The Chaplet of Pearls by Charlotte M. Yonge (have you read this book .TXT) 📖

All will go well. The child must be wearied with her frenzy of grief and devotion! She will catch gladly at an excuse for change. A scene or two, and she will readily yield!’

‘It is true,’ said the Abbess, thoughtfully, ‘that she has walked and ridden out lately. She has asked questions about her Chateaux, and their garrisons. I have heard nothing of the stricter convent for many weeks; but still, brother, you must go warily to work.’

‘And you, sister, must show no relenting. Let her not fancy she can work upon you.’

By this time the brother and sister were at the gateway of the convent; a lay sister presided there, but there was no cloture, as the strict seclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier rode into the cloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been entering a secular Chateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Madame de Bellaise to the parlour, while she dispatched a request that her niece would attend her there.

The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large room furnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions, much like other reception-rooms. A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed upon the hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as indeed an ecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup with the ladies that evening.

After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a low voice at the door was heard, saying, ‘Deus vobiscum.’ The Abbess answered, ‘Et cum spiritu tuo;’ and on this monastic substitute for a knock and ‘come in,’ there appeared a figure draped and veiled from head to foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable moving cone. She made an obeisance as she entered, saying, ‘You commanded my presence, Madame?’

‘Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of moment.’

‘At his service. I, too, would speak to him.’

‘First, then, my dear friend,’ said the Chevalier, ‘let me see you. That face must not be muffled any longer from those who love you.’

She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade her turn back her veil. She did so, and disclosed the little face, so well known to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the dark eyes sparkling, though at once softer and more resolute.

‘Ah! my fair niece,’ said the Chevalier, ‘this is no visage to be hidden! I am glad to see it re-embellished, and it will be lovelier than ever when you have cast off this disguised.’

‘That will never be,’ said Eustacie.

‘Ah! we know better! My daughter is sending down a counterpart of her own wedding-dress for your bride of the Mardi-Gras.’

‘And who may that bride be?’ said Eustacie, endeavouring to speak as though it were nothing to her.

‘Nay, ma petite! it is too long to play the ignorant when the bridegroom is on his way from Paris.’

‘Madame,’ said Eustacie, turning to her aunt, ‘you cannot suffer this scandal. The meanest peasant may weep her first year of widowhood in peace.’

‘Listen, child. There are weighty reasons. The Duke of Anjou is a candidate for the throne of Poland, and my son is to accompany him thither. He must go as Marquis de Nid de Merle, in full possession of your estates.’

‘Let him take them,’ began Eustacie, ‘who first commits a cowardly murder, and then forces himself on the widow he has made?’

‘Folly, child, folly,’ said the Chevalier, who supposed her ignorant of the circumstances of her husband’s assassination; and the Abbess, who was really ignorant, exclaimed—‘Fid donc niece; you know not what you say.’

‘I know, Madame—I know from an eye-witness,’ said Eustacie, firmly. ‘I know the brutal words that embittered my husband’s death; and were there no other cause, they would render wedlock with him who spoke them sacrilege.’ Resolutely and steadily did the young wife speak, looking at them with the dry fixed eye to which tears had been denied ever since that eventful night.’

‘Poor child,’ said the Chevalier to his sister. ‘She is under the delusion still. Husband! There is none in the case.’ Then waving his hand as Eustacie’s face grew crimson, and her eyes flashed indignation, while her lips parted, ‘It was her own folly that rendered it needful to put an end to the boy’s presumption. Had she been less willful and more obedient, instead of turning the poor lad’s head by playing at madame, we could have let him return to his island fogs; but when SHE encouraged him in contemplating the carrying her away, and alienating her and her lands from the true faith, there was but one remedy—to let him perish with the rest. My son is willing to forgive her childish pleasure in a boy’s passing homage, and has obtained the King’s sanction to an immediate marriage.’

‘Which, to spare you, my dear,’ added the aunt, ‘shall take place in our chapel.’

‘It shall never take place anywhere,’ said Eustacie, quietly, though with a quiver in her voice; ‘no priest will wed me when he has heard me.’

‘The dispensation will overcome all scruples,’ said the Abbess. ‘Hear me, niece. I am sorry for you, but it is best that you should know at once that there is nothing in heaven or earth to aid you in resisting your duty.’

Eustacie made no answer, but there was a strange half-smile on her lip, and a light in her eye which gave her an air not so much of entreaty as of defiance. She glanced from one to the other, as if considering, but then slightly shook her head. ‘What does she mean?’ asked the Chevalier and the Abbess one of another, as, with a dignified gesture, she moved to leave the room.

‘Follow her. Convince her that she has no hope,’ said the uncle; and the Abbess, moving faster than her wont, came up with her at the archway whence one corridor led to the chapel, another to her own apartments. Her veil was down again, but her aunt roughly withdrew it, saying, ‘Look at me, Eustacie. I come to warn you that you need not look to tamper with the sisters. Not one will aid you in your headstrong folly. If you cast not off ere supper-time this mockery of mourning, you shall taste of that discipline you used to sigh for. We have borne with your fancy long enough—you, who are no more a widow than I—nor wife.’

‘Wife and widow am I in the sight of Him who will protect me,’ said Eustacie, standing her ground.

‘Insolent! Why, did I not excuse this as a childish delusion, should I not spurn one who durst love—what say I—not a heretic merely, but the foe of her father’s house?’

‘He!’ cried Eustacie; ‘what had he ever done?’

‘He inherited the blood of the traitor Baron,’ returned her aunt. ‘Ever have that recreant line injured us! My nephew’s sword avenged the wrongs of many generations.’

‘Then,’ said Eustacie, looking