No, my good Lord, Diana--
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
A late autumn journey from the west coast to Paris was a more
serious undertaking in the sixteenth century than the good seaman
Master Hobbs was aware of, or he would have used stronger
dissuasive measures against such an undertaking by the two youths,
when the elder was in so frail a state of health; but there had
been a certain deceptive strength and vigour about young Ribaumont
while under strong excitement and determination, and the whole
party fancied him far fitter to meet the hardships than was really
the case. Philip Thistlewood always recollected that journey as
the most distressing period of his life.
They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore found the
hiring of horses often extremely difficult. They had intended to
purchase, but found no animals that, as Philip said, they would
have accepted as a gift, though at every wretched inn where they
had to wait while the country was scoured for the miserable jades,
their proposed requirements fell lower and lower. Dens of smoke,
dirt, and boorishness were the great proportion of those inns,
where they were compelled to take refuge by the breaking down of
one or other of the beasts, or by stress of weather.
Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety rendering the roads
impassable; and at the best, the beasts could seldom be urged
beyond a walk, fetlock-deep in mire or water. Worse than all,
Berenger, far from recovered, and under the heavy oppression of a
heartrending grief, could hardly fail to lose the ground that he
had gained under the influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix
itself on the wound on his cheek, terrible pain and swelling set
in, depriving him entirely of sleep, permitting him to take no
nourishment but fragments of soft crumbs soaked in wine or broth--
when the inns afforded any such fare--and rendering speech
excessively painful, and at last unintelligible.
Happily this was not until Philip and Humfrey both had picked up
all the most indispensable words to serve their needs, and storming
could be done in any language. Besides, they had fallen in at La
Motte-Achard with a sharp fellow named Guibert, who had been at
sea, and knew a little English, was a Norman by birth, knew who the
Baron de Ribaumont was, and was able to make himself generally
useful, though ill supplying the place of poor Osbert, who would
have been invaluable in the present predicament. Nothing was so
much dreaded by any of the party as that their chief should become
utterly unable to proceed. Once let him be laid up at one of these
little auberges, and Philip felt as if all would be over with
him; and he himself was always the most restlessly eager to push
on, and seemed to suffer less even in the biting wind and sleet
than on the dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of the
inns. That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only
comfort, and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding him
whenever his head seemed aching or heated; and under this well-
meant surgery it was no wonder that he grew weaker every day, in
spite of the most affectionate and assiduous watching on his
brother's part.
Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the cross-
roads, or rather in endless delays; and when at last they came on
more frequented ways, with better inns, well-paved chaussees, and
horses more fit for use, Berenger was almost beyond feeling the
improvement. At their last halt, even Philip was for waiting and
sending on to Paris to inform Sir Francis Walsingham of their
situation; but Berenger only shook his head, dressed himself, and
imperatively signed to go on. It was a bright morning, with a
clear frost, and the towers and steeples of Paris presently began
to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; but by this time
Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently became so
faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift him
from his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little
back from the road.
'Look up, sir, it is but a league further,' quoth Humfrey; 'I can
see the roof of the big church they call Notre-Dame.'
'He does not open his eyes, he is swooning,' said Philip. 'He must
have some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no
lace where we could get a drop of wine or strong waters?'
'Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but 'twas
a nunnery, as good as a grave against poor travelers. I would ride
on, and get some of Sir Francis's folk to bring a litter or coach,
but I doubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young
Lord's safe-conduct.'
Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but
sank back against Philip's shoulder. Just then, a trampling and
lumbering became audible, and on the road behind appeared first
three horsemen riding abreast, streaming with black and white
ribbons; then eight pair of black horses, a man walking at the
crested heads of each couple, and behind these a coach, shaped like
an urn reversed, and with a coronet on the top, silvered, while the
vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted, alternately black, with
silver figures, and white with black landscapes; and with white
draperies, embroidered with black and silver, floating from the
windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stood
behind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached the
group by the road-side, one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly,
'Over near the walls from an affair of honour! Has he caught it
badly? Who was the other?'
Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, the coach
stopped, a lady's head and hand appeared, and a female voice
exclaimed, in much alarm, 'Halt! Ho, you there, in our colours,
come here. What is it? My brother here? Is he wounded?'
'It is no wound, Madame,' said Guibert, shoved forward by his
English comrades, 'it is M.le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill,
and--ah! here is Monsieur Philippe.'
For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the
most beautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward,
hat in hand, as she exclaimed, 'Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be
true? What means this? What ails him?'
'It is his wound, Madame,' said Philip, in his best French; 'it has
broken out again, and he has almost dropped from his horse from
defaillance.'
'Ah, bring him here--lay him on the cushions, we will have the
honour of transporting him,' cried the lady; and, regardless of the
wet road, she sprang out of the coach, with her essences in her
hand, followed by at least three women, two pages, and two little
white dogs which ran barking towards the prostrate figure, but were
caught up by their pages. 'Ah, cousin, how dreadful,' she cried,
as she knelt down beside him, and held her essences towards him.
Voice and scent revived him, and with a bewildered look and gesture
half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed round him, then rose to
his feet without assistance, bent his head, and making a sign that
he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse.
'Cousin, cousin,' exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes
tears were standing, 'you will let me take you into the city--you
cannot refuse.'
'Berry, indeed you cannot ride,' entreated Philip; 'you must take
her offer. Are you getting crazed at last?'
Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy;
the exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and
bending his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black
and white coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip's arm, and said
impressively, 'Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine
lady, sister to the murderous villain that set upon him. If you
would save his life, don't quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere
than to our Ambassador's. I'll not leave the coach-door, and as
soon as we are past the barriers, I'll send Jack Smithers to make
known we are coming.'
Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach,
where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a
corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon
the white velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with
devices and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or
setting suns, made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to
have disposed of themselves in various nooks of the ample
conveyance, and Philip, rather at a loss to explain his intrusion,
perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the cushions in front of
his brother, thinking that Humfrey was an officious, suspicious
fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who seemed so exceedingly
shocked and grieved at Berenger's condition. 'Ah! I never guessed
it had been so frightful as this. I should not have known him.
Ah! had I imagined---' She leant back, covered her face, and wept,
as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward,
and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was
at once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast.
'Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?' she asked, with
sympathy and tenderness that went to Philip's heart, and he
explained. 'He cannot speak, Madame; the shot in his cheek' (the
lady shuddered, and put her handkerchief to her eyes) 'from time to
time cases this horrible swelling and torture. After that he will
be better.'
'Frightful, frightful,' she sighed, 'but we will do our best to
make up. You, sir, must be his trucheman.'
Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man
that might be, made answer, 'I am his brother, Madame.'
'Eh! Monsieur son frere. Had Madame sa mere a son so old?'
'I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband's son, at your service,
Madame,' said Philip, colouring up to the ears; 'I came with him
for he is too weak to be alone.'
'Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir,' she said, with a
not unflattering surprise. 'But whence are you come? I little
looked to see Monsieur here.'
'We came from Anjou, Madame. We went to La Sablerie,' and he broke
off.
'I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the heart;' and
again she wiped away tear. 'And now---'
'We are coming to the Ambassador's to obtain'--he stopped, for
Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved
his embarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear
cousin go to the Ambassador's when he was among his own kindred.
Perhaps Monsieur did not know her; she must present herself as
Madame de Selinville, nee de Ribaumont, a poor cousin of ce cher
Baron, 'and even a little to you, M. le frere, if you will own
me,' and she held out a hand, which he ought to have kissed, but
not knowing how, he only shook it. She further explained that her
brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King of Poland, but that
her father lived with her at her hotel, and would be enchanted to
see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be desolated
at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She had been
returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she had been
praying for the soul of the late M. de Selinville, when a true
Providence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now,
nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried
at once to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the
Ambassador, and where every comfort should await him. She clasped
her hands in earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her
kindness and perceiving that every jolt of the splendid by
springless vehicle caused Berenger's head a shoot of anguish, was
almost acceding to her offer, when he was checked by one of the
most imperative of those silent negatives. Hitherto, Master
Thistlewood had been rather proud of his bad French, and as long as
he could be understood, considered trampling on genders, tenses,
and moods as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he would just now
have given a great deal for the command of any language but a
horseboy's, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. 'Merci,
Madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passe notre parole d'aller
droit a l'Ambassadeur's et pas ou else,' did not sound very right
to his ears ; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew
that if Berry had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would
have smiled now. But this most charming and polite of ladies never
betrayed it, if it were ever such bad French; she only bowed her
head, and said something very pretty--if only he could make it out
--of being the slave of one's word, and went on persuading. Nor
did it make the conversation easier, that she inquired after
Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he were unconscious,
while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, that he was
aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as
possible should be said, and determined against being taken to her
hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that
had it not been for Humfrey's words, he would have doubted whether,
in spite of all his bleeding, his brother's brain were not
wandering.
However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn
to the Ambassador's hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a
hearty greeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the
time the carriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the
steps, including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more
than a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become uneasy at
the non-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers's appearance,
all had been made ready; and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy
movements, made courteous gestures of thanks to the lady, and
alighted form the coach, he was absolutely received into the
dignified arms of the Ambassador. 'Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad
to see you here again, though in such different guise. Your
chamber is ready for you, and I have sent my secretary to see if
Maitre Par be at home, so we will, with God's help, have you better
at ease anon.'
Even Philip's fascination by Madame de Selinville could not hold
out against the comfort of hearing English voices all round him,
and of seeing his brother's anxious brow expand, and his hand and
eyes return no constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on
both sides; the Ambassador thanked the lady for the assistance she
had rendered to his young friend and guest; she answered with a
shade of stiffness, that she left her kinsman in good hands, and
said she should send to inquire that evening, and her father would
call on the morrow; then, as Lady Walsingham did not ask her in,
the black and white coach drove away.
The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and
spoke no word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and
turned at length into another great courtyard, surrounded with
buildings, where she alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty
hall, where ranks of servants stoop up and bowed as she passed;
then she ascended a wide carved staircase, opened a small private
door, and entered a tiny wainscoted room hardly large enough for
her farthingale to turn round in. 'You, Veronique, come in--only
you,' she said, at the door; and a waiting-woman, who had been in
the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad in the Angevin costume, but in
the richer and less characteristic dress of the ordinary Parisian
femme de chambre.
'Undo my mantle in haste!' gasped Madame de Selinville. 'O
Veronique--you saw--what destruction!'
'Ah! if my sweet young lady only known how frightful he had become,
she had never sacrificed herself,' sighed Veronique.
'Frightful! What, with the grave blue eyes that seem like the
steady avenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the
picture at the Louvre?' murmured Madame de Selinville; then she
added quickly, 'Yes, yes, it is well. She and you, Veronique, may
see him frightful and welcome. There are other eyes--make haste,
girl. There--another handerchief. Follow me not.'
And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great
state bedroom and the salle beyond, to another chamber where more
servants waited and rose at her entrance.
'Is any one with my father?'
'No, Madame;' and a page knocking, opened the door and announced,
'Madame la Comtesse.'
The Chevalier, in easy deshabille, with a flask of good wine,
iced water, and delicate cakes and confitures before him, a witty
and licentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily
enjoying the luxuries that it had been his daughter's satisfaction
to procure for him ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet
her with a grace and deference that showed how different a person
was the Comtesse de Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont.
'Ah! ma belle, my sweet,' as there was a mutual kissing of hands,
'thou art returned. Had I known thine hour, I had gone down for
thy first embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child; the convent
has made thee lovelier than ever.'
'Father, who think you is here? It is he--the Baron.'
'The Baron? Eh, father!' she cried impetuously. 'Who could it be
but one?'
'My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head can never be
thrusting himself here again.'
'But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my coach! I left
him at the Ambassador's.'
'Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will be ten thousand
fresh imbroglios.'
'I could not; he is as immovable as ever, though unable to speak!
Oh, father, he is very ill, he suffers terribly. Oh, Narcisse!
Ah! may I never see him again!'
'But what brings him blundering her again?' exclaimed the
Chevalier. 'Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded
against that! He knows nothing of the survivance.'
'I cannot tell much. He could not open his mouth, and his half-
brother, a big dull English boy, stammered out a few words of
shocking French against his will. But I believe they had heard of
la pauvre petite at La Sablerie, came over for her, and finding
the ruin my brother makes wherever he goes, are returning seeking
intelligence and succour for HIM.'
'That may be,' said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. 'It is well thy
brother is in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we
may get him back to England ere my son learns that he is here.'
'Father, there is a better way! Give him my hand.'
'Eh quoi, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are a
thousand better marriages.'
'No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all--
all that I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever
all his claims to the ancestral castle--to La Leurre, and above
all, that claim to Nid de Merle as Eustacie's widower, which,
should he ever discover the original contract, will lead to endless
warfare.'
'His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet--yet there might be
doubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formally
renewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child,
it is a horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no
warning, and the poor things had made off together. We could have
cried shame till we forced out a provision for thy brother; and my
poor little Eustacie---' He had tears in his eyes as he broke off.
Diane made an impatient gesture. 'She would have died of tedium in
England, or broken forth so as to have a true scandal. That is all
over, father, now; weigh my proposal! Nothing else will save my
brother from all that his cruel hand merits! You will win infinite
credit at court. The King loved him more than you thought safe.'
'The King has not a year to live, child, and he has personally
offended the King of Poland. Besides, this youth is heretic.'
'Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he had by an
abjuration. And as to Monsieur's enmity, if it be not forgotten,
the glory of bringing about a conversion would end that at once.'
'Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury himself among
the English.'
'It was unavoidable, father, and perhaps if he were here he would
live in an untamable state of distrust, whereas we may now win him
gradually. You will go and see him to-morrow, my dear father.'
'I must have time to think of this thy sudden device.'
'Nay, he is in no condition to hear of it at present. I did but
speak now, that you might not regard it as sudden when the fit
moment comes. It is the fixed purpose of my mind. I am no girl
now, and I could act for myself if I would; but as it is for your
interest and that of my brother thus to dispose of me, it is better
that you should act for me.'
'Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal,' said the
Chevalier, looking up at his daughter's handsome head drawn up
proudly with determination.
'Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me.' And Diane sailed
away in her sweeping folds of black brocade.
In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands locked together
before a much-gilded little waxem figure of St. Eustacie with his
cross-bearing stag by his side, which stood in a curtained recess
in the alcove where her stately bed was placed.
'Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles everyday to your shrine
at Bellaise, so he recovers; ten more if he listen favourably and
loves me. Nay, all--all the Selinville jewels to make you a
shrine. All--all, so he will only let me love him;' and then,
while taking up the beads, and pronouncing the repeated devotions
attached to each, her mind darted back to the day when, as young
children, she had played unfairly, defrauded Landry Osbert, and
denied it; how Berenger, though himself uninjured, had refused to
speak to her all that day--how she had hated him then--how she had
thought she had hated him throughout their brief intercourse in the
previous year; how she had played into her brother's hands; and
when she thought to triumph over the man who had scorned her, found
her soul all blank desolation, and light gone out from the earth!
Reckless and weary, she had let herself be united to M. de
Selinville, and in her bridal honours and amusements had tried to
crowd out the sense of dreariness and lose herself in excitement.
Then came the illness and death of her husband, and almost at the
same time the knowledge of Berenger's existence. She sought
excitement again that feverish form of devotion then in vogue at
Paris, and which resulted in the League. She had hitherto stunned
herself as it were with penances, processions, and sermons, for
which the host of religious orders then at Paris had given ample
scope; and she was constantly devising new extravagances. Even at
this moment she wore sackcloth beneath her brocade, and her rosary
was of death's heads. She was living on the outward husk of the
Roman Church not penetrating into its living power, and the phase
of religion which fostered Henry III. and the League offered her no
more.
All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast glance of
those two eyes, the only feature still unchanged in the marred,
wrecked countenance. That honest, quiet refusal, that look which
came from a higher atmosphere, had filled her heart with passionate
beatings and aspirations once more, and more consciously than ever.
Womanly feeling for suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to
him, and earn his love, nay wrest it from him by the benefits she
would heap upon him, were all at work; but the primary sense was
the longing to rest on the only perfect truth she had ever known in
man, and thus with passionate ardour she poured forth her
entreaties to St. Eustache, a married saint, who had known love,
and could feel for her, and could surely not object to the
affection to which she completely gave way for one whose hand was
now as free as her own.
But St. Eustache was not Diane's only hope. That evening she sent
Veronique to Rene of Milan, the court-perfumer, but also called by
the malicious, l'empoisonneur de le Reine, to obtain from him the
most infallible charm and love potion in his whole repertory.