I winna spare for his tender age,
Nor yet for his hie kin;
But soon as ever he born is,
He shall mount the gallow's pin. --Fause Foodrage.
Dusk was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, when with
a trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the
stone staircase, leading to a back-door--an utterly uncanonical
appendage to a nunnery, but one much used among the domestic
establishment of Bellaise.
A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-open
kitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper
preparing for Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed
it, when the voice of the presiding lay-sister called out,
'Veronique, is that you?'
'Sister!' returned Eustacie, with as much of the Angevin twang as
she could assume.
'Where are you going?'
'To the Orchard Farm with this linen.'
'Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from Madame
about nobody going out unreported, and you may chance to find the
door locked if you do not come back in good time. Oh! and I had
well-night forgot; tell your mother to be here early to-morrow,
Madame would speak with her.'
Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her
fluttering heart at the sense that she had indeed seized the last
moment. Forth then she stepped. How dark, waste, and lonely the
open field looked! But her heart did not fail her; she could only
feel that a captivity was over, and the most vague and terrible of
her anxieties soothed, as she made her way into one of the long
shady lanes of the Bocage. It was nearly dark, and very muddy, but
she had all the familiarity of a native with the way, and the farm,
where she had trotted about in her infancy like a peasant's child,
always seemed like home to her. It had been a prime treat to visit
it during her time of education at the convent, and there was an
association of pleasure in treading the path that seemed to bear
her up, and give her enjoyment in the mere adventure and feeling of
escape and liberty.
She had no fear of the dark, nor of the
distant barking of dogs, but the mire was deep, and it was plodding
work in those heavy sabots, up the lane that led from the
convent; and the poor child was sorely weary long before she came
to the top of the low hill that she used scarcely to know to be
rising round at all. The stars had come out; and as she sat for a
few moments to rest on a large stone, she saw the lights of the
cottage fires in the village below, and looking round could also
see the many gleams in the convent windows, the read fire-light in
her own room among them. She shivered a little as she thought of
its glowing comfort, but turned her back resolutely, tightened her
cloak over her head, looked up to a glimmer in the watch-tower of
her own castle far above her on the hill and closed against her;
and then smiled to herself with hope at the sparkle of a window in
a lonely farmhouse among the fields.
With fresh vigour she rose, and found her way through lane and
field-path to the paddock where she had so often played. Here a
couple of huge dogs dashed forward with an explosion of barks,
dying away into low growls as she spoke to them by their names, and
called aloud on 'Blaise!' and 'Mere Perrine!' The cottage door was
opened, the light streamed forth, and a man's head in a broad had
appeared. 'Veronique, girl, is this an hour to be gadding abroad?'
'Blaise, do you not know me?'
'It is our Lady. Ah!'
The next moment the wanderer was seated in the ample wooden chair
of the head of the family, the farmer and his two stout sons
standing before her as their liege Lady, and Mere Perrine hanging
over her, in great anxiety, not wholly dispelled by her low girlish
laugh, partly of exultation at her successful evasion, partly of
amusement at their wonder, and partly, too, because it was so
natural to her to enjoy herself at that hearth that she could not
help it. A savoury mess from the great caldron that was for ever
stewing over the fire was at once fished out for her, before she
was allowed to explain herself; and as she ate with the carved
spoon and from the earthenware crock that had been called
Mademoiselle's ever since her baby-days, Perrine chafed and warmed
her feet, fondled her, and assured her, as if she were still their
spoiled child, that they would do all she wished.
Pierre and Tiennot, the two sons, were sent out to fodder the
cattle, and keep careful watch for any sounds of pursuers from the
convent; and Blaise, in the plenitude of his respects and
deference, would have followed them, but Eustacie desired him to
remain to give her counsel.
Her first inquire was after the watch-tower. She did not care for
any discomfort if her vassals would be faithful, and hold it out
for her, till she could send for help to the allies of her
husband's house, and her eyes glanced as she spoke.
But Blaise shook his head. He had looked at the tower as Madame
bade, but it was all in ruins, crumbling away, and, moreover, M. le
Chevalier had put a forester there--a grim, bad subject, who had
been in the Italian wars, and cared neither for saint nor devil,
except Chevalier Narcisse. Indeed, even if he had not been there,
the place was untenable, it would only be getting into a trap.
'Count Hebert held it out for twelve days against the English!'
said Eustacie, proudly.
'Ah! ah! but there were none of your falconets, or what call you
those cannons then. No; if Madame would present herself as a
choice morsel for Monsieur le Chevalier to snap up, that is the
place.'
Then came the other plan of getting an escort of the peasants
together, and riding with them towards the Huguenot territories
around La Rochelle, where, for her husband's sake, Eustacie could
hardly fail to obtain friends. It was the more practicable
expedient, but Blaise groaned over it, wondered how many of the
farmers could be trusted, or brought together, and finally
expressed his intention of going to consult Martin, his staunch
friend, at the next farm. Meantime, Madame had better lie down and
sleep. And Madame did sleep, in Perrine's huge box-bedstead, with
a sweet, calm, childlike slumber, whilst her nurse sat watching her
with eyes full of tears of pity and distress; the poor young
thing's buoyant hopefulness and absence of all fear seemed to the
old woman especially sad, and like a sort of want of comprehension
of the full peril in which she stood.
Not till near dawn was Eustacie startled from her rest by
approaching steps. 'Nurse, is all ready?' she cried. 'Can we set
off? Are the horses there?'
'No, my child; it is but my good man and Martin who would speak
with you. Do not hasten. There is nothing amiss as yet.'
'Oh, nurse,' cried Eustacie, as she quickly arranged the dress in
which she had lain down, 'the dear old farm always makes me sleep
well. This is the first time I have had no dream of the whirling
wheel and fiery gates! Oh, is it a token that HE is indeed at
rest? I am so well, so strong. I can ride anywhere now. Let them
come in and tell me.'
Martin was a younger, brisker, cleverer man than Blaise, and
besides being a vassal of the young Lady, was a sort of agent to
whom the Abbess instructed many of the matters of husbandry
regarding the convent lands. He stood, like Blaise, bareheaded as
he talked to little Lady, and heard her somewhat peremptorily
demand why they had not brought the horses and men for her escort.
It was impossible that night, explained Martin. Time was needed to
bring in the farm-horses, and summon the other peasants, without
whom the roads were unsafe in these times of disorder. He and
Blaise must go round and warn them to be ready. A man could not be
ready in a wink of the eye, as Madame seemed to think, and the two
peasants looked impenetrable in stolidity.
'Laggards that you are!' cried Eustacie, petulantly, clasping her
hands; 'and meantime all will be lost. They will be upon me!'
'Not so, Madame. It is therefore that I came here,' said Martin,
deferentially, to the little fuming impatient creature; 'Madame
will be far safer close at hand while the pursuit and search are
going on. But she must not stay here. This farm is the first
place they will come to, while they will never suspect mine, and my
good woman Lucette will be proud to keep watch for her. Madame
knows that the place is full of shrubs and thickets, where one half
of an army might spend a fine day in looking for the other.'
'And at night you will get together the men and convoy me?' asked
Eustacie, eagerly.
'All in good time, Madame. Now she must be off, ere the holy
mothers be astir. I have brought an ass for her to ride.'
Eustacie had no choice but compliance. None of the Orchard family
could go with her, as it was needful that they should stay at home
and appear as unconcerned as possible; but they promised to meet
her at the hour and place to be appointed, ad if possible to bring
Veronique.
Eating a piece of rye-bread as she went, Eustacie, in her gray
cloak, rode under Martin's guardianship along the deep lanes, just
budding with spring, in the chill dewiness before sunrise. She was
silent, and just a little sullen, for she had found stout shrewd
Martin less easy to talk over than the admiring Blaise, and her
spirit was excessively chafed by the tardiness of her retainers.
But the sun rose and cleared away all clouds of temper, the cocks
crew, the sheep bleated, and fresh morning sounds met her ear, and
seemed to cheer and fill her with hope; and in some compunction for
her want of graciousness, she thanked Martin, and praised his ass
with a pretty cordiality that would have fully compensated for her
displeasure, even if the honest man had been sensible of it.
He halted under the lee of a barn, and gave a low whistle. At the
sound, Lucette, a brown, sturdy young woman with a red handkerchief
over her head, and another over her shoulders, came running round
the corner of the barn, and whispered eagerly under her breath,
'Ah! Madame, Madame, what an honour!' kissing Eustacie's hand with
all her might as she spoke; 'but, alas! I fear Madame cannot come
into the house. The questing Brother Francois--plague upon him!--
has taken it into his head to drop in to breakfast. I longed to
give him the cold shoulder, but it might have brought suspicion
down.'
'Right, good woman,' said Martin; 'but what shall Madame do? It is
broad way, and no longer safe to run the lanes!'
'Give me a distaff,' said Eustacie, rising to the occasion; 'I will
go to that bushy field, and herd the cows.'
Madame was right, the husband and wife unwillingly agreed. There,
in her peasant dress, in the remote field, sloping up into a thick
wood, she was unlikely to attract attention; and though the field
was bordered on one side by the lane leading to the road to Paris,
it was separated from it by a steep bank, crowned by one of the
thick hedgerows characteristic of the Bocage.
Here, then, they were forced to leave her, seated on a stone
beneath a thorn-bush, distaff in hand, with bread, cheese, and a
pitcher of milk for her provisions, and three or four cows grazing
before her. From the higher ground below the wood of ash and
hazel, she could see the undulating fields and orchards, a few
houses, and that inhospitable castle of her own.
She had spent many a drearier day in the convent than this, in the
free sun and air, with the feeling of liberty, and unbounded hopes
founded on this first success. She told her beads diligently,
trusting that the tale of devotions for her husband's spirit would
be equally made up in the field as in the church, and intently all
day were her ears and eyes on the alert. Once Lucette visited her,
to bring her a basin of porridge, and to tell her that all the
world at the convent was in confusion, that messengers had been
sent out in all directions, and that M. le Chevalier had ridden out
himself in pursuit; but they should soon hear all about it, for
Martin was pretending to be amongst the busiest, and he would know
how to turn them away. Again, much later in the day, Martin came
striding across the field, and had just reached her, as she sat in
the hedgerow, when the great dog who followed him pricked his ears,
and a tramping and jingling was audible in the distance in the
lane. Eustacie held up her finger, her eyes dilating.
'It must be M. le Chevalier returning. Madame must wait a little
longer. I must be at home, or they may send out to seek me here,
and that would be ruin. I will return as soon as it is safe, if
Madame will hide herself in the hedgerow.'
Into the hedgerow accordingly crept Eustacie, cowering close to a
holly-tree at the very summit of the bank, and led by a strange
fascination to choose a spot where, unseen herself, she could gaze
down on the party who came clanking along the hollow road beneath.
Nearer, nearer, they came; and she shuddered with more of passion
than of fear, as she beheld, not only her uncle in his best well-
preserved green suit, but Narcisse, muddy with riding, though in
his court braveries. Suddenly they came to a halt close beneath
her! Was she detected? Ah! just below was the spot where the road
to the convent parted from the road to the farm; and, as Martin had
apprehended, they were stopping for him. The Chevalier ordered one
of the armed men behind him to ride up to the farm and summon
Martin to speak with him; and then he and his son, while waiting
under the holly-bush, continued their conversation.
'So that is the state of things! A fine overthrow!' quoth
Narcisse.
'Bah! not at all. She will soon be in our hands again. I have
spoken with, or written to, every governor of the cities she must
pass through, and not one will abet the little runaway. At the
first barrier she is ours.'
'Et puis?'
'Oh, we shall have her mild as a sheep.' (Eustacie set her teeth.)
'Every one will be in the same story, that her marriage was a
nullity; she cannot choose but believe, and can only be thankful
that we overlook the escapade and rehabilitate her.'
'Thank you, my good uncle,' almost uttered his unseen auditor.
'Well! There is too much land down here to throw away; but the
affair has become horribly complicated and distasteful.'
'No such thing. All the easier. She can no longer play the
spotless saint--get weak-minded priests on her side--be all for
strict convents. No, no; her time for that is past! Shut her up
with trustworthy persons from whom she will hear nothing from
without, and she will understand her case. The child? It will
scarce be born alive, or at any rate she need not know whether it
is. Then, with no resource, no hope, what can she do but be too
thankful for pardon, and as glad to conceal the past as we could
wish?'
Eustacie clenched her fist. Had a pistol been within her reach,
the speaker's tenure of life had been short! She was no chastened,
self-restrained, forgiving saint, the poor little thing, only a
hot-tempered, generous, keenly-sensitive being, well-nigh a child
in years and in impulses, though with the instincts of a mother
awakening within her, and of a mother who heard the life of her
unborn babe plotted against. She was absolutely forced to hold her
lips together, to repress the sobbing scream of fury that came to
her throat; and the struggles with her gasping breath, the surging
of the blood in her ears, hindered her from hearing or seeing
anything for some seconds, though she kept her station. By the
time her perceptions had cleared themselves, Martin, cap in hand,
was in the lane below, listening deferentially to the two
gentlemen, who were assuring him that inquiry had been made, and a
guard carefully set at the fugitive could have passed those, or be
able to do so. She must certainly be hidden somewhere near home,
and Martin had better warn all his friends against hiding her,
unless they wished to be hung up on the thresholds of their burning
farm-steads. Martin bowed, and thought the fellows would know
their own interest and Mademoiselle's better.
'Well,' said the Chevalier, 'we must begin without loss of time.
My son has brought down a set of fellows here, who are trained to
ferret out heretics. Not a runaway weasel cold escape them! We
will set them on as soon as ever they have taken a bit of supper up
there at the Chateau; and do you come up with us just to show them
the way across to Leonard's. That's no unlikely place for her to
lurk in, as you said this morning, good fellow.'
It was the most remote farm from that of Martin, and Eustacie felt
how great were his services, even while she flushed with anger to
hear him speaking of her as Mademoiselle. He was promising to
follow immediately to the castle, to meet ces Messieurs there
almost as soon as they could arrive, but excusing himself from
accompanying them, by the need of driving home the big bull, whom
no one else could manage.
They consented, and rode on. Martin watched them out of sight,
then sprang up by some stepping-stones in the bank, a little below
where Eustacie sat, and came crackling through the boughs to where
she was crouching down, with fierce glittering eyes and panting
breath, like a wild animal ready to spring.
'Madame has heard,' said Martin, under his breath.
'If I have heard! Oh that I were a man, to slay them where they
stood! Martin, Martin! you will not betray me. Some day WE will
reward you.'
'Madame need not have said THAT to me,' said Martin, rather hurt.
'I am only thinking what she can do. Alas! I fear that she must
remain in this covert till it is dark, for these men's eyes are all
on the alert. At dark, I or Lucette will come and find a shelter
for her for the night.'
Long, long, then, did Eustacie sit, muffled in her gray cloak,
shrinking together to shelter herself from the sunset chill of
early spring, but shuddering more with horror than with cold as the
cruel cold-blooded words she had heard recurred to her, and feeling
as if she were fast within a net, every outlet guarded against her,
and search everywhere; yet still with the indomitable determination
to dare and suffer to the utmost ere that which was dearer than her
own life should come into peril from her enemies.
The twilight closed in, the stars came out, sounds of life died
away, and still she sat on, becoming almost torpid in the cold
darkness, until at length she heard the low call of Lucette,
'MADAME! AH!la pauvre Madame.' She started up, so stiff that
she could hardly more, and only guided by the voice to feel her way
through the hedgerow in the right direction. Another moment, and
Lucette's warn arms had received her; and she was guided, scarce
knowing how or where, in cautious silence to the farmyard, and into
the house, where a most welcome sight, a huge fire, blazed
cheerfully on the hearth, and Martin himself held open the door for
her. The other occupants of the kitchen were the sleeping child in
its wooden cradle, some cocks and hens upon the rafters, and a big
sheep-dog before the fire.
The warmth, and the chicken that Lucette had killed and dressed,
brought the colour back to the exhausted wanderer's cheek, and
enabled her again to hold council for her safety. It was plain, as
Martin had found in conversation with the men-at-arms, that
precautions had been taken against her escaping in any of the
directions where she might hope to have reached friends. Alone she
could not go, and any escort sufficient to protect her would
assuredly be stopped at the first town; besides which, collecting
it in secret was impossible under present circumstances, and it
would be sure to be at once overtaken and demolished by the
Chevalier Narcisse's well-armed followers. Martin, therefore, saw
no alternative but for her to lurk about in such hiding-places as
her faithful vassals could afford her, until the search should blow
over, and the vigilance of her uncle and cousin relax. Hope, the
high-spirited hope of early youth, looked beyond to indefinite but
infinite possibility. Anything was better than the shame and
horror of yielding, and Eustacie trusted herself with all her heart
for the present, fancying, she knew not what, the future.
Indeed, the Vendean fidelity has often been tested, and she made
full proof of it among the lanes, copses, and homesteads of her own
broad lands. The whole country was a network of deep lanes, sunk
between impenetrable hedgerows, inclosing small fields, orchards,
and thickets, and gently undulating in low hills and shallow
valleys, interspersed with tall wasp-waisted windmills airily
waving their arms on the top of lofty masts. It was partitioned
into small farms, inhabited by a simple-hearted peasantry,
religious and diligent, with a fair amount of rural wealth and
comfort. Their love for their lords was loyally warm, and Eustacie
monopolized it, from their detestation of her uncle's exactions;
they would risk any of the savage punishments with which they were
threatened for concealing her; and as one by one it was needful to
take them into the secret, so as to disarm suspicion, and she was
passed from one farm to another, each proved his faithful
attachment, and though himself repaid by her thankful smile and
confiding manner.
The Chevalier and his son searched vigorously. On the slightest
suspicion, they came down to the farm, closed up the outlets,
threatened the owners, turned out the house, and the very place
they had last searched would become her quarters on the next night!
Messages always had warned her in time. Intelligence was obtained
by Martin, who contrived to remain a confidential agent, and
warnings were dispatched to her by many a strange messenger--by
little children, by old women, or even by the village innocent.
The most alarming days were those when she was not the avowed
object of the chase, but when the pursuit of game rendered the
coverts in the woods and fields unsafe, and the hounds might lead
to her discovery. On one of these occasions Martin locked her up
in the great hayloft of the convent, where she could actually hear
the chants in the chapel, and distinguish the chatter of the lay-
sisters in the yard. Another time, in conjunction with the
sacristan, he bestowed her in the great seigneurial tribune (or
squire's pew) in the village church, a tall carved box, where she
was completely hidden; and the only time when she had failed to
obtain warning beforehand, she stood kneading bread at a tub in
Martin's cottage, while the hunt passed by, and a man-at-arms
looked in and questioned the master on the last traces of the
runaway.
It was seldom possible to see Mere Perrine, who was carefully
watched, under the conviction that she must know where her nursling
was; but one evening Veronique ventured up to Martin's farm,
trusting to tidings that the gentlemen had been Eustacie's only
secure harbour; and when, in a bright evening gleam of the setting
sun from beneath the clouds, Veronique came in sight of her Lady,
the Queen's favourite, it was to see her leading by a string a
little shaggy cow, with a bell round its neck, her gray cloak
huddled round her, though dank with wet, a long lock of black hair
streaming over her brow, her garments clinging with damp, her bare
ankles scratched with thorns, her heavy SABOTS covered with mire,
her cheeks pale with cold and wet.
The contrast overwhelmed poor Veronique. She dropped on her knees,
sobbing as if her heart would break, and declaring that this was
what the Abbess had feared; her Lady was fast killing herself.
'Hush! Veronique,' said Eustacie; 'that is all folly. I am wet
and weary now, but oh! if you knew how much sweeter to me life is
now than it was, shut up down there, with my fears. See,' and she
held up a bunch of purple pasque-flowers and wood-sorrel, 'this is
what I found in the wood, growing out of a rugged old dead root;
and just by, sheltered by the threefold leaves of the alleluia-
flower, was a bird's nest, the mother-bird on her eggs, watching me
with the wise black eye that saw I would not hurt her. And it
brought back the words I had heard long ago, of the good God caring
for the sparrows; and I knew He would care the more for me and
mine, because I have not where to lay my head.'
'Alas!' sobbed Veronique, 'now she is getting to be a saint
outright. She will be sure to die! Ah, Madame--dear Madame! do
but listen to me. If you did but know how Madame de Bellaise is
afflicting herself on your account! She sent for me--ah! do not be
angry, dear Lady?'
'I wish to hear nothing about her,' said Eustacie.
'Nay, listen, de grace--one moment, Madame! She has wept, she
has feared for you, all the lay-sisters say so. She takes no
pleasure in hawking, nor in visiting; and she did not eat more than
six of Soeur Bernardine's best conserves. She does nothing but
watch for tidings of Madame. And she sent for me, as I told you,
and conjured me, if I knew where you were, or had any means of
finding out, to implore you to trust to her. She will swear on all
the relics in the chapel never to give a hint to Messieurs les
Chevaliers if only you would trust her, and not slay yourself with
all this dreadful wandering.'
'Never!' said Eustacie; 'she said too much!'
'Ah! but she declares that, had she known the truth, she never
would have said that. Ah, yes, Madame, the Abbess is good!' And
Veronique, holding her mistress's cloak to secure a hearing,
detailed the Abbess' plan for lodging her niece in secret
apartments within the thickness of the convent walls, where Mere
Perrine could be with her, and every sacred pledge should be given
that could remove her fears.
'And could they make me believe them, so that the doubt and dread
would not kill me in themselves?' said Eustacie.
'But it is death--certain death, as it is. Oh, if Madame would
hear reason!--but she is headstrong! She will grieve when it is
too late!'
'Listen, Veronique. I have a far better plan. The sacristan has a
sister who weaves red handkerchiefs at Chollet. She will receive
me, and keep me as long as there is need. Martin is to take me in
his cart when he carries the hay to the garrison. I shall be well
hidden, and within reach of your mother. And then, when my son is
once come--then all will be well! The peasants will rise in behalf
of their young Lord, though not for a poor helpless woman. No one
will dare to dispute his claim, when I have appealed to the King;
and then, Veronique, you shall come back to me, and all will be
well!'
Veronique only began to wail aloud at her mistress' obstinacy.
Martin came up, and rudely silenced her, and said afterwards to his
wife, 'Have a care! That girl has--I verily believe--betrayed her
Lady once; and if she do not do so again, from pure pity and
faintness of heart, I shall be much surprised.'