No pitying voice, no eye, affords
One tear to grace his obsequies.
--GRAY
Golden sunshine made rubies and sapphires of the fragments of glass in
the windows of Notre-Dame de l’Esperance, and lighted up the brown face
and earnest eyes of the little dark figure, who, with hands clasped
round her knees, sat gazing as if she could never gaze her fill, upon
the sleeping warrior beside whom she sat, his clear straight profile
like a cameo, both in chiseling and in colour, as it lay on the brown
cloak where he slept the profound sleep of content and of fatigue.
Neither she nor Philip would have spoken or stirred to break that
well-earned rest; but sounds from without were not long in opening his
eyes, and as they met her intent gaze, he smiled and said, ‘Good morrow,
sweet heart! What, learning how ugly a fellow is come back to thee?’
‘No, indeed! I was trying to trace thine old likeness, and then
wondering how I ever liked thy boyish face better than the noble look
thou bearest now!’
‘Ah! when I set out to come to thee, I was a walking rainbow; yet I was
coxcomb enough to think thou wouldst overlook it.’
‘Show me those cruel strokes,’ she said; ‘I see one’--and her finger
traced the seam as poor King Charles had done--‘but where is the one my
wicked cousin called by that frightful name?’
‘Nay, verily, that sweet name spared my life! A little less spite at my
peach cheek, and I had been sped, and had not lisped and stammered all
my days in honour of _le baiser d’Eustacie_!’ and as he pushed aside his
long golden silk moustache to show the ineffaceable red and purple scar,
he added, smiling, ‘It has waited long for its right remedy.’
At that moment the door in the rood-screen opened. Captain Falconnet’s
one eye stared in amazement, and from beneath his gray moustache
thundered forth the word ‘Comment!’ in accents fit to wake the dead.
Was this Esperance, the most irreproachable of pastor’s daughters and
widows? ‘What, Madame, so soon as your good father is under ground? At
least I thought ONE woman could be trusted; but it seems we must see to
the wounded ourselves.’
She blushed, but stood her ground; and Berenger shouted, ‘She is my
wife, sir!--my wife whom I have sought so long!’
‘That must be as Madame la Duchesse chooses,’ said the Captain. ‘She is
under her charge, and must be sent to her as soon as this _canaille_ is
cleared off. To your rooms, Madame!’
‘I am her husband!’ again cried Berenger. ‘We have been married sixteen
years.’
‘You need not talk to me of dowry; Madame la Duchesse will settle that,
if you are fool enough to mean anything by it. No, no, Mademoiselle,
I’ve no time for folly. Come with me, sir, and see if that be true which
they say of the rogues outside.’
And putting his arm into Berenger’s, he fairly carried him
off, discoursing by the way on _feu_ M. l’Amiral’s saying that
‘over-strictness in camp was perilous, since a young saint, an old
devil,’ but warning him that this was prohibited gear, as he was
responsible for the young woman to Madame la Duchesse. Berenger, who had
never made the Captain hear anything that he did not know before, looked
about for some interpreter whose voice might be more effectual, but
found himself being conducted to the spiral stair of the church steeple;
and suddenly gathering that some new feature in the case had arisen,
followed the old man eagerly up the winding steps to the little square
of leaden roof where the Quinet banner was planted. It commanded a wide
and splendid view, to the Bay of Biscay on the one hand, and the inland
mountains on the other; but the warder who already stood there pointed
silently to the north, where, on the road by which Berenger had come,
was to be seen a cloud of dust, gilded by the rays of the rising sun.
Who raised it was a matter of no doubt; and Berenger’s morning orisons
were paid with folded hands, in silent thanks-giving, as he watched
the sparkling of pikes and gleaming of helmets--and the white flag of
Bourbon at length became visible.
Already the enemy below were sending out scouts--they rode to the top of
the hill--then a messenger swan his horse across the river. In the camp
before the bridge-tower men buzzed out of their tents, like ants whose
hill is disturbed; horses were fastened to the cannon, tents were
struck, and it was plain that the siege was to be raised.
Captain Falconnet did his ally the honour to consult him on the
expedience of molesting the Guisards by a sally, and trying to take some
of their guns; but Berenger merely bowed to whatever he said, while he
debated aloud the PROS and CONS, and at last decided that the garrison
had been too much reduced for this, and that M. le Duc would prefer
finding them drawn up in good order to receive him, to their going
chasing and plundering disreputable among the enemy--the Duke being here
evidently a much greater personage than the King of Navarre, hereditary
Governor of Guyenne though he were. Indeed, nothing was wanting to the
confusion of Berenger’s late assailants. In the camp on the north side
of the river, things were done with some order; but that on the other
side was absolutely abandoned, and crowds were making in disorder for
the ford, leaving everything behind them, that they might not have their
retreat cut off. Would there be a battle? Falconnet, taking in with his
eye the numbers of the succouring party, thought the Duke would allow
the besiegers to depart unmolested, but remembered with a sigh that
young king had come to meddle in their affair!
However, it was needful to go down and marshal the men for the reception
of the new-comers, or to join in the fight, as the case might be.
And it was a peaceful entrance that took place some hours later, and was
watched from the windows of the prior’s rooms by Eustacie, her child,
and Philip, whom she had been able to install in her own apartments,
which had been vacated by the refugee women in haste to return home, and
where he now sat in Maitre Gardon’s great straw chair, wrapped in
his loose gown, and looking out at the northern gates, thrown open to
receive the King and Duke, old Falconnet presenting the keys to the
Duke, the Duke bowing low as he offered them to the King, and the King
waving them back to the Duke and the Captain. Then they saw Falconnet
presenting the tall auxiliary who had been so valuable to him, his
gesture as he pointed up to the window, and the King’s upward look, as
he doffed his hat and bowed low, while Eustacie responded with the
most graceful of reverences, such as reminded Philip that his little
sister-in-law and tender nurse was in truth a great court lady.
Presently Berenger came up-stairs, bringing with him his faithful
foster-brother Osbert, who, though looking gaunt and lean, had nearly
recovered his strength, and had accompanied the army in hopes of finding
his master. The good fellow was full of delight at the welcome of his
lady, and at once bestirred himself in assisting her in rectifying the
confusion in which her guests had left her apartment.
Matters had not long been set straight when steps were heard on the
stone stair, and, the door opening wide, Captain Falconnet’s gruff voice
was heard, ‘This way, Monseigneur; this way, Sire.’
This was Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont’s first reception. She was
standing at the dark walnut table, fresh starching and crimping
Berenger’s solitary ruff, while under her merry superintendence those
constant playfellows, Philip and Rayonette, were washing, or pretending
to wash, radishes in a large wooden bowl, and Berenger was endeavouring
to write his letter of good tidings, to be sent by special messenger
to his grand-father. Philip was in something very like a Geneva gown;
Eustacie wore her prim white cap and frill, and coarse black serge
kirtle; and there was but one chair besides that one which Philip was
desired to retain, only two three-legged stools and a bench.
Nevertheless, Madame de Ribaumont was equal to the occasion; nothing
could have been more courtly, graceful, or unembarrassed than her manner
of receiving of King’s gallant compliments, and of performing all the
courtesies suited to the hostess and queen of the place: it was the air
that would have befitted the stateliest castle hall, yet that in
its simplicity and brightness still more embellished the old ruinous
convent-cell. The King was delighted, he sat down upon one of the
three-legged stools, took Rayonette upon his knee, undertook to finish
washing the radishes, but ate nearly all he washed, declaring that they
put him in mind of his old hardy days on the mountains of Bearn. He
insisted on hearing all Rayonette’s adventure in detail; and on seeing
the pearls and the silver bullet, ‘You could scarcely have needed the
token, sir,’ said he with a smile to Berenger; ‘Mademoiselle had already
shown herself of the true blood of the bravest of knights.’
The tidings of the attack on Pont de Dronne had caused the Duke to make
a forced march to its relief, in which the King had insisted on joining
him; and they now intended to wait at Pont de Dronne till the rest
of the troops came up, and to continue their march through Guyenne to
Nerac, the capital of Henry’s county of Foix. The Duke suggested that
if Philip were well enough to move when the army proceeded, the family
might then take him to Quinet, where the Duchess would be very desirous
to see Madame; and therewith they took leave with some good-humoured
mirth as to whether M. le Ribaumont would join them at supper, or remain
in the bosom of his family, and whether he were to be regarded as a gay
bridegroom or a husband of sixteen year’s standing.
‘Nay,’ said the King, ‘did his good Orpheus know how nearly his Eurydice
had slipped through his fingers again? how M. de Quinet had caught the
respectable Pluto yonder in the gray moustache actually arranging an
escort to send the lady safe back to Quinet _bon gre malgre_--and truly
a deaf Pluto was worse than even Orpheus had encountered!’
So laughing, he bowed again his compliments; but Eustacie demanded, so
soon as he was gone, what he meant by calling her by such names. If he
thought it was her Christian name, it was over-familiar--if not, she
liked it less.
‘It is only that he last saw you in the Infernal Region, _ma mie_,’
said Berenger; ‘and I have sought you ever since, as Orpheus sought
Eurydice.’
But her learning did not extend so far; and when the explanation was
made, she pouted, and owned that she could not bear to be reminded of
the most foolish and uncomfortable scene in her life--the cause of all
her troubles; and as Berenger was telling her of Diane’s confession
that her being involved in the pageant was part of the plot for their
detention at Paris, Osbert knocked at the door, and entered with a
bundle in his arms, and the air of having done the right thing.
‘There, sir,’ he said with proud satisfaction, ‘I have been to the camp
across the river. I heard there were good stuffs to be had there for
nothing, and thought I would see if I could find a coat for Monsieur
Philippe, for his own is a mere ruin.’
This was true, for Eustacie had been deciding that between blood and
rents it had become a hopeless case for renovation; and Osbert joyfully
displayed a beautifully-embroidered coat of soft leather, which he had
purchased for a very small sum of a plunderer who had been there before
him. The camp had been so hastily abandoned that all the luggage
had been left, and, like a true valet, Osbert had not neglected the
opportunity of replenishing his master’s wardrobe. ‘And,’ said he, ‘I
saw there on whom M. le Baron knows,--M. de Nid de Merle.’
‘Here!’ cried Eustacie, startled for a moment, but her eyes resting
reassured on her husband.
‘Madame need not be alarmed,’ said Osbert; ‘M. le Baron has well repaid
him. Ah! ah! there he lies, a spectacle for all good Christians to
delight in.’
‘It was then he, _le scelerat_?’ exclaimed Berenger; ‘I have already
thought it possible.’
‘And he fell by your hands!’ cried Eustacie. ‘That is as it should be.’
‘Yes, Madame,’ said Osbert; ‘it did my very heart good to see him
writhing there like a crushed viper. M. le Baron’s bullet was mortal,
and his own people thought him not worth the moving, so there he lies
on the ground howling and cursing. I would have given him the _coup de
grace_ myself, but that I thought M. le Baron might have some family
matters to settle with him; so I only asked what he thought now of
clapping guiltless folk into dungeons, and shooting innocent children
like sparrows; but he grinned and cursed like a demon, and I left him.’
‘In any one’s charge?’ asked Berenger.
‘In the field’s, who is coming for him,’ said the descendant of the
Norseman. ‘I only told Humfrey that if he saw any one likely to meddle
he should tell them he was reserved for you. Eh! M. le Baron is not
going now. Supper is about to be served, and if M. le Baron would let me
array him with this ruff of Spanish point, and wax the ends of his belle
moustache---’
‘It is late,’ added Eustacie, laying her hand on his arm; ‘there may be
wild men about--he may be desperate! Oh, take care!’
‘_Ma mie_, do you not think me capable of guarding myself from a wild
cat leap of a dying man? He must not be left thus. Remember he is a
Ribaumont.’
Vindictiveness and revenge had their part in the fire of Eustacie’s
nature. Many a time had she longed to strangle Narcisse; and she was
on the point of saying, ‘Think of his attempts on that little one’s
life--think of your wounds and captivity;’ but she had not spent three
years with Isaac Gardon without learning that there was sin in giving
way to her keen hatred; and she forced herself to silence, while
Berenger said, reading her face, ‘Keep it back, sweet heart! Make it
not harder for me. I would as soon go near a dying serpent, but it were
barbarity to leave him as Osbert describes.’
Berenger was too supremely and triumphantly happy not to be full of
mercy; and as Osbert guided him to the hut where the miserable man lay,
he felt little but compassion. The scene was worse than he had expected;
for not only had the attendants fled, but plunderers had come in their
room, rent away the coverings from the bed, and torn the dying man from
it. Livid, nearly naked, covered with blood, his fingers hacked,
and ears torn for the sake of the jewels on them, lay the dainty and
effeminate tiger-fop of former days, moaning and scarcely sensible. But
when the mattress had been replaced, and Berenger had lifted him back to
it, laid a cloak over him, and moistened his lips, he opened his eyes,
but only to exclaim, ‘You there! As if I had not enough to mock me!
Away!’ and closed them sullenly.
‘I would try to relieve you, cousin,’ said Berenger.
The answer was a savage malediction on hypocrisy, and the words, ‘And my
sister?’
‘Your sister is in all honour and purity at the nunnery of Lucon.’
He laughed a horrible, incredulous laugh. ‘Safely disposed of ere you
cajoled _la petite_ with the fable of your faithfulness! Nothing like
a Huguenot for lying to both sides;’ and then ensued another burst
of imprecations on the delay that had prevented him from seizing the
fugitives--till he--till he felt as if the breath of hell were upon him,
and could not help vindicating himself, vain though he knew it to
be: ‘Narcisse de Ribaumont,’ he said gravely, ‘my word has never been
broken, and you know the keeping of it has not been without cost. On
that word believe that Madame de Selinville is as spotless a matron as
when she periled herself to save my life. I never even knew her sex till
I had drawn her half drowned from the sea, and after that I only saw her
in the presence of Dom Colombeau of Nissard, in whose care I left her.’
Narcisse’s features contorted themselves into a frightful sneer as he
muttered, ‘The intolerable fool; and that he should have got the better
of me, that is if it be true--and I believe not a word of it.’
‘At least,’ said Berenger, ‘waste not these last hours on hating and
reviling me, but let this fellow of mine, who is a very fair surgeon,
bind your wound again.’
‘Eh!’ said Narcisse, spitefully, turning his head, ‘your own rogue? Let
me see what work he made of _le baiser d’Eustacie_. Pray, how does it
please her?’
‘She thanks Heaven that your chief care was to spoil my face.’
‘I hear she is a prime doctress; but of course you brought her not
hither lest she should hear HOW you got out of our keeping.’
‘She knows it.’
‘Ah! she has been long enough at court to know one must overlook, that
one’s own little matters may be overlooked.’
Berenger burst out at last, ‘Her I will not hear blasphemed: the next
word against her I leave you to yourself.’
‘That is all I want,’ said Narcisse. ‘These cares of yours are only
_douceurs_ to your conceited heretical conscience, and a lengthening out
of this miserable affair. You would scoff at the only real service you
could render me.’
‘And that is---’
‘To fetch a priest. Ha! ha! one of your sort would sooner hang me. You
had rather see me perish body and soul in this Huguenot dog-hole! What!
do you stammer? Bring a psalm-singing heretic here, and I’ll teach him
and you what you MAY call blasphemy.’
‘A priest you shall have, cousin,’ said Berenger, gravely; ‘I will do
my utmost to bring you one. Meanwhile, strive to bring yourself into a
state in which he may benefit you.’
Berenger was resolved that the promise should be kept. He saw that
despair was hardening the wretched man’s heart, and that the possibility
of fulfilling his Church’s rites might lead him to address himself to
repentance; but the difficulties were great. Osbert, the only Catholic
at hand, was disposed to continue his vengeance beyond the grave, and
only at his master’s express command would even exercise his skill to
endeavour to preserve life till the confessor could be brought. Ordinary
Huguenots would regard the desire of Narcisse as a wicked superstition,
and Berenger could only hurry back to consult some of the gentlemen who
might be supposed more unprejudiced.
As he was crossing the quadrangle at full speed, he almost ran against
the King of Navarre, who was pacing up and down reading letters, and
who replied to his hasty apologies by saying he looked as if the fair
Eurydice had slipped through his hands again into the Inferno.
‘Not so, Sire, but there is one too near those gates. Nid de Merle is
lying at the point of death, calling for a priest.’
‘_Ventre Saint-Gris_!’ exclaimed the King, ‘he is the very demon of the
piece, who carved your face, stole your wife, and had nearly shot your
daughter.’
‘The more need of his repentance, Sire, and without a priest he will not
try to repent. I have promised him one.’
‘A bold promise!’ said Henry. ‘Have you thought how our good friends
here are likely to receive a priest of Baal into the camp?’
‘No, Sire, but my best must be done. I pray you counsel me.’
Henry laughed at the simple confidence of the request, but replied, ‘The
readiest way to obtain a priest will be to ride with a flag of truce to
the enemy’s camp--they are at St. Esme--and say that M. de Nid de Merle
is a prisoner and dying, and that I offer safe-conduct to any priest
that will come to him--though whether a red-hot Calvinist will respect
my safe-conduct or your escort is another matter.’
‘At least, Sire, you sanction my making this request?’
‘Have you men enough to take with you to guard you from marauders?’
‘I have but two servants, Sire, and I have left them with the wounded
man.’
‘Then I will send with you half a dozen Gascons, who have been long
enough at Paris with me to have no scruples.’
By the time Berenger had explained matters to his wife and brother, and
snatched a hasty meal, a party of gay, soldierly-looking fellows were in
the saddle, commanded by a bronzed sergeant who was perfectly at home
in conducting messages between contending parties. After a dark ride of
about five miles, the camp at the village of St. Esme was reached,
and this person recommended that he himself should go forward with a
trumpet, since M. de Ribaumont was liable to be claimed as an escaped
prisoner. There was then a tedious delay, but at length the soldier
returned, and another horseman with him. A priest who had come to the
camp in search of M. de Nid de Merle was willing to trust himself to the
King of Navarre’s safe-conduct.
‘Thanks, sir,’ cried Berenger; ‘this is a work of true charity.’
‘I think I know that voice,’ said the priest.
‘The priest of Nissard!’
‘Even so, sir. I was seeking M. de Nid de Merle, and had but just learnt
that he had been left behind wounded.’
‘You came to tell him of his sister?’
And as they rode together the priest related to Berenger that M. de
Solivet had remained in the same crushed, humiliated mood, not exactly
penitent, but too much disappointed and overpowered with shame to heed
what became of her provided she were not taken back to her brother or
her aunt. She knew that repentance alone was left for her, and permitted
herself to be taken to Lucon, where Mere Monique was the only person
whom she had ever respected. There had no doubt been germs of good
within her, but the crime and intrigue of the siren court of Catherine
de Medicis had choked them; and the first sense of better things had
been awakened by the frank simplicity of the young cousin, while,
nevertheless, jealousy and family tactics had led her to aid in his
destruction, only to learn through her remorse how much she loved him.
And when in his captivity she thought him in her power, but found
him beyond her reach, unhallowed as was her passion, yet still the
contemplation of the virtues of one beloved could not fail to raise her
standard. It was for his truth and purity that she had loved him, even
while striving to degrade these quantities; and when he came forth
from her ordeal unscathed, her worship of him might for a time be more
intense, but when the idol was removed, the excellence she had first
learnt to adore in him might yet lead that adoration up to the source of
all excellence. All she sought NOW was shelter wherein to weep and cower
unseen; but the priest believed that her tears would soon spring from
profound depths of penitence such as often concluded the lives of the
gay ladies of France. Mere Monique had received her tenderly, and the
good priest had gone from Lucon to announce her fate to her aunt and
brother.
At Bellaise he had found the Abbess much scandalized. She had connived
at her niece’s releasing the prisoner, for she had acquired too much
regard for him to let him perish under Narcisse’s hands, and she had
allowed Veronique to personate Diane at the funeral mass, and also
purposely detained Narcisse to prevent the detection of the escape; but
the discovery that her niece had accompanied his flight had filled her
with shame and furry.
Pursuit had been made towards La Rochelle, but when the neighbourhood
of the King of Navarre became known, no doubt was entertained that the
fugitives had joined him, and Narcisse, reserving his vengeance for the
family honour till he should encounter Berenger, had hotly resumed the
intention of pouncing on Eustacie at Pont de Dronne, which had been
decided on upon the report of the Italian spy, and only deferred by his
father’s death. This once done, Berenger’s own supposed infidelity would
have forced him to acquiesce in the annulment of the original marriage.
It had been a horrible gulf, and Berenger shuddered as one who had
barely struggled to the shore, and found his dear ones safe, and his
enemies shattered and helpless on the strand. They hurried on so as to
be in time. The priest, a brave and cautious man, who had often before
carried the rites of the Church to dying men in the midst of the enemy,
was in a secular dress, and when Berenger had given the password, and
obtained admittance they separated, and only met again to cross the
bridge. They found Osbert and Humfrey on guard, saying that the sufferer
still lingered, occasionally in a terrible paroxysm of bodily anguish,
but usually silent, except when he upbraided Osbert with his master’s
breach of promise or incapacity to bring a priest through his Huguenot
friends.
Such a taunt was on his tongue when Pere Colombeau entered, and checked
the scoff by saying, ‘See, my son, you have met with more pardon and
mercy even on earth than you had imagined possible.’
There was a strange spasm on Narcisse’s ghastly face, as though he
almost regretted the obligation forced on him, but Berenger scarcely
saw him again. It was needful for the security of the priest and the
tranquillity of the religious rites that he should keep watch outside,
lest any of the more fanatical of the Huguenots should deem it their
duty to break in on what they had worked themselves into believing
offensive idolatry.
His watch did not prove uncalled for. At different times he had to plead
the King’s safe-conduct, and his own honour, and even to defend his own
Protestantism by appealing to his wounds and services. Hearts were not
soft enough then for the cruelty of disturbing a dying man to be any
argument at all in that fierce camp; but even there the name of Pere
Colombeau met with respect. The saintly priest had protected too many
enemies for any one who had heard of him to wish him ill.
Nearly all night was Berenger thus forced to remain on guard, that the
sole hope of Narcisse’s repentance and salvation might not be swept away
by violence from without, renewing bitterness within. Not till towards
morning was he called back. The hard, lingering death struggle had spent
itself, and slow convulsive gasps showed that life was nearly gone; but
the satanic sneer had passed away, and a hand held out, a breathing like
the word ‘pardon’ seemed to be half uttered, and was answered from the
bottom of Berenger’s kind and pitying heart. Another quarter of an hour,
and Narcisse de Ribaumont Nid de Merle was dead. The priest looked pale,
exhausted, shocked, but would reveal nothing of the frame of mind he had
shown, only that if he had been touched by any saving penitence, it was
owing to his kinsman.
Berenger wished to send the corpse to rest in the family vault at
Bellaise, where the Chevalier had so lately been laid; and the priest
undertook to send persons with a flag of truce to provide for the
transport, as well as to announce the death to the sister and the aunt.
Wearied as he was, he would not accept Berenger’s earnest invitation to
come and take rest and refreshment in the prior’s rooms, but took
leave of him at the further side of the fortress, with almost reverent
blessings, as to one not far from the kingdom of heaven; and Berenger,
with infinite peacefulness in his heart, went home in the silence of the
Sunday morning, and lay sleeping away his long fatigue through the chief
part of the day, while Pastor Merlin was preaching and eloquent sermon
upon his good brother Isaac Gardon, and Eustacie shed filial tears, more
of tenderness than sorrow.