of linen, she showed a hollow whence some great stone had been removed,
and Gaston slipped into the green nest, over which the linen lay
smoothly when replaced.
On came the chaplain, glancing sharply about him, being of an austere
and suspicious nature. He saw nothing, however, but the peasant girl in
her quaint cap and wooden sabots, singing to herself as she leaned
against a tree, with her earthen jug in her hand. The mule paused in the
light shadow of the willows, to crop a mouthful of grass before climbing
the hill, and the chaplain seemed glad to rest a moment, for the day was
warm and the road dusty.
"Come hither, child, and give me a draught of water," he called, and the
girl ran to fill her pitcher, offering it with a low reverence.
"Thanks, daughter! A fine day for the bleaching, but over warm for much
travel. Go to your work, child; I will tarry a moment in the shade
before I return to my hard task of sharpening a dull youth's wit," said
the old man when he had drunk; and with a frowning glance at the room
where he had left his prisoner, he drew a breviary from his pocket and
began to read, while the mule browsed along the road-side.
Yvonne went to sprinkling the neglected linen, wondering with mingled
anxiety and girlish merriment how Gaston fared. The sun shone hotly on
the dry cloth, and as she approached the boy's hiding-place, a stir
would have betrayed him had the chaplain's eyes been lifted.
"Sprinkle me quickly; I am stifling in this hole," whispered an
imploring voice.
"Drink thy blood, Beaumanoir, and the thirst will pass," quoted Yvonne,
taking a naughty satisfaction in the ignominious captivity of the wilful
boy. A long sigh was the only answer he gave, and taking pity on him,
she made a little hollow in the linen where she knew his head lay, and
poured in water till a choking sound assured her Gaston had enough. The
chaplain looked up, but the girl coughed loudly, as she went to refill
her jug, with such a demure face that he suspected nothing, and
presently ambled away to seek his refractory pupil.
The moment he disappeared, a small earthquake seemed to take place under
the linen, for it flew up violently, and a pair of long legs waved
joyfully in the air as Gaston burst into a ringing laugh, which Yvonne
echoed heartily. Then, springing up, he said, throwing back his wet hair
and shaking his finger at her: "You dared not betray me, but you nearly
drowned me, wicked girl. I cannot stop for vengeance now; but I'll toss
you into the river some day, and leave you to get out as you can."
Then he was off as quickly as he came, eager to reach his prison again
before the chaplain came to hear the unlearned lesson. Yvonne watched
him till he climbed safely in at the high window and disappeared with a
wave of the hand, when she, too, went back to her work, little dreaming
what brave parts both were to play in dangers and captivities of which
these youthful pranks and perils were but a foreshadowing.
Two years later, in the month of March, 1793, the insurrection broke out
in Vendee, and Gaston had his wish; for the old count had been an
officer of the king's household, and hastened to prove his loyalty.
Yvonne's heart beat high with pride as she saw her foster-brother ride
gallantly away beside his father, with a hundred armed vassals behind
them, and the white banner fluttering above their heads in the fresh
wind.
She longed to go with him; but her part was to watch and wait, to hope
and pray, till the hour came when she, like many another woman in those
days, could prove herself as brave as a man, and freely risk her life
for those she loved.
Four months later the heavy tidings reached them that the old count was
killed and Gaston taken prisoner. Great was the lamentation among the
old men, women, and children left behind; but they had little time for
sorrow, for a band of the marauding Vendeans burned the chateau, and
laid waste the Abbey.
"Now, mother, I must up and away to find and rescue Gaston. I promised,
and if he lives, it shall be done. Let me go; you are safe now, and
there is no rest for me till I know how he fares," said Yvonne, when the
raid was over, and the frightened peasants ventured to return from the
neighboring forests, whither they had hastily fled for protection.
"Go, my girl, and bring me news of our young lord. May you lead him
safely home again to rule over us," answered Dame Gillian, devoted
still,--for her husband was reported dead with his master, yet she let
her daughter go without a murmur, feeling that no sacrifice was too
great.
So Yvonne set out, taking with her Gaston's pet dove and the little sum
of money carefully hoarded for her marriage portion. The pretty winged
creature, frightened by the destruction of its home, had flown to her
for refuge, and she had cherished it for its master's sake. Now, when it
would not leave her, but came circling around her head a league away
from Dinan, she accepted the good omen, and made the bird the companion
of her perilous journey.
There is no room to tell all the dangers, disappointments, and fatigues
endured before she found Gaston; but after being often misled by false
rumors, she at last discovered that he was a prisoner in Fort
Penthievre. His own reckless courage had brought him there; for in one
of the many skirmishes in which he had taken part, he ventured too far
away from his men, and was captured after fighting desperately to cut
his way out. Now, alone in his cell, he raged like a caged eagle,
feeling that there was no hope of escape; for the fort stood on a
plateau of precipitous rock washed on two sides by the sea. He had heard
of the massacre of the royalist emigrants who landed there, and tried to
prepare himself for a like fate, hoping to die as bravely as young
Sombreuil, who was shot with twenty others on what was afterward named
the "_Champ des Martyrs_."[3] His last words, when ordered by the
executioner to kneel, were, "I do it; but one knee I bend for my God,
the other for my king."
[3] The Field of Martyrs.
Day after day Gaston looked down from his narrow window, past which the
gulls flew screaming, and watched the fishers at their work, the women
gathering sea-weed on the shore, and the white sails flitting across the
bay of Quiberon. Bitterly did he regret the wilfulness which brought him
there, well knowing that if he had obeyed orders he would now be free to
find his father's body and avenge his death.
"Oh, for one day of liberty, one hope of escape, one friend to cheer
this dreadful solitude!" he cried, when weeks had passed and he seemed
utterly forgotten.
As he spoke, he shook the heavy bars with impotent strength, then bent
his head as if to hide even from himself the few hot tears wrung from
him by captivity and despair.
Standing so, with eyes too dim for seeing, something brushed against his
hair, and a bird lit on the narrow ledge. He thought it was a gull, and
paid no heed; but in a moment a soft coo started him, and looking up,
he saw a white dove struggling to get in.
"Blanchette!" he cried, and the pretty creature flew to his hand,
pecking at his lips in the old caressing way he knew so well.
"My faithful bird, God bless thee!" exclaimed the poor lad, holding the
dove close against his cheek to hide the trembling of his lip,--so
touched, so glad was he to find in his dreary prison even a dumb friend
and comforter.
But Blanchette had her part to play, and presently fluttered back to the
window ledge, cooing loudly as she pecked at something underneath her
wing.
Then Gaston remembered how he used to send messages to Yvonne by this
carrier-dove, and with a thrill of joy looked for the token, hardly
daring to hope that any would be found. Yes! there, tied carefully among
the white feathers, was a tiny roll of paper, with these words rudely
written on it:--
"Be ready; help will come. Y."
"The brave girl! the loyal heart! I might have known she would keep her
promise, and come to save me;" and Gaston dropped on his knees in
gratitude.
Blanchette meantime tripped about the cell on her little rosy feet, ate
a few crumbs of the hard bread, dipped her beak in the jug of water,
dressed her feathers daintily, then flew to the bars and called him. He
had nothing to send back by this sure messenger but a lock of hair, and
this he tied with the same thread, in place of the note. Then kissing
the bird he bade it go, watching the silver wings flash in the sunshine
as it flew away, carrying joy with it and leaving hope behind.
After that the little courier came often unperceived, carrying letters
to and fro; for Yvonne sent bits of paper, and Gaston wrote his answers
with his blood and a quill from Blanchette's wing. He thus learned how
Yvonne was living in a fisher's hut on the beach, and working for his
rescue as well as she dared. Every day she might be seen gathering
sea-weed on the rocks or twirling her distaff at the door of the
dilapidated hut, not as a young girl, but as an old woman; for she had
stained her fair skin, put on ragged clothes, and hidden her fresh face
under the pent-house cap worn by the women of Quiberon. Her neighbors
thought her a poor soul left desolate by the war, and let her live
unmolested. So she worked on secretly and steadily, playing her part
well, and biding her time till the long hempen rope was made, the sharp
file procured unsuspected, and a boat ready to receive the fugitives.
Her plan was perilously simple, but the only one possible; for Gaston
was well guarded, and out of that lofty cell it seemed that no prisoner
could escape without wings. A bird and a woman lent him those wings, and
his daring flight was a nine days' wonder at the fort. Only a youth
accustomed to feats of agility and strength could have safely made that
dangerous escape along the face of the cliff that rose straight up from
the shore. But Gaston was well trained, and the boyish pranks that used
to bring him into dire disgrace now helped to save his life.
Thus, when the order came, written in the rude hand he had taught Yvonne
long ago, "Pull up the thread which Blanchette will bring at midnight.
Watch for a light in the bay. Then come down, and St. Barbe protect
you," he was ready; for the tiny file of watch-spring, brought by the
bird, had secretly done its work, and several bars were loose. He knew
that the attempt might cost him his life, but was willing to gain
liberty even at that price; for imprisonment seemed worse than death to
his impatient spirit. The jailer went his last round, the great bell
struck the appointed hour, and Gaston stood at the window, straining his
eyes to catch the first ray of the promised light, when the soft whir of
wings gladdened his ear, and Blanchette arrived, looking scared and wet
and weary, for rain fell, the wind blew fitfully, and the poor bird was
unused to such wild work as this. But obedient to its training, it flew
to its master; and no angel could have been more welcome than the
storm-beaten little creature as it nestled in his bosom, while he
untangled the lengths of strong thread wound about one of its feet.
He knew what to do, and tying a bit of the broken bar to one end, as a
weight, he let it down, praying that no cruel gust would break or blow
it away. In a moment a quick jerk at the thread bade him pull again. A
cord came up, and when that was firmly secured, a second jerk was the
signal for the last and most important haul. Up came the stout rope,
knotted here and there to add safety and strength to the hands and feet
that were to climb down that frail ladder, unless some cruel fate dashed
the poor boy dead upon the rocks below. The rope was made fast to an
iron staple inside, the bars were torn away, and Gaston crept through
the narrow opening to perch on the ledge without, while Blanchette flew
down to tell Yvonne he was coming.
The moment the distant spark appeared, he bestirred himself, set his
teeth, and boldly began the dangerous descent. Rain blinded him, the
wind beat him against the rock, bruising hands and knees, and the way
seemed endless, as he climbed slowly down, clinging with the clutch of a
drowning man, and blessing Yvonne for the knots that kept him from
slipping when the gusts blew him to and fro. More than once he thought
it was all over; but the good rope held fast, and strength and courage
nerved heart and limbs. One greater than St. Barbe upheld him, and he
dropped at last, breathless and bleeding, beside the faithful Yvonne.
There was no time for words, only a grasp of the hand, a sigh of
gratitude, and they were away to the boat that tossed on the wild water
with a single rower in his place.
"It is our Hoel. I found him looking for you. He is true as steel. In,
in, and off, or you are lost!" whispered Yvonne, flinging a cloak about
Gaston, thrusting a purse, a sword, and a flask into his hand, and
holding the boat while he leaped in.
"But you?" he cried; "I cannot leave you in peril, after all you have
dared and done for me."
"No one suspects me; I am safe. Go to my mother; she will hide you, and
I will follow soon."
Waiting for no further speech, she pushed the boat off, and watched it
vanish in the darkness; then went away to give thanks, and rest after
her long work and excitement.
Gaston reached home safely, and Dame Gillian concealed him in the ruins
of the Abbey, till anxiety for Yvonne drove him out to seek and rescue
in his turn. For she did not come, and when a returning soldier brought
word that she had been arrested in her flight, and sent to Nantes,
Gaston could not rest, but disguising himself as a peasant, went to find
her, accompanied by faithful Hoel, who loved Yvonne, and would gladly
die for her and his young master. Their hearts sunk when they discovered
that she was in the Boufflay, an old fortress, once a royal residence,
and now a prison, crowded with unfortunate and innocent creatures,
arrested on the slightest pretexts, and guillotined or drowned by the
infamous Carrier. Hundreds of men and women were there, suffering
terribly, and among them was Yvonne, brave still, but with no hope of
escape; for few were saved, and then only by some lucky accident. Like a
sister of mercy she went among the poor souls crowded together in the
great halls, hungry, cold, sick, and despairing, and they clung to her
as if she were some strong, sweet saint who could deliver them or teach
them how to die.
After some weeks of this terrible life, her name was called one
morning, on the list for that day's execution, and she rose to join the
sad procession setting forth.
"Which is it to be?" she asked, as she passed one of the men who guarded
them, a rough fellow, whose face was half hidden by a shaggy beard.
"You will be drowned; we have no time to waste on women;" was the brutal
answer; but as the words passed his lips, a slip of paper was pressed
into her hand, and these words breathed into her ear by a familiar
voice: "I am here!"
It was Gaston, in the midst of enemies, bent on saving her at the risk
of his life, remembering all he owed her, and the motto of his race. The
shock of this discovery nearly betrayed them both, and turned her so
white that the woman next her put her arm about her, saying sweetly:--
"Courage, my sister; it is soon over."
"I fear nothing now!" cried Yvonne, and went on to take her place in the
cart, looking so serene and happy that those about her thought her
already fit for heaven.
No need to repeat the dreadful history of the Noyades; it is enough to
say that in the confusion of the moment Yvonne found opportunity to read
and destroy the little paper, which said briefly:--
"When you are flung into the river, call my name and float. I shall be
near."
She understood, and being placed with a crowd of wretched women on the
old vessel which lay in the river Loire, she employed every moment in
loosening the rope that tied her hands, and keeping her eye on the
tall, bearded man who moved about seeming to do his work, while his
blood boiled with suppressed wrath, and his heart ached with unavailing
pity. It was dusk before the end came for Yvonne, and she was all
unnerved by the sad sights she had been forced to see; but when rude
hands seized her, she made ready for the plunge, sure that Gaston would
"be near." He was, for in the darkness and uproar, he could leap after
her unseen, and while she floated, he cut the rope, then swam down the
river with her hand upon his shoulder till they dared to land. Both were
nearly spent with the excitement and exertion of that dreadful hour; but
Hoel waited for them on the shore and helped Gaston carry poor Yvonne
into a deserted house, where they gave her fire, food, dry garments, and
the gladdest welcome one human creature ever gave to another.
Being a robust peasant, the girl came safely through hardships that
would have killed or crazed a frailer creature; and she was soon able to
rejoice with the brave fellows over this escape, so audaciously planned
and so boldly carried out. They dared stay but a few hours, and before
dawn were hastening through the least frequented ways toward home,
finding safety in the distracted state of the country, which made
fugitives no unusual sight, and refugees plentiful. One more adventure,
and that a happy one, completed their joy, and turned their flight into
a triumphant march.
Pausing in the depths of the great forest of Hunaudaye to rest, the two
young men went to find food, leaving Yvonne to tend the fire and make
ready to cook the venison they hoped to bring. It was nightfall, and
another day would see them in Dinan, they hoped; but the lads had
consented to pause for the girl's sake, for she was worn out with their
rapid flight. They were talking of their adventures in high spirits,
when Gaston laid his hand on Hoel's mouth and pointed to a green slope
before them. An early moon gave light enough to show them a dark form
moving quickly into the coppice, and something like the antlers of a
stag showed above the tall brakes before they vanished. "Slip around and
drive him this way. I never miss my aim, and we will sup royally
to-night," whispered Gaston, glad to use the arms with which they had
provided themselves.
Hoel slipped away, and presently a rustle in the wood betrayed the
cautious approach of the deer. But he was off before a shot could be
fired, and the disappointed hunters followed long and far, resolved not
to go back empty-handed. They had to give it up, however, and were
partially consoled by a rabbit, which Hoel flung over his shoulder,
while Gaston, forgetting caution, began to sing an old song the women of
Brittany love so well:--
"Quand vous etiez, captif, Bertrand, fils de Bretagne,
Tous les fuseaux tournaient aussi dans la campagne."
He got no further, for the stanza was finished by a voice that had often
joined in the ballad, when Dame Gillian sang it to the children, as she
spun:--
"Chaque femme apporte son echeveau de lin;
Ce fut votre rancon, Messire du Guesclin."
Both paused, thinking that some spirit of the wood mocked them; but a
loud laugh, and a familiar "Holo! holo!" made Hoel cry, "The forester!"
while Gaston dashed headlong into the thicket whence the sound came,
there to find the jolly forester, indeed, with a slain deer by his side,
waiting to receive them with open arms.
"I taught you to stalk the deer, and spear the boar, not to hunt your
fellow-creatures, my lord. But I forgive you, for it was well done, and
I had a hard run to escape," he said, still laughing.
"But how came you here?" cried both the youths, in great excitement; for
the good man was supposed to be dead, with his old master.
"A long tale, for which I have a short and happy answer. Come home to
supper with me, and I'll show you a sight that will gladden hearts and
eyes," he answered, shouldering his load and leading the way to a
deserted hermitage, which had served many a fugitive for a shelter. As
they went, Gaston poured out his story, and told how Yvonne was waiting
for them in the wood.
"Brave lads! and here is your reward," answered the forester, pushing
open the door and pointing to the figure of a man, with a pale face and
bandaged head, lying asleep beside the fire.
It was the count, sorely wounded, but alive, thanks to his devoted
follower, who had saved him when the fight was over; and after weeks of
concealment, suffering, and anxiety, had brought him so far toward
home.
No need to tell of the happy meeting that night, nor of the glad return;
for, though the chateau was in ruins and lives were still in danger,
they all were together, and the trials they had passed through only made
the ties of love and loyalty between high and low more true and tender.
Good Dame Gillian housed them all, and nursed her master back to health.
Yvonne and Hoel had a gay wedding in the course of time, and Gaston went
to the wars again. A new chateau rose on the ruins of the old, and when
the young lord took possession, he replaced the banner that was lost
with one of fair linen, spun and woven by the two women who had been so
faithful to him and his, but added a white dove above the clasped hands
and golden legend, never so true as now,--
"En tout chemin loyaute."
[Illustration]
JERSEYS OR THE GIRLS' GHOST:
"Well, what do you think of her? She has only been here a day, but it
doesn't take _us_ long to make up our minds," said Nelly Blake, the
leader of the school, as a party of girls stood chatting round the
register one cold November morning.
"I like her, she looks so fresh and pleasant, and so strong. I just
wanted to go and lean up against her, when my back ached yesterday,"
answered Maud, a pale girl wrapped in a shawl.
"I'm afraid she's very energetic, and I do hate to be hurried," sighed
plump Cordelia, lounging in an easy chair.
"I know she is, for Biddy says she asked for a pail of cold water at six
this morning, and she's out walking now. Just think how horrid," cried
Kitty with a shiver.
"I wonder what she does for her complexion. Never saw such a lovely
color. Real roses and cream," said Julia, shutting one eye to survey the
freckles on her nose, with a gloomy frown.
"I longed to ask what sort of braces she wears, to keep her so straight.
I mean to by and by; she looks as if she wouldn't snub a body;" and
Sally vainly tried to square her own round shoulders, bent with much
poring over books, for she was the bright girl of the school.
"She wears French corsets, of course. Nothing else gives one such a fine
figure," answered Maud, dropping the shawl to look with pride at her own
wasp-like waist and stiff back.
"Couldn't move about so easily and gracefully if she wore a
strait-jacket like you. She's not a bit of a fashion plate, but a
splendid woman, just natural and hearty and sweet. I feel as if I
shouldn't slouch and poke so much if I had her to brace me up," cried
Sally, in her enthusiastic way.
"I know one thing, girls, and that is, _she_ can wear a jersey and have
it set elegantly, and _we_ can't," said Kitty, laboring with her own,
which would wrinkle and twist, in spite of many hidden pins.
"Yes, I looked at it all breakfast time, and forgot my second cup of
coffee, so my head aches as if it would split. Never saw anything fit so
splendidly in my life," answered Nelly, turning to the mirror, which
reflected a fine assortment of many colored jerseys; for all the girls
were out in their fall suits, and not one of the new jackets set like
Miss Orne's, the teacher who had arrived to take Madame's place while
that excellent old lady was laid up with a rheumatic fever.
"They are pretty and convenient, but I'm afraid they will be a trial to
some of us. Maud and Nelly look the best, but they have to keep stiff
and still, or the wrinkles come. Kit has no peace in hers, and poor
Cordy looks more like a meal bag than ever, while I am a perfect
spectacle, with my round shoulders and long thin arms. 'A jersey on a
bean-pole' describes me; but let us be in the fashion or die," laughed
Sally, exaggerating her own defects by poking her head forward and
blinking through her glasses in a funny way.
There was a laugh and then a pause, broken in a moment by Maud, who
said, in a tone of apprehension:
"I do hope Miss Orne isn't full of the new notions about clothes and
food and exercise and rights and rubbish of that sort. Mamma hates such
ideas, and so do I."