Twilight began to deepen the mist.
The guide was evidently uneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began
to ask what he--hitherto obstinately deaf and contemptuous to
French--was very slow to comprehend. At last he found it was a
question how near it was to All Soul's day; and then came an
equally amazing query whether the gentlemen's babe had been
baptized; for it appeared that on All Soul's day the spirits of
unchristened infants had the power of rising from the sands in a
bewildering mist, and leading wayfarers into the sea. And the poor
guide, white and drenched, vowed he never would have undertaken
this walk if he had only thought of this. These slaughters of
heretics must so much have augmented the number of the poor little
spirits; and no doubt Monsieur would be specially bewildered by one
so nearly concerned with him. Philip, half frightened, could not
help stepping forward and pulling Berenger by the cloak to make him
aware of this strange peril; but he did not get much comfort.
'Baptized? Yes; you know she was, by the old nurse. Let me alone,
I say. I would follow her wherever she called me, the innocent,
and glad--the sooner the better.'
And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impatience so
utterly unapproachable, that Philip, poor boy, could only watch his
tall figure in the wide cloak and slouched hat, stalking on ever
more indistinct in the gloom, while his much confused mind tried to
settle the theological point whether the old nurse's baptism were
valid enough to prevent poor little Berangere from becoming one of
these mischievous deluders; and all this was varied by the notion
of Captain Hobbs picking up their corpses on the beach, and of Sir
Marmaduke bewailing his only son.
At last a strange muffled sound made him start in the dead silence,
but the guide hailed the sound with a joyful cry---
'Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are
we saved!' and on Philip's hasty interrogation, he explained that
it was from the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always
caused to be rung during these sea-fogs, to disperse all evil
beings, and guide the wanderers.
The guide strode on manfully, as the sound became clearer and
nearer, and Philip was infinitely relived to be free from all
supernatural anxieties, and to have merely to guard against the
wiles of a Polish priest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in
his imagination as poor little Berangere's soul could be in that of
the fisherman.
The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and
closed round them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost
sight of each other, and had nothing but the bells' voices to
comfort them, till quite suddenly there was a light upon the mist,
a hazy reddish gleam--a window seemed close to them. The guide,
heartily thanking Our Lady and St. Julian, knocked at a door, which
opened at once into a warm, bright, superior sort of kitchen, where
a neatly-dressed elderly peasant woman exclaimed, 'Welcome, poor
souls! Enter, then. Here, good Father, are some bewildered
creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost in the fog?'
At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off
the fire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a
cassock, with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful
face, ruddy from sea-wind.
'Welcome, my friends,' he said. 'Thanks to the saints who have
guided you safely. You are drenched. Come to the fire at once.'
And as they moved on into the full light of the fire and the rude
iron lamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled
plumes and other appurtenances that marked the two youths as
gentlemen, he added, 'Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our
poor best for your accommodation;' and while both mechanically
murmured a word of thanks, and removed their soaked hats, the good
man exclaimed, as he beheld Berenger's ashy face, with the sunken
eyes and deep scars, 'Monsieur should come to bed at once. He is
apparently recovering from a severe wound. This way, sir; Jolitte
shall make you some hot tisane.'
'Wait, sir,' said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding
hollow from exhaustion; 'they say that you can tell me of my child.
Let me hear.'
'Monsieur's child!' exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from
him to Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream
of explanation before Philip had arranged three words of French.
'You hear, sir,' said Berenger, as the man finished: 'I came
hither to seek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont.'
'Eh!' exclaimed the cure, 'do I then see M. le Marquis de Nid de
Merle?'
'No!' cried Berenger; 'no, I am not that scelerat! I am her true
husband, the Baron de Ribaumont.'
'The Baron de Ribaumont perished at the St. Bartholomew,' said the
cure, fixing his eyes on him, as though to confute an impostor.
'Ah, would that I had!' said Berenger. 'I was barely saved with
the life that is but misery now. I came to seek her--I found what
you know. They told me that you saved the children. Ah, tell me
where mine is!--all that is left me.'
'A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few. But let
me understand to whom I speak,' he added, much perplexed. 'You,
sir---'
'I am her husband, married at five years old--contract renewed last
year. It was he whom you call Nid de Merle who fell on me, and
left me for dead. A faithful servant saved my life, but I have
lain sick in England till now, when her letter to my mother brought
me to La Sablerie, to find--to find THIS. Oh, sir, have pity on
me! Tell me if you know anything of her, or if you can give me her
child.'
'The orphans I was able to save are--the boys at nurse here, the
girls with the good nuns at Lucon,' said the priest, with infinite
pity in his look. 'Should you know it, sir?'
'I would--I should,' said Berenger. 'But it is a girl. Ah, would
that it were here! But you--you, sir--you know more than these
fellows. Is there no--no hope of herself?'
'Alas! I fear I can give you none,' said the priest; 'but I will
tell all I know; only I would fain see you eat, rest, and be
dried.'
'How can I?' gasped he, allowing himself, however, to sink into a
chair; and the priest spoke:
'Perhaps you know, sir, that the poor lady fled from her friends,
and threw herself upon the Huguenots. All trace had been lost,
when, at a banquet given by the mayor of Lucon, there appeared some
patisseries, which some ecclesiastic, who had enjoyed the
hospitality of Bellaise, recognized as peculiar to the convent
there, where she had been brought up. They were presented to the
mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the
excellent confitures of the heretic pastor's daughter that lodged
in the town of La Sablerie. The place was in disgrace for having
afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery's pirate crews, and
there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics. The army
were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it was
resolved to make an example, when, on M. de Nid de Merle's summons,
all knowledge of the lady was denied. Is it possible that she was
indeed not there?'
Berenger shook his head. 'She was indeed there,' he said, with an
irrepressible groan. 'Was there no mercy--none?'
'Ask not, sir,' said the compassionate priest; 'the flesh shrinks,
though there may be righteous justice. A pillaged town, when men
are enraged, is like a place of devils unchained. I reached it
only after it had been taken by assault, when all was flame and
blood. Ask me no more; it would be worse for you to hear than me
to tell,' he concluded, shuddering, but laying his hand kindly on
Berenger's arm. 'At least it is ended now and God is more merciful
than men. Many died by the bombs cast into to city, and she for
whom you ask certainly fell not alive into the hands of those who
sought her. Take comfort, sir; there is One who watches and takes
count of our griefs. Sir, turning to Philip, 'this gentleman is
too much spent with sorrow to bear this cold and damp. Aid me, I
entreat, to persuade him to lie down.'
Philip understood the priest's French far better than that of the
peasants, and added persuasions that Berenger was far too much
exhausted and stunned to resist. To spend a night in a Popish
priest's house would once have seemed to Philip a shocking
alternative, yet here he was, heartily assisting in removing the
wet garments in which his brother had sat only too long, and was
heartily relieved to lay him down in the priest's own bed, even
though there was an image over the head, which, indeed, the boy
never saw. He only saw his brother turn away from the light with a
low, heavy moan, as if he would fain be left alone with his sorrow
and his crushed hopes.
Nothing could be kinder than Dome Colombeau, the priest of Nissard.
He saw to the whole of his guests being put into some sort of dry
habiliments before they sat round his table to eat of the savoury
mess in the great pot-au-feu, which had, since their arrival,
received additional ingredients, and moreover sundry villagers had
crept into the house. Whenever the good Father supped at home, any
of his flock were welcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitability.
After a cup of hot cider round, they carried off the fisherman to
ledge in one of their cottages. Shake-downs were found for the
others, and Philip, wondering what was to become of the good host
himself, gathered that he meant to spend such part of the night on
the kitchen floor as he did not pass in prayer in the church for
the poor young gentleman, who was in such affliction. Philip was
not certain whether to resent this as an impertinence or an attack
on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either, that
the priest was aware what was their religion, and was still less
certain of his own comprehension of these pious intentions: he
decided that, any way, it was better not to make a fool of himself.
Still, the notion of the mischievousness of priests was so rooted
in his head, that he consulted Humfrey on the expedience of keeping
watch all night, but was sagaciously answered that 'these French
rogues don't do any hurt unless they be brought up to it, and the
place was as safe as old Hurst.'
In fact, Philip's vigilance would have been strongly against
nature. He never awoke till full daylight and morning sun were
streaming through the vine-leaves round the window, and then, to
his dismay, he saw that Berenger had left his bed, and was gone.
Suspicions of foul play coming over him in full force as he gazed
round on much that he considered as 'Popish furniture,' he threw on
his clothes, and hastened to open the door, when, to his great
relief, he saw Berenger hastily writing at a table under the
window, and Smithers standing by waiting for the billet.
'I am sending Smithers on board, to ask Hobbs to bring our cloak
bags,' said Berenger, as his brother entered. 'We must go on to
Lucon.'
He spoke briefly and decidedly, and Philip was satisfied to see him
quite calm and collected--white indeed, and with the old haggard
look, and the great scar very purple instead of red, which was
always a bad sign with him. He was not disposed to answer
questions; he shortly said, 'He had slept not less than usual,'
which Philip knew meant very little; and he had evidently made up
his mind, and was resolved not to let himself give way. If his
beacon of hope had been so suddenly, frightfully quenched, he still
was kept from utter darkness by straining his eyes and forcing his
steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark that remained.
The priest was at his morning mass; and so soon as Berenger had
given his note to Smithers, and sent him off with a fisherman to
the THROSTLE, he took up his hat, and went out upon the beach, that
lay glistening in the morning sun, then turned straight towards the
tall spire of the church, with had been their last night's guide.
Philip caught his cloak.
'You are never going there, Berenger?'
'Vex me not now,' was all the reply he got. 'There the dead and
living meet together.'
'But, brother, they will take you for one of their own sort.'
'Let them.'
Philip was right that it was neither a prudent nor consistent
proceeding, but Berenger had little power of reflection, and his
impulse at present bore him into the church belonging to his native
faith and land, without any defined felling, save that it was peace
to kneel there among the scattered worshippers, who came and went
with their fish-baskets in their hands, and to hear the low chant
of the priest and his assistant from within the screen.
Philip meantime marched up and down outside in much annoyance,
until the priest and his brother came out, when the first thing he
heard the good Colombeau say was, 'I would have called upon you
before, my son, but that I feared you were a Huguenot.'
'I am an English Protestant,' said Berenger; 'but, ah! sir, I
needed comfort too much to stay away from prayer.'
Pere Colombeau looked at him in perplexity, thinking perhaps that
here might be a promising convert, if there were only time to work
on him; but Berenger quitted the subject at once, asking the
distance to Lucon.
'A full day's journey,' answered Pere Colombeau, and added, 'I am
sorry you are indeed a Huguenot. It was what I feared last night,
but I feared to add to your grief. The nuns are not permitted to
deliver up children to Huguenot relations.'
'I am her father!' exclaimed Berenger, indignantly.
'That goes for nothing, according to the rules of the Church,' said
the priest. 'The Church cannot yield her children to heresy.'
'But we in England and not Calvinists,' cried Berenger. 'We are
not like your Huguenots.'
'The Church would make no difference,' said the priest. 'Stay,
sir,' as Berenger stuck his own forehead, and was about to utter a
fierce invective. 'Remember that if your child lives, it is owing
to the pity of the good nuns. You seem not far from the bosom of
the Church. Did you but return---'
'It is vain to speak of that,' said Berenger, quickly. 'Say, sir,
would an order from the King avail to open these doors?'
'Of course it would, if you have the influence to obtain one.'
'I have, I have,' cried Berenger, eagerly. 'The King has been my
good friend already. Moreover, my English grandfather will deal
with the Queen. The heiress of our house cannot be left in a
foreign nunnery. Say, sir,' he added, turning to the priest, 'if I
went to Lucon at once know your name, and refuse all dealings with
you.'
'She could not do so, if I brought an order from the King.'
'Certainly not.'
'Then to Paris!' And laying his hand on Philip's shoulder, he
asked the boy whether he had understood, ad explained that he must
go at once to Paris--riding post--and obtain the order from the
King.
'To Paris--to be murdered again!' said Philip, in dismay.
'They do not spend their time there in murder,' said Berenger.
'And now is the time, while the savage villain Narcisse is with his
master in Poland. I cannot but go, Philip; we both waste words.
You shall take home a letter to my Lord.'
'I--I go not home without you,' said Philip, doggedly.
'I cannot take you, Phil; I have no warrant.'
'I have warrant for going, though. My father said he was easier
about you with me at your side. Where you go, I go.'
The brothers understood each other's ways so well, that Berenger
knew the intonation in Philip's voice that meant that nothing
should make him give way. He persuaded no more, only took measures
for the journey, in which the kind priest gave him friendly advice.
There was no doubt that the good man pitied him sincerely, and
wished him success more than perhaps he strictly ought to have
done, unless as a possible convert. Of money for the journey there
was no lack, for Berenger had brought a considerable sum, intending
to reward all who had befriended Eustacie, as well as to fit her
out for the voyage; and this, perhaps, with his papers, he had
brought ashore to facilitate his entrance into La Sablerie,--that
entrance which, alas! he had found only too easy. He had therefore
only to obtain horses and a guide, and this could be done at la
Motte-Achard, where the party could easily be guided on foot, or
conveyed in a boat if the fog should not set in again, but all the
coast-line of Nissard was dangerous in autumn and winter; nay, even
this very August an old man, with his daughter, her infant, and a
donkey, had been found bewildered between the creeks on a sandbank,
where they stood still and patient, like a picture of the Flight
into Egypt, when an old fisherman found them, and brought them to
the beneficent shelter of the Presbytere.
Stories of this kind were told at the meal that was something
partaking of the nature of both breakfast and early dinner, but
where Berenger ate little and spoke less. Philip watched him
anxiously; the boy thought the journey a perilous experiment every
way, but, boyishly, was resolved neither to own his fears of it nor
to leave his brother. External perils he was quite ready to face,
and he fancied that his English birth would give him some power of
protecting Berenger, but he was more reasonably in dread of the
present shock bringing on such an illness as the last relapse; and
if Berenger lost his senses again, what should they do? He even
ventured to hint at this danger, but Berenger answered, 'That will
scarce happen again. My head is stronger now. Besides, it was
doing nothing, and hearing her truth profaned, that crazed me. No
one at least will do that again. But if you wish to drive me
frantic again, the way would be to let Hobbs carry me home without
seeking her child.'
Philip bore this in mind, when, with flood-tide, Master Hobbs
landed, and showed himself utterly dismayed at the turn affairs had
taken. He saw the needlessness of going to Lucon without royal
authority; indeed, he thought it possible that the very application
there might give the alarm, and cause all tokens of the child's
identity to be destroyed, in order to save her from her heretic
relations. But he did not at all approve of the young gentlemen
going off to Paris at once. It was against his orders. He felt
bound to take them home as he has brought them, and they might then
make a fresh start if it so pleased them; but how could he return
to my Lord and Sir Duke without them? 'Mr. Ribaumont might be
right--it was not for him to say a father ought not to look after
his child--yet he was but a stripling himself, and my Lord had
said, 'Master Hobbs, I trust him to you.'' He would clearly have
liked to have called in a boat's crew, mastered the young
gentlemen, and carried them on board as captives; but as this was
out of his power, he was obliged to yield the point. He
disconsolately accepted the letters in which Berenger had explained
all, and in which he promised to go at once to Sir Francis
Walsingham's at Paris, to run into no needless danger, and to watch
carefully over Philip; and craved pardon, in a respectful but yet
manly and determined tone, for placing his duty to his lost,
deserted child above his submission to his grandfather. Then
engaging to look out for a signal on the coast if he should said to
Bordeaux in January, to touch and take the passengers off, Captain
Hobbs took leave, and the brothers were left to their own
resources.