SURRENDER
“And there the sunset skies unseal’d
Like lands he never knew,
Beyond tomorrow’s battle-field
Lay open out of view
To ride into.”
—D. G. ROSSETTI, _The Staff and Scrip_.
Inside the little church it was beginning to grow dusk, and the May
twilight, as if in pity, shrouded the devastation which had recently
been wrought there. Chalbos’ soldiers had passed not long ago through
the village, and the traces of their passing were scored on the hacked
woodwork of the choir, in the rents and fresh splintered wounds of the
painted oak. The statue of Our Lady was headless; of the Child in her
arms she held only half the body, and the image of Saint Roch lay its
length on the pavement. Under one or two of the windows rested a
splash of shattered glass. The door of the tabernacle had been
wrenched off, and on the front of the bare stripped altar, whose stone
had resisted all efforts at destruction, a wanton hand had begun, with
a brushful of tar, to paint the words, “Liberté, Ega . . .” and had
got no further. To all these spoliations was added Nature’s too, for
half way up the pillars of the church ran the significant green stain
of persistent damp, beautiful in itself, and doubly so in contrast
with the faded blue of the roof, where there still glimmered a score
or so of tarnished stars.
In front of the violated altar, just inside the rails, sat a priest,
and before the rails knelt a Vendean. His musket lay on the steps
beside him. Further down the church knelt two or three others, with
their weapons and their rosaries. The priest was Sébastien des Graves,
and he was hearing confessions at the altar because the confessionals
had all been hacked to pieces.
That outrage, and the rest, would presently be avenged—so, at least,
hoped every man in the great host now gathering to march on Fontenay—a
host of which Gilbert de Château-Foix’ contingent, quartered in this
village, formed but a small part. For since the end of April the whole
country had been in arms; Cathelineau, Stofflet, Bonchamps, joined
latterly by Lescure and La Rochejaquelein, had swept along on a tide
of victory which had met its first check at Fontenay a week ago. To
wipe out that defeat some thirty-five thousand Vendeans were on foot,
and to these the little army of the centre had contributed four
thousand men under its ablest lieutenant. To-night they rested here
after their long march from the Four Roads; to-morrow they should
effect their junction with the other chiefs.
When the footsteps of his last penitent had died away down the church,
M. des Graves sat still, thinking of the morrow. He was going to say
Mass in the open very early. After waiting for a few minutes, he took
off his stole. As he did so, he heard the moan of the leathern door at
the end of the church, and he slipped it on again with a little sigh
for he was very tired. So dusk was it growing that he considered
whether he should light the altar candles; and as he looked towards
them his heart began suddenly to quicken. There was something familiar
in the footsteps coming up the church. . . . Unable to resist the
impulse, slowly, afraid, he turned his head to look.
Yes, it was Gilbert—Gilbert, tall, erect, booted and spurred, girt
under his sword-belt with the white scarf of leadership, the red patch
of the Sacred Heart on his breast. He walked straight up to the altar
steps and knelt down, and the clank of his sword on the stone told the
priest that it was no vision.
* * * * * *
And into Gilbert’s confession, before he had ended, was suddenly woven
a snatch of the _Vexilla regis_, that hymn which they would all chant
on the morrow as they marched, which some one passing the church was
singing in a low voice of singular sweetness. The words drifted in
through the shattered windows:—
“O crux, ave, spes unica;
Hoc passionis tempore,
Auge piis justitiam,
Reisque dona veniam”—
and died away as the singer passed on. But as M. des Graves raised in
absolution a hand that shook a little, he heard Gilbert murmur to
himself the last line, and then say, in a steady voice: “I should like
you to lay my sword on the altar, Father. It has never been offered.”
The priest stood up. He was obliged to support himself by the rails.
Gilbert unbuckled his sword, scabbard and all, and M. des Graves took
it from his hands, and, going to the dark and outraged shrine, laid it
thereon. Then he sank on his knees, his arms outstretched on the
stone, and his head bowed upon it.
* * * * * *
At the door of Gilbert’s quarters, when he got there, stood a sentry,
probably self-stationed, since for no duty had the Vendean peasant a
stronger distaste. It was Toussaint Lelièvre, the young man who, since
Louis had saved his life at Chantonnay, followed him about like a dog.
There was, therefore, no need to ask if the Vicomte were within.
Louis was ensconced in the deep window-seat, with his sword upon his
knees, polishing the weapon with energy. The golden afterglow behind
him, falling upon his bent head and pure profile, gave him something
the air of a Sir Galahad engaged in a similar task on the eve of
conflict. He looked up as the door opened. “I was just snatching a
moment for this job before going out to the pickets,” he said
cheerfully. “However, I think this is quite clean enough to do justice
to a Blue.” He got up, threw the rag in his hand on to the seat, and
held out his shining blade upright at arm’s length, looking more
like a Galahad than ever. Only the stainless knight never had so
mischievous a sparkle in his eyes, nor such a tone of relish in his
voice. “Yes, that will do,” he continued, running an appraising glance
up and down the steel. “They like to see it bright; it encourages them
to come on if they can see it about a mile in front of them.” In this
Louis was referring not to the enemy but to their own men. It was by
now well known that the Vendeans would not follow unless their leaders
were ready to expose themselves in the rashest of manners—a fact which
the Vicomte himself had found very useful to him when brought to book
for exploits of surpassing imprudence. “Shall I give yours a rub?
. . . Why, what have you done with it?”
“It is lying on the altar in the church,” said the Marquis quietly. He
had crossed the room, and stood a little in shadow, between the table
and the hearth. “Louis, I want to say something to you.”
It was the new expression on his face, as much as the extraordinary
change in his tone, which made the Vicomte stand instantly motionless,
while the sword in his hand gradually sank until its point touched the
floor.
“It can be said in a very few words,” pursued Gilbert, “and I dare say
that you can guess what it is. I want with all my heart to ask your
forgiveness for the past—for my lack of generosity to you, for——”
“Oh, stop!” cried Louis, in distress. The sword went clattering from
his hand. “Gilbert . . . You! ungenerous. . . .”
“Yes, I,” said the Marquis, coming a little nearer. And he went on
with the same gentle gravity: “Even when I made—when I resigned my
right to you . . . well, you must have known what hell was in my
heart. Let me make that surrender anew to you, Louis, fully and
freely, and let us be as we might always have been. . . . Do you
forgive me?” He held out his hand.
And it was thus that Gilbert, the proud and taciturn, had found
speech! What had happened? Louis had lost it. And the manner of
Gilbert’s avowal, easy, effortless, yet so transparently sincere,
seemed to inspire him with a kind of awe.
“I have not anything to forgive,” he stammered, drawing back from the
outstretched hand. “How could I, after——”
At that the Marquis came nearer and put both hands on his shoulders.
“Louis,” he said with still greater gentleness, “be as sincere as you
are generous. You know that you have a very great deal to forgive—and
most of all perhaps this, that—putting aside, if you will, all that
happened at Chantemerle—while we might have been fighting side by side
like brothers, while you were wanting to thank me, to hold out a hand
to me, I would not have it so, I shut you out. . . . Isn’t that true,
Louis?”
The younger man’s eyes fell. “Yes,” he said, very low, as if he were
confessing to a fault of his own.
“Well, then. . . . ?”
The Vicomte lifted his head, and met the strange serene light in
Gilbert’s eyes. His own keen gaze was misty. Without a word he flung
himself into his cousin’s arms. . . .
And when they knelt side by side at daybreak next morning there was,
in all the host who saw them, or who knelt with them at the rude altar
under the shadow of the forest of Mervent, but one man who knew to
what perfect reconciliation the Sacrament which he gave them was the
seal. But he was also the one man to whom the knowledge very greatly
mattered.