I was day after day worried and harassed by my suitor, so that I was
very glad when, in the autumn, Madame de Rambouillet invited my sister
and me to come and pass a few days with her, and see her vintage. We
left my son under the care of the Abbe and of Sir Francis and Lady
Ommaney, and set forth together in our coach with my women, and, as
usual, mounted servants enough to guard us from any of the thieves or
straggling soldiers who infested the roads.
For about a league all went well and quietly, but just at the cross-road
leading to Chevreuse, a troop of horsemen sprang out upon us. There was
a clashing of swords, a pistol-shot or two; I found myself torn from the
arms in which my sister was trying to hold me fast, dragged out in spite
of all our resistance, and carried into another carriage, at the door of
which I was received by two strong arms; a handkerchief was thrown over
my mouth to stop my screams, and though the inside of the coach was
already darkened, my hands were tied and my eyes blinded as I was
placed on the seat far in the corner; the door banged fast, and we drove
swiftly away.
At first I was exhausted with my struggles, and in an agony of
suffocation with the gag, which hindered me from getting my breath. I
fancy I must have made some sound which showed my captors that unless
they relieved me, I should perish in their hands. So the handkerchief
was removed, and while I was panting, a voice said:
‘It shall not be put on again, if Madame will give her word not to cry
out.’
‘It is of no use at present,’ I gasped out, and they let me alone. I
thought I knew that threats and entreaties could avail me little in the
existing circumstances, and I thought it wiser to rally my forces for
the struggle that no doubt was impending; so I sat as still as I could,
and was rewarded by finding my hands unbound, when I tried to raise one
to my face, and again the voice said:
‘Believe us, Madame, you are with friends who would not hurt you for the
universe.’
I made no answer. Perhaps it was in the same mood in which, when I was a
child at home and was in a bad temper, I might be whipped and shut up
in a dark room, but nothing would make me speak. Only now I said my
prayers, and I am sure I never did so in those old days. We went on and
on, and I think I must have dozed at last, for I actually thought myself
wearied out with kicking, scratching, and screaming on the floor of the
lumber-room at Walwyn, and that I heard the dear grandmother’s voice
saying:
‘Eh! quoi! she is asleep; the sullen had stopped, and with the words,
‘Pardon me, Madame,’ I was lifted out, and set upon my feet; but my
two hands were taken, and I was led along what seemed to be endless
passages, until at length my hands were released, and the same voice
said:
‘Madame will be glad of a few moments to arrange her dress. She will
find the bandage over her eyes easy to remove.’
Before, however, I could pull it away, my enemy had shut the door from
the outside, and I heard the key turn in it. I looked about me; I was
in a narrow paved chamber, with one small window very high up, through
which the sunbeams came, chequered by a tall tree, so high that I knew
it was late in the day, and that we must have driven far. There was the
frame of a narrow bedstead in one corner, a straw chair, a crucifix,
and an empty cell in a deserted convent; but there was a stone table
projecting from the wall, on which had been placed a few toilette
necessaries, and a pitcher of water stood on the floor.
I was glad to drink a long draught, and then, as I saw there was no
exit, I could not but make myself more fit to be seen, for my hair had
been pulled down and hung on my shoulders, and my face--ah! it had never
looked anything like that, save on the one day when Eustace and I had
the great battle, and our grand-mother punished us both by bread and
water for a week.
After I had made myself look a little more like a respectable widow, I
knelt down before the crucifix to implore that I might be defended, and
not be wanting to my son or myself. I had scarcely done so, however,
when the door was opened, and as I rose to my feet I beheld my
brother-in-law, d’Aubepine.
‘Armand, brother,’ I cried joyfully, ‘are you come to my rescue? Did you
meet my sister?’
For I really thought she had sent him, and I readily placed my hand in
his as he said: ‘It depends only on yourself to be free.’ Even then I
did not take alarm, till I found myself in a little bare dilapidated
chapel, but with the altar hastily decked, a priest before it in his
stole, whom I knew for the Abbe de St. Leu, one of the dissipated young
clergy about Court, a familiar of the Conde clique, and, prepared to
receive me, Monsieur de Lamont, in a satin suit, lace collar and cuffs,
and deep lace round his boots.
I wrenched my hand from M. d’Aubepine, and would have gone back, but
three or four of the soldiers came between me and the door. They were
dragoons of the Conde regiment; I knew their uniform. Then I turned
round and reproached d’Aubepine with his wicked treachery to the memory
of the man he had once loved.
Alas! this moved him no longer. He swore fiercely that this should not
be hurled at his head again, and throughout the scene, he was worse
to me than even M. de Lamont, working himself into a rage in order to
prevent himself from being either shamed or touched.
They acted by the will and consent of the Prince, they told me, and it
was of no use to resist it. The Abbe, whom I hated most of all, for he
had a loathsome face, took out a billet, and showed it to me. I
clearly read in the large straggling characters--‘You are welcome to a
corporal’s party, if you can by no other means reduce the pride of the
little droll.--L. DE B.’
‘Your Prince should be ashamed of himself,’ I said. ‘I shall take care
to publish his infamy as well as yours.’
The gentlemen laughed, the Abbe the loudest, and told me I was quite
welcome; such victories were esteemed honourable.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘for a short time, among cowards and rogues.’
Armand howled at the word cowards.
‘Cowards, yes,’ I said, ‘who must needs get a company of soldiers to
overcome one woman.’
I saw a good long scratch on Lamont’s face just then, and I flattered
myself that it was due to Nan’s nails. They all beset me, Lamont at
my feet, pleading the force of his passion, entreating with all the
exaggeration of the current language; the Abbe arguing about the
splendid position I should secure for my son and myself, and the way I
should be overthrown if I held out against the Prince; d’Aubepine raging
and threatening. I had lost myself already, by my absence and goings on,
the estate; the Prince had but to speak the word, and I should be in the
Bastille.
‘Let him,’ I said.
‘It is of no use to dally with her,’ cried Armand. ‘I will hold her
while the rite is performed.’
I looked at him. I was quite as tall as he, and, I believe, quite as
strong; at any rate he quailed, and called out:
‘Have you any spirit, Lamont? Here, one of you fellows, come and help to
hold her.’
‘At your peril!’ I said. ‘Gentlemen, I am the widow of your brave
officer, Captain de Bellaise, killed at Freibourg. Will you see this
wrong done?’
‘I command you, as your officer--forward!’ he said; and though one
wavered, the others stepped forward.
Then I saw there was only one thing to do. A big stone image stood near
me. Before they could touch me I had fallen on my knees, and wound
my arms so closely round it that they could not unloose them without
absolute violence and injury. I knew that in such a position it was
impossible even to go through the semblance of marrying me. I felt
Armand’s hand and the Abbe’s try to untwist my arms and unclasp my
hands, but they could not prevail against that grip with which I held,
and I spoke not one word.
At last they drew back, and I heard them say one to the other: ‘It is of
no use. She must yield in time. Leave her.’
I heard them all clank out with their spurs, and lock the door, and then
I looked up. There was no other way out of the little convent chapel,
which looked as if it had been unused for years, except perhaps for
an annual mass, but the altar had been dressed in preparation for the
sacrilege that was intended. Then I turned to the figure to which I had
clung, and I was encouraged by seeing that it bore the emblems of St.
Margaret, my own patroness. I knew very well that my brother and sister
would shake their heads, and say it was a superstitious fancy, if they
called it by no harder name; but they did not understand our feelings
towards the saints. Still it was not to St. Margaret I turned to help
me, but to St. Margaret’s Master and mine, when I prayed to be delivered
from the mouth of the dragon, though I did trust that she was entreating
for me.
I would not move away from her, I might need to clasp her at any moment;
but I prayed fervently before the altar, where I knelt till I grew faint
with weariness; and then I sat at her feet, and thought over all the
possibilities of being rescued. If my sister were free I knew she would
leave no stone unturned to deliver me, and that my rescue could be only
a matter of time; but she might also have been seized, and if so--?
Anyhow, I was absolutely determined that they should kill me before I
consented to become the wife of M. de Lamont, or to give him any right
over my son.
After a time the door was cautiously opened, and one of the dragoons
came in, having taken off his boots and spurs that he might move more
noiselessly.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘pardon me. I loved our brave captain; I know you.
You sent me new linen in the hospital. Captain de Bellaise was a brave
man.’
‘And you will see no wrong done to his widow and child, my good friend?’
I cried.
‘Ah, Madame, you should command all of us. But we are under orders.’
‘And that means doing me unmanly violence, unworthy of a brave soldier!
You cannot help me?’
‘If Madame would hear me! The gentlemen are at dinner. They may sit
long over their wine to give them courage to encounter Madame again.
My comrade, Benlot, is on duty. I might find a messenger to Madame’s
friends.’
Then he told me what I had little guessed, that we had been driven
round and round, and were really only in the Faubourg St. Medand, in
the Priory of the Benedictines, giving title and revenue to the Abbe St.
Leu, which had contained no monks ever since the time of the Huguenots.
He could go into Paris and return again before his turn to change guard
was likely to come.
Should I send him, or should I thus only lose a protector? He so far
reassured me that he said his comrades were, like himself, resolved not
to proceed to extremities with the widow of their captain--above all in
a chapel. They would take care not to exert all their strength, and if
they could, without breach of discipline, they would defend me.
I decided. I knew not where my sister might be searching, or if she
might not be likewise a prisoner; so I directed him first to the house
of M. Darpent, who was more likely to know what to do than Sir Francis
Ommaney. Besides, the Rue des Marmousets, where stood Maison Darpent,
was not far off.
I heard a great clock strike four, five, six, seven, eight o’clock,
and by and by there was a parley. M. de Lamont opened the door of the
chapel, and as I shuddered and kept my arm on my patroness, he implored
me to believe that no injury was intended to me--the queen of his
thoughts, or some such nonsense--I might understand that by the presence
of my brother-in-law. He only besought me not to hurt my precious
health, but to leave the cold chapel for a room that had been prepared
for me, and where I should find food.
‘No,’ I said; ‘nothing should induce me to leave my protectress.’
At least, then, he conjured me to accept food and wine, if I took
it where I was. I hastily considered the matter. There was nothing
I dreaded so much as being drugged; and yet, on the other hand, the
becoming faint for want of nourishment might be equally dangerous, and
I had taken nothing that day except a cup of milk before we set out from
home; and it was now a matter of time.
I told him, therefore, that I would accept nothing but a piece of bread
and some pure water, if it were brought me where I was.
‘Ah, Madame! you insult me by your distrust,’ he cried.
‘I have no reason to trust you,’ I said, with a frigidity that I hoped
would take from him all inclination for a nearer connection; but he
only smote his forehead as if it had been a drum, and complained of
my cruelty and obduracy. ‘Surely I had been nurtured by tigresses,’ he
said, quoting the last pastoral comedy he had seen.
He sent M. d’Aubepine to conduct some servant with a tray of various
meats and drinks; I took nothing but some bread and water, my
brother-in-law trying to argue with me. This was a mistake on their
part, for I was more angry with him than with his friend, in whom there
was a certain element of extravagant passion, less contemptible than
d’Aubepine’s betrayal of Phillipe de Bellaise’s widow merely out of
blind obedience to his Prince. He assured me that resistance was
utterly useless, that bets had passed at the Prince’s court on the
Englishwoman’s being subdued by Lamont before mid-night, and the Prince
himself had staked, I know not how much, against those who believed in
my obstinacy. Therefore Armand d’Aubepine, who was flushed with wine,
and not in the least able to perceive how contemptible he was, urged me
to yield with the best grace I could, since there was no help for it.
And so saying he suddenly pinioned both my arms with his own.
No help! Was there no help in Heaven above, or earth below? Was my
dragoon on his way?
The doors opened. Again the Abbe opened his book.
‘Brave dragoons!’ I cried out; ‘if there be not a man among you who
will stir a hand to save me, bear witness that I, Margaret de Ribaumont,
widow of Philippe de Bellaise, your own officer, protest against this
shameful violence. Whatever is here done is null and void, and shall be
made known to M. l’Abbe’s superiors.’
There was a dead pause. Then Lamont whispered something to the priest,
who began again. I felt Armand’s held relaxing, and making a sudden
struggle, I shook myself free with such force that he staggered back,
while I bounded forward and snatched the book from the priest’s hand,
throwing it on the floor, and then, regaining once more the statue of
St. Margaret, I stood grasping her with one arm with desperate energy,
while I cried: ‘A moi, soldiers of Freibourg!’
‘Drag her away,’ said d’Aubepine to the men.
‘By your leave, my captain,’ said their sergeant, ‘except in time of
war, it is not permitted to lay hands on any one in sanctuary. It is not
within our discipline.’
D’Aubepine swore an oath that they would see what their Colonel said
to their insubordination; but the sergeant replied, not without some
malice:
‘It falls within the province of the reverend Father.’
‘I command you, then!’ shrieked the Abbe, in a furry.
‘Nay, Monsieur l’Abbe is not our officer,’ said the sergeant, saluting
with great politeness.
‘Madame,’ cried Lamont, ‘will you cause these men to be put to death for
disobedience to their officer?’
I scarcely believed him. And yet--
There was a sound at the outside.
‘Make haste!’ cried d’Aubepine. ‘Here is the Prince come to see whether
he has won his wager.’