The Chaplet of Pearls

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THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS

BY

CHARLOTTE M.YONGE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE BRIDAL OF THE WHITE AND BLACK

CHAPTER II. THE SEPARATION

CHAPTER III. THE FAMILY COUNCIL

CHAPTER IV. TITHONUS

CHAPTER V. THE CONVENT BIRD

CHAPTER VI. FOULLY COZENED

CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN'S PASTORAL

CHAPTER VIII. 'LE BROUILLON'

CHAPTER IX. THE WEDDING WITH CRIMSON FAVOURS

CHAPTER X. MONSIEUR'S BALLET

CHAPTER XI. THE KING'S TRAGEDY

CHAPTER XII. THE PALACE OF SLAUGHTER

CHAPTER XIII. THE BRIDEGROOM'S ARRIVAL

CHAPTER XIV. SWEET HEART

CHAPTER XV. NOTRE-DAME DE BELLAISE

CHAPTER XVI. THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAGE

CHAPTER XVII. THE GHOSTS OF THE TEMPLARS

CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOONBEAM

CHAPTER XIX. LA RUE DES TROIS FEES

CHAPTER XX. THE ABBE

CHAPTER XXI. UNDER THE WALNUT-TREE

CHAPTER XXII. DEPARTURE

CHAPTER XXIII. THE EMPTY CRADLE

CHAPTER XXIV. THE GOOD PRIEST OF NISSARD

CHAPTER XXV. THE VELVET COACH

CHAPTER XXVI. THE CHEVALIER'S EXPIATION

CHAPTER XXVII. THE DYING KING

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE ORPHANS OF LA SABLERIE

CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE KING'S NAME

CHAPTER XXX. CAGED IN THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST

CHAPTER XXXI. THE DARK POOL OF THE FUTURE

CHAPTER XXXII. 'JAM SATIS'

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SCANDAL OF THE SYNOD OF MONTAUBAN

CHAPTER XXXIV. MADAME LA DUCHESSE

CHAPTER XXXV. THE ITALIAN PEDLAR

CHAPTER XXXVI. SPELL AND POTION

CHAPTER XXXVII. BEATING AGAINST THE BARS

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ENEMY IN PRESENCE

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE PEDLAR'S PREDICTION

CHAPTER XL. THE SANDS OF OLONNE

CHAPTER XLI. OUR LADY OF HOPE

CHAPTER XLII. THE SILVER BULLET

CHAPTER XLIII. LA BAISER D'EUSTACIE

CHAPTER XLIV. THE GALIMAFRE

PREFACE

It is the fashion to call every story controversial that deals with
times when controversy or a war of religion was raging; but it
should be remembered that there are some which only attempt to
portray human feelings as affected by the events that such warfare
occasioned. 'Old Mortality' and 'Woodstock' are not controversial
tales, and the 'Chaplet of Pearls' is so quite as little. It only
aims at drawing certain scenes and certain characters as the
convulsions of the sixteenth century may have affected them, and
is, in fact, like all historical romance, the shaping of the
conceptions that the imagination must necessarily form when
dwelling upon the records of history. That faculty which might be
called the passive fancy, and might almost be described in Portia's
song, --

'It is engendered in the eyes,
By READING fed - and there it dies,'--

that faculty, I say, has learnt to feed upon character and
incident, and to require that the latter should be effective and
exciting. Is it not reasonable to seek for this in the days when
such things were not infrequent, and did not imply exceptional
wickedness or misfortune in those engaged in them? This seems to
me one plea for historical novel, to which I would add the
opportunity that it gives for study of the times and delineation of
characters. Shakespeare's Henry IV. and Henry V., Scott's Louis
XI., Manzoni's Federigo Borromeo, Bulwer's Harold, James's Philip
Augustus, are all real contributions to our comprehension of the
men themselves, by calling the chronicles and memoirs into action.
True, the picture cannot be exact, and is sometimes distorted--nay,
sometimes praiseworthy efforts at correctness in the detail take
away whatever might have been lifelike in the outline. Yet,
acknowledging all this, I must still plead for the tales that
presumptuously deal with days gone by, as enabling the young to
realize history vividly--and, what is still more desirable,
requiring an effort of the mind which to read of modern days does
not. The details of Millais' Inquisition or of his Huguenot may be
in error in spite of all his study and diligence, but they have
brought before us for ever the horrors of the _auto-da-fe_, and the
patient, steadfast heroism of the man who can smile aside his
wife's endeavour to make him tacitly betray his faith to save his
life. Surely it is well, by pen as by picture, to go back to the
past for figures that will stir the heart like these, even though
the details be as incorrect as those of the revolt of Liege or of
La Ferrette in 'Quentin Durward' and 'Anne of Geierstein.'

Scott, however, willfully carved history to suit the purposes of
his story; and in these days we have come to feel that a story must
earn a certain amount of credibility by being in keeping with
established facts, even if striking events have to be sacrificed,
and that the order of time must be preserved. In Shakespeare's
days, or even in Scott's, it might have been possible to bring
Henry III. and his _mignons_ to due punishment within the limits of
a tale beginning with the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; but in 1868
the broad outlines of tragedy must be given up to keep within the
bounds of historical verity.

How far this has been done, critics better read than myself must
decide. I have endeavoured to speak fairly, to the best of my
ability, of such classes of persons as fell in with the course of
the narrative, according to such lights as the memoirs of the time
afford. The Convent is scarcely a CLASS portrait, but the
condition of it seems to be justified by hints in the Port Royal
memoirs, respecting Maubuisson and others which Mere Angelique
reformed. The intolerance of the ladies at Montauban is described
in Madame Duplessis-Mornay's life; and if Berenger's education and
opinions are looked on as not sufficiently alien from Roman
Catholicism, a reference to Froude's 'History of Queen Elizabeth'
will show both that the customs of the country clergy, and likewise
that a broad distinction was made by the better informed among the
French between Calvinism and Protestantism or Lutheranism, in which
they included Anglicanism. The minister Gardon I do not consider
as representing his class. He is a POSSIBILITY modified to serve
the purposes of the story.

Into historical matters, however, I have only entered so far as my
story became involved with them. And here I have to apologize for
a few blunders, detected too late for alteration even in the
volumes. Sir Francis Walsingham was a young rising statesman in
1572, instead of the elderly sage he is represented; his daughter
Frances was a mere infant, and Sir Philip Sidney was not knighted
till much later. For the rest, I have tried to show the scenes
that shaped themselves before me as carefully as I could; though of
course they must not be a presentiment of the times themselves, but
of my notion of them.

C. M. Yonge

November 14th, 1868

THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS

or

THE WHITE AND BLACK RIBAUMONT

CHAPTER I. THE BRIDAL OF THE WHITE AND BLACK

Small was the ring, and small in truth the finger:
What then? the faith was large that dropped it down.
Aubrey De Vere, INFANT BRIDAL

Setting aside the consideration of the risk, the baby-weddings of
the Middle Ages must have been very pretty sights.

So the Court of France thought the bridal of Henri Beranger
Eustache de Ribaumont and of Marie Eustacie Rosalie de Rebaumont du
Nid-de-Merle, when, amid the festivals that accompanied the
signature of the treaty of Cateau-Cabresis, good-natured King Henri
II. presided merrily at the union of the little pair, whose unite
ages did not reach ten years.

There they stood under the portal of Notre-Dame, the little
bridegroom in a white velvet coat, with puffed sleeves, slashed
with scarlet satin, as were the short, also puffed breeches meeting
his long white knitted silk stockings some way above the knee;
large scarlet rosettes were in his white shoes, a scarlet knot
adorned his little sword, and his velvet cap of the same colour
bore a long white plume, and was encircled by a row of pearls of
priceless value. They are no other than that garland of pearls
which, after a night of personal combat before the walls of Calais,
Edward III. of England took from his helmet and presented to Sir
Eustache de Ribaumont, a knight of Picardy, bidding him say
everywhere that it was a gift from the King of England to the
bravest of knights.

The precious heirlooms were scarcely held with the respect due to
an ornament so acquired. The manly garb for the first time assumed
by his sturdy legs, and the possession of the little sword, were
evidently the most interesting parts of the affair to the youthful
husband, who seemed to find in them his only solace for the weary
length of the ceremony. He was a fine, handsome little fellow,
fair and rosy, with bright blue eyes, and hair like shining flax,
unusually tall and strong-limbed for his age; and as he gave his
hand to his little bride, and walked with her under a canopy up to
kneel at the High Altar, for the marriage blessing and the mass,
they looked like a full-grown couple seen through a diminishing-
glass.

The little bride was perhaps a less beautiful child, but she had a
splendid pair of black eyes, and a sweet little mouth, both set
into the uncomprehending solemnity of baby gravity and contentment
in fine clothes. In accordance with the vow indicated by her name
of Marie, her dress was white and blue, turquoise forget-me-nots
bound the little lace veil on her dark chestnut hair, the bosom of
her white satin dress was sprinkled with the same azure jewel, and
turquoises bordered every seam of the sweeping skirt with a train
befitting a count's daughter, and meandered in gorgeous
constellations round the hem. The little thing lisped her own vows
forth without much notion of their sense, and indeed was sometimes
prompted by her bridesmaid cousin, a pretty little girl a year
older, who thrust in her assistance so glibly that the King, as
well as others of the spectators, laughed, and observed that she
would get herself married to the boy instead of her cousin.

There was, however, to be no doubt nor mistake about Beranger and
Eustacie de Ribaumont being man and wife. Every ceremony,
religious or domestic, that could render a marriage valid, was gone
through with real earnestness, although with infinite gaiety, on
the part of the court. Much depended on their union, and the
reconcilement of the two branches of the family had long been a
favourite scheme of King Henri II.

Both alike were descended from Anselme de Ribaumont, renowned in
the first Crusade, and from the brave Picard who had received the
pearls; but, in the miserable anarchy of Charles VI.'s reign, the
elder brother had been on the Burgundian side--like most of the
other nobles of Picardy--and had thus been brought into the English
camp, where, regarding Henry V. as lawfully appointed to the
succession, and much admiring him and his brother Nedford, he had
become an ardent supporter of the English claim. He had married an
English lady, and had received the grant if the castle of Leurre in
Normandy by way of compensation for his ancestral one of Ribaumont
in Picardy, which had been declared to be forfeited by his treason,
and seized by his brother.

This brother had always been an Armagnac, and had risen and thriven
with his party,--before the final peace between France and England
obliged the elder line to submit to Charles VII. Since that time
there had been a perpetual contention as to the restitution of
Chateau Ribaumont, a strife which under Louis XI. had become an
endless lawsuit; and in the days of dueling had occasioned a good
many insults and private encounters. The younger branch, or Black
Ribaumonts, had received a grant from Louis XI. of the lands of
Nid-de-Merle, belonging to an unfortunate Angevin noble, who had
fallen under the royal displeasure, and they had enjoyed court
favour up to the present generation, when Henri II., either from
opposition to his father, instinct for honesty, or both, had become
a warm friend to the gay and brilliant young Baron de Ribaumont,
head of the white or elder branch of the family.

The family contention seemed likely to wear out of its own accord,
for the Count de Ribaumont was an elderly and childless man, and
his brother, the Chevalier de Ribaumont, was, according to the
usual lot of French juniors, a bachelor, so that it was expected
that the whole inheritance would centre upon the elder family.
However, to the general surprise, the Chevalier late in life
married, and became the father of a son and daughter; but soon
after calculations were still more thrown out by the birth of a
little daughter in the old age of the Count.

Almost from the hour in which her sex was announced, the King had
promised the Baron de Ribaumont that she should be the wife of his
young son, and that all the possessions of the house should be
settled upon the little couple, engaging to provide for the
Chevalier's disappointed heir in some commandery of a religious
order of knighthood.

The Baron's wife was English. He had, when on a visit to his
English kindred, entirely turned the head of the lovely Annora
Walwyn, and finding that her father, one of the gravest of Tudor
statesmen, would not hear of her breaking her engagement to the
honest Dorset squire Marmaduke Thistlewood, he had carried her off
by a stolen marriage and _coup de main_, which, as her beauty,
rank, and inheritance were all considerable, had won him great
reputation at the gay court of Henri II.

Infants as the boy and girl were, the King had hurried on their
marriage to secure its taking place in the lifetime of the Count.
The Countess had died soon after the birth of the little girl, and
if the arrangement were to take effect at all, it must be before
she should fall under the guardianship of her uncle, the Chevalier.
Therefore the King had caused her to be brought up from the cottage
in Anjou, where she had been nursed, and in person superintended
the brilliant wedding. He himself led off the dance with the tiny
bride, conducting her through its mazes with fatherly kindliness
and condescension; but Queen Catherine, who was strongly in the
interests of the Angevin branch, and had always detested the Baron
as her husband's intimate, excused herself from dancing with the
bridegroom. He therefore fell to the share of the Dauphiness Queen
of Scots, a lovely, bright-eyed, laughing girl, who so completely
fascinated the little fellow, that he convulsed the court by
observing that he should not have objected to be married to some
one like her, instead of a little baby like Eustacie.

Amid all the mirth, it was not only the Chevalier and the Queen who
bore displeased looks. In truth, both were too great adepts in
court life to let their dissatisfaction appear. The gloomiest face
was that of him whose triumph it was--the bridegroom's father, the
Baron de Ribaumont. He had suffered severely from the sickness
that prevailed in St. Quentin, when in the last August the Admiral
de Coligny had been besieged there by the Spaniards, and all agreed
that he had never been the same man since, either in health or in
demeanour. When he came back from his captivity and found the King
bent on crowning his return by the marriage of the children, he had
hung back, spoken of scruples about such unconscious vows, and had
finally only consented under stress of the personal friendship of
the King, and on condition that he and his wife should at once have
the sole custody of the little bride. Even then he moved about the
gay scene with so distressed and morose an air that he was
evidently either under the influence of a scruple of conscience or
of a foreboding of evil.

No one doubted that it had been the latter, when, three days later,
Henri II., in the prime of his strength and height of his spirits,
encountered young Des Lorges in the lists, received the splinter of
a lance in his eye, and died two days afterwards.

No sooner were his obsequies over than the Baron de Ribaumont set
off with his wife and the little bridal pair for his castle of
Leurre, in Normandy, nor was he ever seen at court again.

CHAPTER II. THE SEPARATION

Parted without the least regret,
Except that they had ever met.
* * * *
Misses, the tale that I relate,
This lesson seems to carry:
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry!
COWPER, PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED

'I will have it!'

'Thou shalt not have it!'

'Diane says it is mine.'

'Diane knows nothing about it.'

'Gentlemen always yield to ladies.'

'Wives ought to mind their husbands.'

'Then I will not be thy wife.'

'Thou canst not help it.'

'I will. I will tell my father what M. le Baron reads and sings,
and then I know he will.'

'And welcome.'

Eustacie put out her lip, and began to cry.

The 'husband and wife,' now eight and seven years old, were in a
large room hung with tapestry, representing the history of Tobit.
A great state bed, curtained with piled velvet, stood on a sort of
_dais_ at the further end; there was a toilet-table adorned with
curiously shaped boxes, and coloured Venetian glasses, and filagree
pouncet-boxes, and with a small mirror whose frame was inlaid with
gold and ivory. A large coffer, likewise inlaid, stood against the
wall, and near it a cabinet, of Dutch workmanship, a combination of
ebony, ivory, wood, and looking-glass, the centre retreating, and
so arranged that by the help of most ingenious attention to
perspective and reflection, it appeared like the entrance to a
magnificent miniature cinque-cento palace, with steps up to a
vestibule paved in black and white lozenges, and with three endless
corridors diverging from it. So much for show; for use, this
palace was a bewildering complication of secret drawers and pigeon-
holes, all depending indeed upon one tiny gold key; but unless the
use of that key were well understood, all it led to was certain
outer receptacles of fragrant Spanish gloves, knots of ribbon, and
kerchiefs strewn over with rose leaves and lavender. However,
Eustacie had secured the key, and was now far beyond these mere
superficial matters. Her youthful lord had just discovered her
mounted on a chair, her small person decked out with a profusion of
necklaces, jewels, bracelets, chains, and rings; and her fingers,
as well as they could under their stiffening load, were opening the
very penetralia of the cabinet, the inner chamber of the hall,
where lay a case adorned with the Ribaumont arms and containing the
far-famed chaplet of pearls. It was almost beyond her reach, but
she had risen on tip-toe, and was stretching out her hand for it,
when he, springing behind her on the chair, availed himself of his
superior height and strength to shut the door of this Arcanum and
turn the key. His mortifying permission to his wife to absent
herself arose from pure love of teasing, but the next moment he
added, still holding his hand on the key--'As to telling what my
father reads, that would be treason. How shouldst thou know what
it is?'

'Does thou think every one is an infant but thyself?'

'But who told thee that to talk of my father's books would get him
into trouble?' continued the boy, as they still stood together on
the high heavy wooden chair.

She tossed her pretty head, and pretended to pout.

'Was it Diane? I will know. Didst thou tell Diane?'

Instead of answering, now that his attention to the key was
relaxed, Eustacie made a sudden dart, like a little wild cat, at
the back of the chair and at the key. They chair over-balanced;
Beranger caught at the front drawer of the cabinet, which, unlocked
by Eustacie, came out in his hand, and chair, children, drawer, and
curiosities all went rolling over together on the floor with a
hubbub that brought all the household together, exclaiming and
scolding. Madame de Ribaumont's displeasure at the rifling of her
hoards knew no bounds; Eustacie, by way of defence, shrieked 'like
twenty demons;' Beranger, too honourable to accuse her, underwent
the same tempest; and at last both were soundly rapped over the
knuckles with the long handle of Madame's fan, and consigned to two
separate closets, to be dealt with on the return of M. le Baron,
while Madame returned to her embroidery, lamenting the absence of
that dear little Diane, whose late visit at the chateau had been
marked by such unusual tranquility between the children.

Beranger, in his dark closet, comforted himself with the shrewd
suspicion that his father was so employed as not to be expected at
home till supper-time, and that his mother's wrath was by no means
likely to be so enduring as to lead her to make complaints of the
prisoners; and when he heard a trampling of horses in the court, he
anticipated a speedy release and summons to show himself to the
visitors. He waited long, however, before he heard the pattering
of little feet; then a stool scraped along the floor, the button of
his door was undone, the stool pushed back, and as he emerged,
Eustacie stood before him with her finger to her lip. 'CHUT,
Beranger! It is my father and uncle, and Narcisse, and, oh! so many
_gens d'armes_. They are come to summon M. le Baron to go with
them to disperse the _preche_ by the Bac de l'Oie. And oh,
Beranger, is he not there?'

'I do not know. He went out with his hawk, and I do not think he
could have gone anywhere else. Did they say so to my mother?'

'Yes; but she never knows. And oh, Beranger, Narcisse told me--ah,
was it to tease me?--that Diane has told them all they wanted to
know, for that they sent her here on purpose to see if we were not
all Huguenots.

'Very likely, the little viper! Le me pass, Eustacie. I must go
and tell my father.'

'Thou canst not get out that way; the court is full of men-at-arms.
Hark, there's Narcisse calling me. He will come after me.'

There was not a moment to lose. Berenger flew along a corridor,
and down a narrow winding stair, and across the kitchen; then
snatching at the arm of a boy of his own age whom he met at the
door, he gasped out, 'Come and help me catch Follet, Landry!' and
still running across an orchard, he pulled down a couple of apples
from the trees, and bounded into a paddock where a small rough
Breton pony was feeding among the little tawny Norman cows. The
animal knew his little master, and trotted towards him at his call
of 'Follet, Follet. Now be a wise Follet, and play me no tricks.
Thou and I, Follet, shall do good service, if thou wilt be steady.'

Follet made his advances, but with a coquettish eye and look, as if
ready to start away at any moment.

'Soh, Follet. I have no bread for thee, only two apples; but,
Follet, listen. There's my _beau-pere_ the Count, and the
Chevalier, all spite, and their whole troop of savage _gens
d'armes_, come out to fall upon the poor Huguenots, who are doing
no harm at all, only listening to a long dull sermon. And I am
much afraid my father is there, for he went out his hawk on his
wrist, and he never does take Ysonde for any real sport, as thou
and I would do, Follet. He says it is all vanity of vanities. But
thou know'st, if they caught him at the _preche_ they would call it
heresy and treason, and all sorts of horrors, and any way they
would fall like demons on the poor Huguenots, Jacques and all--
thine own Jacques, Follet. Come, be a loyal pony, Follet. Be at
least as good as Eustacie.'

Follet was evidently attentive to this peroration, turning round
his ear in a sensible attitude, and advancing his nose to the
apples. As Beranger held them out to him, the other boy clutched
his shaggy forelock so effectually that the start back did not
shake him off, and the next moment Beranger was on his back.

'And I, Monsieur, what shall I do?'

'Thou, Landry? I know. Speed like a hare, lock the avenue gate,
and hide the key. That will delay them a long time. Off now,
Follet.'

Beranger and Follet understood one another far too well to care
about such trifles as saddle and bridle, and off they went through
green grassy balks dividing the fields, or across the stubble,
till, about three miles from the castle, they came to a narrow
valley, dipping so suddenly between the hills that it could hardly
have been suspected by one unaware of its locality, and the sides
were dotted with copsewood, which entirely hid the bottom.
Beranger guided his pony to a winding path that led down the steep
side of the valley, already hearing the cadence of a loud, chanting
voice, throwing out its sounds over the assembly, whence arose
assenting hums over an undercurrent of sobs, as though the
excitable French assembly were strongly affected.

The thicket was so close that Beranger was almost among the
congregation before he could see more than a passing glimpse of a
sea of heads. Stout, ruddy, Norman peasants, and high white-capped
women, mingled with a few soberly-clad townsfolk, almost all with
the grave, steadfast cast of countenance imparted by unresisted
persecution, stood gathered round the green mound that served as a
natural pulpit for a Calvinist minister, who more the dress of a
burgher, but entirely black. To Beranger's despair, he was in the
act of inviting his hearers to join with him in singing one of
Marot's psalms; and the boy, eager to lose not a moment, grasped
the skirt of the outermost of the crowd. The man, an absorbed-
looking stranger, merely said, 'Importune me not, child.'