A youth came riding towards a palace gate,
And from the palace came a child of sin
And took him by the curls and led him in!
Where sat a company with heated eyes.
Tennyson, A VISION OF SIN
It was in the month of June that Berenger de Ribaumont first came in
sight of Paris. His grandfather had himself begun by taking him to
London and presenting him to Queen Elizabeth, from whom the lad’s good
mien procured him a most favourable reception. She willingly promised
that on which Lord Walwyn’s heart was set, namely, that his title and
rank should be continued to his grandson; and an ample store of letter
of recommendation to Sir Francis Walsingham, the Ambassador, and all
others who could be of service in the French court, were to do their
utmost to provide him with a favourable reception there.
Then, with Mr. Adderley and four or five servants, he had crossed the
Channel, and had gone first to Chateau Leurre, where he was rapturously
welcomed by the old steward Osbert. The old man had trained up his son
Landry, Berenger’s foster-brother, to become his valet, and had him
taught all the arts of hair-dressing and surgery that were part of the
profession of a gentleman’s body-servant; and the youth, a smart, acuter
young Norman, became a valuable addition to the suite, the guidance of
which, through a foreign country, their young master did not find very
easy. Mr. Adderley thought he knew French very well, through books, but
the language he spoke was not available, and he soon fell into a state
of bewilderment rather hard on his pupil, who, though a very good boy,
and crammed very full of learning, was still nothing more than a lad of
eighteen in all matters of prudence and discretion.
Lord Walwyn was, as we have seen, one of those whose Church principles
had altered very little and very gradually; and in the utter diversity
of practice that prevailed in the early years of Queen Elizabeth, his
chaplain as well as the rector of the parish had altered no more than
was absolutely enjoined of the old ceremonial. If the poor Baron de
Ribaumont had ever been well enough to go to church on a Sunday, he
would perhaps have thought himself still in the realms of what he
considered as darkness; but as he had never openly broken with the
Gallic Church, Berenger had gone at once from mass at Leurre to the
Combe Walwyn service. Therefore when he spent a Sunday at Rouen, and
attended a Calvinist service in the building that the Huguenots were
permitted outside the town, he was much disappointed in it; he thought
its very fervour familiar and irreverent, and felt himself much more at
home in the cathedral into which he strayed in the afternoon. And, on
the Sunday he was at Leurre, he went, as a part of his old home-habits,
to mass at the old round-arched church, where he and Eustacie had played
each other so many teasing tricks at his mother’s feet, and had received
so many admonitory nips and strokes of her fan. All he saw there was
not congenial to him, but he liked it vastly better than the Huguenot
meeting, and was not prepared to understand or enter into Mr. Adderley’s
vexation, when the tutor assured him that the reverent gestures that
came naturally to him were regarded by the Protestants as idolatry, and
that he would be viewed as a recreants from his faith. All Mr. Adderley
hoped was that no one would hear of it: and in this he felt himself
disappointed, when, in the midst of his lecture, there walked into the
room a little, withered, brown, dark-eyed man, in a gorgeous dress of
green and gold, who doffing a hat with an umbrageous plume, precipitated
himself, as far as he could reach, towards Berenger’s neck, calling
him fair cousin and dear baron. The lad stood taken by surprise for
a moment, thinking that Tithonus must have looked just like this, and
skipped like this, just as he became a grasshopper; then he recollected
that this must be the Chevalier de Ribaumont, and tried to make up
for his want of cordiality. The old man had, it appeared, come out of
Picardy, where he lived on _soupe maigre_ in a corner of the ancestral
castle, while his son and daughter were at court, the one in Monsieur’s
suite, the other in that of the Queen-mother. He had come purely to meet
his dear young cousin, and render him all the assistance is his power,
conduct him to Paris, and give him introductions.
Berenger, who had begun to find six Englishmen a troublesome charge in
France, was rather relieved at not being the only French scholar of
the party, and the Chevalier also hinted to him that he spoke with a
dreadful Norman accent that would never be tolerated at court, even if
it were understood by the way. Moreover, the Chevalier studied him all
over, and talked of Paris tailors and posture-masters, and, though the
pink of politeness, made it evident that there was immensely too much of
him. ‘It might be the custom in England to be so tall; here no one
was of anything like such a height, but the Duke of Guise. He, in his
position, with his air, could carry it off, but we must adapt ourselves
as best we can.’
And his shrug and look of concern made Berenger for a moment almost
ashamed of that superfluous height of which they were all so proud at
home. Then he recollected himself, and asked, ‘And why should not I be
tall as well as M. de Guise?’
‘We shall see, fair cousin,’ he answered, with an odd satirical bow;
‘we are as Heaven made us. All lies in the management and if you had the
advantages of training, PERHAPS you could even turn your height into a
grace.’
‘Am I such a great lubber?’ wondered Berenger; ‘they did not think so at
home. No; nor did the Queen. She said I was a proper stripling! Well,
it matters the less, as I shall not stay long to need their favour; and
I’ll show them there is some use in my inches in the tilt-yard. But if
they think me such a lout, what would they say to honest Philip?’
The Chevalier seemed willing to take on him the whole management of his
‘fair cousin.’ He inquired into the amount of the rents and dues which
old Osbert had collected and held ready to meet the young Baron’s
exigencies; and which would, it seemed, be all needed to make his dress
any way presentable at court. The pearls, too, were inquired for, and
handed over by Osbert to his young Lord’s keeping, with the significant
intimation that they had been demanded when the young Madame la Baronne
went to court; but that he had buried them in the orchard, and made
answer that they were not in the chateau. The contract of marriage,
which Berenger could just remember signing, and seeing signed by his
father, the King, and the Count, was not forthcoming; and the Chevalier
explained that it was in the hands of a notary at Paris. For this
Berenger was not sorry. His grandfather had desired him to master the
contents, and he thought he had thus escaped a very dry and useless
study.
He did not exactly dislike the old Chevalier de Ribaumont. The system on
which he had been brought up had not been indulgent, so that compliments
and admiration were an agreeable surprise to him; and rebuffs and
rebukes from his elders had been so common, that hints, in the delicate
dressing of the old knight, came on him almost like gracious civilities.
There was no love lost between the Chevalier and the chaplain, that was
plain; but how could there be between an ancient French courtier and
a sober English divine? However, to Mr. Adderley’s great relief, no
attempts were made on Berenger’s faith, his kinsman even was disposed
to promote his attendance at such Calvinist places of worship as they
passed on the road, and treated him in all things as a mere guest, to
be patronized indeed, but as much an alien as if he had been born in
England. And yet there was a certain deference to him as head of the
family, and a friendliness of manner that made the boy feel him a real
relation, and all through the journey it came naturally that he should
be the entire manager, and Berenger the paymaster on a liberal scale.
Thus had the travellers reached the neighbourhood of Paris, when a
jingling of chains and a trampling of horses announced the advance of
riders, and several gentlemen with a troop of servants came in sight.
All were gaily dressed, with feathered hats, and short Spanish cloaks
jauntily disposed over one shoulder; and their horses were trapped with
bright silvered ornaments. As they advanced, the Chevalier
exclaimed: ‘Ah! It is my son! I knew he would come to meet me.’ And,
simultaneously, father and son leapt from their horses, and rushed
into each other’s arms. Berenger felt it only courteous to dismount and
exchange embraces with his cousin, but with a certain sense of repulsion
at the cloud of perfume that seemed to surround the younger Chevalier
de Ribaumont; the ear-rings in his ears; the general air of delicate
research about his riding-dress, and the elaborate attention paid to a
small, dark, sallow face and figure, in which the only tolerable feature
was an intensely black and piercing pair of eyes.
‘Cousin, I am enchanted to welcome you.’
‘Cousin, I thank you.’
‘Allow me to present you.’ And Berenger bowed low in succession several
times in reply to salutations, as his cousin Narcisse named M. d’O, M.
de la Valette, M. de Pibrac, M. l’Abbe de Mericour, who had done him
the honour to accompany him in coming out to meet his father and M.
le Baron. Then the two cousins remounted, something was said to the
Chevalier of the devoirs of the demoiselles, and they rode on together
bandying news and repartee so fast, that Berenger felt that his ears
had become too much accustomed to the more deliberate English speech to
enter at once into what caused so much excitement, gesture, and wit. The
royal marriage seemed doubtful--the Pope refused his sanction; nay, but
means would be found--the King would not be impeded by the Pope;
Spanish influence--nay, the King had thrown himself at the head of the
Reformed--he was bewitched with the grim old Coligny--if order were not
soon taken, the Louvre itself would become a temple.
Then one of the party turned suddenly and said, ‘But I forget, Monsieur
is a Huguenot?’
‘I am a Protestant of the English Church,’ said Berenger, rather
stiffly, in the formula of his day.
‘Well, you have come at the right moment, ‘Tis all for the sermon now.
If the little Abbe there wished to sail with a fair wind, he should
throw away his breviary and study his Calvin.’
Berenger’s attention was thus attracted to the Abbe de Mericour, a young
man of about twenty, whose dress was darker than that of the rest, and
his hat of a clerical cut, though in other respects he was equipped with
the same point-device elegance.
‘Calvin would never give him the rich abbey of Selicy,’ said another;
‘the breviary is the safer speculation.’
‘Ah! M. de Ribaumont can tell you that abbeys are no such securities
in these days. Let yonder Admiral get the upper hand, and we shall see
Mericour, the happy cadet of eight brothers and sisters, turned adrift
from their convents. What a fatherly spectacle M. le Marquis will
present!’
Here the Chevalier beckoned to Berenger, who, riding forward, learnt
that Narcisse had engaged lodgings for him and his suite at one of the
great inns, and Berenger returned his thanks, and a proposal to the
Chevalier to become his guest. They were by this time entering the city,
where the extreme narrowness and dirt of the streets contrasted with the
grandeur of the palatial courts that could be partly seen through
their archways. At the hostel they rode under such an arch, and found
themselves in a paved yard that would have been grand had it been
clean. Privacy had scarcely been invented, and the party were not at all
surprised to find that the apartment prepared for them was to serve both
day and night for Berenger, the Chevalier, and Mr. Adderley, besides
having a truckle-bed on the floor for Osbert. Meals were taken in
public, and it was now one o’clock--just dinner-time; so after a hasty
toilette the three gentlemen descended, the rest of the party having
ridden off to their quarters, either as attendants of Monsieur or to
their families. It was a sumptuous meal, at which a great number of
gentlemen were present, coming in from rooms hired over shops, &c--all,
as it seemed, assembled at Paris for the marriage festivities; but
Berenger began to gather that they were for the most part adherents of
the Guise party, and far from friendly to the Huguenot interest. Some of
them appeared hardly to tolerate Mr. Adderley’s presence at the table;
and Berenger, though his kinsman’s patronage secured civil treatment,
felt much out of his element, confused, unable to take part in the
conversation, and sure that he was where those at home did not wish to
see him.
No sooner was the dinner over than he rose and expressed his intention
of delivering his letters of introduction in person to the English
ambassador and to the Admiral de Coligny, whom, as his father’s old
friend and the hero of his boyhood, he was most anxious to see. The
Chevalier demurred to this. Were it not better to take measures at once
for making himself presentable, and Narcisse had already supplied him
with directions to the fashionable hair-cutter, &c. It would be taken
amiss if he went to the Admiral before going to present himself to the
King.
‘And I cannot see my cousins till I go to court?’ asked Berenger.
‘Most emphatically No. Have I not told you that the one is in the suite
of the young Queen, the other in that of the Queen-mother? I will myself
present you, if only you will give me the honour of your guidance.’
‘With all thanks, Monsieur,’ said Berenger; ‘my grandfather’s desire
was that I should lose no time in going to his friend Sir Francis
Walsingham, and I had best submit myself to his judgment as to my
appearance at court.’
On this point Berenger was resolute, though the Chevalier recurred
to the danger of any proceeding that might be unacceptable at court.
Berenger, harassed and impatient, repeated that he did not care about
the court, and wished merely to fulfil his purpose and return, at which
his kinsman shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and muttered to
himself, ‘Ah, what does he know! He will regret it when too late; but I
have done my best.’
Berenger paid little attention to this, but calling Landry Osbert, and
a couple of his men, he bade them take their swords and bucklers, and
escort him in his walk through Paris. He set off with a sense of escape,
but before he had made many steps, he was obliged to turn and warn
Humfrey and Jack that they were not to walk swaggering along the
streets, with hand on sword, as if every Frenchman they saw was the
natural foe of their master.
Very tall were the houses, very close and extremely filthy the streets,
very miserable the beggars; and yet here and there was to be seen the
open front of a most brilliant shop, and the thoroughfares were crowded
with richly-dressed gallants. Even the wider streets gave little space
for the career of the gay horsemen who rode along them, still less
for the great, cumbrous, though gaily-decked coaches, in which ladies
appeared glittering with jewels and fan in hand, with tiny white dogs on
their knees.
The persons of whom Berenger inquired the way all uncapped most
respectfully, and replied with much courtesy; but when the hotel of the
English ambassador had been pointed out to him, he hardly believed it,
so foul and squalid was the street, where a large nail-studded door
occupied a wide archway. Here was a heavy iron knocker, to which Osbert
applied himself. A little door was at once opened by a large, powerful
John Bull of a porter, whose looks expanded into friendly welcome when
he heard the English tongue of the visitor. Inside, the scene was very
unlike that without. The hotel was built round a paved court, adorned
with statues and stone vases, with yews and cypresses in them, and a
grand flight of steps led up to the grand centre of the house, around
which were collected a number of attendants, wearing the Walsingham
colours. Among these Berenger left his two Englishmen, well content to
have fallen into an English colony. Landry followed him to announce the
visitor, Berenger waiting to know whether the Ambassador would be at
liberty to see him.
Almost immediately the door was re-opened, and a keen-looking gentleman,
about six-and-thirty years of age, rather short in stature, but
nevertheless very dignified-looking, came forward with out-stretched
hands--‘Greet you well, my Lord de Ribaumont. We expected your coming.
Welcome, mine honoured friend’s grandson.’
And as Berenger bent low in reverent greeting, Sir Francis took his
hand and kissed his brow, saying, ‘Come in, my young friend; we are but
sitting over our wine and comfits after dinner. Have you dined?’
Berenger explained that he had dined at the inn, where he had taken
lodgings.
‘Nay, but that must not be. My Lord Walwyn’s grandson here, and not my
guest! You do me wrong, sir, in not having ridden hither at once.’
‘Truly, my Lord, I ventured not. They sent me forth with quite a
company--my tutor and six grooms.’
‘Our chaplain will gladly welcome his reverend brother,’ said Sir
Francis; and as to the grooms, one of my fellows shall go and bring them
and their horses up. What!’ rather gravely, as Berenger still
hesitated. ‘I have letters for you here, which methinks will make your
grandfather’s wish clear to you.’
Berenger saw the Ambassador was displeased with his reluctance, and
answered quickly, ‘In sooth, my Lord, I would esteem myself only too
happy to be thus honoured, but in sooth----’ he repeated himself, and
faltered.
‘In sooth, you expected more freedom than in my grave house,’ said
Walsingham, displeased.
‘Not so, my Lord: it would be all that I could desire; but I have done
hastily. A kinsman of mine has come up to Paris with me, and I have
made him my guest. I know not how to break with him--the Chevalier de
Ribaumont.’
‘What, the young ruffler in Monsieur’s suite?’
‘No, my Lord; his father. He comes on my business. He is an old man, and
can ill bear the cost, and I could scarce throw him over.’
Berenger spoke with such earnest, bright, open simplicity, and look so
boyish and confiding, that Sir Francis’s heart was won, and he smiled as
he said, ‘Right, lad, you are a considerate youth. It were not well to
cast off your kinsman; but when you have read your letters, you may
well plead your grandfather’s desires, to say nothing of a hint from her
Grace to have an eye to you. And for the rest, you can acquit yourself
gracefully to the gentleman, by asking him to occupy the lodging that
you had taken.’
Berenger’s face brightened up in a manner that spoke for his sincerity;
and Sir Francis added, ‘And where be these lodgings?’
‘At the Croix de Lorraine.’
‘Ha! Your kinsman has taken you into a nest of Guisards. But come, let
me present you to my wife and my other guests, then will I give you
your letters, and you shall return and make your excuses to Monsieur le
Chevalier.’
Berenger seemed to himself to be on familiar ground again as his
host thus assumed the direction of him and ushered him into a large
dining-hall, where the table had been forsaken in favour of a lesser
table placed in the ample window, round which sat assembled some six or
eight persons, with fruit, wine, and conserves before them, a few little
dogs at their feet or on their laps, and a lute lying on the knee of
one of the young gentlemen. Sir Francis presented the young Lord de
Ribaumont, their expected guest, to Lady Walsingham, from whom he
received a cordial welcome, and her two little daughter, Frances and
Elizabeth, and likewise to the gentleman with the lute, a youth about
a year older than Berenger, and of very striking and prepossessing
countenance, who was named as Mr. Sidney, the son of the Lord Deputy of
Ireland. A couple of gentlemen who would in these times have been termed
_attaches_, a couple of lady attendants upon Lady Walsingham, and the
chaplain made up the party, which on this day chanced only to include,
besides the household, the young traveller, Sidney. Berenger was at once
seated, and accepted a welcoming-cup of wine (i.e. a long slender glass
with a beautifully twisted stem), responded to friendly inquiries about
his relatives at home, and acknowledged the healths that were drunk
in honour of their names; after which Lady Walsingham begged that Mr.
Sidney would sing the madrigal he had before promised: afterwards a glee
was sung by Sidney, one of the gentlemen, and Lady Walsingham; and it
was discovered that Mr. de Ribaumont had a trained ear, and the very
voice that was wanting to the Italian song they were practising. And
so sped a happy hour, till a booted and spurred messenger came in
with letters for his Excellency, who being thus roused from his dreamy
enjoyment of the music, carried young Ribaumont off with him to his
cabinet, and there made over to him a packet, with good news from home,
and orders that made it clear that he could do no other than accept the
hospitality of the Embassy. Thus armed with authority, he returned to
the Croix de Lorraine, where Mr. Adderley could not contain his joy at
the change to quarters not only so much more congenial, buts so much
safer; and the Chevalier, after some polite demur, consented to remain
in possession of the rooms, being in fact well satisfied with the
arrangement.
‘Let him steep himself up to the lips among the English,’ said Tithonus
to his son. ‘Thus will he peaceably relinquish to you all that should
have been yours from the first, and at court will only be looked on as
an overgrown English page.’
The change to the Ambassador’s made Berenger happy at once. He was not
French enough in breeding, or even constitution, to feel the society
of the Croix de Lorraine congenial; and, kind as the Chevalier showed
himself, it was with a wonderful sense of relief that Berenger shook
himself free from both his fawning and his patronizing. There was a
constant sense of not understanding the old gentleman’s aims, whereas in
Walsingham’s house all was as clear, easy, and open as at home.
And though Berenger had been educated in the country, it had been in
the same tone as that of his new friends. He was greatly approved by
Sir Francis as a stripling of parts and modesty. Mr. Sidney made him a
companion, and the young matron, Lady Walsingham, treated him as neither
lout nor lubber. Yet he could not be at ease in his state between
curiosity and repulsion towards the wife who was to be discarded by
mutual consent. The sight of the scenes of his early childhood had
stirred up warmer recollections of the pretty little playful torment,
who through the vista of years assumed the air of a tricksy elf rather
than the little vixen he used to think her. His curiosity had been
further stimulated by the sight of his rival, Narcisse, whose effeminate
ornaments, small stature, and seat on horseback filled Sir Marmaduke’s
pupil with inquisitive disdain as to the woman who could prefer anything
so unmanly.
Sidney was to be presented at the after-dinner reception at the Louvre
the next day, and Sir Francis proposed to take young Ribaumont with him.
Berenger coloured, and spoke of his equipment, and Sidney good-naturedly
offered to come and inspect. That young gentleman was one of the
daintiest in apparel of his day; but he was amazed that the suit in
which Berenger had paid his devoir to Queen Elizabeth should have been
set aside--it was of pearl-grey velvet, slashed with rose-coloured
satin, and in shape and fashion point-device--unless, as the Ambassador
said good-humouredly, ‘my young Lord Ribaumont wished to be one of
Monsieur’s clique.’ Thus arrayed, then, and with the chaplet of pearls
bound round the small cap, with a heron-plume that sat jauntily on
one side of his fair curled head, Berenger took his seat beside the
hazel-eyed, brown-haired Sidney, in his white satin and crimson, and
with the Ambassador and his attendants were rolled off in the great
state-coach drawn by eight horses, which had no sinecure in dragging the
ponderous machine through the unsavoury _debris_ of the streets.
Royalty fed in public. The sumptuous banqueting-room contained a
barrier, partitioning off a space where Charles IX. sat alone at his
table, as a State spectacle. He was a sallow, unhealthy-looking
youth, with large prominent dark eyes and a melancholy dreaminess of
expression, as if the whole ceremony, not to say the world itself, were
distasteful. Now and then, as though endeavouring to cast off the mood,
he would call to some gentleman and exchange a rough jest, generally
fortified with a tremendous oath, that startled Berenger’s innocent
ears. He scarcely tasted what was put on his plate, but drank largely
of sherbet, and seemed to be trying to linger through the space allotted
for the ceremony.
Silence was observed, but not so absolute that Walsingham could not
point out to his young companions the notabilities present. The lofty
figure of Henri, Duke of Guise, towered high above all around him,
and his grand features, proud lip, and stern eye claimed such natural
superiority that Berenger for a moment felt a glow on his cheek as he
remembered his challenge of his right to rival that splendid stature.
And yet Guise was very little older than himself; but he walked, a
prince of men, among a crowd of gentlemen, attendants on him rather than
on the King. The elegant but indolent-looking Duke de Montmorency had
a much more attractive air, and seemed to hold a kind of neutral ground
between Guise on the one hand, and the Reformed, who mustered at the
other end of the apartment. Almost by intuition, Berenger knew the fine
calm features of the gray-haired Admiral de Coligny before he heard him
so addressed by the King’s loud, rough voice. When the King rose from
table the presentations took place, but as Charles heard the name of
the Baron de Ribaumont, he exclaimed, ‘What, Monsieur, are you presented
here by our good sister’s representative?’
Walsingham answered for him, alluding to the negotiations for Queen
Elizabeth’s marriage with one of the French princes--‘Sire, in the
present happy conjuncture, it needs not be a less loyal Frenchman to
have an inheritance in the lands of my royal mistress.’
‘What say you, Monsieur?’ sharply demanded the King: ‘are you come here
to renounce your country, religion--and love, as I have been told?’
‘I hope, Sire, never to be unfaithful where I owe faith,’ said Berenger,
heated, startled, and driven to extremity.
‘Not ill answered for the English giant,’ said Charles aside to
an attendant: then turning eagerly to Sidney, whose transcendent
accomplishments had already become renowned, Charles welcomed him to
court, and began to discuss Ronsard’s last sonnet, showing no small
taste and knowledge of poetry. Greatly attracted by Sidney, the King
detained the whole English party by an invitation to Walsingham to hear
music in the Queen-mother’s apartments; and Berenger, following in the
wake of his friends, found himself in a spacious hall, with a raised
gallery at one end for the musicians, the walls decorated with the
glorious paintings collected by Francois I., Greek and Roman statues
clustered at the angles, and cabinets with gems and antiques disposed
at intervals. Not that Berenger beheld much of this: he was absolutely
dazzled with the brilliant assembly into which he was admitted. There
moved the most beautiful women in France, in every lovely-coloured tint
that dress could assume: their bosoms, arms, and hair sparkling with
jewels; their gossamer ruffs surrounding their necks like fairy wings;
their light laugh mingling with the music, as they sat, stood, or walked
in graceful attitudes conversing with one another or with the cavaliers,
whose brilliant velvet and jewels fifty mixed with their bright
array. These were the sirens he had heard of, the ‘squadron of the
Queen-mother,’ the dangerous beings against whom he was to steel
himself. And which of them was the child he had played with, to whom
his vows had been plighted? It was like some of the enchanting dreams
of romance merely to look at these fair creatures; and he stood as if
gazing into a magic-glass till Sir Francis Walsingham, looking round for
him, said, ‘Come, then, my young friend, you must do your devoirs to the
Queens. Sidney, I see, is as usual in his element; the King has seized
upon him.’
Catherine de Medicis was seated on a large velvet chair, conversing with
the German ambassador. Never beautiful, she appeared to more advantage
in her mature years than in her girlhood, and there was all the dignity
of a lifetime of rule in demeanour and gestures, the bearing of her
head, and motion of her exquisite hands. Her eyes were like her son’s,
prominent, and gave the sense of seeing all round at once, and her smile
was to the highest degree engaging. She received the young Baron de
Ribaumont far more graciously than Charles has done, held out her hand
to be kissed, and observed ‘that the young gentleman was like Madame _sa
mere_ whom she well remembered as much admired. Was it true that she was
married in England?’
Berenger bowed assent.
‘Ah! You English make good spouses,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Ever
satisfied with home! But, your Excellency,’ added she, turning to
Walsingham, ‘what stones would best please my good sister for the
setting of the jewel my son would send her with his portrait? He is
all for emeralds, for the hue of hope; but I call it the colour of
jealousy.’
Walsingham made a sign that Berenger had better retreat from hearing
the solemn coquetting carried on by the maiden Queen through her gravest
ambassadors. He fell back, and remained watching the brilliant throng,
trying in vain to discover the bright merry eyes and velvet cheek he
remembered of old. Presently a kind salutation interrupted him, and a
gentleman who perceived him to be a stranger began to try to set him at
ease, pointed out to him the handsome, foppishly-dressed Duke of Anjou,
and his ugly, spiteful little brother of Alengon, then designated as
Queen Elizabeth’s future husband, who was saying something to a lady
that made her colour and bite her lips. ‘Is that the younger Queen?’
asked Berenger, as his eye fell on a sallow, dark-complexioned,
sad-looking little creature in deep mourning, and with three or four
such stately-looking, black-robed, Spanish-looking duennas round her as
to prove her to be a person of high consequence.
‘That? Oh no; that is Madame Catherine of Navarre, who has resided
here ever since her mother’s death, awaiting her brother, our royal
bridegroom. See, here is the bride, Madame Marguerite, conversing with
M. de Guise.’
Berenger paid but little heed to Marguerite’s showy but already rather
coarse beauty, and still asked where was the young Queen Elizabeth of
Austria. She was unwell, and not in presence. ‘Ah! then,’ he said, ‘her
ladies will not be here.’
‘That is not certain. Are you wishing to see any one of them?’
‘I would like to see----’ He could not help colouring till his cheeks
rivaled the colour of his sword-knot. ‘I want just to know if she is
here. I know not if she be called Madame or Mademoiselle de Ribaumont.’
‘The fair Ribaumont! Assuredly; see, she is looking at you. Shall I
present you?’
A pair of exceedingly brilliant dark eyes were fixed on Berenger with
a sort of haughty curiosity and half-recognition. The face was handsome
and brilliant, but he felt indignant at not perceiving a particle of a
blush at encountering him, indeed rather a look of amusement at the deep
glow which his fair complexion rendered so apparent. He would fain have
escaped from so public an interview, but her eye was upon him, and there
was no avoiding the meeting. As he moved nearer he saw what a beautiful
person she was, her rich primrose-coloured dress setting off her
brunette complexion and her stately presence. She looked older than he
had expected; but this was a hotbed where every one grew up early, and
the expression and manner made him feel that an old intimacy was here
renewed, and that they were no strangers.
‘We need no introduction, cousin,’ she said, giving a hand to be
saluted. ‘I knew you instantly. It is the old face of Chateau Leurre,
only gone up so high and become so handsome.’
‘Cousins,’ thought he. ‘Well, it makes things easier! but what audacity
to be so much at her ease, when Lucy would have sunk into the earth with
shame.’ His bow had saved him the necessity of answering in words, and
the lady continued:
‘And Madame _votre mere_. Is she well? She was very good to me.’
Berenger did not think that kindness to Eustacie had been her
chief perfection, but he answered that she was well and sent her
commendations, which the young lady acknowledged by a magnificent
curtsey. ‘And as beautiful as ever?’ she asked.
‘Quite as beautiful,’ he said, ‘only somewhat more _embonpoint_.’
‘Ah!’ she said, smiling graciously, and raising her splendid eyes to
his face, ‘I understand better what that famous beauty was now, and the
fairness that caused her to be called the Swan.’
It was so personal that the colour rushed again into his cheek. No one
had ever so presumed to admire him; and with a degree gratified and
surprised, and sensible more and more of the extreme beauty of the lady,
there was a sort of alarm about him as if this were the very fascination
he had been warned against, and as if she were casting a net about him,
which, wife as she was, it would be impossible to him to break.
‘Nay, Monsieur,’ she laughed, ‘is a word from one so near too much for
your modesty? Is it possible that no one has yet told you of your good
mien? Or do they not appreciate Greek noses and blue eyes in the land of
fat Englishmen? How have you ever lived _en province?_ Our princes are
ready to hang themselves at the thought of being in such banishment,
even at court--indeed, Monsieur has contrived to transfer the noose to
M. d’Alengon. Have you been at court, cousin?’
‘I have been presented to the Queen.’
She then proceeded to ask questions about the chief personages with a
rapid intelligence that surprised him as well as alarmed him, for he
felt more and more in the power of a very clever as well as beautiful
woman, and the attraction she exercised made him long the more to
escape; but she smiled and signed away several cavaliers who would have
gained her attention. She spoke of Queen Mary of Scotland, then in the
fifth years of her captivity, and asked if he did not feel bound to her
service by having been once her partner. Did not he remember that dance?
‘I have heard my mother speak of it far too often to forget it,’ said
Berenger, glowing again for her who could speak of that occasion without
a blush.
‘You wish to gloss over your first inconstancy, sir,’ she said, archly;
but he was spared from further reply by Philip Sidney’s coming to tell
him that the Ambassador was ready to return home. He took leave with
an alacrity that redoubled his courtesy so much that he desired to be
commended to his cousin Diane, whom he had not seen.
‘To Diane?’ said the lady, inquiringly.
‘To Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont,’ he corrected himself, ashamed of
his English rusticity. ‘I beg pardon if I spoke too familiarly of her.’
‘She should be flattered by M. le Baron’s slightest recollection,’ said
the lady, with an ironical tone that there was no time to analyze,
and with a mutual gesture of courtesy he followed Sidney to where Sir
Francis awaited them.
‘Well, what think you of the French court?’ asked Sidney, so soon as the
young men were in private.
‘I only know that you may bless your good fortune that you stand in no
danger from a wife from thence.’
‘Ha!’ cried Sidney, laughing, ‘you found your lawful owner. Why did you
not present me?’
‘I was ashamed of her bold visage.’
‘What!--was she the beauteous demoiselle I found you gallanting,’ said
Philip Sidney, a good deal entertained, ‘who was gazing at you with such
visible admiration in her languishing black eyes?’
‘The foul fiend seize their impudence!’
‘Fie! for shame! thus to speak of your own wife,’ said the mischievous
Sidney, ‘and the fairest----’
‘Go to, Sidney. Were she fairer than Venus, with a kingdom to her dower,
I would none of a woman without a blush.’
‘What, in converse with her wedded husband,’ said Sidney. ‘Were not that
over-shamefastness?’
‘Nay, now, Sidney, in good sooth give me your opinion. Should she set
her fancy on me, even in this hour, am I bound in honour to hold by this
accursed wedlock--lock, as it may well be called?’
‘I know no remedy,’ said Sidney, gravely, ‘save the two enchanted founts
of love and hate. They cannot be far away, since it was at the siege of
Paris that Rinaldo and Orlando drank thereof.’
Another question that Berenger would fain have asked Sidney, but could
not for very shame and dread of mockery, was, whether he himself were
so dangerously handsome as the lady had given him to understand. With a
sense of shame, he caught up the little mirror in his casket, and
could not but allow to himself that the features he there saw were
symmetrical--the eyes azure, the complexion of a delicate fairness, such
as he had not seen equaled, except in those splendid Lorraine princes;
nor could he judge of the further effect of his open-faced frank
simplicity and sweetness of expression--contemptible, perhaps, to the
astute, but most winning to the world-weary. He shook his head at the
fair reflection, smiled as he saw the colour rising at his own sensation
of being a fool, and then threw it aside, vexed with himself for being
unable not to feel attracted by the first woman who had shown herself
struck by his personal graces, and yet aware that this was the very
thing he had been warned against, and determined to make all the
resistance in his power to a creature whose very beauty and enchantment
gave him a sense of discomfort.