Berenger hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy; the exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and bending his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black and white coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip’s arm, and said impressively, ‘Have a care, sir; this is no other than the fine lady, sister to the murderous villain that set upon him. If you would save his life, don’t quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere than to our Ambassador’s. I’ll not leave the coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I’ll send Jack Smithers to make known we are coming.’
Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach, where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon the white velvet cushions richly worked in black and silver, with devices and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns, made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have disposed of themselves in various nooks of the ample conveyance, and Philip, rather at a loss to explain his intrusion, perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the cushions in front of his brother, thinking that Humfrey was an officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who seemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger’s condition. ‘Ah! I never guessed it had been so frightful as this. I should not have known him. Ah! had I imagined—-’ She leant back, covered her face, and wept, as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward, and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was at once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast.
‘Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much?’ she asked, with sympathy and tenderness that went to Philip’s heart, and he explained. ‘He cannot speak, Madame; the shot in his cheek’ (the lady shuddered, and put her handkerchief to her eyes) ‘from time to time cases this horrible swelling and torture. After that he will be better.’
‘Frightful, frightful,’ she sighed, ‘but we will do our best to make up. You, sir, must be his trucheman.’
Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man that might be, made answer, ‘I am his brother, Madame.’
‘Eh! Monsieur son frere. Had Madame sa mere a son so old?’
‘I am Philip Thistlewood, her husband’s son, at your service, Madame,’ said Philip, colouring up to the ears; ‘I came with him for he is too weak to be alone.’
‘Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir,’ she said, with a not unflattering surprise. ‘But whence are you come? I little looked to see Monsieur here.’
‘We came from Anjou, Madame. We went to La Sablerie,’ and he broke off.
‘I understand. Ah! let us say no more! It rends the heart;’ and again she wiped away tear. ‘And now—-’