Michel and Angele/Chapter 12

When de la Forêt and Angèle saw the Queen again it was in the Royal Chapel of Greenwich.

Perhaps the longest five minutes of M. de la Forêt's life were those in which he waited the coming of the Queen on that Whit-Sunday which was to decide his fate. When he saw Elizabeth enter the Royal Chapel his eyes swam till the sight of them was lost in the confusion of color made by the motions of gorgeously apparelled courtiers and the people of the household. When the Queen had taken her seat and all was quiet, de la Forêt struggled with himself to put on such a front of simple boldness as he would wear upon any day of battle. The sword the Queen had sent him was at his side, and his garb was still that of a gentleman, not of a Huguenot minister such as Elizabeth would make him this day.

The brown of his face had paled somewhat in the days spent in the palace and in waiting for this hour; anxiety had toned the ruddy vigor of his bearing, but his figure was the figure of a soldier, and his hand that of a strong man. He trembled a little as he bowed to her Majesty, but that passed, and when at last his eye met that of the Duke's Daughter he grew steady, for she telegraphed to him as plainly as though she spoke, a message from Angèle. Angèle herself he did not see—she was praying for him in an obscure corner, her father's hand in hers, all the passion of her life pouring out in prayer.

De la Forêt drew himself up with an iron will. No nobler figure of a man ever essayed to preach the Word, and so Elizabeth thought; and she almost repented of the rather bitter humor which had set this trial as his chance of life in England and his freedom from the hand of the Medicis. The man bulked larger in her eyes than when she had first cast eyes upon him. He had been the immediate cause, fated or accidental, of the destined breach between Essex and herself; he had played a part in her own life, by chance or design. She glanced at her courtiers and she saw that none might compare with him, the form and being of calm boldness and courage.

De la Forêt looked all this; yet when he first opened his mouth and essayed to call the congregation to prayer, no words came forth—only a dry whisper. Some ladies simpered, and more than one courtier laughed silently. Michel saw this, and his face flamed up. But he laid a hand on himself, as it were, and a moment afterwards his voice came forth, clear, musical, and resonant, speaking simple words, direct and unlacquered sentences, yet passionately earnest withal. He stilled the people to a unison of sentiment, none the less interested and absorbed because it had been whispered that he was the cause of the great breach between the Queen and Essex. By the time he began to preach, flippant gallants of the court had ceased to flutter their handkerchiefs, to idly move their swords about, or patronize him with a languid stare.

He took for his text, "Stand and search for the old paths." The beginning of all systems of religion, the coming of the Nazarene, the rise and growth of Christianity, the martyrdoms of the early church, the invasion of the truth by false doctrine, the abuses of the church, the Reformation, the martyrdom of the Huguenots for the return to the early principles of Christianity, the "search for the old paths," he set forth in a tone generous but not fiery, presently powerful and searching, yet not declamatory. At last he raised the sword that hung by his side, and the Book that lay before him, and said:

"And what matter which it is we wield, this steel that strikes for God, or this Book which speaks of Him? For the Book is the sword of the Spirit, and the sword is the book of humanity; for all faith must be fought for, and all that is has been won by strife! But the paths wherein ye go to battle must be the old paths, your staff shall be your sword by day, and your lantern by night the Book. That which ye love ye shall teach, and that which ye teach ye shall defend; and if your love be a true love your teaching shall be a great teaching, and your sword a strong sword which none may with stand, the pride of sovereign and people; and then neither 'height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.’"

Ere he had ended, some of the ladies were weeping, the eyes of the Duke's Daughter were full of tears, and Elizabeth said audibly, when he had ceased speaking: "On my soul, I have no bishop with a tongue like his. I wish my Lord of Ely were here to learn how truth should be spoken. Henceforth all my bishops shall first be soldiers."

Of that hour's joyful business the Queen wrote thus to the Medicis before the day was done:

"This M. de la Forêt shall stay in my kingdom. I may not be the executioner of one of my religion—as eloquent a preacher as he was a brave soldier. Abiding by our treaty with my cousin of France, he shall stay with us in peace, and in our own care. He hath not the eloquence of a Knox, but he hath the true thing in him, and that speaks."

To the Duke's Daughter the Queen said: "On my soul, he shall be married instantly, or my ladies will carry him off and murder him for love."

And so it was that the heart of Elizabeth the Queen warmed towards two Huguenot exiles, and showed that in doing justice she also had not so sour a heart towards her sex as was set down to her credit. When M. de la Forêt, once again, declined service at her court, and dwelt earnestly on his duty towards the widow of his dead chief, Gabriel de Montgomery, and begged leave to share her exile in Jersey, Elizabeth said: "God's Son, but I did not think there was any man on earth so careless of the world's honors!"

To this de la Forêt replied that he had given his heart and life to one cause, and since Montgomery had lost all, even life, the least Michel de la Forêt could do was to see that the woman who had loved him be not unprotected in the world. Also, since he might not now fight for the cause, he could speak of it; and he thanked the Queen of England for having shown him his duty. All that he desired was to be quiet for a space some where in her Majesty's realm, till his way was clear to him.

"You would return to Jersey, then, with our friend the Seigneur of Rozel?" Elizabeth said, for Lemprière was now near recovered from his wound, and was present at this audience.

De la Forêt inclined his head. "If it be your High Majesty's pleasure." And Lemprière of Rozel said: "He would return with myself, your Majesty"s friend before all the world, and with Buonespoir his ship the Honey-flower."

Elizabeth's lips parted in a smile, for she was warmed with the luxury of doing good, and she answered:

"I know not what the end of this will be, whether our loyal Lemprière will become a pirate or Buonespoir a butler to my court, but it is too pretty a hazard to forego in a world of chance. By the rood, but I have never, since I sat on my father's throne, seen black so white as I have done this past month. You shall have your Buonespoir, good Rozel; but if he plays pirate any more—tell him this from his Queen—upon an English ship, I will have his head, if I have to send Drake of Devon to overhaul him!"

That same day the Queen sent for Angèle, and by no leave, save her own, arranged the wedding-day, and ordained that it should take place at Southampton, whither the Comtesse de Montgomery had come on her way to Greenwich to plead for the life of Michel de la Forêt, and to beg Elizabeth to save her poverty. Both of which things Elizabeth did, as the annals of her life and times record.

After Elizabeth—ever self-willed—had declared her way about the marriage ceremony, looking for no reply save that of silent obedience, she made Angèle sit at her feet and tell her whole story from first to last. They were alone, and very like Elizabeth showed to this young refugee more of her own heart than any other woman had ever seen. Not by words, for she said naught; but once she stooped and kissed Angèle upon the cheek, and once her eyes filled up with tears, and they dropped upon her lap unheeded. All the devotion shown herself as a woman had come to naught, and it may be that this thought stirred in her, and she remembered how Essex and herself had parted, and how she was denied all those soft resources of regret which were the right of the meanest women in her realm. These refugees, coming at the moment of her own struggle, had changed her heart from an ever-growing bitterness to human sympathy. When Angèle had ended her timid but tender tale, the Queen said:

"God knows, ye shall not stay here in my court. Such lives have no place here. Get you back to my isle of Jersey, where ye can live in peace. Here all is noise and self-seeking and time-service. If ye twain are not happy I will say the world should never have been made."

Before they left Greenwich Palace—Monsieur Aubert and Angèle, de la Forêt, Lemprière, and Buonespoir—the Queen made Michel de la Forêt the gift of a chaplaincy to the Crown. To Monsieur Aubert she gave a small pension, and in Angèle's hands she placed a deed of dower worthy of a generosity greater than her own.

At Southampton, Michel and Angèle were married by royal license, and with the Comtesse de Montgomery set sail in Buonespoir's boat, the Honey-flower, which brought them safe to St. Helier's in the isle of Jersey.