There came a man by middle day,
He spied his sport and went away,
And brought the king that very night,
And brake my bower and slew my knight.
The Border Widow's Lament
*[footnote: Bellaise is not meant for a type of all nunneries, but
of the condition to which many of the lesser ones had come before
the general reaction and purification of the seventeenth century.]
That same Latin hymn which Cecily St. John daily chanted in her own
chamber was due from the choir of Cistercian sisters in the chapel
of the Convent of Our Lady at Bellaise, in the Bocage of Anjou; but
there was a convenient practice of lumping together the entire
night and forenoon hours at nine o'clock in the morning, and all
the evening ones at Compline, so that the sisters might have
undisturbed sleep at night and entertainment by day.
Bellaise was a very comfortable little nunnery, which only received richly
dowered inmates, and was therefore able to maintain them in much
ease, though without giving occasion to a breath of scandal.
Founded by a daughter of the first Angevin Ribaumont, it had become
a sort of appanage for the superfluous daughters of the house, and
nothing would more have amazed its present head, Eustacie Barbe de
Ribaumont,--conventually known as La Mere Marie Seraphine de St.-
Louis, and to the world as Madame de Bellaise,--than to be accused
of not fulfilling the intentions of the Bienheureuse Barbe, the
foundress, or of her patron St. Bernard.
Madame de Bellaise was a fine-looking woman of forty, in a high
state of preservation, owing to the healthy life she had led. Her
eyes were of brilliant, beautiful black her complexion had a glow,
her hair--for she wore it visibly--formed crisp rolls of jetty
ringlets on her temples, almost hiding her close white cap. The
heavy thick veil was tucked back beneath the furred purple silk
hood that fastened under her chin. The white robes of her order
were not of serge, but of the finest cloth, and were almost hidden
by a short purple cloak with sleeves, likewise lined and edged with
fur, and fastened on the bosom with a gold brooch.
Her fingers, bearing more rings than the signet of her house, were concealed in
embroidered gauntlets of Spanish leather. One of them held an
ivory-handled riding-rod, the other the reins of the well-fed
jennet, on which the lady, on a fine afternoon, late in the
Carnival, was cantering home through the lanes of the Bocage, after
a successful morning's hawking among the wheat-ears. She was
attended by a pair of sisters, arrayed somewhat in the same style,
and by a pair of mounted grooms, the falconer with his charge
having gone home by a footway.
The sound of horses' feet approaching made her look towards a long
lane that came down at right angles to that along which she was
riding, and slacken her pace before coming to its opening. And as
she arrived at the intersection, she beheld advancing, mounted on a
little rough pony, the spare figure of her brother the Chevalier,
in his home suit, so greasy and frayed, that only his plumed hat
(and a rusty plume it was) and the old sword at his side showed his
high degree.
He waved his hand to her as a sign to halt, and rode quickly up,
scarcely giving time for a greeting ere he said, 'Sister the little
one is not out with you.'
'No, truly, the little mad thing, she is stricter and more head-
strong than ever was her preceptress. Poor Monique! I had hoped
that we should be at rest when that cass-tete had carried off her
scruples to Ste.-Claire, at Lucon, but here is this little droll
far beyond her, without being even a nun!'
'Assuredly not. The business must be concluded at once. She must
be married before Lent.'
'That will scarce be--in her present frame.'
'It must be. Listen, sister. Here is this miserable alive!'
'Her spouse!'
'Folly about her spouse! The decree from Rome has annulled the
foolish mummery of her infancy. It came a week after the
Protestant conspiracy, and was registered when the Norman peasants
at Chateau Leurre showed contumacy. It was well; for, behold, our
gallant is among his English friends, recovering, and even writing
a billet. Anon he will be upon our hands in person. By the best
fortune, Gillot fell in with his messenger this morning, prowling
about on his way to the convent, and brought him to me to be
examined. I laid him fat in ward, and sent Gillot off to ride day
and night to bring my son down to secure the girl at once.'
'You will never obtain her consent. She is distractedly in love
with his memory! Let her guess at his life, and---'
'Precisely. Therefore must we be speedy. All Paris knows it by
this time, for the fellow went straight to the English Ambassador;
and I trust my son has been wise enough to set off already; for
should we wait till after Lent, Monsieur le Baron himself might be
upon us.'
'Poor child! You men little heed how you make a woman suffer.'
'How, Reverend Mother! you pleading for a heretic marriage, that
would give our rights to a Huguenot--what say I?--an English
renegade!'
'I plead not, brother. The injustice towards you must be repaired;
but I have a certain love for my niece, and I fear she will be
heartbroken when she learns the truth, the poor child.'
'Bah! The Abbess should rejoice in thus saving her soul! How if
her heretic treated Bellaise like the convents of England?'
'No threats, brother. As a daughter of Ribaumont and a mother of
the Church will I stand by you,' said the Abbess with dignity.
'And now tell me how it has been with the child. I have not seen
her since we agreed that the request did but aggravate her. You
said her health was better since her nurse had been so often with
her, and that she had ceased from her austerities.'
'Not entirely; for when first she came, in her transports of
despair and grief on finding Soeur Monique removed, she extorted
from Father Bonami a sort of hope that she might yet save her
husband's, I mean the Baron's soul. Then, truly, it was a frenzy
of fasts and prayers. Father Bonami has made his profit, and so
have the fathers of Chollet--all her money has gone in masses, and
in alms to purchase the prayers of the poor, and she herself
fasting on bread and water, kneeling barefooted in the chapel till
she was transfixed with cold. No chaufferette, not she!
Obstinate to the last degree! Tell her she would die--it was the
best news one could bring; all her desire, to be in a more rigid
house with Soeur Monique at Lucon. At length, Mere Perrine and
Veronique found her actually fainting and powerless with cold on
the chapel-floor; and since that time she has been more reasonable.
There are prayers as much as ever; but the fancy to kill herself
with fasting has passed. She begins to recover her looks, nay,
sometimes I have thought she had an air of hope in her eyes and
lips; but what know I? I have much to occupy me, and she persists
in shutting herself up with her woman.'
'You have not allowed her any communication from without?'
'Mere Perrine has come and gone freely; but she is nothing. No,
the child could have no correspondence. She did, indeed, write a
letter to the Queen, as you know, brother, six weeks ago; but that
has never been answered, nor could any letters have harmed you,
since it is only now that this young man is known to be living.'
'You are right, sister. No harm can have been done. All will go
well. The child must be wearied with her frenzy of grief and
devotion! She will catch gladly at an excuse for change. A scene
or two, and she will readily yield!'
'It is true,' said the Abbess, thoughtfully, 'that she has walked
and ridden out lately. She has asked questions about her Chateaux,
and their garrisons. I have heard nothing of the stricter convent
for many weeks; but still, brother, you must go warily to work.'
'And you, sister, must show no relenting. Let her not fancy she
can work upon you.'
By this time the brother and sister were at the gateway of the
convent; a lay sister presided there, but there was no cloture,
as the strict seclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier
rode into the cloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been
entering a secular Chateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall,
and followed Madame de Bellaise to the parlour, while she
dispatched a request that her niece would attend her there.
The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large
room furnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions,
much like other reception-rooms. A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed
upon the hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as
indeed an ecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup
with the ladies that evening.
After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a
low voice at the door was heard, saying, 'Deus vobiscum.' The
Abbess answered, 'Et cum spiritu tuo;' and on this monastic
substitute for a knock and 'come in,' there appeared a figure
draped and veiled from head to foot in heavy black, so as to look
almost like a sable moving cone. She made an obeisance as she
entered, saying, 'You commanded my presence, Madame?'
'Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of moment.'
'At his service. I, too, would speak to him.'
'First, then, my dear friend,' said the Chevalier, 'let me see you.
That face must not be muffled any longer from those who love you.'
She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade
her turn back her veil. She did so, and disclosed the little face,
so well known to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the
dark eyes sparkling, though at once softer and more resolute.
'Ah! my fair niece,' said the Chevalier, 'this is no visage to be
hidden! I am glad to see it re-embellished, and it will be
lovelier than ever when you have cast off this disguised.'
'That will never be,' said Eustacie.
'Ah! we know better! My daughter is sending down a counterpart of
her own wedding-dress for your bride of the Mardi-Gras.'
'And who may that bride be?' said Eustacie, endeavouring to speak
as though it were nothing to her.
'Nay, ma petite! it is too long to play the ignorant when the
bridegroom is on his way from Paris.'
'Madame,' said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, 'you cannot suffer
this scandal. The meanest peasant may weep her first year of
widowhood in peace.'
'Listen, child. There are weighty reasons. The Duke of Anjou is a
candidate for the throne of Poland, and my son is to accompany him
thither. He must go as Marquis de Nid de Merle, in full possession
of your estates.'
'Let him take them,' began Eustacie, 'who first commits a cowardly
murder, and then forces himself on the widow he has made?'
'Folly, child, folly,' said the Chevalier, who supposed her
ignorant of the circumstances of her husband's assassination; and
the Abbess, who was really ignorant, exclaimed--'Fid donc niece;
you know not what you say.'
'I know, Madame--I know from an eye-witness,' said Eustacie,
firmly. 'I know the brutal words that embittered my husband's
death; and were there no other cause, they would render wedlock
with him who spoke them sacrilege.' Resolutely and steadily did
the young wife speak, looking at them with the dry fixed eye to
which tears had been denied ever since that eventful night.'
'Poor child,' said the Chevalier to his sister. 'She is under the
delusion still. Husband! There is none in the case.' Then waving
his hand as Eustacie's face grew crimson, and her eyes flashed
indignation, while her lips parted, 'It was her own folly that
rendered it needful to put an end to the boy's presumption. Had
she been less willful and more obedient, instead of turning the
poor lad's head by playing at madame, we could have let him return
to his island fogs; but when SHE encouraged him in contemplating
the carrying her away, and alienating her and her lands from the
true faith, there was but one remedy--to let
him perish with the rest. My son is willing to forgive her
childish pleasure in a boy's passing homage, and has obtained the
King's sanction to an immediate marriage.'
'Which, to spare you, my dear,' added the aunt, 'shall take place
in our chapel.'
'It shall never take place anywhere,' said Eustacie, quietly,
though with a quiver in her voice; 'no priest will wed me when he
has heard me.'
'The dispensation will overcome all scruples,' said the Abbess.
'Hear me, niece. I am sorry for you, but it is best that you
should know at once that there is nothing in heaven or earth to aid
you in resisting your duty.'
Eustacie made no answer, but there was a strange half-smile on her
lip, and a light in her eye which gave her an air not so much of
entreaty as of defiance. She glanced from one to the other, as if
considering, but then slightly shook her head. 'What does she
mean?' asked the Chevalier and the Abbess one of another, as, with
a dignified gesture, she moved to leave the room.
'Follow her. Convince her that she has no hope,' said the uncle;
and the Abbess, moving faster than her wont, came up with her at
the archway whence one corridor led to the chapel, another to her
own apartments. Her veil was down again, but her aunt roughly
withdrew it, saying, 'Look at me, Eustacie. I come to warn you
that you need not look to tamper with the sisters. Not one will
aid you in your headstrong folly. If you cast not off ere supper-
time this mockery of mourning, you shall taste of that discipline
you used to sigh for. We have borne with your fancy long enough--
you, who are no more a widow than I--nor wife.'
'Wife and widow am I in the sight of Him who will protect me,' said
Eustacie, standing her ground.
'Insolent! Why, did I not excuse this as a childish delusion,
should I not spurn one who durst love--what say I--not a heretic
merely, but the foe of her father's house?'
'He!' cried Eustacie; 'what had he ever done?'
'He inherited the blood of the traitor Baron,' returned her aunt.
'Ever have that recreant line injured us! My nephew's sword
avenged the wrongs of many generations.'
'Then,' said Eustacie, looking at her with a steady, fixed look of
inquire, 'you, Madame l'Abbesse, would have neither mercy nor pity
for the most innocent offspring of the elder line?'
'Girl, what folly is this to talk to me of innocence. That is not
the question. The question is--obey willingly as my dear daughter,
or compulsion must be used.'
'My question is answered,' said Eustacie, on her side. 'I see that
there is neither pity nor hope from you.'
And with another obeisance, she turned to ascend the stairs.
Madame paced back to her brother.
'What,' he said; 'you have not yet dealt with her?'
'No, brother, I never saw a like mood. She seems neither to fear
nor to struggle. I knew she was too true a Ribaumont for weak
tears and entreaties; but, fiery little being as once she was, I
looked to see her force spend itself in passion, and that then the
victory would have been easy; but no, she ever looks as if she had
some inward resource--some security--and therefore could be calm.
I should deem it some Huguenot fanaticism, but she is a very saint
as to the prayers of the Church, the very torment of our lives.'
'Could she escape?' exclaimed the Chevalier, who had been
considering while his sister was speaking.
'Impossible! Besides, where could she go? But the gates shall be
closed. I will warn the portress to let none pass out without my
permission.'
'The Chevalier took a turn up and down the room; then exclaimed,
'It was very ill-advised to let her women have access to her! Let
us have Veronique summoned instantly.'
At that moment, however, the ponderous carriage of Monseigneur,
with out-riders, both lay and clerical, came trampling up to the
archway, and the Abbess hurried off to her own apartment to divest
herself of her hunting-gear ere she received her guest; and the
orders to one of the nuns to keep a watch on her niece were oddly
mixed with those to the cook, confectioner, and butterer.
La Mere Marie Saraphine was not a cruel or an unkind woman. She
had been very fond of her pretty little niece in her childhood, but
had deeply resented the arrangement which had removed her from her
own superintendence to that of the Englishwoman, besides the
uniting to the young Baron one whom she deemed the absolute right
of Narcisse. She had received Eustacie on her first return with
great joy, and had always treated her with much indulgence, and
when the drooping,
broken-hearted girl came back once more to the shelter of her
convent, the good-humoured Abbess only wished to make her happy
again.
But Eustacie's misery was far beyond the ken of her aunt, and the
jovial turn of these consolations did but deepen her agony. To be
congratulated on her release from the heretic, assured of future
happiness with her cousin, and, above all, to hear Berenger abused
with all the bitterness of rival family and rival religion, tore up
the lacerated spirit. Ill, dejected, and broken down, too subdued
to fire up in defence, and only longing for the power of indulging
in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunk from her, and wrapped herself
up in the ceaseless round of masses and prayers, in which she was
allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope for her husband's soul.
The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent or matters of
pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console where she
could not sympathize, trusted that the fever of devotion would wear
itself out, and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two
were decorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious
worker of tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as
confectioners. Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days;
now she was out of their reach, they tried in turn to comfort her;
and when she would not be comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by
the presence of one whose austerity reproached their own laxity;
they resented her disappointment at Soeur Monique's having been
transferred to Lucon, and they, too, left her to the only persons
whose presence she had ever seemed to relish,--namely, her maid
Veronique, and Veronique's mother, her old nurse Perrine, wife of a
farmer about two miles off. The woman had been Eustacie's
foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of the
caressing care of a nurse.
After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment looked towards
the chapel, then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, 'No! no!
speed is my best hope;' and at once mounted the stairs, and entered
a room, where the large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the
holy water font gave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw
pallet covered with sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained
couch driven into the rear, as unused.
She knelt for a moment before the Madonna; 'Ave Maria, be with me
and mine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One
from cruel men. Have thou pity on the fatherless!'
Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Veronique
entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same
moment began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten
her dress.
'Make haste, Veronique. A dress of thine---'
'All is known, then!' cried Veronique, throwing up her arms.
'No, but he is coming--Narcisse--to marry me at once--Marde-Gras-
--'
'Et quoi? Madame has but to speak the word, and it is
impossible.'
'And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere
speaking that word. I asked her, Veronique! She would have
vengeance on the most guiltless--the most guiltless--do you hear?--
of the Norman house. Never, never shall she have the chance!
Come, thy striped petticoat!'
'But, oh! what will Madame do? Where would she go? Oh! it is
impossible.'
'First to thy father's. Yes, I know. He has once called it a
madness to think of rallying my vassals to protect their lady.
That was when he heard of it from thee--thou faint of heart--and
thy mother. I shall speak to him in person now. Make haste, I
tell thee, girl. I must be out of this place before I am watched
or guarded,' she added breathlessly. 'I feel as if each moment I
lost might have death upon it;' and she looked about her like a
startled deer.
'To my father's. Ah! there it is not so ill! But the twilights,
the length of way,' sobbed Veronique, in grievous distress and
perplexity. 'Oh! Madame, I cannot see you go. The Mother Abbess
is good. She must have pity. Oh, trust to her!'
'Trust! Did I not trust to my cousin Diane? Never! Nothing will
kill me but remaining in their hands.'
Veronique argued and implored in vain. Ever since, in the height
of those vehement austerities by which the bereaved and shattered
sufferer strove to appease her wretchedness by the utmost endeavour
to save her husband's soul, the old foster-mother had made known to
her that she might thus sacrifice another than herself. Eustacie's
elastic heart had begun to revive, with all its dauntless strength
of will. What to her women seemed only a fear, was to her only a
hope.
Frank and confiding as was her nature, however, the cruel
deceptions already practiced on her by her own kindred, together
with the harsh words with which the Abbess spoke of Berenger, had
made her aware that no comfort must be looked for in that quarter.
It was, after all, perhaps her won instinct, and the aunt's want of
sympathy, that withheld her from seeking counsel of any save
Perrine and her daughter, at any rate till she could communicate
with the kind young Queen. To her, then, Eustacie had written,
entreating that a royal mandate would recall her in time to bestow
herself in some trustworthy hands, or even in her husband's won
Norman castle, where his heir would be both safe and welcome. But
time has passed--the whole space that she had reckoned as needful
for the going and coming of her messenger--allowing for all the
obstructions of winter roads--nay, he had come back; she knew
letter was delivered, but answer there was none. It might yet
come--perhaps a royal carriage and escort--and day after day had
she waited and hoped, only tardily admitting the conviction that
Elisabeth of Austria was as powerless as Eustacie de Ribaumont, and
meantime revolving and proposing many a scheme that could only have
entered the brain of a brave-spirited child as she was. To appeal
to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinous old tower in the
woods, and thence send for aid to the Montmorencys; to ride to
Saumur, and claim the protection of the governor of the province;
to make her way to the coast and sail for England; to start for
Paris, and throw herself in person on the Queen's protection,--all
had occurred to her, and been discussed with her two confidantes;
but the hope of the Queen's interference, together with the
exceeding difficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from
taking any steps, since no suspicion had arisen in the minds of
those about her. Veronique, caring infinitely more for her
mistress's health and well-being than for the object of Eustacie's
anxieties, had always secretly trusted that delay would last till
action was impossible, and that the discovery would be made, only
without her being accused of treason. In the present stress of
danger, she could but lament and entreat, for Eustacie's resolution
bore her down; and besides, as she said to herself, her Lady was
after all going to her foster-father and mother, who would make her
hear reason, and bring her back at once, and then there would be no
anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddy length of walk would
be the worst of it--and, bah! most likely Madame would be convinced
by it, and return of her own accord.
So Veronique, though not intermitting her protests, adjusted her
own dress upon her mistress,--short striped petticoat, black
bodice, winged turban-like white cap, and a great muffling gray
cloth cloak and hook over the head and shoulders--the costume in
which Veronique was wont to run to her home in the twilight on
various errands, chiefly to carry her mistress's linen; for
starching Eustacie's plain bands and cuffs was Mere Perrine's
special pride. The wonted bundle, therefore, now contained a few
garments, and the money and jewels, especially the chaplet of
pearls, which Eustacie regarded as a trust.
Sobbing, and still protesting, Veronique, however, engaged that if
her Lady succeeded in safely crossing the kitchen in the twilight,
and in leaving the convent, she would keep the secret of her escape
as long as possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and
making such excuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of
her flight till next day.
'And then,' said Eustacie, 'I will send for thee, either to Saumur
or to the old tower! Adieu, dear Veronique, do not be frightened.
Thou dost not know how glad I am that the time for doing something
is come! To-morrow!'
'To-morrow!' thought Veronique, as she shut the door; 'before that
you will be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling,
weeping, in dire need of being comforted. But I will make up a
good fire, and shake out the bed. I'll let her have no more of
that villainous palliasse. No, no, let her try her own way, and
repent of it; then, when this matter is over, she will turn her
mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be no more languishing
in this miserable hole.'