He found an ancient dame in dim brocade.---TENNYSON
Madame la Duchesse de Quinet had been a great heiress and a personal
friend and favourite of Queen Jeanne d’Albret. She had been left a widow
after five years’ marriage, and for forty subsequent years had reigned
despotically in her own name and that of _mon fils_. Busied with the
support of the Huguenot cause, sometimes by arms, but more usually by
politics, and constantly occupied by the hereditary government of one
of the lesser counties of France, the Duke was all the better son for
relinquishing to her the home administration, as well as the education
of his two motherless boys; and their confidence and affection were
perfect, though he was almost as seldom at home as she was abroad. At
times, indeed, she had visited Queen Jeanne at Nerac; but since the good
Queen’s death, she only left the great chateau of Quinet to make a royal
progress of inspection through the family towns, castles, and estates,
sometimes to winter in her beautiful hereditary _hotel_ at Montauban,
and as at present to attend any great assembly of the Reformed.
Very seldom was her will not law. Strong sense and judgment, backed by
the learning that Queen Marguerite of Navarre had introduced among the
companions of her daughter, had rendered her superior to most of those
with whom she came in contact: and the Huguenot ministers, who were much
more dependent on their laity than the Catholic priesthood, for the most
part treated her as not only a devout and honourable woman, an
elect lady, but as a sort of State authority. That she had the
right-mindedness to respect and esteem such men as Theodore Beza,
Merlin, &c., who treated her with great regard, but never cringed, had
not become known to the rest. Let her have once pronounced against
poor little Esperance Gardon, and public disgrace would be a matter of
certainty.
There she sat in her wainscoted walnut cabinet, a small woman by her
inches, but stately enough to seem of majestic stature, and with gray
eyes, of inexpressible keenness, which she fixed upon the halting,
broken form of Isaac Gardon, and his grave, venerable face, as she half
rose and made a slight acknowledgment of his low bow.
‘Sit, Maitre Gardon, you are lame,’ she said, with a wave of her hand.
‘I gave you the incommodity of coming to see me not openly discuss _en
pleine sale_.’
‘Madame is considerate,’ said Isaac, civilly, but with an open-eyed look
and air that at once showed her that she had not to deal with one of the
ministers who never forgot their low birth in intercourse with her.
‘I understand,’ said she, coming to the point at once, ‘that you decline
the proposals of Samuel Mace for your daughter-in-law. Now I wish you
to know that Mace is a very good youth, whom I have known from his
birth’--and she went on in his praise, Isaac bowing at each pause, until
she had exhausted both Mace’s history and her own beneficent intentions
for him. Then he said, ‘Madame is very good, and the young man appeared
to me excellent. Nevertheless, this thing may not be. My daughter-in-law
has resolved not to marry again.’
‘Nay, but this is mere folly,’ said the Duchess. ‘We hold not Catholic
tenets on merit in abstaining, but rather go by St. Paul’s advice that
the younger widows should marry, rather than wax wanton. And, to tell
you the truth, Maitre Gardon, this daughter of yours does seem to have
set tongues in motion.’
‘Not by her own fault, Madame.’
‘Stay, my good friend; I never found a man--minister or lay--who was
a fair judge in these matters. You old men are no better than the
young--rather worse--because you do not distrust yourselves. Now, I
say no harm of the young woman, and I know an angel would be abused
at Montauban for not wearing sad-coloured wings; but she needs a man’s
care--you are frail, you cannot live for ever--and how is it to be with
her and her child?’
‘I hope to bestow them among her kindred ere I die, Madame,’ said Isaac.
‘No kindred can serve a woman like a sensible husband! Besides, I
thought all perished at Paris. Listen, Isaac Gardon: I tell you plainly
that scandal is afloat. You are blamed for culpable indifference to
alleged levities--I say not that it is true--but I see this, that unless
you can bestow your daughter-in-law on a good, honest man, able to
silence the whispers of malice, there will be measures taken that will
do shame both to your own gray hairs and to the memory of your dead son,
as well as expose the poor young woman herself. You are one who has
a true tongue, Isaac Gardon; and if you can assure me that she is a
faithful, good woman, as poor Mace thinks her, and will give her to him
in testimony thereof, then shall not a mouth open against her. If not,
in spite of all my esteem for you, the discipline of the Reformed must
take its course.’
‘And for what?’ said Isaac, with a grave tone, almost of reproof. ‘What
discipline can punish a woman for letting her infant wear a coloured
ribbon, and shielding it from a blow?’
‘That is not all, Master Isaac,’ said the Duchess, seriously. ‘In spite
of your much-respected name, evil and censorious tongues will have it
that matters ought to be investigated; that there is some mystery; that
the young woman does not give a satisfactory account of herself, and
that the child does not resemble either her or your son--in short, that
you may be deceived by an impostor, perhaps a Catholic spy. Mind, I say
not that I credit all this, only I would show you what reports you must
guard against.’
‘_La pauvre petite_!’ said Isaac, under his breath, as if appalled; then
collecting himself, he said, ‘Madame, these are well-nigh threats. I had
come hither nearly resolved to confined in you without them.’
‘Then there is a mystery?’
‘Yes, Madame, but the deception is solely in the name. She is, in very
truth, a widow of a martyr of the St. Barthelemy, but that martyr was
not my son, whose wife was happy in dying with him.’
‘And who, then, is she?’
‘Madame la Duchesse had heard of the family of Ribaumont.’
‘Ha! M. de Ribaumont! A gay comrade of King Henry II., but who had his
eyes opened to the truth by M. l’Amiral, though he lacked courage for an
open profession. Yes, the very last pageant I beheld at court, was the
wedding of his little son to the Count de Ribaumont’s daughter. It was
said that the youth was one of our victims at Paris.’
‘Even so, Madame; and this poor child is the little one whom you saw
wedded to him.’ And then, in answer to the Duchess’s astonished inquiry,
he proceeded to relate how Eustacie had been forced to fly from her
kindred, and how he had first encountered her at his own lurking-placed,
and had accepted her as a charge imposed on him by Providence; then
explained how, at La Sablerie, she had been recognized by a young
gentleman whom she had known at Paris, but who professed to be fleeing
to England, there to study the Protestant controversy; and how she had
confided to him a letter to her husband’s mother, who was married in
England, begging her to send for her and her daughter, the latter being
heiress to certain English estates, as well as French.
‘Madame,’ added Gardon, ‘Heaven forgive me, if I do the Youth injustice
by suspecting him, but no answer ever arrived to that letter; and while
we still expected one, a good and kindly citizen, who I trust has long
been received into glory, sent me notice that a detachment of Monsieur’s
army was on its way from La Rochelle, under command of M. de Nid de
Merle, to search out this poor lady in La Sablerie. He, good man, deemed
that, were we gone, he could make terms for the place, and we therefore
quitted it. Alas! Madame knows how it fared with the pious friend we
left. Little deeming how they would be dealt with, we took our way along
the Sables d’Olonne, where alone we could be safe, since, as Madame
knows, they are for miles impracticable for troops. But we had another
enemy there--the tide; and there was a time when we truly deemed that
the mercy granted us had been that we had fallen into the hand of the
Lord instead of the hand of cruel man. Yes, Madame, and even for that
did she give thanks, as she stood, never even trembling, on the low
sandbank, with her babe in her bosom, and the sea creeping up on all
sides. She only turned to me with a smile, saying, ‘She is asleep, she
will not feel it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and
sees her father.’ Never saw I a woman, either through nature or grace,
so devoid of fear. We were rescued at last, by the mercy of Heaven,
which sent a fisherman, who bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold,
and scarce able to move. He took us to a good priest’s, Colombeau of
Nissard, a man who, as Madame may know, is one of those veritable saints
who still are sustained by the truth within their Church, and is full of
charity and mercy. He asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, sheltered
us, and sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was over-confident in
myself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was Heaven’s will that
the cold and wet of our night on the sands--though those tender young
frames did not suffer therefrom--should bring on an illness which has
made an old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping to
attain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold completed
the work; and then, Madame--oh that I could tell you the blessing she
was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all
the long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and body at Charente.
Ah! Madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not have been more to
me than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me than
her tender care.’
‘I must see her,’ ejaculated the Duchesse; then added, ‘But was it this
illness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?’
‘In part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assembly
was to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and to
give notice of my intention to my brethren before going to a foreign
land, whence perhaps I may never return.’
‘She ought to be in England,’ said Madame de Quinet; ‘she will never be
safe from these kinsmen in this country.’
‘M. de Nid de Merle has been all the spring in Poland with the King,’
said the minister, ‘and the poor lady is thought to have perished at La
Sablerie. Thus the danger has been less pressing, but I would have taken
her to England at once, if I could have made sure of her reception, and
besides---’ he faltered.
‘The means?’ demanded the Duchess, guessing at the meaning.
‘Madame is right. She had brought away some money and jewels with her,
but alas, Madame, during my illness, without my knowledge, the dear
child absolutely sold them to procure comforts for me. Nay’--his eyes
filled with tears--‘she whom they blame for vanities sold the very hair
from her head to purchase unguents to ease the old man’s pains; nor did
I know it for many a day after. From day to day we can live, for our own
people willingly support a pastor and his family; and in every house my
daughter has been loved,--everywhere but in this harsh-judging town. But
for the expense of a voyage, even were we at Bordeaux or La Rochelle, we
have nothing, save by parting with the only jewels that remain to her,
and those--those, she says, are heirlooms; and, poor child, she guards
them almost as jealously as her infant, around whom she has fastened
them beneath her clothes. She will not even as yet hear of leaving them
in pledge, to be redeemed by the family. She says they would hardly know
her without them. And truly, Madame, I scarce venture to take her to
England, ere I know what reception would await her. Should her husband’s
family disown or cast her off, I could take better care of her here than
in a strange land.’
‘You are right, Maitre Gardon,’ said the Duchess; ‘the risk might be
great. I would see this lady. She must be a rare creature. Bear her my
greetings, my friend, and pray her to do me the honour of a visit this
afternoon. Tell her I would come myself to her, but that I understand
she does not wish to attract notice.’
‘Madame,’ said Isaac, rising, and with a strange manner, between a smile
and a tear of earnestness, ‘allow me to bespeak your goodness for my
daughter. The poor little thing is scarcely more than a child. She is
but eighteen even now, and it is not always easy to tell whether she
will be an angel of noble goodness, or, pardon me, a half-petulant
child.’
‘I understand:’ Madame de Quinet laughed, and she probably did
understand more than reluctant, anxious Isaac Gardon thought she did, of
his winning, gracious, yet haughty, head-strong little charge, so humbly
helpful one moment, so self-asserting and childish the next, so dear to
him, yet so unlike anything in his experience.
‘Child,’ he said, as he found her in the sunny window engaged in
plaiting the deep folds of his starched ruffs, ‘you have something to
forgive me.’
‘Fathers do not ask their children’s pardon,’ said Eustacie, brightly,
but then, with sudden dismay, ‘Ah! you have not said I should go to the
Moustier again.’
‘No, daughter; but Madame de Quinet entreats--these are her words--that
you will do her the honour of calling on her. She would come to you, but
that she fears to attract notice to us.’
‘You have told her!’ exclaimed Eustacie.
‘I was compelled, but I had already thought of asking your consent, and
she is a true and generous lady, with whom your secret will be safe, and
who can hush the idle tongues here. So, daughter,’ he added restlessly,
‘don your hood; that ruff will serve for another day.’
‘Another day, when the morrow is Sunday, and my father’s ruff is to put
to shame all the other pastors’,’ said Eustacie, her quick fingers still
moving. ‘No, he shall not go ill-starched for any Duchess in France. Now
am I in any haste to be lectured by Madame de Quinet, as they say she
lectured the Dame de Soubrera the other day.’
‘My child, you will go; much depends on it.’
‘Oh yes, I am going; only if Madame de Quinet knows who I am, she will
not expect me to hurry at her beck and call the first moment. Here,
Rayonette, my bird, my beauty, thou must have a clean cap; ay, and these
flaxen curls combed.’
‘Would you take the child?’
‘Would I go without Mademoiselle de Rambouillet? She is all her mother
is, and more. There, now she is a true rose-bud, ready to perch on my
arm. No, no _bon pere_. So great a girl is too much for you to carry.
Don’t be afraid, my darling, we are not going to a sermon, no one will
beat her; oh no, and if the insolent retainers and pert lacqueys laugh
at her mother, no one will hurt her.’
‘Nay, child,’ said Maitre Gardon; ‘this is a well-ordered household,
where contempt and scorn are not suffered. Only, dear, dear daughter,
let me pray you to be your true self with the Duchess.’
Eustacie shrugged her shoulders, and had mischief enough in her to
enjoy keeping her good father in some doubt and dread as he went halting
wearily by her side along the much-decorated streets that marked the
grand Gasche of Tarn and Tarascon. The Hotel de Quinet stretched out its
broad stone steps, covered with vaultings, absolutely across the street,
affording a welcome shade, and no obstruction where wheeled carriages
never came.
All was, as Maitre Isaac had said, decorum itself. A couple of armed
retainers, rigid as sentinels, waited on the steps; a grave porter,
maimed in the wars opened the great door; half a dozen--_laquais_ in
sober though rich liveries sat on a bench in the hall, and had
somewhat the air of having been set to con a lesson. Two of them coming
respectfully forward, ushered Maitre Gardon and his companion to an
ante-room, where various gentlemen, or pastors, or candidates--among
them Samuel Mace--were awaiting a summons to the Duchess, or merely
using it as a place of assembly. A page of high birth, but well schooled
in steadiness of demeanour, went at once to announce the arrival; and
Gardon and his companion had not been many moments in conversation
with their acquaintance among the ministers, before the grave gentleman
returned, apparently from his audience and the page, coming to Eustacie,
intimated that she was to follow him to Madame le Duchesse’s presence.
He conducted her across a great tapestry-hung saloon, where twelve or
fourteen ladies of all ages--from seventy to fifteen--sat at work: some
at tapestry, some spinning, some making coarse garments for the poor. A
great throne-like chair, with a canopy over it, a footstool, a desk
and a small table before it, was vacant, and the work--a poor child’s
knitted cap--laid down; but an elderly minister, seated at a carved
desk, had not discontinued reading from a great black book, and did not
even cease while the strangers crossed the room, merely making a slight
inclination with his head, while the ladies half rose, rustled a slight
reverence with their black, gray or russet skirts, but hardly lifted
their eyes. Eustacie thought the Louvre had never been half so
formidable or impressive.
The page lifted a heavy green curtain behind the canopy, knocked at a
door, and, as it opened, Eustacie was conscious of a dignified presence,
that, in spite of her previous petulance, caused her instinctively to
bend in such a reverence as had formerly been natural to her; but, at
the same moment, a low and magnificent curtsey was made to her, a hand
was held out, a stately kiss was on her brow, and a voice of dignified
courtesy said, ‘Pardon me, Madame la Baronne, for giving you this
trouble. I feared that otherwise we could not safely meet.’
‘Madame is very good. My Rayonette, make thy reverence; kiss thy hand to
the lady, my lamb.’ And the little one obeyed, gazing with her blue eyes
full opened, and clinging to her mother.
‘Ah! Madame la Baronne makes herself obeyed,’ said Madame de Quinet,
well pleased. ‘Is it then a girl?’
‘Yes, Madame, I could scarcely forgive her at first; but she has made
herself all the dearer to me.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Madame de Quinet, ‘for yours is an ancient stem.’
‘Did Madame know my parents?’ asked Eustacie, drawn from her spirit of
defiance by the equality of the manner with which she was treated.
‘Scarcely,’ replied the Duchess; but, with a smile, ‘I had the honour to
see you married.’
‘Ah, then,’--Eustacie glowed, almost smiled, though a tear was in her
eyes--‘you can see how like my little one is to her father,--a true
White Ribaumont.’
The Duchess had not the most distinct recollection of the complexion of
the little bridegroom; but Rayonette’s fairness was incontestable, and
the old lady complimented it so as to draw on the young mother into
confidence on the pet moonbeam appellation which she used in dread of
exciting suspicion by using the true name of Berangere, with all the why
and wherefore.
It was what the Duchess wanted. Imperious as some thought her, she would
on no account have appeared to cross-examine any one whose essential
nobleness of nature struck her as did little Eustacie’s at the first
moment she saw her; and yet she had decided, before the young woman
arrived, that her own good opinion and assistance should depend on the
correspondence of Madame de Ribaumont’s history of herself with Maitre
Gardon’s.
Eustacie had, for a year and a half, lived with peasants; and, indeed,
since the trials of her life had really begun, she had never been with a
woman of her own station to whom she could give confidence, or from whom
she could look for sympathy. And thus a very few inquiries and tokens of
interest from the old lady drew out the whole story, and more than once
filled Madame de Quinet’s eyes with tears.
There was only one discrepancy; Eustacie could not believe that the
Abbe de Mericour had been a faithless messenger. Oh, no! either those
savage-looking sailors had played him false, or else her _bele-mere_
would not send for her. ‘My mother-in-law never loved me,’ said
Eustacie; ‘I know she never did. And now she has children by her second
marriage, and no doubt would not see my little one preferred to them. I
will not be HER suppliant.’
‘And what then would you do?’ said Madame de Quinet, with a more severe
tone.
‘Never leave my dear father,’ said Eustacie, with a flash of eagerness;
‘Maitre Isaac I mean. He has been more to me than any--any one I ever
knew--save----’
‘You have much cause for gratitude to him,’ said Madame de Quinet. ‘I
honour your filial love to him. Yet, you have duties to this little one.
You have no right to keep her from her position. You ought to write to
England again. I am sure Maitre Isaac tells you so.’
Eustacie would have pouted, but the grave, kind authority of the manner
prevented her from being childish, and she said, ‘If I wrote, it should
be to my husband’s grandfather, who brought him up, designated him as
his heir, and whom he loved with all his heart. But, oh, Madame, he has
one of those English names! So dreadful! It sounds like Vol-au-vent, but
it is not that precisely.’
Madame de Quinet smiled, but she was a woman of resources. ‘See, my
friend,’ she said, ‘the pursuivant of the consuls here has the rolls of
the herald’s visitations throughout the kingdom. The arms and name of
the Baron de Ribaumont’s wife will there be entered; and from my house
at Quinet you shall write, and I, too, will write; my son shall take
care that the letters be forwarded safely, and you shall await their
arrival under my protection. That will be more fitting than running the
country with an old pastor, _hein_?’
‘Madame, nothing shall induce me to quit him!’ exclaimed Eustacie,
vehemently.
‘Hear me out, child,’ said the Duchess. ‘He goes with us to assist my
chaplain; he is not much fitter for wandering than you, or less so. And
you, Madame, must, I fear me, still remain his daughter-in-law in my
household; or if you bore your own name and rank, this uncle and cousin
of yours might learn that you were still living; and did they claim
you---’
‘Oh, Madame, rather let me be your meanest kitchen-girl!’
‘To be--what do they call you?--Esperance Gardon will be quite enough.
I have various women here--widows, wives, daughters or sufferers for the
truth’s sake, who either are glad of rest, or are trained up to lead a
godly life in the discipline of my household. Among them you can live
without suspicion, provided,’ the old lady added, smiling, ‘you can
abstain from turning the heads of our poor young candidates.’
‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, gravely, ‘I shall never turn any one’s head.
There was only one who was obliged to love me, and happily I am nor fair
enough to win any one else.’
‘_Tenez_, child. Is this true simplicity? Did Gardon, truly, never tell
you of poor Samuel Mace?’
Eustacie’s face expressed such genuine amazement and consternation, that
the Duchess could not help touching her on the cheek, and saying, ‘Ah!
simple as a _pensionnaire_, as we used to say when no one else was
innocent. But it is true, my dear, that to poor Samuel we owe our
meeting. I will send him off, the poor fellow, at once to Bourge-le-Roy
to preach his three sermons; and when they had driven you a little out
of his head, he shall have Mariette there--a good girl, who will make
him an excellent wife. She is ugly enough, but it will be all the same
to him just then! I will see him, and let him know that I have reasons.
He lodges in your house, does he? Then you had better come to see me at
once. So will evil tongues best be silenced.
‘But hold,’ the Duchess said, smiling. ‘You will think me a foolish old
woman, but is it true that you have saved the Pearls of Ribaumont, of
which good Canon Froissart tells?’
Eustacie lifted her child on her knee, untied the little gray frock, and
showed them fastened beneath, well out of sight. ‘I thought my treasures
should guard one another,’ she said. ‘One I sent as a token to my
mother-in-law. For the rest, they are not mine, but hers; her father
lent them to me, not gave: so she wears them thus; and anything but HER
life should go rather than THEY should.’
‘_Hein_, a fine guardian for them!’ was all the Duchess said in answer.