Chapter XL: The Daughter of Macbeth

The old town of St. Michel, the capital of a bailiewick of the same name, now rose before us on an eminence. The banner with the three fleur-de-lis waved above its ramparts, showing that French troops occupied it, and they proved to be a squadron of Roger de St. Lacy's dragoons. Louis XIII. had first taken this little barrier town, the seat of the Parliament of Lorraine during the war of 1632, but restored it again by the treaty of Livourdin. It was now chiefly noted for a splendid Benedictine monastery, where the reliques of St. Lucy the Scot were brought for preservation from the church of Mount St. Lucy, which stood near the Rhine, some miles distant.

The silvery mist was rising from wood and hollow as we approached the town. The green leaves glistened in the sun, and the long, graceful willows waved in wind, which rustled the chestnut foliage.

We breakfasted at a hamlet situated in a dell near the Meuse; and after showing our credentials at the gate as an abbé and daughter of Father Vincent de Paule, we rode straight to the Benedictine abbey, at the outer porch of which we dismounted; and then, leaving me with the horses, Nicola, with a sweet smile, a graceful nod of her pretty head, and a promise not 'to tarry long,' entered the magnificent old Gothic church of St. Bennet. Having buckled the bridles of our horses to iron rings in the walls, I sat for some time on the stone bench of the portal, lost in reverie, before I became aware that an old priest, in the usual dress of a French ecclesiastic, with a little black silk calotte cap drawn over his white hairs, had seated himself at my side, and was regarding me with attention.

I bade him good morning, for the day was yet young.

'Bon jour, M. l'Abbé,' said he, 'but by your bearing I do not take you to be an ecclesiastic.'

'Indeed!'

'Monsieur will excuse me, but such is the case.'

'How?'

'Abbés do not sit with one leg over the other, or play with their moustaches, neither do they usually wear a sword, for such are not conventual customs.'

'But I am travelling, and find a warlike aspect advantageous at hotels and barrier-gates; and then we all know that Monseigneur the present Archbishop of Paris was the best swordsman in France.'

'Except the Chevalier Hepburn.'

'Yes.'

'Ah! of course; except our countryman, the Chevalier Hepburn.'

'How! our countryman?' I asked.

'I detected the Scot as well as the soldier, sir,' said the old man, smiling and pressing my hands. 'I presume you belong to the French army?'

'Perhaps I do; but you are very inquisitive.'

'Do not be alarmed; though I live in the territories of Duke Charles, I am Father Allan Colville, a priest of the Scottish college founded by Gregory XIII. at Pontamoussin, some miles from this, in the bailiewick of St. Michel, and have no interest in the quarrels of kings and dukes, though the young Prince of Vaudemont, who has a fancy for me, made me custodier of the reliques of St. Lucy, before which your companion is now at prayer. The sister of Vincent de Paule is your wife, I presume, in disguise?'

'No,' said I, colouring to the temples.

'Your sister, perhaps?'

'No,' I repeated, with increasing vexation; 'the exigencies of war force us to travel together, though we are neither kith nor kin.'

'Pardon me,' said the padre, adding (to change the conversation), 'perhaps you know that St. Lucy was a country-woman of our own?'

'Like St. Fiacre, I suppose; but you must excuse my ignorance, for I never heard of the good lady until to-day,' I replied, with a smile.

'She was the daughter of a king.'

'I am rather sceptical on these points, father,' said I, smiling again, 'for in France all the ancient saints are sons or daughters of kings, counts, and emperors. Sanctity in those days was increased by rank.'

'You will find in Camerarius and in the French Breviary that she was the daughter of a Scottish king, of Macbeth the Usurper; who, to atone for the crimes of her father, after escaping from the castle of Dunsinnane, retired in 1160 to serve God in obscurity. Wandering from our native land she reached the banks of yonder river, the Meuse, and choosing a solitary place, a wooded mountain in the diocese of Verdun, there built unto herself a cell, where she died, in 1190, in all the odour of sanctity, and was enrolled among the saints by the Bishop of Verdun, Henry of Blois, otherwise called of Winchester, brother of Stephen king of England. Great pilgrimages have been made to her reliques, which in the summer season are kept in the church of Mont St. Lucy, erected in her honour in 1625 by a prince of the house of Guise, who espoused a sister of the present Duke Charles IV.'

'This is a curious story,' said I; 'but I suppose these reliques are only a few bones.'

'Heaven pity thee!' exclaimed the old priest; 'bones, quotha! I would that you were one of the ancient faith to see the saint as we see her--to see her as if she died but yesterday.'

'Indeed!'

'Her body is completely enclosed in a transparent coffin of the purest Venetian crystal, and therein she lies, robed in white, looking lovely in her virgin purity, for in death her features resumed all the bloom of youth. Her tresses are of the brightest gold; her features are soft and placid; the long lashes of her eyes are closed, imparting a charming expression of modesty and repose to her sleeping face, and a virgin crown encircles her brows. Her hands, small and delicate, are crossed upon her breast; one retains a golden chalice, the other her crucifix; and when prayers of more than ordinary purity are raised to heaven at her shrine, her lips have been seen to smile, and a shining brightness to spread over her face and robes--a light that filled the beholders with extasy and awe. Moreover, through the pores of that crystal coffin there cometh at times a fragrance--a delightful perfume, like that emitted of old by the body of Polycarp, the early martyr.'

'And she was a daughter of Macbeth! By my soul, I would give a louis to see all this.'

The priest shook his head.

'And her body is quite undecayed, you say.'

'Less so than yours or mine,' retorted the priest.

'And yet she died--'

'More than five hundred years ago.'

'Excuse me, Father Colville, but really--'

'You think this strange; but does not Volterranus tell us of the body of a young girl--fair, delicate, and beautiful--being found in a Roman sepulchre during the pontificate of Alexander VI.?'

'Very likely; but I do not believe in Volterranus.'

'He says, that she was enclosed in a marble chest: her loveliness dazzled all; her hair, which was long and flaxen, was gathered upon her head by a tiara of shining gold. At her feet stood a burning lamp, the light of which was extinguished by the atmosphere on the vault being opened. And, by an inscription on her tomb, this fair young girl proved to be "Tulliola, the best-beloved daughter of Cicero;" but because she was an unbaptized pagan, Pope Alexander ordered her body, so wonderfully preserved, to be cast into the Tiber, which was done accordingly. But to return: our shrine of St. Lucy was visited, in 1609, by the Duchess of Lorraine--a lady of the house of Mantua.'

'The mother of the present Prince of Vaudemont.'

'No; the mother of his half-sister, the famous Mademoiselle Marie Louise, who is now in Paris. It was also visited with great solemnity by his present majesty Louis XIII., when he was besieging St. Michel four years ago; and on that occasion his favourite, Madame d'Amboise, laid all her rings and bracelets on the shrine. It is to be visited by Mademoiselle of Lorraine, after her marriage with Count Pappenheim--an event to which I look forward with a somewhat selfish interest.'

'Why?'

'Because the wedding-dress of the bride is to be my gift, as keeper of the reliques.'

From this musty garrulity and monastic gossip, of which--with a mind so preoccupied--I felt heartily weary, I was relieved on Father Colville being summoned by an old Benedictine; and just as he retired, my attention was attracted by a handsome and well-appointed cavalier, who, with two valets, like himself well mounted and armed, rode hastily up to a large tree which stood before _La Pomms d'Eve_, an auberge opposite the abbey. Imperiously summoning the landlord, he called for wine, but without dismounting.

Something in the air of this young spark, and in the cock of his feather, seemed familiar to me; and, on approaching, I recognised the young Marquis de Toneins, camp-master of the Regiment de Normandie, and son and heir of the Marechal Duc de la Force.