Speats and raxes, speats and raxes, speat and raxes

Lord Somerville's billet

Never wont to let the grass grow under his feet, Henry of Navarre

was impatient of awaiting his troops at Pont de Dronne, and

proposed to hasten on to Quinet, as a convenient centre for

collecting the neighbouring gentry for conference.

Thus, early on Monday, a party of about thirty set forth on horseback, including

the Ribaumonts, Rayonette being perched by turns in front of her

father or mother, and the Duke de Quinet declaring that he should

do his best to divide the journey into stages not too long for

Philip, since he was anxious to give his mother plenty of time to

make preparations for her royal guest.

He had, however, little reckoned on the young King's promptitude.

The first courier he had dispatched was overtaken at a cabaret

only five leagues from Pont de Dronne, baiting his horse, as he

said; the second was found on the road with a lame horse; and the

halt a day's journey remained beyond it. The last stage had been ridden, much to the Duke's discontent, for it brought them to a mere village inn, with scarcely any accommodation.

The only tolerable bed was resigned by the King to the use of Philip, whose

looks spoke the exhaustion of which his tongue scorned to complain.

So painful and feverish a night ensued that Eustacie was anxious

that he should not move until the Duke should, as he promised, send

a mule litter back for him; but this proposal he resented; and in

the height of his constitutional obstinacy, appeared booted and

spurred at the first signal to mount.

Nor could Eustacie, as she soon perceived, annoy him more than by

showing her solicitude for him, or attracting to him the notice of

the other cavaliers. As the only lady of the party, she received a

great deal of attention, with some of which she would gladly have

dispensed. Whether it were the King's habit of calling her 'la

Belle Eurydice,' or because, as she said, he was 'si laid' and

reminded her of old unhappy days of constraint, she did not like

him, and had almost displeased her husband and his brother by

saying so. She would gladly have avoided the gallantries of this

day's ride by remaining with Philip at the inn; but not only was

this impossible, but the peculiar ill-temper of concealed suffering

made Philip drive her off whenever she approached him with

inquiries; so that she was forced to leave him to his brother and

Osbert, and ride forward between the King and the Duke, the last of

whom she really liked.

Welcome was the sight of the grand old chateau, its mighty wings of

chestnut forest stretching up the hills on either side, and the

stately avenue extending before it; but just then the last courier

was discovered, reeling in his saddle under the effects of repeated

toasts in honour of Navarre and Quinet.

'We are fairly sped,' said the Duke to Eustacie, shrugging his

shoulders between amusement and dismay.

'Madame la Duchesse is equal to any galimafre,' said Eustacie,

demurely; at which the Duke laughed heartily, saying, 'It is not

for the family credit I fear, but for my own!'

'Nay, triumph makes everything be forgiven.'

'But not forgotten,' laughed the Duke. 'But, allons. Now for

the onset. We are already seen. The forces muster at the

gateway.'

By the time the cavalcade were at the great paved archway into the

court, the Duchess stood at the great door, a grandson on either

side, and a great burly fresh-coloured gentleman behind her.

M. de Quinet was off his horse in a second, his head bare, his hand

on the royal rein, and signing to his eldest son to hold the

stirrup; but, before the boy had comprehended, Henry had sprung

down, and was kissing the old lady's hand, saying, 'Pardon, Madame!

I trust to your goodness for excusing this surprise from an old

friend's son.'

Neither seeing nor caring for king or prince, the stranger

gentleman at the same moment pounced upon Eustacie and her little

girl, crying aloud in English, 'Here she is! My dear, I am glad to

see you. Give her to me, poor Berenger's little darling. Ah! she

does not understand. Where's Merrycourt?'

Just then there was another English exclamation, 'My father!

Father! dear father!' and Philip, flinging himself from the saddle,

fell almost prone on that broad breast, sobbing convulsively, while

the eyes that, as he truly boasted, had never wasted a tear on his

enemies, were streaming so fast that his father's welcome savoured

of reproof: 'What's all this? Before these French too.'

'Take care, father,' cried Berenger, leaping from his horse; 'he

has an ugly wound just where you are holding him.'

'Wounded! my poor boy. Look up.'

'Where is your room, sir?' said Berenger, seeing his hosts entirely

occupied with the King; and at once lifting the almost helpless

Philip like a little child in his strong arms, he followed Sir

Marmaduke, who, as if walking in his sleep, led the way up the

great stone staircase that led outside the house to the upper

chambers.

After a short interval, the Duchess, in the plenitude of her glory

at entertaining her dear Queen's son, came up en grande tenue,

leading the King by the hand, the Duke walking backwards in front,

and his two sons each holding a big wax candle on either side.

'Here, Sire, is the chamber where the excellent Queen did me the

honour to repose herself.'

The Duke swung open the door of the state bed-chamber. There on

the velvet-hung bed sat le gros Chevalier Anglais, whom she had

herself installed there on Saturday. Both his hands were held fast

in those of a youth who lay beside him, deadly pale, and half

undressed, with the little Ribaumont attending to a wound in his

side, while her child was held in the arms of a very tall, bald-

headed young man, who stood at the foot of the bed. The whole

group of interlopers looked perfectly glorified with happiness and

delight. Even the wounded youth, ghastly and suffering as he was,

lay stroking the big Englishman's hand with a languid, caressing

air of content, almost like that of a dog who has found his master.

None of them were the least embarrassed, they evidently thought

this a visit of inquiry after the patient; and while the Duchess

stood confounded, and the Duke much inclined to laugh, Eustacie

turned eagerly, exclaiming, 'Ah! Madame, I am glad you are come.

May I beg Mademoiselle Perrot for some of your cooling mallow

salve. Riding has sadly inflamed the wound.'

'Riding--with such a wound! Are we all crazed?' said Madame la

Duchesse, absolutely bewildered out of her dignified equanimity:

and her son, seeing her for once at a loss, came to her rescue.

'His Grace will condescend to the Andromeda Chamber, Madame. He

kindly gave up his bed to our young friend last night, when there

was less choice than you can give him.'

They all moved off again; and, before Eustacie was ready for the

mallows, Madame de Quinet, for whom the very name of a wound had an

attraction, returned with two hand-maidens bearing bandages and

medicaments, having by this time come to the perception that the

wounded youth was the son of the big Englishman who had arrived

with young Mericour in search of her little protegee, and that

the tall man was the husband so long supposed to be dead. She was

curious to see her pupil's surgery, of which she highly approved,

though she had no words to express her indignation at the folly of

traveling so soon. Indeed, nothing but the passiveness of fatigue

could have made her despotism endurable to Philip; but he cared for

nothing so long as he could see his father's face, and hear his

voice--the full tones that his ear had yearned for among the sharp

expression of the French accent--and Sir Marmaduke seemed to find

the same perfect satisfaction in the sight of him; indeed, all were

so rejoiced to be together, that they scarcely exerted themselves

to ask questions. When Berenger would have made some explanation,

Sir Marmaduke only said, 'Tell me not yet, my dear boy. I see it

is all right, and my head will hold no more yet but that I have you

and the lad again! Thank God for it! Never mind how.'

When, however, with some difficulty they got him away from Philip's

bedside down to supper, the King came and made him high compliments

upon the distinguished bravery of his sons, and Mericour

interpreted, till Sir Marmaduke--though answering that of course

the lads must do their duty, and he was only glad to hear they had

done it--became more and more radiant and proud, as he began to

gather what their trials and what their steadfastness and courage

had been. His goodly face, beaming with honest gladness, was, as

Henry told the Duchess, an absolute ornament to her table.

Unable, however, to converse with any one but Berenger and

Mericour, and pining all the time to get back to his son, the

lengthy and ceremonious meal was a weary penance to him; and so

soon as his release was possible, he made his way up-stairs again,

where he found Philip much refreshed by a long sleep, and only

afraid that he should find the sight of his father merely a dream;

then, when satisfied on that head, eager to hear of all at home--

'the sisters, the dogs, my mother, and my little brother?' as he

arranged his inquiry.

'Ha! you heard of that, did you?'

'Yes,' said Philip, 'the villains gave us letters once--only once--

and those what they thought would sting us most. O father, how

could you all think such foul shame of Berry?'

'Don't speak of it, Phil; I never did, nor Aunt Cecily, not for a

moment; but my Lord is not the man he was, and those foes of yours

must have set abroad vile reports for the very purpose of deceiving

us. And then this child must needs be born, poor little rogue. I

shall be able to take to him now all is right again; but by St.

George, they have tormented me so about him, and wanted me to take

him as a providence to join the estates together, instead of you

and Berry, that I never thought to care so little for a child of my

own.'

'We drank his health at Nid de Merle, and were not a little

comforted that you would have him in our place.'

'I'd rather--- Well, it skills not talking of it, but it just shows

the way of women. After all the outcry Dame Annora had made about

her poor son, and no one loving him or heeding his interest save

herself, no sooner was this little fellow born than she had no

thought for any but he, and would fain have had her father settle

all his lands on him, protesting that if Berry lived, his French

lands were enough for him. Out of sight, out of mind, is the way

with women.'

Womanhood was already made accountable for all Lady Thistlewood's

follies, and Philip acquiesced, asking further, 'Nay, but how came

you hither, father? Was it to seek us or Eustacie?'

'Both, both, my lad. One morning just after Christmas, I rid over

to Combe with my dame behind me, and found the house in commotion

with a letter that young Sidney, Berry's friend, had just sent down

by special messenger. It had been writ more than a year, but,

bless you, these poor foreigners have such crooked ears and tongues

that they don't know what to make of a plain man's name, and the

only wonder was that it ever came at all. It seems the Duke here

had to get it sent over by some of the secret agents the French

Protestants have in England, and what do they do but send it to one

of the Vivians in Cornwall; and it was handed about among them for

how long I cannot say, till there was a chance of sending it up to

my Lord of Warwick; and he, being able to make nothing if it, shows

it to his nephew, Philip Sidney, who, perceiving at once whom it

concerned, sends it straight to my Lord, with a handsome letter

hoping that it brought good tidings. There then it was, and so we

first knew that the poor lady had not been lost in the sack of the

town, as Master Hobbs told us. She told us how this Duchess had

taken her under her protection, but that her enemies were seeking

her, and had even attempted her child's life.'

'The ruffians! Even so.'

'And she said her old pastor was failing in health, and prayed that

some trusty person might be sent to bring home at least the child

to safety with her kindred. There was a letter to the same effect,

praising her highly too, from the Duchess, saying that she would do

her best to guard her, but the kinsmen had the law on their side,

and she would be safer in England. Well, this was fair good news,

save that we marveled the more how you and Berry should have missed

her; but the matter now was who was the trusty person who should

go. Claude Merrycourt was ready---'

'How came he there?' demanded Philip. 'I thought he had gone, or

been sent off with Lady Burnet's sons.'

'Why, so he had; but there's more to say on that score. He was so

much in favour at Combe, that my Lord would not be denied his

spending the holiday times there; and, besides, last summer we had

a mighty coil. The Horners of Mells made me a rare good offer for

Lucy for their eldest son, chiefly because they wanted a wife for

him of my Lady Walwyn's and Mistress Cecily's breeding; and my wife

was all for accepting it, having by that time given up all hope of

poor Berry. But I would have no commands laid on my girl, seeing

that I had pledged my word not to cross her in the matter, and she

hung about my neck and prayed me so meekly to leave her unwedded,

that I must have been made of stone not to yield to her. So I told

Mr. Horner that his son Jack must wait for little Nancy if he

wanted a daughter of mine--and the stripling is young enough. I

believe he will. But women's tongues are not easy to stop, and

Lucy was worn so thin, and had tears in her eyes--that she thought

I never marked--whenever she was fretted or flouted, and at last I

took her back to stay at Combe for Aunt Cecily to cheer up a bit;

and--well, well, to get rid of the matter and silence Dame Nan, I

consented to a betrothal between her and Merrycourt--since she

vowed she would rather wait single for him than wed any one else.

He is a good youth, and is working himself to a shadow between

studying and teaching; but as to sending him alone to bring Berry's

wife back, he was over-young for that. No one could do that fitly

save myself, and I only wish I had gone three years ago, to keep

you two foolish lads out of harm's way. But they set up an

unheard-of hubbub, and made sure I should lose myself. What are

you laughing at, you Jacksauce?'

'To think of you starting, father, with not a word of French, and

never from home further than once to London.'

'Ah! you thought to come the traveled gentleman over me, but I've

been even with you. I made Dame Nan teach me a few words, but I

never could remember anything but that "mercy" is "thank ye."

However, Merrycourt offered to come with me, and my Lord wished it.

Moreover, I thought he might aid in tracing you out. So I saw my

Lord alone, and he passed his word to me that, come what would, no

one should persuade him to alter his will to do wrong to Berenger's

daughter; and so soon as Master Hobbs could get the THROSTLE

unladen, and fitted out again, we sailed for Bordeau, and there he

is waiting for us, while Clause and I bought horses and hired a

guide, and made our way here on Saturday, where we were very

welcome; and the Duchess said she would but wait till she could

learn there were no bands of the enemy at hand, to go down with me

herself to the place where she had sent the lady. A right worthy

dame is this same Duchess, and a stately; and that young King, as

they call him, seems hard to please, for he told Berry that his

wife's courtliness and ease in his reception were far above aught

that he found here. What he means is past a plain man, for as to

Berry's wife she is handy, and notable enough, and 'tis well he

loves her so well; but what a little brown thing it is, for a man

to have gone through such risks for. Nothing to look at beside his

mother!'

'If you could only see Madame de Selinville!' sighed Philip; then--

'Ah! sir, you would know the worth of Eustacie had you seen her in

yonder town.'

'Very like!' said Sir Marmaduke; 'but after all our fears at home

of a fine court madam, it takes one aback to see a little homely

brown thing, clad like a serving wench. Well, Dame Nan will not be

displeased, she always said the girl would grow up no beauty, and

'tis the way of women to brook none fairer than themselves! Better

so. She is a good Protestant, and has done rarely by you, Phil.'

'Truly, I might be glad 'twas no court madam that stood by me when

Berry was called back to the fight: and for the little one, 'tis

the loveliest and bravest little maid I ever saw. Have they told

you of the marigolds, father?'

'Why, the King told the whole to the Duchess, so Berry said, and

then drank the health of the daughter of the bravest of knights;

and Berry held her up in his arms to bow again, and drink to them

from his glass. Berry looked a proud man, I can tell you, and a

comely, spite of his baldness; and 'tis worth having come here to

see how much you lads are thought of--though to be sure 'tis not

often the poor creatures here see so much of an Englishman as we

have made of Berry.'

Philip could not but laugh. ''Tis scarce for that that they value

him, sir.'

'Say you so? Nay, methinks his English heart and yours did them

good service. Indeed, the King himself told me as much by the

mouth of Merrycourt. May that youngster's head only not be turned!

Why, they set him at table above Berenger, and above half the

King's gentlemen. Even the Duchess makes as if he were one of her

highest guests--he a poor Oxford scholar, doubting if he can get

his bread by the law, and flouted as though he were not good enough

for my daughter. 'Tis the world topsy turvy, sure enough! And

that this true love that Berenger has run through fire and water

after, like a knight in a pedlar's run through turn out a mere

little, brown, common-looking woman after all, not one whit equal

to Lucy!'

Sir Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that night, when

he had talked Philip into a state of feverishness and suffering

that became worse under Madame de Quinet's reproofs and remedies,

and only yielded to Eustacie's long and patient soothing. He then

could almost have owned that it was well she was not like his own

cherished type of womanhood, and the next day he changed his

opinion still more, even as to her appearance.

There was a great gathering of favourers of the Huguenot cause on

that day; gentlemen came from all parts to consult with Henry of

Navarre, and Madame de Quinet had too much sense of the fitness of

things to allow Madame de Ribaumont to appear at the ensuing

banquet in her shabby, rusty black serge, and tight white

borderless cap. The whole wardrobe of the poor young Duchess de

Quinet was placed at her service, and though, with the thought of

her adopted father on her heart, she refused gay colours, yet when,

her toilette complete, she said into Philip's room, he almost

sprang up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and ceremoniously

bowed as to a stranger, and was only undeceived when little

Rayonette ran joyously to Philip, asking if Manan was not si

belle, si belle.

The effects of her unrestful nights has now passed away, and left

her magnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and arch fire; the

blooming glow was restored to her cheek; and though neck, brow, and

hands were browner than in the shelter of convent or palace, she

was far more near absolute beauty than in former days, both from

countenance and from age. Her little proud head was clustered with

glossy locks of jet, still short, but curling round her brow and

neck, whose warm brunette tints contrasted well with the delicate,

stiffened cobweb of her exquisite standing ruff, which was gathered

into a white satin bodice, with a skirt of the same material, over

which swept a rich black brocade train open in front, with an open

body and half-sleeves with falling lace, and the hands, delicate

and shapely as ever, if indeed a little tanned, held fan and

handkerchief with as much courtly grace as though they had never

stirred broth nor wrung out linen. Sir Marmaduke really feared he

had the court madam on his hands after all, but he forgot all about

his fears, as she stood laughing and talking, and by her pretty

airs and gestures, smiles and signs, making him enter into her

mirth with Philip, almost as well as if she had not spoken French.

Even Berenger started, when he came up after the counsel to fetch

her to the banqueting-hall. She was more entirely the Eustacie of

the Louvre than he had ever realized seeing her, and yet so much

more; and when the Duchess beheld the sensation she produced among

the noblesse, it was with self-congratulation in having kept her

in retirement while it was still not known that she was not a

widow. The King of Navarre had already found her the only lady

present possessed of the peculiar aroma of high-breeding which

belonged to the society in which both he and she had been most at

home, and his attentions were more than she liked from one whose

epithet of Eurydice she had never quite forgiven; at least, that

was the only reason she could assign for her distaste, but the

Duchess understood her better than did Berenger, nay, better than

she did herself, and kept her under the maternal wings of double

form and ceremony.

Berenger, meanwhile, was in great favour. A command had been

offered him by the King of Navarre, who had promised that if he

would cast in his lot with the Huguenots, his claims on all the

lands of Ribaumont should be enforced on the King of France when

terms were wrung from him, and Narcisse's death removed all valid

obstacle to their recognition; but Berenger felt himself bound by

all home duties to return to England, nor had he clear convictions

as to the absolute right of the war in which he had almost

unconsciously drawn his sword. Under the Tudors the divine right

of kings was strongly believed in, and it was with many genuine

misgivings that the cause of Protestant revolt was favoured by

Elisabeth and her ministers; and Berenger, bred up in a strong

sense of loyalty, as well as in doctrines that, as he had received

them, savoured as little of Calvinism as of Romanism, was not ready

to espouse the Huguenot cause with all his heart; and as he could

by no means have fought on the side of King Henry III. or of the

Guises, felt thankful that the knot could be cut by renouncing

France altogether, according to the arrangement which had been

defeated by the Chevalier's own supper-subtle machinations.

At the conference of gentlemen held at Quinet, he had been startled

by hearing the name of the Sieur de Bellaise, and had identified

him with a grave, thin, noble-looking man, with an air of high-bred

and patient poverty. He was a Catholic but no Guisard, and

supported the middle policy of the Montmorency party, so far as he

possessed any influence; but his was only the weight of personal

character, for he had merely a small property that had descended to

him through his grandmother, the wife of the unfortunate Bellaise

who had pined to death in the dungeon at Loches, under Louis XI.

Here, then, Berenger saw the right means of riding himself and his

family of the burthen that his father had mourned over, and it only

remained to convince Eustacie. Her first feeling when she heard of

the King's offer, was that at last her ardent wish would be

gratified, she should see her husband at the head of her vassals,

and hear the war-cry motto 'A moi Ribaumont.' Then came the old

representation that the Vendeen peasants were faithful Catholics

who could hardly be asked to fight on the Calvinist side. The old

spirit rose in a flush, a pout, a half-uttered query why those

creatures should be allowed their opinions. Madame la Baronne was

resuming her haughty temperament in the noblesse atmosphere; but

in the midst came the remembrance of having made that very speech

in her Temple ruin--of the grave sad look of rebuke and shake of

the head with which the good old minister had received it--and how

she had sulked at him till forced to throw herself on him to hinder

her separation from her child. She burst into tears, and as

Berenger, in some distress, began to assure her that he would and

could do nothing without her consent, she struggled to recover

voice to say, 'No! no! I only grieve that I am still as wicked as

ever, after these three years with that saint, my dear father. Do

as you will, only pardon me, the little fierce one!'

And then, when she was made to perceive that her husband would have

to fight alone, and could not take her with him to share his

triumphs or bind his wounds, at least not except by bringing her in

contact with Henry of Navarre and that atmosphere of the old court,

she acquiesced the more readily. She was a woman who could feel

but not reason; and, though she loved Nid de Merle, and had been

proud of it, Berenger's description of the ill-used Sieur de

Bellaise had the more effect on her, because she well remembered

the traditions whispered among the peasants with whom her childhood

had been passed, that the village crones declared nothing had gone

well with the place since the Bellaise had been expelled, with a

piteous tale of the broken-hearted lady, that she had never till

now understood.

For the flagrant injustice perpetrated on her uncle and cousin in

the settlement on Berenger and herself she cared little, thinking

they had pretty well repaid themselves, and not entering into

Berenger's deeper view, that this injustice was the more to be

deplored as the occasion of their guilt; but she had no doubt or

question as to the grand stroke of yielding up her claims on the

estate to the Sieur de Bellaise. The generosity of the deed struck

her imagination, and if Berenger would not lead her vassals to

battle, she did not want them. There was no difficulty with Sir

Marmaduke; he only vowed that he liked Berenger's wife all the

better for being free of so many yards of French dirt tacked to her

petticoat, and Philip hated the remembrance of those red sugar-loaf

pinnacles far too much not to wish his brother to be rid of them.

M. de Bellaise, when once he understood that restitution was

intended, astonished Sir Marmaduke by launching himself on

Berenger's neck with tears of joy; and Henry of Navarre, though

sorry to lose such a partisan as the young Baron, allowed that the

Bellaise claims, being those of a Catholic, might serve to keep out

some far more dangerous person whom the court party might select in

opposition to an outlaw and a Protestant like M. de Ribaumont.

'So you leave us,' he said in private to Berenger, to whom he had

taken a great liking. 'I cannot blame you for not casting your lot

into such a witch's caldron as this poor country. My friends think

I dallied at court like Rinaldo in Armida's garden. They do not

understand that when one hears the name of Bourbon one does not

willingly make war with the Crown, still less that the good Calvin

left a doctrine bitter to the taste and tough of digestion. Maybe,

since I have been forced to add my spoon to stir the caldron, it

may clear itself; if so, you will remember that you have rights in

Normandy and Picardy.'

This was the royal farewell. Henry and his suite departed the next

morning, but the Duchess insisted on retaining her other guests

till Philip's cure should be complete. Meantime, Claude de

Mericour had written to his brother and arranged a meeting with

him. He was now no boy who could be coerced, but a staid, self-

reliant, scholarly person, with a sword by his side and an English

passport to secure him, and his brother did not regard him as quite

the disgrace to his family he had at first deemed him. He was at

least no rebel; and though the law seemed to French eyes infinitely

beneath the dignity of a scion of nobility, still it was something

not to have him a heretic preacher, and to be able at least to

speak of him as betrothed to the sister of the Baron de Ribaumont.

Moreover, that Huguenot kinsman, whose extreme Calvinist opinions

had so nearly revolted Mericour, had died and left him all his

means, as the only Protestant in the family; and the amount, when

Claude arranged matters with his brother, proved to be sufficient

to bear him through his expenses handsomely as a student, with the

hope of marriage so soon as he should have kept his terms at the

Temple.

And thus the good ship THROSTLE bore home the whole happy party to

Weymouth, and good Sir Marmaduke had an unceasing cause for

exultation in the brilliant success of his mission to France.

After all, the first to revisit that country was no other than the

once homesick Philip. He wearied of inaction, and thought his

county neighbours ineffably dull and lubberly, while they blamed

him for being a fine, Frenchified gentleman, even while finding no

fault with their old friend Berenger, or that notable little,

lively, housewifely lady his wife, whose broken English and bright

simplicity charmed every one. Sorely Philip needed something to

do; he might have been a gentleman pensioner, but he had no notion,

he said, of loitering after a lady to boat and hunt, when such a

king as Henry of Navarre was in the field; and he agreed with

Eustacie in her estimate of the court, that it was horribly dull,

and wanting in all the sparkle and brilliancy that even he had

perceived at Paris.

Eustacie gladly retreated to housewifery at Combe Walwyn, but a

strenuous endeavour on Lady Thistlewood's part to marry her stepson

to a Dorset king's daughter, together with the tidings of the

renewed war in France, spurred Philip into writing permission from

his father to join the King of Navarre as a volunteer.

Years went by, and Philip was only heard of in occasional letters,

accompanied by presents to his sisters and to little Rayonette, and

telling of marches, exploits, and battles,--how he had taken a

standard of the League at Coutras, and how he had led a charge of

pikemen at Ivry, for which he received the thanks of Henry IV.

But, though so near home, he did not set foot on English ground

till the throne of France was secured to the hero of Navarre, and

he had marched into Paris in guise very unlike the manner he had

left it.

Then home he came, a bronzed gallant-looking warrior, the pride of

the county, ready for repose and for aid to his father in his

hearty old age, and bearing with him a pressing invitation from the

King to Monsieur and Madame de Ribaumont to resume their rank at

court. Berenger, who had for many years only known himself as Lord

Walwyn, shook his head. 'I thank the King,' he said, 'but I am

better content to breed up my children as wholly English. He bade

me to return when he should have stirred the witch's caldron into

clearness. Alas! all he has done is to make brilliant colours

shine on the vapour thereof. Nay, Phil; I know your ardent love

for him, and marvel not at it. Before he joined the Catholic

Church I trusted that he might have given truth to the one party,

and unity to the other; but when the clergy accepted him with all

his private vices, and he surrendered unconditionally, I lost hope.

I fear there is worse in store. Queen Catherine did her most fatal

work of evil when she corrupted Henry of Navarre.'

'If you say more, Berry, I shall be ready to challenge you!' said

Philip. 'When you saw him, you little knew the true king of souls

that he is, is greatness, or his love for his country.'

'Nay, I believe it; but tell me, Philip, did you not hint that you

had been among former friends--at Lucon, you said, I think?'

Philip's face changed. 'Yes; it was for that I wished to see you

alone. My troop had to occupy the place. I had to visit the

convent to arrange for quartering my men so as least to scandalize

the sisters. The Abbess came to speak to me. I knew her only by

her eyes! She is changed--aged, wan, thin with their discipline

and fasts--but she once or twice smiled as she alone in old times

could smile. The place rings with her devotion, her charity, her

penances, and truly her face is'--he could hardly speak--'like that

of a saint. She knew me at once, asked for you all, and bade me

tell you that NOW she prays for you and yours continually, and

blesses you for having opened to her the way of peace. Ah! Berry,

I always told you she had not her equal.'

'Think you so even now?'

'How should I not, when I have seen what repentance has made of

her?'

'So!' said Berenger, rather sorrowfully, 'our great Protestant

champion has still left his heart behind in a French convent.'

'Stay, Berenger! do you remember yonder villain conjurer's

prediction that I should wed none but a lady whose cognizance was

the leopard?'

'And you seem bent on accomplishing it,' said Berenger.

'Nay, but in another manner--that which you devised on the spur of

the moment. Berenger, I knew the sorcerer spake sooth when that

little moonbeam child of yours brought me the flowers from the

rampart. I had speech with her last night. She has all the fair

loveliness that belongs of right to your mother's grandchild, but

her eye, blue as it is, has the Ribaumont spirit; the turn of the

head and the smile are what I loved long ago in yonder lady, and,

above all, she is her own sweet self. Berenger, give me your

daughter Berangere, and I ask no portion with her but the silver

bullet. Keep the pearls for your son's heirloom; all I ask with

Rayonette is the silver bullet.'



Next :

readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024