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