Chapter 7 The Queen's Pastoral
Either very gravely gay,
Or very gaily grave,--W. M. PRAED
Montpipeau, though in the present day a suburb of Paris, was in the
sixteenth century far enough from the city to form a sylvan
retreat, where Charles IX, could snatch a short respite from the
intrigues of his court, under pretext of enjoying his favourite
sport. Surrounded with his favoured associates of the Huguenot
party, he seemed to breathe a purer atmosphere, and to yield
himself up to enjoyment greater than perhaps his sad life had ever
known.
He rode among his gentlemen, and the brilliant cavalcade passed
through poplar-shaded roads, clattered through villages, and
threaded their way through bits of forest still left for the royal
chase. The people thronged out of their houses, and shouted not
only 'Vive le Roy,' but 'Vive l'Amiral,' and more than once the cry
was added, 'Spanish war, or civil war!' The heart of France was,
if not with the Reformed, at least against Spain and the
Lorrainers, and Sidney perceived, from the conversation of the
gentlemen round him, that the present expedition had been devised
less for the sake of the sport, than to enable the King to take
measures for emancipating himself from the thraldom of his mother,
and engaging the country in a war against Philip II. Sidney
listened, but Berenger chafed, feeling only that he was being
further carried out of reach of his explanation with his kindred.
And thus they arrived at Montpipeau, a tower, tall and narrow, like
all French designs, but expanded on the ground floor by wooden
buildings capable of containing the numerous train of a royal
hunter, and surrounded by an extent of waste land, without fine
trees, though with covert for deer, boars, and wolves sufficient
for sport to royalty and death to peasantry. Charles seemed to sit
more erect in his saddle, and to drink in joy with every breath of
the thyme-scented breeze, from the moment his horse bounded on the
hollow-sounding turf; and when he leapt to the ground, with the
elastic spring of youth, he held out his hands to Sidney and to
Teligny, crying 'Welcome, my friends. Here I am indeed a king!'
It was a lovely summer evening, early in August, and Charles bade
the supper to be spread under the elms that shaded a green lawn in
front of the chateau.
Etiquette was here so far relaxed as to
permit the sovereign to dine with his suite, and tables, chairs,
and benches were brought out, drapery festooned in the trees to
keep off sun and wind, the King lay down in the fern and let his
happy dogs fondle him, and as a hers-girl passed along a vista in
the distance, driving her goats before her, Philip Sidney marvelled
whether it was not even thus in Arcadia.
Presently there was a sound of horses trampling, wheels moving, a
party of gaily gilded archers of the guard jingled up, and in their
midst was a coach. Berenger's heart seemed to leap at once to his
lips, as a glimpse of ruffs, hats, and silks dawned on him through
the windows.
The king rose from his lair among the fern, the Admiral stood
forward, all heads were bared, and from the coach-door alighted the
young Queen; no longer pale, subdued, and indifferent, but with a
face shining with girlish delight, as she held out her hand to the
Admiral. 'Ah! This is well, this is beautiful,' she exclaimed; 'it
is like our happy chases in the Tyrol. Ah, Sire!' to the King,
'how I thank you for letting me be with you.'
After her Majesty descended her gentleman-usher. Then came the
lady-in-waiting, Madame de Sauve, the wife of the state secretary
in attendance on Charles, and a triumphant, coquettish beauty, than
a fat, good-humoured Austrian dame, always called Madame la
Comtesse, because her German name was unpronounceable, and without
whom the Queen never stirred, and lastly a little figure, rounded
yet slight, slender yet soft and plump, with a kitten-like
alertness and grace of motion, as she sprang out, collected the
Queen's properties of fan, kerchief, pouncet-box, mantle, &c., and
disappeared in to the chateau, without Berenger's being sure of
anything but that her little black hat had a rose-coloured feather
in it.
The Queen was led to a chair placed under one of the largest trees,
and there Charles presented to her such of his gentlemen as she was
not yet acquainted with, the Baron de Ribaumont among the rest.
'I have heard of M. de Ribaumont,' she said, in a tone that made
the colour mantle in his fair cheek; and with a sign of her hand
she detained him at her side till the King had strolled away with
Madame la Sauve, and no one remained near but her German countess.
Then changing her tone to one of confidence, which the high-bred
homeliness of her Austrian manner rendered inexpressibly engaging,
she said, 'I must apologize, Monsieur, for the giddiness of my
sister-in-law, which I fear caused you some embarrassment.'
'Ah, Madame,' said Berenger, kneeling on one knee as she addressed
him, and his heart bounding with wild, undefined hope, 'I cannot be
grateful enough. It was that which led to my being undeceived.'
'It was true, then, that you were mistaken?' said the Queen.
'Treacherously deceived, Madame, by those whose interest it is to
keep us apart,' said Berenger, colouring with indignation; 'they
imposed my other cousin on me as my wife, and caused her to think
me cruelly neglectful.'
'I know,' said the Queen. 'Yet Mdlle. de Ribaumont is far more
admired than my little blackbird.'
'That may be, Madame, but not by me.'
'Yet is it true that you came to break off the marriage?'
'Yes, Madame,' said Berenger, honestly, 'but I had not seen her.'
'And now?' said the Queen, smiling.
'I would rather die than give her up,' said Berenger. 'Oh, Madame,
help us of your grace. Every one is trying to part us, every one
is arguing against us, but she is my own true wedded wife, and if
you will but give her to me, all will be well.'
'I like you, M. de Ribaumont,' said the Queen, looking him full in
the face. 'You are like our own honest Germans at my home, and I
think you mean all you say. I had much rather my dear little Nid
de Merle were with you than left here, to become like all the
others. She is a good little Liegling,--how do you call it in
French? She has told me all, and truly I would help you with all my
heart, but it is not as if I were the Queen-mother. You must have
recourse to the King, who loves you well, and at my request
included you in the hunting-party.'
Berenger could only kiss her hand in token of earnest thanks before
the repast was announced, and the King came to lead her to the
table spread beneath the trees. The whole party supped together,
but Berenger could have only a distant view of his little wife,
looking very demure and grave by the side of the Admiral.
But when the meal was ended, there was a loitering in the woodland
paths, amid healthy openings or glades trimmed into discreet
wildness fit for royal rusticity; the sun set in parting glory on
one horizon, the moon rising in crimson majesty on the other. A
musician at intervals touched the guitar, and sang Spanish or
Italian airs, whose soft or quaint melody came dreamily through the
trees. Then it was that with beating heart Berenger stole up to
the maiden as she stood behind the Queen, and ventured to whisper
her name and clasp her hand.
She turned, their eyes met, and she let him lead her apart into the
wood. It was not like a lover's tryst, it was more like the
continuation of their old childish terms, only that he treated her
as a thing of his own, that he was bound to secure and to guard,
and she received him as her own lawful but tardy protector, to be
treated with perfect reliance but with a certain playful
resentment.
'You will not run away from me now,' he said, making full prize of
her hand and arm.
'Ah! is not she the dearest and best of queens?' and the large eyes
were lifted up to him in such frank seeking of sympathy that he
could see into the depths of their clear darkness.
'It is her doing then. Though, Eustacie, when I knew the truth,
not flood nor fire should keep me long from you, my heart, my love,
my wife.'
'What! wife in spite of those villainous letter?' she said, trying
to pout.
'Wife for ever, inseparably! Only you must be able to swear that
you knew nothing of the one that brought me here.'
'Poor me! No, indeed! There was Celine carried off at fourteen,
Madame de Blanchet a bride at fifteen; all marrying hither and
thither; and I--' she pulled a face irresistibly droll--'I growing
old enough to dress St. Catherine's hair, and wondering where was
M. le Baron.'
'They thought me too young,' said Berenger, 'to take on me the
cares of life.'
'So they were left to me?'
'Cares! What cares have you but finding the Queen's fan?'
'Little you know!' she said, half contemptuous, half mortified.
'Nay, pardon me, ma mie. Who has troubled you?'
'Ah! you would call it nothing to be beset by Narcisse; to be told
one's husband is faithless, till one half believes it; to be looked
at by ugly eyes; to be liable to be teased any day by Monsieur, or
worse, by that mocking ape, M. d'Alecon, and to have nobody who can
or will hinder it.'
She was sobbing by this time, and he exclaimed, 'Ah, would that I
could revenge all! Never, never shall it be again! What blessed
grace has guarded you through all?'
'Did I not belong to you?' she said exultingly. 'And had not
Sister Monique, yes, and M. le Baron, striven hard to make me good?
Ah, how kind he was!'
'My father? Yes, Eustacie, he loved you to the last. He bade me,
on his deathbed, give you his own Book of Psalms, and tell you he
had always loved and prayed for you.'
'Ah! his Psalms! I shall love them! Even at Bellaise, when first
we came there, we used to sing them, but the Mother Abbess went out
visiting, and when she came back she said they were heretical. And
Soeur Monique would not let me say the texts he taught me, but I
WOULD not forget them. I say them often in my heart.'
'Then,' he cried joyfully, 'you will willingly embrace my
religion?'
'Be a Huguenot?' she said distastefully.
'I am not precisely a Huguenot; I do not love them,' he answered
hastily; 'but all shall be made clear to you at my home in
England.'
'England!' she said. 'Must we live in England? Away from every
one?'
'Ah, they will love so much! I shall make you so happy there,' he
answered. 'There you will see what it is to be true and
trustworthy.'
'I had rather live at Chateau Leurre, or my own Nid de Merle,' she
replied. 'There I should see Soeur Monique, and my aunt, the
Abbess, and we would have the peasants to dance in the castle
court. Oh! if you could but see the orchards at Le Bocage, you
would never want to go away. And we could come now and then to see
my dear Queen.
'I am glad at least you would not live at court.'
'Oh, no, I have been more unhappy here than ever I knew could be
borne.'
And a very few words from him drew out all that had happened to her
since they parted. Her father had sent her to Bellaise, a convent
founded by the first of the Angevin branch, which was presided over
by his sister, and where Diane was also educated. The good sister
Monique had been mistress of the pensionnaires, and had evidently
taken much pains to keep her charge innocent and devout. Diane had
been taken to court about two years before, but Eustacie had
remained at the convent till some three months since, when she had
been appointed maid of honour to the recently-married Queen; and
her uncle had fetched her from Anjou, and had informed her at the
same time that her young husband had turned Englishman and heretic,
and that after a few formalities had been complied with, she would
become the wife of her cousin Narcisse. Now there was no person
whom she so much dreaded as Narcisse, and when Berenger spoke of
him as a feeble fop, she shuddered as though she knew him to have
something of the tiger.
'Do you remember Benoit?' she said; 'poor Benoit, who came to
Normandy as my laquais? When I went back to Anjou he married a
girl from Leurre, and went to aid his father at the farm. The poor
fellow had imbibed the Baron's doctrine--he spread it. It was
reported that there was a nest of Huguenots on the estate. My
cousin came to break it up with his gens d'armes O Berenger, he
would hear no entreaties, he had no mercy; he let them assemble on
Sunday, that they might be all together. He fired the house; shot
down those who escaped; if a prisoner were made, gave him up to the
Bishop's Court. Benoit, my poor good Benoit, who used to lead my
palfrey, was first wounded, then tried, and burnt--burnt in the
PLACE at Lucon! I heard Narcisse laugh--laugh as he talked of the
cries of the poor creatures in the conventicler. My own people,
who loved me! I was but twelve years old, but even then the wretch
would pay me a half-mocking courtesy, as one destined to him; and
the more I disdained him and said I belonged to you, the more both
he and my aunt, the Abbess, smiled, as though they had their bird
in a cage; but they left me in peace till my uncle brought me to
court, and then all began again: and when they said you gave me up,
I had no hope, not even of a convent. But ah, it is all over now,
and I am so happy! You are grown so gentle and so beautiful,
Berenger, and so much taller than I ever figured you to myself, and
you look as if you could take me up in your arms, and let no harm
happen to me.'
'Never, never shall it!' said Berenger, felling all manhood,
strength, and love stir within him, and growing many years in heart
in that happy moment. 'My sweet little faithful wife, never fear
again now you are mine.'
Alas! poor children. They were a good way from the security they
had begun to fancy for themselves. Early the next morning,
Berenger went in his straightforward way to the King, thanked him,
and requested his sanction for at once producing themselves to the
court as Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont.
At this Charles swore a great oath, as one in perplexity, and bade
him not go so fast.
'See here,' said he, with the rude expletives only too habitual
with him; 'she is a pretty little girl, and she and her lands are
much better with an honest man like you than with that pendard of
a cousin; but you see he is bent on having her, and he belongs to a
cut-throat crew that halt at nothing. I would not answer for your
life, if you tempted him so strongly to rid himself of you.'
'My own sword, Sire, can guard my life.'
'Plague upon your sword! What does the foolish youth think it
would do against half-a-dozen poniards and pistols in a lane black
as hell's mouth?'
The foolish young WAS thinking how could a king so full of fiery
words and strange oaths bear to make such an avowal respecting his
own capital and his own courtiers. All he could do was to bow and
reply, 'Nevertheless, Sire, at whatever risk, I cannot relinquish
my wife; I would take her at one to the Ambassador's.'
'How, sir!' interrupted Charles, haughtily and angrily, 'if you
forget that you are a French nobleman still, I should remember it!
The Ambassador may protect his own countrymen-none else.'
'I entreat your Majesty's pardon,' said Berenger, anxious to
retract his false step. 'It was your goodness and the gracious
Queen's that made me hope for your sanction.'
'All the sanction Charles de Valois can give is yours, and
welcome,' said the King, hastily. 'The sanction of the King of
France is another matter! To say the truth, I see no way out of
the affair but an elopement.'
'Sire!' exclaimed the astonished Berenger, whose strictly-
disciplined education had little prepared him for such counsel.
'Look you! if I made you known as a wedded pair, the Chevalier and
his son would not only assassinate you, but down on me would come
my brother, and my mother, and M. de Guise and all their crew,
veritably for giving the prize out of the mouth of their satellite,
but nominally for disregarding the Pope, favouring a heretical
marriage, and I know not what, but, as things go here, I should
assuredly get the worst of it; and if you made safely off with your
prize, no one could gainsay you--I need know nothing about it--and
lady and lands would be your without dispute. You might ride off
from the skirts of the forest; I would lead the hunt that way, and
the three days' riding would bring you to Normady, for you had best
cross to England immediately. When she is one there, owned by your
kindred, Monsieur le cousin may gnash his teeth as he will, he must
make the best of it for the sake of the honour of his house, and
you can safely come back and raise her people and yours to follow
the Oriflamme when it takes the field against Spain. What! you are
still discontented? Speak out! Plain speaking is a treat not often
reserved for me.'
'Sire, I am most grateful for your kindness, but I should greatly
prefer going straightforward.'
'Peste! Well is it said that a blundering Englishman goes always
right before him! There, then! As your King on the one hand, as
the friend who has brought you and your wife together, sir, it is
my command that you do not compromise me and embroil greater
matters than you can understand by publicly claiming this girl.
Privately I will aid you to the best of my ability; publicly, I
command you, for my sake, if you heed not your own, to be silent!'
Berenger sought out Sidney, who smiled at his surprise.
'Do you not see,' he said, 'that the King is your friend, and would
be very glad to save the lady's lands from the Guisards, but that
he cannot say so; he can only befriend a Huguenot by stealth.'
'I would not be such a king for worlds!'
However, Eustacie was enchanted. It was like a prince and princess
in Mere Perinne's fairy tales. Could they go like a shepherd and
shepherdess? She had no fears-no scruples. Would she not be with
her husband? It was the most charming frolic in the world. So the
King seemed to think it, though he was determined to call it all
the Queen's doing--the first intrigue of her own, making her like
all the rest of us--the Queen's little comedy. He undertook to
lead the chase as far as possible in the direction of Normandy,
when the young pair might ride on to an inn, meet fresh horses, and
proceed to Chateau Leurre, and thence to England. He would himself
provide a safe-conduct, which, as Berenger suggested, would
represent them as a young Englishman taking home his young wife.
Eustacie wanted at least to masquerade as an Englishwoman, and
played off all the fragments of the language she had caught as a
child, but Berenger only laughed at her, and said they just fitted
the French bride. It was very pretty to laugh at Eustacie; she
made such a droll pretence at pouting with her rosebud lips, and
her merry velvety eyes belied them so drolly.
Such was to be the Queen's pastoral; but when Elisabeth found the
responsibility so entirely thrown on her, she began to look grave
and frightened. It was no doubt much more than she had intended
when she brought about the meeting between the young people, and
the King, who had planned the elopement, seemed still resolved to
make all appear her affair. She looked all day more like the
grave, spiritless being she was at court than like the bright young
rural queen of the evening before, and she was long in her little
oratory chapel in the evening. Berenger, who was waiting in the
hall with the other Huguenot gentlemen, thought her devotions
interminable since they delayed all her ladies. At length,
however, a page came up to him, and said in a low voice, 'The Queen
desires the presence of M. le Baron de Ribaumont.'
He followed the messenger, and found himself in the little chapel,
before a gaily-adorned altar, and numerous little shrines and
niches round. Sidney would have dreaded a surreptitious attempt to
make him conform, but Berenger had no notion of such perils,--he
only saw that Eustacie was standing by the Queen's chair, and a
kindly-looking Austrian priest, the Queen's confessor, held a book
in his hand.
The Queen came to meet him. 'For my sake,' she said, with all her
sweetness, 'to ease my mind, I should like to see my little
Eustacie made entirely your own ere you go. Father Meinhard tells
me it is safer that, when the parties were under twelve years old,
the troth should be again exchanged. No other ceremony is needed.'
'I desire nothing but to have her made indissolubly my own,' said
Berenger, bowing.
'And the King permits,' added Elisabeth.
The King growled out, 'It is your comedy, Madame; I meddle not.'
The Austrian priest had no common language with Berenger but Latin.
He asked a few questions, and on hearing the answers, declared that
the sacrament of marriage had been complete, but that--as was often
done in such cases--he would once more hear the troth-plight of the
young pair. The brief formula was therefore at once exchanged--the
King, when the Queen looked entreatingly at him, rousing himself to
make the bride over to Berenger. As soon as the vows had been
made, in the briefest manner, the King broke in boisterously:
'There, you are twice marred, to please Madame there; but hold your
tongues all of you about this scene in the play.'
Then almost pushing Eustacie over to Berenger, he added, 'There she
is! Take your wife, sir; but mind, she was as much yours before as
she is now.'
But for all Berenger had said about 'his wife,' it was only now
that he really FELT her his own, and became husband rather than
lover-man instead of boy. She was entirely his own now, and he
only desired to be away with her; but some days' delay was
necessary. A chase on the scale of the one that was to favour
their evasion could not be got up without some notice; and,
moreover, it was necessary to procure money, for neither Sidney nor
Ribaumont had more than enough with them for the needful
liberalities to the King's servants and huntsmen. Indeed Berenger
had spent all that remained in his purse upon the wares of an
Italian pedlar whom he and Eustacie met in the woods, and whose
gloves 'as sweet as fragrant posies,' fans, scent-boxes, pocket
mirrors, Genoa wire, Venice chains, and other toys, afforded him
the mean of making up the gifts that he wished to carry home to his
sisters; and Eustacie's counsel was merrily given in the choice.
And when the vendor began with a meaning smile to recommend to the
young pair themselves a little silver-netted heart as a love-token,
and it turned out that all Berenger's money was gone, so that it
could not be bought without giving up the scented casket destined
for Lucy, Eustacie turned with her sweetest, proudest smile, and
said, 'No, no; I will not have it; what do we two want with love-
tokens now?'
Sidney had taken the youthful and romantic view of the case, and
considered himself to be taking the best possible bare of is young
friend, by enabling him to deal honourably with so charming a
little wife as Eustacie. Ambassador and tutor would doubtless be
very angry; but Sidney could judge for himself of the lady, and he
therefore threw himself into her interests, and sent his servant
back to Paris to procure the necessary sum for the journey of
Master Henry Berenger and Mistress Mary, his wife. Sidney was, on
his return alone to Paris, to explain all to the elders, and pacify
them as best he could; and his servant was already the bearer of a
letter from Berenger that was to be sent at once to England with
Walsingham's dispatches, to prepare Lord Walwyn for the arrival of
the runaways. The poor boy laboured to be impressively calm and
reasonable in his explanation of the misrepresentation, and of his
strong grounds for assuming his rights, with his persuasion that
his wife would readily join the English church--a consideration
that he knew would greatly smooth the way for her. Indeed, his own
position was impregnable: nobody could blame him for taking his own
wife to himself, and he was so sure of her charms, that he troubled
himself very little about the impression she might make on his
kindred. If they loved her, it was all right; if not, he could
take her back to his own castle, and win fame and honour under the
banner of France in the Low Countries. As the Lucy Thistlewood,
she was far too discreet to feel any disappointment or displeasure;
or if she should, it was her own fault and that of his mother, for
all her life she had known him to be married. So he finished his
letter with a message that the bells should be ready to ring, and
that when Philip heard three guns fired on the coast, he might
light the big beacon pile above the Combe.
Meantime 'the Queen's Pastoral' was much relished by all the
spectators. The state of things was only avowed to Charles,
Elisabeth, and Philip Sidney, and even the last did not know of the
renewed troth which the King chose to treat as such a secret; but
no one had any doubt of the mutual relations of M. de Ribaumont and
Mdlle. de Nid de Merle, and their dream of bliss was like a
pastoral for the special diversion of the holiday of Montpipeau.
The transparency of their indifference in company, their meeting
eyes, their trysts with the secrecy of an ostrich, were the
subjects of constant amusement to the elders, more especially as
the shyness, blushes, and caution were much more on the side of the
young husband than on that of the lady. Fresh from her convent,
simple with childishness and innocence, it was to her only the
natural completion of her life to be altogether Berenger's, and the
brief concealment of their full union added a certain romantic
enchantment, which added to her exultation in her victory over her
cruel kindred. She had been upon her own mind, poor child, for her
few weeks of court life. She had been upon her own mind, poor
child, for her few weeks of court life, but not long enough to make
her grow older, though just so long as to make the sense of her
having her own protector with her doubly precious. He, on the
other hand, though full of happiness, did also feel constantly
deepening on him the sense of the charge and responsibility he had
assumed, hardly knowing how. The more dear Eustacie became to him,
the more she rested on him and became entirely his, the more his
boyhood and INSOUCIANCE drifted away behind him; and while he could
hardly bear to heave his darling a moment out of his sight, the
less he could endure any remark or jest upon his affection for her.
His home had been a refined one, where Cecile's convent purity
seemed to diffuse an atmosphere of modest reserve such as did not
prevail in the court of the Maiden Queen herself, and the lad of
eighteen had not seem enough of the outer world to have rubbed off
any of that grace. His seniority to his little wife seemed to show
itself chiefly in his being put out of countenance for her, when
she was too innocent and too proud of her secret matronhood to
understand or resent the wit.
Little did he know that this was the ballet-like interlude in a
great and terrible tragedy, whose first act was being played out on
the stage where they schemed and sported, like their own little
drama, which was all the world to them, and noting to the others.
Berenger knew indeed that the Admiral was greatly rejoiced that the
Nid de Merle estates should go into Protestant hands, and that the
old gentleman lost no opportunity of impressing on him that they
were a heavy trust, to be used for the benefit of 'the Religion,'
and for the support of the King in his better mind. But it may be
feared that he did not give a very attentive ear to all this. He
did not like to think of those estates; he would gladly have left
them all the Narcisse, so that he might have their lady, and though
quite willing to win his spurs under Charles and Coligny against
the Spaniard, his heart and head were far too full to take in the
web of politics. Sooth to say, the elopement in prospect seemed to
him infinitely more important than Pope or Spaniard, Guise or
Huguenot, and Coligny observed with a sigh to Teligny that he was a
good boy, but nothing but the merest boy, with eyes open only to
himself.
When Charles undertook to rehearse their escape with them, and the
Queen drove out in a little high-wheeled litter with Mne. la
Comtesse, while Mme. De Sauve and Eustacie were mounted on gay
palfreys with the pommelled side-saddle lately invented by the
Queen-mother, Berenger, as he watched the fearless horsemanship and
graceful bearing of his newly-won wife, had no speculations to
spend on the thoughtful face of the Admiral. And when at the
outskirts of the wood the King's bewildering hunting-horn--sounding
as it were now here, now there, now low, now high--called every
attendant to hasten to its summons, leaving the young squire and
damsel errant with a long winding high-banked lane before them,
they reckoned the dispersion to be all for their sakes, and did not
note, as did Sidney's clear eye, that when the entire company had
come straggling him, it was the King who came up with Mme. De Sauve
almost the last; and a short space after, as if not to appear to
have been with him, appeared the Admiral and his son-in-law.
Sidney also missed one of the Admiral's most trusted attendants,
and from this and other symptoms he formed his conclusions that the
King had scattered his followers as much for the sake of an
unobserved conference with Coligny as for the convenience of the
lovers, and that letters had been dispatched in consequence of that
meeting.
Those letters were indeed of a kind to change the face of affairs
in France. Marshal Strozzi, then commanding in the south-west, was
bidden to embark at La Rochelle in the last week of August, to
hasten to the succour of the Prince of Orange against Spain, and
letters were dispatched by Coligny to all the Huguenot partisans
bidding them assemble at Melun on the third of September, when they
would be in the immediate neighbourhood of the court, which was
bound for Fontainebleau. Was the star of the Guises indeed waning?
Was Charles about to escape from their hands, and commit himself to
an honest, high-minded policy, in which he might have been able to
purify his national Church, and wind back to her those whom her
corruptions had driven to seek truth and morality beyond her pale?
Alas! there was a bright pair of eyes that saw more than Philip
Sidney's, a pair of ears that heard more, a tongue and pen less
faithful to guard a secret.