Now the children had a great desire to see the procession in the Mid-Lent week. It is after what we call Mothering Sunday—when the prettiest little boy they can find in Paris rides through the streets on the largest white ox. Now the lodgings whither Sir Francis and Lady Ommaney had betaken themselves, when my mother had, so to speak, turned them out, had a balcony with an excellent view all along the quais, and thither the dear old lady invited Meg, Madame d’Aubepine, and me, to bring Gaspard, with Maurice and Armantine; and I saw by her face that the bouef gras was not all that there was for me to see.
We went early in the day, when the streets were still not overmuch crowded, and we climbed up, up to the fifth story, where the good old lady contrived to make the single room her means could afford look as dainty as her bower at home, though she swept it with her own delicate white hands. There was an engraving of the blessed Martyr over the chimmey-piece, the same that is in the Eikon Basilike, with the ray of light coming down into his eye, the heavenly crown awaiting him, the world spurned at his feet, and the weighted palm-tree with Crescit sub pondere virtus. And Sir Francis’s good old battle-sword and pistols hung under it. It made me feel quite at home, and we tried to make the children enter into the meaning of the point. At least Meg did, and I think she succeeded with her son, who had a good deal of the true Ribaumont in him, and whom they could not spoil even by all the misrule that went on at Court whenever the Queen was out of sight. He stood thoughtful by the picture while the little d’Aubepines were dancing in and out of the balcony, shrieking about every figure they saw passing in the road below.
Sir Francis, after receiving us, had gone out, as he said, to see what was going on, but I think he removed himself in order to leave us more at our ease. By and by there was a knock at the door, and who should come in but M. Darpent, leading a little boy of five or six years old, his nephew, he said, whom Lady Ommaney had permitted to bring to see the sight.
I heard afterwards that it was pretty to see the different ways of the children, and how Maurice d’Aubepine drew himself up, put on his hat, laid his hand on his ridiculous little sword, and insisted that the little Clement Verdon should stand behind him and his sister, where he could see nothing, while Gaspard de Nidermerle, with an emphatic ‘Moi, je suis getilhomme,’ put the stranger before himself and looked over his head, as he could easily do, being two or three years older.
Well, I lost my chance; I never saw the great ox wreathed with flowers, nor the little boy on his back, nor all the butchers with their cleavers round him, nor the procession of the trades, the fishwomen, dames des halles, as they called them, all in their white caps and short petticoats, singing a ballad in honour of the Duke of Beaufort, the faggot-carriers with sticks, the carpenters with tools, all yelling out songs in execration of Cardinal Mazarin, who had actually entered France with an army, and vituperating with equal virulence the Big Beard, as they called the President Mole.
They told me the sight had been wonderful, but what was that to me when Clement Darpent stood before me? He looked then and worn, and almost doubtful how to address me; but Lady Ommaney said, in her hearty way:
‘Come, come, young folks, you have enough to say to one another. Sit down there and leave the ox to the children and us old folks in our second childhood. You believe and old woman now, M. Darpent?’
‘You never distrusted me?’ I demanded.
He said he had never distrusted my heart, but that he had heard at all hands of the arrangement with M. de Poligny, whose lawyer had actually stopped proceedings on that account. My brother had indeed assured him that he did not mean to consent; and he ought, he allowed, to have rested satisfied with that assurance, but—He faltered a little, which made me angry. The truth was that some cruel person had spoken to him as if my dear Eustace and his protection would soon be removed; and while Solivet was at hand, Eustace, in his caution, he refrained from such intercourse with Clement as could excite suspicion. Besides, he was a good deal away at St. Germain with the Duke. All this I did not understand. I was vexed with Clement for having seemed to doubt us, and I did not refrain from showing my annoyance that he should have accepted any kind of office in the rotten French State. It seemed to me a fall from his dignity. On this he told me that it was not purchased, and it was serving under a true and loyal man, whom he felt bound to support. If any one could steer between the Prince and the Cardinal, and bring some guarantee for the people out of the confusion, it was the Keeper of the Seals, the head of the only party who cared more for the good of the country than their private malice and hatred.
‘And,’ he said diffidently, ‘if under M. Mole’s patronage, the steps could be gained without loss of honour or principle, you remember that there is a noblesse de la robe, which might remove some of Madame de Ribaumont’s objections, though I do not presume to compare it with the blood of the Crusaders.’