CHAPTER III.
THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIERE.
After the re-capture of Durbelliere, and the liberation of Santerre, theVendeans again assembled in arms in different portions of the revolteddistrict, and fought their battles always with valour, and notunfrequently with success. They did not, however, again form themselvesinto one body, till the beginning of October, when news having reachedthem that a large army, under fiercer leaders, was to be sent by theRepublic for their extermination, it became necessary to take somedecided step for their own protection. The Vendean Generals then decidedto call together all the men they could collect at Chatillon, a town inthe very centre of their country, and there also to prepare such aquantity of military stores and ammunition, as would make the place auseful and secure basis for their movements.
Some jealousy had arisen among the Generals; and on the death ofCathelineau, d'Elbee had been chosen Commander-in-Chief, through theinfluence of those who were envious of the popularity of M. de Lescure.On the latter, however, the management of the war depended; and thoughhis exertions were greatly impeded by the factious spirit whichunfortunately prevailed among the royalists, he nevertheless succeededin collecting, equipping, and maintaining a considerable army. Therepublican troops of Lechelle and Thurreau were not long in making theirway to the devoted district, and tidings soon reached Chatillon thatthey were devastating the country round Doue and Vihiers, and thatparties of them had advanced to the neighbourhood of Cholet.
It was then determined at Chatillon that the royalist army shouldadvance towards the republicans: that they should fight them on thefirst 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 thecoast, to meet the succour which had been promised them from England.Every day that the battle was delayed, hundreds of children and womenperished in cold blood, numberless humble dwellings were reduced toashes. The commands of Robespierre were being executed; the land wasbeing saturated with the blood of its inhabitants.
De Lescure and Larochejaquelin were both staying at Chatillon. ButChatillon is but a league or two from Durbelliere, and one or the otherof them was almost daily at the chateau. They had many cares upon thembesides those of the army; cares which, though not productive of so muchactual labour, sat, if possible, heavier on their hearts. What were theyto do with those dear but weak friends who were still at the chateau?three loving and beloved women, and an infirm old man, more helplesseven than the women! They could not be left at Durbelliere, for thechateau would doubtless, before long, be again taken by some maraudingparty of their enemies, and any death would be preferable to the fatewhich would there await them.
Henri now felt the weight of those miseries which his father hadforetold; when he, flushed with the victory at Saumur, returned homeafter 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 ofprotecting those who were so much dearer to him than his life, and thesuffering arising from such thoughts was almost more than he could bear.
It was at last determined that the whole party should leave the chateau,and go over to Chatillon--there would be at any rate a better chanceof security there than at Durbelliere, 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 thehouse, where he had spent his quiet life, and go to strange places, tofinish the short remainder of his days amid the turmoil of battles, andthe continual troubles and dangers of a moving army. Nevertheless hebore it well. At first he beseeched them to leave him and old Momont,among his birds and cherry trees, declaring that nothing that the bluescould do to him would be to him so calamitous as his removal from thespot in which he had so long taken root. But his children soon made himunderstand that it was impossible that they could abandon him, a crippleas he was, unattended, and exposed to the certain fury of therepublicans. He yielded, therefore, and when the sad day came, he blamedno one, as they lifted him into the huge carriage, in which he wasremoved 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 Godwould grant him another favour in this world, it would be, that he mightreturn once more to his own home, to welcome there some scion of hisroyal master's house.
Henri, de Lescure, and the little Chevalier, all came over to spend thelast day at Durbelliere, and a melancholy day it was. Madame de Lescure,Marie, and Agatha were also there, and all the servants, most of whomhad been born in the family, and all of whom, excepting Chapeau and onemaid, were now to be sent abroad to look for their living in a countryin which the life itself of every native was in hourly danger. Hard theybegged to be allowed to link their fate to that of their young mistress,declaring that they would never more complain, even though they wereagain called out to die, as they had been on that fearful evening whenSanterre had found himself unable to give the fatal order. It wasimpossible--the safety of four women, who would probably have to becarried backwards and forwards through a country bristling with hostiletroops, was a fearful burden to the young leaders; it would have beenmadness for them to increase it. The wretched girls, therefore, preparedto make their way to the homes of their relatives, knowing that thosehomes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes. It was a bright warmautumn day this, the last which the Larochejaquelins were to passtogether in the mansion in which they had all been born. The men cameover early, and breakfasted at the chateau, and both Henri and Arthurworked hard to relieve the sadness of the party with some sparks oftheir accustomed gaiety; the attempt, however, was futile; they eachfelt that their hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal wasover, they had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day, wouldbe a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power.
When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, for the last time, hemight be wheeled round the garden-walks, which he loved so well, andaccordingly he was put into his chair, and, accompanied by his childrenand friends, was dragged through every alley, and every littlemeandering path. He would not spare himself a single turn--he had a tearto give to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to every paintedfigure. To de Lescure and the others, the comic attitudes of theseuncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, any thing but interesting;but to the Marquis, each of them was an old and well-loved friend, whomeven in his extremity he could hardly bring himself to desert. On theirreturn into the house from the garden, they began to employ themselveswith arranging and packing the little articles which they intended totake with them. They had all counted on having much to do during theshort hours of this one last day; on being hurried and pressed, so asto be hardly able to get through their task; but instead of this theirwork was soon done, and the minutes hung heavy on their hands. Theywould not talk of the things which were near their hearts, for theyfeared to add to each other's misery; they strove therefore to talk onindifferent subjects, and soon broke down in every attempt they made atconversation.
Agatha never left her father's side for a moment, and though she seldomspoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of sedulous attention,which showed him that she was near to him. Her gentle touch was almostas precious to him as her voice. De Lescure sat near his wife the wholeday, speaking to her from time to time in a whisper, and feeling theweight upon his spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talkfreely. He was already without a roof which he could call his own, andhe was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate; such hithertohad been the result of their gallant enterprise.
Henri had much to say--much that he had made up his mind to say to Mariebefore he left Durbelliere, but he put off the moment of saying it fromhour to hour, and it was not till near midnight that it was said. Marieherself, bore herself more manfully, if I may say so, than any of them;she really employed herself, and thought of a thousand things conduciveto their future comfort, which would hav
e been forgotten or neglectedhad 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 timeto time moistened the cheeks of the Marquis, and told how acute were thesufferings which he tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poorboy; he soon betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where hewandered about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than oncethrew himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud.
They sat down to dinner about three o'clock; but their dinner was, ifpossible, a worse affair than their breakfast. They were not only sad,but worn out and jaded with sorrow. The very servants, as they moved thedishes, sobbed aloud; and at last, Momont, who had vainly attempted tocarry himself with propriety before the others, utterly gave way, andthrowing himself on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing butviolence should separate him from his master.
"It is five-and-fifty years," said he, sobbing, "since I first waitedon Monseigneur. We were boys then, and now we are old men together Itis not natural that we should part. Where he goes, I will go. I willcling to his carriage, unless they cut me down with swords."
No one could rebuke the old man--certainly not the master whom he lovedso well; and though they knew that it would be impossible to provide forhim, 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 watchedthe sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbelliere, and theMarquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak oflight was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this worldhad set for him for good and all. Even though he might live out a fewmore weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached shouldbe victorious, yet he knew that Durbelliere would be destroyed, and itnever could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any otherplace. His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on whichhe sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of anaffection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged.Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every articlewithin his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was nowto leave for ever.
Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur athis fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity,hurried on his old father to destruction. He never repined at thesacrifice he had made--I will not say for his King, for King at presenthe had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of himwho should have filled it had been shed. No; his sacrifices had been toan abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whetherworn 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 whichthey had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till the darkness ofnight was upon them, and still no one felt inclined to rise and ask forcandles.
After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break through theheaviness of the evening. "We are not so badly off, at any rate," saidhe, "as we were on that night when Santerre and his men were here; arewe, Agatha?"
"We are not badly off at all," said Henri. "We have now what we neverhad before--a fine army collected together in one spot, a promise ofsuccour from faithful England, and a strong probability of ultimatesuccess. After all, what are we giving up but an old barrack? Let therascal blues burn it; cannot we build a better Durbelliere when the Kingshall 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, andto give comfort, had been to him most distasteful.
Henri was in a moment at his father's feet. "Pardon me, father!" saidhe; "you know that I did not mean to give you pain. We all love the oldhouse--none of us so well as you perhaps; but we all love it; yet whatcan we do? Were we to remain here, we should only be smothered beneathits ashes."
"God's will be done, my son. He knows that I do not begrudge my housein his service, and in that of my royal master. It is not likely thatI 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 byall, for retiring early for the night. They could not talk together, forevery word that was spoken begot fresh sources of sorrow; they could notemploy themselves, for their minds were unhinged and unfitted foremployment; so they agreed that they would go to bed, and before nineo'clock, the family separated for the night.
They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed a light tohis cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words to her in hissister's room, and as she did not dissent, he followed the two girlsthither. Two words! It took nearly the whole long night to say those twowords.
Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the position inwhich he and his betrothed were now placed, before he made the requestto which he asked her to listen that night, and it was from no selfishpassion that he made it. In the presence of his sister, he asked her tomarry him as soon as they reached Chatillon, so that when next the armyseparated, he might deem himself her natural protector. He had alreadyasked and obtained de Lescure's permission. The brother gave it, notabsolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri to take no newcares upon himself during the present crisis, and declaring that hewould use no influence with his sister, either one way or the other.
Marie, with a woman's instinct, anticipated the nature of Henri's twowords, and in a moment resolved on the answer she would give him: if herlover was generous, so would she be; she would never consent to linkherself to him at a moment when the union could only be to him a sourceof additional cares and new sorrow.
Henri soon made his request: he did not do it, as he would have done inhappier times; kneeling at her feet, and looking into her eyes for thatlove, which he might well know he should find there: he had not come totalk of the pleasures and endearments of affection, and to ask for herhand as the accomplishment of all his wishes; but he spoke of theirmarriage as a providential measure, called for by the calamitousnecessities of the moment, and in every argument which he used, heappealed to Agatha to support him.
"No, Henri," said Marie, after she had already answered him with afaint, 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 tragedywe 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 poorforlorn young damsel, and though both of you are so gallant as to offerme a hand to help me over the perilous path we are treading, I know thatI am grievously in the way."
"You are joking now, love," said Henri, "and I am not only speaking, butthinking, in most true and sober earnest."
"No, Henri, I am not joking; am I, Agatha? One need not be jokingbecause one does not use harsh, grim words. What I say is true. I mustbe an additional burden either to you or Charles. You are already theheaviest laden, for you have your father to care for. Besides, I havea claim upon Charles; I have for eighteen years been to him an obedientsister."
"And have you no claim on me, Marie?"
"A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles. Don't lookso unhappy," and she held out her little hand to him as she spoke. "Theday may come when I shall have a still stronger claim upon you; when Ihave been to you for eighteen years an obedient wife."
"These are times when stern truths must be spoken," said Henri. "Thelives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy--that is, of us whomust go out to battle."
"Ay, and of us women too. Don't be afraid of our lacking courage. Do notbe afraid that the truth will frighten us. Agatha, and Victorine, andI, 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 tothat."
"But we must think of the death of o
thers," said Henri. "Should deLescure 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 sorash, but so forward as him--should he fall, will it not be a comfortto him to know that his sister has a husband to protect her; that hiswidow has a brother to whom she can turn. Should I fall, will it not bebetter for Agatha that you should be more closely knit together eventhan you are?"
"That can never be, can it, Agatha? We can never be more entirelysisters than we are."
"You talk like a child, Marie. You perhaps may never have a warmer lovefor each other than you now have, but that is not the question. You mustsee how great would be the advantage to us all of our union being atonce completed You should not now allow a phantasy of misplacedgenerosity to stand in the way of an arrangement which is sodesirable."
"Nay, Henri, now you are neither fair nor courteous. You are presuminga little on the affection which I have owned in arguing that I amprevented 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, Ishould marry you at once."
"It is you that are now unfair," said Agatha. "You know that he did notmean to draw such a conclusion. You almost tempt me to say that he mightdo so, without being far wrong. You are flirting now, Marie."
"Heaven help me then; but if so, I have committed that sin mostunconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in my life. I have hadbut 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 talkof these things in a different tone from that which is usual in theworld. If I was merely seeking to transplant you in days of peace fromyour own comfortable home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I wouldnot curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn't presumeto 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 ofyour disposition; your word should be my law, and though I might prayfor mercy, I would submissively take my fate from your lips. I wouldwrite odes to you, if I were able, and would swear in every town inPoitou that you were the prettiest girl, and sweetest angel in allFrance, Italy, or Spain."
"Thanks, Henri, thanks; but now you have too much to do to troubleyourself with such tedious gallantries. Is not that to be the end ofyour fine speech?"
"Trouble myself, Marie!"
"Yes, trouble yourself, Henri, and it would trouble me too. It is notthat I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly love as it has beenoffered, and tell you that you have my whole heart. It is from nogirlish 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. AmI now not frank and honest?"
Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her to his bosom beforehe 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 isnot 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 herhand upon Agatha's arm. "We will appeal to Reason personified, and ifReason says that, were she situated as I am, she would do as you nowwish me to do, I will be guided by Reason, and comply." Henri now turnedround to his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued:"I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason gives herjudgment 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 togetheras 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 Reasonforgets nothing, that you are to think neither of brothers or ofsisters. You are entirely to drop your feelings as Agatha, and to bepure Reason undefiled by mortal taint. You are to say, whether, wereyou, Reason, placed as I am now, you would marry this unreasonable youngman as soon as he gets to Chatillon, which means tomorrow, or the dayafter, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, speak, andspeak wisely."
"You have given me a thankless task between you. I cannot decide withoutgiving pain to one of you."
"Reason always has a thankless task," said Marie. "Reason is her ownreward--and a very unpleasant reward she usually has."
"Do you think," said Henri, "it will give so much pain to Marie to betold that she is to marry the man whom she owns she loves?"
"Ah, Henri," said Agatha, "you are prejudiced. I do not mean as toMarie's love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, not pain her so muchby advising her to marry you at once, as I fear I shall pain you bytelling her, that in her place, I should not do so."
They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from Agatha'slips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree of playfulness,which gave to her an air of indifference on the subject, she wasanything but indifferent; and yet it would have been difficult toanalyse her wishes; she was quite decided that it was becoming in herto refuse Henri's prayer, nay, that it would be selfish in her to grantit; and yet, though she appealed to Reason so confidently to confirm herrefusal, there was a wish, almost a hope, near her heart, that Agathamight 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 shallbe rewarded with a kiss;" and she put her arms round her cousin's neckand kissed her.
"But why, Agatha, tell me why?" said Henri. He, at any rate, was notashamed 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 aburden to a man at a moment when I could not make myself a comfort tohim; besides, the time of marriage should be a time of joy, and this isno time for joy. Again, there is a stronger and sadder reason still. Didyou ever see a young widow, who had not reached her twentieth year? ifso, did you ever see a sadder sight? Would you unnecessarily doom ourdear Marie to that fate! I know you so well, my dear brother, that I donot 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 andthrowing herself into her lover's arms. "Indeed, indeed, it was not ofthat I thought. Though we should never marry, yet were you to fall, yourmemory should be the same to me as that of a husband. I could neverforget your love--your disinterested love--there is no treasure on thisside 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 benothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to God to bring youback to me. When you are with us I am dreading the moment that you willgo. 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 tellit you; it was on my tongue to say the same to Henri, before youappealed 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 daymay come when I can again ask you for your hand."
"I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, tomorrow, nextday, any day that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha! my brain is so turned bywhat you have said, that I could almost go on my knees to beg him toaccept it."
"Come, Henri, leave us," said Agatha, "and prevent such a scandal asthat 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 notturn her lips away from him; and as he threw himself on his bed, hehardly knew whether, if he could have his own way, he would marry herat once or not.