Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met.
* * * *
Misses, the tale that I relate,
This lesson seems to carry:
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry!
COWPER, PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED
‘I will have it!’
‘Thou shalt not have it!’
‘Diane says it is mine.’
‘Diane knows nothing about it.’
‘Gentlemen always yield to ladies.’
‘Wives ought to mind their husbands.’
‘Then I will not be thy wife.’
‘Thou canst not help it.’
‘I will. I will tell my father what M. le Baron reads and sings, and
then I know he will.’
‘And welcome.’
Eustacie put out her lip, and began to cry.
The ‘husband and wife,’ now eight and seven years old, were in a large
room hung with tapestry, representing the history of Tobit. A great
state bed, curtained with piled velvet, stood on a sort of _dais_ at
the further end; there was a toilet-table adorned with curiously shaped
boxes, and coloured Venetian glasses, and filagree pouncet-boxes, and
with a small mirror whose frame was inlaid with gold and ivory. A large
coffer, likewise inlaid, stood against the wall, and near it a
cabinet, of Dutch workmanship, a combination of ebony, ivory, wood, and
looking-glass, the centre retreating, and so arranged that by the help
of most ingenious attention to perspective and reflection, it appeared
like the entrance to a magnificent miniature cinque-cento palace, with
steps up to a vestibule paved in black and white lozenges, and with
three endless corridors diverging from it. So much for show; for
use, this palace was a bewildering complication of secret drawers and
pigeon-holes, all depending indeed upon one tiny gold key; but unless
the use of that key were well understood, all it led to was certain
outer receptacles of fragrant Spanish gloves, knots of ribbon, and
kerchiefs strewn over with rose leaves and lavender. However, Eustacie
had secured the key, and was now far beyond these mere superficial
matters. Her youthful lord had just discovered her mounted on a chair,
her small person decked out with a profusion of necklaces, jewels,
bracelets, chains, and rings; and her fingers, as well as they could
under their stiffening load, were opening the very penetralia of the
cabinet, the inner chamber of the hall, where lay a case adorned with
the Ribaumont arms and containing the far-famed chaplet of pearls.
It was almost beyond her reach, but she had risen on tip-toe, and was
stretching out her hand for it, when he, springing behind her on the
chair, availed himself of his superior height and strength to shut the
door of this Arcanum and turn the key. His mortifying permission to his
wife to absent herself arose from pure love of teasing, but the next
moment he added, still holding his hand on the key--‘As to telling what
my father reads, that would be treason. How shouldst thou know what it
is?’
‘Does thou think every one is an infant but thyself?’
‘But who told thee that to talk of my father’s books would get him into
trouble?’ continued the boy, as they still stood together on the high
heavy wooden chair.
She tossed her pretty head, and pretended to pout.
‘Was it Diane? I will know. Didst thou tell Diane?’
Instead of answering, now that his attention to the key was relaxed,
Eustacie made a sudden dart, like a little wild cat, at the back of the
chair and at the key. They chair over-balanced; Beranger caught at the
front drawer of the cabinet, which, unlocked by Eustacie, came out in
his hand, and chair, children, drawer, and curiosities all went rolling
over together on the floor with a hubbub that brought all the household
together, exclaiming and scolding. Madame de Ribaumont’s displeasure at
the rifling of her hoards knew no bounds; Eustacie, by way of defence,
shrieked ‘like twenty demons;’ Beranger, too honourable to accuse her,
underwent the same tempest; and at last both were soundly rapped over
the knuckles with the long handle of Madame’s fan, and consigned to two
separate closets, to be dealt with on the return of M. le Baron, while
Madame returned to her embroidery, lamenting the absence of that dear
little Diane, whose late visit at the chateau had been marked by such
unusual tranquility between the children.
Beranger, in his dark closet, comforted himself with the shrewd
suspicion that his father was so employed as not to be expected at home
till supper-time, and that his mother’s wrath was by no means likely to
be so enduring as to lead her to make complaints of the prisoners;
and when he heard a trampling of horses in the court, he anticipated a
speedy release and summons to show himself to the visitors. He waited
long, however, before he heard the pattering of little feet; then a
stool scraped along the floor, the button of his door was undone, the
stool pushed back, and as he emerged, Eustacie stood before him with
her finger to her lip. ‘CHUT, Beranger! It is my father and uncle, and
Narcisse, and, oh! so many _gens d’armes_. They are come to summon M. le
Baron to go with them to disperse the _preche_ by the Bac de l’Oie. And
oh, Beranger, is he not there?’
‘I do not know. He went out with his hawk, and I do not think he could
have gone anywhere else. Did they say so to my mother?’
‘Yes; but she never knows. And oh, Beranger, Narcisse told me--ah, was
it to tease me?--that Diane has told them all they wanted to know, for
that they sent her here on purpose to see if we were not all Huguenots.
‘Very likely, the little viper! Le me pass, Eustacie. I must go and tell
my father.’
‘Thou canst not get out that way; the court is full of men-at-arms.
Hark, there’s Narcisse calling me. He will come after me.’
There was not a moment to lose. Berenger flew along a corridor, and down
a narrow winding stair, and across the kitchen; then snatching at the
arm of a boy of his own age whom he met at the door, he gasped out,
‘Come and help me catch Follet, Landry!’ and still running across an
orchard, he pulled down a couple of apples from the trees, and bounded
into a paddock where a small rough Breton pony was feeding among the
little tawny Norman cows. The animal knew his little master, and trotted
towards him at his call of ‘Follet, Follet. Now be a wise Follet, and
play me no tricks. Thou and I, Follet, shall do good service, if thou
wilt be steady.’
Follet made his advances, but with a coquettish eye and look, as if
ready to start away at any moment.
‘Soh, Follet. I have no bread for thee, only two apples; but, Follet,
listen. There’s my _beau-pere_ the Count, and the Chevalier, all spite,
and their whole troop of savage _gens d’armes_, come out to fall upon
the poor Huguenots, who are doing no harm at all, only listening to a
long dull sermon. And I am much afraid my father is there, for he went
out his hawk on his wrist, and he never does take Ysonde for any real
sport, as thou and I would do, Follet. He says it is all vanity of
vanities. But thou know’st, if they caught him at the _preche_ they
would call it heresy and treason, and all sorts of horrors, and any
way they would fall like demons on the poor Huguenots, Jacques and
all--thine own Jacques, Follet. Come, be a loyal pony, Follet. Be at
least as good as Eustacie.’
Follet was evidently attentive to this peroration, turning round his
ear in a sensible attitude, and advancing his nose to the apples.
As Beranger held them out to him, the other boy clutched his shaggy
forelock so effectually that the start back did not shake him off, and
the next moment Beranger was on his back.
‘And I, Monsieur, what shall I do?’
‘Thou, Landry? I know. Speed like a hare, lock the avenue gate, and hide
the key. That will delay them a long time. Off now, Follet.’
Beranger and Follet understood one another far too well to care about
such trifles as saddle and bridle, and off they went through green
grassy balks dividing the fields, or across the stubble, till, about
three miles from the castle, they came to a narrow valley, dipping so
suddenly between the hills that it could hardly have been suspected by
one unaware of its locality, and the sides were dotted with copsewood,
which entirely hid the bottom. Beranger guided his pony to a winding
path that led down the steep side of the valley, already hearing the
cadence of a loud, chanting voice, throwing out its sounds over the
assembly, whence arose assenting hums over an undercurrent of sobs, as
though the excitable French assembly were strongly affected.
The thicket was so close that Beranger was almost among the congregation
before he could see more than a passing glimpse of a sea of heads.
Stout, ruddy, Norman peasants, and high white-capped women, mingled with
a few soberly-clad townsfolk, almost all with the grave, steadfast cast
of countenance imparted by unresisted persecution, stood gathered
round the green mound that served as a natural pulpit for a Calvinist
minister, who more the dress of a burgher, but entirely black. To
Beranger’s despair, he was in the act of inviting his hearers to join
with him in singing one of Marot’s psalms; and the boy, eager to lose
not a moment, grasped the skirt of the outermost of the crowd. The man,
an absorbed-looking stranger, merely said, ‘Importune me not, child.’
‘Listen!’ said Beranger; ‘it imports---’
‘Peace,’ was the stern answer; but a Norman farmer looked round at that
moment, and Beranger exclaimed, ‘Stop the singing! The _gens d’armes_!’
The psalm broke off; the whisper circulated; the words ‘from Leurre’
were next conveyed from lip to lip, and, as it were in a moment, the
dense human mass had broken up and vanished, stealing through the
numerous paths in the brushwood, or along the brook, as it descended
through tall sedges and bulrushes. The valley was soon as lonely as
it had been populous; the pulpit remained a mere mossy bank, more
suggestive or fairy dances than of Calvinist sermons, and no one
remained on the scene save Beranger with his pony, Jacques the groom, a
stout farmer, the preacher, and a tall thin figure in the plainest dark
cloth dress that could be worn by a gentleman, a hawk on his wrist.
‘Thou here, my boy!’ he exclaimed, as Beranger came to his side; and as
the little fellow replied in a few brief words, he took him by the hand,
and said to the minister, ‘Good Master Isaac, let me present my young
son to you, who under Heaven hath been the means of saving many lives
this day.’
Maitre Isaac Gardon, a noted preacher, looked kindly at the boy’s fair
face, and said, ‘Bless thee, young sir. As thou hast been already a
chosen instrument to save life, so mayest thou be ever after a champion
of the truth.’
‘Monsieur le Baron,’ interposed Jacques, ‘it were best to look to
yourself. I already hear sounds upon the wind.’
‘And you, good sir?’ said the Baron.
‘I will see to him,’ said the farmer, grasping him as a sort of
property. ‘M. le Baron had best keep up the beck. Out on the moor there
he may fly the hawk, and that will best divert suspicion.’
‘Farewell, then,’ said the Baron, wringing the minister’s hand, and
adding, almost to himself, ‘Alas! I am weary of these shifts!’ and weary
indeed he seemed, for as the ground became so steep that the beck danced
noisily down its channel, he could not keep up the needful speed, but
paused, gasping for breath, with his hand on his side. ‘Beranger was off
his pony in an instant, assuring Follet that it ought to be proud to be
ridden by his father, and exhaling his own exultant feelings in caresses
to the animal as it gallantly breasted the hill. The little boy had
never been so commended before! He loved his father exceedingly; but
the Baron, while ever just towards him, was grave and strict to a degree
that the ideas even of the sixteenth century regarded as severe.
Little Eustacie with her lovely face, her irrepressible saucy grace and
audacious coaxing, was the only creature to whom he ever showed much
indulgence and tenderness, and even that seemed almost against his
will and conscience. His son was always under rule, often blamed,
and scarcely ever praised; but it was a hardy vigorous nature, and
respectful love throve under the system that would have crushed or
alienated a different disposition. It was not till the party had emerged
from the wood upon a stubble field, where a covey of partridges flew up,
and to Beranger’s rapturous delight furnished a victim for Ysonde, that
M. de Ribaumont dismounted from the pony, and walking towards home,
called his son to his side, and asked him how he had learnt the
intentions of the Count and the Chevalier. Beranger explained how
Eustacie had come to warn him, and also told what she had said of Diane
de Ribaumont, who had lately, by her father’s request, spent a few weeks
at the chateau with her cousins.
‘My son,’ said the Baron, ‘it is hard to ask of babes caution and
secrecy; but I must know from thee what thy cousin may have heard of our
doings?’
‘I cannot tell, father,’ replied Beranger; ‘we played more than we
talked. Yet, Monsieur, you will not be angry with Eustacie if I tell you
what she said to me to-day?’
‘Assuredly not, my son.’
‘She said that her father would take her away if he knew what M. le
Baron read, and what he sung.’
‘Thou hast done well to tell me, my son. Thinkest thou that this comes
from Diane, or from one of the servants?’
‘Oh, from Diane, my father; none of the servants would dare to say such
a thing.’
‘It is as I suspected then,’ said the Baron. ‘That child was sent
amongst us as a spy.’ Tell me, Beranger, had she any knowledge of our
intended journey to England?’
‘To England! But no, father, I did not even know it was intended. To
England--to that Walwyn which my mother takes such pains to make us
speak rightly. Are we then, going?’
‘Listen, my son. Thou hast to-day proved thyself worthy of trust, and
thou shalt hear. My son, ere yet I knew the truth I was a reckless
disobedient youth, and I bore thy mother from her parents in England
without their consent. Since, by Heaven’s grace, I have come to a better
mind, we have asked and obtained their forgiveness, and it has long been
their desire to see again their daughter and her son. Moreover, since
the accession of the present Queen, it has been a land where the light
is free to shine forth; and though I verily believe what Maitre Gardon
says, that persecution is a blessed means of grace, yet it is grievous
to expose one’s dearest thereto when they are in no state to count
the cost. Therefore would I thither convey you all, and there amid thy
mother’s family would we openly abjure the errors in which we have been
nurture. I have already sent to Paris to obtain from the Queen-mother
the necessary permission to take my family to visit thy grand-father,
and it must now be our endeavour to start immediately on the receipt of
the reply, before the Chevalier’s information can lead to any hindrance
or detention of Eustacie.’
‘Then Eustacie will go with us, Monsieur?’
‘Certainly. Nothing is more important than that her faith should be the
same as yours! But discretion, my son: not a word to the little one.’
‘And Landry, father? I had rather Landry went than Eustacie. And Follet,
dear father, pray take him.’
After M. de Ribaumont’s grave confidence to his son and heir, he was
a little scandalized at the comparative value that the boy’s voice
indicated for wife, foster-brother, and pony, and therefore received
it in perfect silence, which silence continued until they reached
the chateau, where the lady met them at the door with a burst of
exclamations.
‘Ah, there you are, safe, my dear Baron. I have been in despair. Here
were the Count and his brother come to call on you to join them in
dispersing a meeting of those poor Huguenots and they would not permit
me to send out to call you in! I verily think they suspected that you
were aware of it.’
M. de Ribaumont made no answer, but sat wearily down and asked for his
little Eustacie.
‘Little vixen!’ exclaimed the Baroness, ‘she is gone; her father took
her away with him.’ And as her husband looked extremely displeased, she
added that Eustacie had been meddling with her jewel cabinet and had
been put in penitence. Her first impulse on seeing her father had been
to cling to him and poor out her complaints, whereupon he had declared
that he should take her away with him at once, and had in effect caused
her pony to be saddled, and he had ridden away with her to his old
tower, leaving his brother, the Chevalier, to conduct the attack on the
Huguenot conventicle.
‘He had no power or right to remove her,’ said the Baron. ‘How could you
let him do so in my absence? He had made over her wardship to me, and
has no right to resume it!’
‘Well, perhaps I might have insisted on his waiting till your return;
but, you see, the children have never done anything but quarrel and
fight, and always by Eustacie’s fault; and if ever they are to endure
each other, it must be by being separated now.’
‘Madame,’ said the Baron, gravely, ‘you have done your utmost to ruin
your son’s chances of happiness.’
That same evening arrived the King’s passport permitting the Baron
de Ribaumont and his family to pay a visit to his wife’s friends in
England. The next morning the Baron was summoned to speak to one of
his farmers, a Huguenot, who had come to inform him that, through the
network of intelligence kept up by the members of the persecuted faith,
it had become known that the Chevalier de Ribaumont had set off for
court that night, and there was little doubt that his interference would
lead to an immediate revocation of the sanction to the journey, if to no
severer measures. At best, the Baron knew that if his own absence were
permitted, it would be only on condition of leaving his son in
the custody of either the Queen-mother or the Count. It had become
impossible to reclaim Eustacie. Her father would at once have pleaded
that she was being bred up in Huguenot errors. All that could be done
was to hasten the departure ere the royal mandate could arrive. A little
Norman sailing vessel was moored two evenings after in a lonely creek on
the coast, and into it stepped M. de Ribaumont, with his Bible, Marot’s
Psalter, and Calvin’s works, Beranger still tenderly kissing a lock of
Follet’s mane, and Madame mourning for the pearls, which her husband
deemed too sacred an heirloom to carry away to a foreign land. Poor
little Eustacie, with her cousin Diane, was in the convent of Bellaise
in Anjou. If any one lamented her absence, it was her father-in-law.