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.