No, my good Lord, Diana--

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

A late autumn journey from the west coast to Paris was a more

serious undertaking in the sixteenth century than the good seaman

Master Hobbs was aware of, or he would have used stronger

dissuasive measures against such an undertaking by the two youths,

when the elder was in so frail a state of health; but there had

been a certain deceptive strength and vigour about young Ribaumont

while under strong excitement and determination, and the whole

party fancied him far fitter to meet the hardships than was really

the case. Philip Thistlewood always recollected that journey as

the most distressing period of his life.

They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore found the

hiring of horses often extremely difficult. They had intended to

purchase, but found no animals that, as Philip said, they would

have accepted as a gift, though at every wretched inn where they

had to wait while the country was scoured for the miserable jades,

their proposed requirements fell lower and lower. Dens of smoke,

dirt, and boorishness were the great proportion of those inns,

where they were compelled to take refuge by the breaking down of

one or other of the beasts, or by stress of weather.

Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety rendering the roads

impassable; and at the best, the beasts could seldom be urged

beyond a walk, fetlock-deep in mire or water. Worse than all,

Berenger, far from recovered, and under the heavy oppression of a

heartrending grief, could hardly fail to lose the ground that he

had gained under the influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix

itself on the wound on his cheek, terrible pain and swelling set

in, depriving him entirely of sleep, permitting him to take no

nourishment but fragments of soft crumbs soaked in wine or broth--

when the inns afforded any such fare--and rendering speech

excessively painful, and at last unintelligible.

Happily this was not until Philip and Humfrey both had picked up

all the most indispensable words to serve their needs, and storming

could be done in any language. Besides, they had fallen in at La

Motte-Achard with a sharp fellow named Guibert, who had been at

sea, and knew a little English, was a Norman by birth, knew who the

Baron de Ribaumont was, and was able to make himself generally

useful, though ill supplying the place of poor Osbert, who would

have been invaluable in the present predicament. Nothing was so

much dreaded by any of the party as that their chief should become

utterly unable to proceed. Once let him be laid up at one of these

little auberges, and Philip felt as if all would be over with

him; and he himself was always the most restlessly eager to push

on, and seemed to suffer less even in the biting wind and sleet

than on the dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of the

inns. That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only

comfort, and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding him

whenever his head seemed aching or heated; and under this well-

meant surgery it was no wonder that he grew weaker every day, in

spite of the most affectionate and assiduous watching on his

brother's part.

Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the cross-

roads, or rather in endless delays; and when at last they came on

more frequented ways, with better inns, well-paved chaussees, and

horses more fit for use, Berenger was almost beyond feeling the

improvement. At their last halt, even Philip was for waiting and

sending on to Paris to inform Sir Francis Walsingham of their

situation; but Berenger only shook his head, dressed himself, and

imperatively signed to go on. It was a bright morning, with a

clear frost, and the towers and steeples of Paris presently began

to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; but by this time

Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently became so

faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift him

from his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little

back from the road.

'Look up, sir, it is but a league further,' quoth Humfrey; 'I can

see the roof of the big church they call Notre-Dame.'

'He does not open his eyes, he is swooning,' said Philip. 'He must

have some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no

lace where we could get a drop of wine or strong waters?'

'Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but 'twas

a nunnery, as good as a grave against poor travelers. I would ride

on, and get some of Sir Francis's folk to bring a litter or coach,

but I doubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young

Lord's safe-conduct.'

Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but

sank back against Philip's shoulder. Just then, a trampling and

lumbering became audible, and on the road behind appeared first

three horsemen riding abreast, streaming with black and white

ribbons; then eight pair of black horses, a man walking at the

crested heads of each couple, and behind these a coach, shaped like

an urn reversed, and with a coronet on the top, silvered, while the

vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted, alternately black, with

silver figures, and white with black landscapes; and with white

draperies, embroidered with black and silver, floating from the

windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stood

behind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached the

group by the road-side, one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly,

'Over near the walls from an affair of honour! Has he caught it

badly? Who was the other?'

Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, the coach

stopped, a lady's head and hand appeared, and a female voice

exclaimed, in much alarm, 'Halt! Ho, you there, in our colours,

come here. What is it? My brother here? Is he wounded?'

'It is no wound, Madame,' said Guibert, shoved forward by his

English comrades, 'it is M.le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill,

and--ah! here is Monsieur Philippe.'

For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the

most beautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward,

hat in hand, as she exclaimed, 'Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be

true? What means this? What ails him?'

'It is his wound, Madame,' said Philip, in his best French; 'it has

broken out again, and he has almost dropped from his horse from

defaillance.'

'Ah, bring him here--lay him on the cushions, we will have the

honour of transporting him,' cried the lady; and, regardless of the

wet road, she sprang out of the coach, with her essences in her

hand, followed by at least three women, two pages, and two little

white dogs which ran barking towards the prostrate figure, but were

caught up by their pages. 'Ah, cousin, how dreadful,' she cried,

as she knelt down beside him, and held her essences towards him.

Voice and scent revived him, and with a bewildered look and gesture

half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed round him, then rose to

his feet without assistance, bent his head, and making a sign that

he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse.

'Cousin, cousin,' exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes

tears were standing, 'you will let me take you into the city--you

cannot refuse.'

'Berry, indeed you cannot ride,' entreated Philip; 'you must take

her offer. Are you getting crazed at last?'

Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy;

the exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and

bending his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black

and white coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip's arm, and said

impressively, 'Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine

lady, sister to the murderous villain that set upon him. If you

would save his life, don't quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere

than to our Ambassador's. I'll not leave the coach-door, and as

soon as we are past the barriers, I'll send Jack Smithers to make

known we are coming.'

Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach,

where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a

corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon

the white velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with

devices and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or

setting suns, made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to

have disposed of themselves in various nooks of the ample

conveyance, and Philip, rather at a loss to explain his intrusion,

perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the cushions in front of

his brother, thinking that Humfrey was an officious, suspicious

fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who seemed so exceedingly

shocked and grieved at Berenger's condition. 'Ah! I never guessed

it had been so frightful as this. I should not have known him.

Ah! had I imagined---' She leant back, covered her face, and wept,

as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward,

and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was

at once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast.

'Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?' she asked, with

sympathy and tenderness that went to Philip's heart, and he

explained. 'He cannot speak, Madame; the shot in his cheek' (the

lady shuddered, and put her handkerchief to her eyes) 'from time to

time cases this horrible swelling and torture. After that he will

be better.'

'Frightful, frightful,' she sighed, 'but we will do our best to

make up. You, sir, must be his trucheman.'

Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man

that might be, made answer, 'I am his brother, Madame.'

'Eh! Monsieur son frere. Had Madame sa mere a son so old?'

'I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband's son, at your service,

Madame,' said Philip, colouring up to the ears; 'I came with him

for he is too weak to be alone.'

'Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir,' she said, with a

not unflattering surprise. 'But whence are you come? I little

looked to see Monsieur here.'

'We came from Anjou, Madame. We went to La Sablerie,' and he broke

off.

'I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the heart;' and

again she wiped away tear. 'And now---'

'We are coming to the Ambassador's to obtain'--he stopped, for

Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved

his embarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear

cousin go to the Ambassador's when he was among his own kindred.

Perhaps Monsieur did not know her; she must present herself as

Madame de Selinville, nee de Ribaumont, a poor cousin of ce cher

Baron, 'and even a little to you, M. le frere, if you will own

me,' and she held out a hand, which he ought to have kissed, but

not knowing how, he only shook it. She further explained that her

brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King of Poland, but that

her father lived with her at her hotel, and would be enchanted to

see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be desolated

at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She had been

returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she had been

praying for the soul of the late M. de Selinville, when a true

Providence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now,

nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried

at once to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the

Ambassador, and where every comfort should await him. She clasped

her hands in earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her

kindness and perceiving that every jolt of the splendid by

springless vehicle caused Berenger's head a shoot of anguish, was

almost acceding to her offer, when he was checked by one of the

most imperative of those silent negatives. Hitherto, Master

Thistlewood had been rather proud of his bad French, and as long as

he could be understood, considered trampling on genders, tenses,

and moods as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he would just now

have given a great deal for the command of any language but a

horseboy's, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. 'Merci,

Madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passe notre parole d'aller

droit a l'Ambassadeur's et pas ou else,' did not sound very right

to his ears ; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew

that if Berry had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would

have smiled now. But this most charming and polite of ladies never

betrayed it, if it were ever such bad French; she only bowed her

head, and said something very pretty--if only he could make it out

--of being the slave of one's word, and went on persuading. Nor

did it make the conversation easier, that she inquired after

Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he were unconscious,

while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, that he was

aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as

possible should be said, and determined against being taken to her

hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that

had it not been for Humfrey's words, he would have doubted whether,

in spite of all his bleeding, his brother's brain were not

wandering.

However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn

to the Ambassador's hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a

hearty greeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the

time the carriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the

steps, including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more

than a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become uneasy at

the non-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers's appearance,

all had been made ready; and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy

movements, made courteous gestures of thanks to the lady, and

alighted form the coach, he was absolutely received into the

dignified arms of the Ambassador. 'Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad

to see you here again, though in such different guise. Your

chamber is ready for you, and I have sent my secretary to see if

Maitre Par be at home, so we will, with God's help, have you better

at ease anon.'

Even Philip's fascination by Madame de Selinville could not hold

out against the comfort of hearing English voices all round him,

and of seeing his brother's anxious brow expand, and his hand and

eyes return no constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on

both sides; the Ambassador thanked the lady for the assistance she

had rendered to his young friend and guest; she answered with a

shade of stiffness, that she left her kinsman in good hands, and

said she should send to inquire that evening, and her father would

call on the morrow; then, as Lady Walsingham did not ask her in,

the black and white coach drove away.

The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and

spoke no word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and

turned at length into another great courtyard, surrounded with

buildings, where she alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty

hall, where ranks of servants stoop up and bowed as she passed;

then she ascended a wide carved staircase, opened a small private

door, and entered a tiny wainscoted room hardly large enough for

her farthingale to turn round in. 'You, Veronique, come in--only

you,' she said, at the door; and a waiting-woman, who had been in

the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad in the Angevin costume, but in

the richer and less characteristic dress of the ordinary Parisian

femme de chambre.

'Undo my mantle in haste!' gasped Madame de Selinville. 'O

Veronique--you saw--what destruction!'

'Ah! if my sweet young lady only known how frightful he had become,

she had never sacrificed herself,' sighed Veronique.

'Frightful! What, with the grave blue eyes that seem like the

steady avenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the

picture at the Louvre?' murmured Madame de Selinville; then she

added quickly, 'Yes, yes, it is well. She and you, Veronique, may

see him frightful and welcome. There are other eyes--make haste,

girl. There--another handerchief. Follow me not.'

And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great

state bedroom and the salle beyond, to another chamber where more

servants waited and rose at her entrance.

'Is any one with my father?'

'No, Madame;' and a page knocking, opened the door and announced,

'Madame la Comtesse.'

The Chevalier, in easy deshabille, with a flask of good wine,

iced water, and delicate cakes and confitures before him, a witty

and licentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily

enjoying the luxuries that it had been his daughter's satisfaction

to procure for him ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet

her with a grace and deference that showed how different a person

was the Comtesse de Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont.

'Ah! ma belle, my sweet,' as there was a mutual kissing of hands,

'thou art returned. Had I known thine hour, I had gone down for

thy first embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child; the convent

has made thee lovelier than ever.'

'Father, who think you is here? It is he--the Baron.'

'The Baron? Eh, father!' she cried impetuously. 'Who could it be

but one?'

'My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head can never be

thrusting himself here again.'

'But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my coach! I left

him at the Ambassador's.'

'Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will be ten thousand

fresh imbroglios.'

'I could not; he is as immovable as ever, though unable to speak!

Oh, father, he is very ill, he suffers terribly. Oh, Narcisse!

Ah! may I never see him again!'

'But what brings him blundering her again?' exclaimed the

Chevalier. 'Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded

against that! He knows nothing of the survivance.'

'I cannot tell much. He could not open his mouth, and his half-

brother, a big dull English boy, stammered out a few words of

shocking French against his will. But I believe they had heard of

la pauvre petite at La Sablerie, came over for her, and finding

the ruin my brother makes wherever he goes, are returning seeking

intelligence and succour for HIM.'

'That may be,' said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. 'It is well thy

brother is in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we

may get him back to England ere my son learns that he is here.'

'Father, there is a better way! Give him my hand.'

'Eh quoi, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are a

thousand better marriages.'

'No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all--

all that I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever

all his claims to the ancestral castle--to La Leurre, and above

all, that claim to Nid de Merle as Eustacie's widower, which,

should he ever discover the original contract, will lead to endless

warfare.'

'His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet--yet there might be

doubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formally

renewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child,

it is a horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no

warning, and the poor things had made off together. We could have

cried shame till we forced out a provision for thy brother; and my

poor little Eustacie---' He had tears in his eyes as he broke off.

Diane made an impatient gesture. 'She would have died of tedium in

England, or broken forth so as to have a true scandal. That is all

over, father, now; weigh my proposal! Nothing else will save my

brother from all that his cruel hand merits! You will win infinite

credit at court. The King loved him more than you thought safe.'

'The King has not a year to live, child, and he has personally

offended the King of Poland. Besides, this youth is heretic.'

'Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he had by an

abjuration. And as to Monsieur's enmity, if it be not forgotten,

the glory of bringing about a conversion would end that at once.'

'Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury himself among

the English.'

'It was unavoidable, father, and perhaps if he were here he would

live in an untamable state of distrust, whereas we may now win him

gradually. You will go and see him to-morrow, my dear father.'

'I must have time to think of this thy sudden device.'

'Nay, he is in no condition to hear of it at present. I did but

speak now, that you might not regard it as sudden when the fit

moment comes. It is the fixed purpose of my mind. I am no girl

now, and I could act for myself if I would; but as it is for your

interest and that of my brother thus to dispose of me, it is better

that you should act for me.'

'Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal,' said the

Chevalier, looking up at his daughter's handsome head drawn up

proudly with determination.

'Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me.' And Diane sailed

away in her sweeping folds of black brocade.

In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands locked together

before a much-gilded little waxem figure of St. Eustacie with his

cross-bearing stag by his side, which stood in a curtained recess

in the alcove where her stately bed was placed.

'Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles everyday to your shrine

at Bellaise, so he recovers; ten more if he listen favourably and

loves me. Nay, all--all the Selinville jewels to make you a

shrine. All--all, so he will only let me love him;' and then,

while taking up the beads, and pronouncing the repeated devotions

attached to each, her mind darted back to the day when, as young

children, she had played unfairly, defrauded Landry Osbert, and

denied it; how Berenger, though himself uninjured, had refused to

speak to her all that day--how she had hated him then--how she had

thought she had hated him throughout their brief intercourse in the

previous year; how she had played into her brother's hands; and

when she thought to triumph over the man who had scorned her, found

her soul all blank desolation, and light gone out from the earth!

Reckless and weary, she had let herself be united to M. de

Selinville, and in her bridal honours and amusements had tried to

crowd out the sense of dreariness and lose herself in excitement.

Then came the illness and death of her husband, and almost at the

same time the knowledge of Berenger's existence. She sought

excitement again that feverish form of devotion then in vogue at

Paris, and which resulted in the League. She had hitherto stunned

herself as it were with penances, processions, and sermons, for

which the host of religious orders then at Paris had given ample

scope; and she was constantly devising new extravagances. Even at

this moment she wore sackcloth beneath her brocade, and her rosary

was of death's heads. She was living on the outward husk of the

Roman Church not penetrating into its living power, and the phase

of religion which fostered Henry III. and the League offered her no

more.

All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast glance of

those two eyes, the only feature still unchanged in the marred,

wrecked countenance. That honest, quiet refusal, that look which

came from a higher atmosphere, had filled her heart with passionate

beatings and aspirations once more, and more consciously than ever.

Womanly feeling for suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to

him, and earn his love, nay wrest it from him by the benefits she

would heap upon him, were all at work; but the primary sense was

the longing to rest on the only perfect truth she had ever known in

man, and thus with passionate ardour she poured forth her

entreaties to St. Eustache, a married saint, who had known love,

and could feel for her, and could surely not object to the

affection to which she completely gave way for one whose hand was

now as free as her own.

But St. Eustache was not Diane's only hope. That evening she sent

Veronique to Rene of Milan, the court-perfumer, but also called by

the malicious, l'empoisonneur de le Reine, to obtain from him the

most infallible charm and love potion in his whole repertory.




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