you, good sir?’ said the Baron.
‘I will see to him,’ said the farmer, grasping him as a sort of property. ‘M. le Baron had best 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 minister’s hand, and adding, almost to himself, ‘Alas! I am weary of these shifts!’ and weary indeed he seemed, for as the ground became so steep that the beck danced noisily down its channel, he could not keep up the needful speed, but paused, gasping for breath, with his hand on his side. ‘Beranger was off his pony 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 exceedingly; but the Baron, while ever just towards him, was grave and strict to a degree that the ideas even of the sixteenth century regarded as severe. Little Eustacie with her lovely face, her irrepressible saucy grace and audacious coaxing, was the only creature to whom he ever showed much indulgence 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 throve 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 Beranger’s rapturous delight furnished a victim for Ysonde, that M. de Ribaumont dismounted from the pony, and walking towards home, called his son to his side, and asked him how he had learnt the intentions of the Count and the Chevalier. Beranger 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 request, spent a few weeks at the chateau with her cousins.
‘My son,’ said the 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 cannot tell, father,’ replied Beranger; ‘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 M. le Baron read, and what he sung.’
‘Thou hast done well to tell me, my son. Thinkest thou that this comes from Diane, or from one of the servants?’
‘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, Beranger, had she any knowledge of our intended journey to England?’
‘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 speak 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 better 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 dearest thereto when they are in no state to count the cost. Therefore would I thither convey you all, and there amid thy mother’s family would we openly abjure the errors in which we have been nurture. I have already sent to Paris to obtain from the Queen-mother the necessary permission to take my family to visit thy grand-father, and it must now be our endeavour to start immediately on the receipt of the reply, before the Chevalier’s information can lead to any hindrance or detention of Eustacie.’
‘Then Eustacie will go with 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 him.’
After M. de Ribaumont’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 have been in despair. Here were the Count and his brother come to call on you to join them in dispersing a meeting of those poor Huguenots and they would not permit 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 poor 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 power 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.’
‘Madame,’ said the Baron, gravely, ‘you have done your utmost to ruin your son’s chances of happiness.’
That same evening arrived the King’s passport permitting 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 persecuted 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 immediate 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 impossible to reclaim Eustacie. Her father would at once have pleaded that she was being bred up in Huguenot errors. All that could be done was to hasten the departure 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, Beranger still tenderly kissing a lock of Follet’s mane, and Madame mourning for the pearls, which her husband deemed too sacred an heirloom 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
In the spring of the year 1572, a family council
