The Chaplet of Pearls by Charlotte M. Yonge (i am reading a book .txt) 📕

something so essentially human in its sound that the fluttering heart beat more steadily. If reason told her that the living were more perilous to her than the dead, yet feeling infinitely preferred them! It might be Nanon Rotrou after all; then how foolish to be crouching there in a fright! It was rustling through the hay. No-no Nanon; it is a male figure, it has a long cloak on. Ah! it is in the moonlight-silver hair—silver beard. The Templar! Fascinated with dismay, yet calling to mind that no ghost has power unless addressed, she sat still, crossing herself in silence, but unable to call to mind any prayer or invocation save a continuous ‘Ave Mary,’ and trying to restrain her gasping breath, lest, if he were not the Templar after all, he might discover her presence.

He moved about, took off his cloak, laid it down near the hay, then his cap, not a helmet after all, and there was no fiery cross.

He was in the gloom again, and she heard him moving much as though he were pulling down the hay to form a bed. Did ghosts ever do anything so sensible? If he were an embodied spirit, would it be possible to creep past him and escape while he lay asleep? She was almost becoming familiarized with the presence, and the supernatural terror was passing off into a consideration of resources, when, behold, he was beginning to sing. To sing was the very way the ghosts began ere they came to their devilish outcries. ‘Our Lady keep it from bringing frenzy. But hark! hark!’ It was not one of the chants, it was a tune and words heard in older times of her life; it was the evening hymn, that the little husband and wife had been wont to sing to the Baron in the Chateau de Leurre—Marot’s version of the 4th Psalm.

‘Plus de joie m’est donnee Par ce moyen, O Dieu Tres-Haut, Que n’ont ceux qui ont grand annee De froment et bonne vinee, D’huile et tout ce qu’il leur faut.’

If it had indeed been the ghostly chant, perhaps Eustacie would not have been able to help joining it. As it was, the familiar home words irresistibly impelled her to mingle her voice, scarce knowing what she did, in the verse—

‘Si qu’en paix et surete bonne Coucherai et reposerai; Car, Seigneur, ta bonte tout ordonne Et elle seule espoir me donne Que sur et seul regnant serai.’

The hymn died away in its low cadence, and then, ere Eustacie had had time to think of the consequences of thus raising her voice, the new-comer demanded:

‘Is there then another wanderer here?’

‘Ah! sir, pardon me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I will not long importune you, but only till morning light—only till the Fermiere Rotrou comes.’

‘If Matthieu and Anne Rotrou placed you here, then all is well,’ replied the stranger. ‘Fear not, daughter, but tell me. Are you one of my scattered flock, or one whose parents are known to me?’ Then, as she hesitated, ‘I am Isaac Gardon—escaped, alas! alone, from the slaughter of the Barthelemy.’

‘Master Gardon!’ cried Eustacie. ‘Oh, I know! O sir, my husband loved and honoured you.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes, sir, le Baron de Ribaumont.’

‘That fair and godly youth! My dear old patron’s son! You—you! But—’ with a shade of doubt, almost of dismay, ‘the boy was wedded—wedded to the heiress—-’

‘Yes, yes, I am that unhappy one! We were to have fled together on that dreadful night. He came to meet me to the Louvre—to his doom!’ she gasped out, nearer to tears than she had ever been since that time, such a novelty was it to her to hear Berenger spoken of in kind or tender terms; and in her warmth of feeling, she came out of her corner, and held our her hand to him.

‘Alas! poor thing!’ said the minister, compassionately, ‘Heaven has tried you sorely. Had I known of your presence here, I would not have entered; but I have been absent long, and stole into my lair here without disturbing the good people below. Forgive the intrusion, Madame.’

The minister replied warmly that surely persecution was a brotherhood, even had she not been the window of one he had loved and lamented.

‘Ah! sir, it does me good to hear you say so.’

And therewith Eustacie remembered the hospitalities of her loft. She perceived by the tones of the old man’s voice that he was tired, and probably fasting, and she felt about for the milk and bread with which she had been supplied. It was a most welcome refreshment, though he only partook sparingly; and while he ate, the two, so strangely met, came to a fuller knowledge of one another’s circumstances.

Master Isaac Gardon had, it appeared, been residing at Paris, in the house of the watchmaker whose daughter had been newly married to his son; but on the fatal eve of St. Bartholomew, he had been sent for to pray with a sick person in another quarter of the city. The Catholic friends of the invalid were humane, and when the horrors began, not only concealed their kinsman, but almost forcibly shut up the minister in the same cellar with him. And thus, most reluctantly, had he been spared from the fate that overtook his son and daughter-in-law. A lone and well-night broken-hearted man, he had been smuggled out of the city, and had since that time been wandering from one to another of the many scattered settlements of Huguenots in the northern part of France, who, being left pastorless, welcomed visits from the minister of their religion, and passed him on from one place to another, as his stay in each began to be suspected by the authorities. He was now on his way along the west side of France, with no fixed purpose, except so far as, since Heaven had spared his life when all that made it dear had been taken from him, he resigned himself to believe that there was yet some duty left for him to fulfil.

Meantime the old man was wearied out; and after due courtesies had passed between him and the lady in the dark, he prayed long and fervently, as Eustacie could judge from the intensity of the low murmurs she heard; and then she heard him, with a heavy irrepressible sigh, lie down on the couch of hay he had already prepared for himself, and soon his regular breathings announced his sound slumbers. She was already on the bed she had so precipitately quitted, and not a thought more did she give to the Templars, living or dead, even though she heard an extraordinary snapping and hissing, and in the dawn of the morning saw a white weird thing, like a huge moth, flit in through the circular window, take up its station on a beam above the hay, and look down with the brightest, roundest eyes she