Triumph, triumph, only she
That knit his bonds can set him free.--SOUTHEY
No change was made in the life of the captives of Nid de Merle
after the answer from Paris, except that Pere Bonami, who had
already once or twice dined at the Chevalier's table, was requested
to make formal exposition of the errors of the Reformers and of the
tenets of his own Church to the Baron de Ribaumont.
Philip took such good care not to be deluded that, though he sat by
to see fair play, yet it was always with his elbows on the table
and his fingers in his ears, regardless of appearing to the priest
in the character of the deaf adder. After all, he was not the
object, and good Pere Bonami at first thought the day his own, when
he found that almost all his arguments against Calvinism were
equally impressed upon Berenger's mind, but the differences soon
revealed themselves; and the priest, though a good man, was not a
very happily-chosen champion, for he was one of the old-fashioned,
scantily-instructed country priests, who were more numerous before
the Jesuit revival of learning, and knew nothing of controversy
save that adapted to the doctrines of Calvin; so that in dealing
with an Anglican of the school of Ridley and Hooker, it was like
bow ad arrow against sword.
And tin those days of change,
controversial reading was one of the primary studies even of young
laymen, and Lord Walwyn, with a view to his grandson's peculiar
position, had taken care that he should be well instructed, so that
he was not at all unequal to the contest. Moreover, apart from
argument, he clung as a point of honour to the Church as to the
wife that he had accepted in his childhood; and often tried to
recall the sketch that Philip Sidney had once given him of a tale
that a friend of his designed to turn into a poem, like Ariosto's,
in terza rima, of a Red Cross knight separated from his Una as
the true faith, and tempted by a treacherous Duessa, who
impersonated at once Falsehood and Rome. And he knew so well that
the last relaxation of his almost terrified resistance would make
him so entirely succumb to Diane's beauty and brilliancy, that he
kept himself stiffly frigid and reserved.
Diane never openly alluded to the terms on which he stood, but he
often found gifts from unknown hands placed in his room. The books
which he had found there were changed when he had had time to study
them; and marks were placed in some of the most striking passages.
They were of the class that turned the brain of the Knight of La
Mancha, but with a predominance of the pastoral, such as Diane of
George of Montemayor and his numerous imitators--which Philip
thought horrible stuff--enduring nothing but a few of the combats
of Amadis de Gaul or Palmerin of England, until he found that
Madame de Selinville prodigiously admired the 'silly swains more
silly than their sheep,' and was very anxious that M. le Baron
should be touched by their beauties; whereupon honest Philip made
desperate efforts to swallow them in his brother's stead, but was
always found fast asleep in the very middle of arguments between
Damon and Thyrsis upon the devoirs of love, or the mournings of
some disconsolate nymph over her jealousies of a favoured rival.
One day, a beautiful ivory box, exhaling sweet perfume, appeared in
the prison chamber, and therewith a sealed letter in verse,
containing an affecting description of how Corydon had been cruelly
torn by the lions in endeavouring to bear away Sylvie from her
cavern, how Sylvie had been rent from him and lost, and how vainly
he continued to bewail her, and disregard the loving lament of
Daphne, who had ever mourned and pined for him as she kept her
flock, made the rivulets, the brooks, the mountains re-echo with
her sighs and plaints, and had wandered through the hills and
valleys, gathering simples wherewith she had compounded a balsam
that might do away with the scars that the claws of the lions had
left, so that he might again appear with the glowing cheeks and
radiant locks that had excited the envy of the god of day.
Berenger burst out laughing over the practical part of this
poetical performance, and laughed the more at Philip's hurt,
injured air at his mirth. Philip, who would have been the first to
see the absurdity in any other Daphne, thought this a passing
pleasant device, and considered it very unkind in his brother not
even to make experiment of the balsam of simples, but to declare
that he had much rather keep his scars for Eustacie's sake than
wear a smooth face to please Diane.
Still Berenger's natural courtesy stood in his way. He could not
help being respectful and attentive to the old Chevalier, when
their terms were, apparently at least, those of host and guest; and
to a lady he COULD not be rude and repellant, though he could be
reserved. So, when the kinsfolk met, no stranger would have
discovered that one was a prisoner and the others his captors.
One August day, when Madame de Selinville and her lady attendants
were supping at the castle at the early hour of six, a servant
brought in word that an Italian pedlar craved leave to display his
wares. He was welcome, both for need's sake and for amusement, and
was readily admitted. He was a handsome olive-faced Italian, and
was followed by a little boy with a skin of almost Moorish dye--and
great was the display at once made on the tables, of
'Lawn as white as driven snow,
Cyprus, black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as fragrant posies,
Masks for faces and for noses;'
and there was a good deal of the eager, desultory bargaining that
naturally took place where purchasing was an unusual excitement and
novelty, and was to form a whole evening's amusement. Berenger,
while supplying the defects of his scanty traveling wardrobe, was
trying to make out whether he had seen the man before, wondering if
he were the same whom he had met in the forest of Montipipeau,
though a few differences in dress, hair, and beard made him
somewhat doubtful.
'Perfumes? Yes, lady, I have store of perfumes: ambergris and
violet dew, and the Turkish essence distilled from roses; yea, and
the finest spirit of the Venus myrtle-tree, the secret known to the
Roman dames of old, whereby they secured perpetual beauty and love
--though truly Madame should need no such essence. That which
nature has bestowed on her secures to her all hearts--and one
valued more than all.'
'Enough,' said Diane, blushing somewhat, though with an effort at
laughing off his words; 'these are the tricks of your trade.'
'Madame is incredulous; yet, lady, I have been in the East. Yonder
boy comes from the land where there are spells that make known the
secrets of lives.'
The old Chevalier, who had hitherto been taken up with the abstruse
calculation--derived from his past days of economy--how much ribbon
would be needed to retrim his murrey just-au-corps, here began to
lend an ear, though saying nothing. Philip looked on in open-eyed
wonder, and nudged his brother, who muttered in return, 'Jugglery!'
'Ah, the fair company are all slow to believe,' said the pedlar.
'Hola, Alessio!' and taking a glove that Philip had left on the
table, he held it to the boy. A few unintelligible words passed
between them; then the boy pointed direct to Philip, and waved his
hand northwards. 'He says the gentleman who owns this glove comes
from the North, from far away,' interpreted the Italian; then as
the boy made the gesture of walking in chains, 'that he is a
captive.'
'Ay,' cried Philip, 'right, lad; and can he tell how long I shall
be so?'
'Things yet to come,' said the mountebank, 'are only revealed after
long preparation. For them must he gaze into the dark poor of the
future. The present and the past he can divine by the mere touch
of what has belonged to the person.'
'It is passing strange,' said Philip to Madame de Selinville. 'You
credit it, Madame?'
'Ah, have we not seen the wonders come to pass that a like diviner
fortold to the Queen-mother?' said Diane: 'her sons should be all
kings--that was told her when the eldest was yet Dauphin.'
'And there is only one yet to come,' said Philip, awe-struck. 'But
see, what has he now?'
'Veronique's kerchief,' returned Madame de Selinville, as the
Italian began to interpret the boy's gesture.
'Pretty maidens, he says, serve fair ladies--bear tokens for them.
This damsel has once been the bearer of a bouquet of heather of the
pink and white, whose bells were to ring hope.'
'Eh, eh, Madame, it is true?' cried Veronique, crimson with
surprise and alarm. 'M. le Baron knows it is true.'
Berenger had started at this revelation, and uttered an
inarticulate exclamation; but at that moment the boy, in whose hand
his master had placed a crown from the money newly paid, began to
make vehement gestures, which the main interpreted. 'Le Balafre,
he says, pardon me, gentlemen, le Balafre could reveal even a
deeper scar of the heart than of the visage'--and the boy's brown
hand was pressed on his heart--'yet truly there is yet hope
(esperance) to be found. Yes'--as the boy put his hand to his
neck--'he bears a pearl, parted from its sister pearls. Where they
are, there is hope. Who can miss Hope, who has sought it at a
royal death-bed?'
'Ah, where is it?' Berenger could not help exclaiming.
'Sir,' said the pedlar, 'as I told Messieurs and Mesdames before,
the spirits that cast the lights of the future on the dark pool
need invocation. Ere he can answer M. le Baron's demands, he and I
must have time and seclusion. If Monsieur le Chevalier will grant
us an empty room, there will we answer all queries on which the
spirits will throw light.'
'And how am I to know that you will not bring the devil to shatter
the castle, my friend?' demanded the Chevalier. 'Or more likely
still, that you are not laughing all the time at these credulous
boys and ladies?'
'Of that, sir, you may here convince yourself,' said the
mountebank, putting into his hand a sort of credential in Italian,
signed by Renato di Milano, the Queen's perfumer, testifying to the
skill of his compatriot Ercole Stizzito both in perfumery,
cosmetics, and in the secrets of occult sciences.
The Chevalier was no Italian scholar, and his daughter interpreted
the scroll to him, in a rapid low voice, adding, 'I have had many
dealings with Rene of Milan, father. I know he speaks sooth.
There can be no harm in letting the poor man play out his play--all
the castle servants will be frantic to have their fortunes told.'
'I must speak with the fellow first, daughter,' said the Chevalier.
'He must satisfy me that he has no unlawful dealings that could
bring the Church down on us.' And he looked meaningly at the
mountebank, who replied by a whole muster-roll of ecclesiastics,
male and female, who had heard and approved his predictions.
'A few more words with thee, fellow,' said the Chevalier, pointing
the way to one of the rooms opening out of the hall. 'As master of
the house I must be convinced of his honesty,' he added. 'If I am
satisfied, then who will may seek to hear their fortune.'
Chevalier, man and boy disappeared, and Philip was the first to
exclaim, 'A strange fellow! What will he tell us? Madame, shall
you hear him?'
'That depends on my father's report,' she said. 'And yet,' sadly
and pensively, 'my future is dark and void enough. Why should I
vex myself with hearing it?'
'Nay, it may brighten,' said Philip.
'Scarcely, while hearts are hard,' she murmured with a slight shake
of the head, that Philip thought indescribably touching; but
Berenger was gathering his purchases together, and did not see.
'And you, brother,' said Philip, 'you mean to prove him?'
'No,' said Berenger. 'Have you forgotten, Phil, the anger we met
with, when we dealt with the gipsy at Hurst Fair?'
'Pshaw, Berry, we are past flogging now.'
'Out of reach, Phil, of the rod, but scarce of the teaching it
struck into us.'
'What?' said Philip, sulkily.
'That divining is either cozening manor forsaking God, Phil.
Either it is falsehood, or it is a lying wonder of the devil.'
'But, Berry, this man is not cheat.'
'Then he is worse.'
'Only, turn not away, brother. How should he have known things
that even I know not?--the heather.'
'No marvel in that,' said Berenger. 'This is the very man I bought
Annora's fan from; he was prowling round Montpipeau, and my heather
was given to Veronique with little secrecy. And as to the royal
deathbed, it was Rene, his master, who met me there.'
'Then you think it mere cozeing? If so, we should find it out.'
'I don't reckon myself keener than an accomplished Italian
mountebank,' said Berenger, dryly.
Further conference was cut short by the return of the Chevalier,
saying, in his paternal genial way, 'Well, children, I have
examined the fellow and his credentials, and for those who have
enough youth and hope to care to have the future made known to
them, bah! it is well.'
'Is it sorcery, sir?' asked Philip, anxiously.
The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders. 'What know I?' he said.
'For those who have a fine nose for brimstone there may be, but he
assures me it is but the white magic practiced in Egypt, and the
boy is Christian!'
'Did you try this secret, father?' inquired Madame de Selinville.
'I, my daughter? An old man's fortune is in his children. What
have I to ask?'
'I--I scarcely like to be the first!' said the lady, eager but
hesitating. 'Veronique, you would have your fortune told?'
'I will be the first,' said Philip, stepping forward manfully. 'I
will prove him for you, lady, and tell you whether he be a cozener
or not, or if his magic be fit for you to deal with.'
And confident in the inherent intuition of a plain Englishman, as
well as satisfied to exercise his resolution for once in opposition
to Berenger's opinion, Master Thistlewood stepped towards the
closet where the Italian awaited his clients, and Berenger knew
that it would be worse than useless to endeavour to withhold him.
He only chafed at the smile which passed between father and
daughter at this doughty self-assertion.
There was a long silence. Berenger sat with his eyes fixed on the
window where the twilight horizon was still soft and bright with
the pearly gold of the late sunset, thinking with an intensity of
yearning what it would be could he truly become certain of
Eustacie's present doings; questioning whether he would try to
satisfy that longing by the doubtful auguries of the diviner, and
then recollecting how he had heard from wrecked sailors that to
seek to delude their thirst with sea-water did but aggravate their
misery. He knew that whatever he might hear would be unworthy of
confidence. Either it merely framed to soothe and please him--or,
were it a genuine oracle, he had no faith in the instinct that was
to perceive it, but what he HAD faith in was the Divine protection
over his lost ones. 'No,' he thought to himself, 'I will not by a
presumptuous sin, in my own impatience, risk incurring woes on them
that deal with familiar spirits and wizards that peep and mutter.
If ever I am to hear of Eustacie again, it shall be by God's will,
not the devil's.'
Diane de Selinville had been watching his face all the time, and
now said, with that almost timid air of gaiety that she wore when
addressing him: 'You too, cousin, are awaiting Monsieur Philippe's
report to decide whether to look into the pool of mystery.'
'Not at all, Madame,' said Berenger, gravely. 'I do not understand
white magic.'
'Our good cousin has been too well bred among the Reformers to
condescend to our little wickednesses, daughter,' said the
Chevalier; and the sneer-much like that which would await a person
now who scrupled at joining in table-turning or any form of
spiritualism--purpled Berenger's scar, now his only manner of
blushing; but he instantly perceived that it was the Chevalier's
desire that he should consult the conjurer, and therefore became
the more resolved against running into a trap.
'I am sure,' said Madame de Selinville, earnestly, though with an
affectation of lightness, 'a little wickedness is fair when there
is a great deal at stake. For my part, I would not hesitate long,
to find out how soon the King will relent towards my fair cousin
here!'
'That, Madame,' said Berenger, with the same grave dryness, 'is
likely to be better known to other persons than this wandering
Greek boy.'
Here Philip's step was heard returning hastily. He was pale, and
looked a good deal excited, so that Madame de Selinville uttered a
little cry, and exclaimed, 'Ah! is it so dreadful then?'
'No, no, Madame,' said Philip, turning round, with a fervour and
confidence he had never before shown. 'On my word, there is
nothing formidable. You see nothing--nothing but the Italia and
the boy. The boy gazes into a vessel of some black liquid, and
sees--sees there all you would have revealed. Ah!'
'Then you believe?' asked Madame de Selinville.
'It cannot be false,' answered Philip; 'he told me everything.
Things he could not have known. My very home, my father's house,
passed in review before that strange little blackamoor's eyes;
where I--though I would have given worlds to see it--beheld only
the lamp mirrored in the dark pool.'
'How do you know it was your father's house?' said Berenger.
'I could not doubt. Just to test the fellow, I bade him ask for my
native place. The little boy gazed, smiled, babbled his gibberish,
pointed. The man said he spoke of a fair mansion among green
fields and hills, "a grand cavalier embonpoint,"--those were his
very words,--at the door, with a tankard in one hand. Ah! my dear
father, why could not I see him too? But who could mistake him or
the Manor?'
'And did he speak of future as well as past?' said Diane.
'Yes, yes, yes,' said Philip, with more agitation. 'Lady, that
will you know for yourself.'
'It was not dreadful?' she said, rising.
'Oh no!' and Philip had become crimson, and hesitated; 'certes, not
dreadful. But---I must not say more.'
'Save good night,' said Berenger, rising; 'See, our gendarmes are
again looking as if we had long exceeded their patience. It is an
hour later than we are wont to retire.'
'If it be your desire to consult this mysterious fellow now you
have heard your brother's report, my dear Baron,' said the
Chevalier, 'the gendarmes may devour their impatience a little
longer.'
'Thanks, sir,' said Berenger; 'but I am not tempted,' and he gave
the usual signal to the gendarmes, who, during meals, used to stand
as sentries at the great door of the hall.
'It might settle your mind,' muttered Philip, hesitating. 'And
yet--yet---'
But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be escorted
with his brother along the passages to their own chamber, where he
threw himself into a chair with a long sigh, and did not speak.
Berenger meantime opened the Bible, glanced over the few verses he
meant to read, found the place in the Prayer-book, and was going to
the stairs to call Humfrey, when Philip broke forth: 'Wait, Berry;
don't be in such haste.'
'What, you want time to lose the taste of your dealings with the
devil?' said Berenger, smiling.
'Pshaw! No devil in the matter,' testily said Philip. 'No, I was
only wishing you had not had a Puritan fit, and seen and heard for
yourself. Then I should not have had to tell you,' and he sighed.
'I have no desire to be told,' said Berenger, who had become more
fixed in the conviction that it was an imposture.
'No desire! Ah! I have none when I knew what it was. But you
ought to know.'
'Well,' said Berenger, 'you will burst anon if I open not my ears.'
'Dear Berry, speak not thus. It will be the worse for you when you
do hear. Alack, Berenger, all ours have been vain hopes. I asked
for HER--and the boy fell well-nigh into convulsions of terror as
he gazed; spoke of flames and falling houses. That was wherefore I
pressed you not again--it would have wrung your heart too much.
The boy fairly wept and writhed himself, crying out in his tongue
for pity on the fair lady and the little babe in the burning house.
Alack! brother,' said Philip, a little hurt that his brother had
not changed countenance.
'This is the lying tale of the man-at-arms which our own eyes
contradicted,' said Berenger; 'and no doubt was likewise inspired
by the Chevalier.'
'See the boy, brother! How should he have heard the Chevalier?
Nay, you might hug your own belief, but it is hard that we should
both be in durance for your mere dream that she lives.'
'Come, Phil, it will be the devil indeed that sows dissension
between us,' said Berenger. 'You know well enough that were it
indeed with my poor Eustacie as they would fain have us believe,
rather than give up her fair name I would not in prison for life.
Or would you have me renounce my faith, or wed Madame de Selinville
upon the witness of a pool of ink that I am a widower?' he added,
almost laughing.
'For that matter,' muttered Philip, a good deal ashamed and half
affronted, 'you know I value the Protestant faith so that I never
heard a word from the will old priest. Nevertheless, the boy, when
I asked of our release, saw the gates set open by Love.'
'What did Love look like in the pool? Had he wings like the Cupids
in the ballets at the Louvre?' asked Berenger provokingly.
'I tell you I saw nothing,' said Philip, tartly: 'this was the
Italian's interpretation of the boy's gesture. It was to be by
means of love, he said, and of a lady who---he made it plain enough
who she was,' added the boy, colouring.
'No doubt, as the Chevalier have instructed him to say that I--I--'
he hesitated, 'that my--my love--I mean that he saw my shield per
pale with the field fretty and the sable leopard.'
'Oh! it is to be my daughter, is it?' said Berenger, laughing; 'I
am very happy to entertain your proposals for her.'
'Berenger, what mocking fiend has possessed you?' cried Philip,
half angrily, half pitifully. 'How can you so speak of that poor
child?'
'Because the more they try to force on me the story of her fate,
the plainer it is to me that they do not believe it. I shall find
her yet, and then, Phil, you shall have the first chance.'
Philip growled.
'Well, Phil,' said his brother, good-humouredly, 'any way, till
this Love comes that is to let us out, don't let Moor or fiend come
between us. Let me keep my credence for the honest Bailli's
daughters at Lucon; and remember I would give my life to free you,
but I cannot give away my faith.' Philip bent his head. He was of
too stubborn a mould to express contrition or affection, but he
mused for five minutes, then called Humfrey, and at the last
moment, as the heavy tread came up-stairs, he turned round and
said, 'You're in the right on't there, Berry. Hap what hap, the
foul fiend may carry off the conjurer before I murmur at you again!
Still I wish you had seen him. You would know 'tis sooth.'
While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamplight beaming
on his high white brow and clear eye, stood before his two comrades
in captivity, their true-hearted faces composed to reverence, and
as he read, 'I have hated them that hold of superstitious vanities,
and my trust hath been in the Lord. I will be glad and rejoice in
Thy mercy, for Thou hast considered my trouble and hast known my
soul in adversities,' feeling that here was the oracle by which he
was willing to abide--Diane de Selinville was entering the cabinet
where the secrets of the future were to be unveiled.
There she stood--the beautiful court lady--her lace coif (of the
Mary of Scotland type) well framed the beautiful oval of her face,
and set of the clear olive of her complexion, softened by short
jetty curls at the temples, and lighted splendid dark eyes, and by
the smiles of a perfect pair of lips. A transparent veil hung back
over the ruff like frostwork-formed fairy wings, and over the white
silk bodice and sleeves laced with violet, and the violet skirt
that fell in ample folds on the ground; only, however, in the dim
light revealing by an occasional gleam that it was not black. It
was a stately presence, yet withal there was a tremor, a quiver of
the downcast eyelids, and a trembling of the fair hand, as though
she were ill at ease; even though it was by no means the first time
she had trafficked with the dealers in mysterious arts who swarmed
around Catherine de Medicis. There were words lately uttered that
weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not forget them
in that gloomy light, as she gazed on the brown face of the
Italian, Ercole, faultless in outline as a classical mask, but the
black depths of the eyes sparkling with intensity of observation,
as if they were everywhere at once and gazed through and through.
He wore his national dress, with the short cloak over one shoulder;
but the little boy, who stood at the table, had been fantastically
arrayed in a sort of semi-Albanian garb, a red cap with a long
tassel, a dark, gold-embroidered velvet jacket sitting close to his
body, and a white kilt over his legs, bare except for buskins stiff
with gold. The poor little fellow looked pale in spite of his
tawny hue, his enormous black eyes were heavy and weary, and he
seemed to be trying to keep aloof from the small brazen vessel
formed by the coils of two serpents that held the inky liquid of
which Philip had spoken.
No doubt of the veritable nature of the charm crossed Diane; her
doubt was of its lawfulness, her dread of the supernatural region
she was invading. She hesitated before she ventured on her first
question, and started as the Italian first spoke,--'What would the
Eccelentissima? Ladies often hesitate to speak the question
nearest their hearts. Yet is it ever the same. But the lady must
be pleased to form it herself in words, or the lad will not see her
vision.'
'Where, then, is my brother?' said Diane, still reluctant to come
direct to the point.
The boy gazed intently into the black pool, his great eyes dilating
till they seemed like black wells, and after a long time, that
Diane could have counted by the throbs of her heart, he began to
close his fingers, perform the action over the other arm of one
playing on the lute, throw his head back, close his eyes, and
appear to be singing a lullaby. Then he spoke a few words to his
master quickly.
'He see,' said Ercole, 'a gentleman touching the lute, seated in a
bedroom, where lies, on a rich pillow, another gentleman,'--and as
the boy stroked his face, and pointed to his hands--'wearing a mask
and gloves. It is, he says, in my own land, in Italy,' and as the
boy made the action of rowing, 'in the territory of Venice.'
'It is well,' said Madame de Selinville, who knew that nothing was
more probable than that her brother should be playing the King to
his sleep in the medicated mask and gloves that cherished the royal
complexion, and, moreover, that Henry was lingering to take his
pastime in Italy to the great inconvenience of his kingdom.
Her next question came nearer her heat--'You saw the gentleman with
a scar. Will he leave this castle?'
The boy gazed, then made gestures of throwing his arms wide, and of
passing out; and as he added his few words, the master explained:
'He sees the gentleman leaving the castle, through open gate, in
full day, on horseback; and--and it is Madame who is with them,' he
added, as the lad pointed decidedly to her, 'it is Madame who opens
their prison.'
Diane's face lighted with gladness for a moment; then she said,
faltering (most women of her day would not have been even thus
reserved), 'Then I shall marry again?'
The boy gazed and knitted his brow; then, without any pantomime,
looked up and spoke. 'The Eccellentissima shall be a bride once
more, he says,' explained the man, 'but after a sort he cannot
understand. It is exhausting, lady, thus to gaze into the
invisible future; the boy becomes confused and exhausted ere long.'
'Once more--I will only ask of the past. My cousin, is he married
or a widower?'
The boy clasped his hands and looked imploringly, shaking his head
at the dark pool, as he murmured an entreating word to his master.
'Ah! Madame,' said the Italian, 'that question hath already been
demanded by the young Inglese. The poor child has been so
terrified by the scene it called up, that he implored he may not
see it again. A sacked and burning town, a lady in a flaming
house---'
'Enough, enough,' said de; 'I could as little bear to hear as he to
see. It is what we have ever known and feared. And now'--she
blushed as she spoke--'sir, you will leave me one of those potions
that Signor Renato is wont to compound.'
'Capisco!' said Ercole; 'but the Eccellentissima shall he obeyed
if she will supply the means, for the expense will be heavy.'
The bargain was agreed upon, and a considerable sum advanced for a
philter, compounded of strange Eastern plants and mystic jewels;
and then Diane, with a shudder of relief, passed into the full
light of the hall, bade her father good night, and was handed by
him into the litter that had long been awaiting her at the door.
The Chevalier, then, with care on his brow, bent his steps towards
the apartment where the Italian still remained counting the money
he had received.
'So!' he said as he entered, 'so, fellow, I have not hindered your
gains, and you have been true to your agreement?'
'Illustrissimo, yes. The pool of vision mirrored the flames, but
nothing beyond--nothing--nothing.'
'They asked you then no more of those words you threw out of
Esperance?'
'Only the English youth, sir; and there were plenty of other hopes
to dance before the eyes of such a lad! With M. le Baron it will
be needful to be more guarded.'
'M. le Baron shall not have the opportunity,' said the Chevalier.
'He may abide by his decision, and what the younger one may tell
him. Fear not, good man, it shall be made good to you, if you obey
my commands. I have other work for you. But first repeat to me
more fully what you told me before. Where was it that you saw this
unhappy girl under the name of Esperance?'
'At a hostel, sir, at Charente, where she was attending on an old
heretic teacher of the name of Gardon, who had fallen sick there,
being pinched by the fiend with rheumatic pains after his deserts.
She bore the name of Esperance Gardon, and passed for his son's
widow.'
'And by what means did you know her not to be the mean creature she
pretended?' said the Chevalier, with a gesture of scornful horror.
'Illustrissimo, I never forget a face. I had seen this lady with
M. le Baron when they made purchases of various trinkets at
Montpipeau; and I saw her full again. I had the honour to purchase
from her certain jewels, that the Eccellenza will probably redeem;
and even--pardon, sir--I cut off and bought of her, her hair.'
'Her hair!' exclaimed the Chevalier, in horror. 'The miserable
girl to have fallen so low! Is it with you, fellow?'
'Surely, Illustrissimo. Such tresses--so shining, so silky, so
well kept,--I reserved to adorn the heads of Signor Renato's most
princely customers', said the man, unpacking from the inmost
recesses of one of his most ingeniously arranged packages, a parcel
which contained the rich mass of beautiful black tresses. 'Ah! her
head looked so noble,' he added, 'that I felt it profane to let my
scissors touch those locks; but she said that she could never wear
them openly more, and that they did but take up her time, and were
useless to her child and her father--as she called him; and she
much needed the medicaments for the old man that I gave her in
exchange.'
'Heavens! A daughter of Ribaumont!' sighed the Chevalier,
clenching his hand. 'And now, man, let me see the jewels with
which the besotted child parted.'
The jewels were not many, nor remarkable. No one but a member of
the family would have identified them, and not one of the pearls
was there; and the Chevalier refrained from inquiring after them,
lest, by putting the Italian on the scent of anything so
exceptionally valuable, he should defeat his own object, and lead
to the man's securing the pearls and running away with them. But
Ercole understood his glance, with the quickness of a man whose
trade forced him to read countenances. 'The Eccellenza is looking
for the pearls of Ribaumont? The lady made no offer of them to
me.'
'Do you believe that she has them still?'
'I am certain of it, sir. I know that she has jewels--though she
said not what they were--which she preserved at the expense of her
hair. It was thus. The old man had, it seems, been for weeks on
the rack with pains caught by a chill when they fled from La
Sablerie, and, though the fever had left him, he was still so stiff
in the joints as to be unable to move. I prescribed for him
unguents of balm and Indian spice, which, as the Eccellenza knows,
are worth far more than their weight in gold; nor did these jewels
make up the cost of these, together with the warm cloak for him,
and the linen for her child that she had been purchasing. I tell
you, sir, the babe must have no linen but the finest fabric of
Cambrai--yes, and even carnation-coloured ribbons--though, for
herself, I saw the homespun she was sewing. As she mused over what
she could throw back, I asked if she had no other gauds to make up
the price, and she said, almost within herself, "They are my
child's, not mine." Then remembering that I had been buying the
hair of the peasant maidens, she suddenly offered me her tresses.
But I could yet secure the pearls, if Eccellenza would.'
'Do you then believe her to be in any positive want or distress?'
said the Chevalier.
'Signor, no. The heretical households among whom she travels
gladly support the families of their teachers, and at Catholic inns
they pay their way. I understood them to be on their way to a
synod of Satan at the nest of heretics, Montauban, where doubtless
the old miscreant would obtain an appointment to some village.'
'When did you thus full in with them?'
'It was on one of the days of the week of Pentecost,' said Ercole.
'It is at that time I frequent fairs in those parts, to gather my
little harvest on the maidens' heads.'
'Parbleu! class not my niece with those sordid beings, man,' said
the Chevalier, angrily. 'Here is your price'--tossing a heavy
purse on the table--'and as much more shall await you when you
bring me sure intelligence where to find my niece. You understand;
and mark, not one word of the gentleman you saw here. You say she
believes him dead?'
'The Illustrissimo must remember that she never dropped her
disguise with me, but I fully think that she supposed herself a
widow. And I understand the Eccellenza, she is still to think so.
I may be depended on.'
'You understand,' repeated the Chevalier, 'this sum shall reward
you when you have informed me where to find her--as a man like you
can easily trace her from Montauban. If you have any traffickings
with her, it shall be made worth your while to secure the pearls
for the family; but, remember, the first object is herself, and
that she should be ignorant of the existence of him whom she
fancied her husband.'
'I see, Signor; and not a word, of course, of my having come from
you. I will discover her, and leave her noble family to deal with
her. Has the Illustrissimo any further commands?'
'None,' began the Chevalier; then, suddenly, 'This unhappy infant--
is it healthy? Did it need any of your treatment?'
'Signor, no. It was a fair, healthy bambina of a year old, and I
heard the mother boasting that it had never had a day's illness.'
'Ah, the less a child has to do in the world, the more is it bent
on living,' said the Chevalier with a sigh; and then, with a
parting greeting, he dismissed the Italian, but only to sup under
the careful surveillance of the steward, and then to be conveyed by
early morning light beyond the territory where the affairs of
Ribaumont were interesting.
But the Chevalier went through a sleepless night. Long did he pace
up and down his chamber, grind his teeth, clench his fist and point
them at his head, and make gestures of tearing his thin gray locks;
and many a military oath did he swear under his breath as he
thought to what a pass things had come. His brother's daughter
waiting on an old Huguenot bourgeois, making sugar-cakes, selling
her hair! And what next? Here was she alive after all, alive and
disgracing herself; alive--yes, both she and her husband--to
perplex the Chevalier, and force him either to new crimes or to
beggar his son! Why could not the one have really died on the St.
Bartholomew, or the other at La Sablerie, instead of putting the
poor Chevalier in the wrong by coming to live again?
What had he done to be thus forced to peril his soul at his age?
Ah, had he but known what he should bring on himself when he wrote
the unlucky letter, pretending that the silly little child wished
to dissolve the marriage! How should he have known that the lad
would come meddling over? And then, when he had dexterously
brought about that each should be offended with the other, and
consent to the separation, why must royalty step in and throw them
together again? Yes, and he surely had a right to feel ill-used,
since it was in ignorance of the ratification of the marriage that
he had arranged the frustration of the elopement, and that he had
forced on the wedding with Narcisse, so as to drive Eustacie to
flight from the convent--in ignorance again of her life that he had
imprisoned Berenger, and tried to buy off his clams to Nid de Merle
with Diane's hand. Circumstances had used him cruelly, and he
shrank from fairly contemplating the next step.
He knew well enough what it must be. Without loss of time a letter
must be sent to Rome, backed by strong interest, so as to make it
appear that the ceremony at Montpipeau, irregular, and between a
Huguenot and Catholic, had been a defiance of the Papal decree, and
must therefore be nullified. This would probably be attainable,
though he did not feel absolutely secure of it. Pending this,
Eustacie must be secluded in a convent; and, while still believing
herself a widow, must immediately on the arrival of the decree and
dispensation, be forced into the marriage with Narcisse before she
heard of Berenger's being still alive. And then Berenger would
have no longer any excuse for holding out. His claims would be
disposed of, and he might be either sent to England, or he might be
won upon by Madame de Selinville's constancy.
And this, as the Chevalier believed, was the only chance of saving
a life that he was unwilling to sacrifice, for his captive's
patience and courtesy had gained so much upon his heart that he was
resolved to do all that shuffling and temporizing could do to save
the lad from Narcisse's hatred and to secure him Diane's love.
As to telling the truth and arranging his escape, that scarcely
ever crossed the old man's mind. It would have been to resign the
lands of Nid de Merle, to return to the makeshift life he knew but
too well, and, what was worse, to ruin and degrade his son, and
incur his resentment. It would probably be easy to obtain a
promise from Berenger, in his first joy and gratitude, of yielding
up all pretensions of his own or his wife's; but, however
honourably meant, such a promise would be worth very little, and
would be utterly scorned by Narcisse. Besides, how could he thwart
the love of his daughter and the ambition of his son both at once?
No; the only security for the possession of Nid de Merle lay in
either the death of the young baron and his child or else in his
acquiescence in the invalidity of his marriage, and therefore in
the illegitimacy of the child.
And it was within the bounds of possibility that, in his seclusion,
he might at length learn to believe in the story of the destruction
at La Sablerie, and, wearying of captivity, might yield at length
to the persuasions of Diane and her father, and become so far
involved with them as to be unable to draw back, or else be so
stung by Eustacie's desertion as to accept her rival willingly.
It was a forlorn hope, but it was the only medium that lay between
either the death or the release of the captive; and therefore the
old man clung to it as almost praiseworthy, and did his best to
bring it about by keeping his daughter ignorant that Eustacie
lived, and writing to his son that the Baron was on the point of
becoming a Catholic and marrying his sister: and thus that all
family danger and scandal would be avoided, provided the matter
were properly represented at Rome.