Osbert alone was to go to the Louvre with him, after having seen
the five English grooms on board the little decked market-vessel on
the Seine, which was to await the fugitives. Berenger was to
present himself in the palace as in his ordinary court attendance,
and, contriving to elude notice among the throng who were there
lodged, was to take up his station at the foot of the stairs
leading to the apartments of ladies, whence Eustacie was to descend
at about eleven o'clock, with her maid Veronique. Landry Osbert
was to join them from the lackey's hall below, where he had a
friend, and the connivance of the porter at the postern opening
towards the Seine had been secured.
Sidney wished much to accompany him to the palace, if his presence
could be any aid or protection, but on consideration it was decided
that his being at the Louvre was likely to attract notice to
Ribaumont's delaying there. The two young men therefore shook
hands and parted, as youths who trusted that they had begun a
lifelong friendship, with mutual promises to write to one another--
the one, the adventures of his flight; the other, the astonishment
it would excite. And auguries were exchanged of merry meetings in
London, and of the admiration the lovely little wife would excite
at Queen Elizabeth's court.
Then, with an embrace such as English friends then gave, they
separated at the gate; and Sidney stood watching, as Berenger
walked free and bold down the street, his sword at his side, his
cloak over one shoulder, his feathered cap on one side, showing his
bright curling hair, a sunshiny picture of a victorious bridegroom-
-such a picture as sent Philip Sidney's wits back to Arcadia.
It was not a day of special state, but the palace was greatly
crowded. The Huguenots were in an excited mood, inclined to rally
round Henry of Navarre, whose royal title made him be looked on as
is a manner their monarch, though his kingdom had been swallowed by
Spain, and he was no more than a French duke distantly related to
royalty in the male line, and more nearly through his grandmother
and bride. The eight hundred gentlemen he had brought with him
swarmed about his apartments, making their lodging on staircases
and in passages; and to Berenger it seemed as if the King's guards
and Monsieur's gentlemen must have come in in equal numbers to
balance them. Narcisse was there, and Berenger kept cautiously
amid his Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have a quarrel
thrust on him which he could not honourably desert. It was late
before he could work his way to the young Queen's reception-room,
where he found Eustacie. She looked almost as white as at the
masque; but there was a graver, less childish expression in her
face than he had ever seen before, and her eyes glanced confidence
when they met his.
Behind the Queen's chair a few words could be spoken.
'Ma mie, art thou well again? Canst bear this journey now?'
'Quite well, now! quite ready. Oh that we may never have masques
in England!'
He smiled--'Never such as this!'
'Ah! thou knowest best. I am glad I am thine already; I am so
silly, thou wouldest never have chosen me! But thou wilt teach me,
and I will strive to be very good! And oh! let me but give one
farewell to Diane.'
'It is too hard to deny thee aught to-night, sweetheart, but judge
for thyself. Think of the perils, and decide.'
Before Eustacie could answer, a rough voice came near, the King
making noisy sport with the Count de Rochefoucauld and others. He
was louder and ruder than Berenger had ever yet seen him, almost
giving the notion of intoxication; but neither he nor his brother
Henry ever tasted wine, though both had a strange pleasure in being
present at the orgies of their companions: the King, it was
generally said, from love of the self-forgetfulness of excitement--
the Duke of Anjou, because his cool brain there collected men's
secrets to serve afterwards for his spiteful diversion.
Berenger would willingly have escaped notice, but his bright face
and sunny hair always made him conspicuous, and the King suddenly
strode up to him: 'You here, sir? I thought you would have managed
your affairs so as to be gone long ago!' then before Berenger could
reply, 'However, since here you are, come along with me to my
bedchamber! We are to have a carouse there to-night that will ring
through all Paris! Yes, and shake Rochefoucauld out of his bed at
midnight! You will be one of us, Ribaumont? I command it!'
And without waiting for reply he turned away with an arm round
Rochefoucauld's neck, and boisterously addressed another of the
company, almost as wildly as if he were in the mood that Scots call
'fey.'
'Royalty seems determined to frustrate our plans,' said Berenger,
as soon as the King was out of hearing.
'But you will not go! His comrades drink till--oh! two, three in
the morning. We should never get away.'
'No, I must risk his displeasure. We shall soon be beyond his
reach. But at least I may make his invitation a reason for
remaining in the Louvre. People are departing! Soon wilt thou be
my own.'
'As soon as the Queen's COUCHER is over! I have but to change to a
traveling dress.'
'At the foot of the winding stair. Sweetest be brave!'
'I fear nothing with thee to guard me. See, the Queen is rising.'
Elizabeth was in effect rising to make her respectful progress to
the rooms of the Queen-mother, to bid her good night; and Eustacie
must follow. Would Diane be there? Oh that the command to judge
between her heart and her caution had not been given! Cruel
kindness!
Diane was there, straight as a poplar, cold as marble, with fixed
eyes. Eustacie stole up to her, and touched her. She turned with
a start. 'Cousin, you have been very good to me!' Diane started
again, as if stung. You will love me still, whatever you hear?'
'Is this meant for farewell?' said Diane, grasping her wrist.
'Do not ask me, Diane. I may not.'
'Where there is no trust there is no treason,' said Diane,
dreamily. 'No, answer me not, little one, there will be time for
that another day. Where is he?'
'In the oeil-de-boeuf, between the King's and Queen's suites of
rooms. I must go. There is the Queen going. Diane, one loving
word.'
'Silly child, you shall have plenty another time,' said Diane,
breaking away. 'Follow thy Queen now!'
Catherine, who sat between her daughters Claude and Marguerite,
looked pre-occupied, and summarily dismissed her daughter-in-law,
Elizabeth, whom Eustacie was obliged to follow to her own state-
room. There all the forms of the COUCHER were tediously gone
through; every pin had its own ceremony, and even when her Majesty
was safely deposited under her blue satin coverlet the ladies still
stood round till she felt disposed to fall asleep. Elisabeth was
both a sleepy and a considerate person, so that this was not so
protracted a vigil as was sometimes exacted by the more wakeful
princesses; but Eustacie could not escape from it till it was
already almost midnight, the period for her tryst.
Her heart was very full. It was not the usual flutter and terror
of an eloping girl. Eustacie was a fearless little being, and her
conscience had no alarms; her affections were wholly with Berenger,
and her transient glimpses of him had been as of something come out
of a region higher, tenderer, stronger, purer, more trustworthy
than that where she had dwelt. She was proud of belonging to him.
She had felt upheld by the consciousness through years of waiting,
and now he more than realized her hopes, and she could have wept
for exulting joy. Yet it was a strange, stealthy break with all
she had to leave behind. The light to which he belonged seemed
strange, chill, dazzling light, and she shivered at the thought of
it, as if the new world, new ideas, and new requirements could only
be endured with him to shield her and help her on. And withal,
there seemed to her a shudder over the whole place on that night.
The King's eyes looked wild and startled, the Queen-mother's calm
was strained, the Duchess of Lorraine was evidently in a state of
strong nervous excitement; there were strange sounds, strange
people moving about, a weight on everything, as if they were under
the shadow of a thunder-cloud. 'Could it be only her own fancy?'
she said to herself, because this was to be the great event of her
life, for surely all these great people could not know or heed that
little Eustacie de Ribaumont was to make her escape that night!
The trains of royalty were not sumptuously lodged. France never
has cared so much for comfort as for display. The waiting-lady of
the bedchamber slept in the ante-room of her mistress; the others,
however high their rank, were closely herded together up a winding
stair leading to a small passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses,
wherein the demoiselles slept, often with their maids, and then
dressed themselves in the space afforded by the passage.
Eustacie's cell was nearly at the end of the gallery, and
exchanging 'good-nights' with her companions, she proceeded to her
recess, where she expected to find Veronique ready to adjust her
dress. Veronique, however, was missing; but anxious to lose no
time, she had taken off her delicate white satin farthingale to
change it for an unobtrusive dark woolen kirtle, when, to her
surprise and dismay, a loud creaking, growling sound made itself
heard outside the door at the other end. Half-a-dozen heads came
out of their cells; half-a-dozen voices asked and answered the
question, 'What is it?' 'They are bolting our door outside.' But
only Eustacie sped like lightning along the passage, pulled at the
door, and cried, 'Open! Open, I say!' No answer, but the other
bolt creaked.
'You mistake, CONCIERGE! We are never bolted in! My maid is shut
out.'
No answer, but the step retreated. Eustacie clasped her hands with
a cry that she could hardly have repressed, but which she regretted
the next moment.
Gabrielle de Limeuil laughed. 'What, Mademoiselle, are you afraid
they will not let us out to-morrow?'
'My maid!' murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she must give a
colour to her distress.
'Ah! perhaps she will summon old Pierre to open for us.'
This suggestion somewhat consoled Eustacie, and she stood intently
listening for Veronique's step, wishing that her companions would
hold their peace; but the adventure amused them, and they discussed
whether it were a blunder of the CONCIERGE, or a piece of prudery
of Madame la Comtesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so
full of strange people, who could say what might happen? And there
was a talk of a conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any rate, every
one was too much frightened to go to sleep, and, some sitting on
the floor, some on a chest, some on a bed, the girls huddled
together in Gabrielle de Limeuil's recess, the nearest to the door,
and one after another related horrible tales of blood, murder, and
vengeance--then, alas! Only too frequent occurrences in their
unhappy land--each bringing some frightful contribution from her
own province, each enhancing upon the last-told story, and ever and
anon pausing with bated breath at some fancied sound, or supposed
start of one of the others; then clinging close together, and
renewing the ghastly anecdote, at first in a hushed voice that grew
louder with the interest of the story. Eustacie alone would not
join the cluster. Her cloak round her shoulders, she stood with
her back against the door, ready to profit by the slightest
indication outside of a step that might lead to her release, or at
least enable her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardently
that her companions would go to bed, yet unable to avoid listening
with the like dreadful fascination to each of the terrible
histories, which added each moment to the nervous horror of the
whole party. Only one, a dull and composed girl, felt the
influence of weariness, and dozed with her head in her companion's
lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder and suppressed cry
when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of the already
terrified, excited maidens.
'The tocsin! The bell of St. Germain! Fire! No, a Huguenot
rising! Fire! Oh, let us out! Let us out! The window! Where is
the fire? Nowhere! See the lights! Hark, that was a shot! It
was in the palace! A heretic rising! Ah! there was to be a
slaughter of the heretics! I heard it whispered. Oh, let us out!
Open the door!'
But nobody heard: nobody opened. There was one who stood without
word or cry, close to the door--her eyes dilated, her cheek
colourless, her whole person, soul and body alike, concentrated in
that one impulse to spring forward the first moment the bolt should
be drawn. But still the door remained fast shut!