A human shambles with blood-reeking floor.

MISS SWANWICK, Esch. Agamemnon

The door was opened at last, but not till full daylight. It found

Eustacie as ready to rush forth, past all resistance, as she had

been the night before, and she was already in the doorway when her

maid Veronique, her face swollen with weeping, caught her by the

hands and implored her to turn back and listen.

And words about a rising of the Huguenots, a general destruction,

corpses lying in the court, were already passing between the other

maidens and the CONCIERGE. Eustacie turned upon her servant:

'Veronique, what means it? Where is he?'

'Alas! alas! Ah! Mademoiselle, do but lie down! Woe is me! I

saw it all! Lie down, and I will tell you.'

'Tell! I will not move till you have told me where my husband is,'

said Eustacie, gazing with eyes that seemed to Veronique turned to

stone.

'Ah! my lady--my dear lady! I was on the turn of the stairs, and

saw all. The traitor--the Chevalier Narcisse--came on him, cloaked

like you--and--shot him dead--with, oh, such cruel words of

mockery! Oh! woe the day! Stay, stay, dear lady, the place is

all blood--they are slaying them all--all the Huguenots! Will no

one stop her?--Mademoiselle--ma'm'selle!--'

For Eustacie no sooner gathered the sense of Veronique's words than

she darted suddenly forwards, and was in a few seconds more at the

foot of the stairs. There, indeed, lay a pool of dark gore, and

almost in it Berenger's black velvet cap, with the heron plume.

Eustacie, with a low cry, snatched it up, continued her headlong

course along the corridor, swiftly as a bird, Veronique following,

and vainly shrieking to her to stop. Diane, appearing at the other

end of the gallery, saw but for a moment the little figure, with

the cloak gathered round her neck, and floating behind her,

understood Veronique's cry and joined in the chase across hall and

gallery, where more stains were to be seen, even down to the marble

stairs, every step slippery with blood.

Others there were who saw

and stood aghast, not understanding the apparition that flitted on

so swiftly, never pausing till at the great door at the foot of the

stairs she encountered a gigantic Scottish archer, armed to the

teeth. She touched his arm, and standing with folder arms, looked

up and said, 'Good soldier, kill me! I am a Huguenots!'

'Stop her! bring her back!' cried Diane from behind. 'It is Mdlle.

De Nil-de-Merle!'

'No, no! My husband is Huguenot! I am a Huguenot! Let them kill

me, I say!'--struggling with Diane, who had now come up with her,

and was trying to draw her back.

'Puir lassie!' muttered the stout Scotsman to himself, 'this

fearsome night has driven her demented.'

But, like a true sentinel, he moved neither hand nor foot to

interfere, as shaking herself loose from Diane, she was springing

down the steps into the court, when at that moment the young Abbe

de Mericour was seen advancing, pale, breathless, horrorstruck, and

to him Diane shrieked to arrest the headlong course. He obeyed,

seeing the wild distraction of the white face and widely glaring

eyes, took her by both hands, and held her in a firm grasp, saying,

'Alas, lady, you cannot go out. It is no sight for any one.'

'They are killing the Protestants,' she said; 'I am one! Let me

find them and die.'

A strong effort to free herself ensued, but it was so suddenly

succeeded by a swoon that the Abbe could scarcely save her from

dropping on the steps. Diane begged him to carry her in, since

they were in full view of men-at-arms in the court, and, frightful

to say, of some of the ladies of the palace, who, in the frenzy of

that dreadful time, had actually come down to examine the half-

stripped corpses of the men with whom they had jested not twelve

hours before.

'Ah! it is no wonder,' said the youthful Abbe, as he tenderly

lifted the inanimate figure. 'This has been a night of horrors.

I was coming in haste to know whether the King knows of this

frightful plot of M. de Guise, and the bloody work that is passing

in Paris.'

'The King!' exclaimed Diane. 'M. l'Abbe, do you know where he is

now? In the balcony overlooking the river, taking aim at the

fugitives! Take care! Even your soutane would not save you if

M. d'O and his crew heard you. But I must pray you to aid me with

this poor child! I dread that her wild cries should be heard.'

The Abbe, struck dumb with horror, silently obeyed Mdlle. De

Ribaumont, and brought the still insensible Eustacie to the

chamber, now deserted by all the young ladies. He laid her on her

bed, and finding he could do no more, left her to her cousin and

her maid.

The poor child had been unwell and feverish ever since the masque,

and the suspense of these few days with the tension of that

horrible night had prostrated her. She only awoke from her swoon

to turn her head from the light and refuse to be spoken to.

'But, Eustacie, child, listen; this is all in vain--he lives,' said

Diane.

'Weary me not with falsehoods,' faintly said Eustacie.

'No! no! no! They meant to hinder your flight, but---'

'They knew of it?' cried Eustacie, sitting up suddenly. 'Then you

told them. Go--go; let me never see you more! You have been his

death!'

'Listen! I am sure he lives! What! would they injure one whom my

father loved? I heard my father say he would not have him hurt.

Depend upon it, he is safe on his way to England.'

Eustacie gave a short but frightful hysterical laugh, and pointed

to Veronique. 'She saw it,' she said; 'ask her.'

'Saw what?' said Diane, turning fiercely on Veronique. 'What vile

deceit have you half killed your lady with?'

'Alas! Mademoiselle, I did but tell her what I had seen,' sighed

Veronique, trembling.

'Tell me!' said Diane, passionately.

'Yes, everything,' said Eustacie, sitting up.

'Ah! Mademoiselle, it will make you ill again.'

'I WILL be ill--I WILL die! Heaven's slaying is better than man's.

Tell her how you saw Narcisse.'

'False girl!' burst out Diane.

'No, no,' cried Veronique. 'Oh, pardon me, Mademoiselle, I could

not help it.'

In spite of her reluctance, she was forced to tell that she had

found herself locked out of her mistress's room, and after losing

much time in searching for the CONCIERGE, learnt that the ladies

were locked up by order of the Queen-mother, and was strongly

advised not to be running about the passages. After a time,

however, while sitting with the CONCIERGE'S wife, she heard such

frightful whispers from men with white badges, who were admitted

one by one by the porter, and all led silently to a small lower

room, that she resolved on seeking out the Baron's servant, and

sending him to warn his master, while she would take up her station

at her lady's door. She found Osbert, and with him was ascending a

narrow spiral leading from the offices--she, unfortunately, the

foremost. As she came to the top, a scuffle was going on--four men

had thrown themselves upon one, and a torch distinctly showed her

the younger Chevalier holding a pistol to the cheek of the fallen

man, and she heard the worlds, 'Le baiser d'Eustacie! Jet e

barbouillerai ce chien de visage,' and at the same moment the

pistol was discharged. She sprang back, oversetting, as she

believed, Osbert, and fled shrieking to the room of the CONCIERGE,

who shut her in till morning.

'And how--how,' stammered Diane, 'should you know it was the

Baron?'

Eustacie, with a death-like look, showed for a moment what even in

her swoon she had held clenched to her bosom, the velvet cap soaked

with blood.

'Besides,' added Veronique, resolved to defend her assertion, 'whom

else would the words suit? Besides, are not all the heretic

gentlemen dead? Why, as I sat there in the porter's room, I heard

M. d'O call each one of them by name, one after the other, into the

court, and there the white-sleeves cut them down or pistolled them

like sheep for the slaughter. They lie all out there on the

terrace like so many carcases at market ready for winter salting.'

'All slain?' said Eustacie, dreamily.

'All, except those that the King called into his own garde robe.'

'Then, I slew him!' Eustacie sank back.

'I tell you, child,' said Diane, almost angrily, 'he lives. Not a

hair of his head was to be hurt! The girl deceives you.'

But Eustacie had again become insensible, and awoke delirious,

entreating to have the door opened, and fancying herself still on

the revolving elysium, 'Oh, demons, have pity!' was her cry.

Diane's soothings were like speaking to the winds; and at last she

saw the necessity of calling in further aid; but afraid of the

scandal that the poor girl's raving accusations might create, she

would not send for the Huguenots surgeon, Ambroise Pare, whom the

King had carefully secured in his own apartments, but employed one

of the barber valets of the Queen-mother's household. Poor

Eustacie was well pleased to see her blood flowing, and sank back

on her pillow murmuring that she had confessed her husband's faith,

and would soon be one with him, and Diane feared for a moment lest

the swoon should indeed be death.

The bleeding was so far effectual that it diminished the fever, and

Eustacie became rational again when she had dozed and wakened, but

she was little able or willing to speak, and would not so much as

listen to Diane's asseverations that Veronique had made a frightful

error, and that the Baron would prove to be alive. Whether it were

that the admission that Diane had known of the project for

preventing the elopement that invalidated her words, or whether the

sufferer's instinct made her believe Veronique's testimony rather

than her cousin's assurances, it was all 'cramming words into her

ear against the stomach of her sense,' and she turned away from

them with a piteous, petulant hopelessness: 'Could they not even

let her alone to die in peace!'

Diane was almost angered at this little silly child being in such

an agony of sorrow--she, who could never have known how to love

him. And after all this persistent grief was willfully thrown

away. For Diane spoke in perfect sincerity when she taxed

Veronique with an injurious, barbarous mistake. She knew her

father's strong aversion to violence, and the real predilection

that Berenger's good mien, respectful manners, and liberal usage

had won from him, and she believed he had much rather the youth

lived, provided he were inoffensive. No doubt a little force had

been necessary to kidnap one so tall, active, and determined, and

Veronique had made up her horrible tale after the usual custom of

waiting-maids.

Nothing else SHOULD be true. Did she think otherwise, she should

be even more frantic than Eustacie! Why, it would be her own

doing! She had betrayed the day of the escape--she had held aloof

from warning. There was pleasure in securing Nid-de-Merle for her

brother, pleasure in balking the foolish child who had won the

heart that disregarded her. Nay, there might have been even

pleasure in the destruction of the scorner of her charms--the foe

of her house--there might have been pride in receiving Queen

Catherine's dexterous hint that she had been an apt pupil, if the

young Baron had only been something different--something less fair,

gracious, bright, and pure. One bright angel seemed to have

flitted across her path, and nothing should induce her to believe

she had destroyed him.

The stripped corpses of the murdered Huguenots of the palace had

been laid in a line on the terrace, and the ladies who had laughed

with them the night before went to inspect them in death. A few

remnants of Soeur Monique's influence would have withheld Diane,

but that a frenzy of suspense was growing on her. She must see for

herself. If it were so, she must secure a fragment of the shining

flaxen hair, if only as a token that anything so pure and bright

had walked the earth.

She went on the horrible quest, shrinking where others stared. For

it was a pitiless time, and the squadron of the Queen-mother were

as lost to womanhood as the fishwomen of two centuries later. But

Diane saw no corpse at once so tall, so young, and so fair, though

blond Normans and blue-blooded Franks, lads scarce sixteen and

stalwart warriors, lay in one melancholy rank. She at least bore

away the certainly that the English Ribaumont was not there; and if

not, he MUST be safe! She could obtain no further certainty, for

she knew that she must not expect to see either her father or

brother. There was a panic throughout the city. All Paris

imagined that the Huguenots were on the point of rising and slaying

all the Catholics, and, with the savagery of alarmed cowardice, the

citizens and the mob were assisting the armed bands of the Dukes of

Anjou and Guise to complete the slaughter, dragging their lodgers

from their hiding-places, and denouncing all whom they suspected of

reluctance to mass and confession. But on the Monday, Diane was

able to send an urgent message to her father that he must come to

speak with her, for Mdlle. De Nid-de-Merle was extremely ill. She

would meet him in the garden after morning mass.

There accordingly, when she stepped forth pale, rigid, but stately,

with her large fan in her hand to serve as a parasol, she met both

him and her brother. She was for a moment sorry, for she had much

power over her father, while she was afraid of her brother's

sarcastic tongue and eye; she knew he never scrupled to sting her

wherever she was most sensitive, and she would have been able to

extract much more from her father in his absence. France has never

been without a tendency to produce the tiger-monkey, or ferocious

fop; and the GENUS was in its full ascendancy under the sons of

Catherine de Medicis, when the dregs of Francois the First's

PSEUDO-chivalry were not extinct--when horrible, retaliating civil

wars of extermination had made life cheap; nefarious persecutions

had hardened the heart and steeled the eye, and the licentiousness

promoted by the shifty Queen as one of her instruments of

government had darkened the whole understanding. The most hateful

heights of perfidy, effeminacy, and hypocrisy were not reached till

poor Charles IX., who only committed crimes on compulsion, was in

his grave, and Henry III. on the throne; but Narcisse de Ribaumont

was one of the choice companions of the latter, and after the night

and day of murder now stood before his sister with scented hair and

handkerchief--the last, laced, delicately held by a hand in an

embroidered glove--emerald pendants in his ears, a moustache

twisted into sharp points and turned up like an eternal sardonic

smile, and he led a little white poodle by a rose-coloured ribbon.

'Well, sister,' he said, as he went, through the motions of kissing

her hand, and she embraced her father; 'so you don't know how to

deal with megrims and transports?'

'Father,' said Diane, not vouchsafing any attention, 'unless you

can send her some assurance of his life, I will not answer for the

consequences.'

Narcisse laughed: 'Take her this dog, with my compliments. That is

the way to deal with such a child as that.'

'You do not know what you say, brother,' answered Diane with

dignity. 'It goes deeper than that.'

'The deeper it goes, child,' said the elder Chevalier, 'the better

it is that she should be undeceived as soon as possible. She will

recover, and be amenable the sooner.'

'Then he lives, father?' exclaimed Diane. 'He lives, though she is

not to hear it--say----'

'What know I?' said the old man, evasively. 'On a night of

confusion many mischances are sure to occur! Lurking in the palace

at the very moment when there was a search for the conspirators, it

would have been a miracle had the poor young man escaped.'

Diane turned still whiter. 'Then,' she said, 'that was why you

made Monsieur put Eustacie into the ballet, that they might not go

on Wednesday!'

'It was well hinted by you, daughter. We could not have

effectually stopped them on Wednesday without making a scandal.'

'Once more,' said Diane, gasping, though still resolute; 'is not

the story told by Eustacie's woman false--that she saw him--

pistolled--by you, brother?'

'Peste!' cried Narcisse. 'Was the prying wench there? I thought

the little one might be satisfied that he had neighbour's fare. No

matter; what is done for one's beaux yeux is easily pardoned--and

if not, why, I have her all the same!'

'Nevertheless, daughter,' said the Chevalier, gravely, 'the woman

must be silenced. Either she must be sent home, or taught so to

swear to having been mistaken, that la petite may acquit your

brother! But what now, my daughter?'

'She is livid!' exclaimed Narcisse, with his sneer. 'What, sir,

did not you know she was smitten with the peach on the top of a

pole?'

'Enough, brother,' said Diane, recovering herself enough to speak

hoarsely, but with hard dignity. 'You have slain--you need not

insult, one whom you have lost the power of understanding!'

'Shallow schoolboys certainly form no part of my study, save to

kick them down-stairs when they grow impudent,' said Narcisse,

coolly. 'It is only women who think what is long must be grand.'

'Come, children, no disputes,' said the Chevalier. 'Of course we

regret that so fine a youth mixed himself up with the enemies of

the kingdom, like the stork among the sparrows. Both Diane and I

are sorry for the necessity; but remember, child, that when he was

interfering between your brother and his just right of inheritance

and destined wife, he could not but draw such a fate on himself.

Now all is smooth, the estates will be united in their true head,

and you--you too, my child, will be provided for as suits your

name. All that is needed is to soothe the little one, so as to

hinder her from making an outcry--and silence the maid; my child

will do her best for her father's sake, and that of her family.'

Diane was less demonstrative than most of her countrywomen. She

had had time to recollect the uselessness of giving vent to her

indignant anguish, and her brother's derisive look held her back.

The family tactics, from force of habit, recurred to her; she made

no further objection to her father's commands; but when her father

and brother parted with her, she tottered into the now empty

chapel, threw herself down, with her burning forehead on the stone

step, and so lay for hours. It was not in prayer. It was because

it was the only place where she could be alone. To her, heaven

above and earth below seemed alike full of despair, darkness, and

cruel habitations, and she lay like one sick with misery and

repugnance to the life and world that lay before her--the hard world

that had quenched that one fair light and mocked her pity. It was

a misery of solitude, and yet no thought crossed her of going to

weep and sympathize with the other sufferer. No; rivalry and

jealousy came in there! Eustacie viewed herself as his wife, and

the very thought that she had been deliberately preferred and had

enjoyed her triumph hardened Diane's heart against her. Nay, the

open violence and abandonment of her grief seemed to the more

restrained and concentrated nature of her elder a sign of

shallowness and want of durability; and in a certain contemptuous

envy at her professing a right to mourn, Diane never even

reconsidered her own resolution to play out her father's game,

consign Eustacie to her husband's murdered, and leave her to

console herself with bridal splendours and a choice of admirers

from all the court.

However, for the present Diane would rather stay away as much as

possible from the sick-bed of the poor girl; and when an

approaching step forced her to rouse herself and hurry away by the

other door of the chapel, she did indeed mount to the ladies' bed-

chamber, but only to beckon Veronique out of hearing and ask for

her mistress.

Just the same still, only sleeping to have feverish dreams of the

revolving wheel or the demons grappling her husband, refusing all

food but a little drink, and lying silent except for a few moans,

heedless who spoke or looked at her.

Diane explained that in that case it was needless to come to her,

but added, with the vraisemblance of falsehood in which she had

graduated in Catherine's school, 'Veronique, as I told you, you

were mistaken.'

'Ah, Mademoiselle, if M. le Baron lives, she will be cured at

once.'

'Silly girl,' said Diane, giving relief to her pent-up feeling by

asperity of manner, 'how could he live when you and your intrigues

got him into the palace on such a night? Dead he is, OF COURSE;

but it was your own treacherous, mischievous fancy that laid it on

my brother. He was far away with M. de Guise at the attack on the

Admiral. It was some of Monsieur's grooms you saw. You remember

she had brought him into a scrape with Monsieur, and it was sure to

be remembered. And look you, if you repeat the other tale, and do

not drive it out of her head, you need not look to be long with

her--no, nor at home. My father will have no one there to cause a

scandal by an evil tongue.'

That threat convinced Veronique that she had been right; but she,

too, had learnt lessons at the Louvre, and she was too diplomatic

not to ask pardon for her blunder, promise to contradict it when

her mistress could listen, and express her satisfaction that it was

not the Chevalier Narcisse--for such things were not pleasant, as

she justly observed, in families.

About noon on the Tuesday the Louvre was unusually tranquil. All

the world had gone forth to a procession to Notre Dame, headed by

the King and all the royal family, to offer thanksgiving for the

deliverance of the country from the atrocious conspiracy of the

Huguenots. Eustacie's chamber was freed from the bustle of all the

maids of honour arraying themselves, and adjusting curls, feathers,

ruffs and jewels; and such relief as she was capable of

experiencing she felt in the quiet.

Veronique hoped she would sleep, and watched like a dragon to guard

against any disturbance, springing out with upraised finger when a

soft gliding step and rustling of brocade was heard. 'Does she

sleep?' said a low voice; and Veronique, in the pale thin face with

tear-swollen eyes and light yellow hair, recognized the young

Queen. 'My good girl,' said Elisabeth, with almost a beseeching

gesture, 'let me see her. I do not know when again I may be able.'

Veronique stood aside, with the lowest possible of curtseys, just

as her mistress with a feeble, weary voice murmured, 'Oh, make them

let me alone!'

'My poor, poor child,' said the Queen, bending over Eustacie, while

her brimming eyes let the tears fall fast, 'I will not disturb you

long, but I could not help it.'

'Her Majesty!' exclaimed Eustacie, opening wide her eyes in

amazement.

'My dear, suffer me here a little moment,' said the meek Elisabeth,

seating herself so as to bring her face near to Eustacie's; 'I

could not rest till I had seen how it was with you and wept with

you.'

'Ah, Madame, you can weep,' said Eustacie slowly, looking at the

Queen's heavy tearful eyes almost with wonder; 'but I do not weep

because I am dying, and that is better.'

'My dear, my dear, do not so speak!' exclaimed the gentle but

rather dull Queen.

'Is it wrong? Nay, so much the better--then I shall be with HIM,'

said Eustacie in the same feeble dreamy manner, as if she did not

understand herself, but a little roused by seeing she had shocked

her visitor. 'I would not be wicked. He was all bright goodness

and truth: but his does not seem to be goodness that brings to

heaven, and I do not want to be in the heaven of these cruel false

men--I think it would go round and round.' She shut her eyes as if

to steady herself, and that moment seemed to give her more self-

recollection, for looking at the weeping, troubled visitor, she

exclaimed, with more energy, 'Oh! Madame, it must be a dreadful

fancy! Good men like him cannot be shut into those fiery gates

with the torturing devils.'

'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed the Queen. 'My poor, poor child, grieve

not yourself thus. At my home, my Austrian home, we do not speak

in this dreadful way. My father loves and honours his loyal

Protestants, and he trusts that the good God accepts their holy

lives in His unseen Church, even though outwardly they are separate

from us. My German confessor ever said so. Oh! Child, it would be

too frightful if we deemed that all those souls as well as bodies

perished in these frightful days. Myself, I believe that they have

their reward for their truth and constancy.'

Eustacie caught the Queen's hand, and fondled it with delight, as

though those words had veritably opened the gates of heaven to her

husband. The Queen went on in her slow gentle manner, the very

tone of which was inexpressibly soothing and sympathetic: 'Yes, and

all will be clear there. No more violence. At home our good men

think so, and the King will think the same when these cruel

counselors will leave him to himself; and I pray, I pray day and

night, that God will not lay this sin to his account, but open his

eyes to repent. Forgive him, Eustacie, and pray for him too.'

'The King would have saved my husband, Madame,' returned Eustacie.

'He bade him to his room. It was I, unhappy I, who detained him,

lest our flight should have been hindered.'

The Queen in her turn kissed Eustacie's forehead with eager

gratitude. 'Oh, little one, you have brought a drop of comfort to

a heavy heart. Alas! I could sometimes feel you to be a happier

wife than I, with your perfect trust in the brave pure-spirited

youth, unwarped by these wicked cruel advisers. I loved to look at

his open brow; it was so like our bravest German Junkers. And,

child, we thought, both of us, to have brought about your

happiness; but, ah! it has but caused all this misery.'

'No, no, dearest Queen,' said Eustacie, 'this month with all its

woe has been joy--life! Oh! I had rather lie here and die for his

loss than be as I was before he came. And NOW--now, you have given

him to me for all eternity--if but I am fit to be with him!'

Eustacie had revived so much during the interview that the Queen

could not believe her to be in a dying state; but she continued

very ill, the low fever still hanging about her, and the faintness

continual. The close room, the turmoil of its many inhabitants,

and the impossibility of quiet also harassed her greatly, and

Elisabeth had little or no power of making any other arrangements

for her in the palace. Ladies when ill were taken home, and this

poor child had no home. The other maids of honour were a gentler,

simpler set than Catherine's squadron, and were far from unkind;

but between them and her, who had so lately been the brightest

child of them all, there now lay that great gulf. 'Ich habe

gelebt und geliebet.' That the little blackbird, as they used to

call her, should have been on the verge of running away with her

own husband was a half understood, amusing mystery discussed in

exaggerating prattle. This was hushed, indeed, in the presence of

that crushed, prostrate, silent sorrow; but there was still an

utter incapacity of true sympathy, that made the very presence of

so many oppressive, even when they were not in murmurs discussing

the ghastly tidings of massacres in other cities, and the fate of

acquaintances.

On that same day, the Queen sent for Diane to consult her about the

sufferer. Elisabeth longed to place her in her own cabinet and

attend on her herself; but she was afraid to do this, as the

unhappy King was in such a frenzied mood, and so constantly excited

by his brother and Guise, that it was possible that some half-

delirious complaint from poor Eustacie might lead to serious

consequences. Indeed, Elisabeth, though in no state to bear

agitation, was absorbed in her endeavour to prevent him from adding

blood to blood, and a few days later actually saved the lives of

the King of Navarre and Prince of Conde, by throwing herself before

him half-dressed, and tearing his weapon from his hand. Her only

hope was that if she should give him a son, her influence for mercy

would revive with his joy. Meantime she was powerless, and she

could only devise the sending the poor little sufferer to a

convent, where the nuns might tend her till she was restored to

health and composure. Diane acquiesced, but proposed sending for

her father, and he was accordingly summoned. Diane saw him first

alone, and both agreed that he had better take Eustacie to

Bellaise, where her aunt would take good care of her, and in a few

months she would no doubt be weary enough of the country to be in

raptures to return to Paris on any terms.

Yet even as Diane said this, a sort of longing for the solitude of

the woods of Nid-de-Merle came over her, a recollection of the good

Sister Monique, at whose knee she had breathed somewhat of the free

pure air that her murdered cousin had brought with him; a sense

that there she could pour forth her sorrow. She offered herself at

once to go with Eustacie.

'No, no, my daughter,' said the Chevalier, 'that is unnecessary.

There is pleasanter employment for you. I told you that your

position was secured. Here is a brilliant offer--M. de

Selinville,'

'Le bonhomme de Selinville!' exclaimed Diane, feeling rather as

if the compensation were like the little dog offered to Eustacie.

'Know ye not that his two heretic nephews perished the other night.

He is now the head of his name, the Marquis, the only one left of

his house.'

'He begins early,' said Diane.

'An old soldier, my daughter, scarce stays to count the fallen. He

has no time to lose. He is sixty, with a damaged constitution. It

will be but the affair of a few years, and then will my beautiful

Marquise be free to choose for herself. I shall go from the young

Queen to obtain permission from the Queen-mother.'

No question was asked. Diane never even thought objection

possible. It was a close to that present life which she had begun

to loathe; it gave comparative liberty. It would dull and confuse

her heart-sick pain, and give her a certain superiority to her

brother. Moreover, it would satisfy the old father, whom she

really loved. Marriage with a worn-out old man was a simple step

to full display for young ladies without fortune.

The Chevalier told Queen Elisabeth his purpose of placing his niece

in the family convent, under the care of her aunt, the Abbess, in a

foundation endowed by her own family on the borders of her own

estate. Elisabeth would have liked to keep her nearer, but could

not but own that the change to the scenes of her childhood might be

more beneficial than a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the

Chevalier spoke of his niece with a tender solicitude that gained

the Queen's heart. She consented, only stipulating that Eustacie's

real wishes should be ascertained, and herself again made the

exertion of visiting the patient for the purpose.

Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near as she

could to the narrow window. The Queen would not let her move, but

took her damp languid hand, and detailed her uncle's proposal. It

was plain that it was not utterly distasteful. 'Soeur Monique,'

she said, 'Soeur Monique would sing hymns to me, and then I should

not see the imps at night.'

'Poor child! And you would like to go? You could bear the

journey?'

'It would be in the air! And then I should not smell blood--

blood!' And her cheeks became whiter again, if possible.

'Then you would not rather be at the Carmelites, or Maubuisson,

near me?'

'Ah! Madame, there would not be Soeur Monique. If the journey

would only make me die, as soon as I came, with Soeur Monique to

hush me, and keep off dreadful images!'

'Dear child, you should put away the thought of dying. Maybe you

are to live, that your prayers may win salvation for the soul of

him you love.'

'Oh, then! I should like to go into a convent so strict--so

strict, cried Eustacie, with renewed vigour. 'Bellaise is nothing

like strict enough. Does your Majesty indeed think that my prayers

will aid him?'

'Alas! what hope could we have but in praying?' said Elisabeth,

with tears in her eyes. 'Little one, we will be joined at least in

our prayers and intercessions: thou wilt not forget in thine one

who yet lives, unhappier than all!'

'And, oh, my good, my holy Queen, will you indeed pray for him--my

husband? He was so good, his faith can surely not long be reckoned

against him. He did not believe in Purgatory! Perhaps----' Then

frowning with a difficulty far beyond a fever-clouded brain, she

concluded--'At least, orisons may aid him! It is doing something

for him! Oh, where are my beads?--I can begin at once.'

The Queen put her arm round her, and together they said the De

profundis,--the Queen understood every word far more for the

living than the dead. Again Elisabeth had given new life to

Eustacie. The intercession for her husband was something to live

for, and the severest convent was coveted, until she was assured

that she would not be allowed to enter on any rule till she had

time to recover her health, and show the constancy of her purpose

by a residence at Bellaise.

Ere parting, however, the Queen bent over her, and colouring, as if

much ashamed of what she said, whispered--'Child, not a word of the

ceremony at Montpipeau!--you understand? The King was always

averse; it would bring him and me into dreadful trouble with THOSE

OTHERS, and alas! It makes no difference now. You will be silent?'

And Eustacie signed her acquiescence, as indeed no difficulty was

made in her being regarded as the widow of the Baron de Ribaumont,

when she further insisted on procuring a widow's dress before she

quitted her room, and declared, with much dignity, that she should

esteem no person her friend who called her Mademoiselle de Nid-de-

Merle. To this the Chevalier de Ribaumont was willing to give way;

he did not care whether Narcisse married her as Berenger's widow or

as the separated maiden wife, and he thought her vehement

opposition and dislike would die away the faster the fewer

impediments were placed in her way. Both he and Diane strongly

discouraged any attempt on Narcisse's widow part at a farewell

interview; and thus unmolested, and under the constant soothing

influence of reciting her prayers, in the trust that they were

availing her husband, Eustacie rallied so much that about ten day

after the dreadful St. Batholomew, in the early morning, she was

half-led half-carried down the stairs between her uncle and

Veronique. Her face was close muffled in her thick black veil, but

when she came to the foot of the first stairs where she had found

Berenger's cap, a terrible shuddering came on her; she again

murmured something about the smell of blood, and fell into a swoon.

'Carry her on at once,' said Diane, who was following,--'there will

be not end to it if you do not remove her immediately.'

And thus shielded from the sight of Marcisse's intended passionate

gesture of farewell at the palace-door, Eustecie was laid at full

length on the seat of the great ponderous family coach, where

Veronique hardly wished to revive her till the eight horses should

have dragged her beyond the streets of Paris, with their terrible

associations, and the gibbets still hung with the limbs of the

murdered.




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