Is it the dew of night
That on her glowing cheek
Shines in the moonbeam?--Oh, she weeps, she weeps,
And the good angel that abandoned her
At her hell baptism, by her tears drawn down
Resumes his charge...and the hope
Of pardon and salvation rose
As now she understood
Thy lying prophecy of truth.--SOUTHEY
'M. de Ribaumont,' said Henry of Navarre, as he stood before the
fire after supper at Parthenay, 'I have been thinking what
commission I could give you proportioned to your rank and
influence.'
'Thanks to your Grace, that inquiry is soon answered. I am a
beggar here. Even my paternal estate in Normandy is in the hands
of my cousin.'
'You have wrongs,' said Henry, 'and wrongs are sometimes better
than possessions in a party like ours.'
Berenger seized the opening to explain his position, and mention
that his only present desire was for permission, in the first
place, to send a letter to England by the messenger whom the King
was dispatching to Elisabeth, in tolerable security of her secret
countenance; and, secondly, to ride to Nissard to examine into the
story he had previously heeded so little, of the old man and his
daughter rescued from the waves the day before La Sablerie was
taken.
'If Pluto relented, my dear Orpheus, surely Navarre may,' said
Henry good-humouredly; 'only may the priest not be more adamantine
than Minos. Where lies Nissard? On the Sable d'Olonne? Then you
may go thither with safety while we lie here, and I shall wait for
my sister, or for news of her.'
So Berenger arranged for an early start on the morrow; and young
Selinville listened with a frown, and strange look in his dark
eyes. 'You go not to England?' he said.
'Not yet?' said Berenger
'This was not what my Lady expected,' he muttered; but though
Berenger silenced him by a stern look, he took the first
opportunity of asking Philip if it would not be far wiser for his
brother to place himself in safety in England.
'Wiser, but less honest,' said Philip.
'He who has lost all here, who has incurred his grandfather's
anger,' pursued Aime, 'were he not wiser to make his peace with his
friends in England?'
'His friends in England would not like him the better for deserting
his poor wife's cause,' said Philip. 'I advise you to hold your
tongue, and not meddle or make.'
Aime subsided, and Philip detected something like tears. He had
still much of rude English boyhood about him, and he laughed
roughly. 'A fine fellow, to weep at a word! Hie thee back to feed
my Lady's lap-dog, 'tis all thou art fit for.'
'There spoke English gratitude,' said Aime, with a toss of the head
and flash of the eye.
Philip despised him the more for casting up his obligations, but
had no retort to make. He had an idea of making a man of young
Selinville, and his notion of the process had something of the
bullying tendency of English young towards the poor-spirited or
cowardly. He ordered the boy roughly, teased him for his ignorance
of manly exercises, tried to cure his helplessness by increasing
his difficulties, and viewed his fatigue as affectation or
effeminacy. Berenger interfered now and then to guard the poor boy
from a horse-jest or practical joke, but he too felt that Aime was
a great incumbrance, hopelessly cowardly, fanciful, and petulant;
and he was sometimes driven to speak to him with severity, verging
on contempt, in hopes of rousing a sense of shame.
The timidity, so unusual and inexplicable in a youth of eighteen or
twenty, sowed itself irrepressibly at the Sands of Olonne. These
were not misty, as on Berenger's former journey. Nissard steeple
was soon in sight, and the guide who joined them on a rough pony
had no doubt that there would be ample time to cross before high
water. There was, however, some delay, for the winter rains had
brought down a good many streams of fresh water, and the sands were
heavy and wet, so that their horses proceeded slowly, and the rush
and dash of the waves proclaimed that the low of the tide had
begun. To the two brothers the break and sweep was a home-sound,
speaking of freshness and freedom, and the salt breeze and spray
carried with them life and ecstasy. Philip kept as near the
incoming waves as his inland-bred horse would endure, and sang,
shouted, and hallooed to them as welcome as English waves; but Aime
de Selinville had never even beheld the sea before: and even when
the tide was still in the distance, was filled with nervous terror
as each rushing fall sounded nearer; and, when the line of white
foamy crests became more plainly visible, he was impelled to hurry
on towards the steeple so fast that the guide shouted to him that
he would only bury himself in a quicksand.
'But,' said he, white with alarm, and his teeth chattering, 'how
can we creep with those dreadful waves advancing upon us to drown
us?'
Berenger silence Philip's rude laugh and was beginning to explain
that the speed of the waves could always be calculated by an
experienced inhabitant; and his voice had seemed to pacify Aime a
little, when the spreading water in front of a broken wave flowing
up to his horse's feet, again rendered him nearly frantic. 'Let us
go back!' he wildly entreated, turning his horse; but Berenger
caught his bridle, saying, 'That would be truly death. Boy, unless
you would be scorned, restrain your folly. Nothing else imperils
us.'
Here, however, the guide interposed, saying that it had become too
late to pursue their course along the curve of the shore, but they
must at once cut straight across, which he had intended to avoid,
because of the greater depth of a small river that they would have
to cross, which divided further out into small channels, more
easily forded. They thus went along the chord of the arc formed by
the shore, and Aime was somewhat reassured, as the sea was at first
farther off; but before long they reached the stream, which lost
itself in many little channels in the sands, so that when the tide
was out there was a perfect network of little streams dividing low
shingly or grassy isles, but at nearly high tide, as at present,
many of these islets were submerged, and the strife between river
and sea caused sudden deepenings of the water in the channels.
The guide eagerly explained that the safest place for crossing was
not by the large sandbank furthest inland and looking firm and
promising--it was a recent shifting performance of the water's
heaping up, and would certainly sink away and bury horse the
channels on either side had shingly bottoms, and were safe.
'This way,' called Berenger, himself setting the example, and
finding no difficulty; the water did not rise above his boots, and
the current was not strong. He had reached the shingly isle when
he looked round for his companions; Humfrey and Philip were close
behind him; but, in spite of the loud 'gare!' of the guide, Aime,
or his horse,--for each was equally senseless with alarm,--were
making inwards; the horse was trying to tread on the sandbank,
which gave way like the water itself, under its frantic struggles--
there was a loud cry--a shrill, unmistakable woman's shriek--the
horse was sinking--a white face and helpless form were being
carried out on the waves, but not before Berenger had flung himself
from his horse, thrown off his cloak and sword, and dashed into the
water; and in the lapse of a few moments he struggled back to the
island, where were Philip and Humfrey, leg-deep in water: the one
received his burthen, the other helped him to land.
'On, gentlemen, not a moment to lose,' cried the guide; and
Berenger, still panting, flung himself on his horse, held out his
arms, gathered the small, almost inanimate figure upon the horse's
neck before him, and in a few minutes more they had crossed the
perilous passage, and were on a higher bank where they could safely
halt; and Philip, as he came to help his brother, exclaimed, 'What
a fool the boy is!'
'Hush!' said Berenger, gravely, as they laid the figure on the
ground.
'What! he can't have been drowned in that moment. We'll bring him
to.'
'Hands off!' said Berenger, kneeling over the gasping form, and
adding in a lower voice, 'Don't you see?' He would his hand in the
long drenched hair, and held it up, with cheeks burning like fire,
and his scar purple.
'A woman!--what?--who?' Then suddenly divining, he exclaimed, 'The
jade!' and started with wide eyes.
'Stand back,' said Berenger; 'she is coming to herself.'
Perhaps she had been more herself than he knew, for, as he
supported her head, her hand stole over his and held it fast. Full
of consternation, perplexity, and anger as he was, he could not but
feel a softening pity towards a creature so devoted, so entirely at
his mercy. At the moment when she lay helpless against him, gasps
heaving her breast under her manly doublet, her damp hair spread on
his knees, her dark eyes in their languor raised imploring his
face, her cold hand grasping his, he felt as if this great love
were a reality, and as if he were hunting a shadow; and, as if fate
would have it so, he must save and gratify one whose affection must
conquer his, who was so tender, so beautiful--even native
generosity seemed on her side. But in the midst, as in his
perplexity he looked up over the gray sea, he seemed to see the
picture so often present to his mind of the pale, resolute girl,
clasping her babe to her breast, fearless of the advancing sea,
because true and faithful. And at that thought faith and prayer
rallied once again round his heart, shame at the instant's wavering
again dyed his cheek; he recalled himself, and speaking the more
coldly and gravely because his heart was beating over hotly, he
said, 'Cousin, you are better. It is but a little way to
Nissard.'
'Why have you saved me, if you will not pity me?' she murmured.
'I will not pity, because I respect my kinswoman who has save our
lives,' he said steadying his voice with difficulty. 'The priests
of Nissard will aid me in sparing your name and fame.'
'Ah!' she cried, sitting up with a start of joy, 'but he would make
too many inquiries! Take me to England first.'
Berenger started as he saw how he had been misunderstood.
'Neither here nor in England could my marriage be set aside,
cousin. No; not priest shall take charge of you, and place you in
safety and honour.'
'He shall not!' she cried hotly. 'Why--why will you drive me from
you--me who ask only to follow you as a menial servant?'
'That has become impossible,' he answered; 'to say nothing of my
brother, my servant and the guide have seen;' and, as she
remembered her streaming hair, and tried, in dawning confusion, to
gather it together, he continued: 'You shrank from the eye of the
King of Navarre. You cannot continue as you have done; you have
not even strength.'
'Ah! have you sailed for England,' she murmured.
'It had only been greater shame,' he said. 'Cousin, I am head of
your family, husband of your kinswoman, and bound to respect the
reputation you have risked for me. I shall, therefore, place you
in charge of the priest till you can either return to your aunt or
to some other convent. You can ride now. We will not wait longer
in these wet garments.'
He raised her from the ground, threw his own dry cloak round her
shoulders and unmanageable hair, and lifted her on his horse; but,
as she would have leant against him, he drew himself away, beckoned
Philip, and put the bridle into his hands, saying, 'Take care of
her. I shall ride on and warm the priest.'
'The rock of diamond,' she murmured, not aware that the diamond had
been almost melting. That youthful gravity and resolution, with
the mixture of respect and protection, imposed as usual upon her
passionate nature, and daunted her into meekly riding beside Philip
without a word--only now and then he heard a low moan, and knew
that she was weeping bitterly.
At first the lad had been shocked beyond measure, and would have
held aloof as from a kind of monster, but Madame de Selinville had
been the first woman to touch his fancy, and when he heard how
piteously she was weeping, and recollected where he should have
been but for her, as well as all his own harshness to her as a
cowardly boy, he felt himself brutally ungrateful, and spoke:
'Don't weep so, Madame; I am sorry I was rude to you, but you see,
how should I take you for a woman?'
Perhaps she heard, but she heeded not.
'My brother will take good care to shield you,' Philip added. 'He
will take care you are safe in one of your nunneries;' and as she
only wept the more, he added, with a sudden thought, 'You would not
go there; you would embrace the Protestant faith?'
'I would embrace whatever was his.'
Philip muttered something about seeing what could be done. They
were already at the entrance of the village, and Berenger had come
out to meet them, and, springing towards him, Philip exclaimed, in
a low voice, 'Berry, she would abjure her Popish errors! You can't
give her up to a priest.'
'Foolery, Philip,' answered Berenger, sternly.
'If she would be a convert!'
'Let her be a modest woman first;' and Berenger, taking her bridle,
led her to the priest's house.
He found that Pere Colombeau was preaching a Lent sermon, and that
nobody was at home but the housekeeper, to whom he had explained
briefly that the lady with him had been forced to escape in
disguise, had been nearly drowned, and was in need of refreshment
and female clothing. Jacinthe did not like the sound, but drenched
clothes were such a passport to her master's house, that she durst
not refuse. Berenger carried off his other companions to the
cabaret, and when he had dried himself, went to wait for the priest
at the church door, sitting in the porch where more than one echo
of the exhortation to repentance and purity rang in his ears, and
enforced his conviction that here he must be cruel if he would be
merciful.
It was long before Pere Colombeau came out, and then, if the scar
had not blushed for all the rest of his face, the sickly, lanky lad
of three years since would hardly have been recognized to the good
cure. But the priest's aspect was less benignant when Berenger
tried to set before him his predicament; he coldly asked where the
unhappy lady was; and when Berenger expressed his intention of
coming the next morning to ask his counsel, he only bowed. He did
not ask the brothers to supper, nor show any civility; and
Berenger, as he walked back to the cabaret, perceived that his
story was but half believed, and that, if Diane's passion were
still stronger than her truth or generosity, she would be able to
make out a terrible case against him, and to willing ears,
naturally disposed against a young cavalier and a heretic.
He sat much dispirited by the fire of the little wine shop,
thinking that his forbearance had been well-nigh thrown away, and
that his character would never be cleared in Eustacie's eyes,
attaching, indeed, more importance to the blot than would have been
done by a youth less carefully reared.
It was quite dark when a knock came to the door: the cure's white
head appeared in the lamplight; he nodded kindly to all the guests,
and entreated that M. de Ribaumont would do him a favour to come
and speak with him.
No sooner were they outside the house, than the cure held out his
hand, saying 'Sir, forgive me for a grievous injustice towards
you;' then pressing his hand, he added with a voice tremulous with
emotion, 'Sir, it is no slight thing to have saved a wandering
sheep by your uprightness and loyalty.'
'Have you then opened her eyes, father?' said Berenger, relieved
from a heavy load.
'You have, my son,' said the old man. 'You have taught her what
truth and virtue are. For the rest, you shall heard for yourself.'
Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, and he found
himself in the church. The building was almost entirely dark;
there were two tall lights at the altar in distance, and a few
little slender tapers burning before certain niches and shrines,
but without power to conquer with the gloom more than enough to
spread a pale circle of yellow light beneath them, and to show
mysteriously a bit of vaulting above. A single lamp hung from an
arch near the door, and beneath it, near a pillar, knelt, or rather
crouched, on the floor, a female figure with a dark peasant cloak
drawn over her head.
'The first token of penitence is reparation to the injured,' said
the priest.
Berenger looked at him anxiously.
'I will not leave you,' he added. 'See, I shall pray for you
yonder, by the altar,' and he slowly moved up the aisle.
'Rise, cousin, I entreat you,' said Berenger, much embarrassed, as
he disappeared in the darkness.
'I must speak thus,' she answered, in a hoarse, exhausted voice.
'Ah! pardon, pardon!' she added, rising, however, so far as to
raise clasped hands and an imploring face. 'Ah! can you pardon?
It was through me that you bear those wounds; that she--Eustacie--
was forced into the masque, to detain you for THAT night. Ah!
pardon.'
'That is long past,' said Berenger. 'I have been too near death
not to have pardoned that long ago. Rise, cousin, I cannot see you
thus.'
'That is not all,' continued Diane. 'It was I--I who moved my
father to imprison you.' Then, as he bent his head, and would have
again entreated her to rise, she held out her hand as if to silence
him, and spoke faster, more wildly. 'Then--then I thought it would
save your life. I thought---' she looked at him strangely with her
great dark eyes, all hollow and cavernous in her white face.
'I know,' said Berenger, kindly, 'you often urged it on me.'
There was a sort of movement on the part of the kneeling figure of
the priest at the altar, and she interrupted, saying precipitately.
'Then--then, I did think you free.'
'Ah!' he gasped. 'Now---!'
'Now I know that she lives!' and Diane once more sank at his feet a
trembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of shame and misery.
Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly repressed,
had the ring of ecstasy in it. 'Cousin--cousin!' he cried, 'all is
forgiven--all forgotten, if you will only tell me where!'
'That I cannot,' said Diane, rousing herself again, but speaking in
a dull, indifferent tone, as of one to whom the prime bitterness
was past, 'save that she is under the care of the Duchess de
Quinet;' and she then proceeded, as though repeating a lesson: 'You
remember the Italian conjurer whom you would not consult? Would
that I had not!' she added, clasping her hands. 'His prediction
lured me? Well, he saw my father privately, told him he had seen
her, and had bought her jewels, even her hair. My father sent him
in quest of her again, but told not me till the man returned with
tidings that she was at Quinet, in favour with the Duchess. You
remember that he went from home. It was to demand he; and, ah! you
know how long I had loved you, and they told me that your marriage
was void, and that all would be well upon the dispensation coming.
And now the good father there tells me that I was deceived--cruelly
deceived--that such a dispensation would not be granted save
through gross misrepresentation.' Then, as Berenger began to show
tokens of eagerness to come at tidings of Eustacie, she continued,
'Ah! it is vain to seek to excuse one you care not for. My father
could learn nothing from the Duchess; she avowed that she had been
there, but would say no more. However, he and my brother were sure
she was under their protection; they took measures, and--and the
morning my poor father was stricken, there had been a letter from
my brother to say he was on her track, and matters must be ended
with you, for he should have her in a week;' and then, as Berenger
started forward with an inarticulate outburst, half of horror, half
of interrogation, she added, 'Where, he said not, nor did I learn
from him. All our one interview was spend in sneers that answered
to my wild entreaties; but this I know--that you would never have
reached Tours a living man.'
'And now, now he is on the way to her!' cried Berenger, 'and you
kept it from me!'
'There lay my hope,' said Diane, raising her head; and now, with
glittering eyes and altered voice, 'How could I not but hate her
who had bereaved me of you; her for whose sake I could not earn
your love?'
The change of her tone had, perhaps, warned the priest to draw
nearer, and as she perceived him, she said, 'Yes, father, this is
not the way to absolution, but my heart will burst if I say not
all.'
'Thou shalt not prevail, foul spirit,' said the priest, looking
earnestly into the darkness, as though he beheld the fiend hovering
over her, 'neither shall these holy walls be defiled with accents
of unhallowed love. You have made your reparation, daughter; it is
enough.'
'And can you tell me no more?' said Berenger, sadly. 'Can you give
me no clue that I may save her from the wolf that may be already on
her track? Cousin, if you would do this, I would bless you for
ever.'
'Alas! I would if I could! It is true, cousin, I have no heart to
deceive you any longer. But it is to Madame de Quinet that you
must apply, and if my brother has though me worth pursuit, you may
be in time! One moment,'--as he would have sprung away as if in
the impulse to fly to the rescue,--'cousin; had you gone to England
as I hoped, I would have striven to deserve to win that love of
yours, but you have conquered by your constancy. Now, father, I
have spoken my last save as penitent.'
She covered her head and sank down again.
Berenger, bewildered and impelled to be doing something, let the
priest lead him out before he exclaimed, 'I said nothing to her of
pardon!'
'You do pardon?' said the priest.
He paused a moment. 'Freely, if I find my wife. I can only
remember now that she set me on the way. I would ease her soul,
poor thing, and thinking would make me hard again.'
'Do the English bring up their sons with such feelings?' asked the
cure, pausing for a moment.
'Of course,' said Berenger. 'May I say that one word, sir?'
'Not now,' said the priest; 'she had better be left to think of her
sin towards Heaven, rather than towards man.'
'But do you leave her there, sir?'
'I shall return. I shall pray for her true penitence,' said the
priest, and Berenger perceived from his tone that one without the
pale might inquire no further. He only asked how safe and
honourable shelter could be found for her; and the cure replied
that he had already spoken to her of the convent of Lucon, and
should take her there so soon as it could safely be done, and that
Abbess Monique, he trusted, would assist her crushed spirit in
finding the path of penitence. He thought her cousin had better
not endeavour to see her again; and Berenger himself was ready to
forget her very existence in his burning anxiety to outstrip
Narcisse in the quest of Eustacie.