No, my good Lord, Diana--
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
A late autumn journey from the west coast to Paris was a more serious
undertaking in the sixteenth century than the good seaman Master Hobbs
was aware of, or he would have used stronger dissuasive measures against
such an undertaking by the two youths, when the elder was in so frail
a state of health; but there had been a certain deceptive strength
and vigour about young Ribaumont while under strong excitement and
determination, and the whole party fancied him far fitter to meet
the hardships than was really the case. Philip Thistlewood always
recollected that journey as the most distressing period of his life.
They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore found the hiring
of horses often extremely difficult. They had intended to purchase, but
found no animals that, as Philip said, they would have accepted as a
gift, though at every wretched inn where they had to wait while the
country was scoured for the miserable jades, their proposed requirements
fell lower and lower. Dens of smoke, dirt, and boorishness were the
great proportion of those inns, where they were compelled to take refuge
by the breaking down of one or other of the beasts, or by stress of
weather. Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety rendering
the roads impassable; and at the best, the beasts could seldom be urged
beyond a walk, fetlock-deep in mire or water. Worse than all, Berenger,
far from recovered, and under the heavy oppression of a heartrending
grief, could hardly fail to lose the ground that he had gained under
the influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix itself on the wound on
his cheek, terrible pain and swelling set in, depriving him entirely
of sleep, permitting him to take no nourishment but fragments of
soft crumbs soaked in wine or broth--when the inns afforded any
such fare--and rendering speech excessively painful, and at last
unintelligible.
Happily this was not until Philip and Humfrey both had picked up all
the most indispensable words to serve their needs, and storming could
be done in any language. Besides, they had fallen in at La Motte-Achard
with a sharp fellow named Guibert, who had been at sea, and knew a
little English, was a Norman by birth, knew who the Baron de Ribaumont
was, and was able to make himself generally useful, though ill supplying
the place of poor Osbert, who would have been invaluable in the present
predicament. Nothing was so much dreaded by any of the party as that
their chief should become utterly unable to proceed. Once let him be
laid up at one of these little _auberges_, and Philip felt as if all
would be over with him; and he himself was always the most restlessly
eager to push on, and seemed to suffer less even in the biting wind and
sleet than on the dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of the
inns. That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only comfort,
and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding him whenever his head
seemed aching or heated; and under this well-meant surgery it was no
wonder that he grew weaker every day, in spite of the most affectionate
and assiduous watching on his brother’s part.
Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the cross-roads, or
rather in endless delays; and when at last they came on more frequented
ways, with better inns, well-paved _chaussees_, and horses more fit for
use, Berenger was almost beyond feeling the improvement. At their last
halt, even Philip was for waiting and sending on to Paris to inform Sir
Francis Walsingham of their situation; but Berenger only shook his
head, dressed himself, and imperatively signed to go on. It was a
bright morning, with a clear frost, and the towers and steeples of Paris
presently began to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; but
by this time Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently became
so faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift him
from his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little back
from the road.
‘Look up, sir, it is but a league further,’ quoth Humfrey; ‘I can see
the roof of the big church they call Notre-Dame.’
‘He does not open his eyes, he is swooning,’ said Philip. ‘He must have
some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no lace where
we could get a drop of wine or strong waters?’
‘Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but ‘twas a
nunnery, as good as a grave against poor travelers. I would ride on, and
get some of Sir Francis’s folk to bring a litter or coach, but I
doubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young Lord’s
safe-conduct.’
Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but sank
back against Philip’s shoulder. Just then, a trampling and lumbering
became audible, and on the road behind appeared first three horsemen
riding abreast, streaming with black and white ribbons; then eight pair
of black horses, a man walking at the crested heads of each couple, and
behind these a coach, shaped like an urn reversed, and with a coronet
on the top, silvered, while the vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted,
alternately black, with silver figures, and white with black landscapes;
and with white draperies, embroidered with black and silver, floating
from the windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stood
behind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached the
group by the road-side, one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly,
‘Over near the walls from an affair of honour! Has he caught it badly?
Who was the other?’
Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, the coach
stopped, a lady’s head and hand appeared, and a female voice exclaimed,
in much alarm, ‘Halt! Ho, you there, in our colours, come here. What is
it? My brother here? Is he wounded?’
‘It is no wound, Madame,’ said Guibert, shoved forward by his English
comrades, ‘it is M. le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill, and--ah! here
is Monsieur Philippe.’
For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the most
beautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward, hat in
hand, as she exclaimed, ‘Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be true? What
means this? What ails him?’
‘It is his wound, Madame,’ said Philip, in his best French; ‘it
has broken out again, and he has almost dropped from his horse from
_defaillance_.’
‘Ah, bring him here--lay him on the cushions, we will have the honour of
transporting him,’ cried the lady; and, regardless of the wet road, she
sprang out of the coach, with her essences in her hand, followed by
at least three women, two pages, and two little white dogs which ran
barking towards the prostrate figure, but were caught up by their pages.
‘Ah, cousin, how dreadful,’ she cried, as she knelt down beside him, and
held her essences towards him. Voice and scent revived him, and with a
bewildered look and gesture half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed
round him, then rose to his feet without assistance, bent his head, and
making a sign that he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse.
‘Cousin, cousin,’ exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes tears
were standing, ‘you will let me take you into the city--you cannot
refuse.’
‘Berry, indeed you cannot ride,’ entreated Philip; ‘you must take her
offer. Are you getting crazed at last?’
Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy; the
exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and bending
his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black and white
coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip’s arm, and said impressively,
‘Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine lady, sister to the
murderous villain that set upon him. If you would save his life, don’t
quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere than to our Ambassador’s. I’ll
not leave the coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I’ll
send Jack Smithers to make known we are coming.’
Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach,
where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a
corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon the
white velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with devices
and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns,
made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have disposed of
themselves in various nooks of the ample conveyance, and Philip, rather
at a loss to explain his intrusion, perched himself awkwardly on the
edge of the cushions in front of his brother, thinking that Humfrey
was an officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who
seemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger’s condition. ‘Ah!
I never guessed it had been so frightful as this. I should not have
known him. Ah! had I imagined---’ She leant back, covered her face, and
wept, as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward,
and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was at
once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast.
‘Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?’ she asked, with sympathy
and tenderness that went to Philip’s heart, and he explained. ‘He cannot
speak, Madame; the shot in his cheek’ (the lady shuddered, and put
her handkerchief to her eyes) ‘from time to time cases this horrible
swelling and torture. After that he will be better.’
‘Frightful, frightful,’ she sighed, ‘but we will do our best to make up.
You, sir, must be his _trucheman_.’
Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man that
might be, made answer, ‘I am his brother, Madame.’
‘_Eh! Monsieur son frere_. Had _Madame sa mere_ a son so old?’
‘I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband’s son, at your service, Madame,’
said Philip, colouring up to the ears; ‘I came with him for he is too
weak to be alone.’
‘Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir,’ she said, with a not
unflattering surprise. ‘But whence are you come? I little looked to see
Monsieur here.’
‘We came from Anjou, Madame. We went to La Sablerie,’ and he broke off.
‘I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the heart;’ and again
she wiped away tear. ‘And now---’
‘We are coming to the Ambassador’s to obtain’--he stopped, for
Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved his
embarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear cousin go to
the Ambassador’s when he was among his own kindred. Perhaps Monsieur did
not know her; she must present herself as Madame de Selinville, _nee_ de
Ribaumont, a poor cousin of _ce cher Baron_, ‘and even a little to you,
_M. le frere_, if you will own me,’ and she held out a hand, which he
ought to have kissed, but not knowing how, he only shook it. She further
explained that her brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King of
Poland, but that her father lived with her at her hotel, and would be
enchanted to see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be
desolated at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She had
been returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she had
been praying for the soul of the late M. de Selinville, when a true
Providence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now,
nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried at
once to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the Ambassador,
and where every comfort should await him. She clasped her hands in
earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her kindness and
perceiving that every jolt of the splendid by springless vehicle caused
Berenger’s head a shoot of anguish, was almost acceding to her offer,
when he was checked by one of the most imperative of those silent
negatives. Hitherto, Master Thistlewood had been rather proud of his bad
French, and as long as he could be understood, considered trampling on
genders, tenses, and moods as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he
would just now have given a great deal for the command of any language
but a horseboy’s, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. ‘_Merci,
Madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passe notre parole d’aller droit
a l’Ambassadeur’s et pas ou else_,’ did not sound very right to his
ears; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew that if Berry
had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would have smiled now. But
this most charming and polite of ladies never betrayed it, if it were
ever such bad French; she only bowed her head, and said something very
pretty--if only he could make it out--of being the slave of one’s word,
and went on persuading. Nor did it make the conversation easier, that
she inquired after Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he were
unconscious, while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, that
he was aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as
possible should be said, and determined against being taken to her
hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that had it
not been for Humfrey’s words, he would have doubted whether, in spite of
all his bleeding, his brother’s brain were not wandering.
However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn to
the Ambassador’s hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a hearty
greeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the time the
carriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the steps,
including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more than
a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become uneasy at the
non-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers’s appearance, all had
been made ready; and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy movements, made
courteous gestures of thanks to the lady, and alighted form the coach,
he was absolutely received into the dignified arms of the Ambassador.
‘Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad to see you here again, though in such
different guise. Your chamber is ready for you, and I have sent my
secretary to see if Maitre Par be at home, so we will, with God’s help,
have you better at ease anon.’
Even Philip’s fascination by Madame de Selinville could not hold out
against the comfort of hearing English voices all round him, and of
seeing his brother’s anxious brow expand, and his hand and eyes return
no constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on both sides; the
Ambassador thanked the lady for the assistance she had rendered to his
young friend and guest; she answered with a shade of stiffness, that she
left her kinsman in good hands, and said she should send to inquire
that evening, and her father would call on the morrow; then, as Lady
Walsingham did not ask her in, the black and white coach drove away.
The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and spoke
no word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and turned at
length into another great courtyard, surrounded with buildings, where
she alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty hall, where ranks
of servants stoop up and bowed as she passed; then she ascended a
wide carved staircase, opened a small private door, and entered a tiny
wainscoted room hardly large enough for her farthingale to turn round
in. ‘You, Veronique, come in--only you,’ she said, at the door; and a
waiting-woman, who had been in the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad in
the Angevin costume, but in the richer and less characteristic dress of
the ordinary Parisian _femme de chambre_.
‘Undo my mantle in haste!’ gasped Madame de Selinville. ‘O
Veronique--you saw--what destruction!’
‘Ah! if my sweet young lady only known how frightful he had become, she
had never sacrificed herself,’ sighed Veronique.
‘Frightful! What, with the grave blue eyes that seem like the steady
avenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the picture at the
Louvre?’ murmured Madame de Selinville; then she added quickly, ‘Yes,
yes, it is well. She and you, Veronique, may see him frightful and
welcome. There are other eyes--make haste, girl. There--another
handerchief. Follow me not.’
And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great state
bedroom and the _salle_ beyond, to another chamber where more servants
waited and rose at her entrance.
‘Is any one with my father?’
‘No, Madame;’ and a page knocking, opened the door and announced,
‘Madame la Comtesse.’
The Chevalier, in easy _deshabille_, with a flask of good wine, iced
water, and delicate cakes and _confitures_ before him, a witty and
licentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily enjoying
the luxuries that it had been his daughter’s satisfaction to procure for
him ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet her with a grace
and deference that showed how different a person was the Comtesse de
Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont.
‘Ah! _ma belle_, my sweet,’ as there was a mutual kissing of hands,
‘thou art returned. Had I known thine hour, I had gone down for thy
first embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child; the convent has made
thee lovelier than ever.’
‘Father, who think you is here? It is he--the Baron.’
‘The Baron? Eh, father!’ she cried impetuously. ‘Who could it be but
one?’
‘My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head can never be thrusting
himself here again.’
‘But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my coach! I left him at
the Ambassador’s.’
‘Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will be ten thousand fresh
imbroglios.’
‘I could not; he is as immovable as ever, though unable to speak! Oh,
father, he is very ill, he suffers terribly. Oh, Narcisse! Ah! may I
never see him again!’
‘But what brings him blundering her again?’ exclaimed the Chevalier.
‘Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded against that! He
knows nothing of the survivance.’
‘I cannot tell much. He could not open his mouth, and his half-brother,
a big dull English boy, stammered out a few words of shocking French
against his will. But I believe they had heard of _la pauvre petite_ at
La Sablerie, came over for her, and finding the ruin my brother makes
wherever he goes, are returning seeking intelligence and succour for
HIM.’
‘That may be,’ said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. ‘It is well thy brother
is in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we may get him
back to England ere my son learns that he is here.’
‘Father, there is a better way! Give him my hand.’
‘_Eh quoi_, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are a thousand
better marriages.’
‘No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all--all
that I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever all his
claims to the ancestral castle--to La Leurre, and above all, that claim
to Nid de Merle as Eustacie’s widower, which, should he ever discover
the original contract, will lead to endless warfare.’
‘His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet--yet there might be
doubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formally
renewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child, it is
a horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no warning, and
the poor things had made off together. We could have cried shame till we
forced out a provision for thy brother; and my poor little Eustacie---’
He had tears in his eyes as he broke off.
Diane made an impatient gesture. ‘She would have died of tedium in
England, or broken forth so as to have a true scandal. That is all over,
father, now; weigh my proposal! Nothing else will save my brother from
all that his cruel hand merits! You will win infinite credit at court.
The King loved him more than you thought safe.’
‘The King has not a year to live, child, and he has personally offended
the King of Poland. Besides, this youth is heretic.’
‘Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he had by an
abjuration. And as to Monsieur’s enmity, if it be not forgotten, the
glory of bringing about a conversion would end that at once.’
‘Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury himself among the
English.’
‘It was unavoidable, father, and perhaps if he were here he would live
in an untamable state of distrust, whereas we may now win him gradually.
You will go and see him to-morrow, my dear father.’
‘I must have time to think of this thy sudden device.’
‘Nay, he is in no condition to hear of it at present. I did but speak
now, that you might not regard it as sudden when the fit moment comes.
It is the fixed purpose of my mind. I am no girl now, and I could act
for myself if I would; but as it is for your interest and that of my
brother thus to dispose of me, it is better that you should act for me.’
‘Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal,’ said the
Chevalier, looking up at his daughter’s handsome head drawn up proudly
with determination.
‘Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me.’ And Diane sailed away in
her sweeping folds of black brocade.
In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands locked together before
a much-gilded little waxem figure of St. Eustacie with his cross-bearing
stag by his side, which stood in a curtained recess in the alcove where
her stately bed was placed.
‘Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles everyday to your shrine at
Bellaise, so he recovers; ten more if he listen favourably and loves me.
Nay, all--all the Selinville jewels to make you a shrine. All--all, so
he will only let me love him;’ and then, while taking up the beads, and
pronouncing the repeated devotions attached to each, her mind darted
back to the day when, as young children, she had played unfairly,
defrauded Landry Osbert, and denied it; how Berenger, though himself
uninjured, had refused to speak to her all that day--how she had hated
him then--how she had thought she had hated him throughout their brief
intercourse in the previous year; how she had played into her brother’s
hands; and when she thought to triumph over the man who had scorned her,
found her soul all blank desolation, and light gone out from the earth!
Reckless and weary, she had let herself be united to M. de Selinville,
and in her bridal honours and amusements had tried to crowd out the
sense of dreariness and lose herself in excitement. Then came the
illness and death of her husband, and almost at the same time the
knowledge of Berenger’s existence. She sought excitement again that
feverish form of devotion then in vogue at Paris, and which resulted in
the League. She had hitherto stunned herself as it were with penances,
processions, and sermons, for which the host of religious orders then
at Paris had given ample scope; and she was constantly devising new
extravagances. Even at this moment she wore sackcloth beneath her
brocade, and her rosary was of death’s heads. She was living on the
outward husk of the Roman Church not penetrating into its living power,
and the phase of religion which fostered Henry III. and the League
offered her no more.
All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast glance of those
two eyes, the only feature still unchanged in the marred, wrecked
countenance. That honest, quiet refusal, that look which came from a
higher atmosphere, had filled her heart with passionate beatings and
aspirations once more, and more consciously than ever. Womanly feeling
for suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to him, and earn his
love, nay wrest it from him by the benefits she would heap upon him,
were all at work; but the primary sense was the longing to rest on the
only perfect truth she had ever known in man, and thus with passionate
ardour she poured forth her entreaties to St. Eustache, a married saint,
who had known love, and could feel for her, and could surely not object
to the affection to which she completely gave way for one whose hand was
now as free as her own.
But St. Eustache was not Diane’s only hope. That evening she sent
Veronique to Rene of Milan, the court-perfumer, but also called by the
malicious, _l’empoisonneur de le Reine_, to obtain from him the most
infallible charm and love potion in his whole repertory.