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 THE 
 
 CHAPLET OF PEARLS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE WHITE AND BLACK RIBAUMONT. 
 
 By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE, 
 
 Author of 'Heir of Redely ffe," "The Dove in the Eagle's 
 
 Nest," etc., etc. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It is the fashion to call every story controversial that 
 deals with times when controversy or a war of religion was 
 raging; but it should be remembered that there are some 
 which only attempt to portray human feelings as affected 
 by the events that such warfare occasioned. " Old Mor- 
 tality " and " "Woodstock " are not controversial tales, and 
 the " Chaplet of Pearls " is so quite as little. It only 
 aims at drawing certain scenes and certain characters as 
 the convulsions of the sixteenth century may have affected 
 them, and is, in fact, like all historical romance, the shap- 
 ing of the conceptions that the imagination must necessarily 
 form when dwelling upon the records of history. That 
 faculty which might be called the passive fancy, and might 
 almost be described in Portia's song — 
 
 " It is engendered in the eyes, 
 By reading fed — and there it dies " — 
 
 that faculty, I say, has learned to feed upon character and 
 incident, and to require that the latter should be effective 
 and exciting. Is it not reasonable to seek for this in the 
 days when such things were not infrequent, and did not 
 imply exceptional wickedness or misfortune in those engaged 
 in them? This seems to me one plea for historical novel, 
 to which I would add the opportunity that it gives for study 
 of the times and delineation of characters. Shakespeare's 
 Henry IV. and Henry V., Scott's Louis XL, Manzoni^s 
 Federigo Borromeo, Bulwer's Harold, James's Philip 
 Augustus, are all real contributions to our comprehension of 
 the men themselves, by calling the chronicles and memoirs 
 into action. True, the picture can not be exact, and is 
 sometimes distorted — nay, sometimes praiseworthy efforts 
 at correctness in the detail take away whatever might have 
 been life-like in the outline. Yet, acknowledging all this.
 
 Yl PREFACE. 
 
 I must still plead for tlie tales that presumptuously deal 
 with days gone by, as enabling the young to realize hiptory 
 vividly — and, what is still more desirable, requiring an 
 effort of the mind which to read of modern days does not. 
 The details of Millais's Inquisition or of his Huguenot may 
 be in error in spite of all his study and diligence, but they 
 have brought before us forever the horrors of the auto-da- 
 fe, and the patient, steadfast heroism of the man who can 
 smile aside liis wife's endeavor to make him tacitly betray 
 his faith to save his life. Surely it is well, by pen as by 
 picture, to go back to the past for figures that will stir the 
 heart like these, even though the details be as incorrect as 
 those of the revolt of Liege or of La Ferrette, in " Quentin 
 Diirward " and " Anne of Geierstein.'' 
 
 Scott, however, willfully carved history to suit the pur- 
 poses of his story; and in these days we have come to feel 
 that a story must earn a certain amount of credibility by 
 being in keeping with established facts, even if striking 
 events have to be sacrificed, and that the order of time must 
 be preserved. In Shakespeare's days, or even in Scott's, 
 it might have been possible to bring Henry III. and his 
 mignions to due punishment within the limits of a tale be- 
 ginning with the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; but in 1868 
 the broad outlines of tragedy must be given up to keep 
 within the bounds of historical verity. 
 
 How far tliis has been done, critics better read than my- 
 self must decide. I have endeavored to speak fairly, to the 
 best of my ability, of such classes of persons as fell in with 
 the course of the narrative, according to such lights as the 
 memoirs of the time afford. The convent is scarcely a class 
 portrait, but the condition of it seems to be justified by 
 hints in the Port Royal memoirs, respecting Maubuissou 
 and otbfers which Mere Angelique reformed. The intoler- 
 ance of the ladies at Montauban is described in Mme. 
 Duplessis-Mornay's life; and if Bereuger's education and 
 opinions are looked on as not sufficiently alien from Eoman 
 C-atholicism, a reference to Fronde's " History of Queen 
 Elizabeth " will show both that the customs of the elder 
 English Church were still kept up by many of the country 
 clergy, and likewise that a broad distinction was made by 
 the better-informed among the French between Calvinism 
 and Protestantism or Lutheranism, in which they included 
 Anglicanism. The minister Gardon I do not consider as
 
 PREFACE. Vli 
 
 representing his class. He is a possibility modified to serve 
 the purposes of the story. 
 
 Into historical matters, however, I have only entered so 
 far as my story became involved with them. And here I 
 have to apologize for a few blunders, detected too late for 
 alteration even in the volumes. Sir Francis Walsingham 
 was a young rising statesman in 1573, instead of the elderly 
 sage he is represented ; his daughter Frances was a mere 
 infant, and Sir Philip Sidney was not knighted till much 
 later. For the rest, I have tried to show the scenes that 
 shajDcd themselves before me as carefully as I could; though 
 of course they must not be a presentiment of the times 
 themselves, but of my notion of them. 
 
 C. M. YONGE. 
 
 November Uth, 18€8.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF THE WHITE AND BLAOK. 
 
 Small was the ring, and small in truth the finger; 
 What then? the faith was large that dropped it down. 
 
 Aubrey de Vere : Infant Bridal. 
 
 Setting aside the consideration of the risk, the baby- 
 weddings of the Middle Ages must have been very pretty 
 sights. 
 
 So the Court of France thought the bridal of Henri Be- 
 renger Eustache de Eibaumont and of Marie Eustacie 
 Eosalie de Ribaumoufc du Nid-de-Merle, when, amid the 
 festivals that accompanied the signature of the treaty of 
 Cateau-Cambresis, good-natured King Henri II. presided 
 merrily at the union of the little jjair, whose united ages 
 did not reach ten years. 
 
 There they stood under the portal of Notre Dame, the 
 little bridegroom in a white velvet coat, with puffed sleeves, 
 slashed with scarlet satin, as were the short, also puffed, 
 breeches meeting his long white knitted silk stockings some 
 way above the knee; large scarlet rosettes were in his white 
 shoes, a scarlet knot adorned his little sword, and his velve*; 
 cap of the same color bore a long white plume, and was en- 
 circled by a row of pearls of priceless value. They are no 
 other than that garland of pearls which, after a night of 
 personal combat before the walls of Calais, Edward III. of 
 England took from his helmet and presented to Sir Eus- 
 tache de Ribaumont, a knight of Picardy, bidding him say 
 everywhere that it was a gift from the King of England to 
 the bravest of knigiits. 
 
 The precious heir-looms were scarcely held with the re- 
 spect due to an ornament so acquired. The manly garb
 
 10 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 for the first time assumed by his sturdy legS;, and the pos- 
 session of che little sword, were evidently the most interest- 
 ing parts of the affair to the youthful husband, who seemed 
 to find in them his only solace for the weary length of tb^ 
 ceremony. He was a fine, handsome little fellow, fair and 
 rosy, with bright blue eyes, and hair like shining flax, un- 
 usually tall and strong-limbed for his age; and as he gave 
 his hand to his little bride, and walked with her imder a 
 canopy uji to kneel at the High Altar, for the marriage 
 blessing and the mass, they looked like a full-grown couple 
 seen through a diminishing glass. 
 
 The little bride was perhaps a less beautiful child, but 
 she had a splendid pair of black eyes, and a sweet little^ 
 month, both set into the uncom2:)rehendi]ig solemnity of 
 baby gravity and contentment in fine clothes. In accord- 
 ance with the vow indicated by her name of Marie, her 
 dress was white and blue, turquois forget-me-nots bound 
 the little lace veil on her dark chestnut hair, the bosom of 
 her white satin dress was sj^rinkled with the same azure 
 jetvel, and turquoises bordered every seam of the sweeping 
 skirt with a train befitting a count's daughter, and mean- 
 dered in gorgeous constellations round the hem. The little 
 thing lisjjed her own vows forth without much notion of 
 their sense, and indeed was sometimes jirompted by her 
 bride-maid cousin, a pretty little girl a year older, who 
 thrust in her assistance so glibly that the king, as well as 
 others of the spectators, laughed, and observed that she 
 would get herself married to the boy instead of her cousin. 
 There was, however, to be no doubt nor mistake about 
 Berenger and Eustacie de Eibaumont being man and wife. 
 Every ceremony, religious or domestic, that could render a 
 marriage valid, was gone through with real earnestness, 
 although with infinite gayety, on the part of the court. 
 Much depended on their union, and the reconcilement of 
 the two branches of the family had long been a favorite 
 scheme of King Henri II. 
 
 Both alike were descended from Anselme de Eibaumont, 
 renowned in the first Crusade, and from the brave Picard 
 who had received the pearls; but, in the miserable anarchy 
 of Charles VI. 's reign, the elder brother had been on the 
 Burgundian side — like most of the other, nobles of Picardy 
 — and had thus been brought into the English camp, 
 where, regarding Henry V. as lawfully appointed to the
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 11 
 
 succession, and much admiring liim and his brother Bed- 
 ford, he had become an ardent supporter of the Enghsh 
 claim. He had married an English lady, and had received 
 the grant of the castle of Leurre in Normandy by way of 
 compensation for his ancestral one of Ribaumont in 
 Picardy, which had been declared to be forfeited by his 
 treason, and seized by his brother. 
 
 This brother had always been an Armagnac, and had 
 risen and thriven with his party — before the final peace be- 
 tween France and England obliged the elder line to submit 
 to Charles VII. Since that time there had been a perpetual 
 contention as to the restitution of Chateau Ribaumont, a 
 strife which under Louis XL had become an endless law- 
 suit; and in the days of dueling had occasioned a good 
 many insults and private encounturs. The younger branch, 
 or Black Ribaumonts, had received a grant from Louis XL 
 of the lands of Nid-de-Merle, belonging to an unfortunate 
 Angevin noble, who had fallen under the royal displeasure, 
 and they had enjoyed court favor up to the jDresent genera- 
 tion, when Henri II., either from opposition to his father, 
 instinct for honesty, or both, had become a warm friend to 
 the gay and brilliant young Baron de Ribaumont, head of 
 the whi te or elder branch of the family. 
 
 The family contention seemed liively to wear out of its 
 own accord, for the Count de Ribaumont was an elderly 
 and childless man, and his brother, the Chevalier de Ribau- 
 mont, was, according to the usual lot of French Juniors, a 
 bachelor, so that it Avas exi^ected that the whole inheritance 
 would center upon the elder family. However, to the 
 general surprise, the chevalier late in life married, and be- 
 came the father of a son and daughter; but soon after cal- 
 culations were still more thrown out by the birth of a little 
 daughter in the old age of the count. 
 
 Almost from the hour in which her sex was announced, 
 the king had jDromised the Baron de Ribaumont that she 
 should be the wife of his young son, and that all the pos- 
 sessions of the house should be settled upon the little couple, 
 engaging to provide for the chevalier's disappointed heir in 
 some commandery of a religious order of knighthood. 
 
 The baron's wife was English. He had, when on a visit 
 to his English kindred, entirely turned the head of the 
 lovely Annora Walwyn, and finding that her father, one of
 
 12 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 the gravest of Tudor statesmen, would not hear of her 
 breaking her engagement to the honest Dorset squire Mar- 
 maduke Tliistlewood, he had carried her off by a stolen 
 marriage and cowp dc main, which, as her beauty, rank, 
 and inheritance were all considerable, had won him great 
 rejiutation at the gay court of Henri 11. 
 
 Infants as the boy and girl were, the king had hurried 
 on their marriage to secure its taking place in the life- time 
 of the count. The countess had died soon after the birth 
 of the little girl, and if the arrangement were to take effect 
 at all, it must be before she should fall under the guardian- 
 ship of her uncle, the chevalier. Therefore the king had 
 caused her to be brought up from the cottage in Anjou, 
 where she had been nursed, and in person superintended 
 the brilliant wedding. He himself led off the dance with 
 the tiny bride, conducting her through its mazes with 
 fatherly kindliness and condescension; but Queen Cath- 
 erine, who was strongly in the interests of the Angevin 
 branch, and had always detested the baron as her husband's 
 intimate, excused herself from dancing with the bride- 
 groom. He therefore fell to the share of the Dauphiness 
 Queen of Scots, a lovely, bright-eyed, laughing girl, who 
 so completely fascinated the little fellow, that he convulsed 
 the court by observing that he should not have objected to 
 be married to some one like her, instead of a little baby like 
 Eustacie. 
 
 Amid all the mirth, it was not only the chevalier and 
 the queen who bore disjileased looks. In truth, both were 
 too great adejjts in court life to let their dissatisfaction ap- 
 j^ear. The gloomiest face was that of him whose triumph 
 it was — the bride-groom's father, the Baron de Ribaumont. 
 He had suffered severely from the sickness that prevailed 
 in St. Qiientin, when in the last August the Admiral de 
 Coligny had been besieged there by the Spaniards, and all 
 agreed that he had never been the same man since, either 
 in health or in demeanor. When he came back from his 
 cajjtivity and found the king bent on crowning his return 
 by the marriage of the children, he had hang back, spoken 
 of scruples about such unconscious vows, and had finally 
 only consented under stress of the personal friendship of 
 the king., and on condition that he and his wife should at 
 once have the sole custody of the little bride. Even then 
 he moved about tiie gay scene with so distressed and morose
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 13 
 
 an air that he was evidently either under the influence of a 
 scruple of conscience or of a foreboding of evil. 
 
 No one doubted that it had been the latter, Avhen three 
 days later, Henri II., in the prime of his strength and 
 height of his spirits, encountered young Des Jjorges in the 
 lists, received the splinter of a lance in his eye, and died 
 two days afterward. 
 
 No sooner were his obsequies over than the Baron de 
 Ribaumont set off with his wife and the little bridal pair for 
 his castle of Leurre, in Normandy, nor was he ever seen at 
 court again. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SEP AR ATION". 
 
 ■ Parted without the least regret, 
 Except that they had ever met, 
 * * * * 
 
 Misses, the tale that I relate. 
 
 This lesson seems to carry: 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 
 But a proper time to marry ! 
 
 CowPER, Pairing Time anticipated. 
 
 "I WILL have it!" 
 
 " Thou shalt not have it!'' 
 
 " Diane says it is mine.'' 
 
 " Diane knows nothing about it." 
 
 " Gentlemen always yield to ladies." 
 
 " Wives ought to mind their husbands." 
 
 " Then I will not be thy wife." 
 
 " Thou canst not help it." 
 
 " I will. I will tell my father what Monsieur le Baron 
 reads and sings, and then I know he M'ill." 
 
 "And welcome." 
 
 Eustacie put out her lip, and began to cry. 
 
 The '' husband and wife," now eight and seven years old, 
 were in a large room hung with tapestry, representing the 
 history of Tobit. A great state bed, curtained with piled 
 velvet, stood on a sort of dais at the further end; there 
 was a toilet-table adorned with curiously shaped boxes, 
 and colored Venetian glasses, and filagree pounce t-boxes, 
 and with a small mirror whose frame was inlaid with gold 
 and ivory. A large coffer, likewise inlaid, stood against the
 
 14 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 wall, and near it a cabinet, of Dutch worlimauship, a com- 
 bination of ebony, ivory, wood, and looking-glass, the center 
 retreating, and so arranged that by the help of most ingen- 
 ious attention to perspective and reflection, it appeared like 
 the entrance to a magnificent miniature cinque-cento palace, 
 with steps uj) to a vestibule paved in black and white loz- 
 enges, and with three endless corridors diverging from it. 
 So much for show; for use, this jjalace was a bewildering 
 complication of secret drawers and pigeon-holes, all de- 
 pending indeed upon one tiny gold key; but unless the use 
 of that key were well understood, all it led to was certain 
 outer receptacles of fragrant Spanish gloves, knots of rib- 
 bon, and kerchiefs strewn over with rose leaves and laven- 
 der. However, Eustacie had secured the key, and was now 
 far beyond these mere superficial matters. Her youthful 
 lord had just discovered her mounted on a chair, her small 
 person decked out with a profusion of necklaces, jewels, 
 bracelets, chains, and rings; and her fingers as well as they 
 could under their stifl'ening load, were opening the very 
 penetralia of the cabinet, the inner chamber of the hall, 
 where lay a case adorned with the Eibaumont arms and 
 containing the far-famed chaplet of pearls. It was almost 
 beyond her reach, but she had risen on tip-toe, and was 
 stretching out her hand for it, when he, sj^ringing behind 
 her on the chair, availed himself of his superior height and 
 strength to shut the door of this arcanum and turn the key. 
 His mortifying permission to his wife to absent herself 
 arose from pure love of teasing, but the next moment he 
 added, still holding his hand on the key — " As to telling 
 what my father reads, that would be treason. How shouldst 
 thou know what it is?" 
 
 " Dost thou think every one is an infant but thyself?" 
 " But who told thee that to talk of my father's books 
 would get him into trouble ?'' continued the boy, as they 
 still stood together on the high heavy wooden chair. 
 She tossed her pretty head, and i^retended to pout. 
 " Was it Diane? I will know. Didst thou tell Diane?" 
 Isistead of answering, now that his attention to the key 
 was relaxed, Eustacie made a sudden dart, like a liitle wild 
 cat, at the back of the chair and at the key. The chair 
 overbalanced; Berenger caught at the front drawer of the 
 cabinet, which, unlocked by Eustacie, came out in his 
 hand, and chair, children, drawer, and curiosities all went
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 15 
 
 rolling over together on the floor with a hnhbub that 
 brought all the household together, exclaiming and scolding. 
 Mme. de Kibaumont's displeasure at the rifling of her 
 hoards knew no bounds; Eustacie, by way of defense, 
 shrieked " like twenty demons;" Berenger, too honorable 
 to accuse her, underwent the same tempest; and at last 
 both were soundly rapped over the knuckles with the long 
 handle of madame's fan, and consigned to two seijarate 
 closets, to be dealt with on the return of M. le Baron, while 
 madame returned to her embroidery, lamenting the absence 
 of that dear little Diane, whose late visit at the chateau 
 had been marked by such unusual tranquillity between the 
 children. 
 
 Berenger in his dark closet, comforted himself with the 
 shrewd suspicion that his father was so employed as not to 
 be expected at home till supper-time, and that his mother's 
 wrath was by no means likely to be so enduring as to lead 
 her to make complaints of the ^jrisoners; and when he heard 
 a tramj)ling of horses in the court, he anticipated a speedy 
 release and summons to show himself to the visitors. He 
 waited long, however, before he heard the pattering of little 
 feet; then a stool scraped along the floor, the button of 
 his door was undone, the stool pushed back, and as he 
 emerged, Eustacie stood before him with her finger to her 
 lip. " Chut, Berenger! It is my father and uncle, and 
 Narcisse, and, oh! so many gendarmes. They are come 
 to summon Monsieur le Baron to go with them to disperse 
 the prcche by the Bac de FOie. And oh, Berenger, is he 
 not there?" 
 
 " I do not know. He went out with his hawk, and I do 
 not think he could have gone anywhere else. Did they 
 say so to my mother?" 
 
 " Yes; but she never knows. And oh, Berenger, ISTar- 
 cisse told me — ah, was it to tease me? — that Diane has told 
 them all they wanted to know, for that they sent her here 
 on purpose to see if we were not all Huguenots.'^ 
 
 " Very likely, the little viper! Let me pass, Eustacie. 
 I must go and tell my father." 
 
 " Thou canst not get out that way; the court is full of 
 men-at-arms. Hark, there's Narcisse calling me. He will 
 come after me. ' ' 
 
 There was not a moment to lose. Berenger flew along a 
 corridor, and down a narrow winding stair, and across the
 
 IQ THE CHAPLJ]T OF PEARLS. 
 
 kifcclieu; then snatching at the arm of a boy of his own age 
 whom he met at the door, he gasped ont, " Oome and help 
 me catch Follet, Landry!" and still running across an 
 orchard, he pulled down a couple of apples from the trees, 
 and bounded into a paddock where a small rough Breton 
 pony was feeding among the little tawny Norman cows. 
 The animal knew his little master, and trotted toward him 
 at his call of " Follet, Follet. Now .be a wise Follet, and 
 play me no tricks. Thou and I, Follet, shall do good serA^- 
 .'ce, if thou wilt be steady.''^ 
 
 Follet made his advances, but with a coquettish eye and 
 look, as if ready to start away at any moment. 
 
 " Soil, Follet. I have no bread for thee, only two apples; 
 but, Follet, listen. There's my beau pere the count, and 
 the chevalier, all spite, and their whole troop of savage gen- 
 darmes, come out to fall upon the jjoor Huguenots, who are 
 doing no harm at all, only listening to a long dull sermon. 
 And I am much afraid my father is there, for he went out 
 with his hawk on his wrist, and he never does take Ysonde 
 for any real sport, as thou and I would do, Follet. He says 
 it is all vanity of vanities. But thouknow'st, if they caught 
 him at the precJie they would call it heresy and treason, and 
 all sorts of horrors, and any way they would fall like de- 
 mons on the poor Huguenots, Jacques and all — thine own 
 Jacques, Follet. Come, be a loyal pony, Follet. Be at 
 least as good as Eustacie. " 
 
 Follet was evidently attentive to tliis joeroration, turning 
 round his ear in a sensible attitude, and advancing his nose 
 to the apples. As Berenger held them out to him, the boy 
 clutched his shaggy forelock so effectually that the start 
 back did not shake him off, and the next moment Berenger 
 'j/as on his back. 
 
 " And I, monsieur, what shall I do?'' 
 " Thou, Landry? I know. Speed like a hare, lock the 
 avenue gate, and hide the key. That will delay them a long 
 time. Off now, Follet. " 
 
 Berenger and Follet understood one another far too well 
 to care about such trifles as saddle and bridle, and off they 
 went through green grassy balks dividing the fields, or 
 across the stubble till, about three miles from the castle, 
 they came to a narrow valley, dipping so suddenly between 
 the hills that it could hardly have been suspected by one 
 unaware of its locality, and the sides were dotted wit?
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 17 
 
 copse-wood, which entirely hid the bottom. Berenger 
 guided his pony to a winding path that led down the steep 
 side of the valley, already hearing the cadence of a loud, 
 chanting voice, throwing out its sounds over the assembly, 
 whence arose assenting hums over an undercurrent of sobs, 
 as though the excitable French assembly were strongly 
 affected. 
 
 The thicket was so close that Berenger was almost among 
 the congre2|ation before he could see more than a passing 
 glimpse of a sea of heads. Stout, ruddy, Norman peas- 
 ants, and high white-capped women, mingled with a few 
 soberly clad townsfolk, almost all with the grave, steadfast 
 cast of countenance imparted by unresisted persecution, 
 stood gathered round the green mound that served as a natu- 
 ral pulpit for a Calvinist minister, who wore the dress of 
 a burgher, but entirely black. To Berenger ^s despair, he 
 was in the act of inviting his hearers to join with him in 
 singing one of Marot's psalms; and the boy, eager to lose 
 not a moment, grasped the skirt of the outermost of the 
 crowd. The man, an absorbed- looking stranger, merely 
 said, " Importune me not, child." 
 
 " Listen," said Berenger; " it imports — " 
 
 " Peace," was the stern answer; but a Norman farmer 
 looked round at that moment, and Berenger exclaimed, 
 *' Stop the singing! The gendarmes." The psalm broke 
 off; the whisper circulated; the words " from Leurre " were 
 next conveyed from lip to lip, and, as it were in a moment, 
 the dense human mass had broken up and vanished, steal- 
 ing through the numerous paths in the brushwood, or along 
 the brook, as it descended through tall sedges and bulrushes. 
 The valley was soon as lonely as it had been populous: the 
 pulpit remamed a mere mossy bank, more suggestive of 
 fairy dances than of Calvinist sermons, and no one re- 
 mained on the scene save Berenger with liis pony, Jacques 
 the groom, a stout farmer, the preacher, and a tall tliiu 
 figure in the plainest dark cloth dress that could be worn 
 by a gentleman, a hawk on his wrist. 
 
 " Thou here, my boy!" he exclaimed, as Berenger came 
 to his side; and as the little fellow replied in a few brief 
 words, he took him by the hand, and said to the minister, 
 " Good Master Isaac, let me present my young sou to you, 
 who under Heaven hath been the means of saving many 
 lives this day. "
 
 18 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Maitre Isaac Gardon, a noted jDreacher, looked kindly at 
 the boy's fair face, and said, " Bless thee, young sir. As 
 thou hast been already a chosen instrument to save life, so 
 mayest thou be ever after a champion of the truth.'" 
 
 '' Monsieur le Baron," interposed Jacques, " it were best 
 to look to yourself. I already hear sounds upon the 
 wind. ' ' 
 
 '' And you, good sir?" said the baron. 
 
 " I will see to him," said the farmer, grasjmig him as a 
 sort of property. " Monsieur le Baron had befet keep up 
 the beck. Out on the moor there he may fly the hawk, 
 and that will best divert suspicion. " 
 
 " Farewell, then," said the baron, wringing the minis- 
 ter's hand, and adding, almost to him.self, "Alas! I am 
 weary of these shifts!" and weary indeed he seemed, for as 
 the ground became so steej) that the beck danced noisily 
 down its channel, he could not keep up the needful S2:)eed, 
 but paused, gasping for breath, with his hand on his side. 
 Berenger was off his i^ony in an instant, assuring Follet 
 that it ought to be proud to be ridden by his father, and 
 exhaling his own exultant feelings in caresses to the animal 
 as it gallantly breasted the hill. The little boy had never 
 been so commended before! He loved his father exceeding- 
 ly; but the baron, while ever just toward him, was grave 
 and strict to a degree that the ideas even of the sixteenth 
 century regarded as severe. Little Eustacie with her love- 
 ly face, her irrepressible saucy grace and audacious coaxing, 
 was the only creature to whom he ever showed much in- 
 dulgence and tenderness, and even that seemed almost 
 against his will and conscience. His son was always under 
 rule, often blamed, and scarcely ever praised; but it was a 
 hardy vigorous nature, and respectful love thrived under 
 the system that would have crushed or alienated a different 
 disposition. It was not till the party had emerged from the 
 wood upon a stubble field, where a covey of partridges flew 
 up, and to Berenger's rapturous delight furnished a victim 
 for Ysonde, that M. de Ribaumont dismounted from the 
 pony and, walking toward home, called liis son to his side, 
 and asked him how he had learned the intentions of the 
 count and the chevalier. Berenger explained how Eustacie 
 had come to warn him, and also told what she had said of 
 Diane de Ribaumont, who had lately, by her father's re- 
 quest, spent a few weeks at the chateau with her cousins,
 
 THE CnAPLET OF PEAELS. 19 
 
 "My son/ ^ said tlio baron, ''it is hard to ask of babes 
 caution and secrecy; but I must know from thee what thy 
 cousin may have heard of our doings!" 
 
 " I can^not tell, father/' replied Berenger; " we played 
 more than we talked. Yet, monsieur, you will not be 
 angry with Eustacie if I tell you what she said to me to- 
 day?'' 
 
 " Assuredly not, my son. " 
 
 " She said that her father would take her away if he 
 knew what Monsieur le Baron read, and what he sung." 
 
 " Thou hast done well to tell me, my son. 'Phinkest 
 thou that this comes from Diane, or from one of the serv- 
 ants?" 
 
 " Oh, from Diane, my father; none of the servants 
 would dare to say such a thing. " 
 
 "It is as I suspected then," said the baron. " That 
 child was sent amongst us as a spy. Tell me, Berenger, 
 had she any knowledge of our intended journey to Eng- 
 land?" 
 
 " To England! But no, father, I did not even know it 
 was intended. To England — to that Walwyn which my 
 mother takes such pains to make us sjoeak rightly. Are 
 we, then, going?" 
 
 " Listen, my son. Thou hast to-day proved thyself 
 worthy of trust, and thou shalt hear. My son, ere yet I 
 knew the truth I was a reckless disobedient youth, and I 
 bore thy mother from her parents in England without their 
 consent. Since, by Heaven's grace, I have come to a bet- 
 ter mind, we have asked and obtained their forgiveness, and 
 it has long been their desire to see again their daughter and 
 her son. Moreover, since the accession of the present 
 queen, it has been a land where the light is free to shine 
 forth; and though I verily believe what Maitre Gardon 
 says, that persecution is a blessed means of grace, yet it is 
 grievous to expose one's deareet thereto when they are in 
 no state to count the cost. Therefore would I thither con- 
 vey you all, and there amid thy mother's family would we 
 openly abjure the errors in which we have been nurtured. 
 I have already sent to Paris to obtain from the queen- 
 mother the necessary permission to take my family to visit 
 thy grandfather, and it must now be our endeavor to start 
 immediately on the receipt of the reply, before the cheva-
 
 20 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 
 
 lier's iuformation can lead to any liinderauce or detentiou of 
 Eustacie. ■" 
 
 " Then Eustacie will go witli us, monsieur?'* 
 
 " Certainly. Nothing is more important than that her 
 faith should be the same as yours! But discretion, my son; 
 not a word to the little one." 
 
 " And Landry, father? I had rather Landry went than 
 Eustacie. And Follet, dear father, pray take liim.'' 
 
 After M. de Eibaumont's grave confidence to his son 
 and heir, he was a little scandalized at the comparative 
 value that the boy's voice indicated for wife, foster-brother, 
 and pony, and therefore received it in perfect silence, which 
 silence continued until they reached the chateau, where the 
 lady met them at the door with a burst of exclamations: 
 
 " Ah, there you are, safe, my dear baron. I liave been 
 in despair. Here were the count and his brother come to 
 call on you to join them in disiDcrsing a meeting of those 
 poor Huguenots, and they would not jDcrmit me to send out 
 to call you in! I verily think they suspected that you were 
 aware of it. " 
 
 M. de Ribaumont made no answer, but sat wearily down 
 and asked for his little Eustacie. 
 
 *' Little vixen!" exclaimed the baroness, "she is gone; 
 her father took her away with him. " And as her husband 
 looked extremely displeased, she added that Eustacie had 
 been meddling with her jewel cabinet and had been put in 
 penitence. Her first impulse on seeing her father had been 
 to cling to him and pour out her complaints, whereupon he 
 had declared that he should take her away with him at 
 once, and had in effect caused her pony to be saddled, and 
 he had ridden away with her to his old tower, leaving his 
 brother, the chevalier, to conduct the attack on the 
 Huguenot conventicle. 
 
 *' He had no jDOwer or right to remove her,'^ said the 
 baron. " How could you let him do so in my absence? 
 He had made over her wardship to me, and has no right to 
 resume it!'" 
 
 " Well, perhaps I might have insisted on his waiting till 
 your return; but, you see, the children have never done 
 anything but quarrel and fight, and always by Eustacie 's 
 fault; and if ever they are to endure each other, it must be 
 by being separated now. "
 
 THE CHArLET OI' PEAELS. 31 
 
 "Madame," said the baron gravely, "you have done 
 your utmost to ruin your son^s chances of happiness/' 
 
 That same evening arrived tlie king's passport permit- 
 ting the Baron de Ribaumont and his family to pay a visit 
 to his wife's friends in England. The next morning the 
 baron was summoned to speak to one of his farmers, a 
 Huguenot, who had come to inform him that, through the 
 network of intelligence kept up by the members of the per- 
 secuted faith, it had become known that the Chevalier de 
 Ribaumont had set off for court that night, and there was 
 little doubt that his interference would lead to an immedi- 
 ate revocation of the sanction to the journey, if to no 
 severer measures. At best, the baron knew that, if his own 
 absence were permitted, it would be only on condition of 
 leaving his son in the custody of either the queen-mother 
 or the count. It had become imjjossible to reclaim 
 Eustacie. Her father would at once have pleaded that she 
 was being bred up in Huguenot eri'ors. All that could be 
 done was to hasten the de^Darture ere the royal mandate 
 could arrive. A little Norman sailing vessel was moored 
 two evenings after in a lonely creek on the coast, and into it 
 stepped M. de Ribaumont, with his Bible, Marot's Psalter, 
 and Calvin's works, Berenger still tenderly kissing a lock 
 of Follet's mane, and madame mourning for the j)earls, 
 which her husband deemed too sacred an heir-loom to carry 
 away to a foreign land. Poor little Eustacie, with her 
 cousin Diane, was in the convent of Bellaise in Anjou. If 
 any one lamented her absence, it was her father-in-law. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FAMILY COUNCIL. 
 
 He counsels a divorce. 
 
 Shakespeare, King Henry Till. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1573, a family council was 
 assembled in Hurst Walwyn Hall. The scene was a wain- 
 scoted oriel chamber closed off by a screen from the great 
 hall, and fitted on two sides by jiressesof books, surmounted 
 the one by a terrestrial, the other by a celestial globe, the 
 first " with the addition of the Indies " in very eccentric 
 geography, the second with enormous stars studding highly
 
 23 THE CHAPLET OF TEAKLS. 
 
 grotesque figures, regarded with great awe by most be- 
 holders. 
 
 A solid oaken table stood in the midst, laded with books 
 and papers, and in a corner, near the open hearth, a 
 carved desk, bearing on one slope the largest copy of the 
 " Bishops' Bible;" on the other, one of the Pra3^ei'-book. 
 The ornaments of the oaken mantel-piece culminated in a 
 shield bearing a cross houtoiDiec, i. e., with trefoil termina- 
 tions. It was supported between a merman with a whelk 
 shell and a mermaid with a comb, and another like Siren 
 curled her tail on the top of the gaping baronial helmet 
 above the shield, while two more upheld the main weight 
 of the chimney-jMece on either side of the glowing wood-fi re. 
 
 In the seat of honor was an old gentleman, white-haired, 
 and feeble of limb, but with noble features and a keen, 
 acute eye. This was Sir William, Baron of Hurst Walwyn, 
 a valiant knight at Guingate and Boulogne, a statesman of 
 whom Wolsey had been jealous, and a ripe scholar who had 
 shared the friendshijD of More and Erasmus. The lady 
 who sat opposite to him was several years younger, still up- 
 right, brisk and active, though her hair was milk-white; 
 but her eyes were of undimmed azure, and her complexion 
 still retained a beauteous j^ink and white. She was highly 
 educated, and had been the friend of Margaret Eoper and 
 her sisters, often sharing their walks in the bright Chelsea 
 garden. Indeed, the musk-rose in her own favorite nook 
 at Hurst Walwyn was cherished as the gift of Sir Thomas 
 himself. 
 
 Near her sat her sister, Cecily St. John, a professed nun 
 at Romsey till her twenty-eighth year, when, in the disper- 
 sion of convents, her sister's home had received her. There 
 had she continued, never exposed to tests of ojoinion, but 
 pursuing her quiet course according to her Benedictine rule, 
 faithfully keeping her vows, and following the guidance of 
 the chaplain, a college friend of Bishop Eidley, and rejoic- 
 ing in the use of the vernacular prayers and Scriptures. 
 When Queen Mary had sent for her to consider of the revival 
 of convents, her views had been found to have so far 
 diverged from those of the queen that Lord Walwyn was 
 thankful to have her safe at home again; and yet she fancied 
 herself firm to old Eomsey doctrine. She was not learned, 
 like Lady Walwyn, but her knowledge in ail needle-work 
 and confectionery was consummate, so that half the ladies
 
 THE ClIAPLET OF PEARLS. 23 
 
 in Dorset and Wilts longed to send their daughters to be 
 educated at Hurst Walwyn. Her small figure and soft 
 cheeks had the gentle contour of a dove's form, nor had she 
 lost the conventual serenity of expression; indeed it was 
 curious that, let Lady Walwyn an-ay her as she would, 
 whatever she wore bore a nun-like air. Her silken farthin- 
 gales hung like serge robes, her ruffs looked like mufflers, 
 her coifs like hoods, even necklaces seemed rosaries, and 
 her scrupulous neatness enhanced the jiure unearthl}^ air of 
 all belonging to her. 
 
 Eager and lively, fair and handsome, sat the Baronne de 
 Eibaumont, or rather, since the higher title had been laid 
 aside. Dame Annora Thistlewood. The health of M. de 
 Ribaumont had been shattered at St. Quentin, and an in- 
 clement night of crossing the Channel had brought on an 
 attack on the lungs, from which he only rallied enough to 
 amaze his English friends at finding the gay dissipated 
 young Frenchman they remembered, infinitely more strict 
 and rigid than themselves. He was never able to leave the 
 house again after his first arrival at Hurst Walwyn, and 
 sunk under the cold winds of the next spring, rejoicing to 
 leave his wife and son, not indeed among such strict Puri- 
 tans as he jireferred, but at least where the pure faith could 
 be openly avowed without danger. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke Thistlewood, the husband to whom 
 Annora Walwyn had been destined before M. de Eibau- 
 mont had crossed her path, was about the same time left a 
 widower with one son and daughter, and as soon as a 
 suitable interval had passed, she became a far happier wife 
 than she had been in either the baron's gay or grave clays. 
 Her son had continued under the roof of his grandfather, 
 to whose charge his father had specially committed him, 
 and thus had been scarcely separated from his mother, 
 since Combe Manor was not above three miles across the 
 downs from Hurst Walwyn, ana there was almost daily in- 
 tercourse between the families. Lucy Thistlewood had been 
 brought to Hurst Walwyn to be something between a maid 
 of honor and a pupil to the ladies there, and her brother 
 Philil^, so soon as he was old enough, daily rode thither to 
 share with Berenger the instructions of the chaplain, Mr. 
 Adderley, who on the present occasion formed one of the 
 conclave, sitting a little ajjart as not quite familiar, though 
 highly esteemed.
 
 24: THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 With an elbow on the table, and one hand toying with 
 his long riding-whii"), sat, booted and spurred, the jovial 
 figure of Sir Marmaduke, who called out, in his hearty 
 voice, " A good riddance of an outlandish PajDist, say 1! 
 Eead the letter, Bereuger lad. No, no, no! English it! I 
 know nothing of your mincing French! 'Tis the worst fault 
 I know in you, boy, to be half a Frenchman, and have a 
 French name " — a fault that good Sir Marmaduke did his 
 best to remedy by always terming his step-son Berenger as 
 Berry Ribmount, and we will so far follow his example as 
 henceforth to give the youth the English form of his 
 Christian name. He was by this time a tall lad of eigliteen, 
 with straight features, honest deej) blue eyes, very fair hair 
 cut short and brushed up to a crest upon the middle of his 
 head, a complexion of red and white that all the air of the 
 downs and the sea failed to embrown, and that peculiar 
 openness and candor of expression which seems so much 
 an English birthright, that the only trace of his French 
 origin was, that he betrayed no unbecoming awkwardness 
 in the somewhat embarrassing position in which he was 
 placed, literallj' standing, according to the respectful dis- 
 cipline of the time, as the subject of discussion, before the 
 circle of his elders. His color was, indeed, deepened, but 
 his attitude was easy and graceful, and he used no stiff 
 rigidity nor restless movements to mask his anxiety. At 
 Sir Marmaduke's desire, he could not but redden a good 
 deal more, but with a clear, unhesitating voice, he trans- 
 lated tlie letter that he had received from the Chevalier de 
 Eibaumont, Avho, by the count's death, had become 
 Eustacie's guardian. It was a request, in the name of 
 Eustacie and her deceased father, that M. le Baron de 
 Eibaumont — who, it was understood, had embraced the 
 English heresy — woidd concur with his sjDOuse in demand- 
 ing from his Holiness the Po23e a decree annulling the 
 childish marriage, which could easily be declared void, both 
 on account of the consanguinity of the parties and the dis- 
 crepancy of their faith; and which would leave each of 
 them free to marry again. 
 
 " JSTothingcan be better,'' exclaimed his mother. " How 
 I have longed to free him from that little shrew, whose 
 tricks were the plague of my life! Now there is notliing 
 between him and a worthy rnatdi!" 
 
 " We can make an Englishman of him now to the back-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 25 
 
 bone/^ added Sir Marmaduke, " and it is well that it should 
 be the lady herself who wants first to be off with it, so that 
 none can say he has j^layed her a scurvy trick." 
 
 " What say yon, Berenger?" said Lord Walwyn. 
 '* Listen to me, fair nejohew. Yon know that all my 
 remnant of hojDC is fixed upon you, and that I have looked 
 to setting you in the room of a son of my own; and I think 
 that under our good queen you will find it easier to lead a 
 quiet God-fearing life than in your father's vexed country, 
 where the reformed religion lies under jDersecution. Nath- 
 less, being a born liegeman of the King of France, and heir 
 to estates in his kingdom, meseemeth that before you are 
 corns to years of discretion it were well that you should 
 visit them, and become better able to judge for yourself 
 how to deal in this matter when you shall have attained 
 full age, and may be able to dispose of tiiem by sale, thus 
 freeing yourself from allegiance to a foreign prince. And 
 at the same time you can take measures, in concert with 
 this young lady, for loosing the wedlock so unhapjoily con- 
 tracted. " 
 
 " Oh, sir, sir!'' cried Lady Thistlewood, " send him not 
 to France to be burned by the Pajjists!" 
 
 " Peace, daughter," returned her mother. " Know you 
 not that there is friendshijD between the court party and the 
 Huguenots, and that the peace is to be sealed by the mar- 
 riage of the king's sister with the King of Navarre? This 
 is the most suitable time at which he could go. ' ' 
 
 " Then, madame," proceeded the lady, " he will be run- 
 ning about to all the preachings on every bleak moor and 
 wet morass he can find, catching his death with rheums, 
 like his poor father." 
 
 There was a general smile, and Sir Marmaduke laughed 
 outright. 
 
 " Nay, dame," he said, '' have you marked such a greed 
 of sermons in our Berry that you should fear his so untoward- 
 ly running after them?" 
 
 " Tilly- vally. Sir Duke," quoth Dame Annora, with a 
 flirt of her fan, learned at the French court. " Men will 
 run after a preacher in a marshy bog out of pure f roward- 
 ness, when they will nod at a godly homily on a well-stuffed 
 bench between four walls. " 
 
 " I shall commit that matter to Mr. Adderley, who is 
 good enough to accompany him," said Lord Walwyn, " and
 
 26 THE CHAPLET OF J'KAKLS. 
 
 by whose counsel I trust that he will steer the middle course 
 between the Po2ie and Calvin." 
 
 Mr. Adderley bowed in answer, saying he hoped that he 
 should be enabled to keep his pupiFs mind clear between 
 the allurements of Popery and the errors of the Reformed; 
 but meanwhile Lady Thistle wood's mind had taken a leap, 
 and she exclaimed : 
 
 " And, SOU;, whatever you do, bring home the chaplet of 
 pearls! I know they have set their minds upon it. They 
 wanted me to deck Eustacie with it on that unlucky bridal- 
 day, but I would not hear of trusting her with it, and now 
 mil it rarely become our Lucy on your real wedding-day.'' 
 
 " You travel swiftly, daughter," said Lord Walwyn. 
 '* Nor have we yet heard Ihe thoughts of one who ever 
 thinks wisely. Sister," he added, turning to Cecily St. 
 John, " hold not you with us in this matter?" 
 
 " I scarce comjirehend it, my lord," was the gentle reply. 
 " I knew not that it was possible to dissolve the tie of wed- 
 lock." 
 
 " The Pope's decree will suffice," said Lord Walwyn. 
 
 "Yet, sir," still said the ex-nun, " methonght you had 
 shown me that the Holy Father exceeded his power in the 
 annulling of vows. " 
 
 " Using mine own lessons against me, sweet sister?" said 
 Lord Walwyn, smiling: " yet, remember, the contract was 
 rashly made between two ignorant babes; and, bred up as 
 they have severally been, it were sui'ely best for them to be 
 set free from vows made without their true will or knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 "And yet," said Cecily, perplexed, "when I saw my 
 niece here wedded to Sir Marmaduke, was it not with the 
 words, ' What God hath joined let no man ]3ut asunder '?" 
 
 "Good lack! aunt," cried Lady Thistlewood, "you 
 would not have that poor lad wedded to a pert, saucy, ill- 
 tempered little mo25pet, bred up at that den of iniquity. 
 Queen Catherine's court, where my poor baron never 
 trusted me after he fell in with the religion, and had heard 
 of King Antony's calling me the Swan of England." 
 
 At that moment there was a loud shriek, half laugh, 
 half fright, coming through the window, and Lady Thistle- 
 wood, starting up, exclaimed, " The child will be drowned! 
 Box their ears, Berenger, and bring them in directly." 
 
 Berenger, at her bidding, hurried out of the room mto
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. ^7 
 
 tlie hall, and thence down a fltght of steps leading into a 
 square walled garden, with a couple of stone male and 
 female marine divinities accommodating their fishy ex- 
 tremities as best they might on the corners of the wall. The 
 square contained a bowling-green of exquisitely kept turf, 
 that looked as if cnt out of green velvet, and was edged on 
 its four sides by a raised broad-paved walk, with a trim- 
 ming of flower-beds, where the earliest blossoms were show- 
 ing themselves. In the center of each side another paved 
 path intersected the green lawn, and the meeting of these 
 two diameters was at a circular stone basin, presided over 
 by another merman, blowing a conch on the top of a pile 
 of rocks. On the graveled margin stood two -distressed 
 little damsels of seven and six j-earsold, remonstrating with 
 all their might against the proceedings of a roguish-looking 
 boy of fourteen or fifteen, who had perched their junior — a, 
 fat, fair, kitten-like element of mischief, aged about five — 
 €71 croupe on the merman, and was about, according to her 
 delighted request, to make her a bower of water, by ex- 
 tracting the jjlug and setting the fountain to play; but as 
 the fountain had been still all the winter, the jDlug was hard 
 of extraction, especially to a young gentleman who stood in- 
 securely, with his feet wide apart, upon pointed and slip- 
 pery jioints of rock -work; and Berengerhad time to hurry 
 up, exclaiming, " Giddy pate! Dolly would be drenched 
 to the skin.'" 
 
 " And she has on her best blue, made out of mother's 
 French farthingale,'' cried the discreet Annora. 
 
 " Do you know, Dolly, I've orders to box your ears, and 
 send you in?" added Berengcr, as he lifted his little half- 
 sister from her jjerilous position, speaking, as he did so, 
 without a shade of foreign accent, though with much more 
 rapid utterance than was usual in England. She clung to 
 him without much alarm, and retaliated by an endeavor to 
 box his ears, while Philip, slowly making his way back to 
 the mainland, exclaimed, "Ah, there's no chance now! 
 Here comes demure Misti'ess Lucy, and she is the worst 
 mar-sport of all. ' ' 
 
 A gentle girl of seventeen was drawing near, her fair del- 
 icately tinted complexion suiting well with her pale golden 
 hair. It was a sweet face, and was well set off by the sky- 
 blue of the farthingale, which, with her white lace coif and 
 white ruff, gave her something the air of a speedwell flower,
 
 28 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 more especially as her expression seemed to have caught 
 much of Cecily's air of self-restrained contentment. She 
 held a basketful of the orange j^istils of crocuses, and at 
 once seeing that some riot had taken place, she said to the 
 eldest little girl, " Ah, Nan, you had been safer gathering- 
 saffron with me." 
 
 " Nay, brother Berry came and made all well,'' said 
 Annora; " and he had been sliat up so long in the library 
 that he must have been very glad to get out. ' ' 
 
 " And what came of it?" cried Philip. " Are you to go 
 and get yourself unmarried?" 
 
 " Unmarried!" burst out the sisters Annora and Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " What," laughed Philip, " you knew not that this is an 
 ancient husband, married years before your father and 
 mother?" 
 
 " But why?" &aid Elizabeth, rather inclined to cry. 
 " What has poor Lucy done that you should get yourself 
 unmarried from her?" 
 
 There was a laugh from both brothers; but Berenger, 
 seeing Lucy's blushes, restrained himself, and said, " Mine 
 was not such good luck, Bess, but they gave me a little 
 French wife, younger than Dolly, and saucier still; and as 
 she seems to wish to be quit of me, why, I shall be rid of 
 her." 
 
 "See there, Dolly," said Philip, in a warning voice, 
 *' that is the way you'll be served if you do not mend your 
 ways." 
 
 "But I thought," said Annora gravely, "that people 
 were married once for all, and it could not be undone." 
 
 " So said Aunt Cecily, but my lord was proving to her 
 out of all law that a contract between such a couple of 
 babes went for naught," said Berenger. 
 
 " And shall you, indeed, see Paris, and all the braveries 
 there?" asked Philip. "I thought my lord would never 
 have trusted you out of his sight." 
 
 "And now it is to be only with Mr. Adderley," said 
 Berenger; " but there will be rare doings to be seen at this 
 royal wedding, and may be I shall break a lance there in 
 your honor, Lucy." 
 
 " And you'll bring me a French fan?" cried Bess. 
 
 " And me a pouncet-box?" added Annora.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 39 
 
 " And me a French puppet, dressed Paris fashion?'^ said 
 Dolly. 
 
 " And what shall he bring Lucy?" added Bess. 
 
 "I know/' said Annora; "the pearls that mother is 
 always talking about! I heard her say that Lucy should 
 wear them on her wedding-day.'' 
 
 "Hush!'' interposed Lucy, "don't you see my father 
 yonder on the step, beckoning to you?" 
 
 The children flew toward Sir Marmaduke, leaving Beren- 
 ger and Lucy together. 
 
 " Not a word to wish me good-speed, Lucy, now I have 
 my wish?" said Berenger. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lucy, " I am glad yon shall see all those 
 brave French gentlemen of whom you used to tell me." 
 
 " Yes, they will be all at court, and the good admiral is 
 said to be in high favor. He will surely remember my 
 father. " 
 
 "And shall you see the lady?" asked Lucy, under her 
 breath. 
 
 " Eustacie? Probably; but that will make no change. 
 I have heard too much of Vescadron de la Reine-mere to 
 endure the thought of a wife from thence, were she the 
 Queen of Beauty herself. And my mother says that 
 Eustacie would lose all her beauty as she grew up — like 
 black-eyed Sue on the down; nor did I ever think her brown 
 skin and fierce black eyes to compare with you, Lucy. I 
 could be well content never to see her more; but," and 
 here he lowered his voice to a tone of confidence, " my fa- 
 ther, when near his death, called me, and told me that he 
 feared my marriage would be a cause of trouble and tempta- 
 tion to me, and that I must deal with it after my con- 
 science a\ hen I was able to judge in the matter. Something, 
 too, he said of the treaty of marriage being a burden on 
 his soul, but I know not what he meant. If ever I saw 
 Eustace again, I was to give her his own copy of Clement 
 Marot's Psalter, and to tell her that he had ever loved and 
 prayed for her as a daughter; and, moreover, my father 
 added," said Berenger, much moved at the remembrance 
 it brought across him, " that if this matter proved a 
 burden and perplexity to me, I was to joardon him as one 
 who repented of it as a thing done ere he had learned to 
 wei^h the whole world against a soul." 
 Yes, you must see her/' said Lucy.
 
 30 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Well, wliat more were you going to say, Lucy?'' 
 
 " I was only tliiiiking/' said Lucy, as she raised her eyes 
 to him, " how sorry she will be that she let them write that 
 letter/' 
 
 Berenger laughed, pleased with the simplicity of Lucy's 
 admiration, but with modesty and common sense enough 
 to answer, " No fear of that, Lucy, for an heiress, with all 
 the court gallants of France at her feet." 
 
 "Ah, but you!" 
 
 " I am all very well here, where you have never seen 
 anybody but lubberly Dorset squires that never went to 
 London, nor Oxford, nor bej'ond their own furrows," said 
 Berenger; " but depend u2:)on it, she has been bred up to 
 care for all the airs and graces that are all the fashion at 
 Paris now, and will be as glad to be rid of an honest man 
 and a Protestant as I shall to be quit of a court pujjpet and 
 a Papist. Shall you have finished my point-cuffs next week, 
 Lucy? Depend uj)on it, no gentleman of them all will 
 wear such dainty lace of such a fancy as those will be." 
 
 And Lucy smiled, well pleased. 
 
 Coming from the companionship of Eustacie to that of 
 gentle Lucy had been to Berenger a change from perj)etual 
 warfare to perfect supremacy, and his preference to his lit- 
 tle sister, as he had been taught to call her from the first, 
 had been loudly expressed. Brother and sister they had 
 ever since considered themselves, and only tvithiu the last 
 few months had possibilities been discussed among the eld- 
 ers of the family, which, oozing out in some mysterious man- 
 ner, had become felt rather than known among the young 
 people, yet without altering the habitual terms that existed 
 between them. Both were so young that love was the 
 merest, vaguest dream to them; and Lucy, in her quiet 
 faith that Berenger was the most beautiful, excellent, and 
 accomplished cavalier the earth could afford, was little 
 troubled about her own future share in him. She seemed 
 to be jDromoted to belong to him just as she had grown up 
 to curl her hair and wear ruffs and farthingales. And to 
 Berenger Lucy was a very pleasant feature in that English 
 home, where he had been far happier than in the uncer- 
 tainties of Chateau Leurre, between his naughty playfellow, 
 his capricious mother, and morose father. If in England 
 his lot was to be cast, Lucy was acquiesced in willingly as a 
 portion of that lot.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF FEAKLS. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TITHONUS. 
 
 A youth came riding toward a palace gate, 
 And from the palace came a child of sin 
 And took him by the curls and led him in! 
 Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
 
 Tennyson, A Vision of Sin. 
 
 It was in the month of June that Berenger de Ribau- 
 mont first came in sight of Paris. His grandfather had 
 himself begun by taking him to London and jiresenting 
 him to Queen Elizabetli, from whom the hid 's good mien 
 procured him a most favorable reception. She willingly 
 promised that on which Lord Walwyn's heart was set, 
 namely, that his title and rank should be continued to his 
 grandson; and an ample store of letters of recommendation 
 to Sir Francis Walsingham, the embassador, and all others 
 who could be of service in the French court, were to do their 
 utmost to provide him with a favorable recejition there. 
 
 Then, with Mr. Adderley and four or five servants, he 
 had crossed the Channel, and had gone first to Cliateau 
 Leurre, where he Avas rapturously welcomed by the old 
 steward Osbert. The old man had trained up his son Lan- 
 dry, Berenger's foster-brother, to become his valet, and 
 had him taught all the arts of hair-dressing and surgery that 
 were part of the jjrofession of a gentleman^s body-servant; 
 and the youth, a smart, acute young Norman, became a 
 valuable addition to the suite, the guidance of which, 
 through a foreign coimtry, their young master did not find 
 very easy. Mr. Adderley thought he knew French very 
 well, through books, but the language he spoke was not 
 available, and he soon fell into a state of bewilderment 
 rather hard on his pupil, who, though a very good boy, 
 and crammed very full of learning, was still nothing more 
 than a lad of eighteen in all matters of prudence and dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 Lord Walwyn was, as we have seen, one of those whose 
 Church principles had altered very little and very gradual- 
 ly; and in the utter diversity of practice that prevailed in 
 the early years of Queen Elizabeth, his chaplain as well as
 
 32 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 
 
 the rector of tlie parish had altered no more than was abso- 
 hitely enjoined of the old ceremonial. If the poor Baron 
 de EibauQiout had ever been well enough to go to church 
 on a Sunday, he would perhaps have' thought himself still 
 in the realms of what he considered as darkness; but as he 
 had never openly broken with the Gallic Church, Berenger 
 liad gone at once from mass at Leurre to the Combe \Va]- 
 wyn service. Therefore when he spent a Sunday at Rouen, 
 and attended a Calvinist service in the building that the 
 Huguenots were ]3ermitted outside the town, he was much 
 disappointed in it; he thought its very fervor familiar and 
 irreverent, and felt himself mncli more at home in the ca- 
 thedral into which he strayed in the afternoon. And, on 
 the Sunday he was at Leurre, he went, as a part of his old 
 home-habits, to mass at the old round-arched church, 
 where he and Eustacie had jjlayed each other so many teas- 
 ing tricks at his mother's feet, and had received so many 
 admonitory nips and strokes of her fan. All he saw there 
 was not congenial to him, but he liked it vastly better than 
 the Huguenot meeting, and was not prejoared to understand 
 or enter into Mr. Adderley's vexation, when the tutor as- 
 sured him that the reverent gestures that came naturally to 
 him were regarded by the Protestants as idolatry, and that 
 he would be viewed as a recreant from his faith. All Mr. 
 Adderley lioped was that no one would hear of it; and in 
 this he felt liimself disappointed, when, in the midst of his 
 lecture, there walked into the room a little, withered, 
 brown, dark-eyed man, in a gorgeous dress of green and 
 gold, who doffing a hat with an umbrageous plume, precipi- 
 itated himself, as far as he could reach, toward Berenger's 
 neck, calling liim fair cousin and dear baron. The lad 
 stood, taken by surprise for a moment, thinking that Ti- 
 thonus must have looked just like tliis, and ski^^ped like 
 this, just as he became a grasshopj^er; then he recollected 
 that this must be the Chevalier de Ribaumont, and tried to 
 make up for his want of cordiality. The old man had, it 
 appeared, come out of Picardy, where he lived on sonpe 
 maigre in a corner of the ancestral castle, while his son and 
 daughter were at court, the one in monsieur's suite, the 
 other in that of the queen-mother. Ho liad come purely to 
 meet his dear young cousin, and render him all the assist- 
 ance in his power, conduct him to Paris, and give him in- 
 troductions.
 
 THE OlIAPLET OF PKAKLS. 33 
 
 Berenger, wlio had begun to find six Englishmen a 
 troublesome charge iu France, was rather relieved at not 
 being the only French scholar of the party, and the cheva- 
 lier also hinted to him that he spoke with a dreadful K^or- 
 maii accent that would never be tolerated at court, even if 
 it were understood by the way. Moreover, the chevalier 
 studied him all over, and talked of Paris tailors and post- 
 ure-masters, and, though the pink of politeness, made it 
 evident that there was immensely too much of him. "It 
 might be the custom in England to be so tall; here no one 
 was of anything like such a height, but the Duke of Guise. 
 He, in his position, with his air, could carry it olf, but we 
 must adapt ourselves as best we can.'' 
 
 And his shrug and look of concern made Berenger for a 
 moment almost ashamed of that superfluous height of which 
 they were all so jaroud at home. Then he recollected him- 
 self, and asked, " And why should not I be tall as well as 
 Monsieur de Guise?'' 
 
 " We shall see, fair cousin," he answered, with an odd 
 satirical bow; " we are as Heaven made us. All lies in the 
 management, and if you had the advantages of training, 
 perhaps you could even turn your height into a grace." 
 
 "Am I such a great lubber?" wondered Berenger; 
 " they did not think so at home. ISIo; nor did the queen. 
 She said I was a proper stripling! "Well, it matters the less, 
 as I shall not stay long to need their favor; and I'll show 
 them there is some use in my inches in the tilt-yard. But 
 if they think me such a lout, what would they say to hon- 
 est Philip?" 
 
 The chevalier seemed willing to take on him the whole 
 management of his " fair cousin." He inquired into the 
 amount of the rents and dues which old Osberc had collect- 
 ed and held ready to meet the young baron's exigencies; 
 and which would, it seemed, be all needed to make his dress 
 any way jDresentable at court. The jjcarls, too, M'ere in- 
 quired for, and handed over by Osbcrt to his young lord's 
 keeping, with the significant intimation that they had been 
 demanded when the young Mme. la Baronnewent to court; 
 but that he had buried them in the orcliard, and made an- 
 swer that they were not in the chateau. The contract of 
 marriage, which Berenger could Just remember signing, 
 and seeing signed by his father, the king, and the counl;, 
 was not forthcoming; and the chevalier explained that it
 
 34 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 was in the hands of a notary at Paris. For this Berenger 
 was not sorry. His grandfather had desired him to master 
 the contents, and he thought he had thus escaped a very 
 dry and useless study. 
 
 lie did not exactly dislike the old Chevalier de Eibau- 
 mont. The system on which he had been brought up had 
 not been indulgent, so that compliments and admiration 
 were an agreeable surprise to him; and rebuffs and rebukes 
 from his elders had been so common, that hints, in the 
 delicate dressing of the old knight, came on him almost like 
 gracious civilities. There was uo love lost between the 
 chevalier and the chaplain, that was plain; but how could 
 there be between an ancient French courtier and a sober 
 English divine? However, to Mr. Adderley's great relief, 
 no attempts were made on Bcrenger's faith, his kinsman 
 even was disposed to promote his attendance at such Cal- 
 vinist places of worship as they passed on the road, and 
 treated him in all things as a mere guest, to be patronized 
 indeed, but as much an alien as if he had been born in Eng- 
 land. And yet there was a certain deference to him as 
 head of the family, and a friendliness of manner that made 
 the boy feel him a real relation, and all through the journey 
 it came naturally that he should be the entire manager, and 
 Berenger the paymaster on a liberal scale. 
 
 Thus had the travelers reached the neighborhood of Paris, 
 when a jingling of chains and a trampling of horses an- 
 nounced the advance of riders, and several gentlemen with 
 a troop of servants came in sight. 
 
 All were gayly dressed, with feathered hats, and short 
 Spanish cloaks jauntily disposed over one shoulder; and 
 their horses were trapped with bright silvered ornaments. 
 As they advanced, the chevalier exclaimed: " Ah! it is my 
 son! I knew he would come to meet me. " And, simul- 
 taneously, father and son leaped from their horses, and 
 rushed into each other's arms. Berenger felt it only court- 
 eous to dismount and exchange embraces with his cousin, 
 but with a certain sense of repulsion at the cloud of per- 
 fume that seemed to surround the younger Chevalier de 
 Ribaumont; the ear-rings in his ears; the general air of del- 
 icate research about his riding-dress, and the elaborate at- 
 tention paid to a small, dark, sallow face and figure, in 
 which the only tolerable feature was an intensely black and 
 piercing pair of eyes.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAIJLS. 35 
 
 " Cousin^ I am cncliaiitcci to welcome you.'' 
 
 " Cousin, I thauk you." 
 
 " Allow mo to present you.'' And Bcreiigcr bowed low 
 in succession several times in rcjily to salutations, as his 
 cousin Narcisse named M. d'O, M. do la Valette, M. do 
 Pibrac, M. I'Abbo do Mericour, who had done liim the 
 honor to accompany him in coming out to meet his father 
 and M. le Baron. Then the two cousins remounted, somc- 
 thhig M'as said to the chevaliers of the devoirs of the demoi- 
 sellesj and they rode on together bandying news and rep- 
 artee so fast, that Berenger felt that his ears had become 
 too much accustomed to the more deliberate English speech 
 to enter at once into what caused so much excitement, gest- 
 ure, and wit. The royal marriage seemed doubtful — the 
 Pope refused his sanction; nay, but means would be found 
 — the king would not be impeded by the Pope; Spanish in- 
 fluence — nay, the king, had thrown himself at the head of 
 the Reformed — he was bewitched with the grim old Coligny 
 — if order were not soon taken, the Louvre itself would be- 
 come a temple. 
 
 Then one of the party turned suddenly and said, '' But I 
 forget, monsieur is a Huguenot?" 
 
 " I am a Protestant of the English Church," said Be- 
 renger, rather stiffly, in the formula of liis day. 
 
 " Well, you have come at the right moment. 'Tis all for 
 the sermon now. If the little abbe there wishes to sail 
 with a fair wind, he should throw away bis breviary and 
 study his Calvin. " 
 
 Berenger's attention was thus attracted to the Abbe do 
 Mericour, a young man of about twenty, whose dress was 
 darker than that of the rest, and his hat of a clerical cut, 
 though in other respects he was equipped with the same 
 point-device elegance. 
 
 '* Calvin would never give him the rich abbey of Selicy," 
 said another; " the breviary is the safer speculation." 
 
 " Ah! Monsieur de T\ibaumont can tell you that abbeys are 
 no such securities in these days. Let yonder admiral get the 
 upper hand, and we shall see Mericour, the happy cadet 
 of eight brothers and sisters, turned adrift from their con- 
 vents. What a fatherly spectacle Monsieur lo Marquis will 
 present!" 
 
 Here the chevalier beckoned to Berenger, who, riding
 
 36 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 forward, learned that Narcisse had engaged lodgings for 
 him and his suite at one of the great inns, and Berenger 
 returned his thanks, and a jn'oposal to the chevalier to be- 
 come his guest. They were by this time entering the city, 
 where the extreme narrowness and dirt of the streets con- 
 trasted with the grandeur of the palatial courts that could 
 be partly seen through their archways. At the hostel they 
 rode under such an arch, and found themselves in a paved, 
 yard that would have been grand had it been clean. Pri- 
 vacy had scarcely been invented, and the party were not at 
 all surprised to find tliat the apartment prepared for them 
 was to serve both day and night for Beronger, the chevalier, 
 and Mr. Adderley, besides having a truckle-bed on the floor 
 for Osbert. Meals were taken in public, and it was now 
 one o'clock — just dinner-time; so after a hasty toilet the 
 three gentlemen descended, the rest of the jiarty having 
 ridden off to their quarters, either as attendants of mon- 
 sieur or to their families. It was a sumptuous meal, at 
 which a great number of gentlemen were i)resent, coming 
 in from rooms hired over shops, etc. — all, as it seemed, as- 
 sembled at Paris for the marriage festivities; but Berenger 
 began to gather that they were for the most part adherents 
 of the Guise party, and far from friendly to the Huguenot 
 interest. Some of them appeared hardly to tolerate Mr. 
 Adderley 's jiresenco at the table; and Berenger, though his 
 kinsman's jmtronage secured civil treatment, felt much out 
 of his element, confused, unable to take part in the conver- 
 sation, and sure that he was where those at home did not 
 wish to see him. 
 
 No sooner was the dinner over than he rose and ex- 
 pressed his intention of delivering his letters of introduction 
 in jierson to the English embassador and to the Admiral de 
 Coligny, whom, as his father's old friend and the hero of 
 his boyhood, he was most anxious to see. The chevalier 
 demurred to this. Were it not better to take measures at 
 once for making himself presentable, and Narcisse had al- 
 ready suiDplied him with directions to the fashionable hair- 
 cutter, etc. It would be taken amiss if he went to the ad- 
 miral before going to present himself to the king. 
 
 " And I can not see my cousins till I go to court?'' 
 asked Berenger. 
 
 " Most emphatically, No. Have I not told you that the 
 one is in the suite of the young queen, the other in that of
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 37 
 
 the qncen-mother? I will myself present yoU;, if only you 
 will give niG the honor of your guidance. ■" 
 
 "With all thanks, monsieur/' said Berenger; "my 
 grandfather's desire was that I should lose no time in going 
 to his friend Sir Francis Walsingham, and I had best sub- 
 mit myself to his judgment as to my apj^earance at court/' 
 
 On this point Berenger was resolute, though the cheva- 
 lier recurred to the danger of any proceeding that might be 
 unacceptable at court. Berenger, harassed and im2)atient, 
 repeated that he did not care about the court, and wished 
 merely to fulfill his purpose and return, at which his kins- 
 man shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and mut- 
 tered to himself, " Ah, what does ho know! He will regret 
 it when too late; but I have done my best. " 
 
 Berenger paid little attention to this, but calling Landry 
 Osbert, and a couple of his men, he bade them take their 
 swords and bucklers, and escort him in his walk through 
 Paris. He set off with a sense of escape, but before he had 
 made many steps, he was obliged to turn and warn Hum- 
 frey and Jack that they were not to walk swaggering along 
 the streets, with hand on sword, as if every Frenchman 
 they saw was the natural foe of their master. 
 
 Very tall were the houses, very close and extremely filthy 
 the streets, very miserable the beggars; and yet hero and 
 there was to be seen the open front of a most brilliant shop, 
 and the thoroughfares were crowded with richly dressed 
 gallants. Even the wider streets gave little space for the 
 career of the gay horsemen who rode along them, still less 
 for the great, cumbrous, though gayly decked coaches, in 
 which ladies ajjpeared glittering with jewels and fan in 
 hand, with tiny white dogs on their knees. 
 
 The persons of whom Berenger inquired the way all un- 
 capped most res}3ectfully, and replied with much courtesy; 
 but when the hotel of the English embassador- had been 
 pointed out to him, he hardly believed it, so foul and 
 squalid was the street, where a large nail-studded door oc- 
 cupied a wide archway. Here was a heavy iron knocker, 
 to which Osbert applied himself. A little door was at once 
 opened by a large, powerful John Bull of a porter, whose 
 looks expanded into friendly welcome when he heard the 
 English tongue of the visitor. Inside, the scene was very 
 unlike that without. The hotel was built round a paved 
 court, adorned with statues and stone vases, with yews and
 
 38 THE CHAPLET OF TEAIILS. 
 
 cyjH-esscs in them, and a, grand fliglit of stops led np to the 
 grand center of the house, around which were collected a 
 iiuinher of attendants, wearing the AValsiiigham cohn-s. 
 Among these Berenger left his two Englishmen, well con- 
 tent to have fallen into an English colony. Landry 
 followed him to an anteroom, while the groom of the cham- 
 bers went forward to announce the visitor, Bereuger wait- 
 ing to know whether the embassador would be at liberty to 
 see him. 
 
 Almost immediately the door was reopened, and a keen- 
 looking gentleman, about six-and-thirty years of age, rather 
 short in stature, but nevertheless very dignified-looking, 
 came forward with outscretched hands — ■'' Greet you well, 
 my Lord de Piibaumout. We expected your coming. Wel- 
 come, mine honored friend's grandson." 
 
 And as Berenger bent low in reverent greeting, Sir 
 Francis took his hand and kissed his brow, sayhig, " Come 
 in, my young friend; we are but sitting over our wine and 
 comfits after dinner. Have you dined?'" 
 
 Berenger explained that he had dined at the inn, where 
 he had taken lodgings. 
 
 " Nay, but that must not be. My Lord Walwyn's 
 grandson here, and not my guest! You do me wrong, sir, 
 in not having ridden hither at once." 
 
 " Truly, my lord, I voitui'cl not. They sent me forth 
 with quite a company — my tutor and six grooms. " 
 
 " Our chajdain will gladly welcome his reverend 
 brother," said Sir Francis; " and as to the grooms, one of 
 my fellows shall go and bring them and their horses up. 
 What!" rather gravel}^, as Berenger still hesitated. " I 
 have letters for you liere, which methinks will make your 
 grandfather's wish clear to you." 
 
 Berenger saw the embassador was displeased with his re- 
 luctance, and answered quickly, " In sooth, my lord, I 
 would esteem myself only too happy to be thus honored, 
 but in sooth — " he repeated himself, and faltered. 
 
 " In sooth, you expected more freedom tlKui in my grave 
 house," said Walsingham, displeased. 
 
 " Not so, my lord: it would be all that I could desire; 
 but I have done hastily. A kinsman of mine lias come up 
 to Paris with me, and I have made him my guest. I know 
 not how to break with him — the Chevalier de Ribaumont. " 
 
 " What, the young ruffler in monsieur's suite?"
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 39 
 
 "No, my lord; his father, lie comes on my bushiess. 
 He is an old man, and can ill bear the cost, and I could 
 scarce throw him over." 
 
 Berenger spoke with sncli earnest, bright, open simjjh'c- 
 ity, and look so boyish and confiding, that Sir Francises 
 heart was won, and he smiled as he said, " Right, lad, you 
 are a considerate youth. It were not well to cast off your 
 kinsman; but when you have read your letters, you nuiy 
 well plead your grandfather's desires, to say nothing of a 
 hint from her grttce to have an eye to you. And for the 
 rest, you can acquit yourself gracefulIyHx) the gentleman, 
 by asking him to occupy the lodging that you had taken. " 
 
 Berenger's face brightened up in a manner that sjioke 
 for his sincerity; and Sir Francis added, " And where be 
 these lodgings?" 
 
 "At the Croix de Lorraine,'' 
 
 " Ha! your kinsman has taken you into a nest of Guis- 
 ards. But come, let me present you to my wife and my 
 other guests, then will I give you your letters, and you shall 
 return and make your excuses to Monsieur le Chevalier." 
 
 Berenger seemed to himself to be on familiar ground 
 again as his host thus assumed the direction of him and 
 ushered him into a large dining-hall, where the table had 
 been forsaken in favor of a lesser table jolaced in the ample 
 window, round which sat assembled some six or eight per- 
 sons, with f I'uit, wine, and conserves before them, a few 
 little dogs at their feet or on their laps, and a lute lying on 
 the knee of one of the young gentlemen. Sir Francis jire- 
 sented the young Lord de Eibaumont, their expected guest, 
 to Lady Walsingham, from whom he received a cordial wel- 
 come, and her two little daughters, Frances and Elizabeth, 
 and likewise to the gentleman with the lute, a youth about 
 a year older than Berenger, and of very striking and pre- 
 possessing countenance, who was named as Mr. Sidney, the 
 son of the Lord IJeputy of Ireland. A couple of gentlemen 
 who ivould in these times have been termed attaches, a 
 couple of lady attendants upon Lady Walsingham, and the 
 chaplain made up the party, which on this day chanced 
 only to include, besides the household, the young traveler, 
 Sidney. Berenger was at once seated, and accepted a wel- 
 coming-cup of wine {i. e. a long slender glass with a beau- 
 tifully twisted stem), responded to friendly inquiries about 
 his relatives at home, and acknowledged the healths that
 
 40 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 were drunk in honor of their names; after which Lady 
 Walsingham begged that Mr. Sidney would sing the mad- 
 rigal he had before promised: afterward a glee was sung by 
 Sidney, one of the gentlemen, and Lady Walsingham; and 
 it was discovered that M. de Kibaumont had a trained ear 
 atid the very voice that was wanting to the Italian song 
 they were practicing. And so sped a happy hour, till a 
 booted and spiiried messenger came in with letters for his 
 excellency, who, being thus roused from his dreamy enjoy- 
 ment of the music, carried young Kibaumont off with him 
 to his cabinet, and there made over to him a packet, with 
 good news from home, and orders that made it clear that 
 he could do no other than accept the hospitality of the em- 
 bassy. Thus armed with authority, he returned to the 
 Croix de Lorraine, where Mr. Adderley could not contain 
 his joy at the change to quarters not only so much more 
 congenial, but so much safer; and the chevalier, after some 
 polite demur, consented to remain in possession of the 
 rooms, being in fact well satisfied with the arrangement. 
 
 " Let him steep himself up to the lips among the En- 
 glish," said Tithonus to his son. " Thus will he peaceably 
 relinquish to you all that should have been yours from the 
 first, and at court will only be looked on as an overgrown 
 English page. " 
 
 The change to the embassador's made Berenger happy at 
 once. He was not French enough in breeding, or even 
 constitution, to feel the society of the Croix de Lorraine 
 congenial; and, i':ind as the chevalier showed himself, ifc 
 was with a wonderful sense of relief that Berenger shook 
 himself free from both his fawning and his patronizing. 
 There was a constant sense of not understanding the old 
 gentleman's aims, whereas in Walsingham 's house all was 
 as clear, easy, and open as at home. 
 
 And though Berenger had been educated in the country, 
 it had been in the same tone as that of his new friends. He 
 was greatly approved by Sir Francis as a stripling of parts 
 and modesty. Mr. Sidney made him a com2)anion, and 
 the young matron. Lady Walsingham, treated him as 
 neither lout nor lubber. Yet he could not be at ease in his 
 state between curiosity and re^nilsion toward the wife who 
 was to be discarded by mutiuil consent. The sight of the 
 scenes of his early childhood had stirred up warmer recol- 
 lections of the pretty little playf id torment who through
 
 THE CHArLET OF PEARLS. 41 
 
 the vista of years assumed the air of a triciisy elf rather 
 than the little vixen he used to thinlc her. His curiosity 
 had been further stimulated by the sight of his rival, Nar- 
 cisse, whose effeminate ornaments, small stature, and seat 
 on horseback filled 8ir M; ir mad u Ice's pupil with inquisitive 
 disdain as to the woman who could j^refer anything so un- 
 manly. 
 
 Sidney was to be presented at the after-dinner recejition 
 at the Louvre the next day, and Sir Francis proposed to 
 take young liibaumont with him. Berenger colored, and 
 spoke of his equipment, and Sidney good-naturedly otfered 
 to come and inspect. That young gentleman was one of 
 the daintiest in apparel of his day; but he was amazed that 
 the suit in which Berenger had paid his devoir to Queen 
 Elizabeth should have been set aside — it was of jjearl-gray 
 velvet, slashed with rose-colored satin, and in sluipe and 
 fashion j^oint-device — unless, as the embassador said good- 
 Immoredly, " my young Lord Ribaumont wished to be one 
 of monsieur's clique.^' Thus arrayed, then, and with the 
 chaplet of pearls bound round the small cap, with a heron- 
 plume that sat jauntily on one side of his fair curled head, 
 Berenger took his seat beside the hazel-eyed, brown-haired 
 Sidney, in his white satin and crimson, and with the em- 
 bassador and his attendants was rolled off in the great 
 state-coach drawn by eiglit horses, which had no sinecure 
 in dragging the ponderous machine through the unsavoiy 
 debris of the streets. 
 
 Eoyalty fed in public. The sumptuons banqueting-roora 
 contained a barrier, partitioning off' a space where Charles 
 IX. sat alone at his table, as a State spectacle. He was a 
 sallow, unhealthy-looking youth, with large prominent 
 dark eyes and a melancholy dreaminess of expression, as if 
 the whole ceremony, not to say the world itself, were dis- 
 tasteful. Now and then, as though endeavoring to cast off 
 the mood, he would call to some gentlemen and exchange 
 a rough jest, generally fortified with a ti'emendous oath, 
 that startled Berenger's innocent ears. He scarcely tasted 
 what was put on his plate, but drank largely of sherbet, 
 and seemed to be trying to linger through the space allotted 
 for the ceremony. 
 
 Silence was ol^served, but not so absolute that Walsing- 
 ham could not ])oint out to his .young companions the nota- 
 abilities present. The lofty figure of Henri, Duke of
 
 42 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS, 
 
 Guise, towered high above all around him, and his grand 
 features, proud lip, and stern eye claimed such natural 
 superiority that Berenger for a moment felt a glow on his 
 cheek as he remembered his challenge of his right to rival 
 that splendid stature. And yet Guise was very little older 
 than himself; but he walked, a prince of men, among a 
 crowd of gentlemen, attendants on him rather than on the 
 king. The elegant but indolent-looking Duke de Mont- 
 morency had a much more attractive air, and seemed to 
 hold a kind of neutral ground between Guise on the one 
 hand, and the Reformed, who mustered at the other end of 
 the apartment. Almost by intuition, Berenger knew the 
 fine calm features of the gray-haired Admiral de Coligny 
 before he heard him so addressed by the king's loud, rough 
 voice. When the king rose from table the presentations 
 took place, but as Charles heard the name of the Baron de 
 Ribaumont, he exclaimed, " "What, monsieur, are you pre- 
 sented here by our good sister's representative?" 
 
 Walsingham answered for him, alluding to the negotia- 
 tions for Queen Elizabeth's marriage with one of the 
 French princes — " Sire, in the present happy conjuncture, it 
 needs not be a less loyal Frenchman to have an inheritance 
 in the lands of my royal mistress." 
 
 *' What say you, monsieur?*' sharply demanded the king; 
 *' are you come here to renounce your country, religion — 
 and love, as I have been told?" 
 
 " I hope, sire, never to be unfaithful where I owe faith," 
 said Berenger, heated, startled, and driven to extremity. 
 
 " Not ill-answered for the English giant," said Charles 
 aside to an attendant: then turning eagerly to Sidney, 
 whose transcendent accomplishments had already become 
 renowned, Charles welcomed him to court, and began to 
 discuss Ronsard's last sonnet, showing no small taste and 
 knowledge of poetry. Greatly attracted by Sidney, the king 
 detained the whole English party by an invitation to Wal- 
 singham to hear music in the queen-mother's ajjartments; 
 and Berenger, following in the wake of his friends, found 
 himself in a spacious hall, with a raised gallery at one end 
 for the musicians, the walls decorated with the glorious 
 I^aintings collected by Fran9ois L, Greek and Roman 
 statues clustered at the angles, and cabinets with gems and 
 antiques disposed at intervals. Not that Berenger beheld 
 much of this: he was absolutely dazzled with the brilliant
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 43 
 
 assembly into which he was admitted. There moved the 
 most beautiful women iu France, in every lovely colored 
 tint that dress could assume: their bosoms, arms, and hair 
 sparkling with jewels; their gossamer rufl's surrounding 
 their necks like fairy wings; their light laugh minghng 
 with the music, as they sat, stood, or walked in graceful 
 attitudes conversing with one another or with the cavaliers, 
 whose brilliant velvet and jewels fitly mixed with their 
 bright array. These were the sirens he had heard of, the 
 "squadron of the qneen-mother,^' the dangerous beings 
 against whom he was to steel himself. And which of them 
 was the child he had played with, to whom his vows had 
 been plighted ? It was like some of the enchanting dreams 
 of romance merely to look at these fair creatures; and he 
 stood as if gazing into a magic-glass till Sir Francis Wal- 
 singham, looking round for him, said, " Come, then, my 
 young friend, you must do your devoirs to the queens. 
 Sidney, I see, is as usual in his element; the king has seized 
 upon him." 
 
 Catherine de Medicis was seated on a large velvet chair, 
 conversing with the German embassador. Never beauti- 
 ful, she appeared to more advantage in her mature years 
 than in her girlhood, and there was all the dignity of a life- 
 time of rule iu her demeanor and gestures, the bearing of 
 her head, and motion of her exquisite hands. Her eyes 
 were like her son's, j^rominent, and gave the sense of seeing 
 all round at once, and her smile was to the highest degree 
 engaging. She received the young Baron de Ribaumont 
 far more graciously than Charles had done, held out her 
 hand to be kissed, and observed " that the young gentleman 
 was like madame sa mere whom she w^ell remembered as 
 much admired. Was it true that she was married iu Eng- 
 land?" 
 
 Berenger bowed assent. 
 
 " Ah! you English make gooa spouses,'* she said, with a 
 smile. " Ever satisfied Avith home! But, your excel- 
 lency," added she, turning to Walsinghani, " what stones 
 would best please my good sister for the setting of the jewel 
 my son would send her with his portrait? He is all for 
 emeralds, for the hue of hope; but I call it the eolor of 
 jealousy. " 
 
 Walsingham made a sign that Berenger had better re- 
 treat from hearing the solemn coquetting carried on by the
 
 44 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 maiden queen through her gravest embassadors. He fell 
 back, and remained watching the brilliant throng, trying 
 in vain to discover the bright merry eyes and velvet cheek 
 he remembered of old. Presently a kindly salutation in- 
 terrupted him, and a gentleman who perceived him to be a 
 stranger began to try to set him at ease, pointed out to him 
 the handsome, foppishly dressed Duke of Anjou, and his 
 ugly, sjjiteful- little brother of Alen9on, then designated as 
 Queen Elizabeth's future husband, who was saying some- 
 thing to a lady that made her color and bite her lips. " Is 
 that the younger queen.^" asked Berenger, as his eyes fell 
 o]i a sallow, dark-conii^lexioned, sad -looking little ci-eature in 
 deep mourning, and with three or four such stately-looking, 
 black-robed, 82)anish-looking duennas round her as to prove 
 her to be a jierson of high consequence. 
 
 " That? Oh, no; that is Madame Catherine of Navarre, 
 who has resided here ever since her mother's death, await- 
 ing her brother, our royal bridegroom. See, here is the 
 bride, Madame Marguerite, conversing with Monsieur de 
 Guise." 
 
 Berenger paid but little heed to Marguerite's showy but 
 already rather coarse beauty, and still asked where was the 
 young Queen Elizaljeth of Austria. She was unwell, and 
 not in presence. "Ah! then," he said, "her ladies will 
 not be here. " 
 
 " That is not certain. Are you wishing to see anyone 
 of them?" 
 
 " I w^ould like to see — " He could not help coloring till 
 his cheeks rivaled the color of his sword-knot. " I want 
 just to know if she is here. I know not if she be called 
 Madame or Mademoiselle de Eibaumont. " 
 
 " The fair Eibaumont! Assuredly; see, she is looking at 
 you. Shall I present you?" 
 
 A pair of exceedingly brilliant dark eyes were fixed on 
 Berenger wicli a sort of haughty curiosity and half recog- 
 nition. The face was handsome and brilliant, but he felt 
 indignant at iiot perceiving a particle of ablush at encount- 
 ering him, indeed rather a look of amusement at the deep 
 glow which his fair complexion rendered so a2iparent. He 
 would fain have escajjed from so public an interview, but 
 her eye was upon him, and there was no avoiding the meet- 
 ing. As he moved nearer he saw what a beautiful person 
 she was, her rich ^jrimrose-colored clress setting oif her
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 45 
 
 brunette complexion and lier stately presence. She looked 
 older than he had expected; but this was a hot-bed where 
 every one grew up early, and the expression and miinner 
 made him feel that an old intimacy was here renewed, and 
 that they were no strangers. 
 
 " We need no introduction, cousin," she said, giving a 
 hand to be saluted. '' I knew you instantly. It is the old 
 face of Chateau Leurre, only gone up so high and become 
 so handsome. " 
 
 " Cousins," thought he. " Well, it makes things 
 easier! but what audacity to be so much at her ease, when 
 Lucy would have sunk into the earth with shame." His 
 bow hatl saved him the necessity of answering in words, and 
 the lady continued: 
 
 " And madame voire viere. Is she well? She was very 
 good to me.'' 
 
 Berenger did not think that kindness to Eustacie had 
 been her chief perfection, but he answered that she was 
 well and sent her commendations, which the young lady 
 acknowledged by a magnificent courtesy. " And as beau- 
 tiful as ever?" she asked. 
 
 " Quite as beautiful," he said, "only somewhat more 
 onhonpoint." 
 
 "Ah!" she said, smiling graciously, and raising her 
 splendid eyes to his face, "1 understand better Avhat that 
 famous beauty was now, and the fairness that caused her 
 to be called the Swan." 
 
 It was so personal that the color rushed again into his 
 cheek. No one liad ever so presumed to admire him; and 
 with a degree gratified and surj^rised, and sensible more 
 and more of the extreme beauty of the lady, there was a 
 sort of alarm about him as if this were the very fascination 
 he had been warned against, and as if she were casting a 
 net about him, which, wife as she was, it would be impos- 
 sible to him to break. 
 
 " Nay, monsieur,'' she laughed, " is a M'ord from one so 
 near too much for your modesty? Is it possible that no 
 one has yet told you of your good mien? Or do they not 
 appreciate Greek noses and blue eyes in the land of fat 
 Englishmen? How have you ever lived en jyrovince? Oar 
 l)rinces are ready to hang themselves at the thought of be- 
 ing in such banishment, even at court — indeed, monsieur
 
 4(j O^SE CHAPLET OF PEAHLS. 
 
 has contrived to transfer the noose to Monsieur d'Alengon. 
 Have you been afc court, cousin?" 
 
 " I have been presented to the queen.'"' 
 
 Slie tlien proceeded to ask questions about the chief per- 
 sonages with a rapid inteUigence that surprised liim as well 
 as alarmed him, for lie felt more and more in the power of 
 a very clever as well as beautiful woman, and the attraction 
 she exercised made him long the more to escape; but she 
 smiled and signed away several cavaliers who would have 
 gained her attention. She s2)oke of Queen Mary of Scot- 
 land, then in the fifth year of her captivity, and asked if he 
 did not feel bound to her service by having been once her 
 jiartner. Did not he remember that dance? 
 
 " I have heard my mother speak of it far too often to 
 forget it," said Berenger, glowing again for her who could 
 speak of that occasion without a blush. 
 
 " You wish to gloss over your first inconstancy, sir," she 
 said, archly; but he was spared from further reply by Philip 
 Sidney's coming to tell him that the embassador was ready 
 to return home. Ke took leave with an alacrity that re- 
 doubled his courtesy so much that he desired to be com- 
 mended to his cousin Diane, whom he had not seen. 
 
 " To Diane?" said the lady, inquiringly. 
 
 " To Mademoiselle Diane de Ribaumont," he corrected 
 himself, ashamed of his English rusticity. '' I beg 2}ardon 
 if I spoke too familiarly of her." 
 
 " She should be fiattered by Monsieur le Baron's slight- 
 est recollection," said the lady, with an ironical tone that 
 thei'e was no time to analyze, and with a mutual gesture of 
 courtesy lie followed Sidney to where Sir Francis awaited 
 them. 
 
 " Well, what think you of the French court?" asked 
 Sidney, so soon as the young men were in private. 
 
 " I only know that you may bless your good fortune that 
 you stand in no danger from a wife from thence." 
 
 " Ha!" cried Sidney, laughing, " you found your lawful 
 owner. Why did you not present me?" 
 
 " I was ashamed of her bold visage." 
 
 " WhatI — was she the beauteous demoiselle I found you 
 gallanting," said Philip Sidney, a good deal entertained, 
 " who was gazing at you with such visible admiration iu 
 her languishing black eyes?" 
 
 " The foul fiend seize their impudence!"
 
 THE CITAPLET OF rEAPtl.S. 47 
 
 " Fy! for shame! trms to sjieak of your o\v)i wife/' said 
 the mischievous Sidney, " and tlie fairest — " 
 
 " (Jo to, (Sidney. Were she fairer than Venus, with a 
 king(h)m to her dower, I would none of a woman without a 
 bhish." 
 
 " What, in converse with her wedded husband,'^ said 
 Sidney. " Were not that overshamefastness?" 
 
 " Nay, now, Sidney, in good sooth give me your 02)inion. 
 Should slie set her fancy on me, even in this hour, am I 
 bound in honor to hold by this accursed wedlock — lock, as 
 it may well be called?" 
 
 " I know no remedy," said Sidney, gravely, '' save the 
 two enchanted founts of love and hate. They can not be 
 far away, since it was at the siege of Paris that Rinaldo and 
 Orlando drank thereof. " 
 
 Another question that Berenger would fain have asked 
 Sidney, but could not for very shame and dread of mockery, 
 was, whether he himself were so dangerously handsome as 
 the lady had given him to understand. With a sense of 
 shame, he caught up the little mirror in his casket, and 
 could not but allow to himself that the features he there 
 saw w^ere symmetrical — the eyes azure, the com])lexion of a 
 delicate fairness, such as he had not seen equaled, excej^t 
 in those splendid Lorraine princes; nor could he judge of 
 the further effect of his open-faced frank simplicity and 
 sweetness of expression — contemptible, pei'haps, to the 
 astute, but most winning to the world-weary. He shook 
 his head at the fair retiection, smiled as he saw the color 
 rising at his own sensation of being a fool, and then threw 
 it aside, vexed with himself for being iniable not to feel at- 
 tracted by the first woman who had shown herself struck 
 by his personal graces, and yet aware that this-was the very 
 thing he had been warned against, and determined to make 
 all the resistance in his power to a creature whose very 
 beauty and enchantment gave him a sense of discomfort.
 
 48 THE CIIAPLET OF PEA.ELS. 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 rSE CONVENT BIED. 
 
 Youno; knight, whatever that dost armes professe, 
 And through long labors huntest after fame, 
 
 iseware of fraud, beware of ficklenesse, 
 In choice and change of thy beloved dame. 
 
 Spenser, Faery Queene. 
 
 Berengep/s mind was relieved, even while his vanity 
 was mortified, when the chevalier and his son came the 
 next day to bring him the formal letter requesting the 
 Pope's annullment of his marriage. After he had signed 
 it, it was to be taken to Eustacie, and, so soon as he should 
 attain his twenty-first year, he was to dispose of Chateau 
 Laurre, as well as of his claim to the ancestral castle ir. 
 Picardy, to his cousin Narcisse, and thus become entirely 
 free to ti-ansfer his allegiance to the Queen of England. 
 
 It was a very good thing — that he well knew; and he had 
 a strong sense of virtue and obedience, as he formed with 
 his pen the words m all their fuUness, Henri Eerenger 
 Eustache, Baron de Eibaumoiit et Seigneur de Leurre. 
 He could not help wondering whether the lady who looked 
 at him so admiringly really pi'eferred such a mean-looking 
 little fo]:* as Narcisse, whether she were afraid of his En- 
 glish home and breeding, or wliether all this open coquetry 
 were leally the court manners of ladies toward gentlemen, 
 and he had been an absolute simpleton to be flattered. 
 Any way, she would have been a most undesirable wife, 
 and he was well quit of her; but he did feel a certain lurk- 
 ing desire that, since the bomls were cut and he was no 
 longer in danger from her, he might see her again, carry 
 home a mental inventory of the splendid beauties he had 
 renounced, and decide what was the motive that actuated 
 her in rejecdng his own handsome self. Meantime, he 
 proceeded to enjoy the amusements and advantage of his 
 sojourn at Paris, of which by no means the least was the 
 society of Philip Sidney, and the charm his brilliant genius 
 imj^arted to every pursuit they shared. Books at the 
 university, fencing and dancing from the best professors, 
 Italian poetry, French sonnets, Latin ejjigrams; nothing
 
 THE CHAPLET CF PEARLS. 49 
 
 came amiss to Sidney, the flower of English youth: and 
 Berenger had taste, inieUigence, and cultivation enough to 
 enter into all in which Sidney led the way. The good tutor, 
 after all his miseries on the journey, was delighted to write 
 to Lord Walwyn, that, far from being a risk and temiita- 
 tion, this visit was a school in all that was virtuous and 
 comely. 
 
 If the good man had any cause of dissatisfaction it was 
 with the Calvinistic tendencies of the embassador's house- 
 hold. Walsingbam was always on the l^iritanical side of 
 Elizabeth's court, and such an atmosphere as that of Paris, 
 where the Ronum Catholic system was at that time show- 
 ing more corruption than it has ever done before or since 
 in any other place, naturally threw him into sympathy with 
 the lieformed. The reaction that half a century later filled 
 the Gallican Church with saintliness had not set in; her 
 ecclesiastics were the tools of a wicked and blood-thirsty 
 court, who hated virtue as much as schism in the men 
 whom they persecuted. The Huguenots were for the most 
 part men whose instincts for truth and virtue had recoiled 
 from the j^opular system, and thus it was indeed as if piety 
 and morality were arrayed on one side, and su2)erstition 
 and debauchery on the other. Mr. Adderley thus found the 
 tone of the embassador's chaplain that of far more com- 
 plete fellowship with the lleformcd pastors than he himself 
 was disposed to admit. There were a large number of 
 these gathered at Paris; for the lull in persecution that 
 had followed the battle of Moncontour had given hopes of a 
 final accommodation between the two parties, and many 
 had come up to consult with the numerous lay nobility who 
 had congregated to witness the King of Navarre's wedding. 
 Among them, Berenger met his father's old friend, Isaac 
 Garden, who had come to Paris for the purpose of giving 
 his only surviving son in marriage to the daughter of a 
 watch-maker to whom he had for many years been be- 
 trothed. By him the youth, with his innocent face and 
 gracious respectful manners, was watched with delight, as 
 fulfilling the fairest hopes of the poor baron, but the old 
 minister would have been sorely disap^jointed had he known 
 how little Berenger felt inclined toward his party. 
 
 The royal one of coarse Berenger could not love, but the 
 rigid bareness, and, as he thought, irreverence of the Cal- 
 vinist, and the want of all forms, jarred upon one used to
 
 50 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 a ritual which retained much of the ancient form. In the 
 earlj years of Elizabeth, every i^ossible diversity prevailed 
 in parish churches, according to the predilections of rector 
 and squire; from forms scarcely altered from those of old 
 times, down to the baldest, rudest neglect of all rites; and 
 Berenger, in his country home, had been used to the first 
 extreme. He could not believe that what he heard and 
 saw among the 8avrmient aires, as they were called, was 
 what his father had prized; and he greatly scandalized Sid- 
 ney, the pupil of Hubert Languet, by openly expressing his 
 distaste and dismay when he found their worship viewed by 
 both Walsingham and Sidney as a model to which the En- 
 glish Protestants ought to be brought. 
 
 However, Sidney excused all this as mere boyish distaste 
 to sermons and love of externals, and Berenger himself re- 
 flected little on the subject. Tlie aspect of the venerable 
 Coligny, his father's friend, did far more toward making 
 him a Huguenot than any discussion of doctrine. The 
 good old admiral received him affectionately, and talked to 
 him warmly of his father, and the grave, noble countenance 
 and kind manner won his heart. Great projects were on 
 foot, and were much relished by the young king, for rais- 
 ing an army and striking a blow at Spain by aiding the Re- 
 formed in the Netherlands; and Coligny was as ardent as a 
 youth in the cause, hoping at once to aid his brethren, to 
 free the young king from evil influences, and to strike one 
 good stroke against the old national enemy. He talked 
 eagerly to Sidney of alliances with England, and then la- 
 mented over the loss of so promising a youth as young 
 Eibaumont to the Reformed cause in France. If the mar- 
 riage with the heiress could have taken effect, he would 
 have obtained estates near enough to some of the main 
 Huguenot strongholds to be very important, and these 
 would now remain under the power of Narcisse de Ribau- 
 mont, a determined ally of the Guise faction. It was a 
 l^ity, but the admiral could not blame the youth for obey- 
 ing the wish of his guardian grandfather; and he owned, 
 with a sigh, that England was a more peaceful land than 
 his own beloved country. Berenger was a little nettled at 
 this implication, and began to talk of joining the French 
 standard in a campaign in the Netherlands, but when the 
 two young men returned to their present home and described 
 the conversation, Walsingham said:
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 51 
 
 ** The admiral's favorite project! He would do wisely 
 not to brag of it so ojienly. The King of Spain has too 
 many in his interest in this place not to l)e warned, and to 
 be thus further egged on to conij^ass the ruin of Coligny." 
 
 "I should have thought/' said Sidney, "that nothing 
 could add to his hatred of the Keformed. "' 
 
 " Scarcely, '^ said Walsingham; " save that it is they 
 who hinder the Duke of Guise from being a good French- 
 man, and a foe to Spain." 
 
 Politics had not developed themselves in Berenger's 
 mind, and he listened inattentively while Walsingham 
 talked over with Sidney the state of parties in France where 
 natural national enmity to Spain was balanced by the need 
 felt by the queen-mother of tlie support of that great Ivo- 
 man Catholic power against the Huguenots; whom Wal- 
 singham believed her to dread and hate less for their own 
 sake than from the fear of loss of influence over her son. 
 He believed Charles IX. himself to have much leaning 
 toward the Reformed, but the late victories had thrown the 
 whole court entirely into the power of the Guises, the truly 
 unscrupulous partisans of Eome. They were further in- 
 flamed against the Huguenots by the assassination of the 
 last Duke of Guise, and by the violences that had been 
 committed by some of the Keformed party, in especial a 
 massacre of prisoners at Nerac. 
 
 Sidney exclaimed that the Huguenots had suffered far 
 worse cruelties. 
 
 " That is true," replied Sir Francis, " but my young 
 friend, you will find, in all matters of reprisals, that a pai'ty 
 has no memory for what it may commit, only for what it 
 may receive." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by an invitation to the 
 embassador's family and guests to a tilting-match and sub- 
 sequent ball at the Louvre. In the first Berenger did his 
 part with credit; to the second he went feeling full of that 
 strange attraction of repulsion. He knew gentlemen 
 enough in Coligny's suite for it to be likely that he might 
 remain unperceived among them, and he knew this woidd 
 be prudent, but lie found himself unexpectedly near the 
 ranks of ladies, and smile and gesture absolutely drew him 
 toward his semi-spouse, so that he had no alternative but 
 to lead her out to dance. 
 
 The stately measure was trod in silence as usual, but he
 
 52 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 felt the dark eyes studying him all the time. However, he 
 could bear it better now that the deed was done, and she 
 Lad voluntarily made him less to her than any gallant 
 parading or mincing about the room." 
 
 " So you bear the pearls, sir?" she 'said, as the dance 
 finished, 
 
 " The only heir-loom I shall take with me," he said, 
 
 ^' Is a look at them too great a favor to ask from their 
 jealous guardian?" she asked. 
 
 lie smiled, half ashamed of his own annoyance at being 
 obliged to place them in her hands. He was sure she would 
 try to cajole him out of them, and by way of asserting his 
 property in them he did not detach them from the band of 
 liis black velvet cap, but gav5 it with them into her hand. 
 She looked at each one, and counted them wistfully. 
 
 "Seventeen!" she said; "and how beautiful! I never 
 saw them so near before. They are so becoming to that fair 
 cheek that I sujipose no offer from my — my uncle, on our 
 behalf, would induce you to jiart with them?" 
 
 An impulse of open-handed gallantry would have made 
 him answer, " No offer from your uncle, but a simple re- 
 quest from you;" but he thought in time of the absurdity 
 of returning without them, and merely answered, " I have 
 no right to yield them, fair lady. They are the witness to 
 my forefather's fame and jDrowess. " 
 
 " Yes, sir, and to those of mine also," she replied. 
 *' And you would take them over to the enemy from whom 
 thaL prowess extorted them?" 
 
 " The country which honored and rewarded that 
 prowess!" reiDlied Berenger. 
 
 She looked at him with an interrogative glance of sur- 
 prise at the readiness of his answer; then, with half a sigh, 
 said, " There are your pearls, sir; I can not establish our 
 right, though I verily believe it was the cause of our last 
 quarrel;" and she smiled archly. 
 
 " I believe it was," he said, gravely; but added, in the 
 moment of relief at recovering the precious heir-loom, 
 " though it was Diane who inspired you to seize upon 
 them." 
 
 " Ah! poor Diane! you sometimes recollect her then? If 
 I remember right, you used to agree with her better than 
 with your little spouse, cousin!" 
 
 ' ' If I quarreled with her Iess» I liked her less, " answered
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 53 
 
 Berengcr — who, since the act of separation, had not been 
 BO guarded in his demeanor, and began to give way to hid 
 natural frankness. 
 
 " Indeed! Diane would be less gratified than I ought to 
 be. And why, may I ask?'^ 
 
 " Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth." 
 
 " Truth! that was vfliatfeu Monsieur le Baron ever talk- 
 ed of; what Huguenots weary one with.'' 
 
 " And the only thing worth seeking, the real pearl/* 
 said Berenger, " without which all else is worthless." 
 
 "Ah!" she said, " who would have thought that soft, 
 youthful face could be so severe! You would never forgive 
 a deceit?" 
 
 "Never," he said, with the crystal hardness of youth; 
 " or rather I might forgive; I could never esteem." 
 
 ' ' What a bare, rude world yours must be," she said, 
 shivering. "And no weak ones in it! Only the strong 
 can dare to be true. " 
 
 " Truth is strength!" said Berenger. "For example: I 
 see yonder a face without bodily strength, perhaps, but 
 with perfect candor." 
 
 "Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine's, no 
 doubt — from the dei^ths of Languedoc, and dressed like a 
 fright." 
 
 " No, no; the young girl behind the pale, yellow-haired 
 lady. " 
 
 " Comme7it, monsieur. Do you not yet know the young 
 queen?" 
 
 " But who is the 3'oung demoiselle — she with the superb 
 black eyes, and the ruby rose in her black hair?" 
 
 " Take care, sir, do you not know I have still a right to 
 be jealous?" she said, blushing, bridling, and laughing. 
 
 But this pull on the cords made him the more resolved; 
 he would not be turned from his purpose. " Who is she?" 
 he repeated, " have I ever seen her before? I am sure I 
 remember that innocent look of cspieglerie." 
 
 " You may see it on any child 's face fresh out of the con- 
 vent; it does not last a month!" was the still displeased, 
 rather jealous answer. " That little thing — I believe they 
 call her Nid-de-Merle — she has oidy just been brought from 
 her nunnery to wait on the young queen. Ah! your gaze 
 was perilous, it is bringing on you one of the jests of Ma- 
 dame Marguerite. ''
 
 54 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 "With laughter aud gayctj;, a trooj) of gentlemen de- 
 scended on M. de Ribaiiniont, and told him that Madame 
 Marguerite desired that he should be presented to her. The 
 princess was standing by her pale sister-in-law, Elizabeth 
 of Austria,, who looked grave and annoyed at the mis- 
 chievous mirth flashing in Marguerite's dark eyes. 
 
 " M. de Ribaumont/^ said the latter, her very neck heav- 
 ing with sup23ressed fun, " I see I can not do you a greater 
 favor than by giving you Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle for 
 your partner. ' ' 
 
 Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had 
 been guilty of such a fixed stare as to bring all this upon 
 the poor girl. He feared that his vague sense of recogni- 
 tion had made his gaze more open tban he knew, and he 
 was really and deeply ashamed of this as his worst act of 
 provincial ill-breeding. 
 
 Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing 
 eyes, panting bosom, and a neck evidently aching with 
 proud dignity and passion, she received his low bow with a 
 sweeping courtesy, as lofty as her little person would ])er- 
 mit. 
 
 His cheeks burned like fire, and he would have found 
 words to apologize, but she cut him short by saying, has- 
 tily and low, " Not a word, monsieur! Let us go through 
 it at once. No on,e shall make game of us." 
 
 He hardly durst look at her again; but as he went 
 through his own elaborate paces he knew that the little 
 creature opposite was swimming, bending, turning, bound- 
 ing with the fluttering fierceness of an angry little biitl, 
 and that the superb eyes were casting flashes on him that 
 seemed to carry him back to days of early boyhood. 
 
 Once he caught a mortified, pleading, wistful glance that 
 made him feel as if he had inflicted a cruel injury by his 
 thoughtless gaze, and he resolved to plead the sense of rec- 
 ognition in excuse; but no sooner was the performance over 
 than she prevented all conversation by saying, " Lead me 
 back at once to the queen, sir; she is about to retire. " 
 They were already so near that there Avas not time to say 
 anything; he could only hold as lightly as possible the tiny 
 fingers that he felt burning and quivering in his hand, 
 then, after bringing lier to the side of the chair of state, he 
 was forced to release her with the mere whisper of " I*ur-
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF PEARLS. 55 
 
 don, mademoiselle;" and the request was not replied to, 
 save by the additional statelincss of her courtesy. 
 
 It was already late, and the party was breaking uji; but 
 his heiRl and heart were still in a whirl when he found him- 
 self seated in the embassadorial coach, hearing Lady AA'al- 
 singham's well-pleased rehearsal of all the compliments 
 she had received on the distinguished appearance of both 
 her young guests. Sidney, as the betrothed of her daugh- 
 ter, w\as projierty of her own; but she also exulted in the 
 praises of the young Lord de Eibaumont, as jiroving the 
 excellence of the masters whom she had recommended to 
 remove the rustic clownishnet-s of which he had been ac- 
 cused. 
 
 "Nay," said Sir Francis; "whoever called him too 
 clownish for court spake with design.'' 
 
 The brief sentence added to Berenger's confused sense of 
 being in a mist of false play. Could his kinsman be bent 
 on keephig him from court? Could Narcisse be jealous of 
 him? Mademoiselle de Ribaumont was evidently hiclined 
 to seek him, and her cousin might easily think her lands 
 safer in his absence. He would have been willing to hold 
 aloof as much as his uncle and cousin could wish, save for an 
 angry dislike to being duped and cajoled; and, moreover, a 
 strong curiosity to hear and see more of that little passion- 
 ate bird, fresh from the convent cage. Her gesture and 
 her eyes irresistibly carried him back to old times, though 
 whether to an angry blackbird in the yew-tree alleys at 
 Leurre, or to the eager face that had warned him to save his 
 father, he could not remember with any distinctness. At 
 any rate, he was surprised to find himself thinking so little 
 in comparison about the sjDlendid beauty and winning man- 
 ners of his discarded spouse, though he quite believed that, 
 now her captive was beyond her grasp, she was disposed to 
 catch at him again, and try to retain him, or, as his titil- 
 lated vanity might whisper, his personal graces might make 
 her regret the family resolution which she had obeyed.
 
 56 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 CHAPTER \L 
 
 FOULLY COZENED. 
 I was the more deceived. — Ilamlet. 
 
 The unhappy Charles IX. had a disposition that in good 
 hands might have achieved great nobleness; and though 
 cruelly bound and trained to evil, was no sooner allowed to 
 follow its natural bent than it reached out eagerly toward 
 excellence. At this moment, it was his mother ^s policy to 
 apjiear to leave the ascendency to the Huguenot ^ni'tj, and 
 ho was therefore allowed to contract friendships which de- 
 ceived the intended victims the more completely, because 
 his admiration and attachment were spontaneous and sin- 
 cere. Philip Sidney's varied accomplishments and pure 
 lofty character greatly attracted the young king, who had 
 leaned on liis arm conversing during a great jjart of the 
 ball, and the next morning sent a royal messenger to in- 
 vito the two young gentlemen to a party at pall-mall in the 
 Tuiieries gardens. 
 
 Pall-mall was either croquet or its nearest relative, and 
 was so much the fashion that games were given in order to 
 keep up political influence, perha^os, because the freedom 
 of a garden 2Ja.stime among groves and bowers afforded op- 
 j'ortunities for those seductive arts on which Queen Cather- 
 ine placed so much dependence. The formal gardens, 
 with their squares of level turf and clipped alleys, afforded 
 excellent scojie both for players and spectators, and numer- 
 ous games had been set on foot, from all of which, how- 
 ever, Berenger contrived to exclude himself, in his restless 
 determination to find out the little Demoiselle do Nid-de- 
 Merlo, or, at least, to discover whether any intercourse in 
 early youth accounted for his undefined sense of remem- 
 brance. 
 
 He interrogated the first disengaged person he could find, 
 but it was only the young Abbe do Mericour who had been 
 newly brought up fi'om Dauphine by his elder brother to 
 solicit a benefice, and who knew nobody. To him, ladies 
 were only bright phantoms such as his books had taught 
 ^nm to regard like the temptations of St. Anthony, but
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 57 
 
 whom he actually saw treated with as free admiration by 
 the ecclesiastic as by the layman. 
 
 Suddenly a clamor of voices arose on the other side of 
 the closely clipped wall of limes by wliich the two youths 
 were walking. There were the clear tones of a young 
 maiden expostulating in indignant distress, and the ban- 
 tering, indolent determination of a male annoyer. 
 
 " Hark!" exclaimed Berenger; " this must be seen to. ^' 
 
 " Have a care," returned Mericour; " I have heard that 
 a man needs look twice ere meddling." 
 
 Scarcely hearing, Berenger strode on as he had done at 
 the last village wake, when he had rescued Cis of the Down 
 from the impertinence of a Dorchester scrivener. It was a 
 like case, he saw, when bi-eaking through the arch of clipped 
 limes he beheld the little Demoiselle de Nid-de-Merle, 
 driven into a corner and standing at bay, with glowing 
 cheeks, Hashing eyes, and hands clasped over her breast, 
 while a young man, dressed in the extreme of foppery, was 
 assuring her that she was the only lady who had not grant- 
 ed him a token — that he could not allow such poisioniKiire 
 airs, and that now he had caught her he would have his re- 
 venge, and win her rose-colored breastknot. Another gen- 
 tleman stood by, langhing, and keeping guard in the walk 
 that led to the more frequented part of the gardens. 
 
 " Hold!'' thundered Berenger. 
 
 The assailant had just mastered the poor girl's hand, but 
 she took advantage of his surj^rise to wrench it away and 
 gather herself up as for a spring, but the abbe in dismay, 
 the attendant in anger, cried out, " Stay — it is monsieur." 
 
 " Monsieur; be he who he may,'^ exclaimed Berenger, 
 " no honest man can see a lady hisulted.'^ 
 
 " Are you mad? It is Monsieur the Duke of Anjou," 
 said Mericour, pouncing on his arm. 
 
 " Shall we have him to the guard-house?'^ added the at- 
 tendant, coming up on the other side; but Henri de Va- 
 lois waved them both back, and burst into a derisive laugh. 
 ** No, no; do you not see who it is? Monsieur the English 
 Baron still holds the end of the halter. His sale is not yet 
 made. Come away, D'O, he will soon have enough on his 
 hands without us. Farewell, fair lady, another time you 
 will be free of your jealous giant. " 
 
 So saying, the 'Duke of Anjou strolled off feignhig in- 
 difference and contempt, and scarcely heeding tliat he had
 
 58 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 been traversed in one of the malicious adventures which he 
 deliglited to recount in 2)ublic before the discomfited vic- 
 tim herself, often with shameful exaggeration. 
 
 The girl clasped her hands over her brow with a gesture 
 of dismay, and cried, '* OhI if you have only not touched 
 your sword. " 
 
 " Let me have the honor of reconducting you, mademoi- 
 selle/' said Berenger, offering his hand; but after the first 
 sigh of relief, a tempestuous access seized her. She 
 seemed about to dash awuy his hand, her bosom swelled 
 with resentment, and with a voice striving for dignity, 
 though choked with strangled tears, she exclaimed, " No, 
 indeed! Had iiot Monsieur le Baron forsaken me, I had 
 never been thus treated!" and her eyes flashed through 
 their moisture. 
 
 " Eustacie! You are Eustacie!" 
 
 " Whom would you have me to be otherwise? I have 
 the honor to wish Monsieur le Baron a good-morning." 
 
 " Eustacie! Stay! Hear me! It concerns my honor. 
 I see it is you — but whom have I seen? Who was she?" 
 lie cried, half wild with dismay and confusion. " Was it 
 Diane?" 
 
 " You have seen and danced with Diane de Ribaumont," 
 answered Eustacie, still coldly; "but what of that? Let 
 me go, monsieur; you have cast me off already." 
 
 " I! wlien all this has been of your own seeking?" 
 
 " Mine?" cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle be- 
 tween her dignity and her passionate tears. " I meddled 
 not. I heard that Monsieur le Baron was gone to a strange 
 land, and had written to break off' old ties." Her face was 
 in a flame, and her efl'orts for composure absolute pain. 
 
 " I!" again exclaimed Berenger. " The first letter 
 came from your uncle, declaring that it was your wish!" 
 And as her face changed rapidly, " Then it was not true! 
 He has not had your consent?" 
 
 " What! would I hold to one who despised me— who 
 came here and never even asked to see this hated spouse!" 
 
 "I did! I entreated to see you. I would not sign the 
 application till — Oh, there has been treachery! And 
 have they made you too sign it?" 
 
 " When they showed me your name they were welcome 
 to mine." 
 
 Berenger struck his forehead with wrath and perplexity,
 
 THE CBAPLET OF PEAEL8. 59 
 
 then cried, joyfully, " It will not stand for a moment. So 
 fonl a cheat can be at once exposed. Eustacie, you know 
 — ^yon understand, that it was not you but Diane whom I 
 saw and detested; and no wonder, when she was acting 
 such a cruel treason!" 
 
 " Oh, no, Diane would never so treat me,^' cried Eus- 
 tacie. "I see how it was! You did not know that my fa- 
 ther was latterly called Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, and when 
 they brought me here, they would call me after him; they 
 said a maid-of-honor must be demoiselle, and my uncle 
 said there was only one way in which I could remain Ma- 
 dame de Ivibaumont! And the name must have deceived 
 you. Thou wast alwa3\s a great dull boy," she added, with 
 a sudden assumption of childish intimacy that annihilated 
 tlie nine years since their parting. 
 
 " Had I seen thee, I had not mistaken for an instant. 
 This little face stirred my heart; hers repelled me. And 
 she deceived me wittingly, Eustacie, for 1 asked after her 
 by name. " 
 
 " Ah, she wished to spare my embarrassment. And then 
 her brother must have dealt with her. ■" 
 
 " I see," exclaimed Berenger, " I am to be palmed off 
 thus that thou mayest be reserved for Narcisse. Tell me, 
 Eustacie, wast thou willing?'^ 
 
 " I hate Narcisse!'' she cried. " But, oh, I am linger- 
 ing too long. Monsieur will make some hateful tale! I 
 never fell into his vvay before, my queen and Madame la 
 Comtesse are so careful. Only to-day, as I was attending 
 her alone, the king came and gave her his arm, and I had 
 to drop behind. I must find her; I shall be missed," she 
 added, in sudden alarm. " Oh, what will they say?" 
 
 " No blame for being with thy husband," he answered, 
 clasping her hand. " Thou art mine henceforth. I will 
 Boon cut our way out of the web thy treacherous kindred 
 have woven. Meantime — " 
 
 "Hush! There are voices," cried Eustacie in terror, 
 and, guided by something he could not discern, she fled 
 with the swiftness of a bird down the alley. Following, 
 with the utmost si^eed that might not bear the appearance 
 of pursuit, he found that on coming to the turn she hai^ 
 moderated her pace, and was more tranquilly advancing to 
 a bevy of ladies, who sat perched on the stone steps like
 
 60 tHE CilAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 great butterflies sunning themselves, watching the game, 
 and receiving the attentions of their cavahers. He saw her 
 absorbed into the group, and then began to prowl round it, 
 in the alleys, in a tumult of amazement and indignation. 
 He had been shamefully deceived and cheated, and justice 
 he would have! He had been deprived of a thing of his 
 own, and he would assert his right. He had been made to 
 injure and disown the creature he was bound to protect, 
 and he must console her and comi^ensate to her, were it 
 only to redeem his honor. He never even thought whether 
 he loved her; he merely felt furious at the wrong he had 
 suffered and been made to commit, and hotly bent on re- 
 covering what belonged to him. He might even have 
 j)lunged down among the ladies and claimed her as his 
 wife, if the youiig Abbe de Meiicour, who was two years 
 older than he, and far less of a boy for his years, had not 
 joined him in his agitated walk. He then learned that all 
 tiie court knew that the daughter of the late Marquis de 
 ]SIid-de-Merle, Comte de Eibaumont, was called by his chief 
 title, but that her marriage to himself had been forgotten 
 by some and unknown to others, and thus that the first 
 error between the cousins hud not been wonderful in a 
 stranger, since the chevalier's daughter had always been 
 Mile, de Eibaumont. The error once made, Berenger's 
 distaste to Diane had been so convenient that it had been 
 carefully encouraged, and the desire to keep him at a dis- 
 tance from court and throw him into the background was 
 accounted for. The abbe was almost as indignant as Be- 
 renger, and assured him both of his sympathy and his dis- 
 cretion. 
 
 " I see no need for discretion,^ ^ said Berenger. " I shall 
 claim my wife in the face of the sun.'' 
 
 " Take counsel first, I entreat," exclaimed Mericour. 
 " The Ribaumonts have much influence with the Guise 
 family, and now you have offended monsieur." 
 
 " Ah! where are those traitorous kinsmen.^" cried Be- 
 renger. 
 
 " Fortunately all are gone on an expedition with the 
 queen-mother. You will have time to think. I have heard 
 my brother say no one ever jjrospered who offended the 
 meanest follower of the house of Lorraine. " 
 
 " I do not want prosperity, I only want my wife. I hope 
 1 shall iieTer see Paris and its deceivers again. '^
 
 THE CJIArLET OF PEARLS. 61 
 
 " Ah! but is it true that yon liavu apjihcd to have tho 
 marriage annulled atliome?" 
 
 " We were both shamefully deceived. That can be 
 nothing." 
 
 *' A decree of his Holiness; you a Huguenot; she an heir- 
 ess! All is against you. My friend, be cautious/' ex- 
 claimed the young ecclesiastic, alarmed by his ])assionate 
 gestures. " To break forth now and be accused of brawl- 
 ing in the palace precincts would be fatal — fatal — most 
 fatal!" 
 
 "lam as calm as 2:)0ssible/ ' returned 15erenger. "I 
 mean to act most reasonably. I shall stand before the king 
 and tell him openly how 1 have been tampered with, de- 
 manding my wife before the whole court.'' 
 
 " Long before you could get so far the ushers would have 
 dragged you away for brawling, or for maligning an honor- 
 able gentleman. You would have to finish your speech in 
 the Bastille, and it would be well if even your English friends 
 could get you out alive." 
 
 '' Why, what a j^lace is this!" began Berenger; but 
 again Mericour entreated him to curb himself; and his 
 English education had taught him to credit the house of 
 Guise with so much mysterious j^ower and wickedness, that 
 he allowed himself to be silenced, and j)romised to take no 
 open measure till he had consulted the embassador. 
 
 He could not obtain another glimpse of Eustacie, and 
 the hours passed tardily till the break up of the party. 
 Charles could scarcely release Sidney from his side, and 
 only let him go on condition that he should johi the next 
 day in an expedition to the hunting-chateau of Montpipeau, 
 to which the king seemed to look forward as a great holi- 
 day and breathing time. 
 
 When at length the two youths did return, Sir Francis 
 W^alsingham was completely surprised by the usually tract- 
 able, well-behaved stripling, whose praises he had been 
 writing to his old friend, bursting in on him with the out- 
 cry, " Sir, sir, I entreat your counsel! I have been foully 
 cozened." 
 
 " Of how much?" said Sir Francis, in a tone of reproba- 
 tion. 
 
 " Of my wife. Of ndne honor. Sir, your excellency, 1 
 crave pardon, if I spoke too hotly,' ' said Jku-enger, collect- 
 ing himself; " but it is enough to drive a man to frenzy. "
 
 62 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Sit down, my Lord de Eibaumont. Take breath, and 
 let me know what is this coil. What hath thus moved him, 
 Mr. Sidney?'' 
 
 " It is as he says, sir,'' replied Sidney, who had heard 
 all as they returned; " he has been greatly wronged. The 
 Chevalier de Eibaumont not only writ to propose the sepa- 
 ration without the lady's knowledge, but imposed his own 
 daughter on our friend as the wife he had not seen since 
 infancy." 
 
 " There, sir," broke forth Berenger; " surely if I claim 
 mine own in the face of day, no man can withhold her 
 from me!" 
 
 *'Hold!" said Sir Francis. " What means this passion, 
 young sir? Methought you came hither convinced that 
 both the religion and the habits in which the young lady 
 had been bred up rendered your infantine contract most 
 misuitable. What hath fallen out to make this change in 
 your mind?" 
 
 " That I was cheated, sir. The lady who palmed herself 
 of: on me as my wife was a mere impostor, the chevalier's 
 own daughter I" 
 
 " That may be; but what know you of this other lady? 
 Has she been bred up in faith or manners such as your par- 
 ents would have your wife?" 
 
 " She is my wife," reiterated Berenger. " My faith is 
 plighted to her. That is enough for me. " 
 
 Sir Francis made a gesture of despair. " He has seen 
 her, I su^ipose," said he to Sidney. 
 
 " Yes, truly, sir," answered Berenger; " and found that 
 she had been as greatly deceived as myself. " 
 
 " Then mutual consent is wanting," said the statesman, 
 gravely musing. 
 
 " That is even as I say," began Berenger, but Walsing- 
 ham held up his hand, and desired that he would make 
 his full statement in the presence of his tutor. Tlien sound- 
 ing a little whistle, the embassador dispatched a page to 
 request the attendance of Mr. Adderley, and recommended 
 young Eibaumont in the meantime to compcse himself. 
 
 Used to beingunder authority as Berenger was, the some- 
 what severe tone did much to allay his excitement and re- 
 mind him that right and reason were so entirely on his 
 side, that he had only to be cool and rational to make them 
 prevail. He was thus able to give a collected and coherent
 
 THE CHAPl.ET OF PEAKLS. 63 
 
 account of liis discovery that tlic part of liis wife had been 
 assumed by her cousin Diane, and that the signature of 
 both the young pair to the appHcation to the Pope had 
 been obtained on false pretenses. That he had, as Sidney 
 said, been foully cozened, in both senses of the word, was as 
 clear as daylight; but he was much angered and disap- 
 pointed to fincl that neither the embassador nor his tutor 
 could see that Eustacie's worthiness was proved by the in- 
 iquity of her relations, or that any one of the weighty rea- 
 sons for the expediency of dissolving the marriage was re- 
 moved. The whole affair had been in such good train a 
 little before, that Mr. Adderley was much distressed that 
 it should thus have been crossed, and thought the new 
 phase of affairs would be far from from acceptable at Combe 
 Walwyn. 
 
 " Whatever is just and honorable must be acceptable to 
 my grandfather," said Berenger. 
 
 " Even so," said Walsingham; " but it were well to 
 consider whether justice and honor require you to overthrow 
 the 2)urpose wherewith he sent 3^ou hither." 
 
 " Surely, sir, justice and honor require me to fulfill a 
 contract to wliicli the otlier party is constant," said Be- 
 renger, feeling very wise and prudent for calling that wist- 
 ful mdignant creature the other party. 
 
 " That is also true," said the embassador, " provided 
 she be constant; but you own that she signed the requisi- 
 tion for the dissolution. " 
 
 " She did so, but under the same deception as myself, 
 and further mortified and aggrieved at my seeming faith- 
 lessness." 
 
 " So it may easily be represented," muttered Walsing- 
 ham. 
 
 "How, sir?'^ cried Berenger, impetuously: "do you 
 doubt her truth?" 
 
 " Heaven forefend," said Sir Francis, " that I should 
 discuss any fair lady's sincerity! The question is how far 
 you are bound. Have I understood you that you are 
 veritably wedded, not by a mere contract of espousal?" 
 
 Berenger could produce no documents, for they had been 
 left at Chateau Leurre, and on his father's death the 
 chevalier had claimed the custody of them; but he remem- 
 bered enough of the ceremonial to prove that the wedding
 
 64 - THE CHA^LET OF PEARLS. 
 
 had been a veritable one, and that only the Papal interven- 
 tion could annul it. 
 
 Indeed an Englishman, going by English law, would own 
 no power in the Poj^e, nor any one on earth, to sever the 
 sacred tie of wedlock; but French courts of law would 
 probably ignore the mode of application, and would certain- 
 ly endeavor to separate between a Catholic and a heretic. 
 
 " I am English, sir, in heart and faith," said Berenger, 
 earnestly. " Look upon me as such, and tell me, am I- 
 married or single at this moment?" 
 
 " Married assuredly. More's the pity," said Sir Francis. 
 
 " And no law of God or man divides us without our own 
 consent." There was no denying that the mutual consent 
 of the young j)air at their jjresent age was all that was 
 wanting to complete the inviolabihty of their marriage con- 
 tract. 
 
 Berenger was indeed only eighteen, and Eustacie more 
 than a year younger, but there was nothing in their present 
 age to invalidate their marriage, for pei'sons of their rank 
 were usually wedded quite as young or younger. Walsing- 
 ham was only concerned at his old friend's disappointment, 
 and at the danger of the yoinig man running headlong into 
 a connection probably no more suitable tlian that with 
 Diane de Eibaumont would have been. But it was not 
 convenient to argue against the expediency of a man's lov- 
 ing his own wife; and when Berenger boldly declared he 
 was not talking of love but of justice, it was only possible 
 to insist that he should pause and see where true justice 
 lay. 
 
 And thus the much perplexed embassador broke up the 
 conference with his hot and angry young guest. 
 
 " And Mistress Lucy — ?" siglied Mr. Adderley, in rather 
 an inn pro pas fashion it must be ownei; but then he had 
 been fretted beyond endurance by his pupil striding up and 
 down his room, reviling Diane, and describing Eustacie, 
 while he was trying to write these uncomfortable tidings to 
 Lord Walwyn. 
 
 " Lucy! What makes you bring her up to me?" ex- 
 claimed Berenger. " Little Dolly would be as much to the 
 purpose!" 
 
 " Only, sir, no resident at Hurst Walwyn could fail to 
 know what has been planned and desired.'" 
 
 " Pshaw!" cried Berenger; " have you not heard that it
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. C5 
 
 was a mere figment, and that I could scarce have wedded 
 Lucy safely, even had this matter gone as you wish? This 
 is the hickiest chance that could have befallen her. ■" 
 
 " That may be," said Mr. Adderley; " I wish she may 
 think so — sweet young lady!'^ 
 
 " I tell you, Mr. Adderley, you should know better! 
 Lucy has more sense. My aunt, whom she follows more 
 than any other creature, ever silenced the very sport of 
 semblance of love passages between us even as children, by 
 calling them unseemly in one wedded as I am. Brother 
 and sister we have ever been, and have loved as such — ay, 
 and shall! I know of late some schemes have crossed my 
 mother's mind — " 
 
 " Yea, and that of others." 
 
 " But they have not ruffled Lucy's quiet nature — trust 
 me! And for the rest? What doth she need of me in 
 comparison of this poor child ? She — like a bit of her own 
 gray lavender in the shadiest nook of the walled garden, 
 tranquil there — sure not to be taken there, save to company 
 with fine linen in some trim scented coffer, whilst this fresh 
 glowing rosebud has grown up pure and precious in the 
 very midst of the foulest corruption Christendom can show, 
 and if I snatch her not from it, I, the only living man who 
 can, look you, in the very bloom of her innocence and 
 sweetness, what is to be her fate? The very pity of a 
 Christian, the honor of a gentleman, would urge me, even 
 if it were not my most urgent duty!" 
 
 Mr. Adderley argued no more. When Berenger came to 
 his duty in the matter he was invincible, and moreover all 
 the more provoking, because he mentioned it with a sort of 
 fiery sound of relish, and looked so very boyish all the time. 
 Poor Mr. Adderley! feeling as if his trust were betrayed, 
 loathing the very idea of a French court lady, saw that his 
 pupil had been allured into a headlong passion to his own 
 misery, and that of all whose hopes were set on him, yet 
 preached to by this strijjling scholar about duties and sacred 
 obligations! Well might he rue the day he ever set foot in 
 Paris. 
 
 Then, to his further annoyance, came a royal messenger 
 to invite the Baron de Ribaumont to join the expedition to 
 Montpipeau. Of course he must go, and his tutor must be 
 left behind, and who could tell into what mischief he might 
 not be tempted! 
 
 3
 
 (f8 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 Here, Tiowever, Sidney gave the poor chaplain some com- 
 fort. He beheved that no ladies were to be of the party, 
 and that the gentlemen were chiefly of the king's new 
 friends among the Huguenots, such as Coligny, his son-in- 
 law Teligny, Eochefoucauld, and the like, among whom 
 the young gentleman could not fall into any very serious 
 harm, and might very possibly be influenced against a 
 Eoman Catholic wife. At any rate, he would be out of the 
 way, and unable to take any dangerous steps. 
 
 This same consideration so annoyed Berenger that he 
 would have declined the invitation, if royal invitations could 
 have been declined. And hi the morning, before setting 
 out, he dressed himself point device, and with Osbert be- 
 hind him marched down to the Croix de Lorraine, to call 
 npon the Chevalier de Ribaumont. He had a very line 
 speech at his tongue's end when he set out, but a good deal 
 of it had evaporated when he reached the hotel, and perhaps 
 he was not very sorry not to find the old gentleman 
 within. 
 
 On his return, he indited a note to the chevalier, ex- 
 plaining that he had now seen his wife, Mme. la Baronne 
 de Eibaumont, and had come to an understanding with 
 her, by which he found that it was under a mistake that 
 the aj) plication to the Pope had been signed, and that they 
 should, therefore, follow it up with a protest, and act as if 
 no such letter had been sent. 
 
 Berenger showed this letter to Walsingham, who, though 
 much concerned, could not forbid his sending it. " Poor 
 lad," he said to the tutur; " 'tis an excellently writ billet 
 for one so young. I would it were in a wiser cause. But 
 he has fttirly the bit between his teeth, and there is no 
 checking him while he has this show of right on his side." 
 
 And poor Mr. Adderley could only beseech Mr. Sidney to 
 take care of him. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 THE queen's pastoral. 
 
 Either very gravely gay, 
 Or very gayly grave. 
 
 W. M. Pkaed. 
 
 Moftpipeau, though in the present day a suburb of 
 Paris, was in the sixteenth century far enough from the
 
 THB CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 67 
 
 city to form a sylvan retreat, where Charles IX. could snatch 
 a short respite from the intrigues of his court, under pre- 
 text of enjoying his favorite sport. Surrounded with his 
 favored associates of the Huguenot party, he seemed to 
 breathe a purer atmosphere, and to yield himself up to en- 
 joyment greater than perhaps his sad life had ever known. 
 
 He rode among his gentlemen, and the brilliant cavalcado 
 joassed through poplar-shaded roads, clattered through vil- 
 lages, and threaded their way througli bits of forest still left 
 for the royal chase. The people thi'onged out of their 
 houses, and shouted not only " Vive le Roy," but " Vive 
 FAmiral,^' and more than once the cry was added, 
 *' Spanish war, or civil war!'' The heart of France was, if 
 not with the lieformed, at least against Spain and the Lor- 
 rainers, and Sidney perceived, from the conversation of the 
 gentlemen round him, that the present expedition had 
 been devised less for the sake of the sport, than to enable 
 the king to take measures for emancipating himself from 
 the thralldom of his mother, and engaging the country in a 
 war against Philip H. Sidney listened, but Eerenger 
 chafed, feeling only that he was being further carried out 
 of reach of his explanation with his kindred. And thus 
 they arrived at Montpipeau, a tower, tall and narrow, like 
 all French designs, but expanded on the ground-floor by 
 wooden buildings capable of containing the numerous train 
 of a royal hunter, and surrounded by an extent of waste 
 land, without fine trees, though with covert for deer, boars, 
 and wolves sufiicient for sport to royalty and death to 
 peasantry. Charles seemed to sit more erect in his saddle, 
 and to drink in joy with every breath of the thyme-scented 
 breeze, from the moment his horse bounded on the hollow- 
 sounding turf; and when he leaped to the ground, with the 
 elastic spring of youth, he held out his hands to Sidney and 
 to Teligny, crying, " Welcome, my friends. Here I am in- 
 deed a king!'' 
 
 It was a lovely summer evening, early in August, and 
 Charles bade the sup^jer to be spread under the elms that 
 shaded a green lawn in front of the chateau. Etiquette was 
 here so far I'elaxed as to permit the sovereign to dine with 
 his suite, and tables, chairs and benches were brought out, 
 drapery festooned in the trees to keep off sun and wind, the 
 king lay down in the fern and let his happy dogs fondle 
 ■ him, and as a herd-girl passed along a vista in the distance.
 
 68 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 driving her goats before her, Pliilip Sidney marveled 
 whether it was not even thus in Arcadia. 
 
 Presently there was a sound of horses trampling, wheels 
 moving, a party of gayly gilded archers of the guard jingled 
 up, and in their midst was a coach. Berenger's heart 
 seemed to leap at once to his lips, as a glimpse of ruffs, 
 hats, and silks dawned on him through the windows. 
 
 The king rose from his lair among the fern, the admiral 
 stood forward, all heads were bared, and from the coach- 
 door alighted the young queen; no longer pale, subdued, 
 and indifferent, but with a face shining with girlish delight, 
 as she held out her hand to the admiral. " Ah! this is 
 well, this is beautiful,'^ she exclaimed; "it is like our 
 hajDpy chases in the Tyrol. Ah, sire!" to the king, " how 
 I thank yo^^ for letting me be with you. " 
 
 After her majesty descended her gentleman-usher. Then 
 came the lady-in-waiting, Mme. de Sauve, the wife of the 
 state secretary in attendance on Charles, and a triumphant, 
 coquettish beauty, then a fat, good-humored Austrian dame, 
 always called Mme. la Comtesse, because her German name 
 was unpronounceable, and without whom the queen never 
 stirred, and lastly a little figure, rounded yet shght, slender 
 yet soft and ]3lump, with a kitten-like alertness and grace 
 of motion, as she sjorung out, collected the queen's proper- 
 ties of fan, kerchief, 230uncet-box, mantle, etc., and disap- 
 peared into the chateau, without Berenger's being sure of 
 anything but that her little black hat had a rose-colored 
 feather in it. 
 
 The queen was led to a chair and placed under one of the 
 largest trees, and there Charles presented to her such of his 
 gentlemen as she was not yet acquainted with, the Baron de 
 Eibaumont among the rest. 
 
 " I have heard of Monsieur de Eibaumont," she said, in 
 a tone that made the color mantle in his fair cheek; and 
 with a sign of her hand she detained him at her side till the 
 king had strolled away with Mme. la Sauve, and no one 
 remained near but her German countess. Then changing 
 her tone to one of confidence, which the high-bred homeli- 
 ness of her Austrian manner rendered inexpressibly engag- 
 ing, she said, " I must apologize, monsieur, for the giddi- 
 ness of my sister-in-law, which I fear caused you some 
 embarrassment. ' ' 
 
 *' Ah, madame," said Berenger, kneeling on one knee as
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. G9 
 
 she addressed him, and his heart bounding with wild, un- 
 defined hope, " I can not be grateful enough. It was that 
 which led to my being undeceived/' 
 
 " It was true, then, that you were mistaken ?'' said the 
 queen. 
 
 " Treacherously deceived, madame, by those whose in- 
 terest it is to keep us apart," said Berenger, coloring with 
 indignation; " they imposed my other cousin on me as my 
 wife, and caused her to think me cruelly neglectful. " 
 
 '' I know," said the queen. " Yet Mademoiselle de 
 Ribaumont is far more admired than my little blackbird. " 
 
 " That may be, madame, but not by me." 
 
 " Yet it is true that you came to break off the marriage?^' 
 
 " Y"es, madame," said Berenger, honestly, "but I had 
 not seen her." 
 
 " And now?'' said the queen, smiling. 
 
 " I would rather die than give her i\j)," said Berenger. 
 *' Oh, madame, help us of your grace. Every one is trying 
 to part us, every one is arguing against us, but she is my 
 own true wedded wife, and if you will but give her to me, 
 all will be wen." 
 
 " I like you. Monsieur de Eibaumont," said the queen, 
 looking him full in the face. " Y^ou are like our own honest 
 Germans at my home, and I think you mean all you sa}''. 
 I had much rather my dear little Nid-de-Merle were with 
 you than left here, to become like all the others. She is a 
 good little LieUing — how do you call it in French? She 
 has told told me all, and truly I would help you with all 
 my heart, but it is not as if I were the queen-mother. Y"ou 
 must have recourse to the king, who loves you well, and at 
 my request included you in the hunting-party. " 
 
 Berenger could only kiss her hand in token of earnest 
 thanks before the repast was announced, and the king came 
 to lead her to the table sjjread beneath the trees. The 
 whole party supped together, but Berenger could have only 
 a distant view of his little wife, looking very demure and 
 grave by the side of the admiral. 
 
 But when the meal was ended, there was a loitering in 
 the woodland jjaths, amid heathy openings or glades 
 trimmed into discreet wildness fit for royal rusticity; the 
 sun set in parting glory on one horizon, the moon rising in 
 crimson majesty on the other. A musician at intervals 
 touched the guitar, and sung Spanish or Italian airs, whose
 
 70 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 soft or quaint melody came dreamily through the trees. 
 Then it was that with beating heart Berenger stole up to 
 the maiden as she stood behind the queen, and ventured to 
 whisper her iiame and clasp her hand. 
 
 She turned, their eyes met, and she let him lead her 
 apart into the wood. It was not like a lover's tryst, it was 
 more like the contiraiation of their old childish terms, only 
 that he treated her as a thing of his own, that he was bound 
 to secure and to guard, and she received him as her own 
 lawful but tardy protector, to be treated with perfect reli' 
 ance but with a certain playful resentment. 
 
 " You will not run away from me now," he said, making 
 full prize of her hand and arm. 
 
 " Ah! is not she the dearest and best of queens?^' and the 
 large eyes were lifted up to him in such frank seeking of 
 sympathy that he could see into the depths of their clear 
 darkness. 
 
 "It is her doing then. Though, Eustacie, wheii I knew 
 the truth, not flood nor fire should kee]) me long from you, 
 my heart, my love, my wife.'^ 
 
 " What! wife in spite of those villainous letters?'' she 
 said, trying to pout. 
 
 " Wife forever, inseparably! Only you must be able to 
 swear that you knew nothing of the one that brougbt me 
 here. " 
 
 " Poor me! No, indeed! There was Celine carried off 
 at fourteen, Madame de Blanchet a bride at fifteen; all 
 marrying hither and thither; and I — " she pulled a face 
 irresistibly droll — "I growing old enough to dress St. 
 Catherine's hair, and wondering where was Monsieur le 
 Baron." 
 
 " They thought me too young," said Berenger, " to take 
 on me the cares of life." 
 
 " So they were left to me?" 
 
 " Cares! what cares have you but finding the queen's 
 fan?" 
 
 " Little you know!" she said, half contemptuous, half 
 mortified. 
 
 " Nay, pardon me, ?)ia inle. Who has troubled you?" 
 
 " Ah! you would call it nothing to be beset by Narcisse, 
 to be told one's husband is faithless, till one half believes it; 
 to be looked at by ugly eyes; to be liable to be teased any
 
 THE THAPLET OP PEARLS. 7l 
 
 day by Monsieur, or worse, by that mocking ape, Monsieur 
 crAlen(;on, and to have nobody who can or will hinder it/' 
 
 She was sobbing by this time, and he exchiimed, " Ah, 
 would that I could revenge all! Never, never shall it be 
 again! What blessed grace has guarded you through all?" 
 
 " Did I not belong to you?'' she said exultingly. " And 
 had not Sister Monique, yes, and Monsieur le Baron, striven 
 hard to make me good? Ah, how kind he was!" 
 
 *' My father? Yes, Eustacie, he loved you to the last. 
 He bade me, on his death-bed, give you his own Book of 
 Psalms, and tell you he had al ways loved and prayed for 
 you." 
 
 " Ah! his Psalms! I shall love them! Even at Bellaise, 
 when first we came there, we used to sing them, but the 
 Mother Abbess went oat visiting, and when she came back 
 she said they were heretical. And Soeur Monique would 
 not let me say the texts he taught me, but I would not 
 forget them. 1 say them often in my heart." 
 
 " Then," he cried joyfully, " you will willingly embrace 
 my religion?" 
 
 " Be a Huguenot?" she said distastefully. 
 
 *' I am not precisely a Huguenot; I do not love them," 
 he answered hastily; " but all shall be made clear to you at 
 my home in England. " 
 
 " England!" she said. ''Must wq hve in England? 
 Away from every one?" 
 
 " Ah, they will love yon so much! I shall make you so 
 happy there," he answered. " There you will see what it 
 is to be true and trustworthy. " 
 
 " I had rather live at Chateau Leurre, or my own Nid- 
 de-Merle," she replied. "There I should see Soeur 
 Monique, and my aunt, the abbess, and we would liave the 
 peasants to dance in the castle court. Oh! if you could 
 but see the orchards at Le Bocage, you would never want to 
 go away. And we could come now and then to see my dear 
 queen. " 
 
 " I am glad at least you would not live at court." 
 
 " Oh, no, I have been more unhappy here than ever I 
 knew could be borne." 
 
 And a very few words from him drew out all that had 
 happened to her since they parted. Her father had sent 
 her to Bellaise, a convent founded by the first of the 
 Angevin branch, which was presided over by his sister, and
 
 73 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 where Diane ■was also educated. The good Sister Monique 
 had been mistress of the pcnsionnaires, and had evidently 
 taken much pains to keep her charge innocent and devout. 
 Diane had been taken to court about two years before, but 
 Eustacie had remained at the convent till some three 
 months since, when she had been appointed maid-of-honor 
 to the recently married queen; and her uncle had fetched 
 her from Anjou, and had informed her at the same time 
 that her young husband had turned Englishman and here- 
 tic, and that after a few formalities had been complied 
 with, she would become the wife of her cousin Narcisse. 
 Now there was no person whom she so much dreaded as 
 Narcisse, and when Berenger spoke of him as a feeble foj^, 
 she shuddered as though she knew him to have something 
 of the tiger. 
 
 ''Do you remember Benoit?" she said; " poor Benoit, 
 who came to Normandy as my laqnais f When I went back 
 to Anjou he married a girl from Leurre, and went to aid 
 liis father at the farm. The j)Oor fellow had imbibed the 
 baron's doctrine — he spread it. It was reported that there 
 was a nest of Huguenots on the estate. My cousin came 
 to break it tip with his gendarmes. Oh, Berenger, he 
 would hear no entreaties, he had no mercy; he let them 
 assemble on Sunday, that they might be all together. He 
 fired the house; shot down those who escaped; if a prisoner 
 were made, gave him up to the Bishop's Court. Benoit, 
 my jDOor good Benoit, who used to lead my jjalf rey, was first 
 wounded, then tried, and burned— burned in the place at 
 LuQon! I heard Narcisse laugh — laugh as he talked of the 
 cries of the poor creatures in the conventicle. My own 
 people, who loved me! I was but twelve years old, but 
 even then the wretch would pay me a half-mocking court- 
 esy, as one destined to him; and the more I disdained him 
 and said I belonged to you, the more both he and my 
 aunt, the abbess, smiled, as though they had their bird m 
 a cage; but they left me in peace till my uncle brought me 
 to court, and then all began again; and when they said 
 you gave me ujd, I had no hope, not even of a convent. 
 But ah, it is all over now, and I am so happy! You are 
 grown so gentle and so beautiful, Bereuger, and so much 
 taller than I ever figured you to myself, and you look as if 
 you could take me up in your arms, and let no harm hap- 
 pen to me. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 7l] 
 
 " Never, never shall it!" said Berenger, feeling all man- 
 hood, strength, and love stir within him, and growing many 
 years in heart in that hapj)y moment. " My sweet little 
 faithful wife, never fear again now you are mine. " 
 
 Alas! poor children. They were a good way from the 
 security they had begun to fancy for themselves. Early 
 the next morning, Bei'enger went in his straightforward 
 ■way to the king, thanked him, and requested his sanction 
 for at once prodncing themselves to the court as M. le 
 Baron and Mme. la Baronne de Ribaumont. 
 
 At this Charles swore a great oath, as one in perplexity, 
 and bade him not go so fast. 
 
 " See here," said he, with the rude expletives only too 
 habitual with him; " she is a pretty little girl, and she and 
 her lands are much better with an honest man. like you 
 than with that pcndard of a cousin; but you see he is bent 
 on having her, and he belongs to a cut-throat crew that 
 halt at nothing. I would not answer for your life, if you 
 tempted him so strongly to rid himself of you." 
 
 " My own sword, sire, can guard my life.'" 
 
 " Plague upon your sword! What does the foolish youth 
 think it would do a^gainst half a dozen poniards and jjistols 
 in a lane black as hell's mouth?" 
 
 The foolish youth was thinking how could a king so full 
 of fiery words and strange oaths bear to make such an 
 avowal respecting his own caj)ital and his own courtiers. 
 All he could do was to bow and reply, " Nevertheless, sire, 
 at whatever risk, I can not relinquish my wife; I would 
 take her at once to the embassador's." 
 
 " How, sir!" interrupted Charles, haughtily and angrily, 
 *' if you forget that you are a French nobleman still, I 
 should remember it! The embassador may protect his 
 own countrymen — none else. " 
 
 " I entreat your majesty's pardon," said Berenger, anx- 
 ious to retract his false step. '' It was your goodness and 
 the gracious queen's that made me hope for your sanc- 
 tion. " 
 
 " All the sanction Charles de Valois can give is yours, 
 and welcome," said the king, hastily. "The sanction of 
 the King of France is another matter I To say the truth, 
 I see no way out of the affair but an elopement." 
 
 " Sire!" exclaimed the astonished Berenger, whose strict-
 
 ^4 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 ly disciplined education had little prepared him for such 
 counsel. 
 
 *' Look you! If I made you known as a wedded pair, the 
 chevalier and his son would not only assassinate you, but 
 down on me would come my brother, and my mothei, and 
 Monsieur de Guise, and all their crew, veritably for giving 
 the prize out of the mouth of their satellite, but nominallj' 
 for disregarding the Pope, favoring a heretical marriage, 
 and I know not what, but, as things go here, I should 
 assuredly get the worst of it; and if you made safely oft 
 with your prize, no one could gainsay you — I need know 
 nothing about it — and lady and lands would be yours with- 
 out dispute. You might ride off from the skirts of the forest; 
 I would lead the hunt that way, and the three days' riding 
 would bring you to Normandy, for you had best cross tc 
 England immediately. When she is once there, owned by 
 your kindred, Monsieur le Cousin may gnash his teeth as 
 he will, he must make the best of it for the sake of the 
 honor of his house, and you can safely come back and raise 
 her people and yours to follow the Oriflamme when it takes 
 the field against Spain. What! you are still discontented? 
 Speak out! Plain speaking is a treat not often reserved for 
 me. ' ' 
 
 " Sire, lam most grateful for your kindness, but I should 
 greatly j^refer going straightforward. " 
 
 " Peste! Well is it said that a blundering Englishman 
 goes always right before him! There, then! -As your king 
 on the one hand, as the friend who has brought you and 
 your wife together, sir, it is my command that you do not 
 compromise me and embroil greater matters than you can 
 understand by publicly claiming this girl. Privately I will 
 aid you to the best of my ability; publicly, I command you, 
 for my sake, if you heed not your own, to be silent!" 
 
 Berenger sought out Sidney, who smiled at his sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Do you not see,'' he said, " that the king is your friend, 
 and would be very glad to save the lady's lands from the 
 Guisards, but that he can not say so; he can only befriend 
 a Huguenot by stealth. " 
 
 *' 1 would not be such a king for worlds!" 
 
 However, Eustacie was enchanted. It was like a prince 
 and princess in Mere Perinne's fairy-tales. Could they go 
 £ike a shepherd and shepherdess? She had no fears — no
 
 (THE CHAPLET of PEARLS. ^5 
 
 scruples. Would she not be with her husband? It was 
 the most charming frolic in the world. So the king 
 seemed to think it, though he was determined to call it all 
 the queen's doing — the first intrigue of her own, making 
 her like all the rest of us — the queen's little comedy. He 
 undertook to lead the chase as far as j^ossible in the direc- 
 tion of Normandy, when the young pair might ride on to an 
 inn, meet fresh horses, and proceed to Chateau Leurre, 
 and thence to England. He would himself provide a safe- 
 conduct, whicli, as Berenger suggested, would represent 
 them as a young Englishman taking home his young wife. 
 Eustacie wanted at least to masquerade as an Englishwom- 
 an, and played off all the fragments of the language she 
 had caught as a child, but Berenger only laughed at her, 
 and said they just fitted the French bride. It was veiy 
 pretty to laugh at Eustacie; she made such a droll pretense 
 at pouting with her rosebud lips, and her merry velvety 
 eyes belied them so drolly. 
 
 Sueli was to be the queen's pastoral; but when Elizabeth 
 found the responsibility so entirely thrown on her, she be- 
 gan to loolv grave and frightened. It was no doubt much 
 more than she had intended when she brought about the 
 meeting between the young people; and the king, who had 
 planned the elopement, seemed still resolved to make all 
 appear her affair. She looked all day more like the grave, 
 spiritless being she was at court than like the bright young 
 rural queen of the evening before, and she w^as. long in her 
 little oratory chapel in the evening. Berenger, who was 
 waiting in the hall with the other Huguenot gentlemen, 
 thought her devotions interminable since they delayed all 
 her ladies. At length, however, a page came up to him, 
 and said in a low voice, " The queen desires the jDresehce cf 
 Monsieur le Baron de Ribauniont. " 
 
 He followed the messenger, and found himself in the 
 little chapel, before a gayly adorned altar, and numerous 
 little shrines and iiiches round. Sidney would have dread- 
 ed a surreptitious attempt to make him conform, but 
 Berenger had no notion of such 23erils — he only saw that 
 Eustacie was standing by the queen's chair; the king sat 
 carelessly, perhaps a little sullenly, in another chair, and a 
 kindly-looking Austrian priest, the queen's confessor, held 
 a book in his hand. 
 
 The queen came to meet him. "For my sake/ 'she
 
 76 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 said, with all lier sweetness, *' to ease my mind, I should 
 like to see my little Eustacie made entirely your own ere 
 you go. Father Meinhard tells me it is safer that, when 
 the parties were under twelve years old, the troth should be 
 again exchanged. No other ceremony is needed." 
 
 " 1 desire nothing but to have her made indissolubly 
 my own,' ' said Bereiiger, bowiug. 
 
 " And the king permits,' ' added Elizabeth. 
 
 The king growled out, " It is your comedy, madame; I 
 meddle not. " 
 
 The Austrian priest had no common language with 
 Berenger but Latin. He asked a few questions, and on 
 hearing the answers, declared that the sacrament of mar- 
 riage had been complete, but that — as was often done in 
 snch cases — he would once more hear the troth-plight of 
 the young pair. The brief formula was therefore at once 
 exchanged — the king, when the qneon looked entreatingly 
 at him, rousing himself to make the bride over to Berenger. 
 As soon as the vows had been made, in the briefest manner, 
 the king broke in boisterously: " There, you are twice 
 married, to j)lease madame there; but hold your tongues 
 all of you about this scene in the play. " 
 
 Then almost jiushing Eustacie over to Berenger, he add- 
 ed, " There she is! take your wife, sir: but mind, she was 
 as mucli yours before as she is now." 
 
 But for all Berenger had said about " his wife," it was 
 only now that he really /e/^ her his own, and became hus- 
 band rather than lover — man instead of boy. She was en- 
 tirely his own now, and he only desired to be away with 
 her; but some days' delay was necessary. A chase on the 
 scale of the one that was to favor their evasion could not be 
 got up without some notice; and, moreover, it was neces- 
 sary to procure money, for neither Sidney nor Eibauniont 
 had more than enough with them for the needful liberahties 
 to the king's servants and huntsmen. Indeed Berenger 
 had spent all that remained in liis purse uj^on the wares of 
 an Italian i^eddler whom he and Eustacie met in the woods, 
 and whose gloves "as sweet as fragrant posies," fans, 
 scent-boxes, pocket mirrors, Genoa wire, Venice chains, 
 and other toys, afforded him the means of making up the 
 gifts that he wished to carry home to his sisters; and Eus- 
 tacie's counsel was merrily given in the choice. And when 
 the vender began with a meaning smile to recommend to
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF PEAKLS. 77 
 
 the young pair themselves a little silver-netted heart as a 
 love-token, and it turned out that all Berenger's money 
 was gone, so that it could not he bought without giving. up 
 the scented casket destiued for Lucy, Eustacie turned with 
 her sweetest proudest smile, and said, " No, no; I will not 
 have it; what do we two want with love-tokens now?" 
 
 Sidney had taken the youthful and romantic view of the 
 ease, and considered himself to be taking the besb possible 
 care of his young friend, by enabling him to deal honorably 
 with so charming a little wife as Eustacie. Embassador 
 and tutor would doubtless be very angry; but Sidney could 
 judge for himself of the lady, and he therefore threw him- 
 self into her interests, and sent his servant back to Paris to 
 procure the necessary sum for the journey of Master Henry 
 Berenger and Mistress Mary, his wife. Sidney was, on his 
 return alone to Paris, to explain all to the elders, and 
 pacify them as best he could ; and his servant was already 
 the bearer of a letter fi'om Berenger that was to be sent at 
 once to England with AValsingham^s dis2:)atches, to prepare 
 Lord Walwyn for the arrival of the runaways. The poor 
 boy labored to be impressively caltn and reasonable in his 
 explanation of the misrejjresentation, and of his strong 
 grounds for assuming his rights, with his j)ersuasion that 
 his wife would readily join the English Church — a consider- 
 ation that he knew would greatly smooth the way for her. 
 Indeed, his own position was impregnable: nobody could 
 blame him for taking his own wife to himself, and he was 
 so sure of her charms, that he troubled himself very little 
 about the impression she might make on his kindred. If 
 they loved her, it was all right; if not, he could take her 
 back to his own castle, and win fame and honor under the 
 banner of France in the Low Countries. As to Lucy This- 
 tlewood, she was far too discreet to feel any disappointment 
 or displeasure; or if she sliould, it was her own fault and 
 that of his mother, for all her life she had known him to 
 be married. So he finished his letter with a message that 
 the bells should be ready to ring, and that wdien Philip 
 heard three guns fired on the coast, he might light the big 
 beacon jjile above the combe. 
 
 Meantime " the Queen's Pastoral " was much relished 
 by all the spectators. The state of things was only avowed 
 to Charles, Elizabeth, and Philip Sidney, and even the last 
 did not know of the renewed troth which the king chose to
 
 78 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 treat as sncli a secret; but no one liacl any doubt of the 
 mutual relations of M. de Eibaumont and Mile, de Nid-de- 
 Merle, and their dream of bliss was like a pastoral for the 
 special diversion of the holiday of Montpipeau. The trans- 
 parency of their indifference in company, their meeting- 
 eyes, their trysts with the secrecy of an ostrich, were the 
 subjects of constant amusement to the elders, more 
 especially as the shyness, blushes, and caution Avere much 
 more on the side of the young husband than on that of the 
 lady. Fresh from her convent, sim23le with childishness 
 and innocence, it was to her only the natural completion of 
 her life to bo altogether Berenger's, and the brief conceal- 
 ment of their full union added a certain romantic enchant- 
 ment, which added to her exultation in her victory over her 
 cruel kindred. She had been upon her own mind, poor 
 child, for her few weeks of court life, but not long 
 enough to make her grow older, though just so long 
 as to make the sense of having her own protector with her 
 doubly precious. He, on the other hand, though full of 
 happiness, did also feel constantly deepening on him the 
 sense of the charge and responsibility he had assumed, 
 hardly knowing how. The more dear Eustacie became to 
 him, the more she rested on him and became entirely his, 
 the more his boyhood and insouciance drifted aw^ay behind 
 him; and while he could hardly bear to have his darling a 
 moment out of his sight, the less he could endure any re- 
 mark or jest upon his affection for her. His home had 
 been a refined one, where Cecily's convent purity seemed 
 to diffuse an atmosphere of modest reserve such ai:; did not 
 prevail in the court of the Maiden Queen herself, and the 
 lad of eighteen had not seen enough of the outer M'orld to 
 have rubbed off any of that grace. His seniority to his 
 little wife seemed to show itself chiefly in his being jDut out 
 of countenance for her, when she was too innocent and too 
 proud of her secret matronhood to understand or resent 
 the wit. 
 
 Little did he know that this was the ballet-like interlude 
 in a great and terrible tragedy, whose_ first act was being 
 played out on the stage where they schemed and sported, 
 like their own little drama, which was all tbe world to 
 them, and nothing to the others. Berenger knew indeed 
 that the admiral was greatly rejoiced that the Nid-de-Merle 
 estates should go into Protestant hands, and that the old
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 70 
 
 gentleman lost no opj^ortunity of impressing on him that 
 they were a heavy trust, to be used for the benefit of " the 
 religion/' and for tlie support of the king in his better 
 mind. But it may be feared that he did not give a very 
 attentive ear to all this. He did not like to think of those 
 estates; he would gladly have left them all to Narcisse, so 
 that he might have their lady, and though quite willing to 
 Aviii his sjDurs under Charles and Coligny against the Span- 
 iard, his heart and head were far too full to take in the 
 web of polities. Sooth to say, the elojaement in prospect 
 seemed to him infinitely more important than JPope or 
 Spaniard, Guise or Huguenot, and Coligny observed with 
 a sigh to Teligny that lie was a good boy, but nothing but 
 the merest boy, with eyes open only to himself. 
 
 AVhen Charles undertook to rehearse their escape with 
 them, and the queen drove out in a little high-wheeled litter 
 with Mme. la Comtesse, while Mme. de Sauve and Eus- 
 tacie were mounted on gay j^alfreys with the pommeled 
 side-saddle lately invented by tlie queen-mother, Berenger, 
 as he watched the fearless horsemanship and graceful bear- 
 ing of his newly won wife, had no si^eculations to spend on 
 the thoughtful face of the admiral. And when at the out- 
 skirts of the wood the king's bewildering hunting-horn — 
 sounding as it Avere now here, now there, now low, now 
 high — called every attendant to hasten to its summons, 
 leaving the young squire and damsel errant with a long 
 winding high-banked lane before them, they reckoned the 
 dispersion to be all for their sakes, and did not note, as did 
 Sidney's clear eye, that when the entire company had come 
 straggling home, it was the king who came up with Mme. 
 de Sauve almost the last; and a short sjiace after, as if not 
 to ajDpear to have been with him, appeared the admiral and 
 liis son-in-law. 
 
 Sidney also missed one of the admiral's most trusted at- 
 tendants, and from this and other symptoms he formed his 
 conclusions that the king had scattered his followers as 
 much for the sake of an unobserved conference with 
 Coligny as for the convenience of the lovers, and that let- 
 ters had been dispatched in consequence of that meeting. 
 
 Those letters were indeed of a kind to change the face of 
 affairs in France. Marshal Strozzi, then commanding in 
 the south-west, was bidden to embark at La Eochelle in the 
 last week of August, to hasten to the succor of the Prince
 
 80 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 of Orange against SjDain, and letters were dispatched by 
 Coligny to all the Huguenot partisans bidding them assem- 
 ble at Melun on the 3d of September^ when they would be 
 in the immediate neighborhood of the courts which was 
 bound for Fontainebleau. Was the star of the Guises 
 indeed waning? Was Charles about to escape from their 
 hands, and commit himself to an honest, high-minded 
 policy, in which he might have been able to jjurify his 
 national Church, and win back to her those whom her cor- 
 ruptions had driven to seek truth and morality beyond her 
 pale? 
 
 Alas! there Vv^as a bright pair of eyes that saw more than 
 Philip Sidney's, a pair of ears that heard more, a tongue 
 and pen less faithful to guard a secret. 
 
 CHAPTER VIH. 
 
 ''le BROUILLON.'" 
 
 But never more the same two sister pearls 
 Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Berenger was obliged to crave permission from the king 
 to spend some hours in riding with Osbert to the first hostel 
 on their way, to make arrangements for the relay of horses 
 that was to meet them there, and for the reception of Vero- 
 nique, Eustacie's maid, who was to be sent off very early 
 in the morning on a pillion behind Osbert, taking with her 
 the articles of dress that would be wanted to change her 
 mistress from the huntress maid-of-honor to the English 
 dame. 
 
 It was not long after he had been gone that a sound of 
 wheels and trampling horses was heard in one of the forest 
 drives. Charles, who was amusing himself with shooting 
 at a mark together with Sidney and Teligny, handed his 
 weapon to an attendant, and came up with looks of restless 
 anxiety to his queen, who was i^laced in her chair under the 
 tree, with the admiral and her ladies round her, as judges 
 of the prize. 
 
 " Here \& le bro^iiUon," he muttered. "I thought we 
 had been left in peace too long. " 
 
 Elizabeth, who Brantome says was water, while her hus--
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF PEARLS. 81 
 
 band was fire, tried to murmur some hopeful suggestion; 
 and poor little Eastacie, claspiiig her hands, could scarcely 
 refrain from uttering the cry, " Oh, it is my uncle! Do 
 not let him take me!'^ 
 
 The next minute there ap]ieared four horses greatly heated 
 and jaded, drawing one of the court coaches; and as it 
 stopped at the castle gate, two ladies became visible within 
 it — the portly form of Queen Catherine, and on the back 
 seated the graceful figure of Diane de Ribaumont. 
 
 Charles swore a great oath under his breath. He made 
 a step forward, but then his glance falling on Eustacie's 
 face, which had flushed to the rosiest hue of the carnation, 
 he put his finger upon his lip with a menacing air, and 
 then advanced to greet his mother, followed by his gentle- 
 men. 
 
 " Fear not, my dear child, ^' said the young queen, tak- 
 ing Eustacie's arm as she rose for the same purpose. 
 " Obey the king, and he will take care that all goes well. " 
 
 The gentle Elizabeth was, however, the least regarded 
 member of the royal family. Her mother-in-law liad not 
 even waited to greet her, but had hurried the king into his 
 cabinet, with a precipitation that made the yoimg queen's 
 tender heart conclude that some dreadful disaster had 
 occurred, and before Mile, de Ribaumont had had time to 
 make her reverence, she exclaimed, breathlessly, " Oh, is 
 it ill news? Not from Vienna}"' 
 
 " No, no, madame; reassure yourself," replied Diane; 
 '' it is merely that her majesty being on the way to Mon- 
 ceaux with mesdames turned out of her road to make a fly- 
 ing visit to your graces, and endeavor to persuade you to 
 make her party complete. " 
 
 Elizabeth looked as if questioning with herself if this 
 Would possibly be the whole explanation. Monceaux was a 
 castle belonging to the queen dowager at no great distance 
 from Montpipeau, but there had been no intention of leav- 
 ing Paris before the wedding, which was fixed for the 
 seventeenth of August, and the bridegroom was daily ex- 
 pected. She asked who was the party at Monceaux, and 
 was told that Mme. de Nemours had gone thither the 
 evening before, with her son, M. de Guise, to make ready, 
 and that monsieur was escorting thither his two sisters, 
 Mme. de Lorraine and Mme. Marguerite. The queen- 
 mother had set out before them very early in the morning.
 
 83 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 "You must have made great speed/' eaicl ElizalDeth; 
 " it is scarcely two o'clock." 
 
 " Truly we did, madame; two of our horses even died 
 upon the road; but the queen was anxious to find the king 
 ere he should set off on one of his long chases. " 
 
 Diane, at every spare moment, kejDt her eyes interroga- 
 tively fixed on her cousin, and evidently expected that the 
 taciturn queen, to whom a long conversation, in any 
 language but Spanish, was always a grievance, would soon 
 dismiss them both; and Eustacie did not know whether to 
 be thankful or impatient, as Elizabeth, with tardy, hesitat- 
 ing, mentally translated speech, inquired into every cir- 
 cumstance of the death of the poor horses, and then into 
 all the court gossip, which she was currently supposed 
 neither to hear nor understand; and then bethought herself 
 that this good Mile, de Ribaumont could teach her that 
 embroidery stitch she had so long wished to learn. Taking 
 her arm, she entered the hall, and produced her work, so 
 as effectually to prevent any communication between the 
 cousins; Eustacie, meanwhile her heart clinging to her 
 friend, felt her eyes filling with tears at the thoughts of 
 how unkind her morrow's llight would seem without one 
 word of farewell or of confidence, and was ah-eady devising 
 tokens of tenderness to be left behind for Diane's consola- 
 tion, when the door of the cabinet opened, and Catherine 
 sailed down the stairs, with her peculiar gliding step and 
 sweep of dignity. The king followed her with a face of ir- 
 resolution and distress. He was evidently under her dis- 
 pleasure; but she advanced to the young queen with much 
 graciousness, and an air of matronly solicitude. 
 
 " My daughter," she said, " I have just assured the king 
 that I can not leave you in these damp forests. I could not 
 be responsible for the results of the exposure any longer. 
 It is for him to make his own arrangements, but I brought 
 my coach empty on purposes to transport you and your 
 ladies to Monceaux. The women may follow with the 
 mails. You can be ready as soon as the horses are har- 
 nessed. ' ' 
 
 Elizabeth was used to passiveness. She turned one in- 
 quiring look to her husband, but he looked sullen, and, 
 evidently cowed by his mother, uttered not a word. She 
 *ould only submit, and Catherine herself added that there 
 was room for Mme. de Sauve and Mile, de !Nid-de-Merle.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF I'EAKLS. 83 
 
 Mme. la Comtesse should follow! It was self-evident that 
 j^ropriety would not admit of the only demoiselle being left 
 behind among the gentlemen. Poor Eustacie, she looked 
 mutely round as if she ho23ed to escape! AVhat was the 
 other unkindness to this? And ever under the eyes of 
 Diane too, who followed her to their chamber, when she 
 went to prepare, so that she could not even leave a token 
 for him where he would have been most certain to find it. 
 Moments were few; but at the very last, while the queens 
 were being handed in the carriage, she caught the eye of 
 Philip Sidney, lie saw the appealing look, and came near. 
 She tried to laugh. " Here is my gage. Monsieur Sidney,'^ 
 she said, and held out a rose-colored knot of ribbon; then, 
 as he came near enough, she whispered imploringly three 
 of her few English words — 
 
 ''Giye to hi)))." 
 
 " I take the gage as it is meant," said Sidney, putting a 
 knee to the ground, and kissing the trembling fingers, ere 
 he handed her into the carriage. He smiled and waved his 
 hand as he met her earnest eyes. One bow contained a 
 scrap of paper pricked with needle-holes. Sidney woidd 
 not have made out those pricks for the whole world, even 
 had he been able to do more than hastily secure the token, 
 before the unhappy king, with a paroxysm of violent inter- 
 jections, demanded of him Avhether the Queen of England, 
 woman though she were, ever were so beset, and never 
 allowed a moment to herself; then, without giving time for 
 an answer, he flung away to his cabinet, and might be heard 
 pacing up and down there in a tempest of perplexity. He 
 came forth only to order his horse, and desire M. de Sauve 
 and a few grooms to be ready instantly to ride with him. 
 His face was full of pitiable perj)lexity — the smallest ob- 
 stacle was met with a savage oath; and he was evidently in 
 all the misery of a weak yet passionate nature, struggling 
 with impotent violence against a yoke that evidently mas- 
 tered it. 
 
 He flung a word to his guests that he should return ere 
 night, and they thus perceived that he did not intend their 
 dismissal. 
 
 " Poor youth," said C'oligny, mildly, " he will be 
 another being when we have him in our camp with the 
 King of Navarre for his coni2:)auion." 
 
 And then the admiral repaired to his chamber to write
 
 84 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 one of his many fond letters to the young wife of his old 
 age; while his son-in-law and Philip Sidney agreed to ride 
 on, so as to meet jooor young Eibaumont, and prepare him 
 for the blow that had befallen him personally, while they 
 anxiously debated what this sudden descent of the queen- 
 mother might portend. Teligny was ready to believe in 
 any evil intention on her joart, but he thought himself cer- 
 tain of the king^s real sentiments, and in truth Charles had 
 never treated any man with such confidence as this young 
 Huguenot noble, to whom he had told his opinion of each 
 of his counselors, and his complete distrust of all. That 
 pitying affection which clings to those who cling to it, as 
 well as a true French loyalty of heart, made Teligny fully 
 believe that however Catherine might struggle to regain 
 her ascendency, and whatever apjjarent relapses might be 
 caused by Charles's habitual subjection to her, yet the high 
 aspirations and strong sense of justice inherent in the king 
 were asserting themselves as his youth was passing into 
 manhood; and that the much desired war would enable 
 him to develojD all his higher qualities. Sidney listened, 
 partially agreed, talked of caution, and mused within him- 
 self whether violence might not sometimes be mistaken for 
 vigor. 
 
 Ere long, the merry cadence of an old English song fell 
 with a home-like sound upon Sidney's ear, and in another 
 moment they were in sight of Berenger, trotting joyously 
 along, with a bouquet of crimson and white heather- 
 blossoms in his hand, and his bright young face full of ex- 
 ultation in his arrangements. He shouted gayly as he saw 
 them, calling out, " I thought I should meet you! but I 
 wondered not to have heard the king's bugle-horn. Where 
 are the rest of the hunters?" 
 
 " Unfortunately we have had another sort of hunt to- 
 day,'^ said Sidney, who had ridden forward to meet him; 
 " and one that, I fear, will disquiet you greatly. '^ 
 
 " How! Not her uncle?" exclaimed Berenger. 
 
 •' No, cheer ujj, my friend, it was not she who was the 
 object of the chase; it was this unlucky king," he added, 
 speaking English, *' who has been run to earth by his 
 mother. ■" 
 
 " Nay, but what is that to me?" said Berenger, with im- 
 patient superiority to the affairs of the nation. " How does 
 it touch us?''
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 85 
 
 Sidney related the abstraction of the young queen and 
 her hidies, and then handed over the rose-colored token, 
 which Berenger took with vehement ardor; then his feat- 
 nres quivered as he read the needlc-i^ricked words — two 
 that he had playfully insisted on her speaking and sjielling 
 after him in his adopted tongue, then not vulgarized, but 
 the tenderest hi the language, " Sweet heart." That was 
 all, but to him they conveyed constancy to him and his, 
 whatever might betide, and an entreaty not to leave her to 
 her fate. 
 
 "My dearest! never!'' he muttered; then turning hastily 
 as he put the precious token into his bosom, he exclaimed, 
 " Are their women yet gone?" and being assured that they 
 were not departed when the two friends had set out, he 
 pushed his horse on at speed, so as to be able to send a re- 
 ply by Veronique. He was barely in time: the clumsy 
 wagon-like conveyance of the waiting-women stood at the 
 door of the castle, in course of being packed with the 
 queen's wardrobe, amid the janglings of lackeys, and ex- 
 230stulating cries oifcmmes de cliambre, all in the worst 
 possible humor at being crowded up with their natural ene- 
 mies, the household of the queen-mother. 
 
 Veronique, a round-faced Angevin girl — who, like her 
 lady, had not parted with all her rustic simjalicity and hon- 
 esty, and who had been necessarily taken into their confi- 
 dence — was standing apart from the wliirl of confusion, 
 holding the leashes of two or three little dogs that had been 
 confided to her care, that their keepers misfht with more 
 ease throw themselves into the meUe. Her face lighted up 
 as she saw the Baron de Ribaumont arrive. 
 
 "Ah, sir, madame will be so happy that I have seen 
 monsieur once more," she exclaimed under her breath, as 
 he approached her. 
 
 " Alas! there is not a moment to write," he said, look- 
 ing at the veliicle, already fast filling, " but give her these 
 flowers; they were gathered for her; give her ten thousand 
 thanks for her token. Tell her to hold firm, and that 
 neither king nor queen, bolt nor bar, shall keep me from 
 her. Tell her, our watchword is hope. " 
 
 The sharp eyes of the duenna of the queen's household, 
 a rigid Spanish dame, were already searching for stray 
 members of her flock, and Veronique had to hurry to her 
 place, while Berenger remained to hatch new plans, eacli
 
 86 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 wilder than the last, and torment himself with guessed 
 whether his project had been discovered. Indeed, there 
 were moments when he fancied tlie frustration of his pur- 
 pose the special object of Queen Catherine's journey, but 
 lie had the wisdom to keep any such suggestion to himself. 
 
 The king came back by su2:)per-time, looking no longer 
 in a state of indecision, but pale and morose. He spoke to 
 no one as he entered, and afterward took his place at the 
 head of the supjoer-table in silence, wliich he did not break 
 till the meal was nearly over. Then he said abruptly, 
 " Gentlemen, our party has been broken up, and I imagine 
 that after our great hunt to-morrow, no one will have any 
 objection to return to Paris. We shall have merrier sport 
 at Fontainebleau when this most troublesome of weddings 
 is over. " 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to bow acquiescence, 
 and the king again became grimly silent. After supper he 
 challenged Coligny to a game of chess, and not a word 
 passed during the protracted contest, either from the com- 
 batants or any other person in the hall. It was as if the 
 light had suddenly gone out to others besides the disap- 
 pointed and anxious Berenger, and a dull shadow had fall- 
 en on the place only yesterday so lively, joyous, and hope- 
 ful. 
 
 Berenger, chained by the etiquette of the royal pres- 
 ence, sat like a statue, his back against the wall, his arms 
 crossed on his breast, his eyes fixed, chewing the cud of the 
 memories of his dream of bliss, or striving to frame the 
 future to his will, and to decide what w^as the next reason- 
 able step he could take, or whether his irrejiressible longing 
 to ride straight off to Monceaux, claim his wife, and take 
 her on horseback behind him, were a mere impracticable 
 vision. 
 
 The king, having been checkmated twice out of three 
 times by the admiral, too honest a man not truly to accept 
 his declaration of not wanting courtly play, pushed away 
 the board, and was attended by them all to his coucher, 
 which was usually made in public; and the queen being ab- 
 sent, the gentlemen w^ere required to stand around him till 
 he was ready to fall asleep. He did not seem disposed to 
 talk, but begged Sidney to fetch his lute, and sing to him 
 some English airs that had taken his fancy much when 
 sung by Sidney and Berenger together.
 
 (THE CHAPLF.T OP PEAHLS. 87 
 
 Berenger felt as if they would choke him in his present 
 turbid state of resentful uncertainty; but even as the un- 
 happy young king spoke, it was with a heavy, restless 
 groan, as he added, " If you know any lullaby that will 
 give rest to a wretch tormented beyond bearing, let us 
 have it. " 
 
 "Alas, sire!" said the admiral, seeing that no perilous 
 ears remained in the room; " there are better and more 
 soothing words than any mundane melody/^ 
 
 ^'' Peste! My good father,'^ said the king petulantly, 
 " has not old Phli2:)ote, my nurse, rocked me to the sound 
 of your Marot^s Psalms, and croonQji her texts over me? I 
 tell you I do not want to think. I want what will drive 
 thought away — to dull — " 
 
 " Alas! what dulls slays," said the admiral. 
 
 " Let it. Nothing can be worse than the present," said 
 the wretched Charles; then, as if wishing to break away 
 from Coligny, he threw himself round toward Berenger, 
 and said, " Here; stoop down, Ribaumont; a word with 
 you. Your matters have gone uj:) the mountains, as the 
 Italians say, with mine. But never fear. Keep silence, 
 and you shall htive the bird i\\ your hand, only you must be 
 patient. Hold! I will make you and Monsieur Sidney 
 gentlemen of my bed-chamber, which will give you the 
 entree of the Louvre; and if you can not get her out of it 
 without an eclat, then you must be a much duller fellow 
 than half my court. Only that it is not their own wives 
 that they abstract. " 
 
 With this Berenger must needs content himself; and the 
 certainty of the poor king's good will did enable him to do 
 his part with Sidney in the songs that endeavored to soothe 
 the torments of the evil spirit which had on that day 
 effected a fresh lodgment in that weak, unwilling heart. 
 
 It was not till the memoirs of the secret actors in this 
 tragedy were brought to light that the key to these doings 
 was discovered. M. de Sauve, Charles's secretary, had dis- 
 closed his proceedings to his wife; she, flattered by the at- 
 tentions of the Duke of Anjou, betrayed thexn to him; and 
 the queen-mother, terrified at the change of policy, and the 
 loss of the power she had enjoyed for so many years, had 
 hurried to the spot. 
 
 Her influence over her son resembled the fascination of a 
 suake; once "within her reach he was unable to resist her;
 
 88 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 and when in their tete-a-tete she reproached him with ill- 
 faith toward her, prophesied the overthrow of the Church, 
 the desertion of his allies, the ruin of his throne, and finally 
 announced her intention of hiding her head in her own 
 hereditary estates in Auvergne, begging, as a last favor, 
 that he would give his brother time to quit France instead 
 of involving him in his own ruin, the poor young man^s 
 whole soul was in commotion. His mother knew her 
 strength, left the poison to work, and withdrew in displeas- 
 ure to Monceaux, sure that, as in elfect haj^pened, he would 
 not be long in following her, im25loring her not to abandon 
 him, and making an unconditional surrender of himself, his 
 conscience, and his friends into her hands. Duplicity was 
 60 entirely the element of the court, that, even while thus 
 yielding himself, it was as one checked, but continuing the 
 game; he still continued his connection with the Hugue- 
 nots, hoping to succeed in his aims by some future counter- 
 intrigue; and his real hatred of the court i^olicy, and the 
 genuine desire to make common cause tvith them, served 
 his motlier\s jjurpose comjjletely, since his cajolery thus be- 
 came sincere. Her purpose was, jDi'obably, not yet formed. 
 It was power that she loved, and ho23ed to secure by the 
 intrigues she had played off all her life; but she herself was 
 in the hands of an infinitely more blood-thirsty and zealous 
 faction, who couli easily accomplish their ends by working 
 on the womanly terrors of an unscrupulous mind. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WEDDING WITH CRIMSON PAYORS. 
 
 And trust me not at all or all in all. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 So extensive was the Louvre, so widely separated the 
 different suites of apartments, tbat Diane and Eustacie had 
 not met after the pall-mall party till, they sat opposite to 
 their several queens in the coach driving through the wood, 
 the elder cousin curiously watching the eyes of the younger, 
 so wistfully gazing at the window, and now and then rap- 
 idly winking as though to force back a rebellious tear. 
 
 The cousins had been bred up together in the convent at 
 Bellaise, and had only been separated by Diane's having
 
 TIJE CTTAPLET OF J'EAKLS. 89 
 
 been brought to court two years sooner than Eustacie. 
 They had always been on very kindly, affectionate terms: 
 Diane treating her little cousin with the patronage of an 
 elder sister, and greatly contributing to shield her from the 
 temptations of the court. The elder cousin was so much 
 the more handsome, brilliant, and admired, that no notion 
 of rivalry had crossed her mind; and Eustacie 's inherit- 
 ance was regarded by her as reserved for her brother, and 
 the means of aggrandizement and prosperity for herself and 
 her father. !She looked upon the child as a sort of piece of 
 property of the family, to be guarded and watched over for 
 her brother; and when she had first discovered the error 
 that the young baron was making between the two daugh- 
 ters of the house, it was partly in kindness to Eustacie, 
 partly to carry out her father's plans, and partly from her 
 own pleasure in conversing with anything so candid and 
 fresh as Berenger, that she had maintained the delusion. 
 Her father believed himself to have placed Berenger so en- 
 tirely in the background, that he would hardly be at court 
 long enough to discover the imposition; and Diane was not 
 devoid of a strong liojae of winnmg his affection and bending 
 his will so as to induce him to become her husband, and 
 become a French courtier for her sake — a wild dream, but 
 a better castle in the air than she had ever yet indulged in. 
 This arrangement was, however, disconcerted by the 
 king's passion for Sidney's society, which brought young 
 Eibaumont also to court; and at the time of the mischiev- 
 ous introduction by Mme. Marguerite, Diane had perceived 
 that the mistake would soon be found out, and that she 
 should no longer be able to amuse herself with the fresh- 
 colored, open-faced boy who was so unlike all her former 
 acquaintance; but the magnetism that shows a woman 
 when she produces an effect had been exiaerienced by her, 
 and she had been sure that a few efforts more would warm 
 and mold the wax in her fingers. That he should jd refer a 
 little brown thing, whose beauty was so inferior to her own, 
 had never crossed her mind ; she did not even know that he 
 was invited to the pall-mall party, and was greatly taken by 
 surprise when her father sought an interview with her, ac- 
 cused her of betraying their interests, and told her that this 
 foolish yoimg fellow declared that he had been mistaken, 
 and having now discovered liis veritable wife^ protested 
 against resigning her.
 
 Do THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 By that time the whole party were gone to Montpipeau, 
 but that the baron was among them was not known at the 
 Louvre until Queen Catherine^, who had always treated 
 Diane as rather a favored, quick-witted protegee, com- 
 manded her attendance, and on her Avay let her know that 
 Mme. de Sauve had reported that, among all the follies 
 that were being perpetrated at tlie hunting-seat, the young 
 queen was absolutely throwing the little Nid-de-Merle into 
 the arms of her Huguenot husband, and that if measures 
 were not promptly taken all the great estates in the Bocage 
 would be lost to the young chevalier, and be carried over 
 to the Huguenot interest. 
 
 Still Diane could not believe that it was so much a mat- 
 ter of love as that the youth had begun to relish court fa- 
 vor and to value the inheritance, and she could quite be- 
 lieve her little cousin had been flattered by a few attentions 
 that had no meaning in them. She was not prepared to 
 find that Eustacie shrunk from her, and tried to avoid a 
 private interview. In truth, the poor child had received 
 such injunctions from the queen, and so stern a warning 
 look from the king, that she durst not utter a syllable of 
 the evening that had sealed her lot, and was so hajij^y with 
 her secret, so used to tell evei'ything to Diane, so longing 
 to talk of her husband, that she was afraid of betraying 
 herself if once they were alone together. Yet Diane, 
 knowing that her father trusted to her to learn how far 
 things had gone, and piqued at seeing the transparent lit- 
 tle creature, now glowing and smiling with inward bliss, 
 now pale, pensive, sighing, and anxious, and scorning her 
 as too childish for the love that she seemed to affect, was 
 resolved on obtaining confidence from her. 
 
 And when the whole female court had sat down to the 
 silk embroidery in which Catherine de Medicis excelled, 
 Diane seated herself in the recess of a window and beck- 
 oned her cousin to her side, so that it was not jDOSsible to 
 disobey. 
 
 " Little one," she said, " why have you cast off your 
 poor cousin? There, sit down " — for Eustacie stood, with 
 her silk in her hand, as if meaning instantly to return to 
 her former place; and now, her cheeks in a flame, she an- 
 swered in an indignant whisper, " You know, Diane! How 
 could you try to keep him from me?'' 
 
 " Because it was better for thee, my child, than to be
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 91 
 
 pestered with an adventurer/' she said, smihng, though 
 bitterly. 
 
 " My husband!" returned Eustacie proudly. 
 
 "Bah! You know better than that!" Then, as Eus- 
 tacie was about to speak, but checked herself, Diane added, 
 " Yes, my jDOor friend, he has a something engaging about 
 him, and we all would have hindered you from tlie pain 
 and embarrassment of a meeting with him/' 
 
 Eustacie smiled a little saucy smile, as though infinitely 
 superior to them all. 
 
 *' Fauvre 2)eiite,^' said Diane, nettled; " she actually be- 
 lieves in liis love." 
 
 "I will not hear a word against my husband!" said 
 Eustacie, stepping back, as if to return to her place, but 
 Diane rose and laid her hand on hers. " My dear," she 
 said, " we must not i)art thus. I only wish to know what 
 touches my darling so nearly. I thought she loved and 
 clung to us; why should she have turned from me for the 
 sake of one who forgot her for half his life? "What can he 
 have done to master this silly little heart?" 
 
 " I can not tell you, Diane," said Eustacie simply; and 
 though she looked down, the color on her face Avas more of 
 a hap23y glow than a conscious blush. "I love him too 
 much; only we understand each other now, and it is of no 
 use to try to separate us. " 
 
 " Ah, poor little thing, so she thinks," said Diane; and 
 as Eustacie again smiled as one incapable of being shaken 
 in her conviction, she added, " And how do you know that 
 he loves you?" 
 
 Diane was startled by the bright eyes that flashed on her 
 and the bright color that made Eustacie perfectly beauti- 
 ful, as sbe answered, ' ' Because I am liis wife ! That is 
 enough!" Then, before her cousin could speak again, 
 " But, Diane, I promised not to speak of it. I know he 
 would despise mo if I broke my word, so I will not talk to 
 you till I have leave to tell you all, and I am going back to 
 help Gabrielle de Limeuil with her shejDlierdess. " 
 
 Mile, de Eibaumont felt her attempt most unsatisfac- 
 tory, but she knew of old that Eustacie was very determined 
 — all Bellaise knew that to ojjpose the tiny baronne w^as to 
 make her headstrong in her resolution; and if she sus- 
 pected that she was coaxed, she only became more obsti- 
 nate. To make any discoveries; Diane must take the line of
 
 92 THE CHAPLET OP PEA ELS. 
 
 most cautious caresses, such as to throw her cousin off' her 
 guard; and this she was forced to confess to her father 
 when he sought an interview with her on the day of her 
 return to Paris. He shook his head. " She must be on 
 the watch/' he said, and get quickly into the silly girl's 
 confidence. What! had she not found out that the young 
 villain had been on the point of eloping with her? If such 
 a thing as that should succeed, the whole family was lost, 
 and she was the only person who could prevent it. He 
 trusted to her. 
 
 The chevalier had evidently come to regard his niece as 
 his son's lawful property, and the baron as the troublesome 
 meddler; and Diane had much the same feeling, enhanced 
 by sore jealousy at Eustacie's triumpli over her, and curi- 
 osity as to whether it could be indeed well founded. She 
 had an opportunity of judging the same evening — mere 
 habit always causecl Eustacie to keep under her wing, if she 
 could not be near the queen, whenever there was a recep- 
 tion, and to that recej^tion of course Berenger came, armed 
 with his right as gentleman of the bed-chamber. Eustacie 
 was coloring and fluttering, as if by the instinct of his pres- 
 ence, even before the tall fair head became visible, moving 
 forward as well as the crowd would permit, and seeking 
 about with anxious eyes. The glances of the blue and the 
 black eyes met at last, and a satisfied radiance illuminated 
 each youug face; then the young man steered his way 
 through the throng, but was caught midway by Coligny, 
 and led up to be presented to a hook-nosed, dark-haired, 
 lively-looking young man, in a suit of black richly laced 
 with silver. It was the King of Navarre, the royal bride- 
 groom, who had entered Paris in state that afternoon. 
 Eustacie tried to be jjroud of the preferment, but oh! she 
 thought it mistimed, and was gratified to mark certain wan- 
 derings of the eye even while the gracious king was speak- 
 ing. Then tlie admiral said something that brought the 
 girlish rosy flush ujj to the very roots of the short curls of 
 flaxen hair, and made the young king's white teeth flash 
 out in a mirthful, good-natured laugh, and thereupon the 
 way opened, and Berenger was beside the two ladies, kiss- 
 ing Eustacie's hand, but merely bowing to Diane. 
 
 She was ready to take the initiative. 
 
 " My cousins deem me unpardonable/'' she said; " yet I 
 am going to purchase their pardon. See this cabinet of
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 93 
 
 porcelain a la Eeine, and Italian vases and gems, beliiiul 
 this curtain. There is all the siege of Troy, which Mon- 
 sieur le Baron will no doubt exj)lain to mademoiselle, while 
 I shall sit on this cushion, and endure the siege of St. 
 Queutin from the hou Sieur de Selinville.''^ 
 
 M. de Selinville was the court bore, who had been in 
 every battle from Pavia to Montcontour, and gave as full 
 memoirs of each as did Blaise de Monluc, only vivci voce in- 
 stead of in writing. Diane was rather a favorite of his; she 
 knew her way through all his adventures. So soon as she 
 had heard the description of the King of Navarre's entry 
 into Paris that afternoon, and the old gentleman's lamen- 
 tation that his own two ne]:)hews were among the three 
 hundred Huguenot gentlemen who had formed the escort, 
 she had only to observe whether his reminiscences had 
 gone to Italy or to Flanders in order to be able to put in 
 the appropriate remarks at each pause, while she listened 
 all the while to the murmurs behind the curtain. Yet it 
 was not easy, with all her court-breeding, to appear in- 
 different, and solely absorbed in hearing of the bad lodg- 
 ings that had fallen to the share of the royal trooj^s at Bres- 
 cia, when such sounds were reaching her. It was not so 
 much the actual words she heard, though these were the 
 phrases — " mon angc, my heart, my love;" those were 
 common, and Diane had lived in the queen-mother's squad- 
 ron long enough to despise those who uttered them only 
 less than those who believed them. It was the full depth of 
 tenderness and earnestness, in the subdued tones of the 
 voice, that gave her a sense of quiet force and reality be- 
 yond all she had ever known. She had heard and overheard 
 men pour out frantic ravings of passion, but never had 
 listened to anything like the sweet protecting tenderness 
 of voice that seemed to embrace and shelter its object. 
 Diane had no doubts now; he had never so spoken to her; 
 nay, j^erhaps he had had no such cadences in his voice be- 
 fore. It was quite certain that Eustacie was everythhig to 
 him, she herself nothing; she who might have had any gal- 
 lant in the court at her feet, but had never seen one whom 
 she could believe in, whose sense of esteem had been first 
 awakened by this stranger lad who despised her. Surely 
 he was loving this foolish child simply as his duty; his be- 
 longing, as his right he might struggle hard for her, and if 
 he gained her^be greatly disappointed; for how could Eus-
 
 94 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tacie appreciate him, little empty-headed, silly thing, who 
 would be amused and satisfied by any court flatterer? 
 
 However, Diane held out and played her part, caught 
 scraps of the conversation, and pieced them together, yet 
 avoided all appearance of inattention to M. de Selinville, 
 and finally dismissed him, and maneuvered first Eustacie, 
 and after a safe interval Berenger, out of the cabinet. The 
 latter bowed as he bade her good-night, and said, with the 
 most open and cordial of smiles, " Cousin, I thank you 
 with all my heart. ' ' 
 
 The bright look seemed to her another shaft. " What 
 happiness!" said she to herself. " Can I overthrow it? 
 Bah! it will crumble of its own accord, even if I did noth- 
 ing! And my father and brother!" 
 
 Communication with her father and brother was not al- 
 ways easy to Diane, for she lived among the queen- 
 mother's ladies. Her brother was quartered in a sort of 
 barrack among the gentlemen of Monsieur's suite, and the 
 old chevalier was living in the room Berenger had taken 
 for him at the Croix de Lorraine, and it was only on the 
 most public days that they attended at the palace. Such 
 a day, however, there was on the ensuing Sunday, when 
 Henry of Navarre and Marguerite of France were to be 
 wedded. Their dispensation was come, but, to the great 
 relief of Eustacie, there was no answer with it to the ap- 
 plication for the cassation of her marriage. In fact, this dis- 
 pensation had never emanated from the Pojdc at all. Rome 
 would not sanction the union of a daughter of France with 
 a Huguenot prince; and Charles had forged the document, 
 probably with his mother's knowledge, in the hope of 
 spreading her toils more completely round her jirey, while 
 he trusted that the victims might prove too strong for her, 
 and destroy her web, and in breaking forth might release 
 himself. 
 
 Strange was the pageant of that wedding on Sunday, the 
 17th of August, 1573. The outward seeming was mag- 
 nificent, when all that was princely in France stood on the 
 splendidly decked platform in front of Notre Dame, around 
 the bridegroom in the bright promise of his kingly endow- 
 ments, and the bride in her peerless beauty. Brave, noble- 
 hearted, and devoted were the gallant following of the one, 
 splendid and highly gifted the attendants of the other; and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 95 
 
 their union seemed to promise peace to a long-distracted 
 kingdom. 
 
 Yet what an abyss lay beneath those trappings! The 
 bridegroom and his comrades were as lions in the toils of 
 the hunter, and the lure that had enticed them thither was 
 the bride herself so unwilling a victim that her lips refused 
 to utter the espousal vows, and her head was forced for- 
 ward by her brother into a sign of consent; whde the fa- 
 vored lover of her whole life-time agreed to the sacrifice in 
 order to purchase the vengeance for which he thirsted, and 
 her mother, the corrupter of her own children, looked com- 
 placently on at her ready-dug pit of treachery and blood- 
 shed. 
 
 Among the many who played unconscious on the surface 
 of that gulf of destruction, were the young creatures whose 
 chief thought in the pageant was the glance and smile 
 from the gallery of the queen ^s ladies to the long procession 
 of the English embassador's train, as they tried to remem- 
 ber their own marriage there; Berenger with clear recollec- 
 tion of his father's grave, anxious face, and Eustacie chiefly 
 remembering her own white satin and turquois dress, 
 "which indeed she had seen on every great festival-day as 
 the best raiment of the image of Notre Dame de Eellaise. 
 She remained in the choir during mass, but Berenger ac- 
 companied the rest of the Protestants with the bridegroom 
 at their head into the nave, where Coligny beguiled the 
 time with walking about, looking at the banners that had 
 been taken from himself and Conde at Montcontour and 
 Jarnac, saying that he hoped soon to see them taken down 
 and replaced by Spanish banners. Berenger had followed, 
 because he felt the need of doing as Walsingham and Sid- 
 ney thought right, but he had not been in London long- 
 enough to become hardened to the desecration of churches 
 by frequenting " Paul's Walk." He remained bare-headed, 
 and stood as near as he could to the choir, listening to the 
 notes that floated from the priests and acolytes at the high 
 altar, longing for the time when he and Eustacie should be 
 one in their prayers, and lost in a reverie, till a grave old 
 nobleman passing near him rejjroved him for dallying with 
 the worship of Rimmou. But this listening attitude had not 
 passed unobserved by others besides Huguenot observers. 
 
 The wedding was followed by a ball at the Louvre, from 
 which, however, all the stricter Huguenots absented them-
 
 96 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 selves out of respect to 8nnday, and among tliem the fam- 
 ily and guests of the English embassador, who were in the 
 meantime attending the divine service that had been post- 
 poned on account of the morning^s ceremony. Neither was 
 the Duke of Quise present at the entertainment; for though 
 ho had some months previously been piqued and entrapped 
 into a marriage with Catherine of Cleves, yet his passion 
 for Marguerite was still so strong that he could not bear to 
 join in the festivities of her wedding with another. The 
 absence of so many distinguished persons caused the ad- 
 mission of many less constantly privileged, and thus it was 
 that Diane there met both her father and brother, who 
 eagerly drew her into a window, and demanded what she 
 had to tell them, laughing too at the simplicity of the 
 youth, wlio had left for the chevalier a formal announce- 
 ment that he had dispatched his jirotest to Rome, and con- 
 sidered himself as free to obtain his wife by any means in 
 his power. 
 
 "Where is la petite?'" Narcisse demanded. "Behind 
 her queen, as usual?" 
 
 " The young queen keej)s her room to-night," returned 
 Diane. " Nor do I advise you, brother, to thrust yourself 
 in the way of la petite entetee just at present. " 
 
 " What, is she so besotted with the i^eacli face? He shall 
 pay for it?" 
 
 " Brother, no duel. Father, remind him that she would 
 never forgive him." 
 
 " Fear not, daughter," said the chevalier; " this folly 
 can be ended by much quieter modes, only you must first 
 give us information. " 
 
 " She tells me nothing," said Diane; " she is in one of 
 her own humors — high and mighty." 
 
 " Feste ! where is your vaunt of winding the little one 
 round your finger?" 
 
 " With time, I said," replied Diane. Curiously enough, 
 she had no compunction in worming secrets from Eustacie 
 and betraying them, but she could not bear to think of the 
 trap she had set for the unsusjDecting youth, and how in- 
 genuously he had thanked her, little knowing how she had 
 listened to his inmost secrets. 
 
 " Time is everything," said her father; " delay will be 
 our ruin. Your inheritance will slip through your fingers, 
 my son. The youth will soon win favor by abjuring his
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 97 
 
 heresy; lie will play the same game with the king as his 
 father did with King Henri. You will have nothing hut 
 your sword, and for you, my poor girl, there is uothiiig hut 
 to throw yourself on the kindness of our aunt at Bellaise, if 
 she can receive the vows of a dowerless maiden. " 
 
 " It will never be/' said Narcisse. " My rapier will soon 
 dispose of a big rustic like that, who knows just enough of 
 fencing to make him an easy jn'ey. What! I verily believe 
 the great blonde has caught her fancy!" as he saw Diane's 
 gesture of entreaty. " And yet the fine fellow was willing 
 enough to break the marriage Avhen he took her for the 
 bride.'' 
 
 " Nay, my son," argued the chevalier, willing apjDar- 
 ently to spare his daughter from the sting of mortilloation, 
 " as I said, all can be done without danger of bloodshed on 
 either side, were we but aware of any renewed project of 
 elopement. The pretty pair would be easily waylaid, the 
 girl safely lodged at Bellaise, the boy sent off to digest his 
 pi'ide in England. " 
 
 " Unhurt?" murmured Diane. 
 
 Her father checked Narcisse's mockery at her solicitude, 
 as he added, " Unhurt? yes. He is a liberal-hearted, gra- 
 cious, fine young man, whom I should much grieve to 
 harm; but if you know of any 2)lan of elopement and con- 
 ceal it, my daughter, then upon you will lie either the ruin 
 and disgrace of your famil}^, or the death of one or both of 
 the youths. " 
 
 Diane saw that her question had betrayed her knowl- 
 edge. She sjioke faintly. " Something I did overhear, 
 but I know not how to utter a treason." 
 
 " There is no treason where there is no trust, daughter," 
 said the chevalier, in the tone of a moral sage. " S^Dcak!" 
 
 Diane never disobeyed her father, and faltered, " Wed- 
 nesday; it is for Wednesday. They mean to leave the jial- 
 ace in the midst of the mask; there is a market-boat from 
 Leurre to meet them on the river; his servants will be in 
 it." 
 
 " On Wednesday!" Father and son looked at each other. 
 
 " That shall be remedied," said Narcisse. 
 
 " Child," added her father, turning kindly to Diane, 
 " you have saved our fortunes. There is but one thing 
 more that you must do. Make her obtain the pearls for 
 him." 
 
 4
 
 98 THE ClIAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Diane, half shocked, half revengeful, as 
 she thought how he had withheld them from her. 
 
 "It is necessary," said the chevalier. " The heirloom 
 of our house must not be risked. Secure the pearls, child, 
 and you will have done good service, and earned tho mar- 
 riage that shall reward you. " 
 
 When he was gone, Diane pressed her hands together 
 with a strange sense of misery. He, who had shrunk from 
 the memory of little Diane's untruthfulness, Avhat would 
 he think of the present Diane^s treachery? Yet it was to 
 save his life and that of her brother — and for the assertion 
 of \^Y victory over the little robber, Eustacie. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 monsieur's ballet. 
 
 The Styx had fast hound her 
 Niue times around her. 
 
 Pope, Ode on St. Cecilia's- day. 
 
 Early on Monaay morning came a message to Mile. 
 Nid-de-Merle, that she was to prepare to act the part of a 
 nymph of Paradise in the king's mask on Wednesday 
 night, and must dress at once to rehearse her part in the 
 ballet specially designed by Monsieur. 
 
 Her first impulse was to hurry to her own queen, whom 
 she entreated to find some mode ol exemi^ting her. But 
 Elizabeth, wdio was still in bed, looked distressed and fright-' 
 ened, made signs of caution, and when the weeping girl 
 was on the j^oint of telling her of the project that would 
 thus be ruined, silenced her by saying, " Hush! my poor 
 child, I have but meddled too much already. Our lady 
 grant that I have not done you more harm than good! Tell 
 me no more." 
 
 " Ah! madame, I will be discreet, I will tell on you noth- 
 ing; but if you would only interfere to spare me from this 
 ballet! It is monsieur's contrivance! Ah! madame, could 
 you but speak to the king!" 
 
 " Impossible, child," said the queen. " Things are not 
 here as they were at hapjiy Montpipeau. " 
 
 And the poor young queen turned her face in to her pil- 
 low, and wept. 
 
 Every one who was not in a dream of bliss like poor lit-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 99 
 
 tie Eusfcacio knew tluit the king had been in so savage a 
 mood ever since his return that no one durst ask anything 
 from him. A little wliile since, he had laughed at his gen- 
 tle wife for letting herself, au emperor's daughter, ho 
 trampled on where his brother Francis's queen, from her 
 trumi^ery, beggarly realm had held up her head, and put 
 down la heUe mere; he had amused himself with Eliza- 
 beth's pretty little patronage of the young Ribaumonts as 
 a promising commencement in intriguing like other people; 
 but now he was absolutely violent at any endeavor to make 
 him withstand his mother, and had driven his wife back 
 into that cold, listless, indifferent shell of apathy from 
 wliich affection and hope had begun to rouse her. She 
 knew it would only make it the worse for her little Nid-de- 
 Merle for her to interpose when monsieur had made the 
 choice. 
 
 And Eustacie was more afraid of Monsieur than even of 
 Narcisse, and her Berenger could not be there to protect' 
 her. However, there was protection in numbers. With 
 twelve nymphs, and cavaliers to match, even the Duke of 
 Anjou could not accomijlish the being very insulting. Eus- 
 tacie — light, agile, and fairy-like- — ^gained considerable 
 credit for ready comjn-ehension and graceful evolutions. 
 She had never been so much complimented before, and 
 was much cheered by praise. Diane showed herself highly 
 pleased with her little cousin's success, embraced her and 
 told her she was finding her true level at court. She would 
 be the j^rcttiest of all the nymphs, who were all small, since 
 fairies rather than Amazons were wanted in their position. ' 
 "And, Eustacie," she added, "you should wear the 
 pearls. ' ' 
 
 "The pearls!" said Eustacie. "Ah! but he always 
 M^ears them. I like to see them on his bonnet — they are 
 hardly whiter than his forehead." 
 
 " Foolish little thing!" said Diane, " I shall think little 
 of his love if he cares to see himself in them more than you. ' * 
 
 The shaft seemed carelessly shot, but Diane knew that it 
 would work, and so it did. Eustacie wanted to prove her 
 husband's love, not to herself, but to her cousin. 
 
 He made his way to her in the gardens of the Louvre 
 that evening, greatly dismayed at the report that had 
 reached him that she was to figure as a nymph of Elysium. 
 She would thus be in sight as a prominent figure the whole
 
 100 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 evening, even till an hour so late that the niarkct-boafc 
 which Osbert had arranged for their escape could not wait 
 for them without exciting susj^icion; and besides, his deli- 
 cate English feelings were revolted at the notion of her 
 forming a part of such a spectacle. She could not under- 
 stand his displeasure. If they could not go on Wednesday, 
 they could go on Satnrday; and as to her acting, half the 
 noblest ladies in the court would be in the piece, and if 
 Ei]glisli husbands did not like it, they must be the tyrants 
 she had always heard of. 
 
 " To be a gazing-stock," began Berenger. 
 " Hush I monsieur, I will hear no more, or I shall take 
 care how I put myself in yonr jDOwer. " 
 
 " That has been done for you, sweetheart,'^ he said, 
 smiling with perhajDS a shade too much sujjeriority; "you 
 are mine entirely now. " 
 
 " That is not kind," she jDOuted, almost crying — for be- 
 tween flattery, excitement, and disaiipointment she was 
 not like herself that day, and she was too j^roud to like to 
 be reminded that she was in any one's jDOwer. 
 
 "I thought,'' said Berenger, with the gentleness that 
 always made him manly in dealing with her, " I thought 
 you liked to own yourself mine." 
 
 " Yes, sir, when you are good, and do not try to hector 
 me for what I can not avoid. " 
 
 Berenger was candid enough to recollect that royal com- 
 mands did not brook disobedience, and, being thoroughly 
 enamored besides of his little wife, he hastened to make his 
 peace by saying, " True, ma mie, this can not be helped. 
 I was a wretch to find fault. Think of it no more." 
 " You forgive me?" she said, softened instantly. 
 " Forgive yon? What for, pretty one? For my forget- 
 ting that you are still a slave to a hateful court?" 
 
 " Ah! then if you forgive me, let me wear the pearls." 
 " The poor pearls," said Berenger, taken aback for a. 
 moment, " the meed of our forefather's valor, to form part 
 of the pageant and mummery? But never mind, sweet- 
 heart," for he could not bear to vex her again; " you shall 
 have them to-night; only take care of them. My mother 
 would look black on me if she knew I had let them out of 
 my care, but you and I are one, after all." 
 
 Berenger could not bear to leave his wife near the Duke 
 of Anjou and Narcisse, and he offered himself to the king
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 101 
 
 as an actor in the mask, much as he detested all he heard 
 of its subject. The king nodded comprehension^ and told 
 him it was open to him either to be a demon in a tight suit 
 of black cloth, with cloven-hoof shoes, a long tail, and a 
 trident; or one of the Huguenots who were to be repulsed 
 from Paradise for the edification of the spectators. As these 
 last were to wear suits of knightly armor, Berenger much 
 preferred making one of them in S])ite of their doom. 
 
 The nuisk was given at the hall of the Hotel de Bour- 
 bon, wliere a noble gallery accommodated the audience, and 
 left full space beneath for the actors. Down the center of 
 the stage flowed a stream, broad enough to contain a boat, 
 which was plied by the Abbe de Mcricour — transformed by 
 a gray beard and hair and dismal mask into Charon. 
 
 But so unused to navigation was he, so crazy and ill- 
 trimmed his craft, that his first performance would have 
 been his submersion in the Styx had not Berenger, better 
 accustomed to boats than any of the dramatis person cb, 
 caught him by the arm as he was about to step in, pointed 
 out the perils, weighted the frail vessel, and given him a 
 lesson in paddling it to and fro, with such a masterly hand, 
 that, had there been time for a change of dress, the part of 
 Charon would have been unanimout>ly transferred to him; 
 but the delay could not be suffered, and poor Mericour, in 
 fear of a ducking, or worse, of ridicule, balanced himself, 
 pole in hand, in the midst of the river. To the right of 
 the river was Elysium — a circular island revolving on a 
 wheel which was an absolute orrer}^, representing in con- 
 centric circles the skies, with the sun, moon, the seven 
 planets, twelve signs, and the fixed stars, all illuminated 
 with small lamps. The island itself was covered with verd- 
 ure, in which, among bowers woven of gay flowers, re- 
 posed twelve nymphs of Paradise, of whom Eustacie was one. 
 
 On the other side of the stream was another wheel, whose 
 grisly emblems were reminders of Dante's infernal circles, 
 and were lighted by lurid flames, while little bells were 
 hung round so as to make a harsh jangling sound,, and all 
 of the court who had any turn for buffoonery were leaping 
 and dancing about as demons beneath it, and uttering wild 
 shouts. 
 
 King Charles and his two brothers stood on the margin 
 of the Elysian lake. King Henry, the Prince of Conde, 
 and a selection of the younger and gayer Huguenots, were
 
 102 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tlio assailants — storming Paradise to gain possession of the 
 nymphs. It was a very ilhisive armor that they wore, thin 
 scales of gold or silver as cuirasses over their satin doublets, 
 and the swords and lances of festive combat in that court 
 had been of the bluntest foil ever since the father of these 
 princes had died beneath Montgomery's spear. And when 
 the king and his brothers, one of them a j)uny crookeil 
 boy, were the champions, the battle must needs be the 
 merest show, though there were lookers-on who thought 
 that, judging by appearances, the assailants ought to have 
 the best chance of victory, both literal and allegorical. 
 
 However, these three guardian angels had choice allies 
 in the shape of the infernal company, who, as fast as the 
 Huguenots crossed swords or shivered lances with their royal 
 opponents, encircled them with their long black arms, and 
 dragged them struggling away to Tartarus. Henry of 
 Navarre yielded himself with a good-will to the horse-play 
 with which this was performed, resisting just enough to 
 give his demoniacal captors a good deal of trouble, while 
 yielding all the time, and taking them by surprise by agile 
 efforts, that showed that if he were excluded from Paradise 
 it was only by his own consent, and that he heartily en- 
 joyed the merriment. Most of his comrades, in esj^ecial 
 the young Count de Rochefoucauld, entered into the sjiort 
 with the same heartiness, but the Prince of Conde submit- 
 ted to his fate with a gloomy, disgusted countenance, that 
 added much to the general mirth; and Berenger, with 
 Eustacie before his eyes, looking j^ale, distressed, and ill at 
 ease, was a great deal too much in earnest. He had so 
 veritable an inqndse to leap forward and snatch her from 
 that giddy revolving prison, that he struck against the 
 sword of Monsieur wdth a hearty good-will. His silvered 
 lath snapped in his hand, and at that moment he was seized 
 round the waist, and, when his furious struggle was felt to 
 be in earnest, he was pulled over on his back, while yells 
 and shouts of discordant laughter rang round him, as de- 
 mons pinioned him hand and foot. 
 
 He thought he heard a faint cry from Eustacie, and, 
 with a sudden, unexpected struggle, started into a sitting 
 posture; but a derisive voice, that well he knew, cried. 
 
 Ha, the deadly siti of ^n'ide! Monsieur thinks his painted 
 face pleases the ladies. To the dejiths with him " — and 
 therewith one imp pulled him backward again, while others
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 103 
 
 danced a war-dance round him, pointing their forks at 
 liim; and the prime tormentor, whom he perfccitly recog- 
 nized, not only leajied over him, but spumed at liis face 
 with a cloven foot, giving a blow, not of gay French mal- 
 ice, but of malignity. It was too much for the boy's for- 
 bearance. He struggled free, dashing life adversaries asidt' 
 fiercely, and as they again gathered about him, with the 
 leader shouting, " Rage, too, rage! To the prey, imps "— 
 he clinched his first, and dealt tlie foremost foe such a blow 
 on the chest as to level him at once with the ground. 
 
 " Monsieur forgets," said a voice, friendly yet reproach- 
 ful, " that this is but s^oort." 
 
 It was Henry of Kavarrc himself who spoke, and bent to 
 give a hand to the fallen imp. A flush of shame rushed 
 over Berenger's face, already red with passion. He felt 
 that he had done wrong to use his strength at such a mo- 
 ment, and that, though there had been spite in his assail- 
 ant, he had not been therefore justified. He was glad to 
 see Narcisse rise lightly to his feet, evidently unhurt, and, 
 with the frankness with which he had often made it up 
 with Philip Thistlewood or his other English comrades 
 after a sharp tussle, he held out his hand, saying, *' Good 
 demon, your pardon. You roused my spirit, and I forgot 
 myself. ' ' 
 
 " Demons forget not,'' was the reply. " At him, imps!" 
 And a whole circle of hobgoblins closed upon him with 
 their tridents, forks, and other horrible implements, to 
 drive him back within two tall barred gates, which, illumi- 
 nated by red flames, were to form the ghastly prison of the 
 vanquished. Perhaps fresh indignities would have been 
 attempted, had not the King of Is'avarre thrown himself on 
 his side, shared with him the brunt of all the grotesque 
 weapons, and battled them otf with infinite spirit and ad- 
 dress, shielding him as it were from their rude insults by 
 his own dexterity and inviolability, though retreating all 
 the time till the infernal gates were closed on both. 
 
 Then Henry of Navarre, who never forgot a face, held 
 out his hand, saying, " Tartarus is no region of good omen 
 for friendships. Monsieur de Ribaumont, but, for lack of 
 yonder devil's claw, here is mine. I like to meet a com- 
 rade who can strike a hearty blow, and ask a hearty jiar- 
 don."
 
 104 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 *"' I was too hot, sire/' confessed Berenger, with one of 
 his ingenuous blushes, " but he enraged me. " 
 
 "He means mischief," said Henr3^ " Iiemcniber, if 
 you are molested respecting this matter, that you have here 
 a witness that you did the part of a gentleman." 
 
 Berenger bowed his thanks, and began something abon! 
 the honor, but his eye anxiously followed the circuit vi. 
 which Eustacie was carried, and the glance was quickly re- 
 marked. 
 
 " How? Your heart is .sj)innii]g in that Mohammedan 
 paradise, and that is whtit put such force into your fists. 
 Which of the houris is it? The little one with the wistful 
 eyes, who looked so deadly white and shrieked out when the 
 devilry overturned you? Eh! monsieur, you are a happy 
 man. '' 
 
 " I should be, sire;" and Berenger was on the point of 
 confiding the situation of his affiurs to this most engaging 
 of princes, when a fresh supply of prisoners, chased with 
 wild antics and fiendish yells by the devils, came headlong 
 in on them; and immediatel}^, completing, as Henry said, 
 the galimatias of mythology, a pasteboard cloud was pro- 
 pelled on the stage, and disclosed the deities Mercury and 
 Cupid, who made a complimeiitary address to the three 
 2orincely brothers, inciting them to claim tlie nymphs whom 
 their valor had defended, and lead them through the mazes 
 of a choric celestial dance. 
 
 This dance had been the special device of Monsieur aTul 
 the ballet-master, and dui-ing the last three days the houris 
 had been almost danced oif their legs with rehearsing it 
 morning, noon, and night, but one at least of them was 
 scarcely in a condition for its performance. Eustacie, diz- 
 zied at the first minute by the whirl of her Elysian merry- 
 go-round, had immediately after become conscious of that 
 which she had been too childish to estimate merely in pros- 
 pect, the exposure to universal gaze. Strange staring eyes, 
 glaring lights, frightful imps seemed to wheel round her in 
 an intolerable delirious succession. Her only refuge was 
 in closing her eyes, but even this could not long be perse- 
 vered in, so necessary a part of the pageant was she; and 
 besides, she had Berenger to look for, Berenger, whom she 
 had foolishly laughed at for knowing how dreadful it would 
 be. But of course the endeavor to seek for one object with 
 her eyes made the dizziness even more dreadful; and when,
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 105 
 
 at length, slio beheld him dragged down by tlic demoniacal 
 creatures, whose horrors were magnified by her confused 
 senses, and the next moment she \vas twirled out of sight, 
 her cry of distracted alarm was irrepressible. Carried 
 round again and again, on a wheel that to her was far more 
 like Ixion's than that of the spheres, she never cleared her 
 perceptions as to where he was, and only was half mad- 
 dened by the fantastic whirl of incongruous imagery, while 
 she barely sat out Mercury's lengthy harangue; and when 
 her wheel stood still, and she was released, she could not 
 stand, and was indebted to Charon and one of her fellow 
 nymphs for supporting her to a chair in the back of the 
 scene. Kind Charon hurried to bring her wine, the lady 
 revived her with essences, and the ballet-master clamored 
 for his 2)erforniers. 
 
 Ill or well, royal ballets must be danced. One long sob, 
 one gaze round at the refreshing sight of a room no longer 
 in motion, one wistful look at the gates of Tartarus, and 
 the misery of the throbbing, aching head must be disre- 
 garded. The ballet-master touched the white cheeks with 
 rouge, and she stepped forward just in time, for Monsieur 
 himself was coming angrily forward to learn the cause of 
 the delay. 
 
 Spectators said the windings of that dance were exquis- 
 itely graceful. It was well that Eustacie's drilling had 
 been so complete, foi* she moved tln-ough it blindly, sense- 
 lessly, and when it was over was let! back between the two 
 Demoiselles de Limeuil to the apartment that served as a 
 greenroom, drooping and almost fainting. They seated 
 her in a chair, and consulted round her, and her cousin 
 Narcisse was among the first to approach; but no sooner 
 had she caught sight of his devilish trim than with a little 
 shriek she shut her eyes, and flung herself to the other side 
 of the chair. 
 
 " My fair cousin," he said, opening his black vizard, 
 " do you not see me? I am no demon, remember! I am 
 your cousin." 
 
 " That makes it no better," said Eustacie, too much dis- 
 ordered and confused to be on her guard, and hiding her 
 face with her hands. " Go, go, I entreat." 
 
 " Nay, my fair one, I can not leave you thus! Shall I 
 send for my father to take you home?" 
 
 In fact he had already done this, and the ladies added
 
 lOrt THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tlieir counsel; for indeed the poor child could scarcely hold 
 up her head, bufc she said, "I should like to stay, if I 
 could; a little, a little longer. Will they not open those 
 dreadful bars?" she added, presently. 
 
 " They are even now opening them," said Mile, de Lim- 
 euil. "Hark! they are going to fight en melee. Made- 
 moiselle de Nid-de-Merle is better now!" 
 " Oh, yes; let me not detain you.'^ 
 Eustacie would have risen, but the two sisters had flut- 
 tered back, impatient to lose nothing of the sports; and 
 her cousin in his grim disguise stood full before her. " No 
 haste, cousin," he said; " you are not fit to move." 
 
 "Oh, then go," said Eustacie, suffering too much not 
 to be j)etulant. " You make me worse. " 
 
 " And why? It was not always thus," began Narcisse, 
 so eager to seize an opportunity as to have little considera- 
 tion for her condition; but she was unable to bear any 
 more, and broke out: " Yes, it was; I always detested you. 
 I detest you more than ever, since you deceived me so 
 cruelly. Oh, do but leave me!" 
 
 "You scorn me, tben? You prefer to me — who have 
 loved you so long — that childish new-comer, who was ready 
 enough to cast you oif." 
 
 " Prefer! He is my husband! It is an insult for any one 
 else to speak to me thus!" said Eustacie, drawing herself 
 up, and rising to her feet; but she was forced to hold by 
 the back of her chair, and Diane and her father appearing 
 at tliat moment, she tottered toward the former, and be- 
 coming quite passive under the influence of violent dizzi- 
 ness and headache, made no objection to being half led, 
 half carried, through galleries that connected the Hotel de 
 P>ourbon with the Louvre. 
 
 And thus it was that when Berenger had fought out his 
 part in the 7nelee of the jjrisoners released, and had main- 
 tained the honors of the rose-colored token in his helmet, 
 he found that his lady-love had been obliged by indisposition 
 to return home; and while he stood, folding his arms to 
 restrain their strong inclination to take Narcisse by the 
 throat and demand whether this were another of his decep- 
 tions, a train of fire-works suddenly exploded in the middle 
 of the Styx — a last surprise, especially contrived by King 
 Charles, and so effectual that half the ladies were shrieking,
 
 THE CHAPLKT OF PEARLS. 107 
 
 and imagining that they and the whole hall liad blown up 
 together. 
 
 A long supper, full of revelry, succeeded, and at length 
 Sidney and IJibauniont walked home together in the midst 
 of their armed servants bearing torches. All the way liome 
 Ikrenger was bitter in vituperation of the hateful pageant 
 and all its details, 
 
 '"Yea, truly," replied Sidney; " methought that it 
 betokens disease in the mind of a nation when their festive 
 revelry is thus ghastly, rendering the most awful secrets 
 made known by our God in order to warn man from sin 
 into a mere antic laughing-stock. Laughter should be 
 moved by what is fair and laughter- worthy — even like 
 such sports as our own ' Midsummer Night's Dream.' I 
 have read that the bloody temper of liome fed itself in ■ 
 gladiator shows, and verily, what we bebeld to-night be- 
 tokens something at once grisly and light-minded in the 
 mood of this country." 
 
 Sidney thought so the more Avhen on the second ensuing 
 morning the Admiral de Coligny was shot through both 
 hands by an assassin generally known to have been posted 
 by the Duke of Guise, yet often called by the sinister sobri- 
 quet of Le 2\ieur du Roi. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE king's tragedy. 
 
 The night is come, no fears disturb 
 
 The sk^ep of innocence. 
 They trust in kingly faitli, and kingly oath. 
 They sleep, alas! they sleep. 
 • Go to the palace, wouldst thou know 
 
 How hideous night can be; 
 Eye is not closed in those accursed walls. 
 Nor heart is quiet there! 
 
 SouTHEY, Bartholomew's em. 
 
 "Young gentlemen," said Sir Francis Walsingham, as 
 he rose from dinner on the Saturday, " are you bound for 
 the palace this evening?" 
 
 " I am, so please your excellencj^" returned Berenger. 
 
 "I would have you both to iniderstand that you must 
 have a care of yourselves," said the embassador. " The 
 admiral's wound has justly caused much alarm, and I hear
 
 108 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 that the Protestants are going vaporing about in so noisy 
 and incautious a manner, crying out for justice, that it is 
 but too hkely tliat the party of the queen-mother and the 
 Guises will be moved to strong measures/' 
 
 " They will never dare lay a finger upon us!'' said Sidney. 
 " In a terror-striclven fray men are no respecters of per- 
 sons," replied Sir Francis. " This house is, of course, in- 
 violable; and, whatever the madness of the people, we have 
 stout hearts enough here to enforce respect thereto; but I 
 can not answer even for an Englishman's life beyond its 
 precincts; and you, Eibaumont, whom I can not even 
 claim as my queen's subject — I greatly fear to trust you 
 beyond its bounds. " 
 
 " I can not help it, sir. Nay, with the most grateful 
 thanks for all your goodness to me, I must pray you not to 
 take either alarm or offense if I return not this night." 
 
 " No more, my friend," said Walsingham, quickly; " let 
 me know nothing of your purposes, but take care of your- 
 self. I would you were safe at home again, though the de- 
 sire may seem inhospitable. The sooner the better with 
 whatever you have to do. " 
 
 " Is the danger so imminent?" asked Sidney. 
 " I know nothing, Philip. All I can tell is that, as I 
 have read that dogs and cattle scent an earthquake in the 
 air, so men and women seem to breathe a sense of danger 
 in this city. And to me the graciousness with which the 
 Huguenots have been of late treated wears a strangely sus- 
 picious air. Sudden and secret is the blow like to be, and 
 we can not be too much on our guard. Therefore remem- 
 ber, my young friends both, that your danger or death 
 would fall heavily on those ye love and honor at home. " 
 
 So saying, he left the two youths, unwilling to seek fur- 
 ther confidence, and Berenger held his last consultation 
 with Sidney, to whom he gave directions for making full 
 explanation to AValsingham in his absence, and ex^Dcdi ting- 
 Mr. Adderley's return to England. Osbert alone was to 
 go to the Louvre with him, after having seen the five En- 
 glish grooms on board the little decked market-vessel on 
 the Seine, which was to await the fugitives. Berenger was 
 to present hmiself in the j^ialace as in his ordinary court at- 
 tendance, 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 the ladies,
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 109 
 
 whence Eustacio was to descend at about eleven o'clock with 
 her maid Veronique. Landry Osbert was to join them from 
 the lackeys' hall below, where he had a friend, and the 
 connivance of the jwrter at the postern opening toward 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 consid- 
 eration it was decided that his being at the Louvre was like- 
 ly to attract notice to liibaumont's delaying there. The 
 two young men therefore snook hands and joarted, as youths 
 who trusted that they had begun a lifelong friendship, with 
 mutual j)romises to write to one another — the one, the ad- 
 ventures 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 snch 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 great- 
 ly crowded. The Huguenots were in an excited mood, in- 
 clined to rally round Henry of Navarre, whose royal title 
 made him be looked on as in a manner their monarch, 
 though his kingdom had been swallowed by Spain, and ho 
 was no more than a French duke distantly related to roy- 
 alty in the male line, and more nearly through his grand- 
 mother and bride. The eight hundred gentlemen he had 
 brought with him swarmed about his ajoartments, making 
 their lodging on staircases and in passages; and to Berenger 
 it seemed as if the king's guards and Monsieiir's gentlemen 
 must have come in in equal numbers to balance them. 
 Narcisse was there, and Berenger kejjt cautiously amid his 
 Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have a quarrel 
 thrust on him which he could not honorably desert. It 
 was late before he could work his way to the y(>ung queen's 
 reception-room, where he found Eustacie. She looked al- 
 most as white as at the mask; 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.
 
 110 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 Behind the queen's chair a few words could he spoken. 
 
 " Ma viie, art thou well again? Canst bear this journey 
 now?" 
 
 " Quite well, now! cjuitc ready. Oh, that we may never 
 have masks in England!" 
 
 He smiled — " Never such as this." 
 
 " Ah! thou knowest best. I am glad I am thine al- 
 ready; I am so silly, thou wouldst never have chosen me! 
 But thou wilt teach me, and I wdl strive to be very good! 
 And oh! let me bat 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 Eochefou- 
 cauld and others. He was louder and ruder than Berenger 
 had ever yet seen him, almost giving the notion of intoxi- 
 cation; but neither he nor his brother Hen ry ever tasted 
 wine, though both had a strange j^leasure in being present 
 at the orgies of their companions: the king, it was gen- 
 erally said, from love of the self-forgetf ulness of excitement 
 — the Duke of Anjou, because his cool brain there collected 
 men's secrets to serve afterward 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, " How- 
 ever, since here you are, come along with me to my bed- 
 chamber! We are to have a carouse there to-night that 
 will ring througli all Paris! Yes, and shake Eochefoucauld 
 out of his bed at midnight! You will be one of us, Ribau- 
 mont? I commaiid it!" 
 
 And without waiting for reply he turned away with an 
 arm round Eochefoucauld'sneck, and boisterously addressed 
 another of the company, almost as wildly as if he were in 
 the mood that Scots call " fey. " 
 
 " Eoyalty 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 be- 
 yond his reach. But at least I may make his invitation a
 
 THE CnAPLET OF PEAKLS. Ill 
 
 reason for remaining in tlio Louvre, reoplc are departing! 
 Soon wilt thou be my own." 
 
 " As soon as the queen's eoncJier 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 lier 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 lieart 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 thei-e is no trust there is no treason," said Di- 
 ane, dreamily. " No, answer me not, little one, there will 
 be time for that another day. Where is he?" 
 
 "In the (Buil-de-baiKf, hetween 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 j)lenty another time,'* said 
 Diane, breaking away. '* Follow thy queen now!" 
 
 Catherine, who sat between her daughters Claude and 
 Marguerite, looked preoccupied, 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 couclicr w^re tediously gone through; every pin had its 
 own ceremony, and even when her majesty was safely de- 
 posited under her blue satin coverlet the ladies still stood 
 round till she felt disposed to fall asleep. Elizabeth was 
 both a sleepy and a considerate person, so that this Avas 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 be- 
 ing, and her conscience had no alarms; her affections were
 
 112 THE CHAPLET OE EEARLS. 
 
 wholly with Bercnger, and her transient glimpses of him 
 liad been as of something come out of a region higher, ten- 
 derer, stronger, purer, more trustworthy than that where 
 she had dwelt. 8he was proud of belonging to him. She 
 had felt upheld by the consciousness through years of 
 waiting, and now he more than realized her hojies, and she 
 could have wejit 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 w^orld, 
 new ideas, and new requirements could oidy be endured 
 with him to shield her and helji her on. And withal, there 
 seemed to her a shudder over the whole jolace on that night. 
 The king's eyes looked wild and startled, the queen- moth- 
 er's calm was strained, the Duchess of Lorraine was evi- 
 dently in a state of strong nervous excitement; there was 
 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 bed-chamber slept in the anteroom 
 of her mistress; the others, however high their rank, were 
 closely herded together up a winding stair leadijig to a small 
 passage, with tiny, cell-like recesses, wherein the demoiselles 
 slei^t, 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 j)roceeded 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
 
 THE rnAPLKT OF PKARLS. 113 
 
 at the dooi% and cried, "Open! Ojien, I say!" No an- 
 swer, but tlie other bolt creaked. 
 
 " You mistake, concierge! AVe are never bolted in! My 
 maid is shut out/' 
 
 No answer, but the step retreated, Eustacie clasped her 
 hands witli a cry that slie conld hardly have rei^ressed, but 
 which she regretted the next moment. 
 
 Gabrielle de Limeuil hiughed. " "What, mademoiselle, 
 are you afraid they will not let us out to-morrow?" 
 
 " My maid!" murmured Eustacie, recollecting that she 
 must give a color to her distress. 
 
 " All! jjerhaj^s she will summon old Pierre to ojDcn 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 Mme. la Com- 
 tesse, or, after all, a precaution. The palace so full of 
 strange pcoj)le, who could say what might bappen? And 
 there was a talk of a conspiracy of the Huguenots. At any 
 rate, everyone 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, 
 tbe nearest to the door, and one after another related hor- 
 rible 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, reiidy to profit by the slightest indication outside 
 of a step that migbt lead to her release, or at least enable 
 her to communicate with Veronique; longing ardentl}'' 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 comjiosed 
 girl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head
 
 114 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 in her companion's lap; but she was awakened by one 
 genaral shudder and suppressed cry when the hoarse clang 
 of a bell struck on the ears of the already terrified, excited 
 maidens. 
 
 "The tocsin! The belief St. Germain! Fire! No, a 
 Huguenot rising! Fire! Oh, let us out! Let us out! 
 That 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 beard 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 colorless, her whole person, soul and 
 body alike, concentrated in that one impulse to spring for- 
 ward the first moment the bolt should be drawn. But still 
 the door remained fast shut ! 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 THE PALACE OF SLAUGHTER. 
 
 A human shambles with blood-reeking floor. 
 
 Miss Swanwick, yEscli. Agamemnon. 
 
 The door was opened at last, but not till full daylight. 
 It found Eustacie as ready to rush forth, past all resistance, 
 as she had been the night before, and she was already in 
 the door-way when her maid Veronique, her face swollen 
 with weeping, caught her by the hands and imjDlored her to 
 turn bacK and listen. 
 
 And words about a rising of the Huguenots, a general 
 destruction, corpses lying in the court — were already pass- 
 ing between the other maidens and the concierge. Eustacie 
 turned upon her servant; " Veronique, what means it? 
 AVhere is he?" 
 
 "Alas! alas! Ah! mademoiselle, do but lie down! Woe 
 is me! I saw it all! Lie down, and I will tell you." 
 
 " Tell! I will not move till jou have told me where my 
 husband is," said Eustacie, gazing with eyes that seemed 
 to Veronique turned to stone. 
 
 " Ah! my lady — my dear lady! I was on the turn of the 
 stairs, and saw all. The traitor — th_e Chevaher Narcisse —
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF TEAKLS. 115 
 
 camo on liim, cloaked like you — and — shot liim dead — with, 
 oh, such cruel words of mockery! Oh! woe the day! Stay, 
 stay, dear lady, the jjlace is all blood — they are slaying them 
 all — all the Huguenots! Will no one stop her? — made- 
 moiselle — ma' m 'selle ! — ' ' 
 
 For Eustacie no sooner gathered the sense of Veronique's 
 words than she darted suddenly forward, and was in a few 
 seconds more at the foot of the stairs. There, indeed, lay 
 a pool of dark gore, and almost in it Berenger's black vel- 
 vet cap, with the heron plume. Eustacie, with a low cry, 
 snatched it up, continued her headlong course along the 
 corridor, swiftly as a bird, Veronique following, and vainly 
 shrieking to her to stop. Diane, ajDjoearing at the other 
 end of the gallery, saw but for a moment the little figure, 
 with the cloak gathered round her neck, and floating be- 
 hind her, understood Veronique's cry and joined in the 
 chase across hall and gallery, where more stains were to bo 
 seen, even down to the marble stairs, every steji slip2:)ery 
 with blood. Others there were who saw and stood aghast, 
 not understanding the apparition that flitted on so swiftly, 
 never pausing till at the great door at the foot of the stairs 
 she encountered a gigantic Scottish archer, armed to the 
 teeth. She touched his arm, and standing with folded 
 arms, looked up and said, " Good soldier, kill me! I am 
 a Huguenot!" 
 
 " Stop her! bring her back!" cried Diane from behind. 
 '' It is Mademoiselle de Nid-de-Merle!" 
 
 " No, no! My husband is Huguenot! I am a Hugue- 
 not! Let them kill me, I say!" — struggling with Diane, 
 who had now come up with her, and was trying to draw 
 her back. 
 
 " Puir lassie!" muttered the stout Scotsman to himself, 
 " ihis fearsome night has driven her demented." 
 
 l?ut, like a true sentinel, he moved neither hand nor foot 
 to interfere, as shaking herself loose from Diane, she was 
 springing down the stej^s into the court, when at that mo- 
 ment the young Abbe de Mericour was seen advancing, 
 pale, breathless, horror-struck, and to him Diane shrieked 
 to arrest the headlong course. He obeyed, seeing the wild 
 distraction of the white face and widely glaring eyes, took 
 her by both hands, and held her in a firm grasp, saying, 
 " Alas, lady, you can not go out. It is no sight for any 
 one. "
 
 116 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " They are killing tlie Protestants/' she said; "I am 
 one! Let me find them and die." 
 
 A strong effort to free herself ensued, but it was so sud- 
 denly succeeded by a swoon that the abbe could scarcely 
 save her from dropping on the ste2:)S. Diane begged him 
 to carry her in, since they were in full view of men-at-arms 
 in the court, and, frightful to say, of some of the ladies of 
 the palace, who, in the frenzy of that dreadful time, had 
 actually come down to examine the half-stripped corpses of 
 the men with whom they had jested not twelve hours be- 
 fore. 
 
 "Ah! it is no wonder," said the youthful abbe, as he 
 tenderly lifted the inanimate figure. "This has been a 
 night of horrors. I was coming in haste to know whether 
 the king knows of this frightful j^lot of Monsieur de Guise, 
 and the bloody work that is passing in Paris." 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Diane, " Monsieur 1 'Abbe, do 
 you knowAvhere he is now? In the balcony overlooking the 
 river, taking aim at the fugitives! Take care! Even your 
 soutane would not save you if Monsieur d'O and his crew 
 heard you. But I must i^ray you to aid me with this jjoor 
 child! I dread that her wild cries should bo heard." 
 
 The abbe, struck dumb with horror, silently olieyed Mile. 
 de Ribaumont, and brought the still insensible Eustacie to 
 the chamber, now deserted by all the young ladies. lie 
 laid her on her bed, and finding he could do no more, left 
 her to her cousin and her maid. 
 
 The poor child had been unwell and feverish ever since 
 the mask, and the sus^^ense of these few days with the 
 tension of that horrible night had prostrated her. She only 
 awoke from her swoon to turn her head from the light and 
 refuse to be sjjoken to. 
 
 " But, Eustacie, child, listen; this is all in vain — he 
 lives," said Diane. 
 
 " Weary me not with falsehoods," faintly said Eustacie. 
 
 " No! no! no! They meant to hinder your flight, 
 but—" 
 
 " They knew of it?" cried Eustacie, sitting up suddenly. 
 "Then you told them. Go — go; let me never see you 
 more! You have been his death!" 
 
 " Listeii! I am sure he lives! What! would they in- 
 jiu-e one whom my father loved? I beard my father say lie
 
 THK CFAPLET OF PEARLS. 11? 
 
 would not have him liurt. Depend njwn it, ho is safe on 
 his way to England." 
 
 Eustacie gave a short but frightful hysterical laugh, and 
 pohited to Veronique. '' She saw it," she said; " ask her. ^•' 
 
 " Saw what?'" said Diane, turning fiercely on Veronique. 
 " What vile deceit have you half killed your lady with?" 
 
 " Alas! mademoiselle, I did but tell her what I had 
 seen,"" sighed Veronique, trembling. 
 
 " Tell me!" said Diane, passionately. 
 
 " Yes, everything," said Eustacie, sitting up. 
 
 " Ah! mademoiselle, it will make you ill again."" 
 
 " I will be ill — I will die! Heaven's slaying is better 
 than man"s. Tell her how you saw Narcisse. "" 
 
 " False girl!"" burst out Diane. 
 
 " No, no,"" cried Veronique. " Oh, j^ardon me, made- 
 moiselle, I could not help it."" 
 
 In spite of her reluctance, she was forced to tell that she 
 had found herself locked out of her mistress's room, and 
 after losing much time in searching for the concierge, 
 learned that the ladies were locked uji by order of the queen- 
 mother, and was strongly advised not to be running about 
 the passages. After a time, however, while sitting with 
 the concierge's wife, she heard such frightful whispers from 
 men with white badges, who were admitted one by one by 
 the porter, and all led silently to a snuxll lower room, that 
 she resolved on seeking out the baron "s servant, and send- 
 ing him to warn his master, while she would take up her 
 station at her lady's door. She found Osbert, and with 
 him was ascending a narrow spiral leading from the offices 
 — she, unfortunately, the foremost. As she came to the 
 top, a scuffle was going on— four men had thrown them- 
 selves upon one, and a torch distinctly showed her the 
 younger chevalier holding a pistol to the cheek of the fallen 
 man, and she heard the words, " Le haiser d' Eiistacie! 
 Je te harhouillerai ce cMen cle visage," and at the same 
 moment the pistol was discharged. She s[)rung back, over- 
 setting, as she believed, Osbert, and fled shrieking to the 
 room of the concierge, who shut her in till morning. 
 
 "And how — how," stammered Diane, "should you 
 know it was the baron?" 
 
 Eustacie, with a death-like look, showed for a moment 
 what even in her swoon she had held clinched to her bosom^ 
 the velvet cap soaked with blood.
 
 118 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Besides/' added Veroiiique, resolved to defend her as- 
 sertion, " whom else Avould the words suit? Besides, are 
 not all the heretic gentlemen dead? AVhy, as I sat there in 
 the porter's room, I hoard Monsieur d'O cidl each one of 
 them by name, one after the other, into the court, and 
 there the white sleeves cut them down or jDistolcd them 
 like shee23 for the slaughter. They lie all out there on the 
 terrace like so many carcases at market ready for winter 
 salting." 
 
 '' All slain?" said Eustacie, dreamily. 
 
 " All except those that the king called into his own ijarde 
 rohe." 
 
 " Then, I slew him!" Eustacie sunk back. 
 
 " 1 tell you, child," said Diane, almost angrily, " he 
 lives. Not a hair of liis head was to be hurt! The girl 
 deceives you." 
 
 But Eustacie had again become insensible, and awoke 
 delirious, entreating to have the door opened, and fancying 
 herself still on the revolving elysium, " Oh, demons! 
 demons, have pity!" was her cry. 
 
 Diane's soothings were like speaking to the winds; and 
 at last she saw the necessity of calling in further aid; but 
 afraid of the scandal that the poor girl's raving accusations 
 might create, she would not send for the Huguenot surgeon, 
 Ambroise Pare, whom the king had carefully secured in his 
 own apartments, but employed one of the barber valets of 
 the queen-mother's liousehold. Poor Eustacie was well 
 pleased to see her blood flowing, and sunk back on her 
 pillow murmuring that she had confessed her husband's 
 faith, and would soon be one with him, and Diane feared 
 for a moment lest the swoon should indeed be death. 
 
 The bleeding was so far effectual that it diminished the 
 fever, and Eustacie became rational again when she had 
 dozed and wakened, but she was little able or willing to 
 speak, and would not so much as listen to Diane's assevera- 
 tions that Veronique had made a frightful error, and that 
 the baron would prove to be alive. Whether it were that 
 the admission that Diane had known of the project for 
 preventing the elo2:)ement that invalidated her words, or 
 whether the sufferer's instinct made her believe Veronique 's 
 testimony rather than her cousin's assurances, it was all 
 " cramming words into her ear against the stomach of her 
 sense/' and she turned away from them with a 2)it<-'t>uSj
 
 THE CHAPLET OE PEARLS. 119 
 
 petulant hopelessness: " Could tlicy ]iot even let licr alone 
 to die in peace!" 
 
 Diane was almost angered at tliis little silly child being 
 in such an agony of sorrow — she, who could never have 
 known how to love him. And after all this persistent grief 
 was willfully thrown away. For Diane spoke in perfect 
 sincerity when she taxed Veronique with an injurious, bar- 
 barous mistake. She knew her father's strong aversion to 
 violence, and the real j^redilection that Berenger's good 
 mien, respectful manners, and liberal usage had won from 
 him, and she believed he had much rather the youth lived, 
 provided he were inoffensive. No doubt a little force had 
 been necessary to kidnaj) one so tall, active, and deter- 
 mined, and Veronique had nnxde up her horrible tale after 
 the usual custom of waitiug-maids. 
 
 Nothing else should be true. Did she think otherwise, 
 she should be even more frantic than Eustacie! Why, it 
 would be her own doing! She had betrayed the day of the 
 escape — she had held aloof from warning. There was 
 pleasure in securing Nid-de-Merle for her brother, pleasure 
 ni balking the foolish child who had won the heart that dis- 
 regarded her. Nay, there might have been even pleasure 
 in the destruction of the scorner of her charms — the foe of 
 her house — there might have been jjride in receiving Queen 
 Catherme's dexterous hint that she had been an apt pupil 
 if the young baron had only been something different — 
 something less fair, gracious, bright and pure. One bright 
 angel seemed to have flitted across her i)ath, and notliing 
 should induce her to believe she had destroyed him. 
 
 The stripped corpses of the murdered Iluguenots of the 
 palace had been laid in a line on the terrace, and the ladies 
 who had laughed with them the night before went to in- 
 spect them in death. A few remnants of Soeur Monique's 
 influence would have withheld Diane, but that a frenzy of 
 suspense was growing on her. She must see for herself. 
 If it were so, she must secure a fragment of the shining 
 flaxen hair, if only as a token that anything so pure and 
 bright had walked the earth. 
 
 She went on the horrible quest, shrinking where others 
 stared. For it was a ])itiless time, and the squadron of the 
 queen-mother were as lost to womanhood as the fishwomen 
 of two centuries later. But Diane saw no corpse at once so 
 tall, so young and so fair, though blonde Normans and blue-
 
 130 THE CHAPLUT OF PEARLS. 
 
 blooded Fra,nk.s^ VmV^-, scarce sixteen and stalwart warriors, 
 lay in one molanclioly rank. She at least bore away the 
 certainty that the Englisli Ribanmont was not there; and 
 if not, he must be safe ! She could obtain no further certain- 
 ty, for she knew that she must not expect to see either her fa- 
 ther or brother. There was a panic throughout the city. 
 All Paris imagined that the Huguejiots were on the point 
 of rising and slaying all the Catholics, and, with the sav- 
 agery of alarmed cowardice, the citizens and the mob were 
 assisting the armed bands of the Dukes of Anjou and Guise 
 to complete the slaughter, dragging their lodgers from their 
 hiding-2:)]aces, and denouncing all whom they suspected of 
 reluctance to mass and confession. But on the Monday, 
 Diane was able to send an urgent message to her father 
 that he must come to speak with her, for Mile, de Md-de- 
 Merle was extremely ill. She would meet him in the gar- 
 den after mornhig mass. 
 
 There accordingly, when she stepped forth j^ale, rigid, 
 but stately, with her large fan in her hand to servo as a 
 parasol, she met both him and her brother. She was for a 
 moment sorry, for she had much power over her father, 
 while she was afraid of lier brother's sarcastic tongue and 
 eye; she knew he never scrupled to sting her wherever she 
 was most sensitive, and she would have been able to extract 
 much more from her father in his absence. France has 
 never been without a tendency to joroduce the tiger-mon- 
 key, or ferocious fop; and the genus was in its full ascend- 
 ency under the sons of Catherine de Medicis, when the dregs 
 of Francois the First's pseiuJo-chiYalry were not extinct — 
 when horrible, retaliating civil wars of extermination Inid 
 made life cheap; nefarious j^ersecutions had hardened the 
 heart and steeled the eye, and the licentiousness promoted 
 by the shifty queen as one of her instruments of govern- 
 ment had darkened the whole understanding. The most 
 hateful heights of perfidy, effeminacy, and hypocrisy were 
 not reached till poor Charles IX., who only committed 
 crimes on compulsion, was in his grave, and Henry III. on 
 the throne ; but Narcisse de Eibaumont was one of the choice 
 companions of the latter, and after the night and day of 
 murder now stood before his sister with scented hair and 
 handkerchief — the last, laced, delicately held by a hand in 
 an embroidered glove — emerald j)endants in his ears, a 
 mustache twisted into sharp points and turned up like an
 
 TTXV. ClTAl'LET OF T'EAHLS. 131 
 
 eternal sardonic smilo, ami ho kd a littlo white poodle hy a 
 ro.se-colorcd ribl)nn. 
 
 " Well, sister/^ he said, as ho went through the motions 
 of kissing her hand, and she embraced her father; " so you 
 don't know how to deal with megrims and. transports?'' 
 
 " Father/' said Diane, not vouchsafing any attention, 
 *' unless you can send her some assurance of his life, I will 
 not answer for the consequences/' 
 
 I^arcisse laughed: " Take her this dog, with my compli- 
 ments. That is the way to deal with such a child as that." 
 
 "You do not know what you say, brother," answered 
 Diane witii dignity. " It goes deeper tlian that. " 
 
 "The deeper it goes, chikl,-"said the elder chevalier, 
 " the better it is that she should be undeceived as soon as 
 possible. She will recover, and be amenable the sooner." 
 
 " Then he lives, father?" exclaimed Diane. " lie lives, 
 thougli she is not to hear it — say—" 
 
 " What know I?" said the old man evasively. " On a 
 night of confusion many mischances are sure to occur! 
 Lurking in the jxdace at the very moment when there was 
 a search for the conspirators, it would have been a miracle 
 iial the j)oor young man escaped." 
 
 Diane turned still whiter. "Then," she said, " tliat 
 was why you made monsieur put Eustacie into the ballet, 
 that they might not go on Wednesday!" 
 
 " It was well hinted by you, daughter. W"e could not 
 have effectually stopped them on Wednesday without mak- 
 ing a scandal." 
 
 " Once more," said Diane, gasping, though still reso- 
 lute; "is not the story told by Eustacie 's woman false — 
 that she saw him — j^i^'^toled— by you, brother?" 
 
 " Peste!" cried Narcisse. " Was the prying wench there? 
 I thought the little one might be satisfied that he had 
 neighbor's fare. No matter; what is done for one's heaux 
 yeux is easily pardoned — and if not, why, I have her all 
 the same!" 
 
 " Nevertheless, daughter," said the chevalier gravely, 
 " the woman must be silenced. Either she must be sent 
 home, or taught so to swear to having been mistaken, that 
 la jK'tilc may acquit your brother! But what now, my 
 daughter?'^ 
 
 " She is livid !'^ exclaimed Narcisse, with his sneer.
 
 133 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 "What, sir, did not you know she was smitten with the 
 jK'ach on the top of a pole?" 
 
 "Enough, brother," said Diane, recovering herself 
 enough to speak hoarsely, but with hard dignity. " You 
 have slain — you need not insult, one whom j-ou have lost 
 the power of nnderstandiug!''^ 
 
 " (Shallow school-l;)oys certainly form no part of my study, 
 save to kick them down-stairs when they grow impudent,"' 
 said jSTarcisse, coolly. "It is only women who think what 
 is long must be grand." 
 
 " Come, children, no disj^utcs, " said the chevalier. " Of 
 course we regret that so fine a youth mixed himself np with 
 the enemies of the kingdom, like the stork among the 
 S2)arrows. Both Diane and I are sorry for the necessity; 
 but remember, child, that when he was interfering between 
 your brother and his just right of inheritance and destined 
 Avife, he could not but draw such a fate on himself. Now 
 rll is smooth, the estates will be nnitcd in their true head, 
 and you — ^you too, my child, will be provided for as suits 
 your name. All that is needed is to soothe the little one, 
 so as to hinder her from making an outcry- — and silence^ 
 the maid; my child will do her best for her fathei-'s sake, 
 and that of her family. " 
 
 Diane was less demonstrative than most of her country- 
 women. She had had time to recollect the uselessness of 
 e-ivino; vent to her indio-nant anouish, and her brother's 
 derisive look held her back. The family tactics, from force 
 of habit, recurred to her; she made no further objection to 
 lier father's commands; but when her father and brother 
 parted with her, she tottered into the now empty chajiel, 
 threw herself down, with her burning forehead on the stone 
 step, and so lay for hours. It was not in prayer. It was be- 
 cause it was the only j^lace where she could be alone. To 
 lier, heaven above and earth below seemed alike full of de- 
 spair, darkness, and cruel habitations, and she lay like one 
 sick with misery and repugnance to the life and world that 
 lay before her — the hard world that had quenched that one 
 fair light and mocked her pity. It was misery of solitude, 
 and yet no thought crossed her of going to weep and sym- 
 pathize with the other sufferer. No; rivalry and jealousy 
 came in there! Eustace viewed herself as his wife, and the 
 very thought that she had been deliberately preferred and 
 had enjoyed her triumph hardened Diane's heart against
 
 THE OIIAPLET OF PEARLS. 193 
 
 her. Nay, the open violence and abandonment of her grief 
 seemed to the more restrained and concentrated nature of 
 her elder a sign of shallowness and want of durability; and 
 in a certain contemptuous envy at her professing a right to 
 mourn, Diane never even reconsidered her own resolution 
 to play out her father's game, consign Eustacio to her hus- 
 band's murderer, and leave her to console herself with 
 bridal splendors and a clioice of admirers from all the 
 court. 
 
 However, for the 2n'csent Diane would rather stay away 
 as much as possible from the sick-bed of the poor girl; and 
 when an apjn'oaching step forced her to rouse herself and 
 hurry away by the other door of the chapel, she did indeed 
 mount to the ladies' bed-chamber, but only to beckon 
 Veronique out of hearing, and ask for her mistress. 
 
 Just the same still, only sleeping to have feverish dreams 
 of the revolving wheel or the demons grappling her hus- 
 band, refusing all food but a little drink, and lying silent 
 excejjt for a few moans, heedless who spoke or looked at 
 her. 
 
 Diane exj^lained that in that case it was needless to conio 
 to her, but added, with ihe vraisemhlancc of falsehood in 
 which she had graduated in Catherine's school, " Veronique, 
 as I told you, you Were mistaken. " 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle, if Monsieur Ic Baron lives, she will 
 be cured at once." 
 
 " Silly girl," said Diane, giving relief to her pent-uj^ 
 feeling by asperity of manner, " how could he live when 
 you and your intrigues got him into the palace on such a 
 night? Dead he is, of course; but it was your own treach- 
 erous, mischievous fancy that laid it on my brother. He 
 w\as far away with Monsieur de Guise at the attack on the 
 admiral. It was some of monsieur's grooms you saw. 
 You remember she had brought him into a scrape with 
 Monsieur, and it was sure to be remembered. And look 
 you, if you rejpeat the other tale, and do not drive it out of 
 her head, you need not look to be long with her — no, nor 
 at home. My father will have no one there to cause a 
 Bcandal by an evil tongue. ' ' 
 
 That threat convinced Veronique that she had been 
 right; but she, too, had learned lessons at the Louvre, and 
 she was too diplomatic not to ask pardon for lier blunder, 
 promise to contradict it when her mistress could listen, and
 
 1^4 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 express her satisfaction that it was not the Chevalier Nar- 
 cisse — for such tilings were not pleasant,, as she justly ob- 
 served, in families. 
 
 About noon on the Tuesday, the Louvre was unusually 
 tranquil. All the world had gone forth to a procession to 
 Notre Dame, headed by the king and all the royal family, 
 to offer thanksgiving for the deliverance of the country 
 from the atrocious conspiracy of the Huguenots. Eustacie's 
 chamber was freed from the bustle of all the maids-of-honor 
 arraying themst Ives, and adjusting curls, feathers, ruffs 
 and jewels; and such relief as she was capable of experienc- 
 ing she felt in the quiet. 
 
 Veronique hoped she would sleep, and. watched like a 
 dragon to guard against any disturbance, springing out 
 with ujjraised finger when a soft gliding step and rustling 
 of brocade was heard. " Does she sleej)?" said a low 
 voice; and Veronique, in the pale thin face with tear- 
 swollen eyes and light yellow hair, recognized the young 
 queen. " My good girl," said Elizabeth, with almost a be- 
 seeching gesture, " let me see her. I do not know when 
 again I may be able.'' 
 
 Veronique stood aside, with the lowest possible of courte- 
 sies, just as her mistress with a feeble, weary voice mur- 
 mured, " Oh, make them let me alone!" 
 
 "My poor, poor child,'' said the queen, bending over 
 Eustacie, while her brimming eyes let the tears fall fast, 
 " I will not disturb you long, but I could not help it." 
 
 " Her majesty!" exclaimed Eustacie, oi^ening wide her 
 eyes in amazement. 
 
 " My dear, suffer me here a little moment," said the 
 meek Elizabeth, seating herself so as to bring her face near 
 to Eustacie 's; " I could not rest till I had seen how it was 
 with you, and wejit with you." 
 
 "Ah, madame, you can weep," said Eustacie slowly, 
 looking at the queen's heavy tearful eyes almost with won- 
 der; " but I do not weep because I am dying, and that is 
 better." 
 
 " My dear, my dear, do not so speak!" exclaimed the 
 gentle but rather dull queen. 
 
 " Is it wrong? Nay, so much the better — then I shall be 
 with him," said Eustacie in the same feeble dreamy man- 
 ner, as if she did ]iot understand herself, but a little roused 
 by seeing she had shocked her visitor. " I would not be
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 125 
 
 wicked. He was all bright goodness and trutli: but his 
 does not seem to be goodness that brings to Heaven, and I 
 do not want to be in the heaven of these crnel false men — 
 I think it wonld go round and round. " She shut her eyes 
 as if to steady herself, and that moment seemed to give her 
 more self -recollection, for looking at the weeping, troubled 
 visitor, she exclaimed, with more energy, " Oh I madame, 
 it must be a dreadful fancy! Good men like him can not 
 be shut into those fiery gates with the torturing devils.^' 
 
 "Heaven forbid !'' exclaimed the queen. "My 2)oor, 
 poor child, grieve not yourself thus. At my home, my 
 Austrian home, we do not speak in this dreadful way. My 
 father loves and honors his loyal Protestants, and he trusts 
 that the good God accepts their holy lives in His unseen 
 Church, even though outwardly they are separate from us. 
 My German confessor ever said so. Oh! child, it would be 
 too frightful if we deemed that all those souls as well as 
 bodies perished in these frightful days. Myself, I believe 
 that they have their rewai'd for their truth and constancy. '' 
 
 Eustacie caught the queen "s iiand, and fondled it with 
 delight, as though those words had veritably opened the 
 gates of heaven to her husband. The queen went on in her 
 slow gentle manner, the very tone of Avhicli was inexpressi- 
 bly soothing and sympathetic: " Yes, and all will be clear 
 there. No more violence. At home our good men think 
 so, and the king will think the same when these cruel coun- 
 selors will leave him to himself; and I ju'ay, I pray day 
 and night, that God will not lay this sin to his account, but 
 open his eyes to rej)eut. Forgive him, Eustacie, and pray 
 for him too." 
 
 " The king would have saved my husband, madame," 
 returned Eustacie. " He bade him to his room. It was 
 I, unhajopy I, who detained him, lest our flight should have 
 been hindered." 
 
 The queen in her turn kissed Eustacie's forehead with 
 eager gratitude. " Oh, little one, you have brought a drop 
 of comfort to a heavy heart. Alas! I could sometimes feel 
 you to be a happier wife than I, with your perfect trust in 
 the brave pure-spirited j^outh, unwarped by these wicked 
 cruel advisers. I loved to look at his open brow; it was so 
 like our bravest German Junkers. And, child, we thought, 
 both of us, to have brought about your happiness; but, ah! 
 it has but caused all this misery. "
 
 12G THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 *' No, no, clearest queen," said Eustacie, " this montb 
 with all its woes has been joy — life! Oh! I had rather lie 
 here and die for his loss than be as I was before he came. 
 And now — now, you have given him to me for all eternity 
 ^f but I am lit to be with him!" 
 
 Eustacie had revived so much during the interview that 
 the queen could not believe her to be in a dying state; Init 
 she continued very ill, the low fever still hanging about her, 
 and the faintness continual. The close room, the turmoil 
 of its many inhabitants, and the impossibility of quiet alsG 
 harassed her greatly, and Elizabeth had little or no power 
 of making any other arrangements for her in the palace. 
 Ladies when ill were taken home, and this poor child had 
 no home. The other maids of honor were a gentler, sim- 
 pler set than Catherine's squadron, and were far from un- 
 kind; but between them and her, who had so lately been 
 the brightest child of them all, there now lay that great 
 gulf. ''7(7i hahe geleU und gdichet." That the little 
 blackbird, as they nsed to call her, should have been on the 
 verge of running away with her own husband was a half 
 understood, amusing mystery discussed in exaggerating 
 prattle. This was hushed indeed, in the presence of that 
 crushed, prostrate, silent sorrow; but there was still an 
 utter incapacity of true sympathy, that made the very pres- 
 ence of so many oppressive, even when they were not in 
 murmurs discussing the ghastly tidings of massacres in 
 other cities, and the fate of acquaintances. 
 
 On that same day, the queen sent for Diane to consult her 
 about the sufferer. Elizabeth longed to place her in her 
 own cabinet and attend on her herself; but she was afraid 
 to do this, as the unhappy king was in such a frenzied 
 mood, and so constantly excited by his brother and rxuise, 
 that it was possible that some half-delirious comjilaint from 
 poor Eustacie might lead to serious consequences. Indeed, 
 Elizabeth, though in no state to bear agitation, was ab- 
 sorbed in her endeavor to prevent him from adding blood 
 to blood, and a few days later actually saved the lives of the 
 King of Navarre and Prince of Oonde, by throwing herself 
 before him half-dressed, and tearing his weapon froin his 
 hand. Her only hope was that if she should give Inm a 
 son, her influence for mercy would revive with his joy. 
 Meantime she was powerless, and she could only devise tho 
 sending the poor little sufferer to a convent, where the
 
 TU:: CITArLET OF PEAKLS. 127 
 
 RHUS might tend her till she was restored to heallh and 
 composure. Diiine acquiesced, but proposed sending for 
 her father, and he was accordingly summoned. Diane saw 
 him first alone, and both agreed that he had better take 
 Eustacie to Bellaise, where her aunt would take good care 
 of her, and in a few months she would no doubt be weary 
 enough of the country to be in raptures to return to Paris 
 on any terms. 
 
 Yet even as Diane said this, a sort of longing for the 
 solitude of the woods of Nid-de-Merle came over her, a 
 recollection of the good Sister Monique, at whose knee she 
 had breathed somewhat of the free pure air that her mur- 
 dered cousin had brought with him; a sense that there 
 she could pour forth her sorrow. She offered herself at once 
 to go with Eustacie. 
 
 " No, no, my daughter," said the chevalier, *' that is 
 unnecessar}^ There is pleasanter employment for you. I 
 told you that your position was secured. Here is a brilliant 
 offer — Monsieur de Selinville." 
 
 " Le honl'.O'nme de Selinville !" exclaimed Diane, feeling 
 rather as if the compensation were like the little dog offered 
 to Eustacie. 
 
 " Know ye not that his two heretic nephews jjerished the 
 other night? He is now the head of his name, the mar- 
 quis, the only one left of his house." 
 
 " He begins earl}"," said Diane. 
 
 " An oltl soldier, my daughter, scarce sta3's to count the 
 fallen. He has no time to lose. He is sixty, with a dam- 
 aged constitution. It will be but the affair of a few years, 
 and then will my beautiful marquise be free to choose for 
 herself. I shall go from the young queen to obtain per- 
 mission from the queen-mother.^' 
 
 No question was asked. Diane never even thought ob- 
 jection possible. It was a close to that present life which 
 she had begun to loathe: it gave comparative liberty. It 
 would dull and confuse her heart-sick ])aiii, and give her a 
 certain superiority to her brother. Moreover, it would 
 satisfy the old father, whom she really loved. Marriage 
 with a worn-out old man was a simple step to full display 
 for young ladies without fortune. 
 
 The chevalier told Queen Elizabeth his jourpose of plac- 
 ing his niece in the family convent, under the care of her 
 aunt, the abbess, in a foundation endowed by her own fam-
 
 128 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 ily on the borders of her own estate. Elizabeth would have 
 liked to keep her nearer, but could not but own tliat the 
 change to the scenes of her childhood might be more bene- 
 ficial than a residence in a nunnery at Paris, and the cheva- 
 lier spoke of his niece with a tender solicitude that gained 
 the queen's heart. She consented, only stipulating that 
 Eustacie's real wishes should be ascertained, and herself 
 again made the exertion of visiting the patient for the pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Eustacie had been partly dressed, and was lying as near 
 as she could to the narrow window. The queen would not 
 let her move, but took her damp languid hand, and de- 
 tailed her uncle's proj^osal. It was plain that it was not 
 utterly distasteful. " Soeur Monique," she said, " Soeur 
 Monique would sing hymns to me, and then I should not 
 see the imps at night." 
 
 "Poor child! And you would like to go? You could 
 bear the journey?" 
 
 " It would be in the air! And then I should not smell 
 blood — blood!" And her cheeks became whiter again, if 
 possible. 
 
 " Then you would not rather be at the Carmelites, or 
 Mftubuisson, near me?" 
 
 "Ah! madame, there would not be Soeur Monique. If 
 the journey would only make me die, as soon as I came, 
 with Soeur Monique to hush me^ and keep off dreadful 
 images!" 
 
 " Dear child, you should put away the thought of dying. 
 May be you are to live, that your prayers may win salva- 
 tion for the soul of him you love." 
 
 " Oh, then! I should like to go into a convent so strict 
 ■^so strict," cried Eustacie, with renewed vigor. " Bel- 
 laise is nothing like strict enough. Does your majesty in- 
 deed think that my prayers will aid him?" 
 
 " Alas! what hope could we have but in praying?" said 
 Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes. " Little one, we will be 
 joined at least in our prayers and intercessions: thou wilt 
 not forget in thine one who yet lives, unhappier than all!" 
 
 " And, oh, my good, my holy queen, will yen indeed 
 pray for him — my husband? He was so good, his faith 
 can surely not long be reckoned against him. He did not 
 believe in purgatory! Perhaps — " Then frowning with a 
 difficulty far beyond a fevur-clouded brain, she concluded
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 1J39 
 
 — " At least, orisons may aid him! It is doing something 
 for him! Oh, where are my beads? I can begin at once/^ 
 
 The queen put her arm round her, and together they 
 said the " De profundis," — tlie queen understood every 
 word far more for the Hving than the dead. Again Eliza- 
 beth had given new hfe to Eustacie. The intercession for 
 her husband was something to hve for, and tlie severest 
 convent was coveted, until she was assured that she would 
 not be allowed to enter on any rule till she had time to re- 
 cover her health, and show the constancy of her purpose by 
 a residence at Bellaise. 
 
 Ere parting, however, the queen bent over her, and col- 
 oring, as if much ashamed of what she said, whispered — 
 " Child, not a word of the ceremony at Mont]»ipeau! you 
 understand? The king was always averse; it would bring 
 him and mc into dreadful trouble with those others, and 
 alas! it makes no difference now. You will be silent?'^ 
 
 And Eustacie signed her acquiescence, as indeed no diffi- 
 culty was made in her being regarded as the widow of the 
 Baron de Ribaumont, when she further insisted on procur- 
 ing a widow's dress before she quitted her room, and de- 
 clared, with much dignity, that she should esteem no per- 
 son her friend who called her Mile, de Nid-de-Merle. To 
 this the Chevalier de Ribaumont was willing to give way; 
 he did not care whether Narcisse married her as Berenger's 
 widow or as the separated maiden wife, and he thought her 
 vehement opposition and dislike would die away the faster 
 the fewer impediments were placed in her way. Both he 
 and Diane strongly discouraged any attempt on Narcisse's 
 part at a farewell interview; and thus unmolested, and 
 under the constant soothing influence of reciting her pray- 
 ers, in the trust that tliey were availing her husband, Eus- 
 tacie rallied so much that about ten days after the dreadful 
 St. Bartholomew, in the early morning, she was half led 
 half carried down the stairs between her uncle and Ve- 
 ronique. Her face was close muffled in her thick black veil, 
 but when she came to the foot of the first stairs where she 
 had found Berenger's cajo, a terrible shuddering came on 
 her; she again murmured something about the smell of 
 blood and fell into a swoon. 
 
 " Carry her on at once," said Diane who was following 
 — " there will be no end to it if you do not remove her im- 
 mediately."
 
 130 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 And thus shielded from the sight of ISTarcisse's intended 
 passionate gesture of farewell at the palace door, Eustacie 
 was laid at full length on the seat of the great ponderous 
 family coach, where Veroniqne hardly wished to revive her 
 till the eight horses should have dragged her beyond the 
 streets of Paris, with their terrible associations, and the gib- 
 bets still hung with the limbs of tiie murdered. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE bridegroom's ARRIVAL. 
 
 The starling flew to his mother's window stane. 
 
 It whistled and it sang, 
 And aye, the owcr word of the tune 
 
 "Was ' Johnnie tarries lang.' 
 
 Johnnie of Bredislee. 
 
 There had been distrust and dissatisfaction at home for 
 many a day jjast. Berenger could hardly be censured for 
 loving his own wife, and yet his family were by no means 
 gratified by the prospect of his bringing home a little 
 Erench Papist, of whom Lady Thistlewood remembered 
 nothing good. 
 
 Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her step-mother, 
 who insisted on treating her with extreme pity as a desert- 
 ed maiden, and thus counteracting Aunt Cecily's wise 
 representations, that there never should, and therefore 
 never could, have been anything save fraternal affection be- 
 tween the young people, and that pity was almost an insult 
 to Lucy. Tbe good girl herself was made very uncom- 
 fortable by these demonstrations, and avoided them as much 
 as possible, chiefly striving in her own gentle way to pre- 
 pare her little sisters to exjiect numerous charms in brother 
 Berenger's wife, and heartily agreeing with Philij) that 
 Berenger knew his own mind best. 
 
 " And at any rate," quoth Philip, " we'll have the besj- 
 bonfire that ever was seen in the country! Lucy, you'll 
 coax my father to give us a tar-barrel!" 
 
 The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous ])\\(i of fagots, 
 and the fisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should 
 first- bring word to Master Philip that the young lord and 
 lady were in the creek. 
 
 Philip gave his pony no rest, between the lookout oii the
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 131 
 
 downs and the borders of the creek; but day after day 
 passed, and still the smacks from Jersey held no person 
 worth mentioning; and still the sense of expectation kept 
 Lucy starting at every sound, and hating herself for her 
 own foil}'. 
 
 At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with 
 ridmg and consternation, " Oh! father, father, Paul 
 Duval's boat is come in, and he says that the villain Papists 
 have butchered every Protestant in France. ■'' 
 
 Sir Marmaduke's asseveration was of the strongest, that 
 he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his 
 horse and rode down to interrogate Paul Duval, and charge 
 him not to spread the report lest he should alarm the ladies. 
 
 But the report was in the air. He »vent to the hall, and 
 the butler met him with a grave face, and took him to the 
 study, where Lord Walwyn was sitting over letters newly 
 received from London, giving hints from the Low Coun- 
 tries of bloody work in France. And when he returned to 
 his home, his wife burst out upon him in despair. Here 
 had they been certainly killing her poor boy. Isoi a doubt 
 that he was dead. All from this miserable going to France, 
 and that had been quite against her will. 
 
 Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; 
 but every day some fresh wave of tidings floated in. Mur- 
 der wholesale had surely been perpetrated. Now came 
 stories of death-bells at Rouen from the fishermen on the 
 coast; now markets and petty sessions discussed the foul 
 slaughter of the embassador and his household; truly relat- 
 ed how the queen had put on mourning, and falsely that 
 she had hung the French embassador La Mothe Fenelon. 
 And Burleigii wrote to his old friend from Loudon, that 
 some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and that 
 no news had yet been received of Sir Francis Walsingham 
 or of his suite. 
 
 All these days seemed so many years taken from the vital 
 power of Lord Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and 
 affections wound themselves closely around his grandson, 
 but he reproached himself severely with having trusted him 
 in his youth and inexperience among the seductive j)erils of 
 Paris. The old man grieved over the promising young life 
 cut off, and charged on himself the loss and grief to the 
 women, whose stay he had trusted Berenger would have 
 been. He said little, but his hand and head grew more
 
 133 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 trembling; he scarcely eat or slejDt^ and seemed to waste 
 from a vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of 
 old age, till Lady Wahvyn had almost ceased to think of 
 her grandson in her anxiety for her husband. 
 
 Letters came at last. The messenger dispatched by Sir 
 Francis Walsingham had not been able to proceed till the 
 ways had become safe, and he had then been delayed; but 
 on his arrival his tidings were sent down. There were let- 
 ters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart- 
 broken Mr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all 
 jDOSsible ]3raises of the young Baron de Eibanmont, all possi- 
 ble reproach to themselves for having let him be betrayed 
 into this most horrible snare, in which he had perished, 
 without even a possibility of recovering his remains for 
 honorable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr. 
 Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had 
 offered to escort him to the Low Countries, whence he 
 would make his way to England, and would present him- 
 self at Hurst Walwyn, if his lordship could endure the sight 
 of his creature who had so miserably failed in his trust. 
 
 Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he 
 spoke. Then he took off his spectacles, laid them down, 
 and said calmly, " God's will be done. I thank God that 
 my boy was blameless. Better they slew him than sent 
 him home tainted with their vices. " 
 
 The certainty, such as it was, seemed like rej)ose after 
 the suspense. They knew to what to resign themselves, 
 and even Lady Thistlewood^s tempestuous grief had so 
 spent itself that late in the evening the family sat round 
 the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one worn out 
 with sorrow, the others talking hi hushed tones of that 
 bright boyhood, that joyous light quenched in the night of 
 carnage. 
 
 The butler slowly entered the hall, and approached Sir 
 Marmaduke cautiously. " Can I speak with you, sir?" 
 
 " What is it, Davy?" demanded the lady, who first 
 caught the words. " What did you say?'' 
 
 "''Madame, it is Humfrey Holt!" 
 
 Humf rey Holt was the head of the grooms who had gone 
 with Berenger; and there was a general start and sup- 
 pressed exclamation. " Humfrey Holt!'' said Lord Wal- 
 wyn, feebly drawing himself to sit upright, " hath he, 
 then, escaped?"
 
 THE CIIAl'LET OF PEARLS. 13:J 
 
 " Yea, my lord/' said Davy, " and he brings news of 
 my young lord. ' ' 
 
 "Alack! Davy," said Lady Walwyn, "such news had 
 been jjrecious awhile ago. " 
 
 " Nay, so please your ladyship, it is better than 3'ou 
 deem. Hurafrey says my young lord is yet living. " 
 
 " Living!" shrieked Lady Thistle wood, starting up. 
 '"' Living! My son! and where?" 
 
 " They are bearing him home, my lady," said the but- 
 ler, " but I fear me, by what Humfrey says, that it is but 
 in woful case." 
 
 " Bringing him home! Which way?" Philip darted off 
 like an arrow from the bow. Sir Marmaduke hastily de- 
 manded if aid were wanted; and Lady Walwyn, interpret- 
 ing the almost inaudible voice of her husband, bade that 
 Humfrey should be called in to tell his own story. 
 
 Hands were held out in greeting, and blessings murmured, 
 as the groom entered, looking battered and worn, and bow- 
 ing low in confusion at being thus unusually conspicuous, 
 and having to tell his story to the whole assembled family. 
 To the first anxious question as to the condition of the 
 young lord, he replied, " Marr}^, my lady, the life is yet 
 in him, and that is all. He hath been shot through the 
 head and body, and slashed about the face so as it is a shame 
 to see. Nor hath he done aught these three weary weeks 
 but moan from time to time so as it is enough to break 
 one's heart to hear him; and I fear me 'tis but bringing 
 him home to die. " 
 
 " Even so, God be thanked; and you, too, honest Hum- 
 frey," said Lady Walwyn. "Let us hear when and how 
 this deed was done." 
 
 " Why, that, my lord, I can't so well say, being that 1 
 was not with him; more's the pity, or I'd have known the 
 reason why, or ever they laid a finger on him. But when 
 Master Landry, his French foster-brother, comes, he will 
 resolve you in his own tongue. I can't parleyvoo with him, 
 but he's an honest rogue for a Frenchman, and 'twas he 
 brought off my young lord. You see we were all told to be 
 aboard the little French craft. Master Landry took me 
 down and settled it all with the master, a French farmer 
 fellow that came a horse-dealing to Piiris, I knew what 
 my young lord was after, but none of the other varlets did; 
 and I went down and made as decent a place as J could be-
 
 184 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tween decks. My lord and Master Landry were gone down 
 to the court meantime, and we were to lie off till we heard 
 ji whistle like a mavis on the bank, then come and take 
 them aboard. Well, we waited and waited, and all the 
 lights were out, and not a sound did we hear till just an 
 hour after midnight. Then a big bell rang out, not like a 
 decent Christianable bell, but a great clash, then another, 
 and a lot of strokes enough to take away one's breath. 
 Then half the windows were lighted up, and we heard shots, 
 and screeches, anil splashes, till, as I said to Jack Smithers, 
 'twas as if one half the place was murthering the other. 
 The farmer got frightened, and would have been off; but 
 when I saw what he was at, ' No,' says I, ' not an inch do 
 we budge without news of my lord.' So Jack stood by the 
 rope, and let them see that 'twas as much as their life was 
 worth to try to unmoor. Mercy, what a night it was! 
 Shrieks and shouts, and shots and howls, here, there, and 
 everywhere, and splashes into the river; and by and by we 
 saw tlie poor murthered creatures come floating by. The 
 farmer, he had some words with one of the boats near, and 
 I heard somewliat of Huguenot and Hereteek, and I knew 
 that was what they called good Protestants. Then up 
 comes the farmer with his sons looking mighty ugly at us, 
 and signing that unJess we let them be oft' 'twould be the 
 worse for us; and we began to think as how we had best be 
 set ashore, and go down the five of us to see if we could 
 stand by my young lord in some strait, or give notice to 
 my lord embassador." 
 
 " God reward you!" exclaimed Lady Walwyn. 
 
 " "I'was only our duty, my lady," gruffly answered 
 Humfrey; " but just a.s Hal had got on the quay, what 
 should I see but Master Landry coming down the street 
 with my young lord on his back! I can tell you he was 
 well-nigh spent; and just then half a dozen butcherly vil- 
 lains came out on him, bawling, * Tu-y! tu-y!' which it 
 seems means ' kill, kill." He returned about and showed 
 them that he had got a white sleeve and white cross in his 
 bonnet, like them, the rascals, giving them to understand 
 that he was only going to throw the corpse into the river. 
 I doubted him then myself; but he caught sight of us, and 
 in his fashion of talk with us, called out to us to help, for 
 there was life still. So two of us took my lord, and the 
 other three gave the beggarly French cut-throats as good as
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. . 135 
 
 they meant for us; while Landry shouted to the farmer to 
 wait, and we got aboard, and made right away down the 
 river. But never a word has the poor young gentleman 
 spoken, though Master Landry has done all a barber or a 
 sick-nurse could do; and he got us past the cities by show- 
 ing the 23apers in my lord's pocket, so that we got safe to 
 the farmer's place. There we lay till we could get a boat 
 to Jersey, and thence again home; and may be my young 
 lord will mend now Mistress Cecily will have the handling 
 of him. " 
 
 " That is in the wisest hands, good Humfrey, " said Lord 
 Walwyn, as the tears of feeble age flowed down his cheeks. 
 " May He who hath brought the lad safely so far spare him 
 yet, and raise him up. But whether he live or die, you son 
 and daughter Thistlewood will look that the faithfulness of 
 Humfrey Holt and his comrades be never forgotten or un- 
 rewarded. ' ' 
 
 Humfrey again muttered something about no more than 
 his duty; but by this time sounds were heard betokening 
 the ajjproach of the melancholy j^rocession, who, having 
 been relieved by a relay of servants sent at once from the 
 house, were bearing home the wounded youth. Philip first 
 of all dashed in hurrying and stumbling. He had been 
 unprepared by hearing Humfrey's account, and, impetuous 
 and affectionate as he was, was entirely unrestrained, and 
 flinging himself on his knees with the half audible words, 
 "Oh! Lucy! Lucy! he is as good as dead!" hid his face 
 between his arms on his sister's lap, and sobbed with the 
 abandonment of a child, and with all his youthful strength; 
 so much adding to the consternation and confusion, that, 
 finding all Lucy's gentle entreaties vain, his father at last 
 roughly pulled up his face by main force, and said," Philip, 
 hold your tongue! Are we to have you on our hands as well 
 as my lady? I shall send you home this moment! Let 
 your sister go." 
 
 This threat reduced the boy to silence. Luc}^, who was 
 wanted to assist in preparing Bcrenger's room, disengaged 
 herself; but he remained in the same posture, his head bur- 
 ied on the seat of the chair, and the loud weeping only for- 
 cibly stifled by forcing his handkerchief into his mouth, as 
 if he had been in violent bodily pain. Nor did he venture 
 again to look up as the cause of all his distress was slowly 
 carried into the hall, corpse-like indeed. The bearers had
 
 136 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 clianged several times, all but a tall, fair Xorman youth, 
 who through the whole transit had supported the head, en- 
 deavoring to guard it from shocks. When the mother and 
 the rest came forward, he made a gesture to conceal the face, 
 saying in French, "Ah! mesdames; this is no sight for 
 you.'' 
 
 Indeed the head and face were almost entirely hidden by 
 bandages, and it was not till Berenger had been safely de- 
 posited on a large carved bed that the anxious relatives 
 were permitted to perceive the number and extent of his 
 hurts; and truly it was only by the breath, the vital 
 warmtli, and the heavy moans when he was disturbed, or 
 the dressings of the wounds were touched, that showed him 
 still to be a living man. There proved to be no less than 
 four wounds — a shot tlirough the right shoulder, the right 
 arm also broken with a terrible blow with a sword, a broad 
 gash from the left temple to the right ear, and worse than 
 all, " /e baiser d'Eustacie," a bullet- wound where the 
 muzzle of the jiistol had absolutely been so close as to have 
 burned and blackened the cheek; so that his life was, as 
 Osbert averred, chiefly owing to the assassin^s jealousy of 
 his personal beauty, which had directed his slut to the 
 cheek rather than the head; and thus, though the bullet 
 had terribly shattered the upper jaw and roof of the mouth, 
 and had passed out through the back of the head, there 
 was a hope that it had not penetrated the seat of life or 
 reason. The other gash on the face was but a sword- 
 wound, and though frightful to look at, was unimpor- 
 tant, compared with the first wound with the pistol-shot 
 in the shoulder, with the arm broken and further in- 
 jured by having served to suspend him round Osbert's 
 neck; but it was altogether so appalling a sight, that it 
 was no wonder that Sir Marmaduke muttered low but deep 
 curses on the cowardly ruffians; while his wife wept in 
 grief as violent, though more silent, than her step-sonX 
 and only Cecily gathered the faintest ray of hope. The 
 wounds had been well cared for, the arm had been set, the 
 hair cut away, and lint and bandages applied with a skill 
 that surprised her, till she remembered that Landry Osbert 
 had been bred up in preparation to be Berenger's valet, 
 and thus to practice those minor arts of surgery then re- 
 quired in a superior body-servant. For his part, though 
 his eyes looked red, and his whole person exhausted by un-
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF PEARLS. 137 
 
 ceasing watching, he seemed unable to relinquish the care 
 of his master for a moment, and her nunnery French would 
 not have persuaded him of her sufiiciency as a nurse, had 
 he not perceived her tender touch and ready skill. These 
 were what made him consent to leave his post even for a 
 slioi't meal, and so soon as he had eaten it he was called to 
 Lord Walwyn to supply the further account which Hum- 
 frey had been unable to give. He had waited, he explained, 
 with a lackey, a friend of his in the palace, till he became 
 alarmed by the influx of armed men, wearing white crosses 
 and shirt-sleeves on their left arms, but his friend had as- 
 sured him that his master had been summoned to the royal 
 bed-chamber, where he would be as safe as in church; and 
 obtaining from Landry Osbert himself, a perfectly true 
 assurance of being a good Catholic, had supplied him with 
 the badges that were needful for security. It was just then 
 that madame's maid crept down to hiS waiting-place with 
 the intelligence that her mistress had been bolted in, and 
 after a short consultation they agreed to go and see whether 
 M. le Baron were indeed waiting, and, if he were, to warn 
 him of the suspicious state of the lower regions of the pal- 
 ace. 
 
 They were just in time to see, but not to prevent the at- 
 tack upon their young master; and while Veronique fled, 
 screaming, Landry Osbert, who had been thrown back on 
 the stairs in her sudden flight, recovered himself and has- 
 tened to his master. The murderers, after their blows had 
 been struck, had hurried along the corridor to join the body 
 of assassins, whose work they had in efi'ect somewhat an- 
 ticipated. Landry, full of rage and despair, was resolved at 
 least to save his foster-brother's corjDse from further insult, 
 and bore it down-stairs in his arms. On the way, he per- 
 ceived that life was not yet extinct, and resolving to become 
 doubly cautious, he sought in the pocket for the jjurse that 
 had been well filled for the flight, and by the persuasive ar- 
 gument of gold crowns, obtained egress from the door- 
 keeper of the postern, wdiere Berenger hoped to have 
 emerged in a far different manner. It was a favorable 
 moment, for the main body of the murderers were at that 
 time being posted in the court by the captain of the guard, 
 ready to massacre the gentlemen of the King of Navarre's 
 suite, and he was therefore unmolested by any claimant of 
 the plunder of the apparent corpse he bore on his shoulders.
 
 138 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS, 
 
 The citizens of Paris who had been engaged in their share 
 of the murders for more than an hoar before the tragedy 
 began in the Louvre, frequently beset him on liis way to 
 the quay, and but for the timely aid of his English com- 
 rades, he would hardly have brought off his foster-brother 
 safely. 
 
 The pass with which King Charles had provided Berenger 
 for himself and his followers when his elopement was first 
 planned, enabled Osbert to carry his whole crew safely past 
 all the stations where passports were demanded. He had 
 much wished to procure surgical aid at Rouen, but learn- 
 ing from the boatmen on the river that the like bloody 
 scenes were there being enacted, he had decided on going 
 on to his master's English home as soon as possible, merely 
 trusting to liis own skill by the way; and though it was the 
 slightest 23ossible hope, yet the healthy state of the wounds, 
 and the mere fact of life continuing, had given him some 
 faint trust that there might be a partial recovery. 
 
 Lord Walwyn repeated iiis agitated thanks and praises 
 for such devotion to his grandson. 
 
 Osbert bowed, laid his hand on his heart, and replied — 
 " Monseigneur is good, but what say I? Monsieur le Baron 
 is my foster-brother I Say that, and all is had in one word." 
 
 He was then dismissed, with orders to take some rest, 
 but he obstinately refused all commands in French or En- 
 glish to go to bed, and was found some time after fast 
 asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SWEET HEAET. 
 
 Ye hae marred a bonnier face than your ain. 
 
 Dying wonh of the Bonnie Earl of Moray. 
 
 One room at Hurst Walwyn, though large, wainscoted, 
 and well furnished, bore as pertinaciously the air of a cell 
 as the appearance of Sister Cecily St. John continued like 
 that of a nun. There was a large sunny oriel, in which a 
 thrush sung merrily in a wicker cage, and yet the very 
 central point and leading feature of the room was the altar- 
 like table, covered with rich needle-work, with a carved 
 ebony crucifix jjlaced on it, and on the wall above, quaint 
 and stiff, but lovely featured, delietitely tinted pictures of
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 139 
 
 Our Lady in the center, and of St. Anne and St. Cecilia 
 en either side, with skies behind of most ethereal blue, and 
 robes tenderly trimmed with gold. A little shrine of 2)ur- 
 ple spar, witii a crystal front, contained a fragment of 
 sacred bone; a silver shell held holy water, perpetuated 
 from some blessed by Bishop Ridley. 
 
 " With velvet bound and broidered o'er. 
 Her breviary book " 
 
 lay open at " Sext," and there, too, lay with its three 
 murks at the Daily Lessons, the Bishop's Bible, and the 
 Common Prayer beside it. 
 
 The elder Baron de Ribaimiont had never pardoned Ce- 
 cily his single glance at that table, and had seriousl}'' re- 
 monstrated with his father-in-law for permitting its exist- 
 ence, quoting Rachel, Achan, and Maachah. Yet he never 
 knew of the hair-cloth smock, the discipline, the cord and 
 sack-cloth that lay stored in the large carved awmry, and 
 were secretly in use on every fast or vigil, not with any no- 
 tion of merit, but of simple obedience, and with even deeper 
 comprehension and enjoyment of their sj)iritual siguifiance, 
 of which, in her cloister life, she had comprehended little. 
 
 It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and 
 clasped hands before the altar-table, the winter sunbeams 
 making the shadows of the ivy-s2irays dance upon the deep 
 mourning dress and ^Jale cheek. The eyelashes were heavy 
 with tear-droj^s, and veiled eyes that had not yet attained to 
 the region of calm, like the light quivering of the lips, 
 showed that here was the beginning of the course of trial 
 through which serenity might be won, and forever. 
 
 By and by the latch was raised, and Cecily came for- 
 ward. Lucy rose quickly to her feet, and while giving and 
 returning a fond embrace, asked with her eyes the question 
 that Cecily answered, " Still in the same lethargy. The 
 only shade of sense that I have seen is an unclosing of the 
 eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and a shiver 
 through all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till my 
 lord forbade it to be sounded. " 
 
 " That frightful bell that the men told us of,'^ said Lucy 
 shuddering; " oh, what a heart that murderess must have 
 had!" 
 
 " Hold, Lucy! How should we judge her, who may at 
 this moment be weeping in desolation?"
 
 140 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Lucy looked up astonished. "Auut/'she said, "you 
 have been so long shut up with him that you hardly can 
 have heard all — how she ^^layed fast and loose, and for the 
 sake of a mere i^ageant put off the flight from the time 
 when it would have been secure even until that dreadful 
 eve!^' 
 
 " I know it," said Cecily. " I fear me much that her 
 sin has been great; yet, Lucy, it were better to pray for 
 her than to talk wildly against her. " 
 
 " Alas!" murmured Lucy, " I could bear it and glory iu 
 it when it seemed death for the faith's sake, but," and the 
 tears burst out, " to find he was only trapped and slain for 
 the sake of a faithless girl — and that he should love her 
 still. '^ 
 
 " She is his wife,'' said Cecily. " Child, from my soul 
 I grieve for you, but none the less must I, if no other will, 
 keep before your eyes that our Berenger's faith belongs 
 solely to her." 
 
 " You — you never would have let me forget it," said 
 Lucy. " Indeed I am more maidenly when not alone with 
 3^ou! I know verily tliat he is loyal, and that my hatred to 
 her is more than is meet. I will — I will pray for her, but 
 I would that you were in your convent still, and that I 
 could hide me there."' 
 
 " That were scarce enough/' said Cecily. " One sister 
 we had who had fled to our house to hide her grief when 
 her betrothed had wedded another. She took her sorrows 
 for her vocation, strove to hurry on her vows, and when 
 they were taken, she chafed and fretted under them. It 
 was she who wrote to the commissioner the letter that led 
 to the visitation of our house, and, moreover, she was the 
 only one of us who married." 
 
 " To her own lover?" i 
 
 " No, to a brewer at "Winchester! I say not that you could 
 ever be like poor sister Bridget, but only that the cloister 
 has no charm to still the lieart — prayer and duty can do as 
 much without as within." 
 
 '' When we deemed her worthy, I was glad of his happi- 
 ness," said Lucy, thoughtfully. 
 
 " You did, my dear, and I rejoiced. Think now how 
 grievous it must be with her, if she, as I fear she may, 
 yielded her heart to those, M'ho told her that to insnare
 
 THE CHAPLET OF I'EAliLS. 141 
 
 liim was her duty, or if indeed she were as much deceived 
 as he." 
 
 "Then she will soon be comforted," said Lucy, still 
 with some bitterness in her voice; bitterness of which she 
 herself was j^erhaps conscious, for suddenly droi^ping on 
 lier knees, she hid her face, and cried, " Oh, help me to 
 pray for her. Aunt Cecily, and that I may do her wrong no 
 more!" 
 
 And Cecily, in her low conventual chant, sung, almost 
 under her breath, the noonday Latin hymn, the words of 
 which, long familiar to Lucy, had never as yet so come 
 home to lier: 
 
 ' ' Quench Thou the fires of heat and strife. 
 The v/asting fever of tlie heart: 
 From perils guard our feeble life. 
 And to our souls Thy help impart." 
 
 Cecily's judgment would have been thought weakly 
 charitable by all the rest of the family. Mr. Adderley had 
 been forwarded by Sir Francis Walsingham like a bale of 
 goods, and arriving in a mood of such self-reproach as 
 would be deemed abject by persons used to the modern re- 
 lations between noblemen and their chaplains, was exhil- 
 arated by the unlooked-for comfort of finding his young 
 charge at least living, and in his grandfather's house. From 
 his narrative, AValsingham's letters, and Osbert's account. 
 Lord Walwyn saw no reason to doubt that the Black 
 Eibaumonts had thought the massacre a favorable moment 
 for sweejDing the only survivor of the White or elder branch 
 away, and that not only had royalty lent itself to the cruel 
 roject, but that as Diane de Ribaumont had failed as a 
 ait, the young espoused wife had herself been employed 
 to draw him hi to the snare, and secure his presence at the 
 slaugliter-house, away fi'oni his safe asylum of the embassa- 
 dor's, or even in the king's (/arde-roie. It was an unspeak- 
 ably frightful view to take of the case, yet scarcely worse 
 than the reality of many of the dealings of those with whom 
 the poor young girl had been associated; certainly not 
 worse than the crimes, tlie suspicion of which was resting 
 on the last Dowager Queen of France; and all that coidd be 
 felt by the sorrowing family, was comfort, that at least cor- 
 ruption of mind had either not been part of the game, or 
 had been unsuccessful, and, by all testimony, the victim
 
 142 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 was still the same innoceut boy. This was all their relief, 
 while for days, for weeks, Berenger de Ribaumoiit lay in a 
 trance or torpor between life and death. Sometimes, as 
 Cecily had said, his eyes turned with a startled wistfulness 
 toward the door, and the sound of a bell seemed to thrill 
 him with a start of agony; but for the most jiart he neither 
 ap]3eared to see or hear, and a few moans were the only 
 sounds that escaped him. The queen, in her affection for 
 her old friend, and her strong feeling for the victims of the 
 massacre, sent down the court physician, who turned him 
 about and elicited sundry heavy groans, but could do no 
 more than enjoin patient waiting on the beneficent jDOwers 
 of nature in early youth. His visit produced one benefit, 
 namely, the strengthening of Cecily St. John's hands 
 against the charms, elixirs, and nostrums with which Lady 
 Tliistlewood's friends supplied her — plasters from the 
 cunning women of Lyme Regis, made of powder of giants' 
 bones, and snakes prayed into stone by St. Aldhelm, pills 
 of live woodlice, and fomentations of living earthworms 
 and spiders. Great was the censure incurred by Lady 
 AValwyn for refusing to let such remedies be tried on her 
 grandson. And he was so much more her child than his 
 mother's, that Dame Annora durst do no more than maun- 
 der. 
 
 In this perfect rest, it seemed as if after a time " the 
 powers of nature ' ' did begin to rally, there were appear- 
 ances of healing about the wounds, the difference between 
 sleeping and waking became more evident, the eyes lost 
 the painfid, half-closed, vacant look, but were either shut 
 or opened with languid recognition. The injuries were 
 such as to exclude him from almost every means of expres- 
 sion, the wound in his mouth made speech impossible, and 
 his right arm was not available for signs. It was only the 
 clearness of his eyes, and their response to what was said, 
 that showed that his mind was recovering tone, and then 
 he seemed only alive to the present, and to perceive noth- 
 ing but what related to his suffering and its alleviations. 
 The wistfulness that had shown itself at first was gone, and 
 even when he improved enough to establish a language of 
 signs with eye, lip, or left hand, Cecily became convinced 
 that he had little or no memory of recent occurrences, and 
 that finding himself at home among familiar faces, his still 
 dormant perceptions demanded no further explanation.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 143 
 
 This blank was the most favorable state for his peace and 
 for his recovery, and it was of long d^^ration, lasting even 
 till he had made so mnch jDrogress that he could leave his 
 bed, and even speak a few words, though his weakness was 
 much prolonged by the great difficulty with which he could 
 take nourishment. About two winters before, Cecily had 
 successfully nursed him through a severe attack of small- 
 joox, and she thought that he confounded his present state 
 with the former illness, when he had had nearly the same 
 attendants and surroundings as at present; and that his 
 faculties were not yet roused enough to perceive the incon- 
 gruity. 
 
 Once or twice he showed surprise at visits from his mother 
 or Philip, who had then been entirely kept away from him, 
 and about Christmas he brightened so much, and awoke to 
 things about him so much more fully, that Cecily thought 
 the time of recollection could not be much longer deferred. 
 Any noise, however, seemed so painful to him, that the 
 Christmas festivities were held at Combe Manor instead of 
 Hurst Walwyn; only after church. Sir Marmaduke and 
 Lady Thistlewood came in to make him a visit, as he sat in 
 a large easy-chair by his bedroom-fire, resting after having 
 gone through as much of the rites of the day as he was 
 able for, with Mr. Adderley. The room looked very cheer- 
 ful with the bright wood-fire on the open hearth, shining 
 on the gay tapestry hangings, and the dark wood of the 
 carved bed. The evergreen-decked window shimmered 
 with sunshine, and even the joatient, leaning back among 
 crimson cushions, thongli his face and head were ghastly 
 enough wherever they were not covered with patches and 
 bandages, still had a pleasant smile with lip and eye to 
 thank his step-father for his cheery wishes of " a merry 
 Christmas, at least one better in health. '^ 
 
 " I did not bring the little wenches, Berenger, lest they 
 should weary you,^' said his mother. 
 
 Berenger looked alarmed, and said with the indistinct- 
 ness with which he always spoke, " Have they caught it? 
 Are they marked?" 
 
 " No, no, not like you, my boy,^' said Sir Marmaduke, 
 sufficiently aware of Berenger's belief to be glad to keep it 
 up, and yet obliged to walk to the window to hide his di- 
 version at the notion of his little girls catching the conta- 
 gion of sword gashes and bullet-wounds. Dame Annora
 
 144 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 prattled on, " But they have sent 3'Ou their Christmas gifts 
 by me, poor children, they have long been busied with 
 them, and I fancy Lucy did half herself. See, this ker- 
 chief is hemmed by little Dolly, and here are a pair of 
 bands and cuffs to match, that Nanny and Bessy have been 
 broidering with their choicest stitchery. " 
 
 Berenger smiled, took, expressed admiration by gesture, 
 and then said in a dreamy, uncertain manner: "Me-' 
 thought I had some gifts for them;" then looking round 
 the room, his eye fell on a small brass-bound casket which 
 had traveled with him to hold his valuables; he pointed to 
 it with a iDleased look, as Sir Marmaduke lifted it and j)laced 
 it on a chair by his side. The key, a small ornamental 
 brass one, was in his purse, not far off, and Lady Thistle- 
 wood was full of exceeding satisfaction at the unpacking 
 not only of foreign gifts, but as she hoped, of the pearls; 
 Cecily meantime stole quietly in, to watch that her patient 
 was not overwearied. 
 
 He wafi resuming the use of his right arm, though it was 
 still weak and stiff, and he evidently had an instinct against 
 letting any one deal with that box but himself; he tried 
 himself to unlock it, and though forced to leave this to Sir 
 Marmaduke, still leaned over it when opened, as if to pre- 
 vent his mother's curious glances from penetrating its I'e- 
 cesses, and allowed no hands near it but his own. He first 
 brought out a pretty feather fan, saying as he held it to his 
 mother, " For Nan, I promised it. It was bought at the 
 Halles,'' he added, more dreamily. 
 
 Tiien again he dived, and brought out a wax medallion 
 of Our Lady guarded by angels, and made the sign that 
 always brought Cecily to him. He held it up to her with 
 a puzzled smile, saying, " They thought me a mere Papist 
 for buying it — Monsieur de Teligny, I think it was.'^ 
 
 They had heard how the good and beloved Teligny had 
 been shot down on the roof of his father-in-law's house, by 
 rabid assassins, strangers to his person, when all who knew 
 him had spared him, from love to his gentle nature; and 
 the name gave a strange thrill. 
 
 He muttered something about " Peddler — Montjoipeau " 
 ■ — and still continued. Then came a small silver casket, 
 difi'using an odor of attar of roses — he leaned back in his 
 chair— and his mother would have taken it from him, sup- 
 posing him overcome by the scent, but he held it fast and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 145 
 
 shook his liead, sayiug, *' For Lucy — but she must give it 
 herself. She gave up any gift for herself for it— she said 
 we needed no love-tokens." And he closed his e3'es. Dame 
 Annora plunged into the unpacking, and brought out a 
 pocket-mirror with enameled cujaids in the corners, ad- 
 dressed to herself; and then came upon Berenger's own. 
 
 Again came a fringed pair of gloves among the personal 
 jewelery such as gentlemen were wont to wear, the rings, 
 clasps and brooches he had carried from home. Dame 
 Annora ^s impatience at last found vent in the exclamation, 
 " The pearls, son; I do not see the chaplet of pearls." 
 
 " She had them, '' answered Berenger, in a matter-of-fact 
 tone, " to wear at the mask." 
 
 ''She—" 
 
 Sir Marmaduke's great hand choked, as it were, the 
 query on his wife's lips, unseen by her son, who, as if the 
 words had touched some chord, was more eagerly seeking 
 in the box, and pi*esently drew out a bow of carnation lib- 
 bon with a small piece of paj^er full of pin-holes attached 
 to it. At once he carried it to his lips, kissed it fervently, 
 and then, sinking back in his chair, seemed to be trying to 
 gather up the memory that had prompted the impulse, 
 knitted his brows together, and then sucldenly exclaimed, 
 " Where is she?" 
 
 His mother tried the last antecedent. " Lucy she shall 
 come and thank you to-morrow." 
 
 He shook his head with a vehement negative, beckoned 
 Cecily impatiently, and said earnestly, "Is it the conta- 
 gion? Is she sick? I will go to her. " 
 
 Cecily and Sir Marmaduke both replied with a " No, 
 no!" and were thankful, though in much suspense at the 
 momentary pause, while again he leaned back on the cush- 
 ions, looked steadily at the pin-holes, that formed them- 
 selves into the word " Sweet heart," then suddenly began 
 to draw up the loose sleeve of his wrapping-gown and un- 
 button the wristband of his right sleeve. His mother tried 
 to help him, asking if he had hurt or tired his arm. They 
 would have been almost glad to hear that it was so, but he 
 shook her off impatiently, and the next moment had a view 
 of the freshly skinned over, but still wide and gaping gash 
 on his arm. He looked for a brief space, and said, " It is 
 a sword-cut." 
 
 ** Truly it is, lad/' said Sir Marmaduke, " and a very
 
 146 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 bad one, liajipily wliole! Is this tlie first time you have seen 
 it?" 
 
 He did not answer, but covered his eyes with his hand, 
 and presently burst out again, " Then it is no dream? Sir — 
 Have I been to France?'^ 
 
 " Yes, my son, you have,'^ said Sir Marmaduke, gently, 
 and witli more tenderness than could have been looked for; 
 " but what passed there is much better viewed as a dream, 
 and cast behind your back. " 
 
 Berenger had, while he spoke, taken up the same little 
 mirror where he had once admired himself; and as he be- 
 held the scar and plaster that disfigured his face, with a 
 fresh start of recollection, muttered over, " ' Baurhouilhr, 
 ce cM en de visage' — ay, so he said. I felt the. pistol's 
 muzzle touch! Narcisse! Has God had mercy on me? I 
 j^rayed Him. All! ' leliaiscr cV Euslacie' — so he said. I 
 was waiting in the dark. Why did he come instead of her? 
 Oh! father, where is she?" 
 
 It was a sore task, but Sir Marmaduke went bravely and 
 bluntly, though far from unkindly, to the point: " She re- 
 mains with her friends in France." 
 
 There the youth's look of utter horror and misery 
 shocked and startled them all, and he groaned rather than 
 said, " Left there! Left to them! What have I done to 
 leave her there?" 
 
 " Come, Berenger, this will not serve," said his mother, 
 trying to rouse and cheer him. " You should rather be 
 thankful that when you had been so foully insnared by 
 their wiles, good Osbert brought you off with your life 
 away from those bloody doings. Yes, you may thank 
 Heaven and Osbert, for you are the only one of them living 
 now. " 
 
 " Of whom, mother?" 
 
 " Of all the poor Protestants that like you were deluded 
 by the pack of murderers over there. What" — fancying 
 it would exhilarate him to hear of his own escape — " you 
 knew not that the bloody Guise and the Paris cut-throats 
 rose and slew every Huguenot they could lay hands on? 
 Why, did not the false wench put off your foolish runaway 
 project for the very purjoose of getting you into the trap on 
 the nio-ht of the massacre?" 
 
 He looked with a piteous, appealing glance from her to
 
 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 117 
 
 Cecily and Sir Marmaduke, as if iu hopes that they would 
 contradict. 
 
 "Too true, my lad/' said Sir Marmadiike. " It is 
 Heaven's good mercy that Osbert carried you out alive. 
 No other Protestant left the palace alive but the King of 
 Navari'e and his cousin, who turned renegades." 
 
 " And she is left there?" he repeated. 
 
 '• Heed her not, my dear boy," began his mother; " yon 
 are safe, and must forget her ill-faith and—" 
 
 Bereuger seemed scarcely to hear this speech — he held 
 out his hands as if stunned and dizzied, and only said, or 
 rather indicated, " Let me lie down." 
 
 His step-father almost carried him across the room, and 
 laid him on his bed, where he turned away from tbe light 
 and shut his eyes; but the knot of ribbon and the pin- 
 pricked word was still in his hand, and his mother longed 
 to take away the token of this false love, as she believed it. 
 The great clock struck the hour for her to go. " Leave 
 him quiet," said Cecily, gently; " he can bear no more 
 now. I will send over in the evening to let you know how 
 he fares." 
 
 *' But that he should be so set on the little blood-thirsty 
 baggage," sighed Lady Thistlewood; and then going up to 
 her son, she jioured out her exjilanation of being unable to 
 stay, as her parents were already at the Manor, with no bet- 
 ter entertainers than Lucy, Philip, and the children. She 
 thanked him for the gifts, which she would take to them 
 with his love. All this j)assed by him as though he heard 
 it not, but when leaning down, she kissed hia forehead, and 
 at the same time tried to withdraw the knot of ribbon, his 
 fingers closed on it with a grasp like steel, so cold were 
 they, yet so fast. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke lingered a few moments behind her, and 
 Berenger opening his eyes, as if to see whether solitude had 
 been achieved, found the kind-hearted knight gazing at 
 him with eyes full of tears. ''Berry, my lad," he said, 
 " bear it like a man. I know how hard it is. There's not 
 a woman of them all that an honest, plain Englishman 
 has a chance with, when a smooth-tongued Frenchman 
 comes round her! But a man may live a true and honest 
 life however sore his heart may be, and God Almighty 
 makes it up to him if he faces it out manfully. " 
 
 Good Sir Marmaduke in his S3^mpathy had utterly for-
 
 148 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 gotten both Berenger's French blood, and that he was the 
 son of the very smooth-tongued interloper who had robbed 
 his life of its first bloom, J3erenger was altogether unequal 
 to do more than murmur, as he held out his hand in re- 
 sponse to the kindness, " You do not know her.'^ 
 
 "Ah! poor lad/' Sir Marmaduke shook his head and 
 left him to Cecily. 
 
 After the first shock, Berenger never rested till he had 
 made Osbert, Mr. Adderley, and Cecily tell him all they 
 knew, and asked by name after those whom he had known 
 best at Paris. Alas ! of all those, save such as had been in 
 the embassador's house, there was but one account to give. 
 Venerable warrior, noble-hearted youth, devoted pastor, all 
 alike had perished! 
 
 This frightful part of the story was altogether new to 
 bim. He had been probably the earliest victim in the Lou- 
 vre, as being the special object of private malice, which 
 had contrived to involve him in the general catastrophe; 
 &nd his own recollections carried him only to the flitting of 
 lights and ringing of bells, that had made him imagine that 
 an alarm of fire would afford a good opportunity of escape 
 if she would but come. A cloaked figure had approached 
 — he had held out his arms — met that deadly stroke — heard 
 the words hissed in his ear. 
 
 He owned that for some time past strange recollections 
 had been flitting through his mind — a perpetual unsatisfied 
 longing for and expectation of his wife, and confused im- 
 pressions of scenes and people that harassed him perj)etu- 
 ally, even when he could not discern between dreams and 
 reality; but knowing that he had been very ill, he had en- 
 deavored to account for everything as delirious fancies, but 
 had become increasingly distressed by their vividness, con- 
 fusion, and want of outward confirmation. At last these 
 solid tokens and pledges from that time had brought cer- 
 tainty back, and with it the harmony and clearness of his 
 memory; and the strong affection, that even his oblivion 
 had not extinguished, now recurred in all its warmth to its 
 object. 
 
 Four months had passed, as he now discovered, since 
 that night when he had hoped to have met Eustacie, and 
 she must be believing him dead. His first measure on the 
 following day when "he had been dressed and seated in his
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAT^LS. 149 
 
 chair was to send for his casket, and witli liis slow stiff arm 
 write thus: 
 
 " MON CCEUK, MY OWN SWEETHEAET, — Hast thou 
 
 thought me dead, and thyself deserted? Osbert will tell 
 thee all, and why I can scarce write. Trust thyself to him 
 to bring to me. I shall be whole seeing thee. Or if tliou 
 canst not come with him, write or send me the least token 
 by him, and I will come and bear thee home so soon as I 
 can put foot in stirrup. Would that I could write all that 
 is in my heart ! 
 
 " Thy Husband. " 
 
 It was all that either head or hand would enable him to 
 say, but he had the fullest confidence in Landry Osbert, 
 who was one of the few who understood him at half a word. 
 He desired Osbert to seek the lady out wherever she might 
 be, whether still at court or in a convent, convey the letter 
 to her if possible, and, if she could by any means escape, 
 obtain from Chateau Leurre such an escort as she could 
 come to England with. If, as was too much to be feared, 
 she was under too close restraint, Osbert should send intel- 
 ligence home, as he could readily do through the embassa- 
 dor's household, and Berenger trusted by that time to be 
 able to take measures for claiming her in 23erson, 
 
 Osbert readily undertook everything, but supplies for his 
 journey were needed, and there was an absolute commotion 
 in the house when it was known that Berenger had been 
 writing to his faithless spouse, and wishing to send for her. 
 Lord Walwyn came up to visit his grandson, and explain 
 to him with much jjityand consideration that he consideied 
 such a step as vain, and only likely to lead to further in- 
 sult. Berenger's respect forced him to listen without inter- 
 ruption, and though he panted to answer, it was a matter 
 of much dithculty, for the old lord was becoming deaf, and 
 could not catch the indistinct, agitated words: 
 
 " My lord, she is innocent as day.^' 
 
 " Ah! Anan, boy?'' 
 
 " I pledge my life on her love and innocence." 
 
 " Love! yes, my poor boy; but if she be unworthy? Eh? 
 Cecily, what says he?" 
 
 " He is sure of her innocence, sir. " 
 
 *' That is of course. But, my dear lad, you will soon
 
 150 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 learn that even a gentle, good woman who has a conscience- 
 keeper, is too apt to think her ver}^ sense of right ought to 
 be sacrificed to what she calls her religion. What is it, 
 what is he telling you, Cecily?'^ 
 
 " She was ready to be one of us," Berenger said, with a 
 great elf or t to make it clear. 
 
 ' ' Ah, a further snare. Poor child ! The very softest of 
 them become the worst deceivers, and the kindred who 
 have had the charge of her all their life could no doubt 
 bend her will. " 
 
 " Sir," said Berenger, finding argument impossible, " if 
 you will but let me disioatch Osbert, her answer will prove 
 to you what she is.'' 
 
 " There is something in that," said Lord Walwyn, when 
 he had heard it repeated by Cecily. " It is, of course, 
 needful that both she and her relations should be aware of 
 Berenger 's life, and I trotv nothing but the reply will con- 
 vince him." 
 
 " Convince him!" muttered Berenger. '' Oh, that I 
 could make him understand. What a wretch I am to have 
 no voice to defend her!" 
 
 " What?'' said the old lord again. 
 
 " Only that I could speak, sir; you should know why it 
 is sacrilege to doubt her." 
 
 " Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk 
 is vain. You shall have the means of sending your groom, 
 if thus you will set your mind at rest, though I had rather 
 have trusted to Walsingham's dealing. I will myself give 
 him a letter to Sir Francis, to forward him on his way; and 
 should the young lady prove willing to hotel to her contract 
 and come to you here, I will pra}^ him to do everything to 
 aid her that may be consistent with his duty in his jiost. " 
 
 This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Wal- 
 wyn, and Berenger was forced to be contented with it, 
 though it galled him terribly to have Eustacie distrusted, 
 and be unable to make his vindication even heard or under- 
 stood, as well as to be forced to leave her rescue, and even 
 his own exj^lanation to her, to a mere servant. 
 
 This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to 
 hii progress in recovery. His brain was in no state for ex- 
 citement or agitation, and pain and confusion were the con- 
 seqaence, and were counteracted, after the practice of the 
 time, by jn-of use bleedings, which prolonged his weakness.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 15 1 
 
 The splintered state of the jaw and roof of the mouth like- 
 wise produced effects that made him suffer severely, and 
 deprived him at times even of the small power of sjjeech 
 that he usually possessed; and though he had set his heart 
 upon being able to start for Paris so soon as Osbert's an- 
 swer should arrive, each little imprudence he committed, 
 in order to convince himself of his progress, threw him 
 back so seriously, that he was barely able to walk down- 
 stairs to the hall, and sit watching — watching, so that it 
 was piteous to see him — the gates of the courtyard, by the 
 time that, on a cold March day, a booted and spurred 
 courier (not Osbert) entered by them. 
 
 He sprung up, and faster than he had yet attempted to 
 move, met the man in the hall, and demanded the packet. 
 It was a large one, done up in canvas, and addressed to the 
 Kight Honorable and Worshipful Sir William, Baron AVal- 
 wyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to endure the 
 delay of carrying it to his grandfather's library, which he 
 entered with far less delay and ' ceremony than was his 
 wont. " Sit down, Berenger," said the old man, while 
 addressing himself to the fastenings; and the permission 
 was needed, for he could hardly have stood another minute. 
 The covering contained a letter to Lord Walwyn himself, 
 and a packet addressed to the Baron de Eibaumont, which 
 his trembling fingers could scarcely succeed in cutting and 
 tearing open. 
 
 How shall it be told what the contents of the packet 
 were? Lord Walwyn reading on with much concern, but 
 little surprise, was nevertheless startled by the fierce shout 
 with which Berenger broke out: 
 
 "A lie! a lie forged in hell!'' And then seizing the 
 parchment, was about to rend it with all the force of pas- 
 sion, when his grandfather, seizing his hand, said, in his 
 calm, authoritative voice, " Patience, my poor son." 
 
 " How, how should I have patience when they send me 
 such poisoned lies as these of my wife, and she is in the 
 power of the villains. Grandfather, I must go instantly — " 
 
 " Let me know what you have heard," said Lord Wal- 
 wyn, holding him feebly indeed, but with all the impress- 
 ive power and gravity of his years. 
 
 ' Falsehoods," said Berenger, pushing the whole mass 
 of papers over to him, and then hiding his head between 
 his arms on the table.
 
 152 THE CHAPLET OF PEAEL8, 
 
 Lord Walwyn finished his own kitter first. Walsingham 
 wrote with much kind compassion, but quite decisively. He 
 had no doubt that the Kibaumont family bad acted as one 
 wheel in the great plot that had destroyed all the heads of 
 Protestant families and swept away among others, as they 
 had hoped, the only scion of the rival house. The old Chev- 
 alier de Eibaumont had, be said, begun by expressing sor- 
 row for the mischance that had exposed his brave young 
 cousin to be lost in the general catastrophe, and he had 
 professed proportionate satisfaction on hearing of the young 
 man's safety. But the embassador believed him to have 
 been privy to his son's designs; and whether Mile, de Nid- 
 de-Merle herself had been a willing agent or not, she cer- 
 tainly had remained in the hands of tlie family. The de- 
 cree annulling the marriage had been published, the lady 
 Avas in a convent in Anjou, and Narcisse de Eibaumont 
 had just been permitted to assume the title of Marquis de 
 Nid-de-Merle, and was gone into Anjou to espouse her. Sir 
 Francis added a message of commiseration for the young 
 baron, but could not help congratulating his old friend on 
 having his grandson safe and free from these inconvenient 
 ties. 
 
 Berenger's own packet contained, in the first place, a 
 copy of the cassation of tbe marriage, on the ground of its 
 liaving been contracted when the parties were of too tender 
 age to give their legal consent, and its having been unsatis- 
 fied since they had reached ecclesiastical years for lawful 
 contraction of wedlock. 
 
 The second was one of the old chevalier's polite produc- 
 tions. He was perfectly able to ignore Berenger's revoca- 
 tion of his application for the separation, since the first let- 
 ter had remained unanswered, and the king's peremptory 
 commands had prevented Berenger from taking any open 
 measures after his return from Montpipeau. Thus the old 
 gentleman, after expressing due rejoicing at his dear young 
 cousin's recovery, and regret at the unfortunate mischance 
 that had led to his being confounded with tbe many sus- 
 pected Huguenots, proceeded as if matters stood exactly as 
 they had been before the pall-mall party, and as if the de- 
 cree that he inclosed were obtained in accordance with ihe 
 young baron's intentions. He had caused it to be duly 
 registered, and both parties were at lil)erty to enter upon 
 other contracts of matrimony. The further arrangements
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 153 
 
 which Berenger had undertaken to sell his lands in Nor- 
 mandy, and his claim on the ancestral castle in Picardy, 
 should be carried out, and deeds sent for his signature so 
 soon as he should be of age. In the meantime, the cheva- 
 lier courteously imparted to his fair cousin the marriage of 
 his daughter. Mile. Diane de Kibaumont with M. le Comte 
 de Selinville, which had taken place on the last St. Martiii's- 
 day, and of his niece. Mile. Eustacie de Ribaumont de Nid- 
 de-Merle with his son, who had received permission to take 
 her father's title of Marquis de Nid-de-Merle. The wed- 
 ding Avas to take plaoe at Bellaise before the end of the 
 carnival, and would be concluded before this letter came to 
 hand. 
 
 Lastly, there was an ill written and spelled letter, run- 
 ning somewhat thus: 
 
 " MoNSEiGNEUE, — Your faithful servant hopes that 
 Monsieur le Baron will forgive him for not returning, since 
 I have been assured by good priests that it is not possible to 
 save my soul in a country of heretics. I have done every- 
 thing as monsieur commanded, I have gone down into An- 
 ion, and have had the honor to see the young lady to whom 
 Monsieur le Baron charged me with a commission, and I 
 delivered to her his letter, whereupon the lady replied that 
 she thanked Monsieur le Baron for the honor he had done 
 her, but that being on the point of marriage to Monsieur 
 le Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, she did not deem it fitting to 
 write to him, nor had she any tokens to send him, save 
 what he had received on the St. Barthelemy midnight; they 
 might further his suit elsewhere. These, monsieur, were 
 her words, and she laughed as she said them, so gayly that 
 I thought her fairer tlian ever. I have prevailed with her 
 to take me into her service as intendant of the Chateau de 
 Nid-de-Merle, knowing as she does, my fidelity to the name 
 of Kibaumont. And so, trusting monseigneur will pardon 
 me for what I do solely for the good of my soul, I will ever 
 pray for his welfare, and remain, 
 
 " His faithful menial and valet, 
 
 " Landry Osbert.'' 
 
 The result was only what Lord Walwyn had anticipated, 
 l?ut he was nevertheless shocked at the crushing weight of 
 the blow. His her^rt was full of compassion for the youth
 
 154 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 SO cruelly treated iu these his first years of life, and as much 
 torn in his affections as mangled in person. After a pause, 
 while he gathered up the sense of the letters, he laid his 
 hand kindly on his grandson's arm, and said, '"' This is a wo- 
 ful budget, my poor son; we will do our best to help you 
 to bear it. ' ' 
 
 " The only way to bear it," said Berenger, lifting up his 
 face, " is for me to take horse and make for Anjou in- 
 stantly. She will hold out bravely, and I may yet save her. " 
 
 " Madness," said his grandfather; " you have then not 
 read your fellow's letter?" 
 
 " I read no letter from fellow of mine. Yonder is a vile 
 forgery. Narcisse's own, most likely. No one else would 
 have so profaned her as to put such words into her mouth! 
 My dear faithful foster-brother — have they murdered him?" 
 
 " Can you point to any proof that it is forged?" said 
 Lord Walwyn, aware that handwriting was too difficult an 
 art, and far too crabbed, among persons of Osbert's class, 
 for there to be any individuality of penmanshi]^. 
 
 " It is all forged," said Berenger. " It is as false that 
 she could frame such a message as that poor Osbert would 
 leave me. " 
 
 " These priests have much power over the conscience,"' 
 began Lord Walwyn; but Berenger, interrupting his grand- 
 father for the first time in his life, cried, '' No priest could 
 change her whole nature. Oh! my wife! my darling! what 
 may they not be inflicting on her now? Sir, I must go. 
 She may be saved! The deadly sin may be prevented!" 
 
 "This is mere raving, Berenger," said Lord Walwyn, 
 not catching half what he said, and understanding little 
 more than his resolution to hasten in quest of the lady. 
 " You, who have not mounted a horse, nor walked across 
 the pleasaunce yet!" 
 
 " My limbs should serve me to rescue her, or they are 
 worth nothing to me." 
 
 Lord Walwyn would have arged that ho need not regret 
 Ilia incajiacity to move, since it was no doubt already too 
 late, but Berenger burst forth^" She will resist; she will 
 resist to the utmost, even if she deems me dead. Tortures 
 will not shake her when she knows I live. I must prepare." 
 And he started to his feet. 
 
 " Grandson," said Lord Walwyn, laying a hand on his 
 arm, " listen to me. You are in no state to judge for
 
 THE CIIATLET OF PEARLS. 155 
 
 yourself. I therefore command you to desist from this mad 
 inirj)ose. " 
 
 lie spoke gravely, but Berenger was disobedient for the 
 first time. " My lord," lie said, " you are but my grand- 
 father. She is my wife. My duty is to her. " 
 
 lie had plucked his sleeve away and was gone, before 
 Lord Walwyn had been able to reason with him that there 
 was no wife in the case, a conclusion at which the old states- 
 man would not have arrived had he known of the ceremony 
 at Montpipeau, and all that had there passed; but not only 
 did Berenger deem himself bound to respect the king's se- 
 cret, but conversation was so difficult to him that he had 
 told very little of his adventures, and less to Lord Walwyn 
 than any one else. In effect, his grandfather considered 
 this resolution of going to France as mere frenzy, and so it 
 almost was, not only on the score of health and danger, 
 but because as a ward, he was still so entirely under sub- 
 jection, that his journey could have been hindered by ab- 
 solutely forcible detention; and to this Lord Walwyn in- 
 tended to resort, unless the poor youth either came to a 
 more rational mind, or became absolutely unable to travel. 
 
 The last — as he had apprehended — came to pass only too 
 surely. The very attempt to argue, and to defend Eustacie 
 was too much for the injured head; and long before night 
 Berenger fully believed himself on the journey, acted over 
 its incidents, and struggled wildly with difficulties, all the 
 time lying on his bed, with the old servants holding him 
 down, and Cecily listening tearfully to his ravings. 
 
 For weeks longer he was to lie there in greater danger 
 than ever. He only seemed soothed into quiet when Cecily 
 chanted those old Latin hymns of her Benedictine rule, and 
 then — when he could speak at all — he showed himself to be 
 in imagination praying in Eustacie's convent chapel, sure 
 to speak to her when the service should be over.
 
 156 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 NOTEE-DAME DE BELLAISE.* 
 
 There came a man by middle day, 
 He spied bis sport and went away, 
 And brougbt tbe king that very night, 
 And brake my bower and slew my knight. 
 
 The Border Widoic's Lament. 
 
 That same Latin hymn which Cecily St. John daily 
 chanted in her own chamber was due from the choir of 
 Cistercian sisters in the chapel of the Convent of our Lady 
 at Bellaise, in the Bocage of Anjou; but there was a con- 
 venient practice of lumping together the entire night and 
 forenoon hours at nine o'clock in the morning, and all the 
 evening ones at Comj^line, so that the sisters might have 
 undistiirbed sleep at night and entertainment by day. Bell- 
 aise was a very comfortable little nunnery, which only re- 
 ceived richly dowered inmates, and was therefore able to 
 maintain them in much ease, though without giving occa- 
 sion to a breath of scandal. Founded by a daughter of the 
 first Angevin Ribaumont, it had become a sort of appanage 
 for the superfluous daughters of the house, and nothing- 
 would more have amazed its present head, Eustacie Bai-be 
 de Ribaumont — con vent ually known as La Mere Marie 
 Seraphine de St. Louis, and to the world as Mme. de Bell- 
 aise — than to be accused of not fulfilling the intentions of 
 the Bienheureuse Barbe, the foundress, or of her patron 
 St. Bernard. 
 
 Mme. de Bellaise was a fine-looking woman of forty, in a 
 high state of preservation owing to the healthy life she had 
 led. Her eyes were of brilliant, beautiful black, her com- 
 plexion had a glow, her hair — for she wore it visibly — 
 formed crisp rolls of jetty ringlets on her temples, almost 
 hiding her close white cap. The heavy thick veil was 
 tucked back beneath the furred j^urple silk hood that fast- 
 ened under her chin. The white robes of her order were 
 
 * Bellaise is not meant for a type of all nunneries, but of the con- 
 dition to which many of the lesser ones had come before the general 
 reaction and purification of the seventeenth century.
 
 I'HE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 157 
 
 not of serge, but of the finest cloth, and were almost liiddoi 
 by a short purjile cloak with sleeves, likewise lined and 
 edged with fur, and fastened on the bosom with a gold 
 brooch. Her fingers, bearing more rings than the signet of 
 her house, were concealed in embroidered gauntlets of 
 Spanish leather. One of them held an ivory-handled rid- 
 ing-rod, the other the reins of the well-fed jennet, on which 
 the lady, on a fine afternoon late in the carnival, was can- 
 tering home through the lanes of the Bocage, after a suc- 
 cessful morning's hawking among the wheat ears. Sbe 
 was attended by a pair of sisters, arrayed somewhat in the 
 same style, and by a pair of mounted grooms, the falconer 
 with his charge having gone home by a footway. 
 
 The sound of horses' feet approaching made her look to- 
 ward a long lane that came 'down at right angles to that 
 along which she was riding, and slacken her pace before 
 coming to its opening. And as she arrived at the intersec- 
 tion, she beheld advancing, mounted on a little rough pony, 
 the spare figure of her brother the chevalier, in his home 
 suit, so greasy and frayed, that only his plumed hat (and a 
 rusty plume it was) and the old sword at his side showed 
 his high degree. 
 
 He waved his hand to her as a sign to halt, and rode 
 quickly up, scarcely giving time for a greeting ere he said, 
 " Sister, the little one is not out with you." 
 
 " No, truly, the little mad thing, she is stricter and more 
 headstrong than ever was her preceptress. Poor Monique! 
 I had hoped that we should be at rest when that casse-tete 
 had carried oft' her scruples to Ste. Claire, at Lucon, but 
 here is this little droll far beyond her, without being even 
 a nun!" 
 
 " Assuredly not. The business must be concluded at 
 once. She must be married before Lent." 
 
 " That will scarce be — in her present frame." 
 
 " It must be. Listen, sister. Here is this miserable 
 alive!" 
 
 " Her spouse!'* 
 
 ' ' Folly about her spouse ! The decree from Rome has 
 annulled the foolish mummery of her infancy. It came a 
 week after the Protestant conspiracy, and was registered 
 when the Norman jjeasants at Chateau Leurre showed con- 
 tumacy. It was well; for, behold, our gallant is among 
 his English friends, recovering, and even writing a billet.
 
 158 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Anon lie will be upon our hands in person. By the best 
 fortune, Gillot fell in with his messenger this morning, 
 prowling about on his way to the convent, and brought 
 nim to me to be examined. I laid him fast in ward, and 
 sent Gillot off to ride day and night to bring my son down 
 to secure the girl at once." 
 
 " You will never obtain her consent. She is distractedly 
 in love with his memory! Let her guess at his life, and — " 
 " Precisely. Therefore must we be speedy. All Paris 
 knows it by this time, for the fellow went straight to the 
 English embassador; and I trust my son has been wise 
 enough to set off already; for should we wait till after Lent, 
 Monsieur le Baron himself might be upon us.''^ 
 
 "Poor child! You men Uttle heed how you make a 
 woman suffer. " 
 
 " How, reverend mother! you pleading for a heretic mar- 
 riage, that would give our rights to a Huguenot — what say 
 I? — an English renegade!" 
 
 " I plead not, brother. The injustice toward you must 
 be repaired; but I have a certain love for my niece, and I 
 fear she will be heart-broken when she learns the truth, 
 the poor child. " 
 
 "Bah! The abbess should rejoice in thus ' saving her 
 soul! How if her heretic treated Bellaise Uke the convents 
 of England?" 
 
 " No threats, brother. As a daughter of Ribaumont 
 and a mother of the Church will I stand by you," said the 
 abbess with dignity. 
 
 " And now tell me how it has been with the child. I 
 have not seen her since we agreed that the request did but 
 aggravate her. You said her health was better since her 
 nurse had been so often with her, and that she had ceased 
 from her austerities." 
 
 " Not entirely; for when first she came, in her transports 
 of despair and grief on finding Soeur Monique removed, 
 she extorted from Father Bonami a sort of hope that she 
 might yet save her husband's, I mean the baron's, soul. 
 Then, truly, it was a frenzy of fasts and prayers. Father 
 Bonami has made his profit, and so have the fathers of 
 Chollet — all her money has gone in masses, and in alms to 
 purchase the prayers of the poor, and she herself fasting on 
 bread and water, Icneeling barefooted in the chapel till she 
 "Was transfixed with cold. No chaufferette, not she! Ob-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 159 
 
 siinatc to the last degree! Tell her she would die — it was 
 the best news one could bring; all her desire, to be in a 
 more rigid house with Soeur Monique at Lucon. At length. 
 Mere Perriiie and Veronique found her actually fainting 
 and powerless with cold on the chapel-lloor; and since that 
 time she has been more reasonable. There are prayers as 
 much as ever; but the fancy to ivill herself with fasting has 
 passed. She begins to recover her loolvs, nay, sometimes I 
 have thought she had an air of hope in her eyes and lips; 
 but what know I? I have much to occupy me, and she 
 persists in shutting herself up with her woman. " 
 
 " You have not allowed her any communication from 
 without?'^ 
 
 " Mere Perrine has come and gone freely; but she is 
 nothing. No, the child could have no correspondence. She 
 did, indeed, write a letter to the queen, as you know, 
 brother, six weeks ago; but that has never been answered, 
 nor could any letters have harmed you, since it is only now 
 that this young man is known to be living." 
 
 " You are right, sister. No harm can have been done. 
 All will go well. The child must be wearied with her 
 frenzy of grief and devotion! She will catch gladly at an 
 excuse for change. A scene or two, and she will readily 
 yield!" 
 
 " It is true,'" said the abbess, thoughtfully, " that she 
 has walked and ridden out lately. She has asked ques- 
 tions about her chateau, and their garrisons. I have heard 
 nothing of the stricter convent for many weeks; but still, 
 brother, you must go warily to work.'' 
 
 '' And you, sister, must show no relenting. Let her 
 not fancy she can work upon you. " 
 
 By this time the brother and sister were at the gate-way 
 of the convent; a lay sister presided there, but there was 
 no cloture, as the strict seclusion of a nunnery was called, 
 and the chevalier rode into the cloistered quadrangle as 
 naturally as if he had been entering a secular chateau, dis- 
 mounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Mme. de 
 Bellaise to the parlor, while she dispatched a request that 
 her niece would attend her there. 
 
 The parlor had no grating to divide it, but was merely 
 a large room furnished with tapiestry, carved chests, chairs, 
 and cushions, much like other reception-rooms. A large, 
 cheerful wood-fire blazed upon the hearth, and there was a
 
 IGO THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 certain air of preparation, as indeed an ecclesiastical dignita- 
 ry from Sauniur was expected to swp with the ladies that 
 evening. 
 
 After some interval, sj^eut by the chevalier in warming 
 himself, alow voice at the door was heard, saying, "Domhius 
 vohiscimi." The abbess answered, " Et mm spirit u tuo ;" 
 and on this monastic substitute for a knock and " come 
 in,'" there appeared a figure draped and veiled from head 
 to foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable 
 moving cone. She made an obeisance as she entered, say- 
 ing, " You commanded my presence, madame?'" 
 
 " Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of 
 momenf 
 
 " At his service. I, too, would speak to him. " 
 
 " First, then, my dear friend," said the chevalier, " let 
 me see you. That face must not be muffled any longer 
 from those who love you."" 
 
 She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt per- 
 emiotorily bade her turn back her veil. She did so, and 
 disclosed the little face, so well known to her uncle, but 
 less childish in its form, and the dark eyes less sparkling, 
 though at once softer and more resolute. 
 
 "Ah! my fair niece,"' said the chevalier, "this is no 
 visage to be hidden! I am glad to see it re-embellished, 
 and it will be lovelier than ever when you have cast off this 
 disguise." 
 
 " That will never he," said Eustacie. 
 
 '• Ah! we know better! My daughter is sending down a 
 coimterj>art of her own wedding-dress for our pride of the 
 Mardi Gras." 
 
 " And who may that bride be?" said Eustacie, en- 
 deavoring to speak as though it were nothing to her. 
 
 " 'Naj, ina petite! it is too long to play the ignorant 
 when the bridegroom is on his way from Paris," 
 
 " Madame," said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, "you 
 can not suffer this scandal. The meanest peasant may 
 weep her first year of widowhood m peace, " 
 
 " Listen, child. There are weighty reasons. The Duke 
 of Anjou is a candidate for the throne of Poland, and my 
 son is to accompany him thither. He must go as Marquis 
 de Nid-de-Merle, in full possession of your estates." 
 
 "Let him take them," began Eustacie, but broke off 
 half-way through, with a muttered " Oh — no."
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. IGl 
 
 "That is cliOtlisli, a,s I see you perceive/^ said licr 
 uncle; " iuconsisfent witli his honor.''' 
 
 " Does ho sjictik of honor/' said Eustacie, " who first 
 commits a cowardly murder, and then forces himself on 
 the widow he has made?" 
 
 "Folly, child, folly," said the chevalier, who sujiposed 
 her ignorant of the circumstances of her husband's assas- 
 sination; and the abbess, who was really ignorant, ex- 
 claimed — " Ft done, niece; you know not what you say." 
 
 " I know, madame — I know from an eye-witness," said 
 Eustacic, firmly. " I know the brutal words that imbit- 
 tered my husband's death; and were there no other cause, 
 they would render wedlock with him who spoke them sac- 
 rilege. " Eesolutely and steadily did the young wife speak, 
 looking at them with the dry fixed eyes to which tears had 
 been denied ever since that eventful night. 
 
 " Poor child," said the chevalier to his sister. " She is 
 under the delusion still. Husband! There is none in the 
 case." Then waving his hand as Eustacie's face grew crim- 
 son, and her eyes flashed indignation, Avhile her li]is parted: 
 " It was her own folly that rendered it needful to put an 
 end to the boy's presumption. Had she been less willful 
 and more obedient, instead of turning the poor lad's head 
 by playing at madame, we could have let him return to his 
 island fogs; but when she encouraged him in contemplat- 
 ing the carrying her away, and alienating her and her lands 
 from the true faith, there was but one remedy — to let him 
 perish with the rest. My son is willing to forgive her child- 
 ish pleasure hi a boy's passing homage, and has obtained 
 the king's sanction to an immediate marriage." 
 
 "Which, to spare you, my dear," added the aunt, 
 " shall take place in our chapel." 
 
 "It shall never take place anywhere," said Eustacie, 
 quietly, though with a quiver in her voice; " no priest will 
 wed ipe when he has heard me." 
 
 " The dispensation will overcome all scruples," said the 
 abbess. " Hear me, niece. I am sorry for you, but it is 
 best that you should know at once that there is nothing in 
 heaven or earth to aid you in resisting your duty. " 
 
 Eustacie made no answer, but there was a strange half- 
 smile on her lip, and a light in her eye which gave her an 
 air not so much of entreaty as of defiance. She glanced 
 from one to the other as if considering, but then slightly
 
 162 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 shook her head. " W'aat does she mean?" asked the cheva- 
 lier and the abbess one of another, as, with a dignified gest- 
 ure, she moved to leave the room. 
 
 " Follow her. Convince that she has no hope/' said the 
 uncle; and the abbess, moving faster than her wont, came 
 up with her at the archway wiience one corridor led to the 
 chapel, another to her own apartments. Her veil was down 
 again, but her aunt roughly withdrew it, saying, " Look at 
 me, Eustacie. I come to warn you that you need not look 
 to tamper with the sisters. Not one will aid you in your 
 headstrong folly. If you cast not off ere supper-time this 
 mockery of mourning, you shall taste of that discijiline 
 you used to sigh for. We have borne with your fancy long 
 enough — you, who are no more a widow than I^ — nor wife. " 
 
 " Wife and widow am I in the sight of Him who will 
 protect me,'' said Eustacie, standing her ground. 
 
 " Insolent! Why, did I not excuse this as a childish de- 
 lusion, should I not spurn one who durst love — what say I 
 — not a heretic merely, but the foe of her father's house?" 
 
 " He!" cried Eustacie; " what had he ever done?" 
 
 " He inherited the blood of the traitor baron," returned 
 her aunt. " Ever have that recreant line injured us! My 
 nephew's sword avenged the wrongs of many generations." 
 
 " Then," said Eustacie, looking at her with a steady, 
 fixed look of inquiry, " you, Madame I'Abbesse, would 
 have neither mercy nor pity for the most innocent offspring 
 of the elder line?" 
 
 " Girl, what folly is this to talk to me of innocence. 
 That is not the question. The (question is — obey -willingly 
 as my dear daughter, or comj)ulsion must be used?" 
 
 " My question is answered," said Eustacie, on her side. 
 " I see that there is neither pity nor hope from you." 
 
 And with another obeisance, she turned to ascend the 
 stairs. Madame paced back to her brotber. 
 
 " What," he said; " you have not yet dealt with her?" 
 
 " No, brother, I never saw a like mood. She seems 
 neither to fear nor to struggle. I knew she was too true a 
 Ribaumont for weak tears and entreaties; but, fiery little 
 being as once she was, I looked to see her force spend itself 
 in passion, and that then the victory would have been 
 easy; but no, she ever looks as if she had some inward re- 
 source — some security — and therefore could be calm. I 
 should deem it some Huguenot fanaticism, but she is a very
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 1G3 
 
 saint as to tlie prayers of the Church, the very torment of 
 our lives. '^ 
 
 ," Could she escape?" exclaimed the chevalier, who had 
 been considering while his sister was speaking. 
 
 "Impossible! Besides, where could she go? Bat the 
 gates shall be closed. I will warn the portress to let none 
 pass out without my permission. " 
 
 The chevalier took a turn up and down the room; then 
 exclaimed, '' It was very ill-advised to let her women have 
 access to her! Let us have Veronique summoned instantly.^' 
 
 At that moment, however, the ponderous carriage of 
 monseigneur, with out-riders, both lay and clerical, came 
 trampling up to the archway and the abbess hurried off to 
 her own apartment to divest herself of her hunting-gear 
 ere she received her guest; and the orders to one of the 
 nuns to keep a watch on her niece were oddly mixed with 
 those to the cook, confectioner, and butterer. 
 
 La Mere Marie Seraphine was not a cruel or an unkind 
 woman. She had been very fond of her pretty little niece 
 in her childhood, but had deejjly resented the arrangement 
 which had removed her from her own superintendence to 
 that of the Englishwoman, besides the uniting to the young 
 baron one whom she deemed the absolute right of Narcisse. 
 She had received Eustacie on her first return witii great 
 Joy, and had always treated her with much indulgence, and 
 when the drooping, broken-hearted girl came back once 
 more to the shelter of her convent, the good-humored ab- 
 bess only wished to make her happy again. 
 
 But Eustacie 's misery was far beyond the ken of her 
 aunt, and the jovial turn of these consolations did but 
 deepen her agony. To be congratulated on her release from 
 the heretic, assured of future happiness with her cousin, 
 and, above all, to hear Berenger abused with all the bitter- 
 ness of rival family and rival religion, tore up the lacerated 
 spirit. Ill, dejected, and broken down, too subdued to fire 
 up in defense, and only longing for the power of indulging 
 in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunk from her, and wrapped 
 herself up in the ceaseless round of masses and prayers, in 
 which she was allowed to jjerceive a glimmering of hope for 
 her husband's soul. The abbess, ever busy with afl'airs of 
 her convent or matters of pleasure, soon relinquished the 
 vain attempt to console where she could not sympathize, 
 trusted that the fever of devotion would wear itself out.
 
 164 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two were 
 decorously gay, like their mother abbess; one was a pro- 
 digious worker of tapestry, two were unrivaled save by one 
 another as confectioners. Eustacie had been their pet in 
 her younger days; now she was out of their reach, they 
 tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would not be 
 comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one 
 whose austerity reproached their own laxity; they resented 
 her disappointment at Soeur Monique's having been trans- 
 ferred to Lucon, and they, too, left her to the only persons 
 whose presence she Inid ever seemed to relish — namely, her 
 maid Veronique, and Veronique^s mother, her old nurse 
 Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles ofP. The woman 
 had been Eustacie's foster mother, and continued to exert 
 over her much of the caressing care of a nurse. 
 
 After parting with her aunt, Eustacie for a moment 
 looked toward the chapel, then, clasping her hands, mur- 
 mured to herself, " No! no! speed is my best hope;" and 
 at once mounted the s airs, and entered a room, where the 
 large stone crucifix, a waxen madonna, and the holy water 
 font gave a cell-like asjiect to the room; and a straw pallet 
 covered with sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained 
 couch driven into the rear, as unused. 
 
 She knelt for a moment before the madonna, " Ave 
 Maria, be with me and mine. 0! blessed lady, thou hadst 
 to fly with thy Holy One from cruel men. Have thou pity 
 on the fatherless!" 
 
 Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and as 
 Veronique entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, 
 and at the same moment began in nervous haste to throw 
 off her veil and unfasten her dress. 
 
 " Make haste, Veronique. A dress of thine — " 
 
 "All is known, then!'' cried Veronique, throwing up 
 her arms. 
 
 " No, but he is coming — Narcisse — to marry me at once 
 — Mardi Gras — " 
 
 *' Bt qnoi ? Madame has but to speak the word, and it 
 is impossible. " 
 
 " And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thou- 
 sand deaths ere speaking that word. I asked her, Vero- 
 nique! She would have vengeance on the most guiltless — • 
 the most guiltless — do you hear? of the Norman house.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 165 
 
 Never, never shall she have the chance! Come, thy striped 
 petticoat!" 
 
 " But, oh! what will madame do? Where wouhl she go? 
 Oh! it is impossible. *' 
 
 " First to thy father's. Yes, I know. He has once 
 called it a madness to think of rallying my vassals to pro- 
 tect their lady. That was when he heard of it from thee — 
 thou faint of heart — and thy mother, I shall speak to him 
 in person now. Make haste, I tell thee, girl. I must be 
 out of this place before I am watched or guarded," she ad- 
 ded breathlessly. " I feel as if each moment I lost might 
 have death upon it;" and she looked about her like a 
 startled deer. 
 
 " To my father's. Ah ! there it is not so ill ! But the twi- 
 light, the length of way," sobbed Veronique, in grievous 
 distress and perplexity. " Oh! madame, I can not see you 
 go. The mother abbess is good. She must have pity. Oh, 
 trust to her!" 
 
 " Trust! Did I not trust to my cousin Diane? Never! 
 Nothing will kill me but remaining in their hands. " 
 
 Veronique argued and implored in vain. Ever since, in 
 the height of those vehement austerities by which the be- 
 reaved and shattered sufferer strove to ajjpease her wretched- 
 ness by the utmost endeavor to save her husband's soul, 
 the old foster-mother had made known to her that she 
 might thus sacrifice another than herself, Eustacie's elastic 
 heart had begun to revive, with all its dauntless strength 
 of will. What to her women seemed only a fear, was to 
 her only a lioj)e. 
 
 Frank and confiding as was her nature, however, the 
 cruel deceptions already practiced on her by her own kin- 
 dred, together with the harsh words with which the abbess 
 spoke of Berenger, htid made her aware that no comfort 
 must be looked for in that quarter. It was, after all, per- 
 haps her own instinct, and the aunt's want of sympathy, 
 that withheld her from seeking counsel of any save Perrine 
 and her daughter, at any rate till she could communicate 
 with the kind young queen. To her, then, Eustacie had 
 written, entreating that a royal mandate would recall her 
 in time to bestow herself in some trustworthy hands, or 
 even in her husband's own Norman castle, where his heir 
 would be both safe and welcome. But time had passed —
 
 106 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tlie whole sjiacc that she had reckoned as needful for the 
 going and coming of her messenger — allowing for all the 
 obstructions of winter roads — nay, he had come back; she 
 knew her letter was delivered, but answer there was none. 
 It might yet come — perhaps a royal carriage and escort — 
 and day after day had she waited and hoped, only tardily 
 admitting the conviction that Elizabeth of Austria was as 
 powerless as Eustacie de Ribaumont, and meantime re- 
 volving and proposing many a scheme that could only have 
 entered the brain of a brave-spirited child as she was. To 
 appeal to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinous old 
 tower in the woods, and thence send far aid to the Mont- 
 morencys; to ride to 8aumur, and claim the protection of 
 the governor of the province; to make her way to the coast 
 and sail for England; to start for Paris, and throw herself 
 in jjerson on the queen's protection — all had occurred to 
 her, and been discussed with her two confidantes ; but the 
 hope of the queen's interference, together with the exceed- 
 ing difficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from 
 taking any steps, since no suspicion had arisen in the 
 minds of those about her. Veronique, caring infinitely 
 more for her mistress's health and well-being than for the 
 object of Eustacie's anxieties, had always secretly trusted 
 that delay would last till action was impossible, and that 
 the discovery would be made, only without her being accused 
 of treason. In the present stress of danger, she could but 
 lament and entreat, for Eustacie's resolution bore her 
 down; and besides, as she said to herself, her lady was after 
 all going to her foster-father and mother, who would make 
 her hear reason, and bring her back at once, and then there 
 would be no anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddy 
 length of walk would be the worst of it — and, bah! most 
 likely madame would be convinced by it, and return of her 
 own accord. 
 
 So Veronique, though not intermitting her protests, ad- 
 justel her own dress upon her mistress — short striped petti- 
 coat, black bodice, winged turban-like white cap, and a 
 great muffling gray cloth cloak and hood over the head and 
 shoulders — the costume in which Veronique was wont to 
 run to her home in the twihght on various errands, chiefly 
 to carry her mistress's linen; for, starching Eustacie's 
 pbiin bands and cuffs, was Mere Perrine's sj^ecial pride. 
 The wonted bundle, therefore, now contained a few gar-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 167 
 
 ments, and the money and jewels, especially the chaplet of 
 pearls, which Eustacie regarded as a trust. 
 
 Sobbing, and still protesting, Veronique, however, en- 
 gaged that if her lady succeeded in safely crossing the 
 kitchen in the twilight, and in leaving the convent, she 
 would keep the secret of her escape as long as possible, re- 
 porting her refusal to a])pear at su2:)per, and making such 
 excuses as might very ^n'obably jH'event the discovery of 
 her flight till next day. 
 
 " And then,'' said Eustacie, " I will send for thee, either 
 to Saumur, or to the old tower! Adieu, dear Veronique, 
 do not be frigiitened. Thou dost not know how glad I am 
 that the time for doing something is come! To-morrow!" 
 
 " To-morrow!" thought Veronique, as she shut the 
 door; " before that you will be back here again, my poor 
 little lady, trembling, weeping, in dire need of being com- 
 forted. But I will make uj) a good fire, and shake out tiie 
 bed. I'll let her have no more of that villainous palliasse. 
 No, no, let her try her own way, and repent of it; then, 
 when this matter is over, she will turn her mind to Cheva- 
 lier NarcJsse, and there will be no more languishing in this 
 miserable hole. " 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAQE. 
 
 I winna spare for his tender age, 
 
 Nor yet for his hie kin; 
 But soon as ever lie born is, 
 
 He shall mount the gallows' pin. 
 
 Fause Fooclrage. 
 
 Dusk was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, 
 when with a trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eus- 
 tacie stole down the stone staircase, leading to a back-door 
 — an utterl}'- uncanonical appendage to a nunnery, but one 
 mucli used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise. 
 
 A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the 
 half-open kitchen door, whence issued the savory steam of 
 the supper preparing for monseigneur. Eustacie had just 
 cautiously traversed it, when the voice of the presiding lay- 
 sister called out, " Veronique, is that you?" 
 
 " Sister!" returned Eustacie, with as much of the An- 
 gevin twang as she could assume,
 
 1G8 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 ** Where are you going?" 
 
 " To the Orchard Farm with this hnen." 
 
 " Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from 
 madame about nobody going out unrejiorted, and you may 
 chance to hnd the door locked if you do not come back in 
 good time. Oh! and I hiid well-nigh forgot; tell your 
 mother to he here early to-morrow, madame would speak 
 with her.'' 
 
 Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her 
 fluttering heart at the sense tluit she had indeed seized the 
 last moment. Forth then she stepped. How dark, waste, 
 and lonely the ojDcn field looked! But her heart did not 
 fail her; she could only feel that a captivity was over and 
 the most vague and terrible of her anxieties soothed, as she 
 made her way into one of the long shady lanes of the Bo- 
 cage. It was nearly dark, and very mudd}^, but she had all 
 the familiarity of a native with the way, and the farm, 
 where she had trotted about in her infancy like a peasant's 
 cliild, always seemed like home to her. It had been a 
 prime treat to visit it during her time of education at the 
 convent, and there was an association of pleasure in treading 
 the path that seemed to bear her up, and give her enjoy- 
 ment in the mere adventure and feeling of escape and lib- 
 erty. She had no fear of the dark, nor of the distant bark- 
 ing of dogs, but the mire was deep, and it was plodding 
 work in those heavy sahots, ujd the lane that led from the 
 convent; and the poor child was sorely weary long before 
 she came to the toj) of the low hill that she used scarcely to 
 know to be rising ground at all. The stars had come out; 
 and as she sat for a few moments to rest on a large stone, 
 she saw the lights of the cottage fires in the village below, 
 and looking round could also see the many gleams in the 
 convent windows, the red firelight in her own room among 
 them. She shivered a little as she thought of its glowing 
 comfort, but turned her back resolutely, tightened her 
 cloak over her head, looked up to a glimmer in the watch- 
 tower of her own castle far above her on the hill and closed 
 against her; and then smiled to herself with hoj^e at the 
 S2iarkle of a window in a lonely farm-house among the fields. 
 
 With fresh vigor she rose, and found her way through 
 lane and field-path to the paddock where she had so often 
 played. Here a couple of huge dogs dashed forward with 
 an explosion of barks, dying away into low growls as she
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 169 
 
 spoke to them by tlioir names, and called aloud on " Blaise!" 
 and " Mere Perrine!" The cottage door was opened, the 
 light streamed forth, and a man's head in a broad hat ap- 
 peared. " Veronique, girl, is this an hour to be gadding 
 abroad?'^ 
 
 " Blaise, do you not know me?'* 
 
 " It is our lady. Ah!" 
 
 The next moment the wanderer was seated in the ample 
 wooden chair of the head of the family, the farmer and his 
 two stout sous standing before her as their liege lady, and 
 Mere Perrine hanging over her, in great anxiety, not wholly 
 dispelled by ber low girlish laugh, partly of exultation at 
 her successful evasion, partly of amusement at their won- 
 der, and partl}^ too, because it was so natural to her to en- 
 joy herself at that hearth that she could not help it. A 
 savory mess from the great caldron that was forever stew- 
 ing over the fire was at once fished out for her, before she 
 was allowed to explain herself; and as she eat with the 
 carved spoon and from the earthenware crock that had 
 been called mademoiselle's ever since her baby-days, Per- 
 rine chafed and warmed her feet, fondled her, and assured 
 her, as if she were still their spoiled child, that they would 
 do all she wished. 
 
 Pierre and Tiennot, the two sons, were sent out to fodder 
 the cattle, and keep careful watch for any sounds of pur- 
 suers from tlie convent; and Blaise, in the plenitude of his 
 respect and deference, would have followed them, but 
 Eustacie desired him to remaiu to give her counsel. 
 
 Her first inquiry was after the watch-tower. She did 
 not care for any discomfort if her vassals would be faith- 
 ful, and hold it out for her, till she could send for help to 
 the allies of her husband's house, and her eyes glistened as 
 she spoke. 
 
 But Blaise shook his head. He had looked at the tower 
 as madame bade, but it was all in ruins, crumbling away, 
 and, moreover, M. le Chevalier had put a forester there— 
 a grim, bad subject, who had been in the Italian wars, and 
 cared neither for saint nor devil, except Chevalier Narcisse. 
 Indeed, even if he had not been there, the place was un- 
 tenable, it would only be getting into a trap. 
 
 " Count Hubert held it out for twelve days against the 
 English!" said Eustacie, proudly. 
 
 "Ah! ah! but there were none of your falconets, or
 
 170 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 what call you those cannons then. ISTo; if madamo would 
 present herself as a choice morsel for Monsieur le Chevalier 
 to snap up, that is the place." 
 
 Then came the other plan of getting an escort of the 
 peasants together, and riding with tiiem toward the 
 Huguenot territories around La Fochelle, where, for her 
 husband's sake, Eustacie could hardly fail to obtain friends. 
 It was the more practical ex2)edient, but Blaise groaned 
 over it, wondered how many of the farmers could be trusted, 
 or brought together, and finally exjjressed his intention of 
 going to consult Martin, his stanch friend, at the next 
 farm. Meantime, madame had better lie down and sleep. 
 And madame did sleep, in Perrine's huge box-bedstead, 
 with a sweet, calm, childlike slumber, whilst her nurse sat 
 watching her with eyes full of tears of pity and distress; the 
 poor young thing's buoyant hopefulness and absence of all 
 fear seemed to the old woman especially sad, and like a 
 sort of want of comprehension of the full peril in which she 
 stood. 
 
 Not till near dawn was Eustacie startled from her rest 
 by approaching steps. " Nurse, is all ready?" she cried. 
 " Can we set otf ? Are the horses there?" 
 
 " No, my child; it is but my good man and Martin who 
 would speak with you. Do not hasten. There is nothing 
 amiss as yet.'' 
 
 " Oh, nurse," cried Eustacie, as she quickly arranged 
 the dress in which she had lain down, " the dear old farm 
 always makes me sleep well. This is the first time I have 
 had no dream of the wliirling wheel and fiery gates! Oh, 
 is it a token that he is indeed at rest? I am so well, so 
 strong. I can ride anywhere now. Let them come in and 
 tell me." 
 
 Martin was a younger, brisker, cleverer man than Blaise, 
 and besides, being a vassal of the young lady, was a sort of 
 agent to whom the abbess intrusted many of the matters of 
 husbandry regarding the convent lands. He stood, like 
 Blaise, bare-headed as he talked to the little lady, and heard 
 her somewhat peremptorily demand why they had not 
 brought the horses and men for her escort. 
 
 It was impossible that night, explained Martin. Time 
 was needed to bring in the farm-horses, and summon the 
 other peasants, without whom the roatls were unsafe in 
 these times of disorder. He and Blaise must go round and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 171 
 
 warn them to be ready. A man could not be ready in a 
 wink of the eye, as niadame seemed to think, and the two 
 peasants looked impenetrable in stolidity, 
 
 " Laggards that you are!" cried Eustacie petulantly, 
 clasping her hands; " and meantime all will be lost. They 
 will be upon me!^^ 
 
 " Not so, madame. It is therefore that I came here,'' 
 said Martin, deferentially, to the little fuming impatient 
 creature; " madame will be far safer close at hand while 
 the j)ursuit and search are going on. But she must not 
 stay iiere. This farm is the first place they will come to, 
 while they will never suspect mine, and my good woman 
 Lucette will be proud to keep watch for her. Madame 
 knows that the jjlace is full of shrubs and thickets, where 
 one half of an army might spend a fine day in looking for 
 the other. ' ' 
 
 " And at night you will get together the men and convoy 
 me?" asked Eustacie, eagerly. 
 
 " All in good time, madame. Now she must be off, ere 
 the holy mothers be astir. I have brought an ass for her 
 to ride." 
 
 Eustacie had no choice but compliance. None of the 
 Orchard family could go with her, as it was needful that 
 they should stay at home and appear as unconcerned as 
 possible; but they promised to meet her at the hour and 
 j^lace to be appointed, and if possible to bring Veronique. 
 
 Eating a piece of rye bread as she went, Eustacie, in her 
 gray cloak, rode under Martin's guardianship along the deep 
 lanes, just budding with spring, in the chill dewiness before 
 sunrise. She was silent, and just a little sullen, for she had 
 found stout shrewd Martin less easy to talk over than the 
 admiring Blaise, and her spirit was excessively chafed by 
 the tardiness of her retainers. But the sun rose and cleared 
 away all clouds of temper, the cocks crew, the sheep bleated, 
 and fresh morning sounds met her ear, and seemed to cheer 
 and fill her with hojie; and in some compunction for her 
 want of graciousness, she thanked Martin, and praised his 
 ass with a pretty cordiality that would have fully compen- 
 sated for her displeasure, even if the honest man had been 
 sensible of it. 
 
 «He halted under the lee of a barn, and gave alow whistle. 
 At the sound, Lucette, a brown, sturdy young woman with 
 a red handkerchief over her head, and another over her
 
 172 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 shoulders, came running round the corner of the barn, and 
 whispered eagerly under her breath, " Ah! madanie, ma- 
 dame, what an honor!" kissing Eustacie's hand with all 
 her might as she spoke; "but, alas! I fear madame can 
 not come into the house. The questing Brother Francois 
 — plague upon him! — has taken it into his head to drop in 
 to breakfast. I longed to give him the cold shoulder, but 
 it might have brought suspicion down." 
 
 "Eight, good woman," said Martin; "but what shall 
 madame do? It is broad day, and no longer safe to run the 
 lanes!'; 
 
 " Give me a distaff," said Eustacie, rising to the occa- 
 sion, " I will go to that bushy field, and herd the cows." 
 
 Madame was right, the husband and wife unwillingly 
 agreed. There, in her peasant dress, in the remote field, 
 sloping up into a thick wood, she was unlikely to attract 
 attention; and though the field was bordered on one side by 
 the lane leading to the road to Paris, it was sej^arated from 
 it by a steep bank, crowned by one of the thick hedge-rows 
 characteristic of the Bocage, 
 
 Here, then, they were forced to leftve her, seated on a 
 stone beneath a thorn-bush, distaff in hand, with bread, 
 cheese and a pitcher of milk for her provisions, and three or 
 four cows grazing before her. From the higher ground 
 below the wood of ash and hazel, she could see the undulat- 
 ing fields and orchards, a few houses, and that iuliosf)itable 
 castle of her own. 
 
 She had spent many a drearier day in the convent than 
 this, in the free sun and air, with the feeling of liberty, and 
 unbounded hopes founded on this first success. She told 
 her beads diligently, trusting that the tale of devotions for 
 her husband's spirit would be equally made up in the field 
 as in the church, and intently all day were her ears and eyes 
 on the alert. Once Lucette visited her, to bring her a basin 
 of porridge, and to tell her that all the world at the convent 
 was in confusion, that messengers had been sent out in all 
 directions, and that M. le Chevalier had ridden out himself 
 in pursuit; but they should soon hear all about it, for Mar- 
 tin was jjretending to be amongst the busiest, and he would 
 know how to turn them away. Again, much later in the 
 day, Martin came striding across the field, and had just ' 
 reached her, as she sat in the hedge-row, when the great 
 dog who followed him pricked his ears, and a tramping and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 173 
 
 jingling was audible in the distance in the lane. Eustacie 
 hi'M up her finger, her eyes dilating. 
 
 " It must be Monsieur le Chevalier returning. Madame 
 must wait a little longer. I must be at home, or they may 
 send out to seek me here, and that would be ruin. I will 
 return as soon as it is safe, if madame will hide herself in 
 the hedge-row. " 
 
 Into the hedge-row accordingly crept Eustacie, cowering 
 close to a holly-tree at the very summit of the bank, and 
 led by a strange fascination to choose a spot where, unseen 
 herself, she could gaze down on the jjarty who came clank- 
 ing along the hollow road beneath. Nearer, nearer they 
 came; and she shuddered, with more of passion than of 
 fear, as she beheld, not only her uncle in his best well-pre- 
 served green suit, but Narcisse, muddy with riding, though 
 in his court braveries. Suddenly they came to a halt close 
 beneath her! Was she detected? Ah! just below was the 
 spot where the road to the convent parted from the road 
 to the farm; and, as Martin had aj)prehended, they were 
 stopping for him. The chevalier ordered one of the armed 
 men behind him to ride up to the farm and summon Martin 
 to speak with him; and then he and his son, while waiting 
 under the holly-bush, continued their conversation. 
 
 " So that is the state of things! A fine overthrow!" 
 quoth Narcisse. 
 
 " Bah! not at all. She will soon be in our hands again. 
 I have spoken with, or written to, every governor of the 
 cities she must pass through, and not one will abet the little 
 runaway. At the first barrier she is ours. ■'^ 
 
 " Et pnisf" 
 
 " Oh, we shall have her mild as a sheep.'* (Eustacie 
 sot her teeth.) "" Every one will be in the same story, that 
 her marriage was a nullity; she can not choose but believe, 
 and can only be thankful that we overlook the escapade 
 aad rehabilitate her. " 
 
 " Thank you, my good uncle," almost uttered his unseen 
 auditor. 
 
 " Well! There is too much land down here to throw 
 away; but the affair has become horribly complicated and 
 distasteful." 
 
 " No such thing. All the easier. She can no longer 
 play the s2:)otless saint — get weak-minded priests on her side 
 — be all for strict convents. No, no; her time for that is
 
 174 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 past! Shut her up with trustvrorthy jiersons from whom 
 she will hear uothing from without, and she will understand 
 her case. The child? It will scarce be born alive, or at 
 any rate she need not know whether it is. Then, with no 
 resource, no hope, what can she do but be too thankful for 
 pardon, and as glad to conceal the past as we could wish?" 
 
 Eustacie clinched her fist. Had a pistol been within her 
 reach, the speaker's tenure of life had been sliort! She 
 was no chastened, self -restrained, forgiving saint, the poor 
 little thing, only a hot-tempered, generous, keenly sensitive 
 being, well-nigh a child in years and in impulses, though 
 with the instmcts of a mother awakening within her, and 
 of a mother who heard the life of her unborn babe plotted 
 against. She was absolutely forced to hold her lips to- 
 gether, to repress the sobbing scream of fury that came to 
 her throat; and the struggles with her gasping breath, the 
 surging of the blood in her ears, hindered her from hearing 
 or seeing anything for some seconds, though she kept her 
 station. By the time her perceptions had cleared them- 
 selves, Martin, cap in hand, was in the lane below, listen- 
 ing deferentially to the two gentlemen, who were assuring 
 him that inquiry had been made, and a guard carefully set 
 at the barriers of all the cities round, and that it was im- 
 possible that the fugitive could have passed those, or be able 
 to do so. She must certtiinly be hidden somewhere near 
 home, and Martin had better warn all his friends against 
 hiding her, unless they wished to be hung up on the thresh- 
 olds of their burning farmsteads. Martin bowed, and 
 thought the fellows would know their own interest and 
 mademoiselle's better. 
 
 "^ Well," said the chevalier, "we must begin without 
 loss of time. My son has brought down a set of fellows 
 here, who are trained to ferret out heretics. Not a runa- 
 way weasel could escape them! We will set them on as 
 soon as ever they have taken a bit of supper up there at the 
 chateau; and do you come up with us just to show them 
 the way across to Leonard's. That's no unlikely place for 
 her to Im-k in, as you said this morning, good fellow." 
 
 It was the most remote farm from that of Martin, and 
 Eustacie felt how great were his services, even while she 
 flushed with anger to hear him speaking of her as made- 
 moiselle. He was promising to follow immediately to the 
 castle, to meet ces Messieurs there almost as soon as they
 
 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 175 
 
 ooiiM arrive, but excusing himself from accompanying 
 them, by tlie need of driving home the big bull^ whom no 
 one else could manage. 
 
 They consented, and rode on. Martin watched them out 
 of sight, then sprung up by some stejiping-stones in the 
 bank, a little below where Eustacie sat, and came crackling- 
 through the boughs to where she was crouching down, with 
 fierce glittering eyes and panting breath, like a wild animal 
 ready to spring. 
 
 " Madame has heard, '^ said Martin under his breath. 
 
 " If I have heard! Oh that I were a man, to slay them 
 where they stood! Martin, Martin! you will not betray 
 me. Some day we will reward you. ^' 
 
 " Madame need not have said fhat to me," said Martin, 
 rather hurt. " I am only thinking what she can do. Alas! 
 I fear that she must remain in this covert till it is dark, for 
 these men's eyes are all on the alert. At dark, I or Lucette 
 will come and find a shelter for her for the night.'' 
 
 Long, long, then, did Eustacie sit, muffled in her gray 
 cloak, shrinking together to shelter herself from the sunset 
 chill of early spring, but shuddering more with horror than 
 with cold, as the cruel cold-blooded words she had heard 
 recurred to her, and feeling as if she were fast within a net, 
 every outlet guarded against her, and search everywhere; 
 yet still with the indomitable determination to dare and 
 suffer to the utmost ere that which was dearer than her own 
 life should come into peril from her enemies. 
 
 The twilight closed in, \he stars came out, sounds of life 
 died away, and still she sat on, becoming almost torpid in 
 the cold darkness, until at length she heard the low call of 
 hucatte, "Mada7)ie! Ah! la pauvre Madame." She started 
 up, so stiff that she could hardly move, and only guided by 
 the voice to feel her way through the hedge-row in the right 
 direction. Another moment, and Lucette 's warm arms had 
 received her; and she was guided, scarce knowing how or 
 where, in cautious silence to the farm-yard, and into the 
 house, where a most welcome sight, a huge fire, blazed 
 cheerfully on the hearth, and Martin himself held open 
 the door for her. The other occupants of the kitchen were 
 the sleeping child in its wooden cradle, some cocks and hens 
 u23on the rafters, and a big sheep-dog before the fire. 
 
 The warmth, and the chicken that Lucette had killed and 
 dressedj brought the color back to the exhausted wanderer's
 
 176 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 cheek, and enabled her again to hold council for her 
 safety. It was plain, as Martin had found in conversation 
 with the men-at-arms, that in-ecantions had been taken 
 against her escapiiig in any of the directions ivhere she 
 might ho23e to have reached friends. Alone she conld not 
 go, and any escort sufficient to protect her would assuredly 
 be stopped at the first town; besides which, collecting it 
 ill secret was impossible under present circumstances, and 
 it would be sure to be at once overtaken and demolished by 
 the Chevalier Narcisse's well-armed followers. Martin, 
 therefore, saw no alternative but for her to lurk about in 
 such hiding-places as her faithful vassals could afford her, 
 until the search should blow over, and the vigilance of her 
 uncle and cousin relax. Hojie, the high-spirited hope of 
 early youth, looked beyond to indefinite but infinite possi- 
 bility. Anything was better than the shame and horror of 
 yielding, and Eustacie trusted herself with all her heart for 
 the present, fancying, she knew not what, the future. 
 
 Indeed, the Vendean fidelity has often been tested, and 
 she made full proof of it among the lanes, copses, and home- 
 steads of her own broad lands. The whole country was a 
 net-work of deep lanes, sunk between imj^enetrable hedge- 
 rows, inclosing small fields, orchards, and thickets, and 
 gently undulating in low hills and shallow valleys, inter- 
 spersed with tali wasp-waisted windmills airily waving their 
 arms on the to]) of lofty masts. It was jjartitioned into 
 small farms, inhabited by a simple-hearted jDeasantry, 
 religious and diligent, with a fair amount of rural wealth 
 and comfort. Their love for their lords was loyally warm, 
 and Eustacie monojiolized it, from their detestation of her 
 uncle's exactions; they would risk any of the savage punish- 
 ments with which they were threatened for concealing her; 
 and as one by one it was needful to take them into the 
 secret, so as to disarm suspicion, and she was passed from 
 one farm to another, each jDroved his faithful attachment, 
 and thought himself repaid by her thankful smile and con- 
 fiding manner. 
 
 The chevalier and his son searched vigorously. On the 
 slightest suspicion, they came down to the farm, closed up 
 the outlets, threatened the owners, turned out the house, 
 and the very place they had last searched would become 
 her quarters on the next night! Messages always had 
 warned her in time. Intelligence was obtained by Martin,
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 177 
 
 who contrived to remain a confidential agent, and warnings 
 were dispatched to her by many a strange messenger — by 
 little children, by old women, or even by the village inno- 
 cent. 
 
 The most alarming days were those when she was not 
 the avowed object of the chase, but when the pursuit of 
 game rendered the coverts in the woods and fields unsafe, 
 and the hounds might lead to her discovery. On one of 
 these occasions Martin locked her up in the great hay-loft of 
 the convent, where she coidd actually hear the chants in the 
 chapel, and distinguish the chatter of the lay-sisters in the 
 yard. Another time, in conjunction with the sacristan, he 
 bestowed her in the great seigneurial tribune (or squire's 
 pew) in the village church, a tall carved box, where she was 
 completely hidden; and the only time when she had failed 
 to obtain warning beforehand, she stood kneading bread at 
 a tub in Martin's cottage, while the hunt passed by, and a 
 man-at-arms looked in and questioned the master on the 
 last traces of the runaway. 
 
 It was seldom possible to see Mere Perrine, who was care- 
 fully watched, under the conviction that she must know 
 where her nursling was; but one evening Veronique vent- 
 ured up to Martin's farm, trusting to tidings that the gen- 
 tlemen had ridden to Saumur. It had been a wet day, but 
 the woods had been Eustacie's only secure harbor; and 
 when, in a bright evening gleam of the setting sun from 
 beneath the clouds, Veronique came in sight of her lady, 
 the queen's favorite, it was to see her leading by a string a 
 little shaggy cow, with a bell round its neck, her gray cloak 
 huddled round her, though dank with wet, a long lock of 
 black hair streaming over her brow, her garments clinging 
 with damp, her bare ankles scratched with thorns, her heavy 
 sabots covered with mire, her cheeks pale with cold and 
 wet. 
 
 The contrast overwhelmed poor Veronique. She dropped 
 on her knees, sobbing as if her heart would break, and de- 
 claring that this was what the abbess had feared ; her lady 
 was fast killing herself. 
 
 " Hush, Veronique," said Eustacie; " that is all folly. I 
 am wet and weary now, but oh! if you knew how much 
 sweeter to me life is now than it was, shut up down there, 
 with my fears. See," and she held up a bunch of jiurjilo 
 pasque-flowers and wood-sorrel, "this is what I found in
 
 178 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 the wood, growing out of a rugged old dead root; and just 
 by, sheltered by the threefold leaves of the alleluia-flower, 
 was a bird's nest, the mother-bird on her eggs, watching 
 me with the wise black eye that saw I would not hurt her. 
 And it brought back the words I had heard long ago, of 
 the good God caring for the sparrows; and I knew He would 
 care the more for me and mine, because I have not where 
 to lay my head. ' ' 
 
 " Alas!" sobbed Veronique, " now she is getting to be a 
 saint outright. She will be sure to die! Ah, madame — 
 dear madame! do but listen to me. If you did but know 
 how Madame de Bellaise is afflicting herself on your ac- 
 count! She sent for me — ah! do not be angry, dear lady!'' 
 
 " I wish to hear nothing about her," said Eustacie. 
 
 *' Nay, listen, de grace — one moment, madame! She has 
 wept, she has feared you, all the lay-sisters say so. She 
 takes no pleasure in hawking, nor in visiting; and she did 
 not eat more than six of Soeur Bernardine's best conserves. 
 She does nothing but watch for tidings of madame. And 
 she sent for me, as I told you, and conjured me, if I knew 
 where you were or had any means of finding out, to implore 
 you to trust to her. She will swear on all the relics in the 
 chapel never to give a hint to Messieurs les Chevaliers if 
 only you would trust her, and not slay yourself with all 
 this dreadful wandering." 
 
 *' Never!" said Eustacie; " she said too much!" 
 
 "Ah! but she declares that, had she known the truth, 
 she never would have said that. Ah, yes, madame, the 
 abbess is good!" And Veronique, holding her mistress's 
 cloak to secure a hearing, detailed the abbess's plan for 
 lodging her niece in secret ajiartments within the thickness 
 of the convent walls, where Mere Perrine could be with 
 her, and every sacred pledge should be given that could re- 
 move her fears. 
 
 "And coidd they make me believe them, so that the 
 doubt and dread would not kill me in themselves?" said 
 Eustacie. 
 
 " But it is death — certain death, as it is. Oh, if madame 
 would hear reason! — but she is headstrong! She will grieve 
 when it is too late!" 
 
 " Listen, Veronique. I have a far better plan. The 
 sacristan has a sister who weaves red handkerchiefs at 
 Chollet. She will receive me, and keep me as long as tliere
 
 THE CnAPLET OF TEA ELS. 179 
 
 is need. Martin is to take me in his cart when he carries 
 the hay to the garrison. I shall be well hidden^ and within 
 reach of your mother. And theii, when my son is once 
 come — then all will be well! The peasants will rise in be- 
 half of their young lord, though not for a poor helpless 
 woman. No one will dare to dispute his claim, when I 
 have appealed to the king; and then, Veronique, you shall 
 come back to me, and all will be well!" 
 
 Veronique only began to wail aloud at her mistresses ob- 
 stinacy. Martin came up, and rudely silenced her, and 
 said afterward to his wife, " Have a care! That girl has — 
 I verily believe — betrayed her lady once; and if she do not 
 do so again, from pure pity and faintness of heart, I shall 
 be much surprised/' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE GHOSTS OF THE TEMPLARS. 
 
 'Tis said, as through the aisles they passed, 
 They heard strange voices on tlie blast, 
 And through the cloister galleries small, 
 Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, 
 Loud sobs and laughter louder ran. 
 And voices unlike the voice of man, 
 As if the fiends kept holiday. 
 
 Scott, Lay of the Last Mimtrel. 
 
 "Ill news, Martin, I see by your look!^' cried Eu- 
 stacie, starting to her feet from the heap of straw on which 
 she was sitting in his cow-house, one early April day, about 
 seven weeks since her evasion from the convent. 
 
 " Not so, I hope, madame, but I do not feel at ease. 
 Monsieur has not sent for me, nor told me his plans for 
 the morrow, and I much doubt me whether that bode not a 
 search here. Now I see a plan, provided madame would 
 trust herself to a Huguenof 
 
 " They would guard me for my husband's sake.'' 
 
 " And could madame walk half a league, as far as the 
 Grange du Temple? There live Matthieu Eotrou and his 
 wife, who have, they say, baffled a hundred times the gen- 
 darmes who sought their ministers. No one ever found 
 a pastor, the}' say, when Eotrou had been of the congrega- 
 tion; and if they can do so much for an old jj readier with a 
 long tongue, surely they can for a sweet young lady; and if
 
 180 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 they could shelter her just for to-morrow, till the suspicion 
 is over, then would I come for madame with my cart, and 
 carry her into Chollet among the trusses of hay, as we had 
 fixed. " 
 
 Eustacie was already tying her cloak, and asking for 
 Lucette; but she was grieved to hear that Martin had sent 
 her to vespers to disarm suspicion, and moreover that he 
 meant not to tell her of his new device, " The creature is 
 honest enough," he said, "but the way to be safe with 
 women is not to let them know. " 
 
 He cut short all messages and expressions of gratitude, 
 and leading Eustacie to a small stream, he made her creep 
 along its course, with her feet in the Avater so as to be shel- 
 tered by the boughs that hung over the banks, while he used 
 his long strides to enable him to double back and enter into 
 conversation with passers-by, quite off the track of the 
 Grange da Temple, but always telling her where he should 
 join her again, and leaving with her the great dog, whom 
 she had come to regard as a friend and protector. Leaving 
 the brook, he conducted her beneath hedges and by lonely 
 woodland paths beyond the confines of her own property, 
 to a secluded valley, so shut in by Avooded hills that she liad 
 not been aware of its existence. Through an extensive 
 orchard, she at length, when nearly spent with the walk, 
 beheld the cluster of stone buildings, substantial as the 
 erections of religious orders are wont to be. 
 
 Martin found a seat for her, where she might wait while 
 he went on alone to the house, and presently returned with 
 both the good people of the farm. They were more off-hand 
 and less deferential than were her own people, but were 
 full of kindliness. They were middle-aged folk, most neatly 
 clad, and with a grave, thoughtful look about them, as if 
 life were a much heavier charge to them than to their light- 
 hearted neighbors. 
 
 " A fair day to you, madame,'^ said the farmer, doffing 
 his wide-flapped hat. "lam glad to serve a sufferer for 
 the truth's sake. " 
 
 " My husband was," faltered Eustacie. 
 
 " Ah ! la panvre," cried the good woman, pressing for- 
 ward as she saw how faint, laeated, and exhausted was the 
 wanderer. " Come in, 7na jxmvrette. Only a bride at 
 the Bartholomew! Alas! There, lean on me, my dear." 
 
 To be tiUoyce by the Fermiere Botrou wa§ a sbockj yet
 
 THE CHAPLET OF fEAHLS. 181 
 
 the kind manner was comfortable, and Eustacie suffered 
 herself to be led into the farm-house, where, as the dame 
 observed, she need not fear chance-comers, for they lived 
 much to themselves, and no one would be about till their 
 boy Eobinet came in with the cows. She might rest and 
 eat there in security, and after that they would find a hid- 
 ing-place for her — safe as the horns of the altar — for y 
 night or two; only for two nights at most. 
 
 " Nor do I ask more," said Eustacie. " Then Martin 
 will come for me. " 
 
 " Ay, I, or Blaise, or whichever of us can do it with least 
 suspicion. " 
 
 She shall meet you here,^* added Rotrou. 
 
 *' All right, good man; I understand; it is best I should 
 not know where you hide her. Those rogues have tricks 
 that make it as well to know nothing. Farewell, madame, 
 I commend you to all the saints till I come for you on 
 Monday morning. ^^ 
 
 Eustacie gave him her hand to kiss, and tried to thank 
 him, but somehow her heart sunk, and she felt more lonely 
 than ever, when entirely cast loose among these absolute 
 strangers than amongst her own vassals. Even the farm- 
 kitchen, large, stone-built, and scrupulously clean, seemed 
 strange and dreary after the little, smoky, earth-built liv- 
 ing-rooms in which her peasantry were content to live, and 
 she never had seemed to herself so completely desolate; but 
 all the time she was so wearied out with her long and pain- 
 ful walk, that she" had no sooner taken some food than she 
 began to doze in her chair. 
 
 " Father,' ' said the good wife, " we had better take la 
 pauvrette to her rest at once. " 
 
 " Ah! must I go any further?" sighed Eustacie. 
 
 ** It is but a few fields beyond the yard, ma petite," said 
 the good woman consolingly; " and it will be safer to take 
 you there ere we need a light. ' ' 
 
 The sun had just set on a beautiful evening of a spring 
 that hapj)ily for Eustacie had been unusually warm and 
 mild, when they set forth, the dame having loaded her hus- 
 band with a roll of bedding, and herself taking a pitcher of 
 milk and a loaf of bread, whilst Eustacie, as usual, carried 
 her own small parcel of clothes and jewels. The way was 
 CJertainly not long to any one less exhausted than she; it 
 was along a couple of fields^ and then through a piece of
 
 182 THE CHAPLET OP TEAELS. 
 
 thicket;, where Eotrou held back the boughs and his wife 
 almost dragged her on with kind encouraging words, till 
 they came u]) to a stone ivy-covered wall, and coasting 
 along it to a tower, evidcntl}! a staircase turret. Here 
 Rotrou, holding aside an enormous bush of ivy, showed the 
 foot of a winding staircase, and his wife assured her that 
 she would not have far to climb. 
 
 She knew where she was now. She had heard of the old 
 Refectory of the Knights Temjilars. Partly demolished by 
 the hatred of the peojjle upon the abolition of the order, it 
 had ever since lain waste, and had become the center of all 
 the ghostly traditions of the country; the locality of all the 
 most horrid tales of revoiants told tnider the breath at 
 Dame Perrine's hearth or at recreation hour at Bellaise. 
 Her courage was not jDroof against spiritual terrors. She 
 panted and leaned against the Mall, as she faintly ex- 
 claimed, " The temple — there — and alone !'^ 
 
 " Na}', lady, methought as Monsieur rot re marl knew 
 the true light, you would fear no vain terror nor ])Ower of 
 darkness." 
 
 Should these jieasants — these villains — be bold, and see 
 the descendant of the " bravest of knights, '^ the daughter 
 of the house of Pibaumont, afraid? She rallied herself, 
 and replied manfully, " I fear not, no!" but then, woman- 
 fidly, "But it is the temple! It is haunted! Tell me 
 what I must expect. " 
 
 " I tell you truly, madame," said Rotrou; " none whom 
 I have sheltered here have seen aught. On the faith of a 
 Christian, no evil spirit — no ghost—has ever alarmed them; 
 but they were fortified by prayer and psalm. " 
 
 " I do pray! I have a psalm-book, '' said Eustacie, and 
 she added to herself, " No, they shall never see that I fear. 
 After all, revenants can do nothing worse than scare one; 
 they can not touch one; the saints and angels Avill not let 
 them — and my uncle would do much worse." 
 
 But to climb those winding stairs, and resign herself to 
 be left alone with the Templars for the night, was by far 
 the severest trial that had yet befallen the poor young fugi- 
 tive. As her tired feet dragged ujj the crumbling steps, 
 her memory reverted to the many tales of the sounds heard 
 by night within those walls — church chants turning into 
 diabolical songs, and ending in terrific shrieks — or of the 
 sights that had chased bewildered travelers iu to thickets and
 
 THE CttAVLET OF PEARLS. 183 
 
 morpsses, where they had been found in the morning, shud- 
 dering as they told of a huge white monk, with clanking 
 weapons, and a burning cross of fire printed on his shoul- 
 der and breast, who stood on the walls and hurled a shriek- 
 ing babe into the abyss. Were such spectacles awaiting 
 her? Must she bear them, and could her endurance hold 
 out? Our Lady be her aid, and spare her in her need ! 
 
 At the top of the stairs she found liotrou's hand, ready 
 to help her out on a stone floor, quite dark, but thickly 
 covered, as she felt and smelled, with trusses of hay, be- 
 tween which a glimmering light showed a narrow passage. 
 A few steps guided by Kotrou's hand, brought her out into 
 the light again, and she found Ivrself in a large chamber, 
 with the stone floor broken away in some places, and with 
 a circular window, thickly veiled with ivy, but still admit- 
 ting a good deal of evening ligh". 
 
 It was in fact a chamber over the vaulted refectory of the 
 knights. The walls and vaults still standing in their mass- 
 ive solidity, must have tempted some peasant, or mayhap 
 some adventurer, rudely to covor in the roof (which had of 
 course been strijDjied of its leading), and thus in the unsus- 
 pected S2)ace to secure a hiding-place, often for less inno- 
 cent commodities than the salt, which the iniquitous and 
 oppressivo gahelle had always led the French peasant to 
 smuggle, ever since the days of the first Valois. The room 
 had a certain apjjearance of comfort; there was a partition 
 across it, a heartii with some remains of wood-ashes, a shelf, 
 holding a plate, cup, lamp, and a few other necessaries; 
 and altogether the aspect of the place was so unlike what 
 Eustacie had expected, that she almost forgot the Templar 
 as she saw the dame begin to arrange a comfortable-looking 
 couch for her wearied limbs. Yet she felt very unwilling 
 to let them depart, and even ventured on faltering out the 
 inquiry whether the good woman could not stay with her — 
 she would reward her largely. 
 
 "It is for the love of Heaven, madame, not for gain,^' 
 said Nanon Rotrou, rather stiffly. " If you were ill, or 
 needed me, all must then give way; but for me to be ab- 
 sent this evening would soon be reported around the viDage 
 down there, for there are many who would find occasion 
 against us. '^ ]?ut, by way of consolation, they gave her a 
 whistle, and showed her that the window of their cottage 
 was much nearer to u loophole-silit looking toward the east
 
 184 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 than she had fancied. The whistle perpetrated a most un- 
 earthly screech, a good deal like that of- an owl, but more 
 discordant, and Nan on assured her that the sound would 
 assuredly break her slumbers, and bring her in a few min- 
 utes at any moment of need. In fact, the noise was so like 
 the best authenticated accounts of the shrieks indulged in 
 by the spirits of the temple, that Eustacie had wit enough 
 to suspect that it might be the foundation of some of the 
 stories; and with that solace to her alarms, she endured the 
 departure of her hosts, Nanon promising a visit in the 
 early morning. 
 
 The poor cliild was too weary to indulge in many terrors, 
 the beneficent torpor of excessive fatigue was upon her, 
 happily bringing slumberous obHvion instead of feverish 
 restlessness. She strove to repeat her accustomed orisons: 
 but sleep was too strong for her, and she was soon lying 
 dreamlessly upon the clean homely couch prepared for her. 
 
 When she awoke, it was with a start. The moon was 
 shining in through the circular window, making strange 
 white shapes on the floor, all quivering with the shadows 
 of the ivy sprays. It looked strange and eerie enough at 
 the moment, but she understood it the next, and would 
 have been reassured if she had not become aware that there 
 was a low sound, a tramp, tramp, below her. " Gracious 
 saints! The Templar I Have mercy on me! Oh! I was 
 too sleepy to pray! Guard me from being driven wild by 
 fright!" She sat upright, with wide-spread eyes, and, 
 finding that she herself was in the moonlight, through 
 some opening in the roof, she took refuge in the darkest 
 corner, though aware as she crouched there, that if this 
 were indeed the Templar, concealment would be in vain, 
 and remembering suddenly that she was out of reach of 
 the loop-hole window. 
 
 And therewith there was a tired sound in the tread, as if 
 the Templar found his weird a very lengthy one; then a 
 long heavy breath, with something so essentially human in 
 its sound, that the fluttering heart beat more steadily. If 
 reason told her that the living were more perilous to her 
 than the dead, yet feeling infinitely preferred them! It 
 might be Nanon Rotrou after all; then how foolish to be 
 crouching there in a fright! It was rustling through the 
 hay. No — no Nanon ; it is a male figure, it has a long 
 cloak on. Ahl it is in the moonlight — silver hair — silver
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 185 
 
 beard. The Templar! Fascinated with dismay, yet calling 
 to mind that no ghost has power unless addressed, she sat 
 still, crossing herself in silence, but unable to call to mind 
 any j^rayer or invocation save a continuous " Ave Mary,^* 
 and trying to restrain her gasping breatli, lest, if he were 
 not the Templar after all, he might discover lier presence. 
 
 He moved about, took off his cloak, laid it down near the 
 ha}-, then his caj), not a helmet after all, and there was no 
 fiery cross. He was in the gloom again, and she heard him 
 moving much as though he were pulling down the hay to 
 form a bed. Did ghosts ever do anything so sensible? If 
 he were an embodied spirit, would it be possible to creep 
 past him and escape while he lay asleep? She was almost 
 becoming familiarized with the presence, and the super- 
 natural terror was passing off into a consideration of re- 
 sources, when, behold, he was beginning to sing. To sing 
 was the very way the ghosts began ere they came to their 
 devilish outcries. " Our Lady keep it from bringing 
 frenzy. But hai'k! hark!'^ It was not one of the ciuuits, 
 it was a tune and words heard in older times of her life; it 
 was the evening hymn, that the little husband and wife 
 had been wont to sing to the baron in the Chateau de 
 Leurre — Marot's version of the 4;th Psalm. 
 
 " Plus de joie m'est donnee 
 Par ce moyen, O Dieu Tri^s-IIaut, 
 Que n'ont ceux qui ont grant annee 
 De f roment et bouue vinee, 
 D'liuile et tout ce qu'il leur fault." 
 
 If it had indeed been the ghostly chant, perhaps Eustacie 
 would not have been able to help joining it. As it was, the 
 familiar home words irresistibly impelled her to mingle her 
 voice, scarce knowing what she did, in the verse — 
 
 " Si qu'en paix et sfirete bonne 
 Coucherai et reposerai; 
 Car, Seigneur ta boute tout ordonne 
 Et elle seule espoir me donne 
 Que sur et seal regnant serai." 
 
 The hymn died away in its low cadence, and then, ere 
 Eustacie had had time to think of the consequences of thus 
 raising her voice, the new-comer demanded : 
 
 *' Is there then another wanderer here?'^ 
 
 *'Ah! sir, pardon me!" she exclaimed. "I will not
 
 186 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 long importune you, bat only till morning light — only till 
 the Fermiere llotrou comes." 
 
 " If Matthieu and Anne Eotrou placed you here, then 
 all is well," replied the stranger. " Fear not, daughter, 
 but tell me. Are you one of my scattered flock, or one 
 whose parents are known to me?" Then, as she hesitated, 
 "I am Isaac Gardon — escaped, alas! alone, from the 
 elaughter of the Barthelemy. "' 
 
 " Master Gardon!" cried Eustacie. " Oh, I know! 
 Oh, sir, my husband loved and honored you." 
 
 " Your husband?" 
 
 " ^ es, sir, le Baron dc Ribaumont. " 
 
 " That fair and godly youth! My dear old patron's son! 
 You — you! But — " with a shade of doubt, almost of dis- 
 may, " the boy was wedded— wedded to the heiress — " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I am that unhappy one! We were to have 
 fled together on that dreadful night. He came to meet me 
 to the Louvre — to his doom!" she gasped out, nearer to 
 tears than she had ever been since that time, such a novelty 
 was it to her to hear Berenger spoken of in kind or tender 
 terms; and in her warmth of feeling, she came out of her 
 corner, and held out her hand to him. 
 
 " Alas! poor thing!" said the minister, comimssionately, 
 " Heaven has tried you sorely. Had I known of your pres- 
 ence here, I would not have entered; but I have been ab- 
 sent long, and stole into my lair here without disturbing 
 the good people below. Forgive the intrusion, madame. " 
 
 " No, sir, it is I who have to ask pardon. Were I not a 
 desolate fugitive, with nowhere to hide myself, I would not 
 incommode you. " 
 
 The minister replied warmly that surely persecution was a 
 brotherhood, even had she not been the widow of one he 
 had loved and lamented. 
 
 " Ah! sir, it does me good to hear you say so. " 
 
 And therewith Eustacie remembered the hospitalities of 
 her loft. She jDcrceived by the tones of the old man's voice 
 that he was tired, and probably fasting, and she felt about 
 for the milk and bread with which she had been supplied. 
 It was a most welcome refreshment, though he only par- 
 took sparingly; and while he eat, the two, so strangely met, 
 came to a fuller knowledge of one another's circumstances. 
 
 Master Isaac Gardon had, it aj^peared, been residing at 
 Paris, in the house of the watch-maker whose daughter luid
 
 THE CHAPLET of PEARLS. 187 
 
 been newly married to his son; but on the fatal eve of St. 
 Bartholomew, he had been sent for to pray with a sick per- 
 son in another quarter of the city. Tiie Catholic friends 
 of the invalid were humane, and when the horrors began, 
 not onfy concealed their kinsman, but almost forcibly shut 
 np the minister in the same cellar with him. And thus, 
 most reluctantly, had he been spared from the fate thai 
 overtook his son and daughter-in-law. A lone and well- 
 nigh broken-hearted man, he had been smuggled out of the 
 city, and had since that time been wandering from one to 
 another of the many scattered settlements of Huguenots in 
 the northern part of France, who, being left pastorless, wel- 
 comed visits from the minister of their religion, and passed 
 him on from one place to another, as his stay in each began 
 to be suspected by the authorities. He was now on his way 
 along the west side of France, with no fixed purpose, except 
 so far as, since Heaven had spared his life when all that 
 made it dear had been taken from him, he resigned himself 
 to believe that there was yet some duty left for him to ful- 
 fill. 
 
 Meantime the old man was wearied out; and after due 
 courtesies had passed between him and the lady in the dark, 
 he prayed long and fervently, as Eustacie could judge from 
 the intensity of the low murmurs she heard; and then she 
 heard him, with a heavy irrepressible sigh, lie down on the 
 couch of hay he had already prepared for himself, and soon 
 his regular breathings announced his sound slumbers. She 
 was already on the bed she h;ul so precipitately quitted, and 
 not a thought more did she give to the Templars, living or 
 dead, even though she heard an extraordinary snapping 
 and hissing, and in the dawn of the morning saw a white 
 weird thing, like a huge moth. Hit in through tlie circular 
 window, take up its station on a beam above the hay, 
 and look down with the brightest, roundest eyes she had 
 ever beheld. Let owls and bats come where they would, 
 she was happier than she had been for months. Compas- 
 sion for herself was plentiful enough, but to have heard 
 Berenger spoken of with love and admiration seenied to 
 quiet the worst ache of her lonely heart.
 
 188 tHE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 THE MOONBEAM. 
 
 She wandered east, she wandered west. 
 
 She wandered out and in; 
 And at hist into the very swine's stythe 
 
 The queen brought fortli a son. 
 
 Favse Foodrage. 
 
 The morrow was Sunday, and in the old refectory, in 
 the late afternoon, a few Huguenots, warned by messages 
 from the farm, met to profit by one of their scanty secret 
 opportunities for public worship. The hum of the prayer, 
 and discourse of the pastor, rose uj) through the broken 
 vaulting to Eustacie, still lying on her bed; for she had 
 been much shaken by the fatigues of the day and alarm of 
 the night, and bitterly grieved, too, by a message which 
 Nanon conveyed to her, that poor Martin was in no state to 
 come for her the next day; both he and his wife having 
 been seized upon by Narcisse and his men, and so savagely 
 beaten in order to force from them a confession of her hid- 
 ing-place, that both were lying helpless on their bed; and 
 could only send an entreaty by the trustworthy fool, that 
 Kotrou would find means of conveying madame into Chol- 
 let in some cart of hay or corn, in which she could be 
 taken past the barriers. 
 
 But this was not to be. Good Nanon had sacrificed the 
 sermon to creep u^j to Eustacie, and when the congregation 
 were dispersing in the dusk, she stole down the stairs to 
 her husband; and in a few seconds after he was hurrying 
 as fast as detours would allow him to Blaise's farm. An 
 hour and. a half later, Uame Perrine, closely blindfolded 
 for the last mile, was dragged uj) the spiral staircase, and 
 ere the bandage was removed heard Eustacie's voice, with 
 a certain cheeriness, say, "Oh! nurse; my son will soon 
 come!" 
 
 The full moon gave her light, and the woman durst not 
 have any other, save from the wood-fire that Nanon had 
 cautiously lighted and screened. The moonshine was still 
 supreme, when some time later a certain ominous silence 
 and half-whisper between the two women at the hearth
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEA ELS. 189 
 
 made Eustacie^, witli a low cry of terror, exclaim, " Nurse, 
 nurse, what means this? Oh! lie lives! I know he lives! 
 Perrine, I command you tell me!" 
 
 " Living! Oh, yes, my love, my lady,^' answered Per- 
 rine, returning toward her; " fair and perfect as the day. 
 Be not disquieted for a moment. " 
 
 " I will— I will disquiet myself,'' panted Euetacie, " un- 
 less you tell me what is amiss. " 
 
 " Nothing amiss," said Nanon gruffly. "Madame will 
 give thanks for this fair gift of a daughter." 
 
 It must be owned the words felt chill. She had never 
 thought of this! It was as if the being for whom she had 
 dared and suffered so much, in the trust that he would be 
 Berenger's representative and avenger, had failed her and 
 disappointed her. No defender, no paladin, no son to be 
 proud of! Her heart and courage sunk down in her weak- 
 ness as they had never done before; and, without speaking, 
 she turned her head away toward the darkness, feeling as 
 if all had been for nothing, and she might as well sink 
 away in her exhaustion. Mere Perrine was more angry 
 with Nanon than conscious of her lady's weakness. 
 " Woman, you speak as if you knew not the blow to this 
 family, and to all who hoiked for better days. "What, that 
 my lady, the heiress, who ought to be in a bed of state, 
 with velvet curtains, lace pillows, gold caudle-cups, should 
 be here in a vile ruin, among owls and bats, like any beg- 
 gar, and all for the sake, not of a young lord to raise up 
 the family, but of a miserable little girl! Had I known 
 how it would turn out, I had never meddled in this mad 
 scheme." 
 
 Before Nanon could express her indignation, Eustacie 
 had turned her head, ojjened her eyes, and called out, 
 *'• Miserable! Oh! what do you mean? Oh, is it true, 
 Nanon? is it well with her?" 
 
 " As well as heart could wish," answered Nanon, cheer- 
 ily. " Small, but a perfect little piece of sugar. There, 
 lady, she shall speak for herself. ' ' 
 
 And as Nanon laid the babe on the mother's bosom, the 
 thrilling touch at once put an end to all the repinings of 
 the heiress, and awoke far other instincts. 
 
 "My child! my little one, my poor little orphan — all 
 cruel to her! Oh, no welcome even from thy mother! 
 BabC; babe, pardon me, I will make it up to thee; indeed
 
 190 THE CHAP LET OF TEARLS. 
 
 I will! Oil! let me see her! Do not take her away, dear 
 good woman, only hold her in the moonlight!" 
 
 The full rays of the moon, shining through the gable 
 window, streamed down very near where Eastacie lay, and 
 by a slight movement Dame Rotrou was able to render the 
 little face as distinctly visible to her as if it had been day- 
 light, save that the blanching light was somewhat em- 
 bellishing to the new-born complexion, and increased that 
 curious resemblance so often borne for the first few hours 
 of life to the future self. Eustacie's cry at once was, 
 *' Himself, himself — his very face! Let me have her, my 
 own moonbeam — his child — my joy!" 
 
 The tears, so long denied, rushed down like summer rain 
 as she clasped the child in her arms. Dame Perrine wan- 
 dered to and fro, like one beside herself, not only at her 
 lady's wretched accommodations, but at the ill omens of 
 the moonlight illumination, of the owls who snapped and 
 hissed incessantly over the hay, and above all of the tears 
 over the babe's face. She tried to remonstrate with Eus- 
 tacie, but was answered only, " Let me weep! Oh, let me 
 weep! It eases my heart! It can not hurt my little one! 
 She can not weep for her father herself, so I must weep for 
 her." 
 
 The weeping was gentle, not violent; and Dame Rotrou 
 thought it did good rather than harm. She was chiefly 
 anxious to be quit of Perrine, who, however faithful to 
 the Lady of Ribaumont, must not be trusted to learn the 
 way to this Huguenot asylum, and must be escorted back 
 by Rotrou ere peep of dawn. The old woman knew that 
 her own absence from home would be suspicious, and with 
 many g:rumblings submitted; but first she took the child 
 from Eustacie's reluctant arms, promising to restore her in 
 a few moments, after finishing dressing her in the lace- 
 edged swaddling-bands so carefully preserved ever since 
 Eustacie's own babyhood. In these moments she had taken 
 them all by surjirise by, without asking any questions, 
 sprinkling the babe with water, and baptizing her by the 
 hereditary name of Berengere, the feminine of the only 
 name Eustacie had always declared her son should bear. 
 Such baptisms were not unfrequently performed by French 
 nurses, but Eustacie exclaimed with a sound half dismay, 
 half indignation. 
 
 ^' Uh qiioi!" said Perrine, "it is only ondoycc. You
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 191 
 
 can have all the ceremonies if ever time shall fit; l)ut do 
 you think I could leave my lady's child — mere girl though 
 it be — alone with owls, and foUcts, and revenants, and 
 heretics, and she unbaptized? She would be a changeling 
 long ere morning, I trow. " 
 
 " Come, good woman," said Rotron, from between the 
 trusses of hay at the entrance; " you and I must begin our 
 Colin-Maillard again, or it may be the worst for us both." 
 
 And with the promise of being conducted to Eustacie 
 again in three nights' time, if she would meet her guide at 
 the cross-roads after dark, Perrine was forced to take her 
 leave. She had never suspected that all this time Maitre 
 Garden had been hidden in the refectory below, and still 
 less did she guess that soon after her departure the old man 
 was installed as her lady's chief attendant. It was impos- 
 sible that Nanon should stay with Eustacie; she had her 
 day's work to attend to, and her absence would have excit- 
 ed suspicion. He, therefore, came partly up the stairs, 
 and calling to Nanon, proffered himself to sit with " cctte 
 pmivre," and make a signal in case Nanon should bo 
 wanted. The good woman was thus relieved of a great 
 care. She would not have dared to ask it of him, but with 
 a low reverence, she owned that it was an act of great 
 charity toward the poor lady, who, she hoped, was falling 
 i ito a tranquil sleep, but whom she would hardly have 
 da'"ed to leave. Tiie pastor, though hardships, battles, 
 a id persecutions had left him childless, had been the father 
 of a large family; and perliaj)S he was drawn the more 
 s'.rongly toward the mother and child, because he almost 
 f-lt as if, in fulfilling the part of a father toward the widow 
 of Berenger de Ribaumont, he was taking her in the stead 
 of the widow of his own Theodore. 
 
 Had the little Baroime de Ribaumont been lodged in a 
 lapestried chamber, between curtains of velvet and gold, 
 with a heauffet by her side glistening with gold and silver 
 plate, as would have befitted her station, instead of lying 
 on a bed of straw, with no hangings to the walls save cob- 
 webs and hay, no curtains to her unglazed windows but 
 dancing ivy-spraj's and wall-flowers, no leavfet but the 
 old rickety table, no attendants but Nanon and M. Garden, 
 no visitors but the two white owls, no provisions save the 
 homely fare that rustic mothers lived upon — neither she 
 nor her babe could have thriven better, and probably not
 
 192 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 half so well. She had heen used to a hardy, out-of-door 
 life, like the peasant-women; and she was young and 
 strong, so tliat she recovered as they did. If the April 
 shower beat in at the window, or the hole in the roof, they 
 made a screen of canvas, covered her with cloaks, and 
 heaped them with hay, and she took no harm; and the pure 
 open air that blew in was soft with all tlie southern sweet- 
 ness of early s^iring-tide, and the little one throve in it like 
 the puff-bail owlets in the hay-loft, or the little ring-doves 
 iu the ivy, whose parent's cooing voice was Eustacie's fa- 
 vorite music. Almost as good as these her fellow-nestlings 
 was the little Moonbeam, la petite Eayonette, as Eustacie 
 fondly called this light that had come back to her from the 
 sunshine she luid lost. Had she cried or been heard, the 
 sounds would probably have passed for the wailings of the 
 ghostly victims of the Templar, but she exercised an ex- 
 emjjlary forbearance in that respect, for which Eustacie 
 thought slie could not be sufficiently admired. 
 
 Like the child she was, Eustacie seemed to have put care 
 from her, and to be solely taken up with the baby, and the 
 amusement of watching the owl family. 
 
 There was a lull in the search at this moment, for the 
 chevalier had been recalled to Paris by the fatal illness of 
 liis son-in-law, M. de Selinville. The old soldier, after liv- 
 ing half his life on bread and salad, that he might keep up 
 a grand appearance at Paris, had, on coming into the 
 wealth of the family, and marrying a beautiful wife, re- 
 turned to the luxuries he had been wont only to enjoy for 
 a few weeks at a time, when in military occupation of some 
 Italian town. Three months of festivities had been enough 
 to cause his death; and the chevalier was summoned to as- 
 sist his daughter in j^roviding for his obsequies, and in tak- 
 ing possession of the huge endowments which, as the last 
 of his race, he had been able to bequeath to her. Such 
 was the news brought by the old nurse Perrine, who took 
 advantage of the slackening vigilance of the enemy to come 
 to see Eustacie. The old woman was highly satisfied; for 
 one of the peasants' wives had — as if on purpose to oblige 
 her lady — given birth to twins, one of whom had died al- 
 most immediately; and the pai'ents had consented to con- 
 ceal their loss, and at once take the little Demoiselle de 
 Ribaumont as their own— guarding the secret till her moth- 
 er should be able to claim her. It was so entirely tlie
 
 THE CIIATLET OF TEAIiLS. 193 
 
 practice, under the most ftivorablo circumstances, for 
 French mothers to send their infants to be nursed in cot- 
 tages, that Perrine was amazed by the cry of angry refusal 
 that burst from Eustacie, " Part with my child! Leave 
 her to her enemies! — never! never! Hold your tongue, 
 Perrine! I will not hear of such a thing!'' 
 
 " But, madame, hear reason. She will pass for one of 
 Simonette's!'' 
 
 "She shall pass for none but mine! I part with thee, 
 indeed! All that is left me of thy father! — the poor little 
 orphaned innocent, that no one loves but her mother!" 
 
 " Madame — mademoiselle, this is not common sense! 
 Why, how can you hide yourself? how travel with a baby 
 on your neck, whose crying may betray you?'' 
 
 " She never cries — never, never! And better I were be- 
 trayed than she. " 
 
 " If it were a boy — " began Perrine. 
 
 *' If it were a boy, there would be plenty to care for it. I 
 should not care for it half so much. As for my poor little 
 lonely girl, whom every one wishes away but her mother — • 
 ah! yes, baby, thy mother will go through fire and water 
 for thee yet. Never fear, thou shalt not leave her!" 
 
 '' No nurse can go with madame. Simonette could not 
 leave her home." 
 
 " What needs a nurse when she has me?" 
 
 ''But, madame," jjroceeded the old woman, out of pa- 
 tience, "you are beside yourself! What noble lady ever 
 nursed her babe?" 
 
 " I don't care for noble ladies — I care for my child," 
 said the vehement, petulant little thing. 
 
 " And how— what good will madame 's caring for it do? 
 AVliat knows she of infants? How can she take care of it?" 
 
 " Our Lady will teach me," said Eustacie, still pressing 
 the child passionately to her heart; " and see — the owl — • 
 the ring-dove — can take care of their little ones; the good 
 God shows them how — He will tell me how!" 
 
 Perrine regarded her lady much as if she were in a 
 naughty fit, refusing unreasonably to part with a new toy, 
 and Nanon Eotrou was much of the same mind; but it was 
 evident that if at the moment they attempted to carry off 
 the babe, the mother would put herself into an agony of 
 passion, that they durst not call forth; and they found it 
 needful to do their best to sootlie her out of the deluge of
 
 194 THE CHAPLET OF PE'.ELS. 
 
 agifatecl tears that fell from her ej-es, as slie grasped the 
 child so convulsively that she might almost have stifled it 
 at once. They assured her that they would not take it 
 away now — not now, at any rate; and when the latent 
 meaning made her fiercely insist that it was to leave her 
 neither now nor ever, Perrine made pacifying declarations 
 that it should be just as she pleased— promises that she knew 
 well, when in that coaxing voice, meant nothing at all. 
 Nothing calmed her till Perrine had been conducted away; 
 and even then Nanon could not hush her into anything like 
 repose, and at last called in the minister, in despair. 
 
 " Ah! sir, you are a wise man; canj^ou find how to quiet 
 the poor little thing? Her nurse has nearly driven her dis- 
 tracted with talking of the foster-parents she has found for 
 the child.'' 
 
 " Not found!" cried Eustacie. " No, for she shall never 
 go!" 
 
 " There!" lamented Nanon — " so she agitates herself, 
 when it is but spoken of. And surely she had better make 
 uj) her mind, for there is no other choice. " 
 
 " Nay, Nanon," said M. Garden, " wherefore should 
 she part with the charge that God has laid on her?" 
 
 Eustacie gave a little cry of grateful joy. " Oh, sir, 
 come nearer! Do you, indeed, say that they have no right 
 to tear her from me?" 
 
 '' Surely not, lady. It is you whose duty it is to shield 
 and guard her." 
 
 " Oh, sir, tell me again! Yours is the right religion. 
 Oh, you are the minister for me! If you will tell me I 
 ought to keep my child, then I will believe everything else. 
 I will do just as you tell me." And she stretched out 
 both hands to him with vehement eagerness. 
 
 '' Poor thing! This is no matter of one religion or an- 
 other," said the minister; " it is rather the duty that the 
 Almighty hath imposed, and that He hath made an eternal 
 
 " Truly," said Nanon, ashamed at having taken the 
 other side; " the good ])asfe/ir says what is according to 
 nature. It would have gone hard with me if anyoiiohad 
 wished to part mo from IJobin or Sara; but these fine ladies, 
 and, for that matter, bourgeoises, too, always do put out 
 their babes; and it seemed to me that madame would find 
 it hard to contrive for herself — let alone the little one, "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 195 
 
 '* i\h! but what would be the use of contriving for my- 
 self without her?" siiid Eustacie. 
 
 If all had gone well and prosperously ■with Mme. de Ri- 
 bauraont, jjrobably she would have surrendered an infant 
 born in purple and in pall to the ordinary lot of its con- 
 temiDoraries; but the exertions and suffering she had under- 
 gone on behalf of her child, its orphanhood, her own loneli- 
 ness, and even the general disappointment in its sex, had 
 given it a hold on her vehement, determined heart, that 
 iutensified to the utmost the instincts of motherhood; and 
 she listened as if to an angel's voice as Maitre Garden re- 
 plied to Nanon: 
 
 " I say not that it is not the custom; nay, that my 
 blessed wife and myself have not followed it; but we have 
 so oft had cause to repent the necessity, that far be it from 
 me ever to bid a woman forsake her sucking child. " 
 
 ''Is that Scripture?" asked Eustacie. "Ah! sir, sir, 
 tell me more! \' on are giving me all — all — my child! I 
 Avill be — I am — a Huguenot like her father! and, when my 
 vassals come, I will make them ride with you to La lio- 
 chelle, and fight in your cause!'' 
 
 " Nay," said Maitre Garden, taken by surprise; " but, 
 lady, your vassals are Catholic." 
 
 " What matters it? In my cause they shall fight!" said 
 the feudal lady, " for me and my daughter!" 
 
 And as the pastor uttered a sound of interrogative aston- 
 ishment, she continued: 
 
 " As soon as I am well enough Blaise will send out mes- 
 sages, and they will meet me at midnight at the cross- 
 roads, Martin and all, for dear good Martin is quite well 
 now, and we shall ride across country, avoiding towns, 
 wherever I choose to lead them. I had thought of Ohan- 
 tilly, for I know Monsieur de Montmorency would stand 
 my friend against a Guisard; but now, now I know you, 
 sir, let me escort you to La Eochelle, and do your cause 
 service worthy of Nid-de-Merle and Kibaumont!" And as 
 she sat u^) on her bed, she held up her little proud head, 
 and waved her right hand with the grace and dignity of a 
 queen offering an alliance of her realm. 
 
 Maitre Garden, who had hitherto seen her as a childish 
 though cheerful and patient sufferer, was greatly amazed, 
 but he could not regard her project as practicable, or in. 
 liis conscience aj)prove it; and after a moment's considera-
 
 lOf) THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 
 
 tioii lie answered, " I am a man of peace, Ifidy, and seldom 
 side with armed men, nor would I lightly make one of those 
 who enroll themselves against the king. " 
 
 " Not after all the queen-mother has done?'^ cried 
 Eustacie. 
 
 " Martyrdom is better than rebellion,^' quietly answered 
 the old man, folding his hands. Then he added, " Far be 
 it from me to blame those who have drawn the sword for 
 the faith: yet, lady, it would not be even thus with your 
 peasants; they might not follow you." 
 
 '* Then," said Eustacie, with flashing eyes, " they would 
 be traitors." 
 
 " Not to the king," said the pastor, gently. " Also, 
 lady, how will it be with their homes and families — the 
 hearths that have given you such faithful shelter?" 
 
 " The women would take to the woods," readily answered 
 she; "it is summer time, and they should be willing to 
 bear something for my sake. I should grieve indeed," she 
 added, " if my uncle misused them. They have been very 
 good to me, but then they belong to me. " 
 
 " Ah! lady, put from you that hardening belief of seign- 
 eurs. Think what their fidelity deserves from their lady. " 
 
 " I will be good to them! I do love them! I will be 
 their very good mistress," said Eustacie, her eyes filling. 
 
 "The question is rather of forbearing than of doing," 
 said the minister. 
 
 " But what would you have me do?" asked Eustacie, pet- 
 ulantly. 
 
 " This, lady. I gather that you would not return to 
 your relations. " 
 
 " Never! never! They would rend my babe from me; 
 they would kill her, or at least hide her forever in a con- 
 vent — they would force me into this abhorrent marriage. 
 No — no — no — my child and I would die a hundred deaths 
 together rather than fall into the hands of Narcisse.'^ 
 
 " Calm yourself, lady; there is no present fear, but I 
 deem that the safest course for the little one would be to 
 place her in England. She must be heiress to lands and 
 estates there; is she not?" 
 
 " Yes; and in Normandy."' 
 
 " And your husband's mother lives? Wherefore then 
 ghould you not take me for your guide, and make your
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 197 
 
 Wiiy — more secretly than would be jDOssible with a peasant 
 escort — to one of our Huguenot tovviis on the coast, wlicuco 
 you could escape with the child to Englaud?" 
 
 ^' My beUe-mere has re-married! She has children! I 
 would not bring the daughter of Kibaumont as a suppliant 
 to be scorned!" said Eustacie, jDOuting. " She has lands 
 enough of her own. " 
 
 *' There is no need to discuss the question now," said 
 M. Gardon, gravely; for a most kind offer, involving much 
 peril and inconvenience to himself, was thus j^etulantly 
 flouted. " Madame will think at her leisure of what would 
 have been the wishes of Monsieur le Baron for his child. " 
 
 He then held himself aloof, knowing that it was not well 
 for her health, mental or bodily, to talk any more, and a 
 good deal perplexed himself by the moods of his strange 
 little impetuous convert, if convert she could be termed. 
 He himself was a deeply learned scholar, who had studied 
 all the bearings of the controversy; and, though bound to 
 the French Huguenots by long service and persecution in 
 their cause, he belonged to that class of the French Ee- 
 formers who would gladly have come to terms with the 
 Catholics at the Conference of Plassy, and regretted the 
 more decided Calvinism that his party had since professed, 
 and in which the Day of St. Bartholomew confirmed them. 
 He had a strong sense of the grievous losses they suffered 
 by their disunion from the Church. The Reformed were 
 less and less what his ardent youthful hopes had trusted to 
 see them; and in his old age he was a sorrow-stricken man, 
 as much for the cause of religion as for personal bereave- 
 ments. He had little desire to win proselytes, but rather 
 laid his hand to build up true religion where he found it 
 suffering shocks in these unsettled, neglected times; and 
 his present wish was rather to form and guide this little 
 willful warm-hearted mother — whom he could not help 
 regarding with as much affection as pity — to find a home 
 in the Church that had been her husband's, than to gain 
 her to his own party. And most assuredly he would never 
 let her involve herself, as she was ready to do, in the civil 
 war, without even knowing the doctrine which grave and 
 earnest men had preferred to their loyalty. 
 
 He could hear her murmuring to her baby, " No, no, 
 little one, we are not fallen so low as to beg our breail 
 among strangers. " To live upon her own vassals had
 
 198 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 seemed to her only claiming lier just rights, bnt it galled 
 her to think of being beholden to stranger Huguenots; and 
 England and her mother-in-law, without Berenger, were 
 utterly foreign and distasteful to her. 
 
 Her mood was variable. Messages from Blaise and Mar- 
 tin came and went, and it became known that her intended 
 shelter at Chollet, together with all the adjacent houses, 
 had been closely searched by the younger Kibaumont in 
 conjuiiction with the governor; so that it was j^lain that 
 some treachery must exist, and that she only owed her 
 present freedom to her detention in the ruined temple; and 
 it would be necessary to leave that as soon as it was possible 
 for her to attempt the journey. 
 
 The plan that seemed most feasible to the vassals was, 
 that Rotrou should convey her in a cart of fagots as far as 
 IDOssJble on the road to Paris; that there his men should 
 meet her by different roads, ridiug their farm-horses — and 
 Martin even hoped to be able to convey her own palfrey to 
 her from the monastery stables; and thence, taking a long 
 stretch across country, they trusted to be able to reach the 
 lands of a dej)endaut of the house of Montmorency, who 
 would not readily yield her up to a Guise's man. But, 
 whether instigated by Perrine, or by their own judgment, 
 the vassals declared that, though madame should be con- 
 ducted wherever she desired, it was impossible to encumber 
 themselves with the infant. Concealment would be impos- 
 sible; rough, hasty rides would be retarded, her difficulties 
 would be tenfold increased, and the little one would be- 
 come a means of tracing her. There was no choice but to 
 leave it with Simoneite. 
 
 Angrily and haughtily did Eustacie always reject this 
 alternative, and send fresh commands back by her messen- 
 ger, to meet the same reply in another form. The strong 
 will and maternal instinct of the lady was set against the 
 shrewd, j^ractical resolution of the stout farmers, who were 
 about to make a terrible venture for her and might reason- 
 ably think they had a right to prescribe the terms that 
 they thought best. All this time Maitre Garden felt it im- 
 possible to leave her, still weak and convalescent, alone in 
 the desolate ruin with her young child; though still her 
 pride would not bend again to seek the counsel that she 
 had so much detested, nor to ask for the instruction that 
 was to make her " believe like her husband. " If she might
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 199 
 
 not fight for the Reformed, it seemed as if she would none 
 of their doctrine! 
 
 But, true lady that she was, she sunk the differences in 
 her intercourse with him. She was always prettily and 
 affectionately grateful for every service that he rendered 
 her, and as graciously polite as though she had been keep- 
 ing house in the halls of Kibaumont. Then her intense 
 love for her child was so beautiful, and there was so much 
 Bweetness in the cheerful jiatience with which she endured 
 the many hardships of her situation, that he could not help 
 being strongly interested in the willful, spirited little being. 
 
 And thus time passed, until one night, when Martin vent- 
 ured over to the farm with a report so serious that Ilotrou, 
 at all risks, brought him uji to communicate his own tid- 
 ings. Some one had given information, Veronique he sus- 
 pected, and the two chevaliers were certainly coming the 
 next day to search with fire the old buildings of the tem- 
 le. It was already daAvning toward morning, and it would 
 e impossible to do more at present than to let Eotrou 
 build up the lady in a vault, some little way off, whence, 
 after the search was over, she could be released, and join 
 her vassals the next night according to the original design. 
 
 As to the child, her presence in the vault was impossible, 
 and Martin had actually brought her intended nurse, 
 Simonette, to Rotrou's cottage to receive her. 
 
 " Never P' was all Eustacie answered. "Save both of 
 us, or neither." 
 
 " Lady,'' said M. Gardon as she looked toward him, " I 
 go my way with my staff. " 
 
 " And you — you more faithful than her vassals — will let 
 me take her?" 
 
 " Assuredly. " 
 
 *' Then, sir, even to the world's end will I go with you." 
 
 Martin would have argued, have asked, but she would 
 not listen to him. It was Maitre Gardon who made him 
 understand the project. There was what in later times has 
 been termeil an underground railway amid the persecuted 
 Calvinists, and M. Gardon knew his ground well enough to 
 have little doubt of being able to conduct the lady safely to 
 some town on the coast, whence she might reach her friends 
 in England. The plan highly satisfied Martin. It relieved 
 him and his neighbors from the necessity of provoking 
 perilous wrath, and it was far safer for herself than en-
 
 2(>0 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 deavoring to force her way with an escort too large not to 
 attract notice, yet not warhke enough for efficient defense. 
 He offered no further opposition, but augured that after 
 all she would come back a fine lady, and right them all. 
 
 Eustacie, recovering from her auger, and recollecting 
 his services, gave him her hand to kiss, and bade him fare- 
 well with a sudden effusion of gratitude and affection that 
 warmed the honest fellow's heart. Rewards could not be 
 given, lest they should become a clew for her uncle; and 
 perhaps they would have wounded both him and their kind 
 hosts, who did their best to assist her in their departure. 
 A hasty meal was provided by ISTanon, and a basket so 
 stored as to obviate the need of entering a village, on that 
 day at least, to purchase provisions; Eustacie 's money and 
 jewels again formed the nucleus of tlie bundle of clothes 
 and spare swaddling-bands of her babe; her peasant dress 
 was carefully arranged — a stout striped cloth skirt and 
 black bodice, the latter covered by a scarlet Chollet ker- 
 chief. The winged white cap entirely hid her hair; a gray 
 cloak with a hood could either fold round her and her child 
 or be strapped on her shoulders. Her sabots were hung on 
 her shoulder, for she had learned to go barefoot, and 
 walked much more lightly thus; and her little bundle was 
 slung on a staff on the back of Maitre Garden, who in his 
 great peasant's hat and coat looked so like a picture of St. 
 Joseph, that Eustacie, as the light of the rising sun fell on 
 his white beard and hair, was reminded of the Flight into 
 Egypt, and came close to him, saying shyly, " Our Blessed 
 Lady will bless and feel for my baby. She knows what 
 this journey is." 
 
 " The Son of the Blessed Mary assuredly knows and 
 blesses," he answered. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LA RUE DES TROIS PEES. 
 
 And round the baby fast and close 
 
 Her trembling grasp she folds, 
 And with a strong convulsive grasp 
 
 The little infant holds. 
 
 SOTJTHKY. 
 
 A WILD storm had raged all the afternoon, hail and rain 
 had careered on the wings of the wind along the narrow
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Eustacie was reminded of the flight into Egypt." Page 300.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 20l 
 
 street of tli3 Three Fairies, at the little Huguenot boarg of 
 La Sablerie; torrents of rain had ijoaclied the unpaved soil 
 into a depth of mud, and thunder had reverberated over the 
 chimnej-tops, and growled far away over the Atlantic, 
 whose angry waves were tossing on the low sandy coast 
 about two miles from the town. 
 
 The evening had closed hi with a chill, misty drizzle, 
 and, almost May though it were, the Widow Noemi Lau- 
 rent gladly closed the shutters of her unglazed window, 
 where small cakes and other delicate confections were dis- 
 played, and felt the genial warmth of the little fire with 
 which she heated her tiny oven. She was the widow of a 
 pastor who had suffered for his faith in the last open 2)erse- 
 cution, and being the daughter of a baker, the authorities 
 of the town had permitted her to support herself and her 
 son by carr}ang on a trade in the more delicate "subtil- 
 ties " of the art, which were greatly relished at the civic 
 feasts. Noemi was a grave, sad woman, very lonely ever 
 since she had saved enough to send her son to study for 
 the ministry in Switzerland, and with an aching heart that 
 longed to be at rest from the toil that she looked on as a 
 steep ladder on her way to a better home. She occupied 
 two tiny rooms on the gronnd-floor of a tall house; and she 
 had just arranged her few articles of furniture with the 
 utmost neatness, when there was a low knock at her door, 
 a kn6ck that the persecuted well understood, and as she 
 lifted the latch, a voice she had known of old spoke the 
 scriptural salutation, " Peace be with this house.'' 
 
 "' Wi qnoi, Master Isaac, is it thou? Come in — in a good 
 hour— ah!" 
 
 As, dripping all round his broad hat and from every 
 thread of his gray mantle, the aged traveler drew into tho 
 house a female figure whom he had been supporting on his 
 other arm, muffled head and shoulders in a soaked cloak, 
 with a petticoat streaming with wet, and fee^- and ankles 
 covered with mire, " Here we are, my chiki," he said ten- 
 derly, as he almost carried her to Noemi's chair. Noemi, 
 with kind exclamations of ^' La pauvrc ! la 'pauvrette P ' 
 helped the trembling cold hand to open the wet cloak, and 
 then cried out with fresh surprise and pity at the sight of 
 the fresh little infant face, nestled warm and snug under 
 all the wrappings in those weary arms. 
 
 " See," said the poor wanderer, looking up to the old
 
 202 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 man, with a faint smile; " she is well — she is wai'm — it 
 harts her not." 
 
 " Can you take us in?'' added M. Gardon, hastily; 
 " have you room?'^ 
 
 " Oh, yes; if you can sleep on the floor here, I will take 
 this poor dear to my own bed directly," said Noemi. 
 " Tenez," opening a chest; "you will find dry clothes 
 there, of my husband's. And thou," helping Eustacie up 
 with her strong arm, and trying to take the little one, 
 *' let me warm and dry thee within. " 
 
 Too much worn out to make resistance, almost past 
 speaking, knowing merely that she had reached the goal 
 that had been promised her throughout these weary days, 
 feeling warmth, and hearing kind tones, Eustacie submitted 
 to be led into the inner room; and when the good widow 
 returned again, it was in haste to fetch some of the warm 
 fotiuje she had already been cooking over the fire, and 
 hastily bade M. Garden help himself to the rest. She came 
 back again with the babe, to wash and dress it in the 
 warmth of her oven fire. Maitre Garden, in the black suit 
 of a Calvinist pastor, had eaten his potagc, and was anx- 
 iously awaiting her report. Ah! la pauvre, with His bless- 
 ing she will sleep; she will do well. But how far did you 
 come to-day?'^ 
 
 " From Sainte Lucie. From the Grange du Temple 
 since Monday. " 
 
 "Ah! is it possible? The poor child! And this little 
 one — sure, it is scarce four weeks old?" 
 
 *' Four weeks this coming Sunday." 
 
 "Ah! the poor thing. The blessing of Heaven must 
 have been with you to bear her through. And what a 
 lovely infant — how white — what beauteous little limbs! 
 Truly, she has sped well. Little did I think, good friend, ■ 
 that you had this comfort left, or that our poor Theodore's 
 young wife had escaped." 
 
 " Alas! no, Noemi; this is no child of Theodore's. His 
 wi^e shared his martyrdom. It is I who am escaped alone 
 to tell thee. But, nevertheless, this babe is an orphan of 
 that same day. Her father was the son of the pious Baron 
 de Ribaumont, the patron of your husband, and of myself 
 in earlier days. ' ' 
 
 ''Ah!" exclaimed Noemi, startled. "Then the poor
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 203 
 
 young mother — is she — can she he the lost Demoiselle cle 
 Nid-de-Merle?" 
 
 " Is the thing known here? The will of Heaven be clone; 
 but I had trusted that here the poor child might rest a 
 while, ere she can send to her husband's kindred in Eng- 
 land/' 
 
 " She might rest safely enough, if others beside myself 
 believed in her being your son's widow/' said Neomi. 
 '■ Wherefore should she not be thought so?" 
 
 " Poor EsjDerance ! She would willingly have lent her 
 name to guard another," said Master Gardon, thought- 
 fully; " and, for the sake of the child, my little lady may 
 endure it. Ah! there is the making of a faithful and noble 
 woman in that poor young thing. Bravely, patiently, 
 cheerfully, hath she plodded this weary way; and, verily, 
 she hath grown like my own daughter to me — as I never 
 thought to love earthly thing again ; and had this been in- 
 deed my Theodore's child, I could hardly care for it more. " 
 
 And as he related how he had fallen in with the forlorn 
 Lady of Eibaumont, and all that she had dared, done, and 
 left undone for the sake of her little daughter, good Noemi 
 Laurent wept, and agreed with him that a special Provi- 
 dence must have directed them to his care, and that some 
 good work must await one Avho had been carried through 
 so much. His project was to remain here for a short time, 
 to visit the flock who had lost their pastor on the day of 
 the massacre, and to recruit his own strength; for he, too, 
 had suffered severely from the long traveling, and the ex- 
 posure during many nights, especially since all that was 
 warm and sheltered had been devoted to Eustacie. And 
 after this he projDOsed to go to La.Rochelle, and make in- 
 quiries for a trusty messenger who could be sent to Eng- 
 land to seek out the family of the Baron de Eibaumont, or, 
 mayhap, a sufficient escort with whom the lady could travel 
 though he had nearly made up his mind that he would not 
 relinquish the care of her until he had safely delivered her 
 to her husband's mother. 
 
 Health and life were very vigorous in Eustacie; and 
 though at first she had been completely worn out, a few 
 days of comfort, entire rest, and good nursing restored her. 
 Noemi dressed her much like herself, in a black gown, 
 prim little white starched ruff, and white cap — a thorough 
 Calviuist dress, and befitting a minister's widow. Eustacie
 
 304 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 winced a little at hearing of the character that had been 
 fastened upon her; she disliked for her child, still more 
 than for herself, to take this boiiraeois name oi Garden; 
 but there was no help for it, since, though the chief iier- 
 sonages of the town were Huguenot, there could be no safety 
 for her if the report were once allowed to arise that the Ba- 
 ronne de Eibauniont had taken refuge there. 
 
 It was best tliat she should be as little noticed as possible; 
 nor, indeed, had good Noemi many visitors. The sad and 
 sorrowful woman had always shut herself up with her 
 Bible and her meditations, and sought no sym2iathy from 
 her neighbors, nor encouraged gossip in her shop. In the 
 first days, when purchasers lingered to ask if it were true 
 that Maitre Gardon had brought his daughter-in-law and 
 grandchild, her stern-faced, almost grim answer, that 
 " la pmivre was ill at ease," silenced them, and forced 
 them to carry off their curiosity unsatisfied; but it became 
 less easy to arrange when Eustacie herself was on foot 
 again — refreshed, active, and with an irrepressible spring 
 of energy and eagerness that could hardly be caged down 
 in the Widow Laurent^s tiny rooms. Poor child, had she 
 not been ill and prostrate at first, and fastened herself on 
 the tender side of the good woman's heart by the sweet- 
 ness of an unselfish and buoyant nature in illness, Noemi 
 could hardly have endured such an inmate, not even half 
 a Huguenot, full of little Catholic observances like second 
 nature to her; listening indeed to the Bible for a short 
 time, but always, when it was expounded, either asleep, or 
 finding some amusement indispensable for her baby; eager 
 for the least variety, and above all sj^oiled by Maitre Gar- 
 don to a degree absolutely j^erplexing to the grave woman. 
 
 He would not bid her lay aside the observances that, to 
 Noemi, seemed almost worship of the beast. He rather re- 
 verted to the piety which originated them; and argued with 
 his old friend that it was better to build than to destroy, 
 and that, before the fabric of truth, superstition would 
 crumble away of itself. The little he taught her sounded 
 to Noemi's puzzled ears mere Christianity instead of con- 
 troversial Calvinism. And, moieover, he never blamed 
 her for wicked worldliness Mhen she yawned; but even de- 
 vised opportmiities for taking her out for a walk, to see as 
 much life as might be on a market-day. He could certainly 
 not forget — as much as would have been prudent — that
 
 " Berenger carried the little one to the ruined high altar, and there knelt, 
 holding Eustacie by the hand, the child on one arm, he spoke a few words of 
 solemn thanks and prayer," Page 204.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 205 
 
 she was a high-born lady; and even seemed taken aback 
 when he found her with her sleeves turned up over her 
 shapely delicate arms, and a thick apron before her, with 
 her hands in Veuve Laurent's flour, showing her some of 
 those special mysterious arts of confectionery in which she 
 had been initated by Soeur Bernardine, when, not three 
 years ago, she had been the pet of the convent at Bellaise. 
 At first it was half sport and the desire of occupation, but 
 the produce of her manipulations was so excellent as to ex- 
 cite quite a sensation in La »Sablerie, and the echevins and 
 baillis sent in quite considerable orders for the cakes and 
 patties of Maitre Garden's Paris-bred daughter-in-law. 
 
 Maitre Gardon hesitated. Noemi Laurent told him she 
 cared little for the gain — Heaven knew it was nothing to 
 her — but that she thought it wrong and inconsistent in him 
 to wish to spare the poor child's pride, wdiich was uncliris- 
 tian enough already. " Nay," he said sadly, " mortifica- 
 tions from without do little to tame pride; nor did I mean 
 to bring her here that she should turn cook and confec- 
 tioner to pamper the appetite of Bailli La Grasse." 
 
 But Eustacie's first view was a bright i:)leasure in the tri- 
 umph of her skill; and when her considerate guardian en- 
 deavored to impress on her that there was no necessity for 
 vexing herself with the task, she turned round on him with 
 the exclamation, " Nay, dear father, do you not see it is 
 my great satisfaction to be able to do something for our 
 good hostess, so that my daughter and I be not a burden to 
 her?" 
 
 " Well spoken, my lady," said the pastor; " there is real 
 nobility in that way of thinking. \et, remember, Noemi 
 is not without means; she feels not the burden. And the 
 flock contribute enough for the shejaherd's support, and 
 yours likewise. " 
 
 " Then let her give it to the poor creatures who so often 
 come in begging, and sa3'ing they have been burned out of 
 house and home by one party or the other," said Eustacie. 
 " Let me have my Avay, dear sir; Soeur Bernardine always 
 said I should be a prime Dienagere. I like it so much. " 
 
 And Mme. de Eibaumont mixed sugar and dough, and 
 twisted quaint shapes, and felt important and almost light- 
 hearted, and sung over her work and over her child songs 
 that were not always Marot's psalms; and that gave the 
 more umbrage to Noemi, because she feared that Maitre
 
 206 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Gardon actually liked to hear them, though;, should their 
 echo reach the street, why it would be a peril, and still 
 worse, a horrible scandal that out of that sober, afflicted 
 household should proceed profane tunes such as court ladies 
 sung. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE ABBE. 
 
 By day and night her sorrows fall 
 
 Where miscreant hands and rude 
 Have stained her pure, ethereal pall 
 
 "With many a martyr's blood. 
 And yearns not her maternal heart 
 
 To hear their secret sighs, 
 Upon whose doul)ting way apart 
 
 Bewildering shadows rise? 
 
 Keble. 
 
 It was in the summer twilight that Eustacie, sitting on 
 the doorstep between the two rooms, with her baby on her 
 knees, was dreamily humming to her a tune, without even 
 words, but one that she lovetl, because she had first learned 
 to sing it with Berenger and his friend Sidney to the lute of 
 the latter; and its notes always brought before her eyes the 
 woods of Montpipeau, Then it was that, low and soft as 
 was the voice, that Ijefell which Noemi had feared: a worn, 
 ragged-looking young man, who had been bargaining at the 
 door for a morsel of bread in exchange for a handkerchief, 
 started at the sound, and moved so as to look into the 
 house. 
 
 Noemi was at the moment not attending, being absorbed 
 in the study of the handkerchief, which was of such fine, 
 delicate texture that an idea of its having been stolen 
 l^ossessed her; and she sought the corner where, as she ex- 
 pected, a coat of arms was embroidered. Just as she was 
 looking up to demand explanation, the stranger, with a 
 sudden cry of " Good heavens, it is she!" jiushed past her 
 into the house, and falling on his knee before Eustacie, ex- 
 claimed, " lady, lady! is it thus that I see you?'' 
 
 Eustacie had started up in dismay, crying out, " Ah I 
 Monsieur TAbbe, as you are a gentleman, betray me not. 
 Oh! have they sent you to find me? Have pity on us! YoE 
 loved my husband!"
 
 THE CHArLET OF PEARLS. 207 
 
 "You have nothing to fear from me, lady/' said the 
 young man, still kneeling; " if you are indeed a distressed 
 fugitive — so am I. If you have shelter and friends — I have 
 none. " 
 
 " Is it indeed so?" said Enstacie, wistfully, yet scarce 
 reassured. " You are truly not come from my uncle. In- 
 deed, monsieur, I would not doubt you, but you see I have 
 so much at stake. I have my little one here, and they mean 
 so cruelly by her. " 
 
 '' Madame, I swear by the honor of a nobleman — nay, 
 by all that is sacred — that I know nothing of your uncle. 
 I have been a wanderer for many weeks past; proscribed 
 and hunted down because I wished to seek into the truth." 
 
 "Ah!" said Eustacie, with a sound of relief, and of 
 apology, " j)ardon me, sir; indeed, I know you were good. 
 You loved my husband;" and she reached out her hand to 
 raise him, when he kissed it reverently. Little bonrgeoise 
 and worn mendicant as they were in dress, the air of the 
 Louvre breathed round them; and there was all its grace 
 and dignity as the lady turned round to her astonished 
 hosts, saying, " Good sir, kind mother, this gentleman is, 
 indeed, what you took me for, a fugitive for the truth. 
 Permit me to present to you Monsieur I'Abbe de Mericour 
 — at least, so he was, when last I had the honor to see him. " 
 
 The last time he had seen her, poor Eustacie had been 
 inca23able of seeing anything save that bloody pool at the 
 foot of the stairs. 
 
 Mericour now turned and explained. "Good friends," 
 he said courteously, but with the fierete of the noble not 
 quite out of his tone, " I beg your grace. I would not have 
 used so little ceremony, if I had not been out of myself at 
 recognizing a voice and a tune that could belong to none 
 but Madame — " 
 
 " Sit down, sii," said Noemi, a little coldly and stiffly — ■ 
 for Mericour was a terrible name to Huguenot ears; " a 
 true friend to this lady must needs be welcome, above all if 
 he comes in Heaven's name. " 
 
 " Sit down and eat, sir," added Gardon, much more 
 heartily; " and forgive us for not having been more hos- 
 pitable — but the times have taught us to be cautious, and 
 m that lady we have a precious charge. Eest; for you look 
 both weary and hungry." 
 
 Eustacie added an invitation, understanding that he
 
 208 THE CHAPLET OF TEA ELS. 
 
 would not sit without her 2:)er mission, and then, as he 
 dropped into a chair, she exchiimed, "Ah! sir, you are 
 faint, but you are famished.'^ 
 
 " It will pass,'^ he said; " I have not eaten to-day/' 
 
 Instantly a meal was set before him, and ere long he re- 
 vived; and as the shutters were closed, and shelter for the 
 night promised to him by a Huguenot family lodging in the 
 same house, he began to answer Eustacie^'s anxious ques- 
 tions, as well as to learn from her in return what had 
 brought her into her present situation. 
 
 Tiien it was that she recollected that it had been he who, 
 at her cousin Diane's call, had seized her when she was 
 rushing out of the palace in her first frenzy of grief, and 
 had carried her back to the women's apartments. 
 
 " It was that day which brought me here," he said. 
 
 And he told how, bred up in his own distant province, by 
 a pious and excellent tutoi-, he had devoutly believed in the 
 extreme wickedness of the Reformers; but in his seclusion 
 he had been trained to such purity of faith and morals, 
 that, when his brother summoiied him to court to solicit a 
 benefice, he had been appalled at the aspect of vice, and 
 had, at the same time, been struck by the pure lives of the 
 Huguenots; for truly, as things then were at the French 
 court, crime seemed to have arrayed itself on the side of 
 the orthodox party, all virtue on that of the schismatics. 
 
 De Mericour consulted spiritual advisers, who told him 
 that none but Catholics could be truly holy, and that what 
 he admired were merely heathen virtues that the devil per- 
 mitted the Huguenots to display in order to delude the un- 
 wary. With this explanation he had striven to be satisfied, 
 though eyes unbhuded by guilt and a pure heart continued 
 to be revolted at the practices which his Church, scared at 
 the evil times, and forgetful of her own true strength, left 
 undenounced in her jmrtisans. And the more that the 
 Huguenot gentlemen thronged the court, and the young 
 abbe was thrown into intercourse with them, the mwe he 
 perplexed himself how the truth, the faith, the uprightness, 
 the forbearance, the 23urity that they evinced, could indeed 
 be wanting in the zeal that made them acceptable. Then 
 came the frightful morning when carnage reigned in every 
 street, and the men who had been treated as favorite boon 
 companions were hunted down like wild beasts in every 
 street. He had endeavored to save life^ but would have
 
 THE fllAPLET OF PEARLR. 209 
 
 Speedily been sliiughtered himself except for his soutane; 
 and in all good faith he had harried to the Louvre, to in- 
 form royalty of the horrors that, as he thought, a fanatic 
 passion was causing the jjopulace to commit. 
 
 He found the palace become shambles — the king himself, 
 wrought wp to frenzy, firing on the fugitives. And the next 
 day, while his brain still seemed frozen with horror, he was 
 called on to join in the procession of thanksgiving for the 
 ki ng 's deliverance from a dangerous plot. Surely, if the j)lot 
 were genuine, he thought, the procession should have savored 
 of penance and humiliation rather than of barbarous exulta- 
 tion! Yet these might be only the individual crimes of the 
 queen-mother, and of the Guises seeking to mask them- 
 Bclves under the semblance of zeal; and the infallible head 
 of the visible Church would disown the slaughter, and cast 
 it from the Church with loathing as a blood-stained gar- 
 ment. Behold, Eome was full of rejoicing, and sent sanc- 
 tion and commendation of the pious zeal of the king! Had 
 the voice of Holy Church become indeed as the voice of a 
 blood-hound? Was this indeed her call? 
 
 The young man, whose life from infancy had been 
 marked out for the service of the Church — so destined by 
 his parents as securing a wealthy provision for a younger 
 son, but educated by his good tutor with more real sense of 
 his obligations — felt the question in its full imjiort. He was 
 under no vows; he had, indeed, received the tonsure, but 
 was otherwise unpledged, and he was bent on proving all 
 things. The gayeties in which he had at first mingled had 
 become abhorrent to him, and he studied with the earnest- 
 ness of a newly awakened mind in search of true light. 
 The very fact of study and inquiry, in one of such a family 
 as that of his brother the Duke de Mericour, was enough to 
 excite suspicion of Huguenot inclinations. The elder 
 brother tried to quash the folly of the younger, by insisting 
 on his sharing the debaucheries which, whether as jjriest or 
 monk, or simply as Christian man, it would be his duty to 
 abjure; and at length, by way of bringing things to a test, 
 insisted on his making one of a party who were about to 
 break up and destroy a Huguenot assembly. Unable, in 
 his present mood, to endure tlie thought of further cruelty, 
 the young abbe fled, gave secret warning to the endangered 
 congregation, and hastened to the old castle in Brittany, 
 where he had been brought up, to pour out his perplexities,
 
 210 THE CHAPLET CE TEARLS. 
 
 and seek the counsel of the good old chaplain who had edu- 
 cated him. AVhether the kind, learned, simple-hearted 
 tutor could have settled his mind, he had no time to dis- 
 cover, for he had scarcely unfolded his troubles before warn- 
 ings came down that he had better secure himself — his 
 brother, as head of the family, had obtained the royal 
 assent to the imprisonment of the rebellious junior, so as 
 to bring him to a better mind, and cure him of the 
 Huguenot inclinations, which in the poor lad were simply 
 undeveloped. But in all Catholic eyes, he was a tainted 
 man, and liis almost inevitable course was to take refuge 
 with some Huguenot relations. There he was eagerly wel- 
 comed; instruction was poured in on him; but as he showed 
 a disposition to inquire and examine, and needed time to 
 look into what they taught him, as one who feared to break 
 his link with the Church, and still longed to find her blame- 
 less and glorious, the righteous nation that keej^eth the 
 truth, they turned on him and regarded him as a traitor 
 and a spy, who had come among them on false pretenses. 
 
 All the poor lad wanted was time to think, time to ex- 
 amine, time to consult authorities, living and dead. The 
 Catholics called this treason to the Church, the Huguenots 
 called it halting between two opinions; and between them 
 he was a proscribed, distrusted vagabond, branded on one 
 side as a recreant, and on the other as a traitor. He had 
 asked for a few months of quiet, and where could they be 
 had? His grandmother had been the daughter of a Scottish 
 nobleman in the French service, and he had once seen a 
 nejjhew of hers who had come to Paris during the time of 
 Queen Mary's residence there. He imagined that if he were 
 once out of this distracted land of France, he might find 
 respite for study, for which he longed; and utterly ignorant 
 of the real state of Scotland, he had determined to make 
 his way to his kindred there; and he had struggled on the 
 way to La Rochelle, cheated out of the small remains of 
 his money, selling his last jewels and all the clothing that 
 was not indispensable, and becoming so utterly unable to 
 pay his passage to England, that he could only trust to 
 Providence to find him some means of reaching his present 
 goal. 
 
 He had been listened to with kindness, and a sympathy 
 such as M. Garden's large mind enabled him to bestow, 
 where his brethren had been incapable of comprehending
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 211 
 
 tliat a man could sincerely doubt between them and Eome. 
 When the history was finished, Eustacic exchiimed, turn- 
 ing to Maitre Gardon, " Ah! sir, is not this just what we 
 sought? If this gentleman would but convey a letter to 
 my mother-in-law — " 
 
 M. Gardon smiled. " Scotland and England are by no 
 means the same place, lady," he said. 
 
 " Whatever this lady would command, wherever she 
 would send me, I am at her service,' ' cried the abbe, 
 fervently. 
 
 And, after a little further debate, it was decided that it 
 might really be the best course, for him as well as for Mme. 
 de Ribaumont, to become the bearer of a letter and token 
 from her, entreating her mother-in-law to notify her pleas- 
 ure whether she would bring her child to England. She 
 had means enough to advance a sufficient sum to pay Meri- 
 cour's passage, and he accepted it most jjunctiliously as a 
 loan, intending, so soon as her dispatches were ready, to go 
 on to La Rochelle, and make inquiry for a sliiiJ, 
 
 Chance, however, seemed unusually projHtious, for the 
 next day there was an apparition in the streets of La Sablerie 
 of four or five weather-beaten, rollicking-looking men, their 
 dress profusely adorned with ribbons, and their language 
 full of strange oaths. They were well known at La Sablerie 
 as sailors belonging to a ship of the fleet of the Count de 
 Montgomery, the imfortunate knight whose lance had caused 
 the death of King Henry IL, and who, 23roscribed by the 
 mortal hatred of Catherine de Medici, had become the ad- 
 miral of a piratical fleet in the Calvinist interest, so far 
 winked at by Queen Elizabeth that it had its head -quarters 
 in the Channel Islands, and thence was a most formidable 
 foe to merchant vessels on the northern and eastern coasts 
 of France; and often indulged in descents on the coast, 
 when the sailors — being in general the scum of the nation 
 — were ajit to comport themselves more like American 
 buccaneers than like champions of any form of religion. 
 
 La Sablerie was a Huguenot town, so they used no vio- 
 lence, but only swaggered about, demanding from Bailli La 
 Grasse, in the name of their gallant Captahi Latouche, 
 contributions and provisions, and giving him to understand 
 that if he did not comply to the uttermost it should be the 
 worse for him. Their ship, it appeared, had been forced to 
 put into the harbor, about two miles off, and Maitre Gardon
 
 212 THE f'irAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 and the young abbe decided on walking tliither to see it, 
 and to have an interview with the captain, so as to secure a 
 passage for Mericour at least. Indeed, Maitre Gardon had, 
 in consultation with Eustacie, resolved, if he found things 
 suitable, to arrange for their all going together. She would 
 be far safer out of France; and, although the abbe alone 
 could not have escorted her, yet Maitre Gardon would 
 gladly have secured for her the additional jn-otection of a 
 young, strong, and spirited man; and Eustacie, who was no 
 scribe, was absolutely relieved to have the voyage set before 
 her as an alternative to the dreadful operation of compos- 
 ing a letter to the helle-mere, whom she had not seen since 
 she had been seven years old, and of whose present English 
 name she had the most indistinct ideas. 
 
 However, the first sight of the ship overthrew all such 
 ideas. It was a wretched single-decked vessel, carrying far 
 more sail than experienced nautical eyes would have 
 deemed safe, and with no accommodation fit for a woman 
 and child, even had the aspect of captaiu or crew been more 
 satisfactory — for the ruffianly appearance and language of 
 the former fully rivaled that of his sailors. It would have 
 been mere madness to think of trusting the lady in such 
 hands; and, without a word to each other, GJardon and 
 Mericour resolved to give no hint even that she and her 
 jewels were in La Sablerie. Mericour, however, made his 
 bargain with the captain, who undertook to transport him 
 as far as Guernsey, whence he might easily make his way 
 to Dorsetshire, where M. Gardon knew that Berenger's 
 English home had been. 
 
 So Eustacie, with no small trouble and consideration, in- 
 dited her letter — telling of her escape, the birth of her 
 daughter, the dangers that threatened her child — and beg- 
 ging that its grandmother would give it a safe home in Eng- 
 land, and love it for the sake of its father. An answer 
 would find her at the widow Noemi Laurent's, Kue des 
 Trois Fees, La Sablerie. She could not bring herself to 
 speak of the name of Esperance Gardon which had been 
 saddled upon her; and even M. de Mericour remained in 
 ignorance of her bearing this disguise. She recommended 
 him to the kindness of her mother-in-law; and M. Gardon 
 added anotlier letter to the lady, on behalf of the charge to 
 whom he promised to devote himself imtil he should see 
 them safe in friendly hands. Both letters were addressed.
 
 TH-E CHAPLET OF PEARLS. ^13 
 
 as best they might be, between Eustacie's dim comprehen- 
 sion of the word Thistlewood, and M. Gardou's notion of 
 spelling. " Jadis, Baronne de Eibaumont,^' was the securest 
 part of the direction. 
 
 And for a token, Eustacie looked over her jewels to find 
 one that would serve for a token j but the only ones she 
 knew would be recognized, were the brooch that had 
 fastened the plume in Berenger's bloody cap, and the 
 chaplet of pearls. To part with the first, or to risk the 
 second in the pirate-ship, was impossible, but Eustacie at 
 last decided upon detaching the pear-shaped pearl which 
 was nearest the clasp, and which was so remarkable in 
 form and tint that there was no doubt of its being well 
 known. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 UNDER THE WALNUT-TREE. 
 
 " Mistress Jean was making the elder-flower wine — 
 ' And what brings tlie Laird at sic a like time?' " 
 
 Lady Nairn, The Laird of Cockpen. 
 
 Summer was nearly ended, and Lucy Thistlewood was 
 presiding in the great kitchen of the manor-house, standing 
 under the latticed window near the large oak-table, a white 
 apron over her dress, presiding over the collecting of elder- 
 berries for the brew of household-wine for the winter. The 
 maids stood round her with an array of beechen bowls or 
 red and yellow crocks, while barefooted, bareheaded chil- 
 dren came thronging in with rush or wicker baskets of the 
 crimson fruit, which the maids poui-ed in sanguine cascades 
 into their earthenware; and Lucy requited with substantial 
 slices of bread and cheese, and stout homely garments 
 mostly of her own sewing. 
 
 Lucy was altogether an inmate of her father's house. 
 She had not even been at Hurst Walwyn for many months; 
 for her step-mother's reiterated hopes that Berenger would 
 make her his consolation for all he had sufi'ered from his 
 French spouse rendered it impossible to her to meet him 
 with sisterly luiconsciousness; and she therefore kept out of 
 the way, and made herself so useful at home, that Dame 
 Annora only wondered how it had been possible to spare 
 her so long, and always wound up her praises by saying.
 
 214 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 that Berenger would learn in time how lucky he had been 
 to lose the French puppet, and win the good English 
 housewife. 
 
 If only tidings would have come that the puppet was safe 
 married. That was the crisis which all the family desired 
 yet feared for Berenger, since nothing else they saw would 
 so detach his thoughts from the past as to leave him free to 
 begin life again. The relapse brought on by the cruel reply 
 to Osbert's message had been very formidable: he was long 
 insensible or delirious, and then came a state of annihilated 
 thought, then of frightfully sensitive organs, when light, 
 sound, movement, or scent Avas alike agony; and when he 
 slowly revived, it was with such sunken spirits, that his 
 silence was as much from depression as from difficulty of 
 speech. His brain was weak, his limbs feeble, the wound 
 in his mouth never painless; and all this necessarily added 
 to his listless indifference and weariness, as though all 
 youthful hope and pleasure were extinct in him. He had 
 ceased to refer to the past. Perhajjs he had thought it 
 over, and seen that the deferred escape, the request for the 
 pearls, the tryst at the palace, and the detention from the 
 king's chamber, made an uglier case against Eustacie 
 than he could endure to own even to himself. If his 
 heart trusted, his mind could not argue out her defense, 
 and his tongue would not serve him for discussion with 
 his grandfather, the only person who could act for him. 
 Perhaps the stunned condition of his mind made the sus- 
 pense just within the bounds of endurance, while trust in 
 his wife's innocence rendered his inability to come to her 
 aid well-nigh intolerable; and doubt of her seemed both 
 profanity and misery unspeakable. He could do nothing. 
 He had shot his only shaft by sending Landry Osbert, and 
 had found that to endeavor to induce his grandfather to 
 use further measures was worse than useless, and was 
 treated as mere infatuation. He knew that all he had to 
 do was to endeavor for what patience he could win from 
 Cecily's sweet influence and guidance, and to wait till 
 either certainty should come — that dreadful, miserable cer- 
 tainty that all looked for, and his very helplessness might 
 be bringing about — or till he should regain strength to be 
 again effective. 
 
 And miserably slow work was this recovery. No one 
 had surgical skill to deal with so severe a wound as that
 
 THE ClIAPLET OF t'EAJlLS. 215 
 
 whicli Narcisse had inflicted; and the daily pain and in- 
 convenience it caused led to innumerable drawbacks that 
 often — even after he had come as far as the garden — 
 brought him back to his bed in a dark room, to blood-let- 
 ting, and to speechlessness. No one knew much of his 
 mind — Cecily perhajis the most; and next to her, Philip — 
 who, from the time he had been admitted to his step-broth- 
 er's presence, had been most assiduous in tending him— - 
 seemed to understand his least sign, and to lay aside all his 
 boisterous roughness in his eager desire to do him service. 
 The lads had loved each other from the moment they had 
 met as children, but never so apparently as now, when all 
 the rude horse-play of healthy youths was over — and one 
 was dependent, the other considerate. And if Berenger 
 had made no one else believe in Eustacie, he had taught 
 Philip to view her as the " queen's men " viewed Mary of 
 Scotland. Philip had told Lucy the rough but wholesome 
 truth, that " Mother talks mere folly. Eustacie is no 
 more to be spoken of with you than a pheasant with old 
 brown Partlet; and Berry waits but to be well to bring her 
 off from all her foes. And Fll go with him. •" 
 
 It was on Philip's arm that Berenger first crept round 
 the bowling-green, and with Philip at his rein that he first 
 endured to ride along the avenue on Lord Walwyn's smooth- 
 paced palfrey; and it was Philip who interrupted Lucy's 
 household cares by rushing in and shouting, " Sister, here I 
 I have wiled him to ride over the down, and he is sitting 
 under the walnut-tree quite spent, and the three little 
 wenches are standing in a row, weeping like so many little 
 mermaids. Come, I say!" 
 
 Lucy at once followed him through the house, through 
 the deep porch to the court, which was shaded by a noble 
 walnut-tree, where Sir Marmaduke loved to sit among his 
 dogs. There now sat Berenger, resting against the trunk, 
 overcome by the heat and exertion of his ride. His cloak 
 and hat lay on the ground ; the dogs fawned round him, 
 eager for the wonted caress, and his three little sisters stood 
 a little aloof, clinging to one another and crying piteously. 
 
 It was their first sight of him; and it seemed to them as 
 if he were behind a frightful mask. Even Lucy was not 
 without a sensation of the kind, of this eff'ect in the change 
 from the girlish, rosy complexion to extreme paleness, on 
 which was visible, in ghastly red and purjjle, the great scar
 
 216 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 left by Narcisse^ from the temple on the one side to the ear 
 on the other. 
 
 The far more serious wound on the cheek was covered 
 with a black patch, and the hair had almost entirely disap- 
 peared from the head, only a few light brown locks still 
 hanging round the neck and temples, so that the bald row 
 gave a strange look of age; and the disfigurement was ter- 
 rible, enhanced as it was by the wasting effect of nearly a 
 year of sickness. Lucy was so much shocked, that she 
 could hardly steady her voice to chide the children for not 
 giving a better welcome to their brother. They would 
 have clung round her, but she shook them off", and sent 
 Annora in haste for her mother ^s fan; while Philip arriv- 
 ing with a slice of diet-bread and a cup of sack, the one 
 fanned him, and the other fed him with morsels of the 
 cake soaked in the wine, till he revived, looked up with 
 eyes that were unchanged, and thanked them with a few 
 faltering words, scarcely intelligible to Lucy. The little 
 girls came nearer, and curiously regarded him ; but when he 
 held out his hand to his favorite Dolly, she shrunk back in 
 reluctance. 
 
 " Do not chide her," he said wearily. " May she never 
 become used to such marks!" 
 
 " What, would you have her live among cowards?'^ ex- 
 claimed Philij^; but Berenger, instead of answering, looked 
 up at the front of tbe house, one of those fine Tudor faf;ades 
 that seem all carved timber and glass lattice, and asked, so 
 abruptly that Lucy doubted whether she heard him aright 
 — " How many windows are there in this front?" 
 
 " I never counted, '^ said Philip. 
 
 "I have," said Annora; "there are seven-and-tliirty, 
 besides the two little ones in the porch." 
 
 " None shall make them afraid,^' he muttered. " Who 
 would dare build such a defenseless house over yonder?" — 
 pointing south. 
 
 " Our hearts are guards now," said Philip, proudly. 
 Berenger half smiled, as he was wont to do when he meant 
 more than he could conveniently utter, and presently he 
 asked, in the same languid, musing tone, " Lucy, were you 
 ever really affrighted?" 
 
 Lucy questioned whether he could be really in his right 
 mind, as if the bewilderment of his brain was again return- 
 ing; and while she paused, Annora exclaimed, " Yes, when
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 217 
 
 we were gathering cowslips, and tlie brindled cow ran at us, 
 and Lucy could not run because she had Dolly in her 
 arms. Oh! w^e were frightened then, till you came, 
 brother. " 
 
 " Yes, '^ added Bessie; " und last winter too, when the 
 owl shrieked at the window — " 
 
 " And,'^ added Berenger, " sister, what was your great- 
 est time of revelry?' ' 
 
 Annora again put in her word. " I know, brother; you 
 remember the fair day, when my Lady Grandame was 
 angered because you and Lucy went on dancing when we 
 and all the gentry had ceased. And when Lucy said she 
 had not seen that you were left alone. Aunt Cecily said it 
 was because the eyes of discretion Avere lacking. " 
 
 " Oh, the Christmas feast was far grander," said Bessie. 
 
 " Then Lucy had her first satin farthingale, and three 
 gallants, besides my brother, wanted to dance with her. " 
 
 Blushing deeply, Lucy tried to hush the little ones, much 
 perplexed by the questions, and confused by the answers. 
 Could he be contrasting the life where a vicious cow had 
 been the most alarming object, a greensward dance with a 
 step-brother the greatest gayety, the dye of the elder juice 
 the deepest stain, with the temptations and perils that had 
 beset one equally young? Besting his head on his hand, 
 his elbow on his knee, he seemed to be musing iu a reverie 
 that he could hardly brook, as his young brow was knitted 
 by care and desjjondency. 
 
 Suddenly, the sounds in the village rose from the quiet 
 sleepy summer hum into a fierce yell of derisive vitupera- 
 tion, causing Philip at once to leap up, and run across the 
 court to the entrance-gate, while Lucy called after him 
 some vain sisterly warning against mingling in a fray. 
 
 It seemed as if his interposition had a good effect, for the 
 uproar lulled almost as soon as he had hurried to the scene 
 of action; and presently he reappeared, eager and breath- 
 less. "I told them to bring him up here,'' he said; 
 " they would have flogged him at the cart's-tail, the 
 rogues, just because my father is out of the way. I could 
 not make out his jargon, but you can, brother; and make 
 that rascal Spinks let him go. " 
 
 "What should I have to do with it?" said Berenger, 
 shrinking from the sudden exj^osure of his scarred face and 
 maimed speech. " I am no magistrate/'
 
 218 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 " But you can understand liim; lie is French, the poor 
 rogue — yes, Frencli, I tell you! He shrieked out piteously 
 to me something about a letter, and wanting to ask his way. 
 Ah! I thought that would touch you, and it will cost you 
 little pains," added Phihp, as Berenger snatched up his 
 broad kSpanish hat, and slouching it over his face, rose, 
 and, leaning upon Annora's shoulder, stepped forward, just 
 as the big burly blacksmith-constable and small shriveled 
 cobbler advanced, dragging along, by a cord round the 
 wrists, a slight figure with a red woolen sailor^s shirt, 
 ragged black hosen, bare head, and almost bare feet. 
 
 Doffing their caps, the men began an awkward salutation 
 to the young lord on his recovery, but he only touched his 
 beaver in return, and demanded, " How now! what have 
 you bound him for?" 
 
 " You see, my lord," began the constable, " there have 
 been a sort of vagrants of late, and 1 '11 be bound ^twas no 
 four-legged fox as took Gaffer Shepherd's lamb." 
 
 The peroration was broken off, for with a start as if he 
 had been shot, Berenger cried out, " Mericour! the abbe!" 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, if you know me," cried the .young man, 
 raising his head, " free me from this shame — aid me in my 
 mission!" 
 
 '* Loose him, fellows," shouted Berenger; "Philip, a 
 knife — Lucy, those scissors." 
 
 " ^Tis my duty, my lord," said Spinks gruffly. " All 
 vagabonds to be apprehended and flogged at the cart's-tail, 
 by her Grace's sjjecial commands. How is it to be an- 
 swered to his honor. Sir Marmaduke?" 
 
 "Oaf!" cried Philip, "you durst not have used such 
 violence had my father been at home! Don't you see my 
 brother knows him?" 
 
 With hands trembling with haste, Berenger had seized 
 the scissors that, housewife-like, hung at Lucy's waist, 
 and was cutting the rope, exclaiming in French, " Pardon, 
 pardon, friend, for so shameful a reception." 
 
 " Sir," was the reply, without a sign of recognition, 
 " if, indeed, you know my name, I entreat yoa to direct 
 me to the chateau of Le Sieur Tistefote, whose lady was 
 once Baronne de Kibaumont." 
 
 " My mother! Ah, my friend, my friend! what would 
 you?" he cried in a tone of tremulous hope and fear, laying
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 310 
 
 one hand on Mericour's shoulder, and about to embrace 
 
 him. 
 
 ■ Mericour retreated from the embrace with surprise and 
 
 almost horror. "Is it indeed you, Monsieur le Baron? 
 
 But no, my message is to no such person. '' 
 
 "A message — from her — speak I'^ gasjied Berenger, 
 starting forward as though to reud it from him; but the 
 high-spirited young man crossed his arms on his breast, 
 and gazing at the group with indignant scorn, made an- 
 swer, ' ' My message is from her who deems herself a widow, 
 to the mother of the husband whom she little imagines to 
 be not only alive, but consoled. '^ 
 
 " Faithful! faithful!" burst out Berenger, with a wild, 
 exultant, strangely ringing shout. " Woe, woe to those 
 who would have had me doubt her! Philip — Lucy — hear! 
 Her truth is clear to all the world!'" Tben changing back 
 again to French, " Ten thousand blessings on you, Meri- 
 cour! You have seen her! Where — how?" 
 
 Mericour still s^Doke with frigid politeness. " I had the 
 honor to part with Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont in 
 the town of La Sablerie, among humble. Huguenot guard- 
 ians, to whom she had fled, to save her mf ant's life — 
 when no aid came." 
 
 He was obliged to break off, for Berenger, stunned by 
 the sudden rush of emotion, reeled as he stood, and would 
 have fallen but for the prompt support of Lucy, who was 
 near enough to guide him back to rest upon the bench, say- 
 ing resentfully in French as he did so, " My brother is still 
 very ill. I pray you, sir, have a care." 
 
 She had not half understood the raj^id words of the two 
 young men, Philip comprehended them far less, and the 
 constable and his crew of course not at all; and Spinks 
 pushed forward among the group as he saw Berenger sink 
 back on the bench; and once more collaring his prisoner, 
 exclaimed, almost angrily to PhiliiJ, " There now, sir, 
 you've had enough of the vagabond. We'll keep him tight 
 ere he bewitches any more of you." 
 
 This rude interference proved an instant restorative. 
 Berenger sjH'ung up at once, and seizing Spinks's arm, 
 exclaimed, " Hands off, fellow! This is my friend — a gen- 
 tleman. He brings me tidings of hifinite gladness. Who 
 insults him, insults me. " 
 
 Spmks scarcely withdrew his hand from Mericour's neck-
 
 220 THE CHAPLET OE PEARLS. 
 
 and scowling said, " Very odd gentleman — very queer tid- 
 ings. Master Berenger, to fell you like an ox. I must be 
 answerable for the fellow till his honor comes/' 
 
 "'Ah! Uh qvoi, wherefore not show the canaille your 
 sword?" said Mericour, impatiently. 
 
 " It may not be seen here, in England," said Berenger 
 (who fortunately was not wearing his weapon). " And in 
 good time here comes my step-father," as the gate swung 
 back, and Sir Marmaduke and Lady Thistlewood rode 
 through it, the former sending his voice far before him to 
 demand the meaning of the hurly-burly that filled his court. 
 
 Philip was the first to spring to his rein, exclaiming, 
 " Father, it is a Frenchman whom Spinks would have 
 flogged at the cart's-tail; but it seems he is a friend of Ber- 
 enger's, and has brought him tidings. I know not what — 
 about his wife, I believe — any way he is beside himself with 
 
 " Sir, your honor," shouted Spinks, again seizing Meri- 
 cour, and striving to drag him forward, " I would know 
 whether the law is to be hindered from taking its course be- 
 cause my young lord there is a Frenchman and bewitched." 
 
 /' Ah," shrieked Lady Thistlewood, "I knew it. They 
 will have sent secret poison to finish him. Keep the fellow 
 safe. He will cast it in the air. " 
 
 "Ay, ay, my lady," said Spinks, " there are plenty of 
 us to testify that he made my young lord fall back as in a 
 swoon, and reel like one distraught. Pray Heaven it have 
 not gone further. " 
 
 " Sir," exclaimed Berenger, who on the other side held 
 his friend's hand tight, " this is a noble gentleman — the 
 brother of the Duke de Mericour. He has come at great 
 risk to bring me tidings of my dear and true wife. And 
 not one word will these demented rascals let me hear with 
 their senseless clamor. " 
 
 " Berenger! You here, my boy!" exclaimed Sir Mar- 
 maduke, more amazed by this than all the rest. 
 
 " He touches him — he holds him! Ah! will no one tear 
 him away?" screamed Lady Thistlewood. Nor would 
 Spinks have been slow in obeying her if Sir Marmaduke 
 had not swung his substantial form to the ground, and 
 stepping up to the prisoner, rudely clawed on one side by 
 Spinks, and affectionately grasped on the other side by 
 Berenger, shouted —
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEAKLS. 221 
 
 " Let go, both! Does he speak Eiighsh? Peace, dame! 
 If the hid be bewitched, it is the right way. He h)oks like 
 another man. Eh, lad, what does your friend say for him- 
 self?'' 
 
 " Sir," said Berenger, interpreting Mericour's words as 
 they were sjioken, " he has been robbed and misused at sea 
 by Montgomery's pirate crews. He lied from court for the 
 religion's sake; he met her — my wife " (the voice wns 
 scarcely intelligible, so tremnlously was it sjioken), " in 
 hiding among the Hugnenots — he brings a letter and a 
 token from her to my mother." 
 
 " Ha! and yon know him? You avonch him to bo what 
 he represents himself?" 
 
 " I knew him at court. I know him well. Father, 
 make these fellows cease their insults! I have heard noth- 
 ing yet. See here!" holding out what Mericour had put 
 mto his hand; " this you can not doubt, mother." 
 
 "Parted the pearls! Ah, the little minx!" cried the 
 lady, as she recognized the jewels. 
 
 " 1 thought he had been robbed?" added Sir Marma- 
 duke. 
 
 " The gentleman doubts?" said Mericour, catching some 
 of the words. " Ho should know that what is confided in 
 a French gentleman is only taken from him with bis life. 
 Much did I lose; but the pearl I kept hidden in my mouth. " 
 
 Therewith he j^roduced the letter. Lady Thistiewood 
 pronounced that no power on earth should induce hei- to 
 open it, and drew oft" herself and her little girls to a safe 
 distance from the secret poison she fancied it contained; 
 while Sir Marmaduke was rating the constables for taking 
 advantage of his absence to interpret the (Queen's Vagrant 
 Act in their own violent fashion; ending, however, by send- 
 ing them round to the buttery-hatch to drink the young 
 lord's health. For the messenger, the good knight heart- 
 ily grasped his hand, welcoming him and tlianking him for 
 having " brought comfoi-t to yon poor lad's heart." 
 
 But there Sir Marmaduke paused, doubting whether the 
 letter had indeed brought comfort; for Berenger, who had 
 seized on it, when it was refused by his mother, was sitting 
 under the tree — turning away indeed, but not able to con- 
 ceal that his tears were gushing down like rain. The anx- 
 ious exclamation of his step-father roused him at length, 
 but he scarce found power or voice to utter, as he thrust
 
 222 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 the letter into the knight's hand, " Ah! see what has she 
 not suffered for me? me, whom you would have had be- 
 lieve her faithless!" 
 
 He then grasped his friend's arm, and with him disa})- 
 peared into the house, leaving Sir Marmaduke holding the 
 letter in a state of the utmost bewilderment, and calling by 
 turns on his wife and daughter to read and explain it to 
 him. 
 
 And as Lucy read the letter, which her mother could not 
 yet prevail on herself to touch, she felt at each word more 
 grateful to the good Aunt Cecily, whose influence had 
 taught her always to view Berenger as a brother, and not 
 to condemn unheard the poor young wife. If she had not 
 been thus guarded, what distress might not this day of joy 
 to Berenger have brought to Lucy. Indeed, Lady Thistle- 
 wood was vexed enough as it was, and ready to carry her 
 incredulity to the most inconsistent lengths. " It was all 
 a trick for getting the jjoor boy back, that they might 
 make an end of him altogether," Tell her they thought 
 him dead. " Tilley-valley! it was a mere attempt on her 
 own good-nature, to get a little French impostor on her 
 hands. Let Sir Duke look well to it, and take care that 
 her poor boy was not decoyed among them. The French- 
 man might be cutting his throat at that moment! Where 
 was he? Had Sir Duke been so lost as to let them out of 
 sight togetiier? No one had either pity or prudence now 
 that her poor father was gone;" and she began to weej). 
 
 " No great fear on that score, dame," laughed the 
 knight. " Did you not hear the lad shouting for ' Phil, 
 Phil!' almost in a voice like old times? It does one good 
 to hear it. " 
 
 Just at twilight, Berenger came down the steps, con- 
 ducting a graceful gentleman in black, to whom Lady Tliis- 
 tlewood's instinct im])elled her to make a low courtesy, be- 
 fore Berenger had said, " Madame, allow me to present to 
 you my friend, the Abbe de Mericour. " 
 
 " Is it the same?" whispered Bessie to Annora. " Surely 
 he is translated ! " 
 
 " Only into Philip's old mourning suit. I know it by 
 the stain on the knee. " 
 
 " Then it is translated too. Never did it look so well 
 on Philip! See, our mother is quite gracious to him; she
 
 THE CUATLET OF I'EAKLS. 333 
 
 speaks to him as though ho were some nohle visitor to my 
 lord. " 
 
 Therewith Sir Marmaduke came forward, shook Meri- 
 cour with all his might by the hand, shouted to him his 
 hearty thanks for the good he had done his poor lad, and 
 assured him of a welcome from the very bottom of his 
 heart. The good knight would fain have kept both Bereu- 
 ger and his friend at the manor, but lierenger was far too 
 impatient to carry home his joy, and only begged the loan 
 of a horse for Mericour. For himself, he felt as if fatigue 
 or dejection Avould never touch him again, and ho kissed 
 his mother and his sisters, including Lucy, all round, with 
 an effusion of delight. 
 
 " Is that indeed your step-father?^' said Mericour, as 
 they rode away together. And the young man, is he 
 your half-brother?'^ 
 
 " Brother AvhoUy in dear love," said Berenger; " no 
 blood relation. The little girls are my mothei''s children." 
 
 *' Ah! so large a family all one? All at home? None 
 iu convents?" 
 
 " We have no convents." 
 
 *' Ah, no. But all at home! All at peace! Tliis is a 
 strange place, your England." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 DEPAKTURE. 
 
 It is my mistress! 
 Since she is living, let the time run on 
 To good or bad. — Cymbeline. 
 
 Mericour found the welcome at Hurst Walwyn as 
 kmdly and more polished than that at Combe Manor. Ho 
 was more readily understood, and found himself at his 
 natural element. Lord Walwyn, in especial, took much 
 notice of him, and conversed with him long and earnestly; 
 wliile Berenger, too happy and too weary to exert himself 
 to say many words, sat as near Cecily as he could, treating 
 her as though she, who had never contradicted him in his 
 trust in Eustacie, Avere the oiily person who could worthily 
 share his infinite relief, peace, and thankfulness. 
 
 Lord AValwyn said scarcel^^ anything to his grandson 
 that night, only when Berenger, as usual, bent his knee to
 
 224 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS.- 
 
 ask his blessing on parting for the night, he said, gravely, 
 " Sou, I am glad of your joy; I fear me you have somewhat 
 to pardon your grandsire. Come to my library so soon as 
 morning prayers be over; we will speak then. Not now, 
 my dear lad,^^ he added, as Berenger, with tears in his 
 e3'es, kissed his hand, and would have begun; " you are too 
 much worn and sj)ent to make my deaf ears hear. Sleep, 
 and take my blessing with you. " 
 
 It was a delight to see the young face freed from the 
 haggard, dejected expression that had been sadder than the 
 outward wounds; and yet it was so questionable how far 
 the French connection was acceptable to the family, that 
 when Berenger requested Mr. Adderley to make mention 
 of the mercy vouchsafed to him in the morning devotions, 
 the chaplain bowed, indeed, but took care to ascertain that 
 his so doing would be agreeable to my lord and my lady. 
 
 He found that if Lady Walwyn was still inclined to re- 
 gret that the Frenchwoman was so entirely a wife, and 
 thought Berenger had been very hasty and imprudent, j^et 
 that the old lord was chiefly distressed at the cruel injustice 
 he had so long been doing this poor young thing. A strong 
 sense of justice, and long habit of dignified self-restraint, 
 alone prevented Lord Walwyn from severely censuring Mr. 
 Adderley for misrepresentations; but the old nobleman rec- 
 ollected tliat Walsinghani had been in the same story, and 
 was too upright to visit his own vexation on the honestly 
 mistaken tutor. 
 
 However, when Berenger made his appearance in the 
 study, looking as if not one night, but weeks, had been 
 spent in recovering health and spirit, the old man's first 
 word was a gentle rebuke for his having been left unaware 
 of how far matters had gone; but he cut short the attempted 
 reply, by saying he knew it was chiefly owing to his own 
 overhasty conclusion, and fear of letting his grandson in- 
 jure himself by vainly discussing the subject. Now, how- 
 ever, he examined Berenger closely on all the proceedings 
 at Paris and at Montpij^eau, and soon understood that the 
 ceremony had been renewed, ratifying the vows taken in 
 infancy. The old statesman's face cleared up at once; for, 
 as he explained, he had now no anxieties as to the validity 
 of the marriage by English law, at least, in spite of the 
 decree from Kome, which, as he pointed out to his grand- 
 son, was wholly contingent on the absence of subsequent,
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 3^5 
 
 consent, since the parties had come to an age for free will. 
 Had he known of this, the remarriage, he said, he should 
 certainly have been less supine. Why had Berenger been 
 silent? 
 
 " I was commanded, sir. I fear I have transgressed the 
 command by mentioning it now. I must pray you to be 
 secret.'' 
 
 " Secret, foolish hul. Know you not that the rights of 
 your wife and your child rest upon it?" and as the change 
 in Berenger 's looks showed that he had not comprehended 
 the full importance of the second ceremony as nullifying 
 the Papal sentence, wiiich could only quash the first on the 
 ground of want of mutual consent, lie proceeded, " Com- 
 mand, quotha? Who there had any right to command you, 
 boy?" 
 
 " Only one, sir." 
 
 " Come, this is no moment for lovers' folly. It was not 
 the girl, then? Then it could be no other than the miser- 
 able king — was it so?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Berenger. " He bade me as king, and 
 requested me as the friend who gave her to me. I could 
 do no otherwise, and I thought it would be but a matter of 
 a few days, and that our original marriage was the only 
 important one." 
 
 Have you any parchment to prove it?" 
 
 *' Eo, sir. It passed but as a ceremony to satisfy the 
 queen's scruples ere she gave my wife to me to take home. 
 I even think the king was displeased at her requiring it." 
 
 " Was Mr. Sidney a witness?" 
 
 " No, sir. None was present, save the king and queen, 
 her German countess, and the German priest." 
 
 " The day?" 
 
 " Lammas-day." 
 
 *' 1'he 1st of August of the year of grace 1573. I will 
 write to Walsingluim to obtain the testimony, if possible, 
 of king or of priest; Init belike they will deny it all. It was 
 part of the trick. Shame upon it that a king should dig 
 pits for so small a game as you, my i)oor lad!" 
 
 " Verily, my lord," said Berenger, " I think the king 
 meant us kindly, and would gladly have sjied ns well away. 
 Methought he felt his bondage bitterly, and would fain 
 have dared to be a true king. Even at the last, he bade 
 me to his garde-rohe,, and all there were unhurt."
 
 226 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 ** And wherefore obeyed yon not?" 
 
 *' The carouse would have kept me too late for our 
 flight. " 
 
 " King's behests may not lightly be disregarded,*' said 
 the old courtier, with a smile. ' However, since he showed 
 Buch seeming favor to you, surely you might send a petition 
 to him privately, through Sir Francis Walsingham, to let 
 the priest testify to your renewal of contract, engaging not 
 to use it to his detriment in France. " 
 
 " I will do so, sir. Meanwhile," he added, as one who 
 felt he had earned a right to be heard in his turn, " I have 
 your ijermissiou to hasten to bring home my wife?" 
 
 Lord Walwyn was startled at this demand from one still 
 so far from recovered as Berenger. Even this talk, eager 
 as the youth was, had not been carried on without much 
 difficulty, repetition, and altered phrases, when he could 
 not pronounce distinctly enough to be understood, and the 
 effort brought lines of pain into his brow. He could take 
 little solid food, had hardly any strength for walking or 
 riding; and, though all liis wounds were whole, except that 
 one unmanageable shot in the mouth, he looked entirely 
 unfit to venture on a long journey in the very country that 
 had sent him home a year before scarcely alive. Lord Wal- 
 wyn had already devised what he thought a far more prac- 
 ticable arrangement; namely, to send Mr. Adderley and 
 some of my lady's women by sea, under the charge of Mas- 
 ter Hobbs, a shipmaster at Weymouth, who traded with 
 Bordeaux for wine, and could easily put in near La Sab- 
 lerie, and bring off the lady and child, and, if she wished it, 
 the pastor to whom such a debt of gratitude was owing. 
 
 Berenger was delighted with the notion of the sea rather 
 than the land journey; but he pointed out at once that this 
 would remove all objection to his going in person. He had 
 often been out whole nights with the fishermen, and knew 
 that a sea-voyage would be better for his health than any- 
 thing — certainly better than pining and languishing at 
 home, as he had done for months. He could not bear to 
 think of separation from Eustacie an hour longer than 
 needful; nay, she had been cruelly entreated enough al- 
 ready; and as long as he could keep his feet, it was abso- 
 lutely due to her that he should not let others, instead of 
 himself, go in search of her. It woulit be almost death to 
 him to stay at home.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 237 
 
 Lorl Walwyn looked at the pallid, wasted face, with all 
 its marks of suffering and intense eagerness of expression, 
 increased by the difficulty of utterance and need of subdu- 
 ling agitation. He felt that the long-misunderstood pa- 
 tience and endurance had earned something; and he knew, 
 too, that for all his grand son^s submission and respect, the 
 boy, as a husband and father, had rights and duties that 
 would assert themselves manfully if opjjosed. It was true 
 that the sea-voyage obviated many difficulties, and it was 
 better to consent with a good grace than drive one hitherto 
 so dutiful to rebellion. He did then consent, and was re- 
 warded by the lightning tiash of joy and gratitude in the 
 bright blue eyes, and the fervent pressure and kiss of his 
 hand, as Berenger exclaimed, " Ah! sir, Eustacie will be 
 such a daughter to you. You should have seen how the 
 admiral liked her!'' 
 
 The news of Lord Walwyn 's consent raised much com- 
 motion in the family. Dame Annora was sure her jjoor 
 son would bo murdered outright this time, and that no- 
 body cared because he was only Iter son; and she strove 
 hard to stir up Sir Marmaduke to remonstrate with her fa- 
 ther; but the good knight had never disputed, a judgment' 
 of " my lord's " in his whole life, and had even received 
 his first wife from his hands, when forsaken by the gay 
 Annora. So she could only ride over to Combe, be silenced 
 by her father, as effectually as if Ju23iter had nodded, and 
 bewail and murmur to her mother till she lashed Lady 
 Walwyn up hito finding every possible reason why Beren- 
 ger should and must sail. Then she went home, was very 
 sharp with Lucy, and was reckoned by saucy little Nan to 
 have nineteen times exclaimed " Tilley- valley " in the course 
 of one day. 
 
 The effect upon Philip was a vehement insistauce on 
 going with his brother. He was sure no one else would see 
 to Berry half as well; and as to letting Berry go to be mur- 
 dered again without him, he would not hear of it; he must 
 go, he would not stay at home; he should not study; no, 
 no, he should be ready to hang himself for vexation, and 
 thinking what they were doing to his brother. And thus 
 he extorted from his kind-hearted father an avowal that he 
 should be easier about the lad if Phil were there, and that 
 he might go, provided Berry would have him, and my lord 
 saw no objection. Tlie first point was soon settled; and as
 
 328 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 to the second, there was no reason at all that Philip should 
 not go where his brother did. In fact, excepting for 
 Berenger's state of health, there was hardl}^ any risk about 
 the matter. Master Hobbs, to Avhom Philip rode down 
 ecstatically to request him to come and speak to my lord, 
 was a stout, honest, experienced seaman, who v/as perfectly 
 at home in the Bay of Biscay, and had so strong a feudal 
 feeling for the house of Walwyn, that he jilaced himself 
 and his best shij:), the " Throstle," entirely at his disposal. 
 The " Throstle " was a capital sailer, and carried arms 
 quite sufficient in English hands to protect her against 
 Algerine corsairs or Spanish jiirates. He only asked for a 
 week to make her calkin ready for the reception of a lady, 
 and this time was spent in sending a post to London, to ob- 
 tain for Berenger the permit from the queen, and the pass- 
 port from the French Ambassador, without which he could 
 not safely have gone; and, as a further precaution, letters 
 were requested from some of the secret agents of the Hugue- 
 nots to facilitate his admission into La Sablerie. 
 
 In the meantime, poor Mr. Adderley had submitted 
 meekly to the decree that sentenced him to weeks of misery 
 on board the " Throstle," but to his infinite relief, an in- 
 spection of the cabins proved the sjDace so small, that 
 Berenger represented to his grandfather that the excellent 
 tutor would be only an incumbrance to himself and every 
 one else, and that with Philip he should need no one. In- 
 deed, he had made such a start into vigor and alertness 
 during the last few days that there was far less anxiety 
 about him, though with several sighs for poor Osbert. 
 Cecily initiated Philip into her simjile rules for her patient's 
 treatment in case of the return of his more painful symp- 
 toms. The notion of sending female attendants for Eusta- 
 cie was also abandoned; her husband's presence rendered 
 them unnecessary, or they might be procured at La Sab- 
 lerie; and thus it happened tliat the only servants whom 
 Berenger was to take with him were Humfrey Holt and 
 John Smithers, the same honest fellows whose steadiness 
 had so much conduced to his rescue at Paris. 
 
 Claude de Mericour had in the meantime been treated as 
 an honored guest at Combe Walwyn, and was in good es- 
 teem with its master. He would have set forth at once on 
 his journey to Scotland, but that Lord Walwyn advised him 
 to wait and ascertain the condition of his relatives there
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARtS. 239 
 
 before throwing himself on them. Berenger had, accord- 
 ingly, when writing to Sidney by the messenger above men- 
 tioned, begged him to find out from Sir Robert Melville, 
 the Scottish Envoy, all he could about the family whose 
 designation he wrote down at a venture from Mericour's 
 lips. 
 
 Sidney returned a most affectionate answer, saying that 
 he had never been able to believe the little shepherdess a 
 traitor, and was charmed that she had jaroved herself a 
 heroine; he should endeavor to greet her with all his best 
 powers as a poet, when she should brighten the English 
 Court; but his friend. Master Spenser, alone was fit to 
 celebrate such constancy. As to M. FAbbe de Mericour's 
 friends, Sir Kobert Melville had recognized their name at 
 once, and had pronounced them to be fierce Catholics and 
 Queensmen, so sorely pressed by the Douglases, that it was 
 believed they would soon fly the country altogether; and 
 Sidney added, what Lord Walwyn had already said, that to 
 seek Scotland rather than France as a resting-place in 
 which to weigh between Calvinism and Catholicism, was 
 only the fire instead of the frying-pan; since there the 
 parties were trebly hot and fanatical. His counsel was 
 that M. de Mericour should so far conform himself to the 
 English Church as to obtain admission to one of the uni- 
 versities, and, through his uncle of Leicester, he could ob- 
 tain for him an opening at Oxford, w^here he might fully 
 study the subject. 
 
 There was much to incline Mericour to accept this coun- 
 sel. He had had much conversation with Mr. Adderley, 
 and had attended his ministrations in the chapel, and 
 both satisfied him far better than what he liad seen among 
 the French Calvinists; and the peace and family affection 
 of the two houses were like a new world to him. But ho 
 had not yet made up his mind to that absolute disavowal 
 of his own branch of the Church, which alone could have 
 rendered him eligible for any foundation at Oxford. His 
 attainments in classics would, Mr. Adderley thought, reach 
 such a standard as to gain one of the very few scholarships 
 open to foreigners; and his noble blood revolted at becom- 
 ing a peneioner of Leicester's, or of any other nobleman. 
 
 Lord Walwyn, upon this, made an earnest offer of his 
 hospitality, and entreated the young man to remain at 
 Hurst Walwyn till the return of Berenger and Philip, dur-
 
 230 TiTP chaplt:t op p15;arls. 
 
 ing which time ho might study under the direcUons of Mr. 
 Adderley, and come to a decision whether to seek recon- 
 ciliation wifcli his native Church and his brother, or to re- 
 main in England. In this latter case, he might perhaps 
 accompany both the youths to Oxford, for, in spite of 
 Berenger's marriage, his education was still not supposed 
 to be complete. And when Mericour still demurred with 
 reluctance to become a burden on the bounty of the noble 
 house, he was reminded gracefully of the debt of gratitude 
 that the family owed to him for the relief he had brought 
 to Berenger; and, moreover. Dame Annora giggled out 
 that, " if he would teach Nan and Bess to speak and read 
 French and T^talian, it would be worth something to them. " 
 The others of the family would have hushed up this un- 
 called-for joroposal; but Mericour caught at it as the most 
 congenial mode of returning the obligation. Every morning 
 he undertook to walk or ride over to the manor, and there 
 gave his lessons to the young ladies, with whom he was ex- 
 tremely 2>opular. He was a far more brilliant teacher than 
 Lucy, and ten thousand times preferable to Mr. Adderley, 
 who had once begun to teach Aunora her accideuco with 
 lumen table want of success. 
 
 ajTD OF FIRST HALF.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE EMPTY CRADLE. • 
 
 Eager to know 
 The worst, and with that fatal certainty 
 To terminate intolerable dread, 
 He spurred his courser forward — all his fears 
 Too surely are fulfilled. 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Contrary winds made the voyage of the " Throstle ■'* 
 much more tardy than had been reckoned on by Berenger's 
 impatience; but hope was before him, and he often remem- 
 bered his days in the httle vessel as much happier than he 
 had known them to be at the time. 
 
 It was in the calm days of bright October that Captain 
 Hobbs at length was putting into the little harbor nearest 
 to La Sablerie. Berenger, on that morning, had for the 
 first time been seized by a lit of anxiety as to the impres- 
 sion his face would make, with its terrible purple scar, 
 great patch, and bald forehead, and had brought out a lit- 
 tle black velvet mask, called a toiir cle nez, often used in 
 riding to protect the complexion, intending to prepare 
 Eustacie for his disfigurement. He had fastened on a car- 
 nation-colored sword-knot, wound a scarf of the same color 
 across his shoulder, clasped a long ostrich plume into his 
 broad Spanish hat, and looked out his deeply fringed Span- 
 ish gloves; and Philip was laughing merrily, not to say 
 rudely, at him, for trying to deck himself out so bravely. 
 
 " See, Master Hobbs," cried the boy hi his high spirits, 
 as he followed his brother on deck, " you did not know you 
 had so fine a gallant on board. Here be braveries for my 
 lady." 
 
 " Hush, Pliil," broke in Berenger, who had hitherto
 
 6 Tflfi CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 taken all the raillery in perfect good part. " What is amiss, 
 Master llobbs?" 
 
 "I can not justly say, sir," returned Master Hobbs, 
 without taking his gaze off the coast, " but by yonder 
 banks and creeks this should be the Sables d'Olonne; and 
 I do not see the steeple of La Sablerie, which has always 
 been the landmark for the harbor of St. Julien.^' 
 
 " What do you understand l^y that?" asked Berenger, 
 more struck by his manner than his words. 
 
 " Well, sir, if I am right, a steeple that has stood three 
 or four hundred years does not vanish out of sight like a 
 cloud of smoke for nothing. It may be lightning, to be 
 sure, or the Protestants may have had it down for Popery; 
 but methinks they would have too much Christian regard 
 for poor mariners than to knock down the only landmark 
 on this coast till you come to Nissard spire.'' Then he 
 hailed the man at the mast-head, demanding if he saw the 
 steeple of La Sablerie. " No, no, sir." But as other por- 
 tions of the land became clearer, there was no doubt that 
 the " Throstle " was right in her bearings; so the skipper 
 gave orders to cast anchor and lower a boat. The 2)assengers 
 would have pressed him with inquiries as to what he 
 thought the absence of his landmark could portend; but 
 he hurried about, and shouted orders, with the deaf des- 
 potism of a nautical commander; and only when all was 
 made ready, turned round and said, " Now, sir, may be you 
 had best let me go ashore first, and find out how the land 
 lies." 
 
 " Never!" said Berenger, in an agony of impatience. 
 
 "I thought so," said the captain. "Well, then, sir, 
 are your fellows ready? Armed? All right. " 
 
 So Berenger descended to the boat, followed by Philip; 
 next came the captain, and then the two serving-men. Six 
 of the crew were ready to row them to the shore, and were 
 bidden by their captain to return at once to the vessel, and 
 only return on a signal from him. The surging rush of 
 intense anxiety, sure to ])recede the destined moment of 
 the consumnuitiou of hope long deferred, kept Berenger 
 silent, choked ])y something between fear and jirayer; but 
 Philip, less engrossed, asked Master Hobbs if it were not 
 strange that none of the inhabitants of the squalid little 
 huts on the shore had not put out to greet them in some 
 of the boats that were drawn up on the beach.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEA ELS. 7 
 
 ** Poor wretches, " siiid Ilobbs; " they scarce Know friend 
 from foe, and are slow to run their heads into the Uoii's 
 mouth. Strange fellows have the impudence to sail under 
 our flag at times. " 
 
 However, as they neared the low, flat, sandy shore, a few 
 red caps peeped out at the cottage-doors, and then, ajipar- 
 ently gaining confidence from the survey, some wiry, active 
 figures appeared, and were hailed by Hobbs. His Bor- 
 deaux trade had rendered him master of the coast lan- 
 guage; and a few incomprehensible shouts between him and 
 the natives resulted in a line being thrown to them, and 
 the boat dragged as near as possible to the landing-place, 
 when half a dozen ran up, splashing with their bare legs, to 
 offer their shoulders for the transjjort of the passengers, 
 both of whom were seized upon before they were aware, 
 Philip struggling with all his might, til! a call from Cap- 
 tain Hobbs warned him to resign himself; and then he be- 
 came almost helpless with laughter at the figure cut by the 
 long-legged Berenger ujjon a small fisherman's back. 
 
 They were landed. Could it be that Berenger was only 
 two miles — only half an hour's walk from Eustacie? The 
 bound his heart gave as he touched the shore seemed to 
 stifle him. He could not believe it. Yet he knew how 
 fully he had believed it, the next moment, when he listened 
 to what the fishermen were saying to Captain Hobbs: 
 
 " Hid monsieur wish to go to La Sablerie? Ah! then he 
 did not know what had happened. The soldiers had been 
 there; there had been a great burning. They had been 
 out in their boats at sea, but they had seen the sky red— red 
 as a furnace, all night; and the steeple was down. Surely, 
 monsieur had missed the steejile that was a guide to all 
 poor seafarers; and now they had to go all the way to 
 Brancour to sell their fish." 
 
 " And the townspeople?" Hobbs asked. 
 
 *'Ah! poor things; 'twas pity of them, for they were 
 honest folk to deal with, even if they were heretics. They 
 loved fish at other seasons if not in Lent; and it seemed 
 but a fair return to go up and bury as many of them as 
 were not burned- to nothing m their church; and Uom Col- 
 ombeau, the good priest of Nissard, has said it was a pious 
 work; and he was a saint, if any one was." 
 
 " Alack, sir," said Hobbs, laying his hand on the arm of 
 Berenger, who seemed neither to have breathed nor moved
 
 8 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 while the man was speaking; " I feared that tliere had been 
 some such bloody work when I missed the steeple. But 
 take heart yet; your lady is very like to have been out of 
 the way. We miglit make for La Rochelle, and there 
 learn!" Then, again to the fisherman, " None escaped, 
 fellow?" 
 
 " Not one," replied the man. " They say that one of 
 the great folks was in a special rage with them for shelter- 
 ing the lady he should have wedded, but who had broken 
 convent and turned heretic; and they had victualed Mont- 
 gomery's pirates too." 
 
 " And the lady?" con tinned Hobbs, ever trying to get a 
 more supporting hold of his young charge, in case the rigid 
 tension of his limbs shoidd suddenly relax. 
 
 "I can not tell, sir. I am a poor fisher; but I could 
 guide you to the place where old Gillot is always poking 
 about. He listened to their jjreachings, and knows more 
 than we do. " 
 
 " Let us go," said Berenger, at once beginning to stride 
 along in his heavy boots through the deep sand. Philip, 
 who had hardly understood a word of the patois, caught 
 hold of liim, and begged to be told what had happened; 
 but Master Hobbs drew the boy off, and explained to him 
 and to the two men what were the dreadful tidings that had 
 wrought such a change in Berenger 's demeanor. The way 
 over the shifting sands was toilsome enough to all the rest 
 of the party; but Berenger scarcely seemed to feel the doe]^ 
 plunge at every step as they almost plowed their way along 
 for the weary two miles, before a few green bushes and 
 half-choked trees showed that they were reaching the con- 
 fines of the sandy waste. Berenger had not uttered a word 
 the whole time, and his silence hushed the others. The 
 ground began to rise, grass was seen still struggling to 
 grow, and presently a large straggling mass of black and 
 gray ruins revealed themselves, with the remains of a once 
 well-trodden road leading to them. But the road led to a 
 gate-way choked by a fallen jaml) and barred door, and the 
 guide led them round the ruins of the wall to the opening 
 where the breach had been. The sand was already blow- 
 ing in, and no doubt veiled much; for the streets were 
 scarcely traceable through remnants of houses more or less 
 dilapidated, with shreds of broken or burned household fur- 
 niture within them.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 9 
 
 "Ask him for la rue des Trois Fees," hoarsely whis- 
 pered Bcrenger. 
 
 The fisherman nodded, but soon seemed at fault; and an 
 old man, followed by a few children, soon appearing, laden 
 with pieces of fuel, he appealed to him as Father Gillot, 
 and asked whether he could find the street. The old num 
 seemed at home in the ruins, and led the way readily. 
 " Did he know the Widow Laurent's house?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle* Laurent! Full well he knew her; a 
 good pious soul was she, always ready to die for the truth," 
 he added, as he read sympathy in the faces romid; " and 
 no doubt she had witnessed a good confession. " 
 
 " Knew he aught of the lady she had lodged?'' 
 
 " He knew nothing of ladies. Something he had heard 
 of the good widow having sheltered that shining light, Isaac 
 Garden, quenched, no doubt, in the same destruction; but 
 for his part, he had a daughter in one of the isles out there, 
 who always sent for him if she susjDCcted danger here on 
 the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a 
 day or two after Michaelmas. " So saying, he led them to 
 the threshold of a ruinous building, in the very center, as 
 it were, of the desolation, and saicl, " That, gentlemen, is 
 where the poor honest widow kept her little shop." 
 
 Black, burned, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. The 
 building had fallen, but the beams of the upjjer floor had 
 fallen aslant, so as to shelter a portion of the lower room, 
 where the red-tile pavement, the hearth with the gray ashes 
 of the harmless home-fire, some unbroken crocks, a chain, 
 and a sahot, were still visible, making the contrast of drear- 
 iness doubly mournful. 
 
 Berenger had ste23ped over the threshold, with his hat in 
 his hand, as if the ruin were a sacred place to hmi, and 
 stood gazing in a transfixed, deadened way. The captain 
 asked where the remains were. 
 
 " Our peojjle," said the old man and the fisher, " laid 
 them by night in the earth near the church." 
 
 Just then Berenger' s gaze fell on something half hidden 
 under the fallen timbers. He instantly sprung forward, 
 and used all his strength to drag it out in so headlong a 
 manner that all the rest hurried to prevent his reckless pro- 
 ceedings from brmging the heavy beams down on his head. 
 
 * This was the title of boir-geoise wives, for many years, in France.
 
 10 THE CHAPLET OF TEAELS. 
 
 When brought to light, tlie object proved to be one of the 
 dark, heavy, wooden cradles used by the French pleasantry, 
 shining with age, but untouched by fixe. 
 
 "Look in," Berenger signed to Philip, his own eyea 
 averted, his mouth set. 
 
 The cradle was empty, totally empty, save for a woollen 
 covering, a little mattress, and a string of small yellow sheila 
 threaded. 
 
 Berenger held out his hand, grasped the baby-plaything' 
 convulsively, then dropjied upon his knees clasping his hands 
 over his ashy face, the string of shells still wound among 
 his fingers. Perhajis he had hitherto hardly realized the 
 existence of his child, and was solely wrajijied uj) in the 
 thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, 
 stirred up fresh depths of feeling; he saw Eustacie with her 
 tender sweetness as a mother, he beheld the little likeness 
 of her in the cradle; and oh! that this should have been 
 the end! "Unable to rej)ress a moan of anguish from a 
 bursting heart, he laid his face against the senseless wood, 
 and kissed it again and again, then lay motionless against 
 it save for the long-drawn gasjjs and sobs that shook his 
 frame. Philip, torn to the heart, would have almost for- 
 cibly drawn him away; but Master Hobbf, with tears run- 
 ning down his honest cheeks, withheld the boy. " Don't 
 ye. Master Thistlewood, "twill, do him good. Poor young 
 gentleman! I know how it was when I came home and 
 found our first little lad, that we had thought so much on, 
 had been taken. But then he was safe laid in his own 
 church-yard, and his mother was there to meet me; while 
 your poor brother — Ah! God comfort lum!'" 
 
 " Xc pauvre monsieur I" exclaimed the old peasant, 
 struck at the sight of his grief, " was it then his chikl? And 
 he, no doubt, lying wounded elsewhere while God's hand 
 was heavy on this place. Yet he might hear more. They 
 said the priest came down and carried ofl: the little ones to 
 be bred up in convents." 
 
 " "NYho? — where?" asked Berenger, raising his head as if 
 catching at a straw in this drowning of all his hopes. 
 
 *' 'Tis true," added the fisherman. " It was the holy 
 priest of Nissard, for he sent down to St. Julienfor a wom- 
 an to nurse the babes." 
 
 " To Nissard, then," said Berenger, rising. 
 
 " It is but a chance/' said the old Huguenot; " many of
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS'. 11 
 
 the innocents were with their mothers in yonder church. 
 Better for them to perish like tlie babes of Bethlehem than 
 to be bred up in the house of Baal; but jierhaps monsieur 
 is English, and if so ho might yet obtain the child. Yet 
 he must not hojoe too much." 
 
 " No, for there was many a little corpse among those we 
 buried," said the fisher. "Will the gentleman seethe 
 place?" 
 
 " Oh, no!" exclaimed PhiliiJ, imderstanding the actions, 
 and indeed many of the words; " this place will kill him." 
 " To the grave, '^ said Berenger, as if he heard nothiiig. 
 " See/' added Phili]), " there are better things than 
 graves, " and he pointed to a 3'oung green sucker of a vine, 
 which, stimulated by the burned soil, had shot up between 
 the tiles of the floor. " Look, there is hope to meet you 
 even here. " 
 
 Berenger merely answered by gathering a leaf from the 
 vine and putthig it into his bosom ; and Philip, whom only 
 extreme need could have thus inspired, perceived that he 
 accepted it as the augury of hojje. 
 
 Berenger turned to bid the two men bear the cradle with 
 them, and then followed the old man out into the 25lace, 
 once a j)leasant ojjen jiaved square, now grass-grown and 
 forlorn. On one side lay the remains of the church. The 
 Huguenots had been so j^redominant at La Sablerie as to 
 have engrossed the building, and it had therefore shared 
 the general destruction, and lay in utter, desolate ruin, a 
 mere shell, and the once noble sjiire, the mariner's guiding 
 star, blown up with gunpowder in the lawless rage of An- 
 jou's army, one of the most cruel that ever desolated the 
 country. Beyond lay the burial-ground, in unspeakable 
 dreariness. The crosses of the Catholic dead had been lev- 
 eled by the fanaticism of the Huguenots, and though a 
 great dominant stone cross raised on stejjs had been re- 
 erected, it stood uneven, tottering, and desolate among 
 nettles, weeds, and briers. There seemed to have been a 
 few deep trenches dug to receive the bodies of the many 
 victims of the siege, and only rudely and slightly lilled in 
 with loose earth, on which Philijo treading had nearly sunk 
 in, so much to his horror that he could hardly endure the 
 long contemplation in Avhich his brother stood gazing on 
 the dismal scene, as if to bear it away with him. Did the 
 fair being he had left in a king's palace sleep her last sleep
 
 12 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 
 
 amid the tangled grass, the thistles and briers that grew so 
 close that it was hardly possible to keep from stumbling 
 over them, where all memorials of friend or foe were alike 
 obliterated? Was a resting-place among these nameless 
 graves the best he could hojje for the wife whose eyes he 
 had hoped by this time would be answering his own — was 
 this her shelter from foe, from sword, famine, and fire? 
 
 A great sea-bird, swooping along with broad wings and 
 wild wailing cry, completed the weird dismay that had 
 seized on Philip, and clutching at his brother's cloak, he 
 exclaimed, '' Berry, Berry, let us be gone, or we shall both 
 be distraught!'' 
 
 Berenger yielded joassivcly, but when the ruins of the 
 town had been again crossed, and the sad little party, after 
 amply rewarding the old man, were about to return to St. 
 Julien, he stood still, saying, " Which is the way to Nis- 
 sard?" and, as the men pointed to the south, he added, 
 ' Show me the way thither." 
 
 Captain Hobbs now interfered. He knew the position 
 of Nissard, among dangerous sand-banks, between which a 
 boat could only venture at the higher tides, and by day- 
 light. To go the six miles thither at present would make 
 it almost impossible to return to the "Throstle" that 
 night, and it was absolutely necessary that he at least 
 should do this. He therefore wished the young gentleman 
 to return with him on board, sleep there, and be jiut ashore 
 at Nissard as soon as it should be 2)ossible in the morning. 
 But Berenger shook his head. He could not rest for a mo- 
 ment till he had ascertained the fate of Eustacie's child. 
 Action alone could quench the horror of what he had recog- 
 nized as her own lot, and the very pursuit of this one 
 thread of hope seemed needful to him to make it sub- 
 stantial. He would hear of nothing but walking at once 
 to Nissard; and Captain Hobbs, finding it impossible to 
 debate the point with one so dazed and crushed with grief, 
 and learning from the fishermen that not only was the 
 priest one of the kindest and most hospitable men living, 
 but that there was a tolerable ciihdrct not far from the 
 house, selected from the loiterers wb.o had accompanied 
 them from 8t. Julien a trustworthy-looking, active lad as 
 a guide, and agreed with Philip to come to Nissard in his 
 boat with the high tide on the morrow, either to concert 
 measures for obtaining ]jossession of the lost infant, or, if
 
 THE CIIArLET OF TEAIILS. 13 
 
 all were in vain, to fetch them ofF. Then he, with the 
 mass of stragglers from St. Julicii, went off direct for the 
 coast, while the two young brothers, their two attendants, 
 and the fishermen, turned southward along the summit of 
 the dreary sand-banks. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE GOOD PKIEST OF NISSAED, 
 
 Till at the set of sun all tracks and ways 
 
 In darkness lay enshrouded. And e'en thus 
 
 The utmost limit of the great profound 
 
 At length we reach'd, where in dark gloom and mist 
 
 Cimmeria's people and their city lie 
 
 Enveloped ever. 
 
 Odyuey (Musgrove). 
 
 The October afternoon had set in before the brothers 
 were on the way to Nissard; and in spite of Berenger's ex- 
 cited mood, the walk through the soft, sinking sand could 
 not be speedily performed. It was that peculiar sand-drift 
 which is the curse of so many coasts, slowly, silently, 
 irresistibly flowing, blowing, creeping in, and gradually 
 choking all vegetation and habitation. Soft and almost 
 impalpable, it lay heaj^ed in banks yielding as air, and yet 
 far more than deej) enough to swallow up man and horse. 
 Nay, tops of trees, summits of chimneys, told what it had 
 already swallowed. The whole scene far and wide present- 
 ed nothing but the lone, tame undulations, liable to be 
 changed by every wind, and solitary beyond expression — a 
 few rabbits scudding hither and thither, or a sea-gull float- 
 ing with white, ghostly wings in the air, being the only liv- 
 ing things visible. On the one hand a dim, purple horizon 
 showed that the inhabited country lay miles inland; on the 
 other lay the pale, gray, misty expanse of sea, on which 
 Philip^s e^^es could lovingly discern the " Throstle's " 
 masts. 
 
 That view was Philip^s chief comfort. The boy was feel- 
 ing more eerie and uncomfortable than ever he had been 
 before as ho plodded along, sinking deep with every step 
 almost up to his ankles in the sand, on which the barefoot- 
 ed guide ran lightly, and Berangcr, though sinking no less 
 deeply, seemed insensible to all inconveniences. This
 
 14 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 flesolateness was well-nigli unbearable; no one tlarcd to 
 S2)eak while Beranger thus moved on in the iinapproach- 
 ableness of his great grief, and Philip presently began to 
 feel a dreamy sense that they had all thus been moving on 
 for years, that this was the world's end, the land of 
 shadows, and that his brother was a ghost already. Be- 
 sides vague alarms like these, there was the dismal English 
 and Protestant prejudice in full force in Philip's mind, 
 which regarded the jd resent ground as necessarily hostile, 
 and all Frenchmen, above all French priests, as in league 
 to cut oft: every Englishman and Protestant. lie believed 
 himself in a country full of murderers, and was walking on 
 with the one determination that his brother should not rush 
 on dangei without him, and that the Popish rogues should 
 be kept in mind that there was an English ship in sight. 
 Alas! that consolation was soon lost, for a dense gray mist 
 was slowly creeping in from the sea, and blotted out the 
 vessel, then gathered in closer, and obliterated all land- 
 marks. Gradually it turned to a heavy rain, and about the 
 same time the ground on wliich they walked became no 
 longer loose sand-hills, but smooth and level. It was 
 harder likewise from the wet, and this afforded better walk- 
 ing, but there lay upon it fragments of weed and shell, as 
 though it were liable to be covered by the sea, and there 
 was a low, languid plash of the tide, which could not be 
 seen. Twilight began to deepen the mist. The guide was 
 evidently uneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began to ask 
 what he — hitherto oljstinately deaf and contemptuous to 
 French — was very slow to comj)rehend. 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 gentle- 
 man's babe had been baptized; for it appeared that on All 
 Souls'-day the spirits of unchristened infants had the jDOwer 
 of rising from the sands in a bewildering mist, and leading 
 wayfarers into the sea. And the j^oor 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 sjiirits; and no doubt monsieur would be specially 
 bewildered by one so nearly concerned with him. Phih'p, 
 half frightened, could not help stepping forward and pull- 
 ing Berenger by the cloak to make him aware of this 
 strange peril; but he did not get much comfort. " Bap-
 
 THE ' CUAPLET OF PEARLS. 15 
 
 tizecl? Yes; you know she was, by the old nurse. Let 
 me alone, I say. 1 would follow her wherever she called 
 me, the mnocent, and glad — the sooner the better.'^ 
 
 And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impa- 
 tience 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 theologicy,! 
 jDoint whether the old nurse's baptism were valid enough 
 to prevent 2)oor 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 relieved to be 
 free from all supernatural anxieties, and to have merely to 
 guard against the wiles of a Pojiish priest — a being almost 
 as fabulously endowed in his imagination as j30or little Be- 
 rengere'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 j)easant woman exclaimed, " Wel- 
 come, 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 olf the fire from the door, a benignant-looking.
 
 16 THE CHAPLET OF PRARLS. 
 
 halo old man in a cassock, with long white hair on his 
 shoulders, and a cheerful face, ruddy from the sea-wind. 
 
 "Welcome, my friends," he said. "Ilianks to the 
 saints who liave 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? AVe will do our poor best for your ac- 
 commodation;" and while both mechanically murmured a 
 word of 'thanks, and removed their soaked hats, the good 
 num exclaimed, as he beheld Berenger's ashy face, with the 
 snnken 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 sec Monsieur le 
 Marvquis de Nid -de-Merle?" 
 
 " No!" cried Berenger; " no, I am not that sceJerat ! I 
 am her true husband, the Baron de Eibaumont. " 
 
 " The Baron de Eibaumont perished at the St. Bartholo- 
 mew," said the cui^e, 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 jjermitted to rescue, but very 
 few. But let me miderstand to whom I speak," he added, 
 much perplexed. " You, sir — " 
 
 " I am her husband, married at five years old — contract 
 r"iewed last year. It was he whom you call Nid-de-Merle
 
 THE chapleT of pearls. llf 
 
 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 tind — to find this. Oh, sii*, 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 giids 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 1?" gasped he, allowing himself, however, 
 to sink into a chair; and the jjriest 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 2Jatisscries, which some 
 ecclesiastics, who had enjoyed the hospitality of Bellaise, 
 recognized as peculiar to the convent there, Mhere she had 
 been brought up. They were presented to the mayor by 
 his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the excel- 
 lent coiifitun'S of the heretic pastor's daughter that lodged 
 in the town of La Sablerie. The place was in disgrace for 
 having afl'orded 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 Kochelle; in effect, it was resolved to make an example, 
 when on Moiisieur de Nid-de-Merle's summons, all knowl- 
 edge 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 comjiassionate priest; "the 
 flesh shrinks, though there may be righteous justice. A 
 pillaged town, when men are enniged, is like a place of 
 devils unchained. I reached it only after it had been takea
 
 18 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS, 
 
 by assault, when all was flame and blood. Ask me no 
 more; it would be worse for yon 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 
 moi'e merciful than men. Many died by the bombs cast 
 into the city, and she for whom you ask certainly fell not 
 alive into the hands of those who souglit her. Take com- 
 fort, 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." 
 
 Philijo understood the priest's French far better than 
 that of the j^easants, and added persuasions that Berenger 
 was far too much exhausted and stunned to resist. To 
 spend a night in a Poj^ish priest's house would once have 
 seemed to Pliilij) 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 Dom 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 savory mess in the great pot-au-feu, 
 which had, since their arrival, received additional in- 
 gredients, and moreover sundry villagers had crept into the 
 house. Whenever the good father sujjped at home, any of 
 his flock were welcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitality. 
 After a cup of hot cider round, they carried off the fisher- 
 man to lodge 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 jDOor young 
 gentleman, who was in such affliction. Philij) was not cer- 
 tain whether to resent this as an impertinence or an attack 
 on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either, 
 tluit the 2)riest was aware what was their religion, and was 
 still less certain ol: his own comprehension of these pious 
 intentions; he decided that, any way, it was better not to
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 19 
 
 make a fool of himself. Still, the notion of the mischiev- 
 ousness of priests was so rooted in his head, that he con- 
 sulted Ilunifrey on the expediency of Iceeping watch all 
 night, but was sagaciously answered that " these French 
 rogues don't do any hurt unless they be brought u]) 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 bod, 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 forc- 
 ing' his steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark that re- 
 mained. 
 
 The priest was at his morning mass; and so soon as Be- 
 renger had given his note to Smithers, and sent him off with 
 a fisherman to the " Throstle," he took uj) his hat, and 
 went ont upon the beach, that lay glistening in the morn- 
 ing sun, then turned straight toward the tall spire of the 
 church, which 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."
 
 20 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 "Let them.'; 
 
 Philip was right that it was neither a prudent nor con- 
 sistent proceeding, but Berenger had little power of reflec- 
 tion, and his impulse at present bore him into the church 
 belonging to his native faith and land, without any defined 
 feeling, save that it was peace to kneel there among the 
 scattered worshipers, who came and went with their fish- 
 baskets in their lianc>s, and to hear the low chant of the 
 jiricst and liis assistant from within the screen. 
 
 Philip meantime marched up and down outside in much 
 annoyance, until the priest and his brother came ont, 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." 
 
 "lam an English Protestant," said Berenger; "but, 
 ah! sir, I needed comfort too much to stay away from 
 jirayer. " 
 
 Pere Colombeau looked at him in perplexity, thinking 
 jierhaps 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," answ^ered 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 uj) 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 are not Calvinists," cried Berenger. 
 " We are not-like your Huguenots." 
 
 "The Church would make no difference," said the 
 priest. " Stay, sir," as Berenger struck his own forehead, 
 and was about to utter a fierce invective. " Pemember 
 that if your cliild 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. "
 
 THE OIIATLKT OP fEAllLS. SI 
 
 " 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 can not be left in a foreign nunnery. Say, sir, " he 
 added, turning to the priest, " if I went to Lucon at once, 
 would they answer me and let me see my child?" 
 
 The priest considered a moment, and answered, " No, 
 sir, I think not. The prioress is a holy woman, very strict, 
 and with a horror of heretics. 8he came from the convent 
 of Bellaise, and would therefore 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, and 
 explained that he must go at once to Paris — riding-2)ost — 
 and obtain the order from the king. 
 
 " To Paris — to be murdered again!" said Philip, in dis- 
 may. 
 
 " 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 Pohind. I can not but go, 
 Philip; we both waste words. You shall take home a let- 
 ter to my lord. " 
 
 " I — I go not home without you," said Philip, doggedly. 
 
 " I can not 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, iji 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, 
 miless as a possible convert. Of money for the journej' 
 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, i)erhaps, 
 with his papers, he had brought ashore to facilitate his en- 
 trance into La Sablerie — that entrance which, alas! he had
 
 2S The CfiATLEt OF PEAllLS. 
 
 found only too easy. lie had therefore only to obtain 
 horses and a guide, and this could be done at La Motte- 
 Acliard, 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 tbis very August an old man, with his 
 daughter, her infant, and a donkey, had been found bewil- 
 dered between the creeks on a sand-bank, where they stood 
 still and patient, like a picture of the Flight into Eg3^pt, 
 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 some- 
 thing partaking of the iiature of both breakfast and early 
 dinner, but wlicre Berenger eat little and spoke less. 
 Philip watched him anxiously; the boy thought the jour- 
 ney a perilous experiment every way, but, 1)oyishly, was re- 
 solved 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 pro- 
 tecting Berenger, but he was more reasonably in dread of 
 the present shock bringing on such an illness as the last re- 
 lapse; 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 fran- 
 tic again, the way would be to let Ilobbs carry me home 
 without seeking her child. " 
 
 Phihp bore this in mind when, with flood-tide. Master 
 Hobbs landed, and showed himself utterly dismayed at the 
 turn affairs had taken. lie saw the needlessness of going 
 to Lucon without royal autliority; indeed, he thought it 
 possible that the very apjjlication there might give the 
 alarm, and cause all tokens of the child's identity to be de- 
 stroyed, in order to save her from her heretic relations. 
 But he did not at all ai:)prove of the young gentlemen going 
 off to Paris at once. It was against his orders. He felt 
 bound to take them home as he had 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. Eibaumont might bo right — it was not for 
 him to say a father ought not to look after his child — yet
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 23 
 
 he was but a stripling himself ^ and my lord had said, ' Mas- 
 ter Ilobbs, 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 jjower, 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 need- 
 less 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 sail to I3ordeai]x in 
 January, to touch and take the jDassengers off. Captain 
 Hobbs took leave, and the brothers were left to their own 
 resources. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE VELVET COACH. 
 
 No, my good Lord, Diana — 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well. 
 
 A LATE autumn journey from the west coast to I'aris was 
 a more serious undertaking in the sixteenth century than 
 the good seaman Master Hobbs was aware of, or he would 
 have used stronger dissuasive measures against such an 
 undertaking by the two youths, when the elder was in so 
 frail a state of health; but there had been a certain decep- 
 tive strength and vigor about young Ribaumont while under 
 strong excitement and determination, and the whole party 
 fancied him far fitter to meet the bard ships than was really 
 the case. Philip Thistlewood always recollected that jour- 
 ney as the most distressing period of his life. 
 
 They were out of the ordinary highways, and therefore 
 found the hiring of horses often extremely difficult. They 
 had intended to purchase, but found no animals that, as 
 Philip said, they would have accepted as a gift, though at 
 every wretched inn where they had to wait while the coun- 
 try was scoured for the miserable jades, their proposed re- 
 quirements fell lower and lower. Dens of smoke, dirt, 
 and boorishness were the great proportion of those inns, 
 where they were compelled to take ref ug,o by the breaking
 
 24 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 down of one or otlier of the beasts, or bj stress of weather. 
 Snow, rain, thaw and frost alternated, each variety render- 
 ing the roads impassable; and at the best, the beasts could 
 seldom be nrged beyond a walk, fetlock-deeji in mire or 
 water. Worse than all, Berenger, far from recovered, and 
 under the heavy oppression of a heartrending grief, could 
 hardly fail to lose the ground that he had gained under the 
 influence of hope. The cold seemed to fix itself on the 
 wound in his cheek, terrible pain and swelling set in, de- 
 priving him entirely of sleep, permitting him to take no 
 nourishment but fragments of soft crumbs soaked in wine 
 or broth — when the inns afforded any such fare — and ren- 
 dering speech excessively painful, and at last unintelligible. 
 
 Hap2:)ily this was not until Philiji and Humfrey both had 
 picked up all the most indispensable words to serve their 
 needs, and storming could be done in any language. Be- 
 sides, they had fallen in at La Motte-Achard with a sharp 
 fellow named Guibert, who had been at sea, and knew a lit- 
 tle English, was a Norman by birth, knew who tlie ]3aron 
 de Ribaumont was, and was able to make himself generally 
 useful, though ill supplying the place of poor Osljcrt, who 
 would have been invaluable in the present jiredicament. 
 Nothing was so much dreaded by any of the party as that 
 their chief should become utterly unable to proceed. Oiice 
 let him be laid up at one of these little audergcs, and Philip 
 felt as if all would be over with him; and he himself was 
 always the most restlessly eager to jnish on, and seemed to 
 suffer less even in the biting wind and sleet than on the 
 dirty pallets or in the smoky, noisy kitchens of the inns. 
 That there was no wavering of consciousness was the only 
 comfort, and Philip trusted to prevent this by bleeding 
 him whenever his head seemed aching or heated ; and under 
 this well-meant surgery it was no wonder that he grew 
 weaker every day, in spite of the most affectionate and as- 
 siduous watching on his brother's part. 
 
 Nearly six weeks had been spent in struggling along the 
 cross-roads, or rather in endless delays: and when at last 
 they came on more frequented ways, with better inns, well- 
 paved eJiai'Ssees, and horses more fit for use, Berenger was 
 almost beyond feeling the improvement. At their last 
 halt, even Philip was for waiting and sending on to Paris 
 to inform Sir Francis Walsingham of their situation; but 
 Berenger only shook his head, dressed himself, and imper-
 
 THE CIIArLET OF TEAELS. 25 
 
 atively signed to go on. It was a bright morning, with a 
 clear frosty, and the towers and. steeples of Paris presently 
 began to appear above the poplars that bordered the way; 
 but by this time Berenger was reehng in his saddle, and ho 
 presently became so faint and dizzy, that Philip and Hum- 
 frey were obliged to lift him from his horse, and lay iiim 
 mider an elm-tree that stood a little back from the road. 
 
 " Look up, sir, it is but a league furtber," quoth Hum- 
 frey; " I can see the roof of the big church they call Notre- 
 Dame." 
 
 " He does not open his eyes, he is swooning," said Philip. 
 " He must have some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. 
 Can you think of no place where we could get a drop of 
 wine or strong waters?" 
 
 " Not I, Master Philip. Wo passed a convent wall but 
 now, but 'twas a nunnery, as good as a grave against poor 
 travelers. I would ride on, and get some of Sir Francis's 
 folk to bring a litter or coach, but I doubt me if I could 
 get past the barrier without my young lord's safe-conduct. " 
 
 Berenger, hearing all, here nuide an effort to raise him- 
 self, but sunk back against Philip's shoukler. Just then, 
 a trampling and lumbering became audible, and on the 
 road behind a^jpeared first three horsemen riding abreast 
 streaming with black and white ribbons; then eight pairs of 
 black horses, a man walking at the crested heads of each 
 couple, and behind these a coach, shaped like an urn re- 
 versed, and with a coronet on the top, silvered, while the 
 vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted, alternately black, 
 with silver figures, and white with black landscapes; and 
 with white draperies, em.broidered with black and silver, 
 floating from the windows. Four lackeys, in the same 
 magpie-coloring, stood behind, and outriders followed; but 
 as the cavalcade approached the group by the road-side, 
 one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly, " Over near 
 the walls for an affair of honor? Has ho caught it badly? 
 Who was the other?" 
 
 Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, 
 the coach stopped, a lady's head and hand ap2)eared, and a 
 female voice exclaimed, in much alarm, " Haiti Ho, you 
 there, in our colors, come here. What is it? My brother 
 here? Is he wounded?" 
 
 " It is no wound, madame," said Guibert, shoved for- 
 ward by his English comrades, " it is Monsieur le Barou de
 
 26 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Ribaiimont who is taken ill, and — all! here is Monsieur 
 Philiiipe." 
 
 For Pliiliio, seeing a thick black veil jHit back from the 
 face of the most beautiful lady who had ever a2)peared to 
 him, stepped forward, hat in hand, as she exclaimed, " Le 
 Baron de Ivibaumont! Can it be true? What means this? 
 What ails him?'' 
 
 "It is his wound, madame, " said Philip, in his best 
 French; " it has broken out again, and he has almost 
 dro2")ped from his horse from defaUlance." 
 
 " Ah, bring him here— lay him on the cushions, we will 
 have the honor of transporting him,'' cried the lady; and, 
 regardless of the wet road, she sprung out of the coach, 
 with her essences in her hand, followed by at least three 
 women, two pages, and two little white dogs which ran bark- 
 ing toward tlie prostrate figure, but were caught uj) by 
 their pages. " Ah, cousin, how dreadful," she cried, as 
 she knelt down beside him, and held her essences toward 
 him. Voice and scent revived him, and with a bewildered 
 look and gesture half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed 
 round him, then rose to his feet without assistance, bent 
 his head, and making a sign that he was unable to speak, 
 turned toward his horse. 
 
 " Cousin, cousin," exclaimed the lady, in whose fine 
 black eyes tears were standii]g, " you will let me take you 
 into the city — you can not refuse. " 
 
 " Berry, indeed you can not ride," entreated Philip; 
 " you must take her offer. Are yon getting crazed at last?'' 
 
 Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself 
 again dizzy; the exertion of springing into his saddle was 
 quite beyond him, and bending his head he snbmitted pass- 
 ively to be helped into the black and white coach. Hum- 
 frey, however, clutched Philip's arm and said impressive- 
 ly, " Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine lady, 
 sister to the murderous villain that set upon him. If you 
 would save his life, don't quit him, nor let her take him 
 elsewhere than to our embassador's. I'll not leave the 
 coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I'll 
 send Jack Smithers to make known we are coming." 
 
 Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into 
 the coach, where he found her insisting that Berenger, who 
 had sunk back in a corner, should lay his length of limb, 
 muddy boots and all, iij)on the white velvet cushions richly
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLiS. 27 
 
 worked in black aud silver, with devices and mottoes, in 
 which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns, made 
 a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have dis- 
 posed of themselves in various nooks of the ample convey- 
 ance, and Philip, rather at a loss to explain his intrusion, 
 'perclied himself awkwardly on the edge of the cushions in 
 front of his brother, thniking that Humfrey was an 
 officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who 
 seemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger's 
 condition. " Ah! I never guessed it had been so frightful 
 as this. I should not have known him. Ah! had I imag- 
 ined — " She leaned back, covered her face, and wept, as 
 one overpowered ; then, after a few seconds, she bent for- 
 ward, and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly 
 down, but it was at once withdrawn, and folded with the 
 other on his breast. 
 
 " Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?'' she 
 asked, with sympathy and tenderness that went to Philip's 
 heart, and he exj^lained. " He can not speak, madame; 
 the shot in his cheek " (the ladj shuddered, and put her 
 handkerchief to her eyes) " from time to time causes this 
 horrible swelling and torture. After that he will be bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "Frightful, frightful!'^ she sighed, "but we will do 
 our best to make up. You, sir, must be his triiclieman." 
 
 Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering Mdiat 
 kind of man that might be, made answer, " I am his broth- 
 er, madame." 
 
 " Eh ! monsieur son frere. Has madame sa mere a son 
 so old?" 
 
 "I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband's son, at your 
 service, madame," said Philip?, coloring up to the ears; "I 
 came with him, for he is too weak to be alone." 
 
 " Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir," she said 
 with a not unflattering surjDrise. " But whence are you 
 come? I little looked to see monsieur here." 
 
 " We came from Anjou, madame. We went to La Sa- 
 blerie," and he broke off. 
 
 " I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the 
 heart;" and again she wijDcd away a tear. " And now — " 
 
 " We are coming to the embassador's to obtain — " he 
 stopped, for Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory 
 warning, but the lady saved his embarrassment by exclaim-
 
 28 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 ing that she could not let her dear cousin go to the embas- 
 sador's when he was among his own kindred. Perhaps 
 monsieur did not know her; she must present herself as 
 Mme. de Selinville, 7iee de Eibaumont, a poor cousin of ce 
 clier tar on, " and even a little to you, monsieur Je frere, if 
 you will own me/' and she held out a hand, which he 
 ought to have kissed, but not knowing how, he only shook 
 it. She further exjolained that her brother was at Cracow 
 with Monsieur, now King of Poland, but that her father 
 lived with her at her hotel, and would be enchanted to see 
 his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be deso- 
 lated at the effects of that most miserable of errors. She 
 had been returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, 
 where she had been praying for the soul of the late M. de 
 Selinville, when a true Providence had made her remark 
 the colors of her family. And now, nothing would serve 
 her, but that this dear baron should be carried at once to 
 their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the em- 
 bassador, and where every comfort should await him. She 
 clasped her hands in earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly 
 touched by her kindness and perceiving that every jolt of 
 the splendid but springless vehicle caused Berenger's head 
 a shoot of anguish, was almost acceding to her offer, when 
 he was checked by one of the most imperative of those si- 
 lent negatives. Hitherto, Master Thistlewood had been 
 rather proud of his bad French, and as long as he could 
 be understood, considered trampling on genders, tenses, 
 and moods, as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he 
 would just now have given a great deal for the command 
 of any language but a horseboy's, to use to this beautiful 
 gracious personage. " Merci, madame, nous ne fallons 
 pas, nous avons pa,sse notice parole d'aller droit a Vamhas- 
 sadeur's et pas oil else," did not sound very right to his 
 ears; he colored up to the roots of his hair, and knew that 
 if Berry had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would 
 have smiled now. But this most charming and j^olite of 
 ladies never betrayed it, if it were ever such bad French; 
 she only bowed her head, and said something very pretty 
 — if only he could make it out — of being the slave of one's 
 word, and went on persuading. Nor did it make the con- 
 versation easier, that she inquired after Berenger, and 
 mourned over his injuries as if he were unconscious, while 
 Philip kneWj nay, was reminded every instant, th^-t he was
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 29 
 
 aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as 
 possible should be said, and determined against being taken 
 to her hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to 
 Philip, that had it not been for Humfrey's words, he would 
 have doubted whether, in spite of all his bleeding, his broth- 
 er's brain were not wandering. 
 
 However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger 
 within, the turn to the embassador's hotel was duly taken, 
 and in process of time a hearty greeting passed between 
 Humfrey and the porter; and by the time the carriage drew 
 up, half the household were assembled on the steps, includ- 
 ing Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more than 
 a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become un- 
 easy at the non-arrival of his tw^o young guests. On Smith- 
 ers's aj^pearance, all had been made ready; and as Beren- 
 ger, with feeble, tardy movements, made courteous gest- 
 ures of thanks to the lady, and alighted from the coach, he 
 was absolutely received into the dignified arms of the em- 
 bassador. " Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad to see you 
 here again, though in such different guise. Your chamber 
 is ready for you, and I have sent my secretary to see if 
 Maitre Pare be at home, and so we will, with God's help, 
 have you better at ease anon." 
 
 Even Philip's fascination by Mme. de Selinville could 
 not hold out against the comfort of hearing English voices 
 all round him, and of seeing his brother's anxious brow ex- 
 pand, and his hand and eyes return no constrained thanks. 
 Civilities were exchanged on both sides; the embassador 
 thanked the lady for the assistance she had rendered to his 
 young friend and guest; she answered with a shade of stiff- 
 ness, that she left her kinsman in good hands, and said she 
 should send to inquire that evening, and her father would 
 call on the morrow; then, as Lady Walsingham did not ask 
 her in, the black and white coach drove away. 
 
 The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her 
 face, and spoke no word. Her coach pursued its way 
 through the streets, and turned at length into another great 
 court-yard, surrounded with buildings, where she alighted, 
 and stej)ped across a wide but dirty hall, where ranks of 
 servants stood uj) and bowed as she passed; then she as- 
 cended a wide carved staircase, opened a small private door, 
 and entered a tiny wainscoted room, hardly large enough 
 for her farthingale to turn round in. " You, Veronique,
 
 30 THE CllAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 come ill — only you," she said, at the door; aiid a waiting- 
 woman, who had been in the carriage, obeyed, no longer 
 clad in the Angevin costume, but in the richer and less 
 characteristic dress of the ordinary Parisian femme de 
 chamhre. 
 
 " Undo my mantle in haste!" gasped Mme. de Selin- 
 ville. " Veronique— you saw — what destruction!" 
 
 '' Ah! if my sweet young lady had only known how 
 frightful he had become, she had never sacrificed herself," 
 sighed Veronique. 
 
 " Frightful! What with the grave blue eyes that seem 
 like the steady avenging judgment of St. Michael in his 
 triumph in the picture at the Louvre," murmured Mme. 
 de Selinville; then she added quickly, '' Yes, yes, it is well. 
 She and you, Veronique, may see him frightful and wel- 
 come. There are other eyes — make haste, girl. There — 
 another handkerchief. Follow me not." 
 
 And Mme. de Selinville moved out of the room, past the 
 great state bedroom and the salle beyond, to another cham- 
 ber where more servants waited and rose at her entrance. 
 
 ' ' Is any one with my father? " 
 
 *' No, madame;'^ and a page, knocking, opened the door 
 and announced, " Madame la Comtesse. " 
 
 The chevalier, in easy dishabille, with a flask of good 
 wine, iced water, and delicate cakes and confitures before 
 him, a witty and licentious epigrammatic poem close under 
 his hand, sat lazily enjoying the luxuries that it had been 
 his daughter's satisfaction to procure for him ever since 
 her marriage. He sjirung up to meet her with a grace and 
 deference that showed how different a jDcrson was the Comt- 
 esse de Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont. 
 
 " Ah! ma belle, my sweet," as there was a mutual kiss- 
 ing of hands, " thou art returned. Had I known thine 
 hour, I had gone down for thy first embrace. But thou 
 lookest fair, my child ; the convent has made thee lovelier 
 than ever."" 
 
 *' Father, who think you is here? It is he— the baron." 
 
 '' The baron; who, what baron?" 
 
 "What baron? Eh, father!" she cried impetuously. 
 " Who could it be but one?" 
 
 "My child, you are mistaken! That young hot-head 
 can never be thrusting liimself here again. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 31 
 
 "But he is, father; I brought him into Paris in my 
 coach! I left liim at the embassador's." 
 
 " Thou shouldest have brought him here. There will bo 
 ten thousand fresh imbroglios." 
 
 " I could not; he is as immoveable as ever, though un- 
 able to speak! Oh, father, he is very ill, he suffers terri- 
 bly. Oh, Narcisse! Ah! may I never see him again!" 
 
 "But what brings him blundering here again?" ex- 
 claimed the chevalier. " Speak intelligibly, child! I 
 thought we had guarded against that! He knows nothing 
 of the survivance. " 
 
 " I can not tell much. He could not open his mouth, 
 and his half-brother, a big dull English boy, stammered 
 out a few words of shocking French against his will. But 
 I believe tliey had heard of lu pauvre petite at La Sablerie, 
 came over for her, and finding the ruin my brother makes 
 wherever he goes, are returning seeking intelligence and 
 succor for kirn." 
 
 " That may be," said the chevalier, thoughtfully. " It 
 is well thy brother is in Poland. I would not see him 
 suffer any more; and we may get him back to England ore 
 my son learns that he is here." 
 
 " Father, there is a better way! Give him my hand." 
 
 " Eh qnol, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are 
 a thousand better marriages. " 
 
 " No, father, none so good for Jhis family. See, I bring 
 him all — all that I was sold for. As the price of that, he 
 resigns forever all his claims to the ancestral castle — to La 
 Leurre, and above all, that claim to Nid-de-Merle as Eus- 
 tacie's widower, which, should he ever discover the original 
 contract, will lead to endless warfare." 
 
 " His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet — yet 
 there might bo doubts. There was the protest; and who 
 knows whether they formally renewed their vows when so 
 much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child, it is a horrible 
 perplexity. I often could wish we had had no warning, and 
 the poor things had made off together. We could have 
 cried shame till we forced out a provision for thy brotber; 
 and my poor little Eustacie — " He had tears in his eyes 
 as he broke off. 
 
 Diane made an impatient gesture. " She would have 
 died of tedium in England, or broken forth so as to have a 
 true scandal. That is all over, father, now; weigh my pro-
 
 32 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 posal! Nothing else will save my brother from all that his 
 cruel hand merits! You will win infinite credit at court. 
 The king loved him more than you thought safe." 
 
 "' The king has not a year to live, child, and he has per- 
 sonally offended the King of Poland. Besides, this youth 
 is heretic. " 
 
 " Only by education. Have I not heard you say that he 
 had so little of the Huguenot that you feared his throwing 
 you over by an abjuration. And as to Monsieur's enmity, 
 if it be not forgotten, the glory of bringing about a conver- 
 sion would end that at once." 
 
 " Then, daughter, thou shouldst not have let him bury 
 himself among the English. " 
 
 " It was unavoidable, father, and jierhaps if he were 
 here he would live in an untamable state of distrust, 
 whereas we may now win him gradually. You will go and 
 see him to-morrow, my dear father." 
 
 " I must have time to think of this tliy sudden device." 
 
 " Nay, he is in no condition to hear of it at present. I 
 did but speak now, that you might not regard it as sudden 
 when the fit moment comes. It is the fixed purpose of my 
 mind. I am no girl now, and I could act for myself if I 
 would; but as it is for your interest and that of my brother 
 thus to dispose of me, it is better that you should act for 
 me. ' ' 
 
 " Child, headstrong child, thou wilt make no scandal," 
 said the chevalier, looking up at his daughter's handsome 
 head drawn up proudly with determination. 
 
 " Certainly not, sir, if you will act for me. " And Diane 
 sailed away in her sweeping folds of black brocade. 
 
 In a few moments more she was kneeling with hands 
 locked together before a much-gilded little waxen figure of 
 St. Eustache with his cross-bearing stag by his side, which 
 stood in a curtained recess in the alcove where her stately 
 bed was placed. 
 
 " Monseigneur St. Eustache, ten wax candles every day 
 to your shrine at Bellaise, so he recovers; ten more if he 
 listens favorably and loves me. Nay, all — all the Selinville 
 jewels to make you a shrine. All — all, so he will only let 
 me love him;" and ttien, while taking up the beads, and 
 pronouncing the rejjeated devotions attached to each, her 
 mind darted back to the day when, as young children, she
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 33 
 
 had played unfairly, defrauded Landry Osbert, and denied 
 it; how Berenger, though himself uninjured, had refused 
 to speak to hei' all that day — how she had hated him then 
 — how she had thought she had hated him throughout their 
 brief intercourse in the previous year; how she had played 
 into her brother's hands; and when she thought to triumph 
 over the man who had scorned her, found her soul all blank 
 desolation, and light gone out from the earth! Eeckless 
 and weary, she had let herself be united to M. de Selinville, 
 and in her bridal honors and amusements had tried to 
 crowd out the sense of dreariness and lose herself in excite- 
 ment. Then came the illness and death of her husband, 
 and almost at the same time the knowledge of Berenger's 
 existence. She sought excitement again in that feverish 
 form of devotion then in vogue at Paris, and which resulted 
 in the League. She had hitherto stunned herself as it were 
 with penances, processions, and sermons, for which the host 
 of religious orders then at Paris had given amjjle scope; 
 and she was constantly devising new extravagances. Even 
 at this moment she wore sack-cloth beneath her brocade, 
 and her rosary was of death's heads. She was living on 
 the outward husk of the Koman Church, not i^enetrating 
 into its living power, and the jjhase of religion which 
 fostered Henry III. and the League offered her no more. 
 
 All, all had melted away beneath the sad but steadfast 
 glance of those two eyes, the only feature still unchanged 
 in the marred, wrecked countenance. That honest, quiet 
 refusal, that look which came from a higher atmosphere, 
 had filled her heart with passionate beatings and aspirations 
 once more, and more consciously than ever. Womanly 
 feeling for suffering, and a deep longing to compensate to 
 him, and earn his love, nay, wrest it from him by the bene- 
 fits she would heap upon him, were all at work; but the 
 primary sense was the longing to rest on the only perfect 
 truth she had ever known in man, and thus with passionate 
 ardor she poured forth her entreaties to St. Eustache, a 
 married saint, who had known love, and could feel for her, 
 and could surely not object to the affection to which she 
 completely gave way for one whose hand was now as free 
 as her own. 
 
 But St. Eustache was not Diane's only hope. That 
 evening she sent Veronique to Eene of Milan, the court- 
 perfumer, but also called by the malicious, I'empoisonneur 
 
 3-2d half.
 
 34 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 de la Reine, to obtain from him the most infallible charm 
 and love potion in his whole rejDertory. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 THE chevalier's EXPIATION. 
 
 Next, sirs, did lie marry? 
 And whom, sirs, did he marry? One like himself, 
 Though doubtless graced witli many virtues, young, 
 And erring, and in nothing more astray 
 Than in this marriage. 
 
 Taylor, Edwin the Fair. 
 
 Nothing could be kinder than the embassador's family, 
 and Philip found himself at once at home there, at least in 
 his brother's room, which was all the world to him. Fort- 
 unately, Ambroise Pare, the most skillful sar^^eon of his 
 day, had stolen a day from his attendance on King Charles, 
 at St. Germain, to visit his Paris patients, and, though 
 unwilHng to add to the list of cases, when he heard from 
 Walsingham's secretary who the sufferer was, and when in- 
 jured, he came at once to afford his aid. 
 
 He found, however, that there was little scope for pres- 
 ent treatment, he could only set his chief assistant to watch 
 the patient and to inform him when the crisis should be 
 nearer; but remarking the unease, anxious expression in 
 Berenger's eyes, he desired to know whether any care on his 
 mind might be interfering with his recovery. A Hugue- 
 not, and perfectly trustworthy, he was otie who Walsingham 
 knew might safely hear the whole, and after hearing all, he 
 at once returned to his patient, and leaning over him, said, 
 " Vex not yourself, sir; your illness is probably serving you 
 better than health could do." 
 
 Sir Francis thought this quite probable, since Charles 
 was so unwell and so beset witli his mother's creatures that 
 no open audience could be obtained from him, and Pare, 
 who always had access to him, might act when no one else 
 could reach him. Meantime the embassador rejoiced to 
 hear of the instinctive caution that had made Berenger 
 silence Philip on the object of the journey to Paris, since if 
 the hostile family guessed at the residence of the poor in- 
 fant, they would have full opportunity for obliterating all 
 the scanty traces of her. Poor persecuted little thing! the
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 35 
 
 uncertain hope of her existence seemed really the only 
 thread that still bound Berenger to life. He had spent 
 eighteen months in hoj^e deferred, and constant bodily pain; 
 and when the frightful disappointment met him at La Sa- 
 blerie, it was no wonder that his heart and hope seemed 
 buried in the black scorched ruins where all he cared for 
 had perished. He was scarcely nineteen, but the life be- 
 fore him seemed full of nothing but one ghastly recollec- 
 tion, and, as he said in the short sad little letter which he 
 wrote to his grandfather from his bed, he only desired to 
 live long enough to save Eustacie's child from being a 
 nameless orphan maintained for charity in a convent, and 
 to see her safe in Aunt Cecily's care; and then he should be 
 content to have done with this world forever. 
 
 The thought that no one except himself could save the 
 child, seemed to give him the resolution to battle for life 
 that often bears the patient through illness, though now he 
 was suffering more severely and consciously than ever he 
 had done before; and Lady Walsingham often gave up 
 hopes of him. He was tenderly cared for by her and her 
 women; but Philip yvas the most constant nurse, and his 
 unfailing assiduity and readiness amazed the household, 
 who had begun by thinking him ungainly, loutish, and fit 
 for nothing but country sports. 
 
 The Chevalier de Eibaumont came daily to inquire; and 
 the first time he was admitted actually burst into tears at 
 the sight of the swollen disfigured face, and the long mark 
 on the arm which lay half uncovered. Presents of deli- 
 cacies, ointments, and cooling drinks were frequently sent 
 from him and from the Countess de Selinville; but Lady 
 Walsingham distrusted these, and kept her guest strictly to 
 the regimen appointed by Pare. Now and then, billets 
 would likewise come. The first brought a vivid crimson 
 into Berenger's face, and both it and all its successors he 
 instantly tore into the smallest fragments, without letting 
 any one see them. 
 
 On the last day of the Carnival, the young men of the 
 household had asked Master Thistlewood to come out with 
 them and see the procession of the Boeiif Gras; but before 
 it could take place, reports were flying 'about that put the 
 city in commotion, caused the embassador to forbid all go- 
 ing out, and made Philip expect another Huguenot mas- 
 sacre. The Duke of Alen^on and the King of Navarre had
 
 36 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 been detected, it was said, in a conspiracy for overthrowing 
 the power of the queen -mother, bringing in the Huguenots, 
 and securing tlie crown to Alen(;on on the king's death. 
 Down-stairs, the embassador and liis secretaries sat anx- 
 iously striving to sift the various contradictory reports; 
 upstairs, Pliihp and Lady Walsingham were anxiously 
 watching Berenger in what seemed the long-expected crisis, 
 and Phihp was feehng as if all the French court were wel- 
 come to murder one another so that they would only let 
 Ambroise Pare come to his brother's relief. And it was 
 impossible even to send! 
 
 At last, however, when Ash- Wednesday was half over, 
 there was a quiet movement, and a small pale man in black 
 was at the bedside, without Philip's having ever seen his 
 entrance. He looked at his exhausted jjatient, and said, 
 " It is well; I could not have done you any good before." 
 
 And when he had set Berenger more at ease, he told how 
 great had been the confusion at St. Germain when the plot 
 had become known to the queen-mother. The poor king 
 had been wakened at two o'clock in the morning, and 
 carried to his litter, where Pare and his old nurse had 
 tended him. He only said, " Can they not let me die in 
 peace?" and his weakness had been so great on arriving, 
 that the surgeon could hardly have left him for M. de 
 Ribaumont, save by his own desire. " Yes, sir,'' added 
 Pare, seeing Berenger attending to him, " we must liave 
 you well quickly; his majesty knows all about you, and is 
 anxious to see you." 
 
 In spite of these good wishes, the recovery was very 
 slow; for, as the surgeon had susj^ected, the want of skill in 
 those who had had the charge of Berenger at the first had 
 been the cause of much of his protracted suffering. Pare, 
 the inventor of trephining, was, perhaps, the only man in 
 Europe who could have dealt with the fracture in the back 
 of the head, and he likewise extracted the remaining 
 splinters of the jaw, though at the cost of much severe 
 handling and almost intolerable pain; but by Easter, 
 Berenger found the good surgeon's encouragement verified, 
 and himself on the way to a far more efi'ectual cure than 
 he had hitherto thought possible. Sleep had come back to 
 him, he experienced the luxury of being free from all pam, 
 he could eat without difficulty; and Pare, always an enemy 
 to wine, assured him that half (he severe headaches for
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 37 
 
 which he had been almost bled to death, were the conse- 
 quence of his living on bread and soaked in sack instead of 
 solid food; and he was forbidden henceforth to inflame his 
 brain with anything stronger than sherbet. His speech, 
 too, was much imjDroved; he still could not utter all the 
 consonants perfectly, and could not speak distinctly with- 
 out articulating very slowly, but all the discomfort and 
 pain were gone ; and though still very weak, he told Philip 
 that now all his course seemed clear toward his child, in- 
 stead of being like a dull, distraught dream. His plan was 
 to write to have a vessel sent from Weymouth, to lie off the 
 coast till his signal should be seen from La Motte-Achard, 
 and then to take in the whole jDarty and the little yearling 
 daughter, whom he declared he sliould trust to no one but 
 himself. Lady Walsingham remonstrated a little at the 
 wonderful plans hatched by the two lads together, and yet 
 she was too glad to see a beginning of brightening on his 
 face to make many objections. It was only too sad to 
 think how likely he was again to be disapjjointed. 
 
 He was dressed, but had not left his room, and Avas 
 lying on cushions in the ample window overlooking the gar- 
 den, while Frances and Elizabeth Walsingham in charge of 
 their mother tried to amuse him by their chiklish airs and 
 sports, when a message was brought that M. le Chevalier 
 de Ribaumont prayed to be admitted to see him privily. 
 
 " What bodes that?" he languidly said. 
 
 " Mischief, no doubt," said Philip Walsingham. " Send 
 him word that you are seriously employed.'^ 
 
 " Nay, that could scarce be, when he must have heard 
 the children's voices," said Lady Walsingham. " Come 
 away, little ones." 
 
 The ladies took the hint and vanished, but Philip re- 
 mained till the chevalier had entered, more resplendent than 
 ever, in a brown velvet suit slashed with green satin, and 
 sparkling with gold lace — a contrast to the deep mourning 
 habit in which Berenger was dressed. After inquiries for 
 his health, the chevalier looked at Philip, and expressed his 
 desire of speaking with his cousin alone. 
 
 " If it be of business," said Berenger, much on his 
 guard, " my head is still weak, and I would wish to have 
 the presence of the embassador or one of his secretaries.'* 
 
 " This is not so much a matter of business as of family,'' 
 said the chevalier, still looking so uneasily at Philip that
 
 38 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Berenger felt constrained to advise him to join tlie young 
 ladies in the garden; but instead of doing this, the boy 
 paced the corridors like a restless dog waiting for his mas- 
 ter, and no sooner heard the old gentleman bow himself out 
 than he hurried back again, to find Berenger heated, pant- 
 ing, agitated as by a shar]) encounter. 
 
 " Brother, what is it — what has the old rogue done to 
 you?'' 
 
 " Nothing," said Berenger, tardily and wearily; and for 
 some minutes he did not attempt to sjjeak, while Philip 
 devoured his curiosity as best he might. At last he said, 
 " He was always beyond me. What think you? Now he 
 wants me to turn French courtier and marry his daughter. " 
 
 " His daughter!" exclaimed Philip, " that beautiful 
 lady I saw in the coach?" 
 
 A nod of assent. 
 
 " I only wish it were I." 
 
 " Phihp," half angrily, " how can you be such a fool?" 
 
 " Of course, I know it can't be," said Philip sheepishly, 
 but a little offended. " But she's the fairest woman my 
 eyes ever beheld." 
 
 "And the falsest." 
 
 " My father says all women are false; only they can't 
 help it, and don't mean it." 
 
 '• Only some do mean it," said Berenger, dryly. 
 
 " Brother!" cried Philip, fiercely, as if ready to break a 
 lance, " what right have you to accuse that kindly, lovely 
 dame of falsehood?" 
 
 " It skills not going through all," said Berenger, wearily. 
 *' I know her of old. She began by passing herself off on 
 me as my wife. " 
 
 " And you were not transported?" 
 
 " I am not such a gull as you." 
 
 " How very beautiful your wife must have been!" said 
 Philip, with gruff amazement overpowering his considera- 
 tion. 
 
 " Much you know about it," returned Berenger, turning 
 his face away. 
 
 There was a long silence, first broken by Philip, asking 
 more cautiously, " And what did you say to him?" 
 
 " I said whatever could show it was most impossible. 
 Even I said the brother's handwriting was too plain on my 
 face for me to offer mvself to the sister. But it seems all
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 39 
 
 that is to be passed over as an unlucky mistake. I wish I 
 could guess what the old fellow is aiming at. " 
 
 " I am sure the lady looked at you as if she loved you. " 
 
 "Simpleton! She looked to see how she could beguile 
 me. Love! They do notliing for love here, you foolish 
 boy, save j'j«r amour. If she loved me, her father was the 
 last person she would have sent me. No, no; 'tis a new 
 stratagem, if I could only see my way into it. Perha^js Sir 
 Francis will when he can spend an hour on me. " 
 
 Though full of occupation. Sir Francis never failed daily 
 to look in upon his convalescent guest, and when he heard 
 of the chevalier's interview, he took care that Berenger 
 should have full time to consult him; and, of course, he 
 inquired a good deal more into the particulars of the pro- 
 jDosal than Philip had done. When he learned that the 
 chevalier had oifered all the very considerable riches and 
 lands that Diane enjoyed in right of her late husband as an 
 equivalent for Berenger' s resignation of all claims upon 
 the Nid-de-Merle property, he noted it on his tablets, and 
 desired to know what these claims might be. "I can not 
 tell," said Berenger. " You may remember, sir, the 
 parchments with our contract of marriage had been taken 
 away from Chateau Leurre, and I have never seen them. " 
 
 " Then," said the embassador, " you may hold it as cer- 
 tain that those parchments give you some advantage which 
 he hears, since he is willing to purchase it at so heavy a 
 price. Otherwise he himself would be the natural heir of 
 those lands. " 
 
 " After my child," said Berenger, hastily. 
 
 " Were you on your guard against mentioning your trust 
 in your child's life?" said Sir Francis. 
 
 The long scar turned deeper purple than ever. " Only 
 so far as that I said there still be rights I had no power to 
 resign," said Berenger. " And then he began to prove to 
 me — what I had no mind to hear " (and his voice trem- 
 bled) — " all that I know but too well. " 
 
 " Hum! you must not be left alone again to cope with 
 him," said Walsingham. " Did he make any question of 
 the validity of your marriage?" 
 
 " No, sir, it was never touched on. I would not let him 
 take her name into liis lips." 
 
 Walsingham considered for some minutes, and then said, 
 *' It is clear, then, that he believes that the marriage can
 
 40 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 be sufficiently established to enable you to disturb him in 
 his possession of some jjart, at least, of the Angevin in- 
 heritance, or he would not endeavor to purchase your 
 renunciation of it by the hand of a daughter so richly en- 
 dowed/' 
 
 " I would willingly renounce it if that were all! I never 
 sought it; only I can not give up her child's rights. " 
 
 "And that you almost declared/' j^roceeded Walsing- 
 ham ; "so that the chevalier has by his negotiation 
 gathered from you that you have not given up hope that 
 the infant lives. Do your men know where you believe she 
 is?" 
 
 " My Englishmen know it, of course," said Berenger; 
 " but there is no fear of them. The chevalier speaks no 
 English, and they scarcely any French; and, besides, I be- 
 lieve they deem him eqiially my butcher with his son. The 
 other fellow I only picked up after I was on my way to 
 Paris, and I doubt his knowing my i3urpose." 
 
 " The chevalier must have had speech with him, 
 though," said Philip; " for it was he who brought Avord 
 that the old rogue wished to speak with you. " 
 
 " It would be well to be tjuit yourself of the fellow ere 
 leaving Paris," said Walsingham. 
 
 " Then, sir," said Berenger, with an anxious voice, " do 
 you indeed think I have betrayed aught that can peril the 
 poor little one?" 
 
 Sir Francis smiled. " We do not set lads of your age to 
 cope with old foxes," he answered; "and it seems tome 
 that you used fair discretion in the encounter. The mere 
 belief that the child lives does not show him where she may 
 be. In effect, it would seem likely to most that the babe 
 would be nursed in some cottage, and thus not be in the 
 city of La Sablerie at all. He might, mayhap, thus be 
 put on a false scent. ' ' 
 
 "Oh no," exclaimed Berenger, startled; "that might 
 bring the death of some other person's child on my soul. " 
 
 " That shall be guarded against," said Sir Francis. " In 
 the meantime, my fair youth, keep your matters as silent 
 as may be — do not admit the chevalier again in my ab- 
 sence; and, as to this man Guibert, I will confer with my 
 steward whether he knows too much, and whether it be 
 safer to keep or dismiss him!"
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEATILS. 41 
 
 " If only I could see the king, and leave Paris," sighed 
 Berenger. 
 
 And Walsingliam, though unwilling to grieve the poor 
 youth further, bethought himself that this was the most 
 difficult and hopeless matter of all. As young Ribaumont 
 grew better, the king grew worse; he himself only saw 
 Charles on rare occasions, surrounded by a host of watch- 
 ful eyes and ears, and every time he marked the progress of 
 disease; and though such a hint could not be given by an 
 embassador, he thought that by far the best chance of re- 
 covery of the child lay in the confusion that might probably 
 follow the death of Charles IX. in the absence of his next 
 heir. 
 
 Berenger reckoned on the influence of Elizabeth of 
 Austria, who had been the real worker in his union with 
 Eustacie; but he was told that it was vain to expect assist- 
 ance from her. In the first year of her marriage, she had 
 fondly hoped to enjoy her husband's confidence, and take 
 her natural place in his Court; but she was of no mold to 
 struggle with Catherine de Medicis, and after a time had 
 totally desisted. Even at the time of the St. Bartholomew, 
 she had endeavored to uplift her voice on the side of 
 mercy, and had actually saved the lives of the King of 
 Navarre and Prince of Conde; and her father, the good 
 Maximilian II., had written in the strongest terms to 
 Charles IX. expressing his horror of the massacre. Six 
 weeks later, the first hour after the birth of her first and 
 only child, she had interceded with her husband for the 
 lives of two Huguenots who had been taken alive, and fail- 
 ing then either through his want of will or want of j)0wer, 
 she had collapsed and yielded up the endeavor. She ceased 
 to listen to petitions from those who had hoped for her 
 assistance, as if to save both them and herself useless pain, 
 and seemed to lapse into a sort of apathy to all public in- 
 terests. She hardly spoke, mechanically fulfilled her few 
 offices in the Court, and seemed to have turned her entire 
 hope and trust into prayer for her husband. Her German 
 confessor had been sent home, and a Jesuit given her in 
 his stead, but she had made no resistance; she seemed to 
 the outer world a dull, weary stranger, obstinate in leading 
 a conventual life; but those who knew her lest — and of 
 these few was the Huguenot surgeon Pare — knew that her 
 Jieart had been broken when, as a new-made mother, she
 
 43 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 had failed to win those two guilty lives, or to make her 
 husband free himself from his bondage to bloody counsels. 
 To pray for him was all that remained to her — and un- 
 wearied had been those prayers. Since his health had de- 
 clined, she had been equally indefatigable in attending on 
 him, and did not seem to have a single interest beyond his 
 sick-chamber. 
 
 As to the King of Navarre, for whose help Berenger had 
 hoped, he had been all these months in the dishonorable 
 thralldom of Catherine do Medicis, and was more powerless 
 than ever at this juncture, having been implicated in 
 AlenQon's plot, and imprisoned at Vincennes. 
 
 And thus, the more Berenger heard of the state of things, 
 the less hopeful did his cause appear, till he could almost 
 have believed his best chance lay in Philip's plan of per- 
 suading the Huguenots to storm the convent. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE DYING KING. 
 
 Die in terror of thy guiltiness, 
 Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death, 
 Fainting, despair, despairing yield thy breath. 
 
 King Richard III. 
 
 A FEW days later, when Berenger had sent out Philip, 
 under the keeping of the secretaries, to see the queen- 
 mother represent royalty in one of the grand processions of 
 Rogation-tide, the gentle knock came to his door that al- 
 ways announced the arrival of his good surgeon. 
 
 " You look stronger. Monsieur le Baron; have you left 
 your room?" 
 
 " I have walked round the gallery above the hall,'' said 
 Berenger. " I have not gona down-stairs; that is for to- 
 morrow.'' 
 
 ' ' What would Monsieur le Baron say if his chirurgeon 
 took him not merely down-stairs, but up one flight at the 
 Louvre?" 
 
 "Ha!" cried Berenger; '' to the king?" 
 
 " It is well-nigh the last chance, monsieur; the queen- 
 mother and all her suite are occupied with services ajid ser- 
 mons this week; and next week private access to the king
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 43 
 
 will be far more diflBcult. I have waited as long as I could 
 that you might gaiu strength to supjaort the fatigue." 
 
 " Hope cancels fatigue/^ said Eerenger, already at the 
 other end of the room searching for his long-disused cloak, 
 sword, gloves, hat, and mask. 
 
 " Not the sword," said Pare, '' so please you. Monsieur 
 le Baron must condescend to obtain entrance as my assist- 
 ant — the plain black doublet — yes, that is admirable; but I 
 did not know that monsieur was so tall," he added, in some 
 consternation, as, for the first time, he saw his patient 
 standing up at his full height — unusual even in England, 
 and more so in France. Indeed, Berenger had grown dur- 
 ing his year of illness, and being, of course, extremely thin, 
 looked all the taller, so as to be a very inconvenient sub- 
 ject to smuggle into the palace unobserved. 
 
 However, Ambroise had made wp his mind to the risk, 
 and merely assisted Berenger in assuming his few equip- 
 ments, then gave him his arm to go down the stairs. Meet- 
 ing Guibert on the way, Berenger left word with him that 
 he was going out to take the air with Maitre Pare; and on 
 the man's offering to attend him, refused the proposal. 
 
 Pare's carriage waited in the court, and Berenger, seated 
 in its depths, rolled unseen through the streets, till he 
 found himself at the little postern of the Louvre, the very 
 door whence he was to have led off his poor Eustacie. 
 Hei-e Ambroise made him take off his small black mask, in 
 spite of all danger of his scars being remarked, since masks 
 were not etiquette in the palace, and, putting into his 
 arms a small brass-bound case of instruments, asked his 
 pardon for preceding him, and alighted from the carriage. 
 
 This was Ambroise's usual entrance, and it was merely 
 guarded by a Scottish archer, who probably observed noth- 
 ing. They then mounted the stone stair, the same where 
 Osbert had dragged down his insensible master; and as, at 
 the summit, the window appeared where Berenger had 
 waited those weary hours, and heard the first notes of the 
 bell of St. Germain TAuxerrois, his breath came in such 
 hurried sobs, that Pare would fain have given him time to 
 recover himself, but he gasped, " Not here — not here;'* 
 and Pare, seeing that he could still move on, turned, not 
 to the corridor leading to the king's old apartments, now 
 too full of dreadful assocuxtions for jDOor Charles, but toward 
 those of the young queen. Avoiding the anteroom, where
 
 44 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 no doubt waited pages, ushers, and attendants, Pare pres- 
 ently knocked at a small door, so hidden in the wainscoting 
 of the passage that only a luibitiie could have found it with- 
 out strict search. It was at once opened, and the withered, 
 motherly face of an old woman with keen black eyes under 
 a formal tight white cap, looked out. 
 
 "Eh! Maitre Pare,'^ slie said, "you have brought the 
 230or young gentleman? On my faith, he looks scarcely 
 able to walk! Come in, sir, and rest a while in my cham- 
 ber while Maitre Ambroise goes on to announce you to the 
 king. He is more at ease to-day, the poor child, and will 
 relish some fresh talk. " 
 
 Berenger knew this to be Philippine, the old Huguenot 
 nurse, whom Charles IX. loved most fondly, and in whom 
 he found his greatest comfort. He was very glad to sink 
 into the seat she placed for him, the only one in her small, 
 bare room, and recover breath there while Pare passed 
 on to the king, and she talked as one delighted to have a 
 hearer. 
 
 " Ah, yes, rest yourself — stay; I will give you a few 
 spoonfuls of the cordial jiotage I have here for the king; it 
 will comfort your heart. Ah! you have been cruelly 
 mauled — but he would have saved you if he could."' 
 
 " Yes, good mother, I know that; the king has been my 
 very good lord." 
 
 "Ah! blessings on you if you say so from your heart, 
 monsieur; you know me for one of our poor Eeformed. 
 And I tell you — I who saw him born, who nursed him from 
 his birth — that, suffer as you may, you can never suffer as 
 he does, Maitre Ambroise may talk of his illness coming 
 from blowing too much on his horn; I know better. But, 
 ah! to be here at night would make a stone shed tears of 
 blood. The queen and I know it; but we say nothing, we 
 only pray." 
 
 The sight of a Huguenot was so great a treat to the old 
 woman in her isolated life, that her tongue ran thus freely 
 while Berenger sat, scarce daring to speak or breathe in 
 the strange boding atmosphere of the palace, where the 
 nurse and surgeon moved as tolerated, privileged persons, in 
 virtue of the necessity of the one to the king — of the other 
 to all the world. After a brief interval Pare returned and 
 beckoned to Berenger, who followed him across a large 
 state-bedroom to a much smaller one, which he entered
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 45 
 
 from under a heavy blue velvet curtain, and found himself 
 in an atmosphere heavy with warmth and perfume, and 
 strangely oppressed besides. On one side of the large fire 
 sat the young queen, faded, wan, and with all animation 
 or energy departed, only gazing with a silent, wistful in- 
 tentness at her husband. He was ojDposite to her in a pil- 
 lowed chair, his feet on a stool, with a deadly white, pad- 
 ded, putfy cheek, and his great black eyes, always promi- 
 nent, now with a glassy look, and strained wide, as though 
 always gazing after some horrible sight. '' Madame la 
 Comtesse ' ' stood in her old, wooden automaton fashion 
 behind the queen; otherwise, no one was present save Pare, 
 who, as he held up the curtain, stood back to let M. de 
 Eibanmont advance. He stood still, however, merely bow- 
 ing low, awaiting an invitation to come forward, and trying 
 to repress the startled tear called up by the very shock of 
 pity at the mournful aspect of the young king and queen, 
 
 Elizabeth, absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to 
 all besides, did not even turn her head as he entered; but 
 Charles signed to him to approach, holding out a yellow, 
 dropsical-looking hand; and as he dropped on one knee 
 and kissed it fervently, the king said, " Here he is, 
 madame, the Baron de Eibanmont, the same whose little 
 pleasure-boat was sucked down in our whirlpool.'^ 
 
 All Elizabeth's memories seemed to have been blotted 
 out in that whirlpool, for she only bowed her head formally, 
 and gave no look of recognition, though she, too, allowed 
 Berenger to salute her listless, dejected hand. " One 
 would hardly have known him again,"' continued the king, 
 in a low husky voice; " but I hoj^e, sir, I see you recover- 
 ing." 
 
 " Thanks, sire, to Heaven's goodness, and to your good- 
 ness in sparing to me the services of Maitre Pare. " 
 
 "Ah! there is none like Pare for curing a wound out- 
 side," said Charles, then leaned back silent; and Berenger, 
 still kneeling, was considering whether he ought to proffer 
 his 2)etition, "when the king continued, "How fares your 
 friend Sidney, Monsieur le Baron?" 
 
 " Right well, sire. The queen has made him one of her 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " Not after this fashion," said Charles, as with his 
 finger he traced the long scar on Berenger's face. "Our 
 sister of England has different badges of merit from ours
 
 46 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 for her good subjects. Ha! what say tliey of us in Eng- 
 land, baron?" 
 
 " I have lain sick at liome, sire, and have neither seen 
 nor heard/ ^ said Berenger. 
 
 " Ah! one day more at Montpipeau had served your 
 turn/' said the king; "but you are one who lias floated 
 lip again. One — one at least whose blood is not on my 
 head." 
 
 The queen looked uj) uneasy and imploring, as Charles 
 continued: " Would that more of you would come in this 
 way! They have scored you dee]), but know you what is 
 gashed deeper still? Your king's heart! Ah! you will not 
 come, as Coligny does, from his gibbet, with liis two bleed- 
 ing hands. My father was haunted to his dying day by the 
 face of one Huguenot tailor. Why, I see a score, night by 
 night! You are solid; let me feel you, man." 
 
 " Monsieur Pare," exclaimed the poor queen, " take him 
 away. " 
 
 " No, madame/' said the king, holding tight in his hot 
 grasp Berenger's hand, which was as pale as his own, long, 
 thin, and wasted, but cold from strong emotion; " take 
 not away the only welcome sight I have seen for well-nigh 
 two years." He coughed, and the handkerchief he put to 
 his lips had blood on it; but he did not quit his hold of his 
 visitor, and presently said in a feeble whis23er, "Tell me 
 how did you escape?" 
 
 Pare, over the king's head, signed to him to make his 
 narrative take time; and indeed his speech was of necessity 
 so slow, that by the time he had related how Osbert had 
 brought him safely to England, the king had recovered 
 himself so as to say, " See what it is to have a faithful serv- 
 ant. Which of those they have left me woukl do as much 
 for me? And now, being once away with your life, what 
 brings you back to this realm of ours, after your last wel- 
 come?'' 
 
 " I left my wife here, sire." 
 
 " Ha! and the cousin would have married her — obtained 
 permission to call himself Nid-de-Merle — but she slipped 
 through his clumsy fingers; did she not? Did you know 
 anything of her, madame?" 
 
 " No," said the queen, looking up. " She wrote to me 
 once from her convent; but I knew I could do nothing for
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 47 
 
 her but bring her enemies' notice on her; so I made no an- 
 swer. ' ' 
 
 Berenger could hardly conceal his start of indignation — 
 less at the absolute omission, than at the weary indifference 
 of the queen's confession. Perhaps the king saw it, for he 
 added, " So it is, liibaumont; tlie kindest service we can 
 do our friends is to let them alone; and, after all, it was 
 not the worse for her. She did. evade her enemies?" 
 
 " Yes, sire/' said Berenger, commanding and steadying 
 his voice with great difficulty, " she escaped in time to give 
 birth to our child in the ruined loft of an old grange of the 
 Templars, under the care of a Huguenot farmer, and a 
 pastor who had known my father. Then she took refuge in 
 La Sablerie, and wrote to my mother, deeming me dead. I 
 was just well enough to go in quest of her. I came — ah! 
 sire, I found only charred ruins. Your majesty knows how 
 Huguenot burgs are dealt with." 
 '' And she—?" 
 
 Berenger answered but by a look. 
 
 " Why did you come to tell me this?" said the king, 
 passionately. " Do you not know that they have killed 
 me already? I thought you came because there was still 
 some one I could aid." 
 
 " There is, there is, sire," said Berenger, for once inter- 
 rupting royalty. " None save you can give me my child. 
 It is almost certain that a good priest saved \t; \)ut it is in 
 a convent, and only with a royal order can one of my re- 
 ligion either obtain it, or even have my questions answered. ' 
 
 " Nor with one in Paris," said the king dryly; " but in 
 the country the good mothers may still honor their king's 
 hand. Here, Ambroise, taken pen and ink, and write the 
 order. To whom?" 
 
 " To the Mother Prioress of the Ursulines at Lugon, so 
 please your majesty," said Berenger, " to let me have pos- 
 session of my daughter. " 
 
 "Eh! is it only a little girl?" 
 
 " Yes, sire; but my heart yearns for her all the more,'* 
 said Berenger, with glistening eyes. 
 
 " You are right," said the poor king. " Mine, too, is 
 a little girl; and I bless God daily that she is no son — to be 
 the most wretclied thing in France. Let her come in, 
 madame. She is little older than my friend's daughter. I 
 would show her to him."
 
 48 THE CHAPLKT OF PEARLS. 
 
 The queen signed to Mme. la Comtesse to fetch the 
 child, and Bereuger added, " Hire, you could do a farther 
 benefit to my i)oor little one. One more signature of yours 
 would attest that ratification of my marriage which took 
 place in your majesty's presence." 
 
 "Ah! I remember,'' said Charles. "You may have 
 any name of mine that can help you to oust that villain 
 Narcisse; only wait to use it — spare me any more storms. 
 It will serve your turn as well when I am beyond them, 
 and you will make your claim good. What,^' seeing 
 Berenger's interrogative look, " do you not know that by 
 the marriage-contract the lands of each were settled on the 
 survivor?" 
 
 " No, sire; I have never seen the marriage-contract. " 
 
 " Your kinsman knew it well," said Charles. 
 
 Just then, Mme. la Comtesse returned, leading the little 
 princess by the long ribbons at her waist; Charles bent for- 
 ward, calling, " Here, ma iMite, come here. Here is one 
 who loves thy father. Look well at him, that thou mayest 
 know him. ' ' 
 
 The little Mme. EHzabeth so far understood, that, with 
 a certain lofty condescension, she extended her hand for 
 the stranger to kiss, and thus drew from the king the first 
 smile that Berenger bad seen. 8he was more than half a 
 year older than the Berenger on whom his hopes were set, 
 and whom he trusted to find not such a pale, feeble, totter- 
 ing little creature as this poor young daughter of France, 
 whose round black eyes gazed wonderingly at his scar; but 
 she was very j)recocious, and even already too much of a 
 royal lady to indulge in any awkward personal observation. 
 
 By the time she bad been rewarded for her good behav- 
 ior by one of the dried plums in her father's comfit-box, 
 the order had been written by Pare, and Berenger had pre- 
 pared the certificate for the king's signature, according to 
 the form given him by his grandfather. 
 
 " Your writing shakes nearly as much as mine,'' said 
 the poor king, as he wrote his name to this latter. " Now, 
 madame, you had better sign it also; and tell this gentle- 
 man where to find Father Meinhard in Austria. He was a 
 little too true for us, do you see — would not give thanks for 
 shedding innocent blood. Ah!" and with a gasp of mourn- 
 ful longing, the king sunk back, while Elizabeth, at his 
 biddnig, added her name to the certificate, and murmured
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 49 
 
 the name of a convent in Vienna^ where her late confessor 
 could be found. 
 
 " I can not thank your majesty eiiough/' said Berenger. 
 " My child's rights are now secure in England at least, 
 and this " — as he held the other pu23er for the king — " will 
 give her to me. " 
 
 " Ah! take it for what it is worth/' said the king, as he 
 scrawled his " Charles " upon it. ''This order must be 
 used j)romptly, or it will avail you nothing. Write to Am- 
 broise how you speed; that is, if it will bring me one breath 
 of good news. ' ' And as Berenger kissed his hand with tear- 
 ful, inarticulate thanks, he proceeded, " Save for that 
 cause, I would ask you to come to me again. It does me 
 good. It is like a breath from Montpi]3eau — the last days 
 of hope — before the frenzy — the misery." 
 
 " Whenever your majesty does me the honor — " began 
 Berenger, forgetting all except the dying man. 
 
 "lam not so senseless," interrupted the king sharply; 
 *' it would be losing the only chance of undoing one wrong. 
 Only, Eibaumont," he added fervently, " for once let me 
 hear that one man has pardoned me. ■" 
 
 '' Sire, sire," sobbed Berenger, totally overcome, " how 
 can I speak the word? How feel aught but love, loyalty, 
 gratitude?" 
 
 Charles half smiled again as he said in sad meditation — 
 " Ah! it was in me to have been a good king if they had 
 let me. Think of me, bid your friend Sidney think of me, 
 as I would have been — not as I have been — and pray, pray 
 for me." Then hiding his face in his handkerchief, in a 
 paroxysm of grief and horror, he murmured in a stifled 
 tone, " Blood, blood, deliver me, good Lord!" 
 
 In efPect, there was so sudden gush of blood from mouth 
 and nose that Berenger sprung to his feet in dismay, and 
 was bona fide performing the part of assistant to the sur- 
 geon, when, at the queen's cry, not only the nurse Philip- 
 pine hurried in, but with her a very dark, keen-looking 
 man, who al once began applying strong essences to the 
 king's face, as Berenger supported his head. In a few mo- 
 ments Pare looked up at Berenger, and setting him free, 
 intimated to him, between sign and whisper, to go into 
 Philippine's room and wait there; and it was high time, 
 for though the youth had felt nothing in the stress of the 
 moment, he was almost swooning when he reached the lit-
 
 60 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tie chamber, and lay back in the nurse's chair, with closed 
 eyes, scarcely conscious how time went, or even where he 
 "was, till he was partly aroused by hearing steps returning. 
 
 "The poor young man," said Phili lupine's kind voice, 
 "he is fainting. Ah! no wonder it overcame any kind 
 heart. " 
 
 " How is the king?" Berenger tried to say, but his own 
 voice still sounded unnatural and far away. 
 
 " He is better for the time, and will sleep," said Pare, 
 administering to his other patient some cordial drops as he 
 spoke. " There, sir; you will soon be able to return to 
 the carriage. This has been a sore trial to your strength. " 
 
 " But 1 have gained all — all I could hope," said Beren- 
 ger, looking at his precious papers. " But, alas! the poor 
 king.^' 
 
 " You will never, never let a word of blame pass against 
 him," cried Philippine earnestly. " It is well that one of 
 our peojjle should have seen how it really is with him. All 
 I regret is that Maitre Kene tlirust himself in and saw you.'' 
 
 " Who?" said Berenger, who had been too much en- 
 grossed to perceive any one. 
 
 " Maitre Bene of Milan, the queen-mother's perfumer. 
 He came with some ]3lea of bringing a pouncet-box from 
 her, but I wager it was as a s^iy. I was doing my best to 
 walk him gently off when the queen's cry called me, and 
 he must needs come in after me. " 
 
 " I saw him not," said Berenger; " perhaps he marked 
 not me in the confusion. " 
 
 ' ' I fear, " said Pare, gravely ' ' he was more likely to 
 have his senses about him than you. Monsieur le Baron; 
 these bleedings of the king's are not so new to us familiars 
 di the palace. The best thing now to be done is to have 
 fou to the carriage, if you can move." 
 
 Berenger, now quite recovered, stood up, and gave his 
 <varm thanks to the old nurse for her kindness to him. 
 
 "Ah! sir," she said, " you ai-e one of us. Pray, pray, 
 that God will have mercy on my poor child! He has the 
 ?ruth in his heart. Pray that it may save him at the last." 
 
 Ambroise, knowing that she would never cease speaking 
 while there was any one to hear her, almost dragged Beren- 
 ger out at the little secret door, conveyed him safely down 
 the stairs, and placed him again in the carriage. Neither
 
 1:he chaplet of peaels. 51 
 
 spoke till the surgeon said;, " You have seen a sad sight. 
 Monsieur le Baron: I need not bid you be discreet/' 
 
 " There are some things that go too deep for speech/' 
 sighed the almost English Berenger; then, after a pause, 
 " Is there no hope for him? Is he indeed dying?" 
 
 " Without a miracle, he can not live a month. He is 
 as truly slain by the St. Bartholomew as ever its martyrs 
 were," said Pare, moved out of his usual cautious reserve 
 toward one who had seen so much and felt so truly. " I 
 tell you, sir, that his mother hath as truly slain her sons, 
 as if she had sent Rene there to them with his drugs. Ac- 
 cording as they have consciences and hearts, so they pine 
 and perish under her rule. " 
 
 Berenger shuddered, and almost sobbed, " And hath he 
 no better hope, no comforter?" he asked. 
 
 *' None save good old Flipote. As you heard, the queen- 
 mother will not suffer his own Church to speak to him in 
 her true voice. No confessor but one chosen by the Car- 
 dinal of Lorraine may come near him; and with him all is 
 mere ceremony. But if at the last he opens his ear and 
 heart to take in the true hope of salvation, it will be from 
 the voice of poor old Philippine.'' 
 
 And so it was! It was Philippine, who heard him in the 
 night sobbing over the piteous words, '' My God, what hor- 
 rors, what blood!" and, as she took from him his tear- 
 drenched handkerchief, spoke to him of the Blood that 
 speaketh better things than the blood of Abel; and it was 
 she who, in the final agony, heard and treasured these last 
 words, " If the Lord Jesus will indeed receive me into the 
 company of the blest!" Surely, never was repentance 
 deeper than that of Charles IX. — and these, his parting- 
 words, were such as to inspire the trust that it was not re- 
 morse. 
 
 All-important as Berenger's expedition had been, he still 
 could think of little but the poor king; and, wearied out as 
 he was, he made very little reply to the astonished friends 
 who gathered round him on his return. He merely told 
 Philip that he had succeeded, and then lay almost without 
 speaking on his bed till the embassador made his evening 
 visit, when he showed him the two papers. Sir Francis 
 could hardly believe his good fortune in having obtained 
 this full attestation of the marriage, and promised to send 
 to the English embassador m Germany, to obtain the like
 
 53 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 from Father Meinliard. The document itself he advised 
 Bereuger not to expose to the dangers of the French jour- 
 ney, but to leave it with him to be forwarded direct to Lord 
 Walwyn. It was most important, both as obviating any 
 dispute on the legitimacy of the child, if she lived ; or, if 
 not, it would establish those rights of Bereuger to the Nid- 
 de-Merle estates, of which he had heard from the king. 
 This information explained what were the claims that the 
 chevalier was so anxious to hush up by a marriage with 
 Mme. de Selinville. Berenger, as his wife's heir, was by 
 this contract the true owner of th? estates seized by the 
 chevalier and his son, and could only be ousted, either by 
 his enemies proving his contract to Eustacie invalid and to 
 be unfulfilled, or by his own voluntary resignation. The 
 whole scheme was clear to Walsingham, and he wasted ad- 
 vice upon unheeding ears, as to how Berenger should act 
 to obtain restitution so soon as he should be of age, and 
 how he should try to find out the notary who had drawn up 
 the contract. If Berenger cared at all, it was rather for 
 the sake of punishing and balking Narcisse, than with any 
 desire of the inheritance; and even for righteous indigna- 
 tion he was just now too weary and too sad. He could not 
 discuss his rights to Nid-de-Merle, if they passed over the 
 rights of Eustacie's child, round whom his affections were 
 winding themselves as his sole hope. 
 
 The next evening Pare came in quest of Berenger, and 
 after a calm, refreshing, hopeful Ascension-day, which had 
 been a real balm to the weary spirit, found him enjojing 
 the sweet May sunshine under a tree in the garden. "I 
 am glad to find you out-of-doors," he said; " I fear I must 
 hasten your departure. " 
 
 " I burn to lose no time," cried Berenger. " Prithee, 
 tell them I may safely go! They all call it madness to 
 think of setting out." 
 
 "Ordinarily it would be," said Pare; ''but Eene of 
 Milan has sent his underlings to see who is my new, tall as- 
 sistant. He wall report all to the queen-mother; and 
 though in this house you could scarcely suffer personal 
 harm, yet the purpose of your journey might be frustrated, 
 and the king might have to undergo another of those dour^ 
 rasques which he may well dread. " 
 
 " I will go this very night," said Berenger, starting up; 
 '* where is Philip? — where is Sir Francis?"
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 53 
 
 Even that very night Pare thought not too soon, and the 
 Ascension-tide ilhmiinations brought so many persons 
 abroad that it vvould be easy to go unnoticed; and in the 
 general festivity, wlien every one was coming and going 
 from the country to gaze or worship at the shrines and the 
 images decked in every church, it would be easy for the 
 barriers to be jjassed without observation. Then the 
 brothers would sleep at a large hostel, the first on the road 
 to England, where Walsingham's couriers and guests 
 always baited, and the next nu)rning he would send out to 
 them their attendants, with horses for their further jour- 
 ney back into Anjou. If any enemies were on the watch, 
 this would probably put them off the scent, and it only re- 
 mained further to be debated, whether the Norman Guibert 
 had better be dismissed at once or taken with them. There 
 was always a soft place in Berenger's heart for a Norman, 
 and the man was really useful; moreover, he would cer- 
 tainly be safer eniploj^ed and in their company, than turned 
 loose to tell the chevalier all he might have picked up in 
 the Hotel d'Angleterre. It was, therefore, decided that he 
 should be the attendant of the two young men, and he re- 
 ceived immediate orders that night to pack up their gar- 
 ments, and hold himself ready. 
 
 Nevertheless, before the hour of departure, Guibert had 
 stolen out, had an interview with the Chevalier Eibaumont 
 at the Hotel de Selinville, and came back with more than 
 one good French crown in his pocket, and hopes of more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE ORPHANS OF LA SABLERIE. 
 
 The cream-tarts with pepper in them. 
 
 Arabian Nights. 
 
 Hope, spring, and recovery carried the young Baron de 
 Eibaumont on his journey infinitely better than his com- 
 panions had dared to expect. He dreaded nothing so much 
 as being overtaken by those tidings which would make King 
 Charleses order mere waste paper; and therefore pressed on 
 with little regard to his own fatigue, although happily with 
 increasing strength, which carried him a further stage 
 every day. 
 
 Lucon was a closely guarded, thoroughly Catholic city.
 
 S4 IHE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 and his safe-conduct was jealously demanded ; buttlie name 
 of Eibaumont silenced all doubt. " A relation, apparently, 
 CI Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle/' said tlie officer on guard, and 
 politely invited him to dinner and bed at the castle; but 
 tbese he thought it prudent to decline, explaining that he 
 brought a letter from the king to the mother jH'ioress. 
 
 The convent walls were pointed out to him, and he only 
 delayed at the inn long enough to arrange his dress as 
 might appear to the abbess most respectful, and, poor boy, 
 be least likely to startle the babe on wliom his heart was 
 set. At almost every inn, the little children had shrieked 
 and run from his white and gashed face, and his tall, lank 
 figure in deep black; and it was very sadly that he said to 
 Philip, *' You must come with me. If she turns from me 
 as an ogre, your bright ruddy face will win her."' 
 
 The men were left at the inn with charge to let Guibert 
 speak for them, and to avoid showing their nationality. 
 The three months of Paris, and the tailors there, had ren- 
 dered Philip much less conspicuous than formerly; but still 
 people looked at him narrowly as he followed his brother 
 along the street. The two lads had made up their minds 
 to encumber themselves with no nurses, or worianfolk. 
 The child should be carried, fondled, and fed by her boy- 
 father alone. He believed that, when he once held her in 
 his arms, he should scarcely even wish to give her up to 
 any one else; and, in his concentration of mind, had hardly 
 thought of all the inconveniences and absurdities that would 
 arise; but, really, was chiefly occupied by the fear that she 
 would not at first let him take her in his arms, and hold 
 her to his heart. 
 
 Philip, a little more alive to the probabilities, neverthe- 
 less was disposed to regard them as " fun and pastime.'' 
 He had had many a frolic witli his baby-sisters, and this 
 would be only a prolonged one; besides, it was " Berry's " 
 one hope, and to rescue any creature from a convent was a 
 good work, in his Protestant eyes, which had not become a 
 whit less prejudiced at Paris. So he was quite prepared to 
 take his full share of his niece, or more, if she should ob- 
 ject to her father's looks, and he only suggested halting at 
 an old woman's stall to buy some sweetmeats by way of 
 propitiation — a proceeding which much amazed the gazing 
 population of Lucon. Two reports were going about, one 
 that the king had vowed a silver image of himself to St.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 55 
 
 Ursula, if her prioress would obtain his recovery by their 
 prayers; the other that he was going to translate her to the 
 royal abbey of Fontevrault to take charge of his daughter,. 
 Mme. Elizabeth. Any way, high honor by a royal mes- 
 senger must be intended to the prioress, Mers Monique, and 
 the Luconnais were proud of her sanctity. 
 
 The portress had already heard the report, and ojoened 
 her wicket even before the bell could be rung, then eagerly 
 ushered him into the parlor, the barest and most ascetic- 
 looking of rooms, witli a boarded partition across, unen- 
 livened except by a grated hollow, and the outer portion 
 empty, save of a table, three chairs, and a rugged woodcut 
 of a very tall St. Ursula, with a crowd of pigmy virgins, 
 not reaching higher than the ample hem of her petticoat. 
 
 " Did Aunt Cecily live in such a place as this?'' ex- 
 claimed Philip, gazing round; " or do they live on the fat 
 among down cushions inside there?" 
 
 " Hush — sh,'' said Berenger, frowning with anxiety; for 
 a rustling was heard behind the screen, and presently a 
 black veil and white scapulary appeared, and a sweet calm 
 voice said, " Peace be with you, sir; what are your com- 
 mands?'' 
 
 Berenger bowed low, and replied, " Thanks, reverend 
 lady, I bring a letter from the king, to request your aid in 
 a matter that touches me nearly." 
 
 " His Majesty shall be obeyed. Come you from him?" 
 
 He was forced to rej^ly to her inquiries after the poor 
 king's health before she ojDened the letter, taking it under 
 her veil to read it; so that as he stood, trembling, almost 
 sickening with anxiety, and scarcely able to breathe, he 
 could see nothing but the black folds; and at her low mur- 
 mured exclamation he started as if at a cannon-shot. 
 
 " De Ribaumont!" she said; " can it be — the child — of 
 — of — our jDoor dear little pens ionnaire at Bellaise?" 
 
 "It is — it is!" cried Berenger. " Oh, madam e, you 
 knew her at Bellaise?" 
 
 "Even so," replied the prioress, who was in fact the 
 Soeur Monique so loved and regretted by Eustacie. "I 
 loved and prayed for her with ill my heart when she was 
 claimed by the world. Heaven's will be done; but the poor 
 little thing loved me, and I have often thought that had I 
 been still at Bellaise when she returned she would not have 
 fled. But of this child I have no knowledge. "
 
 56 THE CHAPLET OF PEA-ELS. 
 
 " You took charge of tlie babes of La Sable rie, madame,'* 
 said Berenger, almost under his breath. 
 
 " Her infant among those poor orphans!" exclaimed the 
 prioress, more and more startled and amazed. 
 
 " If it be anywhere in this life, it is in your good keep- 
 ing, madanic," said Berenger, with tears in his eyes. 
 " Oh! I entreat, withhold her no longer." 
 
 " But/' exclaimed the bewildered nun, " who would you 
 then bo, sir?" 
 
 " I — her husband— widower of Eustacie — father of her 
 orphan!'' cried Berenger. " She can not be detained from 
 me, either by right or law." 
 
 " Her husband," still hesitated Monique. " But he is 
 dead. The poor little one — Heaven have mercy on her 
 soul — wrote me a piteous entreaty, and gav^e large alms for 
 jjrayers and masses for his soul." 
 
 The sob in his throat almost strangled his speech. 
 " She mourned me to the last as dead. I was borne away 
 senseless and desperately wounded; and when I recovered 
 power to seek her it was too late! Oh, madame! have pity 
 — let me see all she has left to me. " 
 
 " Is it possible?" said the nun. " We would not learn 
 the parentage of our nurslings since all alike become chil- 
 dren of Mother Church." Then, suddenly bethinking her- 
 self, " But, surely, monsieur can not be a Huguenot." 
 
 It was no doubt the first time she had been brought in 
 contact with a schismatic, and she could not believe that 
 such respectful courtesy could come from one. He saw he 
 must curb himself, and explain. I am neither Calvinist 
 nor Sacrementaii'e, madame. I was bred in England, 
 where we love our own Church. My aunt is a Benedictine 
 sister, who keeps her rule strictly, though her convent is 
 destroyed ; and it is to her that I shall carry my daughter. 
 Ah, lady, did you but know my heart's hunger for her!" 
 
 The prioress, better read in the lives of the saints than in 
 the sects of heretics, did not know whether this meant that 
 he was of her own faith or not; and her woman's heart 
 being much moved by his pleadings, she said, " I will 
 heartily give your daughter to you, sir, as indeed I must, 
 if she be here; but 3-ou have never seen her?" 
 
 " No; only her empty cradle in the burned house. But 
 I must know her. She is a year old. " 
 
 *' We have two babes of that age; but I fear me you will
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 57 
 
 scarce see much likeness iu either of them to any one you 
 knew," said the prioress thoughtfully. " However, there 
 are two girls old enough to remember the parentage of 
 their companions, though we forbade them to mention it. 
 Would you see them, sir?" 
 
 " And the infants, so please you, reverend mother,' ' ex- 
 claimed Berenger. 
 
 She desired him to wait, and after an interval of suspense 
 there was a pattering of little sabots beliind the partition, 
 and through the grating he beheld six little girls in blue 
 serge frocks and tight white caps. Of the two infants, one 
 with a puny, wizen, pinched face was in the arms of the 
 prioress; the other, a big, stout, coarse child, with hard 
 brown cheeks and staring black eyes, was on its own feet, 
 but with a great basket-work frame round its head to save 
 it from falls. There were two much more prepossessing 
 children of three or four, and two intelligent-looking girls 
 of i^erhaps eight and ten, to the elder of whom the prioress 
 turned, saying, " Agathe, I release you from my command 
 not to speak of your former life, and desire you to tell this 
 gentleman if you know who were the parents of these two 
 little ones." 
 
 *' Yes, reverend mother," said Agathe, readily; "the 
 old name of Claire " (touching the larger baby) " was 
 Salome Potior: her mother was the washerwoman; and 
 Annonciade, I don^'t know what her name was, but her 
 father worked for Maitre Brassier who made the kettles. " 
 
 Philip felt relieved to be free from all doubt about these 
 very uninviting little ones, but Berenger, though sighing 
 heavily, asked quickly, " Permit me, madame, a few ques- 
 tions. Little maid, did you ever hear of Isaac Gardon?" 
 
 "Maitre Isaac! Oh, yes, sir. We used to hear him 
 preach at the church, and sometimes he catechized us," 
 she said, and her lip quivered. 
 
 " He was a heretic, and I abjure him," added the other 
 girl, perking up her head. 
 
 " Was he in the town? What became of him?" ex- 
 claimed Berenger. 
 
 "He would not be in the town,'' said the elder girl. 
 *' My poor father had sent him word to go away." 
 " Ehquoi?" 
 
 "Our father was Bailli la Grasse," interposed the 
 younger girl consequentially. "Our names were Martho
 
 58 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 and Lucie la Grasse, but Agatlie and Eulalie are mucli 
 prettier. '^ 
 
 " But Maitre Gardon?" still asked Berenger. 
 
 " He ought to be taken and burned/ 'said the new Eula- 
 lie; " he brought it all on us/' 
 
 " How was it? Was my wife with him — Madame de 
 Ribaumont? Sj)eak, my child/' 
 
 " That was the name/' said one girl. 
 
 *' But Maitre Gardon had no great lady with him," said 
 the other, " only his son's widow and her baby, and they 
 lodged with Noemi Laurent, who made the patisserie." 
 
 Ah!" cried Berenger, lighting up with the new ray of 
 hope. " Tell me, my dear, that they fled with him, and 
 where?" 
 
 " I do not know of their going/' said Agathe, confused 
 and overborne by his eagerness. 
 
 " Curb yourself, sir, "said the prioress, '' they will recol- 
 lect themselves and tell you what they can. " 
 
 " It was the little cakes with lemoned sugar," suggested 
 the younger girl. "Maitre Tressan always said there 
 would be a judgment on us for our daintiness. Ah! he 
 was very cross about them, and after all it was the Maire of 
 Lucon who eat fifteen of them all at once; but then he is 
 not a heretic. " 
 
 Happily for Berenger, Agathe unraveled this speech. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Gardon made the sugar-lemoned cakes, 
 and the Mayor of Lucon, one day when he supped with us, 
 was so dehghted with them that he carried one away to 
 show his wife, and afterward he sent over to order some 
 more. Then, after a time, he sent secretly to my father to 
 ask him if Maitre Gardon was there: for there was a great 
 outcry about the lemon cakes, and the Duke of AleuQon's 
 army were coming to demand his daughter-in-law; because 
 it seems she was a great lady, and the only person who 
 could make the cakes. " 
 
 " Agathe!" exclaimed the prioress. 
 
 " I understand," said Berenger, " The Cure of Nissard 
 told me that she was traced through cakes, the secret of 
 wbich was only known at Bellaise." 
 
 " That might be," said Mere Monique. "I remember 
 there was something of pride in the cakes of Bellaise, 
 though I always tried to know nothing of them. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEA ELS. 59 
 
 " Well, little one, continue/' entreated Berenger. 
 ** You are giving me life and hope. " 
 
 " I heard my father and mother talk about it/' said 
 Agathe, gaining courage, " He said he knew nothing of 
 great people, and would give nobody ujo to the Catholics, 
 but as to Maitre Isaac he should let him know that the 
 Catholic army were coming, and that it would be better for 
 us if we had no pastor within our walls; and that there was 
 a cry that his daughter's lemon cakes were made by the 
 lady that was lost. " 
 
 " And they escaj^ed! Ah! would that I could thank the 
 good man!" 
 
 " Surely yes, sir, I never saw them again. Maitre Tres- 
 san the elder prayed with us. And when the cruel soldiers 
 came and demanded the lady and Maitre Isaac, and all ob- 
 stinate Calvinists, our mayor and my father and the rest 
 made answer that they had no knowledge of the lady, and 
 did not know where Maitre Garden was; and as to llugue- 
 nots we were all one as obstinate as the other, but that we 
 would pay any fine within our means so they would spare 
 our lives. Then the man in the fine coat said, it was the 
 lady they wanted, not the fine; and a great deal he said be- 
 sides, I know not what, but my father said, ' It is our life's 
 blood that they want,' and he put on his breastplate and 
 kissed us all, and went away. Then came horrible noises 
 and firing of cannon, and the neighbors ran in and said 
 that the enemy were battering down the old crumbly bit of 
 wall where the monastery was burned; and just then our 
 man Joseph ran back all pale, and staring, to tell us my 
 father was lying badly hurt in the street. My mother hur- 
 ried out, and locked the door to keep us from following." 
 
 The poor child broke down in tears, and her sister went 
 on. " Oh, we were so frightened — such frightful sounds 
 came close, and people ran by all blood and shrieking — and 
 there was a glare in the sky — and nolDody came home — till 
 at last it grew so dreadful that we hid in the cellar to hear 
 and see nothing. Only it grew hotter and hotter, and the 
 light through the little grating was red. And at last there 
 was a noise louder than thunder, and, oh, such a shaking — 
 for it was the house falling down. But we did not know 
 that; we tried to open the door, and could not; then we 
 cried and called for father and mother — and no one heard 
 ^and we sat still for fear, till we slept — and then it was
 
 60 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 all dark, and we were very hungry. I don*t know how 
 time went, but at last, when it was daylight again, there 
 was a talking above, a little baby cr3'ing, and a kind voiee 
 too; and then we called out, ' Oh take us out and give us 
 bread/ Then a face looked down the grating. Oh! it was 
 like the face of an angel to us, with all the white hair fly- 
 ing round. It was the holy priest of Nissard; and when 
 one of the cruel men said we were only little heretics who 
 ought to die like rats in a hole, he said we were but inno- 
 cents who did not know the diii'erence. " 
 
 " Ah! we did,'^ said the elder girl. " You arc younger, 
 sister, you forget more;'^ and then, holding out her hands 
 to Berenger, she exclaimed, '' Ah! sir, take us away with 
 you. " 
 
 " My cliild!" exclaimed the prioress, " you told me you 
 were hajipy to be in the good course.'^ 
 
 " Oh yes!" cried the poor child; "but I don't want to 
 be hajipy! I am forgetting all my poor father and mother 
 used to say. I can't helj) it, and they would be so grieved. 
 Oh, take me away, sir!" 
 
 "Take care, Agathe, you will be a relajjsed heretic,'' 
 said her sister solemnly. " For me, I am a true Catholic. 
 I love the beautiful images and the processions." 
 
 "Ah! but what would our mothers have said!" cried 
 poor Agathe, weeping more bitterly. 
 
 " Poor child, her old recollections have been renewed," 
 said the prioress, with michanged sweetness; "but it will 
 pass. My dear, the gentleman will tell you that it is as 
 impossible for him to take you as it is for me to let you 
 go." 
 
 " It is so, truly, little one," said Berenger. " The only 
 little girl I could have taken with me would have been my 
 own;" and as her eyes looked at him wistfully, he added, 
 " No doubt, if your jioor mother could, she would thank 
 this good mother-prioress for teaching you to serve God and 
 be a good child." 
 
 " Monsieur speaks well and kindly," said the jorioress; 
 " and now, Agathe, make your courtesy, and take away 
 the little ones. " 
 
 " Let me ask one question more, reverend mother," said 
 Berenger. " Ah! children, did you ever see her whom you 
 call Isaac Garden's daughter-in-law?" 
 
 *• No, sir," said the children; " but mother did, and she
 
 THE CHAPLET OF I'EARLS. 61 
 
 promised one day to take us to sec the baby, for it was so 
 pretty — so white, that she had never seen the hke/' 
 
 " So white!" re2)eated Eercnger to himself; and the 
 prioress, struck, perhaps, by tlic almost flaxen locks that 
 sparsely waved on his temples, and the hue of the ungloved 
 hand that rested on the edge of the (jrille, said, smiling, 
 " You come of a fair family, monsieur/* 
 
 " The White Eibaumonts,'' said Berenger, " and, more- 
 over, my mother Avas called the Swan of England ; my lit- 
 tle sisters have skins like snow. Ah! madame, though I 
 have failed, I go away far happier than if I had succeeded. ■" 
 
 " And I," she said, " shall cease to pray for that dear 
 one as for one in the grave. " 
 
 " Ah! you have prayed for me. Pray still that Heaven 
 will have pity on us, and unite us once more.''* 
 
 " And reveal the true faith," began the nun; but Philip 
 in the meantime was nudging his brother, and whispering 
 in English, " No Popish prayers, I say! Stay, give these 
 poor little prisoners one feast of the sweetmeats we brought. " 
 
 Of this last hint Berenger was glad, and the prioress read- 
 ily consented to a distribution of the dainties among the or- 
 phans, lie wished to leave a more lasting token of his grati- 
 tude to the little maiden whose father had 2ierhaps saved Eus- 
 tacie's life, and recollecting that he had about him a great 
 gold coin, bearing the heads of Philip and Mary, he begged 
 leave to offer it to Agathe, and found that it was received by 
 good Mere Monique almost in the light of a relic, as bear- 
 ing the head of so pious a queen. 
 
 Then, to com2)letc Philip's disgust, he said, " I took with 
 me my aunt's blessing when I set out; let me take yours 
 with me also, reverend mother." 
 
 When they were in the street again, Philij) railed at him 
 as though he had subjected himself to a spell. 
 
 " She is almost a saint," answered Berenger. 
 
 '' And have we not saints enough of our own, without 
 running after Popish ones behind grates? Brother, if ever 
 the good old da3'scoiiie back of invading France, I'll march 
 straight hither, and deliver the poor little wretches so scan- 
 dalously mewed up here, and true Protestants all the time!" 
 
 " Hush! Peoiole are noticing the sound of your En- 
 glish." 
 
 "Let them! I never thanked Heaven projoerly before 
 that I have not a drop of French — " Here Berenger
 
 62 THE CHAPLIT OF PEARLS. 
 
 almost shook him by the shoulder, as men turned at his 
 broad tones and foreign words, and he walked on in silence, 
 while Berenger at his side felt as one trcadino- on air, so in- 
 finite was the burden taken off his mind. Iliough for the 
 present absolutely at sea as to where to seek Eustaeie, Ihe 
 relief from acquiescence in the horrible fate that had teamed 
 to be hers was such, that a flood of unspeakable hap^iiness 
 seemed to rush in on him, and bear him up with a new in- 
 Eusiou of life, buoyancy, and thankfulness. 
 
 |, CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 I N T H E K I N G ' S N A M E . 
 
 Under which king, Bezoniau? speak or die. 
 Under King Harry. 
 
 Ki7iff He my IV. 
 
 One bird in the hand is not always worth two in the 
 bush, assuredly," said Philip, when Berenger was calm 
 ^enough to hold council on what he called this most blessed 
 discovery; " but where to seek them?" 
 
 " I have no fears now," returned Berenger. " We have 
 not been borne through so much not to be brought together 
 at last. Soon, soon shall we have her! A minister so dis- 
 tinguished as Isaac Garden is sure to be heard of either at 
 La Kochelle, Montauban, or Nimes, their great gathering 
 places. ' ' 
 
 " For Kochelle, tlien?^^ said Philip. 
 
 " Even so. We will be off early to-morrow, and from 
 thence, if we do not find her there, as I expect, we shall be 
 able to write the thrice happy news to tliose at home. " 
 
 Accordingly, the little cavalcade started in good time, in 
 the cool of the morning of the bright long day of early 
 June, while apple petals floated down on them in the lanes 
 like snow, and nightingales in every hedge seemed to give 
 voice and tune to Berenger's eager, yearning hopes. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sound of horses' feet ni the road 
 before them, and as they drew aside to make way, a little 
 troop of gendarmes filled the narrow lane. The officer, a 
 rough, harsh-looking man, laid his hand on Berenger's 
 bridle, with the words, " In the name of the king!" 
 
 Philip began to draw his sword with one hand, and with
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 63 
 
 the other to urge his horse between theofl'cerand his broth- 
 er, but Eerenger called out, " Back! This gentleman mis- 
 takes my person. I am the Baron de Ilibaumont, and 
 have a safe-conduct from the king.^' 
 
 " What king?" demanded the officer. 
 
 " From King Charles. " 
 
 *' I arrest you," said the officer, " in the name of King 
 Henry 111. and of tlie Queen Eegent Catherine." 
 
 " The king dead?" exclaimed Berenger. 
 
 " On the 30th of May. Now, sir. " 
 
 " Your warrant — your cause?" still demanded Berenger. 
 
 " 'inhere will he time enough for that when you are safely 
 lodged," said the captain, roughly pulling at the rein, 
 which he had held all the time. 
 
 " What, no warrant?" shouted Philip, " he is a mere 
 robber!" and with drawn sword he was precipitating him- 
 self on the capain, when another gendarme, who had been 
 on the watch, grappled with him, and dragged him off his 
 horse before he could strike a blow. The other two En- 
 glish, Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, strong, full- 
 grown men, rode in fiercely to the rescue, and Berenger 
 himself struggled furiously to loose himself from the caji- 
 tain, and deliver his brother. 8uddenly there was the re- 
 port of a pistol: poor Smithers fell, there was a moment of 
 standing aghast, and in that moment the one man and the 
 two youths were each pounced on by three or four gen- 
 darmes, thrown down and pinioned. 
 
 " Is this usage for gentlemen?" exclaimed Berenger, as 
 he was roughly raised to his feet. 
 
 '' The king's power has been resisted," was all the an- 
 swer; and when he would have bent to see how it was with 
 poor Smithers one of the men-at-arms kicked over the body 
 with sickening brutality, saying, " Dead enough, heretic 
 and English carrion!" 
 
 Philip uttered a cry of loathing horror, and turned white; 
 Berenger, above all else, felt a sort of frenzied despair as 
 he thought of the peril of the boy who had been trusted to 
 him, 
 
 " Have you had enough, sir?" said the captain. " Mount 
 and come. " 
 
 They could only let themselves be lifted to their horses, 
 and their bands were then set free to use their brulles, each 
 being guarded by a soldier on each side of him. Philip at-
 
 C4 THE CHAP LET OF PEARLS. 
 
 tempted but once to speak, and that in English, *' Next 
 time I shall take my pistol/' 
 
 He was riulely silenced, and rode on with wide-open stolid 
 eyes and dogged face, steadfastly resolved that no French- 
 man should see him flinch, and vexed that Berenger had 
 liis riding-mask on so that his face could not be studied; 
 while he, on his side, was revolving all causes possible for 
 his arrest, and all means of enforcing the liberation, if not 
 of himself, at least of Philip and Humfrey. He looked 
 round for Guibert, but could not see him. 
 
 They rode on through the intricate lanes till the sun was 
 high and scorching, and Berenger felt how far he was from 
 jierfect recovery. At last, however, some little time past 
 noon, the gendarmes halted at a stone fountain, outside a 
 village, and disposing a sufficient guard around his cap- 
 tives, the officer permitted them to dismount and rest, while 
 he, with the rest of the trooj) and the horses, wont to the 
 village cabaret. Philip would have asked his brotlier what 
 it meant, and what v/as to be done, but Berenger shook his 
 liead, and intimated that silence was safest at present, since 
 they might be listened to; and Phih'ji, who so much imag- 
 ined treachery and iniquity to be the order of the day in 
 France that he was scarcely surprised at the present disas- 
 ter, resigned himself to the same sullen endurance. Pro- 
 visions and liquor were presently sent up from the inn, but 
 J>erenger coukl taste nothing but the cold water of the 
 fountain, which trickled out cool and fresh beneath an arch 
 surmounted by a figure of Our Lady. He bathed his face 
 and head in the refreshing spring, and lay down on a cloak 
 in the shade, Philip keej)ing a constant change of drenched 
 kerchiefs on bis brow, and lioping that he slept, till at the 
 end of two or three hours the captain returned, gave the 
 word to horse, and the party rode on through intricate 
 lanes, blossoming with hawthorn, and ringing with songs 
 of birds that spoke a very different language now to Be- 
 renger 's heart from what they had said in the hopeful 
 morning. 
 
 A convent bell was ringing to even-song, when passing 
 its gate -way; the escort turned up a low hill, on the summit 
 of which stood a chateau covering a considerable extent of 
 ground, with a circuit yi wall, whitewashed so as perfectly 
 to glare in the evening sun; at every angle a round, slim 
 turret, crowned by a brilliant red-tiled extinguisher-like
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 65 
 
 cap; and the whole surmounted by a tall, old keep in the 
 center. There was a square projection containing an 
 arched gate-way, with heavy door- ways, which were thrown 
 open as the party a2:)proached. Philip looked up as he rode 
 in, and over the door-way beheld the familiar fretted shield, 
 with the leopard in the corner, and " A moi lUbaumont " 
 round it. Could it then be Berenger's own castle, and was 
 it thus that he was approaching it? lie himself had not 
 looked u^j; he was utterly spent with fatigue, dejection, 
 and the severe headache brought on by the heat of the sun, 
 and was only intent on rallying his powers for the crisis of 
 fate that was probably approaching; and thus scarcely took 
 note of the court into which he rode, lying between the 
 gate-way and the corps de logis, a bu'lding erected when 
 comfort demanded more sj)ace than was afforded by the old 
 keep, against which one end leaned; but still, though in- 
 closed in a court, the lower windows were small and iron- 
 barred, and all air of luxury was reserved for the mullioned 
 casements of the upper story. The court was flagged, but 
 grass shot uj) between the stones, and the trim air of ease 
 and inhabited comfort to which the brothers were used at 
 home was utterly wanting. Berenger was hustled olf his 
 horse, and roughly pushed through a deep porch, where the 
 first thing he heard was the Chevalier de liibaumont's voice 
 in displeasure. 
 
 " How now, sir; hands off! Is this the way you conduct 
 my nephew?" 
 
 " He resisted, sir." 
 
 " Sir," said Berenger, advancing into the hall, " I know 
 not the meaning of this. I am peacefully traveling with a 
 passport from the king, when I am set upon, no warrant 
 shown me, my faithful servant slain, myself and mybrotli- 
 er, an English subject, shamefully handled.'^ 
 
 " The violence shull be visited on whatever rascal dm-st 
 insult a gentleman and my nejjhew," said the chevalier. 
 " For release, it shall be looked to; but unfortunately it is 
 too true that there are orders from the queen in council for 
 your apprehension, and it was only on my special entreaty 
 for the honor of the family, and the afTection I bear you, 
 that I was allowed to receive you here instead of your being 
 sent to an ordinary prison. " 
 
 " On what pretext?" demanded Berenger. 
 
 "It is knov/n that you have letters in your possession 
 
 3-2cl half.
 
 G6 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 from escaj)ecl traitors now in England, to La None, Du- 
 plessis Mornay, and other heretics. " 
 
 " That is easily explained/' said Berenger. " You know 
 well, sir, that they were to facilitate my search at La Sa- 
 ble rie. You shall see them yourself, sir.'' 
 
 " That I must assuredly do," replied the chevalier, " for 
 it is the order of her majesty, I regret to say, that your per- 
 son and baggage be searched;" then, as indignant color 
 rushed into I3erenger's face, and an angry exclannition was 
 beginning, he added, " Nay, I understand, my dear cousin, 
 it is very painful, but we would spare you as much as pos- 
 sible. It will be quite enough if the search is made by 
 myself in the presence of tliis gentleman, who will only 
 stand by for form's sake. I have no doubt it will enable 
 us quickly to clear up matters, and set you free again. Do 
 me the honor to follow me to the chamber destined for 
 you. " 
 
 "Let me see the order for my arrest," said Berenger, 
 holding his head high. 
 
 " The English scruple must be gratified," said the chev- 
 alier. And accordingly the gendarme captain unfolded be- 
 fore him a paper, which was evidently a distinct order to 
 arrest and examine the person of Henri Berenger Eustache, 
 Baron de Eibaumont and Sieur de Leurre, suspected of 
 treasonable practices — and it bore the signature of Cathe- 
 rine. 
 
 " There is nothing here said of my step-father's son, 
 Philip Thistlewood, nor of my servant, Humfrey Holt," 
 said Berenger, gathering the sense with his dizzy eyes as 
 best he coukl. "They can not be detained, being born 
 subjects of the Queen of England. " 
 
 " They intercepted the justice of the king," said the 
 captain, laying his hand on Philip's sboulder. " I shall 
 have them off with me to the garrison of Lucon, and deal 
 with them there." 
 
 "Wait!" said the chevalier, interposing before Beren- 
 ger's fierce, horror-struck expostulation could break forth; 
 " this is an honorable young gentleman, son of a chevalier 
 of good rej)utation in England, and he need not be so 
 harsldy dealt with. You will not separate either him or 
 the poor groom from my nephew, so the queen's authority 
 be now rightly acknowledged." 
 
 The captain shrugged his shoulders, as if displeased ; and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 67 
 
 the chevalier, turning to Berengcr, said, " You understand, 
 nephew, the lot of you all depends on your not giving um- 
 brage to these officers of her majesty. I will do my poor 
 best for you; but submission is first needed." 
 
 Bcrcnger knew enough of his native country to be aware 
 that la justice clu Roi was a terrible thing, and that Philip's 
 resistance had really put him in so much danger that it 
 was needful to be most careful not further to offend the 
 functionary of Government; and abhorrent as the proposed 
 search was to him, he made no further objection, but tak- 
 ing Philij/s arm, lest they should be separated, he prepared 
 to follow wherever he was to be conducted. The chevalier 
 led the way along a narrow stone jiassage, with loo})holed 
 windows here and there; and Philip, for all his proud, in- 
 difTerent bearing, felt his flesh creep as he looked for a stair 
 descending into tlie bowels of the earth. A stair there was, 
 but it went up instead of down, and after mounthig this, 
 and going through a sort of ante-room, a door was opened 
 into a tolerably spacious apartment, evidently in the old 
 keep; for the two windows on opposite sides were in an 
 immensely massive wall, and the floor above and vaulting 
 below were of stone; but otherwise there was nothing re- 
 pulsive in the appearance of the room. There was a wood 
 fire on the hearth; the sun, setting far to the north, peeped 
 in aslant at one window; a mat was on the floor, tapestry 
 on the lower part of the walls; a table and chairs, and a 
 walnut chest, with a chess-board and a few books on it, 
 were as much furniture as was to be seen in almost any liv- 
 ing-room of the day. liumfrey and Guibert, too, were al- 
 ready there, with the small riding valises they and poor 
 Smithers had had in charge. These were at once opened, 
 but contained merely clothes and linen, nothing else that 
 was noticed, except three books, at which the captain looked 
 with a stupid air; and the chevalier did not seem capable 
 of discovering more than that all three were J^atin — one, 
 he believed, the Bible. 
 
 " Yes, sir, the Vulgate — a coi)y older than the Eeforma- 
 tion, so not liable to be called an heretical version," said 
 Bei'enger, to whom a cojiy had been given by Lady Wal- 
 wyn, as more likely to be saved if his baggage was searched. 
 " The other is the Office and Psalter after our English rite; 
 and this last is not mine, but Mr. Sidney's — a copy of Vir- 
 gilius Maro, wliich he had left behind at Paris. "
 
 68 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 The chevalier, not willing to confess that he had taken 
 the English Prayer-book for Latin, hastily said, " Nothing 
 wrong there — no, no, nothing that will hurt the State; 
 may it only be so with what yon carry on your person, fair 
 cousin. Stand back, gentlemen, this is gear for myself 
 alone. Now, fair nephew," he added, " not a hand shall 
 be laid on you, if you will g:vo me your honorable word, as 
 a nobleman, that you are laying before me all that you 
 carry about you." 
 
 An instant's thought convinced iJerenger that resistance 
 would save nothing, and merely lead to indignity to himself 
 and danger to Philip; and therefore he gave the promise to 
 show everything about him, without compulsion. Accord- 
 ingly, he produced his purse for current expenses, jioor 
 King Charles's safe-conduct, and other articles of no con- 
 sequence, from his pockets; tlien reluctantly opened his 
 doublet, and took off the belt containing his store of gold, 
 which had been re])lenished at Walsingham's. This was 
 greedily eyed by the ca|)tain, but the chevalier at once made 
 it over to Philip's keeping, graciously saying, " We do no 
 more than duty requires;" but at the same time he made a 
 gesture toward another small purse that hung round Beren- 
 ger's neck by a black ribbon. 
 
 "On my sacred word and honor," said Berenger, " it 
 contains nothing important to any save myself. " 
 
 " Alas! my bounden duty," urged the chevalier. 
 
 An angry reply died on Berenger's lip. At the thought 
 of Philip, he opened the purse, and held out the contents 
 on his jjalm; a tiny gold ring, a tress of black hair, a frag- 
 ment of carnation-ribbon pricked with pin-holes, a string of 
 small worthless yellow shells, and, threaded with them, a 
 large pear-shaped pearl of countless price. Even the chev- 
 alier was touched at the sight of this treasury, resting on 
 the blanched jjalm of the thin, trembling hand, and jeal- 
 ously watched by eyes glistening with sudden moisture, 
 though the lips were firm set. " Alas! my poor young 
 cousin," he said, " you loved her well.'^ 
 
 " Not loved, but love," muttered Berenger to himself, 
 as if having recourse to the only cordial that could sujiport 
 him through the present suffering; and he was closing his 
 lingers again over his precious hoard, when the chevalier 
 added, "Stay! nephew — that pearl!"
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 69 
 
 " Is one of the cliaplet; the token she sent to England,'^ 
 he answered. 
 
 " Fan ere petite ! Then, at least a fragment remains of 
 the reward of our ancestor's courage/' said the chevalier. 
 
 And Berenger did not feel it needful to yield up that still 
 betler possession, stored within his heart, that la petite and 
 her pearls were safe together. It was less unendurable to 
 produce the leather case from a secret pocket withiu his 
 doublet, since, unwilling as he was that any eye should 
 scan the letters it contained, there was nothing in them 
 that could give any clew toward tracing her. Nothing had 
 been written or received since his interview with the chil- 
 dren at Lucon. There was, indeed, Eustacie's letter to his 
 mother, a few received at Paris from Lord Walwyn, reluct- 
 antly consenting to his journey in quest of his child, his 
 English passport, the unfortunate letters to La None; and 
 what evidently startled the chevalier more than all the rest, 
 the copy of the certificate of the ratification of the mar- 
 riage; but his consternation was so arranged as to appear 
 to be all on behalf of his young kinsman. " This is ser- 
 ious!" he said, striking his forehead, " you will be accused 
 of forging the late king's name." 
 
 " This is but a copy," said Berenger, pointing to the 
 heading; "the original has been sent with our embassa- 
 dor's dispatches to England." 
 
 " It is a pity," said the chevalier, looking thoroughly 
 vexed, " that you should have brought fresh difficulties on 
 yourself for a mere piece of waste paper, since, as things 
 unhappily stand, there is no living person to be affected by 
 the validity of your marriage. Dear cousin " — he gianced 
 at the officer and lowered his voice — " let me tear this pa- 
 per; it would only do you harm, and the Pa^jal desree an- 
 nuls it." 
 
 " I have given my word," said Berenger, " that all that 
 could do me harm should be delivered uj^! Besides," he 
 added, " even had I the feeling for my own honor and that 
 of my wife and child, living or dead, the harm, it seems to 
 me, would be to those who withhold her lands from me. " 
 " Ah, fair nephew! you have fallen among designing 
 persons who have filled your head with absurd claims; but 
 1 will not argue the point now, since it becomes a family, 
 not a State matter. These papers " — and he took them 
 into his hand — " must be examined, and to-morrow Cap-
 
 70 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 tain Delarue will fake them to Paris, with any explanation 
 you may desire to offer. Meantime you aud your compan- 
 ions remain my guests, at full liberty, provided you will 
 give me your parole to attempt no escape. " 
 
 " No, sir," said Berenger, hotly, '' we will not become 
 oar own jailers, nor acquiesce in this unjust detention. I 
 warn you that I am a naturalized Englishman, aciiuowl- 
 edged by the queen as my grandfather's heir, aud the En- 
 glish embassador will inform the court what Queen Eliza- 
 beth tlnnks of such dealings with her subjects." 
 
 " Well saiil," exclaimed Philip, and drawing himself up, 
 he added, " I refuse my parole, and warn you that it is at 
 your peril that you imjorison an Englishman." 
 
 " Very well, gentlemen," said the chevalier; " the differ- 
 ence will be tluit I shall unwillingly be forced to let Captain 
 Delarue ^jost guards at the outlets of this tower. A room 
 beneath is prepared for your grooms, and the court is like- 
 wise free to yon. I will endeavor to nuike your detention 
 as little irksome as you will permit, and meantime allow 
 me to show you your sleeping-chamber. " He then politely, 
 as if he had been ushering a prince to his apartment, led 
 the way, pointing to the door through which they had en' 
 tered the keep, and saying, " This is the only present com- 
 munication with the dwelling-house. Two gendarmes will 
 always be on tbe outside." He conducted the young men 
 up a stone spiral stair to another room, over that which 
 they had already seen, and furnished as fairly as ordinary 
 sleeping-chambers were wont to be. 
 
 Here, said their compulsory host, he would leave them 
 to prepare for supper, when they would do him the honor 
 to join him in the eating-hall on their summons by the 
 steward. 
 
 His departing bow was duly returned by Berenger, but 
 no sooner did his steps die away on the stairs than the young 
 man threw himself down on his bed, in a paroxysm of suf- , 
 fering, both mental and bodily. 
 
 " Berry, Berry, what is this? Speak to me. What does 
 it all mean?" cried Philip. 
 
 " How can I tell?" said Berenger, showing his face for 
 a moment, covered with tears; " only that my only friend 
 is dead, and some villainous trick has seized me, just — just 
 as I nnght have found her. And I've been the death of my 
 poor groom, and got you into the power of these vile das-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 71 
 
 tards! Oh, would that I had come alone! Would that 
 they had had the sense to aim direct!" 
 
 " Brother, brother, an3'thing but this!" cried Pliilip. 
 " The rogues are not worth it. Sir Francis will have us 
 out in no time, or know the reason why. I'd scorn to let 
 them wring a tear from me." 
 
 " I hope they never may, dear Phil, nor anything worse. " 
 
 *' Now,^^ continued Philip, " the way will be to go down 
 to supper, since they will have it so, and sit and eat at 
 one's ease as if one cared for them no more than cat and 
 dog. Hark! there's the steward speaking to Guibert. 
 Come, Berry, wash your face and come. " 
 
 " I — my head aches far too much, were there nothing 
 else. -" 
 
 " What! it is nothing but the sun," said Philip. " Put 
 a bold face on it, man, and show them how little you heed." 
 
 " How little I heed!" bitterly repeated Berenger, turn- 
 ing his face away, utterly unnerved between disappoint- 
 ment, fatigue, and jmin; and Philip at that moment had 
 little mercy. Dismayed and vaguely terrified, yet too res- 
 olute in national j^i'ide to betray his own feelings, he gave 
 vent to his vexation by impatience with a temperament 
 more visibly sensitive than his own: " I never thought you 
 so mere a Frenchman," he said contemptuously. " If you 
 weep and wail so like a sick wench, they will soon have their 
 will of you! I'd have let them kill me before they searched 
 me." 
 
 " 'Tis bad enough without this from you, Phil," said 
 Berenger faintly, for he was far too much spent for resent- 
 ment or self-defense, and had only kept up before the 
 chevalier by dint of strong effort. Philip was somewhat 
 aghast, both at the involuntary gesture of pain, and at find- 
 ing there was not even spirit to be angry with him; but his 
 very dismay served at the moment only to feed his displeas- 
 ure; and he tramped off in his heavy boots, which he chose 
 to wear as a proof of disdain for his companions. He ex- 
 plained that M. de Ribaumont was too much fatigued to 
 come to supper, and he was accordingly marched along the 
 corridor, with the steward before him bearing a lighted 
 torch, and two gendarmes with halberds behind him. And 
 in his walk he had amj^le time for, first, the resolution that 
 illness, and not dejection, should have all the credit of Be- 
 renger 's absence; then for recollecting of how short stand-
 
 72 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 ing had been his brother's convalescence; and lastly, for a 
 fury of self-execration for his own unkindness, rude taunts, 
 and neglect of the recurring illness. He would have turned 
 about and gone back at once, but the two gendarmes were 
 close behind, and he knew Humfrey would attend to his 
 brother; so ho walked on to the hall — a handsome cham- 
 ber, hung with armor and spoils of hunting, with a few 
 pictures on the panels, and a great carved music-gallery at 
 one end. The table was laid out somewhat luxuriously for 
 four, according to the innovation which was beginning to 
 separate the meals of the grandees from those of their 
 household. 
 
 Great concern was expressed by the chevalier, as Philip, 
 in French, much improved since the time of his conversa- 
 tion with Mme. de Selinville, spoke of his brother's indis- 
 position, saying with emjihasis, as he glared at Cajjtain 
 Delarue, that Maitre Pare had forbidden all exposure to 
 midday heat, and that all their journeys had been made 
 in morning or evening coolness. " My you)ig friend," as 
 his host called him, " should, he was assur d, have men- 
 tioned this, since Captain Delarue had no desn-e but to 
 make his situation as little painful as possible.^' And the 
 chevalier sent his steward at once to offer everything tlie 
 house contained that his prisoner could relish for supjier, 
 and then anxiously questioned Philip on his health and diet, 
 obtaining very short and glum answers. The chevalier 
 and the captain glanced at each other with little shrugs; 
 and Philip, becoming conscious of his shock hair, splashed 
 doublet, and dirty boots, had vague doubts whether his 
 English dignity were not being regarded as English lub- 
 berliness; but, of course, he hated the two Frenchmen all 
 the more, and received their civility with greater gruffness. 
 They asked him the present object of his journey— though, 
 probably, the chevalier knew it before, and he told of the 
 hope that they had of finding the child at Lucon. 
 
 •' Vain, of course?" said tlie chevalier. " Poor infant! 
 It is well for itself, as for the rest of us, that its troubles 
 were ended long ago." 
 
 Philip started indignantly. 
 
 " Does your brother still nurture any vain hojoe?" said 
 the chevalier. 
 
 " Not vain, I trust," said Philip. 
 
 " Indeed! Who can foolishly have so inspired him with
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 73 
 
 a hope that merely wears cut his youth, and leads him into 
 danger?" 
 
 Philip held liis tongue, resolved to be impenetrable; and 
 he Avas so far successful, that the chevalier merely became 
 convinced that the brothers were not simply riding to La 
 Kochelle to embark for England, but had some hope and 
 purpose in view; though as to what tbat might be, Philip's 
 bluif replies and stubborn silence were baffling. 
 
 After the meal, the chevalier insisted on coming to see 
 how his guest fared; and Philip could not prevent him. 
 They found Berenger sitting on the side of his bed, having 
 evidently just started up on hearing their approach. Other- 
 wise he did not seem to have moved since Philip left him ; 
 he had not attemjited to undress; and Humfreytold Philip 
 that not a word had been extracted from him, but com- 
 mands to let him alone. 
 
 However, he had rallied his forces to meet the chevalier, 
 and answered manfully to his excuses for the broiling ride 
 to which he had been exposed, that it mattered not, the 
 effect would pass, it was a mere cliance; and refused all 
 otters of medicaments, potions, and tisanes, till his host at 
 length left the room with a most correct exchange of good- 
 niglrts. 
 
 *' Berry, Berry, what a brute I have been!" cried Philip. 
 
 " Foolish lad!" and Berenger half smiled. " Now help 
 me to bed, for the room turns round!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 CAGED IK THE BLACK]5IKD's NEST. 
 
 Let him shun castles; 
 Safer shall he he on the sandy phiin 
 Than where castles mounted stand. 
 
 King Henry VI. 
 
 While Berenger slept a heavy morning's sleep after a 
 restless night, Philip explored the narrow domain above 
 and below. The keep and its little court had evidently 
 been the original castle, built when the oddly nicknamed 
 Fulkes and Geoffreys of Anjou had been at daggers drawn 
 with the Dukes of Normandy and Brittany, but it had since, 
 like most other such ancient feudal fortresses, become the 
 nucleus of walls and buildings for use, defense, or orua-
 
 74 THE CHAPLET OF TEARLS. 
 
 nient^ that lay beneath him like a sjiider's web, when he 
 had gained the roof of the keep, garnished with pejijicr-box 
 turrets at each of the four angles. Beyond lay the green 
 copses and orchards of the Bocage, for it was true, as he 
 had at first sus2:)ected, that this was the Chateau de Nid- 
 de-Merle, and that Berenger was a captive in his wife's 
 own castle. 
 
 Chances of escajie were the lad's chief thought, but the 
 building on which he stood went sheer down for a consid- 
 erable way. Then on the north side there came out the 
 sharp, high-pitched, tiled roof of the coiys dii logisj on 
 the south, another roof, surmounted by a cross at the gable, 
 and evidently belonging to the chapel; on the otlier two 
 sides lay courts — that to the east, a stable-yard; that to the 
 west, a small narrow, chilly-looking, jDaved inclosure, with 
 enormously massive walls, the door- way walled up, and 
 looking like a true j^rison-yard. Beyond this wall — indeed, 
 on every side — extended offices, servants' houses,, stables, 
 untidy desolate-looking gardens, and the whole was in- 
 closed by the white wall with flanking red-tiled turrets, 
 whose gaudy ajipearance had last night made Philip regard 
 the whole as a flimsy, Frenchified erection, but he now saw 
 it to be of extremely solid stone and lime, and with no en- 
 trance but the great barbican gate-way they had entered 
 by; moreover, with a yawning, dry moat all round. Whci-- 
 ever he looked he saw these tall, jwinted red caps, resem- 
 bling, he thought, those worn by the victims of an auio-da 
 fe as one of Walsingham's secretaries had described them 
 to him; and he ground his teeth at them, as though they 
 grinned at him like emissaries of the Inquisition. 
 
 Descending, he found Berenger dressing in haste to avoid 
 receiving an invalid visit from the chevalier, looking in- 
 deed greatly shaken, but hardly so as would have been de- 
 tected by eyes that had not seen him during his weeks of 
 hope and recovery. He was as resolved as Philijj could 
 wish against any sign of weakness before his enemy, and 
 altogether disclaimed illness, refusing the stock of cooling 
 drinks, cordials, and febrifuges, which the chevalier said 
 had been sent by his sister the Abbess of Bellaise. He j^ut 
 the subject of his health aside, only asking if this were the 
 day that the gendarme-captain would return to Paris, and 
 then begging to see that officer, so as to have a distinct 
 understanding of the grounds of his imprisonment. The
 
 THE CIIAPLET OF TEAELS. 75 
 
 captain had, however, been a mere instrument; and when 
 Phih'p clamored to be taken before the next justice of the 
 peace, even Berenger smiled at him for thinking that such 
 a being existed in France. The only cause alleged was the 
 vague but dangerous suspicion of conveying correspondence 
 bctweeu England and the heretics, and this might become 
 extremely perilous to one undeniably half English, regard- 
 ed as wliole Huguenot, caught on the way to La Koclielle 
 with a letter to La None in his pocket; and, moreover, to 
 one who had had a personal att'ray with a king famous for 
 storing u]) petty oifenses, whom the last poor king had. 
 favored, and who, in fine, had claims to estates that could 
 not be spared to the Huguenot interest. 
 
 He was really not sure that there was not some truth in 
 the professions of the chevalier being anxious to protect 
 him from the queen-mother and the Guises; he had never 
 been able to divest himself of a certain trust in his old kins- 
 man's friendliness, and he was obliged to be beholden to 
 him for the forms in which to coLich his defense. At the 
 same time he wrote to Sir Francis AValsingham, and to his 
 grandfather, but with great caution, lest his letters should 
 be inspected by his enemies, and with the less hope of their 
 availing him because it was probable that the embassador 
 tvould return home on the king's death. No answer could 
 be expected for at least a fortnight, and even then it was 
 possible that the queen-mother might choose to refer the 
 cause to King Henry, who was tlien in Poland. 
 
 Berenger wrote these letters with much thought and care, 
 but when they were once sealed, be collapsed again into de- 
 spair and impatience, and frantically paced the little court 
 as if ho would dash himself against the walls that detained 
 him from Eustacie; then threw himself moodily into a 
 chair, hid his face in his crossed arms, and fell a j)rey to 
 all the wretched visions called u]^ by an excited bram. 
 
 However, he was equally alive with Philip to the high- 
 spirited resolution that his enemies should not perceive or 
 triumph in his dejection. He showed himself at the noon- 
 day dinner, before Ca^Dtain Delarue departed, grave and 
 silent, but betraying no agitation; and he roused himself 
 from his sad musings at the supper-hour, to arrange his 
 hair, and assume the ordinary dress of gentlemen in the 
 evening; though Philip laughed at the roses adorning his 
 8hoes, and his fresh ruff, as needless attentions to an old
 
 76 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 ruffian like the chevalier. However, Philip started when 
 he entered the hall, and beheld, not the chevalier alone, 
 but with him the beautiful lady of the velvet coach, and 
 another stately, extremely handsome dame, no longer in 
 her first youth, and in costly black and white garments. 
 When the chevalier called her his sister, Mme. de Bellaise, 
 Philip had no notion that she was anything but a widow, 
 living a secular life; and though a couj^le of nuns attended 
 her, their dress was so much less conventual than Cecily's 
 that he did not at first find them out. It was exjilained 
 that Mme. de KSelinville was residing with her aunt, and 
 that, having come to visit her father, he had detained the 
 ladies to su^^per, hoping to enliven the sojourn of his heaux 
 cousins. 
 
 Mme. de Selinville, looking anxiously at Berenger, hoped 
 she saw him in better health. He rejdied, stiffly, that he 
 was perfectly well; and then, by way of safety, repaired to 
 the society of the abbess, who immediately began plying 
 him with questions about England, its court, and especially 
 the secret marriage of Queen Elizabeth, and " ce Comte de 
 Dudley," on which she was so minutely informed as to jnit 
 him to the blush. Then she was very curious about the 
 disjjersed convents, and how many of the nuns had mar- 
 ried; and she seemed altogether delighted to have secured 
 the attention of a youth from the outer world. Ilis soul at 
 first recoiled from her as one of Eustacie's oppressors, and 
 from her unconveut-like talk; and yet he could not but 
 think her a good-natured j^^rson, and wonder if she could 
 really have been hard upon his poor little wife. And she, 
 who had told Eustacie she would strangle with her own 
 hands the scion of the rival house! — she, like most women, 
 was much more bitter against an unseen being out of reach, 
 than toward a courteously mannered, pale, sufTering-look- 
 ing youth close beside her. She had enough affection for 
 Eustacie to have grieved much at her wanderings and at 
 her fate; and now the sorrow-stricken look that by no effort 
 could be concealed really moved her toward the young be- 
 reaved husband. Besides, were not all feuds on the point 
 of being made up by the excellent device concocted between 
 her brother and her niece? 
 
 Meantime, Philijj was in raptures with the kindness of 
 the beautiful Mme. de Selinville. He, whom the Mistresses 
 \Yalsiugham treated as a mere clumsy boy, was j^romoted
 
 THE cnAPLET OP PEARLS. 77 
 
 by her manner to be a man and a cavalier. lie blushed up 
 to the roots of his hair and looked sheepish whenever one 
 of her entrancing smiles lighted upon him; but then she 
 inquired after his brotlier so cordially, she told him so open- 
 ly how brilliant had been Berenger's career at the court, 
 she I'cgretted so heartily their present danger and detention, 
 and promised so warmly to use her interest with Queen 
 Catherine, th!i,t, in the delight of being so talked to, he for- 
 got his awkwardness and spoke freely and confidentially, 
 may be too confidentialy, for he caught Berenger frowning 
 at him, and made a sudden halt in his narrative, discon- 
 certed but very angry with his brother for his distrust. 
 
 When the ladies had ridden away to the convent in the 
 summer evening, and the two brotliers had returned to 
 their prison, Pliilijo wonld have begun to rave about 
 Mme. de Selinville, but his mouth was stopped at once 
 with, "Don't be such a fool, Phil!'' and wlien Berenger 
 shut his eyes, leaned back, and folded his arms together, 
 there was no more use in talking to him. 
 
 This exceeding dejection continued for a day or two, 
 while Berenger's whole sjjirit chafed in agony at liis helj> 
 lessness, and like demons there ever haunted him the 
 thoughts of what might betide Eustacie, young, fair, for- 
 saken, and believing herself a widow. Proudly defiant as 
 he showed himself to all eyes beyond his tower, he seemed 
 to be fast gnawing and pining himself away in the anguish 
 he suffered throngh these long days of captivity. 
 
 Perhaps it was Philip's excitement about any chance of 
 meeting Mme. de Selinville that first roused him from the 
 contemplation of his own misery. It struck him that if he 
 did not rouse himself to exert his influence, the boy, left 
 to no companionship save what he could make for himself, 
 might be fed away by intercourse with the gendarmes, or 
 by the blandishments of Diane, whatever might be her 
 game. He must be watched over, and returned to Sir Mar- 
 maduke the same true-hearted honest lad who had left 
 home. Nor had Berenger lain so long under Cecily St. 
 John's tender watching without bearing away some notes 
 of patience, trust, and dutifulness that returned upon him 
 as his mind recovered tone after the first shock. The whis- 
 pers that had bidden him tarry the Lord's leisure, be 
 strong, and commit his way to llim who could bring it to 
 pass, and could save Eustacie as she had already been
 
 78 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 saved, returned to liim once more: he cliid himself for his 
 faintness of heart, ralhed his powers, and determined that 
 cheerfuhiess, dutifuhiess, and care for Phili]:) should no 
 longer fail. 
 
 So he reviewed his resources, and in the first place ar- 
 ranged for a brief daily worship with his two English fel- 
 low-prisoners, corresponding to the home hours of chapel 
 service. Then he jiroposed to Philij:) to spend an hour 
 every day over the study of the Latin Bible: and when 
 Philij) showed himself reluctant to give up his habit of 
 staring over the battlements, he reji resented that an attack 
 on their faith was not so imjjrobable but they ought to be 
 prepared for it. 
 
 " I'm quite prepared,^ ' quoth Philip; " I shall not listen 
 to a word they say. ' ' 
 
 However, he submitted to this, but was far more contu- 
 macious as to Berenger 's other proposal of profiting by Sid- 
 ney's copy of Virgil. Here at least he was away from Mr. 
 Adderley and study, and it passed endurance to have Latin 
 and captivity both at once. He was more obliged for Beren- 
 ger's offer to impart to him the instruction in fencing he 
 had received during his first visit to Paris; the chevalier 
 made no difficulty about lending them foils, and their little 
 court became the scene of numerous encounters, as well as 
 of other games and exercises. More sedentary sjiorts were 
 at their service, chess, tables, dice, or cards, but Phihp de- 
 tested these, and they were only j^layed in the evening, or on 
 a rainy afternoon, by Berenger and the chevalier. 
 
 It was clearly no part of the old gentleman's plan to 
 break their health or spirits. He insisted on takiiig them 
 out riding frequently, though always with four gendarmes 
 with loaded arquebuses, so as to preclude all attempt at es- 
 cape, or conversation with the j)easants. The rides were 
 hateful to both youths, but Berenger knew that so many 
 hours of tedium were thus disposed of, and hoped also to 
 acquire some knowledge of the country; indeed, he looked 
 at every cottage and every peasant with affectionate eyes, 
 as probably having sheltered Eustacie; and Philip, after 
 one visit paid to the convent at Bellaise, was always in 
 hojjes of making such another. His boyish admiration of 
 Mnie. de Selinville was his chief distraction, coming on in 
 accesses whenever there was a hope of seeing her, antl often 
 diverting Berenger by its absurdities, even though at other
 
 THE CUAPLET OF PEARLS. 70 
 
 times he feared that the Lad might be led away by it, or 
 dissension sown between them. Meetings were rare — now 
 and then Mme. de Selinville woidd aj^pear at dinner or at 
 supper as her fatlier's guest; and more rarely, the cheva- 
 lier would turn his horse's head in the direction of Bellaise, 
 and the three gentlemen would be received in the unpar- 
 titioned parlor, and there treated to such lemon cakes as 
 had been the ruin of La Sable rie; but in general the castle 
 and the convent had little intercourse, or only just enough 
 to whet the appetite of the prisoners for v/liat constituted 
 their only variety. 
 
 Six weeks had lagged by before any answer from Paris 
 was received, and then there was no reply from Walsing- 
 ham, who had, it appeared, returned home immediately 
 after King Charles's funeral. The letter from the council 
 bore that the queen-mother was ready to accept the Baron 
 de Eibaumont's excuses in good part, and to consider his 
 youth; and she had no doubt of his being treated with the 
 like indulgence by the king, provided he would prove him- 
 self a loyal subject, by embracing the Catholic faith, re- 
 nouncing all his illegitimate claims to the estates of Nid-de- 
 Merle, and, in pledge of his sincerity, wedding his coushi, 
 the Countess de Selinville, so soon as a disjjensation should 
 have been procured. On no other consideration could he 
 be pardoned or set at liberty. 
 
 Then," said Berenger slowly, " a prisoner I must re- 
 main until it be the will of Heaven to open the doors. " 
 
 "Fair nephew!" exclaimed the chevalier, "make no 
 rash replies. Bethink you to what you expose yourself by 
 obstinacy. I may no longer be able to protect you when the 
 king returns." And he further went on to represent that, 
 oj renouncing voluntarily all possible claims on the Nid- 
 de-Merle estates, the baron would save the honor of poor 
 Eustacie (which indeed equally concerned the rest of the 
 family), since they then would gladly drop all dispute of 
 the validity of the marriage; and the lands of Selinville 
 would be an amj^le equivalent for these, as well as for all 
 expectations in England. 
 
 "Sir, it is impossible!" said Berenger. "My wife 
 lives." 
 
 " Comment 9 when you wear mourning for her." 
 
 *' I wear black because I have been able to procure noth- 
 ing else since I have been convinced that she did not perish
 
 80 THE CHAPLET OV PEARLS. 
 
 at La Sablerie. I was on my way to seek her when I was 
 seized and detained liere. " 
 
 " Where would you have sought her, my poor cousin?^' 
 compassionately asked the chevalier. 
 
 " That I know not. 8he may be in England by this 
 time; but that she escaj^ed from La Sablerie, I am well as- 
 sured." 
 
 "Alas! my poor friend, you feed on delusion. I have 
 surer evidence — you shall see the man yourself— one of my 
 son's people, who was actually at the assault, and had strict 
 orders to seek and save her. Would that I could feel the 
 least hope left!" 
 
 " Is the man here? Let me see him," said Berenger, 
 hastily. 
 
 He was at once sent for, and proved to be one of the 
 stable servants, a rough, soldierly-looking man, who made 
 no difficulty in telling that M. de Nid-de- Merle had bidden 
 his own troop to use every eftort to reach the Widow Lau- 
 rent's house, and secure the lady. They had made for it, 
 but missed the way, and met with various obstacles; and 
 when they reached it, it was already in flames, and he had 
 seen for a moment Mile, de Nid-de-Merle, whom he well 
 knew by sight, with an infant in her arms at an upper win- 
 dow. He had called to her by name, and was about to 
 send for a ladder, when recognizing the Ribaumont colors, 
 she had turned back, and thrown herself and her child into 
 the flames. M. de IS! id -de -Merle was frantic when he 
 heard of it, and they had searched for the remains among 
 the ruins; but, bah! it was like a lime-kiln, nothing was to 
 be found — all was calcined. 
 
 " No fragment left?" said Berenger; "not a corner of 
 tile or beam?" 
 
 " Not so much wood as you could boil an egg with; I 
 will swear it on the Mass," 
 
 " That is needless," said Berenger. "I have seen the 
 spot myself. That is all I desired to ask." 
 
 The chevalier would have taken his hand and condoled 
 with him over the horrible story; but he drew back, re- 
 peating that he had seen Widow Laurent's house, and that 
 lie savv that some parts of the man 's story were so much 
 falsified that he could not believe the rest. Moreover, ho 
 knew that Eustacie had not been in the town at the time of 
 the siege.
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 81 
 
 Now the chevalier hona fide believed the man's story, so 
 far as that he never doubted that Eustacie had perished, 
 and he looked on Berenger's refusal to accept the tale as 
 the mournful last clinging to a vain liope. In his eyes, the 
 actual sight of Eustacie, and the total destruction of the 
 house, were mere matters of embellishment, possibl}' un- 
 true, but not invalidating the main fact, lie only said, 
 " Well, my friend, I will not press you while the paiu of 
 this narration is still fresh." 
 
 " Thank you, sir; bat this is not pain, for I believe not 
 a word of it; therefore it is impossible for me to entertain 
 the proposal, even if I could forsake my faith or my En- 
 glish kindred. You remember, sir, that I returned this 
 same answer at Paris, when I had no hope that my wife 
 survived." 
 
 " True, my fair cousin, but I fear time will convince 
 you that this constancy is uidiapjiily misjilaccd. You shall 
 have time to consider; and when it is proved to you that 
 my jjoor niece is out of the reach of your fidelity, and when 
 you have become better acquainted with the claims of the 
 Church to your allegiance, then may it only prove that your 
 conversion does not come too late. I have the honor to 
 take my leave. " 
 
 " One moment more, sir. Is there no answer as to my 
 brother?" 
 
 " None, cousin. As I told you, your country has at 
 present no embassador; but, of course, on your fulfillment 
 of the conditions, he would be released with you." 
 
 " So," said Philip, when the old knight had quitted the 
 room, " of course you can not marry while Eustacie lives; 
 but if—" 
 
 " Not another word, profane boy!" angrily cried Beren- 
 ger. 
 
 "I was only going to say, it is a pity of one so goodly 
 not to bring her over to the true faith, and take her to 
 England. " 
 
 " Much w^ould she be beholden to you!" said Berenger. 
 " So!" he added, sighing, " I had little hope but that it 
 would be thus. I believe it is all a web of this old plotter's 
 weaving, and that the queen-mother acts in it at his re- 
 quest. He wants only to buy me off with his daughter's 
 estates from asserting my claim to this castle and lands; 
 and I trow he will never rise up here till — till — "
 
 82 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 " Till when. Berry?" 
 
 " Till mayhap my grandfather can move the queen to 
 do something for us; or till Madame de Selinville sees a 
 face she likes better than her brother's carving; or — what 
 call I tell? — till malice is tired out^ and Heaven's will sets us 
 free! May Eustacie only have reached home! But I'm 
 sorry for you, my poor Phil. " 
 
 " Never heed, brother," said Philip; " what is jjrison to 
 me, so that I can now and then see those lovely eyes?'^ 
 
 And the languishing air of the clumsy lad was so comical 
 as to beguile Berenger into a laugh. Yet Berenger's own 
 feeling would go back to his first meeting with Diane; and 
 as he thought of the eyes then fixed on him, he felt that he 
 was under a trial that might become more severe. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE DARK POOL OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 Trlumpli, triumph, only slie 
 
 That kuit 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, excei^t that Pere 
 Bonami, who had already once or twice dined at the cheva- 
 lier's table, was request'^d to make formal exposition of the 
 errors of the Eeformcrs 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 
 liis elbows on the table and his fingers in his ears, regard- 
 less of appearing to the joriest 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 differ- 
 ences 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 nimierous before the Jesiut 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
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 83 
 
 like bow and arrow against sword. And in those days of 
 change, controversial reading was one of the primaiy stud- 
 ies even of young hiymen, and Lord AValtvyn, witli a view 
 to his grandson's pecuh'ar position, had taken care that he 
 should be well instructed, so that he was not at all unequal 
 to the contest. Moreover, niydvt from argument, he clung 
 as a point of honor 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 Ari- 
 osto's, in ferza rima, of a Red Cross knight separated from 
 his Una as the true faith, and tempted by a treacherous 
 Duessa, who im2:)ersonated at once Falsehood and Rome. 
 And he knew so well that the least 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 jiredominance of the pastoral, such as 
 the Diana of George of Montemayor and his numerous imi- 
 tators — 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 Mme. de Selin- 
 ville 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 dev- 
 oirs of love, or the mourning of some disconsolate nymph 
 over her jealousies of a favored 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 endeavoring 
 to bear away Sylvie from her cavern, how 8ylvie had been 
 rent from him and lost, and how vainly he contiinied to 
 bewail her, and disregard the loving lame.it of Daphne,
 
 84 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 who had ever mourned find 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 com- 
 pounded a balsam that might do away with tlie scars that 
 the claws of the lions had left, so that he might again ap- 
 pear 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 ex2)eriment of 
 the balsam of simijles, 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; ajid to a lady he could not be rude and 
 repellent, though he could be reserved. So, when the kins- 
 folk met, no stranger would have discovered that one was a 
 prisoner and the others his cajotors. 
 
 One August day, when Mme. 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 peddler 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 wliite as driven snow, 
 Cyprus, black as e'er was crow; 
 Gloves as sweet as fragrant posies, 
 Masks for faces and fur noses;" 
 
 and there was a good deal of the eager, desultory bargain- 
 ing that naturally took place where purchasing was an un- 
 usual excitement and novelty, and was to form a whole 
 evening's amusement. Berenger, while supplying the de- 
 fects of his scanty traveling wardrobe, was trying to make 
 out whether he had seen tlie man before, wondering if he
 
 THE CHAPMT OF PEARLS. 85 
 
 were the same whom he had met in the forest of Mont- 
 pipeau, though a few differences in dress, hair, and beard 
 made him somewhat doubtful. 
 
 " Perfumes? Yes, lady, I have store of perfumes; am- 
 bergris and violet dew, and the 'J^irkish essence distilled 
 from roses; yea and the finest sjiirit of the Venus myrtle- 
 tree, the secret known to the Koman 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 val- 
 ued 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, 1 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 u]) with 
 the abstruse calculation — derived from his past days of 
 economy — how much ribbon would be needed to retrim 
 his nnivvey jnsf-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, "Jug 
 glery!" 
 
 " Ah, the fair company are all slow to believe," said the 
 
 {)eddler. " Hola, Alessio!" and taking a glove that Philip 
 lad left on the table, he held it to the boy. A few unintel- 
 ligible words passed between them; then the boy pointed 
 direct to Philip, and wav^ed his hand nortbward. " Ho says 
 the gentleman who owns this glove comes fi-om the North, 
 from far away," interpreted the Italian; then as the boy 
 made the gesture of walking in chains, " that he is a cap- 
 tive.'* 
 
 " Ay," cried Philip, "right, lad; and can he tell how 
 long I stiall be so?" 
 
 " Things yet to come," said the mountebank, " are only 
 revealed after long preparation. For them must he gaze 
 into the dark pool 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 Mme. de Selin- 
 ville. "You credit it, madame?" 
 
 " Ah, have we not seen the wonders come to pass that a
 
 8(3 THE cHaplet of pearls. 
 
 like diviner foretold to the queen-mother?" said Diane; 
 " her sons should be all kings — that was told to her when 
 the eldest was yet Dauphhi. '^ 
 
 " And there is only one yet to come," said Philip, awe- 
 struck. " But see, what has he now?'^ 
 
 " Veronique's kerchief/' returned Mnie. 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 bou- 
 quet 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. " Monsieur 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 j^aid, began to make vehement gestures, which the 
 man interj^reted. " Le Balafre, he says, pardon me, gen- 
 tlemen, h 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 {es- 
 perance) iohQiomA. 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 peddler, " as I told messieurs and mes- 
 dames before, the spirits that cast the lights of the future 
 on the dark 230ol need invocation. Ere he can answer Mon- 
 sieur le Baron's demands, he and I must have time and 
 seclusion. If Monsieur le Chevalier will grant us an emj^ty 
 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 laugh- 
 ing 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 jicrfumer, 
 testifying to the skill of his compatriot Ercole Stizzito both
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 87 
 
 in perfumery, cosmetics, and in the secrets of occult sci- 
 ences. 
 
 I'lie 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 mnster-roll of ecclesiastics, male and female, who 
 had heard and ap2')roved his predictions. 
 
 " A few more words with thee, fellow,'^ said the cheva- 
 lier, 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 dejjends on my father's report," she said. " And 
 yet," sadly and pensively, " my future is dark and void 
 enough. Why should I vex m3^self 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 indescriba- 
 bly touching; but Berenger was gathering his purchases to- 
 gether, 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 gypsy at Hurst 
 Fair?" 
 
 " Pshaw, Berry, we are past flogging now." 
 
 " Out of reach, Phil, of the rod, but scarce of the teach- 
 ing it struck into us. " 
 
 " What?" said Philip sulkily. 
 
 " That divining is either cozening man or forsaking God, 
 Phil. Either it is falsehood, or it is a lying wonder of the 
 devil." 
 
 " But, Berry, this man is no cheat. " 
 
 " Then he is worse. "
 
 88 THB CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Only, turn not away, brother. Hosv should he have 
 known things that even I know not? the heaUier.^' 
 
 " 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 Kene, 
 his master, who met me there. ""^ 
 
 " Then you think it mere cozening? 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, chil- 
 dren, I have examined the fellow and his credentials, and 
 for those who have enough youth and hojie to care to have 
 the future made know^n to them, bah I 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 his secrets, father?" inquired Mme. de 
 Selinville. 
 
 " I, my daughter? An old man's fortune is in his chil- 
 dren. What have I to ask?" 
 
 " I — I scarcely like to be the first!" said the lady, eager 
 but hesitating. " Veronique, you would have your fort- 
 une told?" 
 
 " I will be the first," said Philiii, stej^ping forward man- 
 fully. " 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 En- 
 glishman, as well as satisfied to exercise his resolution for 
 once in opposition to Berenger's oi^inion. Master Thistle- 
 wood stepped toward the closet where the Italian awaited 
 his clients, and Berenger knew that it would be worse than 
 useless (o endeavor to withhold him. lie 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,
 
 THE ClIAPLET CF PEAltLS. 89 
 
 tliiiiking 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 \vrecked sailoi's that to seek to de- 
 lude their thirst with sea-water did but aggravate their 
 misery. He knew that wluitcver he might hear would be un- 
 worthy of confidence. Eiiher it might have been prompted 
 by the chevalier, or it might be 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 presumptu- 
 ous 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 do Selinville had been watching his face all the 
 time, and now said, with that almost timid air of gayety 
 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 Re- 
 formers to condescend to our little wickednesses, daughter," 
 said the chevalier; and the sneer — much like that which 
 w^oull await a person now who scrupled at joining in table- 
 turning or any form of sinritualism — j^urpled 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 re- 
 solved against running into a trap. 
 
 " I am sure," said Mme. 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 
 toward my fair cousin here!" 
 
 " That, madame," said Berenger, with the same grave 
 dryness, " is hkely 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 Mme. de
 
 90 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Seliiiville uttered a little cry, and exclaimed, " Ah! is it so 
 dreadi'iil then?" 
 
 " No, no, niailame," said Philip, turning round, with a 
 fervor and confidence he had never before shown. " On 
 my word, there is nothing formidable. You see nothing — 
 nothing but the Italian and the boy. The boy gazes mto a 
 vessel of some black liquid, and sees — sees there all you 
 would have revealed. Ah I" 
 
 " Then you believe?'^ asked Mme. de Selinville. 
 
 ^' It can not 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 ])l;ice. Tlie little boy gazed, smiled, bab- 
 bled his gibberisli, pointed. The man said he spoke of a 
 fair mansion among green fields and hills, ' a grand cava- 
 lier cmhonpolnt' — those were his very words — at the door, 
 with a tankard in one hand. Ah! my dear father, why 
 couhl not I see him too? But who could mistake liim 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 hesitat- 
 ed; " 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 re- 
 tire." 
 
 " 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 im- 
 patience a little longer." 
 
 " Thanks, sir," said Berenger; "but I am not tempt- 
 ed," and he gave the usual signal to the gendarmes, who,
 
 THE CUAPLET OF PEARLS. 91 
 
 during meals, used to stand as sentries at the great door of 
 the hall. 
 
 *'It might settle your mind/' muttered Philip, hesitat- 
 ing. " And yet — yet — " 
 
 But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be 
 escorted with his brother along the j^assages 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 im- 
 posture. 
 
 " No desire! Ah! I had 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 Pliilip, 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 botli be in durance for your mere 
 dream that she lives." 
 
 " Come, Phil, it will be the devil indeed that sows dis-
 
 93 THE CHAPLET C5 PEAELS. 
 
 sension 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 u]) her fair 
 name I would rot iu prison for life. Or w^ould you have 
 me renounce my faith, or wed Madame de Seliuville upon 
 the witnesses 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 Prot- 
 estant faith so that I never heard a word from the wily 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 Be- 
 renger 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, color- 
 ing. 
 
 " J^o doubt, as the chevalier had taught him." 
 
 " You have prejudged, and are deaf to all," said Phihp. 
 " What, could 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-humoredly, "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 can not give away 
 my faith." Philip bent his head. He was of too stubborn
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 93 
 
 a mold to express contrition or affection, but he mused for 
 five minutes, then called Humfrey, and at the last mo- 
 ment, as the heavy tread came upstairs, he turned round 
 and said, " You're in the right ou'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. 
 Yon would know 'tis sooth. " 
 
 While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamp- 
 light 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. 
 
 Theie 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 off the clear olive of her complex- 
 ion, softened by short jetty curls at the temples, and light- 
 ed by splendid dark eyes, and by the smiles of a perfect 
 pair of lips. A transparent veil hung back over the ruff 
 like frost-work-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 ti^e downcast eyelids, and a trembling 
 of the fair hand, as ^ugh 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 Cath- 
 erine de Medecis. There were words lately uttered that 
 weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not for- 
 get 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 in- 
 tensity 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 fastastically arrayed 
 in a sort of semi-Albanian garb, a red cap with a long tas-
 
 94 THE CHATLET OF PEAllLS. 
 
 sel;, a dark, gold -embroidered velvet jacket sitting close to 
 his body, and a white kilt over his legs., bare excejit 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 
 sjDoken. 
 
 No doubt of the veritable nature of the charm crossed 
 Diane; her doubt was of its lawfulness, her dread of the 
 su2)ernatural region she was invading. She hesitated be- 
 fore she ventured on her first question, and started as the 
 Italian first spoke — " What would the eccellentissima? 
 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 re- 
 luctant 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 jjlaying on the lute, throw his 
 head back, close his eyes, and appear to be singing a lul- 
 laby. Then he spoke a few words to his master quickly. 
 
 "He sees, '^ 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 nia«k and gloves. It is, 
 he says, in my own land, in Italy,^ijtnd as the boy made 
 the action of rowing, " in the territory of Venice. '^ 
 
 "It is well," said Mme. de Selinville, m4io knew that 
 nothing was more probable than that her brother should be 
 playing the king to liis slee}! 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 heart — " 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
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 95 
 
 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 can not understand. It is exhaust- 
 ing,- 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, shak- 
 ing his head at the dark pool, as ho muttered 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 imijlores he may not see it again. A 
 sacked and burning town, a lady in a flaming house — " 
 
 " Enough, enough," said Diane; " I could as little bear 
 to hear as he to see. It is w^hat we have ever known and 
 feared. And now " — she blushed as she S23oke — " sir, you 
 will leave me one of those j)otions that Signer Renato is 
 wont to compound. " 
 
 " Capisco !" said Ercole, with a rapid motion of his 
 head. 
 
 " It must be such," added Diane, " as can be disguised 
 in she/bet or milk. All hitherto have failed, as the person 
 in question tastes no wine." 
 
 " It wall take a more refined preparation-r-a subtler es- 
 sence," returned Ercole; "but the eccellentissima shall 
 be obeyed if she will supply the means, for the expenses 
 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
 
 96 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 toward the ajoartment where the Italian still remained 
 counting the money he had received. 
 
 "So!" he said as he entered, '" so, fellow, I Jiave not 
 hindered your gains, and you have been true to your agree- 
 ment?'' 
 
 " 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 
 Monsieur le Baron it will be needful to be more guarded. " 
 
 " Monsieur le Baron shall not have the oj^portunity,'^ 
 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 unhajjpy 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 2)assed 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 have seen this 
 lady with Monsieur le Baron when they made purchases of 
 various trinkets at Montpipeau; and I saw her fully again. 
 I had the honor to purchase from her certain jewels, that 
 the eccellenza will probably redeem; and even — pardon, 
 sir — I cut oft' 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, fel- 
 low?" 
 
 " Surely, illustrissimo. Such tresses — so shining, so 
 silky, so well kejjt — I reserved to adorn the heads of Signor 
 Eenato's most princely customers," said the man, unpack- 
 ing from the inmost recesses of one of his most ingeniously 
 arranged jjackages 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
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 97 
 
 touch those locks; but she said 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, clinching his hand. "And now, man, let me 
 see the jewels with which the besotted child parted. " 
 
 The jewels were not many, nor remarkable. JSTo 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 under- 
 stood 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 — wliich 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 wlien 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 M'arm 
 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 carna- 
 tion-colored ribbons— though, for herself, I saw the home- 
 spun 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. 
 
 4-yd half
 
 98 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 "' Signer, 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 that nest of heretics, 
 Montauban, where doubtless the old miscreant would obtain 
 an appointment to some village.'^ 
 
 " When did you thus fall 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 tlie maidens' heads." 
 
 " ParUeu ! class not my niece with those sordid beings, 
 man," said the chevalier, angrily. " Here is your jorice " 
 ■ — tossing a heavy i3urse on the table — " and as much more 
 shall await you when you bring me sure intelligence where 
 to tind 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 
 supposes herself a widow. And I understand the eccel- 
 lenza, she is still to think so. I may be depended on. " 
 
 "You understand," repeated the chevalier, "this sun 
 shall reward you when you have informed me where to fine 
 her — as a man like you can easily trace her from Montau- 
 ban. If you have any traffickings with her, it shall bb 
 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 fan- 
 cied her husband." 
 
 " I see, signer; 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? Hid 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 jDarting greeting, he dismissed the Italian, but only 
 to sup under the careful surveillance of the steward, and
 
 TH"E CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 99 
 
 then to be conveyed by early morning light beyond the ter- 
 ritory 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, 
 clinch his fists 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, selhng 
 her hair! and what next? Here was she alive after all, 
 alive and disgracing herself; alive — yes, both she and her 
 husband — to jjerplex the chevalier, and force him either to 
 new crimes or to beggar his son I AVhy could not the one 
 have really died on the St. Bartholomew, or the other at 
 La Sablerie, instead of 2:)utting the jjoor chevalier in the 
 wrong by coming to life 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 elope- 
 ment, and that he had forced on the wedding with Narcisse, 
 so as to drive Eustacie to flight fi'om the convent — in igno- 
 rance again of her living that he had imprisoned Berenger, 
 and tried to buy off his claims to Nid-de-Merle with Diane's 
 hand. Circumstances had used him cruelly, and he shrunk 
 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 in- 
 terest, so as to make it appear that the ceremony at Mont- 
 pipeau, 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 widows must, immediately on the arrival 
 of the decree and dispensation, be forced into the marriage
 
 100 THE CHAPLET OP PEAHLS. 
 
 with Narcisse before she heard of Berenger's being still 
 alive. And then Berenger would have no longer any ex- 
 cuse for holding out. His claims would be disposed of, 
 and he might be either sent to England, or he might be 
 won upon by Mme. 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 aud 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 inciu' 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 honorably 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 of La Sablerie, and, wearying of cajjtivity, 
 might yield at length to the j^ersuasions of Diane and her 
 father, and become so far involved vyith them as to be un- 
 able to draw back, or else be so stung by Eustacie's deser- 
 tion as to accej)t 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 praise- 
 worthy, 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 j^oint 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.
 
 IHB CHAPLET OF PEARLS. lOi 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 *'JAM satis/' 
 
 You may go walk, and give me leave awhile, 
 My lessons make no music in three parts. 
 
 Taming of (he Shrew. 
 
 Whether the dark pool really showed Sir Marmad uke 
 Tliistiewood or not, at the moment that his son desired tliat 
 his image shoidd be called up, the good knight was, in 
 effect, sitting nodding over the tankard of sack with which 
 his sujiper was always concluded, while the rest of the 
 family, lured out of the sunny hall by the charms of a fresh 
 summer evening, had dispersed into the gardens or hall. 
 
 Presently a movement in the neighborhood made him 
 think it incumbent on him to oj^en his eyes wide, and ex- 
 claim, " I'm not asleep." 
 
 " Oh no! you never are asleep when there's anything you 
 ought to see!" returned Dame Annora, who was standing 
 by him with her hand on his chair. 
 
 " How now? Any tidings of the lads?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Of the lads? No, indeed; but there will be bad tidings 
 for the lads if yon do not see to it! Where do you think 
 your daughter is, Sir Duke?" 
 
 " Where? How should I know? She went out to give 
 her sisters some strawberries, I thought. " 
 
 " See here," said Lady Thistlewood, leading the way to 
 the north end of the hall, where a door opened into what 
 was called the Yew-tree Grove. This consisted of five rows 
 of yew-trees, planted at regular intervals, and their natural 
 mode of growth so interfei-ed with by constant, cutting, 
 that their ruddy trunks had been obliged to rise branchless, 
 till about twelve feet above ground they had been allowed 
 to spread out their limbs in the form of ordinary forest- 
 trees; and, altogether, their foliage became a thick, un- 
 broken, dark, evergreen roof, impervious to sunshine, and 
 almost impervious to rain, while btlow their trunks were 
 like columns forming five arcades, floored only by that 
 dark red crusty earth and green lichen growth that seems 
 peculiar to the shelter of yew-trees. The depth of the 
 shade and the stillness of the place made it something
 
 102 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 peculiarly soothing and quiet, more especially when, as now, 
 the sunset light came below the branches, richly tinted the 
 russet pillars, cast long shadows, and gleamed into all the 
 recesses of the interlacing boughs and polished leafage 
 above. 
 
 " Do you see. Sir Duiie?" demanded his lady. 
 
 "I see my little maids making a rare feast under the 
 trees upon their strawberries set out on leaves. Bless their 
 little hearts! what a pretty fairy feast they've made of it, 
 with the dogs looking on as grave as judges! It makes me 
 young again to get a smack of the hautbois your mother 
 brought from Chelsea Gardens." 
 
 " Hautbois! He'd never see if the house were afire 
 overhead. What's that beyond?" 
 
 " No fire, my dear, but the sky all aglow with sunset, 
 and the red cow standing up against the light, chewing her 
 cud, and looking as well pleased as though she knew there 
 wasn't her match in Dorset." 
 
 • Lady Thistlewood fairly stamped, and pointed with her 
 fan, like a jDistol, down a side aisle of the grove, where two 
 figures were slowly moving along. 
 
 '* Ell! what? Lucy with her apron full of rose-leaves, 
 letting them float away while she cons the children's lesson 
 for the morrow with Merrycourt? They be no great loss, 
 when the jjlace is full of roses. Or why could you not call 
 to the wench to take better heed to them, instead of mak- 
 ing all this pother?" 
 
 " A pretty sort of lesson it is like to be! A pretty sort 
 of return for my poor son, unless you take the better 
 heed!" 
 
 " Would that I saw any return at all for either of the 
 poor dear lads," sighed the knight wearily; *' but what 
 you may be driving at I can not perceive." 
 
 "What! When 'tis before your very eyes, how yonder 
 smooth-tongued French impostor, after luring him back to 
 his ruin beyond seas, is supplanting him even here, and 
 your daughter giving herself over to the wily viper!" 
 
 " The man is a Popish priest," said Sir Marmaduke; 
 " no more given to love than Mr. Adderley or Friar 
 liogers." 
 
 The dame gave a snort of derision: " Prithee, how many 
 Popish priests be now wedded parsons? Nor, indeed, even 
 if his story be true, do I believe he is a priest at all. I
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 103 
 
 have seen many a young abbe, as they call themselves, clerk 
 only in name, loitering at court, free to throw off the cas- 
 sock any moment they chose, and as insolent as the rest. 
 Why, the Abbe de Lorraine, cardinal that is now, said of 
 my complexion — " 
 
 " No vows, quotha!" muttered Sir Marmaduke, well 
 aware of the Cardinal de Lorraine's opinion of his lady's 
 complexion. " So much the better; he is too good a young 
 fellow to be forced to moi^e single, and yet I hate men's 
 breaking their word." 
 
 " And that's all you have to say!" angrily cried her lady- 
 ship. *' No one save myself ever thinks how it is to be with 
 my poor dear wounded, heart-broken son, when he comes 
 home, to find himself so scurvily used by that faithless girl 
 of yours, ready — ' ' 
 
 " Hold, madame," said Sir Marmaduke, with real stern- 
 ness; " nothing rash against my daughter. How should she 
 be faithless to a man who had been wedded ever since she 
 knew him?" 
 
 " He is free now," said Lady Thistle wood, beginning to 
 cry (for the last letters received from Berenger had been 
 those from Paris, while he still believed Eustacie to have 
 perished at La Sablerie); " and I do say it is very hard that 
 just when he is rid of the French baggage, the bane of his 
 life, and is coming home, may be with a child upon his 
 hands, and all wounded, scarred, and blurred, the only 
 wench he would or should have married should throw her- 
 self away on a French vagabond beggar, and you aiding 
 and abetting. " 
 
 " Come, come, Dame Nan," said Sir Marmaduke, " who 
 told you I was aiding and abetting?" 
 
 " Tell me not. Sir Duke, you that see them a courting 
 under your very eyes, and will not stir a finj. er to hinder 
 it. If you like to see your daughter take up v, ith a foreign 
 adventurer, why, she's no child of mine, th uik Heaven! 
 and I've naught to do with it." 
 
 " Pshaw, dame, there's no taking up in tlr case; and if 
 there were, sure it is not you that should be hii d on Lucy." 
 
 Whereupon Annora fell into such a flood of tears at the 
 cruelty of casting such things up to her, that Sir Marma- 
 duke was fain in his blundering way to declare that he only 
 meant that an honest Englishman had no chance where a 
 Frenchman once came in, and then very nearly to sur-
 
 104 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 render at discretion. At any rate, he escaped from her 
 tears by going out at the door, and caUing to Lucy to mind 
 her rose-leaves; then, as she ga^.ed round, dismayed at the 
 pink track along the ground, he asked her what she had 
 been doing. Whereto she answered with bright face and 
 honest eyes, that Mr. Mericonr had been going over with 
 her the ode " Jam satis,'' of Horatius, wherewith to pre- 
 pare little Nan for him to-morrow, and then she ran hur- 
 riedly away to secure the remainder of the rose-leaves, while 
 her companion was already on his knees picking up the 
 petals she had drojjped. 
 
 " Master Merry court," said Sir Marmaduke, a little 
 gruffly, " never heed the flower-leaves. I want a word 
 with you. '' 
 
 Claude de Mericour rose hastily, as if somewhat struck 
 by the tone. 
 
 ' ' The matter is this, " said the knight, leading him from 
 the house, and signing back the little girls who had sprung 
 toward them — " it has been brought to mind that you are 
 but a youth, and, pardon me, my young master, but when 
 lads and lasses have their heads together over one book, 
 tongues wag." 
 
 The color rushed hotly into young Mericour's face, and 
 he answered quickly, " My rank — I mean my order — 
 should answer that." 
 
 " Stay, young man, we are not in France; your order, be 
 it what it may, has not hindered many a marriage in Eng- 
 land; though, look you, no man should ever wed with my 
 consent who broke his word to God in so doing; but they 
 tell me your vows are not always made at your age. " 
 
 " Nor are they," exclaimed Mericour, in a low voice, 
 but with a sudden light on his countenance. " The ton- 
 sure was given me as a child, and no vow of celibacy has 
 passed my lips. " 
 
 Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, " Oh! — " with a prolongation 
 of the sound that lasted till Mericour began again. 
 
 " But, sir, let tongues wag as they will, it is for naught. 
 Your fair daughter was but as ever preparing beforehand 
 with me the tasks with which she so kindly indoctrinates 
 her little sisters. I never thought of myself as aught but 
 a religious, and should never dream of human love." 
 
 ^' I thought so! I said so!" said Sir Marmaduke, highly 
 gratified. ' ' I knew you were an honorable man that would
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 105 
 
 never speak of love to my daughter by stealth, nor without 
 means to maintain her after her birth. " 
 
 The word '' birth " brought the blood into the face of 
 the son of the peer of France, but he merely bowed with 
 considerable stiffness and pride, saying, ' ' You did m e 
 justice, sir." 
 
 " Come, don't be hurt, man," said Sir Marmaduke, 
 putting his hand on his shoulder. " I told you I knew yon 
 for an honorable man! You'll be over here to-morrow to 
 hear the little maids their 'Jam satis,' or whatever you 
 call it, and dine with us, after to taste Lucy's handiwork in 
 jam cranberry, a better thing as I take it. " 
 
 Mericour had recovered himself, smiled, shook the good 
 Sir Marmaduke's proffered hand, and, begging to excuse 
 himself from bidding good-night to the ladies on the score 
 of lateness, he walked away to cross the downs on his re- 
 turn to Combe Walwyn, where he was still resident, accord- 
 ing to the arrangement by which he was there to await 
 Berenger's return, now deferred so much beyond all reason- 
 able expectation. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke, with a free heart, betook himself to the 
 house, dreading to find that Lucv had fallen under the 
 objurgations of her step-mother, but feeling imj^elled to 
 stand her protector, and guided to the spot by the high 
 key of Dame Annora's voice. 
 
 He found Lucy — who, on the rare occasions when good- 
 natured Lady Tliistlewood was really angry W'ith her, usu- 
 ally cowered meekly — now standing her gromid, and while 
 the dame was pausing for breath, he heard her gentle voice 
 answering steadily, " No, madame, to him I could never 
 owe faith, nor troth, nor love, save such as I have for 
 PhiHp." 
 
 " Then it is very unfeeling and ungrateful of you. Nor 
 did you think so once, but it is all his scars and — " 
 
 By this time Sir Marmaduke had come near enough to 
 put his arm round his daughter, and say, " No such thing, 
 Dame. It had been unseemly in the lass had it been other- 
 wise. She is a good girl and a discreet; and the French- 
 man, if he has made none of their vows, feels as bound as 
 though he had. He's an honest fellow, thinking of his 
 studies, and not of ladies or any such trumpery. So give 
 me a kiss, Lucy girl, and thou shalt study ' Jam satis,' or 
 any other jam he pleases, without more to vex thee."
 
 106 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Lucy, now that the warfare was over, had begun to weep 
 so profusely that so soon as her father released her, she 
 turned, made a mute gesture to ask permission to depart, 
 and hurried away; while Lady Thistlewood, who disliked 
 above all that her husband should think her harsh to her 
 step-children, began to relate the exceeding tenderness of 
 the remonstrance which had been followed with such dis- 
 proportionate floods of tears. 
 
 Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night 
 had put an end to the subject which harassed him at a time 
 when he felt less capable thau usual of bearing vexation, 
 for he was yearning sadly after his only son. The youths 
 had been absent ten months, and had not been heard of 
 for more than three, when they were just leaving Paris in 
 search of the infant. Sir Francis Walsingham, whose em- 
 bassy had ended with the death of Charles IX., knew noth- 
 ing of them, and great apprehensions respecting them were 
 beginning to jDrevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, 
 seemed to be eating out the peace and joy of his life. 
 Philip, always at his father's side ever since he could run 
 alone, was missed at every visit to stable or kennel; the ring 
 of his cheery voice was wanting to the house; and the 
 absence of his merry whistle seemed to make Sir Marma- 
 duke 's heart sink like lead as he donned" his heavy boots, 
 and went forth in the silver dew of the summer morning to 
 judge which of his corn-fields would soonest be ready for the 
 sickle. Until this expedition of his sons he had, for more 
 than fourteen years, never been alone in those morning 
 rounds on his farm; and much as he loved his daughters, 
 they seemed to weigh very light in the scale compared with 
 the sturdy heir who loved every acre with his own ancestral 
 love. Indeed, perhaps. Sir Marmaduke had a deeper, 
 fonder affection for the children of his first marriage, be- 
 cause he had barely been able to give his full heart to their 
 mother before she was taken from him, and he had felt 
 almost double tenderness to be due to them, when he at 
 length obtained his first and only true love. Now, as he 
 looked over the shining billows of the waving barley, his 
 heart was very sore with longing for Philip's gladsome shout 
 at the harvest-field, and he thought with surprise and com- 
 punction how he had seen Lucy leave him struggling with 
 a flood of tears. While he was still thus gazing, a head 
 appeared in the narrow path that led across the fields, and
 
 ' THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 107 
 
 presently he recognized the slender, upright form of the 
 young Frenchman. 
 
 " A fair good morrow to you. Master Merrycourt! You 
 come right early to look after your ode?" 
 
 " Sir/^ said Mericour, gravely saluting him, " I come to 
 make you my confession. I find that I did not deal truly 
 with you last night, but it was all unwittingly." 
 
 " How?" exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recollecting Lucy's 
 tears and looking much startled. " You have not — " and 
 there he broke off, seeing Mericour eager to speak. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " I was bred as one set apart from love. 
 I had never learned to think it possible to me — I thought 
 so even when I replied to you last evening; but, sir, the 
 words you then spoke, the question you asked me set my 
 heart burning, and my senses whirling — " And between 
 agitation and confusion he stammered and clasped his hands 
 passionately, trying to continue what he was saying, but 
 muttering nothing intelligible. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke filled up the interval with a long whistle 
 of periilexity; but, too kind not to pity the youth's distress, 
 he laid his hand on his shoulder, saying, " You found out 
 you were but a hot-headed youth after all, but an honest 
 one. For, as I well trust, my lass knows naught of this." 
 " How should she know, sir, what I knew not myself?" 
 " Ha! ha!" chuckled Sir Duke to l»mself, " so 'twas all 
 Dame Nan's doing that the flame has been lighted! Ho! 
 ho! But what is to come next is the question?" and he 
 eyed the French youth from head to foot with the same 
 considering look with which he was wont to study a bul- 
 lock. 
 
 "Sir, sir," cried Mericour, absolutely flinging himself 
 on his knee before him with national vehemence, " do give 
 me hope! Oh! I will bless you, I will — " 
 
 "Get up, man," said the knight, hastily; "no fooling 
 of this sort. The milkmaids will be coming. Hope — why, 
 what sort of hope can be given you in the matter?" he con- 
 tinued; "you are a very good lad, and I like you well 
 enough, but you are not the sort of stuff one gives one's 
 daughter to. Ay, ay, I know you are a great man in your 
 own country, but what are you here?" 
 
 " A miserable fugitive and beggar, I know that," said 
 Mericour, vehemently, " but let me have but hope, and 
 there is notliing I will not be!"
 
 108 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Pisli!" said Sir Marmaduke. 
 
 "Hear me/' entreated the youth, recalled to common 
 sense: ''you know that I have lingered at the chateau 
 yonder, partly to study divinity and settle my mind, and 
 partly because my friend Eibaumont begged me to await 
 his return, I will be no longer idle; my mind is fixed. 
 To Fri>.nce I can not return, while she gives me no choice 
 between such doctrine and practice as I saw at court, and 
 such as the Huguenots would have imposed on me. I had 
 already chosen England as my country before — before this 
 wild hope had awakened in me. Here, I know my nobility 
 counts for nothing, though, trul}^ sir, few names in France 
 are prouder. But it shall be no hinderance. I will become 
 one of your men of the robe. I have heard that they can 
 enrich themselves and intermarry with your country 
 7iobksse." 
 
 " True, true," said Sir Marmaduke, " there is more 
 sense in that notion than there seemed to be in you at first. 
 My poor brother Phil was to have been a lawyer if he had 
 lived, but it seems to me you are a long way off from that 
 yet! Why, our Templars be mostly Oxford scholars." 
 
 " So it was exj)lained to me," said Mericour, " but for 
 some weeks past the Lady Burnet, to whose sons, as you 
 know, I have been teaching French, has been praying me 
 to take charge of thcin at Oxford, by which means I should 
 at least be there maintained, and perchance obtain the 
 means for carrying on ray studies at the Temple." 
 
 " Not ill thought of," said the knight; "a fair course 
 enough for you; but look you, you must have good luck 
 indeed to be in a state to marry within ten or fifteen years 
 — very likely not then — having nothing of your own, and 
 my wench but little, for Lucy's portion can not be made 
 equal to her sisters', her mother having been no heiress like 
 Dame Nan. And would you have me keep the maid un- 
 wedded till she be thirty or thirty-five years old, waiting 
 for your fortune?" 
 
 Mericour looked terribly disconcerted at this. 
 
 " Moreover," added the knight, " they will all be at me^, 
 so soon as those poor lads come home — Heaven grant they 
 do — to give her to Berenger. ' ' 
 
 " Sir," said Mericour, looking up with a sudden smile, 
 " all that I would ask is, what you are too good a father to 
 do, that you would not put any force on her inclinations. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 109 
 
 " How now? you said you had never courted her!^^ 
 
 " Nor have I, sir. But I see the force of your words. 
 Should she love another man, my dreams were, of course, 
 utterly vain; but if not — " He broke off. 
 
 " Well, well, I am no man to force a girl to match 
 against her will; but never trust to that, man. I know 
 what women are; and let a fantastic stranger come across 
 them, there's an end of old friends. But yours is an honest 
 purpose, and you are a good youth; and if you had any- 
 thing to keep her with, you should have Lucy to-morrow, 
 with all my heart. ""^ 
 
 Then came the further question whether Mericour should 
 be allowed an interview with Lucy. Sir Marmaduke was 
 simple enough to fancy that she need not be made aware of 
 the cause of Mericour 's new arrangement, and decided 
 against it. The young man sorrowfully acquiesced, but 
 whether such a secret could be kept was another thing. To 
 him it would have been impossible to renew their former 
 terms of intercourse without betraying his feelings, and he 
 therefore absented himself. Lady Thistlewood triumphed 
 openly in Sir Marmaduke's having found him out and 
 banished him from the house; Lucy looked white and shed 
 silent tears. Her father's soft heart was moved, and one 
 Sunday evening he whisjoered into her ear that Dame Nan 
 was all wrong, and Mericour only kept away because he was 
 an honorable man. Then Lucy smiled and brightened, and 
 Sir Duke fondly asked her if she were fool enough to fancy 
 herself in love with the man. 
 
 " Oh, no, how should she, when he had never named love 
 to her? She was only glad her father esteemed him.'' 
 
 So then foolish, fond Sir Marmaduke told her all that 
 had passed, and if it had not been too late, he would have 
 sent for Mericour from Lady Burnet's; but his own story 
 did almost as well in bringing back Lucy's soft pink color. 
 She crept up into Cecily's room one day, and found that 
 she knew all about it, and was as kind and sympathizing as 
 she could be — when a vocation had been given up, though 
 na vows had been taken. She did not quite understand it, 
 but she would take it on trust.
 
 110 THE CHAPLET OF P3AKLS, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE SCANDAL OF THE ST NOD OF MONTAUBAN. 
 
 O ye, wba are sae guid yoursel, 
 
 Sae pious and sae holy, 
 Ye've naught to do but mark and tell 
 
 Your neebur's fauts and folly. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 The old city of Montauban, once famous as the home of 
 Ariosto's Rinaldo and his brethren, known to Frencli ro- 
 mance as " Les Quatre Fils Aymon," acquired in later 
 times a very diverse species of fame — that, namely, of be- 
 ing one of the chief strongholds of the Reformed. The 
 Bisho]! Jean de Lettes, after leading a scandalous life, had 
 professed a sort of Calvinism, had married, and retired to 
 Geneva, and his successor had not found it possible to live 
 at Montauban from the enmity of the inhabitants. Strong- 
 ly situated, with a peculiar municipal constitution of its own, 
 and used to Provencal iude2:»endence both of thought and 
 deed, the inhabitants had been so unanimous in their Cal- 
 vinism, and had offered such efficient resistance, as to have 
 wrung from government reluctant sanction for the open 
 observance of the Reformed worship, and for the mainte- 
 nance of a college for the education of their ministry. 
 
 There then was convoked the National Synod, answer- 
 ing to the Scottish General Assembly, excepting that the 
 persecuted French Presbyterians met in a different place 
 every year. Delegated pastors there gathered from every 
 quarter. From Northern France came men used to live in 
 constant hazard of their lives; from Paris, confessors such 
 as Merlin, the chaplain who, leaving Coligny's bedside, had 
 been hidden for three days in a hay-loft, feeding on the 
 eggs that a hen daily laid beside him; army-chajilains were 
 there who had passionately led Ijattle-psalms ere their col- 
 leagues charged the foe, and had striven with vain endeav- 
 ors to render their soldiers saints; while other pastors came 
 from Pyrenean villages where their generation had never 
 seen flames lighted against heresy, nor knew what it was 
 to disperse a congregation in haste and secrecy for fear of 
 the enemy.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. Ill 
 
 The audience was large and sympathizing. Montauhan 
 had become the refuge of many Huguenot families \\ho 
 could nowhere else jJi'ofess their faith without constant 
 danger; and a large jjroportion of these were ladies, wives 
 of gentlemen in the army kept up by La None; or widows 
 who feared that their children might be taken from them 
 to be brought up by their Catholic relations; elderly dames 
 who longed for tranquillity after having lost husbands or 
 sons by civil war. Thickly they lodged in the strangely 
 named gnsches and vertiers, as the divisions and subdi- 
 visions of the city were termed, occujDyiug floors or apart- 
 ment of the tall old houses; walking abroad in the streets 
 in grave attire, stiff hat, crimped ruff, and huge fan, and 
 forming a society in themselves, close-23acked, punctilious 
 and dignified, rigidly devout but strictly censorious, and 
 altogether as unlike their ty^iical country-folks of Paris as 
 if they had belonged to a different nation. And the sourest 
 and most severe of all were such as had lived furthest south, 
 and personally suffered the least peril and alarm. 
 
 Dancing was an unheard-of enormity; cards and dice 
 were prohibited; any stronger expletive than the elegant 
 ones invented for the special use of the King of Navarre 
 was expiated either by the purse or the skin; Marot's 
 psalmody was the only music, black or sad color the only 
 wear; and, a few years later, the wife of one of the most 
 distinguished statesmen and councilors of Henri of Na- 
 varre was excommunicated for the enormity of wearing her 
 hair curled. 
 
 To such a community it was a delightful festival to re- 
 ceive a national assembly of ministers ready to regale them 
 on daily sermons for a whole month, and to retail in pri- 
 vate the points of discipline debated in the jjublic assem- 
 bly; and, apart from mere eagerness for novelty, many a 
 discreet heart beat with gladness at the meeting with the 
 hunted jDastor of her native home, who had been the first 
 to strike the spiritual chord, and awake her mind to re- 
 ligion. 
 
 Every family had their honored guest, every reception- 
 room was in turn the scene of some pious little assembly 
 that drank eau sucree, and rejoiced in its favorite pastor; 
 and each little congress indulged in gentle scandal against 
 its rival coterie. But there was one point on which all the 
 ladies agreed — namely, that good Maitre Isaac Gardon had
 
 112 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 fallen into an almost doting state of blindness to the vani- 
 ties of his daughter-in-law, and that she was a disgrace to 
 the community, and ought to be publicly reprimanded. 
 
 Isaac Gardon, long reported to have been martyred — 
 some said at Paris, others averred at La Sablerie — liad in- 
 deed been welcomed with enthusiastic joy and veneration, 
 when he made his appearance at Montauban, jiale, aged, 
 bent, leaning on a staff, and showing the dire effect of the 
 rheumatic fever which had prostrated him after the night 
 of drenching and exposure during the escape from La Sa- 
 blerie. Crowded as the city was, there was a perfect com- 
 petition among the tradesfolk for the honor of entertain- 
 ing him and the young widow and child of a St. Bartholo- 
 mew martyr. A cordwainer of the street of the Soubirous 
 Hants obtained this honor, and the wife, though speaking 
 only the sweet Proven9al tongue, soon established the most 
 friendly relations with M. Garden's daughter-in-law. 
 
 Two or three more pastors likewise lodged in the same 
 house, and ready aid was given by Mile. Garden, as all 
 called Eustacie, in the domestic cares thus entailed, while 
 her filial attention to her father-in-law and her sweet ten- 
 derness to her child struck all this home circle with admira- 
 tion. Children of that age were seldom seen at home 
 among the better classes in towns. Then, as now, they 
 were universally consigned to country-nurses, who only 
 brought them home at three or four years old, fresh from 
 a squalid, neglected cottage life; and Eustacie's little moon- 
 beam, la petite Rayonette, as she loved to call her, was 
 quite an unusual spectacle; and from having lived entirely 
 with grown people, and enjoyed the most tender and dainty 
 care she was intelligent and brightly docile to a degree that 
 appeared marvelous to those who only saw children stujje- 
 fied by a contrary system. She was a lovely little thing, 
 exquisitely fair, and her plumjD white limbs small but per- 
 fectly molded; she was always hajopy, because always 
 healthy, and living in an atmosphere of love; and she was 
 the pet and wonder of all the household, from the grinning 
 apprentice to the grave young candidate who hoped to be 
 elected pastor to the Duke de Quinet's village in the Ce- 
 vennes. 
 
 And yet it was la ijeiite, Rayonette who first brought her 
 mother into trouble. Since her emancipation from swad- 
 dling-clothes she had been equipped in a little gray woolen
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. IIS 
 
 frock, such as Eustacie had learned to knit among the 
 peasants, and varied with broad white stripes which gave it 
 something of the moonbeam effect; but the mother had not 
 been able to resist the pleasure of drawing up the bosom 
 and tying it with a knot of the very carnation color that 
 Berenger used to call her own. That knot was discussed all 
 up and down the Eue Soubirous Hants, and even through 
 the Carriera Major! The widow of an old friend of Maitre 
 Garden had remonstrated on the impi'oprieties of such gay 
 vanities, and Mile, Garden had actually replied, reddening 
 with insolence, that her husband had loved to see her wear 
 the color. 
 
 Now, if the brethren at Paris had indulged their daugh- 
 ters in such backslidings, see what had come of it! But 
 that poor Theodore Gardon should have admired his bride 
 in such unhallowed adornments, was an evident calumny; 
 and many a head was shaken over it in grave and pious as- 
 sembly. 
 
 Worse still; when she had been invited to a supper at 
 the excellent Mme. Fargeau's, the presumi^tuous little 
 hourgeoise had evidently not known her jilace, but had seat- 
 ed herself as if she were a noble lady, a fiUe de qualite, 
 instead of a mere minister's widow and a watch-maker's 
 daughter. Pretend ignorance that precedence was to be 
 here observed ! That was another Parisian piece of impu- 
 dence, above all in one who showed such ridiculous airs as 
 to wipe her face with her own handkerchief instead of the 
 table-cloth, and to be reluctant to help herself from the 
 general dish of potage with her own spoon. Even that 
 might have been overlooked if she would have regaled them 
 with a full and particular account of her own rescue from 
 the massacre at Paris; but she merely colored up, and said 
 that she had been so ill as to know scarcely anything about 
 it; and when they pressed her further, she shortly said, 
 " They locked me up;" and, before she could be cross-ex- 
 amined as to who was this '^ they," Maitre Gardon inter- 
 fered, saying that she had suffered so much that he request- 
 ed the subject might never be mentioned to her. Nor 
 would he be more explicit, and there was evidently some 
 mystery, and he was becoming blindly indulgent and be- 
 sotted by the blandishments of an artful woman. 
 
 Eustacie was saved from hearing the gossip by her ig- 
 norance of the Provencal, which was the only language of
 
 114 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 all but the highest and most cultivated classes. The host- 
 ess had very little laiigue iVoul, and never ventured on any 
 comjilicated discourse; and Isaac Gardon, who could speak 
 both the Qc and out, was not a person whom it was easy to 
 beset with mere hearsay or jietty remonstrance^, but enough 
 reached him at last to make him one day say mildly, " My 
 dear child, might not the little one dispense with her rib- 
 bon while we are here?'" 
 
 " Eh, father? At the bidding of those impertinents?" 
 
 " Take care, daughter; you were perfect with the trades- 
 folk and jjeasants, but you can not comport yourself as suc- 
 cessfully with i\ii^ petite noblesse or the pastors' wives." 
 
 " They are insolent, father. I, in my own true person, 
 would treat no one as these petty dames treat me,"' said 
 Eustacie. " I would not meddle between a peasant woman 
 and her cliild, nor ask questions that must needs wring her 
 heart. " 
 
 "Ah, child! humility is a bitter lesson; and even this 
 world needs it now from you. We shall have suspicions; 
 and I heard to-day that the king is in Dauphiny, and with 
 him Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle. Be not alarmed; he has 
 no force with him, and the peace still subsists; but we 
 must avoid suspicion. There is a preclie at the Moustier 
 to-day, in French; it would be well if you were to attend 
 it." 
 
 " I understand as little of French sermons as of Pro- 
 ven (jal," murmured Eustacie; but it was only a murmur. 
 
 Maitre Gardon had soon found out that his charge had 
 not head enough to be made a thorough-going controversial 
 Calvinist. Clever, intelligent, and full of resources as she 
 was, she had no capacity for argument, and could not 
 enter into theoretical religion. Circumstances had driven 
 her from her original Church and alienated her from those 
 who had practiced such jiersonal cruelties on her and hers, 
 but the mold of her mind remained what it had been pre- 
 viously; she clung to the Huguenots because they protected 
 her from those who would have forced an abhorrent mar- 
 riage on her and snatched her child from her; and, per- 
 sonally, she loved and venerated Isaac Gardon with ardent, 
 self-sacrificing filial love and gratitude, accepted as truth 
 all that came from his lips, read the Scriptures, sung and 
 prayed with him, and obeyed him as dutifully as ever the 
 true Esperance could have done; but, except the merest ex-
 
 THE CHAPLET Of PEAELS. 115 
 
 ternal objections against the grossest and most palpable 
 popular corruptions and fallacies, she really never entered 
 into the matter. She had been left too ignorant of her 
 own system to perceive its true claims upon her; and though 
 she could not help preferring High Mass to a Calvinist as- 
 sembly, and shrinking with instinctive pain and horror at 
 the many profanations she witnessed, the really spiritual 
 leadings of her own individual father-like leader bad opened 
 so much that was new and precious to her, so full of truth, 
 so full of comfort, giving so much moral strength, that, 
 unaware that all the foundations had been laid by Mere 
 Monique, the resolute, high-spirited little thing, out of 
 sheer constancy and constitutional courage, would have laid 
 down her life as a Calvinist martyr, in profound ignorance 
 that she was not in the least a Calvinist all the time. 
 
 Hitherto, her wandering life amid the persecuted Hugue- 
 nots of the West had prevented her from hearing any preach- 
 ing but good Isaac's own, which had been rather in the way 
 of comfort and encouragement than of controversy, but in 
 this great gathering it was impossible that there should not 
 be plenty of vehement polemical oratory, such as was sure 
 to fly over that weary little head. After a specimen or 
 two, the chances of the sermon being in Provencal, and 
 the necessity of attending to her child, had been Eustacie's 
 excuse for usually offering to attend to the menage, and set 
 her hostess free to be present at the preachings. 
 
 Hcwever, Eayonette was considered as no valid excuse; 
 for did not whole circles of black-eyed children sit on the 
 floor in sleepy stolidity at the feet of their mothers or 
 nurses, and was it not a mere worldly folly to pretend that 
 a child of sixteen months could not be brought to church? 
 It was ariother instance of the mother's frivolity and the 
 grandfather's idolatry. 
 
 The Moustier, or minster, the monastic church of Mon- 
 taubau, built on Mont Auriol in honor of St. Theodore, 
 had, twelve years before, been plundered and sacked by 
 the Calvinists, not only out of zeal for iconoclasm, but 
 from long-standing hatred and jealousy against the monks. 
 Catharine de Medicis had, in 1546, carried off two of the 
 jasper columns from its chief door-way to the Louvre; and, 
 after some years more, it was entirely destroyed. The 
 grounds of the Auriol Mountain Monastery have been deso- 
 late down to the present day, when they have been formed
 
 110 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 into public gardens. When Eustacie walked through them, 
 carrying her little girl in her arms, a rose in her bosom to 
 console her for the loss of her bright breastknot, they were 
 in raw fresh dreariness, with tottering, blackened cloisters, 
 garden flowers run wild, images that she had never ceased 
 to regard as sacred lying broken and defiled among the 
 grass and weeds. 
 
 Up the broad j^ath was pacing the municipal procession, 
 headed by the three consuls, each with a sergeant bearing a 
 white rod in front and a scarlet mantle, and the consuls 
 themselves in long robes with wide sleeves of quartered 
 black and scarlet, followed by six halberdiers, likewise in 
 scarlet, blazoned with the shield of the city — gules, a gold- 
 en willow-tree, j^ollarded and shedding its branches, a chief 
 azure with the three fleur-de-lis of royalty. As little Eay- 
 onette gleefully pointed at the brilliant pageant, Eustacie 
 could not help saying, rather bitterly, that these inessUnirs 
 seemed to wish to engross all the gay colors from heaven 
 and earth for themselves; and Maitre Isaac could not help 
 thinking she had some right on her side as he entered the 
 church once gorgeous with jaspers, marbles, and mosaics, 
 glowing with painted glass, resplendent with gold and jew- 
 els, rich with paintings and draperies of the most brilliant 
 dyes; but now, all that w^as not an essential part of the fab- 
 ric utterly gone, and all that was, soiled, dulled, defaced; 
 the whole building, even up to the end of the chancel, was 
 closely fitted with benches occupied by the " sad-colored " 
 congregation. Isaac was obliged by a strenuous effort of 
 memory to recall "" Nehushtan " and tlie golden calves, be- 
 fore he could clear from his mind, " Now they break down 
 all the carved work thereof with axes and with hammers." 
 But, then, did not the thorough-going Reformers think 
 Master Isaac a very weak and backsliding brother? 
 
 Nevertheless, in right of his age, his former reputation, 
 and his sufferings, his place was full in the midst of the 
 square-capped, black-robed ministers who sat herded on a 
 sort of platform together, to address tlie Almighty and the 
 congregation in ]3rayers and discourses, interspersed wdth 
 j)salms sung by the whole assembly. There was no want 
 of piety, depth, force, or fervor. These w^ere men refined 
 by persecution, who had struggled to the light that had 
 been darkened by the popular systezn, and, having once 
 been forced into foregoing their scruples as to breaking the
 
 The chaplet of pearls. 117 
 
 unity of the Church, regarded themselves even as apostles 
 of the truth. Listening to them, Isaac Garden felt him- 
 self rapt into the hopes of cleansing the aspirations of uni- 
 versal reintegration tliat had shone before his early youth, 
 ere the Church had shown herself deaf, and the Reformers 
 in losing patience had lost purity, and disappointment had 
 crushed him into an aged man. 
 
 He was recalled by the echo of a gay, little inarticulate 
 cry — those baby tones that had become such music to his 
 ears that he hardly realized that they were not indeed from 
 his grandchild. In a moment's glance he saw how it was. 
 A little bird had flown in at one of the empty windows, 
 and was fluttering over the heads of the congregation, and 
 a small, plump, white arm and hand was stretched out and 
 pointing — a rosy, fair, smiling face upturned; a little gray 
 figure had scrambled up on the knee of one ol the still, 
 bJack-hooded women; and the shout of irrepressible delight 
 was breaking on the decorum of the congregation, in s]>ite 
 of hushes, in spite of the uplifted rod of a scarlet sergeant 
 on his way down the aisle to quell the disturbance; nay, as 
 the bird came nearer, the exulting voice, proud of the 
 achievement of a new word, shouted ' Moinctni, moineau." 
 Angered by defiance to authority, down came the rod, not 
 indeed with great force, but with enough to make the arms 
 clasp round the mother's neck, the face hide itself on it, a 
 loud, terrified wail ring through the church, and tempest- 
 uous sobbing follow it u]). Then uprose the black-hooded 
 figure, the child tightly clasped, and her mantle drawn 
 round it, while the other hand motioned the official aside, 
 and down the aisle, even to the door, she swept with the 
 lofty carriage, high-drawn neck, and swelling bosom of an 
 offended princess. 
 
 Maitre Garden heard little more of the discourse; indeed 
 he would have iollo\\'ed at once had he not feared to in- 
 crease the sensation and the scandal. He came home to 
 find Eayonette's tears long ago dried, but her mother furi- 
 ous. She would leave Montauban that minute, she would 
 never set foot in a heretic conventicle again, to have her 
 fatherless child, daughter of all the Eibaumonts, struck by 
 base canaille. Even her uncle could not have done worse; 
 he at least would have respected her blood. 
 
 Maitre Garden did not know that his charge could be in 
 such a passion, as, her eyes flashing tlu'ough tears, she in-
 
 118 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 sisted on being taken away at once. No, she would hear 
 nothing. She seemed to feel resentment due to the honor 
 of all the Ribaumonts, and he was obliged j^eremptorily to 
 refuse to quit Montauban till his business at the 8ynod 
 should be completed, and then to leave her in a flood of 
 angry tears and reproaches for exjiosing her child to such 
 usage, and apjDroving it. 
 
 Poor little tiling, he found her meek and penitent for her 
 unjust anger toward himself. Whatever he desired she 
 would do, she would stay or go with him anywhere exce23t 
 to a sermon at the Moustier, and she did not think that in 
 her heart her good father desired little infants to be beaten 
 — least of all, Berenger's little one. And with Eayonette 
 already on his knee, stealing liis spectacles, peace was made. 
 Peace with him, but not with the congregation! Were peo- 
 ple to stalk out of church in a rage, and make no repara- 
 tion? Was Maitre Isaac to talk of orj^hans, only children, 
 and maternal love, as if weak human affection did not need, 
 chastisement? Was this saucy Parisienue to play the offend- 
 ed, and say that if the child were not suffered at church she 
 must stay at home with it? The ladies agitated to have the 
 obnoxious young widow reprimanded in open Synod, but, 
 to their still greater disgust, not a pastor would consent to 
 perform the ofRce. Some said that Maitre Gardon ought 
 to rule his own household, others that they respected him 
 too much to interfere, and there were others abandoned 
 enough to assert that if any one needed a re|)rimand it was 
 the sergeant. 
 
 Of these was the young candidate, Samuel Mace, who 
 had been educated at the exjiense of the Dowager Duchess 
 de Quinet, and hojjed that her influence would obtain his 
 election to the pastorate of a certain peaceful little village 
 deep in the Cevennes. She had intimated that what he 
 wanted was a wife to teach and imju'ove the wives of the 
 peasant farmers, and where could a more eligible one be 
 found than Esjicrance Gardon? Her cookery he tasted, 
 her industry he saw, her tenderness to. her cliild, her atten- 
 tion to her father, were his daily admiration; and her soft 
 velvet eyes and sweet smile went so deep in his heart that 
 he would have bought her ells upon ells of lymk ribbon, 
 when once out of sight of the old ladies; would have given 
 a father's love to her little daughter, and a son's duty an(J 
 veneration to Isaac Gardon.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 119 
 
 His patroness did not deny her approval. The gossiji 
 had indeed reached her, but she had a high esteem for Isaac 
 Gardon, believed in Samuel Mace's good sense, and heeded 
 Montauban scandal very little. Her protege would be much 
 better married to a spirited woman who had seen the world 
 than to a mere farmer's daughter who had never looked be- 
 yond her cheese. Old Gardon woidd be an admirable ad- 
 viser, and if he were taken into the menage she would add 
 to the endowment another arable field, and grass for two 
 more cows. If she liked the young woman on inspection, 
 the marriage should take place in her own august pres- 
 ence. 
 
 What! had Maitre Gardon refused? Forbidden that the 
 subject should be mentioned to his daughter? Impossible! 
 Either Mace had managed matters foolishly, or the old 
 man had some doubt of him which she could remove, or 
 else it was foolish reluctance to part with his daughter-in- 
 law. Or the gossips were right after all, and he knew her 
 to be too light-minded, if not worse, to be the wife of any 
 pious young minister. Or there was some mystery. Any- 
 way, Mme. la Duchesse would see him, and bring him to 
 his senses, make him give the girl a good husband if she 
 were worthy, or devote her to condign punishment if she 
 were unworthy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MADAME LA DUCHESSE. 
 
 He found an ancient dame in dim brocade. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Madame la Duchesse de Quinet had been a great 
 heiress and a personal friend and favorite of Queen Jeanne 
 d'Albret. She had been left a widow after five years' mar- 
 riage, and for forty subsequent years had reigned despotic- 
 ally in her own name and that of mon fils. Busied with 
 the support of the Huguenot cause, sometimes by arms, 
 but more usually by politics, and constantly occupied by 
 the hereditary government of one of the lesser counties of 
 France, the duke was all the better son for relinquishing to 
 her the home administration, as well as the education of ln"s 
 two motherless boys; and their confidence and affection 
 were perfect, though he was almost as seldom at home as
 
 120 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 she was abroad. At times, indeed, she had visited Queen 
 Jeanne at Nerac; but since the good queen's death, she 
 only left the great chateau of Quinet to make a royal prog- 
 ress of inspection through the family towns, castles, and 
 estates, sometimes to winter in her beautiful hereditary 
 hotel at Montauban, and as at present, to attend any great 
 assembly of the Eeformed. 
 
 Very seldom was her will not law. Strong sense and 
 judgment, backed by the learning that Queen Marguerite 
 of Navarre had introduced among the companions of her 
 daughter, had rendered her superior to most of those with 
 whom she came in contact: and the Huguenot ministers, 
 who were much more dependent on their laity than the 
 Catholic priesthood, foi.' the most part treated her as not 
 only a devout and honorable woman, an elect lady, but as 
 a sort of State authority. That she had the right-minded- 
 ness to resjject and esteem such men as Theodore Beza, 
 Merlin, etc., who treated her with great regard, but never 
 cringed, had not become known to the rest. Let her have 
 once 2^ronounced against poor little Esperance Gardon, and 
 public disgrace would be a matter of certainty. 
 
 There she sat in her wainscoted walnut cabinet, a small 
 woman by her inches, but stately enough to seem of majes- 
 tic stature, and with gray eyes, of inexpressible keenness, 
 which she fixed upon the halting, broken form of Isaac Gar- 
 don, and his grave, venerable face, as she half rose and 
 made a slight acknowledgment of his low bow. 
 
 " Sit, Maitre Gardon, you are lame," she said, with a 
 wave of her hand. " I gave you the incommodity of com- 
 ing to see me here, because I imagined that there were mat- 
 ters you would not openly discuss en jjleine salle." 
 
 "Madame is considerate," said Isaac, civilly, but with 
 an open-eyed look and air that at once showed her tliat she 
 had not to deal with one of the ministers who never forgot 
 their low birth in intercourse with her. 
 
 " I understand," said she, coming to the point at once, 
 " that you decline the proposals of Samuel Mace for your 
 daughter-in-law. Now I wish you to know that Mace is a 
 very good youth, whom I have known from his birth " — 
 and she went on in his praise, Isaac bowing at each pause, 
 until she had exhausted both Mace's history and her own 
 beneficent intentions for him. Then he said, " Madame is 
 very good, and the young man appeared to me excellent,
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 121 
 
 Nevertheless, tliis thing may not be. My daughter-in-hiw 
 has resolved not to marry again." 
 
 " Nay, but this is mere folly," said the duchess. " We 
 hold not Catholic tenets on merit in abstaining, but rather 
 go by St. Paul's advice that the younger widows should 
 marry, rather than wax wanton.' And, to tell you the 
 truth, Maitre Gardon, this daughter of yours does seem to 
 have set tongues in motion." 
 
 " Not by her own fault, madame." 
 
 " Stay, my good friend; I never found a man — minister 
 or lay — who was a fair judge in these matters. You old 
 men are no better than the young — rather worse — because 
 you do not distrust yourselves. Now, I say no harm of the 
 young woman, and I know an angel would be abused at 
 Montauban for not wearing sad-colored wings; but she 
 needs a man's care — you are frail, you can not live forever 
 — and how is it to be with her and her child?" 
 
 " I hope to bestow them among her kindred ere I die, 
 madame," said Isaac. 
 
 " No kindred can serve a woman like a sensible husband! 
 Besides, I thought all jjerished at Paris. Listen, Isaac Gar- 
 don : I tell you ]3lainly that scandal is afloat. You are 
 blamed for culjjable indifference to alleged levities — I say 
 not that it is true — but I see this, that unless you can be- 
 stow your daughter-in-law on a good, honest man, able to 
 silence the whispers of malice, there will be measures taken 
 that will do shame both to your own gray hairs and to the 
 memory of your dead son, as well as expose the poor young 
 woman herself. You are one who has % true tongue, Isaac 
 Gardon; and if you can assure me that she is a faithful, good 
 woman, as poor Mace thinks her, and will give her to him 
 in testimony thereof, then shall not a moutli open against 
 her. If not, in spite of all my esteem for you, the disci- 
 pline of the Eeformed must take its course." 
 
 " And for what?" said Isaac, with a grave tone, almost 
 of reproof. " What discipline can punish a woman for let- 
 ting her infant wear a colored ribbon, and shielding it from 
 a blow?" 
 
 " That is not all. Master Isaac," said the duchess, 
 seriously. " In spite of your much-respected name, evil 
 and censorious tongues will have it that matters ought to 
 be investigated; that there is some mystery; that the young 
 woman does not give a satisfactory account of herself ^ and
 
 122 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 that the child does not resemble either her or your son — in 
 short, that you may be deceived by an impostor, perhaps a 
 Catholic spy. Mind, I say not that I credit all this, only I 
 would show you what reports you must guard against/' 
 
 " La pauvre petite !'[ said Isaac, under his breath, as if 
 appalled; then collecting himself, he said, " Madame, these 
 are well-nigh threats. I had come hither nearly resolved 
 to confide in you without them." 
 
 " Then there is a mystery?" 
 
 " Yes, madame, but the deception is solely in the name. 
 She is, in very truth, a widow of a martyr of the St. Bar- 
 thelemy, but that martyr was not my son, whose wife was 
 happy in dying with him. " 
 And who, then, is she?" 
 
 " Madame la Duchesse has heard of the family of Ribau- 
 mont. " 
 
 " Ha! Monsieur de Eibaumont! A gay comrade of King 
 Henry II., but who had his eyes opened to the truth by 
 Monsieur I'Amiral, though he lacked courage for an ojDcn 
 profession. Yes, the very last pageant I beheld at court, 
 was the wedding of his little son to the Count de Eibau- 
 mont 's daughter. It was said that the youth was one of 
 our victims at Paris." 
 
 *' Even so, madame; and this poor child is the little one 
 whom you saw wedded to him." And then, in answer to 
 the duchess's astonished inquiry, he proceeded to relate 
 how Eustacie had been forced to fly from her kindred, and 
 how he had first encountered her at his own lurking-place, 
 and had accepted her as a charge imposed on him by Provi- 
 dence; then explained how, at La Sable rie, she had been 
 recognized by a young gentleman whom she had known at 
 Paris, but who professed to be fleeing to England, there to 
 study the Protestant controversy; and how she had con- 
 fided to him a letter to her husband's mother, who was mar- 
 ried in England, begging her to send for her and her 
 daughter, the latter being heiress to certain English estates, 
 as well as French. 
 
 " Madame," added Gardon, " Heaven forgive me, if I 
 do the youth injustice by suspecting him, but no answer 
 ever arrived to that letter; and while we still expected one, 
 a good and kindly citizen, who I trust has long been re- 
 ceived into glory, sent me a notice that a detachment of 
 Monsieur's army was on its way from La Rochelle, under
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 123 
 
 command of Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle, to search out tliis 
 poor lady in La Sablerie. He, good man, deemed that, 
 were we gone, he could make terms for the j)lace, and we 
 therefore quitted it. Alas! madame knows how it fared 
 with the pious friends we left. Little deeming how they 
 would "be dealt with, we took our way along the Sables 
 d'Olonne, where alone we could be safe, since, as madatne 
 knows, they are for miles impracticable for troops. But 
 we had another enemy there — the tide; and there was a 
 time when we truly deemed tliat the mercy granted us had 
 been that we had fallen into the hand of the Lord instead 
 of the hand of cruel man. Yes, madame, and even for 
 that did she give thanks, as she stood, never even trem- 
 bling, on the low sand-bank, with her babe in her bosom, 
 and the sea creeping up on all sides. She only turned to 
 me with a smile, saying, ' She is asleep, she will not feel 
 it, or know anything till she wakes up in Paradise, and 
 sees her father. ' Never saw I a woman, either through 
 nature or grace, so devoid of fear. We were rescued at 
 last, by the mercy of Heaven, which sent a fisherman, who 
 bore us to his boat when benumbed with cold, and scarce 
 able to move. He took us to a good priest's, Colombeau 
 of Nissard, a man who, as madame may know, is one of 
 those veritable saints who still are sustained by the truth 
 within their Church, and is full of charity and mercy. He 
 asked me no questions, but fed, warmed, sheltered us, and 
 sped us on our way. Perhaps, however, I was overconfi- 
 dent in myself, as the guardian of the poor child, for it was 
 Heaven's will that the cold and wet of our night on the 
 sands — though those tender young frames did not suffer 
 therefrom — should bring on an illness which has made an 
 old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hojnng 
 to attain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold 
 comjileted the work; and then, madame — oh that I could 
 tell you the blessing she was to me! — her patience, her 
 watchfulness, her tenderness, through all the long weeks 
 that I lay lieljjless alike in mind and body at Charente. 
 Ah! madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not 
 have been more to me than that noble lady; and her cheer- 
 ful love did even more for me than her tender care." 
 
 " I must see her,'' ejaculated the duchess; then added, 
 " But was it this illness that hindered you from placing her 
 in safety in England?'^
 
 124 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 "In part, madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We 
 learned that the assembly was to take place here, and I 
 had my poor testimony to deliver, and to give notice of my 
 intention to my brethren before going to a foreign land, 
 whence perhaps I may never retui'n." 
 
 " She ought to be in England," said Mme. de Quinet; 
 " she will never be safe from these kinsmen in this coun- 
 try." 
 
 " Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle has been all the spring in 
 Poland with the king," said the minister, "and the poor 
 lady is thought to have perished at La Sablerie. Thus the 
 danger has been less pressing, but I would have taken her 
 to England at once, if I could have made sure of her recep- 
 tion, and besides — " he faltered. 
 
 " The means?" demanded the duchess, guessing at the 
 meaning. 
 
 " Madame is right. She had brought away some money 
 and jewels with her, but alas, madame, during my illness, 
 without my knowledge, the dear child absolutely sold them 
 to procure comforts for me. Nay " — his eyes filled with 
 tears — " she whom they blame for vanities, sold the very 
 hair from her head to purchase unguents to ease the old 
 man's pains; nor did I know it for many a day after. 
 From day to day we can live, for our own people willingly 
 sujiport a i^astor and his family; and in every house my 
 daughter has been loved — everywhere but in this harsh- 
 judging town. But for the expense of a voyage, even were 
 we at I3ordeaux or La Roche lie, we have nothing, save by 
 parting with the only jewels that remain to her, and those 
 — those, she says, are heir-looms; and, poor child, she 
 guards them almost as jealously as her infant, around 
 whom she has fastened them beneath her clothes. She 
 will not even as yet hear of leaving them in pledge, to be 
 redeemed by the family. She says they would hardly know 
 her without them. And truly, madame, I scarce venture 
 to take her to England, ere I know what recejition would 
 await her. Should her husband's family disown or cast her 
 off, 1 could take better care of her here than in a strange 
 land." 
 
 "You are right, Maitre Garden," said the duchess; 
 " the risk might be great. I would see this lady. She 
 must be a rare creature. Bear her my greetings, my 
 friend, and pray her to do me the honor of a visit this after-
 
 THE CllAPLET OF PEARLS. 135 
 
 noon. Tell her I vvoiikl come myself to her, but that I 
 understand she does not wish to attnict notice. " 
 
 " Madame," said Isaac, rising, and with a strange man- 
 ner, between a smile and a tear of earnestness, " allow me 
 to bespeak your goodness for my daughter. The poor lit- 
 tle thhig is scarcely more than a child. She is but eighteen 
 even now, and it is not always easy to tell whether she will 
 be an angel of noble goodness, or, pardon me, a half-petu- 
 lant child." 
 
 "I understand." Mme. de Quinet laughed, and she 
 probably did understand more than reluctant, anxious Isaac 
 Gardon thought she did, of his winning, gracious, yet 
 haughty, headstrong, little charge, so humbly helpful one 
 moment, so self -asserting and childish the next, so dear to 
 him, yet so unlike anytbing in his exj)erience. 
 
 " Child," he said, as he found her in the sunny window 
 engaged in plaiting the deep folds of his starched ruffs, 
 " you have something to forgive me." 
 
 " Fathers do not ask their children's jiardon," said Eus- 
 tacie, brightly, but then, with sudden dismay, "Ah! you 
 have not said I should go to that Moustier again." 
 
 " No, daughter; but Madame de Quinet entreats — these 
 are her words — that you will do her the honor of calling on 
 her. She would come to you, but that she fears to attract 
 notice to us. " 
 
 " You have told her!" exclaimed Eustacie. 
 
 " I was compelled, but I had already thought of asking 
 your consent, and she is a true and generous lady, with 
 whom your secret will be safe, and who can hush the idle 
 tongues here. So, daughter," he added restlessly, " don 
 your hood; that ruff will serve for another day." 
 
 " Another day, when the morrow is Sunday, and my 
 father's ruff is to put to shame all the other pastors'," said 
 Eustacie, her quick fingers still moving. " No, he shall 
 not go ill-starched for any duchess in France. Nor am I 
 in any haste to be lectured by Madame de Quinet, as they 
 say she lectured the Dame de Soubrera the other day. " 
 
 " My child, you will go; much depends on it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am going; only if Madame de Quinet knows 
 who I am, she will not expect me to hurry at her beck and 
 call the first moment. Here, Rayonette, my bird, my 
 beauty, thou must have a clean ca]?; ay, and these flaxen 
 curls combed,"
 
 136 THE CHAPLET OF TEAELS. 
 
 " Would you take the child?" 
 
 " Would I go without MiuIemoiyL'lle dc Ribaumont? She 
 i& all her mother is, and more. There, now she is a true 
 rosebud, ready to perch on my arm. No, no, hon perc. 
 So great a girl is too much for you to carry. Don^t be 
 afraid, my darling, we are not going to a sermon, no one 
 will beat her; oh no, and if the insolent retainers and pert 
 lackeys laugh at her mother, no one will hurt her. " 
 
 " Nay, child,'' said Maitre Gardon; " this is a M'ell- 
 ordfcred household, where contemj^t and scorn are not suf- 
 fered. Only, dear, dear daugliter, let me pray you to be 
 your true self with the duchess." 
 
 Eustacie shrugged her shoidders, and had mischief enough 
 in her to enjoy keeping her good father in some doubt and 
 dread as he went halting wearily by her side along the 
 much-decorated streets that marked the grand Gasche of 
 Tarn and Tarascon. The Hotel de Quinet stretched out 
 its broad stone steps, covered with vaultings, absolutely 
 across the street, atrording a welcome shade, and no ob- 
 struction where wheeled carriages never came. 
 
 All was, as Maitre Isaac had said, decorum itself. A 
 couple of armed retainers, rigid as sentinels, waited on the 
 steps; a grave porter, maimed in the wars, opened the 
 great door; half a dozen laqtiais in sober though rich 
 liveries sat on a bench in the hall, and had somewhat the 
 air of having been set to con a lesson. Two of them, com- 
 ing resjiectfully forward, ushered Maitre Gardon and his 
 companion to an anteroom, where various gentlemen, or 
 pastors, or candidates — among them Samuel Mace — were 
 awaiting a summons to the duchess, or merely using it as a 
 place of assembly. A page of high birth, but well schooled 
 in steadiness of demeanor, went at once to announce the 
 arrival; and Gardon and his companion had not been many 
 moments in conversation with their acquaintance among 
 the ministers, before a grave gentleman returned, appar- 
 ently from his audience, and the page, coming to Eustacie, 
 intimated that she was to follow him to Mme. la Duchesse's 
 presence. 
 
 He conducted her across a great tajiestry-hung saloon, 
 where twelve or fourteen ladies of all ages — from seventy 
 to fifteen — sat at work: some at tajiestry, some spinning, 
 some making coarse garments for the poor. A great 
 throne-like chair, with a canopy over it, a footstool, a desk
 
 TIIR CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 127 
 
 and a small table before it, was vacant, and the work — a 
 poor child's knitted cap — laid down; but an elderly minis- 
 ter, seated at a carved desk, had not discontinued reading 
 from a great black book, and did not even cease while the 
 strangers crossed the room, merely making a slight in- 
 clination with his head, while the ladies half rose, rustled a 
 slight reverence with their black, gray or russet skirts, but 
 hardly lifted their eyes. Eustacie thought the Louvre had 
 never been half so formidable or impressive. 
 
 The page lifted a heavy green curtain behind the canopy, 
 knocked at a door, and, as it opened, Eustacie was con- 
 scious of a dignified presence, that, in spite of her previous 
 petulance, caused her instinctively to bend in such a rever- 
 ence as had formerly been natural to her; but, at the same 
 moment, a low and magnilicent courtesy was made to her, a 
 hand was held out, a stately kiss was on her brow, and a 
 voice of dignified courtesy said, " Pardon mo, Madame la 
 Baron ne, for giving you this trouble. I feared that other- 
 wise we could not safely meet. " 
 
 " Madame is very good. My Tiayonette, make thy rev- 
 erence; kiss thy hand to the lady, my lamb.'^ And the 
 little one obeyed, gazing with her blue eyes full opened, and 
 clinging to her mother. 
 
 " Ah! Madame la Baronne makes herself obeyed," said 
 Mme. de Quinet, well pleased. " Is it then a girl?" 
 
 " Yes, madame, I could scarcely forgive her at first; but 
 she has made herself all the dearer to me. " 
 
 " It is a pity," said Mme. de Quinet, '" for yours is an 
 ancient stem." 
 
 " Did madame know my parents?" asked Eustacie drawn 
 from her spirit of defiance by the equality of the manner 
 with which she was treated. 
 
 " Scarcely," replied the duchess; but, with a smile, " I 
 had the honor to see you married." 
 
 " Ah, then " — Eustacie glowed, almost smiled, though a 
 tear was in her eyes — " you can see how like my little one 
 is to her father — a true White Ribaumont. " 
 
 The duchess had not the most distinct recollection of the 
 complexion of the little bridegroom; but Rayonette's fair- 
 ness was incontestable, and the old lady complimented it so 
 as to draw on the young mother into confidence on the pet 
 moonbeam, appellation which she used in dread of exciting
 
 128 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 suspicion by using the true name of Berenger, with all 
 the why and wherefore. 
 
 It was what the duchess wanted. Imperious as some 
 thought her, she would on no account have appeared to 
 cross-examine any one whose essential nobleness of nature 
 struck her as did little Eustacie's at the first moment she 
 saw her; and yet she had decided, before the young woman 
 arrived, that her own good opinion and assistance should 
 depend on the correspondence of Mme. de Kibaumont's 
 history of herself with Maitre Gardon^s. 
 
 Eustacie had, for a year and a half, lived with peasants; 
 and, indeed, since the trials of her life had really begun, 
 she had never been with a woman of her own station to 
 whom she could give confidence, or from whom she could 
 look for sympatliy. And thus a very few inquiries and 
 tokens of interest from the old lady drew out the whole 
 story, and more than once filled Mme. de Quinet's eyes 
 with tears. 
 
 There was only one discrepancy: Eustacie could not be- 
 lieve that the Abbe de Mericour had been a faithless mes- 
 senger. Oh, no! Either those savage-looking sailors had 
 played him false, or else Idle-mere would not send for her. 
 ' My mother-hi-law never loved me,'^ said Eustacie; " I 
 know she never did. And now she has children by her sec- 
 ond marriage, and no doubt would not see my little one 
 preferred to them. I will not be her suppliant.'^ 
 
 " And what then would you do?" said Mme. de Quinet 
 with a more severe tone. 
 
 " Never leave my dear father," said Eustacie, with a 
 flash of eagerness; " Maitre Isaac, I mean. He has been 
 more to me than any — any one, I ever knew — save — " 
 
 "You have much cause for gratitude to him,'' said 
 Mme. de Quinet. " I honor your filial love to him. Yet, 
 you have duties to this little one. You have no right to 
 keep her from her jjosition. You ought to write to Eng- 
 land again. I am sure Maitre Isaac tells you so." 
 
 Eustacie would have pouted, but the grave, kind author- 
 ity of the manner prevented her from being childish, and 
 siie said, " If I wrote, it should be to my husband's grand- 
 father, who brought him up, designated him as his heir, 
 and whom he loved with all his heart. But, oh, madame, 
 he has one of those English names! So dreadful! It sounds 
 like Vol-au-vent, but it is not that precisely."
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEATlLS. 120 
 
 Mme. cle Quiiict smiled, but she was a woman of re- 
 sources. " See, my friend/' she said, " the pursuivant of 
 the consuls here has the rolls of the herald's visitations 
 throughout the kingdom. The arms and name of the Baron 
 de Kibaumont's wife will there be entered; and from my 
 house at Quinet you shall write, and I, too, will write; my 
 son shall take care that the letters be forwarded safely, and 
 you shall await their arrival under my protection. That 
 will be more fitting than running the coimtry with an old 
 pastor, liein ?" 
 
 " Madame, nothing shall induce me to quit him!" ex- 
 claimed Eustacie, vehemently. 
 
 " Hear me out, child," said the duchess. " He goes 
 with us to assist my chaplain ; he is not much fitter for 
 wandering than you, or less so. And you, madame, must, 
 I fear me, still remain his daughter-in-law in my house- 
 hold; or if you bore your own name and rank, this uncle 
 and cousin of yours might learn that you were still living; 
 and did they claim you — " 
 
 " Oh, madame, rather let me be your meanest kitchen- 
 girl!'' 
 
 '' To be — what do they call you? Esperance Gardon 
 will be quite enough. I have various women here — widows, 
 wives, daugliters of sufferers for the truth's sake, who 
 either are glad of rest, or are trained up to lead a godly 
 life in the discipline of my household. Among them you 
 can live without suspicion, i^rovided," the old lady added, 
 smiling, ''you can abstain from turning the heads of our 
 poor young candidates." 
 
 " Madame," said Eustacie, gravely, " I shall never turn 
 any one's head. Thei'e was only one who was obliged to 
 love me, and happily I am not fair enough to win any one 
 else." 
 
 " Tenez, child. Is this true simplicity? Did Gardon, 
 truly, never tell you of poor Samuel Mace?" 
 
 Eustacie's face expressed such genuine amazement and 
 consternation that the duchess could not help touching her 
 on the cheek and saying, " Ah! simj^le as a jjoisinnnaire, 
 as we used to say when no one else was innocent. But it is 
 true, my dear, that to poor Samuel we owe our meeting; I 
 will send him off, the poor fellow, at once to Bourg-le-Koy 
 to preach his three sermons; and when the}'' have driven 
 you a little out of his head, he shall have Mariette there — 
 
 5-2d half.
 
 130 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 a good girl, who will make liim an excellent wife. She is 
 ugly enough, but it will be all the same to him just then! 
 I will see him, and let him know tliat I have reasons. He 
 lodges in your house, does he? Then you had better come 
 to me at once. So will evil tongues best be silenced. 
 
 " But hold," the duchess continued, smiling. " You will 
 think me a foolish old woman, but is it true that you have 
 saved the Pearls of Eibaumont, of which good Canon Frois- 
 sart tells?" 
 
 Eustacie lifted her child on her knee, untied the little 
 gray frock, and showed them fastened beneath, well out of 
 sight. " I thought my treasures should guard one another," 
 she said. " One I sent as a token to my mother-in-law. 
 For the rest, they are not mine, but hers; her father lent 
 them to me, not gave: so she wears them thus; and any- 
 thing but her life should go rather than they should." 
 
 " Jlein, a fine guardian for them!" was all the duchess 
 said in answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE ITALIAN PEDDLER. 
 
 This caitiff monk for gold did swear, 
 That by liis drugs my rival fair 
 A saint in heaven should be. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 A GRAND cavalcade bore the house of Quinet from Mon- 
 .tauban — coaches, wagons, outriders, gendarmes — it was a 
 perfect coui't progress, and so slow and cundjrous that it 
 was a whole week in reaching a grand old castle standing 
 on a hill-side among chestnut woods, with an avenue a mile 
 long leading up to it; and battlemented towers fit to stand 
 a siege. 
 
 Eustacie was ranked among the duchess's gentlewomen. 
 She was so far acknowledged as a lady of birth, that she 
 was usually called Mme. Esj^erance; and though no one 
 was supposed to doubt her being Theodore Garden's 
 widow, she was regarded as being a person of rank who had 
 made a misalliance by marrying him. This Mme. de Quinet 
 had allowed the household to infer, thinking that the whole 
 bearing of her guest was too unlike that of a Paris hour- 
 (jeoisG not to excite suspicion, but she deemed it wiser to re-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 131 
 
 frain from treating her with cither intimacy or distinction 
 that might excite jealousy or suspicion. Even as it was, 
 the consciousness of a secret, or the remnants of Montau- 
 ban gossip, prevented any familiarity between Eustacie and 
 the good ladies who surrounded her; they were very civil to 
 each other, but their only coiniecting link was the delight 
 that every one took in pettiiig pretty little liayonette, and 
 the wonder that was made of her signs of intelligence and 
 attempts at talking. Even when she toddled fearlessly up 
 to the stately duchess on her canopied throne, and held 
 out her entreating hands, and lisped the word '^ montre," 
 madame would pause in her avocations, take her on her 
 knee, and display that wonderful gold and enamel creature 
 which cried tic-tic, and still remained an unapproachable 
 mystery to M. le Marquis and M. le Vicomte, her grandsons. 
 
 Tale, formal stiff boys they looked, twelve and ten years 
 old, and under the dominion of a very learned tutor, who 
 taught them Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, alternately with an 
 equally precise, stiff old esquire, who trained them in mar- 
 tial exercises, which seemed to be as much matters of rote 
 with them as their tasks, and to be quite as uninteresting. 
 It did not seem as if they ever played, or thought of play- 
 ing; and if they were ever to be gay, witty Frenchmen, a 
 wonderful change must come over them. 
 
 The elder was already betrothed to a Bearnese damsel, of 
 an unimpeachably ancient and Calvinistic family; and the 
 whole establishment had for the last three years been em- 
 ployed on tapestry hangings for a whole suite of rooms, 
 that were to be fitted up and hung 'Sfith the histories of 
 Ruth, of Abigail, of the Shunammite, and of Esther, 
 which their diligent needles might hope to complete by the 
 time the marriage should take place, three years later! The 
 duchess, who really was not unlike " that great woman " 
 the Shunammite, in her dignified content with " dwelling 
 among her own people," and Iku- desire to " receive a 
 prophet in the name of a prophet," generally sat presiding 
 over the work while some one, chaplain, grandson, or 
 young maiden, read aloud from carefully assorted books; 
 religious treatises at certain hours, and at others, history. 
 Often, however, madame was called away into her cabinet, 
 where she gave audience to intendants, notaries from her 
 estates, pastors from the villages, captains of little garri- 
 sons, soldiers offering service, farmers, women, shepherds,
 
 18S THE CHAPL15T OP PEARLS. 
 
 foresters, peasants, who came either on her business or with 
 tlieir own needs — for all of which she was ready with the 
 beneficence and decision of an autocrat. 
 
 The chapel had been " purified," and made bare of all 
 altar or image. It was filled with benches and a desk, 
 whence Isaac Garden, the chajilain, any pastor on a visit, 
 or sometimes a candidate for his promotion, would ex- 
 pound, and offer prayers, shortly in the week, more at 
 length on Sunday; and there, too, classes were held for the 
 instruction of the peasants. 
 
 There was a great garden full of medicinal plants, and 
 decoctions and distilleries were the chief variety enjoyed by 
 the gentlewomen. The duchess had studied much in quaint 
 Latin and French medical books, and, having great experi- 
 ence and good sense, was probably as good a doctor as any 
 one in the kingdom except Ambroise Pare and his pupils; 
 and she required her ladies to practice under her upon the 
 numerous ailments that the peasants were continually 
 bringing for her treatment. No one could tell," she 
 said, " how soon they might be dealing with gunshot 
 wounds, and all ought to know how to sew up a gash, or 
 cure an ague." 
 
 This department suited Eustacie much better than tlie 
 stitching, ai]d best of all she liked to be sent with Maitre 
 Isaac to some cottage where solace for soul and body was 
 needed, and the inmate was too ill to be brought to Mme. 
 la Duchesse. She was learning much and improving too in 
 the orderly household, but her wanderings had made her 
 something of a little gypsy. She now and then was in- 
 tolerably weary, and felt as if she had been entirely spoiled 
 for her natural post. "What would become of her," she 
 said to Maitre Isaac, " if she were too grand to dress Ray- 
 onette?" 
 
 She was not greatly distressed that the Montauban pur- 
 suivant turned out to have only the records of the Proven- 
 9al nobility, and was forced to communicate with his breth- 
 ren at Bordeaux before he could bring down the liibau- 
 mont genealogy to the actual generation; and so slow was 
 communication, so tardy the mode of doing everything, 
 that the chestnut leaves were falling and autumn becom- 
 ing winter before the blazoned letter showed Pibaumont, 
 de Picardie — " Gules, fretty or, a canton of the last, a leop- 
 ard, sable. Eustache Berenger, m. Annora, daughter and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 13-1 
 
 heiress of Villiam, Baron of Valvem, in the County of 
 Dorisette, England;, who beareth, azure, a syren regardant 
 in a mirror ^^roper." The syren was drawn in all her i)ro- 
 priety impaled with the leopard, and she was so much more 
 com])rehensible than the names, to both Mme. de Quinet 
 and Eustacie, that it was a pity they could not direct their 
 letters to her rather than to " Le Baron de Valvem/' 
 whose cruel W's perplexed them so much. However, the 
 address was the least of Eustacie's troubles; she should be 
 only too glad when she got to that, and she was sitting in 
 Maitre Isaac's room, trying to make him dictate lit r sen- 
 tences and asking him how to spell every tlurd word, when 
 the dinner bell rang, and the whole household dro{)ped 
 down from salon, library, study, or chamber to the huge 
 hall, with its j^aveuient of black and white marble, and its 
 long tables, for Mme. de Quinet was no woman to discard 
 wholesome old practices. 
 
 Then, as Eiistacie, with Rayonette trotting at her side, 
 and Maitre Isaac leaning on her arm, slowly made her way 
 to that high table where dined Mme. la Duchesse, her 
 grandsons, the ministers, the gentlemen in waiting, and 
 some three or four women besides herself, she saw that the 
 lower end of the great hall was full of siliis, cloths, and rib- 
 bons heaj^ed together; and, passing by the lengthy rank of 
 retainers, she received a bow and look of recognition from a 
 dark, acute-looking visage which she remembered to be- 
 long to the peddler she had met at Charente. 
 
 The duchess, at the head of her table, was not in the 
 best of humors. Her son had sent home letters by a cou- 
 rier whom he had picked up for himself and she never liked 
 nor trusted, and he required an immediate reply when she 
 particularly resented being hurried. It was a galujiafre, 
 literally a hash, she said; for indeed most matters where 
 she was not consulted, did become a galimafre with her. 
 Moreover, under favor of the courier, her porters had ad- 
 mitted this peddler,and the duchess greatly disliked peddlers. 
 All her household stores were bought at shops of good re- 
 pute in Montauban, and no one ought to be so improvi- 
 dent as to require dealings with these mountebank vaga- 
 bonds, who dangled vanities before the eyes of silly girls, 
 and tilled their heads with Paris fashions, if they did not 
 do still worse, and excite them to the purchase of cosmetics 
 and love-charms.
 
 134 THE CSAPLET OF MARLS. 
 
 Yet the excitement caused by the approach of a ]3eddler 
 was invincible^, even by Mnie. la Duchesse. It was inevi- 
 table that the crying need of glove, kerchief, needle, or the 
 like, should be discovered as soon as he came within ken, 
 and, once in the hall, there was no being rid of him except 
 by a flagrant act of inhosjjitality. This time, it was worst 
 of all, for M. le Marquis himself must needs be the first to 
 s[)y him, bring him in, and be in want of a silver chain for 
 liis hawk; and his brother the vicomte must follow him up 
 with all manner of wants inspired by the mere sight of the 
 pack. 
 
 Every one with the smallest sum of money must buy, 
 every one without, inspect and assist in bargaining; and all 
 dinner time, eyes, thoughts, and words were wandering to 
 the gay pile in the corner, or reckoning up needs and 
 means. The peddler, too, knew what a Calvinist household 
 was, and had been extremely discreet, producing nothing 
 that could reasonably be objected to; and the duchess, see- 
 ing that the stream was too strong for her, wisely tried to 
 steer her bark through it safely instead of directly oppos- 
 ing it. 
 
 As soon as grace was over, she called her maitre d 'hotel, 
 and bade him look after that (jalimafre, and see that none 
 of these fools were unreasonably cheated, and that there 
 was no attempt at gulling the young ones with charms or 
 fortune-telling, as well as to conclude the matter so as to 
 give no excuse for the Italian fellow lingering to sup and 
 sleep. She then retired to her cabinet to prepare her dis- 
 patches, which were to include a letter to Lord Walwyn. 
 Though a nominal friendship subsisted between Elizabeth 
 and the French court, the Huguenot chiefs always main- 
 tained a correspondence with England, and there was little 
 danger but that the Duke de Qiiinet wotdd be able to get a 
 letter, sooner or later, conveyed to any man of mark. In 
 the course of her letter, Mme. de Quinet found it necessary 
 to refer to Eustacie, She rang her little silver handbell for 
 the little foot-page, who usually waited outside her door. 
 He appeared not. She rang again, and receiving no answer, 
 opened her door and sallied forth, a wrathful dame, into 
 the hall. There, of course. Master Page had been ingulfed 
 in the (lalimafre, and not only forming one of the swarm 
 around the peddler, but was actually aping courtly grimaces 
 as he tried a delicate lace ruffle on the hand of a silly little
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 105 
 
 smirking maiden, no older than himself! But this little 
 episode was, like many others, overlooked by Mnie. de 
 Quinet, as her eye fell upon the little figure of Ivayonette 
 standing on the table, with her mother and two or three 
 ladies besides coaxing her to open her mouth, and show the 
 swollen gums .that had of late been troubling her, while the 
 peddler was evidently expending his blandishments upon 
 her. 
 
 The maitre d'hotel was the first to perceive his mistress, 
 and, as he approached, received a sharp rebuke from her 
 for allowing the fellow to produce his quack medicines, 
 and, at the same time, she desired him to request Mme. 
 Esperance to come to her immediately on business. Eus- 
 tacie, who always had a certain self-willed sense of opposi- 
 tion when the duchess showed herself peremptory toward 
 her, at first began to make answer that she Would come as 
 soon as her business was concluded; but the steward made 
 a gesture toward the great lady sailing up and down as she 
 paced the dais in stately impatience. " Good fellow," she 
 said, " I will return quickly, and see you again, though I 
 am now interrupted. Stay there, little one, with good 
 Mademoiselle Perrot; mother will soon be ba(;k.'" 
 
 Rayonette, in her tooth-fretf ulness, was far from endur- 
 ing to be forsaken so near a strange man, and her cry made 
 it necessary for Eustacie to take her in arms, and carry her 
 to tlie dais where the ducliess was waiting. 
 
 " So!" said the lady, " I susjjected that the fellow was a 
 quack as well as a cheat. " 
 
 " Madame," said Eustacie, with spirit, " he sold mc un- 
 guents that greatly relieved my father last spring." 
 
 " And because rubbing relieved an old man's rheumatics, 
 you would let a vagabond cheat drug and sicken this ]ioor 
 child for what is no ailment at all — and the teeth will relieve 
 ill a few days. Or, if she were feverish, have not we decoc- 
 tions brewed from heaven's own pure herbs in the garden, 
 with no unknown ingredient?'^ 
 
 " Madame," said Eustacie, ruffling into fierceness, " you 
 are very good to me; but I must keep the management of 
 my daughter to myself." 
 
 The duchess looked at her from head to foot. Pei'haps it 
 was with an impulse to treat her imjiertinence as she would 
 have done that of a dependent; but the old lady never for-* 
 got herself; she only shrugged her shoulders and said, with
 
 136 THE ClIAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 studied politeness, " When I unfortunately interrupted 
 your consultation with this eminent physician, it was to cisk 
 you a question regarding this English family. Will you do 
 me the honor to enter my cabinet?'^ 
 
 And whereas no one was looking, the old lady showed her 
 displeasure by ushering Mme. de llibaumont into her cab- 
 inet like a true noble stranger guest; so that Eustacie felt 
 disconcerted. 
 
 The d uchess then began to read aloud her own letter to 
 Lord Walwyn, pausing at every clause, so that Eustacie 
 felt the delay and discussion growing interminable, and the 
 duchess then requested to have Mme. de Ribaumont's own 
 letter at once, as she wished to inclose it, make up her 
 packet, and send it without delay. Opening a secret door 
 in her cabinet, she showed Eustacie a stair by which she 
 might reach Maitre Garden's room without crossing the 
 hall. Eustacie hoped to find him there and tell him how 
 intolerable was the duchess; but, though she found him, it 
 was in company with the tutor, who was spending an after- 
 noon on Plato with him. She could only take uj) her letter 
 and retreat to madame's cabinet, whore she had left her 
 child. She finished it as best she might, addressed it after 
 the herald's spelling of the title, bound it with some of the 
 duchess's black floss silk— wondering meanwhile, but little 
 guessing tiiat the peddler knew, where was the tress tliat 
 had bound her last attempt at correspondence, guessing least 
 of all that that tress lay on a heart still living and throb- 
 bing for her. All this had made her a little forget her haste 
 to assert her liberty of action by returning to the peddler; 
 but, behold, when she came back to the hall, it had re- 
 sumed its pristine soberness, and merely a few lingering 
 figures were to be seen, packing uj) their purchases. 
 
 While she was still looking round in dismay. Mile. Perrot 
 came up to her and said, " Ah! madame, you may well 
 wonder! I never saw Maitre Beuoit there so cross; the poor 
 man did but offer to sell little Fanchon the elixir that se- 
 cures a good husband, and 'old Eenoit descended on him 
 like a griffin enraged, would scarce give him time to com- 
 pute his charges or pack his wares, but hustled him forth 
 like a mere thief! And I missed my bargain for that 
 muffler that had so taken my fancy. But, madame, he 
 spoke to me apart, and said you w^ere an old customer of 
 his, and that rather than the little angel should suffer with
 
 THE CHAPLET OF I'EAKLS. 137 
 
 her teeth, which surely threaten convulsions, he would 
 leave with you this sovereign remedy of sweet sirup — a 
 spoonful to be given each night/' 
 
 Eustacie took the little flask. She was much inclined to 
 give the sirup by way of jjrecaution, as well as to assure 
 herself that she was not under the duchess's dominion; but 
 some strong instinct of the truth of the lady's words that 
 the child was safer and healthier undoctored, made her re- 
 solve at least to defer it until the httle one showed any 
 perilous symptom. And as happily Rayonette only showed 
 two little white teeth, and much greater good humor, the 
 sirup was nearly forgotten, when, a fortnight after, the 
 duchess received a dispatch from her son which filled her 
 with the utmost indignation. The courier had indeed ar- 
 rived, but the packet had proved to be filled with hay and 
 waste paper. And upon close examination, under the lash, 
 the courier had been forced to confess to having allowed 
 himself to be overtaken by the peddler, and treated by him 
 to a supper at a cabaret. 'No doubt, while he was afterward 
 asleep, the contents of his packet had been abstracted. 
 There had been important documents for the duke besides 
 Eustacie 's letters, and the affair greatly annoyed the duch- 
 ess, though she had the compensation of having been proved 
 perfectly right in her prejudice against peddlers, and her 
 dislike of her son's courier. She sent for Eustacie to tell 
 her privately of the loss, and of course the young mother at 
 once turned pale and exclaimed, " The wicked one! Ah! 
 what a blessing that I gave my little darling none of his 
 dose!" 
 
 " Hein ? You had some from him then!" demanded the 
 duchess with displeasure. 
 
 " No, madame, thanks, thtuiks, to you. Oh! I never 
 will be self-willed and naughty again. Forgive me, 
 madame," And down she dropped on her knee, with 
 clasped hands and glistening eyes. 
 
 " Forgive you, silly child, for what?" said Mme. de 
 Qui net, nearly laughing. 
 
 "Ah! for the angry, passionate thoughts I had! Ah! 
 madame, I was all but giving the stuff to my little angel 
 in very spite — and then — " Eustacie's voice was drowned 
 in a passion of tears, and she devoured the old lady's hand 
 with her kisses. 
 
 " Comej come," said the duchess, "let us be reason-
 
 138 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 able. A man may be a thief, but it does not follow that he 
 is a poisoner." 
 
 " Nay, that will we see," cried Eustacie. " lie was re- 
 solved that the little lamb should not escape, and he left a 
 flask for her witli Mademoiselle i'errot. I will fetch it, if 
 madame will give me leave. Oh, the great mercy of Heaven 
 that made her so well that I gave her none!" 
 
 Mine, de Quinet's analytic powers did not go very far, 
 and would probably have decided against the sirup if it 
 had been nothing but virgin honey. She was one who fully 
 believed that her dear Queen Jeanne had been poisoned 
 with a pair of gloves, and she had unlimited faith in the 
 powers of evil possessed by Kene of Milan. Of course, she 
 detected the presence of a slow poison, whose effects would 
 have been attributed to the ailment it was meant to cure; 
 and though her evidence was insufficient, she probably did 
 Ercole no injustice. She declined testing the compound on 
 any iintortunate dog or cat, .but sealed it up in the presence 
 of Gardon, Eustacie, and Mile. Perrot, to be 23roduced 
 against the peddler if ever he should be caught. 
 
 Then she asked Eustacie if there was any reason to sus- 
 pect that he recognized her. Eustacie related the former 
 dealings with him, when she had sold him her jewels and 
 her hair, but she had no notion of his being the same per- 
 son whom she had seen when at Montjjipeau. Indeed, he 
 had altered his appearance so much that he had been only 
 discovered at Nid-de-Merle by eyes sharpened by distrust of 
 his pretensions to magic arts. 
 
 Mme. de Quinet, however, concluded that Eustacie had 
 been known, or else that her jewels had betra3^ed her, and 
 that the man must have been employed by her enemies. 
 If it had not been the dejjth of winter, she would have pro- 
 vided for the jDcrsecuted lady's immediate transmission to 
 England; but the storms of the Bay of Biscay Avould have 
 made this impossible in the state of French navigation, 
 even if Isaac Gardon had been in a condition to move; for 
 the first return of cold had brought back severe rheumatic 
 pains, and with them came a shortness of breath, which 
 even the duchess did not know to be the token of heart 
 complaint. He was confined to his room, and it was 
 kneeling by his bedside that Eustacie poin-ed out her thank- 
 fulness for her child's jireservation, and her own repentance 
 for the passing fit of self-will and petulance. The thought
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 139 
 
 of Eayonette's safety seemed absolutely to extinguish the 
 fresh anxiety that had arisen since it had become evident 
 that her enemies no longer suijposed her dead, but were 
 probably u])on her traces. Somehow, danger had become 
 almost a natural element to her, and having once exjDressed 
 her firm resolution that nothing should separate her from 
 her adopted father, to whom indeed her care became con- 
 stantly more necessary, she seemed to occupy herself very 
 little with the matter; she nursed him as cheerfully and 
 fondly, and played with IJayonette as merrily as ever, and 
 left to him and Mme. de Quinet the grave consultations as 
 to what was to be done for her security. There was a sort 
 of natural buoyancy about her that never realized a danger 
 till it came, and then her spirit was roused to meet it. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXVI. 
 
 SPELL AND POTION". 
 
 Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 
 
 All the power this charm doth owe. 
 
 Midmmmer Night's Dream. 
 
 Her rival lived! The tidings could not but be communi- 
 cated to Diane de Selinvillc, when her father set out en 
 (jrande tennc to demand his niece fi'om the Dulve de 
 Quinet. 'J'his, however, was not till spring was advancing; 
 for the peddler had not been able to take a direct route back 
 to Nid-de-Merle, since his first measure had necessarily 
 been to escape into a province where the abstraction of a 
 Huguenot nobleman's dispatches would be considered as a 
 meritorious action. Winter weather, and the practice of 
 his profession likewise, delayed Ercole so much that it was 
 nearly Easter before he brought his certain intelligence to 
 the chevalier, and to the lady an elixir of love, clear and 
 colorless as crystal, and infallible as an inspirer of affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Should she administer it, now that she knew her cousin 
 not to be the lawful object of affection she had so long 
 esteemed him, but, as he persisted in considering himself, 
 a married man? Diane had more scru[)les than she would 
 have had a year before, for she had not so long watched 
 and loved one so true ami conscientious as Berenger de
 
 140 THE CHAPIET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Ribaumont without having her perce25tions elevated; but 
 at the same time the j^assion of love had become intensified, 
 both by long continuance and by resistance. She had at- 
 tached herself, believing him free, and her affections could 
 not be disentangled by learning that he was bound — rather 
 the contrary. 
 
 Besides, tbere was plenty of soi^histry. Her father had 
 always assured her of the invalidity of the marriage, with- 
 out thinking it necessary to dwell on his own arrangements 
 for making it invalid, so that was no reasonable ground of 
 objection; and a lady of Diane's period, living in the world 
 where she had lived, would have had no notion of objectijig 
 to her lover for a previous amour, and as such was she 
 bidden to rank Berenger's relations with Eustacie. And 
 there was the less scruple on Eustacie's account, because 
 the chevalier, knowing that the duchess had a son and two 
 grandsons, had conceived a great terror that she meant to 
 give his niece to one of them; and this would be infinitely 
 worse, both for the interests of the family and of their party, 
 than even her reunion witli the young baron. Even Nar- 
 cisse, who on his return had written to Paris a grudging 
 consent to the experiment of his father and sister, had 
 allowed that the preservation of Berenger's life was needful 
 till Eustacie should be in their power so as to prevent such 
 a marriage as that! To Diane, the very suggestion became 
 certainty: she already saw Eustacie's shallow little heart 
 consoled and her vanity excited by these magnificent pros- 
 jiects, and she looked forward to the triumph of her own 
 constancy, when Berengei- should find the image so long 
 enshrined in his heart crumble in its sacred niche. 
 
 Yet a little while then would she be patient, even though 
 nearly a year had passed and still she saw no effect upon 
 her prisoners, unless, indeed, Philip had drunk of one of 
 her potions by mistake and his clumsy admiration was the 
 consequence. The two youths went on exactly in the same 
 manner, without a complaint, without a request, occujiy- 
 ing themselves as best they might — Berenger courteously 
 attentive to her father, and coldly courteous to herself. He 
 had entirely recovered his health, and the athletic powers 
 disjilayed by the two brothers when wrestling, fencing or 
 snow-balling in the court-yard, were the amazement and 
 envy of their guard. Twice in the course of the winter 
 there had been au alarm of wolves, and in their eagerness
 
 THE CHArLET OF PEARLS. 141 
 
 and excitement about this new sport, they had accepted the 
 chevaher's olTer of taking their parole for the hunt. They 
 had then gone forth with a huge posse of villagers, who 
 beat tlie woods witli their dogs till the beast was aroused 
 from its lair and driven into the alleys, where waited gen- 
 tlemen, gendarmes and gamekeepers with their guns. 
 These two chases were chiefly memorable to Berenger, be- 
 cause in the universal intermingling of shouting peasants 
 he was able in the first to have some conversation with 
 Eustacie's faithful protector Martin, who told him the in- 
 cidents of her wanderings, with tears in his eyes, and 
 blessed him for his faith that she was not dead; and in the 
 second, he actually found himself in the ravine of the 
 Grange du Temple. No need to ask, every voice was shout- 
 ing the name, and though the gendarmes were round him 
 and he durst not speak to Eotrou, still he could reply with 
 significative earnestness to the low bow with which the 
 farmer bent to evident certainty that here was the im- 
 prisoned Protestant husband of the poor lady. Berenger 
 wore his black visor mask as had been required of him, 
 but the man's eyes followed him, as though learning by 
 heart the outline of his tall figure. 1'he object of, the 
 chevalier's journey was, of course, a secret from the 
 prisoners, who merely felt its effects by having their meals 
 served to them in their own tower; and when he returned 
 after about a month's absence thought him looking 
 harassed, aged, and so much out of humor that he could 
 scarcely preserve his usual politeness. In effect he was 
 greatly chagrined. 
 
 " That she is in their hands is certain, the hypocrites!" 
 he said to his daughter and sister; " and no less so that 
 they have designs on her; but I let them know that these 
 could be easily traversed. " 
 
 " But where is she, the unhappy apostate child?" said 
 the abbess. " They durst not refuse her to you." 
 
 " I tell you they denied all present knowledge of her. 
 The duke himself had the face to make as though he 
 never heard of her. He had no concern with his mother's 
 household and guests forsooth! I do not believe he has; 
 the poor fellow stands in awe of that terrible old heretic 
 dragon, and keeps aloof from her as much as he can. But 
 he is, after all, a lean jenne liominc; nor should I be sur- 
 prised if he were the girl's gay bridegroom by this time.
 
 143 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 though I gave him a hint that there was an entanglement 
 about the child's first marriage which, hy French law, 
 would invalidate any other without a disi^ensation from the 
 Pope. " 
 
 " A hard nut that for a heretic," laughed the abbess. 
 
 " He acted the ignorant — knew nothing about tbe young 
 lady; but had the civility to give me a guide and an escort 
 to go to Quinet. Ma foi ! I believe they were given to 
 hinder me— take me by indirect roads, make me lose time 
 at chateaux. When I arrived at the grim old cbateau — a 
 true dungeon, jjrecise as a convent — there was the dame, 
 playing the Queen Jeanne as well as she could, and having 
 the insolence to tell me that it was true that Madame la 
 Baronne de Eibaumont, as she was jileased to call her, had 
 honored her residence for some months, but that she had 
 now quitted it, and she flatly refused to answer any question 
 whither she was gone! The hag! she might at least have 
 had the decorum to deny all knowledge of her, but nothing 
 is more impertinent than tlie hyi^ocritical sincerity of the 
 heretics.'^ 
 
 " But her people,'' exclaimed the abbess; " surely some 
 of them knew, and could be brought to speak." 
 
 " All the servants I came in contact with j^layed the in- 
 corruptible; but still I have done something. There were 
 some fellows in the village who are not at their ease under 
 that rule. I caused my people to inquire them out. They 
 knew nothing more than that the old heretic Gardon with 
 his family had gone away in Madame la Duchesse's litter, 
 but whither they could not tell. But the calurcticr there 
 is furious secretly with the Quinets for having spoiled his 
 trade by destroying the shrine at the holy well, and I have 
 made him understand that it will be for his profit to send 
 me off intelligence so soon as there is any communication 
 between them and the lady. I made the same arrangement 
 with a couple of gendarmes of the escort the duke gave 
 me. 80 at least we are safe for intelligence such as would 
 hinder a marriage." 
 
 " But they will be off to England!" said the abbess. 
 
 " I wager they will again write to make sure of a reception. 
 Moreover, I have set that fellow Ercole and others of his 
 trade to keep a strict watcli on all the roads leading to the 
 ports, and give me due notice of their passing thither. 
 We have law on our side, and, did I once claim her, no one
 
 THE ClIAPLET OF I'EARtS. 14-1 
 
 could resist my right. Or sliould the war break out, as is 
 probable, then could my son svvee^o their whole province 
 with his troops. This time she can not escape us. " 
 
 The scene that her father's words and her own imagina- 
 tion conjured up, of Eustacie attracting the handsome 
 widower-duke, removed all remaining scruples from Mme. 
 de Selinville. For his own sake, the baron must be made 
 to fulfill the prophecy of the ink-pool, and allow his prison 
 doors to be ojoened by love. Many and many a tender art 
 did Diane rehearse; numerous were her sighs; wakeful, 
 languishing and restless her nights and days; and yet, 
 whatever her determination to practice upon her cousin the 
 witcheries that she had learned in the Escadron dela Rcine- 
 7nere, and seen played otf effectually where there was not 
 one grain of love to inspire them, her powers and her cour- 
 age always failed her in the presence of him whom she 
 sought to attract. His quiet reserve and simplicity always 
 disconcerted her, and any attempt at blandishment that he 
 could not mistake was always treated by him as necessarily 
 an accidental error, as if any other su23position would ren- 
 der her despicable; and yet there was now and then a some- 
 thing that made her detect an effort in his restraint, as if it 
 were less distaste than self-command. Her brother had 
 contemjjtuously acquiesced in the experiment made by her- 
 self and her father, and allowed that so long as there was 
 any danger of the Quinet marriage, the baron's existence 
 was needful. He would not come to Nid-de-Merle, nor 
 did they want him there, knowing that he could hardly 
 have kejjt his hands off his rival. But when the war broke 
 out again in the summer of 1575 he joined that detach- 
 ment of Guise's army which hovered about tlie Loire, and 
 kept watch on the Huguenot cities and provinces of Western 
 France. The chevalier made several expeditions to confer 
 with his son, and to keep up his relations with the net-work 
 of spies whom he had spread over the Quinet provinces. 
 The prisoners were so much sei^arated from all intercourse 
 with the dependents that they were entirely ignorant of the 
 object of his absence from home. On these occasions they 
 never left their tower and its court, and had no enliven- 
 ment save an occasional gift of dainties or message of in- 
 quiry from the ladies at Bellaise. These were brought by 
 a handsome but slight, pale lad called Aime de Selinville, 
 a relative of the late coimt, as he told them, who had come
 
 144 THE CSAPLET OP fEARLS. 
 
 to act as M gentleman attendant upon the widowed count- 
 ess. The brothers rather wondered how he was disposed of 
 at the convent, but all there was so contrary to their pre- 
 conceived notions that they acquiesced. The first time he 
 arrived it was on a long, liot summer day, and he then 
 brought them a cool iced sherbet in two separate flasks, 
 that for Phihp being mixed with wine, which was omitted 
 for Berenger; and the youth stood lingering and watching, 
 anxious, he said, to be able to tell his lady how the drinks 
 were approved. Both were excellent, and to that eflfect 
 the prisoners replied; but no sooner was the messenger 
 gone than Berenger said smilingly, " That was a love 
 potion, Phil. " 
 
 " And you drank it I" cried Philip, in horror. 
 
 " I did not think of it till I saw how the boy's eyes were 
 gazing curiously at me as I swallowed it. You look at me 
 as curiously, Phil. Are you expecting it to work? Shall 
 I be at the fair lady's feet next time we meet?" 
 
 " How can you defy it. Berry?" 
 
 " Nay, Phil; holy wedded love is not to be dispelled by a 
 mountebank's decoction." 
 
 " But suppose it were poisonous. Berry, what can be 
 done?" cried Philip, starting up in dismay. 
 
 " Then you would go home, Phil, and this would be 
 over. But " — seeing his brother's terror — " there is no 
 fear of that. She is not like to wish to jioison me. " 
 
 And the potion proved equally ineffective on mind and 
 body, as indeed did all the manipulations exercised upon a 
 little waxen image that was supposed to represent M. le 
 Baron. Another figure was offered to Diane, in feminine 
 form, with black beads for eyes and a black plaster for hair, 
 which, when stuck full of pins and roasted before the fire, 
 was to cause Eustacie to peak and pine correspondingly. 
 But from this measure Diane shrunk. If aught was done 
 against her rival it must be by her father and brother, not 
 by herself; and she would not feel herself directly hijuring 
 her little cousin, nor sinking herself below him whom she 
 loved. Once his wife, she would be good forever, held up 
 by his strength. 
 
 Meantime Berenger had received a greater shock than 
 she or her father understood in the looking over of some of 
 the family parchments kept in store at the castle. The 
 chevalier, in showing them to him, had chiefly desired to
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 145 
 
 glorify the family by demonstrating how its honors had 
 been won, but Berenger was startled at finding that !Nid- 
 de-Merle had been, as it appeared to him, arbitrarily and 
 unjustly declared to be forfeited by the Sieur de Bellaise, 
 who had been thrown hito prison by Louis XL for some 
 demonstration in favor of the poor Luke de Berri, and 
 granted to the favorite liibaumont. The original grant 
 was there, and to his surprise he found it was to male heirs 
 — 'She male heirs alone of the direct line of the liibaumont 
 — to whom the grant was made. How, then, came it to 
 Eustacie? The disposal had, with almost equal injustice, 
 been changed by King Henry 11. and the late Count de 
 Ribaumont in favor of the little daughter whose union with 
 the heir of the elder line was to conclude all family feuds. 
 Only now did Berenger understand what his father had 
 said on his death-bed of flagrant injustice committed in his 
 days of darkness. He felt that he was reaping the reward 
 of the injuries committed against the chevalier and his son 
 on behalf of the two unconscious children. He would will- 
 ingly at once have given up all claim to the Nid-de-Merle 
 estate — and he was now of age; two birthdays had passed 
 in his captivity and brought him to years of discretion — 
 but he had no more power than before to dispose of what 
 was the jjroperty of Eustacie and her child; and the whole 
 question of the validity of his marriage would be given up 
 by his yielding even the j^osthumous claim that might have 
 devolved on him in case of Eustacie 's death. Tliis would 
 be giving uj) her honor, a thing impossible. 
 
 " Alas!" he sighed, " my poor father might well say he 
 had bound a heavy burden round my neck." 
 
 And from that time his hopes sunk lower as the sense of 
 the justice of his cause left him. He could neither deny 
 his religion nor his marriage, and therefore could do noth- 
 ing for his own deliverance; and he knew himself to be 
 sutfering in the cause of a great injustice; indeed, to be 
 bringing suffering on the still more innocent Philip. 
 
 The once proudly indifferent youth was flagging now; 
 was losing appetite, flesh, and color; was unwilling to talk 
 or to take exercise; and had a wan and drooping air that 
 was most painful to watch. It seemed as if the return of 
 summer brought a sense of the length and weariness of the 
 captivity, and that the sunshine and ga^yety of the land- 
 scape hatl become such a contrast to the captives' deadness
 
 146 THE CHAPLET OP PEAHLS. 
 
 of spirit tliat they could hardly bear to behold them, and 
 felt the dull prison walls more congenial to their feelings 
 than the gayety of the summer hay and harvest-fields. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. ' ; 
 
 -■ BEATING AGAINST THE BARS. 
 
 My horse is weary of the stall, 
 And I am sick of captive thrall. 
 
 Lady of the Lake. 
 
 Letters! They were hailed like drops of water in a 
 thirsty land. Ko doubt they had been long on the way, 
 ere they had reached the hands of the Chevalier de Eibau- 
 mont, and it was cjuite possible that they had been read and 
 selected ; but,, as Berenger said, he defied any Frenchman 
 to imitate either Lord Walwyn's style or Sir Marmaduke's, 
 and when late in the autumn the packet was delivered to 
 him, the two captives gloated over the very outsides before 
 they ojjened them. 
 
 The first intelligence that greeted them made them give 
 a cry of amusement and surprise. Lady Thistle wood, 
 whose regrets that each of her girls was not a boy had 
 passed into a proverb, had at length, in Dolly's seventh 
 year, given birth to a son on Midsummer-day. 
 
 " Well," said Phili]?, sighing, " we must drink his health 
 to-night! It is well, if we are to rot here, that some one 
 should make it up to them!" 
 
 " And join Walwyn and Hurst!" said Berenger; and 
 then both faces grew much graver, as by these letters, dated 
 three months since, they understood how many they must 
 have missed, and likewise that nothing had been heard of 
 themselves since they had left Paris sixteen months ago. 
 Their letters, both to their relations and to Sir Francis 
 Walsingham, had evidently been suppressed; and Lord 
 North, who had succeeded Walsingham as embassador, 
 had probably been misled by design, eitlier by Narcisse de 
 Nid-de-Merle himself, or by some of his agents, for Lord 
 Walwyn had heard from him that the young men were 
 loitering among the castles and garrisons of Anjou, leading 
 a gay and dissipated life, and tliat it was luuversally be- 
 lieved that the Baron de Eibaumont had embraced the 
 Catholic faith, and would shortly be presented to Henry
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 147 
 
 III. to receive the grant of tlic Scliiivillo honors, upon liis 
 niarriiige with liis cousin, tiic widow of tliu hist of the line. 
 With much earnestness and sorrow did good old Lord 
 Walwyn write to his grandson, conjuring him to bethink 
 himself of his home, his pure faith, his loving friends, and 
 the hopes of liis youth: and, at least, if he himself had been 
 led away by the allurements of the other party, to remem- 
 ber that Philip had been intrusted to him in full confi- 
 dence, and to return him to his home. " It was grief and 
 shame to him,'" said the good old man, " to look at Sir 
 Marmaduke, who had risked his son in the charge of one 
 hitherto deemed trustworthy; and even if Berenger had in- 
 deed forgotten and cast away those whom he had once 
 seemed to regard with love and duty, he commanded him 
 to send home Philii3, who owed an obedience to his father 
 that could not be gainsayed. '" Lord Walwyn further bade 
 his grandson remember that the arrangements respecting 
 his inheritance had been made in confidence that his heir 
 was English in heart and faith, aud that neither the queen 
 nor his own conscience would allow him to let his inherit- 
 ance pass into French or Papist hands. There was scarcely 
 a direct reproach, but the shaken, altered handwriting 
 showed how stricken the aged man must be; and after his 
 signature was added one still more trembling line, " An 
 ye return not speedily, ye will never see the old grandsire 
 more."" 
 
 Berenger scarcely finished the letter through his burning 
 tears of agony, and then, casting it from him, began to 
 pace the room in fierce agitation, bursting out into incoher- 
 ent exclamations, grasping at his hair, even launching 
 liimself against the massive window with such frenzied 
 gestures and wild words that Philij), who had read through 
 all with his usual silent obtuseness, became dismayed, and, 
 laying hold of him, said, " Prithee, brother, do not thus! 
 What serves such passion?" 
 
 Berenger burst into a strange loud laugh at the matter- 
 of-fact toire. " What serves it! Avliat serves anything!" he 
 cried, " but to make me feel what a miserable wretch I 
 am? But he will die, Philip — he will die — not having be- 
 lieved me! How shall we keep ourselves from the smooth- 
 tongued villain's throat? That I should be thus judged a 
 traitor by my grandfatiier — " 
 
 And with a cry as of bodily anguish, he hid his face ou
 
 148 THE CHAPLET OP PEAELS. 
 
 the table, and groaned as he felt the utter helplessness of 
 his strong youth in bonds. 
 
 " It can't be helped/' was the next of the unconsolatory 
 platitudes uttered by Philip, who always grew sullen and 
 dogged when his brother's French temperament broke forth 
 under any sudden stroke. " If they will believe such 
 things, let them! You have not heard what my father says 
 to it. " 
 
 " It will be all the same," groaned Berenger. 
 
 " Nay! now that's a foul slander, and you should be 
 ashamed of doing my father such wrong," said Philip. 
 " Listen;" and he read: " I will believe no ill of the lad 
 no more than of thee, Phil. It is but a wild-goose chase, 
 and the poor young woman is scarce like to be above 
 ground; but, as I daily tell them, 'tis hard a man shovdd 
 forfeit his land for seeking his wife. My Lord North sends 
 rumors that he is under Papist guiding, and sworn brother 
 Avith the Black Eibaumonts; and my lady, his grandmoth- 
 er, is like to break her heart, and my lord credits them 
 more than he ought, and never a line as a token comes from 
 you. Then there's Dame Annora as joroud of the babe as 
 though neither she nor woman born ever had a son before, 
 and plains over him, that both his brothers should be en- 
 dowed and he but a younger son. What will be the end 
 on't I can not tell. I will stand up for the right as best 
 man may do, and never forget that Berry is her first-born, 
 and that his child may be living; but the matter is none of 
 mine, and my lord is very aged, nor can a man meddle be- 
 tween his wife and her father. So this I tell you that you 
 may make your brother lay it to heart. The sooner he is 
 here the better, if he be still, as I verily believe and main- 
 tain him to be, an honest English heart that snaps his fin- 
 gers at French papistry." "There," concluded Philip, 
 triumphantly, " he knows an honest man! He's friend and 
 good father to you as much as ever. Heed none of the 
 rest. He'll never let this little rogue stand in your light. " 
 
 "As if I cared for that!" said Berenger, begiiniing his 
 caged-tiger walk again, and, though he tried to repress his 
 anguish, breaking out at times into fierce revilings of the 
 cruel toils that beset him, and despairing lamentations over 
 those beloved ones at home, with sobs, groans and tears, 
 such as Philip could not brook to witness, both because they 
 were so violent and mournful, and because he thought them
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 149 
 
 womanish, though in effect no woman's grief could have 
 had lialf that despairing force. The /?e;'/e of tlie French 
 noble, however, en me to his aid. At the first sound of the 
 great supper bell he dashed away his tears, comjwsed his 
 features, washed his face, and demanded haughtily of Phili]), 
 whether there were any traces in his looks that the cruel 
 hypocrite, their jailer, could gloat over. 
 
 And with proud step and indifferent air he marched into 
 the hall, answered the chevalier's polite inquiry whether 
 the letter had brought good tidings by coolly thanking him 
 and saying that all at home were well; and when he met 
 the old man's inquiring glance out of the little keen black 
 bead in the puckered, withered eyelid, he put a perfectly 
 stony unmeaningness into his own gaze, till his eyes looked 
 like the blue porcelain from China so much prized by the 
 abbess. He even played at chess all the evening with such 
 concentrated attention as to be uniformly victorious. 
 
 Yet half the night Philip heard sujipressed moans and 
 sobs — then knew that he was on his knees — then, after 
 long and comparatively silent weeping, he lay down again, 
 and from the hour when he awoke in the morning, he re- 
 turned no more to the letters; and though for some little 
 time more sad and dispirited, he seemed to have come to 
 regard the misjudgment at home as a part of the burden 
 he was already bearing. 
 
 That burden was, however, pressing more heavily. The 
 temperaments of the two brothers so differed that while the 
 French one was prostrated by the agony of a stroke, and 
 then rallied patiently to endure the effects, the English 
 character opposed a jiassive resistance to the blow, gave no 
 sign of grief or pain, and from that very determination 
 suffered a sort of exhaustion that made the effects of the 
 evil more and more felt. Thus, from the time Philiji's 
 somewhat tardy imagination had been made to realize his 
 home, his father, and his sisters, the home-sickness and 
 weariness of his captivity, whicli had already begun to un- 
 dermine his health and spirits, took increasing effect. 
 
 He made no comphiint — he never expressed a wish — but, 
 in the words of the prophet, he seemed " joining away on 
 his feet. " He did not sleep, and though, to avoid remark, 
 he never failed to a])pear at meals, he scarcely tasted food. 
 He never willingly stirred from cowering over the fire, and 
 was so surly and ill-tempered that only Berenger's unfail-
 
 150 THE CHAPLET OF PEAttLS. 
 
 ing good humor could have endured it. Even a wolf hunt 
 did not stir him. He only said he hated outlandish beasts, 
 and that it was not like chasing the hare in Dorset. His 
 calf-love for Mme. de Selinville had entirely faded away in 
 his yearnings after home. She was only one of the tedious- 
 ly recurring sights of his captivity, and was loathed like 
 all the rest. The regulation rides with the chevalier were 
 more detestable than ever, and by and by they caused such 
 fatigue that Bercnger perceived that his strength must be 
 waning, and became so seriously alarmed that one evening, 
 when Philip had barely dragged himself to the hall, tasted 
 nothing but a few drops of wine, and then dropped into an 
 uneasy slumber in his chair, he could not but turn to the 
 chevalier an appealing, indignant countenance, as he said, 
 in a low but quivering voice, " You see, sir, how he is al- 
 tered!" 
 
 " Alas! fair nephew, it is but too plain. He is just of the 
 age when such restraint tells severely upon the health." 
 
 Then Berenger spoke out upon the foul iniquity of the 
 boy's detention. For himself, he observed, he had nothing 
 to say; he knew the terms of his release, and had not ac- 
 cepted them; but Phili(), innocent of all damage to the 
 Ribaumont interests, the heir of an honorable family, what 
 had he done to incur the cruel imprisonment that was eat- 
 ing away his life? 
 
 "I tell you, sir, "said Berenger, with eyes filled with 
 tears, ' ' that his liberty is more precious to me than my 
 own. Were he but restored to our home, full half the 
 weight would be gone from my spirit." 
 
 "Fair nephew," said the chevalier, "you speak as 
 though I had any power in the matter, and were not mere- 
 ly standing between you and the king." 
 
 " Then if so," said Berenger, " let the king do as he will 
 with me, but let Philip's case be known to our embassador. " 
 
 " My poor cousin," said the chevalier, " you know not 
 what you ask. Did I grant your desire, you would only 
 learn how implacable King Henri is to those who have j^er- 
 sonally offended him^ — above all, to heretics. Nor could 
 tlie embassador do anything for one who resisted by force 
 of arms the king's justice. Leave it to me; put yourself 
 in my hands, and deliverance shall come for him first, then 
 for you. " 
 
 " How, sir?"
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 151 
 
 " One token of concession — one attendance at mass — one 
 pledge that the alliance shall take place when the formali- 
 ties have been complied with — then can I report yon our 
 own; give you almost freedom at once; dispatch our young 
 friend to England without loss of time; so will brotherly 
 affection conquer those cjiivalrous scruples, most honora- 
 ble in you, but which, carried too far, become cruel obsti- 
 nacy." 
 
 Berenger looked at Philip; saw how faded and wan was 
 the ruddy sun-burned complexion, how lank and bony the 
 sturdy form, how listless and wasted the hands. Then 
 arose, bursting within him, the devoted generosity of the 
 French luiture, which would even accept sin and ruin for 
 self, that so the friend may be saved ; and after all, had he 
 not gone to mass out of mere curiosity? — did he not believe 
 that there was salvation in the Galilean Church? Was it 
 not possible that, with Philip free to tell his story at home, 
 his own deliverance might come before he should be ir- 
 revocably committed to Mme. de Selinville? If Eustacie 
 were living, her claims must overthrow that which her rival 
 was forcing upon him at her own peril. Nay, how else 
 could he obtain tidings of her? And for those at home, 
 did they deserve that he should sacrifice all, Philip in- 
 cluded, for their sake? The thoughts, long floating round 
 his brain, now surged upon him hi one flood, and seemed 
 to overwhelm in those moments of confusion all his powers 
 of calling up the other side of the argument; he only had 
 an instinct remaining that it \vould be a lie to God and 
 man alike. " God help me!" he sighed to himself; and 
 there was suflicient consideration and perplexity expressed 
 in his countenance to cause the chevalier to feel his cause 
 almost gained; and rising eagerly, with tears in his eyes, 
 exclaimed, " Embrace me, my dear, dear son! The thing 
 is done! Oh! what peace, what joy!" 
 
 The instinct of recoil came stronger now. He stepped 
 back with folded arms, sayuig again, " God help me! God 
 forbid that I should be a traitor!" 
 
 " My son, hear me; these are but easily removed points 
 of honor," began the chevalier; but at that moment Philip 
 suddeidy started from, or in his slumber, leaped on his feet, 
 and called out, " Avaunt, Satan!" then opened his eyes, 
 and looked, as if barely recalling where he was. 
 " Philip!'' exclaimed Berenger, " did you hear?"
 
 152 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 " I — I don't know/' lie said^, half-bewildered. " Was I 
 dreaming that the fiend was parleying with us in the voice 
 of Monsieur le Chevalier there to sell our souls for one hour 
 of home?" 
 
 He S23oke English, but Berenger replied in French. 
 
 " You were not wrong, Philip. Sir, he dreamed that 
 the devil was tempting me in your voice while you were 
 promising me his liberty on my fultilling your first condi- 
 tion." 
 
 " What?" said Philip, now fully awake, and gathering 
 the state of things, as he remembered the words that had 
 doubtless been the cause of his dream. " And if you did, 
 Berenger, I give you warning they should never see me at 
 home. What! could I show my face there with such tid- 
 ings? No! I should go straight to La None, or to the Low 
 Countries, and kill every Papist I could for having de- 
 bauched you!" 
 
 "Hush! hush! Philip," said Berenger, "I could not 
 break my faith to Heaven or my wife even for your sake, 
 and my cousin sees how litile beholden you would be to me 
 for so doing. With your leave, monsieur, we will retire." 
 
 The chevalier detained Berenger for a moment to whis- 
 per: " What I see is so noble a heart that I know you can 
 not sacrifice him to your punctilio." 
 
 Philip was so angry with Berenger, so excited, and so de- 
 termined to show that nothing ailed him, that for a short 
 time he was roused, and seemed to be recovering; but in a 
 few days he ilagged again, only, if possil^le, with more 
 gruffness, moodiness, and pertinacity in not allowing that 
 anything was amiss. It was the bitterest drop of all in 
 Berenger's cup, when in the end of January he looked back 
 at what Philip had been only a month before, and saw how 
 he had wasted away and lost strength; the impulse rather 
 to ruin himself than destroy his brother came with such 
 force that he could scarcely escape it by his ever-recurring 
 cry for help to withstand it. And then Diane, in her 
 splendid beauty and witchery, would rise before him, so 
 that he knew how a relaxation of the lengthened weary 
 effort would make his whole self break its bonds and go out 
 to her. Dreams of felicity and liberty, and not with Eus- 
 tacie, would even come over him, and he would awaken to 
 disappointment before he came to a sense of reL'jf and 
 thankfulness that he was still his own. The dislike, dis-
 
 THE ClIArLET OF PEARLS. 153 
 
 taste, and dread that came so easily in liis time of pain ami 
 weakness were less easy to maintain in his full health and 
 forced inactivity. Occupation of mind and hope seemed 
 the only chance of enabling either of the two to weather 
 this most dreary desert period; and Berengcr, setting liis 
 thoughts resolutely to consider what would be the best 
 means of rousing Phili]), decided at length that any en- 
 deavor to escape, however arduous and desperate, would be 
 better than his present ajjathetic languor, even if it led to 
 nothing. After the first examination of their prison, Be- 
 renger had had no thought of escape; he was then still weak 
 and unenterprising. He had for many months lived in 
 hopes of interference from home; and, besides, the likeli- 
 hood that so English a party as his own would be quickly 
 jnirsued and recaptured, where they did not know their 
 road and had no passports, had deterred him lest they 
 should fall into still straiter imprisonment. But he had 
 since gained, in the course of his rides, and by observation 
 from the top of the tower, a much fuller knowledge of the 
 country. He knew the way to the Grange du Tem])le, and 
 to the chief towns in the neighborhood. Philip and Hum- 
 frey had both lost something of their intensely national took 
 and speech, and, moreover, war having broken out again, 
 there was hope of falling in with Huguenot partisans even 
 nearer than at La Kochelle. But whether successful or 
 not, some enterj^rise was absolutely needed to save Philiji 
 from his despondent apathy; and Berenger, who in these 
 'eighteen months had grown into the strength and vigor of 
 nuiuhood, felt as if he had force and power for almost any 
 effort save this hopeless waiting. 
 
 He held council with Humfrey, who suggested that it 
 might be well to examine the vaults below the keep. He 
 had a few days before, while going after some of the fire- 
 wood, stored below the ground-floor chamber, observed a 
 door, locked, but with such rusty iron hinges that they 
 might possibly yield to vigorous efforts with a stone; and 
 who could tell where the underground passages might come 
 out? 
 
 Berenger eagerly seized the idea. Philip's mood of con- 
 tradiction prompted him to pronounce it useless folly, and 
 he vouchsafed no interest in the arrangements for securing 
 light, by selecting all the bits of firewood fittest for torches, 
 and saving all the oil possible from the two lamps they were
 
 154 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS, 
 
 allowed. The chief difficulty was that Guibert was not 
 trusted, so that all had to be done out of his sight; aud on 
 the first day Berenger was obliged to make the exploration 
 alone, since Hunifrey was forced to engross Guibert in 
 some occujiatiou out of sight, and Philip had refused to 
 have anything to do with it, or be like a rat routing in the 
 corners of his trap. 
 
 However, Berenger had only just ascertained that the 
 iron-work was so entirely rusted away as to offer no impedi- 
 ment, when Philij) came languidly roaming into the cellar, 
 saying, " Here! I'll hold the torch! You'll be losing your- 
 self in this wolf's mouth of a place if you go alone. " 
 
 The investigation justified Philip's predictions of its use- 
 lessness. Nothing was detected but rats, and vaults, and 
 cobwebs; it was cold, earthy, and damp; and when they 
 thought they must have penetrated far beyond the pre- 
 cincts of the keep, they heard Humfrey's voice close to 
 them, warning them that it was nearly dinner-time. 
 
 The next day brought them a more promising discovery, 
 namely of a long straight passage, with a gleam of light at 
 the end of it; and this for the first time excited Philip's in- 
 terest or curiosity. He would have hastened along it at 
 once, but for the warning summons from Humfrey; and in 
 the excitement of even this grain of interest, he eat more 
 heartily at supper than he had done for weeks, and was 
 afterward more eager to prove to Berenger that night was 
 the best time to pursue their researches. 
 
 And Berenger, when convinced that Guibert was souni 
 asleep, thought so too, and accompanied by Humfrey, they 
 descended into the passage. The light, of course, was no 
 longer visible, but the form of the cryj)t, through which 
 they now passed, was less antique than that under the 
 keep, and it was plain they were beneath a later portion of 
 the castle. The gallery concluded in a wall, with a small 
 barred, nnglazed window, perfectly dark, so that Berenger, 
 who alone could reach to the bottom of it, could not guess 
 where it looked out. 
 
 " We must return by daylight; then, may be, we may 
 judge," sighed Philip. 
 
 " Hark!" exclaimed Berenger. 
 
 " Pats," said Philip. 
 
 " No — listen — a voice! Take care!" he added, in a 
 lower tone, " we may be close on some of the servants.''
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 155 
 
 But, much nearer than he expected, a voice on liis right 
 hand demanded, " Does any good Christian hear me?'^ 
 
 " Who is there?'' exchiimed Phihp. 
 
 " Ah! good sir, do I hear the voice of a companion in 
 misery? Or. if you be free, would you but send tidings to 
 my poor father?" 
 
 "It is a Norman accent!" cried Berenger. "Ah! ah! 
 can it be jjoor Landry Osbert?" 
 
 " I am — I am that wretch. Oh, would that Monsieur 
 le Baron could know!" 
 
 " My dear, faithful foster-brother! They deceived me," 
 cried 13erenger, in great agitation, as an absolute howl 
 came from the other side of the wall, " Monsieur le Baron 
 come to this! Woe worth the day!" and Berenger with 
 difficulty mitigated his affectionate servant's lamentations 
 enough to learn from him how he bad been seized almost 
 at the gates of Bellaise, closelj' interrogated, deprived of 
 the letter to Mme. la Baronne, and thrown into this dun- 
 geon. The chevalier, not an unmerciful man, according 
 to the time, had probably meant to release bim as soon as 
 the marriage between his son and niece should have rendered 
 it superfluous to detain this witness to Berenger's existence. 
 There, then, the poor fellow had lain for three years, and 
 his work during this weary time had been the scraping with 
 a potsherd at the stone of his wall, and his pertinacious 
 perseverance had succeeded in forming a hole just large 
 enough to enable him to see the light of the torch carried 
 by the gentlemen. On his side he said, there was nothing 
 but a strong iron door, and a heavily barred window, look- 
 ing, like that in the passage, into the fosse within the 
 walled garden; but, on the other hand, if he could enlarge 
 his bole sufficiently to creep through it, he could escape with 
 them in case of their finding a subterranean outlet. The 
 opening within his cell was, of course, much larger tban 
 the very small space he had made by loosening a stone to- 
 ward the passage, but he was obliged always to build up 
 each side of his burrow at the hours of his jailer's visit, lest 
 his work should be detected, and to stamp the rubbish into 
 his floor. But while they talked, Ilumfrey and Philip, 
 with their knives, scraped so diligently that two more 
 stones could be displaced; and, looking down the widening 
 hole through the prodigious mass of wall, they could see a 
 ghastly, ragged, long-bearded scarecrow, with an almost
 
 156 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 piteous expression of joy on his face, at once again seeing 
 familiar faces. And when, at his earnest entreaty, Beren- 
 ger stood so as to allow his countenance to be as visible as 
 the torch could make it through the " wall's-hole,'' the 
 vault echoed with the jioor fellow's delighted cry. " I am 
 happy! Monsieur le Baron is himself again. The assassin's 
 cruel work is gone! Ah I thanks to the saints! Blessed be 
 St. Lucie, it was not in vain that I entreated her!" 
 
 The torches were, however, waxing so low that the sight 
 could not long be afforded poor Osbert; and, with a prom- 
 ise to return to him next day, the party returned to the 
 njDi^er air, where they warmed themselves over the fire, 
 and held council over measures for the present relief of the 
 captive. Berenger grieved that he had given him up so 
 entirly for lost as to have made no exertions on his behalf, 
 and declared his resolution of entreating that he might be 
 allowed to enjoy comparative comfort with them in the 
 keep. It was a risk, but the chevalier might fairly suppose 
 that the knowledge of Osbert's situation had oozed out 
 through the servants, and gratitude and humanity alike 
 impelled Berenger to run some risk for his foster-brother's 
 sake. He was greatly touched at the poor fellow's devo- 
 tion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost tear- 
 ful smile at the joy witli which he had proclaimed — what 
 Berenger was quite unaware of, since the keep furnished 
 no mirrors — the disappearance of his scars. " 'Tis even 
 so," said Philip, " though I never heeded it. You are as 
 white from crown to beard as one of the statues at Paris; 
 but the great red gash is a mere seam, save when yon old 
 Satan angers you, and then it blushes for all the rest of 
 your face. " 
 
 " And the cheek-wound is hidden, I sujjpose," said Be- 
 renger, feeling under the long fair mustache and the beard, 
 which was developing into respectable proj^ortions. 
 
 " Hidden? ay, entirely. IMo one would think your bald 
 crown had only twenty-one years over it; but you are a 
 personable fellow still, quite enough to j^lease Daphne," 
 said Philip. 
 
 " Pshaw!" rejilied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear 
 the shadow of a jest again from Philip. 
 
 It was quite true. These months of quiescence — en- 
 forced though they were — had given his heallh and consti- 
 tution time to rally after the terrible shock they had sus-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 157 
 
 taiiied. The severe bleedings had, indeed, rendered his 
 complexion perfectly colorless; but there was something in 
 this, as well as in the height which the loss of hair gave his 
 brow, which, added to the depth and loftiness of counte- 
 nance that this long period of patience and resolution had 
 impressed on his naturally fine features, without taking 
 away that open candor that had first attracted Diane when 
 he was a rosy lad. His frame had strengthened at the same 
 time, and assumed the proportions of manhood; so that, in- 
 stead of being the overgrown maypole that Narcisse used 
 to sneer at, he was now broad-shouldered and robust, ex- 
 ceedingly powerful, and so well made, that his height, up- 
 ward of six feet, was scarcely observed, except by compari- 
 son with the rest of the world. 
 
 And his character had not stood still. He had first come 
 to Paris a good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy; 
 and though manly affections, cares, and sorrows had been 
 thrust on him, he had met them like the boy that he was, 
 hardly conscious how deep they went. Then had come the 
 long dream of physical suffering, with only one thought 
 pertinaciously held throughout — that of constancy to his 
 lost wife; and from this he had only thoroughly wakened 
 in his cajDtivity, the resolution still holding fast, but with 
 more of reflection and principle, less of mere instinct, than 
 when his powers were lost or distracted in the effort of con- 
 stant endurance of pain and weakness. The charge of 
 Philip, the endeavor both of educating him and keeping up 
 his spirits, as well as the controversy with Pere Bonami, 
 had been no insignificant parts of the discipline of these 
 months; and, little as the chevalier had intended it, he had 
 trained his young kinsman into a far more substantial and 
 perilous adversary, both in body and mind, than when he 
 had caged him in his castle of the Blackbird's Nest. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVni. 
 
 THE ENEMY IN PRESENCE. 
 
 Then came and looked him in the face, 
 
 An angel beautiful and bright, 
 And then he knew it was a fiend, 
 
 That miserable knight. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 " Father, dear father, what is it? What makes you 
 look so ill, so haggard ?'' cried Diane de Selinville, when
 
 158 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 summoned the next morning to meet her father in the par- 
 lor of the convent. 
 
 " Ah, child! see here. Your brother will have us make 
 an end of it. He has found her." 
 
 " Eustacie! Ah, and where?" 
 
 " That he will not say, but see here. This is all his billet 
 tells me : ' The hare who has doubled so long is traced to 
 her form. My dogs are on her, and in a week's time she 
 will be ours. I request you, sir, to send me a good purse 
 of crowns to reward my huntsmen; and in the meantime — 
 one way or the other — that pet of my sister's must be dis- 
 posed of. Kept too long, these beasts always become sav- 
 age. Either let him be presented to the royal menagerie, 
 or there is a still surer way." 
 
 " And that is all he says!" exclaimed Diane. 
 
 "All! He was always cautious. He mentions no 
 names. And now, child, what is to be done? To give 
 him up to the king is, at the best, life-long imprisonment, 
 yet, if he were still here when my son returns — Alas! 
 alas! child, I have been ruined body and soul between you! 
 How could yon make me send after and imprison him? It 
 was a mere assassination!" and the old man beat his head 
 with grief and perplexity. 
 
 " Father!" cried Diane, tearfully, " I can not see you 
 thus. We meant it for the best. We shall yet save him." 
 
 " Save him! Ah, daughter, I tossed all night long 
 thinking how to save him, so strong, so noble, so firm, so 
 patient, so good even to the old man who has destroyed 
 his hope — his life! Ah! I have thought till my brain 
 whirls." 
 
 " Poor father! I knew you would love him," said Di- 
 ane, tenderly. *' Ah! we will save him yet. He shall be 
 the best of sons to you. Look, it is only to tell him that 
 she whom he calls his wife is already in my brother's hands, 
 wedded to him. " 
 
 " Daughter " — and he pushed back his gray hair with a 
 weary distressed gesture — " I am tired of wiles; I am old; 
 I can carry them out no longer." 
 
 " But this is very simple; it may already be true — at 
 least it will soon be true. Only tell him that she is my 
 brother's wife. Then will liis generosity awaken, then will 
 he see that to persist in the validity of his marriage would 
 be misery, dishonor to her, then — "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 159 
 
 ** Child, you know not how hard he is in his sense of 
 right. Even for his brother's sake he would not give May 
 an inch, and the boy was as obstinate as he!" 
 
 " Ah! but this comes nearer. He will be stung; his gen- 
 erosity will be piqued. He will see that the kindest thing 
 he can do will be to nulhfy liis claim, and the child — " 
 
 The chevalier groaned, struck his brow with his fist, and 
 muttered, " That will concern no one — that has been pro- 
 vided for. Ab! ah! children, if I lose my owu soul for 
 you, you—'' 
 
 " Father, my sweet father, say not these cruel things. 
 Did not the queen's confessor tell us that all means were 
 lawful that brought a soul to the Church? and here are 
 two. " 
 
 "Two! Why, the youth's heresy is part of his point 
 of honor. Child, child, the two will be murdered in my 
 very house, and the guilt will be on my soul." 
 
 " No, father! We will— we will save him. See, only tell 
 him this." 
 
 "This — what? My brain is confused. I have thought 
 long — long. " 
 
 " Only this, father, dear father. You shall not be tor- 
 mented any more, if only you will tell him that my brother 
 has made Eustacie his wife, then will I do all the rest. " 
 
 Diane coaxed, soothed, and encouraged her father by her 
 caresses, till he mounted his mule to return to the castle at 
 dinner-time, and she promised to come early in the after- 
 noon to follow up the stroke he was to give. She had never 
 seen him falter before — he had followed out his policy with 
 a clear head and unsparing hand — but now that Berenger's 
 character was better known to him, and the crisis long de- 
 layed had come so suddenly before his eyes, his whole pow- 
 ers seemed to reel under the alternative. 
 
 The dinner-bell clauged as he arrived at the castle, and 
 the prisoners were marched into the hall, both intent upon 
 making their request on Osbert's behalf, and therefore as 
 impatient for the conclusion of the meal, and the absence 
 of the servants, as was their host. His hands trembled so 
 much that Berenger was obliged to carve for him; he made 
 the merest feint of eating; and now and then raised his 
 hand to his iiead as if to bring back scattered ideas. 
 
 The last servant quitted the room, when Berenger per- 
 ceived that the old man was hardly in a state to attend to
 
 160 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS, 
 
 his request, and yet the miserable frost-bitten state of i)Oor 
 Landry seemed to comjoel him to speak. 
 
 " 8ir/' he began, " you could do me a great kindness."' 
 
 The chevalier looked up at him with glassy eyes. 
 
 " My son," he said, with an effort, " I also had some- 
 thing to say. Ah! let me think. I have had enough. 
 Call my daughter," he added, feeling helplessly with his 
 hands, so that Berenger started up in alarm, and received 
 him in his arms just in time to prevent his sinking to the 
 floor senseless. 
 
 "It is a stroke," exclaimed Berenger. "Call, Phil! 
 Send the gendarmes. " 
 
 The gendarmes might be used to the sight of death of 
 their own causing, but tbey had a horror of that which 
 came by Nature's hand. The purple face and loud gasps 
 of the stricken man terrified them out of their senses. 
 " C'est un coup," was the cry, and they went clattering 
 off to the servants. These, all men but one old crone, 
 came in a mass to the door, looked in, beheld their master 
 rigid and prostrate on the floor, supported by the prisoner, 
 and with fresh shrieks about " Mesdames! a priest! a doc- 
 tor!" away they rushed. The two brothers were not in 
 much less consternation, only they retained their senses. 
 Berenger loosened the ruft' and doublet, and bade Philip 
 practice that art of letting blood which he had learned for 
 his benefit. When Mme. de Selinville and her aunt, with 
 their escort, having been met half-way from Bellaise, ar- 
 rived sooner than could have been expected, they found 
 every door open from hall to entrance gate-way, not a per- 
 son keeping watch, and the old man lying death-like upon 
 cushions in the hall, Philij) bandaging his arm, and Be- 
 renger rubbing his temples with wnne and the hottest spices 
 on the table. " He is better — he is alive," said Berenger, 
 as they entered ; and as both ladies would have fallen on 
 him with shrieks and sobs, he bade them listen, assured 
 them that the only chance of life was in immediate care, 
 and entreated that bedding might be brought down, and 
 strong essences fetched to apply to the nose and temples. 
 They obeyed, and brought the servants to obey; and by the 
 time the priest and the sister infirmarer had arrived from 
 the convent, he had opened his eyes, and, as he saw Be- 
 renger, tried to murmur sometliing that sounded like "3fon 
 
 nu."
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 101 
 
 " He lives— he speaks !^ie can receive the sacraments!" 
 was the immediate exchimation; and as preparations began 
 to be made, the brothers saw that their jDresence was no 
 longer needed, and returned to their own tower. 
 
 " So, sir," said the gendarme sergeant, as they walked 
 down the passage, " you did not seize the moment for es- 
 cape/^ 
 
 " I never thought of it," said Berenger. 
 
 " I hope, sir, you will not he the worse for it,'^ said the 
 sergeant. " An honorable gentleman you have ever proved 
 yourself to me, and J will bear testimony that you did the 
 poor old gentleman no hurt; but nobles will have it their 
 own way, and pay little heed to a poor soldier. " 
 
 " What do you mean, friend?" 
 
 " Why, you see, sir, it is unlucky that you two happened 
 to be alone with Monsieur le Chevalier. No one can tell 
 what may be said when they seek an occasion against a per- 
 son. '' 
 
 To the brothers, however, this suggestion sounded so hor- 
 rible and unnatural, that they threw it from them. They 
 applied themselves at every moment possible to enlarging 
 Osbert's hole, and seeking an outlet from the dungeon; but 
 this they had not been able to discover, and it was neces- 
 sary to be constantly on their guard in visiting the vaults, 
 lest their absence from their apartment should be detected. 
 They believed that if Narcisse arrived at the castle, they 
 should find in him a far less gentler jailer than the poor 
 old man, for whose state their kindly young hearts could 
 not but grieve. 
 
 They heard that he had recovered consciousness enough 
 to have made a sort of confession; and Pere Bonami brought 
 them his formal request, as a dying man, for their pardon 
 for all the injuries he had done them; but his speech was too 
 much affected for any sjiecifi cation of what these were. 
 The first thing they heard in early morning was that, in 
 the course of the night, he had breathed his last; and all 
 day the bells of all the churches round were answering one 
 another with the slow, swinging, melancholy notes of the 
 knell. 
 
 In the early twilight, Pere Bonami brought a message 
 that Mme. de Selinville requested M. le Baron to come and 
 epeak with her, and he was accordingly conducted, Avith 
 the gendarme behind him, to a small chamber opening into 
 
 6-2d half.
 
 162 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 the hall — the same where the incantations of the Italian 
 peddler had been jDlayed off before Philip and Diane. The 
 gendarme remained outside tiie door by which they entered 
 the little dark room, only lighted by one little lamp. 
 
 "Here, daughter/' said the priest, "is your cousin. 
 He can answer the question that you have so much at 
 heart;'' and with these words Pere Bonami passed beneath 
 the black curtain that covered the entrance into the hall, 
 admitting as he raised it for a momenta ilood of pure light 
 from the wax tapers, and allowing the cadence of the 
 chanting of the priests to fall on the ear. At first Beren- 
 ger was scarcely able to discern the pale face that looked 
 as if tears were all dried up, and even before his eyes had 
 clearly perceived her in the gloom, she was standing before 
 him with clasped hands, demanding in a hoarse, breathless 
 whisper, " Had he said anything to you?" 
 
 " Anything? No, cousin," said Berenger, in a kind tone. 
 " He had seemed suffering and oppressed all dinner-time, 
 and when the servants left us, he murmured a few con- 
 fused words, then sunk." 
 
 " Ah, ah, he spoke it not! Thank heaven! Ah! it is a 
 load gone. Then neither will I speak it, " sighed Diane, 
 half aloud. " Ah! cousin, he loved you." 
 
 " He often was kind to us," said Berenger, impelled to 
 speak as tenderly as he could of the enemy, who had cer- 
 tainly tortured him, but as if he loved him. 
 
 " He bade us save you," said Diane, her eyes shining 
 with strange wild light in the gloom. " He laid it on my 
 aunt and me to save you; you must let us. It must be 
 done before my brother comes," she added, in hurried ac- 
 cents. " The messengers are gone; he may be here any 
 moment. He must find you in the chapel — as — as my be- 
 trothed!" 
 
 " And you sent fOr me here to tempt me — close to such 
 a chamber as that?" demanded Berenger, his gentleness 
 becoming sternness, as much with his own worse self as 
 with her. 
 
 " Listen, Ah! it is the only way. Listen, cousin. Dt 
 you know what killed my father? It was my brother's 
 letter saying things must be brought to an end; either you 
 must be given up to the king, or worse — worse. And now, 
 without him to stand between you and my brother, you
 
 THE CHAPLET OV PEAKLS. 163 
 
 are lost. Oh! take pity on his poor soul that has left his 
 body, aud bring not your blood on his head. " 
 
 " Nay/' said Berenger, " if he rejjented, the after con- 
 sequences to me will have no eilect on him now. " 
 Have pity then on yourself — on your brother. '^ 
 "I have/' said Berenger. "He had rather die with 
 me than see me a traitor." 
 
 " And least of all/' she exclaimed, with choking grief, 
 " have you comjjassion on me! — on me who have lost the 
 only one who felt for me — on me who have loved you with 
 every liber of my heart — on me who have lived on the mu- 
 sic of your hardest, coldest word — on me who would lay 
 my life, my honor, in the dust for one grateful glance from 
 you — and whom you condemn to the anguish of — your 
 death! Ay, and for what? For the mere shadow of a 
 little girl, who had no force to love you, of whom you know 
 nothing — nothing! Oh! are you a crystal rock, or are you 
 a man? See, I kneel to you to save yourself and me. " 
 
 There were hot tears dropping from Berenger 's eyes as 
 he caught Diane's hand, and held it forcibly to prevent her 
 thus abasing herself. Her wild words and gestures thrilled 
 him in every j)ulse and wrung his heart, and it was with a 
 stifled, agitated voice that he said: 
 
 " God help you and me both, Diane! To do what you 
 ask would — would be no saving of either. Nay, if you will 
 kneel," as she struggled with him, " let it be to Him who 
 alone can bring us through;" and releasing her hand, he 
 drojiped on his knees by her side, and covered his face with 
 his hands, in an earnest supplication that the spirit of re- 
 sistance which he almost felt slipping from him might be 
 renewed. The action hushed and silenced her, and as he 
 rose he spoke no other word, but silently drew back so 
 much of the curtain that he could see into the hall, where 
 the dead man still lay uncoftined upon the bed where his 
 own hands had laid him, and the low, sweet requiem of 
 kneeling priests floated round him. Eest, rest, and calm 
 they breathed into one sorely tried living soul, and the per- 
 turbed heart was quelled by the sense how short the passage 
 was to the world where captivity and longing would be 
 ended. He beckoned to Pere Bonami to return to Diane, 
 and then, protected by his presence from any further dem- 
 onstrations, kissed her hand and left her. 
 
 He told Philip as little as possible of this interview, but
 
 164 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 liis brother remarked how much time he spent over the 
 Psalms that evening. 
 
 The next day the brothers saw from their upper window 
 the arrival of Karcisse, or, as he had called himself for the 
 last three years, the Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, with many 
 attendant gentlemen, and a band of fifty or sixty gendarmes. 
 The court was filled with their horses, and rang with their 
 calls for refreshment. And the captives judged it wise to 
 remain in their ui^per room in case they should be called 
 for. 
 
 Tliey were proved to have been wise in so doing; for 
 about an hour after their arrival there was a great clanging 
 of steel boots, and Narcisse de Ribaumont, followed by a 
 portly, heavily armed gentleman, wearing a scarf of office, 
 by two of the servants, and by two gendarmes, entered the 
 room. It was the first time the cousins had met since le 
 haiser d'Eustacie had been hissed into Berenger's ear. 
 Narcisse looked older, sallower, and more worn than at 
 that time; and Philip, seeing his enemy for the first time, 
 contrasted him with the stately presence of Berenger, and 
 felt as if a rat were strangling a noble steed. 
 
 Each young man punctiliously removed his hat, and Nid- 
 de-Merle, without deigning further salutation, addressed 
 his companion. " Sir, you are here on the part of the 
 king, and to you I deliver up these prisoners who, having 
 been detained here on a charge of carrying on a treasonable 
 correspondence, and protected by my father out of con- 
 sideration for the family, have requited his goodness by an 
 attempt to strangle him, which has caused his death." 
 
 Philip actually made a leap of indignation; Berenger, 
 better prepared, said to the officer, " Sir, I am happy to be 
 placed in charge of a king's servant, who will no doubt see 
 justice done, and shelter us from the private malice that 
 could alone devise so monstrous an accusation. We are 
 ready to clear ourselves u^jon oath over the corpse, and all 
 the household and our own guards caii bear wtiness. " 
 
 " The witnesses are here," said Narcisse, pointing to the 
 servants, ill-looking men, who immediately began to depose 
 to having found their master purple-faced and struggling 
 in the hands of the two young men, who had been left 
 alone with him after dinner. 
 
 Berenger felt that there was little use in self-defense. It 
 was a fabrication the more easily to secure his cousin's pur-
 
 THE OHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 165 
 
 pose of destroying him, and his best hope lay in passing 
 into the hands of persons who were less directly interested. 
 in his ruin. He drew himself up to his full height, say- 
 ing, " If there be justice in France, our innocence will be 
 proved. I demand, sir, that you examine the abbess., the 
 priest, the steward, the sergeant of gendarmes: they are 
 impartial witnesses, and will serve the king's justice, if 
 justice be his purpose. Or, if this be but Monsieur de Nid- 
 de-Merle's way of completing the work he left unfinished 
 four years ago, I am ready. Only let my brother go free. 
 He is heir to nothing here. " 
 
 " Enough, sir. Words against the king's justice will be 
 reckoned against you," said the officer. " I shall do my- 
 self the honor of attending the funeral the day after to- 
 morrow, and then I shall convey you to Tours, to answer 
 for this deed at your leisure. Monsieur le Marquis, are the 
 prisoners secure here, or would you have them gardes a 
 vue?" 
 
 " No need for that," said Narcisse, lightly; '' had there 
 been any exit they would have found it long ago. Your 
 good fellows outside the door keep them safe enough. 
 Monsieur le Baron de Ribaumont, I have the honor to wish 
 you a good-morning." 
 
 Berenger returned his bow with one full of defiance, and 
 the door was again locked upon the prisoners; while Philip 
 exclaimed, " The cowardly villain. Berry; is it a hanging 
 matter?" 
 
 " Not for noble blooJ," said Berenger. " We are more 
 likely to be brought to no trial, but to lie prisoners for 
 life;" then, as Philip grew white and shivered with a sick 
 horror, he added bravely, " But they shall not have us, 
 Philip. We know the vaults well enough to jjlay at hide 
 and seek with them there, and even if we find no egress we 
 may hold out till they think us fled and leave open the 
 doors!" 
 
 Philip's face lighted up again, and they did their best by 
 way of preparation, collecting wood for torches, and put- 
 ting aside food at their meals. It was a very forlorn hope, 
 but the occupation it caused was effectual in keeping up 
 Philip's spirits, and saving him from desjjondency.
 
 166 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE peddler's PEEDICTIOK. 
 
 But if ne'er so close you wall him, 
 
 Do the best that you may; 
 Blind Love, if so you call him, 
 
 Will find out his way. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 " Too late," muttered Berenger to himself, as he stood 
 by the fire in his prison-chamber. Humfrey and Philip 
 were busy in the vaults, and he was taking his turn in wait- 
 ing in the sitting-room to disarm suspicion. "It is too 
 late now, and I thank God that so it is. " 
 
 "Do you indeed. Monsieur le Baron," said a low voice 
 close beside him; and, as he turned in haste, he beheld, at 
 the foot of the turret-stair, the youth Aime de Selinville, 
 holding a dark-lantern in his hand, and veiling its light. 
 
 " Ha!" and he started to his feet. " Whence come 
 you?" 
 
 " From my lady," was the youth's answer. " She has 
 sent me to ask whether you persist in what you replied to 
 her the other day. For if not, she bids me say that it is 
 not too late." 
 
 " And if I do persevere?" 
 
 " Then — ah! what do I know? Who can tell how far 
 malice can go? And there are towers and bastilles where 
 hope never enters. Moreover, your researches underground 
 are known." 
 
 "Sir," said Berenger, the heart-sinking quelled by the 
 effort of resistance, " Madame de Selinville has my answer 
 — I must take the consequences. Tell her, if she truly 
 wishes me well, the honorable way of saving us would be to 
 let our English friends know wliat has befallen us." 
 
 " You forget. Monsieur le Baron, even if she could pro- 
 claim the dishonor of her family, interference from a for- 
 eign power might only lead to a surer mode of removing 
 you," said Aime, lowering his voice and shuddering. 
 
 " Even so, I should thank her. Then would the bitter- 
 est pang be taken away. Those at our home would not 
 deem us faithless recreants."
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 167 
 
 " Thank her!" murmured the lad in an mward voice. 
 " Very well, sir, I will carry her your decision. It is your 
 final one. Disgrace, prison, death — rather than freedom, 
 love, wealth!" 
 
 ''The semblance of dishonor rather than the reality!" 
 said Berenoer, firmly. 
 
 The light-footed page disappeared, and in a few mo- 
 ments a very different tread came up from below, and 
 Philip appeared. 
 
 " What is it. Berry? Methought I heard a voice.'' 
 
 "Forgive me, brother," said Berenger, holding out his 
 hand; " I have thrown away another ofl'er. '' 
 
 " Tush, the thing to pardon would be having accepted 
 one. I only wish they would leave us in peace! "What was 
 it this time?'' 
 
 " A message through young Selinville. Strange, to trust 
 her secrets to that lad. But hush, here he is again, much 
 sooner than I thought. What, sir, have you been with 
 your lady again?' ' 
 
 " Yes, sir," the youth said, with a trembling voice, and 
 Berenger saw that his eyes were red with weeping; " she 
 bids me tell you that she yields. She will save you even 
 while you hate and despise her! There is only one thing — " 
 
 " And what is that?" 
 
 " You must encumber yourself with the poor Aime. 
 You must let me serve j^ou instead of her. Listen, sir, it 
 can not be otherwise. " Then with a brisker, more eager 
 voice, he continued: "Monsieur knows that the family 
 burial-place is Bellaise? Well, to-morrow, at ten o'clock, 
 all the household, all the neighborhood, will come and 
 sprinkle holy water on the bier. The first requiem will be 
 sung, and then will all repair to the convent. There will 
 be the funeral mass, the banquet, the dole. Every creat- 
 ure in the castle — nay, in all the neighborhood for twent}'' 
 miles round — will be at the convent, for the abbess has 
 given out that the alms are to be doubled, and the bread of 
 wheat. Not a soul will remain here, save the two gen- 
 darmes on guard at that door, and the poor Aime, whom 
 no one will miss, even if any person could be distinguished 
 in their black cloaks. Madame le Comtesse has given him 
 this key, which opens a door on the upper floor of the keep, 
 unknown to the guards, who, for that matter, shall have a 
 good tankard of spiced wine to console and occupy them.
 
 168 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 Then is the way clear to the castle-court, which is not over- 
 looked by their window, the horses are in the stables, and 
 we are off — that is, if Monsieur le Baron will save a poor 
 youth from tlie wrath of Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle/' 
 
 " You are an honest fellow!'' cried Philip, shaking him 
 vehemently by the hand. " You shall go with us to Eng- 
 land, and we will make a brave man of you. " 
 
 " We shall owe you onr lives," said Berenger, warmly, 
 " and be ever bound to you. Tell your lady that this is 
 magnanimity; that now I truly thank her as our preserver, 
 and shall bless her all the days of the life she gives us. 
 But my servants?" 
 
 " Guibert is a traitor," said Aime; " he has been so ever 
 since you were at Paris. Breathe no word to him; but he, 
 as a Catholic, shall be invited to the funeral. Y^our stout 
 Englishman should be all means be with us. " 
 
 " My Norman, also," added Berenger — " my dear fos- 
 ter-brother, who has languished in the dungeon for three 
 years;" and when the explanation had been made, Aime 
 assented, though half-unwillingly, to the necessity, and 
 presently quitted them to bear back their answer to his 
 lady. Philij) shook his hand violently again, patted him 
 on the back, so as almost to take away his breath, and bade 
 him never fear, they would be sworn brothers to him for- 
 ever; and then threw up his hat into the air, and was so 
 near astonishing the dungeon walls with a British hurrah, 
 that Berenger had to put his hand over his mouth and 
 strangle the shout in his very throat. 
 
 The chief of that night was spent in enlarging the hole 
 in Osbert's wall, so as to admit of his creeping through it; 
 and they also prepared their small baggage for departure. 
 Their stock of money, though some had been sjient on re- 
 newing their clothes, and some in needful gratuities to the 
 servants and gendarmes, was sufficient for present needs, 
 and they intended to wear their ordinary dress. They were 
 unlikely to meet any of the jieasants in the neighborhood; 
 and, indeed, Berenger had so constantly ridden out in his 
 black mask, that its absence, now that his scars were gone, 
 was as comj)lete a change as could be effected in one whose 
 height was so unusual. 
 
 " There begins the knell," said Philip, standing at the 
 window. "It's our joy-bell. Berry! Every clang seems 
 to me to say, ' Home! home! home!' "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 169 
 
 " For you, Phil/^ said Berenger; " but I must be satis- 
 fied of Eustacie's fate first. I shall go first to Nissard — 
 whither we were bound when we were seized — then to La 
 Rochelle, whence you may — " 
 
 " No more of that/' burst out Philip. " What! would 
 you have me leave you now, after all we have gone through 
 together? Not that you will find her. I donH want to vex 
 you, brother, on such a day as this, but yon conjurer's 
 words are coming true in the other matter." 
 
 " How? What mean you, Phil?" 
 
 " What's the meaning of Aime?" asked Philip. " Even 
 I am French scholar enough for that. And who sends 
 him?" 
 
 Meantime the court was already filling with swarms of 
 persons of every rank and degree, but several anxious 
 hours had passed before the procession was marshaled; and 
 friars and monks, black, white, and gray — priests in rich 
 robes and tall caps — black-cloaked gentlemen and men-at- 
 arms — all bearing huge wax- tapers — and peasants and beg- 
 gars of every conceivable aspect — filed out of the court, 
 bearing with them the richly emblazoned bier of the noble 
 and puissant knight, the Beausire Charles Eustache de 
 Ribaumont Nid-de-Merle, his son w^alking behind in a long 
 black mantle, and all who counted kindred or friendship 
 following two and two; tiien all the servants, every one 
 who properly belonged to the castle, were counted out by 
 the brothers from their windows, and Guibert among them. 
 
 " Messieurs," a low, anxious voice sounded in the room. 
 ' ' We will only fetch Osbert. ' ' 
 
 It was a terrible ouli/, as precious moments slipped away 
 before there appeared in the lower chamber Berenger and 
 Humfrey, dragging between them a squalid wretch, with a 
 skin like stained parchment over a skeleton, tangled hair 
 and beard, staring bewildered eyes, and fragments of gar- 
 ments, all dust, dirt, and rags. 
 
 " Leave me, leave me, dear master," said the object, 
 stretching his whole person toward the fire as they let him 
 sink down before it. " You would but ruin yourself." 
 
 " It is madness to take him," said Aime, impatiently. 
 
 " I go not without him," said Berenger. " Give me the 
 soup, Philip." 
 
 Some soup and wine had been placed by the fire, and 
 likewise a shirt and a suit of Humfrey's clothes were spread
 
 170 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 before it. Aime burst out into tlie yard, absolutely weep- 
 ing with inij)atience, when, unheeding all his remonstrances, 
 his three companions applied themselves to feeding, rub- 
 bing, and warming Osbert, and assuring him that the pains 
 in his limbs would pass away with warmth and exercise. 
 He had been valiant of heart in his dungeon; but his sud- 
 den plunge into upper air was like rising from the grave, 
 and brought on all the effects of his dreary captivity, of 
 which he liad hardly been sensible when he had first listened 
 to ihe voice of hope. 
 
 Dazzled, crippled helpless, it seemed almost impossible 
 that he should share the flight, but Berenger remained reso- 
 lute; and when Aime returned from his fourth frantic 
 promenade, he was told that all was ready. 
 
 But for the strength of Berenger and Humfrey the poor 
 fellow could never have been carried up and up, nearly to 
 the to2J of the keep, then along a narrow gallery, then 
 down again even to the castle-hall, now empty, though 
 with the candlesticks still around where the bier had been. 
 Aime kneeled for a moment where the head had been, hid- 
 ing his face; Osbert rested in a chair; and Philip looked 
 wistfully up at his own sword hung over the chimney. 
 
 " Resume your swords, messieurs," said Aime, observ- 
 ing him; " Madame desires it; and take pistols also."" 
 
 They gladly obeyed; and when, after this short delay, 
 they proceeded, Osberl moved somewhat less painfully, but 
 when they arrived at the stable only four horses stood there. 
 
 "Ah! this miserable!" cried Aime, passionately, "he 
 ruins all my arrangements. " 
 
 " Leave me," again entreated Landry. " Once outside, 
 I can act the beggar and cripple, and get back to Nor- 
 mandy." 
 
 " Better leave me," said Humfrey; " they can not keep 
 me when you are out of their clutches." 
 
 " Help me, Humfrey," said Berenger, beginning to lift 
 his foster-brother to the saddle, but there the poor man 
 wavered, cried out that his head swam, and he could not 
 keep his seat, entreating almost in agony to be taken down. 
 
 " Lean on me," said Berenger, putting his arms round 
 him. "There! you will be able to get to the Grange du 
 Temple, where you will be in safe shelter." 
 
 " Sir, sir," cried Aime, ready to tear his hair, " tjiis is
 
 THE ClIAPLKT OF PEARLS. 171 
 
 ruin ! My lady meant you to make all speed to La Rochelle 
 and there embark^ and this is the contrary way!" 
 
 ''That can not be helped," said Berenger; "it is the 
 only safe place for my foster-brother." 
 
 Aime, with childish i^etulance, muttered something 
 about ingratitude in crossing his lady's plans; but, as no 
 one attended to him, he proceeded to mifasten his horse, 
 and then exclaimed, half-crying, " Will no one help me?" 
 
 " Not able to saddle a horse! a pretty fellow for a cava- 
 lier!" exclaimed Philip, assisting, however, and in a few 
 minutes they were all issuing from a low side gate, and 
 looking back with bounding hearts at the drooping banner 
 on the keep of Nid-de-Merle. 
 
 Only young Ainie went with bowed head and drooping 
 look, as though pouting, and Berenger, putting Osbert's 
 bridle into Humfrey's hand, stepped up to him, saying, 
 " Hark^'ou, Monsieur de Selinville, I am sorry if we seemed 
 to neglect you. We owe you and your lady all gratitude, 
 but 1 must be the judge of my own duty, and you can only 
 bo with me if you conform. ' ' 
 
 The youth seemed to be devouring his tears, but only 
 said, " I was vexed to see my lady's plan marred, and your 
 chance thrown away." 
 
 " Of that I must judge," said Berenger. 
 
 T'hey were in a by-lane, perfectly solitary. The 
 whole country was at the funeral. Through the frosty air 
 there came an occasional hum or murmur from Bellaise, 
 or the tinkle of a cow-bell in the fields, but no human being 
 was visible. It was certain, however, that the Rotrous, 
 being Huguenots, and no vassals of Nid -de-Merle, would 
 not be at the obsequies; and Berenger, walking with swift 
 strides, supporting Osbert on his horse, continued to cheer 
 him with promises of rest and relief there, and listened to 
 no entreaties from Philip or Humfrey to take one of their 
 horses. Had not Osbert borne him on his shoulders 
 through the butchery at Paris, and endured three years of 
 dungeon for his sake? 
 
 As for Philip, the slow pace of their ride was all insuffi- 
 cient for his glee. He made his horse caracole at every 
 level space, till Berenger reminded him that they might 
 have far to ride that night, and even then he was con- 
 stantly breaking into attempts at shouting and whistling
 
 173 Till!; CHAPLET OF I'EAELS. 
 
 as often roprcsseLl, and springing nj^ in his stirrups to look 
 over the liigh hedges. 
 
 The Grange was so well concealed in its wooded ravine, 
 that only, when close upon the gate, the party became 
 aware that this farm-yard, usually so solitary, formed an 
 exception to the general desertion of the country. There 
 was a jingle and a stamp of horses in the court, which 
 (!ould hardly he daylight echoes of the jl'emplars. Berenger 
 feared that the Guisards might have descended uponEotrou, 
 ami was ste})ping foi'vvard to reconnoiter, while young De 
 Selinville, tiTtnl)ling, hesought him not to run into danger, 
 but to turn and hasten to La Ivochelle. By this time, how- 
 ever, the }):irty had been espied by two soldiers stationed at 
 the gate, but not before Bcrenger had had time to remark 
 that they did not wear either the gold jlcur-de-Hf< hke his 
 late guards, or the white cross of Lorraine; nor had they 
 the strange air of gay ferocity usual with the king's mer- 
 cenaries. And almost by instinct, at a venture, he made 
 the old Huguenot sign he had learned from his father, and 
 answered, " For God and the lieligion. '' 
 
 The countersign was returned. Beam and Bourbon is 
 the word to-day, comrade," replied the sentinel. " Eh 
 qi(oi ! have you had an encounter, that you bring a wound- 
 ed man?" 
 
 " Not wounded, but nearly dead in a Guisard prison," 
 said Berenger, with an unspeakable sense of relief and 
 security, as the sentries admitted them into the large walled 
 court, where horses were eating hay, being watered and 
 rubbed down; soldiers snatching a hasty meal in corners; 
 gentlemen in clanking breast-plates coming in and out of 
 the house, evidenily taking orders from a young man in a 
 gray and silver suit, whose brown eagle face, thin cheeks, 
 arched nose, and black eyes of keenest lire, struck Berenger 
 at once with a sense of recognition as well as of being under 
 a glance that seemed to search out everybody and every- 
 thing at once. 
 
 '' More friends!" and the tone again recalleil a Hood of 
 recollections. " I thank and welcome you. AV'hat! You 
 have met the enemy — where is he?" 
 
 " My servant is not wounded, sire," said Berenger, re- 
 moving bis hat and bending low. " This is the effect of 
 long captivity. We have but just escaped. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. ITO 
 
 ' ' Then we are in tlie same case I Pardon me, sir, I have 
 seen you before, but for once I am at fault. " 
 
 " When I call myself De Eibaumont, your grace will not 
 wonder." 
 
 '•' The dead alive! If I mistake not, it was in the In- 
 ferno itself that we last met I But we have broken through 
 the gates at last I I remember poor King Charles was de- 
 lighted to hear that you lived! But where have you been a 
 captive?" 
 
 " At Xid-de-Merle, sire; my kinsmen accused me of trea- 
 son in order to hinder my search for my wife. We escajied 
 even now during the funeral of the chevalier." 
 
 " By favor of which we are making our way to Parthenay 
 imsuspected, though, by my faith, we gather so like a snow- 
 ball, that we could be a match for a few hundreds of 
 Guisards. "Who is with you. Monsieur de Eibaumont?" 
 
 " Let me present to your majesty my English brother, 
 Phihp Thistlewood," said Berenger, drawing the lad for- 
 ward, making due obeisance, though entirely ignorant who 
 was the plainly dressed, travel-soiled stranger, so evidently 
 a born lord of men. 
 
 " An Englishman is ever welcome," was his grac.ous re- 
 ception. 
 
 " And, "added Berenger, '"'let me also present the young 
 De Selinville, to whom I owe my escape. Where is he, 
 Philip?" 
 
 He seemed to be busy with the horses, and Berenger 
 could not catch his eye. 
 
 " Selinville! I thought that good Huguenot house was 
 extinct. " 
 
 '"' This is a relation of the late Count de Selinville, my 
 cousin's husband, sire. He arranged my evasion, and would 
 be in danger at Xid -de-Merle. Call him, Philip. " 
 
 Before this was done, however, the king's attention was 
 otherwise claimed, and turning to one of his gentlemen he 
 said, " Here, D'Aubigne, I present to you au acquaintance 
 made in Tartarus, See to his entertainment ere we start 
 for Parthenay." 
 
 Agrip2)a d'Aubigne, still young, but grave and serious 
 looking, greeted M. de Eibaumont as men meet in hours 
 when common interests make rapid friendships; and from 
 him Berenger learned, in a few words, that the King of 
 Navarre's eyes had been oj^ened at last to the treachery of
 
 174 THE CKAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 the court, and his own dishonorable bondage. During a 
 feverish attack, one night wlien D'Aubigne and D^Armag- 
 nac were sitting up with him, his resohitiou was taken; 
 and on the first hunting-day after his recovery, he, 
 with these two, the Baron de Eosny and about thirty more 
 of his suite, had galloped away, and had joined the Mon- 
 sieur and the Prince of Conde at Alencon. He had abjured 
 the Catholic faith, declared that nothing but ropes should 
 bring him back to Paris, and that he left there tbe mass 
 and his wife — the first he could dispense with, the last he 
 meant to have; and he was now on his way to Parthenay 
 to meet his sister, whom he had sent Eosny to demand. 
 By the time Berenger had heard this, he had succeeded in 
 finding honest Eotrou, who was in a state of great triumph, 
 and readily undertook to give Osbert shelter, and as soon 
 as he should have recovered to send him to head-quarters 
 with some young men who he knew would take the field as 
 soon as they learned tiiat the King of Navarre had set up 
 his standard. Even the inroads made into the good 
 farmer's stores did not abate his satisfaction in entertaining 
 the prime hope of the Huguenot cause; but Berenger ad- 
 vanced as large a sum as he durst out of his purse, under 
 pretext of the maintenance of Osbert during his stay at the 
 Grange. He examined Eotrou upon his subsequent 
 knowledge of Isaac Garden and Eustacie, but nothing had 
 been heard of them since their departure, now nearly three 
 years back, excej^t a dim rumor that they had been seen at 
 the Synod of Mojitauban. 
 
 " Well, my friend, '' said Philip, when about to remount, 
 " this will do rather better than a headlong gallop to 
 Eochelle with Nid-de-Merle at our heels.'' ^ 
 
 "If Monsieur le Baron is safe, it is well," said Aime 
 shortly. 
 
 " Is Selinville there?" said Berenger, coming up. 
 " Here, let me take you to the King of Navarre: he knew 
 your family in Languedoc. " 
 
 " No, no/' petulantly returned the boy. " What am I 
 that he should notice me? It is Monsieur de Eibaumont 
 whom I follow, not him or his cause. " 
 
 "Boy," said Berenger, dismayed, "remember, I have 
 answered for you. " 
 
 " I am no traitor," proudly answered the strange boy.
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 175 
 
 and Berenger was forced to be thus satisfied, though in- 
 tending to watch him closely. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE SANDS OF OLONNE. 
 
 Is it the dew of night 
 
 That on her glowing cheek 
 Shines in the moonbeam? — Oh, 'she weeps, she weep«, 
 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. 
 
 SouTirEY. 
 
 *' Monsieur 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 pro- 
 portioned 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 messen- 
 ger whom the king was dispatching to Elizabeth, in toler- 
 able 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-humoredly; " only may the priest 
 not be more adamantine than Minos. Where lies Nissard? 
 On the Sables 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.
 
 176 THE CHAfLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " This was not what my lady expected," he muttered; 
 but though Berenger silenced him by a stern look, iie 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, vvlio has incurred his grand- 
 father'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 ivife's cause," said Philip. " I ad- 
 vise 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 obliga- 
 tions, but had no retort to make. He had an idea of mak- 
 ing a man of young Selinville, and his notion of the process 
 had something of the bullying tendency of English youth 
 toward the poor-spirited or cowardly. He ordered the boy 
 roughly, teased him for his ignorance of manly exercises, 
 tried to cure his helj^lessness by increasing his difficulties, 
 and viewed his fatigue as affectation or effeminacy. Beren- 
 ger interfered now and then to guard the jjoor 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, showed itself irrepressibly at the Sands 
 of Olonne. These were not misty, as on Berenger's former 
 journey. Nissard steei^le 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 
 flow of the tide had begun. To the two brothers the
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 177 
 
 break and sweep wa,s a home-sound, speaking of freshness 
 and freedom, and the salt breeze and spray carried with 
 them life and ecstasy. Phihp kept as near the incoming 
 waves as his inland-bred horse would endure, and sung, 
 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 toward 
 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 chatter- 
 ing, " how can we creep with those dreadful waves advanc- 
 ing upon us to drown us?'' 
 
 Berenger silenced Philip's rude laugh, and was beginning 
 to explain that the speed of the waves could always be cal- 
 culated 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, un- 
 less 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 cord of the arc formed by the shore, 
 and Aime was somewhat reassured, as the sea was at first 
 further 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 net-work of little 
 streams dividing low shingly or grassy isles, but at nearly 
 high tide as at jjresent, many of these islets were sub- 
 merged, 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 sand-bank furthest inland and 
 looking firm and promising — it was a recent shifting j)er-
 
 178 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 formance of the water's heaping up, and would certainly 
 sink away and bury horse and man. They must ride fur- 
 ther out, to the shingly isle; it and the channels on either 
 side had shingly bottoms, and were safe. 
 
 " This way,'' called Berenger, himself setting the ex- 
 ample, and finding no ditliculty; 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 com- 
 panions; Humfrey and Philijj were close behind him; but, 
 in spite of the loud ^' garel" of. the guide, Aime, or his 
 horse — for each was equally senseless with alarm — was 
 making inward; the horse was trying to tread on the sand- 
 bank, which gave way like the water itself, under its fran- 
 tic 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 tlie island, 
 where were Philip and Humfrey, leg-deep in water: the 
 one received his burden, 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 inani- 
 mate 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 oft'!" said Berenger, kneeling over the gasping 
 form, and adding in a lower voice, " Don't you see?" He 
 wound his hand in the long drenched hair, and held it up, 
 with cheeks burning like lire, and his car 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 her- 
 self." 
 
 Perhaps she had been more herself than he knew, for, as 
 lie supported her head, her hand stole over his and held it
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 179 
 
 fast- Full of consternation, perplexity, and anger as he 
 was, he could not but feel a softening pity toward a creat- 
 ure so devoted, so entirely at his mercy. At the moment 
 when she lay helpless against hiui, gasps heaving her breast 
 under her manly doublet, her damp hair spread on his 
 knees, her dark eyes in their languor raised imploringly to 
 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 instaut^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 saved our lives, ^' he said, steadying his voice with diffi- 
 culty. " The priest 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 lie had been misunder- 
 stood. 
 
 " Neither here nor in England could my marriage be set 
 aside, cousin. No; the priest shall take charge of you, and 
 place you in safety and honor. " 
 
 " 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 what 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 con- 
 tinued: " You shrunk from the eye of the King of Kavarre.
 
 J80 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 You c£in not continue as you have done; you have not even 
 strength." 
 
 " Ah! had 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 chare;e 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 cioak 
 round her shoulders and unmanageable hair, and lifted her 
 on his horse; but, as she would have leaned against him, 
 he drew himself away, beckoned to Philip, and put the 
 bridle into his hands, saying, " Take care of her. I shall 
 ride on and warn the j^riest." 
 
 " 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, iinposed 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 Mme. 
 de Selinville had been the first woman to touch his fancy, 
 and when he heard how piteously she was weejjing, and 
 recollected where lie should have been but for her, as well 
 as all his own harsiniess 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 
 toward him, Philip exclaimed, in a low voice, '' Berry, she
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAllLS. 181 
 
 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, tak- 
 ing 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 housekeei)er, 
 to whom he had explained briefly that the lady with him 
 liad been forced to escape in disguise, had been nearly 
 drowned, 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 tlie 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 in the noble, powerful-looking young man 
 who unbonneted to the good cure. But the priest's aspect 
 was less benignant when Berenger tried to set before him 
 liis 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 shosv any civility; 
 and Berenger, as he walked back to the cabaret, jDerceived 
 that his story was but half-believed, and that, if Diane's 
 passion were still stronger than her trnth 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 care- 
 fully reared. 
 
 It was quite dark when a knock came to the door; the 
 cure's white head appeared in the lam]3-light; he nodded
 
 182 THE CHAPLET OF PEABL8. 
 
 kindly to all tjie guests, and entreated that M. de Eibau- 
 niont would do him the favor to come and speak with him. 
 
 No sooner were they outside the house_, than the cure hel 
 out his hand, saying, " Sir, forgive me for a grievous in- 
 justice toward you;" then pressing his hand, he added with 
 a voice tremulous with emotion. " Sir, it is no slight thing 
 to have saved a wandering slieejj by your uprightness and 
 loyalty. " 
 
 " Have you then opened here yes, 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 hear for yourself. " 
 
 Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, 
 and he found himself in the church. The building was al- 
 most entirely dark; there were two tall lights at the altar 
 in the distance, and a few little sjender tapers burning be- 
 fore certain niches and shrines, but without power to con- 
 quer the gloom more than enough to spread a pale 
 circle of yellow liglit beneath them, and to show myste- 
 riously 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 in- 
 jured," 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 em- 
 barrassed, as he disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 " I must S23eak thus," she answered, in a hoarse, ex- 
 hausted voice. " Ah! pardon, jjardon!" 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 mask, to detain you for that night. Ah! par- 
 don." 
 
 " That is long past,'" said Berenger. " I have been too 
 near death not to have pardoned that long ago. Rise, 
 cousin, I can not see you thus. " 
 
 " That is not all," continued Diane. " It was I — I who
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 183 
 
 moved my father to imprison you/' Then, as he bent his 
 heat], 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 kneel- 
 ing 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 
 sunk at his feet a trembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of 
 shame and misery. 
 
 Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly re- 
 pressed, 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 can not," 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, clasjjing 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 favor with the duchess. You remember that he went 
 from home. It was to demand her; and, ah! you know 
 how long I had loved you, and they told me that your mar- 
 riage was void, and that all would be well upon the dis- 
 pensation coming. And now the good father there tells 
 me that I was deceived — cruelly deceived — that such a dis- 
 pensation would not be granted save through gross mis- 
 representation. " 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
 
 18i THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 
 
 protection; tliey 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 shouM have her in a week;'' and 
 then, as Berenger started forward with an inarticulate out- 
 burst, half of horror, half of interrogation, she added, 
 " Where, he said not, nor did I learn from him. All our 
 one interview was spent in sneers that answered to my v»^ild 
 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 Beren- 
 ger, " 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 jierceived 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 clew 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 forever." 
 
 " 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 thought 
 me wortli 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 sunk down again. 
 
 Berengei:, bewildered and impelled to be doing some- 
 thing, let the priest lead him out before he exclaimed, " I 
 said nothing to her of pardon!" 
 
 " Y^ou do pardon?" said the priest.
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 185 
 
 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 feel- 
 ings?'' asked the cure, pausing for a moment. 
 
 " Of course," said Berenger. " May I say that one word, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Not DOW," said the priest; " she had better be left to 
 think of her sin toward Heaven, rather than toward m'an." 
 
 " 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 honorable 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 
 endeavor to see her again; and Berenger himself was ready 
 to forget her very existence in his burning anxiety to out- 
 strip Narcisse in the quest of Eustacie. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 OUR LADY OF HOPE. 
 
 Welcome to danger's hour, 
 Brief greeting serves the time of strife. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 As soon as it was possible to leave Nissard, Berenger 
 was on his way back to head-quarters, where he hoped to 
 meet the Duke de Quinet among the many Huguenot gen- 
 tlemen who were flocking to the Bourbon standard; nor 
 was he disappointed in the hope, for he was presented to a 
 handsome middle-aged gentleman, who told him, with 
 much politeness, that he was aware that his mother had 
 had the honor to receive and entertain Mme. de Ribau- 
 mont, and that some months ago he had himself arranged 
 for the conveyance of her letters to England, but, he said, 
 with a smile, he made a point of knowing nothing of his 
 mother's guests, lest his duties as a governor might clash
 
 186 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 with those of hosjoitality. He offered to expedite M. de 
 Ribaiimont's journey to Quinet, observing that, if Nid-de- 
 Merle were, indeed, on the point of seizing the lady, it 
 must be by treachery; indeed he had, not ten days back, 
 had the satisfaction of h&nging an Itahan mountebank who 
 had last year stolen a whole packet of dispatches, among 
 them letters from Mme. de Ribaumont, and the fellow was 
 probably acting as a spy ujDon her, so that no time was to 
 be lost in learning from his mother where she was. On the 
 next morning he was about to send forward twenty men to 
 re-enforce a little frontier garrison on the River Dronne, and 
 as M. le Baron must j^ass through the place, it would be 
 conferring a favor on him to take the command. The 
 men were all well mounted, and would not delay; and 
 when once across the frontier of Guyenne, no escort would 
 be needed. 
 
 Berenger gladly accepted the proposal. It did not occur 
 to him that he was thus involved in the civil war, and bear- 
 ing arms against the sovereign. In spite of Queen Eliza- 
 beth's alliance with the French Court, she connived at her 
 youthful subjects seeking the bubble reputation in the 
 mouths of Valois cannon; and so little did Henry III. seem 
 to Berenger to be his king, that he never thought of the 
 question of allegiance— nay, if the royal officers were truly 
 concerned in his arrest, he was already an outlaw. This 
 was no moment for decision between Catholic and Calvinist; 
 all he wanted was to recover his wife and forestall her 
 enemies. 
 
 Henry of Navarre gave his full consent to the detach- 
 ment being jDlaced under charge of M. de Ribaumont. He 
 asked somewhat significantly what had become of the young 
 gentleman who had attended M. de Ribaumont, and Philip 
 blushed crimson to the ears, while Berenger replied, with 
 greater coolness than he had given himself credit for, that 
 the youth had been nearly drowned on the Sables d'Olonne, 
 and had been left at Dom Colombeau's to recover. The 
 sharp-witted king looked for a moment rather as Sir Hugh 
 the Heron did when Marmion accounted for his page's ab- 
 sence, but was far too courteous and too insoKciant to press 
 the matter further, though Berenger saw quite enough of 
 his expression to feel that he had been delivered from his 
 comjDanion only just in time. 
 
 Berenger set forth as soon as his impatience could prevail
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 187 
 
 to get the men into their saddles. Ue would fain have 
 ridden day and night, and grudged every halt for refresh- 
 ment, so as almost to run the risk of making the men 
 mutinous. Evening was coming on, and his troop had dis- 
 mounted at a cabaret, in front of which he paced up and 
 down with Philip, trying to devise some joretext for hasten- 
 ing them on another stage before night, when a weary, 
 travel-stained trooper rode up to the door and was at once 
 hailed as a comrade by the other men, and asked, " What 
 cheer at Pont de Dronne?" 
 
 " Bad enough,'^ he answered, " unless you can make the 
 more speed there!" Then making obeisalice to Berenger 
 he continued his report, saying that Captain Falconnet was 
 sending him to M. le Due with information that the 
 Guisards were astir, and that five hundred gendarmes 
 under the black Nid-de-Merle, as it was said, were on their 
 way intending to surprise Pont de Dronne, and thus cut 
 the King of Navarre off from Guyeune and his kingdom 
 beyond it. After this Berenger had no more difficulty with 
 liis men, who were most of them Q,uinet vassals, with 
 homes south of the Dronne, and the messenger only halted 
 for a hasty meal, hasteiiing on to the duke, that a more 
 considerable succor might at once be dispatched. 
 
 " Is she there whom they call the Lady of Hope?^' asked 
 one of the soldiers, a mercenary, less interested than most 
 of his comrades, as he had only a fortnight since transferred 
 his services from Guise to Quiuet. 
 
 '* Our Lady of Sadness just now,' ' replied the messenger; 
 " her old father is at the jooint of death. However, she is 
 there, and at our last siege twenty wine-skins would not so 
 well have kept up men's hearts." 
 
 " And the little one, the white fairy, is she there too? 
 They say 'tis a spirit, a changeling that could not brook the 
 inside of a church, but flew out of the Moustier at Mon- 
 tauban like a white swan, in the middle of a sermon." 
 
 " I only know I've seen her sleep like a dormouse through 
 prayers, sermon, and all at Po)it de Dronne. Folleffe if 
 she be, she belongs to the white elves of the moonhght." 
 
 " Well, they say bullets won't touch her, and no place 
 can be taken where she is," replied the trooper. " Nay, 
 that Italian peddler rogue, the same that the duke has since 
 hung, has sold to long Gilles and snub-nosed Pierre silver
 
 188 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 bullets^ wherewith they have sworn to shoot the one or the 
 other next time they had a chance. '^ 
 
 These words were spoken at no great distance from 
 Berenger, but passed by him as mere men-at-arms' gossip, 
 in his eagerness to expedite the start of his party; and in 
 less than an hour they were en ovnte for Pont de Dronne: 
 but hasten as he would, it was not till near noon the next 
 day that he came in sight of a valley^ through which wonnd 
 a river, crossed by a high-backed bridge, with a tall pointed 
 arch in the middle, and a very small one on either side. 
 An old building of red stone, looking like what it was — a 
 monastery converted into a fortress — stood on the nearer, or 
 northern bank, and on the belfry tower waved a flag with 
 the arms of Quinet. . Higher up the valley, there was an 
 ominous hum, and clouds of smoke and dust; and the gen- 
 darmes who knew the conntry rejoiced that they were 
 come just in time, and exchanged anxious questions whether 
 the enemy were not fording tiie river above them, so as to 
 attack not only the fortress on this northern side, but the 
 bridge tower on the southern bank of the river. 
 
 Spurring down the hill, the party were admitted, at the 
 well-guarded gate-way, into a large thickly walled yard, 
 where the soldiers and horses remained, and Berenger and 
 Philip, passing through a small arched door-way into the 
 body of the old monastery, were conducted to a great wain- 
 scoted hall, where a puli^it projecting from the wall, and 
 some defaced eml^lsmatic ornaments, showed that this had 
 once been the refectory, though guard-room appliances now 
 occupied it. The man who had show^n them in left them, 
 saying he would acquaint Captain Falcon net with their 
 arrival, and just then a sound of singing drew both brothers 
 to the window. It looked out on what had once been the 
 quadrangle, bounded on three sides by the church, the 
 refectory, and the monks' lodgings, the cloistered arcade 
 running round all these. The fourth side was skirted by 
 the river, which was, however, concealed by an endiank- 
 ment, raised, no doubt, to supj)ly the place of the wall, which 
 had been unnecessary to the peaceful original inhabitants. 
 What attracted Berenger's eyes was, however, a group in 
 the cloister, consisting of a few drooi)ing figures, some of 
 men in steel cajis, others of veiled, shrouded women, and 
 strange, mingled feelings swept over him as he caught the 
 notes of the psalm ov^er the open grave —
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 189 
 
 "Si qu'en paix et seurte bonne 
 Coucherai ct reposcrai — 
 Car, Seigneur, ta bonte tout ordonne 
 Et elle seule espoir donne 
 Que seur et sain regnant serai." 
 
 *' Listen, Philip/' he said, with moistening eyes; then as 
 they ended, "It is the Fourih Psalm: ' I lay me down in 
 peace and take my rest/ Eastacie and I used to sing it to 
 my father. It was well done in these mourners to sing it 
 over him whom they are laying down to take his rest while 
 the enemy are at the gates. See, the jioor wife still kneels 
 while the rest disperse; how dejected and utterly desolate 
 she looks. " 
 
 He was so intently watching her as not to perceive the 
 entrance of a tall, grizzled old man in a steel cap, evidently 
 the commander of the garrison. There was the brief Avel- 
 come of danger's hour — the briefer, because Captain Fal- 
 conne was extremely deaf, and, taking it for granted that 
 the new-comers were gentlemen of the Duke's, proceeded 
 to appoint them their posts without further question. 
 Berenger had intended to pursue his journey to Quinet 
 without delay, but the intelligence that the enemy were on 
 the southern as well as the northern side of the river ren- 
 dered this impossible; and besides, in defending this key of 
 Guyenne against Narcisse, he was also defending Eustacie. 
 
 The state of affairs was soon made known to him. The 
 old monastery, covering with its walls an extensive space, 
 formed a fortress quite strong enough to resist desultory 
 attacks, and protect the long bridge, which was itself 
 strongly walled on either side, and with a barbacan at the 
 further end. In former assaults the attacks had always 
 been on the north, the Catholic side, as it might be called; 
 but now the enemy had crossed the river above the fort, 
 and were investing the place on both sides. Long foresee- 
 ing this, the old commandant had guarded the bank of the 
 river with an earth-work, a long mound sloped irregularly 
 on either hand, over which numerous little paths had since 
 been worn by the women within, when on their way to the 
 river with their washing; but he had been setting every 
 one to work to destroy and fill up these, so that the ram- 
 part was smooth and sloping, perfectly easy indeed to cross, 
 out high and broad enough to serve as an effectual j^rotec- 
 tion against such artillery as the detached troojDS of the
 
 190 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Guise party were likely to possess; and the river was far 
 too wide, deep, and strong in its main current to be forded 
 in the face of a hostile garrison. Tlie captain had about 
 fifty gendarmes in his garrison, besides the twenty new- 
 comers whom he persisted in regarding as Berenger's 
 cliarge; and there were, besides, some seventy 2)easants and 
 silk spinners, who had come into the place as a refuge from 
 the enemy — and with these he hoped to hold out till succor 
 should come from the duke. He himself took the command 
 of the north gate, where the former assaults had been 
 made, and he intrusted to his new ally the tower protecting 
 the bridge, advising him to put on armor; but Berenger, 
 trying on a steel cap, found that his head could not bear 
 the weight and heat, and was forced to return to his broad- 
 brimmed 82oanish hat, while Pliilip in high glee armed him- 
 self as best he could with what Cajitain Falconnet could 
 lend him. He was too much excited to cat of the scanty 
 meal that was set before them: a real fight seemed like a 
 fair-day to him, and he v;as greatly exalted by his brother^s 
 post of command — a post that Berenger felt a heavy re- 
 sponsibility, only thrust upon him by the commandant's in- 
 capacity of hearing how utterly inexperienced he was. 
 
 The formal summons to surrender to the king, and the 
 refusal, had duly passed, and it became evident that the 
 first attack was to be on ihe bridge-gate. Captain Falcon- 
 net hurried to the place, and the fighting was hot and des- 
 perate. Every assailant who tried to throw his fagot int^ 
 the moat became a mark for arquebuse or pistol, and tli," 
 weapons that had so lately hung over the hearth at Nid-de 
 Merle were now aimed again and again at the heads and 
 corslets of Guisards, with something of the same exulting 
 excitement as, only higher, more engrossing, and fiercer 
 than that with which the lads had taken aim at a wolf, or 
 ridden after a fox. Scaling-ladders were planted and 
 hurled down again; stones were cast from the battlements, 
 crushing the enemy; and throughout Berenger's quick eye, 
 alert movements, and great height and strength, made 
 him a most valuable champion, often applauded by a low 
 murmur of commendation from old Falconnet, or a loud 
 shout of " Ha, well done, the duke's Englishman,'^ from 
 the gendarmes — for English they would have him to be 
 — on the presumptions afforded by his companions, Ids 
 complexion, and his slow speech. Nor did Philip and
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 191 
 
 Humfrey fail to render good service. But just as the 
 enemy had been foiled in a sharp assault and were drae;ging 
 avva}^ their wounded, Philip touched liis brother, and say- 
 ing, "I can hold out no longer," showed blood trickling 
 down his rigiit side. 
 
 Berenger threw an arm round him, and Cai^tain Falcon- 
 net seeing his case, said, " You are hit, ])etit Anglais; 
 you have done gallantly. There will be time for you to 
 take him to his quarters, sir; these fellows have had enough 
 for the present, and you can tarry with him till you hear 
 the bugle. Whither, did you ask? Let me see. You, 
 Henaud, take him to the chapel: the old chancel behind 
 the boarding will be more private; and desire madame to 
 look to him. Farewell! I hope it may prove slight; you 
 are a brave youth. ^' And he shook hands with Philip, 
 whose intense gratification sustained him for many ste])s 
 afterward. 
 
 He hardly remembered receiving the hurt, and was at 
 first too busy to heed it, or to call off any one's attention, 
 until a dread of falling, and being trodden on, had seized 
 him and made him speak; and indeed he was so dizzy that 
 ]3erenger with difficulty kept him on his feet over the 
 bridge, and in the court lifted him in his arms and carried 
 him almost fainting into the cloister, where by the new- 
 made grave still knelt the black-veiled mourner. She 
 started to her feet as the soldier spoke to her, and seemed 
 at first not to gather the sense of his words; but then, as if 
 with an effort, took them in, made one slight sound like 
 a moan of remonstrance at the mention of the place, but 
 again recollecting herself, led the way along a stone pas- 
 sage, into which a flight of stairs descended into the ajisidal 
 chancel, roughly boarded off from the rest of the church. 
 It was a ruinous, desolate place, and Berenger looked round 
 in dismay for some jalace on which to lay down his almost 
 unconscious burden. The lady bent her head and signed 
 toward the stone sedilia in the wall; then, after two in- 
 effectual essays to make her voice audible, choked as it was 
 with long weeping, she said, low and huskily: " We will 
 make him more comfortable soon;" and added some orders 
 to the soldier, who disappeared up the stairway, and Beren- 
 ger understood that he was gone to fetch bedding. Then 
 taking from under her heavy mourning cloak a lai-ge pair 
 of scissors, she signed to Berenger how to sujiport his
 
 193 THE CHAPLET OF PEAEL8. 
 
 brother, while they reheved him of his corslet, sword-belt 
 and doublet. The soldier had meantime returned with an 
 old woman, both loaded with bedding, which she signed to 
 them to arrange in one of the little bays or niches that 
 served to form a crown of lesser chapels around the chan- 
 cel. She flung aside her muffling cloak, but her black 
 hood still hung far over her face, and every now and then 
 hand or handkerchief was lifted as if to clear her eyes from 
 the tears that would not cease to gather and blind her; and 
 she merely spoke when some direction to an assistant, some 
 symjjathetic word to the patient, was needed. Even Philip 
 in his dizzy trance guessed that he was succeeding to the 
 bed whence one much dearer had gone to his quieter rest 
 in the cloister. Before he was laid there, however, the 
 bugle sounded; there was a loud shout, and Philip ex- 
 claimed, " Go, brother!" 
 
 " Trust him to me, sir,^' said the sunken, extinguished 
 voice; " we will do our best for him. " 
 
 He was forced merely to lift Philijj to the bed, and to 
 hurry away, while the soldier followed him saying, consol- 
 ingly, " Fear not, sir, now our Lady of Hope has him. 
 Nothing goes ill to which she sets her hand." 
 
 Another growl of artillery was now heard, and it was 
 time for the warriors to forget the wounded in the exigencies 
 of the present. An attack was made on both gates at once, 
 and the commandant being engaged at his own post, Beren- 
 ger had to make the utmost of his brief experience, backed 
 by the counsel of a tough old sergeant: and great was his 
 sense of exhilaration, and absolute enjoyment in this full 
 and worthy taxing of every power of mind or bod3^ The 
 cry among the enemy, " Aim at the black plume," attested 
 his prominence; but the black plume was still unscathed 
 when spring twilight fell. The din began to subside; re- 
 calls were sounded by the besiegers; and J^erenger heard his 
 own exploit bawled in the ear of the deaf commandant, who 
 was advancing over the bridge. The old captain compli- 
 mented him, told him that he should be well reported of to 
 M. le Due and Sieur la Noue, and invited him to supi^er 
 and bed in his own quarters. The supper ]Jerenger ac- 
 cepted, so soon as he should know how it was with his 
 brother; but as to bed, he intended to watch his brother, 
 and visit his 2)0st from time to time. 
 
 The captain entered by the main door of the chapel,
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 193 
 
 whore ten or twelve wounded were now lying, tended by 
 peasant women. Berenger merely passed through, seeing 
 as he went the black hood busy over a freshly brought in 
 patient. He found a door which admitted him through the 
 rough screen of boards to the choir where he had been in 
 the earlier part of the day. The moonlight came through 
 the shivered eastern windows, but a canvas curtain had 
 been hung so as to shelter Philip's vaulted recess from the 
 cold draught, and the bed itself, with a chair beside it, 
 looked neat, clean and comfortable. Philip himself waa 
 cheery; he said the bullet had made a mere flesh-wound, 
 and had passed out on the other side, and the Lady of Hope, 
 as they called her, was just such another as Aunt Cecily, 
 and had made him very comfortable, with clean linen, good 
 cool drinks, and the tenderest hand. But he was very 
 sleepy, so sleepy that he hardly cared to hear of the com- 
 bat, oidy he roused himself for a moment to say, " Brother, 
 I have seen Dolly. " 
 
 " Dolly!" 
 
 *' Our sister Dolly." 
 
 ' ' Ah, Phil ! many a strange visitor has come to me in tlio 
 Walnut Chamber at home." 
 
 " I tell you I was in my perfect senses," returned Phili]); 
 " there she was, just as when we left her. And, what was 
 stranger still, she talked French." 
 
 " Sleej) and see her again," laughed Berenger. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE SILVER BULLET. 
 
 I am all wonder, O my son! my soul 
 
 Is stunned within me; powers to speak to him 
 
 Or to interrogate him have I none, 
 
 Or even to loolc on him. 
 
 CowTER, Odyssey. 
 
 In" his waking senses Philiji adhered to his story that his 
 little sister Dolly had stood at the foot of his bed, called 
 him " le pauvre," and had afterM^ard disappeared, led away 
 by the nursing lady. It seemed to Berenger a mere delu- 
 sion of feverish weakness; for Philip had lost a great deal 
 of blood, and the wound, though not dangerous, permitted 
 no attempt at moviug, and gave much pain. Of the per- 
 
 7-3d half.
 
 194 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 fections of the lady as nurse and eurgeoii Philip could not 
 say enough, and, pale and overwejit as he allowed her to be, 
 he declared that he was sure that her beauty must equal 
 Mme. de Selinville's. Berenger laughed, and looking round 
 this strange hospital, now lighted by the full rays of the 
 morning sun, he was much struck by the scene. 
 
 It was the chancel of the old abbey church. The door by 
 which they had entered was very small, and perhaps had led 
 merely to the abbot's throne, as an irregularity for his own 
 convenience, and only made manifest by the rending away 
 of the rich wooden stall work, some fragments of which still 
 clung to the walls. The east end, like that of many French 
 churches, formed a semicircle, the high altar having been 
 in the center, and live tall deep bays forming lesser chapels 
 embracing it, their vaults all gathered up into one lofty 
 crown above, and a slender pillar separating between each 
 chapel, each of which further contained a tall narrow win- 
 dow. Of course, all had been utterly desolated, and Philip 
 was actually lying in one of these chapels, where the 
 sculptured figure of St. John and his Eagle still remained 
 on the wall; and a sufficient remnant of his glowing 
 sanguine robe of love was still in the window to serve as a 
 shield from the hise. The high altar of rich marbles was 
 a mere heap of shattered rubbish; but what surprised 
 Berenger more than all the ruined architectural beauty 
 which his cinque-cento trained taste could not understand, 
 was, that the tiles of the pavement were perfectly clean, 
 and diligently swept, the rubbish piled up in corners; and 
 here and there the relics of a cross or carved figure lay to- 
 gether, as by a tender, reverential hand. Even the morsels 
 of painted glass had been placed side by side on the fioor, 
 so as to form a mosaic of dark red, blue, and green; and a 
 cliild's toy lay beside this piece of patch-work. h\ the midst 
 of his observations, however. Captain Falconnet's servant 
 came to summon him to breakfast; and the old woman aji- 
 pearing at the same time, he could not help asking whether 
 the lady were coming. 
 
 " Oh yes, she will come to dress his wound in good time," 
 answered the old woman. 
 
 " And when? I should hke to hear what she thinks of 
 it,'' said Berenger. 
 
 " How?" said the old woman, with a certain satisfaction
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 195 
 
 ill his disapiiointmcnfc; " is our Lady of IIopc to be coming 
 down among you gay gallants?" 
 
 " Bat who is this Lady of Hope?" demanded he. 
 
 "Who should she be but our good pastor ^s daughter? 
 Ah! and a brave, good daughter she was too, abiding the 
 siege because his breath was so bad that he could not be 
 mcved," 
 
 "What was his name?" asked Berenger, attracted 
 strangely by what he heard. 
 
 " Eibault, monsieur — Pasteur Eibault. Ah! a good 
 man, and sound preacher, when j^reach he could ; but when 
 he could not;, his very presence kejjt the monks' revenants 
 from vexing us — as a cat keeps mice away; and, ah! the 
 children have been changed creatures since madame dealt 
 with them. What! monsieur would know why they call 
 her our Lady of Hope? Esperance is her true name; and, 
 moreover, in the former days this abbey had an image that 
 they called Notre-Dame de I'Esperance, and the poor de- 
 ceived folk thought it did great miracles. And so, when 
 she came hither, and wrought such cures, and brought 
 blessings wherever she went, it became a saying among us 
 that at length we had our true Lady of Hope.'' 
 
 A more urgent summons here forced Berenger away, 
 and his repetition of the same question received much the 
 same answer from deaf old Cajatain Falconnet. He was 
 obliged to repair to his post with merely a piece of bread in 
 his hand; but, though vigilance was needful, the day bade 
 fair to be far less actively occupied than its predecessor: the 
 enemy were either disposed to turn the siege into a block- 
 ade, or were awaiting re-enforcements and heavier artillery; 
 and there were only a few desultory attacks in the early 
 part of the morning. About an hour before noon, however, 
 the besiegers seemed to be drawing out m arms, as if to re- 
 ceive some jjerson of rank, and at the same time sounds 
 were hea.rd on the hills to the eastward, as if troops were 
 on the march. Berenger having just been told by the old 
 sergeant that probably all would be quiet for some time 
 longer, and been almost laughed at by the veteran for con- 
 sulting him whether it would be permissible for him to be 
 absent a few minutes to visit his brother, was setting out 
 across the bridge for the purpose, his eyes in the direction 
 of the rampart, which followed the curve of the river. The 
 paths which — as has been said — the feet of the washerwom-
 
 196 THE CETAPLET OP PEARLS. 
 
 en and drawers of water had worn away in quieter times, 
 had been smootlied and scarjjed away on the outer side, so 
 as to come to an abrupt termination some feet above the 
 gay marigolds, coltsfoot, and other spring flow^ers that 
 smiled by the watez*-side. Suddenly he beheld on the ram- 
 part a tiny gray and white figure, fearlessly trotting, or 
 rather dancing, along the summit, and the men around 
 him exclaimed, " The little moonbeam child!'' " A fairy 
 — a changeling!" " They can not shoot at such a babe!" 
 " Nor could they harm her!" " Hola! little one! Gave! 
 go back to your mother!" " Do not disturb yourself, sir; 
 she is safer than you," were the ejaculations almost at tlie 
 same moment, while he sprung forward, horrified at the 
 peril of such an infant. He had reached the angle between 
 the bridge and rampart, when he perceived that neillier 
 humanity nor superstition was protecting the poorchil'; 
 for, as she turned down the remnant of one of the treacher- 
 ous little paths, a man in bright steel and deep black had 
 spurred his horse to the river's brink, and was deliberately 
 taking aim at her. Furious at such brutality, Berenger 
 fired the pistol he held in his hand, and the wretch dro23i)ed 
 from his horse; but at the same moment his pistol exploded, 
 and the child rolled doivn the bank, whence a jMteous wail 
 came up, impelling Berenger to leap down to her assistance, 
 in the full face of the enemy. Perhaps he was protected 
 for tlie moment by the confusion ensuing on the fall of the 
 officer; and when he reached the bottom of the bank, he 
 saw the little creature on her feet, her round cap and gray 
 woolen dress stripped half off in the fall, and her fiaxen 
 hair falling round her plump, white, exposed shoulder, but 
 evidently unhurt, and gathering yellow marigolds as com- 
 jjosedly as though she had been making May garlands. He 
 snatched her up, and she said, with the same infantine 
 dignity, " Yes, take me up; the naughty people spoiled 
 the jiatli. But I must take my beads first. " And she 
 tried to struggle out of his arms, pointing therewith to a 
 broken string among the marshy herbage on which gleamed 
 — the pearls of Ribaumont! 
 
 In the few seconds in which he grasped them, and then 
 bore the child u]) the embankment in desperate bounds, a 
 hail of bullets poured round him, ringing on his breasc- 
 plate, shearing the plume from his hat, but scarcely even 
 heard; and in another moment he had sprung down, on the
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 10? 
 
 inner sule^ grasjiing the child with all his might, but not 
 daring even to look at her, in the wondrous flash of that 
 first conviction. She spoke flrst. " Put me down, and let 
 me have my beads," she said in a grave, clear tone; and 
 then first he beheld a pair of dark-blue eyes, a sweet wild- 
 rose face — Dolly's all over. He jaressed her so fast and so 
 close, in so speechless and overpowering an ecstasy, that 
 again she repeated, and in alarm, " Put me down, I want 
 my mother!" 
 
 " Yes, yes! your mother! your mother! your mother!" 
 lie cried, unable to let her out of his embrace; and then 
 restraining himself as he saw her frightened eyes, in abso- 
 lute fear "of her spurning him, or struggling from him, 
 " My sweet! my child! Ah! do you not know me?" 
 Then, remembering how wild this was, he struggled to 
 speak calmly: " What are you called, my treasure?'' 
 
 "I am la petite Rmjonette,'" she said, with puzzled 
 dignity and gravity; " and my mother says I have a beau- 
 tiful long name of my own besides." 
 
 " Berengere — my lierongere — " 
 
 "*Tliat is what she says over me, as I go to sleep in her 
 bosom at night/' said the child, in a wondering voice, soon 
 exchanged for entreaty, " Oh, hug me not so hard! Oh, 
 let me go — let me go to her! Mother! mother!" 
 
 " My child, mine own, I am taking thee! — Oh, do not 
 struggle with me!" he cried, himself imploring now. 
 " Child, one kiss for thy father;" and meantime, putting 
 absolute force on his vehement afTection, he was hurrying 
 to the chancel. 
 
 There Philip hailed them with a shout as of desperate 
 anxiety relieved; but before a word could be uttered, down 
 the stairs flew the Lady of Hope, crying wildly, " Not 
 there — she is not — " but perceiving the little one in the 
 stranger's arms, she held out her own, crying, " Ah! is 
 she hurt, my angel?" 
 
 "Unhurt, Eustacie! Our child is unhurt!" Berenger 
 said, with an agonized endeavor to be calm; but for the 
 moment her instinct was so entirely absorbed in examining 
 into the soundness of her child's limbs, that she neither 
 saw nor heard anything else. 
 
 " Eustacie," he said, laying his hand on her arm. She 
 started back, with bewildered eyes. " Eustacie — wife! do 
 you not know me? Ah! I forgot that I am changed."
 
 198 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " You — you — " she gasped, utterly confounded, and 
 gazing as if turned to stone, and tliougli at tliat moment 
 the vibration of a mighty discharge of cannon roclced the 
 walls, and strewed Philiji's bed witli the crimson shivers of 
 St. John's robe, yet neither of them would have been sen- 
 sible of it had not liumfrey rushed in at the same moment, 
 crying, " They are coming on like fiends, sir!" 
 
 Berenger j^assed his hand over his face. " You will 
 know me when — if I return, my dearest,^' he said. " If 
 not, then still, thank God! Philijj, to you I trust them!" 
 
 And with one kiss on that still, cold, almost petrified 
 brow, he had dashed away. There was a space of absolute- 
 ly motionless silence, save that Eustacie let herself drop on 
 the chancel step, and the child, presently breaking the 
 spell, pulled lier to attract her notice to the flowers. 
 " Mother here are the soucis for the poor gentleman's 
 broth. See, the naughty jieoi^le had spoiled all the paths, 
 and I rolled down and tore my frock, and down fell the 
 beads, but be not angry, mother dear, for the good gentle- 
 man picked them up, and carried me up the bank." 
 
 " The bank!" cried Eustacie, with a scream, as the sense 
 of the words reached her ears. "Ah! no wonder! Well 
 might thy danger bring thy father's spirit;" and she 
 grasped the little one fervently in her arms, murmuring, 
 " Thank, thank God, indeed! Oh! my precious one; and 
 did He send that blessed S2)irit to rescue thee?" 
 
 " And will you tie up my frock, and may I put the flow- 
 ers into the broth?" chattered Eayonette. " And why did 
 he kiss me and hug me so tight; and how did he know what 
 you say over me as we fall aslee])?'' 
 
 Eustacie clasped her tighter, with a convulsive shudder 
 of thankfulness; and Pliilij), but half hearing, and barely 
 gathering the meaning of her mood, ventured to sjicak, 
 " Madame—" 
 
 As if touched by an electric shock, Eustacie started up, 
 as recalled to instant needs, and coming toward him said, 
 " Do you want anything, sir? Pardon one who has but 
 newly seen a spirit from the other world — brought by his 
 child's danger." And the dazed, trance-like look was re- 
 turning. 
 
 " Spirit!" cried Philip. " Nay, madame, it was him- 
 self. Ah! and you are she whom we have sought so long; 
 and this dear child — no wonder she has Dolly's face. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 199 
 
 " Who — what?" said Eustacie, pressing her temjiles 
 with her hands, as if to retain her senses. " Speak; was 
 yonder a hving or dead man — and who?" 
 
 '' Living, thank God! and your own husband; that is, if 
 you are really Eustacie. x\re you indeed?" he added, be- 
 coming doubtful. 
 
 " Eustacie, that am I," she murmrued. "But he is 
 dead — they killed him; I saw the blood where he had wait- 
 ed for me. Ilis child's danger brought him from the grave. ' ' 
 " No, no. Look at me, sister Eustacie. Listen to me. 
 Osbert brought him home, more dead than alive — but alive 
 still. " 
 
 "No!" she cried, half passionately. " Never could he 
 have lived and left me to mourn him so bitterly.^' 
 
 " If you knew — •" cried Philip, growing indignant. " For 
 weeks he lay in deadly lethargy, and when, with his left 
 hand, he wrote and sent Osbert to you, your kinsfolk threw 
 the poor fellow into a dungeon, and put us off with lies 
 that you were married to your cousin. All believed, only 
 he — sick, helpless, speechless, as he was — he trusted you 
 still; and so soon as Mericour came, though he could 
 scarcely brook the saddle, nothing would hold him from 
 seeking you. We saw only rum at La Sablerie, and well- 
 nigh ever since have we been clajiped up in prison by your 
 uncle. We were on the way to Quinet to seek yon. He 
 has kept his faith whole through wounds and pain and ju'ison 
 and threats — ay, and sore temptation," cried Philip, wax- 
 ing eloquent; " and, oh, it can not be that you do not care 
 for him I" 
 
 " Doubt not my faith, sir," said Eustacie, proudly; " I 
 have been as true to him as if I had known he lived. Nor 
 do I know who you are to question me." 
 
 At this moment the child pressed forward, holding be- 
 tween her two careful plump hands a red earthenware bowl, 
 with the tisane steaming in it, and the yellow petals strewn 
 over the surface. She and Philip had taken a great fancy 
 to each other, and while her mother was busy with the 
 other patients, she had been left to her quiet play with her 
 fragments of glass, which she carried one by one to display, 
 held up to the light, to her new friend; who, in his weak 
 state, and after his long captivity, found her the more 
 charming playmate because she so strangely reminded him 
 of his own little sisters. She thought herself liis little
 
 200 THE CHAPLET OF PEA ELS. 
 
 nurse, and missing from his broth the yellow petals that 
 she had been wont to think the charm of tisane, the house- 
 wifely little being bad trotted off, unseen and unmissed, 
 across the quadrangle, over the embankment, where she 
 had often gathered them, or attended on the " lessive " on 
 the river's brink; and now she broke forth exultingly, 
 " Here, here is the tisane, with all the soucis. Let me 
 feed you with them, sir." 
 
 " Ah! thou sweet one,'^ gasped Philip, " I could as soon 
 eat them as David could drink the water! For tbese — -for 
 these — I" and the tears rushed into his eyes. "Oh! let 
 me but kiss her, madame; I loved her from the first mo- 
 ment. She has the very face of my little sister — my little 
 sister and Berenger's. What, thou little sweeting (what 
 French word is good enough for her?) didst run into peril 
 for me, not knowing how near I was to thee? What, must 
 I eat it? Love me then. " 
 
 But the boarded door was thrown back, and " Madame, 
 more wounded,'' resounded. The thrill of terror, the 
 elastic reaction, at the ensuing words, " from the north 
 gate," was what made Eustacie in an instant know herself 
 to be not widow but wife. She turned round at once, hold- 
 ing out her hand, and saying with a shaken, agitated voice; 
 " Mon frere, pardon me, I know not what I say; and, after 
 all, he will find me bicn median fe still." Then as Pbilip 
 devoured her hand with kisses, and held it fast, "I must 
 go; these poor men need me. When I can, I will return." 
 
 " Only lot me have the little one," entreated Philip; " it 
 is almos-t home already to look at her. " 
 
 And when Eustacie next looked in on them, they were 
 both fast asleep. 
 
 She, poor thing, the only wcman with brains among the 
 many scared females in the garrison, might not rest or look 
 tbe wonder in the face. Fresh sufferers needed ber care, 
 and related gallant things of "the duke's Englishman," 
 things of desperate daring and prowess that sent the blood 
 throbbing to her heart with exultation, but only to be fol- 
 lowed by a pang of anguish at having let him go back to 
 peril — nay, perhaps, to death — without a word of tenderness 
 or even recognition. She imaged him as the sunny-faced 
 youth who had claimed her in the royal castle, and her 
 longing to be at his side and cling to him as his own became 
 every moment more fervent and irresistible, until she glad-
 
 THE CHArLET OF PEAKLS. 201 
 
 ly recollected the necessity of carrying food to the defend- 
 ers; and snatching an interval from her hospital caroe, she 
 sped to the old circular kitchen of the monastery, where 
 she found the lame baker vainly trying to organize a party 
 of frightened women to carry provisions to the garrison of 
 the bridge-tower. 
 
 " Give some to me," she said. " My husband is there! 
 I am come to fetch his dinner. " 
 
 The peasant women looked and whispered as if they 
 thought that, to add to their misfortunes, their Lady of 
 liope had become distracted by grief; and one or two, who 
 held the old faith, and were like the crane among the spar- 
 rows, even observed that it was a judgment for the profane 
 name that had been given her, against which she had her- 
 self unifarmly protested. 
 
 " My husband is come," said Eustacie, looking round 
 with shining eyes. "Let us be brave wives, and not let 
 our men famish. ' ' 
 
 She lifted up a loaf and a pitcher of broth, and with the 
 latter poised on her erect and graceful head, and clastic 
 though steady step, she led the way; the others foil iving' 
 her with a sort of awe, as of one they fancied in a super- 
 human state. In fact, there was no great danger in trav- 
 ersing the bridge with its lofty parapet on either side; and 
 her mind was too much exalted and moved to be sensible 
 of anything but a certain exulting awe of the battle sounds. 
 There was, however, a kind of lull in the assault which had 
 raged so fiercely ever since the fall of the officer, and the 
 arrival of the re-enforcements. Either the enemy had 
 l^aused to take food, or were devising some fresh mode of 
 attack; and as the line of women advanced, there started 
 forth from under the arch a broad-shouldered, white- faced, 
 golden-bearded personage, who cried joyously, " My dear- 
 est, my bravest! this for me!" and lifted the pitcher from 
 her head as he grasped her hand with a flesh-and- blood 
 clasp indeed, but the bright-cheeked, wavy-haired lad of 
 her dream withered away with a shock of disappointment, 
 and she only looked up with wistful puzzled earnestness in- 
 stead of uttering the dear name that she had so long been 
 whispering to herself. " Dearest," he said, " this is pre- 
 cious indeed to me, that you should let me feast my eyes 
 once more on you. But you may not tarry. The rogues 
 may renew their attack at any moment. "
 
 202 THE CHAPLET OF PEAEL3. 
 
 She had thought of herself as insisting on standing be- 
 side him and sharing his peril. Had he been himself, she 
 must have done so, but this was a stranger, whose claim- 
 ing her made her shrink apart till she could feel the iden- 
 tity which, though she believed, she could not realize, ller 
 hand lay cold and tremulous within his warm pressure, but 
 he was too much wrought up and too full of joy and haste 
 to be sensible of anything but of the brave affection that 
 had dared all to come to him; and he was perfectly hajipy, 
 even as a trumpet-call among the foe warned him to press 
 her fingers to his Yi^is and say, as his bright blue eye 
 kindled: "God grant that we may meet and thank Him 
 to-night! Farewell, my lost and found! I fight as one 
 who has something to fight for." 
 
 He might not leave his jiost, but he watched her with 
 eyes that could not be satiated, as she recrossed the bridge; 
 and, verily, his superabundant ecstasy, and the energy that 
 was born of it, were all needed to sustain the spirits of his 
 garrison through that terrible afternoon. The enemy 
 seemed to be determined to carry the place before it could 
 be relieved, and renewed the storm again and again with 
 increasmg violence; while the defenders, disheartened by 
 their pertinacity, dismayed at the effects of the heavy ar- 
 tillery, now brought to bear on the tower, and direfully 
 afraid of having the bridge destroyed, would have aban- 
 doned their barbican and shut themselves up within the body 
 of the place had not Berenger been here, there, and every- 
 where, directing, commanding, exhorting, cheering, en- 
 couraging, exciting enthusia^i by word and exam])le, win- 
 ning proud admiration by feats of valor and dexterity 
 sprung of the ecstatic inspirntion of new-found bliss, and 
 watching, as the conscious defender of his own most be- 
 loved, without a moment's respite, till twilight stillness 
 sunk on the enemy, and old Falconnetcame to relieve him, 
 thanking him for his gallant defense, and auguring that, 
 by noonday to-morrow at latest, M. le Due would succor 
 them, unless he were hampered by any folly of this young 
 Navarre. 
 
 Too blissful for the sense of fatigue, Berenger began to 
 impart to the commandant his delight, but the only answer 
 he got was " Hojoe, yes, every hope;" and he again recog- 
 nized what he had already perceived, that the indistinct- 
 ness of his utterance made him entirely unintelligible to
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. S03 
 
 the deaf commandant, and that shouting did but proclaim 
 to the whole garrison, perhaps even to the enemy's camp, 
 what was still too new a joy not to be a secret treasure of 
 delight. So he only wrung the old captain's hand, and 
 strode away as soon as he was released. 
 
 It was nearly dark, in spite of a rising moon, but be- 
 neath the cloister arch was torch-light, glancing on a steel 
 head-piece, and on a white cap, both bending down over a 
 prostrate figure; and he heard the voice he loved so well 
 say, " It is over! I can do no more. It were best to dig 
 his grave at once here in silence — it will discourage the peo- 
 ple less. Eenaud and Armand, here!" 
 
 He jjaused for a few minutes unseen in the shadow while 
 she closed the eyes and composed the limbs of the dead sol- 
 dier; then, kneeling, said the Lord's Prayer in French over 
 him. Was this the being he had left as the petted play- 
 thing of the palace? When she rose, she came to the arch 
 and gazed wistfully across the moonlit quadrangle, beyond 
 the dark shade cast by the buildings, saying to the soldier, 
 " You are sure he was safe!'"' 
 
 "My Eustacie," said Berenger, coming forward, "we 
 meet in grave times!" 
 
 The relief of knowing him safe after the sickening yearn- 
 ings aiid suspense of the day, and moreover the old ring of 
 tenderness in his tone, made her spring to him with real 
 warmth of gladiiess, and cry, " It is you! All is well," 
 
 " Blessedly well, ma mie, my sweetheart," he said, throw- 
 ing his arm round her, and she rested against him mur- 
 muring, " Now I feel it! Thou art thyself!" They were 
 in the dark cloister passage, and when he would have moved 
 forward she clung closer to him, and murmured, " Oh, 
 wait, wait, yet an instant. Thus I can feel that I have 
 thee — the same — my own!" 
 
 " My poor darling," said Berenger, after a second, " yon 
 must learn to bear with both my looks and speech, though 
 I be but ■, sorry shattered fellow for you." 
 
 " No, no," she cried, hanging on him M-ith double fervor. 
 
 " No, I am loving you the more already — doubly — treb- 
 ly — a thousand times. Only those moments were so 
 precious, they made all these long years as nothing. But 
 come to the little one, and to your brother." 
 
 The rttle one had already heard them, and was starting 
 forward to meet them, though daunted for a moment by
 
 204 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 the siglit of the strange father; she stood on the pavementj 
 in the fu'l tlood of the moonlight from the east window, 
 which whitened her fair face, flaxen hair, and gray dress, 
 so tliat she did truly look like some S2)irit woven of the 
 moonbeams. E-nstacie gave a cry of satisfaction: "Ah, 
 good, good; it was by moonlight that I saw her first !'^ 
 
 Berenger, took her in his arms, and held her to his breast 
 with a sense of insatiable love, while Philij) exclaimed, 
 '' Ay, well may you make much of her, brother. Well 
 might you seek them far and wide. Such treasures are 
 not to be found in the wide world." 
 
 Berenger, without answering, carried the little one to the 
 step of the ruined higli altar, and there knelt, holding Eus- 
 tacie by the hand, the child in one arm, and, with the moon 
 glancing on his high white brow and earnest face, he si^oke 
 a few words of solemn thanks and prayer for a blessing on 
 their reunion, and the babe so wonderfully ji reserved to 
 them. 
 
 Not till then did he carry her into the lam 2>light by Phil- 
 ip's bed, and scan therein every feature, to satisfy his eyes 
 with the fulfilled hope that had borne him through those 
 darkest days, when, despairing of the mother, the thought 
 of the child had still sustained him to throw his will into 
 the balance of the scale between life and death. Little 
 Berengere gazed up into his face silently, M'ith wondering, 
 grave, and somewhat sleepy eyes and then he saw them fi^ 
 themselves on his powder-grimed and blood-stained hands. 
 "Ah! little heart/' he said, "I am truly in no state to 
 handle so pure a piece of sugar as thou ; I should have rid 
 myself of the battle-stains ere touching thee, but how recol- 
 lect anything at such a moment?" 
 
 Eustacie was glad he had broken the spell of silence; for 
 having recovered her husband, her first instinct was to wait 
 upon him. She took the chikl from him, explaining thaf^ 
 she was going to i^ut her to bed in her own rooms uji the 
 stone stair, which for the present were filled with the fugi- 
 tive women and children who liad come in from the coun- 
 try, so that the chancel must continue the lodging of Be- 
 renger and his brother; and for the time of her absence she 
 brought him water to wash away the stains, and set before 
 him the soup she had kept warm over her little charcoal 
 brazier. It was only when thus left that he cotdd own, in 
 answer to Philip's inquiries, that he could feel either hunger
 
 THE CIIArLET OF PEARLS. 205 
 
 or weariness; nay, he would only acknowledge enough of 
 the latter to give a perfect charm to rest under such au- 
 spices. Eustacie had disjiatched her motherly cares promptly 
 enough to be with him again just as in taking off his corslet 
 he had found that it had been pierced by a bullet, and pur- 
 suing the trace, through his doublet, he found it lodged in 
 that purse which he had so long worn next his heart, where 
 it had sjient its force against the single pearl of Ribaumont. 
 And holding it nj) to the light, he saw that it was of silver. 
 Then there returned on him and Philip the words they had 
 heard two days before, of silver bullets forged for the de- 
 struction of the white moonlight fairy, and he further re- 
 membered the moment's shock and blow that in the midst 
 of his wild amaze on the river's bank had made him gather 
 his breath and strength to bound desjierately upward, lest 
 the next moment he should find himself wounded and 
 powerless. 
 
 For the innocent, then, had the shot been intended; and, 
 she running into danger out of her sweet, tender instincts 
 of helpfulness, had been barely saved at the extreme peril 
 of her unconscious father's life. Philip, whose vehement 
 affection for the little one had been growing all day, was in 
 the act of telling Berenger to string the bullet in the place 
 of the injured pearl, as the most precious heir-loom of 
 Ribaumont bravery, when Eustacie returned, and learning 
 all, grew pale and shuddered as danger h:id never made her 
 do before: but this strange day had almost made a coward 
 of her. 
 
 " And this it has spared," said Berenger, taking out the 
 string of little yellow shells. " Dost know them, sweet- 
 heart? They have been my chaplet all this time." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Eustacie, "poor, good Mademoiselle 
 Noemi ! she threaded them for my child, when she was very 
 little. Ah ! could she have given them to you — could it 
 then not have been true — that horror?" 
 
 " Alas! it was too true. I found these shells in the 
 empty cradle, in the burned house, and deemed them all I 
 should ever have of my babe. " 
 
 " Poor Noemi! poor Noemi! She always longed to be a 
 martyr; but we fled from her, and the fate we had brought 
 on her. That was the thought that preved on my dear 
 father. He grieved so to have left his sheep — and it was 
 only for my sake. Ah! I have brought evil on all who
 
 206 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 have been good to me, beginning with you. You had bet- 
 ter cast me off, or I shall bring yet worse!" 
 
 *' Let it be so, if we are only together," 
 
 He drew her to him and she laid her head on his shoul- 
 der, murmuring, " Ah! father, father, were you but here 
 to see it. So desolate yesterday, so ineffably blessed to-day. 
 Oh! I can not even grieve for him now, save that he could 
 not just have seen us; yet I think he knew it would be so." 
 
 " Nay, it may be that he does see us," said Berenger. 
 " "Would that I had known who it was whom you were lay- 
 ing down ' en paix et seurte honnc !' As it was, the psalm 
 brought precious thoughts of Chateau Leurre, and the lit- 
 tle wife who was wont to sing it with me. " 
 
 " Ah!" said Eustacie, " it was when he sung those words 
 as he was about to sleep in the ruin of the Temple, that 
 first I — cowering there in terror — knew him for no Tem- 
 plar's ghost, but for a friend. That story ended my worst 
 desolation. That night he became my father; the next my 
 child came to me!" 
 
 " My precious treasure! Ah! what you must have 
 undergone, and I all unknowing, capable of nothing wiser 
 than going out of my senses, and raging in a fever because 
 I could convince no one that those were all lies about your 
 being aught but my true and loving wife. But tell me, 
 what brought thee hither to be the tutelary patron, where, 
 but for the siege, I had overpassed thee on the way to 
 Quinet?" 
 
 Then Eustacie told him how the Italian peddler had 
 stolen her letters, and attempted to poison her child — the 
 peddler whom he soon identified with that wizard who liad 
 talked to him of " Esperance," until the cue had evidently 
 been given by the chevalier. Soon after the duke had dis- 
 patched a messenger to say that the Chevalier de Ribau- 
 mont was on the way to demand his niece; and as it was a 
 period of peace, and the law was decidedly on his side, 
 Mme. de Quinet would be unable to offer any resistance. 
 She therefore had resolved to send Eustacie away — not to 
 any of the seaports whither the uncle would be likely to 
 trace her, but absolutely to a place which he vvoidd have 
 passed through on his journey into Guyenne, The Mon- 
 astery of Notre-Dame de TEsjierance at Pont de Dronne 
 had been cruelly devastated by the Huguenots in order to 
 form a fortress to command the passage of the river, and a
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. S07 
 
 garrison haa been placed there, as well as a colony of silk- 
 spiuners, attracted by the mulberry- trees of the old abbey 
 garden. These, however, having conceived some terror of 
 the ghosts of the murdered monks, had entreated for a pas- 
 tor to protect them; and Mme. la Duchesse thonght that 
 in this capacity Isaac Garton, known by one of the many 
 aliases to which the Calvinist ministers constantly resorted, 
 might avoid susjjicion for the present. She took the perse- 
 cuted fugitives for some stages in an opposite direction, in 
 her own coach, then returned to face and baffle the cheva- 
 lier, while her trusty steward, by a long detour, conducted 
 them to Pont de Dronue, which they reached the very 
 night after the chevalier had returned through it to Nid- 
 de-Merle. 
 
 The pastor and his daughter were placed under the spe- 
 cial protection of Captain Falconnet, and the steward had 
 taken care that they should be well lodged in three rooms 
 that had once been the abbot^s apartments. Their stay 
 had been at first intended to be short, but the long Journey 
 had been so full of suffering to Isaac, and left such serious 
 effects, that Eustacie could not bear to undertake it again, 
 and Mme. de Quinet soon perceived that she was safer 
 there than at the chateau, since strangers were seldom ad- 
 mitted to the fortress, and her presence there attracted no 
 attention. But for Isaac Gardon's declining health, Eus- 
 tacie vould have been much hapjiier here than at the cha- 
 teau; the homely housewifely life, where all depended on 
 her, suited her; and, using her lessons in domestic arts of 
 nursing and medicine for the benefit of her father's fiock, 
 she had found, to her dismay, that the simple j^eople, in 
 their veneration, had made her into a sort of successor to 
 the patroness of the convent. Isaac had revived enough 
 for a time to be able to conduct the worshii? in the church, 
 and to instruct some of his flock; but the teaching of the 
 young had been more and more transferred to her, and, as 
 she ingenuously said, had taught her more than she ever 
 knew before. He gradually became weaker through more 
 suffering, and was absolutely inf^apable of removal, when 
 an attack by the Guisards was threatened. Eustacie might 
 have been sent back to Quinet; but she would not hear of 
 leaving him; and this first had been a mere slight attack, 
 as if a mere experiment on the strength of the place. She 
 had, however, then had to take the lead in controlling the
 
 208 THE CHAPI.ET OP PEAHLS. 
 
 v/omen, and teaching tliem to act as nurses, and to carry 
 out provisions; and she must then have been seen by some 
 one, who reported her presence tliere to Narcisse — perhaps 
 by the Italian peddler. Indeed Humfrey, who came in for 
 a moment to receive his master's orders, report his watch, 
 and greet his lady, narrated, on the authority of the lately 
 enlisted men-at-arms, that M. de Kid-de-Merle had prom- 
 ised twenty crowns to any one who might shoot down the 
 heretics' little white cUaUesse. 
 
 About six weeks had elapsed since the first attack on 
 Pont de Dronne, and in that time Gardon had sunk rapid- 
 ly. He died as he lived, a gentle, patient man, not a char- 
 acteristic Calvinist, though his lot had been thrown with 
 that party in his perplexed life of truth-seeking and disap- 
 pointment in the asjii rations and hojws of early youth. He 
 had been, however, full of peace and trust that he should 
 open his eyes where the light was clear, and no cloud on 
 either side would mar his perception; and his thankfulness 
 had been great for the blessing that his almost heaven-sent 
 daughter had been to him in his loneliness, bereavement, 
 and decay. Much as he loved her, he did not show himself 
 grieved or distressed on her account; but, as he told her, 
 he took the summons to leave her as a sign that his task 
 was done, and the term of her trials ended. " I trust as 
 fully," he said, " that thou wilt soon be in safe and loving 
 hands, as though I could commit thee to them." 
 
 And so he died in her arms, leaving her a far fuller 
 measure of blessing and of love than ever she had derived 
 from her own father; and as the enemy's trumpets were 
 already sounding on the hills, she had feared insult to his 
 remains, and had procured his almost immediate burial in 
 the cloister, bidding the assistants sing, as his farewell, that 
 evening psalm which had first brought soothing to her 
 hunted spirit. 
 
 There, while nnable, after hours of weeping, to tear her- 
 self from the grave of her father and protector, had she in 
 her utter desolation been startled by the summons, not only 
 to attend to the wounded stranger, but to lodge him in the 
 chancel. " Only this was wanting," was the first thought 
 in her desolation, for this had been her own most cherished 
 resort. Either the hise, or fear of a haunted spot, or both, 
 had led to the nailing up of boards over the dividing screen, 
 so that the chancel was entirely concealed from the church;
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 209 
 
 and no one ever thought of setting foot there till Enstacie, 
 whose Catholic reverence was indestructible, even when she 
 was only half sure that it was not worse than a foible, had 
 stolen down thither, grieved at ils utter desolation, and 
 with fond and careful hands had cleansed it, and amended 
 the ruin so far as she might. She had no other ])lace where 
 she was sure of being uninterrupted; and here had been 
 her onitory, where she daily prayed, and often came to hide 
 her tears and i-all}- her spirits through that long attendance 
 on her fatherly friend. It had been a stolen pleasure. 
 Her reverent work there, if once observed, would have been 
 treated as rank idolatry; and it was with consternation as 
 well as grief that she found, by the captain's command, 
 that this, her sanctuary and refuge, was to be invaded by 
 strange soldiers! Little did she think—! 
 
 And thus they sat, telling each other all, on the step of 
 the ruined chapel, among the lights and shadows of the 
 apse. How unlike the stately Louvre's halls of statuary 
 and cabinets of porcelain, or the Arcadian groves of Mont- 
 pipeau! and yet how little they recked that they were in a 
 beleaguered fortress, in the midst of ruins, wounded sull'er- 
 ers all around, themselves in hourly jeopardy. It was 
 enough that they had one another. They were so suj^reme- 
 ly ha})py that their minds unconsciously gathered up those 
 pale lights and dark fantastic shades as adjuncts of their 
 bliss. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 LE BAISER d'EUSTACIE. 
 
 No pitying voice, no eye, affords 
 One tear to grace his obsequies. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 Golden sunshine made rubies and sapphires of the frag- 
 ments of glass in the windows of Notre Dame de I'Esper- 
 ance, and lighted up the brown face and earnest eyes of the 
 little dark figure, who, with hands clasped round her 
 knees, sat gazing as if she could never gaze her fdl, upon 
 the sleeping warrior beside whom she sat, bis clear straight 
 profile like a cameo, both in chiseling and in color, as it 
 lay on the brown cloak where he sle2)t the profound sleep 
 of content and of fatigue.
 
 ^10 THE CHAPLET OE fEAELS. 
 
 Neither slie nor Philip would have spoken or stirred to 
 break that well-earned rest; but sounds from without were 
 not long in opening his eyes, and as they met her intent 
 gaze, he smiled and said, "Good-morrow, sweetheart! 
 What, learning how ugly a fellow is come back to thee?'' 
 
 " Xo, indeed! I was trying to trace thine old likeness, 
 and then wondering how I ever liked thy boyish face better 
 than the noble look thou bearest now !' ' 
 
 " Ah! when I set out to come to thee, I was a walking 
 rainbow; yet I was coxcomb enough to think thou wouldst 
 overlook it." 
 
 " Show me those cruel strokes,'' she said; " I see one " 
 — and her finger traced the same as jioor King Charles had 
 done — " but where is the one my wicked cousin called by 
 that frightful name?'' 
 
 " Nay, verily, that sweet name spared my life! A little 
 less spite at my j)each cheek, and I had been sped, and had 
 not lisped and stammered all my days in honor of le haiser 
 (V Enstacie 1" and as he pushed aside his long golden silk 
 mustache to show the ineffaceable red and purple scar, he 
 added, smiling, " It has waited long for its right remedy." 
 
 At that moment the door in the rood-screen opened. 
 Captain Falconnet's one eye stared in amazement, and 
 from beneath his gray mustache thundered forth the word 
 " comment !" in accents fit to wake the dead. 
 
 Was this Esperance, the most irreproachable of pastor's 
 daughters and widows? " What, madame, so soon as your 
 good father is under ground? At least I thought one 
 woman could be trusted; but it seems we must see to the 
 wounded ourselves." 
 
 She blushed, but stood her ground; and Berenger shout- 
 ed, " She is my wife, sir! — my wife whom I have sought so 
 long!" 
 
 " That must be as Madame la Duchesse chooses," said 
 the captain. " She is under her charge, and must be sent 
 to her as soon as this ca7iaille is cleared off. To your rooms, 
 madame ! " 
 
 "I am her husband!" again cried Berenger. "We 
 have been married sixteen years. ' ' 
 
 " You need not talk to me of dowry; Madame la Duch- 
 esse will settle that, if you are fool enough to mean any- 
 thing by it. No, no, mademoiselle, I've no time for folly.
 
 THE C&APLET OP I^EAllLS. 311 
 
 Come with me, sir, and see if that be true which they say 
 of the rogues outside. " 
 
 And jnittiiig liis arm into Berenger's, he fairly carried 
 him off, discoursing by the way on feu M. TAmiral's say- 
 ing that " Overstrictness in camp was 2)eriious, since a 
 young saint, an old devil," but warning him that this was 
 prohibited gear, as he was responsible for the young woman 
 to Mme. la Duchesse. Berenger, who had never made the 
 captain hear anything that he did not know before, looked 
 about for some interpreter whose voice might be more 
 effectual, but found himself being conducted to the spiral 
 stair of the church steeple; and suddenly gathering that 
 some new feature in the case had arisen, followed the old 
 man eagerly ujd the winding steps to the little square of 
 leaden roof where the Quinet banner was planted. It com- 
 manded a wide and splendid view, to the I3ay of Biscay on 
 the one hand, and the inland mountains on the other; but 
 the warder, who already stood there, pointed silently to the 
 north, where, on the road by which Berenger had come, 
 was to be seen a cloud of dust, gilded by the rays of the 
 rising sun. 
 
 Who raised it was a matter of no doubt; and Berenger's 
 morning orisons were paid with folded hands, in silent 
 thanksgiving, as he watched the sparkling of pikes and 
 gleaming of helmets — and the white flag of Bourbon at 
 length became visible. 
 
 Already the enemy below were sending out scouts — they 
 rode to the top of the hill — then a messenger swam his 
 horse across the river. In the camp before the bridge- 
 tower men buzzed out of their tents, like ants whose hill 
 is disturbed; horses were fastened to the cannon, tents were 
 struck, and it was plain that the siege was to be raised. 
 
 Captain Falconnet did his ally the honor to consult him 
 on the expedience of molesting the Guisards by a sally, and 
 trying to take some of their guns; but Berenger merely 
 bowed to whatever he said, while he debated aloud the pros 
 and cons, and at last decided that the garrison had been too 
 much reduced for this, and that M. le Due would prefer 
 finding them drawn up in good order to receive him, to 
 their going chasing and plundering disrejoutably among the 
 enemy — the duke being here evidently a much greater per- 
 sonage than the King of Xavarre, hereditary Governor of 
 Guyenno though he were. Indeed, nothing was wanting
 
 Sis THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 to the confusion of Berenger's late assailants. In the 
 camp on the north side of the river, things were done with 
 some order; but that on the other side was absolutely aban- 
 doned, and crowds were making in disorder for the ford, 
 leaving everything behind them, that they might not have 
 their retreat cut off. Would there be a battle? Falconnet, 
 taking in with his eye the numbers of the succoring party, 
 thouglifc the duke would allow the besiegers to depart un- 
 molested, but remembered with a sigh that a young king 
 had come to meddle in their affairs I 
 
 However, it was needful to go down and marshal the men 
 for the reception of the new-comers, or to join in the fight, 
 as the case might be. 
 
 And it was a peaceful entrance that took place some 
 hours later, and was watched from the windows of the 
 prior's rooms, by Eustacie, her child, and Phihp, whom 
 she had been able to install in her own apartments, which 
 liad been vacated by the refugee women in haste to return 
 home, and where he now sat in Maitre Garden's great straw 
 chair, wrapped in his loose gown, and looking out at the 
 northern gates, thrown open to receive the king and duke, 
 old Falconnet presenting the keys to the duke, the duke 
 bowing low as he offered them to the king, and the king 
 waving them back to the duke and the captain. Then they 
 saw Falconnet presenting the tall auxiliary who bad been 
 so valuable to him, the joyous greeting of an old friend 
 bestowed on him, his gesture as he jiointed up to the win- 
 dow, and the king's upward look, as he doffed his hat and 
 bowed low, while Eustacie responded with the most grace- 
 ful of reverences, such as remmded Philij:) that his little 
 sister-in-law and tender nurse was in truth a great court 
 lady. 
 
 Presently berenger came upstairs, bringing with him his 
 faithful foster-brother Osbert, who, though looking gaunt 
 and lean, had nearly recovered his strength, and had ac- 
 companied the army in hopes of finding his master. The 
 good fellow was full of delight at the welcome of his lady, 
 and at once bestirred himself in assisting her in rectifying 
 the confusion in which her guests had left her ajiartment. 
 
 Matters had not long been set straight when steps were 
 heard on the stone stair, and, the door opening wide. Cap- 
 tain Falconnet 's gruff voice was heard, " This way, mon- 
 seigneur, this way, sire/'
 
 THE CITAPLET Of TEARLS, ^13 
 
 This was Mnie. le Baronue de Ribaumont's first recep- 
 tion. She was standing at the dark walnut table, fresh 
 starching and crimjiing Berenger's solitary ruff, while 
 under her merry superintendence those constant playfel- 
 lows, Philip and Rayonette, were washing, or pretending to 
 wash, radishes in a large wooden bowl, and Berenger was 
 endeavoring to write his letter of good tidings, to be sent 
 by special messenger to his grandfather. Philip was in 
 something very like a Geneva gown; Eustacie wore her 
 prim white cap and frill, and coarse black serge kirtle; and 
 there was but one chair besides that one which Philip was 
 desired to retain, only two three-legged stools and a bench. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mme. de Eibaumont was equal to the occa- 
 sion; nothing could have been more courtly, graceful, or 
 unembarrassed than her manner of receiving the king's gal- 
 lant compliments, and of performing all the courtesies 
 suited to the hostess and queen of the place: it was the air 
 that would have befitted the stateliest castle hall, yet that 
 in its simjjlicity and brightness still more embellished the 
 old ruinous convent-cell. The king was delighted, he sat 
 down upon one of the three-legged stools, took Payonette 
 U23on his knee, undertook to finish washing the radishes, 
 but eat nearly all he washed, declaring that they put him 
 in mind of his old hardy days on the mountains of Beam. 
 He insisted on hearing all Rayonette's adventure in detail; 
 and on seeing the j^earls and the silver bullet, " You could 
 scarcely have needed the token, sir," said he with a smile 
 to Berenger; " Mademoiselle had already shown herself of 
 the true blood of the bravest of knights.'' 
 
 The tidings of the attack on Pont de Dronne had caused 
 the duke to make a forced march to its relief, in which the 
 king had insisted on joining him; and they now intended 
 to wait at Pont de Dronne till the rest of the troops came 
 up, and to continue their march through Guyenne to Nerac, 
 the capital of Henry's county of Foix. The duke suggest- 
 ed that if Philip were well enough to move when the army 
 proceeded, the family might then take him to Quiuet, 
 where the duchess would be very desirous to see madame; 
 and therewith they took leave with some good-humored 
 mirth as to whether M. de Pibaumont would join them at 
 supper, or remain in the bosom of his family, and whether 
 he were to be regarded as a gay bridegroom or a husband 
 of sixteen years' standing.
 
 ^14 THE CilATLET OP PEAIiLS. 
 
 " !Nay," said the king, " did liis good Orphcas know how 
 nearly his Eurydice had shj^ped through his fingers again? 
 how Monsienr de Quinet had caught the respectable Pluto 
 yonder in the gray mustache actually arranging an escort 
 to send the lady safe back to Quinet hon, gre vial gre — and 
 truly a deaf Pluto was worse than even Orpheus had en- 
 countered!" 
 
 So laughing, he bowed again his compliments; but Eus- 
 tacie demanded, so soon as he was gone, what he meant by 
 calling her by such names. If he thought it was her Chris- 
 tian name, it M^as over-familiar — if not, she liked it less. 
 
 " It is only that he last saw you in the Infernal Regions, 
 ma mie," said Berenger; " and I have sought you ever 
 since, as Orpheus sought Eurydice." 
 
 But her learning did not extend so far; and when the ex- 
 planation was made, she pouted, and owned that she could 
 not bear to be reminded of the most foolish and uncomfort- 
 able scene in her life — the cause of all her troubles; and as 
 Berenger was telling her of Diane^s confession that her 
 being involved in the pageant was part of the plot for their 
 detention at Paris, Osbert knocked at the door, and entered 
 with a bundle in his arms, and the air of having done the 
 right thing. 
 
 " There, sir/' he said with proud satisfaction, " I have 
 been to the camp across the river. I heard tljere were good 
 stuffs to be had there for nothing, and thought I would see 
 if I could find a coat for Monsieur Philijipe, for his own is 
 a mere ruin. " 
 
 This was true, for Eustacie had been deciding that be- 
 tween blood and rents it had become a hopeless case for 
 renovation; and Osbert joyfully displayed a beautifully-em- 
 broidered coat of soft leather, which he had jjurchased for 
 a very small sum of a plunderer who had been there before 
 him. The camp had been so hastily abandoned that all 
 the luggage had been left, and, like a true valet, Osbert 
 had not neglected the opportunity of rejDlenishing his mas- 
 ter's wardrobe. " And," said he, " I saw there one whom 
 Monsieur le Baron knows — Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle. " 
 
 " Here!" cried Eustacie, startled for a moment, but her 
 eyes resting reassured on her husband. 
 
 " Madame need not be alarmed," said Osbert; " Mon- 
 sieur le Baron has well re^iaid him. Ah! ah! there he lies, 
 a spectacle for all good Christians to delight in. "
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 315 
 
 *' It was then he, le scelerat V exclaimed Berenger; " I 
 had ah-eady thought it possible/' 
 
 " Aud he fell by your hands!'' cried Eustacie. " That 
 is as it should be." 
 
 "Yes, madame," said Osbert; "it did my very heart 
 good to see him writhing there like a cruslied viper. Mon- 
 sieur le Baron's bullet was mortal, and his own peoi)Ie 
 thought him not wortli the moving, so there he lies on the 
 ground bowling and cursing. I would have given him the 
 coup (le (jrace myself, but that I thought Monsieur le Baron 
 might have some family matters to settle with him; sol 
 only asked what he thouglit now of clapping guiltless folk 
 into dungeons, and shooting innocent children Uke spar- 
 rows; but he grinned and cursed like a demon, and I left 
 him." 
 
 " In any one's charge?" asked Berenger. 
 
 " In the fiend's, wdio is coming for him," said the de- 
 scendant of the Norseman. " I only told Ilumfrey that if 
 he saw any one likely to meddle he should tell them he Avas 
 reserved for you. Eh! Monsieur le Baron is not going 
 now. Supper is about to be served, and if Monsieur lo 
 Baron would let me array him with this ruff of Spanish 
 point, and wax the ends of his belle mustache — " 
 
 "It is late," added Eustacie, laying her hand on his 
 arm; " there may be wild men about — he may be des2:)er- 
 ate! Oh, take care!" 
 
 " Ma viie, do you not think me capable of guarding my- 
 self from a wild-cat leap of a dying man? He must not be 
 left thus. Remember he is a I'ibaumont. " 
 
 Vindictiveness and revenge had their part in the fire of 
 Eustacie* s nature. Many a time had slie longed to strangle 
 Narcisse; and she was on the point of saying, " Think of 
 his attempts on that little one's life — think of your wounds 
 and captivity;" but she had not spent three years with 
 Isaac Garden without learning that there was sin in giving 
 way to her keen hatred; and she forced herself to silence, 
 while Berenger said, reading her face, " Keep it back, sweet 
 heart! Make it not harder for me. I would as soon go 
 near a dying serpent, but it were barbarity to leave him as 
 Osbert describes. " 
 
 Berenger was too supremely and triumi:)hantly happy not 
 to be full of mercy; and as Osbert guided him to the hut 
 wliere the miserable man lay, he felt little but compassion.
 
 216 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 The scene was worse than he had expected; for not on'y 
 had the attendants fled, but phinderers had come in thtir 
 room, rent away the coverings from the bed, and torn 
 the dying man from it. Living, nearly naked, covered 
 with blood, h's fingers hacked, and ears torn for the sake, 
 of the Jewels on them, lay the dainty and effeminate tiger- 
 fop of former days, moaning and scarcely sensible. 15 ut 
 when the mattress had been replaced, and Berenger had 
 lifted him back to it, laid a cloak over him, and moistened 
 his hps, he opened liis eyes, but only to exchiim, " You 
 there! as if I had not enough to mock me! Away!'' and 
 closed them sullenly. 
 
 " I would try to relieve you, cousin," said Berenger. 
 
 The answer was a savage malediction on hypocrisy, and 
 the words, " And my sister?" 
 
 " Your sister is in all honor and purity at the nunnery 
 of Lucon." 
 
 He laughed a horrible, incredulous laugh. " Safely dis- 
 posed of ere you cajoled la petite with the fable of your 
 faithfulness! Nothing like a Huguenot for lying to Ijoth 
 sides;" and then ensued another burst of imprecations on 
 the delay that had j)revented him from seizing the fugi- 
 tives — till Berenger felt as if the breath of hell were uj^on 
 him, and could not hel]i vindicating himself, vain Ihougli 
 he knew it to be: " Narcisse de Eibaumont," he said 
 gravely, " my word has never been broken, and you know 
 the keejiing of it has not been without cost. On that word 
 believe that Madame de Selinville is as si)otless a matron as 
 when she jieriled herself to save my life. I never even 
 knew her sex till I liad drawn her half drowned from the 
 sea, and after that I only saw her in the jJi'esence of Horn 
 Oolondjeau of Nissard, in whose care I left her." 
 
 Narcisse's features contorted themselves into a frightful 
 sneer as he muttered, " The intolerable fool! and that lie 
 should have got the better of me, that is if it be true — and 
 I believe not a word of it." 
 
 " At least " said Berenger, " waste not these last hours 
 on hating and reviling me, but let this fellow of mine, who 
 is a very fair surgeon, bind your wound again." 
 
 " Eh!" said Narcisse, spitefully, turning his head, 
 " your own rogue? Let me see what work he made of U 
 baiser d'A'nstacie. Pray, how does it please her?"
 
 THE ClIAPLET OF PEAKLS. 217 
 
 *' She thanks Heaven that your chief care was to s2)oil 
 my face. " 
 
 ''I hear she is a prime doctoress; but of course you 
 brought her not hither lest she should hear how you got out 
 of our keeping/' 
 "She knovvsit." 
 
 "Ah! she has been long enough at court to know one 
 must overlook that one's own little matters may be over- 
 looked. " 
 
 Berenger burst out at last, " Her I will not hear blas- 
 phemed: the next word against her I leave you to yourself. " 
 " That is all I want/' said Narcisse. " These cares of 
 yours are only doweurs to your conceited heretical con- 
 science, and a lengthening out of this miserable affair. You 
 would scoff at the only real service you could render me." 
 "And that is—" 
 
 " To fetch a priest. Ha! ha! one of your sort would 
 sooner hang me. You had rather see me perish body and 
 soul in this Huguenot dog-hole! What! do you sti^-mmer? 
 Bring a psalm-singing heretic here, and I'll teach him and 
 you what you may call blasphemy." 
 
 " A priest you shall have, cousin," said Berenger gravely; 
 " I will do my utmost to bring you one. Meanwhile, strive 
 to bring yourself into a state in wdiich he may benefit you.'' 
 Berenger was resolved that the promise should be kept. 
 He saw that despair was hardening the wretched man's 
 heart, and that the possibility of fulfilling his Church's 
 rites might lead him to address himself to repentance; but 
 the difiiculties were great. Osbert, the only Catholic at 
 hand, was disposed to contiiiue his vengeance beyond the 
 grave, and only at his master's express command would 
 even exercise his skill to endeavor to preserve life till the 
 confessor could be brought. Ordinary Huguenots would re- 
 gard the desire of Narcisse as a wicked superstition, and 
 Berenger could only hurry back to consult some of the gen- 
 tlemen who might be su2)posed more unprejudiced. 
 
 As he was crossing the quadrangle at full speed, he al- 
 most ran against the King of Navarre, who was pacing up 
 and down reading letters, and who rei^lied to his hasty 
 apologies by saying he looked as if the fair Eurydice had 
 slipped through his hands again into the Inferno. 
 
 ' Not so, sire, but there is one too near those gates.
 
 318 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Nid-de-Morle is lying at the point of deatli, calling for a 
 priest. " 
 
 " Ventre Saint Gris I" exclaimed the king, "he is the 
 very demon of the piece;, who carved your face, stole your 
 wife, and had nearly shot your daughter. '^ 
 
 *' The more need of his repentance, sire, and without a 
 priest ho will not try to repent. I have promised him one." 
 
 " A bold promise!" said Henry. " Have you thought 
 how our good friends here are likely to receive a priest of 
 Baal into the camp?' 
 
 " No, sire, but my best must be done. I pray you coun- 
 sel me. " 
 
 Henry laughed at the simple confidence of the request, 
 but replied: "The readiest way to obtain a priest will be 
 to ride with a flag of truce to the enemy's camp — they are 
 at St. Esme — and say that Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle is a 
 prisoner and dying, and that I offer safe-conduct to any 
 priest that will come to him — though whether a red-hot 
 Calvinist will respect my safe-conduct or your escort is 
 another matter." 
 
 " At least, sire, you sanction my making this request?" 
 
 " Have you men enough to take with you to guard yon 
 from marauders?" 
 
 " I have but two servants, sire, and I have left them 
 with the wounded man." 
 
 " Then I will send with you half a dozen Gascons, who 
 have been long enough at Paris with me to have no scru- 
 ples." 
 
 By the time Berenger had exj^lained matters to his wife 
 and brother, and snatched a hasty meal, a party of gay, 
 soldierly looking fellows were in the saddle, commanded by 
 a bronzed sergeant who was perfectly at home in conduct- 
 ing messages between contending parties. After a dark ride 
 of about five miles, the camji at the village of St. Esme 
 w;^ reached, and this person recommended that he himself 
 should go forward with a trumpet, since M. de Eibaumont 
 was liable to be claimed as an escaped prisoner. There was 
 then a tedious delay, but at length the soldier returned, 
 and another horseman with him. A priest who had come 
 to the camp in search of M. de Nid-cle-Merle was willing 
 to trust himself to the King of Navarre's safe-conduct. 
 
 " Thanks, sir," cried Berenger; " this is a work of true 
 charity. ' '
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEA ELS. 219 
 
 ** I think I know that voice," said the priest. 
 
 *' The iDfiest of Nissard!" 
 
 " Even so, sir. I was seeking Monsieur de Nid-de-Merle, 
 and had but just learned that he had been left behind 
 wounded." 
 
 ^' You came to tell him of his sister?" 
 
 And as they rode together the priest related to Berenger 
 that Mme. de Selinville had remained in the same crushed, 
 humiliated mood, nol exactly penitent, but too much dis- 
 appointed and overpowered with shame to heed what be- 
 came of her provided she were not taken back to her brother 
 or her ainit. She knew that repentance alone was left for 
 her, and permitted herself to be taken to Lucon, where 
 Mere Monique was the only person whom she had ever re- 
 spected. There had no doubt been germs of good within 
 her, but the crime and intrigue of the siren court of 
 Catherine de Medici had choked them; and the first sense 
 of better things had been awakened by the frank simplicity 
 of the young cousin, while, nevertheless, jealousy and fam- 
 ily tactics had led her to aid in his destruction, only to learn 
 through her remorse how much she loved him. And when 
 in his captivity she thought him in her power, but found 
 him beyond her reach, unhallowed as was her passion, yet 
 still the contemplation of the virtues of one beloved could 
 not fail to raise her standard. It was for his truth and pur- 
 ity that she had loved him, even while striving to degrade 
 these qualities; and when he came forth from her ordeal 
 unscathed, her worship of him might for a time be more 
 intense, but when the idol was removed, the excellence she 
 had first learned to adore in him might yet lead that adora- 
 tion up to the source of all excellence. All she sought now 
 was shelter wherein to weep and cower unseen; but the 
 priest believed that her tears would soon spring from pro- 
 found depths of penitence such as often concluded the lives 
 of the gay ladies of France. Mere Monique had received her 
 tenderly, and the good priest had gone from Lucon to an- 
 nounce her fate to her aunt and brother. 
 
 At Bellaise he had found the abbess much scandalized. 
 She had connived at her niece^s releasing the prisoner, for 
 she had acquired too much regard for him to let him perish 
 under Narcisse^s hands, and she had allowed Veronique to 
 personate Diane at the funeral mass, and also purposely de- 
 tained Narcisse to prevent the detection of the escape; but
 
 280 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 the discovery that her niece had accompanied his flight had 
 filled her with shame and fury. 
 
 Pursuit had been made toward La Rochelle, but when 
 the neighborhood of the King of Navarre became known, 
 no doubt was entertained that the fugitives had joined him, 
 and Narcisse, reserving his vengeance for the family honor 
 till he should encounter Berenger, had hotly resumed the 
 intention of pouncing on Eustacie at Pont de Dronne, 
 which had been decided on upon the report of the Italian 
 spy, and only deferred by his father's death. This once 
 done, Berenger's own supjDOsed infidelity would have forced 
 him to acquiesce in the annulment of the original marriage. 
 
 It had been a horrible gulf, and Berenger shuddered as 
 one who had barely struggled to the shore, and found his 
 dear ones safe, and his enemies shattered and helpless on 
 the strand. They hurried on so as to be in time. The 
 priest, a brave and cautious man, Avho had often before car- 
 ried the rites of the Church to dying men in the midst of 
 the enemy, was in a secular dress, and when Berenger had 
 given the password, and obtained admittance, they sepa- 
 rated, and only met again to cross the bridge. They found 
 Osbert and Humfrey on guard, saying that the sufferer still 
 lingered, occasionally in a terrible paroxysm of bodily an- 
 guish, but usually silent, except when he upbraided Osbert 
 with his master's breach of promise or incapacity to bring 
 a priest through his Huguenot friends. 
 
 Such a taunt was on his tongue when Pei'e Colombeau 
 entered, and checked the scoff by saying, " See, my son, 
 you have met with more pardon and mercy even on earth 
 than you had imagined possible." 
 
 There was a strange spasm on Narcisse's ghastly face, as 
 though he almost regretted the obligation forced on him, 
 but Berenger scarcely saw him again. It was needful for 
 the security of the priest and the tranquillity of the relig- 
 ious rites that he should keep watch outside, lest any of the 
 more fanatical of the Huguenots should deem it their duty 
 to break in on what they had worked themselves into be- 
 lieving offensive idolatry. 
 
 His watch did not prove uncalled for. At different times 
 he had to plead the king's safe-conduct, and his own honor, 
 and even to defend his own Protestantism by appealing to 
 his wounds and services. Hearts were not soft enough then 
 for the cruelly of disturbing a dying man to . be 9,ny argu-
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 221 
 
 ment at all in that fierce camp; but even there the name of 
 Pere Colombeau met with respect. The saintly priest had 
 protected too many enemies for any one who had heard of 
 him to wish him ill. 
 
 Nearly all night was Berenger thus forced to remain on 
 guard, that the sole hope of Narcisse's reiDentance and sal- 
 vation might not be swept away by violence from without, 
 renewing bitterness within. Not till toward morning was 
 he called back. The hard, lingering death struggle had 
 spent itself, and slow convulsive gasps showed that life was 
 nearly gone; but the satanic sneer had passed away, and a 
 hand held out, a breathing like the word " pardon " 
 seemed to be half uttered, and was answered from the bot- 
 tom of Berenger 's kind and pitying heart. Another quarter 
 of an hour, and Narcisse de Eibaumont Nid -de-Merle was 
 dead. The priest looked pale, exhausted, shocked, but 
 would reveal nothing of the frame of mind he had shown, 
 only that if he had been touched by any saving penitence, 
 it was owing to his kinsman. 
 
 Berenger wished to send the corpse to rest in the family 
 vault at Bellaise, where the chevalier had so lately been 
 laid; and the priest undertook to send persons with a flag 
 of truce to provide for the transport, as well as to announce 
 the death to the sister and the aunt. Wearied as he was, he 
 would not accept Berenger's earnest invitation to come and 
 take rest and refreshment in the prior's rooms, but took 
 leave of him at the further side of the fortress, with almost 
 reverent blessings, as to one not far from the kingdom of 
 heaven ; and Berenger, with infinite peacefulness in his 
 heart, went home in the silence of the Sunday morning, 
 and lay sleeping away his long fatigue through the chief 
 part of the day, wlide Pastor Merlin was preaching an elo- 
 quent sermon upon his good brother Isaac Gardon, and Eus- 
 tacie shed filial tears, more of tenderness than sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE GALLIMAFRE. 
 
 Speats and raxes, speats and raxes, speats and raxes. 
 
 Lord Somerville's billet. 
 
 Never wont to let the grass grow under his feet, Henry 
 of Navarre was impatient of awaiting his troops at Pont de
 
 222 THE OHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 Dronue, and proposed to hasten on to Qiiinet, as a conven- 
 ient center for collecting the neighboring gentry for confer- 
 ence. Thus, early on Monday, a party of about thirty set 
 forth on horseback, including the Ribaumonts, Rayonette 
 being perched by turns in front of her father or mother, 
 and the Duke de Quinet declaring that he should do his 
 best to divide the journey into stages not too long for 
 Philip, since he was anxious to give his mother plenty of 
 time to make preparations for her royal guest. 
 
 He had, however, little reckoned on the young king's 
 promptitude. The first courier he had dispatched was over- 
 taken at a cabaret only five leagues from Pont de Dronne, 
 baiting his horse, as he said; the second was found on the 
 road with a lame horse and the halt for the night was 
 made so far on the way that only half a day's journey re- 
 mained beyond it. The last stage had been ridden, much 
 to the' duke's discontent, for it brought them to a mere 
 village inn, with scarcely any accommodation. The only 
 tolerable bed was resigned by the king to the use of Philip, 
 whose looks spoke the exhaustion of which his tongue scorned 
 to complain. So painful and feverish a night ensued that 
 Eustacie was anxious that he should not move until the 
 duke should, as he promised, send a mule litter back for 
 him; but this jDroposalhe resented; and in the height of his 
 constitutional obstinacy, appeared booted and spurred at 
 the first signal to mount. 
 
 Nor could Eustacie, as she soon perceived, annoy him 
 more than by showing her solicitude for him, or attracting 
 to him the notice of the other cavaliers. As the only lady 
 of the party, she received a great deal of attention, with 
 some of which she would gladly have dispensed. Whether 
 it were the king's habit of calling her " la Belle Eurydice," 
 or because, as she said, he was " si laid " and reminded her 
 of old unhappy days of constraint, she did not like him and 
 had almost displeased her husband and his brother by say- 
 ing so. She would gladly have avoided the gallantries of 
 this day's ride by remaining with Philip at the inn; but not 
 only was this impossible, but the peculiar ill-temper of con- 
 cealed suffering made Philip drive her off whenever she ap- 
 proached him with inquiries; so that she was forced to leave 
 him to his brother and Osbert, and ride forward between 
 the king and the duke, the last of whom she really liked. 
 
 Welcome was the sight of the grand old chateau, its
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 223 
 
 mighty wings of chestnut forest stretching up the hills on 
 either side, and the stately avenue extending before it; but 
 just then the last courier was discovered, reeling in his sad- 
 dle under the effects of repeated toasts in honor of Navarre 
 and Quinet. 
 
 " We are fairly sped/' said the duke to Eustacie, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders between amusement and dismay. 
 
 " Madame la Duchesse is equal to any gallimafre/' said 
 Eustacie, demurely; at which the duke laughed heartily, 
 saying, " It is not for the family credit I fear, but for my 
 own!" 
 
 " Nay, triumjDh makes everything be forgiven.'^ 
 
 " But not forgotten,'' laughed the duke. " But, alJons. 
 Now for the onset. We are already seen. The forces mus- 
 ter at the gate-way. " 
 
 By the time the cavalcade were at the great paved archway 
 into the court, the duchess stood at the great door, a grand- 
 son on either si:le, and a great burly fresh-colored gentle- 
 man behind her. 
 
 M. de Quinet was off his horse in a second, his head bare, 
 his hand on the royal rein, and signing to his eldest son to 
 hold the stirrup; but, before the boy had comprehended, 
 Henry had sprung dow^n, and Avas kissing the old lady's 
 hand, saying, " Pardon, madame! I trust to your goodness 
 for excusing this surj^rise from an old friend's son." 
 
 Neither seeing nor caring for king or prince, the stranger 
 gentleman at the same moment pounced upon Eustacie and 
 her little girl, crying aloud in English, " Here she is! My 
 dear, I am glad to see you. Give her to me, jjoor Beren- 
 ger's little darling. Ah! she does not understand. Where's 
 Merrycourt?" 
 
 Just then there was another English exclamation, "' My 
 father! Father! dear father!" and Philip, flinging him- 
 self from the saddle, fell almost prone on that broad breast, 
 sobbing convulsively, while the eyes that, as he truly, 
 boasted had never wasted a tear on his enemies, were 
 streaming so fast that his father's welcome savored of re- 
 proof: " What's all this? Before these French too." 
 
 " Take care, father," cried Berenger, leaping from his 
 horse; " he has an ugly wound just where you are holding 
 him. " 
 
 " Wounded! ray poor boy. Look up." 
 
 *' Where is your room, sir?" said Berenger, seeing his
 
 224: THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 hosts entirely occupied with the king; and at once hfting 
 the almost helpless Philip like a little child in his strong 
 arms, he followed Sir Marmaduke, who, as if walking in 
 liis sleep, led the way nj) the great stone staircase that led 
 outside the house to the upper chambers. 
 
 After a short interval, the duchess, in the jjlenitude of 
 her glory at entertaining her dear queen's son, came nj) €7i 
 (jrande teniic, leading the king by the hand, the duke 
 walking backward in front, and his two sons each holding 
 a big wax candle on either side. 
 
 " Here, sire, is the chamber where the excellent queen 
 did me the honor to repose herself. " 
 
 Tlie duke swung open the door of the state bed-chamber. 
 There, on the velvet-hung bed sat h gros Chevalier An- 
 glais, whom she had herself installed there on Saturday. 
 Both his hands were held fast in those of a youth who lay 
 beside him, deadly pale, and half undressed, with the little 
 Eibaumont attending to a wound in his side, while her child 
 was held in the arms of a very tall, bald-headed young 
 man, who stood at the foot of the bed. The whole group 
 of interlojicrs looked perfectly glorified witli happiness and 
 delight. Even tlie w^ounded youth, ghastly and suffering 
 as he was, lay stroking the big Englishman's hand with a 
 languid, caressing air of content, almost like that of a dog 
 who has found his master. None of them were the least 
 embarrassed, they evidently thought this a visit of inquiry 
 after the patient; and while the duchess stood confounded, 
 and the duke much inclined to laugh, Eustacie turned 
 eagerly, exclaiming, " Ah! madame, I am glad you are 
 come. May I beg Mademoiselle Perrot for some of your 
 cooling mallow salve. Riding has sadly inflamed the 
 wound." 
 
 " Piding — with such a wound! Are we all crazed?" 
 said Mme. la Ducliesse, absolutely bewildered out of her 
 dignified equanimity; and her son, seeing her for once at a 
 loss, came to her rescue: " His grace will condescend to 
 the Andromeda Chamber, madame. He kindly gave up 
 his bed to our young friend last night, when there was less 
 choice than you can give him." 
 
 They all moved off' again; and, before Eustacie was ready 
 for the mallows, Mme. de Quinet, for whom the very name 
 of a wound had an attraction, returned with two hand- 
 maidens bearing bandages and medicaments, having by
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEAKLS. 225 
 
 this time come to the perception that the wounded youth 
 was the son of the big Englishman who had arrived with 
 young Mericoiu' in search of her h'ttle protegee, and that 
 the tall man was the husband so long supposed to be dead. 
 She was curious to see her pupiPs surgery, of which she 
 highly approved, though she had no words to express her 
 indignation at the folly of traveling so soon. Indeed, noth- 
 ing but the j^assiveness of fatigue could have made her des- 
 potism endurable to Philip; but he cared for nothing so 
 long as he could see his father's face, and hear his voice — 
 the full tones that his ear had yearned for among the sharp 
 expression of the French accent — and Sir Marmaduke 
 seemed to find the same perfect satisfaction in the sight of 
 him; indeed, all were so rejoiced to be together, that they 
 scarcely exerted themselves to ask questions. When Beren- 
 ger would have made some explanation. Sir Marmaduke 
 only said: " Tell me not yet, my dear boy. I see it is all 
 right, and my head will hold no more yet but that I have 
 you and the lad again! Thank God for it! Never mind 
 how.'' 
 
 When, however, with some difficulty they got him away 
 from Philip's bedside down to supper, the king came and 
 made him high compliments upon the distinguished bravery 
 of his sons, and Mericour interpreted, till Sir Marmaduke 
 — though answering that of course the lads must do their 
 duty, and he was only glad to hear they had done it — be- 
 came more and more radiant and proud, as he began to 
 gather what their trials, and what their steadfastness and 
 courage had been. His goodly face, beaming with honest 
 gladness, was, as Henry told the duchess, an absolute orna- 
 ment to her table. 
 
 Unable, however, to converse with any one but Berenger 
 and Mericour, and pining all the time to get back to his 
 son, the lengthy and ceremonious meal was a weary pen- 
 ance to him; and so soon as his release was possible, he 
 made his way upstairs again, where he found Philip much 
 refreshed by a long sleep, and only afraid that he should 
 find the sight of his father merely a dream; then, when 
 satisfied on that head, eager to hear of all at home — " the 
 sisters, the dogs, my mother, and my little brother?" as 
 he arranged his inquiry. 
 
 " Ha! you heard of that, did you?" 
 
 *' Yes," said Philip, "the villains gave us letters once 
 
 8-Sa half.
 
 236 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 — only once — and those what they thought would sting ns 
 most. Oh father, how could you all think such foal shame 
 of Berry?'' 
 
 " Don't speak of it, Phil; I never did, nor Aunt Cecily, 
 not for a moment; but my lord is not the man he was, and 
 those foes of yours must have set abroad vile reports for the 
 very purpose of deceiving us. And then this child must 
 needs be born, poor little rogue. I shall be able to take to 
 him now all is right again; but by 8t. George, they have 
 tormented me so about him, and wanted me to take him 
 as a providence to join the estates together, instead of you 
 and I3erry, that I never thought to care so little for a child 
 of my own.'' 
 
 " We drank his health at Nid-de-Merle, and were not a 
 little comforted that you would have him in our place. " 
 
 " I'd rather — Well, it skills not talking of it, but it 
 just shows tiie way of women. After all the outcry Dame 
 Annora had made about her poor son, and no one loving 
 him or heeding his interest save herself, no sooner was this 
 little fellow born than she had no thought for any but he, 
 and would fain have had her father settle all his lands on 
 him, protesting that if Berry lived, his French lands were 
 enough for him. Out of sight, out of mind, is the way 
 with women. " 
 
 Womanhood was always made accountable for all Lady 
 Thistlewood's follies, and Philip acquiesced, asking further, 
 " Nay, but how came you hither, father? Was it to seek 
 lis or Eustacie?" 
 
 " Both, both, my lad. One morning just after Christ- 
 mas, I rid over to Combe with my dame behind me, and 
 found the house in commotion with a letter that young 
 Sidney, Berry's friend, had just sent down by s|)ecial mes- 
 senger. It had been writ more than a year, but, bless you, 
 these poor foreigners have such crooked ears and tongues 
 that they" don't know what to make of a plain man's 
 name, and the only wonder was that it ever came at all. It 
 seems the duke here had to get it sent over by some of the 
 secret agents the French Protestants have in England, and 
 what do they but send it to one of the Vivians in Cornwall; 
 and it was handed about among them for how long I can 
 not say, till there was a chance of sending it up to my Lord 
 of Warwick; and he, being able to make nothing of it, 
 shows it to his nephew, Philip Sidney, who, perceiving at
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 227 
 
 once whom it concerned, sends it straight to my lord, witli 
 a handsome letter hoping that it brought good tidings. 
 There then it was, and so we first knew that the poor lady 
 had not been lost in the sack of the town, as Master Hobbs 
 told us. She told us how this duchess had taken her under 
 her protection, but that her enemies were seeking her, and 
 had even attempted her child's life.'" 
 
 " The ruffians! even so."" 
 
 *' And she said her old pastor was failing in health, and 
 prayed that some trusty person might be sent to bring 
 home at least the child to safety with her kindred. There 
 was a letter to the same effect, praising her highly too, 
 from the duchess, saying that she would do her best to 
 guard her, but the kinsmen had the law on their side, and 
 she would be safer in England. Well, this was fair good 
 news, save that we marveled the more how you and Berry 
 should have missed her; but the matter now was who was 
 the trusty person who should go. Claude Merrycourt was 
 ready — " 
 
 " How came he there?" demanded Philip. " I thought 
 he had gone, or been sent off with Lady Burnett's sons. " 
 
 " Why, so he had; but there's more to say on that score. 
 He was so much in favor at Combe, that my lord would not 
 be denied his spending the holiday times there; and, besides, 
 last summer we had a mighty coil. The Horners of Mells 
 made me a rare good oifer for Lucy for their eldest son, 
 chiefly because they wanted a wife for him of my Lady 
 Walwyn's and Mistress Cecily's breeding; and my wife was 
 all for accepting it, having by that time given uj? all hope 
 of poor Berry. But I would have no commands laid on my 
 girl, seeing that I had pledged my word not to cross her in 
 the matter, and she hung about my neck and prayed me so 
 meekly to leave her un wedded, that I must have been made 
 of stoiie not to yield to her. So I told Mr. Horner that 
 his son Jack must wait for little Nancy if he wanted a 
 daughter of mine — and the stripling is young enough. I 
 believe he will. But women's tongues are not easy to stop, 
 and Lucy was worn so thin, and had tears in her eyes — 
 that she thought I never marked — whenever she was fretted 
 or flouted, and at last I took her back to stay at Combe for 
 Aunt Cecily to cheer up a bit; and — well, well, to get rid 
 of the matter and silence Dame Nan, I consented to a be- 
 trothal between her and Merrycourt — since she vowed ehe
 
 238 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS, 
 
 would rather wait single for him than wed any one elsd. 
 He is a good youth, and is working himself to a shadow be- 
 tween studying and teaching; but as to sending him alone 
 to bring Berry ^s wife back, he was overyoung for that. No 
 one could do that fitly save myself, and I only wish I had 
 gone three years ago, to keep you two foolish lads out of 
 harm's way. But they set up an unheard-of hubbub, and 
 made sure I should lose myself. What are you laughing 
 at, you Jacksauce?" 
 
 " To think of you starting, father, with not a word of 
 French, and never from home further than once to Lon- 
 don. " 
 
 " Ah! you thought to come the traveled gentleman over 
 me, but I've been even with you. I made Dame Nan 
 teach me a few words, but I never could remember any- 
 thing but that ' mercy ' is ' thank ye.' However, Merry- 
 court offered to come with me, and my lord wished it. 
 Moreover, I thought he might aid in tracing you out. So 
 I saw my lord alone, and he passed his word to me that, 
 come wdiat would, no one should persuade him to alter his 
 will to do wrong to Berenger's daughter; and so soon as 
 Master Hobbs could get the " Throstle " unladen, and fitted 
 out again, we sailed for Bordeaux, and there he is waiting 
 for us, while Claude and I bought horses and hired a guide, 
 and made our way here on Saturday, where we were very 
 welcome; and the duchess said she would but wait till she 
 could learn there were no bands of the enemy at hand, to 
 go down with me herself to the place where she had sent 
 the lady. A right worthy dame is this same duchess, and 
 a stately; and that young king, as they call him, seems 
 hard to please, for he told Berry that his wife's courtliness 
 and ease in his reception were far above aught that he found 
 here. What he means is past a plain man, for as to Berry's 
 wife she is handy, and notable enough, and 'tis well he 
 loves her so well; but what a little brown thing it is, for a 
 man to have gone through such risks for. Nothing to look 
 at beside his mother!" 
 
 " If you could only see Madame de Selinville!" sighed 
 Pliihp — then. " Ah! sir, you would know the worth of 
 Eustacie had you seen her in yonder town. " 
 
 " Very like!" said Sir Marmaduke; "but after all our 
 fears at home of a fine court madame, it takes one aback 
 to see a little homely brown thing, clad like a serving
 
 THE CHAPLET OP PEARLS. 289 
 
 wench. Well, Dame Nan will not be displeased, she 
 always said the girl would grow up no beauty, and 'tis the 
 way of women to brook none fairer than themselves! Bet- 
 ter so. • She is a good Protestant, and has done rarely by 
 you, Phil.'' 
 
 " Truly, I might be glad 'twas no conrt madame that 
 Btood by me when Berry was called back to the fight: and 
 for the little one, ^tis the loveliest and bravest little maid I 
 ever saw. Have they told you of the marigolds, father?" 
 
 " Why, the king told the whole to the duchess, so Berry 
 said, and then drank the health of the daughter of the 
 bra'vest of knights; and Berry held lier np in his arms to 
 bow again, and drink to them from his glass. Berry 
 looked a jjroud man, I can tell you, and a comely, spite of 
 his baldness; and 'tis worth having come here to see how 
 much you lads are thought of — though to be sure 'tis not 
 often the poor creatures here see so much of an English- 
 man as we have made of Berry. " 
 
 Philip could not but laugh. " 'Tis scarce for that that 
 they value him, sir. " 
 
 " Say you so? Nay, methinks his English heart and 
 yours did them good service. Indeed, the king himself 
 told me as much by the mouth of Merrycourt. May that 
 youngster's head only not be turned! Why, they set him 
 at table above Berenger, and above half the king's gentle- 
 men. Even the duchess makes as if he were one of her 
 highest guests — he a poor Oxford scholar, doubting if he 
 can get his bread by the law, and flouted as though he were 
 not good enough for my daughter. 'Tis the world topsy- 
 turvy, sure enough! And that this true love that Berenger 
 has run through fire and water after, like a knight in a 
 peddler's ballad, should turn out a mere little, brown, com- 
 mon-looking woman after all, not one whit equal to 
 Lucy!" 
 
 Sn- Marmaduke modified his disappointment a little that 
 night, when he had talked Philip into a state of feverish- 
 ness and suffering that became worse under Mme. de 
 Quinet's reproofs and remedies, and only yielded to Eus- 
 tacie's long and patient soothing. He then could almost 
 have owned that it was well she was not like his own 
 cherished type of womanhood, and the next day he changed 
 his opinion still more, even as to her appearance. 
 
 There was a great gathering of favorers of the Huguenot
 
 230 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 cause on that day; gentlemen came from all parts to con- 
 sult with Henry of Navarre, and Mme. de Quinet had too 
 much sense of the fitness of things to allow Mme. de Ei- 
 baumont to appear at the ensuing banquet in her shabby, 
 rusty black serge, and tight white borderless cap. The 
 whole wardrobe of the poor young Duchess de Quinet was 
 placed at her service, and, though with the tliought of her 
 adopted father on her heart, she refused gay colors, yet 
 when, her toilet complete, she sailed into Philip's room, he 
 almost sprung up in delight, and Sir Marmaduke rose and 
 ceremoniously bowed as to a stranger, and was only unde- 
 ceived when little Rayonette ran joyously to Philip, asking 
 if 3Iam((7i was not si helle, si belle. 
 
 The effects of her unrestful nights had now passed away, 
 and left her magnificent eyes in their full brilliancy and 
 arch fire; the blooming glow was restored to her cheek; 
 and though neck, brow and hands were browner than in 
 the shelter of convent or palace, she was far more near ab- 
 solute beauty than in former days, both from countenance 
 and from age. Her little proud head was clustered with 
 glossy locks of jet, still short, but curling round her brow 
 and neck whose warm brunette tints contrasted well with 
 the delicate, stiffened cobweb of her exquisite standing 
 ruff, which was gathered into a white satin bodice, with a 
 skirt of the same material, over which swept a rich black 
 brocade train open in front, with an open body and half- 
 sleeves with falhng lace, and the hands, delicate and 
 shapely as ever, if indeed a little tanned, held fan and 
 handkerchief with as much courtly grace as though they 
 had never stirred broth nor wrung out linen. Sir Marma- 
 duke really feared he had the court madame on his hands 
 after all, but he forgot all about his fears, as she stood 
 laughing and talking, and by her pretty airs and gestures, 
 smiles and signs, making him enter into her mirth with 
 Philip, almost as well as if she had not spoken French. 
 
 Even Berenger started, when he came up after the coun- 
 sel to fetch her to the banqueting-hall. She was more en- 
 tirely the Eustacie of the Louvre than he had ever realized 
 seeing her, and yet so much more; and when the duchess 
 beheld the sensation she produced among the 7Kiblesse, it 
 was with self -congratulation in having kept her in retire- 
 ment while it was still not known that she was not a widow. 
 The King of Navarre had already found her the only lady
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 231 
 
 present possessed of the peculiar aroma of hfgh-breeding 
 which belonged to the society in which both he and she had 
 been most at home, and his attentions were more than she 
 liked from one whose epithet of Eurydice she had never 
 quite forgiven; at least, that was the only reason she could 
 assign for her distaste, but the duchess understood her bet- 
 ter than did Berenger, nay, better than she did herself, and 
 kept her under the maternal wings of double form and 
 ceremony. 
 
 Berenger, meanwhile, was in great favor. A command 
 had been ottered him by the King of Navarre, who had 
 promised that if he would cast his lot with the Huguenots, 
 his claims on all the lands of Ribaumont should be enforced 
 on the King of France when terms were wrung from him, 
 and Narcisse's death removed all valid obstacle to their 
 recognition; but Berenger felt himself bound by all home 
 duties to return to England, nor had he clear convictions as 
 to the absolute right of the war in which he had almost un- 
 consciously drawn his sword. Under the Tudors the divine 
 rights of kings was strongly believed in, and it was with 
 many genuine misgivings that the cause of Protestant re- 
 volt was favored by Elizabeth and her ministers; and 
 Berenger, bred up in a strong sense of loyalty, as well as 
 in doctrines that, as he had received them, savored as little 
 of Calvinism as of Romanism, was not ready to espouse the 
 Huguenot cause with all his heart; and as he could by no 
 means have fought on the side of King Henry HI. or of the 
 Guises, felt thankful that the knot could be cut by renounc- 
 ing France altogether, according to the arrangement which 
 had been defeated by the chevalier's own super-subtle 
 machinations. 
 
 At the conference of gentlemen held at Quinet, he had 
 been startled by hearing the name of tbe Sieur de Bellaise, 
 and had identified him with a grave, thin, noble-looking 
 man, with an air of high-bred and patient poverty. He 
 was a Catholic but no Guisard, and supported the middle 
 l)olicy of the Montmorency party, so far as he possessed any 
 influence; but his was only the weight of personal char- 
 acter, for he had merely a small property that had descended 
 to him through his grandmother, the wife of the unfortu- 
 nate Bellaise who had pined to death in the dungeon at 
 Loches, under Louis XL Here, then, Berenger saw the 
 right means of ridding himself and liis family of the
 
 232 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 burden that his father had mourned over, and it only re- 
 mained to convince Eustacie. Her first feehng when she 
 heard of the king's otTer, was that at last her ardent wish 
 would be gratified, she should see her husband at the head 
 of her vassals, and hear the war-cry motto, " A moi lUhau- 
 mont. " Then came the old representation that the Ven- 
 dean peasants were faithful Catholics who could hardly be 
 asked to fight on the Calvinist side. The old spirit rose 
 in a flush, a pout, a half-uttered query why those creatures 
 should be allowed their opinions. Mme. la Baroniie was 
 resuming her haughty temperament in the noUesse atmos- 
 phere; but in the midst came the remembrance of having 
 made that very speech in her Temple ruin — of the grave 
 sad look of rebuke and shake of the head with whicli the 
 good old minister had received it — and how she had sulked 
 at him till forced to throw herself on him to liinder her 
 separation from her child. !She burst into tears, and as 
 Berenger, in some distress, began to assure her that he 
 would and could do nothing without her consent, she strug- 
 gled to recover voice to say, '' No! no! I only grieve that 
 I am still as wicked as ever, after these three years with 
 that saint, my dear father. Do as you will, only pardon 
 me, the little fierce one!" 
 
 And then, when she was made to perceive that her hus- 
 band would have to fight alone, and could not take her with 
 him to share his triumphs or bind his wounds, at least not 
 except by bringing her in contact with Henry of Navarre 
 and that atmosphere of the old court, she acquiesced the 
 more readily. She was a woman who could feel but not 
 reason; and, though she loved Nid-de-Merle, and had been 
 proud of it, Berenger's description of the ill-used Sieur de 
 Bellaise had the more effect on her, because she well i-e- 
 membered the traditions whispered among the peasants with 
 whom her childhood had been passed, that the village 
 crones declared nothing had gone well with the place since 
 the Bellaises had been expelled, with a piteous tale of the 
 broken-hearted lady, that she had never till now under- 
 stood. 
 
 For the flagrant injustice perpetrated on her uncle and 
 cousin in the settlement on Berenger and herself she cared 
 little, thinking they had pretty well repaid themselves, and 
 not entering into Berenger's deeper view, that this injustice 
 was the more to be deplored as the occasion of their guiltj
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 233 
 
 but she had uo doubt or question as to the grand stroke oi' 
 yielding up her claims on the estate of the Sieur de Bellaise. 
 The generosity of the deed struck her imagination, and if 
 Berenger would not lead her vassals to battle, she did not 
 want them. There was no difficulty with Sir Marmaduke; 
 he only vowed that he liked Berenger's wife all the better 
 for being free of so many yards of French dirt tacked to her 
 petticoat, and Philip hated tbe remembrance of those red 
 sugar-loaf pinnacles far too much not to wish his brother 
 to be rid of them. 
 
 M. de Bellaise, when once he understood that restitution 
 was intended, astonished 8ir Marmaduke by launching him- 
 self on Berenger's neck with tears of joy; and Henry of 
 Navarre, though sorry to lose such a partisan as the young 
 baron, allowed that the Bellaise claims, being those of a 
 Catholic, might serve to keep out some far more danger- 
 ous person whom the Court party might select in opposition 
 to an outlaw and a Protestant like M. de. Bibaumont. 
 
 '* So you leave us,^' he said in private to Berenger,^ to 
 whom he had taken a great liking. " I can not blame 
 you for not casting your lot into such a witch's caldron as 
 this poor country. My friends think I dallied at court like 
 Rinaldo in Armida's garden. They do not understand that 
 when one hears the name of Bourbon one does not willingly 
 make war with the Crown, still less that the good Calvin 
 left a doctrine bitter to the taste, and tough of digestion. 
 May be, since I have been forced to add my spoon to stir 
 the caldron, it may clear itself; if so, you will remember 
 that you have rights in Normandy and Picardy." 
 
 Tliis was the royal farewell. Henry and his suite de- 
 parted the next morning, but the duchess insisted on retain- 
 mg her other guests till Philijj's cure should be complete. 
 Meantime, Claude de Mericour had written to his brother 
 and arranged a meeting with him. He was now no boy 
 who could be coerced, but a staid, self-reliant, scholarly 
 person, with a sword by his side and an English passport to 
 secure him, and his brother did not regard him as quite the 
 disgrace to his family he had at first deemed him. He 
 was at least no rebel; and though the law seemed to French 
 eyes infinitely beneath the dignity of a scion of nobility, 
 Btill it was something not to have him a heretic preacher, 
 and to be able at least to speak of him as betrothed to the 
 sister of the Baron do Bibaumont. Moreover, that
 
 234 THE CHAPLET OF PEAELS. 
 
 Huguenot kinsman, whose extreme Calvinist opinions had 
 so nearly revolted Mericour, had died and left him all his 
 means, as the only Protestant in the family; and the 
 amount, when Claude arranged matters with his brother, 
 proved to be sufficient to bear him through his expenses 
 handsomely as a student, with the hope of marriage so soon 
 as he should have kept his terms *at the Temple. 
 
 And thus the good ship " Throstle " bore home the whole 
 iia])py party to Weymouth, and good Sir Marmaduke had 
 an unceasing cause for exultation in the brilliant success of 
 his mission to France. 
 
 After all, the first to revisit that country was no other 
 than the once home-sick Philip. He wearied of inaction, 
 and thought his county neighbors ineffably dull and lub- 
 berly, while they blamed him for being a fine, Frenchified 
 gentleman, even while finding no fault with their oLi friend 
 Berenger, or that notable little, lively, housewifely lady his 
 wife, whose broken English and bright simplicity charmed 
 every one. Sorely Philip needed something to do; he 
 might have been a gentleman pensioner, but he had no 
 notion, he said, of loitering after a lady to boat and hunt, 
 when such a king as Henry of Navarre was in the field; 
 and he agreed with Eustacie in her estimate of the court, 
 that it was horribly dull, and wanting in all the sparkle 
 and brilliancy that even he had perceived at Paris. 
 
 Eustacie gladly retreated to housewifery at Combe 
 Walwyn, but a strenuous endeavor on Lady Thistlewood's 
 part to marry her step-son to a Dorset knight's daughter, 
 together with the tidings of tlie renewed war in France, 
 spurred Philip into wringing permission from his father to 
 join the King of Navarre as a volunteer. 
 
 Years went by, and Philip was only heard of in occasional 
 letters, accompanied by presents to his sisters and to little 
 Eayonette, and telling of marches, exploits, and battles — 
 how he had taken a standard of the League at Coutras, and 
 how he had led a charge of pikemen at Ivry, for which he 
 received the thanks of Henry IV. But, though so near 
 home, he did not set foot on English ground till the throne 
 of France was secured to the hero of Navarre, and he had 
 marched into Paris in guise very unlike the manner he had 
 left it. 
 
 Then home he came, a bronzed gallant-looking warrior, 
 the pride of the county, ready for repose ^^nd for aid to his
 
 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 235 
 
 father in his hearty old age, and bearing with him a press- 
 ing invitation from the king to M. and Mme. de Ribau- 
 mont to resume their rank at court. Berenger, who had 
 for many years only known himself as Lord Walwyn, shook 
 his head. '' I thank the king," he said, " but I am better 
 content to breed up my children as wholly English. He 
 bade me return when he should have stirred the witch's 
 caldron into clearness. Alas! all he has done is to make 
 brilliant colors shine on the vapor thereof. Nay, Phil; I 
 know your ardent love for him, and marvel not at it. Be- 
 fore he joined the Catholic Church I trusted that he might 
 have given truth to the one party, and unity to the other; 
 but when the clergy accepted him with all his private vices, 
 and he surrendered unconditionally, I lost hope. I fear 
 there is worse in store. Queen Catherine did her most 
 fatal work of evil when she corrupted Henry of Navarre." 
 
 " If you say more. Berry, I shall be ready to challenge 
 you!'' said Philip. " When you saw him, you little knew 
 the true king of souls that he is, his greatness, or his love 
 for his country." 
 
 " Nay, I believe it; but tell me, Philip, did you not liint 
 that you had been amoug former friends — at Lucon, you 
 said, I think?" 
 
 Philip's face changed. "Yes; it was for that I wished 
 to see you alone. My troop had to occupy the place. I 
 had to visit the convent to arrange for quartering my men 
 so as least to scandalize the sisters. The abbess came to 
 speak to me. I knew her only by her eyes! She is 
 changed — aged, wan, thin with their discipline and fasts — 
 but she once or twice smiled as she alone in old times could 
 smile. The place rings with her devotion, her charity, her 
 penances, and truly her face is " — he could hardly speak — 
 " like that of a saint. She knew me at once, asked for you 
 all, and bade me tell you that now she prays for you and 
 yours continually, and blesses you for having opened to her 
 the way of peace. Ah! Berry, I always told you she had 
 not her equal." 
 
 " Think you so even now?" 
 
 " How should I not, when I have seen what repentance 
 has made of her?'' 
 
 "So!" said Berenger, rather sorrowfully, " our great 
 Protestant champion has still left liis heart behind him in a 
 French convent."
 
 236 THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. 
 
 " Stay, Berenger! do you remember yonder villain con- 
 jurer's prediction that I should wed none but a lady whose 
 cognizance was the leopard?'' 
 
 " And you seem bent on accomplisliing it/' said Beren- 
 ger. 
 
 " Nay! but in another manner — that which you devised 
 on the spur of the moment. Berenger, I knew the sorcerer 
 spake sooth when that little moonbeam child of yours 
 brought me the flowers from the rampart. I had speech 
 with her last night. She has all the fair loveliness that be- 
 longs of right to your mother's grandchild, but her eye, 
 blue as it is, has the Eibaumont sj^irit; the turn of the head 
 and the smile are what I loved long ago in yonder lady, 
 and, above all, she is her own sweet self. Berenger, give 
 me your daughter Berengere, and I ask no portion with 
 her but the silver bullet. Keep the pearls for your son's 
 heir-loom; all I ask with Eayouette is the silver bullet.'" 
 
 THE END.
 
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 fifty titles of standard works, em- 
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 the world's best literature, written 
 by authors of world-wide repu- 
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 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 
 iCsop's Fables. 
 
 Alhambra, The. By Washington 
 Irving. 
 
 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 By Besant and Rice. 
 
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 Armadale. By AVilkie Collins. 
 
 Armorel of Lyonesse. By Walter 
 
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 Auld Licht Idylls. By James M. 
 
 Barrie. 
 Aunt Diana. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Autobiography of Benjamin 
 
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 Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Bacon's Essays. By Francis Bacon, 
 
 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 
 
 Rosa N. Carey. 
 Barnaby Budge. By Charles 
 
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 Berber, The. By W S. Mayo. 
 
 Betrothed, The. By Allossandro 
 
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 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. 
 
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 By 
 
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 George Ebers. 
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 Charles Auchester. By E. Berger. 
 
 Charles O'Malley. By Charles 
 
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 Children of the Abbey. By Re- 
 
 gina Maria Roche. 
 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 
 
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 Child's History of England. By 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 Christmas Stories. By Charles 
 
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 Cloister and the Hearth. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 Confessions of an Opium-Eater. 
 
 By Thomas De Quincey. 
 Consuelo. By George Sand 
 
 Corinne. By Madame De StaeL 
 
 Countess of Budolstadt. ny 
 
 George Sand. 
 
 Cousin Pons. By Honore de Bal- 
 zac. 
 
 Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell. 
 
 Crown of Wild Olive, The. By 
 
 John Ruskin. 
 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot. 
 
 Daughter of an Empress, The. 
 
 By Louisa Muhlbach. 
 
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 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
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 Donald Ross of Heimra. By 
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 Donovan. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 Dream Life. By Ik. Marvel. 
 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 Egoist, The. By George Meredith. 
 
 An. 
 
 By 
 
 Egyptian Princess, 
 George Ebers. 
 
 Eiffht Years Wandering in Cey- 
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 Emerson's Essays. By Ralph 
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 Emperor, The. By George Ebers. 
 
 Essays of Elia. By Charles Lamb. 
 Esther. By Eosa N. Carey. 
 
 Far from the Madding Crowd. 
 
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 Felix Holt. By George Eliot. 
 
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 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 
 First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill. 
 
 For Faith and Freedom. By 
 
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 Frederick the Great, and His 
 
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 French Revolution. By Thomas 
 
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 From the Earth to the Hoon. 
 
 By Jules Verne. 
 
 Goethe and Schiller. By Louise. 
 
 Bluhlbach, 
 Gold Bug, The, and Other Tales. 
 
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 Gold Elsie. By E. MarUtt. 
 
 Great Expectations. By Charles 
 
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 Great Taboo, The. By Grant Allen. 
 
 Great Treason, A. By Mary Hop- 
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 Green Mountain Boys, The. By 
 D. P. Thompson. 
 
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 Grimm's Popular Tales. By the 
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 Gulliver's Travels. By Dean 
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 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 
 
 Hardy Norseman, A. By Edna 
 
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 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 
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 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
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 Heriot's Choice. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Heroes and Hero Worship. By 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 History of Pendennis. By Will- 
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 House of the Seven Gables. By 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 How to be Happy Though Mar° 
 ried. 
 
 Hunchback of Notre Dime. By 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 Hypatia. By Charles Kingsley. 
 
 Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. 
 
 By Jerome K. Jerome. 
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 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark 
 
 Russell. 
 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Broute. 
 
 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 
 
 Miss Muloch. 
 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 By R. D. Black- 
 By Jessie Fother- 
 
 Kit and Kitty. 
 
 more. 
 Kith and Kin. 
 
 gill. 
 Knickerbocker's History of New 
 
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 Knight Errant. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 Ij'Abbe Constantin. By Ludovic- 
 
 Halevy. 
 Lamplighter, The. By Maria S. 
 
 Ciinunins. 
 Last Days of Pompeii. By Bul- 
 
 wer-Lytton. 
 Last of the Barons. By Bulwer- 
 
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 Last of the Mohicans. By James 
 
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 Light of Asia, The. By Sir Edwin 
 
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 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. 
 
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 Louise de la Valliere. By Alex- 
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 Lover or Friend P By Rosa N. 
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 Lucile. By Owen Meredith. 
 
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 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 Man in the Iron Mask. By Alex- 
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 Martin Chuzzlewit. By Charles 
 
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 Mary St. John. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Master of Ballantrae, The. By 
 
 R. L. Stevenson. 
 Master of the Ceremonies, The. 
 
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 Masterman Ready. By Captain 
 
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 Merle's Crusade. By Rosa N. 
 
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 Micah Clarke. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Michael Strogoff. By Jules Verne. 
 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 
 
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 Mill on the Floss. By George 
 
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 Molly Bawn. By The Duchess. 
 
 Moonstone, The. By Wilkie Col- 
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 Mosses from an Old Manse. By 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 Mysterious Island, The. By 
 Jides Verne. 
 
 Natural Lavr in the Spiritual 
 World. By Henry Drummond. 
 
 Nellie's Memories. By Rosa N. 
 Carey. 
 
 Newcomes, The. By William M. 
 Thackeray. 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 
 
 Dickens. 
 No Name. By Wilkie Colhns. 
 
 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 
 
 N. Carey. 
 Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles 
 
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 Old Ma'm'selle's Secret. By ii,. 
 
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 Old Myddelton's Money. By 
 
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 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. 
 
 Only the Governess. By Rosa N. 
 
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 Pathfinder, The. By James Feni- 
 
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 Phantom Rickshaw, The. By 
 
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 Phra, the Phoenician. By Edwin 
 
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 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 
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 Pilg-rim's Progress. ByJohnBun- 
 yan. 
 
 Pilot, The. By James Fenimore 
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 Prairie, The. By James Fenimore 
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 Pride and Prejudice. By Jane 
 Austen. 
 
 Prime Minister, The. By Anthony 
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 Princess of Thule, A. By Wm. 
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 Professor, The. By Charlotte 
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 Reproach of Annesley. By Max- 
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 Reveries of a Bachelor. By Ik. 
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 Bhoda Fleming. By George Mere- 
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 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 
 
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 Rienzi. By Bulwer-Lytton. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel De- 
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 Rob Roy. By Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Romance of a Poor Young Man. 
 
 By Octave Feuillet. 
 Romance of Two Worlds. By 
 
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 Romola. By George Ehot. 
 
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 Sartor Resartus. By Thomas Car- 
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 Scarlet Letter, The. By Nathan- 
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 Scottish Chiefs. By Jane Porter. 
 
 Search for Basil Lyndhurst. By 
 
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 Self-Help. By Samuel SmUes. 
 
 Sense and Sensibility. By Jane 
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 Shadow of the Sword. By Robert 
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 ton Irving. 
 
 Social Departure A. By Sara 
 Jeanuette Duncan. 
 
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 St. Katharine's by the Tower. 
 
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 Talisman, The. By Sir Walter 
 
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 Tartarin of Tarascon. By Al- 
 
 phonse Daudet. 
 Tempest Tossed. By Theodore 
 
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 Terrible Temptation, A. By 
 
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 Twice Told Tales. By Nathaniel 
 
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 Two Years Before the Mast. By 
 
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 XTarda. By George Ebers. 
 
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 wrecked Boys. By Edward S. Ellts. 
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 TOM THATCHER*S FORTUNE. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 
 
 LOST IN THE CANON. The Story of Sam Willett's Adventures 
 
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 A YOUNG HERO ; or, Fighting to Win. By Edward S. Ellis. 
 
 THE ERRAND BOY ; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By 
 
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 THE ISLAND TREASURE ; or, Harry Darrel's Fortune. By 
 
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 A JAUNT THROUGH JAVA. The Story of a Journey to the 
 
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 CAPTURED BY ZULUSo A Story of Trapping in Africa. By 
 
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 DAN THE NEWSBOY. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 
 SEARCH FOR THE SILVER CITY. A Story of Adventure 
 
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 A'^mirars Ward. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 Br«ihelor\s Blunder, A. By W. E. Norris. 
 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Bondman, The. By Hall Caine. 
 Brr»l£en Wedding Ring. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 Captain of the Pole-Star. By A. Conan 
 
 Doyle. 
 Chaados. By"Ouida." 
 Charles O'Malley. By Charles Lever. 
 ChejTy Ripe. By Helen B. Mathers. 
 Children of Gibeon. By Walter Besant. 
 Comiu' Thro' the Rye. By Helen B. 
 
 Mathers. 
 Cradock No well. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Daughter of an Empress. By Louisa 
 
 Muhlbaeh. 
 Peemster, The. By Hall Caine. 
 Dick'8 Sweetheart. By " The Duchess. "' 
 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 Dora Thome. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 Duchess, The. By " The Duchess. " 
 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 
 Firm of Girdlestone. By A. Conan 
 
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 First Viohn. By Jessie Fothergill. 
 For Faith and Freedom. By W. Besant. 
 Good-Bye, Sweetheart. By Rhoda 
 
 Broughton . 
 Geod Luck. By E. Werner. 
 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Heriot's Choice. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 House of the Wolf. By S. J. Weyman. 
 X Have Lived and Loved. By Mrs. 
 
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 In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall. 
 In the Heart of the Storm. By Maxwell 
 
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 In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt. 
 It is Never Too Latt to Mend. By 
 
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 Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark Russell. 
 Juae. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 Kit and Kitty. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Lady Aurtley's Secret. By Miss M. E. 
 
 Braddon. 
 Lamplighter, The. By Maria S. Cummins. 
 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Louise de la Valliere. By Alexandre 
 
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 Madcap Violet. By William Black. 
 Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore. 
 Man In the Iron Mask. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 Marooned. By W. Clark Russell. 
 .Michael Strogoff . By Jules Verne. 
 Midshipman Easy. By Captain Marryat. 
 Mohav/ks, The. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 Molly Bawn . By " The Duchess . " 
 Monsieur Lecoq. By Einile Gaboriau. 
 Mrs. Geoffrey. By "The Duchess." 
 
 My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs 
 
 Forrester. 
 My Shipmate Louise. By W. C. Russell. 
 Nellie's Memories. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 Not Like Other Gii-ls. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey . 
 Old Myddleton's Money. By Mary Cecil 
 
 Hay. 
 Page of the Duke of Savoy. By Alex- 
 andre Dumas. 
 Pathfinders, The. By J. F. Cooper. 
 Phyllis. By " The Duchess." 
 Pioneers, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper, 
 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 
 Princess of Thule. By William Black. 
 Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles 
 
 Reade. 
 Queenie'sWHiim. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 Repented at Leisure. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 Robert Ord's Atonement. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Romance of Two Worlds. By Marie 
 
 Corelli. 
 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 
 Second Wife. By E. Marlitt. 
 Shadow of a Crime. By Hall Caine. 
 Shandon Bells. By WiUiam Black. 
 Springhaven. By R. D. Blackmore, 
 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 
 Strathmore. By " Ouida." 
 Study in Scarlet. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 
 Thorns and Orange Blossoms. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 Three Men in a Boat. By Jerome K. 
 
 Jerome. 
 Tents of Shem. By Grant Allen. 
 Ten Years Later. By Alexandre Duma*. 
 Tom Cringle's Log. By Michael Scott. 
 Tricotrin. By "Ouida." 
 Trumpet Major, The. By Thos. Hardy 
 Twin Lieutenants. By Alexandre Dumas. 
 Two Admirals. By J. F. Cooper. 
 Two on a Tower. By Thomas Hardy. 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin. By Harriet B. Stowe. 
 Under Two Flags. By "Ouida. " 
 Vendetta. By Marie Corelli. 
 Vicomte D'Bi'agelonne. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. 
 Wanda. By "Ouida." 
 Wee Wifie. By Eosa Nouchetta 
 
 Carey. 
 White Company. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 White Wings. By William Black. 
 Widow Lerouge. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 Won by Waiting. By Edna Lyall. 
 Wooing O't, The. By Mrs. Alexander. 
 Wooed and Married . By Rosa N. Carey, 
 Wormwood. By Marie Corelli . 
 Wreck of the Grosvenor. By W. Clark 
 
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 Yolande . By WilUam Black , 
 
 JB'or Sale by all Booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of gtrict bSS
 
 THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY. 
 
 New Series. Standard "Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each Number Complete in One Volume, 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The numbers in this series will be published semi-weekly, well printed on good 
 paper, bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so each book will 
 »pen flat. 
 
 1— A Romance of Two Worlds. By 
 
 Marie Corelli. 
 2— Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 S— The Wreck of the Grosvenor. By 
 
 W. Clark Russell. 
 i — The First Violin. By Jessie 
 
 Fothergrill. 
 «— The Bride of the Nile. By George 
 
 Ebers. 
 6— The White Company. By A. 
 
 Conan Doyle. 
 7— On the Heights. By Berthold 
 
 Auerbach. 
 & -It is Never too Late to Mend. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 9— The Maid of Sker. By R. D. 
 
 Blackmore. 
 10— Thelraa. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 11— Uarda. By George Ebers. 
 
 12— For Faith and Freedom. By 
 
 Walter Besant. 
 13— Far from the Madding Crowd. 
 
 By Thomas Hai'dy. 
 14— The Three Guardsmen. By 
 
 Alexander Dumas. 
 15— File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau. 
 
 16— Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
 ander, 
 ir— Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt. 
 
 18— Shandon Bells. By WilUam 
 
 Black. 
 19 — ^Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 30— The Bondman. By Hall Caine. 
 
 21- -Under Two Flags. By " Ouida." 
 
 23-PhyUis. By "The Duchess." 
 
 23 — I have lived and loved. By Mrs. 
 
 Forrester. 
 24— The Countess of Rudolstadt. By 
 
 George Sand. 
 25— "Oie Silence of Dean Maitland. 
 
 By Maxwell Grey. 
 
 26— Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 27— Yolande. By WiUiam Black. 
 
 28— Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. Eb 
 
 Braddon. 
 29— Consuelo. By George Sand. 
 
 30— Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 
 Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 31— Man and Wife. By WUkie Col- 
 lins. 
 
 32— Wormwood. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 33— A Study in Scarlet. By A. Conan 
 Doyle. 
 
 34— Airy Fairy Lilian. By ' Th© 
 Duchess.'- 
 
 35— The Burgomastei's Wife. By 
 George Ebers. 
 
 36— Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
 andre Dumas. 
 
 37— My Lord and Jly Lady. By "Mrs. 
 Forrester. 
 
 3S- Jack's Courtship. By W. Clark 
 Russell. 
 
 39— Monsieur Lecoq. By Emila 
 Gaboriau. 
 
 40— A Pair of Blue Eyes. By Thomas 
 Hardy. 
 
 41— Old Myddelton's Money. By 
 Mary Cecil Hay. 
 
 43— The Story of a Clergyman's 
 Daughter. By W. Heimburg. 
 
 43— Westward Ho. By Charles Kings- 
 ley. 
 
 44— Charles O'Malley. By Charles 
 Lever. 
 
 46 — Donovan. By Edua Lyall. 
 
 46— Repented at I^eisure. By Dhar* 
 
 lotte M. Braeme. 
 47— Donal Grant. By George Mao 
 
 donald. 
 43- The Second Wife. By E. Marlitt. 
 
 49— Comin' Thro' the Rye. By Helen 
 
 B. Mathers. 
 50— Jolin Halifax, Gentleman. By 
 
 Miss Mulock 
 
 For saU by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent post-paid ot» 
 receipt of price by the pubittthi/r, A. X. millT, 97 Jteade Street, New 
 Torke Price 25 cents per copy.
 
 THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY. 
 
 New Series. Standard Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each Number Complete in One Volume. 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The numbers in this series will be published semi-weekly, well printed on gqoi 
 paper, bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so eadh book will 
 •pen flat. 
 
 51— The Trumpet-Major. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 5a- Wanda. By "Ouida." 
 
 63— Put Yourself in His Place. By 
 
 Charles Reade. 
 54— Marooned. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 55— The Prime Minister. By Anthony 
 
 TroUope. 
 56— Saint Jlichael. By E. Werner. 
 
 67— East Lynne. By Mrs. H«nry 
 Wood. 
 
 68— The Heir of Redclyffe. By Char- 
 lotte M. Yonge. 
 
 59— Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 
 N. Carey. 
 
 60— The Vicomte de Bragelonne. By 
 Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 61— We Tvvo. By Edna Lyall. 
 
 62— Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 63— The Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. 
 Alexander. 
 
 64— The Deemster. By Hall Caine. 
 
 65— Ten Years Later. 
 
 Dumas. 
 66— A Princess of Thule. 
 
 Black. 
 67— Her Only Brother. By W. Heim- 
 
 burg. 
 6R— The Tents of Shem. By Grant 
 
 Allen. 
 69— Tvvo on a Tower. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 70— An Egy^ian Princess. By George 
 
 Ebers. 
 71— Mrs. Geoflfrey. By " The Duchess. 
 
 73— A Hardy Norseman. By Edna 
 Lyall. 
 
 73— Louise de la ValliSre. By Alexan- 
 dre Dumas. 
 
 74_The Weaker Vessel. By David 
 Christie Murray. 
 
 76_Very Hard Cash. By Charles 
 Reade. 
 
 By Alexandre 
 By William 
 
 76— Hypatia. By Charles Kingsley. 
 
 77— The Wooing O't. By Mrs. Alex- 
 ander. 
 
 78— The Moonstone. By Wilkie Col- 
 lins. 
 
 79— Children of Gibeon. By Walter 
 Besant. 
 
 80— Vendetta, or The Story of One 
 Forgotten. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 81— Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Blaek- 
 more. 
 
 83— Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 
 Lever. 
 
 83— My Shipmate Louise. By W. 
 Clark Russell. 
 
 84— The Man in the Iron Mask. By 
 Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 85— Won by Waiting. By Edna Lyall, 
 
 86— Tricotrin. By " Ouida." 
 87— Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 88— Kit and Kitty. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 89— Robert Ord's Atonement. By 
 Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 90— Shirley. By Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 91-A Bachelor's Blunder. By W. 
 
 E. Norris. 
 93 — Thorns and Orange Blossoma. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 93— In the Golden Days. By Edna 
 
 Lyall. 
 94— The Squire's Legacy. By Mary 
 
 95— No Name. ' By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 By Miss M. E, Brad- 
 By Rosa N. 
 
 96— Mohawks. 
 
 don. 
 97— Nellie's Memories. 
 
 Carey. 
 98— The Emperor. By George Ebers. 
 
 99— Dick's Sweetheart. By "The 
 
 Duchess." 
 100— Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 
 Fw sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent post-paid on 
 receipt of price by the publisher, A. X. BVRT, 97 Jieade Street, New 
 T0rk» rjrice 35 c«nt« per copy»
 
 THE MANHATTAN LIBRARY 
 
 New Series. Standard Works. Popular Authors. 
 
 Each Nxtmher Complete in One Volume. 
 
 Price 25 cents per copy. 
 
 The nunijbers in this series will be published weekly, well printed on good paper, 
 bound with neat paper covers, and sewed in the back, so each book will open flat. 
 
 101— Micah Clarke. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 lOS^Good Luck. By E. Werner. 
 
 103 -Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 
 By Charles Reade. 
 104— Strathmore. By "Ouida." 
 
 105~In the Counselor's House. By E. 
 
 Marlitt. 
 106— Wooed and Married. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 107— Cherry Ripe. By Helen B. Math- 
 
 J08— The Shadow of a Crune. By Hall 
 
 109— The Woodlanders. By Thomas 
 
 Hardy. 
 110— Queenie's Whim. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 Ill— Matrimony. By W. E. Norris. 
 
 U3— The Sin of Joost Avelingh. By 
 
 Maarten Maartens. 
 113— Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 114— White Wings. By Wm. Black. 
 
 115— Armorel of Lyonesse. By Walter 
 
 Besant. 
 116— Pere Goriot. By Honore De 
 
 Balzac. 
 117— The Executor. By Mrs. Alex 
 
 118— The Arundel Motto. By Mary 
 
 C'ei;il Hay. 
 119— Othmar. By "Ouida." 
 
 120— Chandos. By "Ouida." 
 
 121— Cripps the Carrier. By R. D. 
 
 Blackmore. 
 Ii22— June. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 123— Wee Wifle. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 J24-The Twin Lieutenants. By Alex- 
 andre Dumas. 
 
 125— Qood-Bye, Sweetheart. By Rhoda 
 Broughton. 
 
 126— St. Katherines By the Tower. By 
 Walter Besant. 
 
 127— Cloister and the Hearth. By 
 Charles Reade. 
 
 128— The Countess Gisela. By E. Mar- 
 litt. 
 
 129— The Duchess. By "The Duchess." 
 
 130— Cousin Pons. By Honore De 
 
 Balzac. 
 131— In Far Lochaber.^i By William 
 
 Black. 
 132— A Broken Wedding Ring. By 
 
 Charlotte M. Braeme. 
 133— The Page of the Duke of Savoy. 
 
 By Alexandre DuMas. 
 134— The Captain of the Pole-Star. By 
 
 A. Conan Doyle. 
 135 — Heriot's Choice. By Rosa N. 
 
 Carey. 
 136— In the SchiUingscourt. By, E. 
 
 Blarlitt. 
 137— Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 
 
 Braeme. 
 138— The Firm of Girdlestone. By A. 
 
 Conan Doyle. 
 139— The Lady with the Rubies.' By E. 
 
 Blarlitt. 
 140— The Reproach of Annesley. By 
 
 Maxwell Grey. 
 141— Moths. By "Ouida." 
 
 142— Tempest-Tossed. By Theodore 
 
 Tilton. 
 143— The Woman in White. By Wilkle 
 
 Collins. 
 144 — The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 
 
 By Victor Hugo. 
 145— Tom Cringle's Log. By Michael 
 
 Scott. 
 146— Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 
 more. 
 147-In the Heart of the Storm. By 
 
 Maxwell Grey. 
 148— A March in the Ranks. By Jessie 
 
 Fothergill. 
 149— Molly Bawn. By "The Duchess." 
 
 150— Madcap Violet. By William 
 Black. 
 
 For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers, or will be sent post-paid on 
 *ec6ipt of price by the publisher, A. JL. BURT, 97 Reade Street, Nevt 
 ^orHt VfKiee 95 cents per copy*
 
 .^/f 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 p' ^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 Santa Barbara 
 
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