Die in terror of thy guiltiness,
Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death, Fainting, despair,
despairing yield thy breath
KING RICHARD III.
A few days later, when Berenger had sent out Philip, under the keeping
of the secretaries, to see the Queen-mother represent Royalty in one
of the grand processions of Rogation-tide, the gentle knock came to his
door that always announced the arrival of his good surgeon.
‘You look stronger, M. le Baron; have you yet left your room?’
‘I have walked round the gallery above the hall,’ said Berenger. ‘I have
not gone down-stairs; that is for to-morrow.’
‘What would M. le Baron say if his chirurgeon took him not merely
down-stairs, but up on flight at the Louvre?’
‘Ha!’ cried Berenger; ‘to the King?’
‘It is well-nigh the last chance, Monsieur; the Queen-mother and all her
suite are occupied with services and sermons this week; and next week
private access to the King will be far more difficult. I have waited as
long as I could that you might gain strength to support the fatigue.’
‘Hope cancels fatigue,’ said Berenger, already at the other end of the
room searching for his long-disused cloak, sword, gloves, hat, and mask.
‘Not the sword,’ said Pare, ‘so please you. M. le Baron must condescend
to obtain entrance as my assistant--the plain black doublet--yes, that
is admirable; but I did not know that Monsieur was so tall,’ he added,
in some consternation, as, for the first time, he saw his patient
standing up at his full height--unusual even in England, and more so
in France. Indeed, Berenger had grown during his year of illness, and
being, of course, extremely thin, looked all the taller, so as to be a
very inconvenient subject to smuggle into to palace unobserved.
However, Ambroise had made up his mind to the risk, and merely assisted
Berenger in assuming his few equipments, then gave him his arm to go
down the stairs. Meeting Guibert on the way, Berenger left word with him
that he was going out to take the air with Maitre Pare; and on the man’s
offering to attend him, refused the proposal.
Pare carriage waited in the court, and Berenger, seated in its depths,
rolled unseen through the streets, till he found himself at the little
postern of the Louvre, the very door whence he was to have led off his
poor Eustacie. Here Ambroise made him take off his small black mask, in
spite of all danger of his scars being remarked, since masks were not
etiquette in the palace, and, putting into his arms a small brass-bound
case of instruments, asked his pardon for preceding him, and alighted
from the carriage.
This was Ambroise’s usual entrance, and it was merely guarded by a
Scottish archer, who probably observed nothing. They then mounted the
stone stair, the same where Osbert had dragged down his insensible
master; and as, at the summit, the window appeared where Berenger had
waited those weary hours, and heard the first notes of the bell of
St.-Germain-l’Auxerrois, his breath came in such hurried sobs, that Pare
would fain have given him time to recover himself, but he gasped, ‘Not
here--not here;’ and Pare, seeing that he could still move on, turned,
not to the corridor leading to the King’s old apartments, now too full
of dreadful associations for poor Charles, but towards those of the
young Queen. Avoiding the ante-room, where no doubt waited pages, users,
and attendants, Pare presently knocked at a small door, so hidden in the
wain-scoting of the passage that only a _habitue_ could have found it
without strict search. It was at once opened, and the withered, motherly
face of an old woman, with keen black eyes under a formal tight white
cap, looked out.
‘Eh! Maitre Pare,’ she said, ‘you have brought the poor young gentleman?
On my faith, he looks scarcely able to walk! Come in, sir, and rest a
while in my chamber while Maitre Ambroise goes on to announce you to the
King. He is more at ease to-day, the poor child, and will relish some
fresh talk.
Berenger knew this to be Philippe, the old Huguenot nurse, whom Charles
IX. loved most fondly, and in whom he found his greatest comfort. He was
very glad to sink into the seat she placed for him, the only one is her
small, bare room and recover breath there while Pare passed on to the
King, and she talked as one delighted to have a hearer.
‘Ah, yes, rest yourself--stay; I will give you a few spoonfuls of the
cordial potage I have here for the King; it will comfort your heart. Ah!
you have been cruelly mauled--but he would have saved you if he could.
‘Yes, good mother, I know that; the King has been my very good lord.
‘Ah! blessings on you if you say so from your heart, Monsieur; you know
me for one of your poor Reformed. And I tell you--I who saw him born,
who nursed him from his birth--that, suffer as you may, you can never
suffer as he does. Maitre Ambroise may talk of his illness coming from
blowing too much on his horn; I know better. But, ah! to be here at
night would make a stone shed tears of blood. The Queen and I know it;
but we say nothing, we only pray.
The sight of a Huguenot was so great a treat to the old woman in her
isolated life, that her tongue ran thus freely while Berenger sat,
scarce daring to speak or breathe in the strange boding atmosphere of
the palace, where the nurse and surgeon moved as tolerated, privileged
persons, in virtue of the necessity of the one to the King--of the other
to all the world. After all brief interval Pare returned and beckoned
to Berenger, who followed him across a large state-bedroom to a much
smaller one, which he entered from under a heavy blue velvet curtain,
and found himself in an atmosphere heavy with warmth and perfume, and
strangely oppressed besides. On one side of the large fire sat the
young Queen, faded, wan, and with all animation or energy departed, only
gazing with a silent, wistful intentness at her husband. He was opposite
to her in a pillowed chair, his feet on a stool, with a deadly white,
padded, puffy cheek, and his great black eyes, always prominent, now
with a glassy look, and strained wide, as though always gazing after
some horrible sight. ‘Madame la Comtesse stood in her old, wooden,
automaton fashion behind the Queen; otherwise, no one was present save
Pare, who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. de Ribaumont
advance. He stood still, however, merely bowing low, awaiting an
invitation to come forward, and trying to repress the startled tear
called up by the very shock of pity at the mournful aspect of the young
King and Queen.
Elisabeth, absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to all besides,
did not even turn her head as he entered; but Charles signed to him
to approach, holding out a yellow, dropsical-looking hand; and as he
dropped on one knew and kissed it fervently, the King said, ‘Here he is,
Madame, the Baron de Ribaumont, the same whose little pleasure-boat was
sucked down in our whirlpool.
All Elisabeth’s memories seemed to have been blotted out in that
whirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, and gave no look of
recognition, though she, too, allowed Berenger to salute her listless,
dejected hand. ‘One would hardly have known him again, continued the
King, in a low husky voice; ‘but I hope, sir, I see you recovering.
‘Thanks, Sire, to Heaven’s goodness, and to your goodness in sparing to
me the services of Maitre Pare.
‘Ah! there is none like Pare for curing a wound OUTSIDE,’ said Charles,
then leant back silent; and Berenger, still kneeling, was considering
whether he ought to proffer his petition, when the King continued, ‘How
fares your friend Sidney, M. le Baron?
‘Right well, Sire. The Queen has made him one of her gentlemen.
‘Not after this fashion,’ said Charles, as with his finger he traced
the long scar on Berenger’s face. ‘Our sister of England has different
badges of merit from ours for her good subjects. Ha! what say they of us
in England, Baron?
‘I have lain sick at home, Sire, and have neither seen nor heard, said
Berenger.
‘Ah! one day more at Montpipeau had served your turn,’ said the King;
‘but you are one who has floated up again. One--one at least whose blood
is not on my head.
The Queen looked up uneasy and imploring, as Charles continued: ‘Would
that more of you would come in this way! They have scored you deep, but
know you what is gashed deeper still? Your King’s heart! Ah! you will
not come, as Coligny does, from his gibbet, with his two bleeding hands.
My father was haunted to his dying day by the face of one Huguenot
tailor. Why, I see a score, night by night! You are solid; let me feel
you, man.
‘M. Pare,’ exclaimed the poor Queen, ‘take him away.
‘No, Madame,’ said the King, holding tight in his hot grasp Berenger’s
hand, which was as pale as his own, long, thin, and wasted, but cold
from strong emotion; ‘take not away the only welcome sight I have seen
for well-nigh two years.’ He coughed, and the handkerchief he put to his
lips had blood on it; but he did not quit his hold of his visitor, and
presently said in a feeble whisper, ‘Tell me, how did you escape?
Pare, over the King’s head, signed to him to make his narrative take
time; and indeed his speech was of necessity so slow, that by the time
he had related how Osbert had brought him safely to England, the King
had recovered himself so as to say, ‘See what it is to have a faithful
servant. Which of those they have left me would do as much for me? And
now, being once away with your life, what brings you back to this realm
of ours, after your last welcome?
‘I left my wife here, Sire.
‘Ha! and the cousin would have married her--obtained permission to call
himself Nid de Merle--but she slipped through his clumsy fingers; did
she not? Did you know anything of her, Madame?
‘No,’ said the Queen, looking up. ‘She wrote to me once from her
convent; but I knew I could do nothing for her but bring her enemies’
notice on her; so I made no answer.
Berenger could hardly conceal his start of indignation--less at the
absolute omission, than at the weary indifference of the Queen’s
confession. Perhaps the King saw it, for he added, ‘So it is, Ribaumont;
the kindest service we can do our friends is to let them alone; and,
after all, it was not the worse for her. She did evade her enemies?
‘Yes, Sire,’ said Berenger, commanding and steadying his voice with
great difficulty, ‘she escaped in time to give birth to our child in
the ruined loft of an old grange of the Templars, under the care of a
Huguenot farmer, and a pastor who had known my father. Then she took
refuge in La Sablerie, and wrote to my mother, deeming me dead. I was
just well enough to go in quest of her. I came--ah! Sire, I found only
charred ruins. Your Majesty knows how Huguenot bourgs are dealt with.
‘And she---?
Berenger answered but by a look.
‘Why did you come to tell me this?’ said the King, passionately. ‘Do you
not know that they have killed me already? I thought you came because
there was still some one I could aid.
‘There is, there is, Sire,’ said Berenger, for once interrupting
royalty. ‘None save you can give me my child. It is almost certain that
a good priest saved it; but it is in a convent, and only with a royal
order can one of my religion either obtain it, or even have my questions
answered.
‘Nor with one in Paris,’ said the King dryly; ‘but in the country the
good mothers may still honour their King’s hand. Here, Ambroise, take
pen and ink, and write the order. To whom?
‘To the Mother Prioress of the Ursulines at Lucon, so please our
Majesty,’ said Berenger, ‘to let me have possession of my daughter.
‘Eh! is it only a little girl?
‘Yes, Sire; but my heart yearns for her all the more,’ said Berenger,
with glistening eyes.
‘You are right,’ said the poor King. ‘Mine, too, is a little girl; and
I bless God daily that she is no son--to be the most wretched thing the
France. Let her come in, Madame. She is little older than my friend’s
daughter. I would show her to him.
The Queen signed to Madame la Comtesse to fetch the child, and Berenger
added, ‘Sire, you could do a further benefit to my poor little one. One
more signature of yours would attest that ratification of my marriage
which took place in your Majesty’s presence.
‘Ah! I remember,’ said Charles. ‘You may have any name of mine that can
help you to oust that villain Narcisse; only wait to use it--spare me
any more storms. It will serve your turn as well when I am beyond
they, and you will make your claim good. What,’ seeing Berenger’s
interrogative look, ‘do you not know that by the marriage-contract the
lands of each were settled on the survivor?
‘No, Sire; I have never seen the marriage-contract.
‘Your kinsman knew it well,’ said Charles.
Just then, Madame la Comtesse returned, leading the little Princess by
the long ribbons at her waist; Charles bent forward, calling, ‘Here, _ma
petite_, come here. Here is one who loves thy father. Look well at him,
that thou mayest know him.
The little Madame Elisabeth so far understood, that, with a certain
lofty condescension, she extended her hand for the stranger to kiss, and
thus drew from the King the first smile that Berenger had seen. She was
more than half a year older than the Berangere on whom his hopes were
set, and whom he trusted to find not such a pale, feeble, tottering
little creature as this poor young daughter of France, whose round black
eyes gazed wonderingly at his scar; but she was very precocious, and
even already too much of a royal lady to indulge in any awkward personal
observation.
By the time she had been rewarded for her good behaviour by one of the
dried plums in her father’s comfit-box, the order had been written
by Pare, and Berenger had prepared the certificate for the King’s
signature, according to the form given him by his grandfather.
‘Your writing shakes nearly as much as mine,’ said the poor King, as
he wrote his name to this latter. ‘Now, Madame, you had better sign it
also; and tell this gentleman where to find Father Meinhard in Austria.
He was a little too true for us, do you see--would not give thanks for
shedding innocent blood. Ah!’--and with a gasp of mournful longing, the
King sank back, while Elisabeth, at his bidding, added her name to the
certificate, and murmured the name of a convent in Vienna, where her
late confessor could be found.
‘I cannot thank you Majesty enough,’ said Berenger; ‘My child’s rights
are now secure in England at least, and this’--as he held the other
paper for the King--‘will give her to me.
‘Ah! take it for what it is worth,’ said the King, as he scrawled his
‘CHARLES’ upon it. ‘This order must be used promptly, or it will avail
you nothing. Write to Ambroise how you speed; that is, if it will
bring me one breath of good news.’ And as Berenger kissed his hand with
tearful, inarticulate thanks, he proceeded, ‘Save for that cause, I
would ask you to come to me again. It does me good. It is like a breath
from Montpipeau--the last days of hope--before the frenzy--the misery.
‘Whenever your Majesty does me the honour---’ began Berenger, forgetting
all except the dying man.
‘I am not so senseless,’ interrupted the King sharply; ‘it would be
losing the only chance of undoing one wrong. Only, Ribaumont,’ he added
fervently, ‘for once let me hear that one man has pardoned me.
‘Sire, Sire,’ sobbed Berenger, totally overcome, ‘how can I speak the
word? How feel aught but love, loyalty, gratitude?
Charles half smiled again as he said in sad meditation--‘Ah! it was in
me to have been a good king if they had let me. Think of me, bid your
friend Sidney think of me, as I would have been--not as I have been--and
pray, pray for me.’ Then hiding his face in his handkerchief, in a
paroxysm of grief and horror, he murmured in a stifled tone, ‘Blood,
blood, deliver me, good Lord!
In effect, there was so sudden a gush of blood from mouth and nose that
Berenger sprang to his feet in dismay, and was _bona fide_ performing
the part of assistant to the surgeon, when, at the Queen’s cry, not only
the nurse Philippe hurried in, but with her a very dark, keen-looking
man, who at once began applying strong essences to the King’s face,
as Berenger supported his head. In a few moments Pare looked up at
Berenger, and setting him free, intimated to him, between sign and
whisper, to go into Philippe’s room and wait there; and it was high
time, for though the youth had felt nothing in the stress of the moment,
he was almost swooning when he reached the little chamber, and lay back
in the nurse’s chair, with closed eyes, scarcely conscious how time
went, or even where he was, till he was partly aroused by hearing steps
returning.
‘The poor young man,’ said Philippe’s kind voice, ‘he is fainting. Ah!
no wonder it overcame any kind heart.
‘How is the King?’ Berenger tried to say, but his own voice still
sounded unnatural and far away.
‘He is better for the time, and will sleep,’ said Pare, administering to
his other patient some cordial drops as he spoke. ‘There, sir; you will
soon be able to return to the carriage. This has been a sore trial to
your strength.
‘But I have gained all--all I could hope,’ said Berenger, looking at his
precious papers. ‘But, alas! the poor King!
‘You will never, never let a word of blame pass against him,’ cried
Philippe earnestly. ‘It is well that one of our people should have
seen how it really is with him. All I regret is that Maitre Rene thrust
himself in and saw you.
‘Who?’ said Berenger, who had been too much engrossed to perceive any
one.
‘Maitre Rene of Milan, the Queen-mother’s perfume. He came with some
plea of bringing a pouncet-box from her, but I wager it was as a spy.
I was doing my best to walk him gently off, when the Queen’s cry called
me, and he must needs come in after me.
‘I saw him not,’ said Berenger; ‘perhaps he marked not me in the
confusion.
‘I fear,’ said Pare gravely, ‘he was more likely to have his senses
about him than you. M. le Baron; these bleedings of the King’s are not
so new to us familiars to the palace. The best thing now to be done is
to have you to the carriage, if you can move.
Berenger, now quite recovered, stood up, and gave his warm thanks to the
old nurse for her kindness to him.
‘Ah! sir,’ she said, ‘you are one of us. Pray, pray that God will have
mercy on my poor child! He has the truth in his heart. Pray that it may
save him at the last.
Ambroise, knowing that she would never cease speaking while there was
any one to hear her, almost dragged Berenger out at the little secret
door, conveyed him safely down the stairs, and placed him again in the
carriage. Neither spoke till the surgeon said, ‘You have seen a sad
sight, Monsieur le Baron: I need not bid you be discreet.
‘There are some things that go too deep for speech,’ sighed the almost
English Berenger; then, after a pause, ‘Is there no hope for him? Is he
indeed dying?
‘Without a miracle, he cannot live a month. He is as truly slain by the
St. Bartholomew as ever its martyrs were,’ said Pare, moved out of his
usual cautious reserve towards one who had seen so much and felt so
truly. ‘I tell you, sir, that his mother hath as truly slain her sons,
as if she had sent Rene there to them with his drugs. According as they
have consciences and hearts, so they pine and perish under her rule.
Berenger shuddered, and almost sobbed, ‘And hath he no better hope, no
comforter?’ he asked.
‘None save good old Flipote. As you heard, the Queen-mother will not
suffer his own Church to speak to him in her true voice. No confessor
but one chosen by the Cardinal of Lorraine may come near him; and with
him all is mere ceremony. But if at the last he opens his ear and heart
to take in the true hope of salvation, it will be from the voice of poor
old Philippe.
And so it was! It was Philippe, who heard him in the night sobbing over
the piteous words, ‘My God, what horrors, what blood!’ and, as she took
from his tear-drenched handkerchief, spoke to him of the Blood that
speakth better things than the blood of Abel; and it was she who, in the
final agony, heard and treasured these last words, ‘If the Lord Jesus
will indeed receive me into the company of the blest!’ Surely, never
was repentance deeper than that of Charles IX.--and these, his parting
words, were such as to inspire the trust that it was not remorse.
All-important as Berenger’s expedition had been, he still could think
of little but the poor King; and, wearied out as he was, he made very
little reply to the astonished friends who gathered round him on his
return. He merely told Philip that he had succeeded, and then lay almost
without speaking on his bed till the Ambassador made his evening visit,
when he showed him the two papers. Sir Francis could hardly believe his
good fortune in having obtained this full attestation of the marriage,
and promised to send to the English Ambassador in Germany, to obtain the
like from Father Meinhard. The document itself he advised Berenger not
to expose to the dangers of the French journey, but to leave it with him
to be forwarded direct to Lord Walwyn. It was most important, both as
obviating any dispute on the legitimacy of the child, if she lived; or,
if not, it would establish those rights of Berenger to the Nid de Merle
estates, of which he had heard from the King. This information explained
what were the claims that the Chevalier was so anxious to hush up by a
marriage with Madame de Selinville. Berenger, as his wife’s heir, was by
this contract the true owner of the estates seized by the Chevalier and
his son, and could only be ousted, either by his enemies proving his
contract to Eustacie invalid and to be unfulfilled, or by his own
voluntary resignation. The whole scheme was clear to Walsingham, and
he wasted advice upon unheeding ears, as to how Berenger should act to
obtain restitution so soon as he should be of age, and how he should try
to find out the notary who had drawn up the contract. If Berenger cared
at all, it was rather for the sake of punishing and balking Narcisse,
than with any desire of the inheritance; and even for righteous
indignation he was just now too weary and too sad. He could not discuss
his rights to Nid de Merle, if they passed over the rights of Eustacie’s
child, round whom his affection were winding themselves as his sole
hope.
The next evening Pare came in quest of Berenger, and after a calm,
refreshing, hopeful Ascension-day, which had been a real balm to the
weary spirit, found him enjoying the sweet May sunshine under a tree
in the garden. ‘I am glad to find you out of doors,’ he said; ‘I fear I
must hasten your departure.
‘I burn to lose no time,’ cried Berenger. ‘Prithee tell them I may
safely go! They all call it madness to think of setting out.
‘Ordinarily it would be,’ said Pare; ‘but Rene of Milan has sent his
underlings to see who is my new, tall assistant. He will report all to
the Queen-mother; and though in this house you could scarcely suffer
personal harm, yet the purpose of your journey might be frustrated, and
the King might have to undergo another of those _bourrasques_ which he
may well dread.
‘I will go this very night,’ said Berenger, starting up; ‘where is
Philip?--where is Sir Francis?
Even that very night Pare thought not too soon, and the Ascension-tide
illuminations brought so many persons abroad that it would be easy to go
unnoticed; and in the general festivity, when every one was coming and
going from the country to gaze or worship at the shrines and the images
decked in every church, it would be easy for the barriers to be passed
without observation. Then the brothers would sleep at a large hostel,
the first on the road to England, where Walsingham’s couriers and guest
always baited, and the next morning he would send out to them their
attendants, with houses for their further journey back into Anjou. If
any enemies were on the watch, this would probably put them off the
scent, and it only remained further to be debated, whether the Norman
Guibert had better be dismissed at once or taken with them. There was
always soft place in Berenger’s heart for a Norman, and the man was
really useful; moreover, he would certainly be safer employed and in
their company, than turned loose to tell the Chevalier all he might have
picked up in the Hotel d’Angleterre. It was therefore decided that he
should be the attendant of the two young men, and he received immediate
orders that night to pack up their garments, and hold himself ready.
Nevertheless, before the hour of departure, Guibert had stolen out, had
an interview with the Chevalier de Ribaumont at the Hotel de Selinville,
and came back with more than one good French crown in his pocket, and
hopes of more.