The cream tarts with pepper in them.--ARABIAN NIGHTS.
Hope, spring, and recovery carried the young Baronde Ribaumont on his
journey infinitely better than his companions had dared to expect. He
dreaded nothing so much as being overtaken by those tidings which would
make King Charles’s order mere waste paper; and therefore pressed on
with little regard to his own fatigue, although happily with increasing
strength, which carried him a further stage every day.
Lucon was a closely-guarded, thoroughly Catholic city, and his
safe-conduct was jealously demanded; but the name of Ribaumont silenced
all doubt. ‘A relation, apparently, of M. de Nid de Merle,’ said the
officer on guard, and politely invited him to dinner and bed at the
castle; but these he thought it prudent to decline, explaining that he
brought a letter from the King to the Mother Prioress.
The convent walls were pointed out to him, and he only delayed at the
inn long enough to arrange his dress as might appear to the Abbess most
respectful, and, poor boy, be least likely to startle the babe on whom
his heart was set. At almost every inn, the little children had shrieked
and run from his white and gashed face, and his tall, lank figure in
deep black; and it was very sadly that he said to Philip, ‘You must come
with me. If she turns from me as an ogre, your bright ruddy face will
win her.
The men were left at the inn with charge to let Guibert speak for them,
and to avoid showing their nationality. The three months of Paris,
and the tailors there, had rendered Philip much less conspicuous than
formerly; but still people looked at him narrowly as he followed his
brother along the street. The two lads had made up their minds to
encumber themselves with no nurses, or womanfolk. The child should be
carried, fondled, and fed by her boy-father alone. He believed that,
when he once held her in his arms, he should scarcely even wish to give
her up to any one else; and, in his concentration of mind, had hardly
thought of all the inconveniences and absurdities that would arise; but,
really, was chiefly occupied by the fear that she would not at first let
him take her in his arms, and hold her to his heart.
Philip, a little more alive to the probabilities, nevertheless was
disposed to regard them as ‘fun and pastime.’ He had had many a frolic
with his baby-sisters, and this would be only a prolonged one; besides,
it was ‘Berry’s’ one hope, and to rescue any creature from a convent was
a good work, in his Protestant eyes, which had not become a whit less
prejudiced at Paris. So he was quite prepared to take his full share of
his niece, or more, if she should object to her father’s looks, and he
only suggested halting at an old woman’s stall to buy some sweetmeats
by way of propitiation--a proceeding which much amazed the gazing
population of Lucon. Two reports were going about, one that the King
had vowed a silver image of himself to St. Ursula, if her Prioress would
obtain his recovery by their prayers; the other that he was going to
translate her to the royal Abbey of Fontevrault to take charge of his
daughter, Madame Elisabeth. Any way, high honour by a royal messenger
must be intended to the Prioress, Mere Monique, and the Luconnais were
proud of her sanctity.
The portress had already heard the report, and opened her wicket
even before the bell could be rung, then eagerly ushered him into the
parlour, the barest and most ascetic-looking of rooms, with a boarded
partition across, unenlivened except by a grated hollow, and the outer
portion empty, save of a table, three chairs, and a rugged woodcut of a
very tall St. Ursula, with a crowd of pigmy virgins, not reaching higher
than the ample hem of her petticoat.
‘Did Aunt Cecily live in such a place as this?’ exclaimed Philip, gazing
round; ‘or do they live on the fat among down cushions inside there?
‘Hush--sh,’ said Berenger, frowning with anxiety; for a rustling was
heard behind the screen, and presently a black veil and white scapulary
appeared, and a sweet calm voice said, ‘Peace be with you, sir; what are
your commands?
Berenger bowed low, and replied, ‘Thanks, reverend Lady; I bring a
letter from the King, to request your aid in a matter that touches me
nearly.
‘His Majesty shall be obeyed. Come you from him?
He was forced to reply to her inquiries after the poor King’s health
before she opened the letter, taking it under her veil to read it; so
that as he stood, trembling, almost sickening with anxiety, and scarcely
able to breathe, he could see nothing but the black folds; and at her
low murmured exclamation he started as if at a cannon-shot.
‘De Ribaumont!’ she said; ‘can it be--the child--of--of--out poor dear
little _pensionnaire_ at Bellaise?
‘It is--it is!’ cried Berenger. ‘O Madame, you knew her at Bellaise?
‘Even so,’ replied the Prioress, who was in fact the Soeur Monique so
loved and regretted by Eustacie. ‘I loved and prayed for her with all my
heart when she was claimed by the world. Heaven’s will be done; but the
poor little thing loved me, and I have often thought that had I been
still at Bellaise when she returned she would not have fled. But of this
child I have no knowledge.
‘You took charge of the babes of La Sablerie, Madame,’ said Berenger,
almost under his breath.
‘Her infant among those poor orphans!’ exclaimed the Prioress, more and
more startled and amazed.
‘If it be anywhere in this life, it is in your good keeping, Madame,’
said Berenger, with tears in his eyes. ‘Oh! I entreat, withhold her no
longer.
‘But,’ exclaimed the bewildered nun, ‘who would you then be, sir?
‘I--her husband--widower of Eustacie--father of her orphan!’ cried
Berenger. ‘She cannot be detained from me, either by right or law.
‘Her husband,’ still hesitated Monique. ‘But he is dead. The poor little
one--Heaven have mercy on her soul--wrote me a piteous entreaty, and
gave large alms for prayers and masses for his soul.
The sob in his throat almost strangled his speech. ‘She mourned me to
the last as dead. I was borne away senseless and desperately wounded;
and when I recovered power to seek her it was too late! O Madame! have
pity--let me see all she has left to me.
‘Is it possible?’ said the nun. ‘We would not learn the parentage of
our nurslings since all alike become children of Mother Church.
Then, suddenly bethinking herself, ‘But, surely, Monsieur cannot be a
Huguenot.
It was no doubt the first time she had been brought in contact with
a schismatic, and she could not believe that such respectful courtesy
could come from one. He saw he must curb himself, and explain. ‘I am
neither Calvinist nor Sacrementaire, Madame. I was bred in England,
where we love our own Church. My aunt is a Benedictine Sister, who keeps
her rule strictly, though her convent is destroyed; and it is to her
that I shall carry my daughter. Ah, Lady, did you but know my heart’s
hunger for her!
The Prioress, better read in the lives of the saints than in the sects
of heretics, did not know whether this meant that he was of her own
faith or not; and her woman’s heart being much moved by his pleadings,
she said, ‘I will heartily give your daughter to you, sir, as indeed I
must, if she be here; but you have never seen her?
‘No; only her empty cradle in the burnt house. But I MUST know her. She
is a year old.
‘We have two babes of that age; but I fear me you will scarce see much
likeness in either of them to any one you knew,’ said the Prioress,
thoughtfully. ‘However, there are two girls old enough to remember the
parentage of their companions, though we forbade them to mention it.
Would you see them, sir?
‘And the infants, so please you, reverend Mother,’ exclaimed Berenger.
She desired him to wait, and after an interval of suspense there was
a pattering of little _sabots_ behind the partition, and through the
grating he beheld six little girls in blue serge frocks and tight white
caps. Of the two infants, one with a puny, wizen, pinched face was in
the arms of the Prioress; the other, a big, stout, coarse child, with
hard brown cheeks and staring black-eyes, was on its own feet, but with
a great basket-work frame round its head to save it from falls. There
were two much more prepossessing children of three or four, and two
intelligent-looking girls of perhaps eight and ten, to the elder of whom
the Prioress turned, saying, ‘Agathe, I release you from my command not
to speak of your former life, and desire you to tell this gentleman if
you know who were the parents of these two little ones.
‘Yes, reverend Mother,’ said Agathe, readily; ‘the old name of Claire’
(touching the larger baby) ‘was Salome Potier: her mother was the
washerwoman; and Nannonciade, I don’t know what her name was, but her
father worked for Maitre Brassier who made the kettles.
Philip felt relieved to be free from all doubt about these very
uninviting little ones, but Berenger, though sighing heavily, asked
quickly, ‘Permit me, Madame, a few questions.--Little maid, did you ever
hear of Isaac Gardon?
‘Maitre Isaac! Oh yes, sir. We used to hear him preach at the church,
and sometimes he catechized us,’ she said, and her lip quivered.
‘He was a heretic, and I abjure him,’ added the other girl, perking up
her head.
‘Was he in the town? What became of him?’ exclaimed Berenger.
‘He would not be in the town,’ said the elder girl. ‘My poor father had
sent him word to go away.
‘_Eh quoi_?
‘Our father was Bailli la Grasse,’ interposed the younger girl,
consequentially. ‘Our names were Marthe and Lucie la Grasse, but Agathe
and Eulalie are much prettier.
‘But Maitre Gardon?’ still asked Berenger.
‘He ought to be take and burnt,’ said the new Eulalie; ‘he brought it
all on us.
‘How was it? Was my wife with him--Madame de Ribaumont? Speak, my child.
‘That was the name,’ said one girl.
‘But Maitre Gardon had no great lady with him,’ said the other, ‘only
his son’s widow and her baby, and they lodged with Noemi Laurent, who
made the _patisserie_.
‘Ah!’ cried Berenger, lighting up with the new ray of hope. ‘Tell me, my
dear, that they fled with him, and where.
‘I do not know of their going,’ said Agathe, confused and overborne by
his eagerness.
‘Curb yourself, sir,’ said the Prioress, ‘they will recollect themselves
and tell you what they can.
‘It was the little cakes with lemoned sugar,’ suggested the younger
girl. ‘Maitre Tressan always said there would be a judgment on us for
our daintiness. Ah! he was very cross about them, and after all it was
the Maitre of Lucon who ate fifteen of them all at once; but then he is
not a heretic.
Happily for Berenger, Agathe unraveled this speech.
‘Mademoiselle Gardon made the sugar-lemoned cakes, and the Mayor of
Lucon, one day when he supped with us, was so delighted with them that
he carried one away to show his wife, and afterwards he sent over to
order some more. Then, after a time, he sent secretly to my father to
ask him if Maitre Gardon was there; for there was a great outcry about
the lemon cakes, and the Duke of Alencon’s army were coming to demand
his daughter-in-law; because it seems she was a great lady, and the only
person who could make the cakes.
‘Agathe!’ exclaimed the Prioress.
‘I understand,’ said Berenger. ‘The Cure of Nissard told me that she was
traced through cakes, the secret of which was only known at Bellaise.
‘That might be,’ said Mere Monique. ‘I remember there was something of
pride in the cakes of Bellaise, though I always tried to know nothing of
them.
‘Well, little one, continue,’ entreated Berenger. ‘You are giving me
life and hope.
‘I heard my father and mother talk about it,’ said Agathe, gaining
courage. ‘He said he knew nothing of great people, and would give nobody
up to the Catholics, but as to Maitre Isaac, he should let him know that
the Catholic army were coming, and that it would be the better for us
if we had no pastor within our walls; and that there was a cry that his
daughter’s lemon cakes were made by the lady that was lost.
‘And they escaped! Ah! would that I could thank the good man!
‘Surely yes, sir, I never saw them again. Maitre Tressan the elder
prayed with us. And when the cruel soldiers came and demanded the lady
and Maitre Isaac, and all obstinate Calvinists, our mayor and my father
and the rest made answer that they had no knowledge of the lady, and did
not know where Maitre Gardon was; and as to Huguenots, we were all one
as obstinate as the other, but that we would pay any fine within our
means so they would spare our lives. Then the man in the fine coat said,
it was the lady they wanted, not the fine; and a great deal he said
besides, I know not what but my father said, ‘It is our life’s blood
that they want,’ and he put on his breastplate and kissed us all, and
went away. Then came horrible noises and firing of cannon, and the
neighbours ran in and said that the enemy were battering down the old
crumbly bit of wall where the monastery was burnt; and just then our man
Joseph ran back all pale, and staring, to tell us my father was lying
badly hurt in the street. My mother hurried out, and locked the door to
keep us from following.
The poor child broke down in tears, and her sister went on. ‘Oh, we were
so frightened--such frightful sounds came close, and people ran by all
blood and shrieking--and there was a glare in the sky--and nobody came
home--till at last it grew so dreadful that we hid in the cellar to hear
and see nothing. Only it grew hotter and hotter, and the light through
the little grating was red. And at last there was a noise louder than
thunder, and, oh, such a shaking--for it was the house falling down. But
we did not know that; we tried to open the door, and could not; then
we cried and called for father and mother--and no one heard--and we sat
still for fear, till we slept--and then it was all dark, and we were
very hungry. I don’t know how time went, but at last, when I was
daylight again, there was a talking above, a little baby crying, and
a kind voice too; and then we called out, ‘Oh, take us out and give us
bread.’ Then a face looked down the grating. Oh, it was like the face
of an angel to us, with all the white hair flying round. It was the
holy priest of Nissard; and when one of the cruel men said we were only
little heretics who ought to die like rats in a hole, he said we were
but innocents who did not know the difference.
‘Ah! we did,’ said the elder girl. ‘You are younger, sister, you forget
more;’ and then, holding out her hands to Berenger, she exclaimed, ‘Ah!
sir, take us away with you.
‘My child!’ exclaimed the Prioress, ‘you told me you were happy to be in
the good course.
‘Oh yes!’ cried the poor child; ‘but I don’t want to be happy! I am
forgetting all my poor father and mother used to say. I can’t help it,
and they would be so grieved. Oh, take me away, sir!
‘Take care, Agathe, you will be a relapsed heretic,’ said her sister,
solemnly. ‘For me, I am a true Catholic. I love the beautiful images and
the processions.
‘Ah! but what would our mother have said!’ cried poor Agathe, weeping
more bitterly.
‘Poor child, her old recollections have been renewed,’ said the
Prioress, with unchanged sweetness; ‘but it will pass. My dear, the
gentleman will tell you that it is as impossible for him to take you as
it is for me to let you go.
‘It is so, truly, little one,’ said Berenger. ‘The only little girl I
cold have taken with me would have been my own;’ and as her eyes looked
at him wistfully, he added, ‘No doubt, if your poor mother could, she
would thank this good Mother-prioress for teaching you to serve God and
be a good child.
‘Monsieur speaks well and kindly,’ said the Prioress; ‘and now, Agathe,
make your curtsey, and take away the little ones.
‘Let me ask one question more, reverend Mother,’ said Berenger.
‘Ah! children, did you ever see her whom you call Isaac Gardon’s
daughter-in-law?
‘No, sir,’ said the children; ‘but mother did, and she promised one day
to take us to see the baby, for it was so pretty--so white, that she had
never seen the like.
‘So white!’ repeated Berenger to himself; and the Prioress, struck,
perhaps, by the almost flaxen locks that sparsely waved on his temples,
and the hue of the ungloved hand that rested on the edge of the
_grille_, said, smiling, ‘You come of a fair family, Monsieur.
‘The White Ribaumonts,’ said Berenger, ‘and, moreover, my mother was
called the Swan of England; my little sisters have skins like snow.
Ah! Madame, though I have failed, I go away far happier than if I had
succeeded.
‘And reveal the true faith,’ began the nun; but Philip in the meantime
was nudging his brother, and whispering in English, ‘No Popish
prayers, I say! Stay, give these poor little prisoners one feast of the
sweetmeats we brought.
Of this last hint Berenger was glad, and the Prioress readily consented
to a distribution of the dainties among the orphans. He wished to leave
a more lasting token of his gratitude to the little maiden whose father
had perhaps saved Eustacie’s life, and recollecting that he had about
him a great gold coin, bearing the heads of Philip and Mary, he begged
leave to offer it to Agathe, and found that it was received by good Mere
Monique almost in the light of a relic, as bearing the head of so pious
a queen.
Then, to complete Philip’s disgust he said, ‘I took with me my aunt’s
blessing when I set out; let me take yours with me also, reverend
Mother.
When they were in the street again, Philip railed at him as though he
had subjected himself to a spell.
‘She is almost a saint,’ answered Berenger.
‘And have we not saints enough of our own, without running after Popish
ones behind grates? Brother, if ever the good old days come back of
invading France, I’ll march straight hither, and deliver the poor little
wretches so scandalously mewed up here, and true Protestants all the
time!
‘Hush! People are noticing the sound of your English.
‘Let them! I never thanked Heaven properly before that I have not a drop
of French---’ Here Berenger almost shook him by the shoulder, as
men turned at his broad tones and foreign words, and he walked on in
silence, while Berenger at his side felt as one treading on air, so
infinite was the burden taken off his mind. Though for the present
absolutely at sea as to where to seek Eustacie, the relief from
acquiescence in the horrible fate that had seemed to be hers was such,
that a flood of unspeakable happiness seemed to rush in on him, and bear
him up with a new infusion of life, buoyancy, and thankfulness.