Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be on the sandy plain

Than where castles mounted stand.--KING HENRY VI.

While Berenger slept a heavy morning's sleep after a resless night,

Philip explored the narrow domain above and below. The keep and

its little court had evidently been the original castle, built when

the oddly-nicknamed Fulkes and Geoffreys of Anjou had been at

daggers drawn with the Dukes of Normandy and Brittany, but it had

since, like most other such ancient feudal fortresses, become the

nucleus of walls and buildings for use, defence, or ornament, that

lay beneath him like a spider's web, when he had gained the roof of

the keep, garnished with pepper-box turrets at each of the four

angles.

Beyond lay the green copses and orchards of the Bocage,

for it was true, as he had at first suspected, that this was the

chateau de Nid de Merle, and that Berenger was a captive in his

wife's own castle.

Chances of escape were the lad's chief thought, but the building on

which he stood went sheer down for a considerable way. Then on the

north side there came out the sharp, high-pitched, tiled roof of

the corps du logis; on the south, another roof, surmounted by a

cross at the gable, and evidently belonging to the chapel; on the

other two sides lay courts--that to the east, a stable-yard; that

to the west, a small narrow, chilly-looking, paved inclosure, with

enormously-massive walls, the doorway walled up, and looking like a

true prison-yard.

Beyond this wall--indeed, on every side--

extended offices, servants' houses, stables, untidy desolate-

looking gardens, and the whole was inclosed by the white wall with

flanking red-tiled turrets, whose gaudy appearance had last night

made Philip regard the whole as a flimsy, Frenchchified erection,

but he now saw it to be of extremely solid stone and lime, and with

no entrance but the great barbican gateway they had entered by;

moreover, with a yawning dry moat all round. Wherever he looked he

saw these tall, pointed red caps, resembling, he thought, those

worn by the victims of an auto-de-fe, as one of Walsingham's

secretaries had described them to him; and he ground his teeth at

them, as thought they grinned at him like emissaries of the

Inquisition.

Descending, he found Berenger dressing in haste to avoid receiving

an invalid visit from the Chevalier, looking indeed greatly shaken,

but hardly so as would have been detected by eyes that had not seen

him during his weeks of hope and recovery. He was as resolved as

Philip could wish against any sign of weakness before his enemy,

and altogether disclaimed illness, refusing the stock of cooling

drinks, cordials, and febrifuges, which the Chevalier said had been

sent by his sister the Abbess of Bellaise. He put the subject of

his health aside, only asking if this were the day that the

gendarme-captain would return to Paris, and then begging to see

that officer, so as to have a distinct understanding of the grounds

of his imprisonment. The captain had, however, been a mere

instrument; and when Philip clamoured to be taken before the next

justice of the peace, even Berenger smiled at him for thinking that

such a being existed in France. The only cause alleged was the

vague but dangerous suspicion of conveying correspondence between

England and the heretics, and this might become extremely perilous

to one undeniably half English, regarded as whole Huguenot, caught

on the way to La Rochelle with a letter to La Noue in his pocket;

and, moreover, to one who had had a personal affray with a king

famous for storing up petty offences, whom the last poor king had

favoured, and who, in fine, had claims to estates that could not

spared to the Huguenot interest.

He was really not sure that there was not some truth in the

professions of the Chevalier being anxious to protect him from the

Queen-mother and the Guises; he had never been able to divest

himself of a certain trust in his old kinsman's friendliness, and

he was obliged to be beholden to him for the forms in which to

couch his defence. At the same time he wrote to Sir Francis

Walsingham, and to his grandfather, but with great caution, lest

his letters should be inspected by his enemies, and with the less

hope of their availing him because it was probable that the

Ambassador would return home on the king's death. No answer could

be expected for at least a fortnight, and even then it was possible

that the Queen-mother might choose to refer the cause to King

Henry, who was then in Poland.

Berenger wrote these letters with much thought and care, but when

they were once sealed, he collapsed again into despair and

impatience, and frantically paced the little court as if he would

dash himself against the walls that detained him from Eustacie;

then threw himself moodily into a chair, hid his face in his

crossed arms, and fell a prey to all the wretched visions called up

by an excited brain.

However, he was equally alive with Philip to the high-spirited

resolution that his enemies should not perceive or triumph in his

dejection. He showed himself at the noon-day dinner, before

Captain Delarue departed, grave and silent, but betraying no

agitation; and he roused himself from his sad musings at the

supper-hour, to arrange his hair, and assume the ordinary dress of

gentlemen in the evening; though Philip laughed at the roses

adorning his shoes, and his fresh ruff, as needless attentions to

an old ruffian like the Chevalier. However, Philip started when he

entered the hall, and beheld, not the Chevalier alone, but with him

the beautiful lady of the velvet coach, and another stately,

extremely handsome dame, no longer in her first youth, and in

costly black and white garments. When the Chevalier called her his

sister, Madame de Bellaise, Philip had no notion that she was

anything but a widow, living a secular life; and though a couple of

nuns attended her, their dress was so much less conventual than

Cecily's that he did not at first find them out. It was explained

that Madame de Selinville was residing with her aunt, and that,

having come to visit her father, he had detained the ladies to

supper, hoping to enliven the sojourn of his beaux cousins.

Madame de Selinville, looking anxiously at Berenger, hoped she saw

him in better health. He replied, stiffly, that he was perfectly

well; and then, by way of safety, repaired to the society of the

Abbess, who immediately began plying him with questions about

England, its court, and especially the secret marriage of Queen

Elisabeth and 'ce Comte de Dudley,' on which she was so minutely

informed as to put him to the blush. Then she was very curious

about the dispersed convents, and how many of the nuns had married;

and she seemed altogether delighted to have secured the attention

of a youth from the outer world. His soul at first recoiled from

her as one of Eustacie's oppressors, and from her unconvent-like

talk; and yet he could not but think her a good-natured person, and

wonder if she could rally have been hard upon his poor little wife.

And she, who had told Eustacie she would strangle with her own

hands the scion of the rival house!--she, like most women, was much

more bitter against an unseen being out of reach, than towards a

courteously-mannered, pale, suffering-looking youth close beside

her. She had enough affection for Eustacie to have grieved much at

her wanderings and at her fate; and now the sorrow-stricken look

that by no effort could be concealed really moved her towards the

youth bereaved husband. Besides, were not all feuds on the point of

being made up by the excellent device concocted between her brother

and her niece?

Meantime, Philip was in raptures with the kindness of the beautiful

Madame de Selinville. He, whom the Mistresses Walsingham treated

as a mere clumsy boy, was promoted by her manner to be a man and a

cavalier. He blushed up to the roots of his hair and looked

sheepish whenever one of her entrancing smiles lit upon him; but

then she inquired after his brother so cordially, she told him so

openly how brilliant had been Berenger's career at the court, she

regretted so heartily their present danger and detention, and

promised so warmly to use her interest with Queen Catherine, that

in the delight of being so talked to, he forgot his awkwardness and

spoke freely and confidentially, maybe too confidentially, for he

caught Berenger frowning at him, and made a sudden halt in his

narrative, disconcerted but very angry with his brother for his

distrust.

When the ladies had ridden away to the convent in the summer

evening, and the two brothers had returned to their prison, Philip

would have begun to rave about Madame de Selinville, but his mouth

was stopped at once with 'Don't be such a fool, Phil!' and when

Perrine shut his eyes, leant back, and folded his arms together,

there was no more use in talking to him.

This exceeding defection continued for a day or two, while

Berenger's whole spirit chafed in agony at his helplessness, and

like demons there ever haunted him the thoughts of what might

betide Eustacie, young, fair, forsaken, and believing herself a

widow. Proudly defiant as he showed himself to all eyes beyond his

tower, he seemed to be fast gnawing and pining himself away in the

anguish he suffered through these long days of captivity.

Perhaps it was Philip's excitement about any chance of meeting

Madame de Selinville that first roused him from the contemplation

of his own misery. It struck him that if he did not rouse himself

to exert his influence, the boy, left to no companionship save what

he could make for himself, might be led away by intercourse with

the gendarmes, or by the blandishments of Diane, whatever might be

her game. He must be watched over, and returned to Sir Marmaduke

the same true-hearted honest lad who had left home. Nor had

Berenger lain so long under Cecily St. John's tender watching

without bearing away some notes of patience, trust, and dutifulness

that returned upon him as his mind recovered tone after the first

shock. The whispers that had bidden him tarry the Lord's leisure,

be strong, and commit his way to Him who could bring it to pass,

and could save Eustacie as she had already been saved, returned to

him once more: he chid himself for his faintness of heart, rallied

his powers, and determined that cheerfulness, dutifulness, and care

for Philip should no longer fail.

So he reviewed his resources, and in the first place arranged for a

brief daily worship with his two English fellow-prisoners,

corresponding to the home hours of chapel service. Then he

proposed to Philip to spend an hour every day over the study of the

Latin Bible; and when Philip showed himself reluctant to give up

his habit of staring over the battlements, he represented that an

attack on their faith was not so improbable but that they ought to

be prepared for it.

'I'm quite prepared,' quoth Philip; 'I shall not listen to a word

they say.'

However, he submitted to this, but was more contumacious as to

Berenger's other proposal of profiting by Sidney's copy of Virgil.

Here at least he was away from Mr. Adderley and study, and it

passed endurance to have Latin and captivity both at once. He was

more obliged for Berenger's offer to impart to him the instruction

in fencing he had received during his first visit to Paris; the

Chevalier made no difficulty about lending them foils, and their

little court became the scene of numerous encounters, as well as of

other games and exercises. More sedentary sports were at their

service, chess, tables, dice, or cards, but Philip detested these,

and they were only played in the evening, or on a rainy afternoon,

by Berenger and the Chevalier.

It was clearly no part of the old gentleman's plan to break their

health or spirits. He insisted on taking them out riding

frequently, though always with four gendarmes with loaded

arquebuses, so as to preclude all attempt at escape, or

conversation with the peasants. The rides were hateful to both

youths, but Berenger knew that so many hours of tedium were thus

disposed of, and hoped also to acquire some knowledge of the

country; indeed, he looked at every cottage and every peasant with

affectionate eyes, as probably having sheltered Eustacie; and

Philip, after one visit paid to the convent at Bellaise, was always

in hopes of making such another. His boyish admiration of Madame

de Selinville was his chief distraction, coming on in accesses

whenever there was a hope of seeing her, and often diverting

Berenger by its absurdities, even though at other times he feared

that the lad might be led away by it, or dissension sown between

them. Meetings were rare--now and then Madame de Selinville would

appear at dinner or at supper as her father's guest; and more

rarely, the Chevalier would turn his horse's head in the direction

of Bellaise, and the three gentlemen would be received in the

unpartitioned parlour, and there treated to such lemon cakes as had

been the ruin of La Sablerie; but in general the castle and the

convent had little intercourse, or only just enough to whet the

appetite of the prisoners for what constituted their only variety.

Six weeks had lagged by before any answer from Paris was received,

and then there was no reply from Walsingham, who had, it appeared,

returned home immediately after King Charles's funeral. The letter

from the Council bore that the Queen-mother was ready to accept the

Baron de Ribaumont's excuses in good part, and to consider his

youth; and she had no doubt of his being treated with the like

indulgence by the King, provided he would prove himself a loyal

subject, by embracing the Catholic faith, renouncing all his

illegitimate claims to the estates of Nid de Merle, and, in pledge

of his sincerity, wedding his cousin, the Countess de Selinville,

so soon as a dispensation should have been procured. On no other

consideration could he be pardoned or set at liberty.

'Then,' said Berenger, slowly, 'a prisoner I must remain until it

be the will of Heaven to open the doors.'

'Fair nephew!' exclaimed the Chevalier, 'make no rash replies.

Bethink you to what you expose yourself by obstinacy; I may no

longer be able to protect you when the King returns. And he

further went on to represent that, by renouncing voluntarily all

possible claims on the Nid de Merle estates, the Baron would save

the honour of poor Eustacie (which indeed equally concerned the

rest of the family), since they then would gladly drop all dispute

of the validity of the marriage; and the lands of Selinville would

be an ample equivalent for these, as well as for all expectations

in England.

'Sir, it is impossible!' said Berenger. 'My wife lives.'

'Comment! when you wear mourning for her.'

'I wear black because I have been able to procure nothing else

since I have been convinced that she did not perish at La Sablerie.

I was on my way to seek her when I was seized and detained here.'

'Where would you have sought her, my poor cousin?' compassionately

asked the Chevalier.

'That I know not. She may be in England by this time; but that she

escaped from La Sablerie, I am well assured.'

'Alas! my poor friend, you feed on delusion. I have surer

evidence--you shall see the man yourself--one of my son's people,

who was actually at the assault, and had strict orders to seek and

save her. Would that I could feel the least hope left!'

'Is the man here? Let me see him,' said Berenger, hastily.

He was at once sent for, and proved to be one of the stable

servants, a rough, soldierly-looking man, who made no difficulty in

telling that M. de Nid de Merle had bidden his own troop to use

every effort to reach the Widow Laurent's house, and secure the

lady. They had made for it, but missed the way, and met with

various obstacles; and when they reached it, it was already in

flames, and he had seen for a moment Mademoiselle de Nid de Merle,

whom he well knew by sight, with an infant in her arms at an upper

window. He had called to her by name, and was about to send for a

ladder, when recognizing the Ribaumont colours, she had turned

back, and thrown herself and her child into the flames. M. de Nid

de Merle was frantic when he heard of it, and they had searched for

the remains among the ruins; but, bah! it was like a lime-kiln,

nothing was to be found--all was calcined.

'No fragment left?' said Berenger; 'not a corner of tile or beam?'

'Not so much wood as you could boil an egg with; I will swear it on

the Mass.'

'That is needless,' said Berenger. 'I have seen the spot myself.

That is all I desired to ask.'

The Chevalier would have taken his hand and condoled with him over

the horrible story; but he drew back, repeating that he had seen

Widow Laurent's house, and that he saw that some parts of the man's

story were so much falsified that he could not believe the rest.

Moreover, he knew that Eustacie had not been in the town at the

time of the siege.

Now the Chevalier bona fide believed the man's story, so far as

that he never doubted that Eustacie had perished, and he looked on

Berenger's refusal to accept the tale as the mournful last clinging

to a vain hope. In his eyes, the actual sight of Eustacie, and the

total destruction of the house, were mere matters of embellishment,

possibly untrue, but not invalidating the main fact. He only said,

'Well, my friend, I will not press you while the pain of this

narration is still fresh.'

'Thank you, sir; but this is not pain, for I believe not a word of

it; therefore it is impossible for me to entertain the proposal,

even if I could forsake my faith or my English kindred. You

remember, sir, that I returned this same answer at Paris, when I

had no hope that my wife survived.'

'True, my fair cousin, but I fear time will convince you that this

constancy is unhappily misplaced. You shall have time to consider;

and when it is proved to you that my poor niece is out of the reach

of your fidelity, and when you have become better acquainted with

the claims of the Church to your allegiance, then may it only prove

that your conversion does not come too late. I have the honour to

take my leave.'

'One moment more, sir. Is there no answer as to my brother?'

'None, cousin. As I told you, your country has at present no

Ambassador; but, of course, on your fulfillment of the conditions,

he would be released with you.'

'So,' said Philip, when the old knight had quitted the room, 'of

course you cannot marry while Eustacie lives; but if---'

'Not another word, profane boy!' angrily cried Berenger.

'I was only going to say, it is a pity of one so goodly not to

bring her over to the true faith, and take her to England.'

'Much would she be beholden to you!' said Berenger. 'So!' he

added, sighing, 'I had little hope but that it would be thus. I

believe it is all a web of this old plotter's weaving, and that the

Queen-mother acts in it at his request. He wants only to buy me

off with his daughter's estates from asserting my claim to this

castle and lands; and I trow he will never rise up here till--till-

--'

'Till when, Berry?'

'Till mayhap my grandfather can move the Queen to do something for

us; or till Madame de Selinville sees a face she likes better than

her brother's carving; or, what can I tell? till malice is tired

out, and Heaven's will sets us free. May Eustacie only have

reached home! But I'm sorry for you, my poor Phil.'

'Never heed, brother,' said Philip; 'what is prison to me, so that

I can now and then see those lovely eyes?'

And the languishing air of the clumsy lad was so comical as to

beguile Berenger into a laugh. Yet Berenger's own feeling would go

back to his first meeting with Diane; and as he thought of the eyes

then fixed on him, he felt that he was under a trial that might

become more severe.




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