Lord Walwyn further bade his
grandson remember that the arrangements respecting his inheritance
had been made in confidence that his heir was English in heart and
faith, and that neither the Queen nor his own conscience would
allow him to let his inheritance pass into French of Papist hands.
There was scarcely a direct reproach, but the shaken, altered
handwriting showed how stricken the aged man must be; and after his
signature was added one still more trembling line, 'An ye return
not speedily, ye will never see the old grandsire more.'
Berenger scarcely finished the letter through his burning tears of
agony, and then, casting it from him, began to pace the room in
fierce agitation, bursting out into incoherent exclamations,
grasping at his hair, even launching himself against the massive
window with such frenzied gestures and wild words that Philip, who
had read through all with his usual silent obtuseness, became
dismayed, and, laying hold of him, said, 'Prithee, brother, do not
thus! What serves such passion?'
Berenger burst into a strange loud laugh at the matter-of-fact
tone. 'What serves it! what serves anything!' he cried, 'but to
make me feel what a miserable wretch I am? But he will die,
Philip--he will die--not having believed me! How shall we keep
ourselves from the smooth-tongued villain's throat? That I should
be thus judged a traitor by my grandfather----'
And with a cry as of bodily anguish, he hid his face on the table,
and groaned as he felt the utter helplessness of his strong youth
in bonds.
'It can't be helped,' was the next of the unconsolatory platitudes
uttered by Philip, who always grew sullen and dogged when his
brother's French temperament broke forth under any sudden stroke.
'If they will believe such things, let them! You have not heard
what my father says to it.'
'It will be all the same,' groaned Berenger.
'Nay! now that's a foul slander, and you should be ashamed of doing
my father such wrong,' said Philip, 'Listen;' and he read: 'I
will believe no ill of the lad no more than of thee, Phil. It is
but a wild-goose chase, and the poor young woman is scarce like to
be above ground; but, as I daily tell them, 'tis hard a man should
forfeit his land for seeking his wife. My Lord North sends rumours
that he is under Papist guiding, and sworn brother with the Black
Ribaumonts; and my Lady, his grandmother, is like to break her
heart, and my Lord credits them more than he ought, and never a
line as a token comes from you. Then there's Dame Annora, as proud
of the babe as though neither she nor woman born ever had a son
before, and plains over him, that both his brothers should be
endowed, and he but a younger son. What will be the end on't I
cannot tell. I will stand up for the right as best man may do, and
never forget that Berry is her first-born, and that his child may
be living; but the matter is none of mine, and my Lord is very
aged, nor can a man meddle between his wife and her father. So
this I tell you that you may make your brother lay it to heart.
The sooner he is here the better, if he be still, as I verily
believe and maintain him to be, an honest English heart that snaps
his fingers at French papistry.' 'There,' conclude Philip
triumphantly, 'he knows an honest man! He's friend and good father
to you as much as ever. Heed none of the rest. He'll never let
this little rogue stand in your light.'
'as if I cared for that!' said Berenger, beginning his caged-tiger
walk again, and, though he tried to repress his anguish, breaking
out at times into fierce revilings of the cruel toils that beset
him, and despairing lamentations over those beloved ones at home,
with sobs, groans, and tears, such as Philip could not brook to
witness. Both because they were so violent and mourn-full, and
because he thought them womanish, though in effect no woman's grief
could have had half that despairing force. The fierte of the
French noble, however, came to his aid. At the first sound of the
great supper-bell he dashed away his tears, composed his features,
washed his face, and demanded haughtily of Philip, whether there
were any traces in his looks that the cruel hypocrite, their
jailer, could gloat over.
And with proud step and indifferent air he marched into the hall,
answered the Chevalier's polite inquiry whether the letter had
brought good tidings by coolly thanking him and saying that all at
home were well; and when he met the old man's inquiring glance out
of the little keen black bead in the puckered, withered eyelid, he
put a perfectly stony unmeaningness into his own gaze, till his
eyes looked like the blue porcelain from China so much prized by
the Abbess. He even played at chess all the evening with such
concentrated attention as to be uniformly victorious.
Yet half the night Philip heard suppressed moans and sobs--then
knew that he was on his knees--then, after long and comparatively
silent weeping, he lay down again, and from the hour when he awoke
in the morning, he returned no more to the letters; and though for
some little time more sad and dispirited, he seemed to have come to
regard the misjudgment at home as a part of the burthen he was
already bearing.
That burthen was, however, pressing more heavily. The temperaments
of the two brothers so differed that while the French one was
prostrated by the agony of a stroke, and then rallied patiently to
endure the effects, the English character opposed a passive
resistance to the blow, gave no sign of grief or pain, and from
that very determination suffered a sort of exhaustion that made the
effects of the evil more and more left. Thus, from the time
Philip's somewhat tardy imagination had been made to realize his
home, his father, and his sisters, the home-sickness, and weariness
of his captivity, which had already begun to undermine his health
and spirits, took increasing effect.
He made no complaint--he never expressed a wish--but, in the words
of the prophet, he seemed 'pining away on his feet.' He did not
sleep, and though, to avoid remark, he never failed to appear at
meals, he scarcely tasted food. He never willingly stirred from
cowering over the fire, and was so surly and ill-tempered that only
Berenger's unfailing good-humour could have endured it. Even a
wolf-hunt did not stir him. He only said he hated outlandish
beasts, and that it was not like chasing the hare in Dorset. His
calf-love for Madame de Selinville had entirely faded away in his
yearnings after home. She was only one of the tediously recurring
sights of his captivity, and was loathed like all the rest. The
regulation rides with the Chevalier were more detestable than ever,
and by and by they caused such fatigue that Berenger perceived that
his strength must be warning, and became so seriously alarmed that
one evening, when Philip had barely dragged himself to the hall,
tasted nothing but a few drops of wine, and then dropped into an
uneasy slumber in his chair, he could not but turn to the Chevalier
an appealing, indignant countenance, as he said, in a low but
quivering voice, 'You see, sir, how he is altered!'
'Alas! fair nephew, it is but too plain. He is just of the age
when such restraint tells severely upon the health.'
Then Berenger spoke out upon the foul iniquity of the boy's
detention. For himself, he observed, he had nothing to say; he
knew the term of his release, and had not accepted them; but
Philip, innocent of all damage to the Ribaumont interests, the heir
of an honourable family, what had he done to incur the cruel
imprisonment that was eating away his life?
'I tell you, sir,' said Berenger, with eyes filled with tears,'
that his liberty is more precious to me than my own. Were he but
restored to our home, full half the weight would be gone from my
spirit.'
'Fair nephew,' said the Chevalier, 'you speak as though I had any
power in the matter, and were not merely standing between you and
the King.'
'Then if so,' said Berenger, 'let the King do as he will with me,
but let Philip's case be known to our Ambassador.'
'My poor cousin,' said the Chevalier, 'you know not what you ask.
Did I grant your desire, you would only learn how implacable King
Henri is to those who have personally offended him--above all, to
heretics. Nor could the Ambassador do anything for one who
resisted by force of arms the King's justice. Leave it to me; put
yourself in my hands, and deliverance shall come for him first,
then for you.'
'How, sir?'
'One token of concession--one attendance at mass--one pledge that
the alliance shall take place when the formalities have been
complied with--then can I report you our own; give you almost
freedom at once; despatch our young friend to England without loss
of time; so will brotherly affection conquer those chivalrous
scruples, most honourable in you, but which, carried too far,
become cruel obstinacy.'
Berenger looked at Philip; saw how faded and wan was the ruddy sun-
burnt complexion, how lank and bony the sturdy form, how listless
and wasted the hands. Then arose, bursting within him, the devoted
generosity of the French nature, which would even accept sin and
ruin for self, that so the friend may be saved; and after all, had
he not gone to mass out of mere curiosity?--did he not believe that
there was salvation in the Gallican Church? Was it not possible
that, with Philip free to tell his story at home, his own
deliverance might come before he should be irrevocably committed to
Madame de Selinville? If Eustacie were living, her claims must
overthrow that which her rival was forcing upon him at her own
peril. Nay, how else could he obtain tidings of her? And for
those at home, did they deserve that he should sacrifice all,
Philip included, for their sake? The thoughts, long floating round
his brain, now surged upon him in one flood, and seemed to
overwhelm in those moments of confusion all his powers of calling
up the other side of the argument; he only had an instinct
remaining that it would be a lie to God and man alike. 'God help
me!' he sighed to himself; and there was sufficient consideration
and perplexity expressed in his countenance to cause the Chevalier
to feel his cause almost gained; and rising eagerly, with tears in
his eyes, he exclaimed, 'Embrace me, my dear, dear son! The thing
is done! Oh! what peace, what joy!'
The instinct of recoil came stronger now. He stepped back with
folded arms, saying again, 'God help me! God forbid that I should
be a traitor!'
'My son, hear me; these are but easily removed points of honour,'
began the Chevalier; but at that moment Philip suddenly started
from, or in his slumber, leapt on his feet, and called out,
'Avaunt, Satan!' then opened his eyes, and looked, as if barely
recalling where he was.
'Philip!' exclaimed Berenger, 'did you hear?'
'I--I don't know,' he said, half-bewildered. 'Was I dreaming that
the fiend was parleying with us in the voice of M. le Chevalier
there to sell our souls for one hour of home?'
He spoke English, but Berenger replied in French.
'You were not wrong, Philip. Sir, he dreamt that the devil was
tempting me in your voice while you were promising me his liberty
on my fulfilling your first condition.'
'What?' said Philip, now fully awake, and gathering the state of
things, as he remembered the words that had doubtless been the
cause of his dream. 'And if you did, Berenger, I give you warning
they should never see me at home. What! could I show my face there
with such tidings? No! I should go straight to La Noue, or to the
Low Countries, and kill every Papist I could for having debauched
you!'
'Hush! hush! Philip,' said Berenger; 'I could not break my faith
to Heaven or my wife even for your sake, and my cousin sees how
little beholden you would be to me for so doing. With your leave,
Monsieur, we will retire.'
The Chevalier detained Berenger for a moment to whisper, 'What I
see is so noble a heart that I know you cannot sacrifice him to
your punctilio.'
Philip was so angry with Berenger, so excited, and so determined to
show that nothing ailed him, that for a short time he was roused,
and seemed to be recovering; but in a few days he flagged again,
only, if possible with more gruffness, moodiness, and pertinacity
in not allowing that anything was amiss. It was the bitterest drop
of all in Berenger's cup, when in the end of January he looked back
at what Philip had been only a month before, and saw how he had
wasted away and lost strength; the impulse rather to ruin himself
that destroy his brother came with such force that he could
scarcely escape it by his ever-recurring cry for help to withstand
it. And then Diane, in her splendid beauty and withchery, would
rise before him, so that he knew how a relaxation of the lengthened
weary effort would make his whole self break its bonds and go out
to her. Dreams of felicity and liberty, and not with Eustacie,
would even come over him, and he would awaken to disappointment
before he came to a sense of relief and thankfulness that he was
still his own. The dislike, distaste, and dread that came so
easily in his time of pain and weakness were less easy to maintain
in his full health and forced inactivity. Occupation of mind and
hope seemed the only chance of enabling either of the two to
weather this most dreary desert period; and Berenger, setting his
thoughts resolutely to consider what would be the best means of
rousing Philip, decided at length that any endeavour to escape,
however arduous and desperate, would be better than his present
apathetic languor, even if it led to nothing. After the first
examination of their prison, Berenger had had no thought of escape;
he was then still weak and unenterprising. He had for many months
lived in hopes of interference from home; and, besides, the
likelihood that so English a party as his own would be quickly
pursued and recaptured, where they did not know their road and had
no passports, had deterred him lest should fall into still straiter
imprisonment. But he had since gained, in the course of his rides,
and by observation from the top of the tower, a much fuller
knowledge of the country. He knew the way to the grange du Temple,
and to the chief towns in the neighbourhood. Philip and Humfrey
had both lost something of their intensely national look and
speech, and, moreover, was having broken out again, there was hope
of falling in with Huguenot partisans even nearer that at La
Rochelle. But whether successful or not, some enterprise was
absolutely needed to save Philip from his despondent apathy; and
Berenger, who in these eighteen months had grown into the strength
and vigour of manhood, felt as if he had force and power for almost
any effort save this hopeless waiting.
He held council with Humfrey, who suggested that it might be well
to examine the vaults below the keep. He had a few days before,
while going after some of the firewood stored below the ground-
floor chamber, observed a door, locked, but with such rusty iron
hinges that they might possibly yield to vigorous efforts with a
stone; and who could tell where the underground passages might come
out?
Berenger eagerly seized the idea. Philip's mood of contradiction
prompted him to pronounce it useless folly, and he vouchsafed no
interest in the arrangements for securing light, by selecting all
the bits of firewood fittest for torches, and saving all the oil
possible from the two lamps they were allowed. The chief
difficulty was that Guibert was not trusted, so that all had to be
done out of his sight; and on the first day Berenger was obliged to
make the exploration alone, since Humfrey was forced to engross
Guibert in some occupation out of sight, and Philip had refused to
have anything to do with it, or be like a rat routing in the
corners of his trap.
However, Berenger had only just ascertained that the ironwork was
so entirely rusted away as to offer no impediment, when Philip came
languidly roaming into the cellar, saying, 'Here! I'll hold the
torch! You'll be losing yourself in this wolf's mouth of a place
if you go alone.'
The investigation justified Philip's predictions of its
uselessness. Nothing was detected but rats, and vaults, and
cobwebs; it was cold, earthy, and damp; and when they thought they
must have penetrated far beyond the precincts of the keep, they
heard Humfrey's voice close to them, warning them that it was
nearly dinner-time.
The next day brought them a more promising discovery, namely of a
long straight passage, with a gleam of light at the end of it; and
this for the first time excited Philip's interest or curiosity. He
would have hastened along it at once, but for the warning summons
from Humfrey; and in the excitement of even this grain of interest,
he ate more heartily at supper than he had done for weeks, and was
afterwards more eager to prove to Berenger that night was the best
time to pursue their researches.
And Berenger, when convinced that Guibert was sound asleep, thought
so too, and accompanied by Humfrey, they descended into the
passage. The light, of course, was no longer visible, but the form
of the crypt, through which they now passed, was less antique than
that under the keep, and it was plain they were beneath a later
portion of the Castle. The gallery concluded in a wall, with a
small barred, unglazed window, perfectly dark, so that Berenger,
who alone could reach to the bottom of it, could not uses where it
looked out.
'We must return by daylight; then, maybe, we may judge,' sighed
Philip.
'Hark!' exclaimed Berenger.
'Rats,' said Philip.
'No--listen--a voice! Take care!' he added, in a lower tone, 'we
may be close on some of the servants.'
But, much nearer than he expected, a voice on his right hand
demanded, 'Does any good Christian hear me?'
'Who is there?' exclaimed Philip.
'Ah! good sir, do I hear the voice of a companion in misery? Or,
if you be free, would you but send tidings to my poor father?'
'It is a Norman accent!' cried Berenger. 'Ah! ah! can it be poor
Landry Osbert?'
'I am--I am that wretch. Oh, would that M. le Baron could know!'
'My dear, faithful foster-brother! They deceived me,' cried
Berenger, in great agitation, as an absolute howl came from the
other side of the wall: 'M. le Baron come to this! Woe worth the
day!' and Berenger with difficulty mitigated his affectionate
servant's lamentations enough to learn from him how he had been
seized almost at the gates of Bellaise, closely interrogated,
deprived of the letter to Madame la Baronne, and thrown into this
dungeon. The Chevalier. Not an unmerciful man, according to the
time, had probably meant to release him as soon as the marriage
between his son and niece should have rendered it superfluous to
detain this witness to Berenger's existence. There, then, the poor
fellow had lain for three years, and his work during this weary
time had been the scraping with a potsherd at the stone of his
wall, and his pertinacious perseverance had succeeded in forming a
hole just large enough to enable him to see the light of the torch
carried by the gentlemen. On his side, he said, there was nothing
but a strong iron door, and a heavily-barred window, looking, like
that in the passage, into the fosse within the walled garden; but,
on the other hand, if he could enlarge his hole sufficiently to
creep through it, he could escape with them in case of their
finding a subterranean outlet. The opening within his cell was, of
course, much larger than the very small space he had made by
loosening a stone towards the passage, but he was obliged always to
build up each side of his burrow at the hours of his jailer's
visit, lest his work should be detected, and to stamp the rubbish
into his floor. But while they talked, Humfrey and Philip, with
their knives, scraped so diligently that two more stones could be
displaced; and, looking down the widening hole through the
prodigious mass of wall, they could see a ghastly, ragged, long-
bearded scarecrow, with an almost piteous expression of joy on his
face, at once again seeing familiar faces. And when, at his
earnest entreaty, Berenger stood so as to allow his countenance to
be as visible as the torch could make it through the 'wall's-hole,'
the vault echoed with the poor fellow's delighted cry. 'I am
happy! M. le Baron is himself again. The assassin's cruel work is
gone! Ah! thanks to the saints! Blessed be St. Lucie, it was not
in vain that I entreated her!'
The torches were, however, waxing so low that the sight could not
long be afforded poor Osbert; and, with a promise to return to him
next day, the party returned to the upper air, where they warmed
themselves over the fire, and held council over measures for the
present relief of the captive. Berenger grieved that he had given
him up so entirely for lost as to have made no exertions on his
behalf, and declared his resolution of entreating that he might be
allowed to enjoy comparative comfort with them in the keep. It was
a risk, but the Chevalier might fairly suppose that the knowledge
of Osbert's situation had oozed out through the servants, and
gratitude and humanity alike impelled Berenger to run some risk for
his foster-brother's sake. He was greatly touched at the poor
fellow's devotion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost
tearful smile at the joy with which he had proclaimed--what
Berenger was quite unaware of, since the keep furnished no mirrors-
-the disappearance of his scars. ''Tis even so,' said Philip,
'though I never heeded it. You are as white from crown to beard as
one of the statues at Paris; but the great red gash is a mere seam,
save when yon old Satan angers you, and then it blushes for all the
rest of your face.'
'And the cheek-wound is hidden, I suppose,' said Berenger, feeling
under the long fair moustache and the beard, which was developing
into respectable proportions.
'Hidden? ay, entirely. No one would think your bald crown had only
twenty-one years over it; but you are a personable fellow still,
quite enough to please Daphne,' said Philip.
'Pshaw!' replied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear the shadow
of a jest again from Philip.
It was quite true. These months of quiescence--enforced though
they were--had given his health and constitution time to rally
after the terrible shock they had sustained. The severe bleedings
had, indeed, rendered his complexion perfectly colourless; but
there was something in this, as well as in the height which the
loss of hair gave his brow, which, added to the depth and loftiness
of countenance that this long period of patience and resolution had
impressed on his naturally fine features, without taking away that
open candour that had first attracted Diane when he was a rosy lad.
His frame had strengthened at the same time, and assumed the
proportions of manhood; so that, instead of being the overgrown
maypole that Narcisse used to sneer at, he was now broad-shouldered
and robust, exceedingly powerful, and so well made that his height,
upwards of six feet, was scarcely observed, except by comparison
with the rest of the world.
And his character had not stood still. He had first come to Paris
a good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy: and though manly
affections, cares, and sorrows had been thrust on him, he had met
them like the boy that he was, hardly conscious how deep they went.
Then had come the long dream of physical suffering, with only one
thought pertinaciously held throughout--that of constancy to his
lost wife; and from this he had only thoroughly wakened in his
captivity, the resolution still holding fast, but with more of
reflection and principle, less of mere instinct, than when his
powers were lost or distracted in the effort of constant endurance
of pain and weakness. The charge of Philip, the endeavour both of
educating him and keeping up his spirits, as well as the
controversy with Pere Bonami, had been no insignificant parts of
the discipline of these months; and, little as the Chevalier had
intended it, he had trained his young kinsman into a far more
substantial and perilous adversary, both in body and mind, than
when he had caged him in his castle of the Blackbird's Nest.