CHAPTER X.
Those who have visited France in the present day, who have travelledover that rich and fertile land from end to end, who have journeyedthrough its least frequented districts, and examined into the nooksand corners which are but little exposed to the eye of the ordinarytraveller, have yet, in general, but a very faint idea of the scene itpresented at the period of which we write. Yet were they to bringhistory to aid their researches, from time to time, they woulddiscover such fragments of a former day as might enable them to callup before their eyes a true picture of France during the wars of theLeague, as a Buckland or a Sedgwick, from the teeth and bones of longextinct animals, and from the leaves of trees that have decayed forthousands of years, are enabled to raise up from the waves of time animage of a by-gone world, and people it with monstrous things, such asthe eye of man probably never beheld in actual existence.
The whole country towards the end of the sixteenth century, torn withfactions, desolated by rapine, stained with bloodshed, knew nought ofcommerce, manufactures, or arts, and even agriculture itself, on whichthe daily support of the people depended, was accompanied with terrorand danger. Thus hamlets and villages, through wide districts of themost fertile parts of France, were swept away or left vacant; thehouses of the farmer and the labourer had grown few, and weresometimes defended with trenches and palisades against any of thesmaller bands that roved the country; the greater part of thepopulation was gathered into fortified cities; and the rest of thekingdom was dotted with ch?teaux and maisons fortes, generally at aconsiderable distance from each other, often in the hands of oppositefactions, and always prepared for stern resistance against the attackof an enemy.
In the part of the country of which we have been writing, thesecastles of the old feudal nobility were somewhat numerous; and we mustnow beg leave to remove the reader for a time from the Ch?teau deMarzay to that of Chazeul, which lay, as he has been already informed,at no great distance. We must also go back to an early hour in themorning of that day of which we have just been speaking, in order thatthose who peruse these pages may be made acquainted with some eventswhich weave themselves into the web of the history as we proceed withour task.
It was at an early hour then--perhaps a little before six o'clock;and, though there was a certain degree of grey mingling with theblackness over head, yet the light of a wintry morning had notsufficiently dawned to enable any one to see within the various roomsof the ch?teau. It was at this period that, in a small chamber,plainly furnished, and somewhat high up in one of the many towers ofwhich the building consisted, there sat a very lovely girl, reading bythe light of a small lamp a number of old letters which seemed tocause deep and painful emotions in her heart; for the tears streamedrapidly down her cheeks, and almost drowned her sight, as shecontinued that which seemed a sad and sorrowful task.
The eyes from which those drops poured so rapidly, were large andblack as jet, but soft and yet lustrous, even when swimming in the dewof grief. Her hair too, and her fine eyebrows, were of the same inkyhue, but her skin was beautifully fair and clear, with a faint tingeof the rose in the soft cheek. In years she might be somewhere betweeneighteen and twenty, delicate in form, yet with limbs so wellproportioned and lines so exquisitely drawn by the pencil of the GreatArtist, that every movement displayed some new grace, whether whenleaning her head on her hand, she bent down over the page, or raisedher look suddenly to heaven, as if appealing on high for comfort orfor justice.
Her back as she sat was turned towards the door; and her whole soulwas evidently busy with the task before her--too busy as it proved;for she heard no step upon the stairs; she heard no hand upon thelock; she heard no movement in the room. She fancied that all in thehouse, but her own sad self, were sleeping quietly till the break ofday. But it was not so; for as she bent over the pages, the doorbehind her opened quietly and an elderly woman, dressed in the extremefashion of the day, though in a travelling costume, looked in, andthen paused suddenly on seeing the light and the figure I havedescribed. Her features were aquiline and strongly marked, her eyeskeen and sunk, her figure tall and upright, but upon the faded cheek,even at that early hour, might be seen aglow of red, which, it neededno very practised eye to discover, was laid on by another hand thanthat of nature; and her eyebrows also betrayed a debt to art.
She paused as I have said for a moment at the door, then advanced withnoiseless step, the perfect silence of which was produced by theslippers of fur which she wore to defend her feet in travelling fromthe cold; and approaching the fair reader from behind, she stretchedforth her long, and somewhat meagre neck, and peered over her shoulderat the papers on the table.
The next instant, she laid her large thin hand upon them with a firmand heavy pressure; and the poor girl, starting up with a shortscream, stood before her, with face and lips as white as those ofdeath, eyes gazing with astonishment and fear, and limbs as motionlessas if she had been turned into stone.
"What is this, Helen de la Tremblade?" said the Marchioness deChazeul, in a sharp and ringing tone; "What is this, girl? Answer methis moment."
"Oh, Madam, pardon me! pardon me!" cried the poor girl, falling at herfeet.
"Pardon you?" said the lady, with a bitter look; "I will first seewhat I have to pardon;" and she began to gather up the letters.
"Oh no! no! no!" exclaimed the other, starting on her feet again, andendeavouring to snatch them away. "You must not--no you must not!Do with me what you will; but do not read those. They are mine,Madam,--they are mine alone!"
But the Marchioness thrust her rudely back, till she reeled to theother side of the room, at the same time crying, "How now, jade!Yours? I will read every word. Sit down upon that stool, and move astep if you dare.--But I will secure you!" and, first gathering up theletters, she turned to the door, locked it, and walking back to thetable laid the key upon it, while she drew a seat facing the poorculprit, and repeated, "Sit down, this instant!"
The unhappy girl obeyed, and covered her face, now crimson, with hertrembling hands; and Madame de Chazeul drawing the lamp nearer to her,began to read the letter which lay at the top, commenting, as sheproceeded, in a low hoarse voice, like the croak of a raven towardsthe approach of day. "Ha!" she said, as she went on, "Chazeul's hand!Good! I might have divined this. 'Eternal love and passion!'--Fool!There's nothing eternal but folly."
Farther on, however, she seemed to find matter which occupied her moredeeply; for her muttered words ceased, her brow put on a still heavierfrown, and her small black eyes flashed with double fierceness. "How?how?" she cried, after nearly finishing the letter; "and is it so?What need I more? This is enough in conscience--Oh, base girl! But Iwill see more--I will see more!" and she turned to another page.
When she had read some way farther, she laid the letter down againupon the table, and gazed at it sternly for several moments, withthoughts evidently busy afar; and then turning to the poor girl, whosat with her face still covered with her hands, she said, "Comehither!"
The girl obeyed with slow, trembling, and uncertain steps, not daringto raise her eyes. When she was near, however, she once more sank uponher knees before the harsh and heartless woman in whose power she was,and lifted her hands as if in the act of supplication; but for severalmoments her lips refused their office, and no sound of voice washeard. At length when she did speak it was only to say, "Forgive me,oh forgive me!"
"Perhaps I will," replied the Marchioness, in a somewhat softer tone,though at the same time there was a lurking sneer at the corner of hermouth that showed no very merciful sensations, "perhaps I will, if youinstantly make a full confession. Tell me how all this happened,without disguise; and perhaps your shame may be yet concealed. Speak,girl, speak."
"Oh, what can I say?" cried the unhappy girl, "you know all now; yousee the words he used, the promises he made; you know that I was leftentirely to his guidance. Often when you were away, he has been herefor weeks together; when you were here, he was always suffered to bewith me. Long I resisted--for two years
; ever since my uncle placed mewith you, has he tempted, and urged, and vowed, and I refused. But Iwas like a besieged city without assistance or support, and was drivento yield at length, when perhaps deliverance was at hand."
"Without assistance and support, base girl!" cried Madame de Chazeul,"why did you not tell me? and you should have soon had aid."
"Oh, lady!" replied Helen de la Tremblade, "I did tell you at first,when his words were not so clear; and you scoffed and jeered at metill I dared not say more; and, after that, I learned to love him.Then, for his sake, I dared not speak."
"So it was my fault, was it?" said the Marchioness with a look ofhaughty contempt. "Thus is it ever; when a fool commits a folly, it isever because somebody else did not counsel or help him. Was I theguardian of your virtue, girl?"
"You should have been," replied Helen de la Tremblade, a momentaryspark of indignation rising in her breast as the worm was trampled on,"you should have been, against your own son."
"Ha!" cried the Marchioness with a flashing eye; but then, restrainingherself, she demanded, "Who brought these letters? Who was the panderto your guilt?"
"Nay, do not ask me that," said her unhappy companion; "be angry withme, if you will; ask what you please about myself; but do not, do notvent your wrath on others."
"Will you say?" cried the Marchioness, in a furious tone. "Thismoment, will you say?"
"No, no!" answered Helen in a deprecatory tone, "I cannot, I will not.He knew not what he brought."
"You will not!" repeated the Marchioness sternly, "you will not! Girl,you shall! Are you not in my power?"
"You have no power to make me injure another," replied Helenmournfully; "I have injured myself enough; your son has corrupted,destroyed, betrayed me. With all these vows and promises written withhis own hand, he is now about to wed another, whom he has no right towed. Surely this is enough of misery; and I will not make my heart sosad as it would be, were I to add the ruin of another to my own."
"Vows! promises! no right to wed her, base girl! I will soon show youwhat are such promises!" and, snatching up the whole packet ofletters, she held them open to the flame of the lamp.
Contrary, perhaps, to the expectation of Madame de Chazeul, Helen dela Tremblade made not the slightest effort to stop her in the act.Whether it was that she felt her strength was not equal to contendwith the tall and masculine woman, who was thus taking from her theonly proof of those promises by which she had been betrayed, orwhether it was the apathy of utter despair that restrained her, Icannot tell; but there she stood, motionless though not unmoved, withher eyes now tearless though full of sorrow, with her lip quiveringbut without a sound. Oh, who can tell the dark and terrible feelingsof the poor girl's heart at that moment when, to all the bitterness ofsin, and shame, and sorrow, and betrayed love, and disappointed hopeand blighted affection, she saw destroyed before her face everyevidence of the arts that had been used to deceive her, all that couldpalliate, if not justify, her conduct?
The flame caught the letters in an instant; and with a resolute handthe Marchioness held the papers till the fire nearly scorched her,then cast the fragments on the tiled floor, and, as they wereconsumed, turned with a bitter and a mocking laugh to the poorculprit, exclaiming, "Now talk of vows and promises!"
"They are written in heaven, if not on earth," replied Helen de laTremblade, gazing at her with a degree of firmness that but enragedher the more.
"Heaven!" she exclaimed in a contemptuous tone, "heaven! do you dareto talk of heaven? Fool, if that is your resource, I will make you rueyour conduct, at least on earth!" Then advancing to the door, sheunlocked it, returned, and, grasping the poor girl by the arm, draggedher after her, down the stairs and through the long corridors of thech?teau, to the outer hall.
Now came the bitterest moment of the whole for the unhappy victim. Thehall was filled with attendants prepared for a journey. There wereservants and armed men, the two maids of Madame de Chazeul, and a gaypage jesting with one of them. All eyes were fixed upon her as,dragged on by the Marchioness, she was brought into the midst of them;and oh, how thankful she would have been if the earth would but haveopened and swallowed her alive!
"Undo the door!" cried Madame de Chazeul. "There, throw it wide! Now,strumpet, get thee forth, and carry your shame to any place where itmay be marketable!"
"Oh God!" cried Helen de la Tremblade, clasping her hands in agony,"can it be possible? Have you--have you no pity?--At least let me takethat which belongs to me."
"Forth, wretch, forth!" cried the Marchioness, stamping her foot."Drive her out, drive her out, I say!"
No one stirred to obey the cruel order; but Helen turned and waved herhand, roused into some firmness by the cruel treatment she met with."That shall not be needed, Madam," she said. "I go; and when you standat the awful judgment-seat of God, with all your sins upon your head;when all that you have done through life comes up before you as apicture, may you find a more merciful judge than you have proved tome."
"Away with you, away with you!" cried the Marchioness, adding thecoarsest term of reprobation that in the French language can beapplied to woman. "It is ever thus with such wretches as you: whendetected in sin, they begin to cant. Away with you, I say; let us hearno more of it!"
Helen turned, and walked slowly towards the door; but the page ranafter her, exclaiming, "Here is your veil, Mademoiselle; you left itbelow last night."
Helen took it; but before she could thank him, the Marchioness strodeforward, and dealt him a box on the ear that cast him upon the ground,exclaiming "who taught thee to meddle malapert?"
"Ah, poor boy!" cried Helen; and with the tears in her eyes, shequitted the inhospitable doors, within which virtue and happiness hadbeen sacrificed for ever.
For some way, she walked along utterly unconscious where she went. Wemust not say, she thought either of her situation at the time, of thepast, or of the future; for there was nothing like thought in hermind. It was all despair; she asked not herself where she should go,what should be her conduct, what place of refuge she should find, howshe should obtain even necessary food. The predominant sensation, ifany were predominant, was a wish to die; and any road which led herfrom that hateful mansion was to her the same.
This troubled state continued for some minutes, till a small woodconcealed her from the castle; but still she walked on, or rather ran;for her steps, under the impetuous course of her own feelings, grewquicker each moment as she went. At length she heard the sound ofhorses' feet and the grating roll of carriage wheels, and a vagueremembrance of having seen the heavy coach of Madame de Chazeulstanding prepared before the gates, made her believe that she waspursued by that terrible woman, and, a sudden feeling of terror takingpossession of her, she darted in amongst the trees, and crouchedbehind some brushwood.
There she could hear the whole train pass by; and as they wound ondown the hill, she saw the well-known colours and figures sweep slowlyon till, as they were beginning to rise on the opposite slope, theycame to a sudden halt, and a consultation seemed to take place. In afew minutes two horsemen detached themselves from the rest, and passedthe wood in a gallop towards the ch?teau; but poor Helen remained inher place of concealment; and, as she did so, the tumultuous agitationof her heart and brain grew somewhat calmer, and a long and bitterflood of tears brought thought along with it. But, oh how terrible wasreflection! how did she bemoan her own fatal folly! how desolateseemed her heart! how hopeless--how utterly hopeless--seemed hersituation!
Where could she hide her head? she asked herself--where cover hershame?--where conceal herself from the eyes of all men?--who wouldhelp?--who would assist her?--who would speak one word of comfort, ofconsolation, of sympathy? None, none. From the sympathy of thevirtuous and the good she had cut herself off for ever! Was she toassociate with the abandoned and profligate?--was evil to become hergood?--was moral death to bring her mere mortal life? Ah, no! shewould sooner die, she thought, a thousand-fold sooner die; and sheabhorred herself for her weakness past, more
than many who thinkthemselves virtuous, would abhor themselves for actual crime.
"Why should I stay here?" she asked herself at length. "I am anoutcast--a beggar; my father and mother in the grave; my uncle'sface I dare not see; I have no one to seek--I have no road to choose;the wide world is before me; I must trust myself to fate;" andrising up, with the feeling of desolate despair taking possession ofher once more, she followed the path before her, then turned intoanother, then wandered along a third, and thus went on for nearly anhour-and-a-half, with several of the country people who passed her,turning round to gaze in surprise at so fair and delicate a creaturestraying abroad, with a vacant air and tear-stained countenance, at soearly an hour of the morning.
At length she felt weary; and with listless indifference to all thatmight befal her, she seated herself on a stone, at the foot of awooden cross, which had been erected by some pious hand beneath a hightree-covered bank, down which the snow, now melting under the firstwarmth of spring, was slipping from time to time in large masses, orsending forth a thousand small streams, which rendered the road almostlike the bed of a river.
Poor Helen heeded it not, however; she took no notice of the cold andthe wet. The bodily discomforts that she suffered had but littleeffect upon her; and, if she perceived them at all, they came but asthings which recalled to her mind more forcibly the hopelessdesolation of her situation. Thus, after a few minutes' rest andthought, she once more bent down her beautiful head upon her two fairhands, and wept long and bitterly.
While she was thus sadly occupied, the sound of a horse's feetstriking the plashy ground at a quick pace came down the lane. Shegave it no attention, and the horseman dashed passed her, apparentlywithout noticing her. It was not so, however; and about a hundredyards farther on he pulled in his rein, and turned back again. Inanother minute he was by her side; and she heard a kind andgood-humoured voice exclaim, "What is the matter, young lady, has anyone injured you?"
Helen de la Tremblade looked up, and beheld in the person whoaddressed her a man of a frank and open countenance. He was dressed ina brown suit of a plain rough cloth, and seemed to be a substantialcountryman of about forty years of age, though his beard and moustachewas somewhat grey. There was a look of pleasant and intelligentinterest on his face, which might have brought back some hope to hercold heart, for it spoke of sympathy; but she replied in a sad andbitter tone, "Alas, I have injured myself," bursting into a fresh gushof tears as the words of self-reproach passed her lips.
The man gazed at her for a moment in silence, seemingly puzzled by thecontrast between her dress and her apparent situation. At length heexclaimed, "Parbleu! you cannot stay here, my poor girl. You seem ayoung thing, and well nurtured; what can have brought you into thisstate?"
"My own fault, as well as the cruelty of others," answered Helen de laTremblade.
"Well, we all have faults," replied the man, "God forgive us for them!and as for the cruelty of others, we are none of us good enough toafford to be severe, especially when errors are freely acknowledged.But tell me, can I do anything to help you? I have little time; but Icannot find in my heart to see a fair young thing like you left toperish by the road-side."
"Oh!" cried Helen starting up; "if you would but give me shelter for asingle night, till I can think, till I can give my mind some order,you might save me from destruction. Doubtless," she added, seeing himpause as if in hesitation, "doubtless you have a home not far off;doubtless you have wife and children,---daughters perhaps; and shouldyou hear my prayer, be sure God will bless and protect them, if everthey fall into misery like me. I am not intentionally wicked, indeed;weak I may be: nay, weak I am, but not vicious; no, not vicious,whatever you may think."
"Pardie few of the fine dames of France can say that!" exclaimed thehorseman. "But the truth is, my poor young lady, my home is not verynear. But I would fain help you if I could. Where are your father andmother? Better go home to them, and if you have offended them, try tosoften them with tears. They must have hard hearts if they resist."
"They are in the grave," answered the unhappy girl.
"And what is your name, poor thing?" inquired her companion.
She paused and hesitated; but the next moment she said, "Why should Iconceal the truth? my name is Helen de la Tremblade."
"What!" exclaimed the farmer, "the niece of the good priest at theCh?teau de Marzay?"
"The same," answered Helen with a mournful shake of the head.
"Then you have been residing with the old Marchioness de Chazeul,"rejoined the other, adding, "at least the servants told me so."
"Till this morning," replied Helen with a sigh; "but I am now ahouseless outcast."
The horseman dismounted from his beast, and took her kindly by thehand; "Alas, poor child," he said, "you have been, I fear, under ahard ruler. I know something of this woman; if not personally, atleast by hearsay; and I can easily believe that she has been harsh andunkind."
"But I was first in fault," answered Helen, interrupting him frankly,"I deserved reproach, perhaps punishment, but oh, not so terrible asthis."
"Why, what was the cause?" asked the farmer. "Nay, then," heproceeded, "as your cheek glows, I will ask no further questions. Iseek not to distress you, young lady, but to serve you; and if I can,I will place you in security. You cannot--you must not remain here.Heaven only knows what might happen to you. But how I am to get youhence I cannot tell. I have not time to go back with you to Marzay,and--"
"Not for existence," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "no, not, for allthat earth can give, would I set my foot within those walls."
"Ay, I forgot," rejoined the farmer, "she must be there by this time."
"Oh not for that--not for that alone," exclaimed the poor girl with ashudder, "you do not know--you cannot tell all."
"Well," replied her companion, "perhaps you may think differently byand by. But in the mean time, how am I to get you hence? I am going tothe village of St. Andr?, some eight leagues distance, and have noconveyance but the horse I ride. Stay," he continued, "I will go on ashort way, and see if I can find a cottage or farm-house where we canhire horse or cart."
"Oh do not leave me," cried Helen, "you are the first who has spokenkindly to me; and perhaps--perhaps if you go you may not return."
"I will, upon my honour," replied the farmer; and setting spurs to hishorse, he was away over the opposite hill in a few moments.
The time went heavily by with Helen de la Tremblade. She askedherself, "Will not he too deceive me?" and when nearly twenty minutespassed without her companion's return, her heart sank, and her eyesonce more filled with tears. It had seemed, while he was near her,that she was not totally abandoned, that she had still some humanbeing to hold communion with, that she was not, as she had at firstbelieved, shut out from all sympathies. She knew not who he was, it istrue; she had no information of his name, his station, or hischaracter; but he had spoken kindly to her, he had shown feeling,humanity, compassion; and perhaps it was that which had made her fancyshe had seen in his countenance all the higher and nobler qualities ofthe mind and the heart. She longed for his return then; and incounting the weary minutes and listening for every sound, she in somedegree forgot the oppressive weight of the past and future. At length,tired with expectation, she rose and walked along the road to see ifhe were coming; and, as so often happens, no sooner had she given wayto her impatience, than she saw his figure rising over the hill.
"I have got a man and horse with a pillion," he said, riding up toher, "I cannot promise you, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, any long orsure protection, but I will engage to put you in a place of safety fora night or two. During that time you will have the opportunity ofthinking over your future conduct. I am not a rich man, but, on thecontrary, a very poor one; yet you shall share what little I have inmy purse, as I must leave you to your own guidance towards nightfall;and if you like to confide in me fully, when we stop three hourshence, you will find that you have not misplaced your trust. Think ofit as we go; for I cannot s
peak with you of such things, while yourgood squire is with you. Mayhap you might find worse people in whom toplace your confidence than Michael Chasseron."
Helen did not reply; for while he was yet speaking, an old peasantwith the horse which had been promised came in sight; but she mountedgladly, and rode on beside the companion, whom she had known barely anhour, with a heart relieved, though not at rest. As they went, too, hespoke to her of many things, in plain and homely terms, but with wideand various information, and with a winning kindness and considerationfor her sorrows, which made her feel, that all the world were notharsh and bitter as those she had just left. She herself said little,but she found herself constrained in gratitude to answer suchquestions as he thought fit to ask; and, although he inquired nothingdirectly regarding her situation, and she believed she told himnothing, yet in fact, long before they reached their halting place hehad learned nearly all that he desired to know, not by her words, butby his own conclusions.