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there is neither pity nor hope from you."

And with another obeisance, she turned to ascend the stairs. Madame paced back to her brother.

"What," he said; "you have not yet dealt with her?"

"No, brother, I never saw a like mood. She seems neither to fear nor to struggle. I knew she was too true a Ribaumont for weak tears and entreaties s; but, fiery little being as once she was, I looked to see her force spend itself in passion, and that then the victory would have been easy; but no, she ever looks as if she had some inward resource-some security-and therefore could be calm. I should deem it some Huguenot fanaticism, but she is a very saint as to the prayers of the Church, the very torment of our lives."

"Could she escape?" exclaimed the Chevalier, who had been considering while his sister was speaking.

"Impossible! Besides, where could she go? But the gates shall be closed. I will warn the portress to let none pass out without my permission."

The Chevalier took a turn up and down the room; then exclaimed, "It was very ill-advised to let her women have access to her! Let us have Véronique summoned instantly."

At that moment, however, the ponderous carriage of Monseigneur, with out-riders, both lay and clerical, came trampling up to the archway, and the Abbess hurried off to her own apartment to divest herself of her hunting-gear ere she received her guest; and the orders to one of the nuns to keep a watch on her niece were oddly mixed with those to the cook, confectioner, and butterer.

La Mère Marie Séraphine was not a cruel or an unkind woman. She had been very fond of her pretty little niece in her childhood, but had deeply resented the arrangement which had removed her from her own superintendence to that of the Englishwoman, besides the uniting to the young Baron one whom she deemed the absolute right of Narcisse. She had received

joy, and had always treated her with much indulgence, and when the drooping, broken-hearted girl came back once more to the shelter of her convent, the goodhumoured Abbess only wished to make her happy again.

But Eustacie's misery was far beyond the ken of her aunt, and the jovial turn of these consolations did but deepen her agony. To be congratulated on her release from the heretic, assured of future happiness with her cousin, and, above all, to hear Berenger abused with all the bitterness of rival family and rival religion, tore up the lacerated spirit.

Ill, dejected, and broken down, too subdued to fire up in defence, and only longing for the power of indulging in silent grief, Eustacie had shrunk from her, and wrapped herself up in the ceaseless round of masses and prayers, in which she was allowed to perceive a glimmering of hope for her husband's soul. The Abbess, ever busy with affairs of her convent or matters of pleasure, soon relinquished the vain attempt to console where she could not sympathise, trusted that the fever of devotion would wear itself out, and left her niece to herself. Of the seven nuns, two were decorously gay, like their Mother Abbess; one was a prodigious worker of tapestry, two were unrivalled save by one another as confectioners. Eustacie had been their pet in her younger days; now she was out of their reach, they tried in turn to comfort her; and when she would not be comforted, they, too, felt aggrieved by the presence of one whose austerity reproached their own laxity; they resented her disappointment at Sour Monique's having been transferred to Luçon, and they, too, left her to the only persons whose presence she had ever seemed to relish,-namely, her maid Véronique, and Véronique's mother, her old nurse Perrine, wife of a farmer about two miles off. The woman had been Eustacie's foster-mother, and continued to exert over her much of the caressing care of a nurse.

After parting with her aunt, Eustacie

then, clasping her hands, murmured to herself, "No! no! speed is my best hope;" and at once mounted the stairs, and entered a room, where the large stone crucifix, a waxen Madonna, and the holy water font, gave a cell-like aspect to the room; and a straw pallet covered with sackcloth was on the floor, a richly curtained couch driven into the rear, as unused.

She knelt for a moment before the Madonna, "Ave Maria, be with me. and mine. Oh! blessed Lady, thou hadst to fly with thy Holy One from cruel men. Have thou pity on the

fatherless!"

Then going to the door, she clapped her hands; and, as Véronique entered, she bade her shut and bolt the door, and at the same moment began in nervous haste to throw off her veil and unfasten her dress.

"Make haste, Véronique. A dress of thine

"All is known, then!" cried Véronique, throwing up her arms.

"No, but he is coming-Narcisse to marry me at once-Mardi-Gras—-—" "Et quoi? Madame has but to speak the word, and it is impossible."

"And after what my aunt has said, I would die a thousand deaths ere speaking that word. I asked her, Véronique! She would have vengeance on the most guiltless the most guiltless-do you hear?-of the Norman house. Never, never shall she have the chance! Come, thy striped petticoat!"

66 "But, oh! what will madame do? Where would she go? Oh! it is impossible!"

"First to thy father's. Yes, I know. He has once called it a madness to think of rallying my vassals to protect their lady. That was when he heard of it from thee-thou faint of heart—and thy mother. I shall speak to him in person now. Make haste, I tell thee, girl. I must be out of this place before I am watched or guarded," she added breathlessly. "I feel as if each moment I lost might have death upon it;" and she looked about her like a startled deer.

not so ill! But the twilight, the length of way," sobbed Véronique, in grievous distress and perplexity. "Oh! madame, I cannot see you go. The Mother Abbess is good. She must have pity. Oh, trust to her!"

"Trust! Did I not trust to my Cousin Diane? Never! Nothing will kill me but remaining in their hands."

Véronique argued and implored in vain. Ever since, in the height of those vehement austerities by which the bereaved and shattered sufferer strove to appease her wretchedness by the utmost endeavour to save her husband's soul, the old foster-mother had made known to her that she might thus sacrifice another than herself, Eustacie's elastic heart had begun to revive, with all its dauntless strength of will. What to her women seemed only a fear, was to her only a hope.

Frank and confiding as was her nature, however, the cruel deceptions already practised on her by her own kindred, together with the harsh words with which the Abbess spoke of Berenger, had made her aware that no comfort must be looked for in that quarter. It was, after all, perhaps her own instinct, and the aunt's want of sympathy, that withheld her from seeking counsel of any save Perrine and her daughter, at any rate till she could communicate with the kind young Queen. To her, then, Eustacie had written, entreating that a royal mandate would recall her in time to bestow herself in some trustworthy hands, or even in her husband's own Norman castle, where his heir would be both safe and welcome. But time had passed-the whole space that she had reckoned as needful for the going and coming of her messenger-allowing for all the obstructions of winter roads-nay, he had come back; she knew her letter was delivered, but answer there was none. It might yet come-perhaps a royal carriage and escort-and day after day had she waited and hoped, only tardily admitting the conviction that Elisabeth of Austria was as powerless as Eustacie de Ribau

posing many a scheme that could only have entered the brain of a brave spirited child as she was. To appeal to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinous old tower in the woods, and thence send for aid to the Montmorencys; to ride to Saumur, and claim the protection of the governor of the province; to make her way to the coast and sail for England; to start for Paris, and throw herself in person on the Queen's protection, all had occurred to her, and been discussed with her two confidantes; but the hope of the Queen's interference, together with the exceeding difficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from taking any steps, since no suspicion had arisen in the minds of those about her. Véronique, caring infinitely more for her mistress's health and wellbeing than for the object of Eustacie's anxieties, had always secretly trusted that delay would last till action was impossible, and that the discovery would be made, only without her being accused of treason. In the present stress of danger, she could but lament and entreat, for Eustacie's resolution bore her down; and besides, as she said to herself, her Lady was after all going to her foster-father and mother, who would make her hear reason, and bring her back at once, and then there would be no anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddy length of walk would be the worst of it-and, bah! most likely Madame would be convinced by it, and return of her own accord.

So Véronique, though not intermitting her protests, adjusted her own dress upon her mistress, short striped petticoat, black bodice, winged turban-like white cap, and a great muffling grey cloth cloak and hood over the head and shouldersthe costume in which Véronique was wont to run to her home in the twilight on various errands, chiefly to carry her mistress's linen; for, starching Eustacie's plain bands and cuffs, was Mère Perrine's special pride. The wonted bundle, therefore, now contained a few garments, and the money and jewels, especially the chaplet of pearls, which Eustacie regarded

Sobbing and still protesting, Véronique, however, engaged that if her Lady succeeded in safely crossing the kitchen in the twilight, and in leaving the convent, she would keep the secret of her escape as long as possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and making such excuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of her flight till next day.

"And then," said Eustacie, "I will send for thee, either to Saumur or to the old tower! Adieu, dear Véronique, do not be frightened. Thou dost not know how glad I am that the time for doing something is come! To-morrow!"

"To-morrow!" thought Véronique, as she shut the door; "before that you will be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling, weeping, in dire need of being comforted. But I will make up a good fire, and shake out the bed. I'll let her have no more of that villanous palliasse. No, no, let her try her own way, and repent of it; then, when this matter is over, she will turn her mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be no more languishing in this miserable hole.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF THE BOCAGE.

"I winna spare for his tender age,
Nor yet for his hie kin;
But soon as ever he born is,

He shall mount the gallows' pin.”
FAUSE FOODrage.

DUSK was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, when with a trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the stone staircase, leading to a back-door-an utterly uncanonical appendage to a nunnery, but one much used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise.

A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-open kitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper preparing for Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed it, when the voice of the presiding laysister called out, "Véronique, is that

"Sister!" returned Eustacie, with as much of the Angevin twang as she could

assume.

"Where are you going?"

"To the Orchard Farm with this linen."

"Ah! it must be. But there are strict orders come from Madame about nobody going out unreported, and you may chance to find the door locked if you do not come back in good time. Oh and I had well-nigh forgot; tell your mother to be here early to-morrow, Madame would speak with her."

Eustacie assented, half stifled by the great throb of her fluttering heart at the sense that she had indeed seized the last moment. Forth then she stepped. How dark, waste, and lonely the open field looked! But her heart did not fail her; she could only feel that a captivity was over, and the most vague and terrible of her anxieties soothed, as she made her way into one of the long shady lanes of the Bocage. It was nearly dark, and very muddy, but she had all the familiarity of a native with the way, and the farm, where she had trotted about in her infancy like a peasant's child, always seemed like home to her. It had been a prime treat to visit it during her time of education at the convent, and there was an association of pleasure in treading the path that seemed to bear her up, and give her enjoyment in the mere adventure and feeling of escape and liberty. She had no fear of the dark, nor of the distant barking of dogs, but the mire was deep, and it was plodding work in those heavy sabots, up the lane that led from the convent; and the poor child was sorely weary long before she came to the top of the low hill that she used scarcely to know to be rising ground at all. The stars had come out; and, as she sat for a few moments to rest on a large stone, she saw the lights of the cottage fires in the village below, and looking round could also see the many gleams in the convent windows, the red fire-light in her own. room among them. She shivered a little as she thought of its glowing com

tightened her cloak over her head, looked up to a glimmer in the watchtower of her own castle, far above her on the hill, and closed against her; and then smiled to herself with hope at the sparkle of a window in a lonely farmhouse among the fields.

With fresh vigour she rose, and found her way through lane and field-path to the paddock where she had so often played. Here a couple of huge dogs dashed forward with an explosion of barks, dying away into low growls as she spoke to them by their names, and called aloud on "Blaise !" and "Mère Perrine!" The cottage-door was opened, the light streamed forth, and a man's head in a broad hat appeared. "Véronique, girl, is this an hour to be gadding abroad?"

"Blaise, do you not know me?"
"It is our Lady. Ah!"

The next moment the wanderer was seated in the ample wooden chair of the head of the family, the farmer and his two stout sons standing before her as their liege Lady, and Mère Perrine hanging over her, in great anxiety, not wholly dispelled by her low girlish laugh, partly of exultation at her successful evasion, partly of amusement at their wonder, and partly, too, because it was so natural to her to enjoy herself at that hearth that she could not help it. A savoury mess from the great caldron that was for ever stewing over the fire was at once fished out for her, before she was allowed to explain herself; and as she ate with the carved spoon and from the earthenware crock that had been called Mademoiselle's ever since her baby - days, Perrine chafed and warmed her feet, fondled her, and assured her, as if she were still their spoiled child, that they would do all she wished.

Pierre and Tiennot, the two sons, were sent out to fodder the cattle, and keep careful watch for any sounds of pursuers from the convent; and Blaise, in the plenitude of his respect and deference, would have followed them, but Eustacie desired him to remain to

posing many a scheme that could only have entered the brain of a brave spirited child as she was. To appeal to her vassals, garrison with them a ruinous old tower in the woods, and thence send for aid to the Montmorencys; to ride to Saumur, and claim the protection of the governor of the province; to make her way to the coast and sail for England; to start for Paris, and throw herself in person on the Queen's protection, all had occurred to her, and been discussed with her two confidantes; but the hope of the Queen's interference, together with the exceeding difficulty of acting, had hitherto prevented her from taking any steps, since no suspicion had arisen in the minds of those about her. Véronique, caring infinitely more for her mistress's health and wellbeing than for the object of Eustacie's anxieties, had always secretly trusted that delay would last till action was impossible, and that the discovery would be made, only without her being accused of treason. In the present stress of danger, she could but lament and entreat, for Eustacie's resolution bore her down; and besides, as she said to herself, her Lady was after all going to her foster-father and mother, who would make her hear reason, and bring her back at once, and then there would be no anger nor disgrace incurred. The dark muddy length of walk would be the worst of it-and, bah! most likely Madame would be convinced by it, and return of her own accord.

So Véronique, though not intermitting her protests, adjusted her own dress upon her mistress,-short striped petticoat, black bodice, winged turban-like white cap, and a great muffling grey cloth cloak and hood over the head and shouldersthe costume in which Véronique was wont to run to her home in the twilight on various errands, chiefly to carry her mistress's linen; for, starching Eustacie's plain bands and cuffs, was Mère Perrine's special pride. The wonted bundle, therefore, now contained a few garments, the money and jewels, especially the chaplet of pearls, which Eustacie regarded

and

Sobbing and still protesting, Véronique, however, engaged that if her Lady succeeded in safely crossing the kitchen in the twilight, and in leaving the convent, she would keep the secret of her escape as long as possible, reporting her refusal to appear at supper, and making such excuses as might very probably prevent the discovery of her flight till next day.

"And then," said Eustacie, "I will send for thee, either to Saumur or to the old tower! Adieu, dear Véronique, do not be frightened. Thou dost not know how glad I am that the time for doing something is come! To-morrow!"

"To-morrow!" thought Véronique, as she shut the door; "before that you will be back here again, my poor little Lady, trembling, weeping, in dire need of being comforted. But I will make up a good fire, and shake out the bed. I'll let her have no more of that villanous palliasse. No, no, let her try her own way, and repent of it; then, when this matter is over, she will turn her mind to Chevalier Narcisse, and there will be no more languishing in this miserable hole.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE HEARTHS AND THICKETS OF
THE BOCAGE.

"I winna spare for his tender age,
Nor yet for his hie kin;
But soon as ever he born is,
• He shall mount the gallows' pin."
FAUSE FOODRAGE.

DUSK was closing in, but lamps had not yet been lighted, when with a trembling, yet almost a bounding heart, Eustacie stole down the stone staircase, leading to a back-door-an utterly uncanonical appendage to a nunnery, but one much used among the domestic establishment of Bellaise.

A gleam of red light spread across the passage from the half-open kitchen door, whence issued the savoury steam of the supper preparing for Monseigneur. Eustacie had just cautiously traversed it, when the voice of the presiding laysister called out, "Véronique, is that

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