Next, Sirs, did he marry?
And whom, Sirs, did he marry? One like himself, Though doubtless graced
with many virtues, young, And erring, and in nothing more astray Than in
this marriage.--TAYLOR, EDWIN THE FAIR.
Nothing could be kinder than the Ambassador’s family, and Philip found
himself at once at home there, at least in his brother’s room, which
was all the world to him. fortunately, Ambroise Pare, the most skillful
surgeon of his day, had stolen a day from his attendance of King
Charles, at St. Germain, to visit his Paris patients, and, though
unwilling to add to the list of cases, when he heard from Walsingham’s
secretary who the suffer was, and when injured, he came at once to
afford his aid.
He found, however, that there was little scope for present treatment,
he could only set his chief assistant to watch the patient and to inform
him when the crisis should be nearer; but remarking the uneasy, anxious
expression in Berenger’s eyes, he desired to know whether any care
on his mind might be interfering with his recovery. A Huguenot, and
perfectly trustworthy, he was one who Walsingham knew might safely hear
the whole, and after hearing all, he at once returned to his patient,
and leaning over him, said, ‘Vex not yourself, sir; your illness is
probably serving you better than health could do.’
Sir Francis thought this quite probable, since Charles was so unwell
and so beset with his mother’s creatures that no open audience could
be obtained from him, and Pare, who always had access to him, might act
when no one else could reach him. Meantime the Ambassador rejoiced to
hear of the instinctive caution that had made Berenger silence Philip on
the object of the journey to Paris, since if the hostile family guessed
at the residence of the poor infant, they would have full opportunity
for obliterating all the scanty traces of her. Poor persecuted little
thing! the uncertain hope of her existence seemed really the only thread
that still bound Berenger to life. He had spent eighteen months in
hope deferred, and constant bodily pain; and when the frightful
disappointment met him at La Sablerie, it was not wonder that his heart
and hope seemed buried in the black scorched ruins where all he cared
for had perished. He was scarcely nineteen, but the life before him
seemed full of nothing but one ghastly recollection, and, as he said in
the short sad little letter which he wrote to his grandfather from his
bed, he only desired to live long enough to save Eustacie’s child from
being a nameless orphan maintained for charity in a convent, and to see
her safe in Aunt Cecily’s care; and then he should be content to have
done with this world for ever.
The thought that no one except himself could save the child, seemed to
give him the resolution to battle for life that often bears the
patient through illness, though now he as suffering more severely and
consciously than ever he had done before; and Lady Walsingham often gave
up hopes of him. He was tenderly cared for by her and her women; but
Philip was the most constant nurse, and his unfailing assiduity and
readiness amazed the household, who had begun by thinking him ungainly,
loutish, and fit for nothing but country sports.
The Chevalier de Ribaumont came daily to inquire; and the first time
he was admitted actually burst into tears at the sight of the swollen
disfigured face, and the long mark on the arm which lay half-uncovered.
Presents of delicacies, ointments, and cooling drinks were frequently
sent from him and from the Countess de Selinville; but Lady Walsingham
distrusted these, and kept her guest strictly to the regimen appointed
by Pare. Now and then, billets would likewise come. The first brought a
vivid crimson into Berenger’s face, and both it and all its successors
he instantly tore into the smallest fragments, without letting any one
see them.
On the day of the Carnival, the young men of the household had asked
Master Thistlewood to come out with them and see the procession of the
_Boeuf Gras_; but before it could take place, reports were flying about
that put the city in commotion, caused the Ambassador to forbid all
going out, and made Philip expect another Huguenot massacre. The Duke
of Alencon and the King of Navarre had been detected, it was said, in a
conspiracy for overthrowing the power of the Queen-mother, bringing in
the Huguenots, and securing the crown to Alencon on the King’s death.
Down-stairs, the Ambassador and his secretaries sat anxiously striving
to sift the various contradictory reports; up-stairs, Philip and
Lady Walsingham were anxiously watching Berenger in what seemed the
long-expected crisis, and Philip was feeling as if all the French court
were welcome to murder one another so that they would only let Ambroise
Pare come to his brother’s relief. And it was impossible even to send!
At last, however, when Ash-Wednesday was half over, there was a quiet
movement, and a small pale man in black was at the bedside, without
Philip’s having ever seen his entrance. He looked at his exhausted
patient, and said, ‘It is well; I could not have done you any good
before.’
And when he had set Berenger more at ease, he told how great had been
the confusion at St. Germain when the plot had become known to the
Queen-mother. The poor King had been wakened at two o’clock in the
morning, and carried to his litter, when Pare and his old nurse had
tended him. He only said, ‘Can they not let me die in peace?’ and his
weakness had been so great on arriving, that the surgeon could hardly
have left him for M. de Ribaumont, save by his own desire. ‘Yes, sir,’
added Pare, seeing Berenger attending to him, ‘we must have you well
quickly; his Majesty knows all about you, and is anxious to see you.’
In spite of these good wishes, the recovery was very slow; for, as the
surgeon had suspected, the want of skill in those who had had the charge
of Berenger at the first had been the cause of much of his protracted
suffering. Pare, the inventor of trephining, was, perhaps, the only
man in Europe who could have dealt with the fracture in the back of
the head, and he likewise extracted the remaining splinters of the jaw,
though at the cost of much severe handling and almost intolerable pain:
but by Easter, Berenger found the good surgeon’s encouragement verified,
and himself on the way to a far more effectual cure than he had hitherto
thought possible. Sleep had come back to him, he experienced the luxury
of being free from all pain, he could eat without difficulty; and Pare,
always an enemy to wine, assured him that half the severe headaches
for which he had been almost bled to death, were the consequence of
his living on bread soaked in sack instead of solid food; and he was
forbidden henceforth to inflame his brain with anything stronger than
sherbet. His speech, too, was much improved; he still could not utter
all the consonants perfectly, and could not speak distinctly without
articulating very slowly, but all the discomfort and pain were gone; and
though still very weak, he told Philip that now all his course seemed
clear towards his child, instead of being like a dull, distraught dream.
His plan was to write to have a vessel sent from Weymouth, to lie off
the coast till his signal should be seen from la Motte-Achard, and then
to take in the whole party and the little yearling daughter, whom
he declared he should trust to no one but himself. Lady Walsingham
remonstrated a little at the wonderful plans hatched by the two lads
together, and yet she was too glad to see a beginning of brightening
on his face to make many objections. It was only too sand to think how
likely he was again to be disappointed.
He was dressed, but had not left his room, and was lying on cushions
in the ample window overlooking the garden, while Frances and Elizabeth
Walsingham in charge of their mother tried to amuse him by their
childish airs and sports, when a message was brought that M. le
Chevalier de Ribaumont prayed to be admitted to see him privily.
‘What bodes that?’ he languidly said.
‘Mischief, no doubt,’ said Philip Walsingham. ‘Send him word that you
are seriously employed.’
‘Nay, that could scarce be, when he must have heard the children’s
voices,’ said Lady Walsingham. ‘Come away, little ones.’
The ladies took the hint and vanished, but Philip remained till the
Chevalier had entered, more resplendent than ever, in a brown velvet
suit slashed with green satin, and sparkling with gold lace-a contrast
to the deep mourning habit in which Berenger was dressed. After
inquiries for his health, the Chevalier looked at Philip, and expressed
his desire of speaking with his cousin alone.
‘If it be of business,’ said Berenger, much on his guard, ‘my head is
still weak, and I would wish to have the presence of the Ambassador or
one of his secretaries.’
‘This is not so much a matte of business as of family,’ said the
Chevalier, still looking so uneasily at Philip that Berenger felt
constrained to advise him to join the young ladies in the garden; but
instead of doing this, the boy paced the corridors like a restless
dog waiting for his master, and no sooner heard the old gentleman
bow himself out than he hurried back again, to find Berenger heated,
panting, agitated as by a sharp encounter.
‘Brother, what is it--what has the old rogue done to you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Berenger, tardily and wearily; and for some minutes he
did not attempt to speak, while Philip devoured his curiosity as best he
might. At last he said, ‘He was always beyond me. What think you? Now he
wants me to turn French courtier and marry his daughter.’
‘His daughter!’ exclaimed Philip, ‘that beautiful lady I saw in the
coach?’
A nod of assent.
‘I only wish it were I.’
‘Philip,’ half angrily, ‘how can you be such a fool?’
‘Of course, I know it can’t be,’ said Philip sheepishly, but a little
offended. ‘But she’s the fairest woman my eyes ever beheld.’
‘And the falsest.’
‘My father says all women are false; only they can’t help it, and don’t
mean it.’
‘Only some do mean it,’ said Berenger, dryly.
‘Brother!’ cried Philip, fiercely, as if ready to break a lance, ‘what
right have you to accuse that kindly, lovely dame of falsehood?’
‘It skills not going through all,’ said Berenger, wearily. ‘I know her
of old. She began by passing herself off on me as my wife.’
‘And you were not transported?’
‘I am not such a gull as you.’
‘How very beautiful your wife must have been!’ said Philip, with gruff
amazement overpowering his consideration.
‘Much you know about it,’ returned Berenger, turning his face away.
There was a long silence, first broken by Philip, asking more
cautiously, ‘And what did you say to him?’
‘I said whatever could show it was most impossible. Even I said the
brother’s handwriting was too plain on my face for me to offer myself
to the sister. But it seems all that is to be passed over as an unlucky
mistake. I wish I could guess what the old fellow is aiming at.’
‘I am sure the lady looked at you as if she loved you.’
‘Simpleton! She looked to see how she could beguile me. Love! They do
nothing for love here, you foolish boy, save _par amour_. If she loved
me, her father was the last person she would have sent me. No, no;
‘tis a new stratagem, if I could only seen my way into it. Perhaps Sir
Francis will when he can spend an hour on me.’
Though full of occupation, Sir Francis never failed daily to look
in upon his convalescent guest, and when he heard of the Chevalier’s
interview, he took care that Berenger should have full time to consult
him; and, of course, he inquired a good deal more into the particulars
of the proposal than Philip had done. When he learnt that the Chevalier
had offered all the very considerable riches and lands that Diane
enjoyed in right of her late husband as an equivalent for Berenger’s
resignation of all claims upon the Nid-de-Merle property, he noted it
on his tables, and desired to know what these claims might be. ‘I cannot
tell,’ said Berenger. ‘You may remember, sir, the parchments with our
contract of marriage had been taken away from Chateau Leurre, and I have
never seen them.’
‘Then,’ said the Ambassador, ‘you may hold it as certain that those
parchments give you some advantage which he hears, since he is willing
to purchase it at so heavy a price. Otherwise he himself would be the
natural heir of those lands.’
‘After my child,’ said Berenger, hastily.
‘Were you on your guard against mentioning your trust in your child’s
life?’ said Sir Francis.
The long scar turned deeper purple than ever. ‘Only so far as that I
said there still be rights I had no power to resign,’ said Berenger.
‘And then he began to prove to me---what I had no mind to hear’ (and his
voice trembled) ‘---all that I know but too well.’
‘Hum! you must not be left alone again to cope with him,’ said
Walsingham. ‘Did he make any question of the validity of your marriage?’
‘No, sir, it was never touched on. I would not let him take her name
into his lips.’
Walsingham considered for some minutes, and then said, ‘It is clear,
then, that he believes that the marriage can be sufficiently established
to enable you to disturb him in his possession of some part, at least,
of the Angevin inheritance, or he would not endeavour to purchase your
renunciation of it by the hand of a daughter so richly endowed.’
‘I would willingly renounce it if that were all! I never sought it; only
I cannot give up her child’s rights.’
‘And that you almost declared,’ proceeded Walsingham; ‘so that the
Chevalier has by his negotiation gathered from you that you have not
given up hope that the infant lives. Do your men know where you believe
she is?’
‘My Englishmen know it, of course,’ said Berenger; ‘but there is no fear
of them. The Chevalier speaks no English, and they scarcely any French;
and, besides, I believe they deem him equally my butcher with his son.
The other fellow I only picked up after I was on my way to Paris, and I
doubt his knowing my purpose.’
‘The Chevalier must have had speech with him, though,’ said Philip; ‘for
it was he who brought word that the old rogue wished to speak with you.’
‘It would be well to be quit yourself of the fellow ere leaving Paris,’
said Walsingham.
‘Then, sir,’ said Berenger, with an anxious voice, ‘do you indeed think
I have betrayed aught that can peril the poor little one?’
Sir Francis smiled. ‘We do not set lads of your age to cope with old
foxes,’ he answered; ‘and it seems to me that you used far discretion
in the encounter. The mere belief that the child lives does not show him
where she may be. In effect, it would seem likely to most that the
babe would be nursed in some cottage, and thus not be in the city of La
Sablerie at all. He might, mayhap, thus be put on a false scent.’
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Berenger, startled; ‘that might bring the death of
some other person’s child on my soul.’
‘That shall be guarded against,’ said Sir Francis. ‘In the meantime,
my fair youth, keep your matters as silent as may be---do not admit
the Chevalier again in my absence; and, as to this man Guibert, I will
confer with my steward whether he knows too much, and whether it be
safer to keep of dismiss him!’
‘If only I could see the King, and leave Paris,’ sighed Berenger.
And Walsingham, though unwilling to grieve the poor youth further,
bethought himself that this was the most difficult and hopeless matter
of all. As young Ribaumont grew better, the King grew worse; he himself
only saw Charles on rare occasions, surrounded by a host of watchful
eyes and ears, and every time he marked the progress of disease; and
though such a hint could be given by an Ambassador, he thought that by
far the best chance of recovery of the child lay in the confusion that
might probably follow the death of Charles IX. in the absence of his
next heir.
Berenger reckoned on the influence of Elisabeth of Austria, who had been
the real worker in his union with Eutacie; but he was told that it was
vain to expect assistance from her. In the first year of her marriage,
she had fondly hoped to enjoy her husband’s confidence, and take her
natural place in his court; but she was of no mould to struggle with
Catherine de Medicis, and after a time had totally desisted. Even at the
time of the St. Bartholomew, she had endeavoured to uplift her voice
on the side of mercy, and had actually saved the lives of the King of
Navarre and Prince of Conde; and her father, the good Maximilian II.,
had written in the strongest terms to Charles IX. expressing his horror
of the massacre. Six weeks later, the first hour after the birth of her
first and only child, she had interceded with her husband for the lives
of two Huguenots who had been taken alive, and failing then either
through his want of will or want of power, she had collapsed and yielded
up the endeavour. She ceased to listen to petitions from those who had
hoped for her assistance, as if to save both them and herself useless
pain, and seemed to lapse into a sort of apathy to all public interests.
She hardly spoke, mechanically fulfilled her few offices in the court,
and seemed to have turned her entire hope and trust into prayer for her
husband. Her German confessor had been sent home, and a Jesuit given her
in his stead, but she had made no resistance; she seemed to the outer
world a dull, weary stranger, obstinate in leading a conventual life;
but those who knew her best--and of these few was the Huguenot surgeon
Pare--knew that her heart had been broken two guilty lives, or to make
her husband free himself from his bondage to bloody counsels. To pray
for him was all that remained to her--and unwearied had been
those prayers. Since his health had declined, she had been equally
indefatigable in attending on him, and did not seem to have a single
interest beyond his sick chamber.
As to the King of Navarre, for whose help Berenger had hoped, he had
been all these months in the dishonouable thraldom of Catherine de
Medicis, and was more powerless than ever at this juncture, having been
implicated in Alencon’s plot, and imprisoned at Vincennes.
And thus, the more Berenger heard of the state of things, the less
hopeful did his cause appear, till he could almost have believed his
best chance lay in Philip’s plan of persuading the Huguenots to storm
the convent.