Stray Pearls Part 11

'Yes,' I said, 'for a short time, among cowards and rogues.'

Armand howled at the word cowards.

'Cowards, yes,' I said, 'who must needs get a company of soldiers to overcome one woman.'

I saw a good long scratch on Lamont's face just then, and I flattered myself that it was due to Nan's nails. They all beset me, Lamont at my feet, pleading the force of his pa.s.sion, entreating with all the exaggeration of the current language; the Abbe arguing about the splendid position I should secure for my son and myself, and the way I should be overthrown if I held out against the Prince; d'Aubepine raging and threatening. I had lost myself already, by my absence and goings on, the estate; the Prince had but to speak the word, and I should be in the Bastille.

'Let him,' I said.

'It is of no use to dally with her,' cried Armand. 'I will hold her while the rite is performed.'

I looked at him. I was quite as tall as he, and, I believe, quite as strong; at any rate he quailed, and called out: 'Have you any spirit, Lamont? Here, one of you fellows, come and help to hold her.'

'At your peril!' I said. 'Gentlemen, I am the widow of your brave officer, Captain de Bellaise, killed at Freibourg. Will you see this wrong done?'

'I command you, as your officer-forward!' he said; and though one wavered, the others stepped forward.

Then I saw there was only one thing to do. A big stone image stood near me. Before they could touch me I had fallen on my knees, and wound my arms so closely round it that they could not unloose them without absolute violence and injury. I knew that in such a position it was impossible even to go through the semblance of marrying me. I felt Armand's hand and the Abbe's try to untwist my arms and unclasp my hands, but they could not prevail against that grip with which I held, and I spoke not one word.

At last they drew back, and I heard them say one to the other: 'It is of no use. She must yield in time. Leave her.'

I heard them all clank out with their spurs, and lock the door, and then I looked up. There was no other way out of the little convent chapel, which looked as if it had been unused for years, except perhaps for an annual ma.s.s, but the altar had been dressed in preparation for the sacrilege that was intended. Then I turned to the figure to which I had clung, and I was encouraged by seeing that it bore the emblems of St. Margaret, my own patroness. I knew very well that my brother and sister would shake their heads, and say it was a superst.i.tious fancy, if they called it by no harder name; but they did not understand our feelings towards the saints. Still it was not to St. Margaret I turned to help me, but to St. Margaret's Master and mine, when I prayed to be delivered from the mouth of the dragon, though I did trust that she was entreating for me.

I would not move away from her, I might need to clasp her at any moment; but I prayed fervently before the altar, where I knelt till I grew faint with weariness; and then I sat at her feet, and thought over all the possibilities of being rescued. If my sister were free I knew she would leave no stone unturned to deliver me, and that my rescue could be only a matter of time; but she might also have been seized, and if so-? Anyhow, I was absolutely determined that they should kill me before I consented to become the wife of M. de Lamont, or to give him any right over my son.

After a time the door was cautiously opened, and one of the dragoons came in, having taken off his boots and spurs that he might move more noiselessly.

'Madame,' he said, 'pardon me. I loved our brave captain; I know you. You sent me new linen in the hospital. Captain de Bellaise was a brave man.'

'And you will see no wrong done to his widow and child, my good friend?' I cried.

'Ah, Madame, you should command all of us. But we are under orders.'

'And that means doing me unmanly violence, unworthy of a brave soldier! You cannot help me?'

'If Madame would hear me! The gentlemen are at dinner. They may sit long over their wine to give them courage to encounter Madame again. My comrade, Benlot, is on duty. I might find a messenger to Madame's friends.'

Then he told me what I had little guessed, that we had been driven round and round, and were really only in the Faubourg St. Medand, in the Priory of the Benedictines, giving t.i.tle and revenue to the Abbe St. Leu, which had contained no monks ever since the time of the Huguenots. He could go into Paris and return again before his turn to change guard was likely to come.

Should I send him, or should I thus only lose a protector? He so far rea.s.sured me that he said his comrades were, like himself, resolved not to proceed to extremities with the widow of their captain-above all in a chapel. They would take care not to exert all their strength, and if they could, without breach of discipline, they would defend me.

I decided. I knew not where my sister might be searching, or if she might not be likewise a prisoner; so I directed him first to the house of M. Darpent, who was more likely to know what to do than Sir Francis Ommaney. Besides, the Rue des Marmousets, where stood Maison Darpent, was not far off.

I heard a great clock strike four, five, six, seven, eight o'clock, and by and by there was a parley. M. de Lamont opened the door of the chapel, and as I shuddered and kept my arm on my patroness, he implored me to believe that no injury was intended to me-the queen of his thoughts, or some such nonsense-I might understand that by the presence of my brother-in-law. He only besought me not to hurt my precious health, but to leave the cold chapel for a room that had been prepared for me, and where I should find food.

'No,' I said; 'nothing should induce me to leave my protectress.'

At least, then, he conjured me to accept food and wine, if I took it where I was. I hastily considered the matter. There was nothing I dreaded so much as being drugged; and yet, on the other hand, the becoming faint for want of nourishment might be equally dangerous, and I had taken nothing that day except a cup of milk before we set out from home; and it was now a matter of time.

I told him, therefore, that I would accept nothing but a piece of bread and some pure water, if it were brought me where I was.

'Ah, Madame! you insult me by your distrust,' he cried.

'I have no reason to trust you,' I said, with a frigidity that I hoped would take from him all inclination for a nearer connection; but he only smote his forehead as if it had been a drum, and complained of my cruelty and obduracy. 'Surely I had been nurtured by tigresses,' he said, quoting the last pastoral comedy he had seen.

He sent M. d'Aubepine to conduct some servant with a tray of various meats and drinks; I took nothing but some bread and water, my brother-in-law trying to argue with me. This was a mistake on their part, for I was more angry with him than with his friend, in whom there was a certain element of extravagant pa.s.sion, less contemptible than d'Aubepine's betrayal of Phillipe de Bellaise's widow merely out of blind obedience to his Prince. He a.s.sured me that resistance was utterly useless, that bets had pa.s.sed at the Prince's court on the Englishwoman's being subdued by Lamont before mid-night, and the Prince himself had staked, I know not how much, against those who believed in my obstinacy. Therefore Armand d'Aubepine, who was flushed with wine, and not in the least able to perceive how contemptible he was, urged me to yield with the best grace I could, since there was no help for it. And so saying he suddenly pinioned both my arms with his own.

No help! Was there no help in Heaven above, or earth below? Was my dragoon on his way?

The doors opened. Again the Abbe opened his book.

'Brave dragoons!' I cried out; 'if there be not a man among you who will stir a hand to save me, bear witness that I, Margaret de Ribaumont, widow of Philippe de Bellaise, your own officer, protest against this shameful violence. Whatever is here done is null and void, and shall be made known to M. l'Abbe's superiors.'

There was a dead pause. Then Lamont whispered something to the priest, who began again. I felt Armand's held relaxing, and making a sudden struggle, I shook myself free with such force that he staggered back, while I bounded forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from the priest's hand, throwing it on the floor, and then, regaining once more the statue of St. Margaret, I stood grasping her with one arm with desperate energy, while I cried: 'A moi, soldiers of Freibourg!'

'Drag her away,' said d'Aubepine to the men.

'By your leave, my captain,' said their sergeant, 'except in time of war, it is not permitted to lay hands on any one in sanctuary. It is not within our discipline.'

D'Aubepine swore an oath that they would see what their Colonel said to their insubordination; but the sergeant replied, not without some malice: 'It falls within the province of the reverend Father.'

'I command you, then!' shrieked the Abbe, in a furry.

'Nay, Monsieur l'Abbe is not our officer,' said the sergeant, saluting with great politeness.

'Madame,' cried Lamont, 'will you cause these men to be put to death for disobedience to their officer?'

I scarcely believed him. And yet- There was a sound at the outside.

'Make haste!' cried d'Aubepine. 'Here is the Prince come to see whether he has won his wager.'

CHAPTER XXII. - ST. MARGARET AND THE DRAGON

(By Annora)

A fine country to live in was la belle France, where a G.o.dly, modest, discreet, and well-living widow could be spirited away by main force from her sister and her servants, on the King's highway in broad daylight, and by soldiers wearing the King's own uniform! 'In the name of the Prince!' said they. Verily, I think it was in the name of the Prince of darkness. They tore poor Meg from me, though we both fought and struggled as hard as we could, in hopes of some one coming to our rescue. Luckily my gloves were off, and I think I gave a few tolerable scratches to somebody's face, in spite of his abominable cache-nez. If the servants had had a tenth part of the valour of our poor fellows who lie dead at Newburry and Alresford we could have brought her off; but these were but Frenchmen, and were overawed by those dragoons, or dragons, in their cuira.s.ses.

When poor Meg was dragged out, I held her fast, and tumbled out with her; but even as we fell, she was rent from me, and I think I must have been half-stunned. At any rate, I found myself flung back into our own carriage, and the door shut upon me, while the horses were turned round, and we were made to gallop back by the road we had come.

Our women, screaming and crying like mad things, helped me up from the bottom of the carriage. I bade them hold their tongues and stop the horses. The one they could not do, the other they would not. So I was forced to open the door myself, and shout to the coachman to stop that instant. He would not at first, but happily I saw a pistol, which one of the wretches had dropped in the scuffle, and I threatened him with it. Then, when my voice could be heard, I ordered the two outriders to gallop after the coach in which my sister had been carried off, and see where she was taken, while we made as much speed as we could after them; but the cowardly rogues absolutely began to cry, and say that the leader of the party had turned the horses' heads, and declared that he would shoot any one dead who attempted to follow.

Luckily I was in a close-fitting black cloth suit, being still in mourning for our blessed martyr, and intending to make my toilette at Rambouillet. I bade one of the fellows who had dismounted to give me his cloak, and while they were still staring at me, I sprang into the saddle, arranged the cloak, and rode off in pursuit. I knew I could keep my seat even on a man's saddle, for cavaliers' daughters had had to do strange things, and it was thus that I was obliged to come away from my dear Berenger's side. But then I rode between my father and Eustace. Now, if I did not find out where my poor Margaret was gone, who was to deliver her?

The men had heart of grace enough to follow me, more of them, indeed, than I wanted, as of course it was better to go quietly than to have them clattering with me. I told them to keep a little in the rear, and I rode on, trying to see above the hedges the glancing of the helmets of the dragoons. Across some vineyards I once caught sight of something like a carriage and a troop of horse, quite in a different direction from what I expected, and presently, when I came to a cross-road, I saw by the marks in the mud and more that they must have turned that way. I must follow by such guidance as these supplied, and fortunately there had recently been rain, so that the wheel and hoof marks could be tracked. To my amazement they led through many turns and twists at last towards Paris; but to my dismay, when I came to the paved roads that surround the city, I lost all traces. I knew I was a remarkable figure when we were on the high roads, and so I kept back, making one of the servants inquire at a little cabaret on the road whether a carriage, attended by dragoons, had pa.s.sed that way.

'Yes,' they brought me word. 'A close carriage, no doubt containing a state prisoner, had been escorted by dragoons on the way to the Bastille.'

The man brought me back the answer, weeping. I scolded the fellow well for thinking that these rogues SAYING Madame was at the Bastille made it so, and yet it echoed my own alarm. I had at least ascertained one point. She had not been transported to some solitary castle in the country, but must be near at hand.

I must now go home, and see what help was to be had; but as they would never let me pa.s.s the gates of Paris looking as I knew I must look, I was obliged to ride back and meet the carriage, which had bidden to follow us, and return to it in order to re-enter the city.

My mother was at St. Germain with our own Queen; who would be my resource? I thought I had better first go home and see what Sir Francis Ommaney's counsel would be, and whether he thought the English amba.s.sador, Sir Richard Browne, could give any help, though, unfortunately, poor Meg was no longer an English subject. There was consternation enough when I came in with my terrible news, but at least there was common-sense, and not shrieking. Sir Francis recommended me at once to dress myself to go to St. Germain, while he would repair to the emba.s.sy, since Sir Richard was the most likely person to be able to advise him. We also thought of sending a courier to Solivet, who was with the army on the frontier; and I put on a dress fit to obtain admission at St. Germain. Lady Ommaney was scolding me into taking some food before starting, and crying, because she had a bad attack of rheumatism, and her husband would not let her go with us, when there was a knock, and one of the women ran in. 'News, news, Mademoiselle! News of Madame la Vicomtesse! But ah! she is in a sad plight.'

Down I ran headlong, and whom should I find but the dear and excellent Madame Darpent. She, who never left her home but for Church, had come to help us in our extremity. It seemed that Meg's dragoon (about whom she has told her own story) had disguised himself as soon as he came within Paris, and come in hot haste to M. Darpent, telling him how once my brave sister had repulsed the whole crew of villains, and how he had hurried away while the gentlemen (pretty gentlemen, indeed!) were drinking wine to get up their courage for another encounter, in which they were determined to succeeded since they were heavy bets at the Prince's camp that the pride of la grand Anglaise should be subdued before midnight. The dragoon had not ventured to come any farther than Maison Darpent, lest he should be missed and his comrades should not be able to conceal his absence but he a.s.sured M. Darpent that though they might appear to obey orders, they were resolved to give the lady every opportunity of resistance. Was she not the wife of the best captain they had ever had, and had she not knelt like one of the holy saints in a mystery play?

I was for setting forth at once with Sir Francis, sure that the iniquity could not proceed when it was made public. Of course we would have risked it, but we might not have been able to force our way in without authority, since the vile Abbe was on his own ground, and Madame Darpent told us her son had devised a better plan. He had gone to the Coadjutor, who in the dotage of his uncle, the Archbishop of Paris, exercised all his powers. As one of their monkish clergy, this same Abbe was not precisely under his jurisdiction, but the celebration of a marriage, and at such an hour, in a Priory Chapel, was an invasion of the privileges of the parish priest, and thus the Bishop of the See had every right to interfere. And this same Coadjutor was sure to have an especial delight in detecting a scandal, and overthrowing a plan of the Prince of Conde and the ruling party at Court, so that if he could be found there was little doubt of his a.s.sistance.

In order to lose no time, Clement Darpent had gone instantly in search of him, and his good mother had come at once in her sedan to see if I were returned, relieve our minds about my sister, and if my mother were within reach, prepare her to go in search of Margaret, since the Coadjutor, Bishop though he were, was still young, and not at all the sort of man who could be suffered to bring her home without some elder matron as her escort. Or if my mother were out of reach, Madame Darpent was prepared, as an act of charity and goodness, to go herself in quest of our poor Meg. The carriage had followed her to the door for the purpose as soon as it could be got ready, and to add to my exceeding grat.i.tude, she was willing to take me with her. Sir Francis insisted on going to my mother. He said it was right, but we doubted whether it would do any good. We waited only for tidings which her son had promised to send, and they came at last in a small billet sent by one of his clerks. The Coadjutor had absolutely fired at the notion of such a hit to the opposite party, and was only getting together what were called the "First of Corinthians," namely, the corps who had belonged to him during the siege, and had obtained the nickname because he was t.i.tular Archbishop of Corinth.

Clement would not leave him a moment, lest he should be diverted from his purpose, but sent word to Madame Darpent that she, or whoever was to escort Madame de Bellaise, was to meet him at seven o'clock in the open s.p.a.ce by the Barriere, showing a green light through the carriage window, when he would show a red one.

Oh! what might not had happened before we could get there! I thought I was used enough to suspense, I who had heard the rattle of the musketry in more than one battle, but I should have been wild had not that best of women held my hands and soothed me and helped me to say my prayers.

Hours seemed to go by as we sat in the dark with our lamp behind the green curtain over the window, but at last the trampling of horses was heard and the red light appeared. Presently Clement came to our door, and exchanged a few words, but he said he must return to the Coadjutor, who was in the best humour in the world.

The gates were closed, but the Coadjutor had no difficulty in pa.s.sing them, and we followed in his train. It was a dark night, but mounted servants carried flambeaux, and we saw the light glance on the Corinthians who guarded us. At last we stopped. We could not see then, but I visited the place afterwards, and saw it was a tall brick house, with a high wall round a courtyard. Here the Coadjutor's carriage drew up, and entrance was demanded for "Monseigneur l'Archeveque de Corinthe, Coadjutor de Paris." It may be supposed that the dragoon who kept the door made no difficulty.

The carriage moved on, we drew up, and Clement, who had waited, handed us out saying: 'He tells me we are just in time. Be as silent as possible.'

We found the court lighted with torches, the Coadjutor's chaplain arranging his purple robe, as he walked on through the doors that were opened for him. Sir Francis led Madame Darpent, Clement gave me his had, as we followed closely and noiselessly.

The chapel had its great wax candles alight on the altar. We could see in, as we paused in the darkness of the antechapel, outside the screen, while the Coadjutor advanced the door. My Margaret knelt, clinging closely to a great stone image. The vile coward d'Aubepine was commanding-for we heard him-his soldiers to seize her. The Abbe stood finding the place in his book; Lamont was at a safe distance, however, trying to induce her to rise. The Coadjutor's clear voice was heard.

'Benedicite, Messieurs,' he said, and oh! the start they gave! 'What hole function am I interrupting, M. l'Abbe? The lady is in the att.i.tude of a penitent, but I was not aware that it was one of the customs of your order to absolve thus in public.'

'Monseigneur,' said the Abbe, 'neither was I aware that Episcopal surveillance extended to religious houses.'

Margaret here broke in. She had risen to her feet, and looking at the Archbishop, with eyes beaming in her pale face, she cried: 'Oh!

Monseigneur, you are come to save me! These wicked men are striving to marry me against my will.'

'To celebrate the marriage sacrament,' continued the Coadjutor, in his calm sneering tone; 'then M. l'Abbe, I suppose you have procured the necessary permission from the curate of the parish to perform the rite at this strange time and place? I am sorry, Messieurs, to break up so romantic a plan, savouring of the fine days of the quatre fils Aymon, but I must stand up for the claims of the diocese and the parish.'

M. de Lamont turned round to my sister, and made one of his lowest bows, such as no one but a French courtier CAN make (thank Heaven!).

'Madame,' he said, 'we are disconcerted, but I shall still put my trust in the truth that beauty ever pardons the efforts of love.'

'So it may be Monsieur,' returned Margaret, already fully herself, and looking as tall, white, and dignified among them as a G.o.ddess among apes, 'so it may be, where there is either beauty or love;' and she made him a most annihilating curtsey. Then turning to the Coadjutor she said: 'Monseigneur, I cannot express my obligations to you;' and then as Clement stood behind him, she added: 'Ah, Monsieur, I knew I might reckon on you,' holding out her hand, English fashion. She did not see us, but M. d'Aubepine, who was slinking off the scene, like a beaten hound, as well he might, unaware that we were in the antechapel, caught his foot and spur in Madame Darpent's long trailing cloak, and came down at full length on the stone floor, being perhaps a little fl.u.s.tered with wine. He lay still for the first moment, and there was an outcry. One of the soldiers cried out to the other as Madame Darpent's black dress and white cap flashed into the light: 'It is the holy saint who has appeared to avenge the sacrilege! She has struck him dead.'

And behold the superst.i.tion affected even the licentious good-for-nothing Abbe. Down he dropped upon his knees, hiding his eyes, and sobbing out: 'Sancta Margarita, spare me, spare me! I vow thee a silver image. I vow to lead a changed life. I was drawn into it, holy Lady Saint. They showed me the Prince's letter.'

He got it all out in one breath, while some of them were lifting up d'Aubepine, and the Coadjutor was in convulsions of suppressed laughter, and catching hold of Clement's arm whispered: 'No, no, Monsieur, I entreat of you, do not undeceive him. Such a scene is worth anything! Madame, I entreat of you,' to Meg, who was stepping forward.

However, of course it could not last long, though as d'Aubepine almost instantly began to swear, as he recovered his senses, Madame Darpent unconsciously maintained the delusion, by saying solemnly in her voice, the gravest and deepest that I ever heard in a Frenchwoman: 'Add not another sin, sir, to those with which you have profaned this holy place.'

The Abbe thereupon took one look and broke into another tempest of entreaties and vows, which Madame Darpent by this time heard. 'M. l'Abbe,' she said, 'I pray you to be silent, I am no saint, but a friend, if Madame will allow me so to call myself, who has come to see her home. But Oh! Monsieur,' she added, with the wonderful dignity that surrounded her, 'forget not, I pray you, that what is invisible is the more real, and that the vows and resolution you have addressed to me in error are none the less registered in Heaven.'

Mocker as the Coadjutor habitually was, he stood impressed, and uttered no word to mar the effect, simply saying: 'Madame, we thank you for the lesson you have given us! And now, I think, these ladies will be glad to close this painful scene.'

Meg, who with Madame Darpent, had satisfied herself that the wretch d'Aubepine had not hurt himself anything like as much as he deserved, declared herself ready and thankful to go away. The Abbe and Lamont both entreated that she would take some refreshment before returning home, but she shuddered, and said she could taste nothing there, and holding tight by my arm, she moved away, though we paused while Madame Darpent was kneeling down and asking the Archbishop to bless her. He did so, and her spirit seemed to have touched his lighter and gayer one, and to have made him feel what he was, for he gave the benediction with real solemnity and unaffected reverence for the old lady.

He himself handed her into the carriage, and he must greatly have respected her, for though he whispered something to her son about the grand deliverance of the victim through St. Margaret and the Dragon (an irresistible pun on the dragoon), yet excellent story as could have been made of the free-thinking Abbe on his knees to the old Frondeur's widow, he never did make it public property. I believe that it is quite true, as my sister's clever friend Madame de Sevigne declares, that there was always more good in Cardinal de Retz, as he now is called, than was supposed.

Poor Meg had kept up gallantly through all her terrible struggle of many hours, but when we had her safely in the carriage in the dark, she sank back like one exhausted, and only held my hand and Madame Darpent's to her lips by turns. I wanted to ask whether she felt ill or hurt in any way, but after she had gently answered, 'Oh, no, only so thankful, so worn out,' Madame Darpent advised me not to agitate her by talking to her, but to let her rest. Only the kind, motherly woman wanted to know how long it was since she had eaten, and seeing the light of a little CABARET on the road, she stopped the carriage and sent her son to fetch some bread and a cup of wine.

For I should have said that M. Darpent had been obliged to return in the same carriage with us, since he could not accompany the Coadjutor on his way back. He wished to have gone outside, lest his presence should incommode our poor Meg; but it had begun to rain, and we could not consent. Nor was Meg like a Frenchwoman, to want to break out in fits the moment the strain was over.

He brought us out some galettes, as they call them, and each of us sisters had a draught of wine, which did us a great deal of good. Then we drove on in the dark as fast as we could, for the Coadjutor's carriage had pa.s.sed us while we were halting, and we wanted to enter the gates at the same time with him.

I sat beside my sister, holding her hand, as it seemed to give her a sense of safety; Madame Darpent was on her other side, Clement opposite. We kept silence, for Madame Darpent declared that no questions ought to be asked of Madame de Bellaise till the next morning.

Presently we heard an unmistakable snoring from the old lady's corner, and soon after I felt my sister's fingers relax and drop mine, so that I knew she slept. Then I could not but begin to tell, in the quiet and stillness, how my dear brother would thank and bless him for what he had done for us.

I am an old woman now, but I have only to shut my eyes and it all comes back on me-the dark carriage, the raindrops against the window glancing in the light of the flambeaux, the crashing of the wheels, and the steady breathing of the sleepers, while we two softly talked on, and our hearts went out to one another, so that we knew our own feelings for one another.

I think it came of talking of Eustace and his not being able to keep back, that, though Eustace was in some sort the guiding star of his life, yet what he had done for us was not merely for my brother's sake, but for another much more unworthy, had he only known it.

Then he found he had betrayed himself, and asked my pardon, declaring that he had only meant to watch me at a distance (poor me), knowing well the vast gulf between our stations. What could I answer but that this was only French nonsense; that we knew better in England what a gentleman meant, and that I was sure that my brother would freely and joyfully give me to him, poor, broken, ruined cavalier exile as I was? And then we got hold of each other's hands, and he called me all sorts of pretty names in French and in English; and I felt myself the proudest and happiest maiden in France, or England to boot, for was not mine the very n.o.blest, most upright and disinterested of hearts?

Only we agreed that it would be better to let no one at Paris know what was between us until my brother should return. We knew that he would be the most likely person to obtain my mother's consent, and he really stood in the place of a father to me; while if we disclosed it at once there was no knowing what my mother might not attempt in his absence, and his mother would never permit us to be in opposition to mine. She would not understand that, though I might not disobey my mother, it was quite impossible that my feelings and opinions should be guided by one of different religion, nation, and principles altogether.

However, we agreed to write to my brother in Holland as soon as we could find a safe conveyance, and when there were signs of waking on the part of our companions we unlocked the hands that had been clasping one another so tightly.

(Finished by Margaret.) So you thought I was asleep, did you, Mistress Nan? I suppose after all these years you will not be ready to box my ears for having heard? It was no feigning; I really was so worn and wearied out that I lay back on the cushions they had arranged for me in a sort of a.s.soup.i.s.s.e.m.e.nt, only at first able to feel that I was safe, and that Annora was with me. She says that I dropped her hand. Well, perhaps I may have dozed for a moment, but it seems to me that I never lost the knowledge of the sound of the wheels, nor of the murmuring voices, though I could not stir, nor move hand nor foot, and though I heard it all, it was not till I was lying in bed the next morning that I recollected any part of it, and then it was more as if I had dreamt it than as a reality.

Moreover, Annora was hovering over me, looking perfectly innocent, and intent on making me rest, and feeding me upon possets, and burning to hear my story. Then came my mother from St. Germain, having received a courier who had been dispatched at dawn. She embraced me and wept over me, and yet-and yet I think there mingled with her feeling something of vexation and annoyance. If I were to be carried off at all by a man of rank and station, it would have been almost better if he had succeeded in marrying me than that the affair should be a mere matter of gossip. Certainly, that my rescue should be owing to one of the factious lawyers, and to that mischievous party leader the Coadjutor, was an unmixed grievance. After all my follies at Nid de Merle, I was quite sufficiently in ill odour with the Court to make it needful to be very careful. If I had only waited till morning, the Queen would have taken care to deliver me without my having given a triumph which the Frondeurs would not fail to make the most of.

'Where should I have been in the morning?' I said. 'Did she not know that the horrible wager related to midnight?'

She supposed any woman could take care of herself. At any rate I had contrived to offend everybody. The Prince was paramount at Court, and carried all before him. Mademoiselle, in her devotion to him, and the Queen-Regent would never forgive my trafficking with the Frondeurs. On the whole, my mother really thought that the best way to regain my favour or even toleration, would be to accept M. de Lamont with a good grace, since he was certainly distractedly in love with me, and if I fell into disgrace with the authorities, I might have my son and the administration of his property taken away from me in a still more distressing manner, whereas it would only depend on myself to rule M. de Lamont.

'I have only to say,' observed Annora, 'that if she were to do such a thing I should never speak to her again.'

Whereupon my mother severely reproved my sister, declaring that it was all her fault, and that she had gone beyond all bounds when left to herself, and would be a disgrace to the family.