And trust me not at all or all in all.
--TENNYSON
So extensive was the Louvre, so widely separated the different suites
of apartments, that Diane and Eustacie had not met after the pall-mall
party till they sat opposite to their several queens in the coach
driving through the woods, the elder cousin curiously watching the eyes
of the younger, so wistfully gazing at the window, and now and then
rapidly winking as though to force back a rebellious tear.
The cousins had been bred up together in the convent at Bellaise, and
had only been separated by Diane’s having been brought to court two
years sooner than Eustacie. They had always been on very kindly,
affectionate terms; Diane treating her little cousin with the patronage
of an elder sister, and greatly contributing to shield her from
the temptations of the court. The elder cousin was so much the more
handsome, brilliant, and admired, that no notion of rivalry had crossed
her mind; and Eustacie’s inheritance was regarded by her as reserved for
her brother, and the means of aggradizement an prosperity for herself
and her father. She looked upon the child as a sort of piece of property
of the family, to be guarded and watched over for her brother; and
when she had first discovered the error that the young baron was making
between the two daughters of the house, it was partly in kindness to
Eustacie, partly to carry out her father’s plans, and partly from
her own pleasure in conversing with anything so candid and fresh as
Berenger, that she had maintained the delusion. Her father believed
himself to have placed Berenger so entirely in the background, that he
would hardly be at court long enough to discover the imposition; and
Diane was not devoid of a strong hope of winning his affection and
bending his will so as to induce him to become her husband, and become
a French courtier for her sake--a wild dream, but a better castle in the
air than she had ever yet indulged in.
This arrangement was, however, disconcerted by the King’s passion for
Sidney’s society, which brought young Ribaumont also to court; and at
the time of the mischievous introduction by Madame Marguerite, Diane had
perceived that the mistake would soon be found out, and that she should
no longer be able to amuse herself with the fresh-coloured, open-faced
boy who was unlike all her former acquaintance; but the magnetism that
shows a woman when she produces an effect had been experienced by her,
and she had been sure that a few efforts more would warm and mould the
wax in her fingers. That he should prefer a little brown thing, whose
beauty was so inferior to her own, had never crossed her mind; she
did not even know that he was invited to the pall-mall party, and was
greatly taken by surprise when her father sought an interview with her,
accused her of betraying their interests, and told her that this
foolish young fellow declared that he had been mistaken, and having now
discovered his veritable wife, protested against resigning her.
By that time the whole party were gone to Montpipeau, but that the Baron
was among them was not known at the Louvre until Queen Catherine, who
had always treated Diane as rather a favoured, quick-witted _protegee_,
commanded her attendance, and on her way let her know that Madame
de Sauve had reported that, among all the follies that were being
perpetrated at the hunting-seat, the young Queen was absolutely throwing
the little Nid-de-Merle into the arms of her Huguenot husband, and that
if measures were not promptly taken all the great estates in the
Bocage would be lost to the young Chevalier, and be carried over to the
Huguenot interest.
Still Diane could not believe that it was so much a matter of love
as that the young had begun to relish court favour and to value the
inheritance, and she could quite believe her little cousin had been
flattered by a few attentions that had no meaning in them. She was not
prepared to find that Eustacie shrank from her, and tried to avoid
a private interview. In truth, the poor child had received such
injunctions from the Queen, and so stern a warning look from the King,
that she durst not utter a syllable of the evening that had sealed her
lot, and was so happy with her secret, so used to tell everything
to Diane, so longing to talk of her husband, that she was afraid of
betraying herself if once they were alone together. Yet Diane, knowing
that her father trusted to her to learn how far things had gone, and
piqued at seeing the transparent little creature, now glowing and
smiling with inward bliss, now pale, pensive, sighing, and anxious, and
scorning her as too childish for the love that she seemed to affect, was
resolved on obtaining confidence from her.
And when the whole female court had sat down to the silk embroidery in
which Catherine de Medicis excelled, Diane seated herself in the recess
of a window and beckoned her cousin to her side, so that it was not
possible to disobey.
‘Little one,’ she said, ‘why have you cast off your poor cousin? There,
sit down’--for Eustacie stood, with her silk in her hand, as if meaning
instantly to return to her former place; and now, her cheeks in a flame,
she answered in an indignant whisper, ‘You know, Diane! How could you
try to keep him from me?’
‘Because it was better for thee, my child, than to be pestered with an
adventurer,’ she said, smiling, though bitterly.
‘My husband!’ returned Eustacie proudly.
‘Bah! You know better than that!’ Then, as Eustacie was about to
speak, but checked herself, Diane added, ‘Yes, my poor friend, he has
a something engaging about him, and we all would have hindered you from
the pain and embarrassment of a meeting with him.’
Eustacie smiled a little saucy smile, as though infinitely superior to
them all.
‘_Pauvre petite_,’ said Diane, nettled; ‘she actually believes in his
love.’
‘I will not hear a word against my husband!’ said Eustacie, stepping
back, as if to return to her place, but Diane rose and laid her hand on
hers. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘we must no part thus. I only wish to know
what touches my darling so nearly. I thought she loved and clung to us;
why should she have turned from me for the sake of one who forgot her
for half his life? What can he have done to master this silly little
heart?’
‘I cannot tell you, Diane,’ said Eustacie, simply; and though she looked
down, the colour on her face was more of a happy glow than a conscious
blush. ‘I love him too much; only we understand each other now, and it
is of no use to try to separate us.’
‘Ah, poor little thing, so she thinks,’ said Diane; and as Eustacie
again smiled as one incapable of being shaken in her conviction, she
added, ‘And how do you know that he loves you?’
Diane was startled by the bright eyes that flashed on her and the bright
colour that made Eustacie perfectly beautiful, as she answered, ‘Because
I am his wife! That is enough!’ Then, before her cousin could speak
again, ‘But, Diane, I promised not to speak of it. I know he would
despise me if I broke my word, so I will not talk to you till I have
leave to tell you all, and I am going back to help Gabrielle de Limeuil
with her shepherdess.’
Mademoiselle de Ribaumont felt her attempt most unsatisfactory, but she
knew of old that Eustacie was very determined--all Bellaise know that
to oppose the tiny Baronne was to make her headstrong in her resolution;
and if she suspected that she was coaxed, she only became more
obstinate. To make any discoveries, Diane must take the line of most
cautious caresses, such as to throw her cousin off her guard; and this
she was forced to confess to her father when he sought an interview with
her on the day of her return to Paris. He shook his head. She must be
on the watch, he said, and get quickly into the silly girl’s confidence.
What! had she not found out that the young villain had been on the point
of eloping with her? If such a thing as that should succeed, the whole
family was lost, and she was the only person who could prevent it. He
trusted to her.
The Chevalier had evidently come to regard his niece as his son’s lawful
property, and the Baron as the troublesome meddler; and Diane had much
the same feeling, enhanced by sore jealousy at Eustacie’s triumph over
her, and curiosity as to whether it could be indeed well founded. She
had an opportunity of judging the same evening--mere habit always caused
Eustacie to keep under her wing, if she could not be near the Queen,
whenever there was a reception, and to that reception of course Berenger
came, armed with his right as gentleman of the bedchamber. Eustacie was
colouring and fluttering, as if by the instinct of his presence, even
before the tall fair head became visible, moving forward as well as the
crowd would permit, and seeking about with anxious eyes. The glances
of the blue and the black eyes met at last, and a satisfied radiance
illuminated each young face; then the young man steered his way through
the throng, but was caught midway by Coligny, and led up to be presented
to a hook-nosed, dark-haired, lively-looking young man, in a suit of
black richly laced with silver. It was the King of Navarre, the royal
bridegroom, who had entered Paris in state that afternoon. Eustacie
tried to be proud of the preferment, but oh! she thought it mistimed,
and was gratified to mark certain wandering of the eye even while the
gracious King was speaking. Then the Admiral said something that brought
the girlish rosy flush up to the very roots of the short curls of flaxen
hair, and made the young King’s white teeth flash out in a mirthful,
good-natured laugh, and thereupon the way opened, and Berenger was
beside the two ladies, kissing Eustacie’s hand, but merely bowing to
Diane.
She was ready to take the initiative.
‘My cousins deem me unpardonable,’ she said; ‘yet I am going to purchase
their pardon. See this cabinet of porcelain _a le Reine_, and Italian
vases and gems, behind this curtain. There is all the siege of Troy,
which M. le Baron will not doubt explain to Mademoiselle, while I shall
sit on this cushion, and endure the siege of St. Quentin from the _bon_
Sieur de Selinville.’
Monsieur de Selinville was the court bore, who had been in every battle
from Pavia to Montcontour, and gave as full memoirs of each as did
Blaise de Monluc, only _viva voce_ instead of in writing. Diane was
rather a favourite of his; she knew her way through all his adventures.
So soon as she had heard the description of the King of Navarre’s entry
into Paris that afternoon, and the old gentleman’s lamentation that his
own two nephews were among the three hundred Huguenot gentleman who had
formed the escort, she had only to observe whether his reminiscences
had gone to Italy or to Flanders in order to be able to put in the
appropriate remarks at each pause, while she listened all the while to
the murmurs behind the curtain. Yet it was not easy, with all her court
breeding, to appear indifferent, and solely absorbed in hearing of
the bad lodgings that had fallen to the share of the royal troops at
Brescia, when such sounds were reaching her. It was not so much the
actual words she heard, though these were the phrases--‘_mon ange_,
my heart, my love;’ those were common, and Diane had lived in the
Queen-mother’s squadron long enough to despise those who uttered
them only less than those who believed them. It was the full depth of
tenderness and earnestness, in the subdued tones of the voice, that gave
her a sense of quiet force and reality beyond all she had ever known.
She had heard and overheard men pour out frantic ravings of passion, but
never had listened to anything like the sweet protecting tenderness of
voice that seemed to embrace and shelter its object. Diane had no doubts
now; he had never so spoken to her; nay, perhaps he had had no such
cadences in his voice before. It was quite certain that Eustacie was
everything to him, she herself nothing; she who might have had any
gallant in the court at her feet, but had never seen one whom she
could believe in, whose sense of esteem had been first awakened by this
stranger lad who despised her. Surely he was loving this foolish child
simply as his duty; his belonging, as his right he might struggle hard
for her, and if he gained her, be greatly disappointed; for how could
Eustacie appreciate him, little empty-headed, silly thing, who would be
amused and satisfied by any court flatterer?
However, Diane held out and played her part, caught scraps of the
conversation, and pieced them together, yet avoided all appearance
of inattention to M. de Selinville, and finally dismissed him, and
manoeuvred first Eustacie, and after a safe interval Berenger, out of
the cabinet. The latter bowed as he bade her good night, and said, with
the most open and cordial of smiles, ‘Cousin, I thank you with all my
heart.’
The bright look seemed to her another shaft. ‘What happiness!’ said she
to herself. ‘Can I overthrow it? Bah! it will crumble of its own accord,
even if I did nothing! And my father and brother!’
Communication with her father and brother was not always easy to Diane,
for she lived among the Queen-mother’s ladies. Her brother was quartered
in a sort of barrack among the gentlemen of Monsieur’s suite, and the
old Chevalier was living in the room Berenger had taken for him at the
Croix de Lorraine, and it was only on the most public days that they
attended at the palace. Such a day, however, there was on the ensuing
Sunday, when Henry of Navarre and Marguerite of France were to be
wedded. Their dispensation was come, but, to the great relief of
Eustacie, there was no answer with it to the application for the
CASSATION of her marriage. In fact, this dispensation had never emanated
from the Pope at all. Rome would not sanction the union of a daughter
of France with a Huguenot prince; and Charles had forged the document,
probably with his mother’s knowledge, in the hope of spreading her toils
more completely round her prey, while he trusted that the victims might
prove too strong for her, and destroy her web, and in breaking forth
might release himself.
Strange was the pageant of that wedding on Sunday, the 17th of August,
1572. The outward seeming was magnificent, when all that was princely in
France stood on the splendidly decked platform in front of Notre-Dame,
around the bridegroom in the bright promise of his kingly endowments,
and the bride in her peerless beauty. Brave, noble-hearted, and devoted
were the gallant following of the one, splendid and highly gifted the
attendants of the other; and their union seemed to promise peace to a
long distracted kingdom.
Yet what an abyss lay beneath those trappings! The bridegroom and his
comrades were as lions in the toils of the hunter, and the lure that had
enticed them thither was the bride, herself so unwilling a victim that
her lips refused to utter the espousal vows, and her head as force
forward by her brother into a sign of consent; while the favoured lover
of her whole lifetime agreed to the sacrifice in order to purchase the
vengeance for which he thirsted, and her mother, the corrupter of her
own children, looked complacently on at her ready-dug pit of treachery
and bloodshed.
Among the many who played unconscious on the surface of that gulf of
destruction, were the young creatures whose chief thought in the pageant
was the glance and smile from the gallery of the Queen’s ladies to the
long procession of the English ambassador’s train, as they tried to
remember their own marriage there; Berenger with clear recollection of
his father’s grave, anxious face, and Eustacie chiefly remembering her
own white satin and turquoise dress, which indeed she had seen on every
great festival-day as the best raiment of the image of Notre Dame
de Bellaise. She remained in the choir during mass, but Berenger
accompanied the rest of the Protestants with the bridegroom at their
head into the nave, where Coligny beguiled the time with walking about,
looking at the banners that had been taken from himself and Conde at
Montcontour and Jarnac, saying that he hoped soon to see them taken down
and replaced by Spanish banners. Berenger had followed because he felt
the need of doing as Walsingham and Sidney thought right, but he had
not been in London long enough to become hardened to the desecration of
churches by frequenting ‘Paul’s Walk.’ He remained bareheaded, and stood
as near as he could to the choir, listening to the notes that floated
from the priests and acolytes at the high altar, longing from the time
when he and Eustacie should be one in their prayers, and lost in a
reverie, till a grave old nobleman passing near him reproved him for
dallying with the worship of Rimmon. But his listening attitude had not
passed unobserved by others besides Huguenot observers.
The wedding was followed by a ball at the Louvre, from which, however,
all the stricter Huguenots absented themselves out of respect to Sunday,
and among them the family and guests of the English Ambassador, who were
in the meantime attending the divine service that had been postponed on
account of the morning’s ceremony. Neither was the Duke of Guise present
at the entertainment; for though he had some months previously been
piqued and entrapped into a marriage with Catherine of Cleves, yet his
passion for Marguerite was still so strong that he could not bear to
join in the festivities of her wedding with another. The absence of so
many distinguished persons caused the admission of many less constantly
privileged, and thus it was that Diane there met both her father and
brother, who eagerly drew her into a window, and demanded what she had
to tell them, laughing too at the simplicity of the youth, who had
left for the Chevalier a formal announcement that he had dispatched his
protest to Rome, and considered himself as free to obtain his wife by
any means in his power.
‘Where is _la petite_?’ Narcisse demanded. Behind her Queen, as usual?’
‘The young Queen keeps her room to-night,’ returned Diane. ‘Nor do
I advise you, brother, to thrust yourself in the way of _la petite
entetee_ just at present.’
‘What, is she so besotted with the peach face? He shall pay for it!’
‘Brother, no duel. Father, remind him that she would never forgive him.’
‘Fear not, daughter,’ said the Chevalier; ‘this folly can be ended by
much quieter modes, only you must first give us information.’
‘She tells me nothing,’ said Diane; ‘she is in one of her own
humours--high and mighty.’
‘_Peste_! where is your vaunt of winding the little one round your
finger?’
‘With time, I said,’ replied Diane. Curiously enough, she had no
compunction in worming secrets from Eustacie and betraying them, but
she could not bear to think of the trap she had set for the unsuspecting
youth, and how ingenuously he had thanked her, little knowing how she
had listened to his inmost secrets.
‘Time is everything,’ said her father; ‘delay will be our ruin. Your
inheritance will slip through your fingers, my son. The youth will soon
win favour by abjuring his heresy; he will play the same game with the
King as his father did with King Henri. You will have nothing but your
sword, and for you, my poor girl, there is nothing but to throw yourself
on the kindness of your aunt at Bellaise, if she can receive the vows of
a dowerless maiden.’
‘It will never be,’ said Narcisse. ‘My rapier will soon dispose of a big
rustic like that, who knows just enough of fencing to make him an easy
prey. What! I verily believe the great of entreaty. ‘And yet the fine
fellow was willing enough to break the marriage when he took her for the
bride.’
‘Nay, my son,’ argued the Chevalier, will apparently to spare his
daughter from the sting of mortification, ‘as I said, all can be done
without danger of bloodshed on either side, were we but aware of any
renewed project of elopement. The pretty pair would be easily waylaid,
the girl safely lodged at Bellaise, the boy sent off to digest his pride
in England.’
‘Unhurt?’ murmured Diane.
Her father checked Narcisse’s mockery at her solicitude, as he added,
‘Unhurt? Yes. He is a liberal-hearted, gracious, fine young man, whom I
should much grieve to harm; but if you know of any plan of elopement
and conceal it, my daughter, then upon you will lie either the ruin and
disgrace of your family, or the death of one or both of the youths.’
Diane saw that her question had betrayed her knowledge. She spoke
faintly. ‘Something I did overhear, but I know not how to utter a
treason.’
‘There is no treason where there is no trust, daughter,’ said the
Chevalier, in the tone of a moral sage. ‘Speak!’
Diane never disobeyed her father, and faltered, ‘Wednesday; it is for
Wednesday. They mean to leave the palace in the midst of the masque;
there is a market-boat from Leurre to meet them on the river; his
servants will be in it.’
‘On Wednesday!’ Father and son looked at each other.
‘That shall be remedied,’ said Narcisse.
‘Child,’ added her father, turning kindly to Diane, ‘you have saved our
fortunes. There is put one thing more that you must do. Make her obtain
the pearls from him.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Diane, half shocked, half revengeful, as she thought how he
had withheld them from her.
‘It is necessary,’ said the Chevalier. ‘The heirloom of our house must
not be risked. Secure the pearls, child, and you will have done good
service, and earned the marriage that shall reward you.’
When he was gone, Diane pressed her hands together with a strange
sense of misery. He, who had shrunk from the memory of little Diane’s
untruthfulness, what would he think of the present Diane’s treachery?
Yet it was to save his life and that of her brother--and for the
assertion of her victory over the little robber, Eustacie.