Then came and looked him in the face,

An angel beautiful and bright,

And then he knew it was a fiend,

That miserable knight.--COLERIDGE

'Father, dear father, what is it? What makes you look so ill, so

haggard?' cried Diane de Selinville, when summoned the next morning

to meet her father in the parlour of the convent.

'Ah, child! see here. Your brother will have us make an end of it.

He has found her.'

'Eustacie! Ah, and where?'

'That he will not say, but see here. This is all billet tells me:

"The hare who has doubled so long is traced to her form. My dogs

are on her, and in a week's time she will be ours. I request you,

sir, to send me a good purse of crowns to reward my huntsmen; and

in the meantime--one way or the other--that pet of my sister's must

be disposed of. Kept too long, these beasts always become savage.

Either let him be presented to the royal menagerie, or there is a

still surer way."'

'And that is all he says!' exclaimed Diane.

'All! He was always cautions. He mentions no names. And now,

child, what is to be done? To give him up to the King is, at the

best, life-long imprisonment, yet, if he were still here when my

son returns-- Alas! alas! child, I have been ruined body and soul

between you! How could you make me send after and imprison him?

It was a mere assassination!' and the old man beat his head with

grief and perplexity.

'Father!' cried Diane, tearfully, 'I cannot see you thus. We meant

it for the best. We shall yet save him.'

'Save him! Ah, daughter, I tossed all night long thinking how to

save him, so strong, so noble, so firm, so patient, so good even to

the old man who has destroyed his hope--his life! Ah! I have

thought till my brain whirls.'

'Poor father! I knew you would love him,' said Diane, tenderly.

'Ah! we will save him yet. He shall be the best of sons to you.

Look, it is only to tell him that she whom he calls his wife is

already in my brother's hands, wedded to him.'

'Daughter,'--and he pushed back his gray hair with a weary

distressed gesture,--'I am tired of wiles; I am old; I can carry

them out no longer.'

'But this is very simple; it may already be true--at least it will

soon be true. Only tell him that she is my brother's wife. Then

will his generosity awaken, then will he see that to persist in the

validity of his marriage would be misery, dishonour to her, then---

-'

'Child, you know not how hard he is in his sense of right. Even

for his brother's sake he would not give way an inch, and the boy

was as obstinate as he!'

'Ah! but this comes nearer. He will be stung; his generosity will

be piqued. He will see that the kindest thing he can do will be to

nullify his claim, and the child----'

The Chevalier groaned, struck his brow with his fist, and muttered,

'That will concern no one--that has been provided for. Ah! ah!

children, if I lose my own soul for you, you----'

'Father, my sweet father, say not these cruel things. Did not the

Queen's confessor tell us that all means were lawful that brought a

soul to the Church? and here are two.'

'Two! Why, the youth's heresy is part of his point of honour.

Child, child, the two will be murdered in my very house, and the

guilt will be on my soul.'

'No, father! We will--we will save him. See, only tell him this.'

'This--what? My brain is confused. I have thought long--long.'

'Only this, father, dear father. You shall not be tormented any

more, if only you will tell him that my brother has made Eustacie

his wife, then will I do all the rest.'

Diane coaxed, soothed, and encouraged her father by her caresses,

till he mounted his mule to return to the castle at dinner-time,

and she promised to come early in the afternoon to follow up the

stroke he was to give. She had never seen him falter before,--he

had followed out his policy with a clear head and unsparing hand,--

but now that Berenger's character was better known to him, and the

crisis long delayed had come so suddenly before his eyes, his whole

powers seemed to reel under the alternative.

The dinner-bell clanged as he arrived at the castle, and the

prisoners were marched into the hall, both intent upon making their

request on Osbert's behalf, and therefore as impatient for the

conclusion of the meal, and the absence of the servants, as was

their host. His hands trembled so much that Berenger was obliged

to carve for him; he made the merest feint of eating; and now and

then raised his hand to his head as if to bring back scattered

ideas.

The last servant quitted the room, when Berenger perceived that the

old man was hardly in a state to attend to his request, and yet the

miserable frost-bitten state of poor Landry seemed to compel him to

speak.

'Sir,' he began, 'you could do me a great kindness.'

The Chevalier looked up at him with glassy eyes.

'My son,' he said, with an effort, 'I also had something to say.

Ah! let me think. I have had enough. Call my daughter,' he added,

feeling helplessly with his hands, so that Berenger started up in

alarm, and received him in his arms just in time to prevent his

sinking to the floor senseless.

'It is a stroke,' exclaimed Berenger. 'Call, Phil! Send the

gendarmes.'

The gendarmes might be used to the sight of death of their own

causing, but they had a horror of that which came by Nature's hand.

The purple face and loud gasps of the stricken man terrified them

out of their senses. 'C'est un coup,' was the cry, and they went

clattering off to the servants. These, all men but one old crone,

came in a mass to the door, looked in, beheld their master rigid

and prostrate on the floor, supported by the prisoner, and with

fresh shrieks about 'Mesdames! a priest! a doctor!' away they

rushed. The two brothers were not in much less consternation, only

they retained their senses. Berenger loosened the ruff and

doublet, and bade Philip practice that art of letting blood which

he had learnt for his benefit. When Madame de Selinville and her

aunt, with their escort, having been met half-way from Bellaise,

arrived sooner than could have been expected, they found every door

open from hall to entrance gateway, not a person keeping watch, and

the old man lying deathlike upon cushions in the hall, Philip

bandaging his arm, and Berenger rubbing his temples with wine and

the hottest spices on the table. 'He is better--he is alive,' said

Berenger, as they entered; and as both ladies would have fallen on

him with shrieks and sobs, he bade them listen, assured them that

the only chance of life was in immediate care, and entreated that

bedding might be brought down, and strong essences fetched to apply

to the nose and temples. They obeyed, and the sister infirmarer

had arrived from the convent, he had opened his eyes, and, as he

saw Berenger, tried to murmur something that sounded like 'Mon

fils.'

'He lives!--he speaks!--he can receive the sacraments!' was the

immediate exclamation; and as preparations began to be made, the

brothers saw that their presence was no longer needed, and returned

to their own tower.

'So, sir,' said the gendarme sergeant, as they walked down the

passage, 'you did not seize the moment for escape.'

'I never thought of it,' said Berenger.

'I hope, sir, you will not be the worse for it,' said the sergeant.

'An honourable gentleman you have ever proved yourself to me, and I

will bear testimony that you did the poor old gentleman no hurt;

but nobles will have it their own way, and pay little heed to a

poor soldier.'

'What do you mean, friend?'

'Why, you see, sir, it is unlucky that you two happened to be alone

with M. le Chevalier. No one can tell what may be said when they

seek an occasion against a person.'

To the brothers, however, this suggestion sounded so horrible and

unnatural, that they threw it from them. They applied themselves

at every moment possible to enlarging Osbert' hole, and seeking an

outlet from the dungeon; but this they had not been able to

discover, and it was necessary to be constantly on their guard in

visiting the vaults, lest their absence from their apartment should

be detected. They believed that if Narcisse arrived at the castle,

they should find in him a far less gentle jailer than the poor old

man, for whose state their kindly young hearts could not but

grieve.

They heard that he had recovered consciousness enough to have made

a sort of confession; and Pere Bonami brought them his formal

request, as a dying man, for their pardon for all the injuries he

had done them; but his speech was too much affected for any

specification of what these were. The first thing they heard in

early morning was that, in the course of the night, he had breathed

his last; and all day the bells of all the churches round were

answering one another with the slow, swinging, melancholy notes of

the knell.

In the early twilight, Pere Bonami brought a message that Madame de

Selinville requested M. le Baron to come and speak with her, and he

was accordingly conducted, with the gendarme behind him, to a small

chamber opening into the hall--the same where the incantations of

the Italian pedlar had been played off before Philip and Diane.

The gendarme remained outside the door by which they entered the

little dark room, only lighted by one little lamp.

'Here, daughter,' said the priest, 'is your cousin. He can answer

the question you have so much at heart;' and with these words Pere

Bonami passed beneath the black curtain that covered the entrance

into the hall, admitting as he raised it for a moment a floor of

pure light from the wax tapers, and allowing the cadence of the

chanting of the priests to fall on the ear. At first Berenger was

scarcely able to discern the pale face that looked as if tears were

all dried up, and even before his eyes had clearly perceived her in

the gloom, she was standing before him with clasped hands,

demanding, in a hoarse, breathless whisper, 'Had he said anything

to you?'

'Anything? No, cousin,' said Berenger, in a kind tone. 'He had

seemed suffering and oppressed all dinner-time, and when the

servants left us, he murmured a few confused words, then sank.'

'Ah, ah, he spoke it not! Thank Heaven! Ah! it is a load gone.

Then neither will I speak it,' sighed Diane, half aloud. 'Ah!

cousin, he loved you.'

'He often was kind to us,' said Berenger, impelled to speak as

tenderly as he could of the enemy, who had certainly tortured him,

but as if he loved him.

'He bade us save you,' said Diane, her eyes shining with strange

wild light in the gloom. 'He laid it on my aunt and me to save

you; you must let us. It must be done before my brother comes,' she

added, in hurried accents. 'The messengers are gone; he may be here

any moment. He must find you in the chapel--as--as my betrothed!'

'And you sent for me here to tempt me--close to such a chamber as

that?' demanded Berenger, his gentleness becoming sternness, as

much with his own worse self as with her.

'Listen. Ah! it is the only way. Listen, cousin. Do you know what

killed my father? It was my brother's letter saying things must be

brought to an end: either you must be given up to the King, or

worse--worse. And now, without him to stand between you and my

brother, you are lost. Oh! take pity on his poor soul that has

left his body, and bring not you blood on his head.'

'Nay,' said Berenger, 'if he repented, the after consequences to me

will have no effect on him now.'

'Have pity then on yourself--on your brother.'

'I have,' said Berenger. 'He had rather die with me than see me a

traitor.'

'And least of all,' she exclaimed, with choking grief, 'have you

compassion on me!--on me who have lost the only one who felt for

me--on me who have loved you with every fibre of my heart--on me

who have lived on the music of your hardest, coldest word--on me

who would lay my life, my honour, in the dust for one grateful

glance from you--and whom you condemn to the anguish of--your

death! Aye, and for what? For the mere shadow of a little girl,

who had no force to love you, or whom you know nothing--nothing!

Oh! are you a crystal rock or are you a man? See, I kneel to you

to save yourself and me.'

There were hot tears dropping from Berenger's eyes as he caught

Diane's hand, and held it forcibly to prevent her thus abasing

herself. Her wild words and gestures thrilled him in every pulse

and wrung his heart, and it was with a stifled, agitated voice that

he said--

'God help you and me both, Diane! To do what you ask would--would

be no saving of either. Nay, if you will kneel,' as she struggled

with him, 'let it be to Him who alone can bring us through;' and

releasing her hand, he dropped on his knees by her side, and

covered his face with his hands, in an earnest supplication that

the spirit of resistance which he almost felt slipping from him

might be renewed. The action hushed and silenced her, and as he

rose he spoke no other word, but silently drew back so much of the

curtain that he could see into the hall, where the dead man still

lay uncoffined upon the bed where his own hands had laid him, and

the low, sweet requiem of kneeling priests floated round him.

Rest, rest, and calm they breathed into one sorely tried living

soul, and the perturbed heart was quelled by the sense how short

the passage was to the world where captivity and longing would be

ended. He beckoned to Pere Bonami to return to Diane, and then,

protected by his presence from any further demonstrations, kissed

her hand and left her.

He told Philip as little as possible of this interview, but his

brother remarked how much time he spent over the Psalms that

evening.

The next day the brothers saw from their upper winder the arrival

of Narcisse, or, as he had called himself for the last three years,

the Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, with many attendant gentlemen, and a

band of fifty or sixty gendarmes. The court was filled with their

horses, and rang with their calls for refreshment. And the

captives judged it wise to remain in their upper room incase they

should be called for.

They were proved to have been wise in so doing; for about an hour

after their arrival there was a great clanging of steel boots, and

Narcisse de Ribaumont, followed by a portly, heavily-armed

gentleman, wearing a scarf of office, by two of the servants, and

by two gendarmes, entered the room. It was the first time the

cousins had met since le baiser d'Eutacie had been hissed into

Berenger's ear. Narcisse looked older, sallower, and more worn

than at that time; and Philip, seeing his enemy for the first time,

contrasted him with the stately presence of Berenger, and felt as

if a rat were strangling a noble steed.

Each young man punctiliously removed his hat, and Nid-de-Merle,

without deigning further salutation, addressed his companion.

'Sir, you are here on the part of the King, and to you I deliver up

these prisoners, who, having been detained here on a charge of

carrying on a treasonable correspondence, and protected by my

father out of consideration for the family, have requited his

goodness by an attempt to strangle him, which has caused his

death.'

Philip actually made a leap of indignation; Berenger, better

prepared, said to the officer, 'Sir, I am happy to be placed in

charged of a King's servant, who will no doubt see justice done,

and shelter us from the private malice that could alone devise so

monstrous an accusation. We are ready to clear ourselves upon oath

over the corpse, and all the household and our own guards can bear

witness.'

'The witnesses are here,' said Narcisse, pointing to the servants,

ill-looking men, who immediately began to depose to having found

their master purple-faced and struggling in the hands of the two

young men, who had been left alone with him after dinner.

Berenger felt that there was little use in self-defence. It was a

fabrication the more easily to secure his cousin's purpose of

destroying him, and his best hope lay in passing into the hands of

persons who were less directly interested in his ruin. He drew

himself up to his full height, saying, 'If there be justice in

France, our innocence will be proved. I demand, sir, that you

examine the abbess, the priest, the steward, the sergeant of

gendarmes: they are impartial witnesses, and will serve the King's

justice, if justice be his purpose. Or, if this be but M. de Nid-

de-Merle's way of completing the work he left unfinished four years

ago, I am ready. Only let my brother go free. He is heir to

nothing here.'

'Enough, sir. Words against the King's justice will be reckoned

against you,' said the officer. 'I shall do myself the honour of

attending the funeral the day after to-morrow, and then I shall

convey you to Tours, to answer for this deed at your leisure.

Monsieur le Marquis, are the prisoners secure here, or would you

have them garde a vue.'

'No need for that,' said Narcisse, lightly; 'had there been any

exit they would have found it long ago. Your good fellows outside

the door keep them safe enough. M. le Baron de Ribaumont, I have

the honour to wish you a good morning.'

Berenger returned his bow with one full of defiance, and the door

was again locked upon the prisoners; while Philip exclaimed, 'The

cowardly villain, Berry; is it a hanging matter?'

'Not for noble blood,' said Berenger. 'We are more likely to be

brought to no trial, but to lie prisoners for life;' then, as

Philip grew white and shivered with a sick horror, he added

bravely, 'But they shall not have us, Philip. We know the vaults

well enough to play at hide and seek with them there, and even if

we find no egress we may hold out till they think us fled and leave

open the doors!'

Philip's face lighted up again, and they did their best by way of

preparation, collecting wood for torches, and putting aside food at

their meals. It was a very forlorn hope, but the occupation it

caused was effectual in keeping up Philip's spirits, and saving him

from despondency.




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