But never more the same two sister pearls
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other.--Tennyson
Berenger was obliged to crave permission from the King to spend
some hours in riding with Osbert to the first hostel on their way,
to make arrangements for the relay of horses that was to meet them
there, and for the reception of Veronique, Eustacie's maid, who was
to be sent off very early in the morning on a pillion behind
Osbert, taking with her the articles of dress that would be wanted
to change her mistress from the huntress maid of honour to the
English dame.
It was not long after he had been gone that a sound of wheels and
trampling horses was heard in one of the forest drives. Charles,
who was amusing himself with shooting at a mark together with
Sidney and Teligny, handed his weapon to an attendant, and came up
with looks of restless anxiety to his Queen, who was placed in her
chair under the tree, with the Admiral and her ladies round her, as
judges of the prize.
'Here is le brouillon,' he muttered. 'I thought we had been left
in peace too long.'
Elisabeth, who Brantome says was water, while her husband was fire,
tried to murmur some hopeful suggestion; and poor little Eustacie,
clasping her hands, could scarcely refrain from uttering the cry,
'Oh, it is my uncle! Do not let him take me!'
The next minute there appeared four horses greatly heated and
jaded, drawing one of the court coaches; and as it stopped at the
castle gate, two ladies became visible within it--the portly form
of Queen Catherine, and on the back seat the graceful figure of
Diane de Ribaumont.
Charles swore a great oath under his breath. He made a step
forward, but then his glance falling on Eustacie's face, which had
flushed to the rosiest hue of the carnation, he put his finger upon
his lip with a menacing air, and then advanced to greet his mother,
followed by his gentlemen.
'Fear not, my dear child,' said the young Queen, taking Eustacie's
arm as she rose for the same purpose. 'Obey the King, and he will
take care that all goes well.'
The gentle Elisabeth was, however, the least regarded member of the
royal family. Her mother-in-law had not even waited to greet her,
but had hurried the King into his cabinet, with a precipitation
that made the young Queen's tender heart conclude that some
dreadful disaster had occurred, and before Mademoiselle de
Ribaumont had had time to make her reverence, she exclaimed,
breathlessly, 'Oh, is it ill news? Not from Vienna?'
'No, no, Madame; reassure yourself,' replied Diane; 'it is merely
that her Majesty, being on the way to Monceaux with Mesdames,
turned out of her road to make a flying visit to your graces, and
endeavour to persuade you to make her party complete.'
Elisabeth looked as if questioning with herself if this would
possibly be the whole explanation. Monceaux was a castle belonging
to the Queen Dowager at no great distance from Montpipeau, but
there had been no intention of leaving Paris before the wedding,
which was fixed for the seventeenth of August, and the bridegroom
was daily expected. She asked who was the party at Monceaux, and
was told that Madame de Nemours had gone thither the evening
before, with her son, M. de Guise, to make ready; and that Monsieur
was escorting thither his two sisters, Madame de Lorraine and
Madame Marguerite. The Queen-mother had set out before them very
early in the morning.
'You must have made great speed,' said Elisabeth; 'it is scarcely
two o'clock.'
'Truly we did, Madame; two of our horses even died upon the road;
but the Queen was anxious to find the King ere he should set off on
one of his long chases.'
Diane, at every spare moment, kept her eyes interrogatively fixed
on her cousin, and evidently expected that the taciturn Queen, to
whom a long conversation, in any language but Spanish, was always a
grievance, would soon dismiss them both; and Eustacie did not know
whether to be thankful or impatient, as Elisabeth, with tardy,
hesitating, mentally-translated speech, inquired into every
circumstance of the death of the poor horses, and then into all the
court gossip, which she was currently supposed neither to hear nor
understand; and then bethought herself that this good Mademoiselle
de Ribaumont could teach her that embroidery stitch she had so long
wished to learn. Taking her arm, she entered the hall, and
produced her work, so as effectually to prevent any communication
between the cousins; Eustacie, meanwhile her heart clinging to her
friend, felt her eyes filling with tears at the thoughts of how
unkind her morrow's flight would seem without one word of farewell
or of confidence, and was already devising tokens of tenderness to
be left behind for Diane's consolation, when the door of the
cabinet opened, and Catherine sailed down the stairs, with her
peculiar gliding step and sweep of dignity. The King followed her
with a face of irresolution and distress. He was evidently under
her displeasure; but she advanced to the young Queen with much
graciousness, and an air of matronly solicitude.
'My daughter,' she said, 'I have just assured the King that I
cannot leave you in these damp forests. I could not be responsible
for the results of the exposure any longer. It is for him to make
his own arrangements, but I brought my coach empty on purpose to
transport you and your ladies to Monceaux.
The women may follow with the mails. You can be ready as soon as
the horses are harnessed.'
Elisabeth was used to passiveness. She turned one inquiring look
to her husband, but he looked sullen, and, evidently cowed by his
mother, uttered not a word. She could only submit, and Catherine
herself add that there was room for Madame de Sauve and
Mademoiselle de Nid de Merle. Madame la Comtesse should follow!
It was self-evident that propriety would not admit of the only
demoiselle being left behind among the gentlemen. Poor Eustacie,
she looked mutely round as if she hoped to escape! What was the
other unkindness to this? And ever under the eyes of Diane too,
who followed her to their chamber, when she went to prepare, so
that she could not even leave a token for him where he would have
been most certain to find it. Moments were few; but at the very
last, while the queens were being handed in the carriage, she
caught the eye of Philip Sidney. He saw the appealing look, and
came near. She tried to laugh. 'Here is my gage, Monsieur
Sidney,' she said, and held out a rose-coloured knot of ribbon;
then, as he came near enough, she whispered imploringly three of
her few English words--
'Give to HIM.'
'I take the gage as it is meant,' said Sidney, putting a knee to
the ground, and kissing the trembling fingers, ere he handed her
into the carriage. He smiled and waved his hand as he met her
earnest eyes. One bow contained a scrap of paper pricked with
needle-holes. Sidney would not have made out those pricks for the
whole world, even had he been able to do more than hastily secure
the token, before the unhappy King, with a paroxysm of violent
interjections, demanded of him whether the Queen of England, woman
though she were, ever were so beset, and never allowed a moment to
herself; then, without giving time for an answer, he flung away to
his cabinet, and might be heard pacing up and down there in a
tempest of perplexity. He came forth only to order his horse, and
desire M. de Sauve and a few grooms to be ready instantly to ride
with him. His face was full of pitiable perplexity--the smallest
obstacle was met with a savage oath; and he was evidently in all
the misery of a weak yet passionate nature, struggling with
impotent violence against a yoke that evidently mastered it.
He flung a word to his guests that he should return ere night, and
they thus perceived that he did not intend their dismissal.
'Poor youth,' said Coligny, mildly, 'he will be another being when
we have him in our camp with the King of Navarre for his
companion.'
And then the Admiral repaired to his chamber to write one of his
many fond letters to the young wife of his old age; while his son-
in-law and Philip Sidney agreed to ride on, so as to met poor young
Ribaumont, and prepare him for the blow that had befallen him
personally, while they anxiously debated what this sudden descent
of the Queen-mother might portend. Teligny was ready to believe in
any evil intention on her part, but he thought himself certain of
the King's real sentiments, and in truth Charles had never treated
any man with such confidence as this young Huguenot noble, to whom
he had told his opinion of each of his counsellors, and his
complete distrust of all. That pitying affection which clings to
those who cling to it, as well as a true French loyalty of heart,
made Teligny fully believe that however Catherine might struggle to
regain her ascendancy, and whatever apparent relapses might be
caused by Charles's habitual subjection to her, yet the high
aspirations and strong sense of justice inherent in the King were
asserting themselves as his youth was passing into manhood; and
that the much-desired war would enable him to develop all his
higher qualities. Sidney listened, partially agreed, talked of
caution, and mused within himself whether violence might not
sometimes be mistaken for vigour.
Ere long, the merry cadence of an old English song fell with a
homelike sound upon Sidney's ear, and in another moment they were
in sight of Berenger, trotting joyously along, with a bouquet of
crimson and white heather-blossoms in his hand, and his bright
young face full of exultation in his arrangements. He shouted
gaily as he saw them, calling out, 'I thought I should meet you!
but I wondered not to have heard the King's bugle-horn. Where are
the rest of the hunters?'
'Unfortunately we have had another sort of hunt to-day,' said
Sidney, who had ridden forward to meet him; 'and one that I fear,
will disquiet you greatly.'
'How! Not her uncle?' exclaimed Berenger.
'No, cheer up, my friend, it was not she who was the object of the
chase; it was this unlucky King,' he added, speaking English, 'who
has been run to earth by his mother.'
'Nay, but what is that to me?' said Berenger, with impatient
superiority to the affairs of the nation. 'How does it touch us?'
Sidney related the abstraction of the young Queen and her ladies,
and then handed over the rose-coloured token, which Berenger took
with vehement ardour; then his features quivered as he read the
needle-pricked words-two that he had playfully insisted on her
speaking and spelling after him in his adopted tongue, then not
vulgarized, but the tenderest in the language, 'Sweet heart.' That
was all, but to him they conveyed constancy to him and his,
whatever might betide, and an entreaty not to leave her to her
fate.
'My dearest! never!' he muttered; then turning hastily as he put
the precious token into his bosom, he exclaimed, 'Are their women
yet gone?' and being assured that they were not departed when the
two friends had set out, he pushed his horse on at speed, so as to
be able to send a reply by Veronique. He was barely in time: the
clumsy wagon-like conveyance of the waiting-women stood at the door
of the castle, in course of being packed with the Queen's wardrobe,
amid the janglings of lackeys, and expostulating cries of femmes
de chambre, all in the worst possible humour at being crowded up
with their natural enemies, the household of the Queen-mother.
Veronique, a round-faced Angevin girl--who, like her lady, had not
parted with all her rustic simplicity and honesty, and who had been
necessarily taken into their confidence--was standing apart from
the whirl of confusion, holding the leashes of two or three little
dogs that had been confided to her care, that their keepers might
with more ease throw themselves into the melee. Her face lighted
up as she saw the Baron de Ribaumont arrive.
'Ah, sir, Madame will be so happy that I have seen Monsieur once
more,' she exclaimed under her breath, as he approached her.
'Alas! there is not a moment to write,' he said, looking at the
vehicle, already fast filling, 'but give her these flowers; they
were gathered for her; give her ten thousand thanks for her token.
Tell her to hold firm, and that neither king nor queen, bolt nor
bar, shall keep me from her. Tell her, our watchword is HOPE.'
The sharp eyes of the duenna of the Queen's household, a rigid
Spanish dame, were already searching for stray members of her
flock, and Veronique had to hurry to her place, while Berenger
remained to hatch new plans, each wilder than the last, and torment
himself with guesses whether his project had been discovered.
Indeed, there were moments when he fancied the frustration of his
purpose the special object of Queen Catherine's journey, but he had
the wisdom to keep any such suggestion to himself.
The King came back by supper-time, looking no longer in a state of
indecision, but pale and morose. He spoke to no one as he entered,
and afterwards took his place at the head of the supper-table in
silence, which he did not break till the meal was nearly over.
Then he said abruptly, 'Gentlemen, our party has been broken up,
and I imagine that after our great hunt tomorrow, no one will have
any objection to return to Paris. We shall have merrier sport at
Fontainebleau when this most troublesome of weddings is over.'
There was nothing to be done but to bow acquiescence, and the King
again became grimly silent. After supper he challenged Coligny to
a game of chess, and not a word passed during the protracted
contest, either from the combatants or any other person in the
hall. It was as if the light had suddenly gone out to others
besides the disappointed and anxious Berenger, and a dull shadow
had fallen on the place only yesterday so lively, joyous, and
hopeful.
Berenger, chained by the etiquette of the royal presence, sat like
a statue, his back against the wall, his arms crossed on his
breast, his eyes fixed, chewing the cud of the memories of his
dream of bliss, or striving to frame the future to his will, and to
decide what was the next reasonable step he could take, or whether
his irrepressible longing to ride straight off to Monceaux, claim
his wife, and take her on horseback behind him, were a mere
impracticable vision.
The King, having been checkmated twice out of three times by the
Admiral, too honest a man not truly to accept his declaration of
not wanting courtly play, pushed away the board, and was attended
by them all to his COUCHER, which was usually made in public; and
the Queen being absent, the gentlemen were required to stand around
him till he was ready to fall asleep. He did not seem disposed to
talk, but begged Sidney to fetch his lute, and sing to him some
English airs that had taken his fancy much when sung by Sidney and
Berenger together.
Berenger felt as if they would choke him in his present turbid
state of resentful uncertainty; but even as the unhappy young King
spoke, it was with a heavy, restless groan, as he added, 'If you
know any lullaby that will give rest to a wretch tormented beyond
bearing, let us have it.'
'Alas, Sire!' said the Admiral, seeing that no perilous ears
remained in the room; 'there are better and more soothing words
than any mundane melody.'
'Peste! My good father,' said the King, petulantly, 'has not old
Phlipote, my nurse, rocked me to the sound of your Marot's Psalms,
and crooned her texts over me? I tell you I do not want to think.
I want what will drive thought away--to dull---'
'Alas! what dulls slays,' said the Admiral.
'Let it. Nothing can be worse than the present,' said the wretched
Charles; then, as if wishing to break away from Coligny, he threw
himself round towards Berenger, and said, 'Here; stoop down,
Ribaumont; a word with you. Your matters have gone up the
mountains, as the Italians say, with mine. But never fear. Keep
silence, and you shall have the bird in your hand, only you must be
patient. Hold! I will make you and Monsieur Sidney gentlemen of my
bed-chamber, which will give you the entree of the Louvre; and if
you cannot get her out of it without an eclat, then you must be a
much duller fellow than half my court. Only that it is not their
own wives that they abstract.
With this Berenger must needs content himself; and the certainty of
the poor King's good-will did enable him to do his part with Sidney
in the songs that endeavoured to soothe the torments of the evil
spirit which had on that day effected a fresh lodgment in that
weak, unwilling heart.
It was not till the memoirs of the secret actors in this tragedy
were brought to light that the key to these doings was discovered.
M. de Sauve, Charles's secretary, had disclosed his proceedings to
his wife; she, flattered by the attentions of the Duke of Anjou,
betrayed them to him; and the Queen-mother, terrified at the change
of policy, and the loss of the power she had enjoyed for so many
years, had hurried to the spot.
Her influence over her son resembled the fascination of a snake:
once within her reach he was unable to resist her; and when in
their tete-a-tete she reproached him with ill-faith towards her,
prophesied the overthrow of the Church, the desertion of his
allies, the ruin of his throne, and finally announced her intention
of hiding her head in her own hereditary estates in Auvergne,
begging, as a last favour, that he would give his brother time to
quit France instead of involving him in his own ruin, the poor
young man's whole soul was in commotion. His mother knew her
strength, left the poison to work, and withdrew in displeasure to
Monceaux, sure that, as in effect happened, he would not be long in
following her, imploring her not to abandon him, and making an
unconditional surrender of himself, his conscience, and his friends
into her hands. Duplicity was so entirely the element of the
court, that, even while thus yielding himself, it was as one
checked, but continuing the game; he still continued his connection
with the Huguenots, hoping to succeed in his aims by some future
counter-intrigue; and his real hatred of the court policy, and the
genuine desire to make common cause with them, served his mother's
purpose completely, since his cajolery thus became sincere. Her
purpose was, probably, not yet formed. It was power that she
loved, and hoped to secure by the intrigues she had played off all
her life; but she herself was in the hands of an infinitely more
bloodthirsty and zealous faction, who could easily accomplish their
ends by working on the womanly terrors of an unscrupulous mind.