The Chaplet of Pearls. Yonge Charlotte Mary
Читать онлайн книгу.
You are Eutacie!’
‘Whom would you have me to be otherwise? I have the honour to wish M. le Baron a good morning.’
‘Eustacie! Stay! Hear me! It concerns my honour. I see it is you—but whom have I seen? Who was she?’ he 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! when all this has been of your own seeking?’
‘Mine?’ cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle between her dignity and her passionate tears. ‘I meddled not. I heard that M. le Baron was gone to a strange land, and had written to break off old ties.’ Her face was in a flame, and her efforts 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, then cried, joyfully, ‘It will not stand for moment. So foul a cheat can be at once exposed. Eutacie, you know—you 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 Eustacie. ‘I see how it was! You did not know that my father 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 honour must be Demoiselle, and my uncle said there was only one way in which I could remain Madame de Ribaumont! And the name must have deceived you. Thou wast always a great dull boy,’ she added, with a sudden assumption of childish intimacy that annihilated the 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 I 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 lingering too long. Monsieur will make some hateful tale! I never fell into his way 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 soon 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 speed that might not bear the appearance of pursuit, he found that on coming to the turn she had moderated her pace, and was more tranquilly advancing to a bevy of ladies, who sat perched on the stone steps like great butterflies sunning themselves, watching the game, and receiving the attentions of their cavaliers. 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 compensate to her, were it only to redeem his honour. 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 recovering what belonged to him. He might even have plunged down among the ladies and claimed her as his wife, if the young Abbe de Mericour, 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 learnt that all the court knew that the daughter of the late Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, Comte de Ribaumont, 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 had not been wonderful in a stranger, since the Chevalier’s daughter had always been Mdlle. de Ribaumont. 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 distance from court and throw him into the background was accounted for. The Abbe was almost as indignant as Berenger, and assured him both of his sympathy and his discretion.
‘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 Berenger.
‘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 prospered who offended the meanest follower of the house of Lorraine.’
‘I do not want prosperity, I only want my wife. I hope I shall never see Paris and its deceivers again.’
‘Ah! But is it true that you have applied to have the marriage annulled at Rome?’
‘We were both shamefully deceivers. That can be nothing.’
‘A decree of his Holiness: you a Huguenot; she an heiress. All is against you. My friend, be cautions, exclaimed the young ecclesiastic, alarmed by his passionate gestures. ‘To break forth now and be accused of brawling in the palace precincts would be fatal—fatal—most fatal!’
‘I am as calm as possible,’ returned Berenger. ‘I mean to act most reasonably. I shall stand before the King and tell him openly how I have been tamperes with, demanding 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 honour-able gentlemen. 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 place is this!’ began Berenger; but again Mericour entreated him to curb himself; and his English education had taught him to credit the house of Guide with so much mysterious power and wickedness, that he allowed himself to be silenced, and promised to take no open measures till he had consulted the Ambassador.
‘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 join the next day in an expedition to the hunting chateau of Montpipeau, to which the King seemed to look forward as a great holiday and breathing time.
When at length the two youths did return, Sir Francis Walsingham was completely surprised by the usually tractable, well-behaved stripling, whose praises he had been writing to his old friend, bursting in on him with the outcry, ‘Sir, sir, I entreat your counsel! I have been foully cozened.’
‘Of how much?’ said Sir Francis, in a tone of reprobation.
‘Of my wife. Of mine honour. Sir, your Excellency, I crave pardon, if I spoke too hotly,’ said Berenger, collecting himself; ‘but it is enough to drive a man to frenzy.’
‘Sit down, my Lord de Ribaumont. 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 beard all as they returned; ‘he has been greatly wronged. The Chevalier de Ribaumont not only writ to propose the separation without the lady’s