The night is come, no fears disturb
The sleep of innocence
They trust in kingly faith, and kingly oath.
They sleep, alas! they sleep
Go to the palace, wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be;
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart is quiet there!
--Southey, BARTHOLOMEW’S EVE
‘Young gentlemen,’ said Sir Francis Walsingham, as he rose from dinner
on the Saturday, ‘are you bound for the palace this evening?’
‘I am, so please your Excellency,’ returned Berenger.
‘I would have you both to understand that you must have a care of
yourselves,’ said the Ambassador. ‘The Admiral’s wound has justly caused
much alarm, and I hear that the Protestants are going vapouring about in
so noisy and incautious a manner, crying out for justice, that it is
but too likely that the party of the Queen-mother and the Guise will be
moved to strong measures.’
‘They will never dare lay a finger upon us!’ said Sidney.
‘In a terror-stricken fray men are no respecters of persons,’ replied
Sir Francis. ‘This house is, of course, inviolable; and, whatever the
madness of the people, we have stout hearts enough here to enforce
respect thereto; but I cannot answer even for an Englishman’s life
beyond its precincts; and you, Ribaumont, whom I cannot even claim as my
Queen’s subject--I greatly fear to trust you beyond its bounds.’
‘I cannot help it, sir. Nay, with the most grateful thanks for all your
goodness to me, I must pray you not to take either alarm or offence if I
return not this night.’
‘No more, my friend,’ said Walsingham, quickly; ‘let me know nothing of
your purposes, but take care of yourself. I would you were safe at home
again, though the desire may seem inhospitable. The sooner the better
with whatever you have to do.’
‘Is the danger so imminent?’ asked Sidney.
‘I know nothing, Philip. All I can tell is that, as I have read that
dogs and cattle scent an earthquake in the air, so man and women seem to
breathe a sense of danger in this city. And to me the graciousness
with which the Huguenots have been of late treated wears a strangely
suspicious air. Sudden and secret is the blow like to be, and we cannot
be too much on our guard. Therefore remember, my young friends both,
that your danger or death would fall heavily on those ye love and honour
at home.’
So saying, he left the two youths, unwilling to seek further confidence,
and Berenger held his last consultation with Sidney, to whom he gave
directions for making full explanation to Walsingham in his absence, and
expediting Mr. Adderley’s return to England. Osbert alone was to go to
the Louvre with him, after having seen the five English grooms on board
the little decked market-vessel on the Seine, which was to await the
fugitives. Berenger was to present himself in the palace as in his
ordinary court attendance, and, contriving to elude notice among the
throng who were there lodged, was to take up his station at the foot of
the stairs leading to the apartments of ladies, whence Eustacie was to
descend at about eleven o’clock, with her maid Veronique. Landry Osbert
was to join them from the lackey’s hall below, where he had a friend,
and the connivance of the porter at the postern opening towards the
Seine had been secured.
Sidney wished much to accompany him to the palace, if his presence could
be any aid or protection, but on consideration it was decided that his
being at the Louvre was likely to attract notice to Ribaumont’s delaying
there. The two young men therefore shook hands and parted, as youths who
trusted that they had begun a lifelong friendship, with mutual promises
to write to one another--the one, the adventures of his flight; the
other, the astonishment it would excite. And auguries were exchanged of
merry meetings in London, and of the admiration the lovely little wife
would excite at Queen Elizabeth’s court.
Then, with an embrace such as English friends then gave, they separated
at the gate; and Sidney stood watching, as Berenger walked free and bold
down the street, his sword at his side, his cloak over one shoulder, his
feathered cap on one side, showing his bright curling hair, a sunshiny
picture of a victorious bridegroom--such a picture as sent Philip
Sidney’s wits back to Arcadia.
It was not a day of special state, but the palace was greatly crowded.
The Huguenots were in an excited mood, inclined to rally round Henry of
Navarre, whose royal title made him be looked on as is a manner their
monarch, though his kingdom had been swallowed by Spain, and he was no
more than a French duke distantly related to royalty in the male line,
and more nearly through his grandmother and bride. The eight hundred
gentlemen he had brought with him swarmed about his apartments, making
their lodging on staircases and in passages; and to Berenger it seemed
as if the King’s guards and Monsieur’s gentlemen must have come in in
equal numbers to balance them. Narcisse was there, and Berenger kept
cautiously amid his Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have a
quarrel thrust on him which he could not honourably desert. It was late
before he could work his way to the young Queen’s reception-room, where
he found Eustacie. She looked almost as white as at the masque; but
there was a graver, less childish expression in her face than he had
ever seen before, and her eyes glanced confidence when they met his.
Behind the Queen’s chair a few words could be spoken.
‘_Ma mie,_ art thou well again? Canst bear this journey now?’
‘Quite well, now! quite ready. Oh that we may never have masques in
England!’
He smiled--‘Never such as this!’
‘Ah! thou knowest best. I am glad I am thine already; I am so silly,
thou wouldest never have chosen me! But thou wilt teach me, and I will
strive to be very good! And oh! let me but give one farewell to Diane.’
‘It is too hard to deny thee aught to-night, sweetheart, but judge for
thyself. Think of the perils, and decide.’
Before Eustacie could answer, a rough voice came near, the King making
noisy sport with the Count de Rochefoucauld and others. He was louder
and ruder than Berenger had ever yet seen him, almost giving the notion
of intoxication; but neither he nor his brother Henry ever tasted wine,
though both had a strange pleasure in being present at the orgies of
their companions: the King, it was generally said, from love of the
self-forgetfulness of excitement--the Duke of Anjou, because his cool
brain there collected men’s secrets to serve afterwards for his spiteful
diversion.
Berenger would willingly have escaped notice, but his bright face and
sunny hair always made him conspicuous, and the King suddenly strode up
to him: ‘You here, sir? I thought you would have managed your affairs
so as to be gone long ago!’ then before Berenger could reply, ‘However,
since here you are, come along with me to my bedchamber! We are to have
a carouse there to-night that will ring through all Paris! Yes, and
shake Rochefoucauld out of his bed at midnight! You will be one of us,
Ribaumont? I command it!’
And without waiting for reply he turned away with an arm round
Rochefoucauld’s neck, and boisterously addressed another of the company,
almost as wildly as if he were in the mood that Scots call ‘fey.’
‘Royalty seems determined to frustrate our plans,’ said Berenger, as
soon as the King was out of hearing.
‘But you will not go! His comrades drink till--oh! two, three in the
morning. We should never get away.’
‘No, I must risk his displeasure. We shall soon be beyond his reach. But
at least I may make his invitation a reason for remaining in the Louvre.
People are departing! Soon wilt thou be my own.’
‘As soon as the Queen’s COUCHER is over! I have but to change to a
traveling dress.’
‘At the foot of the winding stair. Sweetest be brave!’
‘I fear nothing with thee to guard me. See, the Queen is rising.’
Elizabeth was in effect rising to make her respectful progress to the
rooms of the Queen-mother, to bid her good night; and Eustacie must
follow. Would Diane be there? Oh that the command to judge between her
heart and her caution had not been given! Cruel kindness!
Diane was there, straight as a poplar, cold as marble, with fixed eyes.
Eustacie stole up to her, and touched her. She turned with a start.
‘Cousin, you have been very good to me!’ Diane started again, as if
stung. You will love me still, whatever you hear?’
‘Is this meant for farewell?’ said Diane, grasping her wrist.
‘Do not ask me, Diane. I may not.’
‘Where there is no trust there is no treason,’ said Diane, dreamily.
‘No, answer me not, little one, there will be time for that another day.
Where is he?’
‘In the _oeil-de-boeuf_, between the King’s and Queen’s suites of rooms.
I must go. There is the Queen going. Diane, one loving word.’
‘Silly child, you shall have plenty another time,’ said Diane, breaking
away. ‘Follow thy Queen now!’
Catherine, who sat between her daughters Claude and Marguerite, looked
pre-occupied, and summarily dismissed her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth,
whom Eustacie was obliged to follow to her own state-room. There all the
forms of the COUCHER were tediously gone through; every pin had its own
ceremony, and even when her Majesty was safely deposited under her blue
satin coverlet the ladies still stood round till she felt disposed to
fall asleep. Elisabeth was both a sleepy and a considerate person, so
that this was not so protracted a vigil as was sometimes exacted by the
more wakeful princesses; but Eustacie could not escape from it till it
was already almost midnight, the period for her tryst.
Her heart was very full. It was not the usual flutter and terror of an
eloping girl. Eustacie was a fearless little being, and her conscience
had no alarms; her affections were wholly with Berenger, and her
transient glimpses of him had been as of something come out of a region
higher, tenderer, stronger, purer, more trustworthy than that where she
had dwelt. She was proud of belonging to him. She had felt upheld by the
consciousness through years of waiting, and now he more than realized
her hopes, and she could have wept for exulting joy. Yet it was a
strange, stealthy break with all she had to leave behind. The light
to which he belonged seemed strange, chill, dazzling light, and she
shivered at the thought of it, as if the new world, new ideas, and new
requirements could only be endured with him to shield her and help her
on. And withal, there seemed to her a shudder over the whole place on
that night. The King’s eyes looked wild and startled, the Queen-mother’s
calm was strained, the Duchess of Lorraine was evidently in a state of
strong nervous excitement; there were strange sounds, strange people
moving about, a weight on everything, as if they were under the shadow
of a thunder-cloud. ‘Could it be only her own fancy?’ she said to
herself, because this was to be the great event of her life, for surely
all these great people could not know or heed that little Eustacie de
Ribaumont was to make her escape that night!
The trains of royalty were not sumptuously lodged. France never has
cared so much for comfort as for display. The waiting-lady of the
bedchamber slept in the ante-room of her mistress; the others, however
high their rank, were closely herded together up a winding stair
leading to a small passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses, wherein the
demoiselles slept, often with their maids, and then dressed themselves
in the space afforded by the passage. Eustacie’s cell was nearly at the
end of the gallery, and exchanging ‘good-nights’ with her companions,
she proceeded to her recess, where she expected to find Veronique ready
to adjust her dress. Veronique, however, was missing; but anxious to
lose no time, she had taken off her delicate white satin farthingale to
change it for an unobtrusive dark woolen kirtle, when, to her surprise
and dismay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself heard outside
the door at the other end. Half-a-dozen heads came out of their cells;
half-a-dozen voices asked and answered the question, ‘What is it?’ ‘They
are bolting our door outside.’ But only Eustacie sped like lightning
along the passage, pulled at the door, and cried, ‘Open! Open, I say!’
No answer, but the other bolt creaked.
‘You mistake, CONCIERGE! We are never bolted in! My maid is shut out.’
No answer, but the step retreated. Eustacie clasped her hands with a cry
that she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted the next
moment.
Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed. ‘What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid they
will not let us out to-morrow?’
‘My maid!’ murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a colour
to her distress.
‘Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us.’
This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intently
listening for Veronique’s step, wishing that her companions would hold
their peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed whether
it were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery of Madame la
Comtesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so full of strange
people, who could say what might happen? And there was a talk of
a conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any rate, every one was too much
frightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on the floor, some on
a chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled together in Gabrielle de
Limeuil’s recess, the nearest to the door, and one after another related
horrible tales of blood, murder, and vengeance--then, alas! Only too
frequent occurrences in their unhappy land--each bringing some frightful
contribution from her own province, each enhancing upon the last-told
story, and ever and anon pausing with bated breath at some fancied
sound, or supposed start of one of the others; then clinging close
together, and renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voice
that grew louder with the interest of the story. Eustacie alone would
not join the cluster. Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood with
her back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest indication
outside of a step that might lead to her release, or at least enable
her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently that her companions
would go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening with the like dreadful
fascination to each of the terrible histories, which added each moment
to the nervous horror of the whole party. Only one, a dull and composed
girl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head in
her companion’s lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder and
suppressed cry when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of the
already terrified, excited maidens.
‘The tocsin! The bell of St. Germain! Fire! No, a Huguenot rising! Fire!
Oh, let us out! Let us out! The window! Where is the fire? Nowhere!
See the lights! Hark, that was a shot! It was in the palace! A heretic
rising! Ah! there was to be a slaughter of the heretics! I heard it
whispered. Oh, let us out! Open the door!’
But nobody heard: nobody opened. There was one who stood without word
or cry, close to the door--her eyes dilated, her cheek colourless, her
whole person, soul and body alike, concentrated in that one impulse to
spring forward the first moment the bolt should be drawn. But still the
door remained fast shut!