Triumph, triumph, only she
That knit his bonds can set him free.
--SOUTHEY
No change was made in the life of the captives of Nid de Merle after
the answer from Paris, except that Pere Bonami, who had already once
or twice dined at the Chevalier’s table, was requested to make formal
exposition of the errors of the Reformers and of the tenets of his own
Church to the Baron de Ribaumont.
Philip took such good care not to be deluded that, though he sat by to
see fair play, yet it was always with his elbows on the table and
his fingers in his ears, regardless of appearing to the priest in the
character of the deaf adder. After all, he was not the object, and good
Pere Bonami at first thought the day his own, when he found that
almost all his arguments against Calvinism were equally impressed upon
Berenger’s mind, but the differences soon revealed themselves; and the
priest, though a good man, was not a very happily-chosen champion, for
he was one of the old-fashioned, scantily-instructed country priests,
who were more numerous before the Jesuit revival of learning, and knew
nothing of controversy save that adapted to the doctrines of Calvin; so
that in dealing with an Anglican of the school of Ridley and Hooker,
it was like bow ad arrow against sword. And tin those days of change,
controversial reading was one of the primary studies even of young
laymen, and Lord Walwyn, with a view to his grandson’s peculiar
position, had taken care that he should be well instructed, so that he
was not at all unequal to the contest. Moreover, apart from argument,
he clung as a point of honour to the Church as to the wife that he had
accepted in his childhood; and often tried to recall the sketch that
Philip Sidney had once given him of a tale that a friend of his designed
to turn into a poem, like Ariosto’s, in _terza rima_, of a Red Cross
knight separated from his Una as the true faith, and tempted by a
treacherous Duessa, who impersonated at once Falsehood and Rome. And he
knew so well that the last relaxation of his almost terrified resistance
would make him so entirely succumb to Diane’s beauty and brilliancy,
that he kept himself stiffly frigid and reserved.
Diane never openly alluded to the terms on which he stood, but he often
found gifts from unknown hands placed in his room. The books which he
had found there were changed when he had had time to study them; and
marks were placed in some of the most striking passages. They were of
the class that turned the brain of the Knight of La Mancha, but with a
predominance of the pastoral, such as Diane of George of Montemayor and
his numerous imitators--which Philip thought horrible stuff--enduring
nothing but a few of the combats of Amadis de Gaul or Palmerin of
England, until he found that Madame de Selinville prodigiously admired
the ‘silly swains more silly than their sheep,’ and was very anxious
that M. le Baron should be touched by their beauties; whereupon honest
Philip made desperate efforts to swallow them in his brother’s stead,
but was always found fast asleep in the very middle of arguments between
Damon and Thyrsis upon the _devoirs_ of love, or the mournings of some
disconsolate nymph over her jealousies of a favoured rival.
One day, a beautiful ivory box, exhaling sweet perfume, appeared in the
prison chamber, and therewith a sealed letter in verse, containing an
affecting description of how Corydon had been cruelly torn by the lions
in endeavouring to bear away Sylvie from her cavern, how Sylvie had been
rent from him and lost, and how vainly he continued to bewail her, and
disregard the loving lament of Daphne, who had ever mourned and pined
for him as she kept her flock, made the rivulets, the brooks, the
mountains re-echo with her sighs and plaints, and had wandered through
the hills and valleys, gathering simples wherewith she had compounded a
balsam that might do away with the scars that the claws of the lions had
left, so that he might again appear with the glowing cheeks and radiant
locks that had excited the envy of the god of day.
Berenger burst out laughing over the practical part of this poetical
performance, and laughed the more at Philip’s hurt, injured air at his
mirth. Philip, who would have been the first to see the absurdity in any
other Daphne, thought this a passing pleasant device, and considered it
very unkind in his brother not even to make experiment of the balsam
of simples, but to declare that he had much rather keep his scars for
Eustacie’s sake than wear a smooth face to please Diane.
Still Berenger’s natural courtesy stood in his way. He could not help
being respectful and attentive to the old Chevalier, when their terms
were, apparently at least, those of host and guest; and to a lady he
COULD not be rude and repellant, though he could be reserved. So, when
the kinsfolk met, no stranger would have discovered that one was a
prisoner and the others his captors.
One August day, when Madame de Selinville and her lady attendants were
supping at the castle at the early hour of six, a servant brought in
word that an Italian pedlar craved leave to display his wares. He
was welcome, both for need’s sake and for amusement, and was readily
admitted. He was a handsome olive-faced Italian, and was followed by a
little boy with a skin of almost Moorish dye--and great was the display
at once made on the tables, of
‘Lawn as white as driven snow,
Cyprus, black as e’er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as fragrant posies,
Masks for faces and for noses;’
and there was a good deal of the eager, desultory bargaining that
naturally took place where purchasing was an unusual excitement and
novelty, and was to form a whole evening’s amusement. Berenger, while
supplying the defects of his scanty traveling wardrobe, was trying to
make out whether he had seen the man before, wondering if he were
the same whom he had met in the forest of Montipipeau, though a few
differences in dress, hair, and beard made him somewhat doubtful.
‘Perfumes? Yes, lady, I have store of perfumes: ambergris and violet
dew, and the Turkish essence distilled from roses; yea, and the finest
spirit of the Venus myrtle-tree, the secret known to the Roman dames of
old, whereby they secured perpetual beauty and love--though truly Madame
should need no such essence. That which nature has bestowed on her
secures to her all hearts--and one valued more than all.’
‘Enough,’ said Diane, blushing somewhat, though with an effort at
laughing off his words; ‘these are the tricks of your trade.’
‘Madame is incredulous; yet, lady, I have been in the East. Yonder boy
comes from the land where there are spells that make known the secrets
of lives.’
The old Chevalier, who had hitherto been taken up with the abstruse
calculation--derived from his past days of economy--how much ribbon
would be needed to retrim his murrey _just-au-corps_, here began to lend
an ear, though saying nothing. Philip looked on in open-eyed wonder, and
nudged his brother, who muttered in return, ‘Jugglery!’
‘Ah, the fair company are all slow to believe,’ said the pedlar. ‘Hola,
Alessio!’ and taking a glove that Philip had left on the table, he held
it to the boy. A few unintelligible words passed between them; then the
boy pointed direct to Philip, and waved his hand northwards. ‘He says
the gentleman who owns this glove comes from the North, from far away,’
interpreted the Italian; then as the boy made the gesture of walking in
chains, ‘that he is a captive.’
‘Ay,’ cried Philip, ‘right, lad; and can he tell how long I shall be
so?’
‘Things yet to come,’ said the mountebank, ‘are only revealed after long
preparation. For them must he gaze into the dark poor of the future.
The present and the past he can divine by the mere touch of what has
belonged to the person.’
‘It is passing strange,’ said Philip to Madame de Selinville. ‘You
credit it, Madame?’
‘Ah, have we not seen the wonders come to pass that a like diviner
fortold to the Queen-mother?’ said Diane: ‘her sons should be all
kings--that was told her when the eldest was yet Dauphin.’
‘And there is only one yet to come,’ said Philip, awe-struck. ‘But see,
what has he now?’
‘Veronique’s kerchief,’ returned Madame de Selinville, as the Italian
began to interpret the boy’s gesture.
‘Pretty maidens, he says, serve fair ladies--bear tokens for them. This
damsel has once been the bearer of a bouquet of heather of the pink and
white, whose bells were to ring hope.’
‘Eh, eh, Madame, it is true?’ cried Veronique, crimson with surprise and
alarm. ‘M. le Baron knows it is true.’
Berenger had started at this revelation, and uttered an inarticulate
exclamation; but at that moment the boy, in whose hand his master
had placed a crown from the money newly paid, began to make vehement
gestures, which the main interpreted. ‘_Le Balafre_, he says, pardon
me, gentlemen, _le Balafre_ could reveal even a deeper scar of the
heart than of the visage’--and the boy’s brown hand was pressed on his
heart--‘yet truly there is yet hope (_esperance_) to be found. Yes’--as
the boy put his hand to his neck--‘he bears a pearl, parted from its
sister pearls. Where they are, there is hope. Who can miss Hope, who has
sought it at a royal death-bed?’
‘Ah, where is it?’ Berenger could not help exclaiming.
‘Sir,’ said the pedlar, ‘as I told Messieurs and Mesdames before,
the spirits that cast the lights of the future on the dark pool need
invocation. Ere he can answer M. le Baron’s demands, he and I must have
time and seclusion. If Monsieur le Chevalier will grant us an empty
room, there will we answer all queries on which the spirits will throw
light.’
‘And how am I to know that you will not bring the devil to shatter the
castle, my friend?’ demanded the Chevalier. ‘Or more likely still, that
you are not laughing all the time at these credulous boys and ladies?’
‘Of that, sir, you may here convince yourself,’ said the mountebank,
putting into his hand a sort of credential in Italian, signed by
Renato di Milano, the Queen’s perfumer, testifying to the skill of his
compatriot Ercole Stizzito both in perfumery, cosmetics, and in the
secrets of occult sciences.
The Chevalier was no Italian scholar, and his daughter interpreted the
scroll to him, in a rapid low voice, adding, ‘I have had many dealings
with Rene of Milan, father. I know he speaks sooth. There can be no harm
in letting the poor man play out his play--all the castle servants will
be frantic to have their fortunes told.’
‘I must speak with the fellow first, daughter,’ said the Chevalier. ‘He
must satisfy me that he has no unlawful dealings that could bring the
Church down on us.’ And he looked meaningly at the mountebank, who
replied by a whole muster-roll of ecclesiastics, male and female, who
had heard and approved his predictions.
‘A few more words with thee, fellow,’ said the Chevalier, pointing the
way to one of the rooms opening out of the hall. ‘As master of the house
I must be convinced of his honesty,’ he added. ‘If I am satisfied, then
who will may seek to hear their fortune.’
Chevalier, man and boy disappeared, and Philip was the first to exclaim,
‘A strange fellow! What will he tell us? Madame, shall you hear him?’
‘That depends on my father’s report,’ she said. ‘And yet,’ sadly and
pensively, ‘my future is dark and void enough. Why should I vex myself
with hearing it?’
‘Nay, it may brighten,’ said Philip.
‘Scarcely, while hearts are hard,’ she murmured with a slight shake of
the head, that Philip thought indescribably touching; but Berenger was
gathering his purchases together, and did not see. ‘And you, brother,’
said Philip, ‘you mean to prove him?’
‘No,’ said Berenger. ‘Have you forgotten, Phil, the anger we met with,
when we dealt with the gipsy at Hurst Fair?’
‘Pshaw, Berry, we are past flogging now.’
‘Out of reach, Phil, of the rod, but scarce of the teaching it struck
into us.’
‘What?’ said Philip, sulkily.
‘That divining is either cozening manor forsaking God, Phil. Either it
is falsehood, or it is a lying wonder of the devil.’
‘But, Berry, this man is not cheat.’
‘Then he is worse.’
‘Only, turn not away, brother. How should he have known things that even
I know not?--the heather.’
‘No marvel in that,’ said Berenger. ‘This is the very man I bought
Annora’s fan from; he was prowling round Montpipeau, and my heather was
given to Veronique with little secrecy. And as to the royal deathbed, it
was Rene, his master, who met me there.’
‘Then you think it mere cozeing? If so, we should find it out.’
‘I don’t reckon myself keener than an accomplished Italian mountebank,’
said Berenger, dryly.
Further conference was cut short by the return of the Chevalier, saying,
in his paternal genial way, ‘Well, children, I have examined the fellow
and his credentials, and for those who have enough youth and hope to
care to have the future made known to them, bah! it is well.’
‘Is it sorcery, sir?’ asked Philip, anxiously.
The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders. ‘What know I?’ he said. ‘For those
who have a fine nose for brimstone there may be, but he assures me it is
but the white magic practiced in Egypt, and the boy is Christian!’
‘Did you try this secret, father?’ inquired Madame de Selinville.
‘I, my daughter? An old man’s fortune is in his children. What have I to
ask?’
‘I--I scarcely like to be the first!’ said the lady, eager but
hesitating. ‘Veronique, you would have your fortune told?’
‘I will be the first,’ said Philip, stepping forward manfully. ‘I will
prove him for you, lady, and tell you whether he be a cozener or not, or
if his magic be fit for you to deal with.’
And confident in the inherent intuition of a plain Englishman, as
well as satisfied to exercise his resolution for once in opposition to
Berenger’s opinion, Master Thistlewood stepped towards the closet where
the Italian awaited his clients, and Berenger knew that it would be
worse than useless to endeavour to withhold him. He only chafed at
the smile which passed between father and daughter at this doughty
self-assertion.
There was a long silence. Berenger sat with his eyes fixed on the window
where the twilight horizon was still soft and bright with the pearly
gold of the late sunset, thinking with an intensity of yearning what
it would be could he truly become certain of Eustacie’s present doings;
questioning whether he would try to satisfy that longing by the doubtful
auguries of the diviner, and then recollecting how he had heard from
wrecked sailors that to seek to delude their thirst with sea-water did
but aggravate their misery. He knew that whatever he might hear would
be unworthy of confidence. Either it merely framed to soothe and please
him--or, were it a genuine oracle, he had no faith in the instinct that
was to perceive it, but what he HAD faith in was the Divine protection
over his lost ones. ‘No,’ he thought to himself, ‘I will not by a
presumptuous sin, in my own impatience, risk incurring woes on them that
deal with familiar spirits and wizards that peep and mutter. If ever
I am to hear of Eustacie again, it shall be by God’s will, not the
devil’s.’
Diane de Selinville had been watching his face all the time, and now
said, with that almost timid air of gaiety that she wore when addressing
him: ‘You too, cousin, are awaiting Monsieur Philippe’s report to decide
whether to look into the pool of mystery.’
‘Not at all, Madame,’ said Berenger, gravely. ‘I do not understand white
magic.’
‘Our good cousin has been too well bred among the Reformers to
condescend to our little wickednesses, daughter,’ said the Chevalier;
and the sneer-much like that which would await a person now who scrupled
at joining in table-turning or any form of spiritualism--purpled
Berenger’s scar, now his only manner of blushing; but he instantly
perceived that it was the Chevalier’s desire that he should consult the
conjurer, and therefore became the more resolved against running into a
trap.
‘I am sure,’ said Madame de Selinville, earnestly, though with an
affectation of lightness, ‘a little wickedness is fair when there is a
great deal at stake. For my part, I would not hesitate long, to find out
how soon the King will relent towards my fair cousin here!’
‘That, Madame,’ said Berenger, with the same grave dryness, ‘is likely
to be better known to other persons than this wandering Greek boy.’
Here Philip’s step was heard returning hastily. He was pale, and looked
a good deal excited, so that Madame de Selinville uttered a little cry,
and exclaimed, ‘Ah! is it so dreadful then?’
‘No, no, Madame,’ said Philip, turning round, with a fervour and
confidence he had never before shown. ‘On my word, there is nothing
formidable. You see nothing--nothing but the Italia and the boy. The boy
gazes into a vessel of some black liquid, and sees--sees there all you
would have revealed. Ah!’
‘Then you believe?’ asked Madame de Selinville.
‘It cannot be false,’ answered Philip; ‘he told me everything. Things he
could not have known. My very home, my father’s house, passed in review
before that strange little blackamoor’s eyes; where I--though I would
have given worlds to see it--beheld only the lamp mirrored in the dark
pool.’
‘How do you know it was your father’s house?’ said Berenger.
‘I could not doubt. Just to test the fellow, I bade him ask for my
native place. The little boy gazed, smiled, babbled his gibberish,
pointed. The man said he spoke of a fair mansion among green fields and
hills, “a grand _cavalier embonpoint_,”--those were his very words,--at
the door, with a tankard in one hand. Ah! my dear father, why could not
I see him too? But who could mistake him or the Manor?’
‘And did he speak of future as well as past?’ said Diane.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Philip, with more agitation. ‘Lady, that will you
know for yourself.’
‘It was not dreadful?’ she said, rising.
‘Oh no!’ and Philip had become crimson, and hesitated; ‘certes, not
dreadful. But---I must not say more.’
‘Save good night,’ said Berenger, rising; ‘See, our gendarmes are again
looking as if we had long exceeded their patience. It is an hour later
than we are wont to retire.’
‘If it be your desire to consult this mysterious fellow now you have
heard your brother’s report, my dear Baron,’ said the Chevalier, ‘the
gendarmes may devour their impatience a little longer.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ said Berenger; ‘but I am not tempted,’ and he gave the
usual signal to the gendarmes, who, during meals, used to stand as
sentries at the great door of the hall.
‘It might settle your mind,’ muttered Philip, hesitating. ‘And
yet--yet---’
But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be escorted with
his brother along the passages to their own chamber, where he threw
himself into a chair with a long sigh, and did not speak. Berenger
meantime opened the Bible, glanced over the few verses he meant to read,
found the place in the Prayer-book, and was going to the stairs to call
Humfrey, when Philip broke forth: ‘Wait, Berry; don’t be in such haste.’
‘What, you want time to lose the taste of your dealings with the devil?’
said Berenger, smiling.
‘Pshaw! No devil in the matter,’ testily said Philip. ‘No, I was only
wishing you had not had a Puritan fit, and seen and heard for yourself.
Then I should not have had to tell you,’ and he sighed.
‘I have no desire to be told,’ said Berenger, who had become more fixed
in the conviction that it was an imposture.
‘No desire! Ah! I have none when I knew what it was. But you ought to
know.’
‘Well,’ said Berenger, ‘you will burst anon if I open not my ears.’
‘Dear Berry, speak not thus. It will be the worse for you when you
do hear. Alack, Berenger, all ours have been vain hopes. I asked for
HER--and the boy fell well-nigh into convulsions of terror as he gazed;
spoke of flames and falling houses. That was wherefore I pressed you not
again--it would have wrung your heart too much. The boy fairly wept and
writhed himself, crying out in his tongue for pity on the fair lady and
the little babe in the burning house. Alack! brother,’ said Philip, a
little hurt that his brother had not changed countenance.
‘This is the lying tale of the man-at-arms which our own eyes
contradicted,’ said Berenger; ‘and no doubt was likewise inspired by the
Chevalier.’
‘See the boy, brother! How should he have heard the Chevalier? Nay,
you might hug your own belief, but it is hard that we should both be in
durance for your mere dream that she lives.’
‘Come, Phil, it will be the devil indeed that sows dissension between
us,’ said Berenger. ‘You know well enough that were it indeed with my
poor Eustacie as they would fain have us believe, rather than give
up her fair name I would not in prison for life. Or would you have me
renounce my faith, or wed Madame de Selinville upon the witness of a
pool of ink that I am a widower?’ he added, almost laughing.
‘For that matter,’ muttered Philip, a good deal ashamed and half
affronted, ‘you know I value the Protestant faith so that I never heard
a word from the will old priest. Nevertheless, the boy, when I asked of
our release, saw the gates set open by Love.’
‘What did Love look like in the pool? Had he wings like the Cupids in
the ballets at the Louvre?’ asked Berenger provokingly.
‘I tell you I saw nothing,’ said Philip, tartly: ‘this was the Italian’s
interpretation of the boy’s gesture. It was to be by means of love, he
said, and of a lady who---he made it plain enough who she was,’ added
the boy, colouring.
‘No doubt, as the Chevalier have instructed him to say that I--I--’ he
hesitated, ‘that my--my love--I mean that he saw my shield per pale with
the field fretty and the sable leopard.’
‘Oh! it is to be my daughter, is it?’ said Berenger, laughing; ‘I am
very happy to entertain your proposals for her.’
‘Berenger, what mocking fiend has possessed you?’ cried Philip, half
angrily, half pitifully. ‘How can you so speak of that poor child?’
‘Because the more they try to force on me the story of her fate, the
plainer it is to me that they do not believe it. I shall find her yet,
and then, Phil, you shall have the first chance.’
Philip growled.
‘Well, Phil,’ said his brother, good-humouredly, ‘any way, till this
Love comes that is to let us out, don’t let Moor or fiend come between
us. Let me keep my credence for the honest Bailli’s daughters at Lucon;
and remember I would give my life to free you, but I cannot give away my
faith.’ Philip bent his head. He was of too stubborn a mould to express
contrition or affection, but he mused for five minutes, then called
Humfrey, and at the last moment, as the heavy tread came up-stairs, he
turned round and said, ‘You’re in the right on’t there, Berry. Hap what
hap, the foul fiend may carry off the conjurer before I murmur at you
again! Still I wish you had seen him. You would know ‘tis sooth.’
While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamplight beaming on
his high white brow and clear eye, stood before his two comrades in
captivity, their true-hearted faces composed to reverence, and as he
read, ‘I have hated them that hold of superstitious vanities, and my
trust hath been in the Lord. I will be glad and rejoice in Thy
mercy, for Thou hast considered my trouble and hast known my soul in
adversities,’ feeling that here was the oracle by which he was willing
to abide--Diane de Selinville was entering the cabinet where the secrets
of the future were to be unveiled.
There she stood--the beautiful court lady--her lace coif (of the Mary
of Scotland type) well framed the beautiful oval of her face, and set of
the clear olive of her complexion, softened by short jetty curls at the
temples, and lighted splendid dark eyes, and by the smiles of a
perfect pair of lips. A transparent veil hung back over the ruff like
frostwork-formed fairy wings, and over the white silk bodice and sleeves
laced with violet, and the violet skirt that fell in ample folds on the
ground; only, however, in the dim light revealing by an occasional gleam
that it was not black. It was a stately presence, yet withal there was
a tremor, a quiver of the downcast eyelids, and a trembling of the fair
hand, as though she were ill at ease; even though it was by no means the
first time she had trafficked with the dealers in mysterious arts who
swarmed around Catherine de Medicis. There were words lately uttered
that weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not forget them
in that gloomy light, as she gazed on the brown face of the Italian,
Ercole, faultless in outline as a classical mask, but the black depths
of the eyes sparkling with intensity of observation, as if they were
everywhere at once and gazed through and through. He wore his national
dress, with the short cloak over one shoulder; but the little boy,
who stood at the table, had been fantastically arrayed in a sort
of semi-Albanian garb, a red cap with a long tassel, a dark,
gold-embroidered velvet jacket sitting close to his body, and a white
kilt over his legs, bare except for buskins stiff with gold. The poor
little fellow looked pale in spite of his tawny hue, his enormous black
eyes were heavy and weary, and he seemed to be trying to keep aloof from
the small brazen vessel formed by the coils of two serpents that held
the inky liquid of which Philip had spoken.
No doubt of the veritable nature of the charm crossed Diane; her doubt
was of its lawfulness, her dread of the supernatural region she was
invading. She hesitated before she ventured on her first question, and
started as the Italian first spoke,--‘What would the Eccelentissima?
Ladies often hesitate to speak the question nearest their hearts. Yet
is it ever the same. But the lady must be pleased to form it herself in
words, or the lad will not see her vision.’
‘Where, then, is my brother?’ said Diane, still reluctant to come direct
to the point.
The boy gazed intently into the black pool, his great eyes dilating till
they seemed like black wells, and after a long time, that Diane could
have counted by the throbs of her heart, he began to close his fingers,
perform the action over the other arm of one playing on the lute, throw
his head back, close his eyes, and appear to be singing a lullaby. Then
he spoke a few words to his master quickly.
‘He see,’ said Ercole, ‘a gentleman touching the lute, seated in a
bedroom, where lies, on a rich pillow, another gentleman,’--and as the
boy stroked his face, and pointed to his hands--‘wearing a mask and
gloves. It is, he says, in my own land, in Italy,’ and as the boy made
the action of rowing, ‘in the territory of Venice.’
‘It is well,’ said Madame de Selinville, who knew that nothing was more
probable than that her brother should be playing the King to his sleep
in the medicated mask and gloves that cherished the royal complexion,
and, moreover, that Henry was lingering to take his pastime in Italy to
the great inconvenience of his kingdom.
Her next question came nearer her heat--‘You saw the gentleman with a
scar. Will he leave this castle?’
The boy gazed, then made gestures of throwing his arms wide, and of
passing out; and as he added his few words, the master explained: ‘He
sees the gentleman leaving the castle, through open gate, in full day,
on horseback; and--and it is Madame who is with them,’ he added, as the
lad pointed decidedly to her, ‘it is Madame who opens their prison.’
Diane’s face lighted with gladness for a moment; then she said,
faltering (most women of her day would not have been even thus
reserved), ‘Then I shall marry again?’
The boy gazed and knitted his brow; then, without any pantomime, looked
up and spoke. ‘The Eccellentissima shall be a bride once more, he
says,’ explained the man, ‘but after a sort he cannot understand. It
is exhausting, lady, thus to gaze into the invisible future; the boy
becomes confused and exhausted ere long.’
‘Once more--I will only ask of the past. My cousin, is he married or a
widower?’
The boy clasped his hands and looked imploringly, shaking his head at
the dark pool, as he murmured an entreating word to his master. ‘Ah!
Madame,’ said the Italian, ‘that question hath already been demanded by
the young Inglese. The poor child has been so terrified by the scene
it called up, that he implored he may not see it again. A sacked and
burning town, a lady in a flaming house---’
‘Enough, enough,’ said de; ‘I could as little bear to hear as he to see.
It is what we have ever known and feared. And now’--she blushed as she
spoke--‘sir, you will leave me one of those potions that Signor Renato
is wont to compound.’
‘_Capisco_!’ said Ercole; ‘but the Eccellentissima shall be obeyed if
she will supply the means, for the expense will be heavy.’
The bargain was agreed upon, and a considerable sum advanced for a
philter, compounded of strange Eastern plants and mystic jewels; and
then Diane, with a shudder of relief, passed into the full light of the
hall, bade her father good night, and was handed by him into the litter
that had long been awaiting her at the door.
The Chevalier, then, with care on his brow, bent his steps towards the
apartment where the Italian still remained counting the money he had
received.
‘So!’ he said as he entered, ‘so, fellow, I have not hindered your
gains, and you have been true to your agreement?’
‘Illustrissimo, yes. The pool of vision mirrored the flames, but nothing
beyond--nothing--nothing.’
‘They asked you then no more of those words you threw out of Esperance?’
‘Only the English youth, sir; and there were plenty of other hopes to
dance before the eyes of such a lad! With M. le Baron it will be needful
to be more guarded.’
‘M. le Baron shall not have the opportunity,’ said the Chevalier. ‘He
may abide by his decision, and what the younger one may tell him. Fear
not, good man, it shall be made good to you, if you obey my commands. I
have other work for you. But first repeat to me more fully what you told
me before. Where was it that you saw this unhappy girl under the name of
Esperance?’
‘At a hostel, sir, at Charente, where she was attending on an old
heretic teacher of the name of Gardon, who had fallen sick there, being
pinched by the fiend with rheumatic pains after his deserts. She bore
the name of Esperance Gardon, and passed for his son’s widow.’
‘And by what means did you know her not to be the mean creature she
pretended?’ said the Chevalier, with a gesture of scornful horror.
‘Illustrissimo, I never forget a face. I had seen this lady with M. le
Baron when they made purchases of various trinkets at Montpipeau; and
I saw her full again. I had the honour to purchase from her certain
jewels, that the Eccellenza will probably redeem; and even--pardon,
sir--I cut off and bought of her, her hair.’
‘Her hair!’ exclaimed the Chevalier, in horror. ‘The miserable girl to
have fallen so low! Is it with you, fellow?’
‘Surely, Illustrissimo. Such tresses--so shining, so silky, so well
kept,--I reserved to adorn the heads of Signor Renato’s most princely
customers’, said the man, unpacking from the inmost recesses of one of
his most ingeniously arranged packages, a parcel which contained the
rich mass of beautiful black tresses. ‘Ah! her head looked so noble,’ he
added, ‘that I felt it profane to let my scissors touch those locks; but
she said that she could never wear them openly more, and that they did
but take up her time, and were useless to her child and her father--as
she called him; and she much needed the medicaments for the old man that
I gave her in exchange.’
‘Heavens! A daughter of Ribaumont!’ sighed the Chevalier, clenching his
hand. ‘And now, man, let me see the jewels with which the besotted child
parted.’
The jewels were not many, nor remarkable. No one but a member of the
family would have identified them, and not one of the pearls was there;
and the Chevalier refrained from inquiring after them, lest, by putting
the Italian on the scent of anything so exceptionally valuable, he
should defeat his own object, and lead to the man’s securing the pearls
and running away with them. But Ercole understood his glance, with the
quickness of a man whose trade forced him to read countenances. ‘The
Eccellenza is looking for the pearls of Ribaumont? The lady made no
offer of them to me.’
‘Do you believe that she has them still?’
‘I am certain of it, sir. I know that she has jewels--though she said
not what they were--which she preserved at the expense of her hair. It
was thus. The old man had, it seems, been for weeks on the rack with
pains caught by a chill when they fled from La Sablerie, and, though the
fever had left him, he was still so stiff in the joints as to be unable
to move. I prescribed for him unguents of balm and Indian spice, which,
as the Eccellenza knows, are worth far more than their weight in gold;
nor did these jewels make up the cost of these, together with the warm
cloak for him, and the linen for her child that she had been purchasing.
I tell you, sir, the babe must have no linen but the finest fabric of
Cambrai--yes, and even carnation-coloured ribbons--though, for herself,
I saw the homespun she was sewing. As she mused over what she could
throw back, I asked if she had no other gauds to make up the price, and
she said, almost within herself, “They are my child’s, not mine.” Then
remembering that I had been buying the hair of the peasant maidens, she
suddenly offered me her tresses. But I could yet secure the pearls, if
Eccellenza would.’
‘Do you then believe her to be in any positive want or distress?’ said
the Chevalier.
‘Signor, no. The heretical households among whom she travels gladly
support the families of their teachers, and at Catholic inns they pay
their way. I understood them to be on their way to a synod of Satan at
the nest of heretics, Montauban, where doubtless the old miscreant would
obtain an appointment to some village.’
‘When did you thus full in with them?’
‘It was on one of the days of the week of Pentecost,’ said Ercole. ‘It
is at that time I frequent fairs in those parts, to gather my little
harvest on the maidens’ heads.’
‘_Parbleu_! class not my niece with those sordid beings, man,’ said the
Chevalier, angrily. ‘Here is your price’--tossing a heavy purse on
the table--‘and as much more shall await you when you bring me sure
intelligence where to find my niece. You understand; and mark, not one
word of the gentleman you saw here. You say she believes him dead?’
‘The Illustrissimo must remember that she never dropped her disguise
with me, but I fully think that she supposed herself a widow. And I
understand the Eccellenza, she is still to think so. I may be depended
on.’
‘You understand,’ repeated the Chevalier, ‘this sum shall reward you
when you have informed me where to find her--as a man like you can
easily trace her from Montauban. If you have any traffickings with her,
it shall be made worth your while to secure the pearls for the family;
but, remember, the first object is herself, and that she should be
ignorant of the existence of him whom she fancied her husband.’
‘I see, Signor; and not a word, of course, of my having come from you. I
will discover her, and leave her noble family to deal with her. Has the
Illustrissimo any further commands?’
‘None,’ began the Chevalier; then, suddenly, ‘This unhappy infant--is it
healthy? Did it need any of your treatment?’
‘Signor, no. It was a fair, healthy bambina of a year old, and I heard
the mother boasting that it had never had a day’s illness.’
‘Ah, the less a child has to do in the world, the more is it bent
on living,’ said the Chevalier with a sigh; and then, with a parting
greeting, he dismissed the Italian, but only to sup under the careful
surveillance of the steward, and then to be conveyed by early morning
light beyond the territory where the affairs of Ribaumont were
interesting.
But the Chevalier went through a sleepless night. Long did he pace up
and down his chamber, grind his teeth, clench his fist and point them at
his head, and make gestures of tearing his thin gray locks; and many a
military oath did he swear under his breath as he thought to what a
pass things had come. His brother’s daughter waiting on an old Huguenot
_bourgeois_, making sugar-cakes, selling her hair! And what next? Here
was she alive after all, alive and disgracing herself; alive--yes, both
she and her husband--to perplex the Chevalier, and force him either to
new crimes or to beggar his son! Why could not the one have really died
on the St. Bartholomew, or the other at La Sablerie, instead of putting
the poor Chevalier in the wrong by coming to live again?
What had he done to be thus forced to peril his soul at his age? Ah, had
he but known what he should bring on himself when he wrote the unlucky
letter, pretending that the silly little child wished to dissolve the
marriage! How should he have known that the lad would come meddling
over? And then, when he had dexterously brought about that each should
be offended with the other, and consent to the separation, why must
royalty step in and throw them together again? Yes, and he surely had a
right to feel ill-used, since it was in ignorance of the ratification of
the marriage that he had arranged the frustration of the elopement, and
that he had forced on the wedding with Narcisse, so as to drive Eustacie
to flight from the convent--in ignorance again of her life that he had
imprisoned Berenger, and tried to buy off his clams to Nid de Merle with
Diane’s hand. Circumstances had used him cruelly, and he shrank from
fairly contemplating the next step.
He knew well enough what it must be. Without loss of time a letter must
be sent to Rome, backed by strong interest, so as to make it appear
that the ceremony at Montpipeau, irregular, and between a Huguenot and
Catholic, had been a defiance of the Papal decree, and must therefore
be nullified. This would probably be attainable, though he did not feel
absolutely secure of it. Pending this, Eustacie must be secluded in a
convent; and, while still believing herself a widow, must immediately on
the arrival of the decree and dispensation, be forced into the marriage
with Narcisse before she heard of Berenger’s being still alive. And then
Berenger would have no longer any excuse for holding out. His claims
would be disposed of, and he might be either sent to England, or he
might be won upon by Madame de Selinville’s constancy.
And this, as the Chevalier believed, was the only chance of saving a
life that he was unwilling to sacrifice, for his captive’s patience and
courtesy had gained so much upon his heart that he was resolved to
do all that shuffling and temporizing could do to save the lad from
Narcisse’s hatred and to secure him Diane’s love.
As to telling the truth and arranging his escape, that scarcely ever
crossed the old man’s mind. It would have been to resign the lands of
Nid de Merle, to return to the makeshift life he knew but too well, and,
what was worse, to ruin and degrade his son, and incur his resentment.
It would probably be easy to obtain a promise from Berenger, in his
first joy and gratitude, of yielding up all pretensions of his own or
his wife’s; but, however honourably meant, such a promise would be worth
very little, and would be utterly scorned by Narcisse. Besides, how
could he thwart the love of his daughter and the ambition of his son
both at once?
No; the only security for the possession of Nid de Merle lay in either
the death of the young baron and his child or else in his acquiescence
in the invalidity of his marriage, and therefore in the illegitimacy of
the child.
And it was within the bounds of possibility that, in his seclusion, he
might at length learn to believe in the story of the destruction at
La Sablerie, and, wearying of captivity, might yield at length to the
persuasions of Diane and her father, and become so far involved with
them as to be unable to draw back, or else be so stung by Eustacie’s
desertion as to accept her rival willingly.
It was a forlorn hope, but it was the only medium that lay between
either the death or the release of the captive; and therefore the old
man clung to it as almost praiseworthy, and did his best to bring it
about by keeping his daughter ignorant that Eustacie lived, and writing
to his son that the Baron was on the point of becoming a Catholic and
marrying his sister: and thus that all family danger and scandal would
be avoided, provided the matter were properly represented at Rome.