'And,' he said diffidently, 'if under M. Mole's patronage, the steps could be gained without loss of honour or principle, you remember that there is a noblesse de la robe, which might remove some of Madame de Ribaumont's objections, though I do not presume to compare it with the blood of the Crusaders.
I am ashamed to say that I answered, 'I should think not!' and then I am afraid I reproached him for bartering the glorious independence that had once rendered him far more than noble, for the mere tinsel show of rank that all alike thought despicable. How I hate myself when I recall that I told him that if he had done so for my sake he had made a mistake; and as for loyalty rallying round the French Crown, I believed in no such thing; they were all alike, and cared for nothing but their ambitions and their hatreds.
Before anything had been said to soften these words-while he was still standing grave and stiff, like one struck by a blow-in came the others from the window. Meg, in fact, could not keep Cecile d'Aubepine back any longer from hindering such shocking impropriety as out tete-a-tete. We overheard her saving her little girl from corruption by a frightful French fib that the gentleman in black was Mademoiselle de Ribaumont's English priest.
I am sure out parting need have excited no suspicions. We were cold and grave and ceremonious as Queen Anne of Austria herself, and poor Lady Ommaney looked from one to the other of us in perplexity.
I went home between wrath and shame. I knew I had insulted Clement, and I was really mortified and angry that he should have accepted this French promotion instead of fleeing with us, and embracing our religion. I hated all the French politics together a great deal too much to have any comprehension of the patriotism that made him desire to support the only honest and loyal party, hopeless as it was. I could not tell Meg about our quarrel; I was glad Eustace was away at the English's ambassador's. I felt as if one Frenchman was as good, or as bad, as another, and I was more gracious to M. de Poligny than ever I had been before that evening.
My mother had a reception in honour of its being Mid-Lent week. Solivet was there, and, for a wonder, both the d'Aubepines, for the Count had come home suddenly with message from the Prince of Conde to the Duke of Orleans.
CHAPTER XXIX. MADAME'S OPPORTUNITY
(Annora's Narrative)
The Prince of Conde and Cardinal Mazarin were in arms against one another. The Queen and her son were devoted to Mazarin. The loyal folk in Paris held to the King, and were fain to swallow the Cardinal because Conde was in open rebellion. Monsieur was trying to hold the balance with the help of the Parliament, but was too great an ass to do any such thing. the mob was against everybody, chiefly against the Cardinal, and the brutal ruffians of the Prince's following lurked about, bullying every one who gave them umbrage, with some hope of terrifying the Parliament magistrates into siding with them.
It was therefore no great surprise to Eustace and Sir Francis Ommaney the next evening, when they were coming back on foot from the Louvre, to hear a scuffle in one of the side streets.
They saw in a moment half of dozen fellows with cudgels falling on a figure in black, who vainly struggled to defend himself with a little thin walking rapier. Their English blood was up in a moment two masked figures and hearing them egging on their bravoes with 'Hola, there! At him! Teach him to look at a lady of rank.'
The little rapier had been broken. A heavy blow had made the victim's arm fall, he had been tripped up, and the rascals were still belabouring him, when Eustace and Sir Francis sprang in among them, crying, 'Hold, cowardly rascals!' striking to the right and left, though with the flat of their swords, of which they were perfect masters, for even in their wrath they remembered that these rogues were only tools. And no doubt they were not recognized in the twilight, for one of the masked gentlemen exclaimed:
'Stop, sir! this is not a matter for gentlemen. This is the way we punish the insolence of fellows whose muddy blood would taint the swords of a noble.'
At the same moment Eustace saw that the victim, who had begun to raise himself, was actually Clement Darpent. He knew, too, the voice from the mask, and, in hot wrath, exclaimed:
'Solivet, you make me regret that you are my brother, and that I cannot punish such a cowardly outrage.'
'But I am no brother of yours!' cried d'Aubepine, flying at him. 'Thus I treat all who dare term me coward.'
Eustace, far taller and more expert in fence, as well as with strength of arm that all his ill-health had not destroyed, parried the thrust so as to strike the sword out of d'Aubepine's hand, and then said:
'Go home, Monsieur. Thank your relationship to my sister that I punish you no further, and learn that to use other men's arms to strike the defenceless is a stain upon nobility.'
And as the wretched little Count slunk away he added
'Solivet, I had though better things of you.'
To which Solivet responded, with the pretension derived from his few years of seniority:
'Bah! brother, you do not understand, half a foreigner as you are. This was the only way left to me to protect my sister from the insults your English folly had brought on her.'
Eustace made no answer. He could not speak, for the exertion and shock had been too much for him. His mouth was filled with blood. They were all about him in an instant then, Solivet and Darpent both in horror, each feeling that he might in a manner have been the cause of that bleeding, which might in a moment be fatal. Eustace himself knew best what to do, and sat down on the step leaning against Sir Francis, so as not to add to the danger.
The fray had been undisturbed. In that delectable city people held aloof from such things instead of stopping them, but a doctor suddenly appeared on the scene, 'attracted like a vulture,' as Sir Francis said; and they had some ado to prevent him from unbuttoning Eustace's doublet to search for a wound before they could make him understand what had really happened. They obtained a fiacre, and Eustace was placed in it. In this condition they brought him home and put him to bed, telling us poor women only that he had interfered in a street fray and over-exerted himself. It was shock enough for us to find all the improvements of a whole year overthrown, as he lay white and still, not daring to speak.
They had agreed on the way home to keep us in ignorance, or at least to let us think that the attack had been made by strangers, simply because of his connection with the Big Beard. Meg's Nicolas was first to tell us that it was M. Darpent whom they had rescued, and that he had called at the porter's lodge on his way home to inquire for M. le Baron, bruised all over, and evidently seriously hurt. And while still trying to disbelieve this, another report arrived through the maidservants that M. de Solivet and d'Aubepine had soundly cudgeled M. Darpent, and that M. le Baron and M. d'Aubepine had fought a duel on the spot, in which my brother had been wounded.
Meg was nearly as frantic as I was. We could not speak to Eustace, and Solivet and d'Aubepine, finding themselves known, had both hurried away at peep of day, for it was a serious thing to have nearly killed a man in office; but Meg desired that if Sir Francis called to inquire for my brother we should see him, and she also sent Nicolas to inquire for M. Darpent, who, we heard, was confined to his bed with a broken arm.
Poor Clement! such was his reward for the interview where I had used him so ill, and been so unjust to him. For, as we came to understand, it really was all that wretched little Cecile's fault. She would do anything to please that husband of hers, and she communicated to him that she understood the secret of my resistance to the Poligny match, and had been infinitely shocked at my behaviour at Lady Ommaney's.
The cowardly fellow had hated Clement ever since the baffling of the attempt on Margaret. So he told Solivet, and they united in this attack, with a half a dozen of their bravoes, got together for the occasion! We heard the truth of the affair from Sir Francis, and it was well for Solivet that he was out of my reach!
As for my mother, she thought it only an overflow of zeal for the honour of the family, and held it to be my fault that her dear son had been driven to s
uch measures. Nothing was bad enough for the Ommaneys! Nothing would restore my reputation but marrying the little Chevalier at Easter. And in the midst, just as Eustace was a little better, and there was no excuse for refusing to obey the drag of her chains, Margaret was summoned away to attend on her absurd Princess, who was going to Orleans, by way of keeping the Cardinal's forces out of her father's city.
Margaret had kept things straight. I do not know how it was, but peace always went away with her; and my mother did things she never attempted when the real lady of the house was at home. And yet I might thank my own hasty folly for much of what befell.
Eustace was much better, sitting up in his night-gown by the fire, and ready, as I thought, to talk over everything, and redress my wrongs, or at least comfort the wretchedness that had grown upon me daily since that miserable quarrel with Clement. I poured it all out, and even was mad enough to say it was his fault for delaying so long the journey to the Hague. Clement, who had been well-nigh ready to join us and be a good Protestant, was going back to the old delusions, and taking office under the Government; and even if the bravoes had not killed him, he would be spoilt for any honest Englishwoman; and I might as well take that miserable little schoolboy, which I supposed was all my brother wished. Then the estate would be safe enough.
Eustace could only assure me that the delay was as grievous to him as to me. indeed, as I could see in a more reasonable mood, he had been unable to get from Ribaumont the moneys needful for the journey, the steward not venturing to send them while the roads were so unsafe; but when he begged me to have patience, it seemed to sting my headstrong temper, and I broke out in some such words as these: 'Patience! Patience! I am sick of it. Thanks to your patience, I have lost Clement. They have all but murdered him! and for yourself, you had better take care Millicent van Hunker does not think that such patience is only too easy when she has neither wealth nor beauty left!'
'Hush, Annora,' he answered, with authority and severity in his tone, but not half what I deserved; 'there is great excuse for you, but I cannot permit such things to be said.'
Here Tryphena came in and scolded me for making him talk; I saw how flushed he was, and became somewhat frightened. They sent me away, and oh! how long it was ere I was allowed to see him again! For in the morning, after a night of repenting and grieving over my heat, and longing to apologise for having reproached him for the delay which was as grievous to him as to me, the first thing I heard was that M. le Baron was much worse; he had had a night of fever; there was more bleeding, and much difficulty of breathing. My mother was with him, and I was on no account to be admitted.
And when I came out of my room, there sat Madame Croquelebois, who had been sent for from the Hotel d'Aubepine to keep guard over me, day and night; for she was lodged in that cabinet of my sister's into which my room opened, and my door on the other side was locked. It was an insult, for which the excuse was my interview with Clement. It made me hot and indignant enough, but there was yet a further purpose in it.
The next thing was to send for a certain Frere Allonville, a man who had been a doctor before he was converted and became a Dominican friar, and who still practiced, and was aid to do cures by miracle. I know this, that it would have been a miracle if his treatment had cured my brother, for the first thing he did was to bleed him, the very thing that Dr. Dirkius had always told us was the sure way to kill him, when he was losing so much blood already. Then the friar turned out Tryphena, on the plea that he must have a nurse who understood his language. As if poor Tryphena, after living thirteen years in France, could not understand the tongue quite enough for any purpose, and as if she did not know better how to take care of Eustace than any one else! But of course the language was not the real reason that she was shut out, and kept under guard, as it were, just as much as I was, while a Sister of Charity was brought in to act as my brother's nurse, under my mother, who, look you, never had been nurse at all, and always fainted at any critical moment.
Assuredly I knew why they were thus isolating my brother from all of us. I heard steps go upstairs, not only of the Dominican quack doctor, but of the Abbe Montagu, who had been previously sent to convert us. The good old Bonchamp, who had a conscience, was away at St. Germain with Gaspard de Nidemerle, and I-I had no one to appeal to when I knew they were harassing the very life out of my dearest, dearest brother, by trying to make him false to the Church and the faith he had fought for. I could do nothing-I was a prisoner; all by my own fault too; for they would have had no such opportunity had I not been so unguarded towards my brother. When I did meet my mother it chafed me beyond all bearing to see her devout air of resignation and piety. Her dear son was, alas! in the utmost danger, but his dispositions were good, and she trusted to see him in the bosom of the true Church, and that would be a consolation, even if he were not raised up by a miracle, which would convince even me. Poor woman, I believe she really did expect that his conversion would be followed by a miraculous recovery. I told her she was killing him-and well! I don't know what I said, but I think I frightened her, for she sent Mr. Walter Montague to see what he could do with me.
I told him I wondered he was not ashamed of such a conversion, supposing he made it, which I was sure he would not, as long as my brother retained his senses.
To which he answered that Heaven was merciful, and that so long as one was in communion with the true Church there was power to be redeemed in the next world, if not in this.
'A sorry way of squeezing into Heaven,' I said; and then he began arguing, as he had done a hundred times before, on the blessing and rest he had found in the Church, after renouncing his errors. And no wonder, for it is well known that my Lord Mandeville brought up his family to be mere Puritans. However, I said: 'Look you here, Mr. Montagu; if my brother, Lord Walwyn, gave himself to you of deliberate mind, with full health and faculties, you might think him a gain indeed. Or if you like it better, he would have a claim to the promises of your Church; but if you merely take advantage of the weakness of a man at the point of death to make him seem a traitor to his whole life, why, then, I should say you trusted, more than I do, to what you call Divine promises.'
He told me-as they always do-that I knew nothing about it, and that he should pray for me. But I had some trust that his English blood would be guilty of no foul play. I was much more afraid of the Dominican; only one good thing was that the man was not a priest. So went by Good Friday and Easter Eve. They would not let me go to church for fear I should speak to any one. Madame Croquelebois and my mother's old smirking tire-woman, Bellote, took turns to mount guard over me. I heard worse and worse accounts of my dear brother's bodily state, but I had one comfort. One of the servants secretly handed Tryphena this little note addressed to me, in feeble straggling characters:-
'Do what they may to me my will does not consent. Pray for me. If word were taken to the K. E. W. and R.'
It was some comfort that I should have that to prove what my brother was to the last. I made me able to weep and pray-pray as I had never prayed before-all that night and that strange sad Easter morning, when all the bells were ringing, and the people flocking to the churches, and I sat cut off from them all in my chamber, watching, watching in dread of sounds that might tell me that my dearest and only brother, my one hope, was taken from me, body and soul, and by my fault, in great part.
Oh! what a day it was, as time went on. Madame Croquelebois went to high mass, and Bellote remained in charge. I was, you understand, a prisoner at large. Provided some one was attending me, I went into any room in the house save the only one where I cared to be. And I was sitting in the salon, with my Bible and Prayer-book before me-not reading, I fear me, but at any rate attesting my religion, when there came up a message that Son Altesse Royale, the Duke of Gloucester, requested to be admitted to see Mademoiselle de Ribaumont.
Nobody made any question about admitting a Royal Highness, so up he came, the dear boy, with his bright hazel eyes like his father's, and his dark shining
curls on his neck. He had missed me at the ambassador's chapel, and being sure, from my absence, that my brother must be very ill indeed, he had come himself to inquire. He could as yet speak little French, and not understanding what they told him at the door, he had begged to see me.
It did not take long to tell him all, for Bellote did not understand English; I showed him the note, and he stood considering. He was not like his brothers, he had not lived in vain all those years with his sister Elisabeth in captivity, for there was a grave manliness about him though he was only thirteen. He said: 'do you think Lord Walwyn would see me? I am used to be with a sick person.'
Eagerly I sent up word. I knew my mother would never refuse entrance to royal blood; nor did she. She sent word that the Duke would do her son only too much honour by thus troubling himself. I did not miss the chance of marshalling him upstairs, and gaining one sight of my brother-oh! so sadly wasted in these few days, his cheeks flushed, his breath labouring, his eyes worn and sleepless, as he lay, raised high on his pillow. He looked up with pleasure into the Duke's face. My mother was making speeches and ceremonies; but after bowing in reply, the Duke, holding Eustace's hand, leant over him and said; 'Can I do anything for you? Shall I send for a chaplain?'
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