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.'




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