‘I hope to bestow them among her kindred ere I die, Madame,’ said Isaac.
‘No kindred can serve a woman like a sensible husband! Besides, I thought all perished at Paris. Listen, Isaac Gardon: I tell you plainly that scandal is afloat. You are blamed for culpable indifference to alleged levities—I say not that it is true—but I see this, that unless you can bestow your daughter-in-law on a good, honest man, able to silence the whispers of malice, there will be measures taken that will do shame both to your own gray hairs and to the memory of your dead son, as well as expose the poor young woman herself. You are one who has a true tongue, Isaac Gardon; and if you can assure me that she is a faithful, good woman, as poor Mace thinks her, and will give her to him in testimony thereof, then shall not a mouth open against her. If not, in spite of all my esteem for you, the discipline of the Reformed must take its course.’
‘And for what?’ said Isaac, with a grave tone, almost of reproof. ‘What discipline can punish a woman for letting her infant wear a coloured ribbon, and shielding it from a blow?’
‘That is not all, Master Isaac,’ said the Duchess, seriously. ‘In spite of your much-respected name, evil and censorious tongues will have it that matters ought to be investigated; that there is some mystery; that the young woman does not give a satisfactory account of herself, and that the child does not resemble either her or your son—in short, that you may be deceived by an impostor, perhaps a Catholic spy. Mind, I say not that I credit all this, only I would show you what reports you must guard against.’
‘La pauvre petite!’ said Isaac, under his breath, as if appalled; then collecting himself, he said, ‘Madame, these are well-nigh threats. I had come hither nearly resolved to confined in you without them.’
‘Then there is a mystery?’
‘Yes, Madame, but the deception is solely in the name. She is, in very truth, a widow of a martyr of the St. Barthelemy, but that martyr was not my son, whose wife was happy in dying with him.’
‘And who, then, is she?’
‘Madame la Duchesse had heard of the family of Ribaumont.’
‘Ha! M. de Ribaumont! A gay comrade of King Henry II., but who had his eyes opened to the truth by M. l’Amiral, though he lacked courage for an open profession. Yes, the very last pageant I beheld at court, was the wedding of his little son to the Count de Ribaumont’s daughter. It was said that the youth was one of our victims at Paris.’