The night is come, no fears disturbThe sleep of innocence
They trust in kingly faith, 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!
‘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 Excellency,’ returned Berenger.
‘I would have you both to understand that you must have a care of yourselves,’ said the Ambassador. ‘The Admiral’s wound has justly caused much alarm, and I hear that the Protestants are going vapouring about in so noisy and incautious a manner, crying out for justice, that it is but too likely that the party of the Queen-mother and the Guise will be moved to strong measures.’
‘They will never dare lay a finger upon us!’ said Sidney.
‘In a terror-stricken fray men are no respecters of persons,’ replied Sir Francis. ‘This house is, of course, inviolable; and, whatever the madness of the people, we have stout hearts enough here to enforce respect thereto; but I cannot answer even for an Englishman’s life beyond its precincts; and you, Ribaumont, whom I cannot even claim as my Queen’s subject—I greatly fear to trust you beyond its bounds.’
‘I cannot 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 offence if I return not this night.’
‘No more, my friend,’ said Walsingham, quickly; ‘let me know nothing of your purposes, but take care of yourself. I would you were safe at home again, though the desire 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 man 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 suspicious air. Sudden and secret is the blow like to be, and we cannot be too much on our guard. Therefore remember, my young friends both, that your danger or death would fall heavily on those ye love and honour at home.’
So saying, he left the two youths, unwilling to seek further confidence, and Berenger held his last consultation with Sidney, to whom he gave directions for making full explanation to Walsingham in his absence, and expediting Mr. Adderley’s return to England. Osbert alone was to go to the Louvre with him, after having seen the five English grooms on board the little decked market-vessel on the Seine, which was to await the fugitives. Berenger was to present himself in the palace as in his ordinary court attendance, 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 ladies, whence Eustacie was to descend at about eleven o’clock, with her maid Veronique. Landry Osbert was to join them from the lackey’s hall below, where he had a friend, and the connivance of the porter at the postern opening towards 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 consideration it was decided that his being at the Louvre was likely to attract notice to Ribaumont’s delaying there. The two young men therefore shook hands and parted, as youths who trusted that they had begun a lifelong friendship, with mutual promises to write to one another—the one, the adventures 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 such 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 greatly crowded. The Huguenots were in an excited mood, inclined to rally round Henry of Navarre, whose royal title made him be looked on as is a manner their monarch, though his kingdom had been swallowed by Spain, and he was no more than a French duke distantly related to royalty in the male line, and more nearly through his grandmother and bride. The eight hundred gentlemen he had brought with him swarmed about his apartments, making their lodging on staircases and in passages; and to Berenger it seemed as if the King’s guards and Monsieur’s gentlemen must have come in in equal numbers to balance them. Narcisse was there, and Berenger kept cautiously amid his Huguenot acquaintance, resolved not to have a quarrel thrust on him which he could not honourably desert. It was late before he could work his way to the young Queen’s reception-room, where he found Eustacie. She looked almost as white as at the masque; 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.
Behind the Queen’s chair a few words could be spoken.
‘Ma mie, art thou well again? Canst bear this journey now?’
‘Quite well, now! quite ready. Oh that we may never have masques in England!’
He smiled—‘Never such as this!’
‘Ah! thou knowest best. I am glad I am thine already; I am so silly, thou wouldest never have chosen me! But thou wilt teach me, and I will strive to be very good! And oh! let me but 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 Rochefoucauld and others. He was louder and ruder than Berenger had ever yet seen him, almost giving the notion of intoxication; but neither he nor his brother Henry ever tasted wine, though both had a strange pleasure in being present at the orgies of their companions: the King, it was generally said, from love of the self-forgetfulness of excitement—the Duke of Anjou, because his cool brain there collected men’s secrets to serve afterwards 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, ‘However, since here you are, come along with me to my bedchamber! We are to have a carouse there to-night that will ring through all Paris! Yes, and shake Rochefoucauld out of his bed at midnight! You will be one of us, Ribaumont? I command it!’
And without waiting for reply he turned away with an arm round Rochefoucauld’s neck, and boisterously addressed another of the company, almost as wildly as if he were in the mood that Scots call ‘fey.’
‘Royalty 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 beyond his reach. But at
