Is it the dew of night

That on her glowing cheek

Shines in the moonbeam?--Oh, she weeps, she weeps,

And the good angel that abandoned her

At her hell baptism, by her tears drawn down

Resumes his charge...and the hope

Of pardon and salvation rose

As now she understood

Thy lying prophecy of truth.--SOUTHEY

'M. de Ribaumont,' said Henry of Navarre, as he stood before the

fire after supper at Parthenay, 'I have been thinking what

commission I could give you proportioned to your rank and

influence.'

'Thanks to your Grace, that inquiry is soon answered. I am a

beggar here. Even my paternal estate in Normandy is in the hands

of my cousin.'

'You have wrongs,' said Henry, 'and wrongs are sometimes better

than possessions in a party like ours.'

Berenger seized the opening to explain his position, and mention

that his only present desire was for permission, in the first

place, to send a letter to England by the messenger whom the King

was dispatching to Elisabeth, in tolerable security of her secret

countenance; and, secondly, to ride to Nissard to examine into the

story he had previously heeded so little, of the old man and his

daughter rescued from the waves the day before La Sablerie was

taken.

'If Pluto relented, my dear Orpheus, surely Navarre may,' said

Henry good-humouredly; 'only may the priest not be more adamantine

than Minos. Where lies Nissard? On the Sable d'Olonne? Then you

may go thither with safety while we lie here, and I shall wait for

my sister, or for news of her.'

So Berenger arranged for an early start on the morrow; and young

Selinville listened with a frown, and strange look in his dark

eyes. 'You go not to England?' he said.

'Not yet?' said Berenger

'This was not what my Lady expected,' he muttered; but though

Berenger silenced him by a stern look, he took the first

opportunity of asking Philip if it would not be far wiser for his

brother to place himself in safety in England.

'Wiser, but less honest,' said Philip.

'He who has lost all here, who has incurred his grandfather's

anger,' pursued Aime, 'were he not wiser to make his peace with his

friends in England?'

'His friends in England would not like him the better for deserting

his poor wife's cause,' said Philip. 'I advise you to hold your

tongue, and not meddle or make.'

Aime subsided, and Philip detected something like tears. He had

still much of rude English boyhood about him, and he laughed

roughly. 'A fine fellow, to weep at a word! Hie thee back to feed

my Lady's lap-dog, 'tis all thou art fit for.'

'There spoke English gratitude,' said Aime, with a toss of the head

and flash of the eye.

Philip despised him the more for casting up his obligations, but

had no retort to make. He had an idea of making a man of young

Selinville, and his notion of the process had something of the

bullying tendency of English young towards the poor-spirited or

cowardly. He ordered the boy roughly, teased him for his ignorance

of manly exercises, tried to cure his helplessness by increasing

his difficulties, and viewed his fatigue as affectation or

effeminacy. Berenger interfered now and then to guard the poor boy

from a horse-jest or practical joke, but he too felt that Aime was

a great incumbrance, hopelessly cowardly, fanciful, and petulant;

and he was sometimes driven to speak to him with severity, verging

on contempt, in hopes of rousing a sense of shame.

The timidity, so unusual and inexplicable in a youth of eighteen or

twenty, sowed itself irrepressibly at the Sands of Olonne. These

were not misty, as on Berenger's former journey. Nissard steeple

was soon in sight, and the guide who joined them on a rough pony

had no doubt that there would be ample time to cross before high

water. There was, however, some delay, for the winter rains had

brought down a good many streams of fresh water, and the sands were

heavy and wet, so that their horses proceeded slowly, and the rush

and dash of the waves proclaimed that the low of the tide had

begun. To the two brothers the break and sweep was a home-sound,

speaking of freshness and freedom, and the salt breeze and spray

carried with them life and ecstasy. Philip kept as near the

incoming waves as his inland-bred horse would endure, and sang,

shouted, and hallooed to them as welcome as English waves; but Aime

de Selinville had never even beheld the sea before: and even when

the tide was still in the distance, was filled with nervous terror

as each rushing fall sounded nearer; and, when the line of white

foamy crests became more plainly visible, he was impelled to hurry

on towards the steeple so fast that the guide shouted to him that

he would only bury himself in a quicksand.

'But,' said he, white with alarm, and his teeth chattering, 'how

can we creep with those dreadful waves advancing upon us to drown

us?'

Berenger silence Philip's rude laugh and was beginning to explain

that the speed of the waves could always be calculated by an

experienced inhabitant; and his voice had seemed to pacify Aime a

little, when the spreading water in front of a broken wave flowing

up to his horse's feet, again rendered him nearly frantic. 'Let us

go back!' he wildly entreated, turning his horse; but Berenger

caught his bridle, saying, 'That would be truly death. Boy, unless

you would be scorned, restrain your folly. Nothing else imperils

us.'

Here, however, the guide interposed, saying that it had become too

late to pursue their course along the curve of the shore, but they

must at once cut straight across, which he had intended to avoid,

because of the greater depth of a small river that they would have

to cross, which divided further out into small channels, more

easily forded. They thus went along the chord of the arc formed by

the shore, and Aime was somewhat reassured, as the sea was at first

farther off; but before long they reached the stream, which lost

itself in many little channels in the sands, so that when the tide

was out there was a perfect network of little streams dividing low

shingly or grassy isles, but at nearly high tide, as at present,

many of these islets were submerged, and the strife between river

and sea caused sudden deepenings of the water in the channels.

The guide eagerly explained that the safest place for crossing was

not by the large sandbank furthest inland and looking firm and

promising--it was a recent shifting performance of the water's

heaping up, and would certainly sink away and bury horse the

channels on either side had shingly bottoms, and were safe.

'This way,' called Berenger, himself setting the example, and

finding no difficulty; the water did not rise above his boots, and

the current was not strong. He had reached the shingly isle when

he looked round for his companions; Humfrey and Philip were close

behind him; but, in spite of the loud 'gare!' of the guide, Aime,

or his horse,--for each was equally senseless with alarm,--were

making inwards; the horse was trying to tread on the sandbank,

which gave way like the water itself, under its frantic struggles--

there was a loud cry--a shrill, unmistakable woman's shriek--the

horse was sinking--a white face and helpless form were being

carried out on the waves, but not before Berenger had flung himself

from his horse, thrown off his cloak and sword, and dashed into the

water; and in the lapse of a few moments he struggled back to the

island, where were Philip and Humfrey, leg-deep in water: the one

received his burthen, the other helped him to land.

'On, gentlemen, not a moment to lose,' cried the guide; and

Berenger, still panting, flung himself on his horse, held out his

arms, gathered the small, almost inanimate figure upon the horse's

neck before him, and in a few minutes more they had crossed the

perilous passage, and were on a higher bank where they could safely

halt; and Philip, as he came to help his brother, exclaimed, 'What

a fool the boy is!'

'Hush!' said Berenger, gravely, as they laid the figure on the

ground.

'What! he can't have been drowned in that moment. We'll bring him

to.'

'Hands off!' said Berenger, kneeling over the gasping form, and

adding in a lower voice, 'Don't you see?' He would his hand in the

long drenched hair, and held it up, with cheeks burning like fire,

and his scar purple.

'A woman!--what?--who?' Then suddenly divining, he exclaimed, 'The

jade!' and started with wide eyes.

'Stand back,' said Berenger; 'she is coming to herself.'

Perhaps she had been more herself than he knew, for, as he

supported her head, her hand stole over his and held it fast. Full

of consternation, perplexity, and anger as he was, he could not but

feel a softening pity towards a creature so devoted, so entirely at

his mercy. At the moment when she lay helpless against him, gasps

heaving her breast under her manly doublet, her damp hair spread on

his knees, her dark eyes in their languor raised imploring his

face, her cold hand grasping his, he felt as if this great love

were a reality, and as if he were hunting a shadow; and, as if fate

would have it so, he must save and gratify one whose affection must

conquer his, who was so tender, so beautiful--even native

generosity seemed on her side. But in the midst, as in his

perplexity he looked up over the gray sea, he seemed to see the

picture so often present to his mind of the pale, resolute girl,

clasping her babe to her breast, fearless of the advancing sea,

because true and faithful. And at that thought faith and prayer

rallied once again round his heart, shame at the instant's wavering

again dyed his cheek; he recalled himself, and speaking the more

coldly and gravely because his heart was beating over hotly, he

said, 'Cousin, you are better. It is but a little way to

Nissard.'

'Why have you saved me, if you will not pity me?' she murmured.

'I will not pity, because I respect my kinswoman who has save our

lives,' he said steadying his voice with difficulty. 'The priests

of Nissard will aid me in sparing your name and fame.'

'Ah!' she cried, sitting up with a start of joy, 'but he would make

too many inquiries! Take me to England first.'

Berenger started as he saw how he had been misunderstood.

'Neither here nor in England could my marriage be set aside,

cousin. No; not priest shall take charge of you, and place you in

safety and honour.'

'He shall not!' she cried hotly. 'Why--why will you drive me from

you--me who ask only to follow you as a menial servant?'

'That has become impossible,' he answered; 'to say nothing of my

brother, my servant and the guide have seen;' and, as she

remembered her streaming hair, and tried, in dawning confusion, to

gather it together, he continued: 'You shrank from the eye of the

King of Navarre. You cannot continue as you have done; you have

not even strength.'

'Ah! have you sailed for England,' she murmured.

'It had only been greater shame,' he said. 'Cousin, I am head of

your family, husband of your kinswoman, and bound to respect the

reputation you have risked for me. I shall, therefore, place you

in charge of the priest till you can either return to your aunt or

to some other convent. You can ride now. We will not wait longer

in these wet garments.'

He raised her from the ground, threw his own dry cloak round her

shoulders and unmanageable hair, and lifted her on his horse; but,

as she would have leant against him, he drew himself away, beckoned

Philip, and put the bridle into his hands, saying, 'Take care of

her. I shall ride on and warm the priest.'

'The rock of diamond,' she murmured, not aware that the diamond had

been almost melting. That youthful gravity and resolution, with

the mixture of respect and protection, imposed as usual upon her

passionate nature, and daunted her into meekly riding beside Philip

without a word--only now and then he heard a low moan, and knew

that she was weeping bitterly.

At first the lad had been shocked beyond measure, and would have

held aloof as from a kind of monster, but Madame de Selinville had

been the first woman to touch his fancy, and when he heard how

piteously she was weeping, and recollected where he should have

been but for her, as well as all his own harshness to her as a

cowardly boy, he felt himself brutally ungrateful, and spoke:

'Don't weep so, Madame; I am sorry I was rude to you, but you see,

how should I take you for a woman?'

Perhaps she heard, but she heeded not.

'My brother will take good care to shield you,' Philip added. 'He

will take care you are safe in one of your nunneries;' and as she

only wept the more, he added, with a sudden thought, 'You would not

go there; you would embrace the Protestant faith?'

'I would embrace whatever was his.'

Philip muttered something about seeing what could be done. They

were already at the entrance of the village, and Berenger had come

out to meet them, and, springing towards him, Philip exclaimed, in

a low voice, 'Berry, she would abjure her Popish errors! You can't

give her up to a priest.'

'Foolery, Philip,' answered Berenger, sternly.

'If she would be a convert!'

'Let her be a modest woman first;' and Berenger, taking her bridle,

led her to the priest's house.

He found that Pere Colombeau was preaching a Lent sermon, and that

nobody was at home but the housekeeper, to whom he had explained

briefly that the lady with him had been forced to escape in

disguise, had been nearly drowned, and was in need of refreshment

and female clothing. Jacinthe did not like the sound, but drenched

clothes were such a passport to her master's house, that she durst

not refuse. Berenger carried off his other companions to the

cabaret, and when he had dried himself, went to wait for the priest

at the church door, sitting in the porch where more than one echo

of the exhortation to repentance and purity rang in his ears, and

enforced his conviction that here he must be cruel if he would be

merciful.

It was long before Pere Colombeau came out, and then, if the scar

had not blushed for all the rest of his face, the sickly, lanky lad

of three years since would hardly have been recognized to the good

cure. But the priest's aspect was less benignant when Berenger

tried to set before him his predicament; he coldly asked where the

unhappy lady was; and when Berenger expressed his intention of

coming the next morning to ask his counsel, he only bowed. He did

not ask the brothers to supper, nor show any civility; and

Berenger, as he walked back to the cabaret, perceived that his

story was but half believed, and that, if Diane's passion were

still stronger than her truth or generosity, she would be able to

make out a terrible case against him, and to willing ears,

naturally disposed against a young cavalier and a heretic.

He sat much dispirited by the fire of the little wine shop,

thinking that his forbearance had been well-nigh thrown away, and

that his character would never be cleared in Eustacie's eyes,

attaching, indeed, more importance to the blot than would have been

done by a youth less carefully reared.

It was quite dark when a knock came to the door: the cure's white

head appeared in the lamplight; he nodded kindly to all the guests,

and entreated that M. de Ribaumont would do him a favour to come

and speak with him.

No sooner were they outside the house, than the cure held out his

hand, saying 'Sir, forgive me for a grievous injustice towards

you;' then pressing his hand, he added with a voice tremulous with

emotion, 'Sir, it is no slight thing to have saved a wandering

sheep by your uprightness and loyalty.'

'Have you then opened her eyes, father?' said Berenger, relieved

from a heavy load.

'You have, my son,' said the old man. 'You have taught her what

truth and virtue are. For the rest, you shall heard for yourself.'

Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, and he found

himself in the church. The building was almost entirely dark;

there were two tall lights at the altar in distance, and a few

little slender tapers burning before certain niches and shrines,

but without power to conquer with the gloom more than enough to

spread a pale circle of yellow light beneath them, and to show

mysteriously a bit of vaulting above. A single lamp hung from an

arch near the door, and beneath it, near a pillar, knelt, or rather

crouched, on the floor, a female figure with a dark peasant cloak

drawn over her head.

'The first token of penitence is reparation to the injured,' said

the priest.

Berenger looked at him anxiously.

'I will not leave you,' he added. 'See, I shall pray for you

yonder, by the altar,' and he slowly moved up the aisle.

'Rise, cousin, I entreat you,' said Berenger, much embarrassed, as

he disappeared in the darkness.

'I must speak thus,' she answered, in a hoarse, exhausted voice.

'Ah! pardon, pardon!' she added, rising, however, so far as to

raise clasped hands and an imploring face. 'Ah! can you pardon?

It was through me that you bear those wounds; that she--Eustacie--

was forced into the masque, to detain you for THAT night. Ah!

pardon.'

'That is long past,' said Berenger. 'I have been too near death

not to have pardoned that long ago. Rise, cousin, I cannot see you

thus.'

'That is not all,' continued Diane. 'It was I--I who moved my

father to imprison you.' Then, as he bent his head, and would have

again entreated her to rise, she held out her hand as if to silence

him, and spoke faster, more wildly. 'Then--then I thought it would

save your life. I thought---' she looked at him strangely with her

great dark eyes, all hollow and cavernous in her white face.

'I know,' said Berenger, kindly, 'you often urged it on me.'

There was a sort of movement on the part of the kneeling figure of

the priest at the altar, and she interrupted, saying precipitately.

'Then--then, I did think you free.'

'Ah!' he gasped. 'Now---!'

'Now I know that she lives!' and Diane once more sank at his feet a

trembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of shame and misery.

Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly repressed,

had the ring of ecstasy in it. 'Cousin--cousin!' he cried, 'all is

forgiven--all forgotten, if you will only tell me where!'

'That I cannot,' said Diane, rousing herself again, but speaking in

a dull, indifferent tone, as of one to whom the prime bitterness

was past, 'save that she is under the care of the Duchess de

Quinet;' and she then proceeded, as though repeating a lesson: 'You

remember the Italian conjurer whom you would not consult? Would

that I had not!' she added, clasping her hands. 'His prediction

lured me? Well, he saw my father privately, told him he had seen

her, and had bought her jewels, even her hair. My father sent him

in quest of her again, but told not me till the man returned with

tidings that she was at Quinet, in favour with the Duchess. You

remember that he went from home. It was to demand he; and, ah! you

know how long I had loved you, and they told me that your marriage

was void, and that all would be well upon the dispensation coming.

And now the good father there tells me that I was deceived--cruelly

deceived--that such a dispensation would not be granted save

through gross misrepresentation.' Then, as Berenger began to show

tokens of eagerness to come at tidings of Eustacie, she continued,

'Ah! it is vain to seek to excuse one you care not for. My father

could learn nothing from the Duchess; she avowed that she had been

there, but would say no more. However, he and my brother were sure

she was under their protection; they took measures, and--and the

morning my poor father was stricken, there had been a letter from

my brother to say he was on her track, and matters must be ended

with you, for he should have her in a week;' and then, as Berenger

started forward with an inarticulate outburst, half of horror, half

of interrogation, she added, 'Where, he said not, nor did I learn

from him. All our one interview was spend in sneers that answered

to my wild entreaties; but this I know--that you would never have

reached Tours a living man.'

'And now, now he is on the way to her!' cried Berenger, 'and you

kept it from me!'

'There lay my hope,' said Diane, raising her head; and now, with

glittering eyes and altered voice, 'How could I not but hate her

who had bereaved me of you; her for whose sake I could not earn

your love?'

The change of her tone had, perhaps, warned the priest to draw

nearer, and as she perceived him, she said, 'Yes, father, this is

not the way to absolution, but my heart will burst if I say not

all.'

'Thou shalt not prevail, foul spirit,' said the priest, looking

earnestly into the darkness, as though he beheld the fiend hovering

over her, 'neither shall these holy walls be defiled with accents

of unhallowed love. You have made your reparation, daughter; it is

enough.'

'And can you tell me no more?' said Berenger, sadly. 'Can you give

me no clue that I may save her from the wolf that may be already on

her track? Cousin, if you would do this, I would bless you for

ever.'

'Alas! I would if I could! It is true, cousin, I have no heart to

deceive you any longer. But it is to Madame de Quinet that you

must apply, and if my brother has though me worth pursuit, you may

be in time! One moment,'--as he would have sprung away as if in

the impulse to fly to the rescue,--'cousin; had you gone to England

as I hoped, I would have striven to deserve to win that love of

yours, but you have conquered by your constancy. Now, father, I

have spoken my last save as penitent.'

She covered her head and sank down again.

Berenger, bewildered and impelled to be doing something, let the

priest lead him out before he exclaimed, 'I said nothing to her of

pardon!'

'You do pardon?' said the priest.

He paused a moment. 'Freely, if I find my wife. I can only

remember now that she set me on the way. I would ease her soul,

poor thing, and thinking would make me hard again.'

'Do the English bring up their sons with such feelings?' asked the

cure, pausing for a moment.

'Of course,' said Berenger. 'May I say that one word, sir?'

'Not now,' said the priest; 'she had better be left to think of her

sin towards Heaven, rather than towards man.'

'But do you leave her there, sir?'

'I shall return. I shall pray for her true penitence,' said the

priest, and Berenger perceived from his tone that one without the

pale might inquire no further. He only asked how safe and

honourable shelter could be found for her; and the cure replied

that he had already spoken to her of the convent of Lucon, and

should take her there so soon as it could safely be done, and that

Abbess Monique, he trusted, would assist her crushed spirit in

finding the path of penitence. He thought her cousin had better

not endeavour to see her again; and Berenger himself was ready to

forget her very existence in his burning anxiety to outstrip

Narcisse in the quest of Eustacie.




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