have recourse to the King, who loves youwell, and at my request included you in the hunting-party. '

Berenger could only kiss her hand in token of earnest thanks before therepast was announced, and the King came to lead her to the table spreadbeneath the trees. The whole party supped together, but Berenger couldhave only a distant view of his little wife, looking very demure andgrave by the side of the Admiral. 

But when the meal was ended, there was a loitering in the woodlandpaths, amid healthy openings or glades trimmed into discreet wildnessfit for royal rusticity; the sun set in parting glory on one horizon, the moon rising in crimson majesty on the other. A musician at intervalstouched the guitar, and sang Spanish or Italian airs, whose soft orquaint melody came dreamily through the trees. Then it was that withbeating heart Berenger stole up to the maiden as she stood behind theQueen, and ventured to whisper her name and clasp her hand. 

She turned, their eyes met, and she let him lead her apart into thewood. It was not like a lover's tryst, it was more like the continuationof their old childish terms, only that he treated her as a thing of hisown, that he was bound to secure and to guard, and she received him asher own lawful but tardy protector, to be treated with perfect reliancebut with a certain playful resentment. 

'You will not run away from me now, ' he said, making full prize of herhand and arm. 

'Ah! is not she the dearest and best of queens?' and the large eyes werelifted up to him in such frank seeking of sympathy that he could seeinto the depths of their clear darkness. 

'It is her doing then. Though, Eustacie, when I knew the truth, notflood nor fire should keep me long from you, my heart, my love, mywife. '

'What! wife in spite of those villainous letter?' she said, trying topout. 

'Wife for ever, inseparably! Only you must be able to swear that youknew nothing of the one that brought me here. '

'Poor me! No, indeed! There was Celine carried off at fourteen, Madamede Blanchet a bride at fifteen; all marrying hither and thither; andI--' she pulled a face irresistibly droll--'I growing old enough todress St. Catherine's hair, and wondering where was M. Le Baron. '

'They thought me too young, ' said Berenger, 'to take on me the cares oflife. '

'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'shusband is faithless, till one half believes it; to be looked at by uglyeyes; to be liable to be teased any day by Monsieur, or worse, by thatmocking 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 couldrevenge all! Never, never shall it be again! What blessed grace hasguarded you through all?'

'Did I not belong to you?' she said exultingly. 'And had not SisterMonique, yes, and M. Le Baron, striven hard to make me good? Ah, howkind he was!'

'My father? Yes, Eustacie, he loved you to the last. He bade me, on hisdeathbed, give you his own Book of Psalms, and tell you he had alwaysloved and prayed for you. '

'Ah! his Psalms! I shall love them! Even at Bellaise, when first we camethere, we used to sing them, but the Mother Abbess went out visiting, and when she came back she said they were heretical. And Soeur Moniquewould not let me say the texts he taught me, but I WOULD not forgetthem. 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 answeredhastily; '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, ' heanswered. '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, ' shereplied. 'There I should see Soeur Monique, and my aunt, the Abbess, and we would have the peasants to dance in the castle court. Oh! ifyou could but see the orchards at Le Bocage, you would never want to goaway. 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 hersince they parted. Her father had sent her to Bellaise, a conventfounded by the first of the Angevin branch, which was presided over byhis sister, and where Diane was also educated. The good sister Moniquehad been mistress of the _pensionnaires_, and had evidently taken muchpains to keep her charge innocent and devout. Diane had been taken tocourt about two years before, but Eustacie had remained at the conventtill some three months since, when she had been appointed maid of honourto 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 turnedEnglishman and heretic, and that after a few formalities had beencomplied with, she would become the wife of her cousin Narcisse. Nowthere was no person whom she so much dreaded as Narcisse, and whenBerenger spoke of him as a feeble fop, she shuddered as though she knewhim to have something of the tiger. 

'Do you remember Benoit?' she said; 'poor Benoit, who came to Normandyas my _laquais_? When I went back to Anjou he married a girl fromLeurre, and went to aid his father at the farm. The poor fellow hadimbibed the Baron's doctrine--he spread it. It was reported that therewas a nest of Huguenots on the estate. My cousin came to break it upwith his _gens d'armes_ O Berenger, he would hear no entreaties, hehad no mercy; he let them assemble on Sunday, that they might be alltogether. He fired the house; shot down those who escaped; if a prisonerwere made, gave him up to the Bishop's Court. Benoit, my poor goodBenoit, who used to lead my palfrey, was first wounded, then tried, andburnt--burnt in the PLACE at Lucon! I heard Narcisse laugh--laugh as hetalked of the cries of the poor creatures in the conventicler. My ownpeople, who loved me! I was but twelve years old, but even then thewretch would pay me a half-mocking courtesy, as one destined to him; andthe more I disdained him and said I belonged to you, the more both heand my aunt, the Abbess, smiled, as though they had their bird in acage; but they left me in peace till my uncle brought me to court, andthen 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 tallerthan I ever figured you to myself, and you look as if you could take meup 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 happymoment. 'My sweet little faithful wife, never fear again now you aremine. '

Alas! poor children. They were a good way from the security they hadbegun to fancy for themselves. Early the next morning, Berenger wentin his straightforward way to the King, thanked him, and requested hissanction for at once producing themselves to the court as Monsieur leBaron and Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont. 

At this Charles swore a great oath, as one in perplexity, and bade himnot go so fast. 

'See here, ' said he, with the rude expletives only too habitual withhim; 'she is a pretty little girl, and she and her lands are much betterwith an honest man like you than with that _pendard_ of a cousin; butyou see he is bent on having her, and he belongs to a cut-throat crewthat halt at nothing. I would not answer for your life, if you temptedhim 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 woulddo against half-a-dozen poniards and pistols in a lane black as hell'smouth?'

The foolish young WAS thinking how could a king so full of fiery wordsand strange oaths bear to make such an avowal respecting his owncapital and his own courtiers. All he could do was to bow and reply, 'Nevertheless, Sire, at whatever risk, I cannot relinquish my wife; Iwould take her at one to the Ambassador's. '

'How, sir!' interrupted Charles, haughtily and angrily, 'if youforget that you are a French nobleman still, I should remember it! TheAmbassador may protect his own countrymen-none else. '

'I entreat your Majesty's pardon, ' said Berenger, anxious to retract hisfalse step. 'It was your goodness and the gracious Queen's that made mehope 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 anothermatter! To say the truth, I see no way out of the affair butan elopement. ' 'Sire!' exclaimed the astonished Berenger, whosestrictly-disciplined education had little prepared him for such counsel. 

'Look you! if I made you known as a wedded pair, the Chevalier andhis son would not only assassinate you, but down on me would come mybrother, and my mother, and M. De Guise and all their crew, veritablyfor giving the prize out of the mouth of their satellite, but nominallyfor disregarding the Pope, favouring a heretical marriage, and I knownot what, but, as things go here, I should assuredly get the worst ofit; and if you made safely off with your prize, no one could gainsayyou--I need know nothing about it--and lady and lands would be yourwithout dispute. You might ride off from the skirts of the forest; Iwould lead the hunt that way, and the three days' riding would bring youto Normady, for you had best cross to England immediately. When she isone there, owned by your kindred, Monsieur le cousin may gnash his teethas he will, he must make the best of it for the sake of the honour ofhis house, and you can safely come back and raise her people and yoursto follow the Oriflamme when it takes the field against Spain. What! youare still discontented? Speak out! Plain speaking is a treat not oftenreserved for me. '

'Sire, I am most grateful for your kindness, but I should greatly prefergoing straightforward. '

'Peste! Well is it said that a blundering Englishman goes always rightbefore him! There, then! As your King on the one hand, as the friend whohas brought you and your wife together, sir, it is my command that youdo not compromise me and embroil greater matters than you can understandby publicly claiming this girl. Privately I will aid you to the best ofmy ability; publicly, I command you, for my sake, if you heed not yourown, 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 bevery glad to save the lady's lands from the Guisards, but that he cannotsay 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 princessin Mere Perinne's fairy tales. Could they go like a shepherd andshepherdess? She had no fears-no scruples. Would she not be with herhusband? It was the most charming frolic in the world. So the Kingseemed to think it, though he was determined to call it all the Queen'sdoing--the first intrigue of her own, making her like all the rest ofus--the Queen's little comedy. He undertook to lead the chase as far aspossible in the direction of Normandy, when the young pair might ride onto an inn, meet fresh horses, and proceed to Chateau Leurre, and thenceto England. He would himself provide a safe-conduct, which, as Berengersuggested, would represent them as a young Englishman taking home hisyoung wife. Eustacie wanted at least to masquerade as an Englishwoman, and played off all the fragments of the language she had caught as achild, but Berenger only laughed at her, and said they just fitted theFrench bride. It was very pretty to laugh at Eustacie; she made such adroll pretence at pouting with her rosebud lips, and her merry velvetyeyes belied them so drolly. 

Such was to be the Queen's pastoral; but when Elisabeth found theresponsibility so entirely thrown on her, she began to look grave andfrightened. It was no doubt much more than she had intended when shebrought about the meeting between the young people, and the King, whohad planned the elopement, seemed still resolved to make all appear heraffair. She looked all day more like the grave, spiritless being she wasat 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, thoughther devotions interminable since they delayed all her ladies. At length, however, a page came up to him, and said in a low voice, 'The Queendesires 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 nichesround. Sidney would have dreaded a surreptitious attempt to make himconform, but Berenger had no notion of such perils, --he only sawthat Eustacie was standing by the Queen's chair, and a kindly-lookingAustrian priest, the Queen's confessor, held a book in his hand. 

The Queen came to meet him. 'For my sake, ' she said, with all hersweetness, 'to ease my mind, I should like to see my little Eustaciemade entirely your own ere you go. Father Meinhard tells me it is saferthat, when the parties were under twelve years old, the troth should beagain exchanged. No other ceremony is needed. '

'I desire nothing but to have her made indissolubly my own, ' saidBerenger, 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. Heasked a few questions, and on hearing the answers, declared that thesacrament of marriage had been complete, but that--as was often done insuch cases--he would once more hear the troth-plight of the young pair. The brief formula was therefore at once exchanged--the King, when theQueen looked entreatingly at him, rousing himself to make the bride overto Berenger. As soon as the vows had been made, in the briefest manner, the King broke in boisterously: 'There, you are twice marred, to pleaseMadame there; but hold your tongues all of you about this scene in theplay. '

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 isnow. '

But for all Berenger had said about 'his wife, ' it was only now thathe really FELT her his own, and became husband rather than lover-maninstead of boy. She was entirely his own now, and he only desired to beaway with her; but some days' delay was necessary. A chase on the scaleof the one that was to favour their evasion could not be got up withoutsome notice; and, moreover, it was necessary to procure money, forneither Sidney nor Ribaumont had more than enough with them for theneedful liberalities to the King's servants and huntsmen. IndeedBerenger had spent all that remained in his purse upon the wares of anItalian pedlar whom he and Eustacie met in the woods, and whose gloves'as sweet as fragrant posies, ' fans, scent-boxes, pocket mirrors, Genoawire, Venice chains, and other toys, afforded him the mean of making upthe gifts that he wished to carry home to his sisters; and Eustacie'scounsel was merrily given in the choice. And when the vendor beganwith a meaning smile to recommend to the young pair themselves alittle silver-netted heart as a love-token, and it turned out that allBerenger's money was gone, so that it could not be bought withoutgiving up the scented casket destined for Lucy, Eustacie turned with hersweetest, proudest smile, and said, 'No, no; I will not have it; what dowe two want with love-tokens now?'

Sidney had taken the youthful and romantic view of the case, andconsidered himself to be taking the best possible bare of is youngfriend, by enabling him to deal honourably with so charming a littlewife as Eustacie. Ambassador and tutor would doubtless be very angry;but Sidney could judge for himself of the lady, and he therefore threwhimself into her interests, and sent his servant back to Paris toprocure the necessary sum for the journey of Master Henry Berenger andMistress Mary, his wife. Sidney was, on his return alone to Paris, toexplain all to the elders, and pacify them as best he could; and hisservant was already the bearer of a letter from Berenger that was to besent at once to England with Walsingham's dispatches, to prepare LordWalwyn for the arrival of the runaways. The poor boy laboured tobe impressively calm and reasonable in his explanation of themisrepresentation, and of his strong grounds for assuming his rights, with his persuasion that his wife would readily join the Englishchurch--a consideration that he knew would greatly smooth the way forher. Indeed, his own position was impregnable: nobody could blame himfor 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 makeon his kindred. If they loved her, it was all right; if not, he couldtake her back to his own castle, and win fame and honour under thebanner of France in the Low Countries. As the Lucy Thistlewood, she wasfar too discreet to feel any disappointment or displeasure; or if sheshould, it was her own fault and that of his mother, for all her lifeshe had known him to be married. So he finished his letter with amessage that the bells should be ready to ring, and that when Philipheard three guns fired on the coast, he might light the big beacon pileabove 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 PhilipSidney, and even the last did not know of the renewed troth which theKing chose to treat as such a secret; but no one had any doubt of themutual relations of M. De Ribaumont and Mdlle. De Nid de Merle, andtheir dream of bliss was like a pastoral for the special diversion ofthe holiday of Montpipeau. The transparency of their indifferencein company, their meeting eyes, their trysts with the secrecy of anostrich, were the subjects of constant amusement to the elders, moreespecially as the shyness, blushes, and caution were much more on theside of the young husband than on that of the lady. Fresh from herconvent, simple with childishness and innocence, it was to her onlythe natural completion of her life to be altogether Berenger's, andthe brief concealment of their full union added a certain romanticenchantment, which added to her exultation in her victory over her cruelkindred. She had been upon her own mind, poor child, for her few weeksof court life. She had been upon her own mind, poor child, for her fewweeks of court life, but not long enough to make her grow older, thoughjust so long as to make the sense of her having her own protector withher doubly precious. He, on the other hand, though full of happiness, did also feel constantly deepening on him the sense of the chargeand responsibility he had assumed, hardly knowing how. The more dearEustacie became to him, the more she rested on him and became entirelyhis, the more his boyhood and INSOUCIANCE drifted away behind him; andwhile he could hardly bear to heave his darling a moment out of hissight, the less he could endure any remark or jest upon his affectionfor her. His home had been a refined one, where Cecile's convent purityseemed to diffuse an atmosphere of modest reserve such as did notprevail in the court of the Maiden Queen herself, and the lad ofeighteen had not seem enough of the outer world to have rubbed off anyof that grace. His seniority to his little wife seemed to show itselfchiefly in his being put out of countenance for her, when she was tooinnocent and too proud of her secret matronhood to understand or resentthe wit. 

Little did he know that this was the ballet-like interlude in a greatand terrible tragedy, whose first act was being played out on the stagewhere they schemed and sported, like their own little drama, which wasall the world to them, and noting to the others. Berenger knew indeedthat the Admiral was greatly rejoiced that the Nid de Merle estatesshould go into Protestant hands, and that the old gentleman lost noopportunity of impressing on him that they were a heavy trust, to beused for the benefit of 'the Religion, ' and for the support of the Kingin his better mind. But it may be feared that he did not give a veryattentive 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 havetheir lady, and though quite willing to win his spurs under Charles andColigny against the Spaniard, his heart and head were far too full totake in the web of politics. Sooth to say, the elopement in prospectseemed to him infinitely more important than Pope or Spaniard, Guise orHuguenot, and Coligny observed with a sigh to Teligny that he was a goodboy, but nothing but the merest boy, with eyes open only to himself. 

When Charles undertook to rehearse their escape with them, and the Queendrove out in a little high-wheeled litter with Mne. La Comtesse, while Mme. De Sauve and Eustacie were mounted on gay palfreys with thepommelled side-saddle lately invented by the Queen-mother, Berenger, as he watched the fearless horsemanship and graceful bearing of hisnewly-won wife, had no speculations to spend on the thoughtful faceof the Admiral. And when at the outskirts of the wood the King'sbewildering hunting-horn--sounding as it were now here, now there, nowlow, now high--called every attendant to hasten to its summons, leavingthe young squire and damsel errant with a long winding high-banked lanebefore them, they reckoned the dispersion to be all for their sakes, anddid not note, as did Sidney's clear eye, that when the entire companyhad come straggling him, it was the King who came up with Mme. De Sauvealmost the last; and a short space after, as if not to appear to havebeen with him, appeared the Admiral and his son-in-law. 

Sidney also missed one of the Admiral's most trusted attendants, andfrom this and other symptoms he formed his conclusions that the King hadscattered his followers as much for the sake of an unobserved conferencewith Coligny as for the convenience of the lovers, and that letters hadbeen dispatched in consequence of that meeting. 

Those letters were indeed of a kind to change the face of affairs inFrance. Marshal Strozzi, then commanding in the south-west, was biddento embark at La Rochelle in the last week of August, to hasten tothe succour of the Prince of Orange against Spain, and letters weredispatched by Coligny to all the Huguenot partisans bidding themassemble at Melun on the third of September, when they would be in theimmediate neighbourhood of the court, which was bound for Fontainebleau. Was the star of the Guises indeed waning? Was Charles about to escapefrom their hands, and commit himself to an honest, high-minded policy, in which he might have been able to purify his national Church, andwind back to her those whom her corruptions had driven to seek truth andmorality beyond her pale?

Alas! there was a bright pair of eyes that saw more than PhilipSidney's, a pair of ears that heard more, a tongue and pen less faithfulto 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 somehours in riding with Osbert to the first hostel on their way, to makearrangements for the relay of horses that was to meet them there, andfor the reception of Veronique, Eustacie's maid, who was to be sent offvery early in the morning on a pillion behind Osbert, taking with herthe articles of dress that would be wanted to change her mistress fromthe huntress maid of honour to the English dame. 

It was not long after he had been gone that a sound of wheels andtrampling horses was heard in one of the forest drives. Charles, whowas amusing himself with shooting at a mark together with Sidney andTeligny, handed his weapon to an attendant, and came up with looks ofrestless anxiety to his Queen, who was placed in her chair under thetree, 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 inpeace 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 tothe rosiest hue of the carnation, he put his finger upon his lip witha menacing air, and then advanced to greet his mother, followed by hisgentlemen. 

'Fear not, my dear child, ' said the young Queen, taking Eustacie's armas she rose for the same purpose. 'Obey the King, and he will take carethat all goes well. '

The gentle Elisabeth was, however, the least regarded member of theroyal family. Her mother-in-law had not even waited to greet her, buthad hurried the King into his cabinet, with a precipitation that madethe young Queen's tender heart conclude that some dreadful disaster hadoccurred, and before Mademoiselle de Ribaumont had had time to make herreverence, she exclaimed, breathlessly, 'Oh, is it ill news? Not fromVienna?'

'No, no, Madame; reassure yourself, ' replied Diane; 'it is merely thather Majesty, being on the way to Monceaux with Mesdames, turned outof her road to make a flying visit to your graces, and endeavour topersuade you to make her party complete. '

Elisabeth looked as if questioning with herself if this would possiblybe the whole explanation. Monceaux was a castle belonging to the QueenDowager at no great distance from Montpipeau, but there had been nointention of leaving Paris before the wedding, which was fixed for theseventeenth of August, and the bridegroom was daily expected. She askedwho was the party at Monceaux, and was told that Madame de Nemours hadgone thither the evening before, with her son, M. De Guise, to makeready; and that Monsieur was escorting thither his two sisters, Madamede Lorraine and Madame Marguerite. The Queen-mother had set out beforethem very early in the morning. 

'You must have made great speed, ' said Elisabeth; 'it is scarcely twoo'clock. '

'Truly we did, Madame; two of our horses even died upon the road; butthe Queen was anxious to find the King ere he should set off on one ofhis long chases. '

Diane, at every spare moment, kept her eyes interrogatively fixed on hercousin, and evidently expected that the taciturn Queen, to whom a longconversation, in any language but Spanish, was always a grievance, wouldsoon dismiss them both; and Eustacie did not know whether to be thankfulor impatient, as Elisabeth, with tardy, hesitating, mentally-translatedspeech, inquired into every circumstance of the death of the poorhorses, and then into all the court gossip, which she was currentlysupposed neither to hear nor understand; and then bethought herselfthat this good Mademoiselle de Ribaumont could teach her that embroiderystitch she had so long wished to learn. Taking her arm, she enteredthe hall, and produced her work, so as effectually to prevent anycommunication between the cousins; Eustacie, meanwhile her heartclinging to her friend, felt her eyes filling with tears at the thoughtsof how unkind her morrow's flight would seem without one word offarewell or of confidence, and was already devising tokens of tendernessto be left behind for Diane's consolation, when the door of the cabinetopened, and Catherine sailed down the stairs, with her peculiargliding step and sweep of dignity. The King followed her with a face ofirresolution and distress. He was evidently under her displeasure; butshe advanced to the young Queen with much graciousness, and an air ofmatronly solicitude. 

'My daughter, ' she said, 'I have just assured the King that I cannotleave you in these damp forests. I could not be responsible for theresults of the exposure any longer. It is for him to make his ownarrangements, but I brought my coach empty on purpose to transport youand your ladies to Monceaux. 

The women may follow with the mails. You can be ready as soon as thehorses are harnessed. '

Elisabeth was used to passiveness. She turned one inquiring look toher husband, but he looked sullen, and, evidently cowed by his mother, uttered not a word. She could only submit, and Catherine herself addthat there was room for Madame de Sauve and Mademoiselle de Nid deMerle. Madame la Comtesse should follow! It was self-evident thatpropriety would not admit of the only demoiselle being left behind amongthe gentlemen. Poor Eustacie, she looked mutely round as if she hoped toescape! What was the other unkindness to this? And ever under theeyes of Diane too, who followed her to their chamber, when she went toprepare, so that she could not even leave a token for him where he wouldhave been most certain to find it. Moments were few; but at the verylast, while the queens were being handed in the carriage, she caughtthe eye of Philip Sidney. He saw the appealing look, and came near. Shetried to laugh. 'Here is my gage, Monsieur Sidney, ' she said, and heldout a rose-coloured knot of ribbon; then, as he came near enough, shewhispered imploringly three of her few English words--

'Give to HIM. '

'I take the gage as it is meant, ' said Sidney, putting a knee to theground, and kissing the trembling fingers, ere he handed her into thecarriage. He smiled and waved his hand as he met her earnest eyes. Onebow contained a scrap of paper pricked with needle-holes. Sidney wouldnot have made out those pricks for the whole world, even had he beenable to do more than hastily secure the token, before the unhappy King, with a paroxysm of violent interjections, demanded of him whether theQueen of England, woman though she were, ever were so beset, and neverallowed a moment to herself; then, without giving time for an answer, heflung away to his cabinet, and might be heard pacing up and down therein a tempest of perplexity. He came forth only to order his horse, anddesire M. De Sauve and a few grooms to be ready instantly to ride withhim. His face was full of pitiable perplexity--the smallest obstacle wasmet with a savage oath; and he was evidently in all the misery of a weakyet passionate nature, struggling with impotent violence against a yokethat evidently mastered it. 

He flung a word to his guests that he should return ere night, and theythus perceived that he did not intend their dismissal. 

'Poor youth, ' said Coligny, mildly, 'he will be another being when wehave 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 manyfond letters to the young wife of his old age; while his son-in-law andPhilip Sidney agreed to ride on, so as to met poor young Ribaumont, andprepare him for the blow that had befallen him personally, while theyanxiously debated what this sudden descent of the Queen-mother mightportend. Teligny was ready to believe in any evil intention on her part, but he thought himself certain of the King's real sentiments, and intruth Charles had never treated any man with such confidence as thisyoung Huguenot noble, to whom he had told his opinion of each of hiscounsellors, and his complete distrust of all. That pitying affectionwhich clings to those who cling to it, as well as a true French loyaltyof heart, made Teligny fully believe that however Catherine mightstruggle to regain her ascendancy, and whatever apparent relapsesmight be caused by Charles's habitual subjection to her, yet the highaspirations and strong sense of justice inherent in the King wereasserting themselves as his youth was passing into manhood; and that themuch-desired war would enable him to develop all his higher qualities. Sidney listened, partially agreed, talked of caution, and mused withinhimself whether violence might not sometimes be mistaken for vigour. 

Ere long, the merry cadence of an old English song fell with a homelikesound upon Sidney's ear, and in another moment they were in sight ofBerenger, trotting joyously along, with a bouquet of crimson andwhite heather-blossoms in his hand, and his bright young face full ofexultation in his arrangements. He shouted gaily as he saw them, callingout, 'I thought I should meet you! but I wondered not to have heard theKing'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 disquietyou greatly. '

'How! Not her uncle?' exclaimed Berenger. 

'No, cheer up, my friend, it was not she who was the object of thechase; it was this unlucky King, ' he added, speaking English, 'who hasbeen run to earth by his mother. '

'Nay, but what is that to me?' said Berenger, with impatient superiorityto the affairs of the nation. 'How does it touch us?'

Sidney related the abstraction of the young Queen and her ladies, andthen handed over the rose-coloured token, which Berenger tookwith vehement ardour; then his features quivered as he read theneedle-pricked words-two that he had playfully insisted on her speakingand spelling after him in his adopted tongue, then not vulgarized, butthe tenderest in the language, 'Sweet heart. ' That was all, but to himthey conveyed constancy to him and his, whatever might betide, and anentreaty not to leave her to her fate. 

'My dearest! never!' he muttered; then turning hastily as he put theprecious token into his bosom, he exclaimed, 'Are their women yet gone?'and being assured that they were not departed when the two friends hadset out, he pushed his horse on at speed, so as to be able to senda reply by Veronique. He was barely in time: the clumsy wagon-likeconveyance of the waiting-women stood at the door of the castle, incourse of being packed with the Queen's wardrobe, amid the janglingsof lackeys, and expostulating cries of _femmes de chambre_, all in theworst 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 notparted with all her rustic simplicity and honesty, and who had beennecessarily taken into their confidence--was standing apart from thewhirl of confusion, holding the leashes of two or three little dogs thathad been confided to her care, that their keepers might with more easethrow themselves into the _melee_. Her face lighted up as she saw theBaron 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 gatheredfor her; give her ten thousand thanks for her token. Tell her to holdfirm, and that neither king nor queen, bolt nor bar, shall keep me fromher. Tell her, our watchword is HOPE. '

The sharp eyes of the duenna of the Queen's household, a rigid Spanishdame, were already searching for stray members of her flock, andVeronique had to hurry to her place, while Berenger remained to hatchnew plans, each wilder than the last, and torment himself with guesseswhether his project had been discovered. Indeed, there were moments whenhe fancied the frustration of his purpose the special object of QueenCatherine's journey, but he had the wisdom to keep any such suggestionto himself. 

The King came back by supper-time, looking no longer in a state ofindecision, but pale and morose. He spoke to no one as he entered, andafterwards 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 saidabruptly, 'Gentlemen, our party has been broken up, and I imagine thatafter our great hunt tomorrow, no one will have any objection to returnto Paris. We shall have merrier sport at Fontainebleau when this mosttroublesome of weddings is over. '

There was nothing to be done but to bow acquiescence, and the King againbecame grimly silent. After supper he challenged Coligny to a game ofchess, and not a word passed during the protracted contest, either fromthe combatants or any other person in the hall. It was as if the lighthad suddenly gone out to others besides the disappointed and anxiousBerenger, and a dull shadow had fallen on the place only yesterday solively, joyous, and hopeful. 

Berenger, chained by the etiquette of the royal presence, sat like astatue, his back against the wall, his arms crossed on his breast, hiseyes fixed, chewing the cud of the memories of his dream of bliss, orstriving to frame the future to his will, and to decide what was thenext reasonable step he could take, or whether his irrepressible longingto ride straight off to Monceaux, claim his wife, and take her onhorseback behind him, were a mere impracticable vision. 

The King, having been checkmated twice out of three times by theAdmiral, too honest a man not truly to accept his declaration of notwanting courtly play, pushed away the board, and was attended by themall to his COUCHER, which was usually made in public; and the Queenbeing absent, the gentlemen were required to stand around him till hewas ready to fall asleep. He did not seem disposed to talk, but beggedSidney to fetch his lute, and sing to him some English airs that hadtaken his fancy much when sung by Sidney and Berenger together. 

Berenger felt as if they would choke him in his present turbid state ofresentful uncertainty; but even as the unhappy young King spoke, it waswith a heavy, restless groan, as he added, 'If you know any lullaby thatwill give rest to a wretch tormented beyond bearing, let us have it. '

'Alas, Sire!' said the Admiral, seeing that no perilous ears remainedin the room; 'there are better and more soothing words than any mundanemelody. '

'_Peste_! My good father, ' said the King, petulantly, 'has not oldPhlipote, my nurse, rocked me to the sound of your Marot's Psalms, andcrooned her texts over me? I tell you I do not want to think. I wantwhat will drive thought away--to dull---'

'Alas! what dulls slays, ' said the Admiral. 

'Let it. Nothing can be worse than the present, ' said the wretchedCharles; then, as if wishing to break away from Coligny, he threwhimself round towards Berenger, and said, 'Here; stoop down, Ribaumont;a word with you. Your matters have gone up the mountains, as theItalians say, with mine. But never fear. Keep silence, and you shallhave the bird in your hand, only you must be patient. Hold! I will makeyou and Monsieur Sidney gentlemen of my bed-chamber, which will give youthe _entree_ of the Louvre; and if you cannot get her out of it withoutan _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 thepoor King's good-will did enable him to do his part with Sidney in thesongs that endeavoured to soothe the torments of the evil spirit whichhad 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 werebrought to light that the key to these doings was discovered. M. DeSauve, Charles's secretary, had disclosed his proceedings to his wife;she, flattered by the attentions of the Duke of Anjou, betrayed them tohim; and the Queen-mother, terrified at the change of policy, and theloss of the power she had enjoyed for so many years, had hurried to thespot. 

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, prophesiedthe overthrow of the Church, the desertion of his allies, the ruin ofhis throne, and finally announced her intention of hiding her head inher own hereditary estates in Auvergne, begging, as a last favour, thathe would give his brother time to quit France instead of involving himin 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 indispleasure to Monceaux, sure that, as in effect happened, he would notbe long in following her, imploring her not to abandon him, and makingan unconditional surrender of himself, his conscience, and his friendsinto her hands. Duplicity was so entirely the element of the court, that, even while thus yielding himself, it was as one checked, butcontinuing the game; he still continued his connection withthe Huguenots, hoping to succeed in his aims by some futurecounter-intrigue; and his real hatred of the court policy, and thegenuine desire to make common cause with them, served his mother'spurpose completely, since his cajolery thus became sincere. Her purposewas, probably, not yet formed. It was power that she loved, and hoped tosecure by the intrigues she had played off all her life; but she herselfwas in the hands of an infinitely more bloodthirsty and zealous faction, who could easily accomplish their ends by working on the womanly terrorsof 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 suitesof apartments, that Diane and Eustacie had not met after the pall-mallparty till they sat opposite to their several queens in the coachdriving through the woods, the elder cousin curiously watching the eyesof the younger, so wistfully gazing at the window, and now and thenrapidly winking as though to force back a rebellious tear. 

The cousins had been bred up together in the convent at Bellaise, andhad only been separated by Diane's having been brought to court twoyears sooner than Eustacie. They had always been on very kindly, affectionate terms; Diane treating her little cousin with the patronageof an elder sister, and greatly contributing to shield her fromthe temptations of the court. The elder cousin was so much the morehandsome, brilliant, and admired, that no notion of rivalry had crossedher mind; and Eustacie's inheritance was regarded by her as reserved forher brother, and the means of aggradizement an prosperity for herselfand her father. She looked upon the child as a sort of piece of propertyof the family, to be guarded and watched over for her brother; andwhen she had first discovered the error that the young baron was makingbetween the two daughters of the house, it was partly in kindness toEustacie, partly to carry out her father's plans, and partly fromher own pleasure in conversing with anything so candid and fresh asBerenger, that she had maintained the delusion. Her father believedhimself to have placed Berenger so entirely in the background, that hewould hardly be at court long enough to discover the imposition; andDiane was not devoid of a strong hope of winning his affection andbending his will so as to induce him to become her husband, and becomea French courtier for her sake--a wild dream, but a better castle in theair than she had ever yet indulged in. 

This arrangement was, however, disconcerted by the King's passion forSidney's society, which brought young Ribaumont also to court; and atthe time of the mischievous introduction by Madame Marguerite, Diane hadperceived that the mistake would soon be found out, and that she shouldno longer be able to amuse herself with the fresh-coloured, open-facedboy who was unlike all her former acquaintance; but the magnetism thatshows 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 thewax in her fingers. That he should prefer a little brown thing, whosebeauty was so inferior to her own, had never crossed her mind; shedid not even know that he was invited to the pall-mall party, and wasgreatly taken by surprise when her father sought an interview with her, accused her of betraying their interests, and told her that thisfoolish young fellow declared that he had been mistaken, and having nowdiscovered his veritable wife, protested against resigning her. 

By that time the whole party were gone to Montpipeau, but that the Baronwas among them was not known at the Louvre until Queen Catherine, whohad always treated Diane as rather a favoured, quick-witted _protegee_, commanded her attendance, and on her way let her know that Madamede Sauve had reported that, among all the follies that were beingperpetrated at the hunting-seat, the young Queen was absolutely throwingthe little Nid-de-Merle into the arms of her Huguenot husband, and thatif measures were not promptly taken all the great estates in theBocage would be lost to the young Chevalier, and be carried over to theHuguenot interest. 

Still Diane could not believe that it was so much a matter of loveas that the young had begun to relish court favour and to value theinheritance, and she could quite believe her little cousin had beenflattered by a few attentions that had no meaning in them. She was notprepared to find that Eustacie shrank from her, and tried to avoida private interview. In truth, the poor child had received suchinjunctions 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 herlot, and was so happy with her secret, so used to tell everythingto Diane, so longing to talk of her husband, that she was afraid ofbetraying herself if once they were alone together. Yet Diane, knowingthat her father trusted to her to learn how far things had gone, andpiqued at seeing the transparent little creature, now glowing andsmiling with inward bliss, now pale, pensive, sighing, and anxious, andscorning her as too childish for the love that she seemed to affect, wasresolved on obtaining confidence from her. 

And when the whole female court had sat down to the silk embroidery inwhich Catherine de Medicis excelled, Diane seated herself in the recessof a window and beckoned her cousin to her side, so that it was notpossible 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 meaninginstantly to return to her former place; and now, her cheeks in a flame, she answered in an indignant whisper, 'You know, Diane! How could youtry to keep him from me?'

'Because it was better for thee, my child, than to be pestered with anadventurer, ' she said, smiling, though bitterly. 

'My husband!' returned Eustacie proudly. 

'Bah! You know better than that!' Then, as Eustacie was about tospeak, but checked herself, Diane added, 'Yes, my poor friend, he hasa something engaging about him, and we all would have hindered you fromthe pain and embarrassment of a meeting with him. '

Eustacie smiled a little saucy smile, as though infinitely superior tothem all. 

'_Pauvre petite_, ' said Diane, nettled; 'she actually believes in hislove. '

'I will not hear a word against my husband!' said Eustacie, steppingback, as if to return to her place, but Diane rose and laid her hand onhers. 'My dear, ' she said, 'we must no part thus. I only wish to knowwhat 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 herfor half his life? What can he have done to master this silly littleheart?'

'I cannot tell you, Diane, ' said Eustacie, simply; and though she lookeddown, the colour on her face was more of a happy glow than a consciousblush. 'I love him too much; only we understand each other now, and itis of no use to try to separate us. '

'Ah, poor little thing, so she thinks, ' said Diane; and as Eustacieagain smiled as one incapable of being shaken in her conviction, sheadded, 'And how do you know that he loves you?'

Diane was startled by the bright eyes that flashed on her and the brightcolour that made Eustacie perfectly beautiful, as she answered, 'BecauseI am his wife! That is enough!' Then, before her cousin could speakagain, 'But, Diane, I promised not to speak of it. I know he woulddespise me if I broke my word, so I will not talk to you till I haveleave to tell you all, and I am going back to help Gabrielle de Limeuilwith her shepherdess. '

Mademoiselle de Ribaumont felt her attempt most unsatisfactory, but sheknew of old that Eustacie was very determined--all Bellaise know thatto oppose the tiny Baronne was to make her headstrong in her resolution;and if she suspected that she was coaxed, she only became moreobstinate. To make any discoveries, Diane must take the line of mostcautious caresses, such as to throw her cousin off her guard; and thisshe was forced to confess to her father when he sought an interview withher on the day of her return to Paris. He shook his head. She must beon 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 pointof eloping with her? If such a thing as that should succeed, the wholefamily was lost, and she was the only person who could prevent it. Hetrusted to her. 

The Chevalier had evidently come to regard his niece as his son's lawfulproperty, and the Baron as the troublesome meddler; and Diane had muchthe same feeling, enhanced by sore jealousy at Eustacie's triumph overher, and curiosity as to whether it could be indeed well founded. Shehad an opportunity of judging the same evening--mere habit always causedEustacie to keep under her wing, if she could not be near the Queen, whenever there was a reception, and to that reception of course Berengercame, armed with his right as gentleman of the bedchamber. Eustacie wascolouring and fluttering, as if by the instinct of his presence, evenbefore the tall fair head became visible, moving forward as well as thecrowd would permit, and seeking about with anxious eyes. The glancesof the blue and the black eyes met at last, and a satisfied radianceilluminated each young face; then the young man steered his way throughthe throng, but was caught midway by Coligny, and led up to be presentedto a hook-nosed, dark-haired, lively-looking young man, in a suit ofblack richly laced with silver. It was the King of Navarre, the royalbridegroom, who had entered Paris in state that afternoon. Eustacietried to be proud of the preferment, but oh! she thought it mistimed, and was gratified to mark certain wandering of the eye even while thegracious King was speaking. Then the Admiral said something that broughtthe girlish rosy flush up to the very roots of the short curls of flaxenhair, and made the young King's white teeth flash out in a mirthful, good-natured laugh, and thereupon the way opened, and Berenger wasbeside the two ladies, kissing Eustacie's hand, but merely bowing toDiane. 

She was ready to take the initiative. 

'My cousins deem me unpardonable, ' she said; 'yet I am going to purchasetheir pardon. See this cabinet of porcelain _a le Reine_, and Italianvases and gems, behind this curtain. There is all the siege of Troy, which M. Le Baron will not doubt explain to Mademoiselle, while I shallsit 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 battlefrom Pavia to Montcontour, and gave as full memoirs of each as didBlaise de Monluc, only _viva voce_ instead of in writing. Diane wasrather 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 entryinto Paris that afternoon, and the old gentleman's lamentation that hisown two nephews were among the three hundred Huguenot gentleman who hadformed the escort, she had only to observe whether his reminiscenceshad gone to Italy or to Flanders in order to be able to put in theappropriate remarks at each pause, while she listened all the while tothe murmurs behind the curtain. Yet it was not easy, with all her courtbreeding, to appear indifferent, and solely absorbed in hearing ofthe bad lodgings that had fallen to the share of the royal troops atBrescia, when such sounds were reaching her. It was not so much theactual words she heard, though these were the phrases--'_mon ange_, my heart, my love;' those were common, and Diane had lived in theQueen-mother's squadron long enough to despise those who utteredthem only less than those who believed them. It was the full depth oftenderness and earnestness, in the subdued tones of the voice, that gaveher 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, butnever had listened to anything like the sweet protecting tenderness ofvoice that seemed to embrace and shelter its object. Diane had no doubtsnow; he had never so spoken to her; nay, perhaps he had had no suchcadences in his voice before. It was quite certain that Eustacie waseverything to him, she herself nothing; she who might have had anygallant in the court at her feet, but had never seen one whom shecould believe in, whose sense of esteem had been first awakened by thisstranger lad who despised her. Surely he was loving this foolish childsimply as his duty; his belonging, as his right he might struggle hardfor her, and if he gained her, be greatly disappointed; for how couldEustacie appreciate him, little empty-headed, silly thing, who would beamused and satisfied by any court flatterer?

However, Diane held out and played her part, caught scraps of theconversation, and pieced them together, yet avoided all appearanceof inattention to M. De Selinville, and finally dismissed him, andmanoeuvred first Eustacie, and after a safe interval Berenger, out ofthe cabinet. The latter bowed as he bade her good night, and said, withthe most open and cordial of smiles, 'Cousin, I thank you with all myheart. '

The bright look seemed to her another shaft. 'What happiness!' said sheto 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 quarteredin a sort of barrack among the gentlemen of Monsieur's suite, and theold Chevalier was living in the room Berenger had taken for him at theCroix de Lorraine, and it was only on the most public days that theyattended at the palace. Such a day, however, there was on the ensuingSunday, when Henry of Navarre and Marguerite of France were to bewedded. Their dispensation was come, but, to the great relief ofEustacie, there was no answer with it to the application for theCASSATION of her marriage. In fact, this dispensation had never emanatedfrom the Pope at all. Rome would not sanction the union of a daughterof France with a Huguenot prince; and Charles had forged the document, probably with his mother's knowledge, in the hope of spreading her toilsmore completely round her prey, while he trusted that the victims mightprove too strong for her, and destroy her web, and in breaking forthmight 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 inFrance 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 devotedwere the gallant following of the one, splendid and highly gifted theattendants of the other; and their union seemed to promise peace to along distracted kingdom. 

Yet what an abyss lay beneath those trappings! The bridegroom and hiscomrades were as lions in the toils of the hunter, and the lure that hadenticed them thither was the bride, herself so unwilling a victim thather lips refused to utter the espousal vows, and her head as forceforward by her brother into a sign of consent; while the favoured loverof her whole lifetime agreed to the sacrifice in order to purchase thevengeance for which he thirsted, and her mother, the corrupter of herown children, looked complacently on at her ready-dug pit of treacheryand bloodshed. 

Among the many who played unconscious on the surface of that gulf ofdestruction, were the young creatures whose chief thought in the pageantwas the glance and smile from the gallery of the Queen's ladies to thelong procession of the English ambassador's train, as they tried toremember their own marriage there; Berenger with clear recollection ofhis father's grave, anxious face, and Eustacie chiefly remembering herown white satin and turquoise dress, which indeed she had seen on everygreat festival-day as the best raiment of the image of Notre Damede Bellaise. She remained in the choir during mass, but Berengeraccompanied the rest of the Protestants with the bridegroom at theirhead into the nave, where Coligny beguiled the time with walking about, looking at the banners that had been taken from himself and Conde atMontcontour and Jarnac, saying that he hoped soon to see them taken downand replaced by Spanish banners. Berenger had followed because he feltthe need of doing as Walsingham and Sidney thought right, but he hadnot been in London long enough to become hardened to the desecration ofchurches by frequenting 'Paul's Walk. ' He remained bareheaded, and stoodas near as he could to the choir, listening to the notes that floatedfrom the priests and acolytes at the high altar, longing from the timewhen he and Eustacie should be one in their prayers, and lost in areverie, till a grave old nobleman passing near him reproved him fordallying with the worship of Rimmon. But his listening attitude had notpassed 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 werein the meantime attending the divine service that had been postponed onaccount of the morning's ceremony. Neither was the Duke of Guise presentat the entertainment; for though he had some months previously beenpiqued and entrapped into a marriage with Catherine of Cleves, yet hispassion for Marguerite was still so strong that he could not bear tojoin in the festivities of her wedding with another. The absence of somany distinguished persons caused the admission of many less constantlyprivileged, and thus it was that Diane there met both her father andbrother, who eagerly drew her into a window, and demanded what she hadto tell them, laughing too at the simplicity of the youth, who hadleft for the Chevalier a formal announcement that he had dispatched hisprotest to Rome, and considered himself as free to obtain his wife byany 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 doI advise you, brother, to thrust yourself in the way of _la petiteentetee_ 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 bymuch quieter modes, only you must first give us information. '

'She tells me nothing, ' said Diane; 'she is in one of her ownhumours--high and mighty. '

'_Peste_! where is your vaunt of winding the little one round yourfinger?'

'With time, I said, ' replied Diane. Curiously enough, she had nocompunction in worming secrets from Eustacie and betraying them, butshe could not bear to think of the trap she had set for the unsuspectingyouth, and how ingenuously he had thanked her, little knowing how shehad listened to his inmost secrets. 

'Time is everything, ' said her father; 'delay will be our ruin. Yourinheritance will slip through your fingers, my son. The youth will soonwin favour by abjuring his heresy; he will play the same game with theKing as his father did with King Henri. You will have nothing but yoursword, and for you, my poor girl, there is nothing but to throw yourselfon the kindness of your aunt at Bellaise, if she can receive the vows ofa dowerless maiden. '

'It will never be, ' said Narcisse. 'My rapier will soon dispose of a bigrustic like that, who knows just enough of fencing to make him an easyprey. What! I verily believe the great of entreaty. 'And yet the finefellow was willing enough to break the marriage when he took her for thebride. '

'Nay, my son, ' argued the Chevalier, will apparently to spare hisdaughter from the sting of mortification, 'as I said, all can be donewithout danger of bloodshed on either side, were we but aware of anyrenewed project of elopement. The pretty pair would be easily waylaid, the girl safely lodged at Bellaise, the boy sent off to digest his pridein 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 Ishould much grieve to harm; but if you know of any plan of elopementand conceal it, my daughter, then upon you will lie either the ruin anddisgrace of your family, or the death of one or both of the youths. '

Diane saw that her question had betrayed her knowledge. She spokefaintly. 'Something I did overhear, but I know not how to utter atreason. '

'There is no treason where there is no trust, daughter, ' said theChevalier, in the tone of a moral sage. 'Speak!'

Diane never disobeyed her father, and faltered, 'Wednesday; it is forWednesday. 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; hisservants 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 ourfortunes. There is put one thing more that you must do. Make her obtainthe pearls from him. '

'Ah!' sighed Diane, half shocked, half revengeful, as she thought how hehad withheld them from her. 

'It is necessary, ' said the Chevalier. 'The heirloom of our house mustnot be risked. Secure the pearls, child, and you will have done goodservice, and earned the marriage that shall reward you. '

When he was gone, Diane pressed her hands together with a strangesense of misery. He, who had shrunk from the memory of little Diane'suntruthfulness, what would he think of the present Diane's treachery?Yet it was to save his life and that of her brother--and for theassertion 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 thatshe was to prepare to act the part of a nymph of Paradise in the King'smasque on Wednesday night, and must dress at once to rehearse her partin the ballet specially designed by Monsieur. 

Her first impulse was to hurry to her own Queen, whom she entreated tofind some mode of exempting her. But Elisabeth, who was still in bed, looked distressed and frightened, made signs of caution, and when theweeping girl was on the point of telling her of the project that wouldthus be ruined, silenced her by saying, 'Hush! my poor child, I have butmeddled too much already. Our Lady grant that I have not done you moreharm than good! Tell me no more. '

'Ah! Madame, I will be discreet, I will tell you nothing; but if youwould only interfere to spare me from this ballet! It is Monsieur'scontrivance! Ah! Madame, could you but speak to the King!'

'Impossible, child, ' said the Queen. 'Things are not her as they were athappy 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 knewthat the King had been in so savage a mood ever since his return that noone durst ask anything from him a little while since, he had laughed athis gentle wife for letting herself, and Emperor's daughter, be trampledon where his brother Francis's Queen, from her trumpery, beggarlyrealm, had held up her head, and put down _la belle Mere_; he had amusedhimself with Elisabeth's pretty little patronage of the young Ribaumontsas a promising commencement in intriguing like other people; but nowhe was absolutely violent at any endeavour to make him withstandhis mother, and had driven his wife back into that cold, listless, indifferent shell of apathy from which affection and hope had begun torouse her. She knew it would only make it the worse for her little Nidde Merle for her to interpose when Monsieur had made the choice. 

And Eustacie was more afraid of Monsieur than even of Narcisse, andher Berenger could not be there to protect her. However, there wasprotection 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 forready comprehension and graceful evolutions. She had never been somuch complimented before, and was much cheered by praise. Diane showedherself highly pleased with her little cousin's success, embraced her, and told her she was finding her true level at court. She would be theprettiest of all the nymphs, who were all small, since fairies ratherthan 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 tosee them on his bonnet--they are hardly whiter than his forehead. '

'Foolish little thing!' said Diane, 'I shall think little of his love ifhe cares to see himself in them more than you. '

The shaft seemed carelessly shot, but Diane knew that it would work, andso 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 tofigure as a nymph of Elysium. She would thus be in sight as a prominentfigure the whole evening, even till an hour so late that the marketboat which Osbert had arranged for their escape could not wait for themwithout exciting suspicion, and besides, his delicate English feelingswere revolted at the notion of her forming a part of such a spectacle. She could not understand his displeasure. If they could not go onWednesday, they could go on Saturday; and as to her acting, half thenoblest ladies in the court would be in piece, and if English husbandsdid 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 putmyself in your power. '

'That has been done for you, sweetheart, ' he said, smiling with perhapsa 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, andshe was too proud to like to be reminded that she was in any one'spower. 

'I thought, ' said Berenger, with the gentleness that always made himmanly 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 Icannot avoid. '

Berenger was candid enough to recollect that royal commands did notbrook disobedience, and, being thoroughly enamoured besides of hislittle 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 nomore. '

'You forgive me?' she said, softened instantly. 

'Forgive you? What for, pretty one? For my forgetting that you are stilla 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 meedof our forefather's valour, to form part of the pageant and mummery? Butnever mind, sweetheart, ' for he could not bear to vex her again: 'youshall have them to-night: only take care of them. My mother would lookback on me if she knew I had let them out of my care, but you and I areone after all. '

Berenger could not bear to leave his wife near the Duke of Anjou andNarcisse, 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 noddedcomprehension, and told him it was open to him either to be a demon ina tight suit of black cloth, with cloven-hoof shoes, a long tail, and atrident; or one of the Huguenots who were to be repulsed from Paradisefor the edification of the spectators. As these last were to wear suitsof knightly armour, Berenger much preferred making one of them in spiteof their doom. 

The masque was given at the hall of the Hotel de Bourbon, where a noblegallery accommodated the audience, and left full space beneath for theactors. Down the centre of the stage flowed a stream, broad enough tocontain a boat, which was plied by the Abbe de Mericour--transformed bya 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 Styxhad not Berenger, better accustomed to boats than any of the _dramatispersonoe_, caught him by the arms as he was about to step in, pointedout the perils, weighted the frail vessel, and given him a lesson inpaddling it to and fro, with such a masterly hand, that, had therebeen time for a change of dress, the part of Charon would have beenunanimously transferred to him; but the delay could not be suffered, and poor Mericour, in fear of a ducking, or worse, of ridicule, balancedhimself, pole in hand, in the midst of the river. To the right of theriver was Elysium--a circular island revolving on a wheel which was anabsolute orrery, representing in concentric circles the skies, with thesun, moon, the seven planets, twelve signs, and the fixed stars, all illuminated with small lamps. The island itself was covered withverdure, in which, among bowers woven of gay flowers, reposed twelvenymphs of Paradise, of whom Eustacie was one. 

On the other side of the stream was another wheel, whose grisly emblemswere reminders of Dante's infernal circles, and were lighted by luridflames, while little bells were hung round so as to make a harshjangling sound, and all of the court who had any turn for buffoonerywere leaping and dancing about as demons beneath it, and uttering wildshouts. 

King Charles and his two brothers stood on the margin of the Elysianlake. King Henry, the Prince of Conde, and a selection of the youngerand gayer Huguenots, were the assailants, --storming Paradise to gainpossession 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 beenof the bluntest foil ever since the father of these princes had diedbeneath Montgomery's spear. And when the King and his brothers, one ofthem a puny crooked boy, were the champions, the battle must needs bethe merest show, though there were lookers-on who thought that, judgingby 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 ofthe infernal company, who, as fast as the Huguenots crossed swords orshivered lances with their royal opponents, encircled them with theirlong black arms, and dragged them struggling away to Tartarus. Henry ofNavarre yielded himself with a good-will to the horse-play with whichthis was performed, resisting just enough to give his demoniacal captorsa good deal of trouble, while yielding all the time, and taking themby surprise by agile efforts, that showed that if he were excluded fromParadise it was only by his own consent, and that he heartily enjoyedthe merriment. Most of his comrades, in especial the young Count deRochefoucauld, entered into the sport with the same heartiness, butthe Prince of Conde submitted to his fate with a gloomy, disgustedcountenance, that added much to the general mirth; and Berenger, withEustacie before his eyes, looking pale, distressed, and ill at ease, wasa great deal too much in earnest. He had so veritable an impulse to leapforward and snatch her from that giddy revolving prison, that he struckagainst the sword of Monsieur with a hearty good-will. His silvered lathsnapped 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 pulledover on his back, while yells and shouts of discordant laughter ranground 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 derisivevoice, that well he knew, cried, 'Ha, the deadly sin of pride! Monsieurthinks his painted face pleases the ladies. To the depths with him--'and therewith one imp pulled him backwards again, while others danceda war-dance round him, pointing their forks at him; and the primetormentor, whom he perfectly recognized, not only leapt over him, butspurned at his face with a cloven foot, giving a blow, not of gay Frenchmalice, but of malignity. It was too much for the boy's forbearance. He struggled free, dashing his adversaries aside fiercely, and as theyagain gathered about him, with the leader shouting, 'Rage, too, rage! Tothe prey, imps--' he clenched his fist, and dealt the foremost foe sucha blow in the chest as to level him at once with the ground. 

'Monsieur forgets, ' said a voice, friendly yet reproachful, 'that thisis but sport. 

It was Henry of Navarre himself who spoke, and bent to give a hand tothe fallen imp. A flush of shame rushed over Berenger's face, alreadyred with passion. He felt that he had done wrong to use his strength atsuch a moment, and that, though there had been spite in is assailant, he had not been therefore justified. He was glad to see Narcisse riselightly to his feet, evidently unhurt, and, with the frankness withwhich he had often made it up with Philip Thistlewood or his otherEnglish 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 circleof hobgoblins closed upon with their tridents, forks, and other horribleimplements, to drive him back within two tall barred gates, which, illuminated by red flames, were to form the ghastly prison of thevanquished. Perhaps fresh indignities would have been attempted, hadnot the King of Navarre thrown himself on his side, shared with him thebrunt of all the grotesque weapons, and battled them off with infinitespirit and address, shielding him as it were from their rude insults byhis own dexterity and inviolability, though retreating all the time tillthe 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. DeRibaumont, but, for lack of yonder devil's claw, here is mine. I like tomeet a comrade who can strike a hearty blow, and ask a hearty pardon. '

'I was too hot, Sire, ' confessed Berenger, with one of his ingenuousblushes, 'but he enraged me. '

'He means mischief. ' said Henry. 'Remember, if you are molestedrespecting this matter, that you have here a witness that you did thepart of a gentleman. '

Berenger bowed his thanks, and began something about the honour, but hiseye anxiously followed the circuit on which Eustacie was carried and theglance was quickly remarked. 

'How? Your heart is spinning in that Mahometan paradise, and that iswhat put such force into your fists. Which of the houris is it? Thelittle one with the wistful eyes, who looked so deadly white, andshrieked out when the devilry overturned you? Eh! Monsieur, you are ahappy man. '

'I should be, Sire;' and Berenger was on the point of confiding thesituation of his affairs to this most engaging of princes, when a freshsupply of prisoners, chased with wild antics and fiendish yells by thedevils, came headlong in on them; and immediately, completing, as Henrysaid, the galimatias of mythology, a pasteboard cloud was propelledon the stage, and disclosed the deities Mercury and Cupid, who made acomplimentary address to the three princely brothers, inciting them toclaim the nymphs whom their valour had defended, and lead them throughthe mazes of a choric celestial dance. 

This dance had been the special device of Monsieur and theballet-master, and during the last three days the houris had been almostdanced off their legs with rehearsing it morning, noon, and night, butone at least of them was scarcely in a condition for its performance. Eustacie, dizzied at the first minute by the whirl of her Elysianmerry-go-round, had immediately after become conscious of that which shehad been too childish to estimate merely in prospect, the exposure touniversal gaze. Strange staring eyes, glaring lights, frightful impsseemed to wheel round her in an intolerable delirious succession. Heronly refuge was in closing her eyes, but even this could not long bepersevered in, so necessary a part of the pageant was she; and besides, she had Berenger to look for, Berenger, whom she had foolishly laughedat for knowing how dreadful it would be. But of course the endeavour toseek for one object with her eyes made the dizziness even more dreadful;and when, at length, she beheld him dragged down by the demoniacalcreatures, whose horrors were magnified by her confused senses, and thenext moment she was twirled out of sight, her cry of distracted alarmwas irrepressible. Carried round again and again, on a wheel that to herwas far more like Ixion's than that of the spheres, she never clearedher perceptions as to where he was, and only was half-maddened bythe fantastic whirl of incongruous imagery, while she barely sat outMercury's lengthy harangue; and when her wheel stood still, and she wasreleased, she could not stand, and was indebted to Charon and one of herfellow-nymphs for supporting her to a chair in the back of the scene. Kind Charon hurried to bring her wine, the lady revived her withessences, and the ballet-master clamoured for his performers. 

Ill or well, royal ballets must be danced. One long sob, one gaze roundat the refreshing sight of a room no longer in motion, one wistful lookat the gates of Tartarus, and the misery of the throbbing, aching headmust be disregarded. The ballet-master touched the white cheeks withrouge, and she stepped forward just in time, for Monsieur himself wascoming 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 shemoved through it blindly, senselessly, and when it was over was led backbetween the two Demoiselles de Limeuil to the apartment that served asa green-room, drooping and almost fainting. They seated her in a chair, and consulted round her, and her cousin Narcisse was among the first toapproach; but no sooner had she caught sight of his devilish trim thanwith a little shriek she shut her eyes, and flung herself to the otherside 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 andconfused 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 theynot open those dreadful bars?' she added, presently. 

'They are even now opening them, ' said Mdlle. De Limeuil. 'Hark! theyare 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 grimdisguise stood full before her. 'No haste, cousin, ' he said; 'you arenot 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 anopportunity as to have little consideration for her condition; butshe was unable to bear any more, and broke out: 'Yes, it was; I alwaysdetested you more than ever, since you deceived me so cruelly. Oh, dobut leave me!'

'You scorn me, then! You prefer to me--who have loved you so long--thatchildish 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 tome 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 herfather appearing at that moment, she tottered towards the former, andbecoming quite passive under the influence of violent dizziness andheadache, made no objection to being half led, half carried, throughgalleries 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 therose-coloured token in his helmet, he found that his lady-love had beenobliged by indisposition to return home; and while he stood, folding hisarms to restrain their strong inclination to take Narcisse by the throatand demand whether this were another of his deceptions, a train offireworks suddenly exploded in the middle of the Styx--a last surprise, especially contrived by King Charles, and so effectual that half theladies were shrieking, and imagining that they and the whole hall hadblown up together. 

A long supper, full of revelry, succeeded, and at length Sidney adRibaumont walked home together in the midst of their armed servantsbearing torches. All the way home Berenger was bitter in vituperation ofthe hateful pageant and all its details. 

'Yea, truly, ' replied Sidney; 'methought that it betokens disease in themind of a nation when their festive revelry is thus ghastly, renderingthe most awful secrets made known by our God in order to warm man fromsin into a mere antic laughing-stock. Laughter should be moved by whatis fair and laughter-worthy--even like such sports as our own "MidsummerNight's Dream. " I have read that the bloody temper of Rome fed itself ingladiator shows, and verily, what we beheld to-night betokens somethingat once grisly and light-minded in the mood of this country. '

Sidney thought so the more when on the second ensuing morning theAdmiral de Coligny was shot through both hands by an assassin generallyknown to have been posted by the Duke of Guise, yet often called by thesinister 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 dinneron 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 ofyourselves, ' said the Ambassador. 'The Admiral's wound has justly causedmuch alarm, and I hear that the Protestants are going vapouring about inso noisy and incautious a manner, crying out for justice, that it isbut too likely that the party of the Queen-mother and the Guise will bemoved 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, ' repliedSir Francis. 'This house is, of course, inviolable; and, whatever themadness of the people, we have stout hearts enough here to enforcerespect thereto; but I cannot answer even for an Englishman's lifebeyond its precincts; and you, Ribaumont, whom I cannot even claim as myQueen's subject--I greatly fear to trust you beyond its bounds. '

'I cannot help it, sir. Nay, with the most grateful thanks for all yourgoodness to me, I must pray you not to take either alarm or offence if Ireturn not this night. '

'No more, my friend, ' said Walsingham, quickly; 'let me know nothing ofyour purposes, but take care of yourself. I would you were safe at homeagain, though the desire may seem inhospitable. The sooner the betterwith 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 thatdogs and cattle scent an earthquake in the air, so man and women seem tobreathe a sense of danger in this city. And to me the graciousnesswith which the Huguenots have been of late treated wears a strangelysuspicious air. Sudden and secret is the blow like to be, and we cannotbe too much on our guard. Therefore remember, my young friends both, that your danger or death would fall heavily on those ye love and honourat home. '

So saying, he left the two youths, unwilling to seek further confidence, and Berenger held his last consultation with Sidney, to whom he gavedirections for making full explanation to Walsingham in his absence, andexpediting Mr. Adderley's return to England. Osbert alone was to go tothe Louvre with him, after having seen the five English grooms on boardthe little decked market-vessel on the Seine, which was to await thefugitives. Berenger was to present himself in the palace as in hisordinary court attendance, and, contriving to elude notice among thethrong who were there lodged, was to take up his station at the foot ofthe stairs leading to the apartments of ladies, whence Eustacie was todescend at about eleven o'clock, with her maid Veronique. Landry Osbertwas 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 theSeine had been secured. 

Sidney wished much to accompany him to the palace, if his presence couldbe any aid or protection, but on consideration it was decided that hisbeing at the Louvre was likely to attract notice to Ribaumont's delayingthere. The two young men therefore shook hands and parted, as youths whotrusted that they had begun a lifelong friendship, with mutual promisesto write to one another--the one, the adventures of his flight; theother, the astonishment it would excite. And auguries were exchanged ofmerry meetings in London, and of the admiration the lovely little wifewould excite at Queen Elizabeth's court. 

Then, with an embrace such as English friends then gave, they separatedat the gate; and Sidney stood watching, as Berenger walked free and bolddown the street, his sword at his side, his cloak over one shoulder, hisfeathered cap on one side, showing his bright curling hair, a sunshinypicture of a victorious bridegroom--such a picture as sent PhilipSidney'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 ofNavarre, whose royal title made him be looked on as is a manner theirmonarch, though his kingdom had been swallowed by Spain, and he was nomore than a French duke distantly related to royalty in the male line, and more nearly through his grandmother and bride. The eight hundredgentlemen he had brought with him swarmed about his apartments, makingtheir lodging on staircases and in passages; and to Berenger it seemedas if the King's guards and Monsieur's gentlemen must have come in inequal numbers to balance them. Narcisse was there, and Berenger keptcautiously amid his Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have aquarrel thrust on him which he could not honourably desert. It was latebefore he could work his way to the young Queen's reception-room, wherehe found Eustacie. She looked almost as white as at the masque; butthere was a graver, less childish expression in her face than he hadever 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 inEngland!'

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 willstrive 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 forthyself. Think of the perils, and decide. '

Before Eustacie could answer, a rough voice came near, the King makingnoisy sport with the Count de Rochefoucauld and others. He was louderand ruder than Berenger had ever yet seen him, almost giving the notionof intoxication; but neither he nor his brother Henry ever tasted wine, though both had a strange pleasure in being present at the orgies oftheir companions: the King, it was generally said, from love of theself-forgetfulness of excitement--the Duke of Anjou, because his coolbrain there collected men's secrets to serve afterwards for his spitefuldiversion. 

Berenger would willingly have escaped notice, but his bright face andsunny hair always made him conspicuous, and the King suddenly strode upto him: 'You here, sir? I thought you would have managed your affairsso 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 havea carouse there to-night that will ring through all Paris! Yes, andshake 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 roundRochefoucauld'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, assoon as the King was out of hearing. 

'But you will not go! His comrades drink till--oh! two, three in themorning. We should never get away. '

'No, I must risk his displeasure. We shall soon be beyond his reach. Butat 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 atraveling 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 therooms of the Queen-mother, to bid her good night; and Eustacie mustfollow. Would Diane be there? Oh that the command to judge between herheart 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 ifstung. 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, breakingaway. 'Follow thy Queen now!'

Catherine, who sat between her daughters Claude and Marguerite, lookedpre-occupied, and summarily dismissed her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, whom Eustacie was obliged to follow to her own state-room. There all theforms of the COUCHER were tediously gone through; every pin had its ownceremony, and even when her Majesty was safely deposited under her bluesatin coverlet the ladies still stood round till she felt disposed tofall asleep. Elisabeth was both a sleepy and a considerate person, sothat this was not so protracted a vigil as was sometimes exacted by themore wakeful princesses; but Eustacie could not escape from it till itwas already almost midnight, the period for her tryst. 

Her heart was very full. It was not the usual flutter and terror of aneloping girl. Eustacie was a fearless little being, and her consciencehad no alarms; her affections were wholly with Berenger, and hertransient glimpses of him had been as of something come out of a regionhigher, tenderer, stronger, purer, more trustworthy than that where shehad dwelt. She was proud of belonging to him. She had felt upheld by theconsciousness through years of waiting, and now he more than realizedher hopes, and she could have wept for exulting joy. Yet it was astrange, stealthy break with all she had to leave behind. The lightto which he belonged seemed strange, chill, dazzling light, and sheshivered at the thought of it, as if the new world, new ideas, and newrequirements could only be endured with him to shield her and help heron. And withal, there seemed to her a shudder over the whole place onthat night. The King's eyes looked wild and startled, the Queen-mother'scalm was strained, the Duchess of Lorraine was evidently in a state ofstrong nervous excitement; there were strange sounds, strange peoplemoving about, a weight on everything, as if they were under the shadowof a thunder-cloud. 'Could it be only her own fancy?' she said toherself, because this was to be the great event of her life, for surelyall these great people could not know or heed that little Eustacie deRibaumont was to make her escape that night!

The trains of royalty were not sumptuously lodged. France never hascared so much for comfort as for display. The waiting-lady of thebedchamber slept in the ante-room of her mistress; the others, howeverhigh their rank, were closely herded together up a winding stairleading to a small passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses, wherein thedemoiselles slept, often with their maids, and then dressed themselvesin the space afforded by the passage. Eustacie's cell was nearly at theend of the gallery, and exchanging 'good-nights' with her companions, she proceeded to her recess, where she expected to find Veronique readyto adjust her dress. Veronique, however, was missing; but anxious tolose no time, she had taken off her delicate white satin farthingale tochange it for an unobtrusive dark woolen kirtle, when, to her surpriseand dismay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself heard outsidethe 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?' 'Theyare bolting our door outside. ' But only Eustacie sped like lightningalong 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 crythat she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted the nextmoment. 

Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed. 'What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid theywill not let us out to-morrow?'

'My maid!' murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a colourto her distress. 

'Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us. '

This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intentlylistening for Veronique's step, wishing that her companions would holdtheir peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed whetherit were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery of Madame laComtesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so full of strangepeople, who could say what might happen? And there was a talk ofa conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any rate, every one was too muchfrightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on the floor, some ona chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled together in Gabrielle deLimeuil's recess, the nearest to the door, and one after another relatedhorrible tales of blood, murder, and vengeance--then, alas! Only toofrequent occurrences in their unhappy land--each bringing some frightfulcontribution from her own province, each enhancing upon the last-toldstory, and ever and anon pausing with bated breath at some fanciedsound, or supposed start of one of the others; then clinging closetogether, and renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voicethat grew louder with the interest of the story. Eustacie alone wouldnot join the cluster. Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood withher back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest indicationoutside of a step that might lead to her release, or at least enableher to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently that her companionswould go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening with the like dreadfulfascination to each of the terrible histories, which added each momentto the nervous horror of the whole party. Only one, a dull and composedgirl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head inher companion's lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder andsuppressed cry when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of thealready 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 hereticrising! Ah! there was to be a slaughter of the heretics! I heard itwhispered. Oh, let us out! Open the door!'

But nobody heard: nobody opened. There was one who stood without wordor cry, close to the door--her eyes dilated, her cheek colourless, herwhole person, soul and body alike, concentrated in that one impulse tospring forward the first moment the bolt should be drawn. But still thedoor 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 foundEustacie as ready to rush forth, past all resistance, as she had beenthe night before, and she was already in the doorway when her maidVeronique, her face swollen with weeping, caught her by the hands andimplored 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 othermaidens 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, ' saidEustacie, 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 sawall. The traitor--the Chevalier Narcisse--came on him, cloaked likeyou--and--shot him dead--with, oh, such cruel words of mockery! Oh! woethe day! Stay, stay, dear lady, the place is all blood--theyare slaying them all--all the Huguenots! Will no one stopher?--Mademoiselle--ma'm'selle!--'

For Eustacie no sooner gathered the sense of Veronique's words than shedarted suddenly forwards, and was in a few seconds more at the foot ofthe stairs. There, indeed, lay a pool of dark gore, and almost in itBerenger's black velvet cap, with the heron plume. Eustacie, with a lowcry, snatched it up, continued her headlong course along the corridor, swiftly as a bird, Veronique following, and vainly shrieking to her tostop. Diane, appearing at the other end of the gallery, saw but for amoment the little figure, with the cloak gathered round her neck, andfloating behind her, understood Veronique's cry and joined in the chaseacross hall and gallery, where more stains were to be seen, even down tothe marble stairs, every step slippery with blood. Others there were whosaw and stood aghast, not understanding the apparition that flittedon so swiftly, never pausing till at the great door at the foot of thestairs 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. DeNil-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 wastrying to draw her back. 

'Puir lassie!' muttered the stout Scotsman to himself, 'this fearsomenight 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 stepsinto the court, when at that moment the young Abbe de Mericour was seenadvancing, pale, breathless, horrorstruck, and to him Diane shrieked toarrest the headlong course. He obeyed, seeing the wild distraction ofthe white face and widely glaring eyes, took her by both hands, and heldher in a firm grasp, saying, 'Alas, lady, you cannot go out. It is nosight for any one. '

'They are killing the Protestants, ' she said; 'I am one! Let me findthem and die. '

A strong effort to free herself ensued, but it was so suddenly succeededby a swoon that the Abbe could scarcely save her from dropping on thesteps. Diane begged him to carry her in, since they were in full view ofmen-at-arms in the court, and, frightful to say, of some of the ladiesof the palace, who, in the frenzy of that dreadful time, had actuallycome down to examine the half-stripped corpses of the men with whom theyhad jested not twelve hours before. 

'Ah! it is no wonder, ' said the youthful Abbe, as he tenderly liftedthe inanimate figure. 'This has been a night of horrors. I was comingin haste to know whether the King knows of this frightful plot of M. DeGuise, 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! Takecare! Even your _soutane_ would not save you if M. D'O and his crewheard you. But I must pray you to aid me with this poor child! I dreadthat 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 desertedby all the young ladies. He laid her on her bed, and finding he could dono more, left her to her cousin and her maid. 

The poor child had been unwell and feverish ever since the masque, andthe suspense of these few days with the tension of that horrible nighthad prostrated her. She only awoke from her swoon to turn her head fromthe light and refuse to be spoken to. 

'But, Eustacie, child, listen; this is all in vain--he lives, ' saidDiane. 

'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 toldthem. 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 fatherloved? 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 toVeronique. 'She saw it, ' she said; 'ask her. '

'Saw what?' said Diane, turning fiercely on Veronique. 'What vile deceithave you half killed your lady with?'

'Alas! Mademoiselle, I did but tell her what I had seen, ' sighedVeronique, 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. Tellher how you saw Narcisse. '

'False girl!' burst out Diane. 

'No, no, ' cried Veronique. 'Oh, pardon me, Mademoiselle, I could nothelp it. '

In spite of her reluctance, she was forced to tell that she had foundherself locked out of her mistress's room, and after losing much timein searching for the CONCIERGE, learnt that the ladies were locked upby order of the Queen-mother, and was strongly advised not to be runningabout the passages. After a time, however, while sitting with theCONCIERGE'S wife, she heard such frightful whispers from men with whitebadges, who were admitted one by one by the porter, and all led silentlyto a small lower room, that she resolved on seeking out the Baron'sservant, and sending him to warn his master, while she would take up herstation at her lady's door. She found Osbert, and with him was ascendinga narrow spiral leading from the offices--she, unfortunately, theforemost. As she came to the top, a scuffle was going on--four menhad thrown themselves upon one, and a torch distinctly showed her theyounger Chevalier holding a pistol to the cheek of the fallen man, andshe heard the worlds, _'Le baiser d'Eustacie! Jet e barbouillerai cechien de visage, '_ and at the same moment the pistol was discharged. Shesprang back, oversetting, as she believed, Osbert, and fled shrieking tothe 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 herswoon she had held clenched to her bosom, the velvet cap soaked withblood. 

'Besides, ' added Veronique, resolved to defend her assertion, 'whom elsewould 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 oneof them by name, one after the other, into the court, and there thewhite-sleeves cut them down or pistolled them like sheep for theslaughter. They lie all out there on the terrace like so many carcasesat 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 hairof 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 therevolving elysium, 'Oh, demons, have pity!' was her cry. 

Diane's soothings were like speaking to the winds; and at last she sawthe necessity of calling in further aid; but afraid of the scandal thatthe poor girl's raving accusations might create, she would not sendfor the Huguenots surgeon, Ambroise Pare, whom the King had carefullysecured in his own apartments, but employed one of the barber valets ofthe Queen-mother's household. Poor Eustacie was well pleased to seeher blood flowing, and sank back on her pillow murmuring that she hadconfessed her husband's faith, and would soon be one with him, and Dianefeared for a moment lest the swoon should indeed be death. 

The bleeding was so far effectual that it diminished the fever, andEustacie became rational again when she had dozed and wakened, but shewas little able or willing to speak, and would not so much as listento Diane's asseverations that Veronique had made a frightful error, and that the Baron would prove to be alive. Whether it were thatthe admission that Diane had known of the project for preventing theelopement that invalidated her words, or whether the sufferer'sinstinct made her believe Veronique's testimony rather than her cousin'sassurances, it was all 'cramming words into her ear against the stomachof her sense, ' and she turned away from them with a piteous, petulanthopelessness: 'Could they not even let her alone to die in peace!'

Diane was almost angered at this little silly child being in such anagony of sorrow--she, who could never have known how to love him. Andafter all this persistent grief was willfully thrown away. For Dianespoke 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 ratherthe youth lived, provided he were inoffensive. No doubt a little forcehad been necessary to kidnap one so tall, active, and determined, and Veronique had made up her horrible tale after the usual custom ofwaiting-maids. 

Nothing else SHOULD be true. Did she think otherwise, she should beeven more frantic than Eustacie! Why, it would be her own doing! She hadbetrayed the day of the escape--she had held aloof from warning. Therewas pleasure in securing Nid-de-Merle for her brother, pleasure inbalking the foolish child who had won the heart that disregarded her. Nay, there might have been even pleasure in the destruction of thescorner of her charms--the foe of her house--there might have been pridein receiving Queen Catherine's dexterous hint that she had been an aptpupil, if the young Baron had only been something different--somethingless fair, gracious, bright, and pure. One bright angel seemed to haveflitted across her path, and nothing should induce her to believe shehad destroyed him. 

The stripped corpses of the murdered Huguenots of the palace had beenlaid in a line on the terrace, and the ladies who had laughed with themthe night before went to inspect them in death. A few remnants of SoeurMonique's influence would have withheld Diane, but that a frenzy ofsuspense 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 atoken that anything so pure and bright had walked the earth. 

She went on the horrible quest, shrinking where others stared. For itwas a pitiless time, and the squadron of the Queen-mother were as lostto womanhood as the fishwomen of two centuries later. But Diane saw nocorpse at once so tall, so young, and so fair, though blond Normans andblue-blooded Franks, lads scarce sixteen and stalwart warriors, layin one melancholy rank. She at least bore away the certainly that theEnglish Ribaumont was not there; and if not, he MUST be safe! She couldobtain no further certainty, for she knew that she must not expect tosee either her father or brother. There was a panic throughout the city. All Paris imagined that the Huguenots were on the point of rising andslaying all the Catholics, and, with the savagery of alarmed cowardice, the citizens and the mob were assisting the armed bands of the Dukes ofAnjou and Guise to complete the slaughter, dragging their lodgersfrom their hiding-places, and denouncing all whom they suspected ofreluctance to mass and confession. But on the Monday, Diane was ableto send an urgent message to her father that he must come to speak withher, for Mdlle. De Nid-de-Merle was extremely ill. She would meet him inthe garden after morning mass. 

There accordingly, when she stepped forth pale, rigid, but stately, withher large fan in her hand to serve as a parasol, she met both him andher brother. She was for a moment sorry, for she had much power over herfather, 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 inhis absence. France has never been without a tendency to produce thetiger-monkey, or ferocious fop; and the GENUS was in its full ascendancyunder the sons of Catherine de Medicis, when the dregs of Francois theFirst's PSEUDO-chivalry were not extinct--when horrible, retaliatingcivil wars of extermination had made life cheap; nefarious persecutionshad hardened the heart and steeled the eye, and the licentiousnesspromoted by the shifty Queen as one of her instruments of government haddarkened the whole understanding. The most hateful heights of perfidy, effeminacy, and hypocrisy were not reached till poor Charles IX. , whoonly committed crimes on compulsion, was in his grave, and Henry III. Onthe throne; but Narcisse de Ribaumont was one of the choice companionsof the latter, and after the night and day of murder now stood beforehis sister with scented hair and handkerchief--the last, laced, delicately held by a hand in an embroidered glove--emerald pendants inhis ears, a moustache twisted into sharp points and turned up likean eternal sardonic smile, and he led a little white poodle by arose-coloured ribbon. 

'Well, sister, ' he said, as he went, through the motions of kissing herhand, and she embraced her father; 'so you don't know how to deal withmegrims and transports?'

'Father, ' said Diane, not vouchsafing any attention, 'unless youcan send her some assurance of his life, I will not answer for theconsequences. '

Narcisse laughed: 'Take her this dog, with my compliments. That is theway 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 isthat she should be undeceived as soon as possible. She will recover, andbe amenable the sooner. '

'Then he lives, father?' exclaimed Diane. 'He lives, though she is notto hear it--say----'

'What know I?' said the old man, evasively. 'On a night of confusionmany mischances are sure to occur! Lurking in the palace at the verymoment when there was a search for the conspirators, it would have beena miracle had the poor young man escaped. '

Diane turned still whiter. 'Then, ' she said, 'that was why you madeMonsieur put Eustacie into the ballet, that they might not go onWednesday!'

'It was well hinted by you, daughter. We could not have effectuallystopped them on Wednesday without making a scandal. '

'Once more, ' said Diane, gasping, though still resolute; 'is not thestory told by Eustacie's woman false--that she saw him--pistolled--byyou, brother?'

'_Peste_!' cried Narcisse. 'Was the prying wench there? I thought thelittle 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 mustbe silenced. Either she must be sent home, or taught so to swear tohaving been mistaken, that _la petite_ may acquit your brother! But whatnow, my daughter?'

'She is livid!' exclaimed Narcisse, with his sneer. 'What, sir, did notyou know she was smitten with the peach on the top of a pole?'

'Enough, brother, ' said Diane, recovering herself enough to speakhoarsely, 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 kickthem down-stairs when they grow impudent, ' said Narcisse, coolly. 'It isonly women who think what is long must be grand. '

'Come, children, no disputes, ' said the Chevalier. 'Of course we regretthat 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 thenecessity; but remember, child, that when he was interfering betweenyour brother and his just right of inheritance and destined wife, he could not but draw such a fate on himself. Now all is smooth, theestates 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 soothethe little one, so as to hinder her from making an outcry--and silencethe maid; my child will do her best for her father's sake, and that ofher family. '

Diane was less demonstrative than most of her countrywomen. She hadhad time to recollect the uselessness of giving vent to her indignantanguish, and her brother's derisive look held her back. The familytactics, from force of habit, recurred to her; she made no furtherobjection to her father's commands; but when her father and brotherparted with her, she tottered into the now empty chapel, threw herselfdown, 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 shecould be alone. To her, heaven above and earth below seemed alike fullof despair, darkness, and cruel habitations, and she lay like onesick with misery and repugnance to the life and world that lay beforeher--the hard world that had quenched that one fair light and mockedher pity. It was a misery of solitude, and yet no thought crossed herof going to weep and sympathize with the other sufferer. No; rivalryand jealousy came in there! Eustacie viewed herself as his wife, and thevery thought that she had been deliberately preferred and had enjoyedher triumph hardened Diane's heart against her. Nay, the open violenceand abandonment of her grief seemed to the more restrained andconcentrated nature of her elder a sign of shallowness and want ofdurability; and in a certain contemptuous envy at her professing a rightto mourn, Diane never even reconsidered her own resolution to play outher father's game, consign Eustacie to her husband's murdered, and leaveher to console herself with bridal splendours and a choice of admirersfrom all the court. 

However, for the present Diane would rather stay away as much aspossible from the sick-bed of the poor girl; and when an approachingstep forced her to rouse herself and hurry away by the other door ofthe chapel, she did indeed mount to the ladies' bed-chamber, but only tobeckon Veronique out of hearing and ask for her mistress. 

Just the same still, only sleeping to have feverish dreams of therevolving wheel or the demons grappling her husband, refusing all foodbut a little drink, and lying silent except for a few moans, heedlesswho spoke or looked at her. 

Diane explained that in that case it was needless to come to her, butadded, with the _vraisemblance_ of falsehood in which she had graduatedin 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 byasperity of manner, 'how could he live when you and your intrigues gothim into the palace on such a night? Dead he is, OF COURSE; but it wasyour own treacherous, mischievous fancy that laid it on my brother. Hewas far away with M. De Guise at the attack on the Admiral. It was someof Monsieur's grooms you saw. You remember she had brought him into ascrape with Monsieur, and it was sure to be remembered. And look you, ifyou repeat the other tale, and do not drive it out of her head, you neednot look to be long with her--no, nor at home. My father will have noone 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 askpardon for her blunder, promise to contradict it when her mistresscould listen, and express her satisfaction that it was not the ChevalierNarcisse--for such things were not pleasant, as she justly observed, infamilies. 

About noon on the Tuesday the Louvre was unusually tranquil. All theworld had gone forth to a procession to Notre Dame, headed by the Kingand all the royal family, to offer thanksgiving for the deliverance ofthe country from the atrocious conspiracy of the Huguenots. Eustacie'schamber was freed from the bustle of all the maids of honour arrayingthemselves, and adjusting curls, feathers, ruffs and jewels; and suchrelief as she was capable of experiencing she felt in the quiet. 

Veronique hoped she would sleep, and watched like a dragon to guardagainst any disturbance, springing out with upraised finger when a softgliding step and rustling of brocade was heard. 'Does she sleep?' saida low voice; and Veronique, in the pale thin face with tear-swollen eyesand light yellow hair, recognized the young Queen. 'My good girl, ' saidElisabeth, with almost a beseeching gesture, 'let me see her. I do notknow when again I may be able. '

Veronique stood aside, with the lowest possible of curtseys, just asher mistress with a feeble, weary voice murmured, 'Oh, make them let mealone!'

'My poor, poor child, ' said the Queen, bending over Eustacie, while herbrimming eyes let the tears fall fast, 'I will not disturb you long, butI 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 notrest 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'sheavy tearful eyes almost with wonder; 'but I do not weep because I amdying, and that is better. '

'My dear, my dear, do not so speak!' exclaimed the gentle but ratherdull Queen. 

'Is it wrong? Nay, so much the better--then I shall be with HIM, ' saidEustacie in the same feeble dreamy manner, as if she did not understandherself, but a little roused by seeing she had shocked her visitor. 'Iwould not be wicked. He was all bright goodness and truth: but his doesnot seem to be goodness that brings to heaven, and I do not want to bein the heaven of these cruel false men--I think it would go round andround. ' She shut her eyes as if to steady herself, and that momentseemed to give her more self-recollection, for looking at the weeping, troubled visitor, she exclaimed, with more energy, 'Oh! Madame, it mustbe a dreadful fancy! Good men like him cannot be shut into those fierygates with the torturing devils. '

'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed the Queen. 'My poor, poor child, grieve notyourself thus. At my home, my Austrian home, we do not speak in thisdreadful way. My father loves and honours his loyal Protestants, and hetrusts that the good God accepts their holy lives in His unseen Church, even though outwardly they are separate from us. My German confessorever said so. Oh! Child, it would be too frightful if we deemed that allthose 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 thoughthose words had veritably opened the gates of heaven to her husband. The Queen went on in her slow gentle manner, the very tone of whichwas inexpressibly soothing and sympathetic: 'Yes, and all will be clearthere. No more violence. At home our good men think so, and the Kingwill think the same when these cruel counselors will leave him tohimself; and I pray, I pray day and night, that God will not lay thissin 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. 'Hebade him to his room. It was I, unhappy I, who detained him, lest ourflight 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 yourperfect trust in the brave pure-spirited youth, unwarped by these wickedcruel advisers. I loved to look at his open brow; it was so like ourbravest German Junkers. And, child, we thought, both of us, to havebrought about your happiness; but, ah! it has but caused all thismisery. '

'No, no, dearest Queen, ' said Eustacie, 'this month with all its woe hasbeen joy--life! Oh! I had rather lie here and die for his loss than beas I was before he came. And NOW--now, you have given him to me for alleternity--if but I am fit to be with him!'

Eustacie had revived so much during the interview that the Queen couldnot believe her to be in a dying state; but she continued very ill, the low fever still hanging about her, and the faintness continual. Theclose room, the turmoil of its many inhabitants, and the impossibilityof quiet also harassed her greatly, and Elisabeth had little or no powerof making any other arrangements for her in the palace. Ladies when illwere taken home, and this poor child had no home. The other maids ofhonour were a gentler, simpler set than Catherine's squadron, and werefar from unkind; but between them and her, who had so lately been thebrightest child of them all, there now lay that great gulf. _'Ich habegelebt und geliebet. '_ That the little blackbird, as they used to callher, should have been on the verge of running away with her own husbandwas a half understood, amusing mystery discussed in exaggeratingprattle. This was hushed, indeed, in the presence of that crushed, prostrate, silent sorrow; but there was still an utter incapacity oftrue sympathy, that made the very presence of so many oppressive, even when they were not in murmurs discussing the ghastly tidings ofmassacres in other cities, and the fate of acquaintances. 

On that same day, the Queen sent for Diane to consult her about thesufferer. Elisabeth longed to place her in her own cabinet and attend onher herself; but she was afraid to do this, as the unhappy King wasin such a frenzied mood, and so constantly excited by his brother andGuise, that it was possible that some half-delirious complaint from poorEustacie might lead to serious consequences. Indeed, Elisabeth, thoughin no state to bear agitation, was absorbed in her endeavour to preventhim from adding blood to blood, and a few days later actually saved thelives of the King of Navarre and Prince of Conde, by throwing herselfbefore him half-dressed, and tearing his weapon from his hand. Her onlyhope was that if she should give him a son, her influence for mercywould revive with his joy. Meantime she was powerless, and she couldonly devise the sending the poor little sufferer to a convent, where thenuns might tend her till she was restored to health and composure. Dianeacquiesced, but proposed sending for her father, and he was accordinglysummoned. Diane saw him first alone, and both agreed that he had bettertake 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 tobe in raptures to return to Paris on any terms. 

Yet even as Diane said this, a sort of longing for the solitude of thewoods of Nid-de-Merle came over her, a recollection of the good SisterMonique, at whose knee she had breathed somewhat of the free pure airthat her murdered cousin had brought with him; a sense that there shecould pour forth her sorrow. She offered herself at once to go withEustacie. 

'No, no, my daughter, ' said the Chevalier, 'that is unnecessary. Thereis pleasanter employment for you. I told you that your position wassecured. Here is a brilliant offer--M. De Selinville, '

_'Le bonhomme de Selinville!'_ exclaimed Diane, feeling rather as if thecompensation 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 hishouse. '

'He begins early, ' said Diane. 

'An old soldier, my daughter, scarce stays to count the fallen. He hasno time to lose. He is sixty, with a damaged constitution. It will bebut the affair of a few years, and then will my beautiful Marquise befree to choose for herself. I shall go from the young Queen to obtainpermission from the Queen-mother. '

No question was asked. Diane never even thought objection possible. Itwas a close to that present life which she had begun to loathe; it gavecomparative liberty. It would dull and confuse her heart-sick pain, and give her a certain superiority to her brother. Moreover, it wouldsatisfy the old father, whom she really loved. Marriage with a worn-outold man was a simple step to full display for young ladies withoutfortune. 

The Chevalier told Queen Elisabeth his purpose of placing his niecein the family convent, under the care of her aunt, the Abbess, in afoundation endowed by her own family on the borders of her own estate. Elisabeth would have liked to keep her nearer, but could not but ownthat the change to the scenes of her childhood might be more beneficialthan a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the Chevalier spoke ofhis niece with a tender solicitude that gained the Queen's heart. She consented, only stipulating that Eustacie's real wishes should beascertained, and herself again made the exertion of visiting the patientfor the purpose. 

Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near as she could tothe narrow window. The Queen would not let her move, but took her damplanguid hand, and detailed her uncle's proposal. It was plain that itwas not utterly distasteful. 'Soeur Monique, ' she said, 'Soeur Moniquewould 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!' Andher cheeks became whiter again, if possible. 

'Then you would not rather be at the Carmelites, or Maubuisson, nearme?'

'Ah! Madame, there would not be Soeur Monique. If the journey would onlymake me die, as soon as I came, with Soeur Monique to hush me, and keepoff dreadful images!'

'Dear child, you should put away the thought of dying. Maybe you are tolive, 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 strictenough. Does your Majesty indeed think that my prayers will aid him?'

'Alas! what hope could we have but in praying?' said Elisabeth, withtears in her eyes. 'Little one, we will be joined at least in ourprayers and intercessions: thou wilt not forget in thine one who yetlives, unhappier than all!'

'And, oh, my good, my holy Queen, will you indeed pray for him--myhusband? He was so good, his faith can surely not long be reckonedagainst him. He did not believe in Purgatory! Perhaps----' Then frowningwith a difficulty far beyond a fever-clouded brain, she concluded--'Atleast, orisons may aid him! It is doing something for him! Oh, where aremy beads?--I can begin at once. '

The Queen put her arm round her, and together they said the _Deprofundis_, --the Queen understood every word far more for the livingthan the dead. Again Elisabeth had given new life to Eustacie. Theintercession for her husband was something to live for, and the severestconvent was coveted, until she was assured that she would not be allowedto enter on any rule till she had time to recover her health, and showthe constancy of her purpose by a residence at Bellaise. 

Ere parting, however, the Queen bent over her, and colouring, as if muchashamed of what she said, whispered--'Child, not a word of the ceremonyat Montpipeau!--you understand? The King was always averse; it wouldbring him and me into dreadful trouble with THOSE OTHERS, and alas! Itmakes no difference now. You will be silent?'

And Eustacie signed her acquiescence, as indeed no difficulty was madein her being regarded as the widow of the Baron de Ribaumont, when shefurther insisted on procuring a widow's dress before she quitted herroom, and declared, with much dignity, that she should esteem no personher friend who called her Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle. To this theChevalier de Ribaumont was willing to give way; he did not care whetherNarcisse married her as Berenger's widow or as the separated maidenwife, and he thought her vehement opposition and dislike would die awaythe faster the fewer impediments were placed in her way. Both he andDiane strongly discouraged any attempt on Narcisse's widow part at afarewell interview; and thus unmolested, and under the constant soothinginfluence of reciting her prayers, in the trust that they were availingher husband, Eustacie rallied so much that about ten day after thedreadful St. Batholomew, in the early morning, she was half-ledhalf-carried down the stairs between her uncle and Veronique. Her facewas close muffled in her thick black veil, but when she came to thefoot of the first stairs where she had found Berenger's cap, a terribleshuddering came on her; she again murmured something about the smell ofblood, and fell into a swoon. 

'Carry her on at once, ' said Diane, who was following, --'there will benot end to it if you do not remove her immediately. '

And thus shielded from the sight of Marcisse's intended passionategesture of farewell at the palace-door, Eustecie was laid at full lengthon the seat of the great ponderous family coach, where Veronique hardlywished to revive her till the eight horses should have dragged herbeyond the streets of Paris, with their terrible associations, and thegibbets 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 hisfamily were by not means gratified by the prospect of his bringing homea little French Papist, of whom Lady Thistlewood remembered nothinggood. 

Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her stepmother, who insistedon treating her with extreme pity as a deserted maiden, and thuscounteracting Aunt Cecily's wise representations, that there nevershould, and therefore never could, have been anything save fraternalaffection between the young people, and that pity was almost an insultto Lucy. The good girl herself was made very uncomfortable by theredemonstrations, and avoided them as much as possible, chiefly strivingin her own gentle way to prepare her little sisters to expect numerouscharms in brother Berenger's wife, and heartily agreeing with Philipthat Berenger knew his own mind best. 

'And at any rate, ' quoth Philip, 'we'll have the best bonfire thatever was seen in the country! Lucy, you'll coax my father to give us atar-barrel!'

The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous pile of fagots, and thefisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should first bring word toMaster 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 theborders of the creek; but day after day passed, and still the smacksfrom Jersey held no person worth mentioning; and still the sense ofexpectation kept Lucy starting at every sound, and hating herself forher own folly. 

At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with riding andconsternation. 'Oh! father, father, Paul Duval's boat is come in, andhe says that the villain Papists have butchered every Protestant inFrance. '

Sir Marmaduke's asseveration was of the strongest, that he did notbelieve a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his horse and rode down tointerrogate Paul Duval, and charge him not to spread the report was inthe 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 letternewly received from London, giving hints from the Low Countries ofbloody work in France. And when he returned to his home, his wife burstout upon him in despair. Here had they been certainly killing her poorbuy. Not a doubt that he was dead. All from this miserable going toFrance, that had been quite against her will. 

Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; but every daysome fresh wave of tidings floated in. Murder wholesale had surely beenperpetrated. Now came stories of death-bells at Rouen from the fishermenon the coast; now markets and petty sessions discussed the foulslaughter of the Ambassador and his household; truly related how theQueen had put on mourning, and falsely that she had hung the FrenchAmbassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh wrote to his old friend fromLondon, that some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and thatno 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 LordWalwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would themselves closelyaround his grandson, but he reproached himself severely with havingtrusted him in his youth and inexperience among the seductive perils ofParis. The old man grieved over the promising young life cut off, andcharged on himself the loss and grief to the women, whose stay he hadtrusted Berenger would have been. He said little, but his hand and headgrew more trembling; he scarcely ate or slept, and seemed to waste froma vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of old age, tillLady Walwyn had almost ceased to think of her grandson in her anxietyfor her husband. 

Letters came at last. The messenger despatched by Sir Francis Walsinghamhad not been able to proceed till the ways had become safe, and he hadthen been delayed; but on his arrival his tidings were sent down. Therewere letters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart-brokenMr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all possible praises of theyoung Baron de Ribaumont, all possible reproach to themselves forhaving let him be betrayed, without even a possibility of recovering hisremains for honourable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr. Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had offeredto escort him to the Low Countries, whence he would make his way toEngland, and would present himself at Hurst Walwyn, if his Lordshipcould endure the sight of his creature who had so miserably failed inhis trust. 

Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he spoke. Then hetook off his spectacles, laid them down, and said calmly, 'God's will bedone. I thank God that my boy was blameless. Better they slew him thansent 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'stempestuous grief had so spent itself that late in the evening thefamily sat round the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one wornout with sorrow, the others talking in hushed tones of that brightboyhood, 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. 'Whatdid you say?'

'Madam, it is Humfrey Holt!'

Humfrey Holt was the head of the grooms who had gone with Berenger; andthere 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 whileago. '

'Nay, so please your Ladyship, it is better than you deem. Humfley saysmy young Lord is yet living. '

'Living! shrieked Lady Thistlewood, starting up. 'Living! My son! andwhere?'

'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 thebow. Sir Marmaduke hastily demanded if aid were wanted; and Lady Walwyn, interpreting the almost inaudible voice of her husband, bade thatHumfley should be called in to tell his own story. 

Hands were held out in greeting, and blessings murmured, as the groomentered, looking battered and worn, and bowing low in confusion at beingthus unusually conspicuous, and having to tell his story to the head andbody, and slashed about the face so as it is a shame to see. Nor hath hedone aught these three weary weeks but moan from time to time so asit is enough to break one's heart to hear him; and I fear me 'tis butbringing him home to die. '

'Even so, God be thanked; and you too, honest Humfley, ' said LadyWalwyn. ' '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 afinger 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, buthe's an honest rogue for a Frenchman, and 'twas he brought off my youngLord. 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 Frenchfarmer fellow that came a horse-dealing to Paris. I knew what my youngLord was after, but none of the other varlets did; and I went down andmade as decent a place as I could between decks. My Lord and MasterLandry were gone down to the court meantime, and we were to lie off tillwe heard a whistle like a mavis on the bank, then come and take themaboard. Well, we waited and waited, and all the lights were out, and nota sound did we hear till just an hour after midnight. Then a big bellrang out, not like a decent Christianable bell, but a great clash, thenanother, and a lot of strokes enough to take away one's breath. Thenhalf the windows were lighted up, and we heard shots, and screeches, and splashes, till, as I said to Jack Smithers, 'twas as if one halfthe place was murthering the other. The farmer got frightened, and wouldhave been off; but when I saw what he was at, "No, " says I, "not an inchdo we budge without news of my Lord. " So Jack stood by the rope, and letthem 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 bywe saw the poor murthered creatures come floating by. The farmer, he hadsome words with one of the boats near, and I heard somewhat of Huguenotand Hereteek, and I knew that was what they called good Protestants. Then up comes the farmer with his sons looking mighty ugly at us, andsigning that unless we let them be off 'twould be set ashore for us; andwe began to think as how we had best be set ashore, and go down the fiveof us to see if we could stand by my young Lord in some strait, or givenotice to my Lord Ambassador. '

'God reward you!' exclaimed Lady Walwyn. 

'Twas only our duty, my Lady, ' gruffly answered Humfrey; 'but just asHal had got on the quay, what should I see but Master Landry comingdown the street with my young Lord in his back! I can tell you he waswell-nigh spent; and just then half a dozen butcherly villains came outon him, bawling, "Tu-y! tu-y!" which it seems means "kill, kill. " Heturned about and showed them that he had got a white sleeve and whitecross in his bonnet, like them, the rascals, giving them to understandthat he was only going to throw the corpse into the river. I doubted himthen myself; but he caught sight of us, and in his fashion of talk withus, called out to us to help, for there was life still. So two of ustook my Lord, and the other three gave the beggarly French cut-throatsas good as they meant for us; while Landry shouted to the farmer towait, and we got aboard, and made right away down the river. But never aword has the poor young gentleman spoken, though Master Landry has doneall a barber or a sick-nurse could do; and he got us past the citiesby showing the papers in my Lord's pocket, so that we got safe to thefarmer's place. There we lay till we could get a boat to Jersey, andthence again home; and maybe my young Lord will mend now Mistress Cecilywill have the handing of him. '

'That is it the wisest Hands, good Humfrey, ' said Lord Walwyn, as thetears of feeble age flowed down his cheeks. 'May He who hath brought thelad safely so far spare him yet, and raise him up. But whether he liveor die, you son and daughter Thistlewood will look that the faithfulnessof Humfrey Holt and his comrades be never forgotten or unrewarded. '

Humfrey again muttered something about no more than his duty; but bythis time sounds were heard betokening the approach of the melancholyprocession, who, having been relieved by a relay of servants sent atonce from the house, were bearing home the wounded youth. Philip firstof all dashed in hurrying and stumbling. He had been unprepared byhearing Humfrey's account, and, impetuous and affectionate as he was, was entirely unrestrained, and flinging himself on his knees with thehalf-audible words, 'Oh! Lucy! Lucy! He is as good as dead!' hidhis face between his arms on his sister's lap, and sobbed with theabandonment of a child, and with all his youthful strength; so muchadding to the consternation and confusion, that, finding all Lucy'sgentle entreaties vain, his father at last roughly pulled up his face bymain force, and said, 'Philip, hold your tongue! Are we to have you onour hands as well as my Lady? I shall send you home this moment! Letyour sister go. '

This threat reduced the boy to silence. Lucy, who was wanted to assistin preparing Berenger's room, disengaged herself; but he remained inthe same posture, his head buried on the seat of the chair, and theloud weeping only forcibly stifled by forcing his handkerchief intohis mouth, as if he had been in violent bodily pain. Nor did he ventureagain to look up as the cause of all his distress was slowly carriedinto the hall, corpse-like indeed. The bearers had changed severaltimes, all but a tall, fair Norman youth, who through the whole transithad supported the head, endeavouring to guard it from shocks. When themother 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, andit was not till Berenger had been safely deposited on a large carvedbed that the anxious relatives were permitted to perceive the numberand extent of his hurts; and truly it was only by the breath, the vitalwarmth, and the heavy moans when he was disturbed, or the dressings ofthe 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 rightshoulder, 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 pistolhad 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'sjealousy of his personal beauty, which had directed his shot to thecheek rather than the head; and thus, though the bullet had terriblyshattered the upper jaw and roof of the mouth, and had passed outthrough the back of the head, there was a hope that it had notpenetrated the seat of life or reason. The other gash on the face wasbut a sword-wound, and though frightful to look at, was unimportant, compared with the first wound with the pistol-shot in the shoulder, withthe arm broken and further injured by having served to suspend him roundOsbert's neck; but it was altogether so appalling a sight, that itwas no wonder that Sis Marmaduke muttered low but deep curses on thecowardly ruffians; while his wife wept in grief as violent, though moresilent, than her stepson's, and only Cecily gathered the faintest ray ofhope. The wounds had been well cared for, the arm had been set, the haircut away, and lint and bandages applied with a skill that surprised her, till she remembered that Landry Osbert had been bred up in preparationto be Berenger's valet, and thus to practise those minor arts of surgerythen required in a superior body-servant. For his part, though his eyeslooked red, and his whole person exhausted by unceasing watching, heseemed unable to relinquish the care of his master for a moment, andher nunnery French would not have perceived her tender touch and readyskill. These were what made him consent to leave his post even for ashort meal, and so soon as he had eaten it he was called to Lord Walwynto supply the further account which Humfley had been unable to give. Hehad 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 crossesand shirt-sleeves on their left arms, but his friend had assured himthat his master had been summoned to the royal bedchamber, where hewould be as safe as in church; and obtaining from Landry Osbert himselfa perfectly true assurance of being a good Catholic, had supplied himwith the badges that were needful for security. It was just then thatMadame's maid crept down to his waiting-place with the intelligence thather mistress had been bolted in, and after a short consultation theyagreed to go and see whether M. Le Baron were indeed waiting, and, ifhe were, to warn him of the suspicious state of the lower regions of thepalace. 

They were just in time to see, but not to prevent the attack upon theiryoung master; and while Veronique fled, screaming, Landry Osbert, whohad been thrown back on the stairs in her sudden flight, recoveredhimself and hastened to his master. The murderers, after their blowshad been struck, had hurried along the corridor to join the body ofassassins, whose work they had in effect somewhat anticipated. Landry, full of rage and despair, was resolved at least to save hisfoster-brother's corpse from further insult, and bore it down-stairs inhis arms. On the way, he perceived that life was not yet extinct, andresolving to become doubly cautious, he sought in the pocket for thepurse that had been well filled for the flight, and by the persuasiveargument of gold crowns, obtained egress from the door-keeper of thepostern, where Berenger hoped to have emerged in a far different manner. It was a favourable moment, for the main body of the murderers were atthat time being poster in the court by the captain of the guard, readyto massacre the gentlemen of the King of Navarre's suite, and he wastherefore unmolested by any claimant of the plunders of the apparentcorpse he bore on his shoulders. The citizens of Paris who had beenengaged in their share of the murders for more than an hour before thetragedy began in the Louvre, frequently beset him on his way to thequay, and but for the timely aid of his English comrades, he wouldhardly have brought off his foster-brother safely. 

The pass with which King Charles had provided Berenger for himself andhis followers when his elopement was first planned, enabled Osbert tocarry his whole crew safely past all the stations where passports weredemanded. He had much wished to procure surgical aid at Rouen, butlearning from the boatmen on the river that the like bloody scenes werethere being enacted, he had decide on going on to his master's Englishhome as soon as possible, merely trusting to his own skill by the way;and though it was the slightest possible hope, yet the healthy stateof the wounds, and the mere fact of life continuing, had given him somefaint trust that there might be a partial recovery. 

Lord Walwyn repeated his agitated thanks and praises for such devotionto his grandson. 

Osbert bower, laid his hand on his heart, and replied--'Monseigneur isgood, 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 obstinatelyrefused all commands in French or English to go to bed, and was foundsome 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 SisterCecily St. John continued like that of a nun. There was a large sunnyoriel, in which a thrush sang merrily in a wicker cage; and yet the verycentral 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, delicatelytinted pictures of Our Lady in the centre, and of St. Anne and St. Cecilia on either side, with skies behind of most ethereal blue, androbes tenderly trimmed with gold. A little shrine of purple spar, with acrystal front, contained a fragment of sacred bone; a silver shell helpholy 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 theDaily Lessons, the Bishop's Bible, and the Common Prayer beside it. 

The elder Baron de Ribaumont had never pardoned Cecily his single glanceat that table, and had seriously remonstrated with his father-in-lawfor permitting its existence, quoting Rachel, Achan, and Maachah. Yethe never knew of the hair-cloth smock, the discipline, the cord andsack-cloth that lay stored in the large carved awmry, and were secretlyin use on every fast or vigil, not with any notion of merit, but ofsimple obedience, and with even deeper comprehension and enjoyment oftheir spiritual significance, of which, in her cloister life, she hadcomprehended little. 

It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and clasped handsbefore the altar-table, the winter sunbeams making the shadows ofthe ivy sprays dance upon the deep mourning dress and pale cheek. Theeyelashes were heavy with tear-drops, and veiled eyes that had not yetattained to the region of calm, like the light quivering of the lipsshowed that here was the beginning of the course of trial through whichserenity might be won, and for ever. 

By and by the latch was raise, and Cecily came forward. Lucy rosequickly to her feet, and while giving and returning a fond embrace, asked with her eyes the question that Cecily answered, 'Still in thesame lethargy. The only shade of sense that I have seen is an unclosingof the eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and a shiverthrough all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till my Lordforbade 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 weepingin desolation?'

Lucy looked up astonished. 'Aunt, ' she said, 'you have been so long shutup with him that you hardly can have heard all-how she played fast andloose, and for the sake of a mere pageant put off the flight from thetime 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 againsther. '

'Alas!' murmured Lucy, 'I could bear it and glory in it when it seemeddeath for the faith's sake, but, ' and the tears burst out, 'to find hewas only trapped and slain for the sake of a faithless girl--and that heshould 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 thatour Berenger's faith belongs solely to her. '

'You--you never would have let me forget it, ' said Lucy. 'Indeed I ammore 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 forher, but I would that you were in your convent still, and that I couldhide me there. '

'That were scarce enough, ' said Cecily. 'One sister we had who had fledto 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, andwhen they were taken, she chafed and fretted under them. It was she whowrote to the commissioner the letter that led to the visitation of ourhouse, 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 likepoor sister Bridget, but only that the cloister has no charm to stillthe 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 bewith her, if she, as I fear she may, yielded her heart to those whotold her that to ensnare him was her duty, or if indeed she were as muchdeceived as he. '

'Then she will soon be comforted, ' said Lucy, still with some bitternessin her voice; bitterness of which she herself was perhaps conscious, forsuddenly dropping in her knees, she hid her face, and cried. 'Oh, helpme 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, hadnever 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 allthe rest of the family. Mr. Adderley had been forwarded by Sir FrancisWalsingham like a bale of goods, and arriving in a mood of suchself-reproach as would be deemed abject, by persons used to the modernrelations between noblemen and their chaplains, was exhilarated by theunlooked-for comfort of finding his young charge at least living, andin his grandfather's house. From his narrative, Walsingham's letter, and Osbert's account, Lord Walwyn saw no reason to doubt that the BlackRibaumonts had thought that massacre a favourable moment for sweepingthe only survivor of the White or elder branch away, and that not onlyhad royalty lent itself to the cruel project, but that as Diane deRibaumont had failed as a bait, the young espoused wife had herselfbeen employed to draw him into the snare, and secure his presence at theslaughter-house, away from his safe asylum at the Ambassador's or evenin the King's garde-robe. It was an unspeakably frightful view to takeof the case, yet scarcely worse than the reality of many of the dealingsof those with whom the poor young girl had been associated: certainlynot worse than the crimes, the suspicion of which was resting onthe last dowager Queen of France; and all that could be felt by thesorrowing family, was comfort that at least corruption of mind hadeither not been part of the game, or had been unsuccessful, and, byall testimony, the victim was still the same innocent boy. This was alltheir relief, while for days, for weeks, Berenger de Ribaumont lay in atrance or torpor between life and death. Sometimes, as Cecily had said, his eyes turned with a startled wistfulness towards the door, and thesound of a bell seemed to thrill him with a start of agony; but for themost part he neither appeared to see or hear, and a few moans were theonly sounds that escaped him. The Queen, in her affection for her oldfriend, and her strong feeling for the victims of the massacre, sentdown the court physician, who turned him about, and elicited sundryheavy groans, but could do no more than enjoin patient waiting on thebeneficent powers of nature in early youth. His visit produced onebenefit, namely, the strengthening of Cecily St. John's hands againstthe charms, elixirs, and nostrums with which Lady Thistlewood's friendssupplied her, --plasters from the cunning women of Lyme Regis, made ofpowder of giant's bones, and snakes prayed into stone by St. Aldhelm, pills of live woodlice, and fomentations of living earthworms andspiders. Great was the censure incurred by Lady Walwyn for refusing tolet such remedies be tried on HER grandson. And he was so much more herchild 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 ofnature' did begin to rally, there were appearances of healing about thewounds, the difference between sleeping and waking became more evident, the eyes lost the painful, half-closed, vacant look, but were eithershut or opened with languid recognition. The injuries were such as toexclude him from almost every means of expression, the wound in hismouth made speech impossible, and his right arm was not available forsigns. It was only the clearness of his eyes, and their response to whatwas said, that showed that his mind was recovering tone, and then heseemed only alive to the present, and to perceive nothing but whatrelated to his suffering and its alleviations. The wistfulness thathad shown itself at first was gone, and even when he improved enough toestablish a language of signs with eye, lip, or left hand, Cecily becameconvinced that he has little or no memory of recent occurrences, andthat finding himself at home among familiar faces, his still dormantperceptions demanded no further explanation. 

This blank was the most favourable state for his peace and for hisrecovery, and it was of long duration, lasting even till he had made somuch progress that he could leave his bed, and even speak a few words, though his weakness was much prolonged by the great difficulty withwhich he could take nourishment. About two winters before, Cecily hadsuccessfully nursed him through a severe attack of small-pox, and shethought that he confounded his present state with the former illness, when he had had nearly the same attendants and surroundings as atpresent; and that his faculties were not yet roused enough to perceivethe 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 hebrightened so much, and awoke to things about him so much more fully, that Cecily thought the time of recollection could not be much longerdeferred. Any noise, however, seemed so painful to him, that theChristmas festivities were held at Combe Manor instead of Hurst Walwyn;only after church, Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood came in to makehim 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 hewas able for, with Mr. Adderlay. The room looked very cheerful withthe bright wood-fire on the open hearth, shining on the gay tapestryhangings, and the dark wood of the carved bed. The evergreen-deckedwindow shimmered with sun shine, and even the patient, leaning backamong crimson cushions, though his face and head were ghastly enoughwherever they were not covered with patches and bandages, still had apleasant smile with lip and eye to thank his stepfather for his cheerywishes of 'a merry Christmas, at least one better in health. '

'I did not bring the little wenches, Berenger, lest they should wearyyou, ' said his mother. 

Berenger looked alarmed, and said with the indistinctness with which healways spoke, 'Have they caught it? Are they marked?'

'No, no, not like you, may boy, ' said Sir Marmaduke, sufficiently awareof Berenger's belief to be glad to keep it up, and yet obliged to walkto the window to hide his diversion at the notion of his little girlscatching the contagion of sword-gashes and bullet-wounds. Dame Annoraprattled on, 'But they have sent you their Christmas gifts by me. Poorchildren, they have long been busied with them, and I fancy Lucy didhalf herself. See, this kerchief is hemmed by little Dolly, and hereare a pair of bands and cuffs to match, that Nanny and Bessy have beenbroidering with their choicest stitchery. '

Berenger smile, took, expressed admiration by gesture, and then said ina dreamy, uncertain manner, 'Methought I had some gifts for them;' thenlooking round the room, his eye fell on a small brass-bound casket whichhad travelled with him to hold his valuables; he pointed to it with apleased look, as Sir Marmaduke lifted it and placed it on a chair by hisside. The key, a small ornamental brass one, was in his purse, not faroff, and Lady Thistlewood was full of exceeding satisfaction at theunpacking not only of foreign gifts, but, as she hoped, of the pearls;Cecily meantime stole quietly in, to watch that her patient was notover-wearied. 

He was resuming the use of his right arm, though it was still weak andstiff, and he evidently had an instinct against letting any one dealwith that box but himself; he tried himself to unlock it, and thoughforced to leave this to Sir Marmaduke, still leant over it when opened, as if to prevent his mother's curious glances from penetrating itsrecesses, and allowed no hands near it but his own. He first brought outa pretty feather fan, saying as he held it to his mother, 'For Nan, Ipromised it. It was bought at the Halles, ' he added, more dreamily. 

Then again he dived, and brought out a wax medallion of Our Lady guardedby angels, and made the sign that always brought Cecily to him. Heheld it up to her with a puzzled smile, saying, 'They thought me a merePapist for buying it--M. De Teligny, I think it was. '

They had heard how the good and beloved Teligny had been shot down onthe roof of his father-in-law's house, by rabid assassins, strangersto his person, when all who knew him had spared him, from love to hisgentle 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 ofroses--he leant back in his chair--and his mother would have taken itfrom him, supposing him overcome by the scent, but he held it fast andshook his head, saying, 'For Lucy, --but she must give it herself. Shegave 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, andbrought 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 suchas gentlemen were wont to wear, the rings, clasps and brooches he hadcarried from home. Dame Annora's impatience at last found vent in theexclamation, 'The pearls, son; I do not see the chaplet of pearls. '

'She had them, 'answered Berenger, in a matter-of-fact tone, 'to wear atthe masque. '

'She----'

Sir Marmaduke's great hand choked, as it were, the query on his wife'slips, 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 ofcarnation ribbon with a small piece of paper full of pin-holes attachedto 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 memorythat had prompted the impulse, knitted his brows together, and thensuddenly exclaimed, 'Where is she?'

His mother tried the last antecedent. 'Lucy? She shall come and thankyou 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 toher. '

Cecily and Sir Marmaduke both replied with a 'No, no!' and werethankful, though in much suspense at the momentary pause, while againhe leant back on the cushions, looked steadily at the pin-holes, thatformed themselves into the word 'Sweet heart, ' then suddenly began todraw up the loose sleeve of his wrapping-gown and unbutton the wristbandof his right sleeve. His mother tried to help him, asking if he had hurtor tired his arm. They would have been almost glad to hear that it wasso, but he shook her off impatiently, and the next moment had a view ofthe freshly skinned over, but still wide and gaping gash on his arm. Helooked for a brief space, and said, 'It is a sword-cut. '

'Truly it is, lad, ' said Sir Marmaduke, 'and a very bad one, happilywhole! Is this the first time you have seen it?'

He did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, and presentlyburst out again, 'Then it is no dream? Sir--have I been to France?'

'Yes, my son, you have, ' said Sir Marmaduke, gently, and with moretenderness than could have been looked for; 'but what passed there ismuch better viewed as a dream, and cast behind your back. '

Berenger had, while he spoke, taken up the same little mirror where hehad once admired himself; and as he beheld the scar and plaster thatdisfigured his face, with a fresh start of recollection, muttered over, '_"Barbouiller ce chien de visage"_--ay, so he said. I felt the pistol'smuzzle touch! Narcisse! Has God had mercy on me? I prayed Him. Ah! _"lebaiser d'Eustacie"_--so he said. I was waiting in the dark. Why did hecome instead of her? Oh! father, where is she?'

It was a sore task, but Sir Marmaduke went bravely and bluntly, thoughfar from unkindly, to the point: 'She remains with her friends inFrance. '

There the youth's look of utter horror and misery shocked and startledthem 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 rouseand cheer him. 'You should rather be thankful that when you had been sofoully ensnared by their wiles, good Osbert brought you off with yourlife away from those bloody doings. Yes, you may thank Heaven andOsbert, 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 ofmurderers over there. What, '--fancying it would exhilarate him to hearof his own escape--'you knew not that the bloody Guise and the Pariscut-throats rose and slew every Huguenot they could lay hands on? Why, did not the false wench put off your foolish runaway project for thevery 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 SirMarmaduke, as if in hopes that they would contradict. 

'Too true, my lad, ' said Sir Marmaduke. 'It is Heaven's good mercy thatOsbert carried you out alive. No other Protestant left the palace alivebut 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 mustforget her ill-faith and----'

Berenger seemed scarcely to hear this speech--he held out his hands asif stunned and dizzied, and only said, or rather indicated, 'Let me liedown. '

His stepfather almost carried him across the room, and laid him on hisbed, where he turned away from the light and shut his eyes; but the knotof ribbon and the pin-pricked word was still in his hand, and his motherlonged 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 theevening 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 outher explanation of being unable to stay, as her parents were alreadyat the Manor, with no better entertainers than Lucy, Philip, and thechildren. She thanked him for the gifts, which she would take to themwith his love. All this passed by him as though he heard it not, butwhen leaning down, she kissed his forehead, and at the same time triedto withdraw the knot of ribbon: his fingers closed on it with a grasplike steel, so cold were they, yet so fast. 

Sir Masmaduke lingered a few moments behind her, and Berenger openinghis eyes, as if to see whether solitude had been achieved, found thekind-hearted knight gazing at him with eyes full of tears. 'Berry, mylad, ' he said, 'bear it like a man. I know how hard it is. There's nota 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 atrue and honest life however sore his heart may be, and God Almightymakes it up to him if he faces it out manfully. '

Good Sir Marmaduke in his sympathy had utterly forgotten both Berenger'sFrench blood, and that he was the son of the very smooth-tonguedinterloper who had robbed his life of its first bloom. Berenger wasaltogether unequal to do more than murmur, as he held out his hand inresponse 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 afterthose whom he had known best at Paris. Alas! of all those, save such ashad been in the Ambassador's house, there was but one account to give. Venerable warrior, noble-hearted youth, devoted pastor, all alike hadperished!

This frightful part of the story was altogether new to him. He had beenprobably the earliest victim in the Louvre, as being the special objectof private malice, which had contrived to involve him in the generalcatastrophe; and his own recollections carried him only to the flittingof lights and ringing of bells, that has made him imagine that an alarmof 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 thatdeadly stroke--heard the words hissed in his ear. 

He owned that for some time past strange recollections had been flittingthough his mind--a perpetual unsatisfied longing for and expectation ofhis wife, and confused impressions of scenes and people had harassed himperpetually, even when he could not discern between dreams and reality;but knowing that he had been very ill, he had endeavoured to account foreverything as delirious fancies, but had become increasingly distressedby their vividness, confusion, and want of outward confirmation. Atlast these solid tokens and pledges from that time had brought certaintyback, and with it the harmony and clearness of his memory: and thestrong affection, that even his oblivion had not extinguished, nowrecurred in all its warmth to its object. 

Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since that night when hehad hoped to have met Euctacie, and she must be believing him dead. Hisfirst measure on the following day when he had been dressed and seatedin his chair was to send for his casket, and with his slow stiff armwrite thus:--

'Mon Coeur, My own sweetheart, --Hast thou thought me dead, and thyselfdeserted? Osbert will tell thee all, and why I can scarce write. Trustthyself to him to bring to me. I shall be whole seeing thee. Or if thoucanst not come with him, write or send me the least token by him, and Iwill come and bear thee home so soon as I can put foot in stirrup. Wouldthat 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 hehad the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, who was one of the few whounderstood him at half a word. He desired Osbert to seek the lady outwherever she might be, whether still at court or in a convent, conveythe 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 Englandwith. If, as was too much to be feared, she was under too closerestraint, Osbert should send intelligence home, as he could readily dothrough the Ambassador's household, and Berenger trusted by that time tobe able to take measures for claiming her in person. 

Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his journey wereneeded, and there was an absolute commotion in the house when it wasknown that Berenger had been writing to his faithless spouse, andwishing to send for her. Lord Walwyn came up to visit his grandson, andexplain to him with much pity and consideration that he considered sucha step as vain, and only likely to lead to further insult. Berenger'srespect forced him to listen without interruption, and though he pantedto answer, it was a matter of much difficulty, for the old lord wasbecoming 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 sayshe?'

'He is sure of her innocence, sir?'

'That is of course. But, my dear lad, you will soon learn that even agentle, good woman who has a conscience-keeper is too apt to thinkher very sense of right ought to be sacrificed to what she calls herreligion. --What is it, what is he telling you, Cecily?'

'She was ready to be one of us, ' Berenger said, with a great effort tomake it clear. 

'Ah, a further snare. Poor child! The very softest of them become theworst deceivers, and the kindred who have had the charge of her alltheir life could no doubt bend her will. '

'Sir, ' said Berenger, finding argument impossible, 'if you will but letme dispatch Osbert, her answer will prove to you what she is. '

'There is something in that, ' said Lord Walwyn, when he had heard itrepeated by Cecily. 'It is, of course, needful that both she and herrelations should be aware of Berenger's life, and I trow nothing but thereply 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 todoubt her. '

'Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk is vain. You shallhave the means of sending your groom, if thus you will set your mind atrest, though I had rather have trusted to Walsingham's dealing. I willmyself give him a letter to Sir Francis, to forward him on his way; andshould the young lady prove willing to hold to her contract and cometo you here, I will pray him to do everything to aid her that may beconsistent with his duty in his post. '

This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Walwyn, and Berengerwas forced to be contented with it, though it galled him terribly tohave Eustacie distrusted, and be unable to make his vindication evenheard or understood, as well as to be forced to leave her rescue, andeven his own explanation to her, to a mere servant. 

This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to his progress inrecovery. His brain was in no state for excitement or agitation, andpain and confusion were the consequence, and were counteracted, afterthe practice of the time, by profuse bleedings, which prolonged hisweakness. The splintered state of the jaw and roof of the moth likewiseproduced effects that made him suffer severely, and deprived him attimes even of the small power of speech that he usually possessed; andthough he had set his heart upon being able to start for Paris so soonas Osbert's answer should arrive, each little imprudence he committed, in order to convince himself of his progress, threw him back soseriously, that he was barely able to walk down-stairs to the hall, andsit watching--watching, so that it was piteous to see him--the gatesof the courtyard, but the time that, on a cold March day, a booted andspurred courier (not Osbert) entered by them. 

He sprang up, and faster than he had yet attempted to move, met the manin the hall, and demanded the packet. It was a large one, done upin canvas, and addressed to the Right Honourable and Worshipful SirWilliam, Baron Walwyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to endure thedelay of carrying it to his grandfather's library, which he entered withfar less delay and ceremony than was his wont. 'Sit down, Berenger, 'said the old man, while addressing himself to the fastenings; and thepermission was needed, for he could hardly have stood another minute. The covering contained a letter to Lord Walwyn himself, and a packetaddressed to the Baron de Ribaumont which his trembling fingers couldscarcely succeed in cutting and tearing open. 

How shall it be told what the contents of the packet were? Lord Walwynreading on with much concern, but little surprise, was neverthelessstartled by the fierce shout with which Berenger broke out:

'A lie! A lie forged in hell!' And then seizing the parchment, was aboutto rend it with all the force of passion, when his grandfather, seizinghis hand, said, in his calm, authoritative voice, 'Patience, my poorson. '

'How, how should I have patience when they send me such poisoned lies asthese 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 feeblyindeed, but with all the impressive power and gravity of his years. 

'Falsehoods, ' said Berenger, pushing the whole mass of papers over tohim, and then hiding his head between his arms on the table. 

Lord Walwyn finished his own letter first. Walsingham wrote withmuch kind compassion, but quite decisively. He had no doubt that theRibaumont family had acted as one wheel in the great plot that haddestroyed all the heads of Protestant families and swept away amongothers, as they had hoped, the only scion of the rival house. The oldChevalier de Ribaumont had, he said, begun by expressing sorrow forthe mischance that had exposed his brave young cousin to be lost in thegeneral catastrophe, and he had professed proportionate satisfaction onhearing of the young man's safety. But the Ambassador believed him tohave been privy to his son's designs; and whether Mdlle. De Nid de Merleherself had been a willing agent or not, she certainly had remainedin the hands of the family. The decree annulling the marriage had beenpublished, the lady was in a convent in Anjou, and Narcisse de Ribaumonthad 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 ofcommiseration for the young Baron, but could not help congratulating hisold friend on having his grandson safe and free from these inconvenientties. 

Berenger's own packet contained, in the first place, a copy of thecassation of the marriage, on the ground of its having been contractedwhen the parties were of too tender age to give their legal consent, andits having been unsatisfied since they had reached ecclesiastical yearsfor lawful contraction of wedlock. 

The second was one of the old Chevalier's polite productions. He wasperfectly able to ignore Berenger's revocation of his application forthe separation, since the first letter had remained unanswered, and theKing's peremptory commands had prevented Berenger from taking any openmeasures after his return from Montpipeau. Thus the old gentleman, afterexpressing due rejoicing at his dear young cousin's recovery, and regretat the unfortunate mischance that had led to his confounded with themany suspected Huguenots, proceeded as if matters stood exactly asthey had been before the pall-mall party, and as if the decree that heenclosed were obtained in accordance with the young Baron's intentions. He had caused it to be duly registered, and both parties were at libertyto enter upon other contracts of matrimony. The further arrangementswhich Berenger had undertaken to sell his lands in Normandy, and hisclaim on the ancestral castle in Picardy, should be carried out, anddeeds sent for his signature so soon as he should be of age. In themeantime, the Chevalier courteously imparted to his fair cousin themarriage of his daughter, Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont with M. LeComte de Selinville, which had taken place on the last St. Martin's day, and of his niece, Mademoiselle Eustacie de Ribaumont de Nid de Merlewith his son, who had received permission to take her father's titleof Marquis de Nid de Merle. The wedding was to take place at Bellaisebefore the end of the Cardinal, and would be concluded before thisletter came to hand. 

Lastly, there was an ill written and spelt letter, running somewhatthus--

'Monseigneur, --Your faithful servant hopes that Monsieur le Baron willforgive him for not returning, since I have been assured by good prieststhat it is not possible to save my soul in a country of heretics. I havedone everything as Monsieur commanded, I have gone down into Anjou, and have had the honour to see the young lady to whom Monsieur leBaron charged me with a commission, and I delivered to her his letter, whereupon the lady replied that she thanked M. Le Baron for the honourhe had done her, but that being on the point of marriage to M. LeMarquis 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 theSt. Barthelemy midnight; they might further his suit elsewhere. These, Monsieur, were her words, and she laughed as she said them, so gailythat I thought her fairer than ever. I have prevailed with her to takeme into her service as intendant of the Chateau de Nid de Merle, knowingas she does my fidelity to the name of Ribaumont. And so, trustingMonseigneur 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 wasnevertheless shocked at the crushing weight of the blow. His heart wasfull of compassion for the youth so cruelly treated in these his firstyears 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 laidhis hand kindly on his grandson's arm, and said, 'This is a woefulbudget, 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, 'isfor me to take horse and make for Anjou instantly. She will hold outbravely, and I may yet save her. '

'Madness, ' said his grandfather; 'you have then not read your fellow'sletter?'

'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 asto put such words into her mouth! My dear faithful foster-brother--havethey murdered him?'

'Can you point to any proof that it is forged?' said Lord Walwyn, awarethat handwriting was too difficult an art, and far too crabbed, among persons of Osbert's class, for there to be any individuality ofpenmanship. 

'It is all forged, ' said Berenger. 'It is as false that she could framesuch 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 hislife, cried, 'No priest could change her whole nature. Oh! my wife! mydarling! what may they not be inflicting on her now! Sir, I must go. Shemay be saved! The deadly sin may be prevented!'

'This is mere raving, Berenger, ' said Lord Walwyn, not catching halfwhat he said, and understanding little more than his resolution tohasten in quest of the lady. 'You, who have not mounted a horse, norwalked across the pleasance yet!'

'My limbs should serve me to rescue her, or they are worth nothing tome. '

Lord Walwyn would have argued that he need not regret his incapacityto move, since it was no doubt already too late, but Berenger burstforth--'She will resist; she will resist to the utmost, even if shedeems me dead. Tortures will not shake her when she knows I live. I mustprepare. ' 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 todesist from this mad purpose. '

He spoke gravely, but Berenger was disobedient for the first time. 'MyLord, ' he said, 'you are but my grandfather. She is my wife. My duty isto her. '

He had plucked his sleeve away and was gone, before Lord Walwyn had beenable to reason with him that there was no wife in the case, a conclusionat which the old statesman would not have arrived had he known of theceremony at Montpipeau, and all that had there passed; but not onlydid Berenger deem himself bound to respect the King's secret, butconversation was so difficult to him that he had told very little of hisadventures, and less to Lord Walwyn than any one else. In effect, his grandfather considered this resolution of going to France as merefrenzy, and so it almost was, not only on the score of healthand danger, but because as a ward, he was still so entirely undersubjection, that his journey could have been hindered by absolutelyforcible detention; and to this Lord Walwyn intended to resort, unlessthe poor youth either came to a more rational mind, or became absolutelyunable to travel. 

The last--as he had apprehended--came to pass only too surely. The veryattempt to argue and to defend Eustacie was too much for the injuredhead; and long before night Berenger full believed himself onthe journey, acted over its incidents, and struggled wildly withdifficulties, all the time lying on his bed, with the old servantsholding him down, and Cecily listening tearfully to his ravings. 

For weeks longer he was to lie there in greater danger than ever. Heonly seemed soothed into quiet when Cecily chanted those old Latin hymnsof her Benedictine rule, and then--when he could speak at all--he showedhimself to be in imagination praying in Eustacie's convent chapel, sureto 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, Andbrought 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, butof the condition to which many of the lesser ones had come before thegeneral reaction and purification of the seventeenth century. ]

That same Latin hymn which Cecily St. John daily chanted in her ownchamber was due from the choir of Cistercian sisters in the chapel ofthe Convent of Our Lady at Bellaise, in the Bocage of Anjou; but therewas a convenient practice of lumping together the entire night andforenoon hours at nine o'clock in the morning, and all the evening onesat Compline, so that the sisters might have undisturbed sleep atnight and entertainment by day. Bellaise was a very comfortable littlenunnery, which only received richly dowered inmates, and was thereforeable to maintain them in much ease, though without giving occasion to abreath of scandal. Founded by a daughter of the first Angevin Ribaumont, it had become a sort of appanage for the superfluous daughters of thehouse, and nothing would more have amazed its present head, EustacieBarbe de Ribaumont, --conventually known as La Mere Marie Seraphine deSt. -Louis, and to the world as Madame de Bellaise, --than to be accusedof not fulfilling the intentions of the Bienheureuse Barbe, thefoundress, or of her patron St. Bernard. 

Madame de Bellaise was a fine-looking woman of forty, in a high stateof preservation, owing to the healthy life she had led. Her eyes were ofbrilliant, beautiful black her complexion had a glow, her hair--for shewore it visibly--formed crisp rolls of jetty ringlets on her temples, almost hiding her close white cap. The heavy thick veil was tucked backbeneath the furred purple silk hood that fastened under her chin. Thewhite robes of her order were not of serge, but of the finest cloth, andwere almost hidden by a short purple cloak with sleeves, likewise linedand edged with fur, and fastened on the bosom with a gold brooch. Herfingers, bearing more rings than the signet of her house, were concealedin embroidered gauntlets of Spanish leather. One of them held anivory-handled riding-rod, the other the reins of the well-fed jennet, onwhich the lady, on a fine afternoon, late in the Carnival, was canteringhome through the lanes of the Bocage, after a successful morning'shawking 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, thefalconer with his charge having gone home by a footway. 

The sound of horses' feet approaching made her look towards a long lanethat came down at right angles to that along which she was riding, andslacken her pace before coming to its opening. And as she arrived at theintersection, she beheld advancing, mounted on a little rough pony, thespare figure of her brother the Chevalier, in his home suit, so greasyand frayed, that only his plumed hat (and a rusty plume it was) and theold 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 oneis not out with you. '

'No, truly, the little mad thing, she is stricter and more head-strongthan ever was her preceptress. Poor Monique! I had hoped that weshould be at rest when that _cass-tete_ had carried off her scruplesto 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 bemarried 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 foolishmummery of her infancy. It came a week after the Protestant conspiracy, and was registered when the Norman peasants at Chateau Leurre showedcontumacy. It was well; for, behold, our gallant is among his Englishfriends, recovering, and even writing a billet. Anon he will be upon ourhands in person. By the best fortune, Gillot fell in with his messengerthis morning, prowling about on his way to the convent, and brought himto me to be examined. I laid him fat in ward, and sent Gillot off toride 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 hismemory! Let her guess at his life, and---'

'Precisely. Therefore must we be speedy. All Paris knows it by thistime, for the fellow went straight to the English Ambassador; and Itrust my son has been wise enough to set off already; for should we waittill 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 wouldgive our rights to a Huguenot--what say I?--an English renegade!'

'I plead not, brother. The injustice towards you must be repaired; butI have a certain love for my niece, and I fear she will be heartbrokenwhen she learns the truth, the poor child. '

'Bah! The Abbess should rejoice in thus saving her soul! How if herheretic treated Bellaise like the convents of England?'

'No threats, brother. As a daughter of Ribaumont and a mother of theChurch 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 hersince we agreed that the request did but aggravate her. You said herhealth was better since her nurse had been so often with her, and thatshe had ceased from her austerities. '

'Not entirely; for when first she came, in her transports of despair andgrief on finding Soeur Monique removed, she extorted from Father Bonamia sort of hope that she might yet save her husband's, I mean the Baron'ssoul. Then, truly, it was a frenzy of fasts and prayers. Father Bonamihas made his profit, and so have the fathers of Chollet--all her moneyhas gone in masses, and in alms to purchase the prayers of the poor, and she herself fasting on bread and water, kneeling barefooted in thechapel till she was transfixed with cold. No _chaufferette_, not she!Obstinate to the last degree! Tell her she would die--it was the bestnews one could bring; all her desire, to be in a more rigid house withSoeur Monique at Lucon. At length, Mere Perrine and Veronique found heractually fainting and powerless with cold on the chapel-floor; and sincethat time she has been more reasonable. There are prayers as much asever; but the fancy to kill herself with fasting has passed. She beginsto recover her looks, nay, sometimes I have thought she had an air ofhope 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, thechild could have no correspondence. She did, indeed, write a letter tothe Queen, as you know, brother, six weeks ago; but that has never beenanswered, nor could any letters have harmed you, since it is only nowthat 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! Shewill catch gladly at an excuse for change. A scene or two, and she willreadily yield!'

'It is true, ' said the Abbess, thoughtfully, 'that she has walked andridden out lately. She has asked questions about her Chateaux, and theirgarrisons. 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 workupon 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 strictseclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier rode into thecloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been entering a secularChateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Madame deBellaise to the parlour, while she dispatched a request that her niecewould attend her there. 

The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large roomfurnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions, muchlike other reception-rooms. A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed uponthe hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as indeed anecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup with the ladiesthat evening. 

After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a lowvoice at the door was heard, saying, '_Deus vobiscum_. ' The Abbessanswered, '_Et cum spiritu tuo_;' and on this monastic substitute for aknock and 'come in, ' there appeared a figure draped and veiled from headto foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable movingcone. She made an obeisance as she entered, saying, 'You commanded mypresence, 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. Thatface must not be muffled any longer from those who love you. '

She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade herturn back her veil. She did so, and disclosed the little face, so wellknown to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the dark eyessparkling, though at once softer and more resolute. 

'Ah! my fair niece, ' said the Chevalier, 'this is no visage to behidden! I am glad to see it re-embellished, and it will be lovelier thanever 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 herown wedding-dress for your bride of the _Mardi-Gras_. '

'And who may that bride be?' said Eustacie, endeavouring to speak asthough it were nothing to her. 

'Nay, _ma petite_! it is too long to play the ignorant when thebridegroom is on his way from Paris. '

'Madame, ' said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, 'you cannot suffer thisscandal. The meanest peasant may weep her first year of widowhood inpeace. '

'Listen, child. There are weighty reasons. The Duke of Anjou is acandidate for the throne of Poland, and my son is to accompany himthither. He must go as Marquis de Nid de Merle, in full possession ofyour estates. '

'Let him take them, ' began Eustacie, 'who first commits a cowardlymurder, and then forces himself on the widow he has made?'

'Folly, child, folly, ' said the Chevalier, who supposed her ignorant ofthe circumstances of her husband's assassination; and the Abbess, whowas really ignorant, exclaimed--'_Fid donc_ niece; you know not what yousay. '

'I know, Madame--I know from an eye-witness, ' said Eustacie, firmly. 'Iknow the brutal words that embittered my husband's death; and werethere no other cause, they would render wedlock with him who spoke themsacrilege. ' Resolutely and steadily did the young wife speak, lookingat them with the dry fixed eye to which tears had been denied ever sincethat eventful night. '

'Poor child, ' said the Chevalier to his sister. 'She is under thedelusion still. Husband! There is none in the case. ' Then waving hishand as Eustacie's face grew crimson, and her eyes flashed indignation, while her lips parted, 'It was her own folly that rendered it needful toput an end to the boy's presumption. Had she been less willful and moreobedient, 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 encouragedhim in contemplating the carrying her away, and alienating her and herlands from the true faith, there was but one remedy--to let him perishwith the rest. My son is willing to forgive her childish pleasure ina boy's passing homage, and has obtained the King's sanction to animmediate marriage. '

'Which, to spare you, my dear, ' added the aunt, 'shall take place in ourchapel. '

'It shall never take place anywhere, ' said Eustacie, quietly, thoughwith a quiver in her voice; 'no priest will wed me when he has heardme. '

'The dispensation will overcome all scruples, ' said the Abbess. 'Hearme, niece. I am sorry for you, but it is best that you should know atonce that there is nothing in heaven or earth to aid you in resistingyour 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 asof defiance. She glanced from one to the other, as if considering, butthen slightly shook her head. 'What does she mean?' asked the Chevalierand the Abbess one of another, as, with a dignified gesture, she movedto leave the room. 

'Follow her. Convince her that she has no hope, ' said the uncle; andthe Abbess, moving faster than her wont, came up with her at the archwaywhence one corridor led to the chapel, another to her own apartments. Her veil was down again, but her aunt roughly withdrew it, saying, 'Lookat me, Eustacie. I come to warn you that you need not look to tamperwith the sisters. Not one will aid you in your headstrong folly. If youcast not off ere supper-time this mockery of mourning, you shall tasteof that discipline you used to sigh for. We have borne with your fancylong 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, ' saidEustacie, standing her ground. 

'Insolent! Why, did I not excuse this as a childish delusion, should Inot spurn one who durst love--what say I--not a heretic merely, but thefoe of her father's house?'

'He!' cried Eustacie; 'what had he ever done?'

'He inherited the blood of the traitor Baron, ' returned her aunt. 'Everhave that recreant line injured us! My nephew's sword avenged the wrongsof many generations. '

'Then, ' said Eustacie, looking at her with a steady, fixed look ofinquire, 'you, Madame l'Abbesse, would have neither mercy nor pity forthe most innocent offspring of the elder line?'

'Girl, what folly is this to talk to me of innocence. That is notthe question. The question is--obey willingly as my dear daughter, orcompulsion must be used. '

'My question is answered, ' said Eustacie, on her side. 'I see that thereis neither pity nor hope from you. '

And with another obeisance, she turned to ascend the stairs. Madamepaced 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 norto struggle. I knew she was too true a Ribaumont for weak tears andentreaties; but, fiery little being as once she was, I looked to see herforce spend itself in passion, and that then the victory would have beeneasy; but no, she ever looks as if she had some inward resource--somesecurity--and therefore could be calm. I should deem it some Huguenotfanaticism, but she is a very saint as to the prayers of the Church, thevery torment of our lives. '

'Could she escape?' exclaimed the Chevalier, who had been consideringwhile 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, 'Itwas very ill-advised to let her women have access to her! Let us haveVeronique summoned instantly. '

At that moment, however, the ponderous carriage of Monseigneur, without-riders, both lay and clerical, came trampling up to the archway, and the Abbess hurried off to her own apartment to divest herself of herhunting-gear ere she received her guest; and the orders to one of thenuns to keep a watch on her niece were oddly mixed with those to thecook, confectioner, and butterer. 

La Mere Marie Saraphine was not a cruel or an unkind woman. She had beenvery fond of her pretty little niece in her childhood, but haddeeply resented the arrangement which had removed her from her ownsuperintendence to that of the Englishwoman, besides the uniting to theyoung Baron one whom she deemed the absolute right of Narcisse. She hadreceived Eustacie on her first return with great joy, and had alwaystreated her with much indulgence, and when the drooping, broken-heartedgirl came back once more to the shelter of her convent, thegood-humoured Abbess only wished to make her happy again. 

But Eustacie's misery was far beyond the ken of her aunt, and the jovialturn of these consolations did but deepen her agony. To be congratulatedon her release from the heretic, assured of future happiness with hercousin, and, above all, to hear Berenger abused with all the bitternessof rival family and rival religion, tore up the lacerated spirit. Ill, dejected, and broken down, too subdued to fire up in defence, and onlylonging for the power of indulging in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunkfrom her, and wrapped herself up in the ceaseless round of masses andprayers, in which she was allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope forher husband's soul. The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent ormatters of pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console whereshe could not sympathize, trusted that the fever of devotion would wearitself out, and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two weredecorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious workerof tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as confectioners. Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days; now she was out oftheir reach, they tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would notbe comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one whoseausterity reproached their own laxity; they resented her disappointmentat Soeur Monique's having been transferred to Lucon, and they, too, left her to the only persons whose presence she had ever seemed torelish, --namely, her maid Veronique, and Veronique's mother, her oldnurse Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles off. The woman had beenEustacie's foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of thecaressing care of a nurse. 

After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment looked towards thechapel, then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, 'No! no! speed ismy best hope;' and at once mounted the stairs, and entered a room, wherethe large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the holy water fontgave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw pallet covered withsackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained couch driven into therear, as unused. 

She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; 'Ave Maria, be with me andmine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruelmen. Have thou pity on the fatherless!'

Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veroniqueentered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same momentbegan 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 erespeaking that word. I asked her, Veronique! She would have vengeanceon the most guiltless--the most guiltless--do you hear?--of the Normanhouse. Never, never shall she have the chance! Come, thy stripedpetticoat!'

'But, oh! what will Madame do? Where would she go? Oh! it isimpossible. '

'First to thy father's. Yes, I know. He has once called it a madnessto think of rallying my vassals to protect their lady. That was whenhe heard of it from thee--thou faint of heart--and thy mother. I shallspeak to him in person now. Make haste, I tell thee, girl. I must be outof 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 shelooked about her like a startled deer. 

'To my father's. Ah! there it is not so ill! But the twilights, thelength of way, ' sobbed Veronique, in grievous distress and perplexity. 'Oh! Madame, I cannot see you go. The Mother Abbess is good. She musthave pity. Oh, trust to her!'

'Trust! Did I not trust to my cousin Diane? Never! Nothing will kill mebut remaining in their hands. '

Veronique argued and implored in vain. Ever since, in the height ofthose vehement austerities by which the bereaved and shattered suffererstrove to appease her wretchedness by the utmost endeavour to save herhusband's soul, the old foster-mother had made known to her that shemight thus sacrifice another than herself. Eustacie's elastic heart hadbegun to revive, with all its dauntless strength of will. What to herwomen seemed only a fear, was to her only a hope. 

Frank and confiding as was her nature, however, the cruel deceptionsalready practiced on her by her own kindred, together with the harshwords with which the Abbess spoke of Berenger, had made her awarethat 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 withheldher from seeking counsel of any save Perrine and her daughter, at anyrate till she could communicate with the kind young Queen. To her, then, Eustacie had written, entreating that a royal mandate would recall herin time to bestow herself in some trustworthy hands, or even in herhusband's won Norman castle, where his heir would be both safe andwelcome. But time has passed--the whole space that she had reckoned asneedful for the going and coming of her messenger--allowing for all theobstructions of winter roads--nay, he had come back; she knew letter wasdelivered, but answer there was none. It might yet come--perhaps a royalcarriage and escort--and day after day had she waited and hoped, onlytardily admitting the conviction that Elisabeth of Austria was aspowerless as Eustacie de Ribaumont, and meantime revolving and proposingmany a scheme that could only have entered the brain of a brave-spiritedchild as she was. To appeal to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinousold tower in the woods, and thence send for aid to the Montmorencys;to ride to Saumur, and claim the protection of the governor of theprovince; to make her way to the coast and sail for England; to startfor Paris, and throw herself in person on the Queen's protection, --allhad occurred to her, and been discussed with her two _confidantes_;but the hope of the Queen's interference, together with the exceedingdifficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from taking anysteps, since no suspicion had arisen in the minds of those abouther. Veronique, caring infinitely more for her mistress's health andwell-being than for the object of Eustacie's anxieties, had alwayssecretly trusted that delay would last till action was impossible, andthat the discovery would be made, only without her being accused oftreason. In the present stress of danger, she could but lament andentreat, for Eustacie's resolution bore her down; and besides, as shesaid to herself, her Lady was after all going to her foster-father andmother, who would make her hear reason, and bring her back at once, and then there would be no anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddylength of walk would be the worst of it--and, bah! most likely Madamewould be convinced by it, and return of her own accord. 

So Veronique, though not intermitting her protests, adjusted her owndress upon her mistress, --short striped petticoat, black bodice, wingedturban-like white cap, and a great muffling gray cloth cloak and hookover the head and shoulders--the costume in which Veronique was wont torun to her home in the twilight on various errands, chiefly to carryher mistress's linen; for starching Eustacie's plain bands and cuffswas Mere Perrine's special pride. The wonted bundle, therefore, nowcontained a few garments, and the money and jewels, especially thechaplet of pearls, which Eustacie regarded as a trust. 

Sobbing, and still protesting, Veronique, however, engaged that if herLady succeeded in safely crossing the kitchen in the twilight, and inleaving the convent, she would keep the secret of her escape as longas possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and making suchexcuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of her flight tillnext day. 

'And then, ' said Eustacie, 'I will send for thee, either to Saumur orto the old tower! Adieu, dear Veronique, do not be frightened. Thoudost 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 youwill be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling, weeping, indire need of being comforted. But I will make up a good fire, and shakeout 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 isover, she will turn her mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be nomore 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 atrembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the stonestaircase, leading to a back-door--an utterly uncanonical appendage to anunnery, but one much used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise. 

A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-openkitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper preparingfor Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed it, when thevoice of the presiding lay-sister called out, 'Veronique, is that you?'

'Sister!' returned Eustacie, with as much of the Angevin twang as shecould assume. 

'Where are you going?'

'To the Orchard Farm with this linen. '

'Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from Madame aboutnobody going out unreported, and you may chance to find the door lockedif 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 withher. '

Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her flutteringheart at the sense that she had indeed seized the last moment. Forththen 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 wasover, and the most vague and terrible of her anxieties soothed, as shemade her way into one of the long shady lanes of the Bocage. It wasnearly dark, and very muddy, but she had all the familiarity of a nativewith the way, and the farm, where she had trotted about in her infancylike a peasant's child, always seemed like home to her. It had been aprime treat to visit it during her time of education at the convent, andthere was an association of pleasure in treading the path that seemed tobear her up, and give her enjoyment in the mere adventure and feelingof escape and liberty. She had no fear of the dark, nor of the distantbarking of dogs, but the mire was deep, and it was plodding work inthose heavy _sabots_, up the lane that led from the convent; and thepoor child was sorely weary long before she came to the top of the lowhill that she used scarcely to know to be rising round at all. The starshad come out; and as she sat for a few moments to rest on a largestone, she saw the lights of the cottage fires in the village below, andlooking round could also see the many gleams in the convent windows, theread fire-light in her own room among them. She shivered a little asshe thought of its glowing comfort, but turned her back resolutely, tightened her cloak over her head, looked up to a glimmer in thewatch-tower of her own castle far above her on the hill and closedagainst her; and then smiled to herself with hope at the sparkle of awindow in a lonely farmhouse among the fields. 

With fresh vigour she rose, and found her way through lane andfield-path to the paddock where she had so often played. Here a coupleof huge dogs dashed forward with an explosion of barks, dying away intolow growls as she spoke to them by their names, and called aloud on'Blaise!' and 'Mere Perrine!' The cottage door was opened, the lightstreamed 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 thehead of the family, the farmer and his two stout sons standing beforeher as their liege Lady, and Mere Perrine hanging over her, in greatanxiety, not wholly dispelled by her low girlish laugh, partly ofexultation at her successful evasion, partly of amusement at theirwonder, and partly, too, because it was so natural to her to enjoyherself at that hearth that she could not help it. A savoury mess fromthe great caldron that was for ever stewing over the fire was at oncefished out for her, before she was allowed to explain herself; and asshe ate with the carved spoon and from the earthenware crock that hadbeen called Mademoiselle's ever since her baby-days, Perrine chafedand warmed her feet, fondled her, and assured her, as if she were stilltheir 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 havefollowed them, but Eustacie desired him to remain to give her counsel. 

Her first inquire was after the watch-tower. She did not care for anydiscomfort 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, andher 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 Chevalierhad put a forester there--a grim, bad subject, who had been in theItalian wars, and cared neither for saint nor devil, except ChevalierNarcisse. Indeed, even if he had not been there, the place wasuntenable, it would only be getting into a trap. 

'Count Hebert held it out for twelve days against the English!' saidEustacie, proudly. 

'Ah! ah! but there were none of your falconets, or what call you thosecannons then. No; if Madame would present herself as a choice morsel forMonsieur 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 LaRochelle, where, for her husband's sake, Eustacie could hardly failto obtain friends. It was the more practicable expedient, but Blaisegroaned over it, wondered how many of the farmers could be trusted, or brought together, and finally expressed his intention of going toconsult Martin, his staunch friend, at the next farm. Meantime, Madamehad better lie down and sleep. And Madame did sleep, in Perrine's hugebox-bedstead, with a sweet, calm, childlike slumber, whilst her nursesat watching her with eyes full of tears of pity and distress; the pooryoung thing's buoyant hopefulness and absence of all fear seemed to theold woman especially sad, and like a sort of want of comprehension ofthe full peril in which she stood. 

Not till near dawn was Eustacie startled from her rest by approachingsteps. 'Nurse, is all ready?' she cried. 'Can we set off? Are the horsesthere?'

'No, my child; it is but my good man and Martin who would speak withyou. Do not hasten. There is nothing amiss as yet. '

'Oh, nurse, ' cried Eustacie, as she quickly arranged the dress in whichshe had lain down, 'the dear old farm always makes me sleep well. Thisis the first time I have had no dream of the whirling wheel and fierygates! Oh, is it a token that HE is indeed at rest? I am so well, sostrong. I can ride anywhere now. Let them come in and tell me. '

Martin was a younger, brisker, cleverer man than Blaise, and besidesbeing a vassal of the young Lady, was a sort of agent to whom the Abbessinstructed many of the matters of husbandry regarding the convent lands. He stood, like Blaise, bareheaded as he talked to little Lady, and heardher somewhat peremptorily demand why they had not brought the horses andmen for her escort. 

It was impossible that night, explained Martin. Time was needed to bringin the farm-horses, and summon the other peasants, without whom theroads were unsafe in these times of disorder. He and Blaise must goround and warn them to be ready. A man could not be ready in a winkof the eye, as Madame seemed to think, and the two peasants lookedimpenetrable 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 befar safer close at hand while the pursuit and search are going on. Butshe 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 beproud to keep watch for her. Madame knows that the place is full ofshrubs and thickets, where one half of an army might spend a fine day inlooking for the other. '

'And at night you will get together the men and convoy me?' askedEustacie, eagerly. 

'All in good time, Madame. Now she must be off, ere the holy mothers beastir. I have brought an ass for her to ride. '

Eustacie had no choice but compliance. None of the Orchard family couldgo with her, as it was needful that they should stay at home and appearas unconcerned as possible; but they promised to meet her at the hourand 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 withspring, in the chill dewiness before sunrise. She was silent, and justa little sullen, for she had found stout shrewd Martin less easy to talkover than the admiring Blaise, and her spirit was excessively chafed bythe tardiness of her retainers. But the sun rose and cleared away allclouds of temper, the cocks crew, the sheep bleated, and fresh morningsounds met her ear, and seemed to cheer and fill her with hope; and insome compunction for her want of graciousness, she thanked Martin, and praised his ass with a pretty cordiality that would have fullycompensated for her displeasure, even if the honest man had beensensible 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 herhead, and another over her shoulders, came running round the corner ofthe barn, and whispered eagerly under her breath, 'Ah! Madame, Madame, what an honour!' kissing Eustacie's hand with all her might as shespoke; 'but, alas! I fear Madame cannot come into the house. Thequesting Brother Francois--plague upon him!--has taken it into his headto drop in to breakfast. I longed to give him the cold shoulder, but itmight have brought suspicion down. '

'Right, good woman, ' said Martin; 'but what shall Madame do? It is broadway, and no longer safe to run the lanes!'

'Give me a distaff, ' said Eustacie, rising to the occasion; 'I will goto that bushy field, and herd the cows. '

Madame was right, the husband and wife unwillingly agreed. There, in herpeasant dress, in the remote field, sloping up into a thick wood, shewas unlikely to attract attention; and though the field was bordered onone side by the lane leading to the road to Paris, it was separated fromit by a steep bank, crowned by one of the thick hedgerows characteristicof the Bocage. 

Here, then, they were forced to leave her, seated on a stone beneath athorn-bush, distaff in hand, with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of milkfor her provisions, and three or four cows grazing before her. Fromthe higher ground below the wood of ash and hazel, she could see theundulating fields and orchards, a few houses, and that inhospitablecastle of her own. 

She had spent many a drearier day in the convent than this, in the freesun and air, with the feeling of liberty, and unbounded hopes foundedon this first success. She told her beads diligently, trusting that thetale of devotions for her husband's spirit would be equally made up inthe field as in the church, and intently all day were her ears andeyes on the alert. Once Lucette visited her, to bring her a basin ofporridge, and to tell her that all the world at the convent was inconfusion, that messengers had been sent out in all directions, and thatM. Le Chevalier had ridden out himself in pursuit; but they should soonhear 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 shesat in the hedgerow, when the great dog who followed him pricked hisears, and a tramping and jingling was audible in the distance in thelane. 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 thatwould be ruin. I will return as soon as it is safe, if Madame will hideherself in the hedgerow. '

Into the hedgerow accordingly crept Eustacie, cowering close toa holly-tree at the very summit of the bank, and led by a strangefascination to choose a spot where, unseen herself, she could gaze downon 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. Suddenlythey came to a halt close beneath her! Was she detected? Ah! just belowwas the spot where the road to the convent parted from the road to thefarm; and, as Martin had apprehended, they were stopping for him. TheChevalier ordered one of the armed men behind him to ride up to thefarm and summon Martin to speak with him; and then he and his son, whilewaiting 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 spokenwith, 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 isours. '

'_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 overlookthe 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 affairhas become horribly complicated and distasteful. '

'No such thing. All the easier. She can no longer play the spotlesssaint--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 personsfrom whom she will hear nothing from without, and she will understandher case. The child? It will scarce be born alive, or at any rate sheneed not know whether it is. Then, with no resource, no hope, what canshe do but be too thankful for pardon, and as glad to conceal the pastas 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 ahot-tempered, generous, keenly-sensitive being, well-nigh a child inyears and in impulses, though with the instincts of a mother awakeningwithin her, and of a mother who heard the life of her unborn babeplotted against. She was absolutely forced to hold her lips together, to repress the sobbing scream of fury that came to her throat; and thestruggles 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 clearedthemselves, Martin, cap in hand, was in the lane below, listeningdeferentially to the two gentlemen, who were assuring him that inquiryhad been made, and a guard carefully set at the fugitive could havepassed those, or be able to do so. She must certainly be hiddensomewhere near home, and Martin had better warn all his friends againsthiding her, unless they wished to be hung up on the thresholds of theirburning farm-steads. Martin bowed, and thought the fellows would knowtheir own interest and Mademoiselle's better. 

'Well, ' said the Chevalier, 'we must begin without loss of time. My sonhas brought down a set of fellows here, who are trained to ferret outheretics. Not a runaway weasel cold escape them! We will set them on assoon 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 toLeonard's. That's no unlikely place for her to lurk in, as you said thismorning, good fellow. '

It was the most remote farm from that of Martin, and Eustacie felt howgreat were his services, even while she flushed with anger to hear himspeaking of her as Mademoiselle. He was promising to follow immediatelyto the castle, to meet _ces Messieurs_ there almost as soon as theycould arrive, but excusing himself from accompanying them, by the needof driving home the big bull, whom no one else could manage. 

They consented, and rode on. Martin watched them out of sight, thensprang up by some stepping-stones in the bank, a little below whereEustacie sat, and came crackling through the boughs to where she wascrouching down, with fierce glittering eyes and panting breath, like awild 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 amonly thinking what she can do. Alas! I fear that she must remain in thiscovert till it is dark, for these men's eyes are all on the alert. Atdark, 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, shrinkingtogether to shelter herself from the sunset chill of early spring, butshuddering more with horror than with cold as the cruel cold-bloodedwords she had heard recurred to her, and feeling as if she were fastwithin a net, every outlet guarded against her, and search everywhere;yet still with the indomitable determination to dare and suffer to theutmost ere that which was dearer than her own life should come intoperil 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, untilat length she heard the low call of Lucette, 'MADAME! AH!_la pauvreMadame_. ' She started up, so stiff that she could hardly more, and onlyguided by the voice to feel her way through the hedgerow in the rightdirection. Another moment, and Lucette's warn arms had received her; andshe was guided, scarce knowing how or where, in cautious silence to thefarmyard, and into the house, where a most welcome sight, a huge fire, blazed cheerfully on the hearth, and Martin himself held open the doorfor her. The other occupants of the kitchen were the sleeping childin its wooden cradle, some cocks and hens upon the rafters, and a bigsheep-dog before the fire. 

The warmth, and the chicken that Lucette had killed and dressed, broughtthe colour back to the exhausted wanderer's cheek, and enabled her againto hold council for her safety. It was plain, as Martin had found inconversation with the men-at-arms, that precautions had been takenagainst her escaping in any of the directions where she might hope tohave reached friends. Alone she could not go, and any escort sufficientto protect her would assuredly be stopped at the first town;besides which, collecting it in secret was impossible under presentcircumstances, and it would be sure to be at once overtaken anddemolished by the Chevalier Narcisse's well-armed followers. Martin, therefore, saw no alternative but for her to lurk about in suchhiding-places as her faithful vassals could afford her, until the searchshould blow over, and the vigilance of her uncle and cousin relax. Hope, the high-spirited hope of early youth, looked beyond to indefinite butinfinite possibility. Anything was better than the shame and horrorof yielding, and Eustacie trusted herself with all her heart for thepresent, fancying, she knew not what, the future. 

Indeed, the Vendean fidelity has often been tested, and she made fullproof of it among the lanes, copses, and homesteads of her own broadlands. The whole country was a network of deep lanes, sunk betweenimpenetrable hedgerows, inclosing small fields, orchards, and thickets, and gently undulating in low hills and shallow valleys, interspersedwith tall wasp-waisted windmills airily waving their arms on the topof lofty masts. It was partitioned into small farms, inhabited by asimple-hearted peasantry, religious and diligent, with a fair amount ofrural wealth and comfort. Their love for their lords was loyally warm, and Eustacie monopolized it, from their detestation of her uncle'sexactions; they would risk any of the savage punishments with which theywere threatened for concealing her; and as one by one it was needful totake them into the secret, so as to disarm suspicion, and she was passedfrom one farm to another, each proved his faithful attachment, andthough himself repaid by her thankful smile and confiding manner. 

The Chevalier and his son searched vigorously. On the slightestsuspicion, they came down to the farm, closed up the outlets, threatenedthe owners, turned out the house, and the very place they had lastsearched would become her quarters on the next night! Messages alwayshad warned her in time. Intelligence was obtained by Martin, whocontrived to remain a confidential agent, and warnings were dispatchedto her by many a strange messenger--by little children, by old women, oreven by the village innocent. 

The most alarming days were those when she was not the avowed objectof the chase, but when the pursuit of game rendered the coverts in thewoods and fields unsafe, and the hounds might lead to her discovery. Onone of these occasions Martin locked her up in the great hayloft of theconvent, where she could actually hear the chants in the chapel, anddistinguish the chatter of the lay-sisters in the yard. Another time, inconjunction with the sacristan, he bestowed her in the great seigneurialtribune (or squire's pew) in the village church, a tall carved box, where she was completely hidden; and the only time when she had failedto obtain warning beforehand, she stood kneading bread at a tub inMartin's cottage, while the hunt passed by, and a man-at-arms looked inand 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 oneevening Veronique ventured up to Martin's farm, trusting to tidings thatthe gentlemen had been Eustacie's only secure harbour; and when, ina bright evening gleam of the setting sun from beneath the clouds, Veronique came in sight of her Lady, the Queen's favourite, it was tosee her leading by a string a little shaggy cow, with a bell round itsneck, her gray cloak huddled round her, though dank with wet, a longlock of black hair streaming over her brow, her garments clinging withdamp, her bare ankles scratched with thorns, her heavy SABOTS coveredwith 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 whatthe Abbess had feared; her Lady was fast killing herself. 

'Hush! Veronique, ' said Eustacie; 'that is all folly. I am wet and wearynow, but oh! if you knew how much sweeter to me life is now than itwas, shut up down there, with my fears. See, ' and she held up a bunchof purple pasque-flowers and wood-sorrel, 'this is what I found in thewood, growing out of a rugged old dead root; and just by, shelteredby the threefold leaves of the alleluia-flower, was a bird's nest, themother-bird on her eggs, watching me with the wise black eye that saw Iwould 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 themore 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 youraccount! 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 hasfeared for you, all the lay-sisters say so. She takes no pleasure inhawking, nor in visiting; and she did not eat more than six of SoeurBernardine's best conserves. She does nothing but watch for tidings ofMadame. And she sent for me, as I told you, and conjured me, if I knewwhere you were, or had any means of finding out, to implore you to trustto her. She will swear on all the relics in the chapel never to give ahint to Messieurs les Chevaliers if only you would trust her, and notslay 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 wouldhave 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 thicknessof the convent walls, where Mere Perrine could be with her, and everysacred pledge should be given that could remove her fears. 

'And could they make me believe them, so that the doubt and dread wouldnot kill me in themselves?' said Eustacie. 

'But it is death--certain death, as it is. Oh, if Madame would hearreason!--but she is headstrong! She will grieve when it is too late!'

'Listen, Veronique. I have a far better plan. The sacristan has a sisterwho weaves red handkerchiefs at Chollet. She will receive me, and keepme as long as there is need. Martin is to take me in his cart when hecarries the hay to the garrison. I shall be well hidden, and withinreach of your mother. And then, when my son is once come--then all willbe well! The peasants will rise in behalf of their young Lord, thoughnot 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 comeback to me, and all will be well!'

Veronique only began to wail aloud at her mistress' obstinacy. Martincame up, and rudely silenced her, and said afterwards to his wife, 'Havea care! That girl has--I verily believe--betrayed her Lady once; and ifshe do not do so again, from pure pity and faintness of heart, I shallbe 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 herfeet from the heap of straw on which she was sitting in his cowhouse, one early April day, about seven weeks since her evasion from theconvent. 

'Not so, I hope, Madame, but I do not feel at ease. Monsieur has notsent for me, nor told me his plans for the morrow, and I much doubt mewhether that bode not a search here. Now I see a plan, provided Madamewould 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, baffleda hundred times the gendarmes who sought their ministers. No one everfound a pastor, they say, when Rotrou had been of the congregation; andif they can do so much for an old preacher with a long tongue, surelythey can for a sweet young lady; and if they could shelter her just fortomorrow, till the suspicion is over, then would I come for Madame withmy cart, and carry her into Chollet among the trusses of hay, as we hadfixed. '

Eustacie was already tying her cloak, and asking for Lucette; butshe was grieved to hear that Martin had sent her to vespers to disarmsuspicion, 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 withwomen is not to let them know. '

He cut short all messages and expressions of gratitude, and leadingEustacie to a small stream, he made her creep along its course, with herfeet in the water so as to be sheltered by the boughs that hung over thebanks, while he used his ling strides to enable him to double backand enter into conversation with passers-by, quite of the track of theGrange 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 afriend and protector. Leaving the brook, he conducted her beneath hedgesand 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 beenaware 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 aloneto the house, and presently returned with both the good people of thefarm. They were more offhand and less deferential than were her ownpeople, but were full of kindliness. They were middle-aged folk, mostneatly clad, and with a grave, thoughtful look about them, as iflife were a much heavier charge to them than to their light-heartedneighbours. 

'A fair day to you, Madame, ' said the farmer, doffing his wide-flappedhat. '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 howfaint, 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 mannerwas comfortable, and Eustacie suffered herself to be led intothe farm-house, where, as the dame observed, she need not fearchance-comers, for they lived much to themselves, and no one would beabout till their boy Robinet came in with the cows. She might rest andeat there in security, and after that they would find a hiding-place forher--safe as the horns of the altar--for a night or two; only for twonights 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 whereyou hide her. Those rogues have tricks that make it as well to knownothing. Farewell, Madame, I commend you to all the saints till I comefor you on Monday morning. '

Eustacie gave him her hand to kiss, and tried to thank him, but somehowher heart sank, and she felt more lonely than ever, when entirely castloose among these absolute strangers, than amongst her own vassals. Eventhe farm-kitchen, large, stone-built, and scrupulously clean, seemedstrange and dreary after the little, smoky, earth-built living-rooms inwhich her peasantry were content to live, and she never had seemed toherself so completely desolate; but all the time she was so wearied outwith her long and painful walk, that she had no sooner taken some foodthan she began to doze in her chair. 

'Father, ' said the good wife, 'we had better take _la pauvrette_ to herrest at once. '

'Ah! must I go any farther?' sighed Eustacie. 

'It is but a few fields beyond the yard, _ma petite_, ' said the goodwoman consolingly; 'and it will be safer to take you there ere we need alight. '

The sun had just set on a beautiful evening of a spring that happily forEustacie had been unusually warm and mild, when they set forth, the damehaving loaded her husband with a roll of bedding, and herself taking apitcher of mild and a loaf of bread, whilst Eustacie, as usual, carriedher own small parcel of clothes and jewels. The way was certainlynot long to any one less exhausted than she; it was along a couple offields, and then through a piece of thicket, where Rotrou held back theboughs and his wife almost dragged her on with kind encouraging words, till they came up to a stone ivy-covered wall, and coasting along itto a tower, evidently a staircase turret. Here Rotrou, holding aside anenormous bush of ivy, showed the foot of a winding staircase, and hiswife assured her that she would not have far to climb. 

She knew where she was now. She had heard of the old Refectory of theKnights Templars. Partly demolished by the hatred of the people upon theabolition of the Order, it had ever since lain waste, and had become thecentre of all the ghostly traditions of the country; the locality ofall the most horrid tales of REVENANTS told under the breath at DamePerrine's hearth or at recreation hour at Bellaise. Her courage was notproof 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, youwould fear no vain terror nor power of darkness. '

Should these peasants--these villeins--be bold, and see the descendantof the 'bravest of knights, ' the daughter of the house of Ribaumont, afraid? She rallied herself, and replied manfully, 'I FEAR not, no!' butthen, womanfully, 'But it is the Temple! It is haunted! Tell me what Imust expect. '

'I tell you truly, Madame, ' said Rotrou; 'none whom I have shelteredhere have seen aught. On the faith of a Christian, no evil spirit--noghost--has ever alarmed them; but they were fortified by prayer andpsalm. '

'I do pray! I have a psalm-book, ' said Eustacie, and she added toherself, 'No, they shall never see that I fear. After all, REVENANTS cando nothing worse than scare one; they cannot touch one; the saints andangels will not let them--and my uncle would do much worse. '

But to climb those winding stairs, and resign herself to be left alonewith the Templars for the night, was by far the severest trial that hadyet befallen the poor young fugitive. As her tire feet dragged up thecrumbling steps, her memory reverted to the many tales of the soundsheard by night within those walls--church chants turning into diabolicalsongs, and bewildered travelers into thickets and morasses, where theyhad been found in the morning, shuddering as they told of a huge whitemonk, with clanking weapons, and a burning cross of fire printed on hisshoulder and breast, who stood on the walls and hurled a shrieking babeinto 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 inher need!

At the top of the stairs she found Rotrou's hand, ready to help herout on a stone floor, quite dark, but thickly covered, as she felt andsmelt, with trusses of hay, between which a glimmering light showed anarrow passage. A few steps, guided by Rotrou's hand, brought her outinto light again, and she found herself in a large chamber, with thestone floor broken away in some places, and with a circular window, thickly veiled with ivy, but still admitting a good deal of eveninglight. 

It was in fact a chamber over the vaulted refectory of the knights. Thewalls and vaults still standing in their massive solidity, must havetempted some peasant, or mayhap some adventurer, rudely to cover in theroof (which had of course been stripped of its leading), and thus inthe unsuspected space to secure a hiding-place, often for less innocentcommodities than the salt, which the iniquitous and oppressive _gabelle_had always led the French peasant to smuggle, ever since the days of thefirst Valois. The room had a certain appearance of comfort; there was apartition across it, a hearth with some remains of wood-ashes, a shelf, holding a plate, cup, lamp, and a few other necessaries; and altogetherthe aspect of the place was so unlike what Eustacie had expected, thatshe almost forgot the Templar as she saw the dame begin to arrangea comfortable-looking couch for her wearied limbs. Yet she felt veryunwilling to let them depart, and even ventured on faltering out theinquiry whether the good woman could not stay with her, --she wouldreward 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 thevillage down there, for there are many who would find occasion againstus. ' But, by way of consolation, they gave her a whistle, and showedher that the window of their cottage was much nearer to a loophole-slitlooking towards the east than she had fancied. The whistle perpetrateda mist unearthly screech, a good deal like that of an owl, but morediscordant, and Nanon assured her that the sound would assuredly breakher 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 theshrieks indulged in by the spirits of the Temple, that Eustacie hadwit enough to suspect that it might be the foundation of some of thestories; and with that solace to her alarms, she endured the departureof her hosts, Nanon promising a visit in the early morning. 

The poor child was too weary to indulge in many terrors, the beneficenttorpor of excessive fatigue was upon her, happily bringing slumberousoblivion instead of feverish restlessness. She strove to repeat heraccustomed orisons; but sleep was too strong for her, and she was soonlying dreamlessly upon the clean homely couch prepared for her. 

When she awoke, it was with a start. The moon was shining in through thecircular window, making strange white shapes on the floor, all quiveringwith the shadows of the ivy sprays. It looked strange and eerie enoughat the moment, but she understood it the next, and would have beenreassured if she had not become aware that there was a low sound, atramp, tramp, below her. 'Gracious saints! The Templar! Have mercy onme! Oh! I was too sleepy to pray! Guard me from being driven wild byfright!' She sat upright, with wide-spread eyes, and, finding that sheherself was in the moonlight, through some opening in the roof, she tookrefuge in the darkest corner, though aware as she crouched there, that if this were indeed the Templar, concealment would be vain, andremembering suddenly that she was out of reach of the loophole-window. 

And therewith there was a tired sound in the tread, as if the Templarfound his weird a very length one; then a long heavy breath, withsomething so essentially human in its sound that the fluttering heartbeat more steadily. If reason told her that the living were moreperilous to her than the dead, yet feeling infinitely preferred them! Itmight be Nanon Rotrou after all; then how foolish to be crouching therein a fright! It was rustling through the hay. No-no Nanon; it is amale figure, it has a long cloak on. Ah! it is in the moonlight-silverhair--silver beard. The Templar! Fascinated with dismay, yet calling tomind that no ghost has power unless addressed, she sat still, crossingherself in silence, but unable to call to mind any prayer or invocationsave a continuous 'Ave Mary, ' and trying to restrain her gasping breath, lest, if he were not the Templar after all, he might discover herpresence. 

He moved about, took off his cloak, laid it down near the hay, then hiscap, 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 hewere pulling down the hay to form a bed. Did ghosts ever do anything sosensible? If he were an embodied spirit, would it be possible tocreep past him and escape while he lay asleep? She was almost becomingfamiliarized with the presence, and the supernatural terror was passingoff into a consideration of resources, when, behold, he was beginning tosing. To sing was the very way the ghosts began ere they came to theirdevilish outcries. 'Our Lady keep it from bringing frenzy. But hark!hark!' It was not one of the chants, it was a tune and words heardin older times of her life; it was the evening hymn, that the littlehusband and wife had been wont to sing to the Baron in the Chateau deLeurre--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 nothave been able to help joining it. As it was, the familiar home wordsirresistibly impelled her to mingle her voice, scarce knowing what shedid, 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 hadhad time to think of the consequences of thus raising her voice, thenew-comer demanded:

'Is there then another wanderer here?'

'Ah! sir, pardon me!' she exclaimed. 'I will not long importune you, butonly till morning light--only till the Fermiere Rotrou comes. '

'If Matthieu and Anne Rotrou placed you here, then all is well, ' repliedthe stranger. 'Fear not, daughter, but tell me. Are you one of myscattered flock, or one whose parents are known to me?' Then, as shehesitated, 'I am Isaac Gardon--escaped, alas! alone, from the slaughterof the Barthelemy. '

'Master Gardon!' cried Eustacie. 'Oh, I know! O sir, my husband lovedand 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 tothe heiress---'

'Yes, yes, I am that unhappy one! We were to have fled together on thatdreadful night. He came to meet me to the Louvre--to his doom!' shegasped out, nearer to tears than she had ever been since that time, sucha novelty was it to her to hear Berenger spoken of in kind or tenderterms; and in her warmth of feeling, she came out of her corner, andheld our her hand to him. 

'Alas! poor thing!' said the minister, compassionately, 'Heaven hastried you sorely. Had I known of your presence here, I would not haveentered; but I have been absent long, and stole into my lair herewithout 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. Sheperceived by the tones of the old man's voice that he was tired, andprobably fasting, and she felt about for the milk and bread with whichshe had been supplied. It was a most welcome refreshment, though he onlypartook sparingly; and while he ate, the two, so strangely met, came toa fuller knowledge of one another's circumstances. 

Master Isaac Gardon had, it appeared, been residing at Paris, in thehouse of the watchmaker whose daughter had been newly married to hisson; but on the fatal eve of St. Bartholomew, he had been sent for topray with a sick person in another quarter of the city. The Catholicfriends of the invalid were humane, and when the horrors began, not onlyconcealed their kinsman, but almost forcibly shut up the minister inthe same cellar with him. And thus, most reluctantly, had he been sparedfrom the fate that overtook his son and daughter-in-law. A lone andwell-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 manyscattered settlements of Huguenots in the northern part of France, who, being left pastorless, welcomed visits from the minister of theirreligion, and passed him on from one place to another, as his stay ineach began to be suspected by the authorities. He was now on his wayalong 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 beentaken from him, he resigned himself to believe that there was yet someduty left for him to fulfil. 

Meantime the old man was wearied out; and after due courtesies hadpassed between him and the lady in the dark, he prayed long andfervently, as Eustacie could judge from the intensity of the low murmursshe heard; and then she heard him, with a heavy irrepressible sigh, liedown on the couch of hay he had already prepared for himself, and soonhis regular breathings announced his sound slumbers. She was already onthe bed she had so precipitately quitted, and not a thought more didshe give to the Templars, living or dead, even though she heard anextraordinary snapping and hissing, and in the dawn of the morning sawa white weird thing, like a huge moth, flit in through the circularwindow, take up its station on a beam above the hay, and look down withthe brightest, roundest eyes she had ever beheld. Let owls and batscome where they would, she was happier than she had been for months. Compassion for herself was plentiful enough, but to have heard Berengerspoken of with love and admiration seemed to quiet the worst ache of herlonely 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 oneof their scanty secret opportunities for public worship. The hum of theprayer, and discourse of the pastor, rose up through the broken vaultingto Eustacie, still lying on her bed; for she had been much shaken by thefatigues 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 nostate to come for her in the next day; but he and his wife having beenseized upon by Narcisse and his men, and so savagely beaten in order toforce from them a confession of her hiding-place, that both werelying helpless on their bed; and could only send an entreaty by thetrustworthy fool, that Rotrou would find means of conveying Madame intoChollet in some cart of hay or corn, in which she could be taken pastthe barriers. 

But this was not to be. Good Nanon had sacrificed the sermon to creep upto Eustacie, and when the congregation were dispersing in the dusk, shestole down the stairs to her husband; and a few seconds after he washurrying as fast as _detours_ would allow him to Blaise's farm. An hourand a half later, Dame Perrine, closely blindfolded for the last mile, was dragged up the spiral staircase, and ere the bandage was removedheard Eustacie's voice, with a certain cheeriness, say, 'Oh! nurse; myson 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 ominoussilence and half-whisper between the two women at the hearth madeEustacie, with a low cry of terror, exclaim, 'Nurse, nurse, what meansthis? Oh! He lives! I know he lives! Perrine, I command you tell me!'

'Living! Oh, yes, my love, my Lady, ' answered Perrine, returning towardsher; 'fair and perfect as the day. Be not disquieted for a moment. '

'I will--I will disquiet myself, ' panted Eustacie, 'unless you tell mewhat is amiss. '

'Nothing amiss, ' said Nanon, gruffly. 'Madame will give thanks for thisfair gift of a daughter. '

It must be owned the words felt chill. She had never thought of this! Itwas as if the being for whom she had dared and suffered so much, in thetrust that he would be Berenger's representative and avenger, had failedher 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 donebefore; and, without speaking, she turned her head away towards thedarkness, feeling as if had been for nothing, and she might as wellsink away in her exhaustion. Mere Perrine was more angry with Nanon thanconscious of her Lady's weakness. 'Woman, you speak as if you knew notthe 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, withvelvet curtains, lace pillows, gold caudle-cups, should be here in avile 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 littlegirl! Had I known how it would turn out, I had never meddled in this madscheme. '

Before Nanon could express her indignation, Eustacie had turned her headopened 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, buta perfect little piece of sugar. There, Lady, she shall speak forherself. '

And as Nanon laid the babe on the young mother's bosom, the thrillingtouch at once put an end to all the repinings of the heiress, and awokefar 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 itup 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, streameddown very near where Eustacie lay, and by a slight movement Dame Rotrouwas able to render the little face as distinctly visible to her as ifit had been daylight, save that the blanching light was somewhatembellishing to the new-born complexion, and increased that curiousresemblance so often borne for the first few hours of life to the futureself. Eustacie's cry at once was, 'Himself, himself--his very face! Letme have her, my own moonbeam--his child--my joy!'

The tears, so long denied, rushed down like summer rain as she claspedthe child in her arms. Dame Perrine wandered to and fro, like one besideherself, not only at her Lady's wretched accommodations, but at the illomens of the moonlight illumination, of the owls who snapped and hissedincessantly over the hay, and above all the tears over the babe's face. She tried to remonstrate with Eustacie, but was answered only, 'Let meweep! 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 goodrather than harm. She was chiefly anxious to be quit of Perrine, who, however faithful to the Lady of Ribaumont, must not be trusted to learnthe way to this Huguenot asylum, and must be escorted back by Rotrou erepeep of dawn. The old woman knew that her own absence from home would besuspicious, and with many grumblings submitted; but first she took thechild from Eustacie's reluctant arms, promising to restore her in a fewmoments, after finishing dressing her in the lace-edged swaddling bandsso carefully preserved ever since Eustacie's own baby hood. In thesemoments she had taken them all by surprise by, without asking anyquestions, sprinkling the babe with water, and baptizing her by thehereditary name of Berangere, the feminine of the only name Eustacie hadalways declared her son should bear. Such baptisms were not unfrequentlyperformed by French nurses, but Eustacie exclaimed with a sound halfdismay, half indignation. 

'_Eh quoi_!' said Perrine, 'it is only _ondoyee_. You can have all theceremonies if ever time shall fit; but do you think I could leave myLady's child--mere girl though it be--alone with owls, and _follets_, and REVENANTS, and heretics, and she unbaptized? She would be achangeling long ere morning, I trow. '

'Come, good woman, ' said Rotrou, from between the trusses of hay at theentrance; 'you and I must begin our Colin-Mail-lard again, or it may bethe worse for us both. '

And with the promise of being conducted to Eustacie again in threenights' 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 allthis time Maitre Gardon had been hidden in the refectory below, andstill less did she guess that soon after her departure the old man wasinstalled as her Lady's chief attendant. It was impossible that Nanonshould stay with Eustacie; she had her day's work to attend to, and herabsence would have excited suspicion. He, therefore, came partly upthe stairs, and calling to Nanon, proffered himself to sit with '_cettepauvre_, ' and make a signal in case Nanon should be wanted. The goodwoman was thus relieved of a great care. She would not have dared toask it of him, but with a low reverence, she owned that it was an act ofgreat charity towards the poor lady, who, she hoped, was falling intoa tranquil sleep, but who she would hardly have dared to leave. Thepastor, though hardships, battles, and persecutions had left himchildless, had been the father of a large family; and perhaps he wasdrawn the more strongly towards the mother and child, because he almostfelt as if, in fulfilling the part of a father towards the widow ofBerenger de Ribaumont, he was taking her in the stead of the widow ofhis own Theodore. 

Had the little Baronne de Ribaumont been lodged in a tapes-triedchamber, between curtains of velvet and gold, with a _beauffet_ by herside glistening with gold and silver plate, as would have befitted herstation, instead of lying on a bed of straw, with no hangings to thewalls save cobwebs and hay, and wallflowers, no _beauffet_ but the oldrickety table, no attendants but Nanon and M. Gardon, no visitors butthe two white owls, no provisions save the homely fare that rusticmothers 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-doorlife, like the peasant women; and she was young and strong, so that sherecovered as they did. If the April shower beat in at the window, or thehole 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 openair that blew in was soft with all the southern sweetness of earlyspring-tide, and the little one throve in it like the puff-ball owletsin the hayloft, or the little ring-doves in the ivy, whose parent'scooing voice was Eustacie's favourite music. Almost as good as theseher fellow-nestlings was the little Moonbeam, _la petite Rayonette_, as Eustacie fondly called this light that had come back to her from thesunshine she had lost. Had she cried or been heard, the sounds wouldprobably have passed for the wailings of the ghostly victims of theTemplars, 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, andto be solely taken up with the baby, and the amusement of watching theowl family. 

There was a lull in the search at this moment, for the Chevalier hadbeen recalled to Paris by the fatal illness of his son-in-law, M. DeSelinvine. The old soldier, after living half his life on bread andsalad, that he might keep up a grand appearance at Paris, had, on cominginto the wealth of the family, and marrying a beautiful wife, returnedto the luxuries he had been wont only to enjoy for a few weeks at atime, with in military occupation of some Italian town. Three months offestivities had been enough to cause his death; and the Chevalier wassummoned to assist his daughter in providing for his obsequies, and intaking 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 theold nurse Perrine, who took advantage of the slackening vigilance of theenemy to come to see Eustacie. The old woman was highly satisfied;for one of the peasants' wives had--as if on purpose to oblige herLady--given birth to twins, one of whom had died almost immediately; andthe parents had consented to conceal their loss, and at once take thelittle Demoiselle de Ribaumont as their own--guarding the secret tillher mother should be able to claim her. It was so entirely the practice, under the most favourable circumstances, for French mothers to sendtheir infants to be nursed in cottages, that Perrine was amazed by thecry of angry refusal that burst from Eustacie: 'Part with my child!leave her to her enemies!--never! never! Hold your tongue, Perrine! Iwill 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 thatis left me of thy father!--the poor little orphaned innocent, that noone loves but her mother!'

'Madame--Mademoiselle, this is not common sense! Why, how can you hideyourself? how travel with a baby on your neck, whose crying may betrayyou?'

'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 notcare for it half so much. As for my poor little lonely girl, whomevery one wishes away but her mother--ah! yes, baby, thy mother will gothrough fire and water for thee yet. Never fear, thou shalt not leaveher!'

'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 besideyourself! 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 ofinfants? How can she take care of it?'

'Our Lady will teach me, ' said Eustacie, still pressing the childpassionately to her heart; 'and see--the owl--the ring-dove--can takecare of their little ones; the good God shows them how--He will tell mehow!'

Perrine regarded her Lady much as if she were in a naughty fit, refusingunreasonably to part with a new toy, and Nanon Rotrou was much of thesame mind; but it was evident that if at the moment they attemptedto carry off the babe, the other would put herself into an agony ofpassion, that they durst not call forth; and they found it needful to dotheir best to soothe her out of the deluge of agitated tears that fellfrom her eyes, as she grasped the child so convulsively that she mightalmost have stifled it at once. They assured her that they would nottake it away now--not now, at any rate; and when the latent meaningmade her fiercely insist that it was to leave her neither now norever, Perrine made pacifying declarations that it should be just as shepleased--promises that she knew well, when in that coaxing voice, meantnothing at all. Nothing calmed her till Perrine had been conducted away;and even then Nanon could not hush her into anything like repose, and atlast called in the minister, in despair. 

'Ah! sir, you are a wise man; can you find how to quiet the poor littlething? Her nurse has nearly driven her distracted with talking of thefoster-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 spokenof. And surely she had better make up her mind, for there is no otherchoice. '

'Nay, Nanon, ' said M. Gardon, 'wherefore should she part with the chargethat God has laid on her?'

Eustacie gave a little cry of grateful joy. 'Oh, sir, come nearer! Doyou, 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 theminister for me! If you will tell me I ought to keep my child, then Iwill believe everything else. I will do just as you tell me. ' And shestretched out both hands to him, with vehement eagerness. 

'Poor thing! This is no matter of one religion or another, ' said theminister; 'it is rather the duty that the Almighty hath imposed, andthat 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 withme if any one had wished to part me from Robin or Sara; but these fineladies, and, for that matter, BOURGEOISES too, always do put out theirbabes; and it seemed to me that Madame would find it hard to contrivefor 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, probablyshe would have surrendered an infant born in purple and in pall to theordinary lot of its contemporaries; but the exertions and sufferingshe had undergone on behalf of her child, its orphanhood, her ownloneliness, and even the general disappointment in its sex, had given ita hold on her vehement, determined heart, that intensified to the utmostthe instincts of motherhood; and she listened as if to an angle's voiceas Maitre Gardon replied to Nanon--

'I say not that it is not the custom; nay, that my blessed wife andmyself have not followed it; but we have so oft had cause to repentthe necessity, that far be it from me ever to bid a woman forsake hersucking child. '

'Is that Scripture?' asked Eustacie. 'Ah! sir, sir, tell me more! Youare giving me all--all--my child! I will be--I am--a Huguenot like herfather! and, when my vassals come, I will make them ride with you to LaRochelle, and fight in your cause!'

'Nay, ' said Maitre Gardon, taken by surprise; 'but, Lady, your vassalsare 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, shecontinued--

'As soon as I am well enough, Blaise will send out messages, and theywill meet me at midnight at the cross-roads, Martin and all, fordear good Martin is quite well now, and we shall ride across country, avoiding towns, wherever I choose to lead them. I had thought ofChantilly, for I know M. De Montmorency would stand my friend against aGuisard; 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 asshe sat up on her bed, she held up her little proud head, and waved herright hand with the grace and dignity of a queen offering an alliance ofher realm. 

Maitre Gardon, who had hitherto seen her as a childish though cheerfuland patient sufferer, was greatly amazed, but he could not regard herproject as practicable, or in his conscience approve it; and after amoment's consideration he answered, 'I am a man of peace, Lady, andseldom side with armed men, nor would I lightly make one of those whoenroll 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 whohave drawn the sword for the faith; yet, Lady, it would not be even thuswith 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 itbe with their homes and families--the hearths that have given you suchfaithful shelter?'

'The women would take to the woods, ' readily answered she; 'it issummer-time, and they should be willing to bear something for my sake. I should grieve indeed, ' she added, 'if my uncle misused them. They havebeen very good to me, but then they belong to me. '

'Ah! Lady, put from you that hardening belief of seigneurs. Think whattheir fidelity deserves from their Lady. '

'I will be good to them! I do love them! I will be their very goodmistress, ' 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, orat least hide her for ever in a convent--they would force me into thisabhorrent marriage. No--no--no--my child and I would die a hundreddeaths together rather than fall into the hands of Narcisse. '

'Calm yourself, Lady; there is no present fear, but I deem that thesafest course for the little one would be to place her in England. Shemust 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 mefor your guide, and make your way--more secretly than would be possiblewith 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 bringthe 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 tohimself, was thus petulantly flouted. 'Madame will think at her leisureof 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 bythe moods of his strange little impetuous convert, if convert she couldbe termed. He himself was a deeply learned scholar, who had studiedall the bearings of the controversy; and, though bound to the FrenchReformers who would gladly have come to terms with the Catholics at theConference of Plassy, and regretted the more decided Calvinism thathis party had since professed, and in which the Day of St. Bartholomewconfirmed them. He had a strong sense of the grievous losses theysuffered by their disunion from the Church. The Reformed were less andless what his ardent youthful hopes had trusted to see them; and in hisold age he was a sorrow-stricken man, as much for the cause of religionas for personal bereavements. He had little desire to win proselytes, but rather laid his hand to build up true religion where he found itsuffering shocks in these unsettled, neglected times; and his presentwish was rather to form and guide this little willful warm-heartedmother--whom he could not help regarding with as much affection aspity--to find a home in the Church that had been her husband's, thanto gain her to his own party. And most assuredly he would never let herinvolve herself, as she was ready to do, in the civil war, without evenknowing the doctrine which grave and earnest men had preferred to theirloyalty. 

He could hear her murmuring to her baby, 'No, no, little one, we are notfallen so low as to beg our bread among strangers. ' To live upon her ownvassals had seemed to her only claiming her just rights, but it galledher to think of being beholden to stranger Huguenots; and Englandand her mother-in-law, without Berenger, were utterly foreign anddistasteful to her. 

Her mood was variable. Messages from Blaise and Martin came and went, and it became known that her intended shelter at Chollet, togetherwith all the adjacent houses, had been closely searched by the youngerRibaumont in conjunction with the governor; so that it was plain thatsome treachery must exist, and that she only owed her present freedom toher detention in the ruined temple; and it would be necessary to leavethat as soon as it was possible for her to attempt the journey. 

The plan that seemed most feasible to the vassals was, that Rotroushould convey her in a cart of fagots as far as possible on the roadto Paris; that there his men should meet her by different roads, ridingtheir farm-horses--and Martin even hoped to be able to convey her ownpalfrey to her from the monastery stable, and thence, taking a longstretch across country, they trusted to be able to reach the lands of adependant of the house of Montmorency, who would not readily yield herup to a Guise's man. But, whether instigated by Perrine, or by their ownjudgment, the vassals declared that, though Madame should be conductedwherever she desired, it was impossible to encumber themselves with theinfant. Concealment would be impossible; rough, hasty rides would beretarded, her difficulties would be tenfold increased, and the littleone would become a means of tracing her. There was no choice but toleave it with Simonette. 

Angrily and haughtily did Eustacie always reject this alternative, andsend fresh commands back by her messenger, to meet the same reply inanother form. The strong will and practical resolution of the stoutfarmers, who were about to make a terrible venture for her, and mightreasonably think they had a right to prescribe the terms that theythought best. All this time Maitre Gardon felt it impossible to leaveher, still weak and convalescent, alone in the desolate ruin with heryoung child; though still her pride would not bend again to seek thecounsel that she had so much detested, nor to ask for the instructionthat was to make her 'believe like her husband. ' If she might not fightfor the Reformed, it seemed as if she would none of their doctrine!

But, true lady that she was, she sunk the differences in her intercoursewith him. She was always prettily and affectionately grateful for everyservice that he rendered her, and as graciously polite as though she hadbeen keeping house in the halls of Ribaumont. Then her intense lovefor her child was so beautiful, and there was so much sweetness inthe cheerful patience with which she endured the many hardships ofher situation, that he could not help being strongly interested in thewillful, spirited little being. 

And thus time passed, until one night, when Martin ventured over thefarm with a report so serious that Rotrou, at all risks, brought himup to communicate his own tidings. Some one had given information, Veronique he suspected, and the two Chevaliers were certainly comingthe next day to search with fire the old buildings of the temple. It wasalready dawning towards morning, and it would be impossible to do moreat present than to let Rotrou build up the lady in a vault, some littleway off, whence, after the search was over, she could be released, andjoin her vassals the next night according to the original design. Asto the child, her presence in the vault was impossible, and Martin hadactually brought her intended nurse, Simonette, to Rotrou's cottage toreceive 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 mystaff. '

'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 waswhat in later times has been termed an underground railway amid thepersecuted Calvinists, and M. Gardon knew his ground well enough to havelittle doubt of being able to conduct the lady safely to some townon the coast, whence she might reach her friends in England. The planhighly satisfied Martin. It relieved him and his neighbours from thenecessity of provoking perilous wrath, and it was far safer for herherself than endeavouing to force her way with an escort too large notto attract notice, yet not warlike enough for efficient defence. Heoffered no further opposition, but augured that after all she would comeback a fine lady, and right them all. 

Eustacie, recovering from her anger, and recollecting his services, gavehim her hand to kiss, and bade him farewell with a sudden effusion ofgratitude and affection that warmed the honest fellow's heart. Rewardscould not be given, lest they should become a clue for her uncle; andperhaps they would have wounded both him and their kind hosts, who didtheir best to assist her in their departure. A hasty meal was providedby Nanon, and a basket so stored as to obviate the need of entering avillage, on that day at least, to purchase provisions; Eustacie's moneyand jewels again formed the nucleus of the bundle of clothes and spareswaddling-banks of her babe; her peasant dress was carefully arranged--astout striped cloth skit and black bodice, the latter covered by ascarlet Chollet kerchief. The winged white cap entirely hid her hair; agray cloak with a hood could either fold round her and her child or bestrapped on her shoulders. Her _sabots_ were hung on her shoulder, forshe had learnt to go barefoot, and walked much more lightly thus; andher 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 whitebeard and hair, was reminded of the Flight into Egypt, and came closeto 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 onthe wings of the wind along the narrow street of the Three Fairies, atthe little Huguenot bourg of La Sablerie; torrents of rain had poachedthe unpaved soil into a depth of mud, and thunder had reverberated overthe chimney-tops, and growled far away over the Atlantic, whose angrywaves 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 Maythough it were, the Widow Noemi Laurent gladly closed the shutters ofher unglazed window, where small cakes and other delicate confectionswere displayed, and felt the genial warmth of the little fire with whichshe heated her tiny oven. She was the widow of a pastor who had sufferedfor his faith in the last open persecution, and being the daughter of abaker, the authorities of the town had permitted her to support herselfand her son by carrying on a trade in the more delicate 'subtilties' ofthe art, which were greatly relished at the civic feasts. Noemi was agrave, sad woman, very lonely ever since she had saved enough to sendher son to study for the ministry in Switzerland, and with an achingheart that longed to be at rest from the toil that she looked on as asteep ladder on her way to a better home. She occupied two tiny roomson the ground-floor of a tall house; and she had just arranged her fewarticles of furniture with the utmost neatness, when there was a lowknock at her door, a knock that the persecuted well understood, and asshe lifted the latch, a voice she had known of old spoke the scripturalsalutation, '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 graymantle, the aged traveller drew into the house a female figure whom hehad been supporting on his other arm, muffled head and shoulders in asoaked cloak, with a petticoat streaming with wet, and feet and anklescovered with mire, 'Here we are, my child, ' he said tenderly, as healmost carried her to Noemi's chair. Noemi, with kind exclamations of'_La pauvre_! _la pauvre_!' helped the trembling cold hand to open thewet cloak, and then cried out with fresh surprise and pity at the sightof the fresh little infant face, nestled warm and snug under all thewrappings in those weary arms. 

'See, ' said the poor wanderer, looking up to the old man, with a faintsmile; '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 dearto my own bed directly, ' said Noemi. '_Tenez_' opening a chest; 'youwill find dry clothes there, of my husband's. And thou, ' helpingEustacie up with her strong arm, and trying to take the little one, 'letme warm and dry thee within. '

Too much worn out to make resistance, almost past speaking, knowingmerely that she had reached the goal that had been promised herthroughout these weary days, feeling warmth, and hearing kind tones, Eustacie submitted to be led into the inner room; and when the goodwidow 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. Gardonhelp himself to the rest. She came back again with the babe, to washand dress it in the warmth of her oven fire. Maitre Gardon, in the blacksuit of a Calvinist pastor, had eaten his _potage_, and was anxiouslyawaiting 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 isscarce four weeks old?'

'Four weeks this coming Sunday. '

'Ah! the poor thing. The blessing of Heaven must have been with you tobear her through. And what a lovely infant--how white--what beauteouslittle 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 wifehad escaped. '

'Alas! no, Noemi; this is no child of Theodore's. His wife shared hismartyrdom. 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 thepious Baron de Ribaumont, the patron of your husband, and of myself inearlier days. '

'Ah!' exclaimed Noemi, startled. 'Then the poor young mother--isshe--can she be the lost Demoiselle de Nid de Merle?'

'Is the thing known here? The will of Heaven be done; but she can sendto her husband's kindred in England. '

'She might rest safely enough, if others beside myself believed inher being your son's widow, ' said Noemi. 'Wherefore should she not bethought so?'

'Poor Esperance! She would willingly have lent her name to guardanother, ' said Master Gardon, thoughtfully; 'and, for the sake ofthe child, my little lady may endure it. Ah! there is the making of afaithful and noble woman in that poor young thing. Bravely, patiently, cheerfully, hath she plodded this weary way; and, verily, she hath grownlike my own daughter to me--as I never thought to love earthly thingagain; and had this been indeed my Theodore's child, I could hardly carefor it more. '

And as he related how he had fallen in with the forlorn Lady ofRibaumont, and all that she had dared, done, and left undone for thesake of her little daughter, good Noemi Laurent wept, and agreed withhim that a special providence must have directed them to his care, andthat 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 whohad lost their pastor on the day of the massacre, and to recruit his ownstrength; for he, too, had suffered severely from the long travelling, and the exposure during many nights, especially since all that was warmand sheltered had been devoted to Eustacie. And after this he proposedto go to La Rochelle, and make inquiries for a trusty messengerwho could be sent to England to seek out the family of the Baron deRibaumont, or, mayhap, a sufficient escort with whom the lady couldtravel; though he had nearly made up his mind that he would notrelinquish the care of her until he had safely delivered her to herhusband's mother. 

Health and life were very vigorous in Eustacie; and though at first shehad been completely worn out, a few days of comfort, entire rest, andgood nursing restored her. Noemi dressed her much like herself, in ablack gown, prim little white starched ruff, and white cap, --a thoroughCalvinist dress, and befitting a minister's widow. Eustacie winced alittle 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, thoughhe chief personages of the town were Huguenot, there could be no safetyfor her if the report were once allowed to arise that the Baronne deRibaumont 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 hadalways shut herself up with her Bible and her meditations, and sought nosympathy from her neighbours, nor encourage gossip in her shop. In thefirst days, when purchasers lingered to ask if it were true that MaitreGardon 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 becameless easy to arrange when Eustacie herself was on foot again--refreshed, active, and with an irrepressible spring of energy and eagerness thatcould hardly be caged down in the Widow Laurent's tiny rooms. Poorchild, had she not been ill and prostrate at first, and fastened herselfon the tender side of the good woman's heart by the sweetness of anunselfish and buoyant nature in illness, Noemi could hardly have enduredsuch an inmate, not even half a Huguenot, full of little Catholicobservances like second nature to her; listening indeed to the Biblefor the short time, but always, when it was expounded, either asleep, orfinding some amusement indispensable for her baby; eager for the leastvariety, and above all spoilt by Maitre Gardon to a degree absolutelyperplexing to the grave woman. 

He would not bid her lay aside the observances that, to Noemi, seemedalmost worship of the beast. He rather reverted to the piety whichoriginated them; and argued with his old friend that it was betterto build than to destroy, and that, before the fabric of truth, superstition would crumble away of itself. The little he taughther sounded to Noemi's puzzled ears mere Christianity instead ofcontroversial Calvinism. And, moreover, he never blamed her for wickedworldliness when she yawned; but even devised opportunities for takingher out for a walk, to see as much life as might be on a market-day. Hecould certainly not forget--as much as would have been prudent--that shewas a high-born lady; and even seemed taken aback when he found her withher sleeves turned up over her shapely-delicate arms, and a thick apronbefore her, with her hands in Veuve Laurent's flour, showing her someof those special mysterious arts of confectionery in which she had beeninitiated by Soeur Bernardine, when, not three years ago, she had beenthe pet of the convent at Bellaise. At first it was half sport andthe desire of occupation, but the produce of her manipulations wasso excellent as to excite quite a sensation in La Sablerie, and theechevins and baillis sent in quite considerable orders for the cakes andpatties of Maitre Gardon's Paris-bred daughter-in-law. 

Maitre Gardon hesitated. Noemi Laurent told him she cared little for thegain--Heaven knew it was nothing to her--but that she thought it wrongand inconsistent in him to wish to spare the poor child's pride, whichwas unchristian enough already. 'Nay, ' he said sadly, 'mortificationsfrom without do little to tame pride; nor did I mean to bring her herethat she should turn cook and confectioner to pamper the appetite ofBaillis La Grasse. '

But Eustacie's first view was a bright pleasure in the triumph of herskill; and when her considerate guardian endeavoured to impress on herthat there was no necessity for vexing herself with the task, she turnedround on him with the exclamation, 'Nay, dear father, do you not seeit is my great satisfaction to be able to do something for our goodhostess, so that my daughter and I be not a burden to her?'

'Well spoken, my Lady, ' said the pastor; 'there is real nobility in thatway of thinking. Yet, remember, Noemi is not without means; she feelsnot the burden. And the flock contribute enough for the shepherd'ssupport, and yours likewise. '

'Then let her give it to the poor creatures who so often come inbegging, and saying they have been burned out of house and home by oneparty 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 somuch. '

And Madame de Ribaumont mixed sugar and dough, and twisted quaintshapes, and felt important and almost light-hearted, and sang over herwork and over her child songs that were not always Marot's psalms; andthat gave the more umbrage to Noemi, because she feared that MaitreGardon actually like to hear them, though, should their echo reach thestreet, why it would be a peril, and still worse, a horrible scandalthat out of that sober, afflicted household should proceed profane tunessuch 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 doorstepbetween the two rooms, with her baby on her knees, was dreamily hummingto her a tune, without even words, but one that she loved, because shehad first learnt to sing it with Berenger and his friend Sidney to thelute of the latter; and its notes always brought before her eyes thewoods 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 exchangefor a handkerchief, started at the sound, and moved so as to like intothe house. 

Noemi was at the moment not attending, being absorbed in the study ofthe handkerchief, which was of such fine, delicate texture that anidea of its having been stolen possessed her; and she sought the cornerwhere, as she expected, a coat-of-arms was embroidered. Just as she waslooking up to demand explanation, the stranger, with a sudden cry of'Good heavens, it is she!' pushed past her into the house, and fallingon his knee before Eustacie, exclaimed, 'O Lady, Lady, is it thus that Isee you?'

Eustacie had started up in dismay, crying out, 'Ah! M. L'Abbe, as youare a gentleman, betray me not. Oh! have they sent you to find me? Havepity on us! You loved my husband!'

'You have nothing to fear from me, Lady, ' said the young man, stillkneeling; 'if you are indeed a distressed fugitive--so am I. If you haveshelter and friends--I have none. '

'Is it indeed so?' said Eustacie, wistfully, yet scarce reassured. 'Youare truly not come from my uncle. Indeed, Monsieur, I would not doubtyou, but you see I have so much at stake. I have my little one here, andthey mean so cruelly by her. '

'Madame, I swear by the honour of a nobleman--nay, by all that issacred--that I know nothing of your uncle. I have been a wanderer formany weeks past; proscribed and hunted down because I wished to seekinto the truth. '

'Ah!' said Eustacie, with a sound of relief, and of apology, 'pardonme, sir; indeed, I know you were good. You loved my husband;' and shereached out her hand to raise him, when he kissed it reverently. Little_bourgeoise_ and worn mendicant as they were in dress, the air of theLouvre breathed round them; and there was all its grace and dignity asthe lady turned round to her astonished hosts, saying, 'Good sir, kindmother, this gentleman is, indeed, what you took me for, a fugitive forthe truth. Permit me to present to you, Monsieur l'Abbe de Mericour--atleast, so he was, when last I had the honour to see him. '

The last time HE had seen her, poor Eustacie had been incapable ofseeing 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 begyour grace. I would not have used so little ceremony, if I had not beenout of myself at recognizing a voice and a tune that could belong tonone but Madame---'

'Sit down, sir, ' said Noemi, a little coldly and stiffly--for Mericourwas a terrible name to Huguenots ears; 'a true friend to this lady mustneeds be welcome, above all if he comes in Heaven's name. '

'Sit down and eat, sir, ' added Gardon, much more heartily; 'and forgiveus for not having been more hospitable--but the times have taught us tobe cautious, and in that lady we have a precious charge. Rest; for youlook both weary and hungry. '

Eustacie added an invitation, understanding that he would not sitwithout her permission, and then, as he dropped into a chair, sheexclaimed, '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 asthe shutters were closed, and shelter for the night promised to him by aHuguenot family lodging in the same house, he began to answer Eustacie'sanxious questions, as well as to learn from her in return what hadbrought her into her present situation. 

Then it was that she recollected that it had been he who, at her cousinDiane's call, had seized her when she was rushing out of the palacein her first frenzy of grief, and had carried her back to the women'sapartments. 

'It was that day which brought me here, ' he said. 

And he told how, bred up in his own distant province, by a pious andexcellent tutor, he had devoutly believed in the extreme wickedness ofthe Reformers; but in his seclusion he had been trained to such purityof faith and morals, that, when his brother summoned him to court tosolicit 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; fortruly, as things then were at the French court, crime seemed to havearrayed itself on the side of the orthodox party, all virtue on that ofthe schismatics. 

De Mericour consulted spiritual advisers, who told him that none butCatholics could be truly holy, and that what he admired were merelyheathen virtues that the devil permitted the Huguenots to display inorder to delude the unwary. With this explanation he had striven to besatisfied, though eyes unblended by guilt and a pure heart continued tobe revolted at the practices which his Church, scared at the eviltimes, and forgetful of her own true strength, left undenounced in herpartisans. And the more that the Huguenot gentlemen thronged the court, and the young Abbe was thrown into intercourse with them, and the morehe perplexed himself how the truth, the faith, the uprightness, theforbearance, the purity that they evinced could indeed be wanting inthe zeal that made them acceptable. Then came the frightful morning whencarnage reigned in every street, and the men who had been treated asfavourite boon companions were hunted down like wild beasts in everystreet. He had endeavoured to save life, but would have speedily beenslaughtered himself except for his soutane; and in all good faith hehad hurried to the Louvre, to inform royalty of the horrors that, as hethought, a fanatic passion was causing the populace to commit. 

He found the palace become shambles--the King himself, wrought up tofrenzy, firing on the fugitives. And the next day, while his brain stillseemed frozen with horror, he was called on to join in the procession ofthanksgiving for the King's deliverance from a dangerous plot. Surely, if the plot were genuine, he thought, the procession should havesavoured of penance and humiliation rather than of barbarous exultation!Yet these might be only the individual crimes of the Queen-mother, andof the Guises seeking to mask themselves under the semblance ofzeal; and the infallible head of the visible Church would disown theslaughter, and cast it from the Church with loathing as a blood-stainedgarment. Behold, Rome was full of rejoicing, and sent sanction andcommendation of the pious zeal of the King! Had the voice of Holy Churchbecome indeed as the voice of the bloodhound? Was this indeed her call?

The young man, whose life from infancy had been marked out for theservice of the Church--so destined by his parents as securing a wealthyprovision for a younger son, but educated by his good tutor with morereal sense of his obligations--felt the question in its full import. He was under no vows; he had, indeed, received the tonsure, but wasotherwise unpledged, and he was bent on proving all things. The gaietiesin which he had at first mingled had become abhorrent to him, and hestudied with the earnestness of a newly-awakened mind in search of truelight. The very face of study and inquiry, in one of such a family asthat of his brother the Duke de Mericour, was enough to excite suspicionof Huguenot inclinations. The elder brother tried to quash the folly ofthe younger, by insisting on his sharing the debaucheries which, whetheras priest or monk, or simply as Christian man, it would be his duty toabjure; and at length, by way of bringing things to a test, insistedon his making one of a party who were about to break up and destroy aHuguenot assembly. Unable, in his present mood, to endure the thoughtof further cruelty, the young Abbe fled, gave secret warning to theendangered congregation, and hastened to the old castle in Brittany, where he had been brought up, to pour out his perplexities, and seek thecounsel of the good old chaplain who had educated him. Whether the kind, learned, simple-hearted tutor could have settled his mind, he had notime to discover, for he had scarcely unfolded his troubles beforewarnings came down that he had better secure himself--his brother, ashead of the family, had obtained the royal assent to the imprisonment ofthe rebellious junior, so as to bring him to a better mind, and curehim of the Huguenot inclinations, which in the poor lad were simplyundeveloped. But in all the Catholic eyes he was a tainted man, andhis almost inevitable course was to take refuge with some Huguenotrelations. There he was eagerly welcome; instruction was poured in onhim; but as he showed a disposition to inquire and examine, and neededtime to look into what they taught him, as one who feared to breakhis link with the Church, and still longed to find her blameless andglorious, the righteous nation that keepeth the truth, they turned onhim and regarded him as a traitor and a spy, who had come among them onfalse pretences. 

All the poor lad wanted was time to think, time to examine, time toconsult authorities, living and dead. The Catholics called this treasonto the Church, the Huguenots called it halting between two opinions; andbetween them he was a proscribed, distrusted vagabond, branded on oneside as a recreant, and on the other as a traitor. He had asked for afew months of quiet, and where could they be had? His grand-mother hadbeen the daughter of a Scottish nobleman in the French service, and hehad once seen a nephew of hers who had come to Paris during the time ofQueen Mary's residence there. He imagined that if he were once out ofthis distracted land of France, he might find respite for study, forwhich he longed; and utterly ignorant of the real state of Scotland, he had determined to make his way to his kindred there; and he hadstruggled on the way to La Rochelle, cheated out of the small remainsof his money, selling his last jewels and all the clothing that wasnot indispensable, and becoming so utterly unable to pay his passage toEngland, that he could only trust to Providence to find him some meansof 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 beenincapable of comprehending that a man could sincerely doubt between themand Rome. When the history was finished, Eustacie exclaimed, turningto Maitre Gardon, 'Ah! sir, is not this just what we sought? If thisgentleman 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 ather service, ' cried the Abbe, fervently. 

And, after a little further debate, it was decided that it might reallybe the best course, for him as for Madame de Ribaumont, to become thebearer of a letter and token from her, entreating her mother-in-law tonotify her pleasure whether she should bring her child to England. Shehad means enough to advance a sufficient sum to pay Mericour's passage, and he accepted it most punctiliously as a loan, intending, so soon asher despatches were ready, to go on to La Rochelle, and make inquiry fora ship. 

Chance, however, seemed unusually propitious, for the next day therewas an apparition in the streets of La Sablerie of four or fiveweather-beaten, rollicking-looking men, their dress profusely adornedwith ribbons, and their language full of strange oaths. They were wellknown at La Sablerie as sailors belonging to a ship of the fleet of theCount de Montgomery, the unfortunate knight whose lance had caused thedeath of King Henry II. , and who, proscribed by the mortal hatred ofCatherine de Medicis, had become the admiral of a piratical fleet in theCalvinist interest, so far winked at the Queen Elizabeth that it had itshead-quarters in the Channel Islands, and thence was a most formidablefoe to merchant vessels on the northern and eastern coasts of France;and often indulged in descents on the coast, when the sailors--being ingeneral the scum of the nation--were apt to comport themselves more likeAmerican buccaneers than like champions of any form of religion. 

La Sablerie was a Huguenot town, so they used no violence, but onlyswaggered about, demanding from Bailli La Grasse, in the name of theirgallant Captain Latouche, contributions and provisions, and giving himto understand that if he did not comply to the uttermost it should bethe worse for him. Their ship, it appeared, had been forced to put intothe harbour, about two miles off, and Maitre Gardon and the young Abbedecided on walking thither to see it, and to have an interview with thecaptain, so as to secure a passage for Mericour at least. Indeed MaitreGardon had, in consultation with Eustacie, resolved, if he found thingssuitable, to arrange for their all going together. She would be farsafer out of France; and, although the Abbe alone could not haveescorted her, yet Maitre Gardon would gladly have secured for herthe additional protection of a young, strong, and spirited man; andEustacie, who was no scribe, was absolutely relieved to have the voyageset before her as an alternative to the dreadful operation of composinga letter to the _belle-mere_, whom she had not seen since she had beenseven years old, and of whose present English name she had the mostindistinct ideas. 

However, the first sight of the ship overthrew all such ideas. It was awretched single-decked vessel, carrying far more sail than experiencednautical eyes would have deemed safe, and with no accommodation fitfor a woman and child, even had the aspect of captain or crew been moresatisfactory--for the ruffianly appearance and language of the formerfully rivaled that of his sailors. It would have been mere madness tothink of trusting the lady in such hands; and, without a word to eachother, Gardon and Mericour resolved to give no hint even that she andher jewels were in La Sablerie. Mericour, however, made his bargain withthe captain, who understood to transport him as far as Guernsey, whencehe might easily make his way to Dorsetshire, where M. Gardon knew thatBerenger's English home had been. 

So Eustacie, with no small trouble and consideration, indited herletter--telling of her escape, the birth of her daughter, the dangersthat threatened her child--and begging that its grand-mother would giveit a safe home in England, and love it for the sake of its father. Ananswer would find her at the Widow Noemi Laurent's, Rue des TroisFees, La Sablerie. She could not bring herself to speak of the name ofEserance Gardon which had been saddled upon her; and even M. De Mericourremained in ignorance of her bearing this disguise. She recommended himto the kindness of her mother-in-law; and M. Gardon added another letterto the lady, on behalf of the charge to whom he promised to devotehimself until he should see them safe in friendly hands. Bothletters were addressed, as best they might be, between Eustacie'sdim comprehension of the word Thistlewood, and M. Gardon's notion ofspelling. 'Jadis, Baronne de Ribaumont' was the securest part of thedirection. 

And for a token, Eustacie looked over her jewels to find one that wouldserve for a token; but the only ones she knew would be recognized, werethe brooch that had fastened the plume in Berenger's bloody cap, and thechaplet of pearls. To part with the first, or to risk the second in thepirate-ship, was impossible, but Eustacie at last decided upon detachingthe pear-shaped pearl which was nearest the clasp, and which was soremarkable in form and tint that there was no doubt of its being wellknown. 

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 greatkitchen of the Manor-house, standing under the latticed window nearthe large oak-table, a white apron over her dress, presiding over thecollecting of elder-berries for the brew of household-wine for thewinter. The maids stood round her with an array of beechen bowls or redand yellow crocks, while barefooted, bareheaded children came throngingin with rush or wicker baskets of the crimson fruit, which the maidspoured in sanguine cascades into their earthenware; and Lucy requitedwith substantial slices of bread and cheese, and stout homely garmentmostly of her own sewing. 

Lucy was altogether an inmate of her father's house. She had not evenbeen at Hurst Walwyn for many months; for her step-mother's reiteratedhopes that Berenger would make her his consolation for all he hadsuffered from his French spouse rendered it impossible to her to meethim with sisterly unconsciousness; and she therefore kept out of theway, and made herself so useful at home, that Dame Annora only wonderedhow it had been possible to spare her so long, and always wound up herpraises by saying, that Berenger would learn in time how lucky he hadbeen to lose the French puppet, and win the good English housewife. 

If only tidings would have come that the puppet was safe married. Thatwas the crisis which all the family desired yet feared for Berenger, since nothing else they saw would so detach his thoughts from the pastas the leave him free to begin life again. The relapse brought on by thecruel reply to Osbert's message had been very formidable: he was longinsensible or delirious and then came a state of annihilated thought, then of frightfully sensitive organs, when light, sound, movement, orscent were alike agony; and when he slowly revived, it was with suchsunken spirits, that his silence was as much from depression as fromdifficulty of speech. His brain was weak, his limbs feeble, the wound inhis mouth never painless; and all this necessarily added to his listlessindifference and weariness, as though all youthful hope and pleasurewere extinct in him. He had ceased to refer to the past. Perhaps he hadthought it over, and seen that the deferred escape, the request for thepearls, 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 tohimself. 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 ofhis mind made the suspense just within the bounds of endurance, whiletrust in his wife's innocence rendered his inability to come to her aidwell-nigh intolerable; and doubt of her seemed both profanity and miseryunspeakable. He could do nothing. He had shot his only shaft by sendingLandry Osbert, and had found that to endeavour to induce his grandfatherto use further measures was worse than useless, and was treated as mereinfatuation. He knew that all he had to do was to endeavour for whatpatience he could win from Cecily's sweet influence and guidance, andto wait till either certainty should come--that dreadful, miserablecertainty that all looked for, and his very helplessness might bebringing about--or till he should regain strength to be again effective. 

And miserably slow work was this recovery. No one had surgical skill todeal with so severe a wound as that which Narcisse had inflicted; andthe daily pain and inconvenience it caused led to innumerable drawbacksthat often--even after he had come as far as the garden--brought himback 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'spresence, had been most assiduous in tending him--seemed to understandhis least sign, and to lay aside all his boisterous roughness in hiseager desire to do him service. The lads had loved each other from themoment they had met as children, but never so apparently as now, when all the rude horse-play of healthy youths was over--and one wasdependent, the other considerate. And if Berenger had made on one elsebelieve in Eustacie, he had taught Philip to view her as the 'Queen'smen' viewed Mary of Scotland. Philip had told Lucy the rough butwholesome truth, that 'Mother talks mere folly. Eustacie is no more tobe spoken of with you than a pheasant with old brown Partlet; and Berrywaits but to be well to bring her off from all her foes. And I'll gowith him. '

It was on Philip's arm that Berenger first crept round thebowling-green, and with Philip at his rein that he first endured toride along the avenue on Lord Walwyn's smooth-paced palfrey; and itwas Philip who interrupted Lucy's household cares by rushing in andshouting, 'Sister, here! I have wiled him to ride over the down, andhe is sitting under the walnut-tree quite spent, and the three littlewenches 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 tothe court, which was shaded by a noble walnut-tree, where Sir Marmadukeloved to sit among his dogs. There not sat Berenger, resting against thetrunk, overcome by the heat and exertion of his ride. His cloak andhat lay on the ground; the dogs fawned round him, eager for the wontedcaress, and his three little sisters stood a little aloof, clinging toone another and crying piteously. 

It was their first sight of him; and it seemed to them as if he werebehind a frightful mask. Even Lucy was not without a sensation of thekind, of this effect in the change from the girlish, rosy complexion toextreme paleness, on which was visible, in ghastly red and purple, thegreat scar left by Narcisse, from the temple on the one side to the earon 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 fewlight brown locks still hanging round the neck and temples, so thatthe bald brow gave a strange look of age; and the disfigurement wasterrible, enhanced as it was by the wasting effect of nearly a year ofsickness. Lucy was so much shocked, that she could hardly steady hervoice to chide the children for not giving a better welcome to theirbrother. They would have clung round her, but she shook them off, andsent Annora in haste for her mother's fan; while Philip arriving with aslice of diet-bread and a cup of sack, the one fanned him, and the otherfed 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 fewfaltering words, scarcely intelligible to Lucy. The little girls camenearer, and curiously regarded him but when he held out his hand to hisfavourite Dolly, she shrank back in reluctance. 

'Do not chide her, ' he said wearily. 'May she never become used to suchmarks!'

'What, would you have her live among cowards?' exclaimed Philip; butBerenger, instead of answering, looked up at the front of the house, one of those fine Tudor facades that seem all carved timber and glasslattice, and asked, so abruptly that Lucy doubted whether she heard himalright, --'How many windows are there in this front?'

'I never counted, ' said Philip. 

'I have, ' said Annora; 'there are seven and thirty, besides the twolittle ones in the porch. '

'None shall make them afraid, ' he muttered. 'Who would dare build such adefenceless house over yonder?'--pointing south. 

'Our hearts are guarded now, ' said Philip, proudly. Berenger halfsmiled, as he was wont to do when he meant more than he couldconveniently utter, and presently he asked, in the same languid, musingtone, 'Lucy, were you ever really affrighted?'

Lucy questioned whether he could be really in his right mind, as if thebewilderment of his brain was again returning; and while she paused, Annora exclaimed, 'Yes, when we were gathering cowslips, and thebrindled cow ran at us, and Lucy could not run because she had Dolly inher arm. Oh! we were frightened then, till you came, brother. '

'Yes, ' added Bessie; 'and last winter too, when the owl shrieked at thewindow---'

'And, ' added Berenger, 'sister, what was your greatest time of revelry?'

Annora again put in her word. 'I know, brother; you remember thefair-day, when my Lady Grandame was angered because you and Lucy went ondancing when we and all then gentry had ceased. And when Lucy said shehad not seen that you were left alone, Aunt Cecily said it was becausethe eyes of discretion were lacking. '

'Oh, the Christmas feast was far grander, ' said Bessie. 'Then Lucy hadher 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 bythe questions, and confused by the answers. Could he be contrasting thelife where a vicious cow had been the most alarming object, a greenswarddance with a step-brother the greatest gaiety, dye of the elder juicethe deepest stain, with the temptations and perils that had beset oneequally 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 hisyoung brow was knitted by care and despondency. 

Suddenly, the sounds in the village rose from the quiet sleepy summerhum into a fierce yell of derisive vituperation, causing Philip at onceto leap up, and run across the court to the entrance-gate, while Lucycalled after him some vain sisterly warning against mingling in a fray. 

It seemed as if his interposition had a good effect, for the uproarlulled almost as soon as he had hurried to the scene of action; andpresently he reappeared, eager and breathless. 'I told them to bring himup here, ' he said; 'they would have flogged him at the cart's-tail, therogues, just because my father is out of the way. I could not make outhis jargon, but you can, brother; and make that rascal Spinks let himgo. '

'What should I have to do with it?' said Berenger, shrinking fromthe sudden exposure of his scarred face and maimed speech. 'I am nomagistrate. '

'But you can understand him; he is French, the poor rogue something abuta letter, and wanting to ask his way. Ah! I thought that would touchyou, and it will cost you little pains, and slouching it over his face, rose, and, leaning upon Annora's shoulder, stepped forward, just as thebig burly blacksmith-constable and small shriveled cobbler advanced, dragging along, by a cord round the wrists, a slight figure with a redwoolen sailor's shirt, ragged black hosen, bare head, and almost barefeet. 

Doffing their caps, the men began an awkward salutation to the youngLord on his recovery, but he only touched his beaver in return, anddemanded, 'How now! what have you bound him for?'

'You see, my Lord, ' began the constable, 'there have been a sort ofvagrants of late, and I'll be bound' twas no four-legged fox as tookGaffer 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, thosescissors. '

'Tis my duty, my Lord, ' said Spinks, gruffly. 'All vagabonds to beapprehended and flogged at the cart's-tail, by her Grace's specialcommands. How is it to be answered to his Honour, Sir Marmaduke?'

'Oaf!' cried Philip, 'you durst not have used such violence had myfather been at home! Don't you see my brother knows him?'

With hands trembling with haste, Berenger had seized the scissorsthat, house-wife like, hung at Lucy's waist, and was cutting therope, exclaiming in French, 'Pardon, pardon, friend, for so shameful areception. '

'Sir, ' was the reply, without a sign of recognition, 'if, indeed, youknow my name, I entreat you to direct me to the chateau of Le SieurTistefote, whose lady was once Baronne de Ribaumont. '

'My mother! Ah, my friend, my friend! what would you?' he cried in atone 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 hisarms on his breast, and gazing at the group with indignant scorn, madeanswer, 'My message is from her who deems herself a widow, to themother of the husband whom she little imagines to be not only alive, butconsoled. '

'Faithful! Faithful!' burst out Berenger, with a wild, exultant, strangely-ringing shout. 'Woe, woe to those who would have had me doubther! Philip--Lucy--hear! Her truth is clear to all the world!' Thenchanging 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 partwith Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont in the town of La Sablerie, amonghumble, Huguenot guardians, to whom she had fled, to save her infant'slife--when no aid came. '

He was obliged to break off, for Berenger, stunned by the sudden rushof emotion, reeled as he stood, and would have fallen but for the promptsupport of Lucy, who was near enough to guide him back to rest upon thebench, saying resentfully in French as she did so, 'My brother is stillvery ill. I pray you, sir, have a care. '

She had not half understood the rapid words of the two young men, Philipcomprehended them far less, and the constable and his crew of coursenot at all; and Spinks pushed forward among the group as he saw Berengersink back on the bench; and once more collaring his prisoner, exclaimedalmost angrily to Philip, 'There now, sir, you've had enough of thevagabond. We'll keep him tight ere he bewitches any more of you. '

This rude interference proved an instant restorative. Berenger sprang upat once, and seizing Spink's arm, exclaimed, 'Hands off, fellow! This ismy friend--a gentleman. He brings me tidings of infinite gladness. Whoinsults him, insults me. '

Spinks scarcely withdrew his hand from Mericour's neck; and scowling, said, 'Very odd gentleman--very queer tidings, Master Berenger, to fellyou like an ox. I must be answerable for the fellow till his Honourcomes. '

'Ah! _Eh quoi_, wherefore not show the _canaille_ your sword?' saidMericour, impatiently. 

'It may not be here, in England, ' said Berenger (who fortunately was notwearing his weapon). 'And in good time here comes my step-father, ' asthe gate swung back, and Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood rode throughit, the former sending his voice far before him to demand the meaning ofthe hurly-burly that filled his court. 

Philip was the first to spring to his rein, exclaiming, 'Father, it isa Frenchman whom Spinks would have flogged at the cart's-tail; but itseems he is a friend of Berenger's, and has brought him tidings. I knownot what--about his wife, I believe--any way he is beside himself withjoy. '

'Sir, your Honour, ' shouted Spinks, again seizing Mericour, and strivingto drag him forward, 'I would know whether the law is to be hinderedfrom taking its course because my young Lord there is a Frenchman andbewitched. '

'Ah, ' shrieked Lady Thistlewood, 'I knew it. They will have sent secretpoison 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 testifythat he made my young Lord fall back as in a swoon, and reel like onedistraught. Pray Heaven it have not gone further. '

'Sir, ' exclaimed Berenger, who on the other side held his friend's handtight, '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 theirsenseless clamour. '

'Berenger! You here, my boy!' exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, more amazed bythis than all the rest. 

'He touches him--he holds him! Ah! will no one tear him away?' screamedLady Thistlewood. Nor would Spinks have been slow in obeying her if SirMarmaduke had not swung his substantial form to the ground, andstepping up to the prisoner, rudely clawed on one side by Spinks, andaffectionately grasped on the other side by Berenger, shouted--

'Let go, both!' does he speak English? Peace, dame! If the lad bebewitched, 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. Hefled from court for the religion's sake; he met her--my wife' (the voicewas scarcely intelligible, so tremulously was it spoken), 'in hidingamong the Huguenots--he brings a letter and a token from her to mymother. '

'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 ceasetheir insults! I have heard nothing yet. See here!' holding out whatMericour had put into his hand; 'this you cannot doubt, mother. '

'Parted the pearls! Ah, the little minx!' cried the lady, as sherecognized the jewels. 

'I thought he had been robbed?' added Sir Marmaduke. 

'The gentleman doubts?' said Mericour, catching some of the words. 'Heshould know that what is confided in a French gentleman is only takenfrom him with his life. Much did I lose; but the pearl I kept hidden inmy mouth. '

Therewith he produced the letter. Lady Thistlewood pronounced that nopower on earth should induce her to open it, and drew off herself andher little girls to a safe distance from the secret poison she fanciedit contained; while Sir Marmaduke was rating the constables for takingadvantage of his absence to interpret the Queen's Vagrant Act in theirown violent fashion; ending, however, by sending them round to thebuttery-hatch to drink the young Lord's health. For the messeger, thegood knight heartily grasped his hand, welcoming him and thanking himfor having 'brought comfort to you poor lad's heart. '

But there Sir Marmaduke paused, doubting whether the letter had indeedbrought comfort; for Berenger, who had seized on it, when it was refusedby his mother, was sitting under the tree--turning away indeed, but notable to conceal that his tears were gushing down like rain. The anxiousexclamation of his step-father roused him at length, but he scarce foundpower 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 hadbelieved her faithless!'

He then grasped his friend's arm, and with him disappeared into thehouse, leaving Sir Marmaduke holding the letter in a state of the utmostbewilderment, and calling by turns on his wife and daughter to read andexplain it to him. 

And as Lucy read the letter, with her mother could not yet prevail onherself to touch, she felt at each word more grateful to the good AuntCecily, whose influence had taught her always to view Berenger as abrother, and not to condemn unheard the poor young wife. If she had notbeen thus guarded, what distress might not this day of joy to Berengerhave brought to Lucy! Indeed, Lady Thistlewood was vexed enough asit was, and ready to carry her incredulity to the most inconsistentlengths. 'It was all a trick for getting the poor boy back, thatthey might make an end of him altogether. Tell her they thought himdead. --'Tilley-valley! It was a mere attempt on her own good-nature, toget a little French impostor on her hands. Let Sir Duke look well toit, and take care that her poor boy was not decoyed among them. TheFrenchman might be cutting his throat at that moment! Where was he? HadSir Duke been so lost as to let them out of sight together? No one hadeither pity or prudence now that her poor father was gone;' and shebegan to weep. 

'No great fear on that score, dame, ' laughed the knight. 'Did you nothear the lad shouting for 'Phil, Phil!' almost in a voice like oldtimes? It does one good to hear it. '

Just at twilight, Berenger came down the steps, conducting a gracefulgentleman in black, to whom Lady Thistlewood's instinct impelled herto make a low courtesy, before Berenger had said, 'Madam, allow me topresent 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 theknee. 

'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 weresome noble visitor to my Lord. '

Therewith Sir Marmaduke came forward, shook Mericour with all his mightby the hand, shouted to him his hearty thanks for the good he had donehis poor lad and assured him of a welcome from the very bottom of hisheart. The good knight would fain have kept both Berenger and his friendat 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 feltas if fatigue or dejection would never touch him again, and he kissedhis mother and his sisters, including Lucy, all round, with an effusionof delight. 

'Is that indeed your step-father?' said Mericour, as they rode awaytogether. 'And the young man, is he your half-brother?'

'Brother wholly in dear love, ' said Berenger; 'no blood relation. Thelittle 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, yourEngland. '

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 thanthat at Combe Manor. He was more readily understood, and found himselfat his natural element. Lord Walwyn, in especial, took much notice ofhim, and conversed with him long and earnestly; while Berenger, toohappy and too weary to exert himself to say many words, sat asnear Cecily as he could, treating her as though she, who had nevercontradicted in his trust in Eustacie, were the only person who couldworthily share his infinite relief, peace, and thankfulness. 

Lord Walwyn said scarcely anything to his grandson that night, only whenBerenger, as usual, bent his knee to ask his blessing on parting for thenight, he said, gravely, 'Son, I am glad of your joy; I fear me you havesomewhat to pardon your grandsire. Come to my library so soon as morningprayers be over; we will speak then. Not now, my dear lad, ' he added, asBerenger, 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, andtake my blessing with you. '

It was a delight to see the young face freed from the haggard, dejectedexpression that had been sadder than the outward wound; and yet it wasso questionable how far the French connection was acceptable to thefamily, that when Berenger requested Mr. Adderley to make mention of themercy vouch-safed to him in the morning devotions, the chaplain bowed, indeed, but took care to ascertain that his so doing would be agreeableto my Lord and my Lady. 

He found that if Lady Walwyn was still inclined to regret that theFrenchwoman was so entirely a wife, and thought Berenger had been veryhasty and imprudent, yet that the old Lord was chiefly distressed atthe 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 formisrepresentations; but the old nobleman recollected that Walsingham hadbeen in the same story, and was too upright to visit his own vexation onthe honestly-mistaken tutor. 

However, when Berenger made his appearance in the study, looking asif not one right, but weeks, had been spent in recovering health andspirit, the old man's first word was a gentle rebuke for his having beenleft unaware of how far matters had gone; but he cut short the attemptedreply, but saying he knew it was chiefly owing to his own over-hastyconclusion, and fear of letting his grandson injure himself by vainlydiscussing the subject. Now, however, he examined Berenger closely onall the proceedings Paris and at Montpipeau, and soon understood thatthe ceremony had been renewed, ratifying the vows taken in infancy. Theold statesman's face cleared up at once; for, as he explained, he hadnow no anxieties as to the validity of the marriage by English law, atleast, in spite of the decree from Rome, which, as he pointed out to hisgrandson, was wholly contingent on the absence of subsequent consent, since the parties had come to an age for free-will. Had he known ofthis, the re-marriage, he said, he should certainly have been lesssupine. Why had Berenger been silent?

'I was commanded, sir. I fear I have transgressed the command bymentioning it now. I must pray you to be secret. '

'Secret, foolish lad. Know you not that the rights of your wife and yourchildren rest upon it?' and as the change in Berenger's looks showedthat he had not comprehended the full importance of the second ceremonyas nullifying the papal sentence, which could only quash the first onthe 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? Thenit could no other than the miserable King--was it so?'

'Yes, sir, ' said Berenger. 'He bade me as king, and requested me as thefriend who gave her to me. I could do no otherwise, and I thought itwould be but a matter of a few days, and that our original marriage wasthe only important one. '

'Have you any parchment to prove it?'

'No, sir. It passed but as a ceremony to satisfy the Queen's scruplesere she gave my wife to me to take home. I even think the King wasdispleased at her requiring it. '

'Was Mr. Sidney a witness?'

'No, sir. None was present, save the King and Queen, her Germancountess, and the German priest. '

'The day?'

'Lammas-day. '

'The 1st of August of the year of grace 1572. I will write to Walsinghamto obtain the testimony, if possible, of king or of priest; but belikethey will deny it all. It was part of the trick. Shame upon it that aking 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 bondagebitterly, 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 FrancisWalsingham, 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 earneda right to be heard in his turn, 'I have your permission to hasten tobring home my wife?'

Lord Walwyn was startled at this demand from one still so far fromrecovered as Berenger. Even this talk, eager as the youth was, hadnot been carried on without much difficulty, repetitions, and alteredphrases, when he could not pronounce distinctly enough to be understoodand the effort brought lines of pain into his brow. He could take littlesolid food, had hardly any strength for walking or riding; and, thoughall his wounds were whole, except that one unmanageable shot in themouth, he looked entirely unfit to venture on a long journey in the verycountry that had sent him home a year before scarcely alive. Lord Walwynhad already devised what he thought a far more practicable arrangement;namely, to send Mr. Adderley and some of my Lady's women by sea, underthe charge of Master Hobbs, a shipmaster at Weymouth, who traded withBordeaux for wine, and could easily put in near La Sablerie, and bringoff the lady and child, and, if she wished it, the pastor to whom such adebt of gratitude was owing. 

Berenger was delighted with the notion of the sea rather than the landjourney; but he pointed out at once that this would remove all objectionto his going in person. He had often been out whole nights with thefishermen, and knew that a sea-voyage would be better for his healththan anything, --certainly better than pining and languishing at home, as he had done for months. He could not bear to think of separationfrom Eustacie an hour longer than needful; nay, she had been cruellyentreated enough already; and as long as he could keep his feet, it wasabsolutely 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 marksof suffering and intense eagerness of expression, increased by thedifficulty of utterance and need of subduing agitation. He felt that thelong-misunderstood patience and endurance had earned something; and heknew, too, that for all his grandson's submission and respect, theboy, as a husband and father, had rights and duties that would assertthemselves manfully if opposed. It was true that the sea-voyage obviatedmany difficulties, and it was better to consent with a good grace thandrive one hitherto so dutiful to rebellion. He did then consent, and wasrewarded by the lightning flash of joy and gratitude in the brightblue eyes, and the fervent pressure and kiss of his hand, as Berengerexclaimed, 'Ah! sir, Eustacie will be such a daughter to you. You shouldhave 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 hardto stir up Sir Marmaduke to remonstrate with her father; but the goodknight 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 bythe gay Annora. So she could only ride over the Combe, be silenced byher father, as effectually as if Jupiter had nodded, and bewail andmurmur to her mother till she lashed Lady Walwyn up into finding everypossible reason why Berenger should and must sail. Then she went home, was very sharp with Lucy, and was reckoned by saucy little Nan to havenineteen times exclaimed 'Tilley-valley' in the course of one day. 

The effect upon Philip was a vehement insistence on going with hisbrother. He was sure no one else would see to Berry half as well; and asto letting Berry go to be murdered again without him, he would not hearof 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 thinkingwhat they were doing to his brother. And thus he extorted from hiskind-hearted father an avowal that he should be easier a bout the ladif 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; andas to the second, there was no reason at all that Philip should notgo where his brother did. In fact, excepting for Berenger's state ofhealth, there was hardly any risk about the matter. Master Hobbs, towhom Philip rode down ecstatically to request him to come and speak tomy Lord, was a stout, honest, experienced seaman, who was perfectly athome in the Bay of Biscay, and had so strong a feudal feeling for thehouse of Walwyn, that he placed himself and his best ship, the THROSTLE, entirely at his disposal. The THROSTLE was a capital sailer, and carriedarms quite sufficient in English hands to protect her against Algerinecorsairs or Spanish pirates. He only asked for a week to make her cabinready for the reception of a lady, and this time was spent in sendinga post to London, to obtain for Berenger the permit from the Queen, and the passport from the French Ambassador, without which he could notsafely have gone; and, as a further precaution, letters were requestedfrom some of the secret agents of the Huguenots to facilitate hisadmission into La Sablerie. 

In the meantime, poor Mr. Adderley had submitted meekly to the decreethat sentenced him to weeks of misery on board the THROSTLE, but to hisinfinite relief, an inspection of the cabins proved the space so small, that Berenger represented to him grandfather that the excellent tutorwould be only an incumbrance to himself and every one else, and thatwith Philip he should need no one. Indeed, he had made such a start intovigour and alertness during the last few days that there was far lessanxiety about him, though with several sighs for poor Osbert. Cecilyinitiated Philip into her simple rules for her patient's treatment incase of the return of his more painful symptoms. The notion of sendingfemale attendants for Eustacie was also abandoned: her husband'spresence rendered them unnecessary, or they might be procured at LaSablerie; and thus it happened that the only servants whom Berenger wasto take with him were Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, the same honestfellows whose steadiness had so much conduced to his rescue at Paris. 

Claude de Mericour had in the meantime been treated as an honoured guestat Combe Walwyn, and was in good esteem with its master. He would haveset forth at once on his journey to Scotland, but that Lord Walwynadvised him to wait and ascertain the condition of his relatives therebefore throwing himself on them. Berenger had, accordingly, when writingto Sidney by the messenger above mentioned, begged him to find out fromSir Robert Melville, the Scottish Envoy, all he could about the familywhose designation he wrote down at a venture from Mericour's lips. 

Sidney returned a most affectionate answer, saying that he had neverbeen able to believe the little shepherdess a traitor and was charmedthat she had proved herself a heroine; he should endeavour to greet herwith all his best powers as a poet, when she should brighten the Englishcourt; but his friend, Master Spenser, alone was fit to celebrate suchconstancy. As to M. L'Abbe de Mericour's friends, Sir Robert Melvillehad recognized their name at once, and had pronounced them to be fierceCatholics and Queensmen, so sorely pressed by the Douglases, that it wasbelieved they would soon fly the country altogether; and Sidney added, what Lord Walwyn had already said, that to seek Scotland rather thanFrance as a resting-place in which to weigh between Calvinism andCatholicism, was only trebly hot and fanatical. His counsel was that M. De Mericour should so far conform himself to the English Church as toobtain admission to one of the universities, and, through his uncle ofLeicester, he could obtain for him an opening at Oxford, where he mightfully study the subject. 

There was much to incline Mericour to accept this counsel. He had hadmuch conversation with Mr. Adderley, and had attended his ministrationsin the chapel, and both satisfied him far better than what he had seenamong the French Calninists; and the peace and family affection of thetwo houses were like a new world to him. But he had not yet made up hismind to that absolute disavowal of his own branch of the Church, whichalone could have rendered him eligible for any foundation at Oxford. His attainments in classics would, Mr. Adderley thought, reach such astandard as to gain one of the very few scholarships open to foreigners;and his noble blood revolted at becoming a pensioner of Leicester's, orof any other nobleman. 

Lord Walwyn, upon this, made an earnest offer of his hospitality, andentreated the young man to remain at Hurst Walwyn till the returnof Berenger and Philip, during which time he might study under thedirections of Mr. Adderley, and come to a decision whether to seekreconciliation with his native Church and his brother, or to remain inEngland. In this latter case, he might perhaps accompany both the youthsto Oxford, for, in spite of Berenger's marriage, his education wasstill not supposed to be complete. And when Mericour still demurred withreluctance to become a burden on the bounty of the noble house, he wasreminded gracefully of the debt of gratitude that the family owed to himfor the relief he had brought to Berenger; and, moreover, Dame Annoragiggled out that, 'if he would teach Nan and Bess to speak and readFrench and Italian, it would be worth something to them. ' The others ofthe family would have hushed up this uncalled-for proposal; but Mericourcaught at it as the most congenial mode of returning the obligation. Every morning he undertook to walk or ride over to the Manor, andthere gave his lessons to the young ladies, with whom he was extremelypopular. He was a far more brilliant teacher than Lucy, and ten thousandtimes preferable to Mr. Adderley, who had once begun to teach Annora heraccidence 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 hadbeen reckoned on by Berenger's impatience; but hope was before him, andhe often remembered his days in the little vessel as much happier thanhe had known them to be at the time. 

It was in the calm days of right October that Captain Hobbs at lengthwas putting into the little harbour nearest to La Sablerie. Berenger, onthat morning, had for the first time been seized by a fit of anxiety asto the impression his face would make, with its terrible purple scar, great patch, and bald forehead, and had brought out a little blackvelvet mask, called a _tour de nez_, often used in riding to protect thecomplexion, intending to prepare Eustacie for his disfigurement. He hadfastened on a carnation-coloured sword-knot, would a scarf of the samecolour across his shoulder, clasped a long ostrich plume into his broadSpanish hat, and looked out his deeply-fringed Spanish gloves; andPhilip was laughing merrily, not to say rudely, at him, for trying todeck himself out so bravely. 

'See, Master Hobbs, ' cried the boy in his high spirits, as he followedhis brother on deck, 'you did not know you had so fine a gallant onboard. Here be braveries for my Lady. '

'Hush, Phil, ' broke in Berenger, who had hitherto taken all the railleryin perfect good part. 'What is amiss, Master Hobbs?'

'I cannot justly say, sir, ' returned Master Hobbs, without taking hisgaze off the coast, 'but by yonder banks and creeks this should be theSables d'Olonne; and I do not see the steeple of La Sablerie, which hasalways been the landmark for the harbour of St. Julien. '

'What do you understand by that?' asked Berenger, more struck by hismanner than his words. 

'Well, sir, if I am right, a steeple that has stood three or fourhundred years does not vanish out of sight like a cloud of smoke fornothing. I may be lightning, to be sure; or the Protestants may havehad it down for Popery; but methinks they would have too much Christianregard for poor mariners than to knock down the only landmark on thiscoast till you come to Nissard spire. ' Then he hailed the man at themast-head, demanding if he saw the steeple of La Sablerie. 'No, no, sir. ' But as other portions of the land became clearer, there was nodoubt that the THROSTLE was right in her bearings; so the skippergave orders to cast anchor and lower a boat. The passengers would havepressed him with inquiries as to what he thought the absence of hislandmark could portend; but he hurried about, and shouted orders, withthe deaf despotism of a nautical commander; and only when all was madeready, turned round and said, 'Now, sir, maybe you had best let me goashore 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 fellowsready? Armed? All right. '

So Berenger descended to the boat, followed by Philip; next came thecaptain, and then the two serving-men. Six of the crew were ready to rowthem to the shore, and were bidden by their captain to return at onceto the vessel, and only return on a signal from him. The surging rush ofintense anxiety, sure to precede the destined moment of the consummationof hope long deferred, kept Berenger silent, choked by something betweenfear and prayer; but Philip, less engrossed, asked Master Hobbs if itwere not strange that none of the inhabitants of the squalid little hutson the shore had not put out to greet them in some of the boats thatwere drawn up on the beach. 

'Poor wretches, ' said Hobbs; 'they scarce know friend from foe, and areslow to run their heads into the lion's mouth. Strange fellows have theimpudence to sail under our flag at times. '

However, as they neared the low, flat, sandy shore, a few red capspeeped out at the cottage-doors, and then, apparently gaining confidencefrom the survey, some wiry, active figures appeared, and were hailed byHobbs. His Bordeaux trade had rendered him master of the coast language;and a few incomprehensible shouts between him and the natives resultedin a line being thrown to them, and the boat dragged as near as possibleto the landing-place, when half a dozen ran up, splashing with theirbare legs, to offer their shoulders for the transport of the passengers, both of whom were seized upon before they were aware, Philip strugglingwith all his might, till a call from Captain Hobbs warned him to resignhimself; and then he became almost helpless with laughter at the figurecut by the long-legged Berenger upon a small fisherman's back. 

They were landed. Could it be that Berenger was only two miles--onlyhalf an hour's walk form Eustacie? The bound his heart gave as hetouched the shore seemed to stifle him. He could not believe it. Yet heknew how fully he had believed it, the next moment, when he listened towhat the fishermen were saying to Captain Hobbs. 

'Did Monsieur wish to go to La Sablerie? Ah! then he did not knowwhat had happened. The soldiers had been there; there had been a greatburning. They had been out in their boats at sea, but they had seen thesky 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 dealwith, even if they were heretics. They loved fish at other seasons ifnot in Lent; and it seemed but a fair return to go up and bury as manyof 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 asaint, if any one was. '

'Alack, sir, ' said Hobbs, laying his hand on the arm of Berenger, whoseemed neither to have breathed nor moved while the man was speaking:'I feared that there had been some such bloody work when I missed thesteeple. But take heart yet: your lady is very like to have been out ofthe way. We might make for La Rochelle, and there learn!' Then, again tothe fisherman, 'None escaped, fellow?'

'Not one, ' replied the man. 'They say that one of the great folks was ina special rage with them for sheltering the lady he should have wedded, but who had broken convent and turned heretic; and they had victualledMontgomery's pirates too. '

'And the lady?' continued Hobbs, ever trying to get a more supportinghold of his young charge, in case the rigid tension of his limbs shouldsuddenly relax. '

'I cannot tell, sir. I am a poor fisher; but I could guide you to theplace where old Gillot is always poking about. He listened to theirpreachings, and knows more than we do. '

'Let us go, ' said Berenger, at once beginning to stride along in hisheavy boots through the deep sand. Philip, who had hardly understood aword of the _patois_, caught hold of him, and begged to be told what hadhappened; but Master Hobbs drew the boy off, and explained to him andto the two men what were the dreadful tidings that had wrought sucha change in Berenger's demeanour. The way over the shifting sands wastoilsome enough to all the rest of the party; but Berenger scarcelyseemed to feel the deep plunge at every step as they almost ploughedtheir way along for the weary two miles, before a few green bushes andhalf-choked trees showed that they were reaching the confines of thesandy waste. Berenger had not uttered a word the whole time, and hissilence hushed the others. The ground began to rise, grass was seenstill struggling to grow, and presently a large straggling mass ofblack and gray ruins revealed themselves, with the remains of a oncewell-trodden road leading to them. But the road led to a gate-way chokedby a fallen jamb and barred door, and the guide led them round theruins of the wall to the opening where the breach had been. The sandwas already blowing in, and no doubt veiled much; for the streets werescarcely 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, followedby a few children, soon appearing, laden with piece of fuel, he appealedto him as Father Gillot, and asked whether he could find the street. Theold man seemed at home in the ruins, and led the way readily. 'Did heknow the Widow Laurent's house?'

'Mademoiselle [footnote: This was the title of _bourgeoise_ wives, formany years, in France. ] Laurent! Full well he knew her; a good pioussoul was she, always ready to die for the truth, ' he added, as he readsympathy in the faces round; 'and no doubt she had witnessed a goodconfession. '

'Knew he aught of the lady she had lodged?'

'He knew nothing of ladies. Something he had heard of the good widowhaving sheltered that shining light, Isaac Gardon, quenched, no doubt, in the same destruction; but for his part, he had a daughter in one ofthe isles out there, who always sent for him if she suspected dangerhere on the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a dayor two after Michael-mas. ' So saying, he led them to the threshold of aruinous building, in the very centre, as it were, of the desolation, andsaid, 'That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept her littleshop. '

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 aportion of the lower room, where the red-tile pavement, the hearth withthe gray ashes of the harmless home-fire, some unbroken crocks, a chain, and a _sabot_, were still visible, making the contrast of drearinessdoubly mournful. 

Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with his hat in his hand, as ifthe 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 inthe earth near the church. '

Just then Berenger's gaze fell on something half hidden under the fallentimbers. He instantly sprang forward, and used all his strength to dragit out in so headlong a manner that all the rest hurried to prevent hisreckless 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, butuntouched by fire. 

'Look in, ' Berenger signed to Philip, his own eyes averted, his mouthset. 

The cradle was empty, totally empty, save for a woolen covering, alittle 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, thestring of shells still wound among his fingers. Perhaps he had hithertohardly realized the existence of his child, and was solely wrapped up inthe thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirredup fresh depths of feelings; he saw Eustacie wither tender sweetness asa 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 anguishfrom a bursting heart, he laid his face against the senseless wood, andkissed it again and again, then lay motionless against it save for thelong-drawn gasps and sobs that shook his frame. Philip, torn to theheart, 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 knowhow it was when I came home and found our first little lad, that we hadthought so much on, had been take. But then he was safe laid in hisown churchyard, and his mother was there to meet me; while your poorbrother---Ah! God comfort him!'

'_Le pauvre Monsieur_!' exclaimed the old peasant, struck at the sightof his grief, 'was it then his child? And he, no doubt, lying woundedelsewhere while God's hand was heavy on this place. Yet he might hearmore. They said the priest came down and carried off the little ones tobe bred up in convents. '

'Who?--where?' asked Berenger, raising his head as if catching at astraw 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 werewith their mothers in yonder church. Better for them to perish like thebabes of Bethlehem than to be bred up in the house of Baal; but perhapsMonsieur is English, and if so he might yet obtain the child. Yet hemust not hope too much. '

'No, for there was many a little corpse among those we buried, ' said thefisher. 'Will the gentleman see the place?'

'Oh, no!' exclaimed Philip, understanding the actions, and indeed manyof 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 hepointed to a young green sucker of a vine, which, stimulated by theburnt soil, had shot up between the tiles of the floor. 'Look, there ishope to meet you even here. '

Berenger merely answered by gathering a leaf from the vine and puttingit into his bosom; and Philip, whom only extreme need could have thusinspired, perceived that he accepted it as the augury of hope. 

Berenger turned to bid the two men bear the cradle with them, and thenfollowed the old man out into the PLACE, once a pleasant open pavedsquare, now grass-grown and forlorn. On one side lay the remains of thechurch. The Huguenots had been so predominant at La Sablerie as tohave engrossed the building, and it had therefore shared the generaldestruction, and lay in utter, desolate ruin, a mere shell, and the oncenoble spire, the mariner's guiding star, blown up with gun-cruel thatever desolated the country. Beyond lay the burial-ground, in unspeakabledreariness. The crossed of the Catholic dead had been levelled by thefanaticism of the Huguenots, and though a great dominant stone crossraised on steps had been re-erected, it stood uneven, tottering anddesolate among nettles, weeds, and briers. There seemed to have been afew deep trenches dug to receive the bodies of the many victims of thesiege, and only rudely and slightly filled in with loose earth, on whichPhilippe treading had nearly sunk in, so much to his horror that hecould hardly endure the long contemplation in which his brother stoodgazing on the dismal scene, as if to bear it away with him. Did the fairbeing he had left in a king's palace sleep her last sleep her last sleepamid the tangled grass, the thistles and briers that grew so closethat it was hardly possible to keep from stumbling over them, where allmemorials of friend or foe were alike obliterated? Was a resting-placeamong these nameless graves the best he could hope for the wife whoseeyes he had hoped by this time would be answering his own--was this hershelter 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 athis brother's cloak, he exclaimed, 'Berry, Berry, let us be gone, or weshall both be distraught!'

Berenger yielded passively, but when the ruins of the town had beenagain crossed, and the sad little party, after amply rewarding the oldman, were about to return to St. Julien, he stood still, saying, 'Whichis 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, amongdangerous sandbanks, between which a boat could only venture at thehigher tides, and by daylight. To go the six miles thither at presentwould make it almost impossible to return to the THROSTLE that night, and it was absolutely necessary that he at least should do this. Hetherefore wished the young gentleman to return with him on board, sleepthere, and be put ashore at Nissard as soon as it should be possible inthe morning. But Berenger shook his head. He could not rest for a momenttill he had ascertained the fate of Eustacie's child. Action alone couldquench the horror of what he had recognized as her own lot, and thevery pursuit of this one thread of hope seemed needful to him to makeit substantial. He would hear of nothing but walking at once to Nissard;and Captain Hobbs, finding it impossible to debate the point with one sodazed and crushed with grief, and learning from the fishermen that notonly 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. Juliena trustworthy-looking, active lad as a guide, and agreed with the hightide on the morrow, either to concert measures for obtaining possessionof the lost infant, or, if all were in vain, to fetch them off. Thenhe, with the mass of stragglers from St. Julien, went off direct forthe coast, while the two young brothers, their two attendants, and thefishermen, 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 wereach'd, where in dark gloom and mist Cimmeria's people and their citylie Enveloped ever. --ODYSSEY (MUSGROVE)

The October afternoon had set in before the brothers were the way toNissard; and in spite of Berenger's excited mood, the walk through thesoft, sinking sand could not be speedily performed. It was that peculiarsand-drift which is the curse of so many coasts, slowly, silently, irresistibly flowing, blowing, creeping in, and gradually choking allvegetation and habitation. Soft and almost impalpable, it lay heaped inbanks yielding as air, and yet far more than deep enough to swallow upman and horse. Nay, tops of trees, summits of chimneys, told what it hadalready swallowed. The whole scene far and wide presented nothing butthe lone, tame undulations, liable to be changed by every wind, andsolitary beyond expression--a few rabbits scudding hither and thither, or a sea-gull floating with white, ghostly wings in the air, being theonly living things visible. On the one hand a dim, purple horizon showedthat the inhabited country lay miles inland; on the other lay thepale, gray, misty expanse of sea, on which Philip's eyes could lovinglydiscern the THROSTLE'S masts. 

That view was Philip's chief comfort. The boy was feeling more eerie anduncomfortable than ever he had been before as he plodded along, sinkingdeep with every step almost up to his ankles in the sand, on which thebare-footed guide ran lightly, and Berenger, though sinking no lessdeeply, seemed insensible to all inconveniences. This desolateness waswell-nigh unbearable; no one dared to speak while Berenger thus moved onin the unapproachableness of his great grief, and Philip presently beganto 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 brotherwas a ghost already. Besides vague alarms like these, there was thedismal English and Protestant prejudice in full force in Philip'smind, which regarded the resent ground as necessarily hostile, andall Frenchmen, above all French priests, as in league to cut off everyEnglishman and Protestant. He believed himself in a country full ofmurderers, and was walking on with the one determination that hisbrother should not rush on danger without him, and that the Popishrogues 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 slowlycreeping in from the sea, and blotted out the vessel, then gathered incloser, and obliterated all landmarks. Gradually it turned to a heavyrain, and about the same time the ground on which they walked became nolonger loose sand-hills, but smooth and level. It was harder likewisefrom the wet, and this afforded better walking, but there lay upon itfragments of weed and shell, as though it were liable to be covered bythe sea, and there was a low, languid plash of the tide, which couldnot be seen. Twilight began to deepen the mist. The guide was evidentlyuneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began to ask what he--hithertoobstinately deaf and contemptuous to French--was very slow tocomprehend. At last he found it was a question how near it was toAll Soul's day; and then came an equally amazing query whether thegentlemen's babe had been baptized; for it appeared that on All Soul'sday the spirits of unchristened infants had the power of rising from thesands in a bewildering mist, and leading wayfarers into the sea. Andthe poor guide, white and drenched, vowed he never would have undertakenthis walk if he had only thought of this. These slaughters of hereticsmust so much have augmented the number of the poor little spirits;and no doubt Monsieur would be specially bewildered by one so nearlyconcerned with him. Philip, half frightened, could not help steppingforward and pulling Berenger by the cloak to make him aware of thisstrange peril; but he did not get much comfort. 'Baptized? Yes; youknow she was, by the old nurse. Let me alone, I say. I would follow herwherever she called me, the innocent, and glad--the sooner the better. '

And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impatience so utterlyunapproachable, that Philip, poor boy, could only watch his tall figurein the wide cloak and slouched hat, stalking on ever more indistinct inthe gloom, while his much confused mind tried to settle the theologicalpoint whether the old nurse's baptism were valid enough to prevent poorlittle Berangere from becoming one of these mischievous deluders; andall this was varied by the notion of Captain Hobbs picking up theircorpses on the beach, and of Sir Marmaduke bewailing his only son. 

At last a strange muffled sound made him start in the dead silence, butthe guide hailed the sound with a joyful cry---

'Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are wesaved!' and on Philip's hasty interrogation, he explained that it wasfrom the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always caused to berung during these sea-fogs, to disperse all evil beings, and guide thewanderers. 

The guide strode on manfully, as the sound became clearer and nearer, and Philip was infinitely relived to be free from all supernaturalanxieties, and to have merely to guard against the wiles of a Polishpriest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in his imagination as poorlittle Berangere's soul could be in that of the fisherman. 

The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and closedround them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost sight of eachother, and had nothing but the bells' voices to comfort them, till quitesuddenly there was a light upon the mist, a hazy reddish gleam--a windowseemed 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 womanexclaimed, 'Welcome, poor souls! Enter, then. Here, good Father, aresome bewildered creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost inthe fog?'

At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off thefire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a cassock, with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful face, ruddy fromsea-wind. 

'Welcome, my friends, ' he said. 'Thanks to the saints who have guidedyou 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 ironlamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled plumes andother appurtenances that marked the two youths as gentlemen, headded, 'Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our poor best for youraccommodation;' and while both mechanically murmured a word of thanks, and removed their soaked hats, the good man exclaimed, as he beheldBerenger's ashy face, with the sunken eyes and deep scars, 'Monsieurshould come to bed at once. He is apparently recovering from a severewound. This way, sir; Jolitte shall make you some hot tisane. '

'Wait, sir, ' said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding hollowfrom exhaustion; 'they say that you can tell me of my child. Let mehear. '

'Monsieur's child!' exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from himto Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream ofexplanation before Philip had arranged three words of French. 

'You hear, sir, ' said Berenger, as the man finished: 'I came hither toseek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont. '

'Eh!' exclaimed the _cure_, 'do I then see M. Le Marquis de Nid deMerle?'

'No!' cried Berenger; 'no, I am not that _scelerat_! I am her truehusband, 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 lifethat is but misery now. I came to seek her--I found what you know. Theytold me that you saved the children. Ah, tell me where mine is!--allthat is left me. '

'A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few. But let meunderstand to whom I speak, ' he added, much perplexed. 'You, sir---'

'I am her husband, married at five years old--contract renewed lastyear. It was he whom you call Nid de Merle who fell on me, and leftme for dead. A faithful servant saved my life, but I have lain sickin England till now, when her letter to my mother brought me to LaSablerie, to find--to find THIS. Oh, sir, have pity on me! Tell me ifyou 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 girlswith the good nuns at Lucon, ' said the priest, with infinite pity in hislook. 'Should you know it, sir?'

'I would--I should, ' said Berenger. 'But it is a girl. Ah, would that itwere here! But you--you, sir--you know more than these fellows. Is thereno--no hope of herself?'

'Alas! I fear I can give you none, ' said the priest; 'but I will tellall 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, andthrew herself upon the Huguenots. All trace had been lost, when, at abanquet 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 broughtup. They were presented to the mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the excellent _confitures_ of the heretic pastor'sdaughter that lodged in the town of La Sablerie. The place was indisgrace for having afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery's piratecrews, and there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics. Thearmy were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it wasresolved to make an example, when, on M. De Nid de Merle's summons, allknowledge of the lady was denied. Is it possible that she was indeed notthere?'

Berenger shook his head. 'She was indeed there, ' he said, with anirrepressible 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 areenraged, is like a place of devils unchained. I reached it only after ithad been taken by assault, when all was flame and blood. Ask me nomore; 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 itis ended now and God is more merciful than men. Many died by the bombscast into to city, and she for whom you ask certainly fell not aliveinto the hands of those who sought her. Take comfort, sir; there is Onewho watches and takes count of our griefs. Sir, turning to Philip, 'thisgentleman is too much spent with sorrow to bear this cold and damp. Aidme, I entreat, to persuade him to lie down. '

Philip understood the priest's French far better than that of thepeasants, and added persuasions that Berenger was far too much exhaustedand stunned to resist. To spend a night in a Popish priest's house wouldonce have seemed to Philip a shocking alternative, yet here he was, heartily assisting in removing the wet garments in which his brotherhad sat only too long, and was heartily relieved to lay him down in thepriest'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 thelight with a low, heavy moan, as if he would fain be left alone with hissorrow 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 dryhabiliments before they sat round his table to eat of the savoury messin the great _pot-au-feu_, which had, since their arrival, receivedadditional ingredients, and moreover sundry villagers had crept into thehouse. Whenever the good Father supped at home, any of his flock werewelcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitability. After a cup of hot ciderround, they carried off the fisherman to ledge in one of their cottages. Shake-downs were found for the others, and Philip, wondering what wasto become of the good host himself, gathered that he meant to spend suchpart of the night on the kitchen floor as he did not pass in prayer inthe church for the poor young gentleman, who was in such affliction. Philip was not certain whether to resent this as an impertinence or anattack on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either, thatthe priest was aware what was their religion, and was still less certainof his own comprehension of these pious intentions: he decided that, anyway, it was better not to make a fool of himself. Still, the notionof the mischievousness of priests was so rooted in his head, that heconsulted Humfrey on the expedience of keeping watch all night, but wassagaciously answered that 'these French rogues don't do any hurt unlessthey 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. Henever awoke till full daylight and morning sun were streaming throughthe vine-leaves round the window, and then, to his dismay, he saw thatBerenger had left his bed, and was gone. Suspicions of foul play comingover 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 thedoor, when, to his great relief, he saw Berenger hastily writing at atable 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 himquite calm and collected--white indeed, and with the old haggard look, and the great scar very purple instead of red, which was always a badsign 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 tolet himself give way. If his beacon of hope had been so suddenly, frightfully quenched, he still was kept from utter darkness by straininghis eyes and forcing his steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark thatremained. 

The priest was at his morning mass; and so soon as Berenger had givenhis 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 glisteningin the morning sun, then turned straight towards the tall spire of thechurch, 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 livingmeet 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 consistentproceeding, but Berenger had little power of reflection, and his impulseat present bore him into the church belonging to his native faith andland, without any defined felling, save that it was peace to kneelthere among the scattered worshippers, who came and went with theirfish-baskets in their hands, and to hear the low chant of the priest andhis assistant from within the screen. 

Philip meantime marched up and down outside in much annoyance, until thepriest and his brother came out, when the first thing he heard the goodColombeau say was, 'I would have called upon you before, my son, butthat I feared you were a Huguenot. '

'I am an English Protestant, ' said Berenger; 'but, ah! sir, I neededcomfort too much to stay away from prayer. '

Pere Colombeau looked at him in perplexity, thinking perhaps that heremight 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 sorryyou are indeed a Huguenot. It was what I feared last night, but I fearedto add to your grief. The nuns are not permitted to deliver up childrento Huguenot relations. '

'I am her father!' exclaimed Berenger, indignantly. 

'That goes for nothing, according to the rules of the Church, ' said thepriest. 'The Church cannot yield her children to heresy. '

'But we in England and not Calvinists, ' cried Berenger. 'We are not likeyour Huguenots. '

'The Church would make no difference, ' said the priest. 'Stay, sir, 'as Berenger stuck his own forehead, and was about to utter a fierceinvective. 'Remember that if your child lives, it is owing to the pityof the good nuns. You seem not far from the bosom of the Church. Did youbut return---'

'It is vain to speak of that, ' said Berenger, quickly. 'Say, sir, wouldan 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 goodfriend already. Moreover, my English grandfather will deal with theQueen. 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 onceknow 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 theboy whether he had understood, ad explained that he must go at once toParis--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 nowis the time, while the savage villain Narcisse is with his master inPoland. I cannot but go, Philip; we both waste words. You shall takehome 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 aboutyou with me at your side. Where you go, I go. '

The brothers understood each other's ways so well, that Berenger knewthe intonation in Philip's voice that meant that nothing should make himgive way. He persuaded no more, only took measures for the journey, inwhich the kind priest gave him friendly advice. There was no doubt thatthe good man pitied him sincerely, and wished him success more thanperhaps he strictly ought to have done, unless as a possible convert. Of money for the journey there was no lack, for Berenger had brought aconsiderable sum, intending to reward all who had befriended Eustacie, as well as to fit her out for the voyage; and this, perhaps, withhis papers, he had brought ashore to facilitate his entrance into LaSablerie, --that entrance which, alas! he had found only too easy. He hadtherefore only to obtain horses and a guide, and this could be doneat 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 thecoast-line of Nissard was dangerous in autumn and winter; nay, even thisvery August an old man, with his daughter, her infant, and a donkey, hadbeen found bewildered between the creeks on a sandbank, where they stoodstill and patient, like a picture of the Flight into Egypt, when an oldfisherman found them, and brought them to the beneficent shelter of thePresbytere. 

Stories of this kind were told at the meal that was something partakingof the nature of both breakfast and early dinner, but where Berenger atelittle and spoke less. Philip watched him anxiously; the boy thoughtthe journey a perilous experiment every way, but, boyishly, was resolvedneither to own his fears of it nor to leave his brother. External perilshe was quite ready to face, and he fancied that his English birth wouldgive him some power of protecting Berenger, but he was more reasonablyin dread of the present shock bringing on such an illness as the lastrelapse; and if Berenger lost his senses again, what should they do? Heeven ventured to hint at this danger, but Berenger answered, 'That willscarce happen again. My head is stronger now. Besides, it was doingnothing, and hearing her truth profaned, that crazed me. No one at leastwill do that again. But if you wish to drive me frantic again, the waywould 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. Hesaw the needlessness of going to Lucon without royal authority; indeed, he thought it possible that the very application there might give thealarm, 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 atall approve of the young gentlemen going off to Paris at once. It wasagainst his orders. He felt bound to take them home as he has broughtthem, and they might then make a fresh start if it so pleased them; buthow could he return to my Lord and Sir Duke without them? 'Mr. Ribaumontmight be right--it was not for him to say a father ought not to lookafter his child--yet he was but a stripling himself, and my Lord hadsaid, 'Master Hobbs, I trust him to you. '' He would clearly have likedto have called in a boat's crew, mastered the young gentlemen, andcarried them on board as captives; but as this was out of his power, hewas obliged to yield the point. He disconsolately accepted the lettersin which Berenger had explained all, and in which he promised to goat once to Sir Francis Walsingham's at Paris, to run into no needlessdanger, and to watch carefully over Philip; and craved pardon, in arespectful but yet manly and determined tone, for placing his duty tohis lost, deserted child above his submission to his grandfather. Thenengaging to look out for a signal on the coast if he should said toBordeaux in January, to touch and take the passengers off, Captain Hobbstook 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 seriousundertaking in the sixteenth century than the good seaman Master Hobbswas aware of, or he would have used stronger dissuasive measures againstsuch an undertaking by the two youths, when the elder was in so fraila state of health; but there had been a certain deceptive strengthand vigour about young Ribaumont while under strong excitement anddetermination, and the whole party fancied him far fitter to meetthe hardships than was really the case. Philip Thistlewood alwaysrecollected that journey as the most distressing period of his life. 

They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore found the hiringof horses often extremely difficult. They had intended to purchase, butfound no animals that, as Philip said, they would have accepted as agift, though at every wretched inn where they had to wait while thecountry was scoured for the miserable jades, their proposed requirementsfell lower and lower. Dens of smoke, dirt, and boorishness were thegreat proportion of those inns, where they were compelled to take refugeby the breaking down of one or other of the beasts, or by stress ofweather. Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety renderingthe roads impassable; and at the best, the beasts could seldom be urgedbeyond a walk, fetlock-deep in mire or water. Worse than all, Berenger, far from recovered, and under the heavy oppression of a heartrendinggrief, could hardly fail to lose the ground that he had gained underthe influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix itself on the wound onhis cheek, terrible pain and swelling set in, depriving him entirelyof sleep, permitting him to take no nourishment but fragments ofsoft crumbs soaked in wine or broth--when the inns afforded anysuch fare--and rendering speech excessively painful, and at lastunintelligible. 

Happily this was not until Philip and Humfrey both had picked up allthe most indispensable words to serve their needs, and storming couldbe done in any language. Besides, they had fallen in at La Motte-Achardwith a sharp fellow named Guibert, who had been at sea, and knew alittle English, was a Norman by birth, knew who the Baron de Ribaumontwas, and was able to make himself generally useful, though ill supplyingthe place of poor Osbert, who would have been invaluable in the presentpredicament. Nothing was so much dreaded by any of the party as thattheir chief should become utterly unable to proceed. Once let him belaid up at one of these little _auberges_, and Philip felt as if allwould be over with him; and he himself was always the most restlesslyeager to push on, and seemed to suffer less even in the biting wind andsleet than on the dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of theinns. That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only comfort, and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding him whenever his headseemed aching or heated; and under this well-meant surgery it was nowonder that he grew weaker every day, in spite of the most affectionateand assiduous watching on his brother's part. 

Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the cross-roads, orrather in endless delays; and when at last they came on more frequentedways, with better inns, well-paved _chaussees_, and horses more fit foruse, Berenger was almost beyond feeling the improvement. At their lasthalt, even Philip was for waiting and sending on to Paris to inform SirFrancis Walsingham of their situation; but Berenger only shook hishead, dressed himself, and imperatively signed to go on. It was abright morning, with a clear frost, and the towers and steeples of Parispresently began to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; butby this time Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently becameso faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift himfrom his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little backfrom the road. 

'Look up, sir, it is but a league further, ' quoth Humfrey; 'I can seethe roof of the big church they call Notre-Dame. '

'He does not open his eyes, he is swooning, ' said Philip. 'He must havesome cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no lace wherewe could get a drop of wine or strong waters?'

'Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but 'twas anunnery, as good as a grave against poor travelers. I would ride on, andget some of Sir Francis's folk to bring a litter or coach, but Idoubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young Lord'ssafe-conduct. '

Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but sankback against Philip's shoulder. Just then, a trampling and lumberingbecame audible, and on the road behind appeared first three horsemenriding abreast, streaming with black and white ribbons; then eight pairof black horses, a man walking at the crested heads of each couple, andbehind these a coach, shaped like an urn reversed, and with a coroneton 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, floatingfrom the windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stoodbehind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached thegroup 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 coachstopped, 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 isit? My brother here? Is he wounded?'

'It is no wound, Madame, ' said Guibert, shoved forward by his Englishcomrades, 'it is M. Le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill, and--ah! hereis Monsieur Philippe. '

For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the mostbeautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward, hat inhand, as she exclaimed, 'Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be true? Whatmeans this? What ails him?'

'It is his wound, Madame, ' said Philip, in his best French; 'ithas 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 oftransporting him, ' cried the lady; and, regardless of the wet road, shesprang out of the coach, with her essences in her hand, followed byat least three women, two pages, and two little white dogs which ranbarking towards the prostrate figure, but were caught up by their pages. 'Ah, cousin, how dreadful, ' she cried, as she knelt down beside him, andheld her essences towards him. Voice and scent revived him, and with abewildered look and gesture half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazedround him, then rose to his feet without assistance, bent his head, andmaking a sign that he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse. 

'Cousin, cousin, ' exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes tearswere standing, 'you will let me take you into the city--you cannotrefuse. '

'Berry, indeed you cannot ride, ' entreated Philip; 'you must take heroffer. Are you getting crazed at last?'

Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy; theexertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and bendinghis head he submitted passively to be helped into the black and whitecoach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip's arm, and said impressively, 'Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine lady, sister to themurderous villain that set upon him. If you would save his life, don'tquit him, nor let her take him elsewhere than to our Ambassador's. I'llnot leave the coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I'llsend 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 acorner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon thewhite velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with devicesand mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns, made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have disposed ofthemselves in various nooks of the ample conveyance, and Philip, ratherat a loss to explain his intrusion, perched himself awkwardly on theedge of the cushions in front of his brother, thinking that Humfreywas an officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, whoseemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger's condition. 'Ah!I never guessed it had been so frightful as this. I should not haveknown him. Ah! had I imagined---' She leant back, covered her face, andwept, as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward, and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was atonce withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast. 

'Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?' she asked, with sympathyand tenderness that went to Philip's heart, and he explained. 'He cannotspeak, Madame; the shot in his cheek' (the lady shuddered, and puther handkerchief to her eyes) 'from time to time cases this horribleswelling 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 thatmight 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 tooweak to be alone. '

'Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir, ' she said, with a notunflattering surprise. 'But whence are you come? I little looked to seeMonsieur 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 againshe wiped away tear. 'And now---'

'We are coming to the Ambassador's to obtain'--he stopped, forBerenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved hisembarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear cousin go tothe Ambassador's when he was among his own kindred. Perhaps Monsieur didnot know her; she must present herself as Madame de Selinville, _nee_ deRibaumont, 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 heought to have kissed, but not knowing how, he only shook it. She furtherexplained that her brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King ofPoland, but that her father lived with her at her hotel, and would beenchanted to see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would bedesolated at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She hadbeen returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she hadbeen praying for the soul of the late M. De Selinville, when a trueProvidence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now, nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried atonce to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the Ambassador, and where every comfort should await him. She clasped her hands inearnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her kindness andperceiving that every jolt of the splendid by springless vehicle causedBerenger's head a shoot of anguish, was almost acceding to her offer, when he was checked by one of the most imperative of those silentnegatives. Hitherto, Master Thistlewood had been rather proud of his badFrench, and as long as he could be understood, considered trampling ongenders, tenses, and moods as a manful assertion of Englishry, but hewould just now have given a great deal for the command of any languagebut a horseboy's, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. '_Merci, Madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passe notre parole d'aller droita l'Ambassadeur's et pas ou else_, ' did not sound very right to hisears; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew that if Berryhad had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would have smiled now. Butthis most charming and polite of ladies never betrayed it, if it wereever such bad French; she only bowed her head, and said something verypretty--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, thatshe inquired after Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he wereunconscious, while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, thathe was aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little aspossible should be said, and determined against being taken to herhotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that had itnot been for Humfrey's words, he would have doubted whether, in spite ofall his bleeding, his brother's brain were not wandering. 

However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn tothe Ambassador's hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a heartygreeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the time thecarriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the steps, including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more thana fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become uneasy at thenon-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers's appearance, all hadbeen made ready; and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy movements, madecourteous 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 suchdifferent guise. Your chamber is ready for you, and I have sent mysecretary 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 outagainst the comfort of hearing English voices all round him, and ofseeing his brother's anxious brow expand, and his hand and eyes returnno constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on both sides; theAmbassador thanked the lady for the assistance she had rendered to hisyoung friend and guest; she answered with a shade of stiffness, that sheleft her kinsman in good hands, and said she should send to inquirethat evening, and her father would call on the morrow; then, as LadyWalsingham did not ask her in, the black and white coach drove away. 

The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and spokeno word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and turned atlength into another great courtyard, surrounded with buildings, whereshe alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty hall, where ranksof servants stoop up and bowed as she passed; then she ascended awide carved staircase, opened a small private door, and entered a tinywainscoted room hardly large enough for her farthingale to turn roundin. 'You, Veronique, come in--only you, ' she said, at the door; and awaiting-woman, who had been in the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad inthe Angevin costume, but in the richer and less characteristic dress ofthe ordinary Parisian _femme de chambre_. 

'Undo my mantle in haste!' gasped Madame de Selinville. 'OVeronique--you saw--what destruction!'

'Ah! if my sweet young lady only known how frightful he had become, shehad never sacrificed herself, ' sighed Veronique. 

'Frightful! What, with the grave blue eyes that seem like the steadyavenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the picture at theLouvre?' murmured Madame de Selinville; then she added quickly, 'Yes, yes, it is well. She and you, Veronique, may see him frightful andwelcome. There are other eyes--make haste, girl. There--anotherhanderchief. Follow me not. '

And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great statebedroom and the _salle_ beyond, to another chamber where more servantswaited 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, icedwater, and delicate cakes and _confitures_ before him, a witty andlicentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily enjoyingthe luxuries that it had been his daughter's satisfaction to procure forhim ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet her with a graceand deference that showed how different a person was the Comtesse deSelinville 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 thyfirst embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child; the convent has madethee 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 butone?'

'My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head can never be thrustinghimself here again. '

'But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my coach! I left him atthe Ambassador's. '

'Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will be ten thousand freshimbroglios. '

'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 Inever see him again!'

'But what brings him blundering her again?' exclaimed the Chevalier. 'Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded against that! Heknows 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 Frenchagainst his will. But I believe they had heard of _la pauvre petite_ atLa Sablerie, came over for her, and finding the ruin my brother makeswherever he goes, are returning seeking intelligence and succour forHIM. '

'That may be, ' said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. 'It is well thy brotheris in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we may get himback 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 thousandbetter marriages. '

'No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all--allthat I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever all hisclaims to the ancestral castle--to La Leurre, and above all, that claimto Nid de Merle as Eustacie's widower, which, should he ever discoverthe original contract, will lead to endless warfare. '

'His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet--yet there might bedoubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formallyrenewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child, it isa horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no warning, andthe poor things had made off together. We could have cried shame till weforced 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 inEngland, 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 fromall 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 offendedthe King of Poland. Besides, this youth is heretic. '

'Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he had by anabjuration. And as to Monsieur's enmity, if it be not forgotten, theglory of bringing about a conversion would end that at once. '

'Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury himself among theEnglish. '

'It was unavoidable, father, and perhaps if he were here he would livein 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 speaknow, 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 actfor myself if I would; but as it is for your interest and that of mybrother thus to dispose of me, it is better that you should act for me. '

'Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal, ' said theChevalier, looking up at his daughter's handsome head drawn up proudlywith determination. 

'Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me. ' And Diane sailed away inher sweeping folds of black brocade. 

In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands locked together beforea much-gilded little waxem figure of St. Eustacie with his cross-bearingstag by his side, which stood in a curtained recess in the alcove whereher stately bed was placed. 

'Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles everyday to your shrine atBellaise, 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, sohe will only let me love him;' and then, while taking up the beads, andpronouncing the repeated devotions attached to each, her mind dartedback to the day when, as young children, she had played unfairly, defrauded Landry Osbert, and denied it; how Berenger, though himselfuninjured, had refused to speak to her all that day--how she had hatedhim then--how she had thought she had hated him throughout their briefintercourse in the previous year; how she had played into her brother'shands; 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 thesense of dreariness and lose herself in excitement. Then came theillness and death of her husband, and almost at the same time theknowledge of Berenger's existence. She sought excitement again thatfeverish form of devotion then in vogue at Paris, and which resulted inthe League. She had hitherto stunned herself as it were with penances, processions, and sermons, for which the host of religious orders thenat Paris had given ample scope; and she was constantly devising newextravagances. Even at this moment she wore sackcloth beneath herbrocade, and her rosary was of death's heads. She was living on theoutward husk of the Roman Church not penetrating into its living power, and the phase of religion which fostered Henry III. And the Leagueoffered her no more. 

All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast glance of thosetwo eyes, the only feature still unchanged in the marred, wreckedcountenance. That honest, quiet refusal, that look which came from ahigher atmosphere, had filled her heart with passionate beatings andaspirations once more, and more consciously than ever. Womanly feelingfor suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to him, and earn hislove, 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 theonly perfect truth she had ever known in man, and thus with passionateardour she poured forth her entreaties to St. Eustache, a married saint, who had known love, and could feel for her, and could surely not objectto the affection to which she completely gave way for one whose hand wasnow as free as her own. 

But St. Eustache was not Diane's only hope. That evening she sentVeronique to Rene of Milan, the court-perfumer, but also called by themalicious, _l'empoisonneur de le Reine_, to obtain from him the mostinfallible 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 gracedwith many virtues, young, And erring, and in nothing more astray Than inthis marriage. --TAYLOR, EDWIN THE FAIR. 

Nothing could be kinder than the Ambassador's family, and Philip foundhimself at once at home there, at least in his brother's room, whichwas all the world to him. Fortunately, Ambroise Pare, the most skillfulsurgeon of his day, had stolen a day from his attendance of KingCharles, at St. Germain, to visit his Paris patients, and, thoughunwilling to add to the list of cases, when he heard from Walsingham'ssecretary who the suffer was, and when injured, he came at once toafford 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 informhim when the crisis should be nearer; but remarking the uneasy, anxiousexpression in Berenger's eyes, he desired to know whether any careon his mind might be interfering with his recovery. A Huguenot, andperfectly trustworthy, he was one who Walsingham knew might safely hearthe whole, and after hearing all, he at once returned to his patient, and leaning over him, said, 'Vex not yourself, sir; your illness isprobably serving you better than health could do. '

Sir Francis thought this quite probable, since Charles was so unwelland so beset with his mother's creatures that no open audience couldbe obtained from him, and Pare, who always had access to him, might actwhen no one else could reach him. Meantime the Ambassador rejoiced tohear of the instinctive caution that had made Berenger silence Philip onthe object of the journey to Paris, since if the hostile family guessedat the residence of the poor infant, they would have full opportunityfor obliterating all the scanty traces of her. Poor persecuted littlething! the uncertain hope of her existence seemed really the only threadthat still bound Berenger to life. He had spent eighteen months inhope deferred, and constant bodily pain; and when the frightfuldisappointment met him at La Sablerie, it was not wonder that his heartand hope seemed buried in the black scorched ruins where all he caredfor had perished. He was scarcely nineteen, but the life before himseemed full of nothing but one ghastly recollection, and, as he said inthe short sad little letter which he wrote to his grandfather from hisbed, he only desired to live long enough to save Eustacie's child frombeing a nameless orphan maintained for charity in a convent, and to seeher safe in Aunt Cecily's care; and then he should be content to havedone with this world for ever. 

The thought that no one except himself could save the child, seemed togive him the resolution to battle for life that often bears thepatient through illness, though now he as suffering more severely andconsciously than ever he had done before; and Lady Walsingham often gaveup hopes of him. He was tenderly cared for by her and her women; butPhilip was the most constant nurse, and his unfailing assiduity andreadiness 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 timehe was admitted actually burst into tears at the sight of the swollendisfigured face, and the long mark on the arm which lay half-uncovered. Presents of delicacies, ointments, and cooling drinks were frequentlysent from him and from the Countess de Selinville; but Lady Walsinghamdistrusted these, and kept her guest strictly to the regimen appointedby Pare. Now and then, billets would likewise come. The first brought avivid crimson into Berenger's face, and both it and all its successorshe instantly tore into the smallest fragments, without letting any onesee them. 

On the day of the Carnival, the young men of the household had askedMaster Thistlewood to come out with them and see the procession of the_Boeuf Gras_; but before it could take place, reports were flying aboutthat put the city in commotion, caused the Ambassador to forbid allgoing out, and made Philip expect another Huguenot massacre. The Dukeof Alencon and the King of Navarre had been detected, it was said, in aconspiracy for overthrowing the power of the Queen-mother, bringing inthe Huguenots, and securing the crown to Alencon on the King's death. Down-stairs, the Ambassador and his secretaries sat anxiously strivingto sift the various contradictory reports; up-stairs, Philip andLady Walsingham were anxiously watching Berenger in what seemed thelong-expected crisis, and Philip was feeling as if all the French courtwere welcome to murder one another so that they would only let AmbroisePare 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 quietmovement, and a small pale man in black was at the bedside, withoutPhilip's having ever seen his entrance. He looked at his exhaustedpatient, and said, 'It is well; I could not have done you any goodbefore. '

And when he had set Berenger more at ease, he told how great had beenthe confusion at St. Germain when the plot had become known to theQueen-mother. The poor King had been wakened at two o'clock in themorning, and carried to his litter, when Pare and his old nurse hadtended him. He only said, 'Can they not let me die in peace?' and hisweakness had been so great on arriving, that the surgeon could hardlyhave left him for M. De Ribaumont, save by his own desire. 'Yes, sir, 'added Pare, seeing Berenger attending to him, 'we must have you wellquickly; 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 thesurgeon had suspected, the want of skill in those who had had the chargeof Berenger at the first had been the cause of much of his protractedsuffering. Pare, the inventor of trephining, was, perhaps, the onlyman in Europe who could have dealt with the fracture in the back ofthe 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 hithertothought possible. Sleep had come back to him, he experienced the luxuryof being free from all pain, he could eat without difficulty; and Pare, always an enemy to wine, assured him that half the severe headachesfor which he had been almost bled to death, were the consequence ofhis living on bread soaked in sack instead of solid food; and he wasforbidden henceforth to inflame his brain with anything stronger thansherbet. His speech, too, was much improved; he still could not utterall the consonants perfectly, and could not speak distinctly withoutarticulating very slowly, but all the discomfort and pain were gone; andthough still very weak, he told Philip that now all his course seemedclear 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 offthe coast till his signal should be seen from la Motte-Achard, and thento take in the whole party and the little yearling daughter, whomhe declared he should trust to no one but himself. Lady Walsinghamremonstrated a little at the wonderful plans hatched by the two ladstogether, and yet she was too glad to see a beginning of brighteningon his face to make many objections. It was only too sand to think howlikely he was again to be disappointed. 

He was dressed, but had not left his room, and was lying on cushionsin the ample window overlooking the garden, while Frances and ElizabethWalsingham in charge of their mother tried to amuse him by theirchildish airs and sports, when a message was brought that M. LeChevalier 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 youare seriously employed. '

'Nay, that could scarce be, when he must have heard the children'svoices, ' said Lady Walsingham. 'Come away, little ones. '

The ladies took the hint and vanished, but Philip remained till theChevalier had entered, more resplendent than ever, in a brown velvetsuit slashed with green satin, and sparkling with gold lace-a contrastto the deep mourning habit in which Berenger was dressed. Afterinquiries for his health, the Chevalier looked at Philip, and expressedhis desire of speaking with his cousin alone. 

'If it be of business, ' said Berenger, much on his guard, 'my head isstill weak, and I would wish to have the presence of the Ambassador orone of his secretaries. '

'This is not so much a matte of business as of family, ' said theChevalier, still looking so uneasily at Philip that Berenger feltconstrained to advise him to join the young ladies in the garden; butinstead of doing this, the boy paced the corridors like a restlessdog waiting for his master, and no sooner heard the old gentlemanbow 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 hedid not attempt to speak, while Philip devoured his curiosity as best hemight. At last he said, 'He was always beyond me. What think you? Now hewants me to turn French courtier and marry his daughter. '

'His daughter!' exclaimed Philip, 'that beautiful lady I saw in thecoach?'

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 littleoffended. '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'tmean it. '

'Only some do mean it, ' said Berenger, dryly. 

'Brother!' cried Philip, fiercely, as if ready to break a lance, 'whatright have you to accuse that kindly, lovely dame of falsehood?'

'It skills not going through all, ' said Berenger, wearily. 'I know herof 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 gruffamazement overpowering his consideration. 

'Much you know about it, ' returned Berenger, turning his face away. 

There was a long silence, first broken by Philip, asking morecautiously, 'And what did you say to him?'

'I said whatever could show it was most impossible. Even I said thebrother's handwriting was too plain on my face for me to offer myselfto the sister. But it seems all that is to be passed over as an unluckymistake. 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 donothing for love here, you foolish boy, save _par amour_. If she lovedme, 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 SirFrancis will when he can spend an hour on me. '

Though full of occupation, Sir Francis never failed daily to lookin upon his convalescent guest, and when he heard of the Chevalier'sinterview, he took care that Berenger should have full time to consulthim; and, of course, he inquired a good deal more into the particularsof the proposal than Philip had done. When he learnt that the Chevalierhad offered all the very considerable riches and lands that Dianeenjoyed in right of her late husband as an equivalent for Berenger'sresignation of all claims upon the Nid-de-Merle property, he noted iton his tables, and desired to know what these claims might be. 'I cannottell, ' said Berenger. 'You may remember, sir, the parchments with ourcontract of marriage had been taken away from Chateau Leurre, and I havenever seen them. '

'Then, ' said the Ambassador, 'you may hold it as certain that thoseparchments give you some advantage which he hears, since he is willingto purchase it at so heavy a price. Otherwise he himself would be thenatural heir of those lands. '

'After my child, ' said Berenger, hastily. 

'Were you on your guard against mentioning your trust in your child'slife?' said Sir Francis. 

The long scar turned deeper purple than ever. 'Only so far as that Isaid 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 hisvoice trembled) '---all that I know but too well. '

'Hum! you must not be left alone again to cope with him, ' saidWalsingham. '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 nameinto his lips. '

Walsingham considered for some minutes, and then said, 'It is clear, then, that he believes that the marriage can be sufficiently establishedto enable you to disturb him in his possession of some part, at least, of the Angevin inheritance, or he would not endeavour to purchase yourrenunciation of it by the hand of a daughter so richly endowed. '

'I would willingly renounce it if that were all! I never sought it; onlyI cannot give up her child's rights. '

'And that you almost declared, ' proceeded Walsingham; 'so that theChevalier has by his negotiation gathered from you that you have notgiven up hope that the infant lives. Do your men know where you believeshe is?'

'My Englishmen know it, of course, ' said Berenger; 'but there is no fearof 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 Idoubt his knowing my purpose. '

'The Chevalier must have had speech with him, though, ' said Philip; 'forit 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 thinkI have betrayed aught that can peril the poor little one?'

Sir Francis smiled. 'We do not set lads of your age to cope with oldfoxes, ' he answered; 'and it seems to me that you used far discretionin the encounter. The mere belief that the child lives does not show himwhere she may be. In effect, it would seem likely to most that thebabe would be nursed in some cottage, and thus not be in the city of LaSablerie at all. He might, mayhap, thus be put on a false scent. '

'Oh no, ' exclaimed Berenger, startled; 'that might bring the death ofsome 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 admitthe Chevalier again in my absence; and, as to this man Guibert, I willconfer with my steward whether he knows too much, and whether it besafer 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 matterof all. As young Ribaumont grew better, the King grew worse; he himselfonly saw Charles on rare occasions, surrounded by a host of watchfuleyes and ears, and every time he marked the progress of disease; andthough such a hint could be given by an Ambassador, he thought that byfar the best chance of recovery of the child lay in the confusion thatmight probably follow the death of Charles IX. In the absence of hisnext heir. 

Berenger reckoned on the influence of Elisabeth of Austria, who had beenthe real worker in his union with Eutacie; but he was told that it wasvain to expect assistance from her. In the first year of her marriage, she had fondly hoped to enjoy her husband's confidence, and take hernatural place in his court; but she was of no mould to struggle withCatherine de Medicis, and after a time had totally desisted. Even at thetime of the St. Bartholomew, she had endeavoured to uplift her voiceon the side of mercy, and had actually saved the lives of the King ofNavarre and Prince of Conde; and her father, the good Maximilian II. , had written in the strongest terms to Charles IX. Expressing his horrorof the massacre. Six weeks later, the first hour after the birth of herfirst and only child, she had interceded with her husband for the livesof two Huguenots who had been taken alive, and failing then eitherthrough his want of will or want of power, she had collapsed and yieldedup the endeavour. She ceased to listen to petitions from those who hadhoped for her assistance, as if to save both them and herself uselesspain, 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 herhusband. Her German confessor had been sent home, and a Jesuit given herin his stead, but she had made no resistance; she seemed to the outerworld a dull, weary stranger, obstinate in leading a conventual life;but those who knew her best--and of these few was the Huguenot surgeonPare--knew that her heart had been broken two guilty lives, or to makeher husband free himself from his bondage to bloody counsels. To prayfor him was all that remained to her--and unwearied had beenthose prayers. Since his health had declined, she had been equallyindefatigable in attending on him, and did not seem to have a singleinterest beyond his sick chamber. 

As to the King of Navarre, for whose help Berenger had hoped, he hadbeen all these months in the dishonouable thraldom of Catherine deMedicis, and was more powerless than ever at this juncture, having beenimplicated in Alencon's plot, and imprisoned at Vincennes. 

And thus, the more Berenger heard of the state of things, the lesshopeful did his cause appear, till he could almost have believed hisbest chance lay in Philip's plan of persuading the Huguenots to stormthe 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 keepingof the secretaries, to see the Queen-mother represent Royalty in oneof the grand processions of Rogation-tide, the gentle knock came to hisdoor 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 havenot gone down-stairs; that is for to-morrow. '

'What would M. Le Baron say if his chirurgeon took him not merelydown-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 hersuite are occupied with services and sermons this week; and next weekprivate access to the King will be far more difficult. I have waited aslong as I could that you might gain strength to support the fatigue. '

'Hope cancels fatigue, ' said Berenger, already at the other end of theroom searching for his long-disused cloak, sword, gloves, hat, and mask. 

'Not the sword, ' said Pare, 'so please you. M. Le Baron must condescendto obtain entrance as my assistant--the plain black doublet--yes, thatis admirable; but I did not know that Monsieur was so tall, ' he added, in some consternation, as, for the first time, he saw his patientstanding up at his full height--unusual even in England, and more soin France. Indeed, Berenger had grown during his year of illness, andbeing, of course, extremely thin, looked all the taller, so as to be avery inconvenient subject to smuggle into to palace unobserved. 

However, Ambroise had made up his mind to the risk, and merely assistedBerenger in assuming his few equipments, then gave him his arm to godown the stairs. Meeting Guibert on the way, Berenger left word with himthat he was going out to take the air with Maitre Pare; and on the man'soffering 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 littlepostern of the Louvre, the very door whence he was to have led off hispoor Eustacie. Here Ambroise made him take off his small black mask, inspite of all danger of his scars being remarked, since masks were notetiquette in the palace, and, putting into his arms a small brass-boundcase of instruments, asked his pardon for preceding him, and alightedfrom the carriage. 

This was Ambroise's usual entrance, and it was merely guarded by aScottish archer, who probably observed nothing. They then mounted thestone stair, the same where Osbert had dragged down his insensiblemaster; and as, at the summit, the window appeared where Berenger hadwaited those weary hours, and heard the first notes of the bell ofSt. -Germain-l'Auxerrois, his breath came in such hurried sobs, that Parewould fain have given him time to recover himself, but he gasped, 'Nothere--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 fullof dreadful associations for poor Charles, but towards those of theyoung Queen. Avoiding the ante-room, where no doubt waited pages, users, and attendants, Pare presently knocked at a small door, so hidden in thewain-scoting of the passage that only a _habitue_ could have found itwithout strict search. It was at once opened, and the withered, motherlyface of an old woman, with keen black eyes under a formal tight whitecap, 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 awhile in my chamber while Maitre Ambroise goes on to announce you to theKing. He is more at ease to-day, the poor child, and will relish somefresh talk. 

Berenger knew this to be Philippe, the old Huguenot nurse, whom CharlesIX. Loved most fondly, and in whom he found his greatest comfort. He wasvery glad to sink into the seat she placed for him, the only one is hersmall, bare room and recover breath there while Pare passed on to theKing, and she talked as one delighted to have a hearer. 

'Ah, yes, rest yourself--stay; I will give you a few spoonfuls of thecordial 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 knowme 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 neversuffer as he does. Maitre Ambroise may talk of his illness coming fromblowing too much on his horn; I know better. But, ah! to be here atnight 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 herisolated life, that her tongue ran thus freely while Berenger sat, scarce daring to speak or breathe in the strange boding atmosphere ofthe palace, where the nurse and surgeon moved as tolerated, privilegedpersons, in virtue of the necessity of the one to the King--of the otherto all the world. After all brief interval Pare returned and beckonedto Berenger, who followed him across a large state-bedroom to a muchsmaller one, which he entered from under a heavy blue velvet curtain, and found himself in an atmosphere heavy with warmth and perfume, andstrangely oppressed besides. On one side of the large fire sat theyoung Queen, faded, wan, and with all animation or energy departed, onlygazing with a silent, wistful intentness at her husband. He was oppositeto her in a pillowed chair, his feet on a stool, with a deadly white, padded, puffy cheek, and his great black eyes, always prominent, nowwith a glassy look, and strained wide, as though always gazing aftersome horrible sight. 'Madame la Comtesse stood in her old, wooden, automaton fashion behind the Queen; otherwise, no one was present savePare, who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. De Ribaumontadvance. He stood still, however, merely bowing low, awaiting aninvitation to come forward, and trying to repress the startled tearcalled up by the very shock of pity at the mournful aspect of the youngKing 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 himto approach, holding out a yellow, dropsical-looking hand; and as hedropped on one knew and kissed it fervently, the King said, 'Here he is, Madame, the Baron de Ribaumont, the same whose little pleasure-boat wassucked down in our whirlpool. 

All Elisabeth's memories seemed to have been blotted out in thatwhirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, and gave no look ofrecognition, though she, too, allowed Berenger to salute her listless, dejected hand. 'One would hardly have known him again, continued theKing, 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 tome 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 consideringwhether he ought to proffer his petition, when the King continued, 'Howfares 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 tracedthe long scar on Berenger's face. 'Our sister of England has differentbadges of merit from ours for her good subjects. Ha! what say they of usin England, Baron?

'I have lain sick at home, Sire, and have neither seen nor heard, saidBerenger. 

'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 bloodis not on my head. 

The Queen looked up uneasy and imploring, as Charles continued: 'Wouldthat more of you would come in this way! They have scored you deep, butknow you what is gashed deeper still? Your King's heart! Ah! you willnot 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 Huguenottailor. Why, I see a score, night by night! You are solid; let me feelyou, man. 

'M. Pare, ' exclaimed the poor Queen, 'take him away. 

'No, Madame, ' said the King, holding tight in his hot grasp Berenger'shand, which was as pale as his own, long, thin, and wasted, but coldfrom strong emotion; 'take not away the only welcome sight I have seenfor well-nigh two years. ' He coughed, and the handkerchief he put to hislips had blood on it; but he did not quit his hold of his visitor, andpresently said in a feeble whisper, 'Tell me, how did you escape?

Pare, over the King's head, signed to him to make his narrative taketime; and indeed his speech was of necessity so slow, that by the timehe had related how Osbert had brought him safely to England, the Kinghad recovered himself so as to say, 'See what it is to have a faithfulservant. Which of those they have left me would do as much for me? Andnow, being once away with your life, what brings you back to this realmof ours, after your last welcome?

'I left my wife here, Sire. 

'Ha! and the cousin would have married her--obtained permission to callhimself Nid de Merle--but she slipped through his clumsy fingers; didshe not? Did you know anything of her, Madame?

'No, ' said the Queen, looking up. 'She wrote to me once from herconvent; 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 theabsolute omission, than at the weary indifference of the Queen'sconfession. 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 withgreat difficulty, 'she escaped in time to give birth to our child inthe ruined loft of an old grange of the Templars, under the care of aHuguenot farmer, and a pastor who had known my father. Then she tookrefuge in La Sablerie, and wrote to my mother, deeming me dead. I wasjust well enough to go in quest of her. I came--ah! Sire, I found onlycharred 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 younot know that they have killed me already? I thought you came becausethere was still some one I could aid. 

'There is, there is, Sire, ' said Berenger, for once interruptingroyalty. 'None save you can give me my child. It is almost certain thata good priest saved it; but it is in a convent, and only with a royalorder can one of my religion either obtain it, or even have my questionsanswered. 

'Nor with one in Paris, ' said the King dryly; 'but in the country thegood mothers may still honour their King's hand. Here, Ambroise, takepen and ink, and write the order. To whom?

'To the Mother Prioress of the Ursulines at Lucon, so please ourMajesty, ' 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; andI bless God daily that she is no son--to be the most wretched thing theFrance. Let her come in, Madame. She is little older than my friend'sdaughter. I would show her to him. 

The Queen signed to Madame la Comtesse to fetch the child, and Berengeradded, 'Sire, you could do a further benefit to my poor little one. Onemore signature of yours would attest that ratification of my marriagewhich took place in your Majesty's presence. 

'Ah! I remember, ' said Charles. 'You may have any name of mine that canhelp you to oust that villain Narcisse; only wait to use it--spare meany more storms. It will serve your turn as well when I am beyondthey, and you will make your claim good. What, ' seeing Berenger'sinterrogative look, 'do you not know that by the marriage-contract thelands 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 bythe long ribbons at her waist; Charles bent forward, calling, 'Here, _mapetite_, 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 certainlofty condescension, she extended her hand for the stranger to kiss, andthus drew from the King the first smile that Berenger had seen. She wasmore than half a year older than the Berangere on whom his hopes wereset, and whom he trusted to find not such a pale, feeble, totteringlittle creature as this poor young daughter of France, whose round blackeyes gazed wonderingly at his scar; but she was very precocious, andeven already too much of a royal lady to indulge in any awkward personalobservation. 

By the time she had been rewarded for her good behaviour by one of thedried plums in her father's comfit-box, the order had been writtenby Pare, and Berenger had prepared the certificate for the King'ssignature, according to the form given him by his grandfather. 

'Your writing shakes nearly as much as mine, ' said the poor King, ashe wrote his name to this latter. 'Now, Madame, you had better sign italso; 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 forshedding innocent blood. Ah!'--and with a gasp of mournful longing, theKing sank back, while Elisabeth, at his bidding, added her name to thecertificate, and murmured the name of a convent in Vienna, where herlate confessor could be found. 

'I cannot thank you Majesty enough, ' said Berenger; 'My child's rightsare now secure in England at least, and this'--as he held the otherpaper 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 availyou nothing. Write to Ambroise how you speed; that is, if it willbring me one breath of good news. ' And as Berenger kissed his hand withtearful, inarticulate thanks, he proceeded, 'Save for that cause, Iwould ask you to come to me again. It does me good. It is like a breathfrom Montpipeau--the last days of hope--before the frenzy--the misery. 

'Whenever your Majesty does me the honour---' began Berenger, forgettingall except the dying man. 

'I am not so senseless, ' interrupted the King sharply; 'it would belosing the only chance of undoing one wrong. Only, Ribaumont, ' he addedfervently, 'for once let me hear that one man has pardoned me. 

'Sire, Sire, ' sobbed Berenger, totally overcome, 'how can I speak theword? How feel aught but love, loyalty, gratitude?

Charles half smiled again as he said in sad meditation--'Ah! it was inme to have been a good king if they had let me. Think of me, bid yourfriend Sidney think of me, as I would have been--not as I have been--andpray, pray for me. ' Then hiding his face in his handkerchief, in aparoxysm 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 thatBerenger sprang to his feet in dismay, and was _bona fide_ performingthe part of assistant to the surgeon, when, at the Queen's cry, not onlythe nurse Philippe hurried in, but with her a very dark, keen-lookingman, who at once began applying strong essences to the King's face, as Berenger supported his head. In a few moments Pare looked up atBerenger, and setting him free, intimated to him, between sign andwhisper, to go into Philippe's room and wait there; and it was hightime, 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 backin the nurse's chair, with closed eyes, scarcely conscious how timewent, or even where he was, till he was partly aroused by hearing stepsreturning. 

'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 stillsounded unnatural and far away. 

'He is better for the time, and will sleep, ' said Pare, administering tohis other patient some cordial drops as he spoke. 'There, sir; you willsoon be able to return to the carriage. This has been a sore trial toyour strength. 

'But I have gained all--all I could hope, ' said Berenger, looking at hisprecious papers. 'But, alas! the poor King!

'You will never, never let a word of blame pass against him, ' criedPhilippe earnestly. 'It is well that one of our people should haveseen how it really is with him. All I regret is that Maitre Rene thrusthimself in and saw you. 

'Who?' said Berenger, who had been too much engrossed to perceive anyone. 

'Maitre Rene of Milan, the Queen-mother's perfume. He came with someplea 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 calledme, and he must needs come in after me. 

'I saw him not, ' said Berenger; 'perhaps he marked not me in theconfusion. 

'I fear, ' said Pare gravely, 'he was more likely to have his sensesabout him than you. M. Le Baron; these bleedings of the King's are notso new to us familiars to the palace. The best thing now to be done isto have you to the carriage, if you can move. 

Berenger, now quite recovered, stood up, and gave his warm thanks to theold nurse for her kindness to him. 

'Ah! sir, ' she said, 'you are one of us. Pray, pray that God will havemercy on my poor child! He has the truth in his heart. Pray that it maysave him at the last. 

Ambroise, knowing that she would never cease speaking while there wasany one to hear her, almost dragged Berenger out at the little secretdoor, conveyed him safely down the stairs, and placed him again in thecarriage. Neither spoke till the surgeon said, 'You have seen a sadsight, Monsieur le Baron: I need not bid you be discreet. 

'There are some things that go too deep for speech, ' sighed the almostEnglish Berenger; then, after a pause, 'Is there no hope for him? Is heindeed dying?

'Without a miracle, he cannot live a month. He is as truly slain by theSt. Bartholomew as ever its martyrs were, ' said Pare, moved out of hisusual cautious reserve towards one who had seen so much and felt sotruly. '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 theyhave consciences and hearts, so they pine and perish under her rule. 

Berenger shuddered, and almost sobbed, 'And hath he no better hope, nocomforter?' he asked. 

'None save good old Flipote. As you heard, the Queen-mother will notsuffer his own Church to speak to him in her true voice. No confessorbut one chosen by the Cardinal of Lorraine may come near him; and withhim all is mere ceremony. But if at the last he opens his ear and heartto take in the true hope of salvation, it will be from the voice of poorold Philippe. 

And so it was! It was Philippe, who heard him in the night sobbing overthe piteous words, 'My God, what horrors, what blood!' and, as she tookfrom his tear-drenched handkerchief, spoke to him of the Blood thatspeakth better things than the blood of Abel; and it was she who, in thefinal agony, heard and treasured these last words, 'If the Lord Jesuswill indeed receive me into the company of the blest!' Surely, neverwas repentance deeper than that of Charles IX. --and these, his partingwords, were such as to inspire the trust that it was not remorse. 

All-important as Berenger's expedition had been, he still could thinkof little but the poor King; and, wearied out as he was, he made verylittle reply to the astonished friends who gathered round him on hisreturn. He merely told Philip that he had succeeded, and then lay almostwithout speaking on his bed till the Ambassador made his evening visit, when he showed him the two papers. Sir Francis could hardly believe hisgood fortune in having obtained this full attestation of the marriage, and promised to send to the English Ambassador in Germany, to obtain thelike from Father Meinhard. The document itself he advised Berenger notto expose to the dangers of the French journey, but to leave it with himto be forwarded direct to Lord Walwyn. It was most important, both asobviating 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 Merleestates, of which he had heard from the King. This information explainedwhat were the claims that the Chevalier was so anxious to hush up by amarriage with Madame de Selinville. Berenger, as his wife's heir, was bythis contract the true owner of the estates seized by the Chevalier andhis son, and could only be ousted, either by his enemies proving hiscontract to Eustacie invalid and to be unfulfilled, or by his ownvoluntary resignation. The whole scheme was clear to Walsingham, andhe wasted advice upon unheeding ears, as to how Berenger should act toobtain restitution so soon as he should be of age, and how he should tryto find out the notary who had drawn up the contract. If Berenger caredat all, it was rather for the sake of punishing and balking Narcisse, than with any desire of the inheritance; and even for righteousindignation he was just now too weary and too sad. He could not discusshis rights to Nid de Merle, if they passed over the rights of Eustacie'schild, round whom his affection were winding themselves as his solehope. 

The next evening Pare came in quest of Berenger, and after a calm, refreshing, hopeful Ascension-day, which had been a real balm to theweary spirit, found him enjoying the sweet May sunshine under a treein the garden. 'I am glad to find you out of doors, ' he said; 'I fear Imust hasten your departure. 

'I burn to lose no time, ' cried Berenger. 'Prithee tell them I maysafely go! They all call it madness to think of setting out. 

'Ordinarily it would be, ' said Pare; 'but Rene of Milan has sent hisunderlings to see who is my new, tall assistant. He will report all tothe Queen-mother; and though in this house you could scarcely sufferpersonal harm, yet the purpose of your journey might be frustrated, andthe King might have to undergo another of those _bourrasques_ which hemay well dread. 

'I will go this very night, ' said Berenger, starting up; 'where isPhilip?--where is Sir Francis?

Even that very night Pare thought not too soon, and the Ascension-tideilluminations brought so many persons abroad that it would be easy to gounnoticed; and in the general festivity, when every one was coming andgoing from the country to gaze or worship at the shrines and the imagesdecked in every church, it would be easy for the barriers to be passedwithout observation. Then the brothers would sleep at a large hostel, the first on the road to England, where Walsingham's couriers and guestalways baited, and the next morning he would send out to them theirattendants, with houses for their further journey back into Anjou. Ifany enemies were on the watch, this would probably put them off thescent, and it only remained further to be debated, whether the NormanGuibert had better be dismissed at once or taken with them. There wasalways soft place in Berenger's heart for a Norman, and the man wasreally useful; moreover, he would certainly be safer employed and intheir company, than turned loose to tell the Chevalier all he might havepicked up in the Hotel d'Angleterre. It was therefore decided that heshould be the attendant of the two young men, and he received immediateorders that night to pack up their garments, and hold himself ready. 

Nevertheless, before the hour of departure, Guibert had stolen out, hadan interview with the Chevalier de Ribaumont at the Hotel de Selinville, and came back with more than one good French crown in his pocket, andhopes 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 hisjourney infinitely better than his companions had dared to expect. Hedreaded nothing so much as being overtaken by those tidings which wouldmake King Charles's order mere waste paper; and therefore pressed onwith little regard to his own fatigue, although happily with increasingstrength, which carried him a further stage every day. 

Lucon was a closely-guarded, thoroughly Catholic city, and hissafe-conduct was jealously demanded; but the name of Ribaumont silencedall doubt. 'A relation, apparently, of M. De Nid de Merle, ' said theofficer on guard, and politely invited him to dinner and bed at thecastle; but these he thought it prudent to decline, explaining that hebrought a letter from the King to the Mother Prioress. 

The convent walls were pointed out to him, and he only delayed at theinn long enough to arrange his dress as might appear to the Abbess mostrespectful, and, poor boy, be least likely to startle the babe on whomhis heart was set. At almost every inn, the little children had shriekedand run from his white and gashed face, and his tall, lank figure indeep black; and it was very sadly that he said to Philip, 'You must comewith me. If she turns from me as an ogre, your bright ruddy face willwin 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 thanformerly; but still people looked at him narrowly as he followed hisbrother along the street. The two lads had made up their minds toencumber themselves with no nurses, or womanfolk. The child should becarried, 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 giveher up to any one else; and, in his concentration of mind, had hardlythought of all the inconveniences and absurdities that would arise; but, really, was chiefly occupied by the fear that she would not at first lethim take her in his arms, and hold her to his heart. 

Philip, a little more alive to the probabilities, nevertheless wasdisposed to regard them as 'fun and pastime. ' He had had many a frolicwith 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 wasa good work, in his Protestant eyes, which had not become a whit lessprejudiced at Paris. So he was quite prepared to take his full share ofhis niece, or more, if she should object to her father's looks, and heonly suggested halting at an old woman's stall to buy some sweetmeatsby way of propitiation--a proceeding which much amazed the gazingpopulation of Lucon. Two reports were going about, one that the Kinghad vowed a silver image of himself to St. Ursula, if her Prioress wouldobtain his recovery by their prayers; the other that he was going totranslate her to the royal Abbey of Fontevrault to take charge of hisdaughter, Madame Elisabeth. Any way, high honour by a royal messengermust be intended to the Prioress, Mere Monique, and the Luconnais wereproud of her sanctity. 

The portress had already heard the report, and opened her wicketeven before the bell could be rung, then eagerly ushered him into theparlour, the barest and most ascetic-looking of rooms, with a boardedpartition across, unenlivened except by a grated hollow, and the outerportion empty, save of a table, three chairs, and a rugged woodcut of avery tall St. Ursula, with a crowd of pigmy virgins, not reaching higherthan the ample hem of her petticoat. 

'Did Aunt Cecily live in such a place as this?' exclaimed Philip, gazinground; 'or do they live on the fat among down cushions inside there?

'Hush--sh, ' said Berenger, frowning with anxiety; for a rustling washeard behind the screen, and presently a black veil and white scapularyappeared, and a sweet calm voice said, 'Peace be with you, sir; what areyour commands?

Berenger bowed low, and replied, 'Thanks, reverend Lady; I bring aletter from the King, to request your aid in a matter that touches menearly. 

'His Majesty shall be obeyed. Come you from him?

He was forced to reply to her inquiries after the poor King's healthbefore she opened the letter, taking it under her veil to read it; sothat as he stood, trembling, almost sickening with anxiety, and scarcelyable to breathe, he could see nothing but the black folds; and at herlow murmured exclamation he started as if at a cannon-shot. 

'De Ribaumont!' she said; 'can it be--the child--of--of--out poor dearlittle _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 soloved and regretted by Eustacie. 'I loved and prayed for her with all myheart when she was claimed by the world. Heaven's will be done; but thepoor little thing loved me, and I have often thought that had I beenstill at Bellaise when she returned she would not have fled. But of thischild 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 andmore 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 nolonger. 

'But, ' exclaimed the bewildered nun, 'who would you then be, sir?

'I--her husband--widower of Eustacie--father of her orphan!' criedBerenger. 'She cannot be detained from me, either by right or law. 

'Her husband, ' still hesitated Monique. 'But he is dead. The poor littleone--Heaven have mercy on her soul--wrote me a piteous entreaty, andgave large alms for prayers and masses for his soul. 

The sob in his throat almost strangled his speech. 'She mourned me tothe 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! havepity--let me see all she has left to me. 

'Is it possible?' said the nun. 'We would not learn the parentage ofour nurslings since all alike become children of Mother Church. Then, suddenly bethinking herself, 'But, surely, Monsieur cannot be aHuguenot. 

It was no doubt the first time she had been brought in contact witha schismatic, and she could not believe that such respectful courtesycould come from one. He saw he must curb himself, and explain. 'I amneither Calvinist nor Sacrementaire, Madame. I was bred in England, where we love our own Church. My aunt is a Benedictine Sister, who keepsher rule strictly, though her convent is destroyed; and it is to herthat I shall carry my daughter. Ah, Lady, did you but know my heart'shunger for her!

The Prioress, better read in the lives of the saints than in the sectsof heretics, did not know whether this meant that he was of her ownfaith 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 Imust, if she be here; but you have never seen her?

'No; only her empty cradle in the burnt house. But I MUST know her. Sheis a year old. 

'We have two babes of that age; but I fear me you will scarce see muchlikeness in either of them to any one you knew, ' said the Prioress, thoughtfully. 'However, there are two girls old enough to remember theparentage 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 wasa pattering of little _sabots_ behind the partition, and through thegrating he beheld six little girls in blue serge frocks and tight whitecaps. Of the two infants, one with a puny, wizen, pinched face was inthe arms of the Prioress; the other, a big, stout, coarse child, withhard brown cheeks and staring black-eyes, was on its own feet, but witha great basket-work frame round its head to save it from falls. Therewere two much more prepossessing children of three or four, and twointelligent-looking girls of perhaps eight and ten, to the elder of whomthe Prioress turned, saying, 'Agathe, I release you from my command notto speak of your former life, and desire you to tell this gentleman ifyou 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 thewasherwoman; and Nannonciade, I don't know what her name was, but herfather worked for Maitre Brassier who made the kettles. 

Philip felt relieved to be free from all doubt about these veryuninviting little ones, but Berenger, though sighing heavily, askedquickly, 'Permit me, Madame, a few questions. --Little maid, did you everhear 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 upher 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 hadsent 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 Agatheand Eulalie are much prettier. 

'But Maitre Gardon?' still asked Berenger. 

'He ought to be take and burnt, ' said the new Eulalie; 'he brought itall 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, 'onlyhis son's widow and her baby, and they lodged with Noemi Laurent, whomade the _patisserie_. 

'Ah!' cried Berenger, lighting up with the new ray of hope. 'Tell me, mydear, that they fled with him, and where. 

'I do not know of their going, ' said Agathe, confused and overborne byhis eagerness. 

'Curb yourself, sir, ' said the Prioress, 'they will recollect themselvesand tell you what they can. 

'It was the little cakes with lemoned sugar, ' suggested the youngergirl. 'Maitre Tressan always said there would be a judgment on us forour daintiness. Ah! he was very cross about them, and after all it wasthe Maitre of Lucon who ate fifteen of them all at once; but then he isnot a heretic. 

Happily for Berenger, Agathe unraveled this speech. 

'Mademoiselle Gardon made the sugar-lemoned cakes, and the Mayor ofLucon, one day when he supped with us, was so delighted with them thathe carried one away to show his wife, and afterwards he sent over toorder some more. Then, after a time, he sent secretly to my father toask him if Maitre Gardon was there; for there was a great outcry aboutthe lemon cakes, and the Duke of Alencon's army were coming to demandhis daughter-in-law; because it seems she was a great lady, and the onlyperson who could make the cakes. 

'Agathe!' exclaimed the Prioress. 

'I understand, ' said Berenger. 'The Cure of Nissard told me that she wastraced through cakes, the secret of which was only known at Bellaise. 

'That might be, ' said Mere Monique. 'I remember there was something ofpride in the cakes of Bellaise, though I always tried to know nothing ofthem. 

'Well, little one, continue, ' entreated Berenger. 'You are giving melife and hope. 

'I heard my father and mother talk about it, ' said Agathe, gainingcourage. 'He said he knew nothing of great people, and would give nobodyup to the Catholics, but as to Maitre Isaac, he should let him know thatthe Catholic army were coming, and that it would be the better for usif we had no pastor within our walls; and that there was a cry that hisdaughter'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 elderprayed with us. And when the cruel soldiers came and demanded the ladyand Maitre Isaac, and all obstinate Calvinists, our mayor and my fatherand the rest made answer that they had no knowledge of the lady, and didnot know where Maitre Gardon was; and as to Huguenots, we were all oneas obstinate as the other, but that we would pay any fine within ourmeans 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 saidbesides, I know not what but my father said, 'It is our life's bloodthat they want, ' and he put on his breastplate and kissed us all, andwent away. Then came horrible noises and firing of cannon, and theneighbours ran in and said that the enemy were battering down the oldcrumbly bit of wall where the monastery was burnt; and just then our manJoseph ran back all pale, and staring, to tell us my father was lyingbadly hurt in the street. My mother hurried out, and locked the door tokeep us from following. 

The poor child broke down in tears, and her sister went on. 'Oh, we wereso frightened--such frightful sounds came close, and people ran by allblood and shrieking--and there was a glare in the sky--and nobody camehome--till at last it grew so dreadful that we hid in the cellar to hearand see nothing. Only it grew hotter and hotter, and the light throughthe little grating was red. And at last there was a noise louder thanthunder, and, oh, such a shaking--for it was the house falling down. Butwe did not know that; we tried to open the door, and could not; thenwe cried and called for father and mother--and no one heard--and we satstill for fear, till we slept--and then it was all dark, and we werevery hungry. I don't know how time went, but at last, when I wasdaylight again, there was a talking above, a little baby crying, anda kind voice too; and then we called out, 'Oh, take us out and give usbread. ' Then a face looked down the grating. Oh, it was like the faceof an angel to us, with all the white hair flying round. It was theholy priest of Nissard; and when one of the cruel men said we were onlylittle heretics who ought to die like rats in a hole, he said we werebut innocents who did not know the difference. 

'Ah! we did, ' said the elder girl. 'You are younger, sister, you forgetmore;' 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 inthe good course. 

'Oh yes!' cried the poor child; 'but I don't want to be happy! I amforgetting 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 andthe processions. 

'Ah! but what would our mother have said!' cried poor Agathe, weepingmore bitterly. 

'Poor child, her old recollections have been renewed, ' said thePrioress, with unchanged sweetness; 'but it will pass. My dear, thegentleman will tell you that it is as impossible for him to take you asit is for me to let you go. 

'It is so, truly, little one, ' said Berenger. 'The only little girl Icold have taken with me would have been my own;' and as her eyes lookedat him wistfully, he added, 'No doubt, if your poor mother could, shewould thank this good Mother-prioress for teaching you to serve God andbe 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'sdaughter-in-law?

'No, sir, ' said the children; 'but mother did, and she promised one dayto take us to see the baby, for it was so pretty--so white, that she hadnever 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 wascalled 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 hadsucceeded. 

'And reveal the true faith, ' began the nun; but Philip in the meantimewas nudging his brother, and whispering in English, 'No Popishprayers, I say! Stay, give these poor little prisoners one feast of thesweetmeats we brought. 

Of this last hint Berenger was glad, and the Prioress readily consentedto a distribution of the dainties among the orphans. He wished to leavea more lasting token of his gratitude to the little maiden whose fatherhad perhaps saved Eustacie's life, and recollecting that he had abouthim a great gold coin, bearing the heads of Philip and Mary, he beggedleave to offer it to Agathe, and found that it was received by good MereMonique almost in the light of a relic, as bearing the head of so piousa queen. 

Then, to complete Philip's disgust he said, 'I took with me my aunt'sblessing when I set out; let me take yours with me also, reverendMother. 

When they were in the street again, Philip railed at him as though hehad subjected himself to a spell. 

'She is almost a saint, ' answered Berenger. 

'And have we not saints enough of our own, without running after Popishones behind grates? Brother, if ever the good old days come back ofinvading France, I'll march straight hither, and deliver the poor littlewretches so scandalously mewed up here, and true Protestants all thetime!

'Hush! People are noticing the sound of your English. 

'Let them! I never thanked Heaven properly before that I have not a dropof French---' Here Berenger almost shook him by the shoulder, asmen turned at his broad tones and foreign words, and he walked on insilence, while Berenger at his side felt as one treading on air, soinfinite was the burden taken off his mind. Though for the presentabsolutely at sea as to where to seek Eustacie, the relief fromacquiescence 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 bearhim 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 hecalled this most blessed discovery; 'but where to seek them?

'I have no fears now, ' returned Berenger. 'We have not been bore throughso much not to be brought together at last. Soon, soon shall we haveher! A minister so distinguished as Isaac Gardon is sure to be heardof either at La Rochelle, Montauban, or Nimes, their great gatheringplaces. 

'For Rochelle, then?' said Philip. 

'Even so. We will be off early to-morrow, and from thence, if we donot find her there, as I expected, we shall be able to write the thricehappy news to those at home. 

Accordingly, the little cavalcade started in good time, in the coolof the morning of the bright long day of early June, while apple petalfloated down on them in the lanes like snow, and nightingales in everyhedge 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, andas they drew aside to make way, a little troop of gendarmes filled thenarrow lane. The officer, a rough, harsh-looking man, laid his hand onBerenger'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 urgehis 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 ofthe 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 thecaptain, roughly pulling at the rein, which he had held all the time. 

'What, no warrant?' shouted Philip, 'he is a mere robber!' and withdrawn sword he was precipitating himself on the captain, when anothergendarme, who had been on the watch, grappled with him, and draggedhim off his horse before he could strike a blow. The other two English, Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, strong full-grown men, rode in fiercelyto the rescue, and Berenger himself struggled furiously to loose himselffrom the captain, and deliver his brother. Suddenly there was the reportof 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 onby three or four gendarmes, thrown down and pinioned. 

'Is this usage for gentlemen?' exclaimed Berenger, as he was roughlyraised to his feet. 

'The King's power has been resisted, ' was all the answer; and whenhe would have been to see how it was with poor Smithers, one of themen-at-arms kicked over the body with sickening brutality, saying, 'Deadenough, 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 theperil 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 theirhands were then set free to use their bridles, each being guarded bya soldier on each side of him. Philip attempted but once to speak, andthat in English: 'Next time I shall take my pistol. 

He was rudely silenced, and rode on with wide-open stolid eyes anddogged face, steadfastly resolved that no Frenchman should see himflinch, and vexed that Berenger had his riding mask on so that his facecould not be studied; while he, on his side, was revolving all causespossible for his arrest, and all means of enforcing he liberation, if not of himself at least of Philip and Humfrey. He looked round forGuibert, but could not see him. 

They rode on through the intricate lanes till the sun was high andscorching, and Berenger felt how far he was from perfect recovery. Atlast, however, some little time past noon, the gendarmes halted at astone fountain, outside a village, and disposing a sufficient guardaround his captives, the officer permitted them to dismount and rest, while he, with the rest of the troop and the horses, went to the villageCABARET. Philip would have asked his brother what it meant, and what wasto be done, but Berenger shook his head, and intimated that silence wassafest as present, since they might be listened to; and Philip, whoso much imagined treachery and iniquity to be the order of the day inFrance that he was scarcely surprised at the present disaster, resignedhimself to the same sullen endurance. Provisions and liquor werepresently sent up from the inn, but Berenger could taste nothing but thecold water of the fountain, which trickled out cool and fresh beneath anarch surmounted by a figure of Our Lady. He bathed his face and headin the refreshing spring, and lay down on a cloak in the shade, Philipkeeping a constant change of drenched kerchiefs on his brow, andhoping that he slept, till at the end to two or three hours thecaptain returned, gave the word to horse, and the party rode on throughintricate lanes, blossoming with hawthorn, and ringing with songs ofbirds that spoke a very different language now to Berenger's heart fromwhat they had said in the hopeful morning. 

A convent bell was ringing to evensong, when passing its gateway; theescort 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 anglea round, slim turret, crowned by a brilliant red-tiled extinguisher-likecap; and the whole surmounted by a tall old keep in the centre. Therewas a square projection containing an arched gateway, with heavydoorways, which were thrown open as the party approached. Philip lookedup as he rode in, and over the doorway beheld the familiar frettedshield, with the leopard in the corner, and _'A moi Ribaumont'_ roundit. Could it then be Berenger's own castle, and was it thus that he wasapproaching it? He himself had not looked up; he was utterly spent withfatigue, dejection, and the severe headache brought on by the heat ofthe sun, and was only intent on rallying his powers for the crisis offate that was probably approaching; and thus scarcely took note of thecourt into which he rode, lying between the gateway and the _corps delogis_, a building erected when comfort demanded more space than wasafforded by the old keep, against which one end leant; but still, thoughinclosed in a court, the lower windows were small and iron-barred, andall air of luxury was reserved for the mullioned casements of the upperstorey. The court was flagged, but grass shot up between the stones, andthe trim air of ease and inhabited comfort to which the brothers wereused at home was utterly wanting. Berenger was hustled off his horse, and roughly pushed through a deep porch, where the first thing he heardwas 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 meaningof this. I am peacefully traveling with a passport from the King, when Iam set upon, no warrant shown me, my faithful servant slain, myself andmy brother, an English subject, shamefully handled. 

'The violence shall be visited on whatever rascal durst insult agentleman and my nephew, ' said the Chevalier. 'For release, it shall belooked to; but unfortunately it is too true that there are ordersfrom the Queen in Council for your apprehension, and it was only on myspecial entreaty for the honour of the family, and the affection I bearyou, that I was allowed to receive you here instead of your being sentto an ordinary prison. 

'On what pretext?' demanded Berenger. 

'It is known that you have letters in your possession from escapedtraitors now in England, to La Noue, Duplessis Mornay, and otherheretics. 

'That is easily explained, ' said Berenger. 'You know well, sir, thatthey were to facilitate my search at La Sablerie. You shall see themyourself, sir. 

'That I must assuredly do, ' replied the Chevalier, 'for it is theorder of her Majesty, I regret to say, that your person and baggage besearched;' then, as indignant colour rushed into Berenger's face, and anangry exclamation was beginning, he added, 'Nay, I understand, my dearcousin, 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 presenceof this gentleman, who will only stand by for form's sake. I have nodoubt it will enable us quickly to clear up matters, and set you freeagain. 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 headhigh. 

'The English scruple must be gratified, ' said the Chevalier. Andaccordingly the gendarme captain unfolded before him a paper, which wasevidently a distinct order to arrest and examine the person of HenriBeranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont and Sieur de Leurre, suspected oftreasonable 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 sensewith his dizzy eyes as best he could. 'They cannot be detained, beingborn subjects of the Queen of England. 

'They intercepted the justice of the King, ' said the captain, layinghis hand on Philip's shoulder. 'I shall have them off with me to thegarrison 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 honourableyoung gentleman, son of a chevalier of good reputation in England, andhe need not be so harshly dealt with. You will not separate eitherhim or the poor groom from my nephew, so the Queen's authority be nowrightly acknowledged. 

The captain shrugged his shoulders, as if displeased; and the Chevalier, turning to Berenger, said, 'You understand, nephew, the lot of you alldepends on your not giving umbrage to these officers of her Majesty. Iwill do my poor best for you; but submission is first needed. 

Berenger knew enough of his native country to be aware that _la justicedu Roi_ was a terrible thing, and that Philip's resistance had reallyput him in so much danger that it was needful to be most careful notfurther to offend the functionary of Government; and abhorrent as theproposed search was to him, he made no further objection, but takingPhilip's arm, lest they should be separated, he prepared to followwherever he was to be conducted. The Chevalier led the way along anarrow stone passage, with loophole-windows here and there; and Philip, for all his proud, indifferent bearing, felt his flesh creep as helooked for a stair descending into the bowels of the earth. A stairthere was, but it went up instead of down, and after mounting this, andgoing through a sort of ante-room, a door was opened into a tolerablyspacious apartment, evidently in the old keep; for the two windows onopposite sides were in an immensely massive wall, and the floor aboveand vaulting below were of stone; but otherwise there was nothingrepulsive in the appearance of the room. There was a wood fire on thehearth; the sun, setting far to the north, peeped in aslant at onewindow; 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 fewbooks on it, were as much furniture as was to be seen in almost anyliving-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 captainlooked with a stupid air; and the Chevalier did not seem capable ofdiscovering more than that all three were Latin--one, he believed, theBible. 

'Yes, sir, the Vulgate--a copy older than the Reformation, so not liableto be called an heretical version, ' said Berenger, to whom a copy hadbeen given by Lady Walwyn, as more likely to be saved if his baggagewere searched. 'The other is the Office and Psalter after our Englishrite; and this last is not mine, but Mr. Sidney's--a copy of VirgiliusMaro, which he had left behind at Paris. 

The Chevalier, not willing to confess that he had taken the EnglishPrayer-book for Latin, hastily said, 'Nothing wrong there--no, no, nothing that will hurt the State; may it only be so with what you carryon your person, fair cousin. Stand back, gentleman, this is gear formyself alone. Now, fair nephew, ' he added, 'not a hand shall be laid onyou, if you will give me your honourable word, as a nobleman, that youare laying before me all that you carry about you. 

An instant's thought convinced Berenger that resistance would savenothing, and merely lead to indignity to himself and danger to Philip;and therefore he gave the promise to show everything about him, withoutcompulsion. 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 offthe belt containing his store of gold, which had been replenished atWalsingham's. This was greedily eyed by the captain, but the Chevalierat once made it over to Philip's keeping, graciously saying, 'We do nomore than duty requires;' but at the same time he made a gesture towardsanother small purse that hung round Berenger's neck by a black ribbon. 

'On my sacred word and honour, ' said Berenger, 'it contains nothingimportant to any save myself. 

'Alas! my bounden duty, ' urged the Chevalier. 

An angry reply died on Berenger's lip. At the thought of Philip, heopened the purse, and held out the contents on his palm: a tiny goldring, a tress of black hair, a fragment of carnation-ribbon pricked withpin-holes, a string of small worthless yellow shells, and, threaded withthem, a large pear-shaped pearl of countless price. Even the Chevalierwas touched at the sight of this treasury, resting on the blanched palmof the thin, trembling hand, and jealously watched by eyes glisteningwith sudden moisture, though the lips were firm set. 'Alas! my pooryoung cousin, ' he said, 'you loved her well. 

'Not loved, but love, ' muttered Berenger to himself, as if havingrecourse to the only cordial that could support him through the presentsuffering; 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 ourancestor's courage, ' said the Chevalier. 

And Berenger did not feel it needful to yield up that still betterpossession, stored within his heart, that _la petite_ and her pearlswere safe together. It was less unendurable to produce the leather casefrom a secret pocket within his doublet, since, unwilling as he was thatany eye should scan the letters it contained, there was nothing in themthat could give any clue towards tracing her. Nothing had been writtenor received since his interview with the children at Lucon. There was, indeed, Eustacie's letter to his mother, a few received at Paris fromLord Walwyn, reluctantly consenting to his journey in quest of hischild, his English passport, the unfortunate letters to La Noue; andwhat evidently startled the Chevalier more than all the rest, thecopy of the certificate of the ratification of the marriage; but hisconsternation was so arranged as to appear to be all on behalf of hisyoung kinsman. 'This is serious!' he said, striking his forehead; 'youwill be accused of forging the late King's name. 

'This is but a copy, ' said Berenger, pointing to the heading; 'theoriginal has been sent with our Ambassador's dispatches to England. 

'It is a pity, ' said the Chevalier, looking thoroughly vexed, 'that youshould have brought fresh difficulties on yourself for a mere pieceof waste paper to be affected by the validity of your marriage. Dearcousin, '--he glanced at the officer and lowered his voice, --'let me tearthis 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 harmshould be delivered up! Besides, ' he added, 'even had I the feeling formy 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 havefilled your head with absurd claims; but I will not argue the point now, since it becomes a family, not a State matter. These papers'--andhe took them into his hand--'must be examined, and to-morrow CaptainDelarue will take them to Paris, with any explanation you may desireto offer. Meantime you and your companions remain my guest, at fullliberty, 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 anaturalized Englishman, acknowledged by the Queen as my grandfather'sheir, and the English Ambassador will inform the court what QueenElizabeth 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 youimprison an Englishman. 

'Very well, gentlemen, ' said the Chevalier; 'the difference will be thatI shall unwillingly be forced to let Captain Delarue post guards at theoutlets of this tower. A room beneath is prepared for your grooms, and the court is likewise free to you. I will endeavour to make yourdetention as little irksome as you will permit, and meantime allow meto show you your sleeping chamber. He then politely, as if he had beenushering a prince to his apartment, led the way, pointing to the doorthrough which they had entered the keep, and saying, 'This is the onlypresent communication with the dwelling-house. Two gendarmes will alwaysbe on the outside. ' He conducted the young men up a stone spiral stairto another room, over that which they had already seen, and furnished asfairly as ordinary sleeping chambers were wont to be. 

Here, said their compulsory host, he would leave them to prepare forsupper, when they would do him the honour to join him in the eating-hallon their summons by the steward. 

His departing bow was duly returned by Berenger, but no sooner did hissteps die away on the stairs than the young man threw himself down onhis bed, in a paroxysm of suffering both mental and bodily. 

'Berry, Berry, what is this? Speak to me. What does it all mean? criedPhilip. 

'How can I tell?' said Berenger, showing his face for a moment, coveredwith tears; 'only that my only friend is dead, and some villainous trickhas seized me, just--just as I might have found her. And I've beenthe death of my poor groom, and got you into the power of these viledastards! Oh, would that I had come alone! Would that they had had thesense to aim direct!

'Brother, brother, anything but this!' cried Philip. 'The rogues are notworth it. Sir Francis will have us out in no time, or know the reasonwhy. 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, sincethey will have it so, and sit and eat at one's ease as if one cared forthem no more than cat and dog. Hark! there's the steward speaking toGuibert. 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 Philipat that moment had little mercy. Dismayed and vaguely terrified, yet tooresolute in national pride to betray his own feelings, he gave vent tohis vexation by impatience with a temperament more visibly sensitivethan his own: 'I never thought you so mere a Frenchman, ' he saidcontemptuously. 'If you weep and wail so like a sick wench, they willsoon have their will of you! I'd have let them kill me before theysearched 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 hadonly kept up before the Chevalier by dint of strong effort. Philip wassomewhat aghast, both at the involuntary gesture of pain, and at findingthere was not even spirit to be angry with him: but his very dismayserved at the moment only to feed his displeasure; and he tramped offin his heavy boots, which he chose to wear as a proof of disdain for hiscompanions. He explained that M. De Ribaumont was too much fatigued tocome to supper, and he was accordingly marched along the corridor, withthe steward before him bearing a lighted torch, and two gendarmes withhalberds behind him. And in his walk he had ample time for, first, theresolution that illness, and not dejection, should have all the creditof Berenger's absence; then for recollecting of how short standinghad been his brother's convalescence; and lastly, for a fury ofself-execration for his own unkindness, rude taunts, and neglect of therecurring illness. He would have turned about and gone back at once, butthe two gendarmes were close behind, and he knew Humfrey would attend tohis brother; so he walked on to the hall--a handsome chamber, hung witharmour and spoils of hunting, with a few pictures on the panels, and agreat carved music-gallery at one end. The table was laid out somewhatluxuriously for four, according to the innovation which was beginning toseparate the meals of the grandees from those of their household. 

Great concern was expressed by the Chevalier, as Philip, in French, muchimproved since the time of his conversation with Madame de Selinville, spoke of his brother's indisposition, saying with emphasis, as he glaredat Captain Delarue, that Maitre Pare had forbidden all exposure tomid-day heat, and that all their journeys had been made in morning orevening coolness. 'My young friend, ' as his host called him, 'should, he was assured, have mentioned this, since Captain Delarue had nodesire but to make his situation as little painful as possible. ' Andthe Chevalier sent his steward at once to offer everything the housecontained that his prisoner could relish for supper; and then anxiouslyquestioned Philip on his health and diet, obtaining very short and glumanswers. The Chevalier and the captain glanced at each other with littleshrugs; and Philip, becoming conscious of his shock hair, splasheddoublet, and dirty boots, had vague doubts whether his English dignitywere not being regarded as English lubberliness; but, of course, hehated the two Frenchmen all the more, and received their civilitywith greater gruffness. They asked him the present object of hisjourney--though, probably, the Chevalier knew it before, and he told ofthe hope that they had of finding the child at Lucon. 

'Vain, of course?' said the Chevalier. 'Poor infant! It is well foritself, 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 merelywears out his youth, and leads him into danger?'

Philip held his tongue, resolved to be impenetrable; and he was so farsuccessful, that the Chevalier merely became convinced that the brotherswere not simply riding to La Rochelle to embark for England, but hadsome hope and purpose in view; though as to what that might be, Philip'sbluff replies and stubborn silence were baffling. 

After the meal, the Chevalier insisted on coming to see how his guestfared; and Philip could not prevent him. They found Berenger sitting onthe side of his bed, having evidently just started up on hearing theirapproach. 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 wordhad been extracted from him, but commands to let him alone. 

However, he had rallied his forces to meet the Chevalier, and answeredmanfully to his excuses for the broiling ride to which he had beenexposed, that it mattered not, the effect would pass, it was a merechance; and refused all offers of medicaments, potions, and TISANES, till his host at length left the room with a most correct exchange ofgood nights. 

'Berry, Berry, what a brute I have been!' cried Philip. 

'Foolish lad!' and Berenger half smiled. 'Now help me to bed, for theroom 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 mountedstand. --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 itslittle court had evidently been the original castle, built when theoddly-nicknamed Fulkes and Geoffreys of Anjou had been at daggers drawnwith the Dukes of Normandy and Brittany, but it had since, like mostother such ancient feudal fortresses, become the nucleus of walls andbuildings for use, defence, or ornament, that lay beneath him like aspider's web, when he had gained the roof of the keep, garnished withpepper-box turrets at each of the four angles. Beyond lay the greencopses and orchards of the Bocage, for it was true, as he had at firstsuspected, that this was the chateau de Nid de Merle, and that Berengerwas a captive in his wife's own castle. 

Chances of escape were the lad's chief thought, but the building onwhich he stood went sheer down for a considerable way. Then on the northside there came out the sharp, high-pitched, tiled roof of the _corps dulogis_; on the south, another roof, surmounted by a cross at the gable, and evidently belonging to the chapel; on the other two sides laycourts--that to the east, a stable-yard; that to the west, a smallnarrow, chilly-looking, paved inclosure, with enormously-massive walls, the doorway walled up, and looking like a true prison-yard. Beyondthis wall--indeed, on every side--extended offices, servants' houses, stables, untidy desolate-looking gardens, and the whole was inclosed bythe white wall with flanking red-tiled turrets, whose gaudy appearancehad last night made Philip regard the whole as a flimsy, Frenchchifiederection, 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 sawthese tall, pointed red caps, resembling, he thought, those worn bythe victims of an _auto-de-fe_, as one of Walsingham's secretaries haddescribed them to him; and he ground his teeth at them, as thought theygrinned at him like emissaries of the Inquisition. 

Descending, he found Berenger dressing in haste to avoid receiving aninvalid visit from the Chevalier, looking indeed greatly shaken, buthardly so as would have been detected by eyes that had not seen himduring his weeks of hope and recovery. He was as resolved as Philipcould wish against any sign of weakness before his enemy, and altogetherdisclaimed illness, refusing the stock of cooling drinks, cordials, andfebrifuges, which the Chevalier said had been sent by his sister theAbbess of Bellaise. He put the subject of his health aside, only askingif this were the day that the gendarme-captain would return toParis, and then begging to see that officer, so as to have a distinctunderstanding of the grounds of his imprisonment. The captain had, however, been a mere instrument; and when Philip clamoured to be takenbefore the next justice of the peace, even Berenger smiled at him forthinking that such a being existed in France. The only cause alleged wasthe vague but dangerous suspicion of conveying correspondence betweenEngland and the heretics, and this might become extremely perilous toone undeniably half English, regarded as whole Huguenot, caught onthe 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 forstoring up petty offences, whom the last poor king had favoured, and who, in fine, had claims to estates that could not spared to theHuguenot interest. 

He was really not sure that there was not some truth in the professionsof the Chevalier being anxious to protect him from the Queen-mother andthe Guises; he had never been able to divest himself of a certain trustin his old kinsman's friendliness, and he was obliged to be beholdento him for the forms in which to couch his defence. At the same time hewrote to Sir Francis Walsingham, and to his grandfather, but with greatcaution, lest his letters should be inspected by his enemies, and withthe less hope of their availing him because it was probable that theAmbassador would return home on the king's death. No answer could beexpected for at least a fortnight, and even then it was possible thatthe Queen-mother might choose to refer the cause to King Henry, who wasthen in Poland. 

Berenger wrote these letters with much thought and care, but when theywere once sealed, he collapsed again into despair and impatience, andfrantically paced the little court as if he would dash himself againstthe walls that detained him from Eustacie; then threw himself moodilyinto a chair, hid his face in his crossed arms, and fell a prey to allthe wretched visions called up by an excited brain. 

However, he was equally alive with Philip to the high-spiritedresolution that his enemies should not perceive or triumph in hisdejection. He showed himself at the noon-day dinner, before CaptainDelarue departed, grave and silent, but betraying no agitation; and heroused himself from his sad musings at the supper-hour, to arrange hishair, and assume the ordinary dress of gentlemen in the evening; thoughPhilip 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 Chevalieralone, but with him the beautiful lady of the velvet coach, and anotherstately, extremely handsome dame, no longer in her first youth, andin costly black and white garments. When the Chevalier called her hissister, Madame de Bellaise, Philip had no notion that she was anythingbut a widow, living a secular life; and though a couple of nuns attendedher, their dress was so much less conventual than Cecily's that he didnot at first find them out. It was explained that Madame de Selinvillewas residing with her aunt, and that, having come to visit her father, he had detained the ladies to supper, hoping to enliven the sojourn ofhis _beaux cousins_. 

Madame de Selinville, looking anxiously at Berenger, hoped she saw himin better health. He replied, stiffly, that he was perfectly well;and then, by way of safety, repaired to the society of the Abbess, whoimmediately began plying him with questions about England, its court, and especially the secret marriage of Queen Elisabeth and '_ce_ Comtede Dudley, ' on which she was so minutely informed as to put him to theblush. Then she was very curious about the dispersed convents, and howmany of the nuns had married; and she seemed altogether delighted tohave secured the attention of a youth from the outer world. His soul atfirst recoiled from her as one of Eustacie's oppressors, and from herunconvent-like talk; and yet he could not but think her a good-naturedperson, and wonder if she could rally have been hard upon his poorlittle wife. And she, who had told Eustacie she would strangle with herown hands the scion of the rival house!--she, like most women, wasmuch more bitter against an unseen being out of reach, than towards acourteously-mannered, pale, suffering-looking youth close beside her. She had enough affection for Eustacie to have grieved much at herwanderings and at her fate; and now the sorrow-stricken look that by noeffort could be concealed really moved her towards the youth bereavedhusband. Besides, were not all feuds on the point of being made up bythe excellent device concocted between her brother and her niece?

Meantime, Philip was in raptures with the kindness of the beautifulMadame de Selinville. He, whom the Mistresses Walsingham treated as amere 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 oneof her entrancing smiles lit upon him; but then she inquired after hisbrother so cordially, she told him so openly how brilliant had beenBerenger's career at the court, she regretted so heartily their presentdanger and detention, and promised so warmly to use her interest withQueen Catherine, that in the delight of being so talked to, heforgot his awkwardness and spoke freely and confidentially, maybe tooconfidentially, for he caught Berenger frowning at him, and made asudden halt in his narrative, disconcerted but very angry with hisbrother 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 havebegun to rave about Madame de Selinville, but his mouth was stopped atonce 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 intalking to him. 

This exceeding defection continued for a day or two, while Berenger'swhole spirit chafed in agony at his helplessness, and like demons thereever haunted him the thoughts of what might betide Eustacie, young, fair, forsaken, and believing herself a widow. Proudly defiant ashe showed himself to all eyes beyond his tower, he seemed to be fastgnawing and pining himself away in the anguish he suffered through theselong days of captivity. 

Perhaps it was Philip's excitement about any chance of meeting Madamede Selinville that first roused him from the contemplation of his ownmisery. It struck him that if he did not rouse himself to exert hisinfluence, the boy, left to no companionship save what he could make forhimself, might be led away by intercourse with the gendarmes, or by theblandishments of Diane, whatever might be her game. He must be watchedover, and returned to Sir Marmaduke the same true-hearted honest ladwho had left home. Nor had Berenger lain so long under Cecily St. John'stender watching without bearing away some notes of patience, trust, anddutifulness that returned upon him as his mind recovered tone after thefirst 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, andcould save Eustacie as she had already been saved, returned to him oncemore: he chid himself for his faintness of heart, rallied his powers, and determined that cheerfulness, dutifulness, and care for Philipshould no longer fail. 

So he reviewed his resources, and in the first place arranged for abrief daily worship with his two English fellow-prisoners, correspondingto the home hours of chapel service. Then he proposed to Philip to spendan hour every day over the study of the Latin Bible; and when Philipshowed himself reluctant to give up his habit of staring over thebattlements, he represented that an attack on their faith was not soimprobable but that they ought to be prepared for it. 

'I'm quite prepared, ' quoth Philip; 'I shall not listen to a word theysay. '

However, he submitted to this, but was more contumacious as toBerenger's other proposal of profiting by Sidney's copy of Virgil. Here at least he was away from Mr. Adderley and study, and it passedendurance to have Latin and captivity both at once. He was more obligedfor Berenger's offer to impart to him the instruction in fencing hehad received during his first visit to Paris; the Chevalier made nodifficulty about lending them foils, and their little court became thescene of numerous encounters, as well as of other games and exercises. More sedentary sports were at their service, chess, tables, dice, orcards, but Philip detested these, and they were only played in theevening, or on a rainy afternoon, by Berenger and the Chevalier. 

It was clearly no part of the old gentleman's plan to break their healthor spirits. He insisted on taking them out riding frequently, thoughalways with four gendarmes with loaded arquebuses, so as to precludeall attempt at escape, or conversation with the peasants. The rides werehateful to both youths, but Berenger knew that so many hours of tediumwere thus disposed of, and hoped also to acquire some knowledge ofthe country; indeed, he looked at every cottage and every peasant withaffectionate eyes, as probably having sheltered Eustacie; and Philip, after one visit paid to the convent at Bellaise, was always in hopes ofmaking such another. His boyish admiration of Madame de Selinville washis chief distraction, coming on in accesses whenever there was a hopeof seeing her, and often diverting Berenger by its absurdities, eventhough at other times he feared that the lad might be led away by it, ordissension sown between them. Meetings were rare--now and then Madamede Selinville would appear at dinner or at supper as her father'sguest; and more rarely, the Chevalier would turn his horse's head in thedirection of Bellaise, and the three gentlemen would be received in theunpartitioned parlour, and there treated to such lemon cakes as had beenthe ruin of La Sablerie; but in general the castle and the convent hadlittle intercourse, or only just enough to whet the appetite of theprisoners for what constituted their only variety. 

Six weeks had lagged by before any answer from Paris was received, andthen there was no reply from Walsingham, who had, it appeared, returnedhome immediately after King Charles's funeral. The letter from theCouncil bore that the Queen-mother was ready to accept the Baron deRibaumont's excuses in good part, and to consider his youth; and shehad no doubt of his being treated with the like indulgence by theKing, provided he would prove himself a loyal subject, by embracing theCatholic faith, renouncing all his illegitimate claims to the estates ofNid de Merle, and, in pledge of his sincerity, wedding his cousin, the Countess de Selinville, so soon as a dispensation should have beenprocured. On no other consideration could he be pardoned or set atliberty. 

'Then, ' said Berenger, slowly, 'a prisoner I must remain until it be thewill of Heaven to open the doors. '

'Fair nephew!' exclaimed the Chevalier, 'make no rash replies. Bethinkyou to what you expose yourself by obstinacy; I may no longer be able toprotect you when the King returns. And he further went on to representthat, by renouncing voluntarily all possible claims on the Nid de Merleestates, the Baron would save the honour of poor Eustacie (which indeedequally concerned the rest of the family), since they then would gladlydrop all dispute of the validity of the marriage; and the lands ofSelinville would be an ample equivalent for these, as well as for allexpectations 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 Ihave been convinced that she did not perish at La Sablerie. I was on myway to seek her when I was seized and detained here. '

'Where would you have sought her, my poor cousin?' compassionately askedthe Chevalier. 

'That I know not. She may be in England by this time; but that sheescaped from La Sablerie, I am well assured. '

'Alas! my poor friend, you feed on delusion. I have surer evidence--youshall see the man yourself--one of my son's people, who was actually atthe assault, and had strict orders to seek and save her. Would that Icould 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, arough, 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 reachthe Widow Laurent's house, and secure the lady. They had made forit, but missed the way, and met with various obstacles; and when theyreached it, it was already in flames, and he had seen for a momentMademoiselle de Nid de Merle, whom he well knew by sight, with an infantin her arms at an upper window. He had called to her by name, and wasabout to send for a ladder, when recognizing the Ribaumont colours, shehad turned back, and thrown herself and her child into the flames. M. DeNid de Merle was frantic when he heard of it, and they had searched forthe remains among the ruins; but, bah! it was like a lime-kiln, nothingwas 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 theMass. '

'That is needless, ' said Berenger. 'I have seen the spot myself. That isall I desired to ask. '

The Chevalier would have taken his hand and condoled with him overthe horrible story; but he drew back, repeating that he had seen WidowLaurent's house, and that he saw that some parts of the man's story wereso much falsified that he could not believe the rest. Moreover, he knewthat 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 thathe never doubted that Eustacie had perished, and he looked on Berenger'srefusal 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 ofthe house, were mere matters of embellishment, possibly untrue, but notinvalidating the main fact. He only said, 'Well, my friend, I will notpress 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 Icould forsake my faith or my English kindred. You remember, sir, thatI returned this same answer at Paris, when I had no hope that my wifesurvived. '

'True, my fair cousin, but I fear time will convince you that thisconstancy is unhappily misplaced. You shall have time to consider; andwhen it is proved to you that my poor niece is out of the reach of yourfidelity, and when you have become better acquainted with the claimsof the Church to your allegiance, then may it only prove that yourconversion 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 bereleased with you. '

'So, ' said Philip, when the old knight had quitted the room, 'of courseyou 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 herover 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 isall a web of this old plotter's weaving, and that the Queen-mother actsin it at his request. He wants only to buy me off with his daughter'sestates from asserting my claim to this castle and lands; and I trow hewill never rise up here till--till---'

'Till when, Berry?'

'Till mayhap my grandfather can move the Queen to do something forus; or till Madame de Selinville sees a face she likes better than herbrother's carving; or, what can I tell? till malice is tired out, andHeaven's will sets us free. May Eustacie only have reached home! But I'msorry for you, my poor Phil. '

'Never heed, brother, ' said Philip; 'what is prison to me, so that I cannow and then see those lovely eyes?'

And the languishing air of the clumsy lad was so comical as to beguileBerenger into a laugh. Yet Berenger's own feeling would go back to hisfirst meeting with Diane; and as he thought of the eyes then fixed onhim, 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 afterthe answer from Paris, except that Pere Bonami, who had already onceor twice dined at the Chevalier's table, was requested to make formalexposition of the errors of the Reformers and of the tenets of his ownChurch to the Baron de Ribaumont. 

Philip took such good care not to be deluded that, though he sat by tosee fair play, yet it was always with his elbows on the table andhis fingers in his ears, regardless of appearing to the priest in thecharacter of the deaf adder. After all, he was not the object, and goodPere Bonami at first thought the day his own, when he found thatalmost all his arguments against Calvinism were equally impressed uponBerenger's mind, but the differences soon revealed themselves; and thepriest, though a good man, was not a very happily-chosen champion, forhe was one of the old-fashioned, scantily-instructed country priests, who were more numerous before the Jesuit revival of learning, and knewnothing of controversy save that adapted to the doctrines of Calvin; sothat 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 younglaymen, and Lord Walwyn, with a view to his grandson's peculiarposition, had taken care that he should be well instructed, so that hewas 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 hadaccepted in his childhood; and often tried to recall the sketch thatPhilip Sidney had once given him of a tale that a friend of his designedto turn into a poem, like Ariosto's, in _terza rima_, of a Red Crossknight separated from his Una as the true faith, and tempted by atreacherous Duessa, who impersonated at once Falsehood and Rome. And heknew so well that the last relaxation of his almost terrified resistancewould 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 oftenfound gifts from unknown hands placed in his room. The books which hehad found there were changed when he had had time to study them; andmarks were placed in some of the most striking passages. They were ofthe class that turned the brain of the Knight of La Mancha, but with apredominance of the pastoral, such as Diane of George of Montemayor andhis numerous imitators--which Philip thought horrible stuff--enduringnothing but a few of the combats of Amadis de Gaul or Palmerin ofEngland, until he found that Madame de Selinville prodigiously admiredthe 'silly swains more silly than their sheep, ' and was very anxiousthat M. Le Baron should be touched by their beauties; whereupon honestPhilip made desperate efforts to swallow them in his brother's stead, but was always found fast asleep in the very middle of arguments betweenDamon and Thyrsis upon the _devoirs_ of love, or the mournings of somedisconsolate nymph over her jealousies of a favoured rival. 

One day, a beautiful ivory box, exhaling sweet perfume, appeared in theprison chamber, and therewith a sealed letter in verse, containing anaffecting description of how Corydon had been cruelly torn by the lionsin endeavouring to bear away Sylvie from her cavern, how Sylvie had beenrent from him and lost, and how vainly he continued to bewail her, anddisregard the loving lament of Daphne, who had ever mourned and pinedfor him as she kept her flock, made the rivulets, the brooks, themountains re-echo with her sighs and plaints, and had wandered throughthe hills and valleys, gathering simples wherewith she had compounded abalsam that might do away with the scars that the claws of the lions hadleft, so that he might again appear with the glowing cheeks and radiantlocks that had excited the envy of the god of day. 

Berenger burst out laughing over the practical part of this poeticalperformance, and laughed the more at Philip's hurt, injured air at hismirth. Philip, who would have been the first to see the absurdity in anyother Daphne, thought this a passing pleasant device, and considered itvery unkind in his brother not even to make experiment of the balsamof simples, but to declare that he had much rather keep his scars forEustacie's sake than wear a smooth face to please Diane. 

Still Berenger's natural courtesy stood in his way. He could not helpbeing respectful and attentive to the old Chevalier, when their termswere, apparently at least, those of host and guest; and to a lady heCOULD not be rude and repellant, though he could be reserved. So, whenthe kinsfolk met, no stranger would have discovered that one was aprisoner and the others his captors. 

One August day, when Madame de Selinville and her lady attendants weresupping at the castle at the early hour of six, a servant brought inword that an Italian pedlar craved leave to display his wares. Hewas welcome, both for need's sake and for amusement, and was readilyadmitted. He was a handsome olive-faced Italian, and was followed by alittle boy with a skin of almost Moorish dye--and great was the displayat 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 thatnaturally took place where purchasing was an unusual excitement andnovelty, and was to form a whole evening's amusement. Berenger, whilesupplying the defects of his scanty traveling wardrobe, was trying tomake out whether he had seen the man before, wondering if he werethe same whom he had met in the forest of Montipipeau, though a fewdifferences in dress, hair, and beard made him somewhat doubtful. 

'Perfumes? Yes, lady, I have store of perfumes: ambergris and violetdew, and the Turkish essence distilled from roses; yea, and the finestspirit of the Venus myrtle-tree, the secret known to the Roman dames ofold, whereby they secured perpetual beauty and love--though truly Madameshould need no such essence. That which nature has bestowed on hersecures to her all hearts--and one valued more than all. '

'Enough, ' said Diane, blushing somewhat, though with an effort atlaughing off his words; 'these are the tricks of your trade. '

'Madame is incredulous; yet, lady, I have been in the East. Yonder boycomes from the land where there are spells that make known the secretsof lives. '

The old Chevalier, who had hitherto been taken up with the abstrusecalculation--derived from his past days of economy--how much ribbonwould be needed to retrim his murrey _just-au-corps_, here began to lendan ear, though saying nothing. Philip looked on in open-eyed wonder, andnudged 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 heldit to the boy. A few unintelligible words passed between them; then theboy pointed direct to Philip, and waved his hand northwards. 'He saysthe gentleman who owns this glove comes from the North, from far away, 'interpreted the Italian; then as the boy made the gesture of walking inchains, 'that he is a captive. '

'Ay, ' cried Philip, 'right, lad; and can he tell how long I shall beso?'

'Things yet to come, ' said the mountebank, 'are only revealed after longpreparation. 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 hasbelonged to the person. '

'It is passing strange, ' said Philip to Madame de Selinville. 'Youcredit it, Madame?'

'Ah, have we not seen the wonders come to pass that a like divinerfortold to the Queen-mother?' said Diane: 'her sons should be allkings--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 Italianbegan to interpret the boy's gesture. 

'Pretty maidens, he says, serve fair ladies--bear tokens for them. Thisdamsel has once been the bearer of a bouquet of heather of the pink andwhite, whose bells were to ring hope. '

'Eh, eh, Madame, it is true?' cried Veronique, crimson with surprise andalarm. 'M. Le Baron knows it is true. '

Berenger had started at this revelation, and uttered an inarticulateexclamation; but at that moment the boy, in whose hand his masterhad placed a crown from the money newly paid, began to make vehementgestures, which the main interpreted. '_Le Balafre_, he says, pardonme, gentlemen, _le Balafre_ could reveal even a deeper scar of theheart than of the visage'--and the boy's brown hand was pressed on hisheart--'yet truly there is yet hope (_esperance_) to be found. Yes'--asthe boy put his hand to his neck--'he bears a pearl, parted from itssister pearls. Where they are, there is hope. Who can miss Hope, who hassought 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 needinvocation. Ere he can answer M. Le Baron's demands, he and I must havetime and seclusion. If Monsieur le Chevalier will grant us an emptyroom, there will we answer all queries on which the spirits will throwlight. '

'And how am I to know that you will not bring the devil to shatter thecastle, my friend?' demanded the Chevalier. 'Or more likely still, thatyou 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 byRenato di Milano, the Queen's perfumer, testifying to the skill of hiscompatriot Ercole Stizzito both in perfumery, cosmetics, and in thesecrets of occult sciences. 

The Chevalier was no Italian scholar, and his daughter interpreted thescroll to him, in a rapid low voice, adding, 'I have had many dealingswith Rene of Milan, father. I know he speaks sooth. There can be no harmin letting the poor man play out his play--all the castle servants willbe frantic to have their fortunes told. '

'I must speak with the fellow first, daughter, ' said the Chevalier. 'Hemust satisfy me that he has no unlawful dealings that could bring theChurch down on us. ' And he looked meaningly at the mountebank, whoreplied by a whole muster-roll of ecclesiastics, male and female, whohad heard and approved his predictions. 

'A few more words with thee, fellow, ' said the Chevalier, pointing theway to one of the rooms opening out of the hall. 'As master of the houseI must be convinced of his honesty, ' he added. 'If I am satisfied, thenwho 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 andpensively, 'my future is dark and void enough. Why should I vex myselfwith hearing it?'

'Nay, it may brighten, ' said Philip. 

'Scarcely, while hearts are hard, ' she murmured with a slight shake ofthe head, that Philip thought indescribably touching; but Berenger wasgathering 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 struckinto us. '

'What?' said Philip, sulkily. 

'That divining is either cozening manor forsaking God, Phil. Either itis 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 evenI know not?--the heather. '

'No marvel in that, ' said Berenger. 'This is the very man I boughtAnnora's fan from; he was prowling round Montpipeau, and my heather wasgiven to Veronique with little secrecy. And as to the royal deathbed, itwas 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 fellowand his credentials, and for those who have enough youth and hope tocare 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 thosewho have a fine nose for brimstone there may be, but he assures me it isbut 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 toask?'

'I--I scarcely like to be the first!' said the lady, eager buthesitating. 'Veronique, you would have your fortune told?'

'I will be the first, ' said Philip, stepping forward manfully. 'I willprove him for you, lady, and tell you whether he be a cozener or not, orif his magic be fit for you to deal with. '

And confident in the inherent intuition of a plain Englishman, aswell as satisfied to exercise his resolution for once in opposition toBerenger's opinion, Master Thistlewood stepped towards the closet wherethe Italian awaited his clients, and Berenger knew that it would beworse than useless to endeavour to withhold him. He only chafed atthe smile which passed between father and daughter at this doughtyself-assertion. 

There was a long silence. Berenger sat with his eyes fixed on the windowwhere the twilight horizon was still soft and bright with the pearlygold of the late sunset, thinking with an intensity of yearning whatit would be could he truly become certain of Eustacie's present doings;questioning whether he would try to satisfy that longing by the doubtfulauguries of the diviner, and then recollecting how he had heard fromwrecked sailors that to seek to delude their thirst with sea-water didbut aggravate their misery. He knew that whatever he might hear wouldbe unworthy of confidence. Either it merely framed to soothe and pleasehim--or, were it a genuine oracle, he had no faith in the instinct thatwas to perceive it, but what he HAD faith in was the Divine protectionover his lost ones. 'No, ' he thought to himself, 'I will not by apresumptuous sin, in my own impatience, risk incurring woes on them thatdeal with familiar spirits and wizards that peep and mutter. If everI am to hear of Eustacie again, it shall be by God's will, not thedevil's. '

Diane de Selinville had been watching his face all the time, and nowsaid, with that almost timid air of gaiety that she wore when addressinghim: 'You too, cousin, are awaiting Monsieur Philippe's report to decidewhether to look into the pool of mystery. '

'Not at all, Madame, ' said Berenger, gravely. 'I do not understand whitemagic. '

'Our good cousin has been too well bred among the Reformers tocondescend to our little wickednesses, daughter, ' said the Chevalier;and the sneer-much like that which would await a person now who scrupledat joining in table-turning or any form of spiritualism--purpledBerenger's scar, now his only manner of blushing; but he instantlyperceived that it was the Chevalier's desire that he should consult theconjurer, and therefore became the more resolved against running into atrap. 

'I am sure, ' said Madame de Selinville, earnestly, though with anaffectation of lightness, 'a little wickedness is fair when there is agreat deal at stake. For my part, I would not hesitate long, to find outhow soon the King will relent towards my fair cousin here!'

'That, Madame, ' said Berenger, with the same grave dryness, 'is likelyto be better known to other persons than this wandering Greek boy. '

Here Philip's step was heard returning hastily. He was pale, and lookeda 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 andconfidence he had never before shown. 'On my word, there is nothingformidable. You see nothing--nothing but the Italia and the boy. The boygazes into a vessel of some black liquid, and sees--sees there all youwould have revealed. Ah!'

'Then you believe?' asked Madame de Selinville. 

'It cannot be false, ' answered Philip; 'he told me everything. Things hecould not have known. My very home, my father's house, passed in reviewbefore that strange little blackamoor's eyes; where I--though I wouldhave given worlds to see it--beheld only the lamp mirrored in the darkpool. '

'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 mynative place. The little boy gazed, smiled, babbled his gibberish, pointed. The man said he spoke of a fair mansion among green fields andhills, "a grand _cavalier embonpoint_, "--those were his very words, --atthe door, with a tankard in one hand. Ah! my dear father, why could notI 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 youknow for yourself. '

'It was not dreadful?' she said, rising. 

'Oh no!' and Philip had become crimson, and hesitated; 'certes, notdreadful. But---I must not say more. '

'Save good night, ' said Berenger, rising; 'See, our gendarmes are againlooking as if we had long exceeded their patience. It is an hour laterthan we are wont to retire. '

'If it be your desire to consult this mysterious fellow now you haveheard your brother's report, my dear Baron, ' said the Chevalier, 'thegendarmes may devour their impatience a little longer. '

'Thanks, sir, ' said Berenger; 'but I am not tempted, ' and he gave theusual signal to the gendarmes, who, during meals, used to stand assentries at the great door of the hall. 

'It might settle your mind, ' muttered Philip, hesitating. 'Andyet--yet---'

But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be escorted withhis brother along the passages to their own chamber, where he threwhimself into a chair with a long sigh, and did not speak. Berengermeantime 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 callHumfrey, 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 onlywishing 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 fixedin the conviction that it was an imposture. 

'No desire! Ah! I have none when I knew what it was. But you ought toknow. '

'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 youdo hear. Alack, Berenger, all ours have been vain hopes. I asked forHER--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 notagain--it would have wrung your heart too much. The boy fairly wept andwrithed himself, crying out in his tongue for pity on the fair lady andthe little babe in the burning house. Alack! brother, ' said Philip, alittle hurt that his brother had not changed countenance. 

'This is the lying tale of the man-at-arms which our own eyescontradicted, ' said Berenger; 'and no doubt was likewise inspired by theChevalier. '

'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 indurance for your mere dream that she lives. '

'Come, Phil, it will be the devil indeed that sows dissension betweenus, ' said Berenger. 'You know well enough that were it indeed with mypoor Eustacie as they would fain have us believe, rather than giveup her fair name I would not in prison for life. Or would you have merenounce my faith, or wed Madame de Selinville upon the witness of apool of ink that I am a widower?' he added, almost laughing. 

'For that matter, ' muttered Philip, a good deal ashamed and halfaffronted, 'you know I value the Protestant faith so that I never hearda word from the will old priest. Nevertheless, the boy, when I asked ofour release, saw the gates set open by Love. '

'What did Love look like in the pool? Had he wings like the Cupids inthe ballets at the Louvre?' asked Berenger provokingly. 

'I tell you I saw nothing, ' said Philip, tartly: 'this was the Italian'sinterpretation of the boy's gesture. It was to be by means of love, hesaid, and of a lady who---he made it plain enough who she was, ' addedthe boy, colouring. 

'No doubt, as the Chevalier have instructed him to say that I--I--' hehesitated, 'that my--my love--I mean that he saw my shield per pale withthe field fretty and the sable leopard. '

'Oh! it is to be my daughter, is it?' said Berenger, laughing; 'I amvery happy to entertain your proposals for her. '

'Berenger, what mocking fiend has possessed you?' cried Philip, halfangrily, 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, theplainer 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 thisLove comes that is to let us out, don't let Moor or fiend come betweenus. 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 myfaith. ' Philip bent his head. He was of too stubborn a mould to expresscontrition or affection, but he mused for five minutes, then calledHumfrey, and at the last moment, as the heavy tread came up-stairs, heturned round and said, 'You're in the right on't there, Berry. Hap whathap, the foul fiend may carry off the conjurer before I murmur at youagain! Still I wish you had seen him. You would know 'tis sooth. '

While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamplight beaming onhis high white brow and clear eye, stood before his two comrades incaptivity, their true-hearted faces composed to reverence, and as heread, 'I have hated them that hold of superstitious vanities, and mytrust hath been in the Lord. I will be glad and rejoice in Thymercy, for Thou hast considered my trouble and hast known my soul inadversities, ' feeling that here was the oracle by which he was willingto abide--Diane de Selinville was entering the cabinet where the secretsof the future were to be unveiled. 

There she stood--the beautiful court lady--her lace coif (of the Maryof Scotland type) well framed the beautiful oval of her face, and set ofthe clear olive of her complexion, softened by short jetty curls at thetemples, and lighted splendid dark eyes, and by the smiles of aperfect pair of lips. A transparent veil hung back over the ruff likefrostwork-formed fairy wings, and over the white silk bodice and sleeveslaced with violet, and the violet skirt that fell in ample folds on theground; only, however, in the dim light revealing by an occasional gleamthat it was not black. It was a stately presence, yet withal there wasa tremor, a quiver of the downcast eyelids, and a trembling of the fairhand, as though she were ill at ease; even though it was by no means thefirst time she had trafficked with the dealers in mysterious arts whoswarmed around Catherine de Medicis. There were words lately utteredthat weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not forget themin that gloomy light, as she gazed on the brown face of the Italian, Ercole, faultless in outline as a classical mask, but the black depthsof the eyes sparkling with intensity of observation, as if they wereeverywhere at once and gazed through and through. He wore his nationaldress, with the short cloak over one shoulder; but the little boy, who stood at the table, had been fantastically arrayed in a sortof semi-Albanian garb, a red cap with a long tassel, a dark, gold-embroidered velvet jacket sitting close to his body, and a whitekilt over his legs, bare except for buskins stiff with gold. The poorlittle fellow looked pale in spite of his tawny hue, his enormous blackeyes were heavy and weary, and he seemed to be trying to keep aloof fromthe small brazen vessel formed by the coils of two serpents that heldthe inky liquid of which Philip had spoken. 

No doubt of the veritable nature of the charm crossed Diane; her doubtwas of its lawfulness, her dread of the supernatural region she wasinvading. She hesitated before she ventured on her first question, andstarted as the Italian first spoke, --'What would the Eccelentissima?Ladies often hesitate to speak the question nearest their hearts. Yetis it ever the same. But the lady must be pleased to form it herself inwords, or the lad will not see her vision. '

'Where, then, is my brother?' said Diane, still reluctant to come directto the point. 

The boy gazed intently into the black pool, his great eyes dilating tillthey seemed like black wells, and after a long time, that Diane couldhave 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, throwhis head back, close his eyes, and appear to be singing a lullaby. Thenhe spoke a few words to his master quickly. 

'He see, ' said Ercole, 'a gentleman touching the lute, seated in abedroom, where lies, on a rich pillow, another gentleman, '--and as theboy stroked his face, and pointed to his hands--'wearing a mask andgloves. It is, he says, in my own land, in Italy, ' and as the boy madethe action of rowing, 'in the territory of Venice. '

'It is well, ' said Madame de Selinville, who knew that nothing was moreprobable than that her brother should be playing the King to his sleepin the medicated mask and gloves that cherished the royal complexion, and, moreover, that Henry was lingering to take his pastime in Italy tothe great inconvenience of his kingdom. 

Her next question came nearer her heat--'You saw the gentleman with ascar. Will he leave this castle?'

The boy gazed, then made gestures of throwing his arms wide, and ofpassing out; and as he added his few words, the master explained: 'Hesees 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 thelad 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 thusreserved), 'Then I shall marry again?'

The boy gazed and knitted his brow; then, without any pantomime, lookedup and spoke. 'The Eccellentissima shall be a bride once more, hesays, ' explained the man, 'but after a sort he cannot understand. Itis exhausting, lady, thus to gaze into the invisible future; the boybecomes confused and exhausted ere long. '

'Once more--I will only ask of the past. My cousin, is he married or awidower?'

The boy clasped his hands and looked imploringly, shaking his head atthe dark pool, as he murmured an entreating word to his master. 'Ah!Madame, ' said the Italian, 'that question hath already been demanded bythe young Inglese. The poor child has been so terrified by the sceneit called up, that he implored he may not see it again. A sacked andburning 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 shespoke--'sir, you will leave me one of those potions that Signor Renatois wont to compound. '

'_Capisco_!' said Ercole; 'but the Eccellentissima shall be obeyed ifshe will supply the means, for the expense will be heavy. '

The bargain was agreed upon, and a considerable sum advanced for aphilter, compounded of strange Eastern plants and mystic jewels; andthen Diane, with a shudder of relief, passed into the full light of thehall, bade her father good night, and was handed by him into the litterthat had long been awaiting her at the door. 

The Chevalier, then, with care on his brow, bent his steps towards theapartment where the Italian still remained counting the money he hadreceived. 

'So!' he said as he entered, 'so, fellow, I have not hindered yourgains, and you have been true to your agreement?'

'Illustrissimo, yes. The pool of vision mirrored the flames, but nothingbeyond--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 todance before the eyes of such a lad! With M. Le Baron it will be needfulto be more guarded. '

'M. Le Baron shall not have the opportunity, ' said the Chevalier. 'Hemay abide by his decision, and what the younger one may tell him. Fearnot, good man, it shall be made good to you, if you obey my commands. Ihave other work for you. But first repeat to me more fully what you toldme before. Where was it that you saw this unhappy girl under the name ofEsperance?'

'At a hostel, sir, at Charente, where she was attending on an oldheretic teacher of the name of Gardon, who had fallen sick there, beingpinched by the fiend with rheumatic pains after his deserts. She borethe 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 shepretended?' said the Chevalier, with a gesture of scornful horror. 

'Illustrissimo, I never forget a face. I had seen this lady with M. LeBaron when they made purchases of various trinkets at Montpipeau; andI saw her full again. I had the honour to purchase from her certainjewels, 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 tohave fallen so low! Is it with you, fellow?'

'Surely, Illustrissimo. Such tresses--so shining, so silky, so wellkept, --I reserved to adorn the heads of Signor Renato's most princelycustomers', said the man, unpacking from the inmost recesses of one ofhis most ingeniously arranged packages, a parcel which contained therich mass of beautiful black tresses. 'Ah! her head looked so noble, ' headded, 'that I felt it profane to let my scissors touch those locks; butshe said that she could never wear them openly more, and that they didbut take up her time, and were useless to her child and her father--asshe called him; and she much needed the medicaments for the old man thatI gave her in exchange. '

'Heavens! A daughter of Ribaumont!' sighed the Chevalier, clenching hishand. 'And now, man, let me see the jewels with which the besotted childparted. '

The jewels were not many, nor remarkable. No one but a member of thefamily would have identified them, and not one of the pearls was there;and the Chevalier refrained from inquiring after them, lest, by puttingthe Italian on the scent of anything so exceptionally valuable, heshould defeat his own object, and lead to the man's securing the pearlsand running away with them. But Ercole understood his glance, with thequickness of a man whose trade forced him to read countenances. 'TheEccellenza is looking for the pearls of Ribaumont? The lady made nooffer 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 saidnot what they were--which she preserved at the expense of her hair. Itwas thus. The old man had, it seems, been for weeks on the rack withpains caught by a chill when they fled from La Sablerie, and, though thefever had left him, he was still so stiff in the joints as to be unableto 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 warmcloak 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 ofCambrai--yes, and even carnation-coloured ribbons--though, for herself, I saw the homespun she was sewing. As she mused over what she couldthrow back, I asked if she had no other gauds to make up the price, andshe said, almost within herself, "They are my child's, not mine. " Thenremembering that I had been buying the hair of the peasant maidens, shesuddenly offered me her tresses. But I could yet secure the pearls, ifEccellenza would. '

'Do you then believe her to be in any positive want or distress?' saidthe Chevalier. 

'Signor, no. The heretical households among whom she travels gladlysupport the families of their teachers, and at Catholic inns they paytheir way. I understood them to be on their way to a synod of Satan atthe nest of heretics, Montauban, where doubtless the old miscreant wouldobtain 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. 'Itis at that time I frequent fairs in those parts, to gather my littleharvest on the maidens' heads. '

'_Parbleu_! class not my niece with those sordid beings, man, ' said theChevalier, angrily. 'Here is your price'--tossing a heavy purse onthe table--'and as much more shall await you when you bring me sureintelligence where to find my niece. You understand; and mark, not oneword of the gentleman you saw here. You say she believes him dead?'

'The Illustrissimo must remember that she never dropped her disguisewith me, but I fully think that she supposed herself a widow. And Iunderstand the Eccellenza, she is still to think so. I may be dependedon. '

'You understand, ' repeated the Chevalier, 'this sum shall reward youwhen you have informed me where to find her--as a man like you caneasily 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 beignorant 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. Iwill discover her, and leave her noble family to deal with her. Has theIllustrissimo any further commands?'

'None, ' began the Chevalier; then, suddenly, 'This unhappy infant--is ithealthy? Did it need any of your treatment?'

'Signor, no. It was a fair, healthy bambina of a year old, and I heardthe 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 benton living, ' said the Chevalier with a sigh; and then, with a partinggreeting, he dismissed the Italian, but only to sup under the carefulsurveillance of the steward, and then to be conveyed by early morninglight beyond the territory where the affairs of Ribaumont wereinteresting. 

But the Chevalier went through a sleepless night. Long did he pace upand down his chamber, grind his teeth, clench his fist and point them athis head, and make gestures of tearing his thin gray locks; and many amilitary oath did he swear under his breath as he thought to what apass things had come. His brother's daughter waiting on an old Huguenot_bourgeois_, making sugar-cakes, selling her hair! And what next? Herewas she alive after all, alive and disgracing herself; alive--yes, bothshe and her husband--to perplex the Chevalier, and force him either tonew crimes or to beggar his son! Why could not the one have really diedon the St. Bartholomew, or the other at La Sablerie, instead of puttingthe 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, hadhe but known what he should bring on himself when he wrote the unluckyletter, pretending that the silly little child wished to dissolve themarriage! How should he have known that the lad would come meddlingover? And then, when he had dexterously brought about that each shouldbe offended with the other, and consent to the separation, why mustroyalty step in and throw them together again? Yes, and he surely had aright to feel ill-used, since it was in ignorance of the ratification ofthe marriage that he had arranged the frustration of the elopement, andthat he had forced on the wedding with Narcisse, so as to drive Eustacieto flight from the convent--in ignorance again of her life that he hadimprisoned Berenger, and tried to buy off his clams to Nid de Merle withDiane's hand. Circumstances had used him cruelly, and he shrank fromfairly contemplating the next step. 

He knew well enough what it must be. Without loss of time a letter mustbe sent to Rome, backed by strong interest, so as to make it appearthat the ceremony at Montpipeau, irregular, and between a Huguenot andCatholic, had been a defiance of the Papal decree, and must thereforebe nullified. This would probably be attainable, though he did not feelabsolutely secure of it. Pending this, Eustacie must be secluded in aconvent; and, while still believing herself a widow, must immediately onthe arrival of the decree and dispensation, be forced into the marriagewith Narcisse before she heard of Berenger's being still alive. And thenBerenger would have no longer any excuse for holding out. His claimswould be disposed of, and he might be either sent to England, or hemight be won upon by Madame de Selinville's constancy. 

And this, as the Chevalier believed, was the only chance of saving alife that he was unwilling to sacrifice, for his captive's patience andcourtesy had gained so much upon his heart that he was resolved todo all that shuffling and temporizing could do to save the lad fromNarcisse's hatred and to secure him Diane's love. 

As to telling the truth and arranging his escape, that scarcely evercrossed the old man's mind. It would have been to resign the lands ofNid 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 hisfirst joy and gratitude, of yielding up all pretensions of his own orhis wife's; but, however honourably meant, such a promise would be worthvery little, and would be utterly scorned by Narcisse. Besides, howcould he thwart the love of his daughter and the ambition of his sonboth at once?

No; the only security for the possession of Nid de Merle lay in eitherthe death of the young baron and his child or else in his acquiescencein the invalidity of his marriage, and therefore in the illegitimacy ofthe child. 

And it was within the bounds of possibility that, in his seclusion, hemight at length learn to believe in the story of the destruction atLa Sablerie, and, wearying of captivity, might yield at length to thepersuasions of Diane and her father, and become so far involved withthem as to be unable to draw back, or else be so stung by Eustacie'sdesertion as to accept her rival willingly. 

It was a forlorn hope, but it was the only medium that lay betweeneither the death or the release of the captive; and therefore the oldman clung to it as almost praiseworthy, and did his best to bring itabout by keeping his daughter ignorant that Eustacie lived, and writingto his son that the Baron was on the point of becoming a Catholic andmarrying his sister: and thus that all family danger and scandal wouldbe 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, atthe moment that his son desired that his image should be called up, thegood knight was, in effect, sitting nodding over the tankard of sackwith which his supper was always concluded, while the rest of thefamily, lured out of the sunny hall by the charms of a fresh summerevening, had dispersed into the gardens or hall. 

Presently a movement in the neighbourhood made him think it incumbent onhim 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 hischair. 

'How now? Any tidings of the lads?' he exclaimed. 

'Of the lads? No, indeed; but there will be bad tidings for the lads ifyou 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 somestrawberries, I thought. '

'See here, ' said Lady Thistlewood, leading the way to the north end ofthe 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 abouttwelve feet above ground they had been allowed to spread out their limbsin the form of ordinary forest trees; and, altogether, their foliagebecame a thick, unbroken, dark, evergreen roof, impervious to sunshine, and almost impervious to rain, while below their trunks were likecolumns forming five arcades, floored only by that dark red crusty earthand 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 somethingpeculiarly soothing and quiet, more especially when, as now, the sunsetlight came below the branches, richly tinted the russet pillars, castlong shadows, and gleamed into all the recesses of the interlacingboughs 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 theirstrawberries set out on leaves. Bless their little hearts! what a prettyfairy feast they've made of it, with the dogs looking on as grave asjudges! It takes me young again to get a smack of the haut-bois yourmother brought from Chelsea Gardens. '

'Haut-bois! He'd never see if the house ere afire overhead. What's thatbeyond?'

'No fire, my dear, but the sky all aglow with sunset, and the red cowstanding up against the light, chewing her cud, and looking as wellpleased as though she knew there wasn't her match in Dorset. '

Lady Thistlewood fairly stamped, and pointed with her fan, like apistol, down a side aisle of the grove, where two figures were slowlymoving along. 

'Eh! what? Lucy with her apron full of rose-leaves, letting themfloat away while she cons the children's lesson for the morrow withMerrycourt? They be no great loss, when the place is full of roses. Orwhy could you not call to the wench to take better heed of them, insteadof making all this pother?'

'A pretty sort of lesson it is like to be! A pretty sort of return formy 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 cannotperceive. '

'What! When 'tis before your very eyes, how yonder smooth-tongued Frenchimpostor, after luring him back to his ruin beyond seas, is supplantinghim 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 lovethan Mr. Adderley or Friar Rogers. '

The dame gave a snort of derision:' Prithee, how many popish priests benow wedded parsons? Nor, indeed, even if his story be true, do I believehe is a priest at all. I have seen many a young abbe, as they callthemselves, clerk only in name, loitering at court, free to throw offthe cassock any moment they chose, and as insolent as the rest. Why, theAbbe de Lorraine, cardinal that is now, said of my complexion---'

'No vows, quotha!' muttered Sir Marmaduke, well aware of the Cardinal deLorraine's opinion of his lady's complexion. 'So much the better; heis too good a young fellow to be forced to mope single, and yet I hatemen's breaking their word. '

'And that's all you have to say!' angrily cried her ladyship. 'No onesave 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 usedby that faithless girl of yours, ready---'

'Hold, madam, ' said Sir Marmaduke, with real sternness; 'nothing rashagainst my daughter. How should she be faithless to a man who has beenwedded ever since she knew him?'

'He is free now, ' said Lady Thistlewood, beginning to cry (for the lastletters received from Berenger had been those from Paris, while he stillbelieved Eustacie to have perished at La Sablerie); 'and I do say it isvery hard that just when he is rid of the French baggage, the bane ofhis life, and is coming home, maybe with a child upon his hands, and allwounded, scarred, and blurred, the only wench he would or should havemarried should throw herself away on a French vagabond beggar, and youaiding and abetting. '

'Come, come, Dame Nan, ' said Sir Marmaduke, 'who told you I was aidingand abetting?'

'Tell me not, Sir Duke, you that see them a courting under your veryeyes, and will not stir a finger to hinder it. If you like to see yourdaughter 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, sureit is not you that should be hard on Lucy. '

Whereupon Annora fell into such a flood of tears at the cruelty ofcasting such things up to her, that Sir Marmaduke was fain in hisblundering way to declare that he only meant that an honest Englishmanhad no chance where a Frenchman once came in, and then very nearly tosurrender at discretion. At any rate, he escaped from her tears by goingout at the door, and calling to Lucy to mind her rose-leaves; then, asshe gazed round, dismayed at the pink track along the ground, he askedher what she had been doing. Whereto she answered with bright face andhonest eyes, that Mr. Mericour had been going over with her the ode'_Jam satis_, ' of Horatius, wherewith to prepare little Nan for himto-morrow, and then she ran hurriedly away to secure the remainder ofthe rose-leaves, while her companion was already on his knees picking upthe petals she had dropped. 

'Master Merrycourt, ' said Sir Marmaduke, a little gruffly, 'never heedthe 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, andsigning back the little girls who had sprung towards them--'it has beenbrought to my mind that you are but a youth, and, pardon me, my youngmaster, but when lads and lasses have their heads together over onebook, tongues wag. '

The colour rushed hotly into young Mericour's face, and he answeredquickly, '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 manshould 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 suddenlight on his countenance. 'The tonsure was given me as a child, but novow of celibacy has passed my lips. '

Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, 'Oh!--' with a prolongation of the sound thatlasted till Mericour began again. 

'But, sir, let tongues wag as they will, it is for nought. Your fairdaughter was but as ever preparing beforehand with me the tasks withwhich she so kindly indoctrinates her little sisters. I never thought ofmyself as aught but a religious, and should never dream of human love. '

'I thought so! I said so!' said Sir Marmaduke, highly gratified. 'I knewyou were an honourable man that would never speak of love to my daughterby stealth, nor without means to maintain her after her birth. '

The word 'birth' brought the blood into the face of the son of the peerof 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 hisshoulder. 'I told you I knew you for an honourable man! You'll be overhere to-morrow to hear the little maids their _Jam satis_, or whateveryou call it, and dine with us after to taste Lucy's handiwork in jamcranberry, a better thing as I take it. '

Mericour had recovered himself, smiled, shook the good Sir Marmadukeproffered hand, and, begging to excuse himself from bidding good nightto the ladies on the score of lateness, he walked away to cross thedowns on his return to Combe Walwyn, where he was still resident, according to the arrangement by which he was there to await Berenger'sreturn, now deferred so much beyond all reasonable expectation. 

Sir Marmaduke, with a free heart, betook himself to the house, dreadingto find that Lucy had fallen under the objurgations of her step-mother, but feeling impelled to stand her protector, and guided to the spot bythe high key of Dame Annora's voice. 

He found Lucy--who, on the race occasions when good-natured LadyThistlewood was really angry with her, usually cowered meekly--nowstanding her ground, and while the dame was pausing for breath, he heardher gentle voice answering steadily, 'No, madam, to him I could neverowe 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 soonce, but it is all his scars and---'

By this time Sir Marmaduke had come near enough to put his arm roundhis daughter, and say, 'No such thing, dame. It had been unseemly in thelass had it been otherwise. She is a good girl and a discreet; and theFrenchman, if he has made none of their vows, feels as bound as thoughhe had. He's an honest fellow, thinking of his studies and not of ladiesor 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 thatso soon as her father released her, she turned, made a mute gesture toask permission to depart, and hurried away; while Lady Thistlewood, who disliked above all that her husband should think her harsh toher step-children, began to relate the exceeding tenderness of theremonstrance which had been followed with such disproportionate floodsof tears. 

Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night had put an endto the subject which harassed him at a time when he felt less capablethan usual of bearing vexation, for he was yearning sadly after his onlyson. The youths had been absent ten months, and had not been heard offor more than three, when they were just leaving Paris in search of theinfant. Sir Francis Walsingham, whose embassy had ended with the deathof Charles IX. , knew nothing of them, and great apprehensions respectingthem were beginning to prevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, seemedto be eating out the peace and joy of his life. Philip, always at hisfather's side ever since he could run alone, was missed at every visitto stable or kennel; the ring of his cheery voice was wanting tothe house; and the absence of his merry whistle seemed to make SirMarmaduke's heart sink like lead as he donned his heavy boots, and wentforth in the silver dew of the summer morning to judge which of hiscornfields would soonest be ready for the sickle. Until this expeditionof his sons he had, for more than fourteen years never been alone inthose morning rounds on his farm; and much as he loved his daughters, they seemed to weigh very light in the scale compared with the sturdyheir who loved every acre with his own ancestral love. Indeed, perhaps, Sir Marmaduke had deeper, fonder affection for the children of his firstmarriage, because he had barely been able to give his full heart totheir mother before she was taken from him, and he had felt almostdouble tenderness to be due to them, when he at length obtained hisfirst and only true love. Now, as he looked over the shinning billowsof the waving barley, his heart was very sore with longing for Philip'sgladsome shout at the harvest-field, and he thought with surprise andcompunction how he had seen Lucy leave him struggling with a flood oftears. While he was still thus gazing, a head appeared in the narrowpath that led across the fields, and presently he recognized theslender, upright form of the young Frenchman. 

'A fair good morrow to you, Master Merrycourt! You come right early tolook after your ode?'

'Sir, ' said Mericour, gravely saluting him, 'I come to make you myconfession. I find that I did not deal truly with you last night, but itwas all unwittingly. '

'How?' exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recollecting Lucy's tears and lookingmuch startled. 'You have not---' and there he broke off, seeing Mericoureager to speak. 

'Sir, ' he said, 'I was bred as one set apart from love. I had neverlearnt to think it possible to me, --I thought so even when I replied toyou last evening; but, sir, the words you then spoke, the question youasked me set my heart burning, and my senses whirling---' And betweenagitation and confusion he stammered and clasped his hands passionately, trying to continue what he was saying, but muttering nothingintelligible. 

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 hisshoulder, saying, 'You found out you were but a hot-blooded youth afterall, but an honest one. For, as I well trust, my lass knows nought ofthis. '

'How should she know, sir, what I knew not myself?'

'Ha! ha!' chuckled Sir Duke to himself, 'so 'twas all Dame Nan's doingthat the flame has been lighted! Ho! ho! But what is to come next is thequestion?' and he eyed the French youth from head to foot with the sameconsidering look with which he was wont to study a bullock. 

'Sir, sir, ' cried Mericour, absolutely flinging himself on his kneebefore him with national vehemence, 'do give me hope! Oh! I will blessyou, I will---'

'Get up, man, ' said the knight, hastily; 'no fooling of this sort. Themilkmaids will be coming. Hope--why, what sort of hope can be given youin the matter?' he continued; 'you are a very good lad, and I like youwell enough, but you are not the sort of stuff one gives one's daughterto. Ay, ay, I know you are a great man in your own country, but what areyou here?'

'A miserable fugitive and beggar, I know that, ' said Mericour, vehemently, 'but let me have but hope, and there is nothing I will notbe!'

'Pish!' said Sir Marmaduke. 

'Hear me, ' entreated the youth, recalled to common sense: 'you knowthat I have lingered at the chateau yonder, partly to study divinityand settle my mind, and partly because my friend Ribaumont begged me toawait his return. I will be no longer idle; my mind is fixed. To FranceI cannot return, while she gives me no choice between such doctrine andpractice as I saw at court, and such as the Huguenots would have imposedon me. I had already chosen England as my country before--before thiswild hope had awakened in me. Here, I know my nobility counts fornothing, though, truly, sir, few names in France are prouder. But itshall be no hindrance. I will become one of your men of the robe. I haveheard that they can enrich themselves and intermarry with your country_noblesse_. '

'True, true, ' said Sir Marmaduke, 'there is more sense in that notionthan there seemed to be in you at first. My poor brother Phil was tohave been a lawyer if he had lived, but it seems to me you are a longway off from that yet! Why, our Templars be mostly Oxford scholars. '

'So it was explained to me, ' said Mericour, 'but for some weeks past theLady 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 meansI should at least be there maintained, and perchance obtain the meansfor 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 marrywithin ten or fifteen years, --very likely not then--having nothing ofyour own, and my wench but little, for Lucy's portion cannot be madeequal to her sisters', her mother having been no heiress like DameNan. And would you have me keep the maid unwedded till she be thirty orthirty-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 thosepoor lads come home--Heaven grant they do--to give her to Berenger. '

'Sir, ' said Mericour, looking up with a sudden smile, 'all that I wouldask is, what you are too good a father to do, that you would not put anyforce 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 loveanother man, my dream were, of course, utterly vain, but if not---' Hebroke 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 fantasticstranger come across them, there's an end of old friends. But yours isan honest purpose, and you are a good youth; and if you had anything tokeep her with, you should have Lucy to-morrow, with all my heart. '

Then came the further question whether Mericour should be allowed aninterview with Lucy. Sir Marmaduke was simple enough to fancy that sheneed not be made aware of the cause of Mericour's new arrangement, anddecided against it. The young man sorrowfully acquiesced, but whethersuch a secret could be kept was another thing. To him it would have beenimpossible to renew their former terms of intercourse without betrayinghis feelings, and he therefore absented himself. Lady Thistlewoodtriumphed openly in Sir Marmaduke's having found him out and banishedhim from the house; Lucy looked white and shed silent tears. Herfather's soft heart was moved, and one Sunday evening he whispered intoher ear that Dame Nan was all wrong, and Mericour only kept away becausehe was an honourable man. Then Lucy smiled and brightened, and Sir Dukefondly asked her if she were fool enough to fancy herself in love withthe man. 

'Oh no, how should she, when he had never named love to her? She wasonly glad her father esteemed him. '

So then foolish, fond Sir Marmaduke told her all that had passed, andif it had not been too late, he would have sent for Mericour from LadyBurnet's; but his own story did almost as well in bringing back Lucy'ssoft pink color. She crept up into Cecily's room one day, and found thatshe knew all about it, and was as kind and sympathizing as she couldbe--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 Rinaldoand 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 Jeande Lettes, after leading a scandalous life, had professed a sort ofCalvinism, had married, and retired to Geneva, and his successor hadnot found it possible to live at Montauban from the enmity of theinhabitants. Strongly situated, with a peculiar municipal constitutionof its own, and used to Provencal independence both of thought anddeed, the inhabitants had been so unanimous in their Calvinism, andhad offered such efficient resistance, as to have wrung from Governmentreluctant sanction for the open observance of the Reformed worship, andfor the maintenance of a college for the education of their ministry. 

There then was convoked the National Synod, answering to the ScottishGeneral Assembly, excepting that the persecuted French Presbyterians metin a different place every year. Delegated pastors there gathered fromevery quarter. From Northern France came men used to live in constanthazard of their lives; from Paris, confessors such as Merlin, thechaplain who, leaving Coligny's bedside, had been hidden for three daysin a hayloft, feeding on the eggs that a hen daily laid beside him;army-chaplains were there who had passionately led battle-psalms eretheir colleagues charged the foe, and had striven with vain endeavoursto render their soldiers saints; while other pastors came from Pyreneanvillages where their generation had never seen flames lighted againstheresy, nor knew what it was to disperse a congregation in haste andsecrecy for hear of the enemy. 

The audience was large and sympathizing. Montauban had become the refugeof many Huguenot families who could nowhere else profess their faithwithout constant danger; and a large proportion of these were ladies, wives of gentlemen in the army kept up by La Noue, or widows who fearedthat their children might be taken from them to be brought up by theirCatholic relations, elderly dames who longed for tranquillity afterhaving lost husbands or sons by civil war. Thickly they lodged inthe strangely named _gasches_ and _vertiers_, as the divisions andsubdivisions of the city were termed, occupying floors or apartmentsof the tall old houses; walking abroad in the streets in grave attire, stiff hat, crimped ruff, and huge fan, and forming a society inthemselves, close-packed, punctilious and dignified, rigidly devoutbut strictly censorious, and altogether as unlike their typical countryfolks of Paris as if they had belonged to a different nation. And thesourest 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; andstronger expletive than the elegant ones invented for the special useof 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 onlywear; and, a few years later, the wife of one of the most distinguishedstatesmen and councilors of Henri of Navarre was excommunicated for theenormity of wearing her hair curled. 

To such a community it was a delightful festival to receive a nationalassembly of ministers ready to regale them on daily sermons for a wholemonth, and to retail in private the points of discipline debated inthe public assembly; and, apart from mere eagerness for novelty, many adiscreet heart beat with gladness at the meeting with the hunted pastorof her native home, who had been the first to strike the spiritualchord, and awake her mind to religion. 

Every family had their honoured guest, every reception-room was in turnthe scene of some pious little assembly that drank _eau sucree_, andrejoiced in its favourite pastor; and each little congress indulged ingentle scandal against its rival coterie. But there was one point onwhich all the ladies agreed, --namely, that good Maitre Isaac Gardon hadfallen into an almost doting state of blindness to the vanities of hisdaughter-in-law, and that she was a disgrace to the community, and oughtto be publicly reprimanded. 

Isaac Gardon, long reported to have been martyred--some said atParis, others averred at La Sablerie--had indeed been welcomed withenthusiastic joy and veneration, when he made his appearance atMontauban, pale, aged, bent, leaning on a staff, and showing the direeffect of the rheumatic fever which had prostrated him after the nightof drenching and exposure during the escape from La Sablerie. Crowded asthe city was, there was a perfect competition among the tradesfolk forthe honour of entertaining him and the young widow and child of a St. Bartholomew martyr. A cordwainer of the street of the Soubirous Hautsobtained this honour, and the wife, though speaking only the sweetProvencal 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 readyaid was given by Mademoiselle Gardon, as all called Eustacie, inthe domestic cares thus entailed, while her filial attention to herfather-in-law and her sweet tenderness to her child struck all this homecircle with admiration. Children of that age were seldom seen at homeamong the better classes in towns. Then, as now, they were universallyconsigned to country nurses, who only brought them home at three or fouryears old, fresh from a squalid, neglected cottage life: and Eustacie'slittle moonbeam, _la petite Rayonette_, as she loved to call her, wasquite an unusual spectacle; and from having lived entirely with grownpeople, and enjoyed the most tender and dainty care, she was intelligentand brightly docile to a degree that appeared marvellous to those whoonly saw children stupefied by a contrary system. She was a lovelylittle thing, exquisitely fair, and her plump white limbs small butperfectly moulded; she was always happy, because always healthy, andliving in an atmosphere of love; and she was the pet and wonder of allthe household, from the grinning apprentice to the grave young candidatewho hoped to be elected pastor to the Duke de Quinet's village in theCevennes. 

And yet it was _la petite Rayonette_ who first brought her mother intotrouble. Since her emancipation from swaddling clothes she had beenequipped in a little gray woolen frock, such as Eustacie had learnt toknit among the peasants, and varied with broad while stripes which gaveit something of the moonbeam effect; but the mother had not been able toresist the pleasure of drawing up the bosom and tying it with a knot ofthe very carnation colour that Berenger used to call her own. That knotwas discussed all up and down the Rue Soubirous Hauts, and even throughthe Carriera Major! The widow of an old friend of Maitre Gardon hadremonstrated on the improprieties of such gay vanities, and Mdlle. Gardon had actually replied, reddening with insolences, that her husbandhad loved to see her wear the colour. 

Now, if the brethren at Paris had indulged their daughters in suchbackslidings, see what had come of it! But that poor Theodore Gardonshould have admired his bride in such unhallowed adornments, was anevident calumny; and many a head was shaken over it in grave and piousassembly. 

Worse still; when she had been invited to a supper at the excellentMadame Fargeau's, the presumptuous little _bourgeoise_ had evidently notknown 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 awatchmaker's daughter. Pretend ignorance that precedence was to be hereobserved! That was another Parisian piece of impudence, above all inone who showed such ridiculous airs as to wipe her face with her ownhandkerchief instead of the table-cloth, and to be reluctant to helpherself from the genera dish of _potage_ with her own spoon. Even thatmight have been overlooked if she would have regaled them with a fulland 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 toknow scarcely anything about it; and when they pressed her further, she shortly said, 'They locked me up;' and, before she could becross-examined as to who was this 'they, ' Maitre Gardon interfered, saying that she had suffered so much that he requested the subject mightnever be mentioned to her. Nor would he be more explicit, and therewas evidently some mystery, and he was becoming blindly indulgent andbesotted by the blandishments of an artful woman. 

Eustacie was saved from hearing the gossip by her ignorance of theProvencal, which was the only languages of all but the highest and mostcultivated classes, the hostess had very little _langue d'oui_, andnever ventured on any complicated discourse; and Isaac Gardon, who couldspeak both the _oc_ and _oui_, was not a person whom it was easy tobeset with mere hearsay or petty remonstrance, but enough reached himat last to make him one day say mildly, 'My dear child, might not thelittle 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 _petitenoblesse_, or the pastors' wives. '

'They are insolent, father. I, in my own true person, would treat noone as these petty dames treat me, ' said Eustacie. 'I would not meddlebetween a peasant woman and her child, nor ask questions that must needswring her heart. '

'Ah, child! humility is a bitter lesson; and even this world needs itnow from you. We shall have suspicions; and I heard to-day that the Kingis in Dauphiny, and with him M. De Nid de Merle. Be not alarmed; hehas no force with him, and the peace still subsists; but we must avoidsuspicion. There is a _preche_ at the Moustier to-day, in French; itwould be well if you were to attend it. '

'I understand as little of French sermons as of Provencal, ' murmuredEustacie; but it was only a murmur. 

Maitre Gardon had soon found out that his charge had not head enough tobe made a thorough-going controversial Calvinist. Clever, intelligent, and full of resources as she was, she had no capacity for argument, andcould not enter into theoretical religion. Circumstances had driven herfrom her original Church and alienated her from those who had practicedsuch personal cruelties on her and hers, but the mould of her mindremained what it had been previously; she clung to the Huguenotsbecause they protected her from those who would have forced an abhorrentmarriage on her and snatched her child from her; and, personally, sheloved and venerated Isaac Gardon with ardent, self-sacrificing filiallove and gratitude, accepted as truth all that came from his lips, readthe Scriptures, sang and prayed with him, and obeyed him as dutifully asever the true Esperance could have done; but, except the merest externalobjections against the grossest and most palpable popular corruptionsand fallacies, she really never entered into the matter. She had beenleft too ignorant of her own system to perceive its true clams uponher; and though she could not help preferring High Mass to a Calvinistassembly, and shrinking with instinctive pain and horror at the manyprofanations she witnessed, the really spiritual leadings of her ownindividual father-like leader had opened so much that was new andprecious to her, so full of truth, so full of comfort, giving so muchmoral strength, that, unaware that all the foundations had been laidby Mere Monique, the resolute, high-spirited little thing, out of sheerconstancy and constitutional courage, would have laid down her life as aCalvinist martyr, in profound ignorance that she was not in the least aCalvinist all the time. 

Hitherto, her wandering life amid the persecuted Huguenots of the Westhad prevented her from hearing any preaching but good Isaac's own, which had been rather in the way of comfort and encouragement than ofcontroversy, but in this great gathering it was impossible that thereshould not be plenty of vehement polemical oratory, such as was sue tofly over that weary little head. After a specimen or two, the chancesof the sermon being in Provencal, and the necessity of attending to herchild, 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 wholecircles of black-eyed children sit on the floor in sleepy stolidity atthe feet of their mothers or nurses, and was it not a mere worldlyfolly to pretend that a child of sixteen months could not be broughtto church? It was another instance of the mother's frivolity and thegrandfather's idolatry. 

The Moustier, or minster, the monastic church of Montauban, built onMont Auriol in honour of St. Theodore, had, twelve years before, been plundered and sacked by the Calvinists, not only out of zeal foriconoclasm, but from long-standing hatred and jealousy against themonks. Catherine de Medicis had, in 1546, carried off two of the jaspercolumns from its chief door-way to the Louvre; and, after some yearsmore, it was entirely destroyed. The grounds of the Auriol MountainMonastery have been desolate down to the present day, when they havebeen formed into public gardens. When Eustacie walked through them, carrying her little girl in her arms, a rose in her bosom to consoleher for the loss of her bright breast-knot, they were in raw freshdreariness, with tottering, blackened cloisters, garden flowers runwild, images that she had never ceased to regard as sacred lying brokenand defiled among the grass and weeds. 

Up the broad path was pacing the municipal procession, headed by thethree Consuls, each with a serjeant bearing a white rod in front anda scarlet mantle, and the Consuls themselves in long robes with widesleeves of quartered black and scarlet, followed by six halberdiers, likewise in scarlet, blazoned with the shield of the city--gules, agolden willow-tree, pollarded and shedding its branches, a chief azurewith the three _fleur-de-lys_ of royalty. As little Rayonette gleefullypointed at the brilliant pageant, Eustacie could not help saying, ratherbitterly, that these _messieurs_ seemed to wish to engross all the gaycolours from heaven and earth from themselves; and Maitre Isaac couldnot help thinking she had some right on her side as he entered thechurch once gorgeous with jasper, marbles, and mosaics, glowing withpainted glass, resplendent with gold and jewels, rich with paintingsand draperies of the most brilliant dyes; but now, all that was, soiled, dulled, defaced; the whole building, even up to the end of thechancel, was closely fitted with benches occupied by the 'sad-coloured'congregation. Isaac was obliged by a strenuous effort of memory torecall 'Ne-hushtan' and the golden calves, before he could clear fromhis mind, 'Now they break down all the carved work thereof with axesand with hammers. ' But, then, did not the thorough going Reformers thinkMaster Isaac a very weak and back-sliding brother?

Nevertheless, in right of his age, his former reputation, and hissufferings, 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 nowant of piety, depth, force, or fervour. These were men refined bypersecution, who had struggled to the light that had been darkened bythe popular system, and, having once been forced into foregoing theirscruples as to breaking the unity of the Church, regarded themselveseven as apostles of the truth. Listening to them, Isaac Gardon felthimself rapt into the hopes of cleansing the aspirations of universalre-integration that had shone before his early youth, ere the Churchhad shown herself deaf, and the Reformers in losing patience had lostpurity, and disappointment had crushed him into an aged man. 

He was recalled by the echo of a gay, little inarticulate cry--thosebaby tones that had become such music to his ears that he hardlyrealized that they were not indeed from his grandchild. In a moment'sglance he saw how it was. A little bird had flown in at one of the emptywindow, and was fluttering over the heads of the congregation, and asmall, plump, white arm and hand was stretched out and pointing--a rosy, fair, smiling face upturned; a little gray figure had scrambled upon the knee of one of the still, black-hooded women; and the shout ofirrepressible delight was breaking on the decorum of the congregation, in spite of hushes, in spite of the uplifted rod of a scarlet serjeanton his way down the aisle to quell the disturbance; nay, as the birdcame nearer, the exulting voice, proud of the achievement of a new word, shouted '_Moineau, moineau_. ' Angered by defiance to authority, downcame the rod, not indeed with great force, but with enough to make thearms clasp round the mother's neck, the face hide itself on in, a loud, terrified wail ring through the church, and tempestuous sobbing followit up. Then uprose the black-hooded figure, the child tightly clasped, and her mantle drawn round it, while the other hand motioned theofficial aside, and down the aisle, even to the door, she swept withthe lofty carriage, high-drawn neck, and swelling bosom of an offendedprincess. 

Maitre Gardon heard little more of the discourse, indeed he would havefollowed at once had he not feared to increase the sensation and thescandal. He came home to find Rayonette's tears long ago dried, but hermother furious. She would leave Montauban that minute, she would neverset foot in a heretic conventicle again, to have her fatherless child, daughter of all the Ribaumonts, struck by base _canaille_. Even heruncle could not have done worse; he at least would have respected herblood. 

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 atonce. No, she would hear nothing. She seemed to fell resentment due tothe honour of all the Ribaumonts, and he was obliged peremptorilyto refuse to quit Montauban till his business at the Synod shouldbe completed, and then to leave her in a flood of angry tears andreproaches for exposing her child to such usage, and approving it. 

Poor little thing, he found her meek and penitent for her unjust angertowards himself. Whatever he desired she would do, she would stay or gowith him anywhere except to a sermon at the Moustier, and she did notthink that in her heart her good father desired little infants to bebeaten--least of all Berenger's little one. And with Rayonette alreadyon his knee, stealing his spectacles, peace was made. 

Peace with him, but not with the congregation! Were people to stalk outof church in a rage, and make no reparation? Was Maitre Isaac to talkof orphans, only children, and maternal love, as if weak human affectiondid not need chastisement? Was this saucy Parisienne to play theoffended, and say that if the child were not suffered at church she muststay at home with it? The ladies agitated to have the obnoxious youngwidow reprimanded in open Synod, but, to their still greater disgust, not a pastor would consent to perform the office. Some said that MaitreGardon ought to rule his own household, others that they respected himtoo much to interfere, and there were others abandoned enough to assertthat if any one needed a reprimand it was the serjeant. 

Of these was the young candidate, Samuel Mace, who had been educatedat the expense of the Dowager Duchess de Quinet, and hoped that herinfluence would obtain his election to the pastorate of a certainpeaceful little village deep in the Cevennes. She had intimated thatwhat he wanted was a wife to teach and improve the wives of the peasantfarmers, and where could a more eligible one be found than EsperanceGardon? Her cookery he tasted, her industry he saw, her tenderness toher child, her attention to her father, were his daily admiration; andher soft velvet eyes and sweet smile went so deep in his heart that hewould have bought her ells upon ells of pink ribbon, when once out ofsight of the old ladies; would have given a father's love to her littledaughter, and a son's duty and veneration to Isaac Gardon. 

His patroness did not deny her approval. The gossip had indeed reachedher, but she had a high esteem for Isaac Gardon, believed in SamuelMace's good sense, and heeded Montauban scandal very little. Her_protege_ would be much better married to a spirited woman who had seenthe world, than to a mere farmer's daughter who had never looked beyondher cheese. Old Gardon would be an admirable adviser, and if he weretaken into the _menage_ she would add to the endowment another arablefield, and grass for two more cows. If she liked the young woman oninspection, the marriage should take place in her own august presence. 

What! had Maitre Gardon refused? Forbidden that the subject should bementioned to his daughter? Impossible! Either Mace had managed mattersfoolishly, 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 toolight-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 husbandif she were worthy, or devote her to condign punishment if she wereunworthy. 

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 personalfriend and favourite of Queen Jeanne d'Albret. She had been left a widowafter five years' marriage, and for forty subsequent years had reigneddespotically in her own name and that of _mon fils_. Busied with thesupport of the Huguenot cause, sometimes by arms, but more usually bypolitics, and constantly occupied by the hereditary government of oneof the lesser counties of France, the Duke was all the better son forrelinquishing to her the home administration, as well as the educationof his two motherless boys; and their confidence and affection wereperfect, though he was almost as seldom at home as she was abroad. Attimes, indeed, she had visited Queen Jeanne at Nerac; but since the goodQueen's death, she only left the great chateau of Quinet to make a royalprogress 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 bythe learning that Queen Marguerite of Navarre had introduced among thecompanions of her daughter, had rendered her superior to most of thosewith whom she came in contact: and the Huguenot ministers, who were muchmore dependent on their laity than the Catholic priesthood, for the mostpart treated her as not only a devout and honourable woman, anelect lady, but as a sort of State authority. That she had theright-mindedness to respect and esteem such men as Theodore Beza, Merlin, &c. , who treated her with great regard, but never cringed, hadnot become known to the rest. Let her have once pronounced againstpoor little Esperance Gardon, and public disgrace would be a matter ofcertainty. 

There she sat in her wainscoted walnut cabinet, a small woman by herinches, but stately enough to seem of majestic stature, and with grayeyes, of inexpressible keenness, which she fixed upon the halting, broken form of Isaac Gardon, and his grave, venerable face, as she halfrose 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 _enpleine sale_. '

'Madame is considerate, ' said Isaac, civilly, but with an open-eyed lookand air that at once showed her that she had not to deal with one of theministers who never forgot their low birth in intercourse with her. 

'I understand, ' said she, coming to the point at once, 'that you declinethe proposals of Samuel Mace for your daughter-in-law. Now I wish youto know that Mace is a very good youth, whom I have known from hisbirth'--and she went on in his praise, Isaac bowing at each pause, untilshe had exhausted both Mace's history and her own beneficent intentionsfor him. Then he said, 'Madame is very good, and the young man appearedto me excellent. Nevertheless, this thing may not be. My daughter-in-lawhas resolved not to marry again. '

'Nay, but this is mere folly, ' said the Duchess. 'We hold not Catholictenets on merit in abstaining, but rather go by St. Paul's advice thatthe younger widows should marry, rather than wax wanton. And, to tellyou the truth, Maitre Gardon, this daughter of yours does seem to haveset tongues in motion. '

'Not by her own fault, Madame. '

'Stay, my good friend; I never found a man--minister or lay--who wasa fair judge in these matters. You old men are no better than theyoung--rather worse--because you do not distrust yourselves. Now, Isay no harm of the young woman, and I know an angel would be abusedat Montauban for not wearing sad-coloured wings; but she needs a man'scare--you are frail, you cannot live for ever--and how is it to be withher 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, Ithought all perished at Paris. Listen, Isaac Gardon: I tell you plainlythat scandal is afloat. You are blamed for culpable indifference toalleged levities--I say not that it is true--but I see this, that unlessyou can bestow your daughter-in-law on a good, honest man, able tosilence the whispers of malice, there will be measures taken that willdo 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 hasa true tongue, Isaac Gardon; and if you can assure me that she is afaithful, good woman, as poor Mace thinks her, and will give her to himin 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 musttake its course. '

'And for what?' said Isaac, with a grave tone, almost of reproof. 'Whatdiscipline can punish a woman for letting her infant wear a colouredribbon, and shielding it from a blow?'

'That is not all, Master Isaac, ' said the Duchess, seriously. 'In spiteof your much-respected name, evil and censorious tongues will have itthat matters ought to be investigated; that there is some mystery; thatthe young woman does not give a satisfactory account of herself, andthat the child does not resemble either her or your son--in short, thatyou may be deceived by an impostor, perhaps a Catholic spy. Mind, I saynot that I credit all this, only I would show you what reports you mustguard against. '

'_La pauvre petite_!' said Isaac, under his breath, as if appalled; thencollecting himself, he said, 'Madame, these are well-nigh threats. I hadcome 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 verytruth, a widow of a martyr of the St. Barthelemy, but that martyr wasnot 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 hiseyes opened to the truth by M. L'Amiral, though he lacked courage for anopen profession. Yes, the very last pageant I beheld at court, was thewedding of his little son to the Count de Ribaumont's daughter. It wassaid that the youth was one of our victims at Paris. '

'Even so, Madame; and this poor child is the little one whom you sawwedded to him. ' And then, in answer to the Duchess's astonished inquiry, he proceeded to relate how Eustacie had been forced to fly from herkindred, and how he had first encountered her at his own lurking-placed, and had accepted her as a charge imposed on him by Providence; thenexplained how, at La Sablerie, she had been recognized by a younggentleman whom she had known at Paris, but who professed to be fleeingto England, there to study the Protestant controversy; and how she hadconfided to him a letter to her husband's mother, who was married inEngland, begging her to send for her and her daughter, the latter beingheiress to certain English estates, as well as French. 

'Madame, ' added Gardon, 'Heaven forgive me, if I do the Youth injusticeby suspecting him, but no answer ever arrived to that letter; and whilewe still expected one, a good and kindly citizen, who I trust has longbeen received into glory, sent me notice that a detachment of Monsieur'sarmy was on its way from La Rochelle, under command of M. De Nid deMerle, to search out this poor lady in La Sablerie. He, good man, deemedthat, were we gone, he could make terms for the place, and we thereforequitted it. Alas! Madame knows how it fared with the pious friend weleft. Little deeming how they would be dealt with, we took our way alongthe Sables d'Olonne, where alone we could be safe, since, as Madameknows, they are for miles impracticable for troops. But we had anotherenemy there--the tide; and there was a time when we truly deemed thatthe mercy granted us had been that we had fallen into the hand of theLord instead of the hand of cruel man. Yes, Madame, and even for thatdid she give thanks, as she stood, never even trembling, on the lowsandbank, with her babe in her bosom, and the sea creeping up on allsides. She only turned to me with a smile, saying, 'She is asleep, shewill not feel it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, andsees 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 ofNissard, a man who, as Madame may know, is one of those veritable saintswho still are sustained by the truth within their Church, and is full ofcharity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, shelteredus, and sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was over-confident inmyself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was Heaven's will thatthe cold and wet of our night on the sands--though those tender youngframes did not suffer therefrom--should bring on an illness which hasmade an old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping toattain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold completedthe work; and then, Madame--oh that I could tell you the blessing shewas to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through allthe 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 tome than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me thanher tender care. '

'I must see her, ' ejaculated the Duchesse; then added, 'But was it thisillness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?'

'In part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assemblywas to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and togive notice of my intention to my brethren before going to a foreignland, whence perhaps I may never return. '

'She ought to be in England, ' said Madame de Quinet; 'she will never besafe 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 LaSablerie. Thus the danger has been less pressing, but I would have takenher to England at once, if I could have made sure of her reception, andbesides---' he faltered. 

'The means?' demanded the Duchess, guessing at the meaning. 

'Madame is right. She had brought away some money and jewels with her, but alas, Madame, during my illness, without my knowledge, the dearchild absolutely sold them to procure comforts for me. Nay'--his eyesfilled with tears--'she whom they blame for vanities sold the very hairfrom her head to purchase unguents to ease the old man's pains; nor didI know it for many a day after. From day to day we can live, for our ownpeople willingly support a pastor and his family; and in every house mydaughter has been loved, --everywhere but in this harsh-judging town. Butfor the expense of a voyage, even were we at Bordeaux or La Rochelle, wehave nothing, save by parting with the only jewels that remain to her, and those--those, she says, are heirlooms; and, poor child, she guardsthem almost as jealously as her infant, around whom she has fastenedthem beneath her clothes. She will not even as yet hear of leaving themin pledge, to be redeemed by the family. She says they would hardly knowher without them. And truly, Madame, I scarce venture to take her toEngland, ere I know what reception would await her. Should her husband'sfamily disown or cast her off, I could take better care of her here thanin a strange land. '

'You are right, Maitre Gardon, ' said the Duchess; 'the risk might begreat. I would see this lady. She must be a rare creature. Bear her mygreetings, my friend, and pray her to do me the honour of a visit thisafternoon. Tell her I would come myself to her, but that I understandshe does not wish to attract notice. '

'Madame, ' said Isaac, rising, and with a strange manner, between a smileand a tear of earnestness, 'allow me to bespeak your goodness for mydaughter. The poor little thing is scarcely more than a child. She isbut eighteen even now, and it is not always easy to tell whether shewill be an angel of noble goodness, or, pardon me, a half-petulantchild. '

'I understand:' Madame de Quinet laughed, and she probably didunderstand more than reluctant, anxious Isaac Gardon thought she did, ofhis winning, gracious, yet haughty, head-strong little charge, so humblyhelpful one moment, so self-asserting and childish the next, so dear tohim, yet so unlike anything in his experience. 

'Child, ' he said, as he found her in the sunny window engaged inplaiting the deep folds of his starched ruffs, 'you have something toforgive 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 theMoustier again. '

'No, daughter; but Madame de Quinet entreats--these are her words--thatyou will do her the honour of calling on her. She would come to you, butthat 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, andshe is a true and generous lady, with whom your secret will be safe, andwho 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 putto shame all the other pastors', ' said Eustacie, her quick fingers stillmoving. 'No, he shall not go ill-starched for any Duchess in France. Nowam I in any haste to be lectured by Madame de Quinet, as they say shelectured 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 willnot 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 theseflaxen curls combed. '

'Would you take the child?'

'Would I go without Mademoiselle de Rambouillet? She is all her motheris, and more. There, now she is a true rose-bud, ready to perch on myarm. 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 willbeat her; oh no, and if the insolent retainers and pert lacqueys laughat 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 toenjoy keeping her good father in some doubt and dread as he went haltingwearily by her side along the much-decorated streets that marked thegrand Gasche of Tarn and Tarascon. The Hotel de Quinet stretched out itsbroad stone steps, covered with vaultings, absolutely across the street, affording a welcome shade, and no obstruction where wheeled carriagesnever came. 

All was, as Maitre Isaac had said, decorum itself. A couple of armedretainers, rigid as sentinels, waited on the steps; a grave porter, maimed in the wars opened the great door; half a dozen--_laquais_ insober though rich liveries sat on a bench in the hall, and hadsomewhat the air of having been set to con a lesson. Two of them comingrespectfully forward, ushered Maitre Gardon and his companion to anante-room, where various gentlemen, or pastors, or candidates--amongthem Samuel Mace--were awaiting a summons to the Duchess, or merelyusing it as a place of assembly. A page of high birth, but well schooledin steadiness of demeanour, went at once to announce the arrival; andGardon and his companion had not been many moments in conversationwith their acquaintance among the ministers, before the grave gentlemanreturned, 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 orfourteen ladies of all ages--from seventy to fifteen--sat at work: someat tapestry, some spinning, some making coarse garments for the poor. Agreat throne-like chair, with a canopy over it, a footstool, a deskand a small table before it, was vacant, and the work--a poor child'sknitted cap--laid down; but an elderly minister, seated at a carveddesk, had not discontinued reading from a great black book, and did noteven cease while the strangers crossed the room, merely making a slightinclination with his head, while the ladies half rose, rustled a slightreverence with their black, gray or russet skirts, but hardly liftedtheir eyes. Eustacie thought the Louvre had never been half soformidable or impressive. 

The page lifted a heavy green curtain behind the canopy, knocked at adoor, and, as it opened, Eustacie was conscious of a dignified presence, that, in spite of her previous petulance, caused her instinctively tobend in such a reverence as had formerly been natural to her; but, atthe same moment, a low and magnificent curtsey was made to her, a handwas held out, a stately kiss was on her brow, and a voice of dignifiedcourtesy said, 'Pardon me, Madame la Baronne, for giving you thistrouble. I feared that otherwise we could not safely meet. '

'Madame is very good. My Rayonette, make thy reverence; kiss thy hand tothe lady, my lamb. ' And the little one obeyed, gazing with her blue eyesfull 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 madeherself 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 ofdefiance by the equality of the manner with which she was treated. 

'Scarcely, ' replied the Duchess; but, with a smile, 'I had the honour tosee you married. '

'Ah, then, '--Eustacie glowed, almost smiled, though a tear was in hereyes--'you can see how like my little one is to her father, --a trueWhite Ribaumont. '

The Duchess had not the most distinct recollection of the complexion ofthe little bridegroom; but Rayonette's fairness was incontestable, andthe old lady complimented it so as to draw on the young mother intoconfidence on the pet moonbeam appellation which she used in dread ofexciting suspicion by using the true name of Berangere, with all the whyand wherefore. 

It was what the Duchess wanted. Imperious as some thought her, she wouldon no account have appeared to cross-examine any one whose essentialnobleness of nature struck her as did little Eustacie's at the firstmoment she saw her; and yet she had decided, before the young womanarrived, that her own good opinion and assistance should depend on thecorrespondence of Madame de Ribaumont's history of herself with MaitreGardon'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 awoman of her own station to whom she could give confidence, or from whomshe could look for sympathy. And thus a very few inquiries and tokens ofinterest from the old lady drew out the whole story, and more than oncefilled Madame de Quinet's eyes with tears. 

There was only one discrepancy; Eustacie could not believe that theAbbe de Mericour had been a faithless messenger. Oh, no! either thosesavage-looking sailors had played him false, or else her _bele-mere_would not send for her. 'My mother-in-law never loved me, ' saidEustacie; 'I know she never did. And now she has children by her secondmarriage, and no doubt would not see my little one preferred to them. Iwill not be HER suppliant. '

'And what then would you do?' said Madame de Quinet, with a more severetone. 

'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 everknew--save----'

'You have much cause for gratitude to him, ' said Madame de Quinet. 'Ihonour 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 toEngland again. I am sure Maitre Isaac tells you so. '

Eustacie would have pouted, but the grave, kind authority of the mannerprevented her from being childish, and she said, 'If I wrote, it shouldbe to my husband's grandfather, who brought him up, designated him ashis heir, and whom he loved with all his heart. But, oh, Madame, he hasone of those English names! So dreadful! It sounds like Vol-au-vent, butit is not that precisely. '

Madame de Quinet smiled, but she was a woman of resources. 'See, myfriend, ' she said, 'the pursuivant of the consuls here has the rolls ofthe herald's visitations throughout the kingdom. The arms and name ofthe Baron de Ribaumont's wife will there be entered; and from my houseat Quinet you shall write, and I, too, will write; my son shall takecare that the letters be forwarded safely, and you shall await theirarrival under my protection. That will be more fitting than running thecountry 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 mychaplain; he is not much fitter for wandering than you, or less so. Andyou, Madame, must, I fear me, still remain his daughter-in-law in myhousehold; or if you bore your own name and rank, this uncle and cousinof yours might learn that you were still living; and did they claimyou---'

'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 thetruth's sake, who either are glad of rest, or are trained up to lead agodly life in the discipline of my household. Among them you can livewithout suspicion, provided, ' the old lady added, smiling, 'you canabstain 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 fairenough to win any one else. '

'_Tenez_, child. Is this true simplicity? Did Gardon, truly, never tellyou of poor Samuel Mace?'

Eustacie's face expressed such genuine amazement and consternation, thatthe 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 wasinnocent. But it is true, my dear, that to poor Samuel we owe ourmeeting. I will send him off, the poor fellow, at once to Bourge-le-Royto preach his three sermons; and when they had driven you a little outof his head, he shall have Mariette there--a good girl, who will makehim an excellent wife. She is ugly enough, but it will be all the sameto 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 atonce. So will evil tongues best be silenced. 

'But hold, ' the Duchess said, smiling. 'You will think me a foolish oldwoman, but is it true that you have saved the Pearls of Ribaumont, ofwhich good Canon Froissart tells?'

Eustacie lifted her child on her knee, untied the little gray frock, andshowed them fastened beneath, well out of sight. 'I thought my treasuresshould guard one another, ' she said. 'One I sent as a token to mymother-in-law. For the rest, they are not mine, but hers; her fatherlent them to me, not gave: so she wears them thus; and anything but HERlife 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 solow and cumbrous that it was a whole week in reaching a grand old castlestanding on a hill-side among chestnut woods, with an avenue a mile longleading up to it; and battlemented towers fit to stand a siege. 

Eustacie was ranked among the Duchess's gentlewomen. She was so faracknowledged as a lady of birth, that she was usually called MadameEsperance; and though no one was supposed to doubt her being TheodoreGardon's widow, she was regarded as being a person of rank who had madea misalliance by marrying him. This Madame de Quinet had allowed thehousehold to infer, thinking that the whole bearing of her guest wastoo unlike that of a Paris _bourgeoise_ not to excite suspicion, butshe deemed it wiser to refrain from treating her with either intimacy ordistinction 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 whosurrounded her; they were very civil to each other, but their onlyconnecting link was the delight that every one took in pettingpretty little Rayonette, and the wonder that was made of her signs ofintelligence and attempts at talking. Even when she toddled fearlesslyup to the stately Duchess on her canopied throne, and held out herentreating hands, and lisped the word '_nontre_, ' Madame would pause inher avocations, take her on her knee, and display that wonderfulgold and enamel creature which cried tic-tic, and still remainedan unapproachable mystery to M. Le Marquis and M. Le Vicomte, hergrandsons. 

Pale, formal stiff boys they looked, twelve and ten years old, and underthe dominion of a very learned tutor, who taught them Latin, Greek andHebrew, alternately with an equally precise, stiff old esquire, whotrained them in martial exercises, which seemed to be as much matters ofrote with them as their tasks, and to be quite as uninteresting. It didnot seem as if they ever played, or thought of playing; and if they wereever to be gay, witty Frenchmen, a wonderful change must come over them. 

The elder was already betrothed to a Bearnese damsel, of anunimpeachably ancient and Calvinistic family; and the wholeestablishment had for the last three years been employed on tapestryhangings for a whole suite of rooms, that were to be fitted up andhung with the histories of Ruth, of Abigail, of the Shunammite, and ofEsther, which their diligent needles might hope to complete by the timethe marriage should take place, three years later! The Duchess, who really was not unlike 'that great woman' the Shunammite, in herdignified content with 'dwelling among her own people, ' and her desireto 'receive a prophet in the name of a prophet, ' generally sat presidingover the work while some one, chaplain, grandson, or young maiden, readaloud from carefully assorted books; religious treatises at certainhours, and at others, history. Often, however, Madame was called awayinto her cabinet, where she gave audience to intendants, notaries fromher 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--forall of which she was ready with the beneficence and decision of anautocrat. 

The chapel had been 'purified, ' and made bare of all altar or image. Itwas 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 lengthon Sunday; and there, too, classes were held for the instruction of thepeasants. 

There was a great garden full of medicinal plants, and decoctions anddistilleries were the chief variety enjoyed by the gentlewomen. TheDuchess had studied much in quaint Latin and French medical books, and, having great experience and good sense, was probably as good a doctoras any one in the kingdom except Ambroise Pare and his pupils; and sherequired her ladies to practise under her upon the numerous ailmentsthat the peasants were continually bringing for her treatment. 'No onecould tell, ' she said, 'how soon they might be dealing with gun-shotwounds, and all ought to know how to sew up a gash, or cure an argue. '

This department suited Eustacie much better than the stitching, andbest of all she liked to be sent with Maitre Isaac to some cottage wheresolace for soul and body were needed, and the inmate was too ill to bebrought to Madame la Duchess. She was learning much and improving tooin the orderly household, but her wanderings had made her something of alittle gipsy. She now and then was intolerably weary, and felt as ifshe had been entirely spoilt for her natural post. 'What would becomeof her, ' she said to Maitre Isaac, 'if she were too grand to dressRayonette?'

She was not greatly distressed that the Montauban pursuivant turned outto have only the records of the Provencal nobility, and was forced tocommunicate with his brethren at Bordeaux before he could bring downthe Ribaumont genealogy to the actual generation; and so slow wascommunication, so tardy the mode of doing everything, that the chestnutleaves were falling and autumn becoming winter before the blazonedletter showed Ribaumont, de Picardie--'Gules, fretty or, a canton ofthe last, a leopard, sable. Eustacie Berangere, m. Annora, daughterand heiress of Villiam, Baron of Valvem, in the county of Dorisette, England, who beareth, azure, a siren regardant in a mirror proper. ' Thesiren was drawn in all her propriety impaled with the leopard, and shewas so much more comprehensible than the names, to both Madame de Quinetand Eustacie, that it was a pity they could not direct their letters toher rather than to 'Le Baron de Valvem, ' whose cruel W's perplexed themso much. However, the address was the least of Eustacie's troubles; sheshould be only too glad when she got to that, and she was sitting inMaitre Isaac's room, trying to make him dictate her sentences and askinghim how to spell every third word, when the dinner-bell rang, and thewhole household dropped down from _salon_, library, study, or chamber tothe huge hall, with its pavement of black and white marble, and itslong tables, for Madame de Quinet was no woman to discard wholesome oldpractices. 

Then, as Eustacie, with Rayonette trotting at her side, and Maitre Isaacleaning on her arm, slowly made her way to that high table where dinedMadame la Duchess, her grandsons, the ministers, the gentlemen inwaiting, and some three or four women besides herself, she saw thatthe lower end of the great hall was full of silks, cloths, and ribbonsheaped together; and, passing by the lengthy rank of retainers, shereceived a bow and look of recognition from a dark, acute-looking visagewhich 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 forhimself and she never liked nor trusted, and he required an immediatereply when she particularly resented being hurried. It was a_galimafre_, literally a hash, she said; for indeed most matters whereshe was not consulted did become a _galimafre_ with her. Moreover, underfavour of the courier, her porters had admitted this pedlar, and theDuchess greatly disliked pedlars. All her household stores werebought at shops of good repute in Montauban, and no one ought to be soimprovident as to require dealings with these mountebank vagabonds, whodangled vanities before the eyes of silly girls, and filled their headswith Paris fashion, if they did not do still worse, and excite them tothe 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 ofglove, kerchief, needle, or the like, should be discovered as soon ashe came within ken, and, once in the hall, there was no being rid ofhim except by a flagrant act of inhospitality. This time it was worst ofall, for M. Le Marquis himself must needs be the first to spy him, bringhim in, and be in want of a silver chain for his hawk; and his brotherthe Vicomte must follow him up with all manner of wants inspired by themere sight of the pack. 

Every one with the smallest sum of money must buy, every one withoutinspect and assist in bargaining; and all dinner-time, eyes, thoughts, and words were wandering to the gay pile in the corner, or reckoning upneeds and means. The pedlar, too, knew what a Calvinist household was, and had been extremely discreet, producing nothing that could reasonablybe objected to; and the Duchess, seeing that the stream was too strongfor her, wisely tried to steer her bark through it safely instead ofdirectly opposing it. 

As soon as grace was over, she called her maitre d'hotel, and badehim look after that _galimafre_, and see that none of these fools wereunreasonably cheated, and that there was no attempt at gulling the youngones with charms or fortune-telling, as well as to conclude the matterso as to give no excuse for the Italian fellow lingering to sup andsleep. She then retired to her cabinet to prepare her dispatches, whichwere to include a letter to Lord Walwyn. Though a nominal friendshipsubsisted between Elisabeth and the French court, the Huguenot chiefsalways maintained a correspondence with England, and there was littledanger but that the Duke de Quinet would be able to get a letter, sooneror 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 herlittle silver handbell for the hall. There, of course, Master Page hadbeen engulfed in the _galimafre_, and not only forming one of the swarmaround the pedlar, but was actually aping courtly grimaces as he trieda 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 figureof Rayonette standing on the table, with her mother and two or threeladies besides coaxing her to open her mouth, and show the swollen gumsthat had of late been troubling her, while the pedlar was evidentlyexpending his blandishments upon her. 

The maitre d'hotel was the first to perceive his mistress, and, as heapproached, received a sharp rebuke from her for allowing the fellow toproduce his quack medicines; and, at the same time, she desired himto request Madame Esperance to come to her immediately on business. Eustacie, who always had a certain self-willed sense of opposition whenthe Duchess showed herself peremptory towards her, at first began tomake answer that she would come as soon as her business was concluded;but the steward made a gesture towards the great lady sailing up anddown as she paced the _dais_ in stately impatience. 'Good fellow, 'she said, 'I will return quickly, and see you again, though I am nowinterrupted. Stay there, little one, with good Mademoiselle Perrot;mother will soon be back. '

Rayonette, in her tooth-fretfulnes, was far from enduring to be forsakenso near a strange man, and her cry made it necessary for Eustacie totake her in arms, and carry her to the _dais_ where the Duchess waswaiting. 

'So!' said the lady, 'I suspected that the fellow was a quack as well asa cheat. '

'Madame, 'said Eustacie, with spirit, 'he sold me unguents that greatlyrelieved my father last spring. '

'And because rubbing relieved an old man's rheumatics, you would let avagabond cheat drug and sicken this poor child for what is not ailmentat all--and the teeth will relieve in a few days. Or, if she werefeverish, have not we decoctions brewed from Heaven's own pure herbs inthe garden, with no unknown ingredient?'

'Madame, ' said Eustacie, ruffling into fierceness, 'you are very good tome; but I must keep the management of my daughter to myself. '

The Duchess looked at her from head to foot. Perhaps it was with animpulse to treat her impertinence as she would have done that of adependant; but the old lady never forgot herself: she only shruggedher shoulders and said, with studied politeness, 'When I unfortunatelyinterrupted your consultation with this eminent physician, it was to askyou a question regarding this English family. Will you do me the honourto enter my cabinet?'

And whereas no one was looking, the old lady showed her displeasure byushering Madame de Ribaumont into her cabinet like a true noble strangerguest; 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 discussiongrowing interminable, and the Duchess then requested to have Madame deRibaumont's own letter at once, as she wished to inclose it, make up herpacket, and send it without delay. Opening a secret door in her cabinet, she showed Eustacie stair by which she might reach Maitre Gardon's roomwithout crossing the hall. Eustacie hoped to find him there and tell himhow intolerable was the Duchess; but, though she found him, it was incompany 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, whereshe had left her child. She finished it as best she might, addressedit after the herald's spelling of the title, bound it with some of theDuchess's black floss silk--wondering meanwhile, but little guessingthat the pedlar knew, where was the tress that had bound her lastattempt at correspondence, guessing least of all that that tress layon a heart still living and throbbing for her. All this had made her alittle forget her haste to assert her liberty of action by returning tothe pedlar; but, behold, when she came back to the hall, it had resumedits pristine soberness, and merely a few lingering figures were to beseen, packing up their purchases. 

While she was still looking round in dismay, Mademoiselle Perrot cameup to her and said, 'Ah! Madame, you may well wonder! I never saw MaitreBenoit there so cross; the poor man did but offer to sell little Fanchonthe elizir that secures a good husband, and old Benoit descended onhim like a griffin enraged, would scarce give him time to compute hischarges or pack his wares, but hustled him forth like a mere thief! AndI 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 thissovereign remedy of sweet syrup--a spoonful to be given each night. '

Eustacie took the little flask. She was much inclined to give the syrupby way of precaution, as well as to assure herself that she was notunder the Duchess's dominion; but some strong instinct of the truth ofthe lady's words that the child was safer and healthier undoctored, made her resolve at least to defer it until the little one showed anyperilous symptom. And as happily Rayonette only showed two little whiteteeth, and much greater good-humour, the syrup was nearly forgotten, when, a fortnight after, the Duchess received a dispatch from her sonwhich filled her with the utmost indignation. The courier hadindeed arrived, but the packet had proved to be filled with hay andwaste-paper. And upon close examination, under the lash, the courier hadbeen forced to confess to having allowed himself to be overtaken by thepedlar, and treated by him to a supper at a _cabaret_. No doubt, while he was afterwards asleep, the contents of his packet had beenabstracted. There had been important documents for the Duke besidesEustacie's letters, and the affair greatly annoyed the Duchess, thoughshe had the compensation of having been proved perfectly right in herprejudice against pedlars, and her dislike of her son's courier. Shesent for Eustacie to tell her privately of the loss, and of course theyoung 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 withdispleasure. 

'No, Madame, thanks, thanks to you. Oh! I never will be self-willed andnaughty 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, nearlylaughing. 

'Ah! for the angry, passionate thoughts I had! Ah! Madame, I was allbut giving the stuff to my little angel in very spite--and then---'Eutacie's voice was drowned in passion of tears, and she devoured theold lady's hand with her kisses. 

'Come, come, ' said the Duchess, 'let us be reasonable. A man may be athief, but it does not follow that he is a poisoner. '

'Nay, that will we see, ' cried Eutacie. 'He was resolved that the littlelamb should not escape, and he left a flask for her with MademoisellePerrot. I will fetch it, if Madame will give me leave. Oh, the greatmercy of Heaven that made her so well that I gave her none!'

Madame de Quinet's analytic powers did not go very far; and wouldprobably have decided against the syrup if it had been nothing butvirgin honey. She was one who fully believed that her dear Queen Jeannehad been poisoned with a pair of gloves, and she had unlimited faith inthe powers of evil possessed by Rene of Milan. Of course, she detectedthe presence of a slow poison, whose effects would have been attributedto the ailment it was meant to cure; and though her evidence wasinsufficient, she probably did Ercole no injustice. She declined testingthe compound on any unfortunate dog or cat, but sealed it up in thepresence of Gardon, Eutacie, and Mademoiselle Perrot, to be producedagainst the pedlar if ever he should be caught. 

Then she asked Eutacie if there was any reason to suspect that herecognized her. Eutacie related the former dealings with him, when shehad sold him her jewels and her hair, but she had no notion of his beingthe same person whom she had seen when at Montpipeau. Indeed, he hadaltered his appearance so much that he had been only discovered atNid-de-Merle by eyes sharpened by distrust of his pretensions to magicarts. 

Madame de Quinet, however, concluded that Eutacie had been known, orelse that her jewels had betrayed her, and that the man must have beenemployed by her enemies. If it had not been the depth of winter, shewould have provided for the persecuted lady's immediate transmissionto England; but he storms of the Bay of Biscay would have made thisimpossible in the state of French navigation, even if Isaac Gardon hadbeen in a condition to move; for the first return of cold had broughtback severe rheumatic pains, and with them came a shortness of breathwhich 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 thatEutacie poured out her thankfulness for her child's preservation, andher own repentance for the passing fit of self-will and petulance. Thethought of Rayonette's safety seemed absolutely to extinguish the freshanxiety that had arisen since it had become evident that her enemies nolonger supposed her dead, but were probably upon her traces. Somehow, danger had become almost a natural element to her, and having onceexpressed her firm resolution that nothing should separate her fromher adopted father, to whom indeed her care became constantly morenecessary, she seemed to occupy herself very little with the matter; shenursed him as merrily as ever, and left to him and Madame de Quinet thegrave consultations as to what was to be done for her security. Therewas a sort of natural buoyancy about her that never realized a dangertill 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 Dianede Selinville, when her father set out _en grande tenue_ to demand hisniece from the Duke de Quinet. This, however, was not till spring wasadvancing; for the pedlar had not been able to take a direct route backto Nid-de-Merle, since his first measure had necessarily been toescape into a province where the abstraction of a Huguenot nobleman'sdespatches would be considered as a meritorious action. Winter weather, and the practice of his profession likewise, delayed Ercole so much thatit was nearly Easter before he brought his certain intelligence to theChevalier, and to the lady an elixir of love, clear and coloured ascrystal, and infallible as an inspirer of affection. 

Should she administer it, now that she knew her cousin not to be thelawful object of affection she had so long esteemed him, but, as hepersisted in considering himself, a married man? Diane had more scruplesthan she would have had a year before, for she had not so long watchedand loved one so true and conscientious as Berenger de Ribaumont withouthaving her perceptions elevated; but at the same time the passion oflove had become intensified, both by long continuance and by resistance. She had attached herself, believing him free, and her affections couldnot be disentangled by learning that he was bound--rather the contrary. 

Besides, there was plenty of sophistry. Her father had always assuredher of the invalidity of the marriage, without thinking it necessaryto dwell on his own arrangements for making it invalid, so that was noreasonable ground of objection; and a lady of Diane's period, living inthe world where she had lived, would have had no notion of objectingto her lover for a previous amour, and as such was she bidden to rankBerenger's relations with Eutacie. And there was the less scruple onEutacie's account, because the Chevalier, knowing that the Duchess hada son and two grandsons, had conceived a great terror that she meant togive his niece to one of them; and this would be infinitely worse, both for the interests of the family and of their party, than evenher reunion with the young Baron. Even Narcisse, who on his return hadwritten to Paris a grudging consent to the experiment of his father andsister, had allowed that the preservation of Berenger's life was needfultill Eutacie should be in their power so as to prevent such a marriageas that! To Diane, the very suggestion became certainty: she already sawEutacie's shallow little heart consoled and her vanity excited by thesemagnificent prospects, and she looked forward to the triumph of her ownconstancy, when Berenger should find the image so long enshrined in hisheart crumble in its sacred niche. 

Yet a little while then would she be patient, even though nearly ayear 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 clumsyadmiration was the consequence. The two youths went on exactly inthe same manner, without a complaint, without a request, occupyingthemselves as best they might--Berenger courteously attentive recoveredhis health, and the athletic powers displayed by the two brothers whenwrestling, fencing, or snow-balling in the courtyard, were the amazementand envy of their guard. Twice in the course of the winter there hadbeen an alarm of wolves, and in their eagerness and excitement aboutthis new sport, they had accepted the Chevalier's offer of taking theirparole for the hunt. They had then gone forth with a huge posse ofvillagers, who beat the woods with their dogs till the beast was arousedfrom its lair and driven into the alleys, where waited gentlemen, gendarmes, and game keepers with their guns. These two chases werechiefly memorable to Berenger, because in the universal interminglingof shouting peasants he was able in the first to have some conversationwith Eutacie's faithful protector Martin, who told him the incidents ofher wanderings, with tears in his eyes, and blessed him for his faiththat she was not dead; and in the second, he actually found himselfin the ravine of the Grange du Temple. No need to ask, every voice wasshouting the name, and though the gendarmes were round him and he durstnot speak to Rotrou, still he could reply with significative earnestnessto the low bow with which the farmer bent to evident certainty that herewas the imprisoned Protestant husband of the poor lady. Berenger worehis black vizard mask as had been required of him, but the man's eyesfollowed him, as though learning by heart the outline of his tallfigure. The object of the Chevalier's journey was, of course, a secretfrom the prisoners, who merely felt its effects by having their mealsserved to them in their own tower; and when he returned after about amonth's absence though him looking harassed, aged, and so much out ofhumour that he could scarcely preserve his usual politeness. In effecthe was greatly chagrined. 

'That she is in their hands is certain, the hypocrites!' he said to hisdaughter and sister; 'and no less so that they have designs on her; butI let them know that these could be easily traversed. '

'But where is she, the unhappy apostate child?' said the Abbess. 'Theydurst not refuse her to you. '

'I tell you they denied all present knowledge of her. The Duke himselfhad the face to make as though he never heard of her. He had no concernwith his mother's household and guests forsooth! I do not believe hehas; 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 gaybridegroom by this time, though I gave him a hint that there was anentanglement 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 thecivility to give me a guide and an escort to go to Quinet. _Ma foi_! Ibelieve they were given to hinder me--take me by indirect roads, makeme lose time at chateaux. When I arrived at the grim old chateau--a truedungeon, precise as a convent--there was the dame, playing the QueenJeanne as well as she could, and having the insolence to tell me that itwas true that Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont, as she was pleased to callher, had honoured her residence for some months, but that she had nowquitted it, and she flatly refused to answer any question whither shewas gone! The hag! she might at least have had the decorum to deny allknowledge of her, but nothing is more impertinent that the hypocriticalsincerity of the heretics. '

'But her people, ' exclaimed the Abbess; 'surely some of them knew, andcould be brought to speak. '

'All the servants I came in contact with played the incorruptible; butstill I have done something. There were some fellows in the village whoare not at their ease under that rule. I caused my people to inquirethem out. They knew nothing more than that the old heretic Gardon withhis family had gone away in Madame la Duchesse's litter, but whitherthey could not tell. But the _cabaretier_ there is furious secretly withthe Quinets for having spoilt his trade by destroying the shrine at theholy well, and I have made him understand that it will be for hisprofit to send me off intelligence so soon as there is any communicationbetween them and the lady. I made the same arrangement with a couple ofgendarmes of the escort the Duke gave me. So at least we are safe forintelligence 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 strictwatch on all the roads leading to the ports, and give me due notice oftheir passing thither. We have law on our side, and, did I once claimher, no one could resist my right. Or should the war break out, as isprobable, 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 remainingscruples from Madame de Selinville. For his own sake, the Baron must bemade to fulfil the prophecy of the ink-pool, and allow his prison doorsto be opened by love. Many and many a tender art did Diane rehearse;numerous were her sighs; wakeful, languishing, and restless her nightsand days; and yet, whatever her determination to practise upon hercousin the witcheries that she had learnt in the _Escadron de laReine-mere_, and seen played off effectually where there was not onegrain of love to inspire them, her powers and her courage always failedher in the presence of him whom she sought to attract. His quiet reserveand simplicity always disconcerted her, and any attempt at blandishmentthat he could not mistake was always treated by him as necessarilyan accidental error, as if any other supposition would render herdespicable; and yet there was now and then a something that made herdetect an effort in his restraint, as if it were less distastethan self-command. Her brother had contemptuously acquiesced in theexperiment made by herself and her father, and allowed that so long asthere was any danger of the Quinet marriage, the Baron's existence wasneedful. 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 whenthe war broke out again in the summer of 1575 he joined that detachmentof Guise's army which hovered about the Loire, and kept watch on theHuguenot cities and provinces of Western France. The Chevalier madeseveral expeditions to confer with his son, and to keep up his relationswith the network of spies whom he had spread over the Quinet provinces. The prisoners were so much separated from all intercourse with thedependants that they were entirely ignorant of the object of his absencefrom home. On these occasions they never left their tower and its court, and had no enlivenment save an occasional gift of dainties or messageof inquiry from the ladies at Bellaise. These were brought by a handsomebut slight, pale lad called Aime de Selinville, a relative of the lateCount, as he told them, who had come to act as a gentleman attendantupon the widowed countess. The brothers rather wondered how he wasdisposed of at the convent, but all there was so contrary to theirpreconceived notions that they acquiesced. The first time he arrivedit was on a long, hot summer day, and he then brought them a cool icedsherbet in two separate flasks, that for Philip being mixed with wine, which was omitted for Berenger; and the youth stood lingering andwatching, anxious, he said, to be able to tell his lady how the drinkswere approved. Both were excellent, and to that effect the prisonersreplied; but no sooner was the messenger gone than Berenger saidsmilingly, '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 gazingcuriously 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 nexttime we meet?'

'How can you defy it, Berry?'

'Nay, Phil; holy wedded love is not to be dispelled by a mountebank'sdecoction. '

'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 hisbrother's terror--'there is no fear of that. She is not like to wish topoison me. '

And the potion proved equally ineffective on mind and body, as indeeddid all the manipulations exercised upon a little waxen image that wassupposed to represent M. Le Baron. Another figure was offered to Diane, in feminine form, with black beads for eyes and a black plaster forhair, which, when stuck full of pins and roasted before the fire, was tocause Eustacie to peak and pine correspondingly. But from this measureDiane shrank. If aught was done against her rival it must be by herfather and brother, not by herself; and she would not feel herselfdirectly injuring her little cousin, nor sinking herself below him whomshe loved. Once his wife, she would be good for ever, held up by hisstrength. 

Meantime Berenger had received a greater shock than she or her fatherunderstood in the looking over of some of the family parchments kept instore at the castle. The Chevalier, in showing them to him, had chieflydesired to glorify the family by demonstrating how its honours had beenwon, but Berenger was startled at finding that Nid-de-Merle had been, asit appeared to him, arbitrarily and unjustly declared to be forfeited bythe Sieur de Bellaise, who had been thrown into prison by Louis XI. Forsome demonstration in favour of the poor Duke de Berri, and grantedto the favourite Ribaumont. The original grant was there, and to hissurprise he found it was to male heirs--the male heirs alone of thedirect line of the Ribaumont--to whom the grant was made. How, then, came it to Eustacie? The disposal had, with almost equal injustice, beenchanged by King Henry II. And the late Count de Ribaumont in favour ofthe little daughter whose union with the heir of the elder line was toconclude all family feuds. Only now did Berenger understand what hisfather had said on his death-bed of flagrant injustice committed in hisdays of darkness. He felt that he was reaping the reward of the injuriescommitted against the Chevalier and his son on behalf of the twounconscious children. He would willingly at once have given up all claimto the Nid-de-Merle estate--and he was now of age; two birthdays hadpassed in his captivity and brought him to years of discretion--but hehad no more power than before to dispose of what was the property ofEustacie and her child; and the whole question of the validity of hismarriage would be given up by his yielding even the posthumous claimthat might have devolved on him in case of Eustacie's death. This wouldbe giving up her honour, a thing impossible. 

'Alas!' he sighed, 'my poor father might well say he had bound a heavyburthen round my neck. '

And from that time his hopes sank lower as the sense of the justice ofhis cause left him. He could neither deny his religion nor his marriage, and therefore could do nothing for his own deliverance; and he knewhimself to be suffering in the cause of a great injustice; indeed, to bebringing suffering on the still more innocent Philip. 

The once proudly indifferent youth was flagging now; was losingappetite, 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 seemedas if the return of summer brought a sense of the length and wearinessof the captivity, and that the sunshine and gaiety of the landscape hadbecome such a contrast to the captives' deadness of spirit that theycould hardly bear to behold them, and felt the dull prison walls morecongenial to their feelings than the gaiety of the summer hay andharvest-fields. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. BEATING AGAINST THE BARS

My horse is weary of the stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. --LADYOF THE LAKE

Letters! They were hailed like drops of water in a thirsty land. Nodoubt they had been long on the way, ere they had reached the hands ofthe Chevalier de Ribaumont, and it was quite possible that they had beenread and selected; but, as Berenger said, he defied any Frenchman toimitate either Lord Walwyn's style or Sir Marmaduke's, and when latein the autumn the packet was delivered to him, the two captives gloatedover the very outsides before they opened them. 

The first intelligence that greeted them made them give a cry ofamusement and surprise. Lady Thistlewood, whose regrets that each of hergirls was not a boy had passed into a proverb, had at length, in Dolly'sseventh year, given birth to a son on Midsummer Day. 

'Well, ' said Philip, sighing, 'we must drink his health tonight! It iswell, 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 grewmuch graver, as by these letters, dated three months since, theyunderstood how many they must have missed, and likewise that nothing hadbeen 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 succeededWalsingham as ambassador, had probably been misled by design, eitherby Narcisse de Nid-de-Merle himself, or by some of his agents, for LordWalwyn had heard from him that the young men were loitering among thecastles and garrisons of Anjou, leading a gay and dissipated life, and that it was universally believed that the Baron de Ribaumont hadembraced the Catholic faith, and would shortly be presented to HenryIII. To receive the grant of the Selinville honours, upon hismarriage with his cousin, the widow of the last of the line. With muchearnestness and sorrow did good old Lord Walwyn write to his grandson, conjuring him to bethink himself of his some, his pure faith, his lovingfriends, and the hopes of his youth: and, at least, if he himself hadbeen led away by the allurements of the other party, to remember thatPhilip had been intrusted to him in full confidence, and to return himto 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 onehitherto deemed trustworthy; and even if Berenger had indeed forgottenand cast away those whom he had once seemed to regard with love andduty, he commanded him to send home Philip, who owed an obedience tohis father that could not be gainsaid. ' Lord Walwyn further bade hisgrandson remember that the arrangements respecting his inheritance hadbeen 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 lethis inheritance pass into French of Papist hands. There was scarcely adirect reproach, but the shaken, altered handwriting showed how strickenthe aged man must be; and after his signature was added one still moretrembling line, 'An ye return not speedily, ye will never see the oldgrandsire more. '

Berenger scarcely finished the letter through his burning tears ofagony, and then, casting it from him, began to pace the room in fierceagitation, bursting out into incoherent exclamations, grasping athis hair, even launching himself against the massive window with suchfrenzied gestures and wild words that Philip, who had read through allwith his usual silent obtuseness, became dismayed, and, laying hold ofhim, 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 feelwhat a miserable wretch I am? But he will die, Philip--he will die--nothaving believed me! How shall we keep ourselves from the smooth-tonguedvillain's throat? That I should be thus judged a traitor by mygrandfather----'

And with a cry as of bodily anguish, he hid his face on the table, andgroaned as he felt the utter helplessness of his strong youth in bonds. 

'It can't be helped, ' was the next of the unconsolatory platitudesuttered by Philip, who always grew sullen and dogged when his brother'sFrench temperament broke forth under any sudden stroke. 'If they willbelieve such things, let them! You have not heard what my father says toit. '

'It will be all the same, ' groaned Berenger. 

'Nay! now that's a foul slander, and you should be ashamed of doing myfather such wrong, ' said Philip, 'Listen;' and he read: 'I will believeno ill of the lad no more than of thee, Phil. It is but a wild-goosechase, 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 forseeking his wife. My Lord North sends rumours that he is under Papistguiding, and sworn brother with the Black Ribaumonts; and my Lady, hisgrandmother, is like to break her heart, and my Lord credits them morethan he ought, and never a line as a token comes from you. Then there'sDame Annora, as proud of the babe as though neither she nor woman bornever had a son before, and plains over him, that both his brothersshould be endowed, and he but a younger son. What will be the end on't Icannot tell. I will stand up for the right as best man may do, and neverforget 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 manmeddle between his wife and her father. So this I tell you that you maymake 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 honestEnglish heart that snaps his fingers at French papistry. ' 'There, 'conclude Philip triumphantly, 'he knows an honest man! He's friend andgood father to you as much as ever. Heed none of the rest. He'll neverlet this little rogue stand in your light. '

'as if I cared for that!' said Berenger, beginning his caged-tiger walkagain, and, though he tried to repress his anguish, breaking out attimes into fierce revilings of the cruel toils that beset him, anddespairing lamentations over those beloved ones at home, with sobs, groans, and tears, such as Philip could not brook to witness. Bothbecause they were so violent and mourn-full, and because he thought themwomanish, though in effect no woman's grief could have had half thatdespairing force. The _fierte_ of the French noble, however, came tohis aid. At the first sound of the great supper-bell he dashed away histears, composed his features, washed his face, and demanded haughtilyof Philip, whether there were any traces in his looks that the cruelhypocrite, 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 broughtgood tidings by coolly thanking him and saying that all at home werewell; and when he met the old man's inquiring glance out of the littlekeen black bead in the puckered, withered eyelid, he put a perfectlystony unmeaningness into his own gaze, till his eyes looked like theblue porcelain from China so much prized by the Abbess. He even playedat chess all the evening with such concentrated attention as to beuniformly victorious. 

Yet half the night Philip heard suppressed moans and sobs--then knewthat he was on his knees--then, after long and comparatively silentweeping, he lay down again, and from the hour when he awoke in themorning, he returned no more to the letters; and though for some littletime more sad and dispirited, he seemed to have come to regard themisjudgment at home as a part of the burthen he was already bearing. 

That burthen was, however, pressing more heavily. The temperaments ofthe two brothers so differed that while the French one was prostrated bythe agony of a stroke, and then rallied patiently to endure the effects, the English character opposed a passive resistance to the blow, gave nosign of grief or pain, and from that very determination suffered a sortof exhaustion that made the effects of the evil more and more left. Thus, from the time Philip's somewhat tardy imagination had been madeto realize his home, his father, and his sisters, the home-sickness, and weariness of his captivity, which had already begun to undermine hishealth and spirits, took increasing effect. 

He made no complaint--he never expressed a wish--but, in the words ofthe prophet, he seemed 'pining away on his feet. ' He did not sleep, andthough, to avoid remark, he never failed to appear at meals, he scarcelytasted food. He never willingly stirred from cowering over the fire, andwas so surly and ill-tempered that only Berenger's unfailing good-humourcould have endured it. Even a wolf-hunt did not stir him. He only saidhe hated outlandish beasts, and that it was not like chasing the hare inDorset. His calf-love for Madame de Selinville had entirely faded awayin his yearnings after home. She was only one of the tediously recurringsights of his captivity, and was loathed like all the rest. Theregulation rides with the Chevalier were more detestable than ever, and by and by they caused such fatigue that Berenger perceived thathis strength must be warning, and became so seriously alarmed that oneevening, when Philip had barely dragged himself to the hall, tastednothing but a few drops of wine, and then dropped into an uneasy slumberin his chair, he could not but turn to the Chevalier an appealing, indignant countenance, as he said, in a low but quivering voice, 'Yousee, sir, how he is altered!'

'Alas! fair nephew, it is but too plain. He is just of the age when suchrestraint 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 hisrelease, and had not accepted them; but Philip, innocent of all damageto the Ribaumont interests, the heir of an honourable family, what hadhe done to incur the cruel imprisonment that was eating away his life?

'I tell you, sir, ' said Berenger, with eyes filled with tears, ' that hisliberty is more precious to me than my own. Were he but restored to ourhome, full half the weight would be gone from my spirit. '

'Fair nephew, ' said the Chevalier, 'you speak as though I had any powerin 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, butlet Philip's case be known to our Ambassador. '

'My poor cousin, ' said the Chevalier, 'you know not what you ask. Did Igrant your desire, you would only learn how implacable King Henri isto those who have personally offended him--above all, to heretics. Norcould the Ambassador do anything for one who resisted by force ofarms the King's justice. Leave it to me; put yourself in my hands, anddeliverance shall come for him first, then for you. '

'How, sir?'

'One token of concession--one attendance at mass--one pledge thatthe alliance shall take place when the formalities have been compliedwith--then can I report you our own; give you almost freedom at once;despatch our young friend to England without loss of time; so willbrotherly affection conquer those chivalrous scruples, most honourablein you, but which, carried too far, become cruel obstinacy. '

Berenger looked at Philip; saw how faded and wan was the ruddy sun-burntcomplexion, how lank and bony the sturdy form, how listless and wastedthe hands. Then arose, bursting within him, the devoted generosity ofthe French nature, which would even accept sin and ruin for self, thatso the friend may be saved; and after all, had he not gone to mass outof mere curiosity?--did he not believe that there was salvation in theGallican Church? Was it not possible that, with Philip free to tellhis story at home, his own deliverance might come before he should beirrevocably committed to Madame de Selinville? If Eustacie were living, her claims must overthrow that which her rival was forcing upon him ather own peril. Nay, how else could he obtain tidings of her? And forthose at home, did they deserve that he should sacrifice all, Philipincluded, for their sake? The thoughts, long floating round his brain, now surged upon him in one flood, and seemed to overwhelm in thosemoments of confusion all his powers of calling up the other side of theargument; he only had an instinct remaining that it would be a lie toGod and man alike. 'God help me!' he sighed to himself; and there wassufficient consideration and perplexity expressed in his countenance tocause 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 foldedarms, saying again, 'God help me! God forbid that I should be atraitor!'

'My son, hear me; these are but easily removed points of honour, ' beganthe Chevalier; but at that moment Philip suddenly started from, or inhis slumber, leapt on his feet, and called out, 'Avaunt, Satan!' thenopened 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 thefiend was parleying with us in the voice of M. Le Chevalier there tosell 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 wastempting me in your voice while you were promising me his liberty on myfulfilling 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 hisdream. 'And if you did, Berenger, I give you warning they should neversee 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 everyPapist I could for having debauched you!'

'Hush! hush! Philip, ' said Berenger; 'I could not break my faith toHeaven or my wife even for your sake, and my cousin sees how littlebeholden you would be to me for so doing. With your leave, Monsieur, wewill retire. '

The Chevalier detained Berenger for a moment to whisper, 'What I seeis so noble a heart that I know you cannot sacrifice him to yourpunctilio. '

Philip was so angry with Berenger, so excited, and so determined to showthat nothing ailed him, that for a short time he was roused, and seemedto be recovering; but in a few days he flagged again, only, if possiblewith more gruffness, moodiness, and pertinacity in not allowing thatanything 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 onlya month before, and saw how he had wasted away and lost strength; theimpulse rather to ruin himself that destroy his brother came with suchforce that he could scarcely escape it by his ever-recurring cryfor help to withstand it. And then Diane, in her splendid beauty andwithchery, would rise before him, so that he knew how a relaxation ofthe lengthened weary effort would make his whole self break itsbonds and go out to her. Dreams of felicity and liberty, and notwith Eustacie, would even come over him, and he would awaken todisappointment before he came to a sense of relief and thankfulnessthat he was still his own. The dislike, distaste, and dread that cameso easily in his time of pain and weakness were less easy to maintainin his full health and forced inactivity. Occupation of mind and hopeseemed the only chance of enabling either of the two to weather thismost dreary desert period; and Berenger, setting his thoughts resolutelyto consider what would be the best means of rousing Philip, decidedat length that any endeavour to escape, however arduous and desperate, would be better than his present apathetic languor, even if it led tonothing. After the first examination of their prison, Berenger had hadno thought of escape; he was then still weak and unenterprising. He hadfor many months lived in hopes of interference from home; and, besides, the likelihood that so English a party as his own would be quicklypursued and recaptured, where they did not know their road and hadno passports, had deterred him lest should fall into still straiterimprisonment. But he had since gained, in the course of his rides, andby observation from the top of the tower, a much fuller knowledge of thecountry. He knew the way to the grange du Temple, and to the chief townsin the neighbourhood. Philip and Humfrey had both lost something oftheir intensely national look and speech, and, moreover, was havingbroken out again, there was hope of falling in with Huguenot partisanseven nearer that at La Rochelle. But whether successful or not, someenterprise was absolutely needed to save Philip from his despondentapathy; and Berenger, who in these eighteen months had grown into thestrength and vigour of manhood, felt as if he had force and power foralmost any effort save this hopeless waiting. 

He held council with Humfrey, who suggested that it might be well toexamine the vaults below the keep. He had a few days before, whilegoing after some of the firewood stored below the ground-floor chamber, observed a door, locked, but with such rusty iron hinges that they mightpossibly yield to vigorous efforts with a stone; and who could tellwhere the underground passages might come out?

Berenger eagerly seized the idea. Philip's mood of contradictionprompted him to pronounce it useless folly, and he vouchsafed nointerest in the arrangements for securing light, by selecting all thebits of firewood fittest for torches, and saving all the oil possiblefrom the two lamps they were allowed. The chief difficulty was thatGuibert 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 ofsight, and Philip had refused to have anything to do with it, or be likea rat routing in the corners of his trap. 

However, Berenger had only just ascertained that the ironwork wasso entirely rusted away as to offer no impediment, when Philip camelanguidly 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 goalone. '

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 farbeyond the precincts of the keep, they heard Humfrey's voice close tothem, warning them that it was nearly dinner-time. 

The next day brought them a more promising discovery, namely of a longstraight passage, with a gleam of light at the end of it; and this forthe first time excited Philip's interest or curiosity. He would havehastened along it at once, but for the warning summons from Humfrey; andin the excitement of even this grain of interest, he ate more heartilyat supper than he had done for weeks, and was afterwards more eagerto prove to Berenger that night was the best time to pursue theirresearches. 

And Berenger, when convinced that Guibert was sound asleep, thought sotoo, and accompanied by Humfrey, they descended into the passage. Thelight, of course, was no longer visible, but the form of the crypt, through which they now passed, was less antique than that under thekeep, 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 ofit, 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 beclose 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 yoube free, would you but send tidings to my poor father?'

'It is a Norman accent!' cried Berenger. 'Ah! ah! can it be poor LandryOsbert?'

'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 thewall: 'M. Le Baron come to this! Woe worth the day!' and Berenger withdifficulty mitigated his affectionate servant's lamentations enough tolearn 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 themarriage between his son and niece should have rendered it superfluousto detain this witness to Berenger's existence. There, then, the poorfellow had lain for three years, and his work during this weary timehad been the scraping with a potsherd at the stone of his wall, and hispertinacious perseverance had succeeded in forming a hole just largeenough to enable him to see the light of the torch carried by thegentlemen. On his side, he said, there was nothing but a strong irondoor, and a heavily-barred window, looking, like that in the passage, into the fosse within the walled garden; but, on the other hand, if hecould enlarge his hole sufficiently to creep through it, he could escapewith them in case of their finding a subterranean outlet. The openingwithin his cell was, of course, much larger than the very small spacehe had made by loosening a stone towards the passage, but he was obligedalways to build up each side of his burrow at the hours of his jailer'svisit, lest his work should be detected, and to stamp the rubbish intohis 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 almostpiteous expression of joy on his face, at once again seeing familiarfaces. And when, at his earnest entreaty, Berenger stood so as to allowhis 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 isgone! Ah! thanks to the saints! Blessed be St. Lucie, it was not in vainthat I entreated her!'

The torches were, however, waxing so low that the sight could not longbe afforded poor Osbert; and, with a promise to return to him next day, the party returned to the upper air, where they warmed themselves overthe fire, and held council over measures for the present relief of thecaptive. Berenger grieved that he had given him up so entirely for lostas to have made no exertions on his behalf, and declared his resolutionof entreating that he might be allowed to enjoy comparative comfort withthem in the keep. It was a risk, but the Chevalier might fairly supposethat the knowledge of Osbert's situation had oozed out through theservants, and gratitude and humanity alike impelled Berenger to run somerisk for his foster-brother's sake. He was greatly touched at the poorfellow's devotion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost tearfulsmile at the joy with which he had proclaimed--what Berenger was quiteunaware of, since the keep furnished no mirrors--the disappearance ofhis scars. ''Tis even so, ' said Philip, 'though I never heeded it. Youare as white from crown to beard as one of the statues at Paris; but thegreat red gash is a mere seam, save when yon old Satan angers you, andthen it blushes for all the rest of your face. '

'And the cheek-wound is hidden, I suppose, ' said Berenger, feelingunder the long fair moustache and the beard, which was developing intorespectable proportions. 

'Hidden? ay, entirely. No one would think your bald crown had onlytwenty-one years over it; but you are a personable fellow still, quiteenough to please Daphne, ' said Philip. 

'Pshaw!' replied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear the shadow of ajest again from Philip. 

It was quite true. These months of quiescence--enforced though theywere--had given his health and constitution time to rally after theterrible shock they had sustained. The severe bleedings had, indeed, rendered his complexion perfectly colourless; but there was somethingin 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 longperiod of patience and resolution had impressed on his naturally finefeatures, without taking away that open candour that had first attractedDiane when he was a rosy lad. His frame had strengthened at the sametime, and assumed the proportions of manhood; so that, instead ofbeing the overgrown maypole that Narcisse used to sneer at, he was nowbroad-shouldered and robust, exceedingly powerful, and so well madethat his height, upwards of six feet, was scarcely observed, except bycomparison with the rest of the world. 

And his character had not stood still. He had first come to Parisa good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy: and though manlyaffections, cares, and sorrows had been thrust on him, he had met themlike the boy that he was, hardly conscious how deep they went. Thenhad come the long dream of physical suffering, with only one thoughtpertinaciously 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 andprinciple, less of mere instinct, than when his powers were lost ordistracted in the effort of constant endurance of pain and weakness. Thecharge of Philip, the endeavour both of educating him and keeping uphis spirits, as well as the controversy with Pere Bonami, had been noinsignificant parts of the discipline of these months; and, little asthe Chevalier had intended it, he had trained his young kinsman into afar more substantial and perilous adversary, both in body and mind, thanwhen 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, sohaggard?' cried Diane de Selinville, when summoned the next morning tomeet her father in the parlour of the convent. 

'Ah, child! see here. Your brother will have us make an end of it. Hehas found her. '

'Eustacie! Ah, and where?'

'That he will not say, but see here. This is all billet tells me: "Thehare 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 agood purse of crowns to reward my huntsmen; and in the meantime--oneway or the other--that pet of my sister's must be disposed of. Kept toolong, these beasts always become savage. Either let him be presented tothe 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, whatis to be done? To give him up to the King is, at the best, life-longimprisonment, yet, if he were still here when my son returns--Alas!alas! child, I have been ruined body and soul between you! How could youmake me send after and imprison him? It was a mere assassination!' andthe old man beat his head with grief and perplexity. 

'Father!' cried Diane, tearfully, 'I cannot see you thus. We meant itfor the best. We shall yet save him. '

'Save him! Ah, daughter, I tossed all night long thinking how to savehim, so strong, so noble, so firm, so patient, so good even to the oldman who has destroyed his hope--his life! Ah! I have thought till mybrain whirls. '

'Poor father! I knew you would love him, ' said Diane, tenderly. 'Ah! wewill save him yet. He shall be the best of sons to you. Look, it is onlyto tell him that she whom he calls his wife is already in my brother'shands, wedded to him. '

'Daughter, '--and he pushed back his gray hair with a weary distressedgesture, --'I am tired of wiles; I am old; I can carry them out nolonger. '

'But this is very simple; it may already be true--at least it will soonbe true. Only tell him that she is my brother's wife. Then will hisgenerosity awaken, then will he see that to persist in the validity ofhis marriage would be misery, dishonour to her, then----'

'Child, you know not how hard he is in his sense of right. Even forhis brother's sake he would not give way an inch, and the boy was asobstinate as he!'

'Ah! but this comes nearer. He will be stung; his generosity will bepiqued. He will see that the kindest thing he can do will be to nullifyhis 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 theQueen's confessor tell us that all means were lawful that brought a soulto 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 beon 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, ifonly you will tell him that my brother has made Eustacie his wife, thenwill I do all the rest. '

Diane coaxed, soothed, and encouraged her father by her caresses, tillhe mounted his mule to return to the castle at dinner-time, and shepromised to come early in the afternoon to follow up the stroke he wasto give. She had never seen him falter before, --he had followed out hispolicy with a clear head and unsparing hand, --but now that Berenger'scharacter was better known to him, and the crisis long delayed had comeso suddenly before his eyes, his whole powers seemed to reel under thealternative. 

The dinner-bell clanged as he arrived at the castle, and the prisonerswere marched into the hall, both intent upon making their request onOsbert's behalf, and therefore as impatient for the conclusion of themeal, and the absence of the servants, as was their host. His handstrembled so much that Berenger was obliged to carve for him; he made themerest feint of eating; and now and then raised his hand to his head asif to bring back scattered ideas. 

The last servant quitted the room, when Berenger perceived that theold man was hardly in a state to attend to his request, and yet themiserable frost-bitten state of poor Landry seemed to compel him tospeak. 

'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, feelinghelplessly with his hands, so that Berenger started up in alarm, andreceived him in his arms just in time to prevent his sinking to thefloor 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 purpleface and loud gasps of the stricken man terrified them out of theirsenses. _'C'est un coup, '_ was the cry, and they went clattering off tothe servants. These, all men but one old crone, came in a mass to thedoor, looked in, beheld their master rigid and prostrate on the floor, supported by the prisoner, and with fresh shrieks about 'Mesdames! apriest! a doctor!' away they rushed. The two brothers were not in muchless consternation, only they retained their senses. Berenger loosenedthe ruff and doublet, and bade Philip practice that art of letting bloodwhich he had learnt for his benefit. When Madame de Selinville and heraunt, with their escort, having been met half-way from Bellaise, arrivedsooner than could have been expected, they found every door open fromhall to entrance gateway, not a person keeping watch, and the old manlying deathlike upon cushions in the hall, Philip bandaging his arm, and Berenger rubbing his temples with wine and the hottest spices on thetable. 'He is better--he is alive, ' said Berenger, as they entered; andas both ladies would have fallen on him with shrieks and sobs, he badethem listen, assured them that the only chance of life was in immediatecare, and entreated that bedding might be brought down, and strongessences fetched to apply to the nose and temples. They obeyed, and thesister 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 theimmediate exclamation; and as preparations began to be made, thebrothers saw that their presence was no longer needed, and returned totheir 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. 'Anhonourable gentleman you have ever proved yourself to me, and I willbear testimony that you did the poor old gentleman no hurt; but nobleswill 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 alonewith M. Le Chevalier. No one can tell what may be said when they seek anoccasion against a person. '

To the brothers, however, this suggestion sounded so horrible andunnatural, that they threw it from them. They applied themselves atevery moment possible to enlarging Osbert' hole, and seeking an outletfrom the dungeon; but this they had not been able to discover, and itwas necessary to be constantly on their guard in visiting the vaults, lest their absence from their apartment should be detected. Theybelieved that if Narcisse arrived at the castle, they should find in hima far less gentle jailer than the poor old man, for whose state theirkindly young hearts could not but grieve. 

They heard that he had recovered consciousness enough to have made asort of confession; and Pere Bonami brought them his formal request, asa dying man, for their pardon for all the injuries he had done them;but his speech was too much affected for any specification of whatthese were. The first thing they heard in early morning was that, in thecourse of the night, he had breathed his last; and all day the bellsof 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 deSelinville requested M. Le Baron to come and speak with her, and he wasaccordingly conducted, with the gendarme behind him, to a small chamberopening into the hall--the same where the incantations of the Italianpedlar had been played off before Philip and Diane. The gendarmeremained 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 thequestion you have so much at heart;' and with these words Pere Bonamipassed beneath the black curtain that covered the entrance into thehall, admitting as he raised it for a moment a floor of pure light fromthe wax tapers, and allowing the cadence of the chanting of the prieststo fall on the ear. At first Berenger was scarcely able to discern thepale face that looked as if tears were all dried up, and even before hiseyes had clearly perceived her in the gloom, she was standing before himwith clasped hands, demanding, in a hoarse, breathless whisper, 'Had hesaid anything to you?'

'Anything? No, cousin, ' said Berenger, in a kind tone. 'He had seemedsuffering 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. Thenneither will I speak it, ' sighed Diane, half aloud. 'Ah! cousin, heloved you. '

'He often was kind to us, ' said Berenger, impelled to speak as tenderlyas he could of the enemy, who had certainly tortured him, but as if heloved him. 

'He bade us save you, ' said Diane, her eyes shining with strange wildlight in the gloom. 'He laid it on my aunt and me to save you; you mustlet us. It must be done before my brother comes, ' she added, in hurriedaccents. 'The messengers are gone; he may be here any moment. He mustfind 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 hisown worse self as with her. 

'Listen. Ah! it is the only way. Listen, cousin. Do you know what killedmy father? It was my brother's letter saying things must be brought toan end: either you must be given up to the King, or worse--worse. Andnow, 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 youblood on his head. '

'Nay, ' said Berenger, 'if he repented, the after consequences to me willhave 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 atraitor. '

'And least of all, ' she exclaimed, with choking grief, 'have youcompassion on me!--on me who have lost the only one who felt for me--onme who have loved you with every fibre of my heart--on me who have livedon 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 youcondemn to the anguish of--your death! Aye, and for what? For the mereshadow of a little girl, who had no force to love you, or whom you knownothing--nothing! Oh! are you a crystal rock or are you a man? See, Ikneel to you to save yourself and me. '

There were hot tears dropping from Berenger's eyes as he caught Diane'shand, and held it forcibly to prevent her thus abasing herself. Her wildwords and gestures thrilled him in every pulse and wrung his heart, andit was with a stifled, agitated voice that he said--

'God help you and me both, Diane! To do what you ask would--would be nosaving 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 herhand, he dropped on his knees by her side, and covered his face with hishands, in an earnest supplication that the spirit of resistance whichhe almost felt slipping from him might be renewed. The action hushed andsilenced her, and as he rose he spoke no other word, but silently drewback so much of the curtain that he could see into the hall, where thedead man still lay uncoffined upon the bed where his own hands had laidhim, 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 passagewas to the world where captivity and longing would be ended. He beckonedto Pere Bonami to return to Diane, and then, protected by his presencefrom any further demonstrations, kissed her hand and left her. 

He told Philip as little as possible of this interview, but his brotherremarked how much time he spent over the Psalms that evening. 

The next day the brothers saw from their upper winder the arrival ofNarcisse, or, as he had called himself for the last three years, theMarquis de Nid-de-Merle, with many attendant gentlemen, and a band offifty or sixty gendarmes. The court was filled with their horses, andrang with their calls for refreshment. And the captives judged it wiseto 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 aftertheir arrival there was a great clanging of steel boots, and Narcissede Ribaumont, followed by a portly, heavily-armed gentleman, wearing ascarf of office, by two of the servants, and by two gendarmes, enteredthe room. It was the first time the cousins had met since _le baiserd'Eutacie_ had been hissed into Berenger's ear. Narcisse looked older, sallower, and more worn than at that time; and Philip, seeing hisenemy for the first time, contrasted him with the stately presence ofBerenger, and felt as if a rat were strangling a noble steed. 

Each young man punctiliously removed his hat, and Nid-de-Merle, withoutdeigning further salutation, addressed his companion. 'Sir, you are hereon 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 treasonablecorrespondence, and protected by my father out of consideration for thefamily, have requited his goodness by an attempt to strangle him, whichhas 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 aKing's servant, who will no doubt see justice done, and shelter us fromthe private malice that could alone devise so monstrous an accusation. We are ready to clear ourselves upon oath over the corpse, and all thehousehold 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 theirmaster 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 afabrication the more easily to secure his cousin's purpose of destroyinghim, and his best hope lay in passing into the hands of persons who wereless directly interested in his ruin. He drew himself up to his fullheight, saying, 'If there be justice in France, our innocence will beproved. I demand, sir, that you examine the abbess, the priest, thesteward, the sergeant of gendarmes: they are impartial witnesses, andwill serve the King's justice, if justice be his purpose. Or, if this bebut M. De Nid-de-Merle's way of completing the work he left unfinishedfour years ago, I am ready. Only let my brother go free. He is heir tonothing here. '

'Enough, sir. Words against the King's justice will be reckoned againstyou, ' said the officer. 'I shall do myself the honour of attending thefuneral 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 theprisoners secure here, or would you have them _garde a vue_. '

'No need for that, ' said Narcisse, lightly; 'had there been any exitthey would have found it long ago. Your good fellows outside the doorkeep them safe enough. M. Le Baron de Ribaumont, I have the honour towish you a good morning. '

Berenger returned his bow with one full of defiance, and the door wasagain locked upon the prisoners; while Philip exclaimed, 'The cowardlyvillain, Berry; is it a hanging matter?'

'Not for noble blood, ' said Berenger. 'We are more likely to be broughtto no trial, but to lie prisoners for life;' then, as Philip grew whiteand shivered with a sick horror, he added bravely, 'But they shall nothave us, Philip. We know the vaults well enough to play at hide and seekwith them there, and even if we find no egress we may hold out till theythink us fled and leave open the doors!'

Philip's face lighted up again, and they did their best by way ofpreparation, collecting wood for torches, and putting aside food attheir meals. It was a very forlorn hope, but the occupation it causedwas effectual in keeping up Philip's spirits, and saving him fromdespondency. 

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 hisprison-chamber. Humfrey and Philip were busy in the vaults, and he wastaking his turn in waiting in the sitting-room to disarm suspicion. 'Itis 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, andveiling 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 whetheryou persist in what you replied to her the other day. For if not, shebids 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? Andthere are towers and bastilles where hope never enters. Moreover, yourresearches underground are known. '

'Sir, ' said Berenger, the heart-sinking quelled by the effort ofresistance, 'Madame de Selinville has my answer--I must take theconsequences. Tell her, if she truly wishes me well, the honourable wayof saving us would be to let our English friends know what has befallenus. '

'You forget, M. Le Baron, even if she could proclaim the dishonour ofher family, interference from a foreign power might only lead to a surermode of removing you, ' said Aime, lowering his voice and shuddering. 

'Even so, I should thank her. Then would the bitterest pang be takenaway. Those at our home would not deem us faithless recreants. '

'Thank her!' murmured the lad in an inward voice. 'Very well, sir, Iwill 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 differenttread 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 havethrown away another offer. '

'Tush, the thing to pardon would be having accepted one. I only wishthey would leave us in peace! What was it this time?'

'A messenger through young Selinville. Strange, to trust her secrets tothat lad. But hush, here he is again, much sooner than I thought. What, sir, have you been with your lady again?'

'Yes, sir, ' the young said, with a trembling voice, and Berenger saw thathis 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 onething---'

'And what is that?'

'You must encumber yourself with the poor Aime. You must let me serveyou instead of her. Listen, sir, it cannot be otherwise. ' Then with abrisker, more eager voice, he continued: 'Monsieur knows that the familyburial-place is Bellaise? Well, to-morrow, at ten o'clock, all thehousehold, all the neighbourhood, will come and sprinkle holy water onthe bier. The first requiem will be sung, and then will all repair tothe convent. There will be the funeral mass, the banquet, the dole. Every creature in the castle--nay, in all the neighbourhood for twentymiles round--will be at the convent, for the Abbess has given out thatthe alms are to be double, and the bread of wheat. Not a soul willremain here, save the two gendarmes on guard at that door, and the poorAime, whom no one will miss, even if any person could be distinguishedin their black cloaks. Madame la Comtesse has given him this key, whichopens 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 consoleand occupy them. Then is the way clear to the castle court, which is notover looked by their window, the horses are in the stables, and we areoff, --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 thehand. 'You shall go with us to England, and we will make a brave man ofyou. '

'We shall owe you our lives, ' said Berenger, warmly, 'and be ever boundto you. Tell your lady that THIS is magnanimity; that now I truly thankher as our preserver, and shall bless her all the days of the life shegives us. But my servants?'

'Guibert is a traitor, ' said Aime; 'he has been so ever since youwere at Paris. Breathe no word to him; but he, as a Catholic, shall beinvited to the funeral. Your stout Englishman should by all means bewith us. '

'My Norman also, ' added Berenger, --'my dear foster-brother, who haslanguished in the dungeon for three years;' and when the explanation hadbeen made, Aime assented, though half-unwillingly, to the necessity, and presently quitted them to bear back their answer to his lady. Philipshook his hand violently again, patted him on the back, so as almostto take away his breath, and bade him never fear, they would be swornbrothers to him for ever; and then threw up his hat into the air, andwas so near astonishing the donjon walls with a British hurrah, thatBerenger had to put his hand over his mouth and strangle the shout inhis very throat. 

The chief of that night was spent in enlarging the hole in Osbert'swall, so as to admit of his creeping through it; and they also preparedtheir small baggage for departure. Their stock of money, though some hadbeen spent on renewing their clothes, and some in needful gratuities tothe servants and gendarmes, was sufficient for present needs, and theyintended to wear their ordinary dress. They were unlikely to meet anyof the peasants in the neighbourhood; and, indeed, Berenger had soconstantly ridden out in his black mask, that its absence, now that hisscars were gone, was as complete a change as could be effected in onewhose height was of unusual. 

'There begins the kneel, ' said Philip, standing at the window. 'It's ourjoy-bell, Berry! Every clang seems to me to say, "Home! home! home!"

'For you, Phil, ' said Berenger; 'but I must be satisfied of Eutacie'sfate first. I shall go first to Nissard--whither we were bound when wewere seized--then to La Rochelle, whence you may---'

'No more of that, ' burst out Philip. 'What! would you have me leave younow, after all we have gone through together? Not that you will findher. I don't want to vex you, brother, on such a day as this, but youconjurer'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 scholarenough for that. And who sends him?'

Meantime the court was already filling with swarms of persons ofevery rank and degree, but several anxious hours had passed beforethe procession was marshaled; and friars and monks, black, white, andgray, --priests in rich robes and tall caps, --black-cloaked gentlemen andmen-at-arms, --all bearing huge wax tapers, --and peasants and beggars ofevery conceivable aspect, --filed out of the court, bearing with them therichly-emblazoned bier of the noble and puissant knight, the BeausireCharles Eutache de Ribaumont Nid-de-Merle, his son walking behind in along black mantle, and all who counted kindred of friendship followingtwo and two; then all the servants, every one who properly belonged tothe castle, were counted out by the brothers from their windows, andGuibert 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 thereappeared in the lower chamber Berenger and Humfrey, dragging betweenthem a squalid wretch, with a skin like stained parchment over askeleton, tangled hair and beard, staring bewildered eyes, and fragmentsof garments, all dust, dirt, and rags. 

'Leave me, leave me, dear master, ' said the object, stretching his wholeperson towards the fire as they let him sink down before it. 'You wouldbut 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 anda suit of Humfrey's clothes were spread before it. Aime burst out intothe yard, absolutely weeping with impatience, when, unheeding all hisremonstrances, his three companions applied themselves to feeding, rubbing, and warming Osbert, and assuring him that the pains in hislimbs would pass away with warmth and exercise. He had been valiantof heart in his dungeon; but his sudden plunge into upper air was likerising from the grave, and brought on all the effects of his drearycaptivity, of which he had hardly been sensible when he had firstlistened to the voice of hope. 

Dazzled, crippled, helpless, it seemed almost impossible that he shouldshare the flight, but Berenger remained resolute; and when Aime returnedfrom his fourth frantic promenade, he was told that all was ready. 

But for the strength of Berenger and Humfrey the poor fellow could neverhave been carried up and up, nearly to the top of the keep, then alonga 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; Osbertrested in a chair; and Philip looked wistfully up at his own sword hungover the chimney. 

'Resume your swords, Messieurs, ' said Aime, observing him; 'Madamedesires 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 thestable only four horses stood there. 

'Ah! this miserable!' cried Aime, passionately, 'he ruins all myarrangements. '

'Leave me, ' again entreated Landry. 'Once outside, I can act the beggarand cripple, and get back to Normandy. '

'Better leave me, ' said Humfrey; 'they cannot keep me when you are outof their clutches. '

'Help me, Humfrey, ' said Berenger, beginning to lift his foster-brotherto the saddle, but there the poor man wavered, cried out that his headswam, and he could not keep his seat, entreating almost in agony to betaken down. 

'Lean on me, ' said Berenger, putting his arms round him. 'There! youwill be able to get to the Grange du Temple, where you will be in safeshelter. '

'Sir, sir, ' cried Aime, ready to tear his hair, 'this is ruin! My ladymeant you to make all speed to La Rochelle and there embark, and this isthe contrary way!'

'That cannot be helped, ' said Berenger; 'it is the only safe place formy foster-brother. '

Aime, with childish petulance, muttered something about ingratitude incrossing his lady's plans; but, as no one attended to him, he proceededto unfasten his horse, and then exclaimed, half crying, 'Will no onehelp me?'

'Not able to saddle a horse! a pretty fellow for a cavalier!' exclaimedPhilip, assisting, however, and in a few minutes they were all issuingfrom a low side gate, and looking back with bounding hearts at thedrooping banner on the keep of Nid-de-Merle. 

Only young Aime went with bowed head and drooping look, as thoughpouting, and Berenger, putting Osbert's bridle into Humfrey's hand, stepped up to him, saying, 'Hark you, M. De Selinville, I am sorry ifwe seemed to neglect you. We owe you and your lady all gratitude, butI must be the judge of my own duty, and you can only be with me if youconform. '

The young seemed to be devouring his tears, but only said, 'I was vexedto 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 thefuneral. Through the frosty air there came an occasional hum or murmurfrom Berenger, or the tinkle of a cow-bell in the fields, but no humanbeing was visible. It was certain, however, that the Rotrous, beingHuguenots, and no vassals of Nid-de-Merle, would not be at theobsequies; and Berenger, walking with swift strides, supporting Osberton his horse, continued to cheer him with promises of rest and reliefthere, and listened to no entreaties from Philip or Humfrey to take oneof their horses. Had not Osbert borne him on his shoulders through thebutchery at Paris, and endured three years of dungeon for his sake?

As for Philip, the slow pace of their ride was all insufficient for hisglee. He made his horse caracole at every level space, till Berengerreminded him that they might have far to ride that night, and even thenhe was constantly breaking into attempts at shouting and whistling asoften repressed, and springing up in his stirrups to look over the highhedges. 

The Grange was so well concealed in its wooded ravine, that only whenclose upon the gate the party became aware that this farm-yard, usuallyso solitary, formed an exception to the general desertion of thecountry. There was a jingle and a stamp of horses in the court, whichcould hardly be daylight echoes of the Templars. Berenger feared thatthe Guisards might have descended Rotrou, and was stepping forward toreconnoiter, while young De Selinville, trembling, besought him not torun into danger, but to turn and hasten to La Rochelle. By this time, however, the party had been espied by two soldiers stationed at thegate, but not before Berenger had had time to remark that they did notwear either the gold _fleur-de-lys_ like his late guards, or the whitecross of Lorraine; nor had they the strange air of gay ferocity usualwith the King's mercenaries. And almost by instincts, at a venture, hemade 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, withan unspeakable sense of relief and security, as the sentries admittedthem into the large walled court, where horses were eating hay, beingwatered 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 ofkeenest fire, struck Berenger at once with a sense of recognition aswell as of being under a glance that seemed to search out everybody andeverything at once. 

'More friends!' and the tone again recalled a flood of recollections. 'Ithank and welcome you. What! You have met the enemy--where is he?'

'My servant is not wounded. Sire, ' said Berenger, removing his hat andbending low. 'This is the effect of long captivity. We have but justescaped. '

'Then we are the same case! Pardon me, sir, I have seen you before, butfor 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 welast met! But we have broken through the gates at last! I remember poorKing Charles was delighted to hear that you lived! But where have youbeen a captive?'

'At Nid-de-Merle, Sire; my kinsmen accused me of treason in order tohinder my search for my wife. We escaped even now during the funeral ofthe 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 amatch 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, thoughentirely 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, towhom I owe my escape. Where is he, Philip?'

He seemed to be busy with the horses, and Berenger could not catch hiseye. 

'Selinville! I thought that good Huguenot house was extinct. '

'This is a relation of the late Count de Selinville, my cousin'shusband, Sire. He arranged my evasion, and would be in danger atNid-de-Merle. Call him, Philip. '

Before this was done, however, the King's attention was otherwiseclaimed, and turning to one of his gentlemen he said, 'Here, d'Augigne, I present to you an acquaintance made in Tartarus. See to hisentertainment ere we start for Parthenay. '

Agrippa d'Aubigne, still young, but grave and serious-looking greetedM. De Ribaumont as men meet in hours when common interests make rapidfriendships; and from him Berenger learnt, in a few words, that the Kingof Navarre's eyes had been opened at last to the treachery of the court, and his own dishonourable bondage. During a feverish attack, one nightwhen D'Aubigne and D'Armagnac were sitting up with him, his resolutionwas taken; and on the first hunting day after his recovery, he, withthese two, the Baron de Rosny and about thirty more of his suite, hadgalloped away, and had joined the Monsieur and the Prince of Conde atAlencon. He had abjured the Catholic faith, declared that nothing exceptropes should bring him back to Paris, and that he left there the massand his wife--the first he could dispense with, the last he meant tohave; and he was now on his way to Parthenay to meet his sister, whomhe had sent Rosny to demand. By the time Berenger had heard this, he hadsucceeded in finding honest Rotrou, who was in a state of great triumph, and readily undertook to give Osbert shelter, and as soon as he shouldhave recovered to send him to head-quarters with some young men whohe knew would take the field as soon as they learnt that the King ofNavarre had set up his standard. Even the inroads made into the goodfarmer's stores did not abate his satisfaction in entertaining the primehope of the Huguenot cause; but Berenger advanced as large a sum ashe durst out of his purse, under pretext of the maintenance of Osbertduring his stay at the Grange. He examined Rotrou upon his subsequentknowledge of Isaac Gardon and Eutacie, but nothing had been heard ofthem since their departure, now nearly three years back, except a dimrumour that they had been seen at the Synod of Montauban. 

'Well, my friend, ' said Philip, when about to remount, 'this will dorather better than a headlong gallop to Rochelle with Nid-de-Merle atour heels. '

'If M. Le Baron is safe, it is well, ' said Aime shortly. 

'Is Selinville there?' said Berenger, coming up. 'Here, let me take youto the King of Navarre: he knew your family in Lauguedoc. '

'No, no, ' petulantly returned the boy. 'What am I that he should noticeme? 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 wasforced 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 fireafter supper at Parthenay, 'I have been thinking what commission I couldgive you proportioned to your rank and influence. '

'Thanks to your Grace, that inquiry is soon answered. I am a beggarhere. Even my paternal estate in Normandy is in the hands of my cousin. '

'You have wrongs, ' said Henry, 'and wrongs are sometimes better thanpossessions in a party like ours. '

Berenger seized the opening to explain his position, and mention thathis only present desire was for permission, in the first place, to senda letter to England by the messenger whom the King was dispatchingto Elisabeth, in tolerable security of her secret countenance; and, secondly, to ride to Nissard to examine into the story he had previouslyheeded so little, of the old man and his daughter rescued from the wavesthe day before La Sablerie was taken. 

'If Pluto relented, my dear Orpheus, surely Navarre may, ' said Henrygood-humouredly; 'only may the priest not be more adamantine than Minos. Where lies Nissard? On the Sable d'Olonne? Then you may go thither withsafety while we lie here, and I shall wait for my sister, or for news ofher. '

So Berenger arranged for an early start on the morrow; and youngSelinville 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 Berengersilenced him by a stern look, he took the first opportunity of askingPhilip if it would not be far wiser for his brother to place himself insafety 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 inEngland?'

'His friends in England would not like him the better for deserting hispoor wife's cause, ' said Philip. 'I advise you to hold your tongue, andnot meddle or make. '

Aime subsided, and Philip detected something like tears. He had stillmuch of rude English boyhood about him, and he laughed roughly. 'A finefellow, to weep at a word! Hie thee back to feed my Lady's lap-dog, 'tisall thou art fit for. '

'There spoke English gratitude, ' said Aime, with a toss of the head andflash of the eye. 

Philip despised him the more for casting up his obligations, but had noretort 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 ofEnglish young towards the poor-spirited or cowardly. He ordered the boyroughly, teased him for his ignorance of manly exercises, tried to curehis helplessness by increasing his difficulties, and viewed his fatigueas affectation or effeminacy. Berenger interfered now and then to guardthe poor boy from a horse-jest or practical joke, but he too feltthat Aime was a great incumbrance, hopelessly cowardly, fanciful, andpetulant; 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 ortwenty, sowed itself irrepressibly at the Sands of Olonne. These werenot misty, as on Berenger's former journey. Nissard steeple was soon insight, and the guide who joined them on a rough pony had no doubtthat there would be ample time to cross before high water. There was, however, some delay, for the winter rains had brought down a good manystreams of fresh water, and the sands were heavy and wet, so that theirhorses proceeded slowly, and the rush and dash of the waves proclaimedthat the low of the tide had begun. To the two brothers the break andsweep was a home-sound, speaking of freshness and freedom, and the saltbreeze and spray carried with them life and ecstasy. Philip kept asnear the incoming waves as his inland-bred horse would endure, and sang, shouted, and hallooed to them as welcome as English waves; but Aime deSelinville had never even beheld the sea before: and even when thetide was still in the distance, was filled with nervous terror as eachrushing fall sounded nearer; and, when the line of white foamy crestsbecame more plainly visible, he was impelled to hurry on towards thesteeple so fast that the guide shouted to him that he would only buryhimself in a quicksand. 

'But, ' said he, white with alarm, and his teeth chattering, 'how can wecreep with those dreadful waves advancing upon us to drown us?'

Berenger silence Philip's rude laugh and was beginning to explain thatthe speed of the waves could always be calculated by an experiencedinhabitant; and his voice had seemed to pacify Aime a little, when thespreading water in front of a broken wave flowing up to his horse'sfeet, again rendered him nearly frantic. 'Let us go back!' he wildlyentreated, turning his horse; but Berenger caught his bridle, saying, 'That would be truly death. Boy, unless you would be scorned, restrainyour folly. Nothing else imperils us. '

Here, however, the guide interposed, saying that it had become too lateto pursue their course along the curve of the shore, but they must atonce cut straight across, which he had intended to avoid, because ofthe greater depth of a small river that they would have to cross, whichdivided further out into small channels, more easily forded. Theythus went along the chord of the arc formed by the shore, and Aime wassomewhat reassured, as the sea was at first farther off; but before longthey reached the stream, which lost itself in many little channels inthe sands, so that when the tide was out there was a perfect network oflittle streams dividing low shingly or grassy isles, but at nearly hightide, as at present, many of these islets were submerged, and the strifebetween river and sea caused sudden deepenings of the water in thechannels. 

The guide eagerly explained that the safest place for crossing was notby the large sandbank furthest inland and looking firm and promising--itwas a recent shifting performance of the water's heaping up, and wouldcertainly sink away and bury horse the channels on either side hadshingly bottoms, and were safe. 

'This way, ' called Berenger, himself setting the example, and finding nodifficulty; the water did not rise above his boots, and the current wasnot strong. He had reached the shingly isle when he looked round for hiscompanions; Humfrey and Philip were close behind him; but, in spiteof the loud '_gare_!' of the guide, Aime, or his horse, --for each wasequally senseless with alarm, --were making inwards; the horse was tryingto tread on the sandbank, which gave way like the water itself, underits frantic struggles--there was a loud cry--a shrill, unmistakablewoman's shriek--the horse was sinking--a white face and helpless formwere being carried out on the waves, but not before Berenger had flunghimself from his horse, thrown off his cloak and sword, and dashed intothe water; and in the lapse of a few moments he struggled back tothe island, where were Philip and Humfrey, leg-deep in water: the onereceived 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, gatheredthe small, almost inanimate figure upon the horse's neck before him, andin a few minutes more they had crossed the perilous passage, and wereon a higher bank where they could safely halt; and Philip, as he came tohelp 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 addingin a lower voice, 'Don't you see?' He would his hand in the longdrenched hair, and held it up, with cheeks burning like fire, and hisscar purple. 

'A woman!--what?--who?' Then suddenly divining, he exclaimed, 'Thejade!' 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 herhead, 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 pitytowards a creature so devoted, so entirely at his mercy. At the momentwhen she lay helpless against him, gasps heaving her breast under hermanly doublet, her damp hair spread on his knees, her dark eyes in theirlanguor raised imploring his face, her cold hand grasping his, hefelt as if this great love were a reality, and as if he were hunting ashadow; and, as if fate would have it so, he must save and gratify onewhose affection must conquer his, who was so tender, so beautiful--evennative generosity seemed on her side. But in the midst, as in hisperplexity he looked up over the gray sea, he seemed to see the pictureso often present to his mind of the pale, resolute girl, clasping herbabe to her breast, fearless of the advancing sea, because true andfaithful. And at that thought faith and prayer rallied once again roundhis heart, shame at the instant's wavering again dyed his cheek; herecalled himself, and speaking the more coldly and gravely because hisheart was beating over hotly, he said, 'Cousin, you are better. It isbut 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 ourlives, ' he said steadying his voice with difficulty. 'The priests ofNissard will aid me in sparing your name and fame. '

'Ah!' she cried, sitting up with a start of joy, 'but he would make toomany 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 andhonour. '

'He shall not!' she cried hotly. 'Why--why will you drive me fromyou--me who ask only to follow you as a menial servant?'

'That has become impossible, ' he answered; 'to say nothing of mybrother, my servant and the guide have seen;' and, as she remembered herstreaming hair, and tried, in dawning confusion, to gather it together, he continued: 'You shrank from the eye of the King of Navarre. Youcannot 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 yourfamily, husband of your kinswoman, and bound to respect the reputationyou have risked for me. I shall, therefore, place you in charge of thepriest 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 hershoulders and unmanageable hair, and lifted her on his horse; but, asshe would have leant against him, he drew himself away, beckoned Philip, and put the bridle into his hands, saying, 'Take care of her. I shallride on and warm the priest. '

'The rock of diamond, ' she murmured, not aware that the diamond had beenalmost melting. That youthful gravity and resolution, with the mixtureof respect and protection, imposed as usual upon her passionate nature, and daunted her into meekly riding beside Philip without a word--onlynow and then he heard a low moan, and knew that she was weepingbitterly. 

At first the lad had been shocked beyond measure, and would have heldaloof as from a kind of monster, but Madame de Selinville had been thefirst woman to touch his fancy, and when he heard how piteously she wasweeping, and recollected where he should have been but for her, aswell as all his own harshness to her as a cowardly boy, he felt himselfbrutally ungrateful, and spoke: 'Don't weep so, Madame; I am sorry I wasrude 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 willtake care you are safe in one of your nunneries;' and as she only weptthe more, he added, with a sudden thought, 'You would not go there; youwould embrace the Protestant faith?'

'I would embrace whatever was his. '

Philip muttered something about seeing what could be done. They werealready at the entrance of the village, and Berenger had come out tomeet 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 apriest. '

'Foolery, Philip, ' answered Berenger, sternly. 

'If she would be a convert!'

'Let her be a modest woman first;' and Berenger, taking her bridle, ledher to the priest's house. 

He found that Pere Colombeau was preaching a Lent sermon, and thatnobody was at home but the housekeeper, to whom he had explained brieflythat the lady with him had been forced to escape in disguise, had beennearly drowned, and was in need of refreshment and female clothing. Jacinthe did not like the sound, but drenched clothes were such apassport to her master's house, that she durst not refuse. Berengercarried off his other companions to the cabaret, and when he had driedhimself, went to wait for the priest at the church door, sitting inthe porch where more than one echo of the exhortation to repentance andpurity rang in his ears, and enforced his conviction that here he mustbe cruel if he would be merciful. 

It was long before Pere Colombeau came out, and then, if the scar hadnot blushed for all the rest of his face, the sickly, lanky lad of threeyears since would hardly have been recognized to the good cure. But thepriest's aspect was less benignant when Berenger tried to set before himhis predicament; he coldly asked where the unhappy lady was; and whenBerenger expressed his intention of coming the next morning to ask hiscounsel, he only bowed. He did not ask the brothers to supper, nor showany civility; and Berenger, as he walked back to the cabaret, perceivedthat his story was but half believed, and that, if Diane's passion werestill stronger than her truth or generosity, she would be able to makeout a terrible case against him, and to willing ears, naturally disposedagainst a young cavalier and a heretic. 

He sat much dispirited by the fire of the little wine shop, thinkingthat his forbearance had been well-nigh thrown away, and that hischaracter would never be cleared in Eustacie's eyes, attaching, indeed, more importance to the blot than would have been done by a youth lesscarefully reared. 

It was quite dark when a knock came to the door: the cure's white headappeared in the lamplight; he nodded kindly to all the guests, andentreated that M. De Ribaumont would do him a favour to come and speakwith 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;' thenpressing his hand, he added with a voice tremulous with emotion, 'Sir, it is no slight thing to have saved a wandering sheep by youruprightness and loyalty. '

'Have you then opened her eyes, father?' said Berenger, relieved from aheavy load. 

'You have, my son, ' said the old man. 'You have taught her what truthand virtue are. For the rest, you shall heard for yourself. '

Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, and he foundhimself in the church. The building was almost entirely dark; therewere two tall lights at the altar in distance, and a few little slendertapers burning before certain niches and shrines, but without powerto conquer with the gloom more than enough to spread a pale circle ofyellow light beneath them, and to show mysteriously a bit of vaultingabove. 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 figurewith a dark peasant cloak drawn over her head. 

'The first token of penitence is reparation to the injured, ' said thepriest. 

Berenger looked at him anxiously. 

'I will not leave you, ' he added. 'See, I shall pray for you yonder, bythe altar, ' and he slowly moved up the aisle. 

'Rise, cousin, I entreat you, ' said Berenger, much embarrassed, as hedisappeared 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 claspedhands and an imploring face. 'Ah! can you pardon? It was through me thatyou 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 tohave 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 toimprison you. ' Then, as he bent his head, and would have again entreatedher to rise, she held out her hand as if to silence him, and spokefaster, more wildly. 'Then--then I thought it would save your life. Ithought---' she looked at him strangely with her great dark eyes, allhollow 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 ofthe 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 atrembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of shame and misery. 

Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly repressed, had thering of ecstasy in it. 'Cousin--cousin!' he cried, 'all is forgiven--allforgotten, if you will only tell me where!'

'That I cannot, ' said Diane, rousing herself again, but speaking in adull, 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 shethen proceeded, as though repeating a lesson: 'You remember the Italianconjurer whom you would not consult? Would that I had not!' she added, clasping her hands. 'His prediction lured me? Well, he saw my fatherprivately, told him he had seen her, and had bought her jewels, even herhair. My father sent him in quest of her again, but told not me tillthe man returned with tidings that she was at Quinet, in favour with theDuchess. 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 yourmarriage was void, and that all would be well upon the dispensationcoming. And now the good father there tells me that I wasdeceived--cruelly deceived--that such a dispensation would not begranted save through gross misrepresentation. ' Then, as Berengerbegan to show tokens of eagerness to come at tidings of Eustacie, shecontinued, 'Ah! it is vain to seek to excuse one you care not for. Myfather could learn nothing from the Duchess; she avowed that she hadbeen there, but would say no more. However, he and my brother were sureshe was under their protection; they took measures, and--and the morningmy poor father was stricken, there had been a letter from my brotherto say he was on her track, and matters must be ended with you, for heshould have her in a week;' and then, as Berenger started forward withan inarticulate outburst, half of horror, half of interrogation, sheadded, 'Where, he said not, nor did I learn from him. All our oneinterview was spend in sneers that answered to my wild entreaties; butthis 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 itfrom me!'

'There lay my hope, ' said Diane, raising her head; and now, withglittering eyes and altered voice, 'How could I not but hate her who hadbereaved 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 toabsolution, but my heart will burst if I say not all. '

'Thou shalt not prevail, foul spirit, ' said the priest, lookingearnestly into the darkness, as though he beheld the fiend hoveringover her, 'neither shall these holy walls be defiled with accents ofunhallowed love. You have made your reparation, daughter; it is enough. '

'And can you tell me no more?' said Berenger, sadly. 'Can you give me noclue 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 todeceive you any longer. But it is to Madame de Quinet that you mustapply, and if my brother has though me worth pursuit, you may be intime! One moment, '--as he would have sprung away as if in the impulse tofly to the rescue, --'cousin; had you gone to England as I hoped, Iwould have striven to deserve to win that love of yours, but you haveconquered by your constancy. Now, father, I have spoken my last save aspenitent. '

She covered her head and sank down again. 

Berenger, bewildered and impelled to be doing something, let the priestlead 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 remembernow that she set me on the way. I would ease her soul, poor thing, andthinking 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 sintowards 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 mightinquire no further. He only asked how safe and honourable shelter couldbe found for her; and the cure replied that he had already spoken to herof the convent of Lucon, and should take her there so soon as it couldsafely be done, and that Abbess Monique, he trusted, would assist hercrushed spirit in finding the path of penitence. He thought her cousinhad better not endeavour to see her again; and Berenger himself wasready to forget her very existence in his burning anxiety to outstripNarcisse 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 wayback to head-quarters, where he hoped to meet the Duke de Quinet amongthe many Huguenot gentlemen who were flocking to the Bourbon standard;nor was he disappointed in the hope, for he was presented to a handsomemiddle-aged gentleman, who told him, with much politeness, that hismother had had the honour to receive and entertain Mme. De Ribaumont andthat some months ago he had himself arranged for the conveyance ofher letters to England, but, he said, with a smile, he made a point ofknowing nothing of his mother's guests, lest his duties as a governormight clash with those of hospitality. He offered to expedite M. DeRibaumont'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 hangingan Italian mountebank who had last year stolen a whole packet ofdispatches, among them letters from Mme. De Ribaumont, and the fellowwas probably acting as a spy upon her, so that no time was to be lost inlearning from his mother where she was. On the next morning he was aboutto send forward twenty men to reinforce a little frontier garrison onthe river Dronne, and as M. Le Baron must pass through the place, itwould be conferring a favour on him to take the command. The men wereall well mounted, and would not delay; and when once across the frontierof Guyenne, no escort would be needed. 

Berenger gladly accepted the proposal. It did not occur to him thathe was thus involved in the civil war, and bearing arms against thesovereign. In spite of Queen Elisabeth's alliance with the French court, she connived at her youthful subjects seeking the bubble reputationin the mouths of Valois cannon; and so little did Henry III. Seemto Berenger to be his king, that he never thought of the question ofallegiance, --nay, if the royal officers were truly concerned in hisarrest, he was already an outlaw. This was no moment for decisionbetween Catholic and Calvinist; all he wanted was to recover his wifeand forestall her enemies. 

Henry of Navarre gave his full consent to the detachment being placedunder charge of M. De Ribaumont. He asked somewhat significantly whathad become of the young gentleman who had attended M. De Ribaumont, andPhilip blushed crimson to the ears, while Berenger replied, with greatercoolness than he had given himself credit for, that the youth hadbeen nearly drowned on the Sable d'Olonne, and had been left at DomColombeau's to recover. The sharp-witted King looked for a moment ratheras Sir Hugh the Heron did when Marmion accounted for his page's absence, but was far too courteous and too INSOUCIANT to press the matterfurther, though Berenger saw quite enough of is expression to feel thathe had been delivered from his companion only just in time. 

Berenger set forth as soon as his impatience could prevail to get themen into their saddles. He would fain have ridden day and night, andgrudged every halt for refreshment, so as almost to run the risk ofmaking the men mutinous. Evening was coming on, and his troop haddismounted at a cabaret, in front of which he paced up and down withPhilip, trying to devise some pretext for hastening them on anotherstage before night, when a weary, travel-stained trooper rode up to thedoor 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 thatCaptain Falconnet was sending him to M. Le Duc with information thatthe Guisards were astir, and that five hundred _gens d'armes_, underthe black Nid de Merle, as it was said, were on their way intendingto surprise Pont de Dronne, and thus cut the King of Navarre off fromGuyenne and his kingdom beyond it. After this Berenger had no moredifficulty with his men, who were most of them Quinet vassals, withhomes south of the Dronne, and the messenger only halted for a hastymeal, hastening on to the Duke, that a more considerable succour mightat once be dispatched. 

'Is she there whom they call the Lady of Hope?' asked one of thesoldiers, a mercenary, less interested than most of his comrades, as hehad only a fortnight since transferred his services from Guise to Quinet. 

'Our Lady of Sadness just now, ' replied the messenger; 'her old fatheris at the point of death. However, she is there, and at our last siegetwenty 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 'tisa spirit, a changeling that could not brook the inside of a church, butflew out of the Moustier at Montauban like a white swan, in the middleof 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 tothe white elves of the moonlight. '

'Well, they say bullets won't touch her, and no place can be taken whereshe is, ' replied the trooper. 'Nay, that Italian pedlar rogue, the samethat the Duke has since hung, has sold to long Gilles and snub-nosedPierre silver bullets, wherewith they have sworn to shoot the one or theother next time they had a chance. '

These words were spoken at not great distance from Berenger, but passedby him as mere men-at-arms' gossip, in his eagerness to expedite thestart of his party; and in less than an hour they were _en route_ forPont de Dronne; but hasten as he would, it was not till near noon thenext 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--stoodon the nearer, or northern bank, and on the belfry tower waved a flagwith the arms of Quinet. Higher up the valley, there was an ominoushum, and clouds of smoke and dust; and the _gen d'armes_, who knewthe country, rejoiced that they were come just in time, and exchangedanxious questions whether the enemy were not fording the river abovethem, so as to attack not only the fortress on this northern side, butthe bridge tower on the southern bank of the river. 

Spurring down the hill, the party were admitted, at the well-guardedgateway, into a large thickly-walled yard, where the soldiers andhorses remained, and Berenger and Philip, passing through a small archeddoorway into the body of the old monastery, were conducted to a greatwainscoted hall, where a pulpit projecting from the wall, and somedefaced emblematic ornaments, showed that this had once been therefectory, though guard-room appliances now occupied it. The man who hadshown them in left them, saying he would acquaint Captain Falconnet withtheir arrival, and just then a sound of singing drew both brothers tothe window. It looked out on what had once been the quadrangle, boundedon three sides by the church, the refectory, and the monk's lodgings, the cloistered arcade running round all these. The fourth side wasskirted by the river, which was, however, concealed by an embankment, raised, no doubt, to supply the place of the wall, which had beenunnecessary to the peaceful original inhabitants. What attractedBerenger's eyes was, however, a group in the cloister, consisting ofa few drooping figures, some of men in steel caps, others of veiled, shrouded women, and strange, mingled feelings swept over him as hecaught 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, 'Itis the 4th Psalm: "I lay me down in peace and take my rest. " Eustacieand I used to sing it to my father. It was well done in these mournersto sing it over him whom they are laying down to take his rest while theenemy are at the gates. See, the poor wife still kneels while the restdisperse; how dejected and utterly desolate she looks. '

He was so intently watching her as not to perceive the entrance of atall, grizzled old man in a steel cap, evidently the commander of thegarrison. There was the brief welcome of danger's hour--the briefer, because Captain Falconnet was extremely deaf, and, taking it for grantedthat the new-comers were gentlemen of the Duke's, proceeded to appointthem their posts without further question. Berenger had intended topursue his journey to Quinet without delay, but the intelligence thatthe enemy were on the southern as well as the northern side of the riverrendered this impossible; and besides, in defending this key of Guyenneagainst 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 quitestrong enough to resist desultory attacks, and protect the long bridge, which was itself strongly walled on either side, and with a barbican atthe further end. In former assaults the attacks had always been on thenorth, the Catholic side, as it might be called; but now the enemy hadcrossed the river above the fort, and were investing the place on bothsides. Long foreseeing this, the old commandant had guarded the bank ofthe river with the earthwork, a long mound sloped irregularly on eitherhand, over which numerous little paths had since been worn by the womenwithin, when on their way to the river with their washing; but he hadbeen setting every one to work to destroy and fill up these, so thatthe rampart was smooth and slopping, perfectly easy indeed to cross, buthigh and broad enough to serve as an effectual protection against suchartillery as the detached troops of the Guise party were likely topossess; and the river was far too wide, deep, and strong in its maincurrent to be forded in the face of a hostile garrison. The captain hadabout fifty _gen d'armes_ in his garrison, besides the twenty new-comerswhom he persisted in regarding as Berenger's charge; and there were, besides, some seventy peasants and silk spinners, who had come into theplace as a refuge from the enemy--and with these he hoped to hold puttill succour should come from the Duke. He himself took the commandof the north gate, where the former assaults had been made, and heinstructed to his new ally the tower protecting the bridge, advising himto put on armour; but Berenger, trying on a steel cap, found that hishead could not bear the weight and heat, and was forced to return to hisbroad-brimmed Spanish hat, while Philip in high glee armed himself asbest he could with what Captain Falconnet could lend him. He was toomuch excited to eat of the scanty meal that was set before them: a realflight seemed like a fair-day to him, and he was greatly exalted byhis brother's post of command--a post that Berenger felt a heavyresponsibility only thrust upon him by the commandant's incapacity ofhearing how utterly inexperienced he was. 

The formal summons to surrender to the King, and the refusal, had dulypassed, and it became evident that the first attack was to be on thebridge-gate. Captain Falconnet hurried to the place, and the fightingwas hot and desperate. Every assailant who tried to throw his fagot intothe moat became a mark for arquebus or pistol, and the weapons that hadso lately hung over the hearth at Nid de Merle were now aimed again andagain at the heads and corslets of Guisards, with something of the sameexulting 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 castfrom the battlements, crushing the enemy; and throughout Berenger'squick eye, alert movements, and great height and strength, made him amost valuable champion, often applauded by a low murmur of commendationfrom old Falconnet, or a loud shout of 'Ha, well done, the Duke'sEnglishman, ' from the _gen d'armes_--for English they would have him tobe--on the presumptions afforded by his companions, his complexion, andhis 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 weredragging away their wounded, Philip touched his brother, and saying, 'Ican 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 willbe time for you to take him to his quarters, sir; these fellows havehad enough for the present, and you can tarry with him till you hear thebugle. Whither, did you ask? Let me see. You, Renaud, take him to thechapel: the old chancel behind the boarding will be more private; anddesire Madame to look to him. Farewell! I hope it may prove slight;you are a brave youth. ' And he shook hands with Philip, whose intensegratification sustained him for many steps afterwards. 

He hardly remembered receiving the hurt, and was at first too busy toheed it, or to call off any one attention, until a dread of falling, andbeing trodden on, had seized him and made him speak; and indeed he wasso dizzy that Berenger with difficulty kept him on his feet over thebridge, and in the court lifted him in his arms and carried him almostfainting into the cloister, where by the new-made grave still knelt theblack-veiled mourner. She started to her feet as the soldier spoke toher, 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 moanof remonstrance at the mention of the place, but again recollectingherself, led the way along a stone passage, into which a flight ofstairs descended into the apsidal chancel, roughly boarded off fromthe rest of the church. It was a ruinous, desolate place, and Berengerlooked round in dismay for some place on which to lay down his almostunconscious burthen. The lady bent her head and signed towards the stonesedilia in the wall; then, after two ineffectual essays to make hervoice audible, choked as it was with long weeping, she said, low andhuskily, 'We will make him more comfortable soon;' and added some ordersto the soldier, who disappeared up the stairway, and Berenger understoodthat he was gone to fetch bedding. Then taking from under her heavymourning cloak a large pair of scissors, she signed to Berenger how tosupport his brother, while they relieved him of his corslet, sword-belt, and doublet. The soldier had meantime returned with an old woman, bothloaded with bedding, which she signed to them to arrange in one of thelittle bays or niches that served to form a crown of lesser chapelsaround the chancel. She flung aside her muffling cloak, but her blackhood still hung far over her face, and every now and then hand orhandkerchief was lifted as if to clear her eyes from the tears thatwould not cease to gather and blind her; and she merely spoke when somedirection to an assistant, some sympathetic word to the patient, wasneeded. Even Philip in his dizzy trance guessed that he was succeedingto the bed whence one much dearer had gone to his quieter rest in thecloister. Before he was laid there, however, the bugle sounded; therewas a loud shout, and Philip exclaimed, 'Go, brother!'

'Trust him to me, sir, ' said the sunken, extinguished voice; 'we will doour best for him. '

He was forced merely to lift Philip to the bed, and to hurry away, whilethe soldier followed him saying, consolingly, 'Fear not, sir, now ourLady 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 thewarriors to forget the wounded in the exigencies of the present. Anattack was made on both gates at once, and the commandant beingengaged at his own post, Berenger had to make the utmost of his briefexperience, backed by the counsel of a tough old sergeant; and greatwas his sense of exhilaration, and absolute enjoyment in this full andworthy taxing of every power of mind or body. The cry among the enemy, 'Aime at the black plume, ' attested his prominence; but he black plumwas still unscathed when spring twilight fell. The din began to subside;recalls were sounded by the besiegers; and Berenger heard his ownexploit bawled in the ear of the deaf commandant, who was advancing overthe bridge. The old captain complimented him, told him that he shouldbe well reported of to M. Le Duc and Sieur la Noue, and invited him tosupper and bed in his own quarters. The supper Berenger accepted, sosoon as he should know how it was with his brother; but as to bed, heintended 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 twelvewounded were now lying, tended by peasant women. Berenger merelypassed through, seeing as he went the black hood busy over afreshly-brought-in-patient. He found a door which admitted him throughthe rough screen of boards to the choir where he had been in theearlier part of the day. The moonlight came through the shivered easternwindows, but a canvas curtain had been hung so as to shelter Philip'svaulted recess from the cold draught, and the bed itself, with a chairbeside it, looked neat, clean, and comfortable. Philip himself wascheery; he said the bullet had made a mere flesh-wound, and had passedout on the other side, and the Lady of Hope, as they called he, was justsuch another as Aunt Cecily, and had made him very comfortable, withclean linen, good cool drinks, and the tenderest hand. But he was verysleepy, so sleepy that he hardly cared to hear of the combat, only heroused 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 Chamberat home. '

'I tell you I was in my perfect senses, ' returned Philip; 'there shewas, just as when we left her. And, what was stranger still, she talkedFrench. '

'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 sisterDolly had stood at the foot of his bed, called him '_le pauvre_' andhad afterwards disappeared, led away by the nursing lady. It seemed toBerenger a mere delusion of feverish weakness; for Philip had lost agreat deal of blood, and the wound, though not dangerous, permitted noattempt at moving, and gave much pain. Of the perfections of the lady asnurse and surgeon Philip could not say enough, and, pale and overwept ashe allowed her to be, he declared that he was sure that her beauty mustequal Mme. De Selinville's. Berenger laughed, and looking round thisstrange hospital, now lighted by the full rays of the morning sun, hewas much struck by the scene. 

It was the chancel of the old abbey church. The door by which theyhad entered was very small, and perhaps had led merely to the abbot'sthrone, as an irregularity for his own convenience, and only mademanifest by the rending away of the rich wooden stall work, somefragments of which still clung to the walls. The east end, like that ofmany French churches, formed a semicircle, the high altar having been inthe centre, and five tall deep bays forming lesser chapels embracing it, their vaults all gathered up into one lofty crown above, and a slenderpillar separating between each chapel, each of which further containeda tall narrow window. Of course, all had been utterly desolated, andPhilip was actually lying in one of these chapels, where the sculpturedfigure of St. John and his Eagle still remained on the wall; and asufficient remnant of his glowing sanguine robe of love was still inthe window to serve as a shield from the _bise_. The high altar ofrich marbles was a mere heap of shattered rubbish; but what surprisedBerenger more than all the ruined architectural beauty which his_cinque-cento_ trained taste could not understand, was, that the tilesof the pavement were perfectly clean, and diligently swept, the rubbishpiled up in corners; and here and there the relics of a cross or carvedfigure lay together, as by a tender, reverential hand. Even the morselsof painted glass had been placed side by side on the floor, so as toform a mosaic of dark red, blue, and green; and a child's toy lay besidethis piece of patchwork. In the midst of his observations, however, Captain Falconnet's servant came to summon him to breakfast; and the oldwoman appearing at the same time, he could not help asking whether thelady were coming. 

'Oh yes, she will come to dress his wound in good time, ' answered theold 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 hisdisappointment; 'is our Lady of Hope to be coming down among you gaygallants?'

'But who is this Lady of Hope?' demanded he. 

'Who should she be but our good pastor's daughter? Ah! and a brave, gooddaughter she was too, abiding the siege because his breath was so badthat he could not be moved. '

'What was his name?' asked Berenger, attracted strangely by what heheard. 

'Ribault, Monsieur--Pasteur Ribault. Ah! a good man, and sound preacher, when preach he could; but when he could not, his very presence kept themonks' REVENANTS from vexing us--as a cat keeps mice away; and, ah! Thechildren have been changed creatures since Madame dealt with them. What!Monsieur would know why they call her our Lady of Hope? Esperance isher true name; and, moreover, in the former days this abbey had an imagethat they called Notre-Dame de l'Esperance, and the poor deceived folkthought it did great miracles. And so, when she came hither, and wroughtsuch cures, and brought blessing wherever she went, it became a sayingamong us that at length we had our true Lady of Hope. 

A more urgent summons here forced Berenger away, and his repetition ofthe same question received much the same answer from deaf old CaptainFalconnet. He was obliged to repair to his post with merely a piece ofbread in his hand; abut, though vigilance was needful, the day bade fairto be far less actively occupied than its predecessor: the enemy wereeither disposed to turn the siege into a blockade, or were awaitingreinforcements and heavier artillery; and there were only a fewdesultory attacks in the early part of the morning. About an hour beforenoon, however, the besiegers seemed to be drawing out in arms, as if toreceive some person of rank, and at the same time sounds were heardon the hills to the eastward, as if troops were on the march. Berengerhaving just been told by the old sergeant that probably all would bequiet for some time longer, and been almost laughed at by the veteranfor consulting him whether it would be permissible for him to be absenta few minutes to visit his brother, was setting out across the bridgefor the purpose, his eyes in the direction of the rampart, whichfollowed the curve of the river. The paths which--as has been said--thefeet of the washerwomen and drawers of water had worn away in quietertimes, had been smoothed and scarped away on the outer side, so asto 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 themen around him exclaimed, 'The little moonbeam child!' 'A fairy--achangeling!'--'They cannot shoot at such a babe!' 'Nor could theyharm her!' 'Hola! little one! _Gare_! Go back to your mother!' 'Do notdisturb yourself, sir; she is safer than you, ' were the ejaculationsalmost at the same moment, while he sprang forward, horrified at theperil of such an infant. He had reached the angle between the bridge andrampart, when he perceived that neither humanity nor superstition wereprotecting the poor child; for, as she turned down the remnant of one ofthe treacherous little paths, a man in bright steel and deep black hadspurred his horse to the river's brink, and was deliberately taking aimat her. Furious at such brutality, Berenger fired the pistol he held inhis hand, and the wretch dropped from his horse; but at the same momenthis pistol exploded, and the child rolled down the bank, whence apiteous wail came up, impelling Berenger to leap down to her assistance, in the full face of the enemy. Perhaps he was protected for the momentby the confusion ensuing on the fall of the officer; and when he reachedthe bottom of the bank, he saw the little creature on her feet, herround cap and gray woolen dress stripped half off in the fall, andher flaxen hair falling round her plump, white, exposed shoulder, butevidently unhurt, and gathering yellow marigolds as composedly as thoughshe had been making May garlands. He snatched her up, and she said, withthe same infantine dignity, 'Yes, take me up; the naughty people spoiltthe path. But I must take my beads first. ' And she tried to struggleout of his arms, pointing therewith to a broken string among the marshyherb-age on which gleamed--the pearls of Ribaumont!

In the few seconds in which he grasped them, and then bore the child upthe embankment in desperate bounds, a hail of bullets poured roundhim, ringing on his breastplate, shearing the plume from his hat, butscarcely even heard; and in another moment he had sprung down, on theinner side, grasping the child with all his might, but not daring evento look at her, in the wondrous flash of that first conviction. Shespoke first. 'Put me down, and let me have my beads, ' she said in agrave, 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 andso close, in so speechless and over powering an ecstasy, that again sherepeated, and in alarm, 'Put me down, I want my mother!'

'Yes, yes! your mother! your mother! your mother!' he cried, unable tolet her out of his embrace; and then restraining himself as he saw herfrightened eyes, in absolute fear of her spurning him, or strugglingfrom him, 'My sweet! my child! Ah! do you not know me?' Then, remembering how wild this was, he struggled to speak calmly: 'What areyou called, my treasure?'

'I am _la petite Rayonette_, ' she said, with puzzled dignity andgravity; 'and my mother says I have a beautiful long name of my ownbesides. '

'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 washurrying 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 ofHope, crying wildly, 'Not there--she is not--' but perceiving the littleone in the stranger's arms, she held out her own, crying, 'Ah! is shehurt, my angel?'

'Unhurt, Eustacie! Our child is unhurt!' Berenger said, with an agonizedendeavour to be calm; but for the moment her instinct was so entirelyabsorbed in examining into the soundness of her child's limbs, that sheneither saw nor hear anything else. 

'Eustacie, ' he said, laying his hand on her arm, she started back, withbewildered eyes. 'Eustacie--wife? do you not know me? Ah! I forgot thatI am changed. '

'You--you--' she gasped, utterly confounded, and gazing as if turned tostone, and though at that moment the vibration of a mighty dischargeof cannon rocked the walls, and strewed Philip's bed with the crimsonshivers of St. John's robe, yet neither of them would have been sensibleof it had not Humfrey rushed in at the same moment, crying, 'They arecoming on like friends, sir!'

Berenger passed his hand over his face. 'You will know me WHEN--IF Ireturn, my dearest, ' he said. 'If not, then still, thank God! Philip, toyou I trust them!'

And with one kiss on that still, cold, almost petrified brow, he haddashed away. There was a space of absolutely motionless silence, savethat Eustacie let herself drop on the chancel step, and the child, presently breaking the spell, pulled her to attract her notice to theflowers. 'Mother, here are the _soucis_ for the poor gentleman's broth. See, the naughty people had spoilt all the paths, and I rolled down andtore 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 wordsreached her ears. 'Ah! no wonder! Well might thy danger bring thyfather's spirit;' and she grasped the little one fervently in her arms, murmuring, 'Thank, thank God, indeed! Oh! my precious one; and did Hesend that blessed spirit to rescue thee?'

'And will you tie up my frock? and may I put the flowers into thebroth?' chattered Rayonette. 'And why did he kiss me and hug me sotight? and how did he know what you say over me as we fall asleep?'

Eustacie clasped her tighter, with a convulsive, shudder ofthankfulness; and Philip, but half hearing, and barely gathering themeaning of her mood, ventured to speak, 'Madame---'

As if touched by an electric shock, Eustacie started up, as recalled toinstant needs, and coming towards him said, 'Do you want anything, sir?Pardon one who has but newly seen a spirit from the other world--broughtby his child's danger. ' And the dazed, trance-like look was returning. 

'Spirit!' cried Philip. 'Nay, Madame, it was himself. Ah! and you areshe whom we have sought so long; and this dear child--no wonder she hasDolly's face. '

'Who--what?' said Eustacie, pressing her temples with her hands, as ifto 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 reallyEustacie. Are you indeed?' he added, becoming doubtful. 

'Eustacie, that am I, ' she murmured. 'But he is dead--they killed him; Iswathe blood where he had waited for me. His child's danger brought himfrom the grave. '

'No, no. Look at me, sister Eustacie. Listen to me. Osbert brought himhome more dead than alive--but alive still. '

'No!' she cried, half passionately. 'Never could he have lived and leftme to mourn him so bitterly. '

'If you knew--' cried Philip, growing indignant. 'For weeks he lay indeadly lethargy, and when, with his left hand, he wrote and sent Osbertto you, your kinsfolk threw the poor fellow into a dungeon, and put usoff with lies that you were married to your cousin. All believed, onlyhe--sick, helpless, speechless, as he was--he trusted you still; andso soon as Mericour came, though he could scarcely brook the saddle, nothing would hold him from seeking you. We saw only ruin at LaSablerie, and well-nigh ever since have we been clapped up in prison byyour uncle. We were on the way to Quinet to seek you. He has kept hisfaith whole through wounds and pain and prison and threats, --ay, andsore temptation, ' cried Philip, waxing eloquent; 'and, oh, it cannot bethat you do not care for him!'

'Doubt not my faith, sir, ' said Eustacie, proudly; 'I have been as trueto him as if I had known he lived. Nor do I know who you are to questionme. '

At this moment the child pressed forward, holding between her towcareful plump hands a red earthenware bowl, with the tisane steaming init, and the yellow petals strewn over the surface. She and Philip hadtaken a great fancy to each other, and while her mother was busywith the other patients, she had been left to her quiet play with herfragments of glass, which she carried one by one to display, held upto the light, to her new friends; who, in his weak state, and afterhis long captivity, found her the more charming playmate because she sostrangely reminded him of his own little sisters. She thought herselfhis little nurse, and missing from his broth the yellow petals that shehad been wont to think the charm of tisane, the housewifely little beinghad trotted off, unseen and unmissed, across the quadrangle, overthe 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 withthem, sir. '

'Ah! thou sweet one, ' gasped Philip, 'I could as soon eat them as Davidcould drink the water! For these--for these---!' and the tears rushedinto his eyes. 'Oh! let me but kiss her, Madame; I loved her from thefirst moment. She has the very face of my little sweeting, (what Frenchword is good enough for her?) didst run into peril for me, not knowinghow 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 ensuingwords, 'from the north gate, ' was what made Eustacie in an instant knowherself to be not widow but wife. She turned round at once, holding outher 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 _bienmechante_ still. ' Then as Philip devoured her hand with kisses, and heldit 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 homealready 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 scaredfemales in the garrison, might not rest or look the wonder in the face. Fresh sufferers needed her care, and related gallant things of 'theDuke's Englishman, ' things of desperate daring and prowess that sent theblood throbbing to her heart with exultation, but only to be followed bya pang of anguish at having let him go back to peril--nay, perhaps, todeath--without a word of tenderness or even recognition. She imaged himas the sunny-faced youth who had claimed her in the royal castle, andher longing to be at his side and cling to him as his own became everymoment more fervent and irresistible, until she gladly recollected thenecessity of carrying food to the defenders; and snatching an intervalfrom her hospital cares, she sped to the old circular kitchen of themonastery, where she found the lame baker vainly trying to organize aparty of frightened women to carry provisions to the garrison of thebridge-tower. 

'Give some to me, ' she said. 'My husband is there! I am come to fetchhis dinner. '

The peasant women looked and whispered as if they thought that, to addto 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 amongthe sparrows, even observed that it was a judgment for the profanename that had been given her, against which she had herself uniformlyprotested. 

'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 onher erect and graceful head, and elastic though steady step, she led theway; the others following her with a sort of awe, as of one they fanciedin a superhuman state. In fact, there was no great danger in traversingthe bridge with its lofty parapet on either side; and her mind was toomuch exalted and moved to be sensible of anything but a certain exultingawe of the battle sounds. There was, however, a kind of lull in theassault which had raged so fiercely ever since the fall of the officer, and the arrival of the reinforcements. Either the enemy had paused totake food, or were devising some fresh mode of attack; and as theline of women advanced, there started forth from under the arch abroad-shouldered, white-faced, golden-bearded personage, who criedjoyously, 'My dearest, my bravest! this for me!' and lifted the pitcherfrom her head as he grasped her hand with a flesh and blood claspindeed, but the bright-cheeked, wavy-haired lad of her dream witheredaway with a shock of disappointment, and she only looked up with wistfulpuzzled earnestness instead of uttering the dear name that she had solong been whispering to herself. 'Dearest, ' he said, 'this is preciousindeed to me, that you should let me feast my eyes once more on you. Butyou may not tarry; the rogues may renew the attack at any moment. '

She had thought of herself as insisting on standing beside him andsharing his peril. Had he been himself she must have don so, but thiswas a stranger, whose claiming her made her shrink apart till she couldfeel the identity which, though she believed, she could not realize. Her hand lay cold and tremulous within his warm pressure, but he was toomuch wrought up and too full of joy and haste to be sensible of anythingbut of the brave affection that had dared all to come to him; and hewas perfectly happy, even as a trumpet-call among the foe warned him topress 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 andfound! I fight as one who has something to fight for. '

He might not leave his post, but he watched her with eyes that could notbe satiated, as she recrossed the bridge; and, verily, his superabundantecstasy, and the energy that was born of it, were all needed to sustainthe spirits of his garrison through that terrible afternoon. The enemyseemed to be determined to carry the place before it could be relieved, and renewed the storm again and again with increasing violence; whilethe defenders, disheartened by their pertinacity, dismayed at theeffects of the heavy artillery, now brought to bear on the tower, anddirefully afraid of having the bridge destroyed, would have abandonedtheir barbican and shut themselves up within the body of the place, hadnot Berenger been here, there, and everywhere, directing, commanding, exhorting, cheering, encouraging, exciting enthusiasm by word andexample, winning proud admiration by feats of valour and dexteritysprung of the ecstatic inspiration of new-found bliss, and watching, as the conscious defender of his own most beloved, without a moment'srespite, till twilight stillness sank on the enemy, and old Falconnetcame to relieve him, thanking him for his gallant defence, and auguringthat, 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 theCommandant his delight, but the only answer he got was 'Hope, yes, everyhope;' and he again recognized what he had already perceived, that theindistinctness of his utterance made him entirely unintelligible tothe deaf Commandant, and that shouting did but proclaim to the wholegarrison, perhaps even to the enemy's camp, what was still too new ajoy not to be a secret treasure of delight. So he only wrung the oldCaptain's hand, and strode away as soon as he was released. 

It was nearly dark, in spite of a rising moon, but beneath the cloisterarch 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 heloved so well say, 'It is over! I can do no more. It were best to dighis 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 theeyes and composed the limbs of the dead soldier; then, kneeling, saidthe Lord's Prayer in French over him. Was this the being he had left asthe petted plaything of the palace? When she rose, she came to the archand gazed wistfully across the moonlit quadrangle, beyond the darkshade cast by the buildings, saying to the soldier, 'You are sure he wassafe?'

'My Eustacie, ' said Berenger, coming forward, 'we meet in grave times!'

The relief of knowing him safe after the sickening yearnings andsuspense of the day, and moreover the old ring of tenderness in histone, made her spring to him with real warmth of gladness, and cry, 'Itis you! All is well. 

'Blessedly well, _ma mie_, my sweetheart, ' he said, throwing his armround her, and she rested against him murmuring, 'Now I feel it! Thouare thyself!' They were in the dark cloister passage, and when he wouldhave 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--myown!'

'My poor darling, ' said Berenger, after a second, 'you must learn tobear with both my looks and speech, though I be but a sorry shatteredfellow for you. '

'No, no, ' she cried, hanging on him with double fervour. 'No, I amloving you the more already, --doubly--trebly--a thousand times. Onlythose moments were so precious, they made all these long years asnothing. But come to the little one, and to your brother. '

The little one had already heard them, and was starting forward to meetthem, 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 theeast window, which whitened her fair face, flaxen hair, and gray dress, so that she did truly look like some spirit woven of the moonbeams. Eustacie gave a cry of satisfaction: 'Ah! good, good; it was bymoonlight that I saw her first!'

Berenger took her in his arm, and held her to his breast with a sense ofinsatiable love, while Philip exclaimed, 'Ay, well may you make much ofher, brother. Well might you seek them far and wide. Such treasures arenot to be found in the wide world. '

Berenger without answering, carried the little one to the step of theruined high altar, and there knelt, holding Eustacie by the hand, thechild in one arm, and, with the moon glancing on his high white browand earnest face, he spoke a few words of solemn thanks and prayer fora blessing on their reunion, and the babe so wonderfully preserved tothem. 

Not till then did he carry her into the lamplight by Philip's bed, andscan therein every feature, to satisfy his eyes with the fulfilled hopethat had borne him through those darkest days, when, despairing of themother, the thought of the child had still sustained him to throwhis will into the balance of the scale between life and death. LittleBerangere gazed up into his face silently, with wondering, grave, and somewhat sleepy eyes, and then he saw them fix themselves on hispowder-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; Ishould have rid myself of the battle-stains ere touching thee, but howrecollect anything at such a moment?'

Eustacie was glad he had broken the spell of silence; for havingrecovered her husband, her first instinct was to wait upon him. She tookthe child from him, explaining that she was going to put her to bed inher own rooms up the stone stair, which for the present were filled withfugitive women and children who had come in from the country, so thatthe chancel must continue the lodging of Berenger and his brother;and for the time of her absence she brought him water to wash away thestains, and set before him the soup she had kept warm over her littlecharcoal brazier. It was only when thus left that he could own, inanswer to Philip's inquiries, that he could feel either hunger orweariness; nay, he would only acknowledge enough of the latter to givea perfect charm to rest under such auspices. Eustacie had dispatched hermotherly cares promptly enough to be with him again just as in takingoff 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 thatpurse which he had so long worn next his heart, where it had spent itsforce against the single pearl of Ribaumont. And holding it up to thelight, he saw that it was of silver. Then there returned on him andPhilip the words they had heard two days before, of silver bulletsforged for the destruction of the white moonlight fairy, and he furtherremembered the moment's shock and blow that in the midst of his wildamaze on the river's bank had made him gather his breath and strength tobound desperately upwards, lest the next moment he should find himselfwounded and powerless. 

For the innocent, then, had the shot been intended; and she runninginto danger out of her sweet, tender instincts of helpfulness, had beenbarely saved at the extreme peril of her unconscious father's life. Philip, whose vehement affection for the little one had been growingall day, was in the act of telling Berenger to string the bullet in theplace of the injured pearl, as the most precious heirloom of Ribaumontbravery, when Eustacie returned, and learning all, grew pale andshuddered as danger had never made her do before: but this strange dayhad almost made a coward of her. 

'And this is has spared, ' said Berenger, taking out the string of littleyellow shells. 'Dost know them, sweet heart? They have been my chapletall this time. '

'Ah!' cried Eustacie, 'poor, good Mademoiselle Noemi! she threaded themfor my child, when she was very little. Ah! could she have given them toyou--could it then not have been true--that horror?'

'Alas! it was too true. I found these shells in the empty cradle, in theburnt 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 fledfrom her, and the fate we had brought on her. That was the thought thatpreyed on my dear father. He grieved so to have left his sheep--and itwas only for my sake. Ah! I have brought evil on all who have been goodto me, beginning with you. You had better cast me off, or I shall bringyet 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, savethat he could not just have seen us; yet I think he knew it would beso. '

'Nay, it may be that he does see us, ' said Berenger. 'Would that I hadknown who it was whom you were laying down "_en paix et seurte bonne_!"As it was, the psalm brought precious thoughts of Chateau Leurre, andthe little wife who was wont to sing it with me. '

'Ah!' said Eustacie, 'it was when he sang those words as he was aboutto sleep in the ruin of the Temple that first I--cowering there interror--knew him for no Templar's ghost, but for a friend. That storyended my worst desolation. That night he became my father; the next mychild came to me!'

'My precious treasure! Ah! what you must have undergone, and I allunknowing, capable of nothing wiser than going out of my senses, andraging in a fever because I could convince no one that those were alllies 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 thesiege, 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 identifiedwith that wizard who had talked to him of 'Esperance, ' until the cuehad evidently been given by the Chevalier. Soon after the Duke haddispatched a messenger to say that the Chevalier de Ribaumont was on theway to demand his niece; and as it was a period of peace, and the lawwas decidedly on his side, Madame de Quinet would be unable to offer anyresistance. She therefore had resolved to send Eustacie away--not toany of the seaports whither the uncle would be likely to trace her, butabsolutely to a place which he would have passed through on his journeyinto Guyenne. The monastery of Notre-Dame de l'Esperance at Pont deDronne 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, hadentreated for a pastor to protect them; and Madame la Duchesse thoughtthat in this capacity Isaac Gardon, known by one of the many aliases towhich the Calvinist ministers constantly resorted, might avoid suspicionfor the present. She took the persecuted fugitives for some stages in anopposite direction, in her own coach, then returned to face and bafflethe Chevalier, while her trusty steward, by a long _detour_, conductedthem to Pont de Dronne, which they reached the very night after toChevalier had returned through it to Nid de Merle. 

The pastor and his daughter were placed under the special protection ofCaptain Falconnet, and the steward had taken care that they should bewell 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 journeyhad been so full of suffering to Isaac, and left such serious effects, that Eustacie could not bear to undertake it again, and Madame de Quinetsoon perceived that she was safer there than at the chateau, sincestrangers were seldom admitted to the fortress, and her presencethere attracted no attention. But for Isaac Gardon's declining health, Eustacie would have been much happier here than at the chateau; thehomely housewifely life, where all depended on her, suited her; and, using her lessons in domestic arts of nursing and medicine for thebenefit of her father's flock, she had found, to her dismay, thatthe simple people, in their veneration, had made her into a sort ofsuccessor to the patroness of the convent. Isaac had revived enough fora time to be able to conduct the worship in the church, and to instructsome his flock; but the teaching of the young had been more and moretransferred to her, and, as he ingenuously said, had taught her morethan she ever knew before. He gradually became weaker through moresuffering, and was absolutely incapable of removal, when an attackby the Guisards was threatened. Eustacie might have been sent back toQuinet; but she would not hear of leaving him; and this first had beena mere slight attack, as if a mere experiment on the strength of theplace. She had, however, then had to take the lead in controlling thewomen, 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 presencethere to Narcisse--perhaps by the Italian pedlar. Indeed Humfrey, whocame in for a moment to receive his master's orders, report his watch, and greet his lady, narrated, on the authority of the lately enlistedmen-at-arms, that M. De Nid de Merle had promised twenty crowns to anyone 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 beenthrown with that party in his perplexed life of truth-seeking anddisappointment in the aspirations and hopes of early youth. He had been, however, full of peace and trust that he should open his eyes where thelight was clear, and no cloud on either side would mar his perception;and his thankfulness had been great for the blessing that his almostheaven-sent daughter had been to him in his loneliness, bereavement, and decay. Much as he loved her, he did not show himself grieved ordistressed on her account; but, as he told her, he took the summons toleave her as a sign that his task was done, and the term of her trialsended. 'I trust as fully, ' he said, 'that thou wilt soon be in safe andloving hands, as though I could commit thee to them. '

And so he died in her arms, leaving her a far fuller measure of blessingand of love than ever she had derived from her own father; and as theenemy's trumpets were already sounding on the hills, she had fearedinsult to his remains, and had procured his almost immediate burial inthe cloister, bidding the assistants sing, as his farewell, that eveningpsalm which had first brought soothing to her hunted spirit. 

There, while unable, after hours of weeping, to tear herself from thegrave of her father and protector, had she in her utter desolation beenstartled by the summons, not only to attend to the wounded stranger, but to lodge him in the chancel. 'Only this was wanting, ' was the firstthought in her desolation, for this had been her own most cherishedresort. Either the _bise_, or fear of a haunted spot, or both, hadled to the nailing up of boards over the dividing screen, so that thechancel was entirely concealed from the church; and no one ever thoughtof setting foot there till Eustacie, whose Catholic reverence wasindestructible, even when she was only half sure that it was not worsethan a foible, had stolen down thither, grieved at its utter desolation, and with fond and careful hands had cleansed it, and amended the ruinso far as she might. She had no other place where she was sure of beinguninterrupted; and here had been her oratory, where she daily prayed, and often came to hide her tears and rally her spirits through that longattendance on her fatherly friend. It had been a stolen pleasure. Herreverent work there, if once observed, would have been treated as rankidolatry; 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 beinvaded by strange soldiers! Little did she think---!

And thus they sat, telling each other all, on the step of the ruinedchancel, among the lights and shadows of the apse. How unlike to statelyLouvre's halls of statuary and cabinets of porcelain, or the Arcadiangroves of Montpipeau! And yet how little they recked that they were ina beleaguered fortress, in the midst of ruins, wounded sufferers allaround, themselves in hourly jeopardy. It was enough that they had oneanother. They were so supremely happy that their minds unconsciouslygathered up those pale lights and dark fantastic shades as adjuncts oftheir 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 inthe windows of Notre-Dame de l'Esperance, and lighted up the brown faceand earnest eyes of the little dark figure, who, with hands claspedround her knees, sat gazing as if she could never gaze her fill, uponthe sleeping warrior beside whom she sat, his clear straight profilelike a cameo, both in chiseling and in colour, as it lay on the browncloak where he slept the profound sleep of content and of fatigue. 

Neither she nor Philip would have spoken or stirred to break thatwell-earned rest; but sounds from without were not long in opening hiseyes, 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 thenwondering how I ever liked thy boyish face better than the noble lookthou bearest now!'

'Ah! when I set out to come to thee, I was a walking rainbow; yet I wascoxcomb enough to think thou wouldst overlook it. '

'Show me those cruel strokes, ' she said; 'I see one'--and her fingertraced the seam as poor King Charles had done--'but where is the one mywicked cousin called by that frightful name?'

'Nay, verily, that sweet name spared my life! A little less spite at mypeach cheek, and I had been sped, and had not lisped and stammered allmy days in honour of _le baiser d'Eustacie_!' and as he pushed aside hislong 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'sone eye stared in amazement, and from beneath his gray moustachethundered forth the word 'Comment!' in accents fit to wake the dead. 

Was this Esperance, the most irreproachable of pastor's daughters andwidows? 'What, Madame, so soon as your good father is under ground? Atleast I thought ONE woman could be trusted; but it seems we must see tothe wounded ourselves. '

She blushed, but stood her ground; and Berenger shouted, 'She is mywife, sir!--my wife whom I have sought so long!'

'That must be as Madame la Duchesse chooses, ' said the Captain. 'She isunder her charge, and must be sent to her as soon as this _canaille_ iscleared off. To your rooms, Madame!'

'I am her husband!' again cried Berenger. 'We have been married sixteenyears. '

'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 whichthey say of the rogues outside. '

And putting his arm into Berenger's, he fairly carried himoff, discoursing by the way on _feu_ M. L'Amiral's saying that'over-strictness in camp was perilous, since a young saint, an olddevil, ' but warning him that this was prohibited gear, as he wasresponsible for the young woman to Madame la Duchesse. Berenger, who hadnever made the Captain hear anything that he did not know before, lookedabout for some interpreter whose voice might be more effectual, butfound 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 squareof leaden roof where the Quinet banner was planted. It commanded a wideand splendid view, to the Bay of Biscay on the one hand, and the inlandmountains on the other; but the warder who already stood there pointedsilently 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 orisonswere paid with folded hands, in silent thanks-giving, as he watchedthe sparkling of pikes and gleaming of helmets--and the white flag ofBourbon at length became visible. 

Already the enemy below were sending out scouts--they rode to the top ofthe hill--then a messenger swan his horse across the river. In the campbefore the bridge-tower men buzzed out of their tents, like ants whosehill is disturbed; horses were fastened to the cannon, tents werestruck, and it was plain that the siege was to be raised. 

Captain Falconnet did his ally the honour to consult him on theexpedience of molesting the Guisards by a sally, and trying to take someof their guns; but Berenger merely bowed to whatever he said, while hedebated aloud the PROS and CONS, and at last decided that the garrisonhad been too much reduced for this, and that M. Le Duc would preferfinding them drawn up in good order to receive him, to their goingchasing and plundering disreputable among the enemy--the Duke being hereevidently a much greater personage than the King of Navarre, hereditaryGovernor of Guyenne though he were. Indeed, nothing was wanting to theconfusion of Berenger's late assailants. In the camp on the north sideof the river, things were done with some order; but that on the otherside was absolutely abandoned, and crowds were making in disorder forthe ford, leaving everything behind them, that they might not have theirretreat cut off. Would there be a battle? Falconnet, taking in with hiseye the numbers of the succouring party, thought the Duke would allowthe besiegers to depart unmolested, but remembered with a sigh thatyoung king had come to meddle in their affair!

However, it was needful to go down and marshal the men for the receptionof 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 waswatched 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, andwhere he now sat in Maitre Gardon's great straw chair, wrapped inhis loose gown, and looking out at the northern gates, thrown open toreceive the King and Duke, old Falconnet presenting the keys to theDuke, the Duke bowing low as he offered them to the King, and the Kingwaving them back to the Duke and the Captain. Then they saw Falconnetpresenting the tall auxiliary who had been so valuable to him, hisgesture as he pointed up to the window, and the King's upward look, ashe doffed his hat and bowed low, while Eustacie responded with themost graceful of reverences, such as reminded Philip that his littlesister-in-law and tender nurse was in truth a great court lady. 

Presently Berenger came up-stairs, bringing with him his faithfulfoster-brother Osbert, who, though looking gaunt and lean, had nearlyrecovered his strength, and had accompanied the army in hopes of findinghis master. The good fellow was full of delight at the welcome of hislady, and at once bestirred himself in assisting her in rectifying theconfusion in which her guests had left her apartment. 

Matters had not long been set straight when steps were heard on thestone stair, and, the door opening wide, Captain Falconnet's gruff voicewas heard, 'This way, Monseigneur; this way, Sire. '

This was Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont's first reception. She wasstanding at the dark walnut table, fresh starching and crimpingBerenger's solitary ruff, while under her merry superintendence thoseconstant playfellows, Philip and Rayonette, were washing, or pretendingto wash, radishes in a large wooden bowl, and Berenger was endeavouringto write his letter of good tidings, to be sent by special messengerto his grand-father. Philip was in something very like a Geneva gown;Eustacie wore her prim white cap and frill, and coarse black sergekirtle; and there was but one chair besides that one which Philip wasdesired to retain, only two three-legged stools and a bench. 

Nevertheless, Madame de Ribaumont was equal to the occasion; nothingcould have been more courtly, graceful, or unembarrassed than her mannerof receiving of King's gallant compliments, and of performing all thecourtesies suited to the hostess and queen of the place: it was the airthat would have befitted the stateliest castle hall, yet that inits simplicity and brightness still more embellished the old ruinousconvent-cell. The King was delighted, he sat down upon one of thethree-legged stools, took Rayonette upon his knee, undertook to finishwashing the radishes, but ate nearly all he washed, declaring that theyput him in mind of his old hardy days on the mountains of Bearn. Heinsisted on hearing all Rayonette's adventure in detail; and on seeingthe pearls and the silver bullet, 'You could scarcely have needed thetoken, sir, ' said he with a smile to Berenger; 'Mademoiselle had alreadyshown herself of the true blood of the bravest of knights. '

The tidings of the attack on Pont de Dronne had caused the Duke to makea forced march to its relief, in which the King had insisted on joininghim; and they now intended to wait at Pont de Dronne till the restof the troops came up, and to continue their march through Guyenne toNerac, the capital of Henry's county of Foix. The Duke suggested thatif Philip were well enough to move when the army proceeded, the familymight then take him to Quinet, where the Duchess would be very desirousto see Madame; and therewith they took leave with some good-humouredmirth as to whether M. Le Ribaumont would join them at supper, or remainin the bosom of his family, and whether he were to be regarded as a gaybridegroom or a husband of sixteen year's standing. 

'Nay, ' said the King, 'did his good Orpheus know how nearly his Eurydicehad slipped through his fingers again? how M. De Quinet had caught therespectable Pluto yonder in the gray moustache actually arranging anescort to send the lady safe back to Quinet _bon gre malgre_--and trulya deaf Pluto was worse than even Orpheus had encountered!'

So laughing, he bowed again his compliments; but Eustacie demanded, sosoon as he was gone, what he meant by calling her by such names. If hethought it was her Christian name, it was over-familiar--if not, sheliked 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 soughtEurydice. '

But her learning did not extend so far; and when the explanation wasmade, she pouted, and owned that she could not bear to be reminded ofthe most foolish and uncomfortable scene in her life--the cause of allher troubles; and as Berenger was telling her of Diane's confessionthat her being involved in the pageant was part of the plot for theirdetention at Paris, Osbert knocked at the door, and entered with abundle in his arms, and the air of having done the right thing. 

'There, sir, ' he said with proud satisfaction, 'I have been to the campacross the river. I heard there were good stuffs to be had there fornothing, and thought I would see if I could find a coat for MonsieurPhilippe, for his own is a mere ruin. '

This was true, for Eustacie had been deciding that between blood andrents it had become a hopeless case for renovation; and Osbert joyfullydisplayed a beautifully-embroidered coat of soft leather, which he hadpurchased for a very small sum of a plunderer who had been there beforehim. The camp had been so hastily abandoned that all the luggagehad been left, and, like a true valet, Osbert had not neglected theopportunity of replenishing his master's wardrobe. 'And, ' said he, 'Isaw there on whom M. Le Baron knows, --M. De Nid de Merle. '

'Here!' cried Eustacie, startled for a moment, but her eyes restingreassured on her husband. 

'Madame need not be alarmed, ' said Osbert; 'M. Le Baron has well repaidhim. Ah! ah! there he lies, a spectacle for all good Christians todelight in. '

'It was then he, _le scelerat_?' exclaimed Berenger; 'I have alreadythought 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 himwrithing 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 lieson the ground howling and cursing. I would have given him the _coup degrace_ myself, but that I thought M. Le Baron might have some familymatters to settle with him; so I only asked what he thought now ofclapping guiltless folk into dungeons, and shooting innocent childrenlike 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 theNorseman. 'I only told Humfrey that if he saw any one likely to meddlehe should tell them he was reserved for you. Eh! M. Le Baron is notgoing now. Supper is about to be served, and if M. Le Baron would let mearray him with this ruff of Spanish point, and wax the ends of his bellemoustache---'

'It is late, ' added Eustacie, laying her hand on his arm; 'there may bewild men about--he may be desperate! Oh, take care!'

'_Ma mie_, do you not think me capable of guarding myself from a wildcat leap of a dying man? He must not be left thus. Remember he is aRibaumont. '

Vindictiveness and revenge had their part in the fire of Eustacie'snature. Many a time had she longed to strangle Narcisse; and she wason the point of saying, 'Think of his attempts on that little one'slife--think of your wounds and captivity;' but she had not spent threeyears with Isaac Gardon without learning that there was sin in givingway to her keen hatred; and she forced herself to silence, whileBerenger said, reading her face, 'Keep it back, sweet heart! Make itnot harder for me. I would as soon go near a dying serpent, but it werebarbarity to leave him as Osbert describes. '

Berenger was too supremely and triumphantly happy not to be full ofmercy; 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 theirroom, rent away the coverings from the bed, and torn the dying man fromit. Livid, nearly naked, covered with blood, his fingers hacked, and ears torn for the sake of the jewels on them, lay the dainty andeffeminate tiger-fop of former days, moaning and scarcely sensible. Butwhen the mattress had been replaced, and Berenger had lifted him back toit, 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 mysister?'

'Your sister is in all honour and purity at the nunnery of Lucon. '

He laughed a horrible, incredulous laugh. 'Safely disposed of ere youcajoled _la petite_ with the fable of your faithfulness! Nothing likea Huguenot for lying to both sides;' and then ensued another burstof imprecations on the delay that had prevented him from seizing thefugitives--till he--till he felt as if the breath of hell were upon him, and could not help vindicating himself, vain though he knew it tobe: 'Narcisse de Ribaumont, ' he said gravely, 'my word has never beenbroken, and you know the keeping of it has not been without cost. Onthat word believe that Madame de Selinville is as spotless a matron aswhen she periled herself to save my life. I never even knew her sex tillI had drawn her half drowned from the sea, and after that I only saw herin the presence of Dom Colombeau of Nissard, in whose care I left her. '

Narcisse's features contorted themselves into a frightful sneer as hemuttered, 'The intolerable fool; and that he should have got the betterof 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 andreviling 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? Letme see what work he made of _le baiser d'Eustacie_. Pray, how does itplease 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 nothither 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, thatone's own little matters may be overlooked. '

Berenger burst out at last, 'Her I will not hear blasphemed: the nextword 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 outof this miserable affair. You would scoff at the only real service youcould render me. '

'And that is---'

'To fetch a priest. Ha! ha! one of your sort would sooner hang me. Youhad 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 himand you what you MAY call blasphemy. '

'A priest you shall have, cousin, ' said Berenger, gravely; 'I will domy utmost to bring you one. Meanwhile, strive to bring yourself into astate in which he may benefit you. '

Berenger was resolved that the promise should be kept. He saw thatdespair was hardening the wretched man's heart, and that the possibilityof fulfilling his Church's rites might lead him to address himself torepentance; but the difficulties were great. Osbert, the only Catholicat hand, was disposed to continue his vengeance beyond the grave, andonly at his master's express command would even exercise his skill toendeavour to preserve life till the confessor could be brought. OrdinaryHuguenots would regard the desire of Narcisse as a wicked superstition, and Berenger could only hurry back to consult some of the gentlemen whomight be supposed more unprejudiced. 

As he was crossing the quadrangle at full speed, he almost ran againstthe King of Navarre, who was pacing up and down reading letters, andwho replied to his hasty apologies by saying he looked as if the fairEurydice had slipped through his hands again into the Inferno. 

'Not so, Sire, but there is one too near those gates. Nid de Merle islying at the point of death, calling for a priest. '

'_Ventre Saint-Gris_!' exclaimed the King, 'he is the very demon of thepiece, who carved your face, stole your wife, and had nearly shot yourdaughter. '

'The more need of his repentance, Sire, and without a priest he will nottry to repent. I have promised him one. '

'A bold promise!' said Henry. 'Have you thought how our good friendshere 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, 'Thereadiest way to obtain a priest will be to ride with a flag of truce tothe enemy's camp--they are at St. Esme--and say that M. De Nid de Merleis a prisoner and dying, and that I offer safe-conduct to any priestthat will come to him--though whether a red-hot Calvinist will respectmy 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 woundedman. '

'Then I will send with you half a dozen Gascons, who have been longenough at Paris with me to have no scruples. '

By the time Berenger had explained matters to his wife and brother, andsnatched a hasty meal, a party of gay, soldierly-looking fellows were inthe saddle, commanded by a bronzed sergeant who was perfectly at homein conducting messages between contending parties. After a dark ride ofabout five miles, the camp at the village of St. Esme was reached, and this person recommended that he himself should go forward with atrumpet, since M. De Ribaumont was liable to be claimed as an escapedprisoner. There was then a tedious delay, but at length the soldierreturned, and another horseman with him. A priest who had come to thecamp in search of M. De Nid de Merle was willing to trust himself to theKing 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 learntthat 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. DeSolivet had remained in the same crushed, humiliated mood, not exactlypenitent, but too much disappointed and overpowered with shame to heedwhat became of her provided she were not taken back to her brother orher aunt. She knew that repentance alone was left for her, and permittedherself to be taken to Lucon, where Mere Monique was the only personwhom she had ever respected. There had no doubt been germs of goodwithin her, but the crime and intrigue of the siren court of Catherinede Medicis had choked them; and the first sense of better things hadbeen awakened by the frank simplicity of the young cousin, while, nevertheless, jealousy and family tactics had led her to aid in hisdestruction, only to learn through her remorse how much she loved him. And when in his captivity she thought him in her power, but foundhim beyond her reach, unhallowed as was her passion, yet still thecontemplation of the virtues of one beloved could not fail to raise herstandard. It was for his truth and purity that she had loved him, evenwhile striving to degrade these quantities; and when he came forthfrom her ordeal unscathed, her worship of him might for a time be moreintense, but when the idol was removed, the excellence she had firstlearnt to adore in him might yet lead that adoration up to the source ofall excellence. All she sought NOW was shelter wherein to weep and cowerunseen; but the priest believed that her tears would soon spring fromprofound depths of penitence such as often concluded the lives of thegay ladies of France. Mere Monique had received her tenderly, and thegood priest had gone from Lucon to announce her fate to her aunt andbrother. 

At Bellaise he had found the Abbess much scandalized. She had connivedat her niece's releasing the prisoner, for she had acquired too muchregard for him to let him perish under Narcisse's hands, and she hadallowed Veronique to personate Diane at the funeral mass, and alsopurposely detained Narcisse to prevent the detection of the escape; butthe discovery that her niece had accompanied his flight had filled herwith shame and furry. 

Pursuit had been made towards La Rochelle, but when the neighbourhoodof the King of Navarre became known, no doubt was entertained that thefugitives had joined him, and Narcisse, reserving his vengeance for thefamily honour till he should encounter Berenger, had hotly resumed theintention of pouncing on Eustacie at Pont de Dronne, which had beendecided on upon the report of the Italian spy, and only deferred by hisfather's death. This once done, Berenger's own supposed infidelity wouldhave forced him to acquiesce in the annulment of the original marriage. 

It had been a horrible gulf, and Berenger shuddered as one who hadbarely struggled to the shore, and found his dear ones safe, and hisenemies shattered and helpless on the strand. They hurried on so as tobe in time. The priest, a brave and cautious man, who had often beforecarried 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, andobtained admittance they separated, and only met again to cross thebridge. They found Osbert and Humfrey on guard, saying that the suffererstill lingered, occasionally in a terrible paroxysm of bodily anguish, but usually silent, except when he upbraided Osbert with his master'sbreach of promise or incapacity to bring a priest through his Huguenotfriends. 

Such a taunt was on his tongue when Pere Colombeau entered, and checkedthe scoff by saying, 'See, my son, you have met with more pardon andmercy even on earth than you had imagined possible. '

There was a strange spasm on Narcisse's ghastly face, as though healmost regretted the obligation forced on him, but Berenger scarcelysaw him again. It was needful for the security of the priest and thetranquillity of the religious rites that he should keep watch outside, lest any of the more fanatical of the Huguenots should deem it theirduty to break in on what they had worked themselves into believingoffensive idolatry. 

His watch did not prove uncalled for. At different times he had to pleadthe King's safe-conduct, and his own honour, and even to defend his ownProtestantism by appealing to his wounds and services. Hearts were notsoft enough then for the cruelty of disturbing a dying man to be anyargument at all in that fierce camp; but even there the name of PereColombeau met with respect. The saintly priest had protected too manyenemies for any one who had heard of him to wish him ill. 

Nearly all night was Berenger thus forced to remain on guard, that thesole hope of Narcisse's repentance and salvation might not be swept awayby violence from without, renewing bitterness within. Not till towardsmorning was he called back. The hard, lingering death struggle had spentitself, and slow convulsive gasps showed that life was nearly gone; butthe satanic sneer had passed away, and a hand held out, a breathing likethe word 'pardon' seemed to be half uttered, and was answered from thebottom 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 hadshown, only that if he had been touched by any saving penitence, it wasowing to his kinsman. 

Berenger wished to send the corpse to rest in the family vault atBellaise, where the Chevalier had so lately been laid; and the priestundertook to send persons with a flag of truce to provide for thetransport, 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 tocome and take rest and refreshment in the prior's rooms, but tookleave of him at the further side of the fortress, with almost reverentblessings, as to one not far from the kingdom of heaven; and Berenger, with infinite peacefulness in his heart, went home in the silence of theSunday morning, and lay sleeping away his long fatigue through the chiefpart of the day, while Pastor Merlin was preaching and eloquent sermonupon his good brother Isaac Gardon, and Eustacie shed filial tears, moreof 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 wasimpatient of awaiting his troops at Pont de Dronne, and proposedto hasten on to Quinet, as a convenient centre for collecting theneighbouring gentry for conference. Thus, early on Monday, a party ofabout thirty set forth on horseback, including the Ribaumonts, Rayonettebeing perched by turns in front of her father or mother, and the Duke deQuinet declaring that he should do his best to divide the journey intostages not too long for Philip, since he was anxious to give his motherplenty of time to make preparations for her royal guest. 

He had, however, little reckoned on the young King's promptitude. Thefirst courier he had dispatched was overtaken at a _cabaret_ only fiveleagues from Pont de Dronne, baiting his horse, as he said; the secondwas found on the road with a lame horse; and the halt a day's journeyremained beyond it. The last stage had been ridden, much to the Duke'sdiscontent, for it brought them to a mere village inn, with scarcely anyaccommodation. The only tolerable bed was resigned by the King to theuse of Philip, whose looks spoke the exhaustion of which his tonguescorned to complain. So painful and feverish a night ensued thatEustacie was anxious that he should not move until the Duke should, as he promised, send a mule litter back for him; but this proposal heresented; and in the height of his constitutional obstinacy, appearedbooted and spurred at the first signal to mount. 

Nor could Eustacie, as she soon perceived, annoy him more than byshowing her solicitude for him, or attracting to him the notice of theother cavaliers. As the only lady of the party, she received a greatdeal of attention, with some of which she would gladly have dispensed. Whether it were the King's habit of calling her '_la Belle Eurydice_, ' orbecause, as she said, he was '_si laid_' and reminded her of old unhappydays of constraint, she did not like him, and had almost displeased herhusband and his brother by saying so. She would gladly have avoided thegallantries of this day's ride by remaining with Philip at the inn; butnot only was this impossible, but the peculiar ill-temper of concealedsuffering made Philip drive her off whenever she approached him withinquiries; so that she was forced to leave him to his brother andOsbert, and ride forward between the King and the Duke, the last of whomshe really liked. 

Welcome was the sight of the grand old chateau, its mighty wings ofchestnut forest stretching up the hills on either side, and thestately avenue extending before it; but just then the last courier wasdiscovered, reeling in his saddle under the effects of repeated toastsin honour of Navarre and Quinet. 

'We are fairly sped, ' said the Duke to Eustacie, shrugging his shouldersbetween 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 thefamily credit I fear, but for my own!'

'Nay, triumph makes everything be forgiven. '

'But not forgotten, ' laughed the Duke. 'But, _allons_. Now for theonset. We are already seen. The forces muster at the gateway. '

By the time the cavalcade were at the great paved archway into thecourt, 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 onthe royal rein, and signing to his eldest son to hold the stirrup; but, before the boy had comprehended, Henry had sprung down, and was kissingthe old lady's hand, saying, 'Pardon, Madame! I trust to your goodnessfor excusing this surprise from an old friend's son. '

Neither seeing nor caring for king or prince, the stranger gentleman atthe same moment pounced upon Eustacie and her little girl, crying aloudin English, 'Here she is! My dear, I am glad to see you. Give her tome, poor Berenger's little darling. Ah! she does not understand. Where'sMerrycourt?'

Just then there was another English exclamation, 'My father! Father!dear father!' and Philip, flinging himself from the saddle, fell almostprone on that broad breast, sobbing convulsively, while the eyes that, as he truly boasted, had never wasted a tear on his enemies, werestreaming so fast that his father's welcome savoured of reproof: 'What'sall this? Before these French too. '

'Take care, father, ' cried Berenger, leaping from his horse; 'he has anugly wound just where you are holding him. '

'Wounded! my poor boy. Look up. '

'Where is your room, sir?' said Berenger, seeing his hosts entirelyoccupied with the King; and at once lifting the almost helpless Philiplike 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 staircasethat led outside the house to the upper chambers. 

After a short interval, the Duchess, in the plenitude of her glory atentertaining her dear Queen's son, came up _en grande tenue_, leadingthe King by the hand, the Duke walking backwards in front, and his twosons each holding a big wax candle on either side. 

'Here, Sire, is the chamber where the excellent Queen did me the honourto repose herself. '

The Duke swung open the door of the state bed-chamber. There on thevelvet-hung bed sat _le gros Chevalier Anglais_, whom she had herselfinstalled there on Saturday. Both his hands were held fast in those ofa youth who lay beside him, deadly pale, and half undressed, with thelittle Ribaumont attending to a wound in his side, while her child washeld in the arms of a very tall, bald-headed young man, who stood atthe foot of the bed. The whole group of interlopers looked perfectlyglorified with happiness and delight. Even the wounded youth, ghastlyand suffering as he was, lay stroking the big Englishman's hand witha languid, caressing air of content, almost like that of a dog whohas found his master. None of them were the least embarrassed, theyevidently thought this a visit of inquiry after the patient; and whilethe Duchess stood confounded, and the Duke much inclined to laugh, Eustacie turned eagerly, exclaiming, 'Ah! Madame, I am glad you arecome. May I beg Mademoiselle Perrot for some of your cooling mallowsalve. 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 willcondescend to the Andromeda Chamber, Madame. He kindly gave up his bedto our young friend last night, when there was less choice than you cangive him. '

They all moved off again; and, before Eustacie was ready for themallows, Madame de Quinet, for whom the very name of a wound hadan attraction, returned with two hand-maidens bearing bandages andmedicaments, having by this time come to the perception that the woundedyouth was the son of the big Englishman who had arrived with youngMericour in search of her little _protegee_, and that the tall man wasthe husband so long supposed to be dead. She was curious to see herpupil's surgery, of which she highly approved, though she had no wordsto express her indignation at the folly of traveling so soon. Indeed, nothing but the passiveness of fatigue could have made her despotismendurable to Philip; but he cared for nothing so long as he could seehis father's face, and hear his voice--the full tones that his ear hadyearned for among the sharp expression of the French accent--and SirMarmaduke seemed to find the same perfect satisfaction in the sight ofhim; indeed, all were so rejoiced to be together, that they scarcelyexerted themselves to ask questions. When Berenger would have made someexplanation, Sir Marmaduke only said, 'Tell me not yet, my dear boy. Isee it is all right, and my head will hold no more yet but that I haveyou and the lad again! Thank God for it! Never mind how. '

When, however, with some difficulty they got him away from Philip'sbedside down to supper, the King came and made him high compliments uponthe distinguished bravery of his sons, and Mericour interpreted, tillSir Marmaduke--though answering that of course the lads must do theirduty, and he was only glad to hear they had done it--became more andmore radiant and proud, as he began to gather what their trials and whattheir steadfastness and courage had been. His goodly face, beaming withhonest gladness, was, as Henry told the Duchess, an absolute ornament toher table. 

Unable, however, to converse with any one but Berenger and Mericour, andpining all the time to get back to his son, the lengthy and ceremoniousmeal was a weary penance to him; and so soon as his release waspossible, he made his way up-stairs again, where he found Philip muchrefreshed by a long sleep, and only afraid that he should find the sightof his father merely a dream; then, when satisfied on that head, eagerto hear of all at home--'the sisters, the dogs, my mother, and my littlebrother?' as he arranged his inquiry. 

'Ha! you heard of that, did you?'

'Yes, ' said Philip, 'the villains gave us letters once--only once--andthose what they thought would sting us most. O father, how could you allthink such foul shame of Berry?'

'Don't speak of it, Phil; I never did, nor Aunt Cecily, not for amoment; but my Lord is not the man he was, and those foes of yours musthave set abroad vile reports for the very purpose of deceiving us. Andthen this child must needs be born, poor little rogue. I shall be ableto take to him now all is right again; but by St. George, they havetormented me so about him, and wanted me to take him as a providenceto join the estates together, instead of you and Berry, that I neverthought to care so little for a child of my own. '

'We drank his health at Nid de Merle, and were not a little comfortedthat you would have him in our place. '

'I'd rather--Well, it skills not talking of it, but it just shows theway of women. After all the outcry Dame Annora had made about her poorson, and no one loving him or heeding his interest save herself, nosooner was this little fellow born than she had no thought for any buthe, 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'sfollies, and Philip acquiesced, asking further, 'Nay, but how came youhither, father? Was it to seek us or Eustacie?'

'Both, both, my lad. One morning just after Christmas, I rid over toCombe with my dame behind me, and found the house in commotion with aletter that young Sidney, Berry's friend, had just sent down by specialmessenger. It had been writ more than a year, but, bless you, these poorforeigners have such crooked ears and tongues that they don't know whatto make of a plain man's name, and the only wonder was that it ever cameat all. It seems the Duke here had to get it sent over by some of thesecret agents the French Protestants have in England, and what do theydo but send it to one of the Vivians in Cornwall; and it was handedabout among them for how long I cannot say, till there was a chance ofsending it up to my Lord of Warwick; and he, being able to make nothingif it, shows it to his nephew, Philip Sidney, who, perceiving at oncewhom it concerned, sends it straight to my Lord, with a handsome letterhoping that it brought good tidings. There then it was, and so we firstknew that the poor lady had not been lost in the sack of the town, asMaster Hobbs told us. She told us how this Duchess had taken her underher protection, but that her enemies were seeking her, and had evenattempted her child's life. '

'The ruffians! Even so. '

'And she said her old pastor was failing in health, and prayed that sometrusty person might be sent to bring home at least the child to safetywith her kindred. There was a letter to the same effect, praising herhighly too, from the Duchess, saying that she would do her best to guardher, but the kinsmen had the law on their side, and she would be saferin England. Well, this was fair good news, save that we marveled themore how you and Berry should have missed her; but the matter now waswho was the trusty person who should go. Claude Merrycourt was ready---'

'How came he there?' demanded Philip. 'I thought he had gone, or beensent off with Lady Burnet's sons. '

'Why, so he had; but there's more to say on that score. He was so muchin favour at Combe, that my Lord would not be denied his spending theholiday 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 eldestson, chiefly because they wanted a wife for him of my Lady Walwyn's andMistress 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 nocommands laid on my girl, seeing that I had pledged my word not to crossher in the matter, and she hung about my neck and prayed me so meekly toleave her unwedded, that I must have been made of stone not to yield toher. So I told Mr. Horner that his son Jack must wait for little Nancyif he wanted a daughter of mine--and the stripling is young enough. Ibelieve he will. But women's tongues are not easy to stop, and Lucywas worn so thin, and had tears in her eyes--that she thought I nevermarked--whenever she was fretted or flouted, and at last I took her backto stay at Combe for Aunt Cecily to cheer up a bit; and--well, well, toget rid of the matter and silence Dame Nan, I consented to a betrothalbetween her and Merrycourt--since she vowed she would rather waitsingle for him than wed any one else. He is a good youth, and is workinghimself to a shadow between studying and teaching; but as to sendinghim alone to bring Berry's wife back, he was over-young for that. No onecould do that fitly save myself, and I only wish I had gone three yearsago, to keep you two foolish lads out of harm's way. But they set upan unheard-of hubbub, and made sure I should lose myself. What are youlaughing at, you Jacksauce?'

'To think of you starting, father, with not a word of French, and neverfrom home further than once to London. '

'Ah! you thought to come the traveled gentleman over me, but I've beeneven with you. I made Dame Nan teach me a few words, but I never couldremember anything but that "mercy" is "thank ye". However, Merrycourtoffered to come with me, and my Lord wished it. Moreover, I thought hemight aid in tracing you out. So I saw my Lord alone, and he passed hisword to me that, come what would, no one should persuade him to alterhis will to do wrong to Berenger's daughter; and so soon as Master Hobbscould get the THROSTLE unladen, and fitted out again, we sailed forBordeau, and there he is waiting for us, while Clause and I boughthorses and hired a guide, and made our way here on Saturday, where wewere very welcome; and the Duchess said she would but wait till shecould learn there were no bands of the enemy at hand, to go down with meherself to the place where she had sent the lady. A right worthy dame isthis 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 andease in his reception were far above aught that he found here. Whathe means is past a plain man, for as to Berry's wife she is handy, andnotable enough, and 'tis well he loves her so well; but what a littlebrown 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 yondertown. '

'Very like!' said Sir Marmaduke; 'but after all our fears at home of afine 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, shealways said the girl would grow up no beauty, and 'tis the way ofwomen to brook none fairer than themselves! Better so. She is a goodProtestant, and has done rarely by you, Phil. '

'Truly, I might be glad 'twas no court madam that stood by me when Berrywas called back to the fight: and for the little one, 'tis the loveliestand 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 thendrank the health of the daughter of the bravest of knights; and Berryheld 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 hisbaldness; and 'tis worth having come here to see how much you lads arethought of--though to be sure 'tis not often the poor creatures here seeso 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 goodservice. Indeed, the King himself told me as much by the mouth ofMerrycourt. May that youngster's head only not be turned! Why, they sethim at table above Berenger, and above half the King's gentlemen. Eventhe Duchess makes as if he were one of her highest guests--he a poorOxford scholar, doubting if he can get his bread by the law, and floutedas though he were not good enough for my daughter. 'Tis the worldtopsy turvy, sure enough! And that this true love that Berenger has runthrough fire and water after, like a knight in a pedlar's run throughturn out a mere little, brown, common-looking woman after all, not onewhit equal to Lucy!'

Sir Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that night, when hehad talked Philip into a state of feverishness and suffering that becameworse under Madame de Quinet's reproofs and remedies, and only yieldedto Eustacie's long and patient soothing. He then could almost have ownedthat 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 herappearance. 

There was a great gathering of favourers of the Huguenot cause on thatday; gentlemen came from all parts to consult with Henry of Navarre, andMadame de Quinet had too much sense of the fitness of things to allowMadame de Ribaumont to appear at the ensuing banquet in her shabby, rusty black serge, and tight white borderless cap. The whole wardrobe ofthe poor young Duchess de Quinet was placed at her service, and though, with the thought of her adopted father on her heart, she refused gaycolours, yet when, her toilette complete, she said into Philip's room, he almost sprang up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and ceremoniouslybowed as to a stranger, and was only undeceived when little Rayonetteran joyously to Philip, asking if _Manan_ was not _si belle, si belle_. 

The effects of her unrestful nights has now passed away, and left hermagnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and arch fire; the bloomingglow was restored to her cheek; and though neck, brow, and hands werebrowner than in the shelter of convent or palace, she was far more nearabsolute beauty than in former days, both from countenance and fromage. Her little proud head was clustered with glossy locks of jet, stillshort, but curling round her brow and neck, whose warm brunette tintscontrasted well with the delicate, stiffened cobweb of her exquisitestanding ruff, which was gathered into a white satin bodice, with askirt of the same material, over which swept a rich black brocade trainopen in front, with an open body and half-sleeves with falling lace, andthe hands, delicate and shapely as ever, if indeed a little tanned, heldfan and handkerchief with as much courtly grace as though they had neverstirred broth nor wrung out linen. Sir Marmaduke really feared he hadthe court madam on his hands after all, but he forgot all about hisfears, as she stood laughing and talking, and by her pretty airs andgestures, 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 herto the banqueting-hall. She was more entirely the Eustacie of the Louvrethan he had ever realized seeing her, and yet so much more; and when theDuchess beheld the sensation she produced among the _noblesse_, it waswith self-congratulation in having kept her in retirement while itwas still not known that she was not a widow. The King of Navarre hadalready found her the only lady present possessed of the peculiar aromaof high-breeding which belonged to the society in which both he and shehad been most at home, and his attentions were more than she liked fromone whose epithet of Eurydice she had never quite forgiven; at least, that was the only reason she could assign for her distaste, but theDuchess understood her better than did Berenger, nay, better than shedid herself, and kept her under the maternal wings of double form andceremony. 

Berenger, meanwhile, was in great favour. A command had been offered himby the King of Navarre, who had promised that if he would cast in hislot with the Huguenots, his claims on all the lands of Ribaumont shouldbe enforced on the King of France when terms were wrung from him, andNarcisse's death removed all valid obstacle to their recognition; butBerenger felt himself bound by all home duties to return to England, norhad he clear convictions as to the absolute right of the war in whichhe had almost unconsciously drawn his sword. Under the Tudors the divineright of kings was strongly believed in, and it was with many genuinemisgivings that the cause of Protestant revolt was favoured by Elisabethand her ministers; and Berenger, bred up in a strong sense of loyalty, as well as in doctrines that, as he had received them, savoured aslittle of Calvinism as of Romanism, was not ready to espouse theHuguenot cause with all his heart; and as he could by no means havefought on the side of King Henry III. Or of the Guises, felt thankfulthat the knot could be cut by renouncing France altogether, accordingto the arrangement which had been defeated by the Chevalier's ownsupper-subtle machinations. 

At the conference of gentlemen held at Quinet, he had been startled byhearing the name of the Sieur de Bellaise, and had identified him witha grave, thin, noble-looking man, with an air of high-bred and patientpoverty. He was a Catholic but no Guisard, and supported the middlepolicy of the Montmorency party, so far as he possessed any influence;but his was only the weight of personal character, for he had merely asmall property that had descended to him through his grandmother, thewife of the unfortunate Bellaise who had pined to death in the dungeonat Loches, under Louis XI. Here, then, Berenger saw the right means ofriding himself and his family of the burthen that his father had mournedover, and it only remained to convince Eustacie. Her first feeling whenshe heard of the King's offer, was that at last her ardent wish wouldbe gratified, she should see her husband at the head of her vassals, and hear the war-cry motto '_A moi Ribaumont_. ' Then came the oldrepresentation that the Vendeen peasants were faithful Catholics whocould hardly be asked to fight on the Calvinist side. The old spiritrose in a flush, a pout, a half-uttered query why those creatures shouldbe allowed their opinions. Madame la Baronne was resuming her haughtytemperament in the _noblesse_ atmosphere; but in the midst came theremembrance of having made that very speech in her Temple ruin--of thegrave sad look of rebuke and shake of the head with which the good oldminister had received it--and how she had sulked at him till forced tothrow herself on him to hinder her separation from her child. She burstinto tears, and as Berenger, in some distress, began to assure her thathe would and could do nothing without her consent, she struggled torecover voice to say, 'No! no! I only grieve that I am still as wickedas ever, after these three years with that saint, my dear father. Do asyou will, only pardon me, the little fierce one!'

And then, when she was made to perceive that her husband would have tofight alone, and could not take her with him to share his triumphs orbind his wounds, at least not except by bringing her in contact withHenry of Navarre and that atmosphere of the old court, she acquiescedthe 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'sdescription of the ill-used Sieur de Bellaise had the more effect onher, because she well remembered the traditions whispered among thepeasants with whom her childhood had been passed, that the villagecrones declared nothing had gone well with the place since the Bellaisehad been expelled, with a piteous tale of the broken-hearted lady, thatshe had never till now understood. 

For the flagrant injustice perpetrated on her uncle and cousin in thesettlement on Berenger and herself she cared little, thinking they hadpretty well repaid themselves, and not entering into Berenger's deeperview, that this injustice was the more to be deplored as the occasion oftheir guilt; but she had no doubt or question as to the grand strokeof yielding up her claims on the estate to the Sieur de Bellaise. Thegenerosity of the deed struck her imagination, and if Berenger wouldnot lead her vassals to battle, she did not want them. There was nodifficulty with Sir Marmaduke; he only vowed that he liked Berenger'swife all the better for being free of so many yards of French dirttacked to her petticoat, and Philip hated the remembrance of those redsugar-loaf pinnacles far too much not to wish his brother to be rid ofthem. 

M. De Bellaise, when once he understood that restitution was intended, astonished Sir Marmaduke by launching himself on Berenger's neck withtears of joy; and Henry of Navarre, though sorry to lose such a partisanas the young Baron, allowed that the Bellaise claims, being those of aCatholic, might serve to keep out some far more dangerous person whomthe court party might select in opposition to an outlaw and a Protestantlike M. De Ribaumont. 

'So you leave us, ' he said in private to Berenger, to whom he had takena great liking. 'I cannot blame you for not casting your lot into sucha witch's caldron as this poor country. My friends think I dallied atcourt like Rinaldo in Armida's garden. They do not understand that whenone hears the name of Bourbon one does not willingly make war with theCrown, still less that the good Calvin left a doctrine bitter to thetaste and tough of digestion. Maybe, since I have been forced to add myspoon to stir the caldron, it may clear itself; if so, you will rememberthat you have rights in Normandy and Picardy. '

This was the royal farewell. Henry and his suite departed the nextmorning, but the Duchess insisted on retaining her other guests tillPhilip's cure should be complete. Meantime, Claude de Mericour hadwritten to his brother and arranged a meeting with him. He was now noboy 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 hisbrother did not regard him as quite the disgrace to his family he had atfirst deemed him. He was at least no rebel; and though the law seemed toFrench eyes infinitely beneath the dignity of a scion of nobility, stillit was something not to have him a heretic preacher, and to be ableat least to speak of him as betrothed to the sister of the Baron deRibaumont. Moreover, that Huguenot kinsman, whose extreme Calvinistopinions had so nearly revolted Mericour, had died and left him all hismeans, as the only Protestant in the family; and the amount, when Claudearranged matters with his brother, proved to be sufficient to bear himthrough his expenses handsomely as a student, with the hope of marriageso soon as he should have kept his terms at the Temple. 

And thus the good ship THROSTLE bore home the whole happy party toWeymouth, and good Sir Marmaduke had an unceasing cause for exultationin the brilliant success of his mission to France. 

After all, the first to revisit that country was no other than theonce homesick Philip. He wearied of inaction, and thought his countyneighbours ineffably dull and lubberly, while they blamed him for beinga fine, Frenchified gentleman, even while finding no fault with theirold friend Berenger, or that notable little, lively, housewifely ladyhis wife, whose broken English and bright simplicity charmed every one. Sorely Philip needed something to do; he might have been a gentlemanpensioner, but he had no notion, he said, of loitering after a lady toboat 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 washorribly dull, and wanting in all the sparkle and brilliancy that evenhe had perceived at Paris. 

Eustacie gladly retreated to housewifery at Combe Walwyn, but astrenuous endeavour on Lady Thistlewood's part to marry her stepson to aDorset king's daughter, together with the tidings of the renewed war inFrance, spurred Philip into writing permission from his father to jointhe 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, andtelling of marches, exploits, and battles, --how he had taken a standardof the League at Coutras, and how he had led a charge of pikemen atIvry, for which he received the thanks of Henry IV. But, though so nearhome, he did not set foot on English ground till the throne of Francewas secured to the hero of Navarre, and he had marched into Paris inguise very unlike the manner he had left it. 

Then home he came, a bronzed gallant-looking warrior, the pride of thecounty, ready for repose and for aid to his father in his heartyold age, and bearing with him a pressing invitation from the Kingto 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 contentto breed up my children as wholly English. He bade me to return when heshould have stirred the witch's caldron into clearness. Alas! all hehas 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 hejoined the Catholic Church I trusted that he might have given truth tothe one party, and unity to the other; but when the clergy accepted himwith all his private vices, and he surrendered unconditionally, I losthope. I fear there is worse in store. Queen Catherine did her most fatalwork of evil when she corrupted Henry of Navarre. '

'If you say more, Berry, I shall be ready to challenge you!' saidPhilip. 'When you saw him, you little knew the true king of souls thathe is, is greatness, or his love for his country. '

'Nay, I believe it; but tell me, Philip, did you not hint that you hadbeen 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 arrangefor quartering my men so as least to scandalize the sisters. The Abbesscame 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 twicesmiled as she alone in old times could smile. The place rings with herdevotion, her charity, her penances, and truly her face is'--he couldhardly speak--'like that of a saint. She knew me at once, asked foryou all, and bade me tell you that NOW she prays for you and yourscontinually, 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 championhas still left his heart behind in a French convent. '

'Stay, Berenger! do you remember yonder villain conjurer's predictionthat 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 ofthe moment. Berenger, I knew the sorcerer spake sooth when that littlemoonbeam child of yours brought me the flowers from the rampart. I hadspeech with her last night. She has all the fair loveliness that belongsof right to your mother's grandchild, but her eye, blue as it is, hasthe Ribaumont spirit; the turn of the head and the smile are what Iloved long ago in yonder lady, and, above all, she is her own sweetself. Berenger, give me your daughter Berangere, and I ask no portionwith her but the silver bullet. Keep the pearls for your son's heirloom;all I ask with Rayonette is the silver bullet. '

THE END