"To die!" pondered Nominoë. "I am about to die. Or rather, I am about to be re-born yonder! Oh! I would greet that new life with a shout of joy, were it not for my sorrow at departing from this world at the very moment when there is about to break out the revolt of which my father is the soul, and which, under his direction, might have led to the overthrow of the royal power itself. This is what attaches me to life."
Absorbed in his meditations, Nominoë had not noticed that for a considerable space of time the sound of a number of bells, though weakened by the distance, reached him through the air-hole of his cell. Suddenly a tumultuous noise that drew nearer and nearer attracted his attention. With the noise of the tumult was speedily mingled the detonations of musketry fire, frequent and well sustained, and but irregularly answered. Little by little the musketry discharges ceased. The turmoil seemed hushed. A long silence ensued—and, presently, a reddish glint of flames penetrated through the air-hole of the cell, reflected itself upon the opposite wall, and speedily threw the same into a flamboyant glare. It was the war upon the castles that broke out! Peace to the huts, war to the palaces!
"The vassals have attacked the feudal manor—they have seized it—they are in the halls! They are now setting it on fire!" cried Nominoë, ecstatic with joy. But immediately struck by an opposite train of thought: "Good God! What will become of Bertha!"
A prey to distracting anxiety, Nominoë dashed himself against the thick and iron-studded door; vainly he sought to break it down with his shoulders. Presently loud cries reached his ears. They proceeded from a throng of people, who, rushing by the air-hole of his cell, shouted aloud to one another:
"The prisoners must be here! This way! this way! break open their cells! The fire is spreading! Save the prisoners! Save the prisoners!"
"God be blessed! Perhaps I may yet see Bertha—and save her once more!" cried Nominoë.
Encouraged by this thought, Nominoë approached his lips to the key-hole and called out:
"Friends! This way! This way!"
"Here I am!" answered the voice of Tankeru. "I have heard you! I am coming!" And turning the key, which was left by the jailer in the lock outside, he opened the door. The blacksmith stepped into the cell of Nominoë.
Tankeru looked ashen pale. He bled. He had received two bayonet thrusts—one in the arm, the other in the thigh. When, with felled bayonets, the soldiers charged upon the delegates of the vassals, the blacksmith, armed with his hammer, a fearful weapon in his hands, succeeded in beating his way through the soldiers and joined his companions who were waiting for him outside the gate. Immediately placing himself at the head of the vassals' troop, he marched back with them upon the castle and successfully conducted the assault. The forester guards, the soldiers, the Count's hunting men, concealed behind the embrasures of the windows on the ground floor, directed a plunging fire against the assailants. Many of these fell mortally wounded. The survivors rushed up the wide stairway with Tankeru at their head. The door of the vestibule was beaten down; a stubborn and bloody combat immediately ensued inside the edifice. Victory fell to the vassals. Heated and furious with the ardor of the battle, these threw down and smashed whatever they could lay hands upon in the sumptuous castle. Tankeru and several other peasants proceeded immediately to search for Serdan, Salaun and Nominoë. A fleeing lackey who was caught, pointed out the building in which the prison was situated, and tendered his services to the vassals as a guide while he begged for his life. He led them to the jail. It was then that Tankeru heard Nominoë's voice and stepped into his cell.
At the aspect of Tina's father Nominoë forgot the anxious thoughts that but a moment before were assailing him, and fell back terror-stricken as if a living remorse had suddenly risen before him. With features distorted by fury, the blacksmith bounded forward, raising his hammer, over the head of him whom he held responsible for the death of his daughter.
"Strike!" said Nominoë without moving, and lowering his head with resignation. "Strike! It is your right."
The blacksmith lowered his hammer, remained for a moment steeped in thought, and then said with icy calmness:
"You shall die; but, before you do, you shall know how my daughter died!"
Again the blacksmith paused, and again proceeded:
"Listen, murderer. On the day of the wedding, as you know, I took flight upon seeing that the attempt to disarm the soldiers miscarried. After dark I returned to my house; I knocked at the door; my mother opened it. She was pale; she was sobbing. I asked what was the matter—as yet I knew nothing. She answered: 'It is all over. Nominoë has fled. He said to Salaun and Tina that they would nevermore see him. The child was brought home in a swoon. A short while ago she regained consciousness. She is upstairs. She is spinning at her wheel as if nothing had happened. She does not speak. She does not weep—she frightens me—I fear the poor girl has gone crazy.'"
"Oh, God!" murmured Nominoë, hiding his face, in his hands. "Poor child! Poor—poor child!"
"Upon hearing these words from my mother," Tankeru proceeded without seeming to hear the painful wail that escaped Nominoë, "at these words from my mother, I was at first seized with a vertigo. The blood rushed to my brain; I fell seated upon a bench; my head reeled. Presently I could think again. I said to myself—it is done for my daughter, grief will kill her! I went upstairs. Tina, seated before her wheel, spun. Her eyes were fixed; her cheeks were purple; heavy drops of sweat rolled down her forehead. When I came in, her eyes were turned in my direction—she did not budge—she did not recognize me. I believed she was crazy; sobs choked me. I called to her—'Tina! Tina! My child!' No answer; no look of recognition—nothing! nothing! I left her to my mother's care, and ran to Vannes in quest of a physician. I trembled with fear lest he should arrive too late. I informed the physician of what had happened. He took horse, and followed me. I ran afoot faster than he on horseback. I knocked again at our door, and entering I asked my mother: 'Is she dead?' 'No,' she answered, 'she had a spell of weakness, but, upon recovering, she recognized me. I wished to undress her to lay her to bed. She wept and begged me not to take off her wedding clothes. She is now on her bed.' We ran upstairs with the physician. We found her lying on her bed with her nuptial headdress and clothes. She had grown so pale that I shivered. This time she recognized and stretched out her arms to me. She endeavored to rise; her strength failed her. I approached close to her pale face; she embraced me—her lips were icy—also her cheeks. I realized on the instant that she was expiring. I felt as if my heart was being wrung—I screamed with actual pain! My mother drew me away. I had forgotten the physician. He contemplated my daughter for a long time; he touched her hand, her forehead; and then he motioned to me to leave the room with him. The sudden shock that my daughter had sustained caused all her blood to rush to her heart; a blood vessel had burst; she was dying. That was what the physician said to me. I returned to Tina's room. She endeavored to smile—what a smile!—and she said to us, to my mother and me: 'Give me your dear hands, and leave them in mine till the end.' She pressed them gently, and a little later said: 'Oh! that warms me up.' Poor dear child, her hands were so cold! her little hands were already so cold that they froze the very marrow in my bones. I sought to comfort her. She shook her head and said to my mother: 'Do you see grandma, do you now agree that heaven does send us tokens to prepare us for misfortune? The black crow of this morning? The little dead dove? Do you remember? No—God did not wish me to be the wife of Nominoë. We exchanged rings'—and she raised to her lips the ring that she wore on her finger—'I was his wife, and see me, now, his widow before his death. He married me only out of kindness, but the Lord God did not want that marriage. May His will be done! May Nominoë be happy! Father, you must pardon him, as I pardon him the sorrow that, despite himself, he has caused us. It is not his fault. Had he been able to love me with a husband's love he would have loved me. Pardon for him—it is the last request of your daughter Tina. She also asks you to bury her in her bridal robe, with her ring and her nuptial ribbons. Good father, adieu! Grandma, adieu. Leave your hands in mine—I die—'"
Tankeru could not finish the sentence. His voice, which trembled more and more as he proceeded, utterly broke down. Sobs convulsed his frame. In the tenderness of his grief he forgot for a moment the revengeful rage that transported him, and he himself repeated the supreme last words of Tina—the pardon that with her last breath she implored for Nominoë! The latter, utterly overwhelmed with the distressful report of Tina's last hours, listened to it in mournful silence. So profound was his grief, so sincere his remorse, that he never thought of his anxiety concerning the fate of Mademoiselle Plouernel. Suddenly Tankeru's tears ceased to flow. With them also ceased his tenderness. Only his despair now remained. His fury was rekindled; he picked up the hammer that had fallen at his feet, swung it in the air and rushed upon Nominoë crying:
"I have informed you of the sufferings and the agony of your victim—now, assassin, die!"
The heavy hammer of the blacksmith rose to drop upon the head of Nominoë. The latter jumped aside, threw his arms around Tankeru's neck, embraced him effusively, and said in a voice choked with tears:
"I do not fear death! Not that! But, believe me, my death would one day weigh heavily upon your conscience! You loved my mother so dearly! Tina has pardoned me, and she asked you to have mercy upon me! You see my tears, my remorse—you loved me once—your heart is good—uncle! uncle!—do not kill me! Eternal remorse would pursue you for the act!"
The touching words of Nominoë, his tender embrace, the memory of his sister, the last words of Tina, the paternal affection he had always felt for his nephew disarmed Tankeru. The hammer slipped from his hand and fell at his feet.
At that moment Serdan and Salaun Lebrenn, whom the vassals had freed, entered precipitately into the cell. Serdan cried out:
"Flee! Flee! The fire is reaching the building!"
Having overheard his son's words in answer to Tankeru's threat to kill him, Salaun took the blacksmith's hand and pressing it warmly in his own, said:
"Brother, I swear to God! Despite the immensity of the wrong that he has done, Nominoë does deserve, if not your pardon, at least your pity!"
"The fire! The fire!" cried several peasants who had descended into the prison to deliver the captives, and who, having regained the stairs, now ran through the gallery of cells. In view of the increasing danger, the blacksmith, Salaun and his son dashed across the black clouds of smoke, picking their way by the ruddy reflections which the conflagration projected upon the steps of the staircase through the prison gate, that looked like the mouth of a roaring furnace. Nominoë followed close upon the steps of his father and the blacksmith who preceded him. Despite the imminence of the danger that he ran, the youth's thoughts now returned to Mademoiselle Plouernel. In heartrending accents he muttered:
"Oh, woe! Oh, woe! The fire is consuming the castle. What may have become of her? Where may Bertha be?"
"She is safe!" answered Serdan, who, happening to walk close by the side of Nominoë, had overheard him. "The peasants informed us that, once masters of the castle, their companions took care of their good demoiselle. A carriage was quickly hitched to a team of horses, and Mademoiselle Plouernel departed with her nurse and an equerry to Mezlean. The Marchioness, terror-stricken, died of apoplexy."
Tankeru, Serdan, Salaun Lebrenn and Nominoë made their escape through the underground staircase of the prison building. The building itself was now ablaze, the same as all the out-houses appertaining to the castle. Their roofs fell with crash upon crash within the walls that had partly crumbled in the conflagration, and shot up long streamers of fire and sparkling embers. Seeing that the castle itself did not contain the mass of combustible materials of all sorts with which the out-houses were filled, it offered a longer resistance to the conflagration. Off and on a tongue of fire would be seen expiring in the midst of smoke that was still escaping from the windows on the ground floor; the panes of glass had exploded noisily and the frames were charred black. But the fire spared the upper floors where the vassals still pursued their work of devastation, throwing out of the windows pieces of furniture, looking glasses, bedding, books, pictures. Debris of all kinds was heaped in the center of the court of honor, and the insurgents turned the heap into a huge bonfire that lighted the three gibbets which were erected for Salaun, Serdan and Nominoë, but from which now dangled the lifeless bodies of the Count of Plouernel, Abbot Boujaron and Sergeant La Montagne, all three objects of the implacable hatred of the people—the seigneur, the priest and the King's soldier.
Informed of the death of his brother Gildas who was massacred together with the other delegates of the vassals, Tankeru excepted, Salaun looked for and found the body, and laid it in a grave that he dug with the assistance of Tankeru, Serdan and Nominoë. That funeral duty being fulfilled, Salaun said to them, as he sadly contemplated the scene of wreck and ruin which they had been unable to prevent:
"Oh, my son! my friends! Had we been free, we would have succeeded in preventing these acts of savagery that are so fatal to our cause! Alas, it is now too late! What is the mysterious law that causes the re-vindication of human rights ever to drag excesses in its wake! The vassals of the Count of Plouernel first submitted their grievances humbly to him, and presented the surely legitimate demands which they formulated in the Peasant Code. Had the Count listened to their claims, he would have done an act of humanity and justice, and he would have preserved his privileges. By yielding to the peasants' wishes, and discontinuing to look upon his peasants as beasts of burden, that man would have shown himself not only just, but also intelligent in his own interest. If these wretched people were spared the homicidal privations that, before taking them to their graves, gradually sap their health, undermine their strength, and render them unfit for continued toil, they would have yielded more wealth to him, and would have rendered more fruitful the seigniorial domains. But no! In his pitiless egotism, the Count of Plouernel answered the peasants' prayers with disdain, with insult, with murder! They thereupon grew furious, enraged. They returned blow for blow, death for death; gave themselves over to frightful acts of reprisal; killed their seigneur; and now ravage and burn down his castle! It will cost the brother of the Count of Plouernel a good deal to repair the disasters of this single night—twenty times more than it would have cost the Count to ease his vassals for a century and more of the taxes that oppressed them. Alas! This is not an isolated instance in history. Did not the seigneurs and their bishops proceed in the same manner during the Middle Ages towards those communes which our ancestor Fergan the Quarryman was one of the most intrepid to defend? The communiers also began with humble supplications to their seigneurs, or their bishops, to alleviate their taxes. But both seigneurs and bishops ordered their men-at-arms to mow down the 'villains' and 'clowns.' And, thereupon, 'clowns' and 'villains' rose in revolt, and, arms in hand, at the price of their blood, and after taking signal vengeance, conquered the franchises and the charters—the safeguards of their freedom! Even during the last century, did not the Reformers first request humbly that they be granted the right to exercise their own cult? But the Church and the Crown answered their prayers with the pyre and wholesale massacres. And thereupon the Reformers in turn, rose in revolt, and, after a half century of bloody religious wars, the Edict of Nantes finally consecrated and confirmed the four edicts of tolerance which the Huguenots had conquered, arms in hand. And yet, as our ancestor Christian the printer said in the days of Francis I, a simple decree of two lines only, recognizing in all the right to exercise their cult, while respecting the cult of others, would have avoided the dreadful catastrophes that Catholic intolerance brought upon France for over fifty years. What is the reason that all civil, political or religious reform can be conquered only at the price of blood and of frightful disasters? Alas! simply because the nobility, the clergy and royalty look upon all attempt to curb or clip the rights, that they consider sacred, as an outrage, as theft, and as the ruination of the land; because they never will consent voluntarily to curtail their privileges, these being the source of their power and their wealth; because, even did they grant some measure of reform under the pressure of necessity, they would strive to withdraw what they conceded, the moment they thought the danger was over."
"But, at least, however violent the reaction against the reforms that are granted, something always remains; some gain always is left," observed Nominoë. "It is only by this process, slowly, painfully, and step by step, that human progress pursues its course across the ages."
"Oh!" broke in Salaun. "Without this deep-rooted faith in the irresistible progress of humanity, a progress that is as evident as the sun's light, what would man be? A sport of accident, a blind creature, fated to wear himself out with impotent efforts in the midst of eternal darkness! No; no. You did not wish that, Oh, God of justice! You have pointed out a sublime goal to man! His free will chooses the path, be it slow or swift, easy or painful, peaceful or bloody. Your sovereign will is bound to be accomplished, it is in process of being accomplished.—And now, my friends, seeing we were not able to prevent these dreadful acts of reprisal, let us rally the peasants. Our troop will be swollen by accessions from all the parishes that are now in revolt. We shall march upon Rennes in order to bring assistance to the people and the bourgeois there in arms. The other chieftains, at the head of the peasants of the districts of Nantes and of Quimper, will, on their part, carry succor to their respective cities in revolt. From that moment, the victorious insurrection, mistress of Brittany as it is of Guyenne, of Languedoc, of Saintonge and of Dauphiné, will impose the PEASANT CODE upon the clergy and the seigniory, and its national reforms upon Louis XIV!—THE LAND SHALL BELONG TO THOSE WHO CULTIVATE IT."
The manor of Mezlean, located at a considerable distance from the burg of the same name, lies about half a league from the druid stones of Karnak, which rise on the border of the ocean in long and wide avenues of gigantic pillars.
About a month had elapsed since the burning of the Castle of Plouernel. It was night. Bertha's nurse, old Marion, was mechanically spinning at her wheel in the spacious lower hall of the manor that was so long uninhabited, and the antique furniture of which dated from the reign of Henry IV. Near Marion, on a table, stood a copper lamp with three jets.
"It is going on three weeks that old Du Buisson, mademoiselle's equerry, has been on the road, and he is not yet back," mused Marion uneasily to herself. "Can he have met with some accident? If not, I wonder what news he will bring from down there! One hears nothing here at Mezlean of what goes on in Brittany. A company of soldiers marched into the burg this morning. They can have found there only women, children and old men, besides some few other people who took no part in the revolt." And shuddering at the thought, Marion added: "Oh, what a night, what a night was that on which the peasants attacked the castle! I thought my poor Bertha's last hour had sounded when I saw them invade our apartment, arms in hand! But not at all. 'You are our good demoiselle, as good as your brother is wicked,' said they to Bertha. 'You have nothing to fear, demoiselle. But leave the place; take along everything you want. We ordered your domestics to hitch up a carriage. They are waiting for you.' And mademoiselle took a little portrait of her mother, a casket containing some money and jewelry, and a manuscript written by Colonel Plouernel. I hurriedly packed up a few bundles, and we left the castle. Alas! They were at that moment hanging Monseigneur the Count, Monsieur the Abbot, and the sergeant. 'Mercy! Mercy for my brother!' cried my poor Bertha piteously, falling upon her knees on the staircase, from the top of which she saw Monseigneur the Count, pale and bleeding, struggling against the vassals who were dragging him to the gibbet! It was too late! Mademoiselle's voice was not heard by the peasants in the tumult. We finally arrived here with a coachman and a lackey. Old Du Buisson escorted us on horseback, riding beside the door of the carriage. Mademoiselle sent the men back with generous expressions of her gratitude, keeping only Du Buisson and myself in her service, besides the porter and his wife. I trembled when I saw my poor Bertha relapse after so many shocks, into a serious illness. But thanks to God, I was mistaken. For a few days she had a high fever as the consequence of her despair at the horrible death of her brother. But slowly she recovered her health. I must admit that, since her last great illness at Versailles, she never has been better—she is now more beautiful and fresher than I have ever seen her. She seems calm and happy. All that should set me at ease. And yet—sad presentiments assail my heart. I can not overcome them."
At this point Marion broke off abruptly, listened toward the hall door and said:
"I hear steps. Who can it be that is coming in at this hour?"
The door opened, and Du Buisson entered.
"God be blessed! At last you are back, Du Buisson! Well, what news do you bring?"
"Bad news, my dear Marion. Bad news from everywhere!"
"Good God! Then Monsieur Nominoë Lebrenn, the poor young man—?"
"He must have fared like so many others. I found it impossible to discover any traces of either him or his father. Whether he is dead or alive, I can not tell."
"Oh, my poor Bertha! My poor Bertha! How much is she to be pitied!"
"Fortunately mademoiselle is a brave woman. Moreover, she entertained but slight hopes of my succeeding in the mission that she charged me with. I did my best. How is mademoiselle's health?"
"Excellent, my dear Du Buisson!"
"Every day mademoiselle takes a long walk along the seashore in the direction of the stones of Karnak. She seems to have taken a liking for the spot. When she returns home she takes up the manuscript of Colonel Plouernel, and starts to read. Especially in the evening, she remains for hours at a stretch in a revery, contemplating the sky. She looks sad every time the stars are veiled by the clouds."
"She must have been impatient to see me back?"
"Yes. As far as I could judge from a few words that she dropped to me, she is awaiting your return to take some kind of action. What it may be I do not know."
"Perhaps she contemplates leaving France for a while, and traveling abroad."
"I do believe she is thinking of a voyage. More than once did mademoiselle say to me we were here only transiently."
"At any rate, the important point is that she is much less melancholy, and her health is good—not so?"
"Yes, her sadness seems to have vanished, and her health is excellent. And yet, Du Buisson, I often feel greatly alarmed about mademoiselle; it seems to me some misfortune is approaching—sad thoughts assail me day and night."
"What can be the cause of these presentiments of evil?"
"I hardly dare tell you. You would take me for a fool—you would laugh at me, I fear."
"Nothing that concerns our young mademoiselle can cause me to indulge in levity, Marion. Speak out, I pray you."
"Well, shortly after your departure, my poor Bertha, who was barely over her fever, still seemed quite sad. One day mademoiselle was speaking to me with her usual kindness of heart about my family in Vannes, and she asked me whether none of my relatives needed any financial assistance. I answered her that my brother, a small trader, found in his business enough to meet the personal wants of himself, his wife and children; and, in the hope of amusing mademoiselle, I added that my brother and I expected from one moment to another a windfall of incalculable value. Mademoiselle very soberly asked me what I meant. I answered that one of our cousins, an old man almost dotish, was, as so many others have been doing of late years, blowing in order to find the 'powder of projection'—"[7]
"What, Marion! Did this blowing fad penetrate to the very heart of Brittany? Are there here also people who indulge in such vagaries?"
"Unfortunately so. The cousin whom I refer to is one of those fools. He inherited a little patrimony, and sank it all in alembics and chemical retorts. All the while, the old fellow is ever more convinced that he is on the track of that famous powder with the help of which everything, just everything, can be changed into gold. I was retailing this nonsense to mademoiselle in the hope of amusing her, when I perceived that she suddenly grew quite serious, and said to me there was more truth than people generally thought for in the wisdom of the alchemists; that she was curious to pay a visit to the blower; and she wound up saying that we would go the very next day to Vannes."
"So, then, mademoiselle took the nonsense seriously! That is surprising—but it does not justify your alarm."
"I also was very much surprised, I must confess; and my surprise increased greatly when, just before stepping into the carriage to go to Vannes, I saw mademoiselle open her casket, take out some gold and precious stones, and put them into a little satchel that she carried. We arrived at the suburbs of Vannes. The carriage stopped before an isolated house in which the dotish fellow lives. I found him surrounded by his furnaces, and announced to him the visit of mademoiselle. She went in, told me to wait for her outside, and she remained quite long alone with him. Does not that yet strike you as singular?"
"Go to, Marion! You are trying to hint at magic. To be sure mademoiselle's visit to the old fool is singular. But that does not indicate magic."
"I am coming to the point. I was waiting for mademoiselle in the necromancer's vestibule when suddenly he came out looking wild, ran out to the nearest house, and speedily returned carrying—a big black cat!"
"Oh! Oh! I begin to see! The black cat is the cabalistic animal par excellence! And what became of the black cat?"
"I do not know—but what is quite certain is that about an hour later mademoiselle came out of the blower's den beaming with happiness and joy. Her feet did not seem to touch the ground. In short, the expression on her face had changed to the point that I asked myself, and often ask myself still, whether that man may not have resorted to some witchcraft that could so suddenly metamorphose my poor Bertha. I must also tell you that she did not bring back to Mezlean the gold pieces and precious stones which she took from her casket. Whether it is that, knowing from me that the old man is penniless, she meant to help him, or whether it is that she was made to pay through the nose for some charm—I do not know. But, no. She is too sensible to be duped by such juggler's tricks."
"My poor Marion, all the black cats in the world will not make me believe in sorcery. But I am struck by the change that you say came over mademoiselle's spirits after her visit to the blower, especially if the change has been permanent, as you claim it is."
"And so it is. Since that day, mademoiselle has never looked sad, nor care-worn, as formerly. She seems to await your return impatiently in order to take a decision connected with some voyage. Finally, when she speaks to me of her deceased mother, Madam the Countess, and she does so quite often—that is another matter that perplexes and alarms me a good deal—mademoiselle occasionally expresses herself in language that implies she expects to meet her soon. On such occasions the eyes of my poor Bertha become so brilliant that I cannot face their light; her face radiates celestial beauty; she looks transfigured, as I said to you before, and—"
Marion broke suddenly off and said to the old equerry:
Mademoiselle Plouernel entered the apartment walking slowly. She looked fresher, more beautiful than ever. She was dressed in white. The old equerry bowed respectfully and said to her, who upon seeing him, uttered a cry of surprise:
"I did not hurry to present myself before mademoiselle because the tidings that I bring are of the saddest."
"Leave us alone, Marion," said Mademoiselle Plouernel to her nurse. "I must see Du Buisson privately for a moment."
Marion left the room, and Bertha kindly addressed the equerry:
"I am all the sorrier for the trouble I have put you to, Du Buisson, seeing that it was to prove fruitless;" and seating herself, the young girl added: "Do not remain standing; you must feel tired after your long journey."
Out of deference for his mistress the old man hesitated to obey. Bertha repeated:
"Take a seat; I want it."
Du Buisson sat down. Bertha proceeded:
"Then you bring me back my letter?"
"Here it is, mademoiselle," answered the old man. "I could not find the addressee," and taking a letter out of his wallet, he passed it over to Bertha, who laid the folded and sealed paper on a table beside her, saying:
"So then you found it impossible to ascertain the whereabouts of Monsieur Nominoë Lebrenn? Could you gather no information concerning him?"
"None, mademoiselle! When I left Mezlean I learned that the troop of insurgent peasants took the road to Rennes, was greatly augmented by contingents from the parishes which it traversed, and must have numbered about twenty thousand men, more or less well armed. It was a veritable army. Monsieur Nominoë Lebrenn, his father and Monsieur Serdan had brought the body under considerable disciplinary order. Nevertheless, all their efforts to the contrary, not a few disorderly acts were indulged in at the castles and rectories. The peasant army moved all the while towards Rennes. I hoped to encounter it at Guemenee. But there I learned that envoys of Monsieur the Duke of Chaulnes, Governor of Brittany, had arrived at that town ahead of the insurgents and announced to the inhabitants that the new royal taxes were repealed, that the parliament of Brittany was to assemble at Vannes, that it would register the Peasant Code, that the vassals also were to be exonerated from paying the royal taxes, and that thenceforth they were all to be protected against any further extortions and maltreatment by the seigneurs and the curates. The promises made by the emissaries of Monsieur the Duke of Chaulnes caused great jubilation among the peasants. They declared that, having obtained what they wanted, the war was ended, and they would return home to their respective parishes. So far from sharing the confidence into which the peasants were lulled, Lebrenn and Serdan urged upon them the necessity of not disbanding and not laying down their arms; they assured the peasants that they were being deceived, and that the plan was to dissolve their army by means of mendacious promises, and then to fall upon and crush them. Indeed, the promises were but a snare and a lure. But the lure seduced the peasants, who were homesick for their huts, their wives and their children. In vain did their chiefs urge them to march upon Rennes, the usual place for the parliament to hold its sessions, and support the assembly in its defiance of the King."
"And the advice was not heeded?"
"No, mademoiselle. The vassals, delighted at the realization of their aspirations, answered that it was impossible to suppose Monseigneur the Governor would vilely lie to them. They broke ranks and struck the roads home in separate bands, proclaiming everywhere along their passage that the Peasant Code was accepted by the seigneurs and the curates. Great rejoicing reigned in all the parishes of Brittany. Everywhere bonfires were lighted. Upon learning at Guemenee of the dispersion of the insurgents, I inquired after their chiefs. I learned that Monsieur Salaun Lebrenn, his son and Monsieur Serdan had proceeded to Rennes. I went thither. The masses of the people, especially the bourgeoisie, being less credulous than the peasants, remained in arms, the same as at Nantes, awaiting the opening of the parliament promised by Monsieur the Duke of Chaulnes. While at Rennes I looked for the Lebrenns and Monsieur Serdan. Later I learned they had departed for Nantes. Thither I wended my way. Upon arriving at Nantes I learned that a body of ten thousand troops, commanded by Monsieur De Forbin, had just entered Brittany in order to crush the rebellious parliamentarians—were they bourgeois or peasants. On the following day the town of Nantes was occupied by two regiments of infantry, supported by artillery and cavalry. The executions commenced. On the first day forty-seven leading bourgeois were hanged, and eleven men of the common people, who were marked as seditious, broken alive on the wheel."
"My God!" cried Mademoiselle Plouernel horrified. "How much blood! How much blood!"
"The city was mulcted of one hundred thousand ecus, the sum to be delivered to the troops within forty-eight hours. Thereupon a decree of the Governor of Brittany was posted pronouncing sentence of death upon all those who would afford refuge to the chiefs of the insurrection. At the head of the list of the chiefs, whose heads were pronounced forfeit, were the names of Salaun and Nominoë Lebrenn."
"I am not surprised," put in Bertha calmly. "And at Nantes neither were you able to find any traces of Monsieur Lebrenn and his son?"
"No, mademoiselle. From that moment it seemed to me there was nothing left for me to do but to return and inform you of the miscarriage of my errand. But, alas! as I crossed Brittany, what a lamentable spectacle! Pillage, desolation, gallows—everywhere! The soldiers treat Brittany like a conquered country, and demean themselves in the identical manner that they did in Flanders. Their acts of rapine and cruelty transcend description. I saw along the roads almost as many gibbets as trees! The peasants are tortured and then butchered. Those who flee to the woods are tracked, hunted and killed like wild beasts by the soldiers! They spare neither old men nor children—the women are outraged. In short, such is the terror that reigns in the country that yesterday, as I crossed Lesneven, which was just occupied by a company of soldiers, I saw a score of peasants throw themselves upon their knees, clasp their hands, and offering their throats, cry out pitifully to the soldiers: 'Cut our throats, if you wish, but do not make us languish in torture!' Finally this morning, at Karer, a lot of drunken soldiers roasted a child alive!"
"Enough! That's horrible!" cried Mademoiselle Plouernel, shivering. "Oh, great century! Oh, Grand Monarch! Blessed be the hour when I shall depart from this land, the scene of so many horrors and so many infamies!"
"Is mademoiselle going on a voyage?"
"Yes," answered Bertha with an indefinable smile; "yes, I contemplate undertaking a long voyage."
"May I hope that mademoiselle will keep me near her? I am old, but devoted."
"I know your devotion, good and faithful servitor. It matches Marion, my nurse's. Nevertheless, I could hardly think of taking you with me, either you, or her."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed the old man, tears coming to his eyes. "What! Are we not to accompany mademoiselle? But, good God! I may ask without presuming too much, where will mademoiselle find more faithful servants, or more devoted to her? We must implore mademoiselle to keep us near her, in her service."
"Can you imagine that, if I were to keep any servants, I would look for others than yourselves?"
"But, mademoiselle," persisted Du Buisson, stupefied, "mademoiselle can not think of traveling alone!"
"Exactly! That surprises you? I can well understand that it does. And yet, it is so. I need not add that I shall provide for your old age, my good Du Buisson."
"Oh, I hope mademoiselle does not think that my private interest—is what concerns me—"
"Your disinterestedness, Du Buisson, is equal to your probity and zeal—I know it. For that very reason it will be an agreeable duty on my part to recompense your long services. That is not yet all. I shall leave you—you and Marion—charged with a mission that, I am sure, you will be thankful to me for entrusting you with. I can entrust it to no worthier hands. The large number of executions, which, by order of Louis XIV will turn Brittany into a vast cemetery, will make many widows, many orphans. Before my departure I shall leave with you a considerable sum in gold and valuables. You and Marion shall use the same towards alleviating the distress of the poor families whose breadwinners will have perished and—"
Marion burst into the room. She was pale and trembling. In a broken voice she said:
"Oh, mademoiselle! What a singular occurrence!"
"What is the matter, nurse?"
"I hardly dare tell you! My God, you will be so much surprised! It will be so strange to you—I am all upset!"
"What is the matter?"
"Margarid, the porter's wife, came up to the house to announce to me that someone knocked at the gate, that she opened, a person appeared and asked to speak—"
"Well?"
"I told Margarid to let the person come in; he did—I saw him. It is—Nominoë Lebrenn."
"Heaven be praised! Thanks, Oh Lord, thanks!" cried Mademoiselle Plouernel, clasping her hands tightly and raising her eyes moistened with joyful tears. Immediately after her first transport of gladness, Bertha said to Marion in a voice that trembled:
"Bring him to me. Let him come."
Marion left, and Bertha returned to her old equerry:
"You will not forget my recommendations regarding the sum that I destine for the widows and orphans—whom the savage soldiers of the Grand Monarch will have made."
"Mademoiselle's wishes shall be carried out," answered the old man, bowing.
He left the room; almost immediately after Nominoë entered the hall. His clothes were dusty; he threw his wallet and traveling stick upon an arm chair. He stood alone before Bertha.
Mademoiselle Plouernel stepped buoyantly towards Nominoë, reached out her hand to him, and said delightedly:
"At last I see you again!"
"How beautiful she is! My God, how beautiful she is!" the young man murmured involuntarily, standing in ecstasy before the young girl whose hand he held in his own. Never before, not even at The Hague, was he dazzled by the radiant beauty of Bertha as now. For a moment he remained as if in a transport—enraptured—in ecstatic adoration.
Soon the intoxicating emotion was succeeded by a bitter presentiment in Nominoë's heart. He knew himself to be passionately loved by Bertha. She must have suffered a thousand cruel pangs at the thought of the perils that he ran since they last met, above all at the thought of the wreck of the marriage which she had so long looked forward to. And yet, so far from finding her dejected, pale, emaciated by grief and despair, she stood there blooming with freshness and beauty. Love has a penetrating eye. Mademoiselle Plouernel divined the secret thought of Nominoë, and addressing him with a charming smile, said:
"Be frank, my friend, you find me too beautiful, do you not?"
"What is that you say, Bertha!"
"Admit it, pallor would better suit my cheeks than the tint of the rose. Recent tears should dim the brilliancy of my eyes. An expression of despair should compress my lips. Instead—my eyes shine brilliantly, my cheeks are red, and a smile sits upon my lips. Nothing in me betrays the pangs of despair; I look brimful of confidence, of calm and serene hope. What can I say to you, Nominoë?—my face can dissemble as little as my heart. Only a minute ago, before your arrival, I was happy; I see you again, my happiness is doubled. My words, my appearance, astonish you, because you left me broken with grief. Here," added Mademoiselle Plouernel taking from the table the letter which her old equerry had just returned to her; "read this; you will then understand what seems unexplainable to you. I sent to you a man whom I trust; he was to deliver this letter to you; he followed your traces to Guemenee, to Rennes, to Nantes; nowhere could he find you."
The young man took the letter; Bertha stepped out of the hall for a moment and quickly returned carrying a rather heavy casket. She laid the latter upon the table where also stood some writing materials, and traced a few lines with a firm hand. She then folded the two sheets; on the one she wrote—To my dear and good Marion; on the other—To my faithful Du Buisson. While Bertha was thus engaged, Nominoë informed himself of the contents of the letter that she had handed to him. A tremor ran through his frame and his moist eyes turned to Bertha. "What a heart! What courage! As brave as she is beautiful!" he muttered to himself, and resumed his reading. When he finished he carried the letter to his lips. Tears covered his face. He stepped forward, transfigured. His countenance became, like Bertha's, radiantly serene. He raised his head; his tears ceased to flow; a smile flitted over his lips; he collected his thoughts, and said to Mademoiselle Plouernel, who stepped towards him:
"Bertha, the future dazzles me like your beauty; but two words about the past: The insurrection is suppressed; Serdan is dead; my father! my father has gone and now is reborn, and lives yonder—but, alas! I could not bid him my supreme adieu, and close his eyes."
"When did that misfortune happen?"
"At Nantes, where we stopped, together with Serdan, we hoped to be able to rekindle the energy of the population of the town, and counteract the defection of the peasants. But the promises of Monsieur Chaulnes had made their dupes in Nantes also. Hence arose a fatal division between those of the inhabitants who laid down their arms, and those who wished to remain under arms. In the midst of the discord Nantes was occupied by a strong armed force. To attempt resistance would have been folly. The executions started. My father, Serdan and myself were signalled out as the chiefs of the sedition. From the moment the King's troops occupied Nantes the town gates were watched. We could not leave the place. Some devoted friends offered us a place of refuge, but we had to hide separately. I left my father and Serdan. They were discovered in their hiding places. Serdan, who was fallen upon as he lay asleep, was arrested. The next day he was hanged. My father at least escaped such an inauspicious death. Entrenched in his room and well armed, he defended himself until he fell. The next day the Governor's decree was proclaimed to the sound of the trumpet pronouncing sentence of death upon all who thenceforward gave aid or comfort to the heads of the sedition. From my place of concealment I could hear the proclamation distinctly. I wished to surrender myself, in order to free my host from the responsibility that rested upon him. Besides, I was tired of life. The miscarriage of our insurrectionary plans, the death of my father, of Serdan, of Tina my bride—the certainty of your love, Bertha, the prospect of being reborn in the invisible world, everything drove me toward what is called death. I only regretted not having seen you once more on this earth. Frightened at my determination to surrender myself, my host opposed it warmly. Finding me set upon my purpose, he offered me a means of escape that he considered safe, although singular. The cemetery of the Protestants of Nantes lies outside of the walls, as a sign of contempt. It is now forbidden to the Reformed pastors to accompany a corpse to its last resting place. My host proposed to place me in a coffin. Two men were to transport me out of town, as if they were carrying a Protestant corpse to the grave. The plan was carried out. In that manner I was enabled to leave Nantes. Obsessed with the wish of seeing you I came to Mezlean, traveling only by night, and occasionally stopping at some solitary peasant's hut, or hiding in the forest. In that way I succeeded in coming to you. And now, Bertha, let us forget the past, let us think only of the present. A dazzling future discloses itself to my eyes."
Nominoë was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Marion, who, a prey to violent anxiety, cried out from the threshold:
"An officer of the King! and soldiers!"
"What does the officer want?" asked Bertha without stirring.
"To search the manor, instantly, he says, for a criminal. The porter refused to open the gate without your orders, mademoiselle; the officer threatens to use force."
"Heaven and earth! They will not take me alive!" cried Nominoë, drawing his dagger partly out of its sheath. "The soldiers of the Grand Monarch will not enjoy the pleasure of arresting me—I shall escape their gibbet."
"Keep cool, my friend; keep cool," replied Mademoiselle Plouernel, stepping towards the door of the hall with a tranquil smile. "Come, nurse."
"Bertha," asked Nominoë, "where are you going?"
"I am going to ask the officer whether he has completely lost his senses. What! Armed men demand, at this advanced hour of the night, to search the house of Mademoiselle Plouernel, when she is at home! No, no! I shall induce the noble officer to postpone his search for to-morrow. I feel certain the officer will feel happy to accede to my wishes."
"And suppose the officer should persist in forcing his way in?"
"Mademoiselle, there is a safe way of escape," said Marion anxiously. "The passage that leads from the close to the orchard runs under the path that skirts the walls of the garden; once in the orchard, the fields and the seashore can be safely reached."
"Mademoiselle!" the old equerry in turn ran in crying bewildered: "The soldiers have entered the yard and are trying to beat down the house door with the butts of their muskets."
"The door is thick; the walls of the close are high; we still have the passage to the orchard," observed Bertha calmly, and she added almost mirthfully: "If, contrary to my expectations, and after having heard me—I shall say nothing of after having seen me—the officer should persist in his savage conduct, then I shall return here instantly, and we shall have time to carry out our project, Nominoë. I have penetrated your thought. It is in accord with mine."
As Mademoiselle Plouernel uttered these last words she cast upon Nominoë a glance that intoxicated him. She left the hall followed by Marion and the old equerry and went to the manor door.
Left alone, Nominoë exclaimed in a transport of joy:
"She knows my mind! Oh, God be blessed for having brought me back to Mezlean! The minutes are numbered! I must now hasten to fulfill my father's wishes in the matter of our family narratives and relics. On the eve of the insurrection he deposited them at Vannes with a faithful and devoted friend, the only relative we have left in Brittany."
Nominoë drew a thick package from his pocket, laid it beside him, and rapidly covered several leaves with a fine and close writing. Mademoiselle Plouernel re-entered the hall, and smilingly said to Nominoë:
"We were wholly wrong, my friend, in doubting the gallantry of the officer. 'Is it not true, monsieur,' I asked him, 'that it is not your intention to invade to-night the dwelling of a young lady, who is alone in her house with her nurse and an old grey-headed equerry? To-morrow it will be daylight. The gate of the manor shall be thrown open to you. You shall then search for your criminal. Place your sentries at the gate. Surround the walls, if you fear escape in that quarter. To-morrow I should be happy to express to you my appreciation of your courtesy, and to the best of my powers I shall do you the honors of my house.' Our man," Bertha added, "lost himself in apologies; he postponed for to-morrow his visit to the manor, and asked my pardon for the liberty he would take of placing sentrymen at the gate and at the wall of the close in order to render all escape impossible. Thereupon I bade the officer good evening—and here I am back again."
"But now, my friend," Bertha proceeded in a more serious tone, after a pause, "in an hour it will be daylight. Before that hour shall have elapsed we must take and carry out a resolution that has been long decreed. You must have been convinced thereof by the letter which I wrote to you. And, once upon this subject, I must say that, even if the death of your bride had not rendered our marriage impossible, it became so by reason of your encounter with my brother. You struck him with a sword; I could not accept your hand, now that it is reddened with my brother's blood. Above all, however legitimate the revolt was, it caused his death, and you were one of the chiefs of the uprising. An abyss separates us in this world, Nominoë. Back in this manor after the burning of the Castle of Plouernel, I faced the reality without weakness. Our separation, the barriers that rendered our union impossible, weakened in nothing my love. That can not be affected by earthly causes. But my existence—sorely tried by so many misfortunes, by so many and cruel disappointments, even in the bosom of my own family—was becoming intolerable to me. Our marriage being broken off, my life lacked purpose. Then came the passionate desire to see my mother again, and shall I confess it to you?—an invincible, a devouring curiosity regarding the worlds where our lives are continued, body and soul: a curiosity that bordered on vertigo, when, back at Mezlean, and seated here in the evening with my eyes fixed upon the sky, I contemplated the myriads of stars, where our re-births are effected, as infinite in number as all eternity. All these reasons determined me to leave this world, to the end of rejoining my mother and waiting for you, Nominoë, there where we shall meet again those whom we have loved. My determination being taken, I wrote to you, I wished to bid you good-bye and receive a word of farewell from you. My emissary departed in quest of you. Soon a metamorphosis operated itself in me. The burning insomnias, the painful anxieties that had so long been undermining my health and exhausting my strength, ceased in the face of the certainty that soon I should meet again my mother, and soon my enchanted eyes will have opened to the marvels of the new worlds! This assurance gave me the needed peace of mind. My health recovered rapidly; my days passed in ineffable reveries while waiting for the return of the messenger who carried my letter to you. And yet, at times, I felt a sort of hesitation with regard to the manner in which I was to undertake that voyage, which seems so distant, and yet lasts but the length of a breath. I went almost every day to Karnak, where your ancestress Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, immolated herself centuries ago, offering her blood as a sacrifice to the gods of Gaul. I delighted in strolling along that deserted beach that the winds and waves ever beat against. Occasionally, I clambered up the highest of the Karnak rocks, the top of which offers a sort of platform, and I thought of leaping from there into the waves the foam of which seethes at the foot of the boulder. Other times I thought of imitating your ancestress Hena; I thought of cutting with a firm hand the slender thread that fetters our existence here below. But one day Marion accidentally informed me that one of her relatives blew—besides that he was ruining himself in the attempt to discover the philosopher's stone. I knew that those blowers, being experts in alchemy, often find in their alembics things that they do not look for—subtile poisons, sudden and frightful in their effects, which our sad days have, alas! often seen employed with disastrous results. Among other things these alchemists have discovered what is called the powder of succession. I went with Marion to Vannes, where the good man resides; I promised him a liberal reward if he would prepare me a mortal beverage, one that was certain and that left the victim in full control of his senses up to the last moment. Attracted by the prospect of gain, the blower set his retorts over the fire, and, in order to prove to me the efficacy of his liquid, left the room and quickly returned with a black cat in his arms. 'Just watch the effect of my philter,' said the blower to me, 'watch!' and before I had time to object to the experiment, he poured a few drops of the liquid into the mouth of the poor animal. The cat immediately lay down quietly. Her eyes remained clear, brilliant and alert. She stretched herself out with easy playfulness. But by little and little sleep seemed to overcome her, she lay down on one side; made a few slight motions—and expired peacefully, without the slightest tremor or symptom of pain. The alchemist had told me the truth! I took my newly acquired treasure with me. The certainty of a death that was so easy and sweet capped my sense of security, confidence and safety. Finally, returning to Mezlean this very night, my messenger informed me of the fruitlessness of his search for you, Nominoë. The revolt, of which you were one of the leaders, has provoked frightful reprisals. Brittany swims in blood. I decided to depart before to-morrow from this homicidal earth. I gave my last instructions to my old servitors. Under the pretext of contemplating a long voyage, I enclosed my testament in this casket."
Mademoiselle Plouernel paused. Only then did she notice that Nominoë, who was seated in an attitude of deep meditation, with his forehead resting upon his hand, was writing with the other. Until that moment the casket had concealed from Bertha's eyes the motion of his hand.
"Nominoë!" said Mademoiselle Plouernel in a tone of kind reproach, "I thought you were listening to my words—what are you writing there?"
"I am writing down your words, Bertha."
"Why so?"
"To join them to this," and Nominoë held up the envelope which he had laid upon the table.
"What does that package contain?"
"It contains the account of our love, which we may both be proud of. It is the narrative of what has happened to us, dear Bertha."
"And for whom do you destine that account?"
"For the descendants of the Lebrenn family," answered Nominoë, reading from one of the pages of his manuscript: