THE ROYALIST CAMP.
"I am astonished, Sir, that you should presume to interfere," said the
Chevalier d'Evran, speaking to the Intendant of the province, whom he
had found on riding down to the post of the second in command, in
order to ascertain what was the cause of the attack having been so
long delayed in that quarter. "I am astonished that you should presume
to interfere at all. The weak gentlemen who have hitherto been
commanding in this country have been indulgent to such insolence: but
you will find very different consequences if you attempt to practise
it upon me."
"Insolence, Sir!--Insolence!" exclaimed the intendant, foaming with
rage and mortified pride at being thus addressed in the presence of
many hundreds of witnesses. "Insolence in me!--Why, who am I, Sir? Am
I not the intendant of justice, police, and finance in this province?"
"Yes, Sir, insolence!" replied the Chevalier d'Evran. "You are the
intendant of justice, police, and finance; but before I assumed the
command of the King's forces in this province, you yourself had
required martial law to be proclaimed, so that you not only put every
one else under the authority of the military power, but yourself also;
and, by heavens, if you stare in my face in that manner one moment
longer, I will have you hanged up to yonder tree. Bring a drum here,"
he continued, "and summon four officers from the regiments of Lorraine
and Berry. We will soon see who is to command here."
The unfortunate intendant turned as pale as ashes; for the gallantry
and decision which the Chevalier d'Evran had shown since he assumed
the command, were of a very impressive character, and gave weight to
his threats. The officer who had laid the complaint against him,
however, now interfered. "For God's sake, General," he said, "have
mercy upon this poor man, and consider what will be the result of
calling a drum-head court-martial."
"I should always be very willing, Sir," replied the Chevalier, drawing
up his fine person to its full height, "I should always be very
willing to attend to your recommendations; but, Sir, in the course of
this night and the preceding day, I have obtained two great and signal
successes over this body of insurgents; and I think that those
successes will fully justify me in the eyes of the King, for punishing
with such authority as is vested in my hands the person to whom we may
attribute that our success was not complete, by the annihilation of
the Huguenot party in the province. If the intendant chooses
immediately to make a humble apology for what has passed, and to
promise in the most solemn manner never to interfere in any one thing
in my camp, or under my command, I will so far overlook the matter for
the time, as not to carry this extreme measure into execution against
him at once. But, in the mean time, I will hold it suspended over his
head, and if required, execute it on the moment."
The apologies and promises were as full and ample as the Chevalier
could demand; and, leaving strict orders that the worthy intendant
should be kept in a sort of honourable surveillance in the camp, the
Chevalier turned his horse's head, and rode back with his staff
towards the village, smiling slightly over what had just passed, for,
to say the truth, he had been acting a part much more harsh and severe
than he was inclined to pursue in reality. The truth is, that after
the engagement of the preceding morning, the intendant had shown some
disposition to take possession of one or two prisoners that had fallen
into the royalists' hands, for the purpose of employing the rack and
the wheel in their conversion; but the Chevalier, having determined
from the first to put a stop to such measures, had evaded all
discussion for the time, very sure that ere long the intendant would
give him an opportunity of depriving him, at least for the time, of
all authority in the province.
The smile, however, was soon succeeded by a somewhat more anxious
expression; for knowing as he did that Clemence de Marly was in the
camp of the Huguenots, he was not a little apprehensive of what might
have been her fate in the course of the struggle of that night. He had
given particular instructions regarding her, however; had made it so
fully understood, that he would have no unnecessary bloodshed, and had
exhorted his troops and inferior officers so eloquently to regard the
Protestants merely as erring brothers, as soon as the arms were out of
their hands, that he felt little or no apprehension of any excesses
being committed after the engagement. As soon, then, as he had
ascertained that Mademoiselle de Marly was in the farmhouse on the top
of the hill, and was perfectly safe, he contented himself with sending
a message to her, telling her that he would visit her in the morning,
and begging her in the mean time to put her mind completely at ease.
He then proceeded to investigate the amount of his own loss, and that
of the Huguenots. Nearly an equal number had fallen on each side; but
the army of the Chevalier d'Evran could afford to lose a thousand men
without any serious diminution of its strength, while the same loss on
the part of the Protestant force reduced it in a lamentable degree.
"Now," thought the Chevalier, when he heard the result of the
inquiries that he caused to be made, "if I can but drive Albert of
Morseiul to the sea, and force him to embark with the most determined
of his sect, while the others lay down their arms and conform, we
shall do very well. These battles were necessary to dishearten the
desperate fellows, and to give me power to do them good, and treat
them mercifully. But we may change our system now, and press them hard
without losing the lives of gallant men. What this old Cecil tells me
of the mistake about the liberation, may, if properly shown, mitigate
a part of the King's anger towards Albert; but it will never do the
whole, and I fear flight is his only resource. This offer that he has
made, however, stands desperately in the way, and yet it must be
communicated to the King. I dare not conceal it."
While he thus thought, sitting in the room of one of the cottages,
information was brought him that one of the wounded Huguenots, who was
kept with other prisoners in a barn hard by, was very anxious to see
him.
"I will come immediately," he replied to the officer, and then sitting
down, he wrote a brief despatch to Louvois, in which he detailed all
the events that had occurred; but at the same time, knowing the views
of the minister, he intimated that the only means of keeping the
extent of the insurrection from the King's knowledge, and from general
publicity throughout the whole of Europe, would be to give him the
full power of pardoning all men on laying down their arms. He begged
the minister to believe that he had not the slightest desire
whatsoever that the little services he had performed should be
reported to Louis; but at the same time he pointed out that those
services could not be ultimately beneficial, unless the power that he
demanded was granted to him, and all other authority in the province
superseded for at least one month. He felt very sure that this would
be granted by Louvois, as that minister had become greatly alarmed,
and had openly expressed to the young commander his anxiety lest the
extent of the revolt which had taken place in consequence of measures
he had advised, should ruin him for ever with the King. The Chevalier
trusted, also--although he was obliged, in the end of his epistle, to
state the proposal made by the Count de Morseiul--that the powers
granted by the minister would be such as to enable him to serve that
nobleman.
When this despatch was concluded, and sent off, he demanded where the
person was who had wished to see him, and was led to a small out-house
close by the farm in which Clemence abode. The door, which was
padlocked, and at which a sentry appeared, was opened to give him
admission, and he found stretched upon piles of straw on the floor of
the building two or three men, apparently in a dying state, and
another seated in a somewhat extraordinary attitude in one corner of
the shed. The sight was very horrible; the straw in many parts was
stained with blood, and anguish was legibly written on the pale
countenances of the dying.
"Who was the prisoner that wished to speak with me?" said the
Chevalier, going in; but they each answered by claiming to be heard:
one demanding a little water, one asking to be taken into the open
air, and one who, before the words had fully passed his lips, lay a
corpse upon the straw, asking pardon and life, and promising obedience
and conversion. The Chevalier ordered every thing that could make them
comfortable to be supplied as far as possible, adding some sharp
reproaches to his own people for the state in which he found the
wounded: and he then said, "But there was some one who, as I
understood, wished to speak with me more particularly."
"It was I," said the man who was sitting down in the corner, at once
starting up into the likeness of Jerome Riquet; while at the same
moment another faint voice from the farther part of the building said,
"It was I, General. I told the officer who came here, that I would
fain see you about the Count de Morseiul."
"Riquet," said the Chevalier, "I will attend to you presently. You
seem well, and unhurt; answer me three questions, and I may say
something that will satisfy you in return. Have you been engaged in
this unfortunate business simply as the servant of the Count de
Morseiul?"
"As nothing else, upon my word, Sir," replied Riquet.
"Are you a Catholic or a Protestant?"
"As Catholic as salt fish on a Friday," replied Riquet. "Surrounded on
all sides by heretics, I was at one time in great fear for myself,
like a man in a city where there is a plague. But bless you, Sir, I
found it was not catching, and here I am more Catholic than ever."
"Have you, then, in any instance, borne arms in this war?" demanded
the Chevalier.
"No, on my honour, Chevalier," replied the valet. "No arms have I
borne except a shaving-brush, a razor, a pair of tweezers, and a
toothpick."
"Well, then," replied the Chevalier, "I can promise you pardon; but
remember you are a prisoner on parole. Do you give me your word that
you will not try to escape?"
"Lord bless you, Sir," replied the man, "I would not escape for the
world. I am with the winning side. You don't suppose Riquet's a fool,
to go over to the poor devils that you're driving into the sea!"
"Scoundrel!" said a deep but faint voice from the other side of the
building; and telling Riquet to bring the light with him, the
Chevalier advanced to the spot, where, stretched upon the straw, in
the most remote corner of the shed, lay the unfortunate Armand Herval,
dying from the effects of at least twenty wounds. As soon as the eyes
of the wounded man fell upon Riquet, he exclaimed, angrily,--"Get thee
hence, traitor! Let me not see your face, scoundrel! To abandon thus
your noble lord at the first moment of misfortune!"
"You mistake, Monsieur," replied Riquet quietly--"I am not a bit more
of a scoundrel than you are, Monsieur Herval, nor, indeed, of a
traitor either: every one serves his lord in his own way, Master
Herval, that's all. You in your way, and I in mine. If you had waited
a little, to hear what I had to say to the Chevalier, you would have
seen that I was quite as ready to make sacrifices for my Lord as
yourself."
"Herval!" said the Chevalier, as he listened to their conversation;
"that name is surely familiar to me."
"Well it might be," answered Riquet; "for I dare say my Lord must have
told you, Monsieur le Chevalier. This man, or I am much mistaken,
would have killed the King himself, if my Lord had not prevented him."
"Indeed!" demanded the Chevalier. "Can we get any proof of this?"
"Proof, Sir?" replied the dying man; "it was on that account I sent
for you. The Count de Morseiul is ruined; and the cause of the
reformed church is over; and all this evil has happened through my
fault. I have heard, too, that he has offered to surrender himself to
the axe, in order to buy safety for the rest of us. But surely the
King--let him be as great a tyrant as he may--will not murder the man
that saved his life."
"The King, Sir, is no tyrant," replied the Chevalier, "but a generous
and noble master to those who are obedient and loyal: even to the
disobedient he is most merciful; and if this fact could be made known
to him, and proved beyond all doubt, I feel perfectly convinced that
he would not only pardon the Count de Morseiul for his past errors,
but show him some mark of favour, in gratitude for what he has done."
"The King does know it," replied Herval, sharply; "the King must know
it; for I have heard that the whole papers of Hatreaumont fell into
the hands of Louvois; and I have myself seen that foul tiger's name
written to an order for my arrest as one of Hatreaumont's
accomplices."
"But that does not prove," replied the Chevalier, "that either the
King or Louvois knew of this act of the Count's."
"It does prove it," replied the dying man; "for the only letter I ever
wrote to Hatreaumont in my life was to tell him that I had failed in
my purpose of killing the tyrant; that every thing had gone fair till
the Count de Morseiul came in between me and him, and declared, that I
should take his life first. I told him all, every thing--how I got
into the gardens of Versailles at night, and hid under the terrace
where the King walked alone--how yon babbling fool betrayed my purpose
to the Count, and he came and prevented me doing the deed I ought to
have done, even if I had taken his life first. I told him all this,
and I cursed the Count of Morseiul in my madness, over again and
again--and now the man whose life he saved is seeking to bring him to
the block."
"This is extraordinary and important," said the Chevalier: "I cannot
believe that the King knows it. Louvois must have kept it from his
ears. Will you make a deposition of this, my good fellow, as early
to-morrow as we can get proper witnesses and a notary?"
"Early to-morrow?" said the man faintly, "early to-morrow,
Chevalier?--I shall never see a to-morrow. Now is your only moment,
and as for witnesses, quick, get paper and pen and ink. There is not
half an hour's life in me. If you had come when first I sent, there
would have been plenty of time. But now every moment is a loss."
"Quick, Riquet," cried the Chevalier, "bid the officer at the door run
to my quarters, and bring down pen and ink and paper, without a
moment's delay."
Riquet lost no time, and the Chevalier endeavoured as far as possible
to keep Herval quiet till the means of writing were brought. The dying
man would go on speaking, however, but with his voice becoming lower
and lower, and his ideas evidently in some degree confused. Once or
twice he spoke as if he were at Versailles, and in the presence of the
King: then seemed as if he fancied himself conversing with
Hatreaumont; and then again pronounced the name of Claire more than
once, and talked of happiness. When Riquet and the officer returned,
however, with the materials for writing, he had still strength and
recollection enough to commence his declaration in a formal manner.
"I, Armand Herval," he said, "do hereby declare, and on the bed of
death affirm most solemnly, that had it not been that the Count de
Morseiul prevented me, I would have shot the King of France, upon the
terrace at Versailles, after the play, on the night before the arrest
of the Chevalier de Rohan, and that all I said was perfectly true, in
a letter which was written by me to Monsieur de Hatreaumont, dated on
the--I cannot recollect the day:" he added, in a lower tone, "it seems
as if a mist had come over that part of my memory."
"Never mind," said the Chevalier, "go on, my good friend, go on, the
date is unimportant."
"Was it the twenty-fourth or the twenty-fifth?" continued the man. "I
cannot recollect for the life of me, your Majesty. It's a short life,
too. Mine will soon be spent, and Claire's is all gone----"
He spoke very faintly, indeed; and the Chevalier said, "You forget, my
friend, you forget. We were talking of the Count de Morseiul."
"Ah!" cried the man, with a greater effort, and starting up on
the straw--"Ah, so we were.--What a fool I am!--Write it down,
quick!--Write it down, quick!--But take your fingers off my
throat!--Take your fingers off my throat!--I cannot speak if you stop
my breath!--What's the use of putting out the light?--Why do you put
out the light?--Oh, Heaven, it is death, it is death," and, falling
back upon the straw, the strong frame shook for a moment, as if an
ague had seized him, and then all was still.
The Chevalier d'Evran shut his teeth close, saying, "This is
unfortunate. However, you are a witness, Riquet, to all that he said."
"Lord bless you, noble Sir," replied the valet, "nobody will believe a
word that I say. I should consider my character ruined for ever if
there was any body, in all Europe, that would believe me upon my
oath."
"I had forgot," said the Chevalier, dryly; "your character is in no
danger, I believe, on that score. But my word will be believed, and my
voice, at least, shall be heard."
"Well, Sir," replied Riquet, perhaps a little piqued at the
Chevalier's reply, "let me add my voice too; for though they may
believe me in nothing else, they may, perhaps, believe me in a
confession which will go to twist my own neck. I wish to be sent to
the King, Sir; though if you can find out when he is in a good humour
I should prefer it. But my object is to inform him that it was
altogether my fault, and my foolishness, and my crime, that prevented
the Count de Morseiul from going to Versailles as soon as he was
liberated from the Bastille to throw himself at the King's feet. If it
had not been for that aforesaid foolishness of mine he would never
have come hither, would never have led the rebels at all, and most
likely, by this time, would have been as high in the King's good
graces as ever."
"I have heard all this before," said the Chevalier. "But are you
positively resolved, my good friend, to go voluntarily and make
confession of all these things?--Do you remember the consequences?--Do
you think of the risks?"
"No, Sir," replied Riquet, "I do quite the contrary. I try to forget
them all as fast as possible, being resolved to go at any rate, and,
therefore, judging that the less I think about risks and consequences
the better."
"By Heaven, thou art right," replied the Chevalier, "and thou shalt
have a bottle of Burgundy, if there be one in the camp, to keep warm
thy good philosophy. See, there is the grey of the morning coming in,
and I may well go away satisfied with having found one man in the
world who is not so great a scoundrel as I thought him."
The Chevalier returned to the hut in which he had established his
quarters, and cast himself down for an hour's repose; but before the
daylight had been long in the sky he was on foot again, and at the
door of the farm-house which contained Clemence de Marly. He was
immediately admitted; and, strange as it may seem, if the Count de
Morseiul had witnessed that meeting, it would certainly have wrung his
heart more than the loss of a great battle. The royalist commander
advanced at once to his fair prisoner, and, putting his arms slightly
round her, kissed her cheek without any apparent reluctance on her
part; and her first exclamation was, "Oh, Louis, I am glad to see you
safe! You know not how my heart is torn!"
"I dare say it is, my pretty Clemence," replied the Chevalier, in his
usual light tone; "but you, who have been doing nothing else but
tearing other people's hearts for the last five years, must take your
turn now. You have placed me in a terrible predicament, however,
thoughtless girl," he added. "You are obstinate as an Arragonese mule
about this matter of religion, and will not be contented till you have
got yourself roasted in this world as preparatory to----"
"But tell me, Louis--tell me about him!" demanded Clemence. "Is he
safe? Has he escaped from this awful night?"
"I suppose you mean Morseiul, by _he_ and _him_," said the Chevalier,
"and if so, he is safe, as far as I know. He has escaped. That is to
say, he has not been taken, thank God--though one time he was very
near it; for, by the flash of the guns, I saw his face in the middle
of our men:--but I dare say now, Clemence, that you would a
thousand-fold rather have me killed than this heretic of yours?"
"Do not be unkind, Louis," replied Clemence--"I would of course rather
have neither of you killed; but now that you have got me, tell me what
is to be my fate?"
"Why, that question is difficult to answer," said the Chevalier;
"Heaven knows, I did not want you, Madam. I was obliged to write you a
formal summons to return, for mere decency's sake; but I certainly
never expected you would obey it. You might have said, No, silly girl,
without telling all the world that you had turned Huguenot--all for
the love of a gallant knight."
"Nonsense, Louis! Do speak seriously," replied Clemence: "you very
well know I was what you call a Huguenot long before."
"Not quite, Clemence! not quite!" cried the Chevalier: "you were what
may be called Huguenoting. But this rash and imprudent determination
of declaring your feelings, doubts, or whatever they may be, at the
very moment when the sword of persecution is drawn, was, indeed, very
silly, Clemence. What is to be done now is rendered doubly difficult,
and I suppose I must of course connive at your escape. We must take
means to have an intimation conveyed for some trading vessels to hover
about the coast, to give you an opportunity of getting away till this
fierce bigotry has gone by. It will not last long; and in a year or
two, I doubt not, exiles will be permitted to return. The only
difficulty will be to have the ships opportunely; but I think I can
manage that."
"Oh, do, do, Louis!" exclaimed Clemence, eagerly. "That is all that
can be desired; and pray try to persuade Albert to fly at once."
"Nay, nay," replied the Chevalier, laughing, "that must not be my
task, Clemence. On that subject I dare not say a word. But you may
well do what you will. I will take care that the means of flight to
another country shall be provided for you, and you may take with you
any one that is willing to go."
"But then," exclaimed Clemence, "I must have the opportunity of
persuading him."
"Certainly," exclaimed the Chevalier: "the first thing you have to do
is to get out of my camp as fast as you can. I would not have you
three days here for the world; for as affairs go at present, I cannot
answer that the power of protecting you will be left to me for three
days. However," he added, after a moment's thought, "to-day you must
stay and march on with us, and before to-morrow, I trust I shall be
able to put you under such protection as will insure you safety and
support in your flight; and now, pretty maid, I must leave you. We
shall begin to march about noon. In the mean time there is a courier
going to Montaigu, so send off thither for whatever you may need to
make you comfortable. An easy horse shall be ready for you; and if at
any time you may feel yourself inclined to gallop away, you may take
him with you as a present from me. By the way, little heretic," he
added, when he got to the door, "you will want money for your
peregrinations."
"Oh, no," replied Clemence, "I have plenty. I have plenty, I assure
you. I have near two hundred double louis which I took to the prison
in hopes----."
"Little do you know of what you may want, silly girl," replied the
Chevalier. "Why one of these very merchant ships may demand the half
of that for carrying you over. Here," he added, drawing forth a
leathern purse embroidered in gold--"I don't know how much there is
here, but you must take it too; and if by any unforeseen circumstance
you should need more when in England, draw on me what they call a bill
of exchange."
Clemence took the money without ceremony, as if it were a mere matter
of course, and only added, "Come and see me again before we march,
Louis."
The Chevalier nodded his head and left her.