Next, Sirs, did he marry?

And whom, Sirs, did he marry? One like himself,

Though doubtless graced with many virtues, young,

And erring, and in nothing more astray

Than in this marriage.--TAYLOR, EDWIN THE FAIR.

Nothing could be kinder than the Ambassador's family, and Philip

found himself at once at home there, at least in his brother's

room, which was all the world to him. fortunately, Ambroise Pare,

the most skillful surgeon of his day, had stolen a day from his

attendance of King Charles, at St. Germain, to visit his Paris

patients, and, though unwilling to add to the list of cases, when

he heard from Walsingham's secretary who the suffer was, and when

injured, he came at once to afford his aid.

He found, however, that there was little scope for present

treatment, he could only set his chief assistant to watch the

patient and to inform him when the crisis should be nearer; but

remarking the uneasy, anxious expression in Berenger's eyes, he

desired to know whether any care on his mind might be interfering

with his recovery. A Huguenot, and perfectly trustworthy, he was

one who Walsingham knew might safely hear the whole, and after

hearing all, he at once returned to his patient, and leaning over

him, said, 'Vex not yourself, sir; your illness is probably serving

you better than health could do.'

Sir Francis thought this quite probable, since Charles was so

unwell and so beset with his mother's creatures that no open

audience could be obtained from him, and Pare, who always had

access to him, might act when no one else could reach him.

Meantime the Ambassador rejoiced to hear of the instinctive caution

that had made Berenger silence Philip on the object of the journey

to Paris, since if the hostile family guessed at the residence of

the poor infant, they would have full opportunity for obliterating

all the scanty traces of her. Poor persecuted little thing! the

uncertain hope of her existence seemed really the only thread that

still bound Berenger to life.

He had spent eighteen months in hope

deferred, and constant bodily pain; and when the frightful

disappointment met him at La Sablerie, it was not wonder that his

heart and hope seemed buried in the black scorched ruins where all

he cared for had perished. He was scarcely nineteen, but the life

before him seemed full of nothing but one ghastly recollection,

and, as he said in the short sad little letter which he wrote to

his grandfather from his bed, he only desired to live long enough

to save Eustacie's child from being a nameless orphan maintained

for charity in a convent, and to see her safe in Aunt Cecily's

care; and then he should be content to have done with this world

for ever.

The thought that no one except himself could save the child, seemed

to give him the resolution to battle for life that often bears the

patient through illness, though now he as suffering more severely

and consciously than ever he had done before; and Lady Walsingham

often gave up hopes of him. He was tenderly cared for by her and

her women; but Philip was the most constant nurse, and his

unfailing assiduity and readiness amazed the household, who had

begun by thinking him ungainly, loutish, and fit for nothing but

country sports.

The Chevalier de Ribaumont came daily to inquire; and the first

time he was admitted actually burst into tears at the sight of the

swollen disfigured face, and the long mark on the arm which lay

half-uncovered. Presents of delicacies, ointments, and cooling

drinks were frequently sent from him and from the Countess de

Selinville; but Lady Walsingham distrusted these, and kept her

guest strictly to the regimen appointed by Pare. Now and then,

billets would likewise come. The first brought a vivid crimson

into Berenger's face, and both it and all its successors he

instantly tore into the smallest fragments, without letting any one

see them.

On the day of the Carnival, the young men of the household had

asked Master Thistlewood to come out with them and see the

procession of the Boeuf Gras; but before it could take place,

reports were flying about that put the city in commotion, caused

the Ambassador to forbid all going out, and made Philip expect

another Huguenot massacre. The Duke of Alencon and the King of

Navarre had been detected, it was said, in a conspiracy for

overthrowing the power of the Queen-mother, bringing in the

Huguenots, and securing the crown to Alencon on the King's death.

Down-stairs, the Ambassador and his secretaries sat anxiously

striving to sift the various contradictory reports; up-stairs,

Philip and Lady Walsingham were anxiously watching Berenger in what

seemed the long-expected crisis, and Philip was feeling as if all

the French court were welcome to murder one another so that they

would only let Ambroise Pare come to his brother's relief. And it

was impossible even to send!

At last, however, when Ash-Wednesday was half over, there was a

quiet movement, and a small pale man in black was at the bedside,

without Philip's having ever seen his entrance. He looked at his

exhausted patient, and said, 'It is well; I could not have done you

any good before.'

And when he had set Berenger more at ease, he told how great had

been the confusion at St. Germain when the plot had become known to

the Queen-mother. The poor King had been wakened at two o'clock in

the morning, and carried to his litter, when Pare and his old nurse

had tended him. He only said, 'Can they not let me die in peace?'

and his weakness had been so great on arriving, that the surgeon

could hardly have left him for M. de Ribaumont, save by his own

desire. 'Yes, sir,' added Pare, seeing Berenger attending to him,

'we must have you well quickly; his Majesty knows all about you,

and is anxious to see you.'

In spite of these good wishes, the recovery was very slow; for, as

the surgeon had suspected, the want of skill in those who had had

the charge of Berenger at the first had been the cause of much of

his protracted suffering. Pare, the inventor of trephining, was,

perhaps, the only man in Europe who could have dealt with the

fracture in the back of the head, and he likewise extracted the

remaining splinters of the jaw, though at the cost of much severe

handling and almost intolerable pain: but by Easter, Berenger found

the good surgeon's encouragement verified, and himself on the way

to a far more effectual cure than he had hitherto thought possible.

Sleep had come back to him, he experienced the luxury of being free

from all pain, he could eat without difficulty; and Pare, always an

enemy to wine, assured him that half the severe headaches for which

he had been almost bled to death, were the consequence of his

living on bread soaked in sack instead of solid food; and he was

forbidden henceforth to inflame his brain with anything stronger

than sherbet. His speech, too, was much improved; he still could

not utter all the consonants perfectly, and could not speak

distinctly without articulating very slowly, but all the discomfort

and pain were gone; and though still very weak, he told Philip that

now all his course seemed clear towards his child, instead of being

like a dull, distraught dream. His plan was to write to have a

vessel sent from Weymouth, to lie off the coast till his signal

should be seen from la Motte-Achard, and then to take in the whole

party and the little yearling daughter, whom he declared he should

trust to no one but himself. Lady Walsingham remonstrated a little

at the wonderful plans hatched by the two lads together, and yet

she was too glad to see a beginning of brightening on his face to

make many objections. It was only too sand to think how likely he

was again to be disappointed.

He was dressed, but had not left his room, and was lying on

cushions in the ample window overlooking the garden, while Frances

and Elizabeth Walsingham in charge of their mother tried to amuse

him by their childish airs and sports, when a message was brought

that M. le Chevalier de Ribaumont prayed to be admitted to see him

privily.

'What bodes that?' he languidly said.

'Mischief, no doubt,' said Philip Walsingham. 'Send him word that

you are seriously employed.'

'Nay, that could scarce be, when he must have heard the children's

voices,' said Lady Walsingham. 'Come away, little ones.'

The ladies took the hint and vanished, but Philip remained till the

Chevalier had entered, more resplendent than ever, in a brown

velvet suit slashed with green satin, and sparkling with gold lace

-a contrast to the deep mourning habit in which Berenger was

dressed. After inquiries for his health, the Chevalier looked at

Philip, and expressed his desire of speaking with his cousin alone.

'If it be of business,' said Berenger, much on his guard, 'my head

is still weak, and I would wish to have the presence of the

Ambassador or one of his secretaries.'

'This is not so much a matte of business as of family,' said the

Chevalier, still looking so uneasily at Philip that Berenger felt

constrained to advise him to join the young ladies in the garden;

but instead of doing this, the boy paced the corridors like a

restless dog waiting for his master, and no sooner heard the old

gentleman bow himself out than he hurried back again, to find

Berenger heated, panting, agitated as by a sharp encounter.

'Brother, what is it--what has the old rogue done to you?'

'Nothing,' said Berenger, tardily and wearily; and for some minutes

he did not attempt to speak, while Philip devoured his curiosity as

best he might. At last he said, 'He was always beyond me. What

think you? Now he wants me to turn French courtier and marry his

daughter.'

'His daughter!' exclaimed Philip, 'that beautiful lady I saw in the

coach?'

A nod of assent.

'I only wish it were I.'

'Philip,' half angrily, 'how can you be such a fool?'

'Of course, I know it can't be,' said Philip sheepishly, but a

little offended. 'But she's the fairest woman my eyes ever

beheld.'

'And the falsest.'

'My father says all women are false; only they can't help it, and

don't mean it.'

'Only some do mean it,' said Berenger, dryly.

'Brother!' cried Philip, fiercely, as if ready to break a lance,

'what right have you to accuse that kindly, lovely dame of

falsehood?'

'It skills not going through all,' said Berenger, wearily. 'I know

her of old. She began by passing herself off on me as my wife.'

'And you were not transported?'

'I am not such a gull as you.'

'How very beautiful your wife must have been!' said Philip, with

gruff amazement overpowering his consideration.

'Much you know about it,' returned Berenger, turning his face away.

There was a long silence, first broken by Philip, asking more

cautiously, 'And what did you say to him?'

'I said whatever could show it was most impossible. Even I said

the brother's handwriting was too plain on my face for me to offer

myself to the sister. But it seems all that is to be passed over

as an unlucky mistake. I wish I could guess what the old fellow is

aiming at.'

'I am sure the lady looked at you as if she loved you.'

'Simpleton! She looked to see how she could beguile me. Love!

They do nothing for love here, you foolish boy, save par amour.

If she loved me, her father was the last person she would have sent

me. No, no; 'tis a new stratagem, if I could only seen my way into

it. Perhaps Sir Francis will when he can spend an hour on me.'

Though full of occupation, Sir Francis never failed daily to look

in upon his convalescent guest, and when he heard of the

Chevalier's interview, he took care that Berenger should have full

time to consult him; and, of course, he inquired a good deal more

into the particulars of the proposal than Philip had done. When he

learnt that the Chevalier had offered all the very considerable

riches and lands that Diane enjoyed in right of her late husband as

an equivalent for Berenger's resignation of all claims upon the

Nid-de-Merle property, he noted it on his tables, and desired to

know what these claims might be. 'I cannot tell,' said Berenger.

'You may remember, sir, the parchments with our contract of

marriage had been taken away from Chateau Leurre, and I have never

seen them.'

'Then,' said the Ambassador, 'you may hold it as certain that those

parchments give you some advantage which he hears, since he is

willing to purchase it at so heavy a price. Otherwise he himself

would be the natural heir of those lands.'

'After my child,' said Berenger, hastily.

'Were you on your guard against mentioning your trust in your

child's life?' said Sir Francis.

The long scar turned deeper purple than ever. 'Only so far as that

I said there still be rights I had no power to resign,' said

Berenger. 'And then he began to prove to me---what I had no mind to

hear' (and his voice trembled) '---all that I know but too well.'

'Hum! you must not be left alone again to cope with him,' said

Walsingham. 'Did he make any question of the validity of your

marriage?'

'No, sir, it was never touched on. I would not let him take her

name into his lips.'

Walsingham considered for some minutes, and then said, 'It is

clear, then, that he believes that the marriage can be sufficiently

established to enable you to disturb him in his possession of some

part, at least, of the Angevin inheritance, or he would not

endeavour to purchase your renunciation of it by the hand of a

daughter so richly endowed.'

'I would willingly renounce it if that were all! I never sought

it; only I cannot give up her child's rights.'

'And that you almost declared,' proceeded Walsingham; 'so that the

Chevalier has by his negotiation gathered from you that you have

not given up hope that the infant lives. Do your men know where

you believe she is?'

'My Englishmen know it, of course,' said Berenger; 'but there is no

fear of them. The Chevalier speaks no English, and they scarcely

any French; and, besides, I believe they deem him equally my

butcher with his son. The other fellow I only picked up after I

was on my way to Paris, and I doubt his knowing my purpose.'

'The Chevalier must have had speech with him, though,' said Philip;

'for it was he who brought word that the old rogue wished to speak

with you.'

'It would be well to be quit yourself of the fellow ere leaving

Paris,' said Walsingham.

'Then, sir,' said Berenger, with an anxious voice, 'do you indeed

think I have betrayed aught that can peril the poor little one?'

Sir Francis smiled. 'We do not set lads of your age to cope with

old foxes,' he answered; 'and it seems to me that you used far

discretion in the encounter. The mere belief that the child lives

does not show him where she may be. In effect, it would seem

likely to most that the babe would be nursed in some cottage, and

thus not be in the city of La Sablerie at all. He might, mayhap,

thus be put on a false scent.'

'Oh no,' exclaimed Berenger, startled; 'that might bring the death

of some other person's child on my soul.'

'That shall be guarded against,' said Sir Francis. 'In the

meantime, my fair youth, keep your matters as silent as may be

---do not admit the Chevalier again in my absence; and, as to this

man Guibert, I will confer with my steward whether he knows too

much, and whether it be safer to keep of dismiss him!'

'If only I could see the King, and leave Paris,' sighed Berenger.

And Walsingham, though unwilling to grieve the poor youth further,

bethought himself that this was the most difficult and hopeless

matter of all. As young Ribaumont grew better, the King grew

worse; he himself only saw Charles on rare occasions, surrounded by

a host of watchful eyes and ears, and every time he marked the

progress of disease; and though such a hint could be given by an

Ambassador, he thought that by far the best chance of recovery of

the child lay in the confusion that might probably follow the death

of Charles IX. in the absence of his next heir.

Berenger reckoned on the influence of Elisabeth of Austria, who had

been the real worker in his union with Eutacie; but he was told

that it was vain to expect assistance from her. In the first year

of her marriage, she had fondly hoped to enjoy her husband's

confidence, and take her natural place in his court; but she was of

no mould to struggle with Catherine de Medicis, and after a time

had totally desisted. Even at the time of the St. Bartholomew, she

had endeavoured to uplift her voice on the side of mercy, and had

actually saved the lives of the King of Navarre and Prince of

Conde; and her father, the good Maximilian II., had written in the

strongest terms to Charles IX. expressing his horror of the

massacre. Six weeks later, the first hour after the birth of her

first and only child, she had interceded with her husband for the

lives of two Huguenots who had been taken alive, and failing then

either through his want of will or want of power, she had collapsed

and yielded up the endeavour. She ceased to listen to petitions

from those who had hoped for her assistance, as if to save both

them and herself useless pain, and seemed to lapse into a sort of

apathy to all public interests. She hardly spoke, mechanically

fulfilled her few offices in the court, and seemed to have turned

her entire hope and trust into prayer for her husband. Her German

confessor had been sent home, and a Jesuit given her in his stead,

but she had made no resistance; she seemed to the outer world a

dull, weary stranger, obstinate in leading a conventual life; but

those who knew her best--and of these few was the Huguenot surgeon

Pare--knew that her heart had been broken two guilty lives, or to

make her husband free himself from his bondage to bloody counsels.

To pray for him was all that remained to her--and unwearied had

been those prayers. Since his health had declined, she had been

equally indefatigable in attending on him, and did not seem to have

a single interest beyond his sick chamber.

As to the King of Navarre, for whose help Berenger had hoped, he

had been all these months in the dishonouable thraldom of Catherine

de Medicis, and was more powerless than ever at this juncture,

having been implicated in Alencon's plot, and imprisoned at

Vincennes.

And thus, the more Berenger heard of the state of things, the less

hopeful did his cause appear, till he could almost have believed

his best chance lay in Philip's plan of persuading the Huguenots to

storm the convent.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024