Speats and raxes, speats and raxes, speat and raxes
Lord Somerville’s billet
Never wont to let the grass grow under his feet, Henry of Navarre was
impatient of awaiting his troops at Pont de Dronne, and proposed
to hasten on to Quinet, as a convenient centre for collecting the
neighbouring gentry for conference. Thus, early on Monday, a party of
about thirty set forth on horseback, including the Ribaumonts, Rayonette
being perched by turns in front of her father or mother, and the Duke de
Quinet declaring that he should do his best to divide the journey into
stages not too long for Philip, since he was anxious to give his mother
plenty of time to make preparations for her royal guest.
He had, however, little reckoned on the young King’s promptitude. The
first courier he had dispatched was overtaken at a _cabaret_ only five
leagues from Pont de Dronne, baiting his horse, as he said; the second
was found on the road with a lame horse; and the halt a day’s journey
remained beyond it. The last stage had been ridden, much to the Duke’s
discontent, for it brought them to a mere village inn, with scarcely any
accommodation. The only tolerable bed was resigned by the King to the
use of Philip, whose looks spoke the exhaustion of which his tongue
scorned to complain. So painful and feverish a night ensued that
Eustacie was anxious that he should not move until the Duke should,
as he promised, send a mule litter back for him; but this proposal he
resented; and in the height of his constitutional obstinacy, appeared
booted and spurred at the first signal to mount.
Nor could Eustacie, as she soon perceived, annoy him more than by
showing her solicitude for him, or attracting to him the notice of the
other cavaliers. As the only lady of the party, she received a great
deal of attention, with some of which she would gladly have dispensed.
Whether it were the King’s habit of calling her ‘_la Belle Eurydice_,’ or
because, as she said, he was ‘_si laid_’ and reminded her of old unhappy
days of constraint, she did not like him, and had almost displeased her
husband and his brother by saying so. She would gladly have avoided the
gallantries of this day’s ride by remaining with Philip at the inn; but
not only was this impossible, but the peculiar ill-temper of concealed
suffering made Philip drive her off whenever she approached him with
inquiries; so that she was forced to leave him to his brother and
Osbert, and ride forward between the King and the Duke, the last of whom
she really liked.
Welcome was the sight of the grand old chateau, its mighty wings of
chestnut forest stretching up the hills on either side, and the
stately avenue extending before it; but just then the last courier was
discovered, reeling in his saddle under the effects of repeated toasts
in honour of Navarre and Quinet.
‘We are fairly sped,’ said the Duke to Eustacie, shrugging his shoulders
between amusement and dismay.
‘Madame la Duchesse is equal to any _galimafre_,’ said Eustacie,
demurely; at which the Duke laughed heartily, saying, ‘It is not for the
family credit I fear, but for my own!’
‘Nay, triumph makes everything be forgiven.’
‘But not forgotten,’ laughed the Duke. ‘But, _allons_. Now for the
onset. We are already seen. The forces muster at the gateway.’
By the time the cavalcade were at the great paved archway into the
court, the Duchess stood at the great door, a grandson on either side,
and a great burly fresh-coloured gentleman behind her.
M. de Quinet was off his horse in a second, his head bare, his hand on
the royal rein, and signing to his eldest son to hold the stirrup; but,
before the boy had comprehended, Henry had sprung down, and was kissing
the old lady’s hand, saying, ‘Pardon, Madame! I trust to your goodness
for excusing this surprise from an old friend’s son.’
Neither seeing nor caring for king or prince, the stranger gentleman at
the same moment pounced upon Eustacie and her little girl, crying aloud
in English, ‘Here she is! My dear, I am glad to see you. Give her to
me, poor Berenger’s little darling. Ah! she does not understand. Where’s
Merrycourt?’
Just then there was another English exclamation, ‘My father! Father!
dear father!’ and Philip, flinging himself from the saddle, fell almost
prone on that broad breast, sobbing convulsively, while the eyes that,
as he truly boasted, had never wasted a tear on his enemies, were
streaming so fast that his father’s welcome savoured of reproof: ‘What’s
all this? Before these French too.’
‘Take care, father,’ cried Berenger, leaping from his horse; ‘he has an
ugly wound just where you are holding him.’
‘Wounded! my poor boy. Look up.’
‘Where is your room, sir?’ said Berenger, seeing his hosts entirely
occupied with the King; and at once lifting the almost helpless Philip
like a little child in his strong arms, he followed Sir Marmaduke, who,
as if walking in his sleep, led the way up the great stone staircase
that led outside the house to the upper chambers.
After a short interval, the Duchess, in the plenitude of her glory at
entertaining her dear Queen’s son, came up _en grande tenue_, leading
the King by the hand, the Duke walking backwards in front, and his two
sons each holding a big wax candle on either side.
‘Here, Sire, is the chamber where the excellent Queen did me the honour
to repose herself.’
The Duke swung open the door of the state bed-chamber. There on the
velvet-hung bed sat _le gros Chevalier Anglais_, whom she had herself
installed there on Saturday. Both his hands were held fast in those of
a youth who lay beside him, deadly pale, and half undressed, with the
little Ribaumont attending to a wound in his side, while her child was
held in the arms of a very tall, bald-headed young man, who stood at
the foot of the bed. The whole group of interlopers looked perfectly
glorified with happiness and delight. Even the wounded youth, ghastly
and suffering as he was, lay stroking the big Englishman’s hand with
a languid, caressing air of content, almost like that of a dog who
has found his master. None of them were the least embarrassed, they
evidently thought this a visit of inquiry after the patient; and while
the Duchess stood confounded, and the Duke much inclined to laugh,
Eustacie turned eagerly, exclaiming, ‘Ah! Madame, I am glad you are
come. May I beg Mademoiselle Perrot for some of your cooling mallow
salve. Riding has sadly inflamed the wound.’
‘Riding--with such a wound! Are we all crazed?’ said Madame la Duchesse,
absolutely bewildered out of her dignified equanimity: and her son,
seeing her for once at a loss, came to her rescue. ‘His Grace will
condescend to the Andromeda Chamber, Madame. He kindly gave up his bed
to our young friend last night, when there was less choice than you can
give him.’
They all moved off again; and, before Eustacie was ready for the
mallows, Madame de Quinet, for whom the very name of a wound had
an attraction, returned with two hand-maidens bearing bandages and
medicaments, having by this time come to the perception that the wounded
youth was the son of the big Englishman who had arrived with young
Mericour in search of her little _protegee_, and that the tall man was
the husband so long supposed to be dead. She was curious to see her
pupil’s surgery, of which she highly approved, though she had no words
to express her indignation at the folly of traveling so soon. Indeed,
nothing but the passiveness of fatigue could have made her despotism
endurable to Philip; but he cared for nothing so long as he could see
his father’s face, and hear his voice--the full tones that his ear had
yearned for among the sharp expression of the French accent--and Sir
Marmaduke seemed to find the same perfect satisfaction in the sight of
him; indeed, all were so rejoiced to be together, that they scarcely
exerted themselves to ask questions. When Berenger would have made some
explanation, Sir Marmaduke only said, ‘Tell me not yet, my dear boy. I
see it is all right, and my head will hold no more yet but that I have
you and the lad again! Thank God for it! Never mind how.’
When, however, with some difficulty they got him away from Philip’s
bedside down to supper, the King came and made him high compliments upon
the distinguished bravery of his sons, and Mericour interpreted, till
Sir Marmaduke--though answering that of course the lads must do their
duty, and he was only glad to hear they had done it--became more and
more radiant and proud, as he began to gather what their trials and what
their steadfastness and courage had been. His goodly face, beaming with
honest gladness, was, as Henry told the Duchess, an absolute ornament to
her table.
Unable, however, to converse with any one but Berenger and Mericour, and
pining all the time to get back to his son, the lengthy and ceremonious
meal was a weary penance to him; and so soon as his release was
possible, he made his way up-stairs again, where he found Philip much
refreshed by a long sleep, and only afraid that he should find the sight
of his father merely a dream; then, when satisfied on that head, eager
to hear of all at home--‘the sisters, the dogs, my mother, and my little
brother?’ as he arranged his inquiry.
‘Ha! you heard of that, did you?’
‘Yes,’ said Philip, ‘the villains gave us letters once--only once--and
those what they thought would sting us most. O father, how could you all
think such foul shame of Berry?’
‘Don’t speak of it, Phil; I never did, nor Aunt Cecily, not for a
moment; but my Lord is not the man he was, and those foes of yours must
have set abroad vile reports for the very purpose of deceiving us. And
then this child must needs be born, poor little rogue. I shall be able
to take to him now all is right again; but by St. George, they have
tormented me so about him, and wanted me to take him as a providence
to join the estates together, instead of you and Berry, that I never
thought to care so little for a child of my own.’
‘We drank his health at Nid de Merle, and were not a little comforted
that you would have him in our place.’
‘I’d rather--Well, it skills not talking of it, but it just shows the
way of women. After all the outcry Dame Annora had made about her poor
son, and no one loving him or heeding his interest save herself, no
sooner was this little fellow born than she had no thought for any but
he, and would fain have had her father settle all his lands on him,
protesting that if Berry lived, his French lands were enough for him.
Out of sight, out of mind, is the way with women.’
Womanhood was already made accountable for all Lady Thistlewood’s
follies, and Philip acquiesced, asking further, ‘Nay, but how came you
hither, father? Was it to seek us or Eustacie?’
‘Both, both, my lad. One morning just after Christmas, I rid over to
Combe with my dame behind me, and found the house in commotion with a
letter that young Sidney, Berry’s friend, had just sent down by special
messenger. It had been writ more than a year, but, bless you, these poor
foreigners have such crooked ears and tongues that they don’t know what
to make of a plain man’s name, and the only wonder was that it ever came
at all. It seems the Duke here had to get it sent over by some of the
secret agents the French Protestants have in England, and what do they
do but send it to one of the Vivians in Cornwall; and it was handed
about among them for how long I cannot say, till there was a chance of
sending it up to my Lord of Warwick; and he, being able to make nothing
if it, shows it to his nephew, Philip Sidney, who, perceiving at once
whom it concerned, sends it straight to my Lord, with a handsome letter
hoping that it brought good tidings. There then it was, and so we first
knew that the poor lady had not been lost in the sack of the town, as
Master Hobbs told us. She told us how this Duchess had taken her under
her protection, but that her enemies were seeking her, and had even
attempted her child’s life.’
‘The ruffians! Even so.’
‘And she said her old pastor was failing in health, and prayed that some
trusty person might be sent to bring home at least the child to safety
with her kindred. There was a letter to the same effect, praising her
highly too, from the Duchess, saying that she would do her best to guard
her, but the kinsmen had the law on their side, and she would be safer
in England. Well, this was fair good news, save that we marveled the
more how you and Berry should have missed her; but the matter now was
who was the trusty person who should go. Claude Merrycourt was ready---’
‘How came he there?’ demanded Philip. ‘I thought he had gone, or been
sent off with Lady Burnet’s sons.’
‘Why, so he had; but there’s more to say on that score. He was so much
in favour at Combe, that my Lord would not be denied his spending the
holiday times there; and, besides, last summer we had a mighty coil.
The Horners of Mells made me a rare good offer for Lucy for their eldest
son, chiefly because they wanted a wife for him of my Lady Walwyn’s and
Mistress Cecily’s breeding; and my wife was all for accepting it,
having by that time given up all hope of poor Berry. But I would have no
commands laid on my girl, seeing that I had pledged my word not to cross
her in the matter, and she hung about my neck and prayed me so meekly to
leave her unwedded, that I must have been made of stone not to yield to
her. So I told Mr. Horner that his son Jack must wait for little Nancy
if he wanted a daughter of mine--and the stripling is young enough. I
believe he will. But women’s tongues are not easy to stop, and Lucy
was worn so thin, and had tears in her eyes--that she thought I never
marked--whenever she was fretted or flouted, and at last I took her back
to stay at Combe for Aunt Cecily to cheer up a bit; and--well, well, to
get rid of the matter and silence Dame Nan, I consented to a betrothal
between her and Merrycourt--since she vowed she would rather wait
single for him than wed any one else. He is a good youth, and is working
himself to a shadow between studying and teaching; but as to sending
him alone to bring Berry’s wife back, he was over-young for that. No one
could do that fitly save myself, and I only wish I had gone three years
ago, to keep you two foolish lads out of harm’s way. But they set up
an unheard-of hubbub, and made sure I should lose myself. What are you
laughing at, you Jacksauce?’
‘To think of you starting, father, with not a word of French, and never
from home further than once to London.’
‘Ah! you thought to come the traveled gentleman over me, but I’ve been
even with you. I made Dame Nan teach me a few words, but I never could
remember anything but that “mercy” is “thank ye”. However, Merrycourt
offered to come with me, and my Lord wished it. Moreover, I thought he
might aid in tracing you out. So I saw my Lord alone, and he passed his
word to me that, come what would, no one should persuade him to alter
his will to do wrong to Berenger’s daughter; and so soon as Master Hobbs
could get the THROSTLE unladen, and fitted out again, we sailed for
Bordeau, and there he is waiting for us, while Clause and I bought
horses and hired a guide, and made our way here on Saturday, where we
were very welcome; and the Duchess said she would but wait till she
could learn there were no bands of the enemy at hand, to go down with me
herself to the place where she had sent the lady. A right worthy dame is
this same Duchess, and a stately; and that young King, as they call him,
seems hard to please, for he told Berry that his wife’s courtliness and
ease in his reception were far above aught that he found here. What
he means is past a plain man, for as to Berry’s wife she is handy, and
notable enough, and ‘tis well he loves her so well; but what a little
brown thing it is, for a man to have gone through such risks for.
Nothing to look at beside his mother!’
‘If you could only see Madame de Selinville!’ sighed Philip; then--‘Ah!
sir, you would know the worth of Eustacie had you seen her in yonder
town.’
‘Very like!’ said Sir Marmaduke; ‘but after all our fears at home of a
fine court madam, it takes one aback to see a little homely brown thing,
clad like a serving wench. Well, Dame Nan will not be displeased, she
always said the girl would grow up no beauty, and ‘tis the way of
women to brook none fairer than themselves! Better so. She is a good
Protestant, and has done rarely by you, Phil.’
‘Truly, I might be glad ‘twas no court madam that stood by me when Berry
was called back to the fight: and for the little one, ‘tis the loveliest
and bravest little maid I ever saw. Have they told you of the marigolds,
father?’
‘Why, the King told the whole to the Duchess, so Berry said, and then
drank the health of the daughter of the bravest of knights; and Berry
held her up in his arms to bow again, and drink to them from his glass.
Berry looked a proud man, I can tell you, and a comely, spite of his
baldness; and ‘tis worth having come here to see how much you lads are
thought of--though to be sure ‘tis not often the poor creatures here see
so much of an Englishman as we have made of Berry.’
Philip could not but laugh. ‘’Tis scarce for that that they value him,
sir.’
‘Say you so? Nay, methinks his English heart and yours did them good
service. Indeed, the King himself told me as much by the mouth of
Merrycourt. May that youngster’s head only not be turned! Why, they set
him at table above Berenger, and above half the King’s gentlemen. Even
the Duchess makes as if he were one of her highest guests--he a poor
Oxford scholar, doubting if he can get his bread by the law, and flouted
as though he were not good enough for my daughter. ‘Tis the world
topsy turvy, sure enough! And that this true love that Berenger has run
through fire and water after, like a knight in a pedlar’s run through
turn out a mere little, brown, common-looking woman after all, not one
whit equal to Lucy!’
Sir Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that night, when he
had talked Philip into a state of feverishness and suffering that became
worse under Madame de Quinet’s reproofs and remedies, and only yielded
to Eustacie’s long and patient soothing. He then could almost have owned
that it was well she was not like his own cherished type of womanhood,
and the next day he changed his opinion still more, even as to her
appearance.
There was a great gathering of favourers of the Huguenot cause on that
day; gentlemen came from all parts to consult with Henry of Navarre, and
Madame de Quinet had too much sense of the fitness of things to allow
Madame de Ribaumont to appear at the ensuing banquet in her shabby,
rusty black serge, and tight white borderless cap. The whole wardrobe of
the poor young Duchess de Quinet was placed at her service, and though,
with the thought of her adopted father on her heart, she refused gay
colours, yet when, her toilette complete, she said into Philip’s room,
he almost sprang up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and ceremoniously
bowed as to a stranger, and was only undeceived when little Rayonette
ran joyously to Philip, asking if _Manan_ was not _si belle, si belle_.
The effects of her unrestful nights has now passed away, and left her
magnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and arch fire; the blooming
glow was restored to her cheek; and though neck, brow, and hands were
browner than in the shelter of convent or palace, she was far more near
absolute beauty than in former days, both from countenance and from
age. Her little proud head was clustered with glossy locks of jet, still
short, but curling round her brow and neck, whose warm brunette tints
contrasted well with the delicate, stiffened cobweb of her exquisite
standing ruff, which was gathered into a white satin bodice, with a
skirt of the same material, over which swept a rich black brocade train
open in front, with an open body and half-sleeves with falling lace, and
the hands, delicate and shapely as ever, if indeed a little tanned, held
fan and handkerchief with as much courtly grace as though they had never
stirred broth nor wrung out linen. Sir Marmaduke really feared he had
the court madam on his hands after all, but he forgot all about his
fears, as she stood laughing and talking, and by her pretty airs and
gestures, smiles and signs, making him enter into her mirth with Philip,
almost as well as if she had not spoken French.
Even Berenger started, when he came up after the counsel to fetch her
to the banqueting-hall. She was more entirely the Eustacie of the Louvre
than he had ever realized seeing her, and yet so much more; and when the
Duchess beheld the sensation she produced among the _noblesse_, it was
with self-congratulation in having kept her in retirement while it
was still not known that she was not a widow. The King of Navarre had
already found her the only lady present possessed of the peculiar aroma
of high-breeding which belonged to the society in which both he and she
had been most at home, and his attentions were more than she liked from
one whose epithet of Eurydice she had never quite forgiven; at least,
that was the only reason she could assign for her distaste, but the
Duchess understood her better than did Berenger, nay, better than she
did herself, and kept her under the maternal wings of double form and
ceremony.
Berenger, meanwhile, was in great favour. A command had been offered him
by the King of Navarre, who had promised that if he would cast in his
lot with the Huguenots, his claims on all the lands of Ribaumont should
be enforced on the King of France when terms were wrung from him, and
Narcisse’s death removed all valid obstacle to their recognition; but
Berenger felt himself bound by all home duties to return to England, nor
had he clear convictions as to the absolute right of the war in which
he had almost unconsciously drawn his sword. Under the Tudors the divine
right of kings was strongly believed in, and it was with many genuine
misgivings that the cause of Protestant revolt was favoured by Elisabeth
and her ministers; and Berenger, bred up in a strong sense of loyalty,
as well as in doctrines that, as he had received them, savoured as
little of Calvinism as of Romanism, was not ready to espouse the
Huguenot cause with all his heart; and as he could by no means have
fought on the side of King Henry III. or of the Guises, felt thankful
that the knot could be cut by renouncing France altogether, according
to the arrangement which had been defeated by the Chevalier’s own
supper-subtle machinations.
At the conference of gentlemen held at Quinet, he had been startled by
hearing the name of the Sieur de Bellaise, and had identified him with
a grave, thin, noble-looking man, with an air of high-bred and patient
poverty. He was a Catholic but no Guisard, and supported the middle
policy of the Montmorency party, so far as he possessed any influence;
but his was only the weight of personal character, for he had merely a
small property that had descended to him through his grandmother, the
wife of the unfortunate Bellaise who had pined to death in the dungeon
at Loches, under Louis XI. Here, then, Berenger saw the right means of
riding himself and his family of the burthen that his father had mourned
over, and it only remained to convince Eustacie. Her first feeling when
she heard of the King’s offer, was that at last her ardent wish would
be gratified, she should see her husband at the head of her vassals,
and hear the war-cry motto ‘_A moi Ribaumont_.’ Then came the old
representation that the Vendeen peasants were faithful Catholics who
could hardly be asked to fight on the Calvinist side. The old spirit
rose in a flush, a pout, a half-uttered query why those creatures should
be allowed their opinions. Madame la Baronne was resuming her haughty
temperament in the _noblesse_ atmosphere; but in the midst came the
remembrance of having made that very speech in her Temple ruin--of the
grave sad look of rebuke and shake of the head with which the good old
minister had received it--and how she had sulked at him till forced to
throw herself on him to hinder her separation from her child. She burst
into tears, and as Berenger, in some distress, began to assure her that
he would and could do nothing without her consent, she struggled to
recover voice to say, ‘No! no! I only grieve that I am still as wicked
as ever, after these three years with that saint, my dear father. Do as
you will, only pardon me, the little fierce one!’
And then, when she was made to perceive that her husband would have to
fight alone, and could not take her with him to share his triumphs or
bind his wounds, at least not except by bringing her in contact with
Henry of Navarre and that atmosphere of the old court, she acquiesced
the more readily. She was a woman who could feel but not reason; and,
though she loved Nid de Merle, and had been proud of it, Berenger’s
description of the ill-used Sieur de Bellaise had the more effect on
her, because she well remembered the traditions whispered among the
peasants with whom her childhood had been passed, that the village
crones declared nothing had gone well with the place since the Bellaise
had been expelled, with a piteous tale of the broken-hearted lady, that
she had never till now understood.
For the flagrant injustice perpetrated on her uncle and cousin in the
settlement on Berenger and herself she cared little, thinking they had
pretty well repaid themselves, and not entering into Berenger’s deeper
view, that this injustice was the more to be deplored as the occasion of
their guilt; but she had no doubt or question as to the grand stroke
of yielding up her claims on the estate to the Sieur de Bellaise. The
generosity of the deed struck her imagination, and if Berenger would
not lead her vassals to battle, she did not want them. There was no
difficulty with Sir Marmaduke; he only vowed that he liked Berenger’s
wife all the better for being free of so many yards of French dirt
tacked to her petticoat, and Philip hated the remembrance of those red
sugar-loaf pinnacles far too much not to wish his brother to be rid of
them.
M. de Bellaise, when once he understood that restitution was intended,
astonished Sir Marmaduke by launching himself on Berenger’s neck with
tears of joy; and Henry of Navarre, though sorry to lose such a partisan
as the young Baron, allowed that the Bellaise claims, being those of a
Catholic, might serve to keep out some far more dangerous person whom
the court party might select in opposition to an outlaw and a Protestant
like M. de Ribaumont.
‘So you leave us,’ he said in private to Berenger, to whom he had taken
a great liking. ‘I cannot blame you for not casting your lot into such
a witch’s caldron as this poor country. My friends think I dallied at
court like Rinaldo in Armida’s garden. They do not understand that when
one hears the name of Bourbon one does not willingly make war with the
Crown, still less that the good Calvin left a doctrine bitter to the
taste and tough of digestion. Maybe, since I have been forced to add my
spoon to stir the caldron, it may clear itself; if so, you will remember
that you have rights in Normandy and Picardy.’
This was the royal farewell. Henry and his suite departed the next
morning, but the Duchess insisted on retaining her other guests till
Philip’s cure should be complete. Meantime, Claude de Mericour had
written to his brother and arranged a meeting with him. He was now no
boy who could be coerced, but a staid, self-reliant, scholarly person,
with a sword by his side and an English passport to secure him, and his
brother did not regard him as quite the disgrace to his family he had at
first deemed him. He was at least no rebel; and though the law seemed to
French eyes infinitely beneath the dignity of a scion of nobility, still
it was something not to have him a heretic preacher, and to be able
at least to speak of him as betrothed to the sister of the Baron de
Ribaumont. Moreover, that Huguenot kinsman, whose extreme Calvinist
opinions had so nearly revolted Mericour, had died and left him all his
means, as the only Protestant in the family; and the amount, when Claude
arranged matters with his brother, proved to be sufficient to bear him
through his expenses handsomely as a student, with the hope of marriage
so soon as he should have kept his terms at the Temple.
And thus the good ship THROSTLE bore home the whole happy party to
Weymouth, and good Sir Marmaduke had an unceasing cause for exultation
in the brilliant success of his mission to France.
After all, the first to revisit that country was no other than the
once homesick Philip. He wearied of inaction, and thought his county
neighbours ineffably dull and lubberly, while they blamed him for being
a fine, Frenchified gentleman, even while finding no fault with their
old friend Berenger, or that notable little, lively, housewifely lady
his wife, whose broken English and bright simplicity charmed every one.
Sorely Philip needed something to do; he might have been a gentleman
pensioner, but he had no notion, he said, of loitering after a lady to
boat and hunt, when such a king as Henry of Navarre was in the field;
and he agreed with Eustacie in her estimate of the court, that it was
horribly dull, and wanting in all the sparkle and brilliancy that even
he had perceived at Paris.
Eustacie gladly retreated to housewifery at Combe Walwyn, but a
strenuous endeavour on Lady Thistlewood’s part to marry her stepson to a
Dorset king’s daughter, together with the tidings of the renewed war in
France, spurred Philip into writing permission from his father to join
the King of Navarre as a volunteer.
Years went by, and Philip was only heard of in occasional letters,
accompanied by presents to his sisters and to little Rayonette, and
telling of marches, exploits, and battles,--how he had taken a standard
of the League at Coutras, and how he had led a charge of pikemen at
Ivry, for which he received the thanks of Henry IV. But, though so near
home, he did not set foot on English ground till the throne of France
was secured to the hero of Navarre, and he had marched into Paris in
guise very unlike the manner he had left it.
Then home he came, a bronzed gallant-looking warrior, the pride of the
county, ready for repose and for aid to his father in his hearty
old age, and bearing with him a pressing invitation from the King
to Monsieur and Madame de Ribaumont to resume their rank at court.
Berenger, who had for many years only known himself as Lord Walwyn,
shook his head. ‘I thank the King,’ he said, ‘but I am better content
to breed up my children as wholly English. He bade me to return when he
should have stirred the witch’s caldron into clearness. Alas! all he
has done is to make brilliant colours shine on the vapour thereof. Nay,
Phil; I know your ardent love for him, and marvel not at it. Before he
joined the Catholic Church I trusted that he might have given truth to
the one party, and unity to the other; but when the clergy accepted him
with all his private vices, and he surrendered unconditionally, I lost
hope. I fear there is worse in store. Queen Catherine did her most fatal
work of evil when she corrupted Henry of Navarre.’
‘If you say more, Berry, I shall be ready to challenge you!’ said
Philip. ‘When you saw him, you little knew the true king of souls that
he is, is greatness, or his love for his country.’
‘Nay, I believe it; but tell me, Philip, did you not hint that you had
been among former friends--at Lucon, you said, I think?’
Philip’s face changed. ‘Yes; it was for that I wished to see you alone.
My troop had to occupy the place. I had to visit the convent to arrange
for quartering my men so as least to scandalize the sisters. The Abbess
came to speak to me. I knew her only by her eyes! She is changed--aged,
wan, thin with their discipline and fasts--but she once or twice
smiled as she alone in old times could smile. The place rings with her
devotion, her charity, her penances, and truly her face is’--he could
hardly speak--‘like that of a saint. She knew me at once, asked for
you all, and bade me tell you that NOW she prays for you and yours
continually, and blesses you for having opened to her the way of peace.
Ah! Berry, I always told you she had not her equal.’
‘Think you so even now?’
‘How should I not, when I have seen what repentance has made of her?’
‘So!’ said Berenger, rather sorrowfully, ‘our great Protestant champion
has still left his heart behind in a French convent.’
‘Stay, Berenger! do you remember yonder villain conjurer’s prediction
that I should wed none but a lady whose cognizance was the leopard?’
‘And you seem bent on accomplishing it,’ said Berenger.
‘Nay, but in another manner--that which you devised on the spur of
the moment. Berenger, I knew the sorcerer spake sooth when that little
moonbeam child of yours brought me the flowers from the rampart. I had
speech with her last night. She has all the fair loveliness that belongs
of right to your mother’s grandchild, but her eye, blue as it is, has
the Ribaumont spirit; the turn of the head and the smile are what I
loved long ago in yonder lady, and, above all, she is her own sweet
self. Berenger, give me your daughter Berangere, and I ask no portion
with her but the silver bullet. Keep the pearls for your son’s heirloom;
all I ask with Rayonette is the silver bullet.’
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Chaplet of Pearls, by Charlotte M. Yonge