CHAPTER III. — THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIÈRE.
After the re-capture of Durbellière, and the liberation of Santerre, the Vendeans again assembled in arms in different portions of the revolted district, and fought their battles always with valour, and not unfrequently with success. They did not, however, again form themselves into one body, till the beginning of October, when news having reached them that a large army, under fiercer leaders, was to be sent by the Republic for their extermination, it became necessary to take some decided step for their own protection. The Vendean Generals then decided to call together all the men they could collect at Chatillon, a town in the very centre of their country, and there also to prepare such a quantity of military stores and ammunition, as would make the place a useful and secure basis for their movements.
Some jealousy had arisen among the Generals; and on the death of Cathelineau, d’Elbée had been chosen Commander-in-Chief, through the influence of those who were envious of the popularity of M. de Lescure. On the latter, however, the management of the war depended; and though his exertions were greatly impeded by the factious spirit which unfortunately prevailed among the royalists, he nevertheless succeeded in collecting, equipping, and maintaining a considerable army. The republican troops of Lechelle and Thurreau were not long in making their way to the devoted district, and tidings soon reached Chatillon that they were devastating the country round Doué and Vihiers, and that parties of them had advanced to the neighbourhood of Cholet.
It was then determined at Chatillon that the royalist army should advance towards the republicans: that they should fight them on the first field of battle on which they could meet them, and that if beaten, they should cross the Loire into Britanny, and make their way to the coast, to meet the succour which had been promised them from England. Every day that the battle was delayed, hundreds of children and women perished in cold blood, numberless humble dwellings were reduced to ashes. The commands of Robespierre were being executed; the land was being saturated with the blood of its inhabitants.
De Lescure and Larochejaquelin were both staying at Chatillon. But Chatillon is but a league or two from Durbellière, and one or the other of them was almost daily at the château. They had many cares upon them besides those of the army; cares which, though not productive of so much actual labour, sat, if possible, heavier on their hearts. What were they to do with those dear but weak friends who were still at the château? three loving and beloved women, and an infirm old man, more helpless even than the women! They could not be left at Durbellière, for the château would doubtless, before long, be again taken by some marauding party of their enemies, and any death would be preferable to the fate which would there await them.
Henri now felt the weight of those miseries which his father had foretold; when he, flushed with the victory at Saumur, returned home after the campaign in which he had first drawn his sword so gloriously. He felt that he had done his duty, and therefore he regretted nothing; but he also felt that he might probably soon be without the power of protecting those who were so much dearer to him than his life, and the suffering arising from such thoughts was almost more than he could bear.
It was at last determined that the whole party should leave the château, and go over to Chatillon—there would be at any rate a better chance of security there than at Durbellière, and also better means of escape, should the town fall into the hands of their enemies.
It was a grievous thing to tell that old man that he must leave the house, where he had spent his quiet life, and go to strange places, to finish the short remainder of his days amid the turmoil of battles, and the continual troubles and dangers of a moving army. Nevertheless he bore it well. At first he beseeched them to leave him and old Momont, among his birds and cherry trees, declaring that nothing that the blues could do to him would be to him so calamitous as his removal from the spot in which he had so long taken root. But his children soon made him understand that it was impossible that they could abandon him, a cripple as he was, unattended, and exposed to the certain fury of the republicans. He yielded, therefore, and when the sad day came, he blamed no one, as they lifted him into the huge carriage, in which he was removed to Chatillon. To the last he was proudly loyal to the King; and, as he was carried over the threshold of his door, he said, that if God would grant him another favour in this world, it would be, that he might return once more to his own home, to welcome there some scion of his royal master’s house.
Henri, de Lescure, and the little Chevalier, all came over to spend the last day at Durbellière, and a melancholy day it was. Madame de Lescure, Marie, and Agatha were also there, and all the servants, most of whom had been born in the family, and all of whom, excepting Chapeau and one maid, were now to be sent abroad to look for their living in a country in which the life itself of every native was in hourly danger. Hard they begged to be allowed to link their fate to that of their young mistress, declaring that they would never more complain, even though they were again called out to die, as they had been on that fearful evening when Santerre had found himself unable to give the fatal order. It was impossible—the safety of four women, who would probably have to be carried backwards and forwards through a country bristling with hostile troops, was a fearful burden to the young leaders; it would have been madness for them to increase it. The wretched girls, therefore, prepared to make their way to the homes of their relatives, knowing that those homes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes. It was a bright warm autumn day this, the last which the Larochejaquelins were to pass together in the mansion in which they had all been born. The men came over early, and breakfasted at the château, and both Henri and Arthur worked hard to relieve the sadness of the party with some sparks of their accustomed gaiety; the attempt, however, was futile; they each felt that their hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal was over, they had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day, would be a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power.
When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, for the last time, he might be wheeled round the garden-walks, which he loved so well, and accordingly he was put into his chair, and, accompanied by his children and friends, was dragged through every alley, and every little meandering path. He would not spare himself a single turn—he had a tear to give to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to every painted figure. To de Lescure and the others, the comic attitudes of these uncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, any thing but interesting; but to the Marquis, each of them was an old and well-loved friend, whom even in his extremity he could hardly bring himself to desert. On their return into the house from the garden, they began to employ themselves with arranging and packing the little articles which they intended to take with them. They had all counted on having much to do during the short hours of this one last day; on being hurried and pressed, so as to be hardly able to get through their task; but instead of this their work was soon done, and the minutes hung heavy on their hands. They would not talk of the things which were near their hearts, for they feared to add to each other’s misery; they strove therefore to talk on indifferent subjects, and soon broke down in every attempt they made at conversation.
Agatha never left her father’s side for a moment, and though she seldom spoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of sedulous attention, which showed him that she was near to him. Her gentle touch was almost as precious to him as her voice. De Lescure sat near his wife the whole day, speaking to her from time to time in a whisper, and feeling the weight upon his spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talk freely. He was already without a roof which he could call his own, and he was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate; such hitherto had been the result of their gallant enterprise.
Henri had much to say—much that he had made up his mind to say to Marie before he left Durbellière, but he put off the moment of saying it from hour to hour, and it was not till near midnight that it was said. Marie herself, bore herself more manfully, if I may say so, than any of them; she really employed herself, and thought of a thousand things conducive to their future comfort, which would have been forgotten or neglected had she not been there. The little Chevalier tried hard to assist her, but the pale sad face of Agatha, and the silent tears which from time to time moistened the cheeks of the Marquis, and told how acute were the sufferings which he tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poor boy; he soon betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where he wandered about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than once threw himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud.
They sat down to dinner about three o’clock; but their dinner was, if possible, a worse affair than their breakfast. They were not only sad, but worn out and jaded with sorrow. The very servants, as they moved the dishes, sobbed aloud; and at last, Momont, who had vainly attempted to carry himself with propriety before the others, utterly gave way, and throwing himself on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing but violence should separate him from his master.
“It is five-and-fifty years,” said he, sobbing, “since I first waited on Monseigneur. We were boys then, and now we are old men together It is not natural that we should part. Where he goes, I will go. I will cling to his carriage, unless they cut me down with swords.”
No one could rebuke the old man—certainly not the master whom he loved so well; and though they knew that it would be impossible to provide for him, none of them at the moment had the heart to tell him so.
By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time, they watched the sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbellière, and the Marquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak of light was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this world had set for him for good and all. Even though he might live out a few more weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached should be victorious, yet he knew that Durbellière would be destroyed, and it never could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any other place. His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on which he sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of an affection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged. Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every article within his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was now to leave for ever.
Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur at his fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity, hurried on his old father to destruction. He never repined at the sacrifice he had made—I will not say for his King, for King at present he had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of him who should have filled it had been shed. No; his sacrifices had been to an abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whether worn or in abeyance, only second in his bosom to obedience to his God.
The day faded away, and they still sat together in the room in which they had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till the darkness of night was upon them, and still no one felt inclined to rise and ask for candles.
After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break through the heaviness of the evening. “We are not so badly off, at any rate,” said he, “as we were on that night when Santerre and his men were here; are we, Agatha?”
“We are not badly off at all,” said Henri. “We have now what we never had before—a fine army collected together in one spot, a promise of succour from faithful England, and a strong probability of ultimate success. After all, what are we giving up but an old barrack? Let the rascal blues burn it; cannot we build a better Durbellière when the King shall have his own again?”
“Ah, Henri!” said the Marquis. It was the only reproach he uttered, though the words of his son, intended as they were to excite hope, and to give comfort, had been to him most distasteful.
Henri was in a moment at his father’s feet. “Pardon me, father!” said he; “you know that I did not mean to give you pain. We all love the old house—none of us so well as you perhaps; but we all love it; yet what can we do? Were we to remain here, we should only be smothered beneath its ashes.”
“God’s will be done, my son. He knows that I do not begrudge my house in his service, and in that of my royal master. It is not likely that I should do so, when I have not begrudged the blood of my children.”
They were all to start on the following morning by break of day, and, therefore, the necessity of early rising gave them an excuse desired by all, for retiring early for the night. They could not talk together, for every word that was spoken begot fresh sources of sorrow; they could not employ themselves, for their minds were unhinged and unfitted for employment; so they agreed that they would go to bed, and before nine o’clock, the family separated for the night.
They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed a light to his cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words to her in his sister’s room, and as she did not dissent, he followed the two girls thither. Two words! It took nearly the whole long night to say those two words.
Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the position in which he and his betrothed were now placed, before he made the request to which he asked her to listen that night, and it was from no selfish passion that he made it. In the presence of his sister, he asked her to marry him as soon as they reached Chatillon, so that when next the army separated, he might deem himself her natural protector. He had already asked and obtained de Lescure’s permission. The brother gave it, not absolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri to take no new cares upon himself during the present crisis, and declaring that he would use no influence with his sister, either one way or the other.
Marie, with a woman’s instinct, anticipated the nature of Henri’s two words, and in a moment resolved on the answer she would give him: if her lover was generous, so would she be; she would never consent to link herself to him at a moment when the union could only be to him a source of additional cares and new sorrow.
Henri soon made his request: he did not do it, as he would have done in happier times; kneeling at her feet, and looking into her eyes for that love, which he might well know he should find there: he had not come to talk of the pleasures and endearments of affection, and to ask for her hand as the accomplishment of all his wishes; but he spoke of their marriage as a providential measure, called for by the calamitous necessities of the moment, and in every argument which he used, he appealed to Agatha to support him.
“No, Henri,” said Marie, after she had already answered him with a faint, but what she intended to be a firm denial. “No, it must not, cannot, ought not be so. I am, I know, somewhat de trop in this tragedy we are playing. There are you and Charles, two good knights and true, and each of you has a lady whom it is his duty to protect. I am a poor forlorn young damsel, and though both of you are so gallant as to offer me a hand to help me over the perilous path we are treading, I know that I am grievously in the way.”
“You are joking now, love,” said Henri, “and I am not only speaking, but thinking, in most true and sober earnest.”
“No, Henri, I am not joking; am I, Agatha? One need not be joking because one does not use harsh, grim words. What I say is true. I must be an additional burden either to you or Charles. You are already the heaviest laden, for you have your father to care for. Besides, I have a claim upon Charles; I have for eighteen years been to him an obedient sister.”
“And have you no claim on me, Marie?”
“A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles. Don’t look so unhappy,” and she held out her little hand to him as she spoke. “The day may come when I shall have a still stronger claim upon you; when I have been to you for eighteen years an obedient wife.”
“These are times when stern truths must be spoken,” said Henri. “The lives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy—that is, of us who must go out to battle.”
“Ay, and of us women too. Don’t be afraid of our lacking courage. Do not be afraid that the truth will frighten us. Agatha, and Victorine, and I, have schooled ourselves to think of death without flinching.”
“To think without flinching of the death of others, is the difficulty,” said Agatha. “I fear we have none of us as yet brought ourselves to that.”
“But we must think of the death of others,” said Henri. “Should de Lescure fall—”
“May God Almighty in His mercy protect and guard him!” said the sister.
“But should he fall—and in battle there is none, I will not say so rash, but so forward as him—should he fall, will it not be a comfort to him to know that his sister has a husband to protect her; that his widow has a brother to whom she can turn. Should I fall, will it not be better for Agatha that you should be more closely knit together even than you are?”
“That can never be, can it, Agatha? We can never be more entirely sisters than we are.”
“You talk like a child, Marie. You perhaps may never have a warmer love for each other than you now have, but that is not the question. You must see how great would be the advantage to us all of our union being at once completed You should not now allow a phantasy of misplaced generosity to stand in the way of an arrangement which is so desirable.”
“Nay, Henri, now you are neither fair nor courteous. You are presuming a little on the affection which I have owned in arguing that I am prevented only by what you call generosity from so immediate a marriage; that is as much as to say, that if I consulted my own wishes only, I should marry you at once.”
“It is you that are now unfair,” said Agatha. “You know that he did not mean to draw such a conclusion. You almost tempt me to say that he might do so, without being far wrong. You are flirting now, Marie.”
“Heaven help me then; but if so, I have committed that sin most unconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in my life. I have had but one lover, and I accepted him, the very moment that he spoke to me. I can, at any rate, have but little flirtation to answer for.”
“Alas! dearest love,” said Henri, “we are both driven to think and talk of these things in a different tone from that which is usual in the world. If I was merely seeking to transplant you in days of peace from your own comfortable home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I would not curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn’t presume to think that you could wish yourself to give up your girlish liberty. If you allowed me any hope, I would ascribe it all to the kindness of your disposition; your word should be my law, and though I might pray for mercy, I would submissively take my fate from your lips. I would write odes to you, if I were able, and would swear in every town in Poitou that you were the prettiest girl, and sweetest angel in all France, Italy, or Spain.”
“Thanks, Henri, thanks; but now you have too much to do to trouble yourself with such tedious gallantries. Is not that to be the end of your fine speech?”
“Trouble myself, Marie!”
“Yes, trouble yourself, Henri, and it would trouble me too. It is not that I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly love as it has been offered, and tell you that you have my whole heart. It is from no girlish squeamishness, from no wish to exercise my short-lived power, that I refuse to do what you now ask me. I would marry you tomorrow, were you to ask me, did I not think that I should be wrong to do so. Am I now not frank and honest?”
Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her to his bosom before he answered her:
“You are, you are, my own, own love. You were always true, and honest, and reasonable—so reasonable that—”
“Ah! now you are going to encroach.”
“I am going to ask you once again to think of what I have said. It is not to your love, but to your reason, that I now appeal.”
“Well, Henri, we will leave love aside, and both of us appeal to reason. Here she sits, always calm, passionless, and wise,” and Marie put her hand upon Agatha’s arm. “We will appeal to Reason personified, and if Reason says that, were she situated as I am, she would do as you now wish me to do, I will be guided by Reason, and comply.” Henri now turned round to his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued: “I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason gives her judgment against you, you will yield without a word.”
“Well, I will do so,” said Henri. “I’m sure, however, she will not; Agatha must see the importance of our being joined as closely together as is possible.”
“You are attempting to influence Dame Reason, but it will be useless. And now, Reason, you are to remember, as of course you do, for Reason forgets nothing, that you are to think neither of brothers or of sisters. You are entirely to drop your feelings as Agatha, and to be pure Reason undefiled by mortal taint. You are to say, whether, were you, Reason, placed as I am now, you would marry this unreasonable young man as soon as he gets to Chatillon, which means tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, speak, and speak wisely.”
“You have given me a thankless task between you. I cannot decide without giving pain to one of you.”
“Reason always has a thankless task,” said Marie. “Reason is her own reward—and a very unpleasant reward she usually has.”
“Do you think,” said Henri, “it will give so much pain to Marie to be told that she is to marry the man whom she owns she loves?”
“Ah, Henri,” said Agatha, “you are prejudiced. I do not mean as to Marie’s love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, not pain her so much by advising her to marry you at once, as I fear I shall pain you by telling her, that in her place, I should not do so.”
They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from Agatha’s lips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree of playfulness, which gave to her an air of indifference on the subject, she was anything but indifferent; and yet it would have been difficult to analyse her wishes; she was quite decided that it was becoming in her to refuse Henri’s prayer, nay, that it would be selfish in her to grant it; and yet, though she appealed to Reason so confidently to confirm her refusal, there was a wish, almost a hope, near her heart, that Agatha might take her brother’s part. They were, neither of them, perhaps, gratified by the decision.
“Reason has said it,” said Marie, after a short pause, “and Reason shall be rewarded with a kiss;” and she put her arms round her cousin’s neck and kissed her.
“But why, Agatha, tell me why?” said Henri. He, at any rate, was not ashamed to show that he was disappointed.
“Do not be so inconsiderate as to ask Reason for reasons,” said Marie.
“I will tell you why, Henri. I would never consent to make myself a burden to a man at a moment when I could not make myself a comfort to him; besides, the time of marriage should be a time of joy, and this is no time for joy. Again, there is a stronger and sadder reason still. Did you ever see a young widow, who had not reached her twentieth year? if so, did you ever see a sadder sight? Would you unnecessarily doom our dear Marie to that fate! I know you so well, my dear brother, that I do not fear to speak to you of the too probable lot of a brave soldier!”
“That is enough!” said Henri, “I am convinced.”
“Do not say that, Agatha, do not say that,” said Marie, springing up and throwing herself into her lover’s arms. “Indeed, indeed, it was not of that I thought. Though we should never marry, yet were you to fall, your memory should be the same to me as that of a husband. I could never forget your love—your disinterested love—there is no treasure on this side the grave which I so value. It is the pride of my solitary hours, and the happiness of the few happy thoughts I have. The world would be nothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to God to bring you back to me. When you are with us I am dreading the moment that you will go. Oh, Agatha, Agatha! why did you say those last fearful words!”
“You asked me for the truth, Marie, and it was right that I should tell it you; it was on my tongue to say the same to Henri, before you appealed to me at all.”
“You were right, dearest Agatha,” said Henri; “and now, God bless you, Marie. I value such love as yours highly as it is worth. I trust the day may come when I can again ask you for your hand.”
“I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, tomorrow, next day, any day that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha! my brain is so turned by what you have said, that I could almost go on my knees to beg him to accept it.”
“Come, Henri, leave us,” said Agatha, “and prevent such a scandal as that would be; there are but a few hours for us to be in bed.”
Henri kissed his sister, and when he gave his hand to Marie, she did not turn her lips away from him; and as he threw himself on his bed, he hardly knew whether, if he could have his own way, he would marry her at once or not.
CHAPTER IV. — THE CHAPEL OF GENET.
About ten days after the departure of the Larochejaquelins from Durbellière, three persons were making the best of their way, on horseback, through one of the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, which in those days, served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and along which the farmers of the country contrived with infinite pains and delay, to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. The lane, through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded animals on which they were mounted, did not lead from one town to another, and was not therefore paved; it was merely a narrow track between continual rows of high trees, and appeared to wind hither and thither almost in circles, and the mud at every step covered the fetlocks of the three horses. The party consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he rode rather in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them from time to time, was their servant: a boy travelled on foot to show them the different turns which their road made necessary to them; and though, when chosen for the duty, he had received numerous injunctions as to the speed with which he should travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto found no difficulty in keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies were Madame de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trusty friend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as quickly as we can, the misfortunes which brought them into their present situation.
No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching Chatillon from Durbellière. The rapid advance of the republican troops made them think it expedient to try the chance of battle with them at once. They had consequently led out their patriot bands as far as Cholet, and had there, after a murderous conflict, been grievously worsted. No men could have fought better than did the Vendean peasants, for now they had joined some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed valour; but the number of their enemies was too great for them, and they consisted of the best soldiers of whom France could boast. The Vendeans, moreover, could not choose their own battle-field. They could not fight as they had been accustomed to do, from behind hedges, and with every advantage of locality on their side. They had thrown themselves on the veteran troops, who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, with a courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it had not purchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. D’Elbe, who acted as Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the day. Bonchamps, whose military skill was superior to that of any of the Vendeans; was mortally wounded, and before the battle was lost, de Lescure—the brave de Lescure, whom they all so loved, so nearly worshipped—was struck down and carried from the field.
There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with the religious fervour of the singular people who were now fighting for their liberty; and many of them sincerely believed that de Lescure was invulnerable, and that they were secure from any fatal reverse as long as he was with them. This faith was now destroyed; and when the rumour spread along their lines that he had been killed, they threw down their arms, and refused to return to the charge. It was in vain that Henri Larochejaquelin and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them; that they assured them that de Lescure was still living, and exposed their own persons in the thickest of the enemy’s fire. It was soon too evident that the battle was lost, and that all that valour and skill could do, was to change the flight into a retreat.
Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer returning towards Chatillon, but it had been decided that, in the event of such a disaster as that which had now befallen them, the cause in which they were engaged would be best furthered by a general retreat of all the troops across the Loire into Brittany; and consequently Henri, collecting together what he could of his shattered army, made the best of his way to St. Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they did after every battle, when the war first began; but their constancy to their arms arose neither from increased courage nor better discipline. They knew that their homes were now, or would soon be, but heaps of ruins, and that their only hope of safety consisted in their remaining with the army. This feeling, which prevented the dispersion of the men, had another effect, which added greatly to the difficulty of the officers. The wives, children, and sisters of the Vendean peasants, also flocked to the army in such numbers, that by the time the disordered multitude reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80,000 human, creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not above a quarter of that number were men capable of bearing arms.
De Lescure, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and Chapeau was sent back to Chatillon to bid the ladies and the old Marquis join the army at that place. Chapeau was sent direct from the field of battle before it was known whether or no M. de Lescure’s wound was mortal, and at a moment when Henri could give him nothing but a general direction as to the route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reached Chatillon without accident; but having reached it, he found that his difficulties were only about to commence. What was he to tell Madame de Lescure of her husband? How was he to convey the three ladies and the Marquis from Chatillon to St. Florent, through a country, the greater portion of which would then be in the hands of the blues?
Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He told Madame de Lescure that her husband was certainly wounded, but that as certainly he was not killed; and that he had every reason, though he could not say what reason, to believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. The doubt conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than any certainty; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon would, in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. They decided, or rather Chapeau decided for them, that they should start immediately for St. Florent; and that, instead of attempting to go by the direct road, they should make their way thither by bye-lanes, and through small villages, in which they possibly might escape the ferocity of their enemies.
A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which the unfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they had brought with them from Durbellière, they started on their journey. They rested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha had established an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters of Mercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were now deserted. Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but the approach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed and sick. On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she could no longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently, Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, she started, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way as best she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, with a guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon.
On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, and reached Torfou in safety. On the third day they passed Montfaucon, and were struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St. Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter.
They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possibly succeed in doing so. The shades of evening were coming on them. The poor brutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and, Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that she could hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat.
The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds of questions about the war. Many of the men of the district were already gone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but the poor creatures did not know which way to turn. They did not know where the army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure. They had an undefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire and slaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their own humble cottages.
One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, and hearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rouse that of their steeds. Another, however, soon assured them that it was at the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again their spirits sank in despair. A third had never heard the name of the place, and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be, they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses’ heads were turned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their young guide confessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself by declaring that the turnings were so like one another that it was impossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at a distance of more than two leagues from his own home.
“And what village are we nearest to, my friend?” said Chapeau, inquiring of the man who had given the above unwelcome information.
“Why the chapel of Genet,” said he, “is but a short quarter of a league from you, and the Curé’s house is close by, but the village and the château are a long way beyond that, and not on the straight road either.”
“Ask him the Curé’s name, Chapeau,” said Marie: “we will go there and tell him, who we are.’
“If he lives in his own house quietly now, Mademoiselle,” answered Chapeau, “it would be dangerous to do so; he must be one of the constitutional priests.” He asked the man, however, what was the name of the Curé.
“Why the regular old Curé went away long since, and another was here a while in his place—”
“Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?” said Chapeau.
“Why, yes; he went away too a while since, when Cathelineau turned the soldiers out of St. Florent.”
“God bless him,” said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and not the priest. “And is there no one in the house now, my friend? for you see these two ladies are unable to travel further. If there be a friend living there, I am sure he will procure them some accommodation.”
“And where did the ladies come from?” asked the man.
“You need not be afraid,” replied Chapeau, “they, and all belonging to them, are friends to the good cause;” and then, after considering within himself for a while, he added, “I will tell you who they are, they are the wife and sister of M. de Lescure.”
Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and had the man believed him, he could neither have been more surprised, or expressed a stronger feeling of adoration.
The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two ladies, whose names were so dear to every peasant of La Vendée, and then told them that after the new priest had ran away, the old Curé had come back to his own house again, but that Father Bernard was a very old man, hardly strong enough even to perform mass, though, as there was no one else to it, he did go through it every Sabbath morning; that for these two days past there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard; he did not, however, know what his name was, but he knew that he had been with the army, and that no priest through all La Vendée had been more active than he had been to encourage the royalists. The man then offered to show them to the Curé’s house, and they all turned thither together.
The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble house of the parish priest was immediately opposite to it, ensconced among a few trees, at a little distance from the road. The door of the chapel was open, and the murmuring sound of low voices within told the party that vespers were being sung. Madame de Lescure did not like calling at the priest’s house without being announced, and she therefore desired Chapeau to go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances under which she begged for the Curé’s hospitality, and proposed that she and Marie should get off their horses, and remain in the chapel till Chapeau returned.
They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasants on their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a small side altar, built in a niche in the wall. It was now late, and the light, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still less strong within the building. They could not, therefore, see the face of the priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemed familiar to both of them.
Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sank down at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projected from the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining her eyes to try to catch the features of the Curé. After a moment or two she also knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, “It is the Curé of St. Laud—it is our own Father Jerome.”
They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door, when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising from the altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation. Some of them rose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them still remained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up, by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiency there might be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though they doubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude steps of the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling. He had not seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, but the ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, either in his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them till they were standing close to his elbow.
“Father Jerome,” said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her hand on the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore. “If you could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!”
The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at her as though she had been a ghost.
“Is it possible,” said he, “Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here in the chapel of Genet!” and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said, “go home, my children, go home! I have business to speak of to these ladies.”
“Oh, Father Jerome,” said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone, “for heaven’s sake tell me something of M. de Lescure. You have heard of what happened at Cholet?”
“Yes, Madame, I was there,” said the priest.
“You were there! then you can tell me of my husband. For God’s sake, speak, Father Jerome! Tell me the worst at once. I can bear it, for it can’t be worse than I expect. Is he—is he alive?”
Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battle at Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at others leading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his huge crucifix lifted high in the air. He had been close to de Lescure when he fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from the field of battle. He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seen him alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceive Madame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he most undoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husband was no more.
A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its way downwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A surgeon had examined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he had not positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken so unfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believe that it would be so.
Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relations of the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have prepared himself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, and no one would have been better able to go through it with feeling, delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case. The sudden apparition of the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural; and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he could not so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news which he had to tell.
Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question, on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it, and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rude chair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, and which was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, he was enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so much at random as he otherwise must have done.
“Sit down, Madame de Lescure,” said he, “sit down, Mademoiselle,” and he made the latter sit down on the altar step. “You are fatigued, and you have agitated yourself too intensely.”
“Why don’t you speak, Father Jerome? Why don’t you tell me at once—is he alive?” And then she added, almost screaming in her agitation, “For God’s sake, Sir, don’t keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!”
The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She had, at his bidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated, as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed up into his face. She felt that her husband was dead but still, till the fatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feed the agony of doubt which was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto said nothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother’s wife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than the other.
“I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame,” said the priest at last. “I cannot—”
“Then you do not know that he is dead! Then there is, at any rate, some room for hope!” said she, not allowing him to finish what he was about to say; and she sank back in the chair, and relieved her overwrought mind with a flood of tears.
The priest was firmly convinced that de Lescure was at this moment numbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad him to relieve himself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to entertain a false hope; he had still, therefore, to say the words which he found it so difficult to utter.
He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, immediately opposite to Madame de Lescure; he still had on him the vestments of his holy office, though they were much worn, shabby, and soiled, and the cap, which formed a part of the priest’s dress when officiating, was on his head; his shoes were so worn and tattered, that they were nearly falling from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape of his huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of different colours, as to have made them more fitting for a mountebank than a. priest. At the present moment, there was no one likely to notice his costume; but had there been an observer there, it would have told him a tale, easy to be read, of the sufferings which had been endured by this brave and faithful servant of the King.
“When God, Madame de Lescure,” said he, speaking in a kind, peculiarly solemn tone of voice, “when God called upon you to be the wife of him who has been to you so affectionate a husband, He vouchsafed to you higher blessings, but at the same time imposed on you sterner duties than those which women in general are called upon to bear. You have enjoyed the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrink from the duties.”
“I will shrink from nothing, Father Jerome,” said she. “God’s will be done! I will endeavour to bear the burden which His Providence lays on me; but I have all a woman’s weakness, and all a woman’s fears.”
“He who has given strength and courage to so many of His people in these afflicted days, will also give it to you; He will enable you to bear the weight of His hand, which in chastising, blesses us, which in punishing us here, will render us fit for unutterable joys hereafter.” He paused a moment; but as neither of the women could now speak through their tears, he went on: “I was close to your husband when he fell, and as his eyes closed on the battlefield, they rested on the blessed emblem of his redemption.”
“He is dead then!” said she, jumping from her chair, and struggling with the sobs which nearly choked her. “Oh Sir, if you have the mercy which a man should feel for a wretched woman, tell me at least the truth,” and as she spoke, she threw herself on her knees before him.
Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually speaking, he lacked no firmness; but now he nearly felt himself overcome. “You must compose yourself before I can speak calmly to you, my daughter—before you can even understand what I shall say to you. I will not even speak to you till you are again seated, and then I will tell you everything. There—remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, as far as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up your courage, my children, and show yourself worthy to have been the wife and sister of that great man whom you loved so well.”
“He is dead!” said Marie, speaking for the first time, and almost in a whisper. “I know now that it is so,” and she threw herself into her sister’s lap, and embraced her knees.
The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, which he intended to convey to his listeners exactly the same impressions which were on his own mind. In this, however, he failed. He told them that de Lescure had been carried senseless from the field, and had been taken by Henri in a litter on the road towards St. Florent; that he himself had been present when the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinion respecting the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when he last saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain news respecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was unable to make without many interruptions, acted rather as a relief than otherwise to Madame de Lescure. She might, at any rate, see her husband again; and it was still possible that both the surgeon and Father Jerome might be wrong. As soon as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, and the difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume her journey, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn how she and Marie had come so far, and how they intended to proceed.
Chapeau had in the mean time called on the old priest, and though he had found it almost impossible to make him understand what he wanted, or who the ladies were of whom he spoke, he had learnt that Father Jerome was in the chapel, and was as much gratified as he was surprised to hear it. He had then hurried back, and though he had not put himself forward during the scene which has been just described, he had heard what had passed.
He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they had left Chatillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, and declared, at the same time with much truth, that it was quite impossible for them to proceed farther on their way that night.
“The poor brutes are dead beat,” said he. “All the spurs in Poitou wouldn’t get them on a league. The night will be pitch dark, too, and, above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be killed. They have already been on horseback all day—and so they were yesterday: it is quite clear they must rest here tonight.”
Chapeau’s arguments against their farther progress were conclusive, and as there was no better shelter to which to take them, Father Jerome led them into the little glebe. “There is but one bed left in the place,” said he, as he entered the gate, “but you will be very welcome to that; you will find it poor enough; Father Bernard has shared it with me for the last two nights. We poor Curés have not many luxuries to offer to our friends now.”
Madame de Lescure tried to utter some kind of protest that she would not turn the poor old man out of his only bed, but she succeeded badly in the attempt, for her heart was sad within her, and she hardly knew what she was saying. They all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, of which he locked the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strode into the humble dwelling opposite.
They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a small sitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning of damp sticks was very prevalent. There was one small rickety table in the middle of the room, and one other chair besides that occupied by the host, and with these articles alone the room was furnished. That there was no carpet in a clergyman’s house in Poitou was not remarkable; indeed it would have been very remarkable if there had been one; but the total want of any of the usual comforts of civilized life struck even Madame de Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take notice of such things.
The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat wildly: he was nearly doting from age; and fear, poverty, and sorrow, added to his many years, had now weighed him down almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did the honours of the house; he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair, and then bustling into the kitchen, brought out a three legged stool, which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie. Then he took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him some secret communication with reference to supper; in fact, he had to confess that there was nothing in the house but bread, and but little of that. That neither he or Father Bernard had a sou piece between them, and that unless Chapeau had money, and could go as far as the village and purchase eggs, they would all have to go supperless to bed. Chapeau luckily was provided, and started at once to forage for the party, and Father Jerome returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight.
“My dear old friend here,” said he, laying his hand on the old man’s arm, “has not much to offer you; but I am sure you are welcome to what -he has. There is not a heart in all La Vendée beats truer to his sovereign than his. Old age, misfortune, and persecution, have lain a heavy hand on him lately, but his heart still warms to the cause. Does it not my old friend?” And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face, striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in what was going on.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,” said the old man, drawing his chair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shivering as he did so. “Everything is cold now. I don’t understand why these ladies are come here, or what they’re to do; but they’re very welcome, Jerome, very welcome. A strange man came in just now, and said they must have my bed.”
“Oh no, Sir,” said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked at the dreadful misery of the poor old man; “indeed, indeed, we will not. It is only for one night, and we shall do very well. Indeed, we would not turn you out of your bed.”
“You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all—welcome as the flowers in May. I know who you are, though I forget your name; it is a name dear to all La Vendée. Your husband is a great and good man; indeed, you shall have my bed, though you’ll find it very cold. Your husband—but, oh dear! I beg your pardon, Madame, I forgot.”
I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet, was melancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered were dreadful. During the early part of the night both Madame de Lescure and Marie lay down for a few hours, but nothing, which could be said, would induce them to keep the old priest longer from his bed. About midnight they got up and spent the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs near the fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his elbows on his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the long night, meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendée.
They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St. Laud’s went with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect solitude, for he had neither friend or relative to reside beneath his roof.
“Some of them will come down from time to time,” said Father Jerome, “and do what little can be done for him, poor old man! His sufferings, it is to be hoped, will not last many days.”
“And will he perform mass next Sunday?” said Marie.
“Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the chapel, and will forget no word of the service, and make no blunder in the ceremony. To you he seems to be an idiot, but he is not so, though long suffering has made his mind to wander strangely, when he sees strange faces. There are many who have been called to a more active sphere of duty for their King and country than that poor Curé, but none who have suffered more acutely for the cause, and have born their sufferings with greater patience.”